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You two were like night and day. He was chipper, vibrant, almost disturbingly bright. You though⌠you were something else entirely. You are the never-ending enigmatic puzzle he tried to solve.
You were moody they said. â Youâre fascinating,â he said.
You were weird they said. âYouâre unique.â he said.
âItâs fine,â they said. âDo you feel safe?â he asked.
And thatâs all you needed. Reassurance. That you were whole as you were. So naturally, you fell in love. And Iâm all your life, youâd never felt so at peace. So warm. So welcome. He handled you like a flower yet to bloom. And for a long time, you were a woman painfully aware of just how captivating she was. You were a match made in every galaxy there could ever be.
Yet, you ran in all the opposite circles. He was considered popular. His school years and adult life screamed the vestiges of boys charm. Even his job required him to be charismatic, and heâd worked his way up in the minute six months heâs been there. He was always invited to these fancy dinners. Heâd always ask you to attend, being his wife and all.
And at first, you meant to go, truly. Then, you saw the pictures on his company website. All the âstandardâ conventions of beauty were seated near him, damn near in his lap. And your man, your poor oblivious man just smiled for the camera.
So, when he asks for the third time this month, you lie. Of course you do. You were pushing 30 and questioning everything about your life. So, youâd rather not sit at a table where people your age had it all figured out.
âWhatâs wrong?â he questions. You two have just finished dinner and he stands at the sink, ready to wash the dishes.
You have an open face. Heâs always told you that. Nonetheless, you try to mask your internal battle.
âNothing.â
He blinks once, twice, and on the third flutter of his lashes you see his patience thinning. Thereâs a little tick in his jaw and the grim line that his mouth has become is telling.
He crosses his arms. âI wonât ask again.â
âI know.â
You stand there for what seems like hours, staring at each other.
âGoodnight,â you murmur across the island of the kitchen you share. Before you break down and he can utter a word, you briskly walk down the hallway to your room.
The next time he asks, youâre on a date. Youâre in a corner booth, at a restaurant you canât really pronounce the name of. You order the chicken, he orders the steak and the time passes peacefully.
That is until a woman that looks vaguely familiar approaches your table.
âCho-Cho!â She squeals and you visibly startle. Your husband chuckles and you donât find anything funny.
âHi, Heather,â he answers.
Oh?
So, he knows this woman. Although itâs barely a few seconds, itâs enough to make you uncomfortable. The exchange is odd to say the least.
Choso places his utensils down and beams at you, both rows of bright teeth full on display. âThis is my other half.â
âHeatherâ whips her head in your direction and her slender midnight eyebrows lift.
âAh, youâre the one our Cho Cho canât stop blabbering about.â
There that nickname goes again. Your mood is ruined. Out of politeness, you nod your head and greeting. Her eyes flick to your ring finger and the 3 carat diamond never felt so good.
âSo about that new account,â she ponders, â Wanna team up?â
Your fork clatters to your plate.
At the same time, your husband says, â Do you mind? My wife and I really want to enjoy our night out. Iâll see you at the office.â
With that, he lifts up his wine glass and takes a sip. She flounders for a few seconds, but collects herself.
She then declares, âMake sure you get the tiramisu, like last time.â Then sheâs off.
Your eyes shut and your teeth sink into your lips. The quiet vexation boils from your head to the very tips of your toes. He notices. Of course he does. You push through it, though. Dragging your knife through your chicken once again although the appetite that was being satiated is dulled.
He calls your name, albeit softly, but the tone is sharp. Itâs almost accusatory. Your gaze never leaves your plate. Not to offer conformation that youâre upset or to reassure him that everything is fine. That hurts his feelings, and you know it does. Despite that, you push around the lone asparagus spear on your dishware.
He sighs. A long shaky rattling of his diaphragm that makes your head droop further in gloom. You know him and that heâd never hurt you. But nights like these terrify you. The only man youâve ever dared to say you loved is loved. Heâs loved by anyone and everyone and everything. Heâs loved by the people at work, and your families, and his coworkers. Heâs loved by babies on the street. Even the flowers in your bedroom grow towards his side of the bed.
Itâs not something he can help. And your sometimes jealousy canât be helped either. You donât fault him at all. You love him more than life itself. But sometimes things like this cause such an overwhelming sense of dread within you. Your head is shaking before you know it and your mind is telling you to get up and get away from this. But your body wonât move. Itâs like youâre stuck in a fight or flight and your body really has no desire to do either.
He sits down his utensils and gently waves over the waiter. Not even two minutes later, the waiter is coming back with the bill, and Choso slides a couple of bills in the folder. Heâs then ushering you out with a hand of the small of your back.
The walk back to the car is absolute silence. From an outside perspective, it would seem like you two are leaving from an awkward first date and are now parting ways. After he makes sure youâre safe and secure and buckled in, he walks back to the driverâs side. His navy blue suit and black button-down pair well with his body and the Italian loafers he has on tap slightly against the pavement. ďżź
He finally makes eye contact with you midway to his side and your eyes widen and at his demeanor. His face is red, brows are furrowed, and his hands are clenched at his sides. Your gaze snaps to the window and the soft click of the drivers side door closing is deafening.
He turns toward you. You feel the seat shift and he murmurs quietly, âLook at me.â
You canât. You wonât.
âIâm not moving this car until you look at me.â
You could sit here all night. That stubbornness was one of the annoying things he admired about you. You continue to stare out of the window and thatâs a mistake. His tongue pops against the roof of his mouth and thatâs the first warning. That tongueâitâs responsible for many things but the noise throws your head into a tailspin. The last time you heard it, you ended up sore everywhere.
Then, thereâs the long drawn out sigh. The sigh signals a very thin line between frustration and despair. Internally, you are panicking , but externally, you shift a little lower in your seat and grab your seatbelt.
Finally, thereâs the hum. Itâs a gentle thing and if you werenât really listening, you would have never known. But that hum, oh that hum. That is the final straw.
You wouldnât say youâre scared. Because you never will be scared of him. However, you would say that youâre a bit cautious. The sweet and doting husband could also be domineering and fiercely devoted.
He didnât always use his words and the times he didnât you were stolen of yours. Lying, breathless, in a puddle of your own essence was the lesson youâve learned many times over.
So, it really doesnât surprise you, well, not too much when he declares four simple words.
âGet in the back.â
You know better than to argue â and even better than to ignore him. So you without a word take off your seatbelt and crawl to the backseat. He waits until youâre settled back thereâ leg bouncing in quiet anxietyâto strike.
He all but scrambles to the backseat. Your body jostles from the sheer force of his body landing on the seat next to you.
âNow,â he says, tone still soft and gruff. âLook at me.â
You begin to shake your head, unwilling to see the emotion plain on his face. He grips your chin, just hard enough to bring you back to reality. And with effortless ease, he turns your head.
Before you have a chance to slam your eyes shut, he coos, âDonât, my love.â
And when you gnaw on your lip so hard youâre afraid itâll tear in two, he coaxes it free with a gentle tug.
âTalk to me,â he whispers.
With a gasp you didnât know was in you inquire softly, âAre you screwing her, Choso?â
His face crumples instantly. His eyes slant down, his forehead crinkles, and his mouth parts slowly. Heâs not angry. No, not at all. You believe heâs devastated.
The truth is, you know the answer. Of course, he never could. Youâve never seen him so much as look at another woman in your presence, so having an affair was incredulous.
âHow could I ever?â
Itâs spoken so quietly in the stillness of the sedan. You could barely hear it over the blood rushing through your ears. Sure, you want to stop this conversation now and apologize like the adult you are. But something just wonât let you.
All those late nights, waiting up for him. All the looks, he constantly gets from women. And youâll never forget the way his coworker tonight looked at you. Like you were no match for him.
So, you continue.
âIt would be easy.â You shrug, feigning indifference. âYou only come home to me. I have no idea what youâre doing in the time weâre not together.â
His eyebrows are becoming increasingly drawn together and his jaw is clenching so hard you fear for his teeth. But he lets you speak. Never one to interrupt.
âI just want you to be happy. Even if thatâs not with me.â
When you finally look into his eyes, heâs waiting for you. He appears calm on the outside, but you know heâs anything but. His bottom lip, trembles, and you think he was about to cry from the way he tongue his cheek.
Heâs a man of few words. Always has been. Choosing to forgo lengthy speeches for emotion filled glances, and Cheshire cat smiles. Today, though, today it seems like thereâs something on his mind. He squares his shoulders and without breaking eye contact with you, he sobs.
His body trembles with the intensity of it. Your eyes flutter closed then, terrified to see him like that, mostly because youâre the cause. He sniffles and breathes harshly through his nose before he speaks.
âWhy would you say something like that to me?âďżź
This is where the regret comes in. It comes in waves, too. You take a deep breath and open your mouth, ready to apologize, but he shakes his head.
âDonât ever say anything like that to me ever again. Do you understand?â he really leaves no room for discussion. You only offer a nod of your head in response.
He rubs at your knuckles as he breathes,âI love you. Iâll never find anyone on this earth that I love more than you. So please donât break my heart like that. I donât know what I did or didnât do to have those thoughts even grace your pretty head but tell me how to fix it.â
âItâs stupid,â you murmur, voice cracking from lack of use.
âItâs not,â he challenges.
Now itâs your turn to cry. Your lip wobbles and you let on a full wail. Your chest heaves with exertion and you throw your head from side to side in despair. Itâs been years and youâve never uttered a word of this to a soul. So when the breath whooshes out of you and your eyes sparkle with unshed tears and your orbs meet his, your heart sighs.
Youâre not sure who moves first. All you know is that suddenly, youâre looking up at a waning crescent moon and the iridescent stars in the sky.
The dress you picked for tonight is shirked up carelessly and thereâs no need to prepare. Not really. Your body welcomes him. It always has.
Tonight feels intense. Bodies moving and bandaging burns that were never brought to light. The sounds you make are embarrassing. Loud and staccato. His are desperate and gruff. But not a word is spoken.
His body surges and recedes with terrifying precision and all the while, he wonât look at you. You clutch at his face, hoping to anchor him. To show him that although you were wrongâso terribly wrongâyou were here.
Instead of giving you that reprieve, he shoves his face into your neck and thatâs a seldom occurrence. He always wants to see you. Every time. Every position. Then you feel it. Your neck is wet. And this isnât sweat. The salience is almost unbearable. He moves so slowly on top of you and your breath stutters when he tilts his head back to look into your eyes.
Heâs crying.
Even as he wrecks your soft spot over and over again and your waterline becomes blurry. Youâve never seen him so raw. He always chooses to be the epitome of patience, calm, and collection. With you at least.
But with you nearing an orgasm that wracks every cell in your body, itâs hard to picture his calm. Just as you approach the crest, his body pauses. His whole body comes to a halt inside you and he shakes with the effort it takes to stay still.
His teeth grit and he mumbles something through clenched teeth. Itâs a quiet thing he says. Itâs so quiet that your ears donât quite pick up on it. But your nerves are igniting, toes curling in silent frustration.
âMove,â you whimper.
âTell me you know Iâd never cheat on you.â
And itâs inevitable the way your mouth forms the words and pushes them out effortlessly. Itâs also inevitable the way he resumes his pace and youâre clenching down.
Your breath halts along with his and once you come down, the silence is content. He simply lay on you for a few moments, hands dabbing off the perspiration on your forehead. You revel in it, hands finding purchase on his back.
He touches your chest tenderly and whispers, âThis heart is the only one Iâll ever need. You understand that, donât you? Share your feelings with me, my loveâbut donât doubt mine.â
Just as I think Gale would be warm, I think Astarion would be chill to the touch.
Now this may seem obvious seeing as heâs a vampire, but I donât mean icy cold. No, not the cold that if you touch it for too long it starts to burn. Not even unpleasantly cold. But chilled. Like the cool side of your pillow youâre always trying to flip to, the cool your feet keep searching your bed sheets for, and the cool night air that hits your face when youâre drunk.
Youâre traveling in the hottest season, hiking miles with heavy gear no less. When itâs time to set up camp everyone looks like a sweaty, frizzled mess. Besides Astarion, of course. Backpacks thump to the ground from weary muscles and messy hair. Meanwhile, Astarion is halfway through setting up his tent, checking his nails in a most satisfied manner. Everyone is too tired to care about his silent flex of comfortability, so he becomes vocal.
Astarion watches you struggle with a collected grin, âLooking a bit hot, need someone to cool you off?â
You glare in his direction, both annoyed and attempting to hide the butterflies that appear in your stomach whenever he flirts with you. He holds half-lidded eye contact with you as he takes slow gulps of water from a corked jug. Astarion closes his eyes from the refreshment and clear droplets of water dribble from the corner of his mouth and the misaligned jug, tracing the length of his pale throat.
You canât help but stare, your mouth somehow dry as a desert and salivating at the time time. You flip your head around pretend not to notice, although he definitely saw you. As you begin to unbuckle your bedroll Astarion holds the jug of water in front of you. As you look up at him to take it he quips, âHere, youâre clearly thirsty.â
He gives you a cheeky sideways glance, and your cheeks flush hot. Somehow hotter than before.
â
You canât sleep. Itâs just too damn hot. It doesnât even matter youâre wearing your skimpiest camp clothes, they stick right to you. Youâre tossing and turning trying to find a cool side to your bedroll. You tried touching the ground, but even the grass was warm. The only thing chill was the night air, but you needed the security of blankets. There was no right answer. You prop yourself on your elbows with a huff.
Suddenly you hear a sultry voice from a few feet behind you, âCanât sleep?â
You turn around, startled, âHow did you know?â
âDarling, I can hear you huffing and puffing and fidgeting from halfway across camp. I can barely sleep, myself, with all the racket.â
You plop back down and close your eyes with a defeated, âhmph.â
Suddenly you feel the back of a cool, cool hand on your damp forehead.
Relief. For the first time tonight you feel relief from the heat.
Astarion keeps his hand there for a few seconds more upon hearing your sigh of contentment. He pulls his hand away, âOh dear, arenât you just burning up?â
You glare at him. Did he disturb you just to rub it in? âWell it must be nice to be cold all the time.â
His wide eyes flicker solemnly for a moment.
âIt isnât,â he replies softly.
His eyes return to their cat-like slyness in an instant. âHowever, itâs better than being all sweaty and sticky like the rest of you.â
A beat of silence settles between you. The air is slightly thinner. Astarionâs eyes fall into the distance for a moment, before settling on your face again. Youâre starting to wonder why heâs here, and youâre missing his cold hand on your forehead. For a moment, pride (or shyness) overcomes you and you donât say anything. But the thought of the rest of the night spent tossing and turning makes you speak up.
âWould you⌠put your hand on my forehead again?â
Astarionâs lips curve upwards, and he breaks into a laugh. He isnât used to innocent requests.
âHow sweet⌠Sure, Iâll rest my hand on your head. No funny business.â
A smile rests on your face as he lays down next to you. Closing your eyes, you feel his cool fingertips raking through your salty hair. He rests the back of his chilled hand against your burning hot forehead, then your cheek. You feel your heart swell and your breathing slowing. He presses the back of his hand to the side and back of your neck. His breath irregularly puffs on the crown of your head. Between your closeness and your dwindling consciousness, it occurs to you that vampires donât need to breathe.
Huh.
Sleep is dragging you down one breath at a time. Just as you slip into the unconscious you feel a light, cold pressure around your hand. Finally, you can rest.
tell me about your computer angel bc I ALSO have a computer angel and love the concept
Heck yea!
Okay, well, where shall I begin with this stinky chud
So, his real name is actually Niamh, and he used to be human, was born in to very religiously conservative Irish-English family, Niamh for the past his childhood he has been pitted against his other five siblings and it was rather the survival of fittest, Niamh saw his other siblings as a competition, and by his parents, he taken in extreme views and hostile beliefs.
This has reached onto his adulthood, trying to regain back his control by developing his extremeness of hurting others. Doing thorough research of the angels he watches by (the angels were before among humans), seeing how people easily trust in angels and into their words, he decides to kidnap them and take for their organs and wings to make himself freakishly into this angel that he is.
So I do want to clarify, he is actually a cis woman, masc presenting as he is, and is homophobic and has internalised misogyny, the reason I refer to him as âheâ is because he presents himself in that faux angel persona, trying to be seen as that âstrongâ and more âsuperiorâ of angel, his faux persona is called Sammael, but people have started calling him âSumibiâ too because in Latin, it means loss of identity, and to other people that knew him, he spiraled out this terribly that he became unknown of an person.
Now, you may know that he does intervene into the plot and to the other OCs, but mostly heâs known to have especially a long stand against All Saints, and putting much suffering on them by forcing them to go through these lengths of battles against âParasitic Angelsâ (the divine monsters he created from remaining Angel bodies), doing this deliberately to make them late enough to save anyone he harms.
You may notice the scars on All Saints, notably Zsokaâs missing eye/scar, that was caused because of him, a Parasitic Angel struck her on the face so bad she was on verge of being paralysed (thankfully, she healed because of meeting her now wife, Sedona, and Alin and Tevan). But Zsoka has known Sumibi before at one point in past when Zsoka used to be under a different care of much older group, who had a bit of distain towards her, she was forced to be under Sumibiâs care when she was 19, he shown much dislike towards her and has said some transphobic things against her and hurt her, and whenever she tried warning about it to the group they showed no concern, until that day of incident with the Parasitic Angels, putting the group at death, Sumibi spiraling further, and Zsoka was terribly injured, but then meeting the very three that are the light in her life and on forward.
Seeping into Modern Day Group plot, as All Saints finally get closer to him after being forced in isolation by him with so many of parasitic angels to kill off, Sumibi further figured how to torment the modern world, and in such year of 2000 and y2k it was the chance to blow the world in full panic, from messages across digitally to forcing people into sacrificing, the Modern Day Group have to now deal with him too. Mere towards âendâ of the plot explanation nutshell that I have provided (not the actual end, cuts off and more is to be revealed), Mateusz, Izolda and Harper go face to face with âhimâ, or at least, try to get ahold of him, as All Saints reach towards the Cathedral of where the others of the Modern Day Group are.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming