A night at the inn (part 1)
A night of relaxation at the inn. Inspired by a cursed screenshot of Astarion looking loopy, drunk and high.
Astarion x Reader, Astarion x Tav, tbc in part 2
Comfort, fluff, humour, banter, goes from very silly to very horny
Bits that are definitely not canon that were written solely for my (and hopefully your) amusement.
TW: It’s all very much in jest, but maybe give this one a skip if you’re struggling with any kind of substance addiction.
Approximately 2,000 words
“Don't be ridiculous, these silly druidic herbs have absolutely no effect on me, vampires have a natural immunity. Pass me the pipe again, I’ll prove it,” Astarion giggled uncontrollably.
“Just hold on to it, friend, I don’t think anyone else will benefit from it,” replied Halsin.
You, Astarion, Halsin, Karlach and Shadowheart were gathered in one of the inn’s rooms.
Gale and Wyll were off doing whatever people who didn’t like having fun did. Possibly playing chess or reciting poetry to each other. And Lae’zel had had one look at your gathering before chk’ing, saying that someone competent needed to keep a cool head, and stalking off.
You and Astarion were sitting crosswise on one of the beds, you nestled between his legs, your back against his chest. Shadowheart lounged on the opposite bed, with Karlach and Halsin settling on the floor between the beds.
A scattering of glasses and opened bottles surrounded you, and a light haze hung in the air. Tadpoles, vampire lords, demons and gods could all wait until tomorrow. Tonight, for all you cared, all was well in your world.
Earlier, Halsin had laid out an assortment of herbs, most of which you couldn’t name, and busied himself with mixing them in varying proportions and stuffing them into several smoking implements. Karlach had declined, saying there was no point and that she would stick to grog. You and Shadowheart partook in Halsin's ‘herbalist mastery' together with the druid. And now, to everyone's disbelief and amusement, so did Astarion.
“What in the hells is in this?!” Astarion tittered, leaning back against the wall, his eyes shut and an idiotic smile on his face. You couldn’t look at him, lest it set off yet another chain reaction of giggling.
“Part of it is moonflower, which mostly serves as an amplifier,” Halsin answered, cautiously.
“And? What else?” You wondered whether whatever it was might help Astarion with his nightmares. The scent of the herb was vaguely familiar, but you couldn’t quite place what it was.
“Wait! I want to guess.” Shadowheart leaned over to whisper to Halsin. He shook his head at her suggestions. Once he whispered back to her with the correct answer she collapsed on the bed with a guffaw. “Oh gods... So it is official.”
“Halsin...” Astarion croaked. “Halsin, I will stab you... What did you give me?!”
“I had a hunch, but it was intended as a joke – I didn’t really think it would do anything.” Halsin almost sounded apologetic.
“Well, spill the beans, what is he smoking that’s so damned funny?! Vampire dust? Cow dung? Some kind of goblin foot fungus?” Karlach was also growing impatient.
Halsin shook his head, laughing.
“It’s catnip,” Shadowheart managed, still doubled over. “He’s losing his mind on catnip!”
Once Astarion regained his ability to speak coherently, you couldn’t get him to shut up.
Astarion hardly ever took lead in group conversations. He tended to stay on the outskirts of discussions, albeit always ready with a quip or observation. You wondered if his newfound loquaciousness was a glimpse of what he might have been like some 200 years ago.
It helped that Karlach was bombarding him with questions about vampirism, which he was ordinarily reserved about.
“So what happens if you consume normal food? Can you drink?” she asked.
“Well... Kind of..? Although I think the tadpole has had some additional influence. I can drink liquids without becoming ill, as long as it’s not too much. They tend to taste vile or like nothing at all, or not have any effect on me. Coffee smells amazing but tastes like dirt, for example. But potions work, somehow,” he rambled. “Solids are a complete disaster though”. He refused to elaborate.
“And the wine?” she persisted.
“Red wine is palatable,” he said, swirling some in a glass that he held in his hand. “But if you want better than ‘palatable’ you really need something of good quality.”
“You’re just a snob,” you interjected.
“That may be so, but this is about having something called standards, darling, I’ll teach you about them someday”, he said with a kiss to your temple, as you elbowed him. “But there are ways of going around poor wine.”
Astarion took your hand in his, pressing his lips against it.
“May I?”
Once he had your approval, he carefully punctured the tip of your ring finger with a fang. You idly mused about how completely unfazed you had become by having your skin pierced, as he dripped some of your blood into his wine.
“Now stir.” He licked the drops of wine from your finger once you were done, and had a sip from his glass. “Like adding honey to tea... Now it’s delectable.”
“Freaks,” said Karlach, lovingly.
The conversation moved to him debating wines from various regions with Shadowheart, a subject they were both perhaps unsurprisingly well-versed in.
“How kind of Lady Shar to leave you such detailed knowledge of something that truly matters, when wiping out so many other memories,” he observed.
Eventually, the topic changed to Karlach’s years in the Hells, and what it had been like to set just about everything she touched ablaze until Dammon’s recent assistance.
“Could you do me a favour and hold my hand in yours for a moment?” said Astarion, leaning towards and holding out a hand to Karlach.
“I haven’t done this in so long this still makes me nervous, you know,” she said, taking his hand in both of hers. “Sorry if I lose my cool and burn you.”
“I’m sure I’ve had worse,” he replied humourlessly. “...That should do it,” he said after a short while. “Gods, you really do run like a furnace.” You wondered where this was going.
“Now could everyone look away? I’m about to do something disgustingly sentimental.”
Immediately, four pairs of eyes including your own were locked on him.
“Voyeuristic pricks...” he sighed. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He ran the back of his fingers delicately down your cheek before cupping it in his hand. It was warm, almost hot, as you nuzzled into it.
“Well isn’t that cute,” Shadowheart remarked into her glass of wine.
Astarion wasn’t always cold to the touch, not exactly. He became warmer after drinking blood. His body was heated by sunshine on sunny days, just like anything else. And after spending some time under blankets with you he felt almost cozy to snuggle against. But he’s never radiated heat the way the hand against your cheek did now.
“It doesn’t feel like you,” you mustered, looking into his eyes. He gave you a wistful smile.
“...If there is any other bodypart you’d like me to warm up for Tav’s benefit, do fuck off before you even ask,” said Karlach, breaking the brief silence that had descended onto the room, and the tender moment was gone, overtaken by yet another uproar of laughter.
Things quieted down as the evening wore on.
“I wonder what Lae’zel is doing,” said Shadowheart, who had been silently gazing off into space and occasionally blowing smoke rings for the past while. “Probably something infuriating.”
“You should go tell her how utterly unimpressed you are with her,” goaded Astarion.
“I should... I will,” she said, suddenly getting up, determination writ on her face, exiting the room with a surprisingly steady step.
Karlach sighed.
“I better go look after her and make sure they don’t need to be taken apart. ...Or that no one else does, if they don’t.” She followed Shadowheart.
“Nature calls,” said Halsin, also getting up. “And I don’t think anyone’s fed Scratch and the owlbear cub.”
It was just you and Astarion, who had been grazing your neck with his fangs with increasing impatience.
“Do it,” you said as soon as the door shut behind Halsin. Instantly, you felt an icy chill in your neck and released a small moan as he bit down, drawing your blood, his hands roaming your body.
“I’ve been thinking of nothing else for hours,” he breathed hoarsely, once he had his fill. Having a miniscule amount of your blood in his wine and then being unable to sate himself more thoroughly would have been the ultimate tease for him. He really did not think that through, per usual.
You could have offered him your wrist at some point, your companions had witnessed that on numerous occasions. But you knew you both wanted something more intimate. And private.
You sank onto the bed with Astarion on top of you, as he continued to lick at the puncture wounds, to get them to stop bleeding.
“Think Halsin’s coming back?” you murmured.
“Of course he is. Haven’t you seen how he’s been looking at us?” He wedged his hips between your legs as he continued to suck and lick at your neck, more slowly now.
"Oh, has he been looking at us in some particular way?” you feigned ignorance. Astarion raised his head briefly to shoot you a look that said ‘oh please’.
“Do you want him..?” He rolled his hips deliciously into yours as he asked that.
“Stop teasing,” you whispered. You knew he wasn’t going to let you do anything with the erection you felt pressed against you.
“Never. Do you want him?” He gave you a mischievous look.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sorry darling, I’ll try to do a better job at explaining.” He raised himself back up, his face hovering just above yours. “Do you want to feel his hot, hard cock pumping in and out of you, while I watch?” He studied your reaction closely. “Oh you would like that, wouldn’t you..?”
“Astarion-” It wasn’t easy to make you blush, but somehow he always found a way when he wanted to.
“Shh love, I already know everything you’re going to say.” Astarion raised his voice in pitch (resulting in something that definitely DID NOT sound anything like you) and returned to your neck, planting a kiss further down with each sentence: “’I love you, Astarion. I only want you, Astarion. I don’t think you’re ready for this, Astarion. You’re going to regret this, Astarion.’”
“How about, ‘you’re intoxicated, Astarion’?”
“Barely,” he scoffed. “It’s worn off.” He tugged at your blouse’s lacing with his teeth.
“Or maybe it’s ‘no, I don’t want that, Astarion’,” you lied.
He chuckled at those words and came back up to whisper in your ear.
“My love... You’re forgetting I can hear your heartbeat. I can smell your arousal. Every time your breath hitches and your heart speeds up – I know. Any time blood suddenly rushes somewhere in your body – I know...”
“That is an entirely unfair advantage,” you protested.
“Yes, having a lover that anticipates your every need and reads you like a book is so, so tragically unfair, your poor, poor thing...”
“And also it’s not what you said, it’s how you said it!” you continued.
“Porridge,” Astarion whispered in his most seductive voice, grinding against you. “The philosophy and theory of divination, volume four. A bulging coin purse. Gale’s purple pajamas. ...Nope, nothing.” Astarion smirked, and continued in a more normal voice, stilling. “Now let’s try... You dripping wet and begging us both for mercy before the night is over.” He grinned wryly as you let out an involuntary whimper. “I thought so...”
“You’ve told me yourself, you don’t want to share me with anyone,” you persisted.
“It’s your heart I can’t bear to share. And he’s a wood elf,” Astarion said dismissively. “He may as well be a walking penis, who would get emotionally involved with that?”
“You did not just call our honourable companion, the esteemed archdruid of the Emerald Grove a walking penis!” you hissed, choking on laughter, covering his mouth with your hand.
“A giant phallus on legs,” Astarion mumbled stubbornly against your palm, licking it.
You heard footsteps approaching the door.
“Do you really want this?” you whispered, angling Astarion’s face to make him look you in the eyes, and releasing his mouth. “Be serious for a second.”
“I want this,” he said, holding your gaze. “I really want this. As long as you do too.”
The door opened, and you both turned your heads to regard the tall, broad figure that paused in the entryway, leaning against the doorframe.
“Is it company or privacy you desire?”
~~~~~
Part 2
More of my chaos gremlins
AO3
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LAVENDER GIRL 🔮 hwang hyunjin.
pair. successor! hyunjin x fem! reader | genre. friends with benefits, soulmates, multiple partners, angst, smut | warnings. profanity, alcohol consumption, smoking, anger issues, manipulation, pet names, dirty talk, unprotected intercourse, threesome, oral sex, underage drinking, flawed characters | word count. 6.9k | prequel to put me in a movie but can be read as standalone.
synopsis. before bang chan, there’d been hyunjin. deranged, tatted up, borderline alcoholic hwang hyunjin, and his obsession with you. your angel doll, always and forever.
You weren’t always together.
But even before, you think, there was this conjointness; a neediness of sorts, a darkness you found in each other and recognized it for what it was early on, plucked it from its roots and held it in your hands, smiling secretly, giddily, eyes locked, barely fifteen years of age.
It started with sneaking whiskey from the wide selection of his dad’s cupboard and into Hyunjin’s room. Smoking cigarettes in the dead of winter, windows open, huddled together, warmth in the closeness of your bodies. Thin strips of iridescent paper that melted on your tongues, glitter on both your cheeks at a party neither of you should be allowed anywhere near. And then, finally, the exploring of hands, legs tangled under fuzzy blankets in your bed during a sleepover, lines that curved and bent, cavernous places with adult names—all giggles for you. Nothing serious, nothing to fret about, even as your mother finds you cuddling the next morning, and threatens to call Hyunjin’s father.
There is that one thing that makes your friend go cold all over, makes him drop you from his lean arms at once, and gather his clothes silently, leaving your makeshift fort, no word, no goodbye. Every single time. The mention of his family. Rich, self-made millionaires with their private schools, and the habit of treating their son like a chess piece in their grand scheme for unlimited power. They take him from you just before the first year of high school starts, a school among mountains, isolated from everyone.
From you. His enabler. His matchstick.
“Tell me your deepest, darkest secret, lavender girl,” the night before he was sent off.
His hair is long, and black. His eyes eternally sad, his limbs growing taller, stealthier. Your partner in crime, your best, most valuable friend—gone. You hug him tighter. He won’t let go of you until he absolutely has to, until the first rays of sun rise in the sky, the train reaching the station, everyone looking for him, the successor, the investment, despite knowing where he’ll be. Where he’ll always return to.
“I’ll wait for you,” you say, but different words burn in your throat. Words you’ll never say, even years later.
And Hyunjin smiles, because he knows. Because he won’t say them, either. “You won’t.”
“I will,” you insist, burying your face deeper in his embrace. “I’ll never be separated from you, not really.”
He looks down at you, already forming into something else, already changing, preparing for the blow, the death. He truly will go, and it won’t seem to settle in you, it just can’t. Not when he’s staring at you like that, not when his lips are so close, the one line you haven’t crossed. An ongoing joke between the two of you, though there’s nothing funny about it. Nothing funny about the fire in his chest, the way it burns everything in him. Even then.
“And when I call, you’ll come,” he asks, but it’s a statement, and the light swimming in his eyes is overwhelming, it’s tearing at you.
The only boy that ever mattered.
“When you call, I’ll come,” you repeat, and his hands reach for your cheeks, like he’ll do it, like he’ll finally break the spell, lift the curse, and you lean into him, waiting, hoping, but then he just—
Pulls away, gets up. He never truly has the chance again.
“You wanna know mine?” he whispers in your ear in front of the car that will take him away until you recognize not one part of him. “You haunt me in ways I cannot haunt you.” A kiss on your forehead, a lingering hand on your waist.
He never writes. But he does, eventually, call.
The boy in the picture is not Hyunjin. Not at first.
He stands tall, so much taller than when he left you, and his gaze is closed off, serious. The medium length hair has been replaced with a choppy ash blonde cut, short in the front, longer in the back. An inked design is creeping up his neck from under his white button down, something you can’t decipher. But it’s the way he stands among the rest of the boys, the sheer weight of his name so evident now, where once it was nothing but a faraway nightmare. It loops through him and hangs over everyone, it’s so clear in their stance. It hurts to witness the distance they keep from him; afraid, intimidated. Envious.
His mother pulls the picture away from your view, as she clears her throat and changes the subject upon noticing your gloomy expression. “His graduation picture,” she said, but all you see is a death sentence waiting to be executed.
Your angel doll, nowhere to be found. And you, a changed girl, not quite the same without him. Wilder, untamed. Three boyfriends in, countless fuckups and an almost disownment. You wouldn’t need any of them if Hyunjin would just come back, you kept telling yourself. You were never sure why.
“Why ‘lavender girl’?” you’d wondered once, seemingly centuries ago.
The sharpness of him shocked you everytime, the bluntness of his truth, the easiness in which he carried himself. The fluidity of a dancer, the intensity of the dance.
“Because you’re devoted to me.”
You’d scoffed, pretended offense. “You sound sure of it.”
Those slits for eyes were clear, certain as they bore into yours. “Give me a reason not to be.”
You never did. He was right, of course. He’s been there since you were born, but the realization didn’t hit until the early years of adolescence, and once the burning starts, it won’t end until there’s nothing left for it. Fire is fire. In the same way, you will always be pulled towards him, as a wave, as a shore. A constant, a current—it’s all the same in what you are. Yet, it’d been three years and he hadn’t called once. You didn’t think you could forgive that. (Even after all that time, younger ‘you’ makes you laugh, shake your head in pure amusement. You couldn’t yet understand what it meant holding up a mirror and seeing yourself stare back. You didn’t have the ability to not feel like the only person in the room, and in the same way not notice your own shadow trailing behind you. It was Hyunjin, that was all those things. An extension of, a reflection.)
(It wouldn’t be until college that it’d finally click. And those would be Dionysian years; years that would stretch over your mid twenties and then finally into your first real relationships.)
The day is barely turning into night when the phone rings. A lapse in time difference, and your mother makes sure he knows that. You strip her of the receiver and press it into your ear, listening to his steady breathing over the line. It feels like you’re holding your own breath, bracing for impact, letting the outer change of him infect the inner workings of his heart.
Truth was, nothing had changed. Not when it concerns you.
“My lavender girl.”
“Angel doll,” you exhale, breaking into an inevitable toothy grin. “I’m mad at you!”
You can almost picture him smirking, those eyes twinkling. “I’m sure you are, darling.”
“When are you coming home?”
“Soon, you impatient girl. I heard you got into your first choice. Congratulations.”
You can’t help the proud swell of your chest. Hyunjin was, after all, an excellent student throughout the school years. An example you couldn’t help follow after.
“I heard you’re into tattoos now,” you retort cheekily.
“You can say that,” a ghost of a smile in his words.
And you really can’t stop what comes after. Because you’ve waited too long to say it, because it’s haunted your dreams for months, only to be confirmed through a fucking photograph. Your oldest friend, your only friend. You turn away from your mother, a sign for privacy, of secrets.
“You’ve been hurting, haven’t you?” Barely a whisper.
It’s in his silence. The way it blankets over everything.
“Tell me your deepest, darkest secret, angel doll. I worry about you,” like all those times before.
“My own words against me,” and he chuckles, and it’s miserable, and you can hear the sound of a lighter, of an inhale. “When I call, you’ll come.”
“Of course.” In a heartbeat. Your promise.
“This is the only way I can have you, (Y/N). Please worry about me. I miss you.”
He hangs up before he can hear your reply. It hovers in the middle of the call, through the cable, to wherever he is. You stand there until your mom calls for you, and even as you move it moves with you. Always the joke, always the thing left unsaid. You carry it like gold in your pocket, to be used later.
There’s more ink than you expected.
It covers parts of his forearms, behind his ear, half of his neck, and you pull him in your room for an extensive search, unbutton his shirt as he stands still, quiet, and watches you undress him—it’s on his ribs, over his heart, you turn him around, shoulder blades, his nape. Your fingers go over the intricate lines, the absence of shadows; tree branches connect from the neck over his shoulder to his back, withering flowers hanging limply off them. On his arms, thorns dig into skin, wrapping around it like shackles, like handcuffs. But the one on his chest, that one makes it hard for you to breathe, makes you drop your hands, bite into your lip to keep from crying.
Because it’s so different, so delicate amidst the bleeding and chaos on the rest of his body. A cut of lavender positioned vertically on the left side of his chest, the only design in color, the greens and purples pastel enough to miss them. You notice, because it matters.
This is a declaration, loud and clear, and not just to you. (That will always be the hardest part.) This is for everyone that will ever see him like this, for everyone that will ask, but likely won’t get a straight answer. The question sets aflame your shaking eyes.
Hyunjin remains still, his full lips glossy with spit, jaw clenched, the only thing betraying him, what he’s feeling. To get him alone in your childhood room, the memories and the same wall colors as so many years ago—he never thought he’d be there again. With you.
You.
His head falls on your shoulder, almost in a sigh. You hold him, half naked as he is, as you made him, and you listen to his heart, the beat of it, so similar to yours. How to handle a separation—there was no such thing. It all falls back in place, as it was. He’ll be with you from now on, a shadow returning to its owner.
“What have you done,” you mumble.
“Let me,” he mutters on your skin. “Let me pretend.”
“This won’t just wash off, angel doll,” and it’s sad, it is, “Your heart.”
It’s then that he breaks the illusion. Where his lips brush over yours, and his hands guide you to the familiar mattress. Only a mere lifting of your dress, a tug on the dainty piece of fabric. You hold your breath, and look at the door. Hyunjin cups your chin and forces your eyes on him. When he enters you, you question every silly rule you put between you; every fucking missed chance, every second spent together hauled up in closets, hiding from anyone that dared to break you apart.
“Your heart,” he tells you, and you’re one. One.
He fucks you with a hand over your mouth, a murder with no weapon, hunched over you like the back of a knife, harmless in its end, and you don’t fight it, not like the other times. There are no giggles now, no laughing—he’s taking something from you, something that belongs to him, has belonged to him, and he makes sure you know. Hyunjin won’t kiss your lips, he never does, but he kisses your eyelids, your hair, your neck. All the places he’s dreamt of while being away.
When he comes inside your cunt, it’s a belongingness as well. Close enough to slip a part of him in between your cracks, but never his. Always the distinct line of otherness, of trying to hold water.
“The haunted,” he cradles you as you finally let everything out.
After this, you’ll always be together, never apart. Never. Never never never—
(Until Bang Chan. Until Lee Felix.)
“The hunter,” you finish, smiling through your tears.
He smiles back, tasting every single one. Your old Hyunjin wrapped in the new, the layers beautiful in their unfolding. You’re the only person that will ever know the whole truth about him.
“So, onto university now, is it, sweetheart?” He holds out his hand.
You intertwine your fingers in his, nodding.
“Never leave me.”
“Would not survive it a second time, angel.”
Still, no mention of the siren going off in your chests. The words cutting your throats open like a sword.
It’s there that the thing between you announces a game. A challenge, an open invitation to whomever was strong enough to try and get one or the other. An impossible task for Angel Doll and his Lavender Girl.
Everyone on campus thought you a couple already. It wasn’t until rumors started spreading about you ‘cheating’ on Hyunjin, and then him ‘cheating’ back, over and over and over, that people understood the nature of the relationship. Open, yes, but also—nonexistent. There had been no discussion of wavering feelings or breaking it off, simply because that was unimaginable. Whatever the case was, at night the two of you always slept in the same bed, naked after hours of diving into each other.
A concept hard to wrap around one’s mind. And yet your partners never seemed to care until it was too late. Until it had to become this whole entire situation that needed resolving, and more often than not—Hyunjin had to beat some poor boy’s ass for disrespecting not only you, but what you two had. Being called a slut just couldn’t seem to get past him. And he loved starting some shit.
You never mentioned his habits again, and everyone else seemed to treat it as a personality trait, a quirk that made him stand out, that made him the undeniable ‘king of beer pong.’ To you, it was a parasite that was eating him alive. Ever the overachiever, he never let the effects show, the withdrawals rock. Four years of it, and not one person ever saw it for what it was.
It was boyfriend number four that had it the worst.
“It’s pathetic,” Hyunjin would snarl in your face, half naked, a storm gathering in the corners of your dorm room. “He’s so serious about you!”
You would be proud. You would cry, and you’d get offended easily. Only because it mattered—what he thought about any part of your life mattered. You loved him the most. You loved him the best.
“And that’s a bad thing?” He’d wipe your tears away, and look at you with a broken expression, lavender stem over his heart. Always. “For once, someone actually wants to show me off, and it’s a bad thing?”
Pisces Sun eyes melted at your tone. He didn’t mean it like that. He never meant to hurt you, to make you feel less than. You were everything to him—and it was exactly that, that kept him green green green; jealousy was growing over the thorns on his arms, seeping through his skin, infecting his organs, his bloodstream—
He couldn’t have you for real. He never would. In the same way, he wanted no one else for you. His lavender girl belonged in a field, to be looked at, to be admired, yes, fuck—but never to be touched. Anything but that. What he’s trying to say… you have his heart. He can’t possibly ever lose you.
“What do you need their attention for?” He asks in a boy voice. Defeated. Childish in his adult body, with the long limbs and the long fingers and all the ways you make him feel. “You don’t need them, baby. You have me,” and when he pulls you to him, was there ever really a fight to begin with? “You have me.”
All of him. He lets you know, let’s you feel it, as he lays you down on the full bed you’ve shared since your first semester, the exception to the rule, because he’s a ‘Hwang’, and he gets whatever he wants, no matter the way, no matter what. It’s a strange thing to witness him abusing this newfound power, when he was once so against it, so different from it.
But he merely taught himself how to manipulate it, without letting it affect his character. An admirable thing for such a popular person, the students of the school his father funds would say. And he chose you, the girls would whisper. Why?
As he licks between your legs, those intense eyes looking up at your face, leftover glitter on his cheeks from the third Halloween party this week, you think you can answer now. You’re twin flames. A single soul split in half, mirroring each other. You cannot escape, as much as you can’t stay together. There will be a point where you’ll meet someone else. Where he will too. And it will be life changing, brain rewiring—it will be necessary. But the connection, it’ll never get lost.
Not as long as you’re both alive.
“Tell me you’re mine,” as his fingers bury themselves in your wet cunt, as he watches your back arch for him. “God, I can’t hold enough of you, my pretty girl. I can’t have enough of you, sweetheart.”
“Let me…let me lose myself in you again.”
And he does. Every time his cock enters you, there’s a completeness you can’t find anywhere else, not even with your own blood family. He’s made of something entirely yours, a part of you in another, and you don’t have arms long enough to wrap all around, to swallow him into you, your angel doll, your heart.
Yet, rules are rules. He never owns your mouth, only your breath. Hyunjin moans as he bottoms out, as he starts fucking into you the way he only can, his grunts filling your lungs, paralyzing your brain. He wants to, there’s tears in his gingerbread eyes, he wants to, he fucking wants to, Jesus; he wishes and dreams and begs and pleads and prays for your lips, for one kiss, for the holiest touch—but he’s turned away every time. Lines that even he cannot cross.
But others can. Others have free access to you so easily, so inattentively, those greedy guys and their dirty hands all over his lavender girl, all over his girl, and it doesn’t feel so much as a game now, it’s a full fledged out war, and he’s carrying a double edged sword, he knows, because he, too, gives himself away to meaningless people and one night stands, so in a way he’s covered in sin, covered in slime, and does not deserve you, not one bit of you.
But that doesn’t matter either. Because it’s not about deserving. It’s about the cross he carries on his back, the pain in his chest, the thorns that dig, the branches that poke and tug, the wilting of his entire self without you. Those years away shaped a tough exterior out of what he previously was, out of what you’d made, and the big hole where you should be only grew bigger. Hyunjin placed you on top of his heart, because it’s the one thing that just has to keep fucking beating in order to come back to you every single time.
A war. With himself.
As if you heard him, your palm presses on the tattoo, eyes glazed, fucked out, and all thoughts turn into static noise. Nothing is real yet everything comes into focus with you. He curses the day when he’s going to have to share you. The asshole that took you out three fucking times certainly is not gonna be the one. He’ll make sure of it.
“You must let me find you,” he whispers in your hair, emptying himself inside of you, shuddering. “Every time. Do you hear me?”
“He’s staying,” you mumble stubbornly in his arms, but your sweat is his sweat, and there’s no room for a third person in this. Not yet.
“He won’t,” he soothes you. “He’s not the one for you, sweetheart.”
“You don’t know that.”
A ghost of a smile. His lips pressed against the side of your head.
“I’m sure of it. I know what you need, lavender girl. Air, sunlight. Water.”
Your fist comes into contact with his collarbone. Hyunjin laughs, a breathy thing. You laugh too.
“Just another flower in your stupid garden,” you joke, but it’s not funny.
He stills, expression solemn. His fingers pass over your eyes, closing them in the process, and you inhale sharply. He brings his face close to your lips once again, pretending, always pretending that he’s going to do it, but all he really does—
“The only flower. My most precious one. My heart tree.”
My body is nothing but an extension of yours. I painted it as I see you. Use it as you like. Kill me if you must. It was all for you, anyway.
In simple words— I love you.
Hyunjin was born for the arts.
It was a suppressed talent, but one he indulged in when he could nevertheless. He followed you to the university of your choice, humored himself into a major he’ll never actually have a real future in, and raised a big middle finger to the private school in England and his last name.
He liked painting, but dancing—it flowed through him, moved him, it was a possessive thing. He loved dancing, is what he’s trying to say, perhaps in a similar way to how he loved you—inevitably, all consumingly.
He adored it even more when you danced with him. When he danced for you. Your body on his, swinging to the rhythm of whatever song would be playing at the parties you frequented, reminiscent of the way he fucks you, of how you fit together. There was one song in particular that became a tradition for the two of you.
Maneater by Nelly Furtado. Sophomore year, Halloween Day. You helped him put on blue eyeshadow, and you had an outrageously orange colored dress on, cosplaying as a famous rockstar couple from the seventies. His hair was longer again, the faded blonde appearing almost dark silver under certain lighting. Hyunjin always looked ethereal, but that day? All the glitter and flare spoke of magic, witchcraft beyond your usual pointy hat and swish and flick of a wand.
Somehow, somewhere, Hwang Hyunjin had been conjured up. And you were the lucky one that got to witness him in all his glory and charm, both as before and after. Prior to the two of you walking through the doors of what would be another season of unhinged fraternity parties, he held you close, semi naked chest touching yours, silk shirt feeling cool against your cleavage, and he threw you a dashing smile, the happiest he’s ever looked.
The drunkest he’s ever been.
“Marry me.”
You blinked. Then giggled, attempting to push him away so you could enter the house. His arms wrapped tighter around you, smile widening, pearly white teeth showing. There’s no way he’s serious, but despite the light tone, his eyes are dead set on you, and you very much don’t feel like giggling anymore.
Boyfriend number four didn’t make it, but potential boyfriend number five was in there, waiting for you to show up. This was no time for declarations of marriage. Panic bubbled in your throat.
“You’re—you’re not serious,” you stutter, dumbfounded.
“He’s not the one either,” he says, and his full pink lips look so inviting, so soft the more you stare at them. “Baby, you’re so beautiful, but so fucking desperate for love. You’re my girl, aren’t you?”
You wonder what would happen if you broke the rule. What fate would await you knowing how he tasted. You’d probably say yes, completely drunk on him. You’d probably throw away your entire life and follow him anywhere.
No.
“Say you don’t belong with me.”
You push him away for real this time. He stumbles back, but his smile never drops. He expected this reaction, can read you like the back of his hand. And the proposal—an intangible thing. Angel Doll and Lavender Girl. The magic would fall apart like Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage. You simply cannot afford to lose him if it doesn’t go well, if one of the two fucks up unfathomably bad.
Having no title leaves room for mistakes. You can fight about it, then fuck, and it’s forgotten by the second orgasm. But a relationship? Marriage at that? You’d kill each other, you’d die.
No.
“You can’t,” he continues, and he’s shining so bright it’s hard for you to stay mad. To push away and stay away.
You feel like crying, you feel like doing something very stupid—like go in that house and fuck that poor boy’s brains out. Obviously. Pointedly. Hyunjin would get jealous, drink some more, work himself into a sour mood, then fuck off to bury himself in the first person he sees. That’s how it usually went when he cornered you like that.
He regretted it immensely. He ran away. As did you.
Then he searched you out, and brought you home. Showed you why. Called himself your victim. You think you’re as much a victim as he is.
“You’re drunk,” you say, nearing him. “Give me until graduation.”
He shook his head, tugging at the ends of his soft hair, chuckling maniacally, like a crazy man. He was as panicked as you were; you were not supposed to know about this—his wants, his truths. His love. You’d become so good at the dance; the twirling, the hand over hand over hand, that the spilling was incomprehensible, the consequences incalculable.
“You’ll have found him by then,” he explains, and finally meets your gaze, a sad smile quivering on his plump lips. “I‘ll become an afterthought, a background character.”
“You won’t, you can’t!” You take his face in your hands, smudging birthday cake glitter everywhere, and you see stars. Galaxies, nebula’s. Your angel doll is not a man suddenly, but instead an entire universe. And you’re able to hold something like that. It’s never going to make any sense. “You’re imprinted on me, Hyun. Wherever I go, you follow. I’ll let you, okay? Stop crying, I’m not lying, I promise, are you listening?”
But he’s lost in his thoughts and fears, and nightmares again. You must look silly standing right outside a costume party, fighting to cling onto each other for dear life.
“I will too,” he mutters, nose running, sparkly tears. “I’ll fucking—I’ll find someone else, but they won’t be you, and I won’t know how to be with them, and it’s all fucked, darling, isn’t it, it’s—
“Marry me before that happens, angel. I’ve no idea how to be without you. Please.” His eyes are wide.
You stare at him and he stares at you, and you’re both saying the same thing without saying it at all, and that’s an answer all on its own.
“That’s not us,” you remind him softly. “I’m not leaving you behind, angel doll. You’re coming with me. Till death.”
And he’s terrified. He’s scared, and he’s been drinking for two days straight, has smoked more cigarettes than he can count or remember, all for it to come down to the same old conclusion. Unable to be together, but inseparable. (It will sting less later, but for now it’s an open heart surgery wound the size of two of your fists.)
He hugs you until you can’t breathe, and then pulls you into the house, where he delivers you to your plaything for the month, and heads for the kitchen to find the one thing that can numb it all away. If he sees the way you hold onto that beast of a guy, Ivy League scholarship, football star in the making, he holds back. It’s futile anyway. He has no way of stopping it.
Instead, he goes on a little hunt of his own. He likes to call this revenge, but really it’s punishment.
For him.
He eases you into your first threesome during spring break.
The guy is familiar to you, you’ve seen him around, but can’t really think of a name, or a major. Maybe from a party? It doesn’t register until much later that he’s Hyunjin’s fucktoy from freshman year, and for some reason you can barely stand, it makes you sick to your stomach—
Because this kickstarts the beginning of the end. He’s showing you how it’s going to be from now on.
“She likes it rough,” he informs the black-haired boy standing between your legs. Then he leans into his neck, and whispers, “Like me.”
He doesn’t mention how you only learned to take it that way, because it was the way he taught you. And you loved it—the flesh-eating need to have someone disassemble you and put it all back together, to have someone’s cock (his cock, it’ll always be his first) (until Bang Chan) buried so deep in your pussy you feel him all the way in your stomach. The feeling is indescribable, every.single. time.
“You’re okay with this?” The cute guy asks you, but you’ve never taken your eyes off Hyunjin. He hasn’t either.
“Yes.”
“I’m Felix, beautiful,” he tells you, dropping to his knees and hooking his arms around the backs of your knees, sliding you close to his face. “I’ve heard all about you.”
He found them first. Your hand shoots out for your angel doll, and he grabs it without thinking. He’s there, as promised, guiding you through your first orgasm with someone that’ll end up being the love of his life. He’s shaking, and he’s caressing your hair like he’s going through unbearable agony. Perhaps he is, as you cry out and moan another man’s name for his ears to hear.
“Shove another finger in her, see how she cums for you.”
And you do. Again and again and again…
By the time Felix is done with you, Hyunjin is unzipping his jeans and getting on top of you, his mouth leaving butterfly kisses from your neck down to your breast, to your navel, on your swollen clit. You don’t dare open your eyes; you hold his hand tight, and fall into the feeling of his weight, of his hips, of his length pushing past your folds.
“Fuck,” he grunts, and it’s the sexiest sound you’ll ever hear. “You’re just for me, sweetheart. It’s always going to feel this fucking good with you.”
You don’t see it, but Felix gets behind Hyunjin and slips right into him. Your doll collapses against your collarbone, muttering, moaning, baby… fuck, let me die here, let me die between the two of you…
His thrusts find a rhythm, as your voices all blend together, strings of filthy words bringing you closer to your release. You’ve never watched Hyunjin get fucked before, he’s usually so dominant with you, but you think you prefer him this way more. Surrendered, half mad, leaking inside you, his beautiful face twisted with pleasure and pain—a painting of pure ecstasy.
Felix grabs your boy by the neck and twists his head so he can kiss him flat on the mouth. Something stirs inside you, but it’s not jealousy. They look so in tune, move so well together that it’s hard to hate them. It feels like the point over the horizon where the sun and the moon meet—there’s a certain flowing between them and it runs like water, parts like the Red Sea.
“I think your girl wants a kiss,” the black-haired boy pants as he catches you looking. He slows his thrusts, takes his time with the two of you.
“We don’t kiss,” you and Hyunjin reply at the same time, and then giggle, eyes bright.
It all soon turns into deep mutters and moaning again, and you come the moment he hits something inside you, reaching so incredibly deep he has you seeing black spots, has you shaking. You hold him close as he reaches his release, a couple minutes after you, and Felix winks at you, kisses your angel doll’s back and gets off so you can stretch.
The three of you lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, made up of nothing but breaths and sweat. You can smell the sex in the air, feel Hyunjin’s fingers play with the stickiness between your legs. You rub your thighs together, wanting his touch on you again. Always, perhaps.
“You’ve never kissed?” Felix asks, but he’s not being nosy. He seems genuinely interested in the fact.
“Never,” you reply, and Hyunjin intertwines your hands on the cotton sheets. “Are you planning on sticking around?”
A moment passes. Then, “Yes.”
Your mouth curves. “Then you’ll find out why.”
Hyunjin laughs, brings your hands up to his lips and kisses the back of yours. “This is my lavender girl, Lix. You’re gonna love her.”
Your little arrangement continues until well into your third year. Hyunjin had cut back on the alcohol but was smoking like a chimney in winter. Felix did a lot of good, brought a lot of light anywhere he stood, to everything he touched.
And you liked him quite a bit. He kept your favorite boy occupied and silenced the voices in his head, something no one except you could do. They were clearly in love, clearly enamored with each other. Nothing mattered outside your little circle, and it felt the same way for you, as well. Until Hyunjin came to your room crying one night in December, with a bloody nose and a broken heart, locking the door hurriedly, begging to let him inside you.
You closed your book, jumped out of your shared bed, and ran to him. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
“He slept with someone else, he doesn’t understand, darling, he doesn’t get us…” he muttered on your cheek miserably, resting against you, arms clinging onto you.
You rubbed soothing circles on his back, let his tears calm down to a soft sniffling before you questioned him. You’d learned long ago to be gentle with him when he’d get like this; your angel doll did not handle life well, rejection even worse.
“Is it exclusive?” you ask softly. “What you two have… did he know?”
When he ignores the question, you know it isn’t. But Hyunjin is hurt, stubborn and possessive and he will never share, not unless he approves first. It doesn’t work for everyone, but it works for him and he’s never cared. With you it’s out of the question. The unfairness is lost to you, but you’re certain that it should feel wrong, that he should probably let you go, too.
“Why would he do that to me? I love him.”
You’re jealous then. Ever since you snuck booze in your room and painted purple eyeshadow on each other’s lids, you’ve never uttered the three words once, not even as a joke, as a whisper, as a mouthed forbidden curse—but Felix gets to have it just.like.that? Spilled out like a murder scene between you? Your killer is pressing kisses on your collarbone, tears mixed with saliva, and you feel him all over you, all the times you’ve let him imprint what he cannot say, his seed still inside you from the last time you fucked, his sweet voice calling you ‘pretty darling,’ ‘beautiful lavender girl,’ all of it, does it even matter now?
He can love another, but could never tell you, his open field, his summer breeze, love betrayed, recycled—
Your hands stop him, push on his chest, your own stomach turning. Your eyes can’t possibly meet his. Hyunjin breaks apart in front of you, but you don’t think you can save him from himself this time. Not tonight.
“If I don’t say this now, I will be killing my own heart, angel doll…” you whisper, and there’s a ball of something in your throat, it’s choking you, it’s crushing your skull. “Have you ever loved me—”
It’s within a split second that he smacks his hand on top of your mouth and presses his own on top of it. His arm is digging on your lower back, and you can feel his erection against your thigh, hard through his baggy jeans, always hard for you, and needy, so needy, so ready, and how can you be so stupid, so silly? He is not himself when he’s not with you. He only hopes you feel the same way.
He kisses you like that as if he were kissing your lips, and your wet cheeks touch his, your voice breaks trying to whisper his name, his own hushes you, brings you closer. The one thing you swore you’d never do.
“Are you leaving me? Is that what this is?” you ask, desperately trying to catch your breath, hear over the rushing of your blood.
Hyunjin laughs, fully removes his hand from your jaw, instead rubbing your cheeks, caressing your hair, pulling at the ends, looking at you with the gingerbread eyes, the honey eyes, the ones you can’t resist, don’t ever try to.
“Silly girl,” he scolds you fondly, his mouth curving, the red lips sore, and he appears much like the moon to you now. “I apologize. What would ever become of me if I didn’t have you? If I never met you?”
When he truly smiles, through the tears, through the pain, you can’t help but to smile back. The game is back on, the walls rebuilt themselves, but it’s not quite pretending. Not anymore.
“You’d be miserable without me, angel doll,” you pout, giggling as he tickles your sides, sparkling as he throws you on the bed and has his way with you.
“I’d be miserable,” he confirms, kissing down your breast. “I’d be dead. But you understand why I have to love him, don’t you?”
Your eyes meet. “He’s the sun,” barely audible.
His hands fumble, the sound of a zipper, his cold hands lifting your dress. “He’ll look over my lavender field,” his pulsing cock pushing against your entrance, “my sweet girl.”
Hyunjin fucks you like he’s going to lose you, slow, hips grinding into you like he’s trying to leave a piece of himself inside you, where you can never find it, never remove it. He looks beautiful in all the ways he isn’t saying it, in all the ways he means it. Your arms wrap around him, and you fall, deeper, further, for all eternity.
As promised.
It’s in your senior year that you understand why you had to wait.
Bang Chan is older, he’s a film graduate, he’s Felix’s best friend from Australia. His accent is thick, his hair is curly, and his hands are surprisingly rough.
He takes you against the dormitory building at four in the morning, after drinks and a round of bowling. And it’s different, it’s intense—somehow you know exactly what to do, he moves just as you like it, you never bump, it’s overwhelming, it’s fucking amazing. He’s the best kisser you’ve ever had, his mouth tasted like mint and his cologne smelled of tobacco and vanilla, a mix you’ve never seen on anyone else, and somehow he’s just for you, this man with the irresistible smile and sculpted face.
You trace his eyebrows, kiss his jaw. He never shudders, like your angel doll, but instead—he grunts, he growls. You come on his dick three times on your first date, and he brings you over to his place every night after that, for a month straight. Hyunjin distances himself, lets you explore the new world, lets you get to know, but you always see him in your room when you tiptoe around a space you’ve called home for four years, like a thief.
He pretends to be asleep as you grab clothes; sees you choose which panties Chan would like best, what perfume would drive him crazy, if you should do velvet or silk—he gets jealous, but never angry. He chose this man for you, saw how he folds when you look at him, how he’d crumble into dust if you ever broke it off.
They made an agreement, the two. They’d share you as long as they were both allowed to love you. Hyunjin never said it, of course. But only a fool would miss it—
The way he burns and is reborn every time you blink, the stem over his heart, his only calling.
One rare day the Aussie is off working on his many projects, you take Hyunjin’s hand and together you sit under the big oak tree, in the middle of campus, you with your book, him with his sketchbooks and pencils.
“Tell me your deepest, darkest secret, lavender girl,” he mumbles against your exposed belly, and you giggle.
You can see the branches through his thin white tank top. Your heart. “I love him, angel doll,” you say, confidently.
His eyes are the moon again, his lips cherry blossom. His hair is getting longer.
Like sunlight, Felix morphs behind him, waving, beaming down.
tags. @ughbehavior, @cb97percent, @streetlight-s, @j-0ne25, @danyxthirstae01, @lix-ables, @skz317cb97, @koorminii, @choinsaw.
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