#the rest of what i have right now is very fragmented and even more ??? to me rn

[evintide]

Some headcanon questions for you!!

1- what is the diet of the Twili? Carnivorous? Herbivores? Omnivorous? A secret fourth option?

2- can Midna understand other languages beyond Twili and Hylian?

3- Do the Twili have livestock? What about other animals? I know they have big fuckoff birds but what else?

first of all THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE QUESTIONS !! ;0; i appreciate the curiosity and your time! these are all, like, a mish-mash of stuff i've considered over the years along with ideas that i've thrown together during the past few days. so if it seems all over the place... that's why, LMAO. and this is going to be LONG on top of all that too, sooooo... a read more is in order! also, as a forewarning, a lot of this stuff is not wholly set in stone as i'm always working on new ideas and finding new inspiration for things. i believe the twilight realm is just as vast as any other realm, and what we see and experience in game is not even a teaspoon as to how much is in there. so just like any world, variety is OUT there, just. not all seen within one place. thus a lot of the stuff i'm about to talk about will mainly be concentrated on what has been generally seen from a game perspective. but, like. expounded on. ANYWAY I'M ALREADY BABBBLING HERE. TO RAMBLES !!

» LANGUAGES !!

Midna is fluent in twili and an archaic version of hylian, and can read ancient zoran and gerudo. she wasn’t very interested in learning languages as a child, but because using relics and certain magicks requires an understanding of them, she had to try to learn them eventually. they aren't her strongest subjects, but thanks to becoming queen she has greater access to relics that have even older texts and hieroglyphics, thus her need to learn even more has increased.

since hylian was the predominant language of the interlopers ( but not the only )  it remained that way until it developed into twili over the years. Twili in itself is an amalgamation of all of the above languages that transformed over time thanks to an exposure of all sorts of influences. modern twili trends towards a more singsong like cadence, while older versions have a choppier, brusque intonation.

her archaic language proficiency is mainly text and phonetic. she is wholly fluent in both old and modern twili along with archaic hylian, though her time in the light realm exposed her to modern hylian, which has come to reflect itself in her current speech patterns.

» DIET !!

the twili diet predominantly consists of grains mixed with nuts and vegetables. proteins come in the form of mushrooms and eggs, the latter of which is their main consumable animal product. fruits are also a treat, but are not main courses in any meal, as they tend to be small but very flavorful. spices take center stage when it comes to all meals, and instead of a singular plate where all the food is served, their meals will be one main dish with some sort of grain set alongside several smaller dishes with pickled foods, dried and curried spices and saucers for dips and sauces.

while the original interlopers were banished with an assortment of things ( whatever they were wearing, tools they were using, animal companions, etc. ) very few actually survived their first century there. they had to rely on magic to transform what little wildlife already existed in the realm to sustain themselves, and due to their outside influence many different types of animals and vegetation were able to come into fruition. these new species needed almost constant assistance however, which made for a very narrow amount of variety to be had within their original stocks.

now that the twili people have grown accustomed to their home and environment, better sustainability has been achieved and they now have a broader selection of things to choose from — though eating meat is still seen as something of a delicacy. not many of the creatures that they have are suitable for consumption, and even more tend to return to the twilight not unlike the twili people do, so having any meat with which to consume afterward can be difficult to even obtain. this is why eggs are the most common and accessible animal product.

» WILDLIFE !!

the original flora and fauna of the twilight realm are still present in the world, but it is not as commonly seen or experienced by those who reside in the capital. however, given that the twili people have assimilated to their realm compared to their ancestors, they can safely recognize, traverse and consume whatever natural wildlife is in the realm before their influence. twili that live outside of the capital often bring in wares to trade and sell biannually, though there are travelers who can be sent out to pick up items from these merchants throughout the rest of the year if more supplies are needed.

some merchants travel with vehicles powered by magics, but those leaning towards more traditional methods have access to horse-like creatures to help carry their wares. in a traditional sense they’re like a combination of a camel and a horse, though they have a wider, stockier physique. they were specifically domesticated to help traverse wide landscapes with few pit stops for food and water, though they have to consume large amounts of both before and after their trips.

dometic animals are fairly similar to those seen in the light realm. this is not limited to livestock either, as house pets of all different types and sizes have either been domesticated or crossbred over time to serve as companions or pest control. the most common of which is a small creature that has developed a method of flight with it's ears.

indigenous animals have a thinner and more angular body type that requires small amounts of food sustained over longer periods of time. natural bioluminescence is present in almost all life there, as it is needed to see and communicate in their environment of perpetual low light. many, if not almost all wildlife is smaller than that of any found within the light realm, but they have… for lack of a better word, a denser quality to them. they are, essentially, their own diet, as they are made of shadow and must also consume what is made of shadow. not entirely carnivorous, but not wholly herbivorous either.

animals often seen and used within the capitol are small deer like creatures with two predominant teeth that curve out and backwards towards their ears. their wild cousins have shorter sets that look more like fangs, but the domesticated breeds have been kept so that their teeth serve for ornamental purposes. all species have a pelt that has reflective spots towards their sides and flanks, and tails with a pale underside that can be raised to alert their herd of any dangers.

avians of all types are helpful in transporting goods and people across all surfaces, but namely those in height. while technology and magic is a predominant proponent for all life within the twili realm, many still rely on their birds to travel to and from places, and some even own creatures that have been in their family for almost a century. these larger birds have crossbred naturally with wild ones over the years, which have since become something of a nuisance when in close proximity with domesticated animals.

certain creatures hold high respect in twilight culture as well, as it is said that every monarch has a divine beast that watches over them during their rule. you can actually tell who held the throne and for how long thanks to any iconography on pottery, clothing and other items that show a certain animal or beast.

again, as stated above, the interlopers who originally settled within the capital crossbred and raised their own animals with the native wildlife to reflect creatures and comforts they originally had from the light realm, but over time everything was influenced and altered to best suit a lifestyle within the twilight.

[peachdues]

COMPASS / CHAPTER 2

bad boy!Sanemi ♢ modern gang AU

A/N: oh boy oh boy! It only took me four months to write this, and I still had to split it in half.

This is a very Sanemi-focused chapter. Enjoy seeing some other characters and everyone's favorite little brother. Smut enjoyers have no fear, there are plenty of references to sex this chapter, and the next installment will be fucking filthy. For now, enjoy pining bitch boy Sanemi, some humor, and a whole lot of self-hatred.

CW: 17k. MDNI. Morning-after awkwardness. Humor. Gang-related violence. Brief description of bones being broken. Gun violence. Masturbation. Somewhat explicit references to sex that occurred in the previous chapter. Mentions of blood. Angst.

chapter one // masterlist

Sanemi doesn’t remember ever having woken up as peacefully as he does that next morning, with you in his arms. His hands are resting against the curve of your spine, his fingers lightly tracing patterns into your skin even well before he’s fully aware of what he’s doing.

You’ve remained tangled up with him throughout the night, your legs intertwined and you, laid out against his torso. A small smear of your drool has dried on his skin, right beneath where your cheek is mashed between his pectorals where you snore softly.

If he could, he’d stay like this forever; warm and wrapped up in blankets that smell distinctly of you while you remain asleep on his chest. No outside world to speak of, no debts to collect or bones to smash. Nothing beyond the parameters of your bed, and the way your body fits so perfectly against his.

Sanemi is acutely aware of your mutual nudity. The luxurious feel of your bare skin pressed to his ushers in a flurry of images from the night before, each snap shot flashing through his mind, a montage of naked limbs and breathless moans.

He’d fucked you — though some small voice in his head quips that he’d done something more than just fucking, but he resolves to ignore that for now. Worse (was it?), he’d done it without using protection — and he came in you.

Whatever rule book he’d played by before, it no longer mattered. It’s been thoroughly shredded, cast aside along with every last fragment of common sense he’d had, its remnants strewn somewhere among his clothes where they lay discarded on your floor. He should feel horror; should feel guilt and shame for being so fucking reckless with you despite having committed to doing everything in his power to be more careful with you than he is with himself, and yet, Sanemi cannot seem to find a morsel of regret.

Instead, all he can feel is bliss. He can focus on nothing more than how warm you are, how your soft breasts are squished against his abdomen. How sweet your hair smells, how silky your skin is beneath his greedy fingertips. How badly he wants you again; selfishly. Completely.

And despite knowing he’s in the wrong, Sanemi can’t help but be struck at how right this feels. So right, in fact, that his body is quickly coming to life the longer he spends beneath you, his blood hot and full of need.

He shifts under you, gnashing his teeth together as your lower belly rubs right against his groin. His morning wood is almost painful, and he half contemplates waking you up to see if you’re willing to go for a second round, but he refrains. While it wouldn’t be out of the realm of reasonability for him to ask for more, given the events of the last twelve hours, he knows it wouldn’t be smart. 

More importantly, Sanemi doesn’t want you thinking he feels entitled to your body — or your affection — now that he’s had a taste of both, no matter how addicted to you he is.

Gently, he untangles himself from you and lays you back against your pillows. Once he ensures the blankets are pulled up over you, he peels off the bed to search for his pants. He finds them a few feet away and tugs them on, though he leaves his belt unfastened. He forsakes his shirt, too, at least until you wake up, not wanting you to feel overexposed in your nudity while he’s fully dressed.

Sanemi quietly pads into your kitchen and begins fumbling around for your coffee machine. He pulls two mugs from your cabinet and finds your stash of coffee beans shoved on a random shelf, and he sets to work, doing his best to keep as quiet as he can.

He hears you stirring from the kitchen right as your mug of coffee finishes brewing.

He lingers in the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey.”

You sit up in your bed, clutching the blankets to your chest. His heart throbs. You’re beautiful like this, unfairly so, despite having just woken up. Your hair is a little messy, but your eyes are bright, and your bare skin glows softly in the morning light streaming through your windows.

“Hi,” you say shyly, eyes tracking him as he crosses the room, mug in hand. You gratefully accept the coffee he hands you, but you keep one hand fisted around your blanket, holding it tightly to your chest.

He grimaces. Even though Sanemi has now seen every inch of your body, you seem committed to shielding as much of it as possible from him. 

Whether it’s out of insecurity or morning-after regret, he can’t say.

“I wanted to wait ‘til you got up before I left. Didn’t want you to think I just dipped.” Sanemi runs an awkward hand through his hair. “But now that you’re up, I can run down the street. Grab ya the morning after pill.”

At your questioning look, his cheeks redden. “Since — y’know —“

He gestures lamely at you, as though that somehow is enough of an explanation. But it’s apparently successful, because your eyes blow wide with understanding, a twin blush creeping up your neck.

“I don’t need it.” You squeak, ducking your head, your fingers tightening around your blanket.

Sanemi blinks. Great, he groans internally. He knew you were a virgin, but he’d assumed you knew the risks associated with fucking raw.

“Yeah, you do,” he corrects, and his stomach flips as the memory of last night — of how tightly you’d gripped him as he came, of your soft moan as you’d felt the first spurt of his cum fill you — flashes through his mind. “We didn’t use protection, and I assume you know how babies are made —“

“I don’t need it.”

Your insistence sets off alarm bells in his head. Maybe he should’ve explained to you his stance on children before he came in you, but he’ll be damned if he lets you baby trap him now.

No matter how in love with you he is.

“Yes, you do. I’m not lettin’ you get pregnant —“ he starts hotly, his temperament shifting into something dangerous.

With a huff, you reach over to your nightstand and yank on a drawer. You root around inside it for a moment before pulling free a small card lined with neat rows of pills.

You wave it at him, sarcastic.  “No, I don’t, dumbass.” And you busy yourself with popping one of the pills free to swallow. “I’ve been on birth control since high school.”

Sanemi blinks. “But you’d never —“

You toss your pills back into your drawer with a groan. “You don’t need to be sexually active to be on birth control, Sanemi. It has other uses.” You chew on your lip as you stare down at the mug balanced between your legs. “My periods are horrible. It helps me manage them.”

He stares at your bedside table for a long moment, feeling decidedly stupid.

“I can still take it if it’ll make you feel better,” you offer. “But I’ve been consistent with taking my birth control for years.”

“Nah,” he clears his throat. “If you think the pill is enough, then that’s fine by me.”

Silence, tense and stiflingly awkward settles between you once more, and Sanemi feels damn near ready to jump out of his skin.

“Feel okay?” He asks after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

You blush again. “I think so,” you pause and stretch, testing your limbs, though you manage to keep that blanket locked tight against your chest. “Maybe a little sore, but I guess that’s normal, right?”

“Yeah,” and to his embarrassment, Sanemi finds himself needing to clear his throat again to cover up the way his voice cracks. “Yeah, that’s not surprising.”

“What about you? Are you okay?”

Sanemi blinks. “Well — yeah.” It’s not a lie. Physically, he feels phenomenal. How he feels internally, however, is a whole separate matter, and it’s not one he’s particularly keen on exploring at the moment.

Absently, you tap your thumbs against the ceramic lip of your coffee mug. “So —,”

“—So,” he starts, but he falters just as you do, the two of you looking quickly away from one another in mutual embarrassment.

This would be far easier if you were just another hookup. He would’ve already left, would already be on another job, riding his post-sex high for the remainder of the day. He wouldn’t feel as he is now, full of doubt and oily shame for having to leave you now, naked and vulnerable as you are.

“I should go,” he finally offers after another unbearably awkward moment. The phone in his pocket is a burning weight he cannot ignore, one that’s started buzzing with an incessant demand that he answer; that he collect.

You nod, your gaze almost reproachful as you watch him retrieve the gun he’d laid on your kitchen table the night before and tuck it into his waistband.

“Will I hear from you?” Your voice is soft, almost imperceptibly so.

The guilt in Sanemi’s knotted stomach turns sour. He shouldn’t be surprised — he can’t be, really. Not when he knows you’ve heard the rumors of how he acts with other bed partners.

Still, your quiet, resigned assumption that he might treat you the same way — that he was satisfied with using your body and would now would fuck off and do whatever — stings.

“‘Course you will.” And he means it — and not just because he knows he said a lot of things last night while between your legs and damn near delirious with pleasure. He told you things he’d meant; things he doesn’t want you chalking up to passionate outbursts brought on by the heat of the moment.

But he also said things that probably mean he’s fucked himself over, and now, he needs to figure out what he’s going to do about it.

Sanemi fishes his shirt from its discarded place on your floor and tugs it over his head. He can feel your eyes tracking his every movement, and he feels near ready to burst into flames as he crosses the studio to your bed.

He stoops down to press one, soft kiss to your forehead. “‘Til next time.”

You don’t respond; you only remain there, sitting still in your bed, your sheets clutched to your chest. The scent of your hair ushers a flood of memories from only a few hours earlier, and the way they blur together make his head hurt and his heart ache.

Mine. He’d said to you, just before you shattered so prettily against your sheets as he fucked you. You’re fuckin’ mine.

Yeah, he thinks as he closes the door of your apartment behind him. Yeah, he’s fucked.

—

When he was a boy, Sanemi always imagined what it would be like to fly.

Life in the Silo was suffocating and he’d often found himself turning his face up toward the sky, savoring the wind as it rustled his hair and carried leaves off into horizons he would never see. He envied the pigeons that always clustered near the overfilled trash cans spilling out onto the streets, pecking at molded scraps of food because they could take off at any moment. One loud noise, one obnoxious asshole barreling through them, and they could launch right into the sky, their wings beating as they rode the breeze to seek out safer sidewalks. 

He’d never join them; he knew that. But on his bike, Sanemi feels like the wind itself, and he supposes it’s the closest he’ll ever be to flying free. 

He finds his bike where he always parks it – in a back alley behind your apartment, tucked behind a dumpster far out of sight. Straddled upon it, his helmet secure, he keys the ignition and it roars to life beneath him, its engine a steady rumble that echoes off the pavement. The moment he releases the clutch, he is soaring. He drives, the wind whipping at his clothes, his knuckles, until it sings in his blood and he feels weightless. 

He tears down streets, darts between honking cars slowed on the freeway as he makes his calls, collects the Corps’ dues. And in those moments when he zips and speeds through throngs of traffic, sometimes narrowly avoiding clipping a side mirror or two, he can almost forget the magnitude of his royal fuck up with you.  

Almost.

—

It’s nearly midnight when his bike gutters to a stop in front of the dingy shoebox he calls home. Not that this mildewed apartment complex has ever been anything close to such a thing, but it’s one of the few things in his life Sanemi can call his own. 

No matter how shitty it is.

Deep down, he knows the closest thing to home is back at your apartment, likely wondering when the fuck he’ll shoot you a text. Not even he knows the answer to that; all he knows is that he hasn’t spoken to you since shutting your door behind him this morning, and he has no idea how to start if he did. 

So, he doesn’t.

He doesn’t text you even as he strips himself of his clothes, readying for his shower. Nor does he so much as glance at his phone when he catches the whiff of you on his body as he kicks off his pants and underwear, the faint, lingering scent of your pleasure redirecting his blood flow straight to his cock.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to reach out — he does, very much so. He’s wanted to talk to you the moment your apartment building faded from view, his fingers itching to reach for the phone buried in his pocket and send you something, anything, so you might know that he has no intention of treating you like any of the others. Even if he ultimately decides that he can go no further with you, that last night can only be a one-time indulgence, he will give you the courtesy of telling you as much. It was the least you deserved.

Sanemi tries his best to keep thoughts of you and this wonderfully fucked situation at bay, focusing entirely on the way the water burns his skin, a thousand needles of flame licking at his face, his scalp, his back. He scrubs hard at his hair first, then his face. He leaves washing his body for last, unwilling to soap over whatever invisible marks still linger upon his skin, left behind by your hands and lips. Only when he cannot possibly procrastinate the task any longer does he pump a generous amount of soap into his palm, rubbing his hands together until it turns frothy and thick.

As he washes himself, Sanemi manages to avoid thinking of the way you touched him the night before, soft and tentative and yet passionate. He thinks he might just make it through without his mind wandering too far away, but then his fingers brush over the odd, raised lines of the mark branded between his shoulder blades. A sudden thread of images from the night before unspools in his mind: your hands, dropping from his hair down his back, resting over the ugly scar seared into his skin. Your nails, raking along his spine as you gasped his name. The flutter of your hands against his abdomen, exploring him; how they gripped his backside and pulled him hard into you.

An arm braces against the cold, sud-scummed tile of his shower and Sanemi’s forehead follows. Even the hot beat of the water can’t un-work the tension in his muscles, the way his body now demands to be reunited with you. He is powerless against this onslaught of memory; the flashes of you tangled up so perfectly with him; the scent of your hair. Your voice, God, your voice, sighing and moaning in his ear until he could focus on nothing but how to make you cry out louder, call his name –

With a frustrated grunt, Sanemi takes his stiffened cock in his hand and he works his frustration – and longing – out under the roaring spray of the shower until his spend washes with the soap bubbles down the drain.

—

Showered and dressed in nothing but his underwear, Sanemi paces his apartment. 

It’s not that he regrets doing what he did with you – he doesn’t, not by any means. And that’s exactly what makes him so selfish. 

Deep down, he’d wanted to be the one to do it – taking your virginity. For whatever reason, the universe decided to give him you, had brought you back into his life after years of him not sparing you so much as a passing thought. And he’d been weak, unable to stick to the code he’d sworn his blood, his body, to upholding. He’d broken it at the first opportunity, all but jumped at the chance of human connection after years of being starved for it, only to find that the first person he latched onto was also the one person who ever actually saw him; saw past the mask forged out of cruel rumors and his own blood-stained hands.

He should’ve known the moment you expressed anything more than mild interest in him that he was in danger. His impulses scream that he should run before the fallout of last night can catch up to him. To you.

Running is a temptation more dangerous than any of the heists or debt collections he’d ever carried out, even the one that left his face half-ripped open and bleeding. Dangerous not just by the amount of consideration he gives the idea of leaving the Corps and this rotting city behind, but dangerous because if he runs, he’s taking you with him. And that means exposing you not just to his enemies, but to all the consequences dealt to those who dare try and leave the Corps.

Sanemi paces and paces until he finally wears a tread into his shabby bedroom and collapses on his bed. He recites to himself the tenets of the Corps that he’d abandoned – namely, the rule for not getting attached – before a crude voice in his head sternly reminds him of the most important rule of all. The one even he doesn’t know if he can bend, let alone break. 

Number one: once you’re in, you’re in. 

No one leaves the Corps unless it’s in a body bag or because a higher-up forces your retirement, and the latter is usually reserved for those who survive bullets meant to kill. Those who will never be the same, if they even made it out of the hospital at all. 

There is no room for deserters, and none are tolerated. Whispers of plots to abandon the Corps were sniffed out and reported, the conspirators dealt with severely. They usually fell back in line once the reminder of the fate that awaited them should they try was thoroughly beaten into them – usually by one of the Hashira (including him). And Sanemi has shattered his fair share of the bones of those starry-eyed juniors stupid enough to think they were the exception.

In any event, leaving itself was only half the battle. Evading capture was a whole separate beast. The Corps didn’t take well to losing its investments, so their recovery was entrusted only to one person: the most senior of the Hashira.

A man Sanemi only knew by surname and his massive, hulking size, reserved primarily for guarding the Boss and his family.

Himejima’s success rate in tracking down and dealing with deserters is perfect. The few who’d tried since Sanemi’s own initiation had managed on their own a few days at most before they were caught. 

Bitterly, Sanemi supposes their wishes were granted, in a way. They did get out – but in a body bag, a bullet-shaped hole between their eyes. 

Without fail, photos of their lifeless faces – blood soaked, portions of their skulls missing – were circulated through the Corps’ networks, popping up on phones from unknown numbers.

A warning. A reminder. 

It is not just a risk – it is a guarantee, a nuclear bomb designed to snuff out any hope that other Corps members might follow in place. And even if he could try, Sanemi does not know how to ensure you won’t be caught in the blast zone. No Hashira has ever tried to escape, but he can imagine if any of them dared, they’d be made a bigger example out of than some rank-and-file Corps member. There is a mythos surrounding the Hashira even among the junior ranks, a sort of air that they carry. In his own days as a junior, he’d heard whispers comparing his now-equals to gods, because really, what else could not just survive, but prosper in a place that claims far more lives than it produces? 

That very mystique is why he can almost guarantee his defection would be met with a retaliation proportionate to the level of his betrayal. There would be no quick end for him; it would be brutal and drawn-out, his death a kindness they would make him beg for. 

No one leaves hell in one piece and Sanemi is no exception. He knows better than to think – than to wish – for different. The Corps will swallow him whole, suck the marrow from his bones and turn him to dust before that happens. 

But as the memory of your skin beneath his fingertips and your lips moving with his beckons him to sleep, he’d be damned if he said the idea of trying wasn’t tempting as hell.

—

The days mount alongside Sanemi’s self-loathing until almost a week has passed without so much as a word from you – or him, for that matter. 

It’s likely you’re only parroting his own radio silence, giving him space he’s made you think he needs. But the lack of your name above any notifications on his phone grates at him. 

It’s hypocritical of him to be bothered at all, given that he could just as easily pick up his phone and shoot you a text or give you a call. He knows that. But he sulks all the same. 

He sulks and sulks, his mood souring with every passing minute until not even his fellow Hashira risk triggering his bitchy attitude. Just when he thinks he might cave, might actually pick up his damn phone and put an end to the nonsense he’s created, Uzui dings him with a job, and all thoughts of you come to a grinding halt.

The job itself seemed straightforward enough: go to a pawn shop and collect on a payment owed by its broker. When the orders initially came through on his phone (always an unknown number, never the same one), Sanemi at first, was confused. He’s used to being called upon to help other Hashira on their jobs; used to being the extra muscle, the extra layer of intimidation needed to ensure promises were made good on. He looks terrifying; Sanemi knows this. His scars are just another weapon for the Corps to use, and it is not wasteful. Deals tended to go smoother, debts were paid, when they shook hands under the eye of the Corps’ boogeyman; the monster who’d come knocking should they forget their obligations.

Customers don’t know how to see past his scars. Not like you do, anyway.

But the job Uzui has sent him on isn’t like the others; for one, the obnoxious peacock isn’t accompanying him. Nor is the pawnshop broker in default yet on his payments, and the amount Sanemi’s been tasked with collecting isn’t particularly large. More perplexing, the instructions sent from the anonymous number were specific to direct him to pick up a burner car from Rengoku’s garage, an unusual command that made him click his tongue in annoyance. Sanemi doesn’t do cars. 

It’s not his place to question orders, however, so he doesn’t. He merely picks up the piece of shit car from its designated spot and tries not to put his fist through the dash when he struggles to figure out how to drive the stupid thing. As it stands, Rengoku currently owes him a favor, and he’d rather not waste it by having him forgive damage Sanemi does to his inventory.

The ramshackle store he’s been forced to pay a visit to teeters right on the edge of the Western Wing — Kizuki territory. 

Confusion gives way to suspicion the moment he steps inside the pawn shop. Throughout his gruff conversation with Uzui’s client, Sanemi is unable to shake the prickle at the back of his neck that only ever came from being watched.

Survival, as he’d learned, was in the details. It was about noticing the gaps between the counters, the foggy reflections in the display cases. He’s survived this long because he knew when a silent door had opened, could feel the slight shift in the air as it warmed a couple of degrees even when his back was turned.

It is these very observations, this very compulsion to be hyper vigilant every hour, every second of his life, that has Sanemi’s hand flying to the gun tucked into his hip the moment he sees the shadows in the glass ripple. 

It’s drawn and cocked, his finger ready to jump the trigger without a moment of hesitation, but no one ever comes inside. If the pawnbroker is taken aback, he doesn’t show it, and tensely, Sanemi reholsters his gun, though he keeps an eye trained on the front door. 

The moment he exits the pawn shop, Sanemi knows he’s being followed. 

It starts with a pair of headlights that flash in his mirror. Though evening is rapidly approaching, it is still far too light outside for the lights to be necessary, and Sanemi isn’t stupid enough to think they’re trying to signal that something is wrong with the burner car, piece of shit though it is. Helpful drivers don’t lay on their horns and whoop taunts out their windows.

His suspicion is confirmed when a second car jerks over into the opposite lane and rides even next to the one tailing Sanemi. It lingers for a moment, keeping pace with the other car before it falls back behind it.

Well, he knows that move; they were talking. Plotting.

That’s when all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the job clicks into place. Small job though it was, Sanemi knows anyone ranked lower than him would’ve already been sporting a bullet hole in their head. 

Really, he shouldn’t be surprised by the tail, and it’s even less of an oddity that he’d been instructed to take a car to pick up rather than his bike. Uzui had known he’d need the cover. 

They keep their distance while Sanemi weighs his options. He could try and lose them, but Sanemi is far better at ditching tails when he’s on his bike. This body hunk of metal on the other hand is foreign, its dimensions unfamiliar. Survival meant taking risks only when there were no other options, and he’s not there. Not yet. 

There’s a sharp pop and the glass on his side mirror shatters.

“Fuck.” His low growl slides out through clenched teeth. Sanemi throws his body down, willing the high back of his seat to give him the cover he needs. 

It was a warning shot; the chase is up and now, the cats are ready to catch their prey.

The tires squeal over the pavement as he wrenches the steering wheel sharply to the left, gunning down a side alley  nestled between the high rises of the business district. He’s too landlocked in civilian territory to risk anything more; he’ll have to try and lose them. 

Good thing Sanemi knows these streets like the back of his hand. He can only pray his tails aren’t as wise.

They know he’s affiliated with the Corps but not who he is; if they had, there would be no play, no production. These are lower-ranked Kizuki members — pathetically named Demons — who think they’ve caught themselves a fun little Corps member to toy with.

Sanemi lays his foot out on the gas. He’s no fucking mouse, and he’ll be damned if he end up in their trap.

His eyes flick to the rear view mirror. All he can see are the two sets of blinding headlines rapidly gaining behind him. 

He slams down on the accelerator as far as it will go, yanking the steering far to the right. The car Uzui had given him may look like a piece of shit, but right now, it’s his best shot at getting out of this in one piece. So far, Sanemi’s lifeline is holding fast, the tires squealing only slightly as he veers sharply off the freeway and flies down First Street. 

Somewhere over the cantankerous hum of the engine, his phone rings.

“What.”

“Looks like you’ve got a demon on your tail, Shinazugawa.” A familiar voice intones through his speaker.

Sanemi smirks into the phone. “Two. You offerin’ to help, Uzui?” 

There’s a crackly laugh on the other end. “Go south three blocks and take the first right. Gun through the light and then get down. It’s a straight road.”

Sanemi’s mouth thins. Three blocks south is Market Street, dangerously close to Center City — a hotbed of civilian activity, especially on a summer night like this. 

“No innocents,” he warns. “We ain’t them.” The implication is clear: we only kill the bad guys. 

A banal moral line, but they’ve got to draw one in the sand somewhere. 

“Just focus on getting back to base without a bullet in your skull,” Uzui dismisses, but his tone loses that playful edge as it always does when he means business. “We’re stretched thin enough as it is.”

“I’m in this shit because of you.”

“And I’m the one getting you out of it.” Uzui finishes smoothly. “Be grateful I was tracking your ass.”

Sanemi doesn’t know if he likes the idea of having his movements scrutinized but he can’t worry about that right now. He clicks his phone off and tosses it to the side, not caring whether it lands on the passenger seat.

Right now, he needs to get the fuck out of here.

A deft twist of the steering wheel enables him to narrowly avoid smashing into a minivan that tries to ease into the intersection Sanemi guns through.

If he’d been hoping the pedestrian van might slow down his pursuers, he is bitterly disappointed. They pull the same stunt, the poor driver of the van laying on his horn that no one pays any heed toward.

He shakes it off; doesn’t matter. He just needs to drive.

An unfamiliar beep sounds, further fraying his nerves. His eyes find the gas on the dashboard, and Sanemi unleashes a new string of vicious swears as he realizes the low light is dinging its warning. Leave it to fucking Uzui to stick him not just with a piece of shit, but a piece of shit with a low gas tank. 

Fuck, he hates driving cars. His bike allowed him to be far nimbler, to soar away from enemies as fast as the wind could take him. But his bike is back at the garage, so for now, he’s stuck with this lumbering hunk of rusted metal.

If by some miracle, it does its damn job and keeps him from having to make another unexplained trip to Tamayo to get a bullet fished out of his flesh, Sanemi swears he’ll never shit talk a car again. 

Another sharp crack of gunfire rips through the evening air, and Sanemi grinds his teeth at the sound of his tail light shattering. They’re getting bold; Uzui’s assistance will mean jack shit if he doesn’t get to Market soon. 

He whizzes by the signposts marking Central Avenue and Main; one more block to go. 

Behind him, an engine revs and Sanemi doesn’t have to look in his rearview mirror to know the tail is nearly at his bumper. He shifts forward in his seat, ruching his shoulders up as he guns harder for Market, the demarcating stoplight growing closer, closer – 

The light turns red but he does not slow; he sails through the intersection, jerking the car sharply to the right. The tires squeal and groan beneath him but the vehicle does not give. Turn cleared and hands glued firmly to the steering wheel, Sanemi throws himself to the side, ducking down below the dash. 

A half second later and the telltale spray of bullets nearly shatters his eardrums.

Adrenaline vibrates in his veins, forces his foot down harder on the accelerator. He doesn’t dare breathe, and doesn’t think he could try even if he wanted to; the air is lodged in his throat, a bubble threatening to choke him. Though his ears ring, it is not enough to drown out the screeching of tires against pavement, nor does it muffle the sudden, sickening crunch of metal as the car tailing him veers off the road and slams into something hard. Half a heartbeat later, the other car meets the same fate. 

The gunfire ceases for a moment and only the eerie echo of a horn lingers in the air, growing more distant with each inch he gains.

Sanemi counts the seconds. One, two – 

Three gunshots fire in rapid succession, now much more muted than that first initial barrage. Only when they fade does Sanemi chance pushing himself up, allowing himself to return to his normal position the driver’s seat, the car’s speedometer hovering somewhere near eighty. Somewhere in the distance, Sanemi hears the familiar wail of police sirens, no doubt already speeding for the chaotic scene that just unfurled behind him. Swearing, he eases his frantic hurtle down Market Street, falling in line behind a string of traffic flooding out of a nearby baseball stadium, its attendees blissfully unaware of the violence that nearly followed him into their midst. 

Three shots; three bodies between the cars behind him, now splattered across the interiors. Those final bullets were more a formality than anything; Sanemi suspects most if not all the car’s inhabitants had been killed in the initial blitz, but being in the Corps means being thorough. There are no survivors among enemies. 

His phone bleats its shrill ring and Sanemi’s hand shakes as he lifts it to his ear. 

“Clear.” 

Uzui hangs up and Sanemi finally exhales. 

—

He coasts back to base on fumes, but manages to sneak into a garage fashioned out of a converted warehouse, one made to store stolen vehicles like the one now guttering under the steering of his sweaty palms. 

The car screeches to a stop the moment he guides it into the safe shadows of the garage, the door quickly lowered behind him by a greasy-haired Corps member whose name Sanemi can’t be fucked to remember. Fighting to quell the faint tremor lingering in his hands, Sanemi pitches himself out of the driver’s side of the car and throws the keys at the kid, kicking the door shut behind him. 

Fuck, he hates when he’s rattled.

He swallows his anxiety, forces it back into whatever bottle it slipped free from as he crosses the alley toward the faintly glowing purple neon sign that marks his target location. 

The Wisteria Tree is a deceptively whimsical name for the grungy den of iniquity that serves as Uzui’s homebase. The club is one of three located in the Silo and one of many that are operated throughout the city, each location ranging from cheap strip joints to upscale nightclubs, making Uzui the biggest money-maker among the Hashira. Sanemi supposes that makes sense; as long as humans have lived, there’s been a market for selling bodies. 

At least Uzui takes care of his workers – pays them well, makes sure they’ve got the healthcare they need. He kept their bellies fed, and made sure Sanemi was on speed dial to take care of any customers who forgot that their dollars didn’t entitle them to rough up the merchandise. 

Whores, some might call those who danced atop the sticky, sleek bars inside Uzui’s joints. Not Sanemi. Long ago, his mother had worked the streets of the Silo, trading her feeble body for spare change that she devoted to the baby boy her bastard husband had saddled her with. Sanemi’s birth had weakened her already fragile health; Genya’s arrival a few years later was the nail in her coffin, their mother being found dead on a sidestreet not three months after he’d been born, half-dressed and a crumpled twenty-dollar note in her hand.

Perhaps if she’d been employed by someone like Uzui, she would’ve lived. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t, and Sanemi had long-since learned that if he let himself mourn every life stamped out by the Silo, he’d never stop. Surviving meant letting bygones be bygones, so Sanemi locked away his sadness for his mother in the space between his ribs, right alongside his love for Genya and you. 

And no matter; Uzui’s whores are all fiercely loyal to him and serve as the Corps’ best source of information in the City. People have a tendency to forget to watch their tongues when they believe themselves to be surrounded by nothing more than stupid whores. 

Time and time again, that was their mistake. 

It is dark inside The Wisteria House. The only light comes from clusters of strobing lights with colors that pulse and change in time with the beat thundering over the speakers, so loud that Sanemi can scarcely hear himself think. Though the night is young, the way the darkness inside the club swallows up any and all trace of the world outside its doors is enough to convince him he’s fallen down a rabbit hole into a land of perpetual midnight. Then again, the club thrives on sensory deprivation, relying on its ability to trick customers into thinking it’s still the wee hours of the morning, when alcohol flows freely and dollars rain from the ceilings to be tucked into the waistbands of non-existent thongs and the linings of jewel-crusted bras.

When people lose track of time, they lose track of their own inhibitions; it’s a smart business tactic on Uzui’s part. Already there are patrons lining the massive bar that sits in the center of the club’s main floor.

Stuffed far in the back behind the bar is a small hallway, nearly hidden from sight. Sanemi shoves his way back, stopping only before the unassuming door leading to the club proprietor’s office to allow the guards standing by to pat him down. 

Uzui prefers the company of women to men, and it’s that preference that has Sanemi on edge. While he’s certainly never been shy around handsy women, Sanemi feels wrong allowing them to touch him, though protocol demands it. 

Their hands aren’t yours.

The guards in question are two of Uzui’s favorite girls — Suma and Makio, if memory serves him correct. But neither are gentle as they search for wires Sanemi wouldn’t dream of being stupid enough to wear. 

Rough hands dip into the pockets of his jacket, his pants, before sliding down his legs. “You wanna check between my ass cheeks, too?” Sanemi snaps irritably. “Or under my balls?”

“If you’re looking for someone to make you bend over, Shinazugawa, then you’ve come to the wrong place. Uzui doesn’t mix business and pleasure.” A gruff voice — Makio’s, he thinks — chuffs back. 

He rolls his eyes. “Pleasure is his business.”

Neither woman bothers with an answer. 

“Clean.” One confirms to the other. Sanemi does not allow himself to breathe until those hands withdraw from him. 

Makio shoves open a door leading into Uzui’s office and waves him through. “Hina’s inside. Don’t linger.”

“Never do,” Sanemi grumbles, and he breezes past the two bodyguards without another word. The door swings shut behind him, muffling the thumping bass and grating dub music crackling through the club’s surrounding speakers.

For all the flashy glitz and seedy glamor of The Wisteria House, Uzui’s office is surprisingly subdued. Like the rest of the club, the small room is dark, but absent are the neon lights pulsating in time with overloud music. Instead, the office is lit by a handful of dimmed lamps and the few computer screens idly displaying the club’s logo.

A large desk stands at the back wall, flanked by one considerably smaller — more a repurposed table than anything. And behind the empty, high-backed leather computer chair neatly pushed in stands a large safe. Its door is an austere slate gray steel, one that gleams even in the muted overhead lights and takes up almost the entire back wall. The stout, wheel-turn lock looks untouched, and it’s just as much a silent brag that no one is stupid enough to fuck with it when they shouldn’t as it is a subtle dare that they try.

But Sanemi knows better.

It’s a decoy; no matter how much Uzui liked to make a spectacle of himself, he isn’t stupid enough to keep cash in such an obvious place. At least, not the type of cash that matters; not the kind Sanemi risked his neck to bring here. 

Another notable thing about this hole notched in the back of the club’s sticky walls? How neat everything is. Unlike the rest of The Wisteria House, the floor here isn’t tacky from spilled alcohol and god knows what else. The surfaces of every desk, of every cabinet is free from dust and smudged fingerprints, everything properly in its place and out of sight. 

It’s a rather stark contrast to the debauched chaos that plagues the rest of the club. If Sanemi were a betting man, he’d wager a fair amount of cash that the office’s tidiness had less to do with the club’s loudmouth owner, and more to do with the the pair of luminous violet eyes tracking his footsteps across the neatly swept floor. 

“I’m glad to see you made it back in one piece, Shinazugawa.” 

Sanemi snorts, but gives the woman seated behind the smaller side desk a tight nod. While Uzui may have expressed that sentiment with a hint of the dry sarcasm that he never dropped, Hinatsuru – the third of the silver-haired Hashira’s favored girls – was never anything short of genuine. 

If he were honest, the pretty, dark-haired woman reminded him a great deal of his mother. Her face was kind in the same way Shizu’s had been, unhardened by the hollowness of her cheeks or the shadows beneath her eyes. And, just like his mother, she always found the time to spare him a soft smile, one that seemed far too out of place in the dump they’d had the misfortune of being born into.

But where Sanemi would have normally been a bit more subdued around her, the afternoon’s events had left him far too unsettled, and he cannot remember how to blunt his bite.

He only hopes she understands. 

Crossing the space between the entryway and Uzui’s great, paper-covered desk, Sanemi pulls the envelope free from the inside of his jacket and dumps its contents over the desk’s surface. “Here’s his fuckin’ money.” 

The stacks thump pathetically against the stained wood, and Sanemi feels no compunctions about selecting the one nearest the top and shoving it into his pocket. He doesn’t bother counting out the amount; he knows how Uzui demands to have his cash delivered. Bundles of twenties, a hundred bills per strap. 

Sanemi’s brush with the enemy will cost his fellow Hashira two grand. 

“Tell him I took my cut. If he’s got an issue with it, then he can go get shot at next time. I’m outta here.”

If Hinatsuru disapproves, she says nothing. “You’re not going to lie low?”

“Fuck that.” Sanemi is already halfway out the door, his beaten leather jacket slung over his shoulder. “I’m goin’ to Kasugai. If you need anything, make it someone else’s problem.” 

He’s out the door before she can say goodbye. 

—

Kasugai is the nearest dive bar firmly nestled within the Corps’ territory. 

While he certainly has his vices (an entire contact list of them, at that), alcohol has never been one of them. But right now, the promise of a stiff drink is calling his name, and since he hasn’t been able to indulge in any of his past dalliances in the months since you became the only thing on his mind and heart, Sanemi is desperate for a distraction. 

By no means is it a respectable joint, but Kasugai is full of Silo rats like him, which means it’s the closest thing to a safe house that he has, apart from base. Not that anywhere in this City is safe for someone like him, but Sanemi takes his silver linings when and where he can.

He coasts his bike to the alley behind the dive and kills the engine. The faint scent of oil and grease lingers in the air, signaling it needs to be serviced soon. 

Great. He’ll be sure to pencil that in between smashing femurs and pathetically pining after you. 

The back door opens filling the air with a sudden rush of stale beer and the loud, slurred voices of the bar’s patrons. His irritation flares at the thought of having to shoulder through a throng of sweat-stained bodies sardined inside, and Sanemi decides he needs to take some of his edge off before he reaches the sticky bar top inside. He’s in no particular mood to smash in anyone’s teeth. 

Good thing he’d stopped to pick up a new pack of cigarettes on his way over; a few, quick puffs is sure to calm his agitation enough to allow him to avoid picking any unnecessary fights. Though he'd brazenly insisted to Hinatsuru that he didn’t care to lie low following the brush he’d had with the Kizuki, he knows better than to make a public spectacle of himself. If word got around that Sanemi Shinazugawa, the most brutal of the Corps’ Hashira, was getting drunk at shitty bars and starting brawls with the first scrappy asshole that made the mistake of looking at him the wrong way, more of those Demons would come sniffing, eager to make a name for themselves by taking him out. 

And Sanemi has no intentions of turning his recklessness with you into a greater pattern. He still has some interest in living, after all. 

He thumps the sealed carton of cigarettes against his palm, loosening the tobacco before flicking the lid open and thumbing one free. Stuffing the pack back into his jacket, Sanemi rummages through his pockets for his lighter. Once lit, he brings his cigarette to his lips and takes a long, indulgent drag. He holds in his breath for a moment, loosing it only when his lungs burn, the smoke curling delicately around his head.

The rush of nicotine eases some of the jitter in his limbs, quiets his racing thoughts. He needed this; if he can’t get his fix of you, then the cancerous little stick wedged between his lips is the next best thing. Puffing lightly on his cigarette, Sanemi pulls his phone free and flicks through his notifications. An update on a new shipment of fine jewelry from Iguro. A report from Genya’s school — his midterm grades. Gambling tickets that need collecting for Rengoku.

Not a single notification is from you. Just like the yesterday; just like the day before that.

Annoyed, he shoves his phone back into his pocket. Sanemi takes another harsh drag before flicking some of his ash to the ground. His irritable mood isn’t your fault, he knows; it has everything to do with his inability to make a fucking decision about if or how he moves forward with you. 

I love you, Sanemi.

You’ve laid all your cards out on the table already; it’s his own damn fault he hasn’t figured out how to show his hand. So no, he can’t be surprised you haven’t reached out, considering he hasn’t been able to say a damn thing at all. 

Since you’re already on his mind, he figures he might as well indulge himself and think about you some more; what you might be doing right then, on the other side of town. It’s Thursday, so you’ve already dealt with your weekly shipping orders, no doubt each box already inventoried, its contents swiftly organized and shelved. He wonders whether that new release he’s been waiting on has come in; the next installment in a series you’d turned him on to, one he’d stayed up for nearly a week straight devouring in the few precious moments of free time he’d squirreled away.

Do you feel his absence as keenly as he feels yours?  Since that night, there have been no movie nights, no cheap, greasy takeout dinners that he usually insisted on paying for in light of your pitiful earnings and inability to cook for yourself. He wonders whether you’ve settled back into your pre-him routine of relying on cereal for sustenance, and his mood sours even further when he realizes you probably have. After all, you’ve never shown a particular interest in your own well-being, as evidenced by your inexplicable attraction to him. 

Fuck, he shouldn’t be here. He’s not in any mood for watered down liquor, and he knows better than to try and drown his feelings into a glass. If he drinks, he’s liable to act like an idiot, calling you or showing up at your place without first taking all the precautions he normally does before opening you up to the risk of his presence. 

No, drinking is the last thing he needs to be doing right now, no matter how it might dull some of his edge. And unfortunately for him, the only thing he truly wants is exactly what he can’t have.

He takes one last, heavy drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. No sex and no booze; he really needs to come up with better vices. 

A quick glance at his phone confirms it’s late and he should probably fuck off home before he lets temptation entice him any further. He eyes the date on his home screen and thinks about the inquiry he put in with that firm in that obsolete, faraway city. 

He’ll need to pay it a visit soon; he’s got more shit to give them and, with any luck, a new account to open. But it’s been a few days since he’d received the confirmation that his query was under review, and the lack of response has him even more on edge. 

If his ruse is discovered, after all, it’s not just him who’s fucked.

Sanemi leans against the solid body of his bike and retrieves his helmet. He’ll give them another couple of days to respond. In the meanwhile, he needs to come up with Plan B, C, Plan whatever-the-fuck to ensure that all his soul-shredding work doesn’t go to waste once a bullet gets shoved through his brain. And perhaps sometime in between all his violence and plotting, he’ll grow a pair and figure out what the hell he’s going to do about you.

—

Crunch.

“P-please! I’ll p-pay, I s-swear —“ 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanemi dismisses. The skin on his knuckles split a while ago, but he’s long since stopped being able to feel the sting. “Heard it all before.”

Crimson spills down the man’s face, drips down his front from his nose, flattened on its side. His plea is garbled by the blood filling his mouth, quieting into a single, wet rasp as Sanemi socks his fist hard into his soft gut. 

When it came time to collect on the Corps’ debts, Sanemi finds he no longer needs to think about the how. How he breaks bones; how exacts the vengeance of his fellow Hashira when their ventures were taken for granted. Even the crow bar or steel pipe that inevitably ended up in his hand felt like a mere extension of his body, every swing, every crush of metal into flesh, pure instinct. Slipping back into this cool detachment is easy; it is a transition ingrained into his bones, the product of having spent years contorting himself into the perfect toy soldier. 

The man is still doubled over, choking and sputtering to catch his breath, when Sanemi throws him back against the wall.

Blood bubbles in the corner of his busted mouth. “P-please — tell Mr. Tomioka it was a b-bad bet, b-but the next one —“ 

“Mr. Tomioka said you could take that bad bet and shove it up your ass.” Not exactly how the dull waste of brain matter had put it, but close enough. “Where’s his money?”

The customer babbles some pitiful excuse Sanemi can’t be bothered to piece together. He takes note only of the number of stuttered syllables, none of which point to any drawer or lockbox, and all of which stack up to reveal the admission he’s so desperate not to make.

He doesn’t have the cash to fork over. 

His hands are tied, then. Sanemi has to do what only he can. 

Fingers tight around the man’s collar, Sanemi spins them away from the wall. The entire room shudders when he slams Tomioka’s bloodied patron down on his own desk, the wood creaking and groaning beneath the man’s mashed cheek. 

Before he can finish moaning his pained grunt, Sanemi takes his right arm and twists it sharply behind his sweaty back. 

“Fifty grand to The Striking Tide. One week.” He gets the man’s arm into position. “Last warning.”His target tenses beneath him, whimpering under the mounting pressure in his arm. “Or else the next time you see me, it’ll be at the Wisteria overpass.” 

The answering gulp of fear is confirmation that he understands Sanemi’s threat. All those dumb enough to dip their toes in the Corps’ Acheron learn rather quickly that the Wisteria overpass is where bodies go to disappear. Perhaps the taunt is overkill; after all, fifty grand isn’t worth the bullet. But it’s effective, judging by the trickle of urine that puddles on floor by the man’s feet. 

If he thinks that’s the extent of his warning, however, he’s sorely mistaken. Sanemi doesn’t deal in empty threats. 

Sanemi’s grip tightens. The arm joint pops and the man begins to beg. He knows what comes next; what Sanemi means to do, as he wraps his hand around the man’s wrist.

Blood spatters across the desk as he coughs his last plea. “N-no —!”

But there’s nowhere to run; nothing the man can do but scream as Sanemi gives a single, harsh jerk, snapping the bone. 

Message received; job done. 

So, Sanemi takes and he takes, and with every job completed, he reminds himself that this is what he truly is. A monster. A fiend. Not someone who might build a better life elsewhere, who could live normally – peacefully.

Not someone who deserves to have you. 

As usual, the numbness doesn’t set in until after he’s finished, while Sanemi scrubs blood from hands he knows will never fully be clean. It starts as a pit deep within his stomach, but it quickly blooms into a terrifying knot of twisted brambles that takes root in his veins. Before long, Sanemi is immune to the sting of cold water on his skin as he washes and washes, unable to hear the curses being spat in his direction by his bleeding, broken target with a hatred he can’t feel. 

“Fifty grand.” Sanemi repeats as he departs. His final warning sounds faraway, a disembodied voice that does not feel entirely his own. “One week.”

That unfeeling continues seeping into his bones until he’s heavy with it. By the time his bike roars through the rusted shipyard buttressing the Silo, Sanemi can’t even feel the wind whipping at his face.

The numbness follows him inside the shitty box he hardly calls home and Sanemi knows he needs a fix, and fast. A monster with a conscience is one thing; one without is a nightmare he’d prefer to avoid.

Your face flashes through his mind and some of his paralysis eases, but Sanemi pushes you away. Not now; not while he’s like this.

Though the practice of slumping on his couch and reaching for his phone feels familiar, Sanemi does not dabble in old habits. That particular cure for the gaping, gnawing paralysis that’s taken him over is one Sanemi hasn’t had the stomach for even before you’d so sweetly offered yourself to him. Now that he’s had you, he is doomed never to go back, and right now, you’re not an option.

And so, Sanemi scrolls through the contacts on his phone, his eyes glazing over at the series of entries marked by random emojis denoting his past distractions. He almost gives up, but then his half-hearted perusal turns up one name that sticks out over all the others. 

Sanemi’s thumb is tapping the phone icon before he can question whether he should. It’s been too long, anyway. More than three weeks, for that matter, so he’s due to make a call. 

Besides, it would do him some good to hear the little bastard’s voice. Especially right now, when his head and heart are so delightfully fucked.

He waits only two rings when the other line answers. 

“Aniki?”

“What are you doing?” Sanemi glances at the tiny clock on his microwave. “You just get outta class?” 

It’s a question Sanemi already knows the answer to given that he has every detail of his little brother’s schedule committed firmly to memory, but it’s an easier opener than hey, I miss you, you little shit. 

“Yeah,” Genya confirms and there’s a rustling on his end, like a bag being shifted between shoulders. “I’m on my way back to the dorms now, and then – uh, practice.” 

Sanemi snorts into the speaker. “You don’t have practice on Wednesdays. Try again.” 

While Sanemi knows he wields far more responsibility for Genya than most siblings would claim, he tries to toe the line between responsible older brother and overbearing parent as much as his paranoia will allow. So while he may know the first and last name of every person his brother associates with, their backgrounds, his teacher’s backgrounds, and every detail of his brother’s time at school, outwardly, Sanemi makes an effort to appear like he’s not butting too much into Genya’s life. 

But he won’t tolerate lying; especially not when it comes to Genya’s activities. His safety. 

His brother makes a disgruntled sound. “Well – I’m – we’re going to Tanjiro’s. For dinner. A few of us.” 

Sanemi rolls his eyes. “Just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean I give a shit if you hang out with ‘im. As long as he ain’t gettin’ your ass in trouble.” 

Not that Sanemi would be too concerned about Genya’s ability to handle himself – after all, his brother was raised in the Silo, just like him. 

In his youth, Genya had been as hot-tempered as his older brother; prone to thinking his grievances had to be aired out through his fists. As Sanemi grew older, he realized how much Genya resembled his father when he had his fist cocked back, towering over some kid who’d run their mouth for too long. And while Genya hated the old man as much as he did, Sanemi couldn’t help but wonder if his brother’s resemblance to Kyogo had come from Sanemi himself.

At the rate his anger had been progressing, Genya was on the path to a one-way collision with the Corps, just as Sanemi had been. The difference, however, was that as much as Genya resembled their father when enraged, he’d always known his little brother had their mother’s heart; her gentleness. He never would have made it far in the Corps, and Sanemi would be damned if he’d had to bury his brother, too. 

No matter how Genya idolized his elder brother, Sanemi would not allow him to follow in his footsteps. 

It wasn’t long after that he started swiping brochures for different boarding schools from the city library. The moment their old man turned cold, Sanemi shipped his younger brother away. 

Genya’s reproachfulness pulls Sanemi back out of his head. “He really is a good guy –” 

“I told you, I don’t give a shit if you hang out with him as long as your grades stay up and you’re keepin’ your nose clean.” Sanemi crosses his kitchen and yanks open his fridge, eyes narrowed as he scans the half-bare shelf for something to distract him. “I just think he’s annoying.” 

He settles on a beer and closes the door. Phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder, he twists the cap off and takes a hearty swig. “I wanna come up this weekend. See ya for a bit.” And to sweeten the pot, Sanemi adds, “Dinner on me. Anywhere you want.” 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “I – sure!” 

Though his brother cannot see him, Sanemi frowns. “What, I can’t come see you all of a sudden? Too cool for me?” 

“No!” Genya’s voice cracks slightly and for a moment, he sounds every bit the dumpling-faced, starry-eyed boy of Sanemi’s memory rather than the nearly grown sixteen-year-old he knows him to be. “I always wanna see you – but – I mean, is everything…good? With you?” 

Sanemi can’t help his rueful smile as he sets his beer on the counter. His brother knows him too well. “Yeah. I got some things I gotta talk to you about.” 

“Okay,” Genya sounds skeptical. “You sure you’re good?”

Your face flashes through his mind. “Yeah. It’s just nothin’ I wanna discuss over the phone.” 

It’s not a lie; Sanemi has wanted to see his brother for a while, but there’s an ulterior motive to his spur-of-the-moment decision to make the three and a half hour journey to Genya’s school. One that has little to do with his brother and everything to do with you. 

“Okay,” Genya repeats again, though he still sounds uncertain. “Sanemi –” 

“I’ll meet you at the campus entrance at five. Don’t be late, alright? I’m gonna be hungry.” Sanemi cuts his brother off. He’s not chancing bringing you up over the phone; not when enemies might be lurking in corners he hasn’t yet checked. Not after he’s spent most of his life living with one eye always open. 

It’s his brother’s turn to sigh through the phone, Genya knowing better than to try and argue. “Okay. I’ll see you then. I gotta get back —“

“Yeah, yeah, to the Kamado shithead. I know.” Sanemi snatches his beer up and takes another swig. “I’ll see ya Friday. Keep your nose clean.”

His brother grumbles his goodbye and Sanemi hangs up, more at ease now. Talking to Genya was the right call; his younger brother had a special talent for brightening his day, whether or not the little dumbass knew it. 

Now that he’s confirmed to be visiting Genya in a few days’ time, Sanemi knows he needs to plan for a stop along the way. It would be real fucking nice if the notice he’s been waiting on would come through. In fairness, it’s been a few days since he’d last checked for it, so Sanemi leans against his counter and unlocks his phone. He scrolls through the rest of his notifications and once he’s sufficiently depressed over the lack of any from you, he tabs over to a hidden folder.

To the untrained eye, the private folder  is unassuming; a collection of apps marked “Misc.,” hidden behind a single passcode. And even those who might be nosy, who might be too curious as to the type of shit Sanemi Shinazugawa stored on his phone would be sorely disappointed. In fact, they might write him off as no better than any other young, single man upon discovering a folder full of apps labeled as popular porn sites, their icons tiny thumbnails of their logos. 

Anyone who sought access to his phone would look for contacts, financials, some details about his involvement with the Corps or its overall operations. They would search his texts, his contacts, his photos, even. That was expected; anticipated. 

But Sanemi can’t imagine anyone — cop or Kizuki alike — who would give two shits about his porn habits. 

He taps the icon marked “BustyBeauties” and waits for the app to direct him to the first password screen, and then to a second. Only after he’s entered both passwords (separate, of course) does his secret email account finally open, its inbox barren save five entries. 

Right there, at the top, is the message he’s been waiting for. Eagerly, Sanemi opens and reads the letter, mentally tallying every instruction, committing each detail to memory. 

His impending visit to Genya really couldn’t be at a better time. He’d strategically chosen this firm because it is exactly halfway between here and the school. 

A quick confirmation back to his agent later, and Sanemi has his scheduled appointment time slotted just over two hours before he’s due to meet Genya for dinner. He then opens his contacts and finds the number saved under a single flame emoji, and brings his phone to his ear, waiting. 

The line picks up on the third ring.

“Rengoku?” Sanemi tips his head back and swallows the last contents of his beer in a smooth gulp. “Remember that job I did for ya a few weeks back? Got a favor. I need a car.” He pauses before adding, “And a suit.”

—-–

Life as a Hashira with the Corps entails few luxuries, but the one Sanemi appreciates most is the discretion. 

When he was a lower-ranked initiate, Sanemi couldn’t so much as shit without someone knowing about it. Time was money, and every moment not spent chasing paper for the Corps was money wasted. At best, that meant a dock in pay; at worst, you’d be treated no better than any other run-of-the-mill debtor. 

As a Hashira, however, he’s allowed a fair degree of wiggle room on his leash to do as he pleases, so long as a job doesn’t crop up. And even then, all it takes is a smooth lie or two to buy him some extra time, and that’s exactly what he gives Rengoku when he stops by his main hub that Friday morning to pick up his goods. 

“Recon,” Sanemi says simply, catching the keys to one of Rengoku’s many vehicles that he tosses his way. “Gotta blend in, y’know?” 

“Apologies for not being able to reserve something nicer,” his flame-haired comrade nods at the keys Sanemi twirls around a finger. “I’m afraid my luxury fleet is occupied at the moment.” Rengoku offers him a megawatt smile that reminds Sanemi of the flashy, bright billboards that dotted Center City — a product of top tier orthodontia, no doubt bankrolled by his family’s long-standing ties with the Corps. “Though I doubt anyone will notice while you’re wearing that suit.”

Sanemi waves him off. “Don’t sweat it. As long as I keep stickin’ my nose up, I’m sure I’ll fit right in with those rich fucks.”

Rengoku laughs heartily in response and Sanemi smirks. Though their backgrounds couldn’t be more different, Rengoku has always had a good sense of humor about the nature of the elite he’d been born into. It’s a good thing, too; after all, Rengoku’s silver spoon hadn’t prevented him from being sold off to the Corps, the same way Sanemi was. 

He follows Rengoku down to a secured garage, one insulated by three, pass-code locked doors, and guarded by a handful of junior Corps members. 

Despite his fellow Hashira’s apologies, the car reserved for him is a luxury model, even if Rengoku didn’t seem to think so. Then again, Sanemi supposes he and the burly blonde have very different definitions as to what constitutes high value transportation.

Whatever. It certainly isn’t the tin wad of junk he’d been forced to drive while getting shot at for Uzui, and that alone means luxury, at least to him. 

Sanemi hangs the suit bag from Rengoku in the back seat. He leaves his fellow Hashira behind with a firm handshake before lowering himself into the driver’s side and closing the door.  

Owlish, ochre eyes track him as Sanemi pushes the start button (of course it’s a push-start), the engine purring quietly to life. Mirrors adjusted and the A/C cranked low, Sanemi glides out of Rengoku’s garage as silent as a shadow, setting off down the road leading out of Center City and to the freeway. 

The car’s interior is all rich leather and gleaming accents, the dash controlled by a sleek touchscreen that Sanemi doesn’t dare sully with his fingerprints. The car is undoubtedly a brand new model; one any average Joe would jump at the chance to drive, and yet, Sanemi remains unimpressed. 

He still prefers his bike.

He stops at a gas station once he’s about sixty miles out from the city, eyes carefully scanning the parking lot as he totes the garment back inside. This particular rest stop has only single bathrooms, a preference of his when he travels. Better to have a door that locks out the rest of the world than to have to risk sidling up to some unknown enemy at the urinal.

The suit borrowed from Rengoku fits him like a glove, a serious but trendy shade of dark blue. The crisp white button down he wears beneath has been starched to perfection, and the glossy brown leather shoes he wears likely cost more than his monthly rent. 

Sanemi Shinazugawa’s childhood had been anything but typical. But if he’d been normal, he imagined this is what it would’ve felt like to play dress-up. Though everything has been perfectly tailored to him, he feels like a clown.

No matter; he has a part to play and the success of his performance heavily depends on his appearance. So, Sanemi swallows his pride in that gas station bathroom, dressing quickly in his costume. He leaves the top two buttons of his shirt undone, but makes sure the collar is precise and properly frames the lapel of his jacket. 

His choice of forsaking the gold tie clipped inside the garment bag is intentional; while his normal appearance would certainly raise red flags among the upper echelon of the society he’s about to pretend he’s a part of, so too would him being overly polished. Thus, this small act of intentional dishevelment only serves to further his own ruse, helps him assimilate into a world he has never once been a part of.

Besides, Sanemi doesn’t do ties. He can’t stand the tightness at his throat, choking off his air; the way it feels like he’s being strangled by blended silk. 

Dressed, Sanemi considers his reflection in the bathroom’s age and mildew-spotted mirror. It’s a miracle, the difference a tailored suit can make; he scarcely recognizes the face grimacing back at him. 

The sink tap squeaks as Sanemi runs the water, dampening his hand and smoothing it back through his hair. There. Now he looks passably proper, no hint of the brutish thug he knows he is in sight, save for the silvery scars that cover half his face. Jack shit he can do about those though, so Sanemi stuffs his discarded clothes back into the garment bag and shoves out of the bathroom, the tap on the sink still running behind him.

—

Another half hour passes before Sanemi takes the exit leading to a small town, about ten miles off the freeway. 

It’s almost jarring how quickly the world around him shifts from an endless stretch of asphalt to finely crafted brick and limestone. This town is a far cry from the gilded glamor of the City. It’s respectable; clean, without so much as a hint of an overfilled trash can in sight. Once he steps outside, he knows he will be greeted by the faint, lingering scent of summer magnolia blossoms, rather than the familiar, urine-soaked sulfur which encases the Silo. 

The median household income of this town is triple than that of even the City’s dwindling middle class. But the wealth of its residents is precisely what makes this town so unassuming. No one would suspect a gang rat like him would ever set foot in a place like this, let alone know how to blend in, and that is exactly why he chose this place to begin with. 

Sanemi cruises down a familiar cobbled street, passing stately brick townhomes that look more like mini mansions than the law offices and specialty practices he knows them to be. Then again, the people who live here wouldn’t deign to live in something as small as a townhouse, what with their sprawling estates on the other side of town, locked behind the safety of tall iron gates.  

It isn’t long before Sanemi slows to a stop right outside yet another colonial mansion. Car parked and engine turned off, Sanemi steps out and fastens his suit jacket with an off-handed ease, as though the motion is second-nature. As though he is used to traversing through wealthy streets in a custom suit. 

Gloved security men open the building’s double doors to him the moment his foot hits the first stair.

The inside of the bank is all rich wood and high ceilings. The wide floor is flanked by rows of tidy desks, each topped with antique banker’s lamps. Glass-walled offices line the perimeter, reserved for only the highest-value clients who wish to deal privately with their assets and away from any overly-curious ears. It’s toward these offices that Sanemi strides, his face schooled carefully into a mask of neutrality even as his pulse quickens. 

“Mr. Masachika,” a receptionist outside the furthest glass office nods to him, rising from her desk to greet him. “Punctual as always.” 

Sanemi returns her welcome with a closed-lip smile that makes her cheeks turn a faint shade of pink. The guilt he’d once felt over using the surname of a long-dead friend had run out years before, when he’d been young and desperate to get his brother the fuck out of the Silo.

Besides, he didn’t think Masachika would mind, if he knew his reasoning. 

Behind the glass wall, Sanemi spies the familiar face of his accountant. Her secretary pokes her head inside the door and murmurs his name, and the accountant’s eyes rise over the top of her computer. The receptionist is dismissed with a curt nod, and she steps aside. 

That’s his cue; Sanemi mutters a small thank you and the door behind him is pulled shut. He returns the accountant’s firm handshake and settles into the small, leather chair that sits opposite of hers, and waits. 

The entire office is encased in glass, offering both the accountant and every visitor a perfect, three-sixty view of the entire bank. From a practical standpoint, Sanemi can understand its use; this bank handles considerable assets, so it’s no wonder that even the accountants want to be able to monitor every movement, every face, which passes through its doors. 

Still, though, something about it sets him on edge; makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. A lifetime spent operating in the shadows means Sanemi hates feeling too exposed, and this fishbowl of an office is about as comforting as a helicopter searchlight. 

The accountant’s clipped voice snaps him out of his mounting paranoia. “It is good to see you again, Mr. Masachika. I see you’re here for an asset transfer, and perhaps to discuss a new account?” 

“Indeed I am,” the formality with which he speaks feels foreign, and yet, the words roll easily off his tongue. “The Principal’s estate has generated some new revenue, and it is his desire to add another family member as a beneficiary.” 

“I see.” The accountant’s fingers move quickly over her keyboard. “Before we begin, I will need to verify your identity and your legal authority.” Her eyes flash to his and she offers him an apologetic smile. “It’s an annoying formality, I know, given how familiar we are with you. But our system won’t allow me to proceed until I re-enter the information.” 

“Of course.” He presents her with the documents he’d had forged assigning him power of attorney over one Sanemi Shinazugawa (“the poor bastard was in a nasty car wreck. Practically a vegetable,” he’d told the accountant more than two years ago), and he waits. 

His palms are sweaty where his hands rest in his lap, but Sanemi resists the urge to fidget. His nerves are nothing new; he always feels anxious here, when he’s wearing the mask of another, more so than he would back home. At least his Hashira mask is not all that different from the core of what he is; here, the identity he assumes is his exact opposite, and the microscope he operates under feels more intense. 

The accountant enters the information with a punctual tap of her finger on her computer key, and turns her attention back to him. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, how may we be of assistance?” 

“Fifty thousand split between the two trusts for Genya Shinazugawa,” Sanemi says smoothly, reaching into the suit jacket pocket to produce an envelope full of a thick stack of cash and a folded piece of paper. “And another fifty into a new account, to be opened under this name.”

The accountant unfolds the sheet and skims the information, her lips pursed. 

A bead of sweat slides down Sanemi’s spine, the skin over his knuckles nearly turn white where his hand clenches in his lap, hidden from sight.

“Very well, Mr. Masachika,” the accountant nods before she begins promptly typing the information into her computer. “And we thank Mr. Shinazugawa for his continued business. Ms. Y/L/N’s trust will be active within the next forty-eight hours.” 

Beneath the ledge of her tidy little desk, the hand fisted on his thigh relaxes and Sanemi conceals his quiet sigh of relief by feigning a sneeze.

A contingency; Sanemi always has a contingency. 

—

It’s a quarter til five when Sanemi rolls to a stop outside the pristine entrance of his brother’s school. Classes have just let out, and already he can see the flood of boys rushing the courtyard and the quad, laughing away the stress of the day.

Car parked, Sanemi stretches and waits.

He finds Genya easily; the boy sticks out above the others mulling about the campus in the late-afternoon sun by his height and brawn alone, but his mohawk is what really sets him apart. For as long as he could remember, his brother had always worn his hair like that – a mop thick, dark hair carefully arranged, the sides of his head always sheared close to his skin. The school’s dress code had initially prohibited it, and ten-year-old Genya had thrown himself a right little temper tantrum when he was ordered to shave it. 

A well-placed bribe by Sanemi enabled the admin to overlook it. He hadn’t been able to eat more than a can of beans for an entire month after, but it was worth keeping his brother happy. 

Genya loiters under one of the campus streetlamps, his arms folded over his chest, his face set into what he must imagine is a menacing scowl. 

Sanemi snorts to himself. What a little showoff. 

He types a quick text to his brother and watches as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, his head shooting up. All of that feigned coolness melts away the moment Genya spots him standing at the bricked archway marking the school’s campus. In an instant, Sanemi’s little brother is bounding toward him with a lopsided grin, half-stumbling over his feet in excitement. 

With his uniform rumpled, a casual carelessness only a teenager could spare, Genya looks every bit the boy Sanemi himself never got to be.

It is not self pity that sinks into his gut at the thought; it’s relief. Because that means Sanemi has at least done something right in his life. 

“Aniki!” 

“Hey, brat.” Sanemi returns his brother’s wide, toothy grin with a half-smirk of his own. “How’ve ya been?” 

Genya skids to a halt in front of him, his arms half raised as though he means to hug his brother, before they drop back to his sides. When he was a boy, Genya was prone to throwing his arms around Sanemi’s neck whenever his brother returned home with a small bag of candy, or a cheap little toy car he’d managed to swipe from the corner store, pealing with laughter and gratitude that always left Sanemi feeling slightly embarrassed, even as he’d pat his brother’s back.

That impulse, it appears, still lingers, but Genya tampers it down, perhaps too aware of the number of curious eyes that watch the two of them. Sanemi resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, his brother has an image he wants to maintain. Probably the same tough-guy bullshit he liked to front in his youth, when he pretended like he didn’t beg his big brother to tote him around on his back.

“‘M fine,” Genya rocks back and forth on his heels. “You?” His eyes are wide as they count the new scars peppering the skin of his exposed forearms, some snaking their way up to his elbow before disappearing under the rolled cuff of his sleeves. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Sanemi cuts off his brother’s question before the boy can find the nerve to ask it. “Side effect of the gig. You know that.” He tugs at the shirt’s starchy collar in discomfort. “Where’d ya wanna eat?” 

“There’s a good breakfast buffet a few blocks away. All you can eat.” Genya rubs the back of his neck, shy. “Good for the dollar too.” 

Sanemi scoffs. “We’ll stop there on the way back. I’m takin’ you to get something decent first.” Sanemi throws an arm around his shoulders and tries not to scowl at the fact he has to stretch up somewhat, his brother now standing a good inch taller than he. “They feedin’ you here? You feel scrawny.” 

Not entirely true, but Sanemi feels rather bruised that his brother has surpassed him in height. Now, the only thing he has over him is his own brawn, though from his cursory squeeze of Genya’s shoulder, he finds that his brother runs the risk of catching up to him in that department as well. 

It takes no time for them to fall into their respective roles: Genya, immediately launching into a rambling play-by-play of every single thing he’s done since they’d talked a few days later, so animated he hardly remembers to take a breath. And Sanemi easily assumes his role as the listener, occasionally scoffing or rolling his eyes as his brother recounts his antics. 

As they walk, Sanemi supposes that from afar, they look more like friends than a pair of brothers. But despite having the advantage of height, Genya’s youth is betrayed by the way he curls in on himself as he walks, his shoulders slumped and his head half-pulled in like that of a turtle. 

Normally, he’d admonish his brother’s poor posture, but he lets it slide. Because, despite the mildly disinterested set of his mouth, Sanemi is far too happy to see his brother’s unscarred, smiling face.

—

Despite a rather extravagant meal at one of the best steakhouses in the area, Sanemi knows his brother is still hungry, and that is how they end up at Genya’s suggested diner not twenty minutes after Sanemi had paid their first bill. 

“Seriously, the hell am I payin’ them an arm and a leg for?” Sanemi scowls as Genya lopes back to their table booth, the plate in his hands piled high with pancakes, eggs, and bacon, enough to give anyone the distinct impression his brother had not eaten a decent meal in weeks. “Thought their big braggin’ point was the gourmet dining hall they have. Buffet style and shit.” 

“Yeah, but they cut you off after fourths.” Genya’s eyes gleam, his fork hovering over his bounty as he decides what to start on first. “It’s okay though. Zenitsu and I sneak food back to the dorms all the time.”

He settles on his pancakes right as a waitress brings over their drinks — a soda for him and a hot tea for Sanemi. 

Genya points at the empty stretch of table before his brother with his knife. “Not hungry?”  

He lifts his mug by its steaming rim and blows on the liquid. “Not like you.”

Genya shrugs and tears into his pancakes with the same vigor as a hyena does its prey, forgoing his knife in favor of ripping off large chunks of the sweet with his teeth.

Sanemi waits until his brother has chewed his first mouthful before he speaks. 

“I saw your midterm grades. Good work.” 

Genya’s head shoots up from where he inhales his food, his eyes wide. Just as quickly he straightens and drops his gaze again, his cheeks, red.  

“Thanks, Aniki.” He murmurs after a thick swallow, bashful. “I know my math grade wasn’t the best —“

“It’s an improvement from last term. That’s all I care about.” Sanemi takes a measured sip of his tea and scowls. Too weak. He’s been spoiled; you always know how to make it the way he likes. 

But there’s nothing else he can distract himself with in the periods of silence in which his brother shovels his food into his mouth, so Sanemi forces himself to drink it. The liquid is still piping hot, enough so that it burns his tongue, but he pays it no mind. His scorched taste buds just make it easier to choke it down.

“You hangin’ with anyone else? Or just Kamado and the other shits?” He asks after a moment, his eyes sharp over the lip of his mug. Anyone new? Anyone I haven’t properly vetted?

“Still ‘em,” his brother answers through another garbled mouthful of pancake. “Muichiro ‘n Zenitsu, too.”

“What about the other one?” And when Genya raises a confused eyebrow, he clarifies. “The one with rabies.”

His brother snorts and swallows half a piece of bacon. “Inosuke?”

“Yeah. That thing.”

“He doesn’t have rabies — he wore a taxidermied boar head one time —“

“Yeah, and you dumbasses ended up in the Dean’s office because he’d stolen it.” Sanemi narrows his eyes, annoyance flaring at the memory of the phone call he’d received right in the middle of breaking Maeda’s left leg. He’d had to shove the toe of his boot into the rat’s mouth to keep him quiet while he’d borne the brunt of the Dean’s condescending lecture about why it was unacceptable for students to break into the science and tech building mess with the school’s natural history displays. 

As though he’d been the one to break curfew and at least half a dozen other school rules, and not his shithead brother. 

Genya only shrugs and returns his focus to his food. He hunches over his plate, leveling his mouth with its edge as he shovels in the rest of his pancakes.

Sanemi watches in muted distaste as his brother shifts to attack his eggs with the same ferocity, only remembering to come up for air to take a long gulp of his drink. 

“There’s a girl, Gen.”

The boy’s head snaps up, his jaw slack enough that a dribble of his soda escapes down his chin. 

Sanemi wrinkles his nose. “Close your mouth.”

“Sorry,” Genya swallows thickly and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “A girl?”

“Yeah.”

“A real one?”

Sanemi chokes on a slurp of his tea. “The fuck does that mean?”

“N-nothing!” Genya turns bright red and shrinks beneath Sanemi’s accusatory glare. “Just, you’ve never — at least, you’ve never told me about anyone you’re seeing —“

“That’s ‘cause I don’t see anyone.” 

His brother eyes him carefully. “But…you are now?”

For a moment, Sanemi says nothing; he only plays with his unused knife, spinning it on its tip as he considers his words.

“Things…escalated. Between us.” Sanemi frowns. It’s the most judicious way he can put it; he doesn’t exactly air the details of his sex life to his younger brother on principle, but at the same time, there’s no other way he can phrase it. “And I don’t know what’s gonna happen going forward.”

The implication of exactly how things between Sanemi and you changed is not lost on his brother, and Genya’s cheeks turn a faint red. He focuses hard on his half-eaten eggs before him, pushing them around with his fork. 

“You…like her though, right?”

Sanemi grimaces. Far more than that, actually. It’s a truth he’s hardly been able to admit to himself, save his silent utterance against your hair long after you’d fallen asleep on him that night. 

He’s in love with you. And fuck if that’s not the most terrifying damn thing in the world.

Genya must realize it too, for he only offers a soft “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” Sanemi leans forward on his elbows, his hands folded under his chin. “And fuck if I know what to do about it. Woulda been easier if I hadn’t crossed the line, but well,” he gives his brother a wry grin. “Since when have I ever made shit easy for myself?”

For a moment, there’s no sound but that of Genya’s fork scraping across his plate. “What does she think?” 

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her in a few days.”

Genya’s eyes widen in something like horror. “You mean - you all —“ he turns scarlet. “You all did  — whatever — and you haven’t talked to her since?” 

His face heats and Sanemi disguises his discomfort with a cough that he tucks into his mug as he forces himself to drink the watery tea.  

Only when he can’t avoid his brother’s discerning look any longer does Sanemi set his cup down. “Shit, Gen,” he runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know what to do about her at this point.” 

The boy turns his fork over again and again, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “You want to be with her though, don’t you? Like, date and stuff?”

Sanemi scowls. “I don’t know. I’ve never really dated anyone. You know how shit is. The risks. I can’t even be a normal brother to you, so I sure as shit ain’t boyfriend material.” 

Genya chews on his lip and then shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission, I guess.” He glances up and this time, he doesn’t cower under the intensity of his brother’s gaze. “Are you?” 

But Sanemi doesn’t know the answer to his brother’s question, and if he did, he supposes he wouldn’t still be stuck in this limbo.

“You’re allowed to be selfish, Aniki.” Genya’s voice softens to something almost gentle. “You’re allowed to do things that’ll make you happy. I wish you would.” 

Sanemi doesn’t have many memories of their mother, but he does remember how she spoke to him. Always kind, always loving in a way that made him feel a flutter of happiness; a warmth, even when the lights at home had been cut off, and they were slowly freezing half to death. 

That’s exactly how Genya speaks to him now, and it makes him want to squirm. He’s already feeling too emotionally exposed thanks to his feelings for you; he doesn’t need to turn to mush in front of his baby brother simply because Genya managed to inherit all the good of a woman he’d never known. 

Gruffly, Sanemi clears his throat. “I’m tellin’ you all this for a reason. You know how I’ve got stuff for you, if somethin’ happens to me?”

His little brother scans anxiously behind him, before answering in a hushed voice, “The accounts?”

“Jesus, be more obvious, why don’t you?” Sanemi rolls his eyes and brings his mug to his lips. He tips his head back and swallows the rest of the cup’s watery contents in a single gulp. “Yeah. Those. You still got that lockbox with all that shit in it?” 

The one Sanemi had brought to his brother’s dorm in the dead of night and had him shove beneath his bed. Genya nods. 

“Good,” Sanemi reaches into his jacket and pulls free a small envelope folded twice. “Put this in there, too. It’s for her. You know the drill. I wrote down all her info on the cover sheet. If anything happens, give her a call and have her meet you outside the City. I don’t want you going near it, understand?” 

Genya nods and accepts the parcel Sanemi slides across the table, tucking it safely into his own jacket lining.

A waitress brings them their check and Sanemi tosses a few bills onto the table. They wait for Genya to chug the rest of his drink and then the two set off, the bell above the door chiming as it swings shut behind them.

It sounds just like the one that dangles above your store door. 

—-

The walk back to Genya’s campus takes considerably longer than it should, though the diner is only about four blocks away. Not that Sanemi minds; in fact, he’s purposefully walking slower, wanting to stretch out the minutes until he has to bid his brother goodbye as long as he can. Whether Genya knows, or whether he’s simply acting on his own hesitancy, he can’t say, but his brother seems not to be in any more of a hurry than he is. God knows the next time Sanemi will get to see him. 

If he’ll see him again at all. This single day of pretend away from the Corps hasn’t changed shit about his life expectancy, and Sanemi wants to savor every moment he can. 

All of it is for him, after all. 

Soon, far too soon, the iron and stone gates of the school come into view, and Sanemi steels himself against the impending goodbye. His brother never failed to look at him with the same, wide-eyed trepidation he’d had the very first time Sanemi had brought him here; a child-like fear of the unknown, even though Genya was all-too aware of his brother’s likely future. It was an anxiety that never failed to make Genya hug him harder, cling on longer than he should, until Sanemi was forced to push him away.

It killed him, every time.

He won’t get choked up in front of Genya – he won’t. He’ll swallow his heartache, choke it back until only a tear or two escapes down his cheek as he drives away, the school and his brother safely in his rearview mirror.

Sanemi turns to his brother, dread curdling in his stomach. He parts his lips, ready to give him the gruff, guess I’ll be headin’ out, that always precipitates this most dreaded goodbye, but his brother speaks up first.

“I think,” Genya hesitates, his mouth opening and closing before his lips press into a firm line. “I think you should decide what you want. Our whole life, you’ve been making decisions to survive, y’know?” And he shakes his head. “You’ve never done what you wanted. I’m grateful for everything you’ve given me but —“ 

Genya trails off for a moment and looks out to the proud, stately campus quad sprawling before them. “I think it’s time to be selfish for once, Aniki. You’ve earned it. You can’t survive on your own.” He turns back to his elder brother with a wan smile. “You know that better than anyone. Used to tell me all the time.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting Genya to say, but it sure as shit wasn’t that. It isn’t often that he’s caught off guard; even less than he’s left at a loss for words, and for once, Sanemi finds it difficult to meet his brother’s eyes. “It’s not that simple. Me bein’ selfish has consequences.”

“But — I mean, you’ve already made a choice in a way, right?” Sanemi’s gaze snaps to him as Genya’s hand pats his jacket, right over where the envelope bearing your name sits. “You might as well enjoy it.”

He stares at his brother for a long moment until Genya’s cheeks turn pink. “When the fuck did you get so grown?”

“Yeah, well,” his brother shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks at a stray pebble. “Maybe you just needed to hear you’re allowed to be a little happy.” 

“You sayin’ I’m a grouch?” 

“Yeah,” Genya admits with a toothy grin. “You’re a real asshole sometimes, y’know? Maybe she can make you nicer.”

Sanemi mirrors his shit-eating smirk. “An asshole, huh?” With a viper-like swiftness, he locks an arm around his brother’s neck and yanks him down, mashing his knuckles into Genya’s head. “Still an asshole when I let you eat a hole through my wallet?” 

“Ani — Sanemi —!“ Genya wrestles with Sanemi’s arm, helpless against his elder brother’s playful assault on his carefully-styled mohawk.

Sanemi lets himself indulge in this brief moment of rough-housing and for a second, he imagines this is what it would’ve been like had life dealt them a less-shitty hand. Just two brothers, wrestling on the lawn, laughing with a freeness neither one of them had ever known. 

Just two boys. 

But like all good things in his life, the moment ends, and Sanemi straightens, his grin sliding from his face. Genya sorts himself out, too, though his eyes turn sad. 

“Guess you gotta hit the road, right?” 

Sanemi swallows around the lump growing in his throat and nods. “I’ll text ya when I’m back.”

As tall and brawny as his little brother is, Genya looks every bit a kicked puppy as he stares hard at the ground, his lips mashing together in an effort Sanemi knows is meant to keep himself from crying. 

“Stay safe, Aniki.” His voice is small. 

A hand reaches out and clasps the boy around the shoulder, pulling him into a firm hug. “I’ll try,” Sanemi says roughly, clearing his throat. His brother’s arm squeezes tightly around his neck, and Sanemi closes his eyes, allowing himself to imagine, just for a moment, that they are kids again. 

He claps Genya on the back and pulls away. “Go on,” he juts his chin toward the dorms. “Not having you gettin’ your ass chapped over missing curfew on my account.” 

The boy rubs at his eyes and fakes a yawn to cover how they water. “I know. Thanks, Aniki. For visiting.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanemi waves him off, flashing him a crooked grin. “Don’t get all mushy on me. Get back to your studies.” 

With that, Genya turns and shuffles back toward his dorm, periodically looking over his shoulder. Sanemi holds his arm up in farewell, and stays there until his brother is safely inside and out of his sight.

And only then does he lower his hand to wipe at the tears misting in his eyes. 

–

The entirety of the more than three-hour drive back to the City is completed in total silence. 

It’s done out of preference, more than anything. Sanemi is too used to his bike’s lack of a radio, the rumbling purr of its motor, the only noise that accompanies him on his rides. The radio carries too much potential for distraction, and Sanemi won’t impair his senses if he can help it. 

Besides, after Genya’s too-shrewd observations of the shitshow that is his lovelife, Sanemi needs the hours to think. 

The day he’d been initiated as a Hashira was the day Sanemi’s future had ended. The moment he’d been pushed to his knees, his shirt stripped from his back, he understood that his life began and ended with the Corps. As he’d searched the faces of the other Hashira, noting the youth in each of their features, he’d known that his expiration date was likely sooner rather than later. It was only logical; to rise up to the level of Hashira meant you had skills that painted a target on your back. To claim a kill on one of them meant solidifying your own status within whatever fringe group you belonged to. When the Kizuki came along, they’d only upped the ante, offering exorbitant payouts to even non-affiliates who could deliver on a Hashira’s head.

So yeah, Sanemi had known his chances of making it out of his twenties were slim to none. He thought he’d given up any idea of growing old the moment Uzui placed that searing hot iron between his shoulders, every trace of a future untainted by blood sizzling away under the pop and crackle of his burning skin. 

Until you. 

Your simple existence had been a seed that was cultivated the longer he’d gotten to know you, one that blossomed into a portrait of what his life might be, rather than what it is. And once he’d seen it, he’d not been able to look away. It was a life of happiness; unshackled and unburdened by the Corps, the stains of his misdeeds finally washed from his skin. One that ends not in a spray of gunfire and an unmarked grave, but when he’s old and gray, surrounded by kids and grandkids, tangible proof of a life long-well lived.

A life created out of his love for you. With you.

It was one thing for him to keep these reveries locked tightly in his heart, only to be taken out under the dark cover of solitude and handled carefully, a fairytale like those in that book with the story of the beauty and the beast. To keep them confined to a secret sanctuary for him to retreat into whenever he needed to pull himself out of that gaping numb chasm that always opened in his chest after a particularly bad job. He’d never need to seek comfort or distraction in the arms of another again, not as long as he had this small dream of what could’ve been to keep him warm. There would’ve been no need to get you involved at all, save the permanent place you’d hold in his heart.

You would be safe and he would’ve been alone, as intended. As needed.

But he’d gotten greedy; and when you’d looked up at him, sweaty and naked and vulnerable, and told him you loved him, Sanemi had seen how that small, glowing dream of his was more than what could have been. It was what still could be. 

Sanemi rests his hand on his fist, his left arm propped on the ledge of the driver’s window as his other guides the steering wheel. Never before has he felt so torn between two paths. Then again, he’s never been presented with a choice; he has only ever been forced to adapt to the shit life hurled his way. 

And it had thrown one hell of a wrench at his head through you. 

I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission. Are you?

Sanemi sits up, eyes widening in thought. His brother’s question packs more punch than he’d initially realized, settling over him like a weight as he drives. 

Is there any choice left to be made at all? 

Perhaps the part of him that has screamed and cursed his stupidity for doing the one thing he’d sworn not to do hadn’t been his own conscience at all. Perhaps it had been the Corps’, and Sanemi, too accustomed to being an extension of its will, had simply been unable to know the difference. After all, wasn’t that the entire reason he’d let himself be forced to his knees all those years ago to be branded – in order to forsake his own identity so he might be re-forged into a weapon through burning hot iron? Had he not whored himself out, allowed himself to be bent and molded and beaten into the perfect shape of a soldier in exchange for the promise of a filled belly and the chance that Genya might be free of the cage they’d been born into? 

That had all been before; he’d lost himself somewhere between the stench of his burning flesh and the black, twisted underbelly of the Corps. And it wasn’t until you appeared that Sanemi had dared to wonder whether he might find his way back to himself. 

You were the comet that streaked across his perpetual gray sky; the light in the dark whose fire revealed the beauty in the shadows of his small world that he hadn’t known existed. Was it selfish of him to want to pluck you from the horizon and tuck you into his pocket, for keeps? Perhaps. But Sanemi had spent so much time alone in the dark that he hadn’t been able to help wanting to cling to what little brilliance had been brought into his life.

I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission. Are you?

Genya had hit the nail right on the fucking head. All this time, he has been agonizing over what he should do without any consideration as to what it is he wants. After a life of having to make decisions to survive, he really shouldn’t have expected anything less — he simply didn’t know how to do anything different. But he’d made a choice the moment he’d laid you back against your blankets, drunk on your lips and ensorcelled by the feel of your skin sliding with his.

So what does he want? 

The answer is easy; so easy, in fact, even his kid brother could see it.

He wants you. Only you.

Don't worry, he's gonna go get her.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

[pinkberrytea]

He had tasted you once; now, he craves every inch of your being, his hunger insatiable.

Little death—a gift he bestowed upon her, and which she bestows upon him in turn. As her lifeblood touches his lips, Astarion reminisces about the fateful eve when he first sank his fangs into her pretty neck.

Come, gentle night; and when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars.

Astarion x Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 3.1k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: I can't be the only one who is convinced my man is down bad since the very first bite, right? he is so interesting to me! I wanted to explore this idea further, hopefully I did it justice. thank you for reading!

tags: blood drinking; fluff & smut; possessive behavior; masturbation; body worship; mildly dubious consent; dry humping; somnophilia

“Later on, when we are at rest, I will eat you right up. Just enough to give me strength, and just enough to leave you wishing for more.”

Footsteps. You hear them approaching, although in your half-unconscious torpor, you can’t tell if they’re near or far. You’re likewise unsure of what has disturbed your sleep, even if as of late, nights have been restless and plagued by nightmares, the worm etched in the recesses of your brain a constant, unforgiving reminder of your plight. Your mind is still hazy, fragments of your dreams clouding your thoughts, so you rely on your primal instincts instead—you smell nothing but the crisp evening air, feel nothing but the cool breeze caressing your warm body, see nothing but endless darkness from behind your closed eyelids, but your ears don’t fail you. You instinctively hold your breath, muscles tensed, staying as still as possible as if playing dead; the footsteps are now almost upon you, the crunching of leaves growing louder and muffling the noise of the crickets singing, and your skin becomes covered in goosebumps in anticipation, the pit of your stomach twisting and turning. Whoever it is, you seem to be their intended target.

Suppressing the mounting panic rising within your chest, you try to gather your bearings and make sense of the situation. You know where you are—Elturgard, or more specifically, a camp in the wilderness, somewhere between Elturel and Baldur’s Gate. Finding a cure for the parasite wriggling in your head is the reason you’re here, and the companions with whom you’re sharing your camp are afflicted by the same condition. Ah, your companions—the footsteps must belong to one of them, surely. The soothing heat of the campfire has significantly dwindled compared to how it was when you turned in, its crackling so low you can barely hear it, and the night is sufficiently chilly that your bedroll fails to offer enough shelter, so you wonder if they are about to tend to the dying flames, or maybe ask you to help them do so. You wait expectantly, pricking up your ears, but suddenly, the crunching sounds come to a halt, and you sense a presence looming over you. A shiver runs down your spine, and your heart starts beating faster, thumping so loudly you’re afraid it may give away your awakened state. The presence silently kneels down beside you, crawling even closer, too close for comfort; and then, you feel it—cold digits ghosting over your cheek, their featherlight touch almost tentatively soft.

Astarion.

Now you remember. You offered to let him feed on you earlier, a habit which you’ve unexpectedly picked up in recent days, although the reason for such eludes you. Perhaps it was his pained expression when he asked you the first time, or maybe something else—you’re not entirely certain, but the fact of the matter is, he is here, except unlike other nights, you are fully aware of your surroundings. Not only that, it has been no more than a fortnight since your little tryst in that pretty clearing, which it seems both of you are intent on pretending never happened. You more so than him—it would be insincere of you to claim you haven’t noticed the dangerous glint in his eyes, how he leans closer when you talk, the cunning smirks and wistful glances. Truth be told, you’re still unsure what to make of it all; none of it is how you expected it would be, not your time together, and certainly not the aftermath. Him, too—though it may be bold of you to assume so, you can’t help but think that his show of vulnerability, however brief, had not been intentional. Ever so often you idly muse over the raw perplexity etched across his face when you invited him to drink from you then, how he looked at you in utter disbelief, letting the mask of a debonair lover slip for a split second; how his kisses became more fervent, his touches less calculated, the confusion never truly seeming to leave him until you were done. And then, the morning after—the hurt in his voice, the complex feelings he appeared to be trying to suppress seeping from every word, as if he had been prepared for anything and everything but genuine yearning, and you ruined it all for him.

“This isn’t about hunger. It’s about pleasure.”

The digits on your cheek slide downwards, gliding across the curve of your jaw and towards your slender neck, where they stop for a brief moment, only to then press down on it, feeling around as if searching for something—an artery, pulsing so very tantalizingly with your precious crimson, a feast set out entirely for him. With his other hand, he gently runs his fingers through your hair and brushes it behind your shoulder, exposing his prize, and repositioning himself to straddle you, he lowers his head until his mouth is hovering right above it. He stays like this for a while, and your blood runs cold as it dawns on you that he may have noticed you are not asleep, but before long, his skin finally comes into contact with yours—however, rather than the sharp pain you’d been expecting, you feel only the pillowy softness of his lips; a tender kiss, which is then followed by another, and then another. One of his hands stays tangled in your hair, cradling your head, and he splays the other on the ground beside you to support himself. His fangs lightly graze the throbbing vein with each peck, almost teasingly, until finally, he sinks them into the sensitive flesh, carefully and steadily so as not to wake you. The uncomfortable sensation is not foreign to you, although it is clear he has become more accustomed to this, even if you have not; his technique has significantly improved, and after the initial stab, it hardly hurts anymore, other than a dull ache every time he swallows, which he does quite enthusiastically.

“Just you and me and—well, maybe a little death?”

Letting out low grunts and guttural moans as he drinks, Astarion sucks ever so vigorously, seemingly more at ease due to your apparent lack of consciousness. Your face gradually grows warmer as you notice tension building up low in your stomach, the noises he makes and the feeling of his plush lips and wet tongue against your skin causing your body to react with pathetic wantonness. You try to stifle the impending arousal, doing your best to remind yourself that he is only feeding, nothing more, nothing less; until you notice the hand on which he had been leaning make its way from its place on the ground to rest on your waist, gingerly moving upwards until his long fingers brush against the plump of one of your breasts, almost as if by accident—it is, however, no accident when two of them then pinch a pebbling nipple through the thin fabric of your nightshirt, delicately massaging the pert nub while the others knead the squishy surrounding flesh. The ache between your legs swells with desire, and you flusteredly bite back the whimper threatening to escape the confines of your closed mouth; believing you to be deep in slumber, he has no reason for such restraint, and his vocalizations increase in frequency and volume alike. 

Having to now use his upper body strength to keep himself propped up, he decides to instead gently fall on top of you, momentarily unlatching from your neck to then slightly push you to the side and press his strong chest flush against your back, one hand woven in your hair and the other cupping your breast still. With almost desperate keenness, he hooks one of his legs over yours, shoving his crotch against your rear, and immediately you notice the rock hard bulge nudging the space between your buttocks. The tips of your ears burn bright red at this realization, making you wonder how common of an occurrence this must be; as your mind wanders to the night when he first bit you, he sinks his fangs back into the bruised vein, and your eyes water a little due to the sudden pain, which you quickly forget about once you feel his hips start almost imperceptibly grinding against your own. Wedging the bulge deeper within the valley of your ass, he moves it to and fro, almost in rhythm with his sucking of your blood, the digits on your bosom earnestly playing with your nipple and those in your hair tenderly caressing the tousled tresses. 

“Hm—hnng…” Astarion groans lewdly, lasciviously, making suggestive wet sounds while sensually lapping at your crimson. No longer satisfied to feel you up through your clothes, he sticks his hand under your shirt, and his cold fingers quickly resume fondling the soft skin of your breast, in response to which shock waves shoot up your legs and arms. Freeing the digits tangled in your hair, he brings them to your ribs, sliding their pads along your navel and down towards your groin, where he then firmly grabs one of your supple thighs. That’s when it occurs to you how unlike your night together he seems to be acting—eagerly exploring your body with almost adolescent clumsiness, his movements sloppy and impulsive, he appears to be entirely focused on taking rather than giving; having no reason to try to impress you, he acts greedily instead, intent on achieving his own personal ecstasy above all else, a fact that doesn’t bother so much as instill in you a puzzling sense of relief.

Increasing the pace of his thrusts, he tightens the grip of his leg around yours, and for a short while you all but forget that your crimson is running down his throat still, unable to focus on anything but the heat irradiating from his skin as it becomes ever warmer the more he feeds. When you notice you can no longer feel the tips of your toes, it is far too late—a tingling sensation spreads across your heavy limbs due to the loss of blood, and holding onto a single thought proves far too difficult, your mind now a messy whirlwind of memories and abstractions. Your arousal persists even as your conscience starts to wane; slick soaks through your underpants, the sweet scent of which causes Astarion to immediately stop moving, freezing as if caught with his fingers inside the cookie jar. After what seems like an eternity, both his hands and fangs leave your helpless form, and he shuffles behind you, presumably looking for something—before you can even begin to wonder what, you feel him press a soft piece of fabric against the fresh set of bite marks on your neck, which he uses to gently wipe the thick red blooming from the small wounds. 

Worried that any further stimulation might disturb your sleep, he decides to attempt a less bold approach instead, pulling away slightly, although your legs remain twisted together. Barely awake now, the echoes of the forest reach your ears in hushed, distant hums, but you can still hear him as he brings the bloodstained cloth to his nose, taking in your scent deeply, eyes closed and a libidinous moan falling from his pretty lips. One of his now freed hands hastily makes its way to the waistband of his pants, only to then slip under it, and as soon as his elegant digits brush against the velvety crown of his cock, he wraps them around its engorged girth, squeezing lightly and drawing pearly droplets of precome from the weeping slit. 

“Mngh…” he croaks, his voice raspy and hoarse, and you can’t tell for sure, but a whisper that vaguely sounds like your own name wafts through the air and vanishes into the evening sky as he starts sliding his hand up and down his length, smearing the clear liquid seeping from the leaking tip all over himself. Prior to your night of passion, this is how he would choose to relieve the painful erection inevitably provoked by his daily feedings, only he would retreat to his tent then; once you became more intimate, things changed, and raw eroticism would percolate into every session, images of your moments together sweeping through his mind and springing his aching sex to life with each gulpful of your lifeblood. The instant you offered him your neck, all he had ever known suddenly came into question—drinking from you while balls-deep into your tight cunt was an experience unlike any other, to the point of almost completely resignifying the concept of pleasure for him. By owning your body, he had made you his, even if only temporarily; your blind trust was something he had never before experienced, and not once had he felt so powerful as with you squirming under him, completely submitting to his whims. 

“Astarion, please…” he recalls you whimpering, the sound of his name on your pink tongue so enticingly sultry, stirring up in him all sorts of conflicting feelings; lust, infatuation, guilt, anger, all blended together and indistinguishable from one another. How beautiful a vision you had made then—such a pretty, luscious thing, flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes glinting with coquettish longing. The more he finds himself caring, the more he hates you for it; the more his hatred for you grows, the more he wants you by his side. Choosing to manipulate you into a tactical alliance was the culmination of careful and meticulous deliberation—at once deadly and most pleasing to the eye, yet seemingly unaware of either fact; a naive, kind fool, lost and alone, his perfect target from every angle, you were the obvious candidate. He had no way of knowing at the time—how you would unwittingly beat him at his own game and steal your way into his undead heart, without even really trying. 

While pumping his now glistening cock, your precious face is all Astarion can think of, every detail of it perpetually burned onto his retinas—long, thick lashes, curtaining doe-like eyes; sweet little freckles speckling the bridge of your nose; smooth skin and plump rosy lips, so soft and kissable. And your scent, oh, your scent—delicious and intoxicating, such a lovely, delectable bouquet. Although now warm, his hand could never compare to the feeling of your slickened walls clenching and fluttering around him, and no amount of pressure would ever be able to replicate the sensation of stretching them open, coaxing yelps and cute whiny pants out of you with each nudge of your cervix. He wonders for a moment what other expressions he has yet to witness you make; in what other manners he has yet to take you, in what other positions he has yet to watch you come undone. Maybe on all fours, that round ass of yours sticking out so very invitingly, begging to be devoured; maybe on your knees, darkened lips wrapped tightly around his cock, eyes watering and drool dripping down onto the swollen peaks of your perky breasts as you accommodate all of him like the good girl you are. Each idea is more enticing than the one before, and the very thought of acquainting himself with all the ins and outs of your body makes him feel alive, bulging veins and tumid cockhead pulsating madly against his sweaty palm as he goes over the endless possibilities. He had tasted you once; now, he craves every inch of your being, his hunger insatiable. 

“Mine…” he growls possessively, picturing your tits bouncing and the rouged knot atop your dripping core throbbing for him as he feels his climax draw nearer, rubbing the cloth sullied with your crimson against his nose, your taste still fresh in his mouth and a trail of red running down his chin. You are not his, not yet, but although he curses himself for it, he would bring his simple plan to fruition, for all the wrong reasons; he wants you, he needs you—his own little bundle of joy, his light in the darkness, his glimmer of solace, his, his, his, and his alone. He won’t share your kindness, not with your companions, not with anyone, and he cares not if his greediness makes him unworthy, for he never deserved any of it in the first place; regardless, you’d still extend a hand to the wretch who put a knife to your throat, toyed with your emotions and sucked you dry, in more ways than one. You may not realize it, but in sharing your life essence with him, you breathed color into his world, roused within his soul a vital spark he’d long forgotten had once ever been there. He may not be entitled to it, but he’d still have it all—he’d still have you, to the bone and beyond.

“Oh, gods…” With one last stroke, Astarion empties himself on his hand and stomach, legs convulsing and hips stuttering, letting go of the cloth to then nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, lips pressed against the bloodied gashes maculating your otherwise flawless skin. The inside of his pants is now covered in come, yet even as the thick fluid runs uncomfortably down his thighs, he feels strangely at peace—happy, even. His softening cock twitches and jerks still, but fearing that his luck may soon run out, he lets go of it and wipes his fingers on the hem of his shirt, which he learns is also stained with his seed; once they’re sufficiently clean, he wraps both of his arms around your waist in a tight embrace, focusing on the gentle raising of your chest as you inhale ever so softly, finally at rest. 

“This is a gift, you know.”

He won’t forget it. Regardless of what may lie ahead, he won’t. Warm flesh, beating heart; as your crimson courses through his veins, the thread of life now connects you both, your fates forever intertwined. When morning comes, all will be back to normal, but for now, he shall hold you, cradle you, as he would a lover. A true lover—though what would that be, if not prey that wakes by his side once the dawn breaks? Disturbing as that thought may be, it is of little import for now; basking in the clarity of death, he allows himself a moment of reprieve, for your time together is far from over. What treasures will the future bestow? Why—finding out is but a matter of waiting.

[domesticgoddess22]

A night With Joel Miller

Dad's enemy!joel

Ao3 | masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings : dub-con, unprotected PIV, breeding kink, mild gun violence, dark!joel miller, raider!joel, deep throating, spanking, daddy kink, creampie, dom!Joel, dad's enemy!joel, praise kink, captivity word count: 4.1k summary: You're scavenging around an old CD store in Austin when the notorious Joel Miller catches you alone. Clickers swarm the street, so he takes you upstairs to hide out for the night. He says you were free to leave, but you stay and things get steamy.

a/n: This is my little one shot I posted to Ao3 awhile back. I've been considering making it a series once I finish some chapters of Wish Upon A Cowboy. Also this is the first time I've ever posted a fic on Tumblr so I hope I'm doing it right<3

~~~

You were always the adventurous type, always exploring, always curious. Never doing what you’re told and trading obedience for the sweet thrill of temptation. Your old man only caught you traversing through Austin by yourself a handful of times now. Those were the times you were lazy, slipped up a little, enough for someone in the faction to notice you were missing and rat you out. Your dad would send his guys after you like you were some fucking kid that couldn’t handle yourself out there. The other 300 times you did it, he had no idea you had even left your room.

Tonight was another one of those nights. 

You were on your way to an old CD store to see if you could scrap up something new to listen to. It was time to put Sweet Home Alabama to fucking rest and change up the tunes, and if you were lucky, maybe you’d find an old Nirvana CD still intact.

The beam of your flashlight reflected on what little shine the CD cases had left to offer, most of them dusty and scratched, tossed across the rubble like relics. 

The sound of a gun clicked behind your ears.

“Don’t move,” a low, smokey voice breathed into the shell of your ear. Instinctively, your arms shot up, palms facing outward. The Nirvana case crashed at your feet, fragments of plastic splintered this way and that. “Turn around. Slowly. ” 

You obeyed, heart hammering, blood pumping, eyes beginning to tear. When you do turn to face him, you’re blinded by a blaring flashlight pointed at you. 

“‘s just you here?” 

“Yes–yes it’s just me, I swear it.” 

“Ain’t it a bit dangerous for a little thing like you to be runnin’ around Austin…?” He aimed the light away so it’s pointed somewhere off to your left, scanning the room before his eyes lock back onto yours. “... Alone. ” 

You could see him more clearly now, tall, broad shoulders, face lined with stress, and eyes so cold, you’re sure he’d seen death more than you ever had. You were no match for him either, even with the revolver strapped to your ankle and a knife in your bra. He was too big. Too imposing. 

“I uh…” you swallowed the acidic bile creeping up your throat. “I like to live on the edge.”

“Mmm,” he licked his teeth, studying you. “That ain’t very smart. Lot more out here to be ‘fraid of than infected.”

He’s going to fucking kill you, isn’t he?

“My dad will raise hell if anythin’ happens to me.” 

“Your dad, huh?”

“Mhm. Old man is probably on a wild goose chase lookin’ for me as we speak.”

He chuckles darkly, “I ain’t scared of your daddy.”

“Look, man, I don't have much on me,” you plea, eyebrows knitted inward. Maybe he’d pity you and let you loose.

“Not much, but sounds like you got somethin’.”

“Got a granola bar.”

“Think your life is worth a granola bar?” He cocked his brow.

You rolled your eyes. “Got a revolver on my left ankle. Map in my back pocket with some marks where my dad hides his shit. Happy?”

His lips tugged into a smile that didn’t reflect in his eyes, “Atta girl.” 

In one flood motion, he binds your wrists together with one hand, tucking his gun back into his belt and then patting down your pant legs searching for weapons. When he reaches your ankles, he takes the revolver. 

“‘s only got one bullet,” he grumbled.

“Times are tough.” People are out there stealing your faction’s shit.

He straightens, your arms are pinned against your head now and his eyes are dark, boring into yours. His grip tightens and he steps closer, a greedy hand sliding into your back jean pocket, you wince at the feel of a man’s hand on your ass.

“Other pocket.”

He grabs your wrists with his left hand, letting his right hand explore your left pocket this time, his fingers grabbing the little paper you told him about.

“Easy, cowboy.” You drawl, eyelashes fluttering, eyes trailing up his washed-out green flannel. Up, up, up until they land on his wide chest. His thick shoulders. And then finally, his eyes, dark and matched with an expression so stern and sharp it could cut glass. 

His stare burns into you like he’s turning your flirtatious words repeatedly in his head. And then his gaze falls to your lips. The weight of his hand is hot on your waist now, even through layers of cotton, you can feel his heat in this late October cold.

There’s a distant sound of a soda can rolling down the pavement, knocking into rubble, and then feet shuffling.

“What was that?” 

The man looks over the shelves to see what you can’t at your height.

“Clickers. Come on.” He tugged you by the waist, guiding you to the back exit and up a flight of stairs. 

“Woah, where are we going?” You whispered harshly.

“You’d rather stay out here?” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and your gaze follows. There was a dozen clickers roaming around. How convenient. 

“If you give me my fucking gun back, yeah.”

“You got one bullet, kid. There’s fuckin’ ten of ‘em out there.” You step into an old apartment and the front door clicks behind you. He scopes out the rooms. “It’s clear. We can stay here for the night. If we gotta fight, better we do it in the daylight.” 

“I’m not stayin’ the night here with a stranger. Especially not a hunter. ” The word was thick on your tongue. Hunters were despicable people who stooped to the lowest of the low.

“By all means darlin’, you wanna test your luck, go right ahead. I ain’t stoppin’ you.” 

You scowled at that, but he was right. It seemed like you’d finally got yourself into a pickle, and despite your attempt to look calm and collected, you were scared shitless right now. Either you were going to spend the night with this random guy or try to dodge all the clickers and make it back home.

“Fine,” you rolled your shoulders in defeat. “But I’m not sleepin’. As soon as the sun comes up and the clickers disperse, I’m out.” 

“Don’t sleep then,” he murmured, looking through the cupboards and drawers for any remnants of the past.

“Still got that granola bar? ’m gettin’ pretty hungry.”

You threw the granola bar at his chest and he smirked, tearing the wrapper open.

“Thanks, Darlin’.”

“Not like you were gonna give me a choice.” 

Joel sat on the old couch and leaned back, arm propped against the back cushion. Legs spread. Brown eyes on you. He had removed his green flannel, exposing just a simple black tee barely holding onto his muscles. It took every ounce of sense in you to ignore how fucking good he looked. 

“Like what you see?” He said, a cocky grin on his face. Your eyes flicked elsewhere, dancing around the room to find something else to occupy your mind with.

“Don’t flatter yourself, old man.”

Arrogant son-of-a-bitch.

“What’s your deal?” he pried.  “You runnin’ away from your daddy or some’n?”

“Nah.”

“Then?”

“Just like goin’ out. Seein’ the world.”

He scoffed. “‘m surprised he lets you run ‘round Austin all by yourself.” 

“He doesn’t. Doesn’t think I can handle myself out here.”

The man cocked a brow, challenging you.

“I can handle myself. I’m twenty-seven years old.” 

“You wanna handle yourself, darlin’, you better scope out places before hangin’ out in ‘em,” he grumbled, chewing on the granola bar. He pointed the rest of it in your direction, nodding his head in a gesture for you to take the rest.

“You’re lettin’ me have the last bite?”

“Take it, ‘fore I change my mind.”

You snatched it from him. “Did ya finally learn you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”

“You sayin’ I won you over, sweet thing?”

“Not a chance. I still don’t trust you.”

“Probably for the best.”

“That so?”

“I ain’t really a good guy.”

“Yeah, I gathered that. You robbed an innocent girl, nearly killin’ over a damn granola bar and a half-empty revolver. Swell guy.”

“Hey, you woulda been dead without me.” He sat forward with his elbows on his knees and pointed a finger at you. “Clickers woulda chased after your dumb ass, loud as you were with those old CD cases and whatnot.”

“Whatever,” you slumped into the armchair across from him. “Wouldn't of made noise and dropped Nirvana if you hadn't surprised me.”

“Nirvana ain’t worth dyin’ over, kid.”

“Then what is?”

“Som’ else.”

“Go on,” you waved your hand, urging him to enlighten you on what he considers music worth dying for.

“The Eagles. If I see you again after this, I’ll give ya a listen. Got a few CDs of my own.”

“Okie dokie, random hunter dude that robbed me.” Because intentionally hanging out with a hunter sounded like a smart plan.

“Joel,” he leaned back against the cushion again.

Your blood was ice in your veins.

“What?” 

“My name. It’s Joel.” Your eyes were still wide in shock as Joel shook his head, tossing his hands like what don’t you understand?

“As in… Joel Miller?”

“Yeah?”

Joel fucking Miller.

This whole time you’ve been with the heartless hunter your dad cursed daily. 

Now that you could put a face to the name, it was hard to believe he looked so attractive. With the way your dad talked about him, you imagined Joel as an ugly troll.

“My dad would have a heart attack if he knew I was with you right now. He hates your guts, ya know.”

“Your dad? You’ll need to fill me in, sweetheart, I got a lotta guys that hate me.”

You tell him about your dad and watch the way Joel’s head nodded slowly in recognition.

“He’s had it out for me ‘n my guys for some time now. Can’t say I blame ‘im.” His eyes shifted to the left in thought, probably flashing back to the terrible things he’s done, and then his brown orbs fell back on you. “If I’m rememberin’ right, you must be…”

He tastes your name on his lips with a southern drawl as sweet as tea. 

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“I know a lotta ‘bout your faction. Stole from ya ‘nuff times.” 

“Lovely.”

“Gotta survive, baby. Ain’t got somebody to do the dirty work for me like you do.”

“And what are you implyin’?”

“‘m just sayin’. And you’re dad ‘n I ain’t so different. Just survivin’ the best way we know how. Only difference is, he probably does what he does to protect you. I do what I do just… ‘cuz. ”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Pretend you know anythin’ about me or my old man.”

“I don’t have to pretend. You’re an open book, darlin’,” he says with that same damn smirk on his face.

“Nah, I’m not,” you fold your arms across your chest and turn your gaze to the world outside the window. Below is a congregation of clickers on the road, confirmation that you were trapped alone with this man for the evening. 

The couch creaks when Joel stands, a divet in the old cushion left behind in his absence. He steps toward you, his belt buckle a few inches from your face. Saliva builds in your mouth and you swallow. Hard.

Rough fingers grip your chin, tilting your head upward to look into the dark eyes that gaze down upon you. 

“You look like you’ve been cravin’ some fun. Daddy’s been keepin’ you cooped up, ain’t he?” He exhales, a whiskey aroma riding the small breeze from his lips all the way to yours.

There’s an ache between your legs and your cheeks feel hot with shame. Your pulse quickened, and Joel fucking knew it. He could feel it. 

You had two options: deny it and look away, or embrace the thrill.

“Joel… What are you…” Your voice trailed off and you look bewildered, but your hand finds a place on his thigh. The denim feels hot on your palm.

“I can help you with that. Make you feel good.” He’s leaning down now, his breath on your lips. “Anybody ever made you feel good before?”

“N-No one,” you stutter, glossing over the memories of one of the guys from your faction. You were both young, inexperienced. It was nothing but a night of experimentation and pain, and then it never happened again.

Joel nodded slowly, releasing his grip on your chin and then moving back to the couch, eyes dark, right arm relaxed along the backside of the seat, left hand lifting two fingers that gesture for you to come hither.

If you were being fucking honest, the attraction began the second he pat you down and only deepened when you found out who he was. It felt like a dangerous thrill knowing you were with the very man your father would forbid you to be near.

“Come’re,” Joel pat his lap.

Without batting your eyes, without even thinking twice, you obeyed. You found a spot on his thigh, thick enough for you to have ample space to sit.

The gray bristles in his beard were more noticeable up close. You guessed he was in his mid to late 40s. He slowly tugged your jeans off and tossed them on the floor.

Joel’s palm rested on your naked thigh, kneading into your skin with his face buried in your neck, licking and biting and licking again, growing increasingly heady with each one until he was sucking on your neck so hard you could feel it turn purple. Then his fingers brushed the fabric of your panties and you squealed from the sudden contact.

“You okay, sweet thing? He breathed into your hair.

“I’m nervous.”

“‘S okay,’ his voice was a low whisper into your clavicle, followed by soft kisses on the side of your neck. “Why are ya nervous?”

“Um… just shy, I guess… Never done this much.”

He groaned when the tips of his fingers felt your dripping heat. “Fuck–you’re so wet.”

Eyes lidded with lust and back arched to give him more access, you start to grind on his hand. Moaning at his touch,  the wet heat that pools between your legs and soaks his hand, the way his fingers caress your folds in a circular motion.

“Good girl.”

The praise sent a tingling feeling through your core.

You were a good girl for him.

He rubbed your little bud more furiously now, picking up the pace and then he slid a thick digit into your slick. You bit your lip to stifle the moans that came in uncontrollable tidal waves as he pumped his finger in and out, in and out, in and out.

Just when you think you’re going to reach your peak, he firmly grips your waist on either side, lifting your ass until you crash down onto the seat of the cushion. His lips were on your pussy, before the two of you ever even kissed, you noted. He groaned the second his tongue glided across your wet slit, and the sound vibrates against your soft lips.

“Couldn’t resist… Baby… Fuck–Taste so fuckin’ sweet.” He babbled into your dripping lips, the stone-cold man from earlier was long gone, and now in his stead was a man drunk with lust. He was melting from your pheromones, your scent, your wetness. It felt good to know that you had that effect on him.

Joel bucked his hips into the couch with each lick and suck, growing more sporadic and sloppy in his rhythm. You weren’t an expert in the matters of men in the bedroom, but he clearly wasn’t going to hang on much longer–that much you knew. 

A rough hand cupped your mound and then toyed with your sensitive nipple. He pumped his finger back into you, his tongue still keeping the pressure on your bud. Joel slid in another finger, and then another until three of his thick digits are stretching you to the brim, viciously fucking into you until you were screaming his name and begging him for more. He conceded, guiding you to the sweet bliss of the finish line. 

Your chest was heaving, forehead tacky, and eyes planted on the popcorn ceiling above you as you came to. Two blinks later, the sound of a zipper snapped you out of your daze and you shifted your gaze to the space between your spread legs.

Joel had his cock out, thick and angry, veins pulsing. 

He was huge.  

Your mouth watered at the sight of it as you watched him jerk himself off to your body. 

You got on your knees, bending to show him the nice curve of your backside, face now inches away from his cock. He lets go as you place a hand on his jean pocket and steady yourself, and then he plunges into your mouth. 

Joel’s hands snaked through your hair and latched onto the backside of your head, pumping his cock into the back of your throat in five relentless thrusts. You choked from the sudden penetration and he quickly pulled out, his head sliding out of your lips with a “pop.”

“Too much?”

“No.” You wiped the string of saliva that connected you to him. “I like it.” And you liked that as cold and mean as he played off, he cared about whether or not he was hurting you.

His eyes went dark and there was a ghost of a smile pulled at his lips in satisfaction. And then his cock was sliding past your lips again and gliding against your tongue. You rolled your tongue around and suck him in as far as you could. He groaned, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

“Ain’t gonna last long. Got me… all wound up.”

You moaned affectionately as he picked up the pace, thrusting and groaning, mumbling profanities. You even swore he said your name as his hot cream pumped into your mouth. 

Hands now pressed to his lower back for support, he was so deep that his balls were pressed to your chin and you felt him straining to release every drop. You realize that his gun, and yours, are tucked into his belt right by your hands. When he settled, you leaned back, swallowed, and licked your finger.

“You look so sexy right now,” he said, voice deep and gravelly, thick with the aftermath of sex.

You’d never felt this sexy before. Hair disheveled, naked ass resting on the back of your ankles, T-shirt barely covering your womanhood but leaving just enough to the imagination, and your breasts peeking out of the V.

Joel bent down until his body was completely imposing yours, caging you in. Your brows caved inward, looking up at him doe-eyed and uncertain of what he planned to do next. He wrapped one around your waist, pulling you into his embrace while his other hand creeps across your neck. 

He surprised you with an intimate kiss. It was romantic, demanding, and dangerous. Joel commanded your tongue to dance with his, exploring your mouth with fervor like he belonged there. 

“Turn around. Face down. Ass up,” he says in a husky whisper. You look up at him wide-eyed. “Now.” He commanded.

“Yes, daddy.” 

Ass up, just like he asked, he slapped your asscheek. You felt his chest against your back and his breath on the shell of your ear.

“This might hurt a little, just be a good girl for me, okay?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded eagerly.

“What was that? ” He said through clenched teeth.

“Yes, daddy.”

“Atta girl.” 

He slapped your ass again. The head of his cock was jabbing at your entrance, pulsing with desire. He bucked it in his hand and lined it up to your slit and pressed in. Hard.

“Fuuuuuck.” He groaned and you screamed in an odd mixture of pain and pleasure.

He was so big he nearly ripped you in two, yet the way you wrapped tightly around him, sucking him in felt so right. The wetness of his tongue glided up your back and along the side of your neck.

There was a little bit of relief as he pulled his cock out, but then he thrust back in, his balls slapping against your lips so deep it had you seeing stars. Rinse and repeat. In and out, in and out.

His thrusts were angry and unrelenting.

The way he twisted your nipple and squeezed your tit was downright cruel.

You were putty in Joel’s hands and he fucking knew it.

“Please. More. Please, please, please.” The voice that left your lips was hoarse and desperate but you needed it. You needed him.

At the back of your neck, you felt the weight of his calloused palm pinning you down. 

“Such a tight little thing. Fuckin’ mine.” He grabbed your chin and forced you to look him in the eye. “You got that? Say it.”

“I’m yours, Joel.”

Somehow, his cock pulsed and stretched you even more to the brim. The feel of your slick mixed with his juice was oozing out of you, trickling down your leg.

One hand still pinning you down, Joel’s other hand was now petting your swollen heat. 

“Fuck, baby, I ain’t gonna hold out much longer. You’re so good to me. So tight. ‘m gonna cum in this wet pussy.”

“Joel, I’m gonna cum…” You trailed off, but you were already on the edge. His fingers were rubbing you at just the right speed, and his dirty sweet nothings were setting you ablaze. 

He continued to rub and thrust at just the right angle, the squelching sound of his cock pumping in and out of your sex only further heightened your arousal. 

In the heat of the moment, you didn’t even care that Joel was on the brink of filling you with his seed. You were dazed, delirious, and desperate. The three dangerous Ds, because condoms and birth control were a thing of the past. The apocalypse was a gamble for those who wanted to partake in life’s good old-fashioned pleasures.

You were ready to take that risk for the brief moment of pleasure because Joel had you wrapped around his finger and you were ready to swallow his seed. Hell, your unhinged state didn’t even care if you got pregnant with his baby as he sloppily slammed his cock into you, groaning and threatening to cum inside you. 

He didn’t seem to care either.

“H-Harder.” You beg, and that was it. That’s what set him over the edge, pouring into you like an explosion of white-hot milk and screaming profanities. He rubbed your clit while he rode his high, and then you came together, jaws slack, eyes rolled. 

Two people who, for a brief moment in time, could indulge in the comfort of each other’s bodies and forget that the world had gone to shit.

Joel flipped you over, his cock still buried inside of you, and leaned down to kiss you. It was a gentle kiss this time. The kiss of a lover. 

There was an undeniable spark between you that transcended beyond a mere one-night stand. Neither of you spoke a word of it. Instead, you fell asleep in his arms, and with his cock going limp inside you.

—------------

“Good morning, Joel.” You pointed two guns at the man as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes.

When he made sense of the situation, he chuckled darkly, wiping his face with his hands.

“Oh, darlin’, you are full of surprises ain’t ya?” His chocolate-brown eyes landed on yours and you felt your heart skip a beat, your grip on both guns loosened in a moment of weakness.

“Told ya I know how to take care of myself.”

“I can see that.” He put his arms behind his head, looking far too relaxed for a man who had two bullets aimed at him. “Did your daddy send you out to do this?”

You smirked, eyes flicking over to the old map that you made sure to leave on the table.

“I’m not gonna shoot you. Just wanted to say goodbye.” 

He licked his teeth and nodded.

“See ya, cowboy.”

And then you left him there and something tugged at you to stay but you didn’t, because you knew that it would be the death of you if you did.

“You want to tell me why the fuck you have Joel Miller’s gun?” your dad asked when you made it back to the base.

Dad had found out you left and had his guys check you for bites. When they did, they found the gun marked with an ‘M’, which was something Joel did to all of his weapons. Weapons that he stole.

“I was just helping us out a little, Dad.”

[runninriot]

written for the @steddiesongfics may prompt

(David Bowie - Absolute Beginners, 1986)

wc: 1986 | rated: t | tags: Steddie in love, newly established relationship, fluff, background characters, Good Uncle Wayne Munson | also on ao3

As long as we’re together, the rest can go to hell

Waking up in Eddie’s arms for the first time feels unreal. Like maybe he’s not really awake after all. Maybe Steve’s still stuck in a beautiful dream and the sound of the other man’s peaceful breathing is just a fragment of his imagination. But he can feel Eddie’s chest rise and fall beneath his head, can feel the comfortable weight of Eddie’s arm on his back, the soothing warmth of his skin.

Maybe it is real.

Maybe they actually, finally got their shit together – as Robin would say.

    God, Robin would be so smug if she could see him right now, nuzzling Eddie’s skin, sinking deeper into the sleeping man’s arms.

She’d known there was something going on, told him so but never pushed. Even before that night Eddie came out to them a few months back. Where Robin told him her secret, too, and Steve didn’t even know he had one of his own to share.

Before Steve realised what that funny feeling was. What it meant to have a riot of butterfly wings create a storm in his stomach, to have his heartbeat set the rhythm to a song he’s never heard before.

Man, she will be so proud of herself when- if they tell her.

They will tell her, right?

They’ll them all – Robin, Nance, the kids...

Dustin.

    Oh God, what will Dustin say if they tell him that they’re-

Together?

Are they together?

Is this- Is this what they are?

It must be, right?

Eddie told him he loves him. Kept repeating the words over and over again between kisses. Said it so many times, Steve had no reason to believe it wasn’t true.

It must be true because Steve wants it to be true.

Eddie is-

This isn’t just a stupid crush, some made-believe infatuation with his high school sweetheart. Steve isn’t a stupidly naive teenager anymore. He knows the difference between simply searching for affection and truly wanting to be with someone.

He is in love with Eddie. That’s a fact. Unshakeable like the fact that water is wet, the sun is hot, and the moon is 238.700 miles away from earth (yes, he does listen to Dustin ramble about his stupid nerd interests sometimes, thank you very much).

He’s in love and although this is all very scary and new, he wants their friends to know about them. Wants them to be happy for them.

But what if they’re not?

What if the fact that he’s in love with another man gives Mike one more reason to hate him? What if Lucas refuses to let Steve coach him because of it? What if it doesn’t work out and Dustin has to choose between him and Eddie? What if-

   “I can hear you think.”

Steve startles when Eddie tightens his arms around him, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head. And when he looks up at Eddie, Steve finds two sleepy eyes blinking back at him.

   “Morning, baby,” Eddie says through a smile and-

Steve’s heart immediately does that thing again and there’s this familiar feeling in his gut, and Eddie looks so soft in the warm morning light that Steve just can’t not kiss him.

   “Morning,” Steve finally answers when they part – Eddie’s hand still holding his face, beautiful eyes looking right into his soul, and Steve feels like flying.

   “Hm, so that’s not what it’s about, huh?”

Steve’s confused, doesn’t know what Eddie is talking about and it must show on his face because Eddie chuckles before he continues.

   “For a moment I was scared you’ve gotten all nervous and fidgety because you were- I don’t know. That maybe you had doubts. About this?” He moves his free hand between the two of them, pointing at himself and back at Steve.

   “But I guess you kissing me despite my morning breath must mean you-“

Steve shuts him up with another press of lips, morning breath be damned. He won’t give Eddie any reason to even think for another second that he doesn’t want this. Because he does. He wants this, them, together. Probably more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

He shakes his head, doesn’t know how to express all those things that are rattling his mind. How to tell Eddie what goes on in his head without stumbling over the words, without twisting his tongue, without making a fool of himself because-

They’ve only just woken up and it’s the first time they’re in bed together and instead of just enjoying the moment, instead of being in the here and now, Steve is already like, 238.700 steps ahead.

   “Talk to me, Stevie. Tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

Steve slowly relaxes into the pleasant feeling of Eddie’s fingers gently scraping along the back of his neck like he’s trying to coax the words out of him, trying to help slow down his racing thoughts. And somehow, it works.

   “I was just-“ Steve takes a deep, grounding breath, “I was just wondering if we should tell the others. About us. A-about us being... boyfriends?”

Steve feels heat spreading in his face, feels the blush creep from his cheeks to his ears.

He didn’t mean to make it sound like a question but they haven’t really defined what they are, yet. They’ve been way too busy making out, kissing, touching – God, how could he not have been completely distracted by the way Eddie kissed him. The way he painted his neck in love-coloured bruises. How he worshipped Steve’s whole body with his lips like he was something special, something worth taking his time with.

And oh, his time he took, that teasing bastard. Made it his mission to kiss every goddamn mole and freckle on Steve’s body. Started counting them with his lips, his tongue, tracing his fingers over every inch of his exposed skin. Kissed him where no one had ever kissed him before, his touch so careful and gentle it only made Steve crazy for more, more, more.

By the time Eddie finally put his mouth on him, Steve was already so far gone that it took not even 30 seconds for him to lose it. But then Eddie didn’t give him a chance to feel embarrassed about it, just kept kissing him, touching him, showering him in sweet little nothings that meant everything to Steve.

   “Steve? You with me?”

    Hm? Oh.

   “S-sorry. What did you say?” Steve smiles apologetically, relieved when Eddie chuckles lightly.

   “I said. Yes, boyfriends. If you want that? And yes to telling people. God, I can’t wait to see Dustin’s stupid little face when he hears that I, Eddie Munson, get to date the hottest guy in Hawkins. Hell, the hottest guy in the entire fucking world!”

Eddie balls his fist and punches the air like he’s just won a competition, and the excitement in his voice is infectious, startles a loud and very unsexy snort out of Steve.

   “Take that, Dustin! So much for teasing me for my lack of success in the dating department. Ha! Oh, but Mike will be devastated. Everyone knows he’s got the biggest crush on you.”

   “What?! Shut up, he does not!” Steve is screeching now, tears in his eyes from laughing so hard.

   “You think I’m lying? Ask Lucas! He was the one that told me. Said he doesn’t quite get it but Lucas only has eyes for Max so, of course he doesn’t.”

   “Eddie, stop! I don’t believe it. Mike hates me! Sometimes I could swear he’s doing his best to pretend I don’t even exist.”

   “Tell yourself whatever makes you feel good, baby,” Eddie winks, smiles so bright it’s like he’s the sun himself. Bright like the sun and just as hot.

(How hot is the sun? Dustin will know, he’ll ask him next time he sees him.)

   “Robin will be a tough one, though.”

   “Huh? Robin? She’s literally one of us, Eds. Why should she of all people have any problem with us being together?”

Eddie must sense his concern, because he glides his thumb over Steve’s furrowed brows to smooth out the worry lines, kisses him on the forehead like that’s gonna stop his mind from reeling.

Weirdly enough, it does.

   “Well, duh! She’ll be so happy for you. It’s me I’m worried about.”

Eddie winks at him and that’s when Steve finally catches on. He huffs out a laugh, rolls his eyes in fake-annoyance, can’t not smile when Eddie offers him the saddest, most convincing puppy eyes he’s ever seen.

   “She’s going to kill me if I ever so much as make you mad or, god forbid, sad for whatever reason.”

   “Oh that’s easy to avoid. Just never make me mad or sad and you’ll be fine,” Steve mocks him, knows deep down Eddie would never anyway.

   “What about-“ Steve realises he hasn’t even thought about that before.

They’re at the trailer. Steve heard Wayne come home from his night shift a while ago, knows the man’s still awake, considering the noise coming from the outside Eddie’s bedroom.

   “Do you want to tell Wayne? It’s okay if not. We don’t- We can just pretend nothing has changed. I don’t want him to get mad. Or, or worse.”

Now it’s Eddie’s turn to look worried and Steve gets it. He couldn’t even think about telling his own parents. His father would- No, he’ll just have to keep this from them. Not like they ever really care for what goes on in his life anyway.

   “Come on.”

    What?

Eddie throws back the blanket they shared, leaving them both naked and exposed to the light of the day, the reality of the night before hitting them both with a rush of childish embarrassment, sending a deep blush into both their faces, both not used to being so vulnerably bare in front of each other.

But Eddie seems to regain his composure quickly, untangles from Steve’s arms and jumps out of the bed.

He grabs two pairs of boxers and sweatpants and shirts from his dresser, tossing half of them at Steve who’s still too stunned to speak.

   “Eddie, what-”

   “Hurry up, sweety! I smell coffee.”

Steve follows Eddie, nervously fussing with his hair in a weak attempt to make himself more presentable, less... ‘spent the night making out with your nephew’, hiding behind Eddie when Wayne catches sight of them.

   “Morning boys. Coffee?” The man grumbles, not even batting an eye when Eddie abruptly turns, grabs Steve by the face, and plants a kiss right on his mouth.

   “Yes, please. Me and my boyfriend would love a nice cup of coffee. Don’t we, Stevie?”

Eddie beams at him, a teeth-flashing grin on his face, and Steve wants to kill him. Wants to kiss him even more. Doesn’t know what to say, what to do. Just stands there, frozen in shock, dumbly nodding to answer the question he only vaguely remembers has been asked.

   “I see.” Wayne stands up from the armchair he was sitting in, walks over to them, blank expression on his face.

He exhales deeply and Steve holds his breath, not ready for whatever comes next.

   “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

Eddie shoots his uncle a look, rolls his eyes, scoffs – and Steve feels the weight of a thousand worlds fall off his shoulders.

(How much does one earth weigh? He’ll ask Dustin. Maybe he-)

   “You better treat him right, son. You do not wanna get in trouble with me for hurting him, you hear me?”

Steve’s mouth falls open in disbelief when he realises those words are directed at Eddie and not at him.

That’s what finally cuts the tension. Steve starts laughing, loud and whole-heartedly, feels lighter, better than ever before.

He kisses Eddie again, because he can. They’re in love, and that’s okay.

And as long as they’re together, the rest can go to hell.

[kasagia]

My love will never die

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova/General Kirigan/The Darkling x moon summoner! reader Summary: You knew Aleksander before he was a Black Heretic, a foldmaker. You married him and promised to be by his side through thick and thin. And you never, ever regretted your choice. However, one day, your paths parted in an unfortunate way, and you both believed that the love of your lives was gone forever. After many centuries, you meet again with a man very similar to your Aleksander. And you start to wonder... maybe your love never die after all? Warning(s): ANGST, de@th mention, the reader yearns for Aleksander, and Aleksander yearns for the reader :c I USED FRAGMENT OF THE SONG "Jeg Saler Min Ganger" FROM THE SERIES "LOKI" Nonsense from me: So this is request from @morrigan-crowmwell Thank you so much, I was super excited to write this! I hope this is more or less what you asked for and that you like it.♡♡ I'm sorry it took me soooo long! ♡♡ Word count: 13k

"Aleksander Morozova! You'll be late to meet your mother!" you squealed as he stole another long kiss from you. "We don't have time for this, Sasha." you moaned, when he moved his lips to your sensitive neck.

"Nonsense… I always have time to properly say goodbye to my wife before I leave." he murmured against your skin, sucking on your weak spot behind your ear. He smiled slyly, hearing the sweet moan coming from your red lips, swollen from kissing.

Saints, he could stay in your arms for the rest of eternity.

"As much as your wife loves your goodbyes, she'd rather her mother-in-law didn't wander in the middle of one, looking for her spoiled son."

"This is how you say goodbye to your husband, lapushka? Calling him spoiled and hurting his feelings?" he asked indignantly, hovering over his beautiful wife and looking at her intently. He wanted to burn the view below him into his mind until he was back in her arms again.

"I have been "goodbye-ing" you for three hours, Aleksander. Don't you think that's enough for a 4 day trip?"

"I need at least one more hour to enjoy you." he murmured, placing more kisses on your already-marked neck.

"If Baghra finds us…" you moaned as he bit your neck gently, effectively silencing you, and got out of your head all the reasons why he should go now.

"It would be helpful if you would stop thinking about my mother while I try to kiss every inch of your gorgeous skin. Besides, don't worry about her. She likes you—sometimes even more than her own son, I have to admit. If anything, she'll blame me."

"Don't worry, sobachka (puppy), you'll always be my favourite." you smirked, flipping him onto the mattress of your bed and straddling him, marking his skin with your lips, making sure you'd give him back the same favour.

"I thought we didn't have time for this?" he purred meanly, pleased with your attention.

"Shut up and kiss me, Sasha." you demanded with an equally malicious gleam in your eyes, knowing full well how this would end. Bagra was right. You had him wrapped around your little finger. Which was good considering how many female Grishas wanted to catch his eye.

"As you wish, milaya." without a second's hesitation, he grabbed your cheek and pulled you into a kiss, pinning you back under him on the mattress.

Disappointment, as usual, overtook you after waking up from this beautiful dream. During those few centuries, flashbacks about HIM only became more frequent. Someone should hang that fool who said time heals all wounds. In your case, it only made it worse.

You'd give anything to go back a few hundred years and not let him go alone with his mother on this trip. You didn't even remember why they went to Aleksander's sister.

You had a vague memory of that day, only remembering the morning with your husband and the fragments of the Fjerdans' attack on your village.

But the moment you found out you were a moon summoner will forever be etched deep in your memories.

You helped your best friend's family and herself escape when the men attacked you. You defended yourself using all the tricks and attacks Alexander had taught you, but it wasn't enough against a band of trained soldiers.

Just as he was about to slash his sword at you, you felt heat radiating deep from your chest. You screamed, falling to your knees as light began to emit from you, blinding some soldiers and killing those close to you. The first time you've used the cut and your power.

You escaped with your friend and her brother - the last survivors, and hid in the city, pretending to be siblings who managed to survive the great fire caused by Grisha.

It was hard to pretend to hate your own people and even harder to hide your new powers. But the hardest thing was going through all this without Aleksander by your side.

You tried to contact him, search in every possible way. But the world was different back then. Your attempts in advance were doomed to failure. And you knew it. But your stupid heart made you search for your husband until the end.

And you did. Until the news of the Black Heretic, the shadow summoner, who died while creating the fold, spread across the world.

You mourned Aleksander for a long time. Your life went on, but the wound of losing your husband never healed. And you knew it wouldn't. He was your great, true love. Your end game. It was impossible to let him go, to make place in your heart for someone new.

Time passed, and everything around you slowly changed. Except you. Your friends got old, grey, and wrinkled. And you remained the same as those decades ago. Then you discovered your second curse. You were immortal.

You and Aleksander could have lived together forever if not for Shu Han's and Fjerda's people.

It was the time when you vowed to finish Aleksander's work at any cost. His sacrifice will not be in vain. You were supposed to build a Ravka safe for the Grishas. All you needed was a sun and shadow summoner.

So you waited. At any sign of the sun summoner's presence. You knew Aleksander's lineage was fine. People often spoke of the descendants of the Black Heretic. You've never come close to them. You didn't want to relive the pain that would be associated with being with a member of his family. Aleksander had no children, but his sister probably did; maybe even Baghra found someone - you weren't sure about the old woman's fate.

The past centuries have not been kind to you. But this month was fruitful in terms of good news. The sun summoner has been found, the king of Ravka was ill, and your men were on the trail of Morozova's deer.

And that's how you were on your way to meet Alina Starkov and the descendant of the Morozovas, General Kirigan.

You were supposed to change the world together - in memory of your Aleksander.

~•♤♤♤•~

Aleksander had never been in such a hurry to get home before.

He was so desperate to have you in his arms again that he even ignored all of his mother's taunts, remarks, and other snide comments. All that mattered to him now was coming home to you.

That's why he bravely endured his mother's teasing remarks as they rode horseback towards your cottage.

He was excited, only moments away from returning to the love of his life.

He missed you more than he dared admit to anyone. And he was a little ashamed of how an ordinary woman without Grisha's powers, like you, could have such power over him.

NO. You were not ordinary. You were his wife, friend, lover, support, rock, asylum, home. The only one to whom he entrusted his heart and soul voluntarily and without the slightest hesitation.

And with this gift his sister gave him, Aleksander will make sure you stay with him forever. That you'll live as long as he does. Neither of them, nor he, Baghra, nor his sister knew if this "gift" would work.

But Aleksander would be damned if he didn't try to keep you in his arms forever.

It didn't matter how many times he failed, trying to make you his equal, trying to turn you into a Grisha with similar powers to his. He was ready to do everything for you.

Aleksander sped up seeing your house. In his haste, he didn't even notice that he had lost his mother and that the scenery around him seemed to be getting darker and more frightening.

He practically leapt off his horse and raced to the door, opening it and rushing inside as fast as he could.

"Y/N?! Sweetheart, I'm home!" he shouted, expecting that as soon as you heard his voice, you would come running, throwing yourself into his arms.

But he was greeted by nothing but a terrible, deadly silence.

The scattered things in the corridor made him slightly anxious, but he dismissed his dark thoughts by saying that you were a little mess. However, after he still didn't hear any response from you, he started to worry.

He entered the living room only to find shattered furniture, an overturned bookshelf, and a broken window.

He panicked. He went mad with fear, screaming your name and running around the house like crazy, looking for you or any clues to where you might have run away.

His heart stopped when he found your battered body under an overturned wardrobe.

In the blink of an eye, he got you out from under the furniture and took you in his arms, trying to bring you back to consciousness.

"Y/N, please, Y/N, open your eyes! You can't leave me, not like that! Y/N! My sweet wife, my heart, please open your eyes!" he was shaking you in panic, begging all the saints to prove his dark suppositions wrong.

"Aleksander?" your quiet, tearful whisper both relieved him and broke his heart.

You lived. He hasn't lost you yet.

NO.

He couldn't lose you. He has to take you to the healer.

"Yes, love, it's me. Everything is fine now. I got you. Just stay with me until I get a help."

"You promised to protect me... why didn't you protect me, Aleksander? Have you stopped loving me?" your desperate whimper tore his soul in half. He began to shake all over, despising the feeling of helplessness and distress that had completely taken over him.

"What? No, I'll always love only you..." he felt your body suddenly go limp in his arms. He gripped your shoulders even tighter, shaking you in his panic attack. "Y/N? Y/N?! Y/N open your eyes! Y/N no! Don't leave me! Darling, no!" he screamed desperately in pain, burying his head in your hair and crying as he knelt on the floor and rocked with your cold body in his arms.

~•♤♤♤•~

Aleksander sprang from his bed.

The general was breathing fast, trying to calm himself after another nightmare involving you.

His beautiful wife. His epic love.

For hundreds of years, the day he lost the only love of his life played out in his nightmares in different ways. This time, his subconscious was kind enough to let him talk to you for a while. Usually, he finds your body either impaled or dismembered. He never managed to save you. With none of those dreams.

His dreams might have macabred the events of that day, but he had never, in all those hundreds of years of his life, forgotten what really happened. He has not forgotten the grief, anger, sadness, and despair that overcame him when he and Baghra found their village burned to the ground without any trace of you.

Despite his search, he still didn't know what really happened to you, and he doubted he'd ever find out the truth. If all this had happened a few years later, if he hadn't been a boy just discovering the true power growing within him then, but the man he is now, you'd never despair like that. You'd never leave him to mourn over the future you two could have if only he was more powerful.

He was trying to fool himself. Telling himself that if you survived, you would have lived a much better life than you'd lived with him by your side. What could he have given you, then? An uncertain future, living in hiding, being hunted by the king's men? You were worth much more. You were worth all the jewels and treasures of this land, safety, peace, family, and happiness. Aleksander couldn't give you that. Not then.

He couldn't remember how many sleepless nights he'd spent wishing he could meet you now, to have you by his side, when he was this powerful man who could look after you properly, who would throw the world at your feet or burn it to the ground, depending on your humour.

But every time the sun came up and he had to continue playing his new role, the bitter reality made him realise that he would never have you again. He will never feel your soft skin under his fingers again, never lose himself in those beautiful, mesmerising irises, never run his hand through your hair, never take in your wonderful, intoxicating scent, and never taste your alluring, feisty lips again.

He was alone. And he will be until the end.

Until he widens the fold and makes sure no more Grisha dies at the hands of common otkazat'sya. That none of his people will repeat your fate.

He was supposed to change the world - in memory of his Y/N.

And then, maybe fate will be kind enough to reunite him with his beloved wife on the other side.

~•♤♤♤•~

Alina Starkov was a pain in the ass.

It took the girl only 15 minutes to run away from Kirigan's Grishas and get herself into trouble. She has damn luck that you decided to follow her and rescue her sunny ass.

You disappeared as soon as you made eye contact with her after you burned the Fjerdans with your pale, white light.

You wandered through the forest, cursing under your breath at the carelessness of both sun and shadow summoners. You didn't know which was worse, the impetuous girl or the thoughtless general who just let her get away.

With helpers like that, you'll have to work twice as hard to make the fold bigger. Fate really had no mercy on you.

You stood by the river, sighing in relief as you washed the blood from your face with cold water.

Your moment of peace didn't last long, however. You sensed an additional presence—someone creeping towards you. You took out one of your daggers and braced yourself for an attack.

But the moment you turned to face your opponent, you froze.

Aleksander...

He was standing in front of you. In a black kefta, a man so like your husband that just looking at him hurts you more than any blade could. This gaze, this face, were hunting you each night, every time you closed your eyes. And now he was standing right before you.

And the worst of it all was that it wasn't your Aleksander.

Only his descendant looking just like him. A shell that resembles the only man you've ever loved.

In your rage, you attacked him first, taking out your anger on him for the saints for continuing to play you mercilessly by putting your husband's doppelgänger in your way.

But Kirigan did not give up so easily. As soon as you moved towards him, he too snapped out of his strange daze and drew his dagger as well. The clang of metal echoed across the clearing as you both tried to find the other's weak spot. Oddly enough, you both did it at the same time.

"Put that down and I'll consider whether or not to spare your life." he growled, holding your arm in a tight grip as he felt your nails digging through the skin on his hand.

"Femoral artery. You'll bleed out faster than me." you replied with a malicious smirk, ignoring his threats.

"Who are you?"

"My mother taught me better than to make friends with the stranger freak in the forest, sir. Especially when they have a dagger dangerously close to my back." you kicked him, pushing him away from you, and attacked again. The clanking of steel against each other echoed across the clearing as your daggers met halfway. You growled in frustration, pushing him away.

"Your mother should teach you not to attack everyone you meet. You may encounter someone much stronger than you." Kirigan recovered faster this time, storming at you.

You ended up in a rather uncomfortable position as you held the steel against his heart and he wrapped his arm halfway around you, pulling you close. You didn't know if you were more dissatisfied with the metal digging into your chest or with his hands on you.

"And yours that you shouldn't raise a hand against a woman. I guess they both failed."

Did you both just say the exact same thing when you first met your husband? Yes.

Will he get lenient treatment from you just because he looks like your Aleksander? Absolutely fucking no.

Taking advantage of his moment of inattention as he stared at you distractedly, you pulled out the second hidden dagger and placed it against his neck. You tried to push his hand away from you, but the man, feeling the extra-cold blade against his skin, woke up from his trance and grabbed your left hand aggressively.

He moved your blade away from his neck and pinned you to the tree, slamming your left hand hard against the trunk, making the weapon fly out of your hand and bury itself in the ground near his foot.

Kirigan pressed his dagger to your side, leaning closer to you. He stared intently into your eyes, and for a brief moment you saw longing flicker in his dark eyes, which then gave way to rage and frustration, equal to the one that exploded inside you the moment you saw him. The moment you noticed that saints still played cruel with you by creating someone so damn similar to your husband.

He has no right to have the same face and eyes as your lost love.

"What. Are. You?" he asked, pausing on each word to intimidate you and bring his face closer to yours. But you didn't care much. You have hundreds of years; nothing, especially the doppelgänger of the man you love, could scare you.

You stared at each other with hostile eyes, and for some reason (other than your dagger at his thigh), he had some sort of hatred for you as well. So much so that he didn't notice how your powers reached for each other where your skin touched.

Strangely, it felt familiar to you. HE felt familiar.

You stared into each other's eyes as you unknowingly leaned in closer. You were about to try to break free from his grip when a sudden snap of branches caught your attention.

"That's you! She saved me from the Frejdans, sir." Alina's voice pulled him out of this strange moment between you two.

You wanted to find a sun summoner. You spent several hundred years on this, but the girl had hellishly bad timing.

Kirigan moved away from you, but you both continued to aim your daggers at each other, not trusting each other for a moment. Even though Alina just admitted that you saved her life.

"Why did you do that?"

"Someone so powerful like you should recognise when they stand before their equal, general Kirigan." you sneered, glancing for a moment at the woman standing next to both of you. Fortunately, nothing happened to her. She had a few scratches, but nothing that even the most ordinary medic couldn't heal.

"And how exactly are we equal?"

You smirked mischievously as you slipped the dagger into your sheath.

You linked your hands, focusing on the warm feeling of your light coursing through your veins, and without taking your eyes off the general's, you pulled them apart, revealing a thread of white light. You spread your arms wider, causing the rays to illuminate the clearing around you.

They both stared at you in amazement as your light turned into stars, which then arranged themselves into constellations. Figures of saints ran around you until you flicked your wrist to make them disappear.

"Melinoe Petrova. Moon Summoner. I think the three of us are going to change the world together."

You watched the speechless Alina with satisfaction, but your smile faded as you shifted your gaze to Kirigan. You had some difficulty reading him, but even more so understanding the longing in his eyes.

It seems your problems with a shadowman have only just begun…

~•♤♤♤•~

Kirigan didn't trust you.

You weren't surprised by it, but you hoped it would be easier for you to manipulate him. Apparently, the descendant of Aleksander inherited family cunning and distrust.

It's been a month since your little encounter (and fight) in the woods. In the meantime, you've been living in the Little Palace with the other Grishas; you met the king and got your own fancy kefta.

Black kefta. With moons, stars, and so on.

You wouldn't care about the colour of the fabric if it didn't turn out that only Kirigan wore one. Bloody Alina was the first to find Genya and get herself a blue one. So you stayed in your black kefta, pretending the general wasn't trying to mark you as his property.

But the son of a bitch liked your look in his colours too much for you to accept it.

It didn't help that he was too much like your Aleksander, either. Many times you've held back from taunting, making snide comments, or yelling at him just because those fucking dark eyes looked at you, taking you back hundreds of years to the time when HE was by your side and looked at you like that.

The similarity between them was not only in appearance. They had a lot in common when it came to character traits. Stubborn, mischievous, prescient, well-read... sometimes, when you spent too much time in his war room, you found yourself thinking of him as your Aleksander.

So slowly, despite all your self-loathing, you fell in love with the general.

That's why you were hiding from him in the library, hoping Alina, Zoya, or anyone else would keep him busy tonight enough to forget that you were supposed to meet him after dinner.

You had to suppress that stupid feeling. He was not Aleksander. He was just your husband's doppelgänger. Just a shell of your lover.

"Mel? Are you okey?" Alina's soft, concerned whisper snapped you out of your thoughts.

"I'm fine. Another nightmare?" you asked, patting the space next to you and opening the edge of the blanket for the girl to sit with you.

Your beginnings with Alina were not colourful; the sunny girl irritated you and could easily throw you off balance. But as time passed, you became friends to the point where you comforted her after her nightmares about the fold and the deaths of her loved ones. Sometimes you would read her old Ravkan fairy tales or sneak into the kitchen for hidden sweets. In more critical situations, you would drag her outside to the gardens, where you would sit on the pier by the lake, watching it gleam in the moonlight.

In a way, you too found solace in comforting the girl. It was nice to have company after being alone for so long. Fighting your past, which was showing up in your dreams, was easier with a ray of sunshine by your side.

"No. This time I can't sleep."

"Are you bothered by overly comfortable pillows, or maybe our princess felt a pea under the mattress?" Alina snorted, shaking her head. It took her some time to realise that your sarcastic remarks were not intended to offend her but merely to make her laugh.

"I'm thinking about Mal."

"Oh yeah… your boyfriend and childhood friend, what's up with him?" you asked, slamming the book shut to turn all your attention to the black-haired girl.

"He's not my boyfriend. We are only friends." she murmured, blushing, obviously awkward at your apt comment.

"Sunshine, I can recognise the face and eyes of a woman in love. You can't hide your feelings from me."

"Well, you're not the only one with this gift. Kirigan also gives you an infatuated man's look. Don't deny it! Even Ivan can see it. I think that already half of the second army knows about their general's fondness for the moon summoner." she teased you with a cocky smirk on her face. You rolled your eyes, returning your attention to your book.

"Please, half of the Grishas look at me like that."

You knew what Alina meant. Kirigan looked to you as the solution to his fold problems - as did the other Grishas. Little did they know that instead of being their saviour, you gonna be their worst nightmare... a White Heretic.

"No, not in that way. They look at you, at us, as saints, as saviours who can destroy the fold. He admires you, not your power. And judging by the fact that you're still wearing a black kefta, he's not indifferent to you either."

You inadvertently snuggled deeper into the black material. Alina was partly right; maybe you didn't want to get involved in any romance, but it would definitely be easier to manipulate the general who is infatuated with you. You could have taken advantage of the fact that seeing you in his colours put him in a strangely pleasant mood. You've used your black clothes more than once as a weapon in your negotiations with the dark general.

"I have a black kefta because some irritatingly fast sun summoner found Genya first and got herself a dark blue one. You didn't leave me much choice, Alina."

"How sorry I am for that. By the way, Kirigan asked about you. He waits in his chambers, longing to finally see you after you've been ruthlessly ignoring him all day."

"I'm not done with you, Starkov!" you shouted after her, but the girl was already at the door, sticking her tongue out at you.

"See you in the morning, Petrova! You will tell me about your meeting with the General." she said as she walked away, slamming the library door.

"That little bitch." you muttered under your breath, wondering if you should go. You could have lied to him and said that you didn't meet Alina and forgot about your meeting. You only doubted the sun summoner's loyalty to you...

However, you started gathering your things, knowing full well that you would have to leave the library anyway.

You frowned as you heard soft footsteps behind you that probably no normal human would have heard… at least not one who hadn't lived at least a hundred years of hiding and running.

"Ivan." you greeted him without turning to face him. The man stopped, obviously surprised that you sensed his presence. However, he quickly returned to his unemotional mode.

"Miss Petrova. The General requests your presence in the war room."

"I was on my way." you replied, knowing full well that the man knew the truth. More than once, he chased you around the Little Palace at the general's behest. Fortunately, he had enough sense in his head not to make Kirigan aware that your memory was reliable and you didn't meet him only out of your own reluctance (actually, a huge desire to see him). "Alina just told me he wants to see me."

Ivan nodded and waited for you to escort you to the war room.

~•♤♤♤•~

Considering the fact that you were a regular visitor to Kirigan's war room, you should know the way to his chambers. But each time, you seemed to take a completely different route than the last time.

Ivan had to repay your elusiveness by making the longest trips to the general's room.

But this time, heartrender quickly dropped you off at his general's door and, wishing you good night, disappeared into one of the corridors.

You sighed, not wanting to face your growing infatuation and subsequent attempts to manipulate the general into carrying out your plans today.

You opened the door, entering the "vestibule". You pricked up your ears as you heard Kirigan talking to someone very familiar. Zoya.

"You used to call on me. On times like this. Your table wasn't messy, and in bed, it was me instead of these books. I can help you make it all right. Just let yourself relax." without knowing why, you wanted to go in there and interrupt whatever plan she had to seduce him. And not because you felt jealousy eating you up inside. You were supposed to be the one to lead him by the nose to do whatever you wanted. Not that windy bitch who was ruining your plan.

"I shall relax when my moon summoner comes here to help me with this. With her by my side, you don't need to worry about me anymore. I'm with the perfect helper." you chuckled internally, wanting so much to see the look on her face after he had rejected her. You figured this would be the perfect time to step in.

"Am I disturbing?" you asked as you walked inside.

If Zoya was an inferni, the general's room would probably go up in flames at the sight of you. Kirigan, on the other hand, seemed very pleased to see you. His eyes were focused only on you. And your black nightgown, over which you threw on (also the black) kefta he ordered.

"Not at all. Zoya was about to leave a few minutes ago."

"General." he said. Kirigan did not even glare at her as she bowed to him. She walked past you, giving you a hostile look, which you only smirked at.

"Didn't you forget something?" Kirigan's sharp question broke the silence between the three of you. Zoya stood immobile, as if engraved. She stared at the general for a moment, then clenched her hands into fists and bowed to you.

"Miss Petrova." she growled, then stormed out of the war room, slamming the door.

"It wasn't necessary. You'll only infuriate her more by forcing her to show me respect." you said, turning to face the general, who was suddenly right behind you. He was the only one who could sneak up on you. A skill he used extensively.

"You're the moon summoner… you'll get all the respect you deserve. I'll make sure about it." he murmured, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

"You can't make people do it. Respect is something that has to be earned, something that has no meaning if it is given involuntarily." his silence surprised you. He usually answered your words with 10 of his. But now he was staring at you silently, which didn't help your already fast-beating heart. "So what do we have on the agenda today, general? Arguments about whether we really need First Army soldiers or you don't know where Loavana is."

"I know where Loavana is. I was tired then, and besides, you were the one who turned the map and misled me."

"Of course, general." you snorted, smiling teasingly. You moved to the other side of the table, tactically increasing the distance between you. "So, did you summon me for any reason other than staring at my natural glow? Because honestly, I'm getting a little bored." you said as you sat down on the table and casually reached for one of the orders he had written.

"Always impatient." he muttered, suddenly appearing in front of you and gently taking the paper from your hand.

"Always too mysterious."

"This may surprise you, but I have other things on my mind than your natural glow, little moon."

"What a shame." you murmured, placing your hand over your heart in a hurt gesture. But you became serious when you saw him staring dully at the map. "What's bothering you?"

"The Fjerdans have moved closer to our border."

"How many?" you asked, jumping off the table and turning your full attention to the distressed general.

"Several branches. Enough to get our attention and attack one of our regiments." he replied, pouring himself a glass of liquor and handing you your own.

"We need to speed up Alina's training. Before all hell breaks loose and our great king orders our troops to be divided to fight the Fjerdans. The fold case must be finally closed. Before we go to another war. For now, we have to send some of our healers and additional troops there. If there are more of Grishas there, no Fjerdan will dare attack them. They will shift their attention to the soldiers of the first army, and this will no longer be a direct problem for us." you turned to him, confused by his silence. Kirigan stared at you with a gentle, tender smile on his face and a longing, dreamy look. The silence between the two of you and the gaze he was giving you embarrassed you. "What? Why are you looking at me like that? Did I say something wrong?"

"No." he grunted, shaking his head as he blushed slightly when you caught him staring. "I just... I was fighting this war alone for so long."

This was the moment. You had to cast your net over him, surround him at his most vulnerable, and make him fall for you.

But you forgot to guard your own heart in the process...

You grabbed his hand. Your powers combined as usual when your skin touched, causing you to be enveloped in the utter darkness of his shadows, with only the white light emanating from your joined hands illuminating your faces.

"You're not alone." you whispered, afraid to break the spell between you. Afraid that the moment your voice reaches him, those damn hypnotic eyes will tear away from yours. Afraid your mind is about to scold the stupid heart that beat for the man before you. A man who, for the sake of your sanity, was too much like the husband you loved.

"I've been waiting a long time for you." he replied just as quietly, afraid to break the sanctity of the moment. Afraid it was another of his cruel dreams where he would have your dead body in his arms again. But the reality was even more brutal for him. Because the woman who stood before him, the woman who looked exactly like his wife, wasn't her at all. And that didn't stop his cold, centuries-old heart from beating for her.

"Believe me, not as long as me." you whispered. Tears began to gather in his eyes, threatening to spill out as he raised his other trembling hand and cupped your cheek. The feel of his cold hand on your face made you realise what you were doing. He was not Aleksander. He wasn't yours. And you will never be his. "I think I should go." you grunted, stepping away from him.

His shadows returned to him, as did your light. Everything has returned to normal. Except for the frantic beating of the hearts of the two of you.

"Don't forget about tomorrow's ball. We're supposed to put on a little show for the king and his nobility."

"How could I forget that we're supposed to be circus monkeys tomorrow?" you asked with a pugnacious smirk, to which he just shook his head in amusement.

"Don't let anyone else hear it. I don't want to visit you in a dungeon… however tempting you look in chains." his bold suggestion shocked you, but you decided to play on without giving him a chance to have the last word. You walked over to him and, ignoring his intense gaze, whispered in his ear with your lips brushing his earlobe.

"I'm not that easy to put in chains, general." you brushed his cheek with yours and disappeared from the war room at the speed of light.

It was something you could do. Game, flirt, chase, challenge—all kept away from any emotion other than lust. It was a game. Manipulation game. And you were going to win it. For your Aleksander and other Grishas.

~•♤♤♤•~

Your dress was so beautiful and wonderful. You admire Genya's skills, but what she did for you this time was indescribable.

With trembling hands, you smoothed the fabric of the dress around your waist, admiring the intricate embroidery of the constellations. The white and silver threads shone in the candlelight like real stars on your dark blue dress.

You didn't like getting dressed up, getting your hair up in a fancy hairstyle, or wearing those uncomfortable ball gowns. In fact, you've only worn formal clothes a few times in your life. But only twice did you feel like a true goddess, a queen. Today and on your wedding day.

"Who put that veil on you?" Baghra's grumpy tone snapped you out of your thoughts as you looked at yourself in the mirror. You had a lovely dress, even considering that neither you nor Aleksander and his mother had as much money compared to other families. But it didn't matter. Not for you. The most important was Alexander and you. And not the judgmental looks of other people. It was your day and no one could ruin it for you.

"Myself. Something's wrong?"

The woman sighed as she walked over to you and unfastened it with unusual delicacy for her, mumbling something about your blindness as she adjusted your crooked veil.

"Now. You look almost properly. You're missing one thing."

"Which is?"

She reached into the pouch strapped to her side and pulled out something shiny. She gestured for you to turn towards the mirror. You did it while watching a woman put the most beautiful necklace you've ever seen around your neck.

"Bagra is… it's wonderful. I can't…"

"Yes, you can. And you will be. I won't let that old hag gossip about my daughter looking like a poor peasant on her wedding day."

"Thank you." you whispered in a shaky voice, more concerned that the woman called you her daughter than the ridiculously expensive and beautiful necklace.

"Come on. Don't cry, or you'll turn red and scare everyone, including my son. You'd better hurry up. The boy is about to have a heart attack if you're another minute late. If it wasn't for Ulla, he would have run here 10 minutes ago."

"Did she manage to come?" you asked as she took your arm with the obvious intention of walking you down the aisle.

"Of course. That's my daughter. She wouldn't waste the opportunity to tease her crazy-in-love brother." you giggled, not missing her little smile. The woman stopped right in front of the exit door, giving you a serious look. "Y/N, are you absolutely sure you want this? You know our true origins, my boy's character, and all the dark things our family has been through. Are you absolutely sure you want to join this mess? 'Cause once we walk through that door, there's no turning back."

"I think we both know the answer to that question, Baghra."

"No. I need to hear it. Do you truly want this?"

"I dream of nothing more than marrying Aleksander, and spending my whole life with him, no matter how long or short it may be."

The woman nodded silently and opened the door.

A wide smile appeared on your face as soon as your gaze met the clearly nervous Aleksander. He calmed down the moment he saw you, an equally goofy, in-love smirk playing on his lips. And when he finally had you at arm's length, he didn't hesitate to grab your hands in his firm grip, never taking his eyes off yours for a moment.

It was just you and him. Lost in your love.

And so began your little eternity together... shorter than either of you would have liked.

You'll always remember that day, even if it was associated with bittersweet memories of your all-too-short marriage. A single tear fell from your eye. You wiped it with the sleeve of your dress.

Your hand automatically wandered under your dress, absently stroking the Baghra's necklace to which you had attached your wedding ring. The only memento of your past.

In another life, you and Aleksander could have had it all.

"Little moon? Are you ready?" Kirigan entered your room." We're going... soon." you could see in the mirror how he froze as his eyes met your reflection in the silver mirror.

You turned to him, making a sweeping movement with your skirt. You wouldn't waste your chance to be a diva. However, you yourself soon succumbed to a similar blackout as his as soon as you assumed the general's appearance.

The saints really liked to torment you.

There was no other explanation for why the man in front of you looked almost exactly like your husband on your wedding day.

Aleksander couldn't take his eyes off her. She was perfect. Ethereal, otherworldly, and breathtaking. His Y/N... No. She wasn't her. No one could be her, not even a woman with her face. Which didn't stop him from giving himself to this dream that it was his wife standing in front of him. He spent hundreds of years in suffering; maybe this one night he can afford to live in his most beautiful dreams, where SHE would still be with him.

He cleared his throat, snapping you both out of the strange, nostalgic atmosphere.

"You look amazing." you blushed as you turned back to the mirror, pretending to consider the truth of his compliment.

"Thank you. Genya makes wonderful dresses." you reached for the kefta thrown over the armchair, but the man beat you to it.

"Please, allow me." you nodded to him. You turned your back to him, waiting for him to put the kefta on your shoulders.

He smoothed it out, letting his hand brush the fabric of your bare collarbones for a moment too long. You shivered as you felt the tiny touch of his fingertips on your bare skin. Good thing the kefta covered most of your bare arms. You didn't want to give him satisfaction for how he was affecting you.

But judging by his dilated pupils, you weren't the only one who felt the attraction between the two of you.

However, you will definitely not be the one to give in to such trivial desires. He was not Aleksander. Nobody could.

"Thank you again." you murmured as you pulled away from him, smiling. You preferred to act oblivious to his advances rather than risk giving in to the lust that was evident between the two of you. Although you knew there would come a point in your little game where you'd have to seduce him a bit to lull his guard down. And you feared that moment more than entering the fold.

"Anytime, love. Shall we?" he asked, offering you his arm. "I hope you spare me at least one dance." he murmured, smiling at you with that flirty twinkle in his eyes as he kissed your hand.

Wonderfully. Now he was supposed to be your personal bodyguard for all night.

You sighed, grabbing his arm. Kirigan pulled you closer as he escorted you through the maze of corridors.

It was going to be a really tough day. - you thought, allowing yourself to steal a glance at the general who was already watching you. - Especially with those eyes so focused on me.

~•♤♤♤•~

The Kirigan left you alone for a moment just before entering the ballroom. You were to wait for him and Alina, and then the three of you were to give little shows of darkness and light.

So you waited patiently until someone bumped into you, knocking you to the floor.

"Watch where you walk!" you growled, dusting yourself off as you got up off the floor. The hooded figure stopped and turned to you. You both froze when you saw your faces.

"Y/N?" Baghra asked in disbelief. "It is impossible." she whispered, coming closer to you and catching your hand in a strong, bruising grip, only to grab your necklace later, which had slipped out from under your dress after you fell. She looked at him tenderly, shifting her gaze to you.

"Hello mom." you whispered uncertainly, fearing your mother-in-law's reaction. She liked you, it's true, but in the meantime, you managed to disappear without a trace for hundreds of years. You didn't know what your relationship was like now. But rather, neither of you could be hostile to the other.

"It's really you… But how? I… we thought you were dead, child. Where have you been all this time?"

"A little here, a little there. Forgive me for not writing or coming. I think you understand perfectly well why I didn't."

"Not even a bit, actually." she replied, confused. You frowned. You've never seen Baghra confused. It was a strange sight, to say the least, and definitely worth remembering.

"You know how dear he was... Aleksander is to me. After his death..."

"Death?" she asked. You didn't know if you misheard or if the surprise in her voice was genuine. She rather knew about his death, didn't she?

"Yes. While creating a fold." you explained, looking at her intently. But Baghra's face never betrayed anything. Not any single emotion. She tucked the necklace under your dress and grabbed your shoulders.

"Oh, my dear child. For all this time..."

"Baghra!" Kirigan's scream echoed through the empty corridor. The woman stepped back from you like she was burned, watching the general with contempt as he approached the two of you. "What are you talking about with my moon summoner? I hope she didn't bother you too much, Miss Petrova."

"Not at all. Actually…"

"I was just leaving, moi soverenyi." the woman interrupted you, giving you an enigmatic look, before she turned her back to you two. "Enjoy yourself, Miss Petrova." she threw over her shoulder as she walked away.

"Crazy woman. But he teaches the young Grisha well. What did she want from you?"

"Nothing special. She asked where I was from and what I was doing here. I don't think she's heard of the new moon summoner yet."

"Probably you are right. Let's go. We've got a show to play."

He took your hand gently and led you to the centre of the room, where Alina was already waiting for you.

You had a simple task. Kirigan summons shadows. Alina, on the other side of the room, her golden rays, and you, the white moonlight that was supposed to connect with her powers, then break up into several constellations.

A child's trick and spectacle for the common folk who treated you like toys all rolled into one.

Everything was going smoothly. Suddenly, the room was completely dark. You waited patiently for Alina's light to appear on the other side of the room. When suddenly someone approached you from behind.

"It's okay, it's me. It's just me, you're safe."

"What are you doing?" you asked as he wrapped his arms around you from behind, taking both of your hands in his.

"Don't you think this is the best place to watch the whole show?" his question confused you. You turned in his arms, miraculously seeing those bloody, dark eyes in the darkness. The mischievous sparks both made your chest feel warm and terrified. The bastard was up to something.

"I doubt it; with my light, you'll barely see Alina's trick."

"Works perfectly for me, my little moon." he whispered against your ear. You tensed as you felt his soft lips on your earlobe.

Suddenly he leaned in, the tip of his nose tracing a path from your ear down your skin, sending shivers down your spine as he inhaled your perfume and those damn distracting lips slid from your ear to your neck.

He started placing small, wet kisses there. Your brain has melted. It stopped working while the general was kissing every sensitive spot on your neck. He read your body so damn well that if it weren't for his quick reflexes and his hand over your mouth, your loud, obscene groan would have echoed in the darkness of the ballroom.

You felt the light involuntarily escape from you and thanked all the saints that you lost control just as Alina finished her part.

You tried to push the shadow summoner away from you, but your attempts were so futile (and reluctant) that you quickly gave up, focusing on doing your job with his intoxicating mouth and roaming hands on you.

The son of a bitch was lucky to stay in the shadows, unseen by anyone but you.

You internally cursed yourself for how much easier it was to do the whole trick with him around.

To your great disappointment, he moved away from you just before the grand finale. You were panting, trying to calm your wildly beating heart, and breathing as the light began to take over the ballroom.

And those fucking dark eyes and smug smirk were the first damn thing you saw when you and Alina lit up the room.

People started applauding. Kirigan came up to you and grabbed your hand, and after Alina joined you, you bowed to everyone, gathering an ovation. You glanced briefly at Kirigan, who was staring at your neck. You just hoped he didn't leave a hickey in plain sight. But judging by the way his smirk widened and the way he ran away from you as soon as you were surrounded by a crowd of people, you assumed you had a new, not-so-visible yet bruise on your skin.

You'll kill him as soon as you get your hands on him.

~•♤♤♤•~

You stand in the darkness of his war room, waiting for him to finally appear. You played with the dagger in your hands, contemplating meeting Baghra. You felt something was wrong, something was missing. The woman's behaviour both helped you and, after the general's arrival, gave you a lot to think about. She was hiding something. But what?

you sighed. If only Aleksander was here. It would save you a lot of trouble. Among other things, intimidating his doppelgänger, who started to stick to you too much - much to your tacit approval.

But you were aware that this attraction was only due to his resemblance to your Aleksander. In a few decades, Kirigan will die too. And you will be completely alone again.

The sound of his boots hitting the floor snapped you out of your thoughts. You braced yourself for an attack and jumped on him just as he flanked the door and stepped inside. You pinned him against the wall with a dagger to his neck as he gave you a surprised, amused look.

"Hello, moonlight. Do you like the ball?"

"What the hell was that?!" you growled, pressing the blade against his skin as you made a small, harmless cut.

"You put a dagger to my neck far too often, darling." he noted, frowning as droplets of blood decorated the silver metal.

"Don't change the fucking subject! You have no damn right to act like this. Lay your hand on me like that again, and I'll make sure you don't have anything to summon your shadows with, general."

"So my lips on your incredibly alluring soft skin were no problem for you, my sweet moon?" he asked maliciously, raising an eyebrow. You growled, irritated by his arrogance. You guessed you preferred it when he responded to your attack with his own dagger.

"Do that again, and you won't live to see another moment to find out."

"You forget..." he mumbled, suddenly grabbing your hand holding the blade and wrapping his other around your neck. He pinned you against the wall, making sure there was no space between you two. "That you're not the only one with power here."

"You'd better let me go, little shadow, before you unleash hell you can't stop." you growled, summoning your light, which immediately met his shadows. You fought, jostling with your powers and staring hard into each other's eyes. You weren't going to lose this fight.

"You underestimate me, darling. I'm more than able to face any of your hell."

You didn't know why, but that sentence, the confidence in his eyes, the arrogance in his voice, and the same immense need that was hiding under both yours and his mask of restraint changed something between you two.

His already dark eyes were practically taken over by black pupils that stared at you lustfully. The intoxicating smell of his perfume, the warmth of his body, and those damn big, cool hands on your hot skin only made you accept your spur-of-the-moment decision.

With his hand still tightly wrapped around your neck, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his.

You both groaned in unison. Your only consolation in this situation was that before your hands hooked on his strong arms, holding on tightly for fear your legs would give out, you could hear his dagger first drop to the marble floor, seconds before your blade.

You only broke apart for a moment before quickly removing the other's kefta and catching the other's lips again. You fought for control, biting into the other's lip every now and then, which only met with more resistance and the will to fight. Neither you nor he were made to lose.

At one point, he grabbed you by the waist, wrapping your legs around him as he carried you to the nearest flat surface—the war table. With one flick of his hand, he swept all the maps, papers, and other stuff off him onto the floor and practically threw you onto a wooden table.

You gasped in shock as your body suddenly hit the wood, which Kirigan quickly took advantage of. He dug into your mouth, his tongue grazing yours as he tried to dominate you once again.

You growled, grabbing the back of his black shirt and tearing the fabric to get to his skin, where you didn't hesitate to leave blood crescents in the shape of your fingernails.

He hissed away from your kiss-swollen lips and bit into the same damn spot on your neck where he had dared leave a hickey before.

Aleksander...

You froze. It wasn't Aleksander. It will never be your Aleksander again. No matter how damn similar they were.

Kirigan continued to kiss your neck when you finally decided, with a heavy heart, to push him away with a gentle kick.

You both stared at each other, gasping for breath. Kirigan took a hesitant step towards you and raised his hand to gently stroke your cheek. But you jumped off the war table before his skin could touch yours and start your kissing session all over again.

You had to escape from there. As soon as possible.

"I... I should go." you mumbled, shoving past him to pick up the kefta that had been thrown on the floor by him.

"Wait a second..." he followed you but stopped the moment his eyes met yours again. You both wanted each other. You were both held back by the very same thing that attracted you in the first place.

"We have a hard day tomorrow. Make sure Ivan wakes up Alina; she's not such an early riser after all." you mumbled in panic, backing towards the door.

"Melinoe." he tried to stop you, but your hand on the doorknob was faster. You opened the door, and without looking back, you threw over your shoulder:

"Good night, general."

You ran to your room, and before anyone could stop you, you shut the door. Tears began to flow freely from your eyes as you slid to the floor.

For a moment, a fleeting little moment, you were Y/N again. You were that 20-year-old girl kissing her husband again. But Kirigan could never be Aleksander. And even if you gave him your heart, he would shatter it to pieces over time when he, like other descendants of your Aleksander, reached old age. You were doomed to be lonely. But the fact that a person with eyes, a face, and a mind so like your husband was at your fingertips wasn't helpful to your already broken soul at all.

You just wanted to have your husband in your arms again. Was it so much for the saints to accomplish? You sobbed piteously until you fell asleep on the floor from exhaustion.

Little did you know that a few floors above you, someone was also mourning their dead significant other. And he also cursed fate for putting in his path a woman so similar to the one for whom he would give everything he held dear.

One thing was certain. The longer you stayed in the presence of the other, the more you lost your mind. But neither of you was ready to deprive yourself of the toxic pleasure of seeing the living face of your beloved, lost spouse.

~•♤♤♤•~

As planned, the next day you headed towards the border with Fjerdans. Neither you nor the general spoke to you most of the way, which Alina and Baghra noticed. Yes. Baghra went with you. The general was just as shocked as you, but surprisingly, he didn't argue with the woman about her unannounced presence.

The only thing you were afraid of during this trip was crossing the land where your village used to be. Aleksander's house and yours. It also didn't help that you were supposed to be there on the exact anniversary of his death - the creation of the fold.

You thought it would be easier for you to ride a horse through the only place where you were happy, but the wave of memories flooding you did not allow you to pass by indifferently.

"You'll never catch me!" you run away from him, laughing.

"If I catch you, the game will be over. But since you're insulting my capabilities…" you yelled as you ran away when Aleksander rushed to you.

You ran along the river, looking over your shoulder every now and then to make sure your boyfriend wasn't right behind you.

Suddenly, a cloud of shadows appeared in front of you, from which your Sasha came out and grabbed you by the waist. You thrashed in his embrace, causing you both to fall to the ground, laughing.

"Aleksander! You shouldn't use it in public!" you scolded him, punching him lightly in the chest.

"We are in the middle of the forest. There are only us and some animals."

"Still it is risky for you. Don't make me tell your mother about this."

"Could you please stop threatening me with my own mother?" he groaned, throwing you off him, to which you squealed indignantly. You stared with your daggers at the man lying before you with a mischievous smirk and an amused twinkle in his eyes.

"Since I found out she likes me and trusts me more than you? No, it's too funny, my grumpy shadow-man." you laughed. You rolled your eyes as you watched his expression growl. You climbed on top of him and kissed the crease that had formed between his eyebrows from your comment. "I'm soooo sorry, Sasha. You know how much I love you, right? You're the most important person in my life, Aleksander Morozova."

"And you in mine, Y/N Y/L/N." he murmured, grabbing your cheek and pulling you into a sweet, slow kiss. You purred, enjoying the feel of his lips on yours - something you'll never get tired of. He pulled away from you far too quickly. He licked his lips, looking at you nervously. You raised an eyebrow, questioningly. "Y/N... can I ask you a question?"

"Right now? I thought you gonna kiss me a little longer, but if it's so important." he chuckled, shaking his head, as he leaned down to catch your lips in a kiss again.

"Happy, lapushka?"

"Not really, but I'll try to survive a few minutes without your lips on mine." he chuckled, but you knew from the features of his face and the gentle clasping of his shoulders that something was bothering him. You just hoped he wouldn't have to leave with his mother again... "What did you want to ask me?" Aleksander cleared his throat, taking your hands in his trembling.

"You know that I love you. I can't imagine how my life would have turned out if you hadn't put that dagger to my throat five years ago right here."

"I knew I recognized this place from somewhere." you cut him off, looking around the clearing. Aleksander laughed, catching your attention again as you blushed at how stupidly you interrupted him. But it seemed to help him relax, judging by the way his hand confidently reached out to cup your cheek.

"You make me laugh. Even on the darkest, worst of days. Just one look at those wonderfully beautiful eyes is enough to completely change my mood. One word from you and all my plans and beliefs fall into oblivion. You are the light in my darkness. The only good thing that happened to me. The only person who isn't afraid of what I can do. The only person who looks at me with such adoration despite my shadows."

"You know I love them. I love all of you, Sasha. Nothing will change that." you replied with tears in your eyes, suspecting what his confession would lead to.

"I know I have nothing worth you and that the life I can offer you is nothing compared to what you deserve, but you know me better than I know myself... I would go crazy if I wasn't the only man who has the privilege of seeing your face first thing every morning and falling asleep in the presence of your beauty. I'd go crazy if someone else could be called yours..." Aleksander took a simple gold ring with a small black gem from his pocket.

You gasped, knowing full well how much money he must have spent on even such a simple engagement ring. Baghra was supposed to skin your fiancé when she figured out what he wasted their money on.

"Sasha..." you whispered, crying, moving your gaze towards him.

"Y/N, kei onolich yash (will you marry me)? Will you be my wife?" too moved to answer him, you pulled him into a kiss. You both smiled like idiots. "I'm guessing it's yes then, but I'd rather hear it from you before I tell everyone else."

"Yes. Yes, I will marry you, you idiot. You didn't have to buy me a ring, Sasha. I would say yes without it."

"I wanted to make sure you wouldn't reject me." he replied with a mischievous smirk, putting it on your finger. You huffed and punched him lightly on the shoulder. The ring sparkled in the moonlight. Your face hurts from smiling. "I promise you, Y/N one day I'll give you the prettiest, flashiest ring in all of Ravka."

"And I will still prefer the one you gave me today." you replied without a second of hesitation, pulling your fiancé into another kiss.

The Kirgian ordered a stop, which everyone accepted with gratitude. And when others Grishas dispersed to their tasks, you decided to go to the place where your house and Aleksander's once stood.

Since you were already a stupid girl, as Baghra so nicely called you, this little trip shouldn't hurt you. You'd rather be stupid and crazy—completely mad from love—than ever forget about Aleksander and move on.

And that's how you got here. By the river, close to the place where you used to be the happiest in the world, and now you were shedding a sea of tears over the life you lost.

"I will build you a palace."

"What?" you asked, giggling as you looked away from the stars to your husband lying next to you on the grass.

Sensing the movement of your head, he turned around to look at you closely. You both loved nights like these. Your hands intertwined as you both lay on the ground looking at the stars and talking about your day, your plans, and your dreams. It was a sacred ritual between the two of you that you performed at least once a week.

"A palace. For you and our future children. A safe place where we can live with our little family."

"Sasha... I don't need a palace to feel safe with you. You are my shelter. My protector. What we have now is more than enough."

"That little hut where we barely fit in with our stuff, even though we don't have much anyway? NO. You deserve all the treasures of this world, Y/N" he murmured, stroking your cheek tenderly.

You sighed, pressing your cheek against his hand, enjoying every ounce of his attention. It's been getting more and more dangerous around here lately. You seldom had time to spend together; you were too busy with the Grisha needing your help. But you didn't mind. As long as Aleksander's eyes gave you that loving, adoring look at least once a day, you were ready to face anything to get back into his waiting arms.

"I already have one." he raised an eyebrow questioningly, looking at you in surprise. You just smiled, pulling him to you by the chin and connecting your lips in a kiss. Aleksander rolled over and hovered over you, not breaking your tender kiss. You placed your hands on his cheeks and gently pulled him away, looking into his eyes. No stars in the sky could match the brilliance of his dark irises. "You are my treasure. With you by my side I want nothing more. You're all I need to be happy, Sasha." you mumbled, stroking his cheeks with your thumbs. Aleksander buried his face in your hands, closing his eyes for a moment and surrendering to this tender gesture.

"You deserve much more, milaya. And I promise, by all the saints and stars in the sky, I'll give you the world."

"Everything in time, Aleksander. Now, kiss your wife and show her how much you love her." you giggled as his long hair tickled your cheeks as he dutifully caught your lips in another sweet kiss.

"Was he really worth it?" Baghra's question cut through your sobs. You wiped your tears, not wanting to cry in front of her, and turned to face her. "Wouldn't you rather curse him for creating a fold and for leaving you than mourn the bastard that was my son? Y/N, child, you have eternity ahead of you. An eternity where you can be happy. Is Aleksander worth wasting it?" you laughed bitterly, knowing the answer to her question all too well. Nothing has changed over the centuries. And you knew nothing would change your feelings.

"You know very well that I will never know happiness again. Not without him. I've never done that in all these years."

"There had to be a moment. Even the smallest." she tried desperately to convince you. You dropped your head, remembering those few moments between you and Kirigan in Little Palace.

"There was. Next to a man who looked like him. But after a while, it dawned on me that he would never be Aleksander. Call me and think about me however you want. Pathetic child, crazy woman… But the truth is, I loved your son, Baghra, and I will always love only him. Our hearts were created by the saints as one and divided in two, placing one in Aleksander and the other in me. There is no one in the world I could love like him, with whom I could be truly happy. This type of love never dies, Baghra. Even separated by a grave."

"What if you got him back? If he was with you, but he wasn't the same man you remember?"

"It wouldn't matter. We are all changing. I know I would love him as much as I did then."

"I just hope you know what you want, child. And that maybe he'll go back to who he used to be because of you." she sighed, leaving you alone with your grief. You frowned, analysing her vague words.

It wasn't until it started to get dark that you got up from your knees and brushed the dirt off your clothes. You were about to leave when the crunch of branches caught your attention. A foolish hope rose in you and you lifted your head, only to meet your eyes with the Kirgian.

"General. I was just returning to camp." he nodded his head without a word.

Taking that as your cue to leave, you turned to take one last look at what used to be your home. You sighed tremblingly as a lone tear rolled down your cheek.

And you whistled.

It was a fragment of an old Ravkan song about lovers returning home after a long journey to throw themselves into each other's arms, longing for separation. You and Aleksander adored it. And you decided that every time one of you left home, you would whistle that particular verse that stuck in your mind.

In storm-black mountains, I wander alone

Over the glacier I make my way

A cool breeze caressed your hot (from crying) skin. But the goosebumps that formed on your arms weren't from the cold at all.

"In the apple orchard stands the maiden fair and sings, When will you come home?"

You froze. Incapable of anything but breathing. You misheard. It's just one of your stupid fantasies, your mind playing tricks on you, or another cruel dream about how you got back the man you loved. It couldn't be true. It couldn't be real.

But the man holding your arm in a tight grip and turning you around to face him felt very real. AND ALIVE.

"Sasha?" you whispered tearfully, shaking all over, and if it wasn't for his strong grip on both of your arms, you probably would have fallen to your knees in front of him long ago, unable to do anything other than stare hopefully at the man in front of you.

Aleksander's heart shuddered and threatened to burst as the pet name, unused for hundreds of years, reached his ears. In an instant, you were on his chest as he hugged you with all his might. With your ear to his heart, you listened to his beating, and for the first time in hundreds of years, you cried WITH HAPPY.

"It's me, milaya. My sweet Y/N, my moon, my heart, my wife. It's me."

You heard him through a haze, too intent on his eyes to understand anything more from his speech. It was him. Your Aleksander. All this time. He was saying something to you, but you completely ignored him as something gold around his neck shimmered in the moonlight. You pulled the chain from under his jacket, sighing as you saw his wedding ring hanging securely on his necklace. A sob of disbelief escaped you. It was really him.

His hand cupping your cheek caused your watery gaze to shift back to those dark, beloved eyes.

"No more tears, milaya. You do not have to worry. From now on, I will never leave your side again. Not for a single bloody second."

And that was enough for you.

Grabbing his hair, you pulled him closer to you to feel his lips on yours as soon as possible. It wasn't one of those soft, gentle, unhurried kisses that lovers share after they meet after some separation.

It was intense, desperate, and needy, expressing your deadly longing for each other's lips through those painful years without each other. You didn't have the strength to hold back, to pretend you didn't miss that exact feeling all those lonely nights.

It didn't matter that your tears mixed and you could taste their salty taste on each other's lips. It didn't matter that your lungs were burning for air. It didn't matter that you had already fallen to your knees, too shaken by the feeling of the other's lips, but both of you longed too much for this closeness between you to deprive yourself of the warmth of the other's body even for a millisecond. It didn't matter if your lips were too swollen to decently go back to camp and pretend nothing had happened between you two.

You sincerely doubted that you would be able to take even a step towards the camp. Not after you trembled in Aleksander's lap as his hands caressed every inch of your skin.

But the moment came when you had to pull away from each other, cursing the need for air. You rested your forehead against his, inhaling his scent and clinging to his kefta to be as close to him as possible.

You both knew that there was no way you were going to be an arm's length away from each other. And you were seriously considering sticking with him permanently. His dark cloak looked big enough for you to hide under it too.

You couldn't believe your luck. He was here. With you. You had his arms around you again as you both clung desperately to each other.

Your Aleksander. Your husband. Your loved one. Your heart.

He had you again. His wife. His soulmate. His sanity. His equal. HIS EVERYTHING.

You wanted to pull away for a moment to look at his face again, but something tugged at your neck, bringing your head to Aleksander's shoulder. You looked down. Your necklaces are tangled.

"Seriously? It couldn't have happened a month ago?" you groaned as you tried to untangle your chains. You smiled, hearing how your husband laughed carelessly for the first time in centuries, since the day he lost you. "We'll never hear the end of it from Baghra, you know about it Sasha?" you asked, resting your forehead against his as you gave up on releasing the two of you. It didn't matter that everything was against you again. At least now you finally have Aleksander with you. YOUR real Aleksander.

"She had already called me a blind fool before she made me come here. I think we'll hear a lot from her about our stupidity." he murmured. You shivered as you felt his fingertips on your neck as he untied your intertwined necklaces effortlessly. He unclasped yours and, with great delicacy, placed the ring on your finger.

"Remind me to thank your mother for making you come here later." you replied, making sure his wedding ring was on his finger as well. Maybe you won't scare all the bitches away from him, but at least you'll make it clear that he belongs only to you. After hundreds of years without him, you have the right to be territorial.

"Later?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You don't think I'm going anywhere other than your tent and your bed right now, do you?"

"Our bed." he murmured before grabbing you in bridal style and heading for your tent. "By the way, I must commend you for how bravely you resisted the charms of someone who wasn't me. I barely managed to kiss you properly before you pushed me away."

"I don't know what I should do to you. Slap you for groping someone who had my face, or kiss you for only being attracted to my beauty."

"You have to admit, you didn't resist me much back then, my little saint." he murmured, kissing you again. He ran his hand through your hair, pulling you all the way onto him so he could feel your weight on him. You were with him. Body and soul. And it wasn't a dream. "Let's go to that tent before I have my way with you here and now." he muttered, getting up.

"Wait." you grabbed his hand. He turned to you, giving you a questioning look as he found you still kneeling on the grass. "Before we do anything. We both agree that we are not going to destroy the fold, right?"

Aleksander held his breath. He forgot how damn perfect you were. How you fit in and understood him in every way. And only the slight ounce of control he had left was keeping him from lunging at you right now as you kneeled in front of him with those beautiful, mesmerising eyes staring at him.

But after all, Aleksander was only human. A man whose cruel fate separated him from his beloved wife for many centuries…

He pulled you close to him in one swift motion. You crashed into his chest, completely unprepared for the sudden movement, but his intoxicating lips on yours compensated for your shock.

You moaned into his mouth as he pulled away from you so as not to lose his control completely.

"Saints, you have no idea how much I've missed you, my little moon."

"I'll take it as a yes." you replied, giggling as he put his arm around you. As you'd guessed, you fit perfectly with him under his cloak. You sighed, intoxicated by his scent.

"You know so well that I'll do anything for you. The fact that our plans coincide only proves that we belong to each other. And only to each other."

"Always, Sasha. I'm yours for eternity." you replied, smiling slightly as you turned to steal a glance at him.

"And I'm yours for the rest of our lives and beyond." he murmured, kissing your forehead.

You practically ran through the camp, ignoring Baghra's knowing, malicious look and the shocked expressions of Alina, Zoya, and Ivan (at which you giggled, causing Aleksander a small, tender smile) and Fedyor's smirk. You entered his tent, laughing as you started kissing while taking off each other's clothes.

"I hope you realize we don't leave this tent for at least a week?" he asked as he laid you down on the bed. However, the bastard didn't wait for your response, stealing a kiss from you.

"They'll be looking for you, Sasha." you mumbled between your kisses and grabbed his cheeks to make him focus on something other than your lips.

"What a pity I'll be too busy with my wife to notice anyone else but her." he lowered his head to your neck, making your hands tangle in his hair. You sighed, feeling his tongue on your skin just before he gently bit you.

"I thought we had a battle to win." he suddenly stopped all his movements. He intertwined your ringed hands and cupped your cheek with the other, forcing you to look into his eyes.

"My little moon, I'll postpone any goddamn war for you. There is nothing in this world more important to me than you and never will be." he promised, pressing his lips to yours.

You moaned, enjoying the long-forgotten feeling of his skin against yours as well as knowing that your love would never die.

[levisolace]

[7] Expendable Hearts (Levi x F!Reader)

Chapter 7: The Breakup

WC: 9,089 Chapter Warnings: tiniest bit of steamy but bigger angst Summary: Everyone in Levi's life knows he only ever dated one girl and that she left him wrecked, bitter, and heartbroken. Many years later, she's back in his life and he doesn't know what to do. Note: Hi, I am back again. I know I said we might have smut this chapter but it didn't really feel right for it lol. Honestly, not very satisfied with the chapter but I hope you like it!

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When you woke up, the unfamiliar warmth of soft sheets and the faint scent of something unmistakably Levi brought you to a sudden clarity. This wasn’t your apartment. You blinked, taking in your surroundings—the room was dimly lit, with soft morning light filtering through the curtains. Levi’s apartment. The realization settled slowly, like ripples spreading across water.

You sat up, your head heavy with a dull ache from last night’s drinks, and as you took in the stillness of the room, memories from the last night washed over you. You groaned in annoyance with yourself. How could you let this happen? When had you been careless enough to be that drunk?

The last seven years have taken you far away from this part of your life. Perhaps it was the absence that lowered your alcohol tolerance. Perhaps it was Hange’s mix. You don’t know and you don’t remember. Well, you do remember Levi arriving and helping you in fragments.

Last night was different. There had been warmth in Levi’s touch when he carried you to his bed, something almost tender in the way he looked at you, even if only for a moment. You don’t remember anything after passing out on the bed, hopefully that was the only thing you did. He was nowhere to be seen, and as you sat there on the bed pondering, the soft creaks and sounds of the apartment settling only heightened the absence of him.

You pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders, feeling the coolness of the morning air against your skin, protected by the fabric of Levi’s jacket. The comfort of Levi’s presence last night had been undeniable, but now, is it bad of you to hope that the tension between you two had finally subsided? 

You stood, making the bed carefully and neatly, and made your way to the doorway. In the living room, Levi was sleeping on the single sofa, arms crossed over his chest, his head slightly tilted to the side. 

He looked… worn. Even in sleep, his body held tension, his jaw slightly clenched, arms crossed over his chest like he was still defending himself from some unseen battle. His head had tipped awkwardly to the side, and the shadows under his eyes were deep, telling the story of someone who didn’t rest easily. You remembered how he never had good sleeping habits—his insomnia was something he never spoke about in detail, but you had seen its effects more times than you could count.

Crouching down, you looked at him more closely. His sleep was shallow, restless, as if even in unconsciousness, his mind couldn’t fully let go. There were faint signs of exhaustion etched across his face—the slight crease between his brows, the constant tension in his hands, the weariness that clung to him like a second skin. 

You thought back to when you were together, the nights when you’d wake up and find him sitting at the edge of the bed or drinking tea. He rarely slept for more than a few hours, and when he did, it was never restful. 

Now, seeing him like this—curled up on that too-small sofa, lost somewhere between exhaustion and restlessness—it hit you how much Levi had endured. His eyes, which always carried that sharpness, were softer in sleep, but the strain remained. The man who was always composed, always in control, seemed fragile in these stolen moments of rest.

“…when the breakup happened, Levi didn’t take it well.”

Kuchel’s words rang in your head, settling a frown on your face. You watched him breathe, the steady rise and fall of his chest, your hand hovering close to him but not touching. This was Levi—strong, guarded, and yet so painfully human underneath it all. Seven years and this hasn’t changed for Levi. 

In this city where much has changed, you wonder what else has remained? 

Levi stirred, his brow furrowing before his eyes slowly blinked open. He blinked again, his sharp gaze instantly locking onto you crouching beside him, your face only inches away from his. His expression shifted from sleepy confusion to guarded awareness in a split second, his body tensing as though he was expecting something.

You froze, caught in the act, your breath hitching. The silence hung heavy between you, as his sleepy, narrowed eyes tried to process the situation.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was rough, still thick with sleep, but there was that familiar edge to it, the one that made you think he wasn’t too pleased with the unexpected proximity.

You scrambled to stand up, feeling your face flush in embarrassment. “I… I didn’t mean to wake you. You just looked…” You trailed off, unsure of how to explain why you had been crouched there watching him sleep.

He let out a slow, deep exhale, shifting his position as he sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes softened for just a moment, but his guard was quickly back up, the tired lines on his face doing little to hide his discomfort at being caught like this.

“Didn’t mean to wake me?” he repeated, voice laced with skepticism, “You’re practically breathing down my neck.”

You winced, your embarrassment deepening. “I was just… worried. You don’t look like you’ve slept much.” You couldn’t help the concern that laced your voice, remembering all the times he would wake up in the middle of the night, never admitting how little sleep he actually got.

Levi’s expression shifted slightly at your words, but he brushed it off with a dismissive grunt. “I’m fine.” He stood up, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders, clearly trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. He was stiff, his movements betraying how uncomfortable that small sofa had been, but he didn’t say anything about it.

The awkward tension lingered between you as he ran a hand through his hair, smoothing down the disarray caused by sleep. He glanced at you again, his eyes flickering with something unreadable before he spoke, voice quieter now. “You shouldn’t stare at people when they’re asleep.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” you murmured, eyes lowering as you awkwardly shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

Levi’s gaze lingered on you for a second longer, then he sighed. “Do you want tea?” 

He walked toward the kitchen without waiting for your response, but the stiffness in his steps didn’t go unnoticed. For a few minutes, you stand there in the living room alone, a strange mix of emotions settled in your chest—relief, awkwardness, and something else. 

In the kitchen, Levi was standing by the stove with a tea cup in his hand. His back was turned to you, his posture rigid, his face unreadable. The warmth from last night seemed to have vanished, replaced by the familiar, distant version of Levi you had always struggled to understand.

He didn’t turn when he heard your footsteps, didn’t offer a greeting or acknowledge your presence in any obvious way. The silence between you was heavy, and suddenly, you felt like an intruder in a space that was no longer yours.

“Morning,” you said quietly, lingering by the doorway. Your voice sounded small, hesitant.

Levi didn’t respond immediately. He took a sip of his tea, still staring out the window. When he finally spoke, his tone was flat, almost indifferent. “Coffee or tea. Help yourself.”

The casualness of his words made your chest tighten. After last night, you had expected—maybe even hoped—for something more. You even joked a little in the car. But now, it was as though nothing had changed at all, as though the small, unspoken connection you had felt last night had dissolved with the morning light.

You stepped into the kitchen and prepared yourself a cup of tea, the clink of the cup against the counter louder than it should have been in the quiet apartment.

“I didn’t mean to impose last night,” you said softly, gripping the cup a little tighter than necessary. “Thanks for letting me stay and take the bed. It ruined your sleep.”

Levi finally glanced over at you, his expression neutral. “I told you it wasn’t a big deal. And I don’t use the bed much, anyway.”

You paused. “Do you still have trouble sleeping?”

He doesn’t answer. You took a sip of your tea, the taste of his premium tea leaves grounding you in the awkwardness of the moment. “Right,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “No big deal.”

The two of you stood there in the kitchen, silence filling the space between you as you indulge yourself with the warm drink. 

“Levi,” you began, your voice hesitant. You weren’t even sure what you wanted to say. Maybe you wanted to ask him why he had shown up outside your apartment, why he had seemed so different last night. Or maybe you just wanted to bridge the gap between the person you used to know and the man standing in front of you now.

But before you could say more, Levi cut you off, his voice low but firm. “You should head home after tea. You’ll feel better after you rest.”

It wasn’t a harsh dismissal, but it was enough to tell you that he wasn’t ready to talk. And maybe you weren’t either. Despite feeling wrong, you nod and turn your back on him. The years apart had created a distance that couldn’t be bridged by one day. There were too many things left unsaid, too many pieces of your lives that had moved in different directions. But you should at least try to settle some things. Besides, that talk with Kuchel really got to you. 

But something inside you refused to let this be the end of the conversation. You turned back toward Levi, your voice soft but determined.

“Levi… can we—” you hesitated, trying to find the right words. “Can we talk?”

For a moment, Levi didn’t move. He stood at the counter, his back to you, gripping the cup in his hands. The air between you grew heavy, thick with unspoken things. When he finally turned, his face was calm, but there was something in his eyes that betrayed him—an intensity you hadn’t expected.

“Talk?” he repeated, his voice low. It wasn’t sharp, but there was a weight to it. “About what?”

The directness of his question hit you harder than you expected. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself.

 “I just… I know things didn’t end well between us. And I want to know if we can…” You faltered, not quite sure how to finish the sentence. What were you asking for? Friendship? Closure?

Levi raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the counter. He looked tired, as though this conversation was something he’d been bracing for, but also something he didn’t want to face. “You want to fix things? Is that it?”

“I don’t know if it’s about fixing things,” you admitted softly, shifting your weight awkwardly. “I just… I don’t want things to be like this between us anymore.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he was trying to figure out what you really meant. He let out a breath, setting the cup down on the counter with a soft clink. “You think we can just… talk and things will magically be fine again?”

You shook your head, stepping a little closer. “No. But we could at least try to talk about it.”

Levi’s expression didn’t change much, but you could see his jaw tightening. “You left without a word,” he said quietly, the frustration finally seeping through. “Didn’t even say goodbye. And now you want to talk?”

The pain in his voice was subtle, but it was there, cutting deeper than you had expected. 

You understand now that time doesn’t heal everything for everyone. If Levi, the kind person that you know he is, still holds a grudge against you like this, you must’ve hurt him immensely. If you were still as closed off as you were, you would’ve told him off for this as you did back when you first saw each other. 

But now, you flinched, swallowing hard. “I didn’t leave because of you, Levi,” you started, your voice wavering. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” he asked, crossing his arms. He wasn’t angry—at least, not in the way he usually was when something upset him. He just looked… tired. Tired of this, tired of you bringing it up.

You looked down, your hands fidgeting at your sides. “I left because I needed to figure things out for myself. My future. My career. It wasn’t about us—”

Levi scoffed, shaking his head, cutting you off. “It was always about us. Don’t act like it wasn’t.”

His words stung, and your chest tightened. “That’s not fair,” you whispered, but even as you said it, you knew he wasn’t entirely wrong. You had left to chase something more for yourself, but in doing so, you had severed ties without even explaining. The guilt that had lingered for so long resurfaced, leaving you feeling exposed.

Levi took a step forward, his voice quiet but firm. “You just left, like what we had didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.”

You wanted to argue, to defend yourself, but your throat tightened, choking back the words. You remembered how things ended between you—how, instead of explaining yourself, you’d shut him out completely. You’d thought it would be easier that way. You were wrong.

“I thought… I thought you’d be fine without me,” you said, your voice breaking slightly. 

Levi’s expression darkened, his fists clenching. “You thought I’d be fine?” His voice was sharp now, but it was the kind of sharpness that came from hurt, not anger. “You think it was that easy?”

You couldn’t meet his gaze, the weight of his words sinking deep into your chest. “I’m sorry, Levi. I didn’t know how to stay. I didn’t know how to…”

I didn’t know how to be enough.

Levi’s frustration flared again, but there was something else in his eyes now—something raw and vulnerable beneath the subtle anger. 

“Because I wasn’t enough for your dreams,” he snapped. “You left without looking back, like I wasn’t enough to make you stay. And now that you learn I’m successful, you want to make amends?”

You opened your mouth to respond, to explain, but the words got caught in your throat. The accusation lingered in more of an offensive way but at the same time, you get him. How could you explain something that had been eating away at you for so long? It angers and pains you that he thinks of you this way. But what can he do when it was your own fault that he had this image of you? 

“I… I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice breaking. What were you saying sorry for? A million things. Two words are nearly not enough for your regrets and mistakes. “It’s not like that.” “You keep saying that,” he stepped closer to you, face inches away from yours. “You keep saying it wasn’t like that but I’m not hearing the explanation.” "I know it hurt you. But… it was never about us, not like you think. I just—" She faltered, trying to hold his gaze. "I didn’t know how else to handle things back then. Couldn’t we at least try to find some middle ground?" 

Levi stared at you, his breathing heavy, his frustration mounting, as if what you asked of him was what triggered his anger. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out of him, as if he was too speechless and offended.

And then, without warning, he moved. In one swift motion, he closed the distance between you, hands caging in on your face. You barely had time to react before his lips crashed against yours, silencing whatever you had been about to say.

It was intense, almost desperate, as if he was pouring all his pent-up emotions into that single moment.

It wasn’t gentle, and it wasn’t tender. The kiss was filled with everything unsaid, all the anger, the longing, the pain that had built up between you over the years. His grip loosened almost instantly as if he was giving you the chance to push him away, his other hand finding the small of your back loosely. Your mind went blank, your heart racing as you responded instinctively, your body betraying the emotions you’d been trying to suppress. You kissed him back with as much passion, a hand shooting up to rest on his shoulder.

With acceptance on your part, he presses his hand on your back, pushing your bodies closer together. Hands roamed your body, tracing the curves of your hips and the small of your back. He pressed you against the wall, his body flush against yours, as he deepened the kiss. His tongue teased the seam of your lips, seeking entrance, and when you granted it, he explored your mouth with a hunger that left you breathless.

Levi’s hands slid up your body, his fingers tangling in your hair as he angled your head to gain better access. He kissed you like a man possessed, like he was trying to memorize every inch of your mouth, every sensation, every taste. It was overwhelming, consuming, and you found yourself responding in kind, your own desire rising to meet his.

For a moment, the world around you disappeared, and it was just the two of you—caught in a storm of emotions neither of you had been able to express. When Levi finally pulled away, his breathing was ragged, his forehead resting against yours.

“You don’t get to walk back into my life like nothing happened,” he whispered, his voice rough, his eyes still closed. “But I’ll accept your apology if you tell me one thing.”

You stared at him, stunned, your lips still tingling from the force of the kiss. “Levi…” you whispered, your voice trembling, unsure of what to say. You had expected an argument, maybe a cold rejection, but not this. Not the raw, unchecked passion that had just erupted between you.

You took a shaky breath, steadying yourself as the silence stretched between you. The intensity of Levi’s kiss still lingered on your lips, but you knew this moment couldn’t end like this—without clarity, without addressing the feelings that had been left festering for years. You weren’t sure how to navigate the conversation ahead, but you knew it needed to happen.

“Why did you leave?” His voice was low, steady, but you could hear the anger simmering underneath.

You froze. You knew this question was coming, had expected it, but now that it was here, you felt the weight of it crush your chest. You opened your mouth to answer, but no words came out at first. The real answer—the full answer—felt too dangerous, too raw.

“I… I needed space,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I needed to figure out things. I wasn’t ready for everything that was happening. I wasn’t ready for us…”

Levi’s eyes darkened, and you could see the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “That’s not the whole truth,” he said, his voice sharp. “You left without a word, without even explaining. And now you expect me to believe it was just because you ‘needed space?’”

You flinched at his words, but you didn’t have an answer that would satisfy him. He wasn’t wrong. There was more to why you left, but the truth felt like too much to bear right now. “It’s complicated, Levi. I—I can’t explain everything. Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Levi’s voice rose, his anger spilling over. “You’ve had years to figure it out, and you still can’t give me a real answer? After everything?” His voice echoed in your mind, the accusation laced with disbelief. 

You didn’t know what answer he wanted, what answer could ever fix the damage that had been done. You had thought about this moment a thousand times before—imagined what you might say, how you might explain why you left, why you didn’t say goodbye, why you broke his heart without looking back. But now, standing here, with his anger burning in the space between you, the words you’d rehearsed felt hollow.

His next words cut deeper. “You ran,” he said, and you flinched, the truth of it like a slap. “You always run when things get hard.” You felt your pulse quicken, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. He wasn’t wrong. You did run. You ran from him, from the life you thought you couldn’t have, from the overwhelming fear that you weren’t enough, that you couldn’t hold it all together.

“You know what Hange told me when she first saw you again? You cried. You cried in her arms like a child. Don’t expect me to believe that meant nothing but missing a friend.” 

You closed your eyes, remembering the moment you saw Hange again. The way everything you had been holding in, all the grief and guilt, came rushing out the moment she hugged you. It wasn’t just missing a friend—it was the overwhelming realization that you hadn’t let yourself feel anything for so long. You had locked it all away, telling yourself that it was better this way, that you were stronger alone. But seeing Hange again had broken the dam. You had cried because, for the first time in years, you realized how much emotions you’ve been hiding away. And in that moment, you realized just how much you missed the people you had left behind—how much you missed the old you. 

“You always run when things get hard. And you always leave me behind like I don’t matter.” Hearing him say it out loud—it crushed you in ways you hadn’t expected. Because he wasn’t wrong. You had left him behind, not just physically, but emotionally.

That stung. “That’s not true,” you snapped back, your voice trembling. Deep inside, you know he’s right. But you didn’t want to accept it. You’ve put on multiple walls for the past seven years and even before that. You don’t know how to accept yourself and that’s the truth. But he never meant nothing to you. Not in the slightest. 

“I’m the one lying?” Levi’s voice was filled with disbelief. 

You didn’t want to admit it to Levi—not now, not when he was standing there, looking at you with so much anger, with so much pain—but he was right. You had left him behind like he didn’t matter, even though he had been the only thing that mattered for so long. You couldn’t deny that, no matter how much you wanted to.

But what could you say to him now? What could you possibly tell him that would make this any better? The truth was too complicated, too messy. You had run because you didn’t know what else to do. You didn’t know how to stay, how to let him in. And now, all these years later, you still didn’t have the answers he deserved.

You could feel the conversation spiraling, slipping out of control. The more Levi spoke, the more you could feel the anger and hurt from both sides surfacing. “I didn’t know what else to do!” you shot back, your voice louder now, matching his intensity. “I thought it was the right thing at the time.”

“Well, it obviously wasn’t!” Levi shouted, stepping closer to you, his eyes burning with frustration. “You didn’t give me a choice. You just insulted me and let me figure it out on my own.”

The words hit you like a slap in the face, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The air was thick with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid for years. You could see the pain in Levi’s eyes, but beneath it all, there was still something else—something vulnerable that he was trying to hide.

You opened your mouth to speak, to try and explain again, but before you could get a word out, Levi grabbed you. His hand gripped your arm, and in an instant, his lips were on yours—rough, urgent, cutting off whatever you were about to say again. 

“Stop it,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. “Stop making excuses or I’m going to kiss you again.”

Your breath caught in your throat. His words hung in the air, and the tension between you was palpable. The heat of the moment was overwhelming, his nearness pulling you in despite everything. 

“It’s your choice,” he repeats.

You searched his face, trying to find the right words, something that would break through the anger and pain, but the look in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t in the mood for more of your excuses and vague words.

“Levi…” you whispered, but before you could say anything more, he tilted his head slightly, his gaze dropping to your lips, the threat of another kiss looming between you. You knew he meant every word, and the intensity of it all made your heart pound even harder.

His voice was rough, but there was something raw beneath it, something unspoken that you couldn’t ignore. “I’m serious. One more excuse, and I won’t stop myself.”

You swallowed hard, torn between the instinct to push him away and the undeniable pull that still lingered between you. The anger and hurt were still there, but so was everything else—the longing, the lust.

The room felt smaller, the space between you shrinking as Levi’s words echoed in your mind. The look in his eyes dared you to say something more, but the weight of everything kept you silent. And maybe it was the way he had already kissed you two times that you yearned for more. 

Maybe it was how he looked awfully beautiful in his in-house morning clothes. Maybe it was the way his lips looked soft enough as a pillow that you want to lie on. Maybe you just missed his touch that you weren’t able to think straight. Maybe it was the pain—the longing that threw all the rationalities out of the window. 

“Kiss me again.” 

Levi’s eyes widened for a moment, a flash of pain across his glossy eyes until it was replaced by clouded lust. 

He leaned in with his eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched, as if he was fighting his own desires. You almost flinch when his head drops on your shoulder, subtly nuzzling his nose on the skin of your neck.

“Then at least tell me this,” he mutters. “Are you really okay now?”

Tears fill your eyes and you let out a deep exhale.

“Yes,” I whisper while nodding, looking straight ahead. “Yes, I am.” 

And that wasn’t a lie. He knows that.

With a soft groan, he leans in, capturing your lips in a deep, passionate kiss. 

His tongue dances with yours, his hand sliding up your back to cup your head, pulling you even closer. His other hand moves to your waist, his fingers gripping your hips as he deepens the kiss. 

You start letting out soft grunts as if trying to tell him how pleasurable it is for you, as he latches his lips to the curve of your neck. You gasp for air when he sucks on your sensitive skin, only the ceiling in sight as your eyes roll to the back of your head. It had you holding on his shoulder for dear life.

"Levi," you moan, shivering and grasping at his hair as he attacks your neck with open-mouth kisses. Levi nips at your jaw next, harsh as if he was devouring you.

His roaming hands finally made their way to your chest, palm over your breast. He squeezes once, slowly but hard. Realizing your shirt was getting in the way, his hand slips inside the skin tight cloth to the clasp of your bra. 

And then he freezes. 

As if he was thrown ice-cold water, he pulls away. He stumbled back a step, his breathing uneven, his eyes wide in shock. His gaze flickered between you and the space between you, as though he was trying to make sense of the moment. You stare back at him, breathless and probably looking like a mess. 

You blink, your own breathing labored, and the reality of what just happened hit you like a wave. 

You continued to stare at him, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. The tension that had been building, the unspoken emotions, the years of unresolved feelings—it had all come to a head in that kiss. And now you were both standing there, stunned by the gravity of what had just happened.

Levi ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched. His usual composed self had cracked, and you could see the confusion and regret warring in his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn't find the right words.

The silence was unbearable. You wanted to say something, anything, to break the tension, but nothing came out. You just stood there, your heart pounding in your chest, realizing that the line between you and Levi had just been blurred in a way you hadn't anticipated.

Levi finally broke the silence, his voice rough and barely above a whisper. "I... Sorry." His eyes dropped to the floor, as if he couldn't bring himself to look at you. “I think we got carried away.” 

You couldn't find your voice, your mind still reeling. You knew he was right—this wasn't supposed to happen. But it had.

And now everything feels even more complicated than ever before.

When are you going to make the right decision?

Levi’s grip on the counter was tight, his knuckles white, as if holding onto something solid could stop the whirlwind of emotions spinning inside him. His broad back was tense, shoulders stiff like he was bracing himself for something. You watched him, feeling the weight of the silence between you both, the air thick with everything left unsaid. The view of his back reminded you too much of that night—the night you walked away, leaving him with his heart shattered, and now here you were again, uncertain, fragile.

Your heart raced in your chest, waiting, praying for him to break the silence. You needed him to speak, to say something, anything to ground you in the moment, to pull you away from the memories. Then, after what felt like an eternity, his voice broke the quiet, low and careful.

“I can offer friendship,” `he said, his voice strained, as if the words were dragging out of him. “Slowly. If you want it.”

Your stomach twisted at his offer. Friendship. The idea felt both like a lifeline and a blade. After everything, all the history, the love, the pain, he was offering you the safety of friendship because that’s what Levi did—he built walls to protect what was left of himself. You could hear the fear behind his words, the hesitation, like he was terrified of opening himself up to you again. And yet, part of you understood. Starting over felt impossible; you’d both been broken by what happened, and it scared him just as much as it scared you.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper as you spoke. “Is that what you want?”

His shoulders shifted slightly, but he didn’t turn to face you. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice almost too quiet. “But I know I can’t… risk everything again. Not right now.”

His words stung, but you couldn’t blame him. The kiss had stirred things up, emotions both of you had buried long ago, and now you were both standing on the edge of something dangerous, something you weren’t sure either of you could survive if it went wrong again.

You took a shaky breath, your mind racing as you tried to make sense of what you wanted. Did you want friendship? Could you even be just friends with him after everything? The thought seemed impossible. But maybe he was right. Maybe it was all either of you could handle right now.

“Okay,” you whispered, unsure if you meant it, but needing to say something. “Friends, then.”

Levi exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath the entire time, but he still didn’t turn around. The silence stretched on again, heavy with the weight of everything left unspoken between you. You could feel it in the air—the unresolved hurt, the lingering desire, and now this fragile truce you were trying to build, one step at a time.

The sight of his back still haunted you, a reminder of all the ways you’d hurt him before. But this time, as painful as it was, you stayed. You weren’t walking away. Not again.

You stepped closer but not approaching him entirely, careful not to break the chance given to you. You don’t know what to do with yourself—how to step outside yourself. But you were willing to try.

“I’ll make it up to you, Levi,” you whispered, loud enough for him to hear. 

Those words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of promises that neither of you knew if you could keep. The truth was, you didn’t know how you’d make it up to him. How could you? After everything that had happened, after all the years you’d spent apart, it felt impossible to bridge the distance between you. But you had to try. He was giving you this—friendship, the smallest of openings—and you would take it, even if it hurt. Because it was Levi.

Levi, the one person who had meant more to you than anyone else.

And now, standing in his kitchen, the same man who had once been your entire world was offering you a lifeline, even if it was wrapped in his own fear and hesitation. You could feel his reluctance, the way he was trying to protect himself from being hurt again. But you could also sense the vulnerability beneath it all, the part of him that still cared, despite everything.

You didn’t expect him to answer right away. Levi was always slow to speak when it came to his feelings. He wasn’t the type to lay everything out in the open. You knew that about him. But still, the longer the silence stretched on, the more anxious you became. Maybe you had said the wrong thing. Maybe he didn’t believe you could make it up to him. Maybe he didn’t believe in second chances.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice low and controlled, though you could hear the cracks in his composure. “Alright. Make it up to me.”

Levi felt her drifting away. 

It was in the middle of the last semester before they graduated. Obviously, their schedules were hectic. She was barely around to study with him. Before, even if they were as busy as this, they would find time to be together, and even if they were not remotely doing anything romantic per se, they were still together, spending time and feeling each other’s warmth. Levi couldn’t even keep up with what she’s doing anymore, always running around somewhere he doesn’t know about. Whenever he asks, you do tell him but it’s not like he could force you to stop. Before he knew it, things were piling up on him too. 

That night, Levi hadn’t seen you for over a week. Your conversations had become few and far between, your texts cold and distant. But he convinced himself it was just stress. You were busy; you both were. He planned a quiet evening together, something to help you both relax and remind you that everything was going to be fine.

You just needed a break, that’s what he told himself. 

So when the doorbell rang unexpectedly, his heart skipped. Maybe you’d missed him as much as he missed you. The past weeks had driven him crazy. All he wanted was to see you, to hold you, to feel like you were still okay. With him, with the two of you.

Levi opened the door, excitement barely contained in his movements. There you were, standing still and quiet on his doorstep. Without hesitation, he pulled you into a hug, a rare gesture from him, one he reserved almost entirely for you. But something was wrong. Your body was stiff, unmoving in his arms. It felt like hugging a mannequin—cold and unresponsive. It worried him but hasn't addressed it yet.

“I’m almost done cooking pasta,” he informs you, guiding you to the kitchen. You follow him quietly, grim and almost soullessly. It was time that he had enough of you looking like that. He needed to know what was on your mind.

“Baby?” he whispered, worry creeping into his voice.

He stepped back, reluctantly letting you go, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of warmth, of familiarity. But there was none. You look up to face him with an expression he didn’t recognize—cold, distant, like a stranger. His heart dropped.

Levi repeated by calling your name, this time more carefully, as if saying your name too loudly might shatter you. His voice was soft, pleading, hoping for some sign that this wasn’t what it looked like.

“Levi,” you said, but your voice was distant, detached. You said his name like it was unfamiliar, like you’d never said it before, as if you were reading it off a page.

A knot twisted in his chest. “Baby… what—are you okay?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, as if gathering strength, and when you spoke again, your words came out softly but with an edge that cut straight through him. “I… I can’t do this anymore.”

His heart sank further. “What do you mean?” His voice was calm, but inside, he was fighting the panic rising in his chest. He knew what you were saying, but he wasn’t ready to face it. As he says that, he leans on the kitchen for support for whatever you had to say.

“This,” you said, gesturing between you two. “Us. It’s not working.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” he snapped, frustration bubbling up inside him.

“Us, Levi. We’re not working,” you said quietly, but with a firmness that left no room for misunderstanding.

Levi didn’t respond at first. He just stared at the floor, the tension between you thick and heavy. You weren’t sure if he hadn’t heard you, or if he was just trying to figure out how to respond. But then, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

“I don’t understand,” he shook his head, his voice growing desperate. “Don’t be like that. Tell me what’s wrong. I—I’ll make it work.”

You shook your head, your expression unchanging. “You.”

“Me?” His jaw clenched, frustration and hurt swirling inside him. His voice was low, controlled, but you could hear the edge of frustration underneath. “What do you mean, me?” 

You swallowed hard, your heart racing. He can see that you were having a hard time. “I don’t see you anymore,” you said, your voice cracking just a little.

He scoffed, pushing off the counter and taking a step toward you. “Of course you don’t! You’ve been pushing me away! I’ve been trying to see you, to be with you, but you’ve shut me out. Is that all this is?” 

“No, Levi, that’s not what I meant,” you said, exasperation seeping into your voice. 

“Then what?” he demanded, his voice rising as the desperation took over. 

You hesitated, your breath shaky. “I don’t… see you in my future.”

The room fell silent. The air grew thick with the weight of your words. Levi’s eyes widened as he processed what you had just said, each word feeling like a punch to the gut.

“What?” His voice came out weak, barely above a whisper. “What?” He repeated, louder this time, his disbelief palpable.

“My plans, your plans… they don’t align,” you said softly, your gaze dropping to the floor as if the weight of the words was too much.

His jaw tightened, and he shook his head slightly.  “I’ll make them align. It’s not as hard as you think.” 

“It’s not that simple,” you replied, your voice steady, but the finality in your tone sent a shiver down his spine. 

“Yes, it is! You just don’t want to take the risk, do you? You don’t want to take a chance on us, on me.” Levi’s eyes flickered with something—hurt, anger, disappointment—it was hard to tell. 

“…No, I don’t,” you admitted after a long, agonizing pause.

A bitter laugh escaped Levi’s lips. “So that’s it, huh? You think so little of me?”

“I do,” you said, your voice unwavering. “You don’t have a plan, Levi. You’re getting a business degree because you don’t know what else to do. You don’t have dreams, not like I do. I can’t afford to take that risk with you,” you babbled on, your frustration bubbling to the surface.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you said softly, feeling the weight of your own words crushing you. “But I can’t stay.”

His breath caught in his throat. “Have you always thought this about me? Always?”

“Yes,” you said, without hesitation.

Levi’s face hardened. He turned away from you, his back tense. “Is that why you’ve always put me last? Because you think I’m just some spoiled, grumpy brat?” 

“Yes,” you said, your tone flat, emotionless.

“So I’m supposed to believe you never loved me at all?” His voice cracked, anger and heartbreak bleeding into each word.

Levi stood still, his hands gripping the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles turned white. For a moment, you thought he might say something—anything to make you stay. But when he turned back to face you, his eyes were cold, detached.

“No,” you whispered. “I did love you.”

Levi’s heart sunk more than it could. Did. So you don’t even love him now? He doesn’t understand. He wants you to make him understand.

“Then why?” he asked, voice trembling. “Why are you throwing us away?”

Your eyes finally lifted to meet his, and the softness in your gaze returned, just for a moment. “Because I have to. You’re the only part of my life I’m willing to let go.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Levi stood frozen, his back still at you, his world crumbling around him. 

The weight of that sentence crushed him, making him feel small, insignificant, like everything he’d thought you two had built meant nothing. Out of all the things in your life—the stress, the pressure, the struggles—he was the easiest to discard. It was as if his presence, his love, had been optional all along, something you could abandon when things got too heavy. 

He had always tried to be your constant, your steady hand when everything else felt out of control. And now, hearing that he was the only part of your life you could afford to lose, he realized just how replaceable he’d been to you. It tore at him, leaving him feeling hollow and questioning whether he’d ever really mattered at all. 

But what can he do when you’ve made up your mind?

And so, even though it hurt more than he ever thought it would, he let you go.

“Fine,” he said, his voice low and bitter. “Do what you need to do.”

He just stood there, watching you go, the start of the distance between you two that would only grow as the years go on.

He could still remember that night vividly, the finality of your words sinking in as you walked out of his apartment, out of his life. He replayed every moment over and over, trying to understand where things had gone wrong. How had he not seen it coming? He thought everything was fine, maybe strained, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. He was wrong.

Everyday went on like he was dragging his feet. You would not even look at him on campus, making it so that his schedule would not align with yours. 

Hange and Erwin were torn. They were his friend first but you had already wiggled your way into their hearts. Despite you hurting him, he hoped that it was something temporary—a lapse of judgment, one could say. So, he gestured Hange to still accompany you at times, making sure you’re eating right and taking care of yourself. Even at a distance. He believed that he could make it happen. He would just have to wait for you.

That was until you left without a trace. 

The sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the empty streets as Levi made his way to the bar. Erwin had called earlier, insisting they meet for drinks—something Levi had been avoiding ever since you left. It had been a few weeks since graduation, and Levi still wasn’t ready to face the world outside of his apartment, let alone his friends. But after persistent texts and missed calls, he’d finally relented. He didn’t want to talk, but maybe being with Erwin and Hange would help distract him.

As he pushed open the door to the bar, he immediately spotted them at a corner table, Hange waving him over with her usual exuberance. Erwin gave a more subdued nod, his brow slightly furrowed as he watched Levi approach. Levi sat down without a word, not bothering with the pleasantries.

“Glad you could finally make it,” Hange said with a smile, though Levi could see the concern behind her eyes. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. “How’ve you been holding up?”

Levi shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “Fine.”

Hange exchanged a glance with Erwin, who leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to pretend with us, you know,” Erwin said gently, his voice calm but firm. “We know about what happened. We’ve been worried.”

Levi stiffened, his gaze dropping to the table. He hadn’t talked to anyone about the breakup. The thought of explaining how you’d left him, how you said he wasn’t part of your future, was unbearable. But Erwin wasn’t going to let it go that easily.

“Levi,” Hange said, her tone softening. “We know she’s gone.”

Levi’s stomach dropped at the sound of your name, and he finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

Hange blinked, taken aback. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

Erwin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “She’s left the city, Levi.”

Levi’s heart skipped a beat, and he felt the air leave his lungs. “What?”

Hange bit her lip before leaning closer, her voice gentle but hesitant. “I went to her place. You know, to check on her. I was worried when she hadn’t been around, and… well, it’s not her place anymore. There’s someone else living there now.”

Levi’s chest tightened as the words sank in. You hadn’t just broken up with him—you’d left. Without a word. Without telling him. “What do you mean, someone else is living there?” His voice was low, almost a growl, but Hange didn’t flinch.

“I spoke to the new tenants,” she explained. “Apparently, she and her grandma moved out a while ago. Sold the place. It’s like she… disappeared.”

Levi felt a cold chill run down his spine. He had known something was wrong when you broke things off, but he hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected you to leave everything behind. “Why didn’t she say anything?” His voice cracked slightly, betraying the emotion he’d been trying to suppress for weeks.

Erwin sighed, his hands clasped on the table. “We don’t know, Levi. I wish we had more answers.”

Levi’s mind raced, trying to piece together what could’ve happened. He knew you’d been under a lot of stress, but he never imagined it would lead to this. Moving out of the city, selling the house you shared with your grandmother—that wasn’t just a breakup. That was cutting ties completely. Why would you do that? Why didn’t you tell him?

“I don’t understand,” Levi muttered, more to himself than to them. His thoughts were spinning out of control. The cold distance in your eyes that last night, the way you’d told him he didn’t fit into your future—it all made sense now. You had been planning this for longer than he’d realized. He’d been so focused on trying to make things work between the two of you that he didn’t see the signs of something much bigger happening in your life.

Hange leaned forward, her voice softening. “Levi, maybe… maybe there was something else going on. Something she didn’t feel like she could talk about.”

“Like what?” he snapped, but immediately regretted it. Hange didn’t deserve his anger. She was just trying to help.

Hange hesitated, glancing at Erwin again before speaking. “We don’t know. But people don’t just disappear like that for no reason.”

Levi clenched his fists, his mind going back to all the moments he had missed, the times you had pulled away or brushed him off. He thought you were just busy, just stressed about school and your future. But there had been more, hadn’t there? And he had been too blind to see it.

“She didn’t even tell me,” Levi muttered bitterly, the betrayal cutting deeper now. “She didn’t even tell me she was leaving.”

Erwin placed a hand on Levi’s shoulder, his grip firm but comforting. “That doesn’t mean she didn’t care, Levi.”

Levi shook his head, pulling away from Erwin’s touch. He couldn’t accept that right now. You had walked away from him, from everything, and hadn’t looked back. How was he supposed to believe you cared? If you had, you would’ve told him. You wouldn’t have left him here, in this city, to find out from someone else. Was he so repulsive that you would leave a city you told him you would never leave? 

The café was suddenly too quiet, too suffocating. Levi stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back. “I need some air.”

Hange opened her mouth to protest, but Erwin held up a hand, signaling her to let him go. Levi walked out of the café and into the cool night, the sounds of the city barely registering in his mind. He stood on the sidewalk, staring blankly at the passing cars, his thoughts spinning in a million directions.

You were gone. Really gone.

And for the first time since that night, it felt real. The hope he had clung to—the hope that maybe you just needed space, that maybe you would come back—it was gone. You had moved on, left the city, left him behind.

Levi pressed a hand to his chest, trying to steady his breathing. The ache in his heart was unbearable, the weight of it pressing down on him until he could barely stand. He had been fooling himself, thinking that this was something you both could fix. But it wasn’t. You were gone, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He thought back to all the times you’d talked about your future, about the things you wanted to accomplish, the life you wanted to build. He had always assumed he’d be a part of that. But now, standing on the cold street outside the bar, Levi realized that he never had been. You had left him behind long before that final conversation.

Levi ran a hand through his hair, feeling the anger and sadness churn inside him. You were meant for bigger things, and he… he was just a part of the life you left behind. He felt insignificant, like a small chapter in your story that didn’t matter anymore. And the worst part was, he couldn’t blame you for it.

The day after you left, Levi didn’t even get out of bed. He lay there staring at the ceiling, the weight of your absence pressing down on him like a lead blanket. His mind swirled with disbelief. He could still hear your voice, still feel the coldness of your touch when you said you didn’t see him in your future. It felt like his entire world had crumbled beneath him, leaving nothing but emptiness. Levi wasn’t one for breakdowns, but that morning, he didn’t have the strength to face anything. Not the day, not the world, not even himself. He was too stunned, too shattered.

Days blurred into weeks, and Levi found himself trapped in a cycle of withdrawal. He barely left his apartment, hiding away from everything that reminded him of you. His phone buzzed now and then, messages from Hange or Erwin, but he ignored them. What was there to say? He knew they would ask about you, and he wasn’t ready to explain, to admit that you were gone for good. The thought of telling anyone made him feel nauseous, like acknowledging it out loud would make it even more real than it already was.

At first, Levi convinced himself that you just needed time. That’s what he kept telling himself. Maybe you’d come back, maybe you’d realize you’d made a mistake, and things would go back to the way they were. But with each passing day, that hope dimmed until it was nothing more than a flicker in the back of his mind. You weren’t coming back.

And it was his fault, wasn’t it? He had never been good enough for you. You were destined for something bigger, something more than what he could offer. He was just… Levi. Some guy getting a degree in business because he didn’t know what else to do. He wasn’t like you, with your drive and your dreams. You’d always been so full of ambition, talking about all the things you wanted to accomplish, all the places you wanted to go. And him? He didn’t have that. He was fine with just being by your side, supporting you in whatever way he could, but he should’ve known that wasn’t enough.

Levi spent hours sitting in his living room, staring blankly at nothing in particular, the silence of his apartment suffocating. He’d barely eaten in days, and his sleep was restless, haunted by memories of you. There was still your perfume on his dresser, and every time he caught a whiff of it, his chest tightened painfully.

© levisolace. please do not copy, translate, claim any of my works. my works are cross-posted only on my ao3 account. reblogs, asks, and comments are also greatly appreciated. thank you.

[hrefna-the-raven]

Hope in hell

Masterlist - BG3 masterlist

Part 1 - Drunken minds speak sober hearts

Words: 2138

Warnings: smut (18+)

Summary: The dreaded morning after ;)

Raphael let out a groan, his head pounding like a piece of metal relentlessly being hammered into shape by the most skilled dwarven blacksmiths, the constant painful throbbing clouding his memories, making it difficult to piece together the events of last night, despising how he felt like a common mortal after a night's out. He attempted to sit up but froze as he felt something soft resting on his chest, accompanied by a comforting warmth. Taking a deep breath, he glanced down and let out a sigh, his heart suddenly feeling heavy. Haarlep must have slept with you, assumed your form and then... his eyes shot wide open and he muttered a curse under his breath as fragments of the previous night's memories flickered through his mind.

That damned incubus got him drunk and then you showed up and... His hands delicately traced the contours of your slumbering figure. It was truly you, his beloved little mouse, curled up against his chest. His heart raced, a twinge of pain accompanying the rapid beats, as he pondered how to proceed. What clever remark would he throw at you once you woke up? Would he even need one? Would you recoil and attempt to flee from the sight of the devil beneath you? He didn't get enough time to find an answer to all his questions as you slowly stirred awake, your eyes were still closed as you lazily stretched and your hips accidentally brushed against his growing arousal.

A deep growl rumbled in his chest, causing you to quickly raise your head and look at him, eyes wide with surprise. A thousand thoughts raced through your mind, swirling in chaotic circles, expecting to be scolded, pushed away, or even punished. But to your astonishment, nothing happened. You still remained lying there, on top of him, silently gazing into each other's eyes, both afraid that any spoken word might shatter the peaceful and loving moment you were sharing. But the silence grew heavy and a sense of unease slowly crawled up your spine, threatening to consume both your thoughts and body. It was unusual to witness Raphael in such a state of quietude, after all that happened, it didn't sit right with you that he was so calm, devoid of any movement or speech. It almost seemed as if Haarlep had managed to shatter him completely, that one evening of unfiltered truth had stripped away every trace of his self-centered arrogance, leaving him exposed and vulnerable before you. You were the first to ever glimpse at the raw essence of Raphael's entire being and, despite your constant cat and mouse game, you felt no desire to exploit it; on the contrary, you cherished this side of him, the devil laid bare, and at this very moment, you yearned to love him more than ever.

"About last night-"

"I feel the same!", you interjected, cutting off Raphael mid-sentence, "but if you..."

Any further words you were about to utter were engulfed by a provocative moan as you sensed his growing arousal pressed firmly against your hips the moment you attempted to readjust your position. Raphael's eyes fluttered shut, his mouth hanging open, unable to withstand the overwhelming sensation of pleasure that washed over him.

"To hell with this, I want you!", the words escaped your lips almost simultaneously, filled with an urgent longing.

Raphael snapped his fingers, and in an instant, both yours and his clothes disappeared. He pulled you towards him so swiftly that you had to clutch onto his horns to prevent yourself from toppling over. As his mouth met your dripping folds, you couldn't help but whimper. It was at this moment that you realised how much of the Raphael you came to know was still present. The damned devil teased you with the anticipation of his hot tongue caressing your arousal but you simply wouldn't have it, not now. You lowered your hips, grinding gently against his face, yearning for any kind of friction. His claws dug into the tender flesh of your thighs, firmly keeping you in place.

"My little mouse", the devil chuckled, "so eager to be eaten."

With a tantalising slowness, he dragged his tongue through the delicate contours of your folds, briefly encircling your clit before sucking on it with an insatiable hunger. The air was filled with the intoxicating symphony of your sinful moans and your grip around his horns instinctively tightened. This was a desire that had consumed your thoughts for countless nights, the fantasy of being pleasured by your very own devil. And now, as it finally became a reality, you couldn't hold anything back. The intensity of your climax approached rapidly and just as you were about to reach its peak, his licks ceased. Frustration welled up within you, ready to protest, but then he pressed his tongue flat against your throbbing clit while simultaneously thrust two of his large fingers deep inside you. The rhythmic pumping intensified, driving you towards the edge once more. Within mere moments, your inner walls clenched around his fingers and you experienced a mind-shattering orgasm, screaming his name in ecstasy.

With an unexpected tenderness, he released his grip on your hips and gently cradled you in his arms, carefully laying you down on the bed beside him. His face turned towards you, his eyes filled with love as he gazed upon your blissful expression. As soon your eyes met his, he understood that there would be no turning back anymore, he was in love with this fragile mortal and he would curse himself to an eternity of anguish if he'd deny himself the bliss of your love. The hells and all its devils be damned, he would see that you'd remain at his side for as long as you'd live.

"You now know about my best kept secret", he whispered, as if afraid that any disruption would shatter the fragile balance, "and rest assured my feelings for you will not easily waver. However this is hell and I'm not just any devil but the son of Mephistopheles, I, I can't", he faltered, uncertain of how to proceed as it felt wrong, for the first time in his existence, to utter those words.

"You can't show weakness to others, you can't show your love to me", you offered, the pain your voice obvious.

You turned your eyes away, unable to bear the increasing sorrow, but his hands swiftly moved to cradle your face, redirecting your focus back to him.

"If you're willing to stay by my side despite the laws of the nine hells working against us, I will vow my love to you within my House of Hope for as often as you desire it and I promise you that beyond these walls, I will always treat you with utmost respect and defend your honour, for you will be the lady of this house", he paused briefly, attempting to discern your reaction before continuing, "if you'd be willing."

His words left you in astonishment as you blinked. Did he truly express his desire to commit to you, vowing to cherish and safeguard you? It was a proposal you should have considered longer before answering, yet your body instinctively reacted before your mind could fully comprehend the situation. You crawled towards him, pushing him down on his back as you straddled him, gently, to not hurt his wings before you leaned down, capturing his lips in a fervent embrace. Raphael moaned your name as he felt you positioning his hardening member at your entrance, sinking down on him just enough for the tip to enter. His hands found your hips, holding you in place momentarily as he broke the kiss.

"What are you doing?"

"We're not done until we both had our fair share of pleasure", you breathed as you sank down on him, swallowing a moan, "besides shouldn't the lady of the house keep her man satisfied?"

Raphael's smile widened as he guided your motions, starting off slowly and then picking up speed. Feral growls escaped his lips as he he could feel himself approaching the peak of his own pleasure fast. He had been intimate with many throughout the decades, including Haarlep, a being existing ultimately to provide pleasure, but there was something special about you. The closeness, the shared emotions, the intimacy - all of his previous encounters paled in comparison to the connection he felt with you in this very moment. But you felt just as good, riding a devil, having his cock buried deep down inside you, filling you up perfectly while hitting that sweet spot over and over again, transforming this sinful act into something heavenly. The feeling of pure bliss cursed through your whole body as you moved your hips in a perfect rhythm, the heated embrace of desire and lust unleashed as both of toppled over the edge. In this moment of tenderness and passion, it was clear that your connection went beyond physical pleasure. It was a union of souls, an experience that transcended mere satisfaction. 

"Raphael", you moaned loudly as your walls clenched around his cock, feeling it twitched as his seed spilled inside you.

Both of you panted heavily, a contented smile playing at the edges of your lips as the devil sat up, his arms wrapping around you to pull you into a tight embrace.

"I love you", he whispered tenderly, chuckling as you hummed your consent, too spent to utter a word.

"Oh my, what a perfectly delicious sight", a familiar voice chuckled, drawing nearer.

Your eyes snapped open and you blinked in disbelief as you spotted Astarion standing in the boudoir, bearing a smug grin as he observed the two of you with obvious amusement.

"Astarion?!", you shrieked, scrambling off Raphael, hastily covering your exposed form with the silk blanket to hide both your nakedness and your embarrassment from your companion. The vampire merely chuckled, his gaze shifting between you and the devil.

"Guess again, little mouse", the pale elf playfully teased, giving you a sly wink, his crimson eyes glowing up for just a second, "it seems my plan worked rather well."

Before you had a chance to fully comprehend who was standing before you, Raphael, still unclothed, swiftly leapt out of bed and lunged towards the elf. His fingers clenched tightly around Haarlep's throat, exerting a dangerous pressure. You wanted to scream, to implore Raphael to stop, but Haarlep calmly transformed into his master's form, causing Raphael to immediately release his grip on the incubus' throat.

"You wretched creature!", Raphael spat, "you poisoned me! Do NOT forget your place in this house, slave!"

Instinctively, you retreated further onto the bed, clutching the blanket tightly as sudden fear surged through you. You had witnessed many facets of Raphael's personality, but this seething rage terrified you beyond measure, especially coming from the same being who had cradled you tenderly just moments before but a part of you also understood his anger.

"You misunderstood, my dear master, my intent was never to poison you. I simply intended to", the incubus gestured towards you, "enhance your chances with your favourite misadventurer, all in your best interest I assure you."

Raphael was fuming, wishing he could obliterate Haarlep into countless fragments. However, he recognised that he couldn't afford to destroy such a gift from his father, at least not yet, and deep down Raphael knew that the incubus was right, without his involvement, last night and this morning wouldn't have unfolded so magnificently. Haarlep, of course, fully grasped the advantage he currently held over his master and decided to push his luck even further, knowing that such a perfect opportunity would not present itself again in the near future.

"If you'll excuse me", he hummed while transforming back to Astarion's form, "I have to get back to my new, rather passionate, lover. It's quite nice to be in the receiving end for once."

He gave you a sly wink and blew a quick kiss your way before disappearing once again, leaving you alone with the annoyed devil.

Rising to your feet, you cautiously approached Raphael, still wrapped in the warmth of a blanket. Your fingertips lightly traced along the edges of his magnificent wings as you circled around him.

"Why not free the incubus from his duties?", you suggested, tugging at his hand and bringing it up to your lips, planting kisses along the inside of his arm, "no more Haarlep means no father watching your every move."

Raphael chuckled, pulling you close and lifting you effortlessly in one swift motion.

"Well, well, my little mouse," he whispered, planting a sweet peck on your lips, "not only are you full of delightful surprises, but it also seems that I couldn't have asked for a more perfect lady of my House of Hope."

Tags:

@dark-and-kawaii

[theaceace]

I know that canonically (show-wise, at least) St Hilarion's worked to cover up Charles' death, and nothing was ever really done about the disappearance of Edwin and the other boys, but even so, do you think the school has a reputation for being haunted??

I'm imagining Niko following various ghost-hunter groups online, especially when the agency doesn't have many cases going on, and occasionally the boys will mirror hop over to an interesting-sounding location, and they'll even get a real case as a result

So when she tells them that one of the teams is planning to investigate St Hilarion's (either it's been closed for a while or they have special permission to go during the summer holidays), Edwin and Charles steel themselves and decide to go, in case there are other ghosts there that need help ('can't imagine a worse place to be trapped for the rest of my afterlife' says Charles, who has been to literal hell. Edwin, who spent 70 years in literal hell, agrees)

So they go, with Niko and Crystal as moral/emotional support, except when they get there they realise they've fucked up and are there on the same day/night as the ghost hunters. They could come back some other time, but what if there really are ghosts here that are suffering? No one wants to take that chance, so Crystal uses her powers to convince them that she and Niko are there for work experience, or are friends of a friend, or are here to replace one of the tech guys who called in sick

Both Charles and Edwin are tense and uncomfortable returning to the place they died - Edwin had gone there after he escaped Hell because he didn't know where else to go, but they've built themselves a home now with the agency. This isn't like before, when it was the closest place to familiar he could find. Charles, meanwhile, feels colder and colder the longer they're there - his hair is wet, there are bruises flaring and spreading, and a faint rattle in his chest that would have become pneumonia if he'd lived long enough

But they need to be sure there aren't any other lost ghosts stuck here that need their help crossing over, so they keep going

(maybe, as a consequence of a door to hell being opened in the school, there are unusual happenings, maybe there's still a place where the line between earth and hell is very thin, maybe there's some fragment of a demon left behind, and they can do something about it)

Anyway, the most important thing is that Charles, either accidentally or in a fit of pique at the whole situation, knocks something over just as one of the paranormal investigators is asking for spirits to make their presence known. In fact, this happens repeatedly - the boys move things, change things around, their presence is detected somehow with the equipment. Crystal and Niko are doing their best to distract the team and ruin as much of the footage as possible, and at least once the boys do something on purpose, maybe because someone is being a creep to the girls (and yes, they both know that Crystal and Niko are more than capable of taking care of themselves, but this way scares the asshole more and is also funnier), and then also to fuck with their readings

Anyway, it's coming to the end of the night, the problem has been identified, and whaddaya knows, of course it's in the attic where they both died. This is fine, why wouldn't it be fine. They get started, draw some (invisible, ghostly) runes and start working their magic when, of course, the paranormal investigators turn up, because this is thought to be the most 'active' area of the school, and the body of a schoolboy was found here in the 80s

Yeah, they try to contact 'any of the boys who disappeared in 1916' and Charles. It would be fine if they weren't so irritatingly loud, Edwin's trying to concentrate, and Charles is now shivering and dripping wet, but they managed to ignore the team right up until they start speculating that Charles was killed by one of the angry spirits from 1916

At which point, Charles - half visible, clearly enraged, looking very much like the half-drowned and frozen kid he was, like a proper ghost - tells them to fuck off already before they get hurt, they don't understand anything, and how dare they give a shit now when it's too late

Which is, of course, the exact moment Edwin finishes the spell, and causes some sort of a magical rebound that fritzes the cameras for a second, throws furniture around, and knocks them all flying. When the cameras start up again, they catch Edwin kneeling by Charles, holding his hand, and softly telling him that it's ok, it's over, they can go now. Charles sniffs and smiles and knocks their foreheads together and says yeah, let's get out of here, and together they fade from view

The investigators think this means gay love can pierce the veil of death and save the day that now that the truth of their story is known the ghosts have moved on, and it's all thanks to them! How beautiful, how wonderful, how affirming! Perhaps one of the boys from 1916 tried to help Charles, and when that didn't work, they both stayed to try and protect other people from these violent spirits, and now their unfinished business is finished! It's so tragic and touching story

Charles and Edwin, who are putting their tools back in the backpack, roll their eyes and smile at each other

On the way out, Charles swipes the memory cards from the cameras, Edwin inscribes a couple of sneaky runes on various pieces of equipment to fuck with it, and Crystal uses her powers to make sure they all remember a couple of details differently, so later they won't be able to agree on a bunch of stuff

The episode they were trying to make can't be released, their social media posts about the experience are full of details that don't match up, and fans are bitterly disappointed

Crystal and Niko watch the footage Charles stole with Jenny and the Night Nurse back at the agency. Jenny turns it into a drinking game. Charles does a dramatic reading of the posts with added commentary while Edwin pretends he's not laughing. They buy t-shirts of the paranormal investigators and wear them ironically. They leave anonymous comments

Just. The dead boy detectives having to work around ghost hunters, in a world where ghosts definitely, tangibly exist

[nombre-va-aqui]

HIHIIII HRUU?? So i mesure could have a shot of Golden cheese x dragon reader if that’s ok, the theme and storyline is up 2 u!! Tyyyyy

The cheese of gold and the dragon of silver (Golden Cheese Cookie x Dragon Male Reader)

Reader: Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie

I have to apologize in advance, I don't know what got into me while writting this but it ended up being a bit too long.

Throught all of Earthbread, every cookie knows how strong and powerful dragons are. Yet, there are some cookies that dare to challenge and fight those dragons.

Golden Cheese Cookie, ruler of the Golden Cheese Kingdom, always treasured gold and valuable objects. When she heard about a dragon whose scales where made out of pure silver, of course she got inmediatly interested. This dragon, as rumours said, lived in a hidden cave so no one would come to try and take his scales violently.

Althought, with Golden Cheese looking for him, it was a mere question of time before his cave was found.

Golden Cheese: LEGENDARY SILVER DRAGON! IF YOU REALLY ARE HERE, I, GOLDEN CHEESE COOKIE, CHALLENGE YOU TO A DUEL!

The voice full of determination sounded all over the big cave from it's entrance. The only response, however, was a soft growl followed by an even softer voice.

??: Oh my, is someone in search of my so called "treasures" again? Golden Cheese Cookie, you say? Alright then, come into my cave and meet me in person.

Golden Cheese smirked. She was ready to go into the cave, but her bodyguards stood in front of her.

Bodyguard 1: Your majesty, this is very suspicious. I'm sure it's a trap.

Bodyguard 2: I agree. I honestly doubt a dragon is so mind-open towards us cookies.

Golden Cheese: Silence!

She yelled as she made her way in front of her guards. She walked ahead without turning her back and without saying any word. Her bodyguards remained silent as they followed her.

The inside of the cave was shiny as shiny could be. The walls were of rock as any other cave, yet there were silver fragments in them, which reflected the sunlight and make it look as if it was in an open field.

There was a big waterfall that created a lake of crystal clear and serene water. The water made grass, moss and even some flowers bloom around.

Any dragon proud of itself must have it's own treasures, and this silver dragon wasn't an exception. Apparently, he was a lover of art, as his treasures were many sculptures, paintings and other art works, each one of them of great beauty.

In the middle of the cave, lying down and curled upon his own body, the silver dragon himself was resting.

Golden Cheese: Ah, the legendary Silver dragon in person. How great!

Silver dragon: It has quite some time since a cookie was brave enough to come into my cave, yet to come to see me in person.

The dragon looked down at the golden cookie and her bodyguards. His body was suddendly surrounded into a silvery cocoon which soon broke and showed him in the form a cookie.

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: I take this form is more likely to your kind. My name is Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie. But feel free to call me Silver Dragon if you wish.

Golden Cheese: My, my. It is a surprise to meet a dragon who is this kind and gentle towards cookies. But a pleasant surprise, of course.

Golden Cheese smiled, pleased by the dragon's friendliness. It wasn't usual that a dragon was this kind and gentle, but she did like it.

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: Now, you said you wanted to challenge me to a duel? I take you seek my so called "treasures".

Golden Cheese: That is right. I, the Golden Sovereign, challenge you to a fight! If I win, you must give your precious silver scales to me!

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: My scales? Is that all you want?

The dragon cookie chuckled a bit as if he just heard a joke. He raised his arm and used his other hand to take off one his scales himself, offering it to Golden Cheese.

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: I don't understand why you cookies like my scales so much, but I don't mind sharing them.

Golden Cheese hesitated, she was confused. Her bodyguards were confused too. Was the dragon really giving away his precious scales so easily? Like, really?

Golden Cheese: I... I do not understand. Why do you give away such precious and valuable treasure so easily?

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: Precious and valuable treasure? Is just an scale, I have them all over my body.

Golden Cheese: You... don't know how valuable silver is?

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: I do not. I guess cookies and dragons have different interpretations of what is "valuable". Care to explain me why is silver so valuable to you?

The dragon asked with a gentle smile. The golden queen turned around to look at her bodyguards, they were just as flabbergasted as she was. Looking back at the dragon, she took a breath and started explaining the value of precious metals such as silver, gold, and others. And, she also explained why she wanted the silver.

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: So... You wanted my scales because for your kingdom as they have a high value. Did I get it right?

Golden Cheese: You did. So, are you still willing to just give me your scales?

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: Yes, I still am. However, I want to ask you for something in return.

Golden Cheese: And what is it?

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: Take me to your kingdom. Seeing how much you love and value it, I wish to see it with my own eyes.

The two bodyguards inmediatly stood in front of their queen, their weapons ready to fight.

Bodyguard 1: Your majesty, this dragon is trying to trick you!

Bodyguard 2: I bet he only wants to steal your gold and treasures!

Golden Cheese: ...

Golden Cheese thought for a second. He was a dragon, he could surely easily cause great damage on her kingdom in just a moment. Then again, he was so calm and looked so kind.

Golden Cheese: ... Very well. You'll come to my kingdom, and then you'll give me your scales. Deal?

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: Deal.

And so, the queen and her bodyguards returned to the kingdom, now alongside the dragon.

The inhabitants of the kingdom were so happy to see their queen, everyone smiled at her with joy. The queen herself took the dragon to many places of her kingdom, showing off with great pride. After a tour around, they both rested at the throne room, as she sat on her throne and he ate some types of cheese she gifted him.

Golden Cheese: So? How did you like my glorious kingdom, hm?

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: *munching on some cheese* Tuuly amaffin.

The dragon took a moment to swallow the food.

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: Your kingdom is really different from any place I ever saw before. Now, it's time for me to fulfill my part of the deal.

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie then scratched his arms, taking off his scales and showing his silvery pale skin under them.

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: These scales are for you. Take them as a token of our new friendship.

Golden Cheese: My, how kind of you.

Golden Cheese took the scales and checked them, fascinated at how beautiful they were and how much they shone. She looked at the dragon, seeing how he still enjoyed the remaining leftovers of the cheese she gave him. Her opinion about him changed throught the day, she now appreciated him and saw him as a partner and friend. And... perhaps as something more?

Golden Cheese: Say... How about we make a new deal? You can stay here and be a resident of my kingdom if you want to.

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: Really? That would be wonderful. But, as you said it is a deal, what must I give you in return?

Golden Cheese: That's simple. My dear friend, I have grown quite attached to you already. Would you consider becoming... King of the Golden Cheese Kingdom?

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: Oh. Oh my.

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie looked at Golden Cheese Cookie as he thought about her proposal. A warm and loving smile spread throught his lips.

Silver Dragon Y/N Cookie: I would love to be your king, my queen. *kisses her hand* I should warn you, we dragons can be a little possesive about our romantical partner. Will that be a problem for you?

Golden Cheese: Not at all, my dear. In fact, I do feel honored that my partner shows his greed about me~

The Queen took her newfound King's hand between her's, coming closer to him and sharing their first kiss together.

And thus, the Golden Sovereign found her Silver Monarch. Their mutual love would shine stronger and brighter than the sunlight itself, forever and ever.

💛🩶

[swordsandarms]

"Why did Rhaegar leave a whole THREE Kingsguards with Lyanna? Why did he leave Jaime, A CHILD, to PROTECT his family? Why wasn't Arthur, a DORNISH man, with Elia?"

These or other individual questions about the Kingsguards during the Rebellion era keep coming up every now and then. Usually, it concerns questioning Rhaegar's motivations, sometimes even Jaime's morality or culpability, as well as the morality of said Kingsguards.

But I was having a conversation with some fans and it comes down to the same issue: no one considers the Targaryen politics at the time, and fragment these circumstances in shallow bits and pieces, naturally, coming down to "there's no good explanation for this!"

Everyone hates that these two Targaryen men have genuine character complexity, especially in rapport with eachother: Rhaegar and Aerys.

Let's go over the Kingsguard at the end of Aerys' reign, and actually consider allegiance and what the mean, and how those would actually easily explain a lot-

Jon Darry, Darry cousin: unclear loyalty, when it comes down to the Aerys-Rhaegar conflict. Darrys are without a doubt Targaryen men, but we don't know if and who they would choose. Darrys are most of all connected with Viserys and Rhaella, who are very sheltered from the rest of the world all the same. Darrys might have been sideline in the Aerys-Rhaegar conflict by such default then, and eventually Jon would be sent to the Trident anyway. But then again, unquestionable loyalty to House Targaryen sounds like a traditionalist approach.

Arthur Dayne: Rhaegar's man without a doubt. His oldest and closest friend.

Oswell Whent: Rhaegar's man. He's with him at the Tower and rumours are his family conspired alongside him to get the Lords at Harrenhal to stage Aerys' usurpation.

Gerold Hightower, Comander: King's (Aerys') man. The scene at the King's doors is often brought up in discussions about the ethics of the KG. But it actually also unveils a key political information within the Aerys-Rhaegar factions. Whether it's a matter of adhering to the status quo only, or personal allegiance to Aerys as well, the message is clear: even when it's between two royals, it's the King he will stand by, no matter what, even when he's not in the right (and if his son tries to usurp him, then technically he is).

Barristan Selmy: Barristan undergoes a character development during the main series in which he finally questions unquestionable allegiance to a King no matter their morality. A past Barristan, however, would then resemble a Ser Gerold, and be in the King's (Aerys) service before anything by virtue of duty. Notably, he would later reflect that Rhaegar did not find him fit to be in his confidence, and these expectations are probably why.

Lewyn Martell: Easily Elia's and Rhaegar's man, and Dornish. Noted as being in his confidence.

Jaime Lannister: One that causes a lot of controversy. A lot of back and forth discussion as to what expectations Rhaegar had of Jaime (and whether Jaime himself fulfilled them). The answer can actually be seen easily by:

1. Looking at it with the awareness that there was a faction divide existed in the KG in between Aerys and Rhaegar, as it was building up to a conflict and hence-

2. Reading their last conversation with that in mind

The day had been windy when he said farewell to Rhaegar, in the yard of the Red Keep. The prince had donned his night-black armor, with the three-headed dragon picked out in rubies on his breastplate. “Your Grace,” Jaime had pleaded, “let Darry stay to guard the king this once, or Ser Barristan. Their cloaks are as white as mine."

Prince Rhaegar shook his head. “My royal sire fears your father more than he does our cousin Robert. He wants you close, so Lord Tywin cannot harm him. I dare not take that crutch away from him at such an hour.”

Jaime’s anger had risen up in his throat. “I am not a crutch. I am a knight of the Kingsguard.”

“Then guard the king,” Ser Jon Darry snapped at him. “When you donned that cloak, you promised to obey.”

Rhaegar had put his hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “When this battle’s done I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but … well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return.”

For one, Jaime is the last KG left in King's Landing, and one to be kept close to Aerys himself. And Rhaegar is taking him into his confidence before he leaves - he is pretty much talking treason, hinting at usurpation upon his return.

Why did he leave Jaime, A CHILD, to PROTECT his family?

First of all, he doesn't leave Jaime himself in that post. As seen above, Aerys calls the shots. We know from the Ice and Fire "history book" that he sent Lewyn away from Elia as well for being Dornish (while before he was stationed with her and the kids on Dragonstone in Rhaegar's absence) and he commands Jaime to stay. As it appears, he also sends Darry and Selmy with him (with Selmy being a traditionalist at the time, it may even be to keep an eye on Rhaegar).

Rhaegar doesn't have a choice of whom to ask to look out for Elia and the children, no matter which KG would've been in town. He makes that clear. And as to expectations he has of the only one left and whom he can have a word with, while Jaime is, yes, by all means considered a grown man in their society AND a capable soldier who's well trained and already been in combat, he's not asking for Jaime to stand between his family and an army or anything.

There's not meant to be an army. That's meant to be Rhaegar's job to prevent. He's going out to battle. He's meant to give Robert a honorable single combat, prove himself as strong and fair - unlike the mockery of a "trial by combat" Aerys gave Rickard. Hence prove himself unlike his father first of all, probably give his explanations about Lyanna, and also make it clear he's against Aerys' actions and wanting to give the justice by deposing him.

No, Rhaegar isn't irresponsible, dumping that burden on younger Jaime. He does the responsible thing of taking all that upon himself. What does he expect of Jaime? As read above, he does not put Jaime in the mindset of a fighting machine that's supposed to save his family from anything unrealistic. He puts him in the mindset of someone who would be his man and oppose Aerys when the time comes - he's meant to be the one threat to his family when the chips fall down and he is taking the throne.

Whatever reading Rhaegar did of Jaime, he thought he could say those words to him (that would've been dangerous if he were wrong), that Jaime would have it in him to turn against Aerys (again not some ridiculous expectation - a frail man). And Rhaegar is clearly not dumb. He was right in his perception, wasn't he? (Is this where Jon Snow gets his amazing perceptive skills - "little his eyes do not see").

Why wasn't Arthur, a DORNISH man, with Elia?

Why would he be allowed to? We've already established Aerys calls the shots. And among them there's one KG specifically being sent away because he's Dornish and hence loyal to Elia (and Rhaegar). If Lewyn couldn't be there, why would Arthur?

Why did Rhaegar leave a whole THREE Kingsguards with Lyanna?

That is something I couldn't understand for a long time, too. Not only the specific number, but the fact that clearly Rhaegar can't just do whatever he wants with the Kingsguard. Why was this allowed?

It doesn't make sense until you go back to the Aerys-Rhaegar allegiance divide above. The three are Gerold (most loyal Aerys appears to have) and Arthur and Oswell (most loyal Rhaegar appears to have).

Gerold came from King's Landing to take Rhaegar. Oswell and Arthur would have already been with him. Either-

1. Gerold was sent with the order to stay behind with Lyanna. Aerys already took hold of Elia and the kids to control Dorne (and Rhaegar) and would have her in the hands of his most obedient man, too. Rhaegar cannot let that happen, as he plans to turn against Aerys while he's away. If he can't send Gerold away, he makes the compromise of leaving two of his own. One only would have been uncertain odds, but if Gerold eventually acts up when things unravel, he's outnumbered. Arthur and Oswell can do what they have to do and they are in an isolated location and can lie about it later to protect their honor.

2. Gerold wasn't meant to stay behind. But since Rhaegar is decided to depose Aerys, removing him from Aerys is an opportunity. Aerys/Gerold can be lured with the illusion of having a hold on Lyanna. Rhaegar had to leave someone (trustworthy) with her regardless but compromises his own numbers for the same reasoning above, if it means removing a barrier from between him and Aerys. Aerys would be blindsided in allowing in from that same perspective: Rhaegar is made to leave crucial allies behind.

[dionysism]

ohhh i am really thinking about penelope and grief. 20 years of it.

10 spent knowing your love is fighting at war and may die at any moment, every sunrise and sunset spent wondering if you're staring at the same sun right now or if he's already gone. and then the war ends, but not for you. it might as well have never ended, because now new grief sets in.

now you wait for him to come home, but he doesn't. and you slowly but surely hear about other great men making it home, and their tales of victory, and maybe you even hear about your husbands great trojan horse, how it won it for them, but you do not hear anything else about him. you listen very closely to the names of fallen greeks at troy, still, you do not hear about him. you wait another year, two turns to three, to four. nothing. no news, no closure at all.

you can't help but spin the worst possible tales in your mind, night after night. is he dead? ship shattered against the rocks in some storm? has he drowned? did he stop somewhere for supplies and get ambushed? cut down? could his men have betrayed him? did he anger some god and bring about his own doom? is there a chance, at all, that he's still out there? will you ever see him again?

and your son. your beautiful son who you love, who gets older every year, who can only know his father through the fragments of memory you can pass down to him, but it's not the same, not enough. and hero as he may be, what you would prefer is a husband. a father to your son. and his great deeds are somewhat lost now anyway, as he is. you cannot put a man to rest when his fate remains unknown— if he had fallen at troy, or made it home only to succumb to some wound or illness, at least you would know. at least then you could find some small amount of solace in him leaving a name and legacy for your son to inherit, some closure for you, but all you have is wind and words. and telemachus is starting to look like him, and you begin to dread him getting any older, as you remember you promised your husband you would remarry when he comes of age. another joy soured by grief, most women delight in seeing the men their sons grow up to be, but it only marks doom for you. sometimes you tell him to shave. just a little longer. he may still come back. you have to believe he will come back.

then the suitors decend like vultures, eating you out of house and home and every one of their faces is a reminder that he is not here, that he has not been here for a long time now. that you might never see his face again. you remember him perfectly, still, after all these years. can still see clear as day the image of him in your mind the day he set off in his ship, remember to the last detail the clothes you sent him off with. you can't imagine a life with any of these men, nor any other man on earth, but it becomes more clear to you everyday the gods must not care what you want. oh, how you both must be cursed by them, to be served such a fate! but you are not completely without hope, not yet. and so you stall, for as long as you possibly can, with your clever weaving scheme. and for awhile, this is something. you almost allow yourself to smile at the thought of how he would love a scheme like this, thinking about all the tricks and strategies he must have employed at troy, how you would have liked to have heard about them. ("well, here's what i would have done," you would sometimes tell him when he would recount old stories from his past to you. "penelope, you're brilliant! i should take you everywhere i go" he would usually say, and, you really wish he would have.) but he has gone somewhere far away now, somewhere you cannot follow, or even know about, and you are left with more grief than you know how to carry.

at some point, he's gone longer than you were married to him. eventually, he's gone longer than you knew him at all. it may seem silly then, to be so grief-stricken still, to love him so hopelessly, still. but you are only human, so you are, and you do. you've been betrayed and your scheme exposed, there's no denying your son has become a man, and the inevitable can be put off no longer. you falter constantly between a relentless despair that he will never come home, and fickle hope you are just a few more days from seeing his ship on the horizon. still, your nights are spent mostly weeping.

then this strange beggar comes to your house. he tells you he's heard about your husband, tells you he's coming home! and you want to believe it, desperately, more than anything, you want to believe it. but it sounds too good to be true. and yet, faintly, this strange man kind of reminds you of your husband. something about him you can't quite place. maybe you're just going mad, looking for him in everything, finding him where he's not there. but maybe...

and so here is your last stand, your last shred of hope, one final scheme. you'll marry, but first, a contest. a bow, that only your husband can string, an arrow shot through 12 axeheads. a contest conveniently leaving the winner the only armed man in the room. and if not what you ultimately hope, maybe, at least, you can watch these idiots sputter and fail.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

I totally see Daniel's Kitten giving the ultimate test for him to prove that he understands that either way she's his. She doesn't even let him touch her, books herself a separate room during races. Daniel is desperate like in the very beginning of their relationship. He's wants her so bad but she enjoys torturing him, spends time with another drivers, chooses more revealing clothes etc. And Daniel can only watch this. Just imagine Daniel after she says that he passed this test 👀

Temptation Snapshot || DR3 {4}

Pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x fem!reader Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, hurt/comfort, smut WC: 1.5k F1 Masterlist Story: One || Two || Three || Four || Five Snapshots One || Two || Three || Four || Five

Daniel was asleep on Lando’s doorstep when you went to leave, startling awake as he fell through the opening he had been resting against. After a hot shower and cup of tea, you had finally calmed down but the evidence of a night spent crying still lingered on your face. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked as you crossed your arms. You desperately wanted to reach for him and snuggle into the thick padding of his hoodie he had his hands buried in. “Did you sleep there all night?”

“He’s the only one who didn’t answer his phone,” Daniel said hoarsely. “I tried Charles, Max and George so I figured you had to be here.”

Lando had heard the voices and approached the entrance to see Daniel a little worse for wear. It had been hard for him to ignore Danny’s calls but you had begged him not to, you just needed some time. Whether it was to bury your head in the sand, or to plan your future, you weren’t sure.

Daniel’s eyes turned to Lando and he waited with bated breath for the death threats to begin. It was always a risk letting you cross the threshold into his home but he was surprised when Daniel freed a hand from his hoodie pocket and said, “Thanks for taking care of her.”

“Of course, that’s what friends are for,” he said with a soft smile as they shook hands but it turned to a pained wince.

“A friend would have answered his phone so I didn’t have to wonder where my girlfriend was, waking half the city in my search.”

You should have been angry for what he did but you were still caught up on the word girlfriend, your heart scrambling to gather the fragments that had broken away when you thought it was over. 

“Girlfriend?” you asked quietly, hope filling your voice. 

“One argument and you think it’s over?” Daniel dared with a shake of his head before he reached for you and pulled you into his arms. “You’re mine, kitten, always,” he whispered in your ear. “I deleted it.”

“You shouldn’t have taken it,” you uttered under your breath. 

He pressed his lips to your temple and you shivered at how cold they were from a night in the elements. “I’m sorry, but I can never think clearly when it comes to you and just wanted something to take with me to testing.”

“I’ll take you to build-a-bear and make you one with my voice. I can’t promise it will say anything nice right now though.”

“I’ll take anything,” he chuckled before sobering up. “Just please forgive me?” 

You nodded your head, not trusting your voice not to crack as you heard the words you were longing to and collapsed in his arms. 

“Aww,” Lando cooed. “Told you everything would work out fine.”

“Don’t get me started, mate,” Daniel warned as he fingered the hem of the jumper you wore. “My girl doesn’t wear Quadrant.”

“She was cold! And I figured you’d prefer that over my LN4 hoodies. It’s new too, unreleased even.”

“Sniff,” you lifted the material to his face, “smells new.”

“Smells like you,” he hummed before grabbing the hem. “But you can wear mine home.”

He pulled the green hoodie over your head before taking his one off. It certainly wasn’t warm enough to just be in a Foo Fighters singlet but Daniel didn’t seem to feel the cold as he pulled his Enchanté hoodie over your body. “Much better,” Daniel said as he shot the hoodie at Lando, hitting him in the face with a smirk.

“Mate, that's €150 of organic cotton.”

“Send me the invoice,” he said with a wave over his shoulder before he looked back. “And you had better have slept on the couch or I’ll be back.”

“I’m not suicidal, gees,” Lando said as he rolled his eyes and cracked his back that was sore because he had slept on the couch. “See you guys on Thursday.”

Daniel was unusually quiet as you walked home hand in hand and you knew he was thinking hard when he nearly missed the entrance to the apartment. The door closing in the silence was louder than expected and you jumped a little at the bang. 

“I’m sorry,” Daniel apologised as he dropped onto the couch and pulled you over his lap so he could bury his face in your neck. “Please never leave me like that again. I was going out of my mind wondering where you were, if you were safe.”

Your throat clogged at the vulnerability in his voice and you felt guilty for not even sending one message to say you were fine, something to ease his mind. 

“Please never leave me again.”

“I never want to let you,” you promised as you combed his hair, soothing the worry that had knotted his insides all night. “I love you, Danny.”

“I love you too. And I know I’m possessive, I know I’m controlling. I can’t help it, you're my kitten and I need to protect you for my own sanity.” He twisted you to cage you beneath his body on the couch and a hand dipped between your thighs, pressing the seam of your leggings against your clit.

“I know, and I love that, I love being yours,” you sighed, before planting a hand on his chest and pushing him back. “But, when I get into trouble you punish me for it, and I think it’s only fair that it’s my turn.”

You crossed your legs and he pouted as his access was cut off. 

“How long?” he groaned as he buried his face in a couch cushion and palmed his erection to keep it from springing up. 

“I haven’t decided, but you’ll know.”

Media day had been a flop since Daniel had channelled his inner Kimi Räikkönen and remained silent for most of the interviews, giving the bare minimum answers and refusing to elaborate. If you weren’t receiving dirty looks from the fans you would have found it amusing that he was so grumpy because he hadn’t had sex in a few days. It would have been a lie to say you weren’t affected and in need of your own release but you were enjoying the control he normally held.

You particularly enjoyed seeing him struggle to keep his hands to himself when you made the rounds of the drivers and stopped by his room. Unable to resist taunting him further, you had rolled the hem of your skirt up to bare more of your legs that he loved so much before stepping inside.

“Hey daddy,” you teased as you rested your back against the door.

Daniel reclined deeper into his couch with a groan, his eyes tracing the length of your legs as he bit his fist to keep from reaching for you. “Fuck, kitten, don’t call me that, not now, please.”

“What’s wrong?” you asked innocently as you bit your lip to hide your smile.

“Come here,” he urged you as he fell to his knees and pushed the coffee table out of the way so you could stand above him, his hands pushing your skirt up to your hips. “Are you enjoying this, kitten? Is this making you wet?”

His fingers brushed your panties aside and you moaned as he teased you, getting closer to you than he had for days. You looked down at him as you raked your fingers through his hair while he savoured the scent of your arousal, brushing his nose along your thigh to nudge them wider before his tongue flicked out.

“Ah, fuck,” you cried at the sensitivity that came with days of denial. All thoughts of teasing him were gone, all those thoughts replaced with need and you pulled him closer so he could bury his face between your legs.

“Can I come home, kitten?” he asked, his warm brown eyes begging you to say yes. Your eyes fluttered shut as his fingers curled into your cunt and you nodded needing more.

Daniel growled happily as he grabbed your hips and cast you onto the couch, shoving his jeans down his thighs. Your panties were lost to the floor next and you relished the crazed look in his eyes as he spread your legs.

His beard tickled your thighs as he kissed and nipped his way across your skin, the small sharp bites sending bolts of lightning to your core. Like a starving man, he devoured you, his tongue lapping at your cunt until you were a quivering mess.

“I need you, please,” you begged as he knelt between your legs and dragged your hips to the edge, his swollen head already running through your wet folds.

“You’re done torturing me?” he asked as he inched slowly forward, slow enough to know he was torturing you in return.

“Yes, just fuck me already, daddy,” you whined as your body stretched to accommodate him.

With a sharp snap of his hips he buried himself all the way home and the guttural moan had your pussy clench. “Fuck, kitty, I missed you.”

Click here for another snapshot.

[buterccup]

GEN Z READER IN TASK FORCE 141 HC

A/N: I saw a couple of these and I couldn't stop trying to find more, and I just love the concept of all these big men trying to understand the reader's humour but I also love how they try to watch over them even though they can easily take care of themselves. Also, do expect the codename to change if I make another one of these but if anyone has ideas please tell me. Anyways I hope this doesn't flop and please enjoy.

Warnings: Dark humour, Suicide jokes, simping, swearing, mentions of parents leaving the reader, basically gen z stuff, usual CoD violence

Character(s): Soap, Gaz, John, Ghost, Price x Gn! reader (And graves kinda-)

Codename: Daffodil

There is no thinking about it you are the youngest and probably the shortest in the task force.

When Laswell first told Price that he will have someone younger than he expected to join the task force he immediately said no, he wasn't going to babysit you.

Plus you looked way too young to be in the army

Little did he know, you got your codename for a reason.

But once Laswell said you were very strong and he could trust you to hold your own and that he had to, he didn't have much of a choice.

And as expected once Price and Laswell introduce you to the boys they were shocked too.

There was a literal child in front of them.

And Soap being Soap he let out a little chuckle earning a nudge and glare from Ghost and an "ahem" from Price

"This is Daffodil, your new rookie. And I warn you don't underestimate them just from their name. Treat them well."

At first you were very quiet and only spoke when spoken to, almost beating Ghost's stoic and quiet nature

To which the rest of 141 joked about quite a lot

but after a while, you started to open up to them which was a nice sign

But the boys did catch onto your humour pretty quickly which caused them to worry for your mental state.

You would start saying suicide jokes at 1 mile per second at every small inconvenience.

"If that happens again I'm going to jump in front of a car- I am going to hang myself- I cannot right now-"

"Kid...It's just paper work..."

"Exactly"

One time you and the group were going after a target and of the guys' men shot you in the arm. It wasn't as bad as you thought it would be but it still hurt.

While Soap and Gaz asked if you were okay you were completely hysterical at the moment. So much in fact that you shouted something so stupid before the guy met his inevitable end.

By Ghost too:D

Thanks Ghost<33

"Do you want this back???"

BLAM

"Oop, mans left quicker than my dad."

To say the least, your boys were concerned for you because of that

Even Ghost tried to check up on you every minute or two after they got the bullet out and patched you up.

You all eventually got the target in the end but your boys ended up forcing you to go get your wound checked since a, and I quote, "Crusty dusty" building wouldn't be the best place to pick out bullet fragments.

You came back with one of the doctor's pens because you liked it and claimed you finessed him when in reality he gave it to you because he noticed you staring and you were too scared to ask.

It was a LED cat paw pen

"Gaz what does finesse mean?"

"I don't really know..?"

"What do you mean you're supposed to know-"

One time you shouted slay during a mission once Ghost killed one of the targets.

To be honest, it did make him laugh but Price, on the other hand, didn't understand but he soon got what it meant. Kinda.

With that being said Gaz and sometimes Soap are the go-to when Price or Ghost don't understand what the hell you just said since they are the younger ones.

Which also means you got along better with them

And if they don't understand something they always try their best to find out and find more things you would laugh at.

Soap even goes that extra effort to make memes and send them to you.

But don't get me wrong you love spending time with Price and Ghost.

And speaking of memes you always end up making stupid gifs of Ghost and always end up sending them to the tf141 group chat that you made to annoy them most of the time or Ghost himself where you sometimes end up joke flirting with him

Mans is scrumdiliumcious if you did say so yourself

(Ahem basically the gif at the start of the hcs)

One time you called Ghost Mummy and Soap and Gaz wouldn't stop laughing while Price sighed at the little slip-up.

It wasn't a slip-up.

You defiantly burst into Price's office most of the time too when you have nothing to do.

Even though hearing Price drone on about his paperwork doesn't sound that fun it's nice to hear his voice.

And If you didn't have good parents or were absent most of your life he would never turn you away once he sees you at his door.

This also applies if you have good parents too

From the number of times he had to lecture you and your boys about how you can't have McDonald's after a mission and how it's bad for you is basically allowing him to adopt you.

Once you met Grave one thing kept popping into your mind.

Fix it Felix.

Which didn't really give you both a great start but he warmed up to you sooner or later.

And as much as an asshole he is most of the time he actually gets concerned when he hears one of your suicide jokes.

When he first heard one over coms he made sure to keep an eye on you every so often and even messaged you after the mission was over.

Don't get me wrong Graves is kinda...shitty but that doesn't make him that much of an asshole to not check up on a 'child' when they say something concerning.

And when all your boys are free and there is time you all have a movie night.

It's quite relaxing, it was nice to have these quiet moments with your boys considering your jobs.

Although one time it was getting really late and you all got through 2 movies and you almost looked like you were going to pass out so that's when papa Price came out.

"Papa, more movie."

"No the movie is over, we gotta go.."

"PAPA"

"Oh, Jesus Christ.." (💀)

"Me. Want. More. Movie."

"No Daffo-"

"YOU LIE"

"Kiddo the movie is-"

"Price what did you do-" (🧼)

Once you calmed down and Price realized what you said he cried internally.

Everything was okay in the end though and Gaz had that on camera so they can always look back and laugh at it.

Requests: Open

Part 2!

[bladekindeyewear]

HS^2 bloggin’ mainline 2024-08-24

(Previous post - current page 666)

Section 3 of page 666 is now upd8'd, let's check it out! And as you can expect very much from the topic it's almost certainly covering, they've warned us via the twitter "Content warning for references to themes of physical and mental abuse, flashing imagery, and mild gore". By the way, when Force Refresh didn't reload the game data enough to show the new chapter in Google Chrome for me, I had to go in settings to "Delete Browsing Data" > "Cookies and other site data" for the Time Range "Last hour", because just deleting "Cached images and files" or "Hosted app data" didn't help.

(EDIT: THEY WERE NOT KIDDING AROUND ABOUT THE CONTENT WARNINGS, IF YOU HAVE ANY PERSONAL EXPERIENCE WITH ANY SORT OF ABUSE PLEASE BE CAREFUL WITH THIS ONE.)

Although, before we get into it (AND WAY BEFORE I SCROLLED BACK UP TO EDIT THAT EXTRA WARNING UP THERE), I wanted to cover something that'd been on my mind since my last post, predictionways: How IS Vriska going to escape the Plot Point?

There seem a number of obvious answers that we'll get some combination of, but the last one might not be obvious to everyone, so I wanted to cover it and flesh out / examine the possibilities so we all can feel really smart if it pans out at all the way I'm thinking it could pan out:

(1) Vriska realizes the true power and relevance she'd attained as a Thief of Light never left her heart all along, and this singularity is Nothing, a realm Void of relevance where only she exists. (Very like the Neverending Story after everything was destroyed, maybe?) If she allows herself to divest herself of some of her relevance she's been so desperately clutching onto, she can 8r8k the Plot Point.

Callie hinted that this singularity-center might need to be destroyed, and the fifth section is an 8-ball, a type of container Vriska is famously known to break. It may make a degree of sense that realizing her own power, her ultimate freedom, might be enough to do just that and free her.

(1a) Vriska becomes her Ultimate Self, and is too full of Light for the singularity to contain. This could break it or otherwise get her out of it...

...but I'm not sure it's either possible or a good thing for her to consolidate ALL of herself from the rest of Paradox Space into herself while she's trapped in here? Those versions of her perhaps deserve to keep existing rather than falling into a sea of herself that would need to hold powerfully to the self-actualization and psychological progress she's made as THIS version of her instead of the versions of her that didn't. We're not certain of all the mechanics of being an Ultimate Self, so it's hard to say whether or not it's possible... or could even see her backslide from this Therapy Session, which I really wouldn't want to see because this has been so good, and would definitely make some sense of alt!Callie / AL's warning that what was inside the Plot Point was hungry, because an Ultimate Vriska certainly could be. This doesn't seem the right choice unless in combination with one of the other options:

(2) Vriska finds the collapsed core of the Green Sun's power here and steals it for herself, a hidden treasure that could be intensely empowering, whether via Light or even giving her fancy barrier-busting Black Hole powers similar to alt!Calliope's dead!Jade body. I... feel this option is unlikely. It'd certainly count as something "greedy" inside the Plot Point that "isn't salvation" and could hasten the fragmentation of the Candy storyline because there isn't a singularity vacuuming its power all together, which could apply to breaking the Plot Point too, frankly... eh, I just still think other options seem more likely and better foreshadowed. Especially this last one:

(3) Vriska uses the same communication-across-barriers ability she used to contact (Meat)!Terezi in order to message JOHN and ask the HEIR OF BREATH to free her from the singularity as I once long ago wrongly predicted. If John is the only one who can reach in and pull her out, it would require Vriska to overcome herself enough to realize she needs -- and has the power -- to MAKE a divestment of relevance (as (1) suggested) to John from herself, and let John be the hero in her place for at least a moment. The arms he once reached everywhere with using his ultimate power suddenly become an arm reaching for another hand to pull someone to freedom.

Now on top of everything I mentioned in the old Breath, Blood, and the Flow of Reality post about John being one of the only people possibly capable of freeing someone from a singularity that "not even Light can escape", there's a bunch of EXTREMELY RECENT evidence for this, too. In addition to telling us how surprising and unlikely they would have found it to learn that Vriska messaged Terezi past the barrier sealing Candy's timeline away from the rest of Paradox Space, Callie ALSO just got done asking John to break Vriska out of jail, reinforcing it with an open statement that Breath was the aspect of Freedom, and John embodied the concept. And more importantly, John HADN'T BEEN NECESSARY to break Vriska out at all, and ended up only tagging along for conversation and fun, not even needing to tell Serket where to go! Which makes the entire relevance and narrative choice of Callie asking him to break her out better suited as foreshadowing for this exact necessity while she's trapped in the Plot Point, and all Vriska would need to do to make it happen is pull a trick (communicating across the Breach) we've already seen her pull before in the Epilogues. To have the courage and stability of mind to realize she can't do this on her own, and know who to ask for help. (Roxy, as a Rogue of Void, might even be able to lend her power to the effort too.)

Apologies for the pre-update writeup, I just really wanted to make that last John call for y'all if you hadn't realized the possibility, y'know, before we potentially see it happen a few upd8s from now. :D

Alright, on to all the trauma that Doc Scratch helped inflict on Vriska, manipulating her into actions that only injured her psyche further and her friends moreso, and all the guilt and anger she feels over it. I suspect she'll have to finally at least PARTIALLY realize the trick that's being hinted at regarding "ultimate freedom" -- ie, the answer to the Ultimate Riddle -- and just how much Doc Scratch's talk of inevitability not only gaslit her into thinking her worst instincts were unavoidable, but that even as he was TELLING her that he was manipulating her, he was admitting that he HAD to manipulate her to make this happen, meaning the power had been in HER hands all along, not his. Without Vriska provoked into being the one to inflict the injuries in the entire Team Charge vs Team Scourge cascade, without the fact that this was all FRIENDS hurting FRIENDS, none of them would have experienced enough of the severe psychological trauma required for Doc Scratch's half-Gamzee chucklevoodoos to control them into unknowingly writing his DNA code, and leaving those like Aradia in an inverted, highly manipulatable state for guiding their session into creating the Tumor that would birth the Green Sun. Let's click the White Cueball and start watching Vriska painfully confronting some serious emotional abuse and trauma from her past at the hands of a very-Dirk-Strider-like pseudo-parental figure...

*CLICKING THAT DAMNED CUEBALL NOW*

Okay, NO TIMESKIP notice this time, she looks the same in her room-- it would make sense that Doc Scratch is next on the chopping block this time and I'd WANT to see her live first reaction to it. What's with this poppy hoppy fun music? We're definitely getting something more sinister for Scratch. (Also I have to say, the music so far this entire Vriska Therapy Session flash has been... okay? But not up to the usual Homestuck banger standards the original comic's run spoiled us with constantly, in my personal view.)

VRISKA: Whew. VRISKA: Long day.

Oh gosh I hope she doesn't go into the next one IMMEDIATELY and rests first--

Oh GCATAVROSPRITE is the music this time, I get it! And he's acting more catlike than ever w/ those paws lifted!

GCATAVROSPRITE: mAYBE, yOU SHOULD TAKE A BREAK, fROM ALL THE TOTALLY AWESOME PERSONAL BREAKTHROUGHS YOU ARE HAVING, GCATAVROSPRITE: aND KICK IT WITH ME AND ERISOL FOR A WHILE, ERISOLSPRITE: yeah, you kiinda look liike 2hiit.

THANK you, get her to relax at least a BIT before tackling something harder than her freakin' abusive mother(s). Also,

--just, Erisol looking unexpectedly fly as fuck, and more Dave-like than ever. Like, I'm just surprised he looks so cool. Good damn art.

VRISKA: Says Scarfshades McLopsided.

Hey!!!

ERISOLSPRITE: 2ay2 the bu2ted a22 biitch wwearin the 2ame raggedy jacket 2he2 wworn 2ince wwe wwere liike fiivve.

FUCKIN' OWNED, GOOD SNAPBACK.

VRISKA: Says the guy who literally can't change his clothes.

That's low AND not helping your case, fuck you! You're being incredibly disrespectful AND proving him right!

ERISOLSPRITE: ii cant be held accountable for my dii2cordant cla22-2wwag diichotomy, but here you are a 2weep and a half deep iin a per2onally raiilored realm of 2elf-reflectiion and you 2tiill choo2e twwo look liike thii2.

EXACTLY, that's what we're saying!!! --Not that it can be helped TOO much, from an emotional standpoint she sorta has to take forms similar to her past to face her past to an extent, so...

Also, let me do the math on that... (6/13)*4 ≈ 1.85, so if we're still in "YEAR 4" then 1.85 solar sweeps have passed for her since she entered the Plot Point. If anything, Erisol's being generous as fuck here by rounding down instead of saying "nearly two sweeps". (And this confirms we haven't timeskipped again-- or if we have, must not have skipped MUCH.)

VRISKA: Heh.

What, can't mess with perfection?

ERISOLSPRITE: heh.

Oh shit, they're actually getting on, look at his damned animated grin. This is just some black-vibey friendly jabbing!

ERISOLSPRITE: anyway, come chiill.

Please, please do Vriska for your own damn sake.

Oh no, Tavros, don't suggest cat things.

Yeah, get some R and R. (And pointless playtime.) So you don't burn out. Good advice Tav.

FUCK IS HE STILL ALLERGIC? :C

.....okay GCATavrosprite you make a good goddamned point, you're doing pretty well against the allergies all things considered.

Oh no, she thinks she needs to keep going. :( This is gonna be even less fun for her than she thinks.

VRISKA: I'm kind of on a roll here. Gotta strike while the iron is hot!

Intense trauma-release therapy does not work that way!!! Heavy revelations have to be PROCESSED and mulled over before you subject yourself to more psychological pounding!

GCATAVROSPRITE: [...] aND IT KIND OF FEELS LIKE THE FIRE IS ABOUT TO GET REALLY REALLY HOT,

Ooh, a serious warning from Tav and Erisol that this shit is about to be some fuckin' BUSINESS. Listen to them! (Exactly as you put it Tav, that iron is gonna MELT too long in too hot a fire. I hope this doesn't knock her back at first and then we get ANOTHER TIMESKIP so soon mid-section... D: )

VRISKA: Whaaaaaaaat?

Oh she doesn't fucking see it coming, does she. She thought she just conquered the worst of her abuse with her mother(s) just now. She is NOT ready.

VRISKA: Oh 8lah 8lah 8lah, don't be such a pussy. GCATAVROSPRITE: i LITERALLY CAN'T NOT BE A CAT,

PFFF

VRISKA: How 8ad could it even 8e?

How genre savvy could you POSSIBLY have lost track of being to make such a statement?

...Welp, she's gonna try it. Let's hope it doesn't make her backslide into being too afraid to touch it for another year or two. :C :C :C

ERISOLSPRITE: ok wwell fuck u2 for tryiin ii gue22, havve fun gettiing traumatiized.

PFFFFDHF okay that was pretty funny

VRISKA: I'm not gonna get traumatized!

Lemme guess, smash cut to a dozen and change clicks from now: "...I got fucking traumatized."? X'D

Oh here we go:

{ENTER SCRATCH'S PARLOR}

OH HERE WE GO WITH SOME PROPERLY OMINOUS MUSIC. AND I LOVE THE TYPEWRITER SOUNDS AS HIS TEXT TYPES OUT AGAINST THE PURE BACKGROUND. THIS IS DONE SO GODDAMN WELL

(Even if I still think this music still doesn't measure up to original Homestuck tunes, it's still FITTING AND WORKS GREAT for the scene, and the style and art choices are top notch, especially the pure backgroundless white font.)

Yep Vriska, a "perfectly predictable inevitability", you should have seen this coming. Did you know you'd show up here, or did you not and he's rubbing it in your face? Cause I'd bet it's the latter.

It certainly has been a while, Vriska. You seem to have blossomed nicely.

CREEPY ABUSIVE UNCLE VIBES ALREADY REACHING CRITICAL LEVELS THREE CLICKS IN

Care for a piece of candy?

GOD DAMNIT

VRISKA: Oh fuck your stupid candy, you glo8e-headed little freak.

Congratulations Vriska, you've successfully lost 99% of your chill five seconds in, have fun getting traumatized

Doc hinting at the inevitability theme by saying he'd know for a fact she'd enjoy the candy.

Although it was less the wary hunch of a scared little girl than the delightful certainty that you'd come crawling back to me, sooner or later.

FUCK THIS IS JUST RAW ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP WE ARE FULL NON-WATERED-DOWN EVERCLEAR HERE

Holy SHIT are they pulling out all the stops with his awful phrasing here, no wonder they put so big an emotional abuse trigger warning on this update on the twitter page. And it's only going to get worse.

Of course I know. I'm always watching you.

Fuck, this is just. Exposing levels of vulnerability and awful fear that Vriska had to contend with in her youth that we hadn't even PUT TOGETHER back then. Every veil of silliness has been ripped straight off to show the gory mess of how this would have psychologically affected her while she was younger, here. I used to hate the epilogues and early HS^2 a little for doing this so liberally, for making clear how RETROACTIVELY FUCKED things were in ways that made my heart ache without any balm or healing... but unlike those earlier glimpses into their past attitudes, THIS time we are fucking going to goddamn RESOLVE the psychological issues and get some clear closure on them. That's part of why the entire p666 Vriska Therapy Session / Hyperbolic Therapy Chamber is already quite nearly my favorite part of all Homestuck so far, and I DO mean ALL of Homestuck so far.

VRISKA: You know what? VRISKA: I've 8een pretty damn good. VRISKA: 8een losing track of the sweeps I've spent in here fixing pretty much everything other than the thing I actually came in here to fix, 8ut it's paying off! There's a convenient timer for the express purpose of tracking that.

Oh god don't show her. Don't make her worry about how much time she's losing in here or how much it might be reflecting out there.

VRISKA: Yeah, and I never look at it 8ecause it pisses me off!

Phew. At least she's had TIME to come to terms with worrying about it.

VRISKA: 8ut it's fine. VRISKA: It just means I've had a lot of time to think stuff over. VRISKA: Stuff that was holding me 8ack, throwing me off-course.

I get the feeling he's about to do a pretty good job trying to convince you that you can't escape this so easily. To throw the wrong sort of doubt at you about what exactly you're barreling towards. About who the real "YOU" is-- he's going to try and convince you you're the one who hurts people.

I like to think that I'm far and away the most prolific contributor to your baggage.

Fuck. This won't be good.

VRISKA: Man, I figured may8e this place was working up to something really intense, 8ut instead all I get is Glo8ehead the Gru8toucher playing puppetmaster again.

Eueuuugh that nickname D:

...Is Vriska shaking or laughing? I think she's shaking. D:

VRISKA: You fucked with a 8unch of little kids and 8lew up, then you LOST.

Lord English might have lost, but I don't feel quite like Doc Scratch really did. He pretty much gave his master the Paradox-Space-spanning story he wanted, from beginning to end.

VRISKA: You could 8arely handle me when I was six, I'm supposed to 8e scared of you NOW?

It doesn't matter that you're not six sweeps anymore, that's-- you're visibly shaking. This is a big fucking deal. This is digging into the creepiest and most disgusting parts of what was done to you.

Well, you're shaking.

There we have it.

...Vriska is pulling out the whole-ass PDF File word. I... I hope she's just trying to taunt him for manipulating children, here, and playing the uncle angle. He's not-- I mean nothing actually happened, right? Please tell me nothing physical actually fucking happened besides the cueball-explosion physical-abuse-ways, I don't want sexual abuse retconned into existence here...

Exquisite. I missed that fumbling braggadocio. It's heartening to know that this place hasn't cured you of it yet. It makes you so much fun to play with.

Yeah... the parts of Doc Scratch that Vriska is going to remember most clearly are the times where he was condescending in ways that denigrated her and confirmed her worst fears about herself, intentionally. :C

WHOA DID HE JUST SPACE SHRINK HER??? IS HE GONNA PUT HER ON THE TOY BATTLEFIELD?!

{o} ==>

Matching the scale and visuals of the situation to how she always felt. :C :C

And SICK that the music is breaking down, I'll freely give it credit for shifting to action mode.

Now then, why don't we have ourselves a little game?

Just like Dirk and Caliborn, and their union in Doc Scratch, always love to do to people.

FUCK he glitched away the "WHAT WILL YOU DO?" prompt. This is DEFINITELY about the Ultimate Riddle and Doc Scratch's ultimate lie that Vriska never had any autonomy, a lie he poisoned her with from an early age to make her even easier to manipulate both then and down the line.

DAMMIT, changing her clothes by force?! D: D: D: D:

FUCK FUCK FUCK NO THAT'S EVEN WORSE HE CHANGED HER INTO KID FORM HUGGING HERSELF FROM WHEN SHE WAS ABOUT TO BE INJURED THAT'S CREEPIER AND MORE AWFUL THAN I EVER EXPECTED NO WONDER THEY CONTENT WARNING'D THE FUCK OUT OF THIS, I'm going up there and putting some EXTRAS on there.

I don't have personal experience with this sort of abuse but I do have experience with some who HAVE and some who WORK therapeutically with those who have so this is playing out like a critical hit to triggers I can only empathize from a distance with and it's STILL getting almost too much already. Wow wow wow wow wow they didn't pull any punches.

Ah, and there she is. My favorite piece.

AAAAAA

Thief to E4; Thief takes Page.

That loud BLAM just then and the brown blood knocking her back along with her injuries, so pithy yet so HEAVY and with the meaty SFX to go with it, just, brutal, auughh.... Vriska's NOT getting out of this one lightly. She's not going to want to come back here. She's going to be too traumatized for a good while isn't she.

Thief to F5; Thief takes Maid.

Oh god I don't want to screenshot each of these...

Another meaty THUNK and some rust blood splashing her. God.

Thief to Z8; Thief takes Seer.

Even after all Terezi taunted her and so clearly loved being blind, she STILL hates herself for what she did to Terezi?? :'C

Her blood too D:

Z8 ISN'T EVEN A F8CKING P8SITION, YOU HACK!!!!!!!

She didn't even get the number of exclamation points right...

All the world's my board.

No Escape.

Thief to ∫40; Thief takes pawn.

Wait what, who?

Is that Gamzee's blood or Eridan's? She only killed Gamzee just recently in Candy... (Checks with digital color meter--) That's #680768 blood, which is closest to... Eridan's, huh, weird. Maybe Erisol will be able to help her with this later after she's run away. IF AND WHEN she can finally run away. It looks like he wants to reinforce the impression that he can make her kill ANY AND ALL of the people friends she knows, COULD have made her do it. That's horrible for her to think of herself.

Now Equius's blood. She's swearing but can't make it stop.

He even calls Kanaya (and her blood splash) nothing but her killing a pawn of his choosing.

Thief to Ω413; Thief takes pawn. Check.

This is one of the first reappearances I can remember of the arc number 413 since we started HS^2, I don't even recall it in the epilogues. What's in Check here, the kids' whole universe, the one the trolls created? Is he getting her to blame herself for that, too?

KARKAT'S BLOOD AUGH that's always tough to see whenever I have to see it, it just makes you want to protect him when you know you can't.

Vriska calling him a cheap fucking karma ghost, this a stupid fucking charade... won't stop the fact that this is real emotional pain she's feeling and real pain that was already inside her for nearly her whole life up until this vision brought it out into the open.

VRISKA: AND I'M NEVER GOING TO 8E CAUGHT UP IN YOUR FUCKING G8MES EVER AGAIN!!!!!!!!

Then why are you so afraid you will be?

Of course you will. You think you're better than me? Better than fate? Vriska, I am going to put you in situations where you have the potential to do terrible things. I am going to make things ugly. I am going to corner you. I am going to pressure you. And no matter how much "better" you claim to be, all I have to do is catch you at the wrong moment. You're one bad turn from burning all your quaint little progress to the ground. One lapse away from being mine again.

Yeah, these are ALL just more and more of her deepest fears about herself. That she can be made to kill again, so easily, no matter how far she thinks she's moved past it all. Until she internalizes the answer to the Ultimate Riddle and realizes she has the power to make the better choice-- to ALWAYS make the better choice, and he was just fooling her into thinking she never did-- how could she possibly escape this sort of trap? She can't, not yet. And that abusive cueball asshole INTENTIONALLY made sure she felt that way, because that's what kept her easy to control. Learned helplesness.

VRISKA: Get me out of here.

Fuck, she's so defeated... so helpless. Please, PLEASE let this work. Please make it so she CAN escape this memory RIGHT THE FUCK NOW and confront it later. Because I'm very afraid it won't.

VRISKA: I want a do-over. Oh, please. You of all people should know that you don't *get* do-overs. The rest of these frivolous little vision quests may feel like sparing you the effort of getting things right the first time around, but the real world doesn't work that way.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK THAT'S EVEN WORSE THAN I EXPECTED

No, you'll just have to endure it. This won't take long.

LET HER OUT YOU FUCK

You had a good run out there, flying solo and swashbuckling around as if Light itself were yours to command. It'd be wise to remember that it's a borrowed blessing. You flourish at its whim. Continue to spit in its face and take it for granted, and it will abandon you once again, perhaps for good.

Back to the ultimate riddle shit again. Doc Scratch conning her into thinking "everything you've achieved, I made for you, or you stole from others".

Being a true Thief of Light doesn't mean being at the whim of Light, at the mercy of what she can borrow. Kanaya tried to teach her back when she wanted her to clean her room that anybody can make their own luck.

Instead Doc Scratch is playing the role of Demiurge, standing in place of the Sun and claiming all Light radiates from him, when there was plenty inside her all along.

Do you remember who you were, before it chose you? The choices you made when luck wasn't on your side? You were such a delectable little victim.

Bluh!!!!!!

Poor Vriska, with her voracious lusus. With her demanding legacy and her uncooperative, fickle little friends. So much was out of your hands, then; how could you help but mbe my lovely assistant?

Doc Scratch inherited every last ounce of Equius's nonconsensual creep factor from Arquiusprite.

And this is going into the relationship between Light and Agency again, Void and the Lack of agency-- when Vriska felt trapped, felt she didn't have a choice, that was Void hemming her in, her "bad luck streak". Agency is your ability to choose what you do next, and so is Light. That's the privilege sometimes but not exclusively known as Luck.

Vriska: You didn't fucking own me.

Still so helpless-looking, but at least a bit of defiance in her expression. Which I expect handily crushed, unfortunately...

Exactly.

Fuck! And yeah, that's his point-- he's trying to say she CHOSE to do the wrong thing when the chips were down, which is what she's most afraid she'll do again.

But she needs to internalize the fact that it was a choice... that it HAD to be a choice... is an important flaw in the way he gaslit and conned her.

But what matters is that I might as well have. You let yourself believe you had no option other than to take me up on my hard bargains, again and again. For all your talk of independence, all your combative posturing and insistence on your own freedom, you barely bothered to put up any actual resistance to my suggestions. You took the easy way out, swearing all teh while it was your move. What a phenomenal waste of your considerable talents.

Her psyche is playing against her with the cards face up here... she just has to read them correctly. This is what she's afraid of, but it's also the flaw in his logic, the source of his power over her. The idea that she never possessed Ultimate Freedom, even though he's practically telling her that she DID, just to convince her she's an awful person.

It was an insult, and a warning. You're a trump card, Vriska, but your potency is a double-edged sword. One you've gotten far too comfortable swinging around, in the past. What do you intend to fix, when you leave this place? What, I wonder, will you break? I'd encourage you to be mindful of both. Of course, you could always cast aside those pesky trivialities and go with the flow, smashing through circumstances with nary a thought for the consequences. It'd be easier. We could dance together again, just like old times. You choose.

This isn't the real Doc Scratch-- this version of him IS, in its sick perverse way, still helping her. Still giving her the hints to realize that true balance between embracing your role and yielding agency to others is CRUCIAL to make sure you're doing your best to do the right thing. Which is especially difficult when your role, your best methodology, is that of an Agency Thief. A dangerous role which must be careful with its moves so as not to gluttonously trample over the wills of others who deserve a say.

But in order to choose, to take up the mantle of Ultimate Freedom, Vriska has to TRUST herself enough TO choose.

Trusting yourself enough to entrust yourself with CHOICE is one of the hardest decisions you can possibly make. Few ever truly make that decision.

What'll it be, Vriska? Player, or piece?

Well?

Thief to ∞108.

Whoa, what now? What the fuck is this going to be?

I look forward to finding out. Good luck.

Oh, so it's sending her back to the Plot Point. ∞108, or 8108. Is this the elusive arc number of one of our timelines, of Candy? One of infinite... or 1 and 0, creation and destruction, sandwiched between two 8s, two Vriskas with perpendicular orientations, Vriska and Vrissy? Hmm...

Oh thank fucking god we're back...

HAH

thanks so much I needed that mood lifter XD

{Level Complete!}

Thanks for ENDING it too, holy shit. I don't think I could have taken much longer of something THAT heavy tonight. Wow, that was masterfully done... not dragged out, just enough to get to the true point. To a setup for her decision, for her personal answer to the Ultimate Riddle.

Which makes plenty of sense why the NEXT section seems like it's likely a weird colorless version of one of Davepetasprite^2's feathers. They're the perfect person to talk to about her Soul/Heart, the greater self and the meaning of Ultimate Freedom, just as they hinted at during their last big talk in Homestuck.

--Yeah, she didn't get as much help from that as she would have wanted... and now the candle is ABSOLUTELY burning down.

The glimpse of the next unclaimed tiers, here... are these hinting at the start of the next section? We have her inhibitions bound, then a reference to a child development psychologist, then a somatic spark-- physical contact?! Then Deja Vu, a flash of the past (or possibly even meeting her GHOST self from the ghost rain, the more vulnerable (Vriska) inverted to Page of Void mode that she BERATED TO TEARS back toward the end of Homestuck to prove how much more (Vriska) had grown than Vriska before leaving her crying and for Ghost Terezi from the pre-retcon timeline to meet)... Heuristic Grace, getting her luck back possibly... burning, getting hotter, and then a transcendental gleam? No, no that's got to just be a candle and it burning out the rest of the singularity... I still don't think Ultimate Vriska is the solution to all this, could it be?

Oh shit, I forgot about how the BLACK CANDLE is burning down due to VRISKA'S blue flame.

Recall my proposals at the beginning of this post? I completely forgot about yet one more opportunity for her escape:

(4) That Vriska's Light has been burning away at the singularity of the Plot Point this entire time, and will naturally destroy it no matter what, especially if she embraces her Agency and her inner Light. The Green Sun was not just a symbol of Light but an ultimate manifestation of Space power... and collapsed into a singularity, it could indeed also have been not just a Void but an ultimate manifestation of Time power. The years, sweeps, that Vriska is spending inside of it could be wearing it away all on its own, rapidly exhausting a reservoir of Time that alt!Calliope preserved at the center of the singularity just to give the noncanon timeline more time to exist than it otherwise would have had?!! Instead, Vriska is burning it up, and the sprites and ghosts who fell into the Black Hole during the Ghost Rain and concentrated themselves in this singularity are helping her use that naturally limited Time to arm herself and become the best version of herself she can be, so when the Plot Point collapses and shit really starts hitting the fan for the Candy timeline, they can execute a NEW plan to breach into the Canon/Meat timeline and do something so incredibly important that it reseats the timelines outside Paradox Space in new relevance stolen out from Canon. Something incredibly important, like unexpectedly facilitating Sburb's creation in what Dirk and Rosebot are trying to do, or sendificating the kids the final frog they used to create this Universe, or something, which came from somewhere we've still never resolved...

So many interesting possibilities here. And only two or three more updates until we'll know for sure what and how!

I'll probably continue to be too busy the next week or two to be in the mood to chew through bonus material or commentary. Talk to you next upd8 instead, most likely! :D

[dreamsinarcadia]

Pillow Talk

In which Son Heungmin can’t seem to let his girlfriend wiggle her way out of his arms

pairing: sonny x gf!reader

warning: tooth ache kind of fluff with mentions of smut

She loved her boyfriend—she really did. He had her whole heart in the palm of his hands and she trusted him with it; trusted him not to squeeze too hard on it—not to shatter it into fragments of love.

And she was certain that the feeling was mutual—he'd told her so himself, proclaimed it with eyes that were practically shaped into hearts as he gazed at her with a heart achingly deep sense of adoration; one that never failed to make her feel so unbelievably loved.

However... she’d be lying if she said he couldn't get a little frustrating sometimes. Like now, for instance.

“Heungmin, move.”

“No.” His response was instantaneous and very much final.

“I need to get up.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

His sass had one of her brows arch up, and she was sure she would've crossed her arms too had he not restricted her movement with his own—much stronger, might she add—limb. The man knew that her work schedule had been cleared for the entirety of December, and was determined to take this rare opportunity by the reigns.

Her lips parted—very much ready to have a go at him for the unwarranted attitude—when, instead of actual words, a light gasp left them; practically inaudible from how soft it was, but that didn't make what happened any less surprising.

His lips had found their way onto her neck, pressing soft, gentle kisses across the exposed area with an occasional—and very intoxicating—nip here and there. His arm, banded securely around her hip, pulled her closer to his side. The heat of it all practically flooded her vision with pink and she almost melted right in that very moment.

"Just a little longer," he muttered into her skin, lips making contact with the already hickey littered surface in a repeated pattern that shot tingles straight down her spine, "a month away from you was torture."

Work had forced her to return to Seoul for a good portion of November. She had, of course, missed Heungmin a great deal, but hadn’t been aware of how much he’d missed her until she had stepped past his threshold tonight only to be swept off her feet.

She genuinely couldn’t remember if he’d even managed to close the front door.

His hand slipped under her thin cotton t-shirt; cool palm resting against the flat of her stomach as he whispered sweet nothings into her ears in hopes of saving himself from a lecture–and she was afraid that it was very much working.

She was an absolute sucker for sweet moments like this.

But she was also recovering from a strenuous night, barely having gotten any sleep between multiple rounds of heaven sent pleasure. The man had been positively insatiable upon her return, and though this delighted her to no end, she was slick with sweat, peppered with hickeys, her legs felt like jelly and she wanted nothing more than a warm shower. The saccharine scent of sex was strong, and the air around them was stiflingly thick, despite the air conditioning being on full blast.

“Heungmin.”

“Hm?” His head tilted up, gaze focused on her with a sense of endearment only she was privy to receiving from him; the twitch of his lips showcasing his lovestruck smile in a show of vulnerability that, once again, only she had the pleasure of seeing on him.

His gaze was softened and practically swirling with that domestic love she knew he held for her; the one that would instantly ease all his muscles and have him actively seek her out just to hold her in his arms, to love on her like he always claimed she deserved.

When she didn't respond immediately, his grip tightened and he pulled her further into his side; to fit against him like she was meant to be there, like he was incomplete without her—and her, without him.

Ah, she was so stupidly weak to him when he got like this. Her hand reached up to brush cool fingers soothingly on the apple of his cheek.

“Aren’t you tired?” A valid question, seeing as though the man had only a few hours of rest between his match and her return.

“With you in my arms? Never.” His voice was soothingly calm, but when he propped an elbow on the pillow to look down at her, his eyes were blazing, pinning her to the spot. It raked over her appearance - the mussed hair, the love bites adorning the delicate curve of her neck, the rise and fall of her chest, the adorable flush of pink on her cheeks. The corner of his lips stretched to a wide grin.

When her hand dropped from his face, he was quick to catch it and press a kiss to her palm. He held it close to his heart. “Why?” He asked, knowing damn well the answer. “Are you tired?”

“…maybe.”

“Oh no! Rough night?”

She had to fight the urge to kiss the damn smirk off his face. He looked so damn pleased with himself.

“…okay fine, we can stay here a little longer.”

And then he was kissing her, his hands moving quickly to hook her legs around his waist and move her underneath himself. And suddenly, her arms and legs didn’t feel like jelly anymore. Instead, she’d felt as electrified—as if struck by lightning…only better. Much, much better. Because she couldn’t wrap her arms around lightning, or feel lightning’s heart skip against her own.

“Not for too long, we’ve been in bed for hours,” she protested weakly into the increasingly heated kiss. “I’m melting.”

“Mmm.”

“We have to eat.”

He pulled away to grin at her, a mischievous twinkle alight in his eyes. “Great idea,” he said. “Let’s do just that.”

Just when she was about to open her mouth to steer him clear of the inevitable course of action, he’d lunged straight for her neck to attack her with another fit of adoring kisses—ones that made her sigh in what she could only describe as contentment.

And then her t-shirt was back on the floor.

They didn’t leave the room till sundown.