Those were the days, my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way…
– Those Were the Days, Mary Hopkin
A gravestone is a curious thing.
You could engrave a name, a number — pinch an entire person, a lifetime — into a single slab of stone.
You could carve into it with a dagger, rewrite history, alter its meaning — just as Astarion Ancunín had done many, many moons ago.
You could, he thought. But none of it could spin a tale he told himself into truth. None of it could change fate, or death, or whatever the gods had planned for you.
None of it could bring you back.
The pale elf knew this, even as he knelt by this curious headstone, this thing that was supposed to be you. He knew this, and he hated it.
“Hello again, darling,” he whispered, and placed a single flower on the grass, just as you had done all those moons ago.
It was a glorious time, it was. Adventure. Antics. Heartache and admission. Lust and love. Real love. And warmth. Warmth, too.
He found himself smiling softly.
But more than anything — there was you.
Astarion had finally conquered his master, Cazador. He had finally, truly, found freedom — the freedom to do whatever he wanted, and to love whomever he wanted.
He had sliced his dagger into the crazed vampire lord, a dozen thrusts that ended with a final, soul-searing scream that sent you to his side at once. There you cradled him, he a blood soaked mess, spitting, sobbing into your neck. You held him like that for a long, long while. Hushing him gently, kissing his forehead, caressing his silver curls.
That night in Baldur’s Gate, he knew a display of his gravestone and the dark story that came with it would be morbid or trite to someone else — but you understood. Astarion finally allowed himself to want you, to love you, and you accepted him wholly for it. In fact, to his delight, you wanted him, too.
Five decades later, and here you were. Sitting in your own grave. But you did not crawl out, emerging from death caked in dirt and grime, as he once did.
It was cruel, he thought. Cruel that he was dead and yet not — undead, immortal, of a heart that did not beat. Yet yours did not beat either. Yet, you were the one buried beneath a mound of dirt.
“Your heart quickened just now,” you had whispered one night, as you rested your head upon his bare chest.
“Did it?” he mumbled, half asleep.
You hummed with your eyes closed. Your hand sweeping across his skin, up his collar. You felt the two little scars on his neck, brushing a thumb over them thoughtfully.
“You have a wild heart. Emotional, easy to read,” you said. “It is almost in tune with my own.”
He chuckled lowly, softly. “My darling, did Halsin set you up to this? This sounds like something he would…” Then, upon feeling your hand on his neck, your body atop his, and the seriousness of your words, he swallowed. “Tav.”
You pulled your hand away and perched yourself up, forearms resting on top of him. “Yes, love.”
His dark eyes watched yours for a time. “My body is cold and dead. I pretend to breathe so I may pass as an elf. I wear perfume to smell alive. Gods.”
“And what of it?” you said, unfazed. “That doesn’t mean you aren’t living.”
You sat up in the grass and took his hand, placing it on your chest. You placed your own on his.
“You don’t feel that? Those vibrations in your chest, our chests, in unison,” you said. “Soft… throbbing. Pulsing. A wave of it just rippled under your skin.”
“That might not be my chest, darling,” he said, and you hit him lightly for the jest.
“I just want you to know you aren’t simply undead, Astarion. You are very much living, thriving. You are not… a monster.”
The vampire spawn blinked at you then. Enamored. Bewitched, really. Even as his lust for blood (yours, particularly) swelled in recent times, he might agree for a moment that he was in fact not a monster. He didn’t want to believe it, anyway. Not anymore.
It’s cruel, he now spat in his head, staring down at your tombstone with a bitterness that clung to his clenched hands and gritted teeth.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” a high, pinched voice echoed behind him.
“My gods,” said Astarion, glancing over his shoulder, “you are an old man and you still sound as smarmy as ever.”
“You wound me, old friend.” Gale ambled towards the pale elf, a good-natured smile on his lips. “I’ve never been smarmy to you. Not ever.”
The elf stood up and the two hugged, a lifetime of battles and camaraderie etched in their brows as they parted and looked at one another. The wizard now had silver hair neatly slicked back, a long wiry beard, and a staff he used more like a cane.
“My, you did get old,” Astarion said with a smirk.
“Ha! And you haven’t changed a bit.”
The elf placed a hand on his chin, nodding. “I see you finally decided to try silver on your head. Rather dashing, dare I say.”
Gale laughed, but he was staring at your grave now, the sparkle in his eyes suddenly subsiding. He was old, to be sure, but he was still sharp and clear-minded. He saw the loss in the elf’s eyes. He has known his own loss, too. You were not his lover, but his adoration and admiration for you knew no bounds.
“Ah… What a warrior she was.”
“Yes. And so much more.”
“You’ll never get over her, will you?” Gale asked, and he meant it in kindness.
“Well. Evidently not,” Astarion said lightheartedly.
Many of their companions had either fled to make a new living, or died in battle, or were simply never to be seen again. For all of their jests, all the boring wizardry and debates and banter — Astarion appreciated Gale. He would never tell the man that, of course, but he was sure Gale could see it nonetheless.
The elf was teary-eyed, for gods sake.
“I never did ask… How did you and Tav meet?”
Astarion grinned. “Once upon a time, in a little tavern, of all places. She tried to kill me upon our meeting, actually.”
“Fascinating. I didn’t take you for a vampire pining for the one in a drunken haze.”
“I didn’t. We were sober. Too sober for that crowd, I might add. And she was…” He didn’t realize it. He had far too many things to say about you, far too many compliments, fondness and feelings straight from romantic literature.
“Unlike anything you’ve seen before.”
“Yes,” the elf said, settling for that. He pressed his lips together, licked his teeth in thought. He felt the wizard’s eye on him.
“Well now I must know, Astarion.” Gale knelt by the grave, placed a hand on it. Ran his fingers across the cool stone.
warnings: 18+, smut, biting, bottom sub to bottom dom
“You like me like this, darling?”
The lilt in his voice and the glaze in his eyes caught you off guard. He looked frustrated and desperate beneath you. Drunk on unquenchable lust.
You leaned over him, tugging his bottom lip with your teeth. He smiled lazily, barely revealing a fang.
“I do,” you said, pressing kisses on his cheek. “You know what else I like?”
You slid your clit over his abdomen, slick after royally pounding the pale elf.
Astarion sucked in a breath of air. “Wh-what?”
You smacked his thigh, and he gnashed his teeth together, almost whimpering. “I mean—yes, my queen?”
He could barely form the words. You knew part of him hated it under there, under your body, under your rule. But somehow, in those garnet eyes, brimmed with lust, you saw a bigger part of him that liked it quite a lot.
Gods—that felt really, really fucking good.
Often, you and Astarion spent late nights sneaking into the woods, giggling as you ravaged each other under the stars. Stripping, bathing your bare skin in the moonlight. A nightly ritual you both sought after, day in, day out, and fervently at that.
Only this time, you didn’t expect him to slither beneath you—but he made a bet, and he lost. Terribly. He’d made a hasty promise to let you “have at him” after losing a fight to a demonic squirrel. How he lost is beyond you. But you also lured yourself into the delusion that he did it on purpose.
Either way, you made sure he kept his word.
“I like your fangs,“ you whispered in his ear. “So bite me.”
Something about those two little words sent him into a tizzy of laughter. Pure, high-pitched, glorious laughter. You loved his laugh dearly, but you wouldn’t flatter him now. Not when you finally had him in the palm of your hand. At least, for the moment.
“You are quite adorable,” he said at last, sneering. “But I’m going to have to say no.”
You tilted your head. “No?”
Astarion propped himself up with his forearms, lips nearly brushing yours. “Mm-hm.”
His silver hair stuck to his forehead, sleek with sweat, while his bare chest heaved up and down beneath you. You both were a mess, wet and exhausted, but you found yourself imagining him inside you again. You felt him press into you eagerly.
“Tell me, darling, what will you do?”
“Well…”
Your fingers traced his neck, his pecs, abs, until you felt his cock in your hands.
He grunted softly, beautiful eyes fluttering as you touched him. You pushed his head back down on the grass.
“How about this. You tell me, Astarion.” Your lips grazed the scar on his neck. “After two centuries… don’t you finally want someone to bite you?”
The vampire blinked heavily, then managed to hold your gaze. He smiled crookedly. “Mm. Now you’ve enchanted me.”
“Good,” you murmured, and kissed him. His chin, his jaw, until you found yourself gently nipping at his neck.
And he let you. He sang so sweetly for you, in fact—one hand gripping the nape of your neck, the other clasping your ass, pressing you closer.
“Now, now,” he panted, “while this has been a delicious experience, you should really let me take over—“
You squeezed your thighs, wedging him between you, pressing into his crotch. You stopped, denying him entrance.
He inhaled sharply. “Ah… Did I—eh-hem—maybe I misspoke.”
“Maybe?”
“I-I did. I did. I—”
You rolled into him, but only once. He gripped your hips, trying to implore you. You knew he was getting desperate. You smacked his thigh again.
“Uh-uh-uh,” you tutted. “Now I need a bite. And I need you to play nice.”
He looked at you. Looked galaxies away. Somewhere in your eyes he lost himself, and he bit hard on his own lip.
“I—”
You leaned in, grinded your hips into his, but still didn’t give him enough.
“Yes?” you purred.
“Please… Please,” he said at last, slowly and deliberately. He reached up and pressed his lips to your neck, suckling gently, moaning into your skin. Finally, he sank his teeth in and drew blood. He ran a hand through your hair. Massaging your scalp. This time, a soft moan escaped your own lips.
“Astarion.”
“Yes, my love,” he said, breathless, unable to hold back. He bucked his hips up into yours, grabbing your body with the kind of force you expected from the vampire—now, he wasn’t letting you tease him any longer.
The blood, you realized, did something to him.
He grinned widely and licked his teeth. Lapping you up, relishing your taste.
His eyes glittered. “My turn, sweetheart.”
Astarion ordered you to rock into him, to pull his hair—and, of course, you obliged.
“Yes,” he sang. “Be rough with me. That’s it. Just like that—fuck.”
You couldn’t deny how hot it was. Even beneath you he somehow took over, instructing you to pleasure him and send him into a thousand glorious worlds at once.
“You want me, darling? Hm? You want me to be your good little slut?”
You moved willingly now, moans escaping, completely extracted from the authoritative role you once took on. He lost the bet, you thought ridiculously. Not me.
But the words left your lips all on their own: “Yes, yes. I do. I… I want you to lose yourself in me.”
“Oh,” he purred, breath hitching between thrusts. “Trust… me… I will.”
At that moment, neither of you cared who was on top or bottom, who lost or won the bet—none of that mattered.
You just had to have each other.
But there was one thing he did honor: He didn’t move from his position. He commanded you from the lower decks, allowing you to keep the helm in sight—but it was a mere mirage of captaincy.
“I love you,” he murmured, as your bodies continued colliding, words that seeped through all the other lewd, ungodly sounds. His voice reached a guttural level. “Tell me you do, too. Tell me I’m not just divinely insane.”
Even amidst all the passion, all the pounding, you couldn’t help but feel flushed with surprise.
“You’re insane,” you said, huffing harshly. “You… don’t mean that.”
Something in him switched. He slowed his stride, until you both were stuck heaving and staring at each other. The tension had your head in a scramble. He then reached a hand up to your face, and stroked your cheek with his thumb, gently.
“I say many things I don’t mean, darling.”
Astarion slid his other arm behind you, leading you to rest on his chest. There, he wrapped you up in a tight embrace. “Bets or not, demon squirrel or not, this is one thing I do mean.” He kissed you, smiling.
“Whatever,” you said, downing a fourth shot. “You only care about the photos, anyway.”
Bakugou glanced at you, squinting. “How much of an idiot are you?”
“It’s true, isn’t it? Mr. Pro Hero?” You poked your finger into his shoulder. “Looking good is all you care about. For the public eye, for all the fans. Just say it already. You won’t be hurting my—”
“(y/n).”
Hearing him say your first name shook you to the core. It had always been “(l/n)” or “idiot” or “dumbass” in brusque Bakugou fashion.
Although he hired you as his personal photographer, you passed sneaky glances at each other—always snapping back to professional protocol. The attraction became clear after your first few sessions together. Having the camera pressed up to your eye, admiring his sculpted form, his wildly kinetic grin—even his all-bark attitude—it was hard not to like the guy.
You stared at him now. His flaming eyes glanced at your lips—a brief moment—before snapping up to meet your gaze.
“What?” you asked coyly.
He turned away, clipping the tension between you two. He downed his fourth shot, one swift motion that left him swaying slightly. Not quite drunk.
But you were drunk. Real drunk.
You didn’t intend for this to happen. It was a long day of hero work, and he’d dragged you along to snap photos of him doing God knows what, blowing up shit and posing in his new hero gear. Strangely enough, later that day, Bakugou had the urge to dress up and grab drinks at a fancy bar—rounds were on him, he said—and so, boom, here you were. Unfortunately, you were a lightweight, and the blond himself appeared to be, too.
He downed another shot, a little too quickly. He then slapped it on the counter, hiccuping as he rubbed the glass between his fingertips.
Was he… nervous?
“(y/n),” he started, your name slurring slightly on his tongue. “You’re really fuckin’ dumb if you think I only come to you for your slightly-above-average photography skills.”
You took the compliment.
“Then what do you come for, Katsuki?”
First name basis? you hoped. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he had this sly smirk on his face, the real crooked kind that made him look both hot and stupid at the same time. His tie had come undone, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to reveal his toned forearms. God damn.
He blinked down at you in that red dress, his eyes savoring you. For once it seemed he was at a loss for words. Brashly, he tsked and found his bearings.
“I would ask you the same. Clearly I don’t pay you enough.”
“I asked you first,” you said, elbows on the counter. You leaned a little too close to him.
“You’re an idiot.”
He didn’t bother moving—in fact, his shoulder bumped into yours.
“You’re the idiot for hiring me.”
You couldn’t take it. Bakugou was so close you could smell him—the cinnamon-anise mixture, his hot breath tinged with alcohol. He kept glancing at your lips, leaning unsteadily.
And all at once you snatched his loose tie and dragged him down, his hands flying to your waist—a clash of lips against lips, tongue against tongue, teeth on teeth—your heart set ablaze, something between you both so bright and blurry and fucking amazing.
Bakugou squeezed the small of your back, sliding his hand down your ass and pressing into you. You couldn’t help but groan softly at his touch.
You pulled away after a good minute, staring intently at each other. You still had his tie in your grasp. Slowly, you let go.
“I think you answered your own question,” he said, voice husky and soft. He called another round of shots, then tipped one to his lips.
You did the same. You grinned, but suddenly faltered as you asked, “Are—are we just drunk?”
Bakugou brought his face down again, brushing his lips across yours. Teasing you. Making you wait.
“Are we just drunk?”
You answered him with a kiss. You pressed into him, tugging gently on his tie to bring him closer. “I definitely am. But this doesn’t change my feelings.” You paused. “Does it change yours?”
He hiccuped, and for the first time you noticed just how red his face was. He grinned toothily. “Hang on—me? Drunk? Fuck that. Fuck your photos. Also, can I fuck you?”
Your cheeks were on fire. “You are fucking drunk.”
Bakugou laughed this slow, slurred laugh. You’d never heard or seen him like this. It was strangely adorable.
“Whatever.” He kissed you this time. Softly. Lingering a mere inch from your lips, he said, “But to answer your question—no. It doesn’t change how I feel at all, (y/n).”
“Then let’s get out of here.”
You leaned on each other, laughing stupidly as you called a cab. The driver glanced up awkwardly at the rear view. You were all over each other in the backseat, Bakugou tugging your hips into his, your hands in his hair. Your minds swirled in a dizzying haze—but fuck it—you wanted each other. Bad.
“My place,” he spluttered out between fervent kisses.
You nodded emphatically.
Even as you both nearly fell out of the cab, you couldn’t keep your hands off each other. Making your way through the apartment building, halfway into the elevator he pressed you up against the wall and ground his hips into you, moaning gruffly into your ear.
“You like that baby?”
“Yes,” you gasped, your cheek mashed into the elevator mirror. In it, you could see yourselves—Bakugou rubbing crudely against you, your helpless, lolling expression.
“Yeah? Yeah?”
You nodded as he gripped your ass and bit your earlobe.
“That’s right, that’s my girl.”
The elevator pinged, and you took that opportunity to press off and clutch him by his shirt collar, pushing him out into the hall until his heels hit the wall.
“How do you like that?” you teased, already reaching for his belt buckle.
“Dumbass,” he hissed, and bent down and kissed your neck, sucking, murmuring your name against your skin. “Let me… get my keys…”
“I got ‘em,” you whispered, but instead ripped his belt off and started unbuttoning his slacks.
“Ah—ah—stop stroking, idiot…” Bakugou grunted, refusing to let out the beautiful moans you knew he had in him.
“What’s the magic word?” you insisted slyly.
He shook his head. “Fuck off.”
“Not even close, baby.”
He grunted again and finally managed to yank out his keys, now shoving you roughly into the opposite wall. He chuckled darkly. “You thought you had me, hah?”
He was able to wriggle his front door open and you both burst in, a hot, drunk mess of hands and eager hips. Bakugou tugged your dress up and rammed you against his door. He lifted you and ordered you to wrap your legs around his waist. You did as you were told, your lips crashing into his.
“Fuck me good,” you said, smirking.
“With pleasure.”
Hands wrapped securely about you, your thighs squeezing his waist, he moved his pelvis up against you and the door.
“Ah—yeah, yeah baby, you’re so good,” he murmured, placing kisses all along your chest and collarbone as he kept his stride against you.
“Oh, Katsuki…”
You couldn’t help but moan his first name. It felt so right on your lips. He felt so right inside you. Together, you were meant to be here, right here, in this exact moment.
You bit your nails into his back, clawing at the fabric of his dress shirt.
Pumping his hips into you—you grinding back, pressing tight—closer, closer—
Your voices rang in unison. Breath hitching, chests heaving, he slackened his grip on you. You chuckled softly at each other as he brought you to his bedroom. Gently, he set you down on the bed and pecked your forehead. He trailed kisses down your face, until he met each corner of your lips with his own.
“You alright, (y/n)?” He crawled over you, hands on either side of your head.
“Yeah,” you breathed, and kissed him ardently. “Better than alright.”
You started for his shirt, slipping each button free to trace your hands along his bare chest and pecs. He unhooked your bra. Together, you undressed each other and clambered into his sheets.
“Hey,” you whispered. “I gotta tell you something.”
He smirked, running a hand down your shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You flipped him over, now straddling him, grating roughly into his crotch.
“Oh, fuck! Ah—”
Your hands clamped his wrists, sliding them up over his head. Instinctively, his fingertips sparked faintly, but he gripped his hands into fists to stop himself from blowing up the damned place.
“You d-dumbass…”
You loved hearing that waver in his voice, the desperation.
“Play nice,” you breathed into his ear. “Or else.”
Someone put a hit on you, and the twins are the two assassins hired to finish the job. Unfortunately, Tangerine has a sweet tooth, and you're more than just a sweetheart . . .
“Every target has a story,” said Lemon, pressing a finger gun up against the windshield. “So let’s see—what’s her deal?”
“Looks innocent enough,” said Tangerine. He fidgeted with his many rings, twisting the one on his middle finger. “(y/n) (l/n). Actually, quite the baker I hear. Best scones in town.”
“Of course you’d note the scones. If you get the chance I’m sure your kleptomaniac ass would steal one before killing her.”
“Fuckin’—” started Tangerine, shooting him a wide-eyed yet pointed look. “I’m working on it.”
“Oh now trust me, I see the improvement. What’s the last thing you stole—an Uno deck was it? Back in Tokyo?”
Tangerine opened his mouth for some sly remark, but simply glanced at his partner and flicked his hand towards the target.
“Anyway. What was I saying? Right. Apparently, the girl’s been stickin’ her hands in all the wrong places. Messin' around, pissing off a lot of important people. So of course, no one likes that.”
“I bet she’s an assassin.”
“You’re jokin’. Her?”
Lemon nodded firmly. “Oh yeah. No doubt about it."
Tangerine gave the shop one last look before finally squeezing his hands into fists and stretching them out. He cracked his neck. “Okay, well. Assassin or not, whoever hired us wanted us to take care of her quickly. And quietly.”
“Ah, but quietly ain’t what we do, huh?”
Tangerine felt one corner of his lips turn up. “Never. Shall we?”
In unison, the twins clicked open their car doors and cocked their guns, sticking them behind their waistbands.
“Showtime,” said Lemon.
The two assassins strode over to the small shop—Honeybee Bakery. They stood in front of it, those looming glass doors, so inviting, so innocent. They nodded at each other, popping up their coat collars and pushing through.
The bell chimed. Warm and welcoming, almost.
Instantly, Tangerine was struck by the aroma of fresh bread and buttered biscuits and—what was that—powdered sugar? Flour? A wafting of hot coffee and honey-drizzled scones?
Bloody hell. Not him and his damned sweet tooth.
Finally he glanced at the girl behind the counter—and her grin—absolutely electric. She nodded at one customer, easing a giant paper bag into his outstretched hands. She laughed loudly and unabashedly at something he said, and suddenly, Tangerine wanted to hear the joke, too. What made her laugh like that?
Lemon elbowed his side and hissed, “What are you doing? You wanna taste the air or kill this girl?”
Tangerine blinked, suddenly appalled by the gun pressed up against his back. Yes, she must’ve been bad news. He knew that enough. Shoot first, ask questions later. But still. What exactly did she do that was so bad? A radiant girl like her?
“Get your head in the game. We gotta do this now or it’s all to pot.”
Tangerine nodded absently, then shut his eyes and sighed. No, right. Lemon was right. They had a fuckin’ job to do.
Lemon took the lead, and Tangerine, suddenly huffing and shaking off the strange spell that had engulfed him, followed suit.
They took to the other side of the counter, avoiding the line that stretched along the glass case of decadent pastries. Entrancing. Delicately placed with little toothpicks and stickers and hand-written notes about each and every treat. Now what kind of assassin would care enough to do all this?
“Excuse me! Miss?” yelled Lemon, plastering on his best grin. “You might wanna hear this.”
The woman glanced over at them, shouted something to the back kitchen, and as a young man stepped out to help the customers, she strode towards the twins.
Good God. Even her sway looked right.
“What can I help you with, boys?”
Of course, in Tangerine’s state, Lemon realized he was forced to do all the talking.
“You wouldn’t happen to run this shop, would you?”
(y/n) smiled brilliantly. “Why, I do actually. What seems to be the problem?”
Lemon shook his head, sighing. “Maybe you oughta come see for yourself. We came up from the back and, well—these kids were wrecking the whole thing. Graffiti, horrible slang, leaving all sorts of trash out there. We just wanted to let you know.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “What? Will you show me?”
“Of course,” Lemon said, feigning a sympathetic smile.
The woman then glanced over at Tangerine, briefly, probably wondering why he did nothing but stare stupidly, nodding along all the while.
Finally he said, “Your bakery is brilliant by the way.”
Lemon shot him a look, upper lip curling in disapproval.
“Oh, thank you!” she said, following them. “I do try. You know, actually, I can slide you two some pastries for the road afterwards. As my thanks.”
“That sounds great,” said Tangerine, as soon as Lemon muttered out, “Thanks but, on a diet.”
Tangerine knew that tone. He knew the look Lemon lanced in his direction: What the fuck are you doing—“That sounds great”? We’re trying to kill her, for God’s sake!
They went out the side exit, heading towards the back of the shop through an alley.
Before they fully entered, the pair of feet behind them no longer sounded. Tangerine and Lemon exchanged glances.
“Boys,” said (y/n), her voice much darker—far from brilliant and radiant. “You’re awful liars.”
The two assassins slowly turned around.
“Miss—“
“It’s Honeybee,” said the woman, raising her long skirt to unsheathe two pistols from her thighs. “You both are looking to kill me. Isn’t that right, Lemon? And Tangerine?”
“Shit,” said Lemon, moving for his gun.
Tangerine, upon seeing this, snapped out of his damned reverie and snatched the gun from his waistband, rolling behind a few crates as Honeybee started firing.
The brothers crouched low, trying to peek out, only for a barrage of bullets to graze past their eyes.
“Shit!” Lemon said again, tilting his head and eying the other man sharply. “Now what did I say? What did I say dammit?”
“Okay!” said Tangerine, tapping the barrel of the gun against his head. “An assassin. She’s a fuckin’ assassin.”
“Hilarious, innit?”
“Listen, there’s still two of us and one of her.”
“That don’t mean shit,” said Lemon. “She’s got two guns.”
“So?”
“So! She’s going to kill us!”
Finally, the bullets ceased. The twins took the chance and sprung from behind the crates, guns raised. The woman held up her own pistols like white flags.
“I don’t want to kill you,” she said, eyes low. “I really don’t.”
“Well love,” said Tangerine, finally shoving off his enchantment, “We’re gonna have to kill you. Sorry.”
“Terribly sorry,” Lemon said, and they both almost pulled the trigger before she flung both pistols in their direction.
They dove, but Lemon felt a hard thwack to his forehead, the impact knocking him out instantly. He crashed over a stack of crates.
Tangerine flicked his head over, mouth agape, but before he could react a foot came up and delivered a solid uppercut to his chin.
He lost grip of his gun and stumbled slightly, shaking his head hard to recover and find his footing. As another kick started motion, Tangerine sidestepped in time. A flurry of kicks, punches—dodging, taking hits, staggering. Wits matched, scrapping leveled.
“You’re good,” he rasped out, smirking as he spat a wad of blood.
She laughed. “I would say the same for you except—you hit like a little boy.”
“Now that’s just mean,” he said, and they went at it again. At the right moment he swept under one of her jabs and tackled her. Now on the ground, arms locked about her neck, she shot him a toothy grin and chucked darkly. “You looked so enthralled by my pastries. Especially those scones. You sure you don’t want some before you kill me?”
“Oh, enticing.” Tangerine took pleasure in displaying a thinking face. “I’m good, but thanks love.”
“Love,” she repeated, now blinking hard to stay conscious.
Tangerine found it more and more difficult to keep this going. But he forced himself to squeeze harder.
“I like your code name. Tangerine. You must be on the fruity side, no?”
He let out a breath of a laugh. “Quite the talker, aren’t ya?”
“It’s all I know,” she gasped, eyes fluttering up. She was losing air.
And suddenly, just like that—seeing her eyes, her desperate hands flying up to his arms—he released her. Gasping, she sprung up off him and scrabbled back, hands pressed to the pavement. They sat there on the dirty ground for what felt like ages, chests heaving, eyes gazing at each other’s.
“I’m genuinely sorry,” he said, fixing his shirt collar and combing his hair back, which had come undone in the scuffle. “It’s just business.”
“Right,” said Honeybee. She took in a deep breath. “Just business.”
They looked at each other, and laughed loudly in spite of themselves.
Tangerine then glanced over at Lemon, who was just coming to. He grunted and sat up, holding his forehead and cursing under his breath.
“Lemon, you good man?”
“Good? Alive, maybe. I don’t know about good.”
As Tangerine rose to his feet, limping over, he realized it a split-second too late—as soon as the barrel drove up in his direction.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
But Honeybee moved the gun from his face and shot his feet instead. Both of them. He screeched in agony, falling, pounding his fists on the ground.
“What the fuck—?!”
“Just business,” she said, and winked at him. “I could kill you. But I won’t.” Honeybee leaned down and grabbed his shirt collar, kissing him sloppily, with great vehemence. Something feral kicked in and urged him to grab her and yank her down with him—he imagined clawing over her skin, grinding up against her and ravaging her with his lips and teeth. Maybe he'd straddle her and she'd peel off his shirt, and they'd do it right there in that godforsaken alleyway with Lemon looking on in absolute horror. But no. Tangerine laughed at himself. She shot you. She shot your fuckin' feet. You're rather dim, aren't you?
“I like you, Tangerine." She kissed him, and he could do nothing but take it in. "So if you come back to kill me—make it fun. Make it like today.”
She let him go and dropped the gun next to him. Blew him a kiss.
"An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break . . ."
A speck of red in the distance. In the air. A pinprick so bright and contrasted, a bleeding papercut against the cloudless blue.
I stopped my stride. The crowd flowed over me, like water over stone.
I would say the speck was floating or falling but—no, the way it turned was too sharp, too alive and resolute, like it had a working mind of its own. In fact it veered right, straight towards me, and just as I yelped and hopped out of its way it whizzed past my eye with the speed of a bullet. I spun my head around and squinted, then, gasping I realized—that speck was a feather.
“Hawks,” I breathed.
And just like that: My feet fled. I couldn’t help it. Before I could actually halt and think I was already kicking off my heels and racing after it, tossing half-hearted sorry’s to those I elbowed into, panting and pumping my arms as if my entire being depended on it. For whatever reason—I thought maybe that it did.
Common Sense screamed, yanking its hair and seething: You have a job, idiot!
I know.
Boss already hates your guts.
I know.
And yet—still I ran. Bare feet slapping against hot cement, arm outstretched, eyes trained on the blur of red. I ran.
I needed to catch that feather. Somehow.
My brain kept complaining, bellowing, perplexed by my impulsivity. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t even believe how my feet carried me. Sure I would run and exercise here and there, but nothing ever prompted me to go at it like this. Something about that red feather immediately magnetized me to it, like if I ignored it, I would never get this chance again.
Just then another blur of red swirled above, and what appeared to be in droves. They came in at dizzying speeds after that first feather, and what was once a pinprick became a smattering, then a broad and vibrant brush stroke across the sky.
I couldn’t help but grin. It was beautiful.
“Watch where you’re going!” snapped me out of it, as I almost tripped into some scowling, grumbling fellow with a mohawk, and I clumsily found my footing again. At that moment I wished for some quirk of speed or flight or, well, anything.
The flock of feathers surged in a tide-like motion, made a right, then settled and eddied above the rooftop of a building only a few blocks down. It was my chance. I slowed my sprint to a halt at the entrance, hands on knees, trying and failing to catch my breath.
I climbed my way up. Finally, here. Here at the rooftop access, hand grasping the knob, hoping the feathers were still waiting. Hoping that whatever was here, whatever I was led to, would satisfy that feral-like impulsivity. That need, that knowing that I had to follow them. That hope that something wanted me to follow them.
Click.
Bright, blinding light. And there he was.
“Keigo?” I said, and just like that, the feathers ceased in midair and fluttered down about him. He raised a hand, let one drift into his palm. His head, turned up at the sky, body bruised and beaten, wings nearly depleted. Only a few feathers clung to his back. A moment later he spun around, hazel eyes meeting mine.
“(y/n),” he said, and smiled ever so crookedly. “The hell you doin’ up here?”
I let my shoes hit the cement and laughed, relieved. “Running after you, apparently.”
He raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips tugging up more and more.
“I saw your feathers and I just—I ran.” I took a few steps forward. “Something told me to. I had to.”
“It’s been too long, (y/n). Way too long,” he said, and started towards me with a visible limp. “But you caught me at a real bad time, angel face.”
I met him halfway and pressed a gentle hand to his shoulder, where ran a long, crooked, and bloody gash. “Keigo...”
He seethed at my touch and I quickly pulled away, but he gave me a silly smile and brought my hand back, this time to his chest.
“You just want me to feel your pecs,” I teased.
“Me? Never.” But I could see the pain in his grin and gaze.
“Seriously. What happened to you? And your feathers...?”
“Ah, that.” Keigo glanced at the plush piles of red surrounding him, and blinked hard. Grunted. “Fuck it hurts. But don’t worry about me. I’m honestly just happy to see you again. You know what they say about endorphins anyway—our body’s natural painkillers. I feel better already, just talking to you.”
I laughed. “You always have something good to say about an awful situation, don’t you?”
“You know me. Too goddamn stubborn to let it drag me down.” He grinned, but I only stared at him with the sort of look of love and longing, because it really felt like we hadn’t at all lost contact or care for one another.
“I miss us," I said breathlessly.
The grin departed, and slowly he placed his hand over mine atop his chest.
“Me too,” he whispered, letting out a faint breath of a laugh. Relief, maybe. Hesitantly, he brought his hand up to my cheek and swept a few strands of hair behind my ear. “I’m… I’m so sorry. For everything. For running away.”
I tilted my head, staring up into his eyes, deeply. They looked torn, tired, so darkly blemished.
“Don’t be sorry. Please. I know why you had to leave." I glanced at his injuries, his horribly beaten body. "I know how grueling it is. You’re just trying to be the hero everyone expects you to be.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “I never did deserve you, (y/n).”
“Oh, stop that.”
Keigo’s eyes flicked from my lips, back to my eyes, until he tapped his forehead to mine. Gently. Lovingly. We closed our eyes.
“I never should have run,” he murmured. “I—I’ve missed you, you know? Every fucking night without you felt like a horrible nightmare. I couldn’t escape it. I’m so... so tired of running.”
“Then don’t run.” I opened my eyes slightly, and he did as well. “I never stopped loving you, Keigo. I never stopped looking.” I traced my hands up his chest and combed through his hair, breathing him in. Sand and pine, undeniably.
“You didn’t?” he asked, blinking at me.
I shook my head. “Of course not, silly."
And with that he hooked his arms about me, pausing for a moment before pressing his lips to mine. He leaned into me, placing soft kisses along my jaw and brushing his lips across my ear.
Breathily, he said, “It was fate then, wasn’t it? Fate brought you here.”
I kissed him, bit his bottom lip, before glancing cheekily at the feathers surrounding us.
“I don’t think fate had anything to do with it, Keigo."
