Gale realizes very early on that youâre incapable of resisting the urge to steal things purely for your own amusement. Not expensive things, either âwhich somehow makes it worse. Over the course of the journey, he loses a singular glove, two fountain pens, an earring he swears he left beside his bedroll, and, most mysteriously of all, an entire wheel of cheese. He spends days trying to solve the mystery with the same intensity heâd apply to deciphering ancient magic. You let him suffer through it right up until he dramatically announces to camp that âan intellectual battle is clearly underway.â That night, you sneak into his tent intending to return the missing earring before he loses his mind completely, only to freeze when Gale speaks from the darkness. âYou know,â he says calmly, âmost.. thieves try not to get caught.â-
whipping around so fast you nearly stab him out of reflex. Gale- unfortunately for you....finds this hilarious.
Instead of being angry, he becomes curious. Very curious. Suddenly heâs asking questions about lockpicking techniques while youâre picking through whatever breakfast you've scrounged up. He watches your hands, so closely your sure he's about to burn holes into them whenever you shuffle cards or flip a dagger between your fingers. One evening, he even insists you teach him âthe fundamentals of subtle theft,â despite the fact he has absolutely no natural talent for it whatsoever. You sit cross-legged beside him for over an hour trying to teach him how to palm a coin without dropping it. His fingers brush yours constantly as you reposition his hands, and every failure earns another deeply offended sigh from him.
âThis is absurd-â Gale mutters after the coin clatters onto the ground once again. âI can manipulate the Weave itself- yet this tiny silver disc...defeats me.â
Your laugh sputters out of you so hard you nearly tip backward off the log youâre sitting on. Gale catches your wrist automatically before you can fall, steadying you with a hand warm against your skin. The laughter fades slower than it should. His thumb brushes lightly against the inside of your wrist before he seems to realize heâs still holding it.
The two of you stare at each other for one dangerously quiet second.
Then you grin. âWant me to teach you how to pick pockets next?â
He lets out a soft, helpless laugh and shakes his head. âGods help me, I think you already have.â
Astarion-
The rivalry between you and Astarion becomes the single most annoying thing in camp according to literally everyone else. It starts smallâ little contests over who can unlock doors faster or swipe supplies without getting caught. Then it escalates. Suddenly youâre stealing each otherâs belongings just to prove a point. Astarion wakes up one morning to find every buckle missing from his armor. In retaliation, he steals your favorite dagger and spends the entire day twirling it smugly between his fingers whenever you look at him.
Shadowheart threatens bodily harm within the week.
The worst part is how much fun the two of you are having. Thereâs an easy understanding between you whenever you work together â the kind built on quick reflexes and mutual bad decisions. During jobs, you move around each other effortlessly, covering blind spots without speaking, exchanging knowing looks across crowded rooms. The flirting slips naturally into it all, sharp and playful and constant.
One evening in Baldurâs Gate, the two of you end up cornered in a narrow alley after a theft goes slightly sideways. Astarion has one hand braced against the wall beside your head while both of you try not to laugh loudly enough to give yourselves away. âWell,â he whispers, breathless with amusement, âthat could have gone better.â
âYou were the one who insulted the guard.â
âI was being...charming.â
âYou called him âarchitecturally unfortunate.ââ
Astarion snorts softly, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Gods, heâs close. Close enough for you to feel the cold brush of his rings when his fingers briefly catch your wrist. The teasing slowly quiets after that, slipping into something softer without either of you acknowledging it. His gaze flicks toward your mouth for half a second too long.
Then, because neither of you can handle sincerity for more than three consecutive seconds, you smoothly pull his stolen dagger from inside your sleeve.
Astarion stares at it in betrayal. âYou absolute menace.â
You grin. âToo slow.â
He laughs thenâ genuine, bright, beautiful, before leaning in just enough for his forehead to briefly rest against yours. âIâm going to kiss you eventually,â he murmurs. âPossibly just to stop you talking.â
Shadowheart-
Shadowheart pretends your rogue habits are deeply irritating, but sheâs suspiciously tolerant of them compared to everyone else. She complains every time you vanish mid-conversation only to reappear directly behind her five minutes later, yet sheâs stopped reaching for her weapon when you do it....Mostly.
One night at camp, you sneak up behind her while sheâs reading beside the fire and whisper dramatically, âHand over your valuables and nobody gets hurt.â
Without even glancing up from her book, Shadowheart drops a small pouch of coins into your lap. âThere. Buy yourself better hobbies.â
You stare at her, scandalized. âYou prepared for this?â
âIâve been traveling with you long enough to adapt.â
The smug little smile she gives you afterward nearly kills you on the spot.
Despite the teasing, thereâs something strangely comforting about being around her. Shadowheart understands guarded people better than most, even if neither of you says it aloud. She notices the way your hands always hover near your weapons when strangers get too close. Notices how lightly you sleep. Notices the moments you instinctively reach for exits in crowded spaces. She never pushes too hard about it, though. Just stays near.
Later that same evening, after everyone else has gone to sleep, the two of you remain by the dying fire trading quiet insults back and forth. At some point you end up shoulder-to-shoulder beneath a shared blanket because the night air turned colder without either of you acknowledging it.
âYou know,â Shadowheart murmurs eventually, gaze fixed on the stars overhead, âfor someone so good at stealing things, youâre remarkably obvious sometimes.â
You raise an eyebrow. âMeaning?â
Her eyes flick toward you briefly, softer now than they usually are. âYou look at people like youâre waiting for them to leave.â
The comment hits far too close to home. You go quiet. For once, Shadowheart doesnât tease you about it. Instead, her hand slowly brushes against yours beneath the blanket, hesitant enough to give you time to pull away.
You donât.
Her fingers curl carefully with yours, and the tiny smile she hides against your shoulder afterward feels more precious than anything youâve ever stolen.
Karlach-
Karlach loves your stealth skills with the enthusiasm of someone discovering a very cool magic trick for the first time. Unfortunately, she has absolutely no ability to participate in stealth herself. None. You spend an entire afternoon trying to teach her how to move quietly before an infiltration mission. Karlach listens with complete seriousness too, nodding along while crouched behind a tree like sheâs preparing for the worldâs loudest assassination.
âStep lightly,â you whisper. âCareful foot placement. Controlled breathing.â
Karlach nods solemnly. âGot it.â
Five minutes later she accidentally shoulder-checks a suit of armor hard enough to send it crashing down an entire staircase.
The mission devolves immediately after that. Guards start shouting, Karlach yells âSHIT!,â and suddenly the two of you are sprinting through corridors trying not to laugh yourselves sick. At one point she grabs you around the waist and throws you over her shoulder so she can run faster while you protest loudly the entire time.
âThis is kidnapping!â
âThis is teamwork!â
By the time you finally escape onto a rooftop overlooking the city, both of you are completely breathless. Karlach collapses beside you, laughing so hard tears gather in the corners of her eyes. You canât help laughing too, even while shoving weakly at her shoulder for ruining the plan within seconds.
âHey,â Karlach says eventually, grin softening as she looks at you. âYou still brought me with you, though.â
Thereâs something quieter beneath the teasing now. Something warm.
You glance over at her. âYou make terrible decisions.â
âYeah,â Karlach replies easily, nudging her knee against yours. âBut I make them with confidence.â
You snort. She beams at you like that was the funniest thing anyoneâs ever said. Then, after a small pause, Karlachâs expression softens further. Carefullyâ almost shy despite her size, she reaches over and hooks a finger through yours.
The gesture is so gentle compared to everything else about her that it catches you completely off guard.
Karlach notices your expression immediately and laughs under her breath. âAw, look at you,â she murmurs fondly. âGot all flustered. Cute.â
You immediately try to pull your hand away out of sheer embarrassment. Karlach only laughs harder and refuses to let go.
Synopsis - After a disastrous mission leaves the camp starving, you, Astarion, and Shadowheart venture into a ruined village in search of supplies. What begins as a simple task quickly turns catastrophic when the floor beneath you collapses into an ancient crypt filled with the undead. Exhausted and already injured, you make a choice without hesitation: protect Astarion at all costs.
Warnings - Injury and blood
Word Count - 5794
A/N - Had some of this written in my drafts for years, finally finished it as I heard about the Astarion book, it's pre-ordered and I can't wait!
The atmosphere in camp was heavy, thick with unspoken frustration that clung to everyone gathered around the dying light of the fire. No one wanted to be the first to say it aloud, though it sat plainly between them all like another wounded companion. After the day you, Astarion, Laeâzel, and Shadowheart had enduredâdragging yourselves back through blood, dirt, and exhaustion that clung to your bonesâno one had the energy left to turn the thought into words.
There was not enough food to go around.
You sat near the campfire with your knees drawn loosely in front of you, staring into the shifting orange glow. The heat did little for the ache in your body, a deep, bruised tiredness that settled into your muscles and refused to leave. Your stomach twisted faintly with hunger, but it felt distant compared to the sharper need for rest, for silence, for anything that wasnât another fight or another decision.
âIf no one intends to address the matter, then I suppose I shall be the bearer of unwelcome news,â Gale announced, stepping closer to the fire. The flickering light caught the edges of his purple robe, turning the fabric into something almost molten gold and shadow. âWe are in short supply of provisions. In fact, I would argue we are perilously close to feeding ourselves on optimism alone.â
Laeâzel turned sharply at that, the movement crisp even in her exhaustion. Dirt and dried blood still marked her armor, streaking across metal and skin alike. She looked as though she had no patience left to spare for anything, least of all diplomacy.
âI do not see you volunteering to correct this,â she said coldly. âWhy should the burden fall to us? Are your legs broken, wizard, or merely ornamental?â
By now, everyone had drifted into the firelight, forming a loose circle around it. You remained seated at the edge, half in shadow, watching rather than participating. The fire popped softly between them, sending sparks drifting upward into the dark like dying fireflies.
Gale exhaled through his nose, visibly restraining his temper. âIf I recall correctly, you four were the ones who insisted on pushing ahead. It seems only fair that you contribute to ensuring we do not starve because of it.â
âI donât recall âsearch every barrel for scrapsâ being a priority while we were being ambushed by goblins,â you muttered under your breath, though your voice lacked any real bite.
Gale continued, undeterred. âA simple task, truly. Even a cursory search of the areaââ
The firelight danced across all of them, warm and flickering against the cold night air, and for a moment you found yourself fixating on it. The movement was almost hypnotic, the way it shifted without care for the arguments circling it. If you stared long enough, you almost believed you could let everything else blur out, let the noise dissolve into the rhythm of flame and crackling wood.
Gale, Wyll, and Karlach all had their points, of course. It was meant to be part of the groupâs responsibility to gather supplies along the way. Under normal circumstances, that would have been simple enough. But nothing about today had been normal. There had been a hag, clever and cruel in ways you were still trying to untangle in your mind, and after her defeat there had been goblins waiting like vultures picking at the aftermath. Food had not been something any of you had the luxury to prioritize.
Their voices blurred together, becoming something distant and indistinct as you stared into the fire. The argument stretched on, circling endlessly without resolution, and your exhaustion pressed heavier with every passing second. At this point, you would have gladly taken a long walk into the woods alone just to escape the noise.
âI will go.â
Your voice cut through the conversation cleanly. Not loud, but firm enough that it pulled attention back toward you.
You pushed yourself to your feet, slower than you would have liked, your body protesting every movement. There was no effort to hide how tired you were; there wasnât enough energy left for pride.
Astarionâs voice came immediately, smooth as ever but edged with something more careful underneath.
âDarling, look at you,â he said, gaze flicking over you with sharp attention. You knew you were tired as you didnât feel your usual butterflies with him calling you âdarlingâ. âYou are in no condition to be wandering off into the wilderness in search of supper. The wizard has survived far worse indignities than foraging. I am sure he can manage a few berries without collapsing from the effort.â
Gale opened his mouth to respond, but you cut in before the argument could continue.
âI will see what I can find in the village,â you said simply, already reaching for your sword and bag. The motion felt automatic, like your body was operating slightly ahead of your willingness to argue. âItâs fine.â
You didnât wait for further objections. The weight of responsibility sat differently when you were already too tired to fight it. As you turned away, you could feel Galeâs hesitation behind you, the faint guilt of someone who hadnât intended for things to land this way. But hunger rarely cared about intention.
You had barely made it a few steps beyond the firelight when you noticed the footsteps behind you.
Two sets.
You glanced over your shoulder to find Shadowheart already adjusting her armor, expression set in that calm, unreadable line she wore when she had already made a decision. Astarion, meanwhile, moved with effortless ease, slipping his bow into place as though he had never considered staying behind in the first place.
âYou didnât think we would let you go alone, did you?â Astarion said lightly, though there was something steadier beneath the words now, something less performative than usual, you couldn't tell if it was just the exhaustion.
Shadowheart gave a small nod in agreement, falling into step without needing to explain herself.
And despite everythingâthe exhaustion, the ache, the lingering weight of the dayâyou felt something in your chest loosen just slightly, as though the burden you had been about to carry alone had quietly been shared without permission.
The village took on a different shape at night.
What had been simply a collection of crumbling buildings and strangled greenery in daylight now felt hostile, as though the darkness itself had rewritten it. Shadows stretched too long between broken fences and leaning walls, and every distant soundâcreaking wood, shifting stone, the whisper of wind through hollow spacesâseemed to carry intent. There was no comfort in it, only the quiet suggestion that something might be watching from just out of sight.
All three of you felt it.
Even without saying it aloud, there was a shared understanding that none of you were at your best. Exhaustion dulled your reflexes, softened your judgment in ways that made the unease worse. Still, you pushed forward, forcing focus where there was none to spare. Barrels, crates, anything usableâanything edible. That was all that mattered.
And yet, despite your best efforts, your attention kept slipping.
The dark between buildings felt deeper than it should have. The outlines of ruined structures seemed to shift when you werenât looking directly at them. It wasnât fear exactly, but it was the kind of creeping distraction that came just before things went wrong.
Eventually, fortune offered something small.
A rundown house, barely standing, its roof sagging under the weight of time and weather. Inside, half-hidden in the gloom, sat a barrel of fishâsalted, preserved, something at least vaguely edible. Relief cut through the tension in all of you at once, sharp and immediate. Without hesitation, you all moved inside.
The floorboards groaned beneath your weight as you hurriedly filled your bag. The air was thick with damp rot and old wood, the smell of mould and decay clinging to everything like a second skin. The house itself sounded alive in its dyingâcreaking, sighing, whistling softly through gaps in the walls as the wind moved through it.
For a brief moment, it almost felt safe.
Then the world dropped out from beneath you.
There was no warningâjust a sudden, violent collapse. Wood splintered, stone gave way, and all three of you fell in a chaotic tangle of motion and impact. The world spun, sound distorting into a harsh rush in your ears, and then came the heavy collision of stone against bone.
Pain flared dully through your body as you hit the ground, breath driven from your lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp. Dust and debris filled the air around you, settling slowly like ash.
It took a moment too long to understand where you were.
The silence below the house was wrong. Heavy. Pressurised. Ancient.
Above you, a jagged hole in the ceiling framed a thin slice of night sky. Through it, distant moonlight spilled down in pale, broken beams.
And somewhere above that, you heard itâmuffled, distorted, but unmistakably Shadowheart calling your name.
You blinked hard, trying to force your mind into focus, trying to catalogue your body for injuries. Everything felt distant, slightly unreal, like you were thinking through water. You had landed on your headâmaybe. Or maybe it was the adrenaline fading too quickly.
Then you looked to the side.
Astarion lay near Shadowheart, too still in a way that made your stomach drop immediately. Moonlight caught the red staining himâtoo much of it, too bright against the pale stone floor. It wasnât just surface blood either; it shone wetly across his clothes, his skin, marking him in a way that made your pulse spike with sudden, cold clarity.
Shadowheart was already kneeling beside him, hands moving with urgency you rarely saw from herâfocused, precise, trying to assess, trying to stabilize. But even from where you stood, you could see the tension in her posture. This wasnât a minor injury.
Your heart stopped for a fraction of a second.
Everything else narrowed.
You wanted to move immediately. To get to him. To pull him closer, to check if he was conscious, to do anything other than stand there watching blood soak into stone. The thought came fast and instinctiveâoffering your own life if it meant pulling him back from the edge, if that was what it took.
But something held you in place.
Because all around you, the sound changed.
Slow at first. Subtle. Like stone shifting in a place it hadnât been meant to move for centuries.
Then the caskets began to open.
Wood scraped against stone. Old hinges groaned in protest. From every direction within the crypt, shapes began to riseâbodies in varying states of decay dragging themselves back into motion, drawn upward by something unseen and deeply wrong. Empty sockets turned toward you. Jawbones clicked. The air filled with the unmistakable certainty of the dead refusing to stay still.
The threat wasnât approaching.
It was already here.
Your breath caught, sharp and shallow, as you unsheathed your weapon.Â
And still, even as the undead began to gather, your gaze flicked backâjust onceâto Astarion in Shadowheartâs care, because whatever came next, you were going to have to survive long enough to reach him again.
You may not have much left in you, but you knew what you had to do.
There was no room for hesitation now, no time for fear to catch up and drag you back down. You forced yourself upright through the ache in your body, every movement sharp with exhaustion, every breath feeling like something you had to fight for. Still, your grip tightened around your weapon as if it was the only thing anchoring you to the moment.
âHelp Astarion,â you shouted, voice cutting through the chaos as the crypt around you groaned and shifted, the dead beginning to rise. âI will hold them back!â
Behind you, Astarion froze.
It wasnât just stillnessâit was shock so immediate it seemed to steal even the sound out of the air around him. For a moment, he simply stared at your back as though he hadnât fully understood the words, as though his mind refused to translate them into something real.
Me.
The thought wasnât spoken, but it hit him all the same, sharp and disorienting.
Because no one had ever done this before.
No one had ever stood between him and danger because he mattered more than survival.
For centuriesâno, longer than he allowed himself to properly think aboutâthere had only ever been Cazador. Control. Pain. Ownership. Everything had been about being used, being ordered, being less than someone elseâs will.
And nowâ
Now you were here.
Exhausted. Bleeding. Standing on the edge of collapse like he was, like all of you were. He could see it clearlyâcould see exactly how little you had left to give. And still, you had chosen this. Not yourself. Not escape. Him.
Something unfamiliar twisted in his chest at the realization, tight and unplaceable, like a feeling that didnât yet have a name he trusted.
He didnât understand it.
But he knew, with sudden clarity that unsettled him more than the undead rising around you ever could, that you were about to risk everything you had leftâfor him.
With each swing of your sword, with every collision that rang out through the crypt, your body screamed louder in protest. Pain had become something constant nowâburning through your muscles, settling deep into your bones, turning every movement into something heavier than it should have been. Your legs trembled under the strain, threatening to give out with every step, every pivot, every forced breath.
Rest felt like something impossibly distant. A promise your body demanded but your situation refused to grant.
More than anything, you wanted to turn.
To look back.
To check on him.
To see if the bleeding had stopped. If Shadowheart had managed to heal him. If he was still even conscious.
But you couldnât.
Not with the undead pressing in from every direction. Not with the horde still rising, still crawling forward, still refusing to stay dead.
So you fought instead.
Trusting Shadowheart with a kind of exhausted certainty you didnât have the energy to second-guess. You knew how difficult it was to cast under pressure, under pain, under exhaustionâbut thinking about failure, about what could go wrong, was a luxury you couldnât afford. Not now. Not when there was still something you could protect.
So you stayed standing.
You stayed moving.
And you stayed between them and everything that wanted to take him away.
The undead felt endless. Every time one fell, another seemed to take its place, dragging itself up through dust and bone and broken stone as though the crypt itself refused to let you leave. You swung until your arms felt like they no longer belonged to you, each movement slower than the last, each strike requiring more will than strength.
Your grip tightened around your weapon until it was the only thing keeping you anchored to reality.
Behind it all, faintly, there was Astarion.
Watching.
Not just watching the fightâbut watching you.
He couldnât understand it at first. It didnât fit into anything he knew, anything he had lived through. People didnât do this. Not for him. Not when he was injured. Not when survival demanded every ounce of sense be spent on oneself.
And yet you were still there.
Still fighting.
Still standing in front of death itself like it was a promise you intended to keep.
Something in him twisted sharply at the sight of it.
Centuries of control, of ownership, of being something used and discarded, all of it pressed against the reality unfolding in front of him. Because this wasnât control. It wasnât manipulation. It wasnât fear or obligation.
It was a choice.
And worse than thatâit was real.
A part of him, one he didnât like acknowledging, had always understood relationships in terms of leverage. Of influence. Of survival through proximity and advantage. Even with you, even when he smiled and charmed and leaned into something softer, there had always been that instinct somewhere beneath it all.
But you were making that⊠impossible.
Because you were fighting like this.
For him.
Not for what he could give you. Not for what you could gain.
Just him.
And he didnât know what to do with that. Didnât know where to put it in his mind, how to name it, how to survive it without turning it into something sharp or cynical.
So instead, he just watched.
And waited.
Until finallyâ
âLetâs go!â Shadowheartâs voice cut through everything, sharp and urgent, dragging you back into motion.
An arm was hooked around Astarionâs shoulders, steadying him as she guided him through the chaos toward the exit. He was still unsteady, still bleeding, but movingâalive.
You followed without hesitation.
A quick, desperate decision.
An Alchemistâs Fire arced from your hand, shattering against the ground behind you in a bloom of roaring flame. The undead recoiled, the fire carving a temporary path of safety through the crypt, and for a moment there was nothing but heat and light and the promise of escape.
Then you were out.
The world above hit you like a shock.
Cold night air. Open sky. The pale glow of the moon spilling across broken ground and ruined stone. It felt unreal after the suffocating weight of the crypt, as though you had surfaced into a different world entirely.
And then your body gave up what little argument it still had left.
All of you collapsed near the entrance, breath ragged, limbs shaking, the kind of exhaustion that went beyond fatigue and straight into collapse. Even the air felt too heavy to breathe properly.
But it was air.
And that alone felt like victory.
You dragged in a breath, trying to steady yourself as Shadowheart immediately began checking you over, hands quick and practiced despite her own exhaustion. You waved her off weakly, insisting you were fineâjust needed a moment, just needed the world to stop spinning for a second.
Astarion didnât speak.
Not immediately.
For once, there were no words ready at his tongue.
No effortless remark.
No charm sharpened into something usable.
Just silence.
You forced yourself upright with what little strength you had left, leaning heavily on your sword as you tried to make your way toward him. Every step felt like it cost something, like your body was arguing with your decision, but you moved anyway.
Because you werenât done yet.
Not until you knew he was okay.
You finally reached him on unsteady legs, your sword dragging slightly against the ground before slipping from your grasp entirely. The adrenaline that had carried you through the crypt was fading now, leaving behind only exhaustion and pain so deep it felt stitched into your bones.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You crouched carefully in front of Astarion, hands immediately reaching for him despite the tremble in your fingers. Your eyes moved over him quickly, searching for anything worse than what you had already seenâthe blood staining his clothes, the bruising beginning to darken beneath pale skin, the sharp tension he still carried despite trying to hide it.
âAstarionâŠâ Your voice came out quieter than intended, roughened by exhaustion. âAreâŠare you okay?â
His eyes stayed fixed on you.
Not guarded.
Not teasing.
Just watching you with an intensity that felt strangely vulnerable in the pale moonlight.
âI should be asking you that,â he said softly after a moment, voice lacking its usual easy amusement. One of his hands lifted slightly, hesitant at first, before brushing near your temple. âYouâre bleeding.â
You blinked, only then feeling the warmth trailing faintly down the side of your face. It explained the dizziness. The pounding ache behind your eyes.âOh,â you murmured weakly, as though the realization hardly mattered now that he was conscious and speaking.
His brows pulled together faintly at your response.
You could see it then, in the silence between youâin the way his gaze lingered, in the way he looked almost unsettled by the sight of you kneeling there worrying over him while blood still ran down your own face.
No sarcasm came.
No sharp remark to deflect the moment.
For once, Astarion seemed too exhausted to hide behind them.
And somehow, that silence said far more than any joke ever could.
For someone who has spent centuries surviving alone, Astarion does not know what to do with the terrifying realization that your loyalty might be real.
Beside you, Shadowheart let out a slow breath as she finished gathering what little strength she had left. âWe should leave,â she said quietly, though even her voice sounded worn thin. âBefore something else decides to crawl out of the ground.â
The walk back to camp was silent. Not uncomfortableâjust heavy. The events of the crypt lingered over all three of you like a shadow that refused to loosen its grip. No one had the energy left for conversation. Boots dragged against dirt paths, armor shifted softly with movement, and every now and then the distant sounds of the night reminded you just how vulnerable you still were.
Astarion walked between you and Shadowheart, one arm slung carefully over each of your shoulders. Shadowheart was exhausted from healing magic, and Astarion still lacked the strength to walk steadily on his own. The arrangement forced the three of you close together, stumbling occasionally but never quite falling.
Every so often, you could feel Astarionâs weight lean slightly more toward you.Not enough to comment on. Just enough to notice.
By the time camp finally came into view, relief hit so suddenly it nearly made your knees give out entirely.
The fire was still burning low when the others spotted you.
The reaction was immediate.
Karlach was the first to stand, eyes widening in alarm as she took in the state of all three of you. Gale quickly followed, concern replacing whatever exhaustion had settled over camp earlier. Wyll moved forward instinctively as though preparing to help catch one of you before you collapsed, while Lae'zelâs sharp eyes scanned for injuries with immediate tactical precision.
âWhat in the hells happened to you lot?â Karlach breathed.
You stared at them for a moment, too tired to even begin explaining.Then, without a word, you simply lifted the bag of fish slightly toward Gale.
The wizard looked at the bag. Then at the blood covering all three of you. ââŠRight,â he said faintly.
That was all the energy you had left for conversation.
Shadowheart caught your eye then, giving you a small, understanding nod as she adjusted her hold on Astarionâsilent reassurance that she would take care of him from here, that she would make sure his wounds were properly treated.
You nodded back weakly.
As Shadowheart guided him toward his tent, Astarion glanced back over his shoulder at you.
The look only lasted a second, but something in his expression shifted the moment distance began forming between you again, something hollow and uncertain beneath the exhaustion. As though now that the danger had passed, he suddenly became aware of your absence beside him.
And judging by the strange tightness in your own chest as you watched him disappear into the dim firelightâyou felt it too.
Unable to stand beneath everyoneâs worried stares any longer, you turned away and made your way toward the lake at the edge of camp. The cold night air brushed against your skin as you knelt near the water, exhaustion settling heavier with every passing second.
Only now, with the adrenaline finally gone, did you truly begin to feel how much the night had taken from you.
You peeled your armor away piece by piece beside the lake, each buckle and leather strap feeling impossibly heavy beneath your trembling hands. The metal had begun to feel suffocating somewhere during the walk back to camp, restrictive against movements already stiff with pain and exhaustion. By the time the final piece dropped beside you onto the damp ground, your body felt lighter for itâthough not by much.
The cold water helped somewhat.
You knelt at the waterâs edge, dipping shaking hands into the lake and washing away as much dirt and blood as you could manage. Crimson swirled through the rippling water before disappearing into the dark. Cuts and bruises revealed themselves more clearly beneath the grime now, angry and swollen across your skin. Every touch stung.
Your head still throbbed dully from the fall, a lingering haze sitting stubbornly behind your eyes. You must have struck it harder than you first thought. But Shadowheart had already pushed herself dangerously far tonight, and the guilt of asking for more healing magic settled too heavily in your chest to ignore. A bandage would do.Â
Still, despite the pain clouding every inch of your body, your thoughts kept circling back to him.
The pale elf.
The vampire spawn.
Astarion.
You rose slowly from the lakeside, suppressing the ache that flared through your muscles as you pulled yourself upright. Camp was quieter now, the earlier panic replaced with weary relief. Around the fire, the others had finally begun eating the fish you had nearly died retrieving. Their voices were low, subdued, exhaustion weighing down even Karlachâs usual energy.
You barely registered them as you passed.
Your body carried you toward Astarionâs tent almost on instinct alone.
The fabric shifted softly as you stepped inside.
Astarion sat propped against a pile of blankets, shirtless now, pale skin illuminated softly by the warm glow of a nearby lantern. Fresh bandages wrapped tightly around his torso, stark white against bruised skin. Seeing him like thisâstripped of his usual effortless composure, visibly wounded and exhaustedâsent something painful twisting through your chest.
He looked up as you entered, and immediately, his eyes fixed on you.
You crossed the small space between you before your knees finally gave out beneath the weight of the night, lowering yourself carefully in front of him. Even that small movement hurt.
Neither of you spoke at first.
Your hands moved slowly, brushing your hair aside to expose the curve of your neck to him. The vulnerable gesture felt strangely intimate in the quiet of the tent.
âYou need to feed,â you murmured softly. âYou lost too much blood.â
For a moment, Astarion simply stared at you.
Not because of the offer itselfâyou had offered before.
But because of now.
Because you were pale with exhaustion, blood still dried at your temple beneath the hastily wrapped bandage. Your hands trembled faintly from overexertion, your breathing still uneven from everything your body had endured tonight. Anyone with sense would have been resting. Protecting what little strength remained.
And yet you were here.
Offering him the last thing you had left to give.
Again.
Something unreadable flickered across his expression then, quieter and far more vulnerable than the usual amusement or practiced charm he wore so effortlessly.
Slowly, he shifted closer.
One hand lifted carefully to your neck, cool fingers resting against your skin as though testing whether you were truly there. His other hand settled against your waist, steadying you as he gently pulled you nearer. The movement was slow, deliberate, intimate enough that your breath caught despite yourself.
You tilted your head instinctively, giving him access to your neck, already bracing for the familiar sharp sting of his bite.
But it never came.
Instead, all you felt were his lips.
Soft.
Gentle.
A lingering kiss pressed against the sensitive skin of your neck with a tenderness that startled you far more than teeth ever could.
Astarion stayed there for a brief moment before pulling back slowly.
Your eyes met his immediately. There was something different in his gaze nowâsomething quieter, stripped bare by exhaustion and everything you had done for him tonight.
âWhile I appreciate the offer,â he murmured softly, thumb brushing faintly against your waist, âyou donât have nearly enough to spare right now, darling.â
The words were light, but the meaning beneath them wasnât.
Because, for perhaps the first time in longer than he could remember, Astarion did not look at you and think about survival first.
He looked at you and thought about your safety.
And somehow, that terrified him far more than the undead ever had.
âWhat was that down there?â Astarionâs voice was quiet in the dimness of the tent, lacking its usual theatrical edge. The lantern beside him cast soft gold across pale skin and loose white curls, shadows flickering gently across the sharpness of his features.
You frowned slightly, exhaustion still clouding your thoughts. âWhat do you mean?â
His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching your face as though the answer might already be written there somewhere. âYou were barely standing,â he said softly. âHalf dead yourself and still throwing yourself between me and an entire crypt full of undead.â His brows furrowed faintly, genuine confusion slipping through the cracks of his composure. âWhy?â
The answer came easier than you expected.
âFor you, Astarion.â
Silence.
The kind that settled heavily between two people when something honest had been placed carefully into the space between them.
Astarion stared at you like he was waiting for the punchline. As though somewhere in the back of his mind he had already convinced himself this couldnât possibly be realâthat there had to be another motive hidden beneath your words, something safer and more understandable than simple care.
But there wasnât.
And that realization seemed to unsettle him far more than anything else tonight.
âWhy?â he asked again, quieter this time.
The vulnerability in the question appeared to catch even him off guard.
Almost immediately, you watched the shift happen.
The retreat.
The instinctive reach for humor like armor slipping back into place. âIf that was your attempt at impressing me, darling,â he said lightly, a faint smirk finally tugging at his lips, âIâd say it was unnecessarily dramatic.â
A tired laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
And gods, hearing him joke againâhearing that familiar teasing tone return after the terror of seeing him bleeding in the cryptâsent relief flooding through you so suddenly it almost hurt.
Your smile softened as you looked at him.
Then, slowly, you reached for his hand.
The movement made him still instantly.
Not because the gesture itself was shocking, but because of how gentle it was. Careful. Intentional. Your fingers curled around his, warmth against the coolness of his skin.
For once, Astarion didnât immediately know how to react.
âI did it becauseâŠâ You hesitated briefly, searching for words through the exhaustion weighing down your mind. âBecause somewhere along the way, you stopped just being someone I travel with.â
His expression faltered almost imperceptibly.
You rubbed your thumb softly across the back of his hand before continuing.
âYou make me laugh when everything feels impossible. You stay close to me even when you pretend not to care. And when I look for you in a roomâŠâ Your voice softened slightly. âI always feel better once I find you there.â
Astarionâs breath caught faintly.
âYou ask why I risked myself for you,â you murmured. âBut to me, there wasnât really another choice.â
The teasing expression he had been trying so hard to maintain faded quietly after that.It simply slipped away beneath the weight of your honesty until all that remained was something far softer. Something uncertain.
Like he still didnât fully understand how to hold something so genuine without fearing it might disappear the moment he touched it.
His fingers tightened slightly around yours.
Small.
Instinctive.
But real.
âYou really are terrible for my ego, you know that?â he said finally, voice quieter now, stripped of most of its usual performance. âHow am I supposed to maintain any air of mystery when you insist on saying things like that?â
You smiled tiredly, the warmth of it lingering between you both.
And for the first time that night, the silence that followed no longer felt heavy at all.
Astarion held your gaze for a long moment after that, crimson eyes quieter than you had ever seen them. The usual sharpness behind them had softened into something almost dangerously sincere, as though exhaustion had worn down the walls he normally kept so carefully intact.
His thumb brushed once against your hand before he finally let out a slow breath through his nose, the faintest trace of amusement returning to his expression.
âWell,â Astarion murmured, voice gentler now, âI suppose nearly getting yourself killed for me has earned you the privilege of sharing my blankets.â
A tired laugh escaped you, soft and breathless, and something in his shoulders visibly loosened at the sound of it.
âThere it is,â you teased weakly. âI was wondering when your ego would recover.â
âOh, itâs hanging on by a thread,â he replied dryly. âDo try not to wound me further tonight. I am already tragically injured.â
The corner of your mouth lifted despite how utterly exhausted you felt.
Astarion shifted carefully, suppressing a small wince as he moved further across the bedroll to make space for you beside him. The movement was slower than usual, lacking his normal effortless grace, but there was something strangely intimate about that tooâseeing him allow himself to be seen like this, tired and hurting and real.
You hesitated only briefly before lying down beside him.
Every inch of your body protested the movement immediately.
The two of you awkwardly adjusted at first, exhaustion making even simple movements difficult as you both tried instinctively to avoid bruises, cuts, and freshly wrapped injuries. Your arm brushed carefully around his waist while avoiding the bandages across his torso, and his hand settled lightly against your side with surprising gentleness, mindful of the aches still lingering beneath your skin.
Eventually, you found something comfortable enough.
The blankets were warm around you both, carrying faint traces of leather, old parchment, and the familiar lingering scent of him. Outside the tent, the distant crackle of the campfire and muffled voices blurred softly into the background, fading further with every passing second.
For once, neither of you felt the need to speak.
Your head rested carefully against his shoulder, exhaustion pulling at you so heavily now that keeping your eyes open felt impossible. Beside you, Astarion had gone unusually still, his arm remaining loosely around you like he was still adjusting to the idea that someone had willingly chosen to be this close to him.
That someone had fought for him.
Cared for him.
Chosen him.
Even now, he still wasnât entirely certain what to do with that feeling blooming painfully warm inside his chest.
But as your breathing slowly evened out against him, your body finally relaxing now that you knew he was safe, Astarion found thatâfor the first time in a very long whileâthe night did not feel quite so cold.
And somewhere between exhaustion and silence, the two of you finally let sleep claim you together.
a/n: Due to requests to add characters I've made groups for BG3 to make to workload more manageable. Here is a preview of the first group, Origin/Allies. Hope you enjoy!
Astarion Ancunin
"You know, I've been told my bite is far more pleasant than my bark," he purred, letting his gaze drag down your body. "I'd be happy to demonstrate, if you're feeling adventurous." He smirked, flashing a fang. It was clear he expected to you to melt at this, not stare at him looking completely unimpressed. After a moment you let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "That's what you're going with? A bite pun? From the vampire? I've heard more original lines from a drunk fisherman." You turned back to the campfire and poked at the embers, dismissing him completely.
A sharp exhale was heard behind you, then footsteps. "Excuse me!? Did you just compare me to a fisherman???" He crouched beside you, and you saw real frustration and the awareness that he actually wanted to impress you and had no idea how without the script he's used for decades now. "Fine," he said tightly, eyes narrowing. "What exactly would meet your standards?" You shrugged and gave him nothing. "I dunno, maybe ask a fisherman for some advice." you said, and went back to your fire. He get out a strangled huff, cursing under his breath as he got up and stalked back to his tent.
Gale Dekarios
He had prepared, that was the sad part. He intercepted you on the path back from the river. "I've been studying the Weave's response to emotional proximity," he fell into step beside you, "and I've noticed a remarkable surge in arcane resonance whenever I'm near you. One might even call it... chemistry." You kept walking and he scrambled to keep pace. "The bond between us could rival the great arcane partnerships in history. Elminster and Mystra, for instance, though I'd argue our dynamic has more spark." He smiled with so much hopeful confidence that it was almost cruel to do what you did next. You stopped, looked him dead in the eye and patted him once on the chest like you were consoling a dog that had brought you a very ugly stick, and kept walking.
"H-hey I workshopped that for forty-five minutes. I considered meter, callback structure--" You glanced sideways. "Gale, you brought up your ex-lover while trying to seduce me. Read the room." His mouth opened like a fish out of water and a flush crawled up his neck. You let him see the corner of your mouth twitch. "Try again when you can talk to me without citing your dating history."
Wyll Ravengard
He caught you practicing sword forms at the edge of camp and approached with all the confidence of the Blade of Frontiers on his shoulders. He leaned against a supply crate, crossed one ankle over the other and gave you a smile. "Watching you handle that blade is like watching poetry in motion," he said. "Fierce. Graceful even." You lowered your sword, wiped sweat from your forehead, and looked at him. "Poetry in motion," you repeated. You clicked your tongue. "Wyll. Baby. No."
His smile collapsed and he straightened, uncrossing his ankles like the lean had become structurally unsound. "What do you mean, no?" You went back to your forms. "You sound like a broadsheet romance they sell for two copper at the docks." He was quiet long enough that you turned to check. He hadn't left but you could see his wounded pride and reluctant admiration of you. You planted your sword in the dirt. "Just talk to me like a person Wyll." He rubbed the back of his neck with a bewildered laugh. "Right. Just um, give me a minute. Apparently everything I learned about courtship is useless."
Halsin
You were sharpening your blade on a fallen log when he settled beside you, the wood groaning under his frame, and turned his attention on you with focused intensity. "You remind me of an ancient oak," he said firmly before continuing. "Strong roots. Wide canopy. The kind of tree that shelters entire ecosystems, because everything that comes near you thrives." He looked so pleased, so certain he had landed something profound, that you almost let him have it. But you set down your whetstone and said, "You just called me a tree, Halsin." You watched the confidence drain from his face. "A big one, specifically."
"But the oak is sacred--" he started, and you held up one finger and he went quiet immediately. For a man his size he looked remarkably small, sitting with his massive hands on his knees and his ears turning pink. "I am... not skilled at this," he admitted, staring at the ground. You stood and brushed bark dust off your thighs, taking your time, letting him watch. "Then don't talk to me like druid and talk to me like a man who wants something," you said, and left him to his on the log. He found you later by the river, stood three feet away, and said simply, "I don't have the right words. But I would like to stay near you tonight, if that's alright."
Minsc
He had been building up to it all day, finding excuses to walk past you, puffing his chest out further each time, flexing his arms while trying and failing to be subtle about it. Finally during supper he planted himself in front of you and declared at full volume, "Minsc has noticed that you fight with the fury of a dozen wolves and the beauty of a--a very--a thing that is beautiful!" He faltered, having lost his comparison, and compensated by flexing so hard his tunic creaked. You chewed your food slowly, swallowed, and looked up at him. "A thing that is beautiful... That's where you landed."
"Prehaps... Minsc should have practiced more," he admitted, his voice dropping in defeat as his shoulders sagged. "Minsc is good with hitting and fighting, but not when it comes to finding pretty words for a woman like you..." You set your bowl down and stood, "Just... try again tomorrow, and put some thought into it. I'm sure you'll come up with something," You walked away and heard Boo squeak urgently, followed by Minsc whispering at a volume that carried across camp, "What do you mean I focused too much on flexing??? That's Minsc's best asset!"
Zevlor
He approached you as you mended a strap on your pack with his shoulders squared, jaw set and hands clasped behind his back. "I wanted to tell you that your presence in this camp has been a steadying force. In times of uncertainty, your resolve made others believe survival is possible." His eyes held yours with unwavering focus. You tied off your strap and looked up at him. "Zevlor... Is this a field commendation or are you trying to flirt with me? Because I genuinely can't tell..."
His posture did not change, but you could see the crack in his composure, a flicker of mortification in his eyes. "I am--" He stopped, and took a deep breath. "I am attempting the latter," he said finally, and the admission sounded like it cost him a year off his life. You stood, and looked at him with crooked grin. "I take it that's something you do often. Thank you for your kind words, as a soldier, that means a lot. But as a woman..." You shouldered your pack and walked past him, close enough that your arm brushed his. "You'll have to try better than that." Behind you was total silence, followed by a shaky exhale and a muttered curse in Infernal.
Dammon
He tried to work it into the transaction. That was his first mistake. You came to his forge to pick up a repaired dagger, and he held it out with both hands as he smiled. "No charge for this one. Consider it a gift from an admirer," he delivered it smoothly, his tail flicking with a confidence that suggested he thought the line was good. You took the dagged, inspected the edge and tested the weight. Then you set it on the anvil and leaned against his workbench, arms folded. "Dammon. Did you just use my weapon repair to set up that pick-up line?"
His tail went rigid and curled inward like it was trying to hide. "I--no. T-That was--I was simply--" He set the hammer down with exaggerated care and pressed both palms flat on the workbench. Soot streaked his forearms and sweat tracked down his temple that had nothing to do the forge's heat. "Was it that obvious?" he asked, abandoning the defense. You tucked dagger back into its shealth. "Blindingly so. If you want to impress me, invite me to dinner like a normal person instead adding it to my invoice."
Rolan
He disguised it as an insult because sincerity would have killed him faster than any mind flayer. You were near the Last Light Inn when he appeared with scrolls and that permanent scowl. "You're blocking the doorway," he said, though there were four feet of space to your left. He didn't move past. Instead he lingered, glancing sideways. "For someone who charges into battle with zero subtlety, your technique is not entirely without merit. There's a sharpness to it that most wouldn't expect from someone so--" He gestured vaguely at you, found no safe way to finish that sentence, and busied himself with his scrolls. "So what, Rol--" He cut you off, "Formidable. There, happy?"
"So... That's your version of a compliment?" His eyes snapped to yours and his scowl deepened. "Do not read into it, it's a simple observation, nothing special." His tail lashed, betraying every word. You stepped close until your chest met his. "When you can say 'I like you' without being a prick," you said, patting his cheek, "come find me." He watched you walk into the inn before Cal spoke up "Was she flirting with you just now?"
Geraldus
He had been working up to it for three days. You caught him rehearsing behind the supply tent twice, muttering with his eyes shut and fists balled. When he finally approached the campfire, his voice cracked on the first word. "You--I--your eyes are like..." He stopped himself. "What I mean is that I think you're--you fight very--and your face is..." Each fragment died more painfully than the last. He stood clutching a bouquet bought hours ago, the stems crushed in his grip, terrified eyes locked on you. You bit your cheek, because if you smiled you knew he would bolt. "Geraldus, it's okay. Take a breath."
He took a breath, though it didn't not help. "I'm not good at this," he blurted, and the honesty hit harder than any polished line. "Jaheira makes it look so easy and I just--" He looked at the crushed flowers and his face crumpled. "These were much nicer an hour ago." You stood, took them from his trembling hand, and tucked the least destroyed one behind your ear, which made his eyes go wide. "You're keeping it?" he whispered. "Of course I'm keeping it. But next time, just say hello first." He nodded rapidly, tripped over a tent peg, and fled. You heard him whisper-shouting around the corner, "She kept the flowers. That counts for something... right?"
Sorn Orlith
He slid beside you at the bar with practiced ease and a smile designed to melt resolve. His eyes traced every curve of you with professional appreciation, his voice dropping to that honeyed register that worked on everyone who walked through these doors. "Mm, you intrigue me~" he murmured, fingers brushing your wrist. "Most people here want something. But you look like the kind of woman who takes what she wants, am I wrong?" He tilted his head, letting candlelight catch his face at a practiced angle. You lifted your drink, took a slow sip, and set it down. "Sorn, right? Slow your roll. I'm not a client. Buy me a drink and we'll see where the conversation takes us. That's my offer."
He blinked and then laughed, and nearly knocked over a candle as he flagged down the bartender. "Two of whatever she's having--Take it off my pay!" he said, voice pitched slightly different from earlier. He turned back to you grinning, chin in hand, his fingers drumming restlessly against his jaw. "A drink... Just a drink? My~ It's been quite some time since someone offered me something this beautifully mundane." The seductive lean was gone, replaced by something more relaxed. "So... what do should we talk about if not bedroom talk?"
a/n: Going to likely fit a third post in today since I forgot to set up my queue over the weekend.
Synopsis - After a disastrous mission leaves the camp starving, you, Astarion, and Shadowheart venture into a ruined village in search of supplies. What begins as a simple task quickly turns catastrophic when the floor beneath you collapses into an ancient crypt filled with the undead. Exhausted and already injured, you make a choice without hesitation: protect Astarion at all costs.
Warnings - Injury and blood
Word Count - 5794
A/N - Had some of this written in my drafts for years, finally finished it as I heard about the Astarion book, it's pre-ordered and I can't wait!
The atmosphere in camp was heavy, thick with unspoken frustration that clung to everyone gathered around the dying light of the fire. No one wanted to be the first to say it aloud, though it sat plainly between them all like another wounded companion. After the day you, Astarion, Laeâzel, and Shadowheart had enduredâdragging yourselves back through blood, dirt, and exhaustion that clung to your bonesâno one had the energy left to turn the thought into words.
There was not enough food to go around.
You sat near the campfire with your knees drawn loosely in front of you, staring into the shifting orange glow. The heat did little
You sat near the campfire with your knees drawn loosely in front of you, staring into the shifting orange glow. The heat did little for the ache in your body, a deep, bruised tiredness that settled into your muscles and refused to leave. Your stomach twisted faintly with hunger, but it felt distant compared to the sharper need for rest, for silence, for anything that wasnât another fight or another decision.
âIf no one intends to address the matter, then I suppose I shall be the bearer of unwelcome news,â Gale announced, stepping closer to the fire. The flickering light caught the edges of his purple robe, turning the fabric into something almost molten gold and shadow. âWe are in short supply of provisions. In fact, I would argue we are perilously close to feeding ourselves on optimism alone.â
Laeâzel turned sharply at that, the movement crisp even in her exhaustion. Dirt and dried blood still marked her armor, streaking across metal and skin alike. She looked as though she had no patience left to spare for anything, least of all diplomacy.
âI do not see you volunteering to correct this,â she said coldly. âWhy should the burden fall to us? Are your legs broken, wizard, or merely ornamental?â
By now, everyone had drifted into the firelight, forming a loose circle around it. You remained seated at the edge, half in shadow, watching rather than participating. The fire popped softly between them, sending sparks drifting upward into the dark like dying fireflies.
Gale exhaled through his nose, visibly restraining his temper. âIf I recall correctly, you four were the ones who insisted on pushing ahead. It seems only fair that you contribute to ensuring we do not starve because of it.â
âI donât recall âsearch every barrel for scrapsâ being a priority while we were being ambushed by goblins,â you muttered under your breath, though your voice lacked any real bite.
Gale continued, undeterred. âA simple task, truly. Even a cursory search of the areaââ
The firelight danced across all of them, warm and flickering against the cold night air, and for a moment you found yourself fixating on it. The movement was almost hypnotic, the way it shifted without care for the arguments circling it. If you stared long enough, you almost believed you could let everything else blur out, let the noise dissolve into the rhythm of flame and crackling wood.
Gale, Wyll, and Karlach all had their points, of course. It was meant to be part of the groupâs responsibility to gather supplies along the way. Under normal circumstances, that would have been simple enough. But nothing about today had been normal. There had been a hag, clever and cruel in ways you were still trying to untangle in your mind, and after her defeat there had been goblins waiting like vultures picking at the aftermath. Food had not been something any of you had the luxury to prioritize.
Their voices blurred together, becoming something distant and indistinct as you stared into the fire. The argument stretched on, circling endlessly without resolution, and your exhaustion pressed heavier with every passing second. At this point, you would have gladly taken a long walk into the woods alone just to escape the noise.
âI will go.â
Your voice cut through the conversation cleanly. Not loud, but firm enough that it pulled attention back toward you.
You pushed yourself to your feet, slower than you would have liked, your body protesting every movement. There was no effort to hide how tired you were; there wasnât enough energy left for pride.
Astarionâs voice came immediately, smooth as ever but edged with something more careful underneath.
âDarling, look at you,â he said, gaze flicking over you with sharp attention. You knew you were tired as you didnât feel your usual butterflies with him calling you âdarlingâ. âYou are in no condition to be wandering off into the wilderness in search of supper. The wizard has survived far worse indignities than foraging. I am sure he can manage a few berries without collapsing from the effort.â
Gale opened his mouth to respond, but you cut in before the argument could continue.
âI will see what I can find in the village,â you said simply, already reaching for your sword and bag. The motion felt automatic, like your body was operating slightly ahead of your willingness to argue. âItâs fine.â
You didnât wait for further objections. The weight of responsibility sat differently when you were already too tired to fight it. As you turned away, you could feel Galeâs hesitation behind you, the faint guilt of someone who hadnât intended for things to land this way. But hunger rarely cared about intention.
You had barely made it a few steps beyond the firelight when you noticed the footsteps behind you.
Two sets.
You glanced over your shoulder to find Shadowheart already adjusting her armor, expression set in that calm, unreadable line she wore when she had already made a decision. Astarion, meanwhile, moved with effortless ease, slipping his bow into place as though he had never considered staying behind in the first place.
âYou didnât think we would let you go alone, did you?â Astarion said lightly, though there was something steadier beneath the words now, something less performative than usual, you couldn't tell if it was just the exhaustion.
Shadowheart gave a small nod in agreement, falling into step without needing to explain herself.
And despite everythingâthe exhaustion, the ache, the lingering weight of the dayâyou felt something in your chest loosen just slightly, as though the burden you had been about to carry alone had quietly been shared without permission.
The village took on a different shape at night.
What had been simply a collection of crumbling buildings and strangled greenery in daylight now felt hostile, as though the darkness itself had rewritten it. Shadows stretched too long between broken fences and leaning walls, and every distant soundâcreaking wood, shifting stone, the whisper of wind through hollow spacesâseemed to carry intent. There was no comfort in it, only the quiet suggestion that something might be watching from just out of sight.
All three of you felt it.
Even without saying it aloud, there was a shared understanding that none of you were at your best. Exhaustion dulled your reflexes, softened your judgment in ways that made the unease worse. Still, you pushed forward, forcing focus where there was none to spare. Barrels, crates, anything usableâanything edible. That was all that mattered.
And yet, despite your best efforts, your attention kept slipping.
The dark between buildings felt deeper than it should have. The outlines of ruined structures seemed to shift when you werenât looking directly at them. It wasnât fear exactly, not yet, but it was the kind of creeping distraction that came just before things went wrong.
Eventually, fortune offered something small.
A rundown house, barely standing, its roof sagging under the weight of time and weather. Inside, half-hidden in the gloom, sat a barrel of fishâsalted, preserved, something at least vaguely edible. Relief cut through the tension in all of you at once, sharp and immediate. Without hesitation, you all moved inside.
The floorboards groaned beneath your weight as you hurriedly filled your bag. The air was thick with damp rot and old wood, the smell of mould and decay clinging to everything like a second skin. The house itself sounded alive in its dyingâcreaking, sighing, whistling softly through gaps in the walls as the wind moved through it.
For a brief moment, it almost felt safe.
Then the world dropped out from beneath you.
There was no warningâjust a sudden, violent collapse. Wood splintered, stone gave way, and all three of you fell in a chaotic tangle of motion and impact. The world spun, sound distorting into a harsh rush in your ears, and then came the heavy collision of stone against bone.
Pain flared dully through your body as you hit the ground, breath driven from your lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp. Dust and debris filled the air around you, settling slowly like ash.
It took a moment too long to understand where you were.
The silence below the house was wrong. Heavy. Pressurised. Ancient.
Above you, a jagged hole in the ceiling framed a thin slice of night sky. Through it, distant moonlight spilled down in pale, broken beams.
And somewhere above that, you heard itâmuffled, distorted, but unmistakably Shadowheart calling your name.
You blinked hard, trying to force your mind into focus, trying to catalogue your body for injuries. Everything felt distant, slightly unreal, like you were thinking through water. You had landed on your headâmaybe. Or maybe it was the adrenaline fading too quickly.
Then you looked to the side.
Astarion lay near Shadowheart, too still in a way that made your stomach drop immediately. Moonlight caught the red staining himâtoo much of it, too bright against the pale stone floor. It wasnât just surface blood either; it shone wetly across his clothes, his skin, marking him in a way that made your pulse spike with sudden, cold clarity.
Shadowheart was already kneeling beside him, hands moving with urgency you rarely saw from herâfocused, precise, trying to assess, trying to stabilize. But even from where you stood, you could see the tension in her posture. This wasnât a minor injury.
Your heart stopped for a fraction of a second.
Everything else narrowed.
You wanted to move immediately. To get to him. To pull him closer, to check if he was conscious, to do anything other than stand there watching blood soak into stone. The thought came fast and instinctiveâoffering your own life if it meant pulling him back from the edge, if that was what it took.
But something held you in place.
Because all around you, the sound changed.
Slow at first. Subtle. Like stone shifting in a place it hadnât been meant to move for centuries.
Then the caskets began to open.
Wood scraped against stone. Old hinges groaned in protest. From every direction within the crypt, shapes began to riseâbodies in varying states of decay dragging themselves back into motion, drawn upward by something unseen and deeply wrong. Empty sockets turned toward you. Jawbones clicked. The air filled with the unmistakable certainty of the dead refusing to stay still.
The threat wasnât approaching.
It was already here.
Your breath caught, sharp and shallow, as you unsheathed your weapon.Â
And still, even as the undead began to gather, your gaze flicked backâjust onceâto Astarion in Shadowheartâs care, because whatever came next, you were going to have to survive long enough to reach him again.
You may not have much left in you, but you knew what you had to do.
There was no room for hesitation now, no time for fear to catch up and drag you back down. You forced yourself upright through the ache in your body, every movement sharp with exhaustion, every breath feeling like something you had to fight for. Still, your grip tightened around your weapon as if it was the only thing anchoring you to the moment.
âHelp Astarion,â you shouted, voice cutting through the chaos as the crypt around you groaned and shifted, the dead beginning to rise. âI will hold them back!â
Behind you, Astarion froze.
It wasnât just stillnessâit was shock so immediate it seemed to steal even the sound out of the air around him. For a moment, he simply stared at your back as though he hadnât fully understood the words, as though his mind refused to translate them into something real.
Me.
The thought wasnât spoken, but it hit him all the same, sharp and disorienting.
Because no one had ever done this before.
No one had ever stood between him and danger because he mattered more than survival.
For centuriesâno, longer than he allowed himself to properly think aboutâthere had only ever been Cazador. Control. Pain. Ownership. Everything had been about being used, being ordered, being less than someone elseâs will.
And nowâ
Now you were here.
Exhausted. Bleeding. Standing on the edge of collapse like he was, like all of you were. He could see it clearlyâcould see exactly how little you had left to give. And still, you had chosen this. Not yourself. Not escape. Him.
Something unfamiliar twisted in his chest at the realization, tight and unplaceable, like a feeling that didnât yet have a name he trusted.
He didnât understand it.
But he knew, with sudden clarity that unsettled him more than the undead rising around you ever could, that you were about to risk everything you had leftâfor him.
With each swing of your sword, with every collision that rang out through the crypt, your body screamed louder in protest. Pain had become something constant nowâburning through your muscles, settling deep into your bones, turning every movement into something heavier than it should have been. Your legs trembled under the strain, threatening to give out with every step, every pivot, every forced breath.
Rest felt like something impossibly distant. A promise your body demanded but your situation refused to grant.
More than anything, you wanted to turn.
To look back.
To check on him.
To see if the bleeding had stopped. If Shadowheart had managed to heal him. If he was still even conscious.
But you couldnât.
Not with the undead pressing in from every direction. Not with the horde still rising, still crawling forward, still refusing to stay dead.
So you fought instead.
Trusting Shadowheart with a kind of exhausted certainty you didnât have the energy to second-guess. You knew how difficult it was to cast under pressure, under pain, under exhaustionâbut thinking about failure, about what could go wrong, was a luxury you couldnât afford. Not now. Not when there was still something you could protect.
So you stayed standing.
You stayed moving.
And you stayed between them and everything that wanted to take him away.
The undead felt endless. Every time one fell, another seemed to take its place, dragging itself up through dust and bone and broken stone as though the crypt itself refused to let you leave. You swung until your arms felt like they no longer belonged to you, each movement slower than the last, each strike requiring more will than strength.
Your grip tightened around your weapon until it was the only thing keeping you anchored to reality.
Behind it all, faintly, there was Astarion.
Watching.
Not just watching the fightâbut watching you.
He couldnât understand it at first. It didnât fit into anything he knew, anything he had lived through. People didnât do this. Not for him. Not when he was injured. Not when survival demanded every ounce of sense be spent on oneself.
And yet you were still there.
Still fighting.
Still standing in front of death itself like it was a promise you intended to keep.
Something in him twisted sharply at the sight of it.
Centuries of control, of ownership, of being something used and discarded, all of it pressed against the reality unfolding in front of him. Because this wasnât control. It wasnât manipulation. It wasnât fear or obligation.
It was a choice.
And worse than thatâit was real.
A part of him, one he didnât like acknowledging, had always understood relationships in terms of leverage. Of influence. Of survival through proximity and advantage. Even with you, even when he smiled and charmed and leaned into something softer, there had always been that instinct somewhere beneath it all.
But you were making that⊠impossible.
Because you were fighting like this.
For him.
Not for what he could give you. Not for what you could gain.
Just him.
And he didnât know what to do with that. Didnât know where to put it in his mind, how to name it, how to survive it without turning it into something sharp or cynical.
So instead, he just watched.
And waited.
Until finallyâ
âLetâs go!â Shadowheartâs voice cut through everything, sharp and urgent, dragging you back into motion.
An arm was hooked around Astarionâs shoulders, steadying him as she guided him through the chaos toward the exit. He was still unsteady, still bleeding, but movingâalive.
You followed without hesitation.
A quick, desperate decision.
An Alchemistâs Fire arced from your hand, shattering against the ground behind you in a bloom of roaring flame. The undead recoiled, the fire carving a temporary path of safety through the crypt, and for a moment there was nothing but heat and light and the promise of escape.
Then you were out.
The world above hit you like a shock.
Cold night air. Open sky. The pale glow of the moon spilling across broken ground and ruined stone. It felt unreal after the suffocating weight of the crypt, as though you had surfaced into a different world entirely.
And then your body gave up what little argument it still had left.
All of you collapsed near the entrance, breath ragged, limbs shaking, the kind of exhaustion that went beyond fatigue and straight into collapse. Even the air felt too heavy to breathe properly.
But it was air.
And that alone felt like victory.
You dragged in a breath, trying to steady yourself as Shadowheart immediately began checking you over, hands quick and practiced despite her own exhaustion. You waved her off weakly, insisting you were fineâjust needed a moment, just needed the world to stop spinning for a second.
Astarion didnât speak.
Not immediately.
For once, there were no words ready at his tongue.
No effortless remark.
No charm sharpened into something usable.
Just silence.
You forced yourself upright with what little strength you had left, leaning heavily on your sword as you tried to make your way toward him. Every step felt like it cost something, like your body was arguing with your decision, but you moved anyway.
Because you werenât done yet.
Not until you knew he was okay.
You finally reached him on unsteady legs, your sword dragging slightly against the ground before slipping from your grasp entirely. The adrenaline that had carried you through the crypt was fading now, leaving behind only exhaustion and pain so deep it felt stitched into your bones.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You crouched carefully in front of Astarion, hands immediately reaching for him despite the tremble in your fingers. Your eyes moved over him quickly, searching for anything worse than what you had already seenâthe blood staining his clothes, the bruising beginning to darken beneath pale skin, the sharp tension he still carried despite trying to hide it.
âAstarionâŠâ Your voice came out quieter than intended, roughened by exhaustion. âAreâŠare you okay?â
His eyes stayed fixed on you.
Not guarded.
Not teasing.
Just watching you with an intensity that felt strangely vulnerable in the pale moonlight.
âI should be asking you that,â he said softly after a moment, voice lacking its usual easy amusement. One of his hands lifted slightly, hesitant at first, before brushing near your temple. âYouâre bleeding.â
You blinked, only then feeling the warmth trailing faintly down the side of your face. It explained the dizziness. The pounding ache behind your eyes.âOh,â you murmured weakly, as though the realization hardly mattered now that he was conscious and speaking.
His brows pulled together faintly at your response.
You could see it then, in the silence between youâin the way his gaze lingered, in the way he looked almost unsettled by the sight of you kneeling there worrying over him while blood still ran down your own face.
No sarcasm came.
No sharp remark to deflect the moment.
For once, Astarion seemed too exhausted to hide behind them.
And somehow, that silence said far more than any joke ever could.
For someone who has spent centuries surviving alone, Astarion does not know what to do with the terrifying realization that your loyalty might be real.
Beside you, Shadowheart let out a slow breath as she finished gathering what little strength she had left. âWe should leave,â she said quietly, though even her voice sounded worn thin. âBefore something else decides to crawl out of the ground.â
The walk back to camp was silent. Not uncomfortableâjust heavy. The events of the crypt lingered over all three of you like a shadow that refused to loosen its grip. No one had the energy left for conversation. Boots dragged against dirt paths, armor shifted softly with movement, and every now and then the distant sounds of the night reminded you just how vulnerable you still were.
Astarion walked between you and Shadowheart, one arm slung carefully over each of your shoulders. Shadowheart was exhausted from healing magic, and Astarion still lacked the strength to walk steadily on his own. The arrangement forced the three of you close together, stumbling occasionally but never quite falling.
Every so often, you could feel Astarionâs weight lean slightly more toward you.Not enough to comment on. Just enough to notice.
By the time camp finally came into view, relief hit so suddenly it nearly made your knees give out entirely.
The fire was still burning low when the others spotted you.
The reaction was immediate.
Karlach was the first to stand, eyes widening in alarm as she took in the state of all three of you. Gale quickly followed, concern replacing whatever exhaustion had settled over camp earlier. Wyll moved forward instinctively as though preparing to help catch one of you before you collapsed, while Lae'zelâs sharp eyes scanned for injuries with immediate tactical precision.
âWhat in the hells happened to you lot?â Karlach breathed.
You stared at them for a moment, too tired to even begin explaining.Then, without a word, you simply lifted the bag of fish slightly toward Gale.
The wizard looked at the bag. Then at the blood covering all three of you. ââŠRight,â he said faintly.
That was all the energy you had left for conversation.
Shadowheart caught your eye then, giving you a small, understanding nod as she adjusted her hold on Astarionâsilent reassurance that she would take care of him from here, that she would make sure his wounds were properly treated.
You nodded back weakly.
As Shadowheart guided him toward his tent, Astarion glanced back over his shoulder at you.
The look only lasted a second, but something in his expression shifted the moment distance began forming between you again, something hollow and uncertain beneath the exhaustion. As though now that the danger had passed, he suddenly became aware of your absence beside him.
And judging by the strange tightness in your own chest as you watched him disappear into the dim firelightâyou felt it too.
Unable to stand beneath everyoneâs worried stares any longer, you turned away and made your way toward the lake at the edge of camp. The cold night air brushed against your skin as you knelt near the water, exhaustion settling heavier with every passing second.
Only now, with the adrenaline finally gone, did you truly begin to feel how much the night had taken from you.
You peeled your armor away piece by piece beside the lake, each buckle and leather strap feeling impossibly heavy beneath your trembling hands. The metal had begun to feel suffocating somewhere during the walk back to camp, restrictive against movements already stiff with pain and exhaustion. By the time the final piece dropped beside you onto the damp ground, your body felt lighter for itâthough not by much.
The cold water helped somewhat.
You knelt at the waterâs edge, dipping shaking hands into the lake and washing away as much dirt and blood as you could manage. Crimson swirled through the rippling water before disappearing into the dark. Cuts and bruises revealed themselves more clearly beneath the grime now, angry and swollen across your skin. Every touch stung.
Your head still throbbed dully from the fall, a lingering haze sitting stubbornly behind your eyes. You must have struck it harder than you first thought. But Shadowheart had already pushed herself dangerously far tonight, and the guilt of asking for more healing magic settled too heavily in your chest to ignore. A bandage would do.Â
Still, despite the pain clouding every inch of your body, your thoughts kept circling back to him.
The pale elf.
The vampire spawn.
Astarion.
You rose slowly from the lakeside, suppressing the ache that flared through your muscles as you pulled yourself upright. Camp was quieter now, the earlier panic replaced with weary relief. Around the fire, the others had finally begun eating the fish you had nearly died retrieving. Their voices were low, subdued, exhaustion weighing down even Karlachâs usual energy.
You barely registered them as you passed.
Your body carried you toward Astarionâs tent almost on instinct alone.
The fabric shifted softly as you stepped inside.
Astarion sat propped against a pile of blankets, shirtless now, pale skin illuminated softly by the warm glow of a nearby lantern. Fresh bandages wrapped tightly around his torso, stark white against bruised skin. Seeing him like thisâstripped of his usual effortless composure, visibly wounded and exhaustedâsent something painful twisting through your chest.
He looked up as you entered, and immediately, his eyes fixed on you.
You crossed the small space between you before your knees finally gave out beneath the weight of the night, lowering yourself carefully in front of him. Even that small movement hurt.
Neither of you spoke at first.
Your hands moved slowly, brushing your hair aside to expose the curve of your neck to him. The vulnerable gesture felt strangely intimate in the quiet of the tent.
âYou need to feed,â you murmured softly. âYou lost too much blood.â
For a moment, Astarion simply stared at you.
Not because of the offer itselfâyou had offered before.
But because of now.
Because you were pale with exhaustion, blood still dried at your temple beneath the hastily wrapped bandage. Your hands trembled faintly from overexertion, your breathing still uneven from everything your body had endured tonight. Anyone with sense would have been resting. Protecting what little strength remained.
And yet you were here.
Offering him the last thing you had left to give.
Again.
Something unreadable flickered across his expression then, quieter and far more vulnerable than the usual amusement or practiced charm he wore so effortlessly.
Slowly, he shifted closer.
One hand lifted carefully to your neck, cool fingers resting against your skin as though testing whether you were truly there. His other hand settled against your waist, steadying you as he gently pulled you nearer. The movement was slow, deliberate, intimate enough that your breath caught despite yourself.
You tilted your head instinctively, giving him access to your neck, already bracing for the familiar sharp sting of his bite.
But it never came.
Instead, all you felt were his lips.
Soft.
Gentle.
A lingering kiss pressed against the sensitive skin of your neck with a tenderness that startled you far more than teeth ever could.
Astarion stayed there for a brief moment before pulling back slowly.
Your eyes met his immediately. There was something different in his gaze nowâsomething quieter, stripped bare by exhaustion and everything you had done for him tonight.
âWhile I appreciate the offer,â he murmured softly, thumb brushing faintly against your waist, âyou donât have nearly enough to spare right now, darling.â
The words were light, but the meaning beneath them wasnât.
Because, for perhaps the first time in longer than he could remember, Astarion did not look at you and think about survival first.
He looked at you and thought about your safety.
And somehow, that terrified him far more than the undead ever had.
âWhat was that down there?â Astarionâs voice was quiet in the dimness of the tent, lacking its usual theatrical edge. The lantern beside him cast soft gold across pale skin and loose white curls, shadows flickering gently across the sharpness of his features.
You frowned slightly, exhaustion still clouding your thoughts. âWhat do you mean?â
His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching your face as though the answer might already be written there somewhere. âYou were barely standing,â he said softly. âHalf dead yourself and still throwing yourself between me and an entire crypt full of undead.â His brows furrowed faintly, genuine confusion slipping through the cracks of his composure. âWhy?â
The answer came easier than you expected.
âFor you, Astarion.â
Silence.
The kind that settled heavily between two people when something honest had been placed carefully into the space between them.
Astarion stared at you like he was waiting for the punchline. As though somewhere in the back of his mind he had already convinced himself this couldnât possibly be realâthat there had to be another motive hidden beneath your words, something safer and more understandable than simple care.
But there wasnât.
And that realization seemed to unsettle him far more than anything else tonight.
âWhy?â he asked again, quieter this time.
The vulnerability in the question appeared to catch even him off guard.
Almost immediately, you watched the shift happen.
The retreat.
The instinctive reach for humor like armor slipping back into place. âIf that was your attempt at impressing me, darling,â he said lightly, a faint smirk finally tugging at his lips, âIâd say it was unnecessarily dramatic.â
A tired laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
And gods, hearing him joke againâhearing that familiar teasing tone return after the terror of seeing him bleeding in the cryptâsent relief flooding through you so suddenly it almost hurt.
Your smile softened as you looked at him.
Then, slowly, you reached for his hand.
The movement made him still instantly.
Not because the gesture itself was shocking, but because of how gentle it was. Careful. Intentional. Your fingers curled around his, warmth against the coolness of his skin.
For once, Astarion didnât immediately know how to react.
âI did it becauseâŠâ You hesitated briefly, searching for words through the exhaustion weighing down your mind. âBecause somewhere along the way, you stopped just being someone I travel with.â
His expression faltered almost imperceptibly.
You rubbed your thumb softly across the back of his hand before continuing.
âYou make me laugh when everything feels impossible. You stay close to me even when you pretend not to care. And when I look for you in a roomâŠâ Your voice softened slightly. âI always feel better once I find you there.â
Astarionâs breath caught faintly.
âYou ask why I risked myself for you,â you murmured. âBut to me, there wasnât really another choice.â
The teasing expression he had been trying so hard to maintain faded quietly after that.It simply slipped away beneath the weight of your honesty until all that remained was something far softer. Something uncertain.
Like he still didnât fully understand how to hold something so genuine without fearing it might disappear the moment he touched it.
His fingers tightened slightly around yours.
Small.
Instinctive.
But real.
âYou really are terrible for my ego, you know that?â he said finally, voice quieter now, stripped of most of its usual performance. âHow am I supposed to maintain any air of mystery when you insist on saying things like that?â
You smiled tiredly, the warmth of it lingering between you both.
And for the first time that night, the silence that followed no longer felt heavy at all.
Astarion held your gaze for a long moment after that, crimson eyes quieter than you had ever seen them. The usual sharpness behind them had softened into something almost dangerously sincere, as though exhaustion had worn down the walls he normally kept so carefully intact.
His thumb brushed once against your hand before he finally let out a slow breath through his nose, the faintest trace of amusement returning to his expression.
âWell,â Astarion murmured, voice gentler now, âI suppose nearly getting yourself killed for me has earned you the privilege of sharing my blankets.â
A tired laugh escaped you, soft and breathless, and something in his shoulders visibly loosened at the sound of it.
âThere it is,â you teased weakly. âI was wondering when your ego would recover.â
âOh, itâs hanging on by a thread,â he replied dryly. âDo try not to wound me further tonight. I am already tragically injured.â
The corner of your mouth lifted despite how utterly exhausted you felt.
Astarion shifted carefully, suppressing a small wince as he moved further across the bedroll to make space for you beside him. The movement was slower than usual, lacking his normal effortless grace, but there was something strangely intimate about that tooâseeing him allow himself to be seen like this, tired and hurting and real.
You hesitated only briefly before lying down beside him.
Every inch of your body protested the movement immediately.
The two of you awkwardly adjusted at first, exhaustion making even simple movements difficult as you both tried instinctively to avoid bruises, cuts, and freshly wrapped injuries. Your arm brushed carefully around his waist while avoiding the bandages across his torso, and his hand settled lightly against your side with surprising gentleness, mindful of the aches still lingering beneath your skin.
Eventually, you found something comfortable enough.
The blankets were warm around you both, carrying faint traces of leather, old parchment, and the familiar lingering scent of him. Outside the tent, the distant crackle of the campfire and muffled voices blurred softly into the background, fading further with every passing second.
For once, neither of you felt the need to speak.
Your head rested carefully against his shoulder, exhaustion pulling at you so heavily now that keeping your eyes open felt impossible. Beside you, Astarion had gone unusually still, his arm remaining loosely around you like he was still adjusting to the idea that someone had willingly chosen to be this close to him.
That someone had fought for him.
Cared for him.
Chosen him.
Even now, he still wasnât entirely certain what to do with that feeling blooming painfully warm inside his chest.
But as your breathing slowly evened out against him, your body finally relaxing now that you knew he was safe, Astarion found thatâfor the first time in a very long whileâthe night did not feel quite so cold.
And somewhere between exhaustion and silence, the two of you finally let sleep claim you together.
Synopsis. âTo the esteemed and venerable House of Gojo,
Hereby is your formal invitation to the Choosing Ceremony; our proudly ancestral tradition in which an eligible candidate is put forth by every clan in high societyâand out of them all, only one shall be chosen as future husband to our Madam.Â
And for that, the Madam has specifically requested the presence of Gojo Satoru. Specifically.Â
It does not matter to her that your candidate has no cursed energy so to speak of, and it would be our greatest honor to start bridging stronger relations between our two dignified clans.Â
We hope for your good health, and a reply from Gojo himself soon.â
Or in which if Gojo Satoru hasnât manifested his powers yet, you know a way to make himâŠsnap.
A/N. Oh Gege how can I ever thank you ENOUGH for these powers-
Gojo Satoru was born without cursed energy.
December 7th. Twenty-eight years ago. He had been a strangely quiet baby- to the extent that itâd scared the midwives, and theyâd fussed-over and checked him from every angle before ultimately realizing that that was just the wayâŠhe is. But strange was good.
Strange meant powerful.
And thus came the higher-ups that breathed down the poor infantâs neck. They were the first to see when heâd cracked his eyes open, twenty-eight years ago; and gave those peering higher-ups a glimpse of those cloud-flecked summer skies he held withinâthey thought heâd been destined for greatness. Those eyes of hisâŠthey just seemed to glow.
Six Eyes. So it had touched this generation of Gojos too, right? Right?
But there was only one problem: they couldnât feel a single lick of cursed energy emanating from the boy.Â
Gojo Satoru was born without powers.Â
An outlier. An anomaly. A disgrace.Â
Which is why, twenty-eight years later, heâd been surprised when the marriage proposal came.Â
âThrow it out, Ijichi.â Gojo snarled, tapping his long tobacco stick against the low table. The kiseru was made of polished bamboo, its sleek body donning the silver emblem of the Gojo clanâit had been scratched out. It gleamed like a blade.
The heir to the Gojo clan - at least in name - had his back turned to his audience. Soft morning sunlight filtered through silk curtains and illuminated his strong figure, draped in Gojo-blue. It was almost against everyoneâs will, including his own, that he had grown tall. Broad. Traditional woodblock prints. Sandalwood incense from the local temple. Books upon books of high literature surrounding him. Heâd read them over hundreds of times.Â
Seated upon a plush blue zabuton cushion with silver threading; he was surrounded by opulence and even more loneliness. Most days, Gojo sipped his time away with that damn bamboo stick and his booksâtraining and convening with others had long been banned since it became obvious that the heir had no talent in cursed energy. Which wasnât supposed to be- he was supposed to be The Strongest. He was supposed to beâŠsomething else. Someone else. So they hid him away.
They forgot about him.Â
Out of sight, out of mind. Right?Â
Except for Ijichi Kiyotaka, the one resident at the Gojo Estate that knew the enigmatic Gojo son beyond just whispers and the occasional flash of white hair âround hallway corners. Disappearing quicker than one catches it.
The envelope crumples in Ijichiâs hands as he speaks, âBut master-â
âDo not call me that.â His voice isnât too loud. And yet, it cuts through the attendantâs voice with its simple simperââWhat have I told you, Ijichi?â
âM-my apologiesâŠGojo-san.âÂ
Gojo had his head semi-turned over his shoulder. And from that brief profile, Ijichi sees that even that title manages to make the other manâs lip curlâthough he doesnât say anything more. He merely turns back to his tobacco as the bespectacled man starts to blubber once more.Â
âI-I just meant to sayâŠâ Tone wavering. Tone beseeching. Heâs shuffling forward on both knees with the envelope held out, â-that this might be something of interest, ma- Gojo-san.â
âWhat? A marriage proposal?â Gojo scorns after a deep exhale. The tobacco at the end of his pipe still remains inflamed when he sets it down on the table, and finally turns properly towards his attendant. His only. Gojo isnât so presumptuous as to call him his only friend- but sometimes he canât help but feel that way. Steely blue eyes narrow. âDoes it look like I have the patience to entertain what is so-obviously a joke, Ijichi?â
âButââ Ijichi canât help but stir. âYouâve been leaving this proposal without reply for four days, Gojo-san. And it seems that in that time, theyâve contacted the Estate five times just to make sure it was delivered.â
He raises a ghost-pale brow, âThen it seems they donât know Iâm without cursed energy.â
Ijichi squirms uncomfortably. He pushes his glasses up, âI-it seems that in that time, the council of elders had takenâŠliberties to inform them of this circumstance.â
Gojo takes his tobacco and taps it impatiently on the table. âAnd?â He runs a hand through his hairâwhat else could he have expected from them? Fucking bastards.Â
To his surprise, Ijichi ducks his head down ever-so-slightly. And though the Gojo heir might not have those special eyes that deemed him as part of the family - he could still see that the other man seemed to be hiding a faint smile. âAndâŠit seems they were still interested, Gojo-san.â
Thereâs a pause.
Gojo takes another deep inhale.
âIs that soâŠ?â His words were low and lazyâbut Ijichi could see right through them. He could discern that faint furrow between his masterâs brows as he mulled over the thought, let it twist and turn and take over his mind. Everyone he knew didnât spare him a second glance at him once they found out about his predicament.Â
They would fawn over him and his blue eyes during those stuffy social functions he was dragged to as a child - back when the elders still seemed to think he had a chance of his cursed energy showing up as he grew - and then âdiscreetlyâ be pulled aside by some attendant or the other to beâŠtold. âNormal eyesâ was what he commonly heard. Then theyâd avert their eyes from him all night.
It took him some years before he understood why, and then heâd started refusing to join these functions. After that, they stopped asking.Â
Visitors from far-off lands would bring him gifts and candies whenever they visited the Estate on official business; and heâd stand outside the meeting hall as they requested to see the âlittle oneâ. Only to be told by his very parents that there was nothing to see - he had no cursed energy. There was nothing impressive about him.Â
He never saw a single one of those candies.
The dojos of the Gojo Estate would be in an uproar morning after morning; and once - just once as a child - he had asked to join. The head instructor had shared a pitying gaze with his top student, and Gojo had sprinted out of the place before they could utter a single word. They can keep their pityâhe didnât need a single one of them.
He didnât need anyone.
Not the tutors, nor the attendants, nor the kids of those higher-ups that all looked at him with pity in their eyes- thatâs part of why he latched onto Ijichi and made him his only attendant.Â
He never did so.
That, and Gojo liked his glasses.Â
Wherever news of Gojoâs lack of power spread, it became infected like a disease.
Which is why he couldnât understand you.Â
âGojo-san?â Ijichiâs tentative voice breaks through his torrent of thoughts, and Gojoâs still slightly dazed as he looks up at the other man - how long had he been silent? Shaking off whatever had come over him - itâs not quite like him to reminisce - he stands and walks to one of the open doorsâfacing a private section of the Gojo gardens. Butterflies flicked from flower to flower, and trees swayed serendipitously in the winds. He watches one of those multi-colored wings flap to foxglove and then off into the sky. Watching such a sight, he couldnât help but feel so small.
The Gojo Estate was beautiful, but deadly.Â
And so were those with its name.Â
âWrite them a response apologizing for taking so long.â Gojo keeps staring out at the summer day as he speaks, and the other man jolts to attention. âAnd tell themâŠâ He wasnât sure who he was waiting for: Ijichi who was noting this down, or himself. He swallows and clasps his hands behind his backââTell them that I accept.â
He has always hated feeling small.Â
âLetâs see how they truly like The Strongest.â
.
.
.
The elders were prepping and poking at him like some dessert the next evening.
News of his acceptance had spread like wildfire.Â
And before he knew it, they were rubbing his skin red and raw - until milk-water seeped into his every pore. Dousing him in clouds of perfume. Painting his plump lips just the faintest cherry-redâjust enough to be enticing, or so they said. Smoothing down the invisible creases on his expensive cotton hakama; threaded cranes and reeds took flight from their hem, the silver emblem of the Gojo clam burned deeply into his back. He couldnât find much of a difference between this and a dog collar. Play nice. Donât bite.Â
Do tricks for the pretty lady.Â
Or so he assumed he would have to.Â
At some point, he wondered whether they were oh-so-fervently preparing him in the hopes of getting rid of him. And his hypothesis was only exacerbated when those elders caught each othersâ eyes and smiled as they were bidding him farewell. âMake our family proud.â His father had told him.
Farewell. Farewell.
The towering, palace-like gates of the Gojo Estate grew smaller behind him, and he determined that even if he wasnât getting picked - he was never coming back.Â
And so he was here.
Gojo was escaping one Estate and being led straight into another; grander, more gilded. The prestige radiated off of it in waves and made his stomach turn to knots as he was led inside - Ijichi by his side - past winding hallways and antiques displayed, then singled out and told to sit in the meeting chamber amongst a row of handsome men. Ijichi nods reassuringly at him and steps outside.Â
Gojoâs sighing greatly before sitting at the very end of the row - attempting to twist his legs into the poised positions that the others were taking on top of the tatami. There were about twenty of them; backs straight, legs tucked, proudly dressed in robes with their family names. They stood out in their multi-color robes and reminded Gojo of old-fashioned puppets. And even among these handsome men they were attempting to out-handsome one another.
It was almost pathetic- really.Â
As they wait for you to arrive, your suitors would jut their heads out and take a good look at the competitionâthen if they assess that one seemed to be giving them too much of a run for their money, theyâre primping their hair nâ polishing off their jewels. The Gojo Estate had given him none - probably didnât trust him with them.Â
He feels a laugh bubbling up in his throat as, one by one, they snuck glances at him and sat just a little taller. And yet, they couldnât meet his height.
That didnât matter, however.
In this society, all that mattered were oneâs powers - and should one not have strong powers, then itâs the connections. Gojo had none.Â
Ah, to get this over withâŠ
Soon, footsteps resound and the sliding doors rattle. Gojo gets the urge to look up as they open, but heâs tampering down the temptation and keeping his eyes fixated on the ground as he always does. It came as second nature to him. Next to him, he feels the other candidates stiffen and do the same.Â
âThe Madam enters.â Wheezes out a male voice, old and reverent.Â
Thereâs another step as someone - presumably you - steps inside the meeting hall, and then theyâre all placing their hands in front of them and bowing. Bending in unison at the waist. It wasnât common to bow to someone he knew was just a year or two youngerâbut you were already the Madam of your clan, and they were mere heirs after all.
Him, not even that.
âAt ease, please.â Your sweet, sweet voice echoes out and sends goosebumps skittering across his skin. Gojoâs not sure what he expected - but thisâŠâThank you for coming. Your presence shall be rewarded plentifully.â
âWeâre grateful, Madam.â
âW-weâre grateful, MadamâŠâ Gojo follows up belatedly. His pulse quickens. His thighs squeeze. He feels stares hone in on him at that exact moment, and heâs sure that one of them was yours.
Gojo attempts to press himself down on the tatami even deeper- to fold himself in half and make himself invisible. His eyes widen and the smooth woven surface stares up at him. His palms sweat where they were clenched. Itâs not that he cared about what anyone here would think of him - but if he were to get out of here and escape, then drawing any attention to himself doesnât help.Â
His heartbeat thunders in his chestâba-dump!Â
But you donât single him out. And Gojoâs unsure whether or not to breathe out a sigh of relief once he hears what seems to be a soft chuckle coming from your directionâhe canât risk it twice.
And after a beat, Gojo hears your footsteps start to make their way down from the other end of the row. Step after step. Stare after stare. Second after second, he assumes youâre taking your time assessing each candidate before moving onto the next. And behind your nearly-soundless steps were your gaggle of elders- âThis is a descendent of the Kamo clanââ Theyâre not quite whispering to you, âVery powerful. Very respectable family.â
âI see.â You say, and youâre walking past the Kamo descendent.
âO-oh and this oneâŠthe Fujiwara clan. Not the wealthiest but-â
You hold a hand up, âYes, thank you.â
âZenin Nao-â
âNot at all.â
Whoever that was - Gojoâs heard of the Zenin clan in bits and pieces through the walls of meeting chambers he wasnât let into - withers in his bow. Whatever heâs heard of the man hadnât been favorable in the first place, so he has to bite his lip to hold back a faint chuckleâso caught up in the action that he nearly doesnât notice the shadow padding over to him. He nearly doesnât notice that youâve walked right up to him.Â
Itâs the elders that get his attention before you do.
âAh- and this is theâŠâ Gojo doesnât need to strain his ears to hear what theyâre saying about him. Heâs heard it time and time again: that slight hitch in their tone, the way they bring up a hand to cover their mouths but still look at him. âThe heir to the Gojo clan.â Spat like a curse.
âThe hair gave it away.â Thereâs none of that derision in your tone. âHow beautiful.â
A shiver runs down Gojoâs spine.
And itâs not long before yet another one of your council members is tugging at your sleeves, âMadam, this is theâŠâ
Another speaks up- âThe note that was deliveredââ
âThat forgotten son.â And another.
âSilence.âÂ
Youâre saying it so serenely, and yet it manages to get every single damn one of them to shut up. Every single one of themâthat were hungry and clamoring for your attention; frothing at the mouth to reveal his open secret. If only it was so easy for him. The silence stretches terribly, until the tension was so thick that it was hard for him to breathe.Â
And before he knows it, Gojoâs feeling a soft hand touch his shoulder.Â
Lightness fills him. Just ephemeral and fleeting.Â
And your voice speaks out in a much warmer tone, âPlease. At ease.âÂ
Something seems to uncoil inside him as he straightens- why he was following your every word, he has no idea. But soon enough, heâs back in his resting position and looking down the row of other candidates that ogled him.Â
You chuckle kindly once more, âThe others have long since been sitting. You may go easier on yourself.â Through his peripheral vision, he senses you crouching down in front of you.
And so heâs finally looking upâ
Now, Gojo Satoru could describe your features, or your clothes, or the color of your eyes- or even the degree of your smile. He looks back on this moment - not even in the far future, mere split-seconds later - and thinks he could pinpoint the exact angle that the light flooding into the chamber struck the side of your face. But the only thing he registers right now is that if heaven were real, then this might just be the place. And heâd run straight into its awaiting arms-
Your awaiting arms.Â
Then as quickly as that flare of madness appeared, heâs shaking his head. Trying to clear his mind - whilst you wear a look of slight bemusement on your face as if you could read his thoughts.
Gojoâs just able to pull himself together and flicker his sapphire eyes openâwhen youâre standing up and addressing them all. Speaking loud and clear- âI have chosen.âÂ
Cold water douses him- or at least feels like it. And the other candidates in your row of suitors shiver like they were experiencing something similar.
One of the elders shifts his gaze nervously between him and you, âY-you have chosen, Madam?âÂ
Another one clasps his hands in delight and beams, âAs per my recommendation- the Kamo boy, Madam?â
âNo noâit should be the Abe boy.â
âThe-â
One hand raised to signal silence. Youâre running your serious stare down the row of men that sat rigidly awaiting your decree.
Each one blenches a little as it reaches them, as though it sent bolts of electricity through them.
Eventually, theyâre stopping on him.Â
On Gojo Satoru.
And he meets your gaze shyly- with bated breath.
âItâs him.â The calmness before the storm. âI choose him.â Before the chamber seems to explode into the indignant noises of the other candidates, the pleas and coos of elders attempting to stop you from making any rash decisions. The air seems to still. The pipes seem to burst. Outside, itâs evident that some of the house staff had been peering through the cracked-open door and eavesdropping on the ceremony- and their surprised squawks add to the cacophony.
And in the middle of the noise - the center of attention - you and Gojo share a look in silence.
Your hand raises once more.Â
âSilence. I will not repeat it.â A slight hardening in your tone. Itâs there to remind them all that you are the clan leader, after all; amongst the youngest to be handed the mantle, amongst the most successful to make your Estate surge in social and economic standing. âHe is to be my husbandââ Turning to look at him. â-if he so wishes it.â
And you had chosen him to be your husband.
Thereâs a terse silence- and everyone turns their heads towards Gojo before he realizes that they were waiting for his answer. Most of the other men glower at him as if to say he was stupid if he messed this up-
âY-yes.â Nodding unsteadily. It seems like the kind of thing that heâd have to ponder over - but it comes to him as though his mind had already been made up, without him knowing. âYes.â Yes, he was sure.Â
âYes, Madam.â The guy next to him hisses.
One of your head council members all but begs at your feet, âB-but master, he has no cursed energyâŠâ
âElder, must I repeat myself once more?â It seems like an off-hand questionâalmost jovial. But clearly the elder knows better than to push, and heâs shrivelling back up once more.
With a wave of your hand, youâre dismissing them. âAnd so if that is all, the other candidates shall have to forgive me- but I wish to spend some time getting to know my future husband. I hope you understand. Refreshments will be available in the East gardens.â As they start to exchange glances and stand, you turn to your balking eldersââAnd that goes for you, too, dear elders.â
They stir.
They look at each other- as if for confirmation.
Before one nudges the other - and they can do nothing but walk. Walk away with a mere glanceâpast the ogling house staff, following the murmuring young men.Â
Despite how much your attendants try to take a peek at him- the sliding doors shut.Â
Rattling; those trundling vibrations soak into the walls and reach all the way down to Gojoâs toes. Making them curl as you sit in front of him: close enough that his heart thunders, far enough that you wouldnât be able to hear it. Though by the look on your face, he almost has his doubtsâŠ
âSoâŠâ Youâre placing your face in your hands and taking a good look at him. âSomething tells me youâre not one for small talk?â
âWhy have you chosen me?â He jerks his peripherals to meet yours, and stares at you squarely. âThey were right- you knowââ Gojo gestures at the doors behind you, âI donât have any cursed energy.â
âI was right.â You mutter to yourself, âAnd as for why I chose youâŠhmâŠâÂ
He almost thinks you wonât answer the question, when youâre cupping your hands in front of you and letting them emanate a soft golden glow. Gojo knows what it is instantly- heâs spent so many years wishing he had the same, after all. Even the tiniest ember of it.
Youâre shaping the air in your hands as though molding the radiance; it fractures and bends like sunlight between tree branches. Beautiful. Heâs never seen anything more beautiful. As if his thoughts caught your attention, youâre half-smiling up at him. âDo you know what this is?â
âCursed technique.â He whispers.
You nod, âAnd can you take a guess what it does?â
âSomething to do with darkness and light? Vanquishing darkness?â Gojo cocks his head.Â
âIn a wayâŠâ Youâre gesturing for him to reach outâand he brings his arm out somewhat tentatively. The moment your fingertips touch his skin, that radiance seeps warmth throughout his body- it floods him with that same light feeling from earlier. âFeel that? Itâs your mask being taken off you.â Gojo looks at you in confusion. âMy cursed technique reveals peopleâs true emotions and thoughts- the good and the bad. The honest. I can read them all.â
âAnd mineâŠ?â He gasps. How wondrous. Those of the Gojo clan were often stuck on bending space and the physics of it all. Your technique just seemed soâŠhuman.Â
You smile, âSomething like cursed energy doesnât matter to me. You were the only one that didnât want me for my name or status.â Fingers sliding across milky skin - feeling more of him. Reading more of him. His gasp catches in his throat as you continue, âYou were angry. And tiredâŠâ Brows furrowing. â-and a little scared.â
âI am.â He swallows- throat dry. âI was. But whatâs that to you?â
âAnd then there was something elseâŠâ Bolts of lightning seem to explode wherever your fingertips traced, and heâs feeling his pulse heighten. His half-lidded gaze bores into yoursââYou were aroused calling me âMadamâ.â
And then Gojo Satoru just seems to melt-
âI wasnât-â
âYou were.â
âI was-â There was no use hiding it. Heâs leaning backwardsâeven though his hands remained where they were, aching for your touch. Gojoâs words come out in jagged pants, wet and blistering; perspiration starts to formulate on his skin. âI was. And itâs all your fault I had to hide a boner from some damn elders.â
âYou wereâŠwhat?â You tilt your head coyly. Gojo Satoru. From the moment you saw him, you knew you wanted him.
And one wouldnât need a cursed technique to know how he felt- a rosy blush rises to his cheeks. âI was, Madam.â
Was it getting even hotter inside this damn room? Gojoâs almost subconsciously letting those expensive robes of his flap open, just the barest slivers of pinkish skin.Â
âHow perverted.â Youâre tutting. Starting to lean in now, âBut thatâs alright. Because right now, youâre feeling something else, too.â
Whispering. Octaves higher. He looks like heâs in for a battle- thereâs a carnal glint in his eyes thatâs hard to mistake. âAnd that isâŠ?â Challenging.Â
âYou wish to kiss me so badly.â
And so he does.
He does, he does, he does- heâs not sure whoâs reaching for whom first. But suddenly your lips are on his and heâs moaning into your mouthâloud and openinâ up in a gasp before youâre capturing his lower lip between your teeth and teasing him just a little.Â
Nibbling.
The chamber light flickers for just a second- but neither of you notice it as Gojo bucks. Straight off the smooth tatami and reachinâ his carnal hips up into yours. The simple action is enough to make Gojo fist at the fabric of your clothes, white-knucking them until heâs hearing a little riiiiipâ!Â
Youâre breaking the kiss with a gasp- and his lips still chase yours ravenously. âNow, nowâŠwe arenât even married yet. Not that I care, but what would the council say?â
âI donât care.â Gojo pants out hot nâ heavy into your mouth. Before one hand snakes up the back of your neck to guide you into a deep kiss once more- âI donât fucking care.â
âEâmmpf.â Heâs sucking sloppily on your tongue, dragging the tip of your tastebuds between his lips nâ tasting. Like itâs the sweetest damn thing heâs ever tasted. Brows crinkling in frustration whenever youâre attempting to half-heartedly break off and continue speaking- âEager- oh, are we? Something tells me that someoneâs a littleâŠinexperienced, hm?â
And you didnât need your cursed technique to read him - Gojo blushes straight down to the roots of his ivory hair.Â
His nose crinkles, âI am. Iâve never touched a woman- anyone before.â
âAnd thatâs perfectly alright.â Youâre reassuring him, hands coming up to caress his heaving chest. âWe donât have to do anything you donât want to. We can take it slow-â
âNoââ Gojo gasps as though youâd just cussed him out. Hands trembling on your body - fabric bunching, fingers white-knuckling. Heâs holding onto you like you were a lifeline. âNo no no no- I would ratherâŠif you would like toââ
Youâre letting your warm cursed energy out.
âI want to taste your lips.â He admits, wincing at the way it sounds so crude being said out loud. âYourâŠother lips.â
âOh.â Your mouth parts. Before a rush of pleasure seeps through you- âThen why donât I get on my back, hm? I want to see your pretty face.â
He almost feels faintish just hearing the words.
In next to no time; youâve positioned yourself flatly against the tatami matsâand dragged him right on top of you, of course. Gojoâs body eagerly climbs up your own, the light from above creating a halo-like effect on him, and admires you for a few seconds- kisses your lips once more- before heâs pressing a thorough trail of open-mouthed kisses down your body.Â
Between your tits. Down the side of your hips.
Gojoâs then moving back and chastely peckinâ up your inner-thighs before heâs reaching that wetness in-between. The heat of your cunt just radiates between your legs- you were already so drenched nâ pulsing.Â
That tick-tick-tick of your cunt presses against his face as Gojo shuffles aside your layers and nuzzles in. Even through your underwear, it was making his mouth water already.
Without a single warning, Gojo lets his greedy tongue drip out and gives your clothed pussy a gooood lick. From bottom to top.
His tongue flickering back in. That damn light inside the meeting chamber flickers against once more- and youâre immediately bucking up into his touch. âG-Gojoââ
âThatâs my fatherâs name. Instead call meâŠâ He murmurs, throat smoky. With a sudden squelching kissâplaced right where your swollen folds were the plumpest, the heir to the Gojo clan struggles to push himself even deeper. Even closer. Even more desperately. âSatoru.â
âSatoru.â You repeat.
And he looks as though heâs in ecstasy.
In what seems like the far-off distance, thereâs a sudden burst of something sharp- shards. The observation lingers in your mind and youâre realizing that it sounded like a lightbulb or one of the antiques being dropped.Â
But thereâs no time to think about it too deeplyâbecause in the next few seconds, youâre weaving your fingers through Gojoâs dampened white hair. Twisting them into a grip so deliciously painful for him, and dragging his pretty face back between your legs. A sudden moan rips from your throat- âYour future wife wants you to eat her out, Satoru.â
Heâs on you so fast - nudginâ his head nose-deep - that you think it mightâve been teleportation. âYes, Madam.â
And how could he ever deny a command from you?
Itâs the only thing that whirls in Gojoâs dazed mind- itâs the only thing his body even seems to be running on. Before he even registers what heâs doing, his fingers are reaching up to swipe aside your soppinâ panties. FuckâŠyouâre so pretty he feels a moan slip out. Muttering a ruined prayer between your legs- before the slender tip of his tongue darts out and slobbers.
A lick straight down your wet crevice.
A lap around the outer area where your slick had accumulated.
âMmmpfââ Gojo breathes through his nostrils nâ lets them flare. He lets his eyes widen. He lets his jaw drop.
Just the faintest glimmer of your essence trickling down the side of his mouth.Â
And Gojoâs going crazy.
With a croaked, crackling groan at the back of his throat- heâs hooking a bulky arm around your left leg and tuggingâmanhandling you to him in a surprisingly primal way. Your pussylips are slamminâ against the edge of his chin, and heâs probing his tongue even deeper. Back and forth. Back and forth. âWhy is she so sweetâŠâ
Feeling the pressured intrusion of his tongue - the way his slippery muscle expands the first inches of your muscle so well - youâre merely arching up into his mouth with a keen. âOhhh, just like thatââ
âHuh? What- thatâs notâŠâ And for a few seconds there, you think heâs merely babblinâ away to himself. But when Gojo fishes his sloppy tongue back out and thrashes it even harder- nose pressing up determinedly against the nub of your clit - thatâs when youâre realizing that something else might be at play here.
Thatâs when youâre letting your chin drop to your chest, and discovering Gojo already staring at you with large, hallowed eyes- straight up at you.
Thatâs when heâs becoming even more frenzied as he sandwiches his lips between your puffy folds and makes out with them. Those girthy inches of his tongue drawing out languid slurps and sounds that make his cock twitch. âTh-thatâs not what I asked, Madam.â Heâs rubbing up against the sensitive inner parts of your thighs, âThatâs not the answer to my question, right?â From the way he looked, you genuinely couldnât tell whether he was joking or dead serious.
âSatoru, what do youâŠâ Getting on your elbows to look down at him.
But itâs almost too late. Because Gojo has his mouth hooked âround your sweet, sweet pussy and his zig-zagging tastebuds driving you wildââWhy are you so sweet?â Almost as wild as Gojo was driving himself. âWhy are you so hot? So ready takinâ my tongue? Just fuckingâstickinâ to me like that- your pussyâs trying to chase me when I kiss her.âÂ
âO-ohhhhâyouâre sure this is your first time?â You can merely sob.
Those sky-blue eyes of his flash with some amusement.
âSo fuckingâŠâ And youâre not sure if he even hears you - youâre not sure whether Gojo can register anything other than the dessert platter in front of him right now. As if on cue, that leaky hole of yours empties out numerous wads of sap that smear down his cheeks. He welcomes it with what almost feels to you - and your technique - like a purr. And this last word is spat out in what almost feels like a growl- â-addictive?â
Itâs almost accusing.
Though not really, and Gojoâs honed canines jut out as he lavishes a few kisses on your clit. Soakinâ it up enough to reach a hand up and pinch.
That glistening nub of yours grows even fatter nâ needier as he squeezes it between two cold fingertips. His thumb and his index. Just the sight of it is enough to make his mouth salivate once again, and all those gluey ribbons of saliva end up getting spat on your pussy once again.
Gojoâs plugginâ it up with his crowned fingertips before it can get the chance to trickle out. Like a waterfall. âYou must have done something to meâŠâ The realization hits him.
âE-excuse me?â You ask.
âItâs your cursed technique- isnât itâ?â Gojoâs then scissoring two digits inside you and starting to pummel your gooey insides with them. Each movement causes the prettiest orchestra of squelches that enter his eardums like fucking music-
âIt wasnât.â Squealing. Soaring your hands through his hair. He scours every inch of you with a single thrust- the sheer length of his fingers, ending off with those knobbly swollen tips.Â
They were so moldable nâ heâs gluing them to your softest orifices like adhesive. âI p-promise it wasnâtâŠâ Saliva starts to stream from one side of your mouthâyour mindâs turning to mush with every passing second. Without even thinking, you grab him by the scalp and guide his face closer between your legs. The cavern of his pretty pink mouth opens with a soft âyes, maâamâ and Gojo then latches onto your throbbing clit. âWhy? Do you feel any different, Satoru?â
âFeel different?â At that question, Gojo has to physically lurch away from your pussy to look up into your face nâ make sure that youâre serious. You were. âFeel different?â
âY-yesâŠ?â Slightly taken aback.
Gojo genuinely lets his head tip backwards- with a bout of crazed laughter.Â
Short. Breathless.
It echoes around the room; and youâre sure of itâthis doesnât sound anything like the Gojo Satoru youâve known. Until now. Thereâs a feral twinkle in his eyes that you canât quite discern once Gojo surges his head forward and kisses your pussy once more. French kisses.
This time, his pupils were mere needlepoints around a sea of faintly-gleaming blue as he wraps his lips around your clit and peers up at you. A grin plastered across his face- he knows you can feel it, because youâre just squirming so much. âSweetheart, I donât just feel differentâŠâ Those roverinâ tips of his enter your hole once more, three of them propelling inside your slippery channel. âI think I am different.â
A shiver runs down your spine. What did he mean byâŠ
Gojoâs eyebrows raiseââWhat do I mean by- hah, that? WellâŠI can feel your pussy reeeeeeal good-â His nose crinkles as yet another wave of slick slips down his throat, â-I can feel every clench, every pulse, every bead of slick.â
And then he increases the pace of his thrusts, until the brutish knuckles of his fingers were reddened.Â
Starting to swell.
Pump after pump.
Hit after hit.
The most ruthless swipes that messed up your insides. Leaves his mark on there like a last name; Gojo adds in a fourth finger just when you think youâve been stretched-out to your maximum limitsâ
âAndâŠâ That flexible end of his tongue lifts off of your clit. He curls it tenderly in front of your entrance- just in time for a pearly bead of slick to escape you and end up dappled straight on his tastebuds. âI can predict wherever they start to drip.â
Your mouth gapes open.
And though that was impressive, your mindâs occupied with something else entirely.Â
You yelp and sit up on your elbows straighter. How did he know? He read your mind. Heâs reading your body. You thought he didnât have cursed energy?!
But as though reading your mind was something he did everyday, he continues.
Heâs using those special antics to slash his mouth near-vertically across your own slit and end up draaaaaagging his textured tastebuds on top of your clit. Making you shake with every single spark of pleasure running up your body, whilst his fingers only prod âround even deeper. Swivelling around. Stirring you up from the inside. Squelch after squelch. âI can sense where you feel the best.â Gojoâs lips are flappinâ away animalistically between your legs. âI can tell just how good you feelââ
A sudden bite at your clit.
Youâre yelping, âFuh-fuuuuuck!â
ââSee? I can tell your pretty pussy liked that.â Gojoâs fluttering his pale lashes playfully. A smirk upon his maw. âI can tell that you like it when I do- ngh, thiiiiisââ Scissoring his fingers and flickerinâ his tongue on top of your clit, âAnd especially when I do this.â Making you throw your head back as he nibbles on your knob once more. Just as he had predicted - you shiver underneath his tongue, and heâs gapinâ his mouth wide to let those droplets cascade into his mouth. Those blue eyes of his nearly glow in excitementââAnd I can tellâŠactually, I can see that youâre feeling good all the way from hereââÂ
He presses down on your clit using the tip of his handsome nose.Â
Then glides his left hand up your front- as far as he could reach, heâs soon squeezing your left tit. Then the right. Alternating. Thereâs a strange buzzing sensation floating over your nipples whenever he touches themâŠâTo here. Even higher up to that- hah, pretty head of yours, the way sâlighting up.â
âLighting upâŠ?â Just to make sure, you spare a glance down at yourself. âSatoru, what are you talking abou- oh.â
But then heâs hittinâ his fingertips damn near your g-spot, and it feels good enough to bring tears to your eyes. âOh, sweetheart, your entire bodyâs on fire because of how good you feel. And I havenât even gotten to it yet.âÂ
âMy g-spot?â You babble.
Heâs nodding like a drunken man. âSheâs been waiting for me- pulsing, yâknow?â Gojo trundles out through his husky breaths, âThrobbing. Needing. Just aching for my attention.â
âTh-this really canât be your first timeâŠâ You mumble weakly, barely audible enough.
âAnd guess what?â He breathes- octaves away from normal.
âWhatâ?â
Gojo was staring at you with wide, almost-bulging eyes. His gaze was glazed over and yet- still so frenzied, enough so that you swear the irises surrounding his pupils were glowingââI can see where she is.â
With that said, youâre feeling the hardest- sloppiest thrust of his fingers yet.Â
A direct hit onto that cute heart-shaped button of your g-spot. Gojo doesnât need to move his fingers âround to feel for where that particularly soft area wasâhe knew where it was instantly. And the most crazed smile splashes across his face, twisting his lips, as heâs watching you shatter underneath him. He knows when youâre reaching your high before you yourself do.
âYouâre cumming for meâŠâ He inhales hollowly.Â
Eyes widening, âI am?â Itâs suddenly hitting you then: that spread of warmth from the pit of your stomach, up your spine, nâ fogging up your mind. Your pussy was just battering away at a staccato- your legs were thrashing where Gojo pinned them down with his upper half. âI am.â
Gojo merely crushes his face deeper and fucks you through the best orgasm youâve had in your entire life. Fingers nothing but a blur. Nose nuzzlinâ deeper. âI would never lie to you, Madam.â
âFuckâŠâ
Tongue dipping straight into your slippery hole, then alternating between rolling over your clit. Wave after wave.
The bliss is almost too much to bear - it washes over your body, setting your limbs alight with the electricity of your orgasm. That dopamine. Those white stars. And Gojoâs pressing on your g-spot accurately upon every single peak, such dogged need. âOh, and I can s-see itââÂ
âSatoru-â Youâre keening out. Your hands reach up to muss up Gojoâs ivory strands, grabbing and lavishing his mouth across your clit. Heâs sucking it inside and hollowing his cheeks outââTh-that wasnât anything my cursed technique did. This was all you, baby.â
âOhâŠâ
And with that awed expression upon his attractive features, heâs finishing up with the last few dredges of your orgasm. Letting the bliss course through you - Gojo then unlatches himself from your sensitive cunt with a loud pop! The last thrust of his fingers ends off with the faintest flicker of blue lightningâŠ
You both catch it and gasp-
Gojoâs meeting your eyes with his frenzied ones. Itâs then that youâre getting a good look- a proper one.
Gojo Satoruâs eyes were always such a beautiful blue. But nowâŠthey had a wreath of so many different shades - sky-blue, cobalt-blue, denim-blue, indigo, some almost as pale as white - playing within them that it looked like jewels. Like something out-of-this-world. It glowed with power.
And he doesnât need to read your mind to knowâ
âOh my god-â Youâre immediately attempting to surge up - and Gojo firmly presses you back down on the tatami. As if he already knew what you were going to say. âSatoru, we need to inform someoneâwe need to send summons to your Estate elders immediately-â
âMaybe.â He cocks his head with something akin to a pout.
And youâre staring up at him in disbelief, âDonât you want to prove them wrong? Donât you want to take your rightful mantle as head?â
âMaybeâŠâ Gojo murmurs once more, and his brows knot in the middle. âBut more than that- thereâs something else I want to do first.â
His first time, that is.
Before you know it, Gojo hovers his body upwards- then heâs tugging open your robes. Heâs leaving you half-bare. And then moving onto his, Gojo stares you straight down as he damn-near tears through the four attached straps of his hakama, the belt, the pieces tucked. Harsh. Almost violent.Â
It makes your cunt quiver just for a momentâand Gojoâs letting his jaw drop as though he could feel the fucking thing.
As though heâs listening to it. Worshipping it. He then manages to free his red, ravaged cock - glistening at the top with so much slick, and then turning into a peachy pink towards his base. Girthy tip, even girthier middle. His shaft was looooong and oh-so-proudly decorated in numerous zig-zagging veins, disappearing into the tufts of curly white at his hilt. Heâs so damn hard that he twitches in the air a few seconds after release.Â
Almost immediately afterwards, Gojoâs tall frame collapses on top of yours. Body wracking with shivers.Â
Gently folding both your legs over his shoulders; they trembled with the aftermath of your previous high, and a wicked smile plays upon his lips as he bends and bends you until the top of your knees hit your chest.Â
He gazes down at you through the gaps in his ivory hair, âMay I fuck you using my powers, Madam?â
Your mouth parts.
Gojo had flushed cheeks. Damp skin. His eyes faintly a-glow- and the most primal glimmer flickering within them.
Bolts of lightning dart from the edges of his peripherals and crackle in the sensual air between you two. The newest user of the Six Eyes in the Gojo clan. Youâre wrapping both arms around Gojoâs clammy neck and pulling him to you - instantly, a whiff of jasmine hits you. âPlease do, future head of the Gojo clan.â
He shivers.
And then heâs entering.
Just the large, globular tip of himâthe very edge of it that feels almost scorching against your entrance. He doesnât even need to sink all the way inside to stretch your hole âround himself, gluing his slit to the channel of your cunt - those walls that seem to just gulp him up. Itâs heavenly enough that Gojoâs letting his head duck into the crook of your neck, mouth opening up in turgid gasps. âOh- Iâm fucking my Madam.â One jerky thrust. âMy wife.â
âSh-shitâŠâ Your teeth clench. Your toes curl. And your pussyâs clenching around him like a vice. The stretch of himâŠit was like nothing youâve felt before.Â
âFeels good?â Gojo asks, through strikes. His swollen shaft drags in nâ out at a dizzying rate, and with those Six Eyes of his - you knew when they were about to activate down at you, because the fizzes of lightning would grow more concentrated - heâs managing to point out your g-spot instantly.
Directly mazinâ between your fluttering wall. Pushing his rounded tip against that bundle of nerves- still so sensitive from your previous orgasm that even the merest brush sets your body alightâŠ
Gojo reels his hips back nâ starts fucking you in quick, thorough thrusts that echo out into the room as plap! after plap! Heâs cementing his toned v-line to the front of your pelvis, and letting out drunken giggles at the way your g-spot quivers for more after every whackâthese damn Six Eyes really did manifest at the perfect time.
In no time, youâre feeling your walls turn to a gummy mess- ruined by his cock. Moaning out, âGo even deeper, husband-â
âO-oh.â His hips stutter mid-thrust. Not even bottoming out yet. âOhhhh, donât just say that-â
âWhy not?â Fluttering your lashes up at him innocently.Â
Gojo then trembles- he clamps his jaw shut as though he didnât know how to respondâŠor didnât trust himself to. His knees hike up the tatami floors as though attempting to burrow himself even deeperâand then back nâ forth again as if conflicted. Conflicted. Gojo grazes his pearly whites down the side of your throat and murmurs, âBecause c-call me that again nâ mâgonna cumâŠâ
Just a few thrusts.
Not even bottomed-out.
An he was going to fucking cum- just because you called him that?
Your interest piques. âMaybe I want you to-â Angling your head so that his hair tickles your face, and your lips graze his ear lobe. â-husband.â
âOhhh, I beg for mercy, Madam.â And he genuinely sounded serious.
âHusband?â
But it was too late- Gojo sprints his right hand down to clasp his hilt. But it was too late.Â
No matter how tightly heâs squeezing right there - where he was suddenly bulging even thicker at the thought of going inside you - Gojoâs ruddied tip leaks out a singular drop of ivory sap. And then another. And then another.Â
Until soon enough, he was coverinâ the entire front of your cunt. Eyelids shuttering. Throat cracking.
Gojoâs dipping his head down and watching as the mushroomy tip of his shaft almost explodes in a downpour of his cum- so much of it stored up. The warm wetness trickles over your pussylips like a glaze and ends up getting smeared by his blushinâ cockhead, stirring it around with the hand at his base. âSh-shit.â Gojos takes his lower lip between his teeth, in an effort to keep the whimpers out of his voice. âShit, I canât believe you made me- ngh, cum before you. What did I tell you?â
âAnd I said I wanted it, didnât I?â Youâre grinning.
âAnd I can never deny my Madam- ngh.â The prettiest noise at the back of his throat- heâs breathing it into you as you two kiss. Once youâre breaking apart, Gojoâs finding himself bucking short, stunted semi-thrusts without his hazy mind having even realized itââB-but about this messâŠcan I fuck it inside?â
âHm? I donât feel a mess.â Itâs true - you felt the initial splosh! of his creamy white cum leaking out. But after that you didnât feel it streak or dribble.
Youâre both looking down and finding- âWhatâsâŠâ That the large majority of his sap had accumulated around his fat tip, and though it was deliciously thickâthere seemed to be another barrier that kept the cum from leaking. An invisible forcefield.Â
Gojoâs breath catches once he realizes, âInfinity.â
âWhat?â
 But without answering, heâs merely swervinâ around the crowned head of his cock and watching as the glistening cum moves âround it. Doesnât exactly touch it. âInfinity.â All the air seems to escape his lungs- and electrify around you two. Gojo looks up at you with wide, pleading eyes. âI can manipulate Infinity- I have Limitless.â Blue lightning scatters across his skin.
âBoth? Bothâ?â Awe pumps through every atom of your being. It was impossible not to recite just what youâd learned in your jujutsu lessons years ago: âThere hasnât been a Six Eyes and Limitless user in the last 400 years.â
âI know.â He probably knew more than anyone else. And his lips twitch at the edges- he presses his sweaty forehead to yours. âI know.â
âSatoru, youâre probably one of the strongest sorcerers of two- maybe even the strongest.â Tone picking up in pitch and volume- and frenzy. The ends of your sentence wavered just a little bit at the fresh intrusion of his cocktip, twitching and glazed in cumâand something far more powerful. A layer of Infinity that pushed your sodden walls apart even further. âA-and youâre using it to fuck meâ?!â
Another rugged thrust. âWhat else would I use it for?â
But of course, the suggestion of anything other than feelinâ your sweet, sweet pussy wrapped around him felt almost like blasphemy.Â
Gojoâs snowy brows furrow at the sudden rush of power- and it takes a little getting used to the ebb and flow of cursed energy, the urge to bend and mold space at his will. But right now he had more important things on his mind. And no matter how much his mind racedâit halted for one thing. One idea.
And the most crazed - almost bemused - grin breaks across his face.Â
Crooked and slightly off-kilter; heâs focusing all his energy on lacquering that long, looong cock of his with a shatter-proof layer of Infinity. Almost like aâŠâCondom.â Gojo utters without meaning to.Â
The half-shocked half-aroused look on your face is enough to make him continue.
âLike a c-condom.â The girth of his tip starts pressing in once moreâthis time with the added, minute measurement of his Infinity layer. And if you thought that he was big before, then nowâŠand with the added fuzziness of cursed energy? The slight buzzing vibrations that penetrated your inner walls? Youâre being driven absolutely insaneâ
And heâs just fuckinâ to fit inside.
âIt feels s-sooooângh.â Your voice cracks almost pathetically. âBig.â
âJust big?â Gojo shovels in just a few more inches- almost like itâs never-ending.Â
Your toes curl. âLong.â You babble. Wringing your moans into the column of his throat - Gojoâs immediately turning his head and capturing your lips with his. âAnd so- ngh, veiny.â
âOh? You can still feel them past Infinity?â He asks.
âY-yes?â As if you could ever not feel those prominent lines imprinted onto his shaft. They formulated the most lecherous patterns that seemed designed to massage your sweetest spots specifically. Just rubbinâ and rubbinâ and making explosions of pleasure burst behind your eyelidsââI can feel e-each and every one-â
âCount them.â
Your eyes flutter open, âWhat?â
Another few more vicious thrusts- pointed. âCount them.â
Then Gojoâs pressing a chaste peck onto your cute cervix- loving. Pressing a heart-shaped indentation with his cockhead, it squishes ever-so-slightly against the very back of your cuntâand Gojo glides his shaft exhaustively back and forth. Making sure youâre split open on every single vein and indent, and even stimulated by the soft hairs at his base that tickle the top of your folds.
Perhaps The Strongest trills, âIâm waiting~â
âOh- please.â Youâre suddenly brought out of your cockdrunken reverie. Spending every remaining speck of sense in you to count- âThereâs a really big one down the middle andâŠnghâŠâ Though with the added layer of Infinity coating him, youâre thrown into a frenzy attempting to accurately feel for how many veins decorated his thick shaft. âAnd then one more- twoâ?â
Lovingly, he kisses your lipsâŠâIncorrect.â
Your jaw drops.
âTry again.â Gojo smiles sweetly.
And then youâre being fucked even harder- even deeper into the tatami floors until youâre sure the grounds of your Estate would be tattooed against your back. The mats lift and creak as he pummels a few more repeated- thud-thud-thuds against those velvety orifices. âThree-â You manage to gasp. âNo- five.â
âHmmm, wrong again.â Almost with a pout- the fucking nerve of him to pout.
And then heâs holding you to him as he funnels you even harder. The scruff of his happy trail dragging down your clit.Â
With a huff, you have nothing else to do but hold onto his sweaty, thrashing body for dear life. And with a monumental effort; youâre pushing your thighs ever-so-slightly together and clenchingâas hard as you could, youâre suctioninâ off his pistoning cock. Milking him.
Gojoâs brows immediately furrow, and a crack appears in his irresistible grin. Heâs letting out what almost sounds like a whimper- before nipping at the sensitive skin on your throat. âOhâŠâ
âIs it- hck! I think I got itâŠâ Youâre uttering. Everything about the way he was fucking you now was just messy and sloppy- from the way his clammy skin stuck to yours, to the way his precum was now drivelling through the layers of his Infinity, to the thump! of veins brushing against where you needed him the most. âItâs six- fuuuuckââ
Heâs staring at you with dazed, tear-filled eyes. Unresponsive.
âItâs six, isnât it?â You ask. Squeezing your heaven-like walls around him once more just to make sure- hard. âItâs six- fuuuuck, can feel six of you just massaging me inside.â
Breathing ragged. Brain ruined.
Gojo stows in his silence as his hips keep ramminâ away into you - he doesnât need to think about it. He just canât stop.
Youâre running a hand across your stomach, feeling for where he was exerting the most pressure inside your goopy cunt. Shapinâ you to him from the inside out. âA-all the wayâhere- oh.â
âCorrect.â
Rudely, Gojo smacks your hand away and replaces it with his, instead.Â
Lightning sticks to his fingertips like a second skin, just the most miniscule display of it. And yet, not in the least less powerful. You already know that Gojoâs using his Six Eyes before he starts to speak, âHere. Your walls. Your g-spot. Your wombâthey love my cock sâmuch. All six veins, and all nine inches. Feel that twitchinâ there?â
Stupidly, youâre nodding.
âThatâs your pussy begging for more-â Slapping his hips to yours with such aggressive thrusts- each one felt incredible. Each one was hitting eeeevery single spot he needed to and more. Curvinâ the luscious tip of his shaft against your drippinâ wet cervix, âThatâs your pussy begging for it- even harder Faster.â
âP-pleaseââ Youâre keening. Hands racing up to claw at his bulging biceps.
âAgain and again-â Without a single warning, Gojo reaches his free hand down and slaps! your neglected clit. The buzzing cursed energy there makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. âSheâs begging to be filled up by me. To feel the seed of the Gojo heir dripping out of herâŠâ Lovingly, he caresses your clit. âShe aches until she can keep feeling me between those pretty legs as she walks.â
Another spank.
âSheâs obsessed with the strongest, isnât she?â Whatever quivering, twitching sensations that he can sense with those heightened powers of hisâit makes him croon. âYou make me so- hah, honest. Good thing mâobsessed with her, too.â
âEnough- I need you to do it.â You sob. âDo it, Satoru- ngh, I want you to cum inside me.â
âI would, itâs just thatâŠâ He trails off- just the faintest bit of rationality in his face. âI donât know how mâgonna take this damn infinity off, sweetheart.â Itâs just then that you remember his little âcondomâ experiment. âCan you try squeezing?â
âSqueezing?â Gawking. But you do.
Just like before, youâre clenching your soaked walls- and it makes the powerful sorcerer buck. Even though he closes his eyes, you can discern his peripherals moving haphazardly behind themâaffected. And Gojo pummels out a few more vicious battering rams before he gasps out. âAgain.â Head falling into the crook of your neck. âAgain- harder.â
And so you do. âL-like this?â
âHarder.â
Practically keeping his cock hostage.
Just one - one - stuttered probe of his ravaged length thereafter- and heâs entirely shattering. Not just in terms of the Infinity that scatters into nothingnessâbut because the faintest sensation of your tender walls, and he whispers. âI-I think mâgonnaâŠâ
âShut up and cum inside me.â You retort.
And with a single thrust- Gojo dribbles out hot, white cum for the second time tonight. Hard. Powerful.
The minute his splatterinâ cum breaks through his Infinity to end up stirred inside your wallsâan emission of powerful cursed energy emanates from his body. It singes his skin. It makes the air tense between you two.Â
The sudden spike in pressure makes the lightbulb above you shatter-
Only to rain down on the two of you, getting safely discarded by the forcefield of Infinity that Gojo had mindlessly cast as it began falling. And after every single plunge into your gooey, hot depths - scattered bursts of lightning bolt from Gojoâs eyes; eventually skittering around his body and making antiques around the two of you crack the further he crescendos into his euphoria.
Just like before, he was losing it. Except, this time, itâs ending up seeped at the very back of your pussy.
Glistening down your walls and ended up plastered to your cervix.
Using his Six Eyes, heâs managing to fuck every single webbed wad until theyâre reaching deeeeeeply at the very back. The very back. Until not a single ounce was left leaking between your legs, and he could see every droplet of it puddled right at your womb- Gojo would rather die than waste a single drop.Â
And through it all as he fucks you, youâre crashing into your nth high- one after the other. More than just your second.
You dig your nails into Gojoâs muscular shoulders and moan out his name. âSatoru- Saââ Kissing him deeply. Soft echoes of it still crackle at the back of your throat as he keeps pushing you through peak after peak, wave after wave. âOh, it feels so- ngh, keep going. It feels so good.â One after the other.
âI canâŠtellâŠâ So dazed that it was getting hard to speak even. Gojo was overstimulated and working his body to the bone.
The Gojo heir finally opens his eyes again- and youâre feeling a carnal jolt go through you as youâre taking in just how much power whirled beneath them.
Ravenous.
Raging.
His Limitless and his Six Eyes seemed to be battling one another for predominance. Both of them were winning - which just meant that every spark of pleasure he felt was another lightbulb cracked, or a handprint seared into tatami flooring, or a piece of furniture hovering.
So overstimulated.Â
âI-I need to think ofâŠâ Gojoâs eyebrows knit together, and he keeps his gaze downturned to where the two of you were connected. A sheen of sap spread between your inner-thighs, and youâre tugging him even closer. âNeed to think of a way-â
âA way to do what, Toru?â Youâre asking, after he trails off.
âA way to doâŠâ Those hands twiddlinâ with your clit then form a complex array of signals; not quite practise, but more so just going with intuition. His cursed energy must have a lot to say to him after being cooped up in there for so long. â-this. Unlimited Void.â
Thereâs a mantra- then a flash.
Then youâre feeling space and time itself bend between your legs. Between your legs. It was like the twisting of air around you, the strange feeling of a vacuum running through your entire body.Â
And the lights of your entire Estate seem to be shutting down; before you blink through the darkness and make out the shape of Gojo staring lovingly down at your stuffed cunt. The way it bloated around his girth. The loads of cum that kept on trickling out. Your pussy that had aâŠstrange tingling surrounding it that had nothing to do with your own cursed energy-
âUnlimited Void.â Gojo helpfully explains, âThat way, I can cum inside your pussy forever.â
âForever.â You breathe out. âOh.â
Nuzzling you, âSuch a complex mantra. I could only do it because of you.â He highly suspects that it was your honesty technique that helped him face his powers, after all.Â
Youâre unsure how long it takes - but Gojoâs then buckinâ the two of you through another one of his orgasms. Then another one. Then another one- he twists his arm behind his neck and keeps your ankles interlocked, manhandling you backwards whenever he needed to.Â
Whenever he felt like movinâ you instead of his fatigued body.Â
Again and again.
He just canât seem to fill you to the brim now. Squelching between every stuffed thrust.Â
Cock rock-hard still and doused with so many layers of his own cum. It was just the messiest experience to be stuffing you full like so - no Infinity wouldâve been able to hold this back.
Eventually Gojoâs limbs were heavy, his hamstrings aching, his bangs sticking to his forehead. Knees pushing up against the floor in an attempt to clamor upwardsâthough he just kept sloppily dropping and falling and fucking you as best he could. He was practically collapsing his large body on top of yours nâ merely rutting his cock sloppy in and out - not even proper thrusts. In and out. âNgh- feels like youâre going to cum again.â He eventually utters.
Your eyes damn-near bulge out of your head. âI canât possibly-â
But a twist of his cursed energy-covered fingers on your clit, and youâre feeling your next orgasm soar through you. Flashing fast.Â
âOhâŠSatoru.â As heâs churning your insides through another one- you feel a sudden splat! of something wet hitting your shoulder. Eyes snapping open.
Thatâs when you see that the oh-so-enigmatic Gojo Satoru was crying from overstimulation.
And you didnât need his Six Eyes to see that he was cumming again- only, this time, he was cumming blanks.
Pretty face scrunched up.
Cheeks glistening with tears. Chin wrinkled.Â
Choking out sobs at the back of his throat.Â
His bottom lip was tucked between his teeth, and heâs gagging out a few thick sobs as translucent sap empties out from the end of his cock. His heavy balls having had enoughâGojoâs body was practically forcing himself to stopâŠbut he couldnât.
No matter how much he was cumming, it still wouldnât be enough to fill up the Unlimited Void heâd casted on your fucking pussy.
And after a few more ruinous strokes, Gojoâs lurching his head up.Â
By now, you could reach that look in his eyes. âWhat?â You ask suspiciously.
âI read this- hah, donât squeeze me like that IâllâŠâ Too late, he was pumping out a few more drivelling wads before continuing. âI read this extract in a textbook about Limitless once- that some users have the- ngh, ability to bend space and make a sort ofâŠclone of themselves. Multiple.â
Your jaw drops. âC-clonesâŠâ Your cunt already quivered with excitement- letting out a lecherous sound of cum sprayinâ out.
He could read those feelings in you instantly- and he nods. You always did make him so honest.Â
âHow about it, Madam?â
.
.
.
The elders already knew that a new user of Limitless and the Six Eyes had manifested.Â
Because at that very moment, the world had shook.Â
It had been impossible for anyone but the two lovers to ignore. And perhaps it was already time when that lone silhouette had stalked all the way to the Gojo Estate: shoulders tense and his blade glinting in his hand. They could say that Gojo Satoru hadnât been born with cursed energy, but no one could say that he hadnât clawed himself a reason to live.Â
Something to live for - someone.Â
And now, the cruelty of those that had come before was redundant.Â
That night - after leaving you wiped-down and tucked-in - Gojo had donned his robes and stepped outside into your sprawling gardens, still sore. There, heâd experimented with the rumored teleportation that Limitless users were said to haveâand perhaps it really was true what youâd said.
Maybe he really was The Strongest.
Because in no time, Gojo was trained enough to teleport to the Gojo Estate had thought heâd never come back to. Certainly not to finish the job.
With his silver blade, decorated with the silver emblem of the Gojo family, he made those sleek floors run red. Between trees, he was a shadow. He stained the gardens with the foxgloves and the trees heâd always loved - he supposed that no butterflies would be visiting these gardens ever again.Â
At least he wouldnât be.
And as Gojo cut down the last one of those elders, he memorized the look on his face. Nothing of the pity and hatred heâd seen all throughout his lifeâthey all wore the same expression now.
Shock. Fear. Knowing - so this was the power of The Strongest.
Some were happy to merely witness it before they died. What an honor it was, to die by his hands.
Gojo wondered whether it scared them more that heâd found his powers, or that heâd come to hone them. Whichever it had been, he hoped they knew now - he was always someone strong.Â
He was always strong. The last swing of his blade.
Everyone was gone now - his relatives, his elders, his tutors. It was just the outsiders to the Gojo clan that he commanded to runâIjichi himself had likely taken up quarters at your Estate, and he was determined that no harm should come to the innocent.Â
But did that make him just as cruel?Â
He cares not.
Overnight, Gojo Satoru became the head of the Gojo clan, he became a myth: The Strongest. Said to be talked about for centuries to come.
But that was for later.
Gojo steps back on the edge of the portico overlooking the gardens - a sunrise before the Sun could make an appearance. Then he focuses his newfound cursed energy and prepares to teleport right to your side, he couldnât bear the thought of you waking up aloneâeverything else could be thought of later.
Right now he had a wedding to plan.
A/N. Honestly could write a whole series of thisâŠ
I kind of changed the prompt more from "withholding aid" to "denying aid" ... oops
Prompt list from @ailesswhumptober
Astarion x reader
gender neutral
TW: Blood, mentions of battles, injuries, mentions of death and infection
It had been a few days since the battle at Moonrise, and the large slash on your abdomen hadnât gotten any better. In fact itâs gotten worse.
You hadnât asked Shadowheart to heal it because sheâd been exhausted during the battle, and was now taking the time to wrap her head around everything from the gauntlet of Shar. You definitely didnât want to disturb her.
You didnât want to use up any of what was left of the healing supplies until you could buy more. Wyll had taken a big hit and was taking potions twice a day. Jaheira was in pretty bad shape too. There simply werenât enough supplies to support three wounded party members.
So as the party leader, you decided to just- tough it out.
You werenât hiding it from your friends, but you also werenât being particularly honest about it. You mentioned you had a few minor wounds and showed them the scratches and bruises on your arms that you had bandaged yourself. Whenever you grimaced in pain as you moved, you blamed it on a bruised hip, or a dislocated knee.
Most of them bought the lie!
⊠Except your lover, Astarion. He could smell the blood. You would assure him it's just the minor wounds, the blood soaked bandages. But you canât fool a vampireâs blood lust. Not to mention you were just being weird.
You would kick him out before you change clothes, turn him down when he wanted to get frisky, flinch when he put his hands on your waist.
Yeah, he knew. But every time he tried to confront you, you conveniently had something better to do.
But heâd had enough.
Everyone had turned in for the night when he made his way to your tent. He snuck in while you were changing- and couldnât help the gasp that left him.
You turned around and covered yourself with your shirt
âAstarion.. Really, itâs not as bad as it looks, I swear-â
âDonât give me that! You may be a phenomenal liar to others, but you cannot lie to me⊠Darling, why would you hide this? Are you mad?!âÂ
Even though his words were angry, you could hear the concern, the desperation, laced in his words.
You looked at him. His arms were crossed, eyes boring into yours. He was waiting for you to answer him.
You sigh
âI just⊠Shadowheart has a lot on her plate, Halsin is busy fixing the shadowcursed lands, and Jaheira is injured so I didnât want to bother any of them.. And Wyll is badly hurt, and we have so few supplies, I figured I could just wait until we came across the next town or merchant⊠But.. it hasnât been⊠healingâŠâ You look away as you curl into yourself, shame at being discovered eating you alive.
Astarion lets out an annoyed sigh.
âYou really are a fool. What would we have done if it got infected and you got sick? What would we have done if you died in your sleep to this mysterious wound none of us knew about? What would I have done?!â His voice cracks. The pain in his voice is visceral. Raw, and emotional, and hurt.
You freeze, heart thumping.Â
âWhat would I do with myself if I woke up one day and you were dead? The one person in an eternity to actually care about me- to actually love me. How could you risk your life like that?â
The tent is filled with silence for what feels like decades.Â
You look up when you hear him leave the tent. Your heart drops. Had you upset him that much? Was he going to leave you?
Your fears are quelled when he returns- with a potion of healing.
âAstarion-â
âNo. No! You are taking this potion! I will not hear another word! I cannot have you dropping dead in a day or two because youâre so stubborn that you would rather die than take from any of us. Now drink. The potion. Or so help me I will force it down your throat.â He shoves the potion into your hands and watches expectantly as you gulp it down.
â...â
â...â
â...Iâm sorry Astarion. Really. I didnât mean to worry you.â
He sighs âIf I werenât already technically dead Iâd swear you were the death of me.â
You smiled awkwardly at him.
â..Do you wanna sleep in here tonight?â
âYes. Gods I thought youâd never ask. I canât risk you being out of my site it seems.â
You crouch down to your sleeping cot, pushing the blankets back before moving over. Astarian strips off his shirt and lowers himself next to you. You donât miss the way he holds you just a little bit tighter.
In which Toji uses his superhuman strength to get his hands on you
âI wonât ask again, doll. Unlock the door and let me in.â
âNo!â
He pounds on the bathroom door. The whole house shakes, so does your skeleton. âNot in the mood for games, woman. You got my dick hard; youâre going to take responsibility, like a big girl.â
What were you thinking spamming him nudes whilst heâs at work? No, the better question is, what was he thinking taking you seriously enough to speed home? Canât a girl have fun without consequences?
âI was gonna,â you start, practically shaking in the tub as you hold a shampoo bottle, a foolish delusion of protection, âbut then you came home early! You werenât supposed to come home so soon. Ugh, you ruined everything. You know I need at least an hour prep to be in my most seductive mood, Toji!â
You can almost visualise the disbelieving scoff thatâd reveal his sharp teeth and make that delectable scar stretch when he bangs on the door again. Heâs probably leaning against it, imagining all the ways he could have you bent and pumped full of cum. The thought makes your thighs squeeze tightly even as a nervous, almost manic laugh escapes you.Â
The rattling of the walls stops. Silence rings out.
â...You laughing at me?â
Oh fuck.Â
Youâre done for. That much is clear when he punches a hole in the door barely a second later with a thunderous bang. Huddling on all fours, you brace yourself with a scream as the wood splinters onto the floor. Your poor pussyâs going to feel just like that door when heâs done with you, youâre sure.
You peek up. Tojiâs hands grip the wood, ripping a bigger hole in the weak thing. His glinting eyes meet yours. He growls, âOh, good. Youâre already in the right position.â
Screaming bloody murder, you throw the bottle at him, and another and another. They all bounce off his chest as though they weigh nothing. âFuck off! I take it back. I take it all back!â
âToo fucking late. Shouldnât play games youâre not ready to lose,â he lectures. In no time at all, he steps through and casts a shadow over your body. The veins on his beefy arms pop, his thighs flex, and his lips curl up â yet, all youâre looking at is the monstrous cock in his pants, painfully hard and somehow bigger than you remember, weighing him down.
âI hate you, you big brute!â you shriek, when he throws you over his shoulder.
He snorts. âYeah, sure. Pretend youâre not creaming your fucking panties.â
Busted.
âIâm sorry?â you try, a last ditch effort to get your way. âI wonât do it again?â
He throws you on the bed and watches you bounce, licking his lips. âTry again when Iâm feeling nice. Maybe Iâll buy your bullshit apologies then.â
Sniffling, you grumble, âAnd whenâs that going to be?â
âDunno.â Toji lifts one shoulder lazily as his hands grip your knees and shoves your legs apart. âLetâs get to orgasm number eight and go from there.â
I imagined that scene from The Shining lol but much less scary, and more ngh!
The battle had devolved into the kind of messy, sprawling chaos that made strategy feel like a distant memory. Mud clung to your boots, smoke stung your eyes, and the clash of weapons rang endlessly in your ears as you pushed forward through the press of enemies with stubborn determination. You were tired, bruised, and running purely on adrenaline, but the sight of the enemy captain retreating toward the far side of the field lit a spark of reckless resolve in your chest.
If you could just reach themâjust land one decisive blowâ oh, the rush to your ego was just too sweet, so you surged ahead. Blissfully unaware that, behind you, somewhere in the shifting haze of battle, Astarion had noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
He had been watching you for the last several minutes with mounting irritation, tracking your movements with sharp, predatory focus as you edged farther and farther away from the relative safety of your formation. He knew that look on your faceâthe tight jaw, the narrowed eyes, the absolute refusal to back down even when the odds tilted dangerously out of your favor.
It was, in his professional opinion, one of your most infuriating traits and one of the most terrifyingly attractive.
âDonât,â he muttered under his breath, already moving. You didnât hear him. You were too busy chasing the fleeing captain, weaving between clashing bodies, breath burning in your lungs as you closed the distance step by step. Victory felt tantalisingly close, just within reach.
Then the world shifted. A second enemy stepped into your path and another moved behind you. Before you could react, the careful rhythm of the fight collapsed into sudden danger, the space around you tightening like a trap snapping shut.
Astarion saw it all unfold in an instant and his stomach dropped.
âOh, you absolute fool,â he hissed and instead of retreating back to safety, to make this someone else's problem, likely karlach's, he did something that surprised even himself, he ran towards the ugly fray.
Not with his usual lazy elegance, not with the theatrical grace he cultivated so carefully, but with raw, urgent speed that cut through the battlefield like a blade. He shoved past an opponent without breaking stride, ducked under a swinging mace, and closed the distance between you just as one of the enemies lunged. You barely had time to register the movement before something slammed into you from the side.
Hard.
The impact knocked the breath from your lungs as Astarionâs shoulder drove into your ribs, sending both of you stumbling sideways through the mud. The enemyâs strike whistled through empty air where your head had been a heartbeat earlier.
You gasped, disoriented. âWhatââ
His hand clamped around your arm like a vice. â-What,â he snapped, voice tight with fury, âdo you think you are doing?â
You blinked up at him, still catching your breath. âI almost had themââ
â-You almost had a sword through your spine,â he shot back.
Before you could protest, he yanked you sharply backward, dragging you out of the fray with startling strength. His grip was unyielding, fingers digging into your sleeve as he hauled you step by step through the chaos. You resisted immediately, you were so close to winning.
âI can still fightââ
âNo.â
âAstarion, let goââ
âAbsolutely not!â
You twisted, trying to wrench free, but he anticipated the movement instantly. With a sharp, irritated sound, he shifted his holdâone arm sliding around your waistâand physically lifted you just enough to disrupt your footing. Your boots left the ground for a split second and you let out a startled noise. âAstarion!â
âYou are coming with me,â he said through clenched teeth, dragging you behind the shattered remains of a stone barricade. You squirmed, like a child being dragged in for dinner, by their parent who had not had enough wine to deal with you.
âI was fineââ
âYou were being spectacularly stupid. You reached new levels of stupidity that not even I was aware of. You-â You opened your mouth to interject in his ranting and twisted as you did. That was when it happened.
There was a tiny, horrifying sound. A faint, delicate crack. Everything stopped. Astarion froze mid-step and dropped you onto the ground with the ceremony of a sack of potatoes. Then slowlyâvery slowlyâhe looked down at his hand.
You followed his gaze from the floor, heart wrenching as the tragedy came into focuse.
One of his long, immaculately groomed nails had split clean across the tip, the smooth edge now jagged and uneven. For a moment, the battlefield noise seemed to fade into the background entirely. Astarion stared at the damage as if the world had personally betrayed him.
ââŠNo,â he whispered.
You blinked.ââŠIs thatââ
â-My nail,â he said faintly with the echoes of lament.
You pressed your lips together, trying very hard not to laugh. He turned his hand slightly, inspecting the break from every possible angle, his expression shifting from shock to genuine outrage.
âI just finished shaping these this morning,â he said, voice tight with disbelief. âDo you have any idea how difficult it is to maintain standards in the wilderness?â
A laugh bubbled up in your chest despite yourself. You tried to swallow it. Failed tremedously.
Astarionâs head snapped up, eyes narrowing dangerously. âYou think this is amusing?â
You bit your lip, shoulders shaking. âA little.â
His expression darkened instantly, indignation flaring like a spark catching dry tinder.
âOh, splendid. I risk life, limb, and manicure to rescue you from your own suicidal impulses, and you find it entertaining.â
You wiped at your eyes, still trying not to grin. âYou broke a nail saving me.â
âYes,â he snapped.
You tilted your head, studying him. âThatâs rather heroic. We should be sure to tell Volo when we return to camp.â
He scoffed sharply, turning away as if the word 'heroic' physically offended him.
âHardly." Astarion scoffed, eyes narrowing at his brutalised nail. "It was an act of self-preservation. If you insist on throwing yourself into danger at every opportunity, someone has to intervene before you ruin everything."
You watched him closely, warmth stirring quietly in your chest despite the lingering adrenaline. You picked yourself up off the floor and smiled at him. âYou came after me.â
âOf course I did,â he said immediately. The words slipped out before he could stop them. He froze.
You raised an eyebrow and his jaw tightened. Then, almost violently, he pivoted away from the moment, anger rushing in to fill the space where something softer had threatened to surface.
âThis,â he said sharply, gesturing accusingly at you with his uninjured hand, âis precisely why I cannot allow you any independence whatsoever. You are reckless, impulsive, and clearly determined to die in the most inconvenient manner possible and bring my own innocent hands down with you.â
You crossed your arms. âI had it under control.â
âYou had nothing under control.â
You took a step toward him and he stepped back immediately, still glaring, still clutching his injured nail with exaggerated offense as if shielding it from you, so not to allow further damage.
âAnd now look,â he continued, voice dripping with dramatic despair. âPermanent damage. A tragedy. A catastrophe. Truly, history will remember this day.â
You laughed softly and he scowled harder.
âStop smiling,â he muttered, trying to ignore the way it made his dead heart flutter.
âYouâre worried about me.â
âI am worried about my manicure.â He emphasised by showing off his broken nail and pointing at it with flair. You took another step closer.
He held his ground this time, but his expression flickeredâannoyance warring with something far more vulnerable that he clearly had no intention of acknowledging.
You reached out gently and took his hand, the one with the broken nail and he stiffened immediately. Looking at you like he was trying to understand what audacity had overcome you.
âYou risked yourself for me,â you said quietly.
His gaze flicked to yours, sharp and guarded. He scoffed, pulling his hand back just enough to reestablish distance, retreating behind irritation like a shield.
âDonât be ridiculous,â he said briskly. âI simply refuse to let you die before Iâve had the opportunity to use you for all your apparent worth.â
You smiled again and he rolled his eyes dramatically, already turning away.
âNow stay here,â he snapped over his shoulder. âTry not to endanger yourselfâor my grooming routineâagain.â
Gale:
The deeper chambers of the Sharran temple possessed the sort of oppressive quiet that made every sound feel intrusive, as though the place itself disapproved of living things disturbing its long-abandoned halls. The stone underfoot was cold and worn smooth by centuries of passing feet, the walls etched with the dark, elegant iconography of Sharâcrescent moons, shadowed figures, and carvings that seemed to drink in the dim torchlight rather than reflect it. The air was cool and carried a faint scent of damp stone, dust, and something else beneath it all, something sweet in a way that felt distinctly out of place among the gloom.
Gale walked beside you, his hands clasped loosely behind his back in the posture he adopted when his mind was particularly occupied, his eyes flicking over the architecture with scholarly interest while he murmured half-formed observations under his breath about Sharran religious symbolism and the lingering magical residue saturating the temple. Every so often he would gesture vaguely at a carving or faded mural, clearly itching to launch into a proper lecture but restraining himself in favor of focusing on the task at hand, scouting out for Raphael's enemy.
You, meanwhile, were only half listening. Because you had spotted something far more interesting.
You stopped walking abruptly, crouching down near one of the pillars where the stone floor dipped slightly in a shallow depression.
âGale,â you said thoughtfully.
âHm?â he replied absently, still scanning a row of carvings along the wall.
âLook at this.â
He glanced over with mild curiosity, then saw what you were looking at. His entire expression shifted instantly from idle interest to deep, immediate concern.
Lying on the stone floor between the pillars was a spider. Not a small one either, but a thick-bodied creature the size of a boulder, its legs curled tightly inward in the unmistakable posture of death. Its glossy amber abdomen reflected the faint light of Galeâs staff. You leaned closer, resting your chin in your hand as you studied it with growing fascination.
Gale frowned.
âWhy,â he asked slowly, âare you looking at it like that?â
You tilted your head. There was a scent drifting faintly from the thingânot the rot of decay, but something strangely sweet, almost honeyed, with an undercurrent that tickled the back of your mind in a way that was both intriguing and vaguely intoxicating.
ââŠInteresting,â you murmured.
Galeâs frown deepened. âInteresting how?â
You didnât answer immediately; instead, you leaned forward slightly. And before Gale could process what you were about to do, you reached down and gave the spider a quick experimental lick.
There was a momentâlong and terribleâof absolute silence.
Galeâs brain appeared to have completely stop functioning. Very slowly, as though afraid that moving too quickly might somehow make the moment more real, he turned his head to look at you.
âYou,â he said faintly, âlicked a dead spider.â
You blinked up at him.
âYes.â
âDead,â he repeated carefully. âSpider.â
âCorrect.â
âYou licked it.â
âThat is also correct.â
Gale stared at you in the way one might stare at a catastrophic magical anomaly that had just appeared in the middle of the room.
âThat,â he said after a long pause, âis something that happened.â
You shrugged lightly. He dragged a hand slowly down his face, exhaling in the deeply weary manner of someone whose day had just taken a deeply unexpected turn.
âI think,â he said carefully, âwe need to get you some air⊠and perhaps have a long conversation about unresolved childhood issues.â
You snorted at that, clearly unrepentant. And then, because the thought had already taken root in your mind, you leaned forward again toward the spider.
Gale made a strangled sound. âStop licking the damn thing!ââ
His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist just before your tongue could reach its intended target for a second time.
âWhat,â he demanded, his voice climbing an octave, âis wrong with you?â
You pouted immediately. âIt tastes funny.â
âThat is not a justification!â
You attempted to lean forward anyway. Gale tightened his grip instantly, hauling your arm back toward him.
âNo!â Gale responded, his face twisted in absolute horror of your disposition.
âJust one more,â you insisted, pouting slightly
âFor the love of Mystra, no.â Gale told you, his grip on you tightening.
âYouâre being dramatic.â
âI'm being dramatic?!" Gale's voice pitched up a few octaves at the accusation. "You licked a corpse!â
âItâs barely a corpse.â
âIt is very much a corpse!â Gale stressed as he pulled you further away from it by your arm, and you couldn't help but giggle. And that was when Gale realized something else was wrong.
Your laughter was slightly too loose, your expression flushed in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment, and when you looked up at him your pupils were blown wide, swallowing nearly all the color of your irises.
Your breathing had quickened and there was a strange, restless energy humming through your movements that definitely had not been there moments earlier.
Galeâs stomach dropped.
ââŠOh dear,â he murmured. You were still trying to lean toward the spider. He grabbed your shoulders this time and physically pulled you backwards. âNo more licking mysterious temple wildlife!â
You laughed again, clearly delighted by his distress.
âWhy not?â
âBecause it is deeply disturbing behavior!â
But now that strange warmth was spreading through your limbs, a buzzing heat that made the air feel thick and your thoughts pleasantly fuzzy. Everything around you seemed sharper somehowâbrighter, more vivid.
And Gale was holding you very tightly and standing very close.
Very close indeed.
You looked at him slowly, your gaze drifting over the lines of his face, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the soft curl of his hair falling slightly into his eyes. Gale shifted uneasily under the scrutiny.
ââŠWhy are you looking at me like that?â he asked cautiously.
You leaned more into his touch, relaxing in his hold of you. He froze, as if suddenly realising he was manhandling you and an awkwardness settled in his chest as he suppressed his own feelings for you. Luckily, he did not have time to dwell on it as you spoke again.
âYouâre very pretty,â you said sincerely.
His brain short-circuited.
âIâwhat?â
Then, without further warning, you leaned forward to kiss him. Gale reacted purely on instinct. He released you only for his hand to come up immediately, pressing gently but firmly against your face and pushing it to the side before your lips could reach him.
âNo!â
You blinked in surprise. ââŠRude.â
âYou are not in your right mind,â he said softly but firmly, now holding you at armâs length. Which did not stop you from trying again.
He caught both your shoulders.
âStop that.â
You giggled again, clearly unbothered.
Galeâs concern was rapidly turning into full-blown alarm. The sweet scent from the spider drifted through the air once more and the pieces clicked together in his mind with horrifying clarity.
ââŠSuccubus enchantment,â he muttered. You were still attempting to lean toward him.
âJust one kiss.â
âNo.â
âPlease?â
âNo.â
You pouted dramatically and then abruptly attempted to dart past himâback toward the spider. Gale reacted immediately.
âOh no you donât.â He grabbed you around the waist and hauled you bodily away from it. You squirmed and protested loudly.
âLet me go!â
âYou have already licked it twice!â
âItâs interesting!â
âIt is cursed!â
You laughed helplessly, the entire situation clearly far more amusing to you than it was to him. Gale, meanwhile, was beginning to look like a man being slowly driven to madness.
âThis,â he muttered under his breath, âis precisely the sort of situation wizard training does not prepare you for.â
You attempted to twist free again. So Gale did the only thing he could think of. He picked you up. Entirely.
You squeaked in shock as he hoisted you over his shoulder with surprising determination and strength.
âGale!â
âYou are coming with me.â
You kicked your legs indignantly.
âPut me down!â
âNo.â
âThis is kidnapping!â
âThis is damage control!â
You wriggled and twisted the entire way out of the temple, attempting several times to lean down and kiss the back of his neck, which caused Gale to nearly trip more than once while he tried very hard not to think about the warmth of you against his shoulder. He had plans, a whole starry sky full of plans to woo you, you being horny from dead spider meat was not in those plans.
âOh for the love of Mystraâstop that!â
You only laughed harder. By the time the distant glow of the campfire came into view through the trees, Gale looked like a man who had aged several years in the span of a single hour.
âYou,â he declared breathlessly as he carried you toward camp, âare never allowed near enchanted wildlife again.â
You hummed happily, clearly unconvinced, and Gale sighed the long, exhausted sigh of someone who already knew, deep in his soul, that this was absolutely not the last time he would have to physically drag you away from something profoundly ill-advised.
Wyll:
The battle had turned into a storm of steel and shouting, the kind of chaos where dust hung thick in the air and every sound felt too loud, too close, too urgent.
You were in the middle of itâof course you wereâboots sliding in the churned earth as you pressed forward with stubborn determination, blade flashing in the dim light. The enemy line wavered ahead of you, and you saw your chance, that tantalizing sliver of opportunity that whispered if you just pushed a little farther, just a little harder, you could turn the tide.
So you did. You pressed forward, heart pounding, ignoring the shouted warnings from behind you as adrenaline burned hot in your veins. The world narrowed to the swing of your weapon, the clash of metal, the rush of movementâ
And then everything went wrong. A horn sounded somewhere to your left. Reinforcements.
More enemies poured into the fray, closing the gap around you with frightening speed, their weapons raised, their movements coordinated in a way that made your stomach drop as you realizedâtoo lateâthat you had gone too far ahead.
You turned, searching for your allies but the distance between you and safety had grown. Fast.
Across the battlefield, Wyll Ravengard saw it happen in an instant.
He had been fighting with his usual flairâblade moving in clean, practiced arcs, posture straight even in the chaosâbut the moment he spotted you surrounded, his focus snapped sharply into place. The easy confidence on his face hardened into something fierce and protective, his instincts screaming louder than reason.
You were in danger and that was all that mattered.
He moved, not cautiously, not hesitantly, but with the bold, sweeping urgency of a hero charging into the final act of a grand tale. He cut through the battlefield with powerful strides, parrying one blow, then another, his cloak snapping dramatically behind him as he forced his way toward you.
You didnât see him coming. You were too busy fending off the attackers closing in around you, breath coming fast and uneven as you tried to hold your ground. Your muscles burned, your footing slipped, and for the first time, doubt flickered in the back of your mind.
Then suddenlyâ A strong arm wrapped firmly around your waist.
You barely had time to gasp before you were pulled sharply backward, lifted clean off your feet as the world spun in a blur of motion.
âWhatâ!â
You collided against a solid chest, the scent of leather and smoke and something warm and familiar filling your senses as you were swept out of danger in one smooth, decisive movement.
âEasy,â Wyllâs voice said close to your ear, steady and reassuring even over the roar of battle.
You blinked, disoriented, as he carried you several long strides away from the press of enemies, his grip secure and unwavering. One arm held you firmly against him, the other wielded his blade with effortless precision, deflecting a strike that came too close for comfort.
Your heart hammered wildly in your chest.
âWyllâ!â
âIâve got you,â he replied, calm but firm.
The words landed somewhere deep in your chest, warm and steadying in a way you hadnât expected. He didnât set you down immediately.
Instead, he continued moving, guiding you through the chaos with confident purpose, his hold protective without being rough, his posture straight and unyielding as he carried you toward safer ground. It feltâabsurdly, impossiblyâlike something out of a storybook, like the kind of dramatic rescue sung about in taverns by bards who believed in happy endings and heroic gestures.
You finally found your voice.
âYou can put me down,â you protested, breathless.
âIn a moment,â he said smoothly. You glanced up at him, and the sight nearly stole your breath all over again.
Dust streaked across his cheek, his braids slightly dishevelled from the fight, but his expression remained composed, focused, utterly determined. There was a spark of concern in his eyes, softened by something warmer, something gentler that made your pulse stutter.
He looked like a knight straight from a romance novel. Strong. Dashing. Completely unflappable. You swallowed and you could feel your preteen self practically swooning.
âI was handling it,â you insisted weakly, if not to him, to yourself.
His mouth curved into a faint, knowing smile.
âI have no doubt,â he replied, voice rich with reassurance. âBut even the bravest heroes deserve a rescue now and then.â
Heat rushed to your face. He finally slowed, reaching the relative safety behind a line of fallen stone where the rest of your companions were regrouping. Only then did he lower you carefully back onto your feet, his hands lingering just a second longer than strictly necessary to make sure you were steady.
You swayed slightly. His hands tightened instinctively at your waist.
âAre you hurt?â he asked immediately, concern sharpening his tone. You are breathing quite heavily-"
"I'm fine!" You said a bit too quickly, and you took a deep breath in to steady yourself. âNo. Justâstartled.â
His gaze softened. âGood,â he said quietly.
For a brief moment, neither of you moved. The battle still raged in the distance, steel clashing and voices shouting, but here, in the small pocket of safety he had carved out, everything felt strangely still.
You became suddenly aware of how close he wasâhow warm his hands felt where they rested at your sides, how steady his presence was, how easily he had carried you as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
âYou didnât have to be so dramatic about it,â you said, attempting to sound casual.
One of his eyebrows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in his expression.
âDramatic?â he echoed lightly.
You nodded, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in your chest.
âYes. Very heroic. Very⊠theatrical.â
A soft chuckle escaped him.
âWell,â he said, releasing you at last, though his gaze lingered warmly on your face, âif Iâm to be accused of anything, I would much rather it be heroism than negligence.â
You felt your lips tug into an involuntary smile.
He stepped back then, drawing his sword again as his attention returned to the battlefieldâbut not before giving you one last steady look, equal parts reassurance and quiet promise.
âStay close this time,â he said gently.
And somehow, after being swept off your feet like that, you found yourself very willing to listen.
Halsin:
The forest had turned against you.
What had begun as a routine skirmish along the edge of the wilderness had spiraled into something far more dangerous, the undergrowth thick and uncooperative beneath your boots, branches clawing at your armor as you pressed forward with stubborn determination. The air smelled of damp earth and crushed leaves, heavy with the sharp tang of sap and the distant metallic scent of blood, and somewhere above the canopy the wind howled through the treetops like a warning you had chosen, perhaps unwisely, to ignore.
You refused to retreat.
Even as the situation shiftedâenemies closing in from multiple directions, the terrain growing treacherous, the ground slick with mud and scattered debrisâyou dug in your heels and fought harder, your breath coming fast and hot in your lungs, your muscles burning with the effort of holding your position. You could hear your companions calling out behind you, voices strained with urgency, but you blocked them out, focused entirely on the opponent in front of you and the stubborn, unyielding conviction that you could handle this on your own.
Then the ground gave way.
It happened in a heartbeatâa sudden collapse of loose earth beneath your feet, the edge of a concealed drop crumbling under your weight as you stepped forward to strike. The world lurched violently, your balance disappearing as the soil slid out from under you, sending rocks and dirt tumbling into the steep ravine below. For one terrifying instant, your stomach dropped and your arms flailed for purchase, fingers grasping at empty air as gravity threatened to drag you over the edge.
And thenâ
You were seized.
A massive hand clamped around your upper arm with crushing strength, halting your fall so abruptly it stole the breath from your lungs. Before you could even gasp, a second arm wrapped securely around your waist, hauling you backward with irresistible force. Your boots skidded across the unstable ground as you were dragged away from the crumbling ledge, your body lifted clear off your feet as though you weighed nothing at all.
You barely had time to register what was happening before you were pulled firmly against a broad, solid chest, your back colliding with something warm, immovable, and undeniably powerful.
âEnough.â
The word landed like a thunderclap. You froze. There was no mistaking that voiceâdeep, resonant, and usually so calm it carried the steady reassurance of ancient stoneâbut now it was edged with something sharper, something fierce and unmistakably angry.
Halsin.
He did not release you. If anything, his grip tightened, one arm locked securely around your middle while the other steadied you by the shoulder, holding you firmly in place as the last of the loose earth tumbled into the ravine below. You could feel the tension in him, the coiled strength beneath his skin, the way his chest rose and fell with controlled, measured breaths that spoke of restraint rather than calm.
You twisted slightly, still disoriented, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.
âI had it,â you protested weakly, though the words sounded hollow even to your own ears.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then he turned you. Not gently. Not carefully. But firmlyâhands gripping your shoulders, guiding you around until you were forced to face him directly. His expression stopped you cold. You had never seen him like this before.
Gone was the patient warmth, the soft kindness that usually lived in his eyes. In its place burned something fierce and protective, his jaw set tight, his brow drawn low, the quiet authority he carried every day sharpened into something far more intimidating.
âYou had it?â he repeated, his voice low and dangerous, each word deliberate.
Your mouth opened and quickly closed again. Because the look on his face made it very clear that this was not a conversation you were going to win.
âYou nearly fell,â he continued, his tone rising slightly, frustration bleeding through the calm he usually wore so effortlessly. âYou ignored every warning, every signal, every call to retreat, and you placed yourself in needless danger.â
The reprimand hit harder than any blow. You blinked at him, stunnedânot by the words themselves, but by the sheer force of emotion behind them.
He was angry. Not irritated or mildly concerned. Truly, deeply angry.
âI was trying to hold the line,â you said, your voice quieter now, defensive but uncertain.
âAnd you would have held it from the bottom of that ravine?â he shot back immediately.
The sharpness of the retort caught you off guard. He had never spoken to you like this before. Never raised his voice. Never allowed his frustration to show so openly. And yet here he was, towering over you, his hands still planted firmly on your shoulders, his grip strong enough to keep you steady but impossible to ignore.
âYou are not expendable,â he said, the words landing with heavy finality. âNot to this battle. Not to this cause. And certainly not to me.â
Your breath caught. The forest seemed to go very still around you, the distant sounds of combat fading into the background as the weight of his gaze pinned you in place.
You should have felt chastened. Embarrassed. Maybe even ashamed. InsteadâSomething warm and unexpected unfurled low in your chest.
Because there was something undeniably compelling about this side of himâthe fierce protectiveness, the unyielding authority, the raw intensity of his concern. The way his deep voice rumbled with restrained anger, the way his broad shoulders squared as he held his ground, the way his presence filled the space around you like an unmovable force of nature.
It did something to you.
Your lips twitched. Then, despite every ounce of common sense you possessedâ You smiled. Just a little. The reaction was immediate.
âDo you find this amusing?â he asked, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.
You triedâtruly triedâto school your expression into something more appropriate.
âIâno,â you said quickly, though the warmth lingering in your gaze betrayed you. His jaw tightened.
âYou are smiling,â he pointed out, clearly unimpressed.
âIâm notââ
âYou are.â
There was a beat of silence. Then your smile widened despite yourself, a faint flush creeping up your neck as the realization settled in.
Gods. You liked this.
You liked the firmness in his voice, the way his hands remained steady and grounding on your shoulders, the protective anger burning in his expression. You liked the way he refused to back down, the way he held you accountable, the way he looked at you as though your safety mattered more than anything else in the world.
It was incredibly attractive. And he saw it.
The exact moment he realized what was happening flickered across his faceâconfusion first, then dawning recognition, followed swiftly by a fresh surge of exasperation.
âIncredible,â he muttered under his breath.
Your smile didnât fade. If anything, it grew softer, more open, your eyes lingering on his face in a way that made his frustration deepen rather than ease.
âYou frightened me,â he said suddenly, the words slipping out rougher than before. The honesty in them made your chest tighten.
But stillâ You couldnât stop looking at him like that.
Couldnât stop the small, stubborn warmth curling in your stomach. His hands tightened slightly on your shoulders, not enough to hurt, but enough to emphasize the seriousness of his next words.
âThis is not a game,â he said firmly. âYou will listen when I tell you to fall back. You will trust that I am acting to protect you. And you will not throw yourself into danger simply because your pride refuses to yield.â
You nodded slowly.
âYes,â you said trying to sound convincing, but the soft smile remained.
His eyes narrowed again, frustration simmering dangerously close to the surface.
âYou are still doing it,â he said.
âDoing what?â you asked innocently.
âLooking at me like that.â
You tilted your head slightly, feigning confusion, though the warmth in your expression gave you away completely. He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly fighting the urge to say something more.
Something harsher. Something he would likely regret.
Instead, he released you at last, though his gaze lingered, heavy and watchful, as though he fully expected you to charge back toward the danger the moment his hands left you.
âStay close,â he ordered.
The command was firm. Uncompromising. And, to your own quiet surpriseâ You found yourself smiling again.
Rolan:
The explosion of magic came out of nowhere.
One moment you were locked in a tense standoff, trading careful strikes and measured spells with the enemy forces pressing in from the edges of the ruined courtyard. The air was thick with dust and the sharp tang of ozone, the ground beneath your boots trembling faintly from the force of arcane power being hurled back and forth. You had been focusedâintensely soâtracking movements, calculating distance, preparing your next strike.
Then a fireball detonated against the far wall.
The blast sent a shockwave tearing through the courtyard, rattling loose stones from the crumbling masonry and filling the air with choking smoke and swirling debris. The force knocked several fighters off their feet, and for a brief, disorienting moment, everything dissolved into noise and confusion.
You staggered but kept your footing, pushing forward through the haze, squinting against the smoke, determined to regain control of the situation before the enemy could capitalize on the chaos. Your instincts screamed to keep moving, to stay aggressive, to hold the line no matter what.
Behind you, unnoticed in the turmoil, Rolan saw exactly what you were doing and he did not hesitate. The tiefling had been stationed near the rear, hands glowing faintly with residual magic, mind racing as he assessed the battlefield with sharp, anxious precision. Normally, he preferred distance, control, and careful calculation.
Normally. But then he saw the enemy preparing another spell and he saw your foolish beautiful self walking straight into its path and something inside him snapped into place with sudden, startling clarity.
You took another step forward, coughing lightly as smoke burned in your lungs, your vision still blurred from the blast. Shapes moved in the haze aheadâenemies regrouping, weapons raisedâbut you pressed on stubbornly, determined to finish what you had started.
You never saw the spellcaster lift their hand. Never saw the gathering surge of arcane energy coiling into a tight, deadly sphere. Rolan did, however, and his heart lurched into his throat.
âMove!â he shouted. You half-turned at the sound of his voice, confusion flickering across your face.
âWhatâ?â
The spell was released. There was no time. No room for careful planning. No chance to think about dignity or appearances or the fact that this was very much not the sort of dramatic heroics he wanted to display for you of all people.
Rolan ran fastâfaster than you had ever seen him moveâboots pounding against the stone as he sprinted straight into the heart of the danger without a second thought.
You barely had time to register the blur of motion before something slammed into you from the side. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs as arms wrapped tightly around your torso, hauling you off balance and dragging you bodily out of the path of the incoming blast.
The spell struck the ground where you had been standing an instant later, exploding in a violent burst of light and heat. You stumbled, disoriented, your ears ringing as the world tilted sideways.
âWhat theâ?â
âGods, are you trying to get yourself killed?â Rolan snapped. You blinked. Your vision cleared just enough to focus on the face inches from yoursâflushed, breathless, eyes wide with a mixture of panic and irritation. But you recognised that voice of worried distain anywhere
Rolan. You stared at him. âRolan?â
âYes, Rolan,â he shot back, still gripping your arm with surprising strength. âWho else would be foolish enough to sprint into a blast zone after you?â
You opened your mouth and promptly closed it again. Because you were still trying to process the fact that he was holding youâfirmly, decisivelyâdragging you backward through the chaos with a grip that brooked absolutely no argument.
You stumbled slightly as he pulled you behind a half-collapsed stone pillar, his hand tightening instinctively to steady you.
âI had it handled,â you protested weakly.
He stopped abruptly. Turned to face you. His expression was incredulous, similar to the look he had given to you back at the Last Light Inn when you said you would be the one to help him bring his sibling back.
âYou were about to be incinerated.â
âI wasnâtââ
âYou were!â His voice cracked slightly on the last word, the sharp edge of fear slipping through despite his best efforts to maintain composure. You blinked at him, caught off guard.
Before you could respond, another distant explosion rattled the courtyard, sending a fresh cascade of dust drifting down from the broken walls. Without hesitation, Rolan grabbed your wrist again and pulled you farther into cover, positioning himself squarely between you and the open battlefield.
The movement was instinctive. Protective. You couldn't help but stare.
âSince when,â you managed, still breathless, âdo you charge into danger like that for someone you despise like me?â
He froze for half a second, clearly realizing what he had just done. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face.
âIâwellâsomeone had to,â he said stiffly.
You raised an eyebrow. âYou tackled me.â
âI did not tackle you.â
âYou absolutely tackled me.â
He bristled immediately. âI rescued you,â he corrected, drawing himself up with wounded dignity. âThere is a distinction.â
You couldnât help the small, incredulous laugh that escaped your throat. It was still surrealâbeing manhandled to safety by Rolan of all people, and yet here he was.
Standing close. Still holding your arm. Still breathing a little too fast. Still watching you with unmistakable concern.
âYou ran straight into that,â you said quietly. His gaze flicked away for a moment, jaw tightening.
âWell,â he muttered, âyou were being reckless.â
The words were defensive, but the tremor beneath them gave him away. You studied him, something warm and unexpected stirring in your chest.
âThank you,â you said softly.
He blinked. The simple sincerity of it seemed to throw him completely off balance.
âIâyesâwell,â he stammered, color creeping up his neck. âTry not to require such dramatic interventions in the future.â
You smiled faintly. âIâll do my best.â
Raphael:
The fight had begun as so many of yours didâloud, messy, and entirely under your control, or so you believed.
Steel clashed in sharp, ringing bursts that echoed through the ruined hall, each strike reverberating up your arms and settling deep into your bones as you pushed forward with relentless determination. Dust drifted lazily from the fractured ceiling overhead, disturbed by the force of spells detonating against stone pillars and shattered walls, while the air itself seemed to hum with tension, thick with heat, smoke, and the lingering bite of magic that prickled unpleasantly across your skin. It was chaos, yesâbut it was a chaos you understood, one you had learned to navigate with stubborn confidence and an almost reckless refusal to yield.
You advanced another step, breath coming hard but steady, your focus narrowing to the enemy directly in front of you. Their guard faltered under the pressure of your assault, their footing slipping slightly across the debris-strewn floor as you drove them backward with a sharp, decisive strike. Victory felt closeâso close you could practically taste itâand the familiar surge of adrenaline pushed you onward, urging you to finish the fight before anyone else could interfere.
That was when the battle shifted.
It was subtle at firstâa flicker of movement at the edge of your vision, the faint whisper of leather against stone behind you, the quiet repositioning of an opponent you had momentarily forgotten in the heat of the moment. But you were too focused, too determined to press your advantage, and the warning signs slipped past your notice like shadows in the dark.
Someone else noticed.
From the far side of the hall, just beyond the immediate clash of weapons and magic, Raphael watched with an expression that hovered somewhere between mild amusement and growing irritation. He stood perfectly composed amidst the chaos, doublet untouched by dust or blood, as though the violence unfolding around him were nothing more than an elaborate performance staged for his personal entertainment. His sharp gaze tracked your movements with unsettling precision, lingering not on the enemies themselves but on youâon the way you pressed too far ahead of the others, on the way your attention locked forward while danger gathered quietly behind your back.
He saw the blade rise. Saw the intent behind it. Saw how little time remained. A soft, exasperated sigh escaped him, barely audible beneath the din of battle.
âOh, dear,â he murmured, voice smooth and low, threaded with something that sounded suspiciously like concern despite the dry humor lacing his tone. âYou truly do make a habit of this and it simply will not do.â
You never saw the attack coming.
The enemy behind you moved with sudden, lethal speed, their weapon arcing downward in a clean, deadly line aimed squarely for the space between your shoulders. Your focus remained fixed on the opponent in front of you, your muscles already coiled to deliver the next strike, completely unaware of the danger closing in from behind.
Then the world shifted.
Without warning, a powerful arm wrapped around your waist, firm and unyielding, hauling you backward with startling force. Your feet left the ground entirely, the momentum of your forward motion abruptly stolen as you were yanked out of the path of the descending blade. The weapon sliced through empty air where you had been standing an instant earlier, its edge biting uselessly into the stone floor with a harsh, grating screech.
The sudden movement knocked the breath from your lungs.
âWhat in the hellsâ?!â
Your protest dissolved into confusion as you found yourself pressed against a solid, immovable chest, your back colliding with a figure who smelled faintly of musk, cherries, and unmistakable sulfur. The heat of him seeped through the layers of your armor, unsettlingly warm, and before you could fully process what had happened, a familiar voice drifted down beside your earâsilky, amused, and entirely too composed given the circumstances.
âReally,â Raphael murmured, his tone equal parts dry reproach and quiet satisfaction, âmust you insist on turning every minor skirmish into a near-death experience?â
Your stomach dropped as recognition slammed into you.
You twisted immediately, bracing your hands against his chest in an attempt to push yourself free, indignation flaring hot and sharp in your chest. But his hold did not loosen. If anything, his grip tightened just enough to steady you, his arm locked securely around your middle in a way that made it abundantly clear that he had no intention of releasing you anytime soon.
âLet go of me,â you snapped, breath still uneven from the abrupt rescue.
âMmm,â he hummed thoughtfully, as though considering the request with polite interest rather than immediate compliance. âI donât believe I shall.â
Before you could argue further, he moved againâsmoothly, effortlessly, as though the chaos of the battlefield meant nothing at all. The air around you seemed to twist and fold in on itself, reality bending subtly at the edges as he guidedâno, draggedâyou several paces away from the thickest part of the fighting. The shift was disorienting, the world blurring for a heartbeat before snapping back into focus as your boots touched solid ground once more.
You staggered slightly, caught off balance by the sudden displacement.
His arm was still around you. Still holding you firmly in place and entirely too close to you.
âI said let go,â you repeated, sharper this time, irritation bleeding into your voice as you struggled against his grip.
âAnd I heard you,â he replied calmly, unmoved. âI simply chose not to comply.â
Your temper flared. âI was handling that!â
Raphael finally released you thenâbut only enough for you to turn and face him fully. His hand remained on your arm, fingers curled securely around your sleeve, as though he expected you to bolt straight back into danger the moment he loosened his hold.
He regarded you with a faintly raised brow, his expression composed yet unmistakably skeptical.
âHandling it?â he echoed, voice smooth as polished glass. âMy dear, you were moments away from being carved open like an overripe fruit.â
âI was notââ
âYou were,â he interrupted, more firmly this time, the humor in his voice thinning just enough to reveal the steel beneath. âAnd while I admire your enthusiasm for dramatic heroics, I would prefer not to witness your untimely demise today.â
The words landed heavier than you expected. You crossed your arms, bristling.
âI donât need you stepping in every time things get difficult,â you shot back, frustration bubbling over. âIâm not your responsibility. Iâm not yourââ
âPet?â he supplied smoothly, the corner of his mouth curling upward in a knowing smile.
Your jaw tightened.
âYes.â
For a brief moment, the teasing expression faded, replaced by something quieterâsomething more deliberate and unexpectedly sincere.
âNo,â he said softly. âYou are not.â
The simple acknowledgment caught you off guard, stealing the sharp edge from your anger for just a heartbeat.
But before you could respond, another blast of magic struck nearby, sending shards of stone skittering across the floor. Instinctively, Raphael stepped forward again, one hand settling against your shoulder to guide you back out of harmâs way. The motion was swift, decisive, and maddeningly protective.
You jerked away, irritation returning in full force. âI can stand on my own,â you insisted. His fingers tightened briefly, steadying you as you shifted your footing.
âThen stand somewhere less likely to get yourself killed,â he replied sharply.
For a moment, the usual theatrical arrogance slipped away entirely, revealing a flash of something deeper beneath the surfaceâan edge of genuine concern that unsettled you far more than his teasing ever could. The faint smile returned to his lips, smooth and composed, as though the brief crack in his mask had never existed at all.
âThere we are,â he said lightly, stepping back at last and releasing you completely. âSafe and sound. A much more agreeable outcome, donât you think?â
You straightened, brushing dust from your armor with more force than necessary, your pride still smarting from the unwanted intervention.
âI didnât ask for your help,â you muttered.
âNo,â he agreed easily, hands clasped behind his back as he regarded you with quiet amusement. âYou rarely do.â
A beat passed between you, the tension lingering in the air like the fading echo of thunder.
âI had it under control,â you insisted again, stubborn to the end.
Raphael tilted his head slightly, studying you with that same unsettling intensity. âOf course you did,â
You narrowed your eyes.âI mean it.â
âAnd I believe you,â he replied smoothly, his voice lowering just enough to carry a hint of something more earnest beneath the polished charm. A pause. Then, softerâ âI simply chose not to risk being wrong.â
The words settled heavily in your chest, unwelcome and difficult to ignore. You exhaled slowly, frustration still simmeringâbut now tangled with something far more complicated, something you werenât ready to name. You shot him one last glare.
âNext time,â you said firmly, âstay out of it.â
His smile deepened, slow and knowing, as though he had already made his decision long before you spoke.
âOf course, pet."
I simply could not resist doing the spider scene for gale, I know everyone else's was during battle but I just could not pass up the opportunity.
I really hope you guys enjoyed these! I have a similar concept to this in mind, but dithering on whether or not to do it for the dark!BG3 lot or the regular companions. Decisions, decisions. Anyway hope everyone is doing well đ- Seluney xox
If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x
Summary: When you decide to pierce your nipples, Joel Miller breaks his moral code to lend a helping hand.
Pairing: JacksonEra!Joel Miller/reader
Warnings: Explicit sexual content MDNI, seduction, age gap(undefined), piercings and needles, nipple play, moral ambiguity, oral sex, unprotected sex, praise kink, size difference
NOTE: this one shot was written for my bff joelmillersgirlfriend and all of the bolded words are titles of her fics over on AO3!! if you haven't read any of her work i def recommend going over there to check it out she's incredible. we also have a 3-part co-write we did on AO3 called False Pretenses! thank you to everyone for reading, love u all <3
[cross posted on AO3]
[masterlist]
You find it on a scouting mission.
Maria had sent you and Joel out in search of books to fill the shelves of Jacksonâs overused library. It was a leisurely mission, moving slowly from house to house, searching through broken shelves and dressers and nightstands.
The blistering summer heat has you feeling exhausted by midday, and so the sun hasnât even set when you pick a still-standing apartment complex and settle in for the night.
You drop your pack and flop onto the moth-eaten couch while Joel triple-checks every exit and every entrance in the tiny apartment heâd picked on the very top floor. Heâs going at it again, glancing out of the wide windows with his rifle in hand, when you say, âIf there was a way in or out, I think you wouldâve found it the third time.â
He doesnât say anything. Not a man of many words, Joel Miller. But he was certainly fun to torture with lewd suggestions.Â
âItâs real hot today,â you say. And itâs the goddamn truthâyour skin is warm and your shirt sticks to the small of your back, and even though youâre wearing jean shorts the fabric chafes at your thighs.Â
He does nothing but grunt in agreement as a reply. Few words.Â
Though you try, you canât help the grin that spreads across your face as you tell him, âWeâd be a lot cooler if we took off some of these clothes, you know.â
Joel Miller is a good man. A really good man. This is why he pretends you donât get to him, why he pretends to shrug you off as just a naive little girl whenever you brazenly flirt with him.
But you see it.Â
The way his calloused hands tighten around his rifle, the flush that creeps up his neck, the way he turns his head just enough to keep that smirk from out of view. âYouâre ridiculous,â he says. But he leaves his spot at the window and joins you on the couch instead.
You set your legs in his lap and when he rests his hand on your calf you half expect him to push you away. But he doesnâtâhis fingers linger, pressing into the tender muscle. âHow am I ridiculous? Itâs only common sense, Mr. Miller.â
His eyes catch yours at the name. Heâs never directly said it, but you have a hunch that it does something to him, speaking to him as an authority. A part of you wonders if he ever thinks of you in the way you think of him, wonders if his mind is often filled with sinful, raw images. âYou know why.â
âNo, I donât.â You do. Of course, you do. But youâre out here all alone and heâs sitting beside you and you can feel the heat of his skin against yours and heâs so big and warm and masculine. You want him, need him in a way youâll never even try to understand. âExplain it to me,â you urge.
Joel leans his rifle against the arm of the couch and reaches up to rub the tension from his jaw. He smiles, one of those all-knowing smiles that makes your heart flutter. Itâs a secret sort of smile, meant for just you and him. âYou got any idea how old I am, girl?â
You shrug and say, âIt doesnât matter.â Because it doesnât. âI like that youâre older. Besides, Iâm not talking about that.â You are. âIâm talking about the weather. The heat. Iâm going to take my shorts off.â
Slowly, carefully, you trail your fingertips over the curve of your chest, down the center of your abdomen. His eyes follow your every movement, pupils blown wide and jaw set firmly. His hand flexes around your calf, squeezing softly.
When you slip the edge of your pinky beneath the denim waistband his lips part. You trace the seam, from one hip to the other and back again, real slow. Joel watches you and you watch him, transfixed, thighs pressed together to abate the ache that forms between them.
For a moment, a single moment, you think you have him. You can see the temptation on his face, clear as day. You think youâve finally cracked the eternal goodness and strength of one Joel MillerâŠbut his hand covers yours the moment you reach for the silver button.
Embarrassment flushes your cheeks and you feel a little like youâve been caught red handed.Â
His fingers squeeze yours, but his touch is so sudden and electrifying that the faintest whimper erupts from your chest. You want him to touch you with those hands, to touch you everywhere. You want him to take all that you offer and more.
But heâs just so good. âStop,â he says, breathless.Â
The hesitance is palpable. The strain in his voice. You know he wants you, can see the growing erection pushing at the metallic zipper of his jeans from the other end of the couch. You know itâll only take a little more convincing, a little more of the delicious chaseâŠbut you want the final decision to be his. You want him to need it, too.
So you relent.
You stand to your feet and move towards the staircase in the abandoned apartment. But when you step between his thighs, you linger. âDid you check for any books upstairs?â
He shakes his head. âNo. Donât think whoever lived here before were much the readinâ type.â
âYeah, wellâŠdidnât think you were much the reading type, either. But here you are.â
Joel shrugs. âNot much to do at the end of the world. Helps pass the time.â
You knock your knee against his playfully. âYou even know how to read, old man?â He chuckles softly and it feels like a victory. âNever seen you in the library.â
He spreads his legs further to give you more room, settling into the couch with his head tilted back. You know he doesnât mean to look that fucking good doing it, but he does. Taking up all that space, commanding without even trying. It makes your mouth water, makes your skin prickle in every spot he allows himself to look. And then he says lowly, âIâve seen you.â
It gives you pause. Because if heâs seen you in the library back in Jackson but you havenât seen him, it means he notices you. Even when youâre not out here alone, even when youâre not urging him to touch you, even when youâre not trying. A seductive smirk finds your lips. âYou gotta crush on me or something, Mr. Miller?â
Joel scoffs and shakes his head, turning away from you to hide the redness on his face that has nothing to do with the heat.
You giggle softly and decide to grant him a little reprieve. âIâll be back,â you say, escaping the growing tension and focusing instead on the task at hand. âIf they donât have books, maybe they have something else that could be useful. Clothes or shoes or batteries or something.â
It only takes a few minutes before you realize what he meant when he said the past inhabitants of the apartment donât seem much like the reading type. Thereâs not a single bookshelf to be found. Nothing on the walls, nothing standing in the spare room. There are three computers, though. Not that theyâre worth anything now.Â
Still, you try your damndest to find something. Anything. You rifle through drawers and find nothing but a cracked and weathered bible, of which you have a thousand and one copies in Jackson.
The closest thing you find to a real book is a stack of magazines in the cluttered bathroom. All are covered in a thick layer of dust and most have images of sports cars on the front, but theyâre worth grabbing, anyway. Youâre sure Tommy or Greg or someone wouldnât mind skimming through them, so you grab the whole stack and return downstairs to Joel.Â
Youâre halfway down the stairs when the magazine on the bottom of the stack tumbles from your hands. And itâs not a sports car on the front page.
Instead, itâs a woman all dressed up in leather. She wears platform boots that reach her knees, adorned with heavy silver buckles down the front. Even though you were born not long after the outbreak, youâre not oblivious. You know what pornography is, but youâve never seen anything quite like this.
You pick it up and put it on the top of the pile.
When Joel sees the small stack in your hand he asks, âAnything good?â
âMm. Not sure yet.â You set the pile onto the floor beside your pack, nestle back into your spot in the opposite corner of the couch, and flip open the magazine with the leather-clad woman on the front, reading the title aloud. âHave you ever heard of a porno mag named Dreadnought?âÂ
âWhat are youâis thatâ?â
âIâm just curious, Mr. Miller. Relax.â You lift your feet and put them back in his lap and discover he is anything but relaxed. You can feel the stiffness in his thighs even through the thick soles of your high-top sneakers.
âNo, what? No, you shouldnâtâyou shouldâŠâ
You ignore his stuttering, flipping quickly through the pages. Most of them are filled with erotic images of women dressed similarly to the one on the front page. They each have a man in a curious, submissive position. But none of this interests you, none of it even surprises you, in truth.
Near the end of the magazine is where you find exactly what youâre looking for. The woman on the front page is in different outfits, one in leather, another in red lace. But itâs the third page of her feature where sheâs completely naked. Her breasts are full and sit too high on her chest to be real, but theyâre beautiful. Not for any reason other than those pretty silver barbells that are pierced through her nipples.Â
You lean up, tucking your legs beneath yourself, and show Joel the image. âWas this common? You know, likeâŠbefore?â
His face is red and you think maybe heâs forgotten how to speak. Because no words come out, he just sputters. âIsâŠwhatâŠwhich partâare youâŠI donâtââ
âIâve never seen anyone with pierced nipples,â you interrupt. âThatâs what Iâm talking about. Was it common?â
He seems to find himself. âUhmâŠno. Not really, I guess. Why do you ask?â
You shrug and find yourself leaning into his side, flipping to the next page. Thereâs another image of the woman, and though sheâs back in that red lace again, you can see the piercings pushing against the thin fabric. âItâs pretty,â you say. âI like it. Do you think you could do something like that still?â
âWell, back then they had people whoâd do that sorta thing professionally,â he says. âBut as long as youâre careful, I donât see why you wouldnât be able to.â
You let it go, and the two of you ration what food you have left, deciding to head back to the commune within the next day or two. You fall asleep leaning up against him, head resting on his shoulder. And you know Joel doesnât rest much outside of Jacksonâs walls, always too worried about being found or threatened in some way. But halfway through the night, you wake covered in a thin layer of sweat, scorched by the warmth of his head against your belly.
At some point in your sleep, youâd shifted, laying on the couch on your back, and Joel must have followed you. His arms are wrapped around your waist and his torso covers your legs, body heat warming you to uncomfortable temperatures.Â
But you don't dare move. Instead, you slide your fingers through the soft tendrils of his hair and scratch softly at his scalp, smiling in the dark as he moans in his sleep.
Your luck the following day is much better. You stumble upon an old strip mall, and inside thereâs a small, indie bookstore. Joel picks through the science fiction section, stuffing his pack with everything he thinks might be interesting. He finds a few childrenâs books and pockets those, too, while you browse the romance section.
Half the books are crumbling dust in your hands and the others have so much water damage theyâre hardly legible, but you pick up what you can. While youâre rifling through the horror books, stashing anything written by Stephen King or H.P. Lovecraft, Joel comes up behind you and says, âYou really read that kinda thing?â
âWhat, scary stuff?â
He nods, takes the copy of Carrie from your hands, and flips it over. âYeah. Ainât we got enough horror out there already?âÂ
You roll your eyes dramatically. âItâs not the same,â you explain. You flick the corner of the book in his hands and go back to browsing the shelves. â This you can turn off,â you try to explain. âIf you get too scared you can just close the book. Have you ever read anything scary before?â
Joel shakes his head. âNot really.â
âTry it one day,â you say. âThe best time is in October, though. Under the sheets with a flashlight, scared out of your mind. Itâs so good, Mr. Miller.âÂ
His jaw feathers as if thereâs something he wants to say. But the words never pass his lips. He simply slips the book into your pack and remains silent as he watches you.Â
It takes a while, but eventually, youâre satisfied with your haul. The day is still early, and so you say, âIf we head back now we could save some time. Get home before dark tomorrow.â
To your surprise, he agrees with you. The extra weight of the books has you feeling sluggish an hour into your journey back home, but you persist. And even though itâs significantly less hot today than yesterday, at least once an hour Joelâs passing you his plastic bottle and urging you to drink water.
Itâs a sweet gesture, in truth. Joelâs got this innate instinct to provide for others, you know. Youâve seen it a hundred times, the way he just silently takes care of the people he cares about. Ellie, Tommy, Maria, you. Youâve observed him for long enough to know that heâs a protector, a nurturer.
The only problem with Joel taking care of you is how much you like it. It makes you feel soft and gooey on the inside, producing sordid images in your brain of repaying the favor on your knees. You think about Joelâs big hands on you oftenâin your dreams, even.Â
ButâŠtoday is different because you can feel the weight of the magazine at the bottom of your pack. You canât shake the image of the woman on the cover and that metal through her breasts, canât get over how elegant and edgy and bewitching she looked. You begin to wonder how it would feel to have Joel touch you if you had the same body modificationâwould his calloused hands feel more intense, sensations heightened with the sensitivity? Would he be gentle and slow-moving? How soft would his tongue feel against your skin over the adornment?Â
He seems to sense your distracted thoughts. âYou okay? Seem quiet.â
âFine,â you answer a little too quickly. âIâm justâŠjust hot is all.â
Joel reaches behind him for his water bottle again but you shake your head.Â
âNo, no. Not likeâŠnot like that.â
âOh.â He clears his throat, and you can feel his eyes on the side of your face but you donât have the energy to tease him about it. Not when you canât stop thinking about his fucking hands. âLet's, uhmâŠletâs find someplace to rest for the night. Sunâs startinâ to set anyhow.â
âYeah, thatâll be good.â As long as you stay six feet away from him. As long as you can keep your godforsaken hands to yourself. As long as he doesnât look at you too long or ask too many questions or grunt an answer.
You find yourself praying, hoping to keep yourself from any further embarrassment, hoping to fight off that ache that seems to have made a home inside your belly. You cross your fingers at your sides and hope Godâs got a private channel open for young girls with an insatiable desire for rugged, older men.Â
It feels like divine interference when you crest the hill of the street you're walking on to discover a run-down tattoo parlor. It still stands in perfect condition apart from the crumbling siding. Windows dirty but intact, door closed and stagnant.
A distraction will work.
And it looks sturdy enough to rest for the night. You know Joel will circle it a hundred times before heâs satisfied, but you think eventually he will be satisfied with it. âDidnât people do piercings at tattoo shops, too?â
He nods slowly. âYeah, they did. At most of them, anyway.â
The thought seems to cross Joelâs mind the second you look at him. âDo you think I couldâŠ?â
âMaybe. Letâs see.âÂ
You follow behind him as he approaches the building. He uses his knife to wedge the door open, and the two of you wait and listen for any approaching sound.Â
Thereâs nothing, though. Nothing but stale, empty air, and a whole lot of dust. You stick by his side for the first two rounds of inspection, as is your routine. But when he goes back in for a third, you decide to take a look around yourself.Â
In the front of the parlor, thereâs a big, circular desk that sits atop the black and white tiles on the floor. The walls are painted maroon, and thereâs a neon yellow leather couch near the door. You can only assume itâs where people would sit to wait, but the leather is smooth beneath your fingers even after all this time sitting unoccupied.
There are six smaller rooms behind the desk, each set up similarly with a blackout curtain and a medical-looking chair in the very center. In one of the rooms, thereâs a binder flipped open, and as you begin to turn the pages you realize itâs an art portfolio.Â
For a moment, you wonder about the person whoâd drawn all of these designs. How old were they when they drew them? Did they have tattoos themselves? Are they still alive, out there somewhere still creating art?
People in Jackson still get tattoos, you know. But not as often as you think it might have been before the outbreak. You trail your fingers lightly over the next page. Itâs an image of a glass half-filled with amber liquid, some sloshing out of the side. Below it, the words Tennessee Whiskey are written in cursive.
âShould be good.â His voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin. When you turn to face him, Joelâs got his rifle slung over one shoulder and heâs leaning against the doorframe, curtain pushed to the side. âHelp me barricade the door?â
The two of you spend the next ten minutes moving furniture around the parlor, setting it all in front of the entrance. Itâll be harder to leave in the morning, you know. But you know, too, that a barricade like this means that Joelâs feeling too exhausted to spend another night pacing and youâre happy to give him the assurance of safety he needs.Â
When youâre done, he spreads out on the leather couch and you put your pack beside his. âJoel?â
He turns just his head to look at you.
You sift through the books in your pack and reach towards the bottom, pulling out the magazine thatâs plagued your every waking thought. âIâm going to pierce my nipples, I think.â
For several seconds, he doesnât say a word in response. He just swallows hard and when his eyes leave yours, trailing down your neck, he squeezes them closed before they reach your chest. But you know, you know, even without any words, that heâs thinking about it. That heâs thinking about you, forgetting his morals for a single second.
It isnât until you stand to your feet and start towards the closed-off rooms, magazine in hand, that he finally speaks up.
âBe careful,â he says. âI donât want you hurt.â
You smirk at him over your shoulder. âIs that the Mr. Miller version of saying, I care about your tits?â
He snorts incredulously, but a chuckle follows shortly after, erasing all of your earlier embarrassment.
It doesnât take you long to find the materials you need. In one of the cases you pry open with your knife, you choose two matching silver barbells with dainty, white diamonds on each end. You use a cloth to clean off a tall mirror in one of the rooms, and thereâs a bottle of isopropyl alcohol that you use to disinfect both a steel surgical tray and your hands.Â
You discard your shirt and bra, laying them in the chair in the middle of the room, and flip the magazine open to further observe the woman in the image. Thankfully, you find a drawer full of individually packaged needles and take out several just in case.Â
Sterilizing your hands with the alcohol again, you align the jewelry over your nipple, inspecting the placement and maneuvering it until youâre satisfied. You rip open one of the packaged needles with your teeth and sterilize it too for good measure.
Carefully, you orient the needle just right, inhale until your lungs ache, and when you exhaleâ
âGod fucking dammit!â
You can hear his footsteps before the sound of his rifle, and then comes his voice. âYou alright? What happened?â
Your exhale is somehow shakier than your hands. âIâm okay, Joel,â you say quickly. You knew it was going to hurt, youâre literally piercing a needle through your flesh. But you didnât expect it to be so excruciating. It stings even now with the needle pushed through, completely still.
He stands in the doorway, rifle lowered and pointed at the ground. Through the reflection of the mirror, you can see him glance around the room, looking at everything but you. âAre you sure? Maybe you shouldnât. This could be dangerous, you can wait until weâre back home andââ
âAnd have someone else pierce my nipples? Yeah, Joel, Iâm good on all that.â You pick the jewelry up, sterilize it again, and breathe slowly as you push it through. This part, while uncomfortable, is a world easier than the piercing itself.
You twist on the tiny diamond ball at the end of the barbell and admire your work. Itâs perfectly straight, much to your surprise. And though itâs just a small change, it makes you feel as entrancing as the woman in the magazine.Â
Thereâs no blood, which you take as a good sign. And as the seconds tick by the pain subsides and is replaced with a dull throbbing instead. It hurts, but itâs bearable. The only problem is that as you try to line up the second needle, your hands tremble too much to keep it straight.
Even though you try to take deep breaths, try to shake the tremors from your hand, nothing works. And you canât just have one, canât just leave this task unfinished, and so you gather your courage and turn fully towards him. âJoel? I need your help.â
Youâve never seen him quite like this, you think. Thereâs no flush to his face, no chagrin or hesitance or resistance. All of his morality seems to be replaced with a dark desire, a need unlike anything youâve ever seen before.Â
Immediately you know this is the Joel Miller heâs tried so hard to hide from you. Only glimpses of this terrifying man have slipped through the facade, each one smothered quickly by restraint.
Yet here he stands, hungry eyes swallowing you up, tracing the outline of the jewelry without remorse.
âI canâtâŠmy hands are shaky. I need you to do the other one.âÂ
His hands twitch at his sides. And even though you now know he longs to touch you just as much as you want to touch him, his words tell an entirely different story. âI shouldnât,â he says. âItâs notâŠitâs not right. Shouldnât even be seeinâ you like this. TooâŠtoo young. Too sweet.â
The southern accent in his voice is thicker now than youâve ever heard it. Deep and husky, sending shivers down your spine. âPlease, Mr. Miller.â
His eyes snap up to meet yours. He pins you with that intense stare of his and you suddenly canât move, canât breathe. Flickering flames gather low in your belly.
âI promise I wonât try anything. Iâll just stand here. I just need you toâŠto push the needle through. Thatâs all.âÂ
It takes him a second, but he nods. âAlrightâŠalright. I, uhmâŠokay. Yeah.â He nears you slowly and you feel crowded. You can smell the salt and sweat of his skin, can feel that warmth even though he doesnât yet touch you.
You pour the alcohol over his hands and hand him another packaged needle. âHere,â you say. âJust do it as straight as you can, and once the needleâs in I can do the rest.â
Joel peels apart the packaging and takes the needle between his fingers. He discards the plastic and you can hear each of his ragged breaths echo in your ears. Slowly, experimentally, he reaches out and presses his fingertips just below your ribcage and it makes you moan.Â
He pulls away immediately as if heâd been burned by your skin. âYou said you wouldnâtââ
âI know, I know, Iâm sorry, I couldnât help it. Hold on.â You try again to catch your breath to no avail. âLet me close my eyes. Iâm sorry.â
Joel nods, jaw feathering as he clenches his teeth. But you do as you say, closing your eyes and trying to convince yourself itâs not Joel touching you. Itâs someone else. The same person who drew everything in that portfolio.
But when he does touch you again, his hands are warm and calloused and big and familiar. You know itâs Joel. Your Joel. The brooding man of few words. The too-good man who cares about you, who lets you sleep even though he never does, who gives you his water to guarantee you stay hydrated.
His hand moves upwards, palm pressed flat against your ribcage. It stops just below your breast as if heâs feeling the weight of it in his hand and you wonder if he can feel the hammering of your heart behind your sternum, too.
You donât have time to think about it for long, though. Because his thumb slides across your nipple, hardening it into a peak, and all you can think about is the fact that heâs touching you. Heâs touching you and you want more, want to feel him on every inch of your skin.
This time youâre able to hold back your moan, but only barely. Itâs more like a whimper that gets caught in your throat instead. But he doesnât pull away, and soon his other hand joins in. âShould IâŠuhm,â he clears his throat. âShould I count, orâŠ?â
You shake your head. âNo, no. JustâŠjust do it. Please.â The words are desperate for a whole new reason. Your hands tremble even more at your sides.
The biting cold of the steel reaches you before you feel the pain. You try to breathe through it but the second one is somehow even worse and obscenities fall from your lips at the agony. It hurts so badly that you donât even register as Joel slides the jewelry through and screws the diamond onto the barbell.
Ultimately, itâs his voice that cuts through the fog.
âHey, hey. Shh. Hey, câmon. Finished. Look at me, pretty girl. Open your eyes.â You do because that thick, southern drawl is more enticing than anything youâve ever heard. Youâd follow it anywhere, you think. Do anything it asks. âThere you go. Atta girl.â
His words make your mouth water. You want to taste them. Joelâs hands are still on you, holding your hips, pressing into the exposed flesh. Itâs all you can think about until he turns you away from him, forcing you to look into the mirror on the wall. âOh my God.â
It surprises you a little just how much you love them. It makes you look powerful, like you are the one who belongs in a magazine.
âTheyâre perfect, Joel.â
âDid it hurt too bad?â
The question is so insane that it makes you laugh. âAre you kidding? It was awful. I donât even know what to compare it to to try and explain it.â
He laughs too, a deep, throaty chuckle that brings a smile to your face. âWell, you have my sincere apologies, little lady.â
When you turn back to face him, you ask, âWhat do you think? Do they look good?â
You know you said you wouldnât torture him, but the look on his face is so sweet that you canât resist. âTheyâre real pretty,â he says. âThey, uhâŠthey suit you.â
âThink so?â You look up at him through your lashes, trying your damndest to look as desperate for him as you are. âHurts a little,â you tell him, pressing your thumb gently over the center of your nipple, the one youâd pierced on your own. âRight here.â
He sees right through your false pretenses. You watch him swallow, watch his eyes darken. âCareful, little girl,â he warns, voice low and gravelly.
The name makes you squirm beneath his catastrophic gaze, thighs pressing together. He catches the movementâand you realize you want to be anything but careful with this terrifying, powerful man. Of course, you donât heed his warning. âMight help if you kiss it better, you know.â
âSâthat right?â You nod and a sinful smirk pulls at the corners of his full lips. He leans down and you can feel the scruff of his beard brushing the side of your face. Against your ear, he whispers, âYou donât know what youâre askinâ for, sweetheart.â
You know you shouldnât. You know it, and yet you canât fucking resist. Youâve never been able to resist him. âThen show me.â
And just like that, his resolve withers. The cord snaps and the good Joel you know vanishes into thin air, leaving nothing but this hungry, desperate man behind. He grabs your waist and hauls you up against him, legs wrapping around his hips on instinct.
Your chest presses against his but the pressure is bliss, fighting off both the ache in your breasts and the one between your legs. He swipes everything off the metal table in the corner. Alcohol and needles and portfolio all crashing to the floor.Â
Joel sets you atop it and his mouth hovers an inch above yours, breath fanning across your cheeks. âLast chance, little girl,â he says.
Heâs giving you an out, you realize. One last opportunity to escape him. You lean up and press your lips tenderly to his instead.
Itâs answer enough for him.
Joelâs mouth moves greedily against yours. One hand rests against the small of your back, pressing you against him, and the other holds the nape of your neck. His tongue slips into your mouth. He tastes like honey and whiskey and sunlight. You could drown in it, you think. But Joel doesnât linger for long.Â
He trails open mouthed kisses down your neck, your chestâ-and when he flicks his soft tongue across your nipple, your back arches and you forget how to breathe.Â
âJoel,â you say, voice needy and desperate. âTouch me. Please touch me.â
His hands flex against your skin, still holding himself back. You don't understandâcanât he feel how much you want it? Canât he see it on your face, in your eyes? âI want to,â he admits.
You grind your hips against his and the sensation of the bulge in his jeans against your center has you shaking. âWhatâs stopping you?â
A self-deprecating laugh bubbles out of his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, kisses the tip of your nose gently. âYou make me crazy, pretty girl.â His hand comes around your throat, cradling your face. With the rough pad of his thumb, he traces the outline of your lips and says, âYou make me feel like Iâm eighteen again.â His hand travels lower, down your neck, knuckles dragging between your breasts. âLike Iâm some little boy who gets a hard-on over a bra strap.â Lower, down your belly, between your ribs. âOr these fuckinâ shorts, baby.â
Everything aches for him. Every cell in your body has been lit aflame beneath his touch, longing to feel his hands, his tongue, to feel all of him. âJoel,â you say. âPlease.â
He kisses a trail that follows the path of his hand, but this time he stalls at your breasts. âSound so fuckinâ pretty when you beg,â he mutters against your skin. And then heâs kissing and sucking and biting marks into the softness of your breast, leaving proof that he was here, evidence of his affection. âIf I touch you, I donât think Iâll be able to stop.â
âI want you to,â you say. â I think about it all the time.â Your head falls back, hips rolling against his, seeking out any sort of friction you can find. âGodâI dream about it. I want you inside me.â
His eyes darken as he looks up at you.Â
A man of few words. This time itâs him who reaches for the metallic button. He pops it open in one smooth movement, tongue lapping over the metal barbell through your nipple. You can feel each pass over the sensitive flesh down to your toes.Â
He wriggles his hand into your shorts, deft fingers finding your clit easily. You let out a lewd moan at the commanding way he just takes âas if heâs right where heâs always supposed to be. Right where you want him, right where youâve needed him for all these years.Â
Joel kisses a path across your sternum, mouth giving the same tender care to the opposite breast. He slides his fingers through your wetness, gathering your slick and using it to circle your clit. âMâgonna take care of her, sweetheart,â he says. âGonna make her feel real good, sâthat alright with you?âÂ
His words are filthy and obscene and you love it. Youâre nodding quickly and saying, âYes,  Joel, yes.â
A cold shiver passes through you as he rises back to his full height, towering over you when he takes a step back. âLetâs get these off,â he says. Joel helps you shimmy both your shorts and your panties down your legs until youâre sitting there in front of him completely naked. Heâs still completely dressed and it makes you feel small and minuscule beneath the weight of his predatory stare.
He places both hands on your thighs and pushes them apart, spreading you open. And then he drops to his knees and lazily strokes his fingers through your wet heat. You can feel the chill of his breath against your clit and your fingers find the outgrown tendrils of dark hair on instinct, trying to pull him closer, wiggling your hips to the very edge of the table.
âNeedy girl, hm?â He laughs softly. Itâs not malicious but rather adoring, and you wonder how it is that someone so strong and authoritative can make you feel powerful and cherished in the same breath. âSâokay. Iâve got ya.â
And then his tongue is on you and it feels like heaven. So much better than youâd ever imagined, ever dreamed. His scruff scratches at the inside of your thighs as he slides his tongue through your pussy. Joel groans against you like this is more for him, and the vibration of the sound pulls staccato moans from your mouth.
He slips two fingers into you easily, encountering no resistance. Youâre too wet, too eager to have him inside you. You whimper his name as he sucks your clit into his mouth, hands pulling tight in his hair. It feels so good itâs almost too muchâbut he seems to know what you can take more than you do.Â
Joel looks up at you from between your thighs and you can see the palpable hunger on his face. You think maybe heâs wanted this for longer than you, maybe heâs somehow been even more starved for this than you once thought.
You can feel your orgasm creep down your spine, inferno building and building, settling low in your belly. You try to tell him, to warn himâbut then he hooks his fingers inside of you, pressing against that sweet spot andâ
âOh, GodâGod, fuckâJoel, Iâ!â
âSâalright, baby, goâhead. Cum for me, ohâyeah, thatâs it. There you go, sweetheart.â His voice is so gentle, a stark contrast to the assertive way he moves his hands, pulling from you everything your body can give. The southern accent is thick as he talks you through it. âFeels so much better now, huh? Yâlook so fuckinâ pretty like this, baby. So pretty when youâre all fullâa me.â
Your thighs tremble even as you begin to come down, trying to catch your breath, holding onto his arms to ground yourself as he stands back to his feet, thick cords of muscle sturdy beneath your shaking hands. And heâs rightâit does feel better now, but as he eases his fingers out of you and you watch him lick them clean, your pussy clenches at the sight. Itâs better, it isâŠÂ but when it comes to good and moral Joel Miller you are insatiable.
A deep, rumbling groan reverberates in his chest when you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him towards you. Your slick stains the bulge in his jeans, darkening the denim material. âOh, sweetheart,â he says, big hands running slowly up and down your smooth thighs. âShouldnât be doinâ thisâŠshouldnât be takinâ advantage of you. Such a little thing, donât know what you want.â
The answer comes quickly. âYou, Joel. I want you.â
You reach for his belt and he watches your nimble fingers undo it, pulling the leather through the metal fastening. He hisses when you reach into his jeans and pull him out.Â
Heâs bigger than you thought, and wrapping your hand around him completely is a troubling task. Youâre not sure heâll even fit but it makes your mouth water, makes your swollen clit pulse with need. âPlease.â
âI canât, baby. Believe me, I want it, too, but IâŠyouâre too good for me. Tooââ He stops when you slide the head of his cock through your pussy, coating him in your slick. You watch the movement together and this time itâs Joelâs hands that shake. He curses under his breath, admiring the way he fits so perfectly.Â
âJust a little?â Your own voice is hardly recognizable in your own ears, needy and deprived. You slide his cock back up towards your clit and it catches at your entrance. You both gasp in tandem. You love Joel and all his goodness but right now you want the worst of him. You want all of him.Â
He nods and presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. âOkayâŠokay,â he says to himself. âJust a little. You sure? Youâre positive you wantâ?â
You line him up and shift your hips forward, words fading into nothingness. Itâs just a little like you promised, but the stretch is so delicious you find yourself wanting more. More, always moreâyou think you could die without it.
Joel pushes in further, a little less than halfway, and then pulls out slowly. He groans and you feel like crying. His cock is covered in your wetness and when he pushes back in you think this just might be enough to make you cum a second time.Â
Itâs filthy and obscene and you love it. You love him. He reaches down and circles your clit with his thumb, fucking you slowly, eyes locked on the place youâre joined. âYouâre so big,â you whimper.
You can feel the tension in his shoulders and you do your damnedest to smooth it out with small, massaging motions. He touches you just right but you want it to feel good for him, too.
That heat of an orgasm begins to build again. A low, incessant thrum between your hips.
âI have to,â he mutters so softly you hardly hear him the first time. âI have to, baby. Iâve gotta feel you. Iâve gottaâŠâ And then he eases his cock into you to the hilt without any warning, filling you so full it hurts. The invasion stings but your body adjusts quickly, making room for him in the same way your heart has. His head falls to the crook of your neck and you can feel him shudder as he breathes the word fuck into your skin.Â
âOh my Godâitâs too much, too muchâ!â
âYou can take it, baby. Câmon, spread your legs wider. I know sâalot,â he praises, circling your clit a little faster now. Your slick drips down your thighs, into the dark hair between his hips. âYou got it, sweetheart. See? There you go.â
He pulls out just to sink into you again. This time thereâs less pain and more divinity and your nails dig into his shoulder through his flannel as you adjust to the size of him.
Joel uses his free hand to tilt your chin up, pressing his mouth to yours and kissing you deep. He sets an unrelenting pace, hips grinding against yours with each thrust. Itâs so much and youâre so full of him in all the best ways. When you moan into his mouth you can feel his lips turn up at the corners, a predatory grin saved just for you.Â
The sounds are filthy and echo in the room, an obscene symphony of devotion. Youâd let him do anything right nowâanything.Â
He picks up the pace, hips snapping against yours. All you can think about is how right this feels, how you were made for him, how well he fits inside you.
A low grunt filters through his teeth and he says, âFuck, baby. You look so pretty. Howâs it feel? Tell me. Use your words.â
âSâgood,â you whimper in response. Your brain is mush and your thighs become a vise around his waist, pulling him in impossibly deeper. âSo good, Joel, donât stop. Please donât stop, IâmâIâm close.â
âYeah? Gonna cum again already, hm?â He pushes his palm against your belly, thumb still gently stroking your clit. And the pressure of it feels so intense you let out a whine of bliss. âYeah, you are,â he whispers. âCan feel her squeezinâ me. Sâalright, baby. Wanna feel it.âÂ
His words send you tumbling over the edge of bliss, and he fucks you through it. Stars blind your vision and your ears fill with static. But you can hear Joel though, can hear him and feel him deep inside you through it all.Â
âOhh, thatâs it. Good fuckinâ girl. Pretty little thingâs just fuckinâ dripping all over me, feels so good. You feel so good.â
Before you even realize whatâs happening, his rhythm falters. You can feel his cock pulse inside of you as Joel falls off the precipice. His head rolls back and the muscles in his forearms flex around the prominent veins. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and you know youâll never see anything as beautiful as this big, powerful man weak for you.
Heâs panting when he slowly pulls out of you with a hiss. Sweat dots his hairline and that flush on his neck certainly seems like itâs staying for a little while longer. Heâs beautiful, you think. Crafted by the hands of God himself, made with imperfect grace.
When he looks up at you he smiles in the way he always does, like the two of you share a secret. And maybe now you do. A sinful, dirty secret thatâs all yours. You laugh softly and he mirrors the sound, helping you back to your feet.Â
You hold his shoulders for balance as he helps you back into your shorts. And when he hands you your bra and t-shirt, youâre starkly reminded of the dull throb in your breasts and think better of it before putting them on. âI think they might be too tight. Iâll look around and see if I canâŠâ
Before you finish the sentence, heâs unbuttoning his red flannel and tossing it to you. He wears a light brown tshirt underneath, the arms just a little too tight on his biceps. He looks so good that you want to take him between your legs again even with the sweet ache that lingers. âHere,â he says. âTake this.â
You do. He helps you with the buttons and itâs too big but gives your new body modifications room to breathe and heal. You ask him how it looks.Â
âBetter on you,â is his short response.
When you begin to fall asleep on the yellow leather couch later that night, all wrapped up in his arms, Joel presses his lips to your forehead and says, âWhen we get home, I wanna read that book of yours. Carrie, was it?â
You shift at his side, turning your head up to look at him. âYouâre not gonna wait till October, like I said?â
Joel shakes his head. âYou got any idea how old I am, girl? Iâve got no time for waitinâ till October.â Heâs quiet for several seconds. And then his voice is nothing but a whisper as he says, âNo time waitinâ on this to be right in the eyes of others, either.âÂ
And you can feel the heat behind his words, can almost hear the unspoken meaning. No time for waiting until youâre older, no time for waiting until the perfect moment. Your mouth pulls into a wide grin. âAre you asking to go steady with me, Mr. Miller?â
With a scoff, he runs his hand playfully down your face and shakes his head. âYouâre ridiculous,â he says.Â
When he kisses you, you make a promise against his lips. âIâm yours, Joel.âÂ
He doesnât say much in the way of a reply, your big man of few words. But he pulls you closer, holds you tighter.
summary: After three years of separation, Sarah's birthday offers you and Joel a second chance. But finding trust isn't easy once it's been broken. Luckily, Joel knows exactly what to say to get you to open up your heart to him again. And it certainly helps when he's begging on his knees.
pairing: Joel Miller x ex-wife!f!Reader
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, heavy angst with a happy ending, inner feelings of guilt and shame, reader is sarah's mom, separated parents and joint custody, infidelity because joel is with tess (but they're not in a committed relationship and joel is still very much in love with reader), tension between reader and tess that gets somewhat resolved, lots of yearning between both joel and reader, begging, oral f!receiving, edging, dirty talk, fingering, possessive!joel, lots of apologizing, tummy bulge, unprotected piv, body worship, praise, creampie, no outbreak au
note: for @dazed-confused-amused who sent in this as a request months ago and who has been so unbelievably patient with me while i returned to my joel miller roots, love u sm han <3
wc: 11.2k
[masterlist] [AO3]
In the end, all the hard work pays off.Â
After all the stress of preparation and the last second trips to fill balloons with helium, Joelâs backyard looks nothing short of magical.
Decorated with indigo streamers, plastic strands of white wisteria and silver colored butterflies. All of which youâd spent the last month hand crafting during Joelâs weeks with Sarah. A task to keep your mind occupied in the stretch of bi-weekly loneliness.
The grocery store sheet cake turned out a little funky; the sky blue border uneven, and the sprinkles too heavy in one corner. But the writing is legible, and itâs chocolate with whipped vanilla frostingäžSarahâs favoriteäžand you know sheâll love it regardless.
Youâre clipping the last silver butterfly onto the edge of the cake table when Joel speaks.
Heâs standing on the other side of the yard, the sun overhead shining brightly, accentuating the gentle wisps of grey beginning in his dark hair. âYou, uhâŠyou did a real good job on those. They look nice.â
You adjust the butterfly, tugging gently on the top of the right wing. âThanks. You think sheâll like them?â
Joel snorts. ââCourse she will. You kiddinâ me? âSpecially if she finds out her momma made âem for her.â
The sentiment makes you smile. Sarahâs always been thoughtful. Kind and compassionate in the way only a ten year old girl can be, heart pure and untouched by the weight of the world. âYeah, wellâshe deserves it. We did a real good job on her,â you say. âEven consideringâŠyou know.â
The separation.Â
It was messy and painful and the worst thing youâve ever endured. But a necessary evil. Because Joel was a perfect man by all rights, but being perfect and being present were two very different things.Â
You excused it for a long time. Too long, truthfully. All those nights youâd spent alone when Sarah was having a sleepover, all those school milestones he missed; kindergarten graduation and her last soccer game of the season and the parent teacher conferences that had revealed sheâd gotten straight Aâs in second grade.
Joel had spent all that time workingâbuilding homes for other families while his wife was alone, all but begging him to come to dinner before eight just three days out of the week.
But he never did. Too focused on filling a bank account full of money he would never be home long enough to use.Â
And one day, heâd gotten off of work well after ten to find your wedding ring on the kitchen table and a duffel bag full of your clothes missing from the closet.
And now, nearly three years after that fateful night, heâs staring at you from across the decorated back yard with too much affection in his eyes. He doesnât say it, but you can feel it in his gaze. The warmth, the familiarity, the longing. âYou ever think about it? âBoutâŠwhat we had?â
Itâs a stupid question. Even after so long apart itâs still all you think about. Because when things were good, they were good. Joel was your best friend. Your protector, your provider, your lover. Everything youâd ever wanted in a man.Â
Sweet and strong. A terrible cook, but he was the only one whoâd ever gotten your coffee just right. The kind of husband who always added your favorite snacks to the grocery cart even if they werenât on the list. Who kissed your forehead before work whether you were awake to know of it or not. Loyal as a dog, too. The kind of man whoâd defend your name in a room you werenât in, even now, even without the weight of a wedding band on your ring finger.
There were a million and one reasons you loved Joel Miller.
But what you needed was more of him.Â
âOf course I do,â you admit, pointedly keeping your eyes on the decorations and fixing things that donât need to be fixed. âDo you?â
You can hear him shift behind you. âI've only ever loved three people my whole life,â he says. And you know whatâs coming next before he speaks, because itâs something heâs said for years, long before your marriage. âYouâre top of the list.â
It makes your chest pull tight. Because even while youâd made the decision to put the softness of your own heart first, the love between you was never in question.Â
And you still want him. Of course you do.
But what you deserve is a husband who shows up for you not just when you need him there, but when you want him there, too.
You swallow hard, trying to clear the emotion lodged at the back of your throat like a stone.
The sound of his boots is heavy, even in the plush summer grass. His presence demands to be felt, despite all your efforts to block it out.
With a trembling hand, you adjust the silver butterfly again. âYeah,â you mutter, voice cracking. And then again, clearer this time. âYeah, I know. I love you too, Joel. I think that goes without saying, doesnât it? But I know what I deserve now, too.â
When you finally find the courage to turn and face him, your ears ring and your eyes grow watery. The expression on his face softens, and his hands twitch at his sides. A long-laid instinct to pull you in close, to soothe the ache in your heart in the ways only he could.
But he doesnât.
And you admit, silently, internally, only to yourselfâthat you want him to. Want him to press a kiss to the top of your head and wrap his strong arms around you, enveloping you with his warmth. You want him to make you feel whole again, to tell you heâll be different, that heâll be better.Â
âYouâve always deserved the world,â Joel whispers instead. âAnâ every single day I regret not givinâ it to you, baby. Mâsorry.â
His words are genuine. From an emotional place inside his chest that you used to have to beg for him to allow you to see.Â
And now here he is, opening himself up to you, completely unprompted.Â
Hope flickers like a flame in your heart. Bright and beautiful and tempting.Â
You want to believe him. You do.
You search his face, trying to find a lie. Trying to find anything, anything to pull you back from the edge of this longing.
And then, like a sign from God, the glass door to the backyard slides open.Â
âGood! Iâm glad youâre both here.â Tess strolls onto the deck like she owns the place. As if this house wasnât yours at one point. As if you hadnât picked out the color of the backsplash in the kitchen and the lace curtains over the windows or the pale green rug at the front door.
But you remind yourself that Tess isâŠnice.
And that fact is proven when you notice the multi-colored gift bags draped over each of her arms. Neon yellows and purples and blues, stuffed with pink tissue paper.
Joel leaves your side to help her carry everything. Ever the gentleman.
You try not to roll your eyes. Remind yourself that all the theatrics are for your daughter. That today isnât about you. Itâs about Sarah, and if Tess cares about her enough to remember her birthday and buy her gifts, then maybe she isnât so bad.
Tess sets all of her things on the ground near the cake table. She runs her hands down the front of her jeans and gives you a tight-lipped smile. âYou think I overdid it?â
Yes, you want to say. Thereâs the smallest bit of pink tulle sticking out of one of the bags, and you want to mention that Sarah hates the way tulle feels and will recoil the moment the plasticky fabric touches her fingertips.
You clear your throat instead. âUh, no! No. Not at all. Thank you? Yeah, thank you foräžuhmâŠfor remembering her birthday. HowâŠthoughtful.âÂ
Joel coughs. And you know itâs an intentional sound, covering up an ill timed laugh. The air feels thick. Awkward and uncomfortable, and you think everything could be solved if only Tess would just leave.
âThereâs drinks in the fridge,â Joel tells her. âSoda and beer. A couple of wine coolers. Feel free to help yourself. Tommyâs getting Sarah from her sleepover and pickinâ up pizza on the way here.â
Tess nods and you try not to notice how much warmer her voice is when she speaks to him. âOh, perfect. Itâll be such a good day, sheâll love it,â she says.
Your eyes narrow and you tilt your head curiously. You hate when she does thatäžspeaks as if she knows Sarah. Like theyâre familiar, like sheâs anything to your daughter except for her dadâs on-again-off-again girlfriend. âYou donât know that,â you say, masking the venom in your voice. âShe might hate it.â
She wonât, but thatâs not the point.
âI just meantâŠwell, Sarahâs a really sweet girl. Iâm sure sheâll just enjoy everyone being together,â Tess says softly. Reasonably. Actually kind, devoid of the bitter undertone your words possess.
It only makes you hate her more.
âRight.â The word comes out short. Clipped. A little sarcastic.
Silence lingers. Joel stands beside her, scratching the back of his neck, eyes fixed on a strand of white wisteria and adamantly avoiding the altercation youâre encouraging.
Tess sighs, and then stares hard at the side of Joelâs face. âWell. Iâm gonna grab a beer, you want one?â
Joel shakes his head. âLater. Thanks, though.âÂ
The moment she slips through the glass door and into the kitchen, leaving the two of you alone once more, you feel yourself deflate. âWhat if I wanted a beer? Not very considerate of her to offer to grab you one and notââ
A grin stretches across Joelâs face. One of those smiles he canât help, one that reaches his eyes and has them crinkling around the corners. He shakes his head the moment you start speaking and cuts you off to say, âYou hate beer.â
âYeah, but she doesnât know that.â
âYes she does, we talk about you all the time.â
You scoff, the sound coming out both surprised and infuriated. âYou talk about me? Why? Iâm sure sheâs got an awful lot to say about the bitter baby momma, doesnât she?â
âOh, Jesus Christ.â
âWhat? Iâm just asking! You guys donât have anything better to talk about?â
âCâmon, now. Donât get all crazy,â he says. But he still wears that smirk, like heâs enjoying himself, enjoying the show, and doesnât tell you to relax or be nice. He doesnât even try to.
âYou canât seriously expect me to like her, Joel. Sheâs coming to our daughterâs birthday party while shacking up with my ex husbandââ
His mirth falls, replaced with an air of seriousness. âIâm not your ex husband,â he insists. âI never signed those papers.â
âSemantics,â you say.
But Joelâs face contorts further, and though he passes it off as irritation you can see the injury behind his eyes. Can see the way your words hurt him. âNo,â he says, voice firm. âWe might be separated for now but Iâm still your husband.â
His gaze feels heavy, piercing.
You donât want to argue. And it is technically true, anyway. So you turn your attention away from him, unwilling to feel that longing so acutely, wishing the goosebumps on the back of your neck away. âOkay,â you concede, the softness returning to your voice. âIâm sorry.â
Not long after, Tommy pulls up in the driveway. You and Joel stand on the front porch, and Sarahâs launching herself out of the back seat before Tommy fully turns the engine off.
âMomma!â Her hair shifts around her ears as she runs to you, throwing her arms around your waist and burying her face into the softness of your belly.
It was Joelâs week to have her, so you havenât seen her pretty face since the family dinner Wednesday night, and you swear sheâs grown two inches in the last three days.
Everything feels more at ease the moment sheâs in your hands. The Earth feels brighter, warmer. âHappy birthday, sweet pea! Did you have a good time with Ellie? You guys get to go swimming like you wanted?â
She nods and takes a step back. âWe did! And look, look!â Sarah lifts her arm to show you the blue and white pony bead bracelet on her wrist. âWe made friendship bracelets too!â
You run your hands through her hair and sing your praises like you always do, listening intently while she recounts each moment of the sleepover to you.
Tommy carries three pizzas inside, and you and Sarah follow him to the kitchen. Sheâs flipping open the container and pulling a slice right from the box, still talking animatedly around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni.
You turn to grab a plate from the cupboard, but Joelâs already got one in hand, passing it to you to give to Sarah.
It feels seamless. Routine. The two of you working together, around each other, with each other.
Try as you might to focus on Sarahâs words, all you can think about is the rough texture of Joelâs hand as it brushes yours and lingers a second too long.
You can feel it in that touch. The want. The longing. The despair.
The remnants of your conversation in the backyard lingers in the back of your head. Iâm still your husband, heâd said.Â
And despite how badly you wanted to hate him and allow yourself to be free, he was never an evil man, just an absent one.
Tess speaks behind you. Something about how she knows Ellieâs mom from work. And it reminds you that while you might still be stuck, right where you were three years ago when you left him, Joel already has someone else. Someone to fill the gap youâd left behind.Â
âCan you get me some water, mom?â
Sarah. The day is about Sarah, you remind yourself. Not about you or Joel or the goddamn mistress he invited to your childâs birthday party.
You smile and shake the tension from your bones. ââCourse I can.â
The five of you eat together at the dinner table, and truth be told Tessâs presence isnât a bad one. You think, in another life, you might even like her. Sometimes she makes quick quips towards Tommy and you find yourself actually laughing.Â
But dinner comes to a sudden halt the moment Sarahâs standing to dump her plate in the sink and her eye catches on the glint of a silver butterfly in the back yard.Â
Sheâs a gasping, giggling mess of a girl as she takes in all the decorations, running her small fingers over each strand of wisteria. She takes a running leap in an attempt to touch the streamers overhead but is still just a hair too short at tenânow eleven years old.
Joel lifts her onto his shoulders so she can grab at them, and she spends the next five minutes directing him like a train conductor around the back yard.
It makes your chest pull tight, watching it all unfold. Joelâs always been the best fatherâbefore and after the separation. Sarah is the one thing the two of you have done right.
When sheâs ready to open her gifts, Joel sets her in the center of the folding table and everyone gathers around her. Sarah chooses the gift wrapped in paper decorated with moons and stars firstâyour gift.
You try not to feel so smug about it, watching her sift through all the glittering bags from Tess to find yours.Â
She peels the paper back to uncover the collectors edition box set of the Dawn of the Wolf books, and is so excited sheâs nearly jumping off the table to throw herself into your arms. âHow did you know I wanted this one? Iâve been looking for these!â
âLucky guess,â you say, but sheâs mentioned them half a dozen times since the final movie came out in theaters, and theyâve been sitting in the back of your closet for months.
Sarah chooses one of Tessâs gifts next, unearthing a glittering princess tiara. And though Sarah has never once in her life been much of a princess girl (with the singular exception of Mulan), she smiles anyway and says. âThank you, Tess. Itâs very pretty.â
But then proceeds to turn to you, eyes wide and brows raised. She lowers her tone and asks, âMomma, do I have to wear this?â
You try not to laugh. Really, you do. But a snort comes out anyway and you can feel Joelâs pointed stare as you gently take the tiara from Sarahâs hands. âYou donât have to do anything you donât wanna do, baby.â
An uncomfortable silence settles between everyone, but you donât care. Not when Sarahâs relief is physical and instantaneous, shoulders dropping as sheâs unburdened by the sudden expectation.Â
âAlright, mine next,â Joel interjects. He hands her a white gift bag that has silver stars on it and sheâs tearing into it the moment she can, discarding the tissue paper into the growing pile beside her.Â
She gasps as she pulls out the Dawn of the Wolf movie set. Blu-ray discs, even. Every one of them all wrapped up in clear cellophane packaging with a limited edition poster inside.
Itâs an uncoordinated gift. As much a surprise to you as it is to her.
That feeling of longing rears its persistent head again, because you miss that harmony you once had. The two of you used to exist together not as two separate people but as an extension of each other.
You used to be so close. He used to be more than your husband, more than the father of your childâJoel was your best friend.
And seeing that harmony you once possessed displayed in such a clear, tangible way, completely unprompted? It has emotion welling up in your throat.
Sarah opens the remainder of her gifts. From Tess, all pink princess-themed dresses and skirts and things that will rot at the back of her closet. But Sarah grimaces and says thank you through it all.Â
Tommyâs gift comes last. And thank god for itâbecause the moment he pulls it from the back of Joelâs truck, Sarah forgets all about princess tiaras and Dawn of the Wolf.Â
âOh my God! Are you serious?! This is mine?! Uncle Tommy!â
Everyone watches with toothy grins as he passes her an electric guitar. The body is glittering teal with an ivory fretboard, child sized to accommodate her eleven year old hands.
Itâs the very same one that hangs in the window of the music shop downtown. The one she eyes every time Joel takes her there to pick up a fresh set of strings.Â
Tommy laughs and kneels down in front of her. âNow, I know your old man ainât cool enough to rock nâ roll. But he can get you started teachinâ you the basics on his old man guitar, hm?â
Sarah giggles and turns to give Joel the widest smile. âDad! Itâs called an old man guitar? You told me it was called an acoustic!â
It makes everyone laugh, and your heart swells in your chest. So overwhelmingly full with love and affection you fear it might burst. The sun is shining and your baby is safe and happy and healthy and Tommyâs making stupid jokes and Joel has his hand splayed on the small of your back.
The touch is grounding. Not inherently intimate, justâŠaffectionate. Filled with the type of love that warms you but burns around the edges.
You lean into his side out of pure instinct, and when he rests his cheek on the top of your head, youâre suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to kiss him.
And it would be so easy. Just to tilt your head back, to smile and press your lips to his. Quick, but full of all the words left unsaid; I love you, and I always have, and I always will.
But you can feel Tess and her heavy stare from across the yard. And when you meet her eyes, youâre surprised to find no trace of resentment there. No anger, no fury. JustâŠunderstanding. And perhaps a bit of sadness, too.
Tess was also newly divorced when she met Joel, you know. A quick friendship that had slowly evolved into more. You wonder now, for the very first time, what it must be like for her. How it felt to watch you interact with Joel, how it felt each and every time your jealousy ran a little wild, how much strength it must have taken her to never respond to your cruelty with the same energy.
Guilt slithers like a python between your ribs as you come to the realization that sheâs just trying to figure all this out, too. The same way you are.
Tommy helps Sarah lift the guitar strap over her shoulder. And the moment itâs secure, sheâs running up to you and Joel and all but begging him to teach her to play a song.
And Joel obliges, of course. Grabs the acoustic guitar heâd hand-made out of spruce wood years ago and within a few short minutes, theyâre sitting side by side on the back porch. The sight of them brings a kind of peace to your heart that feels indescribable.
You slip soundlessly inside to start cleaning up. Picking up the empty dishes and half-filled glasses from the table and carrying them to the sink in the kitchen.
Tess saddles up to your side with a hand towel and an easy smile. âWant some help?â
When your brows furrow, itâs on instinct. A knee-jerk reaction. You think about the words that threaten to spill from behind your teeth. More cruelty, more short words. No, I donât need your help. Iâve got it handled.
But then you remember the way sheâd looked at you and think better of it. Swallow down your dislike and instead say, âUhm. YeahâŠsure. Thank you.â
You turn on the warm water and lather the sponge in that god-awful dollar store dish soap heâs been buying since you left.
Tess doesnât speak. Not right away. She just takes the washed and rinsed dish from your hand when you offer it to her and dries it in silence. She moves around the kitchen with a familiar sort of ease that would bother you.
Well. It does bother you. Because once this was your kitchen, too. You who decided which cabinet to put the cups in. You who organized the spices. You who picked out the stainless steel stove. Your kitchen. Your house. Your husband.
But you try not to let it show. Because she doesnât deserve to be punished for what was ultimately a decision you made. And sheâs never crossed any boundaries. Has always been good to your daughter. Good to Joel.
âYouâre a great mom,â she suddenly says, sticking a dry plate on top of the existing stack in the cupboard. âYouâre definitely that girlâs favorite person in the whole world.â
As sweet as the sentiment is, it makes you snort. âI think today it might be Uncle Tommy whoâs her favorite.â
Tess smiles, but shakes her head. âNah. She talks about you like you put the stars in the sky,â she explains. And then her voice gets a little lighter, as she says, âYou know, the first time I met her the three of us went out for ice cream. And you wanna know the first thing she said to me?â
Youâd known about the ice cream and about Sarah meeting Tess. Joel had introduced the two of you months prior, and refused to even tell Sarah about Tess without your explicit consent. As much as you hated it at the time, it had been handled with respect. But Joel had never given details, just said that it had gone well. That it seemed like Sarah had fun. âWhat did she say?â
âWe sat at that picnic table and she looked me dead in the eyes and said, âmy mommy smells way better than you.ââ
A crease forms between your brows and you turn to face Tess with a disbelieving look on your face. âShe what?â
Thereâs a certain amusement in her voice when she responds. âYep. And she was probably right, anyhow. I was working at a restaurant at the time and probably smelled like garlic aioli.â
âOh my god.â You canât help the laughter that bubbles out of you. It truly is unintentional. But imagining those words in Sarahâs pretty, sweet voice sends you over the edge.
But Tess is laughing, too. Which is some small comfort. âAnd then she proceeded to tell me how much you liked that perfume Joel got you for Christmas and stood up on the bench and gave me a whole run-down about how you spray it. So that I could smell better, too.â
You can just imagine the way Joelâs face wouldâve gone tomato red, embarrassed and in public no less. âYouâre joking.â
Tess shakes her head. âNope. I swear. Neck, chest, and the insides of your wrists. Right?â
You hand her the last dish and rinse the soap from the sink. âUhm, yeah. In that order exactly. SheâsâŠgod. Iâm so sorry. Sheâs something else.â
She waves your apology away with a quick hand. âOh, itâs fine. Kids never have a filter at that age. I thought it was hilarious, actually.â She puts the final dish away and drapes the hand towel over the cabinet door beneath the sink.
Thereâs more she wants to say, but she hesitates. And this new ease youâve created feels precarious, so youâre not sure if you should urge her or stay silent.
But after a few moments, she crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the counter. Her eyes are averted, staring only at the linoleum floor. And then she says, âI only say this because I want you to know even though Tommy got her a guitar and Joelâs going to teach her how to play it, itâs you she keeps a framed photo of on her nightstand when she stays here.â
Emotion chokes you. Pressure builds behind your eyes, but you try your damndest to swallow it down. You donât want to cry, not here. Not in front of Tess. And not on Sarahâs birthday.
âThe only person in the world who even comes close is Joel,â Tess continues. âAnd Joel and IâŠwe have a lot in common. One of those things being that weâre both still stupidly in love with the person who left us.â
You try to blink away the moisture in your eyes, but it feels useless now. âTess.â
The word comes out as a warning. One she doesnât heed.Â
âJoelâs a good man,â she says. âHeâs a good man, and he loves nothing more than you and that little girl. And I can see it in you, too. The love thatâs there. The kind that never, ever goes away. I donât wantâŠâ she sighs. Shakes her head and tries again. âYou deserve good things. And Iâm glad you saw that you deserved more and stood your ground because Sarah is watching everything you do. And one day, when sheâs in the same situation, she will look back and know exactly what choice to make. But I think itâs important to show her that love does exist. And sometimesâŠsometimes all it needs is a second chance.â
Your breaths feel uneven. Thready and labored. You donât know what to say or what to do or how to react. Your ex husbandâs girlfriend is standing here, encouraging you to forgive him. Not for you or for him but for Sarah.
It all feels heavy. Too heavy.
And all you can muster up the courage to say is, âThank you, Tess. IâŠI appreciate you.â
âIâm only saying to you what I wish someone would say to my ex husband.â She gives you a soft smile. One that comes from a place of womanhood, of a sameness that canât be manufactured. And then she clears her throat and squeezes your shoulder and says, âIâm, uhâgonna go ahead and sneak out. Thank you for letting me celebrate with her, too.â
You wait.
Wait until she walks away. Until she grabs her keys from the table. Until you hear the front door shut. Until you hear her car tires groan against the gravel in the driveway.
And then the tears are falling fast down your cheeks. Marring your skin and leaving wet streaks behind.
Because Tess is right. Or at least you want her to be.
You would give anything, anything, to feel whole again. To have that pretty ring on your finger and to fall asleep in the same bed and wake up to Sarah wriggling her way between you. To make coffee in the mornings and hear Joel tease you about the amount of creamer you use. To throw his laundry in with yours and file your taxes together again and hold his hand over the center console on a late night drive.
All it needs is a second chance.
When the sliding glass door opens, you turn towards the sink and frantically wipe the tears away from your face. You donât want Sarah to see you cryingäžshe always takes longer to recover from your tears than you yourself do.
âWhat the fuckâs goinâ on?âÂ
Relief floods you when you hear Tommyâs voice. He closes the door behind him and as soon as you turn to face him, heâs crossing the kitchen in four strides. âSorry,â you say. âIâm fine, I promise.â
âDonât look fine to me. What happened? Whyâre you cryinâ?â He holds your shoulders, keeping you at arms length. âAnd where the fuck is Tess? Did she say somethinâ to you?â
Thereâs an underlying venom in his voice you know all too well. The kind that slips out when heâs gotten too drunk or when someone gets disrespectful to a woman in front of him. Protective to a fault.
You shake your head. âTommy, no. It wasnât like that. She was actually beingâŠâ you laugh, but it comes out bitterly. âShe was really fucking nice. Iâm justâŠâ
His gaze is hard as he asks, âYou sure? âCause I donât care what you and Joel got goinâ on, youâre still my baby sister. Someone made you cry. All you gotta do is say the word. Still talk to this girl from high school anâ she fights mean. Iâll call her up right now.â
This time when you laugh, it's more genuine. âTommy,â you chastise. âJesus, no. It wasnât like that, okay? I swear. Relax.â
He searches your face, but ultimately nods and takes a step back. âJust donât like seeinâ you cry,â he admits.
And it softens your heart, because you get it. Understand what itâs like to love someone like a sibling even without sharing an ounce of blood.Â
Youâd seen Tommy on the worst days and on his best days. Youâve seen him cry and seen him laugh. Made sure he had a good meal every night and socks without holes in them in the mornings. Kept his secrets and gave him dating advice and bailed him out of jail a time or two.
It had been you whoâd held his hand the whole way home after he was discharged from the combat zone of Desert Storm.
Tommy has become an integral part of your life. A piece youâd been terrified of losing in the divorce, only to discover your fears had been blessedly in vain.
âIt was about Joel,â you admit, sniffling. Quiet and timid, feeling out of step with yourself. Unsure in a way you havenât been in a long time.
Tommy sighs. âYou wanna talk about it?â
He asks carefully. Not pushing, only concerned. And you trust Tommy, maybe more than anyone on the planet, because he has no motivation when it comes to you. So, for once, you say exactly whatâs on your mind. âI still love him. I think I always will. But at what point is it disrespectful to myself if I go back? If we just repeat the same old habits, if I spend my days alone again, IâŠGod. What would that look like to Sarah? Would it set this example that itâs okay to accept half-assed love? To go back to someone who you begged for months to justâŠto just be there. To come home when he promised he would. I deserve that, Tommy.â
âYou do,â he agrees easily.Â
âI just donât knowâŠI donât know. How can I tell if things will be different? How do I take that risk and should I? If I go back, wouldnât this all have been for nothing? I put Sarah through all of this for nothing?â
He sighs heavily, worry on his face. âYou want my opinion or you just wanna get it all out?â
âYour opinion,â you say. Because your brain feels all scrambled and chaotic and Tommy has never once lied to you.
âJoel would take the risk on you,â he says with a shrug. Simple. Honest. A clean cut blow straight to your still beating heart.
And the worst part is that you know heâs right.Â
âYou know he went to therapy? That first year.â Tommy laughs. âJoel. Went to therapy. Could hardly believe it. Anâ he complained about it every damn week, but he still showed up. I think he tried to beâŠbetter. You know? For you.â
Itâs the first and only time you and Tommy ever talk about Joel and the things he did right after your divorce. You never wanted to involve him. Never wanted him to get caught in the crossfire.
But you find yourself glad youâre doing it now. Thankful for the honesty, no matter how much it hurts to hear it. âIâŠI didnât know that. He never told me. Thank you, Tommy. For always being there for me. And for Sarah, too.â
His lips curl into that same toothy grin that your daughter inherited. âCourse,â he says. âSâwhat Iâm here for. And, heyäždonât sweat it so much. Things will turn out the way theyâre supposed to. They always do, right?â
You nod, and he wraps a comforting arm around your shoulders. You lean into his embrace and let him pull you to the sliding glass door and back outside. Sarah and Joel are both so occupied in the moment they donât even look up at you.
Joelâs got one hand on the neck of his guitar while the other is adjusting Sarahâs fingers on the fretboard of hers.Â
You look up at Tommy and ask, âHow long do you think âtil sheâs ready for cake?â
He snorts. âOh, youâve got an hour. At least.â
It ends up taking two.
But you donât mind. You just sit on the porch steps and watch the two of them. Sarahâs eager to learn, and Joel is a patient teacher. He answers all of her questions and gives her tips and pointers and even promises to find a pink guitar pick just for her.
When Joel asks what song she wants to learn first, Sarah smiles excitedly and answers, âWe have to play My Girl!â
The moment she says it, Joel casts his eyes to you and your heart pinches tight. And you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that heâs reliving the same memories you are.
Those late nights right after Sarah was born when she would cry and cry until Joel sang her softly back to sleep. The times heâd sing it to her even when she was older, dancing around the kitchen while she climbed on his back.
The memories that came even before Sarah. The first time he ever sang it to you, after heâd had one too many beers and youâd had to put him to bed. The time it had come on the radio in his truck and heâd pulled over to dance with you in the middle of a field of wheat.Â
And on your wedding night, where youâd been so painfully in love that you barely registered the small group of family and friends around you.Â
Because Joel had held you tight and kissed your forehead and sang the lyrics softly in your ear. His beard had ticked your skin, and your face had gone all hot, but youâd never been happier than you were at that very moment. Married to the man you loved, surrounded by people who cared about you, and a beautiful baby growing in your belly.
Of course thatâs the song she would choose.
It takes her only forty minutes to learn the first verse.Â
She quits only when the sun begins to set, and makes Joel pinky swear to practice with her tomorrow.
Tommy lights the candles on her cake, and everyone sings happy birthday around the table. She clings to you the entire time. Arm intertwined with yours, leaning heavily into your side, face pressed to your belly.
Sarah makes a wish and blows out the flame and asks Joel if he can put on a movie while they eat. He suggests Curtis and Viper, but Sarah wonât hear of it.Â
Sheâs tearing open her new blu-ray box set of Dawn of the Wolf with vanilla frosting still sticking to her fingers.
And for the entirety of the first movie, she sits between you and Joel on the couch. Her head is in your lap and her feet are in his, and it feels good.
It feels like home.Â
Tommy leaves when the credits roll. And Sarah jumps up to give him a too-tight bear hug and thanks him a million times for her guitar and swears that sheâll be concert ready by the following weekend.Â
But when she sees you grabbing your jacket from the rack by the door, her face falls. âCan we please stay here tonight? Just for my birthday!âÂ
It breaks your heart into a million tiny pieces. Not only the request itself but the way she says it. Full of hope and love, like it doesnât even register to her that the request might be too much for you to handle.
You think about Tessâs words and you think about your tears from earlier and you think about Joel.Â
When your eyes find his, theyâre full of melancholy. He carries this deep, pensive longing that has lingered there for years, and you start to wonder if itâll ever go away.Â
He shrugs. âI donât mind. But itâs your week, so itâs your call.â
âPlease, mom! Please, please, please!âÂ
You donât think youâd be able to say no to her if you tried.
When you sigh, Sarah knows itâs over. She jumps in excitement and spins around the room and requests that Joel make popcorn before you start the second movie, to which he immediately obliges.Â
Tommy hugs you tight before he goes. Kisses your temple and says, âYouâre tough, little sister. Trust your gut. And Christ, girl. Give yourself some credit every now and again. Youâre doing great.â
âThanks for coming, Tommy,â you mutter. âWe love you. And text me when you get home safe or Iâll have your ass.â
He chuckles low and you close the door behind him, leaving you in the silence of the living room. In the distance, you can hear Joel and Sarah in the kitchen.Â
Sheâs talking excitedly about all the songs she wants to learn. You can hear the smile on Joelâs face as he utters words of encouragement. The kernels pop and the scent of salt and butter begins to drift into the living room, and youâre trying to stay strong.Â
Really, you are. But it would be so fucking easy to justâŠto come home.Â
And not in the sense of moving back into this house and dedicating every Saturday night to movies and popcorn. Homeâlike coming back to Joel.
You swallow hard and busy yourself setting up the next movie. Ejecting one disc and replacing it with the next. Skipping through all the previews and adjusting the volume, flipping off the overhead light and turning on the wax warmer in the corner that looks like it hasnât been used since the day youâd left.Â
When youâre done, you make your way to the kitchen and interject their popcorn process only to tell Sarah, âWhy donât you go upstairs and get your pajamas on before we start?â
âBut, mom. Iâm not gonna fall asleep. Canât I do it after?â
You and Joel exchange a lookâboth fully aware that sheâll be out like a light before the twenty minute mark.
He smiles and nudges Sarah. âGâon. Listen to your momma.âÂ
She does so begrudgingly, her footfalls heavy up the stairs and down the hall to her room.Â
Joel turns off the heat on the stove and pulls down the big plastic bowl from the top shelf. The one you picked out all those years ago. He glances at you over his shoulder and asks, âYou gonna tell me whatâs wrong?â
You know better than to lie. Not to Joel. Who has always seen right through you. Who knows you better than anyone else on the planet.
And what would you say, anyway? That youâre not sure what you want anymore, that you miss him but youâre terrified of accepting any less than what you deserve? That it hurts to see him with someone else, that it hurts even more that sheâs nice?
When you answer, the words come out short and clipped. Not aggressive, justâŠtired. âLetâs just get through the night, Joel.â
You leave the kitchen and return to the couch, relieved to hear Sarah bounding back down the stairs. She smiles when she sees you and it eases the strain on your heart if only a little.Â
She climbs up beside you and leans into your embrace when you hug her tight to your side. âThanks for everything, mommy,â she murmurs, cheek smooshed to your arm. âI had the best day ever.â
You kiss the top of her head and thank the universe or god or whoeverâs listening for sending you the most perfect daughter. For giving you a reason to prioritize your own heart. âYouâre so welcome, sweet girl. Happy birthday.â
Joel comes to sit on her other side, popcorn bowl in hand. âReady?â
Sheâs shoveling popcorn into her mouth before you can even hit play.Â
And twenty minutes later? Sheâs got her head on Joelâs shoulder, and thereâs a buttery kernel still in her hand, and sheâs snoring so loud the sound echoes in the room.Â
You look at Joel, and heâs wearing this grin that you think you havenât seen in a while, and you have to cover your mouth to keep yourself from laughing hard enough you wake her.Â
âChrist,â Joel says. âSâlike sheâs sawinâ logs in her sleep.â
âBetween Ellieâs last night and soccer practice this morning, I knew sheâd crash hard. And I think Tommy gave her a bunch of candy on the way over.â
âOh, he definitely did. Found three bags of peach rings in the trash,â he tells you with a light hearted chuckle. He shifts carefully, tucking one arm beneath her head and the other beneath her knees. âIâll go tuck her in.â
You nod, and the moment youâre left alone in the silence youâre finding your way back to the kitchen. Cleaning up the scattered mess from the day, trying to busy your hands and quiet the turmoil in your head.Â
When you collect all the torn wrapping paper and cellophane packaging and discard it, you move on to wiping down the countertops.Â
Joel doesnât say anything when he enters the kitchen soundlessly, but you can feel his presence as if he were an extension of your heart.Â
He leans against the archway and presses his thumb into his palm. âYouâve always done that, you know,â he says.Â
Without turning to look at him, scrubbing at a stubborn water ring, you ask, âDone what?â
âStart cleaninâ when youâre tryinâ to work somethinâ out in that head of yours.â
You pause, hand freezing, washcloth still clutched tight between your fingers.Â
âYou remember Sarahâs first day of kindergarten?â He huffs. âSpent the whole day cleaning the baseboards with a damn toothbrush.â
The memory comes back to you the moment he says it. Joel had spent that night working lotion into your chemical-dried palms, skin sore and taut from prolonged exposure to the cleaner youâd used.
âAnd when she sprained her ankle jumpinâ off the swings at the park, you rented one of those big dumpsters that weekend and threw out all that junk in the garage.â
The more he speaks, the more memories surface that serve to validate his claim. You leave the water stain be, and toss the cloth into the empty sink. âI guess you're right,â you say, trying to laugh it off. To keep things as lighthearted as possible.
But then he says, âI shouldâve noticed it. That last week, right beforeâŠright before you left.â
The anguish in his words makes your gut twist. Because Tess is right, Joel is a good man. Perfect for you in nearly every way. You love him more than youâve ever loved anyone, and you hate seeing him like this. Hate even more that youâre the cause of it.
âWas cominâ home every night and the entire house was spotless,â he says somberly. âKnew there was somethinâ going on, justâŠdidnât think it wasâŠthat.â
Emotion rises up in you. Thick and hot in the back of your head, making your ears ring. âCan I ask you something?â
He nods, stepping fully into the kitchen now. He lowers himself into a chair at the table and answers easily, âAnything. You know that.âÂ
âWhy didnât you tell me you were going to therapy?â
You expect him to sigh. To shift uncomfortably or avoid the question altogether. But he doesnât do any of that. He just says, âI thought about it. About tellinâ you. But, uhâŠguess I just supposed that when you came home to me, it had to be because you wanted to. Not âcause of somethinâ I was doing.â
The words shatter what remains of your resolve. âIs that what you think? That I havenât come home because I didnât want to?â
He shakes his head. âNo, IâŠI know itâs because ofâŠwell. Me. Anâ workinâ all the time and everything. Not makinâ the time for you anâ Sarah the way a man ought to. The way a dad and a husband ought to. But I havenât missed anything in the last three years, have I?â
You try to recall all the events that have passed since the separation. All of the parent teacher conferences and birthdays and doctors appointments and soccer games and art shows.Â
âEven when you put that hole in the wall of your apartment, tryinâ to move furniture around. Scared about gettinâ the deposit back, so you called me,â he says. âAnâ I came, baby. Didnât I?â
Those stubborn tears return again, pooling in the corners of your eyes. Quietly, you admit, âYeah, you did.â
âThere ainât a day that goes by I donât regret losinâ you.â
âGod, Joel.â Your voice cracks when you say his name.Â
And thatâs all it takes before heâs standing to his feet and closing the distance between you, the instinct to soothe your discomfort deeply ingrained. âHey,â he says, squeezing your fingers in one hand and tilting your face up with the other. âWhyâre you cryinâ? Talk to me.â
You shake your head. âI justâŠI miss this. Having movie nights and making popcorn and carrying Sarah up to bed. I miss coordinating birthday gifts and not just co-parenting but parenting together. I miss being here and I miss you, Joel.â
His eyes soften, and he gently drags the back of his knuckles across your cheek. âThen come home, baby,â Joel says.
As if there isn't a risk of hurting Sarah even further than the damage thatâs already been done. As if he doesnât have a partner whoâs kind, who cares about Sarah in the only way she knows how. As if it was simple.
âI wish it were that easy,â you murmur, leaning into the palm of his hand.
âTell me what you need,â Joel says, voice a little breathy now. âJust tell me. Talk to me. Iâll do anything you want, baby, anything.â
âI love you, Joel. Thatâs never changed and it never, ever will. But how do I trust you again? How do I know that youâll be there? How do I know things wonât go back to the way they were? That weâll settle back into a routine and then youâll leave me here, raising our little girl alone?â You shake your head. âI canât do that again. I canât. I wonât.â
He folds his big arms around you and pulls you close to his chest. Holds you tight enough that it feels like heâs holding you together. âYou wonât have to,â he says. âI swear. Iâll spend every day Iâve got left proving it to you. But you gotta let me in, baby. Youâve gotta let me fix it.â
âIf I do come home, how confusing is that for Sarah? I mean, God. Havenât we fucked things up enough? What if I come home and then it still doesn't work andäž?â
Joel pulls away just enough to see you and shakes his head. âWeâll go slow, alright? We donât have to tell her unless youâre ready. No reason to make things more complicated than they have to be,â he says. âAnd Sarahâs strong. Sheâs like her mom in that way.â
Heâs saying everything you want to hear and you feel yourself unraveling fast. âAnd what about Tess?â
âSheâll understand, because she knows Iâm yours,â Joel answers. âYours.â
And then, without any warning, he carefully lowers himself to his knees in front of you.
His fingers curl tight around your hips, and everything feels hot and overwhelming and your breath gets caught in your lungs. He presses a kiss to your belly in the same place Sarah rests her head and you feel suddenly like crying again. âJoel.â
âIâll do anything you want,â he insists. âAnything, baby. Please. Please come home to me.â
And all you can think at that moment is, why havenât you come home sooner?
You thread your hands through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. Your tears are falling freely now for the second time today but this time itâs different. Lighter. Like a breath of fresh air, tears of relief instead of turmoil.
âI love you,â Joel says, slipping his hands beneath your top and running his rough palms over your smooth curves. âPlease, baby. Please. I need you.â
Your longing has become something else entirely now. A beast in your heart thatâs grown teeth and sharpened claws, tearing apart every last defense youâve so carefully built to keep him at arms length. When you speak, the word is a broken surrender in your mouth. âOkay.â
Joel freezes. âOhâŠkay?â His brows furrow and you can feel his hesitance now. Unsure of himself, pulling away but so clearly wanting to touch you more.Â
You cover his hands with your own, keeping them in place, pressing them more firmly against your ribs. âOkay,â you repeat. âI want to come home.â
In the fifteen years youâve known Joel Miller, youâve never once seen him relax as much as he does the moment you say those words. His shoulders slump, the tension in his face dissipates, the tightness bleeds from his limbs.
And then he lets out this long held sigh, shoulders shaking with it. He lifts the hem of your shirt with his hands and presses a wet, open mouthed kiss to your navel. âThank you,â he says, and you know he means it.
He kisses you again, a little higher this time, and it ignites a flame low in your abdomen. Makes you feel suddenly warm and tingly all over. Makes you miss him in an entirely different way. His hands are rough and his eyes are glassy when he looks up at you through dark lashes.
âI love you,â he says. Soft. Gentle. But real. Not the sentiment youâre always giving him; the half-empty meaning. A way to say you care, but not like you used to.Â
When Joel says it, itâs different. Itâs all consuming. Nothing distant or safe about it.
âI love you so fucking much, baby. Please let me show you. Please.â
You nod without hesitation. Knowing what comes next, knowing the last step in your decision is giving yourself over entirely. Mind and body alike, becoming two souls bound together again, the way you used to be, the way you always shouldâve been. You know he needs this, but maybe not as much as you need it.
Joel thumbs open the button on your jeans and carefullyäžoh, so carefullyäžtugs down the zipper. He watches you the whole time like youâre going to suddenly change your mind, like you havenât wanted his touch every moment of every day for three years. Longer, even.Â
He kisses the satin lining of your panties with a reverent mouth, and then heâs pulling them off with your jeans. Over the swell of your hips and down your thighs. You anchor yourself with your hands on his shoulders and Joel helps you step out of them completely.Â
With a contented sigh, he presses his forehead to the space between your ribs. Inhales deep and then kisses your pubic bone. âYouâre so beautiful,â he mutters, more to himself than to you.
Another kiss, lower this time, right above your clit. Like itâs muscle memory. Like relearning you will take no time at all.Â
His hands slide up the back of your thighs and palm at the swell of your ass. âSpread your legs for me,â he says. And the moment you do, Joelâs got his head between them and his tongue swiping through the gathering wetness there.Â
It feels like heaven. His mouth is warm and soft and he knows just where to lick and where to suck and where to bite. Heâs hungry for it. Equally as starved. He groans low against you and you can feel the vibration of it down to your toes. âOh my god.â
His tongue laves over your clit in long, smooth strokes. Itâs full of purpose and worship and adoration. When he pulls away to speak, he takes the opportunity to wedge his hand between your thighs. âIâm sorry, baby,â he whispers, gently pressing his middle finger inside of you. He adds another, his ring finger this time, still adorned with the titanium band youâd picked out years ago. âIâm so, so fucking sorry that I hurt you.â
Joel curls his fingers inside of you at the same moment his warm, apologetic tongue finds your clit again. The intensity of it makes you lose your balance, leaning back against the counter, hands scrambling to find purchase. A whimper escapes you, pleasure ratcheting higher and higher with each practiced, wet flick of his tongue between your folds.
âChrist,â he hisses. âMissed you so much, sweetheart. Anâ sâokay if you donât wanna admit it, but I know you missed me, too. Hm?â
Your chest squeezes tight. Because itâs true, itâs true, and youâre starting to feel delirious between the pleasure his sweet mouth brings and the sugar that pours from his tongue. You want it to be real so badly that you tremble. âGod, Joel.â
âShh,â he hums. âDonât think so hard. Just feel. Feel me, baby. Feel what I do to you. Feel how much you love me.â
Christ. You do. You love him. You always have. And even when you decide to love yourself more, what you feel for Joel has always lived beneath your skin. A fire youâve spent so long trying to put out, and youâre just now realizing youâve only been stoking the flames.
Keeping them steady until now, until you return to him. And his mouth is like gasoline to the flames of your heart. Sweet words, sugary tongue. Honey poured in your ear, everything youâve longed for all these years.
You feel your release approaching fast, but Joel does, too. He pulls away the moment his name leaves your mouth, but itâs only for long for him to lift you onto the counter and to spread your legs far enough to house the width of his hips.Â
âWanna feel you, baby,â he mutters, kissing the hollow of your throat. His breath is hot against your prickled skin, his words and lips both desperate. Needier than youâve ever seen him, and you understand because you feel it, too.
âPromise me,â you say, words breathless, greedily swallowing up his oxygen. âPromise me you mean it. Promise me youâll never pull this shit again.âÂ
Joel leans back. Cradles your face in his hands like he holds divinity. And maybe, to him, you are divine. His god given solace.
His wife.
âI mean it,â he says, gaze holding firm, eyes locked with yours. âEverything I am, baby. Everything. Sâyours. Iâm all yours. I promise.â He kisses you hard, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. âLet me in, baby. Let me come home.â
Home. Home, homeäžyours is here, with him and with Sarah in this house he built for you. And Joelâs home is you. In the confines of your soft heart.
Your hands find the back of his neck, nails scratching against the skin. And then you find yourself nodding, giving into it completely, flames of lust transformed now into a cleansing ritual, burning away all the hurt and resentment. âI love you,â you say, and he presses his forehead to yours with tears in his eyes.
Joel lets out a long sigh, and then unbuckles his belt. Pushes his jeans and boxers down just enough to let his cock spring free. He holds it in his hands and you watch as he strokes it once, and then twice.
You wrap your legs around his waist and lean back just a little, just enough to make it easier for him as he lines himself up with your entrance and pushes inside with a shaky groan.Â
The stretch aches in the best way, and you focus on each inch as it disappears inside of you while Joel watches you. His beautiful girl.
He fucks you hard. He splays one of his big hands on the small of your back, holding you steady as his hips crash into yours. Thereâs intent behind each thrust. A deep, satisfying reminder that you belong together. That youâre his and heâs yours.Â
With his free hand, he rests it over your belly, low enough to gently stroke your clit with his thumb. âYou feel me, baby? You feel me right here?âÂ
âFuck,â you cry out, fingernails leaving indentations on his skin as you cling to him. âGod, Joel. Feels so good, so fuckingäžgod.â
âI know, I know,â he soothes. He kisses you gently this time, a stark contrast to the way his cock splits you apart, pressing hard against that sweet spot inside of you. âIâve got you. Wonât ever let you down again, baby. Youâre my girl anâ I love you. More than Iâve ever loved anything.â
Itâs all too much. His desperate thrusts, his thumb on your clit, his tongue in your mouth, his sweet words in your ear. Youâre unravelling even faster this time, ears ringing, skin heating. âJoel, please. Iâm close, Iâm soäžâ
âGive it to me,â he says. âCome for me. Wanna feel just how bad you missed this, sweetheart.âÂ
Release comes fast. Hot and with unexpected strength. Your vision blurs and your limbs tremble around him. Joel slots his wet mouth against yours, swallowing up your moans, taking everything from you that youâre willing to give.
You can feel his pace falter and his brows knit together as he nears the summit. And when you feel the pressure of his hands begin to lighten, you know his intent. But you hold firm, wrapping your legs around his hips, pulling him in even deeper. âInside me, Joel, please,â you whisper. âI want it. I want you.â
He groans low the moment you say it and buries himself to the hilt, spilling himself deep inside you. Joel stays like that the whole time, only moving the smallest bit, filling you up until heâs spent and twitching. âChrist,â he hisses. âLove you so much, baby. Donât you ever leave me again.â
The come down is slow. Unhurried. He stays inside you until his cock softens, peppering gentle kisses across your face. He traces the curves of your jaw and your brow bone with his fingertips as if heâd forgotten the way it feels to touch you and wants to remember.Â
When he does finally pull back, his hands still hold you. Fingers laced through yours while he gathers your jeans from the floor. âCâmon,â he says. âLetâs go on up to bed.â
You donât argue. You just let him do what he needs to. Let him hold your hand the whole way up. Let him carefully take off your shirt and unclasp your bra once you close the bedroom door behind you. He pulls one of his t-shirts from the closet and tugs it over your head, kissing your forehead right after.Â
Once he changes out of his clothes, discarding everything but his boxers, Joel crawls into bed beside you and pulls you close to his chest. You kiss his warm skin, right over his heart, and close your eyes.
But you can still feel his gaze as it lingers on the side of your face, and when you open your eyes to look at him, he wears this lovesick smile. You ask playfully, âYou gonna stay up all night?â
Joel shrugs. âMaybe,â he admits. âJust like holdinâ you is all. Like seeinâ you here. With me.â
You snuggle into him, warming your chilled fingers against his soft belly. âGet some rest, Joel. Iâll still be here in the morning, okay? I promise.â
He kisses you again and buries his nose into the crook of your neck. His voice is soft. The word broken but tender in his mouth as he says, âOkay.â
When you fall asleep, itâs to the sound of Joelâs soft snores beside you and Sarahâs echoed down the hallway.
You rest easy that night, without an ounce of regret. Feeling relieved in a way you werenât sure youâd ever feel again.Â
And when you wake up the next morning, the sun streams in through the half-pulled blinds. You carefully sneak out of bed, pull on a clean pair of his boxers, and pad barefoot down the stairs to the kitchen.
Sarahâs already up. Sheâs got a record spinning at a low volume, and sheâs dancing around the kitchen listening to Pearl Jam. Thereâs pale powder in one of her eyebrows. Itâs spilled across the countertop, too. And in her small hands is a metal mixing bowl and a wooden spoon.
Sheâs trying to make pancakes you realize, and your heart suddenly aches. Because she seems so grown up at this moment. No longer your sweet and silly girl who needs help washing her hands before dinner, more and more independent every day.
The fear crosses your mind that you are the reason sheâs so mature for her age. That the separation is what made her take on this too-adult role.
But then she pauses her mixing to pick up the hand towel off the counter. She stares at herself in the distorted reflection of the metal bowl, and sets the towel over her little shoulder.
The exact same way that you do when youâre cooking dinner for her every night.
You suddenly see exactly what Tess was talking about. Sarahâs not trying to be mature or take on an adult role because she feels the need to.
Sheâs trying to be just like you.
Sarah picks up the bowl again and turns, eyes glowing when she notices your presence. âMama! Good morning! Iâm making pancakes!â
You laugh softly and come to her side. âI see that,â you say. âWant some help?â
âYes, please. Iâm bad at mixing.âÂ
With a shake of your head, you gently take the bowl from her hand and place it on the counter. âYouâre doing a great job, sweet girl. Just need to add a little more water, see?â You turn the faucet on and add the smallest bit and hand the bowl back to her. âNow try.â
She does, and her smile grows as the batter begins to come together and smooth out. âThereâs coffee, too. Uncle Tommy showed me how to start it.â
You turn to see the pot full, and giggle as you wonder how exactly that conversation had come about. Likely from the times Joel got up too late to start it, leaving Tommy without caffeine for god knows how long. âThank you, baby girl,â you say. âThatâs so sweet of you.â
Sarah beams at the praise. And when you pull two mugs from the cupboard, she stops you. âDad will only use the owl one,â she says, nodding to the dishwasher.Â
You follow her gaze, open the dishwasher, and quickly find the exact mug sheâs talking about. Itâs a poorly-made ceramic project youâd given to him for Christmas years ago. You were taking a pottery class with a friend, and the mug was the one and only thing youâd made that didnât turn out so wobbly that it was unusable.
The edges were still a little bent and it sat on the table leaning just a little to the left, but Joel had insisted it was perfect.Â
You hold it gently in your hands, fingers running over the owl youâd spent hours painting into its side. âThe only one heâll use, huh?â
Sarah nods. âHe says itâs special to him âcause you made it. Maybe you could teach me how to make stuff too! We could make Uncle Tommy one!â
You promise her you will. Tell her youâll find a place in town that offers classes and that youâll go to one together. And then you fill the mug with coffee, climb the stairs, and set it on Joelâs nightstand.Â
You sit on the edge of the bed beside him and gently shake him awake. He smiles when he sees you. Gives you the same crooked smile your daughter inherited, and it makes you feel loved and warm all over.
âMorninâ baby.â
âYou meant it, didnât you? Your promise?â
Joel reaches for your hand and holds it tight. âI meant it,â he tells you. âAnâ I know itâs hard to trust me now, but Iâll spend every day tryinâ to prove it to you.â
âGood,â you say. ââCause I thinkâŠI think Sarah and I are coming home.â
đČ àčàŁÂ àŁȘ Ë 18+ mdni.. bestfriend's brother!suguru.. pussy inspection?.. oral. f rec.. recording.. FYI severely not edited..
âAnd I bet you, you wonât have a royal flush by the end of this game,â you challenged Suguru Geto. Your best friendâs older brother by 6 years. The same person you grew up hanging around. And the same person you were currently playing cards with because your fake ass friend went out to run a quick errand.Â
You werenât mad, just⊠flustered? Being left alone with her older brother, who always watches you like a predator waiting any second to pounce on their prey.Â
He did offer to buy what she needed, but she said no and left.Â
Itâs not like you were scared of him (you were), you grew up around him. Itâs just that things are different now. Heâs older and bigger, and hotter. And has abs now. Like what?Â
âAnd if I end up with that by the end of the game, then?â he said, voice low, in a soothing way.Â
âThen⊠You um.. You can get whatever you want.âÂ
âWhatever I want?â a pause, âReally?âÂ
âYes, really.âÂ
For some reason, you were starting to feel hot under his piercing gaze. Those heavy eyes of his that undressed you before actions ever could.Â
âWhat will you give me?âÂ
âWhatever you want, Suguru,â you groaned, repeating yourself, making him grin. âNo take-backs, ok?âÂ
âWhy⊠what do you want?â There was a small chance you might be regretting your words now. What if he makes you do something embarrassing or eat an insect orâ orâ
âYouâll see,â was all he said before grabbing the first card from the deck, placing it face up on the glass circle table that was centered in front of the dark leather sofa you and he were sharing, sitting on opposite ends.Â
The game was coming closer to an end, and victory seemed far from reality for you. But Suguru ending with a royal flush was so fucking unlikely that you were relaxed. Even if you lost, Suguru technically wouldnât win.Â
Yeah. Or so you thought. Even with the impossible chances, once the game finished, and you accepted your loss, Suguru turned his hand in your direction, being met with what you could only describe as bullshit.Â
There was no fucking way this man pulled it off. Whether he cheated or didnât, the chances of getting a Royal Flush are incredibly low. One in a Million type beat. So how?Â
While you were having an existential crisis, pacing around the living room, Suguru came up behind you, wrapping those large, veiny arms around your midsection, making you jump.Â
âSo about that deal.âÂ
â...what do you want.. Andâ before you say anything, Iâm not eating inseââ
âLet me play with your pussy.âÂ
What?
â
Somehow, your friend was still missing, and some-fucking-how in that time frame of her not being a part of her own household, you have somehow managed to fuck yourself up both physically and mentally and have gotten in bed with your friendâs older brotherâin his bedâwhile he inspects your pussy like itâs a cold case.Â
âYou keep twitching, are you horny?â Geto teases, his warm breath fanning over your exposed cunt.Â
âN-no, dickhead, Iâm justâ ohhâ fuck!â You choke on your wordsâsalivaâleaving the sentence on a cliffhanger. Suguruâs rough fingers, the backside, ghost over your swollen clit before leaving a harsh flick that has you moaning in pleasure.Â
âSuch a dirty liar and masochist,â The man coos, 2 fingers circling your entrance, all that unused slick sticking to his fingers, trailing them up to your poor abused clit, massaging the little bud between the 2 damp pads, rolling it between them.Â
You bite your lower lip, shutting your eyes tight enough to hopefully wake up from whatever dream this is or fall asleep. But neither happened. Your body is too aware to fall asleep and too awake to be dreaming.Â
Biting back any noises that threaten to slip out while he teases you like an untouched instrument.Â
âSuguââÂ
âIâm going to record, ok?âÂ
âWhat!?âÂ
âRelax, I wonât show anyone,â he says calmly, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his grey sweats. You want to fight him, but do you really? As much as you want to run and kick him in the face, he can clearly see youâre enjoying this far more than him.Â
âSuch a pretty pussy,â he grins, your eyes squinting from the bright flash of his phone. Is this fucker really filming with flash on?
Your body has a physical reaction to the thought of him just having a recording of your bare body at his disposal, anytime he needs.Â
His fingers stretch and play with your cunt, pulling it in all sorts of directions, getting every part of you on camera. He even films your insides as he slowly pushes the 2 fingers heâs been using on you inside. Watching how they fill your needy little hole. Your back arches, fingers tangled in the sheets, pulling harder. Eyes wandering over his perfect face, âstray hairs falling over his face, while the rest is messily tied.Â
âShe likes it,â he says, grinning at your reaction to his words. Face twisting in pleasure.Â
âRecord,â he demands, abruptly handing you the phone, not giving any sort of warning before diving in between your parted thighs.Â
His soft lips come into contact with your soaking wet cunt. Tracing along your clit and down to your hole. Slipping his tongue inside, watching as your eyes roll to the back of your head, one of your hands unsteadily holding the camera, having it angled down to his hair while he devours you like a starved man.Â
âYou have the softest and sweetest fucking pussy. You taste like heaven, doll,â the man says with a mouthful, the vibrations reaching your core. His hands gripping and massaging your thighs, matching the rhythm of his tongue that moved like it knew its way around your body.Â
He licks every corner and bump that sends you higher than the 7 skies. Touching each part that elicits the sluttiest noises out of your mouth and the tightest spasms from your muscles.Â
His fingers dug into the squishy flesh of your thighs, nose bumping against your clit, leaving your thighs trembling.Â
âSo fuckingâmm, good,â he groaned, making you scream his name, a way of informing him that youâre close, already. Might be one of your quickest orgasms.Â
âCome on, pretty girl, Iâm nowhere near done playing with you,â he chuckles at your needy whine at his words, âok, ok, you can cum, go on.âÂ
Your back arches off the bed, phone slipping from your loose grip, landing somewhere in the sheets.Â
He keeps sucking and licking and drinking you in like sin. Enjoying every untouched part of you.Â
Your body shakes as release crashed over you in waves. Suguru slows his roll. Sucking more sensually, flicking your clit with his tongue only when needed. Once heâs pleased with your orgasm and your sudden body jolts, he pulls back.Â
The dim glow in the room illuminated his slick-covered lips and chin, and that filthy smirk plastered across his face.Â
âLetâs get you cleaned up before my sister beats both our asses,â he grins. Helping you up.Â
âIâm never playing cards with you again.âÂ
âBy the way, I cheated.âÂ
âYou son of aââ
A/N: im back from my mini something hiatus, also no part 2, leave me alone and i'm working on my longer fics, i swear, no more tiny one shots, i've js been rllyyyyy sick
êšïžAnglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.
In which you jump out of a moving car to spite Boyfriend!Sukuna
ââbecause he was just making conversation!â
Sukuna scoffs, knuckles turning white as his grip tightens on the steering wheel. âBullshit. That guy wanted to fuck you.â
âOh my god. So what!â you yell. âItâs not like I was gonna fucking let him!â
âCoulda fooled me.â
Just like that, your angry face, which matches his, warps into one of calm decision. With speed he doesnât see coming, you unbuckle your seatbelt, push open the passenger door and jump out of the moving car into the dead of night.
The car screeches to a halt not even a second later.Â
Youâre pushing yourself up and testing the soreness in your ankle when a car door slams shut and Sukuna comes marching over to you. âYou crazy, fucking bitch!â he snaps. Sukuna grabs your face, growling when you try to pull away. He inspects every inch of you, brows furrowed, and piercings glinting under the streetlights. âWhat the fuck is wrong with you!â
âI got a bitch ass boyfriend, thatâs whatâs wrong with me,â you grumble.
He ignores that. âYou break anything? Wrist? Ankle? Dislocated your shoulder?â You shake your head. âWell, thatâs a fucking shame.â Though as he says that, he canât quite hide the tremors in his hands. Quieter now, he mutters with a tight frown, âScratched your pretty face up. Fuck. Lost your one redeeming quality.â
âOkay, so Iâm gonna walk home,â you say, deadpan. âIâll see you around, asshole.âÂ
Sukuna runs a hand through his hair with a frustrated noise. Then he smacks his lips against yours before you can actually start walking away (not that heâd let you get very far). âAlright, alright. You fucking win. Congrats. Christ. Get back in the car â weâre going to the hospital to get you checked out. Fucking dumbass.â
A hospital visit later, youâre in bed with him, cuddled up like nothing happened. Itâs how arguments with him tend to go; neither of you really hold grudges against each other. Not when youâve fucked any grievances out after. The last mention of todayâs incident, however, comes in his sleepy mumble against the top of your head: âpush me out instead.â
âHmm?â
Sukunaâs hold around your body tightens, threatening to suffocate you with his hard chest. âDonât jump out of the car. Itâs stupid. Your bodyâs weak. Skin bruises easily. Cuts easily too. Just kick me out instead. I deserve it, I know... bonus points if it's into oncoming traffic.â
Hanzo's the type of partner to have your full government name as your contact name. If you whine about it not being romantic enough he'll tack a heart emoji at the end and call it a day.
pairing: astarion ancunin x gn!reader, astarion ancunin x gn!tav
summary: your relationship with astarion has ran its course, but what happens when he recognizes the sound of your heart in a crowded tavern?
word count: 4,071
a/n: this is post-game spawn astarion!! he's a freak here. like he's kind of a obsessed weirdo. idk, i wanted to play into all the weird things vampires can do đ€·ââïž also shamelessly admitting that the basis of this comes from 'the sound' by the 1975. def recommend giving it a listen :) anyways though SORRY I WAS GONE!! hope you guys accept this as a decent apology gift <33
THIS IS A REPOST. i accidentally deleted this instead of editing it </3
warnings: ooc spawn!astarion, mean/toxic astarion, he's also kinda obsessed, astarion chokes reader???, blood depictions, blood drinking, stalker astarion if you squint, not a happy ending. SORRY I LIKE WEIRD FREAK SPAWN ASTARION!!! lmk if i need to add more!
Your relationship with Astarion had always been tumultuous. Perhaps that was because it was forged amidst the potential ending of the world, or perhaps it had something to do with the insane emotional baggage both of you brought to the table. Whatever it had been, it had not been enough to keep the two of you together.
Somewhere between killing Cazador and defeating the Absolute, things fell apart. And it wasnât just Astarionâs fault, or just yours. Both of you⊠stopped trying? That didnât feel right. Because you were trying, you really were. But it was never enough, on either side. So, you decided to part ways. It was better that way. At least thatâs what you told yourself so that you could sleep at night.
Months passed, and Astarion became but a distant memory of fangs in your skin. Or, you tried to make him little more than that. You kept yourself busy in Baldurâs Gate, running errands of all sorts. You traveled some, but never as far as you did in order to defeat the Absolute. The days were long and grueling. Some nights you woke from nightmares, other nights you spent with lovers youâd never see again. Despite feeling a bit lonely at times, you have learned to enjoy this new circle of life for yourself. The routine kept you grounded. Kept you from thinking too hard about the vampire you once loved.
Taverns also helped. Not just because of the alcohol, but because everyone always wanted to talk about something. You had come to learn that most of the stories you heard were lies - or at least very embellished truths. Regardless, the fellow patrons were good company. They would laugh or cry shamelessly and were always willing to buy you a drink when you looked particularly rough. They didnât pry, either. To them, you were just some other lonely fool coming to distract themself for an evening. And a good distraction it was, too.
Until that vampire you were trying so hard to forget walks in.Â
For a moment, the world stops. Your eyes are locked on the figure in the door, his white curls seeming to glow in the moonlight outside. He winces when he steps inside - he didnât like loud places, you remembered that. He looks just the same as you remember him, of course. A man unaged for two hundred years. What was a few months to his eternal not-quite-youth?
You look away before he can see you. And though you try to focus back on the adventurers in front of you, you find it difficult to do so. Your heart pounds with anxiety. You arenât sure why youâre worried. Even upon parting with Astarion, he had remained relatively civil. But you knew Astarion better than most, so you knew that time did not heal Astarionâs wounds. No, time only seemed to make the vampireâs wounds fester up and get infected. If he wasnât angry with you then, you had a feeling he would be angry with you now.
âIâll be right back,â you say to the group of strangers youâre sitting with. You stand slowly, eyes scanning the crowded tavern for Astarion. You donât see him, and your eyebrows furrow together - had you imagined him? It wouldnât be the first time you saw something that wasnât actually there.
The bar is crowded, the bartender working quickly to try to please everyone. You take one look at the scene and decide that slipping out the back door into the quiet street outside will bring you more relief than waiting however long for a single drink will.
As predicted, the streets of Baldurâs Gate are quiet. The moon is high in the sky, the fullness of it casting a soft glow over the street before you. A cat scurries out of a barrel nearby, but other than that, you are alone. Your back presses to the wall of the tavern beside the door, sliding down until youâre crouched on the ground, your hands rubbing across your face.Â
This was all rather silly, wasnât it? Running and hiding because your ex-lover showed up at the most popular tavern in the city you knew he resided in. It was childish, pathetic even. Still, you donât get up. You let the cool night breeze dance over the exposed parts of your skin while your hands fall away from your eyes. Your eyes remain closed though as you inhale and exhale slowly - you were getting quite good at this self-soothing thing, werenât you? You hear the door opening and the sound of feet stepping outside, but donât think twice about it. People were allowed to leave the tavern, werenât they?
âAh, I thought I heard you.â
Correction - everyone except for Astarion was allowed to leave the tavern.
Your eyes fly open, and youâre on your feet in a moment. Astarion stands before you, wearing that all too-familiar smirk of his. You watch as his crimson eyes flicker across your body twice over, stunned into silence. Your heart is racing still, though you would wager itâs beating faster now based on how loud it was in your own ears.
âCat got your tongue, my dear?â Astarion tilts his head to the side when he speaks. He is mocking you, of course. You were right to assume that he had grown angry with time. âI could hear you all the way inside, you know. Isnât that just so interesting?â
Hear you? What in the Nine Hells was he going on about?
âWhat are you talking about?â You manage to ask, face wrinkled up in confusion. Astarion seems confused for a moment too, a distant look in his eyes that you knew meant he was trying to recall a memory. Impatient with him and his growing silence, you shift from foot to foot. Get on with it, you think.
âHm, seems I forgot to tell you about that,â Astarion seems to say to himself. He focuses on you fully once more, waving his wrist when he next speaks. âYour heart, darling. I can hear it.â
If this information had been presented to you a year ago, you might have slapped him. But youâd become quite desensitized to weird things - especially weird things pertaining to the nature of vampirism. At least this part of Astarionâs nature made sense to you, unlike his inability to cross running water. If he was meant to live off of blood, then you supposed he should be able to hear the thing at the center of every living creature that made that blood flow.
But there were countless people in the tavern. You scoff - heâs lying. He couldnât have been able to identify your heart among the numerous others in there. He must have seen you when you slipped outside.
âYour lies flatter me, Astarion. Truly,â you state sarcastically. Once, your sarcasm might have been full of mirth and lightheartedness when it came to him. But none of that is present now. Perhaps time had made your hurt fester, too? You always were more like Astarion than you cared to admit.
âYou wound me.â Astarion presses a hand to cover his dead heart in mock hurt. But he smirks down at you still. âDonât you think I know exactly how to flatter you?â
Astarion takes a step closer to you. Youâre suddenly very aware that the wall of the tavern is pressing against you. Itâs almost frightening how much he looks like a predator like this. Itâs almost⊠exciting. Your heart races faster, and Astarionâs smirk turns into a knowing grin.
You shouldâve ran a stake through his heart when you had the chance.
âI do not have time for your antics.â Your voice conveys the same authority you once used to lead a makeshift army against the Absolute. Astarion finds it funny that you think it will work on him, the person who resented authority more than anyone or anything you had ever met.
âMy antics are simply me wishing to catch up with an old friend. I hadnât realized that was a crime these days.â He takes another step forward, that knowing grin of his not disappearing.
âOh, a friend? Is that what we were?â Somehow, the implication that you had only been a friend hurts more than any insult he could possibly hurl at you right now. Had he truly thought so little of your nights together? Of the secrets you shared, the times you let him feed from you?
âYou wear your heart on your sleeve, my love. So easy to hurt it, isnât it?â Astarion has moved so close to you now, that if he required air to breathe heâd be breathing in what you were exhaling out. You watch his eyes dance across your face, then trail down to your neck. Wordlessly, he grabs your chin and tilts your neck to the side.
Your hand is on his wrist immediately, the other one reaching for your blade strapped to your hip. You think heâs going to bite you.Â
âAh, ah,â Astarion stops your hand from grabbing your weapon with a tight grip around your wrist. âIâm just looking. Always so hungry for blood, arenât we?â You donât like the comparison of your desire to protect yourself to his need to drink blood. You donât comment on it though, too busy watching his eyes burning into your neck.
If he wasnât going to bite you, then - Oh. The scars.
Two puncture wounds on the right side of your throat, scarred over from the amount of times Astarion had bitten into that exact same spot to drink from you. You feel his hand leave your chin and push your collar to the side, exposing the scars to him more. He chuckles darkly, and you use your free hand to shove him away from you.
Astarion stumbles back, a look of surprise on his face. Itâs quickly replaced with anger - an emotion you had seen on his face so many times before, but never directed at you until this very moment.Â
âDo those make finding a little playmate difficult?â Astarion asks, eyebrows raised in mock interest. You would ask how he knew about your habits, but he did tell you once that he had a remarkable sense of smell. He could probably smell the elf youâd taken home last night on you still. You have half the mind to be embarrassed. The other half of your mind really wants to hit him.
âThatâs not really your business anymore, is it?â You counter, crossing your arms over your chest. Youâve moved off of the wall now, making sure thereâs empty space behind you should he try to approach you again. âBut, I am glad you are still as jealous as ever.â
âHah! Jealous!â Astarion does that fake little laugh of his. He goes so far as to bend over and then wipe a non-existence tear from his eye when he stands. âDarling, I truly could not care any less who or what you are doing in your free time. Rather - I could not care any less about you.â
Itâs your turn to laugh at him. âBold words for the man who just confessed to knowing the sound of my heart amidst all those other ones in there.â
Astarion doesnât like this response in the slightest. You grin wickedly as he clenches his fists at his side and narrows his eyes. You two always did know how to hurt one another, didnât you?
There is a truth to your words though. It was bold for him to claim not to care about you anymore, but to still have the sound of your heart so well memorized that he could find you in the middle of a loud, crowded tavern after months of not seeing each other. Itâs almost romantic, if not a bit obsessive. Though, Astarionâs version of romance always had been a bit obsessive, hadnât it?
âCat got your tongue, Astarion?â You use his own words on him, tilting your head in the very same way that he had done not five minutes ago. You donât suppress the wickedly pleased grin that spreads across your face when Astarionâs jaw clenches. Yes, you knew exactly how to hurt him.Â
âVery original,â he hisses. You simply shrug - as if all of this and him are not worth your time. He does not like that. Not one bit.
When you and Astarion were together, he was always very careful with you, unless you requested otherwise. You had seen that he was strong in a way that was inhuman, but had never been anywhere close to being on the receiving end of that strength. Until now.
You let out a gasp when you are pushed back against the wall of the tavern. You immediately regret it, given that it leaves you with no air in you when Astarionâs hand wraps around your neck. Not strong enough to bruise, but certainly strong enough to have you reaching for your blade. Again, he beats you there and pins your hand to the wall
âYou forget yourself, little dove,â he whispers, mere inches from your face. If someone else were to slip out the back door of the tavern, they would likely think you were two lovers with no shame.Â
Given that you can not speak, you simply look at him. If you werenât terrified of choking to death, you might have glared at him. Instead, you look at him with big, wide eyes. They plead for you - they show your fear. Your heart gives it away too. And the way your blood races beneath his hand. Your anatomy betrays your emotions more than you do.
But Astarionâs does, too. In his eyes, you see many things. Anger, of course, but there is also guilt, sadness, fear - hunger. His eyes go to those scars again. Your eyes go impossibly wider in understanding.
Your free hand taps at his wrist repeatedly, begging him to release you. He must see your desperation, because he relents. You would have fallen to your knees while you gasped for air if his hands did not catch you on either side of your waist.Â
His crimson eyes are darting over your features, watching as you catch your breath. Heâs got that far-off look about him again. His hands squeeze your waist gently, as if he was making sure you were still there. You know what this means - how many times had you seen Astarion act just like this because he hadnât fed in a few days? And given that he was still a spawn and was limited to nights hunting alone, you imagined it might get hard to find something to eat every once in a while.
âI forget myself,â you mumble when you can breathe properly again. You straighten up, expecting Astarionâs hands to remove themselves, but they do not. âDoes your hunger always make you act as a feral beast?â
Astarion winces at your insult, as if you had hit him instead of just spoken. He had thought you wouldnât notice. But those big, wet eyes of his never kept his secrets when he desired for them to be kept most.Â
âPerceptive as always.â His words are almost a compliment, just as his hands are almost comforting.Â
âYou havenât come out here to taunt me, then?â You ask, anger seeping into your tone. Did he truly think you would just give him your blood after the stunt he had just pulled? âWere you seeking a meal for the evening?â
Astarion is the one to shrug now. His hands leave your sides - you find yourself almost missing his touch. âI didnât have a plan, darling. All I knew was that your heart was racing, and I wanted to know why.â
When he said it like that, it made it almost sound like he was worried about you and your safety.
A thick, uncomfortable silence settles over you both like a wet blanket. Heâs thinking again, but this time, so are you. Youâre thinking about the scars on your neck, the hunger in Astarionâs eyes. Youâre thinking about how it used to be comforting to let him drink from you. Youâre thinking a lot of stupid, foolish things. Youâre also tugging the collar of your shirt down and tilting your head to the side.Â
âBe quick.â You always were too generous for your own good, werenât you?
Astarion doesnât seem to understand what youâre telling him to do until your index finger taps over the scars on your neck. A look of pure delight fills his face, mixing together with surprise and something like mockery.
âIn public? My, youâve gotten dirty, havenât you?â Astarion says, placing one hand on your side again. You donât give him the pleasure of a response when his second hand comes up to your neck and traces feather-light touches over the marks. His gaze goes soft when he speaks next, peering into your eyes as if he can see into your very soul. âYou are certain?â
No, you are most definitely not certain.Â
âYes,â you force out, tearing your eyes away from Astarion. âDo not be greedy.â
Astarion needs no further invitation. The hand that had been tracing your skin finds its spot on the back of your neck, holding you in place while his hand on your hip keeps you steady. The gasp that leaves your lips when his fangs puncture your skin is anything but quiet. Your hands have moved to his shoulder, gripping him so tightly that your knuckles ache. Youâd forgotten how uncomfortable it was to have someoneâs teeth in your flesh.
He drinks in slow, measured gulps. Those plush lips of his suck gently on your skin, his tongue laps up the liquid that tries to escape his mouth. There is a strange intimacy to it all that you choose to ignore. You choose especially to ignore the soft groan of pleasure that falls from his mouth when your fingers start to get cold and dig further into his shoulders. A single half-shove to his shoulders, and he pulls away, a trickle of your blood making its way down his chin.
Silence sinks into the (very limited) space between the two of you once more. Astarion wipes your blood from his chin, then shows the same courtesy to your neck before covering the puncture wounds with your collar once more. You wrinkle your nose a bit when he takes his thumb into his mouth, sucking the last taste of you from his skin - while maintaining eye contact, of course. Itâs revolting - itâs erotic. You donât let that thought linger.
âBetter?â You ask, hoping that the swirl of strange emotions inside of you is masked in your voice.Â
Astarion smirks - your voice has betrayed you. âOh, much. Youâre too good to me.â
You swallow your spit, your throat bobbing up and down with the movement. Astarion watches it carefully with dilated pupils. Heâs still holding your waist, youâre still holding his shoulders. Neither of you makes to move away from the other.
The silence seeps into your very being. It finds the deepest parts of you and closes around them like a pale hand squeezing your neck. It finds your guilt - the old guilt of giving up on the man before you all those months ago. The new guilt of betraying yourself by letting him feed from you. You hadnât even made him ask.Â
âWould you like to hear a secret?â He whispers, his eyes back on your face once more.Â
No. âYes.â
He smiles at your response. His hand not gripping your waist begins to trace the slopes of your face with practiced familiarity. âIâve been coming here every night. I heard you in there a few weeks ago - I only just got the courage to step inside tonight. I was hoping to see you.â
For some reason, your mind brushes over everything else he has just confessed, instead focusing on his final sentence. I was hoping to see you. It makes your heart skip a beat like youâre some kind of lovesick child. Astarionâs smile widens, and you curse yourself for not being able to control your racing heart. Itâs humiliating to know he can hear the exact reaction your body had to every word he said.
âWhy?â You ask, far softer than you wanted to.Â
âOh, is it not obvious my dear? I miss you.â
Youâre reminded of the time Astarion told you he loved you after only a few nights spent together. He had been trying to manipulate you then - was he doing the same to you now?Â
âYou expect me to believe that?â This time, your voice is forceful as you intended for it to be the first time. âYou do not know me if you think I am foolish enough to take you for your word.â
Astarion laughs with his whole chest. His head tilts backward, the moonlight catching in his stunning white curls for a moment and making them appear to glow. His eyes have narrowed when he looks back down at you - youâre playing his game better than he thought you would. Unfortunately for you, though, he knew exactly what he could do to make you lose.
âNo. Let me show you.â Astarion waits for no response before he leans forward, pressing his lips to yours. As soon as the familiar pressure of his lips is on yours, your body tenses. You are trying to decide what you want to do. But then he presses more into you, and you melt.
You can taste your blood on his lips. Thereâs something else, too. Bitter, yet a bit sweet. Some kind of wine, if you had to guess. His fangs brush over your lower lip, threatening to sink into the plush flesh there. But the puncture never comes, and instead itâs his tongue intruding your mouth. You let him explore the space of your mouth, your body shivering when he trails his tongue along your lower lip.
And then heâs gone - his lips glistening with a mixture of your spit and his. You are panting a bit, bringing a hand up to touch your lips as if you can undo what you have just done. You do not even register that Astarion has finally removed himself from your body, too busy trying to make sense of why you hadnât pushed him away.Â
You had come to the tavern tonight as part of your routine. To talk with old friends and new, and to not think about the very vampire who stood before you. How had you ended up kissing him and letting him feed from you? You might be sick from the deep sense of betrayal you feel inside of you. Youâve betrayed months of personal work to forget him. And for what? A single kiss and words you know are empty.
âYou are perfect, every time,â Astarion remarks, his tongue darting across his lips to clean them of the wetness decorating them. He grins wickedly, then straightens his back. No, no. You know this look. He thinks heâs won.
You fell for his trap.
Again.
âUnfortunately, I do have rather important business to attend to.â He doesnât even bother to look at you, too busy with straightening out the sleeves of his shirt. âDo keep yourself safe, darling. I would hate for something to happen to my little treat.â And then heâs gone, slipping inside of the tavern through the back door as if he hasnât just ruined you with a single kiss.
You stand there, heart racing and eyes wide. You want to peel off your skin, to hide within your bones so that no one else could ever bother you. You are mortified. How could you be so stupid? You had known from the beginning that he was toying with you. Yet, you let him drink your blood, kiss your lips. And you would have given him more, if he wanted it.Â
You clear your throat - itâs your turn to straighten out your clothing now, especially your collar.
Your heart is still racing when you walk away from the tavern. All the way down the street you find yourself repeating one thing, over and over and over: âDonât you think I know exactly how to flatter you?â
Youâve never wished someone had been wrong more.
synopsis: astarion has a dirty little fantasy of fucking you blasphemously in the gauntlet of shar as you recount everywhere else youâve been defiled during your travelsâif you could keep track of them all.
You couldnât keep track of how many times you and Astarion had fucked during your travels.
Ever since he crept into your cotâthe cheeky bastardâto bite your neck during those sleepless nights near the nautiloid, youâd gladly watch him itch for it all over again, always yearning for more. It was always right before your party retreated to their tents when youâd see him try his best to remain poised before his wicked thoughts could take shape. Only this time and onward, you liked to make a habit of keeping naked for when he unveiled your sheets. Naturally, it kept his fangs happily slick.
Youâd take turns.
The first night you fucked was in the woods soon after. Your joints ached for days traversing the Emerald Grove, where the night before heâd taken you on all fours, knees black and bruised under his handsâ tight grip on your waist. The thick intrusion of his heat was violent, hot with desire. It punctured you over and over, deeper into the roots of a tree. Your head knocked against its trunk as you held it, bracing your chest upwards. He helped you balanceâthe gentleman he wasâas he yanked your hair, neck forced to crane behind you. âA-AstarionâŠâ
Through the tears filling your eyes you saw his pretty face exchange a breathless smirk, his hand that held your hair smoothing to the base of your head, your cheek.
âYou take me so well, darling.â
Gods, he was obsessed.
It was a desperate and rather uncouth rendezvous, but who were you to call it anything more than dirty little fun?
The second nightâafter a scorching day of utter exhaustion in the forestâhe found you near your campsiteâs mirror, hidden around a corner of vine-speckled ruins, as you touched yourself plump. During the summer nights, you made a habit of undressing near the water, feeling the cool breeze caress your skin. That night, the ruins just so happened to be at the perfect place for the creekâs air to spin and cool off the stone. He seemed to know your routine well, and you were feeling a little naughty.
Your fingers popped out of your mouth, wetting your clit as you rubbed it in smooth circles, the gentle squelch making your pussy throb in excitement. You delighted the thought that heâd pounce from the shadows right then and there, when you noticed heâd developed a habit when looking at you. Itâd start when his mouth went slack, his tongue going to poke the corner of his left fang. From behind the leaves, heâd concentrate on pumping his sex as you flexed in front of your own reflection, pretending not to notice. Heâd grow and throb, his fist desperate over his whining cock.
Youâd bend and arc, teasing yourself on the ground, squeezing your breasts and whimpering quietly, ever so quietly, just enough to prompt him to reveal himself behind the bushes and take you in front of the mirror before you could cum.
Let him watch, youâd thought from then on. Heâll end up defiling you, anyway.
After that, Astarion couldnât take it anymore. The third nightâor rather, dayâhe fucked you with no plan of privacy. You didnât know what was harder to conceal that day, the bruise on your neck, or your wretched screams as he braced your core, your hips slamming down on his thirsty girth. Indeed, riding him wild under a partially-fallen bridge proved less discrete than you both thought. Your party had means to investigate an abandoned warehouse near the Risen Road between missions, time at a small excess.
âItâs a small lead,â Wyll had stated. âWeâd do best to be quick.â
âIt pains me that you donât see how excited I am,â Astarion replied, ever the charlatan.
Astarion and you ended up bringing up the rear as everyone entered. Seizing the right moment, he snatched you just before you could follow the others through the front door. After hours of circling boredom (or of staring at you walking ahead of him, either way, you were a delicious distraction), heâd finally have you just far enough to make it a little less than quick. Heâd clawed at your layers of armor as you dug through his, your hunger traded for his thirst. The blood that pumped through your legs throughout the day had made the surface of your neck warm, Astarionâs tongue flicking it gently in the pockets of shadow. He always made sure you were prepared before heâd bite, seeking permission as the question blazed in his red gaze. You sank down, melting into him, exposing your neck wide. Youâd give in, why not. Your flesh was his, after all.
This always quickened his needy climax.
Your neck singed, numb under his thorny bite, as his body surged, hands wrapping around you tighter, veins throbbing in sweet ecstasy. He was ravenous: his true nature split the shell of the obedient companion he liked to play, and unmade to the vampire only you knewâthe one who crawled into your tent to touch you wet until he was glutted.
He guided your hips, up and down, rough and renewed, head tucked into the bruise that bloomed upon your neck.
âYour blood,â heâd groan, his white curls tickling the shell of your ear, ââŠis the sweetest Iâve ever tasted.â
âYouâre lying,â you teased.
âOh, I wish I was this time.â He licked you up, savoring every last drop. He made to look at you, eyes feralâintensified. âAm I really that untrustworthy?â
You stopped, just to put him on edge. It was all no fun if you didnât have the chance to be the better tease. âIf you werenât, you wouldnât need to prove yourself to me like this every night.â
Alas, he always needed the last word. âWhat, like this?â He repositioned, hand spreading from the dip of your hip to your back, and slammed you into him. Your blood had flooded to his cock, and Gods, he was hard. You screamed at the intrusion, the slick mess of your pussy pooling under his balls as he maneuvered you up and down again, your skin clapping loud enough to rival the trickling river.
You were lost between breaths, but when your party came looking for you both faster than planned, Astarion needed to cum before they could make their way to the bridge. He took you faster as you dripped with sweat, breasts flinging their drops on his face, your eyes both fixed through the small opening that met the sky.
âShhâŠâ He cooed, holding your mouth shut, forcing you to look at him. The crunch of Laeâzelâs boots and Shadowheartâs voice was hard to ignore, but Astarionâs eyes held you steady, expectantly. They twitched slightly as you held on, bouncing ever-quicker, thenâ
He came on the spot, hot and sticky inside you, your mingled whimpers muffling into whispers. Luckily, they didnât catch you two that day. Astarion had admitted his false excitement, sweat mistaken for a cool dip in the river. Not that anyone was really surprised.
(He may have sneaked you off one more time to let you have your release, just to push you to the edge a tiny bit more.)
Ever since then, you and Astarion made more detours than one would think to take.
You sucked him off in the old hagâs acrid workshop, where the glow of green bog pierced through the crawling vine, highlighting the whimpers on his face. Heâd eaten you out in the corner of a ruinâs crypt, his mouth mapping your heat as you leaned on Witherâs empty sarcophagus. Heâd smack your ass on the ceiling beams in the goblin stronghold, mere steps away from the hidden chests youâd meant to loot. You touched him until he hardened in his pants on the roof of the Rosymorn monastery, precum leaking in his undergarments. You even watched yourself be abused on all fours in a back jail cell in the Zhentarim hideout with a silver platter for a mirror.
You both got better and better at concealing your presences, at borrowing slim time. In turn, he grew insatiable. One exchange of a crimson gaze, and youâd be his, whether you liked it or not.
Though he was clever. Sometimes, it wouldnât come easy.
Heâd brush past you, lost in a serious predicament about how to enter the next enemy base, deep into a formation strategy with Gale. Heâd gesture to everyone, then you, as if you werenât anything at all to him, nothing but another companion on a coincidental journeyâas if heâd never seen you inside and out. In front of the others, he was indifferent. But, oh, you knew what he was doing, and you knew he liked it. Playing the game was easy, from exchanging dutiful looks to standing a distance away, your party between you two when you were lost in conversation with a local. The dull performances made the next time you met all the more thrilling.
No one ever knew a thing. And it was precisely this idea that made you just as turned on as he was.
But when it came time to venture into the Underdark, the concaving shadows and unseen foes didnât entirely fit anyoneâs personal sex schedule. Sure, there may have been a mushroom patch or branch of Sussar tree to hide behind for a quickie, but the stakes had changed. The lack of sun seeped fatigue in your bones, and a wave of irritation quickly affected the lot of your party. Another thingâit was hot, and unbearably humid. At every corner and bushel, day and night, there had been nothing but sneaky interventions, endless battle, and restless nights under the parasiteâs bidding. For once in your journey, your interactions were not feigned. All the fun you once had with Astarion had ceased.
But as the darkness loomed and taunted, so did his thirstâquietly, cunningly.
His looks eventually began to slip from their facade. After battle, drenched in sweat, youâd once stolen a glance at him as he leaned against a thick branch, his chin up and throat stretched, his head lolling to the side, absolutely winded. You locked gazes, lingered a second too long. He traced the line of your hips as it dipped into your waist, up to your shoulders heaving a likewise breath, a sheen of slick shimmers clinging onto your skin. His skin. Your mouth puckered, then opened, parched from the dampness surrounding. The others passed a carafe of water as you guzzled it down, water dribbling down your chin. His mask fell, and it was oh, so obvious.
In all his dripping mess, he needed you. Needed you under him, over himâneeded that gross, sweaty release. He envisioned it clearly: the desperation feeding into your tangle of limbs, his hard cock rocking you against anything, everything. Youâd sweat on mossy stone, a cranny in the grotto, on the creaky docks, he didnât fucking care. He needed it now.
But he never got to indulge in you. Even after relieving himself under his sheets, watching you stir near the warmth of the fire, you both couldnât find the perfect time.
You thought to make up for it, just a tiny bit. Days passed when you stormed through Grymforge, the humidity absorbed within the cool stones, granting slim moments of solace as you made way towards the Adamantine Forge. When your party began to hop on the suspended metal walkways, you quickly pulled Astarion behind the walls that made up the outer rim of Sharâs buried temple.
You bore a hasty promise on your lips as you leaned into his, heated kisses sweet on his tongue. He tried to hold back, but made to devour you, slamming you by the neck into the corner.
âSo, are we playing in the dark, now?â He purred, but as soon as he did, you pulled back.
âA goddess watches,â you teased, Sharâs energy permeating from wall to wall. âI canât have you just yet, lest we feel her wrath.â
Not that you worshipped any deity, but for an infidel like him, such a ridiculous reason made well to turn him onâmake him squirm.
Inadvertently, a different inticement grew from your words, for an even dirtier fantasy began to melt Astarionâs cold heart, straight to his very core.
You didnât know it yet, but the waiting would soon pay off.
You two remained respectfully chaste, past the Forge and into the Shadow-Cursed Lands. In every path and corner you imagined he would emerge from nowhere and have his foul way with you, but the performance sustained, stuck in your aloof roles. But he planned, oh, did he plan.
Then came the Gauntlet of Shar, the source of Astarionâs obscene reverie. The party, distracted by Shadowheartâs resolute lead, was on high alert and full of energy. After many moons of being trapped in the confines of his mind, heâd finally get his chance to fuck you senseless, and more importantly, blasphemously, until your moans punctured the very planes of divinity and disturb even the darkest of goddessesâespecially those he couldnât care less about⊠because whatâs the fun in fucking if not for a little peril?
It didnât take long for everyone to pass out in one of the abandoned chambers. Sleep enveloped their exhausted bones, all but a cheeky vampire, who made use of his stealthy step. He lifted his sleeve, exposing a silken sash heâd managed to borrow from your wares, one which you both found, rummaging through a back pantry. Or was it when you both were fucking in a back pantry? Either way, you took a liking to it, and thought complimented your travelling cloak. He didnât say anything, of course. He knew his approval would expose itself in time, and that happened to be now.
He hovered over you, breathing delicately down your neck, just long enough for you to flutter your eyes open. The low light fluttered through your lashes, but your vision was abruptly blocked by the sash, tied around your eyes. He worked quickly. Snatching you up, he made way behind you, guiding your hips and the knot behind your head to a few doors down. Passing dips and doors, balconies and rushing water.
âAstarion, what are youââ
âQuiet now. You wouldnât want to spoil my fun, would you?â His fangs gently prodded at your earlobes, shivers running down your spine. You couldnât even think. He enticed you, thought of you, touched you after days of droning silence.
The veil then lifted as he pushed you into a large hallâa nave of sortsâwhere pews sprawled from the center and pillars lined the walls. In a semicircle, rising to the center apse, stood countless statues of Shar, divine eyes the first to witness this foul spectacle. You lay on the altar, the darkness a demanding disturbance, but Astarionâs close heat was an unholy offering you just couldnât resist. Indeed, this was a place of worship, and he planned to take that into actuality.
âPoor thing, but a pretty one,â he looked you over, undoing the loose tie of his trousers, following to tie the sash on your bundled wrists. âDonât worry, my sweet. Iâll be gentle.â
Gods, youâd never been so wet, your pussy pulsating before he could even undress you, sneaky fingers going to stroke the bud of your clit. Your back arched, nipples hardening under his lapping tongue. He toyed with you from bottom to top as you squirmed senseless, aching for more. âPleaseâŠâ
Without warning, he plunged his fingers inside you, curling them deep, swirling on that spot he loved to hit, then released just as quick. He raised them up to his face, licking the moisture from his fingertips, down to his knuckles. You stared at him slurp up your taste, unnoticing of your arms being slowly raised above your head. He lifted one knee up onto the altar, and thrust himself inside, the girth of his length breaking you in two.
You screamed, the walls echoing your freeing pleasure. After all this time, you were tight, unpracticed in taking him whole as your pussy stretched, puckering and slobbery, an amateur devourer. He bit back a low moan as his tip slowly made space for himself once more, thrusting again and again, until you loosened just enough for him to finally reach your favorite spot. You shivered, mouth hung open, voiceless under his wrath. You were his sacrifice as he pried you open, gripping your throat to feel you deeper, if at all possible.
âF-FasterâŠâ you managed, as his eyes flashed ruby red.
His brow quivered as he sped up, toying with you some more, the sticky slap of his skin reverberating across your ass, his pants pure hymns in the night. He was desperate, too, caught in the erratic pace of his hips.
The sash then loosened as your world tipped over, your hands and knees positioned on the large surface of the altar, now facing the many empty pews.
âLook at you,â he cooed, circling around the table, tracing his cool fingers up your shoulders, down your back, to the round of your love handles. He spanked you as you bit your lip, curving your back so your ass stuck out, hair falling as you turned to watch his trailing gaze. Goddess, help her, sheâd convert to Astarionâs vile creed right now. He was mad.
Pushing himself on the altar behind you, he chuckled lowly, positioning his cock onto your slit. Only this time, the cloth tightened around your eyes once more, now totally submerged in darknessâhis mandated darkness.
He yanked at the loose end, his dripping cock invading you all over again. You squelched and moaned, your invisible audience watching Astarionâs domination, your neck craning in his tight hold.
âFuck, darling, did you miss me?â
âY-yes,â you managed. âYes, Astarion.â
He purred hearing his own name, in that special way you said it. It was in the same innocent tone youâd speak in when he referred to you during the day. You both would go along with the party, lost in the midst of a silly quest, exchanging dutiful acknowledgments and dry conversation. Yes, Astarion. Iâd checked that room. No leads there.
He leaned forward, one arm held above your shoulder, as he bucked his hips to slam into you from above. His voice curled against the shell of your ear, his chest snug at your back. âMy, I hadnât seen you sweat this much since I fucked you last time. Where was it? Wonât you help me jog my memory?â
You gasped, knees breaking into the marble, Sharâs statues studying his irresistible viscousness. âI donât rememberâŠâ
âNonsense. Was it⊠on dear Ragzlinâs throne, after everyone was dutifully slaughtered?â
The memory came to youâAstarionâs leg perched on the arm of the chair, waiting for you to amuse him in the candle-lit chamber, utterly void of anyone at all.
âOr was it when we climbed up to a narrow corner inside that windmill, where youâd come with your head out the window?â
You gulped. Heâd made such a mess that day, thick ribbons of his release pouring on your back, then put himself in again until you finished as he went soft. Itâd taken double the amount of time to regroup with everyone else, but he didnât seem to careânot that he ever did. His satisfactionâyour satisfactionâwas beyond anything else. âYou bastard,â you groaned.
âOh, I remember now!â He gave into another thrust, sending you to your elbows. âYes, it was in the middle of the night around the fire, wasnât it? Everyone had been sleeping so close⊠I had to stuff your mouth before the others could hear you. Tell me Iâm right.â
You couldnât handle it. He slipped out as you turned, lifting the slip from your eyes to see his coy smirk, eager from the conduct of his little game. It was time to hand the heat back to him. Itâs why he loved you, after all. Straddling your legs on his hips, you knocked him on his back, fingers on the sides of his throat.
âYou heathen,â you teased. âDo you think the Nightsinger would appreciate this indecent offering?â
âSheâd be a fool to think you were hers to begin with,â he raised his brows, flashing sharpened teeth. âNo, darling, tonight, you worship me.â
You gasped, slamming onto his solid cock, bouncing furiously. Faster and faster you grinded, his head convulsing on the battered surface, hands fondling the hard buds of your nipples. His eyes maneuvered all over you: from the swinging ends of your hair, to the mild bruises on your hips, down to your slit, folding up and down, up and down, up and down.
He lifted as he bucked his hips, surrendering to your motion. Skillfully, he wrapped the sash over both of your necks, tugging as you both veered closer. He snatched the top of your lip, licking it clean of sweat as he kissed you, tongues lapping against each other in a claggy heat. You grinned. He knew how to keep things interesting for their ever-looming audience. Your bouncing threatened to tip you back, but he caught you with his nimble tooth, pricking the soft of your lipsâ rosy surface. Gods, you were so close.
Releasing from the tangles of your tongues, he sighed, a trail of mingling saliva connecting both of your chins. âAre you ready for me, darling?â
You nodded furiously, eyes crossing at his impounding force.
He pulled out and hastily straightened on his knees. Reacting like a loyal pet to its owner, you dropped on yours, tongue out and wide to receive him. He pumped himself until his tip twitched purple. Was he always this beautiful in the low light?
Then, his body racked and hot cum shot from his cock, drizzling into your mouth and streaming down your chin. He liked seeing you like this, mewing lowly under him, licking up every last drop like a dirty little girl. You were irrevocably his to use, and he would never let you forget that.
âGood girl⊠good girlâŠâ
âIâll remember how desperate you were to fuck me here, next time you want to provoke me about where weâve been,â you taunted, licking up the stray drops of his spent desire.
His eyes glowed, shimmering in amusement. âUntil next time indeed, darling.â
Some things never changed, and yes, you still couldnât keep track of them all.
