#you can just feel it in the bones of the series

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (49/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Climbing up the mountain can be very freeing.

Warnings: angst (self-doubt, insecurities, mentions of abuse in a relationship, Charles is very insecure about himself), the end is a bit fluffy, but don't expect too much

Word Count: 4.1k

series masterlist

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A/N: I feel like this describes Charles well. I cried when writing this chapter. I hope you like it. feedback is appreciated.

It is the first time in years that Charles has no desire to climb the mountain on those stupid skis. 

His feet hurt, he is cold even though the jacket he is wearing is suitable for even colder temperatures, and his hands are so stiff from the frigid air that they painfully curl around his ski poles. 

The snow blinds him because of the bright sun, his bones feel heavy, somehow his mouth is so dry that he would like to rinse it with water every five meters.

But maybe that's just because he'd rather be at home in Monaco. Because that's where you are. And there is no place he would rather be right now. 

Closing the door behind him and leaving you alone in the apartment was incredibly difficult. He would have loved to put you in his bag and take you with him, but you would only have distracted him from training. 

And if he wants to be world champion one day, he can't afford to make any mistakes. 

It's been two days since he's seen you and heard your voice. In the morning, when he wakes up and gets ready for the day, you are still fast asleep, and during his training, Andrea has his phone so that Charles can collect his thoughts and stay focused. Only in the evening, when Charles is in bed, he manages to text you a few messages before falling asleep, cell phone in hand, completely exhausted. 

He misses you every second. 

Before he met you, he would never have imagined that he could miss someone he had only known for a few days so much. He had missed Annika from time to time, after all, he had definitely loved her at some point, but he had never longed for her or anyone else the way he did for you now. 

As soon as he has a moment to himself, whether it's in the shower or on the toilet or when Andrea isn't bothering him with calories or carbohydrates or protein for a moment, he misses you so much that he can almost feel the physical distance between you. 

But most of all, he misses you in the morning when he wakes up. When he is in that one second when he is neither sleeping nor fully awake. Snuggled up warm in the blanket and against the pillow, where in the evening he imagines it would be your body that he is snuggling up to. And in the morning, for a brief moment, it feels as if you are actually lying next to him, which is why the second he realizes that you are miles away from him hurts the most. 

“Are you okay?” Andrea asks, who has slowed down a little to run up the hill next to Charles. ”You're suspiciously quiet.”

Charles, who hasn't realized that he has slowed down at all, looks at his trainer in confusion. “Yes, I'm fine. Why do you ask?”

Andrea shrugs. ”Usually you're chattering away at me during training. That usually helps you to distract yourself from how exhausting it is.”

He has a point there. Charles pushes himself forward on his skis. “I don't know. This time I don't feel like you're torturing me up this mountain. It's still the same route we usually take, isn't it?” He looks around as if he can recognize the surroundings. 

Andrea raises his eyebrows and also picks up the pace. ‘We're in a completely different area, Charles.’ He points to another mountain with his gloved hand.

If his friend hadn't told him, the man from Monaco would never have noticed, so absorbed is he in his thoughts about you. The mountain Andrea is pointing to seems more familiar to him than the one in front of them. And a lot smaller. If they had taken the familiar route, they would have been at the summit long ago. 

“You asshole,” Charles curses and wipes his face. ‘Why did you choose a different mountain? And especially one that's higher?”

Andrea can't help but grin. ’You came in second in the championship this year. I'm hoping that if we increase your training, you'll come in first next season and...”

“And what?” Charles interrupts his trainer. "The whole thing is useless if my strategists and the whole team mess up so much during the race. I can train as much as I want. It won't work." He gets so caught up in it that he doesn't notice how quickly he pushes himself up the mountain on his skis. 

“Charles –”

“No, Andrea. This whole thing cost me the title. Wrong tires? Last-minute changes in the pit? What the hell?” he gets worked up. He knows that his anger is unfairly directed at the wrong person, after all Andrea is only there for Charles's well-being and not for what happens on the track, but it just comes spilling out. And he can't stop it. 

His ski poles dig deep into the white snow, which Charles barely notices. He only sees the summit in front of him and hears Andrea breathing loudly next to him as he continues to complain. 

“It's not right that I come in second because of such little things! If I had caused accidents, then at least it would have been my fault and I could have dealt with it more easily,” he says, annoyed. ”But what kind of stupid plans were these, anyway? Even a toddler could come up with a better strategy!”

Andrea, who knows full well that Charles needs to vent his anger, walks quietly beside him and lets the storm pass over him. It's not often that Charles gets this angry. And normally he blames himself, but he certainly doesn't take such serious mistakes on his head. 

Charles knows that making mistakes is an inevitable part of competition, and sometimes, they're the difference between standing at the top of the podium and finishing second. Being the runner-up in a championship can feel bittersweet – so close to victory, yet just short of it. 

Being second in the championship feels like a mix of pride and frustration. On one hand, Charles has achieved something incredible – outperforming almost everyone, proving his skill and showing that he deserves to sit in the red car with the horse on it. But on the other hand, there's that lingering thought inside of his head – he was so close. The tiniest mistakes, the small miscalculations in his strategies, or someone else having a slightly better day made the difference in the end. 

There's this ache inside of him, knowing he was almost the champion. The podium felt different when he looked up at Max Verstappen holding the trophy he desperately craved. Charles felt a lot of things in that moment – disappointment, regret and even anger – at himself, the situation, the team and at the margin that kept him from winning. 

“I could have won the title. Max will definitely win the next season too, as strong as Red Bull is. How will I ever live up to my reputation then?” He clenches his jaw. ”I feel like I'm stuck with what I'm doing now. And I'm doing my best, Andrea. I really am. But it's apparently not enough. Do you know how incredibly frustrating that is?”

Being second carries a unique weight – a strange middle ground between triumph and heartbreak. And hell, Charles heart broke with every race that put more distance between his and Max's points. He feels like a failure, like he failed his team, his family and friends. He failed his fans, that support him through every decision he makes on and off track, that defend him whenever he makes a mistake during races. 

And it haunts him. What if he had pushed just a little harder, made one less mistake, reacted a second faster? What if he made a different decision that would've outweighed the mistakes his team made? What if he became world champion in the famous red car he worked so hard to get into? The famous red car that his dad loved so much?

Disappointing his dad was the worst part of it all. It was a different kind of pain, heavy and crushing. It's not just about failing at something – Charles feels like he simply isn't good enough. Like he let someone down who believed in him. He could have been champion this year – he was so close to standing on top of the podium. What if he never gets this close to winning? What if he never holds the big trophy in his hands, dedicating it to his dad, who always wanted to see him drive in the Ferrari?

Charles' anger has been building up for so long that he doesn't know where to put it. If only he had concentrated more on the season and hadn't been so distracted by his personal problems - 

“And Annika. What a waste of time the whole thing was. I should never have gotten involved with her. I should have ended the relationship when I realized that she wasn't the one. When I realized that I couldn't give her the attention that a healthy relationship requires.”

Charles would never admit it, but Annika’s betrayal in their relationship cut deeper than expected. It’s not just about broken promises – it’s about broken trust, the foundation of any meaningful connection. It shook everything Charles believed to be true about Annika – or love in general. 

The worst part wasn’t the act itself or that he caught them right in the act, but the realization that someone he trusted with his heart made the choice to hurt him. After the break-up he questioned everything – was any of it real? Was Annika lying to him the whole time? Even after everything, the wounds linger. 

Some betrayals are survivable with time and effort, but others leave scars that never fully heal. They change people – it changed Charles. It hardened his heart, made love feel dangerous to him and made him create walls where there once was openness. 

He guarded himself like a survival instinct. At first, it was solely for protection – he told himself that if he didn’t let anyone in, nobody could hurt him. The walls became his shield, keeping out disappointment, rejection, and the risk of being vulnerable again. 

But over the course of the weeks, Charles noticed the walls he put up brick by brick didn’t just keep the pain out – they kept everything out. Love. Connection. The chance to feel something real. Hell, he didn’t even tell his Maman that he was back home in Monaco. He pushed his family away, his friends, acting cold and distant – not because he didn’t want love, but because he’s so scared of what happened when he let someone else in. 

It took Charles some time to figure out the truth, that the walls didn’t keep him safe and sound – they kept him stuck. They stopped him from healing, from growing, from experiencing the things that make life meaningful. But he was so scared of breaking them down when it took him so long to put them up, that he didn’t know what to do when he met you. 

It was terrifying, letting you in slowly and hesitantly. He’s spent so long guarding himself, convincing himself that no one except his close ones can be trusted, that it almost felt unnatural to let you in. At first, he resisted, kept his distance. But the fact that you didn’t even know who he was felt so good, made him feel safe to share his story with you and then – you stayed. You didn’t push too hard, but you didn’t walk away either. 

Surely, this friendship has had it’s ups and downs, but this is what happenes when two people, who protected themselves so much that they become too careful, too hesitant to let someone in fully. 

And instead of forcing your way through, you waited. You were there. You proved in small, consistent ways, that you’re not like the woman who made him built those walls in the first place. 

And then, without realizing it, he stopped expecting the worst. He let you see his wounds, his fears, his past, and instead of running, you stayed. You stayed with him through awkward dinner conversations about his ex, you stayed with him when he didn’t correct his family about your relationship status, you stayed when he overstepped the boundaries of your friendship. Your gentle touch, your honest conversations while burning Annika’s things. 

You stayed when he revealed to you who he really is. You see him – the real him – and don’t flinch at what you see. Little by little, cracks form in his defenses. He finds himself wanting to trust again, to love again, even though it scares him to death. 

When you look at him, it feels like sunlight creeping through the cracks in the fortress he thought were unbreakable. It was unsettling at first after being in the dark for some time. But you didn’t break down his walls in a dramatic, earth-shattering way. 

It was quiet. Subtle. It sneaked up to him in moments he didn’t even realize – they way you looked at him when he played your song on the piano in the bookshop, when you let him hold you while you cried like his arms were the safest place in the world, when you showed him that you want him for who he is. 

But even though you broke down most of his walls, he still can’t admit that you’re all he needs. 

He can’t let you in fully after what Annika did to him, he can’t let you touch him like he wants you to. He can’t let himself feel so much for you because what if those feelings he has for you – the feelings he swore he’d never harbour for anyone again – are not enough for you?

What if he gives you his all and you decide that it’s not enough? That he is not enough? He can’t tell you why he doesn’t want you to touch him, because what if you’ll see him differently? What if the things he wants, he needs, are different from what you want? 

He feels like he isn’t good enough. The scars Annika left on him made him question his worth, his value, his ability to be loved. There are moments where he feels too far gone, too damaged, not strong enough to break free from the fear of losing you that he’d rather keep you at arms length hurting himself than push you away and out of his life. 

He can’t let you touch him after Annika, because sex with her felt wrong, like he was broken because he wanted different things than her. Because he craved intimacy like his life depended on it, the safety that comes with it, but it always felt like he needed to deliver, even if he didn’t want to. It felt like a chore, no gentle touches or loving words, only demanding hands and lips and thighs and he swore to himself he’ll never let it happen again. 

If you don’t touch him at all, there’s no chance you could hurt him like that.

He’d rather give you all he’s able to give instead of letting you return anything.

“I could have waited for…”

“Charles.” Andreas‘ voice is gentle and soothing, in contrast to Charles’. When the man from Monaco looks at his friend, he smiles at him. ”We're here.”

The wind howls at the summit, biting and cold, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t feel it. He can’t feel anything except the weight that presses down on his chest. He stands there on top oft he world – and all the space in the world couldn’t quiet the chaos inside him. 

Andrea chose this route to help Charles clear his head, the mountain was supposed to be his escape, his victory. He climbed every inch of it, each slide of his skis pushing him further from the mess he feels inside. The view from the top is actually breathtaking: endless stretches of jagged peaks, skies that feel closer than ever. He should feel something – pride, accomplishment, freedom. But instead, there’s only the overwhelming silence that gnawed at him. 

For a moment, everything is still. He pulls his beanie and glasses from his head, closing his eyes and trying to ground himself in the beauty around him, but the images, the memories, everything – it all comes flooding back. The things he can’t outrun. The words that had been sad. The choices that had left him fractured and alone. 

A sob caught in his throat, sharp and unexpected and he falls to his knees in the white snow at his feet. The tries to fight it, but the tears come anyway – slow at first, then faster and harder. They burn against the cold wind, mixing with the salt of the sweat on his skin – and he can’t stop them. 

They stand for everything he hasn’t been able to say, everything he has be scared to face. He thought he could bury it, hide it behind the walls he built, behind the distance from it all. 

His hand tremble on his thighs, his chest tightening with every broken breath. His vision blurred, the edges oft he mountain fading into the background. It doesn’t matter that he’s at the top – he feels smaller than ever. The tears slip down his cheeks like a rush of a river too long dammed. 

„I’m not enough“, he whispered almost unaudibly. A confession only the mountains and his friend could hear. „I’m never going to be enough.“

The world stretched out before him, magnificent and indifferent, and in that moment, he realized that being on top oft he mountain didn’t mean escaping it all. He had climbed all this way, but he couldn’t outrun himself. The hurt, the mistakes, the weight of everything he’d buried deep inside. 

He doesnt flinch when he feels Andrea’s hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing and reassuring him that whatever he feels right now is okay. That the tears that fall down onto the snow have their right to exist after being bottled up for so long. 

The sobs faded, leaving him gasping for air in the stillness of the summit. He wiped his face, trying to wipe away the brokennes, but it lingered in his chest. His hands still trembling from the release, from the rawness that had bubbled to the surface. For a long moment, he just sits there, the wind biting at him, the emptiness inside him as a vast as the world stretched out before him. 

And then it hit him, like a sudden punch that knocked the breath from his lungs. 

You. 

Your laugh. Your smile. The way you always seem to know what he’s thinking, the way you care in the quietest ways – how you’ve been there for him, even when he pushed you away. How, despite everything, you stayed. 

He tried so hard to tell himself that he’s better off alone, that he doesn’t need anyone else to fill the empty spaces inside him. He thought he could bury his feelings, run from the truth. He has told himself that love was something to fear, something that could trap him, break him, leave him just as broken as he’d been before.

But now, sitting on top of the world, it all makes sense. 

He loves you. He always has. He can feel it in every part of him, the truth that has been there all along, buried under layers of fear and pride. It’s not something he can outrun, not anymore. He can’t ignore the way his heart always beats faster when you’re near, the way everything seems to fall into place when you smile at him, the way your presence has been the one thing that feels like home. 

The moment of realization hits him like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. It’s undeniable. 

He loves you.

Not in the casual, passing way he once tried to convice himself was enough for his relationship with Annika, but in a deeper, truer sense. It’s always been you – only you. Right from the start when the both of you stood in the small apartment. 

But the weight o fit, the sheer force of that truth, felt like it could crush him, especially when he realizes how long he’s been running from it. 

His heart races, pounding hard in his chest, but it isn’t the kind of excitement he thought would come with such a revelation. Instead, it is quiet terror. The terror of feeling too much. Of feeling anything at all. 

His breath comes in shallow gasps as the cold mountain air cuts through him. It isn’t the altitude or the wind that chills him – it’s the fear of being too vulnerable again. Of letting anyone close enough to hurt him. The thought of telling you, of exposing his raw, vulnerable part of himself, feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with no way to climb back down. 

He stares out over the vast horizon, the world stretching out endlessly beneath him, and for a moment, he considers it. The possibility of going back, of telling you everything he has just realized. But the thought of your eyes on him, the weight of the words, the vulnerability—it‘s too much. Too raw. Too dangerous.

So, he stays silent. He stays with the truth, buried deep inside of him. The love he feels for you is now his secret, locked away like a fragile thing, too delicate to share. He can‘t find the courage to let it out—not now, not after everything that had happened.

But there is something about knowing, about feeling it — just knowing that he can love again — that makes the world feel a little less heavy. It isn’t perfect, and it doesn‘t fix everything, but it is enough. For the first time in a long time, he doesn‘t feel so broken. He isn’t empty. He is filled with something — something soft, something he thought was gone forever.

Maybe he isn’t ready to tell you. Maybe he will never be ready. But the knowledge that love still exists in him — that it can still find him, even after everything — is enough to hold onto for now. It isn’t a victory, not in the way he wants, but it is a beginning. And in that, there is a quiet peace. A peace that, despite all the fear and hesitation, he coul still feel, still hope.

And that, for the moment, is enough.

[sharky-teeth]

anyone looking for more wincest fic recs?? nobody?? okay here you go anyway. i have a bunch of fics i couldn't fit into the other list, so i needed to make a brand new one with more variety this time around. i organized it by wordcount to make things easier, however i rarely read long fics, so these are mostly pretty short. once again this list got way out of hand...

(for mature or explicit rating, you can assume it's [sometimes implied] bottom sam, or it isn't discussed. for bottom dean or versatile samdean, i made a small separate section of my favorites.)

1k~5k

Remember the Mountain Bed by nigeltde (G, 1k): post canon. sam and dean jr. one of the only fics that have ever made me cry and with only a thousand words! this one is so very dear to my heart, heartbreaking in its details, yet warm and soothing at the same time. just gorgeous.

Are You by lovetincture (G, 1k): one of my favorite gen fics. i adore second person POV and this is a great example of how it can maximize impact.

I Was the Dirty Little Boy (E, 1k): a quick weecest sparring session turning into spanking... you know. the good stuff.

Stealth Run by LaughableLament (E, 1k): late seasons + established relationship + possessive dean + slutty sam. i love this author a lot.

State of Mind by lovetincture (M, 2k): the summary goes "It's legal in the state of Ohio." yes it is as good as suggested. the tension in this fic mwahh

The Euphoria Emporium by Laughable_Lament (E, 2k): sam and dean visit a sex shop and dean gets jealous. quick and nasty.

Be Mine by De_Nugis (T, 2k): first part of a short series. for people who love silly, goofy samdean. this is no plot, pure crack. the kind that actually makes you laugh out loud.

Dating for Dummies by sevenfists (M, 3k): there's not enough first time aftermath fics. this has ruined me because it is the exact level of lighthearted i love, where the brothers continue being brothers first and foremost, even after boning.

We Are Drinking Beer at Noon on Tuesday by whirlpoolsleep (M, 3k): neat outsider POV. always love seeing the brothers through normal people's eyes.

With Mercy for the Greedy by whiskyandoldspice (E, 3k): unmatched weecest pwp. the amount of hits/kudos doesn't always mean quality but for this one it absolutely does. this is pretty much flawless in my eyes.

August 5th, 2001 by coricomile (M, 4k): established weecest! this was cute and tender with the right amount of angst surrounding sam's imminent departure. bittersweet ending.

Run It All Over by runawaydr3amer (E, 4k): first part of a series. the classic "brotherly handjobs" scenario, but it immediately stood out to me. really on point voices and hot amosphere.

Dean's palm would be rougher by FrancesHouseman (M, 4k): hand kink! i think we can all relate to sam here. this has a scene that's hotter than many pwps i've read lol

Know when to walk away and know when to run by deirdre_c (E, 4k): brothers playing strip poker goes too far... set in s3. great sexual tension and a super satisfying first time.

At Least It's Only One Song by ADeedWithoutaName (E, 4k): dean-gifting-sam-a-lap-dance fic. another outsider POV with an instantly likable OC. she can tell there's something off about those guys...

sticks and stones and weed and bones by aeroport_art (M, 5k): sam seeing a therapist at stanford. really great character study and winchester family dynamics. the conclusion to this story is just... crazy. so well done.

Shadows on the Sun by Linden (M, 5k): soft weecest first kiss! the thing i liked most in this story is how protective they both are. nice brotherly feelings.

wretched creation (M, 5k): one of my favorite reads of last year! criminally underrated work with less than a thousand hits. angsty feels and an unsettling atmosphere. dean facing a demon who knows more about his feelings toward his little brother than he'd like.

Forty-One by themegalosaurus (E, 5k): angsty unnegotiated kinky sex with lots of hell trauma. the kind of porn that's so nuanced and well written it doesn't get me horny (that's a compliment!)

Monumentally Stupid by strive2bhappy (5k): dean helps sam shave and it was hotter than i could ever imagine. great banter, tension, and emotional weight.

Double Solitaire by objectlesson (M, 5k): post mystery spot. amazing character study through a very creative concept. this is one of the authors who really knew how to write dysfunctional wincest.

6k~10k

this bullet inside me by missroserose (E, 6k): who's up for angsty first time in a long time? if you enjoy hathfrozen (i'm sure you do), this will definitely hit a similar spot.

Belonging by strive2bhappy (6k): wifey sam. i repeat Wifey Sam!!!

Lucky Streak by merle_p (M, 6k): thirsty pining done so right. incest that gives you butterflies in the stomach, believe it or not.

You Can't Lose What You Never Had by nigeltde (E, 6k): nigeltde is an incredible writer. from beginning to end this fic is insane. angsty, desperate, emotional, shameful, this takes you on a rollercoaster of emotions. top notch characterization.

How it Works by Dyed_Red (M, 6k): this is probably in my top ten fics of all time, peak codependent, obsessive, dysfunctional samdean. this particular fic really nails their dynamic and the most delicious, fucked up aspects of it.

Taking to Give by Dyed_Red (M, 7k): lovely character study. this one is a bit softer than most Dyed_Red works, it offers an emotional view of sam and dean growing up. heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time.

Wire Inside Me by merle_p (E, 7k): the sam-is-carrying-lucifer's-baby fic. this story is great for how it deals with the pregnancy pushing dean over the edge. the first time tension here is excellent!

Dean is badass. Sam has always known it. by FrancesHouseman (E, 7k): very interesting dynamic with sam and dean playing mind games to see who gives in first. i like this cocky sam a lot.

Hush Little Baby by hellhoundsprey (E, 7k): CNC weecest. sam and dean go to a haunted house and get up to some nasty freaky shit. it's even better than you can imagine. fyi there's dean in a clown costume.

they said it was the fall of man by jukeboxhound (M, 7k): set in s6, the aftermath of sam getting his soul back through dean's POV. pure angst and overwhelming emotions, beautifully written, it hurt so good.

Man of Steel by glovered (T, 8k): THE lighthearted incest fic for me. along the lines of paxlux's 'Artery', at least to me. this borders on crack, a hilarious, feel-good story that always makes me smile when i think about it.

Disney Princess Hair by Dyed_Red (T, 8k): gencest/weirdcest in its best shape. sam as sleeping beauty! and obviously dean being very very very weird about handling the curse. i loved how this touched on the obsessive aspects of their relationship while keeping the tone light.

Architecture of Choice by Dyed_Red (E, 9k): yes another Dyed_Red work bc they're my favorite author. this one has one of my fave tropes (fuck or die) and it deals with sam's lack of bodily autonomy in a visceral way.

Pull over by jjtaylor (E, 9k): for my piss play enjoyers! this has lots of great tension and it goes way beyond kinky sex.

This Is All Very Meta by road_rhythm (E, 10k): loss of virginity roleplay fic. except it's sooo much more than that. i thought this would be fun and lighthearted, couldn't have been more wrong. the emotional depth delivered here caught me by surprise, but it shouldn't have, given the author. flawless characterization as usual.

God will forgive me but by sammyatstanford (E, 10k): weecest with lots of pining!sam and angsty yearning. brothers who need each other in sick, twisted ways. there was also a great amount of actual brotherly feelings, which is always a plus in my book.

>10k

Acid by Goshen (E, 12k): to this day one of the most insane things ever written. this fic is a classic, it's a surreal experience, a fever dream. dissecting the brotherfuckers, no stone left unturned.

Baby Blue by Edwardina (E, 13k): sam gets hit with a curse that makes him need to suck on a pacifier 24/7. it turned out to be way less sexual than i expected, this is for caretaker!dean lovers.

Learn to say the same thing by glovered (T, 14k): great case fic. sam and dean go to a single's retreat in the mountains for a case and eventually have to confront their incestuous feelings. every glovered fic just fills me with joy.

Supersize Me, Sammy by awabubbles (E, 16k): sadly one of the only size queen sam fics ever written, but it is absolutely perfect so i made my peace with that.

Only Natural (Be My Hands) (E, 17k): sam manages to break both his wrists so dean steps up to take care of his needs. and i mean all of his needs.

Relapse by ani_coolgirl (M, 21k): lebanon AU. i adore this fic, i'm in love with it, i think about it all the time and will think about it forever probably. everything here was done incredibly well, one of those fics that feel specifically made for me lol

Edges by glovered (M, 23k): amazing banter and lots of UST. set in stanford era but it's not really angsty. the tone was just perfect for me, this fic had me GIDDY.

Driving Down the Darkness by Nutkin (M, 39k): one of my faves in terms of Brotherly Feels. extremely well written and thoughtful, super slow burn. outstanding early seasons getting together fic that everyone should read.

Like a Ghost with Two Voices by Dyed_Red (E, 46k): my favorite demon!dean fic. some of the wildest scenes i've ever read. pretty disturbing and incredibly delicious. if you're into fucked up consent stuff, this is a must read. it has a happy ending!

bottom dean and versatile samdean recs:

Take Backs by saltandbyrne (E, 2k): swesson + switching. hands down one of the best PWPs i've ever read, which was to be expected from saltandbyrne. it really doesn't get filthier than this.

How to Wear Polka Dots by homo_pink (M, 6k): swesson. this one is so so weird. and so charming. interesting and refreshing writing style, i had so much fun reading this.

Here's Your Future by autoschediastic (E, 7k): weecest with teasing!dean for a change. loved the power dynamics here, and the intensity throughout the whole fic. desperate, guilty first time, badwrong at its finest.

Enduring Love by oschun (E, 7k): really enjoyed the relationship study here, insightful and well written.

there will be better days by deadlybride (E, 9k): my favorite heaven fic! so warm and peaceful and emotional, full of love and longing and happy reunited soulmates. just thinking about this story makes my heart ache in the best way. really really beautiful.

Yeah, I'm a Back Door Man (E, 22k): established relationship. dean's hell trauma. this was a rollercoaster, great character study, good mix of angst and schmoop as well. probably the best bottom dean i've read so far (along with a couple Goshen works)

Yesterday, minnesota by Goshen: (E, 29k): speaking of applecrumbledore... this fic truly rewired my brain. the queen of "fucking for years without talking about it until one of them snaps". brilliantly executed, one of my favorite deans ever.

yay it's finally over! still i wish i had more long fics to rec lmao do check tags carefully before reading! enjoy the wincest goodness!

[stayevildarling]

Agatha Harkness x Reader- She‘s got away- Part 1

A/N: this is part one of a series based on this poll. I hope you enjoy. I am very open to any requests for this series or any notes. my inbox is always open🤍

tw/tags: westview agatha, female reader, very slight mention of abuse, angst, slight manipulation

word count: 2.1k

taglist:

@lunaticwhittaker , @billiebeanhoward , @lanawinters-ily , @kenzbro , @minaslittleone , @httpfiftyshadesofgay @whitelotus00 , @ninaahelvar , @paulsonsratched , @vintagepaulson , @isle-of-earle , @grilledcheeseandguavajelly , @lucyintheskywithxanax , @fanfics4world , @mymiraclewitch , @hazard-to-myself , @awritersometimes , @wastdstime , @p1pecleanerwitheyes , @queen2234 , @ihartnat , @lifebyinez , @ahsatanizgay, @laavaagirl, @wtfffisgoingon, @milflovers4

As you stand by the bus station, the bright flickering neon lights blur your view a little. Meanwhile, all you can feel is rain, heavy and cold as you try to find shelter near the ticket booth. The place smells old, the kind of old that meant many people had moved through here before, nostalgic. You could almost feel people‘s stories, passing through on their way to a better life, getting ready to take a leap and meet someone or move for a job. But the rain reminded you of the sadder ones, the people who ran away from their life in order to find a better and safer one.

You stand beneath the flickering yellow lights, hands holding onto the strap of your duffle bag like it‘s the only thing keeping you standing . Your breathing fogs in the cold and for a moment you regret grabbing the coat you are wearing so hastily a few hours before, feeling the cold seeping into every part of your body. But you didn‘t have a plan, no time to pack properly or to plan where you are going. You just picked up the things you could, wallet, phone and some clothes and essentials before running, without looking back.

The sound of old squeaky tires causes you to look up and you sigh in relief when seeing the bus approach. The doors hiss open and you climb aboard, sinking into a seat near the back by the window, pulling your hood up and trying hard to stop your body from shaking. You glance at the timetable on your phone one more time, seeing it going through the city before heading to remote areas, some of them places you never heard of before. As the bus leaves, you decide to do some research, seeing your phone being on low battery and wanting to find the right stop to get off.

Westview. Your eyes eventually fall upon it despite how your eyes burn, wanting nothing more than to find some rest. Once you researched the population and how truly small and boring it seemed according to the internet, you settle on it, having never heard of it before. But it was perfect as it meant no one would think to look for you there.

The ride is long, hours pass in silence and even though you did manage to grab your headphones in order to listen to some music, of course your phone was by now dead and with how run down this bus is, there are no charging plugs either. And so the silence stretches for hours, only broken by the occasional murmurs of another passanger, the sound of the road beneath you. You keep your head down, seeing the city lights slowly fading replaced by a pure darkness. One that undeniably matched how you felt inside.

No matter how hard you tried to stay awake, keep your guard up and stay safe, your eyes eventually grow heavy, too heavy. You had been running for days, for years technically but never physically until a few days ago and the exhaustion lingered in your bones, the cold still seeped into your muscles and eventually your body took over, eyes closing and finally getting some rest at last. Despite it being hours later, it feels like minutes when your heart slams in your chest, eyes widening when the bus jolts and the intercom startles you.

„Westview. Last stop“ the driver announces and you are quick to wipe your face, forcing yourself to move despite how much it is aching at this point. As soon as you finally step off the bus it feels like being on another planet. The silence of the night makes you feel uneasy, always having lived in cities so far and it buzzing no matter what time of the night. As you walk through the quiet streets of the town you feel like you are frozen in time. A single main street with a few shops, a diner with a big neon „Open�� sign, a gas station that looked almost abandoned. The only noise is the quiet hum of the streetlights and for the first time tonight you begin to regret, realizing there aren‘t any big hotels and questioning whether you maybe should have planned this one a little better.

The first place you wanted to stop was the diner, feeling incredibly hungry as you couldn‘t quite remember the last time you ate, the last few days having passed in a blur. The last bottle of water you finished hours ago but you carried on, wanting nothing more than to finally find a warm place to stay, even if it was just for the night before moving on. And so first you try a motel, finding it on a map near a bus stop but as you walked to the front desk, a woman in a knitted sweater barely glanced at you from her magazine before announcing they are full.

The next place was some kind of bed and breakfast but the owner, an older man also turned you away, explaining they had no vacancies. There was no suggestion, no alternative, a simple no. And you began wondering why everyone had been so strange, considering how late it was, the fact that they would turn a young woman away without even trying to be helpful or at least offer a friendly smile.

In the end, you do settle on the diner, sinking into a chair before ordering some coffee with the loose change you had left in your coat pocket from the bus ticket change. The middle aged man serving you coffee in an apron seemed much more friendly and by the time he came around to ask if you needed anything else, some food perhaps, you take your chance considering you aren‘t only running out of options but also time. You clear your throat before speaking „Do you perhaps know any place I could stay for the night? I tried the motel and b&b but they are full“ you announce trying to keep a friendly smile and hide your desperation.

His eyebrows furrow before he questions „The B&B full?“ the edge of surprise in his tone confuses you but you simply nod. He exhales sharply before rubbing his chin, he did seem like he wanted to help you „Not much else in town, I‘m afraid“ he sighs before your stomach twists at his words. „Nowhere? I just need a bed“ you sigh in frustration before he nods understandingly. „Not unless you know someone“ he adds.

By your expression he could tell you didn‘t but before he could respond another men sitting at the bar called him over and your last flicker of hope left. It isn‘t until you put your change on the counter, grabbing your bag and getting up before there is a thud. You didn‘t notice the woman in the booth behind you until you walked straight into her. The impact sends you backwards for a moment before you bend down to pick up your bag „Sorry..“ you begin before looking up but you aren‘t prepared for who you just bumped into.

The woman is smirking, not in an irritating way, not surprising but simply amused, almost as if she anticipated this. Her hair is darkly curled, face sharp with high cheekbones, knowing blue eyes. She was older than you but not old. Her body is coated in a dark purple long coat that looked expensive, almost as if she didn‘t belong to a town this size.

„Well well“ she mutters, voice smooth but almost etched with something teasing. „You look a little lost there darling“ she chuckles which causes your throat to tighten „I..“ you try to speak but nothing comes out and she tilts her head as she scans you. She could sense the exhaustion, seeing how your knuckles are white from gripping the bag on your shoulders, dark circles under your eyes, a deep sadness behind your eyes and body trembling from what she assumes to be the cold out there. But she could see something else, something deep behind your eyes, knowing there must be more to the girl that looked so rough but beautiful at the same time.

She sighs, almost dramatically „You‘re new“ she says, not even questioning it but you assume with a town this size it wasn‘t really anything out of the ordinary to notice new faces. You nod before she carries on „I heard you are looking for a place to stay“ and for a moment you hesitate, realizing how strange it was that she listened to your conversation despite how quiet you had mumbled the words to the waiter before. „Yeah“ you swallow before her smirk deepens.

„Well aren‘t you in luck? I have got a room for you“ she smirks and for a moment you feel like running but there is something safe in her smirk, not in a threatening way but one that you can‘t quite place but by now being able to tell it wasn‘t something evil. Still every fiber of your being wanted to turn around and say no but glancing at the quiet town out there, you knew there wasn‘t any alternative, no busses now and the only option the small bus stop to sleep.

„How much?“ you ask a little hesitantly before she chuckles „Depends sweetheart, how long are you planning on staying?“ she asks and by your silence she can tell that you had no idea. You should be questioning her, where does she live? why is she offering a stranger her home? who is she? but instead all you do is stay silent and lock eyes with her.

„Not too much, definitely cheaper than the B&B or Inn, my name is Agatha by the way, Agatha Harkness“ she offers and you barely nod before she turns, walking to the door. „Come on“ she calls over her shoulder „Before you freeze to death out here“ she winks and before you can even think further your feet follow her, out of the diner, into her car and eventually into her home. Her house is on the edge of town, in a quiet street, two stories, wood and a wide porch.

After she unlocks the door she steps inside, taking off her coat and turning the lights on. You hover in the doorway, seeing how the rest of her body is equally clothed in shades of purple, some old looking jewrely coating her neck and fingers. „Well?“ she pulls you out of your thoughts and you blink before stepping inside, still a little hesitantly.

„Relax sweetheart, I don‘t bite“ she sighs as she offers to take your bag and sets it down. There is a pause before she smirks again „Unless you ask nicely“. Your stomach drops as you gulp but before you could respond, she turns around, leading you through the house, past some furniture, warm light and the smell of something herbal.

Eventually you reach a wooden door at the end of the hall and she pushes it open „Here“ she exclaims leading you into a warmly lit room, a rather large bed, a small window and a dresser. It seems like she must have used it as a guest or spare room because really it wasn‘t much but it was safe and oddly enough the woman made you feel safe. She steps inside, setting your bag down on the bed for you before walking over to the heater and making sure it‘s warm enough. „Towels and spare bedding in here, bathroom is opposite this room and you are welcome to use the kitchen at any time“ she announces with a friendly smile and you nod before watching her leave.

„Than- Thank you Ms Harkness“ you remember your manners and she smirks before she chuckles lowly „Agatha please dear“ she corrects you as your eyes meet and you simply nod before she leaves, shutting the door behind her and finally allowing you to sink into a warm bed. And hours later as you lay in said bed, listenting to the wind rattling in the older house, you can‘t shake the inner turmoil, part of you not trusting this stranger as she didn‘t seem like the kind of woman to just rent out a room.

It feels as if she had been waiting for you, as if every moment since buying the bus ticket led you right here into her home. But before you can think about it further, your body finally relaxes, feeling the cold that clung to you before leaving and replaced by the warmth of the room and covers. And so at last sleep washes over you as you feel the warmth of the strange ladies house elop you.

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter five: taste test

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter Four |🩸 Chapter Six (Coming Soon)

🩸Full Chapter List |🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter Summary: Naomi has words with her alleged ‘husband’.

Chapter CW: Chapter includes a brief discussion about fear of sexual assault having occurred. No sexual assault occurred.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“When a vampire is created in the traditional manner…the new fledgeling instinctively understands much about the vampiric way of unlife, and about its own strengths, weaknesses, and needs. Not so the bride. Newly-created brides are generally ignorant of their own capabilities.”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

“You’ve forgotten yourself, sister.”

The voice chills her. 

Naomi’s legs dangle over the cliff’s sheer edge, clouded by the rising steam from the hot springs below. She’s spent her entire life down here in the thick heat of the Underdark, among the towering violet stalactites, in Eilistraeen temple nestled between them. 

There’s a razor thin slice of sunlight that cuts across the turquoise waters below, cast down from somewhere so high and far away, it might as well be a fantasy. Naomi’s never seen the surface, or the sun that boils above it. One day, she wants to.

She’s never felt the frost of winter, either. But she knows Calaerys. And with her brother always comes a cold dread that sinks into her bones and lingers. It always feels like she’s sitting on a precipice when they speak. It doesn’t help that, this time, she truly is.

“Then help me, brother,” she mutters numbly. “Lead me back into the light.”

His footsteps drag to a gritty stop behind her. Her shoulders stiffen as he looms, seething. Naomi’s fingers fret the neck of the fiddle poised within her grip. 

One of the priestesses had given it to Naomi after seeing her stare so longingly. Or, maybe, the woman was simply tired of seeing Naomi’s poor attempts at Sacred Flame. She’d never mastered even the simplest of cleric spells. But Eilistraee’s domain includes music, dance, and light. Not just bent knees, mumbled prayers, and blind devotion.

Today, she’s stolen away to solitude, hoping the nearby waterfall might drown out whatever mangled noise she can manage from the fiddle. She’s never played one before, and only has the faintest clue as to how. A pleasant tingle courses through her fingers as she strokes the strings aimlessly. It brings a thrumming sense of vitality that roots within her, resilient, defiant, even in the wake of her brother’s bitterness.

“I saw you with her,” Calaerys sneers. “You know she was once a Lolth-sworn.”

Naomi sighs, the seeds of a headache weighing heavy on her brow, and sets the fiddle aside. Gingerly, she inches back from the edge and stands.

“I know she was saved as a child, as we were,” Naomi answers brusquely. “I know she prays to Eilistraee every night as we do, and weaves her songs with the Dark Dancer’s praises. And I know it’s none of your concern who I choose to kiss.”

Her brother’s nostrils flare. She averts her eyes from his as she always does. As if that will protect her. Her gaze fixes, instead, to the trio of birds tattooed along his left cheek, keenly aware of the step forward he takes, and the lack of space for her to step back.

“Does our parents’ sacrifice mean nothing to you?!” He hisses. “And their parents before them? You and I are the product of generations of restraint, planning, resistance!”

Well, all that ‘resistance’ was futile, wasn’t it? Naomi grinds her teeth, keeping those words to herself. If not for this temple to Eilistraee and its followers, neither she nor her brother would be breathing at all. They would’ve died as children at the hands of the Lolth-sworn, the same way their parents did. The same way their entire sect did.

She and Calaerys are all that remains of the Reclaimants: the cult that thought they could pray their way back into Arvandor and the cycle of reincarnation denied to all drow. If only they could rid themselves of Lolth and any speck of her impure influence, daddy Corellon might decide to make them wood or high elves again in another, better life.

The pinch in Naomi’s gut is a guilty one. It’s accompanied by the twin sensation of relief she always feels when she thinks of her parents and their ilk. She wishes they didn’t have to die a bloody death for it, but she has no desire to follow in their footsteps. The temple to Eilistraee is far less exacting upon its followers.

The Reclaimants marked themselves so as to readily identify each other, and to pay tribute to the ascension they hoped to one day claim. Her brother’s bird tattoo is the same one that stained their father’s skin, or so Calaerys tells it. Their parents died when Naomi was still too young to remember them. Allegedly, the traditional marks were typically placed somewhere more easily hidden than one’s face. Calaerys’ pride wouldn’t abide such discretion.

“She isn’t for you!” Calaerys spits. “There are matches to be made here. Pure ones who have never fallen for Lolth’s tricks. You sully yourself with their filth! You stain our name!”

Suddenly, he jerks towards her. Naomi side-steps away from the edge only to be crowded against the rockface. It scrapes rough against her back, tearing the leather of her vest.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” She blurts, voice bounding off the stone. 

The thunder of the waterfall swallows the echo. No one at the temple will hear her. Naomi squirms, electric fear thrilling through her veins. Blunt force slams against her stomach, sending her back crashing against the ground. She’s too winded to fight the rope that binds her wrists.

“Get off of me!” She shrieks, twisting to no avail. 

By the time the stony ceiling above her stops spinning, it’s already too late.

The needle pierces the skin at the peak of her cheekbone. At once, it sears like hot coals. It quickly numbs into a dull, persistent poking. Naomi’s limbs grow heavy, and then limp.

Was father’s ink laced with a paralytic? Calaerys never said. She suspects her brother bent this tradition just to break her with it.

“You’ll never forget again,” Calaerys snarls in her ear when it’s done. She doesn’t need a mirror; she knows the marks he etched on her face match his own.

Naomi’s lips tremble. Sensation trickles back into her body in the form of scorching fire. The rage burns and builds in her belly, until it erupts in a broken, bloodcurdling shriek.

Calaerys seems to shudder before her eyes, the sound rippling across his skin and rushing through his ashen hair in a shockwave. For one sickening moment, his face shifts and thins. Naomi sees the polished white of his skull. His eyes are dark, vacant hollows. His skin pulls over it again like a mask. Her brother scrambles away from her, tripping in his haste to flee, pure terror painted on his face.

I’ll remember that look, she thinks, a savage smile peeling back her lips. Every time she sees her own image in the mirror, and the trio of birds tattooed on her cheek, she’ll remember all the ways Calaerys made her small. And how delicious it felt to finally see him cower because of her.

Naomi sits up abruptly, clutching the comforter to her chest. It’s so silky, it nearly slips through her white-knuckled grip. Her free hand flies to her left cheek, grazing over smooth skin. There’s no residual roughness, no lingering sting. 

Sheepishly, she lets her hand fall to her side. It was only a memory, after all. Her tattoo healed long ago, even though the ink of it endures. Calaerys can’t harm her from the grave. There’s no rocky roof above her head, only the delicate lace canopy of the massive four-poster she’s stranded in.

The luxuries surrounding her feel all at once foreign and familiar, as does the crimson stare of the vampire in the corner. He sits in a high-backed armchair with a festering frown. The sussur bloom thrums quietly on the side table next to him.

Her voyeur is displeased. 

“Was your trance unpleasant?” He asks, his voice decadently soft like the sheets she’s tangled in. He wears a deep crease in his brow and not one wrinkle on his dark brocade doublet. His silver curls rest perfectly coiffed atop his head, as if they haven’t moved at all since the last time she woke.

It’s more space than he granted her before. And still too close for comfort. She takes a brief scan of the room and finds it mostly as she remembers. The floor-length mirror is angled away from the bed, the brass frame gleaming with the silver leak of moonlight angling in from the vast, curved windows. The ornate rug, in the same shades of winey burgundy and bright turquoise as the bed, still blankets the smooth stone floor. And the far wall is still lined with dark polished shelves of leather-bound books.

There’s a subtle shimmer around a number of shelves she hadn’t noticed upon her first awakening. Dim light lines the closed door in the corner and the windowed one leading out onto the balcony. From here, she can just make out the faint banter of gulls. They must be near the Sea of Swords, though she can’t see anything in the darkness outside but a scattering of stars.

There’s nowhere far enough for her to run. Besides, his speed is uncanny. And even if it wasn’t, there’s the matter of his compulsion. The sussur bloom still stifles her magic. The only weapons at her disposal, then, are words.

“That’s a rather personal question,” Naomi says warily, “don’t you think?”

“Hm,” he hums with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Far be it from me to ask after my consort’s comfort.”

“Consort?”

Astarion’s eyes go round, like he’s just as startled by the word as she. It’s striking how the sharp angles of his face seem to soften with his shock. As if he’s someone else entirely. When she blinks, he seems to resettle again, a pitying smile lifting his lips, a knowing gleam entering his eye.

“Let’s start over, shall we? I’m Astarion. And I’m your--” 

--he breaks into an airy chuckle that sets her hairs on end--

“--husband, I suppose. It’s a rather quaint way of putting it, truth be told. A very mortal word. A bond between vampires is something far deeper. And ours is unique among them all.”

The v-word puts a frantic flare of nausea in her gut. But it’s another that tilts the room at an unsettling slant, dizziness swelling inside her skull.

Husband?!

He’s crazy. He must be. Unwittingly, her eyes flicker down to her left hand. Her brows shoot towards the ceiling.

The rose-gold band and its dainty laurel-leaf etchings are overwhelmed by the giant kite-cut amethyst at its center. The deep violet stone nestles into a vee of small diamonds that glitter around the thin circumference of a second band. If she squints, she can just see the engraving on it: aeterna amantes. It’s--

“Stunning, isn’t it?” He says smugly. “Of course, it could never eclipse or compare to your beauty, but I had to try to find something at least remotely suitable to symbolize our undying devotion.”

Naomi blinks rapidly, as if it will clear her head. As if it will make any of this make more sense. There’s a cruel humor in her alleged matrimony; Calaerys wouldn’t approve of this one, either. Reclaimants were meant to mate and procreate with other drow seeking ‘purification’. Or, if there was no unrelated, unwed member of the sect available, then with a drow deemed to be of ‘pure influence’. All in the hopes that if they failed in their dreams of entering Arvandor, then their children, or their children’s children, would be granted reincarnation. Every generation was intended to inch ever closer to reclaiming it.

But wedding a high elf? Oh no. That would be putting the cart before the horse.

Pain throbs through her gums. She grimaces at the panging reminder of her forgotten death, her fingertips coming to press against her aching jaw. Perhaps it isn’t so ludicrous that the man who apparently murdered her married her while he was at it. That if she forgot one such monumental occasion -- or wasn’t lucid for it -- she could certainly have forgotten the other.

“Yes, dearest,” he says, like he can hear her very thoughts. (Gods, can he?!) “You’re a vampire. But you needn’t grieve, nor fear the sun. You needn’t fear anything. You’ll see. Now, can we be civilized about this?”

She ogles him, flummoxed. It hadn’t even occurred to her to fear the sun, among the myriad of other terrors tugging at her. At least it explains, if only superficially, why they both can stand in it and be unharmed.

Be civilized, he says. Comply or be compelled is what he must mean. In the absence of alternatives, she reluctantly nods. 

“Good,” he purrs. A fresh ease relaxes his shoulders, his smile widening far enough, she gets a glimpse of his pointed fangs. The sight spurs an uneasy shiver down her spine. Instinctively, she shrinks back into the sheets as he stands. His smile falters.

“Join me, won’t you?” He asks, sauntering past her bedside with unsettling grace. The scent of his cologne carries past her nose, smooth as velvet, with the faint simmer of citrus. Something else cloys with it -- a faint, floral interjection that rouses a persistent itch in the back of her throat. She swallows, but she can’t seem to wet it again.

Naomi frowns as she tracks his path to the far wall, stacked top to bottom with books. As he approaches, he mutters something barely audible beneath his breath. The same shelves outlined in that ethereal blue glow reshape before her eyes, compressing their contents to form a rounded archway. Astarion steps through it into the room beyond, peering back at her expectantly.

It’s then, for the first time, she becomes fully aware of what she is -- and isn’t -- wearing.

It’s the same silver nightgown she remembers from the mirror, with the same dribbled, dark stain of her own blood along the draped neckline. Surely sleepwear has no need to sparkle so much. The billowy sleeves slouch off her bare shoulders, and the skirt’s long enough to come to her ankles. Sh hadn’t noticed how sheer it was before, when she was gawking at her reflection in terror. It’s like a veil of starlight coating her skin. Her freckles mingle with the glinting sheen of the fabric. It doesn’t so much cover her body as it illuminates it.

There’s nothing else beneath it but her.

Naomi’s eyes meet Astarion’s and narrow. She shifts, easing her legs over the side of the bed, gathering the comforter in her arms like some frouffy ball gown. She pulls it taut across her chest. The fabric practically melts against her, soft as butter. It must cost a fortune. It comes with her as she rises and crosses the room, dragging across the floor with a dull swish. She hesitates a few feet from the archway where Astarion still lingers, blocking her path.

With an exasperated sigh, he reaches into the chamber beyond and pulls out a decidedly opaque black robe. Hastily, she snatches it. At least he has the decency to turn away while she sheds the comforter and cinches the robe tight. It’s made of some sort of fur. Perhaps a bear. It’s dark as midnight, and brushes pleasantly against her neck.

“Come,” he says, stepping from the archway into a small but sumptuous vestibule. Hesitantly, Naomi follows. 

Initially, the brightness of the rooms burns. She shields her eyes with her hand, squinting against the light. It calls to mind her first expedition onto the sunlit surface. She’d relished the heat soaking her skin, until she woke flaking and freckled the following day. She regards her new surroundings with the same wariness, even after the ache from eyes fades.

It’s a stark contrast to the bedroom, where the only brightness was the occasional blue accent. The vestibule is white stone from floor to ceiling, and awash in shimmering moonlight. The same wide, curved windows line the exterior wall, with cushioned benches tucked against them. 

Ivory fur softens her bare steps, like a thick bed of snowfall. Another rug made from another exotic beast. There’s a candlelit hallway off the vestibule with a closed door on either side. Steam clouds her view of the wider chamber at the hall’s other end. She peels her attention away to her more immediate vicinity.

Instead of books on crowded shelves, two large canvases dominate the walls: a pair of twined skeletons on a bed of dark grass and pale flowers, and another of a seaside castle basking in a bloody sunrise. There’s a third space between them, where something else must’ve hung. Only a discolored, rectangular imprint remains there, now. Beneath the paintings are various pedestals with assorted treasures: a golden key, a jeweled goblet, and a silver amulet. The glint of it skewers her.

She knows that necklace. It used to live around her neck, and her mother’s before her. The icon of Eilistraee is cracked through the center, the Dark Dancer severed from the sword she holds above her head. 

Naomi stiffens, throat thickening around a raw, stinging dryness. These are trophies. Things he’s taken. Just like her.

“A-hem.”

Reluctantly, Naomi turns towards the vampire, who awaits her at a glass table set for two. There’s a porcelain pitcher and a pair of wine glasses atop it, filled red to the brim. The light-weight scent that wafts her way matches the floral notes that interrupted Astarion’s cologne before. The liquid is deep, dark, and viscous.

It isn’t wine. Her stomach sinks.

“You must be thirsty,” Astarion says with a sharp-edged smile. 

Her resounding silence outlives his patience. He shifts his feet, but it doesn’t quell the irritation in his voice. 

“Sit, my dear. Have a drink. You’ll feel better.”

Naomi raises her chin. “Aren’t you just going to make me?”

He tilts his head, his mouth forming a firm line. “We won’t be trying that again. It won’t do either of us any good. And deep down, I think a part of you knows that’s the only reason it happened at all.” He swallows, shaking his head as if to clear it. “For your own good.”

I don’t know that, or you, at all, she thinks helplessly.

Astarion circles to the table’s other side and pulls out the chair. Even with his spoken assurances,  she moves towards it sluggish and slow, drifting forward as if entranced. His knuckles brush her shoulders as he presses the chair in behind her. Naomi recoils from the touch. An anxious awareness lingers on her neck even after he takes his seat opposite of her.

The tabletop is small enough, they could easily clasp hands across it. Astarion’s wrists are half-way there, his elegant fingers folding around the stem of his wine glass, periodically twisting it. He nods pointedly towards the glass in front of her. Naomi tucks her hands deliberately beneath her arms.

“If you’re going to explain,” she says tersely, “start with how you forced me into trance.”

“I compelled you,” he says flatly. “Since I am your sire, and you are my bride, you obeyed to the best of your ability.”

Sire. Bride. Gods. Her skin starts to burn beneath her borrowed finery.

“What else has my so-called husband compelled me to do for him?”

His gaze goes sharp, and then round again. Lines sprout along his forehead and beneath his eyes. All at once, he looks aged a dozen years. His jaw slackens, lips parted around a low gasp of breath.

“That’s what you’ve been so scared of. Oh, darling. Any love we made before was entirely mutual. I’d never violate you.”

“Before..?!”

“Before you lost your memories.”

His face blurs into a smear of silver. She blinks fiercely, clearing the burn from her vision. Her stomach turns in a tumult of grief and relief. For the yawning gap in her recollection. For the harms that, according to him, haven’t befallen her. She believes him on that account, at least. Not merely because he looks appropriately horrified at the idea, but because even with all she’s forgotten, she remembers each of his other compulsions with crystal clarity.

The rest, she isn’t so sure of. 

She’s assumed, until now, Astarion had a hand in snatching pieces of her memory. That he tore them away with his teeth when he took her life. That she’d forgotten all the gorey details of their entanglement in the fog of trauma that obscured them.

Except the logic doesn’t quite latch.

Remember what you’ve forgotten, he implored when he first woke her. It was a compulsion, said with the same immutable force as the others before it. Except, it didn’t work. It didn’t take her will away. It didn’t return any memories like, it seems, he wanted it to.

If he wanted her to remember, he can’t have been the one to make her forget in the first place. But if he turned her…well, then he must’ve killed her, too. And, evidently, leashed her with the chain of compulsion that he can tug on every time he thinks it’s for her own good.

He continues, indignant now as he leans back in his chair. “You were attacked. Some vile wizard cast a spell and put you in this state. I never compelled you at all before. I never needed to. We are bonded, you and I.”

So he can’t be as powerful as he pledges to be, she thinks, if I came to harm the way he claims.

Her mind reels, but it catches on the growing sting on her throat. She winces at the sandpaper roughness of it. For a second, his gaze seems to soften with something like concern. It hardens in defiance when she speaks.

“Then I do have some things to fear, it seems,” she says coolly.

He bristles. “We’ve faced far worse and fared exceptionally well on every occasion. You’re perfectly safe here!”

She eyes him apprehensively. “What did you mean that we’re ‘bonded’?”

His mood shifts on a dime. He gestures widely with a proud smirk. “Look around you. This entire palace is ours. We share wealth, power, and so much more. My desires are yours, too. I know your needs as if they’re my own.”

Naomi stiffens, eyes skimming over all overwhelming opulence of her surroundings. Is this all she’s known while bound to this man? A few lavish rooms? Perhaps a few more? A gilded cage? His discretion and decisions about her wants and needs? The trappings might be more luxurious, but it doesn’t sound so different from the ‘brother knows best’ of her past.

No magic. No music. No life at all. The only sounds she hears are the grating hum of the sussur bloom and the steady thump of Astarion’s heartbeat reminding her that she no longer has one. Her fingernails bite into the beds of her palms.

She had her magic. She had music. Somehow, she had a glitzy little harmonica on hand in the throne room. It smashed to pretty pieces beneath the heel of Astarion’s boot. You’ll have another, he said, once you’ve come to your senses.

Is that what he expects? That she be on her best behavior, at his beck and call? That if she’s good enough, and plays her part perfectly, he’ll treat her? Like she’s some sort of--

“Drink, pet,” he purrs. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

A furious bravery thrills through her with righteous abandon. Naomi shoves the wineglass towards the table’s edge. A dark stain blooms in the snow white rug beneath their feet. Astarion watches her display with composed indifference. She goes rigid, pressing back in her chair, bracing for the burn of his ire and the compulsion sure to follow.

Instead, he merely utters a tired sigh. “So much for being civilized, eh?”

She grits her teeth. “You said you’d explain--”

“I have.”

“You haven’t! I don’t even know how we met! You say you didn’t kidnap me, but you certainly murdered me! And that’s about all I know of you!”

He inclines his head with an infuriating pout. The sultry dip in his voice doesn’t soothe; it’s a nuisance. “You may have forgotten me, my sweet, but I know you intimately.”

She scoffs. “Prove it!”

“As you wish,” he croons, eyes flickering with something unfathomable. “I know what it is you saw in reverie. You remembered your brother. How he hurt you. Didn’t you?”

A slow spill of dread sinks in her stomach, like sand collecting in the bottom of an hourglass. Unwittingly, she shakes her head.

“You told me how you danced and sang and drank the day he died. How you later came to the surface to sing in taverns and gradually made your way to the Gate. You said it was to start a new life, but truly, you had something specific in mind. You wanted to try your hand at theater.” He chuckles quietly, propping his chin against his palm. “You own one now, you know. My little starlet.”

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. “H-how did you--”

“Because you’ve told me before how you got your tattoo. I’ve lied beside you countless days and nights. I know what you’ve seen when you wake and touch your cheek. I know all your dreams, and your nightmares. All the threads that twine together to make my beloved bride.”

Such honeyed words for such a seductive fantasy. A happy one, maybe. He is breathtaking in more than one sense. Anyone with eyes would say as much about his straight, elegant nose, his high cheekbones, and the too-perfect curl of his hair. Even the velvet flex of his voice. His scent alone entices, every element of him beckoning like a crooked finger. Or coiling like a noose about to tighten.

But even this close to him, she’s devoid of any recognition, of any desire but to be somewhere far, far away. To leave Baldur’s Gate for (her own) good and never return, even after travelling so long to get here, and never seeing the stage she yearned for, or hardly any of the city itself.

He tells a pretty tale, but he doesn’t speak of the darkness that paid for it. Of the death -- her death -- that built it. And he doesn't say a thing about himself. Naomi’s throat bobs. She meets his smolder with a steely stare.

“All right,” Astarion sneers, with a melodramatic sweep of his arms. “Let’s play out this game you think you’re running. You’ve been kidnapped by the big, bad vampire. Do you think plucking his nerves like a petulant child is endearing? What exactly is this strategy?”

“Spite, mostly,” Naomi answers coldly. “Do you know what it’s like to be compelled?”

The glare he gives her is scalding. “Careful, dear.”

“How long have I been here?” She demands. “How long have I been a vampire?”

“You’ll be able to think far clearer if you drink, darling.”

Naomi’s eyes narrow. He’s so insistent on it. He could just compel her. He said he won’t. For now, at least, he seems intent on playing his part as the protective sire.

Or, maybe, he needs her to drink of her own volition. She knows little of vampires, aside from a few tawdry novels. But she recalls, vaguely, a myth warning against taking food and drink in a devil’s house. And something else about being stuck in the hells for six months each year, all because of a pomegranate.

Pomegranate. That’s the smell that’s been teasing her nose. Her eyes flit to the blood in his cup. Beneath the floral notes, the scent is tangy. Light. Luscious.

Her throat scrapes with a sudden heat. “If I do,” she rasps, “will you answer my questions?”

He purses his lips, falling quiet as he weighs her offer.

“You know,” she presses, “communication is typically key in most marriages. One would think you’d want your wife to know about her circumstances. For her own good.”

“A new vampire is a delicate thing,” he says evasively. “A bride even more so. You’ve forgotten three years in an instant. That makes you new all over again. You need time to--”

“Three years?!” She chokes.

“I think that counts as one answer, doesn’t it?” He grins darkly. “Hold up your end of the bargain, and you’ll have so much more.”

Naomi scowls. He pushes his glass across to her, gratingly slow. The blood within trembles.

“Go on, little love.”

The liquid ripples again as she reaches out hesitantly and takes the glass in hand. “What will happen if I don’t drink it?”

“I’ll give you that one for free,” he says tartly. “Vampires drink blood. If they don’t, they’ll be hungry. And agitated, and paranoid, and generally, bad company. Their mental faculties will become muddled. Eventually, they’ll fall ill, then feral, with pupils blown wide, and fangs aching something awful at the mere smell of blood. Does that sound relatable to you?”

Splat. Naomi flinches. Something wets her knuckles. She sees the moisture dangling there by a silver string and-- Gods, she’s…salivating. She wipes her mouth shakily with the back of her hand, scowling over the edge of the glass.

“I have the sense you’ve been trying to puzzle me out,” Astarion muses. “To outplay whatever villain you think you see. Let me help you, darling: having freshly fed wouldn’t have won you our little spat in the throne room, but you would have fared better. And you’ll fare better now if you stop starving yourself.”

Her gaze drops, heavy-lidded, back to the glass. If it will help, make her stronger, clear her head, then she’ll succumb to one sip. Just a taste. The scent of roses eases her eyes shut as she tilts the glass to her mouth.

It melts petal-soft against her lips with the tenderness of a lover. She gasps, long and lewd, like she’s writhing beneath one. The taste swells tantalizingly across her tongue. Soothing warmth trickles, syrupy sweet, down her throat, waking her nerves, rousing a tingle beneath her skin. The more she takes, the more taken she feels. She swears there’s fingers stroking through her hair. Good, she thinks, deliriously. It’s so very good.

The only thing better would be more. She feels the pull, as if whispered from the blood itself, coaxing her open. Take it. Take it all.

It’s then she manages to wrench away, slamming the glass down. A hairline crack sprouts in the tabletop. She pinches the stem in a vice-grip, mesmerized by the red trails dripping down the side of the glass to pool at the bottom. Only a few drops remain.

“Tell me how we met,” She pants, as if surfacing from vast depths.

For a moment, his eyes glisten. A mess of emotions plays across his face in an instant, each one vivid and fleeting. He flits through masks until he settles for a stony one. He blinks at her blankly once, twice, and then he jerks to stand, rattling the table as he goes.

“I’ll return later,” he says crisply, taking the pitcher with him, “with a meal more fitting for your palate.”

“What-- wait!” She scrambles from the chair, hurrying after him as he crosses the archway.

To her surprise, he freezes. She stops just short of barreling into his chest, a flurry of fear swarming in her stomach. 

He turns, peering down at her wistfully. “Why?”

“I-I thought we were getting somewhere,” she stammers. “I only want to know you, too. So you're not a stranger. So this all stops feeling so…strange.”

The arch of his brow is just as skeptical as she is. He searches her face while she wracks her brain for a more plausible answer. She has no idea what inspired her to rush after him when only moments before, she loathed his every word. All she knows is the sudden, overwhelming plea pressing on her mind: come back to me.

She hears it in her own voice, in her own head, but it feels starkly foreign. The yearning flares again, insistent, frantic, as he takes another step away from her. The noise that comes next puts her blood on ice. 

A deep, bestial snarl rips across the room. It didn’t come from Astarion; his mouth hasn’t moved at all. Naomi blinks feverishly, gaze dropping to see her hands clenched in a death grip around the pitcher he still holds. She gapes, aghast, but she doesn’t let go, even as she trembles like a leaf. 

Astarion merely tuts. “You’re never quite yourself when you’re hungry, love. But don’t you worry. We’ll fill you right up. Perhaps before you go for a stroll through the city streets, hm? We wouldn’t want you to make a mess out there.”

He lets go, and she staggers back, cradling the pitcher to her chest. Blood splashes over the sides, spattering at her feet, and soaking the front of her robe. It’s such a lush, vibrant color. Every drop, a precious gem. She’s so hypnotized by that ruby sheen, she hardly hears his parting words.

“There’s a bath for you, if you wish, and fresh clothes. Wear whatever pleases you. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She retreats to the far wall. Her back slides against the slick surface as she drops to the ground and lifts the pitcher to her lips. She gags in her haste to guzzle down its contents, red rivers running down her chin, tears streaming down her cheeks.

A/N: The unserious working title of this chapter was “Vampire’s First Juicebox”.

Now also feels like a good time to mention that while I may at some point continue Midnight Chimes, this fic is my primary focus, and I will be pulling in scenes/material/backstory for Naomi and her game timeline with Astarion as it makes sense to do so. This will effectively spoil what I had planned for MC, but after giving it a lot of thought, it feels important that these pieces are included in AN, as they are really vital to Astarion and Naomi’s journey in this story and I'm excited about working those elements (like the flashback included here) in.

Thank you so very much for reading! I hope life is being kind to you all. <3

[acphengene]

Little dove

₊ ⁺ pairing: Jake x afab!reader

₊ ⁺ genre: soulmate!au, sweet asf fluff and the tiniest bit of angst

₊ ⁺ wordcount: 3.2k

₊ ⁺ note: this can be read as a standalone but also as a part of my enhypen soulmate series. let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list

₊ ⁺ Jake ₊ ⁺ Jungwon ₊ ⁺ Jay ₊ ⁺ Sunoo ₊ ⁺ Heeseung ₊ ⁺ Niki ₊ ⁺ Sunghoon ₊ ⁺

When Jake woke up at his 13th birthday, he frantically searched his whole body for any type of physical mark. It was generally known that it was a little easier to find your other half when your mark literally could count down the seconds until you met them.

And right there on the inside of his bicep it said ‘bite your lip one more time’ in fine red letters. He had wondered just why his soulmate would want him to bite his lip, because in the eyes of a child that caused pain and nothing else.

His family had celebrated, and he had been nothing short of excited and hopeful that he would get to meet you sooner rather than later. But as most people he would have to wait.

When he traveled to Korea to live his dream, he hoped that it would bring him closer to you. And when the dream took him to a tv-program he hoped with every bone in his body that you’d be watching and cheering him on.

The tattoo, he made sure stayed hidden, he had no interest in people who weren’t you, saying those words to him.

When he and the guys had debuted, they shared their marks with one another, there was no reason not to, and he felt lucky that he didn’t have to hurt like Heeseung, somewhat jealous that Jay had known his soulmate since he got the mark. And despite him feeling bad for his platonic soulmate, he couldn’t help but be thankful that he wasn’t markless like Sunghoon

Engene loved theorizing when it came to them and their marks. There was no doubt in the fandom that Jake had a physical mark, also no doubt that it had to be somewhere on his arm. He had a habit of almost always grabbing on to his bicep whenever he was nervous.

They could however not agree on which mark it was, but he enjoyed seeing people’s theories on social media. He felt grateful that most of the fandom was so acceptable of it, not all groups were that lucky.

One afternoon he threw himself onto Niki’s bed once again scrolling on weverse to see what their sweet fans were up to.

“Dude seriously? With your outside clothes and everything?” The young man said as he looked at his hyung with judgement in his eyes.

He only rolled his eyes. “Do you think they’ve ever posted on weverse?”

Niki shrugged. “No idea, if I’m being honest I try not to think about it too much. In the end mine is definitely not close by”

“I hope mine is close” Jake said with a far away look in his eyes.

“Wouldn’t that be korean if that was the case?” Niki said as he pointed to the red words.

Jake looked at his arm and sighed. “Fuck, I didn’t think of that”

Niki laughed. “Obviously. But don’t worry too much okay? You’ll find them when it’s time”

“How’s the string?” Jake asked as a diversion.

Niki looked down at his left pinkie, where a red string was neatly tied with a little bow. He followed it out and through the window of the room. Where it’s stretched all the way to the horizon.

“Still tight as ever, wherever they are, they’re in no hurry to get closer” He shrugged. Niki had always had a very casual way of seeing the world, and once in a while Jake needed to be reminded to take it easy.

He was right after all, the Universe had given them a soulmate for a reason, and would pull you together when it deemed fit. But sometimes that could be a little hard to accept.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust that, it was more so that he was impatient, he wanted to get to know you, sooner rather than later.

As they traveled for their tours he frantically searched every face in every crowd hoping someone would draw his attention, that he would feel that pull and calmness people so often described.

In a new city, he found himself in a Prada store, looking at a new collection, as they all were picking things out.

“What do you think?” Jay said as he held up a bag.

“Pretty sure that’s a woman’s bag” Jake said with a chuckle.

As the fashionista Jay was, he only sighed. “First of all fashion is gender less, plus it’s not for me… it’s for her. I think she’ll like it”

Jake shook his head with a smile, as he tried to avoid that sting of jealousy he always felt whenever Jay talked about his other half. He knew it was most likely harder than he ever admitted. To know her, but to not have her would be torture in and of itself.

“Do you have this with gold hardware instead of silver?” Jay asked one of the sales assistants.

“We should have one in the back, give me a second and I’ll see if I can find it”

That. Voice.

It stopped Jake's entire world as he quickly turned towards you. And as he saw your eyes and that sweet and polite smile, it was as if the world stopped spinning, and everyone around him disappeared. For a second there was only you.

You went to the back to go and fetch the bag Jay had asked for, and for a second he almost followed you behind the counter.

He stood there as a puppy waiting for its owner, eyes locked on the door you had disappeared through. His fingers drummed on the glass as his heart beat frantically.

“Jake?” Sunghoon said as he tried to get his friends' attention. When he didn’t answer, he laid a hand on his shoulder, but his eyes never left that door.

“Not now” he whispered, and it almost sounded like he was in pain, and then you walked back through the door with the dust bag and set it almost right before him.

His breath hitched when you finally looked at him. He saw how your eyes widened, how your mouth fell open in almost chock. And for a second he thought: my first words can’t just be hey.

Instead he bit his lip nervously, he had always done it. Maybe it was because of the words you were to one day say to him, maybe it was just who he was. Your eyes fell to his mouth, and he saw the subtle twitch of the corner of your mouth.

“Bite your lip one more time…” you almost whispered the words, and as if you just realized what you said your hands flew up to cover your own mouth.

A gasp filled the room from both the guys, but also their bodyguards, and the whole room stilled.

“God I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud”

Jake just smiled like a maniac, as he felt the tears prick in his eyes. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere” he said as he opened his arms for you to meet him if you wanted.

You threw yourself over the counter, not caring for the bag you had just put down, not caring for what your manager in the corner might think, not even caring for the horde of people with cameras outside the large boutique windows.

At that moment he had never felt happier. He chuckled as he pulled you as close to him as humanly possible, and the two of you stood like that until your heartbeats had calmed.

He didn’t want to let you go, so as he sat back down his hand reached out for yours and he smiled wider than he ever had when you took it and gave it a squeeze.

“You’re beautiful” he whispered and he saw you turn red almost instantly, he hoped his words would always have that effect on you.

“And you’re a romantic aren’t you?” You asked and he answered with a shrug.

You looked towards your manager who just gave you a smile and a little nod. As to say; “I understand, just go”

Jake held out his arm, and you quickly went around the counter to grab on to him. He pulled you close as the guards made sure to escort you out of the store safe and sound.

In the store behind the two of you stood Sunghoon with the biggest smile as he looked after the two of you. Sunoo was laughing in a corner as he kept repeating: did that just happen?

Jungwon smiled and said: “Finally, he was getting unbearable”

“So this is where I’m staying” Jake said as he opened the door to his hotel room. The two of you had decided it might be best for you to go there, there was no reason for you to dox yourself.

You looked around the room, but your eyes kept finding him, and every time they did his smile got wider, if that was even possible.

“C-can I see it?” you asked as you took a step closer to him. He nodded and got rid of his jacket before pulling up his sleeve, revealing the now golden words etched into his skin.

You laughed as you let your hand trace the words. Jake shuddered beneath your touch. “Oh I’m sorry, is it too much?” You stepped back to give him space, but he quickly grabbed your wrist, pulling you back to him.

“It’s nice, I’ve been wanting this, waiting for this for so long. My hitching breath and shuddering is in nothing if not from happiness and excitement for having finally found you”

The heat once again flushed to your cheeks, and he, that cheeky bastard, he bit his lips once again. You placed your hands on your face.

“I had an idea you might be a hopeless romantic” You said turning away from his gaze.

He laughed. “Why?”

“When you have ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere’ etched into your skin from the ripe age of 13, you cant help but hope”

He felt how your words fucked on his heartstrings. “Tell me everything”

So you did; you told him how excited you were when you saw the words. How lucky your mother had told you that you would end up being because of the sweet nature of them. How your friends had fawned and been jealous.

“I know it’s not a given, and I know not all soulmates are made to be more than just platonic, but I would love to give this” you said, gesturing between the two of you. “Us a real shot”

Your cheeks were blazing hot, but you wanted to say them. In case he felt differently, you’d rather be disappointed sooner rather than later.

His hand snaked up and rested on the back of your neck, firm enough to make sure you knew he wanted you close, but still loose enough for you to get away from him if that was what you wanted.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against yours. “I want nothing more” as if he had done it always he rubbed his nose against yours, the gesture so soft and subtle it stole a whimper from your throat.

In that very instant his eyes shot open, pupils dilated, the love he had always felt for you on full display.

“Can I kiss you?” He whisperd. His lips so close to yours he almost did by saying your words.

Instead of answering him, you closed the small gap between the two of you. His other arm snaked around your waist as yours traced his shirt, up his stomache, over his shoulders and around his neck.

You pulled him as close to you as physically possible. And he smiled agains your lips at the way you responded to him.

A knock on the door pulled you from losing your minds, hearts and souls to one another.

“Yo, love birds… wanna grab some lunch? Get to know one another?” Heeseung said on the other side.

The two of you looked at each other and laughed. Jake only raises a brow, and you nodded as a response. You couldn’t wait to get to know him and those closest to him.

Once again he stretched out his arm for you to grab on to and you did without a doubt.

“Let’s go little dove” he said with a wink.

“Wait so I’m the first?” You said with a shocked expression.

Jake had his arm around your shoulder, it felt like his heart would physically break if he were to not touch you when you were so near.

“Yeah, hopefully the rest will come soon…” Jay said with a far away gaze in his eyes.

“You miss her?” You asked him.

“Every waking minute of every day” he answered with a small smile.

Nothing short of pure torture. You thought to yourself and leaned into Jake’s embrace. He kissed the top of your head instinctively.

“God the two of you is gonna be unbearable, aren’t you?” Niki said with a groan as he took another spoon full of the broth standing in front of him.

“Especially when we leave in two days” Jungwon said, trying not to sound to harsh.

The eyes you looked at him with broke his heart. He would have to leave you behind, go on on the tour. He would be in contact sure, but this would end up breaking him and in extension you.

It was common knowledge that the first few weeks, if not months were the hardest to be without your soulmate. It was as if your souls needed one another, after being separated for so long.

“The tour isn’t don’t yet, but I’ll be back as soon as possible. Okay? I promise” Jake said as he pulled you into another close embrace.

Jungwon stole the attention by spitting out his noodles. “Why would she think now is the perfect time for chocolate pudding. I swear it’s her hobby to ruin my meals” he pushed away the bowl, as the guys laughed.

You were thankful for the change in subject, but you couldn’t help but wonder just why the universe would set you up with someone whose job was to travel the world and leave you behind.

“Hey” Sunghoon said, “why dont you just ask if you can bring her along?”

Jake remained quiet as he thought it all through. It was not impossible, he knew that it was impossible to tear some soulmates apart, and Hybe had to accommodate that, but still… you had a life, a job and friends and family. He would hate to pull you from it all.

“Let’s talk about it when we’re alone, how does that sound?” You asked him with a little squeeze of his thigh. The mere sound of your voice calmed something inside of him, and his worried eyed softened.

“As Niki said, unbearable” Heeseung said right before he was snacked in the back of the neck by Sunoo.

“As if you’re gonna be any better than them”

He only shrugged.

“I don't wanna assume you have the possibility of just leaving” Jake said as he fiddled with his fingers. He did want you to come along. He wanted to sleep with you in his arms and wake up to your kisses.

“I don’t think that I do, sure I have a few weeks of vacation left, but it’s just so short notice” you said with a sad smile.

He nodded, “I know… what if I called Prada, or maybe if one of my bosses did?”

You smiled as you stood between his legs as he was sitting on the bed, you pulled lovingly on his long hair as he looked up at you with pleading puppy eyes. God he was beautiful.

Instead of answering you kissed his lips slowly, and his arms pulled you closer. “As much as I would love that, that wouldn’t be fair. Come back to me when you’re done, in the meantime we will just have to figure something out, okay?”

And figure something out you did. Every time you had the chance you were FaceTiming, you fell asleep talking about your childhood, and while he was training you caught up on the hours worth of content.

Hybe had been kind enough to leave you with a bodyguard of your own, but so far you hadn’t needed it. It had, however, calmed Jake’s mind a lot to know you were taken care of.

“When I can’t do it, I need someone else to, okay little dove?” That had been hard to argue with.

He had been gone for a few weeks now and it felt as if your heart had been ripped from your chest, as if you were no longer whole.

You hated every second of it, you hated your stubbornness. Why wouldn’t you take him up on the offer of just going with him? Integrity… fucking pathetic. You thought to yourself as you got the store ready before it opened.

You heard the door open, and as you turned to tell the early customer you weren’t open yet you froze.

“Sunghoon” you said before giving him a bow, you had spent the weeks reading up on Korean etiquette and culture.

He bowed back before he held out an arm just as Jake did. “Come, he’s unbearable and none of us can take it any longer… he needs you” he sent you a smile that never really reached his eyes.

Instead of bolting out the door you found yourself hesitating. You had a life and a job you had worked so hard for. Sunghoon rolled his eyes as he laughed. “Don’t worry about it, we’ve taken care of it”

And for once you chose not to second guess it, and grabbed his arm.

You knocked on the door to the room, despite what the two of you did most days, you had ignored his calls all day. Jungwon had warned you, he had been sulking and sad and as good as impossible to get to do anything. Even eat.

“Go away!” You heard his voice groan from the other side. You knocked again.

“Hee, I’ve told you all day I’m just not in the… mood” he swung the door open without even checking who was on the other side.

In your hand you had a bag of food, he would need something before the concert tonight.

“Surprise?” You said with a unsure smile, cause he only stared at you.

“You’re here?” He said as his voice cracked.

You nodded. “I’m here”

And as he heard your voice once again he broke down in the door to his room, you quickly gave the food to one of the managers in the hall as you joined him where he had collapsed.

He snaked his arms around you as he sobbed into your shoulder. And as painful as it was to see him like this you had also never felt more like yourself now that he was near.

He looked at you as he stroked your cheek. “You can’t leave me again, okay?” He said as he both laughed and sobbed at the same time.

You smiled at his words, as a single tear escaped your eye. He kissed it away as quickly as it had fallen. “I won't,” you whispered.

The two of you heard a groan further down the hall and saw Niki there. “Fucking unbearble love birds” he swore under his breath.

“Language young man!” You both yelled in unison, and a laugh quickly followed.

Neither of you minded being unbearable love birds, as long as you weren’t apart.

Hi! Thank you sm for Reading! Please remember to like and reblog, and let me know if you have any theories about the others or these two sweethearts. Feedback is very much appreciated 🫶🏼

[lurkingshan]

Theory of Love Episode 2: Love Actually

Let me get this out of the way right at the top: I'm so mad that Third made me rewatch this terrible movie! If you haven't seen it, I implore you to keep it that way, but here's what you need to know:

The film is a series of interconnected "romance" vignettes, most involving inappropriate relationships, laced with misogyny and homophobia and racism in pretty much every storyline, that is inexplicably beloved by the masses.

I am judging Third for liking and taking inspiration from this film, if I'm being honest. And this is the specific scene he drew from:

For context, this is a man secretly confessing his shameful crush on his best friend's wife who he barely knows (which the film presented as romantic). Third apparently connected with this man's hopeless love for someone he can't have to the extent that he decided to try confessing to Khai in the same way (after Bone reminded him of it), despite the fact that this confession was doomed to fail, by design!

And of course, this didn't work, because Khai was completely unable to receive this as a love confession in the context of their current relationship. And I think some part of Third had to know that would be the case. He knows Khai! When Khai offered an interpretation for Third's actions that fit within his framework of their relationship, Third let it happen instead of using his words to communicate his true intentions. He's not ready to succeed at this, and I think part of him finds sitting in the torment of his unrequited feelings romantic.

One of the things I like about this episode is it establishes some clear parameters around their friendship and how Khai sees it. First of all, Khai does care about Third, and he pays attention to him and tries to take care of him within the boundaries of platonic male friendship. Sure, Khai is selfish sometimes, but Third likes him for a reason. They genuinely get along, have a lot of shared interests, and Khai gives attention to Third and goes out of his way to check in with him and make him feel better (without realizing he's the reason Third is down in the dumps in the first place). They are friends, for real.

Second, Khai believes in separating friendship from dating. He has a rule to never date friends--because he knows his approach to dating around and having casual sex is not compatible with involving people he actually cares about--and he keeps these two categories of people separate in his own mind. And because of this, he is absolutely unable to process Third's desire to move from one category to the other. For Khai, Third is his most important person, his best friend that he intends to stick with his entire life. The people he dates are much more ephemeral, passing interests that he doesn't much care about as they come and go. He can't think about Third in that context, and so he won't. When Third attempts to confess to him using the Love Actually scene as his inspiration, you can see Khai finding a way to rationalize it in real time to make it something else.

And as much as I find Third's expectations for and failures to communicate with Khai a bit frustrating, I want to give him credit for trying to put himself out there. His fear about making himself clear to Khai is completely understandable, even just in the context of their friendship before you add the whole layer of his sexuality and Khai (to this point) only seeming interested in dating women. And now that he has Two to confide to and encourage him, Third did try to push Khai to realize how he feels. He just wasn't quite ready to say it with his whole chest, because this friendship is important to him, too. And as we saw when he cried watching a film about a girl who was afraid to confess to her friend, he knows he has something to lose if Khai can't reciprocate. I don't think it's an accident that his confession in this episode was half-hearted and designed to emulate a famous confession scene where there was never any chance of success.

[yoursinisforgiven]

UNSEEN ──

pairing: isaac x reader (pickel) 

cw: descriptive violence, consumptions of alcohol, reader and isaac are both paranoid.  

last part / series masterlist !

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

Blunt force trauma to the head. Three gunshot wounds to the legs. Four missing fingernails. A missing heart.

The words sat before you in neat, clinical type, but they may as well have been carved into flesh for how deeply they unsettled you. This wasn’t just a case. This was suffering made tangible, pain reduced to a list of injuries, yet it refused to be contained by mere ink. Someone had lived through this. They had felt every blow, every shattering impact against their skull, every burning bullet tearing through muscle and bone. They had felt their fingernails ripped from their hands, one by one. Had they screamed? Fought? Or had they been too weak by then?

Your stomach twisted, but you read the words again, as if repetition would dull the sharp edges of the horror they described.

It didn’t.

The folder sat in front of you, thick with crime scene photos and an autopsy report, bound together in quiet violence. There was always a body. Always the cold, clinical dissection of what had once been a person—cataloged, examined, broken down into facts. You needed to see it. The written words weren’t enough. You needed the images, the grotesque reality, the bloodstains, the lifeless stare. You needed to know exactly what you were dealing with, to let the full weight of it sink in.

But before you could reach for it, a firm hand slapped the folder shut.

“No.”

Isaac’s voice was curt, his eyes unreadable. He didn’t need to explain himself. The answer was final.

You stared at him, jaw tightening. “I’ve seen worse.”

The words nearly left your lips, but you swallowed them back. It wouldn’t change his mind.

And even if you said it, would it matter?

Would he even believe you if you told him about the things that haunted you? About the nights when crime scene photos from your past clawed their way into your dreams, distorting, twisting, becoming something worse? About the frozen, blood-slicked bodies of Ivan and Rhene, their deaths forever etched into your mind in vivid, merciless detail?

No. You hadn’t told him about that.

Just like you hadn’t told him about Vic. Or Asriel. Or the voice on the phone—the one that slid through the receiver like silk over a blade, dripping with a quiet, knowing amusement.

The study is quiet as you stand before his desk, but it’s not the kind of silence you’re used to. This time, it’s heavier, weighted with something unspoken, something lingering in the stillness between you. The air feels thick, charged, like the moment before a storm splits the sky. You know he feels it too. You can see it in the way his fingers rest just a little too stiffly on the edge of the desk, in the way his jaw tightens ever so slightly.

You decide to be the first to break it.

“What do we—what do we do?” Your voice wavers, not out of fear but out of something else, something tangled between uncertainty and dread. You place the documents back in front of him, watching as his eyes flicker downward, scanning the pages as if he hadn’t already committed every gruesome detail to memory.

But then he looks back up at you, and there’s something resolute in his gaze, something cold.

“We aren’t doing anything.” His voice is steady, deliberate. “I won’t let you get involved. Not in this.”

It’s the answer you expected, and yet it still grates at you.

You exhale sharply, rubbing at the tension in your temple. Of course. Of course, Isaac would do this—this weak attempt at shielding you from something that, in his mind, loomed too close, too dangerous. You knew he was paranoid. You had known that since the moment you met him. He saw shadows where there were none, traced threats in the air long before they took form.

So you don’t argue. Not this time.

Instead, with your legs growing numb from standing too long, you sink into the chair in front of his desk. The cold leather bites at your skin, the rich material stiff beneath your fingertips as you grip the armrest. The room feels colder than before, or maybe that’s just the weight of the case pressing in, curling around you like an unseen hand.

Isaac doesn’t say anything, just watches you with that unreadable expression of his, the papers between you a silent barrier.

Outside, the wind howls against the windowpane, rattling it in its frame.

You don’t know if it’s the case, the tension, or something else entirely, but for the first time in a long while, you feel like there’s something just beyond the edge of your vision—watching, waiting.

With a sharp exhale, Isaac reaches for his phone, his fingers tightening around it as if holding onto something more than just a device. His jaw tenses, eyes flicking toward the door as though already halfway out of the study. Then, without another word, he pushes himself up from the chair, the legs scraping faintly against the polished wood floor. His movements are brisk, controlled—but you can see it, the slight rigidity in his shoulders, the subtle clench of his fist at his side. A tell.

“I need to make a call,” he mutters, voice low and clipped, the weight behind those words pressing heavier than they should.

You don’t respond. You don’t need to.

He strides toward the door with purpose, his back to you, and before you can fully process the shift in atmosphere, the old wooden doors groan closed with a soft but decisive slam.

The sound shouldn’t make you flinch. But it does.

You let out a slow breath, willing your pulse to steady, but it does little to stop the way unease creeps along your spine. The study is silent now, save for the faint ticking of the grandfather clock nestled in the far corner—a metronome to the quiet dread settling in the air. The dim light from the storm-streaked windows casts distorted shadows along the bookshelves, stretching and shifting with each flicker of lightning outside. The once-warm glow of the desk lamp now feels weak, swallowed by the growing darkness.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That the shift in atmosphere is imagined, a trick of the mind fueled by exhaustion and the weight of the case still heavy in your hands.

And yet.

There’s something about being alone in here that unsettles you. The study, a place that had always been filled with quiet conversation, with Isaac’s presence—a grounding force despite his paranoia—now feels abandoned, hollow. The books stacked on his desk seem untouched, their spines rigid and unmoving. The scent of aged paper and faint cologne lingers, but it does little to chase away the sensation that something unseen lingers just beyond your peripheral vision.

It’s ridiculous. You know that.

And yet the sensation only grows.

Your fingers tighten against the armrests of the chair before you abruptly stand, the movement too sharp, too sudden—as if you’re shaking off an unseen grip. The storm outside howls against the windows, the house settling with a deep groan that sounds too much like something breathing.

You won’t sit here and let your mind twist the shadows into something they’re not.

That would be pathetic.

You roll your shoulders, exhaling slowly through your nose, already forming an excuse in your mind. You aren’t leaving the study because you need more light, because the weight of the silence has begun to feel oppressive. No, of course not. That would be absurd.

You’re leaving because—Isaac needs coffee.

Yes, that’s it. Something warm to steady his nerves, something to distract yourself from whatever this feeling is gnawing at your subconscious.

You turn on your heel, crossing the room with purposeful strides, refusing to acknowledge the way the shadows seem to stretch as you move past them. Your fingers brush against the cold brass of the doorknob, and as you step into the dimly lit hall, the study doors creak shut behind you.

But even as you walk away, each step echoing against the wooden floor, that lingering sense of being watched does not fade.

──

The kitchen had become a sanctuary of sorts—well, a refuge of distraction, at least. It was the one place you could still hide, even if it was only from your own mind. The monotony of cleaning, organizing, slicing fruit, anything really, helped the time slip by. Your hands had found their rhythm, gliding over surfaces, moving jars and spices into place, brushing crumbs off the counters. The act was soothing, though it couldn't stop the creeping sense of dread that lingered in the back of your mind, settling like an unwanted weight on your chest.

The storm had passed, the wind outside dying down, but the atmosphere felt unnervingly still. The sky was an oppressive slate gray, thick with clouds that seemed to press down on the earth as if daring it to break. The air in the estate felt cold, heavy, carrying a damp chill from the rain that had soaked into the stone floors. The silence of the house had changed, too—it wasn't the calm quiet of an empty place but rather a thick, almost suffocating quiet, as though the house itself was holding its breath.

You were almost grateful for the simple task of making Isaac’s coffee. The routine of it was almost comforting in its predictability—black, no sugar, no cream. It was the smallest of rituals, one that Isaac preferred to keep simple. You knew this, of course. You had long learned the subtle ways of his quiet habits. He’d notice if you added anything extra, even the slightest hint of sugar. He'd ask, then raise that brow of his, sharp as a blade, and you'd feel the weight of his unspoken thoughts. No need for that today, though.

As you moved around the kitchen, placing the freshly cut fruit into the fridge and organizing the counters again—again—you tried to shake off the gnawing discomfort settling in the pit of your stomach. The thought of Isaac’s sharp eyes on you, his quiet expectations, seemed to make the air feel even heavier. But before you could shake it, before you could push past the unease, the front door knocked.

Three sharp knocks.

Like the beat of a drum, unmistakable and deliberate.

Your pulse kicked up instantly, a cold sweat dotting your skin despite the warmth of the kitchen. The sound echoed far too loud in the vast quiet of the estate. There was a brief, sickening pause in the air, as if the whole house was holding its breath along with you. Who? Who would be knocking at this hour? No one ever did. Not unless they had something they wanted hidden from view, something they didn’t want known.

You froze, your hand lingering on the coffee mug, your fingers tightening around the ceramic handle as if to ground yourself.

No one knocks.

You had already begun to hear a faint movement from upstairs—the quick, purposeful rhythm of Isaac’s footsteps descending. But you weren’t sure if you should feel relieved or more unsettled. You knew what that knock meant: danger, a threat, someone arriving uninvited.

But it didn’t make sense. You shouldn’t be feeling this way.

Isaac was here, wasn’t he? Isaac was always here.

Still, there was a tightness in your chest, a flutter of something unsettling twisting in your gut.

You watched as Isaac appeared in the hall from above, his expression unreadable. His phone still clutched in one hand, his fingers tapping against the side as if trying to work out some invisible anxiety. But the moment he set his gaze on the door, everything about him tightened, his jaw stiffening. No words were exchanged before he reached out and pulled the door open.

“Vic.”

Isaac’s voice, cool but clipped, rang out in the silence. The name hit you like a brick, unsettling, unfamiliar despite the fact that you knew the person it belonged to. Though oddly enough it brought comfort, he wasn't a threat—was he?

But it wasn’t just him.

As soon as Isaac stepped back, you could see the outline of a second figure standing just behind Vic. A shadowy shape, a silhouette barely visible in the dim light of the porch. But even that small glimpse sent your pulse into overdrive. Your stomach dropped, nausea flooding your senses like a heavy tide.

It wasn’t just Vic at the door.

It was someone else.

The second figure was standing too still, like they were watching the house just as much as they were waiting for Isaac to acknowledge them. The breeze from outside rustled through the hem of their coat, but they didn’t flinch, didn’t seem to mind the chill. 

Your mind raced. Who?

Could it be Asriel? It seemed unlikely, almost absurd, but the shadow felt like him. Like something unfamiliar yet entirely unsettling.

Or worse—could it be them? The thought made your breath catch. There was something about the way the stranger lingered on the threshold, half-hidden by the doorframe, that reminded you of the most dangerous kind of silence. It was a silence that didn’t care about the noise it left in its wake.

A sudden cold wave of nausea flooded you again, stronger this time. You hadn’t even noticed how your hand had tightened around the edge of the counter until the mug nearly slipped from your grasp.

Isaac, however, didn’t seem to notice your distress. His gaze focused on Vic’s, his eyes sharp, demanding. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid way he stood. Whatever conversation was about to unfold was already hanging in the balance, an invisible thread ready to snap. The feeling in your gut was only growing stronger, more suffocating. What had they come for?

"He...llo."

The voice was hesitant, the syllables stretched just slightly, like they weren’t entirely sure they belonged. The accent was distinct, the English slightly broken, but that wasn’t what made your stomach knot. For a brief, terrifying moment, your mind convinced you that it was them—the voice on the phone given shape, stepping through the doorway like a nightmare made flesh.

But as soon as the thought took root, it crumbled. This wasn’t them. Something was different. And yet, despite that realization, something still felt deeply, inexplicably wrong.

Isaac stood rigid in the doorway, his head tilting just slightly as he looked at the figure. You couldn’t see his face from where you stood in the kitchen, but you knew him well enough to picture his expression—his gaze sharp and assessing, his lips pressed in that firm line he wore when something didn’t sit right with him. Then, his eyes flicked to Vic.

A long, quiet beat passed.

The exchange was silent, yet it carried weight. Isaac studied Vic, who, for once, seemed devoid of his usual playfulness. The easy smirks, the teasing remarks, the knowing glances—none of it was there. Instead, Vic’s face was unreadable, his posture uncharacteristically stiff. The shift unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.

Isaac turned on his heel, his voice clipped and firm. “Follow me.”

He didn’t look back, didn’t acknowledge you standing there. He simply started walking, his movements precise, controlled. Vic followed without a word, his usual swagger muted into something far more restrained.

And then, the stranger stepped into view.

Your fingers tightened around the coffee mug, the smooth ceramic pressing into your palm as you finally caught sight of them. At first glance, there was nothing wrong—no visible injuries, no blood, no unnatural distortions in their features. They were composed, their clothing neat, their expression neutral. But the moment your eyes landed on them, something in your gut twisted.

There was something about them that didn’t feel right.

The way they moved was deliberate, calculated, like each step had been measured before their foot even touched the floor. Their presence carried an eerie stillness, the kind that made the air in the room feel heavier, pressing against your skin like an unseen force. It was as if they weren’t just walking through the space—they were observing it, memorizing every detail with quiet intent.

Then, just as they were about to disappear up the stairs, they turned.

The movement was smooth, almost too smooth, as if they had expected you to be looking. Their gaze met yours, unwavering, unreadable.

Your breath caught.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, they raised a hand.

Their fingers shifted into a precise motion—something small, quick. A gesture.

It wasn’t a wave. It wasn’t a greeting. It was something else entirely.

The shape of it tickled the back of your mind, familiar in a way you couldn’t place. A wordless message, a symbol that meant something, though you had no idea what.

Before you could react, before you could even process the unease clawing at your chest, they turned away and vanished up the stairs, swallowed by the dim light of the hallway.

You remained frozen in place, the mug still clutched tightly in your hands, the coffee inside long forgotten. The storm outside had passed, but the weight in the air hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had only grown heavier.

──

You nearly stumble as you ascend the stairs, the weight of the tray in your hands forcing you to move carefully. Three glasses of whiskey—over ice—rest in a neat row, the amber liquid catching the dim glow of the hallway light. A fourth glass, filled with nothing but water, sits beside them. An afterthought, a precaution. You didn’t know this stranger—not their name, not their demeanor, and, worst of all, not their reason for being here.

At the door to Isaac’s study, you hesitate.

It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? You lived here. You had every right to walk in without a second thought. And yet, a strange discomfort settled in your chest, making you second-guess every movement. The tray balances precariously in one hand as you lift the other to knock.

But before your knuckles can even brush against the wood, the door swings open.

The stranger stands on the other side.

You freeze.

They say nothing, offering no explanation for how they knew you were there, no indication that they’d even heard you approach. Their face remains unreadable, their posture unnervingly still. The only movement comes when their hands reach out, steadying the tray in your grasp before you can fumble it. Their fingers brush against yours—cold, unnaturally so. A sharp contrast to the warmth of the whiskey glasses.

You swallow down the instinctual shiver that tries to crawl up your spine, forcing yourself to nod. “Thank you.” The words feel oddly formal, but it’s all you can manage.

The stranger steps aside, allowing you to enter. The door clicks shut behind you.

The study feels heavier than usual, the air thick with an unspoken tension. Shadows cling to the corners of the room, deepened by the storm-gray light filtering in from the windows. Isaac and Vic sit across from each other in their usual chairs, but something is different. Vic, who usually lounges with an air of careless amusement, sits upright, his fingers drumming once against the armrest before stilling. Isaac, sharp-eyed as ever, watches you place the tray on the low table between them, his gaze lingering for a beat too long.

You shift, unsure of where to position yourself. The stranger moves past you with effortless grace, their presence ghostly as they lower themselves onto the floor—at the foot of Vic’s legs.

That makes you tense.

Your eyes flick to Isaac instinctively, searching for any reaction, any sign of what this means. But his face gives nothing away.

Instead of sitting, you take a step back, resting your hand lightly on the back of Isaac’s chair, hovering near him rather than claiming a space of your own. It feels safer this way, though you avoid looking at anyone directly, focusing instead on the dark wood of the floorboards beneath you.

Vic exhales softly, reaching for one of the whiskey glasses. He lifts it, taking a slow sip before speaking.

"Asriel was busy with… someone. I'd doubt he had time to overhear the matter.”

He swirls the glass idly, watching the ice shift within it. Then, without ceremony, he delivers the next sentence like a casual observation.

"One of his men was found massacred," Isaac says, his voice even, unwavering. There is no hesitation, no trace of surprise—just cold acknowledgment. Because it isn’t a stretch. Not at all.

A silence follows, thick and oppressive. The room feels smaller, the walls closing in inch by inch. The soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner fills the space between breaths, between the slow rise and fall of Isaac’s chest, between the tightening of Vic’s jaw.

Vic exhales through his nose, fingers tightening around the glass in his hand. His grip is so firm that for a moment, you wonder if the glass might crack. He doesn’t sip this time. Doesn’t even glance at Isaac. Instead, his gaze flickers—once, briefly—to the figure at his feet.

"Details?" His voice is rougher now, edged with something unreadable.

Isaac shifts, his hand moving toward the stack of documents on the desk. He flips open a folder with careful precision, his fingers gliding over the pages as if the weight of their contents doesn’t bear down on him. But you know better. You see it in the slight press of his lips, in the way his shoulders hold just a fraction more tension than usual.

"Blunt force trauma to the skull," Isaac begins, reading from the report. "Three gunshot wounds to the legs. Four fingernails removed. And—" he pauses, only for a second, but it’s enough to send a chill down your spine, "the heart was missing."

Vic finally looks at him then, eyes narrowing. The stranger at his feet shifts, their movements fluid but slow, calculated. You still don’t know their name, but you can feel their gaze—measuring, dissecting.

"Let me see the autopsy," Vic says, his tone even but edged with something unreadable.

Isaac doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he turns his gaze to you, saying your name in a way that is both soft and firm, a gentle order. You hesitate only for a moment before moving toward his desk, your fingers grazing the smooth wood as you retrieve the folder. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, the pages thick with something far more sinister than mere ink.

As you walk back to the seating area, you keep your grip firm, careful not to crease the edges. You extend the folder toward Vic, but just as the exchange is about to be made, something cold brushes against your leg.

You freeze.

The touch is fleeting, barely there, but it sends a sharp jolt through you. It isn’t the hesitant brush of fabric or an accidental shift in movement. No, this was deliberate. Calculated.

Your breath hitches, but you force yourself to remain composed. The reaction is subtle—just the briefest hesitation in your step, the smallest intake of breath—but even that feels too much. You glance downward, though not enough to be obvious, catching only the faintest movement from the stranger seated at Vic’s feet.

They’ve already withdrawn their hand, their expression unreadable.

Did they mean to do that?

The question lingers, unwanted and intrusive, yet it burrows into your mind like a splinter. The stranger doesn’t look at you again. Their attention remains fixed elsewhere, their posture relaxed but too controlled, too aware.

If Vic or Isaac noticed, they don’t show it.

Vic takes the folder from your hands, flipping it open with an exhale. His eyes scan the contents, his fingers pressing firmly against the edges of the paper. His jaw tightens as he takes in the details, his expression darkening.

Isaac watches him, but his gaze flickers—just once—toward you.

He saw.

You’re sure of it.

But he says nothing.

You watch in near silence, your breath barely escaping your chest as Vic pours over the autopsy photos, his eyes scanning each gruesome detail. But it’s not just the disturbing images that keep your attention—it’s the figure at his feet, sitting still, too still. They haven’t shifted once since entering the room, their presence as unsettling as the storm now dying outside. The figure remains unnervingly calm, their posture too perfect, their face unreadable.

The figure shifts ever so slightly. A soft tug at Vic’s leg—almost imperceptible—yet, you feel it. Something about it feels like a signal, an invitation to a conversation no one else can hear. They raise their hand, falter, then let it drop like a feather, their movement too deliberate, too careful. There’s a strange kind of precision to them, like everything they do has meaning, like there is a language in their stillness.

Then, they lean in, their face close to Vic’s ear, their lips brushing against his skin. The whisper is low, almost inaudible, but Vic’s brows furrow deeply, his eyes narrowing as he tilts his head towards the photos again. A flicker of tension crosses his face—something in what they said has shifted his focus.

"Who gave you the case?" Vic asks suddenly, his voice low but cutting through the still air like a blade. His eyes don't leave the photos as he speaks, but you feel the question settle in the room like a heavy stone.

Isaac answers without missing a beat, his voice taut, betraying no emotion. "It was an anonymous sender."

Vic’s attention snaps away from the pictures, and he turns to face the figure at his side. His gaze is unwavering, and you can almost hear the unspoken questions between them. “They say it’s a setup,” Vic murmurs, his voice growing darker, more dangerous. He leans forward, studying the photos with a renewed intensity. “The man had at least been dead for three days.”

The words feel like they’re sinking into the air, thickening it with their weight. The implications of them gnaw at you—this wasn’t just a crime scene, wasn’t just a murder. It’s something far more calculated, far more deliberate. The body had been left to be found, yes, but who left it? And why?

Three days. The man had been dead for three days.

The words hang in the room like a bitter taste, and you feel it—the invisible thread of tension that grows tighter with every second. Whoever killed this man didn’t simply leave him to die. They made sure the body was found. Made sure it would be discovered. The meticulousness of it. The planning.

Vic doesn’t speak right away, his mind racing over the new information. He looks back down at the photos, then to the figure beside him, and you notice—just for a split second—the slightest shift in their expression. A flicker of something. Recognition? Concern? It’s too fleeting for you to place, but it’s there, undeniable. And it sends a shiver down your spine.

Then, the figure does something even more unsettling. They lean forward again, their voice a whisper you can’t hear, their words meant only for Vic. You can’t help but strain to catch even a fragment, but nothing. The air feels thick with secrets, suffocating in its quiet.

The room is charged now—silent, expectant, the weight of unanswered questions hanging over all of you. This isn’t just a murder. There’s more beneath the surface, and everyone in this room knows it. The mystery deepens, curling tighter around your throat with every word, every glance exchanged. But it’s the figure—who they are, what they know—that makes your skin crawl the most. They aren’t just here as a passive observer. They’re part of the puzzle, and somehow, you feel they’re the key to unlocking whatever darkness is lurking just out of sight.

But what are they hiding? What is Vic really seeing in those photos? What secrets is he keeping, and how much of it does this figure truly understand? The unsettling quiet that fills the space between them makes your pulse quicken.

Vic stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the hardwood floor with a sharp noise that cuts through the tension hanging in the air. He places the folder back on the table, closing it with a deliberate finality, the sound of the paper pressing together sending an unsettling ripple through the room. The figure rises almost simultaneously, their movements fluid, too coordinated, as if they were anticipating every step of Vic's. Their gaze shifts toward Isaac for a brief moment before they silently follow him towards the door.

"Mail me a copy of the documents," Vic's voice is low, the words measured, deliberate. "I’ll make sure it gets to Asriel as soon as possible." His eyes flicker back to the folder, scanning it one last time, his expression unreadable. The weight of the moment seems to settle around him, and his voice drops even further, carrying a subtle but ominous weight. "As for now, don't directly pursue the case. Keep gathering details. I'll see what I can find on my own. Keep me updated."

Isaac nods sharply, his posture stiff, betraying no emotion as he acknowledges Vic's instructions. His eyes flicker briefly to the figure, who stands unmoving, almost too still, a presence that seems to demand attention even without a word. There’s something about the way they stand there, almost as if waiting for something—waiting for you to react, to move, to understand.

Isaac strides toward Vic, his footsteps heavy and firm, the sense of finality in his actions palpable. The silence that follows his departure towards the door is thick, suffocating. It feels like the entire world is holding its breath.

Vic turns his back to you for a moment, heading toward the door. You can’t help but watch the figure as they stand by the doorframe, not moving, not speaking. The air around them seems to hum with an unnerving energy, something sharp and unfamiliar, like the stillness before a storm. You feel as though there is more to them, more lurking just beneath the surface of their unsettling calm.

As Isaac opens the door, a part of you wishes you could stay in this room, away from whatever lurks beyond it. But Vic doesn’t look back, the figure, though, does. Their gaze lands on you briefly, their eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sends a shiver crawling down your spine. For a split second, you wonder if they know something you don’t. If they’ve been watching you, all this time, gathering pieces of a puzzle you can’t quite see.

Then, without a word, the figure raises their hand, moving in the same deliberate way they had earlier when they first arrived. The gesture is eerily familiar, as though it holds a hidden meaning, a language you can’t decode. Their fingers twitch and hover in mid-air, an almost imperceptible motion before they drop their hand quickly. Their eyes flicker one more time toward you before they turn and slip through the door behind Vic.

The door shuts softly behind them, and you are left standing in the study, the weight of their departure settling heavily in the pit of your stomach. For a moment, you simply stand there, uncertain, lost in the echo of silence that now hangs in the room.

The storm outside has cleared, but the air inside feels colder than ever.

You are alone now.

But it doesn’t feel like you’ve been left with peace. Something is off. Something is wrong. The case—the body, the figure, the whispered conversations—all of it has the sharp, jagged edge of a trap, waiting to close in around you. And in the back of your mind, you hear it. The question that refuses to fade: What are they really after?

The quiet stretches out before you, as you stare at the closed door, unsure of what to do next. But you know this much—whatever is coming, it’s far from over. And the next step could be the one that unravels everything.

You don’t know how much longer you can keep running from the truth.

──

author's note: i apologize for the spam posting, i've just found my love and motivation for writing again!

tag list :

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[bookwyrminspiration]

it DOES matter and DON'T you DARE take the easy way out you MOTHERFU—

[theriverbeyond]

i feel like in the cosplay community everyone is always working on a New Project. but idk. i like my cosplays. i don't have any desire to dress up as anyone but the characters I already have cosplays for. what if i don't have a new project. what if i don't want one.

[c-rankshaft]

This addition might be considered a little bit off topic, so feel free to tell me to make my own post if you wish OP(s)!

Elder Scrolls games seem to have some kind of disease about them that makes it so they just cannot grasp the scale of JUST HOW BAD things are. Morrowind (edited bc my dumb ass forgot about beautiful Daggerfall and I own up to my mistakes), in my opinion, came the closest, but that's another post for another time. I think one of the problems with Skyrim and the Alduin storyline is that there's not really any true incentive in the game to seek out this information. You can ABSOLUTELY play the game not knowing anything but the bare dry bones of what is going on. Then, with no incentive TO learn deeper outside of having the question in the box go from white to grey, the incentive is more found in NOT asking the questions- gets you back to the ""fun"" gameplay quicker.

This DOES allow for player character variation (say you want to make your LDB an idiot or something) alongside an easier route for people who have already played before, but it doesn't work for portraying a world that is supposedly ending, or one that is being overtaken by dragon cults. To get the gravity of that to truly WEIGH on the player, you have to make it so not knowing, like not seeking out the books or the extra dialogue, in some way disadvantages the player.

However, this doesn't really tackle the issue of the confusing and overly simplistic way they handled Alduin in the first place. As said above, there's a huge unanswered question taken from the main storyline of "What the hell was he even trying to do?" that comes from different characters implying different sentiments. Perhaps this was supposed to be an attempt at pitting many theories against each other A LA Battle of Red Mountain(?), but without any elaboration on anything and no true incentive to seek out more information, alongside the fact that some of the MOST interesting stuff on Alduin isn't even in the game at all, it all just falls flat. You don't get a coherent story OR the full weight of the situation from the game, at all.

I'm, personally, fully convinced that this is the result of suppressing creative writing/portrayal ideas in the interests of making the game marketable. You can feel as you play the game, that it was intended to hit a very very wide audience. It's designed to be easily picked up and played by literally anyone, and that's a HUGE part of where the massive success came from. It was simplistic enough story wise so that nobody ever would have a single issue understanding. Big reach = Big money, and big money is more important to a game studio than a good story. Combine that reach with the fact that they've re-released the game (arguably) 17 times on 10 different consoles, it makes it pretty clear that they're more focused on creating and adding aspects to the game (and other games currently being worked on in the series) that make it lucrative-- not necessarily new, inventive, creative, or gripping story-wise.

Basically, this post is so correct it kinda hurts a bit. There are ways to make all of this information work. They don't really bother because they'd have to put more budget into story, and what if not every single person on the planet is pleased with the story? Bad for business. Better make it as generic as possible so it sells better. Fire every writer who cares. Underpay and mistreat the rest so they can't care. Now put Skyrim on the Switch. Now put it on VR. Now add paid mods. Now encourage everyone to play your MMO. Now release paid DLC. Now add something to the Crown Store. Now release paid DLC. Now add something to the Crown Store. Now release paid DLC. Now add something to the Crown Store. Now release paid DLC. Now add something to the Crown Store.

alright i might be misremembering some things bc it's been a while since i played the skyrim mq but.... man i really wish we could've had a proper conversation with alduin near the end of the game like we do with dagoth ur. like he's the one villain who isn't some Bad Guy gone mad with power he's literally a GOD. he's literally just doing his job!!!!! of ending the world!

i don't like how he's depicted as just a generic power hungry bad guy like isn't being the world eater literally his Purpose....you even have conversations w arngeir and paarthurnax, iirc, about the ethics of killing the "world eater" and if it's okay to let the current kalpa keep going when it's supposed to end. i wish that was a moral dilemma explored more in the game. i would've loved a final conversation between the ldb and alduin where he talks to you and asks you if you know what you're doing, if you know what it means to keep this world going. discussing if it's really your choice to decide when the world ends or stays. about death, rebirth and creation. who are you to interfere with this natural cycle?

[bonefall]

post/734733274896809984/do-you-ever-worry-your-own-writing-might-come-off that makes sense. i was asking because i'm afraid of accidentally writing misogyny myself and i kind of admire what you do

Hmm... I wish I had better advice to give you on this front, but honestly, the only thing I can tell you is to consider the perspective of your female characters.

Women are people. They have thoughts and feelings of their own, so like... just let them have their own arcs. A lot of the worst misogyny in WC comes from the way that the writers just don't care about their girls (or, in the case of tall shadow, actually get undermined and forced to rewrite entire chapters), so they're not curious about their lives, or WHY they feel the way they do or what they want, or any direction for their character arcs.

Turtle Tail as an example. She'll often just end up feeling whatever Gray Wing's plot demands. She's gotta leave when Storm dumps him to make him feel lonely. She shows up again to love him in the next book. Lets her best friend Bumble get dragged back to Tom the Wifebeater, but is sad enough about her death to be "unreasonably angry" with Clear Sky, and then calms down and accept Gray Wing is right all along.

And then she dies, so he can have his very own fridge wife.

In this way, Turtle Tail's just being used to tell Gray Wing's story. They're not interested in why she would turn on Bumble, or god forbid any lingering negative feelings for how she didn't help her, or even resentment towards Clear Sky for killing her or Gray Wing for jumping to his defense. She isn't really going through her own character arc.

She does have personality traits of her own, don't misunderstand my criticism, but as a character she revolves around Gray Wing.

So, zoom out every now and then, and just ask yourself; "Whose story is being told by what I wrote? Do my female characters have goals, wants, and agency, or are they just supporting men? How do their choices impact the narrative?"

But that's already kinda assuming that you already have characters like Turtle Tail who DO have personalities and potential of their own. Here's some super simple and practical advice that helped me;

Tally the genders in your cast. How many are boys, how many are girls, how many are others?

And take stock of how many of those characters are just in the supporting cast, and compare that to the amount you have in the main cast.

If you have a significant imbalance, ESPECIALLY in the main cast, fire the Woman Beam.

It's a really simple trick to just write a male character, and then change its gender while keeping it the same. I promise women are really not fundamentally different from men lmao. You can consider how your in-universe gender roles affect them later, if you'd like, but when you're just starting to wean yourself off a "boy bias" this trick works like a charm.

Also you're not allowed to change the body type of any girl you Woman Beam because I said so. PLEASE allow your girls to have muscles, or be fat, or be old, or have lots of scars. Do NOT do what a cowardly Triple A studio does, where the women all have the same cute or sexy face and curvy body while they're standing next to dwarves, robots, and a gorilla.

Or this shit,

If you do this I will GET you. If you're ever possessed by the dark urge, you will see my face appear in the clouds like Mufasa himself to guide you away from the path of evil.

Anyway, you get better at just making characters girls to begin with as time goes on and you practice it. It's really not as big of a deal as your brain might think it is.

Take a legitimate interest in female characters and try not to disproportionately hit them with parental/romance plots as opposed to the male cast, and you'll be fine. Don't think of them as "SPECIAL WOMEN CHARACTERS" just make a character and then let her be a girl, occasionally checking your tally and doing some critical thinking about their use in the story.

(Also remember I'm not a professional or anything, I'm just trying to give advice)

[floorpancakes]

smth kinda fucked up about watching doumeki go from whole assedly making life or death decisions for watanuki as a desperate but firm love language every other tuesday to fucking sitting in quiet anguish with a pained look on his face with his eyebrows fucking tweaking out, still able to make life or death protective decisions sometimes but being fucking paralysed with indecision most times that don't involve immediate physical actions to the point it's clearly ripping his head and heart in two even if he still retains that refusal to give up

[prettyboykatsuki]

bnha is so overhated bro boooo

[july-19th-club]

one thing that is so genius on a craft level with the broken earth books is that the derogatory for 'orogene' is - That Way - on 100% purpose. you're supposed to feel like it's not a word to say out loud, it's supposed to be uncomfortably similar to words you've already heard and know as cruel slurs in the real world. it's a direct fucking parallel designed to deliberately give the reader that crawling feeling and it works so well i dont even feel right typing it up for a post

[quietlyblooms]

gimme a minute to cook over this bnha verse and then i'll get cracking on some starters B))

[stormyoceans]

If Sea says that as a homework assignment he has watched "Scent of a Woman" with Al Pacino hundreds of times, I will cry ugly tears and no one will stop me, because this is literally the best representation of a blind man in a movie that I have ever seen😭😭😭

Monica, tell me that you saw today's workshop!? I'm literally climbing on the ceiling from what I saw! Sea trusts Jimmy 1000% and follows him without a shadow of a doubt. I'm ready to tear my hair out from THIS!!!!!!😭😭😭😭

THE WAY THIS IS THE FIRST THING I SAW WHEN I OPENED TUMBLR AFTER AN ENTIRE DAY OF DOING CHORES AND I ALMOST BROKE MY FINGERS TO GO CHECK THE OFFICIAL LAST TWILIGHT ACCOUNT AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT AND THEN ALMOST BROKE MY PHONE AS WELL WHILE REFRESHING TWITTER 93648537 TIMES BECAUSE GOD KNOWS WHAT ELON MUSK DID TO FUCK IT UP THIS TIME AND NOW IM JUST SHAKING OUT OF MY SKIN YELLING AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS THROWING UP BLOOD WHILE IN A DEAD FAINT ON THE FLOOR EXPERIENCING THE ENTIRE RANGE OF HUMAN EMOTIONS BECAUSE IT'S HAPPENING IT'S REALLY HAPPENING THEY'RE COMING TO US!!!!!!!!!!

i honestly have no words to express how happy i am to know that they actually had someone with a visual impairment talk about their experience and help during workshop. i know this is like.. the bare minimum but again, if we can't have any actors with visual impairments to play in the show, im at least glad they're trying to educate themselves and consulting people from the community so they can represent this story on screen in a way that's as respectful and realistic as possible

ALSO NOT TO BE THAT PERSON BUT JIMMYSEA REALLY BE POWER WALKING AROUND THAT ROOM LIKE IT'S NOTHING AND I FEEL SUICIDAL ABOUT IT. jimmy looks so confident while leading sea but also so careful as he glances back from time to time to check on him, but the thing that frankly is making me want to throw myself off a fifteen story building and is probably gonna lend me in a psych ward sooner rather than later is that you are sooo right, sea is just following jimmy along with no sign of hesitation in his steps, matching jimmy's pace so easily and walking so close to him TRULY THE TRUST THE FAITH THE BOND!!!!!!!!!

tbh i wouldn't be surprised if p'aof gave scent of a woman as an assignment to both jimmy and sea since the focus of the movie is the relationship between a man with visual impairment and a student in need of money who takes a job as his caregiver, so it can be an interesting point of view for both of them!!!! also this reminds me that gmmtv better give me a two hours long special where the entire cast shares what they watched and read and did to prepare for their roles I JUST WANT TO KNOW EVERY SINGLE THING ABOUT THIS SHOW I ALREADY SUFFERED ENOUGH WITH THE WAY GMMTV MISTREATED VICE VERSA THEY OWE ME ONE