#shuttering descent

[sjerzgirl]

Guess we now know who we can't trust on the D side of the House.

[pit-and-the-pen]

69 and 98 of the prompt list for Azriel 🙇 you just write him so well, no worries if not!! 🧡🧡

This was not supposed to be this long but I was listening to sleep token while writing this, I was also already planning out a fic that these prompts fit into perfectly.

warnings: Smut (18+), oral (M/F receiving), Bondage, knife mention (only to cut rope), mid-sized reader (could be read as plus sized too), unprotected sex, praise, degradation.

WC: 4.7k

You were just putting the back of your earring in when you met hazel eyes in the mirror. A smile danced its way across your face when you saw the way his eyes were trailing ever so slowly down your figure, lingering on your waist. Or more so the way the dress you were currently wearing was cutting into it, accentuating your already plush thighs. 

“So pretty.” He whispered into the air as he walked closer to you. His hand gently swiped your hair to one side of your hair and he placed a kiss on your bare shoulder. 

“My pretty girl.” The reverence in his tone made you giggle. His teeth gave you a soft nip at the sound. “I mean it. All of this for me? Gods, how’d I get so lucky?” He speaks into your skin. You shift under his praise, his breath on your shoulder making a small shutter ripple through you. 

“I wonder what you would do if you saw what was underneath?” Another laugh bubbled out as his eyes snapped to yours. His hands were already snaking along your waist, twisting to find the hem of your dress. He let out a downright sinful moan when he was greeted with the baby pink thong you were wearing. Cut high on your hips, elastic ever so slightly pushing in the flesh. The matching garter belt sitting above it, hugging your thighs like it was his hands wrapped around them. He ran his hands softly over the globes of your ass, squeezing in the perfect way. You found yourself arching back into his touch, leaning into him. His hands fanned out to your thighs, just resting his hands on the widest part. His eyes met yours in the mirror and he tugged you further against him. You didn’t miss the way his eyes dipped lower for a fraction of a second as your chest bobbed ever so slightly at the action. Your hand went to rest lightly on the mirror for balance and you were just about to reach back for him when Azriel cleared his throat. 

“Just for me right?” Azriel said as he flipped the edge of your dress back down. You turned around in his grasp and grabbed his hand. 

“Of course.” You raised onto your tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek. “Only for you.” He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you flush to him. You could feel every inch of his muscled body against yours and had to bite back a groan when you felt his arousal already straining against his dress pants. You bit your lip and he pushed a leg between yours. He pulled your lips towards his hungrily, hands instantly twining into your hair. The kiss was all teeth and tongue. Both of your chests are heaving. When your hand started to drift down to his belt, he grabbed your wrist to stop it’s descent. The action caused a whimper to leave your mouth that he just swallowed down. He pulled his lips away from yours, leaning his forehead against yours. You sucked down greedy lungfuls of air as you willed your heart rate to calm. 

“If your hand goes any lower, we’re not making it to this dinner.” He rasps. Your gaze lifts to his, eyes wide and innocent as you trail your hand lower once again. Your fingers just barely brush past the straining fabric before your hand is pinned against your side. 

“Oh sweetheart.” He tisked. His eyes darkened slightly as they swept over you. “You seemed to think that was a request.” His thumb started to rub small circles over your wrist that was straining against his hold. “You’re lucky this dinner is important to Rhys or else you would not be able to walk in the morning.”

“Do you really think you could do that?” You were only causing more problems for yourself at this point but you were desperately hoping he would just break and give you what you wanted right now. As soon as the words left your mouth, your back was pressed against the wall, a scarred hand wrapped tightly around your throat. Not enough to cut off the blood flow but just enough for you to feel the weight of it there. An invitation for you to keep running your mouth. 

“Do you wanna repeat that, princess?” Fuck it.

“I don’ think you could fuck me hard enough for me to not be able to walk. That’s all.” You smiled as his fingers twitched slightly. HIs shoulders moved up as he sucked in a deep breath. 

“We’ll see about that won’t we.” His hand left your neck and trailed up your jaw. You gasped as his hand pinned your head back to the wall by the roots of your hair. His hold forces you to look him in the eyes. “I’m going to give you one last chance to say sorry, bunny.” You opened your mouth slightly before closing it. Making it look like you were really considering your words. 

The smile didn’t leave your face as you uttered out a sickly sweet. “Make me.” His hands only gripped your hair tighter, making tears prickle in the corner of your eyes. 

“You could have been my good girl tonight.” His hand let your hair and he backed up a few paces. “But if that’s how you want to be. Fine.” He reached down to adjust himself. “‘Finish getting ready, we’re leaving in ten minutes.” Your lips parted to argue, but he only reached out a hand to shut your mouth. “This is not a discussion. I’ll be downstairs and don’t even think of touching yourself.” He pulled his touch away and you felt cold despite the fire roaring through your veins. That was all he said before he walked out of the bedroom. Leaving you to wonder what exactly you had gotten yourself into.

You were all but running down the stairs to reach the bottom before your time was up. 

“That was fifteen.” His voice was cold, a smirk plastered onto his face. Shadows wrapped around your waist the moment your feet were on flat ground again. “You’re only making this worse for yourself. But what did I expect?” It sounded like he was talking to himself and you felt your cheeks heat up as he talked about you like you weren’t standing right in front of him. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Oh, not as much as you will be later. Come on.” He reached out a hand for you to take. You didn’t hesitate to thread your fingers through his. He pulled you close to his side as he winnowed you outside of the restaurant Feyre had been raving about for the last year and a half. 

His arm was slung casually over yours, fingers dancing along the skin he had bitten earlier. He didn’t leave a mark but you swore you could still feel his teeth. You shifted your weight and he gave a small laugh. “Behave.” Was the only reminder you were given before you walked into the restaurant. 

Your friends were already waiting for you. Five pairs of eyes flickering up to greet you. Feyre rose to her feet to give you a crushing hug when Azriel sent the first image down the bond. It was from last week, you on your knees. His head was thrown back as he gritted out your name, the moment right before he spilled down your thro- and then it was gone. You pulled away from Feyre and ignored the confused look she gave you. The others all gave their greeting before Azriel was pulling out your chair for you, hands not leaving the back until you were seated. He gave you a quick peck on the crown of your head before he took his own seat. His stance was a little wider than normal, one hand already resting on your knee. Tracing absentminded circles onto your overheated skin. His thumb lightly scratched behind his touch. The waiter brought out a few bottles of wine and you didn’t hesitate to pour yourself a slightly-too-large glass. You took a few heavy gulps before you put the glass down. A gentle wave came from the other side of the bond, soothing in a way that had you squirming despite yourself. Gentle like a hunter stalking their prey. The conversation flowed between all of you. Catching up since you all saw a lot less of each other these days. While Feyre was talking about how Nyx was doing in school, you tried not to notice the way that she was only drinking water. No one else seemed to clock it either. You’d have to pry later in the night. But just as soon as the thought crossed your mind, Azriel sent you another image. He had your legs pressed together, slung over one of his shoulders. Gripping so hard that your hips were leaving the mattress altogether. Soft cries of his name were pulled from your bruised lips over and over again. Azriel’s pleasure rose with every lethal snap of his hips. Rising rising until he- . Gone again. Your head snapped in his direction, eyes wide at the image he had sent you.You couldn’t stop the slight pout that rested on your face. 

Dinner passed by slowly. Between Azriel’s hands slowly creeping higher on your thigh and the debauched thoughts he was sending down the bond, you were already a wreck. Your thighs hurt with how tightly they were squeezed shut. Your mate's heavy hand trying to sooth away some of the tension. Azriel sent you a warm feeling down the bond that had you relaxing ever so slightly. Nothing but pure love. The glow that he felt while watching you take all of this without so much of a blush on your cheeks. Pure male pride. 

After the main course, you were damn near in his lap. Chair scooted slightly in his direction, legs pressed against each other. Cries of dessert were being thrown around and you felt like you were going to cry with frustration before you heard Azriel laughing, shaking his head slightly. 

“She wasn’t feeling too good earlier but she didn’t want to miss this. But I can tell she’s getting tired. We should probably go home, shouldn’t we be my love?” He lied seamlessly. His fingers drumming a beat on your thigh. You nodded along, clearing your throat before you spoke. 

“Yeah. I’ve had this weird stomach ache all day. But I was just so excited to see you all.”

“Oh, that’s perfectly fine. Feyre fully understands upset stomach as of late.” Rhys answered and he grunted as Feyre’s elbow found a soft spot between his ribs. Feyre rolled her eyes before she shot you a wink, holding up her glass of ice water like she had known you were eyeing it earlier. A silent confirmation that had another round of chatter starting. Eventually, you and Azriel were able to shake off all the goodbyes. Hugs and kisses on cheeks and promises of getting together sooner rather than later were exchanged. 

Azriel placed a hand on the small of your back as you weaved your way out of the now crowded restaurant. His hand didn't move until he pulled you in his arms to winnow you two home. 

The front door of your apartment was in view and Azriel only gestured to you to open the door. Timidly you fished out your key from the small clutch you were carrying and opened the door to your home. Fae lights flickering on as you step in. YOu could feel Azriel’s presence behind you. Could feel his shadows slinking across the ground, muffling your footsteps. Could feel the way his wings had flared out ever so slightly, becoming even more intimidating and impressive. Both of your wants seemed to charge the air with a delicious electric tension. This was one of your favorite parts of the night. To see who would crack first. You paused by the front door only enough to kick off your heels before you continued up the stairs to your bedroom. Azriel was close behind you. Not close enough that he was touching you but close enough for you to feel his body heat. He might as well have been touching every inch of you for how much you could sense his presence. 

The fae lights flickered on in your room and you turned around to face your mate. He paused, eyes full of a predatory hunger. That look was almost enough to send you to your knees right then and there but you didn’t move a muscle before he told you too. You were already in enough trouble. So you stood stock still as he closed the distance between the two of you. HIs hand trailed from the edge of your jaw to the dip of your waist, feather light touches that had you leaning into his touch. He lightly grabbed your wrist and with a tug turned you around to face the other wall. His hand traveled all the way up your arm, over your shoulder and to the nape of your neck to start sliding down the zipper of your dress. The straps fell down as the fabric was pulled apart. You didn’t try to grab it as you shrugged them off, letting the fabric pool at your bare feet. The action left you clad in only the tiny thong and the matching lace bra. You were already shaking in anticipation. A gentle vibration that swept over your whole body. He held out a hand for you to take, and guided you to step out of your dress. Once you had, he dropped your hand. Touch hovering over your skin, drawing goosebumps like it might allow his skin to make contact with yours. A small step backwards towards him brought his hand up on the small of your back to stop your movement. His free hand twisted your hair into his fist. He pulled your head back to look up at the ceiling. 

“Now, what should I do with you?” His lips ghosted over your neck. YOu let out a pathetic whimper, craving his touch more and more every second. 

“Az..” You started but a harsh yank on your hair pulled a yelp out of you instead. 

“You don’t get to speak. Not unless I tell you to.” He whispered against the shell of your ear. “Not a single sound. Since I apparently can’t fuck you hard enough. It shouldn’t be a problem to keep quiet.” It wasn’t a question, merely him musing. So you kept your eyes on the ceiling. Not moving a muscle. 

You felt the absence of his presence but didn’t take your eyes off the ceiling, squirming with anticipation. His shadows were lightly trailing over your skin, you bit your lip to keep your moans at bay. The soft thud that filled the room let you know he had pulled something out the drawer of your nightstand. Your head slowly lowered and you were greeted with the sight of Azriel stalking towards you, a bundle of rope in his hands. He queried an eyebrow up, a silent question. You nodded. You could feel the way your chest was rapidly rising and falling, the slight shake in your knees as you thought of what was to come. His nostrils flared slightly as you sent your want down the bond. He made a content noise in the back of his throat before he walked behind you. 

With nibble fingers, he wrapped the rope around your shoulders first, forcing your shoulders back ever so slightly. You felt the way your it pushed your chest up. He slipped a finger between the rope and skin to make sure it wasn’t too tight as he tied off the first knot. He then grabbed your wrists and placed them right at the small of your back and looped the rope around them three times. He took his time with the process. Relishing in the calming actions of tying you up like his own personal present. He tied off the last knot and gave your arms a slight tug. 

“How is that? You can speak.” He whispered into your neck, trailing kisses where your neck met your shoulders. YOu gave a strong yank on your ties, testing them. As usual, they were flawless. Not giving an inch. Not too tight but just enough to bite into your skin. Azriel was always good about that. You never worried about if it would hurt you or not. 

“Perfect.” You said when you were confident they weren’t going anywhere. Your words were rewarded with a mean swipe of his tongue over your neck, followed by a sharp bite. You mewled at the touch and he only bit harder. 

“Already making such pretty sounds. But I told you to be quiet sweetheart.” He rumbled against your skin. You nodded, acknowledging his words. 

He hooked his hand into the middle of the harness he tied and lead you over to the bed. With a gentle possession, he guided you down until your chest was pressed against the mattress. Ass up in the air at his disposal. His leg nudged between your thighs, parting them widely for him. A small gasp left your lips at the feeling of the cold air on your soaked folds. You could already feel your arousal coating your thighs. 

“Gods, look at how wet my pretty girl is.” He pressed up against you, hands kneading at your hips. Then his touch was gone and you wiggled your hips slightly at the loss of contact. That was when you felt his hands gripping your ass, and a delicious swipe of his tongue up your glistening folds. You buried your face in the mattress to stop the moans that were building in your throat. Fingers flexing around the ties keeping your arms pinned to your back. He wasted no time, no warm up as he dove in. Tongue entering your hole causing you to clench down at the pressure. Too much and not enough all at once. Your hips tilted ever so slightly and his hand twisted to your front to hold your hips still. You hoped he couldn’t make out the string of curses that left your lips when that hand drifted down lower and started swirling tight, fast circles on your clit. Your hips moved in time with his fingers. Rocking like those fingers were controlling. Between his skill fingers and his tongue lavishing between his legs, you were so close to your orgasm. You were about to open your mouth to let him know before you felt him pull away from you. Before you could even protest, he grabbed your arms and flipped you onto your back. The air left your lungs with a tiny grunt as you took in him hovering over you, arms caged above your head. 

He trailed a finger down from your cheek all the way to your stomach, tracing over your arms, your shoulder, collar bone until he reached the apex of your thighs. 

“Eyes on me.” He growled as he sunk two thick fingers inside your fluttering hole. You tasted blood as your teeth dug into the side of your cheek, desperate to scream his name. Youpulled at your binds. Wanting to reach out and touch the membrane on his wings. Anything that would break the calm, controlled male in front of you. As much as you loved his fingers you wanted him inside you. You let your eyes close and he growled. He curled his fingers against the spot that had your eyes snapping open and a high pitch version of his name pushed through your locked lips. He didn’t acknowledge it, just sped up his fingers. The sounds of the digits sinking into you over and again filled the room. No sounds of your cries to drown them out. The sound alone could have made you cum. Proof of how much he affected you. Your legs were moving, clenching together as you tried to fight off your inevitable orgasm until he gave you the word. He shook his head lightly, before pushing his elbow in between your legs, then sliding onto his stomach. His shoulders crushed any hope of you closing your legs, so you let them splay out to the side. No longer caring if you had permission to cum. He didn’t slow down his fingers and you started to shake ever so slightly. Small jerks in time with his fingers as you were tipping over the edge. Head thrown back. And then his fingers were gone. A cry of protest left your mouth and you tilted your head back down to see him. A shit eating grin plastered across his face. He ignored the look of outrage and stood up, his figure looming over you. 

“You look so beautiful tied up like that.” Azriel ran two fingers down from the top of your hand all the way to your collarbone. A deep shudder ran through your whole body, goosebumps erupting below his feather light touch. 

“Az, please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please let me come, please.” Not caring that you weren’t supposed to be making any noise. The words spilled out of your mouth, pleading for that sweet release that he had ripped away from you again. 

“I know you are.” His hand trailed over your cheek, smearing your arousal in his wake. “But I don't care how sorry you are.” He flipped you over onto your stomach and hiked your hips into the air. Landing a smack over your ass for good measure. The yelp you let out morphed into a high pitched wail as he sunk into the hilt in one push. You close your eyes as you swore you could feel the way his cock pushed your walls apart. Hitting that special spot perfectly without trying. He gave you a single breath to adjust before one of his hands snuck up to gather your hair, the other keeping a tight grip on your hip. Your hands were still bound against your back so you could do nothing but lay there as he ground his hips into you. Working deep and fast strokes. You might have been screaming but you didn’t care. You could only think of how closer you were to coming all over his beautiful cock. Unable to find the words to let him know, you just tried to keep the feeling at bay. Panting a broken version of his name which each filthy thrust. The sound of your bodies hitting filled the room over your cries. His own groans and curses flowy freely from his mouth as he tugged you against his chest. 

“Not so big and bold when I’m fucking you dumb are you?” Each word was punctuated with a deep thrust. You shook your head. Hands trying to claw at the ties on your wrist. You could reach out and touch his stomach with how tightly  you were pulled against him. A single finger stroked at his abs and he was tugging your hair back harder, forcing you to look at the ceiling. “Gods you’re such a fucking brat. But mother above do I love it. I fucking love you so muh princess. You take my cock so well. Like you were made just for this.” He kept rambling. Words bubbling over his lips and you could do nothing but take and feel and scream his name. 

“Gonna…please. I need to cum.” You panted out, head slumping just slightly under his hold. He licked a long stripe up your neck before he let go of your hair, arm wrapping around your waist. You actually cried out as he pulled out. You bound hand clutching around the air, begging him to come back.

“No.No.. Please. I’m sorry. I’ll do anything. I just. Pretty please. I want to come so badly.” 

“Shh.” He whispered into your ear. “I’m gonna lay down and I want you to be a good girl and ride my face until you come. Can you do that?” The idea of not being able to cum around his pretty cock had you whimpering. You felt a shadow wrap around your shoulder, tempting you to move higher on the bed. 

“The only way you’re going to cum tonight sweetheart is on my tongue. So either I can shove my cock down your throat and you don’t get anything but my cum painting that wicked mouth. or you can put that pretty cunt on my face and finally get what you want so badly.” You whined again at his words. Whined at the way they sent another wave of pure want through you. 

“But what if-”

“You won’t. And even if you did, which again you won’t, I couldn’t think of a better way to go then with my tongue buried inside of you.” He was already leaning back against the headboard, waiting for you to make your move. You saw how hard he was and thought maybe having your mouth wrapped around him wasn’t so bad. The thought must have been plastered across your face because he flexed his hips and you didn’t hesitate before you bent over his lap. It was hard without the use of your hands but once he figured out what you were going for, he took your hair in his hand and helped guide you to his throbbing length. 

“Such a cock slut that you couldn’t say no to it could you.” He teased and you could only shake your head as meat as you could. Already touching his stomach with the tip of your nose. The stretch in your throat burned just a little. Tears twinging the corners of your eyes. But you absorbed the feeling. He was warm and heavy against your tongue. The skin so pretty and smooth. You could feel the way he was already twitching in your mouth. 

“So good. Doing so well for me baby. My fucking good girl.” His teeth were clenched tightly. Barley gritting out the words as he started to thrust his hips in time with your mouth. You moan around his length and you pull you off of him. He yanked you up by your hair until your lips were pressed against his. His tongue pushed into your mouth so possessively that you melted against him. 

“Fuck it.” He twisted you so you were straddling him. His hand reached out towards the nightstand and grabbed a small dagger that you kept by whenever the rope was out. The blade cut through the ties like butter and your hands were instantly on his shoulders. He reached down a hand and helped you guide him into you and you both were moaning as you sunk down all the way. A few timid pulls up and down had his head thrown back, moans and groans sliding through his plush lips. You leaned down and started sucking bruises on his neck at the same time your hips increased in pace. You rode him only searching for your pleasure. Pressing up against your g-spot again and again until you were seeing stars. 

“I can feel you squeezing around me. Cum for me, pretty girl.” And that was all you needed to explode around him. His hand on your hip rolled your hips as your orgasm left you twitching above him. He wasn’t far behind you and a few more strokes was all it took for him to spill himself inside of you. Burying himself deep against your cervix as he grip your hip hard enough to bruise. He rolled you both over and pulled you tight against his chest. His hand massaging the tender flesh on your wrists, slowly bringing the muscles back to life. Rubbing the stiffness out of your shoulders. You melted further into him. 

“I am sorry. For all that I said.” You whispered against his chest. 

“No you aren’t.” He joked, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “And I love you for it.”

“I love you too.” You said as you connected your lips to his and relished in the afterglow.

Tagging the mutuals: @sarawritestories @milswrites @ninthcircleofprythian @daycourtofficial @nocasdatsgay

[sundew199]

This Better for you?

tags: roronoa zoro x f!reader, guided masturbation, fingering, teasing, edging

"Keep your legs spread will ya?"

You groaned, abiding by the hushed command from your boyfriend into your ear, spreading your legs back out so his hand could continue his descent.

Zoro had the grand idea of guiding you through your self pleasure after he walked in on you beginning to do it yourself. He at first stood frozen in your doorway, staring like a hungry animal as your dainty finger was teasingly circling your clit. Even though the two of you had an established relationship, the embarrassment still flooded through you when he barged in. Should've expected it at some point, the man not knowing how to knock to save his life. But instead of saying anything, all Zoro did was climb into your bed behind you, caging you in from behind and gently running his hands across your body.

The shirt you were wearing was gone, as were your panties that'd you'd been using as a poor excuse of a shield earlier to get to your peak. Now, you laid back on his bare chest, naked and ten times more aroused than you'd been when you started this.

"Now, tell me what you were thinking about before I walked in?" Breathing into the shell of your ear, running his large veiny hand along your inner thigh, so dangerously close to your throbbing core.

Huffing with a small attitude, you whined. Something obviously was altered in that brain of his to beat around the bush instead of diving right into things to tease you with a question like that, feeling the frustration dimly simmer.

"You obviously."

He chuckled, brushing over your folds and inhaling deeply. "What about me?"

Sighing softly to the continuous brush of his hand, you rested your arms on his bent legs, giving up your ability to fight back and answer his question.

"How you feel, and how good you make me feel."

A kiss landed on your cheek, two of his fingers splitting your wet folds and swiping up slowly. "Is that why you came in here instead of asking me?"

Deciding to look down between your legs as he asked, you chewed on your bottom lip, watching the repeated motion from his fingers and how heated it made your skin feel. Zoro didn't tease like this often, always so needy for you and needing to get his dick wet, to prolong teasing if it weren't to prep you.

"You were training, didn't want to interrupt." Croaking out a whine when his middle finger tapped lightly on your clit, refusing to give it the stimulation you craved, making it throb like your heart beating in your chest. "But seeing you shirtless and sweaty prompted me to come in here, like I said, didn't want to interrupt."

Zoro hummed disapprovingly, adjusting his posture behind you and taking his hand away, causing you to quietly whine.

"Let me see."

"What?"

"I wanna watch."

Turning to look at him to see he was being completely serious, you sighed, scooting back into his chest more and hooking one of your legs over his. His chin came to hook over your shoulder, taking the hand you brought down and collecting your middle and ring finger into his mouth to wet it for you. Shuttering at the action, you let your hand glide down your stomach, past your naval and in between your legs to copy how he split your folds apart from earlier.

There was so mistake that you were already wet, craving to be filled and the simple press of your two fingers on your clit brought a hiss out of you. Zoro didn't have a reaction, still looking down from over your shoulder and breathing just outside of your ear steadily.

You gathered slick from your entrance to circle your clit, starting slow and letting your body relax against him. It didn't feel the same as when he did it, but you knew that and still let yourself enjoy the stimulation.

Pace increased gradually, still remaining steady and hoping Zoro's plan was to take over and let you cum like you wanted too. It was hard to focus with his breathing and observing eyes, not used to putting on a show, even if it was only him.

Your leg twitched against his when you pressed down harder, whining under your breath and turning greedy with how good it made you feel. All you could think about was the low tone in Zora's voice when he would slid inside of you, the puff of breath as he took a second to keep himself from cumming right away, and how badly you wanted him.

"Slow down," He breathed into your ear, wrapping his hand around your wrist and halting your motions altogether. "No need to rush."

He moved to sit up a bit, taking you with him. Gently his lips pressed into your cheek, lingering on your skin as his hand now shadowed over yours. Refusing to look away, you watched him pressed your fingers with his back onto your clit, moving in one slow circle.

"Though you wanted to watch?" Letting out the breath you were holding as you spoke, entire body pooling into mush from the slow calculating circles he was forcing your fingers to do on your throbbing clit.

"I can watch and guide baby. Besides show would've ended too soon if you didn't slow down and enjoy yourself a bit."

God, what have you gotten yourself into. Why was now the time he decided he wanted to be a rotten tease and ease your orgasm out of you instead of being selfish. You liked when Zoro worked fast and hard on your pussy, impatient and wanting to stretch you out as soon as possible. A change of pace wouldn't do any of you harm, so just this once you would sit back and let him guide you into taking it slow.

At first, you thought he would draw his hand away after a few guidances, but he kept it there instead, moving his hand down with yours to gather more slick to lubricate the fingers, going right back up to previously. You were limp already against his chest, letting out soft moans and gasps when he'd press down harder or swirl a little faster and you'd catch his smile out of the corner of your eye.

"Do you always think about me when you do this?"

"Yea, always."

His hand moved to swat yours away, leaving just his own hovering between your legs. Zoro split your folds like before and hummed, spreading your arousal around messily.

"Share the details." Absentmindedly requesting, observing his middle and ring finger, admiring how shiny they looked in the sunlight peering in from the window of your room.

Relaxing further into the broad chest sticking to your back, you smiled at the go-to memory you went to on the rare occasion you got time to yourself.

"I like to think about when we first got together and you stumbled into my room drunk and horny. Falling on top of me in bed and asking if you could eat me out."

Zoro groaned at your words, amusingly, faintly recalling that night considering he was probably drunk out of his mind when it happened, but he believed it. His hand was already back between your legs, two fingers circling over your clit lightly, and tilting your head to the side so he could kiss your neck.

"You were so eager too, whining for permission like I'd say no."

He smiled into your skin, pressing just his middle finger into your entrance past the first knuckle and pulling away, doing it again a few more times. You jolted in his arms, muffling a whine but still pulling yourself together to go on.

"Felt so good, you were so sloppy and greedy."

"Any man would be if they got a taste of your pussy." Confidently declaring, pulling away from your neck and plunging his thick finger all the way in, holding you down with an arm across your chest. You writhed against it, throwing your head back to his shoulder and arching your back, broken moans filling the room as he began to pump it in and out at a moderate pace.

"This better for you?" Asking in a smug tone, curling his finger once and making your leg shake in need. All you could do was nod, crane your neck to look at him and plead for more. Zoro chuckled low, adding his ring finger without warning and fluttering them both furiously.

Silent desperate moans came from you, mouth agape and breath shaking, hips rutting into his hand as you couldn't get enough. Zoro took pity on you, kissing you slowly, licking into your mouth and nipping at your bottom lip. Euphoria ran rampant through your body, so lightweight and out of this world, like you were high on some kind of drug and never wanting it to end.

"So fuckin' needy, look at you." Taunting between drawn out kisses, pulling his fingers out and taking them into his mouth, keeping his eye locked with yours. You nodded pathetically, because you were, always were when it came to him. He fucked you so good every time that nothing would come close to comparing.

"Such a needy pussy too, fuck baby why didn't you ask?" Referring back to your excuse when he walked in on you, unable to read his face or tone as he was focused on the squelching fingers thrusting in and out of your cunt once again.

"Couldn't wait, didn't want to interrupt - I told you this." Huffing and squirming in his hold, needing to cum and losing your will to hold off.

"Would've fingered you up in the crow's nest right then and there, but can't complain too much. Walking in on you, like that, could help me out later when you're too busy." Growling seductively, going straight to your cunt and making you whine a bit louder.

Zoro smiled, taking your other leg to hook it over his like the opposite one was, spreading you out all the way and ripping his drenched fingers out. He smeared them on your inner thigh just a little, leaving enough to focus on your clit. He stopped when he did because he knew you were about to cum, all your inclinations giving him signs to switch things up. He knew you hated him for doing that, but he was having fun.

"Zoro, please." Mewling desperately, unable to stop yourself from sneaking a hand down to where his was and rub that throbbing bud. Before he could respond, he grabbed both of your wrists in his free hand, holding them up and away.

"Promise you'll ask next time instead of doing it yourself?"

"Yes, yes I promise."

Tightening his hand around your wrist, he nodded, sinking his fingers back into your entrance and thrusting them in and out at break neck speed. You cried out, and were quickly silenced with his mouth on yours, swallowing all those pitiful noises he loved listening too, loved forcing out of you. Your body was running hot, hips twitching upwards into his hands, legs trembling in profound overstimulation. You were going to break and that was Zoro wanted.

"I'm gonna cum - Zoro,"

"Then do it, cum on my fingers baby." Pressing the words into your lips and keeping his speed, knowing his palm and wrist were drenched in you and that was he could've asked for.

He felt you clench hard around him, biting his lower lip and whimpering as your orgasm ripped through you violently. He kept you steady against him, brought his fingers to slow steadily prior to taking them out, turning gentle to ensure he wouldn't hurt you.

Tenderly he kissed you, a couple times to clear the fog of lust from your mind. As he did so, Zoro wiped his fingers on his pants, sat up all the way and unhooked your legs from his. You were jelly against him, smiling weakly while trying to move.

"Take a nap or somethin', okay?" Instructing after he moved out from behind you and cleaned the mess he created between your legs, tossing you a shirt and shorts.

"You're coming back right?" Pouting sweetly up at him, ignoring the loving eye roll he gave to your question.

"Yea, gonna finish training." Kissing your forehead, stepping away from the bed. He turned to wink at you, a subtle hint for what to expect when he got back. You blew him a kiss, seeing him smile as he left your room, giggling as you began to drift off in the post coital nap.

[winedarkthoughts]

house of addams (6)

— 🌖 pairing: ot7 x fem.reader

— 🕷️ genre: mystery, angst + fluff + smut

— 🗝️ word count: 5.5k

— 🍄 summary: desperate times call for morally grey measures.

— ☕ content warnings: stalking (but it's mutual??), taking photos without consent (also mutual), slight lore dump, mentions of death/decomposition/missing persons

— 🕸️ a/n: thank you so much to everyone who continues to share their thoughts i love y'all so much!!

previous chapter ← series m.list → next chapter

chpt. 6: don't stalk, investigate

october 19, 2004

The trees surrounding the university are starting to brown at the edges. Fall has begun its descent.

The click of the camera shutter has become white noise to you. Through the viewfinder, you follow the motion of the mop of black hair.

You've found that that's how he starts almost all of his mornings: messily, sleepily. More often than not, his hair is just-rolled-out-of-bed fluffy, the lower half of his face covered with a black mask so you can only see his cat-like eyes.

He looks good today, wearing a loose white button-up and silver jewelry. He approaches the university with his messenger bag slung over his shoulder, still clearly half-asleep.

Yoongi is not a morning person, you've learned. You know because you've been watching him.

Listen, you never claimed to be a saint. And yes, maybe half the reason that you're a damn good private investigator is because you're willing (and perfectly capable) of doing the things that others would rather not.

So be it. You've witnessed others commit far worse evils than the one you're currently undertaking.

Long story short, your mental blockade with the case (and whatever the fuck happened at the lake) may or may not have caused you to look into some of the strange characters frequenting Farrow's End. Starting with the shy, antisocial botanist.

The fact that he supposedly lived in the Addams house (according to the commentary from the college students) wasn't the thing that made you suspicious, it was the fact that he lied about living in the Addams house. Pretended to know absolutely nothing about it, to boot.

As a human being, you can respect someone keeping their secrets. As a private investigator, your job is to dig up any secrets that prove relevant to your investigation.

Half of you wants to believe that he's nothing but a good guy. You can admit that you like him, that you relate to his aura as the token "weirdo." But the cynical part of you, it whispers in your ear that he shouldn't be trusted.

No one should. Your job has taught you that much.

Therefore, you have to exhaust each point of view until you find out who's guilty, and who's less guilty. Because pure innocence is impractical.

And after what you saw (or think you saw) at the lake, you're going to have to gear your research towards less "scientific" topics. And try to avoid the woods at all costs. For the time being, at least.

On most days, Yoongi begins his days early, and mostly on-campus. It didn't take long to witness him being transported by the same black Mercedes that you saw outside the cafe, the one supposedly belonging to one of the mysterious Jungs.

Though Yoongi never enters the car in heavily populated areas. He usually walks a short distance to a more private spot, and then the car pulls up like clockwork.

You can never get a good look at the driver, thanks to the tinted windows.

So far, the only suspicious thing about the botanist is the fact that he lied about living in the Addams house. He goes to class, goes to his labs, gets coffee, goes home, with very little in-between.

Well, that plus spending a large amount of his time on campus with one specific chemist. And it doesn't take much longer to realize that he lives at the Addams house too.

Jimin, unlike Yoongi, is often late. He gets dropped off by the same sleek car, a short distance away from his destination, then he power walks to wherever he's going, fluffing and preening himself along the way.

Whether it's a hand brushing through his hair, or a knuckle pushing up the bridge of his glasses (which he never leaves the house without), or him adjusting the collar of his shirt, he's almost always fixing himself.

Sometimes, you get the impression that he isn't comfortable in his own skin.

He has a few other signatures: those heeled boots, pants that are almost always too tight for your liking, glasses (either tinted or completely dark), and always a mask covering his mouth. That, or sometimes an oversized scarf pulled up to just under his nose when it's particularly chilly outside, the wind rustling his hair and it's oddly shifting color.

You've taken to wearing one of your smaller cameras around your neck at all times, just in case you run into anything suspicious and need to snap a picture.

The morning mist has deepened into a constant drizzle most mornings, and that leather jacket you bought at Magic Shop has come in particularly handy. The garment is warm and cozy, and it always gives you a feeling of comfort whenever you wear it.

Fine, so maybe following Yoongi and Jimin didn't yield the results you wanted, though you'll admit it was fun. Still, something is telling you that there's something suspicious about that house and those who reside in it.

So you move on to another lead: Kim Taehyung.

He rarely leaves the house, you've found. So you have to conclude that he lives there as well as works there. When he does leave, it's on official business. Either to go to the police station to pick up documents or out of town to examine a body.

He doesn't ride in the Mercedes, though. Rather, he drives a classic black hearse. Again, peak dedication to the aesthetic, which you can appreciate.

And fine, maybe you snapped a few pictures of him on the rare times you caught him out of the house, but it's all for the sake of the investigation.

At first, you were quite hesitant to get too close to the house on the hill, with its looming trees and black birds hovering all about the roof.

But one day, when you creep up the path, the front gate opens on its own to welcome you. You were planning on scraping along the outside of the gate, peering into the yard through the iron bars. You weren't expecting it to actually open for you.

A gust of wind surges through the air, pulling you towards the house. The rustle of the trees practically whispers come closer.

It takes you a little bit aback, but you don't show it. Just in case someone is watching. In fact, you barely react to it, simply sidestepping the gate entrance and continuing along the path as if you were on a morning walk.

You walk along the entire perimeter of the gated yard, which is much, much larger than you anticipated. There are a number of gardens, a small hedge maze, a swamp even, and at the very edge of the property, a graveyard.

The tombstones are dotted throughout the wooded grove, a thick layer of ivy covering the ground like a burial shroud, and an air of calm hangs about the place.

But it isn't until you circle back to the other side of the house that you see something you truly weren't expecting: Jin, your favorite barista, strolling through the garden with a cup and saucer in his hands.

Wearing a turtleneck under a black coat, his hair blowing picturesquely in the chill wind, he meanders past the crumbling stone statues and trickling fountains.

You quickly duck behind a tree, reaching into your jacket to grab the small binoculars that you typically carry when you're in the..."observation" phase of the investigation. No, this isn’t the first time you’ve done this sort of thing.

Jin leisurely walks over the cobblestone pathway, sipping from his cup with a satisfied expression. He'll run a hand through his hair or lean against one of the stone garden walls, looking over his shoulder every once in a while.

And maybe it's just a hunch, but you get the sense that he knows that he's being watched. The weird thing is that he doesn't seem bothered by the fact at all. In fact, it almost looks like he's...posing.

An itch at the back of your neck. A glance back at Jin tells you that he's not looking at you, nor has he realized that you're there. But still, now you feel eyes on you.

You look around but find nothing but white-barked trees. And maybe if you looked a little closer you would've noticed that the knots in said trees look a little too much like eyes, open and alert.

Even if you had noticed such a thing, your conscience would tell you that obviously that's not the case. Trees can't watch people.

You'd be wrong, of course, but how could you have known that then?

october 23, 2004

He only ever works nights. The graveyard shift, to be specific. His shift always starts after the sun has set, and it ends just before it rises again.

Normally, you'd split your time between the cafe and the bookshop, but recently you've dedicated almost the entirety of your days to watching the barista and learning his habits. And in that time, you've hardly seen him eat.

In all the time you've spent watching him combined, the only things you've seen him eat include: a handful of olives, a few slices of bread and cheese, and the occasional spoonful of honey. Coffee and the offhand glass of red wine (which he pours into a teacup with a charming wink when he catches you watching him) is all you ever see him drink.

The only time he leaves the Addams house, besides to go to work, is on Saturday mornings when the Farmer's Market takes up the town square.

Sporting a checkered coat with the collar turned up to shield the lower half of his face, sunglasses (even though it's utterly cloudy), and an umbrella held over his head (even though it's not even drizzling), Jin scours the aisles, scrutinizing each booth's wares to find only the freshest and best quality produce, meats, and bread. He also procures some fancy cheese and preserves, his tastes expensive and well-refined.

The only other time you see him deviate from his routine is to visit the nearest hospital one afternoon. You're expecting him to enter into the waiting room, but he circles around the back, waiting by a STAFF ONLY door.

That same tickle from somewhere in your brain, the one that makes your eyes a little blurry. You take a moment to refocus them, and then you see the door crack open.

The person behind the door hands Jin an object that he quickly conceals in his coat, and the interaction is too quick for you to see what exactly it is.

But not quick enough for you to miss taking a picture. Because you've learned that it's always best to prioritize the camera before your eyes.

You take it to the dark room that same day. And the film reveals that the object appears to be a plain white box. Your guess is that it's a thermal container, the ones used to transport samples or the like.

It's a bit embarrassing to admit that it takes another day to put two and two together.

You're sitting in the cafe, skimming through the files of the five missing persons, when Jin approaches your booth and silently places a pastry on the table.

It's another one of his habits, you've noticed. Whenever you're in the cafe and have gone a long time without ordering any food, he'll subtly bring you something without a word, and you're usually too focused on your research to notice until some time has passed and it's too late to reject the offer.

You've told him several times that though the gesture is appreciated, he doesn't need to provide you with any freebies just because you're in here all the time. But he just brushes you off and claims that he needs a taste tester for his new recipes.

You let it slide after telling yourself that he probably does the same to a number of other customers given his charming nature (though in all the time you've observed him he's never done it for any other patron, but that you conveniently ignore).

This time it's a little cake, topped with a strawberry and absolutely smothered in fresh cream. When you cut into it, red jam spills from the inside of the cake like blood from a wound.

Then it finally clicks.

...Blood.

Like a slideshow in fast motion, all of the little details spring back into the forefront of your mind. The time when you noticed his shirtsleeve riding up, revealing a faded scar distinctly resembling a bite mark on the inside of his wrist. The time you noticed him drinking from a to-go coffee cup, but with a ring of red surrounding the opening in the lid.

And at the hospital, a thermal container used to transport samples such as blood bags, or even human organs.

Fuck.

You push the dessert away at the realization, scrambling to gather your things and leave the cafe as quickly as possible.

Of course, that means you miss the concerned and slightly disappointed look on Jin's face as he watches you go.

october 24, 2004

You don't know what makes you more of an idiot, the fact that you're actually close to believing that Jin is some sort of blood-sucking creature of the night, or the fact that it took you this long to consider the fact based on all the warning signs.

Unfortunately, nothing is impossible. And though none of your investigations so far have pointed to something so overtly "supernatural," you have to entertain the possibility.

Because it's possible that something about it could trace back to one or more of the victims, since clearly this case has proven to be far from normal.

Though the internet is a great resource, currently all you can find is blog posts, and you'd prefer not to cite those when it comes to professional matters. So you turn to local folklore, urban legends, and the security of the written word.

When you enter the bookshop the next day, you realize just how broad of a topic it is. There are hundreds, even thousands of mythical creatures across different cultures. It's going to take a long time to factor out one with the right features and track it's roots.

Then you remember the man behind the counter. Namjoon is currently staring at the mass of papers on his desk, looking confused and frustrated.

"What's all that?" you ask as you approach the counter.

"My accounts. Balancing my checkbook," he replies without looking up from the mess.

"Ah," you say in understanding, in pity.

A pause.

"Want a distraction?" you finally ask, and his head whips up almost instantly.

"Dear God, yes."

You chuckle, moving to lean against the desk.

"You're a writer, right?"

"Yes," he answers with a nod.

"What kind of things do you write?"

"Mostly research papers, some articles here and there, a few field guides."

Hmm, so he's more of a scholar, then. Interesting.

"In what area of study?"

Namjoon's mouth twitches like he's trying to find the right words.

"Folklore," he finally answers, but obviously there's a little more to it.

Perfect. You bite back the urge to rock on your toes with excitement.

"Can I ask you a few questions?"

He smiles at that, dimples and all, like nothing would delight him more.

"Of course, anything you want," he answers, voice curling around the edges.

And you don't know it, but he means it sincerely. He would tell you anything and everything about him and his little family if you would only ask.

Any of them would, really. Technically, none of them have ever lied to you, they just haven't share all the information.

And if Namjoon is being honest, all of them are quite eager for you to get a little more invasive and figure them out for yourself.

"What do you know about mythological creatures that feed on life energy?"

You didn't mean for it to come out so specific, so incriminating. But you're getting a little tired of questions without a ghost of an answer.

His eyebrows raise a bit.

"To be honest with you, my knowledge is limited mainly to the folklore of this region," he admits, sounding apologetic.

Even more perfect. You try not to give away too much of your excitement, despite the fact that every time you encounter him he only seems to get better and better.

"Pray tell," you urge, leaning forward slightly with open ears.

A little bashful expression crosses his face as he settles deeper in his chair, all thoughts of taxes abruptly thrust aside.

"Well, vampiric creatures are quite common across folklore in many cultures. They're usually associated with outbreaks of disease, and vampire hunts are mostly accompanied with epidemics..."

You let him talk for as long as he wants, listening eagerly and only looking away to scribble a few notes from time to time. It's clear that he's passionate about what he studies, speaking about it like a lover would.

He tells you that even the word "vampire" is shrouded in mystery, as linguists do not know the precise etymological origin. Apparently, the folklore of this region is steeped in Slavic roots, so that's what he focuses on to narrow it down for you.

From the Old East Slavic language, the term "vampire" hails from the word "upir," which is speculated to translate as "someone who bites" or "the thing at the feast/sacrifice," though the word has no definite origin.

Namjoon tells you that scholars agree that the term was used as a stand-in, since they were too afraid to say the creature's true name.

"An upir needs to feed on life essence to survive. In literature, this is usually represented by drinking blood, since it represents life," Namjoon explains.

"Usually?"

He shrugs.

"The "opir" in Ukraine consumes large amounts of fish as their source of sustenance, preferences vary across cultures."

"You speak of it like they're real," you say with a chuckle, watching closely for his reaction.

Another shrug, this one more uncomfortable.

"To the Slavs, they were. The universal belief in supernatural beings was common. Unseen entities were part of the way they understood the world," he says.

"Hmm," you mumble, scanning him up and down. You try not to delight in the way he squirms slightly under your scrutiny.

"Most of the traits attributed to vampires these days are based on myths, or downright misunderstandings," Namjoon blurts out. "Like how the outbreak of rabies in Europe led to the belief that the upir are afraid of light, which is ridiculous. Many of the symptoms of rabies, which is spread through biting, coincide with the supposed traits of vampires, like the fear of light and altered sleep patterns."

He says it all like he's slightly annoyed.

"Or how they assumed that the upir are undead because during decomposition, built up pressure can push the blood into a corpse's mouth," he continues.

"So the upir aren't undead at all?" you probe.

"No, it's just a misconception," Namjoon replies like he's in the throes of a heated debate.

He seems to notice, since the next moment he's clearing his throat awkwardly and slumping in his seat.

There's a moment of silence as you jot down some more notes.

"They're not evil," he blurts out like he can't help it, and the look on his face implores you to believe him.

You look up at him.

"Across the centuries, they've always been used as the scapegoat for things humans can't understand," he adds softly.

Hmm, yes that seems to be a recurrent theme in human history.

You close your notebook and straighten up from leaning on the desk.

"Very interesting. Thank you, Namjoon," you say and mean it.

He smiles and nods as if to say of course, but after your back is turned, his face falls a bit, wondering if he let a little too much slip.

"Too much? In my opinion, you didn't tell her enough," Jimin quips.

Namjoon rolls his eyes, but he's mainly focused on Jin. The older man only smiles at him, pressing a comforting hand to Namjoon's cheek.

"Don't worry, love. I don't mind at all," he says. Because yes, he too is eager for you to realize just what they all are.

"I just don't want her to think we're the ones behind all this," Namjoon admits.

"If she's as smart as she appears, then she'll figure that out for herself soon enough," Hoseok replies, slowly circling the room with his arms crossed.

He approaches the elegant leather couch that Namjoon and Jin are occupying.

"Joonie," he says, running a hand down the younger man's neck.

"I don't think it would hurt to drop her a few more hints, hm?" And everyone notices the smirk on Hoseok's face.

"I'm tired of waitiiiiing," Jimin whines.

"She's still a skeptic, Minie," Yoongi supplies from where he's watering the plants against the window. "She needs to be eased in."

Jimin just rolls his eyes.

"We could just kidnap her," he suggests.

"No." The reply comes instantly from Namjoon, Jungkook, and Yoongi simultaneously.

Jimin laughs high and bright.

"Come now, Jimin," Hoseok says with a sharp smile of his own. "Everyone knows it's more fun when they consent to it first."

october 25, 2004

The next time you enter the bookshop, Namjoon immediately mentions that he put together a little collection of texts for you to look over, saying they might be interesting to you. Maybe even aid in the investigation.

You thank him earnestly. And no, your face doesn't heat up at the fact that someone has gone out of their way to make your life easier.

When you slip into your usual nook, you notice that one of the drawers in the desk is adorned with a little pink ribbon around the handle, almost like it's gift-wrapped. And when you open it, you see several books, articles, and newspaper clippings, all of which seem very promising.

Something stirs in your stomach at the sight, but it's quickly set aside as you lock in and dive headfirst into the new research endeavor.

There's the notice for each of the missing persons, all the mentions of them so far in the newspapers, including one article from a publisher you've never heard of.

With the headline simple reading DISAPPEARED, the short snippet describes each missing person and the details of their last eyewitness account. The strange thing is that the article includes far more details than the big-name publishers, making you wonder why you haven't heard of it before.

The Periscope Press. You don't recall seeing it in any of the corner stores around town, but you do recall some of the people you interviewed mentioning details from "the newspaper" that you hadn't heard previously. Maybe this is the publisher they were referring to.

When you ask Namjoon about it though, he is surprisingly unhelpful. He claims that he can't remember where he came across the article, saying that he often picks up stray newspapers for wrapping and packing purposes for the shop.

Well, you suppose you'll have to save it for later then.

Also among the pile of papers in the drawer, there's a short blurb announcing the opening of the Kim Morgue and Crematorium. Taking a closer look at the date tells you that Taehyung's practice has actually been passed down through nearly three generations.

Technically, Taehyung is actually Taehyung III, taking the same name as his father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him.

But it's the photo you stumble upon that really stalls your breath.

A portrait, faded and yellowing, dated almost seventy-five years ago. The subject is a man dressed in a brown suit and tie, his hair dark and curly, except it looks exactly like him. From the Roman slant of his nose, down to the way he positions his shoulders, it looks almost indistinguishable from the Taehyung of today. The family resemblance is apparently very strong.

And again, it's a little embarrassing how long it takes you to reach the conclusion that to others, especially to the supernaturally-inclined, might seem obvious.

But you've already mentioned that you're a bit of a skeptic.

october 28, 2004

You fear that you may be going a bit crazy.

The dreams are getting worse. They've escalated from simple images and sounds to corporeal sensations. You feel the water so sharply, the cold, the current, even the vibrations. You can see hands reaching towards you, and sometimes you are compelled to reach back. Sometimes you swear you wake up smelling of seawater.

And the itchy feeling of being watched has only gotten stronger. You feel as though you're always looking over your shoulder, always listening for following footsteps.

In the past few days, you've used your research as an effective distraction.

You've found that the Kim family has run the morgue out of the Addams house for almost as long as the Jung family has owned it, Taehyung hailing from a long line of coroners and forensic pathologists rooted in Farrow's End.

With a little digging, you discovered that the Jungs have been business tycoons for decades, buying and selling and trading their vast number of industries to generate a near endless stream of income that they then hand down to their children and children's children.

Unfortunately, most of the knowledge on the Jung family is circulated through the townsfolk, so you have to ask around a bit to get a more solid basis.

The current owner of the Addams house is one Jung Hoseok. Young, beautiful, and filthy rich, according to those you spoke with on the streets. But, apparently he spent most of his youth in a mental hospital. Not only a mental hospital, a high-security facility for the criminally insane.

Now, you're not sure how much of that you believe, but you still have to entertain the possibility.

And one day, you even catch sight of him. A small crowd tends to gather whenever the black Mercedes pulls into town, curious eyes prying into the tinted windows.

You're lingering outside the bookshop one afternoon, making sure you didn't leave anything behind after a four-hour-long research session, when the car rolls through the streets like a slinky black cat.

Whispers immediately fill the air, causing you to look up from your bag, which is bursting at the seams these days from all the papers you have to carry around.

The car stops at the curb in front of the cafe, the driver soon killing the engine. Then, the driver's side door opens, and a black-booted foot steps onto the sidewalk.

The man is handsome, you have to admit, with long black hair that curls at the nape of his neck. His face is sharp and angular, with a softly heart-shaped mouth and surprisingly bright eyes.

He's dressed in pressed pants and jacket, thin and elegant. The man walks into the cafe and picks up a to-go order, gets back into his car, and drives away without so much as a glance at all the people who have stopped to stare at him.

You being one of them, but you're fairly certain that you're the only one who takes a few pictures.

But it wasn't until yesterday that you started to really feel like you were losing your marbles.

As you're asking around town, you breach the subject of the town's forensic pathologist. Everyone you speak to has nothing but good things to say about the young coroner, except for the fact that he isn't as young as you thought he was.

You ask a woman you struck up a conversation with outside the grocery store about the Kim family, and she says that Taehyung did a fantastic job taking care of her nephew for his funeral.

You agree, mentioning your admiration for how educated he is for someone so young.

That's when the woman's face turns puzzled. "Young?" she says, raising an eyebrow. She goes on to say that the most recent Kim Taehyung has been running the morgue for the last twenty years.

"Taehyung III?" you ask. "Thin, dark eyes, looks a bit like a Roman statue?"

"Yes, that's the one. Took over the family business after his father died. But no children, I hear he's training a young apprentice that will likely take over when he retires."

You mention that surely Taehyung has time to have children, but that same confused expression crosses her face.

"Isn't he nearly seventy though?"

A squirmy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You awkwardly brush off the woman, apologizing for the confusion.

You ask almost every other passerby you see on the street that evening about the town coroner, and they all say the same thing. A kind man, very good at his job, and most definitely in his late sixties.

They all insist that there hasn't been a young Kim in the business since Taehyung was a trainee nearly thirty years prior.

So you do a little more digging, and turns out it's true. If you'd have looked a little closer at the dates on all of Taehyung's degrees and certificates, you'd find that he acquired them all between fifteen and twenty-five years ago.

You're tailing him the next morning. You got lucky, today being one of the rare days when he leaves the Addams house to go into town.

He steps out of the hearse in leather shoes and a sweater vest under his trenchcoat. You suppose he dresses like he's older, from the way he tucks in his shirt and cuffs his pants, but he also sports a crossbody bag over his shoulder that others would most likely consider feminine, but he pulls it off effortlessly.

The clouds are letting down a light rain, leaving dewdrops on your jacket and making Taehyung's hair appear just a bit fluffier.

There's that same streak of gray from his hairline. The only indicator that he possibly isn't an attractive man in his late twenties/early thirties.

But that's exactly what you're looking at. Not an older man with aged skin and silver hair, rather more like a bronze god with a mop of black curls. And the only sign of age from knowledge or experience is deep in his eyes.

You begin to follow him down the street, sneaking pictures occasionally, curious what would happen if you were to show said pictures to others. Would they still see an old man? Or would they see the young one you've been seeing from the beginning?

You get the odd sensation that you're being watched, but from a source you can't name, since you're fairly certain Taehyung hasn't noticed you.

It's as you're nearing the end of the sidewalk, slipping in-between a cluster of people, that he suddenly stops dead in his tracks.

You stop too, a cold chill latching onto your spine. He stands there for a moment, perfectly still.

Then, he turns over his shoulder and looks right at you.

There haven't been many times in your career where you're genuinely shocked speechless. And even fewer when your target is not only fully aware of the fact that you're trailing them, but apparently isn't bothered in the slightest by it.

Because then a smirk is creeping onto his face. Those tiger eyes turn a shade darker, and he nods his head slightly as if to greet you.

He knew you were watching him, they all did.

The ice under your skin only intensifies when you hear the click of a camera shutter from behind you.

Whipping around, you see Jung Hoseok standing just a few feet away, a camera held up to his face and the brim of his hat tilted down, but you know it's him.

And the lens is pointed at you.

What's strange is that no one else seems to notice him. Every other time you've seen him in town, everyone stops to stare, but now they slide around him like he isn't even there, their eyes looking right through him.

Something weird is definitely going on.

You dissolve back into the crowd like a ghost.

october 29, 2004

A letter appears on your doorstep. The stationary is soft and expensive-looking, with your name scrawled on the front in curling script. With no return address.

It's enclosed with a red wax seal, stamped with the image of a crow.

You debate on whether or not to open it for approximately three minutes.

Dearest _______,

We cordially invite you to the Addams House for dinner, dancing, and drinks on October 30 at 6:00 p.m. sharp. Please bring your case notes for discussion.

Dress code: semi-formal.

Fondly,

Jung Hoseok

The back of the paper reads:

How do you accept this invitation?

➳ With enthusiasm

➳ With excitement

You think about it for about thirty seconds. Circling "with enthusiasm," you slip the paper back into the envelope and set it back outside where you found it.

It's gone the next morning.

a/n: thanks so much for reading!! i would absolutely love to hear any of your thoughts! 👉👈

[anilovie]

My Love, My Life

Summary: You and Anakin are on a supply-run and get caught in a storm, forcing you to find shelter amidst growing tensions.

WC: 9.3k

CW: MDNI, pwp, oral (f recieving), mild size kink, shared shower, lots of fluff

AN: I swear this whole thing was revealed to me in a vision.

You and Anakin had been watching the weather closely since being sent out in the dingy little transport ship. The mission was to deliver supplies and medical aid to an incognito Obi-Wan on the planet Leaze— before the storm got bad enough where travel became impossible. 

It was a simple mission, if not complicated by the sudden turn in their seasons, bringing forth a front of strong winds and heavy rains. Anakin could have even come himself, but the two of you played up the extent of Obi-Wan’s sustained injuries so that the Council would feel the need to send a medic – you – along for the ride as well. Any opportunity for you and Anakin to spend time together, you exploited. 

Really, Obi-Wan just sprained a wrist. He was low on food, water ammo, batteries, and his clothes had been all torn up in a nasty skirmish with some bounty hunters. “A joyride,” Anakin referred to this mission as. That is, until you began the descent into Leaze’s misty, swirling skies.

In between tracking his location and watching the weather radar, Anakin’s focus was on bringing you down to the ground safely — with a little more emphasis on safe, since you were here. Thus, his hands gripped the controls with a bit more force than normal, jaw clenched and brows furrowed as he met each gust of wind with a controlled parry. He pulled the shuttle through the misty skies, stabilizing the rocking foundations through the whipping winds that threatened to toss you right out of the air.

You weren’t sure how he could even see. The rain and leaves that had stuck to the window obliterated any view– he likely wasn’t even trying to see. You realized this as he answered Obi-Wan’s incoming call without even sparing a glance out the window, fingers flying over the dashboard, weathering the elements through intellect and feeling alone. 

“Anakin, Y/n, I trust that you’ve made it here safely,” Obi-Wan’s hologram displayed before you and Anakin. He looked alright – his disguise was off, for now, and he seemed to be someplace warm and out of the rain, a complete juxtaposition to the two of you.

As soon as the words warbled through, something slammed into the shuttle, rocking the foundations with an ominous groan as you began to plummet.

Anakin swore and yanked on the yoke, flicking some switches on the dashboard. “Working on it,” he bit through clenched teeth, huffing as the inferior ion engines sputtered and popped to life, breaking your fall. The shull continued to rattle and jerk, throwing you around in your seat despite being fully strapped up. 

“I can see that,” Obi-Wan quipped. “Well, once you make it to the ground, don’t bother coming to my location. The storm is worse than the reports have indicated. Find shelter for yourselves – I can hold out another day.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. It’ll do more harm than good forcing you out there in these conditions. I am safe where I am.”

“Which is where?”

The transmission cut out for a moment, shuttering off and on again as sheets of rain pelted the aluminum roof. You caught the last half of his explanation. “--they offered a room for the night, though at a high price. I hope you brought extra credits.”

“Some,” Anakin grit. 

“Perfect. Well, I won’t keep distracting you. It looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Obi-Wan bid goodbye, his cheery tone outlandish among your current predicament. “Happy landings,” he bid, and the transmission cut off.

Your fingers dug into your armrests, trusting Anakin’s skill to see that wish through. He was still deeply concentrated, and more than a little stressed as he pulled the yoke and typed over multiple colorful buttons. 

“Well, at least he’s safe,” you offered offhandedly, trying to diffuse the tension. Another hard gust of wind slammed into the hull, this time on your side, followed by a hard sheet of rain. You flinched. 

The lights had begun to flicker a while ago, and now they shut off completely, leaving you in the pitch black. Your sharp intake of air was audible, heart dropping to the pits of your stomach as the assault on the ship heightened.

“It’s okay, I did that on purpose,” Anakin explained. You could hear the strain in his voice, the clacking of his fingers over the overworked dashboard. “We need more power to the engines and thrusters. It’ll be a bumpy landing either way, but–”

“It’s okay,” you squeaked. 

“We’re almost there…”  

Bracing yourself, you squeezed your eyes shut and gripped the armrests, anticipation swirling around in your gut. You trusted him. You didn’t have to be so afraid. It was the weather you didn’t trust. Maker forbid you land in a pit of mud, swallowed up before you could escape. 

A sudden jolt threw you forward, the sickening screech of bolts and rods fighting to hold the metal panels of the shuttle together drowning out all other senses. Inertia pushed you forward in your seat, and you would have gone flying out the windshield if it weren’t for the double straps tightened over your chest, the lap belt, and the death grip you had on your armrests.

Slowly, the sliding of the shuttle ship began to slow, the tension in the shuttle easing, parts settling back into place. Then, the sounds of the vicious rain pelting the roof returned, your body relaxing against the seat with a huff, blinking your eyes open to the pitch blackness of the hull.

“You okay?” Anakin worried, clicking out of his own seatbelt to reach for you. 

You followed suit, fingers fumbling around in the dark for the clasps that would free you. “All good,” you released one set of straps, and Anakin found the two others for you. “Thanks.”

Another gust of wind nudged the shull forward, groaning under the pressure. Some lights flickered on, and there was Anakin fiddling with the control panel overhead so you could see. 

“I don’t think we can stay here for very long, unfortunately,” he said, and you weren’t sure you’d ever seen him look so stressed. “The ship appears to be sinking. We’ll have to pack a bag and get going.”

Abandon ship? In these conditions?

Again, your unshakable trust in him erased any fear in your mind. He’d done far riskier and more dangerous things – his own fear now was because of you. You’re safety. 

But you were fine – just a little shaky as you stood and reached for the supply crates in the back, rifling through them for necessities, tossing them to Anakin to shove into a bag. You managed to get half of what you’d originally planned to drop off for Obi-Wan into two bags. Anakin shrugged the larger one over his shoulders, and you took the smaller one.

You’d both come prepared, already wearing rain ponchos, but it seemed like they’d do little good as Anakin kicked the stuck door open. The sound of the rain coming down was deafening, a roaring torrent that could easily sweep you away. 

“Hold on to me,” Anakin yelled over the sound, and you hooked an arm around his, pulling you out of the ship with him.

Mud and rain splattered your face as your boots met the ground, and he immediately took off, dragging you with him. Again, your blind faith in him came in handy. All you could focus on was spluttering around the rain for any pocket of air you could find, trying to keep upright as your heels slipped and skidded in the mud, hoping you weren’t slowing Anakin down.

Of course you were slowing him down. You were no Jedi. But you both knew that, and he didn’t mind. Just wanted you out of the wind and rain so you wouldn’t catch a cold.

After what seemed like ages of the two of you fighting through the elements, narrowly avoiding trees and branches and sharp rocks, Anakin pointed out an abandoned shed in the distance. He ran for it, pulling you under the awning with him so he could pound on the door.

“No one’s here,” he spoke after a moment as you were still wiping water out of your eyes. Something clicked in the door, unlocking so Anakin could open it up and peer inside.

He found the light switch on the wall, flipping it up and down uselessly. “Power’s out,” he mumbled, searching around in the force for some mechanism of light. Apparently finding something, he released your hand. “I’ll be right back.”

You stood shivering by the closed door, dripping a puddle of water onto the ground as you waited for him to return. With your sight gone, your other senses were heightened – you could smell the dust of furniture long forgotten, hear the creeks of unkempt floorboards as Anakin explored the shed, and feel the bone-cold chill of the storm seeping in under the crack in the door. Wherever you were, it was very old, and likely abandoned.

Anakin came back around the corner brandishing a candle, shielding the flame with one hand as he made his way back to you.

“This looks like it was somebody’s home at one point,” he thought aloud, pointing to the way he just came. “That’s a kitchen over there, and there’s a loft with a bed in the back. Pretty sure I saw a shower, too. I can probably get the pumps running long enough to make use of it.”

You wouldn’t question how he could do that– sometimes it seemed like he had magical powers, even without the force. 

“Is there a fireplace?” you wondered, shaking off your drenched poncho and stepping further in now that you could see. “Maybe I could heat up some water to use, warm this place up a bit, too.”

Anakin held the candle out before him, casting shadows over the interior of the little shed. Right in front of the door was a wooden stairway – more of a ladder – that led to what you assumed was an attic. Deciding to avoid any bats or rodents, you agreed to keep that shut and rounded the ladder to what looked like a tiny living room opposite the kitchen, separated by a thin wall.

A couple threadbare sofa-chairs sat dusty and weathered on the dull carpet, a table set before the both of them, and – jackpot – a little stone fireplace in the corner.

“The wood from outside is too wet to burn,” Anakin poked at the empty log pit. “But I could break down that table and use it as fuel…”

“Good idea,” you chirped, taking the candle from Anakin to free up his hands for the task. “I’ll go look for more candles and matches.”

The kitchen was just as tiny, standing room only and no dining table. It consisted of a slab of wood for a counter, an empty ice box that was cracked down the middle, and some drawers which were also mostly empty.

One of the cupboard up top held a few random supplies, mostly rubber bands and bottle caps and dead batteries. But amid that was a bag of little tea candles, a few larger ones made of a slippery wax, and a box of matches. Half were no good, but you only needed to light one and then share the flame with all the others.

You planted the tea candles around on various surfaces, lighting the space up as Anakin broke down the table. You threw some old papers you’d found bunched in a drawer into the fireplace for more starter fuel, scratching another match to life against the grated box once Anakin dropped a leg of the table into the fire. You tossed the match in after it, satisfied when the flame caught the edge of the papers and flared to life, enveloping the wooden leg.

“That’s so much better,” you sighed, holding your hands out to warm by the flame. 

“Mmhm,” he agreed, crouched beside you. He stared, mesmerized by the flames for a long moment before suddenly standing. “Alright, I’m gonna go look at the pipes. Will you be okay for now?”

“Yup,” you nodded cheerily. “Where are the pipes?”

“There’s a cellar out back. Should be down there.”

“Oh…” this time, your shiver wasn’t from the cold. “Want me to go with you? Sounds kinda creepy.”

Anakin huffed a laugh, running a hand down the back of your head affectionately. “No, I think I’ll be alright, thank you. Want you to stay here and warm up.”

“I’ll go get the bed ready.”

“Perfect,” he brought you toward him with that hand, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be back.”

Now alone, you fed the fire with some more wood from the table, crouching down before the bags to get out your and Anakin’s spare set of clothes. You hung them up on the sill of the fireplace, weighing them down with the candles so they could dry. 

There were a couple of large buckets beside the fireplace, probably meant for gathering wood. You took one and set it outside to collect rainwater. It didn’t take very long at all – it filled up from the downpour within minutes, and you hung it up on the metal rod above the fire to boil for drinking water.

Then you grabbed one of the thicker candles to light your way to the back of the shed. The floorboards lifted slightly back here, half of a wall hiding the bedroom from the rest of the interior. 

The bed was quite large for such a small space, half-made with a quilted cover. It looked all dusty and gross, so you tore it off and opened all the drawers and cupboards in the space, praying for some spare sheets.

Luck seemed to be on your side. There was a set of sheets, blankets, and even a couple of pillows stowed away atop the first shelf in the closet. You had to strain on your tiptoes to reach them, but eventually knocked them down to your height. You took them to the living room and shook them out, making sure no dust or any bugs hid inside, then brought them back to the room and made the bed.

It was a lot more than you were hoping for, for an abandoned shed in the depths of the forest.

With the bed all made and Anakin not back yet, you decided to use the old dirty blanket to wipe down the interior of the bathroom. There was a shower – if that’s what you could call it. Really, it was just a spigot attached to the wall with a drain beneath, the floor here made of smooth rock rather than wood. But if Anakin could get it to work, and you warmed up some more water over the fire, you could have a real, warm shower using the soap you’d brought from the ship. 

The sound of the door opening let in the roar of the rain once more. Anakin closed it behind him, shaking water out of his hair.. “Good news,” he called, voice carrying from the door to the bedroom in the small shed. “There’s a water heater down there that I got working, as well as the pipes. I just have to fill the tank and we’re good to go.”

“Ohh,” you cooed excitedly, rounding the corner to meet him again. “I found a bucket we could use– hold on.” You grabbed the spare bucket from the fireplace and handed it to him. “The bed’s all set, I found some clean sheets and cleaned up the bathroom. There doesn’t seem to be anything useful in the kitchen or anywhere else,” you shrugged. “But I think this will do pretty well for the night.”

“I think so, too,” Anakin said, and despite the howling wind and icy rain pounding into the roof and threatening to shatter the windows, he smiled. 

He left to go fill the tank, and you laid out the rest of the supplies before the fire. The bigger bag was for Obi-Wan– those things you didn’t touch. But you and Anakin had a couple extra blankets, some food, a blaster, maps, and your medical supplies. Most of it survived the rain.

By the time Anakin came back, you were still sitting before the fire, occasionally feeding it with more scraps of wood and poking it around with a longer piece. He kicked the mud and dirt off his boots at the door before coming in, shrugging off his poncho. 

“Alright, bad news…” he started this time. You turned to look at him. “The heater is the slowest thing I’ve ever come across. It’ll take hours. I don’t think showers are in the cards for us tonight.”

You twisted your lips, trying not to seem too disappointed. “Bummer.” 

All you wanted to do was get out of these sticky, soaking wet clothes and immerse yourself in a warm shower. But at least he tried, and it really wasn’t the end of the world.

“Maybe in the morning,” you reasoned, trying to stay positive. He joined you by the fire as you tugged on the clothes you’d hung up, seeing if they were ready. “At least these are dry, and warm now. That’s better than nothing.”

“It is. Smart girl,” he tilted your face toward his with a finger, crouched before you again. His lips met yours – wet meeting dry, cold meeting warm. It took you by surprise a little bit, the intensity he kissed you with out of nowhere. But you responded in earnest, as if the simple touch of your flesh could warm him from the torrents coming down outside. 

After a long moment, he pulled back an inch, mumbling against your mouth, “Let’s get out of these wet clothes, yeah?”

You nodded silently, standing once he gave you room to take the clothes down from the fire. 

You’d been on missions with Anakin before, just the two of you. But nothing like this – so raw, so intimate, so secluded from the rest of the world. You could feel a strange tension in the air between you two, not bad. Just… different. Like there was an energy pulsing alive, waiting for something to snap.

You’d been with Anakin for a few months now, and in love with each other for far longer. But… you’d never truly been with him yet. In any way. 

He knew you weren’t ready, and explained you could take it slow. As slow as you wanted. He, of course, was already experienced, and that intimidated you. Which is why it had been months, and you still hadn’t made a move to progress things. Just the thought of doing those things with him made you impossibly nervous.

But lately, like now, you were thinking about it more and more. You couldn’t do this with anyone else, you thought. Just Anakin. You loved him more than life itself, and your ability to express that with words or innocent touches was growing limited. 

You wanted more of him. And you wanted him to have more of you.

What are you thinking? You shook the thoughts out of your head as you took your clothes into the bathroom to change. These thoughts had nothing to do with the predicament you found yourselves in. The last thing he was thinking about was sex.

In fact, upon exiting the bathroom, you found him already changed into his dried pair of pants and nothing else, sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for you with a tired, slumped look in his eyes.

He’d given you his spare shirt to wear since it was bigger and warmer than yours, and he wasn’t going to wear it anyways. You also had on a pair of shorts, the comfy ones you brought for sleeping since you thought you’d be in an inn right now. 

You approached him slowly, shadows cast over his face from the candlelight, flickering off the walls. The air was a bit chillier back here, away from the fire that you’d let simmer to embers for now. Naturally, you gravitated toward his shirtless form, slotting yourself in the space he’d opened up for you between his knees, and wrapping your arms around his neck.

“What an odd change of plans,” you muttered into his hair softly.

His flesh hand found your back, holding you close as he nestled his head against your chest. “Agreed.”

You remained like that for a moment, wrapped up in each other’s warmth and rain-damp hair, listening to the constant thrum of the downpour above, the gusting wind in the trees. 

“You tired?” you asked, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. You liked how it looked dark and burnished in the candlelight, holding the shape of a ringlet curl as you wrapped and uncoiled it from around your finger. 

“Very,” he breathed, turning his face into your neck to leave a kiss on your collarbone. “C’mere.”

Both of his wrapped around your back, securely holding you to him as he fell backward onto the bed, with you on top of him. You laughed, steadying yourself with your arms on either side of his head, ducking down to plant a sweet kiss above his brows. 

“You’re not even on the bed,” you pointed out, referring to his legs which were still on the floor. You pulled back the covers, and you both slipped under, instantly finding the spot between his chest and shoulder to lay your head. His arm wrapped around your shoulders and pulled you snuggly into his side, allowing you to slot one of your legs between his. 

This is how it always was when you and him could truly be alone, uninterrupted, with no threat of someone finding you out. It was a rare moment, which is why your skin sang with every inch it pressed against his, heart soaring in your chest as your body seemed to settle so perfectly against his, erasing any doubt in your mind that any of this could be a mistake.

Before long, and without even realizing, you slipped into a deep sleep. Despite the harsh weather outside, you’d never felt so comfortable, wrapped up in warmth and darkness. That is, until Anakin woke with a start, wrenching you out of your slumber.

“What issit?” you slurred, rubbing sleep out of your eyes. It wasn’t like when he’d have nightmares, where you’d usually wake up before him due to his tossing and turning and mumbling. This was sudden – like something had possessed him, stolen all the air from his lungs as wide eyes turned to you.

“The transmitter,�� he said, throwing the blankets off of him and getting out of bed. Your head was still lagging behind, having no idea what he meant.

“What transmitter?”

“The one on the ship. The only way we can contact Obi-Wan. We left it behind.”

He was already pulling on his boots and reaching for his other shirt, sparing no time. You pushed yourself further up in bed, swiping your hair out of your face. “D’you have to get it now? Can it wait till the morning?”

“The ship was sinking when we left it. It could be buried in mud right now,” he rushed the words out, grabbing his utility belt from the sill and securing it around his waist. “I’ll be back in an hour. Go back to bed… I’m sorry for waking you.”

“No, I’ll come with you,” you were already swinging your legs off the bed too, about to stand up when Anakin put a hand on your shoulder. It was dark now, the candles having been blown out without you realizing, and you could barely see his face.

“No. Stay here. I don’t want you out there, it’s too dangerous.”

“It’s just some rain,” your argument sounded meek, even to you. “Come on, Anakin, I don’t want you to go alone. ‘S not fair.”

“Fair?” 

“You shouldn’t have to be out there while I stay here and sleep. I won’t be able to, anyway. It is dangerous, so I should come with you, in case something happens.”

“Y/n. No,” he said sternly, and you flinched. A heavy pause hung between you, where you searched for what to say among the scattered thoughts in your brain. He’d never been stern with you before. Ever. 

“I won’t be gone long. I promise I’ll be there and back as fast as I can. Okay?”

“But,” you insisted stubbornly, desperately fighting back the sting in your eyes. “I want to go with you, Anakin. I want to help you.”

You tried to stand up again, but the hold he had on your shoulders wouldn’t let you. You tried to fight back the emotion rising in your throat, threatening to spill over your eyes at his defiance. He was too strong, his word absolute– and for once, you couldn’t sway him.

The thought of him out there, alone in the dark and cold and rain… it killed you.

You grasped at his wrists, still holding onto your shoulders, and squeezed as if you could keep him there. As if he wasn’t laughably stronger than you, and could pull away from your touch without realizing you were trying.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? This isn’t like you,” his words came out hushed now. Worried. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” you sniffed, lip beginning to wobble. “Just don’t want you to get hurt.” It’s scary out there.

“I won’t. I promise… I’ll be okay. You’ll see,” he kissed the stray tear that squeezed out of your eye, collecting it with his lips before it could trail a path down your cheek. You tried to steady your breathing, shaky as it dragged in and out of your lungs, quelling the rising feeling of dread and fear.

Somehow, he’d coaxed you back into bed, on your back, tucking the sheets in around you nice and tight. Tight enough so that you couldn’t get out, perhaps. Whimpering in defeat, you felt another few tears squeeze out of your eyes, turning your head away from him to bury into the pillow.

“Don’t do this,” Anakin murmured, stroking a hand over your hair. “Please, don’t cry.”

“Fine,” you snipped, immediately regretting it. “‘M sorry… just don’t get hurt. Come back.”

“I will,” he whispered, and trailed warm kisses down your temple. 

And then he was gone.

His voice, his touch, his scent, his warmth – all of it, vanished like it had never been there to begin with.

It’s not the fact that he’d left to go do something dangerous on his own – it was the fact that he was out there all alone, in a terrible storm, fighting through the unpredictability of the elements. It had been violent for the short time you’d been out there earlier, the rain pelting your skin so hard it stung, the mud sticking to your boots, refusing to let you move, the wind nearly toppling you over if Anakin hadn’t been there to steady you.

You could have gone with him. You could have kept up. And Maker forbid anything happen to him – if he got stuck, trapped somewhere, if a tree came down over him, if he got lost and couldn’t find his way–

You couldn’t stay in bed. Half of you wanted to pull your boots on too and meet him out there, but you knew that was a stupid decision. You didn’t have his sense of direction, the built in radar that he had. And even as you peered through the cloudy window to the outside world, you knew it would be in vain. The night forest was alive with shuttering tree limbs, branches fighting each other in the sky as the terrible wind tossed them around. The rain never let up, the same suffocating sheet of water dumping from the moonless sky above.

Anakin was far gone at this point. You could only sit by the window, alone in the cold, dusty dark, until he returned.

The sleeves of your – Anakin’s – shirt had grown damp by the time you spotted his figure appear out of the trees. 

It startled you at first, worried some stranger had come across the shed in the same way you and Anakin had, and was now heading this way to seek shelter. Once he arrived, he might find you here, and maybe he’d try to hurt you.

You slipped off the ledge you were sitting on and grabbed for the water-logged blaster you’d set on the floor, shaking out some raindrops and hoping it wasn’t one of the things that got destroyed by the rain. 

Your worry was for naught - the closer the figure grew, the more you recognized the height, shape, and gait of Anakin Skywalker. The hood of his poncho was pulled up over his head, but it did little good as the wind tugged and pulled at it, letting the rain drench his face anyway.

You set the blaster down and met him by the door, pulling it open to reveal him soaked to the bone and panting. He truly had run the whole way.

“Anakin,” you started, trying to stay out of his way so he could take off his poncho and boots without spraying you with water. “Are you okay? Did you get the transmitter?”

“I made it just in time,” he explained, reaching into his belt pocket and brandishing the little metal device. Such a small thing, important enough to risk his life over. 

At least, to him it was.

“You must be freezing,” you muttered, still upset at the fact that you hadn’t shared in his suffering. You hated seeing him go through these things alone. You should have been with him. 

“The heaters have probably had enough time to warm the water up,” his attempt to distract you didn’t go unnoticed. “You wanna go check for me?”

You whispered, “okay,” and flit back to the bedroom, lighting a couple of candles inside so you could see. The spigot was stuck in place due to years of sitting unused and abandoned, but eventually you managed to wrench it to the side, almost splattering yourself with brown water.

Your face crinkled in disgust, but soon it began to run clear. You tested the temperature with your fingertips, pleased to feel that it was warm.

Anakin rounded the corner, leaning against the doorway of the bathroom with his arms crossed. “Is it working?”

“Yeah. It’s warm,” you pulled your hand away and wiped it dry on your shorts. “You should get in quick so it’s not wasted.”

“Wanna join me?”

His offer caught you by surprise.

Join him? In the shower? As in… naked?

The look on your face must have given your thoughts away. He chuckled and reached toward one of the tea lights you’d just lit, snuffing the flame out between two gloved fingers. “I can turn off the lights…” he teased.

Damn him. As if you weren’t already flustered – 

The steady trickle of the spigot remained at your back, seducing you to the warmth of the shower. It would feel so good to be able to wash up. And with there only really being enough time for one shower… it would make sense for the both of you to just do it together.

But Anakin had never seen you without clothes before. And you hadn’t prepared for that to happen today.

“Yes… no…?” he drawled, uncrossing his arms and reaching out for the other candle. Like the first, he pinched the flame out, blanketing the room in darkness. The sound of the floorboards creaking was the only way you knew he was approaching, tensing as you felt his hands tug at the hem of your shirt. “C’mon, sweetheart. I’ll behave.”

You were still upset with him being stern with you earlier. And even more upset that he didn’t let you go with him. 

But something about his honey-smooth voice reduced you to putty in his hands. Warmth budded and bloomed deep in your stomach, and a certain resolve passed over you. You didn’t want to be upset anymore. You wanted this. 

“Okay,” you whispered, fingers finding Anakin’s at the bottom of your shirt. You didn’t miss his slight inhale.

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” you tugged the hem up yourself, urging him to guide the material over your head. 

The darkness of the room was the only thing that offered you any sort of comfort, knowing he couldn’t truly see you just yet. You knew, logically, that he could fathom things in his mind without having to see them, but purposely ignored that fact.

You weren’t sure where your shirt landed, as he’d been the one to tug your arms out himself. Riding the adrenaline high, you slipped your thumbs under the elastic of your sleep shorts and pushed them down, kicking them somewhere in the corner.

And there you were, standing completely naked in front of Anakin Skywalker – your love, your life – for the first time ever.

Again, the only reason you could really do this right now was because it was pitch black in the room. You only had enough nerve to then reach for him, hand finding the soaking wet material of his own shirt as you shivered in the cold.

“Hurry up and get undressed, I wanna get in,” you pleaded. He’d gone eerily silent.

At your request, he started into motion. You could hear the sounds of his wet clothes slopping to the ground heavily, trying to fight the blush off of your face as you turned around to pull the spigot further. The water began to rain down in a warm current now, and you stepped underneath to douse yourself in the glorious heat.

“Where are yo–? oh,” you jumped as you felt his hands find their way around your waist, his naked chest pressed up against your back. The water sprayed over the both of you, trickling down his body to fall onto yours, shivering at the added heat.

The blood in your face grew warmer, trying not to think about how close his hands were to two very sensitive parts of your body. They spanned almost the whole length of your torso, tummy twisting as you realized just how big he was. Just how strong.

But he chose to be gentle with you.

Trying to steady your breathing, you reached for the soap you’d stowed away in the notch in the wall, flipping the cap open and squirting a generous amount into the palm of your hand. Anakin trailed his fingers down your arm, taking the bottle from you and setting it down again. 

You rubbed the soap between your hands, letting the excess drip down your body so it wouldn’t go to waste. Then, you began rubbing the suds all into your skin, feeling impossibly feverish at the predicament.

It just felt… wrong, somehow, to be touching yourself like this in front of Anakin. Even if you were just washing up.

His hands had returned to your waist, and you smoothed them over his own as you worked your way down your body. Wordlessly, he turned his hands over, capturing your soapy fingers in his and stealing some of the suds. You huffed a laugh, heart fluttering in your chest as he began to work that soap into the soft skin of your stomach, hips, and waist. 

You tried not to squirm too much. Forced yourself to relax, and just let him do what he wanted. He was obviously enjoying it, the way he lingered, rubbing circles into your soft skin, kissing at your shoulder blade as he brought his hands around and up your back, almost massaging the soap into you. 

The way his hands moved over your body was so different than anything you’ve ever felt before. You’d never been touched so tenderly, so unrestricted yet loving as you’d been now. And though he had free reign, he avoided the parts that might make you uncomfortable… until you grew bold enough to capture his wandering hands in your own, leading them to the soft mounds of flesh yourself. 

On instinct he squeezed, ever so gently, with your smaller fingers bracketing his own. “You can touch me,” you whispered, encouraging now that you were fully relaxed and comfortable with him.

“You’re perfect,” he replied, lips finding the curve of your neck.

What had he said about behaving?

As if he could read your thoughts, his lips released the skin of your neck with a small sound, pressing a kiss above that spot, and then one more under your jaw. Then he began to move his hands over your breasts, not quite sexual, but gentle. Caring. Washing you of rainwater and chill, so all that was left was the sweet smelling soap and the feel of him.

You sighed in relief, bones turning to mush in his hands. Soon, he reached for the soap again and squeezed more out, stepping around so that he was in front of you.

His hands found you again, your waist this time, the unpredictability of his touches making your heart hammer against your ribs. Something about it was so thrilling, not being able to see where he was or where he was planning to go, especially now that you’d given him permission to touch you. You weren’t sure where you’d draw the line if it came to that. If you’d draw the line. 

His touch remained wholly innocent, though, focusing back around on your stomach, dragging down the curve of your waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs. You could feel his breath on your tummy, butterflies flaring to life as you realized he was on his knees before you, dragging his touch up and down your thighs as his lips pressed a sensual kiss to the top of your tummy. Then above your belly button. Then one below–

You held your breath, anticipating him to keep going. But he lingered on the last kiss, and you could feel his teeth on your skin as he smiled.

“On my best behavior, remember?” his voice was deep, almost a purr. 

You could only manage a meek “Mmhm,” as he continued on, tracing his fingers down to your knee, lifting one leg slightly so he could trail kisses down your thigh, over your knee, down, down down, all the while rubbing soap into your skin in his lip’s wake.

By the time he reached your foot, you were bracing yourself with your hands on his shoulders, trying not to jump out of your skin as his lips continued. He kissed your ankle, the top of your foot, massaging soap into the soles of your feet. 

He wasn’t just washing you. He was worshiping you.

That much was clear as he released that leg and started over on the other side. 

You were almost relieved when he was done. Every inch of your skin was alive and buzzing, standing on edge with electricity and embarrassment and something else. Something deep, and smooth, and warm like bubbling molasses. You could barely breathe, glad for the moment of reprieve when he finally released you, and deposited more soap in his hands so he could wash himself. 

Your legs were jelly, afraid you’d fall down right there in the shower, completely baffled how he could just do something like that and continue on like nothing happened. Then, you heard the speed at which he was rubbing the soap over his own body – clearly, he wanted to get out to continue this elsewhere. 

You weren’t terribly ashamed to admit you were thinking along the same line.

Before the water could run cold, Anakin had urged you both under the spigot again and rinsed all the suds off your body. Then he grabbed for the single towel that you’d brought from the supply bag, turning the water off and wrapping you up in it.

“Hey– what’re you doing?” you pouted, undoing the towel just as soon as he’d tucked it into you, secure.

“Getting you dry,” he responded like it was obvious. You rubbed the towel over your skin quickly, then wrapped Anakin in it like he’d done to you. Or– you tried to, at least. You still couldn’t see, and completely missed your mark, caught off guard by the absence of the body you confidently reached for that you almost slipped, bracing yourself on the first thing you could reach.

“Woah,” Anakin chuckled, easily steadying you with his hands around your waist. Your bare chest was pressed against his, glaringly obvious with the way the cold air tightened your skin, and you blushed furiously. 

“Sorry– couldn’t find you,” you mumbled, hopelessly patting at his chest with the towel now that you had him.

“Alright, let’s get you dressed and out of here before you take us both down,” he teased, bending to retrieve the clothes you’d both discarded in the dark.

You let him pull his shirt over your head first, shielding you from the nippy air. You were disappointed with the loss of contact, but glad for the sense of normalcy. He knelt before you again and urged you to lift your leg with his hand around your calf, guiding one leg, then the other into your shorts, pulling them up until they rested comfortably on your hips.

He pulled his own pants on, the only thing he’d be wearing, and you finally reached for the bathroom door, ready to be able to see again even if it was only by candlelight.

It was like re-entering life, after being in the dark for so long. You turned to see if Anakin was following you, finding him close behind as he shut the door behind him, and just the sight of his ridiculously handsome face, gilded by the glow of the fire, set your heart aflame.

You needed his lips on yours. Now.

This time, he was taken by surprise with the intensity of your kiss. You stood on your tiptoes and captured his lips with yours, barely noticing as he fell back into the door slightly, hand finding your hip to steady you. His surprise quickly melted into an intensity that matched your own, hot lips sliding over yours, tongue dipping into your mouth for a taste, palm guiding your jaw just how he liked.

He kissed like he was drinking you in, breathing your air, as if he wished to share the same skin as you. And though you’d started it, now you were trying to keep up, head growing fuzzy from lack of oxygen as he began to guide you backward, onto the bed.

As soon as your back hit the mattress, the reality of the situation dawned on you. He wasn’t slowing down, and you didn’t want him to. His touch dragged fire across your flesh, tracing down the places he’d just worshiped under your clothes, pulling you so close to him you could feel his heart hammer in his chest.

Your hands buried in his hair, the other on his shoulder for stability, grounding as he released your lips with a gasp, wasting no time before claiming the sensitive skin of your neck with the same furiosity. 

“Anakin,” you breathed, not really sure what you wanted to say. You just wanted to taste his name in your mouth, the way the syllables sounded so pretty, so perfect between your teeth.

He answered with a short “mmm,” listening but not really. He was too deep into it, kissing and sucking and nipping at your neck, tongue laving over the small hurts that his teeth dug into you. 

Somehow his flesh hand had drifted to the elastic of your shorts. You’d missed it before, too caught up in him toying with the skin over your pulsepoint. But now his fingers teased the elastic that he’d just put on you, and despite your livewire nerves and the pound of your heart, you lifted your hips in invitation.

His mouth detached from your neck, shocked again as he breathed, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you forbid him from asking again by pulling him back to your lips. You needed the distraction, bracketing his jaw in both your hands as he pulled your shorts down your legs, slowly. Giving you time to back out.

You kicked them off once he reached your feet, flinging them out of sight. Anakin settled back between your thighs, your knees squeezing his waist, squirming as his touch now roamed free under your shirt.

“Anakin,” you pulled away to breathe once again, lips swollen and wet, filled with the taste of him. “I– I don’t know what to do.”

His eyelashes shuttered, delicate as a butterfly wing, and he leaned back in to peck you gently on the lips. “Don’t worry about a thing,” he murmured, eyes all melted and soft. “I’ll take care of you.”

There it was again. That blind trust. 

He could do whatever he wanted to you right now, and you’d let him. Half dressed, strewn over the bed, all for his taking… and he moved down your body to recount the kisses he’d pressed to your stomach in the shower only moments before.

Your muscles clenched and unclenched, hips squirming as you felt an uncomfortable warmth, a wetness, an ache between your legs the further down he moved. You were no stranger to that feeling, or how to relieve it– but you were new to sharing it with someone else. Sharing it with him. 

Though it made you incredibly nervous to have him down there, the need for his touch outweighed everything. He kissed your stomach, hips, and thighs until he felt you relax under his palms, and only then did he slide his hands beneath your knees, pausing one last time to ask:

“Will you let me taste you?”

It felt like something exploded in your face, with the intensity that heat bloomed in your cheeks. Those bejeweled eyes shining in the candlelight, intent on you, hands clutching the plush softness of the backs of your thighs, breath ghosting over the bottom of your stomach– it was almost too much.

“Okay,” you answered quietly, nodding your head. “Y-yes.”

His responding grin was wicked – roguish. Broad hands pushed your legs up and spread them apart, baring it all for him to see.

It was quick– so quick you barely had time to be embarrassed, like ripping a bandaid off. He just… did it. And now he was looking at you, holding your thighs so steady in his strong grasp that you couldn’t even dream of closing them on him.

You threw a hand over your eyes, unable to watch him look at you.

“Baby,” he breathed, flesh hand releasing one of your legs so he could slot it between your thighs, thumb pulling you open a little. You didn’t think it was possible to be more embarrassed as he studied you, only opening your eyes to look at him when he tugged at your wrist in silent demand.

“C’mon, don’t be shy,” he teased, though when you blinked open your wet eyes to look at him, his face had melted into one of adoration. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, before pressing his lips to the swollen bud of your clit, taking you by surprise again. “The prettiest there ever was,” he smirked when he saw your reaction, pulling you open with both thumbs now so he could press a hot, deep, lingering kiss into you.

You gasped at the contact, blood rushing in your ears as your back bowed off the bed. Sparks of pleasure battled the humiliation as he continued planting sweet little suckling kisses to your clit, over and over, as if he couldn’t get enough. 

Once you’d relaxed back onto the bed, and the first pathetic whimper left your mouth, he let his tongue roam your folds, collecting your taste.

He knew this was new for you, so he went slow. Started gentle, getting you used to the feeling. And it was strange for you, just a little bit, but mostly it felt… good. So good. Indescribably good. So much so that you couldn’t believe you’d held out on this for so long.

Couldn’t believe you were letting him do this to you now. 

Your hips twitched and jumped as his tongue traced down to your entrance, teasingly licking you in circles, using pressure like he might try to put it in. The thought had you reaching for the bedsheets, needing something to squeeze in your fists. One of his hands intercepted yours, bringing it back to your thigh so he could hold you still and let you squeeze his hand at the same time. 

He licked your arousal up, truly drinking you now, allowing his tongue to lave over your clit all slow and smooth and warm. You mewled, a sweet, innocent sound that went straight to his cock. With a desire to pull more pretty sounds from you, he kept drawing circles over your clit, increasing the pressure and speed until your eyes were closed, and you were biting your finger between your teeth, unable to help the sounds escaping you.

“Fuck, Ani–”  gasped, thighs falling open by themselves now, inviting him deeper. He licked you again, closing his lips at the top of your heat to suck your clit into his mouth, pulling it between his lips with a pulsing suction. 

He didn’t let up. 

Your muscles tensed, the fuzzy warmth building in your gut, between your legs, spreading down your thighs, becoming all consuming. And just when you thought it would burst, he let go.

“Shit,” you cried, breathless as your hips rocked against his mouth. He laughed, sticking his tongue out so you could hump the met muscle, hot breath fanning over your most sensitive parts. His teeth gleamed in the firelight, dark eyes trained on you, and you had to shut your own so you didn’t cum right there.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he pulled his face away, pinching the inside of your thigh just enough to sting. You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze again. “Stay with me, pretty girl.”

His mouth, shining with your slick, lowered to your pussy again. And you couldn’t stop from moaning, hips canting up and down even though you knew it made his job more difficult. You just couldn’t help it– it felt too good. 

And he knew that, so he was nice. It was your first time, after all. So he relaxed the hold he had on your hips and let you squirm, just a little, to delude you into thinking you had even an ounce of control.

“You gonna cum in my mouth, sweet thing?” he spoke against your cunt, sealing the words off with a loud, wet, kiss. “Gonna make a mess for me?”

You’d never appreciated the velvety timber of his voice more than right now. 

“Mhm,” you whimpered pathetically, eyes squeezing closed. And again, he let you. There would be other times to play his wicked games.

“Alright, sweetheart. Whenever you’re ready,” he soothed, returning his mouth to your clit. He licked and sucked, sliding his tongue back down to your hole and breaching the entrance like he’d fantasized about doing with his cock for so long now, carving the exact path he would take. You gasped for air, humming it out in cute helpless whines and whimpers, cheeks permanently stained in a flush.

“Anakin, I–” you wanted to say you loved him, no matter how pathetic that sounded. But it was true, it was all you could feel as his lips suctioned around your clit again, pulling it into his mouth and teasing it with his tongue in torturous circles. You loved him, loved his mind and his body, and the way his lips and tongue were pulling that glorious wave of heat from out of you now, swallowing the gush of hot slick that escaped from your pulsing hole.

He brought you down with his thumb on your clit, soothing gentle circles into it as you cried, body shaking and jerking beneath him. He watched you come undone with a small smile on his face, not allowing you to escape his attention for even a moment. 

The last gulp of air that you took to settle your shivering muscles felt like the sweetest breath you’d ever taken. Anakin climbed back up your body, hands sliding over your knees, so he could kiss you deep on the lips.

You tasted yourself – it wasn’t bad… slightly salty, but not quite. That mixed with the taste of Anakin had your brain turn to mush again, lips lazy and compliant under his.

“See how good you taste?” he hummed, going back in to flirt his tongue around yours. “Fucking delicious.”

“Anakin–” you were pushing at his chest now, the buffer of arousal no longer shielding you from so much embarrassment. He laughed as you covered your face with your hands, immediately trying to tug them away again.

“It’s the truth,” he insisted with that lover’s pur, and you pouted once he finally succeeded in seeing your face again. He traced your bottom lip with his thumb, still smiling. “You okay?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded, unable to fight back your own matching smile. “‘T was so good, Ani. Didn’t think… didn’t think it’d be like that.”

“No?”

“Mm-mm,” you shook your head, leaning into his warm palm as he cupped your cheek, thumb still stroking your bottom lip. “Thank you. Do you– do you want me to…”

It took him a second before he realized what you were talking about. His eyes widened slightly and he looked down, then laughed. “No– no, you don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t you want me to?”

“Of course I do,” he insisted, mirth and adoration oozing from his gaze. “But I can handle it tonight. Think that was enough for you.”

You pouted again, about to insist, but he kept you quiet with a kiss. “Another time, okay?” he whispered against your lips.

You nodded, complaisant.

“Good.” With a deep breath of his own, he lifted himself off of you, carefully closing your legs so they wouldn’t ache from being held open for so long. “Wait here,” he requested, and then left for the bathroom again.

He grabbed the towel you both had used, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Can you open up for me?” he asked, fingers sliding around your thigh in silent request.

Your face burned even harder than before, somehow, as you fulfilled his request, spreading your legs a bit so he could clean you up. It was a strange feeling, almost more intimate than what he’d previously been doing– but it was quick, and it felt nice now that your arousal was all cleaned up, and he could slip your shorts back on with you having to get up. 

Anakin retreated back to the bathroom and was gone for a few long moments. You had an idea of what he was doing, another burst of heat blooming in your stomach at the thought of what was going on behind that door. You had half a mind to suggest helping him again. You were more than willing.

But he came out only a short time later to find that you’d straightened all the sheets, and were now waiting by the pillows for him to come back to bed with you. He blew out the candles as he passed them by, getting into the bed and wasting no time pulling you onto his chest.

He’d never felt closer to you. And you, him.

In the morning, you’d probably be embarrassed again, recalling what you’d done. The storm outside seemed to trap you in a bubble, your own world, and everything else seemed so far away now.

You pressed your palm to his chest, letting the strong thud, thud, thud of his heart lull you to sleep. Before he could feel you drift off, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“I love you,” he said, and you heard it in your dreams. 

divider from @saradika

[luveline]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

You want to see the floating lights. Steve wants his satchel back. You come to an arrangement that is mutually beneficial… sorta. tangled!au

10k words, reader insert, fem!reader, medieval times (ish!), begrudging allies, fake dating/marriage, lots of changes from tangled movie but it’s got the spirit, I tried to be inclusive of all hair types but it is magical and floor length nonetheless, magical realism, TW for abusive mother + narcissism, mother is awful, steve is gonna show her the world is a good place!! allies to friends to lovers, pining

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

Steve's hands are bleeding by the time he works his way into the tower, raw from the rough grit of old hewn stone. He hisses with every handhold he finds, adrenaline staving off the worst of the pain as his eyes scrabble for the next ledge. 

Five feet, three. His hand slaps into the dark wood of a window ledge and he heaves himself up, the joints of his arms screaming in protest. Were it not for the rumbling of horse hooves like an earthquake outside of the grotto he might've given up, hoped for a soft landing. 

The threat of being caught propels him forward. 

He lands on the tiled flooring of the main atrium of the tower with an audible plop of fabric, his satchel clunking hard by his hip. 

"Stars," he says. He breathes hard, trying and failing to slow his heart now he's found sanctuary. 

He lifts his cheek from the mosaic beneath and peers around the room. He gawps. 

It's mostly dark, and still he can make out the intricate, masterful artwork decorating the curved wall. Flowers made up of a thousand colours, petals dripping with dew, their anthers heavy with pollen. A field of every flower he's ever seen and a hundred others he's not familiar with. He has really, truly, never seen anything like it. Not even the spectacle of the Palace could hold a candle to what he sees before him. No books he'd read growing up had ever conjured an image as sharply magical as this.

He pushes up onto his elbows. Sunlight drips into the room from the wooden shutters he’d crawled through, illuminating the feet of each cabinet, a washing basin, and the brick oven under a staircase that ascends into the tower. He sniffs and finds the stick of coal dust heavy in the air; somebody lives here. 

Steve's quickly proven right when you swing from behind an alcove near the kitchenette. 

He startles backward and away from you as you advance, a cast iron pan held aloft in delicate hands and wielded with an intimidating confidence. 

"Holy- Wait! Wait, please," he cries, holding his hands palm out in surrender. 

Steve doesn't suppose you'd been expecting such a feeble intruder. He'd feel a strike against his dignity if it hadn't worked — you slow in the centre of the room, your breath coming in quick pants as the iron pan in your grip shakes. 

You're scared.

You're beautiful. 

"What do you want?" you ask, a pleading sort of twist to your question. "I don't have anything. I don't have anything worth taking." 

"Please," he says loudly. "I don't want anything. Sanctuary for the night, nothing else." 

Your chest rises. Steve feels smarmy, but he finds his eyes drawn to the valley of your chest, the bodice of your dress. A soft and buttery orange sewn with the palest pink and lilac embroidery. It's a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, lovely enough that he wonders briefly if you're of royal descent, but the dress itself is a peasant's gown. 

His eyes rise back to your unhappy face. Your brows are pulled up at the starts, a delicate display that betrays your fear. 

You glare at him. 

"You can't stay here," you assert.

"One night." Steve pulls his satchel into his lap to procure a small coin purse. He'd love to say it was his coin purse. He cannot. "I have silvers. I can pay you." 

He will not be paying you anything. He won't rob you, though. He's not a total miscreant. 

"You can't stay," you say again, raising your iron pan higher above your shoulder. He sees a flash of something at your hip. "My mother–" 

"Holy stars, is that your hair?" 

You seize up, making an almost inaudible sound of dejection. "No." 

"Are you sure? It looks very much like hair."

Steve anchors his hand to the floor and leans downward to get a better look. You turn with him, attempting to shield your long hair from view and only helping him along. It sways with your movements, the ends near long enough to dance over the floor. 

"You have to leave. Leave!" 

Steve bites the inside of his lip. A rainbow of light arcs through the air and caresses your cheek, and the wind chime hanging in the window tinkles softly with a warm summer breeze. The tower echoes with your huffing breath. The pan is too heavy for you to hold any longer and you let it drop with a wrist-tugging defeat. 

"I'm not trying to scare you. But I really can't leave. I won't harm a hair on your head," he adds with a smile, eyebrows slightly raised in wait of your laughter. 

You don't laugh, nor do you smile. 

"My mother, she'll come home any minute now," you say unconvincingly. 

He tips his head to one side. "Then I'll speak with your mother and get her permission to stay." 

"She won't give it." 

You're really too handsome to be frowning as you are. Steve wants to do as he does with all pretty people and make you smile, but the task feels insurmountable. You want him to leave. He can't. 

"If I leave, I'll be killed," he says. While it's not a lie in its entirety, neither is it a truth.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your pan. "What?" you ask worriedly. 

He feels guilty for garnering your concern though it's exactly what he'd been aiming for, nodding his head gravely. 

"I'm being pursued by ruffians. For days now. I only need to hide here for the night while they clear the forest. They'll look for me elsewhere, after." 

His storytelling voice is clear. Admittedly much too dramatic and yet you eat it up like a child devours spun sugar. Your hands press to your chest, frying pan held in your palm like the pommel of a sword. 

"Ruffians?" you repeat.

He swoops in. "Not to worry. They didn't see me scale the tower, or even enter the valley." He gives you a commending smile. "You're very well hidden."

"Not well enough, clearly." 

"I got lucky."

You back away from him. You don't turn your back to him, smart girl, only widen the gap between your two bodies with a fluttering unease. 

"I wish I could help you," you whisper urgently, "I wish I could. But my mother, if she finds you here, I- I'm not sure what she'll do." 

Steve blinks dazedly. "She would kill me?" 

"No! Of course not." 

"Then whatever it is will be a kinder fate." 

That shatters the very last of your resolve. You visually err on what to do next, how to handle his being here. Steve’s head races with thoughts of the palace guards, of Thomas and Carol, and of you — your skin lit by the sun, and your long, long hair. 

"Do you want some water?" you ask quietly. 

The relief he conjures is as authentic as it comes. "Yes. More than anything." 

—

Your mysterious stranger sits at one end of the table in Mother's seat while you sit across from him, a small clay drinking cup encapsulated by his large hand. You're making no effort to hide how closely you're watching him, though if he's under the impression it's for safety's sake then that's best. 

He's very, very fine. 

You haven't seen a man in person before, and if they all look like this you might wish you'd ventured out of the tower sooner. He wears a worn brown tunic that shows evidence of numerous careful darnings, its top button popped open to reveal a tiniest hint of curled hair disappearing downward. 

The hair on his head and tucked behind his ears is comely as corn silk but much darker. It shines in the descending sunlight now flooding the room. There's a golden tinge to everything at this time that leaves no inch of his person unscathed; his eyes glow with it, his irises a melting brown that reminds you of rare, thick honey. 

"The flowers," he says after an aching pause. "Are they painted? They must have been a huge expense." 

You follow his gaze, surprised at his question in two ways. That he would ask, and that he would think somebody else did them. 

"They're how I spend my summers." 

"Looking at them?" 

You laugh from the pure joy of the complement he's implying, unused to his awed reaction. Mother usually nods or hums at a new unveiling, and one time you'd earned a, "That's wonderful, darling." 

You're not sure she'd actually been looking at the time. 

"I painted them myself." 

The stranger's jaw drops. "A little thing like you?" he asks. 

"I'm hardly little," you deny, neither of stature nor burden. 

"You're young, aren't you? You can't be more than twenty summers."

"What a funny way of speaking," you murmur, more to yourself than him. "I'm twenty. I'll be one and twenty, in a few days." 

His eyes narrow. "Well, what's wrong with you?" 

"What's wrong with me?" 

"You aren't married?" 

You try not to be offended and fail spectacularly. "Most don't get married until they're nearing five and twenty!" 

"Most," he agrees. "But a girl as pretty as you? Who can paint like this? Don't tell me you've been hiding from every man in the kingdom."

You turn your face from him in case he can tell how flustered you are. Two complements in one day is unprecedented. Your heart bump-bump-bumps. 

"Are you married?" you ask swiftly, hoping to redirect this line of conversation away from something as treacherous as your own isolation. Any answer would expose you.

"I am, actually. She has the most gorgeous shine to her face, and her laugh is melodic and sweet as anything, a tinkling sound. She's bronze-skinned, a slight thing, but she's worth her weight in gold." 

He grins. You can't help but smile in response, infected by his endearing affection.

"What's her name?" you ask, voice near a coo. 

"Argento." 

You stare at him. His smile gets so big it looks like it could bruise his cheeks. 

"You're talking about money." 

"She's a brilliant bedfellow, isn't she? She keeps me warm and fed every night. She's a good girl." He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head. His attempt at nonchalance is ruined when he cringes in pain and drops them gracelessly back into his lap.

You cover your mouth and laugh. He's funny. Mother doesn't make half as many jokes. 

Mother. As if the mere thought of her is enough to summon her presence, a shrill call echoes from the bottom of the tower. 

"Y/N, darling, throw down the rope for your mother!" 

You jump to your feet, slippers sliding against the mosaic floor in a hurried scratch. "You have to hide," you whisper harshly.

The stranger pouts at you. "Seriously, let me talk to her, I–" 

You shake your head voraciously at his loud volume and press your finger to your lips, eyes begging with him to be quiet. 

"Please," you whisper, "hide. I'll hide you 'til tomorrow, when she leaves in the morning." 

He doesn't move. 

"Y/N? I don't have all day!" The irritation in her voice is obvious. 

"Please," you whisper again. 

He gets up with a mild eye roll. You rush to the window and look down at your mother where she stands at the bottom, looking impossibly small. 

"There you are! What are you waiting for? I'm not very happy with you, darling." 

You lick your lips. "Sorry!" you call, turning to the rope spooled to the right of the window. You throw the rope over the hook at the top of the frame, pausing when you see the stranger lingering in your peripheral vision at the top of the stairs. 

"What are you doing? Go!" you whisper. 

He nods toward your hands. "Couldn't have thrown that down to me, could you?" 

You shoo him away, his easy laughter doing nothing to assuage your racing heart as you drop the length of looped rope down to your mother. You wait until she's secured her foot in the loop before you start to walk backwards, lifting her weight. 

It doesn't get any less laborious as you grow up. By the time she's reached the top of the tower you can hardly breathe. You cough so hard you feel nauseous. 

"Holy stars, you sound ghastly. And it's completely unbecoming to cough like that without covering your mouth. You know that." 

"Sorry, mother." 

She hums. You can't decipher what it means, but it likely isn't something forgiving. 

"I hope you had some time to think about our argument." 

You hold your clasped hands behind your back, hair tickling your knuckles. "I did… I'm sorry, mother." 

She stares at you for a moment from under dark eyebrows before her face lifts, the wrinkles in her soft forehead appearing more prominently as she says, "Darling, why do you do this? Why do you insist on making me angry?" She raises her hands to your neck, long fingernails weaving seamlessly into the mass of hair she finds there. "You know I'm only trying to protect you." 

"I know," you say, tears burning hot behind your eyes. You will them away. Crying will make it worse, it always does. 

She toys with your hair, eyes on your shoulder. You have the peculiar feeling that though she's looking at you she isn't truly looking at you, but through you. Her eyes are distant, unfocused. 

Her finger wraps into your hair, twisting a strand behind your ear over, and over, and over. You shift uncomfortably at the tugging feeling at the back of your scalp but don't protest to her touches — any touch at all feels like a gift. Mother isn't generous with her affections. 

"Maybe I've been too hard on you," she murmurs. 

You loose a pained breath as she takes her hand from your hair and brings it to your face instead. She draws a line from the corner of your eye outwards, a kind, soft petting that gives you goosebumps. 

"No, mother. I'm grateful for everything I have. I was being unreasonable, I don't need anything else. I… shouldn't have asked about the stars." 

"No, you shouldn't have." 

She moves from you to hang her robe up on the hanger. You tamp down your frowning because mother hates when you make her feel guilty and try to decide how it is you're going to escape to your bedroom for the night. You have lots of questions you want to ask the stranger. 

You spot something out of the corner of your eye as your mother flits to the kitchen. There, on the table, sits two clay cups half empty and at opposite ends. You side eye your mother and find she's distracted herself with putting a wooden log into the oven's belly, grumbling about how you've neglected your afternoon chores. 

You throw yourself in front of the table with a thud. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, disgruntled. 

"Nothing! I mean, I'm cleaning up. I forgot to empty these cups of paint after I finished." 

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" 

The thing about mother is that most of the things she says are neutral. Anybody else might think she was being light-hearted or blasé. She phrases everything so meticulously. 

But she is not kind. 

You laugh breathily and turn to the cups. Your heart leaps into your throat when you find the cup isn't the worst of what might give you away. Hooked over the back of the chair is the stranger's leather satchel, a ratty old thing sagging with the weight of its contents. 

You take it. The zipper snags and the cause of the weight reveals itself in a clinking upheaval, a flash of light across the floor. You throw yourself over the chair to grab for it, a mindless scrambling, silver and gems cool and sharp under your hand. You shove it back in the satchel, no clue what it is. You've never seen anything like it. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, her voice occluded by the soft bubbling of the cooking pot. 

"It's dusty down here!" you call. 

"Yes, well… it's to be expected when all you do is paint all day, darling." 

"You're right," you say quietly. "Of course you are, mother." 

-

Steve hadn't suspected your room would look as plain as it does. You've a simple bed with a modest quilt and one tired looking pillow, though it's been made with neat folded corners. A stuffed rabbit sits at the bottom, lavender velveteen with a pink button nose. He doesn't touch it, though he'd like to. He's not sure he's ever touched a stuffed animal before. 

He can hear you talking to your mother, or rather your mother talking at you. He must say, she doesn't sound like the easiest woman to get along with. But Steve's never had a mother, so maybe that's just what they're like. 

You have a small table to one corner covered in small trinkets. Shells, stones, papers loose and bound. He flips open the soft cover of a book and finds it filled with pencil sketches, corner to corner of every page. 

You've drawn the most mundane things in remarkable colour and detail. The cooking pot over the stove top, the washing basin, the wooden table. Your slippers, your hair brush. Ordinary things in extraordinary detail, and extraordinary colour. 

He pauses at a loose leaf of brown paper tucked toward the end of the book. It's a bird on the window ledge, a fruit dove. The face and beak are in great detail, white feathers made corporeal by the smudge of hard pastel. The wings are rough, white and pale pinks and greens unrendered. 

Footsteps sound up the stairs. 

Shit, Steve thinks. They're a hurried sound. He's been sussed. He turns on his heel to find a place to hide. 

"Shit," he says, climbing the circular platform that holds your bed and collapsing to the floor, wriggling on his back until he's hidden underneath the bed and sheets completely. 

He holds his breath as the door creaks open. 

"Um… mister… uh, stranger man?" 

He waves his hand from under the bed. 

"Oh, right. Move over," you say, and then you're getting under the bed to join him. 

Steve moves over and suddenly you're there beside him, the two of you pressed arm to arm under your bed. Your smell is impossible to ignore, the fruity fragrance of jasmine and milk-soap. He stares at your face as you settle, your eyelashes fluttering, your subtle smile. 

You turn your head to his. The two of you flinch in tandem, eyes flying away from each other to the underside of the bed. 

Oh, Steve thinks. Holy stars. 

You've painted lanterns on every slat. Purple paper lanterns that glow orange and yellow in their centres, tens of them in different sizes. It's as breathtaking as your field of flowers downstairs despite the major decrease in scale.

"Wow," he says, on impulse, "these are amazing." 

You inhale happily. "Thank you. The floating lights are my favourite thing. They always come out-" You cut yourself off with a cough. "Well. I love them." 

"'Floating lights,'" he quotes. You're strange. 

"I wanted to go see them, but…"

"But mother said no?" 

"No," you murmur weakly. He takes it for yes. "She doesn't believe they're not stars." 

He can hear each individual breath you take this close and suspects that you can hear his own. It's a funny thing to be this close to you when he doesn't know you beyond your painting and your too-long hair. He can see a lot more of your details, your tiny bumps and fine hairs.

"What's your name?" he asks quietly. 

"I'm Y/N." You lay your ear against the wooden floor to look at him. "What's your name?" 

"Steven. Steve will do just fine."

"Steve," you say, like you're testing it out. "Steve, you lied to me." 

His eyes widen. 

"Did I?" he asks, trying to disarm you with a smile and failing yet again. 

"You lied," you whisper. "What's in the satchel, Steve?" 

"It's not what you think." 

"I think it's exactly what I think." 

You're giving him a hard stare. He smiles and smiles and smiles, his facade cracking the longer you look at him. His breath all falls out in a rush, blowing the hair from his eyes as he sighs. "Alright, fine. I lied about the ruffians. In my defence, there isn't a big difference between those fools from the palace and true ruffians." 

You sit up and wack your head on the bed slats above. Steve reaches out to help though there's nothing to do. 

You push his hand away. "Palace guards?" you ask in an urgent whisper, hand held to the top of your head. 

"Obviously. They don't just let you walk out of there without a fight… Wait, why are you surprised?" He measures your sheepish face. "You conniving, deceitful gir!" 

"I might not know what it is, but I can tell it's not the kind of thing someone like you would have on his person," you say, grumbling at his insults. 

His injustice at having been tricked drops away. "You don't know what it is? You've never seen a tiara?”

Your embarrassment is adorable. You change the subject deftly. “You lied to me, let’s not forget. You’re in danger because of the consequences of your own actions. Can’t believe I fell for your sob story. I should tell my mother exactly what kind of man I have hiding under my bed.”

“Who you’re hiding under your bed with.”

You climb out from under the bed with an irritated harrumph. Steve untangles a length of your hair that’s gotten wrapped around one of the beds feet before you can yank your own head back and follows you out. 

“Don’t be mad,” he says.

“You’re a criminal,” you say angrily. 

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Your furious whispers pause when your mother starts to sing downstairs. Steve can see the debate on your face. Yes, he’s a liar, yes, he’s a criminal, and yes, you should churn him back out into the valley. Send his untrustworthy self on his sorry way and wipe your hands of him entirely. 

To do so would mean admitting to your mother that he’s here. 

“Just… don’t talk to me. And don’t steal anything.”

He grins. “As you wish, my lady.”

—

“Y/N?” a voice asks in the dark. 

It’s impossible to relax with him here. You’re worried he’s going to slit your throat while you sleep. You’re doubly worried he’ll see your unattractive resting face. Warped priorities aside, you can’t make yourself sleep. 

“Yeah?” you whisper. 

“The floating lights?”

Your eyes fly open. You get the disorienting feeling of blindness and blink in the dark until you can make out the faintest glow of moonlight under the door. “Yeah?”

“Those are called lanterns.”

You swallow a rough breath. “Lanterns.”

“Mm-hm. They’re made of paper. You light them and send them up with the breeze. The ones you’ve been seeing, they’re probably for the lost princess.”

“The lost princess?”

“Yeah. The entire kingdom floods into the town and each person lights a lantern for her. It’s more of a festival these days, but… They're supposed to help her find her way home. If she’s really lost, that is.”

You hum something, an attempt to reply, but you're too distracted to say anything else. Floating paper. A lost princess. You close your eyes and clouds of purple, pink and orange burn against your eyelids. 

— 

"You want me to what?" 

"I want you to take me to see the lanterns." 

Steve's back aches from sleeping flat on the floor all night long, and his shoulders scream every time he moves from climbing, and his hands are gross and sore with scabs, and he truthfully doesn't have the patience for this conversation. 

"No." 

"Fine. Don't take me, and I will keep the tiara as an innkeeper's fee." 

"There's usually breakfast at an inn," he says. 

You slap a steaming hot bowl of porridge in front of him. You've drizzled the surface with honey and placed red berries over the top to form a smiling face. The heat of the porridge has melted the berries into blobs that break from their skin when he pokes them with a spoon. 

"Oh," he says. Nice.

He looks up to find you dressed in a different gown than yesterday, this one made up of a green bodice with white sleeves and a white skirt. The bottom hem is sewn with dainty yellow flowers, the bodice with vines in a darker shade of green. It's a very sweet dress on an otherwise sweet looking girl, if you ignore the formidable twist of your brow. 

Fine, he'll bite. Your frown is sweet too. 

"I'm not taking you anywhere," he says, about to scoop up a bite of porridge. He's starving. 

You pull the bowl away from him, his spoon diving straight into the gnarled wooden table. 

"You'll take me, or I'll tell the first palacemen that I find who you are and where you were." 

"This isn't how you negotiate." 

"Good thing I'm not negotiating." 

He tries to intimidate you. Steve is not very intimidating. He frowns and he looks unhappy rather than angry, the worst he dips into is a pestered annoyance. His stomach gurgles in the ensuing silence. 

"Why do you need someone to take you? Your mother left just this morning by herself."

You raise your eyebrows. 

Steve sighs. "And if I did take you… then what? I suppose you'll want safe passage home, as well?" 

You slide his porridge a little bit closer to his outstretched hand.

"You'll be coming back this way anyhow." 

Well, yeah. He didn't know you knew that. Steve sighs, the most pained and inconvenienced groan he can muster because everything is awful and he's hurting in six different places. You don’t budge. 

"Fine. Fine! I'll take you into the city to see the lanterns, and I'll bring you home. And you will give me back my satchel and my- uh, findings." 

You push the porridge toward him. "That was easier than I expected."

Steve wishes he could pretend your smugness wasn't sweet, either. Because he isn't going to make this easy for you, not one bit. 

He watches you pack your bag from the table and feels very, very sorry for you. For starters, you don't really have a bag, only a sack for potatoes now emptied. You take two clean dresses down from the clothesline they'd been hanging on and fold them before putting them at the bottom of the sack carefully, and then you're clueless. 

"It'll be five or six days," he says, "now I've lost my horse." 

Lost isn't the right word. His stolen horse had sprinted off into the forest and left him stranded. Another ailment to add to his list — thrown bodily off of a stallion. 

"Do you have any better shoes?" 

You look down at your pretty slippers and grimace. "No." 

"You don't get out much, do you?" 

You ignore him and pull a case of things out from under the small counter in the alcove of your kitchen. You drop a roll of linen bandages into the sack and shove the case back under the counter with your foot as you bring out a block of cheese and a box of matches. 

Poor girl, he thinks. 

"Don't worry too much about it." 

"I'm not worried," you say, topping your provisions off with a punnet of fruit and the last of your fresh flatbread covered in a beeswax wrapping. "This will be fun." 

—

You're scared enough to feel tears welling in your eyes. 

Steve walks ahead of you, shoes hidden by lush green grass as he makes his way toward the valley's exit. You're not sure he's realised you're not behind him, or maybe he has and he refuses to wait. You've finished bricking the secondary entrance to the tower closed again, and while it seems obviously disturbed you have no choice but to hope mother doesn't steer around the back anytime soon. 

Your adrenaline has been pumping ever since you jimmied the tile and unlocked the trap door. Your chest physically aches with anxiety, and your breath has begun to feel short and shallow. 

"Are you coming?" Steve calls. 

You heave the potato sack over your shoulder and take a step forward. 

The earth is soft and hard underfoot, an impossible sensation. You rock your heel back and forth and test the uneven ground for purchase. The temptation to reach down and touch it for the first time is high but Steve's still watching you, so you hurry toward him and try not to fall over. You take a huge, calming breath. 

It smells gorgeous out here. Despite keeping the window cracked and the tower clean, there's a lived-in smell that can't be escaped. Out here, you can practically taste the earth. The crisp air burns your nose. 

Steve keeps a fast pace and neither of you talk. Your companion isn't happy about his predicament and you can't blame him, you've practically taken him hostage. He isn't a poor sport either, and he hasn't been cruel. Quiet, he parts the ivy covering the valley exit and lets you pass. 

The world is even bigger from there. 

"Stay close, okay? I don't know what kind of vagrants we'll come across this far from town." 

You swallow a lump in your throat. "Uh-huh." 

You stay likely too close, your arm gracing his own every now and then. Each time you pull away and each time you end up drifting back toward him. The quiet is impenetrable. You don't know what to say to a man. To anybody. Mother's usually the guiding force of every conversation, and her insistence has left you poorly equipped. 

Steve seems content to languish in silence. 

You walk. You watch the sun move, heat burning your skin by midday. You're not used to walking such long distances or being so exposed to the elements, and by evening you hurt everywhere. Your face shines with perspiration and your shoes chafe your ankles raw, each step a barb. 

As if things couldn't get worse, guilt grabs and holds you. Guilt and fear. What will mother think if she finds out you've left? What would she say? How ridiculously naive, darling. I told you, you aren't to leave the tower. Do you seriously think you know better than I do? Do you think I'm stupid? I'm hurt. I'm hurting that you'd think so low of me. 

You try to shake the thoughts away. A shiver rushes down your spine. 

Steve holds a hand over his eyes, turning his head to the West where the sun approaches the horizon. 

"It'll be dark in a few hours,” he says. 

You nibble the inside of your cheek, voice hoarse and throat dry from your lack of conversation. "Will we camp for the night?" 

He shakes his head, the sun climbing up his neck to paint his brown hair blonde. "If memory serves, there's an inn not far from here." He smiles. "You'll like it." 

"Oh. That's good." 

"Yeah." 

You kick a small stone. "How do you know where we're going?" You'd been on a dirt path now for an hour or two, or rather two dirt paths, worn by carriage wheels. "Everything looks the same." 

"I'm an excellent navigator." 

Sure enough, he navigates the two of you toward a pretty little inn snugly hidden between a crop of towering, leafy trees, a shock of beige and brown in an overwhelmingly green landscape. 

"Le Vilain Caneton," you read off of the sign, giving him a bright smile. "That sounds nice." 

"What did I tell you? You're gonna love this." 

—

Steve doesn't feel bad, at first. 

He throws open the door. The handle slams hard enough into the wood behind it that he's surprised there isn't a cracking sound. He ushers you inside, finding that the handle hasn't broken a hole in the wall because there's already one there. 

It's sleazy, all things considered. Steve has avoided this place pretty much his entire adult life after a trade gone wrong, and while he feels his appearance has changed enough to spare him a skirmish he affects the Steven Harrington manner. Two-timing baby Stevie is nowhere to be seen. 

He's still a two-timer. Case in point. 

"Isn't it charming?" he murmurs to you, hand held aloft behind your back. Not touching but ready to if you step back. 

"Yeah," you say weakly. "Really cute." 

Adorable. 

Steve takes a step that encourages you forward into the main area of the room. The smell of cheap ale blooms and the floor is sticky with it. He regrets how it will likely ruin your pretty slippers but he isn't a coward, walking you right up to the bar where a scary looking guy stands wiping glasses with a dirty rag. 

"Are you the innkeeper?" he asks jovially. "We'd like a room." 

Scary guy squints, looks between you and Steve with apprehension. 

Steve's trying to scare you, not get caught. He throws his arm over your shoulders. You shrink under his touch. It's too late for him to pull away, guilt softening the grasp he has on your shoulder as he lays down a thick facade. 

"My wife's tired as a lamb from walking all day, could we get a hot bath drawn with that?" 

Scary guy spits into the cup with a scoff. "Judy?" he calls out gruffly. 

Steve beams. You curl into him slowly, a flower turning to the sun, hiding from the cold. You still smell of jasmine milk soap after all these hours of walking, but he doesn't miss how the lengths of your hair have grown dishevelled with sweat and wind. He wonders how long it might take you to brush free the knots and tangles. He wonders if you do it in the bath. 

You turn to him with your face shining with a trust he doesn't deserve, like you're seeking his protection. 

"Steve, I don't have any money," you whisper. 

His hand rests in the nook of your neck. "That's alright. Consider it part of your innkeeper's fee." 

"Does this come with breakfast, too?" you ask genuinely. 

Judy, a tall, lithely woman who can't be more than thirty takes her station behind the bar and smiles at you before her eyes follow Steve's arm to his body. He freezes at the calculating tilt of her head, the subtle but not invisible squint. 

"Breakfast is an additional two silvers."

"And for the room and bath?" 

"Ten for the room, five for the bath, two for breakfast." Judy grins. Her hair is like copper, shifting around sharp cheekbones. "Seventeen silvers all together." 

Steve frowns but hands over the money. 

Judy takes you up the first flight of rickety stairs to your room, and nods toward the bathing room as you pass it. She shows you where you'll be spending the night, a ramshackle room with a bed made of what Steve suspects to be more straw than padding. He's relieved at the thick quilt set and folded at the bottom. It looks clean enough. 

"I'll knock when the bath is drawn. Will that be for both of you?" 

And so. Steve had feared this, feared the bath in general, and had forgotten to explain this fear to you. 

"Both of us," he says, nodding. 

You're thankfully smart enough to keep any grievances you have at that to yourself. At least, until the door closes, and you pin him with a look that's a mixture of betrayed and furious. Your eyebrows pinch together. 

"Why did you say that?" 

"It's what's expected of us." 

"By who?" you ask, near belligerent. 

He shushes you, a frown of his own taking form. "By everybody. It's what married couples do, they share the water when travelling. And it wouldn't be proper for you to be in the bathing room by yourself, how could your husband protect your honour?" 

"You're not my husband." 

He shushes you again, this time with a severe expression that finally has you giving pause. Your eyes flash with fear and quickly clear. You take a step back. 

He holds a hand out toward you amicably. "Sorry. But it will be much safer for both of us if we can keep our ruse alive. Someone as handsome as you, it isn't right for your reputation to be travelling with me while you're still unmarried, you know? And for me…" He doesn't want to explain the horrible truth to you. If Steve refuses to leave you, to share you, to let men do what men would like to do to you, that might invite a riot.

"I don't have a reputation," you say. 

He shrugs. "It is safer for us to be married."  He hesitates, remembering why he'd brought you here in the first place. The horrible truth may be unseemly, but it could be enough to get you to bow out. "If we aren't married… Well, it doesn't bear saying." 

"What?" you ask, a curious thing. He loves it, and not only because it works to his advantage. 

"Men will take anything they find beautiful. And without care." 

Your fingers tighten around the mouth of your potato sack bag. 

"I see," you say. "Of course. I knew that, mother always says, but." 

He winces at the reminder of your cruel mother. He feels cruel himself, suddenly, for scaring you on purpose as your mother likely does, for being another member of the opposition in your life. All you want is to see the Princess' lanterns, so much so you've hidden under your bed and painted their colours painstakingly onto each slat of supporting wood. A hidden wish, and one you'd deigned to share with him. He starts to think, Maybe I should just take her. How much could it possibly cost me? 

But Steve's from nothing. He was born from nothing, he grew up with nothing. He is, in the grand scheme of the universe and its many, many stars, nothing. Another orphaned boy destined to waste his life stealing coppers from coin purses and sleeping in doorways. 

The sooner he gets that tiara, the better. No more sleeping outside. No more staring up at the wine dark sky and wondering if any of those blistering stars can hear him. 

If they can, they aren't listening. 

You put your bag down on the floor. It thunks. 

"What have you piled in there, sweetness? A mountain?" he asks, momentarily distracted. 

"Nothing!" you rush to say, standing in front of your bag like it might hide it from his view. 

The door knocks before he can question you further. "The bath!" comes Judy's solid tone. 

"Thank you," Steve says, "we'll be right out." He nods at you. "Your change of clothes?" 

You search through your bag with your shoulders to him, hunched to shield the mystery. 

"You can keep your secrets," he teases lightly. The stars know he keeps his own. 

Through the hallway to the bathing room, Judy kicks open the door, points to the bath as though he might not see it otherwise, and then the small weight by the doorway to keep the door closed. There's no steam to the water. 

"How conning," Steve mutters, closing the door after Judy's departure. 

"What?" you ask, your voice curiously strung. 

"The water’s barely hot." 

"I've never had a hot bath before." 

He looks at you through the corner of his eye. "Never?" 

"Sometimes mother would pour warm water through my hair, but no. Does it hurt, when it's too hot?" 

He can't help grinning at you. "Some of the time," he concedes. "It's a nice kind of hurting, though, do you know what I mean? You'll feel much better after." He chuckles, sticking his finger into the water. It isn't not hot, but it could be better considering its cost. "Not that this could ever hurt you." 

"A nice kind of hurting," you mumble. 

"Mm. You should try to be quick, they might want the bath for someone else soon." 

You nod, eyes darkening with your remembered predicament. You hug your clean dress to your chest. He thinks, suddenly, that your hair looks very heavy, and that it must hurt your neck. 

"I won't look," he says, voice soft with sincerity. 

Your shoulders relax. 

He sits with his legs stretched out and shoes pressed to the door to stop a potential intruder, listening, trying not to listen, as you peel out of your clothes. Your bare feet sound strange over the wooden floor, a shushing sound. Your dress and corset fall in rustling waves. 

You gasp as you step into the water. "Oh," you say, the small sound imbued with a simple, common pleasure. 

He feels the tension like fog over the kingdom waters in summer, when the heat is tangible and the nights are short. You look so soft in your clothes. Outside of them, Steve can only imagine. 

He tries very hard to push it from his mind, feeling an unwelcome heat rise anyhow. He blames it on the humidity of the room. 

You pitter for a moment, in awe of the heat. 

"How–" His voice gets caught. He clears his throat, tries a second time, "How do you wash your hair?" 

"I lather the soap in my hands and–" You seem to be victim of the same affliction as he is. "Steve, could you pass me my soap? I'm sorry, I've left it on the vanity with my dress." 

"If you want me to help you, you need only ask. I've been said to have very hard-working hands."

"I thought you were a thief?"

Steve stands up grudgingly. He usually has much better luck with the ladies, yet all his joking flirtation soars straight over your head. Not that he actually wants it to land, nor does he think he could handle your attention. 

He doesn't look at you as he grabs your bar of soap. He unwraps its beeswax covering and hands it to you, looking decidedly at the damp wall opposite. He feels your wet hand touch his. Your skin is so hot it startles him, and the bar of soap slips between your outstretched fingers, slamming and sliding somewhere unknown. 

"Shit," he says. "Alright, best cover yourself." 

He hears quick movements in the water as he turns to you, throwing his gaze to the floor, only a split flash of your naked skin to be seen. Your soap has rounded the corner of the wooden tub, lying behind your straight back. He kneels to pick it up, scowling at the scum sticking to its underside, and nearly headbutts your forehead as he stands. 

He springs back, and he stares. You have water running in rivers down your face, your wet hair framing your shining cheeks, pooling down. It covers the swell of your chest so precisely that Steve bites his tongue, forcing his eyeline back to your waiting face. You have water in your eyes like tears, their lashes turned to triangles, clinging to one another. 

You look like one of the women from his storybook. A water nymph. A siren. The room is warm with steam, and his cheeks, hot to begin with, emanate enough heat to warm your tub again as he makes the comparison. Your looks alone might draw him to drowning. 

"Steve?" you ask, holding out your hand. 

Hair shifts over your body like a dancing shadow, or a beaming light. He isn't sure. There's something about it that feels extraordinary, not just in the length of it. 

He passes you your soap. Ridiculous, he thinks. Imbecilic. Your hair is hair and nothing more. While you're achingly pretty and you have a fine hand, that is where your remarkability ends. 

"Could you turn around again?" you ask, flustered.

He turns around. 

—

"You brought your pan?" Steve asks you, bewildered. He's standing by the small, thin window, metal-wrought panes that filter the last of the sun's rays. 

You stand shivering by your potato sack and frown at him, setting the pan on the sheets. "I think we might have a more pressing issue." 

"We don't have anything." He seems to appraise your condition. "How do you usually dry your hair?" 

"You wouldn't believe me." 

"How cryptic! I'm afraid you're destined to freeze here, my heart. Or we could take you home, where you may comfortably perform whatever ritual it is that you perform and dry your hair." 

"Wasn't there a fireplace downstairs?" 

"We aren't going back down there." 

"We aren't," you say in agreement, turning his distaste of the collective pronoun back on him. "I'll go by myself." 

"That is a horrible, terrible, awful idea." 

"I'm not going home. I want to– I’m going to see the paper lanterns." 

Steve sighs. After your bath, he'd taken the smaller basin of clean water and washed up, now standing in front of you in his only change of clothes, a darker, navy tunic buttoned to the throat and simple slacks. His shoes are tightly laced even at this hour. You look down at your bare feet and feel majorly abashed by their new blisters and haphazard bandaging. You can't make yourself put your slippers back on. 

He continues his sighing as he crosses the room. He's still grumbling when he opens the door. 

"Well?" he asks, holding it open. 

You pat his arm gently as you pass. "Thank you." 

You trek down the stairs, careful with each footstep that you aren't trodding on a misplaced nail or scary splinter. Wood changes to stone flooring, tiles of a terracotta colour that are large and misshapen. You keep your eyes on them as you cross the room to its only source of heat, a blistering hearth just shy of the room's stage and piano. Somebody sits behind it on the piano bench, though they aren't playing the piano at all, but a great wooden instrument you've never seen. 

"What is that?" you ask Steve. 

He doesn't bend under your attention. He frowns ever so slightly. "What?" 

You point to the instrument as conspicuously as you can. 

Steve takes your shoulder into his hand and guides you toward the fireplace without malice. He's prompting you along, as you've stopped in the middle of the room. 

"You've never seen one of those?" he asks. 

"Not in any of my books." 

"I guess they're still new. That's a vihuela. It's a… it's a nice sound." 

You nod appreciatively, and feel much happier as Steve pulls a nearby chair as close to the hearth as he can without garnering any disgruntled looks from the other patrons. You sneak a peek at their faces. Most are naturally intimidating; there are men with weathered, unkind faces lining the walls with tankards of ale in hand; there are travellers such as yourselves, though they look hardened, sharper than you ever could, coin purses on tables as if daring you to try lifting them; there are women, sparsely, who are sharper in a different way. They remind you of a summer rose, darkly red, a gorgeous head of petals distracting from a thorny stem. 

You sit down in your chair and feel the heat of the fireplace greet your chilled skin, and your soaked back. Your dress has soaked up much of your hairs dripping, the kind of unfortunate happenstance that might spiral into your hypothermic death. Steve puts his chair beside yours and turns his entire body toward yours. You like it. It's like he's hiding you from everybody else, replacing their sneering gazes with his fed-up acceptance. You find extreme comfort in this feeling, as though Steve is the only person in the room with you. 

"Turn to me." 

"What if my hair catches?" 

"You aren't close enough for that." 

You turn to Steve completely. You look like lovers, you must, worse when he takes your slippers and holds them on top of one of his thighs. He has wide thighs, and they make you feel a feeling you don't understand. Everything you know about men has come from Mother or books. Mother claims them to be evil in their entirety. Of the few books you have, and fewer that talk of men beyond the factual, none have ever mentioned why their legs look like that, and why it will make you feel like you've swallowed something much too hot. 

"I'll make sure your hair doesn't go up in flames," he promises grandly, unnecessarily, "consider it one of my guidely duties." 

A shy, pleased smile takes your lips. "Thank you." 

"Yeah, you're welcome." He closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Stars, I'm hungry." 

"I have–" 

"We'll buy dinner. They have hunter's stew here, have you ever tried that?" 

"No." 

He laughs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Of course not. Alright, this will sound gross, but it's really old stew. Years old, maybe decades. They keep adding and adding to the pot with whatever’s in season." 

You don't know everything, or anything, really, but you know that sounds like food poisoning in a bowl. "How doesn't it kill you?" 

"They keep it really, really hot, all day long." 

You like the way he says it, even if he's maybe making fun. He almost sings each word, a melodic cadence to his pronunciation that endears you further. 

"And you've had it? What does it taste like?" 

"See, you'd think it tastes a bit muddled, right? But it's good. You'll like it." 

He makes no move to get up and get the aforementioned soup. You aren't particularly hungry, leaning back just a little so the brutal heat of the flames can warm your damp shoulder. The wetness of your dress is fading, warmed but still undeniably wet, and you wonder if the heat is hurting your hair. Mother always says to keep your hair as far from the hearth as you can at all times, and gets angry when you sit too close. 

The soot, darling. The soot will cling to your hair and ruin it. It is, in Mother's opinion, the most beautiful thing about you. 

Mother. She shouldn't be back home for days now, and still you're worrying. Mostly about being caught. But if you're caught, and she knows you left… 

You have a strange love for your mother. The kind that makes you feel sick in intensity. You want, at all times, to please her. And you know this isn't something she would approve of, Stars, she'd be so disappointed in you for taking this risk. 

You stare up at a wooden beam past Steve's head and try not to tear up. Anxiety eats at you until there's nothing left but your skin, your insides a tangled dark whorl of misery. She must know you've left home. She must know how terribly ungrateful you are for everything she's sacrificed. She must know–

"Are you okay?" 

You blink hurriedly and face Steve, hoping this will dispel the quick-welling tears clouding your vision. It doesn't work: blinking can’t erase years of pent up worry. You wipe your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks and humiliate you further. 

"I'm okay," you say. 

Steve frowns again. He's a frowny guy. 

"What's wrong?" He takes your elbow into his hand.

"Nothing. Uh…" You smile through your embarrassment. "We don't light the hearth at home, often, and uh, I think the smoke is irritating my eyes." You nod for emphasis. 

Steve does not believe you, clearly, but he squeezes your elbow and nods back. 

He looks at your face until you're uneasy. 

"I'll go get that stew,” he says, patting your arm. 

You feel strange once he’s gone. It's nice to be by yourself for a moment. You've spent the majority of your adult life alone while mother goes here, there, and everywhere. You're never allowed to go with her, too stupid for the outside world and all its challenges. 

You look around the room now and wonder if this is really the world she means. Sure, it's foreign, and it's unsettling, and without Steve by your side you might not be left alone as you have been, but you'd expected more. Where are all the insects that make you sick, and the men with cutlasses and shackles? 

Your eyes drift to the vihuela player. He's moved to sit at the opposite side of the fire. He strums lackadaisically at his instrument, his shoulders against the wall and a cup of mead at his feet. It's obvious nobody's given him any coin in a while. 

Behind him sits the piano, glimmering with the flickering firelight. You've read about them, you've even seen drawings of harpsichords, but never heard one played. You wonder what it sounds like. Any music at all is amazing to you. All you've ever heard is singing. One song. 

Steve returns with two bowls of hunter's stew. You're scared to try it but horrified that you might look like a coward in front of him. Again. Your tears had been bad enough. 

You swallow a spoonful and your eyes water unbidden. "Oh, wow." 

"Good, huh?" 

You try not to cough. "It's rich." 

"I guess you haven't had stuff like this before, huh?" He forks through his bowl and pulls out a big pale vegetable roughly cubed. "You like potato?" 

"Yeah," you say, and before you've finished he's pushing the potato against the lip of your bowl and pulling the tines of his fork free. It falls into your stew with a small splash. "Oh. Thank you." 

You try to eat as much of it as you can but start to feel sick somewhere in the middle. You set your bowl aside and Steve, bowl emptied, drops his next to it, wiping his hands together and standing. 

You look up, puzzled. 

"Come on." 

Your hair isn't quite dry, a tugging weight for your neck as Steve slides his hand over your warm shoulder. You worry it might never full dry again, not without a helping hand. 

He leads you up the small platform to the piano. 

You look to him inquisitively. 

"It's alright. I asked them if you could try it. Just try not to play too loudly and disrupt the bard." 

"How do you adjust how loud it is?" 

He pushes down on your shoulders until you're sitting on the bench. "You play softly. It's going to be a little loud no matter what. Don't smash the keys." 

"Are they fragile?" you ask worriedly, holding your tensed fingertips above the white and pitch keys. 

"No," he says, laughing without any judgement, "move over, I'll show you." 

He sits on the bench beside you. There's not a whole lot of room, and his arm presses hot to yours. He places his hand above the keys like he knows what he's doing, and presses down. He plays a line of notes, the sounds a plinking rising melody that has you gasping in awe. 

"Don't," —he presses down a huge chunk of keys, and the sound is awful— "do this." 

You look up to see if anybody's glaring. Then you burst into giggles, face pressed to his shoulder on automatic as you try to smother the sound. He laughs warmly near your ear.

You probe curiously at the keys and try to make a song. You don't know how, don't know one note from another, you can't fathom how someone might make this into anything more than the bard's lazy fingerings. 

"Do you know anything?" Steve asks. 

Do you know anything? Mother demands. Darling, I've told you a million times…

"No. Sorry," you say. 

His voice is sincerely sweet, like he's confused you'd ever be sorry, "For what? I can play you something. Choose a song." 

"I only know the one." 

He blinks at you. You shrink into yourself as he averts his gaze, knowing what he's thinking. How useless you are. 

The song starts slowly. Steve taps one key, and then another. It lends and lists into music suddenly, the repetition of a simple melody. He doesn't sing, just speaks the words as he plays. 

"She sends me a flower to hold me," he says, an echo of song in his tone. "She sends me a flower to– night." He moves his hands up to a higher sound. "She loves me too much, so she's told me. But if she loved me, oh loved me, she might… Come to see me, oh sweetheart, come to see me, oh lover, come to see me, oh darling." He smiles at you. "Come to see me to– night." He clears his throat, hand stilling. "You'd sing the bridge again, but I think I'll spare your ears." 

"Is that yours?" you ask him. 

He drops his hand into his lap. "No. Steve Harrington doesn't pen love poems, I'm afraid." 

"Only plays them." 

His smile turns to a smirk, so sticky it's catching. 

"You're not the mouse I'd thought you were," he says.

"Was this realisation before or after I tried to maim you with a cast iron pan?" 

He's about to answer, a spark behind his eyes, when the door opens wide enough to split its hinges. The origin of the hole in the wall is clear, and he waltzes in with a band of men behind him, grinning. 

"Oh, for Stars’ sake," Steve mutters. 

"What?" you ask. 

The man at the front of the group of men — or, as they step into the light and reveal themselves, boys — sets his one un-patched eye on you and Steve, smiles like the devil, and croons, "Stevie!" 

Steve's smile is gone. 

"Eddie," he says tiredly. 

"You're back!" Eddie looks you up and down, and his expression turns to one of complete surprise. "With a wife? My, my, we have been busy." 

Steve stands, and Eddie, in all his darkness, dark hair and eyes and tunic, his grin turns mean. You hide behind one of Steve's thighs, hesitant. He drops his hand against the top of your head. 

"Why's it matter?" Steve asks. 

"It doesn't." This Eddie sounds all too cheerful. "What does matter, I'm afraid, is the debt between us." 

"I don't owe you anything." 

You watch with widened eyes as Eddie unsheathes his sword. The scabbard has a mottling of shiny reds and blacks, and the blade glows silver to white in the light. It's sharp.

Steve pulls a small knife from his hip. You hadn't realised he was carrying a weapon. 

Eddie takes a step forward, his shoes like a thunderclap across the wooden floor. 

"I'm afraid my Sweetheart here doesn't agree." 

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

eddie isn’t a bad guy he’s just confrontational <3 thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider reblogging i promise it makes a huge difference <3

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 7: Rogue Desire

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.5k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

The library is dim except for the oil lamp casting its snug ochre radiance, illuminating the page you’re reading. The window here is forever shuttered and draped to keep the sun off the assorted books and tomes, making you feel safe. Well, as safe as you can feel while sharing quarters with Astarion. Your fingers rub the harsh, bumpy surface of the book's old cover as your eyes feast on page after page.

“What are you reading?”

You close the book momentarily to let Astarion get a look at the cover.

“Ah,” he smiles, “I lent you that some time ago. Did I not?”

You nod, “I never got to finish it.”

Astarion lays on the lounge beside you, “Well, what do you think of it so far?”

You cock your brow at him, and your nose crinkles, “It doesn’t exactly strike me as the type of book you would read.” 

He laughs, “Why’s that?”

“It’s well written, and there are gory bits, but it seems to boil down to a love story, and I can’t imagine you reading romance.” 

“Do you think me incapable of romance, my dear? I was romancing people before you were alive.”

You smirk at him, “I’m positive you can feign romance exuberantly. I can’t imagine you being truly romantic, though.”

He waves dismissively, “What’s the difference? It’s all a show, isn’t it?”

“I suppose, but one has true feelings behind it, which makes it romantic. It’s not the “show,” as you say.”

He chuckles, “This is starting to sound an awful lot like a challenge, and I do love a good challenge.”

You frown, “I’m sure Elowyn would love a demonstration.” 

He scoffs, “You said there must be true feelings behind it.”

What does that mean?

Does he even feel anything anymore?

Questions you want to ask him but choose not to because you don’t want to know the answers. 

Astarion looks around the room, “Why do you read in here all the time? I thought you would be out in the courtyard, or at least in a room with a window. You used to love the sun,” he muses with a dreamy, faraway guise.

“I liked the sun. No one loves the sun more than you do." 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” his mouth twitches, “You and I used to watch the sunrise together often.”

“That was before,” you sigh at the memories, “This is now.”

He looks around anxiously while rubbing his hands together, “We could again if you wanted to.”

“I’m frightened that you will get angry with me, and in that rage, you’ll cease protecting me,” you retort bluntly.

His brows furrow with a resigned sigh, “Do you think you will ever trust me again?”

“Do you want me to?”

He sits upright and looks at you intensely, “Indeed, I do.”

Why? Why does it matter to him if I trust him or not?

Trust is a luxury I can’t afford.

“You have your work cut out for you then.”

He chuckles, “It’s a good thing we have an eternity ahead of us.”

Unless you kill me.

Biting your tongue, you swallow that retort. Astarion has been remarkably pleasant for several days and seems more himself than you can recall since he became the Vampire Ascendant. You’re not keen on upsetting him for something so silly and becoming reacquainted with the version of him that lurks in his ire.

“Why did you recommend the book to me?”

He glowers at you playfully, “I have no doubt you will figure it out sooner or later.”

So, there is a reason.

“You could just tell me,” you purr.

“Darling, where is the fun in that?”

Astarion stands and kisses the top of your head. Running his finger along the books, he picks one, “I will be reading in the courtyard, in the sun I love so much according to you, if you would like to join.”

You give him a curt nod, but once he’s left the room, a small smile meanders its way across your lips. Astarion having the ability to walk in the sun safely for the rest of his days after living centuries in the dark was one of the reasons you had helped him with the ritual. You didn’t want to be the one to damn him to an eternity of darkness as a spawn. As far as reasons go, you know it wasn’t a good one compared to the cost, but what’s done is done, and the reasons, good or bad, don’t matter now.

Letting your eyes roam the page of text, you try to distract yourself with the story, but your mind keeps drifting to Astarion, the courtyard, and the sun. Astarion asking if you could ever trust him again confuses you, and admitting he wants you to only mystifies you further.

Why does he want or care about my trust?

Could I ever trust him again?  

You’re surprised by how much you long to trust him again. There had been significant trust between you at one point, but that utter conviction got you to this spot. When Astarion had Cazador kneeling before him, he said he knew what he was doing and asked you to trust him, and you did so blindly. Thus, assisting in turning him into whatever it is he is now.

I should have known better.

Closing your book, you descend the staircase on shaky legs. The mere thought of going and sitting in the sun still strikes terror into you. You’re still adjusting to having windows again. More than once, Astarion has caught you attempting to slink past the window, staying out of the sun as much as possible, or just standing there staring at it apprehensively.

He would giggle at you and make his silly, taunting quips, but he would also comfort you and tell you that you were safe with him, at least when it came to the sun.

As long as he’s not angry.

The door to the courtyard is open, and the bright mid-morning sun washes over the dark wooden flooring. Astarion sits on a bench bathed in the golden light, eyes down, skimming the page of the tome. He looks at ease and happy, and you can’t help but smile to yourself and cherish that view. Glancing at the rays warming the floor, you swallow your growing doubt.

Trust has to start somewhere. He will have no chance if I never give him one.

“You’re safe, sweetheart,” he coos without looking up from the page.

“Promise?”

Astarion stands, puts the book down and comes to the doorway with a tender smile, holding his hand out to you, “I promise. Come.”

Biting your lower lip, you slide your hand into his. Astarion coercers your body to move forward out into the courtyard with gentle force. Paving stones warm your bare feet as they pad along the ground, and the sun’s heat permeates your cold skin.

This is the first time you’ve seen this place in daylight, and it looks substantially less foreboding. At night, the courtyard’s high stone walls cause it to appear small and closed off. In this light, it seems open and pleasant.

A well-groomed tree towers off in one corner, providing some shade. The green leaves flutter in the slight breeze. Another bench sits under the willowy branches.

Astarion gently twists your arm, forcing you to pirouette as if you were dancing an elegant courtly dance, and you giggle at his playfulness.

He rests his forehead against yours, “Thank you for trusting me.”

Gods, he’s so close.

As it often does around him, your ability to be rational and keep yourself grounded slips at his proximity. You can hear his heart beating and smell the bergamot, rosemary, and a hint of aged brandy you’ve come to love.

You’ve felt frozen inside, numb, for so long, but his touch reawakens your purpose and thaws the ice that has solidified your fiery spirit and kept it subdued in the void his absence left.

“I missed you, you know. When you left,” he whispers.

Tears threaten to spring to your eyes at the authentic vulnerability, and your hands grasp Astarion’s arms. Inhaling a long, shuddering breath, you attempt to regain the plummeting authority over your body.

Astarion holds your waist tenderly with the same firm protectiveness you remember. You keep trying to convince yourself the man you loved died that night, that Astarion is gone, but here he is, standing before you.

Is this him, though? I still don’t know.

Astarion uses his index finger to bring your eyes to the vivid scarlet of his, which are staring at you with a searing ardour. You’re paralyzed by that gaze, carried away by the deluge of instinct and longing coalescing.

“Can I kiss you, Astarion?”

He smirks, “Little love, I thought you would never ask.”

His lips meet yours, and your eyes flutter shut. Your body wilts into his as if drawn in by his gravitational pull. You let yourself drown in him. Your senses scatter, and you’re swept up in his undertow.

His tongue persuades your lips to part, and he skillfully traverses your mouth. You purposefully find one of his fangs, and you run it delicately over your tongue, causing a shallow wound that weeps blood. He growls as the taste of you detonates his hungering desire.

“Fuck,” he groans, “I love it when you do that."

You smile against his lips. You know it drives him crazy, and that’s precisely the point. You want to fill him with you; claim him as he has claimed you. You want him to be addicted to you so he can think of no one else.

Astarion bucks his hips into you, and you grind yourself against his hard length greedily. You clench at the delicious friction against your swelling flesh and whimper demandingly. A deep growl in his chest vibrates against you as his hand ravenously roams over the contours of your body.

You let your splayed hand coast from the taut muscles of his abdomen to his chest lazily, savouring his silky, soft skin on your fingertips. His chest heaves under your hand, and you can feel the rapid, excited thumping of his heart.

Astarion grabs your thighs and hauls you up. Reflexively, you wrap your legs around his hips, securing yourself to him.

“Perhaps we should take this indoors, yes?”

You giggle, “Astarion, are you shy? I thought you enjoyed being the centre of attention.”

He kisses your neck, “I plan to make you scream my name until your throat is hoarse. Would you like everyone to hear your wanton incoherent cries?”

Even though you’re more than accustomed to his alluring taunts, you still feel the heat rising to your face. Thankfully, you’re dead, and your skin can’t redden.

“And if I did? Perhaps they would learn something,” you tease flirtatiously.

He chuckles while putting you down once you’re safely hidden in the manor, “Darling, the prudes of the upper city would surely perish on the spot if they saw what I’m about to do to you.”

Gods, yes.

Your walls spasm and clench at the carnal depravity that courses through your thoughts in vivid splendour. You tug his shirt out of his breeches, and he pulls it off, anticipating your request. His fingers undo the ties of your shirt, and he slips it off. Those hooded red eyes brimming with lust consume the sight of you gluttonously.

“You’re perfect,” he purrs deeply.

Your chest swells and falls as you pant purposeless air. For so long, you’ve felt fear, loneliness, hunger or nothing at all, but right now, you’re high on the love and desire overflowing in you, and you refuse to give it up.

You throw yourself at him in desperation to keep this moment alive. His lips meet yours with the same dire need. Your fingers curl into the white curls at the nap of his neck while your other hand undoes the ties that keep his pants secured to his waist.

His thumb traces the lower curve of your breast, and you groan, feeling your nipple already harden in anticipation of his touch. His fingers graze the sensitive peak. Your body quivers, nerves humming as liquid lightning rolls down your spine, and your clit pulses in tempo with his teasing fingers.

“Needy thing, aren’t you? How long has it been since you’ve been touched, tasted?"

You were the last one to touch me.

This isn’t something you would like to admit to him. You don’t want him to know how hopelessly in love and devoted you are to him. Astarion knows love, and he knows how to play with it, and you don’t want to give him more ammunition to play with you like a toy.

Reaching into his pants, your fingers find them wet with pre-cum, and your mouth waters at the thought of tasting him again. You grasp his cock, and his hips jerk with a panting grunt.

“Needy thing, aren’t you,” you taunt mockingly.

His eyes narrow, hypnotizing and brimming with lust, “I know you’re skirting around the question, darling.”

Astarion’s fingers glide past your waistband and trail down in an anguishing slow progression that makes a whine slip from your lips. He parts your wet folds, skillfully avoiding the bundle of nerves that is howling for his touch.

“Hells,” he kisses your cheek, whispering in your ear, “I bet they didn’t make you this wet.”

You sag into him and sigh, “Astarion…”

He teases your swollen flesh, circling the aching border, “Did they make your body shake with need?”

The first direct touch sends a shockwave rocketing through you, and you whimper, knees buckling. You are forced to let go of your grasp on his cock and secure yourself by holding onto his arms. Astarion smirks proudly. The pads of his fingers stoke and massage, and you moan loudly. The coiling tension builds and intensifies as his tempo does.

A knock on the door startles you, and you try to jump away from him, but his arm wraps around your waist, holding you in a steadfast grip.

“Ignore it,” he barks, “we’re busy.”

Another hammering rap on the door makes Astarion growl in frustration. His brow pinches in a dark scowl.

A pleading voice muffled by the door arises, “Master Ancunin! Master Ancunin!”

Pulling away from him, your body mewls in dejected objection at the discontinuation of sensation, “I think it’s for you.”

He groans and grins seductively at you as he sucks your arousal off his fingers, and you choke in a quick breath.

“As sweet as ever, my dear. My memories did not do you justice.”

The banging on the door resounds through the manor again with the same pleading shrieks from outside. Astarion rolls his eyes while he does up the ties of his pants. Not bothering to put his shirt back on, he moves to answer the door. You take quick steps backward to remain out of sight of the visitor.

“What is it?” Astarion sneers.

“Master Ancunin. Please forgive my intrusion, but your presence is urgently required.”

“We are not set to convene until tomorrow night,” Astarion snarls with an intensely domineering inflection.

“I know, saer. I am dreadfully sorry about this violation. I throw myself at your mercy.”

Astarion sighs, “And what exactly is so urgent?”

The man’s voice hushes significantly, and you can only catch small snippets here and there, but not enough to put together what’s happening that seems to require Astarion’s attention immediately.

“WHAT?” Astarion thunders.

Despite the booming shout, the intonation in his voice is dispassionate and unexpressive. You slink further back, knowing that whatever he was told has provoked his rage.

“Go. I will be there momentarily,” he slams the door harshly, cursing under his breath, “Fuck!”

Glancing around the room, you try to find a place to hide from him. You could go back into the courtyard, but if he’s angry and he decides you’re an easy target to take it out on, he might just let you burn. The stairs to your room lay too far away and would mean crossing paths with him.

Astarion turns the corner and jumps as if surprised to see you there. His eyes meet your face, and you’re relieved the crimson pools remain warm with liquid affection.

He must see the terror illustrated on your face because he frowns sadly, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You’re angry.”

He nods curtly, “Yes, but I am me, for now - you have nothing to fear.”

You gulp, “For now.”

Astarion runs his fingers through his hair. Whatever that man told him, it agitated him significantly.

He clears his throat, “I must go deal with this.”

He bounds up the stairs quickly to his room and must dress at a breakneck pace because he returns rapidly, fully dressed in his overelaborate coat, looking mouth-wateringly dashing.

Astarion heads for the door and tugs it open but hesitates, pivots and takes long strides toward you. Reflexively, you step back, frightened that the anger won.

Astarion kisses your forehead and the back of your hand, “I will try to be back for your lesson tonight.”

You nod, “It’s okay if you aren’t. Be careful, Astarion.”

He smiles, “As you wish, my love.”

Once Astarion is gone, you quickly run around and close all the heavy curtains, plummeting the manor into darkness. Sitting on the floor with your back against your bed, you close your eyes and reprimand yourself for letting things go so far.

Your role here is to try and figure out what’s ailing him and see if you can help him remedy it, not to continue getting closer to him, falling more in love with him.

If that’s even possible.

You wonder, though, if, by some miracle, you can find a way to conserve whatever remains of the old Astarion. Would you want to be with him then, or has the damage been done, and your relationship is doomed and wrecked beyond repair? Could you ever trust him again?

Gale is out looking for the Wish spell for you, but you ponder if you could use it to save Astarion from whatever evil plagues him. Could it be used to restore him to his previous self completely? Could it be used to turn back Ascension entirely? Would you do that to him even if it could?

Would I give up my one chance to be alive again if it meant restoring him?

You need to gather more information on what’s ailing Astarion. As well as the capabilities and limitations of the Wish spell, but you can’t tell Gale or Shadowheart that your motivations may have changed.

Where is Withers when I need him? He knew everything there was to know about souls.

You have a theory about what happens to Astarion, but it needs to be confirmed. You wonder if the Rite may have stripped away some of his soul, whether unintended or on purpose, and now the soulless part of him wars with the version that still retains the remaining bit of his soul, each contending against the other, vying for control.

You imagine the only way to figure this out is by talking to someone who deals in souls, but who? You’re still trying to work it all out.

With Astarion gone, you can finally let yourself get some much-needed rest. Laying down on your bed, you succumb quickly to your meditative state and slip into the tributary of your trance.

The walls of the Crimson Palace moan as they settle, cooling off after the hot sun beating down on them. You’ve been locked in your room all day, and those solemn whines are the only indicator you have of time.

The door to your bedroom snaps open, but you don’t even bother to look. You’re lying in bed motionless, staring at the ceiling of your pitch-black room as you have been doing since he locked you in here in the first place. Astarion keeps you corralled in here like an animal. You are not to leave without his approval, and if you do, the consequences are dire.

“My consort,” he drawls as he lights a candle.

“What do you want,” you say monotone.

“Get dressed, darling. I have need of you tonight.” 

“No, thank you.”

“This is not a request,” he sneers, “You will come.”

“What are you going to do? Drag me there?”

“Oh, pet, I will do so much worse.”

“I’m not going,” you mutter scornfully.

Astarion grabs you harshly by the arm and drags you down the hall to the kennels, “You do remember this room, yes? Do not make me put you in here, strap you to that device, and teach you why you will obey me.”

He drags you back to your room as you pull and fight him with everything you have, but he merely laughs at your pathetic attempts. He throws you onto your bed.

“Get dressed,” he commands, “Wear the blue one I have laid out for you. We are going to a party, my treasure.”

Your fingers linger over the silky blue material he laid out for you. The dress is glamorous, you suppose, but nothing you would ordinarily adorn. The gown is far too low in the front and back and leaves very little to the imagination.

Whatever he has planned for you tonight, you don’t want to know, but if you disobey, he will put you in the kennels, and you don’t want to visit that place again.

You pull the dress on. The neckline hangs down below your belly button, and the back is just as low. A long slit up one side allows a view of your leg. You cringe at the idea of wearing something like this in public.

Astarion returns promptly, dressed lavishly and looking far too handsome, “You look exquisite. This will do perfectly.”

Astarion escorts you to some overly sumptuous estate in the upper city. The ballroom is packed full of the city’s nobles and high-ranking officials.

“Remember to smile, pet. They need to believe we’re a happy couple."

You scoff at him, “I don’t care what they think.”

Astarion grabs your face harshly, “You WILL smile, or you will be punished. Do I make myself clear?”

You rip your face out of his hand and glower at him, “Fuck you.”

"Maybe if you’re a very good girl tonight, I will permit it.”

He introduces himself around the room, using his practiced manipulations to make connections, but he never introduces you unless someone pays you any attention, which they generally don’t. The only attention they pay is practically undressing you with their ogling eyes, and it makes your skin crawl.

Astarion directs you to a quiet side of the room, “Do you see that man in the maroon jacket?”

“What about him?”

Astarion grins sadistically, “I need you to go over there and distract him by any means necessary.”

You gasp, “Excuse me. What?”

He snickers, “You will distract him by any means necessary. Take him to a bed for all I care, as long as you get him out of the way.”

He wants me to do what?

“I will not!”

You yell it loud enough to gain the attention of some of the partygoers nearby, who give you awkward glances.

Astarion scowls at you, “That was very naughty, pet. Go now, do as I ask, and I will consider letting that little display slide.”

If I refuse, it’s the kennels.

You lean close to him and whisper, “If you try and make me do that, I’m going to make a big scene and embarrass you in front of all your new, very important friends.”

He leers at you threateningly, “Last chance.” 

I choose the kennels over my body offered in exchange for whatever he’s planning.

You scream, loud and resounding, “No!”

The high pitch of your voice echoes through the entire room, thanks in part to the absurdly high ceilings. The once loud laughter and voices cut off into an awkward, hushed silence as all eyes in the room snap to you and Astarion.

Astarion plays it off perfectly with a warm smile, “Of course, my love. If you do not wish to go, we won’t.”

He’s going to have to do damage control later.

Astarion grabs your hand and squeezes it so hard you whimper while he walks you out of that damn party with the excuse that you are not feeling well. He trembles with anger, and you know you’re in for it when he gets you back to the kennels.

Back in the safety of the Crimson Palace, you burn him slightly and try to run to your room, though you know it’s little use. He disperses into gas and appears in front of you before you can make it even halfway there.

He grabs you, screaming in your face, “You dreadful little wretch! Now, I am forced to have to teach you a lesson.”

“Astarion, stop. You don’t have to do anything!”

He laughs like someone deranged, “How else will you learn to obey?”

“I will never obey,” you spit hatefully.

“We will see about that, my unruly, little spawn.”

He drags you through the halls while you scream, cry and beg him to stop. Your sandals skid across the wooden floor, shrieking as your feet try to find purchase.

The kennels smell like fetid blood, and you cringe as the scent assaults your nostrils. Astarion chains you to the wall, so you have no choice but to stand while he strips you bare.

He laughs menacingly, “You will learn to obey me, my consort.”

Astarion’s crazed laughing resonates through the room as he blows out all the candles, submerging you in pure, inky darkness. The door closes, locks and you’re left in silence.

You know you could get yourself out of these chains, out of this room, but the consequences if you do would be far more dire than being left in this miserable place naked and alone.

If you spend days, weeks or months isolated, starving, and stripped in the dark, you have no idea.

The sound of a beating heart starts to pulse on the outskirts of your trance, and the side of your bed depresses, rousing you from the memory. Your pillow is damp from tears shed as you were forced to relive that barbarity.

“It’s just a dream,” Astarion soothes, rubbing your arm.

No, a memory.

Does he even remember doing that or the many other similar atrocities he committed against you? If he does, he’s made no indication of it. One day, you will have to ask him, but you don’t feel like exploring that particular abyss of suffering with him right now.

You nod, “Yeah, just a dream.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” Astarion glances at the wet spot on your pillow, “It seems to have upset you.”

“No, that’s not necessary. Did you deal with whatever you were summoned for, Master Ancunin?"

He smirks at your teasing, “In a manner of speaking, I suppose I did.”

That doesn’t sound good.

“You killed someone, didn’t you?”

He shakes his head and shrugs, “Perhaps multiple people. I cannot be sure."

“You don’t remember?”

He stares at his hands, “No. More often than not, I recall nothing.”

Does that mean he doesn’t recollect the kennels or the other horrid things he did to me?

“You lost yourself again?”

He sighs, running his hand over his face, “I think so.”

Glancing at his clothes, you register that he’s not wearing the same thing he left in, “You changed?”

“I did.”

He must have been drenched in blood if he bathed and changed before coming home.

“Are you okay right now, or should I be throwing myself at you?”

He giggles, but it has a crestfallen ring, “You can always throw yourself at me, love. But I’m fine. I’m not angry anymore.”

You wrap him in an embrace anyway. His demeanour is melancholic and subdued, and you wonder just what in the nine Hells happened when he was out to have him coming home so miserable.

Astarion leans into you, the corner of his mouth quirking in a small smile and sighs, “Thank you. Should we go out and continue your lessons?”

You rest your chin on his shoulder, “I am rather hungry.”

He pats your leg, “Well, we can’t have that, can we? Get dressed and meet me downstairs.”

The forest is tranquil, with nothing but a light wind rustling the canopy of the lanky trees. A crescent moon hangs high in the sky, but not much of its light makes it to the ground, making the colours of the forest appear more subdued than usual.

“Gods,” Astarion clicks his tongue disapprovingly, “your footwork is truly an atrocity.”

You roll your eyes at him, groaning, “I’m trying!”

“If this is you trying, darling, the realm will end before I can even teach you this.”

“Well, maybe if I had a better teacher!”

He inspects his nails absently, “You’re more than welcome to try and find a more adequate educator.”

Ugh.

“Can you just tell me what I’m doing wrong?”

“It would be shorter to list the things you’re doing right,” he quips.

“Astarion!”

He strolls a slow circle around you with his fingers on his chin. His studious gaze is so intense you can virtually feel his eyes stroking your skin. Shadows skirt handsomely, if a little forebodingly, across the angular planes of his face.

You watch him heedfully, eyes tracking his course as he stalks around you. You’re always on alert with him. It’s hard to know what will set him off and what won’t, and you can’t afford to be caught off guard. Even so, a part of you luxuriates in these moments with him, and you admonish yourself for it.

“Where did I say you should keep most of your weight?”

“In my heels.”

“Ah, so you have learned something,” he tuts, “and where is your weight now?”

Your eyes cast heavenward, and you sigh, “I’m guessing not in my heels.”

“Correct. You’re tottering on your toes. Again,” he scolds, “Shift your weight. You’ll have far superior balance.”

You focus on your body and how it’s positioned. Your centre of gravity is displaced, and you’re rocking slightly from your toes to the balls of your feet and back like a blade of grass in a gentle wind. With effort, you manage to transfer your weight into your heels. The stance feels unnatural to you, and you struggle to keep yourself in it.

“Good girl,” he purrs, “Now, lower your hips. You’re still standing too tall. Everything will see you coming a mile away.”

The muscles of your thighs groan as you try to descend further into the crouch. You’ve been at this for hours, and your body is starting to drone fatigue.

“Lower.”

“Hells, Astarion! How much lower?”

Astarion crouches behind you and places his hands on your hips. Applying a gentle force, he pushes you further into the crouch. The muscles in your legs begin to twitch and tremble, and your balance starts to wobble.

He rises and walks around you again before crouching down in front of you with a cocked brow, “You’re very unsteady.”

Astarion reaches out and pushes your shoulder, causing you to overcorrect and fall forward onto him, knocking him over in the process. Something tells you he allowed you to push him flat to his back on the ground. He could have easily moved out of the way and watched your face grind into the earth.

Regardless, you find yourself sprawled out on top of him while you laugh loudly.

“Are all Sorcerers this unlawfully graceless?”

You smirk, “Do all Rogues possess such a smart mouth?”

He lays his head on the grassy ground and rolls his eyes at you with a grin, “Sassy girl.”

You move to push yourself up, but his arm comes around your waist, bracing you to him, and Astarion pushes the hair out of your eyes, “I really did miss you when you were gone, you know.”

Can I believe him? Can I afford to let myself believe him?

You swallow your rising sorrow, “Do you still feel emotions, Astarion?”

His vivid scarlet eyes impale you and imbue you with a profound solace that spreads through your body like a cascading wave of warmth, prickling your skin.

“You make me feel,” Astarion’s sombre, earnest intonation causes a breath to hitch in your throat.

Feel what - Obsession? Possession? Dominance? You want to ask him, but you don’t, unsure if you’re ready to hear the answer.

His thumb traces your lower lip, and that familiar rush of electricity jolts through your body and twists into your stomach. You trace his jaw with your index finger, leaning in and ghosting the velvety smoothness of his lips with your own.

Gods. I’m losing it.

Astarion presses into your invitation, and your lips mould together, charged with impassioned longing. His hand meanders into the back of your shirt, and you bask in the lazy, comforting strokes of his fingers against your skin. Using your tongue, you coax his mouth open, and he groans, giving you the access you crave.

You can feel your walls spasm and flutter eagerly, silently imploring him to fill you. Gyrating your hips into his bulging erection, he hisses as your swollen, aching clit, gorges on the mouthwatering friction. You whimper against him as your body cries for the release you were denied earlier.

Your eyes pop open momentarily and take in the forest that surrounds you. Memories of the forest the first time rush forward, and you push yourself back abruptly.

Astarion sits upright quickly and scans the surroundings, confused with your retreat, “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Not here,” you pant.

His brows furrow for a second, and he looks around. Comprehension eases his features, “Oh, come now, was I that bad in the forest last time?” he pouts dramatically, “I didn’t hear any complaints at the time.”

“Bad?” You shake your head, “No, Astarion. Those memories are sad.”

His brow cocks, “Sad?”

You run your fingers through your hair, “I should have known what you were up to.”

Once it rolls off your tongue, you wonder if you will regret telling him this. You’ve carried this guilt around since he confessed in the first place. He manipulated you because he felt he had to secure your devotion, thus establishing his safety.

If only you had been less infatuated with him, you might have seen through that guise and been able to stop him from putting himself through that again.

Astarion stands, concern creasing his face, “Love-”

I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.

You cut him off, “Not here, Astarion.”

He nods curtly, and you begin the walk back to the estate. Once you get to the Lower City, Astarion offers you his hand to hold. It comforts you that he will stop you if you try to hurt someone. You’re not sure if he does it for your benefit or his. After all, if you did lose it and kill someone, you could end up exposing him, a risk he is unlikely to take.

The city streets are mostly quiet at this hour. The only sound you hear is your footsteps thwacking on the rigid ground until a random heartbeat starts repeating in your ears. You don’t give it much thought until her voice drifts out of the darkness. You recognize that repulsively sweet, harmonic tone.

“Astarion, darling! It’s been ages!”

Elowyn.

The woman saunters from the outdoor sitting area of a nearby inn. Her mulberry hair is pulled back, revealing her dainty face and ever-so-increasingly tempting neck. She wears a green dress that makes the sapphire of her eyes stand out.

What is she even doing out here at this time? 

You clench your jaw. Something is off about her, but you can’t quite put your finger on what. She has an air about her that makes your skin crawl, but it could be the utter loathing you feel for her playing tricks on you.

Astarion smiles pleasantly, “Elowyn. How lovely to see you.”

Elowyn’s eyes fall to your hand clasping his, and her eyebrows pull down into a slight, barely noticeable scowl. She leans in close, puts her hand on his chest and kisses his cheek, lingering there for far too long.

Your palms warm, and your muscles tense as your jealousy ignites the raging inferno of your temper. Elowyn smiles at you sweetly, but a hint of hostility in her eyes makes you want to relieve her of sight.

“How nice it is to see you again,” she grins brightly, “You appear to be in better shape than when I saw you last.”

Astarion’s brows pull down, “Better shape? My dear, whatever are you talking about?

Elowyn’s cordial laugh fills the air and makes you want to rip her vocal cords out, “Yes, last I saw her, she was quite drunk and heading to see you.”

Astarion thinks for a second and then chuckles, “Yes, she was quite drunk.”

He shoots you a glance and squeezes your hand, telling you to play along. You roll your eyes and scoff contemptuously as if you were going to inform this weasel anything about you or your life.

“She was quite rude to me that night, Astarion dear,” Elowyn sighs dramatically.

Is this bitch seriously trying to get Astarion to hurt me?

Will he?

He smirks dubiously, “Was she? How utterly awful.”

Elowyn pouts, “I do hope you will teach her a lesson. She threatened to kill me after all. She must learn respect.”

Respect? Her? HA! Never.

The notion is so entirely ridiculous that a snide snicker escapes your lips as your face contorts into a threatening grimace.

Astarion stares at her, scowling, “Watch yourself, Elowyn. Do not make me remind you of your place.”

Elowyn’s carefree demeanour falters to concern at the warning intonation of Astarion’s voice. She swallows hard and forces her dainty face to dress in an overjoyed smile, and she’s back to her usual flirtatious facade.

I wonder if she’s gotten him angry yet. If she has, how did she live through it?

Her hand is splayed on his chest, and she presses herself further into him, “I have missed you so. I came by the palace the other night to see if you wouldn’t like some company .”

Company? Ugh. As bad as entertainment.

You scoff at her loudly and try to pull out of Astarion’s grip, but he only holds on tighter.

You frown at him, “Let me go, Astarion. I wish to leave."

“No, you stay.”

“Let. Me. Go,” you growl threateningly.

This is not a request. It’s a command. You may pay dearly for taking this tone with him later, but right now, you don’t care; you would rather endure his wrath a thousand times over than spend another minute in the company of Elowyn.

Watching her put her hands all over him stokes the fire burning in your blood to unfathomable temperatures. As your fury increases, so does the likelihood that you reduce her to a pile of ash.

Why do I care so much?

I left him.

“It seems your pet spawn would like to give us some privacy. Let her go, my sweet Astarion.”

Pet spawn?

Thank you to everyone who reads/likes/comments/reblogs!

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

AO3 [Crossposted]

PS: I hate Elowyn - excuse me while I go break something to get over writing her.

[dead-dolphins]

After the birth: a tpp drabble

Set after chapter 17. I hope you like it!

After a gruelling early morning, the tumult of the birth had given way to an unexpected tranquillity that blanketed Shiganshina. It was a serenity borne of winter’s breath—silent and calm, broken only by the soft descent of snowflakes that floated down in an almost reverent dance.

In the hushed sanctuary of Mikasa’s chamber, darkness reigned supreme. It was an artificial gloom, crafted by thick curtains layered over the shutters, put there not only to fend off the encroaching winter chill but also to grant the new mother a tranquil rest. A candle burned softly, tough, its golden light casting flickering shadows on the walls. Its delicate halo highlighted the serene curve of the new mother’s sleeping face. After a night fraught with the trials of bringing a child into the world, the princess could finally find rest.

Where was the babe? Not nestled at her side, nor cradled in the pristine mother-of-pearl crib that stood vigil beside the grand bed, as one would expect. Instead, the child lay in someone’s arms, finding solace in the gentle embrace of that one who was his father.

Eren had assumed the task of caring for the newborn as soon as Mikasa’s eyes had closed in exhaustion. The little one was restless, his tiny limbs twitching and his soft whimpers filling the stillness. Eren had noticed it the moment his wife had drifted off to sleep. The child, barely an hour into his nap after his first feeding, was already squirming and fussing, unsettled by his mother’s warmth. Yet, Eren was determined to let Mikasa rest, hoping a full night’s sleep would restore the rosy glow to her cheeks.

So, he was there, in the dimly lit corner of the room, tackling the task that many men would dread. His movements were deliberate and calm, though fatigue tugged at the corners of his resolve. The weight of the baby, so small and delicate, was a new experience for him. He adjusted the swaddling blanket, ensuring it was snug but not too tight, and gently rocked the infant in his arms.

“I know you want your mother,” he murmured softly. “I want her too, most of the time and all the time. But you must let her sleep first, alright?” His words were tender, carrying the warmth of affection and reassurance, a promise spoken in the stillness of the night.

As he spoke, his fingers traced gentle patterns on the babe’s downy head. His eyes, though weary, were filled with a blend of devotion and tenderness. The small, soft breaths of Lucerys seemed to synchronize with the rhythmic rise and fall of his own chest, creating a lullaby of sorts in the quiet room.

And so, with a couple of slow, deliberate rocks in the chair and a gentle hum of an old lullaby from his past, Eren found a rhythm that soothed both himself and his son. Lucerys’s wrinkled forehead smoothed out, the lines of distress easing away. The baby’s tiny form relaxed against his father’s chest, and as if knowing that there was no danger there, he fell asleep again. 

“There it is,” Eren murmured with a smile, the simple joy of the moment reflecting in his eyes. 

This is my life now, he mused as he stood up to place the child in the crib, a crib that would soon be filled with not only the babe but one of the direwolf pups. 

This was his life, and he really relished in the prospect of what was to come.

[nexility-sims]

𝐍𝐎. 𝟖 (𝟏/𝟑)   ❛ 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 ❜   |   EARLY OCTOBER 1991

❧  𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲  /  𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠  /  𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬  /  𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

→ 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍 Snap. Snap. Snap. Layered, fluttering, the cacophony was a descent of birds. Human voices echoing amid the shutters were less real than the possibility that, just over her shoulder, Leonor would find a menacing flock flapping madly. Some people harbored a deep fear of birds, but she had rarely given them much thought until now. Their talons and beaks never seemed threatening; even the crowds that took flight together and blocked out the sky were no more stirring than the trees where they would roost. She understood them to be stupid creatures with little to offer beyond their flesh—some could talk, but many were not even particularly pleasing to the eye.

❧ FINALLY !!! this took about two weeks longer than it was supposed to, but here we are. i think, in a way, this has become its own little conceptual detour, but it's also chocked full of narrative relevance, so ... enjoy the ride :^) part two is where it really sings, imo, but tbh i’m just relieved to have this first part finished lsdjfsf [the full scene and transcript below are in large text, also ! hopefully that's easier to read for anyone who's been squinting and straining with small text.]

𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

Snap. Snap. Snap. Layered, fluttering, the cacophony was a descent of birds. Human voices echoing amid the shutters were less real than the possibility that, just over her shoulder, Leonor would find a menacing flock flapping madly. Some people harbored a deep fear of birds, but she had rarely given them much thought until now. Their talons and beaks never seemed threatening; even the crowds that took flight together and blocked out the sky were no more stirring than the trees where they would roost. She understood them to be stupid creatures with little to offer beyond their flesh—some could talk, but many were not even particularly pleasing to the eye.

In this moment, a sudden case of ornithophobia beset her. Leonor crouched in the alley with her back to the flock, covering her ears to block out the sound of their inevitable approach. Did she expect to be pecked to pieces? That wasn’t it. As she listened to the screeching flutter of wings with its interlaced shouting, what she feared was suffocating in a mass of feathers. Her mind flashed to beach fronts littered with bedraggled plumage left behind by the coastal birds who walked along the shore, who fought over detritus in the foam, who hopped away begrudgingly when approached. Sometimes they congregated on the sand, but they were never so deafening as the flock that had converged now. Across from where she hunkered down, bright lights flickered against a brick wall. Leonor watched it with wide eyes and waited for a flood of feathers to take her breath away. 

The flood never came. Instead, Kore’s face set like the sun in front of her, staring with a look of bewilderment reflecting Leonor’s own. Kore yanked her to her feet before she could, with a cautiously raised hand, caress her cheek; she pulled her further away from the flock and toward an open door. Black and magenta amid the flashing white lights, this portal beckoned. Leonor was out of her arms and scrambling toward it while Kore followed close behind. The door closed and cut off the flickering lights. Ambient music, rendered indistinct instrumentals and indistinguishable voices as it pulsed through the walls, replaced the noise of birds. Leonor sighed and leaned against the wall. With her eyes closed, she could see the sound pulsing, rhythmic and thick like smoke. Her shoulder left yellow smudges on the paneling. 

“What happened?” Kore was demanding. “Why were you out there? Are you okay? Are you crazy?”

Leonor had no answer for her. She scrunched her features together, thinking hard about the sequences of events that had carried her outside—out of The Den into the alleyway where the birds, the photographers with their shuttering flash lenses, appeared.

“They weren’t supposed to be there,” she finally offered. 

Kore grimaced. “Yeah, I know.” 

“Do you think it was—” Leonor paused as Kore shook her head in disappointment. She, too, shook her head, then continued, “I bet it was that weasel behind the counter.” 

Leonor flashed back to earlier that week, where she could see the department store salesgirl. She suspected she had told someone about the party happening at The Den. Although almost certainly a fool’s errand from the beginning, Leonor truly believed they stood a chance of keeping the whole thing under wraps. Reporters lurked outside like clockwork, knowing when any given night’s activities began and ended. Sometimes new faces followed their favorite subjects there; usually, however, it was a predictable group. Still, they didn’t actually know what went on inside. Occasionally, guests let details slip during interviews—asides, a wink and a nod, divulging, an unearned taste. Renzo did it. Leonor didn’t talk to the press so casually but, if she did, perhaps she would’ve, too. 

Dedicated tabloid reporters worked with more grit and creativity than some seasoned criminal investigators; they monitored license plates and store inventories, they prioritized the most unassuming witnesses, they collected evidence from bribable photographers and public garbage cans and service workers on smoke breaks. Leonor put more effort into accounting for those tactics. She purchased the garden of live plants with four degrees of separation, and they arrived in a routine liquor delivery truck borrowed for that purpose. She had even gone to the stores incognito on the day in question, hoping to prevent inquiries into the costume shopping excursion. Renzo did his part in asking the tightly controlled guest list to stay quiet. Everyone seemed more than happy to comply, for their own privacy if not his or hers. The theme was the tale of the moon rabbit but, more exciting still, it was debauchery. 

But, she had told the salesgirl why they were there in a few words—discretion was why anyone who mattered shopped there, after all—and she had probably jeopardized their assurance of secrecy when she reacted poorly to the customer service. ‘I said white, not cream,’ came from her lips with condescension. That was easy to confuse with venom. Worse, it hadn’t needed the tacked on, ‘They just hire anyone these days. We shouldn’t even come back,’ but she had said those words, not as a whisper, too. Now, it appeared the chickens—metallic and screeching—may have come home to roost. 

“How did you end up out there?” was Kore’s next question, and Leonor followed her big gesture toward the door. Outside, if she strained to listen, the commotion was still audible. Perhaps the flock would circle the place and levitate it, either by force of wings or the oceanic lightness of their feathers. The squat, square buildings would yawn apart and crumble like a slice of cake cut too thick for its spatula. 

Leonor gagged, then replied, “So, before—first, I was on the roof.”

“By yourself?”

“Well, no.”

“Okay, then—?”

Just as vivid as the feather-strewing birds on the beach, Leonor recalled the pantomime her parents performed on the roof. It had paralyzed her until, with her mother’s great splash over the edge, it galvanized her into action. She was going to barrel headfirst into the water to save her, but someone intervened. She hadn’t bothered to see who it was. It wasn’t her father. What else mattered, then? She certainly hadn’t bothered to thank them for saving her from, not lapping ocean water, but hard asphalt. She flew down the stairs with such force that she tripped and stumbled into the walls as she went. There was someone on their way up as she descended; they just stepped aside and complained about their drink sloshing. There would be tender spots on her arms tomorrow. For now, the only sensation remaining was the residual adrenaline. 

“I was frightened,” she concluded. “I needed to leave, so I did.”

Kore sighed. “Where’s Renzo?” 

Someone else standing behind her piped up in a neutral tone, “Unreachable. Dead to the world.”

“Of course.” 

Distracted, Leonor asked, “Is he singing again? He really doesn’t sing enough.” 

Pushing herself off the wall, she added, “I should apologize to him.”

Leonor bumped into Kore as she tried to pass her, but Kore held her in place. “Hold on,” she said. “I think you might need to tap out for the night, Nora. But, okay, I have to ask: apologize for what?”

Leonor turned fully, placing her hands on Kore’s shoulders. Her expression was grave, so full of abrupt remorse as to be almost mournful. “I said I wasn’t his baby,” she confessed. “He took such good care of me, and that’s what I said. Can you believe it?” 

At this, Kore laughed. It didn’t faze Leonor. Her thoughts had gone back to the beginning of the night.

TRANSCRIPT:

[Birds flapping and screeching]

[Cameras flashing, paparazzi shouting]

[Shouting, flashes continue]

KORE | What happened? Why were you out there?

KORE | Are you okay? Are you crazy? LEONOR | They weren't supposed to be there.

KORE | Yeah, I know. LEONOR | Do you think it was—I bet it was the weasel behind the counter.

LEONOR | I said white, not cream. They just hire anyone these days. We shouldn’t even come back.

KORE | How did you end up out there? [Leonor gags]

LEONOR | So, before—first, I was on the roof. KORE | By yourself? LEONOR | Well, no. KORE | Okay, then—?

LEONOR | I was frightened. I needed to leave, so I did.

KORE | Where's Renzo?

SYBIL | Unreachable. Dead to the world.

LEONOR | Is he singing again? He really doesn't sing enough.

LEONOR | I should apologize to him. KORE | Hold on. I think you might need to tap out for the night, Nora. But, okay, I have to ask: apologize for what?

LEONOR | I said I wasn't his baby. He took such good care of me, and that's what I said. Can you believe it?

[comatosebunny09]

—but then, you succumb to fatigue, hunger, and the biting cold.

Black spots dot your peripheral, and your rib cage fills with stones. The leather of his jacket blurs and blends with the surrounding forest until your vision doubles.

You crumble to your knees, a wave of vertigo furling through you like smoke. The thud of your descent draws Leon to you, steps hurriedly crunching through the gravel. 

He kneels before you without thinking, palms glacial as they encase your cheeks, angling your face towards him, smoothing your hair away from your clammy skin. A muted horror swims beneath the oceans of his irises, searching, searching. His parted lips tremble with each breath. And if he were anyone but Leon S. Kennedy, you would swear he were about to—

“Hey,” Leon urges, his voice temperate like the rain stippling the ground around you. “Hey. Hey, stay with me.” Breathy and tender like coaxing a lover. He shakes you the slightest bit. Taps your cheeks, trying earnestly to keep you amongst the realm of consciousness.

“Trying to,” you chuckle meekly through cracked lips and against the acrid sting of bile. 

Your vision fleets in and out of focus. You blink against the bleariness collecting like sand on your lashes, but it’s useless. Your body’s reached its summit, driven there by your pride.

You didn’t want to weigh him down, after all. 

“—got you,” Leon says between the heavy static filling your ears. Your lashes shutter, arms growing limp. “I’ve got you, okay?” 

There is the sensation of your body being gathered up and lifted. Your lip twitches as you drift into an inky abyss. 

I know sits on the crest of your tongue, his homely warmth streaming through you like steadily flowing magma. 

He’s always had you.

An amalgam of sounds lures you from your slumber, consciousness dribbling in like you’ve resurfaced from a stream. The steady drip of stalactites, the gentle crackle of a nearby fire, and the rhythmic shclink of something being sharpened.

You groan, throat grainy and the taste of mixed herbs on your tongue. You blink against the subdued torch light. Body aches. Head pulses a dull cadence, teeth clenched. You attempt to sit further up on the cold, textured wall you’re propped against. Yet something draped across your middle keeps you from moving too suddenly.

You make out a familiar shock of beige fur through the lazy wash of sepia swaddling the safe room. As your neck colors with heat and the corners of your mouth involuntarily quirk, your savior pans into focus. A dark silhouette of muscle and protectiveness, coat missing, his mouth etched into a pout.

“You’re awake,” Leon observes, his palm on your shoulder branding through the thick leather of his jacket. You jolt as if singed by coals, gaze skittering to the ground. His hand hovers over the empty space for a beat before cautiously retracting. 

Relief replaces the apprehension once furrowing his brows. Leon sits back on his haunches, combing through flaxen locks. “You know you scared me half to death.”

You swallow thickly against the silence stretched taut like a bowstring between you. Regret curdles in your belly. If not for you being deadweight, his mission would have gone far better. You’re too ashamed to look at him. Fiddle with the frayed threads at the hem of his coat, lip quivering. 

“Sorry,” you offer, your vision glazing with tears. Sorry for being deadweight. Sorry for being burdensome. Sorry for—

“Hey,” he counters, fingers searing your wrist. Tender as they graze your pulse point, bringing attention to your blood thumping in your throat. This time, however, you do not flinch away. Instead, your gaze flows northward in search of his steely blues. Finds them creased with a silent fondness, a ghostly smile adorning his features. “No need to apologize. I’m just glad you’re alright. Just…let me know when you need a breather next time, yeah?” he adds with a chuckle.

“Yeah,” you utter, gaze flitting between his hand on yours and the reassurance flickering alongside the firelight in his eyes. “Yeah, think I will.”

[shelbgrey]

Lovin', touchin', squeezin' (Derek Shepherd)

Paring: Derek shepherd x girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Derek finds out his girlfriend hasn't been properly taken care of in past relationships and it's up to him to help her explore pleasures she hasn't before.

Warrings: SMUT, very little plot, oral(F receiving), riding, (M)cum eating, unprotected sex, little bit of ridding. The words pussy and cock used. Dirty talk.

MasterList ML2

It was late in the evening, Derek was in his trailer with his girlfriend. They had just finished a shift at the hospital and she decided to stay at his place for the night. Her cousin Meredith was going through another one-night-stand phase and she didn't want to be at their place while she had a guy there. His trailer was outside of the city and in the woods so it was peaceful. While Derek was in the shower y/n was turning on some music, sometimes the peacefulness of the 'great outdoors' was a little too quiet. She had decided to play some Elvis, some of his more softer stuff to keep the vibe on the more relaxed side. She kept it on a pretty low volume then got comfortable on the side of the bed she claimed a few months into their relationship.

“You've already made yourself comfortable huh?”

Derek stepped out of the shower, his hair still damp and his skin smelling of soap. He walked to side trailer were the bed was, rubbing his head with a towel. He noticed the music playing softly and a smirk spread across his face as he saw her sitting on the side of the bed.

“Yeah” y/n gave an innocent grin as she shamelessly checked him out as he dried the rest the way of, he was only in a pair of boxers and his skin slightly damp.

Derek tossed the towel somewhere onto the floor as he walked over to the foot of the bed. “It seems like you're enjoying yourself... wearing my clothes and using my bed”

The clothes she had worn to work were laying neatly on the counter and she traded them for a pair of his boxers and a sports bra. She smirked up at him, lying comfortably under the covers of his bed. “You have such great hospitality”

Derek chuckled as he crawled onto the bed, hovering over her with a mischievous grin. “Well, I aim to please. Especially when it comes to my beautiful girlfriend”

“You always succeed” y/n smirked, wrapping her arms around his neck and spread her thighs as he settled between her thighs. He nuzzled her neck and peppered kisses along her collarbone. His hands roamed over her body possessively, fingers trailing along her sides and over her thighs. “I think I can do even better” His voice dipped low, and he leaned down to place soft kisses along her collarbone and the tops of her breasts.

Y/n shuttered at the feeling of his lips and scruff brushing against her neck. She carded her fingers through his hair, letting out a small moan that only Encouraged him. He slid his hands underneath the sports bra, slowly pushing it up and off her body. Derek tossed it onto the floor with the towel, his focus solely on her.

Derek nipped at the exposed skin, his hands caressing her curves. Her eyes fluttered closed, her fingers gripping his hair as he continued his descent down her body. Derek slipped his fingers into the waistband of his boxers she wore. Y/n lifting her hips as he slowly pulled them down her legs. Once she was completely bare underneath him, Derek settled back between her thighs, his face nestled between her legs. Derek breathed in deeply, savoring her scent before pressing a kiss to her inner thigh.

Her break got caught in her throat. “Derek…” she warned softly, tugging at his hair.

He looked up at her, their eyes meeting before her returned his gaze to her core. He pressed another kiss to her thigh before spreading her legs further apart. “Shh, just relax, y/n. Let me take care of you” he whispered against her skin, sending goosebumps over her body.

“I know,” she said softly, completely trusting him. “I just... Never had this happen before” she looked away, embarrassed. Yeah she had a relationship in the past, but she never had a guy eat her out or take care of her like this before.

Derek paused, looking up at her with a gentle expression. Heplaced a soft kiss on her lower belly. “a guy has never eaten you out before?” Derek asked, raising an eyebrow in a non judgmental way.

Y/n rolled her eyes. “no” she was far from a Virgin and she's done other stuff both in her previous relationship and with Derek, she just never had a guy put his mouth on her pussy before.

A mischievous grin spread across Derek's face. “Well then,” he lowered his head back down, pressing a soft kiss to her center before slowly dragging his tongue up her slit, making her eyes flutter closed and her head fell back in pleasure. She fisted his hair, moaning.

“I suppose it's high time someone took care of that for you” Derek murmured against her skin. He continued his exploration of her most intimate area. He parted her folds with his fingers, exposing her clit as he swirled his tongue around the sensitive bud. He alternated between broad, flat licks and pointed flicks, each touch making her moan louder.

The sounds of her pleasure spurred him on. Derek hooked his arms under her thighs, spreading her wider as he buried his face between her legs. His tongue speared into her hot, wet center, pumping in and out as he growled against her flesh.

“D-Derek!” y/n moaned, a shiver going through her body as she tugged at his hair, arching her hips up.

Derek growled possessively, his hands tightening on her thighs as he devoured her. His tongue thrust in and out of her, his facial hair chafing her sensitive flesh. He could feel her getting close, her breath hitching and her legs were shaking under his grip. “That's it, baby”

“Ah! D-derek” y/n moaned desperately, arching her hips up as Derek lifted one of her thighs over his shoulder. “f-fuck” she stuttered, her head falling back against the pillow in pleasure as she fisted his hair.

Derek angled his head to suck her clit into his mouth, flicking the sensitive bud rapidly with his tongue as he slid two fingers deep inside her fluttering channel, making her cry out in pleasure. Derek pumped them hard and fast, curling them to hit that special spot inside her.

“Derek, I'm c-close” she stuttered.

Derek redoubled his efforts, sucking hard on her clit as he finger fucked her mercilessly. He felt her legs start to tremble and her hips buck against his face, signaling her impending orgasm. Derek held her steady, refusing to let up until she exploded. “Come on, Baby, let it happen”

“Derek!” y/n cried out, tugging his hair as her orgasm hit her like a ton of bricks.

Derek drank down every drop of her sweet release, his fingers still pumping in and out of her. He continued to lap at her clit, prolonging her orgasm until she was trembling and sobbing with pleasure. “Fuck, y/n. you taste amazing”

“D-Derek” y/n shuttered, gripping his hair, arching her hips again as she came down from her high. When she was finally spent, Derek lifted his face from her pussy, his lips and chin glistening with her juices. Derek kissed her inner thigh softly.

Y/n shuttered, her eyes fluttered closed as her heart pounded against her chest. She moaned softly, her thighs still over his shoulder as his lips and scruff brushed against her thighs. His hands caressed her skin soothingly as he slowly lowered her thighs back down. He climbed up her body, caging her in between his arms. He kissed her slowly, deeply, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

Y/n moaned desperately against his lips, their tongues tangling together. She carded her fingers through his messy hair as their lips and tongues moved desperately against each other. Derek poured all his desire and affection into it. His hands roamed her curves possessively, mapping every inch of her soft skin.

Y/n pulled away, her head falling back against his pillow as she tried to catch her breath. “f-fuck,” she whispered breathlessly. “hang on” she said softly, blissfully out of breath between her getting eaten out for the first time and the way their lips desperately moved together.

Derek chuckled softly at her breathless state, nuzzling her neck as he trailed kisses down her throat. He nipped at her collarbone, grinning against her skin as he felt her shudder. “Hang on to what, sweetheart? Did I take your breath away?” he teased.

Y/n rolled her eyes playfully, catching her breath. “Shut up” she teased, breathlessly.

Derek grinned mischievously, his hands sliding down to her backside and squeezing. “You're right, talking's overrated”

Y/n scoffed playfully, rolling her eyes. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed him on his back, straddling his hips. “gotta be a smart ass, don't you?” she joked.

Derek chuckled, grinning up at her. “can't help it sometimes” he flexed his hips, pressing his hardness against her soaking core, making her cry out a moan, her head falling back and her hips arching. He grinned up at her, his hands squeezing her ass.

Derek flexed his hips again, grinding against her. He reached up and cupped her breasts, kneading the soft mounds. He toyed with her hardened nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. Derek sat up, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her flush against him. His erection pressed against her soaked core as she moaned, cupping both sides of his jaw and brushed her nose against his as their lips hovered over each other.

Derek's breath mingled with hers as their lips hovered a mere whisper apart. He could feel her wet heat pressing against his aching cock, making him throb with need. He nipped her bottom lip, his voice low and husky. “I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk, y/n. Until you're so sore you can barely sit. And then I'm going to do it all over again” he kissed her fiercely, his hands gripping her hips as he aligned his cock with her entrance.

Y/n pulled away before he could continue. “I thought talking was overrated” she teased.

Derek grinned wolfishly, thrusting up into her in one swift movement, forcing a moan out of y/n as she dig her nails into his shoulders as she sunk down on him. Derek buried himself balls deep inside her, his mouth covering her as she let out a cry of pleasure and pain. He stilled, giving her time to adjust. “God, Baby”

“Fuck,” y/n moaned, rocking her hips and holding his shoulders for balance. “Derek!” she moaned desperately.

Derek groaned deeply, his hips bucking upwards to meet hers. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, his hands gripping her ass possessively. He broke the kiss, his breath hot against her neck as he panted. “You're so tight”

“Derek!” y/n cried out, rocking her hips faster, meeting his thrust.

Derek grinned against her neck, his teeth scraping against her skin. “That's it, y/n. scream my name. Let everyone know who's inside you right now” Derek thrust up into her hard, his hips slamming against hers. “Fuck, you're so fucking tight”

“Ah, Derek” y/n arched her hips, carding and through his hair as he buried his face into her breasts.

Derek moaned into her breasts. His hands tightened on her bottom, helping her move as he thrust up into her hard and fast. The sound of their bodies slapping against each other filled the room, mingling with our moans and heavy breathing. Derek licked and sucked at her breasts, his tongue swirling around her nipples as he continued to pound into her. He could feel her walls starting to flutter around his cock. “D-Derek, Baby. I'm close” she moaned desperately.

Derek looked up at her, his eyes dark with lust. “That's it, baby. Cum for me”

“Derek!” y/n screamed, cumming on his cock. Derek grunted, his movements becoming jerky as he buried his face back in her breasts. He bit down gently as he found his own release, spurting warm seed inside her. He relaxed against her, breathing heavily. “fuck”

Y/n moaned, fisting his hair as she came down from her high. Derek stayed buried in her chest, his heart pounding against her skin. After a few moments, he lifted his head, his eyes soft and full of love. “I love you… So much”

“I love you too” she said softly, pressing her lips to his as they fell back into the bed. He slowly pulled out, the friction making her moan softly.

“Let's get you cleaned up” He kissed her cheek then stood up and walked to the bathroom, returning with a warm, damp cloth to clean you up tenderly. She moaned softly at the sensitively, making him smile softly as. He gently wiped her clean, his touch light and caring. As he finished, he threw the cloth aside and spread her legs, admiring her rosy, swollen state. He leaned down and placed a soft, chaste kiss on her inner thigh before he moved up to lie beside her, gathering her in his arms protectively and pulling the covers over both of them. He gently adjusted the covers to ensure they were comfortable, his hand resting on her hip possessively. “Sleep now, my love. You've earned it”

[octuscle]

I wanted to say congratulations for your work, I really like your transformations into muscular Arabs, they are very good and I also like your writing style, it is really unique

Thanks a lot, buddy… Or should I say "sadiq"? I mean, no wonder you like these kinds of transformations. Anything that strengthens your people and weakens the infidel wimps is of course in your interest. What is the point of this statement? You are not an Arab? Then explain your circumcised cock to me first. Okay, yes, the blond hair is irritating… And the blue eyes… But the heavy Arabic accent in your English also clearly speaks for your Arab descent.

As you walk through the mall towards McDonald's, the soundscape begins to change. The soft, whispering background music gives way to an ever louder babble of voices. The skin color of the customers becomes darker. The hair gets darker. Anyone who is still blonde is usually carrying a camera and is a tourist. You are the exception. But you're not really blonde any more…

Where did you want to go again? Right, you need sesame curls for your tea room, you have to go to the bakery. Fortunately, you know the big bazaar like the back of your hand. The infidels like to get lost in the labyrinth of aisles and alleyways. But that's also your luck. Unlike most of the other traders here in the bazaar, you speak English quite well. And for a few dollars, you guide the tourists into your tea room first. And then outside.

The muezzin has just called the Asr. From now on, the bazaar empties quickly. You're quite honest, you don't pay much attention to religion. That's why you've never had a problem with tattoos and piercings. Your conservative parents and many customers think it's terrible. But you don't give a shit. You also trim your beard short and let your hair grow long instead.

Your last customer will have left in an hour. Then you'll lower the shutters, tidy up and clean. And then you'll hang out with your bruhs over a shisha. Life is great!

[ya-zz]

Really love your ram! I love the 'fixed the broken' it touched my heart with many fluffiness to the point that I could faint 🥺. So please I would like to request for (fluff) ramattra and the reader, every time it rain they would coincidentally meet each other at the same shelter or different one each time or both, it could be funny that way too! Up to you :)

hhhhhhh I fucking love soft Ramattra just as much as the next person.

Apologies it took awhile to get to, but hey, a nice double upload today!

Ramattra x reader (gen)

Word count: 1173

It was the same shit just different day. Having to travel to work early, and then travel home late made you wonder whether or not the job was even worth it; and let’s not talk about when the rainy weather would hit, whether light or a storm, you would still push on in. 

But, despite the travel, despite the weather, you enjoyed the job. Repairing omnics was something you had grown to do, even more so after the crisis. You wanted to do what you could to help, no matter how small it may be. 

The walk was worth it though. The scenery in Nepal was everything you had ever wished for. The omnic village was accommodating, human travellers passing occasionally, however you were the more frequent visitor. The omnics there welcomed you each day, passing ‘thanks’ and ‘have a good day’ whenever you walked past. They were more like a family then your own family was. 

Today, however, the rain was coming down hard the moment you had finished work. After closing the workshop, locking the shutters and hiding under the provided shelter, you sigh. Looking across the street, watching the puddles grow larger by the second, you zip up your coat only to realise there was no hood. 

Can it get any worse…?

With a slightly more irritated yet defeated sigh, you walk out into the pouring rain and begin the journey home. The rain pelted your face, soaking you in moments as you walked. Down hill was going to be the trickier part. Having no grip on your shoes and rocky terrain, it wasn’t exactly the safest for walking. Keeping close to the wall, you hold on, hoping to not slip and end up at the bottom. While it would be quicker, the bruises and possible painful injuries weren’t going to help you repair omnics. 

It was a slow and careful descent, one where you kept your eyes on the ground, rather than in front of you, but the moment the ground levelled, you took a breather under a nearby shelter. 

The rain was still coming down hard as you leant against the withering wood frame of the shelter. With your arms crossed over your chest to keep warm, you watch the rain, listening to the sounds. The wind blowing it in every direction but also shaking the leaves above. Thunder rolled in, making you step back further into the shelter.

“It is not safe for you to be out here.” A voice called out, making you turn quickly. 

You reply back whilst looking over the omnic. “Neither is it for you.” 

He goes to speak once more but holds himself back, instead moving further into the shelter.

There was an eerie silence as the two of you stayed under for awhile, letting the rain pass. You stayed quiet, watching the rain lighten up before you deemed it safe enough to wander back out and home. 

The omnic doesn’t say anything, waiting there a little while longer as he watches you leave. He wonders where he had seen you before and then it clicks. This wasn’t your first encounter with him. It was the second and he never forgets a face. 

Last week you were resting under the shelter not far from the repair shop reading. He had stood near you, not wanting to disrupt you, but the moment you closed your book and looked up at him, the smile that embraced your face engrained itself into his systems. 

He had hoped to see you again and his circuits warmed when he did. 

And again when he saw you a few days later at the same shelter. It wasn’t raining this time, but it was cold. His temperature was keeping him warm, circling that heat around his chassis, but he could see you were shivering. 

The winter weather was brutal, your gloves and scarf were merely decoration. The sudden drop in temperature meant you weren’t prepared at all, having to grab whatever you could find within the workshop before you left. 

“You should hurry home.” The omnic spoke out, stepping under the shelter. 

“I would, but I’m too cold to move right now.” 

“You will freeze to death if you stay out here any longer.” His optics scan your figure, noting the shivering and your temperature lower than normal. 

“I wasn’t prepared for this drop in temperature.” You speak between shuddered breaths. 

He looks ahead, a slight nod. “It was sudden, yes.” 

You hum in response, tucking your hands into your pockets. 

“How far do you walk from here?” He asked. 

“About forty minutes.” 

For once, the omnic felt concerned. “There is a tea house that is closer. Perhaps you should rest there and warm up.” He points back towards the village as you look up at him. 

“Maybe I will. Thank you.” You smile up at him and step out from under the shelter. 

“Ramattra.” He calls out, causing you to stop and turn to him. “I am Ramattra.” 

He noticed your smile again as you spoke. “[y/n].” You bow your head slightly. “It’s a pleasure to put a name to the face.” 

“I agree.” He hums, watching you turn and scurry off back to the village. 

–

There was a long while before Ramattra saw you again. Part of him hurt and he was confused as to why. He has never felt this way before, especially for a human. The moment he saw you under the shelter not far from the decline, he wandered over, staff in one hand while he raised the other. 

When you saw him approaching and waving at you, you returned the gesture, waving back and smiling. 

“We have to stop meeting like this?” You joke, watching as he stands next to you, closer than he has ever done before. 

“Who is to say that this is not my favourite part of the day.” He looks down at you from the side, a chuckle escaping his vocaliser.

“Oh stop it.” You laugh, cheeks blushing ever so slightly as you stare out into the rain. 

“It has been awhile since I last saw you.” He states. 

“Late night repairs.” You sigh softly. “There’s been a lot of trouble recently.” 

The omnic nods. “I have heard. I did not think it would be that bad.” 

“I’m the only one around here capable of fixing omnics, so they all come to me.” 

“Would you require assistance?” Ramattra asks. 

You look up at him, smiling gently. “Company wouldn’t be so bad.” 

The omnic laughs, something he had not done in a long time. “Then perhaps I will meet you tomorrow, at the workshop this time.” 

“Yeah… I’d like that.”

Ramattra nods, the same warmth circling his chassis as he looks down at you smiling up at him. From chance meetings at the shelter, the omnic was glad there was a human out there capable of emotions and caring for his kind. He wanted to know more about you, to help you. 

He wanted to be with you longer.

[comfort-questing]

1. search party

I don't think I can go any further, she thought.

not an unreasoned decision, or merely despairing. she'd already forced herself back upright, driven her stumbling feet forward again, several times in the last while - grasping at the rough rain-dampened tree trunks for assistance, blinking at the slash of back-flung branches and bush tendrils. the blood from the hole under her ribs had soaked all through the layers of makeshift bandages, the dampness turning from warm to cold over time in the chilly night air.

this time she had hardly felt her knees buckle, in her halfway awareness, and realized somewhere between there and the ground what was happening. but by then it was too late to stop her descent, and she landed on hands and knees in the rough green-smelling bracken, an arc of white-hot pain stealing her breath away. and somehow the next thing she knew her face was pillowed in the cold rough leaves, and nothing but darkness in her eyes.

I am done, she thought, I am done.

she'd always expected to die alone if it came to that. still it was a little disappointing - she'd liked this new crew of folk enough that if she'd had the choice, she wouldn't have minded them being by her at the end. even the silly ones. but here she was, nonetheless, with an enemy's bullet in her and no one to see or be there.

she drew in a small breath between clenched teeth, and willed her arms and legs to obey her; but only a feeble trembling against the damp leaves and earth beneath followed. whether her eyes were closed or open she didn't know, and she wasn't sure if it mattered.

and so I wait, she thought, grimly, until the end, I guess.

-

"well, since she was assigned to take the lower side of the ridge then there's an obvious path back, and I hope we'll find her on it," said Nolan, "so I'll take that one with Ren, and you and Miria split off and try the upper way, along the spine of the ridge in case she went that way instead, or got lost. lanterns all 'round?"

"shutter 'em good," said Ren, "there's other scouts than ours out tonight."

a sobering thought and one that rendered them all briefly silent in their huddle on the edge of camp, but there wasn't anything else for it in the end. still Ren did check all the lanterns and fiddle them closed as far as one could and still make use of them. the guards didn't stop them, nodding them past; as after all, they were indeed the reconnaissance crew and wandering about was their business and intention.

"she must be waiting for us, if she's lost somewhere. I think she'd know we're coming and wait." that was Miria speaking, giving words to their silence again, from the depths of her hood pulled up against the faint spitting drizzle. next to her Seth nodded solemnly.

"we'll meet back here at moonrise and if we haven't found her let's sweep between the paths, all right?" Nolan said. then, "let's hurry."

-

she hadn't thought, as her eyes had closed finally, that they would open again. she certainly hadn't thought that there would be voices around her, a hand brushing across her face, someone wrapping a warm cloak around her numb shoulders as they lifted her up. her head swam and she blinked in the vague light of hooded lanterns.

"you came for me," she mumbled, thickly. "why?"

Ren's hands paused; Nolan choked a little.

"of course we came," said Ren. "right, right. up you come."

and she let her head fall forward onto Ren's shoulder, as her legs dangled at his sides, Nolan helping steady her; and the pain was almost distant now as the warmth of someone else's body began to melt the frozen core of hers. why her eyes were prickly with tears suddenly she didn't know.

"it's all right," said Nolan, "we'll be back to camp soon."

and for some ridiculous reason that made the tears come faster, but Ren's shoulder was a good enough place to soak them up for now, and nobody would really mind.

I'm still here, she thought, hazily, and they're here, too...

such a strange thing, to be remembered, to be searched for and found.

[cielsosinfel]

Deeply obsessed with Rolan which means I'm also deeply obsessed with all the little details in his room (which honestly there aren't that many details, there isn't that much willful characterization happening here probably on the parts of the devs, but I'll read into the simultaneous mess and sparseness anyway)

Also still kind of dying that he has one of Lorroakan's rejected autobio manuscripts... I wonder if he got handed a copy by Lorroakan the first day he was there, Lorroakan completely unaware the rejection note was still in it.

What I'm most curious about right now is why he has that note with a riddle leading to the Annals of Karsus, because I struggle to believe Lorroakan would have shared anything about the secret rooms of the vault with him... or maybe would have bragged about possessing such powerful, illustrious tomes but actually showing him how to GET to those tomes...?? But it does say "In the Hand of Ramazith" so perhaps Rolan found the note while cleaning up around the tower, and was trying to decipher it...? idk idk.

EDIT: OK I FOUND OUT WHY HE PROBABLY HAD THAT NOTE. I was flipping through the Descent Into Avernus adventure book again, to see what was mentioned about Ramazith's Tower, and it has a whole section that goes into Lorroakan:

"Lorroakan's ever-pressing need for money has led the mage to begin looking for hired hands who might be willing to venture into the long-shuttered heights of Ramazith's tower and uncover the secret of the late wizard's wealth. That Ramazith's secret may have brought him to an untimely end, and that Lorroakan is himself no more skilled--and perhaps significantly less--than the tower's previous master does not seem to concern him."

OK my reading of this: Lorroakan knows there is untold wealth of magical artifacts hidden in the tower. He also knows the tower's defenses are extensive, the artefacts that are likely fatal high in number, and there is every possibility Ramazith got killed by something in his own tower. So what better way for Lorroakan, unskilled hack and fraud that he is, to uncover the treasure trove he's laid claim to without harm to himself, than hiring eager apprentices with enough magical skill to possibly power through the protective spells and traps and wards... And if they can't and they die, it's no skin off his back.

I guess this is headcanon territory lol but I've sold myself on it, I'll just believe the note was found among Ramazith's various affects by Lorroakan, and handed off to Rolan to figure out, to eventually send Rolan off to possibly die trying to dig up the key to Ramazith's wealth.

Also also, the amount of paper scattered across the desk the riddle-note is found on, and across the floor around it... Wondering how much of that is Rolan desperately trying to work out riddles Lorroakan gives him. the rest of his room is pretty clean in comparison, it's just all the paper around that desk.

[tyriongirl]

Tyrion's Heterochromia as an Analog to Lann The Clever Stealing the Sun

This is inspired by this post by @jackedup180 and further conversation with them.

Tyrion does not fit the mold of Lannister looks (fully blond hair, fully green eyes, and, in Tywin's and the rest of abelist Westeros' views, able bodied) and instead is this mix of both blond and dark haired, eyes both dark and bright, supposedly not looking like a Lannister 'should' look.

Tywin clearly thinks Tyrion isn't "truly" Lannister, and this is strictly because of his looks and his highly hyper visible disability:

"[...] Men's laws give you the right to bear my name and display my colors, since I cannot prove that you are not mine. To teach me humility, the gods have condemned me to watch you waddle about wearing that proud lion that was my father's sigil and his father's before him. But neither gods nor men shall ever compel me to let you turn Casterly Rock into your whorehouse."

However, Lann's looks weren't "Lannister" either. In reality (or actually, imagined history / mythic past) Lann wasn't blond, even if that part of the story is being de-emphasized.

"The Lannisters were an old family, tracing their descent back to Lann the Clever, a trickster from the Age of Heroes who was no doubt as legendary as Bran the Builder, though far more beloved of singers and taletellers. In the songs, Lann was the fellow who winkled the Casterlys out of Casterly Rock with no weapon but his wits, and stole gold from the sun to brighten his curly hair."

[AGOT, Eddard VI]

Lann The Clever didn't fit the mold. There was no mold, and there still isn't one now. There's no 'right' way to be or look a Lannister. The story itself is only a legend, a myth, a tale with no actual or very little basis in history:

"Names such as Brandon the Builder, Garth Greenhand, Lann the Clever, and Durran Godsgrief are names to conjure with, but it is likely that their legends hold less truth than fancy. [The World of Ice and Fire, Ancient History: The Age of Heroes] "It is highly unlikely that such a man ever existed; like Lann the Clever [...] the Winged Knight is made of legend, not of flesh and blood." [The World of Ice and Fire, The Vale: House Arryn] "Lann the Clever supposedly lived to the age of 312, and sired a hundred bold sons and a hundred lissome daughters, all fair of face, clean of limb, and blessed with hair "as golden as the sun." But such tales aside, the histories suggest [...]" [The World of Ice and Fire - The Westerlands]

Tyrion's looks stopped Tywin from seeing that he was the essence of what house Lannister was about, before Tywin's bizarre "traditional"-made-up house values that didn't exist until him. Tyrion is a trickster, Tyrion does use his words as his weapon and assets, Tyrion can and have tricked his way into getting what he wants - as we can see with his first trial in the vale, and his deal with the mountain clans.

Instead of acknolwdging that, Tywin prefers to see it as a fault of Tyrion:

"He closed the shutters, frowning. "You have a certain cunning, Tyrion, but the plain truth is you talk too much. That loose tongue of yours will be your undoing." "You should have let Joff tear it out," suggested Tyrion."

[ASOS, Tyrion VI]

Tywin can pretend forever that Tyrion is not a 'true' or 'proper' Lannister ("this was the last time I will suffer you to bring shame onto House Lannister." ASOS, Tyrion I), but in the end it is clear that Tyrion is both a Lannister in values, deeds and character, and inherently Tywin's true and undisputed son:

"Now that's where you're wrong, Father. Why, I believe I'm you writ small." [ASOS, Tyrion XI] "[...] But Tyrion is Tywin's son, not you. I said so once to your father's face, and he would not speak to me for half a year. Men are such thundering great fools. [...]" [AFFC, Jaime V]

Also I just think being the og Lannister would be the cruelest and most fun revenge Tyrion could enact on Tywin <3