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pursuitseternal · 17 days

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“Treat Me:” tender loving aftercare from the Vampire Ascendant in “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x Female Reader | E | 2K

For @starryjuicebox so he can tuck you into bed

Summary: He cradles you after a long session at his pleasure, and now the softness returns. He pampers, soothes, and cares for you, his beloved consort.

CW: soft A!A, mild injury tending, bath snuggles and hair washing, Oral female receiving, comfort, cuddling, and sunbathing.

Previous Ch | ao3 link | Masterlist

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“Such a good darling, an obedient pet…” his voice is a distant purr, your eyes barely opening as he lifts you down. The silken rope slithers from your wrists, the broad expanse of his shoulders catching your weight as you drape down his back. “Come on, my love, time to tend your love bites and other… markings,” he snickers quietly to himself.

You murmur something, too quiet for even your mind to register. The thump of his footfalls sounds muffled through the veil of pleasured sensations… too overstimulated from his intoxicating brand of pain and pleasure on these nights he spends with you in his special room… when he lets that edge of danger within him come out to play. You catch your breath, sensation slowly returning to your arms where he had you suspended. As he cradles you over his shoulder, carrying you up to your rooms, his fingers trace his bite marks that pepper the backs of your thighs and dot across the swell of your ass cheeks. And every inch of you is damp… blood, sweat, and cum, that heady mixture that coats your skin.

Closing your eyes, you let his touch caress, chasing away the fleeting flashes of pain from moments ago. You can smell the instant he brings you into your bathing chamber, the sharpness of his scent, of citrus and rosemary and brandy hits your nose and wakes you up. You raise your head to the dimly lit room, two dozen candles flickering in the purple of darkness makes everything shimmer. A snap of his fingers and a couple spells, Astarion fills the elegant marble bathing tub. He sets you cautiously on your feet first before handing you into the steaming water.

Crimson eyes flicker over your naked body as it sinks beneath the water, that bottle of potion shines a bit in the candlelight as he pours it into your tub. “Just a little something extra to provide you some… relief,” he snickers, dipping his elegant hand into the waters to stir it around. A soothing numbness targets your most sore and swollen parts, and you sigh. Your body easing into the water, you barely notice the ripples of Astarion slipping his body beside you. It barely registers, his arm wrapping around you, the warm water pouring down your neck to rinse off the blood… the trickles that run down your face as he wets your hair and washes it clean of sweat and more.

For a starved as you can be for his touch, right now, you have glutted on it, overstimulated and nearly numb to that now-gentle caress.

A far cry from his bruising, marking, claiming touches that pleasured and teased you for hours.

But now, you are his treasure, cradled in the crook of his shoulder, attentive hands washing every offending swipe of grime that discolors your soft skin. The scents of flowers… lavender to relax, roses to pamper… it fills your every breath as your body finally softens and soothes the aches he’s driven into your body to the bone. You begin to hear his velvet purr in your ear, sweet words of praise and gratitude that you did so well tonight, words to affirm his love for you, to soften the literal blows he rained on the fleshy, jiggling curves of your ass.

The pain is intense but brief, and the pleasure is always more than immense… but it’s these moments after that make it all warm and worth it. Little droplets of scented water fall on your cheek as his hand cups your face, his petal-soft lips pressing tenderly against yours.

“Astarion,” you breathe his name, addicted to the way it feels to moan it… after all, it’s been ripped from your lips and screamed and whimpered and sighed countless times night.

“Yes, my treasure?” he croons right into the shell of your ear, a little shimmy of his shoulders, just as he once did during those hazy, nostalgic days in your camp.

You snuggle into his neck, lazily running your tongue over the sensual sinews where his pulse throbs. “Please… I’m feeling oh… so… peckish,” you give a tired laugh, one he matches.

An equally worn out laugh in his throat, he takes his finger, perfectly manicured nail point dragging across his neck to let a trickle of his blood run for you. The scent of it hits your nose in an instant, rich and powerful and complex like the most refined of vintages. You barely lick your lips first before you swipe along the scarlet trail he’s left for you. And then you suck, that thick, heady blood of his so smooth on your tongue and down your throat.

Aches and pains fade away, your belly growing more and more full with every swallow. It hums in your veins and restores your own power to you. Those longer nails rake against your scalp, teasing your wet hair and petting you like the precious little thing you are to him. A contented sigh from your lips, you release from his skin, a listless, pleasured twist of your mouth when you smile at him.

The palm at the back of your head presses your chin to his warm, waiting tongue, and he licks your chin clean. “I do so love to taste you… after you’ve tasted me…” he rasps against your lips, his words flowing into another languorous kiss.

His lips twist against yours… some brilliant idea inside his silver-curled head that he wastes no time acting on. Water sloshes over the side of the tub as he stands, your body already in his arms, your mouth already being consumed by his tongue and lips and teeth. Supernatural, strong, secure… he carries you in his arms to the bedroom to set you down on your wiggly, wobbly legs and dry you off.

The moment you’re dry, you happily crawl into bed, the softness of your sheets cushions you, another layer of balm to your pleasured and battered body. In the muffled distance, you hear him toweling off, the bed frame creaking and the buckling of the mattress follows… the telltale signs he approaches. That warm, sinewy frame of his covers you, slotted between your thighs, and you hiss at the insistent friction.

“Don’t you fret, my dear,” he chuckles, deep and low and wicked in his chest. “Despite the evidence to the contrary…” he grinds his still-hard erection over your mound gently, “you’ve done so well, I have nothing of that sort on my mind, just a little treat for my… treat.”

His voice purrs, his lips kissing and sucking lovingly across your collarbone and then over the pillowy tops of your breasts. He kisses around the angry, red bite marks from before… careful not to tease your nipples hard again. That warm tongue swipes up through the valley of your chest between them, only to have him kissing his way lower… and lower still. Hot breath warms your folds, the only prelude to his fingers and tongue licking into you with perfect precision. He paces his lapping, slow and attentive and thorough. Those same little growls he makes as drinks your blood reverberate through your slickened pussy. Fingers tease inside you, catching and stroking that bundle of nerves hidden in your channel until you hear your own sloppy arousal weeping from around his fingers.

Ravenous, his tongue laps it up. Insistent and strong, he sweeps up every drop of your slick and brings it to swirl around your clit. So tired, your poor brain and dulled senses barely hear the gasps from your own lips, barely controlling the rhythmic buck of your hips to match his fingers and mouth that worship you.

His voice rumbles such pretty words, such saccharine epithets into your folds. “Pretty consort…” followed by the wet suck of his lips, “…little treat…” Growls of his own hunger tickle as he curls that tongue back to your clit, “…mine forever, my love…”.

You feel his hair in your hands, not knowing how or when you fisted it as he eats you, feasting on you… A low sigh from his mouth sends you careening, that warmth and pleasure blooming from your core to swallow any last traces of lancing pain. Limp, breathless, boneless… you feel as if you’re floating in the downy bed beneath you.

You brace yourself for a moment for that fullness and friction of his cock, but it never comes. Only a tender kiss inside your thigh at the joint and the comforting weight of his body to lie beside you. His breathing is relaxed, warm and contented, as he nestles that sharp face and aquiline nose behind your ear and into the mess of your hair. He’s breathing you in… the fragrance of fresh-washed hair, the scent of your skin and fresh arousal. And despite that hardness at your lower back, he just pulls the heavy weight of your comforters over your naked bodies. Arms wrap softly but assuredly around you, one hand holding your arm, the other tucked snugly beneath both your still-drying heads. You feel the slowing thump of his pulse against your back as he pulls you even closer, the rush of his breath in your ear tingles your spine and relaxes you all at once.

Lulled to sleep by the warmth of his skin and the lullaby of his body…

Daylight caresses you, and instantly, as you stir, you know he’s already awake from his trance. The sunlight flooding your room, the curtains blown wide to let the dawn in, those are the dead giveaways. Those are the signals that he has already woken up and taken full advantage of his powers as Ascendant, his favorite—basking in the sun. Not that he would admit it.

He sits against the large window, letting his pale skin soak in the morning sun. Shirtless, just a pair of breeches on his legs, your sunwalking vampire, lets the warmth still thaw the centuries of cold and hurt.

Crimson eyes turn towards you, a knowing grin on his face the instant he hears your breathing change. “Ah, the only thing that sparkles more than the soft light of dawn…” he smirks, that same velvet tone of voice that made you first swoon, “the glint of your own scarlet eyes as you blink the lingering pleasure from your sleep.” You watch his muscles flex as he stretches in that shaft of sunlight from the window. Feline and a tad predacious, he slowly crosses towards you in the bed, a slightly sheepish grin on his full lips, even as his eyes clearly revealed his still lingering desires that had raged in the dark. “I’m… sorry if I was a bit more demanding than usual last night, darling, but you did so well…. My good, sweet consort.”

You give him that look that both provokes and placates, pursing your lips with a hint of a baleful glare from the corner of your eye. He sits beside you, and you keep your distance. Just enough.

“I always know when your negotiations either go horribly wrong or… intoxicating well…” you smirk, rubbing out the lingering soreness in your neck. It aches still, those harder to reach spots down the curve of your shoulder blades the worst from being suspended for so long…

And quickly, his hands replace yours. Those fingers, so strong and deft at picking locks and pleasuring you, knead into the aches and pains you just can’t reach. “So, do you wish to guess if negotiations with the dhampirs in Cormyr went to our advantage?” He purrs, hands still massaging your back as they wander lower. “Be warned, if you guess incorrectly, I'll treat you to more of the same rigorous attentions from last night…”

“And if I guess correctly?” You hum, his hands grasped teasingly around her swells of your ass now.

“Then I’ll treat you to more of the same tender care…”

You cock your brow and smirk, heart pounding for either way, it is always a treat with him.

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eddies-house · 4 months

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Smoke Signals

Chapter Twelve - The Holiday Season Begins

W/C: 8.7K

Eddie x Fem reader - Grumpy!Bartender!Eddie x Shy!Reader

"I've got my eye on you."

Say Yes To Heaven - L.D.R

A/N: Wow I think this is the longest I've gone without posting a chapter. I really hope you guys enjoy this one. I wrote it in bits and pieces and read it over several times. I would really really really love to know what you think, this one is so special and personal to me.

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Sugary apple goo.

You think back to Thanksgiving back home, a ruckus constant in the kitchen as dinner is prepared, more than enough food to feed an entire village. Pots and pans clank together, trays create an echo as they are not-so-carefully placed atop the counter. Dinner rolls are burned but still enjoyed with warm cinnamon butter. The potatoes are a touch too lumpy but still desirable with notes of rosemary and an ungodly amount of garlic. Various smells, both sweet and savory flood the house, your poor, stressed out mother churning out dish after dish, siblings all engaged in some kind of ball game out in the street just after watching the Thanksgiving Day parade.

You tend to the green bean casserole, an easy dish that you couldn’t screw up even with your limited attention span. Cream of Mushroom soup from a can seemed so repulsive in itself although it brought the whole dish together. It didn’t matter that seconds prior it slumped against the green beans still in the shape of the can, nearly gelatinous. Once stirred in and baked with crispy onions layered over the top, it was a masterpiece. A five star dish in your book.

It would only be a matter of time before grandma showed up with her famously delicious apple pie, the crust coated in extra amounts of grainy sugar, the dish still piping hot. And the “sugary apple goo” as you used to call it at the age of three already had your mouth watering just thinking about it, crispy apples so fresh and topped with syrupy caramelized sauce topped off with cinnamon and nutmeg, all wrapped up in a flaky, buttery crust.

You sigh, piling the apple mixture on top of the homemade graham cracker crust. It wasn’t clear to you just how lonely Thanksgiving morning would be without anyone around. Sure, you had Donnie’s to look forward to this evening but until then, you were on your own, the parade quietly playing on the TV though you hadn’t been very impressed with the floats this year. Holiday depression was kicking in, a kind you hadn’t experienced yet. They were usually always a happy time, family surrounding you and distracting you from the lonesome thoughts you usually had. This year it started feeling more like a ton of bricks was sitting on your chest, no one able to aid in providing you with some kind of task such as the honor of making the green bean casserole to ease the pressure.

It wasn’t like you couldn’t just make the controversially delicious dish, you had everything stashed in the pantry. It just didn’t feel right. It went unnoticed by you that tears were slowly sliding down your cheeks until a fat one landed on your wrist as you finished spooning the apple filling.

Again?

In that moment you swear you looked the most pitiful you had ever looked in your entire life, tears trailing down your face silently, all alone, homesick. You should be in your pajamas playing some kind of a board game on the coffee table in the living room, surrounded by your siblings. Not throwing yourself a pity party while spreading apple goo. To top it off, your hands had gotten completely covered, the sauce making your fingers undesirably sticky. You hadn’t quite reached the point of sobs yet though you suppose if you let the goo linger on your hands any longer you would.

Some comforting folk music your grandpa used to play religiously rang through the house though you felt no such comfort. Not as much as you’d hoped anyway. It brought a familiar sense of his essence to you, his passing three years ago not settling right in your heart. It only made you more homesick.

But you weren’t going to let yourself soak in salty tears and sticky apples. No, you washed your hands in soothing warm water, the sludge sliding right off and into the metal of the sink, eyes puffy and red but void of tears for the time being. You’d sucked them back and changed the music to something more upbeat, some Elvis that your grandpa had also engrained deeply into your brain though you hoped the faster tempo would brighten your spirits and ignite the happy memories.

Only, it landed you on the couch in a whole new sea of sobs this time as Unchained Melody lingered in the lonely room. There was no getting a grip on the gut-wrenching, stomach-aching isolation you were feeling, sanity was long gone. You were supposed to be trimming the dough that was meant to create the criss cross pattern for the pie, you were supposed to be enjoying your glass of wine as you sang under your breath to familiar tunes, you were supposed to be okay.

It was you, after all, who had made the decision to move, right? It was you who picked up your entire life and plopped it right in the middle of some unknown mountain town in search of yourself. You feared that you were just losing yourself instead, forgetting just after a few months what it felt like to be surrounded by loved ones, forgetting how it felt to come home to a full house after a grueling shift at the local Denny’s. You smelled of burnt coffee and dry eggs, your hair greasier than the literal grease trap, but none of that mattered the second you stepped into the coziness of the living room, all family dysfunction left at the door.

The tears wouldn’t stop though you still managed to force yourself off of the couch, wiping snot away with the back of your hand as you stared at the messy kitchen in despair. Everything suddenly seemed so…impossible. How were you meant to do anything while simultaneously questioning your entire existence, your entire meaning of life?

You had been in such disarray that cleaning up as you went didn’t even seem close to an option, nearly every pot and pan either set on top of the stove or thrown in the sink, whisks and spatulas scattered among the mess, and apple skins littering the floor. Now you were taking in the aftermath, not even having the finished product to show as an excuse for the complete disaster, even the dough still rolled out on the cutting board. You had hours left to prepare though it felt like seconds ticking by to inevitable disappointment.

The end of the world felt like it weighed down on your shoulders yet you did what you did best each time. You set it aside and pressed on. It was never simple, weak hands grasping the dull knife, slicing through the dough to create uniform strips. Motivation was running dry, the desire to grace everyone with the most delicious apple pie they’d ever tasted was out the window, you could only do what your body allowed.

And like every other time you had to pull yourself out of the gutter. Life began to bleed back into your eyes as your creation came back to life. Puffiness still remained throughout your face, eyes still droopy but slowly your drive kicked back into gear. Sniffles from previous snotty tears continued but nothing felt better than laying down the last layer of dough over the apple filling, a quest conquered.

Finishing off your cheap red wine, you reward yourself by licking off the spoon you’d used for the filling. The kitchen still required a good scrub down but you could live with the mess a little while longer as you indulged in the sweetness. Something well deserved. You didn’t even want to think about the nightmare that Christmas was about to become, decorating your tree with only the company of your dreaded thoughts. That was a scenario you were not willing to wander into, at least not until it would actually happen. There was no sense in making yourself live through it twice, your brain longing to torture you with irrational possibilities.

Elvis’s voice continues to carry through the living room, a second glass of wine being poured in hopes of easing your homesickness, attempting to neglect thoughts of what you would usually be doing right now. It was barely working, only leaving you feeling slightly lazy with a good layer of sadness still looming over you like a storm cloud. There was no extinguishing the sorrows you felt for familiarity and the comfort the holidays were supposed to bring you.

Sudden knocking sends you into a brief panic, unexpected guests were not in the cards for your lonesome morning that had only served to encourage your crybaby tendencies. At the very least you got a pie out of it.

The knocking persists as you scramble up from your depressing divot on the couch, a certain urgency waving over you at the speed of the knocks. They were rapid, quick pecks at the wood, a worrisome speed that usually constituted an emergency in the end.

Why today, why now?

With a heavy sigh, you swing the door open, glass of half-finished wine in one hand while the other runs down your drained face. You expect some kind of eviction notice; god knows why since you own the place. Maybe the check hadn’t reached the mortgage company, maybe it had been intercepted in transit. The last thing you expect on your doorstep is a wide-eyed Eddie cradling a large bowl in one arm. His gray sweatpants swallow his legs and hang low on his hips, a sliver of his tummy on display in between his t-shirt and pants.

It’s conflicting. Do you act concerned and start begging the questions: Did something happen? Who’s injured? Or do you exhale in relief as a tiny smile tugs at the corners of his mouth even in his somewhat distressed state? It can’t be that bad if he still finds it in himself to smile, right?

“I, uh, I need help.” He says sheepishly.

Ever since the night of the hoedown, he’d been a new kind of shy with you. You couldn’t lie and say you didn’t adore it because truth be told, big bad Eddie Munson who previously chewed you out for being so bashful was now getting a taste of his own medicine. Except you had been much kinder than he initially was, though it was fun to tease him and force his face to turn a vibrant tomato red.

“Help?” You smirk, swirling your wine as if you were some kind of connoisseur. “My, my, how the tables have turned.”

“Bambi.” He groans, still maintaining focused eye contact with the wood planks of your porch.

“Eddie.”

It’s said so softly, in a way that reduces him to a puddle, his knees could give out at any moment if you so much as looked at him a certain way which had been why he refused to catch your gaze. He internally curses himself for automatically counting under his breath, unable to stop himself: one, two, three, one, two, three.

In an instant your face falls, he only ever counted when he was stressed from what you could gather. It was a learning curve, navigating Eddie’s quirks.

“Hey.” You soothe, gingerly grabbing his wrist with your free hand. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

His curls bounce with a shake of his head, his eyes fluttering shut. The counting stops but he still comes across as fuzzy. Disoriented.

“Come inside.” You whisper, gently tugging him through the door, your wine abandoned at the entry table in the process. “It’s freezing out.”

Instinctually he hands you the bowl he’d been cradling close to his body with a wooden spoon sticking out. Upon further inspection, a mountain of mashed potatoes-or should you say lumps of potatoes are piled up within the bowl. The skins are still intact, way too many if he intended to make smooth and creamy potatoes. They’d be much less than enjoyable in the state they were currently in.

“I fucked them up.” He whispers.

The sight you’re met with is that of a small child in a grown man’s body, his large eyes pleading. You’re forced to realize that today may very well be much worse for him than it is for you. He’d warned you that he didn’t do holidays and here he was, a nervous wreck turning up on your doorstep in a panic with lumpy potatoes. And suddenly you felt so selfish.

“That’s okay.” You assure him, tracing a tender thumb over his bicep. He looked so lost. “Eddie, it’s okay.” You repeat with a nod.

“I just, I was gonna buy something from the store, and then, I just thought–I dunno maybe I’d at least try.” He tugs on his curls, a bit too harshly for your liking. “I don’t know why I even tried.” He sighs in defeat.

It’s enough to break your heart.

“Eddie.”

Turmoil flashes in his eyes, stress apparent in the way his brows furrow and his frown lines grow deeper. His lips are red, most likely bitten, and he can’t stop twisting one of his rings around his finger. He looks to be as much of a wreck as you felt although the symptoms seem to be much more apparent in his appearance than yours. Your slightly swollen eyes were nothing compared to his tousled curls, anxieties littered across his face and trembling hands unable to be subtly hidden without the crutch of sleeves.

“I, uh, I-I shouldn’t have bothered.” He mutters, reaching for the door.

You intercept him, your hand wrapping around his elbow while you attempt to meet his eyes. He freezes in his escape, your touch rendering him paralyzed, your fingers suddenly too determined in digging into the meat of his arm. Not meanly. Never meanly. More concerned. Concerned for the way he cowers away the second he’s offered any fraction of help. Perhaps it’s hypocritical of you to regard him with such worry when you yourself present the same behaviors under the same circumstances and expect no such treatment.

Your expression offers a certain softness that he’s come across one too many times since you’d barged into his life and taken his heart hostage. You’d never know you committed such a crime. And he’d never outright tell you of the ache that sat deep in his chest that he had no clue how to satiate. All he knew was that he could not jeopardize this. If he could get through the holidays, if he could get to January and you were still around, then, and only then would he be convinced that he had finally lifted whatever fucked up, out-of-this-world curse that had haunted him all his life.

“It’s okay.” Barely above a whisper, you assure him.

Eddie doesn’t remember making his way into your kitchen, he can’t recall your delicate hand pulling him along until you let go to discard his potato concoction onto the counter and he realizes he’s taken the warmth for granted in a haze of existential dread. Like a lost puppy, he stares at your fingertips as they linger on the counter while you lean over to reach for an empty casserole dish. The entirety of your kitchen cabinets had thrown up all over the counters, a reflection of the way his brain felt. Scattered.

“Potatoes are actually super complicated.”

His ears perk up, unsure of how to conjure up a response. Instead, he raises his eyebrows, fearful of how dumb he could make himself look with just a few syllables. It wasn’t like him to care so deeply what others thought of him.

“That’s why I avoid them. Instead–” You turn around only to pull out a can of green beans and a can of cream of mushroom. “-work smarter, not harder.”

Eddie knows he should be hanging onto every word you say and usually he would be, he knows. Except he can’t help but tune into the melody of Blue Christmas that had been echoing off the kitchen walls from your record player across the room.

The damn record player. And the records.

He didn’t realize how much the records still affected him. He had his own collection now, sure. But anything that resembled the essence of his Mama, lived safely and soundly on its dedicated shelf in his room, untouched. It took him years to rebuild Mama’s collection.

“Sorry can we-” He makes his way toward the record player, his face contorted nearly painfully before lifting the needle. “I just-I can’t think.”

Your motions were paused, can opener halfway through the can of beans as your eyes meet him with questions splayed across your face. You don’t ask them. An understanding smile works its way across your lips and god, he doesn’t know why you’re so patient with him after he stepped into your house and suddenly had the uncontrollable urge to shut off your music. As he strides back into the kitchen, a series of apologies haven't even left his mouth and yet-

“So…Green Bean Casserole.” You state, fingers tapping against the tin of each can. “And Sugary Apple Goo.” A vague gesture toward the uncooked pie. “Kind of a…weird duo. Or it will be if I actually get it in the oven-”

“Sorry, what?”

“Apple pie. The apple pie. At home we just call it sugary apple goo, don’t ask why it’s just–it’s just a thing we do.” You clarify, shoving the dessert into the comforting warmth of the oven, shivering at the sensation as goosebumps begin to prick your skin.

“Apple goo.” He repeats. A raised brow disappearing beyond his messy bangs.

Eddie almost forgets the reason why he’d been in such disarray, almost forgets why he even bothered knocking on your door in the first place, only remembers the fact that he was in a panicked state.

“Yeah.” You sigh.

You busy yourself with slopping the now drained green beans into a nearby glass bowl. Your blotchy skin and puffy eyes catch in the stream of sunlight, the kitchen window betraying you as it showcases your true state. Avoiding those large brown eyes is the best you can do, the theory that if you can’t see him he can’t see you dumbly being put to use no matter how aware you are that it makes no sense. Maybe if you act “okay enough”, he’ll chalk it up to the common cold, placing the responsibility for your rudolph-like nose on the yearly infection.

What you fail to realize is that by this point, he’s become too familiar with your teary eyes and sad worry lines that only seemed prominent in your times of distress. Times that he had regretfully been the cause of previously. Words can’t escape his practically sewn-shut-mouth, all sounds dying long before forming on his tongue. It’s impossible to create comfort when he himself has trouble doing so for himself. How could he possibly offer such comfort to someone who deserved kinder words from someone of a higher regard?

“Here, dump this in and mix.” You instruct, forcing a can of cream of mushroom and a wooden spoon in his hands, yanking him out of his mind.

There’s no room for protest, not that he even intended to. Not when you’re standing there with the ghost of tear tracks down your cheeks. Not when you’re this kind. Not when you’re you.

“Okay.” He mutters, a disgusting sound filling his ears from the lumpy soup falling into the bowl.

“After that, pour it in here.” You place a ceramic casserole dish to his right, the dish nearly too large to fit on the cluttered counter though you’re too occupied with tidying up other parts of the kitchen to bother.

“Got it.”

Eddie Munson absolutely hates Thanksgiving. But he doesn’t mind it so much when you’re rustling around behind him, a silent conversation hanging in the air that neither of you are alone in your holiday sorrows, whatever they may be.

You don’t ask why he continues counting under his breath behind you or why his hands are shaking.

And he doesn’t ask why tears linger in your eyes or why you pause to regain your composure after dropping a pan a bit too loudly for your liking, your lip wobbling.

Because the collective understanding is that neither of you is okay. And maybe that’s okay.

–

“Careful, the bottom is–”

“Shit!”

“-hot.”

A ringed hand waves around in an effort to rid it of the burning sensation caused by the bottom of the piping hot casserole dish. Eddie releases a series of curses, the side of the dish pushed against his chest as he balances it between his body and his single arm protected by one of your generously donated dish rags. Your wide eyes caution him in his balancing act, a perfectly crafted green bean casserole at risk due to his negligence as he had taken the liberty of knocking on the door.

“What the fuck, how can fuckin’ beans be so goddamn hot?” Brown eyes nearly roll into the back of his head, his fingertips more than likely singed an angry red.

It’s no laughing matter, not according to the scowl that makes its way across his handsome features but you can’t stop the pull of your lips from forming a large grin, giggles caught in the back of your throat. His irritation disappears just as quickly as it came, harsh edges blurring into softness at the sight of your puffed out cheeks, inflated due to the humor just dying to crawl out of your mouth.

“Oh, shut up.” A nudge of his shoulder against yours has you shaking your head, laughter finally escaping your perfectly glossed lips.

He could write paragraphs about them if it didn’t seem so creepy and stalkerish. So he allowed himself the tiniest of glances, only hoping to paint the full picture in his head ever since you’d quickly puckered your lips in front of your mirror at home to complete your finishing touches while he viewed from the porch where he waited in his black button up and nicest pair of jeans. He’d never been so jealous over a tube of lipgloss. In fact, he’d never in his life been jealous of a tube of lipgloss and he never felt like more of a loser than in that moment.

“I told you.” You mutter, an endearing side eye delivered right into his line of sight. It was something almost child-like, something innocent and not at all like what he’d ever really been on the receiving end of. Maybe because there was a certain flirtiness you were hinting at although he was no expert and had no right to assume.

“I told you.” He mumbles back with a higher pitch, mocking you.

You turn toward him, a comeback on the tip of your tongue when his own tongue interrupts with a taunt, peeking out between his lips swiftly, his nose scrunching up meanly before his full attention is back on the door as it creaks open. And then, a quick wink that only you yourself were a witness to, only creating a stir in your brain as you decipher that no one else would be able to confirm the action.

“Hey!” Donnie greets, arms flung up in excitement as she ushers you into her welcoming home, smells infiltrating your nose, sweet and savory galore.

Before either you or Eddie can even get a simple “hello” in, she’s talking your ear off, something about who all is already in the living room, how far along the turkey is, where the bathroom is, all while guiding you into the spacious dining room. She must have set out her fine china, the gorgeous dishes set all around the table lined with champagne colored silver on the edges of the plates. Two tables had been pushed together, creating enough space for the large number of guests expected. In the center sat an exquisite arrangement of various orange-hued flowers and some greenery.

The house was comforting; not too large and not too small, a two story dream that no doubt had acres of backyard. The Christmas tree had already been set up and decorated, the branches and lights hinting at you from the other room where men roared with laughter, a football game blaring from the TV that contrasted with the familiar voice of Frank Sinatra coming from the stereo. Combined turkey and Santa decorations adorned the interior everywhere you glanced, surfaces that would usually be empty year around were occupied with tacky little figurines that were more endearing than anything. Plastic garland traced the rails of the stairs, littered in fake plastic cranberries, the front room being far more grand than your entire home as you inspected it through the archway of the dining room.

Suddenly your nerves were simmering down, a familiar feeling nestling into the bottom of your chest as your shoulders fell from their tensed position, your fingers letting up on their grip on the pie tin you clutched so desperately. Women squealed from the kitchen, a series of “oh my god”s erupting into the rest of the house, some kind of juicy gossip initiating several gasps as well as some laughter. Your homesickness began to lie dormant, warmth overtaking you as Donnie went on and on about her family members, which ones to avoid sitting next to at all costs and warning you of the aunties that would corner you and beg for details on your love life.

“Just pretend I’m calling you and run as fast as you can in the other direction.” She advises. “And if that doesn’t work, tell ‘em you had too much wine and that it’s making a reappearance. They’ll scatter like flies.”

You laugh along, taking mental notes as she grabs the pie from you, complimenting the smell as she sets it among several other desserts, a whole table dedicated only to sweets. When she goes to grab the green bean casserole from Eddie, you can’t help but pause and watch as his doe eyes trace his surroundings, a clearly unfamiliar environment to him. There’s uncertainty dripping from his demeanor, his single finger tapping against the dish: One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

“Green bean casserole-Eddie, do you know how many green bean casserole we’ve got? Like you all read each other’s mind, I swear.” Donnie jokes.

“It’s-um, it’s hot.” He cautions her.

Sauntering toward the main table, Donnie proudly sets it on top of a place mat to protect the wood from the heat. Eddie doesn’t budge, seemingly glued to the carpet, his hands still lingering in the air like he had still been holding the dish.

“You okay?” You mouth to him, looking up into his worried eyes, only hoping to soothe the crease in between his eyebrows.

He nods though you suspect he’s being a bit dishonest.

“Oh, c’mon Eddie! You know I’m just pullin’ your leg.” Donnie reassures, a heavy hand falling against his shoulder. “Shoot, I have to go check on the oven. Yell for me if you need anything, both of you, okay?”

“Sure.” You mumble. “Thank you.”

“There’s a fully stocked bar right over there, help yourselves.” She calls as she backs herself up toward the kitchen. “But don’t go too crazy.” She sends a knowing glance, recalling both of your tendencies to take on more than you can handle.

“Why don’t we get some air?” You suggest, unable to comprehend exactly just what was happening in Eddie’s mind although you knew enough to understand that he was miles outside of his comfort zone.

“No, no. I’m good.” A cleared throat doesn’t reassure you enough but you let it go for the time being. Prying wasn’t going to help. “”M gonna get a beer.” He murmurs, chain jingling from his belt as he makes his way toward what you can only assume is the kitchen where Donnie had just disappeared to.

As pathetic as it seemed, you weren’t going to allow yourself to wander around alone, vulnerable to various conversations trapping you in small talk with strangers: an absolute nightmare. Timidly, you follow behind Eddie at a safe distance, holding your breath as you take in the new room full of busy women and many glasses of wine. The smell of gravy heavily lingers, a tinge of the sourly sweet alcohol peeking through as you release your breath and inhale finally.

And then-they were all over him. Sweet older women, ranging from around fifty plus years, all doting on him, cooing at him while complimenting how tall he is and his handsome features. It only forces you to lean your hip against the counter and take in the most captivating scene you’d ever witnessed. His cheeks redden, his entire face matching shortly after as he nods in response, small “thank you”s sneaking past his lips with a sheepish grin threatening to spread across his face, dimples prominent. It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do with the attention, has no recognition of the power he currently holds.

“Is this one yours?!” One woman shrieks, taking your hands in her bony ones.

“Oh-”

“You’re so lucky, he’s such a looker!” Another chimes in.

“We’re not-”

“You better hope he holds onto all that hair throughout the years.” A third nods.

Eddie’s face has never been redder, crimson painting his usually pale skin, a beer pinched in between his fingers as he avoids every single eye in the room. You can only imagine the look on your own face, maybe slightly mortified with a hint of pink pulling at your cheeks due to the unnecessary attention.

“Alright, alright.” Donnie interjects. “Enough, you’re gonna scare ‘em away before they’ve even had a bite to eat!” She waves her hands around, dramatics on full display as she shoos them away like pigeons.

“Thank you.” You whisper, eyes large and surprised.

“Run, run.” Donnie displays wide eyes, gently shoving you both out of the kitchen.

–

Throughout the evening, you kept Eddie in your peripheral. Sure, he was grown and fully capable of taking care of himself but it didn’t worry you any less when holidays weren’t necessarily his favorite thing. Anxieties lurked in the back of your mind the second he started counting earlier, never once fading away no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself that he was fine, now bantering back and forth with Sam.

“That Steve kid really can’t dance.” Nathan laughs, pulling you back into the initial conversation you were having, perched on the couch with a glass of wine set in front of you on the coffee table courtesy of Donnie’s excellent hosting skills.

“Well that’s why he excused himself off the dancefloor.” You softly smile, earning another hearty laugh from the man.

“Hey, but Eddie’s no better.” He jokes, taking a swig of his beer. “Looked like a damn giraffe stumbling over his own legs.”

“I wasn’t very coordinated either!” You defend. “We were a hot mess.” You bury your face in your hands.

“Yeah, I bet Eddie thought you were hot.”

The recliner adjacent to you creaks beneath Jett as he makes himself comfortable, slouching with a beer in his hand.

“Whoa.” Nathan leans forward, ready to reprimand him. “What-”

“That’s okay.” You speak softly, your hand covering the older man’s as an act of keeping the peace, something you did best. Several seconds of contemplation and a glance across the room toward Eddie change your mind.

“Actually-it’s not.” You turn your body toward Jett, a man–child before your eyes that refused to even look at you after his comment. Your hands shake and your cheeks heat with embarrassment, chalking your sudden confidence up to the glass and a half of wine you indulged in.

“What?” Jett furrows his brows, examining his beer far too aggressively as a means to avoid you.

“It’s not okay.” You whisper, a wimpy excuse of a defense.

“What’s gotten into you, boy?” Nathan scolds through gritted teeth.

Jett’s nearly-black eyes resemble something opposite in comparison to the warmth in those across the room currently harboring a twinkle in an engaged conversation. The boy is unable to get a word in as you quietly begin to address him.

“Look, I’m sorry if I did something wrong.” You regret the tremble in your tone, confrontation was well out of your comfort zone, especially with someone who had been so hostile for no reason. It wasn’t in your DNA to be the “bad guy” even when it would benefit your wellbeing.

Something in your words softens Jett’s eyes, pulls a piece of him back into reality. You weren’t terrorizing him and he couldn’t seem to grasp that ever since that night you had argued with Eddie behind the bar. And you hadn’t spoken a word out of line but you weren’t clueless. Clearly he had an agenda against you and Eddie, it never left your mind since Eddie mentioned that Jett got all over-protective suddenly that night and took it out on him. But what could you do when all he did was puff out his chest rather than have a decent conversation? His frayed emotions were not your responsibility, you owed him nothing if he was going to insist on acting like a toddler in adult situations. You suppose some of it could be due to his lack of years behind yourself and Eddie, Jett still a teenager, almost twenty whereas you had been in your twenties for a few years now. It wasn’t an excuse, just your brain attempting to work out his logic.

“You didn’t–you didn’t do anything wrong.” He sighs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

You don’t offer any words. Only an expectant look. Expecting of some kind of explanation as to why he’d been acting so cruel. And as if the universe decided you didn’t live in enough anguish with your homesickness that morning paired with the current unwanted confrontation, Eddie’s eyes met yours for a brief moment before darting away, a deep sigh and suddenly slouching shoulders clearly indicating some kind of defeat before he quietly stepped out of the room.

“Can we get into this another time?”

You don’t wait for a response, excusing yourself to slip out of the room and follow the trail of cold out the front door, the chill seeping into your bones as your cradle your arms close to yourself. The porch is spacious, something you hadn’t taken notice of earlier when arriving. To your left, Eddie sits on a wooden bench with the family name “Scott” carved into it. A cigarette takes its place between his fingers, his lighter flickering while he lets out a frustrated groan. He places the stick between his lips and cups the flame to hide it from the wind, finally succeeding in lighting it, puffs of smoke escaping through the corners of his mouth.

“I’m not fragile, Bambi. Stop following me around.” He mutters, pulling the cigarette from his lips. There’s no malice detected in his words, just something lacking hope as he stares straight ahead.

Carefully, you sit at the very edge of the bench, your skirt a tad too short to allow you to fully sit back due to the cold surface. You catch a wave of his warmth as he rests his arm on his thigh. It hurts, how far away he feels even being inches from you; his mind might as well be on Jupiter. A momentary glance over at you causes him to sigh deeply, his head dipping down while he shakes it in disappointment.

“And dammit!” Eddie snaps, face twitching in aggravation. “I don’t have a jacket for you this time. Learn how to dress for the cold.” He gestures to your posture, your arms wrapped around your middle in an attempt to savor any warmth, and your jaw clenched shut as a means to keep your teeth from chattering though you can’t seem to contain the shivers nearly rattling your bones.

“I don’t need one.”

He scoffs, disbelief evident in his movements, a fidgeting hand reaching up to scratch the barely-there stubble at his jaw.

“I don’t!” You lie.

You were never one to willingly be dishonest but a little white lie in this case didn’t seem like the end of the world. Not when Eddie’s fragile state of mind seemed to gnaw away at him. You wouldn’t leave him out for the wolves to feed on him; wolves being his never ending thoughts that always without fail, won him over and forced him to crawl back into his comfort zone of isolation. You suppose you weren’t so innocent either, always succumbing to the very same habits.

“Go back inside.” A flick of his cigarette ash towards the ground ignites in the thin layer of snow barely coating the porch before extinguishing.

You can’t help the furrow in your brows, staring at him as if to figure him out, attempting to glance into his large coffee colored irises, to no avail. His shiny eyes dodge your attempts, the windows of his soul closed off, even from you. Not that you were immediately entitled, though you figure with each trauma he had shared with you, he’d at least be able to look you in the eye.

“Come with me.” You chirp. “We’ll taste all the wines. C’mon, and then we’ll be nice and hungry. Drunk eating is the best.” You extend a hand out toward him, your freshly painted nails perfectly imperfect in his peripheral.

“I’m not in the mood, Bambi.”

His gravelly voice has a certain effect on you, one you find not appropriate to dissect right now. He lifts the cigarette back up to his lips, the chance to take one more drag stolen from him as you pluck it from his fingers, tossing it into the snow without regret, stomping your foot on it for good measure.

“Well, get in the mood. Let’s go.”

Boldly, you tug at his arm, unable to move him by yourself, you know. But he willingly melts into your touch, allowing you to pull him up despite his protesting frown. Though he follows you to stand, he doesn’t budge much further than that as you try to drag him back into the cozy warmth of the house. The rounded tip of his nose glows red, the threat of a cold only pushing you to tug on his sleeve with no success in ushering him inside.

“I think ‘m just gonna head home. You think someone else could give you a ride back?” The question is hesitant, no longer wanting to participate in the festivities but still concerned for your well-being, especially if you were going to continue to drink.

Your track record with alcohol wasn’t exactly great and he’d never forgive himself if something happened and he wasn’t there just because the sight of you talking to Jett had left a bad taste in his mouth. But he couldn’t stand it any longer, watching you act so graceful all the time, especially to someone you didn’t particularly like, and then having to pretend that a simple kiss on the cheek didn’t absolutely wreck him. A kiss that you hadn’t since mentioned, and he wasn’t going to humiliate himself by insinuating that you wanted him in that way. No one wanted him in that way.

“What?” You breathe, face shifting into a sadness Eddie wanted to kick himself for. “No, you can’t go–”

“I’m sure Jett is ready and willing to entertain you.”

Low blow. He could always count on himself to deliver a low blow at the worst of times.

Eddie knew now that you had a distaste for Jett, he knew that. And yet he was stupid enough to continue using Jett as ammo against you for no reason other than his own insecurity. If he continued to push you away then it wouldn’t hurt so bad when you realized he was scum of the earth. Trailer trash. A nobody. That’s what he kept telling himself.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You fume, crossing your arms.

“I don’t know, Bambi. You tell me cause I can’t figure you out.”

The use of his nickname for you stitched together with words of anguish only further confused you. You couldn’t seem to win.

“Can’t–can’t figure me out?!” You widen your eyes at him, only hoping to convey how ridiculous of a statement it is. “Can’t figure me out. What about you?! You’re the one no one can figure out!”

You’re on the verge of whining, begging in a sense. Pleading with the most stubborn man in the world and god only knows what you’ll do if he doesn’t stand down.

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.” He states simply, monotone. It makes you want to yank your hair out by the roots and offer it to him, asking him if it’s enough. If it’s enough to shut up the voices in his head.

“Yeah? Because you don’t wanna let people in?!” Uncharacteristically, you jab a finger into his chest, frustration making itself known across your face and you only know because his eyes ever so slightly soften. “Eddie, all you do is give me mixed signals! How many times do I have to tell you I want nothing to do with Jett?! What do I have to do to get that through your thick fucking head?!” He tries to get a word in but you don’t give him an opportunity. “No, seriously! I need an instruction manual or something because I’m trying! I have been trying-”

“-I didn’t ask you to!” He finally interrupts, sorrow filling his eyes.

With a deep breath, you calm your heaving chest. It’s apparent you’re no longer cold, your skin hot from working yourself up. Steam may as well be coming from your ears though it wasn’t your intention to get so irritated with him.

“I wanted to. I want to.” Your voice comes out softer, a gentler approach to his sudden internal conflict.

“No.”

Turning away, he doesn’t quite move to leave but there’s no mistaking the fact that he’s trying to shut you out. He’s trying to escape like some kind of feral animal but you refuse to give in. You refuse to let him.

“Yes. Eddie–look at me!” You demand with a small pull of his arm.

“No.”

He goes to turn his body even further away from you but the firm hold you have on his bicep stops him. He keeps his gaze on the floorboards below, his nose twitching and eyes burning with the threat of tears. You only know because you’re all too familiar with the mandatory frown that comes with holding them back.

“Stop doing that. Please.” You beg.

“I can’t be here right now–”

“What makes you think I can?”

He’s silent. The world instantly feels so quiet, tiny snow flurries fluttering around you, making you feel as if you’re the only two people on Earth. Echoes of the celebrating and hollering inside are faint although they don’t do much to pop the bubble you find yourselves in. Then he breaks the silence, daring to plead with you this time.

“Bambi, please.” He croaks.

Your initial thought is, please what? You’d been pleading with him back and forth for god knows how many minutes straight and here he was doing it right back to you. And for what? It wasn’t a good enough plea, not for you. You weren’t ready to let it go, if you even knew what “it” was.

“No, you’re coming inside and you don’t have to associate with me if you don’t want to but you’re coming inside.”

Your demand only seems to irritate him, his brows knitting together while he pinches the bridge of his nose in between his fingers. If he was agitated then you were about to become enraged. And that is not something you wanted. You never wanted to display that kind of emotion toward him but he was practically pulling it out of you and you had to fight against it. No one had ever been able to pull such a reaction out of you, not ever. Even if you had gotten pretty close, you swallowed it down and hid it.

“Why?!” Eddie seethes.

His outburst takes you back, though with the aggravation boiling within you, you were able to contain any reaction he was seeking, if any. That wasn’t the case for long though as you then launch yourself into another tantrum after staring for a second too long at his snarled lip.

“Because believe it or not, I care, Eddie!” You practically wail, your voice becoming hoarse. “If you leave I’m coming with you because I’m not leaving you alone. Not on Thanksgiving.” Your head shakes in denial.

Against your own will, a single tear trails down your cheek and the moment you feel it, you’re rapidly wiping it away, hoping he never even saw it when you knew damn well his umber eyes followed it all the way down your face. He only pulls his gaze away.

“I’m leaving. You’re staying here.” He decides, regret etched into his features.

In a final attempt to escape your grasp, he succeeds, feeling your fingertips linger for one last second before drifting away as he turns and makes his way down the porch steps, wood protesting beneath him. The noise is the only proof you have that he’s actually leaving, that he actually feels he’s not worthy enough to stay.

You refuse to give up so easily.

Your feet are already on a mission, nearly sprinting down the stairs even with the threat of slipping on the minimal amount of ice beginning to freeze over. Eddie pays no mind to the fast paced footsteps crunching against the gravel behind him, making his way over to Sugar with his head hung low. Your heart is racing, not just because you suddenly decided to sprint a few yards but because a healthy dose of dopamine has started coursing throughout your body, a good amount of anxiety accompanying it but not deferring you any longer.

Eddie makes it to Sugar, his hand reaching for the door only for it to be forced shut with a self-manicured hand. If he didn’t know who the hand belonged to he’d be chewing the owner out for daring to touch his beloved truck. Instead he rolls his eyes and turns as he prepares to reprimand you in a much more gentle manner than he would anyone else.

Except he doesn’t even have the chance when your lips are suddenly pressed to the corner of his mouth, your body pushing him against Sugar. His hands freeze mid air, his eyes wide open. Your hands are resting on his chest and–he can’t breathe. You pull away, inches from him and he can’t breathe, he can’t speak, he can’t move. As far as he’s concerned he isn’t even human anymore.

“Stay.” You whisper, your breath fanning over slightly chapped lips.

His lips won’t stop tingling, he can’t grasp the concept of what just occurred. He refuses to even touch you for fear that you might disappear right before him. Hell, he’s not even sure he’s allowed to.

It’s difficult to gauge his reaction, his heavy breath lingering with the smell of his cigarette that would probably gross you out had it been anyone else but for some reason, because it’s him, you don’t mind very much. You must smell strongly of wine which isn’t always pleasant so you figure you’re even.

“Please stay.” You repeat, nudging your nose into his.

It’s like he’s in a trance, his eyelids becoming lazy and his body relaxing when you reach up to trace your thumb ever so slightly over his jaw. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes squeezing shut, and you can hear a gulp in his throat. With his eyes still shut, he nods and before you can process it, he launches himself into your arms in a tight embrace, wrapping himself around you, his face buried in your neck. A wetness catches against your skin catches your attention, Eddie’s body heaving slightly and you just know.

You know that the tear stains on your skin mean more to him than you could ever imagine.

Slowly, your fingers tangle in his hair, threading into the curls at the nape of his neck to lightly scratch his scalp soothingly. The way he grips onto you tighter, his body shaking, only confirms that physical touch and affection was not a luxury he was allowed in his lifetime. If he let you, you’d spend thousands of hours holding him, even in the cold. Whatever he needed.

But the snow flurries began to grow larger and the wind started to pick up. And you’d be damned if you allowed yourself and Eddie to catch a nasty cold when you could be doing the same thing inside next to the fire. Though, as you thought about it, Eddie would probably shy away from your touch in front of everyone. And that didn’t anger you in the way it normally would. Because you couldn’t blame him, someone so touch starved that he began to sob the second he was willingly kissed and told he was wanted, for shying away from showers of physical affection in front of peers that only know him to be big, bad, Eddie Munson. It would be too much of a change and you weren’t willing to force that upon him.

So as the cold grew more unforgiving, you continued to hold him. He would be the one to decide when he felt he wanted to part from you. And if you both got sick, so be it. A stupid cold would be worth the price if you were able to provide him the touch he went so long without and so badly craved, even if he didn’t quite know it at first.

Eddie parted from you far sooner than anticipated. His cheeks were rosy, his rounded nose matching, endearingly so. His eyelashes were dotted with a few lingering tears, his eyes rimmed with red but sadness was absent from his features. Instead there was a fondness dripping from his expression and though he parted from the embrace to gaze down at you, he still clung to you like his life depended on it.

“Can I–can I kiss you?” He whispers shakily.

You want to laugh, only because he’s acting as if you didn’t kiss him in the first place. But you bury it deep down and only let a smile blossom.

“Please.” You whisper back.

This time, you’re more than happy to beg.

Hesitantly, his shaky hand cups your jaw, the warmth from his skin more than welcome as he gently slots his lips against yours. He’s slow with it, taking his time. As you move in rhythm with him, you encourage him, moving his arms to circle your waist, pressing yourself closer and letting your hands travel up his chest to lock behind his neck.

“I can’t stop.” He laughs quietly, continuously pecking your lips like he can’t get enough.

“Don’t.” You giggle into his mouth.

Teeth clash against teeth and though he hasn’t quite graduated to using tongue yet, you have the urge to introduce him. Before you can pass your tongue along his plump bottom lip, he curses under his breath as he pulls away, only causing worry to spread across your face.

“You’re freezing.” His hands rub up and down your arms to somewhat heat you up and only then do you realize your face feels completely numb.

“No, I’m fine.” You protest against your better judgment. It wasn’t exactly fitting to be in tights while one of the first snow falls of the year ensued.

“You’ll be a popsicle in like three seconds.”

Eddie softly smiles, reaching for your hand and tugging you with him toward the house. A whine escapes you, a pathetic whimper but you manage to shuffle yourself along with him. Before entering the realm of reality beyond the front door, Eddie turns to you, stars in his eyes, something glimmering.

“How’s my nose? Snotty?” He grins, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

~end~

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tags - @gravedigginbbydoll @ohauggieo @spicysix @lunatictardis @ali-r3n @batkin028 @mrsjellymunson @witchwolflea @emma77645 @emxxblog @eddiesxangel @angietherose @lottie-90 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @pullingattheroots @avalon-wolf @vintagehellfire @cryingglightningg @foreveranexpatsposts @winchester-angel @mmunson86 @witchwolflea @kurdtbean @micheledawn1975 @tlclick73 @erinekc @hazydespair @whenshelanded @corrodedcoffincumslut @ms1oftheboys @lma1986 @uglypastels @aysheashea @dashingdeb16

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fic #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #smoke signals #eddie munson au #stranger things fic #stranger things au #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfic

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dragonologist-phd · 7 months

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Owlcatober Day 1- Protection

also on ao3

A great evil has revealed itself at Varnhold, and the villain’s plot has left Rosemary stranded in a strange land.

It was a trap, right from the start.

Rosemary tries not to dwell on regrets- there are more important things at stake here than anyone’s pride. But she has nobody else to talk to, and nothing to do but move fruitlessly through the strange, unfamiliar world she has found herself in. In this endless solitude, regrets have ways of creeping in.

They should have known from the start that something bigger than Varnhold was at stake. Varn should never have split from the group. Rosemary should have finished off the Horned Hunter before he had a chance to strand her here.

Maybe she even should have taken the power the Hunter offered. A terrible idea, and Rosemary’s stomach twists with guilt for considering it even now, but almost anything seems better than this pointless purgatory she’s found herself trapped in.

Something moves in the distance, and Rosemary crouches into a defensive stance, grasping desperately at the handle of her glaive. She never knows what might be a threat in this world- she’s been attacked by creatures, spirits, trees. Even the gravity is working against her; the very atmosphere changes on a whim. The passage of time is unpredictable as well, or so she thinks. It’s difficult to tell for sure when she has not method of measurement.

Maybe she’s just exhausted. She still hasn’t found a place that looks safe enough to sleep.

Another loud rustle pulls Rosemary back to the matter at hand. The nearby creature is difficult to see through the thick haze in the air, but as Rosemary creeps forward she can make out a long, serpentine neck covered in glistening scales. The thing moves closer, and the ground beneath Rosemary’s feet trembles under its weight.

In panicked desperation, Rosemary fumbles for the holy symbol fastened at her waist. She’s been past the need for a divine focus for years, but she clutches it now and prays with all her might.

Shelyn, Shelyn, answer me, dammit!

Nothing.

Rosemary’s fingers tremble around her glaive. She’s been praying nonstop ever since she arrived here, and still…nothing. Her cries to Shelyn have been sincere, pleading, angry- and still nothing.

She’s never claimed to be the most pious of followers, but her connection to her divine patron has always felt natural. She’s always been able to count on the healing at her fingertips, on the protection which can only be provided by a goddess.

Failing that…she’s always had Varn to fight at her side.

The creature pauses and shifts, and Rosemary is positive that at any moment its gaze will find her and it will spring into an attack. And all she can do is wait here, vulnerable and defenseless.

But maybe some small snippet of her prayer does reach Shelyn. Or maybe she just gets lucky. Either way, the thing loses attention in this area and turns away, moving on into the fog.

Rosemary nearly collapses from relief, but she forces herself to stand on her feet. She can’t afford to let her guard down; she needs to focus on the truth of her situation.

The truth is: she is stranded in the First World with no way home. She cannot depend on Shelyn being able to reach through the planes and magically save her. She cannot depend on Varn launching some daring rescue while Varnhold is under attack in the material plane.

The truth is: she has only herself to depend upon now.

But she will not give up, Rosemary tells herself firmly. She will survive, and she will find a way back to the home and the life and the people she loves.

No matter how long it takes.

#owlcatober #ch: rosemary #pfkm #gonna wrap up rosemary's story this month i swear it!

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brabblesblog · 4 months

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Ch 19: There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear

Astarion has ascended, and she has stayed with him. Life in the Crimson Palace isn’t as idyllic as it seems. Is there a chance for their relationship to go back to how it was? Or is it too late for the Ascendant and his consort?

This series is about Ban, my Tav, and the Vampire Ascendant. Will be angst and smut, with sprinkles of fluff.

This fic is a softer take on Ascendant!Astarion and of the changes he undergoes after the rite. Can Ban handle the change, and if a chance came, would she choose to run? And can the Ascendant win her back in time? Inspired by the concept of vampire wives and that IGN interview with Larian that discussed the ascension.

Professionally edited by @editing-by-night

Two months after the trip to Reithwin, the Ascendant and his consort celebrate their first year in power.

Read on AO3.

Masterlist.

Ban stood on the balcony, savoring a quiet moment before the guests arrived. With their numerous trips throughout Faerûn in the past two months, they’d only just barely managed to organize a party to celebrate the Ascendant’s first year in power.

Another night, another party. It should’ve been quite trite by now, except this was the first event they were hosting together since they’d reconciled. How things would be different, she couldn’t exactly guess; they hadn’t really discussed anything beyond the usual reservations and planning.

Planning that had not gone too well, incidentally. She had booked the caterers a little late, resulting in a lack of ingredients available for purchase in the market, which had in turn caused a delay in the delivery of the hors d'oeuvres to the palace.

Hands on the railing, Ban looked over the city sprawled before her. She was relieved the party had mostly fallen into place, the preparations having been slightly more challenging than they would have been, had she and Astarion not been constantly on the move the entire time. Not that it would have made any difference regarding the catering, though - she had just plainly forgotten.

Ban shut her eyes for a moment, failing to hear the near-silent footfalls behind her.

“Love.”

His voice was a soft murmur, his hands wrapped around her waist from behind, pulling her close. He breathed in her scent, the fragrance matching his own: the faint smell of death, masked by bergamot, rosemary, and brandy. Beautiful as always, he thought, peeking at her face, although he couldn’t help the small worry that rose in his chest at the expression he found there. Tired, yes, he could tell - but of what?

She leaned into his touch.

They watched the world go by, watching the passage of time as they themselves remained timeless.

“Been an interesting year,” Ban said, turning her head to look at him. His gaze had shifted towards the city, but a smile broke across his features at her words; she watched his smile lines crease. He was dressed in black trimmed with gold tonight; the outfit never failed to make her weak in the knees.

“Hm. Nothing more significant than anything in the past two centuries,” he teased. His smile widened a fraction more, the tip of his fangs peeking out. The worry he’d initially felt eased a little, smoothed over by the sight of her relaxing in his presence and rather visibly admiring him.

She scoffed, nudging his side with her elbow.

“Your ascension’s not significant enough?”

The smile shifted again, becoming more pensive. “You would think it the most important thing, but no.” Astarion leaned down a little, just enough so that his breaths ghosted over the shell of her ear, making her shiver. He liked that, liked her responding to him in such a reflexive manner - as if she still couldn’t help how she felt for him, despite everything that had happened.

Astarion pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “This. This is what’s important.”

He let go of her waist, moving in front of her, blocking her view of Baldur’s Gate in an attempt to get her to focus on his words. The thought of what this day represented made his eyes go impossibly soft, a little guilt seeping into his voice.

“It’s also been a year since I turned you, you know?”

Ban considered that for a moment. A year since she’d technically died, reborn into this unlife in her lover’s arms. A decision that could have honestly gone horribly wrong - and for a while, it had.

Did she resent him for it? A question without any real answers. It should probably be a resounding yes, given the turbulent times that had come afterwards, but the truth was that she didn’t regret anything, because it all led to being in this moment with him.

“Do you ever regret that? Turning me?” she asked, waiting as he searched for a response, his face unreadable.

Astarion had expected the question; after all, he was the one who brought up changing her. That didn’t mean he’d actually prepared a good response, though.

“Don’t be upset,” he began, “but no, not really.”

His eyes immediately locked onto her face, searching for signs of her withdrawing into herself. It had become a reflex for him to do so whenever he said something risky. He figured if she wouldn’t talk, he could explain the moment he noticed her beginning to retreat.

Ban didn’t, thankfully. Instead she crossed her arms over her chest - not the best reaction, but neither was it the worst.

They obviously had the same answer about her being turned, she thought, but there was still the rather interesting question of why he felt that way.

“Because I would have aged, and why would the Ascendant want to be with some old crone, huh?” She tried to keep it light, smirking.

Astarion shook his head. “Because I don’t want to lose you to something as pedestrian as time.” That much was true. The idea of losing her was already inconceivable to him, but especially to something as avoidable as age? Something he could easily remedy with a bite?

He offered her a hand, which she took; he pressed hers against his chest. “I want you here, with me, forever. And turning you was essential to that, as… as unsavory as it is to think that I may have pressured you into it.” The other hand wrapped around the small of her back, pulling her closer.

“You did give me a choice,” Ban reminded him, as a gesture of conciliation and comfort; he dipped his head in acknowledgment of this grace.

“There was, of course, a degree of selfishness there, too.” He didn’t elaborate; they both knew that possessiveness had taken him over, made him keep her inside the Palace for months. That possessiveness had been born of fear and hurt and anger, but had damaged them nevertheless.

“I don’t really want to talk about it, Astarion,” she replied quickly. She wasn’t hiding; but she wanted tonight not to be about the darkest parts of their past. “We’ve said everything that needs to be said on the matter.”

He bit his lip. “I merely wanted you to know I haven’t forgotten.” That he kept what he’d done in mind; that he was trying, even if things seemed well enough now. His eyes tried to convey what he’d been denied the chance to say; they were round and pleading, asking for her understanding.

Ban’s eyes softened as she saw the earnestness in his. “I know. But I don’t really want nor need you to remind me just how much of an arse you were. Trust me, I remember plenty.”

Embarrassed, Astarion laughed, conceding the point. He took the moment to retreat to safer waters; it had begun feeling a little too charged for a casual conversation with his wife.

“Fine, darling. Whatever you wish, even if it’s deluding yourself into thinking I’m not that person anymore.”

“Oh, I know you’re still just as horrible as you were back then,” she teased back, “To others, at least.”

He made an affronted noise and opened his mouth to retort, but Ban shushed him, brooking no argument.

“Don’t you remember this afternoon?” She smirked.

Fingers snapping, he stalked through the ballroom.

“Where’s the food? Did we not schedule it to arrive by highsun?”

The head caterer approached him, swallowing past a lump in her throat.

“My lord, it’s just been delayed a few hours. We didn’t have the time to prepare, with such short notice and-”

“Short notice?” He glared down at her, daring her to interrupt. “You’re saying it’s my wife’s fault? We paid exorbitant amounts of coin with the expectation of exceptional service, and that includes being on time - regardless of when we put the order in.”

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed her. “Now run along and get the hors d'oeuvres in, lest I change my mind about hiring you lot.”

“To be completely fair, darling,” Astarion said, “I was doing it to defend your honor.”

The mirth was still there, the slight tease in his voice that protested but I did it for you! - obviously not his only reason, but he’d run it into the ground if he could get away with it.

“Sure you were,” Ban responded, amused. “I have to admit it’s rather adorable of you, though.”

Astarion scoffed, but did not object.

Instead he stilled, allowing the quiet to stretch between them. They gazed at one another, savoring the feel of the other’s presence as they reveled in their mutual affection.

Astarion eventually broke the silence.

“I may have something for you tonight. An idea.” He was nervous, part of him already reconsidering bringing it up. “You needn’t say yes.”

Ban tilted her head at him, curious. “If it’s another gift from Halsin, Astarion-”

“No!” He said, a tad too quickly, a little offended she thought he’d accept more advice from the druid on sex. On any damn topic, really.

“Well- I mean- it kind of is? Not a gift from Halsin, but it’s within the general vicinity of that topic.” Astarion cleared his throat. “To be clear, I mean sex.”

“Spill it,” she said, her eyes crinkling as she tried to hold back a laugh. It was only lately that Astarion had felt comfortable enough to be visibly flustered around her again, instead of being, well, angry, and she cherished each instance of it.

Astarion drew himself up, squaring his shoulders, trying his best to regain his composure and seem unconcerned. He shifted gears, deciding to play the rake again. If nothing else, it would at least make her laugh.

“I was just thinking. You’ve been so wonderful to me, so willing to try out delightful new experiences.”

He smirked; eyes dropping into that half-lidded gaze that had stolen the hearts of countless people, but most importantly - had stolen hers. Astarion was still nervous, but he mastered himself and proceeded with his plan.

“It got me thinking about this idea - ceaselessly - and what better time to bring it up than our - I suppose our anniversary? Every wicked turn deserves another, after all. So - when we make love tonight, when it’s just you and me… would you be willing to let me lead?” he purred. There was a hint of mischief in his gaze, but there was also trepidation - they both knew exactly what had happened in the past, and how those previous instances of Astarion taking charge within the bedroom could have affected Ban.

He wasn’t doing this as repayment for trying out new things with him, especially as he knew she was likely to decline. Instead, he offered it as a way for him to demonstrate progress: a subtle plea for her to surrender herself to him and trust him, the way he had done for her.

All that, and a little bit of fun, of course.

Ban couldn’t help her body’s reflexive response, stiffening. The request wasn’t something she’d expected to hear in her near future, perhaps even at all, ever again, and she immediately felt the instinct to hide - for a moment, she allowed it to rule her, lifting her hand from his chest. Astarion, ever vigilant when it came to her, noticed immediately.

“Love, no,” he urged, his demeanor quickly shifting to one of concern. He was already regretting running his stupid mouth without thinking through all of her possible responses. “We do not have to. Don’t ever have to, if that is what you want.”

He felt her hand pulling further away. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

He felt himself becoming more anxious, unsure how to defuse the situation before she could withdraw even more. Frantic, he spoke the only word that could.

“Please.”

Relax. Ban forced her hand to stop, allowing Astarion to gently press it back down against his heart; she felt it hammering beneath her palm. She wanted to comfort him; she also wanted to give him an answer that was genuine.

She mulled over his request. He kept his eyes on her; the picture of patience, although he wished to be anything but.

“I can try,” she ventured. She wasn’t completely sure she could handle it, but she couldn’t deny that there was an appeal in having Astarion dominate her again.

It had been good, once upon a time, back in the Shadow-Cursed lands. She remembered when they’d still been exploring each other’s bodies, what the other wanted and enjoyed, without sex itself. Astarion had intuited that she did, in fact, like having him in control. For someone like him, who’d had none of that for so long, it had been an exhilarating discovery.

And then, of course, Ban thought, the rite had come along.

Astarion recoiled at her response, mistaking her calmness for reluctant acquiescence.

“If you’re doing it for my sake, there’s no point. I’m not - of all people, love, I won’t do that to you. I merely asked because I know you did like it, before it all turned to shit.”

No. Don’t think I want to force you. Please.

The idea that she might be going along just for his sake made him physically ill.

Ban bit the inside of her cheek, dropping her hand. She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest to close the small gap that remained between them; a gesture of comfort and reassurance. His response was automatic, the arm around her tightening. He kissed the top of her head.

She gathered her courage. It still took effort, to fight back against the unnecessary voice in her head that screamed run, hide - but it got easier by the day; he made it easier.

With his soft words, with his candor. With a forbearance she had never before known to exist in him. With his love.

“Can you tell me, Astarion, exactly why you ask this of me?” Ban mumbled into his embroidered jacket.

A soft chuckle broke free of him, as fear was replaced with elation and relief. Yes, she’s working with me!

“You allow me to show you how much I trust you, when we… when you take charge of me,” he said, the bravado and seductive act discarded for now. “I had hoped you would afford me a similar level of trust.”

There was a small hint of hurt in his words; he made no effort to conceal it.

“However, you do not have to. You never have to. It was just a suggestion; you can forget I ever said anything.”

Ban considered it. It would be helpful, an opportunity for her to display her renewed faith in him. She closed her eyes, exhaling; his hands moved to her back, tracing comforting circles between her shoulder blades. Astarion rocked her gently, as though they were dancing to some tune only they could hear.

Sheltered in his arms, the answer felt easier to arrive at. “I think we can try,” she repeated, “I can use the same word we used to, if it gets to be too much.”

Astarion smiled, relief and gratitude suffusing him. “Thank you, Ban. Truly.”

He hesitated. “There is… another thing, if you’ll indulge me once more.” Another pause, longer this time. “Rhapsody.”

“What about it?” She’d known that he’d often spent time gazing at it after she’d left him. She’d never bothered to ask why, she’d assumed it had to do with the rite, and hadn’t wanted to pry.

“Would you mind if we brought it to bed with us?” The words came out in a rush, almost stammered.

She raised an eyebrow. “What? Why?”

Visions flashed through her mind - of Rhapsody, protruding from his heart, his blood staining his shirt, all over her hands, as she carried his barely-conscious body out of Vel’s manor. Her breathing picked up and she felt cold all over. Why isn’t leading enough for now? she wondered.

“The dagger played a role in numerous moments of my life - moments that altered the course of my fate. None of them have ever been good.”

“Then why bring it into our bedroom?” She crossed her arms, bringing her breathing under control with effort. “Look. I had to watch that thing almost end you. That’s not something I’m itching to relive.”

“For precisely that reason. It is a weapon steeped in painful memories, memories I’d very much like to write over. I want… to see it in your hands whilst I’m inside you, to keep that image in mind instead of… everything else. And what better time to do it than on this night, an anniversary of sorts?”

Ban sighed, exhaling through her nose. “Is that why you used to go stare at it? To remember?”

Astarion’s eyes flicked to her, uncertain. “Indeed. I have made effort to make peace with my past, and Rhapsody feels like the one piece of it that remains unchanged. We’ve rebuilt this palace; almost nothing tangible remains of that time of my life, other than that blade.”

“And so you think this would… finally remake it?”

“Redefine it,” Astarion corrected. “Making new, out of the old.”

Ban considered it. Rebirth, in a sense, just as tonight was also a rebirth of sorts, recontextualizing his ascension and her turning from something she regretted into something they could celebrate. It wasn’t a horribly unpleasant concept, in any case, and she figured if it was too much, they could stop.

“One condition - the blade is not touching you. I don’t want to draw blood. And once you have the image you want, we stop using it.”

He nodded. “That’s perfectly fine by me. Thank you, for considering this, and for allowing me to take the reins once more.” He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face.

“I do think taking the lead would also help me, darling,” he added. He vacillated between revealing an even deeper truth and leaving it at what he’d just said.

He decided to err on the side of openness. “It would help me determine whether my own faith in myself is warranted.” If he’d truly improved and become someone worthy of her.

Ban sighed, but didn't look up from where she’d buried her face in his chest. She found it easier to speak this way at times, not meeting those crimson eyes and that too-handsome face.

“I have faith in you. Not completely - but enough for this,” she said softly, “I know, however, that saying it is one thing, and doing it is another. I’m not afraid - not really. It’s just that old, instinctive-”

She waved her hand, trying to signify that it was a frivolous thing; something she could easily cast aside. A small mistruth, one she was willing to offer to further smooth over the wrinkles of their relationship.

He wouldn’t allow that. “Your old fears - ones that I caused. I am aware, much as you like to pretend I’m not.”

Ban tried again. “Well, they’re not-”

“An issue?” Astarion shook his head. “They are, Ban. I watch for them, attempt to catch them before they sink their claws in, fight them off with whatever honesty my wretched heart allows me to express.”

“I don’t begrudge you this, nor for having these fears in the first place, but don’t discount them. Not when I work as hard as I do to dispel them.” He felt a little piqued, a little insulted she thought he didn't notice, that she didn’t see how hard he worked to spot them, assuage them.

“Just- just let me have tonight, in spite of them. Let me win against them for once.”

Astarion gazed down at her. She looked so small, wrapped around him like this, and it made him wish for nothing more than to hold her forever.

Ban was pensive. Astarion had never been one to be so open about their struggles; that had been a recent development. This sudden burst of frankness threw her off-balance, but in a good way. His candor yet again made it easier for her to dismiss the very fears they were both fighting.

“I mean, I already did say yes, Astarion,” she teased, but immediately backtracked when she saw he wasn’t in the right mood for banter.

“But I’ll repeat it. I do trust you enough, and I definitely love you enough, to try.”

Astarion tried to remain stoic, stewing in his own melancholy. Elation won out, however. He broke into a rather giddy, unguarded grin, squeezing her tightly in a hug.

“I-” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, then slipped back into the seductive act, although it came off more playful than anything else.

“I’ll make sure tonight will be one you won’t forget.”

They danced in the middle of the crowd. They made a striking, if slightly mismatched pair - her dress was simple, his suit ornate. Where he was pale and silver-haired, she was golden and dark. He was long and lithe, she was small and muscular. And yet, they were so obviously in love, so in tune with one another as they glided across the dance floor, that their differences only heightened their allure for all who observed.

While Astarion had previously encouraged her to pick more lavish outfits, he had been leaving her clothing choices to her since they’d reconciled. He now realized he should have done so long ago. The dress clung to her perfect body and it made his cock stir pleasantly. He tried to tamp down the wave of arousal, knowing they would have all night. He spun her around elegantly, catching her at the end of the turn.

“Are you enjoying yourself, love?”

Parties had not been something she had enjoyed in the past; she was often relegated to being a piece of décor, hanging on his arm when needed and dismissed when not. Ushering guests around, then standing by the door to bid them farewell at the end.

Ban cast a sweeping glance across the ballroom, taking it all in. Not much had changed; it was still the same sort of vapid, soulless event these types of parties had always been. But tonight was better because of Astarion - he hadn’t left her side tonight, and had kept her involved in every conversation. A far cry from how they used to operate.

“I could take it or leave it, I suppose,” Ban answered playfully, as he pulled her tight against him. The music swelled and he leaned in; she smirked, expecting some snarky response.

The playfulness dissolved as the heat of his lips pressed against her own. He pressed her flush against his body; his hips ground against her muscled thigh.

She had to bite back a moan; his hands on her back were insistent, his hips impatient, as if he couldn’t wait to ravage her; whether that was true or manufactured didn’t matter to her right now.

“I needed a little taste,” he whispered as their lips parted. His eyes gleamed with need, an almost predatory look in them. Ban hadn’t seen that look in so long, and a small sense of trepidation crept over her at the sight of it. However, a much larger part of her felt anticipation. Heat began pooling between her legs.

Astarion’s hips were mid-grind when he noticed the arousal in her gaze. Between that and the way she pressed even closer to him, he was confident his tactics weren't unwelcome. But there was still a niggling what if in his mind, the habit honed to near paranoia by his constant need to be vigilant with regards to her emotions. He wanted to be sure; to check in anyway.

“Was that alright, love?”

He wanted to begin laying down the playful, teasing banter, to set the mood, but… not without Ban’s express approval.

She responded with a small nod. The gaze that met his was sultry. Coy - not attempting to wrest control from him, but full of lust. His excitement escalated and he felt himself hardening. He shifted his legs to readjust the fabric of his trousers and slid a hand down to her ass, giving it a squeeze. She raised her eyebrows in amusement and he grinned, delighted in the response he’d received.

“It was acceptable, my lord,” Ban said demurely, the old sobriquet slipping from her lips with ease. Long unused, she felt confident enough to use it tonight and trusted him not to take it too far. She was aiming for unconcerned, but entirely missed the mark, coming across as more eager than anything. She silently cursed herself when Astarion smirked knowingly.

That eagerness went straight to Astarion’s cock, and he let out a breathy groan.

“Then I’m sure you’ll positively love what I have in store for you later,” he murmured. He gave her another quick kiss, another quick squeeze on her ass that she tried and failed to slap away, then Ban disengaged, chuckling.

Minx, he thought, shaking his head. It was mind-boggling how easily she could bring him to his knees.

“You’ll have to wait, Astarion,” she whispered as the dance ended and she pulled away, taking two steps back. “Go mingle, now. I’ll check on the catering.”

With that, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving him alone, but happier than he’d been in a while. And with a decidedly rock-hard cock.

He watched his wife fade from view, then went to talk to his guests, more confident and more present than they’d ever seen him before, in this first tumultuous year as the Ascendant.

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tamlinweek · 3 months

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The Language of Flowers

I didn’t care where I was going. After a while, I paused in the rose garden. The moonlight stained the red petals a deep purple and cast a silvery sheen on the white blooms. “My father had this garden planted for my mother,” Tamlin said from behind me. I didn’t bother to face him. I dug my nails into my palms as he stopped by my side. “It was a mating present.” ~ ACOTAR, ch. 19

To celebrate Tamlin Week, Day 3 (as outlined in depth here), one of our prompts is "Flower Language". The title of the book itself carries a double meaning. A Court of Thorns and Roses is not only a Beauty and the Beast retelling (as we know, he is the Beast, she is the Beauty, although they kind of share both roles), but she is also the Thorn to his Rose.

Roses are widely considered to be a symbol of love. Love was the answer to Amarantha's riddle, and why Feyre braved the Trials Under the Mountain, despite Tamlin trying to send her home for the same reason.

Roses are not the only flowers that mean love. Tulips and Forget-me-nots can mean love, too, but it can also depend on the color (as it does for roses.) The deeper the red of the rose, for example, the deeper the love is said to be, while white indicates innocence. (There is a link below for a list of rose colors and their meanings, if you're interested. In addition, there are links for herbs and other plants.)

While the number of plants and their meanings is too long to list here, here are a handful to inspire you:

AMARANTH: immortality, immortal love

ASH: strength, power, divine connection, authority, protection

BIRCH: adaptability, growth, renewal, death, returning from the grave, new beginnings

BLUEBELL: loyalty, constancy, humility, gratitude

DAFFODIL: uncertainty, chivalry, respect or unrequited love, return my affection, new beginnings

FERN: magic, enchantment, confidence, sincerity, shelter

FORGET-ME-NOT: true love, faithful love, memories

FOXGLOVE: insincerity, immortality, courage, adventures, bravery

HYACINTH: constancy, sorrow, playfulness, loveliness, jealousy

IRIS: eloquence, good news, faith, hope, wisdom, compliments, passion, purity

LAUREL: ambition, success, renown

MARIGOLD: pain, grief

MORNING GLORY: love in vain, affection

PEONY: shame, bashfulness, anger

ROSEMARY: remembrance

SNOWDROP: consolation, hope

TULIP: new start, rebirth, prosperity, indulgence, abundance

For more variety and more definitions, consider the following resources:

Floriography: Meaning and Symbolism

ProFlowers: The Complete Rose Color Meanings Guide

The Forest Fairy: Flowers for Your Fairy Garden

Grooving Trees: The Complete List of Tree Symbolism

Dave's Garden: Please Pass Me the Eye of Newt [Herb Names and Meanings]

Wikipedia: List of Plants with Symbolism

We look forward to seeing what you can create using the Language of Flowers and other plants!

#floriography #flower language #tamlin week prompts #tamlin week #tamlin week 2024 #tamlinweek #tamlinweek2024 #tamlin #pro tamlin

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motownfiction · 3 months

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upriver

When Sadie and Daniel move out of the downriver area, Sadie has a hard time adjusting. It’s not that their new suburb is any better or fancier – arguably, it’s worse, depending on your cross streets – it’s just that it’s different. Sadie has thought of herself as a downriver kid for as long as she’s been alive, even after she wasn’t a kid anymore. To move even a little bit feels awkward and unnatural, like she’s supposed to stay in the same suburb all her life. It’s ridiculous. She never wanted to stay in one place. She always wanted to get out and move. If she’d been able to afford it, she probably would have gone away to college, too – stuck to the New York City plan she and Lucy had when they were twelve or thirteen. Lucy followed the plan (in a roundabout way), and she never looked back downriver. Why is Sadie nearly weeping as they head down Ford Road?

Maybe it’s because she’s pregnant. That’s the answer to everything, actually. She’s been pregnant twice before, but that doesn’t make the third time any easier. When she and Daniel decided to have a third baby, they knew they’d have to move to a bigger house. It just so happens that the bigger house is on the other side of the Detroit River. But maybe if Sadie wasn’t pregnant, she’d be able to pack up the moving van without a word. She’d be excited to move to their new house (less than ten miles away from the old one). Instead, she’s a mess.

“It’s that there’s no such thing as upriver,” she says as Daniel drives. “What’s my identifier going to be now that I don’t live downriver? Huh?”

“How about your name?” Daniel says.

“Daniel.”

“No, that’s my name. You’re Sadie. I thought you knew that.”

He laughs to himself for a bit too long. Sadie turns around to look at Michael and Rosemary in the backseat … as far as she can turn around, of course, at six and a half months pregnant with her third baby.

“I need you both to know that your dad used to be cool,” she says.

“Cool!” Rosemary says.

Michael, however, snorts – far more sarcastic than the average seven-year-old child.

“Sure,” he says. “Cool.”

Sadie turns back around and sighs. She feels Daniel’s hand on her knee and looks up, even though it’s the last thing she wants to do.

“I promise,” he says, “you will still be yourself when you live in a different house.”

“In a different suburb?” Sadie asks. “With a different ZIP code?”

“Even then.”

Sadie sighs again. She looks out the window and watches downriver disappear behind her. She’ll pass through it again tomorrow (and probably all the days after that), but it won’t be the same. Maybe after she has her new little boy, things will be different.

Then again, of course they’ll be different.

(part of @nosebleedclub february challenge -- day 5!)

#drabble #writeblr #ch: sadie doyle #ch: daniel deluca #ch: rosemary deluca #ch: michael deluca #ship: still the same #year: 1998

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envysnest · 4 months

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Pity the Mayfly (ch. 2/?) - an Astarion/Tav fic

AO3 Link Here

Chapters: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6

You had come to the Gate to forget your past, discard your elven name, and pursue alchemy against your family's wishes. On a visit to your old keep, you're found by the Nautiloid, and everything tilts sideways.

Trigger warnings for this chapter: Descriptions of endometriosis and adenomyosis; mentions of dubious consent; discussions of infertility/miscarriages (nothing graphic, just hypotheticals).

------------

There’s screaming on the path ahead, where the cliffs give way to dense woods. Instinctively, you run towards the sound. Someone grabs your robes by the collar; you’re dragged, backwards, into the shade.

“What—” You struggle in the assailant’s arms and kick behind you. “Let go of me!”

“Stop that!” Astarion hisses behind you.

“Astari—mmph!” His hand over your mouth thwarts you.

“Are you dense?" he snaps. "There’s about ten goblins and a bloody gnoll. Let them kill each other.”

“Let go of me!” you shout into his hand: lggoofme.

“You know what?” he chirps. “I was quite beginning to like you. "Astarion lowers his voice to a growl. “And I was trying to keep us both from getting killed.”

Shadowheart and Lae’zel run by you, their respective weapons drawn. Gale is close behind; you can already see protective runes sprout up around him. If you let these people die, you’ll never forgive yourself. And you’ll have to be alone with—

You kick behind you again. Your heel only collides with Astarion’s thigh, but Astarion lets out a puff of air and drops you all the same. You rush into the bright sunlight, round the corner—

Tiefling soldiers yell and shoot their weapons from atop a large wooden gate. There’s a scuffle underway below, one Lae’zel is eagerly plunging herself into: goblins, howling with glee, and a gaggle of terrified humans. Shadowheart spears a goblin in the chest; Gale works through the familiar incantations for Haste.

And Astarion was wrong: there are several gnolls.

In the middle of the fray stands a human knight, fencing off enemies as they approach. He turns to engage a gnoll, and you hold your breath at his bright, confident smile. When the gnoll snarls, he rolls to the right. The gnoll overcorrects as it lunges forward; the knight had feinted successfully, and the gnoll lands on its snout. The knight rapidly moves his hands, setting up an incantation you recognize well. When he twists his wrist, a lightning bolt strikes the gnoll. It yelps, seizing.

Human warlock, you correct yourself.

Gale nods as you join him. “Nice of you to drop by, Tav.”

You roll your eyes. “Let’s finish this quick.”

------------

When the goblins and gnolls are dead, you learn something interesting: the warlock also has a tadpole.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he says to you. His right eye is all smooth stone; the scars across his face are striking. “I’m Wyll. Many thanks for the help back there.”

“Don’t mention it,” says Shadowheart to your right. “I’m going to see about this gate.” She takes a step towards it before turning back to Wyll. “Shadowheart,” she says, and she points to herself. Shadowheart points to you. “That is Tavvendish.”

“Tav is fine,” you say to Wyll.

Wyll nods at you. “Tav it is.”

Someone rests their chin on your left shoulder, and you stiffen. Rosemary fills your nose.

“What a handsome, brave, dashing knight you are,” Astarion purrs from your shoulder.

Wyll gives you both a lopsided smile, taking a step back. “Well,” he says, turning his hand this way and that, “A warlock, really.”

You feel yourself turn bright red. You shrug Astarion off of you, but he doesn’t seem fazed by your disinterest. Rather, Astarion seems very interested in Wyll.

“My my,” says Astarion. “A man of many talents.”

Wyll thumps his fist against his chest. “You’re talking to the Blade of Frontiers.” Wyll bows to you with a flourish. “At your service, my lady.”

You offer him your hand. Wyll kisses it briefly, so perfunctory that you barely feel it. You feel the tension leave your shoulders.

Astarion taps his foot beside you, suddenly irate. “And where’s my introduction?”

Wyll gives him that lopsided smile again, his cheeks darkening. “Why, saer? Do you need a kiss as well?”

“I don’t need one,” Astarion says, a delicate hand to his chest, and he-- Oak Father preserve you-- bats his lashes at Wyll. “But I wouldn’t say no to a man like you.”

Wyll throws back his head and laughs. “And how the gentleman flirts!” He beckons to Astarion. “Alright, you jealous rogue. Give me your hand.”

Astarion does. When Wyll takes his hand, kissing it tenderly, Astarion giggles and fans himself.

You feel your face heat up all over again.

Lae’zel materializes by your side. “This is a waste of time,” she says. “The tadpole grows in our skulls by the minute.”

“Lae’zel’s quite right,” says Gale behind her. “Let’s find a healer, and quick.”

Wyll drops Astarion’s hand, much to the other man’s frustration. “Agreed. This cannot wait.”

With no enemy to guard against, the tiefling soldiers open the gate for you. As it rises, you look around at your strange, motley party. There have to be more survivors of the Nautiloid somewhere; you remember seeing other ships just like it as it passed through the Hells. How many more of you are there?

“Tavvendish, darling,” says Astarion. “I have a question.”

You turn to him. “Yes?”

Astarion shakes an amber bottle in your eyeview. “This was very useful against those goblins back there. Whatever do you put in it?”

It’s the last of your Lesser Harpy Spider venom.

Your eyes widen. It had taken weeks to breed all the Lesser Harpy spiders you needed for it, and the rest of your venom stash is back on your shop bench. This single bottle— the one Astarion now dangled in front of you, like a trinket— is meant for the healers of Fox’s Keep: a crucial ingredient to its corresponding antivenom.

You think back to when he had pulled you against him in the shade. He wasn’t being protective at all; he had been stealing from you.

You swat at Astarion’s hand, but he’s faster, and the bottle vanishes before you can reach it. Your hand meets thin air instead. When you meet Astarion’s eyes, he twirls his wrist. The bottle reappears: a simple sleight-of-hand, one that makes you feel incredibly foolish.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Bastard,” you snarl, and you make a grab for it again—

—only for Astarion to hold the bottle up in his opposing hand.

“Ah-ah,” Astarion says, still wearing that infernal smirk. “Say 'please.'”

You bristle. “A drop of that will kill you, you know.”

He looks at the bottle with interest. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” You smile at him with gritted teeth. “Want to find out?”

“Mm.” Astarion looks up at the sky, pouting in thought. He looks back to you with mirth twinkling in his eyes. He leans in. “I’ll settle for learning where you get it.”

This makes you laugh. There was no way this prissy, Upper-City elf could milk venom without being bitten. You’d get a chance to test the antivenom again, and Astarion would learn his lesson. “Done,” you say. “Give that back.”

Astarion’s smile twists into something self-satisfied. He looks you up and down, and then he offers the bottle, pinched between index finger and thumb.

You snatch it away from him. Astarion giggles. You shield your pack from his eyes and tuck the venom into a different pocket this time.

“Don’t pickpocket from me again,” you grumble.

He holds up a hand. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sister.”

The gate lurches open with a groan. Just inside, one of the elder tieflings stands nose-to-nose with a human soldier. They’re screaming at each other.

“—if you had just opened the bloody gate—”

“And what?” the tiefling booms. “Unleash a horde of goblins on our camp, compromising the druids further? You’ll forgive me my caution, Aridin.”

The human— Aridin— rears up on his toes, looking at the tiefling as if he wishes to smite him. “Caution cost us lives. If you,” he jabs a finger into the tiefling’s chest, “had as much caution as sense, my men would still be standing.”

Shadowheart shakes her head beside you. “I’m not getting involved in this,” she mumbles. “I’ll tend to the wounded.”

You look between the two men. “What’s happening?”

Aridin glares at you. “Zevlor couldn’t open the gate in time, and now my friends are dead.” He turns back to the tiefling, hissing, “It’s a coward’s excuse.”

A muscle ticks in Zevlor’s jaw. “Hold your tongue, Aridin. Were it not for this coward, you’d be dead, too.”

Aridin takes a deep, noisy breath through his nose. “Wish I was,” he spits.

You hold up your hands. “Stop, both of you. It’s over. You’re alive. There’s nothing we can do about the dead.” You look up at Zevlor. “Next time, open the gate sooner.”

Zevlor looks down at you with his eyebrows raised. There’s a long pause, and you worry, for the moment, that you’ve overstepped. Your mother always said you had a mouth on you, after all.

You clear your throat. “Sorry.”

“No, I…” Zevlor shakes his head and turns back to Aridin. “I’m deeply sorry,” he says with a small bow. “Mistakes were made on my part.”

“You can say that again,” sniffs Aridin, but he’s less on-edge now that he has Zevlor’s apology. He nods at you. “Thanks for the help,” he mumbles, and then he’s shouldering past Zevlor with a sour expression.

Wyll whistles in appreciation. “A natural diplomat. Well done, then, Tav.”

He shakes Zevlor’s hand firmly; Zevlor’s mood immediately brightens. Wyll smiles at him, his eyes crinkling with mirth. “Good to see you alive and well, Zevlor.”

Zevlor puts an appreciative hand on Wyll’s back. “Invaluable as always, Wyll." He turns to you and offers a hand. “You and your party won us our victory today. We owe you a great debt.”

You nod and shake his hand. You open your mouth to rebut, but Astarion interrupts from behind you: “We take gold, thank you.”

Zevlor’s brow creases. “Oh. Yes, well.” He lets go of your hand. “We…”

Wyll levels Astarion with a look. “We couldn’t take your coin,” he says to Zevlor. “My party is always ready and willing to help.”

“Are you serious?” Astarion snaps at him. “How does this help us with the tadpole?”

“We need access to the Emerald Grove,” Wyll says, now ignoring Astarion entirely. “We need a healer for an illithid parasite.”

Zevlor sighs deeply, pinches the bridge of his nose with frustration. Something about his hand bothers you, and you’re not sure what. “I’m afraid the Grove is closed to outsiders,” he says. “We have no eyes on Halsin, and with our location compromised, we may lose more. The druids will not be welcoming.”

“Druids?” you ask. They were close cousin to the wood elves, though their ranks were more diverse than any keep. Anyone could become a druid, a wood elf included, but wood elves kept almost exclusively to themselves.

Wyll groans. “How the fates taunt us. This is of the utmost urgency, Zevlor. Is there anything you can do?”

Zevlor shakes his head. “I’ve barely been able to find something for this,” he says, and he turns his hand— the very same hand that had bothered you— towards Wyll. There’s a scar on his left thumb joint, in that soft skin between thumb and index finger.

Wait.

You recognize that scar.

“May I see that, saer?” you ask.

Zevlor looks at you, looks at the scar. “See what?” he asks. “This?”

“Please,” you say, offering your own hand. “I’ll only be a moment.”

Visibly hesitant, Zevlor offers his hand. You take it in both of yours, turn it this way and that in the sunlight. On his thumb joint lies a small, interrupted semi-circle: two arcing lines, each terminating in deep puncture wounds.

He chuckles-- nervously-- above you. “Hurt terribly,” he says. “Bitten by a snake.”

“A rosebush viper,” you say softly, wonderingly. You release his hand. “Where?”

Zevlor raises his eyebrows. He tucks both hands behind his back. “Why, here,” he says. “Though it’s been a short while.”

Your head spins. Rosebush vipers were native to lands much, much further east than Baldur’s Gate. You had never seen one in the wild; you had only read about them in your books. Their territory was limited to the mountains of—

“Do excuse her,” says Astarion behind you. “She’s a little far from home.”

You wince. Wyll glares at Astarion again.

Zevlor coughs politely. “Indeed,” he says. “The nearest keep over is Otter’s Keep, along the river.”

Oh, yes. You were very far from home. You had never even been to Otter’s Keep; wood elves didn’t usually contact anyone beyond their immediate neighbors. Your heart thunders in your chest. “I’m too far east,” you breathe. “What—” You swallow and look up at Zevlor. “Where did the Nautiloid take us?”

“Where is your home keep, little one?”

“My mother is Fox’s Keep,” you say, “but I currently reside in the Gate.”

You can hear Astarion roll his eyes at your shoulder.

Zevlor deflates with relief. “Another Baldurian! I am in good company.” He furrows his brow. “But a wood elf, too? I’ve never seen your kind in the city. I thought such extensive travel was forbidden.”

“Baldurian wood elves do exist,” you lie. You gesture at yourself. “I am one of them.” You point to Zevlor’s hand again, at the snake bite. He eyes the bite scar thoughtfully. “I’d be happy to make an antivenom for the rosebush viper, if you’re in need.”

Astarion growls something unintelligible. When you turn to him, he’s already walking away, towards where Shadowheart hunches over the fallen soldiers. Lae’zel stands some yards away, keeping watch for more enemies. Gale has climbed up to the gate’s topmost ramparts, where he nods along to a tiefling’s story.

Zevlor gives you a polite smile. “We may have need of you yet,” he says. “With the Emerald Grove closed to outsiders, my people are in need of another healer.”

You scratch the back of your head. “I’m not…quite a healer. That honor belongs to Shadowheart.” You remove your hat, worry the brim in your hands. “I specialize in venom and poisonous things.” You hurry to add: “I also make their antidotes.”

“A dangerous woman,” Wyll muses next to you. “I’ll have to stay on your good side, then.”

Zevlor’s smile widens. “Indeed.” He gives you a small nod. “I’m sure the children will appreciate you. They’ve been getting nipped left and right, no matter how we warn them.” He beckons you. “Come along, then.”

------------

Once everyone has settled to camp, you take stock of everything you have:

One tent, one bedroll, several changes of underthings and casual-wear, two pairs of robes (one now irreperably, horribly dusty), your books (Ten Easy Charms, Faerun Mycology Guide, a biography about Sadoris the Swift), one glass pipe, your notebooks, your staff, your makeup, your snakeskin hat, your ingredient pouches,a handheld mirror, several herbal tinctures, one bar of soap, four bottles of Lesser Harpy Spider antivenom, one bottle of Lesser Harpy Spider venom, several myriad poisons (including one bottle of Malice that may or may not be expired), and one healing potion. The tiefling camp had been generous in trading, at least to a fault.

You step out of your tent and stretch. Everyone has set up in a rough circle. You had chosen to stake your tent next to Lae’zel; the way she nodded at you in approval made you feel warm. The night is surprisingly chilly, compared to the blazing heat of midday, and you’re grateful for your long-sleeved blouse. Shadowheart, her tent set at the exact opposite to Lae’zel’s, meditates in silence. Gale, to her left, is buried in a book. Wyll lies on his bedroll just outside of his tent, dozing under the stars.

You look just past Lae’zel. Astarion sits on a mat just outside of his tent, hunched over a pile of fabric. His hand moves methodically. He’s mending something, you realize.

Quietly, trying not to disturb him, you walk across camp to his tent. The man doesn’t look up, and you stand several feet from him, watching him work on his doublet.

He furrows his brow in concentration. His hands— fine-boned, pale, delicate— tremble as he works. His stitches are so even, they may as well be made by machine. This creature is so different to the Astarion you met: he is quiet, even contemplative, as he works gold thread through velveteen. You can see his spine through the thin, worn fabric of his shirt.

“I know you’re there,” Astarion says without looking up. “You’re blocking my light.”

“Oh.” You step to the left, towards his tent. The campfire behind you illuminates Astarion’s profile in orange.

“Much better.” He pulls the stitches through; they snap taught. He’s good, you think, as good as any professional tailor. There is fine embroidery on his doublet, gold waves as sinuous as smoke, and you wonder if he stitched that, too.

When you don’t move, he tenses. “What do you want?” he says to the fabric.

You wring your hands. “You’re quite good at that,” you say, nodding at his doublet.

Instantly, the tension melts from his shoulders. He looks up at you with a beaming smile. “Why, thank you, darling. At least someone notices.”

You gesture to the mat next to him. Astarion swings his legs out of the way, and you sit cross-legged next to him.

Astarion turns his doublet to show you what he’s working on: an impressive rip now mars the doublet’s right side. It’s too early to see what design he’ll mask it with, but the gold thread he uses matches the doublet’s existing embroidery. “One of those goblins caught me,” he sniffs.

You rest your hand on your chin. “Really? I thought you weren’t trying to get killed.”

He levels a glare at you, but there’s no heat behind it. “And I thought you would listen to sense.” He picks up his needle and resumes his work.

You think of what the tadpole showed you of his mind: how claustrophobic it had felt, how much it made you yearn to scrub your skin raw. As abstract as it was, it brought up such horrible feelings in you. Familiar feelings.

Had— had Astarion seen—

“Can I ask what you saw?” you ask. “Earlier. With the tadpole.”

Astarion puts his needle down at that. He looks off into the middle distance. “I saw…a very tall woman, putting something on my head. A snake, biting into a jar.” He picks up the needle again. “Nothing else besides. You really ought to get out more.”

Relief floods over you in a wave.

Astarion smiles at his doublet, and all at once, the moment breaks. His hand stills. He tilts his head to you, just-so. “I rather had hoped you’d let me see the Witch Bolt, darling.” He glances at you sideways with a grin. “It sounds like it was agonizing.”

You make to rub your eyes, remember your eye paint, and drop your hand again. “I’m glad it didn’t take my sight. I wouldn’t be able to work.”

He continues mending. “You promised you’d tell me about that poison.”

“It’s not poison.” You lean back on your hands and watch the fire. “I do carry poison, but that was spider venom in your hand.”

“You’re a Baldurian, aren’t you?” He pulls the stitches taught again. “Where might one acquire spider venom in the city?”

“From me,” you say.

Astarion’s eyebrows shoot up as he works. His eyes slide to yours: he’s impressed. You’re glad to have startled him for once. “Aren’t you afraid of the dreadful little things?” His nose wrinkles. “Or are they,” he waves a hand, “Servants of Silvanus, or some other woodling drivel?”

You turn back to the fire. “Everything has its purpose,” you say, and Astarion snorts with obvious disdain. “They don’t frighten me. Though my youngest sister, Mellia, may agree with you. Spiders and insects terrify her.”

“I don’t suppose you have relatives in the Gate?”

You shake your head. “Just me.”

Astarion frowns at the doublet. “That’s queer,” he says. “A wood elf, living on her own.”

You pointedly ignore that comment. “What about you, brother?”

“Oh no, darling,” Astarion says with a smirk. “I was an only child.”

You groan with jealousy. “What’s that like? You must have had the washroom all to yourself.”

Astarion makes a thoughtful noise, tilts his head this way and that. “I do enjoy a hot bath,” he says finally. He looks up at you through his lashes. “And I don’t enjoy sharing.”

You have nothing to say to that, so you draw your knees to your chest and hug them. A long silence settles between you two. Crickets sing from the bushes; a log snaps in half in the fire. Your mind drifts back to Zevlor’s scar. Rosebush vipers were known to be reclusive, and they had heat sensors on their snouts; it was unlikely one would come so near to your camp. Zevlor must have startled one in the underbrush. The children, too, must disturb their nests during their playtime. The rosebush viper was not deadly, but its bite was excruciating.

“Let me ask you this, my dear,” Astarion says finally. He points the embroidery needle at you. “Would you rather die as a mind-flayer, or die by the venom in your pack?”

“The venom,” you say immediately. “No question. It’s painful, but it’s also quick. You would lose your consciousness for the shock of it. Though…” You trail off. There were a great many toxins less violent than the Lesser Harpy Spider’s venom. “There are…other options.”

Astarion smiles again. “Such as?”

You look up at the sky. “I don’t have it with me, but Dragon’s Head viper venom will put you to sleep before you know what’s happening. Combine that with oil from a poppy seed, and you’ll die quite peacefully.”

Astarion leans away from you out of the corner of your vision. “Impressive,” he says, with not a small amount of admiration. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”

You rest your cheek on your knees and smile at him. “Does that appeal to you?”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “The way you describe it, Tavvendish,” he drawls, something dark and heady in his gaze, “it just might.”

You startle. Astarion smirks, looks you up and down again— leers at you.

Your heart flutters in your chest, and you snap your head towards the campfire. “Mind-flayer or venom?” you ask.

Astarion shrugs in your periphery. “I’d quite like the venom as well,” he says airily. “Though I think I’d rather a nightshade.”

“Nightshade’s too easy,” you say to him. “It’s boring. Everyone does nightshade.”

Astarion points the needle at you again. “Mind yourself, sweetling. This is my tent. Yours,” and he points the needle towards your own tent, “is that-a-way.”

You shake your head as you stand up. Your head spins, briefly; you blink the spots away. “We’ll graduate you from nightshade,” you say. “You need something more…” You drum your fingers against your chin as you think. “Stylish. Maybe an Oil of Scarlet Bane; it doesn’t wash off easily. You can use it to coat a dagger.”

When you look down to Astarion, he’s watching you, lips slightly parted. “Do you always give free advice on how to kill you?” he asks, and he waves his needle in the air. “Just…to anyone who asks?”

“It benefits you to keep me alive.” You stretch. “Safety in numbers, right?”

He rests his chin on his hand and smiles up at you. “Don’t suppose you have enough poison for all of us, darling?”

You turn towards the fire to hide your blush from him. You shrug, making a show of nonchalance. “I’ll…I’ll see what I can do.”

“Run along, then, woodling.” He makes a shooing motion with his hand. “And don’t come back until you’ve killed that worm in your head.”

------------

At the Gate, you introduced yourself as “Tavvendish.” You got away with it, if only because there were no wood elves nearby to say otherwise. Occasionally, a high elf gave you an odd look, hit you with a prying question, but they stopped quickly when they saw your wares. You began small: simple antivenoms and oils, rare mushrooms you had foraged yourself. You built yourself a small, but loyal, following.

You apprenticed under a human man named Horst in exchange for the room above his shop. Malice sold particularly well, and drow poison was a rare treat. But one year, you strike upon a method for synthesizing something like wyrm poison for half the price, and Horst shook your hand so hard you thought he’d take off your arm. Business boomed after that.

You created antivenoms and antidotes, too. Your customers brought you dead things and asked, what is this, can you help, and you spent your nights dissecting venom sacs with glee. Occasionally, your customers brought you something alive, and this was even better. You milked the venom yourself and lost yourself at your workbench, studying its effects for days without end. A viper’s fangs sinking into taut leather; a spider crawling up the walls of a jar; your client’s face lighting up at seeing their custom antivenom; it all lit a fire in you.

The city was full of forbidden knowledge. You spent your scant gold on scrolls and books and novels. Your necromancy improved. Before long, you could raise your own corpses and test your wares on them. You read about the old alchemical masters and re-created their work in the shop, learning from them and tweaking accordingly. You practiced in your room, practiced outside of Sorcerous Sundries with the other wizards.

You didn't miss wood-working a bit.

Horst and his wife had a son. You tutored the child from babe to man, passing on the elder Horst’s learnings as you went. When the elder Horst passed, his son became your new employer.

Fox’s Keep is full of venomous things, and you start bringing your concoctions home during regular visits. You suffer being called by your elven name each time. The awkward stares, the cold shoulders: it’s almost too much. A wood elf doesn’t leave her keep, save to visit the neighboring keep, or to start her own. You were an aberration to your own people. Elder Mayanna Gardener always eyeed you on your way to your family's home. If you smiled at her, she'd clutch her broom tighter to her chest and sniff disdainfully. You stop smiling at her. Decades pass, and you stop meeting her eye entirely.

You are childless, and this distressed your family more than the Gate did. “You left our keep,” your father said one weekend, sneering at your pointed hat, “and you can’t even continue the family line? Hopefully, your siblings have more sense at your age.”

“I’m trying,” you snapped, and it had been true. But Baldur’s Gate was full of wandering hands and eyes. Not everyone is intent on settling down. A wood elf, for Baldurians, is a novelty, something for people to have and enjoy and experience. Over time, you grew numb to invasive questions, bawdy jokes about large families, the endless innuendo.

“I’ll bet you breed nicely,” said one date, laughing at your scornful expression.

Eventually, you stop hoping for a spouse at all. Perhaps marriage was yet another wood elf custom you weren’t made for. You began to feel like an alien thing, a paper cutout of a person: something other. You suffer all the jokes about inbred keeps with a smile. You let people touch and have and discard you. Some of them were kind: there was even a darling tiefling for a few years.

But everything always ended.

And then things become worse.

Your temper flared at nothing. You spent trance grinding your teeth. Your stomach rejected meals without warning, even when you were starving. Orgasm hurt; your monthly blood hurt; everything hurt. You bled and bled and bled at the slightest provocation. Twice a month, you curl up on your bed, cast a simple Heat charm on the bedding to soothe the ache. The room always becomes unbearably hot, as fiery as the Hells, and you shiver as if caught in fever. It's sometimes so bad, you think of dying. Occasionally, you thought you were dying.

And it was unpredictable. You kept crackers and bread around, poked hesitantly at new foods, tracked your cycle with religious fervor. You wrote down all your symptoms: couldn’t eat. Became ill after mince pie. Spotting visible. Lost consciousness. Can only stomach fruit. Why am I still bleeding? Your clothes never fit; your head swam; you were angry and you wanted to cry and it hurt. Potential lovers fretted and sneered and turned their backs. You bled on them; you bled on their beds; you cried with the humiliation.

You finally saw a healer in the Upper City when you couldn't stand it anymore. She had examined you with a tight, terse frown. During the exam, she had pressed down into a particularly sore spot on your belly, making you yelp.

Afterwards, she sat you down on a bench and told you the horrible news: that women like you didn’t always have children. Sometimes, the children died before birth; sometimes, they never grew at all. Sometimes, they even grew in the wrong place.

Your blood rushed in your ears.

There is always luck, the healer said, putting a sympathetic hand on your shoulder. But it gets harder with time.

You begged her for help with the pain, asked her how to make yourself fertile again. The healer sighed and listed all the herbs you were already taking.

When you mentioned this, she said to try more of them. Higher dosages. As if you weren’t trying hard enough.

You walked home feeling numb.

You sat at your window, watching the street. You watched young couples hold hands, nuzzle in dark corners, cart around their awful, squealing children. You simmered with jealousy; lover’s hands are rough on you, and there would be no children for your trouble. In trance, you lived the week of your Trial all over again, and then you moved on to the next person who had their hands on you, and the next, and the next. More siblings appeared in Fox’s Keep, and then spouses, and then nieces and nephews, and all you felt was angry.

You cut a little too roughly into venom sacs, damaging them. You stopped sketching. You spend your weeks at your little window, staring and staring and staring, at everyone who had what you didn’t.

Your faith in Silvanus sputtered and died within you.

------------

Your side twinges angrily when you wake from trance, but you are no mind-flayer. The sun has just risen, and you can already feel the day’s sticky heat pressing in around you.

When you undress, you find pinpoints of blood in your smallclothes. You growl in frustration. Your blood was supposed to be over; perhaps the tadpole had taken its revenge on you in other ways.

You exit your tent and shield your eyes. Wyll and Gale have already made breakfast; Lae’zel and Shadowheart eat at opposite ends of the cookfire from each other. You smell burnt bacon. Gale is pouring fresh cream into a vat of scrambled eggs.

He nods at you. “Morning!”

You scowl back.

“Oh, look,” says Astarion from Shadowheart’s side. Unlike her, he doesn’t have a plate. “You made it another day.” He holds up both hands and wiggles his fingers. “Praise the Oak Father.”

“You’re looking surprisingly elven yourself, brother. Or, wait…” You make a show of leaning in, widening your eyes in mock fascination. “Your skin’s a little…blue.”

Shadowheart chokes back a laugh.

Astarion shudders and holds out a hand. “Don’t you dare. You’ll give me indigestion.”

Wyll hands you a steaming cup of coffee. “No one’s looking illithid yet,” he says. “Perhaps someone’s watching out for us, Silvanus or no.”

You’ve barely situated the cup in your hands when Gale hands you a full plate of bacon and eggs. “I hope you slept well,” he says to you with a smile, and you roll your eyes.

“As well as one can,” you reply.

Wyll raises his own cup of coffee to yours. “Drink up, then. We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”

As you sit next to Lae’zel, you sip at the coffee. Immediately, you recoil. It’s watery and bland, but it’s all your party has for now. You long for your coffee press at home. The eggs, at least, are fluffy and rich, but Gale’s burnt the bacon to a crisp. It disintegrates into salt on your tongue.

“Team!” Gale claps his hands together. “What’s on the docket for today?”

Lae’zel raises her fork next to you. “We should make our way to the creche,” she says, cutting the fork through the air. “Only the gith’yanki have the cure for this parasite. We should waste no time in heading west.”

Shadowheart pipes up. “I firmly disagree. We would be better served finding the druid. Less chance of death for the rest of us.”

Wyll nods at the ground, his arms crossed. “Shadowheart is right,” he says, and Shadowheart sits a little straighter. “Finding Halsin would actually be the safest option here, and it would help the refugees stay safe.”

Lae’zel looks vaguely chastised. She ducks her chin and steps back, scowling. “You waste our time. Are we certain this druid has the cure? Either we take a risk, or we take the guarantee. My people can cure this tadpole. There is no doubt.”

Gale strokes his beard, squinting out across the Chionthar. “A salient point, Lae’zel, but Wyll and Shadowheart argue strongly for finding the druid.”

“And there’s still the matter of Karlach,” says Wyll gravely. “I must find her. It’s up there with the tadpole in my mind.”

Lae’zel scoffs. No one’s listening to her; you feel a pang of sympathy.

You turn to her. “Lae’zel, which way is the creche?”

“West,” she says immediately. “I suspect Creche Y’llek is closest. I saw a red dragon cross the skies this morning, just before sunrise.”

Shadowheart raises her eyebrows. “How do you know it was red if the sun wasn’t up?”

Lae’zel points her fork at her from across the fire. “A red dragon is promised to Vlaakith’s finest warriors,” she says, with not a small amount of pride. “Their wingspans are large, and their tails have but a single segment.” She sits back. “It was red. This I know.”

You think of the rosebush viper again. “We’ve got to be near Rosymorn. Zevlor had a rosebush viper bite. That species is only found within the Rosymorn mountain range, maybe as far east as the Sea of Shining Stars.”

Lae’zel nods at her. “Then Creche Y’llek is indeed nearby.” She makes a fist. “We will be free of this tadpole yet.”

Wyll sits on the other side of you. “We must exercise caution,” he says. “We are well-equipped, but not so well-equipped as to survive both a red dragon and advocatus diaboli. I vote we neutralize the latter on our way to the former.”

Shadowheart gestures to you, disbelieving. “So, what, that’s it? We just ignore the druid and walk into certain death at the hands of the gith?” She stabs impatiently at a strip of bacon; it crumbles under her fork. “Forgive my lack of good cheer.”

Gale crosses his arms and paces. “Zevlor doesn’t think the druid is far,” he says. “His scouts report a goblin camp out west, in an old temple dedicated to the goddess Selune. He may be there.”

You point to Gale. “Then we head west and see what we see.” You point to Wyll. “Wyll hunts for his mark.” You point to Shadowheart. “We look for Halsin.” You point to Lae’zel. “We head in the direction of the creche. Someone’s got to have a cure for this thing.”

Gale stops pacing and turns to Astarion. “You’ve been rather quiet over there, Astarion. Care to weigh in?”

Astarion stares at Gale.

He shrugs.

Gale blinks. “Well, alright. We have our answer.” He turns a slow circle, looking at each of your party in turn. “All in favor?”

#pity the mayfly #momofics

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