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tathrin · 7 months ago

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The next story I am Definitely Not Writing: a fic where Legolas and Gimli make it all the way to the Undying Lands before they realize that in addition to loving each other more than anything else in all of Arda, they are also in love with one another (this is less a realization on their part and more an assumption that just about everyone else in Aman makes on sight, and eventually they hear about it and go oh...dang...maybe...? and Legolas's mom facepalms forever) and hey what if they got married, then...?

Only the thing is, while an elvish marriage is very simple and requires literally nothing but the folks involved deciding to do it (and no, Thranduil is not allowed to demand that Gimli fetch some priceless jewel from the Fëanorian section of Tirion in order to prove himself worthy of Legolas's hand, although he tried very very hard to convince everyone that it was a great idea) a dwarven marriage is an elaborate ceremony, requiring the participation of both a dwarven officiant and several members of one's kin to perform the various elements of the ceremony.

...all of which are in short supply in this land of elves and valar.

Except. well. there aren't any other dwarves in Aman...but what there is, is the guy who made the dwarves. And he is VERY fond of Gimli. So when he learns that Gimli is kind of moping about the fact that he can't marry Legolas in dwarven-fashion, Aulë ENTHUSIASTICALLY volunteers to be the officiant and to set everything up and arrange just the BEST DWARVEN WEDDING EVER...

Because, you know. he's never actually been to one?

Gimli is stricken with horrified shock to realize just how much his own Maker has missed out on interactions with his beloved dwarves over the years, and immediately agrees to this plan (even though he knows it won't be a real dwarven wedding without his family there; but he'll swim back to Middle-earth before he says one word about that anywhere that Mahal can hear! he is going to do everything in his power to make this the best wedding ever for the sake of his Maker, dammit!).

So he gets to work crafting all the necessary accoutrements (with enthusiastic help from Celebrimbor and all his other elf-smith friends that Gimli has acquired since coming to these shores which is, let's be honest, quite a few) and carefully teaching Legolas all the necessary Khuzdul phrases and ceremonial steps that they can do to mimic as much of a proper wedding as they can without anyone else to help...

And when the big day comes, Aulë is vibrating so hard he's on the verge of setting off seventeen different earthquakes across the island, and not even Yavanna can get him to relax. Gimli and Legolas arrive to the appointed place, and find that they aren't alone: Aulë has invited Celebrimbor, too, seeing as he's the only elf in Aman who has actually participated in a dwarven wedding before with makes him the local expert as well as the closest thing to "kin" that Gimli is going to find on these shores...except.

Well, Mandos might be in charge of elvish souls, but dwarves? They belong to their Maker. And if Mahal decides he wants to...well, who is going to stop him from waking some of them up early, before the breaking of the world? Especially if he doesn't ask permission first. So when Gimli and Legolas hesitantly walk into this foreboding stone chamber, eerily close to the Halls of Mandos, wondering wtf is going on and have they offended the valar somehow and are they in trouble and if so how bad is it...?

Well, turns out Gimli will have kin at his wedding after all.

Mahal can't bring any of them back to life, not without the intervention and permission of Eru and probably Mandos too; but as long as they're in his halls, he can wake anybody he wants. So soon there is a great crowd of bewildered but enthusiastic dwarves gathered around Gimli, as he tries to explain what the heck is going on to a whole passel of relatives and friends, some of whom died even before the Lonely Mountain was reclaimed and don't even know how the Battle of Five Armies ended, let alone the whole thing with the Ring and the Fellowship...

And Legolas and Celebrimbor are standing near the entrance watching fondly, Legolas weeping around a great big smile and Celebrimbor torn between joy for Gimli and his own ever-bitter sorrows and then...

"Khelebrrimbor?" calls a deep dwarven voice, in a thick Khuzdul accent, and Celebrimbor stiffens like he's just been shot.

Suddenly there's a ruckus as a very burly dwarf is shouldering through the crowd, and Celebrimbor stumbles forward and throws himself at Narvi with a wail, and it's at least ten minutes before anyone can get a coherent word out of either of them (although it takes considerably less time to catch the gist of Narvi's lecture about how dare you and lucky he's already dead, or I'd have a gift for him he wouldn't forget in a hurry and what were you thinking???).

Legolas gives Aulë a very pointed raise of his eyebrows, and Aulë shrugs around an unabashed grin. "Who in all the ages of the world is more of an expert on marriages between elves and dwarves than the two of them? I am a craftsman, Greenleaf; of course I would want to make use of their skills and experience in this endeavor. Nothing more to it than that."

Legolas hums noncommittally, but his eyes are dancing.

Mahal ignores him and steps forward to start the wedding. It takes even him three tries before he can shout loud enough to be heard over the tumult and get everyone's attention, but eventually he gets them all to quiet down enough for the ceremony to begin. Not everyone in attendance is entirely thrilled by the prospect of Gimli marrying an elf (that elf) but no one is so cross that they walk back into their dreams of stone to avoid it, which Gimli chalks up as a victory.

(Legolas's terrible Khuzdul pronunciation doesn't help, but the very enthusiastic way he praises Gimli when the ceremony reaches that point makes up for a lot. By the time he finally runs out of words, a few of the more recalcitrant attendees have changed their tune about him. The fact that he's so good at weaving the required braids doesn't hurt, either.)

There aren't nearly enough refreshments for a crowd that size afterwards, of course, since Gimli and Legolas weren't expecting anyone but themselves and Aulë to be there; but that doesn't much matter, because 90% of those in attendance don't have the sort of corporealness that would allow them to eat the dwarven delicacies that Gimli spent all morning fussing over anyway. (That doesn't stop some of his more elderly relatives from scolding him for not following their recipes better.) They're solid enough that you can hug them or kiss them, in the case of a certain former smithlord of Eregion or get half-knocked off your feet by their congratulatory backslaps, but they aren't alive. They're still the dreaming dead...it's just that for the moment, they're dreaming in a bit more wakefulness than usual.

In the end it's not what one would call an orthodox dwarven wedding, no; but it's a lot closer than Gimli thought he would get, and since he's hardly an orthodox dwarf, the small tweaks and oddities of their strange situation don't bother him in the slightest.

As for Aulë, he's never been happier.

And if it takes a long, long time for Celebrimbor to finally leave (and if he tries to devise a way to prop the door open on his way out)...well, Aulë is enjoying himself far too much to do anything but pretend not to notice. Even when Námo clears his throat at him very pointedly.

Twice.

And then again. And again.

"Aulë...!"

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theonottsbxtch · 10 days ago

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FREE NOW | OP81

an: coming in to drop in my usual dose of pain! sorry guys! also i know london doesn't snow much i live there okay - for fictional purposes it snows like canada okay

wc: 4.6k

She had always imagined London as a city brimming with stories—something in the fog, in the way strangers passed each other without a glance, as though every life was a thread winding off into its own tangled skein. But sitting at the tiny table in the corner of a café just off Piccadilly, all she felt was an ache of silence. It settled into her bones, heavy and dull, refusing to leave as she stared down at the empty page of her notebook.

It wasn’t just that she was struggling to write; she’d had writer’s block before, countless times. This felt different, like an emptiness she couldn’t quite explain, as if she were looking for something and wasn’t sure she’d ever find it.

Outside, holiday lights twinkled from shop windows, the buzz of Christmas infecting the streets with a forced cheer that only made her feel more isolated. Her family, well… they hadn’t protested when she’d told them she’d be spending Christmas alone this year, though her mother’s voice had held a thin strain of relief, the same quiet resignation that crept into their few conversations. This was better, she told herself. No pretence of trying to belong.

A little bell jingled as the café door opened, sending a swirl of cold air and a few snowflakes across the room. She lifted her gaze, feeling the dullness lift, just slightly, as she watched the strangers filter in and take their places—shaking off scarves, brushing snow from their shoulders. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, exactly. A spark of inspiration, maybe. The start of a story that she could somehow pull from thin air.

Then she noticed him. He had slipped into the seat next to hers, a coffee between his hands as he stared out the window with an intense, almost brooding focus. She studied him, wondering if he was waiting for someone. The sharp angles of his profile, the tension in his shoulders, the way he held his coffee like it was anchoring him to something unseen. There was something almost familiar about it, that quiet ache that seemed to ripple off him.

She barely realised she’d spoken aloud until she heard her own voice break the silence between them.

“You do that too?”

He turned, startled, his gaze flickering to hers with a hint of surprise. “Do what?”

“People watch,” she said, feeling a faint, unexpected smile tug at her lips.

His face softened, just a little, and for a moment, she thought he might smile too. “I guess I do.”

The silence between them held, soft but charged, like the last still moment before a storm. She was suddenly aware of the faint smell of coffee in the air, of the warmth of the café and the cold press of London just outside. She couldn’t quite look away.

For the next week, they fell into a rhythm neither of them acknowledged aloud. Each morning, she would arrive at the café, order her coffee, and take her usual seat by the window. And almost without fail, he would appear shortly after, his movements precise and unhurried, as if the same quiet pull guided him there.

At first, she thought it was coincidence. London was vast, but habits could form anywhere, and the café had a kind of intimacy that made it easy to return to. But after the third day, she began to wonder.

They didn’t speak, not really. Sometimes, their eyes would meet briefly, a flicker of recognition that neither of them followed up on. She tried not to think too much about him, but he was impossible to ignore, sitting so near, his focus as sharp as it was restless. He scribbled occasionally in a leather notebook, his jaw tight, his gaze flicking to the window as if seeking answers he wasn’t finding.

She imagined he was an artist, or maybe a journalist. Someone chasing a story just as elusive as her own. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

It was on the eighth day that he finally broke the silence.

“You’ve been stuck all week, haven’t you?”

She looked up, startled, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the café. He was watching her now, his gaze steady and warm but laced with something sharper—curiosity, perhaps.

“I—what?” she asked, her cheeks warming.

His lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Your notebook. You keep opening it, but you haven’t written anything.”

She hesitated, her instinct to deflect faltering under the weight of his gaze. There was no judgement there, just an odd kind of understanding that made her feel more exposed than she liked.

“I’m stuck,” she admitted finally, closing the notebook as if to prove her point. “Completely and hopelessly stuck.”

“What are you writing?”

Her fingers tightened on the cover. She wasn’t sure why she answered him. Maybe it was the way he asked, so simply, like the answer mattered. “A romance novel.”

He raised an eyebrow, and for a moment she thought he might laugh. But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, considering her with a thoughtful expression. “Romance, huh? No wonder you’re struggling.”

“Excuse me?” she said, a faint edge creeping into her voice.

“You’re not going to get much inspiration sitting in a coffee shop,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again. Because he was right. The truth of it gnawed at her, even as she bristled.

“I’m only visiting London,” she said instead, as if that explained everything.

“Even better.”

She blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

He leaned forward then, his gaze pinning hers. “I’ll take you,” he said, as though it were already decided.

“Take me where?”

“Pack your things,” he said, standing abruptly and shrugging into his coat.

She blinked up at him, startled. “What?”

“You’ve been sitting here for a week, and it’s obviously not working,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Come on. We’re going to Hyde Park.”

Her instinct was to refuse, to laugh it off and tell him she didn’t have time for distractions. But something about the way he said it—firm, certain, like it wasn’t a question—made her pause.

She hesitated. “It’s snowing.”

“That’s the point.” He glanced at her notebook. “Unless you’d rather keep staring at blank pages?”

That stung, but he wasn’t wrong. With a sigh, she slid her notebook into her bag, slung her coat over her shoulders, and followed him out of the café.

The snow fell softly, brushing against her cheeks and clinging to her hair as they walked to the nearest tube station. She didn’t bother to ask where they were going—he’d already told her, and besides, she had the strange sense that she could trust him, at least for now.

The tube was chaos. She clutched the cold metal pole for balance, acutely aware of the press of strangers around her. He stood just ahead of her, perfectly at ease, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other resting casually on a strap above his head.

“This is…” She searched for the word.

“Overwhelming?” he offered, glancing back at her.

“Beautiful,” she said, surprising herself. The movement, the noise, the life—it was nothing like home, where everything felt static and predictable.

He smiled, just slightly, and she wondered if he’d expected her to say something else.

When they finally emerged from the station, Hyde Park lay spread out before them, its open paths blanketed in fresh snow. The lamplight made the flakes glisten, casting an almost magical glow over the scene. Families bundled in scarves and hats wandered by, their laughter carrying through the cold air. A few children darted across the snow, throwing snowballs and leaving behind trails of footprints.

She inhaled deeply, letting the crisp air fill her lungs. “This is perfect.”

“Told you,” he said, his voice low and teasing.

They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds the crunch of snow underfoot and the distant hum of the city. She found herself glancing at him more than once, studying the curve of his profile, the way his gaze seemed to take in everything and nothing all at once.

Finally, she broke the silence. “You’re not from here.”

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “What gave it away?”

“The accent,” she said with a small smile. “Australia?”

“Yeah.”

“So why aren’t you home for Christmas?”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking away toward the trees. “Work,” he said simply.

There was a weight to the word that she didn’t miss, but she didn’t press. Instead, she nodded. “Same.”

“Work?”

“I have a deadline,” she said. “And, honestly, I don’t really enjoy spending Christmas at home.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged, stuffing her hands deeper into her pockets. “It’s complicated.”

“Fair enough.” He didn’t push, and she was grateful for it.

They continued to talk as they reached one of the gates, she found out his name was Oscar and that he was the eldest of four - all sisters. That he liked London at Christmas but nothing felt better than summer at home.

She didn’t know much about him, but the parts she knew she liked.She turned to face him, her breath visible in the cold air.

“Here,” he said, pulling out his phone and holding it toward her. “Give me your number.”

She hesitated, then took it and typed in her name—just her first name—and her number before handing it back.

He smiled, sliding the phone into his coat. “I’ll message you. Same time tomorrow?”

“What for?”

“We’ll go somewhere else,” he said. “More people to watch.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “All right. Tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said, turning toward the street. “And hey—bring that notebook.”

He walked away then, disappearing into the glow of a nearby lamppost. She stood there for a moment longer, the snow falling lightly around her, before turning back toward the tube station.

When she got back to her hotel room, she barely remembered slipping out of her coat and scarf before reaching for her notebook. The page that had stayed blank for days now stared back at her, expectant, but the words finally came.

She wrote about Hyde Park, about the snow dusting the trees like powdered sugar, the children’s laughter mingling with the crisp air. She described the quiet magic of it, the feeling of walking beside someone who wasn’t a stranger but wasn’t yet familiar, either. She wrote about the way the city moved even in the stillness, as though it never quite paused to catch its breath.

By the time she put her pen down, the clock on the bedside table read past midnight, and her eyelids felt heavy. She was just about to turn off the bedside lamp when her phone buzzed.

Tomorrow. Same café. Tower Bridge.

She stared at the message for a moment, then smiled faintly, typing a quick reply.

Okay.

The next morning, she found him waiting at their usual café, his coffee already in hand. This time, he didn’t waste any words. With a nod toward the door, he led her out into the bright winter morning.

The tube ride to Tower Bridge was quieter this time, the rush of the city somehow softened by the lingering snow. She leaned against the cool glass of the window, watching the stations blur past, while he sat across from her, his eyes distant as if he were lost in thought.

When they finally emerged onto the bridge, the view stole her breath. The Thames stretched wide and glittering beneath them, the snow-covered rooftops of the city rising on either side. A faint breeze cut through the air, carrying with it the murmur of distant traffic and the occasional laugh of a passerby.

“Over here,” he said, gesturing to a bench overlooking the water.

They sat in easy silence, the cold biting at her cheeks as they watched the world unfold around them. Runners passed by, their breath visible in the air as their footsteps echoed on the pavement. Families ambled by, parents clutching the hands of toddlers bundled in bright coats, their faces red with the cold.

And then there were the couples—leaning close, sharing whispers and stolen kisses, moving through the snow-dusted streets as though nothing else existed.

She watched them longer than she meant to, a soft ache unfurling in her chest. She hadn’t thought about romance in a long time—not for herself, anyway. Writing about it was one thing, imagining love in all its sweeping, cinematic glory. But watching it here, in all its small, quiet moments, made her realise how far removed she felt from it.

“Good spot for people watching,” he said, breaking the silence.

She turned to him, surprised to find him watching her instead of the crowd. He had an easy, unreadable expression, but there was something in his eyes—curiosity, maybe, or understanding—that made her feel unsteady.

“It is,” she said softly, turning her gaze back to the bridge.

The bench shifted slightly as he leaned closer, and then she felt it—his arm, warm and solid, draping lightly over the back of the bench behind her. It wasn’t much, barely brushing her shoulders, but the warmth of it cut through the cold in a way she hadn’t expected.

For a moment, she let herself lean into it, just slightly, just enough to feel the quiet comfort of not being alone.

Her mind wandered as they sat there, the sound of the river mingling with the soft murmur of passersby. She could already feel the words taking shape, the scenes unfolding in her head—the way the light hit the water, the way couples moved through the world as if it were made just for them.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, the way his face softened as he watched the world move past. He didn’t say much, but she could feel the weight of his presence beside her, steady and grounding.

When she got back to her hotel later, she knew exactly what she’d write.

The days passed like pages of a book, each one filled with something unexpected. He didn’t ask her what she was doing tomorrow anymore—he simply texted her a time and a place, and she showed up. Each morning, they met at the café, where he’d already have his coffee, and then he’d whisk her away to some new corner of London.

On Tuesday, it was Covent Garden, where they wandered through the open market, listening to street musicians and watching shoppers bustle through the stalls. She watched a couple holding hands over steaming cups of mulled wine, their laughter bright against the cold air, and she jotted down notes in her notebook while he stood quietly beside her.

On Wednesday, they sat on a bench by the Serpentine in Hyde Park again, the water still and glassy beneath the pale winter sun. A group of friends threw breadcrumbs to a flock of ducks, their voices echoing over the water. She found herself leaning closer to him on the bench, the quiet between them no longer feeling like something to fill but something to savour.

Thursday brought them to Borough Market, where the air smelled of fresh bread and spiced cider. They stood in the crowd watching a vendor slice thick slabs of cheese for a customer, the chaos of the market swirling around them. “You see that guy over there?” he said, nodding toward a man balancing two grocery bags and a loaf of bread under his arm. “Think he’s a chef or just a guy with too many dinner parties?”

She laughed softly. “Dinner parties, definitely. He’s probably terrible at cooking, but his friends pretend it’s amazing.”

“I like that. You could use it in your book.”

“Maybe I will.”

By Friday, she stopped questioning his plans altogether. They spent the afternoon at Camden Lock, perched by the canal watching boats drift lazily by. They didn’t talk much, but when he rested his arm on the back of her chair, she didn’t move away. That night, when she returned to her hotel, she stayed up writing, the words pouring out of her with a kind of ease she hadn’t felt in months.

Saturday was Notting Hill, the pastel houses dusted with snow and the streets quiet in the early morning. They wandered down Portobello Road, pausing to watch a young family decorating their front stoop with twinkling lights.

“They’ll probably take them down on January first,” she murmured, watching the father lift his son onto his shoulders.

“Maybe not,” he said. “Some people like to hang onto things.”

She glanced at him, but he didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask.

By Sunday, the last day of the year, she realised how much these days had begun to mean to her. She woke up early, unable to sleep, and spent the morning writing, her pen racing across the pages. The world he’d shown her—the quiet moments, the people moving through the city in their own small orbits—was spilling onto the page in ways she hadn’t expected.

That evening, as the city prepared for New Year’s Eve, he texted her again. Meet me at the café. Tonight’s special.

She arrived to find him waiting outside, his breath visible in the cold air. He smiled when he saw her, and the warmth of it chased away the chill that had settled in her chest.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

They walked through the snow-dusted streets, the city alive with anticipation. Everywhere, people were gathering—couples arm in arm, friends laughing as they hurried to pubs and parties. The air was electric, charged with the anticipation of midnight, and she could feel it humming in her chest as they moved.

She glanced at her phone, the time glowing against the dark: 11:58 PM. Two minutes until the new year.

She stopped walking, her breath curling in front of her as she turned to look at him. He slowed, taking a step back toward her. “What is it?”

She didn’t answer right away, her heart beating a little too fast as her mind raced. For once, she didn’t want to overthink it. She was tired of going into every new year feeling like she’d missed out, of letting the weight of her family and her avoidance of Christmas follow her into January.

She wanted something to hold onto—a moment, a memory.

Her gaze flicked to his, steady and curious, and then she spoke before she could lose her nerve. “Can I kiss you?”

His brows lifted slightly, his surprise clear, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he searched her face, as if trying to make sense of her sudden shift.

“Kiss me?”

“It’s New Year’s,” she said softly, her voice almost lost in the cold air between them. “And I just… I don’t want to go into next year with the same old memories. I want—just one moment, something good. Something to hold onto.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, and she felt her stomach twist, already preparing for rejection. But then he stepped closer, his breath warm against the chill of the night.

“Okay,” he said, so quietly she barely heard it.

The first firework exploded above them, a cascade of silver light that lit up the snow-dusted bridge. And then his hand came up, brushing gently against her cheek, and he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft, wasn’t hesitant. It was consuming, like the city itself had folded inward around them, leaving nothing but the warmth of his mouth on hers and the distant thunder of fireworks. Her hands found the front of his coat, gripping it as though letting go might undo the spell of the moment.

When he pulled back, her heart was racing, her breath unsteady. For a brief, dazzling moment, she thought this might actually be the start of something. But then his expression shifted, and she knew.

“I can’t,” he said quietly, stepping back just enough to let the cold air rush between them again.

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

He exhaled, his hand sliding through his hair as his gaze dropped to the ground. “I can’t give you anything. This—us—it wouldn’t work.”

Her stomach sank. “Why not?”

He hesitated, and for a moment, she thought he might just walk away. But then he looked up, his expression conflicted. “I’m a Formula One driver,” he said, the words falling heavily between them.

She blinked, trying to piece together the sudden shift. “A…what?”

“Formula One,” he repeated, quieter this time. “I’m never in one place for long. My life is—it’s chaotic. It’s not fair to ask anyone to try to keep up with it.”

She stared at him, her mind scrambling to catch up. “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said, his voice tight. “Not at first. You’re only here for a while, right? This was supposed to be…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“A distraction,” she finished for him, bitterness creeping into her voice.

“No,” he said quickly. “Not like that. I just—I didn’t think it would get this far.”

She swallowed hard, the sting of his words cutting deeper than she’d expected. “So, that’s it? That’s the reason?”

“It’s not just a reason,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “It’s my life.”

Her chest felt heavy, like something inside her had collapsed. She looked at him, the way his jaw was tight, his eyes filled with something that might’ve been regret.

“We could try,” she said, hating the way her voice wavered.

He shook his head, his gaze dropping again. “It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

Her throat tightened, and she looked away, swallowing against the lump rising there. The fireworks were still going off above them, but they felt distant now, as though they belonged to someone else’s story.

He stepped forward slightly. “I’ll walk you back to the café,” he offered quietly.

She shook her head. “No.”

“You shouldn’t—”

“I’ll be fine,” she cut him off, her voice sharper than she meant it to be.

For a moment, he just stood there, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, stepping back. “Goodnight,” he said softly, before turning and walking away.

She stayed there for a moment, watching him disappear into the distance, before finally turning and walking back the way they’d co

The streets were alive with celebration—couples kissing beneath the fireworks, friends laughing and clinking glasses, strangers shouting “Happy New Year!” to anyone who’d listen. She walked through it all, alone, the cold seeping into her skin and the ache in her chest growing heavier with every step.

When she finally reached her hotel room, the city was quieting down, the last of the fireworks fading into the night. She closed the door behind her and sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at her notebook on the desk.

For the first time in days, she didn’t reach for it. Instead, she lay back and let the silence swallow her whole.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

The airport was buzzing, as always. Crowds moving in every direction, the hum of conversation and the tinny voice of announcements echoing overhead. He’d been through so many terminals in so many cities that they all blurred together now—just another stop on the endless circuit of his life.

It was late afternoon, and he had time before his flight. A rare luxury. The race weekend in Austin had been exhausting, but he couldn’t even think about rest yet. His mind was elsewhere.

It had been months since London. Months since New Year’s Eve, since her. And still, she lingered. No matter how fast he drove, how far he travelled, she was there—in the quiet moments, in the cracks of his carefully controlled life.

He thought about her more than he wanted to admit. The way she’d leaned toward him on that bench by Tower Bridge. The way her voice had trembled when she’d asked if they could try, and the way he’d let her walk away. He told himself it was the right decision, the only decision. But that didn’t stop him from replaying it over and over, from wondering if he’d made a mistake.

As he walked through the terminal, his eyes caught on a bookstore tucked between gates. He wasn’t much of a reader—his schedule didn’t leave much room for it—but something about it drew him in.

The display at the front of the store was bright and eye-catching, a wall of bestsellers stacked high with glossy covers. His gaze skimmed over them idly, his thoughts elsewhere, until one caught his attention.

The title: Free Now.

And beneath it, a name. Her name.

He froze, the noise of the airport fading to a dull roar as he stared at the book. It didn’t seem real, seeing her name there in bold, shiny print, like a beacon pulling him in. Before he could stop himself, he reached for a copy, his hands almost unsteady as he turned it over to read the back.

The blurb was short, but it was enough:

"Two strangers meet in London over the holidays—a writer searching for inspiration, and a man running from the weight of his own life. For a week, they share the city, its magic, its quiet moments, and the pieces of themselves they never intended to give away. But some love stories don’t end with forever—they end with goodbye."

His chest tightened. The words hit too close, carving into him with a precision that felt deliberate. He flipped the book open, skimming through the pages. The characters weren’t them, not exactly, but it was their story—their conversations, their quiet moments, the snowfall in Hyde Park, the fireworks on New Year’s Eve.

Then his eyes landed on a line, and the ground beneath him seemed to shift.

"I was brave when I kissed you in London, but I wasn’t brave enough to ask you to stay."

He read it again, the words sinking in like a knife twisting in his chest.

She had been brave. And he hadn’t.

The truth of it hit him harder than he expected. He could see her so clearly in his mind—the way she’d looked at him that night, her eyes full of something raw and hopeful, something he’d been too afraid to meet. She’d asked for something simple, something honest, and he’d walked away, thinking he was doing the right thing.

But was it?

The overhead speaker crackled, announcing a boarding call for his flight. He didn’t move. The book was still in his hands, the weight of it anchoring him in place.

Months had passed since London, and yet here she was, writing the story they could never have. It was all there on the page—the longing, the heartbreak, the ache he couldn’t seem to shake no matter how fast he ran.

He closed the book gently, his hands lingering on the cover. For the first time in years, he wondered if maybe the life he’d built wasn’t enough. If maybe he’d made a mistake that couldn’t be undone.

The crowd around him moved, people brushing past without a second glance, but he stood there, rooted in place, staring at her name like it was a lifeline he couldn’t quite reach.

She’d been brave. And now he wondered if he ever could be.

Before he could even stop himself, or take a minute to mull the idea over, he took his phone out and opened up Instagram. He hesitated for half a second before finding her Instagram.

oscarpiastri: hey

the end.

taglist: @sheblogs @iamred-iamyellow

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moonstruckme · 1 year ago

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hi okay hi you’ve probably seen me in your notifications for the last twenty minutes because i am absolutely obsessed with the way you write poly!marauders.

i was wondering if you could write something about the (fem)reader who slowly starts dissociating when things get tough and she’s not really present and while they’re concerned, they just show their love for her through caring until she comes back to herself. it’s completely okay if you can’t!!!

Thanks honey, I'm so glad you enjoy my blog! Love the pfp btw, I personally think that was Spence’s best hair. I know everyone experiences dissociation differently so I did some research and I hope this is alright! Many apologies if it’s not accurate

cw: dissociation, brief mention of sexual assault

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 910 words

You’re grateful to Sirius for defending you. You are, but the man’s hand on your ass had caused some deer-in-the-headlights glitch in your brain, and the yelling that ensued only made you retreat further into yourself. You know, distantly, that it’s Sirius’ voice, and that he’s yelling for you, not at you. But it’s all noise to you, a ruckus that means danger, and then there’s movement, and more hands, and everything that would be too much if you weren’t so far away.

You feel like you’re sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool, everything above the surface of the water muffled and distorted. What happens up there doesn’t concern you. It’s peaceful down here, even if there is a certain wrongness to it. You know you don’t belong here, not really, but you can hold your breath and try to make it last.

“Baby?” a voice says. “Hey, you okay?”

“Don’t shake her, that’s not going to help.” You can’t tell if it’s another voice or the same. The comfort it brings you doesn't change, and you can’t force yourself to care either way. You can’t care at all, really, about anything. You wonder if you should be worried about that, but feelings are something out of your reach, and maybe it’s better that way.

“Something’s wrong with her.”

“I can see that, love. We’re almost home.”

“You don’t think she’s hurt, do you?”

More hands. You want to flinch away, but it’s like you’re moving through a thick sludge. “You’re alright, dove, I’m just checking that you’re okay. Do you hurt anywhere?”

“Why isn’t she talking?”

“I don’t know. I think…maybe she’s just overwhelmed. I don’t think she’s bleeding anywhere.”

“Fuck. Shit, is this a panic attack? Do you think she needs a doctor or something?”

“Let’s just give her a few minutes.”

There’s more talking, but you give up on trying to decipher it. After a while, something cushy comes up underneath you, or maybe you go down onto it. Your hand is warm, and then it’s pressed to soft fabric. “Feel my heart going in there, baby? Can you focus on that for me?”

You’ve made such a cozy home for yourself in your head that it takes you some time to realize everything around you has gone quiet. There’s a persistent bumping at your palm.

“Don’t tight hugs help with panic attacks?”

“We don’t know if that’s what this is. What if it scares her?”

“Hey, angel, can you hear me? Come back to us.”

The wrongness of where you are is starting to set in, the voices at the surface louder and more insistent. You think that maybe your chest is starting to ache.

Something moves your feet, and then you're touching something interesting. Soft and a bit rough, familiar. Carpet.

“Breathe, honey. Good. Again. We’ve got you, take your time.”

You’re conscious of your breaths first, the effort it takes to fill and empty your lungs. Then the plush material under your thighs; you’re sitting on something. Awhile longer, and you realize you’re blinking, your eyes intermittently dry and then not. Eventually you register your hand, pressed to a beating heart. Sirius’ heart.

You don't try to speak yet as you take in your surroundings. You’re home, on the couch, and someone’s taken off your socks and shoes, your feet bare on the carpet. You don’t know how any of that happened, which is unsettling, but the realization that you can feel unsettled comes with a sharp relief.

Sirius’ finger swipes over your wrist where he’s gripping your hand to his chest, and your next exhale is shaky.

“Dove?” Remus’ tone is cautious.

“Sorry,” you say croakily. “I don’t know what that was.”

Sirius sighs, letting your hand drop from his chest, and Remus grips your ankle from where he sits by your feet, stroking his thumb over your achilles’ tendon in a way that you suspect is as much for him as it is for you.

“Fucking scary, is what it was,” James says, voice thick with tears. “Can I hug you?”

You nod, and his arms come around you with his usual eagerness, though you notice his hands trembling just a little. You squeeze his shoulders tightly.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, no sorries, okay?” Sirius says, though even he sounds exhausted from what you’ve just put them through. “You obviously couldn’t help it. Do you feel alright now?”

“Yeah,” you say, though you’re unsure. You feel relatively normal at the moment, but the knowledge that you can slip into numbness that easily doesn’t allow for much comfort. “I’m just…really tired, for some reason.”

Remus hums. “I think your brain was doing a lot of work just now. Makes sense you’d need a rest.”

James releases you from the hug but only sits back far enough to see your face, his hands lingering at your waist like he’s worried you’ll slip away if he lets go. “Want to cancel dinner and have a night in, sweetheart?”

You nod, your throat closing as warmth rushes to your face. “Yes, please.”

“Hey,” Sirius says at your tears, voice lightly chiding but full of concern, “what’s wrong? You sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I’m okay,” you promise, swiping under your eyes. “Just, thank you guys for helping me. That was really scary.”

“I know,” Remus says, palm sliding up your leg as he rises to give you a hug of his own. “I know it was, honey, but you don’t have to worry. We’ve always got you.”

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summer-nights19 · 1 month ago

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Hi!!! I saw you were open for requests for tkdb 👁 can I request some jealousy hcs? Like how would they react if they found out pc had a situationship before going to Darkwick? Thank you for your work!!!

Hii omg I love your writing so much <3 I did Frostheim, lmk if you want the other houses too :) Thank you for the request !

Tokyo debunker jealousy hcs

Jin

After you tell him about your situationship, he tries to pretend he doesn't care and fails miserably - you can tell he's jealous as soon as he starts acting annoyed at you and asking more and more questions about your situantionship

On the day he finds out, he keeps you to himself in his room, cuddling you in his bed to remind you (and himself) who you belong to. He also high key hates the idea of other people looking at you more than he already did, so he wants to keep you to himself

He'll still be jealous if you've cut off contact completely - he's your man, after all - but it's something he'll get over once you show him you're not going anywhere

However, if you still have any kind of contact with this person, he'll insist you cut it off immediately - why would you need to talk to another man, particularly one you used to have feelings for ?

Tohma

Tohma acts nonchalant about it a lot more successfully than Jin - he'll definitely ask some questions about whether you still speak to this person, but he'll keep his composure

The only time his jealousy will show is if he finds out you two still speak - he'd firmly but still calmly tell you that you're to cut off communication with that man

After discovering about your situationship, he's be a bit more wary of others checking you out at Darkwick, so he starts to accompany you to classes more often

Also makes an extra effort to plan more dates with you instead of spending all that time running errands for Jin to show you he's worthy of you. If you comment on it, he'd most likely shrug it off

Kaito

SO jealous and doesn't even try to hide it - he bombards you with questions about what this person was like and whether you still talk because he's terrified that you liked them better than him

He'll try in all the ways he can to prove that he's more worthy of your affection, constantly comparing himself to them and going out of his way to impress you by trying to protect you during missions (and mostly failing), taking you out to the best spots he can, and asking Luca to be his wingman

If you ask him what's going on, he'll definitely try to deny being jealous and become a flustered mess

Becomes even more jealous if you still talk to that person, and, although he'd be less authoritative about it than Jin and Tohma, he'd still try to get you to stop talking to them

Luca

Tries to stay very calm and nonchalant when he discovers. It bothers him a little, but you're with him now, and that's what matters most

Mostly keeps his jealousy to himself - he is a gentleman, after all

He'll unconsciously start putting in even more effort than before - walking you to class, planning dates, buying you little surprises like flowers - to show you he's the guy you wanna be with

If you still talk to that person, he'd politely tell you he feels uncomfortable with it, which is the truth, but he's too gentlemanly to force you to stop

Masterlist

#tokyo debunker #tokyo debunker fanfiction #tokyo debunker x reader #tokyo debunker headcanons #frostheim #jin kamurai x reader #tokyo debunker jin #jin kamurai #tokyo debunker tohma x reader #tokyo debunker tohma #lucas errant x reader #luca x reader #lucas errant #kaito fuji #tokyo debunker kaito #kaito fuji x reader

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lxdymoon0357 · 2 months ago

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Idk if your requests are open it not but if it is can you give me some pinjng for Roxanna x fem reader / gen reader? I need more of her 😭

(Honestly, understandable. She is a bit of a goddess...a demonic one, but a goddess nonetheless. Homophobia LGBT ally)

Roxanna Agriche X Fem! Reader Headcanons.

⊈ Rozanna either met you as you were her maid or you were a pet from another noble house. Either way, she had you under her control, doing her dangerous betting every single day. She had you easily wrapped around her perfectly, bloody manicured finger.

⊈ Your life was daily in her hands and she was always careless with it, but you know what you did when you came here; either by force or own desperate situation, but of-course it never scared less not knowig which is your last day.

⊈ Eventually you and her did fall in love and she had you close...Though Lante was horrified at his daughter being in love with a girl, but afterwards he calmed down and let her date you, as long as she'd somehow get a child for him to his lineage continues and Roxanna nonchalantly agrees.

⊈ Level passed!! New Level: You're an Agriche now!

⊈ Of-course you're now also a victim to many of the Agriches, including Dion, Charlotte, Fondaine and possibly others. But it's okay, Sierra adores you, Maria...she is weirdly infatuated, Jeremy is slightly jealous you're taking his sister's attention, but eventually you also become his friend.

⊈ She often feeds your blood to the butterflies as well, so they can recognize you too. Also adding tiny doses of poison into your tea, food, drinks. Has the most expensive furs decorating you with the heaviest security around your room.

⊈ Freedom is basically non-existent with the way she moved you into her room and you didn't go outside for like...three months! (I know it's normal for you nerds, probs. But please be normal right now.) ut yeah, almost zero freedom of going out, your'e free to do yada yada in your room though.

⊈ I know for SURE! Roxanne doesn't allow Dion anywhere near you, you'll easily be his next victim so Dion can see Roxanne's emotions more rawful, Charlotte is just annoyed with you being here, because you're simply BELOW her and you're also one of the favourites of THIS HOUSE?! FUCK YOU!

⊈ Speaking of favourites, you'll be joining them in Lant's "special-favourite children dinner" whenever it happens, maids and butlers and cooks are asked to taste everything in advance so you don't get poisoned by ANYONE. It will rain hell by Roxanna if anything happened.

⊈ Has you in makeout sessions right before bed, her fingers gently groping your tits and tweaking your nips, very gently though...depends if it leads to more or simply just a makeout sessions where you both sleep snuggled against each other, where she wakes up every few hours to make sure you're alive.

⊈ Has made sure you're always as safe as her mum, speaking of her mum. You spend a majority of your free time with Sierra, she likes you though a bit nervous around you two. You have to be super nice and get her to warm up to you and she'll adore you as much as she adores her daughter, likes that someone in this house brings her daughter happiness even if she herself couldn't.

⊈ Lanta, Charlotte, Dion, Maria, Grizelda are weirdly homophobic..yet allies? I don't get it, but imagine them just mocking Roxanne for liking a girl despite being beautiful, but the moment a guy or anyone would try to get near you and the person is dead because they're like "Not Roxanne's little shit, you fucker. I'll fuck you up if you hurt her, she's only ours to hurt" like a messed up family dynamic which is hysterically insane.

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yandere-wishes · 9 months ago

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🌟Yandere!Superstar Who's the most sought-after man alive. He's renowned for his singing and the fastest up-and-coming actor of the century.

🌟Yandere!Superstar Who's drawn to your innocence, your purity. A precious little star trapped in an endless ebony night. You shine so brightly as you sip on your Coca-Cola at the diner. Laughing away with your girlfriends. How simple and idle your life is, you have no need to keep up appearances or overdose yourself to keep sane. You're just so sweet, wrapped in a frilly pink blanket of simplicity.

He envies you, truly he does...

🌟Yandere!Superstar who asks you out on a date in front of everyone. Who serenades you with one of his love songs, daring anyone to object. Takes you to the movies for your first date. Rambling excitedly about the new superhero flick that's just come out. He's all so pleasantly shocked when he finds out you also like comic book heroes. How he wishes he was really Superman, able to whisk you away to a hidden sanctuary in the snow. You get milkshakes after and he thinks he might be high off your laughter.

🌟Yandere!Superstar Who asks your father for your hand in marriage. Practically begs him. He'll do anything to keep you by his side. Anything to make you his. For the first time in your life, you detect fear in your father's voice as he agrees.

🌟Yandere!Superstar Who leaves you in his big mansion. Providing you with every luxury you could ever hope for. He even buys you a little furred companion to keep you company. He's off shooting a new movie and calls you every chance he gets. Your phone calls last for hours gossiping about his costars and the tyrannical new director.

🌟Yandere!Superstar who forbids you from going anywhere. Why would you ever want to leave the estate? From the swimming pool to the large exotic garden. There's literally no reason for you to ever step outside. Plus he needs you to be there when he calls, give him your full attention even when he's not physically present.

🌟Yandere!Superstar who has his whole staff looking after you. Anything you crave it's served to you, and anything you want it's in your hands within the hour. He makes sure everyone treats you with utmost respect, better than any fairytale princess. It's such a shame he doesn't realize how isolated you feel, how depressed and lonely you are. Or maybe he does. Maybe it's all a ploy to make you crave his touch, his kisses, him. He needs you broken and needy by the time he gets back.

🌟Yandere!Superstar who has morphed you into his perfect little doll. His darling pet. He dictates everything for you, from the makeup you wear to the color scheme of your outfits. Only the finest silks and jewels have the honor of gracing his baby's skin. Even your nightgowns are hand-picked by him. Don't you always want to look your best for your king?

🌟Yandere!Superstar, who starts taking you on the road with him when he's doing his tours. He can't stand having you so far away anymore. From now on, you'll always be by his side.

🌟Yandere! Superstar who kisses you between shows. Needing to feel your body under him, to build up the ecstasy to perform. Locking you away in hotel suites close enough for him to always have access to. You're his drug. The dose that keeps him going.

🌟Yandere!Superstar who's started keeping you in his trailer while he films. Making sure you know he's not cheating with any of his costars. Filling his trailer with things for you to do and making out with you every chance he gets between sets. He'll make sure you look your best for him. His babydoll. How could you ever think he'd be interested in anyone else?

🌟Yandere!Superstar who makes you straddle him or sit on his lap in every picture. He dresses you in the latest trends, while he wears his handmade suits. The world needs to know just who you belong to.

🌟Yandere! Superstar Who forces you to help him with every song he writes just so you know they're all about you. Only you. He needs you to feel his devotion in your bones. To realize every note he hits is just for you.

🌟Yandere! Superstar who will never ever let you go...

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withloveajaxx · 2 years ago

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so baby let's keep this secret

𓂅 genre: modern! childe, scara, al haitham, xiao x gn! reader

𓂅 warnings: hints of making out in scara's part + childe's part is a hint of suggestive teasing

𓂅 summary: secret relationship with the genshin boys

𓂅 note: this is my first time writing for scara and haitham so,,, apologies if i mischaracterize them or they seem out of character :"D comments on their characterization are greatly appreciated ^^ but yea, that's it hehe, hope u enjoy this fic n have a wonderful day!!

CHILDE

tbf a secret relationship with childe isn't a secret to anyone at all because mans is whipped for you, but we gotta give him some credit for holding himself back from kissing you 24/7.

a "secret" relationship with this man is basically minimalized pda with a huge amount of teasing.

he absolutely loves to be the sole reason why your cheeks get red and you get all flustered in public.

when people ask you what's wrong and you can barely get out a blatant lie, childe already has a smug, yet somehow charming smirk on his face.

he's not good at hiding how whipped he is, but he does surprisingly well hiding his touches from the general eye of the public.

like whenever he's in a restaurant with you, he always makes it a point to sit beside you. he is never sitting anywhere else.

secondly, his hand is always on your thigh or fiddling with your fingers beneath the table. he simply cannot resist touching you in any way.

and finally, if he's being a little bitch… he'll slyly sneak an arm around your waist, squeezing it gently. i can bet my life he's lifting your shirt up slightly to rub your exposed skin to get you all bothered.

he's absolutely ravishing you when you get home though. spoiling you with kisses, cuddles, and anything you ask from him <3

ngl, with how touchy feely he is, i don't think people are gonna take that long to figure out what's going on between you two. the "secret" relationship is unfortunately a 5/10 in terms of success.

SCARAMOUCHE

you cannot tell me this man wouldn't take your relationship to his grave. 10/10 in this secret relationship 💀

unlike childe, he can keep his eyes and his hands off of you in public. he has a lot of self control and no amount of your teasing is going to get him to expose you guys (unless you pull out the tears or some begging then maybe). but like childe… he is absolutely obsessed with you when yall have a little private time.

this is where it gets spicy but i can just imagine scaramouche just reaching his limit from holding himself back from you after a long day, and he's just ready to break when you two are behind closed doors.

after all, he is a man of little patience isn't he? when you two get to his place after a long day, he doesn't even wait for a split second until his lips are slotting themselves against yours for a heated kiss.

he has you pinned against the wall beside the door, one elbow beside your head while the other slides down to rest on your hips.

when he parts the fairly passionate kiss his lips are still hovering dangerously close to yours. he doesn't even take that long to catch his breath, diving in for another kiss until he hears abrupt knocks at his door, and a voice he knows distinctly belonging to childe.

cursing under his breath, he holds a hand over your mouth, making sure you're hidden from the direct line of sight of the door before opening it to reveal the ginger headed man.

"make it quick, dimwit. i was in the middle of doing something," scara hisses venemously, eyes narrowing at childe. poor childe chuckles in nervouseness, scratching the back of his neck. "is that so? sorry, didn't know, maybe i'll come back later."

"yeah, whatever. just scram." and with that, the door is slammed closed and sacra's undivided attention is back on you again.

"c'mon," is all he says, taking your hand in his before leading you to a more secluded space in his apartment where no one and nothing can interrupt him from having his time with you.

ALHAITHAM

i think he'd be pretty good at keeping things lowkey. he acts the same towards everyone with some exceptions to you, so i'd say 10/10.

definitely not touchy in public (nor in private to be honest), but he's definitely into the little moments.

little moments like making eye contact from across the room and sending you the slightest hints of a smile.

or even grazing your pinkies together when your walking side-by-side in thr middle of the campus hallways.

there are bits of physical affection here and there, but the main thing that gives this man away is the quality time and acts of services that he does towards you.

hatiham doesn't spend nearly as much time with others as he does with you. you're always with him whether it be in the library studying, in a coffee shop while he reads a book, or in museums looking around and scuptures and paintings.

it's especially in crowded places like museums and coffee shops where he does small actions of adoration and affection.

like when you guys go on study or book dates, you'll feel his eyes on you when you're trying to write something down or read something.

when you look at him to ask you what's wrong, he's simply staring at you with a soft expression that screams nothing but admiration and love. it's quite endearing really, to see his ears turn the lightest shade of pink afterwards.

"do you need something, haitham?" you ask, the smile he loves so much gracing your features. he gently shakes his head, reaching his hand out on the table to take yours, "no. nothing. i was just admiring you, is all."

XIAO

there's a constant redness of his usually pale cheeks is a dead giveaway to your relationship, and he's pretty protective too so i'd say a 6/10.

whenever you catch xiao staring at you, his cheeks and the tips of his ears immediately burn red, and he whips his head around so fast.

people always notice and his friends always tease him for it, but he can't help such a reaction when what he thinks is the most stunning person is looking right at him.

or whenever he looks around the room to search for you only to find that you're already looking at him… his cheeks are literally on fire.

the adorable glow on his cheeks isn't the only sign he gives though. mind you, this man is very protective over you.

he wants to make sure that absolutely no harm comes in your way, and he'll do anything to make sure of that. he doesn't care if your relationship would be exposed that way, all he cares about is your overall safety and wellbeing.

he's the type of man who pulls you closer to him while you're crossing the street or walking by the road, having his hand on you in some way in case anything happens.

the type of guy who brings random stuff like bandaids, hair ties, and sweets for you just in case you need anything.

he's also constantly asking how you are through text, just in case you need him to do something or in case you need him by your side for whatever reason.

my favourite part about secret relationships with xiao is the kind of dates you'd have. he's definitely the type of man to do homey, indoor dates. he'd build lego bouquets for and with you, he's sit for hours bingeing movies or series you like, relax and read a book with you, or even just nap and cuddle. even though your dates are mostly at home to keep away from the prying eyes of others, he's sure to make it something you'll always love and never regret.

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pascaloverx · 2 months ago

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DEVIL (+18)

Summary: You are a demonic creature, capable of doing whatever you please, whenever you wish. Your goal on Earth is to terrorize as many souls as possible. Until, in a small community, you find the perfect victim for your mischievous games: Father Charlie Mayhew.

Author's Note: Honestly, I’m not sure if this story will have more than one chapter, but it will contain adult content and inappropriate language. Violence may also appear. Frankly, I just needed to write something about this character portrayed by Nicholas Alexander Chavez. The character and others, apart from Y/N, are not my creation. They belong to the Grotesquerie (2024) universe created by Ryan Murphy. To anyone reading this story, I hope you enjoy it.

AO3 LINK TWO

ONE

How tedious human life is. Not to offend anyone, but you were already tired of all the petty, complicated, and disjointed problems humans have. Not doing what they want, fearing consequences, and not always seeking to take advantage of others makes humans seem so weak. Humans need automobiles to move around, they have no special powers, they feel guilty for the slightest act, and when they sin, they believe a priest can purify their wrongdoings.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. At least that's what the movies say I should say when I enter a confessional. Unless you'd prefer something more modern, like, 'Father, I really messed up. I committed an affront to good morals. Blah blah blah…'" You enter Father Charlie Mayhew's confessional, waiting for his response. You can hear the muffled chuckle he lets out at your casual way of speaking.

"It doesn't seem to me that you are truly repentant. Taking advantage of the informality with which you are speaking to me, may I ask what brings you here?" For a human, he has a voice that, in its more serious and deep tone, can be charming; it's easy to understand why he became a priest. With a voice like that, he could easily persuade you to be a devoted daughter of God, even if you were, in truth, a demon.

“Let’s say it was a call of nature. In truth, I’ve felt impure ever since I witnessed something terrible.” You say, trying to sound as human as possible, feeling as if your skin were burning from being inside the church. Just kidding; in reality, demons can be anywhere, even in religious places.

"What is it, my dear faithful of the Lord, that you witnessed?" Father Mayhew speaks with a certain nonchalance, as if he's almost sure he knows your answer. You try to catch a glimpse of him through the confessional booth’s small openings. He seems like the very embodiment of sin, perfectly crafted for thirsty thoughts.

"Father, I witnessed a delightful scene. It was a priest known for his youthful appearance and modern style, masturbating while thinking about the beautiful nun he had recently met. In fact, there was another moment that I witnessed. The moment when this same priest let the nun touch him in a sinful way. Oh, this priest's mind could only hope that these private moments would continue." You provoke him, subtly revealing that you know of his most intimate sins. The priest immediately steps out of his booth and opens the door to yours. His expression is furious, while you wear your most mischievous smile. Your attire catches him off guard, certainly. You’re dressed in a nun's habit, but entirely unlike the usual. Yours is red—the color of blood—with black lace details. It is the perfect blend of religion and sin, a nun’s habit styled like lingerie.

"What are you?" the priest asks, not in fear, but with a steady gaze fixed on you. You rise and slowly walk toward him, your steps deliberate, as he retreats. You can see his eyes searching for answers, trying to comprehend what you are.

"I am merely a concerned devotee, worried about who is managing this church, of course. Father, it shouldn’t be me reminding you that sin is wrong. But I think you already know it’s wrong—you just can’t stop. If the wounds on your back tell me anything, it’s that you enjoy punishing yourself for being a naughty boy. Let’s just say I’m your newest form of penance." You speak as you circle around Father Mayhew, who watches you with a gaze of fascination. In truth, you had peeked into the mortal priest’s sinful mind, discovering exactly how to become an irresistible vision for him.

"Why are you tormenting me?" Father Mayhew keeps his eyes fixed on you as you walk through the church, surveying what is supposed to be sacred ground. It’s remarkable, entering the so-called house of God, where sins lurk behind the angelic façade, just as Father Mayhew hides his dark thoughts beneath his cassock. You smile as your fingers glide over the candles, feeling the warmth of their flames between your fingertips.

"Me? Tormenting you? I’m simply fascinated by that devilishly handsome face of yours and the way you blend love for religion with the lust locked away inside you. Sister Megan must have had quite the time running her little fingers over you. Honestly, you, Father, are trouble, and I want to help you." You speak, captivated by the lust in his eyes, even as he remains partly afraid that you might be a punishment from the devil himself. You move closer, touching his cassock, tracing your finger over the places where he is wounded, where he hurt himself.

"More…" he whispers, closing his eyes as he feels your touch. He begins to moan softly from the pain you’re inflicting. Your fingers tighten their grip on the bruises on his back as he groans heavily. You bring your lips closer to the back of his neck, placing a few kisses there.

"Father, Father, Father. You're visibly excited in the middle of the church. What would the Bishop say about this? Or your faithful and devoted followers, who trust that their priest will be the purest of men?" You speak softly against the back of his neck, feeling him shiver. He turns to look at you, eyes thirsty for the pleasure of the flesh.

"It doesn’t matter, not really. 1 John 1:9, 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' God, in His glory, will understand that in the face of temptation, I could not resist my sinful nature, and for that, I have failed in His eyes." Father Mayhew speaks, his eyes lingering on every detail of your face, but especially your lips. In his depraved mind, he’s already imagining. Imagining how his cock would fit perfectly between your lips, or how your moans must be as delicious as the tone of your voice. He lets his imagination of touching you, tasting you take over and lightly places his fingers under your lips, massaging them.

"Father, you are a perfect creature, but you are trapped beneath this mask of a devout religious man. I promise I will return here to unlock your true potential. Until then, remain under the flame of lust. Oh, and keep recording those workout videos; you have no idea how many souls your face and body corrupt. Now, to seal our first encounter together, repeat after me: I, Father Charlie Mayhew, accept your demonic presence to torment me for as long as necessary, committing myself to serve you." You say, gazing deeply into his eyes, as he seems lost in you. It takes him a moment to repeat your words, his eyes lingering on your attire, contemplating the implications of becoming entangled with you.

"Was that all?" He asks after repeating your words, his tone low as if he’s embarrassed. "When will I see you again?" There’s a note of desperation in Father Mayhew's question, as he watches you, trying to memorize every detail. You smile, thinking that he probably wants to remember you so he can indulge in pleasure later.

"You'll see me when the time is right. In the meantime, keep being a naughty boy," you say, caressing his face. Then, with a single finger, you touch his lips, slicing them open. He lets out a soft moan as blood begins to seep from his mouth. "Now it's time for my triumphant exit. Goodbye, Father," you say, leaning in to kiss him, as if to draw his very soul through his lips. The taste of his blood lingers in your mouth, sealing the recent pact between you. You lick his lips and then disappear. Like an illusion, you are no longer there.

#father charlie mayhew #charlie mayhew x reader #charlie mayhew x y/n #nicholas alexander chavez #charlie mayhew #demon x priest #demon au #Spotify #sister megan #grotesquerie #nicholas chavez #sister megan duval #demonic reader #religion mention #religion aesthetic #i wanna fuck a priest #slight smut

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feyascorner · 11 months ago

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5 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. When he had his cold hands wrapped around your neck, it felt as if they belonged to death themselves. And in that moment, you knew that even if you struggled against him, if he genuinely wanted you dead, you would have no power to push him away. You would have no choice but to let the grasp of death pull you into the ground, underneath the surface, into the unknown.

You realize that, perhaps, the Astarion you knew was nothing but a pretty lie.

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard, italics are flashbacks/dreams

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 6.4k words?!!? 😆 whenever i write for this fic i have the constant urge to make him grovel out of nowhere, and to compensate, i make him even worse

“You were my first, you know.”

You raise both your brows, your eyes still trained on the lake stretching out to what seems like forever. The boulder beneath you feels cool to the touch against your skin. “Really?”

He nods, setting his book down to his lap. “Cazador, that crazy bastard, never let us drink from anything besides rats. We were strictly forbidden from humanoid blood because it would let us become too powerful.”

You squint at him. “...Well, what does it taste like?”

“Your blood?”

“Humanoid blood.”

He looks nowhere, as if he’s in thought, before humming, pleased at the taste that lingers on his tongue. “Exquisite.”

“That’s it?”

“Your blood was sweet, almost. Rat blood is terribly bitter, you see, and I only drank it for survival. But yours,” he grins widely. “I could drink nothing but yours for the rest of my immortal life, and I would never tire of it.”

Your face heats, and of course, him being him, it doesn't go unnoticed. He sets his book aside and shifts so he has one arm propped up next to you, his face dangerously close to yours. “I think you rather like the sound of that, darling.”

“It doesn’t sound…terrible,” you mumble. “Better than turning into a mind flayer, at least.”

His lips are inches from yours, so you instinctively tilt your head, allowing space for him to reach your neck. But his free hand reaches your cheek and tilts your head back, making you meet his eyes. It’s so close. So impossibly intimate that you pray he doesn't hear the way your heart pounds in your chest.“That’s not what I want right now, love.”

You nod slowly when his eyes flicker to your lips, and he’s pressed against you in an instant, your lips molding together as if they were made for one another. Even though you know they’re not, his arms feel warm when wrapped around you, and you bury yourself closer as if there’s even any space left between the two of you.

You know this must be a dream. But you’re not sure if you want to wake up at all.

But suddenly, your entire body feels terribly cold. Too cold, as if your very life is being sapped away from its roots, leaving nothing but a husk of a person behind. So you tear away, as much as you don’t want to, and see that you are no longer sitting before your lover. The spawn that nearly killed you in the alleyway is sitting in Astarion’s place, his teeth stained with blood as he smiles at you. Instinctively, you shriek and try to crawl away, but the sharp pain at your throat ceases your movement, making your hand fly up to the puncture wounds you’re sure to find.

Instead, you only find that your neck is sore from the bruises that bloom on your skin.

And as you stare at the spawn in horror, you realize that he’s not a random spawn. He’s covered in so much blood that you can’t even see his snow-white hair beneath the carnage, and all that stares back at you is a man who only resembles your lover. He lifts a hand, reaching sharp, maintained nails toward your face, and all you can do is brace yourself for what’s to come.

You just hope he ends the pain quickly.

The last tenday has been nothing short of hellish.

The walk home from Sharress’ Caress had been a deathly silence—one where you refused to look anywhere but your feet–-and even once you arrived home to the chaos between Shadowheart and Lae’zel unfolding right before your eyes, you only watched Astarion pace up the stairs as if nothing is wrong. Even as they yelled at him, asking what he had to say for himself, he’d only scoffed and shut the door to his room.

‘A man child,’ Shadowheart had called him. Lae’zel said her offer of skewering him with her spear was still available.

You hadn’t corrected her that time.

As you clearly had too many personal emotions, you swallowed your pride and decided to pass the investigation off to one of your companions. You gave the list of spawn killings to Gale, asking him to take charge of the investigation starting that very night. He didn’t ask why.

The days after that were spent in a blur. Aside from the nightmares that only seem to get worse, your life in the daytime is as it was before the bodies started piling up. You spend every waking moment focusing on rebuilding the rest of the city now that you have all the time in the world. Only without the workload did you realize how time-consuming the investigation had been, and without it, your life feels strangely dull. It’s not unwelcome–at least, not now, anyway.

And as another day passes in a state of mind that is not your own, you slump face-first into your mattress.

You only ever seem to return home in the dead of night anymore. Construction runs through the clock, and by the time you’ve managed to say your farewells to the people in the city, the sun’s long past said its own goodbye. Still, you suppose coming home late is better than falling asleep outside.

The handle of your dagger sticks into the side of your stomach, and you fish it out, laying on your back as you examine the bejeweled blade. It’s a pretty little thing, no matter how many sleepless nights you’ve spent staring at the beauty of something that’s taken countless lives. Most of which were his doing, even if you’re racking up quite the number on your own.

You want to hate him, but you’ve come to accept that perhaps you’ve grown soft. Maybe you’ve been surrounded by warmth for too long and now find that the hate you were once so accustomed to has now rendered itself to mush. You’ll learn to hate him—that much you’ve sworn—but you don’t want him dead as he seems to do with you. You have plenty of reason to hate him, and a part of you does, but it’s not enough to rival his distaste for you.

He’s made it clear enough that you cannot hate him the way he hates you.

You pace over to your drawer and place the blade in the deepest corner, where nothing but shadows will know of its existence. As you push the drawer shut, you hope that the next time you see the dagger, you’ll have forgotten it had been there in the first place.

You hear the window in his room slide open and then shut closed again. And if you were anyone else, it would cause an instant panic, but you’ve grown accustomed to the sound of it opening each night. And while the responsible thing should be to let the others know that he’s sneaking out every other night, you can’t find the energy to. Your sentiments toward him may be mixed, but you don’t want the only lead for the spawn case to be taken away just because he was sneaking out like a teenager in their rebellious phase.

There’s a more selfish reason why you’re keeping this secret of his, though you plan on taking it to your grave. It keeps him from approaching you with the request to go hunting. With Gale and Shadowheart busy with the spawn and Lae’zel not to be trusted around Astarion, you’re the only one capable of following him to his weekly supply restock. But you doubt he needs much animal blood when he has others ready for him at the pleasure house, and if this is his only way of getting there, then so be it.

You’re not really sure how to feel about it. It’s not a nice feeling, though.

“There’s someone here for you.”

You look up toward the doorway where Shadowheart leans with crossed arms. She points toward the stairs, and you force your legs up despite their insistent soreness from the past few days. They ache, but you’d rather burst into flames than stand another second longer than you have to in this room. You don’t have the energy to assess the look she’s giving you as you pass by her shoulder.

The man at the door is one your intuition seems to recognize, but your mind comes up empty. The emotions don’t seem mutual, as he straightens his back the second he spots you. “You.”

You glaze your tired eyes over his attire–one with the mark of the Flaming Fist proudly posted on his chest. He shifts, and you notice his short brown hair peeking from under his helmet. “Yes, me. You called for me.”

He clears his throat, blinking wide grey pupils with a hesitant glint. “I apologize for what I said the last time we met. It wasn’t for me to step out of line like that.”

You stare at him quizzically, unsure of who this man even is. He notices. “Wait, don’t you remember me?”

“...No?”

“I was at Roger Highberry’s murder scene! Yevir? I interrogated you for nearly an hour!” his jaw drops, and you somewhat make out his face from the blurry segments of your memories. All of which are not entirely pleasant, from what you can recall. The accusations thrown in your direction for being responsible for the murders were already cruel enough, but you remember how a fight nearly broke out between the two of you, making your lips purse.

You rub the side of your head to soothe whatever headache is sure to follow soon. “What do you want? Are you here to ask if I’ve been murdering people again?”

There’s one you might be so inclined to murder right now, just upstairs. Figuratively. Well, maybe…

“No,” he seems flustered, and you’d feel bad if it were not for your last interaction. “Like I said, I wanted to apologize. I was in no place to accuse you of something so horrid, and I did so without solid proof. I was—desperate and lost my composure.”

At this, your ear perks. An apology after the complete bullshit you’ve been through the past few weeks doesn’t sound bad at all. Still, your caution remains as you lift your chin, eyes lidded. “...You just came to apologize?”

“Yes. Ah, and–” he reaches into his pocket, scrummaging around until he pulls out a scroll wrapped neatly with a red bow. You arch a brow, and he holds it out to you. “My men were attacked last night at the pier next to the Blushing Mermaid. This is the file report I wrote up this morning.”

The Blushing Mermaid. Despite the hopes that had sparked with the conversation with one of Cora’s orphans, Shadowheart had come up completely empty after numerous visits to the tavern. She only mentioned a few brawls, which quickly had Fist rushing in or a couple of drunk smugglers, but that was it. By now, you assumed the tavern itself had no connections to the spawn murder sprees that increased in numbers nearly daily. Perhaps Roger Highberry had just been at the wrong place and the wrong time.

“We tried to talk to them—one, at least,” he continues as you let the scroll unroll on itself. “They seem to be looking for someone. They said they were only willing to listen to the ‘bard’---which I assume is supposed to be you.”

Your face hardens as you scan the report, acknowledging the details scribbled into the sheet in messy handwriting and the bags under his eyes to go along with it. “What were they looking for?”

“Another spawn, we think, judging from what we gathered before they became hostile.”

Despite how your heart sinks into your stomach, you swallow the lump in your throat and tear your eyes away from the report. Who else could it possibly be? And though you want to lie to yourself that perhaps, on some strange chance, this other spawn is someone other than the one residing right beside your room, you know it’s a foolish belief to pray on.

Astarion had tried to sacrifice all 7000 souls of the undead right before their very eyes. The ritual–if you could even call it that–-was mass murder. One he very nearly executed.

You were only unsure if the other spawn sought him out to reconcile or for something much bloodier. You’d likely bet on the latter.

“Have you shown this to the Duke yet?”

“No,” he admits, almost shamefully. “I couldn’t.”

He must be able to tell your shock because his face crumples. “There was someone among them. A friend. I thought she’d gone missing years ago, but…On this small chance that maybe she’s still there, I came here to ask…”

His fists clench, his gaze darting anywhere but your own with a hesitance you’ve become all too accustomed to the past few weeks. Still, they have a glimmer of hope as he swallows hard. “...If you’d be willing to help me.”

You can’t mask the way your eyes widen. He blinks rapidly and immediately reaches to dig around his other pocket, where he hauls out a bag that jingles with the contents inside. The familiar ring of gold. The sack itself is shabby, old enough to split open at any second, and it’s only the size of his palm, but he holds it as if it’s a fragile glass piece. “It’s all I have. I know I’m in no position to ask you for help, especially with how I treated you last time we met…but I’m desperate, and I know the Duke must trust you for a reason.”

“You want me to do what exactly?”

“Let me speak to her. Please.”

Almost instantly, you push the pouch back to his chest, eyes narrowing. “A vampire spawn won’t be the same person you knew.”

“I know. But surely, she would at least recognize me-”

“She’ll be different. She won’t hesitate to kill for blood. Not even yours, if she’s hungry.” This much, you know.

“I know,” he blurts louder. “Please. If I go to the Duke, he’s sure to raid the tavern, and she might get killed in the process. If I was the reason that she died, I don’t know—I can’t even—”

She’s already dead, you think. The words nearly escape your thoughts, but you bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood, sealing it shut.

“Her heart no longer beats for you.” Just give up, you plead. Understand that she is not the woman she was. You notice the irony of the statement, but it doesn’t stop you, desperate to prevent this man from making the same mistakes as your own.

“My own heart beats enough for the both of us.”

And perhaps it’s because of the glint in his eyes that feels all too familiar to your own. Or maybe it’s because of the way he appears on the brink of tears and the eyebags dragging at his skin. Or perhaps it’s a more selfish reason of your own. But regardless of what the reason is, the report crumples in your fist as you nod stiffly.

“We’ll do what we can.”

You swing the door shut harder than you probably should, but the sun feels too bright on your skin. And his imploring eyes only hinder your resolve to drift away from all that’s happening. You claimed you’d try, not that you’d produce results. It might be a selfish thing to do—ignoring a person in need—but does it matter, really?

Is it so bad for you to be selfish for once?

Gods, who are you kidding? You’ll end up helping anyway, especially after he came to ask you in person.

Thinking too long hurts your head. When you turn to climb back up the stairs, your heart nearly stops as you realize you’re not alone in the room.

Blood-red eyes bore into the side of your head, his presence almost nonexistent with how his chest doesn’t even move to allow him to breathe. He stands across the room, unmoving and still, as if time itself has stopped for the two of you. You suppose for him, it has.

But you know better now. At least, you think so. For him, time may be something irrelevant, but for you, it continues flowing, leaving no chance to catch up if you dare to fall behind. And you no longer want to chase the ticking hand of your own clock to attune yourself to his. He’s made himself clear, and you refuse to waste away precious years of your own life to mourn his. So, instead of gawking at him like a deer in headlights, you lock the door and pace up the stairs, barely brushing past his shoulders. You have half a heart to shove past him, but considering you barely manage what you did, you think better of it.

The entire time, his eyes follow you like a hawk.

“What was that Fist here for?” he asks as you reach the top.

You don’t bother looking back at him. “...Spawns killed a few soldiers last night.”

A pause. “Surely that’s not all.”

“That’s all you need to know unless you plan on helping us,” you snap. You wish you sounded as cold as you would’ve liked, but instead, it comes out like a last-ditch effort, as he barely acknowledges the bite in your tone.

“Are we not discussing the very spawns whom I called my dear siblings for two centuries? It’s very much my business.”

“And you think those spawn—which you tried to kill for a bloody ritual, might I add— still consider you their brother?”

That shuts him up.

He doesn’t say anything else, and you take the opportunity to march straight into your room. Your chest swells in a pitiful pride as you force yourself not to glance behind you, admittedly relieved you were at least able to manage some semblance of a cold shoulder, even if it wasn’t as dramatic as his own. Ignoring him is childish and quite frankly, a bandage on a more significant wound, but even this feels like a small victory after his last words to you.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Hate me.”

“Yes. More than anyone.”

You try not to let your face fall by rubbing your temples with your thumbs again, soothing the headache that threatens to wrack your body. He’s drawn his line, and it’s time to draw your own.

Shadowheart, who hasn’t budged from where you last saw her, grins. Judging from her smugness, she must’ve heard you. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Me neither.”

She holds out her palm, and you weigh if you should even give her the report before giving in, placing it for her to read. Her eyes skim over the contents as you anxiously shift your weight on both legs. And eventually, she lowers the sheet. “I’ll deal with this.”

“But they’re looking for me. They won’t cooperate unless–”

“I’ll deal with this,” she repeats, folding the report before pocketing it into her pants. “Focus on repairing the city.”

“Shadowheart-”

“You entrusted us with this, and we plan to follow through. You’ve done more than enough for this city already,” she sighs. “And besides, we could use a bard around here.”

She gently shoves you toward your door. Despite your hesitance, she gives you an assuring nod and begins heading for the stairs, giving you no space to insist on offering your aid. You’re left standing idly in the hall, brows knitting together even as you reassure yourself that she and Gale are more than capable of handling themselves.

But then again, you’d thought the same for yourself. Clearly, after the night you nearly died and the nightmares that haunt you of that very same night, you’d been wrong.

You hear footsteps you’ve memorized as ones to avoid, and just as you see the tips of his white curls, you rush into your room, slamming the door shut behind you.

You need a drink.

“Haven’t seen you in days.”

You slump onto one of the wooden stools at the bar, rubbing at the soreness of your own shoulder from hours of hauling rubble and debris from more crowded parts of town where they could pose a danger. The other citizens who had worked alongside you trail in through the tavern door, laughing and cheering at today’s accomplishments as they sit across the tables. In an instant, the relatively calm tavern becomes rowdy and filled with life. Your eyes glaze over their victorious expressions as you respond. “Been busy.”

“You’re the only customer I don’t want to see, you know?” Alan wipes at one of his glass cups with a cloth. You wonder if he ever tries on his bartending uniform or if it just rots in the back of his closet. “Thought I finally got rid of you.”

“I bring plenty of business, so what’s to dread?” you offer him a lopsided smile, watching him as he pours your favorite beverage into a cup, almost routine-like. “I brought in plenty of customers when I performed here, too. If anything, I’d think you’d be grateful to see me.”

“I said I don’t like you as a customer, not an employee. I’d rather not watch the so-called hero of Baldur’s Gate passing out on my tavern floor.”

“Business is business,” you shrug, sipping at the drink. You reach for your gold pouch, but he shakes his head.

“You know you don’t have to.”

You toss him a gold coin anyway. “I want to.”

As you drink, you gaze blankly at the bard playing at the corner of the room, a crowd of half-drunken patrons surrounding him as they toss gold, hats, and even a shoe at them in applause. This only prompts the bard to sing louder, their fingers plucking at the strings of their lute. Of course, with the nature of the tavern, the song is rather ambitious rather than soothing, but it’s nice to listen to nonetheless. You watch as another bard, this one with a drum, perches next to them and begins playing in unison. The patrons clap louder to the beat.

A man sits next to you, ordering himself a booze before turning to watch the bards. You’ve never seen him around, but he seems comfortable enough, thanking Alan when he receives the drink. He gives it a sniff, then sets it down. “Nice song, no?”

Your eyes never leave the gleeful expressions of those listening, only recognizing moments later that he’s speaking to you. “Yes, pretty nice.”

“My daughter loved this song when she was younger. Even wanted to learn it herself on her flute,” he says, and a part of you wants to ask why he’s initiating conversation, but you bite your tongue. Surely most people come here to drink, not to talk with strangers? There’s a strange familiarity to him that you can’t put your finger on, and it’s enough to keep you intrigued. “She even wanted to be a bard at one point.”

“I’m assuming she didn’t become one?” you indulge him.

“She died before she could, unfortunately.”

You finally look away from the crowd and turn to him, face falling. And while you should console him, your instinct tells you that’s not what he needs. His face is solemn. Dull as if he’s become accustomed to the death of his own child, and it reminds you of the hopelessness of yearning. Any kind, really, whether it be yearning to love and yearning to care. “Was she any good at playing?”

He stifles a laugh. “Oh, she was the best. Could play better than half the bards at the circus a couple of months after I got her that flute.”

You sip at your drink again. “Being a bard isn’t the most stable of career choices when you’re alive and have a stomach to feed. Wherever she is now, I’m sure she’ll be free to sing all the songs she wants in this world.”

Perhaps your words may be insensitive, but he doesn’t look to take it that way, keenly listening to the song while you wager if you can afford one more drink.

“You know,” he says again. “Most people tell me that they’re sorry for my loss—or something along those lines.”

“Do you want me to say that?”

“No, I prefer that you be honest,” he shakes his head. “It’s refreshing.”

You return to watching the bards, who seem nearing their piece's end. The man lifts his booze to his lips and takes a large swig. “You seem acquainted with loss. Have you lost someone recently?”

“To death?”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

You’re not sure why, but you feel that confiding in this stranger comes easier than confiding in your companions. The guilt eats away at you for being unable to trust the people who care for you most, but a stranger cannot judge you. A stranger does not know you, so they cannot see you differently for your thoughts. And most importantly, a stranger cannot pity you. “I almost lost them. But I didn’t.”

He hums, telling you he’s listening.

“I saved him, I think. Well, to be honest, I’m not so sure anymore. I like to think I did, but I don’t think he thinks the same.”

“Why’s that?”

“I…” you trail off, looking into the half-empty cup reflecting your face. Gods, you’re a mess. “I took something from him to save him.”

“Money?”

“No, nothing like that,” you mumble, swirling your cup mindlessly. “I took his choice away.”

“I see. He must’ve not wanted to be saved, then, is that right?”

You don’t answer him. The air becomes silent again, but the soft tune of the lute, and even the bartender is no longer paying attention to anyone in the tavern, only watching how the bard’s fingers file through the strings. The only person who doesn’t seem distracted is the man beside you.

“Do you regret it?”

“Saving him?” you pause, and maybe it’s the drink getting to your head, or perhaps it’s the way the music seems to fade out, but the words stumble out of your mouth before you can even process them. “I want to regret it.”

From the corner of your vision, you finally notice that his booze is still filled to the top, untouched.

“Does Astarion regret it too?”

Realization dawns on you.

You can see them now—the fangs that peek out from the smile stretching across his lips. And yet, it is not a malicious smile that confuses you even more. It would almost feel genuine if you weren’t in such a vulnerable position, and immediately, you’re thinking of ways to defeat him with just a bottle of wine with your head still spinning.

The door to the tavern swings open.

Lae’zel almost looks out of breath as she sprints to you, a sight you don’t see every day. “Come! They were ambushed.”

When you turn back to the man sitting at the bar, you only see a gold coin beside a full cup.

You don't have time to delay, as Lae'zel yanks out of the tavern.

You've never run faster in your life. But your mind remains elsewhere, unable to keep up with the speed of your body because it's too busy being stuck in the past. Do you regret it? Does he? Until now, before Astarion’s arrival, you'd been sure it had been the right thing to do to stop the ritual. And now, after hearing all the resentment he harbored toward you as a result, you wonder if it was worth it at all. If losing him was worth the ache you endure now. Before you can snap yourself straight, the memories flood in like a dam breaking open.

“Do you love me?”

“I do. I do love you.”

You don’t expect him to say it back. Not when he looks taken aback at how quickly you’d answered him, his eyes flickering with something you can only describe as a false sense of confidence overwhelmed with a glimmer of fear that means so much more. You know love is hard for someone who hasn’t felt it in 200 years. You know this and, therefore, cannot expect it from him right now.

He cares for you, and that’s enough.

He presses his lips to your temple, and you ignore the restless aching in your chest.

Did he regret being with you then? What did he regret? There's so much you want to know, but nobody willing to answer them.

Shame floods you as you realize you’re distracted, even in such a dire situation for your companion. One more reason to hate him, you suppose—not that you’re keeping count. There’s too much blood drenching your hands, sticky and weighing on you like a pile of bricks as you burst into your shared home in the dead of night, the unconscious body of Shadowheart slumped over your back. Gale rushes to the kitchen immediately for supplies while Lae’zel slams the door shut, shoving her sword against the wall.

“Give her to me,” the githyanki demands as she picks up Shadowheart like a sack of potatoes. The half-elf groans loudly, and you hiss.

“She’s bleeding, Lae’zel, be careful!”

“I’m always careful,” she snaps back and lays your companion across the dining room table. And finally, in the light of a few flickering candles, you can see the damage that’s been done.

A large slash runs through her pelvis to just below her chest, and you can hear Gale swallow the lump in his throat before desperately resuming his rummage through the cabinets for a healing potion. Even if he’s injured too, he doesn’t seem to notice. She’s bleeding—too much for you to handle but enough for you to keep your eyes glued to her pained expression. Even unconscious, the pain seems to seep into her dream as she grunts, gasping for her breath.

It was a mistake. You should have gone in the morning. You should have been with them.

“We used all our healing potions in the battle. We need to make more,” he reaches for the cabinet where he keeps most of his ingredients. However, as he begins grinding them together, he stops and whips around to Lae’zel. “Victims outside the Blushing Mermaid. They might come back for them.”

“For corpses?” you answer for her.

“For their blood, dammit! Their children were there, alive and afraid,” he hisses at the pain of his own injuries. “Please, go check on them in my stead.”

She glares. “Tchk. What a stupid suggestion. In this pathetic state that all of you are in-”

You push her toward the door with all that remains of your strength. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

Her brows furrow, but she scoffs, relenting. “Fine. This is the last time I clean up your messes.”

You know she doesn’t mean it.

Once she leaves, you’re hunched over Shadowheart, dabbling in your less-than-effective means of soothing her. You can only hear Gale, who keeps feeding her healing potions, but it’s not nearly enough if her groans tell you anything. She needs a potion of greater healing at best, and those haven’t been exactly plentiful in supply after most of the city’s potion shops were destroyed in the war against the illithids. Another thing you should have done is stock up on potions. But you’d thought your group had had enough—at least, sufficient for a few more battles.

He rushes into the other room, mumbling about making a potion from scratch.

You clutch at Shadowheart’s hand, praying Gale would hurry up to cease the way she writhes under the candlelight. All you see is the red staining her clothes.

When you think things can’t possibly get worse, you hear the top stair creak under someone’s weight.

You must be cursed by at least one god. You’re sure of it.

He looks nearly starved. Almost as if he hadn’t drunk in days—but surely he hadn’t been this bad just this morning? His face is pale, though it’s always been white as a sheet, and his crimson glare is glued to the blood dripping off the edges of the table like a harpy with their luring songs. You feel your stomach drop as you recall you hadn’t even had the guts to stare at him in the face, and perhaps he had looked this bad. Maybe that’s why he’d approached you in the first place and asked about the Fist—not to spite you in a taunting manner, but simply because he was starving.

Whatever happened to drinking from the ladies at Sharess’ Caress?

You don’t have time to ask; honestly, you don’t want to know the answer either.

You’re convinced he might have fed off of nothing but the rats he loathes with how sunken his eyes appear from the bags forming beneath them. The overwhelming scent of blood must have lured him out. Even you would have plugged your nose if you weren’t so concerned over your friend's wellbeing, and it’s then that you realize what he’s truly here for.

Almost instinctively, you step in front of Shadowheart, hand going to reach for your dagger. You grasp at nothing but the air.

Shit.

His lips stretch into a dangerous smile. One that is not welcome right now. “Why the hostility, darling?”

“Go back upstairs. I’m warning you.” It’s just you, Gale, and an unconscious Shadowheart in the room at the hands of the hungry vampire, practically ravenous for blood. While you’re sure Gale could handle himself as long as he doesn’t succumb to his injuries, you have nothing in your possession but Shadowheart’s hand and a candle on the table. And on top of this, you’re unsure if you’ll be able to protect Shadowheart in the crossfire if a fight breaks out.

Your mouth feels dry. You can taste blood in your mouth, but you only realize moments later that it’s your own.

Your mind flashes back to the spawn who nearly killed you mere weeks ago. They’d had the same simmering hunger in their eyes, keen to kill in favor of satiating the endless longing for blood. The same spawn managed to overpower you with such a drastic difference in strength, making you wonder what Astarion himself is capable of. He’s had decades more experience and killing—perhaps he’s even stronger.

No, he’s definitely stronger.

When he had his cold hands wrapped around your neck, it felt as if they belonged to death themselves. And in that moment, you knew that even if you struggled against him, if he genuinely wanted you dead, you would have no power to push him away. You would have no choice but to let the grasp of death pull you into the ground, underneath the surface, into the unknown.

“Oh, poor Shadowheart,” he taunts. “She’s already lost so much blood…”

“And she’s not losing anymore.” You don’t dare to lift your eyes from Astarion.

The hammering of your chest, the quickening of your breath—they are all things that he does not feel. You wonder if he feels anything at all. You’re sure he’s capable of hatred, he’s capable of reveling in the blood of his enemies, and he’s capable of laughing as he stabs a blade into a man’s eye.

But you wonder if that cold, dead heart of his can feel anything but for himself.

“You look unsettled,” he mocks. “Shall I drink from her? She certainly wouldn’t survive in the state she’s in, though…it would be a bit of a waste, don’t you think?”

You taste blood again from how hard you’re biting your lip.

You’re not sure if it’s just the booze driving insanity to your head or the encounter with a spawn just minutes ago, but the look in his eyes makes your chest tighten. The hunger, the bloodthirst, and the sheer drive to satiate his vampiric needs are enough to make you feel like prey cornered by a starved owlbear. He doesn’t look himself. He seems more like the spawn who’d nearly killed you. And for the first time since you awoke to his fangs bared at your neck during a night at the camp, you see him for what he is.

A vampire spawn—a monster.

This is not your Astarion. In fact, he’d never existed. He’d never loved you, and while you believed his care was enough at the time, you think that might’ve not existed either. This is not the same man who reassured you in your times of need, praised your very being, and gazed at you with nothing but love as you excitedly showed him your new pieces of music. This is not someone who had looked utterly confused when you confessed you wanted more with him because he could not imagine being a priority to someone else. This is not the same man who you once called your lover.

Your lover would not choke you to the brink of death, with nothing but malice urging him on. Perhaps you stopped the ritual from taking his soul, but maybe something else had taken it anyway. And you’re finished making a fool of yourself, hoping he reciprocates a love he cannot give.

When he steps down the stairs, the butter knife that sat on the table seconds before, flies through the air.

Whoever this is, you decide you do you hate him. You’ll force yourself to forget what he was to you if you have to, the same way he did to you. And this time, there is no hesitance or lingering feelings behind your words that represent the weak, naive part of you that can’t help but hold onto memories that no longer matter.

You truly, utterly hate him.

The knife barely flies past his skin, piercing itself into the wall, and it relieves you of the tension that’s weighed on you for the past few months, like plucking a thread from a poorly sewn piece of cloth.

“I won’t miss next time,” you snarl, your words laced with poison and your glare filled with daggers. It's a tone you rarely use on enemies, much less your allies, but all you can think about is your unconscious companion lying behind you.

For once, he looks almost surprised. His eyes are wide, unblinkingly staring at the bloody butter knife that nearly sliced off the tip of his nose before drifting over to you. You heave, your chest rising up and down as you try to catch the breath that doesn’t seem to exist, and he raises both his brows.

“Threatening me with a butter knife? Really?”

You've never threatened him at all, really. Not even when he first asked you for your blood. But now, even that seems like an afterthought.

“Go,” you spit.

He looks at the blood dripping wastefully on the floor, then at you. His face finally falls, but he wets his lips with his tongue glazing over his fangs, and it boils your blood enough to make you lightheaded. And though the breath you’d been grasping at comes back to you when he turns to disappear back upstairs, his parting words do little to ease the squeamish feeling in your stomach.

“I prefer this spiteful part of you far more, darling.”

You fight the urge to use the candle as a weapon next.

Tags:@ayselluna@littleenglishfangirl@bg3obsessedsideblog@iwillpissyourpants@cyberpr1m3@ukeia-uchiha@snowlotr@road-riot@spacekidnova@madislayyy@lordfishflakes@nicalysm@djarinsway@tinystarfishgalaxy@brainz00@hopeful-n-sad@ohdeerieme@madisban@chrismarium@chonkercatto@fanfic-share@bitterrenegade@sleepyred1703@miskouly@ravenswritingroom @iamlowkeycrying @deezus-roy @spiritraves @mariposakitten @dinobae-replyacc @whisperingwillowxox @bdudette @misscrissfemmefatale @atropapurpurea @cosywinterevenings @phoenixgurl030 @generalstephkenobi @shadowsmusical Please let me know if I didn't add you to the list or if you'd like to be added!

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 x reader #fluff #bg3 #angst #angst with a happy ending #maybe

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foone · 1 month ago

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Does anyone else ever have times where they come up with a joke or story and you think it's quite good, but it's for a fandom/subculture/kink-community you don't go to?

Like you write something and you're like "this'd fuck hard... on someone else's blog, but it doesn't belong anywhere near mine!"

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christall77 · 2 years ago

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~❦Caught Feelings❦~

Merman x F!Reader

This is actually my first time writing about falling in love and stuff, so I hope I did good!

The art used doesn't belong to me, but to it's rightful owner @weyowang!

TW: ENTANGLEMENT OF MARINE LIFE, other than that it's pure fluff!

Another fish is wrapped up by a loose fishing line, it was the fifth one today Tullius has come across on his way close to the shore. The lone merman wastes no time and swims over to help the poor puffer fish in need. His long, strong, pale tail pushing him through the water with no effort.

Reaching for the puffed up creature he carefully untangles the thin line from its spikes and removes the hook puncturing it's pectoral fin. Luckily the brown and white spotted fish isn't badly hurt and manages to swim off just fine, deflating in the process. That has become an almost daily routine for the male. Everyday Tullius would swim to the beach located not far away from his shipwreck he calls home and collect various trinkets he found. Helping other sea life on the way if he sees them in trouble.

Tullius himself hasn't been safe from the trash and other gadgets humans have lost, or thrown out to sea. Having the scars and even part of a worn out net wrapped around his tail to prove it. The material dirty and grown with algea and tiny barnacles. It's also one of his reminders why he was shunned and eventually exiled from his previous home. Trying to get it off with the help from others when he couldn't do it alone, only for them to end up chasing him away.

Anything and everything human related is frowned upon in his folk. As more people came to visit the beaches, mermaids and mermen were forbidden to come anywhere close to the surface, by order of their king.

But despite knowing how bad it is for his home which he calls the ocean, he can't help but still be curious and fascinated by humans and their strange knick knacks. There's a whole wooden shelf in the downed ship full of things he's collected. One new strange, or in his eyes, beautiful object found throughout his trips is added daily. The merman doesn't even know where to stock the rest of them he'll find in the future!

Tullius has come to like it out here by himself. It's not like he was well liked before either. Tullius was seen as an outsider already by not having a vibrant color of a tale, or beautiful fins like the others.

Of course he has kept safe distances from the shore to make sure he wouldn't be spotted, but lately he can't stop himself from peeking out of the water every so often. Swimming closer day by day, just to get another glimpse of something. Or more like, someone.

Tullius has seen humans before, but when he first saw you he couldn't take his midnight blue eyes away from your figure walking along the beach. Cradling and comforting a seagull you've rescued from drowning. From this day on he couldn't stop himself from visiting, just to hope to get another glimpse of you from behind a few rocks. His organ in his chest beating faster and a warm giddy feeling spreading throughout Tullius' body. At first he confused the feeling with sickness, or the tiny fish he had for breakfast, swimming around in his belly. But then he remembered, food that's been chewed and eaten can't swim anymore.

The male came to realize, this strange feeling returns whenever he's watching you from the distance, but it's not uncomfortable. No. He likes it. A lot. And it grew as time passed, the longer he watched the more enamored he became.

Tullius desperately wants to get closer to you but, what would you think of him? Would you like him back? Or would you look at him with disgust like his own kind? He sure hopes it's not the latter.

Another dreamy sigh leaves his lips as Tullius rests his head in both of his palms, half of his body leaning on top of the rocky surface on his usual watch spot. White tail lazily swinging back and forth in the blue ocean waters. Admiring your (body type) figure doing small dances while you keep singing to your favorite song that's playing through your earphones. Hardly anyone comes to this part of the beach since it's so secluded and luckily for the merman, you've decided to live in a small hut close by! It just happened recently but he couldn't have been more excited, especially since he gets to see you everyday now.

With a soft smile Tullius listens to your lovely voice, his wine colored ear fins twitching occasionally. No matter how good or terrible your singing is to you, he thinks it's the most beautiful sound in the world. The white haired male would love to sing with you, if he could.

Tullius snaps out from his thoughts when he heard a loud "oof" and thud in the sand. It seems you've stumbled over yourself and landed almost face first into the warm sand, for a second he was worried you might've hurt yourself only to make a quiet noise of relief when you get up unharmed. Immediately ducking behind the rock for cover when you take a look around to make sure no one has seen that clumsy act.

His heart beats against his ripcage hoping you didn't notice him watching, taking a quick peek over again Tullius lets out a small sad grumble when you make your way back into your hut and out of his sight. Yes, he does want to get to know you, but he always just gets too nervous for his own good.

But he told himself to finally approach you, the merman just has no idea how. So he ends up swimming around in circles in deep thought. The sound of panicked splashing suddenly makes him look over to the beach where a poor sea turtle is trying to get into the water. Half of its shell wrapped up tightly in a net which is holding the animal just barely away from the incoming waves. Tullius swims over quickly, looking left and right for any sign of another human around.

The male crawls onto shore and drags himself over, his arms lifting his upper body up from the heated sand, the small ocean waves now just barely reaching his white finned tail. Tullius, like others of his kind can breathe in air just fine, but he still has to hurry before his gills and other fishy half dries out in the hot sun. The animal notices the merman closing in and continues to struggle, sand flying in the air and some landing in his messy locks in the process from its flippers.

As Tullius tries to comfort the turtle his scaled hands grasp onto the net and he tries to pull it away, with no luck. It looks to be wrapped around to tightly, almost suffocatingly for one to just pull it off. And slowly but surely he feels himself get dryer. The tides also seem to go against him as well when he notices the water drawing back and further away from them. His eyes start loosing focus and Tullius can feel himself growing weaker and dizzy, until he collapses onto the sand beside the other sea creature.

In his barely awake state, he notices something approaching in the distance, but he's to weak to react or make a noise that would alert the stranger. They come to a short halt and seem to call out to him, whatever it is they're saying rings through his head in a blur. His lack of response makes them hurry over until they finally reached him. Tullius barely feels his hands being lifted and freed from the net, before being held up and brought to who knows where.

Until he feels himself being submerged into the familiar salty water, he splashes for a short moment before calming down and letting himself float to the surface with relief. Dry skin regaining its needed moisture.

Then his deep blue eyes meet your wide surprised (e/c) ones and he yelps, submerging himself in the shallow water to hide.

“Wait!”, That sweet voice of yours calls out to him and he slowly rises his head to the surface until just the top of his head and eyes are poking out from the water. You try to appear as nonthreatening as possible. Throwing the small knife away which you've used to cut through the seams of the net to free both the sea turtle and merman. With a quick glance down Tullius also discovers the lack of a familiar old net wrapped tightly around him now gone.

Keeping a safe distance and speaking in a calm voice as you show you're empty handed now. “It's OK... I'm not going to harm you. See? I also freed your friend if you're wondering.”

Tullius meanwhile almost can't believe his own eyes, the human girl he's been fawning over for who knows how long has saved him. And she's not afraid of him! He keeps staring at you with big sparkling eyes, ear fins twitching happily. “Can you talk?”, the merman tilts his head once he snaps out of his small daze and shakes his head lightly, small waves rippling around his head. While the male has learned and understands human language, he can't answer. Only communicating with clicks and other noises merfolk would use.

“Ah that would've been cool. I can't believe I'm actually meeting a real mermaid! Uhh merman..?” you let out a small chuckle at the end and look at him with big amazed eyes, not believing that a supposed mythical creature is right in front of you. “My name is (y/n) it's very nice to meet you!”

Tullius let's out a few clicks in return, introducing himself despite knowing you won't understand him either way.

The two of you spend a little more time together, the merman still mostly submerged while you've sat down onto the sand with your feet dipped into the shallow waves. Having what feels like more of a one sided conversation since he can't really talk back. But nonetheless, you still understood the small gestures he would make.

Only when the sun slowly starts to set did both of you notice how late it actually is. Standing up you give the merman a small wave, “It was really nice meeting you, Mr. Merman. I hope we can see each other again some time.”

Tullius perks up at the suggestion that you want to meet him again. Tilting his head slightly to the side he makes a small squeaky sound, wanting to know when that time will be and where you're going. Of course you didn't understand him and assumed he was saying his own goodbye, you give him a sweet smile before returning back to your hut.

The male watching your form getting smaller with his ear fins cast down and a pout forming on his lips. How he wished he could follow after you just to spend more time with you. Oh wait. He can.

~~~

It's around ten at night when all of a sudden you hear something entering your small wooden hut. As if something heavy got knocked over. You left your window open to let the small ocean breeze in, and you never expected someone to actually break in. After all, you're basically alone on this part of the island. You made sure when you rented this hut for your summer holiday. Wanting nothing more but to relax and enjoy the beach without having other people there.

But when you sneaked out of your small kitchen with a frying pan in both hands, just in case, you find that merman you've met earlier today, laying face first on the wooden floor. Lowering your weapon you let out a surprised gasp “You? What are you doing here?”, at the sound of your voice he quickly looks up from the floor with big eyes, a happy purr rumbling through his chest as he sits up to the best of his ability. Seemingly proud that he has found you and entered on his own. Because it was definitely not that easy.

Now that he's out of the water you can finally admire the merman more closely. He seems to be your age, soft looking fair skin with small various shaped scars littering over his entire lean and slender body. Clawed hands littered with wine red fish scales spreading from the back of his hands leading up to his forearms and fading in color until they reach up his elbows, where on each a triangular fin with the same color is situated. Three slits on each side of his neck now visible which you guess are his gills are closed shut to instead breath in the air instead of filtering the oxygen through water.

One long dorsal fin, also colored wine red, travels from the back of his neck down and along his spine to the middle of his white tail where another triangular shaped one connects wandering down right to the end. Two extra pairs on the sides of his hips and the other one further down his tail. They all look like they've either got cut or teared on the edges and you wonder if it's as painful as it looks.

Your (e/c) eyes travel back up to his head where a mop of messy wet white hair just barely covers those beautiful dark blue eyes that seem to glow in the darker corner of your room. The merman crawls closer, making your form stiffen up slightly but you do not dare to make a sudden move.

Once he's just a few feet away from you, Tullius opens his fist he's been kept closed the entire time and reveals a (favorite color) star snail sea shell, holding it towards you. “For me?” The male nods with a chirp avoiding his gaze but glancing back at you to watch your reaction. You carefully take it from him, putting the pan away and look at it with awe exclaiming that you love his gift.

Tullius' tail slaps against the floor in delight, a sharp toothed grin and small blush spreading across his cheeks, seeing that you like his courting gift.

And this is how it would go on for a few weeks. The merman slipping into your home in the middle of the night and bringing you gifts, all the while hanging around with you so long until he has to go into the ocean again. While at day time you'll see him peaking out from the waves waiting for you to come visit him.

You came to know his name after you showed him how to write, being amazed what a quick learner your new merfriend is. The both of you bonded quickly and you would end up spending most of the time with Tullius and getting to learn more about him, as he does about you. Even sharing his collection with you and receiving some as well he's never seen before.

Eventually you come to feel a certain way for the merman, and you were hoping that he would feel the same.

Little did you know, you've already captured his heart way before you even knew him.

But the day where you have to fly back to your home from your vacation came quicker than you could count, and it made you sad about leaving Tullius for who knows how long. You have to tell him how you feel before you're gone from this island. So as per usual the first thing you do this morning, is walking out to the beach looking for the merman. And there he was, waiting for you at his usual spot by the small wooden pier leading to your hut.

Smiling he waves at you and does a few happy flips before climbing up the structure and leaping on top of you for a tight hug making you fall onto the wooden surface. Your clothes getting wet in the process but you don't mind and giggle as he purrs and nuzzles up against you.

Tullius has become more affectionate and clingy the closer you two became, but not in an overbearing or annoying way which you admit you find pretty cute.

As the two of you spend the time together, Tullius still having his arms wrapped around you chin resting on your shoulder while playing with your hair, you reveal to him about your vacation time and you ending up leaving this island. His reaction of course as you imagined makes your chest feel heavy. The merman is now pulling you tightly against him, his ear fins pulled down and whimpering softly, pleading for you to stay with him.

While Tullius understood that you had to go, it was very hard for him to accept it. After all, he just got closer to you and now you have to leave! He's worried you'll leave him forever.

“I know... I'll miss you too... ” Tullius rests his forehead against yours at your words clicking in response. And as a final goodbye he gently cups your cheeks slowly leaning in until his soft wet lips meet yours in a sweet kiss, surprising you but returning it with as much love as he's pouring into the gesture. A promise to him that you will definitely come back and visit him.

He pulls away with reddened cheeks and loving smile, loosening his hold and preparing to go back into the ocean waters. Neither of you wanted to leave but it would make it harder to say goodbye. And before he finally leaves, Tullius gives you one last look back and finally manages to form his usual noises into five simple words that fills your heart with warmth and will stay with you until the time comes that the both of you will meet again.

“I... love... you... forever...(y/n).”

#x reader #mythical beings #reader insert #female reader #merfolk #merman #fluff #merman x reader #y/n #monster x y/n #monster x reader

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