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reiderwriter · 3 days

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🧺 Any More 🧺

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

For the CM Kink Bingo Challenge 2024

Requested: spencer realizing that he’ll never love someone as much as he loves you. (whether that be because of a case or what have you), his mind is absolutely blown with how much he worships you and how much you love and care for him and he shows you that with the softest most sickeningly sweet sex you and him has ever done. <3

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI! Discussions of case details, case burnout, very close friends to lovers, oral (f receiving), vanilla sex (p in v penetration). Discussions of mental health, and two idiots in love.

A/N: I'm hitting the prompt Vanilla for this one, so please don't be scared off by the KinkBingo tags! I had a lot of fun writing this one (and adding Pride and Prejudice quotes into the smut scene because HELLO). Let me know what you think in the replies~♡

Masterlist || Bingo Board

You hadn't seen Spencer in 100 days. Which in the grand scheme of things wasn't that long, trapped in the purgatory of a ‘what if’ the way you had been for the last eight years.

You'd lived without him for longer than 100 days before. He'd been in prison, you'd been on assignments, you'd lived an entire life before meeting him, but now somehow 100 days was too much time, and you were exhausted. You understood why Spencer had to take some time away from you, from the team in an official capacity after everything he'd been through. You supported him even.

But when even your free time didn't overlap anymore, you wondered if your relationship would ever be the same again.

Spencer was a friend, your best friend, probably. You'd arrived on the BAU team, he'd rattled off some statistics, stammering the way through them, and you'd immediately warmed to the man. He was brilliant, funny, and fiercely loyal, and you tried your best to protect him even when the job seemed designed to break people like him into thousands of little pieces.

You'd tried to convince him to leave before, after Maeve had died. You didn't want to see him heart broken again, but no one else had seemed to agree.

“Reid needs purpose,” they'd said. “Reid needs something to do.”

What Reid needed was to not end up dead before he had a chance to be happy, and happiness didn't come often in your field of work.

You'd been almost vindicated a year later when he'd been shot again, almost fatally. Vindicated, maybe but distraught and inconsolable. Morgan had to carry you screaming and clawing out of his hospital room multiple times. It sounded stupid enough to yourself that it was only then you realized your feelings for the man.

You wanted to be Spencer Reid's happiness, which was why you were so lost without him.

He was coming back on Monday, and at least you had the weekend to sort your feelings out about everything.not just about him, but about the job you'd found didn't fit you well enough anymore, about the team you loved like family, about the relationship you knew would likely never come to fruition.

You dumped your bags at your door when you'd arrived in your house that night, pushed yourself into your bedroom and let yourself collapse on your bed, balling up into as cozy a position as you could. You didn't even bother taking your jacket off, you just let your brain haze over and sleep rush in.

Three quiet raps at your door lifted you up and out of bed again, not an hour later.

You grabbed your phone, grabbed the second go-bag you kept at your house, put your shoes back on, and opened the door, expecting Emily and a new case.

“Where are we going?” You said, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, not even looking up at your guest.

“Hopefully, nowhere? I brought takeout.”

Your eyes widened then, taking in all 185cm of Doctor Spencer Reid, tweed jacket and plastic bag full of chow mein included.

“Spencer,” you breathed out, like a sigh of relief, letting the bag drop to the floor next to the first one and letting yourself into his arms.

He held you carefully there for a second before leading you back into the apartment, wrapping an arm around you and ruffling your hair. It was brotherly, and it made you sick to your stomach.

“What are you doing here?”

“Emily said you were back from a case,” he started, unpacking the takeaway from the containers. “And it feels wrong to eat this without you.”

You rolled your eyes and followed him into the kitchen, pulling two forks out of the drawer nearer you and stabbing them in the top of your two cups.

“Hey, I can use chopsticks now,” he said, defending himself against an inside joke. Spencer was always useless with his hands.

“I don't care if you can use them, I care that they don't accidentally end up stabbing me,” you said, taking yourself back to your bedroom, Spencer following.

“You'd hardly die from being stabbed by a wooden chopstick, maybe a papercut or a splinter but-”

“But you're just bad enough that I don't want to risk it.”

You kicked off your shoes again and climbed onto your bed. Spencer followed.

“Remind me again why we aren't sitting on your couch?”

“Uncomfortable.”

“Or at your breakfast bar?”

“Glorified filing cabinet right now. Eat.”

He shook his head but complied, leaning back against your pillows as you both began carefully eating. Silently, you pulled your laptop onto your bed, opened it up, and pressed play on a movie, one you'd seen more than once, and you'd forced Spencer to watch before as well.

In a comfortable, friendly silence, you finished your food. You stretched out in a yawn once and then curled into his side, letting his mumbling voice, repeating the movie lines as they were spoken, lull you softly into sleep.

Spencer knew he had to leave, but he couldn't bring himself to wake you. The movie had finished hours ago, he'd closed the laptop and turned off the bug lights, but he couldn't leave.

Unlike you, he hadn't counted the days that you'd been apart. He hadn't needed to. He knew you'd be waiting there for him when he returned, knew you'd give him a smile and a pat on the back, and immediately start bouncing ideas off of him. It was what he loved about you.

As he laid next to you in your bed, a place he'd absolutely been before, his heart thumped. Just once, but hard.

Even in sleep, you looked exhausted. Your shirt was crumpled, hair a mess, you were still wearing makeup, and he knew he'd probably get an earful for letting you sleep like that in the morning. You were a mess, and he still wanted you.

The thought came to him suddenly, another painful thump of his chest echoing in his mind. He rubbed absent mindedly at his chest as if experiencing heartburn. In the dim light of the room, he let his head drop to the pillow and wrapped two shaky arms around you and pulled you in closer.

The two of you were a picture - both in suits, both with badges still somewhere on your person, both dearly clinging to the person they feared losing the most.

When you woke the next morning, it was actually the afternoon.

“Spencer,” you groaned, melting under the heat of his embrace. Somehow, during the night, he'd rolled on top of you, pressing you into the bed with a delightful pressure, head nuzzled into your neck, arms tucked around your waist.

“Spencer, we should get up,” you said again, forcing your eyelids apart as your mascara tried to glue them together.

“Mmmmhh,” he groaned, moving to pick himself up off you for a minute but lowering himself again. If asked, he'd blame your hand in his hair, stroking the rogue curls gently, as if he were a prized pet and you their carer.

“Spencer, its 2pm.”

“On a Saturday.” You laughed at how pouty his voice sounded, but he complied and rolled off of you slightly, arms still wrapped around you.

“Come on. Get up. I've got some clothes that might fit you, let's get you out of the tweed.”

He huffed but nodded and lifted himself halfway to upright, eyes still closed lazily as he let in the light millimetre by millimetre.

“God, my face feels horrible,” you said, itching at your nose. “How did we even sleep so long like this? My belt is still on, Spencer, my belt.”

“If you were still wearing a weapon, then I'd be worried,” he smiled.

You shot him a sarcastic look and finally detangled yourself, only to clasp his hands and pull him forward as well, letting him trail you to your closet.

“Here, change in the bathroom,” he nodded and walked away, following directions with eyes still closed, as if it were really his apartment and not your own.

100 days without him, and it was as if it had only been 100 hours. Your entire body chemistry changed when he was around, the stick holding your spine rigidly in place, dissolving into calm, into a smile and a free giggle. It felt right again, and you almost forgot you'd ever felt wrong.

After briefly changing, you swapped place with Spencer, who'd exited the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and wet hair.

“Dry it for me?” He asked, sitting on your couch, and you nodded your ascent. A shower and a quick change later, and you were doing just that.

As much as he tried to keep his head upright, it kept lolling onto your thigh, yawns stretching out of him as he nuzzled closer to you.

“Spencer, you're like a big kid, keep your head up.”

“I'm not a kid,” he laughed, hooking his arms behind your knees and nuzzling closer into your soft sweats. “I'm just tired.”

“You're right. A child would probably be better behaved.”

“Our child would be,” he sighed, but you'd already turned the hairdryer back on, drowning out everything. Everything but that thump again. A child, he was thinking about children, and more importantly, he was thinking about your children. With him.

He'd always imagined himself with a family, knowing it would ultimately stay in his imagination. But for a second, his visions changed. It wasn't just a child or two. It was you. Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

He only released the image when you finally pushed his head off of you and stood, turning away from him to get a glass of water from your kitchen.

“So, any plans today? Books to read, papers to mark, undergrads to run away screaming from?” You let the ice water cool your hot cheeks, but kept your back to him. You were hot, embarrassed, and you were looking at him in a sickeningly sweet way that could only be described as love struck or struck dumb.

“No, no, I finished all my obligations at the college yesterday,” he said, following behind you and picking up your cup when you set it down, taking a sip himself.

“I was… I was actually hoping we could spend some time together? Unless you had plans, which is totally fine-”

“No, Spencer, yeah, I have no plans, that's…. Well I have to do laundry, which is a bit boring but, no. No plans.”

“Laundry?”

“Two week case in Florida, I don't know how you didn't smell me yesterday, Spencer. I'd be running for the hills.”

He laughed and stepped away again, grabbing the two go bags by the door and coming back into your space.

“How about we get this done now so we can spend the day in a Who-Trek marathon?”

“Make that a Who-Greys Anatomy Marathon, and you have yourself a deal.”

He pouted again, and you snorted at the sight, taking another sip of water to calm yourself before you could react safely to that face.

“Come on, you know you've been dying to know what happens next at the Grey Sloane Memorial Hospital.”

“I thought it was called the Seattle Grace Mercy?”

“Oh we better get to that laundry now. You have a lot to catch up on.”

Grabbing a bag in one hand and his free hand in your other, you made your way down to your building's laundry room. But despite the man by your side and the relaxing day threatening to stretch ahead of you, a gloom caught you in the corridors.

You'd worked for two weeks, practically solid. You'd killed a man two days ago, or at least someone on your team had multiple shots having been fired. Another day on your job, another unsub felled, and everyone else was content with this just being a part of the job description.

It felt like each step towards the laundry room, each thing you did that was normal, that was regular, threw back in your face the pain you endured to save lives.

The bag in your hand weighed you down, pulling you lower and lower by the second.

You reached the laundry room, and you found the weight almost unbearable, stopping just before you could step in. You didn't have to think about what came next though, because suddenly the bag was out of your hands and Spencer was sorting your laundry for you.

“It's a Saturday, so your neighbour's won't complain if we separate the darks and lights into two machines, will they?” He asked, not looking up at you as he worked pouring out the fabric softener and the detergent. “Y/N?”

You hadn't noticed the lightness in your body until the tears hit your cheeks, the weight gone with his support.

“Y/N, what is it? What's wrong?” He said, hands cupping your face, because of course he was immediately at your side.

“I-I can't do it, Spencer…” your voice shook, pitching upwards, your vision blurring with tears.

“Can't do what, Y/N? Talk to me please, let me help?”

“I can't do laundry!” You said, finally bursting into a full fit of tears and burying your head in his waiting chest.

“L-Laundry?” He said, trying not to laugh, but the smile slipping out anyway now you were holding him.

You only sobbed again, nodding into his shirt, aware you were probably leaving snot all over it but not being able to care. It was your shirt anyway. You would just have to add it back to your laundry pile.

The thought set you off on another wave of sobs, and Spencer set about comforting you again. Keeping an arm wrapped around you, he put his quarters into the machines and set them off before quickly ushering you back up the stairs into your apartment.

“Y/N? Y/N, please talk to me,” he begged, smoothing your hair out of your eyes as you tried to gather yourself.

“I don't…. I can't….” You took a breath again, aware of the way your breathing hitched in your chest as you did.

“I don't think I can do this anymore,” you said, and his eyes widened quickly.

“This? Y/N, if you mean this as in us, then I can't-”

“This job,” you clarified, hands digging into the soft flesh of his arms further as he held you, finally sitting back on your couch.

“The job. Okay, the job. That's okay. We all feel like this at some point.”

You sniffed again and refused to meet his eyes.

“But this isn't like the other times this - It's like my whole b-body is protesting, and I can't sleep, and if I don't, then I might get sloppy and an unsub could-”

“Y/N, focus on my voice. You're spiralling. Listen to my voice, let's take some breaths, and think about this for a second.”

He guided you through some breathing, a hand on your back tapping out beats even as his voice grew quiet.

When you finally relaxed, you were sat on top of him, his hand rubbing circles into your back.

“I think it started when you left,” you whispered. “When you went to Mexico, and then, you know,” you've voice thickened, and you couldn't get the words out.

“And then these last 100 days they've just been…difficult.”

“100…difficult,” he echoed, almost breathless as he listened to you.

“It's like I can't do it without you. I never had to try to do it without you, and now I get what people say when they say this job is shitty, because it is when your best friend isn't there.”

You gave him a weak smile and wiped away your tears, trying to climb from his lap. But his firm arms held you still, and you didn't really want out anyways.

“When I get home, everything is different, and I can't make myself do anything. If you weren't here, I wouldn't have done that laundry. I'd let it sit and avoid it for weeks. Do you understand?”

“Y/N, lots of people feel depressed sometimes-”

“It's not - Spencer, I don't think this is something I can medicate my way out of. I don't know what to do because I can't do my job without you, and I can't be happy doing my job, and if I leave my job I'll be without you and then-”

Your voice cracked again.

“And then I still won't be happy.” The words were barely a whisper, but they were a plea, too. You weren't sure what for.

“You can't be happy without me?” He asked, but it was more a statement than anything else. Spencer felt horrible in that moment as his chest rattled, gleeful that he was your happiness.

“I love you,” he said, outloud finally after eight years.

“I love you, too, Spencer, but-”

“No, Y/N. Listen to me. I. Love. You.” The thumping of his heart set the tempo for the choir that was his senses to begin singing, as he finally leaned forward and kissed you.

“I love you, and I don't care if you're working at the BAU or if you're avoiding laundry at home. I, god, you're amazing and wonderful, and you're a human being, and you've our yourself under so much pressure for the last decade to keep me alive, to keep all of us alive really and….”

He took another breath, leaning into kiss you one more time.

“And you deserve a break.”

“W-When we take breaks, people die.”

“Did anyone die when I was teaching for the last three months? When JJ went on maternity leave?”

You shook your head, but your brain was still a mess.

“You all had reasons, I-”

“You have reasons, too. Y/N…. Y/N, let me be your reason.”

For a moment or two, Spencer truly thought you were going to say no. He thought you would get up and walk away, or better yet, ask him to leave and never come back.

So when you pressed your lips to his, he was sure that this was a dream.

But to you, it was salvation. Spencer Reid's love was the lifeline you'd been thrown, and it was buoyant enough to make you start floating.

His hands kneaded the flesh at your hips as he pulled you closer still to him, his tongue slipping into your mouth to explore every part of you there.

“Y/N… love…you,” he mumbled with each spare breath he caught, and you only detangled your lips to hear him say it again as he pressed similarly heated kisses against every inch of your exposed skin.

When Spencer's mind lost its ability to create original speech, he leant back on a lifetime of information, of learning love through books and people and marathons with you.

“I know that all I know right now is that I love you. And I know that I always will,” he whispered, lifting you and carrying you back to the bed you'd only crawled from an hour hence.

A hand slid under your shirt, and slowly pushed it over your head, letting it slowly drop to the floor as he held you tenderly.

“To me, you are perfect.”

His mouth found one nipple, and he gently kissed, then suckled at it, hands softly caressing your stomach, feeling along every ridge of you as you writhed under him.

“Of all the FBI Units, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.”

“Spencer,” you said, voice still thick with tears, but these ones more tender, more joyful.

His hand eased your sweats over your ass and off, his hips settling between your legs as if he found the place he was made to lie forever.

“The truth of it is, I’ve loved you from the first second I met you.”

His mouth trailed lower until his tongue hit your clit, brushing against it languidly, as if it was his deepest desire to taste you and nothing else ever again.

His tongue flattened and flicked and pushed inside of you as you replayed his words again and again and again. You found yourself repeating them with him.

“I love you,” you echoed as he pushed a finger inside of you.

“I.. love you,” you gasped as he added another.

“I love you,” you screamed as your back arched up off the bed, finding your pleasure in his tongue, just ad you'd found love in his words.

“You have bewitched me body and soul, and I love….” He freed his cock from his pants, and took it in hand.

“I love…” With another kiss, he pressed the tip of it against you, asking for permission silently as you nodded your head.

“I love you.” He pushed in slowly, but it wouldn't matter how he did it because now you knew how he felt, and you didn't want to return to a time of not knowing.

Hooking your legs around him, Spencer dropped his forehead to yours and looked you directly in the eyes as he began moving. In and out, he thrust, mouth open in a moan of pleasure, likely mirroring your own.

The poetry, the movie lines, they were gone now, and Spencer was left with nothing but you, and love, and love for you.

“Spencer,” you moaned out, and he felt his chest swell. Pride. His name on your tongue, his body pressed to yours, claiming you as his ad you claimed him as yours.

He came with a shudder and you were not far behind, his undoing sending a shiver up your spine as his fingers grazed your clit again.

You sat panting for a minute, still attached, still forehead to forehead.

You weren't sure if it was him who giggled first or if it was you, but you were glad it was one of you.

You spent the rest of the night, the rest of the weekend, wrapped in his warmth, dressed in his love, taking each day a step at a time as you basked in his adoration.

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ivyppoison · 1 day

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𝐂𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐖

pairing. jason todd⠀𝒙⠀ thief!fem!reader

requests. “yooo, i think you asked for jason's resquests so i would love to read a jason x thief reader, like a girl like selina yk, with very much tension xoxo” ── @lunasolac

words. 0.746k

warning(s). angst, & criminal behaviour

IT WAS BARELY a month since he begged you to stop waiting outside his apartment window, but here you were, clad in black, desperate and hazy, knocking at the glass with bruised knuckles, practically praying he was at home tonight.

Practically twenty minutes later after hushed insults and petty words, you were sat upon his bathroom counter, vexed at how you had grown incompetent at your thievery over the past few days, watching Jason clean your cuts and massage your bruises with the pads of his fingers.

You had practised this back and forth for almost two years; he’d tell you to leave, convincing you he shouldn’t be allowed petty thieves like you. He convinced you that he had changed. Yet, it was seemingly inevitable. You’d always return, banging on the glass without the fear of it breaking, and he’d always tend to you, kissing your bloodied knuckles and allowing you to spill the stories that laced your tongue into his ear.

This time you had managed to get your hands on an artefact which you planned to hand over to a buyer for a couple thousand, but in the midst of your tribulations, the police you had become closely acquainted to caught you in the midst of your crime. Slipping the piece into your bag, you managed to slip away, apart from the group of men who seized you in the middle of your escape, explaining the bruises on your hands from your resistance.

Jason’s eyes remained transfixed on your face as you recited the events of your unfortunate evening in the monotonous tone he realised you used whenever you were tiresome.

His thumb brushed your cheek, bringing you out of the trance your reciting caged you in.

Holding his gaze for a moment, you slipped off the counter, whispering a quiet ‘thank you’ that barely reached his ears.

Walking away with the intention of leaving, you sat down on the edge of his bed, prying your shoes on with your bandaged hands, but the sound of Jason’s voice made you pause in your movement.

“You can stay here tonight,” he offered, crossing his arms as he stared over at you, leaning against the doorframe.

Judgmental, or considerate; you couldn’t tell what laced the tone of his words, or the expression on his face. You knew he definitely didn’t want you to use this as an opportunity to practically move into his home.

Just for a night.

Staring at him like a bewitched deer in headlights, you slipped on your shoes, before your pants followed, kneeling down on the bed.

Your gaze flickered to the moonlight which shone perfectly through the open window, the gentle breeze causing the hairs on your body to prick up.

“You okay?” His rough voice called out, as you felt the bed dip under the weight of his body.

“Yeah, just thinking,” you replied.

It was true. Your mind was conflicted between accepting the help you had been offered by Jason and his adoptive brother, Dick Grayson, or continuing with your worthless life, filling the addiction with the gratification of stealing.

It was no lie you were still on a high from your little heist, but right now, you wanted to feel Jason against your skin.

Like a teenage schoolgirl, you were still fawning over the man. You were both delicate yet broken people, you made each other feel seen and understood. He was the muse of your daydreams and the nectar to your lips.

So, what was truly stopping you from pressing your sugar-tainted lips to his?

Self control, maybe.

Turning your body towards him, you pressed your lips into a thin line as he watched you adjust yourself.

“Are you sure you want me to stay?” You asked, a dazed expression on your face as you glanced at him.

“I ─── I want you,” he whispered, a small smirk adorning his lips, watching you as you became starry-eyed at his confession.

Without a moment passing, you elevated yourself with your knees, cupping his face with your hands as you kissed him. It wasn’t a simple one, not like a first-kiss. Instead of hesitation; it was deep, instead of gentle; it was rough, instead of pure; it was lustfull.

His hands grasped at your waist, as you climbed into his lap, kissing him feverishly.

You parted to breath, a strand of saliva still connecting your mouths, the proximity of the two of you intoxicating.

“I need you to stay.”

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jewishvitya · 3 days

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Haaretz did this:

The full thing is under the cut, in case this link is paywalled for other people. The actual text has blocked out portions as well, to highlight what it's like to report on cases of administrative detention.

Highlights:

Like all administrative detention hearings, it was held in-camera, to obscure the fact that detainees' lawyers do their job without access to the facts of the case. Even the few details that are not secret are prohibited for publication. The administrative detention order was approved in full for a period of six months

And

In the past, it was considered, at least officially, a measure reserved for the most extreme of cases. This hypocritical position has always been false, but now there is no longer any need to save face. According to the Israeli army's own data, almost 5,000 arrests were made in the West Bank in the past eight months. These are very conservative numbers, as they don't include the many thousands arrested and released without being indicted.

The data shows that administrative detention, this so-called extreme of extremes, is now the norm. According to Israeli Prison Service numbers, Israel now holds 7016 people who have not yet been convicted in its jails – either awaiting trial or under administrative detention. Of these, 4,299 – more than 60%! – are held without charge or trial. And all that is without saying a single word about the torture, hunger and humiliation to which all Palestinian prisoners held by Israel are subjected these days.

Administrative detention is based on secret suspicions, secret evidence and no charges being brought. To conceal its inherent absurdity, hearings are held in-camera and away from the public eye. As such, even the little that is revealed to the defense remains prohibited for publication.

On the morning of October 29, after a short farewell to his wife Nariman and their kids, Bassem Tamimi left his home in the West Bank village of Nabi Saleh, north of Ramallah, and started heading east toward the Allenby Bridge. He was on his way to visit relatives in Jordan he had not seen in a long time. A little after 11 A.M., Nariman received a message saying, "The secret police asked for me. I'll write when it's over." And then, shortly after 3 P.M., a call: "I am being arrested. They're coming to take the phone. Have to go. Bye."

This, unfortunately, was not Bassem's first encounter with Israeli law. His village, Nabi Saleh, has waged a multi-year campaign of civil resistance against land grabs and settlement expansion. As a prominent activist, he was incarcerated repeatedly for his role as a protest leader, part of Israel's attempt to quell dissent.

In the evening, the phone rang again. The woman on the line introduced herself, saying she lived in Silwan and was currently at the Hadassa hospital in Jerusalem. She then went on to say that Bassem was there, surrounded by soldiers. He was taken there after his blood pressure soared dangerously. Nariman could faintly hear Bassem's voice over the line saying, "I'm fine, don't worry, everything's good." After a few more hours, at night, that same woman sent a picture of Bassem in the ER, undergoing a checkup; his hand bound with ziptie cuffs. That was the last time Nariman heard from him. Save for a single short lawyer visit before Eid al-Fitr in April, no one has been in contact with him since.

Four days after his arrest, police ████, ████ ████: "███████ ███ ████ █████ ███ ████████, ██████, █████? "███████ ███ ██████: "████ ███ ██████." And that was that. Eight days later – the maximum time afforded to the authorities by article 33 of Israel's military law in the West Bank before a detainee must be presented before a judge (who also is a soldier in uniform) – a six-month administrative detention order was issued, which did not suggest any specific allegations, but rather only a very general statement regarding ███████ ██ █ ███████ .

Eleven more days later, the Kafkaesque proceedings of judicial review over the order took place. Some of it was held ex-parte between the soldier-judge and the Shin Bet. Like all administrative detention hearings, it was held in-camera, to obscure the fact that detainees' lawyers do their job without access to the facts of the case. Even the few details that are not secret are prohibited for publication. The administrative detention order was approved in full for a period of six months, until April 28.

Administrative detention, however, is not really bound by the limits of time, and can be extended indefinitely. And indeed, as the six months passed, a new six-month order was signed, citing the same meaningless cause of ██████ ████ █ ██████ ██ █. This time however, and unlike the state of affairs in almost any other administrative detention case, the defense had a pretty good insight into the details of the case. Administrative detention is such a mundane phenomenon in Israeli military courts, that , , , .

A few hours prior to Bassem's arrest, Israeli forces arrested █████ █ ████ █ ██████ ███ █████ █ ████████ ███ ███, Bassem's friend from their days together in Israeli jail at the beginning of the millennium. Then too, under administrative detention. ██████ ███ █████ █ ███ ████ ███ ███ ██████ █ ██ █████ █ ███ █████ ███ ███ █ ███ ███ ████, █ ████ ███ ███ ████ ███ ████ █ █ ███ █████ ██ ██ ██ ██ ███ ████ █ ███ █████ ███ ███ █████ ███ ████ █ ███. █████ ███ ███ █████ ███ █████ █ ███, █████ ███ ███ ███ ███ ███ █████ █ ████ ███ ███ ████ ███ █████? █ █████ ██ ███ ███. ██ ███ ██ ███ █ ██ █████ ███ ███ ██████ ███ █████ █ █████ ███ ███ ██████ ███ █████.

█ ████ ███ ███ ███ █████ ███ █████ █ ████ ████ ███ ███ ████ ███ █████ █ ████ ██ ███, ██████ ███ █████ █ ███ ████ ███ ███ ████ ███ █████ █ ██ ███ ███ ███ ███ ██ ███ ███ █ "██████ ███ ███ ████ ███ ████ █ ██████ ███ ███? █████ ███ █████ █ ████ ███ ███ █████ ███ ████ █ ███████ ███." ███ ██████ ███ ████ █ ███ ███ ███ ██ ███ █████ █ ██████ ███ ███ 25 ███ ██ █████ █ ███████ ████, long after the administrative detention order against Bassem was reviewed and approved by the court, ██████ was unconditionally released.

On his release, ██████ contacted Nariman and told her what had happened, thinking that his release must also mean Bassem should soon follow. This is how the defense learned the details it knows, and not through discovery by the prosecution. Even though there is no gag order on ██████ ██████'s case, discussing its details in conjunction with Bassem's administrative detention is prohibited for publication. Despite everything that was revealed – and that is the nature of administrative detention: there can always be more hidden evidence, secret, almost mystical – Bassem is still being held under administrative detention even now. Almost two weeks after the hearing, ███ █ ██ ██████ ██████ ████████ █████ █ █████ █ █████, the judge partially confirmed the second administrative detention order against Bassem in violation of military law provisions, ████████ ████ █ ███ █ ███████ ███ █ ████████.

Like Bassem, thousands more are held captive by Israel under administrative detention. In the past, it was considered, at least officially, a measure reserved for the most extreme of cases. This hypocritical position has always been false, but now there is no longer any need to save face. According to the Israeli army's own data, almost 5,000 arrests were made in the West Bank in the past eight months. These are very conservative numbers, as they don't include the many thousands arrested and released without being indicted.

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grind-pantera · 15 hours

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I s2g if you give me anything Caesar I will love you forever 🙏🏻

*Stumbles as thousands of Caesar pics fall out of my trench coat* Listen - Shit - I can explain, This is just a small little blurb. I have another Caesar request I'm working on that'll be longer!

Title: Phoenix. Fandom: Planet of the Apes. Pairing: Heavily Implied! Caesar x Human ! Reader. Words: 1.8K+ Rating: K. ( Tiny mention of blood, but other than that, fluffy introspective. ) Summary: **Below is set in an AU - Cornelia passed away due to complications from childbirth after Blue Eyes was born. This is happening during the events of Dawn of the Planet of the Apes.** You were chosen to help Caesar put his war paint on. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻

It was very apparent that you didn't know how to hold your body when you were with him, Caesar huffed out a small laugh at that. After all this time, he still made you sweat to the point where he could smell the nerves radiating off you in fragrant waves. Caesar had watched with deathly silent observance the shift of your weight from one side to the other in front of him, perched on a rock to give you enough of a boost to be face to face with him as he propped himself to sit straight. Almost straight as a pin, you thought to yourself and wondered vaguely if it was really comfortable for him. If he had evolved for it to be comfortable. Before the Rise, Chimpanzees were able to walk upright, but never did for extended periods of time, their spines more curved and adapted to move quickly on all fours. But Caesar--- You have a small pause as your fingers dipped into a crudely sculpted bowl to your right, coating your fingertips with a white, chalky like substance. He held himself with such confidence, an air of arrogance but you doubted that that’s how he intended it to be interpreted. He had to have known how he looked to his fellow Apes, it was obvious in how they talked to him, how he interacted with them, even his own son. But, you asked in your mind if he knew that humans, at least the handful that had seen him in such close proximity, thought similarly. You scoffed to yourself, raising your hand and taking a deep breath in as your hand was quick to draw a line of white against the side of the Chimps face. He reacted only slightly. If he was pleased being touched, he never showed it in moments like this as you began to intricately trace his war paint. You started with his cheeks, figuring it was the largest bit of the canvas. Or maybe you were being biased in this entire situation. It would be impossible not to, having the intimate bond with Caesar that you did. Not mates, you were convinced of that. Caesar never brought it up, never asked if you cared to be, if you liked to be. That was a mixed bag in itself, the reaction from his Colony might not be so accepting of Caesar’s bond with a human, especially when compared to the previously loved and adored Cornelia, You were just an outlet for Caesar who craved here and there the intricacy of human interaction as opposed to Ape.

Your hand swept upwards after re-applying a dabble of the white makeshift paint to your fingertips. Caesar was silent as his green eyes dug holes into your own, so human-like, so entrancing that you felt he could grab your hips and pull you into him, just consume your entire being and you would allow it to happen with such gratefulness. There was a brief second where the corner of Caesar’s lip jolted, like a fleeting thought of something good passed through him before he slid his eyelids shut, allowing your gentle touch around the bridge of his brows and eye sockets. He wasn’t going to smile, you told yourself over and over, it was most likely a reaction to you touching his face. An involuntary twitch.

You swished your hand upwards into the line of his fur, tapering the white paint off in a flutter. His fur was thicker at this time of year than during the spring and summer months, you noticed. You didn't dwindle there too long despite the growing urge to just grasp a handful of his fur to gloat to others that you had taken initiative for your own selfish fantasies. Uncomfortable again at the fastened sensation resting in the tail of your spine from the intimate nature of the situation, your eyes peered at his broad chest.

With three fingers now splattered with white, you draped coordinating lines along his collar bones, the first set of mirror lines reaching from the middle of his sternum all the way to the end of the shoulder. His fur wasn't rough like you had anticipated, in fact, it was… Hot. Smooth under the paint as it bunched together here and there as you traced what looked like bones down his chest. You only fleetingly placed a touch on his scar, feeling the dip of your touch when you went from fur to bare skin and then back to fur again. How easy it would be to just… Dig your fingers in… Swallowing hard, you admired your work pensively to keep your train of thought from derailing further and nodded in meager self-satisfaction. Caesar was still unmoving in front of you, almost getting a full face of hair as you had moved to give him the last set to complete his ceremonial rib cage. He wasn’t breathing; he couldn’t allow himself that pleasure, feeling that your smell so near to him could cause a snap. He did exhale though, feeling the thrust of your fingers against his diaphragm. Wiping your fingers on a damp cloth, you drew a deep breath into your lungs. Caesar watched that, how expanded your ribs got when you breathed in and how they deflated, almost in haste as you shifted attention to the bowl with red in it. Green and golden orbs found yours again and your heart jolted in your chest. The deep intensity of his stare always left you feeling weak in the knees and you were incredibly grateful to be sitting. You knew what was next. Caesar knew what was next. You had studied the last few times, Lake working the paint to Caesar’s face. How she applied, how Caesar preferred it to look. Finally, it was your turn. And while you thought Lake would assist, giving you advice as she watched you do it, you found yourself alone with the Ape King. Better to just rip the metaphorical band-aid off.

The red was thicker than the white. Where the white was chalky in nature and would surely only stick to the places on Caesar’s face with deep wrinkles, the red felt goopy. Almost like actual blood, you thought to yourself and felt it trickling down your fingers, tracing the lines on your palm. Caesar closed his eyes again. Two fingers, pointer and middle, pressed to his fur line on his head and trailed down, splattering color onto the otherwise monotone Chimp. You stopped before hitting his nose, taking a few seconds to stab two adjacent lines right at his nose. One shooting off to the left and one to the right, looking like an upside down arrow. Your fingers cupped more red, more than you probably needed. Scarlet droplets hit the ground between you as your fingers finally landed on his sternum itself. The bone was hard under a layer of muscle. It often slipped your mind just how muscular Caesar was. He wasn’t bulky, but dear lord, he surely had lean muscles that served him well. Stopping a few inches downwards, your fingers shook.

‘Cold.’ Caesar must have seen your hand shivering. He didn't speak and you wished deep down that he had. Something about the coarse nature of his voice, laxed from years of not verbalizing, made you feel that guilt-ridden bile in your stomach.

“No,” You said with a forced smile, hating to hear the reverb of your voice. “Nervous. Want to make sure you look good.”

Caesar chortled at that. It was a laugh, sarcastic. ‘Always look good.’

Rolling your eyes at that, you realized that he was trying to calm you down. He had a strange way around it, often relying on his knowledge of human emotions to do just that. It varied, but in experience, joking and being sarcastic was a good way to get them to trust him. If they could see themselves in Caesar, they were more likely to be accommodating and listen to what he had to say. It was a funny way of analysation and when you first met him, it impressed you that he possessed such a quality.

“I need to finish your face,” You whispered this time, Caesar watching your mouth form words so delicately. “Don’t move.”

He wouldn’t think of it. A tinge of pink still lingered on your fingers as you raised them, now four of them pressing to his mouth. Actually, a centimeter or so above his top lip. He pressed them together, silently eager to know what it was going to feel like. If your touches in other ways would feel similar. He’d think about it alone, perhaps when he returned. Tickling your fingers down, You were slow, obsessing over how your fingers felt against him, knowing he could bite all your fingers off here if he chose. You were so focused on getting the paint right that you were oblivious how he looked at you. Tracing his gaze along your face, admiring the tiny freckles that speckled around, only noticeable once close to you, the flick of your lips as you muttered to yourself.

It was a dragging movement you set forward, catching his bottom lip and pulling it enough for you to see his teeth for a split second before his lip bounced back to normalcy and Caesar went back to his regular gruff and flat expression. You pressed pink and took away some white to give Caesar the appearance of a skull mask. Holding his face for a brief moment, grasp on his chin, Caesar furrowed his brow at your action. Fur tickled your fingertips, you wanted nothing more than to continue moving your hand downwards. To scape it across his chest, destroy the paint you just put on him. Smearing over your own body.

“You better not ruin my piece of art.” You shook yourself out of your own thoughts, snapping your hand back just as quickly as you decided to actually hold him. Clearing your throat, you hoped he didn't mention you lingering. You knew he noticed and now, all Caesar got was another awkward smile from you, Knees rubbed together for a second before you decided to occupy yourself with cleaning up. “Hm…” He muttered, perking up at the sound of clay clanking against each other as you stacked the paint bowls. Eyes were burning into your back, you felt them as you shuffled across the cave to put your things away. “Cannot help it… if it rains.”

A small laugh left your lips at that as you looked over your shoulder at him. The vibration of his voice rocketed through you and it felt strange that your legs were unable to move. He picked his body up, now shifting to his assortment of weapons. So broadening in nature, it wasn’t a surprise to anyone that he was the King.

“Course not.” You laughed again, drawing your bottom lip in, hoping to yourself in secrecy that he’d ask you to help clean himself up when he returned. “Can’t help that at all…”

#caesar x reader #caesar x human reader #planet of the apes x reader #planet of the apes #pota #emmy writes #fanfiction #fanfic #kingdom of the planet of the apes #kotpota

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hi-there-buddies · 2 days

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OK I think I finally figured out how old the Transformers Prime bots are. And it’s all because of Transformers Rescue Bots.

So, in the first episode of Rescue Bots, Optimus Prime introduces himself to the Rescue Bots, and remarks about how he was not aware they were still active. The bots also talk about checking in with Cybertron HQ. This leads me to believe that not only did the Rescue Bots leave Cybertron before the war started, they also left before they knew Optimus became a Prime. This is paralleled with Smokescreen meeting Optimus and IMMEDIATELY knowing who he is. Also, I feel like they wouldn’t have left Cybertron while a war was raging, since Heatwave and Chase were more than happy to join the war. (this point could be refuted since they know about Bumblebee during the war, but that might also be because they had been talking to Optimus and researching the war)

Later, all the way in Season 3 Episode 20, when the Rescue Bots find Blurr and Salvage’s ship, the Rescue Bots remark that they’ve never seen a ship like theirs before, and that it was “Ancient” and “way before their time”. And then, HERE’S THE KICKER, later in the episode, Cody tells Blurr that he and Salvage had been on Earth for 10,000 years. This is a very big deal because the aligned continuity shows made it a point to stay away from exact dates, opting to use words like ‘millennia’ and stuff

So…that means, at the VERY OLDEST, the Rescue Bots and most of Team Prime (barring Optimus and Ratchet) are around 9000 years old. It also means that Orion Pax became Optimus Prime around anywhere from 1000 to 9000 years ago, and that the war had been raging for about that long.

That really is not a lot by Cybertronian standards, but I’m gonna be honest, I like it MUCH more than the “million year old robots” thing.

I’d assume Optimus is around 10-20 thousand, along with Ratchet

Bulkhead and Arcee are around 8000

Smokescreen and Bumblebee are around 5000

And they’ve been on earth since ~1980 (Arcee mentions Bulkhead hitting wires or something when they first got to Earth. The writers were probably lining it up with the 1980s cartoon timeline I’m guessing)

So, do with this information what you will lol

#tfp #tfrb #transformers #transformers prime #transformers rescue bots #maccadam #rescue bots #Optimus Prime #Ratchet #Bumblebee #Arcee #Bulkhead #Smokescreen #Blurr #Salvage #FINALLY #this has been bugging me not knowing

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niko-sasaki-dbd · 3 days

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Can we just stop for a second and think about Charles attending his own funeral?

I can’t stop picturing him—still not used to being dead—playing a sickening version of hide and seek, just him and his fears. He’s still a kid, hidden in a dark corner, watching his mother cry over a coffin that will soon be six feet deep. Rotting.

He is the uninvited guest, observing his mother from the shadows. He doesn’t find a trace of the silent tears in her eyes—the ones he had seen a thousand times before—but there’s desperation instead. A violent tremble shakes her shoulders, her sobs are stealing the air from her lungs. There’s pain running down her cheeks, the sort of torturing agony that can only be driven by guilt, and loss, and grief.

He sees people around, unknown voices trying to calm her down. He sees blurred faces, question marks, beating hearts but blind eyes. They don’t know anything about her, and they will never know anything about him.

He wants to get closer, but he doesn’t know how. He wants to never see her again. He wants to scream; he wants to tell her that he would have never chosen to leave her if he had been granted the choice. He wants her to look at him; he wants her to hold him as she’s holding onto that inert wooden box.

But she never will.

Just one more time, he looks at her intently.

“It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart.”

Just one more time, he takes one step closer.

“I promise…”

Just one more—

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Rowland.”

It's cold again. He retreats to the shadows and looks ahead. There's no one, not a single person, who shows less kindness than his own father.

He stays three steps away from his mother, with a hardened expression that never changes. They may think he's stoic, but Charles knows better; he is looking at him—at the lifeless body that once was him—with so much contained rage. It looks like home, the unwelcoming preamble to another beating, and Charles believes he is selfish for feeling relieved, for finding solace in his own death.

There is no one around to judge him for it, yet he still worries so much; he's safe, but somehow, he's still crying on the floor inside his mind, and the bruises keep blooming, and the pain feels so real.

"Charles?"

How can he explain that he wants to be alive, but he doesn't want his life back? It's just a plight he would rather avoid because he fears that if he keeps thinking about it, the water would come back, and this time, he wouldn't be able to find a way out. He would be trapped forever, fighting senselessly against the freezing cold, suffocating within the walls of his own nightmare.

Alone.

"Are you alright?"

He doesn't want to stay and haunt this place; he doesn't want to be remembered like this. He would rather pray for his mother to let him go, and for the violence to let go of her.

"Would you prefer me to wait for you outside?"

He doesn't want to feel fragile, he doesn't want to be useless, he doesn't want to be angry. He would rather bury his own aching body along with all his losses, but he would remember his father's eyes, just in case.

For now, he needs to pull himself together because there's someone looking for him—hide and seek, but it's not scary anymore—maybe he will have to leave his hideout soon, but is it losing when you want to be found?

"No,"

Cold colors seem warmer when the light comes in.

Don't leave me.

"I'll go with you."

#this was supposed to be short #charles rowland #charles dead boy detectives #edwin paine #edwin payne #chedwin #paineland #payneland #painland #dead boy detectives #dead boy detective netflix #dead boy detective agency #dead boy detectives agency #the dead boy detectives #dbda #dbda fanfic #dc universe #dcu

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outlanderskin · 1 day

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Why are you so fucking calm????

Are you asking this in relation to the last paparazzi walk or in general😅🤣? I think that time in this fandom may give me another perspective because the only feeling I have is "I've seen this movie before." I think Sam (and Cait's) actions have no impact beyond the Outlander bubble. The fans who care about them are Outlander fans, to the general public they are unknown, at most "that actor/actress who played that character x in that filme Y". None of the people outside that bubble care if he's seen with anyone. A person outside the bubble who looks at that photo, even knowing the girl's profession, won't see anything unusual, because for that person, Sam is just a single guy who is an actor and doesn't have to live according to anyone beliefs. Mind you, he was not seen on the street beating a woman, an animal, or a child. He was not photographed or filmed committing any crime. Coldly analyzing (from outside the bubble) what you see in these articles is a single guy (that's what you find about him on social media) walking hand in hand down the street with a woman. The woman's profession would be no one's business. Those outside the bubble won't even bother to research, and even if critics, directors, and bosses in general do research or know that she works as an escort, this won't be considered a scandal. Firstly because (publicly) he is single and being single if he wants to have a serious relationship with her (regardless of her profession) is not a crime and it would be considered prejudice and puritanism to boycott someone for that. And secondly, because we are talking about the world of entertainment and let's be realistic: it is a sexist world, dominated by men and where married men involved in cheating scandals, continue to work and earn loads of money and the excuse they use is "that's his private life, not his professional life." I know the impact of these things on the fandom is huge, but it's always just here. Remember Hawaiigate? Even something so serious that it had to be handled with him making public statements (and her distracting the fandom) didn't have a big impact on his business or his career. The only impact it made was some fans who stopped following and supporting him, but those numbers were replaced in the following months by new fans and look at the numbers today.

I've said many times that I don't idolize them both and I don't expect them to make choices based on what I believe. I've also said a thousand times that I think their choices regarding this circus are terrible. But it doesn't impact me emotionally like it impacts some people in the fandom in general (on all sides). My advice is always the same: if it's causing you pain, if it's too much for you to bear, if it affects your real life, walk away. This is just a fandom. It's not your job, your family. Even the circles of friends you make in a fandom (the real friendships) can be maintained if you decide to leave. Just remember to respect the friends that remain, not to think of yourself as superior because you "found the light" and decided to leave, and friendships can continue beautifully.

As for me, so far, all their bad choices only contribute more and more to what I believe. That's why I'm here with my popcorn in hand, always waiting for the next show and remembering that the only actions and reactions I can control are my own. And, that's OK.

#outlander #samcait #shipping #sam heughan #fandom is for fun #thehardlifeofshippers #welcome to the shitshow

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kentopedia · 1 day

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it's been decades since you've last seen dazai; your lover & your maker. now that you're finally happy, he's haunting you again with a thousand buried memories.

overall contents. fem!reader, nsfw minors dni, exes to lover, gothic romance, blood drinking, vampire!reader, vampire!dazai, smut, cheating reader, complicated relationships, blood, gore, jealousy, manipulation, religious symbolism, betrayal, reunions — 5.7k words

PART VI ♰ MASTERLIST

With your sullen mood resurfacing, a hazy dreariness fell upon your apartment in the week following Dazai’s departure. While you were happy to sulk, bury your nose in distractions and the taste of human blood, Atsushi was determined not to let you. With all the goodness in his heart, he picked you back up, put you on your feet, and stitched up the rift that was slowly growing between you.

Although he was a human, and he did not have the wisdom backed by decades of living, he was a detective. A rather good one, at that. It was easy for him to spot the shifts in your moods, as subtle as they were.

Atsushi never pried, never forced you to open up and spill all the details of what was bothering you. It was just one trait that differed from Dazai, who was always forcing your tongue, even with his own pockets full of secrets.

For the week, Atsushi gave you space. He stayed at Ranpo’s as promised, and let you mope and drown in your own despondency. But when Saturday evening came, he had grown weary of the tension and stilted conversations that soured between the two of you. It was obvious from the way he continued to bring up the conversation, even as desperately as you tried to quell it.

Under your intense gaze, Atsushi uncomfortably sipped as his water, mustering up a smile. Although you normally sat beside him as he ate, with your own plate empty before you, it felt strange, this time. Something in the air between you had shifted, as he twisted in the chair, eyes flitting away before meeting your own hesitantly.

“Will you be staring at me for the entire night?” Atsushi asked, his tone playful, but only to disguise his genuine concern.

A frown marred your face, and you blinked, realizing just how intently you’d been observing his every move. Like a hawk to its prey — a questionable comparison, to say the least.

“Sorry,” you said gently, looking back down at your hands. “I didn’t mean to.”

His eyes softened, but he said nothing, jaw working tightly as he chewed the tough meat. Despite his polite mannerisms, the action still grated at you, his teeth dragging against the other quickly becoming an irritation. Especially as the action of him swallowing the thick lumps of meat drew your attention to his pale throat, something of a beacon, shrouded in candlelight.

Atsushi saw you watching once again, and sighed. Although it was the first night that you had shared since he’d been away, he didn’t feel any closer, the space between you even colder than before.

He knew how you hungered now, even if it had been similar to those years before him, when you’d hunted into the evenings with Dazai. Your bloodlust was uncontrollable and erratic, and though you’d never wanted Atsushi’s blood before, you craved it now. The sweet dessert that was coiled under his skin, paired with love and desire, tied up in a warm human vessel.

Atsushi rubbed his eyes and set the utensils down. “No. I’m sorry. I know you wanted some space, but I should have made more of an effort… Before now. I should have—” Atsushi worried his lip, frustrated with himself for inconceivable reasons.

You didn’t know how to tell him that none of this was his fault.

That thought led you back to that evening, just a few years ago, when you’d first seen him. How alluring he’d been, sitting with his mismatched friends, head tilted back in laughter. His voice may have been hushed, drowned out by the loud personalities of the others, but it was so precious to you. Back then, he’d been quiet, without much of the confidence that he had now.

His self-discovery had very little to do with you, you knew that. But you’d loved him with all the intensity of an immortal being, and that surely counted for something.

“It’s okay,” you stopped him, leaning over the table, wanting to reach for him. “I’m the one who can’t control my hunger. I’m a pathetic excuse for a human and a vampire.”

You didn’t say that last part.

His face twisted at that. Something clicked, in a few breaths, as the reality of your words, your lust for blood, finally sunk it. It had always just been the thing between you. Atsushi had seen you drink from animals, had even helped you get them. Never, though, had it been him you were desiring, his blood that created such a constant state of anguish.

“I know that it’s not…” He paused, thinking of a word to accurately describe his thoughts. “Conventional. It’s probably not even feasible for us to carry on this way. But I don’t want—” Atsushi’s jaw clenched, and his eyes drifted away from your darkened gaze to the floor. “I love you. I love you very much, and I may be a detective, opposed to violence, but I’m willing to do what it takes to stay together.”

The words should’ve calmed you, sparked a sense of peace through your veins, but they caused your heart to sink instead. You didn’t want him to be familiar with your craving for blood.

Instead, it seemed he only became more comfortable with the idea of it as time went on.

“Atsushi…” you began. With the way you said his name, close to a scolding, you’d expected him to deflate.

But he remained stoic, his eyes never faltering with dishonesty. “I’m serious, honey,” he said, and then, he did reach for you, squeezing your cold hands against the table, fingers warming you almost as easily as the blood in his veins could. “I know how you feel about turning me, but I want to be with you.” The gentle smile swept back on his face, lighting it up swiftly, as it erased the sharpness of his previous expression. “We’ll just take things at your pace, okay?”

The hold of guilt crept back up on you as you stole your own hand back from him. How kind he was, to offer you that, when it was him that was most deserving of it. “Atsushi, you must know I’m not a good person. You must know, by now.”

“You are to me. You’re the one I want to be with for the rest of my life. Isn’t that enough for you?”

Was it enough?

If you were being truthful, with yourself and your fiancé, you’d grown uncertain.

There was an abundance of love in your heart for Atsushi, but he shared the darkest parts of it with another. It felt wrong, to lead him into another life, on the promise that you’d be his eternal, faithful companion.

You hadn’t even been able to do that in his mortal life.

Instead of letting the truth spill out, you nodded, slowly.

An exhale of relief left Atsushi, as he leaned back into his chair, more at ease than he’d been all week. “Okay. Okay, then that’s enough for me.”

He finished eating, the tension between you still there, but diminishing. Atsushi seemed appeased, and finished the meal by chattering on about his day, his mood elevated.

Then, as he took the last bite of his dinner, he seemed struck with an idea. “We should go out tonight,” he said, nodding to himself, already excited by the prospect. “We haven’t gone drinking in months.”

You tossed him a skeptical look, but smiled, shaking your head at his excitement. Despite his laid-back, often timid nature, he could be quite stubborn when he set his mind to something. Especially if that idea — in his mind, at least — was something that could help another.

He appeared especially convinced that a night out in the city would be enough to cure your woes.

“You know I can’t get drunk,” you laughed, crossing your arms over your chest. “And alcohol tastes quite bland, as a vampire.”

Atsushi ignored all your arguments, and came around the table, pulling you out of your seat. He laid a long, feverish kiss on your lips, one that stunned you into silence.

“Who said you needed to get drunk? Someone has to be sober, to help get the other home.”

“Ah,” you said, recovering from the fits of passion that he had seemed possessed by. Kissing him across his forehead, you wrapped your arms around his neck and responded playfully. “I see. This is a ploy to get drunk and then blame it on me?”

He shrugged, leaning into you, with a childish expression. Lines creased along the corners of his eyes, on his forehead, reminding you that he was still beautifully human. And while he was only a year older than you’d been when you had turned, he still held the evidence of the happiness, the sorrows, that he’d beheld as a human.

You, as a vampire, had been smoothed over, lines scraped into a perfect marble, not a blemish or wrinkle on your face. Save for the scars that had been permanently etched onto your skin, you were nothing short of perfection.

It made you ache, sometimes, to know that you would never appear so human. You would never get to see yourself age with grace.

A blessing and a curse, you supposed, as Atsushi pulled you from the table, kissing across your face with a profound smile. You would not get to grow old with the man you loved, but you could spend countless years with him, never wondering if he’d get sick without warning, if his heart would stop beating while he slept.

Sometimes, you got so caught up in the misery of being a vampire, an immortal, that you forgot there was a sublime beauty to it, as well.

Atsushi took you to his favorite pub, on the other side of town, near the detective agency that he worked at. It was a spot they all frequented after long cases. A respectable cafe by the morning, and a place for the scoundrels of the earth to settle at night.

Saturdays were always busy, but this night seemed even more so, as you shoved your way into through the swinging, wooden doors, pressing shoulder to shoulder against those in front of you. An overwhelming stench of body odor assaulted your senses, rank and thick as it flooded your nostrils. Under it all, though, with each body stacked against the next, there was the flowery, sweet smell of blood.

You gripped Atsushi’s hand tightly to resist it.

The chatter was endless. With your hearing — so much better than any of those around you — you were subjected to half a hundred different conversations, the changes in pitch and tempo like nails to your temple.

It was difficult to focus, your attention tugged in a thousand different directions. That was, until Atsushi turned around and smiled, that brilliantly beautiful grin akin to the light of a thousand suns.

Your mouth parted; you’d almost forgotten how pretty he was.

“This okay?” he asked, hesitant at the tension that grazed your features. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so busy, but if you want to leave—”

You stopped him, tugging him to your side by the lapels of his shirt. Standing taller, you pressed a lingering kiss to his lips, fingers twisting into his hair, longer on one side. “I don’t mind.”

A small little sound left the back of his throat, and his lips curled against your own, as he tugged you to a table. There was a crowd of young men lingering by the bar, and as Atsushi pushed his way past with you in tow, they all stopped their conversation to watch, eyes following your every moment.

In another life, that would have been your dinner. You would have leaned over the counter, beckoned them with a sultry grin, and taken them home, where Dazai would praise you on another successful hunt.

You buried the memory, squeezing Atsushi’s hand tighter, and refused to think of ghosts. Especially of those that were still alive.

The tabletop he decided upon was sticky, but it was one of the only remaining empty ones. A film of wetness had been streaked across it, dripping off the edges of the table. As a contrast to the darkness, a candle burned bright in the center of the table, wax dripping off in thick rivulets.

Atsushi pulled out a chair for you, dramatically gesturing towards the seat. “If you would, miss,” he said, a shy sort of humor resting at the edge of his gaze.

“Thank you, kind sir.” You took the seat, indulging him, and removed your gloves to fold onto your lap.

There was no reason for any attempts at being a proper lady, not in this sort of environment. It wasn’t nearly as seedy as the place you had been meeting Dazai, but there were still corners with secret rendezvous, hushed whispers between business partners over smoky cigarettes.

“Would you still like a drink?” Atsushi asked, brushing his thumb across your eyebrow. “I know, it’s really only to keep up appearances, but if you’d like one…”

He seemed so hopeful, eyes glimmering with a reignited thrill. It’d been a long time since either of you had truly committed to an evening out, and even longer since you’d stopped here, where you knew his friends and co-workers often were.

The taste of alcohol, without being tinged by the sweetness of blood, was quite awful. Still, you accepted. “Of course, honey. I can still enjoy the simple luxury of a little drink.”

You smiled and tilted your head, though you weren’t sure he caught the true meaning of your words.

Atsushi left, heading over to the bar, where a red-headed woman and an older man were working furiously, filling cups as quickly as they were handed them.

The alcohol spilled freely, splashing onto people’s shirts as they skirted around one another, the dark liquid quickly becoming large puddles on the floor. No one seemed any the wiser.

It made you long for that feeling as a human, when it took just a few sips to get a buzz swirling through your veins. You’d never been good at holding your liquor. That remained true as a vampire, but you couldn’t drain an unsuspecting stranger right outside, when your beloved fiancee was so hopeful of mending the growing cracks in your engagement.

Atsushi’s conversation did seem to go on with the red-haired woman, who spoke to him in a way that was something between cruel and affectionate. Atsushi only laughed, amused by her dark glare as she pushed two drinks towards him, moving onto the next customer.

It wasn’t surprising that they knew each other, seemed quite familiar with one another, with as much as Atsushi claimed to come here. Still, there was a feeling that burned under your skin, one that you knew far too well, and hated nonetheless.

You looked away, hoping that Atsushi wouldn’t see the jealousy in your eyes. That was the last emotion that you were deserving of.

Especially because if you told him the truth, if you even suspected the pretty bartender fancied him, he would only smile, laugh at you with a tint of pink on his cheeks. Atsushi would never look at anyone with longing when he had you. He was loyal, kind and loving, and you believed him when he promised that.

You, on the other hand, were a piece of shit. To put it simply. The same courteousy of loyalty couldn’t be offered to him — you’d already made sure of that.

Although, when you thought about it deeper, watched her glance back at Atsushi as he came over to you, you realized that it wasn’t his affection you were envious of.

She simply had something, the one thing, that you didn’t.

Every woman that crossed Atsushi’s path would never have his love, not with you still in his life, but they could offer him a shot at a normal human existence. They could give him what he deserved: a happy marriage without bloodshed, children if he so desired them.

They wouldn’t lie to his face about their past, their present, and perhaps even the future that they were already weaving together.

Humanity was the only thing you had to be envious of. And even though you felt guilty for taking that away from Atsushi, there was also the hint of satisfaction, knowing that no one else would be able to offer him what you could.

Atsushi handed the drink to you, and you took it with ease, letting your fingers curl around the cup, nails clicking against the handle. Already, Atsushi had taken long sips of his, the liquid dripping, soaking his mouth, almost obscenely. He wiped his hand across his face, letting it wet the back of his palm as well, all while you watched on with amusement.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” you asked, cracking a smile as he leaned back in the chair, raising his glass when someone in the bar burst out into some sort of chant. You’d never heard it before, but Atsushi hummed under his breath, a faraway look in his eyes as he leaned into you.

“I am,” he said, kissing your temple, before taking another long sip of his drink. “I’ve been so stressed about the case, that I’d forgotten…” Atsushi trailed off, gaze dropped to his half-empty cup before sighing. “Well, I suppose I’ve been forgetting how to live. But, that doesn’t mean much, when we’ll have eternity, does it?”

Resigned sadness soaked his words as he squeezed your shoulder, and it permeated your short-lived glee. “Atsushi—” you began, shaking your head. “No. You should live every moment like its your last. Especially when you are immortal.”

His eyebrows pinched, forming a wrinkle between them as he tilted his head towards you. Perhaps, it didn’t make sense to him yet, but it would soon. Atsushi had no idea how difficult having centuries ahead of you could be, how intimidating to realize. He hadn’t seen vampires go mad because of it, throw themselves onto a stake or into the fire because they couldn’t comprehend that sense of time. He hadn’t seen vampires fall so easily to their emotions, because they had been unstable as a human, and that had never faired well without an ending in sight. Some didn’t take well to the blood-drinking, either, and it made them sick, for their minds were too fragile to hold on.

There were endless reasons not to be a vampire, and you weren’t sure he fully understood that.

“I don’t understand—” your beloved began, but he didn’t get far, as an unfamiliar presence approached, taking his place at the empty seat of the table.

“Atsushi,” he said, leaning towards both of you, an elated grin on his face. “Long time, no see. How have you been?”

You jerked your head towards the third voice, just as Atsushi did, the two of you wearing matching, irritated expressions. It was a man you didn’t recognize, with dark, auburn hair, and a self-satisfied grin. He was on the verge of being drunk, almost stringing his words together, sharp eyes glazed over with intoxication.

“Tachihara,” Atsushi said, face falling. The smile he wore was so evidently fake, it was probably for the best that the man wasn’t sober. “What are you doing here?”

There were very few people that Atsushi disliked, very few that he utterly refused to get along with. So it came as a surprise, when his expression coiled up with tension, his words spoken through gritted teeth and harsh lines.

That was, until you realized what the man in front of you was. “Oh, it’s been years since I’ve been around, and that’s how you greet an old friend?” He sounded hurt, at first, before he laughed loudly, his faux annoyance giving way to amusement. “I shouldn’t be surprised, though. I interrupted you and and this beautiful lady. What is your name, by the way?” Tachihara turned to you, grinning lazily, his dark eyelashes fanning over his cheeks, naturally flirtatious.

You met his gaze head-on, sitting stiffly in your chair as you smiled, refusing to reach out your hand and shake his. Out of fear that he would feel your cold skin, see the fangs that weren’t even elongated, or sense that your beauty wasn’t quite natural. “I’m Atsushi’s fiancee.”

Briefly, you reached out the soft caress of compulsion, attempting to weave into his mind, curl your own touch around his memories. But as you lingered there, you were met with a hard block, a gated entry, without a lock or key.

Your gaze dropped down to his cloak, made of burgundy velvet, stitched with the cross of the vampire hunters over his heart. Then, your eyes drifted over to the golden medallion that hung around his neck.

Shit.

Outside of your own kind, there was very little that you knew about magic, or beings that existed apart from mortals. Dazai had let you in on very little, in a promise that ignorance was safer than knowledge.

What you did know, was that people had been aware of vampires for centuries. You’d been the greatest evil to face humans, for a time, and while your existence faded into legend, and humans did not fear as they once had, there were still precautions. Some were merely rumors; promises that crucifixes and holy symbols would repel you, but didn’t.

Some were old magic, like the medallion given only to specific ranks of vampire hunters. Most were centuries old and were, to your knowledge, the only thing that could stop an immortal from controlling the minds of mankind.

For a moment, you scrambled, knowing that even if there was a way for you to break past the barriers, infiltrate his conscious, you weren’t a strong enough vampire to do that. Perhaps if you were someone like Dazai, who had been alive for nearly three of your lifetimes, but you were something close to a child compared with those that beheld your same gifts.

You resigned your name to the vampire hunter, hoping that he hadn’t caught the biting tinge of fear at the end of your sentence. Although, it wasn’t your life that you were worried about — vampire hunters were a nuisance, sure, but they were still painfully human. Ones that you could kill.

Atsushi, on the other hand, could not. Even if you were innocent in the murders that they were investigating, if they found out that Atsushi had been harboring, loving, a vampire for two years, they would certainly execute him on the spot.

You refused to let it come to that.

“So, what brings you back here, then?” you asked, closing your hands together on your lap. “If it’s been so long without seeing Atsushi?” With a smile, you laid on the charm, remembering all the practice you’d had through the years, all the men you’d brought to their deaths. Tachihara may have been a sharp hunter with concerning strength for a mortal, but he was still a man.

He seemed happy to indulge you with flirtations, smiling as he drank another beer and supplied you with all the details of his mission. “My boss sent us over here to help out with the murders happening in this city. They’re certain its a vampire — perhaps a coven, with the frequency.”

“You’re not convinced?”

Tachihara shrugged. “Vampires are usually more methodical. Or less obvious. Depends on their age, though.” He seemed to come to himself, blinking, as he glanced between you and Atsushi. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t be telling you all this. Not fit for a lady, and all.”

“It’s fine,” Atsushi said, even more tense then you were, his back straight like a rod, as he squeezed your hand under the table. “I’ve already told her everything. She’s real smart, helps me out on cases, sometimes.” He swallowed, and though his words were confident, his eyes were not — which worried you. As much as you loved him, adored him, he was a horrendous liar.

That, of all things, would be what got you into trouble.

“I see,” Tachihara replied, intrigued. “Well, what do you think, then? I’d hate to be wasting my time here.”

While you’d wanted at the very least, a moment to think, Atsushi was already spilling out his thoughts, mouth running faster than a race horse. “I wouldn’t be too quick to pin this on the bloodsuckers,” he said, shaking his head voraciously. “I’ve seen murderers with less reason than this, and they is very little evidence to point to it being a vampire, to begin with.” He took a breath, before continuing, quickly averting his eyes away from Tachihara’s scrutinizing gaze. “Only a few bodies were found drained of blood, and many had been mutilated in a very grotesque fashion. Anyone could have done so, couldn’t they?”

Tachihara’s lips pursed. “I’m not sure—”

“Besides,” Atsushi went on, completing ignoring the fact that his friend had interjected at all. “The killings have stopped. Whoever it was moved on.” A heavy breath left him, at that, the final notice, to convince himself as much as the man who listened on with curiosity.

“Oh no,” Tachihara said, shaking his head as he snapped to attention. “Didn’t you see? They found another body this morning.”

Atsushi paled, the color draining from his face as he slid his eyes across the table from Tachihara.

Well. You’d consider that a ridiculously stupid miscalculation on your part.

“I—” he said, shaking his head, suddenly startled. “Wow. I didn’t know about that.”

“Hmm.” Tachihara licked his lips, taking the last drops of alcohol from his skin with it. “Slacking on the job, are we?”

Although it was said as a joke, a slight jab between friends, there was also a hint of criticism there.

Atsushi had stiffened in his chair, a mix of mortification and uncertainty replacing all other emotions. Those were written out, as plain as day, on his features. There was no room for lying.

You held your breath, choking on the sound, as you waited for Atsushi’s reaction. His pupils had blown wide, the purple in his irises so deep they were the color of royalty, drowning out the brightness of the golden flecks. He swallowed, jaw clenching tightly as his sights settled on the woman at the bar, before he dragged them right back to Tachihara.

“I must confess,” he said, with alarming calmness, one that made your hair stand on end. “I’ve had to take many breaks from the case. It’s…” he sighed, shaking his head, genuinely put out by his own ability to stomach the murders. “It’s done a number on my head. They’ve already removed me once from it, shipped me out of the city, for a while.”

The amusement on Tachihara’s face dissipated, the smile lines smoothing as his grin dropped swiftly. “Oh,” he said, leaning forward, no longer slouching casually in his chair. “I’m sorry, Atsushi. I don’t blame you for needing a break.”

“I shouldn’t,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “It’s my job, and I feel horrible for needing to take time away for my own sanity, while people are losing their lives.”

Tachihara nodded, coating his lips with saliva once more. “I understand. But, remember you aren’t alone in this. There are other people working on the case, and the weight of the world doesn’t rest on your shoulders.” He reached over the table, nearly spilling Atsushi’s drink in the process, to squeeze his arm, supportive. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night out. I should’ve saved the work talk for next week.”

“It’s okay,” Atsushi smiled, tight-lipped. He shrugged off Tachihara’s larger hand, his deep tan skin punctuated by harsh white scars. “I would be curious too, if I were in your position. But, I’m glad you’re here to help, vampire or not.”

Your fiancé glanced over to you, chest rising and falling with the complex emotions weaving under his skin. “Right, angel?”

How you hated when he called you that.

He’d only picked it up recently — since Dazai had found you once again. Atsushi never could’ve known how deeply the term irritated you, how complex the memories that came with it were. Yet, he whispered it with such endearment, such adoration, breathing it on a simple exhale, that you couldn’t urge him away from it.

You smiled, words coming through sharply gritted teeth. “The faster this all ends, the better.”

It should’ve ended already, with Dazai gone. Why they had only now sent vampire hunters was beyond you.

When you returned home, the last thing on your mind was sleep.

Atsushi slammed the door behind him, a sound that caused you to jump. He was not an angry man, and so rarely let it show, or take it out on you. But, he began pacing the room with fury, his eyes ablaze as he considered the room like it disgusted him.

“Fuck,” he said, weaving his hand through his silver locks, gripping them tightly. “I’m sorry. I knew they would come eventually, but I didn’t think—” His eyes squeezed together tightly, no longer showing the deep galaxy within them. “I didn’t think it would be so soon. How foolish of me.”

“I’m the fool. I’ve seen this a thousand times before, and still believed that everything would be fine,” you said, trying to calm him down, as his soles burned holes into the floor of your home. The final murder would be your little secret, but you should’ve known that the vampire hunters would show eventually. Dazai had strategically held them off, but he’d grown sloppy, in his quest to capture your attention. “But we can’t keep this farce up with hunters around, Atsushi. They’ll catch on soon.”

“How do you know that?” He met your gaze, pained.

You smiled gently, as you eased your hands away from his hair. “The murderer may not be a vampire, but I certainly am. This is what they do, honey. They hunt my kind for a living. They’re skilled, and if they find out you’re defending me…” you trailed off, the words speaking for themselves. “That’s why I think I need to leave. At least, for a while.”

“No,” Atsushi snapped, his voice breaking at the end of the word. “No. We’ve been apart for so long. We can figure out another way. I don’t want to keep getting separated.”

You shook your head. “I don’t think we can, this time. It’s too dangerous.”

“I can keep you safe. It won’t come to that, I won’t let you get hurt.”

“They’re stronger than you, and they’re not going to let friendships stand in the way of justice. If we aren’t smart about this, then we’ll get ourselves killed.”

“It shouldn’t be like this,” he said, eyeing you, his voice hard. “You’re one of the good ones. It’s not like you’re the one killing people. Right?”

You knitted your eyebrows together, swallowing. “Of course not,” you said, hoping that it sounding more convincing to his ears than it did your own. You might as well have been driving the knives into everyone’s backs. “Where’s this coming from?”

“I just wonder if you’re certain you don’t know anything about this. You know your kind better than anyone, better than the hunters, even. Are you sure this isn’t a vampire?”

“I promised you, didn’t I?” Your voice came out hard, indignant. “What? Do you not trust me anymore?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Atsushi snapped.

A moment of silence came after.

Although you were certain no bitter emotions had taken over your features, something in his face changed as you leaned back and recoiled, drawing away from him.

Then Atsushi exhaled, all malice draining out of him as he deflated. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I know you didn’t do it, and I know you wouldn’t lie to me. I just wanted to ask again. Make sure. Nothing about this case makes sense to me.”

“Right. Of course,” you replied. Your voice was chalky. “Well, it’s not a vampire. Even if it was, there isn’t anything I can do.” There was. “Vampires are inherently independent creatures.” Sometimes. “Whoever it was — is, wouldn’t stop killing, just because I asked them to. They’d probably see my socializing with humans, trying to hold onto my humanity, as a weakness.” That part, was honest, at least.

Atsushi deflated. “I didn’t mean to get upset with you.”

“It’s alright. It’s reasonable to be.”

He nodded; you were both unconvinced, though by which words, it was hard to tell.

“I think I should leave, Atsushi. Tomorrow. We’ll say I received word that a family of mine is sick, and I need to go take care of them. It’s reasonable enough.”

“Of course. Of course.” He reached out to you, then, taking you in his arms in the cold room, fingers snaking around your back before pulling you into his chest. “I trust you. When it comes to this world, you know best. I’m willing to do what needs to be done to keep us both safe.”

You whispered a response, letting your head fall to his collarbone as you inhaled, the alcohol and smoke from the evening a thick cloak on Atsushi’s skin. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this. I wish I could stay here, and we wouldn’t have to worry about the hunters busting through the door unannounced. I wish things were different.”

The two of you knew what you were really trying to say. Things with Atsushi would be so much easier if you were human.

“I wouldn’t change anything,” Atsushi said, kissing your forehead, even if you felt like it was a lie. If you were offered a way out of immortality tomorrow, he’d be elated for you to take it. “I love you just the way you are.”

You smiled, placatingly. “I love you too, Atsushi.”

He held you, for a few minutes, the two of you beginning to feel the warmth of the sun rising in the horizon at your backs. It wouldn’t be long now — you’d be off to bed, and Atsushi would be off to work without a moment’s rest. Then, you’d be apart again. Again and again and again.

It seemed like fate was trying to tell you something; you’d continue to ignore her whispers in your ear.

“Where will you go?” Atsushi finally asked, leading you back into your room, so dark and empty, like a lived-in tomb.

You took his hand instead, squeezed it tight, and exhaled. “Home.”

PART VII

thank you so much for reading!! pls ignore any spelling errors & i hope my characterization of tachihara was okay :,) reblogs are always appreciated !!

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cottagec0relover21 · 2 days

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Hiii!!! How about Chilchuck teaching you how to pick locks after you got locked inside a chest and the party couldn't find you? This is how he shows that he cares and worries about the reader lol.

With a halfling reader if that's oki with you....

Bonus points if after chatting for a while, they both started talking about locks and keys, not realizing it sounded like a sexual innuendo, then it got awkward lol

"Lost and Found"

[Chilchuck Tims x gn!half-ling!reader]

Warnings: slight sexual innuendo - fluff

You had gone missing. Missing. In the dungeon. From one moment to another you had disappeared from everyone's sight. You had been walking around with the group when you'd spotted a room full of chests and decided to enter to take a look around.

Chilchuck had groaned loudly at all the work Laios intended him to do to open every single one of them.— First of all, what if one of these is a mimic?!— Chikchuck protested, pointing a finger up towards the tall-man's face. Honestly he had a really good point.

That's when from behind them, they heard (y/n)'s voice speak and a sudden slam. Everyone turned around to see they were gone.

—(y/n)?— Marcille spoke up. Calling them a second time, when they didn't speak up everyone started to panic and look around. Were you outside of the room? Maybe on a room next door? but nothing, you had just dissapeared in the blink of an eye.

Groaning in discomfort and some pain, (y/n) rubbed the back of their head, where they had collided roughly against the inside of the wooden chest. Chilchuck fumbled to grab his tools as Laios, Marcille and Senshi looked at him expectantly when they had heard (y/n) knock from inside of one of the chests, making him even more anxious.

—Let's try this one!— pointed Laios.

—No! I think it's this one!— the mage contradicted him.

—Everyone shut up! Let me hear!— Chilchuck yelled, agitated as he stood silently in the middle of the room.—(y/n) can you knock once again for me?— he raised his voice so they could hear, trying to speak calmly, hoping you were still conscious.

When they knocked on the inside of the chest they had fallen into, Chilchuck hurried to help to unlock it and get them out.— It's okay, I'm here! Can you breathe well? I'm going to get you out! Don't panic!— no one had ever seen Chilchuck so... worried before. So seeing him stumble with his words and fumble with his lockpicking tools made everyone stare at him with curiosity and worry for (y/n).

After a minute or two Chilchuck successfully opened the chest to find them curled up inside. He helped them up and out with a worried expression on their face as he looked over their features. Where you hurt anywhere? How had that even happened in the first place? Was it a monster? Did someone accidentally push you? Did you fall??

—Uh– Chil, I'm okay...— they speak softly, reassuring him as he squished their cheeks to move their head to the side.— I saw a chest was slightly open and I wanted to take a closer look, but somehow I kind of fell in...?— they sheepishly admit with a chuckle.

Chilchuck hits their shoulder, protesting that he was worried. The faint redness on his cheeks didn't go unnoticed by the group as he fussed at them. How sweet. And grumpy everyone thought as they watched the scene unfold in front of them. (y/n) couldn't help the giggle that erupted from their lips and hugged Chilchuck by the neck.— It's okay now, thank you for saving me— they speak sweetly, which only makes the half-foot more red in the face as he reciprocates the hugs slowly.

—Don't do that again or I'm not getting you out...— he mumbles, obviously not being serious. They would save them a thousand times if it was ever necessary.

Much later, when dinner was almost served, (y/n) and Chilchuck were sitting aside on the ground, legs crossed as he held up his lockpicking tools for them to see.— Why does the tip look like that?— (y/n) pointed at something the group could not see, for they were sitting with their backs facing them. That made half of the party look up with wide eyes in their direction.

Chilchuck calmly explained— Every keyhole is different, sometimes you need a bigger one, sometimes you need it to curve or to lay flat— he grabs (y/n)'s hand and brings it closer— Here, feel it— as soon as he says that, Senshi coughs loudly, catching their attention.

Both of them turn around— Are you okay, Senshi?— (y/n) asks, noticing everyone's flustered look—...what?—.

—Kids, you should look for some privacy if you're going to be doing such a thing. I understand you're curious, but please respect everyone else in the room— the bearded dwarf speaks, returning his attention to the food. Their cheeks become as red as a pomegranate as Chilchuck protests that, first of all, they're not kids, and second, that's not what's happening at all.

One can't even explain lockpicking in peace anymore, geez.

#delicious in dungeon #dungeon meshi #chilchuck tims x reader #chilchuck #chilchuk tims #fanfic

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ilovejoostklein · 10 hours

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hii, a little request. could we get sum eurovision singer!reader with joost?? maybe after their endless flirting they end up having a one night stand in their hotel room😵‍💫 and after eurovision ends reader is caught by some fans attending joost’s concert in vancouver or they are seen attending a club together and being all cozy😫 sorry if it’s to much, feel free to decline🫶🏻

i got you! 💙

Little Stars

You’re Joost’s favorite girl at Eurovision

nsfw: smut, some fluff

The entire competition served more as an ego boost than as a popularity boost to your career. You were always an extrovert. As a child, you always got the same cliché comments that you’d either be a great lawyer or a performer, and you decided to choose the option that wouldn’t cause you to have a lifetime of boredom. It certainly helped that your parents stuck you in every extracurricular activity, dance, gymnastics, volleyball, to have an outlet for your energy and love for being the center of attention.

You’d discovered your singing talents from your father, who was an amateur singer. On weekend mornings, when the morning dew would still be on the plants, pale golden sunlight illuminating the streets of your city you’d rush down the stairs to join him when you heard the gentle strumming of his guitar with the song of the morning birds.

You two would sing a song together, the neighbors always taking a moment to listen from the windows or their doorsteps, people walking by smiling at you or taking a moment to talk. Your parents were adamant that you were born to be on stage, your family and neighbors nicknamed you their little star.

You first gained popularity after posting a few covers on YouTube when you were a teenager. It wasn’t much in terms of internet fame, a couple of thousand followers, and your most popular video getting a little over 100,000 views but it was surreal to you at the time. You always stuck to ballads, your voice strong and from your high stamina, you could belt out notes that lasted miles. It wasn’t until you showcased your dancing talents that your popularity seemed to ignite.

At first, it scared you a bit, but the attention was overwhelmingly positive besides the few comments from older people in your country who damned the youth and their nerve to have fun. You realized that your singing could only take you so far, millions of other people had nice voices, but few could captivate an audience like you with your stage presence. Before you knew it, you had enough money to hire a manager and move yourself and your parents to a nicer part of town. Your name spread across parts of Europe, and you became somewhat of a celebrity, selling out small venues and playing a few festivals.

You came from truly humble beginnings, and you suspected that was why so many audiences connected with and favored you, and a large reason why your application to Eurovision to represent your country was accepted. You were beautiful, incredibly talented, and had a larger-than-life charisma. In interviews and press conferences, it was the best thing, especially in the unique and rather tense climate of this year’s competition, but backstage was a completely different person.

You quickly gave yourself a reputation of being a flirt. You wore skimpy, bright outfits adorned with glitter and rhinestones with every practice and rehearsal. When you weren’t about to perform, you still wore mini skirts and the tiniest top imaginable. You walked around with your body practically on full display, some parts of your skin being hardly covered with fishnets or tights. You lived up to your nickname as being a star, the other contestants hearing it from your parents, but being grown up and leaning into your sensuality you were more like Venus now, your presence scorching, bright, and exigent.

Beside you in the sky of stars was Joost. If you had been a little star, he was the sun itself. You two had taken a liking to each other almost immediately and nearly became attached at the hip. It was far from platonic, but you found yourself amused at how you two could be able to flirt with each other so shamelessly and without constraint without doing more than hugging.

“Hi, baby.” You greeted him in one of the lounge areas for breakfast. It became an inside joke between you to constantly use silly pet names. It was very early morning, and the sun and blue skies were hardly present. “Can I sit with you this morning?” You smiled.

“You already know the answer, honey.” He smiled back. You loved how his smile would take up his entire face, you felt you could never get tired of looking at it. “I can’t wait to see you tonight.”

It was the day of the rehearsal before the finale, and the nerves hadn’t quite gotten to you yet. You nodded, watching as he fixed your plate with your usual breakfast order that he picked up. It was a sweet gesture that warmed your heart, you were beyond thankful to have someone who took you into their arms the way that Joost had.

You two sat down together at a corner table. You watched as sunlight blanketed his features. It reflected into the ridge of his nose and illuminated his eyes, you found yourself staring into them, never seeing eyes that reminded you of the crystal blue waters of the beach you grew up by.

“Your eye contact scares me.” He chuckled, the direct comment making you feel your heart drop to your feet. “It’s ok, gives me an excuse to look at you.”

“You have nice eyes.” You said, ripping a piece of your croissant that Joost had fried in the microwave, despite you asking it to be lightly warmed. “This is super cold, by the way.” You said, pushing the first piece into his mouth.

The bread burned his tongue a bit, but he was able to ignore the pain when he felt your fingers in his mouth. He bravely ran his tongue over the pads of your fingers, sucking down gently all while keeping his eyes set on you. You were speechless for a moment, seeing and feeling his sinfully pink tongue on your fingers before you were able to pull away.

“You drooled on me.” You looked down at your hand, seeing there were still crumbs on your fingers, and pushed them into your mouth. You watched Joost’s eyebrows raise as he stiffened in his seat, feeling himself getting far so excited so early in the morning.

You tasted him in your mouth, the sickeningly sweet syrup from his waffles and the bitterness from his coffee. “There’s crumbs on my fingers.” You said, “You don’t lick your fingers to get food off?”

“No,” He spoke, his tone a bit hushed, “I like to lick my fingers.”

You blushed at his comment, always catching the innuendo but never pushing it further. The two of you sat in silence for a moment to let the tension cool, as you always did when it became too unbearable.

“You’re the only performer who changes your outfits.” Joost was always the first to break the silence. “How short will your skirt be tonight?”

You laughed, “Shorter than last night.” You answered, his dimples giving away his amusement. “Your outfit is one of my favorites though.”

“Ah.” He said happily, “What do you like about it?”

“The color is nice.” You complimented, seeing in his face how much he loved the attention. “Is it hard to take off?”

He withdrew a bit, smiling knowingly but deciding to beat around the bush as you two formed a habit of doing. “Not really.” He said. “It’s very easy, I don’t need any help at all.” His answer was excruciating.

You rolled your eyes, “Well, I need a lot of help with mine.” You began, “There’s so many hooks and zippers, it’s so annoying.”

Joost hummed in absentminded agreement. You saw on the vacant expression on his face, and how he went back to eating his breakfast that you’d give him too vivid of a picture. All he could imagine now was being alone with you in the dressing room, undoing all the hooks and zippers you were talking about. He’d want to rip apart those fishnet stockings you always wore, the thought of seeing the gentle threads snap apart from his hands revealing your soft skin drove him wild. The imagery became too much eventually, and he felt a bit of shame when he saw your gentle, unknowing face across him.

“You know you’re gonna win, right?” You said suddenly, making his expression drop into something deathly serious.

“It would be nice.” He mumbled nervously, his nerves entangling themselves together even tighter than before. “You think so?”

“No, Joost.” You glanced at the clock on your phone, realizing you’d spent too much time at breakfast. “I said I know you’re doing to win.”

The night of the semi-final had solidified Joost’s obsession with you, but he realized he was in a long line of admirers. It was like he was in a trance, your voice like a siren’s, and the way your outfit glittered and reflected onto the bright light, it was surreal. He wanted to congratulate you after, but he saw that a crowd had already formed around you, specifically that the Croatian performer, Baby Lasagne, another favorite, had beaten him to it.

Joost watched from afar, how you smiled constantly and looked so animated talking to him. His hands grazed your bare arm a few times, and every time it felt like it tugged on his heart in a horrible, unfamiliar sensation. It pained him a bit to know that you were known as a flirt, wondering if the way you looked at him and clung by his side meant anything at all or if it was all a part of some game.

He saw you again walking down the hall when he felt a tap at his side. He knew it was you immediately, turning around he couldn’t help but bring you into a hug that left your feet dangling as he rambled on about how well you did.

“Are you kidding?” You said, holding onto his neck before he set you down. “You’re fucking amazing Joost, I loved watching you.”

He scoffed, looking down at you still in your outfit, it was like he was dreaming. He yearned to keep his hands on your waist, but his better senses got the better of him, and his arms returned to his side.

“I think everyone loved watching you more.” He began, remembering how he had to watch another man try to charm you the way he’d been for the past few days. “I don’t have people crowding me after I perform.”

You raised your eyebrows, remembering how the Croatian performer came up to you to talk you up, offering to take you for a drink and inviting him back into his room, an offer that you left to a ‘maybe’ just to keep him hanging. You saw Joost at the end of the hallway, now realizing that he didn’t just happen to be there but he was watching.

“You sound jealous.” You teased, seeing a blush begin on his face, like red wine spilling on pristine sheets. “Anyways, I’ve got to get going.”

Joost hated when you did that, knowing that you had nothing to do but sit in your room, drink obnoxiously expensive liquor, and talk about equally as obnoxious things with your friend. He wished he had it in him to ask to go back with you, but the fear of rejection always struck too hard and quickly for him to take advantage of the moment.

The day of the finale, it didn’t come as a surprise to anyone but Joost that he’d won, and you’d been the runner-up. You didn’t have much of a competitive spirit, the experience of Eurovision alone already felt like a victory in itself. When it was announced that he’d won, you two hugged in front of what felt like a sea of cameras and you were able to sneak a kiss on his cheek before he went up on stage to be awarded. There was far too much commotion directly afterward to see him again, it was physically painful to feel him slipping away from you and realize that this, like all good things, was all finally ending.

Joost found you again in the early hours of the morning, holding flowers at your door dressed down in a simple t-shirt and jeans from his short night out to come to personally congratulate you. He noticed you weren’t at any of the after parties, and even his own which admittedly stung a bit. He had an evening flight the next day, so he could stand to lose a bit of sleep if it meant seeing you one last time.

You answered the door in a robe, from your exposed skin it seemed like nothing else was underneath. You smiled and laughed to conceal the overwhelming feelings that filled your chest from the gesture.

“You’re so sweet, Joost.” You said as you took the small bouquet from him. “I have some champagne in my room if you want to share, it for the winner.”

Joost felt a weight lifted off his shoulders, freeing him from the torturous game you’d forced him to play as he finally was alone with you. Whether or not he’d leave with anything didn’t matter, he just wanted a moment with you that wasn’t in the halls or the lounges.

Your room was serene and surprisingly organized, unlike his with bottles piled on the coffee table and clothes all over the couch. The lights were low, and soft music played in the background, by the look of the skincare products on the vanity it seemed that he’d interrupted your bedtime ritual.

He watched as you poured a sparkling glass of champagne for him, clinking your glasses together before taking a sip. It was a bit sweet for his liking, but it made sense if it was coming from you. He knew you were the type to overindulge, like a child of Dionysus you lived for worldly pleasures and your enjoyment alone. He wondered if he would be a part of those pleasures if you’d fall into him like you did your other vices.

“I’m going to spend a little bit more time here.” You said, “I’ve never been to Sweden before.”

Joost nodded, knowing that you came from a small city and that all this travel was probably the best thing in the world for you. “I leave tomorrow.” His tone was a bit disappointed. “I would’ve liked to stay a little longer though.”

You hummed in agreement, “So,” You began, setting down the half-finished glass of your drink. “You only came to give me flowers?”

He felt his grip tighten on the delicate glass, looking down at you, he noticed that the fabric of the robe had fallen forward a bit, exposing a bit of your naked chest and body. “No.” He confessed, “Just an excuse to see you, the flowers were mine.”

“It’s rude to regift.” He hated your teasing, he hated the ever-present sensuality in your voice. “Alright, well, you saw me.”

You watched as Joost’s eyes widened at you, a desperate look on his face from how insufferable you had become. He knew that you had seen right through him this entire time, and he felt that you were now making a mockery of him. Even if he was the one with the dishonest motives, if he was the one staring down your robe, he felt that he was completely naked in front of you.

“You’re too much.” He mumbled, fumbling with the intricate buckle of his belt and swirling the champagne in his cup. “You don’t even come to my fucking party.”

You smiled at him, but not like you had been doing before, “Is that belt bothering you?” You asked before reaching over, your hands gently moving his away. “Let me help you.”

You undid his belt with a bit of a struggle, finally pulling it off and letting it fall to the floor. Joost felt his breath get caught in his throat, looking down at you as you undid the button to his jeans that now felt suffocating and pulled down the zipper. The sound of his clothing coming off echoed in his mind and made him grow rigid. He tried to relax, trying to see you for what you were, someone who was just as crazy for him as he was for you, instead of someone who had the upper hand.

You couldn’t bear to deny yourself anymore, the tension finally snapping loose as your fingers dipped underneath the waistband of his underwear and pulled them down in one desperate, fluid motion. Joost began to step away so that he’d be able to sit down on the chair across from you, his pants and underwear pooling at his ankles as you followed shamelessly.

You mused at his size, wrapping your hand around the base you couldn’t help but take it all in. Joost was pretty, all of him was so fucking pretty. His dick looked perfect in your hands, just big enough that you knew it would hurt and prove itself to be a challenge that you were eager to take on. His skin radiated warmth, it was softer than any other man you’d touched. You nearly salivated the longer you pumped him in your hand, drawing out soft groans before you finally took him into your mouth.

It was as if you were a groupie how enthusiastic and sloppy you were. He watched through half-lidded eyes as you took all you could, your hands pumping at the base of what you struggled to fit. Your tongue was sinful, swirling around his shaft and sensitive tip, sucking him off so well he began to lose all rationality, wondering how crazy it would be if he asked you to be his girlfriend after all of this.

Joost grabbed the glass of champagne and began drinking again, the rush of sweetness on his tongue paired with getting head from his new favorite girl was heavenly. His ego had completely taken over, he was a winner and deserved to feel like it. He wanted to have you for as long as he could. He didn’t want to finish like this, so he poured himself another glass and pulled your head away gently so that you’d face him.

“Kiss it.” He said, the glass sparkling and bubbling alongside his eyes that now were drowned out by his pupils. “Look at me while you do it.”

Your body grew numb at his request, seeing him rip the control that you once had as he sat in your room, drinking your champagne with his fingers tangled in your hair telling him to kiss his dick for him. He knew you liked to put on a show, using it to his advantage he watched from above, glass to his lips before you listened.

You felt passionate desire pour out of you as you mindlessly kissed and licked on his dick. You pressed sloppy, wet kisses all over, sucking down gently on the tip as he watched quietly, suppressing his moans and taking sips of his drink. The only sounds were coming from you, you moaned from the pleasure it gave you to be touching him, and how much you loved the feeling of your saliva and his pre cum dripping all over your face.

Your lips were plush and greedy against him, the sight itself better than the sensation. When he’d finally had enough, he pulled you up so that you’d be sitting on his lap, your face was a bit too messy, so he took a makeup wipe from your vanity and gently cleaned your face.

“Here,” Joost offered the last sip of champagne from his glass, “Wash your mouth.”

He pressed the cool glass to your lips and watched as you drank until there was nothing left. He finally pulled you into an impatient kiss, but it was much softer than you expected. He kissed you tenderly, his arms holding your body taut, so much that you felt his heartbeat against yours. You could tell even if this was all unintended and in the heat of the moment, the feelings you shared underneath were all genuine.

You held his face in your hands, his stubble rough against your palms. You wished you could stay like that forever, but the ache in between your legs would never allow you. You lowered one hand so that you could untie the knot on your silky robe and let it fall off your shoulders. Joost felt the shift in the fabric and moved one hand up to cup your breast and squeezed down, pulling away from the kiss to look at you.

He left a trail of kisses on your neck, sucking down on the sensitive skin before leaving a mark right below your ear so that he’d give you something to remember him properly. It was crimson, deep, and loving, you wished that he’d even left more. You loved the feeling, and you let him know with the way you squirmed in his thigh and whined with every kiss.

As much as he enjoyed moving slowly, the time was passing by too quickly and he was animalistic in his desire to fuck you. It felt as if he’d been putting out for a lifetime, his better judgment was non-existent. He paid just enough attention to your breasts, he’d hate to neglect something so perfect, kissing them lovingly, before kissing down your stomach down to your thighs.

Joost kissed in between your thighs slowly. His lips lingered too closely to where they should’ve been teasing you to the point it felt cruel. As you watched his languid motions, how much intention and care he put into every touch, you could tell how crazy he was for you, how your flirting had driven him to this madness. Your hand ran through his hair as he continued to press soft kisses against your skin, making him look up at you with a pleading expression,

“Can I?” He asked in a strained whisper, you blushed a bit seeing him soften so much and ask the most obvious question.

“Please.” You could hardly speak seeing him like that, he was unrecognizable from the man you’d known before. “I’m yours.”

He wondered if you could peer into his mind into his deepest desires. Joost ate you out as his thoughts raced, somehow without the overt focus it felt so much more natural and perfect for you. He was operating on pure instinct now, his mind elsewhere, thinking ahead to when he’d get to fuck you as his mouth preoccupied itself. He moaned against you, his warm tongue lapping against your clit desperately. The sounds you made only made him more determined, so much so that he couldn’t feel the ache in his jaw and weakness in his tongue.

His thoughts then floated to the image of when he’d make you cum. The taste of you was addicting, better than an ice-cold shot of his favorite liquor and the first cigarette out of a fresh box. The taste of you dripped down his chin like biting into an overly ripe peach, messy, sticky but inexplicably perfect. He kept your trembling thighs apart with his strong hands, like the skin of a fruit as delicate as a peach he was careful not to hurt you, but you seemed to become more beautifully vocal when his fingers would dig down into your flesh.

“I’m close.” You mumbled, not wanting to lose your high, the feeling of your orgasm building steadily in the bottom of your stomach. “Please don’t stop Joost.”

He forced himself to listen, if time wasn’t against him he would’ve edged you to the point of tears until you would be coming undone, ripping at the seams for a well-deserved orgasm rather than one so easily given. His soft lips pressed down on your clit, sucking down gently he knew you weren’t going to last too long, but just to make sure he traced your entrance with two long fingers and fucked your desperate, soaked pussy.

You lost yourself in the bliss that washed over you. You’d never felt anything quite like it, it was ecstasy in its purest form. He fucked you through it, gentle whispers guiding you back to reality as you clenched and writhed against his hand to ride out your orgasm.

“That’s it, dotje.” His voice was so delicate and comforting against the intensity that overcame your senses. “I’ve got you.”

You felt tears in your eyes from how tightly they’d been shut. Looking down as the feeling subsided into a nearly sedated, dreamy sensation you watched as Joost withdrew his hand from you. Wincing at the loss of his fingers, desperately needing something inside of you again you watched as his two fingers, completely drenched in your slick arousal went into his mouth.

You wished you had it in you to tease him and remind him about the time you’d had breakfast together, but it was all a distant, meaningless memory now. You were entranced watching him lick his fingers clean, he stared you down as he did it, his tongue swirling around to taste every last bit of you.

“You taste so good.” His voice too was unrecognizable, his lust for you so apparent that you found yourself feeling much more bare than just in the literal sense. “Open your mouth.”

His fingers were warm, you’d finally returned the favor and sucked down to taste yourself like he wanted. After he was satisfied, he wiped his hand against his torso carelessly, reaching into the pocket of his jeans that were tossed on the floor to pull out his wallet. He always kept condoms, although he hadn’t acclimated himself to a rock star lifestyle yet he was glad that he’d made a habit of always carrying some.

“Can I go on top?” You asked sweetly, only for him to shake his head with a smile.

“No.” He said plainly, tearing open the holographic packaging. “I want to be romantic.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. Joost made you feel at ease, he was undoubtedly a special person who would always have a small piece of your heart. You wished that he didn’t make you feel so warm inside, a fling and one nightstand should’ve made you feel nothing but lust.

Even if he had been joking, it had been romantic. He laid atop of you, kissing you just slow and deep as he fucked you. He filled you up so perfectly that you could do nothing but hold him close and moan into the never-ending kiss. You tensed a bit at first, but he was gentle, touching you sweetly to relax your body so that he could bottom you out.

Joost lasted a bit longer than you anticipated, you even grew a bit sore from how much he stretched you out and your body soon became weighed down with a drunken feeling. The champagne had long worn off, but nothing was comparable to getting fucked by such a man who wasn’t only gorgeous, but completely on top of the world.

It made you feel a bit shallow, wrapping your legs around him as he began to kiss your neck to give your lips a break. You tugged on the longer part of his hair possessively, eliciting a low groan from him. Just like you’d boosted his ego, he was now doing the same for you. Even if you didn’t win the competition, you’d have the person who did wrapped around your finger.

He came inside you without any verbal warning, but his body gave him away. You felt entranced by it, the way he panted and moaned Dutch praises tangled with English ones. His cock twitched when he finished, a bit disappointed you couldn’t enjoy it fully and all you felt was the warmth.

What followed was a bit disappointing. Your head was a wreck for the days after, thinking of how Joost left in the later morning hours after spending what was left of the night cuddling with you. Your remaining time in Sweden was beautiful with your friend, but you’d promised to fly back to Vancouver to see her family so that they could give you proper congratulations.

You’d confided to your friend on a drunken night in Stockholm about your night with Joost, which failed to surprise her. As you lay in the living room of her parent's house, watching her nieces and nephews play and talk your ear off about Eurovision you noticed her running into the house.

“Check your phone.” She was far too excited, making you nervously take your phone from the coffee table. “Hurry!”

You looked at her messages to see tickets to a festival, looking at the line your heart nearly sank at seeing Joost’s name. You were silent for a while, your face still and statuesque you’d unintentionally offended your friend.

“Uh,” She began leaning down to look at you. “Do you not want to go or something?”

You shook your head, “Of course I do.” You said quietly, not wanting the kids to butt into the conversation. “I just hope I can see him, not just watch.”

You certainly got what you wanted. After watching the show, it felt like you’d been falling in love for a second time with the way he performed. You loved seeing him get to see him being himself without constraint, even if he was completely out of his element in Canada he was too charming for anyone not to like him.

You found Joost after his show, not needing to say anything, your arms wrapping around his torso as you two stood behind the stage as the next performer went on. You realized you were still in the open for everyone to see, but even if you noticed groups of people slowing down to stare at you two you hadn’t cared.

“There are people taking pictures.” He whispered, nodding over to one of the passing groups, presumably Eurovision fans.

You shook your head, cupping his face for what felt like the last time as the sun-kissed all his features for you. You didn’t want to do anything else but admire him for as long as you could.

#joost klein #joost #fanfic #smut #fluff #eurovision #europapa #joost x reader #fem reader

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imagine-a-life-like-this · 2 days

Text

Accidentally In Enemies : Epilogue (S.CB)

Word Count : 1.4k

Warnings : swearing probably, accidental bullying, minor argument, obsession kinda, honestly pretty fluffy with minor angst

A/N : It's finally out! Now that I have completed this story, keep your eyes peeled for Minho's! I hope you enjoy the last installment of Changbin's love story!

Watching her angrily get out of the car and walk towards the house brought back memories of their school days. He couldn’t help the small smile that made its way onto his face as he thought of how they ended up here like this. “Oh now you’re smiling? You’re insufferable, Seo Changbin.”

“You’re insufferable, Seo Changbin.” She spat at him, holding back her tears. There were so many things he wanted to say, but his mouth couldn’t form any words. They died at the tip of his tongue. Every time he opened his mouth to say something, only silence followed. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“I don’t want to.” He spat out, earning another glare from her. To her it seemed like he enjoyed making her life miserable. As if he was only alive to torment her, tease her. Like he enjoyed seeing her barely holding on, barely blinking her tears back.

But that’s not what he meant. He never meant to make her life a living hell. He never meant to be a pain to her. She intrigues him, draws him in unlike anyone else he’s ever met before. Some would say it was just that: intrigue, interest, curiosity even. Just wanting to know her, learn about her.

Changbin knew it was more than that though. From the second their eyes met while he was practically dancing on her diorama, he knew. Love at first sight seemed so childish, so surface level, so elementary. Calling it that didn’t seem to capture exactly what he felt for her. He’s still unsure how exactly to put into words what he feels for her, what he feels when he looks at her.

He didn’t want to leave her alone because he couldn’t. It was as if she was a siren, beckoning him out to sea with her song. And even if at the end was death, he would follow the sound. He would allow her to drown him at sea if it meant hers would be the last face he’d see.

It had to be more than love. He felt it in his heart. Looking at her brought him calm. She felt like home in a person. He would fight a thousand wars and more for her. Just for a moment of her time. It had to be more than love.

He’s read about love in books. Watched movies about love. Seen love with his own eyes between his parents. This wasn’t fireworks and butterflies. It wasn’t once upon a time and happily ever after. This was something better. Bigger. Stronger.

Yet he couldn’t put it into words. His mind goes blank around her and he says the wrong thing. Even now, he couldn’t even muster up an apology after ruining her laptop. Spilling a drink on it while trying to give it to her after seeing her study for hours without a break. “You’re my bad luck charm.” She mumbled to herself, trying to clean up his mess. And still he couldn’t even mutter the word sorry.

She takes a couple steps closer to him. He can smell her perfume; it’s the one her bought for her birthday only a few months ago. The one she said was going to be her special occasion perfume, so she’ll have a scent to remind her of all the special memories they’d make together.

Today is their first anniversary as a couple. He told her he had a special date planned for her. She got all dressed up, wearing a dress he bought her as a surprise gift, just because. It fit her like a glove, as if it was made with her in mind. Like the designer saw her and made the dress just for her to wear.

In her mind, Changbin forgot, lied even. He’s just the same Changbin he’s always been. Living to torment her, watch her fall apart. “Does my pain bring you joy?”

“Does my pain bring you joy?” She looked up at him, surrounded by her belongings, scattered on the floor. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out, seemingly confirming her thoughts. He moved to help gather her things, accidentally kicking something further away. “I don’t know what I did to you, but please stop. I’m begging you.”

He turned to look at her, seeing that she was still looking at him, tears slowly sliding down her cheeks. His eyes widened in realization, thinking back on all the times he’s accidentally hurt her. She’s never cried so openly like this. Not in front of him, not like this.

He wanted to wipe her tears away. Explain everything to her. He wanted to bare his entire heart to her. Let her know that his entire existence is made for loving her. That the only thing he really knows how to do is love her.

But he could see in the lifeless stare she gave him that she didn’t want to see him. So without a word, he walked away. No explanations, no heartfelt confession. He walked away with his hands in his pockets and his heart on his sleeve.

He would look back for only a second, seeing a man taking his place, helping her gather her things together, and help her to her feet. A man he’s seen her with many times, a friend of hers. A friend that looks at her the same way he does, but he seems to get his words right. “Treat her well, Choi San.”

She doesn’t know that this was all part of his plan. “No.” He answers simply. “Never has.” He reached out to wipe away her tears, the way he should have the day he accidentally tripped her. “Tomorrow, I promise I will make everything up to you.”

She’s putty in his hands. Melting at the same touch that she used to flinch away from. Her anger melted away too as Changbin press a short kiss to her lips, asking her to give him a small smile. “I hate you.” She smiles.

“I love you too.” He leads her inside the house they moved into recently. The first thing she sees is a trail of rose petals, and she glances over at Changbin, who was trying his best to hide what he was feeling. But his excitement was written all over his face with a wide smile and a starry look in his eyes. He told her to follow it, lightly pushing her forwards, while he walked behind her.

The walls were adorned with lights and pictures of the two of them throughout the year they’ve been together. From their first date to the day he officially asked her to be his girlfriend to the day they moved into the house. She was quite literally walking down memory lane, taking in every small detail.

Memory lane lead her into their backyard where there, in the middle, sat a floral arrangement that said turn around.

Changbin was kneeling on one knee with an open box, her dream ring inside. “I’ve known since the moment I met you that this was more than love. And it’s taken me years to find the right words to describe exactly what I feel for you. I adore you. I cherish you. You complete me. You’re my soulmate and I want to spend the rest of my life adoring you and cherishing you if you’d let me. So Y/n, my greatest love, will you marry me?”

She, in all her years, had never felt so much love. All her years loving San felt like nothing compared to this. To love San she made an effort. She held on as tight as she could, even when it hurt her, because she thought that’s what love was. Even when she knew San was slipping away, she held on tighter. She forced herself to love San.

But loving Changbin, being with him, it was effortless. She didn’t have to hold on tightly because she knew he wasn’t going anywhere. It was as if she was born to love Changbin. Like she didn’t know anything else except how to love him. For her, there really was only one answer to this question. It wasn’t yes or no. For her there was only, “Yes.”

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@mxnsxngie @maeleelee @turtledove824 @moon0fthenight @dinossaurz

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zaczenemiji · 1 day

Text

Morpheus x Goddess!Arianrhod!Reader

Synopsis: A convention of deities takes place and you, Arianrhod, Celtic Goddess of the Moon and Stars reunite with your old friend, Death. You meet Morpheus for the first time in person.

Word Count: 1,445

PART ONE

✧ Dream Upon A Star ✧

We begin in the Nexus, the cosmic halls where realms converge and the divine gather. Tonight, a grand convention is held. Deities from every pantheon and mythology were summoned.

Arianrhod, the goddess of the Silver Wheel, answered the call. She belonged to the pantheon of deities, a divine family, known as the Children of Dôn. She who reigns as the queen of the spiral castle, an ethereal realm among the swirling galaxy of stars, is the goddess who weaves the fabric of the cosmos, commanding time and the changing seasons.

In the crowd of deities that gathered, her presence was a beacon. Under the light of a thousand stars, she shimmered brighter than the celestial bodies above.

That said, she did not go unnoticed by the Endless siblings. However, in this assembly wherein countless pairs of eyes looked at her, she did not have the concern to gaze back at each; or to look at anyone, at all. She walked through the opulent corridors in search of a corner she could linger in.

“Star!” She heard a call. Turning, she saw Death, her friend; someone she has known since the time before the Endless were known to mortals. She had always found her presence somber and comforting.

A smile found its way into Arianrhod’s face. She walked hurriedly towards Death, failing to notice the sibling that accompanied her friend.

“It’s good to see you again,” Death mirrored her smile. Arianrhod reached for Death’s hands and held it close to her chest. “And you, Death,” she replied. “The universe always has its way of bringing us together.”

For a moment, Arianrhod reminisced the death of the first living thing on the planet. It was also the first time she met one of the Endless. Death was there to guide the dead into the afterlife. And Arianrhod, with her role as a goddess associated with the cycles of time, has seen to it that the soul reaches its final destination.

“Indeed,” Death nodded. To her, it was nice to have someone aid in the passage of souls into the afterlife. Especially during the times it got harder—when she considered giving up and walking out.

Behind Death, Arianrhod finally noticed the tall and pale Endless. His dark hair framed his face and his eyes held the depth of the universe. “It’s good to see you, too, Lord of Dreams,” she said.

Death let go of Arianrhod’s hands and turned to look at his brother. “And you, goddess of time and cycle,” Morpheus replied.

“I still feel the need to introduce you to each other,” Death joked. However, she still did so. “Arianrhod, this is my brother, Dream,” she started. “And Morpheus, this is Star, goddess of the Silver Wheel.”

The two of them are aware of each other’s existence just like how humans are aware of dreams and the stars. However, for over thousands of centuries, this is the first time they met up close.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Lady of the Stars,” Morpheus said. “Your presence graces this gathering.” He carefully took Arianrhod’s hand and pressed it to his lips.

As the convention progressed, Arianrhod and Morpheus found themselves drawn into conversation. They spoke of their respective duties.

“I have always been fascinated by dreams, you know?” Arianrhod admitted. “They’re a reflection of the souls’s deepest desires. They have always been a strong motivator for humans to keep going—it keeps the wheels spinning.”

“And makes my job easier,” she added with a chuckle.

“In that case, they are, in many ways, like the stars…” Morpheus replied. “…who guide the paths of those who dream.”

In the distance, Death watched, a knowing smile on her lips. She had always understood the connections that bound the divine. Like how her friendship with Arianrhod came to be.

Before she knew it, Arianrhod and Morpheus were no longer in sight. The two found themselves in a secluded garden. The air was filled with the scent of celestial flowers.

“Do you know what this is?” Arianrhod asked, gesturing to the flowering bush nearby. Morpheus shook his head.

Arianrhod bent down to pick one flower off. She held it with both hands as she showed it to Morpheus. “This is called a Stellar Bloom,” she said.

Morpheus stepped closer to examine the flower. They now stood so close to each other, with the flower Arianrhod held in front her the only thing in the gap between them.

Its petals were a deep cosmic blue at the edges. Each were veined with iridescent silver lines that shimmer like stardust under the faint glow of the moon. Its core, a vibrant sunburst of golden tendrils.

“It’s breathtaking…” Morpheus said. He looked up from the flower and at Arianrhod without her knowledge. “…and ethereally beautiful.” He watched her hair shine against the moonlight—silver like the veins of the flower.

“Well, thanks!” Arianrhod replied with joy in every word. “I made this.”

“There’s an abundance of this in my realm,” she continued. “They grow under the light of the stars.”

She then looked up at Morpheus who, to her surprise, was staring softly at her. She looked back at his eyes. It was a realm she would probably not get tired of exploring.

“You can have it,” she said as she nudged the flower to Morpheus. “Keep it indoors in the morning, and outdoors at night, then it won’t die.”

Morpheus accepted the flower and held it carefully in his hand. “Thanks,” he said with a small smile. It was a tiny smile but Arianrhod felt as if a new star was born in the distance.

All of a sudden, a gentle melody filled the air. There is a symphony of cosmic harmonies that echoed through the halls. Arianrhod turned to walk towards the halls. There, by the center of the hall, she saw an open space had been cleared for dancing.

Morpheus arrived beside her. He saw her eyes lit up as the other deities walked into what has now become the dance floor. “Would you care to dance?” She looked up at him, smiling like a little child.

Morpheus was taken by surprise with her question. He could not believe that the goddess was first to ask. As the music continued, Arianrhod extended her hand to Morpheus.

“It would be my honor,” Morpheus said, his voice a smooth, resonant whisper.

They walked to the center of the hall, joining the other deities. Upon facing each other, Arianrhod had one hand on Morpheus’s shoulder, and the other on his hand. Meanwhile, his free hand found its way to her waist.

Then in a heartbeat, they swayed to the music. It was lively, and the other deities seemed to be in high spirits.

Morpheus’s dark robes swirled like shadows in the starlight. Arianrhod’s gown, adorned with the colors of the Stellar Bloom, shimmered with every turn.

As they danced, the cosmos itself bent around them as the stars twinkled brighter, reflecting the Stellar Queen’s delight.

Arianrhod’s laughter, like the gentle chime of silver bells, filled Morpheus’s ear as he spun her around. “The stars are dancing with us,” she said, her eyes reflecting the twinkling lights above.

Morpheus smiled, a rare and genuine expression. “Indeed,” he replied. “They are.”

As the music reached its crescendo, Morpheus and Arianrhod came to a gentle stop, their gazes locked in the moment.

A little breathless, Arianrhod smiled up at Morpheus. “Thank you, Lord of Dreams,” she said. “This dance was a dream in itself.”

Morpheus bowed slightly, his dark eyes softening. “The pleasure was mine, Lady of the Silver Wheel.”

As the convention drew to a close, the deities began to disperse, all on their way back to their respective realms. Arianrhod and Dream watched as the number of Gods decreased by the second.

“I think we could call it a day,” Arianrhod said. Dream nodded.

“Look who enjoyed the night,” Death approached them with a warm and knowing smile. “Well, you two,” she said, putting her hands on their shoulders. “See you when I see you.”

With that, Death departed. Arianrhod and Morpheus were left alone in the garden. “Are you not leaving yet?” Morpheus asked.

“You know,” Arianrhod replied, “My realm is bit too similar with this,” referring to the Cosmic Hall.

“You should come to the Dreaming sometimes,” Morpheus offered.

Arianrhod smirked, “But deities do not require sleep,” she said. “At least, not in the way mortals do—you know that.”

“I do,” Morpheus replied. “But The Dreaming will always open its gates to you.”

“We’ll see, then,” said Arianrhod. She turned to look at Morpheus one last time. “May the stars align in your favor.”

——————————————————————————

interact for a part 2 👉🏻👈🏻

#morpheus x reader #dream x reader #sandman x reader #the sandman x reader #the sandman fanfiction #the sandman imagine #fanfiction #dream of the endless #x reader

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kylobith · 2 days

Text

Memory Lane

Characters: Astarion, Tav, Rolan, Wyll, Astarion's parents, Karlach, Shadowheart, Gale, Lae'zel

Tav: Gender-neutral/Non-binary Half-Drow Sorcerer

Tropes: Angst, Friendship, Platonic Relationship, Found family, Healing

Word count: 10,605 Read here on Ao3

Summary: Now that Faerûn is saved from the Absolute and everybody is learning to resume their lives, Astarion is submerged by a desire to recover memories from his past. Before Cazador, before his transformation. And Tav is determined to help him.

Could it be that there is somebody out there still waiting for him?

(Inspired by this post by @a-darling-thing)

Everyone is safe.

The streets of Baldur’s Gate bustle anew in the late hours. Taverns and inns have long been rebuilt as havens of peace after the narrowly avoided end of the world. Some have complained that their restoration has been privileged over the many homes lost. Others claim that it is a question of boosting morale amid darkness. No matter your opinion, if you venture the streets of Baldur’s Gate, you will hear cheers and songs belted out by souls who have seen too much gloom. Most lost dear ones. Most looked death in the eyes and got to live another day.

Everyone is safe.

There has been word from other lands that life is resuming and prosperous. The Shadow-cursed Lands were given breath again by the light of the Nightsong, and a small group has been working relentlessly to make it liveable again. No good-hearted soul should be barred from settling there, they believe, and they know that, soon, children’s laughter will fill the air again along birdsong.

Everyone is safe.

But not all are sane.

Sat in one of the red armchairs of Sharess’ Caress with his gaze empty, Astarion drowns his boredom and anguish in exquisite wine. Swirling the rich burgundy nectar inside his glass, he lets out yet another sigh, not bothering to acknowledge salutations from grateful survivors who recognise one of the city’s saviours.

There is a dimness to his ruby eyes that has not faded since he was rid of the tadpole gnawing at his brain. Shadowheart has never questioned him about it—she was never one to pry, after all. How could he even put the words on this ache that has seeped so deeply within him that it planted its claws into his bones?

No matter how often he has attempted to clear his mind for a good rest, it creeps back in and churns his guts with an uneasy anguish. It has been weeks since he last tranced for a full day or night. Most of the time, he finds himself staring at the ceiling with his eyes wide open.

And he drinks.

Drinks again.

Until the feeling becomes somewhat dulled.

But not quite.

Around the corner, a silhouette enters the corridor, passing by the few groups of talkative people. It heads straight towards Astarion, and he deliberately ignores it. He would recognise the aroma of this blood in a crowd of thousands. As they sit in the empty chair beside him, he sighs and chugs the rest of his wine. He tosses the empty glass onto the table and decides to take full swigs from the bottle instead.

Screw appearances. For once.

‘You look like shit.’

Astarion scoffs.

‘Good evening to you too, darling,’ he muses sarcastically.

Tav rolls their eyes and leans back into the armchair, drinking from a foamy mug of ale. Since the vampire does not utter a single word, uninterested in carrying out this conversation if it started this way, they decide to take the matter into their own hands.

‘Astarion, you look like you haven’t had proper rest since the Nautiloid. What’s going on? Really going on?’

At last, the pale elf casts a cold glance towards their former travel companion. He wants to play coy as he always does, sweet talk his way out of this conversation and possibly make his way downstairs to pay for company to warm his sheets. After all, that has always been the only way for him to not feel. Ministrations betwixt the sheets always do the trick. Dissociating would perhaps allow him to sleep soundly at last. Lose touch with his hurt by twisting the dagger into old ones whose pain he has long grown accustomed to.

But his tongue burns with the will to spill out all the words entrapped in his silent heart. That lump that has been occupying his throat for weeks now threatens to rupture.

Tav is safe. He tries to remind himself of that every so often when he catches himself spiralling with nightmares and terrors that leave him in dire want of a friend to vent to.

When has Tav ever let him down? Without them, he would not have fed properly for the first time in two centuries. He would never have survived the tadpole on his own. His hubris and unbridled cockiness would have caused his death at the first encounter out of the Nautiloid. But Tav has never minded.

Tav accepts him. Perhaps too blindly at times, truth be told. But they give him the space he needs to explore his newfound freedom. When sewer creatures and rats fail to fill his belly, Tav always offers some of their blood to keep him alert and healthy until they can find something better on the surface. They buy books in the city to keep him company when the sunlight makes his city hostile to his very existence. They often keep him updated on life out there, and even on gossip they could not care less about, but they know will keep him occupied for a few hours.

In other words, Tav is the only person he could ever express his distress to. Only they could understand.

Astarion groans and slams the empty wine bottle on the table, making the toppled glass quiver.

‘I know it’s stupid, alright?’ he starts with a disgruntled expression etched onto his refined traits. ‘Ever since we saved the city and killed Cazador, all I’ve been craving is to move on. To start over, I suppose. But…’

Attempting to find the right words to express his angst, he clicks his tongue.

‘Now that almost all is possible, that I’ve got eternity ahead of me, I can’t stop thinking about who I was before it all. Before the Gurs attacked me that fateful night and Cazador found me.’

Tav wipes some foam sticking to their upper lip with the back of their sleeve, which, honestly, makes Astarion want to screech considering that their garment is made of silk.

‘You mean your past when you were still alive?’

‘Is that not what I said?!’ Astarion snaps, before exhaling slowly. ‘My apologies. I’m still trying to figure out what I want.’

His friend listens attentively and considers his words. It does not surprise them in the least to hear this plea of his. If anything, they have been wondering when he would eventually voice this desire to uncover his past. As much as the vampire strives to build a secure and comfortable future for himself despite his predicament, he is somebody who inherently lives in the past. Nobody can blame him for that. Tav certainly does not.

‘What is it you want to know about your past, exactly?’

Astarion’s eyebrows raise and crease his forehead. In all honesty, he has never thought about that. The lack of memories is usually what he broods over, but never has he thought of questions he would seek answers to if, suddenly, all his memories could be restored. Would he like to know what his favourite dish was? Would he rather remember his usual schedule and routines? Or, perhaps, would he prefer to reminisce about what made him feel alive then?

As one of the waitresses passes in the corridor, Tav orders another bottle of red for him. Before long, an uncorked bottle of elegant Waterdhavian spirits is placed in front of him, beside a clean cup. Without waiting for him to reach out, they serve him a glass and bring the chalice to his hand.

‘I think I want to know about the people who raised me,’ he mumbles with a frown. ‘It’s silly, I know, but I wonder if I still have family out there.’

Tav smiles and gently clinks their mug against his cup.

‘It’s not silly at all, Astarion. They could tell you stories of your youth, and help you remember. And I’m sure that they would provide for you and introduce you to members of your clan whose births you missed.’

Astarion exhales sharply out of his nose with a corner of his lips raised. His eyes roll towards Tav.

‘You’re indulging me again.’

‘Indulging you in what, exactly? Supporting you in wanting to rediscover your path is hardly indulging you. It’s not a far-fetched wish, I’ll have you know.’

They grin at each other and drink.

‘Even if I wanted to go down this road, I wouldn’t know where to start. Besides, my situation doesn’t quite allow me to investigate either.’

With a shrug, Tav sets down their ale on the table, belching before leaning back.

‘I could look for them for you. Tell me anything you remember, and I’ll work from there.’

Astarion cocks an eyebrow again and stares at them for longer than he thinks.

‘You would do that? For me? But what’s in it for you?’

‘If you still think I do stuff for you for my own gain, then what’s our whole adventure been for? Perhaps I just want to see you happy, ever thought about that?’

‘Hah. I don’t know if I want to be happy myself. There wouldn’t be anything left to improve.’

‘I suppose. But your heart would be lighter,’ they insist, poking his arm. ‘Come on, Starry, let me help you. Do you remember anything?’

The pale elf sighs and chugs his first cup of Waterdhavian red, exhaling as it coats his tongue and drops down his throat.

‘Ancunín.’

It is the half-drow’s turn to eye him curiously.

‘Sorry?’

The vampire runs a hand through his hair, still staring into emptiness.

‘Ancunín. It was my surname, once.’

‘A pretty one at that.’

Amused by the compliment, he clicks his tongue again and playfully rolls his eyes. He tosses a leg over the other and shakes his foot.

‘And I’m the smooth talker?’

‘Most of the time,’ Tav responds with a snort. ‘Ancunín, then… Very well. I’ll start from there.’

The next morning, when the city rouses from its slumber, Tav is already out and about, determined to find anything about Astarion’s family. Since a part of the city’s archives have been displaced until the building in the Upper City is fully rebuilt, their first instinct is to head to one of the centres of knowledge in all of the city.

As they cross the threshold of Sorcerous Sundries, they are welcomed at the reception by a familiar figure.

‘Welcome to Sorcer—oh! By the gods, Tav, it is good to see you here!’

Tav grins and embraces the tiefling, who leans over the counter, nearly climbing on it.

‘Good morning, Lia. Everything still going smoothly for you in the city?’

‘Oh, yes,’ the bubbly young woman chimes, ‘Cal and I bought our first house in the Lower City. It isn’t much, but it’s quite an upgrade compared to the rocky road!’

‘I am glad to hear it.’

Lia beams with joy and Tav can see her long tail whipping the floor excitedly behind her. It seems that the tiefling is truly happy to see them again.

‘But I assume that you aren’t here to talk about the house,’ she whispers. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Is Rolan available? I would like to ask him something about the part of the city’s archives that was brought to Ramazith's Tower.’ ‘Oh. Well. He should already be up, I believe. Go upstairs, third portal.’

‘Thank you. Send my love to Cal for me, will you?’

‘Will do!’

Without further ado, Tav climbs up the stairs above the front desk to find the upper floor, where four buzzing portals offer passage to different locations. The contraption is identical to the riddle that Lorroakan set up with the Nightsong, but there is something so incredibly Rolan about it.

The plaques which bore the different answers to the simple question that helped Lorroakan narrow down the flow of visitors to only let the serious ones in have long been tossed into a broom closet and forgotten. None of the portals bears a riddle of any kind, and passage to the wizard’s tower is left to chance. The fear of what is on the other side of each threshold is enough to deter any visitor and leave the tower secluded in its own peace and quietness. Zero is precisely the number of visitors that Rolan loves.

Following Lia’s instructions, Tav steps through the third portal and finds themself transported to a brightly-lit observation floor. Astronomical instruments and tools are posted at each window, ready to be manipulated and appreciated. Between a few richly ornamented bookshelves bearing nothing but volumes on the universe, the sky and celestial bodies, there is a mahogany desk illuminated by the lofty arches of the balcony. Piles of scrolls and open tomes bear witness to an ongoing, arduous research.

Tav glances around, hoping to find somebody. Anybody. But there is no soul in sight. Since they do not wish to impose, they are retracing their steps towards the portal, when a grunt resonates in their back.

‘Ugh, Lia will really let anyone in. Excuse me!’

Before leaving him a chance to begin one of his numerous grumpy monologues, Tav turns around and waves. The other tiefling gasps in surprise.

‘It’s you! I was wondering if you even made it out alive! Mh. Should I be surprised that you did? Not that I care.’

Tav snorts and approaches him. Despite the animosity that the wizard has often held against them, he allows a smile to play on his lips, wrinkling his amber eyes and creasing his freckled nose.

‘Morning, Rolan,’ they chime. ‘Love what you did with the place. You gave it a homely feeling.’

At the compliment, Rolan’s orange-red complexion darkens around his cheeks.

‘Thank you, Tav. What brings you here after weeks of not hearing from you?’

‘I was wondering if one needs any special permission to have access to the city’s archives that were brought to you.’

The wizard gestures towards a seat in front of his desk, while he sits behind it, ignoring the mess.

‘Not that I know of. Why do you ask?’

‘I’m trying to find anything about Astarion’s family and see if, perhaps, there are any survivors in the city.’

‘Ah, yes. Him.’

Upon the mention of the vampire’s name, the wizard scrunches up his nose. Nevertheless, he seems to give it a thought, folding his hands before him.

‘I do have some records from previous censuses. Would that be of any help?’

‘Most likely.’

‘What information do you already possess? I have some free time on my hands, I can help you look,’ Rolan adds with a smirk. ‘For once, it is you who needs my help, after all. How could I sleep on this opportunity?’

Tav shakes their head in amusement and takes out a crumpled piece of parchment from their pocket, handing it over to the tiefling. He grabs it and peeks inside, only to find a single word scribbled on it.

‘Ancunín?’

‘That’s his surname. All I know and all he can remember is this name, and the fact that he grew up in a noble family.’

‘Mh. Researching noble families from the city should not be a daunting task. Crests, acts of inheritance and the like should be kept within the archives. I would not be surprised if all records from the nobility are kept together. Hopefully, it is the case and our research will be all the quicker thanks to it.’

He drags himself out of his chair and beckons Tav over as he walks away. They follow him, avoiding small talk as they quickly realised during their adventure that it is one of Rolan’s pet peeves. Talking to say nothing? It makes his skin crawl.

The wizard leads them to the lower floors and into one of the high-security vaults where he has been keeping and guarding the documents entrusted to him. Memorising the orthography as well as the archival system used by the authorities, he begins to browse the collection, his clawed fingertip grazing the worn-out back of the numerous volumes on a shelf.

‘I see a registry of Upper City families here. Look for an Ancunín family in there while I keep looking. There is a desk in the corner.’

Tav grabs the heavy tome that Rolan hands them and carries it over to the unoccupied desk in the corner, supporting it with their hip. Despite their attempt to be careful, they inadvertently slam the book on the table—earning a disapproving glare from their host—and open it. Their outstretched finger trails down a pages-long list of clan names, hoping to find the only one that matters. In the background, the flipping of pages and the weight of books sliding onto the shelves make for the only distraction available.

‘So, any luck?’

They look up and close the tome with a shake of the head.

‘I don’t see Ancunín in there. Perhaps he didn’t live in the Upper City.’

‘Mmh. Let’s keep searching, then. Bring the volume back, I wouldn’t want to lose any of the archives. The authorities trusted a tiefling to guard their belongings, I would not want to waste this opportunity.’

When Rolan instructs them to do it, they are already halfway through the room with the volume in hand. They place it back carefully and join the tiefling in the search for other possible traces of the Ancunín family. As they peruse the archives together, Tav eyes the wizard with a lopsided grin.

‘Busy with research, I noticed. What wonderful things are you studying?’

Rolan drops an arm by his side, flattening his heels against the polished floor and flicking his other wrist.

‘It is an incredibly fascinating subject, really, so much so that academics from all around Faerûn gave it its orthodox name, “None of Your Business”.’

Tav rolls their eyes and snorts, resuming the task at hand.

‘Always a pleasure to talk to you, huh? Well. At least you learnt sarcasm on your journey.’

Their comment is welcomed by a grunt, followed by a good-humoured chuckle. A few seconds later, they find two volumes compiling deaths in Baldur’s Gate for the past three centuries and take a seat at the desk to go through the lists together.

‘The death certificates are kept separately, from what I know,’ Rolan declares while opening one of the volumes and flipping through the first pages, ‘but if Astarion technically died in the city, his name should be recorded in there.’

They start reading the names, careful not to touch the pages too much considering how old the ink is.

‘Mh,’ the tiefling breaks the silence again, ‘from what I gather, each deceased person has the death certificate number written in the last column. If you find Astarion, you should write down the number and visit the part of the archives that is guarding certificates and official documents. Perhaps the names of his relatives are stated on it, although I suspect that you are more likely to find this information on a birth certificate. I’m not sure how bureaucracy works here, exactly.’

‘It’s a mess, that’s all you need to know,’ Tav sighs. ‘Hopefully, I can get my hands on a possible birth certificate by finding his death certificate?’

‘Possibly. I imagine that they are kept together.’

For the next hour, they go through the lists of deaths occurring roughly around two hundred years ago. Since Astarion did not give Tav a precise date—either out of forgetfulness or by omission—it only makes the search trickier for the both of them. Before either of them grows frustrated, they agree to broaden their focus by a span of sixty years around the two-hundred-year mark. Rolan agrees to research prior dates and Tav, later ones.

Without fail, another hour later, Rolan taps the page he is reading.

‘There he is.’

Feeling excitement well up inside their chest, Tav drags their chair over to sit next to the tiefling and have a look at the line that he is showing them.

In elegant calligraphy, typical of official records, the vampire’s name is squeezed between countless others.

Astarion Ancunín. Born 1229. Dead 1268. 39. Exsanguination. Buried (LCNE). 0181901781413

The mere sight of his name among all of the others makes Tav’s heart tighten. They bow their head almost in solemn reverence as they read it, despite knowing that they will find Astarion in the sewers later to inform him of their findings. Even with the excitement of having found a clue in the puzzle of the pale elf’s past, it is quite odd to find him in such a register.

For the first time since vanquishing the Absolute, it occurs to them that this simple entry in the record could have well been definitive, had the company failed their mission. While some of their former companions still had people to mourn them, who would have shed a tear for Astarion? Everybody thought him dead already. Even Cazador was no longer around to brood over the loss of the remaining piece of his black mass.

Tightening their fist against their thigh, Tav vows to themself that they will find at least one person from Astarion’s family and reunite them. Even if that means having to dig up a body in the middle of the night and cast Speak with Dead.

Rolan nudges the piece of parchment with Astarion’s surname on it against Tav’s other hand. He hands them a quill, already dipped in ink.

‘Write the certificate number down,’ he speaks gently. ‘You will need it.’

They obey mechanically, copying the number from the register and the dates of birth and death. When they hand the quill back to the wizard, they scrunch up their nose.

‘Exsanguination. Bullshit. Beat up and left for dead!’

‘Don’t get sentimental, Tav,’ the tiefling’s firm tone scolds at once. ‘Records can be deceitful and they sometimes embellish facts, even if we believe them to be models of truth. Besides, the causes of death omit gruesome details as much as possible so they can be standardised. Just… rejoice in the fact that he’s still undead and well, I suppose.’

‘You’re right. Sorry.’

Rolan furrows his brow and gently pats their hand, before standing up and collecting the books.

‘Now, your best bet is to go to the city’s archives directly. Ask them where they keep the certificates, if they’re still on-site or if they’ve been displaced.’

‘I wish I could. Don’t they require special authorisations to visit the archives, now? It will take me weeks before I can have one. If I ever do.’

Once the wizard has placed the registers back in their spot, he pats the dust off of his hands and turns around to face them with a shrug.

‘Didn’t you travel with the son of the Grand Duke? The devil with one eye?’

Tav snaps their fingers with a gasp.

‘Wyll! You’re right! And, if that’s not enough, Grand Duke Ravengard does owe me for saving his life.’

‘Didn’t he already pay that back by fighting against the Absolute?’

‘That was… the right thing to do. But still, surely, he can put in a good word for me.’

‘Mh.’

It is not until the next day, when Wyll has found a window in his schedule, that Tav meets with him. Escorted by two members of the Flaming Fist, they are brought to the Blade of Frontiers’ shiny new office in the Upper City. Upon entering, the familiar figure of their former travelling companion, now devoid of devil horns, stands up from the chair and the guards are dismissed with a simple order.

Wyll beams with joy at the sight of his visitor, and he wastes no time bypassing his desk to approach them with his arms wide open.

‘Tav, my friend! Ah, what a sight for one sore eye!’

The warlock lets out a hearty laugh and the pair joins in a tight embrace, patting each other’s back.

‘I’m so happy to see you, Wyll,’ Tav chimes. ‘Look at you! You look amazing! And look at this office! Who knew that you were cut for bureaucracy after all?’

‘Ah, nevermind the office, I am hardly ever here,’ he responds with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘They deemed that I should have one for my administrative tasks, but truth be told, I am never happier than on the field itself.’

‘Not surprising. But I thought that the Fist had their headquarters in the southwest?’

‘Most of the building is under maintenance due to the Nautiloid shellings. This is all temporary.’

Tav nods and glances around, genuinely impressed by the office in itself. But before they can truly admire it, Wyll clears his throat.

‘What can I help you with?’

‘I was wondering if you knew of a way to have access to the city’s archives. There is a document I wish to consult, and possibly related ones if I can find them.’

‘What sort of document, if I may ask?’

There is no use lying to Wyll, they realise. Not only could he be the key to the archives, but he is a friend. A dear one at that.

‘Astarion wishes to know whether he still has family in the city. From before his transformation, that is. I found a register at Ramazith's Tower with the code on his death certificate, which, Rolan said, is probably kept in the Upper City.’

‘I see. Well, as an esteemed member of the city’s bureaucratic system and the son of Grand Duke Ravengard, I can escort you to the archives myself and give you access.’

Tav’s eyes widen.

‘Really? Would you mind?’

‘Not at all! Hopefully, it won’t take too long. I do have an appointment with a recruit later on. You have the reference, you said?’

‘Right here,’ they answer, patting their breast pocket.

‘Then, shall we?’

Wyll grabs the keys to his office and locks the door on their way out. As they head towards the archives, they share news of their life now that the tadpoles no longer writhe inside their heads and danger is out of the way.

He reveals that his father, upon regaining his position as Grand Duke after Gortash’s death, named him a Blaze of the Flaming Fist. Most of his time has been spent learning the methods of the company, ensuring the proper logistics of his unit, and then filling in countless forms that left him drained by the end of the day. Despite appearing incredibly busy with his new tasks, with a bit of prying, Tav makes him admit that he has started to court a noblewoman from the Upper City and that they sometimes meet when he does not need to work for promenades through gardens or along the coast. When they ask him whether he loves her, he merely clears his throat and averts his gaze, which twinkles strongly enough for them to catch the hidden meaning behind his shyness.

As they almost reach the archives, Wyll turns to them and grins.

‘You know, I think it is a beautiful thing, what you are doing for Astarion. I knew you to be selfless, but this further proves the kindness of your heart. Not that I needed convincing, mind you.’

‘Don’t give me too much credit,’ they respond with a brief chortle. ‘I don’t even know if my new mission will succeed.’

‘But, still, this is a beautiful gesture. By the way, how is our vampire friend doing?’

‘He lives in the sewers and only comes out at night, now that he is vulnerable to sunlight again. Sometimes I bring him provisions and entertainment during the day, or we go out at night, depending on his mood.’

The new Blaze shakes his head with a sorrowful expression.

‘It breaks my heart that he can no longer enjoy the sun. It is the least that he deserves, after all of his ordeals. But I am glad that he’s got you. I wish I could visit him from time to time, but I doubt that he’d be willing to see me. He never really warmed up to me.’

‘In all fairness, sometimes it doesn’t sound like he’s warmed up to me either. But I think that, deep down, he would appreciate it. He still sees Shadowheart sometimes, but now that she has moved away, their encounters become rarer.’

‘Mh. I suppose.’

At the main gate, the guards instantly recognise Wyll and his uniform and they instantly salute him. When he explains the purpose of his visit, they clear the passage and let them both in. Inside the building itself, they are guided by one of the recordkeepers to Tav’s desired section and search for the certificate with the help of the reference number they provide from the parchment.

In no time, the librarian returns with a folder under their arm and beckons them over to one of the reading tables, illuminated by rows of candles. Settling the folder on a cushion due to its old age, she opens it and reveals the original copy of the death certificate. But, as Rolan suspected, there is no mention of Astarion’s parentage.

‘Sorry to bother you again,’ they say to the archivist, ‘but do you know if the birth certificate for this person still exists? He was born in 1229 in Baldur’s Gate.’

‘I will have a look for you.’

Tav and Wyll patiently wait for her to return, sitting at the reading tables and eyeing each other every so often, sharing awkward smiles as they refrain from chatting and disturbing those working nearby. Thankfully, it does not take long before she comes back with another folder.

‘This is the birth certificate of Astarion Ancunín,’ she whispers to them, unveiling the document. ‘If you are looking for his parentage, their names figure right here, but time has faded the ink, I fear.’

‘It remains quite legible, I believe,’ Wyll responds as Tav squints to read the handwriting. ‘The mother’s name seems to be Arallia…’

‘And his father, Elaith Ancunín,’ Tav completes the thought. ‘Is there any way to find out if these elves still live?’

‘I can peruse the latest census,’ the librarian answers, ‘but you must keep in mind that it is nearly three years old. With the attacks on the city, who knows what became of them?’

‘I would greatly appreciate your help, ma’am.’

Before they know it, Tav is back in the sewers, shuffling their feet while holding up a lantern to guide their own steps to Astarion’s latest hideout. But even before they reach it, they hear a soft whistle coming from their side. In the darkness, two bright blood-coloured irises shimmer and invite them in. Yet there is no fear. As menacing as these appearances look, they know that it could only be their friend.

‘What are you doing here?’ Tav whispers as Astarion presses a finger to his lips.

‘Minsc was looking for me again.’

‘Has it ever occurred to you that he, maybe, very maybe, cares about you?’

‘Darling, do not take me for a fool!’ his grumpy tone emerges. ‘If I let him in, he will never leave!’

Tav rolls their eyes and follows him to his new lair. Once inside a makeshift shed, they both sit on the same bedroll that he travelled with during their great adventure. Despite having known mud, rocks and fungus, the thing is now smelly, stained, and rotten. Perhaps they should remember to get him a new one, one of these days.

‘So, any news of the search?’ he inquires, trying to play coy yet betraying his excitement with a nibble on his lower lip.

‘I have some, indeed.’

They smile at him and pat his shin.

‘I found your parents.’

Despite the reveal, Astarion’s reaction remains lukewarm. He huffs and crosses his arms with a crinkle of the nose.

‘Let me guess… Dead, I presume?’

‘No, actually. Very much alive.’

Within a heartbeat, Astarion’s arms loosen and his eyebrows shoot so far up his forehead that Tav worries that they will go past his hairline. There is a candid look in his eyes, a remainder of innocence in the gaze of a man who has so often relished in killing various creatures and would have been willing—more than once—to slaughter many more. It is as if his inner child has pierced through the thick armour that his hardships have driven him to forge for himself, letting himself known after being kept buried far into the depths of his person for over two centuries.

Astarion takes a moment to digest the news. How thrilling. How exciting! How so, very, frightening.

‘Do they still live in the city?’ his hushed tone inquires, almost afraid to ask.

‘I found their address in a census from three years ago. We don’t know if they survived the assault on Baldur’s Gate, but we could try. Would you like me to make contact?’

After long seconds of internal deliberation, the pale elf nods. And if his heart has long stopped beating, he can perceive the ghost of a tremor.

Three days later, Tav and Astarion find themselves on the doorstep of a grand villa in the Upper City, once the sun has mostly set and is hiding behind clouds. Dressed for the occasion, adorning fine embroideries on silk garments, the vampire cannot stop adjusting his clothes every few seconds, making himself look messier than he originally did. Swatting his hands away this time, Tav fixes his collar and sleeves for him.

‘Stop fidgeting!’

‘I’m nervous, alright?’ he hisses. ‘I don’t even know what I’m going to tell them. How do I even greet them? How did I usually do it? I can’t remember a damned thing!’

‘Calm down. Let me take the first step, maybe. And, in doubt, let them approach you first. And don’t behave like a cat if they hug you.’

The door opens and one of the servants of the house bows to them.

‘You must be Tav. We have received word of your visit. Our masters await you in their sunroom. Please, follow me.’

With one last shared glance, the pair follows the servant, and Tav discreetly slaps Astarion’s hand as he attempts to fix what does not need fixing in his appearance. Before he can protest, they raise a finger to shush him.

The maid walks them through the lavishly decorated home of her masters. The walls, adorned with elvish art and family portraits, are far from Astarion’s taste when it comes to interior design. In fact, he finds their choice so similar to Cazador’s that his stomach tightens the longer he stares. Yet, as they pass a gallery of portraits, he recognises none of the faces. And worse even, he does not see his own.

For an instant, he starts to doubt that Tav found the right people after all. The research went so quickly, he thinks to himself, it is bound to be a mistake. Perhaps they found somebody related to him but from a completely different branch of the Ancunín clan. Maybe they coincidentally have the same names. Mayhap they are not related at all.

He has no time to spiral further down in his doubt, for they now both stand at a door, whose glass is elegantly ornamented by the wooden motifs found on every other door they have passed. As the servant opens it and bows to herald their arrival, Tav places a hand on Astarion’s back, handing him a handkerchief.

‘You’re sweating,’ they whisper.

‘Thank you.’

As he quickly wipes his forehead and upper lip and sees the maid returning, he shoves the handkerchief into his pocket and straightens up. She beckons them over.

‘My masters are ready to see you. May I serve you refreshments?’

‘That… will not be necessary,’ Astarion responds, forgetting that Tav might be thirsty or hungry for mortal sustenance.

The maid steps aside to let them into the sunroom and Tav enters first to ease both parties into the reunion. They face two figures sitting stiffly in broad armchairs. On the left, a tall man with long blonde hair watches their display with an air of unspoken disdain. He pinches his thin lips, accentuating the wrinkles around his mouth and his natural frown. At first sight, they can already tell that he is no social animal. His fingers incessantly pick at the brass upholstery nails marking the border between the forest green velvet and the mahogany frame.

Beside him, a woman around his age squints at Tav. With her hands joined on her lap as she keeps her knees tight together, leaning away from her husband, her pose itself communicates that she is the judge in the home and the decision-maker. Her gown, closer to a court garment than to a lounging robe, suggests that she is often the one to speak to guests and visitors, while her husband remains in his own bubble or mulls over information conveyed to them before they deliberate in private and come to a mutual agreement. Or what he believes to be a compromise.

The cascading waves of silver-white hair shielding her pale blue eyes add an air of mystique to this woman. She is a painting come to life, blessed with the elegance and poise of the moon elves. Any glance cast towards them is stolen by her ethereal appearance, and it can be asserted, without a shadow of a doubt, which parent Astarion takes after.

Tav instantly understands that if they want the reunion to go smoothly, they have to impress her.

‘Lord and Lady Ancunín,’ they greet as they bow. ‘I sincerely thank you for accepting to receive me in your grand home.’

‘Your letter came as a surprise, I must say,’ Lady Arallia Ancunín speaks up in a cold tone. ‘Now, speak of your intentions.’

Within a heartbeat, and despite the fog that has long occupied his memories, Astarion recognises them. His breath hitches at the realisation and his eyes widen. Here they are, in the flesh; the two people he used to call ‘mother’ and ‘father’.

Tav does not need to introduce him. Arallia instantly peeks over their shoulder at the taller man standing behind them, and she hardly shows any surprise.

‘Oh. It’s you.’

All eyes turn to Astarion and, for once, he is at a loss for words. His usual cockiness and insolence are long gone in the face of his family, and if anything, it is as though he is shrinking from the attention.

With a supportive grin, Tav simply nods, giving him the strength and courage to step forward. As they did before him, he bows.

‘Lord and Lady Ancunín.’

Arallia scrutinises him without as much as a twinkle in her eye. She inspects every fold of his clothes, driving him to the brink of insanity as he becomes self-conscious over the way the light even reverbs on the embroideries. Do they insult her eyes?

‘I was wondering when you would come to our door.’

‘Who is this, dear?’ the man whispers to his wife.

Tav frowns in sheer disbelief. Perhaps the man they thought to be Elaith Ancunín was another man after all. It is possible that Arallia remarried after all this time. But the shape of his jaw still leads them to believe that it is his father. He has to be.

Arallia clicks her tongue and turns her head towards her husband without truly looking at him.

‘Oh, it’s um…’ she mumbles with a distracted wave of the hand. ‘Ah, what was his name again?’

Astarion’s world collapses in less than a second. She recognised him, yet forgot his name. Her own son, her flesh and blood. He expected shock since he has—literally—returned from the dead after more than two centuries, but oblivion? No, that was never one of the prospects. How could one forget their child? He never sired any, nor would he ever be able to, but he is sure that even a millennium after their death, he would have remembered everything about them.

All the worst scenarios flood his heart and Tav’s heart shatters at the sight. His shoulders slouch and his face falls.

‘Astarion,’ he sighs. ‘My name is Astarion.’

‘Yes. That.’

The vampire lowers his head and stares at the ground, a much more welcoming sight than his parents are. Tav squints and shifts their attention back to their hosts.

‘You said that you expected to see him again?’ they ask. ‘So, you knew that he wasn’t dead?’

‘Everybody knows, now. The mighty saviours of the Sword Coast! Among which my son, can you believe it?’

There is no hint of pride in her voice, nor of admiration. Merely contempt. Unabashed derision. As Astarion discreetly takes a step back, shaken by her reaction, Arallia raises an eyebrow.

‘Why the long face, child?’

‘Nothing, Lady Ancunín.’

She scoffs and stands up, crossing her arms against her midriff.

‘What did you expect when you showed your face here, boy? That we would cry and hug you? You are not a toddler anymore.’

‘N-No, I didn’t—’

‘You had two centuries to visit us, to let us know that you were alright. But you never came. As far as I am concerned, this ship has long sailed!’

Elaith rubs his upper lip with a finger, humming to himself.

‘It is no surprise. The boy has always been trouble,’ he declares without as much as a look towards his child.

‘Do you remember how needy he was, dear?’ Arallia adds with a short gasp. ‘Always begging for attention. Constantly! He would do anything just to get us to talk to him. I cannot handle people like that. So very impolite and embarrassing, really. It is just as well that he remained with his nanny.’

Astarion’s eyes darken and Tav gently holds the cuff of his sleeve. They cannot believe it. They are acting as though their guests are not even here, as if they are the audience of a play unfolding in that damned sunroom.

‘And now, look at him,’ Arallia continues, her upper lip curling up in a snarl. ‘A saviour of Baldur’s Gate! A hero! But I see you for what you are, boy, do not blind yourself with fantasies. I see your red eyes; I see your fangs. You are nothing but a monster.’

This is the last straw. Astarion spins around on his heel and shoves the door to the house open, storming off past the flabbergasted maid. Tav calls his name but hears no response. They turn to glare at their hosts.

‘With all due respect, Lord and Lady Ancunín—and there is none on my part—you are the only monsters in sight. You should be ashamed of yourselves and the disgrace you are to your son. He has brought nothing but honour to your clan’s name.’

They give the outraged elves a mocking bow and withdraw from the home, whispering a ‘thank you’ to the maid who showed them in. Once they slam the front door of the villa, they frantically look around, but there is no sign of Astarion. Cursing under their breath, they sprint towards the flashy sigil on one of the brick walls past the heavily guarded Baldur’s Gate. They reach out for it with their destination in mind and vanish from the surface of the Upper City.

When they emerge from the portal into the sewers, they search the countless corridors, nooks and crannies for the pale elf. They run until they are out of breath, scanning each side and calling out his name until their voice cracks and turns hoarse. Inside their chest their heart maddens, tightening at the idea of Astarion suffering alone, wherever he is. All they hope for is that he is not about to do something drastic.

Under their short breath, they pray that he is nowhere near water. They beg fate that he is keeping as far away as possible from particularly sharp objects. They despair at the idea that he might be drinking his sorrows away for the night on the shore, waiting for the sun to come up again. He would never do such things, would he?

Gods, if Astarion’s misery successfully leads him to such lengths, what would they do?

They come to a halt in a narrow corridor, whose end is nothing but a cramped chamber with a rotten wooden plank leaning against the wall. They lean over their knees, gasping for air, pressing their body to recover quickly enough so they can find their friend as quickly as possible.

But just as they start walking away, a soft whine resonates from behind the wooden plank. They snap their head around and slowly approach it with their dagger in one hand and the other outstretched in caution.

‘Hello? Is someone there?’

No response.

‘I’m pushing the plank to the side.’

As they do it, the dim light of a nearby torch reflects on the huddled-up silhouette of a man rocking himself back and forth. With his elbow resting on his knee and his fingers woven through his hair, his widened eyes peek through the gap between his forearm and his bicep.

‘Go away.’

Tav sheathes their dagger and kneels, reaching out their hand.

‘Astarion…’

‘I SAID GO AWAY!’

With a surprisingly strong shove, he topples them off their legs and glares at them as they fall into a puddle of dirty water. When they look up, all they see are the cheeks drowning under the salty tears and the look of unadulterated agony in his eyes. His traits contort and scrunch up as a strangled sob leaves his throat.

‘This is all your fault,’ he scolds. ‘You couldn’t stop yourself, could you? Being a hero, a helper, as always, without thinking about the consequences! Helping gets you off, doesn’t it? Well, I sure hope you’re happy.’

Tav’s brow furrows and they crawl up to him.

‘Hey, it is not me you should be after, it should be them. Redirect your anger at them. You were miserable and you couldn’t move on so long as you didn’t know for sure if you had a family. I searched for you and found them. They decided to be awful.’

Astarion scoffs and buries his head into the crooks of his elbows, shielding his head as though the weight of his torment is threatening to come crashing down on it. His weeping is muffled by his sleeves, but its intensity does not go unnoticed.

‘I knew it,’ he gurgles. ‘I have never been loved. I am unlovable.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You heard them! So needy… Always demanding attention… That is why I have always been alone. When I was a slave under Cazador’s yoke, I was lonely, but I least I found comfort in the idea that once upon a time, I was held and loved.’

He roughly rubs his eyes with the palm of his trembling hand.

‘But I have always been lonely. It is in my nature. I remember it all, now. Calling my mother and reaching out to her, but she would never pick me up. And my father… He would shrug and walk away as if I were nothing but a stray dog on the street.’

The vampire glares at them.

‘And that’s all I am, now. A filthy beast in the sewers!’

As he raises his fist to punch the wall, Tav swiftly catches his hand and resists the force he puts against their palm.

‘Astarion, you are none of these things,’ they speak softly, hoping to make him see reason. ‘Gods, they are the beasts, not you!’

He rolls his eyes with a scoff and drops his hand on his lap. Despite knowing that he has never been comfortable with promiscuity, they sit beside him and enfold him in their embrace. Gently rocking him from side to side, they fail to see the shock on his face.

‘And by all that is sacred, you are loved, Astarion. Shit, I never thought that I’d say this out loud, but I love you. I’m not sticking by your side out of pity, or out of obligation. I do so because I want to. Because you’re worth the effort it takes to bring you everything you want from the surface.’

‘How can you say that?’ he whimpers. ‘You’d be better off without me.’

‘Nonsense,’ they grunt, before pressing a brief kiss on the top of his head. ‘I was so scared when you disappeared. I was afraid that you’d gone and get yourself hurt, or worse. I know it hasn’t been easy on you, living here on your own and never seeing the sun again. And now, this. I swear to you, if I could ease that pain singlehandedly, I would. I would carry it with you.’

Astarion clings to them and cries on their shoulder as they clasp one another. Tav gently rubs his back, feeling tears sting their eyes in turn.

‘Losing you would’ve broken me, Astarion. Don’t you dare think for a moment that you’re unloved.’

Another moment passes where they give the vampire the time to exteriorise their pain and process the failed reunion with his parents. When, at last, he regains some of his composure, he pulls away from their embrace and leans back against the wall.

‘I never thought it would end like this,’ he whispers. ‘I don’t know what I did wrong.’

‘You did nothing wrong, Astarion. All of this is way more telling of them than it is of you. Do you want me to tell you what I found out about them at the archives?’

He eyes them curiously.

‘They are drowning in debt. Your mother has been cast away from the Grand Duke’s court for cruel comments, and most noble circles are barred from even speaking to them. Your father lost his livelihood a century ago and he relies entirely on your mother. But you? You risked your life and sanity to save the city that has been so hostile to you. Perhaps that wasn’t your goal at first, but you couldn’t bear to see your home defaced in the name of evil. You could’ve run away at any given moment, but you didn’t. You saved them, and you saved all of Faerûn. Your parents do not even hold a candle to your achievements and your growth.’

If blood could still flow through his veins, he would blush at the sincere praise that Tav presents him. It surprises him, to say the least. While they are never afraid to give compliments, they never pay them lightly. Certainly not to flatter anyone. He relaxes against them and slowly leans his head until it rests on their shoulder. ‘Without you, I would never have made it,’ he confesses. ‘You saved me from myself, more than once. You saved me from my blindness. I could have sacrificed seven thousand souls for my own gain, and sometimes it still haunts me that I didn’t. I wouldn’t suffer so…’

‘You would have lost yourself in that power. Nobody remains intact when such ambitions are given to them. Honestly, between you and Gale, it was hard to juggle,’ they add with a brief laugh.

Tav links their arm through his and gently grazes their fingertips along the sleeve in a comforting gesture. A bashful grin tugs at the corners of Astarion’s lips as he finally gets his thoughts in order.

‘What I mean to say is… Thank you. For everything.’

‘You don—’

‘Ugh, accept my damn thanks, will you?’ he groans. ‘It is not every day that I say it. Hold it against me for that one time, if you so wish!’

They look into each other’s eyes and crack up. Tav runs his fingers through his hair, and while they did anticipate a rejection, Astarion does not move. The tension in his shoulders alleviates.

‘Come live with me.’

‘What?’

Astarion frowns and stares at them, unsure whether he heard them well.

‘Come live with me. I mean it. I have enough money to buy a small house now that I sold all the armour I gathered during our journey and all the weapons I’m not using anymore.’

They shift to face him.

‘Think about it. It will be more comfortable than the sewers, and cleaner, and you can receive as many visitors as you want. It will be your home as much as mine.’

‘Darling, I cannot picture myself ducking whenever I want to pass a window to avoid sunlight.’

‘You wouldn’t have to! I can make sure to buy one of those homes with a large cellar, and that could be your flat. We’d have a common space on the ground floor, then I could have my room and a washroom upstairs, that’s all I need. We can build direct access to the cellar from outside in case you ever wish to bring some conquests.’

‘Conquests?’ he repeats with an eyebrow raised and a smug smile. ‘Darling, please, it’s less embarrassing to say “lovers”.’

Tav smirks and shakes their head.

‘It would be home, Astarion. I can still provide for you. You’ll never smell the sewers again and you can decorate the place as you like. I’ll give you full permission. Even for my bedroom.’

‘This is a dangerous game you’re playing, you know that?’

‘Maybe. But I trust your taste.’

Astarion considers the offer for a few seconds, then nods.

‘I… would like that. If you are sure that it would not be a bother to you, then…’

‘You’ll never be a bother to me, Astarion.’

The vampire and the half-drow share a smile. Tav holds out their hand, and he stares at it for a moment, before shaking it. They both entertain hope for the future. Perhaps things will be alright after all.

‘In the meantime,’ Astarion coos, pulling out a small frame from under the flap of his blazer, containing a painted portrait of Arallia he snatched from the lobby on his way out, ‘would you be interested in a game of darts?’

It takes quite a few weeks before Tav manages to purchase the small house they promised for Astarion and themself. Located in the bustling centre of the Lower City and within walking distance of the Elfsong Tavern for his entertainment, it contains almost everything that they compromised on during further discussions on the matter. It stands tall enough to overlook the bay, with a covered balcony for late-night contemplation and drinks.

Tav claimed the attic for their bedroom, not requiring more than that for themself. After years of moving from home to home in the Underdark back in the day, elementary comfort has always felt more familiar and safer than a bunch of lavish rooms, which they would not have known what to use for.

The front door stood at the top of the outside stairs leading to the middle floor. As agreed, this part of the house hosts common facilities, including a basic kitchen, a living room, and a washroom. Another enclosed space brought them much strife when it came to finding a use for it. Then, after a long brainstorming session, they decided that it would become a small library for the both of them and that they were free to borrow books from each other. He has read all of them already anyway.

As for the lower floor, at street level, it is dedicated to Astarion’s comfort. A private and spacious bedroom with an en-suite bathroom is hidden from view at the bottom of the stairs, behind antique doors that clash with the rest of the place, but which he has already grown fond of. On the other side, a walk-in closet enables him to store and cherish his clothes, with enough space for him to mend them if he wants. Only, the floor is not underground, as Tav promised, and the sight of the windows permanently barred by shutters pains the vampire. But for now, this will do.

On the day of moving in, they gather his clothes and belongings in crates and carry them to the house in the middle of the night. Within a few hours, the place is squeaky clean and each of their possessions has found its place within their humble abode. They spend the rest of the night bringing furniture in from the nearby Guildhall and designing the future improved dressing room for Astarion, drinking wine and laughing over the simplest things.

When daylight shyly pierces the windows of the living room, Tav quickly shuts the blinds. Astarion sighs; he did not think that witnessing the sunrise yet missing it at the same time would be so difficult.

Around midday, they drop everything they are doing and stretch out their sore limbs. Tav’s attention is drawn to the frame above the front door, still bearing Arallia’s portrait, but pierced by darts and riddled with empty holes.

‘Astarion, when is your birthday?’

Sprawled across the couch, he lifts his head and raises an eyebrow.

‘I don’t remember. Why do you care?’

They shuffle their feet towards him and place their hands on his hips. He has never looked so comfortable and at ease since they met almost a year ago. And they were incredibly proud to witness it.

‘I’ve been thinking. Since you don’t know when it is, do you think that today, since it is the start of your new life, could become your new birthday?'

Astarion kicks his legs off the cushions and sits up, dumbfounded by their question.

‘Mh.'

A smile plays on his lips.

‘I would like that, actually.’

‘Oh, perfect.’

‘Why?’

Tav trots up to their cloak, hanging from a peg by the entrance, and reaches into the breast pocket to take out an envelope, which has already been opened. They play with the paper for a second, enjoying the gentle crumpling sound it creates, before facing him.

‘Follow me.’

Utterly confused, Astarion hoists himself up and walks over to them, shrugging and eyeing the envelope. They open it and carefully read its contents, without letting him see any of it. Then, they shove the paper into their pocket and beam with joy.

‘May I cast a spell on you? It will not harm you, and it has been tested. No danger here.’

‘Uh… Sure. I suppose. As long as there is no wild magic outburst that brings our house down before we have even lived in it.’

They nod and concentrate for a few seconds to summon the Weave into their fingertips. As their hands glow with a powerful light, they utter an incantation and touch Astarion with their palms. Swirls of coloured light wrap around his limbs and then vanish as quickly as they initially appeared.

Astarion looks down at his body, expecting to feel different, but he does not.

‘What is it supposed to be doing? Nothing’s changed.’

As a sole answer, Tav unlocks the front door and opens it. Astarion yelps and frantically steps back, stumbling over his own foot as he flattens his back against the opposite wall, wanting to avoid the intruding sunlight threatening to reduce him to ashes.

But then, there is a cheer. He cracks an eye open and sees Wyll, Karlach, Gale, Shadowheart, and a simulacrum of Lae’zel on his doorstep. Although the Gith is not nearly as excited as the rest, they all chant in unison.

‘Happy birthday, Astarion!’

With his jaw slacking, the pale elf stares at his former companions.

‘What are you all doing here?’

‘We’re here to celebrate your new life,’ Shadowheart responds with a grin.

‘A new house! I’m so proud of you, soldier!’ Karlach squeals, jumping up and down.

Tav comes over to Astarion and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

‘How about we head out to the tavern?’

The vampire scoffs and rolls his eyes.

‘It’s midday, Tav.’

‘Try it.’

‘I-I can’t.’

Wishing to show him that it is safe, Tav slips away from him and crosses the house’s threshold to stand among the rest of the group, right under the sun. Astarion shakes his head nervously, with anger pooling in his guts.

‘Now what kind of sick joke is this, Tav?’ he growls.

‘Come to us, Astarion. It’s safe.’

Tav smiles and holds out both of their hands. Hesitating at first, the pale elf slowly peels himself off the wall, staring at the inviting hands awaiting him. His whole body is trembling. His teeth are chattering. What is going on?

He cautiously steps into the halo of sunlight, but nothing happens. Forbidding himself from crying victory, he tells himself that it is not direct exposure. The real thing would reduce him to cinders. Yet, as he continues his progress, the star’s warmth gradually enfolds the skin of his outstretched hands.

Then, before he knows it, he is standing outside, surrounded by his friends, and, right above him, the sun welcomes him within its glow. Nothing is burning. There is no pain. Nothing.

He is outside. And it is warm.

He stands there for a long moment, speechless, while the others affectionately squeeze his shoulders and arms.

‘Welcome home, Astarion,’ Gale murmurs.

He turns around to face them all.

‘H-How?’

Tav pats his back.

‘Rolan, Gale and I have been devising a spell to protect you from sunlight for weeks. It is not permanent, so no hasty behaviour, please. Whenever you want to go outside, I will cast the spell on you.’

‘You—’

Words escape him. Refuse to linger even a second longer on his tongue. As tears well up in his eyes, the group gathers around him to share a tight embrace. Despite his contempt for physical contact, knowing after all this ordeal with his parents that he is free at last and loved overwhelms him. He would almost grow sappy from the sensation if he were not so… Astarion.

As they pull away from him, Shadowheart presents him with a beautifully decorated hammer.

‘We all pitched in to commission this hammer for you,’ Wyll says. ‘The designs engraved on the sides were inspired by that mirror you carried around at camp.

‘I drew the designs and I had Gale replicate them so they could use it,’ Lae’zel’s projection explains. ‘I do not see the beauty in those motifs, they are nothing but primitive, but they said that you would appreciate it.’

Astarion picks up the hammer and admires the craftsmanship, albeit with astonishment.

‘Why a hammer, though? That was never a weapon I really used.’

‘We found your headstone in the graveyard of the Lower City,’ Karlach adds, pointing her thumb over her shoulder. ‘Wanna go smash it?’

He adjusts his grip on the hammer, weighing it in his hands, then smirks.

‘It’s show time.’

The whole group cheers and descends the stairs, while Tav stays behind to lock the house. Astarion looks over his shoulder at them and shakes his head.

‘You sneaky little thing!’ he muses.

‘Why, are you complaining?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

They walk side by side, already laughing at the banter that fuses among the group, now that everybody has gathered again. Astarion spends his time with his head tilted back to embrace the sun on his face, sighing in relief.

‘How did you even manage to get Rolan on board for that spell?’

‘I might have promised him a date.’

‘You devil.’

Tav throws their arm around his shoulders and soon, they all enter the graveyard.

Everyone is safe.

The soul cast out from the light against his will has taken his first step back to bask in its glow.

Everyone is safe.

And Astarion is loved.

20 notes · View notes