#(Beyond the tangled web)

[ozzgin]

Algae Monster x Reader content: gender neutral reader, ft. the monster adopt I got from natansiik!

Cottage life was supposed to be idyllic: curious critters, the chirping of birds, the shuffle of vegetation after a soft breeze passes by. What you’d gotten instead was utter silence and emptiness.

This was ridiculous. You stared incredulously at the bird feeder you’d eagerly installed outside, untouched and filled to the brim still. Where was everything? The place should’ve been pulsing with life. Even the flowers you so carefully planted along the little cobblestone path had been afraid to come out of the barren soil.

Frustrated and confused, you reached for your bag and scurried ahead, in no particular direction, hoping to find some answers or at least clear your mind of that suffocating feeling of dread.

Something was deeply wrong with the forest.

As you made your way around the overgrown roots, you began to notice thick clumps of cattails – the only real greenery around there – contouring something beyond your sight. You hadn’t been told of any lake or pond when you moved in, so what were they doing here? Your step became heavier, sinking into muddy ground the closer you got to the wetland.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” you mumbled to yourself, kneeling before the murky water.

You waited a moment, expectantly, yet nothing happened. The damned puddle was just as dead as the rest of the area, devoid of any animals. Right as you were about to turn around, your reflection jolted in waves across the surface, skewing and trembling under the pull of a foreign movement coming from the depths. A fish?

The creature coming out of the pond caused you to fall on your back in terror. It almost resembled a human, tall and slender, with glowing eyes and long claws, its body tangled in a web of seaweed.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see movement around here,” it mused, visibly surprised by your presence. “What are you doing in this graveyard?”

Still taken aback by the monstrosity that had just crawled its way to you, you could only nod and point towards your home. Your voice seemed to be stuck somewhere within your throat.

The idea that you’d been living there seemed to be an even greater shock to the beast. It marveled at you, hesitantly extending a finger and dragging it across your face. Unbelievable. Unconceivable.

You later learned that your unexpected encounter was the main and only inhabitant of the forest, for the very simple reason that everything else wilted in his presence. A spirit of death, meant to lead a solitary existence until time itself came to a halt. Or, as he now discovered, until you’d show up.

By the time you arrive at the pond, he’s already waiting for you. His hollow orbs are narrowed in a smile, flaunting a wide slit across his face. Your eyes involuntarily rest on the sharp rows of teeth protruding from the opening.

“You’re in a good mood today,” you comment as you throw a blanket over the grass.

“Why, of course I am. You’re here.”

He swiftly snatches your wrist and pulls you in a greedy embrace, inhaling your scent. You are indeed here, and you’d better stay here. He’s never known such bliss before. To think someone out there could withstand his ghastly, deadly essence, what a bold dream! Yet here you are, thriving under his touch. For once, his cursed hands bring more than demise.

You’re his precious gift, his most prized treasure. Oh, he’s never letting you go.

[shouyuus]

+18, mdni, uh idk what this is dont look at me please thanks

sevika likes it when you can't get her full name out.

"-- v-vika -- please --"

"hm... please what? please... stop? cause i can do that if you want --"

she tugs back her arm slightly, even as you whine, keening at the loss of her fingers, your thighs clamping down around her wrist (as if that's ever been enough to keep her there).

"no no no no -- don't stop -- want more -- fuck --" you squirm, begging, hips kicking up to chase her hand. she chuckles, the sound smoke-ridden and amused.

"ahh there y'go," she grunts as she fucks her fingers back into you, curling them till your eyes roll back, "needy lil slut, aren't you? hm?"

she cocks her head as you moan, fingers curling into the sheets. even with your eyes closed, you know how she looks -- her eyes dark, a smirk sharpening her lips as she watches you. she likes you like this -- begging, incoherent.

the room smells of cheap alcohol and metal polish, the light from outside tinted acid green by the vast, arching windows, washing the bed in a strange, ethereal light.

"f-fuck -- s -- vika, g-gonna -- mmngh --!"

your heels kick out and sevika hisses, leaning forward, bearing down over you, her mechanical arm banding across your hips to keep you still as she pummels into your puffy, abused hole. your mouth falls open in a broken scream as you cum, static wreathing it's way up all your limbs as you shake through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

"fuck fuck fuck fuck -- mm -- please -- a-ah-ha..." your voice tapers out into a whine as sevika tugs her fingers from you with a feral grin, spreading her digits just so you can see how your slick webs between them, catching in the halfway light. the sight makes your stomach clench, even though your whole body aches from an afternoon spent in bed with her.

"damn. looks like you had a good time," she says, shoving up to wipe her in the thin, tangled sheets. she always does this, her tone almost mocking as she goes through the motions of cleaning you both up, her movements two notches beyond gentle, not quite hedging into harshness.

you hum, pushing up into a sitting position as she goes about the room. you lean in to drop a kiss on her hip as she stands next to the bed. her fingers curl into your hair. you glance up with a cheeky grin.

"you look like you had fun too," you tease, to which sevika scoffs, her fingers softening in your hair before she pushes you away.

"yeah yeah, now put your panties back on. we're goin' out."

you shimmy off the bed and tip-toe across the room where you pick up your panties from the back of a chair, slipping them on.

"where're we going?"

"jericho's. i could hear your stomach rumblin' from across the room. hurry up, c'mon."

you roll your eyes; she slaps your ass as you walk by her. you let out a squeak, cheeks flushing with heat even as she shoulders on her cloak.

it's an easy kind of intimacy, what the pair of you have, tentative and uncertain at times, but easy, nonetheless. you know that all it would take is a single wayward breeze to unsettle the precarious balance between you, but, you think as you push out into the bustling zaunite streets, the air textured in shimmer and smoke, sevika lighting up a cigarette next to you before ushering you forwards -- you're thankful at least that tonight won't be that night.

[noirscript]

bride of the abyss

Pairing: Yandere Siren x Reader Description: Years after you saved him, Zeiryn returns to drag you beneath the waves—where his love waits, fierce and inescapable. Warning/s: Yandere | Noncon/Dubcon Themes | Kidnapping | Possessive Behavior | Captivity | Obsession | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Violence | Body Morphing/Transformation Note/s: Commissioned on ko-fi! Thabk you for trusting me with your commission! Idk if you've received the email. I hope you enjoy this one! Tags will be added later!

Commissions are still open!

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar

The first time you met him, the sun was so high it burned your shoulders through your shirt. Your sandals had long been discarded, the soles of your feet pressed against coarse, grainy sand, warmed by the afternoon heat. Vacation meant freedom, and for you—a curious child with scraped knees and untamed hair—that meant wandering far beyond the adults’ lazy eyes and picnic baskets.

You weren’t supposed to be near the cliffs. The locals had told stories, murmured warnings of tides that dragged unsuspecting feet into the undertow. But you were eight, and warnings slid off your ears like water. You’d chased a crab across slick rocks, nearly slipping once—okay, twice—before rounding a jagged stone formation and stopping short.

A glint of silver caught your eye. At first, you thought it was trash—a bit of foil or an abandoned soda can. Then it moved. Just slightly. Enough to catch the sun and reflect a brilliance so blinding it made your eyes water. You stepped closer, heart thudding, and gasped.

He was tangled in a net.

You didn’t know what he was—some strange fish, perhaps? But then he turned his face to you, and your world cracked open.

He had eyes like the sea after a storm—grey, but not dull. There was depth there. Sorrow. His skin, though damp and streaked with grit, shimmered faintly under the sun. Hair, long and tangled with bits of kelp and shell, framed a face that was almost too lovely for this world. And below the waist…

A tail. Silver-scaled, powerful, twitching weakly with every shallow breath he took.

You froze.

He didn’t speak. He just stared. His lips slightly parted. You noticed the way he held himself, cautious and ready to defend. His hand—webbed and claw-tipped—twitched when you shifted your weight.

“I won’t hurt you,” you said, holding out your hands to show you had nothing. No rocks. No spear. Just your palms, scraped and pink from climbing.

He blinked slowly, suspicious still.

“Are you stuck?” you asked.

No reply. But he didn’t back away when you stepped closer. You knelt beside him, the scent of salt and something sharper—like rotting seaweed baking in the sun—invading your nose. It made your stomach twist. But you pushed it aside and began working at the net.

The knots were tight. You pulled and untangled, ignoring the barnacles slicing your fingertips. Time passed, but neither of you spoke. It wasn’t silence. The waves talked, the seagulls screamed above, and your own breath came hard with effort. Still, it felt sacred—like speaking would shatter something delicate between you.

Eventually, the net slackened.

He let out a sharp sound—surprise? Relief?—and pushed himself forward, dragging the last threads free with a flick of his tail. Then, to your astonishment, he touched your arm. A light brush of damp fingers on your skin. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes—raw and electric—said everything.

And then, he was gone. A splash, a spray of saltwater, and silver glimmering beneath the waves.

You never told anyone.

You convinced yourself it was a dream, a fantasy born from too much sun. But you visited that rock again. And again. Just in case.

Years passed. You grew up. He did not fade.

• • — ✦ — • •

Beneath the waves, he remembered everything.

Zeiryn had been young when you saved him, and even then, his mind was unlike the others. While his kin drowned sailors and split hulls for fun, Zeiryn watched the world above with a secret hunger. He had never known mercy—not until you. He thought you were an illusion at first. A sun-struck phantom, kindness shaped like a child.

But you were real. You touched him without fear. You saved him.

And he had never forgotten.

Seasons passed above and below. He grew stronger, his voice deeper, the gift of his lineage blooming in his throat. His tail thickened with muscle, the silver of his scales deepening to something more molten, almost iridescent. His hair, once wild and matted, was now woven with the treasures of the deep—rings of coral, braids of pearl, beads carved from whalebone. He was no longer a drifting child of the tide. He was a leader now.

Yet every dusk, he swam to the same stretch of shore, peering through kelp and coral, waiting for the only face that had ever haunted him.

And then—finally—he saw you.

You stood there, older, but still you. Your eyes held the same wonder, the same distant sadness. He watched from the rocks, heart hammering, the sea rising with every thrum of anticipation. You were holding a bottle. The scent reached him even through the water. Alcohol. Sour and sharp.

You stumbled closer to the edge, barefoot like before. He didn’t understand your tears at first. But when they hit the water, he tasted them.

Bitterness.

He had never tasted sorrow before.

He moved without thinking, cutting through the water with a predator’s grace. When you stepped into the sea—lost, maybe hoping it would take you—he was already there. His arms wrapped around you just before your knees buckled. He caught you. Held you. And for the first time in years, he felt whole again.

He turned to the shore. His eyes, once filled with awe, hardened. There were people there. A town. A world that had allowed you to suffer.

He would never forgive it.

The water closed over your head.

And he took you home.

• • — ✦ — • •

The cold hits you first. It pierces your skin like needles, forcing your eyes open.

Then the pressure—thick and heavy—presses against your chest. You try to gasp and choke instead. The world is liquid. Blurry shapes. Movement. Panic claws through you. You thrash—

Then you notice the shimmer.

Your legs—no. Not legs.

You scream, but no sound comes out. Just bubbles.

The tail is yours. You move, and it moves with you—powerful, golden, alien.

Your lungs don’t ache. You aren’t drowning.

You’re breathing. Underwater.

A presence approaches. You backpedal—awkward, instinctual.

Then he’s there.

The siren.

Older. Towering. Regal in a way that defies language. His eyes widen as you meet his gaze. He reaches for you like a lover, a prayer on his lips without sound.

You float, stunned, your heart racing in your chest.

"You're awake! Welcome home!" he says—somehow, impossibly, the words sliding into your mind like a current. His voice doesn’t echo in your ears. It resonates in your bones. Inside you.

Your lips tremble. “What... what did you do to me?”

He cocks his head, almost confused by the question. “I saved you.”

You glance around. Coral walls. Bioluminescent plants. Faint shadows darting beyond what your eyes can track.

“I didn’t ask to be saved.”

His face falters, just briefly. But then the soft smile returns. “You did, once. When I was dying. You touched me. You gave me your warmth. Your kindness.” He swims closer. “You were the only one who ever did.”

“That was years ago.” You try to back away, but your body is sluggish in this new form. “I was a kid.”

“You remembered me.” His voice is gentle now, like a lullaby. “You returned.”

You shake your head, panicked. “No. I—I was just walking. I didn’t know—”

His hand reaches forward, cupping your cheek. His touch is warm now. Familiar. Like seawater kissed by the sun. “You were hurting. They made you cry. But you don’t have to cry anymore.”

“I want to go back,” you whisper.

“There’s nothing there for you.”

He’s not angry. Not yet. Just... patient. Like he’s waiting for you to understand something you’ve missed.

“You belong here,” he murmurs. “With me.”

You remember the way he looked at you back then—curious and soft. But this is different. There’s devotion in his eyes. A fire born not of gentle affection, but of obsession that has steeped too long.

“You changed me,” you say, voice shaking. You look down at the tail. “How?”

“There’s a pearl,” he says, pointing to your side. You notice now—embedded near your hip is a small, glowing orb, barely visible beneath your skin.

“I couldn’t risk losing you again.”

You turn, frantic now. “No, no, this isn’t right. I can’t—this isn’t real.”

“You are real.” His voice is sharper now. “I dreamed of you so long I thought you were only in my mind. But you’re here. Flesh and spirit. And you’ll never have to suffer again.”

You shake your head. “I’m not your wife.”

Silence.

Then he leans close, his breath warm against your ear even underwater.

“Yet.”

• • — ✦ — • •

Back on the surface, a woman named Marina squints at the shore where she last saw you. She’s a local—grew up with the sea in her lungs and warnings stitched into her grandmother’s lullabies. When she saw you walk into the ocean, something in her gut twisted. She waited hours. You didn’t return.

Now, she’s standing with a fisherman and an old priest, their gazes following the waterline.

“No body,” the man mutters. “Currents here don’t drag far. Should’ve washed up if she drowned.”

“She didn’t drown,” Marina says softly. “She was taken.”

The priest mutters something in an old tongue. The fisherman scoffs.

“By what? Sea spirits? Merfolk?”

“No.” Marina’s eyes don’t leave the water. “A siren.”

“Those don’t exist.”

“They do,” she says. “And if it’s the one I think… she won’t come back.”

And deep beneath the waves, Zeiryn brushes a strand of hair from your face as you lie curled in coral-silk bedding. You’ve cried yourself into a stupor. But your skin is warmer now. The transformation is complete. Soon, you’ll forget what it was like to walk. To speak above the waves. To live without him.

He hums you a song—a melody he’s written over the years, just for you. It wraps around your heart like a net.

You stir in your sleep.

He smiles.

Tomorrow, you’ll love him back.

You have to.

After all… you’re home.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans@ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSAFEWORD * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Matt comes home angry after a stressful day and takes it out on Y/N, making her use her safeword.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　SMUT ‼️ explicit language, p in v, Mean!Matt, rough sex, slight dumbification/degradation, pet names, hair pulling, use of safeword, crying.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

"Matt- please, I can't-" Y/N's body trembled under Matt's relentless touch, her breath hitching in her throat as waves of pleasure and pain intertwined in a cruel dance that had been going on for hours.

Matt had been different tonight; more intense, more demanding, more relentless. But beneath the surface, Y/N could sense the weight of something darker, something that had driven him to this edge.

He had returned from his day full of meetings with tension radiating from every pore, his usual warmth replaced with an icy determination that made Y/N’s heart race with equal parts fear and excitement.

She couldn't lie and say that she didn't loved how he pushed her, how he could make her body sing in ways no one else ever had, but tonight, he was pushing her beyond her limits. His hands were rougher, his words sharper, filled with a biting edge of degradation that made her cheeks flush with shame and arousal.

"Fuck, you’re such a dirty little slut." Matt growled, his voice rough, almost feral as he pressed her face into the mattress, his grip on her hips tight enough to bruise. "Look at you, so fucking needy. Is this all you’re good for? Spreading your legs and taking my cock?"

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, the sting of his words cutting deep. They had always enjoyed playing on the edge of roughness, pushing each other to the brink, but at that moment there was an edge to Matt’s tone that was darker, more vicious, and it scared her as much as it turned her on.

"Matt-" She gasped loudly, feeling his tip brushing against her most sensitive spot.

"Yeah, baby? You like being used like this, don’t you?" Matt continued, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. "Such a fucking whore, taking everything I give you, begging for more."

Tears pricked at the corners of Y/N’s eyes, her body barely keeping up with the intensity of his thrusts, each one sending shockwaves through her body, pushing her further and further into a headspace where all she could feel was him; his roughness, his anger, his need.

Her mind was a chaotic mess of conflicting emotions. She adored the way Matt had the power to dominate her, the way he could take control and make her feel small, vulnerable, but safe.

But now, there was no safety net, no gentle undertone to his words, no soft looks, or tender touches to remind her that this was just play. It felt real - too real - and it terrified her. She was on the verge of tears, her body betraying her as it responded to his cruel words and rough touch with mindless, desperate arousal.

"Answer me." Matt snarled, his hand fisting in her hair and yanking her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, burning with an intensity that made her stomach twist with a mixture of fear and need. "Tell me what you are. Tell me how much you fucking love this."

"I-I love it." Y/N stammered, her voice shaky, barely audible as she tried to keep up with the relentless pace he had set, shuddering. "I love being your s-slut, Matt. Please..."

"Please, what?" He demanded, interrupting her, his lips curling into a cruel smirk as he watched her struggle beneath him. "Please fuck you harder? Is this not enough?"

Her mind was spinning, her thoughts tangled in the web of humiliation and desire he had woven around her. She had always trusted Matt, trusted that he knew her limits. But in that moment, she could see no sign of the man who held her after, who whispered sweet words of love and reassurance.

"You’re so fucking pathetic, doll." Matt muttered in a mockery tone, his hand traveling around her stomach, feeling a small bulge below his palm. A smirk stretched acros his lips before he pressed his hand down on her lower abdomen, making her gasp as the sensation of his cock filling her completely overwhelmed her. "Look at that, dove. You’re so fucking full of me, you can see it, yeah?"

Y/N couldn’t stop the tears that slipped down her cheeks, a whimper escaping from her throat and her body trembling with a mixture of pleasure and pain, her mind reeling from the intensity of it all. She could feel herself breaking, her mind teetering on the edge of something dark and terrifying. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

Her lower body tried to react for itself, moving relentlessly while trying to move away from his hands, away from his touch. But Matt didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He was lost in his own world, driven by something darker than either of them had ever encountered in their time together.

"Hmm, making me feel s'good, 'were only made for that... you’re not even good for anything else, are you? Just a tight little cunt for me to fuck until I’m so satisfied and-"

"Red." She gasped out, interrupting his sentence abruptly, her voice breaking as the safe word slipped past her lips. "Red, Matt. Please... stop. Please-"

As Y/N's shout registered inside his mind, Matt’s entire world ground to a halt. The haze of anger and lust that had clouded his mind evaporated in an instant, leaving him feeling cold and hollow. He stilled immediately, his breath catching in his throat as he processed what she had just said. The safeword; the one word they had agreed upon to stop everything if it ever became too much. And she had used it.

A wave of dread washed over him as he realized what he had done. He had pushed her too far, been too rough, and now she was lying beneath him, trembling, with tears streaming down her angel face. The guilt was immediate and overwhelming, threatening to choke him as he remained still inside her, his body frozen in place.

"Fuck." Matt whispered, his voice shaking with a mixture of fear and remorse.

He wanted to pull out immediately, to give her the space she needed, but he knew that would only cause her more pain. Instead, he took a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside him, and began to gently caress her body, his hands trembling as they moved over her tense and sore muscles.

"Shh, baby, I’m here." He murmured, his voice cracking as he started to stroke her back and shoulders, feeling the tight knots of tension beneath his fingertips.

He could see how red and irritated her skin was, the marks left by his rough hands and relentless pace, and it made him feel like the worst kind of monster. He wanted to cry, the weight of what he had done crushing him, but he held it together for her. She needed him to be strong now, to take care of her, and that was the least he could do after everything.

"I’m so fucking sorry, Y/N." Matt whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he continued to gently rub her sides, his hands gliding over her warm, tender skin. He pressed soft, apologetic kisses to her shoulder, feeling the salt of her sweat mingling with his lips. "I didn’t mean to hurt you, dove. I never wanted to push you this far. Please forgive me. I’m so, so sorry."

Y/N’s body was still trembling, her breath coming in shaky gasps as she tried to come down from the intense high he had forced her into. The feel of his hands on her, so gentle now, so careful, was a stark contrast to the brutal pace he had set before, and it was both soothing and heartbreaking at the same time. She could hear the pain in his voice, the guilt that was eating away at him, and despite everything, she wanted to reassure him that she was okay, that they were okay.

Matt’s hands continued their slow, tender exploration of her body, trying to soothe the aches and pains he had caused. He traced the lines of her muscles, feeling the tension slowly start to ebb away as she relaxed under his touch, though her body still quivered with the aftershocks. His heart ached as he observed her state, and he couldn’t stop the endless stream of apologies that flowed from his lips nonstop.

"I’m gonna slip out now, okay?" He whispered, his voice trembling as he pressed another soft kiss to her temple. He waited for her response, needing her to give him the okay before he made a move.

When she finally nodded, her eyes still closed, he took a deep breath and began to withdraw from her, moving as slowly and gently as possible. Despite his care, Y/N hissed in pain as he pulled out, her body still too sensitive, too raw from the hours of overstimulation. The sound made his heart shatter all over again, and he felt a fresh wave of guilt crash over him, his stomach twisting with self-loathing.

"Shit, I know, I know... I’m sorry, dove." He choked out, his voice barely above a whisper as he finally freed himself from her body, feeling the absence of her warmth immediately. "I’m so fucking sorry."

"It's alright. Just... Can you hold me? Please?" Her voice sounded so vulnerable, so small.

"Of course! Of course, sweetheart." Matt rushed his answer, laying by her side. He reached for her, pulling her into his arms and holding her close, his heart breaking at the way she winced as she shifted against him.

Y/N nestled into his chest, her body still trembling but beginning to calm as she felt his arms around her, his strong embrace a comfort after the storm. She could hear his heartbeat, fast and erratic beneath her ear, and she knew he was just as shaken as she was. Her own tears had slowed, though her eyes still burned with the remnants of the emotions he had dragged out of her.

"It’s okay." She whispered, her voice hoarse from the intensity of their session. "It’s okay, Matt."

But it wasn’t okay, not for Matt. He didn't know how she could say that when he, himself, couldn’t forgive himself for pushing her to the point where she had to use their safe word, where he had hurt her so badly that she had to stop him. The guilt gnawed at him, and he held her even tighter, as if he could somehow make up for the damage he had done by never letting go.

"I don't deserve you." He whispered again, his voice breaking as he buried his face in her hair, his body shaking with the force of his feelings. "I never wanted to hurt you, baby. Please, please, can you forgive me, angel?"

Y/N could feel the weight of his guilt pressing down on him, the way his body trembled with the effort to hold back his own tears, and it broke her heart. She knew he hadn’t meant to hurt her, knew that he had lost control in the heat of the moment, but she also knew that she needed to help him understand that she didn’t hate him for it; that she still loved him, and that they could get through this together.

"I forgive you." She whispered, her voice soft but firm as she lifted her head to look at him, her hand coming up to cup his cheek as if he was her most precious thing. "I know you didn’t mean it, Matt. We are okay. I’m okay. I promise."

Matt looked down at her, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, and he could see the truth in her gaze. She wasn’t angry with him, wasn’t pulling away from him. She was still here, still in his arms, and that was enough to start mending the cracks that had formed in his heart.

"Thank you." He whispered, his voice full of gratitude and love as he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, his hands stroking her hair, her back, anything he could touch to reassure himself that she was still with him. "I love you so fucking much, Y/N. I’ll never let it get like that again, I promise."

"I know you won’t." Y/N whispered back, her voice full of conviction as she curled into him, seeking the comfort and safety of his embrace. "I trust you, Matt. With my life."

He held her like that for what felt like hours, the two of them wrapped up in each other as the intensity of the night slowly began to fade, leaving only the love they shared.

Matt continued to murmur soft apologies and words of love, his hands never stopping their soothing motions as he tried to make up for the pain he had caused. And gradually, as the night wore on and the exhaustion of their emotional and physical ordeal set in, Y/N’s eyes began to drift closed, her body finally relaxing completely in his arms.

Matt felt her breathing even out, her body going limp against him as sleep claimed her, and only then did he allow himself to relax, the tension he had been holding onto finally slipping away. He pressed a final, tender kiss to her forehead, his heart swelling with love for the woman in his arms, and whispered one last apology before he too succumbed to the pull of sleep, his arms wrapped protectively around her as they drifted off together.

© vanteguccir

[arilevenatz]

Ateez as dark entities

Pairing: ot8!Ateez x reader

Genre: Dark shit

Warnings: dark and twisted themes, yandere themes, damn I suck at writing warnings, please lmk what I can add here

Synopsis: Ateez as dark entities who are obsessed with you. How would that go? (I would be writing this in the third perspective)

Masterlist

Hongjoong: The Puppeteer

A sinister mastermind who controls people’s actions like marionettes, manipulating reality with strings of fate. His words weave deception, pulling the world into his chaotic play.

He saw her in a crowd, but unlike the others, she wasn’t swayed by his unseen strings. Her free will intrigued him, an anomaly in his perfectly controlled world. He watched her for days, testing how much influence he had over her actions. When he realized she resisted, his obsession grew. He needed to break her, to weave her into his masterpiece—his perfect marionette.

At first, she wouldn’t even realize she was being controlled. Hongjoong would make subtle changes—her thoughts, her actions, her choices—until everything she did led her straight back to him.

Her friends would start acting differently, nudging her toward him. Strangers would mention his name as if he was always meant to be in her life. It was a web of manipulation, and she was tangled in it before she even knew.

The moment she tried to break away, she’d feel it—the invisible strings tightening around her wrists. She’d find herself going back to him, no matter how much she resisted. Even when she thought she was making her own choices, they all led back to Hongjoong.

By the time she realized she had never truly been free, it was too late. She was already a puppet in his hands.

Hongjoong wouldn’t resort to mindless violence. No, his punishments would be calculated—surgical.

A single flick of his fingers, and her limbs would move without her consent, forced into painful contortions. She’d feel the strain in her muscles, the stretch of her tendons beyond what they were meant to endure. But he wouldn’t let her break. Not yet.

“I don’t like hurting you,” he’d say, watching as she trembled under his control. “But if you insist on disobeying, I will teach you.”

And just when she thought she’d collapse from the pain, he’d release her—only to hold her close, stroking her hair as she whimpered. “See? If you just behave, you won’t have to suffer.”

Seonghwa: The Phantom Monarch

A cursed ruler who lingers between life and death, draped in shadows and whispering forgotten prophecies. His touch brings both solace and despair, a ghostly presence haunting his own kingdom.

She entered the ruins of his long-forgotten kingdom, unaware of the ghostly presence watching her. When she touched his throne, a flicker of warmth pulsed through his cold existence for the first time in centuries. He had been a ruler without a queen, a soul without purpose. Now, he had one. If she could make him feel, then she belonged to him.

Seonghwa’s trap was patience. He didn’t chase—he lured. Whenever she left a place, she’d feel his presence lingering behind, just out of sight.

She’d hear his voice in the wind, see his reflection in darkened windows. He became an inescapable part of her world, an unseen force watching her every move.

Then, one night, the world would shift. She’d wake up in a place that looked like her home but wasn’t. The furniture was the same, the air smelled familiar, but the sky outside was an endless void. The door wouldn’t open, the windows showed nothing but darkness.

She’d turn—and there he’d be, standing in the doorway. “You wandered too far,” he’d say, tilting his head. “Now, you can never leave.”

Seonghwa wouldn’t strike her. He wouldn’t even touch her.

But he’d make her feel like she was dying.

He’d whisper a few words, and suddenly, the air would vanish from her lungs. No oxygen, no relief—just the slow, creeping suffocation of her own body betraying her. He’d watch her fall to her knees, eyes wide in terror, clutching at her throat as she silently begged for mercy.

Only when she was on the verge of unconsciousness would he allow her to breathe again. He’d catch her before she hit the floor, his voice a soothing lullaby.

“I hate doing this,” he’d murmur, wiping away the tears streaking her face. “But you need to understand. You are mine.”

Yunho: The Hollow Jester

A deceivingly cheerful trickster whose laughter hides an empty soul. He thrives on others’ misery, playing twisted games that always end in despair, his mask concealing a haunting void

She laughed. It was a sound so genuine, so full of life—something he lacked. He saw her in the reflection of a shattered mirror, a place where only twisted souls should exist. But she was untouched, pure. He had to change that. He wanted to see how long she could keep that smile once she stepped into his world of madness.

Yunho would make her question reality itself. It would start small—objects moving from where she left them, voices whispering from places they shouldn’t be.

She’d see glimpses of him in mirrors, but when she turned around, he wouldn’t be there. He wanted to break her mind before he claimed her.

Then, one day, she’d wake up in a world that wasn’t hers. The people around her would wear empty smiles, their laughter hollow and unsettling. No matter where she ran, she’d always end up back at the same place—a grand, eerie carnival with no exit.

And at the center of it all, sitting on his throne of illusions, was Yunho, grinning as he held out his hand. “Welcome home.”

Yunho would turn it into a game—a cruel, endless game.

She’d wake up in a room she didn’t recognize, doors stretching in every direction. “If you can find the real exit,” his voice would echo from nowhere, “I’ll let you go.”

Desperation would push her to run, to fling open door after door, but each one led somewhere worse—a room full of mirrors reflecting her worst fears, a hallway that stretched infinitely, a pit of darkness with no end. The sound of his laughter would follow her, amused and patient.

Finally, when she was broken, exhausted, curled in a corner with silent tears, he’d crouch beside her, brushing her hair back. “See?” he’d whisper. “You’re always safest when you stay with me.”

Yeosang: The Watcher in the Mirror

An entity that exists within reflections, observing silently and waiting for the right moment to step into reality. Those who meet his gaze feel their deepest fears manifest before them.

She looked into the mirror, and he looked back. Unlike the others, she didn’t turn away in fear. She stared, as if searching for something. That was the first time someone acknowledged his existence without terror. He had been watching her long before she noticed him, but now, she had seen him. And once you see the Watcher, he never lets you go.

Yeosang never had to chase her—she was the one who kept looking for him. Every time she passed a reflective surface, his eyes were there, watching.

She should have stopped looking, should have turned away. But she didn’t. Curiosity turned into obsession, and that was his trap.

One day, she’d reach out to touch the glass, and it wouldn’t be solid anymore. Instead of her reflection, it would be his hand reaching back. A single pull, and she’d fall through, tumbling into his world—a place made of endless reflections, where only he could find the way out. But there was no escape.

“You searched for me,” he’d whisper, his lips brushing against her ear. “Now, you’ll never stop seeing me.”

Yeosang would make her lose herself.

The first cut would be shallow—a single line down her palm, bleeding just enough to stain the floor. But the reflection in the mirror? It would be so much worse.

In the glass, she’d see herself covered in wounds, skin marred by deep, jagged gashes. Her breath would hitch—was it real? She’d feel no pain, but the sight alone would break her, make her wonder if her body was even her own anymore.

“Which version of you do you think is real?” Yeosang would ask, voice soft, cruel. “The one standing here? Or the one who’s already been ruined?”

By the time he was done, she wouldn’t be sure if she was whole anymore.

San: The Wrathborn Beast

A relentless, cursed creature with uncontainable fury, lurking in the darkness and striking with unmatched ferocity. His hunger for vengeance keeps him shackled in eternal torment.

She was the first to step into his cage without trembling. His rage had driven everyone away, but she stood there, eyes locked with his, unafraid. He hated it at first—the way she didn’t cower. But then, he realized something. If she could stand before a monster without fear, then she was strong enough to endure him. He didn’t want to be alone anymore, and she was the only one worthy of staying.

San knew she was drawn to him despite the danger. He let her think she had control, that she could leave whenever she wanted. But every time she walked away, something inside her ached. She craved the thrill, the way his presence sent a shiver down her spine.

That was his trap—making her believe she chose him when, in reality, he had chosen her from the start.

The day she finally tried to leave for good, he didn’t stop her. Instead, he let her feel the emptiness, the unbearable absence of him. And when she inevitably returned, desperate for the chaos only he could give, he was waiting.

“You walked into the lion’s den, little lamb,” he murmured, arms caging her in. “You should’ve known you’d never walk out.”

San wouldn’t hold back. He wouldn’t lie to himself about what he was doing.

When he was angry, when she had truly pushed him too far, his grip would be punishing. His fingers would dig into her skin hard enough to bruise, his voice low with fury.

“You want to run? Fine. Let’s see how far you can crawl.”

A single shove would send her to the floor, and he wouldn’t help her up. Instead, he’d watch as she struggled, as she realized how weak she was compared to him.

And when she finally gave up, when she curled up at his feet, he’d sigh—exhausted, but satisfied.

“Don’t make me do this again,” he’d whisper, pulling her into his arms despite her flinching. “I don’t like hurting you. But I won’t let you leave me either.”

Mingi: The Nightmare Poet

A being whose words shape reality, crafting dreams that turn into horrifying nightmares. His voice echoes in the minds of those who hear him, driving them to madness.

She dreamed of him before they ever met. His words had slipped into her mind, shaping her thoughts, her fears, her desires. He whispered stories in the dead of night, and she listened. When she finally saw him in the waking world, there was no shock—only recognition. She had belonged to him from the first nightmare, and now, he was here to claim her.

Mingi’s trap was set long before she ever met him. He had been in her dreams for weeks, whispering poetry laced with shadows, planting fears only he could soothe.

Every night, she dreamed of him. Every morning, she woke up with the lingering echo of his voice in her mind. She should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. She was drawn to him, to the way his words made her feel like she belonged in his world of nightmares.

Then, one night, she wouldn’t wake up. She’d open her eyes to find herself in a realm made of her own fears, with Mingi standing at its center.

“You kept listening,” he’d say, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “And now, you’ll never wake up without me.”

Mingi’s cruelty would be subtle—a slow, creeping thing.

She’d wake up with her memories altered. One moment, she’d remember everything—the pain, the fear, the desperate attempt to run. The next? She’d remember nothing but warmth, love, the softest touch.

Which was real? Which was a lie?

She’d claw at her own skin, desperate to remember what was true. And Mingi would watch, amused, patient.

“You’re overthinking,” he’d coo, pulling her hands away so she couldn’t hurt herself further. “Just trust me. I’ll tell you what’s real.”

And by the time he was done, she wouldn’t even realize she had ever wanted to leave.

Wooyoung: The Siren of Shadows

A deadly seducer whose beauty and charm lure souls into eternal darkness. His whispers are irresistible, drawing victims into an abyss from which they can never escape.

She heard his voice first, a soft melody in the dark. It called to her, leading her deeper into the unknown. He watched her hesitate, but her curiosity won. When she finally laid eyes on him, she was already too far gone. He smiled. She had walked willingly into his grasp, and now, he would never let her leave.

Wooyoung’s voice was her downfall. It was everywhere—in the music she listened to, in the whispered words she thought were her own thoughts.

He sang her name in the wind, in the rustling of leaves, in the quiet hum of the night. The more she listened, the more she needed to hear him. That was his trap—addiction.

By the time she realized she was bound to his melody, she was already too deep. His voice was the only thing that felt real.

And when he finally stood before her, holding out his hand, she didn’t resist. “You’ve already fallen,” he murmured, lips brushing her ear. “Now, let me pull you under.”

Wooyoung wouldn’t need to use force. Love itself would become her prison.

He’d kiss her through the pain. His lips would trail over bruises he had left, his fingers tracing over the bite marks he had carved into her skin.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he’d whisper against her lips, voice trembling with emotion. “But you keep forcing me to.”

And the worst part? He’d be so gentle afterward. He’d hold her in his arms, press kisses to every wound, wipe away her tears with shaking hands. Guilty. Apologetic.

But he’d do it again. And again.

Until she stopped trying to fight it.

Jongho: The Titan of Ruin

A monstrous force of destruction, his strength shatters worlds. He is an unstoppable force, cursed to bring devastation wherever he treads, his very existence a harbinger of doom.

He found her in the aftermath of destruction—standing amidst ruin, untouched by the chaos he created. She should have run. She should have feared him. But she didn’t. Instead, she reached out, as if daring to touch the force that could crush her in an instant. He had never hesitated in destruction, but for the first time, he held back. If she was unafraid of his power, then she was the only one worthy of standing beside him.

Jongho didn’t need tricks or illusions—his trap was raw, undeniable power. He was a force of nature, and she was the only one who dared to stand before him.

He let her believe she could handle him, that she could walk away whenever she wished. He admired her stubbornness, but he knew the truth—she was already his.

When the time came, he didn’t give her a choice. The ground beneath her feet would shatter, the walls around her would crumble. There would be no escape, no safety. And when she turned to him, the only solid thing amidst the chaos, he’d hold out his hand.

“The world is too fragile for you,” he’d murmur. “Stay with me. I’ll make sure nothing ever takes you away.”

Jongho wouldn’t need tricks or illusions. He would simply remind her of who was stronger.

The moment he caught her, he’d pull her against his chest, his grip firm—unbreakable. “Are you done?” he’d ask, voice calm, but with an edge that sent shivers down her spine.

And when she refused to answer, when she still clung to the last scraps of defiance, he’d hold her tighter. Until she gasped for air, until she realized there was no winning against him.

Only then would he let go, letting her crumble to her knees. “Next time,” he’d murmur, crouching beside her, “I won’t be so gentle.”

But she knew there wouldn’t be a next time. Because now, whenever she even thought about running… she’d remember the feeling of his arms caging her in, and she’d know—

She’d never escape him.

[the-cosmic-cauldron]

Neptune In The Houses: Where Does Reality Blur For You

Remember when we were kids, lying in the grass with our eyes closed, feeling weightless as our thoughts drifted into our imagination? Remember the things you envisioned—those dreams that made you think, I can actually do that one day? The excitement that came with the possibilities your mind created.

As you grew older, those visions expanded, evolving from childhood fantasies into grander, more intricate dreams. Your mind became a tantalizing place to escape when reality felt mundane. That’s Neptune. Neptune connects us to the transcendent—something beyond this 3D world, something ethereal, otherworldly, and deeply spiritual. It isn’t always grounded in the here and now, but it brings a sense of wonder and inspiration that we often need.

Today, we’re diving into the house your Neptune falls in to explore where your imagination thrives and where your reality becomes blurred.

Neptune in the 1st House

With Neptune in the first house, your identity is elusive, ever-changing, and difficult to define. Others struggle to understand you, and at times, you may not even fully understand yourself. Yet, this mystery makes you captivating—there’s something mystical, almost hypnotic about you that draws people in, leaving them wanting to know more.

Neptune in the 2nd House

You aren’t someone who fixates on the external world. Instead, your mind is filled with grand visions—dream homes, vast landscapes, oceans, and forests more beautiful than anything found on Earth. You escape into this fantasy, envisioning a life you don’t yet have but deeply desire. Your imagination is so vivid that in your mind, you’ve already built a home, married your soulmate, and made a fortune. However, translating these dreams into reality can be challenging, as you often get lost in your idealized world, neglecting the tangible steps needed to achieve it.

Neptune in the 3rd House

Conversations with you feel otherworldly. You possess deep spiritual insight, and at times, speaking to you can feel like talking to a guru, an enlightened being, or even a prophet. Yet, your words can also be tangled, confusing, or misinterpreted. People may either find you profoundly wise or hopelessly abstract—are you an oracle of hidden truths or just someone lost in a web of words?

Neptune in the 4th House

As a child, you were likely a dreamer—the one gazing out the car window for hours, lost in thought, or retreating into books, movies, and daydreams. Even when physically present, you often felt distant from your family, detached from the dynamics of home life. This placement creates a sense of emotional fog around your upbringing; you may remember your childhood in an idealized, dreamlike way or struggle to truly understand your roots. People close to you might notice this distance, sometimes wondering if you even see them clearly at all.

Neptune in the 5th House

You live for art, beauty, and creativity. Music, dance, film, painting—anything that allows you to escape into a world of imagination captivates you. The harshness of reality often feels unbearable, so you seek solace in aesthetics and pleasure. You’d rather spend your time lost in an artistic trance, painting serene landscapes or listening to ethereal music, than dealing with mundane responsibilities. Reality may seem dull compared to the vibrant world your mind conjures, and as a result, you may struggle to stay grounded in practical matters.

Neptune in the 6th House

Daily life feels burdensome, and routine is something you resist. Traditional jobs bore you, school fails to capture your interest, and the idea of a strict 9-to-5 schedule makes you restless. You crave flexibility, spontaneity, and romanticized alternatives to mundane obligations. Often, you either avoid structure altogether or find ways to modify it to your liking. This placement can also bring difficulties in recognizing health issues—you may not notice when you’re unwell until symptoms become severe. A lack of discipline and a tendency toward escapism can lead to dependency on others for support.

Neptune in the 7th House

Relationships are complicated for you because you tend to see people through a hazy, idealized lens. You often overlook red flags, failing to recognize when someone doesn’t have good intentions. This makes you vulnerable to deception, as you may trust people who secretly resent you or mistake toxic relationships for deep connections. Love, in particular, is highly romanticized here—you fall hard and fast, sometimes without seeing the truth of your partner until reality inevitably crashes down. With Neptune in the 7th, discernment isn’t your strong suit; instead, you are gifted (or cursed) with illusion.

Neptune in the 8th House

This placement pulls you into the depths of the unknown, sometimes so deeply that you lose all sense of reality. You exist in a world of shadows, illusions, and profound transformation, but the scariest part is that you may not even realize how lost you are. You might believe you’re in control when, in truth, you’re drowning in the depths of your own subconscious. Often, you think you’re thriving, only for a sudden crisis to reveal that your reality is much more fragile than you believed. This placement brings an intense connection to hidden truths, but it also makes self-deception dangerously easy.

Neptune in the 9th House

You are deeply spiritual and philosophical, sometimes to the point of wanting to detach completely from the human experience. A part of you longs to embrace life, while another part dreams of escaping—whether through travel, spirituality, or even complete withdrawal from society. Your ideals are vast, but they are often too far-reaching, leading to deep disappointment when the real world fails to meet your expectations. You have immense knowledge of metaphysical and spiritual concepts, making you a natural preacher, mystic, or even a cult leader—your ability to inspire others with your vision is unparalleled.

Neptune in the 10th House

The world sees you through a dreamlike lens—people may idealize you, projecting onto you an image of purity, kindness, and wisdom. However, beneath this illusion, there may be a hidden struggle, a chaos that others fail to recognize. You often feel misunderstood, as if no one truly knows the real you. Career-wise, the traditional workforce is not for you—you need a path that allows for creativity, mysticism, and freedom. Finding the right career is challenging, and you may go through multiple reinventions before discovering your true calling.

Neptune in the 11th House

You exist in two worlds—the real one and the one you create online. The internet, social media, or virtual communities become your escape, allowing you to construct an identity that may not fully align with your real-life self. Friendships also serve as a form of escapism—you may surround yourself with people who share your fantasies, whether through music festivals, role-playing, or immersive subcultures. If not, then you likely find solace in fictional worlds, obsessing over books, anime, or artistic movements that transport you beyond the limitations of everyday life.

Neptune in the 12th House

You are otherworldly. You weren’t meant to be here, yet somehow, you arrived. The physical world often feels overwhelming, harsh, and foreign, making it difficult for you to stay grounded in reality. Logic, structure, and practicality are challenging concepts, and you may retreat into isolation or escape into your own dream world to cope. There’s an ethereal quality to you, as if you are only half-present in this realm while the other half exists in some distant, spiritual plane. Are you an alien soul? A misplaced entity? A wanderer between worlds? No one truly knows—including you.

[ailithnight]

DPxDC Prompt #18

Inspired by reading this prompt from @nerdpoe and my brain randomly deciding to mash it with this prompt and reblog from @stealingyourbones and @moodycow210. Basic premise is the Nerdpoe prompt with the backstory of the Bones prompt. Do read those for full context of what my brain was trying to do here.

Danny was sent on a mission by Clockwork and missed his window back home, getting stuck in a vast, dark (twilight), oceanic place; with only the company of fish-like beings that can only communicate empathically very basic desires and intents.

After a while of panic and searching for a way back, he ultimately settles in and waits for rescue, occupying his time by playing with and training his powers. He discovers an ability to shapeshift and decides to make his form into something more comfortable and camouflaged for where he is.

The form he settles in to is somewhere between human and fish. Hands and claws and fins and webbing and gills.

It saves his life when Danny loses his hold on his ghost form, discovering that the changes transferred over to his living self.

And Danny waits.

And waits.

And drifts along, avoiding the attention of anything with teeth and intent to eat, while searching for his own meal.

And forgets what he's waiting for.

Danny has been there so long now. His memories of before are nothing but vague, indistinct impressions. Like the shadow of the other creatures that sometimes brush against his own. When the green, swirling thing appears in front of him, he almost swims away from it. But something about it brushes him, like those shadows of before. It calls to him, urges him to approach, to swim through.

On the other side of the green thing is light. So much light. It's so bright. And full of fish. More fish and more light than he can remember ever seeing before. The other fish swim around, swimming with a suffocating shadow of urgency and fear. And the green thing is gone.

Confused and disoriented, he cannot avoid the massive thing, like a strange tangle of kelp vines, sweeping through the water collecting anything that does not avoid it's path. It pulls him and many fish up and up and up. To a place too heavy to swim, where some instinct has him changing the way he breathes from his gills to his mouth and nostrils. He didn't know he could do that. And yet, some part of him is quite certain that he did.

There are strange shapes beyond the strange vines. They bark noises that brush against those shadows of memory, but he does not understand them. He should, he knows he should. He should understand a lot more about this situation than he does. But he doesn't.

"Is that one of them fish people?"

"Looks like it. Seems a young one too."

"Should we toss it back?"

"Why? Pretty little fish, bet we could find a buyer. He oughta fetch a pretty penny. Might even get nough to actually retire."

[nino-rox]

PETER PARKER | BOYFRIEND HEADCANONS | M | GENDER NEUTRAL READER

Warnings: Sexual Themes, Mature/Explicit, Gender Neutral Reader, Tom Holland As Spider-Man, Not Proof Read

DISCLAIMER: Please be of the appropriate age ( i.e, Adult as per your country’s stipulations and regulations) before interacting with this post.

(Author’s Note: Requested by Anonymous user. My first time writing headcanons, I’ve barely even read any so I’m sorry if it’s not great ! Please request for more ! )

~What dating Parker feels like on a day to day basis

THE SKYLIGHT CATASTROPHE

One night, there’s a thud loud enough to rattle the walls, followed by an ominous silence. You know exactly what’s happened even before Peter pokes his head through the window, windswept and grinning sheepishly.“So, uh… surprise! You have a new skylight!”

You cross your arms, unimpressed. “You broke my roof again?”“Okay, technically, it was already fragile. I just… sped up the process.”

The next morning, you find him on the roof, duct tape and webs in hand, muttering to himself like he’s crafting a masterpiece.“Peter, you’re going to fall.”He waves you off without even looking up. “Relax! You’re being ridiculous. I’m Spider-Man—I won’t fall. Skylights are all the rage anyway. Just think of it as me upgrading your house for free!”

Right as he says it, his foot slips, and he stumbles forward, barely catching himself with a web against the gutter.“SEE? I caught myself!” he says triumphantly, cheeks flushed as he steadies himself.

You stare at him, appalled. “Peter, I’m not worried about you, you blithering idiot. I’m worried about my house! Fall on the road and break your head if you want, but I swear to god, if you break my house again—”

“Noted. No more house-breaking. Promise. Bob the Builder’s retired anyway,” he grins.

WEBBED LAUNDRY

You pull a ruined hoodie out of the wash—bright red, stretched beyond recognition, and sticky with web fluid. Marching into the living room, you hold it up like evidence.“Peter! Why is my hoodie fused with web glue?”

Peter looks up from the couch, cereal bowl in hand, his eyes widening. “Ohhh… yeah, about that…”

You glare, waiting.

“I, uh, might’ve had to yank my suit off super quickly after patrol last night—it was covered in webs—and I didn’t realize it stuck to your hoodie in the laundry pile.”

You narrow your eyes. “You didn’t realize?”

Peter sets the bowl down, flashing a nervous grin. “Look, web fluid is mostly water-soluble! If we wait a day, it’ll dissolve!”

You groan, holding up the ruined fabric. “It better dissolve. Or you’re buying me a new hoodie.”

Peter slides an arm around your waist, grinning. “Or… we could share this one? Exclusive Spider-Merch for my favorite person.”

THE GREAT SPIDER-MAN’S HANDYMAN FAILS

You and Peter finally move in together, which should have been exciting—except unpacking with Spider-Man is a nightmare.“Peter, where’s the box with the kitchen stuff?” you ask, arms crossed.

Peter scratches the back of his head, sheepishly pointing to a corner. “Uh… it’s webbed to the ceiling. I thought it’d save space?”

You sigh. “Okay, fine. But why is there a Spider-Tracer in the toaster?”

He grins nervously. “Security measure?”

Later, you catch him trying to web a shelf together instead of using screws.“PETER!”“What? This is structurally sound!”

THE HOODIE INCIDENT

Peter freezes when he sees you curled up in his hoodie, sleeves hanging past your hands.“You stole it again?”“Finders keepers.”

He steps closer, voice low and teasing. “Looks better on you anyway.”

Before you can respond, he tackles you onto the couch, hovering over you with a grin.“You’re not keeping it.”“Make me.”

MORNING HEATWAVE SNUGGLES

You wake up tangled in Peter’s limbs, his face buried in the crook of your neck. It’s cozy—until you realize he’s a human heater.“Peter. Let me go. I have stuff to do.”

“Five more minutes,” he murmurs, pulling you closer with ridiculous Spider-strength. “Spider-Boyfriend privilege.”

“You smell like sweat and bad decisions.”

Peter chuckles, his breath warm against your skin. “Want me to make another bad decision?” His lips brush your jaw as his voice drops, teasing. “I can make you sweaty too.”

Heat flares in your cheeks, but you manage to mutter, “You’re impossible.”

His smirk is pure trouble as he rolls you onto your back. “And you love it.”

SWINGING FOR BEGINNERS

The first time Peter suggests swinging with you, you laugh nervously. “No way. I like my life.”“It’s safe! You’ll love it—I promise.”

The moment he scoops you into his arms and leaps off the edge, you scream loud enough to wake half of Queens.“PETER, I SWEAR—”

“You’re fine!” he calls out, laughing as the wind whips past. “Just enjoy the ride!”

You bury your face in his shoulder, heart pounding. “I’m never letting go. Ever.”

Peter grins, holding you tighter. “Good. I wasn’t planning to let you go anyway.”

ROOFTOP MIDNIGHT ESCAPES

Peter swings into your room after patrol, his suit half-off, hair wild from the wind. “C’mon. Let’s go somewhere.”

Before you can finish protesting, he sweeps you into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.“Peter!” you yelp, clutching his shoulders as he shoots a web and leaps into the night.“Trust me, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his grin softening.

The wind whips past, adrenaline rushing through your veins as he swings effortlessly between buildings. When you finally land on a rooftop, he pulls you close, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re not scared, are you?”“Not anymore,” you whisper, and his smirk grows as his lips meet yours, slow and steady, grounding you after the thrill.

POST SWING MOMENTS

After a particularly daring swing where Peter narrowly dodges a billboard, he sets you down on a rooftop, his arms still firmly wrapped around your waist.“Are you okay?” he murmurs, his voice low as his thumb brushes your cheek.“I’m fine, Peter. You can let go now.”

He doesn’t. His grip tightens, and his voice drops to a husky whisper. “You have no idea how hard it is to let you go.”

Your breath catches as his lips brush yours softly at first, then with increasing intensity. His hands slide to your lower back, pulling you closer until the world disappears around you.

“SHH, I’LL MAKE IT WORTH IT.”

Peter returns from patrol late at night, finding you half-asleep on the couch. He crouches down, brushing a kiss to your temple.“You awake?” he whispers.

You mumble something incoherent, only stirring when his lips brush yours again, this time slower, more deliberate.“Shh,” he murmurs, pinning your wrists gently above your head. His grin turns playful as he leans closer. “I’ll make it worth keeping you awake.”

Your heart races as his kisses deepen, trailing down the side of your neck. “You’re impossible,” you manage to say, though the way your breath hitches betrays you.

“And you love it,” he murmurs, his lips pressing firmly against your pulse, his smirk growing when you shiver under his touch.

SHOWER?

Peter comes home sweaty and grimy after patrol, and you shove him toward the shower. Minutes later, his head pokes out, water dripping over his shoulders as he leans lazily against the doorway.“You know… showers are more efficient with two people,” he says, his grin pure trouble.

You roll your eyes, turning back to your book. “Peter, no.”

He steps closer, letting water drip from his still-damp hair onto your shoulder as he leans down to whisper in your ear, his voice low. “You sure? I could scrub your back… or hold you against the tiles.”

Your cheeks burn, and you push him away half-heartedly, glaring. “Peter—”

He catches your wrist, pulling you to stand, his eyes locked on yours. “What?” he murmurs, tilting his head, his smirk teasing but his touch firm. “You’d look cute all wet.”

“Stop!” you squeak, swatting his chest, but he’s already laughing, pressing a kiss to your temple before finally retreating back to the bathroom.“I’ll leave the door unlocked, just in case,” he teases before disappearing behind the steam.

DATE

Peter had promised to meet you at the café after your shift. You’d been looking forward to it all day—just a simple hour with him, no superheroes, no chaos. But an emergency call from Ned about some escaped tech left you waiting alone, watching the minutes tick by.

When Peter finally arrived, his hair disheveled and guilt written all over his face, you didn’t even need to ask.“I’m so sorry,” he blurted out, his voice tinged with desperation. “There was this thing—Ned needed help—and I couldn’t just leave it—”

“It’s fine,” you said sharply, though your tone betrayed your disappointment. “I get it. You have other responsibilities.”

His shoulders slumped. “No, it’s not fine,” he muttered. “I messed up. And I know it’s not the first time.”

You sighed, softening as you saw the guilt etched across his face. “Peter…”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, almost pleading. “Just… give me a chance.”

Later that night, he showed up at your window with a bouquet of daisies that looked like they’d survived a tornado and a homemade playlist.“I know it’s not much,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “But these reminded me of you—bright and sweet. And I put all your favorite songs on here, so… I hope it makes up for me being a total idiot.”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you took the flowers, pulling him into a tight hug. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered.

“Lucky you think I’m cute,” he teased, kissing your temple. “I’ll do better next time. Promise.”

TRIVIA NIGHT

Ned had invited you both to trivia night, but no one warned you how competitive Peter could get. It started innocently enough, with Peter rattling off science and history facts like a human encyclopedia. But when the questions shifted to pop culture, his confidence started to falter.

“You’ve never seen Mean Girls?” you asked, incredulous.“Uh, no?” he replied, looking genuinely confused.MJ rolled her eyes. “Peter, how do you even function as a person?”“I fight bad guys!” he defended, flustered. “I don’t have time for… whatever this is!”

As the final round approached, you noticed the way Peter’s brows furrowed, his shoulders tensing like he was about to swing into battle. Leaning over, you cupped his face gently, forcing him to meet your gaze.“Peter,” you said, your voice teasing but warm, “you’re cute when you’re losing.”

His jaw dropped, and before he could protest, you kissed him in front of everyone.

Ned let out a dramatic gasp. “In public? With witnesses?!”MJ snorted. “That’s disgusting. I’m rooting for you two.”

When you pulled back, Peter’s face was a brilliant shade of red, but the grin he gave you was dazzling.“I don’t even care if I lose now,” he whispered, leaning in for another kiss. “This is so worth it.”

HANDMADE

Peter had been acting strange all week—fidgety, distracted, and overly secretive. You were starting to wonder if something was wrong when he showed up at your door with a small, carefully wrapped box and a sheepish grin.

“What’s this?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as he practically shoved it into your hands.“Just… open it,” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Inside was a sleek black flashlight, surprisingly lightweight, with a small engraved spider emblem on the side. You turned it over in your hands, curious.

“It’s not just a flashlight,” Peter said quickly, scratching the back of his neck. “I, uh, noticed you sometimes leave the light on at night, and I thought… maybe this would help.”

Your chest tightened. He’d picked up on your fear of the dark without you ever telling him outright.

“It’s also kind of… Spider-Man-approved,” he added, gesturing nervously. “There’s a tracker inside, so I’ll always know where you are. And if you press the button three times really fast, it sends an SOS directly to me.”

You stared at him, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of it all. “Peter…”“I just want you to feel safe,” he said softly, his brown eyes earnest. “Even when I’m not around. You’re my world, and I want you to have something to remind you that I’m always here for you.”

Your throat felt tight as you stepped forward, wrapping your arms around him. “I don’t even know what to say,” you murmured against his shoulder.

“‘Thank you’ works,” he joked, though his voice was thick with emotion.

Pulling back, you met his gaze and smiled. “Thank you, Peter. I love it. And I love you.”

His face lit up, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead, holding you close. “I love you too. Always.”

SPILLING

Peter had always admired how hard you worked. While he juggled Spider-Man and school, you balanced late-night shifts, studying at your rundown public school, and still somehow found time to make him feel like the center of your world. But admiration wasn’t the only thing he felt—sometimes, he felt inadequate.

On the other hand, you often wondered how you ended up with someone like Peter Parker. He was a literal superhero, acing advanced physics while you struggled with Algebra II. You worked part-time jobs just to help keep the lights on at home, and there were days when you felt like you’d drown under the weight of it all.

That tension finally bubbled over one evening. Peter swung by your place unannounced, but his usual warmth was absent. He dropped onto your couch with a sigh, his shoulders slumping.

“You okay?” you asked, sitting beside him.

He shook his head, staring at his hands. “How do you do it?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do what?”

“Everything,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “You don’t have superpowers, or Stark tech, or a fancy school helping you out. And you’re still… incredible. You’re better at life than I am, and I’ve got every advantage.”

The words stung—not because of what he said, but because they mirrored your own insecurities.

“What are you trying to say?” you asked, your voice cracking as you braced yourself for what felt inevitable.

Peter hesitated, his jaw working as he tried to find the right words. “You deserve someone who can keep up with you. And I’m not sure I’m enough.”

Your breath hitched, and before you could stop them, tears began streaming down your cheeks. “Wait, are you saying this is over?”

“What? No!” Peter sat up straight, his hands shooting out to reach for yours. “That’s not what I meant! I’m talking about me, not you! I’m the one who’s not enough!”

“You are enough!” The words burst out of you, but the crack in your voice betrayed how deeply his statement had shaken you. “I’m the one who’s not enough, Peter. Look at you! You’re saving lives while I’m just trying to keep the lights on at home.”

Peter’s brows furrowed, guilt flooding his features. “What? No—no, don’t say that.”

“But it’s true,” you whispered, pulling your hands free and wrapping your arms around yourself. “I can barely make it through my shifts without wondering if I’m going to mess something up. And then I see you—perfect Peter Parker, superhero and genius—and I just… I feel so small.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you. Then Peter moved closer, carefully placing his hands on your shoulders. “You’re not small,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping your eyes. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Peter insisted, gently tilting your chin up so you’d look at him. “You don’t have powers, but you work harder than anyone I’ve ever met. You care about people. You care about me. And I…” He trailed off, his voice breaking. “I don’t always feel like I deserve that.”

Your breath caught at the raw vulnerability in his words. “You don’t have to be perfect, Peter. You don’t have to save me, or prove anything. I just want you.”

He stared at you, his eyes glistening. “I want you too,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “And I’m sorry I made you think otherwise. I just… I don’t always know how to keep up with someone like you.”

“We’re both trying to keep up,” you said quietly, leaning forward until your foreheads touched. “And that’s okay. We’ll figure it out together.”

Peter nodded, his arms wrapping around you as he pulled you into his chest. “Yeah,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Together.”

The two of you sat like that for a long time, the weight of your shared insecurities fading, replaced by something stronger—a quiet, unshakable love.

SERIOUS

Peter comes home late—bruised, bleeding, and far too casual about it. You snap.“Do you like scaring me to death?”“It’s just a scratch!” he argues, dropping his mask on the couch.“Peter, you’re not invincible. What happens if one day you don’t come back?”

He pauses, guilt flickering across his face. “I can’t stop being Spider-Man.”“And I can’t stop worrying about you,” you whisper, your voice breaking.

He looks away, fiddling with his web-shooter. “I don’t want to scare you. I’m sorry.”

MAYBE NOT SO SERIOUS?

Later that night, Peter finds you sitting on the fire escape, staring out at the skyline. He hesitates before sitting beside you.“I hate fighting with you,” he says quietly. “You’re the only person who makes all of this feel worth it.”

You exhale slowly, leaning into him. “Then don’t make me feel like I’m losing you.”His arm wraps around you, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ll do everything I can to come home to you. That’s a promise.”

He presses his forehead to yours, and when his lips brush yours, it’s soft and full of unspoken apologies.

THANK YOU FOR READING ! PLEASE SEND KINKMAS REQUESTS AND PROMPTS! <3 Please Request if you’d like me to expand the headcanon into SMUT <3

[cocobeanncteez]

The CEO Collision - Masterlist

In the high-stakes world of mega-rich chaebols, CEO Park Seonghwa’s family proposes an arranged marriage to CEO Kim Y/N, hoping to save their crumbling company. The catch? Seonghwa is best friends with Y/N's twin brother, Kim Hongjoong, and a troubled past with Y/N—including a series of steamy, complicated one-night stands that happened more than once—leaves deep resentment between the two CEOs, these secrets only known to them.

Y/N agrees to consider the proposal, but only on the condition that she gets to know Seonghwa better first, beyond what she knows from her twin brother, before committing to a marriage that could either elevate or ruin both their lives. As they navigate a tangled web of family expectations, business alliances, and old wounds, they must face their complicated history, their undeniable chemistry, intense sexual tension, and the media firestorms that come with being in the spotlight of the wealthy elite.

Can Seonghwa and Y/N overcome their past, rekindle trust, and survive the scandals that threaten to tear them apart? The CEO Collision is a tantalizing tale of love, power, and the price of keeping secrets in a world where everything—and everyone—has a cost.

Pairing: CEO!Seonghwa x CEO! reader (f)

Genre: Angst, fluff, smut, sort of arranged marriage au, CEO au, basically everyone is very wealthy

Warnings: Will be released for each part based on the content, but the main themes do not have anything triggering or anything extreme. Some parts have smut (mdni / 18+) and the content will be listed in that part. Please note that other than Ateez, all other character names used are fictional.

Word count: 56.8k

Status: Complete!

Parts:

One - 10.4k words

Two - 9.7k words

Three - 11.2k words

Four - 9.3k words

Five - 9.6k words

Six / Final part - 6.6k words

[ponderingmoonlight]

Basen hating kissing the hell out of you

Pairing: Basen x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,7k

Synopsis: That General who is so full of himself, who never misses a chance to put you into your place. And you? A hot-headed nurse with outstanding tactical abilities and a big mouth. What can possibly go wrong?

Warnings: enemies to lovers y'all, why is it always the side characters on this blog 😭 language, injuries, heated kisses hehehe

You never thought you’d end up here - stuck in the middle of the Imperial Palace’s tangled web, tasked with not only saving lives but also becoming a strategic advisor in matters of war. Did you even dare to dream of taking in this role at the palace?

Not once.

Despite being the head nurse of the Imperial Army’s medical corps, your knowledge stretches far beyond medical healing. You’ve studied the anatomy of war, how to break down the enemy’s tactics, and how to keep the army fighting even when the odds seem overwhelming.

After all, your father was a general himself before he found his own end on the battlefield, leaving you behind with nothing but the knowledge you’ve gained from his mission reports and books.

To be honest, the anatomy of the body and war never differed that much to you anyway. It took you no effort to catch attention by the medical corps of the Imperial Palace by a very young age, to outshine even some of the doctors and Generals with your expertise.

But Gao Basen, the General of the imperial forces, refuses to acknowledge any of this.It’s not that he’s rude. No, Basen is far too well-mannered for that. He simply doesn’t take you seriously.

To him, you’re just a nurse, someone to bandage wounds, prepare medicines, and keep the soldiers on his trenches alive. The fact that you have a better understanding of battlefield strategy than most generals seems lost on him.

Every time you try to offer a suggestion, he dismisses it with a wave of his hand.

“Stay out of this, nurse,” he barked at you during one of the many operations you’ve been forced to collaborate on.

His tone wasn’t unkind, but it carried that arrogance that made you want to punch him in his oh so perfectly-shaped face.

“Leave the tactics to us.”

That was before the rebellion reached its peak, though. Now, the battlefield is everywhere - the palace, the streets, even the walls of the very city you swore to protect. The emperor’s will is being challenged, and General Gao Basen is leading the charge.

Well, at least he thinks he does.

The first real test of your worth comes when the emperor orders a new assault on a rebel refuge. The battle is expected to be brutal, and the medical corps is rushing to prepare under your command.

But even in the chaos, you’re needed beyond your station. You, who can read a battlefield like a map, who understands how to turn the tides of war by just knowing where to place your forces and where to strike, are called in to offer strategy.

Oh, you know a certain someone who will be absolutely fuming about this.

“You’ve all seen the plan,” Jinshi states, voice cool and collected, his eyes flicking between the generals and advisors gathered around the table.

“But we have little time. I’d like to hear your thoughts, head nurse.”

You take your place at the table, your gaze meeting Basen’s across the room while you’re barely able to hold yourself together. He looks at you, his face unreadable, but his posture stiffens ever so slightly. It’s as if he’s already decided you don’t belong here, as if the sheer fact that you breathe the same air as him almost drives him over the edge.

What a sight.

Ignoring him with that feeling of satisfaction filling you to the brim, you pull a map towards you, running your finger along the terrain.

“We need to utilize the terrain to our advantage,” you begin, your voice steady and confident.

“The rebels have set up in the valley, but there are high ground positions on the left and right. We could use those as staging points for a two-branched attack while simultaneously sending a smaller unit to flank from behind.”

One of the generals gives a soft grunt of approval. Except for Basen, everyone silently acknowledged you a long time ago.

“But what about the cavalry?”

“That’s where we’ll hit them hardest,” you respond quickly, already sketching the next steps on the map.

“The cavalry has been spread too thin. A concentrated effort here”, you point to a key point on the map, “will take them out before they can reinforce.”

For a moment, there is silence. You’re aware of Basen’s gaze on you, the sharpness of his eyes, the way his jaw tightens. You know he doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like you in the war room at all. You, a feisty woman, nothing but a nurse in his eyes. But the others are nodding, murmuring their agreement. Even Gao Shun, the general who raised Basen, looks at the map thoughtfully, his hands resting on the table.

“This could work,” he remarks gruffly.

“But what if the enemy has hidden reserves?”

You smile a little, the answer already forming in your mind. As if you didn’t already think about that beforehand.

“We keep a unit in reserve, hidden by the eastern ridge. If we’re caught in a trap, they can flank and assist us from behind.”

Finally, Basen speaks, his voice cold and cutting.

“You’ve had a lot to say for a nurse. I’ll admit, you know your battlefield tactics, but I’m still in charge of the military strategy.”

You don’t flinch, even though his words sting. After all these years of assisting him while watching him take on the role of a General, this is everything he has to say about you?

“I’m simply offering suggestions, General Gao Basen,” you remark, your tone calm and composed.

“I don’t need your approval.”

Thick anger rises up your veins before you can stop it.Who does he think he is? That son of a high-ranked General who never had to work as hard as you. What does he know about you, your status, your abilities?

A long silence follows before Jinshi speaks up, his voice laced with amusement.

“It seems we’re in agreement. Let’s put it into action.” 

The battle rages on in your pounding ears. The rebel forces are relentless, and the wounded are going to the roof. As the battle shifts in your favor, the injured flood in, and you’re forced to treat one soldier after another, your hands moving quickly, efficiently, but your mind on edge. You can feel the heat of the conflict seeping into the very walls of the palace - this is more than just a rebellion now. It’s a war for survival.

In the midst of the chaos, Basen is everywhere. His presence is a force of nature on the battlefield, his commanding voice cutting through the fog of war and the walls of your tent. You can’t help but peak through the curtains, to watch him from afar.

That smug bastard. He moves with precision, taking down rebels and barking orders, his form a living testament to his father’s iron rule.

But even someone like Basen can be overwhelmed.

You’re in the middle of stitching a soldier’s gash when you hear it - a scream, followed by the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground. Your heart skips a beat, and your eyes snap to the scene unfolding before you.

There he is.

Basen, bloodied, injured, and holding his side where a deep wound has opened. He’s trying to walk, but the blood pouring from him makes it clear he can’t keep going much longer. His men rush to help him, but he punches them away, his teeth gritted in pain.

You barely register the distance between you before you're already on the move, pushing through the chaos to reach him out of instinct.

“Basen!” you shout, voice cutting through the noise.

He looks at you with cold, narrowed eyes.

“I don’t need your help. And it’s General Gao Basen to you,” he grunts, his voice a low snarl as he stumbles slightly, trying to steady himself.

You ignore the words, rushing to him and pulling him toward the nearest medical station.

“You’re bleeding out, Basen! Let me treat you, idiot!”

Your hands are already at his side, but he jerks back, glaring at you with all the stubbornness and pride you’ve come to expect from him.

“I told you,” he snaps, voice sharp as a whip, “I don’t need a nurse to patch me up. I’m not some weakling who needs tending to. And if you call your General an idiot one more time, I’ll make sure you’ll get punished.”

His refusal and harsh words sting like they usually do, but you don’t let it show. Not now, not when he might bleed out in front of your very own eyes if you continue standing there.

“You’ll die if I don’t treat you, Basen!” you reply, frustration boiling over, your hands gripping his arm to keep him in place.

He recoils violently, his face flushed with anger.

“I don’t need you to save me,” he growls, his breath ragged.

“You think I care about your medicines and bandages? You think I’m some soldier who needs to be babysat?”

“Stop acting like a damn fool!”

The words fly out before you can stop them, the tension that’s been building between you both finally snapping.

“You’re not unshakable, Basen. You can’t fight everything on your own.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’s going to walk away again. But instead, he takes a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself. His eyes flicker with something dark, something intense, before he takes a step closer to you.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous.

“To always be expected to be perfect. To always have people looking to you for answers. To be the one everyone depends on and never let down. I can’t… I won’t be weak.”

The raw emotion in his voice hits you harder than you expect. You take a step forward, your hand reaching out almost instinctively to touch his arm, to comfort him in the way you know how - by offering your help, by showing him that you care, that you’re not judging him.

But before your fingers can make contact, Basen moves. His hand shoots out, gripping your wrist tightly, and with a sudden, jerking motion, he pulls you closer.

The shock of his touch makes your breath catch in your throat. You look up at him, his eyes wild, burning with frustration, with something else.

“I don’t need your pity,” he hisses, but his voice wavers for just a second.

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, Basen pulls you the rest of the way toward him, his lips crashing into yours with a force that leaves you breathless.

It’s hot. It’s furious. His mouth is demanding, his kiss claiming, as if he’s trying to drown the fury and frustration he feels inside, trying to lock it all away in this moment.

You’re too stunned to move at first, the shock of it all coursing through your veins.

But then, instinct kicks in.

You kiss him back. You’re not sure what drives you. Anger, desire, or the way his entire body is shaking with unexpended emotion? But it doesn’t matter. There’s no turning back now.

His hands tighten around you, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you, his heartbeat loud in your chest as his grip on your wrist shifts to your waist.For a moment, all the anger, all the long lived hostility between you, melts away.

It’s just him, just you, the heat of the battle fading into the background as his kiss deepens, becoming more desperate, more primal. You pull away just enough to breathe, your chest heaving, your heart pounding in your ears. His face is inches from yours, and his breath is just as ragged as yours.

You…hate him, don’t you? You always hated Basen with all of your heart. Hated the way he looks down at you, hated his cold gaze, hated how he always urged to be in charge, to be the one in control. Gao Basen is the epitome of all the things you have, and yet…

“Don’t ever… do that again,” you whisper, your voice shaking.

You can’t tell if you’re angry, confused, or something else entirely, but your chest feels tight, as if your breath is trapped beneath his hands.

Basen doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans his forehead against yours, his voice a low rasp.

“I don’t know what this is. But I can’t stand seeing you with anyone else, not even with Master Jinshi. Can’t stand you not being by my side, can’t stand you putting yourself on display for danger almost every single day… can’t stand it…”

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know how to respond to the confession that feels raw and completely out of place in this moment. Instead, you step back, shaking your head slowly, even as your heart races faster than you can understand.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmur, but there’s no real heat in your words anymore.

You’re too confused, too overwhelmed to be angry. Was all of this just a dream? Those words, the desperation in his gaze?

No.

You shake your head ever so slightly, eyes shifting to the gaping wound on his side.

“And I’m still treating that wound.”

Basen’s eyes narrow, his pride not letting him fully back down. But there’s a shift in his look, a flicker of something deeper, something softer that you can’t quite place.

“You’re stubborn,” he mutters, his voice still rough.

“And you’re insufferable…kissing me in the middle of the battlefield like that…”

“But you kissed me back-“

“I DID NOT!”

[novaursa]

The Blood We Choose

- Summary: Gwayne brings you to Dragonstone, to your sister. But it is Daemon who awaits you both.

- Pairing: Gwanye Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after Where Banners Fall. If you want to read parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 4 356

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The scent of salt and brine clings to the air, sharp against the faint undertones of decay and blood—a constant reminder of the battle left behind at Rook’s Rest. You can still feel the memory of fire scorching your skin, the cries of Silverwing echoing in your ears as she fell from the sky, taking you with her. 

Your body aches, every breath a laborious effort as you sit propped against the rough-hewn wall of the small cottage. The village is a quiet one, nestled by the coast, far from the eyes of any lords or soldiers. A place where neither banners nor blood oaths hold sway. Here, you can pretend, for a brief moment, that the world is not consumed by war.

But it’s a fleeting delusion. The searing pain that courses through your side is a constant reminder of how close you came to death. Silverwing’s warmth had shielded you as much as she could, but nothing could stop the might of Vhagar. You know that if it weren’t for Gwayne, you would have perished alongside your dragon, your body left among the ruins.

Gwayne Hightower. His name lingers on your tongue, filled with both bitterness and something else you dare not name. He betrayed his own for you—forsook his House, his loyalties, everything that defined him as a knight of the Greens. For you. The memory of his desperate voice calling your name as he found you below Silverwing’s wing is fresh, a rare vulnerability exposed beneath his normally composed demeanor.

“Y/N,” Gwayne’s voice, low and rough, breaks through the silence of the small room. You look up, meeting his gaze from across the dim space. He’s seated near the hearth, his own wounds not fully healed, a dark bruise blooming along his jawline and his side still tightly bound. 

“What is it?” you rasp, wincing as the movement strains your ribs.

“You should eat more.” He gestures to a small bowl of fish stew beside you. The smell is unappetizing, but you know he’s right. You need strength if you’re to survive this war, if you’re to return to Dragonstone—to your family.

You give a small, reluctant nod, dipping the spoon into the lukewarm broth. The taste is bland, the texture thick in your mouth, but it’s enough to soothe the gnawing hunger in your belly.

“Daemon’s been searching,” Gwayne says after a moment, voice hesitant. “Caraxes was seen flying from Harrenhal. He’ll come for you.”

There’s a flicker of something dangerous in his tone, a tinge of possessiveness that makes your chest tighten. Daemon. Your husband. Your son’s surrogate father. You hadn’t told Gwayne about the child until that morning when pain had stripped away all pretense and left only raw confessions in the dark. It was the first time you saw something break in his eyes, something beyond duty or loyalty. Gwayne is a man forged in duty, yet in that moment, his loyalty had been to you, and only you.

The silence stretches between you both, heavy with unsaid words, unshed tears, and the tangled web of emotion that neither of you are willing to fully confront. How could you? You were always meant to be Rhaenyra’s little sister, the one whose role was to support, never to lead. Yet here you are, a thread woven into a tapestry that binds you to two men who could tear each other and you apart.

“If Daemon finds us…” Gwayne starts, his voice trailing off.

You lower the spoon, your hand trembling slightly. “You’ll run.” It’s not a question. You know what will happen if Daemon catches Gwayne with you, the traitor Hightower who saved his wife instead of leaving her to her fate. Daemon would kill him without hesitation.

His jaw clenches, eyes darkening with a mixture of anger and resolve. “And leave you alone? I think not.”

You shift, ignoring the pain lancing through your body. “This was never supposed to happen,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. You close your eyes, picturing Silverwing’s brilliant wings and the sight of Dragonstone on the horizon—your home. You ache to be back there, where the sea winds carried the scent of salt and freedom, where you could be Y/N Targaryen again instead of a broken remnant.

Gwayne’s presence is a steady warmth in the room, a contrast to the cold reality of the war raging beyond these walls. You want to hate him for making you feel something other than loyalty to Daemon all these years, but you can’t. Not after he’s saved you, cared for you, and stayed by your side despite the danger. Even now, with your heart and mind divided, you know that whatever he feels—duty, love, or perhaps something in between—it is real. And it terrifies you as much as it comforts you.

“Why did you do it?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

His gaze locks with yours, unwavering. “Because I couldn't let you die.”

Your breath catches. The simplicity of his answer is profound. No grand declarations, no lofty promises, just the brutal, honest truth.

Before you can respond, the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel outside the cottage makes you tense. Both of you are on edge, the brief sense of peace shattering like glass. Gwayne moves instinctively toward the door, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. 

It’s only the fisherman, his weathered face peeking through the gap in the door. “Tomorrow,” he says quietly. “The boat’ll be ready at dawn. The tides’ll be with us.”

You nod in gratitude, relief mingled with apprehension. Dragonstone is so close now, but you know the return will be fraught with more dangers than those you’ve already faced. 

As the fisherman retreats, Gwayne turns back to you. “We’ll get you home,” he promises, though there’s an edge to his voice that betrays his own uncertainty. 

Home. But what awaits you there? Daemon’s wrath? Your sister’s grief? And what of your son—your son whom you’ve not seen in so long, raised by a Targaryen father who knows nothing of the man who just saved his mother’s life?

For now, you can only rest, listening to the steady rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing across the room as you both try to find sleep in this fleeting calm before the storm resumes. You close your eyes, letting yourself drift, even as a part of you dreads what dawn will bring.

The sky above Dragonstone is dark, heavy clouds gathering as if reflecting the storm brewing within the walls of the ancient castle. The great red dragon, Caraxes, lands with a furious roar, shaking the stones beneath his claws. Daemon slides from the saddle, his face twisted in rage, eyes burning like molten steel. Every step he takes towards the Great Hall is filled with barely-contained fury, the kind that simmers just below the surface and waits for the slightest spark to ignite into violence.

He bursts into the hall, his armor still stained with ash and soot from his fruitless search. Rhaenyra stands by the fire, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though seeking warmth. She turns as Daemon strides in, but before she can say a word, his voice cuts through the silence, sharp as Valyrian steel.

“You sent her to Rook’s Rest? You sent her?” His words are laced with venom, each one a dagger aimed directly at her heart.

Rhaenyra flinches, but she holds her ground, lifting her chin defiantly. “She volunteered, Daemon! She insisted. It was her choice.”

“Her choice?” he spits back, stepping closer, his anger radiating from him like heat from a forge. “She’s no warrior, not like Rhaenys! You sent her to die, Rhaenyra! To die at the hands of Aemond and that wretched beast of his!”

Rhaenyra’s composure cracks then, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I trusted her! She’s my sister—our blood! I thought… I thought Silverwing—”

“Silverwing is dead!” Daemon’s voice thunders through the hall, a raw, agonized sound. “She fell, trying to protect her rider from Vhagar and Sunfyre. And Y/N? She’s gone, Rhaenyra. Taken by Gwayne Hightower. A Hightower! You might as well have killed her yourself.”

At that, Rhaenyra’s tears break free, streaking down her pale cheeks. “I never wanted this! I would never—”

“Spare me your tears,” Daemon snarls, his eyes narrowing in cold fury. “You speak of choices, yet you chose war over your sister. You sent her out to face death while you remained safe in your castle, protected by your crown. Do you know what it’s like to watch the skies, knowing that the one person who never turned her back on you is likely lying dead, or worse, in the hands of our enemies?”

Rhaenyra’s sobs wrack her slender frame, but Daemon is relentless. He steps closer, so near that he could reach out and touch her, but his hands remain clenched at his sides. “You sacrificed her for a battle that did nothing but weaken us. Aegon still holds King’s Landing. Silverwing is dead, Luke is gone, and now Y/N… she was the last thread of innocence left in this gods-forsaken war, and you ripped it apart.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head desperately. “I thought—Daemon, I thought she could reach them. Convince them to surrender before more blood was spilled. She believed in it too.”

“And now she’s paying for that belief with her life,” Daemon hisses. “Do you understand? Her life, her blood. And for what? Nothing.”

The hall falls silent, the air thick with tension, with grief and fury that neither of them can fully articulate. For a moment, Rhaenyra looks utterly lost, her shoulders sagging under the weight of all the loss that surrounds her. “What am I supposed to do, Daemon? Tell me. What can I do now?”

Before he can respond, a new voice cuts into the fray, youthful but tinged with urgency. “What’s happening? Where is my mother?”

Daemon stiffens, turning slowly to face the boy who has entered the hall. He’s just shy of manhood, tall and lean with the unmistakable features of House Targaryen—silver-gold hair, sharp cheekbones, and the stubborn fire in his gaze. But his eyes, those striking eyes of clear blue, are not Targaryen at all. They are Gwayne Hightower’s, and they haunt Daemon every time he looks at the boy.

The boy’s name is Vaeron, the son raised by Daemon as his own, the boy who never knew the truth of his parentage. Vaeron looks between his father and his aunt, sensing the tension, the raw pain in the air.

“Where is she?” Vaeron’s voice trembles now, the bravado slipping. “Where is my mother?”

Daemon’s expression softens, if only by a fraction. He crosses the distance to his son, placing a hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. “Your mother was ambushed at Rook’s Rest,” he says, each word carefully measured, as if they’re knives he’s forcing down his throat. “Aemond and his dragons brought her down. Silverwing is dead.”

Vaeron’s eyes widen, disbelief and horror written across his face. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head as if denying the truth will somehow change it. “She can’t be dead. Mother can’t be—”

“She’s not dead, not yet,” Daemon cuts in, his voice harsh. “But she’s missing, taken by Gwayne Hightower. And I’ll find her, Vaeron. We’ll find her together.”

The boy’s gaze sharpens, anger and grief mixing with determination. “I’ll go with you,” he says, the words coming out more like a plea than a declaration.

Daemon nods, the cold steel of his resolve hardening. “You’ll mount your dragon, and we’ll take to the skies. We’ll search every inch of the realm if we have to.”

Vaeron swallows hard, the weight of what’s being asked of him sinking in. He’s still so young, yet there’s no more room for youth in this war. He nods, determination etched across his face. “For her. For my mother.”

Daemon’s grip on his son’s shoulder tightens for a moment, the only hint of the fierce protectiveness he feels beneath the layers of rage. “For her,” he agrees.

As they turn to leave, Rhaenyra reaches out, her voice breaking. “Daemon… please… I’m sorry…”

Daemon doesn’t look back. “You can’t afford to be sorry, Rhaenyra. Not now. Not ever.”

The boy’s eyes meet Rhaenyra’s for a moment before he turns away, following his father out into the cold winds of Dragonstone. They leave her behind, standing alone in the dim light of the hall, tears streaming down her face, a queen weighed down by guilt and grief.

The dragons will soon take flight again, this time driven by fury, by a father’s desperation and a son’s determination. And neither Daemon nor Vaeron will rest until they bring her back—no matter the cost, no matter the blood they must spill.

The small fishing boat creaks under the weight of the sea’s relentless pull, the salt spray clinging to your face as the wind howls around you. Each dip and rise of the vessel feels precarious, the threat of capsizing ever-present. You cling to the rough wooden edge, your body still weak and aching from your injuries, but your eyes remain fixed on the silhouette of Dragonstone on the horizon. The ancient fortress looms like a jagged tooth against the darkening sky, its towers piercing the clouds.

Gwayne stands beside you, his gaze scanning the skies as if expecting danger at any moment. His face is shadowed, exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes, but there’s a tension there too—an unspoken fear that you both share.

The fisherman grumbles curses under his breath as he wrestles with the sails. He’s an old man, his hands gnarled from years at sea, but his sharp eyes occasionally flicker toward you, a mixture of recognition and pity in his gaze. “Prince Daemon’s got the skies set ablaze with his searching,” he mutters, his voice rough like gravel. “And now that boy of his—Merothrax near sunk me last time they flew overhead.”

As if on cue, the air vibrates with the distant sound of wings, a deep thrumming that sends shivers down your spine. You glance upward and catch sight of them—two dragons cutting through the sky like living shadows. Caraxes, with his serpentine neck and blood-red scales, moves with a terrifying grace, his roar echoing across the waves. Beside him is Merothrax, Vaeron’s dragon. Sleek and deadly, the young dragon’s scales are a deep, shimmering indigo, laced with streaks of silver that catch the light when he dives. His wings are larger than one would expect for a dragon of his age, giving him a natural agility in the air. His eyes, a piercing shade of gold, scan the sea below, hungry and watchful.

The boat rocks violently as Merothrax swoops low, his wings stirring the water into frothy waves. The fisherman shouts a stream of curses at the sky, clutching at his hat as the gust from the dragon’s wings nearly tears it from his head. “Damn Targaryens, more fire and madness in them than sense!”

Gwayne’s hand is suddenly on your arm, steadying you as the boat pitches. “They’re looking for us,” he says grimly. “Daemon won’t stop until he finds you.”

“Or finds you with me,” you say, your voice quieter than you intend. There’s a deep tension in your chest, not just from the pain but from the knowledge that each moment brings you closer to facing the storm you left behind. 

Gwayne doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is distant, lost in thoughts he hasn’t voiced since you confessed your secrets that day—secrets you had buried for too long. The memory of that confession hangs between you both, a reminder of how fragile this moment of safety is.

“You’re thinking of Vaeron,” Gwayne says softly, finally breaking the silence. “Of what happens when he sees me.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. “He’s never known who you really are. Daemon raised him, taught him to ride, to fight. Vaeron idolizes him… but he deserves to know the truth.”

Gwayne’s jaw tightens, and his hand drops away from your arm. “I knew of the boy. Rumors reached me—stories of the bastard prince raised by the Rogue himself. But I never… I never thought he’d…” His voice cracks at the end, and you hear the quiet grief in his words. The grief of a father who never had the chance to be a father. 

You turn to him, your heart aching for what you’re about to say. “He’s yours, Gwayne. He always has been.” The admission is heavy, laden with all the years you’ve kept the truth locked away. “Daemon knew from the start. He saw it in Vaeron, even before the boy could speak. But he accepted him anyway, for my sake, and for Rhaenyra’s cause. He never let Vaeron feel unwanted, never let him know he wasn’t his own blood. But those eyes… they’re yours.”

Gwayne’s expression is unreadable, but you see the storm behind his gaze—the battle between duty, regret, and a father’s yearning. “I should have been there,” he says hoarsely. “I should have been the one to raise him, to teach him. Instead, I’ve been chasing ghosts and loyalty that never truly mattered.”

“You would have been hunted down if you claimed him,” you remind him, your voice laced with the bitterness of harsh reality. “Your House would have disowned you—or worse. You would’ve been executed for treason.”

“And now I’m here, having betrayed everything for the woman I…” Gwayne stops himself, the words strangled in his throat.

You don’t push him. The truth lingers between you like a wound too fresh to be probed. You lower your gaze to the churning sea, feeling the boat rock again as Caraxes circles back toward Dragonstone. “He’s a good boy,” you say quietly. “Stubborn, with fire in his blood. But he’s kind, too. He has your strength, even if he doesn’t know it.”

Gwayne’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently, the roughness of his palm familiar and grounding. “I want to meet him, truly meet him. But what do I say, Y/N? That I’m the man who should have been there, but wasn’t?”

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away. “You tell him the truth. Vaeron deserves that much, even if it’s painful. We both know there’s no easy way to face it, but hiding it any longer would be a greater cruelty.”

The boat jerks violently as they begin their final approach to Dragonstone’s rocky shore. You see the shadow of the fortress loom closer, the narrow docks already in sight. The fisherman mutters another curse as Merothrax’s tail lashes the air overhead, nearly capsizing the boat. 

Gwayne leans in close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “No matter what happens when we land, I’ll be by your side. If Daemon tries to take him from me, or if he tries to strike me down for what I’ve done, I won’t back down.”

Your heart clenches at the promise in his words, at the weight of everything that lies ahead. The shore draws near, and you steel yourself for what awaits—a reunion not just with Daemon and your son, but with all the truths that can no longer be avoided.

Above, the dragons circle, their roars echoing through the skies like thunder. The war rages on, but now it’s not just a battle for the throne. It’s a battle for the lives torn apart by secrets and the relentless march of fate. And as you prepare to step onto the stony shore of Dragonstone, you know that the hardest fight has only just begun.

The small boat bumps against the dock with a dull thud, the sound lost beneath the howling wind and the distant crash of waves against the jagged rocks. The air is thick with tension as the fisherman throws a rope to secure the vessel, muttering prayers under his breath, his eyes wide with fear as he glances toward the two dragons perched on the ridge above. Caraxes and Merothrax sit like twin sentinels, their eyes gleaming with the predatory awareness of beasts ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

You step onto the dock first, your legs trembling beneath you, both from the strain of your injuries and the weight of what’s about to happen. Gwayne follows closely, his hand hovering near his sword hilt, though you both know it would be futile if it came to a fight. The wind pulls at your hair and cloak as you move forward, each step taking you closer to the confrontation you’ve dreaded.

Ahead, you see them—Daemon and Vaeron. Daemon’s expression is cold as stone, his eyes narrowed and lips drawn into a hard line. Beside him, Vaeron stands tense, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of worry and anticipation. He’s grown so much since you last saw him, more a young man than a boy, but the flash of relief in his eyes when he sees you tells you he’s still your son, still that child who would run to you for comfort.

But before he can take a step toward you, Daemon’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, holding him back. “Stay where you are,” Daemon orders, his voice as sharp as a blade. Vaeron’s brow furrows, confusion and frustration evident in his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. He simply watches as you and Gwayne approach, his gaze flicking warily between you and the man who saved you.

The tension in the air is palpable as you reach them. Before you can speak, a detachment of royal guards emerges from the path leading to the castle, armor clanking as they fall into formation around Daemon. The commander steps forward and bows deeply. “Prince Daemon, we stand ready.”

Daemon’s eyes never leave Gwayne as he gives the command. “Seize him.”

The guards move forward, hands reaching for Gwayne’s arms. He doesn’t resist, but you see his jaw clench, muscles tensing as iron manacles click shut around his wrists. Panic flares in your chest, and you step between the guards and Gwayne, your voice rising in desperation. “No! You can’t just lock him away! He saved me, Daemon—he saved my life!”

Daemon’s eyes flash with something dangerous as he looks at you, his expression hardening further. “He’s a Hightower, and a traitor to his House. His loyalty to you doesn’t absolve him of that.”

You take a step closer, your voice trembling but determined. “It does when it’s a debt of blood. He risked everything for me—for us. He’s not the enemy here, Daemon.”

But Daemon’s gaze is unyielding, his anger a simmering force barely restrained. “The enemy is anyone who serves the Greens, no matter the reason. You think I care that he chose you over his House? That only makes him more dangerous. He’s already betrayed his own; what’s to stop him from betraying you, or Vaeron, when it suits him?”

Gwayne meets Daemon’s gaze, holding it without flinching, though you see the strain in his eyes. “I gave up everything for her. I’d do it again. But I know what I am, and I don’t expect your forgiveness.”

Daemon’s lips curl into a sneer. “Good, because you’ll get none from me.” He turns to the guards, his tone cold and final. “Take him to the dungeons. I’ll decide his fate once I’ve had time to consider what to do with him.”

The guards tighten their grip on Gwayne and begin to drag him away. You move to follow, but Daemon’s hand catches your arm, stopping you in your tracks. “Enough, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice a mix of anger and something softer—concern, perhaps, though it’s buried deep beneath his rage. “He’s done what he thought was right, but it doesn’t change what he is.”

You jerk your arm free, glaring at him with all the defiance you can muster. “You’ve lost sight of what truly matters, Daemon. Gwayne’s no longer a pawn of the Greens—he’s here because of me. Because of Vaeron.”

At the mention of Vaeron, Daemon’s eyes flicker, but he remains resolute. “And I’ll not have him jeopardize our son’s safety, not for some misplaced sense of gratitude.”

Your heart aches as you watch Gwayne being led away, the clink of his shackles echoing in the quiet that follows. He walks with his head held high, shoulders squared, but you can see the brief flicker of pain in his expression as he passes by Vaeron. The boy says nothing, but his eyes track Gwayne’s every move with a curious intensity, as if trying to understand the connection between the man being led to the dungeons and his mother’s desperate pleas.

When Gwayne disappears around the corner, swallowed by the shadows of the castle, Vaeron finally breaks the silence. “Mother… who was that man? Why did he save you?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet your son’s gaze. “He’s… someone who once served the Greens but chose to protect me instead. He’s no longer a threat, Vaeron.”

Daemon releases his hold on your arm but keeps his eyes fixed on Vaeron. “He’s not to be trusted. Remember that.”

Vaeron nods slowly, his eyes still lingering on the path Gwayne was taken down. There’s something in his expression—curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of recognition that he doesn’t fully understand. But he doesn’t press further, sensing that there are answers he’s not yet meant to know.

Daemon turns to you, his voice softer now, but still laced with frustration. “We’ll speak more inside. You’ve been through enough, and I’ll not have this discussion out in the open.”

With that, he leads the way toward the castle, the guards following closely behind. You fall into step beside him, though your thoughts remain with Gwayne, locked away beneath the stone walls of Dragonstone. Vaeron walks beside you, his young face set in determination as he tries to piece together the events swirling around him.

And as you approach the darkened halls of the castle, you can’t shake the feeling that the truths left unspoken will tear at the fragile peace you’ve only just regained.

[leighsartworks216]

Within Arm's Reach

Zayne x male!Reader

IT'S FINALLY HERE. Yeah not having wifi atm sucks so hopefully no one walks in on me writing this at school

SMUT BELOW THE CUT

Warnings: fluff, smut, pwp, aftercare, anal sex, hand job, kissing, biting, nipple play, praise kink, swearing, first time topping, first time bottoming, references to proposing, banter, teasing, creampie, multiple orgasms

Word Count: 2,157

Main Masterlist

First - Second - Third LADS Masterlists

AO3

Tag List Form (taking a short break from updating my list rn but I will update it again soon when I have time <333)

Zayne groans something beautiful, lodged in his throat as he strains to keep his head up to watch you slowly push your cock into him. His own dick twitches prettily against his stomach, leaking precum onto his pale skin.

Your head spins, eyes stuck staring at the sight of his body sucking you in, squeezing around you. It's hot and slick from lube, and you think you could cum right then and there. Zayne reaches out to hold your hip. His fingers press deliciously into your skin as he draws you closer, drawing you deeper into him.

"Good," he breathes. "Just like that." He sighs a shuddering breath when you've bottomed out. "Give me a moment."

You'd wait to the end of time for him, truly. And this sight - his hair disheveled from your make out session on the couch, his ears bright red, his lips parted and swollen, his chest rising and falling, his pupils blown wide - well, you could admire it beyond the end of time. You wonder if he feels this way when he fucks you. If he relishes in being able to look down and see you in such a mess, dribbling precum on yourself as you look back up at him, pleas falling from your lips like prayers, begging him to move. When he leans his head back to look at you, you think he just might.

"Go ahead," he says. You begin to pull out and he gasps, closing his eyes to center himself again. "Start slow."

You pull back until just the tip remains inside. It's your first time fucking him, but it's also his first time being fucked. You try to draw on that experience. Rub circles into his hip with your thumb to soothe him. His eyes crack open to look at you. You grin softly at him, and slowly push back in.

It's addicting, watching your put-together doctor fray at the edges. He's always had the habit of "losing himself" to your pleasure when you two are intimate, doing everything in his power to please you as much as possible, even getting off when he sees you enjoy yourself. He chases after it. He loves it. In those instances, he gets almost desperate. But no matter what, he is in control. He has his finger on the pulse.

Now that he's beneath you, even as he guides you along, you are the one in control. He could tell you to go faster and you could slow down. Tease you just like he does some nights, when you're being difficult and he quirks his eyebrow and smirks and tells you to be patient. You understand why he loves it so much.

You speed up gradually. Sweat glistens in a light sheen across both of your bodies. With each thrust, his dick bounces, drawing with it webs of sticky spend. Zayne's cheeks are flushed now, quiet sounds pulled more readily from him. You can't help the sounds that escape you either, slowly losing yourself to the feel of your partner's tight walls hugging your cock, engulfing you in ways you can't begin to emulate with your hand, but that you'll wish you could replicate when you're alone.

You lean down over him, supporting yourself with a hand beside his head, and he wastes no time pulling you close. One hand tangles in your hair, drawing your lips to his, mouths parting and coming together with wet sounds and hot breaths. He tastes faintly sweet. His other arm wraps around your shoulders, hugging you to his chest. Slick skin rubs against each other. When you grind your hips into his, you feel his cock brush against your stomach. He groans, breathless as he tilts his head the other way and kisses you again.

Between kisses, he speaks into your mouth. "Put your knee up on the bed," he tells you. You follow his instruction without contest. With the added leverage, you fuck into him easier, moaning as you find a new angle to rut into him. He draws you even closer with a broken sound. "Yes~ So obedient. Such a good boy."

Whether it's the angle or the praise, you're not sure. But something snaps. You cry out his name as your hips stutter, pressing hard up against him as though you can possibly reach any deeper. Your dick twitches and hot spurts of cum paint his insides white. The odd feeling, the heat of it, has Zayne's back arching, stomach, chest and cock pressing against your front as he gasps and sighs against the corner of your mouth. His knees squeeze your hips encouragingly, silently telling you to stay there until you've recovered. He presses light kisses against your jaw.

"You did so good," he praises beside your ear. You roll your hips and his breath hitches. "Take your time, my love. Just breathe."

You drop your face into his neck, bowing into him. "Fuck, Zayne, I-" You take a deep shuddering breath. He scratches soothingly at your scalp. He smells like mint and pine, like a cold winter, but his body is so warm, his hand on your back running along your spine to give you chills. You sigh shakily against him. "I-I'm still hard," you admit with a wet swallow. "Feels so good. You feel so good."

He cups your face to draw you from his neck, to kiss your lips lightly. "It's okay," he says softly. "Keep going. I've got you."

Your eyes are bleary as you pull back to see his face. "Are you sure?"

He nods, face flushed as he guides your hand from his hip to his still achingly hard dick, still twitching with the need to cum. He's so hot as you wrap your hand around him, weighty. You thoughtlessly lick your lips, imagining the taste and feel of him on your tongue. You dream for a moment of pulling out and just settling between his legs, taking him down your throat or licking his stomach clean. But he shifts his hips up against yours and the shock it sends through your system wakes you from the thought. Another time.

You're so sensitive when you pull out again. Your own cum acts as lubricant as you thrust back in. Some dribbles out, following the cleft of his ass to stain the towel he laid down prior. His chest moves in choppy breaths, your sweet doctor taken in once more by the euphoria of it all.

He guides your hand along his shaft. The dual feeling of your cock fucking into him as you jerk him off sends his head spinning. He tips his head back against the pillows, Adam's apple made prominent as he mindlessly tells you to take what you need from him.

Neck so open and exposed, you can't resist putting your mouth on it. Wet, open-mouth kisses trailing along his artery, lips sucking on the smooth skin to form light bruises, teeth lightly nipping over the jut of his collarbones. You settle back on your knee for support as you go further down. Tongue circling his pretty pink nipple, sucking it into the wet heat of your mouth. He tangles his fingers in your hair again with a moan of your name. Holds you to his chest to keep you there, devoting attention to his nipple as it hardens within your mouth. The salt of his sweat tastes so sweet when you have him like this under you.

His hand falls from yours as you take control over the rate you stroke him. You do short, quick pumps around the head of his cock, over the ridge. Your thumb presses against his leaking slit, spreading the slick precum around, staining your hand in it to lubricate your ministrations. Zayne grips onto the towel to ground himself, as though he could float away at any second from the high of his approaching orgasm. "'M close. So close. Hng- Don't stop. Fuck, don't stop."

You push your tired body to go faster. The slap of skin against skin fills the air. The wet pop as you tear your mouth from his nipple to lean back up to his neck, kissing messily along his jaw. The tension in your abdomen builds, muscles tensing as you prepare for the fall. It almost burns, so overstimulated from your first orgasm that it nearly hurts to chase after this one. But you don't dare shy away from it now, even as your breaths choke up and you're pressing down desperately into Zayne for support.

His hips buck up, fucking his dick in your hand just as hot ropes of his cum shoot out over your hand, onto his stomach, even sticking to your own. The vein pulses against your palm, cock twitching, as it forces out every last drop he can offer. Your name falls from his lips in breathless whispers, choked and drawn out and so fucking beautiful.

You don't stop stroking him. Don't slow your rapid pace. Not until your own cock pulses with its release. Hot cum fills him once more, coating your dick as you helplessly thrust into him, messy and off rhythm. When you finally feel the ache fade, you stop, buried to the hilt inside of him, hand releasing his flaccid cock to hold his hip with a sticky hand. It's hot on his sweaty skin.

He lets out a quiet sound as his body relaxes back into the bed. Satisfied and tired, he strokes a hand lazily through your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp as you catch your breath. You can't help laying your weight on him, but he doesn't complain at all. Just turns his head to kiss your temple.

"You were perfect, my love," he whispers, voice shaking ever so slightly. He strokes odd patterns up your back, occasionally massaging into the muscles to coax out any remaining tension.

You hiss softly as you pull out. His breath hitches, but he otherwise seems unaffected, pressing another kiss against your head. You press a kiss to his neck in return. "You were, too," you hum. "Thank you for agreeing to try this."

You feel his lips curve into a slight grin against you. "Which do you prefer?"

"Hmm, right now?"

"Mm."

"... I didn't realize how addicting being... inside you would be."

He huffs a soft laugh. "I underestimated how good it would feel to have you inside me." His fingers grab hold of your chin, tilting your head up so he can kiss your lips. The kiss is reverent, delicate. Barely a brushing of lips. "We need to clean up."

You grin against his lips, eyes half-lidded and sleepy as you crack them open to look at him. "I guess that's my job tonight, huh?"

He grins in return. His thumb mindlessly strokes your jaw. "Shall I show you how to do that, too?"

You pinch his side playfully. His body jolts slightly as he shoots you a look. Your arms shake as you push yourself back up, standing on wobbly legs. You wipe your hand on the towel beside his leg. Your traitorous eyes look at the mess that's been made. You do your best not to drool, flushing with heat as you disappear off into the bathroom. "I've seen you do it enough times." You run the water on the shower, starting up the towel heater in the meantime before stepping back out to disappear down the hall. "It's your turn to watch now!" you call from the kitchen, fetching your beloved a glass of water.

Zayne stares down the hall after you, though you can't see him, nor he you. A content smile paints his lips, timid but insistent. The spray of the shower hits the tile wall. Glasses clinking in the kitchen barely sound over it. He's hot and sweaty and sticky, uncomfortable with the dripping mess leaking out of him and how sore he is. He sees your face, tired but smiling, as you come back to the bedroom with two glasses in hand, condensation gathering on the sides, and he thinks of the box in his office drawer where you can't accidentally stumble upon it before he's ready. He wishes now, when you help him sit up and sit on the edge beside him, drinking your waters together, that it had been hidden in his nightstand, an arm's reach away.

Because he is ready. He knows that now more than ever. He finds himself lost staring at you. You tilt your head at him. "Something wrong?" you ask.

He shakes his head and hides his embarrassment at being caught behind a sip of water. "No, nothing's wrong."

He can see the sliver of worry fall from your shoulders as you smile. You set your glass aside and stand up, bending down to kiss his cheek. "C'mon, sugar, the water's getting cold."

Yes, he is ready. Tomorrow. Maybe tonight. Soon. Soon.

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[patopq]

btw, for the Nein Again crew: if you were looking for X talks machina episode and couldnt find them or dont know how to download it:

You can find them all here

if you're rlly rlly dumb: just expand the list of episodes, click for the VOD and thats it, works on cellphone too

I watched them in my computer by downloading them (individually) cuz its way easier to handle (the internet's archive version its kinda.. weird; if you wanna go back and forward it goes 40s.. which is rlly annoying to manage, sometimes it takes too long to load.. so i prefered watching them in my files)

disclaimer: there ARE some Talks Machina episodes missing in the way back machine, those being: TM 116: c2e67 Beyond the Eyes of Angels  TM 117: c2e68 Reflections TM 125: c2e76 Refjorged, c2e77 A Tangled Web, and the one shot" Dalen's Closet" (yes, they discussed these 3 in one TM) TM 159: c2e135 "The Genesis Ward" 

which, bcs its not on a url on the internet, you can download here -> in a dropbox a reddit user had with all of the deleted CR media)

[truerhearts]

˗ˏˋ ★ ― MASK part 3!

𖤝 astarion x fem!reader

𖤝 3rd person, 10.4k words

𖤝 summary: You and Astarion have reached the epicenter of the cult. You'll have to work together to take it down. will you survive? will he??

𖤝 warnings (for this chapter) : vulgar language, blood, guts, gore, super graphic violence!!!! like graphic!!! please!!! a warning!!!!

𖤝 rating: 18+ mature subject matter, coarse language, gore, reader discretion is advised ~

𖤝 previous chapter

𖤝 masterlist | ao3 | requests

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

As they turned the corner, they saw it.

A vast cavern yawned beneath the keep, its rocky walls stretching so far in every direction it was impossible to tell where the stone ended, and shadow began. Jagged formations jutted from the ceiling and floor, and the air was thick with the iron sting of blood and the reek of old decay.

In the center of the chasm, a massive ritual circle had been scrawled across the stone floor in thick, dark streaks. Dozens of corpses were piled within it - limbs tangled, lifeless eyes wide, their blood still pooling in the grooves of glyphs that pulsed faintly with unnatural light.

Just beyond the fluttering edge of the torch’s glow, a rusted cage stood half-swallowed in shadow. Inside, the missing villagers were crammed shoulder to shoulder - gaunt, terrified, their fingers curled white-knuckled around the iron bars.

They had come to the right place.

One of the cultists wrenched the cage open and hauled a man out by the collar. He hit the floor hard, his breath knocked out of him in a grunt. The door slammed shut with a hollow clang behind him.

The man yelped and scrambled on all fours, knees and palms scraping on the cold stone as he tried to flee. But the cultist was too fast. He caught the villager by the arm and began dragging him across the floor, back toward the circle of chanters and the lifeless heap of bodies, as the ritual’s chorus swelled louder and more distorted with every step.

The chanting was constant, gnawing at the psyche. She needed to do something. She needed to act fast, but she’d never be able to do it alone. As they crept down the stairs with the boy, who was muttering something about seeing his father again, though it didn’t feel like his words, (y/n) caught Astarion’s eye.

For a heartbeat, all the earlier anger dissolved. In a shared glance was everything they’d been through together – every battle they fought side by side, every moment of trust earned: in blood, in those nights around the fire, in that first night in the forest clearing…

Whatever was broken between them from that night in the tavern, it would have to wait.

The villager’s scream pierced the air as the cultist raised a jagged obsidian blade.

Then, they moved as one.

(Y/N) launched herself from the shadows, tackling the cultist mid-strike. The blade went skittering across stone as they crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. The cultist's hood fell back, revealing a face that had once been human — now twisted with black veins spreading like spider webs beneath pale, almost translucent skin.

Astarion was already among the chanters, his daggers finding throats with surgical precision. Blood sprayed in arterial arcs across the ritual circle, disrupting the geometric perfection of the summoning array. But there were too many of them, and for every one that fell, two more seemed to materialize from the chamber's depths.

The rescued villager stumbled toward the cage, fumbling with trembling hands at the crude iron lock. (Y/N) rolled away from her attacker's clawing fingers - fingers that ended in blackened nails sharp as razors—and drew her sword just as the thing lunged again.

She drove her blade deep into the cultist's chest, feeling it scrape against ribs before finding the heart. Black ichor welled up around the steel - thick, tar-like, and wrong.

The cultist grinned through it. Not with pain. With purpose.

Then it spoke, voice no longer human. It gurgled from its ruined lungs, wet and gleeful, echoing with something ancient and foul:

“Tam… it is time. Our father, your father, calls for you.”

(Y/N)’s breath caught. The boy.

She yanked the blade free in one fluid motion and slashed across the cultist’s throat before it could say anything else. The ichor sprayed in a wide arc, hitting the stones with a hiss like acid.

Still, the body twitched. Smiling, even in death.

“The circle!” Astarion shouted over the chaos, blood spattered across his pale features.

She could see it now - the corpses in the center weren't just sacrifices. They were conduits, their dead flesh pulsing with unnatural light as the surviving cultists continued their infernal chant. The air above the pile began to shimmer and tear, reality bending like heated glass.

The boy—Tam—scrambled over the heap of corpses, his small frame lit by the pulsing glow beneath the bodies. He reached the summit and began to chant, his voice low and trembling at first, then rising into a sharp, unnatural cadence. The words were foreign, harsh, not meant for mortal tongues.

Then the circle screamed.

The pile erupted in a geyser of flesh and shattered bone, a fountain of decay that sprayed upward like some obscene birth. And from the carnage stepped something that should never have existed.

The creature loomed eight feet tall, a grotesque blend of human anatomy and cosmic horror. Flesh hung in ragged ribbons from bones that twisted at impossible angles, its form shifting constantly between solid and shadow. Its smile split its face like a wound — far too wide, jagged and wrong, exposing rows of needle-thin teeth slick with some dark, viscous fluid.

Its skin on its head was stretched tight, waxy and pale, as if it had been poured over its skull and pulled too far — a mask that threatened to tear but never did.

And its eyes were just like Tam’s. Black voids, each pierced by a single tiny ring of glowing orange.

(Y/N) took an instinctive step back, bile rising in her throat. “No,” she whispered. “Tam—”. Her voice broke, the boy’s name catching on the air like a fragile thing.

The remaining cultists dropped to their knees in rapture. Their voices rose into wordless shrieks of joy as their flesh began to peel from their bones, sloughing off in sheets like old paint. They didn’t scream in pain. They welcomed it.

And at the creature’s center, suspended like an insect in amber, was Tam.

Shock consumed her body, paralysing her as she took in the hellish abomination. His body floated in the core of the horror, limbs slack, eyes wide and unseeing. Essence poured from him in thin threads of light, drawn into the beast’s heart like breath into lungs — feeding it. Keeping it alive.

“We have to get him out.” Astarion’s voice cut through the horror. His pale fingers, covered in blood, ichor, and whatever else had spilled from the cultists, were wrapped around his glistening daggers. His muscles coiled with predatory tension. “The boy – we can still save him.”

The words snapped (y/n) from her paralysis. She tore her gaze from Tam’s suspended form and looked at Astarion.

For the first time in a long time, the gaze was familiar to her.

She nodded. They could do this. They would do this. Together.

She turned back to the cultist she had just slain, the keys glinting on his belt. She tore them off without hesitation and threw them towards the villager still trying to pry the cage open. “Here!” The keys landed at his feet. “Free the others – find somewhere to hide, or better yet, find a way out!” She shouted.

The man scrambled and grasped them quickly, his hands trembling as he began trying different keys to open the lock. The rest of the trapped villagers pressed against the bars, their faces pale with terror.

The creature turned its attention to them then, that grotesque smile widening until it seemed to split its entire head. When it spoke, the voice was layered—Tam's innocent tones threading through something ancient and malevolent.

"The boy's pain is exquisite—we can feel his soul tearing with every breath we take."

It turned its head and its void-like eyes bore directly into (y/n), and she felt its presence grip her soul.

“He screams with every breath, but his flesh – the sigil - remembers the chant.”

Its voice cracked like splitting bone, thick with glee.

“We carved the hymn into his bones. Even dead, he would keep calling us.”

It moved with sickening fluidity, its form rippling between flesh and shadow like oil on water. One moment it stood eight feet away, the next its claws were slashing through the air where (Y/N)'s head had been a heartbeat before—close enough that she felt the whisper of death brush her cheek.

She rolled aside, her blade singing as she drew it, but the creature was already pivoting toward Astarion with inhuman grace. He danced backward, daggers flashing silver arcs in the dim light as he scored shallow cuts across its shifting flesh. Dark ichor wept from the wounds like tears from a wound that refused to heal, but they sealed themselves almost instantly, the skin knitting together with wet, obscene sounds.

(Y/n) conjured another fireball, hurling it with precision—but the creature twisted before it even struck, its torso splitting open like molten wax parting around the heat. The flames passed harmlessly through the sudden gap.

Then the two halves rippled, slithered, and flowed back together with a nauseating slurp, as though its flesh were no more solid than bloodied syrup.

"It's regenerating!" (Y/N) shouted, diving in to slash at its exposed flank. Her sword bit deep, parting flesh that felt too warm, too alive. The creature shrieked—a sound like tearing metal married to dying children, a harmony of agony that made the stone itself seem to recoil.

The battle became a nightmare of motion and blood, a dance macabre played out on ancient stones. The creature struck like a living tempest—its limbs warping mid-swing, bones spearing outward in bursts of jagged horror that defied anatomy. Every blow they landed was a mockery; the creature's wounds vanished in seconds, sealing shut as threads of light continued to pour from Tam's suspended body, feeding it like a grotesque umbilical cord.

They were losing ground, and death was patient.

(Y/N) saw it then—a brief opening in the creature's guard, a flash of exposed flesh near the core where Tam was embedded like a pearl in rotting oyster. She didn't think. Just moved, driven by desperate hope.

"Wait—!" Astarion's voice cracked like a whip, but she was already sprinting past him, ducking low beneath one of the monster's sweeping limbs. She drove her blade upward, aiming for that pulsing core, determined to sever the tether that bound this nightmare to life—

—but she got too close to the heart of horror.

The creature's claws raked across (Y/N)'s chest, tearing through leather and flesh in one vicious swipe that painted the air crimson. She staggered back, eyes wide with shock and the sudden, bright pain of torn arteries. Before she could even register the full scope of her wounds, its massive hand wrapped around her throat like a collar of bone and hurled her across the chamber.

She was a broken doll thrown by a petulant child.

She slammed into the stone wall with a sound like thunder made of breaking bones, her spine compressing against the unforgiving surface with a wet crunch that echoed through the chamber. She crumpled to the floor, and the silence that followed was more terrible than any scream. Blood began to pool beneath her, spreading in a dark crimson lake that reflected the chamber's eldritch light, her breathing shallow and ragged as life leaked from her with each passing second.

For Astarion, time became a cruel artist, stretching each moment into an eternity of anguish. As she lay there on the chamber floor—too still, something vital at his core snapped inside of him like a lute string pulled beyond its limits.

He didn't think. Didn't scream. Didn't breathe.

In that moment, his mind fractured into a thousand fragments, each one sharp and cutting: (y/n) crumpled on the cold stone across the chasm, the creature feeding off the boy trapped within its writhing mass, growing stronger with each passing second—but then it was (y/n) in the tavern, lingering in the shadows, watching as he'd leaned close to that woman, whispered honeyed words, let his fingers trace her arm with practiced ease. The mission briefing echoed in his skull, missing villagers, maybe cultists, nothing more, but they'd walked into a nightmare and now (y/n) was too far away, her blood pooling around her in dark rivulets while her breath came in shallow, shaking gasps he could barely hear over the chasm's distance. Two hundred years of Cazador's lessons screamed that this was what he deserved—that he'd ruined the only good thing he'd touched, just like he always did. The metallic scent of blood, the creature's power swelling as it drained the boy, her body so terrifyingly still across the impossible distance—then that first kiss, so casual, so meaningless, just another manipulation in his endless game of survival, except it had cracked something inside him he hadn't known was there. He'd seen her watching from the shadows, the way her face had gone carefully blank, but it wasn't until he'd approached her later that the hurt had spilled out—quiet, devastating, the kind of pain that cut deeper than anger ever could. Then that night when she'd asked him to stay—not for sex, not for blood, just to hold her while she slept because nightmares had been plaguing her—and he'd lain there in the darkness, listening to her breathing even out against his chest, feeling something crack open inside him as her fingers curled trustingly into his shirt. That kiss, months later, different from all the others—softer, slower, and when she'd pulled away he'd realized with bone-deep terror that somewhere between her trusting smiles and the way she'd never questioned his motives, he'd fallen—completely, helplessly, in a way that made him want to run because he didn't know how to love without destroying, didn't know how to be anything but the broken thing Cazador had made him.

The thoughts crashed together, a cacophony of past and present, love and terror, until he couldn't tell which memories were real and which were the desperate fabrications of a mind refusing to accept what lay before him. Everything blurred—duty, desire, death—a storm of emotion and memory that left him paralyzed, drowning in the chaos of his own heart.

Then clarity cut through like a blade. The string snapped, a high-pitched twang. Then silence. Nothing but the sound of his ragged breathing as he tried to process what was happening and what needed to be done.

The monster turned toward him, that grotesque smile widening like a wound carved in flesh.

But Astarion was already moving, and he was no longer pretending to be anything other than what Cazador had made him.

The first blow was silent—clean—surgical in its precision, but no strike had ever felt so pitifully insufficient. Not enough. Not deep enough. Not cruel enough. His blade buried to the hilt in its chest, yet the thing only twitched, laughing with that skin-splitting grin that wasn't real, wasn't human, wasn't deserving of the mercy of a quick death.

His other dagger materialized in his hand like an extension of his rage. He flipped it with practiced ease, reversing his grip with the fluid motion of a predator born to kill, and drove it into the creature's side with centuries of pent-up fury—again—again—teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached, eyes wild with something that went beyond anger into the realm of divine wrath, breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts through fangs that ached to taste something other than his own restraint.

The creature warped, attempting to phase between dimensions like smoke trying to escape a burning building. Its claws raked across his ribs as it twisted, fabric tearing and flesh parting in parallel lines of fire, but the pain only fed his fury.

But he moved with it, his own supernatural grace matching its otherworldly abilities. He landed on it mid-teleport with predatory precision, slamming it down into the stone floor with the full weight of his rage and two centuries of carefully buried violence. Its limbs bent at angles that would make an anatomist weep.

The abomination’s talons found his shoulder as they grappled, digging deep furrows through muscle and sinew, but he barely registered the sensation beyond a distant acknowledgment that he was bleeding.

Still, impossibly, it grinned up at him—calm despite the symphony of destruction being played upon its flesh.

He drove his elbow into its jaw with bone-crushing force that sent shockwaves up his arm.

Once. The sound was like breaking pottery.

Twice. Cartilage crunched and split with wet finality.

The smile didn't fade—if anything, it seemed to grow wider, more pleased, as if this violence was exactly what it had been hoping for.

That broke something in him, something that had been holding back the tide.

Astarion pulled one of his daggers from the body with a sound like ripping silk and began stabbing—anywhere, everywhere, with the methodical precision of a butcher and the fury of a lover scorned. Chest, throat, the soft hollow where its collarbone should have been. His arms shook not with weakness but with barely controlled fury that threatened to consume him entirely. A wild swipe from the creature's dying throes caught him across the cheek, a shallow cut that wept crimson down his jaw, but he didn't even notice. Black ichor sprayed across his face in hot arterial bursts, slicked down his neck like the blood rights of Bhaal reborn, soaked through his shirt until the fabric clung to his skin like a second skin made of violence.

Still he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop until this thing was nothing left.

Muscle tore beneath his blades like wet parchment. Bone split with sounds like winter branches breaking under the weight of ice. The air pulsed with psychic backlash that should have driven him to his knees, but he couldn't feel it anymore—couldn't feel anything but the blood roaring in his ears like an ocean of rage and the sickening, beautiful sound of steel parting flesh.

Tendons snapped beneath his relentless grip like harp strings tuned too tight. Ribs cracked beneath his knees as he pinned the writhing horror down, each break a percussion note in his symphony of destruction. His breath came ragged and brutal, each exhalation a prayer to gods who had long since stopped listening. His hands were so slick with gore—black ichor mixed with crimson blood—that he could barely maintain his grip on the hilts anymore, but muscle memory and centuries of practice kept the blades moving.

The creature twitched beneath him like a broken marionette, tried to raise one shaking arm in a gesture that might have been defense or surrender.

He snapped it at the elbow.

The thing screamed—not with any voice that belonged to throat or lung, but with a sound that bled through the stone itself and clawed at the mind like fingernails on the inside of a coffin. The very air seemed to recoil from the noise, and somewhere in the distance, dust fell from the ceiling like ash from a crematorium.

Still Astarion didn't falter, didn't pause, didn't show the mercy that had never been shown to him.

He retracted both daggers with movements that were almost ritualistic in their precision, tossing one aside where it clattered against stone like a discarded prayer. The remaining blade he took in both hands—one on the hilt, the other pressed against the pommel like anointed hands offering the blade to death itself. With a force he didn't know he possessed, born from love and loss and two centuries of swallowed screams, he rammed it straight down.

The blade sank hilt-deep into the creature's chest with the sound of punctured earth, steel meeting the wet resistance of organs that had never been meant to exist. Then he twisted—slowly, deliberately, grinding the metal against bone and cartilage with the methodical patience of someone who had learned that suffering was an art form. He clenched his teeth so hard it was a miracle they didn't shatter under the pressure, his jaw muscles standing out like cords as he put every ounce of his supernatural strength behind the motion.

Steel scraped against bone in a symphony of destruction that would have made Cazador proud, a sound like a blade being sharpened on a whetstone made of screams.

The creature convulsed once—a full-body spasm that nearly threw him off. The unholy substance that served as its blood came gushing out from the wound in thick, ropy streams, spraying across Astarion's face like bloodwine offered by a corrupted cleric. He drove the dagger deeper, deeper, until the cross-guard bit into flesh and there was nowhere left for the blade to go.

It twitched again—a single, final flutter.

Then fell still, and in that stillness, the chamber held its breath.

The only sound was his own ragged breathing and the soft drip, drip, drip of blood finding its way to the floor, marking time like a broken clock.

With moments to spare before the body could regenerate, he began carving through the flesh around Tam's suspended form. His movements were frantic now, desperate, cutting through the writhing tissue with the efficiency of a master butcher. Once enough of the corrupt flesh was carved away, he tore the boy free from the wound, bringing with him strings of sinew, clots of blood, and fragments of the creature's essence.

The boy's skin was cold as marble when Astarion pulled him free, the threads of light that had been feeding the creature snapping like severed puppet strings, sparkling in an oddly beautiful way before they disappeared. Tam's eyes fluttered, the void-black pupils slowly contracting to reveal frightened brown irises beneath.

Astarion sighed with relief as the boy came to.

"I... I couldn't stop it," the boy whispered, his voice raw and broken. "It made me... made me call it..."

“It’s okay. It’s over now.” Astarion murmured, but his eyes were already searching the chamber, finding (Y/N) still crumpled on the floor where she'd fallen. The pool of blood beneath her had grown larger, and she hadn't moved.

He laid Tam down carefully—too carefully for someone who always claimed not to care—then rose and staggered to her.

She lay on the floor like something discarded, blood soaking through her clothes, pooling beneath her ribs. Too much blood. Her head lolled slightly, her lips parted around shallow, ragged breaths. She was alive—but only just.

Astarion dropped to his knees beside her.

“Darling—” The word tore from his throat raw and desperate. He reached for her and his hands—gods, his hands were shaking, hovering inches above her chest, her bloodied cheek, her torn side—terrified that one wrong touch would shatter what little was left of her. “No. No, no, no, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to go quiet on me now.”

Her chest barely rose, a shallow flutter that made his vision blur. Blood soaked through her leathers, seeping warm and thick between his fingers as he pressed his palms against the worst of the wounds, trying to hold her together through sheer force of will.

"Fuck— No, no, no—" The curse ripped from his chest like a prayer, like a plea to gods who had never listened to him before but might, might listen now if he begged hard enough.

He tore a potion from his belt with blood-slick fingers that wouldn't stop trembling. The cork stuck. He bit down, tore it free with his fangs, and spat it aside, the taste of copper and cork bitter on his tongue. His hand slipped under her head, fingers tangling in hair matted with blood and dirt, and he poured the liquid between her lips.

"Come on," he whispered, and his voice was breaking, cracking open like something vital inside him. "Come on, drink, you beautiful, stubborn, impossible—"

She swallowed. Once. Barely. A weak flutter against his palm.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough.

He grabbed another vial, hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it. Ripped it free, popped the cork, and tipped the entire contents down her throat without waiting, watching half of it spill uselessly onto her chin, mixing with the blood there.

"Say something," he begged, voice raw and desperate and stripped of every pretense he'd ever worn.

"Scream at me. Call me a bastard—call me a coward for walking away from you. Please. Just don't leave me here with all the things I should have said."

His voice shattered completely. The empty vial fell from nerveless fingers. His hands found hers—growing cold, losing the warmth he'd always stolen from her touch—and he pressed them between his palms, knowing he had nothing to give her, no heat to share, only the desperate need to hold on.

"You couldn't just let me hate myself in peace, could you?" The words came out broken, a laugh that was all sharp edges and tears he couldn't shed. "Had to make me fall in love with you. Had to ask me to stay. Had to trust me when I didn't deserve it, when I was using you, when I—" His voice dropped to barely a whisper, raw with fury and grief. "And then you had to go and throw yourself at that thing. Couldn't wait for me to catch up, couldn't let me take the hit instead." He let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "I would have watched that boy burn, would have let every last one of them scream and die, if it meant you'd walk out of here breathing. And you know what the truly twisted part is?" His voice cracked, something fragile and desperate bleeding through. "Your life has become worth more to me than my own. More than anyone's. Two hundred years of clawing my way through survival, and now I'd throw it all away—throw myself into the fire—just to keep you safe. What does that make me?"

Her breath hitched—shallow, rattling, the sound of someone drowning in their own blood.

He let out a strangled sound that was almost a laugh, almost a sob. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, breathing in the scent of her hair beneath the copper tang of blood.

"If you die," he whispered against her skin, voice like shattered glass, "if you think you can just slip away and leave me to deal with this mess you've made of me—I'll never forgive you. Do you hear me? I'll drag you back from whatever hell you're heading to just so I can tell you every day for eternity that I love you, that I'm sorry, that you deserved so much better than a broken thing like me."

Behind him, the surviving villagers staggered in, their eyes wild, limbs trembling from shock and exhaustion.

One of them glanced toward Tam, still collapsed where Astarion had left him. “The boy—he’s breathing. We should move him—”

Another stepped forward, uncertain. "What about her? We can help, if you just tell us—"

"Can we get some water? Bandages?" someone else called out desperately.

"Maybe if we—"

"Should we try to lift her?"

The voices overlapped, growing louder, more frantic. Each suggestion felt like another needle in his skull. The air grew thick, suffocating. Too many people, too many voices, too much noise when all he could hear was the irregular rasp of her breathing.

“I don’t know!” he snapped, finally whirling around. His eyes were bloodshot, lips drawn tight over his teeth. “If I knew how to fix this, don’t you think I’d be doing it instead of kneeling in her godsdamned blood?!”

The room went still at his outburst. The villagers froze mid-step, cowed by the fury in his voice—but also by the grief threaded through it, brittle and bare.

Astarion turned back to her, jaw clenched. His fingers trembled where they brushed her cheek. “Just—go. Do something useful. Help the boy. Find a healer. Anything.”

And then—

A deep rumble rolled through the earth, low and growing, like thunder boiling up from the chasm below.

Dust rained from the ceiling.

Then: an explosion of stone from the far wall, near the top of the chasm.

Rock shattered outward. Smoke and rubble flew. One of the villagers cried out, stumbling back, bracing for another attack.

And through the dust storm stomped a familiar silhouette, armor scorched, axe glowing red-hot.

“Told you I’d find you!” Karlach bellowed.

She stepped through the hole like a war goddess, bloodied and beaming, eyes burning with purpose.

Behind her, Gale poked his head through the crumbling gap in the stone, blinking like a startled cat. “And I’m here as well,” he announced, voice echoing faintly. “Just—slightly less like a goddess.”

Her gaze swept the chamber once—took in the corpses, the ruined creature, the boy, and finally Astarion crouched beside (Y/N)’s broken body.

The smile vanished.

“Oh gods…” She murmured. Gale poked his head out a little further, assessing the situation as well. His eyes widened. He reached out to Karlach, grasping her forearm while muttering the words to dimension door, teleporting them down to the bottom of the chasm.

They landed hard beside him—Karlach with a thud of metal and muscle, Gale with a stumble and a curse.

Astarion didn’t look up.

Gale immediately moved toward (Y/N), kneeling beside her still form with urgency. His hands hovered over her injuries, assessing the damage with a wizard's clinical eye even as worry creased his features.

Karlach dropped to her knees opposite him, her hands hovering inches from (Y/N)'s face before she pulled back, fingers curling helplessly. "Is she—?"

"She's alive... just..." His voice caught, and he looked up at Gale with desperate, wild eyes. "Gale, please! Do something—I... I gave her potions but the bleeding, I can't… It won’t stop…” He gestured frantically at her wounds, his hands shaking. "I know a hundred ways to kill someone, I know where to cut to make it quick or slow or silent, but I don't know how to fix this. I don't know restoration spells or divine magic or whatever the hells you wizards do with your books and components and—" 

His companions had never seen him so utterly shattered.

He continued, “You have scrolls, don't you? Something, anything that can stop this bleeding because I can't watch her die, Gale. I can't sit here and watch the life drain out of her when you might be able to—please, just do something!"

"Astarion." Karlach's voice cut through his spiraling panic, firm but gentle. She reached out slowly, her large hand settling on his shoulder with surprising tenderness. "Breathe. Gale's got this—look at me." When his wild eyes met hers, she squeezed gently. "She's not going anywhere. We found you, we found her, and we're going to get her through this. But I need you to hold it together for her, yeah? She needs you steady."

Gale's expression tightened with concern. "Healing magic isn't my forte, but I have been studying a few scrolls..." He pulled a worn parchment from his robes, hands steady despite the urgency. "This should at least stabilize her."

The incantation flowed from his lips in practiced syllables, weaving threads of restorative magic around (Y/N)'s broken form. A soft blue light emanated from his palms, seeping into her wounds. The worst of the bleeding began to slow, her breathing becoming less laboured.

But her eyes still stayed closed.

Only then did Gale turn toward where the villagers were already tending to Tam, checking the boy's pulse with a furrowed brow. "He's stable, I think. But what in the nine hells happened down here?"

Astarion didn’t answer. He was watching (Y/N)’s throat, willing it to move, to swallow, to breathe. When her chest finally rose on a trembling inhale, he let out a ragged breath that sounded far too much like relief.

“Bloody reckless,” he whispered, voice cracking again. “Running in like that, thinking you could handle it all alone. Always playing the hero, aren’t you?”

Karlach reached out again, this time resting a steadying hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “Hey. We’ll get her out of here, and she’ll make it. She’s tough.”

He turned, eyes red-rimmed and furious. “Do you have any idea how close—” But the words broke, and he turned away sharply, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just—don’t talk to me like she’ll be okay. Not until she opens her damned eyes.”

Karlach reached out again, this time resting a steadying hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “Do you want me to carry her?” she asked quietly, her voice low—not out of fear, but respect. She didn’t want to take the weight from him if he needed to hold it.

He didn’t look at her. Just tightened his grip around (Y/N)’s broken form, holding her close to his chest like she might vanish if he let go. “No,” he said, barely more than a breath. “I’ve got her.”

Karlach didn’t argue.

She shifted around and crouched beside him, one gauntlet resting lightly on his arm. Her voice was steady now, all fire banked into resolve. "Then let's get her out of here. Gods..." She cast a grim glance at the creature's remains, now steaming and bubbling as it dissolved into putrid liquid. " "Part of me doesn't even want to know what happened down here.”

Behind her, Gale gently lifted Tam into his arms with a grunt. “I vote we do talk about it later. Preferably somewhere that isn’t covered in blood and nightmares.”

Astarion said nothing. Just shifted (Y/N)’s weight in his arms, rising slowly, careful not to jostle her. For a heartbeat, he swayed on his feet—exhaustion, grief, fury all weighing him down.

Then he straightened.

Thankfully, the villagers remembered the way the cultists brought them in – the same passage Lydia showed them.

Astarion grimaced when he remembered the state of the tunnel. The narrow passage stretched ahead of them, barely wide enough for one person—a cruel joke considering his burden. He turned sideways, pressing his back against the rough stone wall, shielding (Y/N) from the jagged edges as they navigated the tight space. Every scrape of his shoulder against rock, every careful sidestep felt monumental.

Behind them, Karlach's muttered curses echoed off the stone as she squeezed her broad frame through the passage, while in front, Gale's soft magical light danced ahead, illuminating their path through the suffocating darkness.

Once they finally made it out of the caves, there was yet another hurdle. The stars danced overhead – whether it was late at night, or very early in the morning, no one could tell. The walk stretched endlessly before them, each step a careful negotiation between haste and caution.

Astarion found himself memorizing the weight of her in his arms, the way her breath ghosted against his neck, the flutter of her pulse beneath his fingertips. Details to cling to. Proof of life when everything else felt like it was slipping away. By the time the inn's warm glow flickered through the trees, his jaw ached from clenching it so tightly.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The inn was old, creaky in places, but clean and warm. Someone had lit a fire in the hearth, and the smell of smoke and spiced cider hung in the air, a comforting balm over the scent of blood and ruin. The villagers had insisted on giving them the best rooms—what few they had—as thanks. Food had been offered too, but Karlach was the only one that ate.

Word had been sent to camp immediately, and Shadowheart had arrived within the hour, her healing supplies already in hand before she'd even dismounted. The others had followed—Wyll, Lae'zel, even Minthara—but it was Shadowheart who'd taken charge, disappearing upstairs with barely a word to anyone. They noticed, though, and all followed her up the stairs.

(Y/N) lay unconscious against a mound of pillows in her bed. They gave her a room on the top floor, a lovely view overlooking the forest. In the distance, cutting through the fog, the spire of the ruins could be seen.

Astarion had carried her here and hadn't left her side since, sitting vigil in the chair beside her bed for the full hour it took Shadowheart to arrive. He couldn't bring himself to leave—some irrational part of him was convinced that if he stepped away, if he stopped watching the shallow rise and fall of her chest, she'd simply stop breathing altogether. His hands had trembled as he'd adjusted her blankets, smoothed her hair, anything to keep himself occupied while they waited for help.

When Shadowheart finally burst through the door, the others had filtered in behind her shortly after—Karlach hovering anxiously, Jaheira taking position by the window, Halsin offering his own healing magic, Gale conjuring soft lights, Wyll pacing until Lae'zel ordered him to sit. The small room filled with concerned murmurs and the rustle of activity.

But when Shadowheart began her assessment, her hands glowing with healing light, and her face grew grave. When she started murmuring about internal bleeding and fever and clinical discussions of whether (Y/N) would make it through the night, Astarion couldn't take it anymore. He'd quietly stepped back, then slipped away entirely. The others barely noticed him retreat to the shadows—they were too focused on saving her to see that he couldn't bear to witness what came next.

Her bandages were fresh now. Karlach had hovered while they were applied, whispering jokes that never quite landed, hoping that even though she wasn't awake, (Y/N) was still listening and laughing anyways. Shadowheart had done the stitching, her touch gentler than usual. Jaheira had quietly taken watch by the window, her maternal instincts surfacing as she monitored every rise and fall of (Y/N)'s chest. Halsin had offered his own healing magic, his large hands surprisingly delicate as he'd helped tend to the worst of her wounds. Gale had conjured soft mage lights to help the others work, murmuring incantations under his breath—small magics meant for comfort rather than grand displays. Wyll had paced the small room until Lae'zel had finally ordered him to sit, though she herself had remained standing guard by the door, as if she could protect (Y/N) from death itself through sheer force of will.

Now, the room was quiet except for her shallow breathing. The color had returned to her cheeks, and her breathing had steadied.

She was going to make it.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Shadowheart found him in the corner of the common room, tucked into the shadows near the cold hearth. He'd been there for hours— ever since he'd slipped away from (Y/N)'s room, ever since he'd retreated downstairs rather than watch them fight for her life. He couldn't bear the thought of being there if she... if the worst happened. Better to wait in the shadows, where he wouldn't have to watch her take her final breath.

He hadn't rested. Just sat on the windowsill, one leg drawn up, one hanging carelessly off the side. The sun was rising over the trees beyond the glass, casting ribbons of golden light across his still form. Even bloodied and exhausted from battle, there was something ethereal about him in that moment.

Blood and whatever else that creature had expelled had dried dark against his torn shirt. The gash along his ribs had stopped bleeding, but barely. Claw marks raked across his shoulder, and the cut on his cheek that would scar if left untended much longer. Crimson streaks had turned rust-brown along his pale skin, painting him in the aftermath of violence. His hair was matted with gore in places, and flecks of dried blood dotted his jaw where he'd likely wiped his mouth with a bloodied hand. Yet the warm morning light seemed to soften it all, turning the evidence of brutality into something almost beautiful—a warrior's canvas painted in sacrifice and devotion.

"Still holding your vigil, I see," Shadowheart said dryly, settling into the chair close to the window, just across from him. "You know, brooding is significantly less dramatic when you're covered in several hours worth of dried blood." She looked him over.

He didn't respond. Just kept staring at some fixed point in the middle distance, jaw tight with whatever thoughts had been circling in his head since they returned.

"She's going to be alright, you know. The bleeding has stopped, and her breathing is steady. Whatever you're torturing yourself with down here, you don't need to worry anymore."

He remained silent, but there was a change in his expression—the sharp edge of panic that had been carved into his features since they'd arrived finally beginning to soften. The tension in his jaw eased, and his white-knuckled fist slowly uncurled, fingers relaxing against his thigh as if he'd been holding his breath for hours and could finally exhale.

She waited for a moment for a reply, but he kept his gaze out the window.

"So," She began, leaning back in the chair. "Are we going to sit here in companionable silence while you slowly bleed out, or are you planning to tell me what's on your mind?"

"I've been thinking," he said finally, looking at her with something raw and unguarded in his expression. "About what I would say to her. When she wakes up."

Shadowheart leaned forward slightly. This was different from their last conversation—no bottle in his hand, no bitter laughter or cutting remarks. Just exhaustion and something that looked almost like resolve.

"All night," he continued, "I've been sitting here, rehearsing words. Apologies. Confessions. Promises I'm not sure I can even keep." He ran a hand through his silver hair, wincing as the movement pulled at his wounds. "And I realized... I've spent so long being terrified of the wrong things."

"What do you mean?"

"I was afraid of what loving her would cost me. Afraid of being vulnerable, of giving her the power to destroy me." His laugh was quiet, rueful. "But today, seeing her like that, nearly losing her... I realized the only thing that would actually destroy me is losing her without ever telling her the truth."

Shadowheart pulled her healing supplies from her pack, setting them on the small table between them. "And what is the truth?"

He was quiet for a long moment, watching her prepare the needle and thread. When he spoke, his voice was steadier than she'd ever heard it.

"That I love her. Not the careful, calculated way I thought I had to love someone to keep them interested. Not as a means to an end or a game to win." He looked up, meeting Shadowheart's eyes. "I love her in a way that terrifies me because it's real. Because it makes me want to be better—not for some grand redemption, but because she deserves someone who chooses her every day."

"Let me see those wounds," Shadowheart said gently.

Astarion shifted forward slightly.

She paused. “You’ll have to remove your shirt.” She said flatly.

He raised an eyebrow. “How forward of you.”

"Consider this strictly professional - (Y/N) can have you back when you're not bleeding everywhere."

He smiled slightly, a faint blush creeping across his pale cheeks as he looked away and carefully removed his shirt, not realizing how much pain he was truly in until he started moving.

Shadowheart pulled her chair forward, gentle fingers examining the gash along his ribs, the cuts on his shoulder and face. There was something different about the way he sat—still, present, letting her close without all the usual walls and deflections.

"This is going to hurt," she warned, beginning to clean the deepest wound.

"Everything hurts," he said simply, but without the bitter edge she might have expected. Just acknowledgment.

She worked in careful silence for a while, needle and thread moving in practiced motions. He didn't flinch, didn't make a sound. Just sat there, letting her tend to him. Once she'd closed the worst of the wounds, she placed her hands over the stitched flesh and began to murmur an incantation.

A warm, golden light emanated from her palms, seeping into his skin. The torn tissue began to knit together more completely, the angry red inflammation fading as divine magic accelerated the healing process. She moved methodically—ribs, shoulder, the cut on his cheek—each wound receiving both her physical care and her healing touch.

He kept speaking, a completely open book. "That night… outside the tavern. I told you I didn't know what to do with what I felt for her. That I'd ruin it because that's what I do." He paused as she tied off a stitch. "I was so convinced that love had to be a trap, a weapon, something to survive rather than something to... cherish."

"And now?" she asked, moving to the cut on his cheek with both gentle fingers and healing light.

"Now I think..." He watched her work, his voice growing quieter. "I think maybe the reason I kept trying to turn it into something else is because I was afraid of how simple it actually is. How uncomplicated loving her could be if I just... let it."

The divine magic flowed through her touch, and she watched as the cut on his cheek sealed itself, leaving only the faintest line that would fade completely in time. "What changed?"

"Watching her nearly die today. Realizing that all my careful self-preservation, all my fears about not being enough—none of it would matter if she was gone." He looked toward the stairs, toward where (Y/N) lay recovering. "I spent so long being afraid of what loving her would cost me. But I finally understand what it would cost me to lose her. And it's everything. Everything that matters."

She finished the last healing spell, the golden light fading as she set her supplies aside. The combination of her careful stitching and divine magic had left him looking almost unmarked, save for the faint pink lines that would disappear entirely within days. The intimacy of the moment wasn't lost on either of them—him sitting still, accepting both physical and magical care, speaking truth without performance or pretense.

"She's going to be alright," Shadowheart said softly. "And when she wakes up, you can tell her all of this."

Astarion was quiet, his expression unguarded in a way she'd never seen before. Without his usual masks and deflections, something raw and achingly vulnerable shone across his features—hope warring with fear, love stripped of all pretenses. It was the face of someone who had finally stopped running from what terrified him most.

Shadowheart smiled—genuine and warm. "Look at you. Finally ready to fight for something instead of fighting against it."

"Don't get too sentimental," he said, but there was no bite in it. Almost fondness. "I'm still devastatingly charming and completely insufferable."

"Of course you are." She gathered her supplies, stood to leave. "But you're also in love. And finally brave enough to do something about it."

After she left, Astarion remained on the windowsill for a while longer, no longer rehearsing words or spiraling through fears. Just sitting quietly, feeling the pull of his freshly tended wounds, the weight of his decision.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

(Y/N) had woken sometime in the early evening, when the light filtering through the small window had turned golden and soft. The healing magic had done its work—slowly, but surely. She was still weak, still aching, but conscious enough to move from the bed to the rug in front of the fireplace.

She sat there now, staring into the flames, her thoughts somewhere distant. The warmth helped more than the scratchy blankets had. She wasn't sure how long she'd been alone like this, how long it had been since the fight underneath the ruins—time didn't feel real anymore—but when the door creaked open behind her, she needn’t look to know who it was.

The air shifted.

Bootsteps hesitated just past the threshold.

Astarion said nothing at first. Just stood there, looking like something half-forgotten and newly resolved, his wounds freshly tended, his curls no longer wild but still a touch damp from washing away the blood and grime of their battle.

His eyes found her.

“Hi,” she murmured, trying to smile. It was crooked. Tired.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he shut the door behind him and crossed the room in silence. Slowly. Like a man walking into something he couldn’t undo.

She sat up a little more as he approached, her ribs protesting the motion. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Still, no reply.

He knelt in front of her.

Not beside her. Not standing above. He knelt—level with her gaze, hands resting lightly on his thighs like they didn’t know where else to go.

“I thought you were dead,” he said finally, his voice raw enough to scrape bone. “I thought you’d gone. And all I could think was—how absolutely furious I was going to be.”

A breath caught in her throat. “Furious?” She asked.

He laughed softly. Bitterly.

“At you. At myself. At the gods. At that wretched child.” He lifted his head. His eyes shone, not with tears, but something worse—an ache old as time, clawing up from where it had been buried. “I’ve seen death before. I’ve done it. Survived it. But watching you fade—it was different.”

He sat down now, leaving a little bit of space between them.

She reached for his hand.

He let her.

Her fingers were cold, as were his.

“You were right,” she said softly. “About the mission. About me being reckless. I did kind of throw myself in there-”

That's not what this is about." His voice dropped to that familiar velvet timbre but underneath lay something achingly real—vulnerability wrapped in silk that made her heart skip against her ribs. He had a different air about him, and it made her hairs stand up with anticipation.

She blinked. “Then what is it about?”

He looked at her then—really looked. “It’s about the fact that I was ready to let the whole bloody world burn if it meant you’d open your eyes.”

He exhaled shakily, like he’d been holding his breath all day.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said, voice low and uneven, eyes darting around everywhere. He was not his usual self. “Every second since you fell. Since I thought—since I thought you were going to leave… me.” He lingered on the last word, looking at her then. His eyes sparkled like rubies in the firelight.

Her throat tightened, but she said nothing.

“I spent the whole damned day trying to find the right words. Rehearsing them like some… lovesick schoolboy.” He laughed bitterly, eyes darting to the firelight. “And none of them are good enough. None of them even come close.”

She tilted her head, waiting. His gaze returned to her like a tide.

“I keep going back to that night in the tavern,” he said softly. “What I said to you. What I didn’t say. How I walked out, thinking I didn’t care. Thinking I only ever used you.”

Her heart twisted.

His voice broke.

“And gods, I did use you, didn’t I? At first. I told myself it was survival. That I was just playing the game. That your softness was a weakness, and I couldn’t afford to care. I just needed your trust, so we could protect each other out there.”

He reached for her hand then—slowly, gently—fingers curling over hers like he was afraid she might pull away. She didn’t.

His voice lowered, the raw edges of it fraying with each word. “The more time I spent with you, the harder it got to pretend. You’d smile at me in the mornings like I hadn’t bared my fangs the night before. You’d sit next to me by the fire like you wanted nothing more. You looked at me like I was real.”

A pause. A breath.

“And it scared me.”

He looked at her now, eyes gleaming in the low light—no glamour, no seductive tilt to his grin.

“I told myself you were convenient. That I was in control. But I wasn’t. Not when you dragged me out to stargaze on the cliff above Moonrise not when you leaned into me without a word, warm and trusting against my chest like I was something worth sheltering against instead of something to flee from… Not when you whispered my name like it meant something.”

His voice caught again, a half-laugh pushed through a tight throat.

“You were the only one who ever looked at me like I was more than what was done to me. More than what I am.”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” He reached out, his fingers brushing her wrist. “Because I remember your face in the tavern. I remember the way your voice cracked, and how you looked at me like I’d torn something out of you.”

Her breath hitched.

“I want to go back,” he whispered. “To that night. To the moment I opened my mouth. I want to take it all back. Every cruel word. Every awful silence. I want to stop being a coward.”

She blinked hard. “You weren’t—”

“I was,” he cut in, but his voice was soft now. “I was terrified. Because I’d spent two centuries being nothing more than a tool, a puppet with a knife and a pretty smile. I didn’t know how to love someone without bleeding all over them.”

He swallowed.

“But you—” His thumb brushed her knuckles. “You made me want to try. And instead of choosing you, I punished you for it. I didn’t know how to be honest with you. So I hurt you. Because pushing you away felt safer than asking if you could ever truly want me.”

His voice cracked as he pushed on, voice rougher now. “Then I got angry when I saw someone else courting you. That was unfair. Worse—I retaliated by hurting you. Not with my claws or my fangs, but with my words... with my silence. Putting on that… absolutely pathetic performance, hoping you would watch and get angry.” He paused, reflecting. Brows furrowing as if he came to a realization. “I…I didn’t deserve you. I don’t deserve you.”

She was silent for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she whispered, “I did - want you.”

Astarion’s breath stilled.

“And I still do,” she added, voice barely audible.

He stared at her, stunned. Stripped bare.

He swallowed thickly, the heat of his gaze never wavering. “You don’t know how many times I told myself you’d never want me. That I was cursed to be alone, to be this monster nobody could love.”

Her fingers curled around her wrist, a silent anchor.

“I’ve built walls so high around my heart that even I got lost inside them.” He let out a shaky breath, a faint, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “But you... you chipped away at them. You found the cracks I buried deep.”

He shook his head lightly, as if still trying to wrap his mind around it. “I never thought anyone could. Not really. Not for someone like me.”

His eyes softened, the weight of centuries pressing on him, yet somehow lightened by the truth in front of him. “You made me want to be more than the mask I wear... more than the lies I tell myself. More than what I was told to be.”

A pause, his smile fading into something more raw, honest. “And here I am, standing in front of you, more frightened than I’ve ever been, and hoping you might still take a chance loving me, even with all of it.”

She blinked back tears. "You're not a monster, Astarion. You're the furthest thing from it." She cupped his face gently, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "You are worthy of love. You always have been." Her voice dropped to a whisper, fierce and certain. "Even before you were free. Even when you couldn't choose. Even at your worst moments—you were still worthy of love."

He went absolutely still, and she watched every practiced expression, every calculated charm, every beautiful lie he'd ever told himself simply... disappear. The transformation was breathtaking—like watching marble crack to reveal beating flesh beneath. Without the mask, he looked younger somehow, and infinitely more fragile. His eyes filled with wonder and terror in equal measure, as if he couldn't quite believe this moment was real.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words tumbling out like a dam had burst. "Gods, I'm so sorry. For everything. For being cruel, for being a coward, for hurting you when all you ever did was—"

He ran his hands through his hair, the words spilling faster now, desperate. "I'm sorry for that night at the tavern. For walking away. For making you think you meant nothing when you meant everything. I'm sorry for watching that knight court you and doing nothing but seething like some jealous child. I'm sorry for that pathetic display with that girl— gods, what was I thinking? I wanted to make you jealous, wanted you to feel even a fraction of what I was feeling, and instead I just—"

His voice cracked. "I hurt you. Again. Just like I always do. I'm sorry for being too much of a coward to tell you how I felt. I'm sorry for making you doubt yourself, for making you think you weren't good enough when the truth is I never deserved you in the first place. I'm sorry for two centuries of damage that I keep bleeding all over you. I'm sorry for—"

She silenced him with her lips, soft and sudden against his. He froze for a heartbeat before melting into her, his apology continuing between kisses. It was new, like they had never kissed each other before—no performance, no practiced seduction, just raw honesty made tender. This wasn't the vampire spawn who had whispered honeyed lies in her ear; this was Astarion, unguarded and achingly present, letting her kiss him like she was salvation, and he was finally ready to be saved.

"I'm sorry," he breathed against her mouth, his voice breaking on the words. "For pushing you away when all I wanted was to pull you closer—"

Another kiss, deeper this time, desperate and hungry. She responded with equal fervor, her lips parting under his.

"For making you think you weren't enough—" He kissed her again, slower now, reverent. "When you're everything. You're everything I never knew I needed—"

Her hands tangled in his hair, fingers threading through the silver strands as she pulled him closer, eliminating any space between them.

"For being too afraid to tell you—" His words were muffled against her lips, each apology punctuated by another kiss. "That I love you. That I've loved you for so long it terrifies me—"

She made a soft sound against his mouth, half-sob, half-sigh, and he deepened the kiss, pouring every unsaid word, every moment of longing into the connection between them.

"I'm sorry for wasting so much time—" Kiss. "For hurting you when I should have been loving you—" Kiss. "For being such a fool—"

The words dissolved as passion overtook restraint. He pressed her back onto the rug, caught up in the intensity of finally having her, of being forgiven—until she winced, her injured body protesting the sudden movement.

"Shit—sorry, I'm sorry," he gasped, immediately pulling back, his hands hovering uncertainly over her. "I forgot, you're hurt, I shouldn't have—"

But she was already reaching for him, fingers curling into his shirt. "Don't you dare apologize for that," she whispered, pulling him down to her with a fierce tenderness that set his world ablaze.

He let her pull him down, careful this time, mindful of her injuries but unable to resist the magnetism between them. When their lips met again, it was softer, slower. His hand cradled her face like she was the only thing keeping him there, his thumb brushing away the tears that still clung to her cheeks. The kiss deepened gradually, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world to memorize this moment. Her fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, then tangled in his hair, and he made a soft sound of contentment against her mouth—a sound she'd never heard from him before, vulnerable and utterly without pretense.

"I love you," he said, barely a whisper. "I love you and I want to stop running from the only good thing I've ever had. Just... let me love you. Please. I need you to be mine."

"You already are," She smiled against his lips, tears still clinging to her lashes. "You're already loving me, and I'm already yours."

In the golden firelight, with her pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips as they traced her cheek and her love wrapped around him like armor he'd never known he needed, Astarion felt the weight of centuries finally lift from his shoulders. Every mask he'd worn, every lie he'd told, every wall he'd built—all of it crumbled away until only the truth remained: he was loved. Not the charming rake or the deadly spawn, but the broken, healing man beneath it all. And that, he realized with a wonder that threatened to overwhelm him entirely, was not only enough—it was everything he'd been searching for without ever daring to hope he'd find it.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

CRYING, SCREAMING, THROWING UP, I WAS GRINNING LIKE AN IDIOT WHEN I WAS WRITING THE END, FEEL FREE TO DISAGREE BUT I FEEL LIKE THE RAMBLING COULD BE SO SPAWN ASTARION WHEN HE’S FLUSTERED ITS PAINFUL

LET ME HAVE MY HC’S

THANK U FOR MAKING IT THIS FAR, I APPRECIATE IT MORE THAN YOU’LL EVER KNOW

𖤝 masterlist | ao3 | requests

[amethystheartsx]

SCATTERED ACROSS THE STARS

Sylus Angst

After years of yearning, eons of loyalty what does a man do when all he gets is pieces, uneven and unfair.

Warnings: angst, slight mentions of chaos murder, drug addiction, and suicide (all mild)

AN: I often think all LIs and MC deserve better. A happiness of their own, not the kind tainted with curses and what not. If you don't like it don't read (°∀°)

Contains reference of another fic I wrote of zayne. I'll add link in case you wanna read.

Sylus was pissed.

No, that's not the right word, it portrays nothing but mere annoyance and anger. Sylus was beyond that.

Sylus was hurt.

No, that's not the right word as well, he wished he was just hurt. He wished it was only pain he felt every time he saw her with them.

Sylus was broken.

Tsk, incorrect yet again. How can one be broken when they were never whole to begin with.

For someone known to have everything worldly in the palm of his hand, Sylus lacked the most essential of his being. His soul, torn and used to bring life into another, one supposed to be his one true companion. His beloved. But Alas! 

Universe played a dirty trick.

For a dragon who owned the treasures of many fallen kings, the one who Never shared any of his possessions, even the one he did not care for, was forced to share the most precious one.

How ironic.

He thought his love was the purest, a beautiful yet tragic legend woven into the ancient ruins only for it to soar once again when they reunited.

He thought none like him existed, one who dared to love so fervently. A valiant display of ardent affection despite the curse that eventually killed him.

Sylus prided himself in his ability to love after the cosmos banned together to refrain it from happening, he prided himself to make a place for himself just so he could, for once, live out his fairy tale with her.

He deserved it right? After everything they went through. He still stands tall after that ever-longing suffering; her warm embrace should be his reward, right?!?.

Wrong.

Ah yes, wrong. Sylus felt wronged.

For the one whom he loved the most, was not his, at least not entirely.

Not the way he belonged to her. No. He longed for her, kept all of his love, his softness, his laughter reserved for her, made it so sacred so that when he laid it bare in front of her it would be nothing the eldest star in the ever-growing galaxy had ever witnessed before.

That's until he learned of them, their desires, their history.

A messenger who betrayed his god.

A god who led down his people.

A royal who left his own planet in ruins.

A fallen soldier who didn't let even death restrain him.

Each of them bared down their lives, people, treasures, and sanity. Over and over again. From gardens of jasmines to bonds of eternal. From past to future and across multiple timelines in between, tangled web, whispered myths and many fostered anecdotes.

Each of their feats rivaled the other, a grandeur display of Romance, that seeps through the galaxies and into her heart.

Wherever it beats, it finds her. They all find her, Love her, and then inevitably lose her.

Yes. The eternal cosmic affairs that have rattled the divine always end in the same way.

Heartbreak.

Tragic.

Unfulfilled.

Tsk. What a waste.

—--

Knowledge is power only some can bear, and Sylus would know. He had spied on them, all of them. Learned about them trying to find the flaws he could use to pry her away from their grasp. All for it to turn into failures.

Not just because they were clean slate, no like him they had their own fallouts.

But because of how happy she looked with them, so happy, just as she did with him. Not more, not less.

Just as much.

How unfair.

For he wanted her all for himself, blame his dragon roots but sylus don't share, how could he do it with the one who owns half his soul.

Is it so wrong he wants it all to himself? To get back the loyalty he had shown for eons?

He wasn't asking for much was he?

Everyday he will see her with one of them.

Under the starlight, along the oceans, in cozziness of duvets or the serenity of the night sky.

And she would dazzle for them just like she dazzles for him.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Nothing special.

__

His beloved was scattered across the stars, and he too only got the crumbs. The spared affections she had to offer, and sylus had enough.

He deserved to have something sacred. Something all for him. Just him.

And as the time went on he noticed…

So did she.

She deserved to have love that doesn't demand her being, her life, her blood, her heart.

She deserved to love as easy as breathing, not one suffocated with unseen linkages that burned with cosmic mischief.

She deserved to love and be loved with free will. Not because she was designed to, programmed to, and especially not with those picked by forces beyond her kin.

And so sylus decided to let her go, it wasnt easy, nor was it gentle but it did happen.

He pulled apart the string of fate, to let her free. It wasn't clean, certainly not smooth at edges but now she could breath. 

Soulmates can be platonic, romance isn't mandatory and besides, Kittens thrive better untethered, untamed.

—

After the “breakup”, if you can even call it that, a word far too trivial to define the undoing bond burned within the constellation, Sylus threw himself into work. Even more than before, going as far as taking Down the cheap underling, spreading chaos on the streets of the N-109 zone.

He was a ruthless killer before now he was a reckless one as well. His strategic movements and calculated attacks roughed up with insatiable need to wreak havoc.

He barely used his henchmen; why should he when he could do it better than them and also get the thrill of it?

Getting his own hands dirty in the hopes of removing the traces she left behind. He had learned the art of letting go, didnt mean he doesn’t get to process his grievance on his own accord, no matter how bloody it is.

Turns out he wasn't the first one to do so, it was the doctor. He, too, had to de-tangle himself from bushes full of thorns that had given him scars to last a lifetime, to plant a whole new garden with another flower just as fragrant, just as pretty. Even though it was small, it was still beautiful because it was entirely in bloom, not just the scraps he had to lose so much for.

Though Sylus was not looking for one, too tired by the charade to bother himself with it. He lived this long he would live out the rest of it as well.

Or so he thought.

---

During a hunt for a specific rat that had infiltrated the base, Sylus was not pleased when his carefully laid out trap was outsmarted by the traitor, fleeing the spot after tricking someone else into it.

“Looks like the rat trap ended up catching a little mouse” he spoke up approaching the bird cage that held just a sweet little thing, at least compared to him. 

He is displeased red eyes were now on,

You.

your pretty big eyes on him as well as crimson shades dust your cheek. “I- I am not supposed to be here…” you spoke, rightfully scared as the man in front of you approached the bird cage, his veiny hand reaching out to hold a bar, still studying, still weary.

“Obviously” he says in a bored tone “you do not fit the description. It was supposed to be a large burly man and not a, well…a fragile little thing too easy to break” he says.

You couldn't help but giggle and that caught him off guard. “Sorry, it's just- your voice is just as deep as I imagined,” you say, making the man in front of you give you a questioning glare. “Excuse me?” he asked. Of course, she wasn't the first to say something like that to him. Many had tried to tempt the man who runs the city to no real outcome.

“You are sylus right? I- am a huge fan!” You say looking up from your place nearing the bars of the cage.

Many had claimed to be his nemesis, his rivals, even admirers, but a fan? That was a first. “A fan? A fan of what?” he asked, his low voice not portraying the hint of curiosity he felt.

“You know, like your achievements and stuff” you reply simply, matter-of-factly.

There was a beat of silence.

“You mean my criminal record?”

“A mighty impressive one”.

His devilishly handsome face contorts into a slightly puzzled expression as he refuses to look away at the shorter person in front of him who continued to look at him….like that.

Sylus was aware how blessed he was aesthetically but he couldn't help but be drawn to her eyes and how she looked at him. They brimmed with admiration, respect and slight fear that didn't aim towards him. Now it isn't that no one ever looked at him like that before, no. What made it different was how pure it was, how easy it came to her when it really shouldn't. Her desires were sated and she didn't require anything of him. Not his favor, not his hate. She was so contant in the moment just being present here, with him.

Sylus had to step back and look away. An unfamiliar weight unfolded in his chest

“Enough with this charade whatever this is” he says “how did you end up here? Because with what you have said so far I believe you are some kind of stalker? Is that what it is?” He speaks with accusations directed towards you.

“Oh no! No” you to quickly step back, panic drips your demeanor “There is a misunderstanding, I have been played to be accurate”.

“Oh? Why tell me more about it little mouse” he says crossing his arm, his tone was sarcastic yet sincere. “I am all ears”.

With a deep breath you begin “that big and burly man you mentioned vaguely, were you talking about daryl? Also known as the bishop?” When he nods cautiously you continue “right! So what happened was, I owed Daryl a favor and he cashed it in and told me to make this delivery for him and well I had no clue that delivery will bring me here” you breath out seemingly calm but that slight shakiness in your voice didn't miss him. “I assume he somehow knew it was a trap then set me up as an escape goat” 

Once you were finished sylus ran a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. It doesn't happen often that one of his strategically laid out traps doesn't work or catch someone innocent, but even in this moment after his failed attempt his mind was more interested in you “And why would a small thing like you owe a man like bishop a favor” his eyes narrows down at you with suspicion laced with intrigue. Just who are you? First, you claim to be a fan and then turn out to have some sort of connection with a rat that Infiltrated his base.

The question made you chuckle “ah so funny story” you begin, now having sylus’s full attention because how would it be funny to know a man like The Bishop.

“So my dad killed his dad, and then like kind of adopted him because of guilt since his mom was a druggie, she ended her life subscription after like 4 to 5 years or so anyway” You wave it off like it was no big deal and the red-eyed man could only just listen to you stunned. “So yeah Daryl kind of came and went never really stayed, got in the wrong g crowd and found out the truth so he obviously tried to kill us all but thankfully couldn't” you rambled, sylus felt they were losing the plot “If he tried to kill you all why would you owe him….anything?” He tried hiding how absurd he found it, but she could see it as “that's the funny part of having a dysfunctional family.” she leaned on the bars of the cage. “Can't live with them, can't live without them. After nearly burning down our house and running away for good, or so I thought, he returned again remorseful because, well, my dad did take him in, and we were nice enough to him.” She shrugs. Sylus shifted on his feet, impatient “Still doesn't explain why-”

“I am getting there jeez” you giggle, “though we did not really forgive him and cut off our ties I had to reach out to him because” you take another deep breath and sylus holds his.

“I needed the money, we were in ruins, and all kinds of bills were stacking up my books, not making enough. It- it was rough,” You chuckle, but there is no humor in it; the sparkles in your eyes dim down, replaced by the pain of the past that still seems to haunt you. “It was a good chunk I borrowed and was paying him back bit by bit after I started doing well till out of the blue he called in and asked a favor in exchange for forgiving the rest of the loan and- well, rest is history” she stands straighter arms crossed “that answered all your questions?”

Sylus stares you up and down. He knows, of course, that you are not lying or deceiving him, that your heart is pure even after all you've been through, and it is only what you tell him; he wonders what else you hide behind that flowery smile.

“even if you are saying the truth you have seen too much now, and given your…complicated relationship with the bishop I suppose letting you go so freely won't be an option,” he says, his voice dropping low to that cold tone that can make anyone succumb to their knees, the one you had in your eyes right now. That's the look Sylus was used to, not that mellow one you have been giving him.

“No! No wait, don't kill me” you grabbed onto the bar's desperate pleas falling from your lips making him smirk “I-I can be useful I can help you find him! everything I know I'll tell you. Please” the last word falling much softly.

“mhm is that so then maybe you can be spared” sylus says knowing damn well he was never planning on killing her in the first place.

“Well then” he smirks “I am expecting your full corporation little miss”.

AN: This was supposed to be long lol, but I figured I'd make it a whole part 2 later. It is almost written but I have so many ideas I need to arrange it all first

Anywho, let me know if I should write it or not.

Also here is the link.

[shiftingfawnnn]

The damp air clung to your skin, thick with the scent of stone, old iron, and something darker—something that lingered beneath the surface, like rot buried just deep enough to fester. The walls of Nightmare’s castle loomed around you, a twisted monument of cruelty and power, where the light barely reached and the cold bit through even the bravest resolve.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been here. Time bled together in the endless dark. But what unsettled you more wasn’t the solitude.

It was him.

He came when the castle was at its quietest, when the distant wails of other prisoners faded to a dull murmur and all that remained was the dripping of unseen water against stone. That’s when you’d hear him—first, the echo of his boots scuffing lazily against the floor. Then, the creak of the cell door swinging open, slow, deliberate, just to hear the way your breath hitched.

And then the stillness. That moment where he stood just beyond the threshold, watching, waiting. Drinking in your fear before he even stepped inside.

Tonight was no different.

A soft chuckle shattered the quiet.

“Still here, huh?”

His voice—low, rough, almost amused. Like this was all some private joke, something only he was in on. You didn’t dare answer. Not yet.

Another step. He took his time, the air shifting with each movement, his presence crawling over your skin like something tangible, like the weight of his attention alone was enough to leave a bruise.

“Funny thing,” he mused, tone lilting with mock curiosity. “You ever notice how the body reacts to fear? The way it tenses, how the blood rushes faster, how every little sound makes your skin prickle?”

A pause. You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

Then—fingers. Cold. Smooth. Brushing along your jaw, tilting your chin up just enough to force your gaze toward him.

You hadn’t looked at him yet. You didn’t want to. But now, so close, you had no choice.

His grin was wide, too wide, his sockets half-lidded, the red light deep within them flickering with something unreadable. Dust clung to him—smudges of it against the cracks in his skull, along the frayed edges of his scarf, the remnants of his sins woven into his very being.

And yet, despite the horror coiling in your stomach, despite the cold sweat prickling at the back of your neck… there was something else.

Something you shouldn’t be feeling.

Heat curled low in your gut, unbidden, traitorous. Your pulse skipped—not just in terror, but in something far more dangerous.

His grin widened, as if he could smell it.

“There it is,” he murmured. His fingers slid lower, the blunt edge of bone trailing down the column of your throat, pressing just lightly enough to make your breath hitch. His sockets darkened, that crimson glow flaring in something not quite hunger, not quite satisfaction—something worse.

“Knew it wasn’t just fear,” he drawled, his thumb dragging over your pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath your skin. “You’re tryin’ so hard to hide it, aren’tcha?”

You hated how your thighs clenched at the rasp of his voice, how every taunting word sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

This was wrong.

This was so wrong.

And he knew it.

“Ain’t it funny?” he continued, his grin pressing closer, his breathless laughter ghosting over your cheek. “The way your body can’t tell the difference? Fear, arousal—it all tastes the same in the end.”

Your breath stuttered.

He laughed.

“And I gotta say… I love the taste.”

His grip tightened—just enough to remind you of exactly who was in control. Of exactly how easily he could break you.

And yet, he didn’t.

Because this?

This was better.

Watching you squirm. Watching the war waging in your own body, the terror and desire tangling in a way that left you breathless, helpless, caught in his web with no hope of escape.

“I could do anything to ya right now, couldn’t I?” he whispered, his sockets hooded, his voice velvet-wrapped malice. “And you wouldn’t stop me.”

Your breath hitched.

He laughed.

“Good.”

Then—pressure.

You gasped as something hard pressed between your thighs. Cold. Unyielding. The sharp ridge of bone—his leg—sliding up against you.

You didn’t even have time to process the shock before he moved.

The friction was slow at first, lazy. A deliberate drag up, then down, the pressure firm enough to make you shudder. Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers curling against the worn fabric of his hoodie—not to push him away, but to steady yourself.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

“Hah…” His grin twitched, that low, breathless chuckle slipping past his teeth. His sockets flickered, taking in every twitch, every involuntary jolt as he set a rhythm, pressing his bone against you with just enough force to make your breath catch in your throat.

“Look atcha,” he cooed, tilting his head, voice dipping into something close to mockery. “Shakin’ like a leaf… but not ‘cause ya wanna run.”

His leg nudged higher, pressing between your thighs just enough to make you squirm, to make that awful, traitorous heat twist in your stomach. You bit your lip, stifling the sound threatening to spill from your throat.

Dust’s grin twitched.

Then—

The pressure vanished.

His leg dropped from between your legs with a dull thud, leaving you trembling, panting, your body still alight with the phantom sensation of what he’d just done.

You barely had a second to react before his face was inches from yours, his sockets black voids with only the faintest ember of red smoldering deep within. His grin was wide, sharp, his breathless laughter rattling in his ribs.

“Heh… got ya all worked up, huh?”

His voice was thick with amusement, his tone dripping with satisfaction.

And then he stepped back, leaving you breathless, unsteady, your body betraying you in ways you didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Hope ya got a real good memory, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice as dark as the space between his ribs. His sockets flickered, drinking in the way you still trembled. ”‘Cause that? That’s all you’re gettin’.”

Then he was gone.

Leaving you alone.

Burning.