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asimplearchivist · 11 months ago

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‘ 𝓪 𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ jake struggled to decide whether you were a blessing or a curse to the system—his personal feelings about you didn’t matter. they never had. ⤏ until they suddenly did, that is.⤏ now he had to fix the mess he caused before he ruined everything for the two he’s trying to protect most as well as you. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader | marc spector/reader | jake lockley/reader word count ☾ 15.6k a/n ☽ ⤏ this chapter was certainly a challenge to write! I have such a particular interpretation of jake in my head influenced by such lovely headcanons and fanfics in the mk community that I had a bit of stage-fright trying to portray him with justice to my vision of him. having very little on-screen material from which to go off of certainly doesn’t help—steven and marc’s voices are so clear to me, but jake’s is a little more subtle and stepping out to develop it on my own was a little nerve-wracking because I wanted so badly to do him justice!⤏ I also apologize that this chapter came late—I had a busy weekend on top of homework and I was wrestling with jake’s characterization. but here he is, now! let me know if y’all like how I wrote him! :) ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER ☽

The first time Steven had met you, it had been strictly by happenstance.

The first time Marc had met you, officially, it had been an accident.

The first time Jake met you, it was an inevitability.

Steven and Marc were wrapped around each of your pinky fingers. Completely enamored with you. Nearly worshiped the ground that you walked on. You had lodged yourself inextricably into their gravitational pull, orbiting them as though you’d always been fixed to their collective side—present almost as often as Jake was.

Jake found it inconvenient at best. Dangerous at worst.

Because despite his near slip-up, fumbling just a bit at the suddenness of stepping in that fateful night Marc had decided to swoop in and rescue you (not that you’d really needed rescuing—you were owed credit for holding your own better than most women with whom they’d ever interacted in such scenarios), the two had not been particularly watchful for him.

Sure, they discussed it more—never around you, of course, worried that you would worry about their unease, being unable to properly identify the source of their combined blackouts. The outlier. But they were doing little else than that, and Jake had almost been concerned about them trying to draw him out by force. Biding their time, maybe. But that was fine—Jake was patient. He waited them out every other time he slipped to the front while they were unaware, save during emergencies, and this would be no different—eventually they’d drop their guard, start to doubt their suspicions, and put the idea to the back of their mind where he dwelt and he could comfortably resume his work.

…That was, provided you were removed from the equation altogether.

London loomed in the height of winter, several months later. They had gotten over themselves long enough to enter full and individual romantic relationships with you, and Jake had to admit that he had never felt either of them as happy as they were around you. Marc had loved Layla dearly, still did, and Jake knew she had been integral to keeping him steady and for some of his healing—but you were different. You were an unknown variable, and yet Marc was putting in his every effort to make it work, not looking to repeat his past mistakes in order to ensure your mutual and assured trust: you knowing the brutal nature of Marc’s past and Marc entrusting you with the intimate knowledge of it.

It had taken time, of course (an excruciatingly long period of it, in fact), but you hadn’t flinched once even when he’d told you of the blood staining his hands, both innocent and villainous, during his time as a soldier and mercenary. You had stayed, hadn’t run, hadn’t treated him like the killer he’d always convinced himself that he was. Marc had been relieved.

Jake had only grown frustrated. The situation was rapidly getting out of hand.

Because Steven’s infatuation with you was one thing. He’d had a few crushes here and there, had been laboring in the dating scene for weeks by the time Marc had inadvertently revealed himself to his alter, and Jake had even tried to help the pobrecito* catch a break once. (Jake couldn’t lie—he’d almost hoped that he could’ve caught a break, too, since Marc had left Layla high and dry and Jake had been pent up with all the mounting stress Marc had only been internalizing instead of dealing with in a somewhat healthy manner—but Steven had deserved to be doted on by a pretty woman at least once in his oblivious, lonely life, and Dylan the tour guide was a very pretty woman.) Steven was a romantic at heart, had sought a meaningful relationship more than anything for the longest, so it was to be expected that he’d eventually fall in with some unwitting little thing ignorant to the myriad problems riddling the inner depths of his psyche—that, Jake could have dealt with, hypothetically, if things had escalated to that point. A quick misunderstanding carefully orchestrated leading to a break-up would have been a simple solution, and while it would have hurt Steven greatly for a while, it would have been ultimately necessary for both the long-term safety of the system and for the security of Jake’s continued, secretive role as Khonshu’s fantoche*.

But Marc getting involved threw an entirely new wrench into the gears of Jake’s plans. Because Marc Spector operated in black or white. All or nothing. Always had and always would. Either he didn’t trust you as far as he could throw you or he’d carry you through the depths of hell barefooted on red-hot coals and have the nerve to apologize to you for stumbling on his bleeding blisters.

Marc’s trust came two-fold, also, now that he was in full cohesion with Steven—he still didn’t readily trust anyone, but if Steven did? He was sold soon after just on the principle of the matter. Steven’s judgment of character was, admittedly, as keen as any telepath’s, despite his naïveté and optimism—and Marc trusted Steven more than he trusted anyone else in the world. Even Layla. Even you.

Even Jake, though it had been entirely subconscious up until very recently.

Because he’d fought Jake the last time he’d forced himself to the front to save his life (and yours, by extension, loathe as Jake was to admit it), whereas before Jake had always managed to blindside him. It was a close call—one that Jake could not afford to make again.

And it would be so much fucking easier if you weren’t around so damn often.

Any bit of spare time the boys had that happened to coincide with yours, they were trying to see you: from snack breaks between your classes or on your shared lunch breaks to movie nights featuring home cooked meals and set tables and lit candles because you were just as much of a romantic as Steven was (God help them). You dried one bloom from every bouquet of flowers they ever brought you, keeping them all in a pitcher you used as a centerpiece more than once. You had even started packing them lunches, for Christ’s sake, with plentiful options that either Steven or Marc would enjoy depending on who ended up fronting. Even when either (or both) of you were too tired to go out on the town for a date (which happened so often Jake wondered how Marc hadn’t depleted his bank account already), the long evenings you weren’t obligated to work or study were spent cuddled up on the couch in your apartment or theirs, oblivious to the outside world as you indulged in each other’s company.

The winter brought worsening weather with it, which meant that you were spending more time at home with them. You’d even started spending the night, which was treading on Jake’s very last nerve—his one assured bastion of being able to take the body surreptitiously without Marc or Steven realizing it was put into jeopardy because while you were a heavy sleeper (almost like a fucking corpse, really—he’d had to check to make sure you were even breathing, once), you hadn’t yet gotten used to sharing a bed with someone, which resulted in you rousing slightly any time the body so much as shifted. Marc still had night terrors occasionally, and you’d never fail to comfort him back to sleep, even at the cost of your own rest.

Jake should be thankful, really, if he thought about it for too long. Marc had managed to keep sober long before he met you, but his cravings had dissipated almost entirely since you’d gently steered him towards sodas instead of beer—meaning no more black-out drunk episodes from which Jake had to nurse the body back from the brink. The body rested better with you there to anchor their unsteady mind at the times it decided to bring back the bad memories. You were feeding them better than they’d eaten since living with Layla, hearty and savory dishes that had packed a few pounds onto their lean frame, helping to negate Marc and Steven’s combined forgetfulness towards even the most basic practices of self-care. You had even started buying them groceries in thanks for the dinners they bought you, keeping their fridge and cabinets full and their personal products stocked up throughout the apartment.

You were doing the brunt of his job for him—making sure the body was taken care of and that neither of them spiraled nor regressed. He should be happy that he didn’t have to pull so much weight anymore, that he got to kick back and relax.

So why did it all piss him off so damn much?

You were pretty, he supposed. Not the most stunning bird he’d ever seen, but you were a decent pull on Steven’s part. You got along with the little nerd, and you got along with Marc—which was a feat in and of itself. You had an incredibly dry sense of humor on top of a quick tongue that drew inadvertent chuckles from even the surliest of Marc’s moods. You kept up with Steven’s intellect effortlessly, and the pair of you could talk hours upon hours on the most mundane of topics—oftentimes earning a scolding from Marc whenever the conversation would carry on past midnight (which would only make you both giggle and apologize sheepishly and rarely actually curbed your shared enthusiasm). You mediated their occasional disagreements with utmost diplomacy, always playing devil’s advocate even on their most childish of squabbles, never played favorites even when they’d playfully compete for your affections—you stood resolute in your stance of loving them equally in their own unique relationships with you.

You made them completely, perfectly, incandescently happy. That should have been enough.

It wasn’t.

Because Jake was getting…distracted.

He’d always been strictly about business—the sole reason he existed. He protected the body, no matter the cost. Now he had Khonshu to answer to, and that was difficult enough, trying to balance enough time at night to do the old bird’s bidding while Marc and Steven slept—blissfully unaware thanks to Jake’s skill in repressing them both to the work he’d been doing the last several months trying to cull out the vestiges of Harrow’s cult.

Because of course that bastard hadn’t taken all his people with him to Cairo to hunt for Ammit’s tomb. Of course he’d left pockets of his followers scattered all over London—assured by his own success, he’d planted them there in order to divide and conquer the city once he’d freed Ammit. And of course they had to be skilled enough at hiding to require him to painstakingly construct an elaborate underground network of people keeping their ears to the ground for any signs. That’s what was taking so long to eradicate them all, and it irritated Khonshu to no end, having to sit and wait when he constantly hounded Jake to ‘execute his justice’. Jake was patient. The god of the moon was most certainly not.

Now add the stress of keeping you unaware of his goings-on? With your infuriatingly saccharine smile and fawn-like fluttering lashes and easy affection that haunted the back of his mind when he did find precious little time to front? He could hardly concentrate on prowling the streets anymore when your detergent of choice had wormed its way into the clothes he kept packed away in the back of Marc’s closet, well away from view (because you even did their laundry for them sometimes when Steven ended up working late on inventory—like a little housewife or something), the scent trapped under Khonshu’s armor nearly smothering him.

Jake knew, deep down though he’d done his best to ignore it, that his ruse would come to a head eventually—Marc was keen on his interiority now that he was no longer in denial of his issues; and Steven was, too, since Marc had let him in on all of it. Jake just didn’t anticipate having to deal with you and your unnervingly observant perception on top of it.

Ultimately it was of little surprise that the scouts for the rest of Harrow’s carroñeros* had put a flag on you, since Jake’s alters spent so much time with you in plain public view. At the very least, it had allowed for that one slippery bastard to finally be put away after somehow surviving Jake’s wrath with him ever having realized it, even if it had put you in danger. The hijo de puta* had played a calculated risk to come after you, trying to cover it up as a robbery rather than a hit to get back at the spectre picking them all off one by one—one that hadn’t paid off in the slightest. He was lucky that Jake hadn’t had the time nor privacy to do exactly what he’d wanted to—a fractured temple via blunt force trauma, hopefully with an added concussion, would have to suffice for the time being. He’d better pray that he wasn’t released anytime soon.

Especially since he’d had the audacity and the gall (and the balls) to target you. Jake wasn’t cruel enough to wish you any harm, don’t get him wrong. You hadn’t done anything wrong, necessarily, just…frustrated him to no end. They were lucky that you’d had the foresight to text them, or else that would’ve been the last that Marc or Steven would’ve ever seen of you.

Jake knew that would only have resulted in disaster.

You had crossed over the threshold of being a danger to the system to being a necessity for their safety and sanity—because if something happened to you now, Jake doubted sincerely that he would ever be able to pick up the pieces of Marc or Steven’s hearts and minds. And so Jake was forced to resolve himself to add one more individual to his list. For the betterment of the system.

Joder, pues claro.*

…It wasn’t as if he didn’t like you. He had to admit that much to himself, at least. You were pleasant enough to be around. You did tell good jokes, well thought out ones that made Jake have to think about them a little while before he got them. He appreciated how rational you were about things, rarely letting your emotions impact otherwise simple miscommunications or misunderstandings over which most women would have a conniption, choosing to talk out your problems while also being honest about how you felt rather than giving them the silent treatment or some shit—it was a necessary balance to Marc’s precarious internalizations of his own complicated feelings and his ever-present struggles to express them in a concise and healthy manner. Jake didn’t mind listening in on your tangents all that much, even if the topics didn’t interest him in the slightest—your passion and thought process kept him hooked enough, as did the dimples bordering your smile and the creases crinkling the corners of your glittering eyes. You were a damn good cook, to boot—Jake had snuck your leftovers on those late nights more often than he’d ever readily admit out loud. Neither still were you hard on the eyes.

So…yeah. If Jake found himself co-fronting, lingering in the back of the headspace well away from Marc and Steven’s reach, as Marc watched you gape at the street performer juggling flaming swords while balancing on a unicycle…that was between him and the soft smile tugging at the corners of their host’s mouth that Jake would likely have reflected despite himself.

The early evening had plunged the city into a nose-numbing one—but you’d been itching to revel in the cold, misty air and to venture out into London’s brimming nightlife with the bolstering safety you’d confessed to feeling while in their presence. The entire plaza was thrumming with music and noise and laughter, light and fire mixing to highlight the angles, curves, and planes of your disbelieving face. You were bundled up to the nines to fight the cold, still unaccustomed to the weather in contrast to the south US’ comparatively mild winters, but you refused to tuck one hand into your pocket in favor of clasping Marc’s firmly. Seated on a bench wedged so closely together that even Jake could feel the tremors in your limbs, you remained glued to his side as though to sap the warmth from the body—evidently, it wasn’t working, because you let out a shuddering breath as your teeth chattered when the performer paused to take a break. Another stepped up to take his place, and the loosely gathered crowd clapped to welcome him.

“You’re going to freeze if you don’t let me take you home,” Marc rumbled into your ear, covered by the toboggan he’d insisted you wear to spare yourself from frostbite.

“Just a little longer, honey?” you pleaded, turning your head to gaze up at him with those infuriatingly fawn-like eyes. “It’s supposed to ice over tonight and I just know I’m going to get cabin fever tomorrow.”

Marc huffed out a wry chuckle, unthreading your fingers to coil his arm around your shoulders and to tug you closer, keeping his mouth tucked close to your ear. “You’re a homebody, baby. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble staying inside cuddled up with us for the weekend than you normally do.”

You pouted at him playfully, jutting out your bottom lip, and Marc’s gaze was fixed on it until you smoothed your expression. “All right,” you bemoaned, tilting your head away in faux dejection, “I suppose I’ll allow you to coop me up for the next couple of days…” You fluttered your lashes at him. “...as long as you promise to keep me warm, that is. Won’t you, honey?”

“As if you even had to ask.” Marc dipped his head to skim his brow against yours, peering directly into your eyes. “But that’ll require thawing you out first. It’s not getting any warmer.”

“I can think of a few ways to solve that,” you murmured, half-lidded, and slanted your mouth over his—the breath’s breadth between your lips and his was quickly stolen by Marc with a low, knowing chuckle.

Jake rolled his eyes. Metaphorically, of course. He’d even facepalm if he could. You two were hopeless—and he’d thought Steven had it bad.

Can it, Casanova, remarked the Brit as though summoned by Jake’s internal musing, she’s still shakin’.

“I know, I know,” Marc mumbled, pulling away and shaking his head at your amused expression. It had taken a while for both of them to get comfortable enough to vocalize their seemingly one-sided conversations around you, but you treated it as normally as if you could hear the third party, too. Marc patted your hip and stood, grumbling under his breath at the stiffness of his muscles, courtesy of Jake’s last bloody brawl a few nights prior—unbeknownst to either of his alters, of course. “Come on, I bought hot chocolate. We’ll start with that, and then a hot shower.”

You gasped in delight, lurching up to your feet and latching onto his hand once more. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?” you demanded, tugging eagerly at his arm toward the direction of the bus stop. “You could’ve gotten me home hours ago!”

“I wasn’t going to stop you from enjoying all this,” Marc returned, allowing you to guide him in the wrong direction only to see the excited sway of your hips. His eyes cut over the plaza on reflex, but locked onto a couple of guys lingering near the fountain that started to move in the same direction at the same time. His brow furrowed. “Let’s take a shortcut—don’t want to miss the bus.”

He folded your hand over the crook of his arm instead, winding his way through the crowd in an attempt to lose his tail. Jake could feel Marc’s mind crowding with alarm—who they could be, what they would be doing, which group he had once pissed off that now had decided to try to ruin his night—and he edged just a touch closer to the front to peer through Marc’s periphery.

Ah, yes. The bastard with the scar that had come after you had a handful of lackeys, and these cabrónes* were two of them. Twins, big and ginger and mean as hell. Marc was none the wiser to the reason why they were after the body, however—no recognition passed through his racing thoughts—and Jake inwardly cursed.

Steven noticed Marc’s growing apprehension, likewise. What’s wrong, Marc?

“Nothing,” he muttered, causing you to glance up at him questioningly.

“Everything okay?” you asked quietly, glancing around the thinning people as Marc herded you towards the end of the plaza where it was quiet and dark. He ushered you into a narrow alleyway that broke out onto the main street, and while your brow was furrowed, you followed him without resistance. “We haven’t gone this way before.”

“We’re being followed,” he muttered to you, glancing over his shoulder towards the retreating lights. “Remember what I’ve told you?”

Your expression morphed from shock to grave in an instant. It was a discussion Marc had reiterated multiple times—being in a relationship with a wanted man always entailed a certain amount of danger, and Marc had hammered emergency protocol into your head in the event that something like this ever happened. He had hoped that it wouldn’t, for your sake, and the fact that you were schooling any signs of fear in all but your eyes only reinforced the reason why Jake hadn’t wanted you involved at all in the first place.

Jake pressed in closer. Marc’s ears were straining in lieu of ample light, eyes trained on the end of the alleyway—which became shadowed as another pair of silhouettes hemmed the both of you in.

Marc, Steven breathed, tone tight with worry, what now?

“Fuck,” Marc hissed, jerking you against his chest. He whipped around to dart back out from whence you’d come, but the twins had caught up. Heart pounding, he cupped a hand around your head and whispered urgently, “I’m going to take these guys down first so you can run back to the plaza where it’s lit and there’s other people. Call the cops and stick with a group and do not go anywhere by yourself, all right? Not until I come get you.”

Your hands were vices around the collar of his jacket, eyes shining in the dim. Your voice quivered. “Marc, I am not leaving you here alone.”

His fingers tightened around your shoulders. Their footsteps were picking up in speed from both directions, echoing off the dampened brick. “We talked about this—you promised you’d listen to me,” he growled. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. Us. We’ve faced worse odds.”

“What if—” you started, but didn’t have enough time to finish.

Marc shoved you behind him as the first giant reached out with mitts for hands towards you. Marc latched onto the bulky limb, twisting his wrist and pinning him onto the concrete in seconds. He pressed and jerked and the unfortunate soul’s arm popped out of place—a wet, skin-crawling pop that resonated far more loudly off the narrow walls than it should have. The man cried out in pain.

“Marc!” you gasped.

Jake leaned in as Marc took a blow to the side of the head—the other twin’s paw clapped against his ear and sent him careening into the wall, discombobulated as his hearing rang like a siren. His shaken equilibrium buckled his knees, but he pushed himself upright to land a series of resounding punches along the brute’s side and back, targeting the sensitive places sure to bruise at the very least. The ribs gave under the combination of Marc’s strength and expertise, and like a tree the second twin was felled with a well-timed hook to the chin.

“Go!” Marc snapped over the ringing in his ears, hooking a hand around your waist and shoving you in the direction of the exit between the two groaning gingers. “Get out of here!”

You turned back to look at him, utterly terrified. “But—!”

“Damn it, baby, please just—”

The latter pair of cultists didn’t give him as ample a warning as the former—and they were smart enough to pull the guns from their holsters rather than rely on their hands. The shot flashed like lightning, muffled by its silencer.

Marc staggered back, the burning in his side stealing the breath from his lungs. The tinnitus increased twofold, to the point that your startled shout was drowned out entirely. The pounding of their pulse roared in their ears, and Jake thought he heard Steven hollering over the din trapped in their head.

Marc’s control slipped in his shock and pain. Steven grappled for it in terror wholly driven to protect you. Jake seized the opportunity and yanked them both back into the headspace to block them off as he lunged forward—so suddenly that the body folded in half from the strain. His knees buckled and his shoulder struck the brick, jarring him.

“This is the guy that’s been giving us so much trouble?” gloated one of them. “All it takes is one bullet?”

“We’ve shot this one more than a dozen times and it’s never stopped him before,” the other said warily. “Where’s all that get-up?”

Jake muttered under his breath, gritting his teeth as he closed his eyes and concentrated.

“What’s that?” crooned the fool, gesturing lackadaisically towards him with the smoldering muzzle. “Have something to say before we rid the world of your chaos, asshole?”

“Sí.” The avatar raised his head, glowing eyes casting his assailants' suddenly wan, fallen countenances in a spectral hue. “Dije,” he growled as the familiar ragged bandages coiled around his limbs while he straightened to his full height, “te vas a arrepentir, pendejos.*”

The bullet clinked against the damp asphalt as he was fully enveloped in the armor.

“Ah, shit,” they said in unison.

The shock on their faces precluded the terror that followed his swift movement. The crescents whistled as he slung them in their direction—the cocky one caught it in the throat, plunging through his jugular. Blood splattered in a wide arc against the ground as he fell. The cautious one managed to tumble to the side to avoid it, however—just barely.

A heavy hand grabbed his padded shoulder and whirled Jake around—only to be struck across the temple with an errant piece of pipe. Mierda. The twins were back up on their feet, tag-teaming to make up for their missing mobility.

Jake jerked his head back to avoid another swing, summoning a truncheon from the small of his back and shattered the first’s wrist with a well-timed parry. Two more strikes upon the man’s solar plexus and skull sent him crumpling to the ground, totally unconscious at the very least. Two to go.

He didn’t have time to pause. The gunman fired thrice at his back, but the slugs passed right through him. Jake exchanged blows with the twin for a moment, finally propelling himself off the brick wall and swinging over the expanse of his mountainous shoulders to lock and twist his neck between his knees and bring the behemoth crashing down face-first. He didn’t move again even as Jake leapt back to his feet and pitched another array of darts at the gunman’s retreating back. Sliced flesh, a gurgled curse, and the clatter of metal preceded the heavy tumble of his body.

Jake stalked further into the shadows, tucking the truncheon back into its holster and flexing his fists. He grabbed the collar of the gunman’s jacket and hoisted him upright, pinning him to the wall with his forearm against his throat. Blood dribbled from the corners of the man’s mouth onto the woven gauntlet.

“Tell me where the rest of your amigos* are and I’ll consider letting you go,” he growled.

“Funny,” the man spat viciously onto Jake’s mask near his shielded eyes, “how you think I’ll talk after you murdered them!”

“Just like you attacked a bunch of innocent kids, yeah?” Jake snarled. “Said their scales wouldn’t balance just ‘cause they were picking on someone else? Even though your fucking goddess is dead and you don’t even have the power to read a single palm? Child murder isn’t going to get you where you’re wanting to end up, pendejo, and a little bullying isn’t enough to condone ritual execution!”

The gunman roared and tried to grapple with him, but Jake only pinned his wrists into the mortar with a dart over his head before jabbing him in the ribs. He only noticed the panic button clasped between his fingers once the indicator began to blink a rapid crimson.

“Mierda,” Jake hissed, clocking his elbow across the bastard’s face and snatching the device once he slumped over. He dropped and smashed it with his heel, grinding it into bits.

“...Baby?”

Jake stiffened, head whipping towards the sound of your small voice. You had cowered against the wall, plunged mostly in shadow, but your hunched shoulders and quick breaths fogging against the shafts of light that the street lamp at his back cast tipped off your apprehension. He didn’t have time to react, save to open his mouth, before the distant squeal of brakes, the heavy slam of vehicle doors, shouting, and rapid footsteps at the far end of the alley interrupted him.

He marched over to you, the armor receding with every step. He glimpsed your eyes in the dark, round and anxious, even as he gripped your arm and tugged you in the opposite direction. “Come on,” he muttered gruffly. “Better scram.”

“What’s wrong?” you breathed instead, resisting him. You were sturdy, he had to give you that, even as the heels of your boots skidded against the rain-slickened pavement.

“Other than having a bunch of madmen with guns on our tails? Nothing at all.” He pulled a bit more forcefully this time. “Let’s go.”

Your protesting noise was drowned out by an ear-ringing report of a gun, and the air near Jake’s ear whistled with the near miss of a bullet. It ricocheted off the brick and had mortar showering the ground.

“Por el amor de Dios,” Jake hissed. “Corres, chaparrita!*”

He pulled you along behind him into a full sprint. The pair of you broke out of the alley towards the crowded plaza once more. You stumbled a couple of times on the uneven concrete due to the awkward mobility afforded by Jake’s unforgiving grip on your wrist, but he was not going to let you go for fear of you falling behind and getting snatched or worse. His scowl and speed drew bemused glances from the bystanders, but their expressions morphed into shock when their eyes passed over his shoulders.

So the bastards were pissed (or desperate) enough to give chase in broad moonlight. They had balls, he had to give them that—and while it made them stupid, it didn’t make them any less dangerous.

He headed towards the far side where the plaza merged onto the main road littered with vendors on the broad sidewalks. People buzzed along the blocked off street—for the entire event would last all weekend and force all the normal goers to circumnavigate the grounds—in tight throngs, along which he had no doubt he could lose the zealots. The tactic has served him well countless times before—and not just in London, or while under Khonshu’s directive. Merging and camouflaging with oblivious civilians and letting one’s hunters pass one by altogether often worked better than trying to outrun them or to hide outright.

The gateway was narrow, and Jake shoved a man twice his size out of his way to hook a sharp left. The man’s curses were drowned out by your profuse, breathless apologies, and Jake growled out a tense, “Callate!*” before narrowly dodging a street lamp since he’d cast a glare over his shoulder at you.

People’s attention only grew as the street funneled into a narrow crosswalk connecting to a broader street. Jake hooked a right that time, darting past families and couples as he went. You were keeping up with him surprisingly well, but your panting was getting too loud—your stamina would give out soon. He had to figure out a way to blend the both of you in without drawing attention so the zealots would go on and he could double back to lose them completely.

Another right at the end of the block revealed another market street, though the middle was undulating with dancing couples as a busking band was playing a lively, energetic tune.

“Mierda,” he growled, “las cosas que hago por vosotros, hermanos.*”

Jake hauled you to a brisk walk instead, melting into the ring of onlookers clapping along with raucous chatter and laughter. They would provide good enough cover, but Jake knew he could show neither of your faces or else the ruse would be for naught. That necessitated unbearably close proximity with the bane of his existence for the last few months—and you had clocked him instantly. It wouldn’t fly for long.

Jake broke through the wall of people nearest the booths, thankful for the partial shadow that would aid to your obscurement. He hastily tugged the collar of Marc’s jacket up, ruffled his fingers through their hair to conceal the majority of their upper features, and hooked an arm around the middle of your back to tug you against his chest. You scarcely caught yourself on his shoulders to keep your nose from bashing into his sternum. With his free hand he pulled the toboggan from your head and stuffed it into your pocket before tugging the back of your scarf up the back of your head and over your forehead, overlapping the tails to cover your chin and mouth—which opened as your brows furrowed in protest.

Jake ducked his head, pressing his lips against your covered ear. “If you want to live long enough to see the end of the night,” he hissed, hands slipping to your waist and beginning to sway you in time with the music, “you’ll do exactly as I do. Me entiendes?*”

You pursed your lips, but the indignant flare behind your eyes didn’t flicker once—even as exclamations of shock caught his attention. Jake pulled you further back into the shadows, but to his luck a couple of other dancers swung between the pair of you and the zealots squinting down the street for any sign.

Jake began to match the others’ movements to appear more natural, the quick tempo dictating the shuffle of his feet—forward, scuffle, back, ad nauseam, faster than he could breathe. He could hardly concentrate on that as well at the moment, unfortunately, given he hadn’t danced in years.

You were hot under your clothes from the running spree, seeping through yours and his shared layers where the weight of your torso was pressed tightly against his. He kept his face tucked close to the sweep of your neck and shoulder, angling his broad shoulders towards them, winding carefully behind more and more couples while keeping careful rhythm. Your panting came harsh and high next to his ear, your breath warming his chilled shell and lobe. Your hands slipped from his shoulders to rest more convincingly on his chest, a firm press to keep your balance.

Although you didn’t seem to know all the specific steps to this dance, you were obviously familiar with the form and rhythm of it. You were a natural, the shimmy of your hips almost smoother than his own—you didn’t stumble once, light on your feet as you (reluctantly) allowed him to guide you without a single glance behind you to confirm he wasn’t about to walk you into a wall or another person. No, your eyes stayed fixed on what you could see of his face the entire time, forehead perspiring and cheeks darkened from exertion, mouth slightly agape to pull in much-needed air. You were studying him, it seemed like, scanning his features as though dissecting every crease and stretch.

Jake didn’t like it, not one bit. You already knew too much—the last thing he needed was you committing any of him to memory.

Instead of stopping, the band shifted into an entirely new song with a different beat altogether, but when Jake adapted to it, you did so, too—seamlessly, in fact, perfectly in tune to the body’s movements. (Ew. He didn’t need to think about that shit.) The two of you were so close that your knees would have knocked together if your feet weren’t offset. You were used to it, to him, even though you’d only learned the body while the others were using it. You knew him, even though he was a stranger.

Shit, shit, shit. He was so fucked.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of Marc’s sweatshirt over his thrumming heart, anchoring yourself as the tension finally drained from your form—he felt it before he saw it, watching your shoulders loosen as you lost yourself to the music. You almost seemed to be enjoying it, and Jake almost lamented the fact that you were only able to indulge in it under these very dire circumstances.

Almost.

“Are they gone?” you ventured breathlessly, chin brushing against his clavicle as you tilted your head forward so he’d hear your low tone that caused each hair on the nape of his neck to stand on end.

Jake blinked, then looked back up to the street corner with a deep-set frown. “Me distraiste jodidamente,*” he growled under his breath, shoving the visceral image of your chapped lips to the very back of his mind. “Yes, they’re gone.”

Your expression relaxed, then, into one of relief. The song tapered into an end, allowing both the dancers and the musicians a breather, and Jake finally peeled himself away from you as though your warmth had scorched him. He grasped your elbow again, tugging you through a narrow passage between booths to the mouth of a quiet side street with outdoor diners clustered around tables set out despite the weather.

He expected questions. He expected you to demand answers, like any other person in your situation would. ‘Who were they? Why were they trying to hurt me? Who the hell are you and why are you not Marc or Steven?’

He did not expect, however, for you to drop your gaze to his abdomen and to fish your hand under Marc’s jacket. He flinched back, but you’d already hooked a finger into the hole torn into the sticky, blood-soaked material of Marc’s shirt, fingertip grazing the smooth, whole flesh underneath and searing your fingerprint there in the process. He pushed your hand away, taking a half step back to distance himself from the mix of concern and confusion in your eyes.

“Are you hurt?” you asked him quietly, not venturing further into his personal space (to his relief).

Jake clamped his jaw shut and shook his head.

You hesitated. “What’s…what’s your name?”

Fuck his lack of luck, honestly. He half-turned away so he wouldn’t have to look at you.

“...Thank you for saving me.”

He scoffed under his breath. “If you’d kept your promise to Marc in the first place, I wouldn’t have had to.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Your tone instantly sharpened with indignation. “I know what I promised him, but he—you got fucking shot! I wasn’t about to leave you to die!”

“Wouldn’t have died. Just a scratch,” he groused, contorting and tugging the hem of the shirt up to show you the unblemished skin there, smeared with tacky blood against his knuckles. “See? Missed.”

“They did not miss,” you told him matter-of-factly. “I saw Marc fall. There’s fucking blood all over you—I’m not stupid. Do not lie to me.” You stepped closer, then, pointing that same bloodied finger at him and poking him in the sternum. He bared his teeth at you, cornered with the alley wall at his back. “All that back there was something that you’ve got going on, wasn’t it? Marc hasn’t told me about anything like this.”

You were too goddamn smart for your own fucking good. “There’s a lot that Marc hasn’t told you,” he growled, “and for good reason.”

Your eyes flashed. “And I bet you’re the authority on all of that, aren’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

“I’ve noticed them being vigilant lately, but they won’t tell me what’s bothering them. Lots of private conversations—and no, don’t look at me like that, I didn’t listen in on them—and they get anxious when they’re tired or spacey. It doesn’t take rocket science to figure out why they’ve been walking on eggshells ever since you popped up in the coffee shop that night—”

Jake’s jaw dropped open. Things were rapidly escalating out of hand, faster than he could hold them together. “How on earth do you—?”

“Marc is many things,” you said lowly, “but he is not a man who glorifies in violence. It bothers him still to touch me on his bad days, much less brushing up against a stranger. He wouldn’t smirk when he knocks someone out cold—with the pommel of a knife, no less. Neither would Steven, for that matter.”

Jake squared his shoulders and folded his arms over his chest to brush your hand away, glowering down at you. “Why haven’t you said anything to them?”

“Because they haven’t brought it up. I don’t push them for answers that they don’t want to give me. I know it’s already hard enough for them to be open to communicating their thoughts and feelings between themselves—I don’t want to pressure them any more by adding myself to the mix.” You jutted your chin. “But if you’re going to keep putting them in danger, you need to let them know what’s going on so they don’t get caught off-guard again.”

“You need to keep your nose out of my business and let me do my goddamn job,” he ground out.

“It becomes my business when both of our lives get put on the line!” you returned. “And what exactly is your job, huh? Circus performer with a specialty in knives?” You tugged on the hem of the jacket, ignoring how he went rigid. “Where do you keep that costume so they don’t realize they’re wearing it, too, by the way? Because I know for a fact that Steven would’ve mentioned cosplaying as the fucking Mummy if he knew about—”

He gritted his teeth. “It’s not a costume.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” You raised a haughty brow. “Do they know you’re running around like an albino version of London��s Daredevil?”

He was not about to explain all of Khonshu’s business to you. You knew too much already, and if Marc and/or Steven even caught wind of the old bird still hanging around, Jake was done for. “They don’t know about me for a reason, chaparrita, and I’d like to keep it that way. They can’t know about me—it’s better for all of us in the long run—so if you’d very kindly just keep your trap shut—”

“You have to tell them about you,” you told him firmly, eyes blazing, “and about whatever vigilante shit you’ve got going on. It’s not fair to them—they think they’re free from Marc’s old merc work, and here you are using the body against their consent to do whatever it is that you please. Do you realize how much danger you’re putting them in carrying on with shit like this?”

“I am protecting them,” he bit back, a snarl building in the back of his throat.

“By getting them ambushed in a fucking alley?” you snapped. “Your involvement in this could’ve gotten all three of you killed!”

“That costume is the only thing that can keep them alive through anything!” Jake returned sharply. “They would’ve been fine!”

“And what about me?” you demanded. “What about my safety? I know I chose my lot once Marc told me about his past, but this is adding a whole new level to all this that I wasn’t prepared for! What if you hadn’t been there, lingering in the background, or—or however you knew to step in? Do I need to live my life looking over my shoulder just in case there’s someone tailing me, waiting to catch me off-guard long enough to hurt me to get to them thinking they’re you? How do you think they’d react if something happened to me out of the blue, just by my being around them and whoever it is you’re fighting, thinking you’re the same person because you share the same face? Even then, they’d try to get to the bottom of it, and they could get shot, or stabbed, or—or whatever, just by trying to clean up your fucking mess!”

“If you weren’t around being seen with our face in the first place, you wouldn’t be involved to start with,” he growled, “and I wouldn’t have to concern myself with keeping you out of harm’s way all the time! You’re a liability to them—if something happened to you, they’d lose their shit, and I can’t have that happen. You’re as much of a danger to their wellbeing as these fucking cabrónes are!”

You retreated then, hurt flashing across your features so fast he almost missed it, before you schooled your expression into something frigid enough that it sent a chill down Jake’s spine. You floundered for words, lips moving without a sound, and Jake’s fuse shortened by the second. You swallowed, then, and roughly tipped your chin up—in defiance, certainly, but Jake didn’t miss the shine of moisture welling along your lash line. “…Do they feel that way, since you do?” you finally ventured. “Somewhere deep down? That I’m just a burden to them?”

“No,” he sighed, tucking his head and scrubbing his hand down his face. “There’s not a thing in this fucking world that they wouldn’t do for you, chaparrita, or kill themselves by trying. That’s the problem. That’s what makes you so dangerous. They care about you far too much.”

“And you don’t, I take it?” you supposed tightly. “Is that your job? Not to care?”

Jake ground his jaw so tightly his temples throbbed. “Don’t put words in my fucking mouth.”

“Then tell me why, exactly, you’re so hellbent on hiding yourself from them when they’re already trying so goddamn hard to heal and work together? What gives you the right to opt out and do whatever you damn well please, spilling more blood on their hands at the same time they’re trying to wash them clean?”

“There’s nothing special about me,” he bit out, “and they don’t need me—because if they knew what I’ve had to do to keep them alive they’d never forgive themselves!” Your brows twitched up, and Jake snarled under his breath. “Mierda. Just stay out of my fucking business, will you? The less you know, the better. And do not tell them about this, or about me, me entiendes?”

“I am not going to lie to Marc or Steven, and it’s stupid of you to think that I would,” you told him resolutely. “Either you tell them, or I will.”

“Did you miss all of what I just fucking said?” he spat. “If they know about me, it’ll do far more harm than good. They have a hard enough time reconciling what they’ve gone through, I don’t need to add all my shit to it!”

“You’ve helped them survive what they’ve gone through,” you pointed out, and Jake’s breath stopped short. “I’m not stupid, despite what you may think. I can tell even now that your primary concern is their well-being. But don’t you think telling them that you’re here, and that you’re a—a what, a superhero?—wouldn’t that be better than keeping them in the dark?”

“I am not a hero, chaparrita,” he told you darkly.

“Well, you’re certainly not a villain,” you responded evenly—as if you were stating fact.

Jake scowled. “Did they tell you what happened in Egypt? What really happened?”

Your eyes flashed. “They don’t have to, it’s not really any of my business. I know it was hard on them and they don’t like to talk about—”

“We got shot. Twice. We died! And it was only that armor that brought us back!” Jake flashed his teeth. “Marc let the bastard that did it go, but I killed him. That’s the difference between Marc or Steven and I, chaparrita: I hurt those who deserve it and feel no remorse for it.”

You blinked, then, eyes rounded. Realization dawned behind your gaze, and when you looked sharply off to the side, a stray tear slipped over the curve of your cheek. Your expression tightened, and Jake could imagine that you were finally putting together all the fragments of what Steven and Marc had mentioned offhandedly about their time in Egypt.

Jake squeezed his eyes shut, sinking against the wall and dropping his head back against the brick. He dragged a hand down his face with a harsh sigh. He’d completely fumbled this entire situation. “...Mira.* If something were to happen to you, mis hermanos* won’t take it well.” He looked down at you, eyes half-lidded—meeting fire with fire obviously didn’t work with you. Even when Marc was being surly, you only listened when he stopped and lowered his voice. It didn’t take rocket science to figure out that you shut down when you were shouted at, based on the way you’d stared at him like a doe caught in headlights. “...Do you really care about them?”

Your head recoiled to stare at him critically. The vessels in your sclera were an agitated crimson. “Of course I do!”

“Then you’ll listen to me, all right?” He straightened and stepped closer, fingers flexing at his side while he repressed the urge to reach out to you. Seeing you upset was doing funny shit to him. (He didn’t like it. Not one bit.) “After what happened tonight, I can’t afford to wait any longer. I need to finish up my business as soon as possible—I spent too long investigating and biding my time to see when those guys would crawl out of their nest. They are dangerous, and I’m going to do my damnedest to tie up all those loose ends. All right? That means I can’t have you caught in the crossfire. And once I get done with that…” He shook his head, casting his eyes upwards briefly. “...then we’ll talk—you know, about…everything else. Do you understand?”

You glared at him for a long moment, lips pursed as you considered him. Finally, you nodded curtly, once.

He raised a brow. “Can you say it for me?”

Your temples flexed. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Buena nena.*” He peered around the corner just to ensure that the zealots hadn’t doubled back, then moved to the edge of the street and flagged down a cab. When they stopped, he gestured you over. You watched him warily all the while, glancing both ways. He reached for the door and grasped the handle, but you laid your hand over his. He froze.

“Please,” you murmured, pleading him with your gaze, “be careful. Keep taking care of them. Let me know if…if you need any help. If there’s anything I can do...” You squeezed his hand, then let it go. “I’d prefer you three to come back in one piece, you know.”

He swallowed roughly, then nodded. He opened the door, and as you stooped to climb inside, his hand curved around the back of your head. You glanced up at him in surprise, but once you were seated, he abruptly retracted his touch.

“I’m trusting you,” you told him. “I don’t want this to be the last time we meet.”

Jake gave you a rueful, wooden smile. “If you’re lucky, cariño*, you won’t ever have to see me again.”

He shut the door, waved off the driver, and shoved his hands into the pockets of Marc’s jacket. He watched the cab round the corner out of sight, closing his eyes briefly, and turned to start walking in the opposite direction.

Jake only had a limited amount of time to get his shit together before the other two became aware of the lapsed time or strayed too close to the front. Jake prided himself on his control, his ability to have kept Marc and Steven completely unaware of his goings-on for years at that point, but he had always operated in short bursts of time—never longer than a handful of hours unless both of his alters completely checked out, which happened so rarely that he could count each instance on one hand.

He prowled the city throughout that entire night, his armor shielding him from the cold that only worsened with every passing hour. He checked Steven’s phone and saw that you sent a text to notify him that you’d made it back to your apartment.

‘Let me know when you get home, too.’

Jake had pocketed it, too distracted by his internal debate on how to handle the shitshow that had escalated from an unfortunate bit of timing to respond to you, even when he did let himself back into the flat and showered off the sweat and blood caking their skin in the wee hours of the morning. He didn’t dare to sleep, just in case he oscillated back into the headspace, but there hadn’t been enough time before dawn had broken out to do so anyway.

He set back out shortly thereafter, deciding to hit up his usual haunts to gather any new information at all on the cult skulking around the gutters of London.

Nothing. Not a damn thing.

The coffee at his favorite diner did nothing to alleviate the heaviness of his eyelids—the body had started to wear down from how frequently Jake’d had to take it out while Marc and Steven slept, just like it had months prior while Marc tried to maintain the facade for Steven. It was getting more and more difficult to manage. He wouldn’t be able to keep up for much longer.

…You were right, honestly. He couldn’t keep his presence a secret anymore—the boys were too hypervigilant, too aware of the lost time they both couldn’t recall. They’d pieced all the clues together now that they were in sync, and his anonymity was compromised. It was only a matter of time.

It didn’t make the idea any easier.

Even as he patrolled the streets in the heavy wool overcoat he kept folded in the passenger seat of his limo, his cap tugged down low over his forehead with a beady eye peeled for any sign of being pursued, the thought of their inevitable nuclear meltdown made him clench his teeth. If they knew about him, they’d never let him front again if they could help it—they wanted nothing to do with violence, and Jake was the epitome of it, its very last resort. They would do their damnedest to repress him, even though they still faced danger from Marc’s past—they would never truly be safe so long as those skeletons continued to linger in their collective and proverbial closet—and he’d lose what little autonomy he’d clung to by the skin of his teeth for decades.

So Jake made it his goal to at least clean out one of those skeletons before he was locked away into the recesses of the headspace—never again to experience those late night glimpses of freedom; to drive around in his own damned vehicle that he’d bought with his own damned money; to dress how he wanted in tailored and flattering garb that he knew made the body look as fine as hell; to indulge in the occasional drink, either his favorite merlot or a good old fashioned, since Marc didn’t keep alcohol in the flat anymore save to cook on special occasions…usually with you dictating the recipe and menu.

You, with your chirpy enthusiasm and unfettered smile and glittering eyes. You, with your impossibly soft hair that left the cloying scent of your products lingering on the pillow that you’d claimed as yours long after you left. You, with your unfathomable warmth and gentleness and kindness. You, tending to his brothers like a servant would her king with all the love of the wife you weren’t, your acts of service ceaseless and selfless and never asking for anything in return. You, who had interwoven yourself inextricably into their life without a clue as to the turmoil it would cause, all to make them feel less alone and lonely.

You, who, within minutes of meeting him, had not only called him out on the sole reason for his existence, but had also wanted to know his name, whether he was okay, and for him to be fair to his alters.

You did care about them—that much was obvious. Jake recognized it in your every single action and word and expression. You loved them, endlessly and without condition nor exception. You gave them your all, always. It was something Jake had doubted that they’d ever be able to find after Layla—unquestionable and unflinching devotion and loyalty. The fact that you had refused to lie to his alters, as frustrating as it had been for him to accept that lack of control slipping further from his fingers with one more loose, unpredictable end, only cemented that. They needed you—as an anchor, as a scale, as a haven—without him adding chaos back into the mix.

He spent the rest of the day stalking the lower ends and outskirts of the city, keeping his ear to the ground in effort of catching any signs of where the zealots had reclused themselves. By the time the sun descended behind the lines of skyscrapers, he could scarcely keep his eyes open. In a last ditch effort, he visited the underground bar on the docks where he used to frequent more often to gather intel—and luck finally found him.

“Yeah, had a few skulky bastards come through a couple days ago,” rasped the grisled barkeep, three knuckles deep into a bear stein with a rag too stained to do much good in the realm of cleaning. “They thought they were being quiet, but I don’t think they realized the walls are designed to be reflective. Kept messing with their tats, talking about their ‘lady’—they’re lucky I didn’t toss them out of here for scaring off a few of my customers.” He raised a wiry silver brow. “Ought to be on some freaky shit to get their bluff in with all these blokes.”

The clientele of that particular establishment were indeed among the roughest bunch whom Jake had ever orbited—London was a central point for all sorts of illegal shit to take place, and under-the-radar dives like The Silver Scale brought them flocking in like flies to roadkill. Jake had known about it, but Khonshu had become particularly fond of the bounteous amounts of information that could be gleaned there—though the old bird never did help lessen the dents to Jake’s wallet.

“They mention where they went?” Jake inquired quietly, rolling the rounded ice in the crystalline tumbler through the cognac winking in the watery amber lighting framing the mirror mounted behind the bar. The myriad bottles of liquors and spirits cast stained glass streaks across the polished mahogany under his folded arms. The place was virtually empty at so comparatively early an hour, save the janitor sweeping off the stage further inside, but one could never be too careful when it came to Jake’s line of work.

“Suburbs, east side,” rumbled the older man. “Abandoned factory across the river. They were complaining about the rail being bumpy on the way here.”

“Gracias, Grizz,” smiled Jake, drawing his wallet to slap an impressive note upon the countertop. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one, coming in wanting whiskey this early,” griped the barkeep, but his eyes glittered as he pocketed the bill. “Watch yourself, amigo. Those bastards didn’t look the friendly type.”

“It’s not often I run into lawful citizens doing what I do,” the younger man returned. He finished the glass before heading for the door, sending him a two-fingered salute, and ascending back into the grimy alleyway above the place.

The air had grown colder in the scant ten minutes he’d spent inside, so Jake flipped up his collar against the salty wind racing past him and nipping at his ears. He turned to make his way back to the bus stop, whistling to himself. The day hadn’t been for naught, after all. Small mercies.

His stomach rumbled as he boarded the bus and retreated to the rear well away from the curious eyes of his fellow passengers. He sat, crossed his ankles, and folded his hands over his stomach while tipping his head against the chair. He closed his eyes briefly, biting down the yawn that tugged at his jaw.

Grabbing something to eat wouldn’t hurt before he scoped out the location—he’d need a plan of attack, so determining the zealots’ schedule would take first priority. There was a decent Thai place on the way, if the directions held true, and he could undoubtedly find a secluded rooftop to observe without issue.

So he did just that. He spent the majority of that night eating takeout, sprawled under a shadowed eave watching the fools with guns go about their business. They were disorganized, to say the least—putting their ringleader behind bars had obviously thrown them for a loop. It would play to his advantage, springing a surprise attack on them during their patrol change. If he played his cards right, he might even be able to infiltrate and take them down one-by-one without even notifying the whole lot.

Khonshu was pleased, nearly puffing his nonexistent feathers when he dropped by to check on Jake’s progress—the satisfaction in his tone only belied by his impatience.

“Why not strike now?” Khonshu growled, pointing the end of his staff towards the complex. “They’re clueless.”

“Because I’m half-asleep,” Jake responded mildly, “and you always get pissy when I have to use the armor longer than necessary. Don’t complain that I’m trying not to get riddled with bullets, pájaro viejo. Give me a nice long nap and I’ll have this all taken care of before you can click your heels three times.”

The god of the moon scoffed. “You’d best be thankful I possess the patience to allow you such creature comforts, Jake Lockley. I don’t always grant such privileges to you puny humans.”

Jake shrugged a shoulder and stuffed the empty carton into the sack at his side. “Don’t make me remind you just why you have to rely on us ‘puny humans’,” he responded dryly. He made a shooing motion. “Go on, I’ll see you back here later.”

The deity bristled at his insolence, but popped back into non-existence nevertheless, leaving a shower of dust to descend in his wake.

Jake roof-hopped all the way back to Steven’s apartment, opted to climb in through the fire escape rather than wait on the elevator, and took a five minute shower before collapsing face-first into the unmade bed without bothering to put on any clothes. He scoped the headspace as his eyelids drifted shut, relieved to find that Steven and Marc were both still secured and blissfully unaware.

He slept, hard and deep, unperturbed for hours. He awoke only when the orange sunset spilled across his eyelids.

He roused, groggy and disoriented, but still in the same position in which he’d drifted off. He scratched his temple and rose with a yawn, shuffling over to the closet to dig out the clothes buried in the very back that Marc or Steven had forgotten ‘they’ even owned. The scent of your detergent hit him like a wall, causing him to wrinkle his nose as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the softened material. With a scoff he dressed, cleaned up, and gathered his things piled onto the rim of the sink—Steven’s phone included.

He picked it up with half a mind to place it on the charger, but his brow inclined when he spotted the condensed stack of notifications glaring up at him in the dim of the apartment’s shadows.

“Ah, por el amor de Dios,*” he muttered, tapping on it to expand them. He had intended to respond to your first message, truly—but once he zoned into his work, he often forgot about anything else going on around him. ( Nevermind the fact that he didn’t have anyone with whom he had to check in on his whereabouts. ) “Chatty thing, aren’t you, chaparrita ?”

‘Let me know when you get home, too.

‘Just checking on you.

‘Made it home okay?’

All within the same couple of hours the night before last. He figured you fell asleep, because the timestamps skipped to the previous morning.

‘I’m guessing you fell asleep, too.

‘Good morning.

‘Make sure to eat something.

‘Do you need anything?’

No wonder Steven’s phone plan cost so much, if you talked to him this often. Jake scrolled down, lips thinning as his eyes skimmed through your sweet, if misplaced, little prods into his well being. As the hours progressed, the more urgent in tone they grew, and he supposed he ought to have felt guilty about worrying you.

With a blustering sigh through his nose, he swiped the device open and opened the app to return a message of his own, directly after your obviously distressed, ‘Please tell me you’re not dead!’ sent during your lunch break.

‘Not dead yet. Long day.’

He watched the bubble ascend, then waited for the ‘delivered’ tag to appear before shutting it off and plugging it in to charge.

He rummaged around the fridge for some grub, stomach rumbling all the while, and discovered a pair of containers for meals you’d labeled as ‘vegan’ for Steven and as ‘beef’ for Marc. You’d gotten into the habit of, while cooking, making the majority of the dishes compatible with both their vegan and kosher preferences, cooking suitable animal products separately so Marc could get his choice of protein and so Steven didn’t have to worry his conscience. Jake could only imagine how much of a hassle it was, thinking about you having to research foods that could be altered in such a tedious, if thoughtful, way.

He ate half of both portions cold and arranged the leftovers to appear mostly untouched.

Clothed to combat the chill with suitable mobility and fed well enough that he’d be able to concentrate for the time being, Jake locked up the apartment and picked his way down through the complex onto the ground floor. The vendors had all packed up and headed home already due to the rapidly darkening evening, so he thankfully didn’t have to deal with them hawking their wares at him.

Jake wandered onto the street that would lead him to the train station, whistling as he stuck his hands into his pockets, and realized that he’d left Steven’s phone.

He didn’t need it. He didn’t use one at all—even the old burner Marc still kept ‘for emergencies’. But…he didn’t know if you had responded to his text.

He wasn’t about to make a round trip back, already several blocks away, but…he could afford to take a quick detour—even if it was the last thing he wanted to do.

He made his way onto the next bus instead, meeting the skeptical glances of the other passengers with a level, challenging gaze of his own. It was enough to deter their scrutiny, and he thought he heard several sighs of relief as he stepped out of the vehicle at the entrance of the museum district.

While he hadn’t fronted but very briefly in the spot, Steven—and, more recently, Marc—had frequented the address enough that it may as well be imprinted into their brain. He knew you usually worked evenings, so he figured he should at least pop in so you wouldn’t attempt to file a missing person’s report (again) in the event that you hadn’t seen the message.

The coffee shop was virtually empty, not really a surprise given it was the start of the week and most people were eager to return home after work. The music muffled the low chatter of the loose clusters conversing scattered around the floor, and only one barista stood behind the counter cleaning some of the equipment. She glanced up from her work as the doorbell jangled to signal the arrival of a newcomer and smiled when she spotted him.

“Hey, Marc!” she beamed, setting down the pitcher and waving him over. “You just missed her—the boss sent her home early since it’s slow. She’s been antsy all day and we figured she was stressed out about uni.” She gave him a once-over, grinning. “Dapper ‘fit you got there. Trying out something new, are we? I’m sure she’ll love that.”

“Oh, it’s just something I had lying around,” he returned smoothly, slipping into the Chicagoan drawl as easily as the fitted gloves on his hands. “How long ago did she leave?”

The girl glanced at her watch. “Oh, about half an hour ago. She mentioned something about seeing you this evening.” She waggled her brows. “Is that why you’re all dressed up?”

“Something like that,” he responded, although his first reaction was to sigh. What part of ‘once I get done’ did you not understand? “Thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem!” she chirped, waving as he departed.

Jake should really head out towards the location Grizz had given him, given the sun was almost gone. If he didn’t get there soon, Khonshu was liable to hunt him down and nag him until he did. But he’d already gone this far, and your apartment was actually on the way, so…

He was fortunate that he’d had the foresight to at least memorize the way to your residence—only on the off-chance that he’d have to go there. For emergencies. (Of course.)

He didn’t run into any of your neighbors on the way up. The hallway was empty, dim, and silent due to the late hour. He whistled to himself as he wandered down to your door, mentally girding himself for the onslaught that were certain to follow—you would interrogate him for his lack of updates, no doubt, if you weren’t expecting Marc or Steven to be the ones showing up. He’d have to break the news that he still had to borrow the body for a while longer. You would wonder why he had even bothered to come.

Why had he bothered to come?

The boys would have wanted to check on you, regardless of the situation, and that would serve as a suitable enough excuse—to make sure you weren’t falling apart without clinging to their arm for several hours a day to the likes of which you were accustomed.

…Yeah, who was he kidding? Who was he even trying to deceive anymore? What was even the point, and what was he trying to prove? You’d seen through him within minutes of meeting him—the decades, now, of building up such a careful veneer…fractured in moments.

You really were too good for them.

Jake lifted his gaze from the atrociously patterned carpet (because who in their right mind would pair navy and chartreuse?) and lifted a hand to press the bell mounted next to your door, but his eyes caught on the sliver of light snaking over the curve of his polished, leather shoe. His eyes rose higher, higher, taking in the narrow gap in the doorway until they settled on the door knob.

Or what used to be the door knob.

The jamb was fractured, the lock broken, and Jake’s hand flew to the holster beneath his coat resting against the small of his back.

The door groaned its grievances as he pressed it in, eyes trained on the interior as it was slowly revealed to him. Vague, secondhand recollection of the layout informed him that things were most certainly not set to rights. The couch was askew, partly dragged away from the wall. The vase you always kept the flowers the boys gave you on the coffee table lay in shattered shards scattered across the rug beneath the sitting arrangement. The television still flickered with whatever you’d been watching, casting flashes of blue and white across every surface.

Jake’s teeth twinged and he forced the clamp of his jaw to release as he investigated the rest of the apartment with methodical sweeps, the barrel of pistol trained directly ahead of his every slow, silent step. The bedroom and bathroom were untouched and empty. The kitchen was the source of the light, and he had to turn off the burner beneath a boiling pot of water—ingredients for some variation of pasta littered the counter, abandoned without warning.

Jake had managed to remain calm until he rounded back into the main room for a second look and spotted a smear of blood on the opposite end of the coffee table that he had missed the first time—on the corner, having dripped onto the rug, already congealing and oxidizing.

“Esos hijos de puta se van a arrepentir de haber hecho esto,” he hissed, stalking out again.

He was lucky—so fucking lucky—that he’d gotten the location for the zealots’ compound before he’d relented to see you.

He couldn’t recall a time that he had hopped rooftops so quickly (usually preferring to travel on his own terms, much to Khonshu’s perpetual frustration, despite the traffic that always slowed things down), using the tattered cloak to glide over the longer distances and across the river. Most of the city had settled in for the night, but he couldn’t care less if he was spotted tonight. The moon was a cold presence at his back, wordlessly observing the seething predator rapidly closing in on his prey.

It was one thing to attack you under the guise of petty theft. It was another to ambush you with Marc there—he couldn’t blame them for that, trying to kill two birds with one stone was far more efficient. But to track you down all the way to your home and to kidnap you when you weren’t even involved, just as a cheap shot in an attempt to get under his skin? That was another fucking thing entirely. (He couldn’t say that it hadn’t worked.)

He spent just enough time on the same balcony as before, observing the front of the compound. There were no signs of lookouts or guards, and the sinking feeling in his gut told him that it was not a fortuitous turn of events.

Jake rolled as he leapt to the ground, slipping into the shadows and using the blade of a crescent dart to slice through the barbed fencing linked around the exterior of the warehouse. He had no luck jimmying the chain lock keeping the doors shut and had to scale several rotting crates to climb in through a crumbling window. Bits of glass clinked against the scaffolding beneath his feet, the only sound indicating his presence other than his pounding heart.

A group of armed men stood talking in hushed tones in the center of the cluttered floor. Shipping containers, barrels, crates, and dilapidated, rusting equipment kept them mostly hidden without giving ample enough room for him to guarantee killing shots. He would have to engage them directly, but that would risk alerting the rest of the compound.

He crept along the railing to scope out the place further, assured that they hadn’t noticed his entry.

A gaping garage door at the back of the warehouse opened up to a series of sheds that had evidently been converted into their base of operations. He peered through a fractured window to see even more people armed to the teeth, not as mindful of the noise they made. Their conversations told him exactly what he needed to know.

You were being kept in the furthest building, crouched low under the awning of another empty factory looming over the wrinkled sheet metal. You were still alive. They weren’t keen on keeping it that way for much longer.

There was no way for him to get any farther without someone spotting him.

Mouthing a curse beneath his mask, Jake glanced back into the warehouse behind him for a distraction of some sort. Some vehicles were parked in the corner, surrounded by equipment��including gas cans.

He’d have to act quickly.

Jake summoned two darts, clamping one between his teeth and using the other to cut a strip from his cloak. He tied it tightly around the gleaming metal, then reached under the folds of the armor to dig out his lighter. He took the first dart, found his target, and sent it whistling through the dark with a snap of his wrist.

The sound of it sinking into the plastic and immediately causing the fuel to dribble freely onto the floor drew the attention of the first group. They couldn’t see as well as he could, however, and were forced to use their flashlights to try to find the source of the noise.

He only had seconds to act before their alertness turned outward.

Jake flicked the lighter to life, ignited the ancient gauze, and flung it after the first.

The eruption of flame and smoke rocked the entire building on its foundation. Smoldering debris rained down upon the zealots, sending those furthest from the blast scurrying away from the fire despite their varying injuries. Jake picked them off one by one using their disorientation to his advantage.

By the time the rest of the troop arrived, shouting and bearing their weapons like teeth, enough fabric and melting plastic had covered the vehicles to cause a secondary explosion. This didn’t kill any of them, unfortunately, but several were felled and incapacitated by projectiles of glass and metal and wouldn’t pose much of a threat until he could give them their due attention.

Jake dropped down behind the brunt of them, more crescents in hand, and was able to cut down two before the others grew wise to his sudden appearance. A peppering of bullets sunk harmlessly into the armor, the muzzle flashes only aiding him in locating each cultist.

All thoughts save those pertaining to your safety faded by the wayside as the majority of his faculties focused on combat and survival. This lot was sloppier, less skilled, than all the others he’d faced before (probably because he’d picked off all their good fighters over the last few months). Their efforts to gang up on him were admirable, but they were simply no match for the advanced strength and agility Khonshu’s armor afforded him.

By the time he emerged from the warehouse, his armor was speckled with blood seeping into the aged gauze. Cursory glances into each shed as he passed them informed him that they were lifeless. It wasn’t until he approached the farthest that any more movement stalled him.

Those bastards that had tried to chase the pair of you down nights before met him in the doorway, and past their brawny shoulders he could see you tied to a chair in the center of the room, a sack slung over your head with coarse rope binding your limbs.

“Last chance to back out alive, pendejos,” Jake growled, fingers tightening around the dripping blades.

They only smirked and raised their automatics towards him.

Jake smirked. “Good. I wasn’t really looking to let you go after pulling this shit anyway.”

Despite their size, he made quick work of them. As the last one collapsed, Jake kicked aside the limp corpse and whirled on his heel to hurry over to you.

You stiffened as he knelt in front of you, resisting his investigative pat-down to make sure you were still in one piece with a tense sound of protest.

“Hey, hey, it’s me,” he said, reaching up and snatching the sack from your head and chucking it vehemently over his shoulder. “Calm down. It’s over.”

Your pupils, blown from the dark, didn’t adjust properly to take in his concealed face. Tacky blood had dried in a trail down the arch of your cheek from your temple, crusting some of your hair to your skin. Bruising was already darkening the half-circle beneath your eye. There was a cut on your lip and your skin was reddened on the opposite cheek—damning evidence of an unrestrained, backhanded slap with a ring if he’d ever seen it.

The ringleader had one shaped like an alligator skull on his pinky.

He allowed you a moment to regain your bearings, cutting away your bindings and grasping your elbows to bring your stiff arms forward. He gritted his teeth at the sight of your wrists, chafed raw and oozing fresh blood, but forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He raised his eyes back up to your face, watching you blink away tears under his scrutiny.

“You okay?” Jake demanded, cutting your ankles free before tugging you up onto your feet. You wobbled as your knees gave out, but his grip on your waist anchored you against his front. He pushed the sweaty strands of hair off of your drawn, grimy face, then snapped his fingers inches from your nose to pull your haunted gaze away from the bleeding bodies littering the concrete just outside. “Hey, look at me. Yeah, that’s it. There she is—good job.”

You sank into him at his soothing tone, relief finally bleeding into your features as you gradually slid back into lucidity. “Marc?”

He willed away the mask, offering you his grim expression. “Try again, chaparrita. Marc’s still not home.”

Your brow furrowed, and some apprehension returned to your frame—much to Jake’s chagrin. “I…you’re…you.”

“The one and only.” He jerked his chin to the side. “Tell me what they did.”

You swallowed roughly, sucking in harsh breaths, trembling all over—but you still tried to speak for him, even as your shaking hands curled into the ragged bandages interwoven over his chest. “They…they kept talking about a sacrifice to their goddess—Ammit? I think they said Ammit? To try and bring her back to them.” You dropped your uninjured temple against his clavicle, squeezing your eyes shut. “They—they had these weird tattoos on their forearms and kept grabbing my wrists and chanting something—something about ‘the scales’, and ‘balance’, and…a ‘paradise on earth’? And—and nothing would happen and they’d get pissed and—they knocked me out. I don’t know what they wanted, and—” A sob finally tore itself from your lips, and the tears spilled over your cheeks. “I tried to—to tell them that I didn’t have anything, or knew what they were talking about, but they—they wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t listen, and—”

“Hey, hey,” Jake said, reaching up with one gauntleted hand to pat your bruised cheek lightly—a grounding touch against your racing mind and snowballing panic. “Tranquila*. It’s over. Let me get you out of here.”

You nodded hesitantly, but went rigid when he stepped back from you, reaching for him again seemingly on instinct—Jake bit back his grimace, offering you a hand for some modicum of comfort. You took it without complaint, squeezing hard enough that his knuckles ground together. He didn’t utter a word against it—didn’t have the heart to.

Not when all this was his own damn fault.

Jake tugged you close to his side as he went, shading your eyes like a horse’s blinders whenever he’d walk you through the carnage he’d wrought tearing his way to get to you. You kept your eyes resolutely forward, only daring to glance up at him out of the corners of your peripheral when he’d grumble curses in Spanish while having to step through puddles of blood and viscera. He almost pitied the city officials who would have to clean it all up—because for as much racket as they’d made once they’d discovered his presence (not counting his own method of distraction), he was surprised the cops hadn’t already showed up.

Once he got back to the warehouse, now openly engulfed in an inferno unfit to approach, he bundled you up into his arms in spite of your squeak of surprise and glanced up towards the moon with a glare.

“You made quite the mess of things.”

Jake glanced over to the top of a neighboring building discerning the moon god’s silhouette against the background of the celestial body he represented. ‘Later,’ he mouthed. ‘Get us out of here. Now.’

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you that she would end up involved,” Khonshu growled, but a flick of his wrist resulted in a draft of wind strong enough to scoop the pair of you up into the air and into a current high above the city.

To your credit, despite your petrifying fear of falling (confessed with some embarrassment to Steven while going down a set of grated metal steps that reduced your knees to pudding), you didn’t scream for it to stop or beat at his shoulders to put you down. You only shut your eyes tight, clung to him as tightly as you could, and gasped as the unpredictable turbulence would jostle him.

Landing on the fire escape was no easy feat, and prying the window open with you petrified was made even more difficult by the fact that he’d forgotten that Marc religiously kept them all locked like the paranoid prepper he was.

“Come on,” he muttered, rearranging you to stand next to him on the narrow, creaking platform. “Give me a minute. Need to jimmy this.”

You pressed your back against the brickwork and kept your stare fixed resolutely on the cityscape sprawling out before you, eyes glazed over. The shock had definitely set in.

Jake got the window open after a few moments with a blade and steadied you as you climbed inside, following suit and finally allowing the armor to dissipate. You sank onto the bed, propping your elbows on your knees and dropping your face into your hands with a shaky sigh. He moved wordlessly to the bathroom, fetching the first aid kit that Marc kept well-stocked with all his remaining military supplies. You flinched when he set it down next to you, popping the lid and fishing through the various packets and ointments.

“Here,” he murmured, kneeling at your feet and patting your hands. “Let me see.”

You glanced down, still mostly absent, as your tone was distant. “Your gloves are cold.”

So they were. The fine leather did well to keep his hands warm, but the exterior didn’t fare so well. Jake stripped them off and tossed them onto the duvet on your other side, scrubbing his palms together for friction and blowing into them for good measure. Only faint green blotches of his earlier brawl remained under his knuckles after the armor had done its work.

You didn’t complain as he tended to your wrists first, applying antiseptic lotion as carefully as he could manage while ensuring an even coating, wrapping them in gauze, and studying the similar bruising on your own hands. You must’ve perceived his bemusement because you whispered, “I tried to fight them off. I did. Marc’s taught me a lot of stuff I didn’t already know before.” You swallowed and glanced away. “Didn’t do a whole lot of good.”

Jake’s glower seemed only to cause you to retreat even further inside of yourself, and that was the last thing that he wanted. “You did good,” he told you firmly, squeezing your hands with contrasting gentleness. “Saw the shiner on that bastard with the ring. Proud of you.”

Your lashes fluttered shut and you shook your head.

Jake set about cleaning up your temple and face, wiping away the blood with a warm, damp washcloth before patching up the laceration and blotting your lip with more ointment. There wasn’t much he could do for the hemorrhaging, but when he asked if you wanted an ice pack, you refused. He suggested that you change into something different—something clean, something warm, something untouched by those horrid caricatures of so-called peace-seeking humanity. It gave him enough time to hole up in the bathroom (with the divider cracked, just slightly, in case you needed him), to put away the first aid kit, and to recenter himself by splashing his face with cold water at the sink.

The two sets of umber eyes staring back at Jake—baleful and shellshocked, respectively—from the folded mirror’s parallel surfaces certainly did not assist in calming his thrumming blood pressure.

Finally decided to show yourself, didn’t you? muttered Marc darkly. What in the hell did you get involved in?

“Only taking care of the rest of Harrow’s cult,” Jake returned evenly, stomach pitching towards the floor. He braced himself on the edges of the sink and hunkered down, eyes shifting between his host and his fellow alter. “Since you two were too busy playing house to clean up the rest of the mess you started.”

You’re the one who finished him, aren’t you? Steven ventured quietly. Harrow. You did that.

“Neither of you had to dirty your hands,” Jake responded, “and the world is rid of that crazy son of a bitch. I see it as a win-win.”

They’re our hands, too, you know, Steven murmured despondently, looking away.

The same hands you’re using to touch our girl, Marc growled. Stop it. If you hurt her, I’ll—

“I just saved her life,” Jake bit out, “no thanks to the both of you turning a blind eye to everything going on right under your noses. Why do you think that she got attacked at the coffee shop, huh? Or that you both got ambushed? People didn’t miraculously stop recognizing our face after what went down in Cairo. It was inevitable that she got roped into all of our shit.”

Why the hell would you even get involved, anyway? Marc seethed, bristling. I don’t see how it’s any of your business.

“It became my business when you put all three of us in danger time after time just because you were so desperate to hide from your problems,” Jake shot back. “Or need I remind you why exactly you two had to have a literal goddamn heart-to-heart after you got us shot?”

Both of their faces blanked with surprise, suspicion and confusion, then dawning, horrified realization. The second sarcophagus hadn’t been a coincidence.

“We can finish the rest of this later,” Jake sighed heavily, dragging a palm down his face. “‘Your girl’ is shaken up all to hell and I need to make sure she doesn’t succumb to her concussion.”

Give me the body, Marc demanded, right now!

You can’t keep us trapped in here, Steven said tersely, but Jake could easily perceive the underlying apprehension in his tone.

“Give me until the morning and you can have her back, all to yourselves,” Jake said, turning to the divider and curling his hand around the handle. “I never meant to get involved in your little domestic fantasy anyway.”

So wrapped up in the ordeal of finally interacting face-to-face, as it were, with his alters was he that he hadn’t even realized that you’d been standing just on the other side. You flinched and stepped back half of a step, but the resolution on your face didn’t waver.

“Thank you,” you told him.

Jake frowned. “It’s our fault you ended up like this in the first place, chaparrita.”

“No, not this,” you replied, wringing your hands. “I mean…for talking to them.”

Jake stared at you, lips parting.

You gazed up at him, gauging, shifting between his eyes as if you could see past them into the paracosm of their jumbled mind. You reached up, slowly, expression easing into something tender as you cupped his cheek and stroked the pad of your thumb over the high arch. Jake’s skin scrawled, at first, from the unfamiliar sensation, but the ghostly echoes of that same touch pressed heavily on the back of his inherited memory.

“Marc, be kind to him,” you said softly. “And don’t fret, Steven. He doesn’t mean any harm. He’s taken as good care of me as you two have. He can stay for as long as he wants, as long as he learns to share and to take turns, too. He’s just as welcome as you two are.” You tilted your head and studied his features once more, memorized yet brand new. “It would help if we had a name to call you by, though.”

They were still co-fronting, if the weight of their presence on his consciousness was any indication.

…She has a way with that, Marc said quietly. Like she can see right through us.

Stops bein’ frightenin after a while, though. You get used to it, Steven added thoughtfully. It’s kind of refreshin’, actually, not havin’ to worry about keepin’ up appearances.

And all at once, the tension drained from Jake’s body, and he sank into your caress and shut his eyes. The stifled warmth in his chest crescendoed into frissons breaking out across his skin, sending shivers ricocheting all over him. You weren’t afraid of him.

“Name’s Jake,” he muttered under her breath. “Lockley.”

“Jake Lockley,” you repeated, sending his heart beating wildly against his ribs. “Completes the set, doesn’t it?”

He cracked his eyes open, brow furrowing.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” You smiled. “All good things come in threes.”

Maybe…just maybe, this wouldn’t turn out so bad after all.

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bellasmumblingsandmusings · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter 8: You're Mine

Previously: Prologue Tumblr Link for Prologue, Chapter One; Chapter Two, Chapter 3, Interlude Chapter 4 Chapter 5, Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. NSFW, Ethical and non Ethical BDSM, noncon, some allusions to sexual violence, flashbacks to sexual violence, discussions of sexual violence, dubious boundaries, attempted sexual violence, dubcon, blood licking/blood kink, reference to cheating behavior, emotional trauma, group sex, sex, smutt, anxiety, negative thinking, sexual trauma, recovery, healing, angst,

Word count: 59K total

Status: Ongoing

SAD SMUTT this chapter and Artwork by : https://www.instagram.com/loomiiy/

(Chapter 9: July 31st)

Song for this Chapter: Mine - Sleep Token

A03 Entire Story Link on AO3 Spotify Playlist

After the Jump!

Chapter 8: You’re Mine

During their year apart...

The twisted alleys of Baldur's Gate, a labyrinth of shadow and sin, snaked their way to a brothel that oozed the decadent charm of distant Calimport. Its façade, garishly adorned with flaking gold paint, shed its skin like a serpent reveling in its own corruption. The air was pervaded with the thick, musky scent of cheap perfume and stale incense, mingling with the unmistakable tang of sweat—a potpourri of desperation and desire.

Lanterns dangled from the ceiling, their sallow light casting shadows that deepened into sultry secrets. Velvet curtains, once richly hued but now faded and frayed, partitioned the narrow spaces into alcoves of anonymity. The muffled cacophony of passion seeped through the thin walls, each note a testament to fleeting ecstasy and whispered lies. Gold-painted doors, their luster long lost to scratches and time, lined the dim corridor, each guarding its own saga of ephemeral pleasures.

Why does this place always feel like home now? The thought clawed at Astarion’s mind, a bitter reminder of how far he had fallen.

As Astarion stepped into the brothel, his crimson eyes scanned the haze, and a familiar surge welled within him—hunger, sharp and demanding. The dim lighting cast an ethereal glow on his alabaster skin, shadows playing across his face like old friends whispering dark secrets. The air was a heavy cloak of perfume and raw desire—intoxicating, suffocating, wrapping around him like a lover's desperate clutch.

The sounds of the brothel played their sordid symphony in his ears—moans of pleasure, gasps of pain, and the rhythmic creak of beds. Each sound was a note in a debauched orchestra, each vibration a string plucked in the harp of his predatory instincts.

He moved through the musk, his gaze sweeping the room, searching, always searching. Who would it be tonight?

A figure cut through the dim light—a woman, her skin a deep copper, glowing like the last ember of a dying sunset. Her almond-shaped eyes held a calm assurance, a serenity that seemed both an invitation and a challenge. Her hair, a cascade of midnight waves, moved with a rhythm that echoed the silent music of the night.

She was draped in silks that clung to her curves like a second skin, each movement a whisper of concealed promises. A bandeau top of silk and chiffon, audacious in its scantiness, billowed behind her like a banner in the wind. Her smile, knowing and confident, brushed aside the stares that followed her like shadows.

Is she the one?

Astarion felt a pull, an inexplicable draw to her presence. It wasn't just her beauty; it was the way she moved with an air of authority, her confidence mirroring the power he so craved, the dominance he once wielded without question. He approached, his voice smooth, coated in the honeyed tone of interest and desire. "Greetings, my beauty. May I buy you a drink?" he offered, each word dripping with an allure that was practised, perfected.

"Why waste time with drinks," she purred, her voice a melodic tease, "when there's so much more to enjoy?" Her smirk, playful yet knowing, pierced through the haze of his thoughts, a sharp reminder of what he sought—what he needed.

Walking into this place always felt like a descent, each step a further plunge into the depths of his own darkness. The walls seemed to close in, the air thickening with each breath, heavy with the scent of opium and the ghosts of his past. Every face a mirror of another, every whispered promise a shadow of a memory he couldn't escape.

As he took in her words, a flicker of recognition sparked within him. It wasn't just her Calimportese heritage or the richness of her skin; it was her spirit, the unyielding boldness that so vividly reminded him of Sima. Could it be? No, but the resemblance...

Her silken attire swayed with her movements, the fabric whispering secrets against her skin. The invitation in her eyes, so charged with a magnetic pull, drew him closer despite the haunting familiarity. His heart quickened, the room shrinking around him, the shadows deepening as if conspiring to entwine him further in her spell.

Her scent was a tantalizing near-match—jasmine tinged with citrus, so close to the rose that haunted his dreams of Sima. Her breasts pressed against his shoulder, a softness that sent shivers down his spine, her hands weaving through his hair, stirring a connection he desperately craved yet feared to acknowledge.

Astarion closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the rush of longing. Her audacity almost convinced him to let go of the torment that clung like a shadow. She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear, her words tinged with a playful edge, "Are you coming, or do you need a map?"

Just for tonight. The darkness embraced him, the familiar symphony of the brothel echoing in his ears, drowning out the voice that whispered of love and loss. Another night, another fleeting comfort. He followed her, mind slipping away into the shadows, driven by the desperate need to forget.

He allowed her to take his hand, leading him towards a shadowed room draped in the promises of the night. The air thickened, the flickering candles casting ghostly shadows, the scent of sex and opium weaving through the atmosphere—a tapestry of longing, desire, and haunting memories, pulling him ever deeper into the abyss. Time was lost, even as she poured wine bottle after wine bottle into his mouth, a balm that never soothed.

The woman's dark skin caressed his face; the texture a stark contrast to Sima's, and his hazy mind struggled to grasp the difference. Her nipples teased his wine-stained lips as she whispered a taunt into his pointed ear, "Is that the best you can do? And here I thought you looked... like a lord." She bit his earlobe, then discarded the small cloth hiding her glistening heat.

Is this what I've been reduced to? A crude jest? Her words, they burn. The flash of anger in his eyes flickered briefly before a smirk curled his lips, a mask of control slipping into place. He grabbed her hair, pulling hard, leaning in close.

"Careful, darling... If you keep teasing me, I might just have to teach you a lesson."

He pressed her hips to his, rolling them gently to tease her, the smirk never leaving his face. He needed to maintain control, to feel that power.

The woman ground her wet heat against his growing arousal, her copper skin sparking flashes of Sima before his eyes. The silkroot's haze intensified, transforming the woman into Sima. Her brown eyes, her wet heat on him... after a year. The vision of Sima whimpered in his ear, "Then what are you waiting for, my lord?"

The room spun. Is it her? His mind, clouded by silkroot, struggled to separate reality from desire. The woman's voice morphed into Sima's, her body beneath his a tantalizing illusion. His eyes darkened with possessive rage. For a moment, he saw double, like a hazy vision he had to blink away. Sinister and unhinged, he almost moved to strangle her for her teasing. Instead, he tightened his grip on her hair and pushed her down hard onto the bed by the back of her neck. Pinning her down, he quickly undid his slacks and pulled off his shirt, the vision below him mewling.

He groaned against her earlobe, whispering hotly, his voice rough and low, trying to keep the image of Sima intact. "You have no idea how badly I've wanted this... how many times I've imagined you like this. But my imagination could never come close. Your voice. Your body... so perfect in my hands. Even the sweetest music pales in comparison to you like this, my dearest love."

The woman below, aware of his state, responded, "And I have missed you... please..." She turned her face, pressing her rear against his front, grinding into his growing firmness, and moaning as she opened herself up.

His eyes shut tight, breath catching in a gasp of desire. "Gods... darling, you're incredible. My Sima."

He pressed into her like a man possessed, one hand pinning her by the neck, the other gripping the headboard as the thrusted full hilt into her dripping cunt. A low hiss escaped at the sensation, her moans sending shivers down his spine. His hips snapped as he lifted her deeper onto his cock, pressing her head deeper into the mattress. The pace was full and unforgiving, pleasure and visions of Sima flashing before his eyes, her scent rising in the silkroot haze.

Relentless, he didn't stop, his need overpowering. The rhythm was hard and rough, almost brutal. His breath came in gasps, hissing in pleasure as he growled, fingers pressing into her skin, teeth leaving marks down her back.

"You are mine. You've always been mine."

He moaned against her ear, her voice driving him into a frenzy, the image of Sima in his mind almost blinding.

Astarion's breathing quickened, a low sound of pleasure escaping as his hips slammed into her, the slap of skin on skin filling the air. She wasn't the same; he knew this in the back of his mind. But the taste of her sweat, the sound of her voice, the scent of her hair—it was enough to drive him almost mad, his heart racing.

The woman, her black wavy hair flying, her body tightening around him, moaned his name and her fingers gripped the sheets. Her deep velvet clutch gripped him as she got closer and closer, the fluttering he remembered so well when his touch brought Sima to bliss... Sima mewled again, this vision below him.

Astarion’s moans echoed through the room at the familiar, sweet sounds. One hand practically split the word of the headboard, the other held her hips as he rocked into her. Her moans were like music—music he had craved for months. Her body clenched and arched, and he reveled in the heat, the melody of her body singing for him.

His eyes closed, face buried in her neck, his body shuddering as he remembered how she felt. Just how her body felt. How she tasted. The sound of her voice, her sweet, sweet sounds of pleasure. He groaned against her skin, teeth and hands gripping her, her name falling from his mouth in a sharp, needy whisper, his arousal still firm and fast as he desperately thrust, hitting that spot within her, rewarded with her moans. It was her... it must be...

The woman beneath him cried out, tightening fast and hard, her need rushing forth, thighs shaking. Her tightness, warmth, and moans, so close yet so far, dragged his silkroot-induced arousal to a devastating peak.

Astarion’s breath hitched and a growl rolled out as he felt her tighten around him. His hand came down and gripped her hair almost painfully while the other kept her body pressed close. He let out a shuddering groan, teeth sinking slowly into the crook of her neck. It was a needy bite, an animal craving to claim. As he spilled his seed into her, he bit down, drinking, tasting her release in her blood.

As the blood hit his tongue, the illusion shattered. It wasn't her. She was still gone.

In the muddled chaos of the night, Astarion recoiled with a growl, pulling out abruptly and propelling himself to stand near the bed, his body tense, eyes wide with a raw surge of outrage. His breath came in sharp, rapid gasps, his mind a storm of horror and disbelief.

Why did it feel like this? Why did it always end this way?

The deed—crude, desperate—left him gasping, the air thick with the lingering scent of silkroot that clouded his senses. Yet, the acrid taste of the woman's blood shattered the delusion. It wasn't Sima. The realization crashed over him like a cold wave, dragging him from the sweet haze of escape he so desperately sought.

Staggering over to the discarded bed sheets, his fingers trembled as they brushed against the cheap, gaudy fabrics that seemed to mock his state. The woman lay there, a soft moan escaping her lips, oblivious to the storm raging within him. She was recovering from his bite, from their rough, empty encounter, her soft moans a cruel parody of the ecstasy he had once known with Sima.

His chest heaved, muscles knotted with a fierce tension as he struggled against the urge to lose himself in her again, to forget the stinging bite of reality. Yet, he resisted, his mind ablaze with a chilling blend of determination and cold fury.

He needed to move, to escape this place.

With heavy, purposeful strides, he distanced himself from the bed, each step echoing in the hollow chamber of his heart. Sadness gnawed at him, a deep, relentless ache that seemed to echo the unending hunger gnawing at his soul. This was the nadir of his existence—a night drowned in regret and unfulfilled longing. The effects of the silkroot swirled through his veins, casting his thoughts into a foggy abyss. Unbidden, memories of hands, touches from his past life as Cazador's concubine, surfaced with painful clarity. Flashes of twisted pleasure and chilling detachment flickered before his eyes, trapping him further in his own dark labyrinth.

Sitting on the edge of the divan, Astarion buried his head in his hands, haunted by the ghosts of what was and what could never be again. His fists clenched, knuckles whitening, the air thick with the palpable sense of his frustration and helplessness.

The past year had been a cruel jest, the worst of his cursed existence. Faces, countless and indistinct, floated before his eyes—a kaleidoscope of strangers and victims blending into a seamless parade of emptiness. Despite his ascent to power, his new reign as a vampire lord, the sea of faces blurred indistinguishably from those he had known as Cazador's toy.

Amidst this desolate carnival, only Sima's image burned bright, a lone beacon in his tempest-tossed world. Her kisses, soft and tender, her touch, a balm to his frayed edges—she had been his anchor, a rare glimpse of genuine affection in a life otherwise shrouded in darkness.

Her face, her voice, the essence of her presence haunted him. He remembered the last time they were together—the way her eyes had filled with a tumultuous mix of compassion, fear, and anger. Her voice had risen, sharp and clear, as she defied him, refusing to be drawn into the darkness of his world. Her rejection—her refusal to become his spawn—had sparked his fury, driving her away.

Now, as he sat there, the bed beside him holding just another faceless shape, he felt the true depth of his fall. The lingering effects of the silkroot blurred his vision, but not enough to shield him from the haunting visages of past and present that swirled around him. He was spiralling, caught in a vortex of his own making, acutely aware of the vast chasm between his desires and his stark reality.

The woman beside him moaned softly in her drug-induced slumber, her presence a mere echo of the countless others who had come and gone, leaving him nothing but deeper sorrow. Just another faceless entity in the endless gallery of his torments.

Numbness crept over him, the cold comfort of the silkroot failing him. Astarion reached for the bottle of laced wine, its contents swirling seductively. The promise of oblivion beckoned—an easy escape from the pain, the longing, the profound loneliness.

But then, her image flashed before him—Sima, her face a vision of warmth and life, pulling him back from the brink. With a growl of frustration, he hurled the bottle against the wall, shattering it into fragments.

The copper-skinned woman stirred, her eyes opening, reaching out to him in a tentative gesture of comfort. Her body was a canvas of their combined carnage—his spend, her blood—a sight that made him recoil. Her voice, soft and uncertain, was all wrong. As he stumbled back, he caught a glimpse of himself in the wash basin mirror.

Staring back at him was a man marred by anguish and despair. The charming, sarcastic facade had crumbled, revealing a soul irrevocably fractured. He plunged his face into the cold water, hoping to wash away the misery that clung to him. When he resurfaced, he felt the weight of all the lives he had drained—their hopes, their dreams, all extinguished as surely as their lives.

The woman tried to reach out again, but he turned away, unable to bear the sight of her. She could never fill the void left by Sima. No one could.

"Get out," he commanded, his voice icy, cutting through the stifling air. When she hesitated, he snapped, "Now."

She quickly gathered her clothes and fled, leaving him alone with his anguish.

As Astarion faced his own reflection, seeing not just the vampire but the shattered man beneath, he felt the last threads of his self-control unravel. Rock bottom was no longer a mere concept but a reality, an abyss into which he was swiftly drowning.

With a bitter twist of his lips, he rose from the basin, his face dripping, his resolve hardening. He looked into the mirror, his eyes ablaze with anguish and a chilling certainty.

"I want to die…" the words escaped him, a raw whisper in the quiet room. But within that declaration stirred a flicker of resolve, kindled by memories of Sima—the only light in his dark existence.

His thoughts raced, a tumult of emotions swirling within him—love, desire, desperation. All converged on her image, her touch, the sound of her voice. It was more than a yearning; it was a profound, all-consuming need. She was his anchor, his salvation, the only one who had ever truly seen him.

With a deep breath, his features set in grim determination, Astarion whispered to his reflection, a promise steeped in dark resolve, "I will have her back. No matter what it takes."

He stared at his reflection, and slowly, a smile began to curve his lips—not a warm or roguish smirk, but something more sinister, a twisted sneer that bore the marks of his unraveling psyche. "She is my eternity," he affirmed, his voice low and unyielding, tinged with an edge of madness. "And I will do whatever it takes to have her again—even if it means crossing every line, breaking every rule, challenging the gods themselves."

No price was too high. Astarion was ready to burn down the world to have Sima by his side once more.

"My love, I'm coming for you," he whispered, his voice a mix of longing and frantic hunger. The twisted smile lingered, a dark emblem of his descent into obsession and despair.

***

A week had passed since the confrontation at the docks with the Selûnites, Shadowheart, and Sima. Astarion lay ensnared in a cocoon of darkness and despair, barely leaving his bed. The oppressive silence of his chamber stood in stark contrast to the chaotic storm within his mind. His battle wounds throbbed with a relentless ache, sharp reminders of his failure. Red-rimmed eyes, devoid of life, stared up at the ceiling, lost in a labyrinth of rage and longing. His hunger grew, not just for blood but for the intimacy he had lost—a gnawing void that threatened to consume him.

She thinks she can escape me. Foolish girl, he thought, fury and obsession interweaving. Sima's eyes, once a sanctuary, now haunted him. The thought of her giving her love to another twisted his gut with rage and sorrow. His blood boiled, fangs itching with the visceral need to reclaim what he had lost. He rolled over, trying to escape his thoughts, but they clung to him like shadows, growing more insistent. Sweat slicked his skin, his body trembling with a feverish withdrawal. I will not be denied, he vowed, feeling adrift in a stormy sea without her.

Sima had been his anchor in chaos. Losing her was a wound deeper than any physical injury. The pain of that realization was so intense that even his ever-present hunger seemed to fade in comparison. She was my light in the darkness, and now... she's gone. Does she even understand the depth of my feelings? Her rejection felt like a dagger to his heart. She was mine, and now she’s gone. But not for long.

He shifted to face the wall, breath heaving, hands clenched into fists so tightly that his nails drew blood. The weakness and desperation felt like an insult to his very being. Yet a part of him clung to that vulnerability. Why am I so weak? he thought within his fraying mind and heart. He wanted to cry out, to scream and rage against the world, but he held back, his emotions coiled tightly inside him like a spring ready to snap.

A surge of hunger roared back to life, snapping his eyes open. The beast within demanded to be fed, to lash out and punish someone, anyone. He sat up, the room spinning violently, causing him to fall back onto the bed. The empty space beside him was a cold reminder of his solitude. Without her, I am nothing. Just the monster Cazador wanted me to be.

Astarion's hunger was a cruel mistress, intertwining his need for blood with his desire for Sima. Her scent, her taste, the feel of her skin under his fingertips haunted him, making his longing unbearable. He had never seen her as just a body; she was his everything. But now, his instincts warred with his love. He wanted to protect her, to cherish her, but the beast within him wanted to possess her, to make her his in the most primitive way.

"This is pointless. Lying here like a brooding statue," Astarion muttered, forcing himself up again as if resurrecting from the dead. His muscles screamed in protest, and the cold air of the chamber felt like shards of ice against his bare chest as he walked to the window and threw it open. Crisp, biting night air filled his lungs, his nostrils flaring as he took in the city's scent below.

Memories surged back like a tempest. He could almost smell her, that intoxicating blend of jasmine and rose. His fingers traced the window frame, recalling the feel of her skin beneath his touch, soft and warm. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the way her body moved against his, the curve of her waist, the softness of her lips. It was torment, this blend of love and hunger.

The thought of her with someone else, another touching her, kissing her, making her cry out in pleasure, twisted his insides with violent, consuming rage. His need for her was beyond rational thought—it was feral, all-consuming. The idea of her whispering another’s name, her body arching for someone else, nearly broke him. His hands gripped the window frame tightly, nails splintering the wood. I will not lose her. She is mine, he vowed. The beast within him roared to life, hunger intertwining with love in a dangerous dance. He dressed swiftly, the cold determination in his eyes mirrored by the icy night outside. Sima, you will see. I am not the monster you fear. I am the man who loves you beyond reason.

He left his chamber, his mind set on one goal—reclaiming the woman who held his heart, body, and soul.

***

Meanwhile, Sima was healing, though her body remained fragile, a delicate wisp of her former strength. Her magical energy slowly returned, flickering like a candle in her turmoil. She knew Astarion still loved her—his restraint in not biting her was a silent confession. The pull towards him was unyielding, dragging her towards their unresolved tension. Memories, fresh and raw, clawed at her heart. One moment she sobbed, the next, she steeled herself for the battles to come.

Days passed in a haze of meditation and prayer within the Selunite Enclave. The rhythmic chants and soothing incantations washed over her like a gentle tide, offering balm but not a cure. Shadowheart’s group of female clerics, their voices a chorus of compassion, offered her sanctuary. Despite their kind words and moments of shared tea, she felt like an outsider, her warrior spirit at odds with their serene solace. Astarion haunted her thoughts. Misguided, twisted, yet she believed there was something salvageable in him. Shadowheart warned against such idealism, pointing out harsh realities. Each night, Sima defied her friend’s warnings, driven by reckless hope. She wondered if Astarion awaited her beyond the Enclave’s sacred ground.

Astarion was indeed there, a specter in the shadows, pacing with barely restrained fury. The burning sensation at the holy ground's edges was a bitter insult to his rage, which grew with each passing moment. He could sense Sima within the Enclave, and the inability to see her gnawed at his sanity.

Sima lied to Shadowheart about her nightly excursions, but her friend saw through the deception. Despite her better judgment, Sima clung to a sliver of hope. The glimpse of the real Astarion at the docks lingered in her mind. She donned her white leathers, at Shadowheart’s insistence, with a lavender tunic underneath. Silver blades sat at her hips, and her black ringlets were braided back, revealing her deep mahogany skin.

The path ahead was shrouded in a dense, unsettling fog, obscuring the moonlight and casting an eerie pall over the landscape. The soil squished beneath her boots, damp and treacherous. The cold air bit at her exposed skin, and the fog whispered cruel taunts, words like "failure" and "disgrace" carried on the chilling breeze. I won’t let fear control me, she thought, each step a defiant declaration against the oppressive darkness.

Leaning against a weathered tombstone, Sima let her gaze drop to the moon daggers gifted by Shadowheart. The blades gleamed under the ethereal light, symbols of protection and strength. She thought of the women in Shadowheart’s group, their faces etched with stories of suffering and resilience. Each bore scars, physical and emotional, mirroring her own. Their tales of enduring and overcoming reminded her of her own battles, her desire to change the person who was hurting her. Astarion was drowning in his darkness, and she couldn’t abandon him, even if it meant risking herself.

I have to see him, she resolved, stopping at the wrought-iron gate of the Enclave, still on holy ground. Why do I keep coming here? Because he let me go? Because I believe there's still something good in him?

She could feel his presence, a heavy, predatory aura that set her nerves on edge. The hunger emanating from him was palpable, a primal force that seemed to pulse in the air. She cast Light above her, the spell cutting through the mist and casting a harsh, revealing glow. Her daggers gleamed in the light, ready to defend her if necessary. As she crouched, her eyes scanned the darkness, waiting for Astarion to make his move.

As she approached the wrought-iron gate, Sima's breath caught in her throat. The graveyard stretched out before her like a somber shroud, tombstones jutting at odd angles, their inscriptions blurred by the mist. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, the chill seeping through her clothes and into her bones. Moonlight filtered through the fog, casting unearthly, shifting shadows that danced around her, making the landscape seem alive with whispers of the past.

Astarion emerged from the fog, his red eyes gleaming with a predatory intensity that pierced the mist like a hunter’s gaze. His presence was a tantalizing paradox, a blend of promise and threat that sent a shiver down Sima's spine. His black cloak flowed around him like liquid shadow, and even amidst the sanctity of this place, his allure was undeniable. She could feel his gaze on her, a tangible force that made her heart race and her blood sing with a volatile mix of fear and desire.

Her thoughts churned with conflicting emotions. He's here. Why did I come? Am I so foolish to think he could change? Or is there still a part of him that I can reach? Memories of their past flooded her mind—the tender moments and the brutal betrayals. She wanted to believe there was still good in him, that the man she loved was not entirely lost to the monster he had become. But the risk was immense, and the danger palpable.

Astarion's voice cut through her thoughts, low and almost gentle, yet dripping with dark promise. "Gods above, woman, I can almost taste the blood in your veins. That heartbeat... so strong, so vital. What would I have to do to get you to come through that gate?" His eyes never left her face, his fingers curling around the bars. He could almost feel the heat radiating from her skin, the tantalizing pulse of her veins calling out to him. So close, yet so far. I will have you, Sima. Every inch of you, he thought.

Sima's heart pounded, a symphony of fear and defiance. She raised her silver daggers defensively. "Swear on Selûne you won't try to turn me against my will. That would be a good start."

Her mind raced with thoughts of escape and survival. Stay calm, keep him talking. Don't show fear. Remember who he was, not what he's become. She watched his features, noting the glassy sheen in his crimson eyes, the barely controlled hunger radiating from him.

She's clinging to a ghost, Astarion thought, smirking. "Fine. I swear on Selûne, by her light, that should you come through this gate, I will not force you to join me as a vampire. I will not take any blood from you except what you give willingly. I will not force myself on you unless you consent. However..." His eyes narrowed, though the smile remained. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I reserve the right to persuade you. With words or otherwise. Is that agreeable?" I will make you crave me, Sima. I will make you beg for it, he thought.

Sima smirked, though her heart ached. "I think you would have been better served being honest. You and I clearly do not see eye to eye on what consent means. So I respectfully decline."

Astarion's face darkened, his features shifting with sudden anger. "And what will you do if I break open this gate and take what I want, you arrogant witch? You are in a rather unfortunate position..." Damn her defiance. Why can't she see this is for her own good? he thought.

She narrowed her eyes, her voice steady though her mind whirled with anger and sadness. "Remember... you let me go. There's a kernel of empathy in you, of who you were. Think of that. The only one driving this towards tragedy is you."

"I will not be threatened by you, you impudent little bitch," he hissed, his intensity bordering on hate. "But... you are correct. I am making this worse. Even if you won't change your mind willingly, there's always other means. I am not bound by silly things like morals or empathy. I have the power of a vampire lord. Understand that." She provokes me so effortlessly. Why does she make it so difficult? he thought.

Her heart ached with the loss of the man he once was. Where did he go? How did we come to this? She watched him, searching for any sign of the Astarion she loved. His anger was palpable, but so was his pain, etched in the lines of his face and the tension in his body.

"You think you can tempt me with nostalgia? You have so many more lessons to learn, Sima. I am not the same person I once was," Astarion said, stepping up to the gate, his breath hot against her skin, his eyes burning with intense hunger. "Kiss me or suffer." His voice was a dark caress, filled with both desire and menace.

Sima’s heart pounded, her breath quickening as she felt his nearness. "You've lost yourself! I speak of the past to remind you of who you are—who you once refused to be like. Cazador, Godey, the kennels, the horrible existence that was forced on you! See reason, please," she pleaded, her voice cracking with sorrow. Her eyes searched his face, desperate for a flicker of recognition.

Astarion's snarl was immediate, his features twisting in fury. "I am nothing like Cazador, you foolish girl. I made my own choices! I did it for both of us!" he snapped, gripping the bars of the gate, his knuckles white with anger. Why does she insist on dragging me back to that hell? I've moved beyond it. Haven't I? he thought.

"Gods damn you. I hate you for making me think of those things—the things I hated and wanted to escape. But then again..." His eyes narrowed, hate mingling with a shadow of doubt. His voice softened to a dangerous whisper. "You think you can control me with pretty words? Do you honestly believe your memories mean so much to me? That I would betray my hunger and desires for a mere reminder of my former self? You don't understand what has happened to me at all! This new me... he is everything I was meant to be," he whispered bitterly. "Do you honestly believe I would want to be that person?"

Sima stood up, flipping her daggers into a defensive stance, her eyes never leaving his. "I know better than most there is no road back. But you are rejecting the one principle that mattered most to you, the thing that was robbed from you, and that you now seek to rob from me: choice," she said firmly.

Astarion's eyes blazed with a mixture of anger and pain reflecting in their crimson depths. How dare she speak of choice? After everything I've endured? he thought, fists clenched, veins bulging with barely restrained fury. Despite his anger, she did not back down. She still believes she can appeal to me, to my compassion, he mused bitterly.

"Your pathetic attempt at manipulation is amusing. My choices now? My choices matter more than ever before," he sneered, leaning forward, his voice a dangerous whisper that sent shivers down her spine. "I'm not the same elf I was. I'm free. Free of weakness and the illusion of choice." His eyes narrowed, though the smile remained. Free to claim what is mine. Free to covet your beauty, your body, without shame or restraint, he thought hungrily.

Astarion's eyes blazed, seething with a mix of anger and regret, as he moved forward to tower over her, his breath hot and filled with the scent of blood. "I am not the same person. You can't even imagine what I've been through! I've transcended my past, risen above the likes of Cazador. So shut your mouth and listen. This is my choice, my will, and my desire. I've thought it through, considered the options. And this is the way it will be. Do you understand me?" he demanded.

"And this is mine! I choose to say no," Sima retorted, closing up her leathers and putting herself into a fighting stance, mirroring his stance, with the daggers held above and below, her muscles tensed and ready.

His jaw clenched tight, hesitation flickering in his eyes as he weighed his options. Damn it all, she’s not going to back down. I can’t let her defy me. Not now, he thought. With cold determination, he stepped forward, crossing the threshold into holy ground without hesitation, ready to confront the woman who dared to defy him.

"You're pushing me to the edge, Sima. If I can't have you willingly, then I will break your spirit and make you mine," he growled, his voice a dangerous whisper, every word dripping with dark promise. "One way or another, you will understand who I am now. Who I must be."

Sima’s eyes narrowed as she conjured a Globe of Invulnerability, the arcane energies swirling around her, creating a protective barrier that shimmered with otherworldly light. "I won’t let you break me," she said, her focus unwavering, her heart pounding with both fear and determination.

Astarion began weaving a spell of his own, his eyes flickering with arcane power. Flames erupted from his fingertips, aimed directly at her. "Watch her squirm. Feel her burn," he whispered, a sinister smile playing on his lips as the fire licked toward her.

Sima stood her ground, the Globe of Invulnerability absorbing the searing heat. She felt the intense warmth pressing against the barrier, her skin prickling with phantom burns. She cast Thunderwave, sending a powerful shockwave that rippled through the air, knocking Astarion off his feet and pushing him out of its radius.

Astarion was thrown back by the force of the spell, landing hard on the ground. He rolled and sprang to his feet with a growl, shaking off the holy ground's relentless gnawing at his strength. His eyes blazed with fury, his muscles tensing as pain and rage intertwined. "Pain is nothing. The prize is worth every burn," he snarled, pushing forward again, his determination etched in every line of his face.

"How is it that you think I wouldn't be so furious that I would ignore the discomfort and take a little pain?" he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "This pain is nothing compared to what I’ll make you feel, Sima. You’ll see. You’ll regret defying me."

"I’ll make you submit. You’ll see reason," he lunged towards her again, faster this time, his movements a blur of predatory grace.

Sima steeled herself, casting Fly and swiftly moving to the other side of the globe, eluding his grasp. Before Astarion could reach inside the Globe, she raised her hands to the sky and called down a bolt of lightning. The air crackled with energy as the lightning struck Astarion, lifting him into the air before throwing him aside. "STOP making me hurt you, you stubborn bastard!" she cried, her voice a mix of determination and desperation, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Astarion’s body convulsed as the electricity coursed through him. He hit the ground hard but forced himself back on his feet, his rage undiminished. His muscles twitched from the shock, but he barely noticed. "You’ll pay for this. You’ll see the error of your ways," he vowed, his eyes burning with fury, his voice a snarl that echoed through the night.

"You're right. These games we are playing are pointless. It's time for me to take what I want," he growled, frustration evident in his tone. Enough of this. Time to end her resistance, he thought, his eyes narrowing.

He cast Command, his voice dropping to a deep, commanding tone. "Kneel."

Sima felt the divine protection of Protection from Good and Evil envelop her, a shield against his command. She winced, feeling the power of his voice wash over her, but she managed to resist. The divine intervention saved her, but Astarion’s eyes narrowed with fury. The fire in his chest burned hotter as he cast Hold Person from a distance. "Divine protection? How quaint. I’ll break through. I’ll make you mine," he muttered, dark magic coiling around his fingers like serpents.

He stayed within the holy ground, enduring the corrosive pain for a chance to paralyze her. If she couldn’t move, she couldn’t maintain her spells or cast new ones. His eyes locked onto his prey, his voice a deadly whisper. "Stay still. Stay frozen. Let me in."

Sima felt the magical bonds tightening like iron chains, but she fought back, breaking her concentration on the Globe of Invulnerability. Vulnerable again, she saw Astarion’s smirk, his eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction. "So, her defenses aren't impenetrable after all. This just got interesting," he mused, his gaze locked onto her, his blood singing with the thrill of the hunt.

Desperation fueled Sima’s next move. She conjured Leomund's Tiny Hut, a dome of force encasing her, impenetrable by physical attacks or spells. But she knew mental spells could still reach her. "Just hold on, Sima. You can outlast him. You have to," she whispered, her heart pounding in her chest like a war drum.

Astarion’s eyes narrowed at this sudden trick. Watching her encase herself in a bubble he couldn’t penetrate physically, he glared, his mind racing with dark strategies. With his next spell, he decided to attack her mind instead. "If I can’t break your body, I’ll break your spirit," he muttered, his voice dripping with insidious charm.

He cast Charm Person, his voice a seductive caress as he focused on her mind. "Sima, my dear, come to me. You know you belong by my side," he whispered, each word a tantalizing promise. "Be mine, forever."

Sima felt the charm wash over her, the familiar dulcet tones pulling at her will. Her body reacted involuntarily, a burning arousal aching in her core, but she fought back, shaking her head. "Is this what you think love is? Manipulation and control?" she asked, her voice trembling with hurt and betrayal, her eyes wide with pain.

"Is this your love? To hurt me like those slavers in Calimport? Does my pain matter to you at all?!" she continued, her eyes burning with the raw trauma she had shared with Astarion, vivid and painful.

Astarion's honeyed tone turned sharp and cruel. "Your pain matters less than my desire. I will take you by any measure. I want you, and I won’t take no for an answer," he snarled, his eyes blazing with possessiveness. "Your body does not belong to you, nor can you hope to escape me, love."

Sima's eyes filled with grief, tears threatening to spill. "What has become of you? Is this it? Is this who you are now? A man who will brutalize the woman he loves like he was brutalized? Do you truly refuse to see reason here?!" she implored.

Astarion’s eyes showed nothing but rage now. Not only was she resisting his power, but she was resisting him. To him, there was no difference. He came to the edge of the hut and placed one hand on the sphere, squeezing it as if he could crush her body. "Reason? Do you think I care in the slightest what you want? I want you to be MINE and nothing else matters." His grip tightened, his voice a snarl of frustration and obsession, his nails digging into the barrier as if trying to tear it apart.

Sima's eyes filled with true grief. "Then you are truly lost to me. And... I've been a fool to think you'd see me as more than just a thing to be used. To think you loved me." She clung to the edge of the hut, the weight of reality crashing down on her like a relentless tide. He cannot change. He does not see reason, or perhaps he simply does not want to, she thought.

Astarion’s body trembled with fury. The mere thought of her resisting him, denying him, sent waves of rage coursing through his veins. His every instinct screamed to take her, to crush her in his hands for denying him, to break her for wounding his heart so deeply. Yet, buried beneath the rage, something in his heart ached, something that held him back. He stared at her, his gaze a storm of longing, rage, and heartbreak, ignoring the dome that protected her. She’s mine. She will always be mine. Why can’t she see that? he thought.

For a split second, Astarion's eyes betrayed something beyond anger—sadness, regret, a fleeting moment of pity and longing for what could have been. Then it vanished as swiftly as it came, replaced by his consuming rage and mania. "You belong to me, and you always will. I don't care if you understand or accept that." His grip tightened further on the sphere, his nails digging into the barrier, leaving shallow marks as if he could tear it apart with sheer will.

Sima looked at Astarion like he was a stranger. "Astarion... you're really gone, aren't you?" Her voice was a whisper, barely audible, laced with sorrow and disbelief.

Astarion felt something cold and heavy settle in his chest, a feeling of deep sorrow and loss. He stared at Sima, trying to summon some remnant of what she once meant to him. But as he looked into her eyes, seeing no hint of the former love he had known, a bitter chill set in. She’s slipping away. Why can’t she just understand? he wondered.

"I am no longer the Astarion you met. The one you loved is as dead as Cazador's victims. He's been replaced by a new Lord, who will not be denied." His voice was cold, final, each word a nail in the coffin of their past.

Sima took in his face, every feature burning into her memory. His eyes, crimson with a predatory gleam. His hair, white as snow. She imagined the devious but genuine smirk that once graced his lips, now replaced by a cruel, twisted line. She recalled everything they had shared, everything that was. And in her heart, she finally allowed herself to let go. "Goodbye, Astarion," she whispered, stepping one fraction out of the hut.

Astarion's eyes flickered with something that might have been recognition or even pain, but it was fleeting. His rage and obsession quickly overshadowed any softer emotion. "No," he snarled, lunging forward. "You don't get to say goodbye. You belong to me!"

His hand hit the barrier of the Tiny Hut with a force that reverberated through the air. The magical dome shimmered, absorbing the impact, but Sima felt the shockwave. She steadied herself, her heart pounding. She couldn't afford to let him break through her defenses, not now.

"Astarion, please," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "This isn't you. You're stronger than this. You don't have to be what Cazador made you."

His response was a guttural growl, his eyes burning with an unholy fire. "I am what I must be! I have embraced my true nature, and you will embrace it too, whether you want to or not!"

Sima's eyes filled with tears, but her resolve hardened. She knew what she had to do. With a deep breath, she focused her energy, feeling the familiar pull of the Recall spell. The world around her began to blur as the magic took hold.

"I won't let you take me," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "Goodbye, Astarion. I hope you find peace, even if it’s not with me."

As the words left her lips, the Recall spell activated, enveloping her in a cocoon of shimmering light.

The world around Astarion seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched Sima speak the words and then vanish. The bitter chill turned to an icy cold as all the emotions trapped deep inside exploded outward in that singular moment. He shouted her name, grabbing at the air, grasping at nothingness, trying to deny what had happened. But it was too late. Sima was gone.

Astarion stood alone on the holy ground of the Selûne Enclave, now cold in both body and spirit. His breath came in ragged gasps, his mind a whirlwind of rage, sorrow, and an all-consuming need to reclaim her. Gone. She thinks she can escape me. She underestimates what I will do to have her back, he thought, fury coursing through him. He fell to his knees, clutching at the ground as if he could pull her back from the void. The holy ground burned against his skin, a fitting punishment for his sins, but he welcomed the pain—it fueled his resolve.

All this power, and yet it feels like chains around my soul, he mused bitterly. I have more freedom now, but without her, it means nothing. His chest tightened with an unbearable ache, but he couldn't dwell on that. He had to focus on her. On bringing her back.

Her words echoed in his mind, searing him with their finality. “You’re truly lost to me.” The sting of those words was a wound deeper than any blade could cut. He had become the very thing he once feared, and in doing so, he had driven away the only person who mattered.

Astarion’s hands dug into the earth, his nails clawing at the dirt. I was a fool to think I could have it all. Power, control, and her love? I was deluding myself. His tears mixed with the soil, a rare and bitter testament to his internal torment.

But even in his despair, a new resolve took root. He would not give up on her. He would pursue her, find her, and make her see that they were destined to be together. Her scent lingered in his mind, the memory of her touch a phantom sensation on his skin. I will not be denied. I will have her back. She will understand that we are meant to be together.

His sobs grew quieter, the rawness of his grief settling into a cold, hard determination. He had lost Sima, but he would not lose himself again. He would embrace the darkness fully, let it consume him if that was the price of his choices. But he would also harness it to find her, to bring her back to him. You will see, Sima. You will understand.

The wind whispered through the graveyard, the fog curling around him like a shroud. Astarion stood, his eyes cold and hard, the last vestiges of his kinder self slipping away. He had made his choice, and now he would live with the consequences. But he would also fight for what he believed was his.

Goodbye for now, Sima. You were my last hope, and I shattered it with my own hands. But this is not the end. I will find you. I will bring you back. And I will make you mine, forever, he thought, his lips curling into a bitter smile as he walked away from the holy ground, each step a testament to his transformation and his unyielding obsession.

The man you loved is truly gone. And what remains... will stop at nothing to reclaim you.

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