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kneelingshadowsalome · 7 months

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Salome!

"La Belle Dame sans Mercy" ("The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy") - A ballad by John Keats

"The poem is about a fairy who condemns a knight to an unpleasant fate after she seduces him with her eyes and singing." please

This screams Knight!König x Fairy!Reader to me.

I just know König would gladly die by the hand of such an ethereal being.

"She looked at me as she did love, and made a sweet moan."

"And sure in language strange she said—'I love thee true.'"

That’s it. Thank you.

I swear this artwork kills me everytime I see it....

Ok this became the silliest fairytale ever 🩷✨️

CW: Historical AU blending with mythical/supernatural AU. König being a dreamy mess of a knight who doesn't fit in "normal" society. Reader is part of faefolk. Heavy Arthurian Romance vibes.

König returns to the castle one day. The son of a great liege lord, a warrior through and through, but some people say he should’ve been a poet: so dreamily he looks beyond the battlements at times, sighs after drinking too much wine, stares off into dark corners of the room while tending to his sword and armour as if he can see little pixies dancing there.

His siblings sometimes hit him on the back of his head, or wave a hand over his eyes when he’s about to slip into the fairy world, a forgotten plane that is not supposed to reach the castle. But the castle stones were taken from the moors and the woods, the old land not bending to the priest’s will no matter how many crosses they brought here. Fragile souls are wanton prey for the elves and the fairies who would take them to their land the moment they drop down their guard, and only prayer and fasting hold them at bay. In the fairylands, there is no toil or sorrow; the food is golden honey and wine, the dance and love everlasting, and the fae girls more beautiful than any human maid.

It sounded too good to be true, and it was: God had created men to work and women to give birth, and all the land was theirs to use and cultivate, it was not made to simply run and frolic upon. Some say that these were just old tales and that Christ would banish these creatures away, turn the land to yielding crops and tame firewood.

But some still believed.

When he was a child, the mighty son of the feared lord took porridge and almonds to the woods. “For the fairy people,” he said with bright, trusting eyes. Stole food from under the mistress’s nose, and no one ever dared to say anything about it.

But when this nonsense carried on to adulthood, people had to intervene. There was work to be done, war, harvest and building, and no matter how many coins this man paid to the visiting bards, it would never turn their stories true.

His arm was strong and his strike was true, but his head seemed to be filled with dandelion wine, even when he hadn’t been drinking. Sighed after this maiden or that, wished to travel to foreign lands, courted every nobleman’s daughter who visited the castle, but no one ever took him seriously.

This man had to watch how lady after lady chose some other valiant knight as their husband, some men whose heads were not filled with fairytales and dreams. They did flirt with him, for who could’ve resisted the temptation of making this giant a little sweaty under all that armor? Armor that demanded plate for two people, and a smith who had the talent to forge such a beastly thing.

Nevertheless, he was always left without a warm embrace, and so he was usually found outside, looking at the full moon or spending time in taverns, choosing the company of thieves and rascals over his serious kin.

And now he has returned from the woods, having been gone for months.

People thought he had finally left to fight for some other lord, posing as a simple footsoldier, a disguise that would relieve him of his tedious duties as a knight. Or to court some “lovely peasant girl” he always talked about – such talks were usually crushed by his father, demanding him to be sensible for once in his life.

But he doesn’t prattle about peasant girls now, nor does he ramble about screaming ships at the bottom of the sea. He doesn’t hold a speech about forgotten stone circles in the forest, the ones that already grow moss. No, he has finally lost it completely.

His eyes are wild, as is his hair; his armour is nowhere to be seen, and his sword is without its sheath. He doesn’t talk about what he saw in that forest to anyone, nor is he willing to tell where he has even been these past few moons.

He seems very shaken when he’s told they were worried he wouldn’t make it to the May Day feast, and asks for how long he was gone, drives a hand through dishevelled hair when he hears that he was away for three full months.

“Three months…” he mutters to himself, then leaves to his room, the huge sword dragging against the stone floor as he goes. He has always, always made sure it wouldn’t dull, but now he’s treating it like it’s become a part of him, confused and lost.

He doesn’t eat, hardly speaks after that.

The food tastes like ash, he says, and the ale tastes like bile. But the following evening, when his mother orders someone to pour her poor son some more wine, he looks up helplessly like a child.

“I have to go back,” he says.

A clamour arises, huffed exclaims of “What on earth is he on about” and “Sir, you only just got back!” His father rises from his chair and orders him to stop this nonsense at once. But this time, there is no embarrassed sweep of hand through hair, no red colour that rises on this peculiar knight’s cheeks. His lips only make a thin line before he rises as well and leaves the hall with a weight on his shoulders and dark determination in his stare.

At the stables, a stout Moorland pony and poor stable boy get to witness the drunken bawls of a forlorn knight. The wine sack almost slips from his hands to the dirt as he slumps against the timber of the stall, distorted face coming to rest against a wide, shaky palm.

Luckily, a friend of his knows where to look, and the stable boy sneaks into the shadows, slightly scared of the sorrow of such a big, intimidating man.

But even the companion who always listened to every enthusiastic story since they were kids and ran across the moors, throwing little rocks at his father’s soldiers and laughing when their helmets made a funny clinky sound, can not understand the drunken babble that comes out of König’s mouth this time.

He starts from the middle, which is highly unusual, and talks in strings of sentences that don’t make sense. “She was real, I just know it,” he repeats, over and over again in the middle of confessions about how beautiful she was, how her hair was like the softest spun yarn, her body incredible, naked and wild when she came to him. That her laugh was like the chime of little bells or the sound of the loveliest harp, a song on its own when she walked to him.

She was fascinated with his sword, especially the pommel and the handle interested her, and the curve in the middle of the blade she brushed with her fingers as if it was an entire vale.

He had never seen a woman touch his sword like that… They were never interested in such things, but she was, and she asked him so many questions.

Had he ever felled a tree?

Did he like squirrels?

Were his thighs as hairy as his chest?

She took him down the river, or he followed her; he can’t remember. Her step was so light it didn’t make a sound, and the moss seemed to turn brighter every time her little foot stepped on it. Her hands were tiny too when she wrapped them around his neck, pressed her body against his, and kissed him until there was nothing left of him: no helmet, no sword, nothing but sun and her, her hands and her lips.

Her mouth was still on his when she whispered she didn’t like his armour because it was so hard and rigid and cold, oh, she wondered if there was a man inside there at all.

So of course he showed her.

She giggled at the sight of him, especially his thighs, knelt down on the moss to see how hairy they were.

And would you believe the way she touched him then? It makes him heady even now…

Yes, he took her. But not the way a man takes a woman. She came to straddle him and laughed again, and the things they did together… He can’t even speak about them, but he knows the sun always shined when they rolled on the grass. Her giggles and moans surrounded him, her soft little thighs were stronger than they looked, her breasts so round and soft, so perfect he swore he had gone to heaven.

He bathed in her, with her, all day long. And the nights… You wouldn’t believe the nights: there was song and dance and more giggling women, and also a man dressed all in leaves, so big and thick he first thought he was a tree. An old king, she said, nothing he should worry about. And the wine tasted like summer and honey and gold; it was red, perhaps, but also like sea amber and sun…

She fed him flowers and laughed, caressed his face and said he’s the biggest and hairiest human she had ever seen. She let him lick honey from her fingertips and caressed him with heather and ivy, opened her mouth before feeding him a soft, sweet piece of cake, showing him how he needed to open his mouth as well if he wanted it on his tongue.

She kissed the crumbs from his lips and trailed a finger down his chest, all the way down, until…

Oh, he can’t talk about it.

It was better than he ever even imagined: better than the stories they tell in the taverns. It was like his wedding night, over and over again, it was like he was Lancelot, and she was his Guinevere.

No, no, she was not an enchantress, although everything about her was enchanting... All the stories came alive with her, even the moon was bigger than anywhere he’d ever seen, the deers ran past them while they made love, and the birds sang even at night.

He told her he loved her, but she didn’t know what it meant. When he explained it to her, she looked at him gently, so gently…

He cried from joy then, but she never mocked him. She only said it’s a sign that he’s hers. That he will never forget her. She said he’ll always find her, even when he’s old: she will make him young again. He’s welcome here if he wants: she has so many places to show him.

He thanked all the saints for having found her, Saint George and Saint Mary first, but stopped when her little brows furrowed with sorrow. Her eyes, filled with starlight and love, turned so sad that his heart couldn’t bear it, not for one beat.

The sea is far wilder here: he should come and see the ocean as it was at the dawn of time. The ivy is so strong you can use it to climb the trees and see the whole world from atop the tree, the whole land, covered in forest, such as it was before humans came. There’s no smoke or fire or war: just green everywhere, wild rippling streams and honey bees and berries and fish for everyone who ever feels hungry... They can make love day and night, and she’ll teach him all the songs of old. Humans only remember bits and pieces, but she knows how things really happened, she can tell him everything about heroes, kings and queens.

She said she wanted to sleep, and so he took her from the feast and laid her on the grass… She might’ve sung to him, he can’t remember, but it was like an angel’s caress all over him, somber and sweet before the dreams took him, a dream within a dream.

He slept for ages, it seemed, saw so many dreams, each more beautiful than the last until he woke up and saw that the forest had turned grey.

There was no maiden in his lap, no dance and song in the distance, no scent of flowers and dreams and springs to be found. The sun was up in the sky, but it didn’t paint all the colours with gold or fill the streams with light. The forest was half dead to him, just old, thick trees around him, a green-grey forest floor and a shaggy squirrel who chirped and squeaked at him as if it was his fault that the fae folk were gone.

He searched for her, called for her, but she didn’t answer, and how could she have? He didn’t even know her name. He only knew how lovely she felt, how soft her hair was when it fell to cover him like a veil, how adorable her sighs and tiny little gasps were when he filled her, over and over again.

His armour was nowhere to be found, and his sword was somewhere downstream, half covered with leaves and dirt, rusty and beaten by the wind. It was early spring when he came here; the land was still barren and grey, but now, everything was green. Still, it was not the green he wanted. It was not the green that filled his vision entirely, bright, blooming green that pulsed with lush joy. It was just… earth and grass and dirt.

So you see, he has to go back. He has to find her, whatever it takes. She promised he could always come back… She promised…

He cries once more, head bowed and mighty shoulders trembling from the force of his sorrow, and it is no use to tell him that the fae folk are evil. That they’re from the Devil and only want to make good, decent men like them forget. Forget their duty, their laws, their Christ.

It’s no use to tell him that it is not natural, the place he has seen. No doubt he has been somewhere, but it cannot be anything good… No man can survive on flowers and spring water for three months; they cannot frolic with the faeries for days on end without losing their mind and soul.

And König is already lost; he was lost since he was a child, rambling about how he received flowers, sticks and stones as tokens of the faefolk’s gratitude because he brought them food.

He tries to tell the boy who never grew up, the mightiest man in this kingdom, the dreamiest knight there ever was, that he needs to return to the real world. No fae woman would have him as a husband, they are only after his soul. But surely some human lady would take him into her bed, think about it, for God’s sake, please... He has duties here, people who love him, his father would make him a lord if he only put himself together. What kind of knight would abandon his sword, helmet and armour for the sake of an elf who despises the saints...?

But in the morn, König is gone.

His rusty sword is on the floor, the wooden cross taken off the wall. There lies a honeycomb and a flower on his window, a blossom so sweet it cannot be plucked from any field around here. Too exotic and bright, especially when placed atop the rough, grey stones, it looks like it could never wither from how beautifully it blooms.

The peasants now tell a tale of a man that haunts the woods: a huge giant dressed all in green, donning a leaf cloak of some sort and a beard that grows ivy. But they say he is not evil: he only shows himself to hunters who are about to fall a deer, or children who remember the land with little gifts.

Old men say they saw a green man when they were kids and brought bread and milk to the faeries, they swear to this day they saw a man who greeted them with a smile. And when they looked again, there was nothing but a tree where this giant stook, a young oak, sighing with the wind...

#könig x reader #könig x you #mythology au #arthurian au #historical au

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grimm-writings · 4 months

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HI ITS BARD ANON I MISSED YOU!!! insane request but what about a situation where the party + kabru + chil’s family orchestrate a date between chil and reader? like setting them up… i think that’d be so cuteeee

for the dancing and the dreaming

…ft! chilchuck x gn! reader

…tags! fluff, post-canon spoilers, chilchuck’s wife remains nameless, i love chilchuck's family can you tell

…wc! 1887

…notes! BARD ANON I’M BACK FROM WAR (burnout) !!!! these two requests are similar so i decided to make ‘em a wombo combo!!! enjoy my loves!

The woman gives you a kindly smile as she waves you off, you and her ex leaving the tavern. She sighs and leans back, crossing her arms.

God, Chilchuck is more stupid than she remembered.

How could he possibly miss the affection in your eyes when he called out to you both before you left? Or how you clearly wanted to ask if you can stay with him longer? He’s just going to ignore that and consider it all platonic?

What an idiot. Do I really have to step in for him again? Just like old times, huh…?

The half-foot taps a finger against her cheek in thought. Maybe she can push you to confess? No, you’d probably wave your hands around and insist against having feelings for Chilchuck in the first place. A heavy sigh escapes her.

Looks like she has to do things the old-fashioned way.

Step 1 – Family

The quickest way to alert someone is to see who the people closest to you know. Flertom is rather in-the-know about any gossip. Usually, as a mother, the half-foot really doesn’t want to encourage such things, but for now…

“What’s trendy in dating circles nowadays?” She asks offhandedly, eyeing a bouquet Flertom bought to gift a possible suitor. “Is the man still expected to be the one to initiate everything?”

She could nearly scoff at her own words. Only reason she and Chil got together was pure happenstance. Practically a blur by now. He’d be hopeless at actually trying to start anything with you.

The younger woman hums in curiosity, before stopping to think. “Not really nowadays, no… If you have enough charisma, you can charm any man into taking you out for a drink. Why do you ask, Ma?”

Flertom squints as she watches her mother laugh and shake her head in response. “Oh, I just think your old man might need some… encouragement with a new flame is all.”

Just as she expected, Flertom was immediately on the ball with planning, rushing out to the town in order to visit her sisters and inform them of the operation. She practically commanded her old mother to see if she could look for any clues about Chilchuck’s possible beau. With a knowing smile, she remarks that she’s very happy to pay a visit to Melini.

Step 2 – Friends

“You really think something that elaborate could work?!” Marcille Donato leans forward in her chair. Her eyes shine with a certain kind of joy at the idea of playing Cupid that amuses the matured half-foot significantly.

She nods. “I don’t see anything else coming close to pushing them. Force might be the only way.”

A female tall-man, Falin if recalled correctly, squints and hums, tapping her finger on her chin as she tilts her head. Her brow furrows. “From what I know, Chilchuck seems to be more open, but… I don’t know if he has the courage to be truly vulnerable in front of someone like that.”

“No need to tell me twice,” his ex scoffs.

“Oh!” The king, of all people, seems to have an epiphany. “We could hold some sort of ball, encourage him to invite a plus one. That can work, right Kabru?”

All eyes turn to look at the advisor standing to the side, clearly enjoying the conversation but not wishing to intrude. He startles at the sudden attention, before clearing his throat behind his fist.

“It will take some time to plan, but it could work… You mentioned having three daughters, ma’am, you can take one as a plus-one, and the two will take each other.” He’s calm with his conclusion, which the half-foot woman can definitely respect.

“A banquet of all their favourite foods,” the dwarf Senshi, as food-brained as ever, sighs in daydream.

Kabru takes a step forward. “Though I have to ask,” he enquires, “is it really necessary to call upon all of the king’s advisors and himself for a Cupid scheme?”

Silly boy. He doesn’t yet realise the stakes.

If Chilchuck and you don’t say something soon, then you may stay silent forever. This idea might be the best shot they have.

Step 3 – The Preparation

“What’s even the occasion…?” Chilchuck sighs as he adjusts the sleeves of the formal outfit he’s wearing. He’s definitely unused to something so high-class. Being invited as a guest of honour certainly isn’t doing any favours either.

Not to mention, Laios was stupid enough to not even bestow upon you a guest of honour title! Chilchuck has to go through the means of inviting you as a plus one due to some ‘organisational issues’, as Kabru put it.

What a load of crap.

“I ‘unno!” Puckpatti peeks her head around the corner to look at her father. “Royals just seem to like their balls!”

“This isn’t one of your period romances…” Meijack’s voice rings from the other room too.

You sit with them, talking amongst one another. Flertom’s plus one remains a mystery to you, though she assures you that you’ll meet with her when you get there. You can only assume it’s the girls’ mother but you have no clue why she’s so giggly and secretive about it.

“On the contrary!” Flertom announces. “I think it’s exactly like a period romance. Maybe one of us will be swept into a dance so beguiling, you forget there’s a whole ballroom of people!”

You squeal in surprise when Flertom takes your hands and pulls you out of your chair. You dance together in a fit of giggles. You only barely miss Chilchuck walking out to meet with you all, a fond smile on his face.

Little do you know, he’s thinking about what it would be like if joy like this could be shared in a household with the two of you.

“Come on now, settle. Apparently there’s gonna be a carriage taking us to Melini. I couldn’t fight against the theatrics, according to Marcille…”

“Oh Papa!” Puckpatti sighs blissfully. “We truly are living like nobles now! Maybe you can… ah…”

Both you and Chilchuck spy her eyes darting towards her sisters with unsureness. How strange.

“You can find… someone nice there!”

“No, Patti.” Chilchuck shakes his head with a sigh. “I’m not gonna marry some rich dwarf.”

“You are too cruel, Papa,” Flertom points out with a pout. “No one will want you if you just keep saying no.”

As the three bicker, Meijack spares you a sympathetic glance, and she rolls her eyes. Her sisters hardly know subtlety. Finally she stands up and walks to your side.

“I’m glad you’re here with us,” she says with uncharacteristic softness; she’s similar to her father like that. “Papa has good taste.”

You go red just as much as Chilchuck. For a moment, Flertom and Puckpatti wonder if their less romance-focused sister has some secret charisma she’s been hiding up her sleeve this whole time. It seems to work though, as they chorus their agreements loudly.

“Very good taste!”

“Their formal wear matches yours fashionably well!”

“Just as pretty as Ma too!”

“If not prettier!”

The entire carriage ride to Melini was full of this type of chatter, asking questions about you and Chilchuck’s time together the whole way. A few times you had to clarify that you are only as close as the rest of your old party were close, but were only met with a few smug “mhms” and “sures”.

Chilchuck can only roll his eyes when he gets the chance to comment on it privately with you. “I have no idea what’s up with them.”

“Oh, cheer up!” You laugh softly. “I’m flattered that they like me.”

Chilchuck can’t help but hear your laugh and chuckle along – music to his ears. “...Yeah, I’m glad they like you too.”

“Come on! Ma is here to greet you two!” Flertom’s voice calls out.

The mastermind has been watching you and Chilchuck the whole time you approach. Her expression remains neutral, with the smallest sliver of a smile. Seems like the proximity has been lending itself quite well.

“Well, aren’t you two a pair,” she greets you both. “Ready to take the ball by storm.”

“Your jokes haven’t gotten any better,” Chilchuck replies.

“And you’re still wearing the same shabby suit from sixteen years ago.”

Chilchuck flushes red once again and you can’t help but laugh, patting his shoulder sympathetically as he hooks his arm through yours.

The watching half-foot knowingly grins. Yes, you two are definitely going to take it up a level after tonight.

Step 4 – Profit!

The ball came and went. It goes as typical as the dark-haired half-foot expects. What really is supposed to be a high-class noble event is a mask for foodies, romantics, and those looking for a fun time.

Senshi’s food was as wonderful as promised, and even if this was all done in the name of romance, Flertom and Puckpatti had to be held down from trying to approach the dwarf with lowered eyelids and twirled hair. Chilchuck doesn’t need more heart palpitations than he already did.

She did her best to encourage Chilchuck to drink. She knows better than anyone that his tongue only loosened when he got enough alcohol in him. It hurts just a little, knowing that this is one of the only ways Chilchuck can be open with someone romantically.

The temptation did cross her to ask how Chilchuck views her now, but she stood against it. It’s not the night for that.

By the time the party drew to a close, people were exhausted, drunk, in a food coma, or all of the above. The King had to be dragged over to his quarters, and Marcille had since passed out on Falin’s shoulder, who’s bidding farewell to guests.

The dark-haired half-foot swirls the last of her wine in a glass as she stands outside, making small-talk with the tall-man. It’s not until you stumble out with Chilchuck clinging to the fabric on your hip that she looks up.

“Do you—”

“No need for help!” You reassure her with a grin. “He always seems to get clingy with me when drunk, so I’m kinda used to it at this point!”

Your laughter meets a knowing smile, not knowing exactly what she’s so smug about. “Yes, he seems to really like you.”

“I sure hope he does, considering he’s accepted my request to go on a date with him.”

Falin perks up enough to wake up the elf on her shoulder. “A date?”

The half-foot across from you is stunned into silence. It actually worked. The atmosphere and passion of it all actually egged you both on!

“Congratulations.” You’ve seen more emotion from the dark-haired woman than ever before. Her smile relaxed but her eyes shining, the lines underneath crinkling with happiness. “Treat him well, okay?”

“Of course,” you reply, and you lean forward a little. “Thank you for your help. Kabru couldn’t help but gossip to me.”

You wink and lean up again. Chilchuck at your side whines for your attention and you laugh, walking towards a carriage.

Safe travels were promised, and the dark-haired half-foot turns to the two blonde women.

The elf blinks slowly, red-faced from drink.

“Did we win…?”

The two other women laugh. Stories must be exchanged the next time you all meet – especially on your end of things.

#✮ grimm's fics!#oh man this will be hell to tag #delicious in dungeon #dungeon meshi #dungeon meshi imagines #delicious in dungeon imagines #dungeon meshi x reader #delicious in dungeon x reader #chilchuck #chilchuck tims #chilchuck x reader #chilchuck tims x reader #chilchuck imagines #chilchuck tims imagines #meijack chils #puckpatti chils #flertom chils #chilchuck's wife #yeah that'll do

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heavysighing-dreamyeyes · 1 month

Text

On Tattered Cloaks

Part four of this pirate!au. You didn't really think your husband wouldn't track you down, did you? ~4.5k words

Quiet sobs start to fade to disbelieving giggles. It really was that easy. All of your husband's promises had vanished with just one careful plan and a few moments alone.

You were actually getting away. You actually managed to flee his presence without letting him catch you. It's all made worse at how painfully simple it was.

He had been nearly perfect in the market, everything you had missed in the years apart. He wanted to build you a garden, a home away from the sea. He saw a life with you.

But that doesn't change that he has a life without you. Something better, something bigger without you to drag him down.

The wagons continue none the wiser to your suffering. Hours of being trapped in your own thoughts eventually come to a halt, as dirt roads turn to stone once more. Voices pick up as the wagon comes to a stop, and the canvas parts to reveal the old caravan leader.

He offers you his hand, and you hope you don't look like you've been crying as you take it. He helps you down as you murmur shaky thank yous for his generosity.

"Ah, here, you'll probably want this," he says, gently releasing your hand to pull out a decent-sized coin purse. It's filled with enough coin to buy you food and lodging for a few nights, and a ticket to the next town.

You falter, eyes darting between him and the coins, "I– Oh. I can't take this. You've already helped me so much."

His expression softens as he takes your hand and places the purse in your grip, "You've had a long journey. Take it. I insist."

"But," You start as he pulls away, "I can't pay you back."

He shakes his head faintly, sympathy crossing his features, "The look on your face was clear enough, dear. I know the signs of someone running from something. Allow me to help, at least this much."

Your shoulders slump, his words make tears want to fall all over again, "Thank you."

He shoos you along kindly, "Just be careful. It's dangerous to travel alone."

You offer him a smile and he returns it before focusing back on his cargo. You slip into the crowd without another word, heartbreak is heavy, but the old man's words make your steps a bit lighter.

It doesn't take long for you to find another caravan, offering its services to Central City. It's an easy decision to make. This town is far too small to stay in, and far too close to Star Port. All it takes is a few coin from the merchant's purse, and you're seated and traveling to the next city.

You fidget with the hair pins in your pocket as your thoughts inevitably return to your husband, to Jason. Was he looking for you? Is he relieved that the burden of his past is gone?

It's irrational, but the feeling of being followed makes your skin prick, makes your head turn to check over your shoulder as the Central City gates approaches. There's never anything there.

The guards wave the caravan through without much inspection and you find yourself in a brand new city. It's strange, to be in a city with no port. There's no cries of gulls and no smell of the sea. It's nothing like Gotham, nothing Iike Star Port. It brings a sense of security.

You're quick to leave the other travelers as the wagons stop, and you're even quicker to weave through the crowd. You make your way from the fancy, wealthy district and towards the seedier, tavern lined streets.

It takes longer than you'd like, going through the inns and taverns to look for a job, to look for somewhere to stay. Eventually, you find a sign outside of a grimy looking Tavern called The Wildcat, looking for a barmaid or barman to apply inside. The pay doesn't look exceptional, but it does offer free room and board.

The old man at the empty bar doesn't even bother to look up when you walk in. "Excuse me," You ask, "are you still hiring for the bartender job?"

He doesn't spare you a glance, just focuses on the glass he's cleaning, "yer too soft."

"I– what?" You ask, taken back.

"Yer too soft," he repeats, finally looking up at you, "couldn't handle the types we get in here."

That makes you straighten out, "I can handle whatever drunks find their way in here." It's the truth. The long days spent searching for any information at Gotham's docks prepared you enough for that.

He looks you over, but something in his eyes changes as he studies you closer. He nods, like he found what he was looking for, "Yer room is upstairs. Last door. Your shift starts in an hour."

You blink, "I– okay."

"Don't cause any trouble," he mumbles grumpily and goes back to cleaning the same glass.

It takes you more shifts than you expect to learn the owner's name. He eventually grunts out 'Ted Grant' between showing you the best way to kick the taps to get them to work. Within a few short weeks, The Wildcat becomes something like a home.

Your coworkers, who only seem to come in when it suits them, joke with you and introduce you to the best parts of central city. Cissie King pulls you onto tables to dance and she shares stories of how she misses living by the sea too. She's your first friend that's completely yours in a long time.

Ted knocks more than one handsy patron on their ass for you, and there's a story to him you haven't quite been able to get him to open up about. He pats your shoulder the first time you hit someone yourself, and murmurs how you remind him of his niece.

It's almost perfect. It really would be, if it wasn't for the dreams. Dreams of your husband, the way he used to hold you, the sound of his laugh, the color of his hair, the warm touch of his hands. His promises echo in your head, that you're his, you'd always be his. That he's going to find you, no matter how long it takes.

It makes you snap awake, grabbing at your blankets and eyes darting frantically around your empty room. Your gaze always settles on the hair pins set on your vanity. The ones you can't seem to get rid of. The silver rose seems to glimmer when you look at it.

There's an ache in your heart during mornings like this, where a part of you so desperately misses your husband. You trace the petals of the rose. You never dared to wear it, never risked even the possibility of being recognized.

The day seems to pass in a strange haze, like the calm before a storm. Not even your weekly lunch with Cissie eases the edge in your body. Every stranger seems like a threat. By the time you've returned to The Wildcat for your shift, you're jumpy.

Ted notices and waves you off to deal with the kitchen, lazily grunting that he can handle the bar himself. It's a blessing in disguise that he does.

A red-headed man swaggers through the door, and drops down at the bar. For a second, your heart drops with the idea it's Roy– but, no. Ted huffs out, "Thought I banned you, West."

The man shrugs, a boyish smile on his face as he brushes off his dark long coat, "That was ages ago."

Ted grumbles something, but you don't hear the rest of the conversation. You just see the glint of guns at the strangers side and the way his eyes lock on yours through the serving window. It makes your skin prick and the feeling of danger set in.

Nothing in his face gives away anything, but a part of you feels that he knows. He knows who you are. He knows Jason.

"Hey. Eyes off my staff," Ted snaps, waving a hand at the stranger.

'West' smiles widely, "Don't worry so much, old man. I was just leaving. Give my best to Cissie," he drawls, making his way out the door. He shoots you a wink as it closes behind him.

Ted grumbles over how he didn't even buy anything, but you can't focus, overwhelmed by the feeling of how wrong that felt. It has to be impossible, whatever that was, it can't be connected to your husband.

It's what you tell yourself as your shift ends, as you turn restlessly over in your bed, as the day passes until the next night. It's what you keep repeating right until a hooded figure walks into The Wildcat.

It's busier tonight than normal, but it doesn't stop the man from walking through the crowd and sitting in front of you at the bar. You can't ignore the figure, even if you do delay serving them by talking with other customers. The sensation of walking into a trap curls in your gut when you finally speak to him.

You ignore your unease as you smile, professional and pleasant, "What can I get for you tonight?"

You can't make out their features, concealed by the shadows of their hood, but their cold, low tone sends chills down your spine, "Rum, if you will."

"Coming right up," You chirp with a sweet smile, quickly busying yourself with pouring their drink. You set the glass in front of them, "Can I get you anything else?"

"No," They answer evenly, gloved fingers curling around the smooth glass before downing the drink with a single swing.

You take the cue to return to your other customers, but the tension doesn't leave your shoulders. He's watching you, calm and collected as his fingers drum rhythmically on the hard surface of the bar.

The night continues like this, he denies any more liquor, and even the patrons who usually are unruly and flirtatious seem mellowed in his presence. It's unnerving, so much so you find yourself in front of him again, "Would you like to close your tab?"

He nods slightly and reaches under his cloak to pull out a pouch full of coins, dropping it to the bar.

You tilt your head, whatever amount is in there greatly exceeds the cost of a single rum, "It's only a few coppers."

He seems unbothered by this, leaning forward to speak in a gravely tone, "Keep it."

Your unease is visible now, like you can feel the walls closing in, "I couldn't possibly."

The hooded figure merely chuckles and it makes you jolt, the sound quiet, low and cold and all too familiar. Chills run down your spine as he speaks again, amused, "Don't protest on my account. It's a gift."

"A gift," You ask, strained. There's no way. It's impossible it's him. You'd been so careful.

"A gift," he echoes, and his voice has a strange tone, an implication there's more to the offer, "a gift for the pretty bartender."

You pick up the pouch reluctantly, "Is there an occasion for such a generous gift?"

His fingers resume their drumming, voice still low and amused, "Call it an appreciation for beauty."

You blink, then lower your tone to match his, "Does this gift have a price? Perhaps, sir, you'd like to know when my shift ends?"

His fingers still and he tenses at your coy tone, he murmurs, almost absentmindedly, "Perhaps I would, love."

You lie easily about when you'll be free. It surprises you sometimes, how easily you've come to lie.

The hooded figure hums, you tell yourself you're imagining the disappointment in his tone, "I shall be waiting for you then, darling."

"Outside," You ask, keeping the shake that threatens to make itself known in your voice at bay, "In the alley?"

He laughs softly and nods, "The rear of the tavern will do just fine, love."

"I look forward to it," You say happily. Another lie. You have no intention of being anywhere in this city by the end of the night.

"As do I," he drawls, and for a moment neither of you move. It's a standstill, and his complete attention focuses on you in a strange, familiar way.

You watch with bated breath as he finally rises from his seat and leaves the tavern. You don't relax, immediately mumbling to Ted that you think you're going to be sick.

He doesn't get an answer out before you're taking the stairs to your room two at a time. You tug your cloak on, throw whatever you can carry into a small bag, shove the hair pins into your pocket.

You scribble an apology for Ted and Cissie onto paper, chastising yourself for not leaving after the red-headed man stared you down yesterday. You dump out the hooded figures' coin purse, quickly counting out the coins.

You freeze when you see coins aren't the only thing in the bag. There's a ring. It's beautiful. So visibly expensive and so obviously something you would wear, it makes you sick. You leave the coins for Ted. You drop the ring into your pocket alongside the hair pins with shaking hands.

Your mind races with plans and the best routes to get out of Central City as you scramble down the stairs. You stop yourself just before you take the back exit. It's too obvious. It's where he'd be waiting.

You sneak into Ted's office, it's more of a closet with a window really, and push the glass open. You drop out the window quietly into the tiny garden, the only light to guide you coming from the tavern and the moon.

You make your way carefully to the adjacent stables, constantly checking for the hooded figure over your shoulder. The shadows of the night conceal most of the area, but there's enough light to see the horses stirring within.

You wake one of Ted's horses, a young mare you convinced him to buy to help pull a wagon. You murmur a soft apology to Ted, and hope the obscene number of coins you left make up for this.

You saddle the horse quickly, and pull your hood low over your head as you pull yourself onto the mares back.

It makes your heart race, as you guide the mare from the stable, how many hiding places there are. How easily Jason and his crew could be around any corner. You head for the city gates, and goosebumps rise on your skin every time you check behind you.

There's a heavy feeling in the air, the shadows seem to reach for you as you encourage your horse out the city and onto dirt roads. You have a terrifying thought that you're being tracked. It gnaws at your mind relentlessly.

You grip the reins tighter as you ride faster. You're so far from the ocean, you've been so careful, and as you get further from the city you start to convince yourself you overreacted. It must have been nothing, only a traveler interested in the poor and pretty bartender working in a cheap tavern.

The thought is comforting, it's what you convince yourself of as you guide your horse towards an inn along the road. The hour is late, and to continue traveling only risks thieves and highwaymen.

You stable your mare, and with one more glance over your shoulder, you enter the inn. It smells of food and ale and dirt, but it's clean enough. None of the patrons seem familiar, but you pull your hood lower nonetheless.

The staff member standing over the guest book looks friendly enough as you walk over, "May I get a room for the night?"

They nod, almost uninterested, "Would you prefer a single or double?"

"Single. I also have a horse in the stable," You supply, anxious to hide away in any room they give you.

"Very well. Four silvers for the night and one for the stable," they answer, "and your name?"

You hand them the coin and lie about your name. "I'll return with your key in a moment," they say, and disappear through a curtain.

You glance towards the door as you wait. It's unexplainable, but you half expect to see Jason barge in, sword drawn, just as he did at the ball so many moons ago. It takes longer than it should for the innkeeper to come back.

"Is everything alright," You ask when they finally hand you your key.

They pause, then smile, "Apologies for the delay. We've had quite the day here today. Everyone is tired and eager to rest."

"Oh," You prompt, "is that so?"

"Indeed. We had a group of rowdy sailors stay last night, and they only left this afternoon," they answer.

"Sailors," You say, a little strained, "we're somewhat far from the ocean, aren't we?"

They nod, "They were picking over a map, quite the strange bunch. They caused a few fights with the other guests. Their captain was quite a sight."

"Their captain," You breathe out airily, heart in your throat. Any mask of a simple, curious traveler is hard to maintain as the inn keeper talks.

"Yes, his presence demanded attention. Dark red hat, more scars than I've ever seen, unruly hair. He was very intense, even as his crew joked around him," They answer, "but he paid fairly."

"I see," You mumble, forcing a smile to your face as you place a gold coin on the desk, "I do enjoy my solitude so, and I would be very grateful if you discouraged anyone from the idea that I was ever here."

The innkeeper's expression visibly shifts, greed and interest sparking in their eyes, "Of course. Your generosity is welcomed. We pride ourselves in dissuading anyone who inquires over our guests."

You smile again and head to your room in a daze, any comforting thoughts of the hooded figure not being related to Jason disappear. You have the urge to get back on your horse and keep riding. But it'd be a sure way to get hurt or robbed if you did.

You have no choice, but to wait until dawn. You settle in for the night, on edge. Sleep doesn't come easy, and the rest you do have is plagued by the color of your husband's eyes and the sound of his voice.

You're out of your room at the first rays of sunshine peeking over the horizon. It's a habit now, to tug your hood low as you drop your key on the inn keepers book. You ignore the hunger in your stomach and head straight for the stable.

The reassuring sight of your horse doesn't make you stop short, but the hooded man holding her bridle does. Neither of you speak as he pets her with gloved hands.

He's clearly no stable worker and you cross your arms at the sight, an attempt to hide your nervousness. You weigh your options, before speaking, "You're touching my horse."

He turns his head slightly at the sound of your voice, "Aye. So that I am. She's a fine stead." His voice has a subtle edge to it, almost menacing. You don't miss how his hand clenches around the reins, firm and unwavering.

"Are you going to keep touching her," You ask, and for all your plans and escape attempts, you can't think of a way out of this.

"Why shouldn't I? Such a fine beast deserves some attention, don't you think." He would sound playful, almost nonchalant if it wasn't for the challenge in his voice, daring you to confront him.

You exhale softly, stepping forward, "As much as I'm sure she adores your attention, I have somewhere to be."

He makes no move to release his hold on your horse's bridle, and you can feel how his gaze roams over you. He shrugs, dismissive and his tone dips almost condescendingly, "Do you now? What a shame. I was just beginning to delight in our little conversation."

"What is there to delight in," You bite back, fed up with the arrogance he exudes.

He lets out a laugh, his grip tightening on the reins before releasing it completely. He drops his hand to the pommel of the sword slung on his hip. "Ah, there's the spark I've been hoping for," he muses, voice low and laced with humor, "You're not one to bow down easily, are you, treasure?"

You stiffen, and it's like jumping into a cold river in the early morning and a harsh punch to the gut. He called you treasure. There's only ever one person who's called you that. It's a chilling, unarguable fact that your husband has tracked you down with a relentless determination.

Your eyes dart, scrambling for a plan. He has a sword. He's too close to your horse. You'd be lucky if you outrun him. He likely paid off anyone in the tavern that would help.

He steps towards you, tension mounting, "What's the matter, love? You've gone so quiet."

"How?" You ask sharply.

He tuts, unimpressed, but his voice is laced with satisfaction, "Well it wasn't luck, treasure. Do you think I'd be foolish enough to rely on mere luck when it comes to matters as important as this? No, no, my love. I used every resource at my disposal. Connections, favors, whispered words in the right ears, all to find you"

You imagine he looks smug right now, that despite all your careful steps, he still found you, "Take off your hood," You bite out.

His demeanor changes, any playful mockery gone as his hand tightens on his sword, voice dripping with danger, "Why should I?"

"Why wouldn't you?" You retort, hands dropping to your sides. It's not a secret who either of you are anymore, even he hasn't said your name, and you haven't said his.

He stares at you, as if weighing the pros and cons of the action, "Very well, treasure." With a steady motion, he draws his hood back, revealing a cascade of dark hair framing his face, the sunlight illuminating his features, rugged and determined and familiar, Jason.

He looks harsher. It's only been a handful of months but something about him seems off. His gaze is more intense, shoulders more stiff.

You try to reconcile your memories of your smiling husband with the man in front of you as he sets his jaw, "You look different," You tell him.

There's suspicion in his eye when you drop your hood as well, but his gaze darts over you greedily. "It has felt like an eternity without you. The months where I couldn't find you..." his voice trails off as he studies you, "it shouldn't be surprising that I look different."

"It was nothing compared to when you were missing," You say flatly, trying to keep your emotions in check.

Your husband's gaze darkens, and pain and frustration etches themselves onto his features, "Perhaps that's true, treasure."

His voice grows bitter, but his longing is clear as he continues to speak, "Yet, every moment apart feels like a lifetime. This aching absence, the unbearable uncertainty, it haunts my soul day and night. Can you blame me for taking drastic measures to find you?"

"Drastic measures?" You ask, voice pitching with surprise.

Jason's face hardens, eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity, "I have left no stone unturned, no resource untapped. I've sent men to scour every corner, paid off every informant, and spared no expense."

He stares you down, voice resolute and unyielding, "So let me make one thing clear, treasure, I am not the same man I was before I lost you. I won't hesitate to use whatever means necessary to keep you by my side."

Your breath hitches, "I– your crew must hate me for that," You say softly. What you really mean to say is, 'you must hate me for that'.

His eyes soften as he registers your words and he closes the distance between you two, "Hate you? No. No one hates you, my love. You're a part of me. They understand that."

The way he says it sounds like a fact. You're not completely sure if it is. "Treasure," he continues, "my heart bleeds for you more than anything in this world."

"Then why was it so easy for me to leave?" You choke out the question that's been haunting you since that day in the market, hands curling in the fabric of your cloak.

Irritation flashes in his eyes, clearly you struck a nerve, "Easy? You underestimate your own cunning, love. I should have been more cautious that day, but don't mistake my momentary lapse of judgment as weakness on either of our parts."

You scoff and he steps forward to hook his finger under the clasp of your cloak, drawing you closer, "I was blinded by my own heart. You should know you've always had a way of making me lower my guard."

Your eyes widen. He's close. You can see the flecks in his eyes, the older scar lines on his face. Your voice is strained when you speak, "Why are you doing that?"

His brow furrows slightly, "Doing what? Talking to you?"

"Yes!" You lament, "that! Humoring me. What's your plan?"

"You want to know my plan," he drawls, dropping his hand from your cloak, "I'll tell you, my love. Allow me to make this perfectly clear, I'm pursuing you, humoring this conversation, leaving that ring for you," your fingers twitch towards the ring in your pocket unconsciously, a movement he devours eagerly.

He leans down, voice lowering as he continues, "because my plan is simple. I'm not letting you go again. I'm not allowing you to slip through my fingers and disappear into the ether."

His gaze is unwavering, studying your every reaction to his words, "What, no protest, treasure? No arguments?" He straightens back out, "Perhaps you recognize the futility of resistance by now."

"I don't know. I didn't really think I'd get away the first time," You admit quietly, his words swirling in your head.

A wry smile tugs after his lips, and pride over his ability to hunt you down and your own ability to get away slip into his expression. "Yes, it was rather an impressive feat, how long you managed to hide," he confesses, begrudging admiration in his voice, "But rest assured, my love, it won't happen again."

"Why couldn't you just let me go," You ask, pained. That should be what you really want, to free him and you of the endless waltz around each other. But a secret, small part of you is happy to see him.

He breathes out your name, voice longing and resigned, "Every fiber of my being screams for you. My heart and soul belong to you, they always have."

He says your name again, softly, gently. He grabs your arms, wrinkling the fabric of your cloak as he meets your eyes steadily, "I cannot let you go."

Part Five

#pirate!au #jason todd x reader #jason todd #x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you

354 notes · View notes

ellemarianne555 · 6 days

Text

Something Wicca This Way Comes

Author’s Note: I wanted to write something different, so read at your peril whoooo.

Summary: Aegon thinks his girlfriend might be a witch. Very halloweeny, get your pumpkin spice candles out and grab a cup of tea. Medieval AU, no specific time period or place but beware of ye olde dirty talk.

Word Count: 3k ish

Content Warnings: mdni, sex dreams, fingering, ass play (male receiving), eating out, brief 69ing, face sitting, unprotected sex, sickly sweet smut.

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Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, wasn’t sure what led him to a gingerbread house in the middle of the night. He also wasn’t prone to listening to his subjects’ requests, but their complaining had somehow roused him from his normal nap during the afternoon appointments.

He opened his eyes blearingly, he had gotten rather well acquainted with a jug of wine and a rather attractive wench the night before. Sadly he had fallen asleep before their union had been consummated. And had woken up rather early in the morning with his face in a tankard of ale and the tavern closed. He had barely stumbled back to the Red Keep before Aemond had rudely roused him from his slumber and forced him to come listen to these peasants complain. But mentions of a witch had unfortunately rattled around in his head and forced him from his sleep.

“We believe there to be a witch in the woods, Sire.” The peasant who spoke trembled, his clothes filthy and looking as though they were beginning to mould.

Aegon harrumphed crossly, sliding his eyes to Aemond who was standing in his usual position, chest puffed out and chin high, beside the throne.

As if sensing his disbelief, Aemond opened his mouth and boomed pompously; “This wretch speaks the truth, my Lord. My knights have found mysterious things throughout the Black Forest that can not be explained.”

“Such as…” Aegon droned, he was already bored of this. Who was he to care if some witch had been turning pumpkins into mouses or what not.

“I can not explain exactly, but the trees no longer seem the same. It is almost like… they can speak.” The peasant hung his head shamefully as though he knew what he was saying was ridiculous. Aegon rolled his eyes and slumped back into his throne. How much longer did he have to sit through this? Surely being a King was less about sitting on his ass and more about doing something heroic. He remembered the stories his nursemaid had told him, of brave kings who had vanquished mortal enemies. All he seemed to be vanquishing so far were the brothels.

“Last night, my Lord…” Aemond drawled, his sharp tone cutting into his brother’s fantasies of donning a suit of armour and being embraced by a fair maiden. “The night patrol reported their horses had been mysteriously cut from their posts while at a stream, and ran faster than the wind through a river that appeared out of thin air. When my soldiers tried to cross, it was though their feet had turned to stone until they waded back to the shore.”

“Well, all this could be simply explained by the weather!” Aegon spluttered. “There hasn’t been a witch in the kingdom… since, well…” He finished, unsure of exactly when. All he knew from his childhood stories was that witches were fearsome creatures, with soft hair and sharp teeth who lay in wait for handsome men. What they did with these men was never known, but they never returned home.

“Well, brother.” Aegon spoke slyly, “Your people demand a solution.” The peasant looked up from his dirt-crusted nails and nodded frantically. “Please, sire. No one will travel through our woods and our town has already lost business with neighbouring villages who refuse to come barter.”

Aegon frowned, he hated when his brother put him on the spot like this. Aemond had been baiting him his entire childhood, and once they both matured, his resentment had turned into a bitter jealousy. But he was a competent Hand of the King, and the soldiers were fiercely loyal to him.

“Well… I shall ride out there and show this creature who truly rules these lands!” The king burst out. Fuck, he’d just said that out loud hadn’t he. He’d been trying to think what the knights from the stories would have said, and in reality he just sounded like a pompous twat. A pompous twat who had just promised to charge into the hinterlands and go hunt down some imaginary threat. Well he had to go now, Aemond would never let him live it down if not. Aemond smiled, as his eye slid across to where his brother sat, what a fool.

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The woods were dark that night, and every screech an owl made pricked Aegon’s skin with fear. Still his horse plodded on into the looming blackness, oblivious to his riders agitation. Aegon had crossed the river that Aemond had spoken of, and found that the water did not slow him or Sunfyre down. Instead it almost seemed to flow faster, the brook babbling as though to whisper encouragement in his ear and spur on their movements.

Aegon gripped the reins tighter as they crossed a broad clearing, and suddenly the trees started whispering to him, as the beggar had said. “Come closer…” They teased, their soft fronds stroking his hair softly as if in a lover’s embrace. Yet when he whipped around with his sword raised, they seemed to melt back into the darkness.

A little while later, Sunfyre suddenly stopped, halting his feet to the ground as though refusing to go any further. Aegon tied him to a tree stump and left him munching on a carrot, while he began to creep towards the house in the distance. The lights in the windows seemed to twinkle at him in invitation. The house was decorated in soft swirls of pastel icing, the door knocker a lacquered candy that looked as though it would freeze your tongue if you dared to lick it. Aegon had dared to lick many things in his lifetime, but wisely decided to draw the line here. He gulped, there really was a witch in his kingdom. He reached for the sword sheathed in his scabbard, but before he could; the door flew open.

The woman standing there in the doorway was possibly the most beautiful he had ever seen. And that was saying something, Aegon had bedded many a beautiful women in his time. But there seemed to be something unnatural about her beauty, her eyes glowed a little more vibrantly, her hair that flowed seemed to sway in the wind though no breeze blew. And shit, she smelled great. Aegon cursed himself mentally. Most women normally smelled good, but this one smelled like she had soaked in cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar. The warmth radiating from her seemed to soak through Aegon’s clothes. Genuinely, he was starting to sweat.

“I-I’m sorry to disturb you at such a late hour.” Aegon spluttered, unsure of what was coming out of his mouth. Was he really apologising to a witch? The same witch whose door he had come to in order to rid her from these lands?

You smiled wolfishly, and was it his imagination or did your teeth seem a little sharper than most? You leaned against the doorframe, almost seductively. Aegon gulped, this really wasn’t going well for him. “Yes?” You questioned, an eyebrow raised in amusement. It wasn’t so often that such handsome men came to your door, you were used to the solitude of the woods you travelled through. Never stopping for long before the pitchforks and angry mob loomed over your peaceful existence.

A black cat rubbed against your ankles, purring loudly. This seemed to shake the beautiful stranger out of his stupor.

“W-well, I came here to ask you a question.” He again stammered, seeming to have lost his ability to talk to women. An ability he had once prided himself on, his slick tongue had made many women cry out in ecstasy but not in laughter as this one seemed to be struggling to hold back.

“You better come in then.” You smiled, and before he knew it, Aegon had walked into your house as he heard the door creaking to a close firmly behind him.

The house was surprisingly cosy, snug compared to his own apartments, yet warm and inviting nonetheless. The cat moved from its position around your ankles, and lept onto a soft chair by the fire. It began to lick itself, utterly bored with whatever the stranger had come to say.

“Tea?” You smiled bewitchingly, with those same strange teeth of yours. Aegon wondered what if would feel like for them to sink into his neck amidst the throes of passion. He shook his head as though to clear his thoughts, but you viewed it as a rejection to your invitation and frowned. Shit, how did he make you stop doing that.

He opened his mouth as if to apologise, but you held out a pale, long finger as though to halt his speech. “Let me guess… you are the lord of these lands and have come to ask me to leave.” Aegon froze, it was almost as if, well you were a witch.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, I only move when the moon is waxing or waning. And tonight, there is no moon.”

“My subjects are scared of your presence.”

“Not everyone is so brave as to come see for themselves. But I am a peaceful witch.”

Aegon frowned, he had never heard of a benevolent witch before. But then again, so many stories of your kind lay shrouded in fear and confusion. Many men could not comprehend the idea of an immortal beauty who lived alone and kept to herself. What is strange is often feared, and what is beautiful is not always understood.

“Why don’t you stay for the night?” You questioned and his eyes suddenly caught on how your body was illuminated by the firelight. The glow of the embers illuminated your silhouette under the previously unremarkable black dress. The material seemed to be otherworldly, shimmering in the warm glow and looking soft to the touch.

“Well… The way back to the castle is far and I am not quite sure where I left my horse.” You grinned again, delighted that he was so open to suggestion. You would have fun later, if the way he was eyeing you up was any hint.

“I insist you sleep down here by the fire.” You pointed to a soft rug that suddenly seemed to materialise out of nowhere. Yawning, he suddenly found himself very tired and before he knew it, he was sound asleep by the roaring flames.

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Aegon woke up sweating fiercely, even though at some point during the night the fire had gone out. He’d never had a dream quite like that before. Long, sharp nails scratching and carving up his back. Pointed incisors breaking his soft skin and the sharp, dull ache they had left made his cock throb. He had had dreams like this before, normally in his teenage years as he worked out his frustrations with a slick palm behind a locked door. But never had he woken with his dick throbbing this violently, it was hard and sore to the touch and he whimpered pathetically.

You were in his lap, tits almost smacking his face as you moaned desperately. He caught hold of your nipples in his mouth and nipped them sharply. If the way you were carving up his back with your fingernails was any indication, you liked a little bit of pain. His leaking cock was rubbing pitifully against your slick folds as you rocked against his length softly. The pace was torturous, yet he was out of breath. He couldn’t even remember his own name, where he was. Until you started gasping his name as you hit your peak, “Aeg-Aegon! Please don’t, d-don’t stop!”

“Aegon?” A voice broke into his dreams, and he furiously rushed to cover his aching cock with a soft blanket.

“I don’t remember ever telling you my name.”

You smiled, in a way that seemed to again mimic a predator eyeing up their next meal. “It was quite obvious, I’m afraid. The royal steed outside my cottage, your crest of armour and the insufferable air that only men in power have. Not to mention the smell.”

“The smell?” Aegon asked indignantly. “I will have you know I bathe at least thrice a week!”

You laughed, a sound that sent shivers across his skin. “Not like that. It’s more of a scent, royalty always tastes a little bit sweeter.”

He froze, seeming as if only to remember you were a witch. Sex dreams aside, this was very bad business.

“Are you going to eat me?” He choked out, at the words his prick seemed to pulse weakly at the thought of him eating you, or your cunt that is. Stupid cock, he moaned internally, I can never keep it in my pants even when I’m in mortal danger!

You laughed, “Is that what you think we do?”

“Well, the men you take never seem to come home.”

“Did you ever think they didn’t want to? I’m not keeping you here, you are welcome to leave at any time.” An elegant finger pointed at the front door. As it flew open, Aegon shivered, but not because of the cold air. Was he scared? He didn’t think so. In fact he was rather aroused.

His gaze was drawn to your blood-red lips, the way your skin seemed to glow brighter than the early morning sun, your breasts high and firm inside your sheer gown. It had never occurred to him that all those heroes in his childhood stories had found something better than killing the witch.

You noticed his gaze, and smiled somewhat shyly. The door closed, jolting Aegon from his blatant ogling. “You’re welcome to stay, if you’d like. But I have a few things I need done around the house.”

That was how Aegon Targaryen, ruler of the seven realms, found himself sweating in an overgrown garden. The sun was beating down, hot and relentless, freckles bloomed across his shirtless, pale skin as he mopped his brow. He wasn’t used to hard labour, or really any labour. But it was strangely nice, doing something for someone else.

“Thirsty?” He turned, nearly jumping out of his skin at the sight of you. Your hair flowed down your back and again seemed to catch in an imaginary breeze. You were barefoot, and despite the midday sun, not a drop of sweat hung from your smooth skin. He took the glass you offered, and swallowed down the liquid greedily. In his effort to quench his thirst, he had not bothered to ask what it was. It was sweeter than water, but not as heady as wine. He drained the cup easily, drops falling from his mouth and landing on his heaving chest. Your eyes traced the droplet, and you found your fingers tracing its path down his sternum. Down his pale, white abdomen to the thatch of soft blond hair that trailed down below his breeches. He groaned, as though he couldn’t help himself, watching those wicked incisors poke into your plump lower lip as you smiled.

“M-my lady.” He choked out as your fingers halted their path. You grinned wickedly, “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I’m not anyone’s lady.”

The kiss was sudden and bracing, it wasn’t like any Aegon had felt before. It was like his lips were on fire and he couldn’t get enough of the way your tongue snaked into his mouth. He deepened the kiss, crushing the hand in between you as he pulled you against his body.

“Is this alright?” He questioned, unsure if he was reading the situation correctly. You laughed, “I wouldn’t have sent those dreams if I didn’t want you.” His eyes widened and before he knew it, your dress had vanished. His eyes clung to every inch of you, luminous in the sun, sparkling almost.

Before he knew it, he was on his knees. And he knew it wasn’t witchcraft that had done it, but this need to have you, the earth soft below both of your bodies. His soft hands bracketed your thighs, forcing them apart slowly as his fingers traced his way up your dripping cunt. You groaned, hands wrapping in his hair, pulling softly as though he were a puppet and you were the one pulling the strings. Aegon smiled mischievously, he wanted to be the one in control. And from the second his fingers breached your cunt, he knew that you were both equally done for. The high-pitched cry you let out made his cock throb, and he was hyper aware of the fabric preventing his length from finding release against you. He pulled you down to the ground softly, as you smiled down at him. Your head blocked out the sun, and Aegon knew in that moment that he no longer needed its light. Not when he felt the warmth of your magically slick hand wrapping around his length.

He froze, his fingers halting his attack on your clit. You didn’t like that. You took his hand off his cock and whispered into his ear, “Make me cum first and then we’ll see if you deserve what comes next.” He groaned, head falling into your shoulder as fingernails scraped his back teasingly. He ate you out like a man starved, his tingue licking and kissing your cunt as if it were your lips. He crooked a finger inside you, at an angle that made your eyes roll back into your head. He certainly was a talented king. He groaned, furious red length smacking against your thighs as he hissed in agony. You took pity on him and laid him down softly, his eyes looked up at you questioningly as you wrapped those red lips around his cock. Aegon was now incapable of thought. But he saw the way your ass shook as you sucked up and down his length and pulled you over to him. You squealed around his dick as he positioned you so that you were sitting on his face. You moaned around his length again, the vibrations driving him crazy as he doubled down on his efforts to suck on your clit. He was fiercely competitive, you’d be the one coming first or he just might die.

You took what couldn’t fit in your mouth in your wrist and pumped him slickly. He groaned into your cunt and you had a wicked idea. You were a witch after all. Coating your fingers in his copious pre-cum, you traced down his balls until you found his tight entrance. “Is this okay?”, Aegon moaned into your folds in confirmation as your finger breached the tight ring of muscle. The reaction was instant as Aegon pulsed, hot and heavy in your mouth. He pulled his mouth from your cunt, gasping out as he released into your mouth. You kept your lips positioned around his cock, sucking him dry as he squirmed against you. Sharp nails piercing his thighs and forcing him to remain still, as he babbled incoherently. He lay there, panting on the soft earth for a minute. Before reaching for you and pulling you down beside him.

His fingers found your cunt again, and his thumb brushed teasingly against his clit as he again began pumping his fingers inside you. You both panted into each other’s mouths, his eyes soft with lust and sated as he traced his finger down your face and sweetly kissed your forehead. You bit down fiercely into his pale shoulder as you started to feel your release growing. You rocked against his fingers as he continued to hold you gently, through your orgasm and the resulting tremors that your cunt experienced as his fingers stayed buried inside you.

You lay next to him softly, aware that he would probably pull on his clothes at any moment and start his journey back home. Your heart ached a little bit, you hadn’t let a man into your home for many decades. You liked this one. He was soft and sweet. But in a way that made you want to keep him, let colour fill those pale cheeks and gaunt eyes.

“Would it be alright with you,” the king started, stopping hesitantly. “If I were to stay here for a while longer?” You grinned, your heart filling with hope and the soft promise of something starting anew as you tackled him back to the ground and kissed him fiercely.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

Author’s Note: Ah I hope you enjoyed! I quite like witchy reader, Aegon deserves to live his best cottage core life.

#aegon ii targaryen #hotd smut #aegon targaryen x reader #hotd fanfic

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unironicallytes · 4 months

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✨📜 A Mostly Very Specific Elder Scrolls OC Ask Game 📜✨

I wanted to talk about my TES OCs, so I threw together an Ask Game - anyone can use it, so play to your heart's content if you feel inclined! Remember to indicate if you have multiple OCs that can be asked about. I hope you have fun with it!

What era(s) is your OC from?

What is your OC’s birthsign? Does it affect the way they live their life?

What is your OC’s race and cultural heritage? Are they multiracial?

How old is your OC? Is their age typical for their race, or are they an outlier?

What is your OC's first language? Do they know any others?

Does your OC have any formal education? Via what organization, if so?

What province does your OC currently live in?

Does your OC tend to live on the road, or do they tend to settle in one place?

What is your OC’s current primary living space? Ex: a house, a mansion, an alley, a dormitory, campsites, etc.

How does your OC decorate their primary living space?

What does your OC's daily/nightly schedule look like? Do they have any routines?

Which different provinces has your OC visited? If they haven't visited any others, do they have a particular place they'd like to go?

Can your OC ride a mount? If so, what do they ride?

At what age did your OC leave their hometown and why? Or have they never left?

Has your OC ever been to the sea? Is it mundane or remarkable to them?

Can your OC swim? Do they like or dislike it?

Does your OC have a living family? What is/was their relationship like?

Does your OC have a companion, romantic or otherwise? How did they meet?

How easily does your OC make friends?

How does your OC earn money? How much does money affect their life?

What skill lines does your OC primarily excel at? Which ones are they weak in?

Is your OC passionate about an area of study? What got them into the topic?

What are your OC's opinions on vampires and werewolves? Do they belong to one of those groups? If so, what is their opinion on vampire/werewolf clans?

What moral boundaries does your OC have? Have they ever crossed them? What happened?

What are your OC’s religious beliefs? How strong is their faith?

How does the game’s main plot affect your OC’s life? (ex: Skyrim = civil war and dragons; Oblivion = Oblivion crisis; etc.)?

Your OC runs into some bandits on the road. Does your OC comply with their demands, fight them off, flee the area, or etc.?

Somewhere in a town your OC has frequented, another character mentions their name in conversation. What reactions do others have to your OC’s reputation? Does your OC even have a reputation, or do they fly under the radar?

Your OC sits down at a tavern. What food/drink are they ordering?

While walking through town, your OC is approached by a beggar asking for some gold. How does your OC respond?

Your OC is packing for a day-long trip on the road. What is in their travel bag?

A guard has confronted your OC, suspecting that they've broken the law in some way. What offense is your OC most likely to be accused of? Did they actually do it?

Your OC has just woken up from a horrible nightmare. What was it about?

Your OC feels that they are about to die. What are their last words, and to whom do they speak them to?

After miraculously surviving a near-death experience, your OC regains consciousness. What are the first words out of their mouth, and to whom do they speak them to?

#my OCs are:#zathiril (zath)#gerethiril (gereth)#and raelius #tes oc #tesblr #ask game #oc ask game #the elder scrolls

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mikashisus · 1 month

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Light In The Darkness

summary: venti isn't often vulnerable with you, but the one time he is is when he needs a whole lot of reassurance. and you have no problem giving him just that: expressing just how much he means to you.

pairing: jealous!venti x gn!reader

cws: slight angst, hurt/comfort

notes: originally posted this a few hours ago but quickly realized that i made a mistake bc the req was for a jealous mc instead of venti 😭

so instead i’ll post two versions!! this one is the venti version, and the mc version will be posted hopefully tmrw!

wc: 2k

A bard was well-versed in all things poetry. It was their job to serenade those around them.

It was no surprise to you that your lover’s angelic voice touched the hearts of many. After all, that was his job— to sing and dance and play the lyre throughout all corners of the world, gaining popularity as he did so.

Sometimes, you thought the popularity got to his head a little. All those compliments and love struck looks from both men and women alike definitely stroked his ego to a degree.

He could do without all that praise, you thought, watching from afar as your lover sang a classic tale that was well known in Mondstadt. He gets enough praise from the church.

You were well aware he was the Anemo Archon. It was easy to put two and two together after taking a glance at the statue in the center of the city.

Tapping your fingers along to the classic tale, you failed to notice the figure of the Traveler approaching your all but empty table. Aether and Paimon greeted you eagerly, their faces a welcome sight after not having seen them in months.

A smile broke out onto your face instantly. You returned their sentiments, and the three of you fell into idle chatter about their recent journeys. Before long, you were laughing loudly like you always did when Aether came to visit.

He and Paimon were no strangers to the City of Freedom. They often stopped by for a visit around the festival seasons, though this year they had missed the annual Windblume Festival because of a music event in Inazuma.

You hounded them for missing the festival, though it was all lighthearted fun. You told them about Venti’s performance during the Windblume Festival, and how he gained the hearts of many afterwards.

“Wow, sounds like the Tone-Deaf Bard is doing as well as ever.” Paimon’s deadpan expression made you chuckle.

“Indeed. I think he could do without having his ego stroked all the time, but he really is an amazing performer, so I guess it’s alright.” You said.

Paimon huffed and crossed her arms. “Still! He should at least be a bit humble!” She tossed a glare in his direction. “Who knew the Anemo Archon could be so greedy!”

You sighed, a laugh tumbling out of your mouth. It was good to know that Paimon was the same as always. Aether looked just about ready to leave Paimon here, what with all her grumbling and complaining. You were happy to see them in good health.

An hour later, the two were bidding you farewell, claiming they had to knock some commissions for the Adventurer’s Guild out before sundown.

“Take care of yourselves, alright? If you need us, you know where to find us. Please do stop by sometime soon!” you told them with a smile, “Venti bought a vintage recently and we’ve been saving it for a special occasion. It would be the perfect time to break it open!”

“Sure thing!” Aether nodded with a kind smile. “See you around!”

You watched them leave with a small smile on your face before you directed your attention back to Venti. The bard was entertaining a group of drunkards, singing an old Mondstadt tale. It was one you’ve heard only a handful of times.

In the past, it was extremely popular in Mondstadt. However, as the years came and went, it grew to be forgotten amongst the people. As you watched Venti light up with life and rile up the patrons he was singing to, you realized he was doing his best to bring back those old, forgotten melodies.

The door to the tavern creaked open, and from your table near the bar, you could see Diluc take a huge sigh. That could only mean one thing…

“(Name)! Why, it’s quite the pleasure to see you here.” Kaeya’s smooth and charming voice entered your ears.

“Well if it isn’t Captain Kaeya!” You beamed, standing from your seat to give him a nice big hug.

It had been a few months since you’ve seen him last. The last time you saw him was four months ago when he left for Fontaine to speak with a few merchants there on behalf of the Knights of Favonius. Since then, your days were a little duller without his presence.

Though, the void left behind by your best friend was quickly filled by the affections from your lover.

Kaeya chuckled, the sound buzzing in your ear as you kept your head to his chest. “Miss me while I was gone? It’s not like you to get all emotional.”

You pulled from the hug and slapped his arm playfully. “Of course I missed you! Can I not miss my best friend?”

The two of you began catching up as Kaeya called for a few drinks. Diluc sent him a glare as he placed the drinks down on the table, warning him not to order too many, before he retreated back to the bar.

The more you talked and laughed with Kaeya, the more you realized just how much you missed him. It felt like the two of you were kids again, when the both of you were training to become knights and didn’t have to worry about anything at all.

All the while, a shiver ran down your spine as you felt the weight of divine eyes peering at you from afar. This was a feeling you commonly had; whenever you were on a commission for the Adventurer’s Guild, or more importantly, hanging out with Kaeya.

The feeling of a divine force watching you so closely was a little frightening, but knowing where the source was coming from made it less scary and more intriguing.

You knew what your lover’s divinity felt like by now after having been around him for so long. It was a slight pressure on your shoulders, a shiver running up your spine, and a soft breeze that mysteriously came from nowhere. It was quite ominous, though you supposed that word described him perfectly.

In these situations, you knew he was staring at you and Kaeya with that adorable pout on his face and waiting for the right time to pounce on you like a cat. Then, he’d drag you away and the two of you would cuddle and you would whisper words of affection in his ear to assure him how much you loved him and only him.

And so, you waited for the moment he’d interrupt your conversation.

Kaeya was always the type of best friend that made you laugh until your stomach hurt, and playfully flirted with you just because. He was loyal to a fault and not as honest as you wished he could be. But he had always been there for you, a light in the darkness when you needed him.

Gradually, over time, Venti filled that spot of being your light in the darkness, but no one could replace your best friend.

You and Kaeya had been inseparable in your youth, along with Diluc, who tagged along with you both. So, naturally, your bond was quite strong. It stayed that way between both of you even after he told you the truth of his origins.

As he opened his mouth— a teasing smile on his lips that made you realize he was about to ask how you and Venti were doing —your lover in question slid his arms around your neck and dug his face into your collarbone.

You caressed his arm lovingly and placed a kiss to the side of his head. You sighed, a dopey smile pulling at your lips. He was no doubt faking being drunk to pull you away from Kaeya.

“Hi my love,” you said sweetly, “did you drink too much?”

He grumbled into your skin, and that was enough to confirm he was only doing this because he wanted your attention all to himself. It made you laugh loudly, your chest bubbling with life as the sound rolled out of your mouth.

Venti couldn’t help but smile. He loved the sound of your laugh more than anything, especially when he was the cause of it. He adored bringing you happiness and joy. He adored hearing your melodic laugh. He gripped you tighter, not wanting to let you go just yet.

“Well, I think this is where our fun ends, Kaeya,” you told him with a smirk, “I should get this one home.”

He returned your look with a knowing one of his own. He was very familiar with Venti’s antics by now. “No worries. We’ll continue catching up another time. Be safe on the way back to Springvale.”

You ruffled his hair like you always did when you were children. “We will. Stop by sometime, you’re no stranger.”

Standing up, you removed Venti’s arms from around your neck and relocated them to your waist, knowing he wouldn’t be letting go anytime soon.

Outside, the chilly nighttime air was refreshing on your hot skin. You ran your fingers through Venti’s hair and let out a content sigh.

“You know,” you started, a teasing lilt in your voice, “if you wanted my attention so badly, all you had to do was ask.”

Venti looked up at you with that adorable pout you were always so fond of. You cupped his face in your hands as he let out a small whine.

“Were you jealous, my love?”

Stubbornly, he looked away. “No—“

“Uh-huh, sure. I know how you get when you’re jealous.”

He bit his lip before all his worries came tumbling out of his mouth like a broken dam. “How can I not be? Kaeya’s always flirting with you and making you laugh! Sometimes I don’t know whether or not the way you smile at him is… is for something else.”

Venti was not one for being vulnerable. He absolutely despised sharing his true feelings, and preferred to bottle things deeply inside his person. For him to tell you how he felt in this moment was a huge step forward.

It not only meant he trusted you deeply, but it also made you realize that the effort you were helping him put in with his emotions was working. It touched your heart, but his words broke it all over again.

You kissed him, sweet and slow like he always enjoyed. When you pulled away, you placed your forehead on his and smiled.

“For you, I would go against the heavens and sooner make myself an enemy of the divine. I’d follow you to the edge of the world— hell, to the far reaches of the universe just because I love you. My heart and soul are yours, Barbatos.”

You could see it: the way he tried so hard to mask his sadness and how much he tried to avoid letting any tears spill. He inhaled shakily, squeezing his eyes shut in another attempt to deter his cries.

In the end, it was all futile, as the tears fell from his eyes like waterfalls anyway. This time, you waited for him to make the first move, and he did.

After a few moments, he searched for your lips and brought you into a slow, passionate kiss. It was a kiss that told you how much he appreciated your words, as well as one that so very obviously conveyed his undying love.

When he pulled away, he let out a small, sheepish laugh. “I’m sorry for that, love.” His cheeks were red with embarrassment.

“Don’t be,” you told him softly, forcing him to look at you, “Never be sorry for that. Thank you for sharing how you truly feel.”

He was eternally grateful to have you, someone so patient and understanding. He smiled, pressing a kiss to your palm that was on his cheek.

“I love you. To the far reaches of the universe and back.”

Hand in hand, you returned home, laughing all the while as he shared stories of the night’s events. Amidst the wind, he could hear both your hearts beating in unison.

notes: this was not supposed to be 2k words, this was supposed to be less than 1k but u guys know me by now, i always end up writing more when it comes to venti 😭 if u’d like to join my disc server to chat and hangout, u can do so here!

#— ( 🥂 200 event. mikashisus. )#nereids' realm #—stellaronhvnters.#divider: cafekitsune #genshin impact #genshin #venti #genshin venti #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #venti x reader #venti x you

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ahoycaptainautumn · 1 year

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Fated Mates Part 3

Synopsis: you, a vengeful vampire slayer, cross paths with the devious and handsome Astarion. Instead of a stake through the heart, Astarion finds something he thought impossible for vampire spawn. A mate.

Astarion learns more on vampiric mates while you do odd jobs in town. Scraping up enough money your merry gang gets to rest well tonight. Though there’s only one problem, there’s only one bed.

It took another two days before your merry band finally made it to the first town. More hours of Gale’s snores and sleep talking of magical items. Or the way Karlach randomly set fire to something now twice in her sleep. Wyll played some tune non stop on a ukulele you swear just to annoy you. Not to mention the bickering and fighting when they were awake. After getting no sleep you demanded to the group that you would all pitch in and do some odd jobs to afford a stay at a tavern for a night. Anything to give you a chance at relaxation and a soft mattress. Everyone agreed to meet at the town square at the beginning of sundown. The hours before that were up to each entirely.

You first went into the town square in hopes of finding someone to offer you an easy quest for a fee. Perusing the marketplace you find a dressmaker eager to find someone for help.

“My my my! You’re perfect for the job! I was just in need of some help, thank the Gods! I need you to run to this store and grab the fabric on hold for Marteen, then meet me at my shop after the market closes.” He hands you a wrinkled piece of paper with the name of the shop on it. You nod your thanks and head out to said shop.

Astarion immediately abandoned the idea of doing some side quest and instead goes to find the local bookkeeper. The town was quaint in size but he hoped large enough to have some of a selection on what he was looking for. 200 years as a vampire and still his knowledge of vampirism was slim to none. Most of it from passing mouths. Fellow spawn were more than likely in his similar predicament and just as naive to the ways of the vampire world. Anyone higher on the food chain wasn’t keen on educating. Here and there in his travels for prey he heard whispers of things. Knowledge of vampire mates was mostly rumor, common gossip with no real evidence. Astarion had only met one other vampire to have met his mate. At the time the bond seemed weak to him. A cause for a future exploitation. A bother. He never believed himself to be plagued with such nonsense and had not thought to ask more of it. Astarion made his way up the old brick library steps and into the establishment. Years of neglect were evident in every crevice of the place. Spiderwebs littered every corner and shelves of books were caked with years of dust. Astarion tried his best to hide his disgust and made his way to the front desk. An old human woman sat slouched in her chair dozing off. Astarion cleared his throat, waking the woman. She fixed her overly large glasses before squinting up at Astarion. He gives his most award winning smile in return.

“How can I help you stranger?” She croaks.

“I was wondering if you had anything on a special type of creature? A vampire perhaps?” Astarion asks nicely. Her bushy brows furrow in confusion.

“Sorry, things of that nature need special clearance given by the governor. Something about too many impressionable kids trying to bite one another.” She waves her hand away as she finishes talking. She goes to turn away from him as Astarions hand darts across the desk. His thumb and forefinger caress the old woman’s chin as he gently turns her head back to him. Astarion leans close, breath mingling with the librarians. With his best bedroom eyes Astarion pleads once again.

“Please dear? I swear I shan’t be more than a moment.” The woman’s face lights up beet red as she flusters under his touch.

“I mean- I- well I mean- if if if you really won’t be more than a second than I guess it’s okay.” She stutters out.

“Perfect. Just point me in the direction, love.” Astarion purrs. The woman scuffles from behind her desk and grabs a set of keys from her pocket. Astarion follows as she leads him further into the library towards an old vault door. With a turn of a key she guides him to the shelving labeled V.

“Please don’t be long, my boss will be around any moment!” She giggles behind her wrinkled hand. Her blush still evident as she walks away. Astarions face drops back to a resting neutral once she’s out of sight and he makes his way through the novels. There are only a few books pertaining to vampires. His fingers slide over titles of “How to Properly Slay a Vampire” and “Vampire Bites for Medical Use”. None contain anything about mates. A growl of frustration leaves him before he’s manically ripping through books across the shelves. Books and scrolls fly through the air before Astarions rage stops in its tracks. Mid throw Astarion reads the title of the small book in his hand. “Mates in Five Different Species: Fate Driven Partnership”. Astarion just about rips the book open before he hears the patter of the woman’s footsteps coming closer. He rushes out the door and slams it behind him. The woman jumps at his sudden movements just outside the chambers.

“You have been so lovely, thank you. I must go, good day!” Astarion shouts over his shoulder before dashing outside. The woman’s shriek at his mess is the last he hears as he makes for the door and rounds the corner. Finding a secluded alleyway, Astarion makes himself comfortable on top of a wooden crate and cracks open the book.

Vampiric Mates:

Vampire mating is a rarity within the species. Only about an average of 31% of vampires have mates. Of that 31% only 3% of their mates were non-vampire in manner. Courtship of mates in vampires comes within three stages: sight, taste, consummation. The beginnings of the mating correspond with the first mutual stare between the partners. Mating is then felt in its entirety with a touch of either lips or genitalia. Finally, the mate bond is accepted for eternity with consummation of the partnership.

Astarions eyebrows shoot up as he reads. He had already completed two damned steps without even realizing.

Though the “feeling” of a mate may differ slightly from vampire to vampire, similarities are shown throughout each recorded mating. Feelings of a something similar to a cord “tightening” is usually the most common sign. Feelings of falling, fainting or loss of emotions momentarily have also been recorded. It is believed to be innate to each vampire to recognize a mate once seen.

Astarion thinks back to the shared bargain kiss you had made a few nights earlier. The feeling of a band wrapping and tightening in his core. The way he felt his stomach drop. He had thought himself nauseous from not drinking enough but in reality he knew he was denying it. Denying the feeling he felt with that first look. Something so ingrained biologically he couldn’t shoo it away. He flips to the section labeled “Vampire Mates: Other Species Mate”.

Mates of a vampire not already afflicted with vampirism upon meeting may be at a disadvantage. Though similar feelings may be present they will not be as strong as they are for the vampire mate. The mate also may not feel the same feelings of possessiveness and aching as the vampire mate will. Non vampire mates may not inherently realize what has happened without further education.

Astarion reads the last sentence several times over. You didn’t even know. He could continue on this little adventure and you would never be the wiser of what was unfolding between the two of you. A large part of Astarion was glad, gleeful even, to not have to worry about this further. But a small, quiet and forgotten part of his brain felt remorse at the thought. Astarion was about to continue to read through the entire section before he noticed the beginnings of the sunset. Realizing he would be meeting back with your party shortly, Astarion leaps from his seat on the crate and moves through the alleyways. He knows if he shows up empty handed you won’t let him hear the end of it. He knows your still deciding on whether or not you want to plant your stake right into his heart anyhow. Moving through side streets and back alleys Astarion moves with grace between drunks and gamblers. Swift and nimble, his hands dip into their pockets and empty them of any useful change. With a bit of money to his name, Astarion takes a main road back to the square. Though an image to his right stops him in his tracks, you.

A bit earlier -

Fabrics in hand, you huff down the street to Marteens shop. The fabric store was on the very outskirts of town. Nothing more than an old witch with a spindle, calling it a shop was a bit excessive. Though the lady was kind enough, you spent far too much time to get there as well as listen to the old woman gab as she got your order together. You finally step up to Marteen’s Dress Shop and softly knock on the door. Large floor to ceiling windows show the interior from the front. Mannequins dressed in beautiful floor length gowns adorn the left and right side. A small podium sits in the middle awaiting a blushing bride to try on her future gown. Marteen opens the door and beams at you.

“Please come in, come in!” He waves you in. He helps unload the several bits of fabric from your grasp. Luxurious rolls of dark blood red fabric, black lace, and golden trimmings leave your hands. You help bring everything else into the shop. Marteen unloads the rolls onto a long table next to the front podium. You stand next to him admiring the cloths.

“It really is beautiful.” You whisper, more to the fabrics than the man. He smiles at you as he grabs a mostly made dress from his back room. The same fabric is made into a long gown in his arms. A tight black bodice corsets the top as gold accents the sides. Crimson fabric layers on top of eachother at the bottom as it bellows out into a sweep gown.

“Before you go, could I ask you one more job? I’ll throw in a few extra coin!” Marteen asks.

“Sure, what can I get you next?” You ask.

“This dress, it’s for my daughter. It’s nearly complete save the sleeves and a bit of patching in the back. You look about her size, mind being my model? I’d ask her, but it’s a bit of a surprise.” You really hadn’t expected that. It had been a very very long time since you worn something so exquisite. Back before your parents had been murdered. Back when your father threw elegant balls for nothing more than to fill the manor with good company and better wine. Back before life became what it is. You shake the thought before they take hold.

“Sure why not.” You shrug.

Cinched into the velvet fabric feels like a dream against your skin. Marteen expertly sewed beautiful bell bottom sleeves with black lace endings onto each arm. Gold is hemmed in the sides to accentuate your curves. Flowing black ribbon ties in the bodice tightly. Marteen smiles broadly, proud of himself. You do a small twirl at his command and watch the fabric flow with your movements. You can’t help the giggle that takes over you as you sway.

��It’s perfect! Absolutely perfect!” Marteen glows.

“It is! It’s absolutely perfe-“ your words die half way through your throat when through the front glass you see a gawking Astarion. Shame and anger sweep over your momentary glee. You clench your hands and jaw as you stare him down. A smug look takes over his face as he watches you. Marteen comes and looks over your shoulder.

“Oh, is that your betrothed?” He asks innocently. You can’t help the sarcastic laugh that leaves your lips.

“As if! Never in a million lifetimes.” You reply coldly, eyes narrowing. Marteen gives you a puzzled look.

“By the way he looks at you in that dress, I would have thought otherwise.” Marteen tosses over his shoulder.

—

Astarion had good intentions, brilliant and easy intentions. Seduce you, con you, but never fall for you. To overcome the illness of being mated. He was determined, arrogant even in his belief that this mating was nothing more than a silly joke from the universe. He could get over a few fleeting feelings, he had endured much worse in centuries of slavery and solitude. But those resolutions all but melt away at the sight of you. He watches you twirl in a dress fit for a vampiric queen. Blood red accentuating your body, long fabric flowing with your movements. An easy smile gracing your lips. That familiar coil in his chest begged his attention once again. An ache fills his long canines to sink into the soft nape of your neck. All he could do was stare at your form, the way your lips looked so mesmerizing in that easy smile. An animalistic urge shook him with the thought that that smile should be for him, not some gown maker. The thought vanished as quickly as it comes as you find his stare and match it with a look that could kill. Gods, this was going to be harder than he thought.

Redressed, you collect your payment and meet Astarion out in the front of the shop. He gives you a fake saddened look.

“Here I was out doing honest work and you’re trying on gowns. Really, (y/n) you outta be ashamed.” He tuts at you. You wag your finger in his face.

“I was doing work blood sucker! Besides, there isn’t a way in the 9 realms of hell you did any honest work.” You accuse him. At your words Astarion pulls the money he had collected from his pocket. Your finger stops mid wag as you look at the coins in his hand.

“Now now now, nothing to say little killer? What will the others think when I tell them?” Astarion muses. He starts to make his way towards the center of town. It takes you a moment to catch up with him.

“You are not to tell them anything! Do you hear me, or so help me-“ you threaten.

“Or what, drive a stake through my heart? Last time you tried that you ended up kissing me. Really you need to learn better threats.” Astarion teases. You swear you see red. You just about open your mouth before Astarions face comes smack dab in front of yours.

“Besides dear, we both know you need me more than you want to kill me.” He whispers to you. You stare him down fighting the urge to hit him with all your strength. All it does is make his cocky smile grow bigger. An awkward throat clearing brings the two of you apart as Gale stands in front of you.

“Hmm well if you’re all done with your lover's quarrel, we were going to put our money together.” You want to argue that a lovers quarrel was very very far from the truth but you instead take role. Counting the money together you think you have enough for all of you to grab a bunk for the night. You had spotted an inn earlier and lead the group towards it.

The inn was one of the larger buildings in the area. It hosted a tavern on its first floor, home to beer drinking and dinner. The next two stories were dedicated to rentals. Thankfully, there was just enough space for two to a room with a small bed for each. Everyone argued who was going to bunk with you. Given your earlier appearances everyone had already voted you and Astarion to a room. You just about lost your head in front of the kind old inn woman.

“Come on, the lovers can share a romantic evening together!” Karlach teased.

“There is no lovers and there will be no romance!” You seethe.

“Honestly, I mean Gods knows I can do better.” Astarion chimes in.

“Now what is that suppose to mean-“ you turn your attention to the white haired Vampire. He raises his hands in mock defense.

“Aw the lovers are fighting again.” Shadowheart replies. The old woman behind the desk gives a small chuckle.

“Oh deary, I completely understand. You two need a special room. Here darling, on the house. Last door on the right.” The woman gives a set of keys over to you. You thank her for her understanding and set off in the direction she gave you. Astarion is on your heels as you ascend to the rental rooms on the third floor. The rest get together with their designated partner for the night and set off to their rooms for the night. You set the key to the lock and turn it.

“I hope you know I’ll be getting the largest bed, beauty sleep needed and all.” Astarion quips. You don’t have the function to respond as you peer into the room. The room is massive. There’s a beautiful fainting couch overlooking large windows peering into the valley below. Velvet curtains hang in the windows. A fire roars off to the left corner in a stone fireplace. A plush bear rug lines the middle of the space. And right there, dead center, is only one large king bed.

Part one here

Part four here

#smut #reader insert #astarion #astarion x mc #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #bd3 #mates #baldurs gate wyll #baldurs gate gale #one bed trope #soul mates #balders gate 3 #bg3 astarion #bg3

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feroluce · 2 months

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SO LIKE. As much as I roll with the Emanator of Elation Sampo theory, I do have. Some doubts about this specific instance of it. Not that I think Boothill is lying, or that I think Sampo isn't an Emanator, but I wonder if the person Boothill actually met was Sampo.

Just! Sampo is so careful. The only reason we even knew he wasn't of Belobog was due to a dialogue-dependent fourth wall-breaking dream sequence that no other character could have seen. It took a missable dream bubble in an out-of-the-way spot that was seemingly left only for the trailblazer at the very end of a side mission just to confirm him as a Masked Fool. Like it's not just the fact that Boothill mentions this person being an Emanator. It's that he knows they're also a Masked Fool, which is also something Sampo is incredibly dodgy about. Sparkle even seems to call him out on this in her party join line fjkdjaskldj

((But also, Boothill, baby. WHY were you trying to get them drunk????))

And regardless of if you believe him when he calls himself an old timer, he obviously has a lot of experience in doing what he does. He knows what he's doing, he's good at it, and he is viciously capable and competent, unfortunately for his victims smhznskdn

So it just. Feels very unlike him, for him to let his guard down enough to not only let himself get drunk in front of Boothill-

a total stranger btw whom Sampo has absolutely no reason to trust, and a dangerous Galaxy Ranger to boot who has plenty of blood on his hands and a significant bounty on his head

-but to get SO drunk that he lets loose the secret that he's an Emanator.

When Boothill brings this up, he mentions that if Emanators were obvious and known at a glance, it would lead to atrocities. And for as much as Sampo is disliked by his victims (there's an entire anti-Sampo organization in Belobog JFDKLASJFDL), it's all for fraud. He's wanted by the IPC as an intergalactic thief. He scams people out of their money, and only rich people at that. That's mostly all that he's known for. Nothing he does is violent, even though Sampo surely has the capacity to inflict a lot of harm.

And I don't mean that he's exactly a pacifist or anything; Firefly comments that Sampo seems like a highly skilled covert fighter. His voicelines make it sound like he enjoys combat- hell, his ult line makes him sound like a hitman. I like to hc him as being a pretty high ranker in the fighting rings at the World's End Tavern, like we see in the Simulated Universe occurrences.

But I don't think he would enjoy being the cause of uncontrollable violence and bloodshed.

Like yeah he's a dick who scams people on the regs for funsies, but he has lines he refuses to cross, which we see a lot of in how he interacts with Sparkle. More than just not enjoying it, I think he would hate it if he were found out and it caused an incident, especially since he seems so endeared to Belobog and her people now and it looks like he plans to return there. He wouldn't want to bring any of that back to them.

So I just can't imagine him carelessly fucking up bad enough to out himself to a random stranger that could easily put a bullet right through his head.

Sparkle maybe could, though.

Because as we find out later the dreamscape had expanded FAR beyond what it seemed, far enough that the trailblazer had been dreaming since the warp jump in. Most people enter it unknowingly, and don't realize they're already dreaming when they think they're still awake. Boothill and Dan Heng should have already been dreaming during their exchange on the Express that started all this.

And as long as someone knows they're dreaming, completely changing their appearance is easy, even for the common layman. We see this with a couple of NPCs and also Sparkle herself, with her (in)famous impression of Sampo.

Thank youuuuu Sparkle

And yeah, the trailblazer and almost all of the other characters wouldn't know about the expansion until near the very end. None of them realized they were dreaming even outside of their dream pools, and surely none of them would think to be suspicious of another person's appearance outside of the dreamscape like that.

But Sparkle has a script from Silver Wolf.

She knew all the secrets of the dreamscape, and she knew them from the very beginning. There would have been nothing stopping her from appearing as Sampo in front of Boothill and spilling all his secrets.

And she apparently has a long-standing history with Sampo, including trying to get him in on her own much more fiery and aggressive version of Elation.

Maybe all Sampo needs is to be outed as an Emanator, and then when all the violence and bloodshed catches up to him, then he'll finally understand! ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩

#honkai star rail #hsr #sampo koski #hsr sampo #sparkle #hsr sparkle #hsr hanabi #boothill #hsr boothill #tbh I doubt Hoyo put this much thought into it- Boothill did say he only found out by sheer luck after all #but it's such an entertaining conspiracy theory for me JKFJASKLJD #Sparkle sucks so bad I hope she commits atrocities <3 #she should show up in Belobog. at least just to give Sampo a heart attack and finally rile him up out of his customer service act.#it would be funny #her relationship with him makes me chew concrete AUGH #HOYO GIVE ME MORE OF THEM PLEASE OTL #if it turns out Sampo really IS an Emanator of Elation and the Fools know it that makes all the disrespect he gets like x10 more hilarious.#you guys that is the MOUTHPIECE of your GOD that you WORSHIP and you are grilling him for his religious views (Giovanni)-#- and backstabbing him (Sparkle)#I hope Aha treats him in a similar manner #God's favorite little chew toy uwu #and also my favorite little chew toy #I am going to shake him until the squeaker breaks!!!

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just-some-random-blogger · 1 year

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First I wanna say I absolutely adore your writing! <3

I was wondering if you could write a Daemon x Reader where the reader is a noble Northern lady who is like a shieldmaiden and they fight together at Stepstones. They kind of become friends and the reader constantly teases Daemon about how he has never seen anything about life in his Prince-ly upbringing and she knows more than him even though he is older (though it is the start of the battle of stepstones so he is canonically like 25 but still he is like 3-4 years older than her). But then while they are talking and drinking she accidentally blurts out that she is still a maiden and now it is time for Daemon to tease her. Then boom, smut happens.

Mine For The Night

"It's not something to fuss over, really," Daemon mutters, thumb on my lips, breath laced with wine, "and wouldn't it better I take your maidenhead than some old man you'll never desire?"

Daemon Targaryen x Reader | 1k+ | cw: fem!reader, mentions/depictions of drinking/drunkenness, smut (drunk sex, loss of virginity, piv, breeding kink, choking, scratching, biting?), sleazy!daemon, typos, etc.

A/N: rah its been a while since a daemon req so lemme crack this egg

Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @delicious-xx @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony @risefallrise @thebullship @sa3losa

The onlooking crowd cheers when I dodge the man who charged into me. The bumbling brute batters into a table of men who aren't fortunate enough to be as quick as I am. The collision is heavy and loud. The ruffian, who was dim enough to pick a fight with me, spills all the drinks on the table on impact. It inspires the sat men to stand and to hurtle him against the wall, where he then passes out.

Daemon watches this play out with the rest of the patrons in the tavern, arms crossed, chest buzzing in amusement.

"That'll teach ya to mind yer manners," a man from our company barks before sharing a laugh with the rest of the men.

My inebriety is washed off with my exhaustion. I wobble back to my table, glaring at the men there, "you lot could stand to help?"

Daemon chuckles, but someone else answers, "well, our lady proved the point beautifully."

I roll my eyes, "men are good for nothing," I grab my things and head out of the tavern.

"Oh, don't be like that, lady love!" one of the men call, "I'm sure one of us can show you how good it can be to have a man!"

They share a laugh with each other and I roll my eyes.

The moment, I'm outside, I burp and head back to our camp. I whip my head to the side when I realize someone came outside with me.

"The slurs of drunken cunts," Daemon grins, walking beside me with his hands behind his back.

I shake my head and keep walking, "you're a cunt yourself, since you sat and watched."

"There's something rather bewitching seeing you get covered in ale and blood," he mutters through a lopsided smile.

"Mmm, I pray you be bewitched all the way back to your tent and leave me be," I glare at him before walking faster.

He makes a tutting sound and grabs my arm, preventing me from moving any father. The prince shakes his head and brushes his hand down my shoulder, "my drunken fool has forgotten her promise to me."

I scowl at him, "who are you calling fool?" I shove him back. It doesn't work very effectively. Curses. I hiss, "I made no promise to you. Unhand me."

Daemon chuckles, both his hands now on my arms, "ah, you're right. Twas I that promised you this," he rubs his hands up to my temples and swipes his thumbs on my brows, "the head of our enemy's dimwitted commander for a night you'd not forget."

My breath catches in my throat when the silver haired man leans closer. He mutters, "or did you think my words on the battlefield were weightless, Northern girl?"

"I am not interested in your words, nor doing such lascivious things with you," I push him off by his chest.

Daemon lets me walk away, and he laughs as I do so. "I did not think your memory would be so poor after such cheap wine touched your lips."

I hear him follow after me.

"Shall I recite how you confessed your desires to bed a man before you died?"

"And I am alive, am I not?"

"You'll only truly, once you've had me throw your legs over my shoulders and-"

"WHATEVER I SPOKE TO YOU-" I snap, turning around and pointing a finger at him, "about my sinful desires-"

Daemon chuckles.

"-in moments of weakness, be it when I was drunk or desperate in the middle of a fight, do away with it, devil."

He laughs louder at that.

"I have no intention of sullying myself, all because you-"

"My," he drags out and yanks be by the arm, "my lady is acting suddenly so ladylike."

I narrow my eyes at him, "I have always been ladylike because I am a lady!" I wrangle out of my his grip.

I whine when he grips my shoulders tightly. My stomach drops at the way he whispers in his mother tongue against my ear. Though I do not know what he says, I renders me frozen in my spot.

The prince relishes in this. His hands find my cheeks again. He leans in close, so close I can smell what he had been drinking. "It's not something to fuss over, really," Daemon mutters, thumb on my lips, breath laced with wine, "and wouldn't it better I take your maidenhead than some old man you'll never desire?"

Whatever I flaring retort I had is put out by the moistness of his lips.

I had never been kissed before. The sensation makes my insides roll and it's surprisingly so pleasant to be kissed by such a man as Daemon.

He chuckles, "oh, apologies," he brushes my hair back, "wasn't your maidenhood already broken ages ago on the account of your horseback riding?"

My heart races when his one hand slips into my clothes, on to my bare chest. His other hand comes to my waist. He sighs contentedly when I do not repel him after pulling me close to kiss me once more. I actually kiss him back this time.

"No one's gonna know," he mutters, "just us and the gods."

We're a mess of heavy breathing when we reach my tent. Daemon wastes no time in ripping me out of my clothing. It doesn't take long for it to be just him and I in a sea of discarded fabrics.

My skin reaches out to him with goosebumps when his hot huffs hit my neck. My movements are intrinsic; I reach out to him just as he kneads my body. His hips nestle between my bare thighs. A whine escapes me when he begins to rub against me.

"Relax," he mutters, "it won't hurt. You'll enjoy it."

I sigh as he begins to trail kisses down my neck. I slowly feel myself melt into his touch. He continues meshing his hips into mine until a tingle builds in my belly and my toes curl in response. I feel a slickness build between my thighs. I claw my nails into his back and he hisses in response. My legs tighten around him. He groans, muttering something in his native tongue.

I gasp when he tugs me by my hair and speaks hotly against my ear, "you're making it hard for me to be gentle with you."

I claim his lips with my teeth, making him groan. I scratch my fingers up his nape and pull on his hair in a more gentle and needing manner, "I can take it."

Daemon lets out an amused garbled noise then claws my legs apart as he shifts above me. I throw my head back and squeal the moment shoves in my weeping cunny and he proceeds to thrust at a vigorous pace. He huffs through his nostrils as his thick, heavy member bullies into me. He pins me in place by clamping his hands at the back of my thigh and folding my legs like he meant to make me half my size.

"Oh," he lets out a prolonged sigh, "if they could see you now," he heaves, "powerless against me, reduced into a mewling little girl, taking it like a bitch in heat." He chuckles, lifting himself up to watch how he had me whining and rolling my eyes back.

He releases one thigh then pushes my jaw back; my voice and neck strain because of it. He goes wild over the sight and sound of my frantic breathing. He slightly squeezes my jaw, "no one's gonna know you lost your maidenhead to me."

I feel my lungs deflate when he puts more pressure on my airways.

"Mmm," he hums through the sound of slapping skin, "but everyone's gonna know I pumped my seed into you when your babe comes out looking like me."

I suck in a sharp breath when he releases my throat.

"Let's see how you fare once you're heavy with my child."

#daemon fanfic #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon smut #daemon targaryen smut #daemon fluff #daemon targaryen fluff #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon smut #hotd fanfic #hotd smut

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zhongrin · 2 years

Text

newton’s second law of motion

◇ characters ◇ al haitham (ft. kaveh, cyno, tighnari)

◇ tags ◇ divorced dad al haitham as your ex-hubby, possibly ooc al haitham (?), you have a daughter, al haitham pines on you badly, angst to fluff, crack, kaveh-cyno-tighnari support group ftw, brainrot format with a little fic

◇ a/n ◇ happy birthday you dolt (/aff). i didn't plan to post any birthday fic for him but this thought hit me as soon as i read that silly bday letter. this was supposed to be just a brainrot help-

𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ⬙ 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

divorced husband!al haitham who is hit by a revelation over the year he lived separated from you - that he had taken you for granted and he had driven you away by failing to communicate and appreciate you properly.

divorced husband!al haitham who receives a little package from you on his birthday; just a small, store-bought birthday cake. he's reminded of the biting words he said the year before, when he tasted the cake you made with your daughter. in hindsight, it was perfectly normal for a three-year-old to mistake salt for sugar. in hindsight, he should have known to hold his tongue. in hindsight, he could have done better than just stare as your daughter cried in your arms.

divorced husband!al haitham who knows that you were just being nice with all these small gestures. for updating him about how your daughter is doing in school every month. it was all a formality of sorts and it was an agreement you had when you broke your marriage. but he can't help the hope that sparked within his chest when he sees your handwriting and hears your voice on the rare meet-ups you organize.

divorced husband!al haitham who admits that you deserve someone better. who resolves to be someone better.

divorced husband!al haitham who picks up that parenting book he abandoned and buys new ones because four-year-olds are different from newborn babies. people stare at him in awe when he starts attending the parenting-themed seminars, and it's like he's back in his akademiya days, taking notes and analyzing research journals.

divorced husband!al haitham who, to his previous roommate's surprise, lets himself be dragged into the 'severely unproductive' weekly tcg game meeting. he silently sits and listens to cyno unconsciously bragging about the warm home he built with his spouse, tighnari proudly retelling story after story about collei taking the lead of the forest rangers, and kaveh gushing about the love of his life.

divorced husband!al haitham who, to everyone's shock, asks for their advice on how to rebuild what he's lost, who for once listens to kaveh as he guides him to emphatize more and shows him the values of white lies when used properly, as inefficient as he though it was. soon enough it turns into a full-on lecture at one corner of lambad's tavern - tighnari had brought out a whiteboard out of nowhere, and even cyno who was at first skeptical about giving him a second chance was animatedly giving his own two mora to avoid worsening the disaster that is the scribe's love life.

divorced husband!al haitham who picks up a new pen and delicately writes a letter with the ink of your favorite color, intending to ask you to meet at the library because he wanted to "further encourage our daughter's newly-found interest in reading". he's hoping it would show his sincerity (yes, he did listen when you absentmindedly told him about your daughter on the last update meeting) and imply that he wishes to make amends (because he remembers not taking much interest in the more 'trivial' things that concerns your daughter when he should have).

divorced husband!al haitham who does not understand why you didn't reply to him, and so he proceeds to recite the letter, word-by-word, to the curious table of the same friends from a week ago, their tcg match long forgotten. kaveh throws a deck of cards at him. cyno slumps back to his chair with a steely expression, arms crossed. tighnari sighs and bemoans about how al haitham is the worst student he's ever had thus far. kaveh rubs his face with his palms - "alright. okay. alright. look. clearly one lecture isn't enough. we could just. we could try again. hey, at least he tried!"

divorced husband!al haitham who wakes up the morning after because of his doorbell, with barely two hours of sleep, coffee-less (you used to make him coffee and he does not understand what he's missing because he could never make them taste the same), grumpy (he remembers the way you would laugh and boop his nose whenever he feels like this), darkened eye bags under his hazy green eyes (which you used to try and will away with a kiss; it never worked but he wishes you were there to do it still), opening the door of his abode (the house feels far too big without you) and promptly almost collapsing from shock at the sight.

it's you.

divorced husband!al haitham who fumbles with his words; his brain isn't working properly and his composure is nowhere in sight. you're holding your daughter's hand and you're looking at him from head to toe with a frown. he asks why you were here. you tell him icily that it was your scheduled date for the usual monthly update; you thought he would have appreciated you bringing your daughter this time. his brain stops. his heart swells. his chest feels warm.

divorced husband!al haitham who invites you in and blushes when you see the remnants of last night's "lectures". kaveh's silly flowchart ('when you should shut your mouth') is still present on the whiteboard. tighnari's books about child development created little towers around the coffee table. cyno's headpiece is still lying on the sofa. and his own copious notes are all over the place.

"what kind of.... project.... are you working on, exactly?"

his brain's broca's area must have been terribly damaged from all the 'scenario exercises' kaveh put him through last night, because what was supposed to be a 'pay no mind to it, it's merely a personal interest of mine' somehow turned into a sheepishly spoken: "i wanted to become a better partner and father."

and you must have thought he was crazy, too, with that look of utter shock on your face. al haitham decides to change the subject. he sees the way your daughter is eyeing the pantry - more specifically, the cabinet that used to store her snacks, and maybe it's all the books and seminars he attended but somehow he understands.

"have you... had breakfast?"

"..... no," your tone is cold and you avert your eyes. the implication is not lost on him. you had not planned to stay for long.

"i see. would you like to procure-" he pauses, gazes towards your daughter, remembering what he read - and he drops to his knees so he can be of a similar eye level with the young child. when he speaks next his tone is higher, softer, and you almost can't believe what you're witnessing, "-would you and mommy like to get some food with daddy?"

"..... yes."

his little angel's voice is barely above a whisper and slightly unsure, but it still makes a genuine smile spread onto his lips for the first time in...... what seemed like forever. he directs his gaze up towards you, like some kind of a lost puppy seeking permission from its owner. you throw one last glance at his notes and sigh before nodding stiffly.

"alright.... you look like you badly need coffee anyway."

divorced husband!al haitham who, despite the tiredness in his bones, readily escorts the two of you out of the house after quickly scribbling a note for the three guests sleeping on a pile in the guest room.

divorced husband!al haitham who asks his daughter about where she'd like to eat and agrees immediately upon her answer despite knowing that their destination would only serve that trashy coffee he loathes with his whole life (and when you ask him again whether he's really okay with her choice, he says yes even though he wanted to say no).

divorced husband!al haitham who asks you about the latest updates on your job and tells you that he thinks it's admirable, for you to balance caring for their child while also having such a stable career (you did not express the need to be getting constructive criticism on how to further improve your career and branch out your skills, so he decides to keep his mouth shut).

divorced husband!al haitham who stumbles, trips, and is still horribly clumsy as he paves a path back to walk beside you and your daughter. but he tries. and he hopes to spend his next birthday with you, your daughter, a kitchen that looked like an oven has exploded, and a deformed cake.

and as the front door closes, the three guests high-fives each other in a small circle from behind the slightly opened door of the guest room.

#astronetwrk #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #rin writes #al haitham #al haitham x reader

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chaoticbardlady99 · 6 months

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Darling, Never Stop Haunting Me

(Spawn Astarion x F! Ghost Reader) : Prologue

Synopsis: You’ve haunted Szarr Palace for 354 years after Donella Szarr failed to turn you into a spawn. You have favored Astarion over the other spawn for the last two centuries and after a series of events and a Paul Revere-esque mission to save him from being kidnapped- you finally meet each other in the flesh.

CW: Death (obviously), mentions of Astarion’s trauma, mentions of Gore, mentions of Gale x Tav

Disclaimer- put together the picture for the banner, but I do not own any of the pictures. Birdie is a stock image 💜 I will not describe the readers body in detail- she is just merely on the banner for ✨drama✨. I believe the picture of Astarion is from @aristenfromwarsaw . And then the symbol of Orcus in the back is a free image off the internet.

Chapter One : AO3

Your paws hit the pavement as you frantically search for Elfsong Tavern. You haven’t left Szarr Palace since you died there so many years ago- you didn’t even know what the Hells an Elfsong Tavern was until Dalyria had told Cazador that was where Astarion was staying.

It’s still just before sunset so there is still plenty of time to warn the group about the upcoming kidnapping attempt- you just hope one of them is a Druid.

You aren’t naturally a cat- you’re a ghost and you’ve been haunting Szarr Palace since Donella Szarr killed you what feels like eons ago. You had been merely walking home one evening from a Violin gig you had barely managed to get- it had gone so well that they had asked you to come back and play next week. Oh how life had other plans for poor 28-year-old you who made her entire life about music and died never experiencing romance, true companionship, etc. You had grown up isolated amongst nobles, but you knew of Donella Szarr so her asking you to have tea with her didn’t seem that bizarre.

Needless to say- it was weird watching your own funeral.

No matter how hard you tried, you could never cross over and Gods did you want to. You didn’t even care if you became incorporeal or went on to the Heavens- you just wanted to be able to actually talk to people and do things again. You were incredibly apathetic and haunting with no purpose. You’re a house ghost who has no say over the house- you can’t even help fix things in the damn place without asking to be exorcised.

Your misery was reduced significantly a little over 140 years later when Astarion Acunin experienced his first night in Cazador’s kennels. His screams haunted you and you are the one who is supposed to be doing the haunting!

You did everything you could to try to make his time with Cazador somewhat bearable, but your efforts were too small and you feel as if you failed him. You tried to possess Cazador and it went miserably- you had almost been consumed by the darkness in him entirely. You had been a mere fly to his soul.

You were able to possess Godey easily enough, but you had to be careful because he has sent Cazador on a multitude of Ghost hunts before.

Astarion knew you were around- he’d acknowledge you as ‘Ghosty’ whenever his candle would flicker out and then come back full force for him to finish sewing his clothing. He could sense your presence at other times too- one time you had been certain he was able to see you as you sat with him for the duration of Cazador’s ‘poem’.

You favor Astarion over the other spawn, but you have come to justify it as Astarion was the one who needed your help more. He was frequently the subject of Cazador’s rage and need for violence. You know it’s because he resembles Vellioth to some extent and you are certain that’s why he targeted Astarion in the first place.

Cazador introduced himself to Astarion when he was a young magistrate. It had been at one of his many lavish affairs and you had seen the menacing glint in Cazador’s eyes when the young man walked in with some over the top female on his arm.

Cazador asked Astarion to begin convicting people wrongfully and sending them to Szarr Palace. He offered a handsome amount of gold and Astarion took the offer without a thought. You immediately knew this man had signed over his soul- knowingly or unknowingly, you had no idea.

Things became even messier when Cazador began to have the closest thing to love he could feel for the young magistrate. Astarion was very intelligent- he wasn’t charismatic naturally, but he knew how to study behavior and work around it. He knew what Cazador wanted to hear.

So when Cazador found out Astarion had taken another deal on the side as well as potentially a more formal lover, well, he had signed over his fate. Cazador framed a Gur Hunter, Astarion sent him to the other group of slavers instead of Cazador, and Cazador let the Gur know this anonymously ‘in good faith’.

At first you thought it was just karma doing it’s work, but then you learned that Astarion was just another young person like you who was just trying to figure it out. Where you thought you were doing your duty by meeting with a noble, he felt he was doing his- at first at least. He had been sending a reasonable sum of money back home to his parents, but he became greedy and ended up paying for that with a life sentence.

Some higher power must be merciful because it had seemed that Astarion had managed to escape Cazador for good.

Then the moron decided to come back and now Cazador is sending Leon after him with three of the other house spawn.

You don’t care for possessing any living soul- a tacky couch? Maybe, but only because it doesn’t have thoughts. However, desperate times called for desperate measures and you are really regretting not getting the gumption to possess a person.

You are far too cute with your fluffy grey and white fur and big green eyes. People keep trying to scoop you up in their arms and children chase after you. Other cats are just plain rude and unhelpful- you have no idea how you are going to find this Tavern.

“You seem rather lost, little ghost,” a voice says from a nearby tree.

You peer upwards to see a Calico Tressym eyeing you curiously. If you weren’t so focused on finding Astarion, maybe you would be mad at her for openly announcing you are a ghost.

“I’m looking for someone,” you say as you try to catch your breath, “I need to get to Elfsong Tavern as soon as possible.”

This seems to interest the Tressym because she immediately jumps down with a serious expression on her face.

“Who and why?”

Screw it- you don’t have time to be picky.

“I’m looking for a man named Astarion- his life is in danger,” you say quickly.

She seems to digest this information for a moment as she circles you. Her eyes explore your fluffy form and she seems to decide you are trustworthy because she beckons for you to follow her.

You race after her as she flies over the buildings and lands- wait, why is she landing in front of that man in purple on the beach!? That’s not Astarion or a Tavern!

In spite of your confusion, your gut pushes you forward and before you know it- the man you are looking for comes waltzing out of a house with a disgusted look on his face while a tall, red tiefling woman holds a very old heart in a jar.

“Astarion,” the man, Gale, tries not to make his own panic too obvious, “come here.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that to interest me, Gale,” he says with an emphasis on the man’s name, “why should I?”

“For God’s sake- it’s about Cazador,” the man hisses.

This grabs his and his other three companion’s attention. They immediately huddle around Gale- the silver haired woman immediately aweing upon seeing you and the blonde haired woman intertwining her hands with Gale’s. The red tiefling is still holding the heart and you gag upon seeing it which earns a laugh from the group.

“What about Cazador?”

Astarion’s voice betrays the panic he’s feeling- for whatever reason, his panic prompts him to scratch you between your ears. You fight the urge to purr. You are a person- dammit! A dead one, but a person nonetheless!

“This Ghost,” Gale says with uncertainty while pointing to you, “is saying that Cazador is sending Leon, Aurelia, Yousen, and Violet later tonight to detain you.”

“She was practically barreling through streets- poor thing was about to experience her second death,” adds Tara.

“Apparently it was a suicide mission,” Gale adds.

You are suddenly lifted up from underneath your arms and a pair of ruby red eyes are boring into yours. After a few moments, a giggle of all damn things exits this man’s mouth.

“There are at least five or six useless thralls you could have possessed and you chose a cat?”

You flatten your ears and leer at him before attempting to communicate with him- only to be disappointed when an angry yowl leaves your little mouth. Astarion fucking giggles again. THIS IS SERIOUS!

“This is far more adorable though, I will give you that,” Astarion says as he begins to walk towards the tavern with you now cradled in his arms.

You never would have found the damn place on your own. It was clear on the other side of the city!

“It’s a shame I can’t understand you a single bit,” Astarion says, “I would love to know how Cazador has been fairing without me there.”

Terribly, but in a crazed, rage filled way. Unfortunately poor Dalyria and Petras had been receiving the treatment usually reserved for Astarion. You were happy to see him thriving, but it does make you sad that it had to cost two other people’s dignity and comfort.

The moment the party enters the room and announces that they are anticipating an attack once the sun sets, everyone jumps up and prepares themselves for the coming battle.

Astarion places you on his bed before grabbing a green bottle and chugging it. He then proceeds to look at you expectantly and you have no idea what he is doing, but it’s starting to kind of freak you out because neither one of you is blinking and he’s beginning to look more and more like the predator he is.

“I don’t think I like this game,” you say, “you look rather terrifying when you don’t blink for long periods of time.”

“Oh, but terrifying is what I aim to be, Darling,” Astarion says with a toothy grin, “I don’t want any of them reporting to Cazador that I’m still the pathetic vampire spawn I was before I went missing.”

“You were never pathetic,” the words come out of your mouth harshly, “and if you must know- they are reporting to Cazador that you practically have a whole army of ‘do gooders’ by your side.”

“Oh really? Do tell me, how does that make him feel?”

“He was surprised at first.”

“Naturally.”

“But then he heard about Orin’s death and your part in it- he’s worried, to say the least.”

“Good,” Astarion snarls, “he should be.”

The siblings arrive exactly when you said they would and they are surprised to see everyone prepared to see them. You are absolutely floored when Astarion tries to convince them that he’ll ascend all of them- he has to know by now that that is not what this ritual will do. You notice the uneasy glances between Astarion’s companions.

If they really are the heroes Dalyria made them out to be, will they truly let him ascend without contest?

There wasn’t time for any questions as the other spawn rush the group. You did manage to help in the fight- Astarion was being cornered by Violet and Leon so you took it upon yourself to wreak havoc upon Violet’s scalp. She went back home pretty quickly and Astarion was able to take on Leon with ease.

Now you sit in front of a big window and take in the moon. Your heart breaks for the 7,000 souls beneath Szarr Palace and the six other house spawn. Poor little Victoria had finally been taken away from the city and replaced with someone else- Leon promised he’d come find her. Gods you hope she doesn’t think Leon purposefully abandoned her. She’s a great kid.

“You seem to be thinking rather hard for a cat.”

“You lied to them.”

The silence between you is deafening before you finally look up at him. Astarion’s face is conflicted and guarded as he searches your features for any indication of what you are feeling. Cats aren’t terribly expressive apparently.

“Don’t give me that disappointed ‘I’m not getting cuddly, Astarion’ look!”

You feel your hackles raise slightly and your tail get puffy as you get up on your feet. You narrow your eyes at Astarion and he meets yours with equal amounts of stubbornness.

“I’ll give you this look for the rest of your damn life if that’s what it’s going to take!” You exclaim, “you can’t kill them! They have suffered too! Dalyria and Petras both tried to keep as much information as they could about you and your companions so that you stood a chance against him! Leon just wants to be with Victoria as a free man!

“The rest of them… they think it’s going to free them… they are all talking about what they want to do with their lives after this,” you say with anger and sadness in your voice, “You can’t take that from them.Their lives are not yours to take!”

“I hate to disappoint you,” Astarion says with venom lacing his words, “but I could care less about what they went through and their wants or their souls for that matter. No one was there for me, well besides you, but not everyone is an overly friendly Ghost like you.”

Your eyes become blurry and Astarion’s face goes from anger to shock and confusion. It takes a moment to collect yourself, but when you do- you make sure to say exactly what you are thinking.

“It makes me sad.”

“What does?”

“That you ended up being no better than Cazador,” you say flatly, “I thought I saw some redeeming qualities in you. I guess I was wrong.”

You watch it take all of his willpower not to snap your neck right there or pick you up and chuck you against the wall. The woman, Karlach, seems to notice his sudden shift in energy because she’s quickly walking over and scooping you up off the windowsill.

“You look like you need to take a breather, Fangs,” Karlach chuckles awkwardly, “maybe you should go hunting. We’ll be leaving to storm the castle before you know it.”

So he does and Karlach takes you over to her bed.

“That was awfully harsh, Boo,” Karlach says, “a gentler touch may have been better.”

“Karlach, I’ve been a ghost for almost 400 years. I have been forced to watch either Donella, Vellioth, or Cazador terrorize handfuls of people,” you shake your head, “Cazador is the worst of the worst- he’s terrorized over 7,000 people at this point and that ritual will kill all of them. Yet the soul I’m most upset about losing is Astarion’s.

“So yes, it was harsh, but it needed to be said.”

Karlach is quiet for a moment, “I suppose that’s true… but 7,000 people? I thought there were only 7 vampire spawn?”

“What? Who in the hells told you that?”

“Fangs- obviously.”

Oh right, he wouldn’t know that every person he’s ever shared a bed with is rotting away, starving in Cazador’s dungeon.

“No,” you say softly, “unfortunately there is a lot more going on than Astarion knows.”

**********************************************************************

Astarion is the first through the door when the group comes back from Szarr Palace. You have been sitting on Karlach’s bed the entire time- pacing anxiously. Scratch and the Owlbear cub would ask you to play with them, but you couldn’t get rid of the twisting knot in your stomach.

He goes to his bed and grabs a new change of clothes before weakly walking in the direction of the washroom. Karlach makes eye contact with you when she walks through the doors and she gives you a big smile.

Wait, does that mean?

She follows it with a thumbs up.

He didn’t do it. Holy Gods he didn’t do it! BUT WHY!?

You have a million questions, but you’re sure he doesn’t want to talk to you anytime soon. You bid a farewell to Karlach and the other companions. She tries to convince you to stay and talk to Astarion before deciding to leave, but you merely shake your head. You said your piece and you can return to haunting a now empty castle.

Or maybe you’ll be a cat around Baldur’s Gate. Tara seems to enjoy wandering around and you did forget how lovely the sun feels.

The walk back to Szarr Palace goes far smoother than your adventure finding Elfsong Tavern. The courtyard is still in bloom so the scent of red roses acts as your guide. Gods- Cazador was such a cliché. You hope these roses die and someone decides to plant literally anything else. Maybe you could figure out how to? You can dig hypothetically.

So that’s what you do. You begin digging out the crap ass red roses and do your best not to get caught on thorns. After the fourth or fifth rose, you have it down to a science and you’ve gotten quite a lot of work done on one flower bed. This cat thing isn’t all that bad!

Well, minus your excessive need for water and food, but there’s a running fountain nearby so that’s promising. The food part is going to be the harder part. You haven’t had to eat for centuries now and the growling in your belly is entirely foreign to you.

Should you try to steal food? Honestly, you’re adorable enough, you could probably beg for some food. Trying to hunt for a mouse is absolutely off the table and forget a bird all together.

You look up at the sky. The last bits of daylight cling to the horizon and the moon begins to kiss the sky. You are going to keep working until the sun has set, you’ll attempt to clean up, and then you'll sucker some people into giving you food.

Back to digging it is!

You continue your work and think about what you may plant. Maybe you could find seeds for food- there are plenty of homeless who could use it, but would they dare go to Szarr Palace for produce? The idea makes you snort. Donella would be infuriated if you turned the front of her “work of art” into a free farmer’s market for the needy.

“Are you taking up gardening now? I think it suits you,” a familiar voice says, “well, maybe more so if you were actually a person and not a cat.”

You slowly turn around and you’re met with the sight of a sheepish Astarion. He absentmindedly plays with his own hands, but you are happy to see some of the tension melt away when he sees your face and begins laughing.

“You are caked in dirt, Darling.”

“I would hope so- if this is something else then I have a real problem on my hands.”

“Ha!” Astarion says, “I don’t think you have any reason to fret. I can’t remember the last time Cazador had anyone tend to these stupid things.”

“Oh he didn’t have to,” you say in exasperation, “Donella enchanted the damn pots so that the plants can grow without soil. She hated the smell of fertilizer.”

“Donella?”

You blink at Astarion two times and tilt your head to the side.

“Cazador never mentioned his aunt?”

“Does this look like the face of a person who knows about Cazador’s aunt?”

“Put your sass back in your pockets, Mister,” you say with equal amounts of attitude, “Donella Szarr was the first Vampire Lord in Baldur’s Gate. She created Vellioth and well, you know how well that all went.”

“But how do you know Donella?”

“She killed me,” you say bluntly, “she took advantage of my naivety. She thought I was a promising young woman and she was very anti-patriarchy which I did really appreciate. However, she invited me over to tea to discuss a potential job offer at a party of her’s. She didn’t know how to properly create a spawn so when she drained me dry and I never popped back up- she realized she made a terrible mistake.

“Not because she cared about me, but because my parents were relatively prominent in the community.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Hmmm… well I was born in 1,110 then Donella killed me at the beginning of her dynasty in 1,138 sooooooo about,” you think so hard your ears begin to twitch, math was never your strong suit, “354 years ago.”

“Good Gods, you’ve been trapped in this damn place longer than I have. Why in the hells would you come back?”

That is a good question- why did you come back? You suppose it’s because at one point you were attached to this house and it made you uncomfortable to be away from it for longer than eight hours at a time, but that’s dissipated. You didn’t realize your attachment had changed to a person- the vampire spawn asking the question- until he disappeared and you felt like you did the one time you tried to stay away from Szarr Palace. It had weakened you significantly, but now that you’re a cat, that attachment isn’t there and you are free to go about your silly little business.

You also don’t know where else you would go. It’s not like staying in the Rothwell crypt is going to do wonders for your mental health and going back to haunting this palace means you’ll feel uncomfortable again until you are reattached.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you admit, “so I came back to the only place I know. I think I might piss on Donella’s legacy by making this a community garden to feed the homeless. She’ll be infuriated- rolling over in her urn.”

Astarion snorts, “your idea of revenge is helping the needy? Gods, you’re insufferable.”

“What would you suggest then?” You retort, “I can’t imagine it will be easy finding seeds for anything worth planting. Unless you can hook me up with some sunflo-.”

“What if you traveled with me instead?” Astarion interrupts you.

Oh.

You blink a lot and your jaw has dropped. The happiness spreading through your body makes your paws tingle with excitement.

What an exhilarating concept. However, there must be a catch.

“You just said I was insufferable.”

“Just because I asked you to travel with me doesn’t make that any less true,” Astarion says, “but I’ve rather enjoyed your silent company over the past two centuries, I’m sure I’ll get used to the eccentricities of a ghost cat.”

“It’s quite a generous offer,” you say slowly, “why do you want me to travel with you?”

Astarion looks positively exasperated by your onslaught of questions.

“I would like to remind you that the last time I trusted a vampire- I died!”

“I suppose that’s fair,” he says with a sigh, “for a noble and a bard, you certainly aren’t one for mincing words.

“I was conflicted about ascending. No one was really giving me a reason not to because no one wanted to upset me. You, on the other hand, humbled me,” he says with a shrug, “and the lack of haunting I’ve experienced over the past several months has been absolutely terrible, Darling. I can’t keep a candle going as bright as you do to save my life.”

He says the last part with flourish and embellishment followed by an awkward cough.

You look to the roses and the garden bed then back to Astarion. It’s a much more fun idea- going with Astarion. It would be safer to remain here, but your life was cut so short so long ago. What if you could find a solution to become a person again? What if you could have the life you’ve always wanted?

“Okay.”

“Okay meaning?”

“I accept your invitation to travel with you.”

You are being scooped up from underneath your armpits again and Astarion holds you at arm's length. You flatten your ears and look at him unenthusiastically. Maybe you made a mistake.

“Wonderful! Now let’s get you cleaned up- you are positively disgusting right now.”

“You really know how to make a ghost feel special.”

Astarion wipes off the dirt using water from the fountain and a handkerchief before picking you back up and heading towards the cemetery.

“There’s something I need to do before we go back.”

He sets you down on the ground and you are surprised to see that you have arrived at his own grave. He remarks the grave as a symbol of his new life and you pluck a flower to drop on his grave. Astarion scratches you in between your ears and laughs as you chastise yourself for purring.

As you walk through the cemetary, you see another familiar name.

“That’s my family’s crypt!”

You sprint to the door and Astarion looks around for any clerics of Kelemvor before picking the lock. You bound down the stairs and Astarion is close behind you with a flame for light in his hands.

Your mother and father are there. It’s odd that your mother lived a much shorter life than your father considering she’s an elf. It looks like your father remarried and you have half siblings.

“Is this you?”

You look over to where Astarion is standing and sure enough- a plaque on a tomb reads, “Here lies Althaeastra ‘Birdie’ Rothwell. Beloved daughter, talented violinist, and the kindest soul this world had the privilege of knowing. We love and miss you forever and always. Kythorn 22, 1,110 to Alturiak 8th, 1,138’.

Your father’s tomb reads specifically, “Birdie’s Father” and your mother’s has, “Birdie’s Mother.” You had been their only child and you had been everything to them.

“Yeah,” you say sadly, “that’s me.”

Upon further investigation, you find that your mother had set your childhood home on fire after drinking too much. She died in the fire because she didn’t try to leave the house. Your poor father must have been devastated.

Your siblings are still alive, but you don’t have any desire to get to know them. That ship sailed a long time ago.

“I’m ready to go,” you say as evenly as you can, “I’m starving!”

You bound up the steps before he can say anything and you are grateful for the fresh air that fills your lungs. At least now you know what became of your family while you’ve been trapped in Szarr palace.

The walk back to Elfsong is quiet and the two of you sit by the windowsill and watch the world go by as the Tavern goers cheer and laugh. All of Astarion’s companions are fast asleep and your eyelids are feeling droopy following the chicken Astarion had managed to steal for you.

“So you’re a cat named Birdie?”

“No, I’m a ghost possessing a cat and my name is Birdie,” you say pointedly with a big yawn, “and I only go by Birdie because my first name is a monstrosity my grandmother insisted I have. I began singing before I began talking so my parents called me Birdie.”

“There’s no reason to argue semantics, Darling,” Astarion says with a dismissive wave of his hand, “no reason to get defensive. Truly adorable story though.”

You roll your eyes before laying your head down to fall asleep. You don’t protest when Astarion picks you up and sets you down to sleep on his bed. He scratches behind your ears before he also lays down on the bed with his book in one hand and his other petting you until you fall asleep.

Author note: Likes, Comments, and Reblogs are always appreciated! Please let me know if you would like to be on the tag list! I am using the Ghostwalk campaign for NPCs, locations, etc. It is a 3e Campaign and doesn’t mirror 5e Ghosts. I have tweaked some of the ghost powers and such for the sake of the story, but if you would like more information on Ghostwalk and the City of Manifest, there is a PDF online that is free to download :)

Additional Note: I didn’t think this concept would be received so well! Thank you so much for everyone’s kind words, like, and reblogs 💜 I am out of town, but I will probably end up posting the next chapter because I’m excited and I love Birdie and Astarion.

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dailyadventureprompts · 6 months

Text

Adventure: Along the Road of Nameless Graves

Presiding over a series of forested foothills and mountainous valleys that divide two rival kingdoms, the mist-shrouded barony of Siirvyn has seen more than its share of war over the past generations. Betrayal, invasion, and massacre are all too common motifs in the barony's long history, leaving all sorts of scars on both the landscape and the people who dwell within it.

Adventure Hooks:

Rumours of a treasure draw the party to Siirvyn, apparently concealed in a vault beneath the ruined castle of a long dead baroness Taviaa. Surely it won't be too hard to locate a single ruin in a land frequently beset by war, right?

The party arn't the only one combing across the barony looking for something. A hardluck knight seeks her brother after he vanished on a foolish quest, and might be willing to help the party out of jam if they aid her in search.

Folk of the barony tell of Grimcackle, a great black winged beast that moorlands that's sometimes heard laughing over the desolate battlefields but is only ever seen by the lost and the desperate. To heed the old stories it plunders the old battlefields of it's choicest riches, hoarding the wealth of the dead over centuries of war.

Subquest 1:

The party's hunt for riches gets complicated after arriving in the region to find that there has been no less than eight baroness Taviaas over the past century(backwater fiefdoms do like tradition after all) with five castles between them. Most have been destroyed by disaster, neglect, or siege, leaving the party to trek across the land checking checking out each option (though a clever party might narrow their search by hitting the local archives and cross referencing historical accounts).

Potential ruins include:

The delapidated lair of the local owlbear

Huanted by the ghost of one of the baronesses Taviaa,

The Hideout of a gang of smugglers with far reaching ties

Thoroughly cursed by a battlefield savaging spriggan who deals in cursed weapons.

To make matters even more complicated, one of the castles has been restored by the current baron Arkolo who would likely not take kindly to a band of renegade sellswords pilfering riches from under his nose, forcing the party to avoid it entirely or risk getting thrown in the dungeon if caught.

Subquest 2:

Ser Riley of Breakbridge never expected to inherit the family title, her father favoured her elder brother Rhys far more, and when the old man died in the last war there was no question who his holdings would pass to. Then, a couple of years ago Rhys got it into his head that he needed to reclaim the family's ancestral sword which was lost in the same bloody battle that did their father in, crossing the mountains to scour old battlefields and not being seen since. After righting the mess Rhys caused by his chivalric absence, Riley has come to Siirvyn herself to drag him, or possibly his body back from his foolhardy quest. The party may run into her requesting aid from the Baron, seeking advice from the local shrine to Tyr, or drinking off another unsuccessful trek through the wilderness at the local tavern. She'd welcome their aid in her search, and would gladly pay them back by lending her blade to theirs in their search (or using her influence to spring them from the baron's dungeons, should they have been caught).

Rhys' trail snakes all across the barony (including leaving a journal in one of the ruins the party wanted to search), but terminates in the great barren battlefield that was his father's last stand. While searching these moorlands the party & Ser Riley will run into a band of armed scavengers apparently conducting their own body-hunt for one of their fallen comrades. They served on the opposite side of the war from Riley's family, and if that wasn't bad blood enough, they apparently came to blows with Rhys a little under a year ago and aim to settle the score with his sister.

Regardless of how the standoff plays out (talking the scavengers down and exchanging favours or beating the information out of them) the Next step is to find Grimcackle's nest. By now (especially if you're playing with my affliction system and the party is tired out from all their wandering across the countryside) the party will have realized that the only way to see the great raven is to be nearing the edge of death, whether through actively dying, being poisoned, or just being exhausted to the bone. This is because the great raven is infact a psychopomp, tasked with sorting out the dead from the region's innumerable wars. Once the party find the particular tor the dread raven uses as roost, they'll find him quite chatty in the way of most birds, happy to trade gossip or play show and tell with his many finds. Rhys did indeed come to challenge Grimcackle for the sword, an act of daring rudness that forced the psychopomp to drag the knight's soul to the purgatory it rightfully belonged.

Resigned by the love she bears her brother, Riley insists she must venture into the shadow to save him, leaving the party with the choice of convincing her to abandon her quest, leave her to her fruitless pursuit of honour, or risk it all alongside her for the sake of an idiot who thought he could convince an aspect of death to respect his pedigree.

Subquest 3:

After their harrowing adventure the party return to town to find that Baron Akolo has been assassinated and all of Siivyrn has been thrown into chaos and suspicion. Fingers point and depending who the blame lands on it might spell civil war or invasion for the backwoods barony once again.

Background: Both neighbouring powers wish to control who moves through the region's winding passes, and expend great effort in both war and peace to ensure the barony is favourable to them. While occupying armies and vassalage have been all too common in the past, the region's ostensibly independent ruler Baron Arkolo is a puppet in all but name for the winning side of the most recent war. Little more than a bandit leader during the conflict savaging battlefields and attacking supply lines on both sides, Arkolo saw the way the wind was blowing before anyone else and made himself indispensable to his current patrons before their inevitable victory.

Little more than a strongman at first, the newly elevated baron managed to ingratiate himself to his subjects by leveraging his outlaw status to cast himself as a hero fighting against the great powers rather than ruling on their behalf. All the while the canny old bandit was of course playing both sides, toadying to the victorious kingdom while helping to run the smuggling operation for their rivals.

Clues & Consequences:

The baron had a stormy relationship with his son and prospective heir Kalo, who came up raiding alongside his father. After the war however, the young man felt he'd had enough of violence renounced his possesisons and joined the secluded temple of Tyr as a means of making peace with his bloody past. Arkolo never approved of his son's taking the cloth, refused to name another heir and would frequently make pilgramage to the temple just to argue with him. Despite their years of contention however the had seemed to reconcile in recent months, becoming closer than ever. Kalo is not taking his father's murder well, and has decided to dust off his old bandit skills alongside his newfound connection to a wargod as a means of finding the killer. Like an angered bull, he's liable to charge at whoever draws his attention, a weakness the real culprit might use to direct him onto the party's trail.

Gareth Gosdown, the baron's advisor and castilian is an agent of their patron kingdom, sent to keep the former outlaw in line and the kingdom's garrisons well supplied. In the wake of Arkolo's death, he's less interested in finding the killer than he is reinforcing his masters' hold over the barony in case of a new invasion. Known for butting heads with the Baron's more slapdash ruling style he's the one the common folk are most likely to point to.

Taviaa (ninth of that name) was born to the Baron after he'd claimed the region and married one of the local nobles. Though still young, she has a cutthroat attitude and a mind for politics, which made it all the more frustrating when her father refused to give up on her pious half brother as heir and name her instead. She knows she's the obvious culprit, the case made all the more convincing by the fact that she's recently been paling around with emissaries from the other kingdom.

Art 1

Art 2

#trying a new format for this lemme know what you think #tyr #psychopomp #highlands #highland dungeon #mystery

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dhampling · 8 months

Text

butter gn!reader, 2.5k

Astarion and his legendary beauty. Old hunting ground turned safe haven. A halo of well-aged tavern dust floats atop his perfect head in the sunlight and you couldn’t be more in love if you tried.

you and the vampire spend a short gloaming sun discussing marriage outside the Elfsong.

word count: 2,538

crossposted on AO3 HERE

read the tags and decide your fate!

He’s softer this evening and the room is fuzzy.

The smell of richly slow-roasted meats & seasonal field greens slapped up high on battered dishes and lathered with fresh salted butter, topped with baby mint, with window-grown rosemary; with truffle salts and crushed peppercorns. Red wine gravy. The open kitchen and the overworked barkeep with sweat glistening at his cheekbone.

Chalices lift from sticky dark tables, sleeves animated in shades of burgundy & emerald moving yellowed, peeling playing cards to chests. Hands joined in prayers of gratitude and glory. Extra chairs for those held close. Laughter; lilting as the bounce of those who whirl around the open floor to the sound of the bards, folding over in some giddy stupor and barreling back to the bar for more.

You nurse a now-warm pint of Balor Ale with eyes closed, calm in empty contemplation as the city smells and sounds wash over you. A late summertide tapestry.

Though people mill about the bar frenetically and the sounds from inside the Elfsong are as raucous as ever; it all knots together to form a sweet, almost melancholy ambience.

Nearby merchants bellow late-day deals on (mildly) heat-foetid produce. Peals of children laughing as they bomb through the cobbles.

Occasionally you’ll flit your lazy eyes open to find him amongst the throngs of people inside.

And in perfect view, he lounges on the back support of an open booth seat Karlach occupies.

Other party members dot similarly around the bar area and the wine flows free as the Chionthar among them. Legs crossed one over the other and cool hands coloured in late amber - one to support, the other to hold the stem of an ‘aged’ Rosymorn Firewine which threatens to spill a little overside as his arm moves in conversation.

From this angle he’s captured beautifully in the gloaming tenday light and from his slightly straightened poise it’s clear he knows that you’re watching for him.

A voyeur.

He’d question your intent, right by your ear, in a sing-song voice so sinfully rich it’d go straight to your head; before chortling in that one silly way he knows never fails to make you smile and capturing you - his darling dearest - in a kiss for the ages.

Astarion and his legendary beauty. Old hunting ground turned safe haven. A halo of well-aged tavern dust floats atop his perfect head in the sunlight and you couldn’t be more in love if you tried.

You see he looks to you after what seems to have been a joke told by one of the group, eyes heavy lidded with joy and the worn creases by his eyes a little deeper by the day. Checking in. You join your friends when you want and are gratefully received on those many occasions, but you revere your time alone. He holds back because he doesn’t want to upset you in the slightest.

Despite reiterating that he is forever welcome to join you in said alone time - and all puns entailing your ‘ alone time ’ whispered in a soft silken purr aside - you feel it in the way he speaks to you.

A fruitfly hums by your ear. You swat it away and look to him once more.

Astarion’s eyes are back on the group.

He listens to stories beyond your earshot and smiles, lolling his pretty head back and dipping to sip from his glass often, the tips of his ears twitching ever so slightly as he does. You clock the sparkling glassware as opposed to the standard tavern-offering pewter chalice and grimace. A heavy bell rings from one of the gilded towers in the near distance.

There’s a cathedral near where you’re from - you remember your visits there as a young thing. The height of the tallest spire seemingly miles above your tiny skull. Ribbed vaulting and lancets. You’d marry him there, when he’d let you, in one of the smaller chapels just off the aged cloister walkway.

The old stone reminiscent of so many who’d loved in all sorts of mangled, patchwork ways before you two were even a thought.

You’d find a way for the sun to forgive him once this was over, so he could stand in the light of a stained rose window and feel faith in something the way those born into religion do.

A reception bursting at the seams with old friends at the Elfsong. You could dance yourselves to the point of a tired stupor with reason enough to do so. A celebration.

Travel across Toril and find a way for him to be able to stomach real food, maybe. Have a cake with marzipan and trifle with rich sherry-soaked sponge for the guests. For him.

His lips show the faintest touch of a wine singe as he looks from Wyll and across to Jaheira, squinting in the sun before standing to - presumably - head to the bar.

You close your eyes again and somewhere in the middle distance, bells continue to ring. A dopey grin as light heeled footsteps approach.

“I think everyone was beginning to wonder if we’d had a tiff.”

Astarion sniffs gently and sits - almost slumped - toward you before leaning in for the kiss.

His lips open lazily to meet yours over and over again, skimming over the back of your teeth with a tannin-stained tongue and all the urgency of a tenday rest. A cold thumb brushes over the apple of your newly freckled cheek.

A carafe of freshly corked wine on the bench before you both, glassware and a plate with warm bread. The butter you’d smelled earlier.

“Could’ve come to me sooner, lover.” You pose with a slow blink, holding his arm still at the wrist to keep his hand to your burning face.

Foreheads meet. The sun beats in the back and the still early evening air is interrupted by the faint buzz of insects and far-off children.

“I know. I do. You just looked so very deep in thought. Our heroic leader.” He jokes, emphasising ‘heroic leader’ in a mock grizzled tone before his head leaves yours and bringing you into his torso with his arm around you.

His stillness feels reverent.

He doesn’t jostle, not a single gesture. You steadily pour two glasses of Firewine from the hefty carafe and sit back into him again.

“I was thinking about you.” You say in earnest while moving to toy mindlessly with the hand draped over your shoulder.

“Hm?”

A flicker - his eyes are on you, a familiar burn, a fire poker. He knows that he’s often the subject of your pondering (if your word is to be believed) and has spent days of his own considering what that could mean.

On nights where his tongue sours with centuries of fermented scorn and his bedroll soaks through with thick, cold sweat; your mind is a fertile meadow and he resides as naught but a simple buxom milkmaid - giving and dense and virile atop dry grassy knolls and by stony running rivers, rutting and riding and suckling and spilling with bare teeth brushing shining cheekbones and dirt smears on thighs. Dimples on cheeks. Eyes of green and silver, blunt teeth.

“You. I was thinking about you.”

Astarion looks into the oncoming twilight. He rests his head to the side on yours, then nestles in a little. A sigh.

From that meadow however, there’s a house with a thatch roof in the far distance; in which he sits by a roaring fireplace in comfortable clothes of his own choice and you, bundling through the door with a basket of fresh produce to stew in hand.

Those lips alone capable of crafting a euphoria akin to a godsly blessing on him.

One bedroom; perhaps two.

Maybe even three.

“How so, my sweet?” He speaks with the familiar measure of a thousand yard stare.

He doesn’t make the voyeur joke you’d seen so vividly in your mind’s eye, nor does he collapse around you with both arms at either of your sides and his chin on your head; burying kisses into your hair and cackling maniacally.

His laundry must’ve dried on the balcony in your party’s quarters during the blazing height of Flamerule. Ruffled shirt linen, crisp and earthy.

“You want to know how I was thinking about you?”

A soft intake of breath.

“Yes.”

You shift a little to look to the Lower City further down the hills and pathways of Baldur’s Gate, the span of the Chionthar and its banks now lit with flaming torches.

The racket continues inside the Elfsong with songs being sung; food arriving at waiting tables and being spooned, hot, into hungry, wet mouths. Sweat slickened palms joining in prayer. Yellowed cards downed and reshuffled, hands dealt. Bards plucking at lutes and lyres on streets and in parks just far enough away.

He looks to you as you roll your tongue around the inside of your cheek. Soft round eyes seeking permission to dream alongside you.

‘I was picturing a wedding. Our wedding. In the cathedral back near home - I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before.”

Though it hasn’t been left to sit long enough to aerate, you take a long sip of wine and a cloying film of carnelian remains on your tongue.

His eyes sharpen.

“You didn’t just propose to me, did you?’

He quirks a brow.

‘Really, darling? Here?’

He gestures to your surroundings while feigning disdain and reaching for the other glass. You begin to shake your head.

‘Come on now, little love. Not even a ring?”

Astarion drinks. His voice is lower. You roll your head back in loving laughter and wriggle yourself from his grasp, buttering a chunk of bread before popping it cleanly into your mouth.

”You want a ring?’

A sip. A smile.

‘Go nick one. You’re the rogue here.” You quip, chewing still on the crust and wiping your fingers on a scrap of cloth.

He brings them to his lips and licks clean any trace of salty butter, kissing each pad of calloused flesh attentively before sipping from his glass.

“Thieving my own engagement ring? How very sad.’

Spare hand gesturing once again to the tavern in such a blasé fashion it would make you cringe if you still put any doubt into his estimation of you.

‘This whole thing.”

His brows furrow in jest, the corner of his mouth pulling at a quick smirk.

“Steal one for me, then.” You suckle at your wine, keeping the vessel close pressed to your lips lest their wavering seriousness give your smile away. Astarion studies you.

“You’d accept a stolen ring as a sign of promise? Of intent to marry?” He queries, though not sounding as airy - nor aghast - as he likely means to.

“Depends who stole it.”

He looks back to the city in the distance. Silence between the two of you.

“What were you picturing in that pretty head of yours? The wedding.”

His hands roll over one another nonchalantly as he says the word. Wedding. The glass sloshes. He’s toying on the precipice of serious, a scene he can’t quite play at comfortably yet.

“Oh no no no, my love. You’ll recoil. It was far too homely for your tastes.” You shake your head animatedly, waving your hands in emphasis.

He leans in towards you; a sordid grin. He’s comfortable now. The warmth in which his shirt dried vividly present.

“Oh go on, darling. Make me squirm. Tell me every fang-rottingly flaccid detail and I’ll absolutely hate it, I promise.”

You choose to forget the face of endless night this evening.

The anticipated fast approaching absence of the tadpole means - most likely - the rescinding of Astarion’s ability to walk in the sun, to bask under the stained glass rose in the chapel; or to waltz in a quiet midday embrace atop the Elfsong veranda.

“Can I trust you to be as absolutely appalled as I imagine you’ll be?” You whisper, saccharine in mock secrecy.

“I swear it. Hand on undead heart.”

He lingers barely above you, solemn; a voice of liquid gold.

You let the silence hang.

“A chapel’

He winces.

‘Cold and draughty in some early morning moment - a choir elsewhere in the building, not close enough to be loud but not far enough to have their verses be wholly indiscernible in song.”

“Go on.”

“Maybe a little austere in tone owing to the nature of the environment, but each moment feels anticipatory. A small - no, intimate - service, fast but…’

You tap your fingers on the dry wood of the bench. Trying to recall the exact sentiment.

‘Eager. Full of devotion so sickeningly true it literally fizzes below the surface of the flesh. Both of us.”

Now you sip, content. Astarion looks into the distance

There are no burdens pertaining to the ‘Absolute’. Life is being lived and the day feels as if it is ending only for another one - just the same - to rise in its place tomorrow. The idea of fighting and peril waits for the morning chimes. An unspoken agreement.

“I keep forgetting I can make choices like that now, truth be told. To commit myself to something with no intent other than that which I decide.”

He’s wistful. A little contemplative. Fingers tapping away.

“There’s no rush, my dove.’

Eyes back on you, hand reaching for yours.

‘Besides - for the trifle I pictured at the reception; we’d need to solve your little taste problem first before I’d dream of allowing such an indulgence to go to waste.”

Astarion coughs, a glint in his eye.

“You’re questioning my taste now?”

“Oh, absolutely. Look at your choice in partner.”

He laughs softly.

“You're an insufferable thing.’

Your fingers & knapsack are both heavy already with stolen gems, as are those of every friend you’ve met along the road. Rings of onyx, quartz; once personal keepsakes & now your plunderer’s spoils. He’s like a magpie whilst rummaging through burlap sacks and rotten barrels. Token pieces without rhyme or reason.

He knows they’re worthless to sell on, anyway.

‘Who knows, though. I might like that. Once I know who I am again.”

Wobbles his head. Examines his pristine fingernails, buffing them softly against his blouse.

“Did you just accept a proposal that you fictionalised in the first place?” You gulp the last of your glass before refilling it swiftly.

“No. But now, you’ve got me thinking.”

“Pray tell?”

He looks at you, eyes now awash with mischief.

“Though I absolutely adore the vision of you on your knees for me - you know I do pet, hush now - I also like the idea of claiming the pose for myself. In a way that’s meaningful for me.’

He sips. You remain in place, hushed.

‘I’m not a details man, my love.’

Eyes on you.

‘Don’t do it for me. I want to. Once we know where we are.”

You beam at him. Pinpointing the moment he turns from rogue to butter, a soft smile on his face. Sincere in the last of the sunshine.

You’re not hinting, and you’d never intend to. When - or if - you’ll tie the knot is as asking the length of a piece of string.

The road which brought you to this very bench, however; has been one fraught with similar nonsensical questions.

#astarion x reader #astarion #fluff #not smut #my writing #one shot #talk of marriage #gender neutral reader #i think #should be anyway #soft astarion

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slytherizz · 8 months

Text

Playing God - Auror!Sebastian x Dark!MC

Tags/Warnings: 18+ | Non-Con | explicit sexual content | Dark!MC | Polyjuice Sex

All tags can be found on Ao3

Word count: 6.4k

Summary: Decorated Auror, Sebastian Sallow had not anticipated how his life would diverge so sharply from the woman he once loved, the most wanted and notorious witch in Britain. Or how their paths would continue to cross - their fates still bound together.

A/N This fic has been living in my WIPs for about 6 months...I wanted to reverse the dynamic of my longer fic with Sebastian being the Auror this time and in doing such explore some darker themes. Short multi-chapter that will probably end up being three chapters at most.

She was pretty enough he supposed in a homely sort of way.

Petite, with neat shoulder-length hair that brushed against narrow shoulders and, a soft bow to her overly thin top lip. But her dress was old-fashioned, a severe high-neck buttoned almost to her chin, ruffled layers of her underskirts impractical and lumpy. Layers upon layers, of an unflattering shade of yellow washed out her otherwise pleasant features.

Compared to the other witches that would frequent such a seedy establishment with their low necklines and light skirts, she would be considered dowdy.

If it wasn't for her eyes. Keen and alert as if beneath the sheep-like exterior lurked something dangerous. He most likely would have overlooked her too.

To even the keenest observer it wouldn't look like Sebastian had any particular tastes when it came to women or men. Much to his displeasure, the qualities that drew him in were rarely mere aesthetic.

Barked laughter like an ill-tempered hound. The smell of mallowsweet. Aromatic and earthy. Teeth pressed lightly into a bottom lip like they held all the cards in a game no one else knew they were playing. Until they spread the winning hand. Smile so wide it unnerved, bore too many teeth.

Tonight, it was keen and dangerous eyes that reminded him of her.

They shared no other similarities and from what Sebastian could discern from her well-manicured nails, and unblemished skin, bar a pale line around her finger where he supposed an engagement ring would usually sit - this was no fighter.

This was a proper young lady - who had wandered onto the wrong side of town looking for a sensible amount of trouble as her wedding day, most likely to some equally wellbred suitor, loomed over her like a dark cloud.

As if Sebastian were screaming his thoughts at her across the crowded tavern, those sharp eyes flicked their attention to him. Raked over the thinning patches of his civilian cloak, the shadow across his jaw, the dark circles under his eyes he'd given up glamouring. After years they were as much a staple of his face as the freckles on his nose.

The marks of a man who hadn't enough time to shave let alone visit a tailor, a man who would scarcely have enough time to ask her too many intrusive questions.

She smiled. Jarring was the only way Sebastian could describe how her face seemed to split horizontally across its centre. Neither half quite belonged to the other. The demure and polite curl of her lips was offset by the razor-edged scrutiny of her darkened gaze. Predatory. Hungry. In a way that made his mouth go dry and cool sweat beads on the back of his neck.

Ice clinked against the side of his glass as Sebastian knocked back the remaining dregs of whiskey. Disguising the way his lip twitched at the corners under the weight of her eyes. Amber liquid burned his throat was nothing compared to the heat prickling across his skin.

Sebastian held up two fingers to indicate to the Barmaid over the raucous patrons of the pub. She placed a second glass on the bar filling them both with a more than generous pour.

"Cheers," Sebastian said, placing the coins into her hand, a little extra for her trouble as he always did. The barmaid smiled brightly, flushed and preening, over a few extra sickles as if he'd declared some great love for her. Though he supposed generosity was not a trait of many that frequented the Ogre's Arms. She leaned a little further over the bar than was strictly necessary, her fingers linger too long against his palm as he hands over his sickles.

Sebastian did not miss the way that the strangers' eyes tracked the interaction. As swift and deliberately as he had been trained to be with every motion, he slipped his hand from the barmaid's grasp deftly hooking his fingers into the rim of the grotesquely full tumblers as he spun on his heels.

Whatever the poor girl had been about to say faltered in her throat. Crackling out of life like a dying gramophone. He really should have felt some sympathy for the poor girl.

She'd made her fondness for him quite obvious over the years. Despite how Sebastian would sidle out the door with what must seem like any witch but her. Too worried about any kind of arrangement that would ask for more than he was willing, or able, to give. Nor did he wish to find a new hole to drown himself in.

And regretfully - her gentle honeyed voice and hopeful doe eyes that delivered longing glances had never stirred anything inside of Sebastian. As much as on some nights he wished they would.

Sebastian weaved through the sparse gathering around the bar of the more rambunctious patrons. Turning a blind eye, to the corner booth and the two witches poorly disguising their face under their dramatic hoods, exchanging money, a rather suspicious-looking sack at their feet which gave a periodic shudder and what looked like spines protruding from the burlap. It may be his job to investigate suspicious behaviour such as this but- he'd rather not have to explain to his sergeant exactly what he was doing in this pub in the first place.

Approaching her solitary table nestled in the corner, she inclined her chin up towards him. Smug. Sloped oak beams cast a thick shadow, and candlelight flickering against her cheekbones made her features waxy like an oil painting against a grimy canvas.

"May I?"

She tilted her head, as though she expected nothing else but was amused by his gesture nonetheless."Only because you brought a bribe."

Sebastian hooked the heel of his boot around the chair leg pulling out further. Placed the two glasses on the table as he sat, careful not to spill any against the oak surface. Not that it would be such a shame if it did. Cheap whiskey from a smudged glass was hardly a waste.

Sebastian tipped his glass to her in toast, she did not feign even the slightest interest in her glass or his hollow act of chivalry.

"I haven't seen you here before," Sebastian said.

Flexing her fingers, she admired those well-polished nails. "No. I don't suppose you would have."

West Country. Quaint. As out of place amongst the sea of London accents as her dress was from this decade. Confirming a very important fact for Sebastian she was certainly not from around here. For the best.

"This doesn't seem like the place for such a nice young lady such as yourself."

Chin resting on the back of her delicate hand. A feline grin spread across her face, as she lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Nor the place for well respected Ministry men."

Tension seized Sebastian's shoulders. Unnerved by her perception, his eyes darted across the sea of faces. He'd left the scarlet cloak with the gold badge adorning his lapels in his flat long before he'd made apparated to the bottom of Knockturn Alley. Places like these didn't take too kindly to rozzers scrambling their clientele. Nor would he want it to become common knowledge at the Ministry that he frequented grimy drinking holes on his off hours. He was certain she'd been alone but that prickle of unease had his hand reaching towards his wand.

She caught his arm swiftly, delicate fingers folded up the cuff of his cloak. Ministry insignia branded into the tan leather strap that secured his wand to his forearm.

Chuckling breathily to himself, Sebastian felt the tension ebb as, just as swiftly, she turned down the sleeve. "Half the people here carry their wand tucked up their sleeve. You have a keen eye, to have spotted that mark from halfway across the room, lass. Do you make it a habit of checking if every man who approaches you is an Auror?"

Sharp eyes glinted with mischief. "Only the ones that interest me."

"Must be my lucky day." He leaned in closer, bitter whiskey breath disturbed a loose curl around her ear as he whispered. "Unless there's a reason you have to be on such high alert for authority I should know about?"

"Do I look like the kind of woman who would have much trouble with the law?"

He cast his eyes down, at her unblemished hands. Free of callouses and scar tissue, the tight restrictiveness of her bodice ill-suited for battle, her polite disarming smile - even those eyes, so reminiscent but not quite right. Despising the remorseful pang in his chest. Nothing like her.

"Well if that's the case this," he gestured around the damp crooked hole masquerading as a tavern. "Certainly isn't the place for you."

"Nor you. Unless the requirements for holding such an esteemed post has gone severely downhill and they let swindlers and murderers into their ranks." He almost winced at the sting of the insult she unwittingly delivered.

"Perhaps lurking around in dingey bars with terrible whiskey isn't suited to either of us. Perhaps, upstanding members of society that we are, should go somewhere we can feel more…relaxed."

"And where exactly is there such a place for me?" Most women would have covered that glaring tan line on her finger, under gloved hands or glamour, but she seemed to flaunt it as she ghosted it across his knuckles; an invitation.

Sebastian's grin widened. "I have a few ideas."

"I don't have much time. So you better make every minute count."

***

Sebastian unlocked his front door with a snap of his fingers. Gestured her inside, his hand pressed into the small of her back. She inclined her head towards him, a smirk playing on her lips at the hollow politeness of his gesture. Knowing full well his intention of inviting her back to his flat was far from gentlemanly.

Exaggerated skirts shifted as she stepped inside. Soft lamp lights scattered around his living room sparked to life in welcome illuminating the small living area. Her formal attire looked out of place; more suited for high tea than the sparsely filled space Sebastian inhabited.

Files strewn across the long velvet settee, scattered teacups and candles burned down to the wick littered every available surface. He knew the larder would be just as barren save for some tea bags and a half-empty bottle of gin the department had cobbled together to purchase for his promotion. He didn't even like gin. The presence of female company always seemed to highlight just how every inch of his flat screamed bachelor.

Sebastian shrugged off his cloak, hooking it on the back of the door. Never once taking his eyes off her. Odd little creature that she was. Against the faint moonlight that trickled in from the arched window on the far wall, her face cloaked in darkness, she cast a dramatic silhouette.

Not quite her. No. But her dress despite its bulk could not disguise the dip of her waist, an alluring swell to her chest. With her face masked from view, he felt his drink-fogged mind teeter dangerously on an edge he would not let it wander past.

She'd bent down, and pinched the corner of a piece of parchment he'd discarded the previous night between her thumb and forefinger. Sebastian slipped his wand from the holster. With a flick, the paper pried itself free to rejoin the rest which were shuffling themselves back into their file before shooting across the room into the waiting drawer of his bureau. The gold lock clicked shut, locking them securely away with an audible snap.

Her head whipped around, her chin jutted out in irritation, and her eyes narrowed slightly into a glare. Sebastian shrugged, as he unbuckled the holster on his arm, placing it on the narrow kitchen island. "Classified information. I'm sure you understand."

Sebastian couldn't have nosy witches trawling through his case files. He'd seen plenty of Aurors sacked for lesser sins. And reporters from the Prophet certainly weren't above seduction tactics to get their stories. That knowledge did nothing however to stop the tingle that spread down his spine that the defiant look in her eye ignited in him.

"I suppose." She shrugged, a forced display of indifference. Before proceeding to further inspect his residence. Striding about like she owned the place and Sebastian was merely some troublesome tenant.

The cramped flat he'd started renting in London straight out of Hogwarts could hardly be considered a home. Sebastian never planned to make it one. Or stay for as long as he did. Merely a stepping stone, at the start of his career. Close to the Ministry, so he could collapse after a long day.

Eat. Sleep. Breath. Work.

That desperate desire to prove himself more than what he'd been. Never satisfied with his lot in life. By the grace of Merlin, he'd been given a second chance to make himself a man - his parents, his sister, that he could be proud of.

He had planned to settle down eventually. Fix the decaying bones of his parents' old house on the hill with her by his side. Both were now a faded, hopeless dream. Sebastian's life had rarely gone to plan.

Tracing a finger across the well-worn spines on his overstuffed bookshelf she pondered each title with interest. "Quite the collection you have. Some rather questionable titles you have here for a man of your profession."

"Special Ministry approval. They're charmed to be bound to my place of residence - before you get any ideas. Can never be too prepared in my line of work. Knowledge of magic of a more…delicate nature can be the difference between life and death."

Strictly speaking, this was not a lie. Any Auror worth his salt would have at least half the books in Sebastian's collection on curse-breaking, dark magic and deadly creatures. Admittedly, his robust library wasn't necessary for his career nor was all of it purely academic interest.

Eyewitness accounts of skinwalkers he'd picked up on a short trip to America, liaising with the MACUSA on their rising troll problem. Journals, written in the maddening scrawl of a witch who'd fancied herself a revolutionary scholar. Wanted to test the corruption dark magic had on the soul. Daft bugger used herself to test her theories. Now all that was left of her was crammed into a bachelor's bookcase.

Smallest in number and size, a thin collection of children's stories and a letter correspondence from crackpot conspiracists. He'd been too late to salvage anything that remained of Miriam Fig's research and this pitiful array was all that he'd discovered over the years with any reference to Ancient Magic. A small house fire could destroy what Sebastian could only assume was the largest collated materials on the subject.

It had been foolish to try to love her, but perhaps more still to hunt the vengeful wraith.

"Well read. Good career. Seems you are a rather eligible bachelor-"

Sebastian smiled moving closer towards her. "I'm not bad to look at either."

"Despite your proclivity for skulking around dingey bars. It's unusual to find a man such as yourself…unattached."

"What can I say - I'm married to my work. Not much time for anything else; not many witches would put up with the lifestyle long-term. Never been interested in marriage."

Liar.

She looked up at him through dark lashes, from how those sharp eyes stripped him back until he was raw and exposed - she scented his dishonesty. "Sounds like a lonely life."

"Depends on who you ask."

Sebastian leaned heavily on the shelf above her head, elbow brushing against well-loved spines. His calloused palm slipped around her waist, running up her side. Felt the curved bones of her corset under his thumb. Leaning in closer still, enough that his breath disturbed the loose curls around her temples. Her lips parted, tongue dancing along her bottom lip as she tilted her chin up towards him like a cat basking in a warm breeze.

She didn't waiver. Not a single flicker of hesitation in those sharp, piercing eyes. For a moment, Sebastian pitied the man who intended to marry her. But not enough to stop him from capturing her lips.

Tasting the tang of cheap whiskey in their mingled breath. Not a slither of remorse as her delicate hands found the nape of Sebastian's neck. Used chestnut curls to pull him closer to kiss him more deeply. Their breath was little more than stolen gasps for air and an opportunity for her tongue to seize and slip past parted lips.

Sebastian crowded her further against the bookshelf. Held tighter to the bunched fabric of her skirts, hands fumbling desperately to feel the shape it disguised. Frustrated by the garment, his lips left her mouth. Travelled down to her jaw, her breathing hitched, head tipped back to thunk against the shelf as Sebastian nipped and sucked at the column of her throat. A little too sharply. But she only pressed into him further. Blood and bruises bloomed wild across her skin as his teeth grazed along her heightened pulse.

He knew what it was like to try to ensnare creatures such as this. How they bit when cornered. Fool that he was, he desired to tame them, change their nature; almost as much as he craved to be bitten.

Maybe that was why he held her so firmly in his grasp. Petticoats balled in his fists, as he pressed himself awkwardly against her. Her dainty form didn't quite fit the stocky mould of his own.

Not that anyone witch or woman had since.

Not that she seemed to care. She pulled Sebastian in like he alone was hers to drink from. Like he belonged to her and she would bend and break him to fit her. Some part of him prayed she succeeded. He'd snap every bone in his body, boil down his sinew in the hope that when at last he healed - he would fit another.

Sebastian pressed his mouth into the crook of her shoulder and burrowed his face, inhaling deeply, as he mouthed at her skin. Soft and supple as an over-ripe peach. Desperately, pathetically trying and failing to make himself fit. But the bridge of his nose bumped harshly against her clavicle and his back ached from stooping.

He'd never melted into anyone since her. No matter how many times he tried with countless trysts with all the ways they reminded him of her in their laughs, smiles, and eyes - they were not her.

Pained groan against her shoulder. Cloth ripped as he tore past her outdated petticoats and the silk of her undergarments. Desperate hands kneaded at her bare flesh. Thigh. Hip. The curve of her arse. Every inch of her skin grew hot, flushed under his touch. If Sebastian had been in his right mind not addled, by drink and frustration he would have handed it to her; for such a wellbred lady, she did not startle easily or cringe from his working hands. With a strung-out whine, she simply displaced the torn fabric so Sebastian's knee pressed between her thighs could provide her with more friction.

Sebastian sank to his knees, hooking her thigh around his broad shoulder. Balanced precariously, her back pressed against the stacks and her leg suspended quivering. Heel dug between his shoulder blades as she sought stability. Her limbs were lean…soft. Delicate like a lamb. No coiled muscle battle worn and firm disguised under her skirts.

That did not stop Sebastian from groaning against the sparse hair as he nestled himself between her thighs. Her muscles clenched tighter. Not with apprehension. No. With blinding unhindered desire. Whining breathlessly, as she urged him to fulfil his role, drop any pretence to do what they came here for. This was no budding romance. And there was no time to pretend otherwise.

Sebastian's tongue darted out teasing the tip through her folds. Eagerly seeking out her bundle of nerves to curl his tongue under her hood. Satisfied, a mewl passed her lips to at last have Sebastian where she desired him most. Hips bucked and writhed with every broad stroke and teasing lick against her soaking entrance. Brown tresses tangled harshly in her grip, those neatly filed nails scratching encouragingly against his scalp.

Her taste was unfamiliar on Sebastian's tongue, but he only lapped at her more fervently. Desperate. As if he savoured enough of her desire for him - he could burn away the memories of sweeter nectars.

Bunching her skirt closer to her stomach, Sebastian's view of her was unobstructed. The collar pulled open where she'd made swift work of the buttons of her high neckline; they hung like loosely strung pearls cascading down her chest which heaved with every breath. Breasts dimpled against the restrictive tightly laced corset.

Sebastian's eyes flicked up to meet hers. Not the right shape or hue but that intensity to them. Storm raging across a riptide, Sebastian, vulnerable in their depth. He could drown in them and would do so gladly.

Blood rushed south, and Sebastian groaned low, pained. He sucked on her clit, coaxing more slick to coat his lips and chin. Hoping beyond hope that her eyes locked on his would flutter closed in pleasure. Her mouth was ajar, each drawn-out moan growing louder as she approached her peak. Clever calculating gaze fixed on Sebastian. He knew he was exactly where she wanted him. Prey to her predator. His cock strained and achingly hard because of it.

Her back arched against the stacks, toes curling against the centre of his back, legs shook with the strain to hold herself upright. Sebastian was relentless. He devoured the quivering nub, tongue teasing as he sucked. Her passionate cry was unrestrained, legs threatening to buckle bringing her down like a house of cards as she collapsed over the edge. Aftershock of pleasure rolled over her, he kept a firm grip on her hip as she rested more heavily against him. His desire for her is confusing and just as precarious.

Sebastian unhooked her leg from his shoulder, palms running along the backs of her calves. She was still propped up feebly holding herself against the bookcase. Pads of her fingers clutching pathetically at the shelves with the ball of her heel holding purchase on the floor.

Orgasm ebbing, softening her predatory edge. A smirk played at Sebastian's lips as he looked up at her once polished appearance now dishevelled. Rattling, with a lust-drunk gaze that defiant chin hanging slightly ajar as she greedily gulped down air.

She narrowed her eyes at his smug expression and gathered her composure before slipping her ruined dress from her shoulders letting it puddle at her feet. Nail digging under his chin as she beckoned Sebastian upwards, pulling him in.

It made Sebastian's heart beat wildly against his chest. A caged canary faced with a falcon.

Teeth grazed his bottom lip, tongue seeking his own. Sebastian's clothes fell away easily from his broad frame. His shirt was discarded, followed by breeches which tangled around his ankles as they fumbled towards the settee. Muffled grunts into her mouth every time her palm grazed his cock, hard and throbbing, through his undergarments. Sebastian moved to lie her swiftly across the settee. One hand pressed into the small of her back the other tangled in amongst the pins now falling loose from her hair.

Inexplicably, she moved faster than Sebastian thought she was capable of. Leg hooked around his ankle like a snake pulling him off balance. Backs of his knees connected with the settee as his legs buckled and Sebastian collapsed bodily onto cushions. Rarely with his extensive training did anyone get the jump on him.

Her lips curled as she observed the way his enlarged head twitched against his belly more eagerly. "Now, I think it's my turn." Laces from her corset pulled loose, she let the camisole shift to the floor with it. "-And you looked far too pretty beneath me."

As she straddled his lap, Sebastian spluttered on his groan and the intoxicating sensation of her wet centre against his shaft. Her palms were flat, braced against his chest, nails scratching at the coarse hairs that grew there. Every inch of her soft, naked flesh pressed against him. His hands settled on the curve of her hips, sliding along her flushed skin with hands that seemed too large.

She really was quite pretty. Sebastian just wished the parts that didn't remind him of her made his heart race as much as the ones that did.

She caught his lips, fingers cupped against his jaw, her mouth moving against his. Teeth and tongue. Hot breath came out in short dulcet pants as she greedily tasted the remnants of her arousal on his lips.

Her hand snaked down between them, taking Sebastian's throbbing length in her hand. He hissed, as her thumb smoothed over the leaking slit, aligning him with her entrance. Eyelashes fluttered a satisfied sigh, as she sank down, taking him inside of her. Dainty as she may appear, she appeared to relish the stretch to accommodate his size, almost as much as he did. So tight she gripped his cock, it almost sent him hurtling over the edge.

Barely giving herself time to adjust before she canted her hips. Weight shifting so she could slide up his shaft until only the head of his cock remained before sinking back down onto Sebastian's girth more demandingly. Needy grunts reverberated in Sebastian's chest as he matched her frantic desperate pace. Forehead braced on her chest as he bucked his hips into her tight core. Pebbled nipple caught between his lips, her head thrown back in a wanton moan as Sebastian ever so gently grazed the peak with his teeth.

Sebastian closed his eyes. Whiskey fog coupled with the godly feel of her clenched around him, he relaxed into her eager pace. Inhibitions lowered, his mind straying to the well-worn path he rarely let himself tread.

Face striking contorted in ecstasy; a savage beauty like lightning striking the ocean. Mallowsweet scent; that soothed like a botanist's herbal balm. How perfectly her body wrapped around his own as if by design. Sebastian's teeth pressed hard against his tongue as her name danced upon it. With his eyes closed, hands held back - that shameful part of him could pretend it was her.

"Sebastian," the witch moaned. He didn't remember giving her his name. Nor asking hers. The voice he heard was not that polite West Country lilt but one conjured from Hades - his divine pleasure and punishment.

Can't let it be her.

Sebastian forced his eyes open, to look at the woman from the bar. Her neat hair, narrow shoulders and thin top lip. Only to find the lines separating fantasy from reality blurred and contorted. His stomach lurched.

Maybe he'd had more to drink than he thought.

Whiskey had crowded and garbled his senses as well as his inhibitions. Sebastian's vision was merely blurred. She looked like her. Not just in her eyes but the sloping curve of her neck, the arch of her nose, her hair longer and tangling against the neat pins that had once held it back.

It's all the whiskey.

If he could bring himself to look away from her face for even one moment he would see the room spinning. But he couldn't look away.

Those keen eyes bore into him, locked with his own and he swore they changed colour. The fire that had been smouldering within sparked, roaring, melting her irises into that familiar hue.

He didn't just have to squeeze his eyes shut to see her and pretend it was her impossibly tight walls clenching around him with every thrust.

There she was.

"You," Sebastian spluttered, disbelief tight in his chest. "No. No- It can't be you. This can't be happening." Who cares if he sounded mad? His mind was spiralled and scrambled, desperate to bring back the visage of the woman from the bar and right himself. This face; her face didn't waver. She rolled her hips once more, bottom lip tucked between her teeth as she cast her gaze down. Over her breasts and the faded scar that curled under the left from the crucio, he'd administered. Firm muscles of her legs earned from years of battle. Calloused hands of someone who knew little of comfort. All were once again her own.

Sebastian's world was spiralling, tipping on its axis. Tension in every muscle in his body. Still as beautiful as she was in his nightmares, even the ones where she tore out his heart. She clicked her tongue, amused then smiled. So wide, it bore too many teeth.

Fucking exquisite. Sebastian despised the way his heart faltered in his chest.

"Pity. I guess the kneazle's out of the bag," she purred, teeth raking sharp across his earlobe. So sharp it shocked his spiral back into sickening clarity like ice in his veins.

Like a shot, Sebastian wrapped his hand hard around her throat forcing her face away from him. Thumb pressed harshly into the corner of her jaw with his iron grip on her windpipe. Any sane woman would tremble to have his large hand like a vice around her throat in anger. Cower, under the venom in his eyes.

But she was far from sane; perhaps never had been. She gasped involuntarily choking around where his fingers so deeply pressed into her flesh, but the smile on her lips never faltered despite how he could feel the hammer of her blood against his fingertips.

"You should know I don't share," she wheezed. It wasn't the polite West Country drawl she'd adopted at the bar - but that feminine purr he knew far too well. Velvety, like a caress that sent shivers down his spine; and if it were possible simultaneously made his blood run cold and his cock impossibly stiffer where it was sheathed deep within her. She whimpered approvingly, hot breath ghosting his freckled cheeks.

"Fuck- how did you-" Choking on his groan as she expertly rolled her hips, grinding on his cock. Evil, manipulative witch. She knew exactly how to turn practically every rational thought in Sebastian's brain to smoke.

"Polyjuice. She was pretty don't you think? You seemed to like fucking her while it lasted. Maybe not as much as that curvy redhead from a few months ago...I had bruises on my thighs for weeks."

Somewhere deep in his psyche, Sebastian knew he should push her off. Bind her. Gag her. Put as much distance between himself and her and the mixed-up way she made him feel. Preferably in a cell in the deepest part of Azkaban the Ministry had long ago allocated for her when they signed the warrant for her arrest. At that moment, over the cacophony screaming through his head the only coherent thought was how to keep her desperately bouncing on his cock.

"I thought it was my turn to have some unsanctioned fun."

No - rose, bubbled and died in his throat. Caught somewhere amongst the shameful rasping groan as she began to rhythmically rock her hips. Never quite releasing her entirely, but Sebastian's grip on her throat loosened as his muscles slackened in shameful pleasure.

Using every bit of her newfound leash, she leaned forward to kiss him. Sin, like ambrosia on his tongue. Lips slotted against him, they moved in perfect harmony to a melody he wished had never been composed on his bones.

She wrapped around him as if the wild thing that she had always been had sprouted from the earth, and curled her tendrils around him. Or rather, like a constant wave beating against him she'd worn his surface. It was a marvel he hadn't crumbled into her sooner.

"You're mine you know," she cooed, her breath hot against his ear.

"I am not," Sebastian spat. But try as he might to deny it, curse her until his final breath - his words rang hollow. And he loathes himself all the more for it. She was not his any longer, but something else. Twisted by cruelty and power that simply wore the face of the woman he once loved.

Shame stirred in his gut; desire coursed through his blood.

"Denying it doesn't make it any less true. You know me blind. When my face is not my own. Fate has bound us, Sebastian. Just as I would know you in any life."

Sebastian gritted his teeth, cheek pressed against her sternum. Fingers digging into her shoulder blades, as he pounded his cock up into her harder, faster. If he was stronger, he would not be prey to her illicit designs for him - but he was not. She keened, greedy to take all he could give her. Consume him entirely if she could. Sebastian closed his eyes and cursed himself for being weak.

Vision narrowing, Sebastian groaned, low and pitiful into the curve of her neck. Ashamed of what he knew was coming. "I hate you," he cursed. Repeated it like a mantra, his lips against her sweat-salted skin as if he could transcribe the words onto her flesh.

Deep plunges into her warmth growing erratic as Sebastian's coil tightens. Her body clenched, tightening around him, with every thrust teased against her sweet spot coaxing more slick onto his cock. His punishing words merely rolled off her curves like water off a duck's back.

"S-Sebastian," her hoarse cry pierced through his resolve. Sebastian bit into her neck trying and failing to hold back from the precipice of the inevitable. Unwilling to surrender any more of himself to her. It only served to send her hurtling over the cliff. His cock buried deep inside of her, her head thrown back, cunt quivering as her climax broke. Orgasm, wracked through her in waves. Engulfing Sebastian's every sense.

Fire and Brimstone. Gentle breezes and mallowsweet.

Beauty. Terror.

Rhythm faltering, Sebastian's hips spluttered as that mounting coil finally snapped. Her name on his lips, her scent on his skin. Everything that remained of Sebastian Sallow was consumed entirely by her. He came hard - with a broken pathetic whine that forced itself from his body as he spilt inside of her.

It was no little death - it was all-consuming. A part of him would never come back from. Another piece of his soul surrendered along with what was left of his dignity.

Sebastian fought for breath. Unforgiving waters filled his chest, ice seized his joints, heart thundered as dark edges clouded his vision, threatening to drown out the light and sound. Choking on his saliva he wheezed, shoulders heaved forward violently. Fresh tears pricked in his eyes.

She shushed his soothingly, thumb tracing idle patterns on his skin with a sickening gentleness that curdled his stomach. He whined pathetically against her chest but she only gripped him harder. Fingers carded through his hair as she hummed a sweet tune peppering kisses to the crown of his chestnut hair.

Perhaps, in another life, he had the strength to overcome the guilt and sickness now seizing his bones. In another, perhaps there was no deception to be ashamed of.

He wasn't sure how long they sat entwined, soft cock still inside her, his spend leaking onto his thighs matting in the hair. When at last Sebastian's violent sobbing eased he felt the enchantment stretch across his body, taunt ropes strapped his arms to his sides, and bound his ankles. A chaste kiss against his temple as she slid from his lap.

Sebastian watched her and tried to pretend for a second, that he was not bound, she was not mad and hips swaying hypnotically as she pranced naked around their flat as she did every Sunday evening. Not his. Theirs. Another life, unstained by dark magic where she was still his.

Fussing with her dress, eyebrows pinched together, frowning as she examined the shredded yellow gown. She sighed, holding the unlaced corset over her breasts, gathering up the remnants to haul them to the kitchen island. She found his wand, with its emerald and onyx handle, the one that had belonged to his paternal great-grandfather. Back and forth she toyed with it in her hands.

"Put that down." A feeble attempt at a threat from a man bound, naked, cheeks streaked with stale tears. Tight from salt they felt stretched like a drum.

"You ruined my dress," she pouted. "The least you can do is help me fix it."

Traitorously, Sebastian's wand didn't so much as shudder in retaliation. It obeyed her easily, stitching up the splintered seams, her corset tightened, cinching at her waist. Her hairpins reorganised themselves. She looked almost like her old self, the girl she'd been at school, with a spark of fire in her eyes that mirrored his own.

"Before you go running off to the next little witch who bats her eyelashes at you, Bash. Try to remember - I don't share." She placed his wand back on the counter and slipped a canteen from her purse. She drank deeply. Gagging, hand smacking into her chest to keep down whatever foul liquid it contained.

If Sebastian had still been drunk the way her face bubbled like stew on a boil would have turned his stomach. Her lips thinned, her hair shrunk back into her scalp, her scars paled and her muscles softened. The woman from the Pub returned, exactly as he'd met her. It did nothing to quell the sickness churning in his gut.

"Au revoir mon amour." She was gone as quickly as she came, but her presence lingered like a gaping, festering wound.

Sebastian sat in the dark. Hatred for her that he cultivated in public and the private yearning he tended to as it grew like persistent weeds in his garden he tended had given way to emptiness. A void that for a time he was content to let swallow him whole as he stared at the cracks in his floor. Mourning the woman he'd loved. But most he mourned for himself, for all she took from him.

Shadows inched across the floor as dawn eventually broke. Long after the bindings had dissolved. Sebastian hadn't slept or moved for hours and his joints stiff, groaned as he got to his feet. He trudged to his bathroom and ran the water until it was scalding. Intent on scrubbing his skin raw. As if she could un-touch him.

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