#don’t ask salv how old she is

[green-typewriterz]

i would love literally anything sam winchester related the lack of fics r astounding.. maybe something fluffy?? ive had a bad week would so cheer me up

Best fake-real husband

ASKS ARE OPEN

Sam Winchester x fem!reader

Summary: You and Sam go undercover in a small town to find out what's been happening to the disappearing couples.

ASK: above

Warnings: typical supernatural violence, awkward moments, mid season sam (in my mind it’s season 5 so its not following canon plot)

Author notes: Thankyou so much for the ask!!! I hope this is good :))) also Sam is the leader of the Sassy man army and if you don’t think so you can leave. Also thank you to @midsummeranderson for helping me plan <3

word count: 4110

You had always hated suburban houses, they just seemed empty, unforgiving. Though you didn’t have much of a choice. Bobby had a case and you two were to go undercover.

”Husband and wife…” Sam began, a glint in his eyes as he moved around the open plan kitchen, opening the windows to salve the heat that bit at their necks.

You smiled in reply, laying out weapons to move to the spare room. “Not awkward at all.” You replied and he laughed, shrugging his usual flannel onto a chair and digging into his bag.

Sam looked up, smiling, holding two rings in his hand. “Nope. I’m going to be the best fake-real husband ever. Dean thinks I can’t and I’m kinda determined to prove him wrong.” You sigh and shake your head, but there’s no annoyance behind it. Trust Dean to make a game out of it.

A piece of hair fell in front of his eyes - it’s so long now that it reaches his shoulders, princelike. “Well then I guess I’ll have to be a good wife.” He hummed in agreement and you tucked his hair back behind his ear and a smile spread across his face. “Looks like I’m off to a good start, Sam Heathcliff.”

You gently slipped the ring onto your finger, the metal slightly too big for you. It was your grandmothers, a mix of silver and sapphire. Sam places his dad’s wedding band on his own hand, fiddling with it gently. It made you smile softly, how the ring was cold against your skin - your grandmother had always wanted you to wear it.

A knock at the door pulled you out of your memories and the two of you looked to each other with confusion, Dean wasn’t meant to be here until later that evening. You opened the door cautiously, flitting into character when you saw a 57 year old woman holding a large pie in her hands.

She grinned cheerily, pushing the dish forward into your hands as she spoke, you didn’t really have another choice but to take it (you’d probably hand it off to Dean later.) “Hi,” the voice sounded fake, satirical. She never met your eyes, she was almost entirely focused on Sam. “I heard there was a new couple in town, thought I’d do the neighbourly thing and say hi.” She began, flicking her hair over her shoulder in a particularly suggestive manner. “We’d love to have you over this weekend, monthly barbeque.”

You looked at Sam, who looked entirely uncomfortable with the attention he was receiving and wrapped your arms around his waist. “We’d love to…” you waited for a name, the woman smiled with annoyance, as if she hated you speaking to her.

“Helen. Watson.”

The two of you introduced yourself and agreed to go, knowing the gathering would be useful to get information. With one last glance at Sam, Helen turned around and left, allowing you to breathe a sigh of relief.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖ng 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

Dean came round that evening, constantly grinning and mocking and (as you had expected) he greeted the pie with open arms. “Look you two,” he began, as if he were an expert on the subject, “You’re practically a couple already, just… act like you’re in your honeymoon phase for the old women.”

He stated this as if it were an obvious fact and you raised your brows at his use of the word ‘honeymoon’. Sam looked away in annoyance (Something Dean found extremely funny). It seemed as though the younger Winchester couldn’t wait to get rid of Dean and so, as soon as he had finished his pie, he was forced out the door and back to the impala. There was a second sigh of relief when the door closed.

Though it had seemed like a smart idea at the time, the two of you were sorely regretting filling the spare room with hunting gear as it had left you with one bedroom. “I’ll take the couch,” Sam said as he gathered some clothes to sleep in, you stood in the doorway, arms folded as you shook your head.

“Not a chance, you’d barely fit on this bed imagine how uncomfortable you'd be downstairs.” You argued and he shook his head, trying to claim that he’d slept worse. Eventually, the two of you came to an agreement. Sam would sleep over the covers, you’d sleep under them (he always got hot at night anyway - especially during the summer).

You excused yourself to the bathroom and by the time you had gotten back Sam was already asleep, long hair falling gently over his eyes. You lay down beside him and got comfortable, though you forgot just how much Sam moved in his sleep. He seemed to subconsciously move closer to you, warm, tan skin flush against yours.

His face was inches from yours, holding a gentle smile as if he were happily dreaming (though that was something that didn’t happen often). You gently moved the hair from his eyes and he moved closer still, broad shoulders brushing against you. You fell asleep in the comfort of his warmth and awoke with his arms wrapped securely around you. He wasn’t awake yet, you always woke up before him.

You eventually found it in yourself to move from his grip and headed downstairs, intending to make breakfast for the two of you. He was downstairs a few moments later, hair a sweet, tousled mess on his head. You smiled sweetly but neither of you spoke - there wasn’t much need to.

The two of you seemed to move around each other as if you had been married for years as you got ready for the barbeque, passing each other what you needed wordlessly. Chalk it up to years of hunting together.

“Todays gonna be entertaining for me.” You stated, a smirk on your face. He tilted his head in confusion as if he were a dog and you smiled, eyes drifting to his shoulders for a moment. “C’mon Sam, it’s a town of 47 year old women who hate their husbands and you’re a - very awkward - 6 '4 man. A handsome one at that.” He blushed and turned away, continuing to get ready.

His hands fiddled with the jacket in front of him. “Yeah, so?” You smiled at him, opening the front door as you spoke again.

“So, it’s gonna be fun watching you squirm.” Your smile turned to a grin and Sam shook his head, following you out the door.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖ng 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

You were right, as expected. Although most were fine, one specific group of women made an exaggerated effort to fan themselves, whispering to each other about Sam. They almost immediately ushered you over. You sent a look to your best friend and headed toward them.

Immediately, they began to gossip, asking you about how you and Sam met and you could barely get a word in edgeways. There were compliments thrown at you too, but you knew they were just to stop you ‘feeling jealous.’

“How did you get so lucky?” One woman, Helen, asked. Her voice was wrought with envy as she stared over at Sam. Part of you understood why they were staring, Sam looked strangely good in the traditional small town husband attire. His white polo had a few buttons undone and the fabric was tight on his arms (Dean had ordered the wrong size) and his long hair was held back from his head by a pair of sunglasses, a few stray pieces falling over his eyes. The only part you weren’t a fan of was the khaki shorts…but it seemed to be the dress code in the town so you brushed it off - you and Dean would probably make fun of him for it later. He felt his gaze on you and turned to meet your eyes, smiling softly and winking. The women around you giggled and you rolled your eyes, to which he laughed.

It turned out that talking to the four women was the best thing for the case, they absolutely adored gossip. “Couples have been going missing, it always starts with the husbands.” Margaret whispered excitedly, “It happened to the couple who were here before you, sweet things.” she continued, sipping on a glass of wine.

You tilted your head, something Sam recognised from a distance, you’d had an idea. “Do they leave anything behind? People can’t just disappear?” You asked, pulling your hand through your hair.

Helen shook her head. “The damn council barely clean out the houses.” You nodded. Bingo. If the house hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned, chances are there’d be evidence. Helen continued to ramble and you were listening intently, until a hand gently slid onto your waist.

You let out a gasp but the strong smell of cedarwood and amber calmed you down. You knew exactly who it was. His grip pulls tighter around you and you lean into him, head resting on his chest. You felt your face flush - something you were praying he didn’t notice.

“How did you two meet?” One woman asked and you looked at each other, making sure without ever even speaking that you had the story right.

Sam leaned his head on yours and sweetly said, “why don’t you take this one, honey.” his eyes sparkled with mischief, he was trying to throw you off and the hand that was massaging your side was proof of that.

You met his eyes with the same excitement, if he wanted to play, you were really going to go for it. “We both worked as government agents, met on the field. Hence all the scars.” The women nodded in realisation, looking at some of the injuries you hadn’t quite managed to hide. “He wasn’t the biggest fan of mine at first but I grew on him, isn’t that right darling?”

Sam nodded, his eyes not leaving yours as he replied, “and now I don’t want to be without her ever again.” He found that sentence to be more true than he thought.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖ng 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

Sam sent an exasperated look your way as he raked a hand through his hair (and sadly took the glasses off his head). “How were the boys?” you asked with a smile and he turned to make sure no one was watching before dropping the facade.

“I’m actually shocked how much I don’t know about football.” He replied and you both laughed, him leaning into you as he smiled. He looked outside at the group of gossipping women before adding on, “they seemed…friendly.”

You laughed, “to you, sure, but I think it’s because they want you in their bed.” The sentence was blunt and Sam’s eyes widened, cheeks blushing a strong red. You, however, continued as if you had never said anything, “I think it could be witches? We’d have to search for hex bags though.” He nodded, not meeting your eyes (he was slightly flustered).

The two of you eventually said your goodbyes and made your way down the street, Sam looked annoyed with himself. “What’s up?”

He sighed, “this one guy, Glenn, roped me into holding a housewarming party…” You stared at him incredulously, did he not try to say no? Sam recognised the look in your eyes and defended himself, “the man was incredibly persuasive!” You shook your head but knew there was no way out of it. You weren’t the best at party planning.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖ng 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

The long stretch of grocery store met you as you and Sam stood in the doorway. You didn’t often do this as hunters so it was a slightly daunting task. You looked at each other with tired eyes and went your separate ways, deciding to cover ground as if it were a hunt…just for nachos.

You rounded a corner only to see Helen stood there. Not wanting to be stuck in conversation again, you instantly turned on your heel, hiding behind a row of sauces. Though, something caught your eye. In Helen’s basket, clearly hidden just not very well, was a large amount of herbs and salt. What got you interested was the extreme amount of basil and sage.

Witches. Had to be.

Sam approached you, smiling gently. Something about the situation made him look so… domestic. You tried to motion to him what you were thinking but he seemed so fixated on you, his reaching out for yours. “Can you do your job?” you spoke, the words sounding harsher than you had intended. He instantly pulled back, face twisting with annoyance.

“What?”

“Take the hint, Sam. Behind me.”

You continued to whisper back and forth in annoyance, alerting Helen who watched in confusion. You quickly turned to look at her and sighed as she approached, hiding the herbs with the rest of her groceries. “Lovers quarrel?” she joked and the two of you laughed in the same way Bobby would when Dean told another of his bad jokes.

Sam made excuses as you looked at her, trying to see if you could spot any witch runes on her. It seemed as though she was trying to do the same to you. “Well isn’t that tattoo…neat!” She said, trying to hide the venom in her voice as she pointed out the anti-possession tattoo on your collarbone. Great.

You looked at Sam in annoyance and turned back to Helen. “Thanks! I saw it in a magazine!” You tried to explain away but you knew you’d been caught, she had spotted you and you her. Though she was very keen to stay in conversation, Sam made a quick excuse and you both left as soon as you could.

“Told you it was witches.”

Sam didn’t reply. The car journey back was completely silent, an unspoken annoyance building in the both of you. Neither of you said a word until the front door closed. “Nice job letting her see the tattoo.” Sam said annoyedly, turning to look at you.

You sighed and turned away, packing away the groceries. “Maybe if you spent less time flirting and more time actually hunting we’d be done by now! This isn’t exactly a hard case, we don't need more bodies to our name.” The reply was sharp and annoyed.

He suddenly grabbed your wrist so you’d look at him. “I’m doing my job just fine.” His eyes were locked with yours. You stepped closer.

“No, you’re not. You’re distracted.” Sam scoffed, his minty breath fanning against your cheek from how close you were. His hand was still firmly on your wrist.

An annoyed smile spread across his face and a muscle in his neck tensed. “Oh yeah? And why would I be distracted?” You stared directly at him, from his long hair that fell over his unreadable gaze to the smoothness of his bronzed skin.

You found yourself stepping closer again. “You tell me.”

There was a crushing silence, the only sound being your sharp breaths. Suddenly, Sam’s grip on your hand moved to your waist and he pulled you into him, his lips colliding with yours. You leaned into him, hands grabbing his hair harshly. He kissed you as if he were hungry, as if he had been waiting for years - maybe he had. He lifted you easily and sat you on the kitchen counter, leaning back from the kiss for a split second. His chest rose quickly in hot breaths as he kissed you again. You bit his bottom lip - letting blood drip as his hands gripped your skin.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖ng 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

The party was loud and irritating, there wasn’t a moment where you had time for yourself, not one point where you weren’t ’y/n Heathcliff’. You and Sam had barely talked after the evening before - you didn’t know what to say.

You knew Helen would be at the party, not only would it be good to keep up appearances but she could get her next victim from it. Sam sent you a look and you nodded once, heading toward the spare bedroom in search of weapons, just in case.

A small, easily hidden knife was being placed into your waistband when Sam opened the door, closing it harshly behind him. “Sorry,” he said quietly, “had to get away from Miriam.”

You laughed gently and went back to preparing, not wanting to meet his eyes. “Helen’s here.”

“I know.”

Silence again. You sighed, “and you just left her out there? Alone?” His brows furrowed and he offered a witty remark, starting another hushed argument between the two of you.

On the other side of the door, Miriam and Margaret pressed their ears to the wood, giggling like school children at how the argument sounded to them. Through the muffled walls, all they could hear was gasps and sharp noises - of course they assumed what they wanted.

Sam’s hands pushed through his hair as he sighed, uncertain of what to do, when suddenly the door started opening. He rushed forward and pushed against it, rushing out a quick, “one moment!” All he heard in reply was laughs.

“What do we do?” He asked nervously and you stood still, nervous, until a thought popped into your head. You held your hands out - asking for permission and, once he nodded, you placed your hands gently in his soft hair, ruffling it. It annoyed you how he still managed to look good.

Then, once he had done the same for you, you looked him up and down, deciding his outfit was far too…tidy. First it was one button undone, then another (you unbuttoned a third for personal reasons). A blush rose on the tips of his ears.

He went to open the door when you realised something was still missing and, in a quick moment of panic, you rushed forward and grabbed his face, kissing him harshly on the lips (you were purposely trying to smudge your lipstick onto him). Sam made a noise in shock but found himself leaning into it, eyes lingering closed for a moment longer after you had pulled away.

Shit. He thought. He definitely liked you.

Eventually, the door was opened and Sam met the two women with an awkward smile. “Oh!’ Margaret began, giggling, “I was going to offer a drink, but I see you’re occupied…” The woman looked at one another, laughed again and walked away, leaving Sam blushing with embarrassment. The door was closed once more and when you were both sure they had walked away, laughter spilt into the room.

He shook his head and smiled, stepping closer to you. “Close one.” You smiled gently, staring into his eyes (the light was hitting them perfectly). There was silence again - neither of you knew what to do.

”Are we ever going to talk about last night?” You asked, thinking about how his hands felt on your skin. His features turned more serious as he sat down on the bed.

He stared at you, lipstick still in a smudge on his face. “I’m not sure what to say about it.” You neared him, hands trailing over his shoulders. Then, slowly, you leaned into him, lifting his chin with your finger as you felt his soft lips against yours. There was something impossibly gentle about it and you weren’t sure anyone had kissed you that softly before.

”Maybe we don’t need to say anything.”

He smiled. You kissed the corner of his grin and headed back downstairs, attempting to fix your hair as you went. You were met with stares as you entered the kitchen - Miriam had most definitely told everyone… at least it sold the cover.

Time passed with an almost excruciating level of slowness and Sam not making a re-entrance back downstairs wasn’t helping either (you had no one to distract you). Eventually, the party cleared out yet Sam was nowhere to be seen - now you began to panic.

You said goodbye to the final few neighbours and headed back upstairs, calling Sam’s name. The lack of response worried you. The first door by the stairs - the one that unfortunately led to your weapons room - was ajar, scratches around the lock. You pulled the dagger from your waistband and slowly opened the door, sighing as you saw the bloodstain on the floor. You had a feeling you knew who had taken him and where he had gone.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖ng 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

You had managed to track him to Helen’s house, hiding around the back to get a good view through the sliding glass doors. Sat, tied to a chair in the middle of the main room, was Sam. His face was bruised and bloody and his expression looked annoyed, chest heaving with sharp breaths. Helen, Miriam and Margaret circled around him, playing with his hair and gathering items they needed for the spell.

”Poor Sam,” Helen began - you assumed she was the leader, “you’d think you’d be able to fight back against three 57 year olds.” Miriam headed into the kitchen as Margaret laughed, they almost reminded you of the witches from Macbeth.

”You’d also think, considering she’s a hunter, that your ‘wife’ would be better at hiding.” Suddenly, a surprisingly strong pair of hands grabbed you, pushing you against the wall.

You struggled against the grip but it was no use, your hands being painfully tied behind your back. Miriam ushered you into the living room, retiring you to a chair beside Sam. You met his eyes with an apologetic gaze and he returned it.

It was your turn to feel the bunt of the witches’ fun now, knives sliced at your skin and hair was cut from your head, you knew they’d done it somewhere visible on purpose. They grabbed at your face, nails digging into flesh and smiling as Sam protested.

Eventually, the three left the room and you and Sam began planning. You shuffled your chair toward him, trying to see if he could reach the dagger you always hid in your shoe. His hand brushed over your shin but he couldn’t reach any further.

With one final attempt, Sam tried to lean on the chair to reach, which ended with him toppling both chairs. He landed on top of you, his chest flush against yours. “Sorry.” He spoke, words hoarse from lack of breath.

Luckily for you, the fall had broken the ropes around your ankles and - though it hurt like hell - you manoeuvred your leg just enough to read the blade. Sam's hair tickled against your face and his lips tickled your neck - but that was something you’d have to think about later.

“Nice try you two.” Helen spoke as she waltzed back in. You hid the blade in your sleeve as your chair was fixed once more and while the three were busy working, you managed to slice through the ropes. you waited patiently, watching with a newfound confidence. Luckily for you, Maragaret was the type of witch to intimidate - her favourite tactic being getting as close as she could.

You took the opportunity and thrust the blade forward, stabbing through her throat. She screamed out and you stood up making your way over to the other two to fight. You took a fair few punches, but it was nothing new and soon enough the two others were on the floor too, holding onto the last of their life.

The large salt circle was immediately broken and Sam was freed, you apolising every time you accidentally touched any of his injuries. “That was badass.” Sam complimented and you laughed, leaning your hair back tiredly.

You turned away, starting to destroy the spell further as you spoke, “Ready to finally stop being husband and wife?” You asked and a small smirk rose on his face, hands snaking back over your waist again.

With sudden passion, he spun you back around, his eyes glinting. “Not really.”

With that, Sam lifted you off the ground, hands securely gripping your thighs as he kissed your neck. You had your back pushed against the wall as he moved to kiss your lips, your hands pulling at the back of his hair. He sighed and went to kiss you again when the front door swung open, revealing a disgusted (but slightly relieved) Bobby and a grinning Dean.

”We can explain?” Sam offered, gently lowering you back to the ground. You couldn’t look at one another.

Dean shook his head, smiling like a madman. “I don’t know Sammy, seems pretty obvious to me.” Then, with the same giddy happiness he turned to Bobby, who had since fished a ten dollar bill out of his pocket.

Typical. You and Sam shared an annoyed look as The other two hunters headed back out the door. ‘“C’mon you lovebirds,” Bobby began, “There’s a vamp nest in Chicago.”

[dutifullylazybread]

Can I ask for a 33,specifically a kiss on a scar? Doesn't matter whether it is Rolan's or Tav's

Absolutely! Thank you for bearing with me while I worked on this! 💖 I'm playing inbox catch-up right now, and this was so much fun to write!

CW: some light discussion of old scars

“Extend your arm more when you’re casting—don’t keep it so close to your body,” Tav said, “And push your palm out further.”

Cradling his scorched hand against his chest, Rolan turned a hard glare on her. Tav listed her head to the side, quirking an eyebrow, waiting for him to say something—anything.

Rolan’s mouth fell into a hard line and his shoulders drew up to his ears.

He was the first to look away with a snort.

“I gathered as much when my skin started to blister,” he snapped. He grazed his fingertips over the front of his robes—now blackened to an ashy gray from where his spell seared the fabric. His irritation gave way as his face creased with pain.

Tav rounded her workstation and crossed the study. “Let me take a look,” she said.

“It’s fine,” Rolan said quickly. He tried to flex his hand, to test its range of motion, only bite down on his lower lip, swallowing a curse as a spearing anguish threatened to overwhelm his senses.

“May I?” Tav asked gently.

Rolan exhaled through his nose, forcing the tension to drop from his frame as he extended his arm to her, his palm facing upwards.

The injury was already starting to blister. Rolan’s skin, usually a warm red, was burned wine dark. The tip of his tail flicked an irritable beat against his ankle. He refused to meet Tav’s gaze; his mouth was curled up in distaste—as if he’d bitten into something bitter. “Well?” he asked.

“It doesn’t look good,” Tav said, her focus more on his injury than on his question.

“An astute observation.”

“Sit down while I prepare a salve,” she said.

“And how long will that take?”

Tav opened a nearby cabinet and withdrew a squat, brown-glass jar. “About as long as it took for me to walk five paces to the right,” she said.

Rolan’s cheeks flushed a dusky red. He averted his gaze. His tail’s sharp cadence slowed and then totally stilled. “Ah…”

She fetched one of the freshly bottled healing potions from her workstation, plucked up a roll of fresh bandages from the wicker basket tucked under the table, and returned to his side.

“Drink this.” She passed him the rowan berry-red potion. “It’ll take care of the brunt of your injury.”

She sat down on the study’s reading couch and patted the cushion beside her.

Slowed by his chagrin, Rolan claimed the space that she beckoned him towards. He downed the healing potion in one large gulp. The blistering smoothed away and the mottled flesh was soothed—though a touch of inflammation still played at the edges of where the burn originally lay.

“This should help with any irritation,” Tav said as she applied a generous coat of balm to his hand. He sighed, relaxing into her touch. She bit down on her smile.

Tav opened the jar and dipped two fingers into the honey gold salve.

He watched her work, his eyes following her movements.

“What happened there?” he asked.

He gestured to the silvery pink scar running down the side of her thumb.

“This? I burnt myself on a furnace while glass blowing,” she said, pausing before adding, “It could have been much worse, all things considered.”

“And that one?” She followed his gaze to her forearm—where another scar, faded with age, started at the pulse point of her wrist, ran the length of her limb, before it abruptly paused above her elbow.

Her mouth quirked into a smile. “I burned myself by not extending my arm enough when I cast a spell.”

Rolan snorted.

“I’m serious,” Tav said. “Take better care when you’re practicing.”

He bristled, opening his mouth to retort.

“I won’t speak on the matter any further,” she said, cutting him off. “But, I’ll be here to patch you up—should you need me.”

She leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Permit me to worry? Just a little?” She murmured against his neck, her lips warmed by the taste of his skin. She laid her hand against his jaw, tilting his face towards hers.

He flushed a feverish red. “If you must,” he said, each word forced out into a disjointed sentence.

Clearing his throat, he cast his gaze about, unconsciously taking her hand in his and pressing a lingering kiss to the ridge of her scarred thumb. And, as he gathered himself, he held it there, unthinking but slowly calming.

“Honestly,” he said after a moment. “I should be the one worrying about you. You always manage to come home bruised and bloodied.”

He rose from the couch, rolling up his sleeves and readying himself for another bout of practice.

“Well.” Tav hummed. “I need to keep you on your toes, now don’t I?”

Rolan paused, shaking his head. “Gods, you are impossible,” he muttered.

And, before he turned back to his training, Rolan stooped down and kissed her—conveying the tenderness that his indignance would not permit him to give voice to in the moment.

[triscribe]

The Magic Trousers

(So I'm trying to come up with something to submit for a magazine's flash fiction competition, and while I don't think this is going to be it, I don't want to just lose it in my folders either. Hope you guys enjoy)

The third time her little brother turned up with blood on his face, Alene decided she needed to do something about it.

Not that Elber ever came out and said, but she knew good and well who bloodied his nose, who split his lip. Less than twenty kids lived in their village, but even out of a hundred, two hundred, a thousand, she’d have no trouble knowing who did it.

“I'm fine,” Elber tried to protest, when she sat him down and cleaned him up. “You don’t have to-”

“I do have to,” huffed Alene. “Just you and me now, and old Nana, but she’s too blind to do this anyhow. So hush up and sit still.”

She tended to her brother, warm water and a soft cloth and a dab of salve to speed along his healing. Then Alene sat him down next to her, and made the boy hold a ball of rough yarn as she pulled from it. Back and forth, across their mother’s old loom. Back and forth, click-clack, back and forth.

And she told Elber, “You know there used to be witches in our family?” Her brother’s eyes went wide. “Good witches, who cast their spells on tyrants and bullies, taught them harsh lessons so they’d leave the smallfolk who lived under them alone. Once, there was a witch who went to a king’s castle, pulling an empty cart like it was full and heavy. And she told everyone along the way, whether they asked or not, that she’d brought a gift: magic cloth made on a magic loom, enchanted so only wise and worldly people could see it.”

“...what’s ‘worldly’ mean?”

“Means you know what’s what,” Alene explained. “And nobody she told wanted to admit they didn’t, so instead they all went ‘oh, of course, what lovely cloth’. All the way through the castle, and to the king, who didn’t want anyone thinking he was stupid either, so he agreed to pay the witch to turn the magic cloth into robes for him to wear.”

Elber’s eyes got even wider. “But- there wasn’t any cloth?”

“Not a single thread. Speaking of, I’m almost done with this, go get me Momma’s old sewing kit.”

She finished telling her brother the story while putting her lengths of fabric together, skipping more stitches than not. About how the witch put on a great show, going through the motions and chanting in a strange tongue, until she announced the robes were ready, lighter than air and softer than a cloud. The king immediately put on his new outfit to show off, going up and down his whole castle, then out of it entirely to parade through the nearest village. But only the castle folk knew what the witch said about her magic cloth - the villagers didn’t. They saw the king prancing about in his small clothes, and one by one everybody started laughing, more and more until you could hear sound for miles around. The king tried to wave it off, tried to insist not a one of them was wise enough to see his wonderful magic robes.

But he still went back to his castle awfully embarrassed.

By the end of her story, Alene held up a pair of simple, homespun trousers, nothing odd to be seen. That night, after the whole village went to sleep, she stole out of her family’s home and over to another house, switching the trousers with another pair, not a soul aware of what she’d done.

Well. None besides Elber. And the next morning, when the blacksmith’s son promised to punch him in the face again, Alene’s little brother did exactly as she’d told him: he pointed at the bigger boy and yelled that the Old Magic punished bullies for their crimes, along with a few made-up words for good measure.

All the other kids jeered. And the blacksmith’s son did what he always did: he picked up one foot to brace against the nearest wall, posing like a hero out of a storybook.

And his trousers promptly came apart at the seams.

Alene, walking by with her market basket as laughter erupted, hid a smirk all the way home.

[nervousladytraveler]

”Stay” Ross and Demelza. Thank you

Thanks @veryflowerobservation for the prompt. Sorry I'm behind in my responses but really these are fun. Here's one, from no particular universe.

---

“What in god’s name…Demelza?!”

“It’s not nearly as bad as it looks, really, Ross,” she lied. 

“What did you do?” His voice was dark but Demelza recognised what was really going on: Ross was scared.

“It was just a spill,” she said simply. But she’d never been good at subterfuge and they both knew it. The fact that she couldn't really move without grimacing wasn’t convincing anyone.

Mouth open, brows knit, nostrils flared–Ross looked at her, waiting impatiently for more.

“I spilled soup on my lap,” she added, then reluctantly pulled her dressing gown back to reveal the angry pink skin and the ominous blister forming in the middle of her upper thigh. A large blotch, it looked about the size of his outstretched palm, and currently had taken on the shape of Belgium. Well, maybe Belgium and its Luxembourg neighbour. 

“Come, we have to get you to A & E, now!” 

Of course he’d want to manage the situation. She tried not to roll her eyes.

“No, Ross. We are not going anywhere.” She stared him down, even though her dull eyes gave up how much pain she was in. “It’s my body that’s injured, my problem to solve. And don't you dare say it happened in your house or it was your stove that heated the soup!"

Ross swallowed and nodded his head a few times–it was his tell. 

I admit I said something wrong and I won't argue with you. But I still don’t agree with you. The closest he ever came to fully giving in.

“Did you…?” he began.

“Yes, I ran it under cold water and cleaned it and we had some salve in the medicine cabinet. But I can’t decide if I should bandage it or...”

“Let it breathe,” he said. “Maybe.”

He took her hand in his and silently helped her back to the sofa. She sat against the cushions and with only a quick jolt of distress, stretched her injured leg out.

“Ughn…” she winced, then scrambled to find a smile. “I’ll be okay. Really. I just need to catch my breath.” 

"Ice?" he asked.

"No. Just let it be."

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it then.” Before he turned away, his lips were pulled thin and his face had taken on a shade of grey that rivalled the flagstone floor. “Why don’t I go out and get you some new cream?" he asked. "I can’t say how old that tube you found was…”

“Yes,” she said and closed her eyes. Earlier everything seemed agitating but now the thought of being alone only exacerbated the burning, the stinging, the pain. Everything reminded her of how much it hurt. Everything…except Ross’s voice. Except the touch of his hand on hers. 

“Ross?” 

“Yes?” He turned back and instantly crouched next to her.

“Stay?” she asked with a meek smile.

“Of course,” he whispered and leaned his face against her so when he spoke she felt it move through her chest. “Of course, I’ll stay.”

[ficbrish]

Devotion

Rating: Explicit 18+ only!

[AO3 Link]

[Kinktober 2023 prompt thanks to @absurdthirst! October 27th - Wax Play]

[[TW/CW: Blood]]

Summary: Astarion and Vistri devote themselves to one another.

Durge Vistri and Astarion on the night after the graveyard scene, in the Lower City camp church. There are SPOILERS for BG3, Dark Urge, and Astarion under the line!

[Click here for my other Kinktober one-shots]

Astarion could barely articulate himself over his full-chested guffaws, “You are—You are too… Cannot be serious!”

The damp stone of the ruined church crashed with the echo of their voices. Their laughter shouted and bounced between its crumbling walls as if coming from a thousand people, but it was just Astarion with his Vistri.

“It’s true!” she insisted, her voice so full of amusement it went pitchy, “We did!”

Tears were actually streaming down his cheekbones, “Why was I not there?!”

“I don’t know! You were off somewhere.”

“You didn’t wait for me!”

“We couldn’t!” Vistri laughed, “I swear!”

“Then do it again,” Astarion demanded in an even, heated tone. It made them burst apart.

Their cackles smashed crudely across the old stone. Vistri wiped the tears from Astarion’s eyes, her hands shaking with laughter. He grabbed her fingers and kissed them reverently.

“How did you do it?” he asked.

“Shadow,” Vistri collapsed on herself out of hilarity, “Shadowheart and Lae’zel pretended to get into a fight—”

“Pretended?”

“Yes, well, this time.”

“Ah. Do go on.”

“Right. They were shouting over by Wyll, because as you know, Mizora always hangs over by Wyll. Because—”

“Because she’s obsessed with him.”

“Right. Exactly. So,” Vistri broke into giggles again, “So Mizora leaves and—”

“And?” Astarion asked impatiently as Vistri struggled to control herself.

“And when she passed me by! I did a little spell! And… It shoved her stupid, devil panties up her big, blue arse!”

“I hate you!” he howled, laughing.

Vistri was so far gone she collapsed into his chest. If Astarion were to let go now, her face would surely crash into the floor.

“I’m sorry!”

“Without me there!”

“I know!”

“You bitch!”

“I know!”

They sunk to the floor. His knees weakened and his balance collapsed. He fell, and she fell on top of him.

Then there was silence in the church. Only Astarion staring up at Vistri, and Vistri gazing down at Astarion. Their chests danced with heavy breath. He reached up to tuck her little braid behind her ear.

“You are my whole heart,” he whispered.

Vistri shut her eyes, and he reached up to wipe away her tears, “Don’t cry, love.”

She laughed, “It’s so ridiculous! I don’t know why.”

A salty, warm drop landed on Astarion. He let it trickle down his own cheek, leaving a cool trail across his face of her inner life incarnate.

He sat up to hold her better, “Do you have to know?”

Her head shook against his chest.

“That’s all right. Sometimes these things just happen.”

Vistri shut her eyes and found fear woven under layers of her forgotten self. She also found it in Astarion’s care. Somehow those two discoveries were linked, she knew that, but didn’t know what it meant.

Throwing her arms around his neck, clinging like a lost child, she begged him to find her, “I think I might be afraid.”

“Can I tell you a secret, love?”

She nodded and wiped her nose on her arm, for she had no sleeves.

“I’m always afraid.”

He spoke his admittance so close to her trembling lips. She could taste him through his words, and the ache and the void in her both shouted for the salve of him. Vistri leaned in for a kiss. The warmth of it stung her frigid fear.

The moment stilled; they found the stars. His tongue slipped past her lips, and Vistri moaned her acceptance. Now Astarion knew these appetites were truly his, he found himself ravenous.

“Wait,” she interrupted.

“What is it, love?” he asked, his lips lingering on her neck. There was a nasty bite sitting in his fangs with her pulse so near.

“I had a… plan for tonight.”

He nibbled her ear, “Is it a naughty plan?”

Vistri laughed the spikes out of her skin, “A rather silly plan, but one from—Gods!—from the heart.”

Astarion loved when she went all shy, it made her perfect to tease. He chuckled “Please do tell. What does your silly, little plan entail?”

“You’re going to laugh at me.”

“You’ve already made me laugh plenty.”

Vistri rolled her eyes, but she was blushing, “Okay.”

Astarion grinned ridiculously as he helped Vistri to her feet. Her silly, little plan burned inside her pockets. She was discovering so many shades of fear this evening. She thought through this moment so many times it felt casual enough to do for real. Now her thoughts scrambled for a way out, but even with the best excuse, nothing in her wanted to lie to him. Even a tiny deception, after all they’d been through, felt like betraying everything they fostered.

Even at her bravest, Vistri still couldn’t meet his eyes, “I kept something I found in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. I’ve wanted to show you for a while. To share with you...”

Her fist pulled the keepsake from her pocket and stayed shut, “Although, as I warned you, it’s so silly—I just never found the right time.”

A deep breath, and her palm blossomed like a flower; two gold rings sitting at its center.

“…Oh…”

“Please don’t panic!” she said, ignoring her own advice, “I don’t mean it to be that serious.”

Astarion smirked, “Looking to wed me with a delicate veil of blood blooming over my white curls, darling?”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

He shook his head as if the denial was delicious to him, “Never in all my days. I’m just as sure of that as I am of you.”

The impulse to forgive him was blasted away by his sudden outburst of laughter.

“Well, I meant this to be a little serious…”

“No,” he protested, trying his best to regain his composure, “You don’t understand!”

“You said you weren’t going to laugh!”

“I made no such promise, but don’t worry. In a moment, you’ll be laughing too.”

Watching him reach into his pockets, Vistri searched for the punchline. Maybe he was freaked out. Maybe he didn’t understand—

“Turns out, we think quite alike. Eerily similar, really.”

Astarion presented in his palm a different set of rings. Vistri’s mind reeled as a dizzying wave crashed over her.

His confession was shy, even though she’d gone first, “I kept these too. Found them near that Sharran nightmare of a hospital—bleak as it was. Always wanted to show you, but never found the excuse. Until now, you perfect thing.”

Vistri wiped her eyes, scoffing, “Who are we?”

“The kind of people who exchange rings in a church. Apparently,” he giggled.

“Gods, it’s so embarrassing.”

Astarion gathered her face with his free hand and held her close. He kissed the top of her head, feeling her hair on his lips, “Why not be as embarrassing as we can fathom?”

Vistri laughed into his chest, “Okay.”

“So… Uh, what do we do now?”

She cleared her throat, “How about… I’ll give you one of mine, and you’ll give me one of yours. Then we can… Oh, maybe we declare how we feel—Is that dumb? Answer me honest.”

His happiness sang though his eyes, “Every time we reach into our pockets, or look down at our hands, we’ll remember that we belong to each other.”

She almost couldn’t take it when he was this sincere, “Your rings are so much fancier than mine.”

Astarion smiled kindly, “I believe they have a warding bond, so do let me know when you plan to wear it.”

“Wait! But that’s—If I get hurt, then you…?”

“I don’t see how that’s any different. Any scratch on you is a stake through my heart. It’s all the same to me.”

A hard lump thrummed alongside Vistri’s pulse as they fought for occupancy of her throat. There was no space left for sentiments, “Mine don’t do anything special.”

“What made you keep them?”

“They belonged to a local couple—dead now,” she swallowed, “The letters on them… They appeared entirely devoted to one another. A couple of ordinary people, but they—You could just tell they were happy, even though there’s nothing left now but bleached bones.”

“And that made you think of me? Other’s devotions?”

She nodded, ashamed to hear her impulse spoken aloud.

“Then they’re special,” he stated. Astarion had more to say, but the words got caught.

Countless things tugged on her soul, haunted things and resurrected dreams. They crawled out from her arteries like roaches, skittering onto her skin.

“I’m the spawn of a murder god.”

“And I’m the spawn of a vampire lord.”

Vistri shook her head, “You’re your own person now.”

“And I still want to be here. Isn’t that funny?”

“Oh, it’s hilarious.”

That was it, though. Astarion could give his affections freely now his life was his to lead. Bhaal still owned her future, and father didn’t approve. Astarion could dispense promises, but Vistri could only give wishes. It didn’t feel fair; made it harder to take everything in.

“I don’t quite know what living is,” she said, “But I know I want to spend it with you.”

Astarion kissed her, “Put a ring on my finger, love.”

She blinked, recovering from the whirlwind of his kiss, “What should I say?”

“No cheating!” he chided dramatically, “Tell me something you feel and something you promise. I’ll do the same.”

“But I can’t make promises,” she heard herself say.

“And why not?”

“The Urge. It’s still in me.”

“I’d rather be the only dark power inside of you.”

“Astarion!” she giggled.

“What does the Urge have to do with anything? A bit of rope when you feel it coming on, and nobody dies.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“Could you make promises before Cazador was dead? Really, truly give yourself to anything? Even if you longed for it with your whole heart.”

“Shit.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Astarion held her tight and thought for a moment. He knew the answer but wanted something different. Even though there was nothing binding in their little theatre, he felt a great sorrow. His freedom didn’t feel the same without hers.

“If you can’t promise, you can’t promise. What else can you do instead?”

Her voice was thick, “I can wish for something. Wishes, I can put my whole heart into.”

He gave the tip of her nose an affectionate peck, “Then we can exchange wishes for now, and save promises for later. Actually—Please allow me one promise. And you don’t even have to return it because you already fulfilled what would be your end of the bargain.”

“…All right.”

“I know-I know it’s bullshit until it happens, but I promise you, you’ll be free of him. As free as I am now. I’ll kill a god if I have to! I don’t know. But I know you won’t be his toy forever, love. And when your life is all yours, on that day, we can make promises together.”

“I think that was three.”

“Vistri.”

“You said one promise.”

He frowned.

“Astarion, I’ll die if I think of it. I can’t hope. I can’t think of it.”

“You won’t die, love, but we can wait if that’s what you want.”

She nodded, “Give me your hand.”

“Oh, right!”

It was like marble, pretty and delicate with a solid strength. His long, pale fingers reminded Vistri of feathers. Art made of nature.

“How I feel about you and a wish?”

“Yes,” he said dryly, “But do make sure it’s only one wish. Otherwise, I’ll come for you.”

Vistri giggled, “I did not come for you!”

Astarion raised his brow, “Really? My mistake.”

“Shush! I’m trying to put together how I feel and you’re teasing me.”

One of his fingers tickled her palm, “Can’t wait to do more than tease you.”

She had to close her eyes and shut him out, or else she wouldn’t make him wait. Vistri knew how she felt, but none of it was in the shape of words. Maybe there was a language out there with some to capture it, but even from the fathomlessness of the Astral Planes, she couldn’t conceive of such a vocabulary existing.

So she settled for her best attempt, “The more you show me, the more I love. Knowing you… Every bit I see, I cherish. You are my favorite thing about the world, and-and I want you. Astarion, I want all of you.”

His tone was warmly strained, “And what do you wish?”

“For our lives to be blended, always. No matter what happens, I wish to never be rid of you.”

Her hands shook as she slipped one of her gold rings onto his finger. After finding which it fit, Vistri lifted it to her lips to bless it.

Emotion clouded his speech, “Thank you. Here let me put the other one on you too.”

They didn’t linger in the moment because they couldn’t. One glance at their matching gilded hands was like a peak at the sun, and their eyes burned from it.

Astarion still had to mark the moment before moving on, “It’s kind of like we’re wearing your heart on our fingers, isn’t it?”

Vistri laughed out of happiness.

“Let’s add mine then, shall we?” he asked, taking hold of her other hand.

“I kept these because I want to protect you. I didn’t tell you about them because I figured you’d never agree. At first. Then I felt too much to give them. Honestly, they’d probably just rot away in a drawer for centuries if you hadn’t brought yours out first. So, thank you for being braver than I. And for being patient with me. And so kind.”

“You taught me how to be all of those things.”

“I was there as you learned along the way. You, my dear, cultivated all that yourself. It’s why I love you so. Or part of why. It’s rather inexplicable actually, which makes the part where I tell you how I feel a bit difficult. How could I possibly capture all of it in the turn of a phrase?”

“Right? It’s so hard!”

“You made it seem so easy,” he giggled, “I’m just so happy that I don’t know what to say. I’m still getting to know what that is, happy, but you’re the one who first introduced it. Actually… That’s my wish. To learn enough that I can tell you. I’ll discover every detail and translate for you; whisper it into your ears every night. That’s what I feel, and that’s what I wish.”

He put the ring on Vistri that would hurt him the next time anyone dared harm her. Astarion would take the hit, even if it were from Bhaal himself. Then she dressed him with the other of the bonded pair. Now they had her heart on one hand and his on the other. Seeing the rings felt the same as when they took each other over his grave once he decided to live again.

“I’m yours now,” Astarion promised.

Vistri threw her arms around his neck, “I was always yours.”

To Astarion, Vistri was the light you see before death, and it brought him back to life. Unreal and bright, like an ideal end to a story; bliss shouted over the blight of his past, and he surrendered to its ebullience. It welled in his eyes, and she kissed it away. He brought her face closer and tasted her mouth before touching her lips. Dissolving self into an ‘us’, they slipped their tongues onto each other, slipped hands under cloth to meet the cool skin underneath.

He picked her up and sat her upon the altar, and possessed, they moaned. Helpless to whatever would happen next, each touch spurred another touch. Every taste only provoked their appetites. Powerless to the miracle of each other, they surrendered to it together.

Astarion leaned forward and crawled to her kiss.

She eagerly gave it, then stole her tongue away to remark, “Good thing our families aren’t here.”

His laughter barked through the church, bouncing down the empty aisles.

Vistri grabbed the front of his shirt to pull him back in, to devour him. He met her with a deep “mmmppphh” that she could feel the buzz of along her teeth. His intoxicating taste was the only thing she ever wanted for the rest of time. Astarion didn’t realize how lucky he was, not having to breathe. Vistri always had to eventually pull away.

“I love you,” slipped out of her so naturally, and used to be so hard to say. It was like taking flight.

Astarion kissed her, over and over, before saying it back.

“I have no gods,” he whispered softly against her jaw, “But I can worship you.”

Vistri yelped from the want that clenched around her like a vice, and she squirmed under his chest.

“I’ll have no sovereign,” she panted, “But I can devote myself to you.”

Astarion smiled so widely it broke their kiss, “You are the most precious thing.”

He stood up and surveyed her with a wild look of affection mixed with lust. Candlelight flickered against the glint in his eye. Then he turned to the long-forgotten, burning votive candles at their side, and told her—

“I have an idea.”

Vistri slipped her tunic off, exposing her back and chest to the cold stone altar.

“I think I like your idea,” she said, having followed the trajectory of his eyes.

“Lie back, darling.”

The candles dripped onto Astarion’s hands before their melted wax met Vistri’s soft stomach. He gritted his teeth and made no sounds. She cried out and laughed heatedly.

A little drop of it on her hip, a button over solid bone. A little stab of a burn that faded fast. As the lightness of pain left her, Astarion caressed her other hip, a gentle tease of his feathery finger. Vistri felt her heart expose itself a bit more with every drop and subsequent caress.

She unraveled as he lowered himself, kneeling. Her belly and hips were decorated with dried wax, and having left a satisfactory painting, Astarion tore her trousers off. Lustily, he trailed his mouth along the inside of her leg. As his touch on her skin cooled in the absence of his tongue, he tipped the dying candle to drip wet heat onto her shivering thigh.

Vistri yelped and Astarion kissed her, slowly, just above the knee.

“Does that hurt, love?”

“A little.”

“Do you like when it hurts?”

Vistri outstretched her arms. She ran her fingers through his hair, tangling herself in it. His fangs scraped along her skin, and she pulled his hair, dragging his face up and down her thigh. Astarion knew his hunger would never best him, but he trembled from the fight.

“I love it when it hurts.

He groaned, a stumble in his control that provided such relief raw emotion escaped it like steam.

Stroking his curls, she begged, “Bite me.”

His armed linked around her thigh like a serpent. Vistri gasped, feeling his teeth pierce the most vulnerable spot, the part prey should never expose to a predator. And he drank her up, sucked her down. Vistri felt the weakness in her head as she gave herself as sacrifice to his ecstasy.

“Take me,” she moaned, rolling her hips; draping her other leg over his shoulder.

He gulped her down with a whimper, then pulled back with a whine. His bloody grin was more warm than devilish. She wanted to see more of it; felt excitement at the prospect of coming days filled with it.

Astarion kissed his bloody bite mark and licked up the mess. Vistri leaned back as his tongue travelled further upwards. When it found her center, he looped his elbows under her knees, and gave it a kiss.

Vistri cried out his name, and the stone shouted it back to them. He felt her nails skate across his scalp and onto his ears. When she grew louder than he knew she wanted to be, Astarion added his fingers to her sweet torment. His sucking and stretching radiated into a beam that made existing in her body something good for once.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured along her folds, “Be a dear and die a little for me.”

Her body took his words as an imperative. The ruined stone around them hadn’t sheltered such praises for decades.

Vistri sat to kiss him with abandon. His hands worked at his tunic, and she helped him out of it. Then off went his breeches and stockings. Naked and trembling, Astarion joined her on the altar. Bodies intertwined; they reached a state of perfection.

Perhaps they were the gods this church was rotting away for.

Vistri rolled out from under him. Straddling him, she looked down and surveyed her beloved. He twitched and shuddered pleasantly as she teased him with a gradual grind of her hips. Hard and unsatisfied, the slow movement against him was equal parts pleasure and torture.

She reached out with a finger to trace his lips, “Whenever I look at you, devotion becomes my favorite word.”

Astarion brought her finger into his mouth, curling the tip of his tongue around it.

“It’s a higher form of love, you see. Most people only give such a thing to gods. It’s when you dedicate yourself, body and soul, to something else. A paladin’s oath. I never wanted to be Bhaal’s chosen, but there isn’t a moment where I don’t wish to be yours.”

He was coming apart underneath her, “Vistri…”

“I love you, and I can’t believe I found you.”

His grip on her thighs tightened enough for her to gasp. He panted, “Take me.”

Doing so all at once, he tore through her like a blade. She needed more, and raised herself for another fall, again and again. Astarion moaned freely under her, not trapped but released; his voice like that of a chanting priest blessing an offering.

Having just feasted on her dragon, god blood, Astarion grew too restless to lie there and take it. He didn’t want to spoil such a splendid sight, but he needed somewhere to put all the power roiling through him. He sat up, embracing her writhing form. Overpowering her rhythm, he wrested control; holding Vistri tight in his lap, rutting into her.

Astarion knew her ecstasy by her breath before he felt her pulse and squeeze around him. Her shouts rumbled under his tongue as he licked her neck. His eyes began to roll back, but he held on to watch her die another few deaths.

“You belong to me now, darling,” he said, “For as long as you wish.”

“I wish it. I wish it.”

“Do you love me?”

“I love you.”

“And who are you devoted to?”

“You, Astarion. Devoted to you.”

“Oh, I know that. Tell me again.”

“Devoted… to yo—Hah—you!”

He flipped her over like a cat with its plaything. On her side a while, then her back.

“Look at me,” he said, and she lost herself. Astarion tumbled into the unknowing with her. Who they were peeled away, leaving only how they felt.

Breath was their last offering to the altar. Reality returned with their clothes, but they brought their fantasy back with them. Their feelings and wishes sat solidly on each other’s fingers and beat life in their chests.

Not wanting to leave the church yet, they sat up against the altar and each other.

“You know,” Astarion remarked, “I thought last night was the best one of my life until tonight.”

Vistri’s muscles were still getting used to smiling so wide, “Every day with you is better than the last.”

He kissed her forehead, “Can’t wait to see tomorrow.”

[Click here for my other Kinktober one-shots]

[certkidwhocantdomath]

The artist's user is literally on the top and bottom of the art.

You May Just Live To Regret It

Additional tags: Blind Character, Blindfolds, Referenced Character Injury, Character Death, Angst, Hurt/no Comfort, Kenshi Takahashi needs a hug, Kenshi Takahashi-centric, Survivor's Guilt, Backgroud Relationship

☠◉☠◉☠◉☠◉☠◉☠◉☠◉☠◉☠◉☠◉☠◉☠◉☠

"I guess the ayes have it, outvoting Kenshi here. Motion carries!"

It should have been him.

"Lead the way, Ashrah."

It should have been him.

That’s what keeps echoing in Kenshi’s head, as he guides the hand on his shoulder through the Living Forest.

"Lagging behind, Takahashi? We gotta keep going."

He was scared to look back, like Orpheus, afraid that if he did, the person following him would be lost forever. Kenshi stepped up his pace following their new friend from the Netherrealm, Ashrah, in the hopes of finding Shang Tsung’s partner in crime.

"There you go. Don’t worry about me, Kendoll. I know it’s hard to stop thinking about me but we gotta find this Quan-Chi first."

It happened so fast, yet Kenshi knew he could have been faster, smarter, he could have fought off Mileena’s hold on his shoulders in her feral state, he could have shouted at Johnny earlier to duck but all he did was watch as Cage ripped the princess from him and she-

"God, this reminds me of Wicked Planet," Johnny mused, listening to the sounds of the forest around him.

Johnny will never be able to see a movie again.

The spine-chilling scream of agony echoes in his ears, drowning out his cry for Johnny, as Mileena’s sais stabbed into the star’s skull-

"We had this forest in the second act-"

Kenshi turned his head by instinct to ask, "The manticore battle?"

It was a mistake.

"Yes!"

The sight choked him with guilt painfully in his chest, Johnny’s smile marred by the red blindfold covering his gouged out eye sockets. The same salve treated cloth he wrapped as gently as possible around the man’s head, the barest he could do to relieve the immeasurable pain he had caused.

You saved me, and it cost you everything.

How can I ever forget that?

"It was a pain to shoot, but man did it come out epic."

Because of him, Johnny’s career, his entire livelihood, is over.

He can see how Johnny’s mood had improved since they escaped Shang Tsung’s laboratory, how Kenshi had angrily talked the martial arts actor out from leaving him there, dragging him out, because he had to live, he had to-

Takahashi smiled despite how horrible it felt to do so.

"I can picture it exactly."

And yet the smile was worth it to see Johnny brighten at his words, to feel then the assuring squeeze on his shoulder, silently communicating to him.

I’m not dead Takahashi. I’ll work my way round this, even if it takes years to do it.

If there was anyone who would change Hollywood to adjust to him, it was Johnny. He doesn’t know how, but…

Kenshi swears to help him every step away, to try and start repaying the star for saving his life.

╬╬═════════════╬╬

"Woah there, Samurai Jack. I gotta stop you right there."

Kenshi felt Johnny’s hand on his chest, stopping him from following Ashrah and the others from stopping Quan-Chi’s soul stealer machinations.

"Johnny, you heard her! Millions could die. And I can’t-"

I can’t stand by again and do nothing to stop it from happening.

"I know, Takahashi, I can’t fight with you guys. I’m blind now, not stupid."

That made Kenshi flinch, and the reaction distracted him enough for Johnny to unclip the sword from behind his back. The swordsman turned to face him and-

“Which is why we don’t want you tripping us up out there for the both of us.”

In Johnny’s hand was Sento, waiting to be taken.

Kenshi’s heart stopped.

Johnny pushed his ancestral sword, what he swore to reclaim, into his tattooed hands, grip tainted with the remains of the actor’s blood.

"What?!"

The man gave him his signature smile as he clipped the old sword to his back.

He didn’t deserve Sento anymore, if he ever did, why was he giving it to him, after he lost his sight because of him, leaving him vulnerable and unable to-

"I can’t. Not when you’re-"

It’s his fault, it’s all his fault-

It should have been him, not Johnny-

Johnny grabbed his wrist firmly, the star’s gaze piercing into him, even when blindfolded now.

"I saved your life. And when you save those people, your dept to me is repayed."

"Johnny, it-it's not that simple! I-"

"It is that simple."

Kenshi’s hands trembled slightly, Johnny’s hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

"It’s yours."

The Taira clan’s legacy, returned after centuries apart…

Kenshi raised the sheathed katana, feeling as though an invisible bond was reignited within him.

Then before he could utter another a word, say anything back to Johnny, thank him or protest he didn’t deserve it in his dishonor, Quan-Chi’s spell disrupted them, as the necromancer created a monstrous soul amalgamation they needed to stop now.

Kenshi Takahashi…

In your time of need, the Taira will not fail you.

:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:

"Well... Clearly, I underpaid for that. Did you know it could do that?"

"The legends never mentioned mystical powers. The souls of my ancestors live within it... They intend to guide me."

"Just don’t forget who gave it to you, Takahashi."

"I swear on my life, Cage. I won’t."

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

They were close to the portal, every battle they’d fought was won and all they had to do now was run as fast as they can from Sun Do’s forces. Quan-Chi may have escaped but what mattered more was their own withdrawal, back to Earthrealm, back to Liu Kang.

Johnny had given him Sento, with all that they went through together, and Kenshi could see it exactly, what he would do with the Taira’s ancestral sword guiding his clan out of the yakuza, freeing them, and being by Johnny’s side as they rebuilt their lives together-

"Run, Kenshi!"

Syzoth, Kung Lao and Ashrah made it past the glowing mist of the portal gate, disappearing to the other side and no doubt Kenshi knows when Liu Kang learns from them all that this mission, that yielded neither Shang Tsung nor Quan-Chi, cost the eyesight of one of his champions-

"Get them!"

"Johnny, we’re almost there!"

He refused to look back, he was sure they would make it, he was a hand outstretched away, the other holding Johnny’s-

Krakk!

Kenshi abruptly stopped dead in his tracks.

His hearing was deafened by the sharp sound of breaking bone.

He had to look back-

Slowly, agonizingly, his stomach dropped in what must have been a second to take in the sight-

Johnny raised his hand to grasp Reiko’s spear pierced through his chest, blood spilling out in a gasp. The blindfolded star took a step back from the strike, staggering.

No, no-

Outworld’s forces were closing the distance and Kenshi couldn’t move, he can’t, he has to-

Johnny, through the excruciating pain, smiled at him.

"See ya, Kenshi. Don’t forget to live, okay?"

Then before he could stop him, Johnny kicked him in the chest, sending Kenshi through the portal to Earthrealm and on the floor-

"Johnny, NO!"

And the last thing he saw before Liu Kang’s fire brought him back, was Johnny turning to face General Shao and his soldiers charging at him, the superstar smirking as he took his last stand.

─────────ೋღ 🥀 ღೋ─────────

After he had yelled his entire heart out, he began sobbing and weeping at the pain of losing a friend.

The weather must have known what he was feeling right now in this very moment. Because when he screamed his lungs and vocal cords out, thunder had struck next to him.

Another one of his loved ones..

Dead.

Just like Suchin.

Just like his mother.

Just like his father.

The gods must be punishing him for his sins as an assassin and working as a member of the yakuza.

"Kuso… Zenbu watashi no seida… Warui no wa watashida… Watashi ga subekidatta nda!" He whispered then yelled at himself.

Kenshi continued his mantra of survivor's guilt and self-loathing, uncaring about the violent rain hitting his back, until he noticed something shiny on the now muddy ground.

A dogtag.

His eye brows furrowed and he grabbed it and wiped the mud off.

The text on the dogtag brought more tears to his eyes.

JOHNNY CAGE

Blood: YOURS

Religion: CAGE

Johnny must have thrown it into the portal before it closed and before he was brutally killed. Johnny had told him about how his mother had this dogtag custom made for him as a birthday gift.

He brought the dogtag to his chest, right where his heart is, and clutched onto it like it was the most precious thing in the world. Because it is, his blood is on your hands and this dogtag is the only thing left of him.

Kenshi put the dogtag on and stood up. He wiped the tears from his eyes and started making his way towards the academy.

═════════•°•⚠•°•═════════

Kenshi entered the academy, not caring about the fact he was soaking wet, and was instantly greeted by several familiar face.

Kung Lao was the first to notice him. But he also noticed another thing.

"Kenshi, where's Johnny?"

Tears welled up in Kenshi's eyes again and he looked down at the ground and shook his head.

Silence.

Everyone knew what had happened.

Johnny is dead.

"H-how?-" Raiden attempted to ask but was interrupted by Kenshi.

"Stabbed through the chest by Reiko's spear." Kenshi's voice was hard and stern, clearly it intimidated everyone.

Or rather, nearly everyone.

Bi-Han walked towards him with his brothers attempting to stop him.

"Brother, please-" Kuai Liang tried.

Bi-Han walked up close to him and growled in his ear. "What did you just say?..." Bi-Han's voice was deeper and more intimidating than usual.

"I said, Johnny was stabbed through the heart by Reiko."

Bi-Han got even closer and more quietly whispered.

"You swore you would protect him. That you would bring him back me and his daughter."

Kenshi did swear that and he failed to fulfill that promise.

Having had enough, Kenshi walked past Bi-Han while aggressively and purposefully bumped his shoulder against Bi-Han's own.

When he passed Liu Kang, he brushes his cold wet sleeve against Liu Kang's.

Now, there was only one other person to face.

Cassandra Carlton "Cassie" Cage.

----AUTHOR'S NOTE----

Now I will admit, I've never written angst before but this was actually pretty good! And remember those coldstar headcanons centered around smut? That was my first time writing smut too!

Next will write about coldstar's first kiss and then Johnny's revival!

[panthera-tigris-venenata]

No one needs to know

It’s winter on the Isle and these people don’t have a single functional coping mechanism in place.

AKA, Harriet asks Anthony to paint her nails, specifically so no one would see how cold she is.

@tiredflowercrown tagging you here ’cos I think you sent that prompt along with some others?

It’s so late it’s almost early – no self-respecting Villain would be up in this hour of the morning.

Unfortunately, the Isle hasn’t seen such a thing for almost two decades, not that some of its inhabitants still recognise the linear nature of time and all. Maybe that’s for the better, sometimes, too, but not right now.

The sun is almost rising and Anthony Tremaine only just managed to kick Cruella de Vil from the saloon.

He shuts the door behind her and sighs. The wind chimes above the door are still ringing, disturbed wild by the sharp winter wind, when he heavily sits down behind the cashier. He should count today’s profit, grandmother will want to know.

Instead, he just puts his elbows on the table and sinks his head into his hands. He hisses when at the sensation, his skin irritated and cracked by the cold as it is.

Freaking Cruella de Vil – were it anyone else, he’d have pawed them onto some of his sisters or cousins.

Oh, who is he kidding, he probably wouldn’t.

But Cruella?

No, not even Dulcia is allowed to work with her, Cruella’s own wishes notwithstanding.

So that leaves Anthony here, just waiting till grandmother gets up and tired to the bone.

Fucking Cruella de Vil.

He supposes he could get up and make himself some coffee; he supposes that he could take a nap on the sofa too. Both feels like too much work.

He supposes he could just stay here and feel sorry for himself – that should work, no?

But unfortunately, the universe has other plans.

The doors open again, cold wind breezing through them easily, and Anthony shivers, barely looking up. In walks one Harriet Hook.

She slams the door behind herself and Anthony winces at the sound – he hopes that didn’t wake up anyone, especially not his dear old grandmother. He sits up and leans back at the chair as Harriet drags the armchair over to him.

No one is yelling bloody murder yet, thank the saints.

„Hello, Harriet,“ he greets her.

„Salve,“ she mutters as she sinks into her seat. A heartbeat of silence and then: „I need you to paint my nails.“

„And here I was, just hoping for a friendly visit.“

„Ain’t no such thing in between us,“ she says and she is lying.

„Of course, dear, wouldn’t dream of such a thing.“

Instead of an answer, she rolls her eyes and slams her hands on the table. She has purple fingertips and knuckles and when Anthony gently takes one of her hands, he feels like death herself touched him.

„Holy fuck, Harriet–“ he can’t help pointing that out.

But she just laughs. „I’m not cold,“ she tells him, „I’m not. So just paint my nails so Sammy will get off my back, savvy?“

Anthony sighs again, clasping her hand in between both of his in a futile attempt to force some warmth into it.

„Harriet,“ he tells her gravely, „You don’t feel cold because your bloodstream is like ninety percent just alcohol.“

She leans back in her chair but leaves her hand where it is, reaching for something with the other. Something – the flask. Obviously. She offers him a drink too and he accepts, only letting go of her hand briefly.

Annoyingly, the drink doesn’t provide him with a magical burst of energy.

„You shouldn’t drink,“ he says as he hands her the flask back.

She just looks at him, eyes as dead as his are, probably. She doesn’t bother arguing. „Just paint my nails, ’Tony,“ she requests, leaning back in her chair and letting her head tip back too. Her eyes fall closed for a moment, and stay half-lidded.

„As you wish, Ettie,“ he says emphasising her nickname, „Any requests for the colour?“

„I’m gonna kill you slowly.“ She doesn’t even bother to look at him. And: „Blood red.“

A laugh escapes his throat: Blood red. He could have guessed that. She winks at him now, showing her teeth in what might be a smile or a smirk.

He lets go of her hand and sends her for the nail polish: She knows where it is, and she can choose the correct shade like that. She kicks at the table as she gets up and she makes faces, but she goes.

Moments later, she is back, and collapsing down, she sets the nail polish on the table for him to take. The glass is cold where she held it.

He gets to work and for a while, they don’t speak.

Silence, so unusual occurrence for the Tremaine saloon and household.

He wipes down excess polish from around her nail and asks: „What about your knuckles, Harriet? They’re still purple.“

(They shouldn’t be, by now, he thinks.)

She shrugs: „They’ll think that I just got into a fight again, that those are just bruises. No one needs to know.“

„No one needs to know that you’re basically trying to kill yourself slowly?“ he challenges like the hypocrite he is.

„Don’t be ridiculous, Anthony, I’m doing no such thing.“ Her voice is cold and scathing, like salt water in the wound. He wishes for a better grip on her hand instead of the delicate manicure pose, he wishes to grab her and shake her and hurt her until she realises she wants to live.

Instead, he asks: „What about Sammy? They won’t believe you.“

„They will believe me. They don’t need to know–“

He lets her have that lie and they slip into silence again.

Soon, it is finished, and her fingertips do look like they’re dripping blood.

She raises her left hand to admire the colour in – arguably – better light and leaves the other still in his hold. Her pupils are wide in the half-darkness.

She doesn’t thank him, or, god forbid, pay – she doesn’t even really smile, and he expected that much, really. But– She flips their hands around, and suddenly she’s holding his hand up as if she were a gentleman and he were a lady, and then she’s pressing her lips to his own damaged knuckles.

The kiss is so cold it burns, or maybe that’s the alcohol on her lips too.

His brain short-circuits for a moment, and Anthony is going to blame his sleep deprivation for that, thank you for asking.

She gets up and lets herself in the kitchen; she is gone before he can stop her. He shakes his head and eyes the cash register warily. He really should start counting now. Or maybe, he contemplates, he can paw off the responsibility to Angie or Dizzy, pass it off as morning math lesson. That would work, wouldn’t it? If they both get the same result, it is probably right.

Or Dulcia could do it for once– …Yeah, no. Anthony dismisses that with a shake of his head.

His joyful musings are only interrupted by Harriet placing a mug in front of him: Coffee, strong and black.

He looks up at her in surprise. She smiles this time, even though it doesn’t reach her eyes. „For you,“ she says as she takes the mug back and sips from it, „Coffee.“ (Unpoisoned.)

He takes it from her, noting that the warm liquid has finally managed to unfreeze her fingers at least a bit. She is already moving to leave.

„Your lips are still pale,“ he says instead of a „Thank you.“

She looks over her shoulder: „I’ll just take some of Ginny’s lipstick.“ Her lips stretch into a joyless smile. „Or maybe you could warm my lips up some other way.“ But with that sentence, she lets the door shut behind her, and Anthony is left staring at them and the ringing wind chimes.

Sounds of people waking up can be heard from upstairs.

[grapesplease]

bleed me out and hang me to dry

astarion x male! drow! bard! tav

an. sequel to i love you (i'm sorry) its the 3+1 trope! :D full of oc info and astarion fluff! i love these bastards to death! also egregious use of random star shit i learned, probably not dnd lore compliant but wtv

cw. mentions of past torture and abuse

“Why are you giving me that look?”

“You’re really going to help me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” The elf gives Altair a confused look, wondering what was going on in his head, “You, the bleeding heart that you are, promised everyone here help with their problems, and yet you think I wouldn’t help you fight some drow?”

“No? You have no obligation to help me, you don’t get anything out of it.” Altair has an incredulous look on his face, “You- What do you get out of helping me?"

wc. 7.4k

-

1.

Altair let out sharp hiss of pain as Astarion applies a salve to his knee. His pant leg is rolled high, and he knows that he has to roll it higher for Astarion to properly help him.

The elf is kneeled down in front of him; they had just been through a fight with a nasty group of goblins, and Shadowheart was fresh out of magic to heal him. So now his partner (whatever their relationship was) was treating him the old fashioned way, with good ole’ bandages and salve.

He wants to keep his old scar hidden, and against his better judgment, he considers doing it. Thinking that fighting the next few days in pain would be fine.

“Not like it's something I haven't done before..”

“Would you be a dear and roll up your pants a bit more?” The elf asks, glancing up at him through his lashes. “I need to just finish treating you, I promise that no kind of carnal lust is on my mind right now.”

He hesitates, but reluctantly listens to him. There’s a brand on his thigh, given to him by his dear friend Ariadne. A little reminder of how he could never truly escape her, and that he’d never forget who he belonged to.

He could never forget the pain of searing hot metal.

It was a constellation, Ariadne told him that it had the star he was named after in it. She had told him it was a present for being the new quote on quote, “rising star” in the ring. (A bit on the nose, if you ask him.)

He hated how she had said it back then, now that he was seeing everything in retrospect. “Rising star,” his ass! He was just trying to fucking survive! How could she say that like it was an accomplishment, like he should be proud of killing people? When he was barely breathing after every fight?

She was the one who was bringing him back from near death every time, broken bones healing back together and cuts closing in an instant weren't new to him. Ariadne was the one who kept him in the fight, whether he liked it or not.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by Astarion, who’d started lightly tracing over the scar. Altair flinches, his body stiffening. His gaze meets Astarion’s, and his breath hitches. It wasn’t like he'd never seen it, he just never disclosed who exactly gave him that scar, or what it meant to him.

“I never told you how I got that brand, did I?”

Astarion sighs, bandaging up his leg and setting the salve aside, “No, you never did.” He traces over the exposed skin, thin lines connected with pinprick dots. It was intricate, clear that much thought went into it. “Were you tortured by an astrologer? You have one too many space themed scars, love.”

It wasn't a lie, he had a few tattoos of various constellations, along with a few more star-shaped scars on his back. His jewelry box of star themed earrings and necklaces didn't help much, either.

He chuckles in response, “She really loved the history of my name, apparently.” His eyes look up to the night sky, and he motions for Astarion to sit next to him.

“There it is,” He points to a collection of stars, “the Aquila constellation. It's shaped kind of like an arrow, and the one at the top, the brightest one, is the star I’m named after.”

“How poetic.” Astarion comments, he supposes that it's fitting, as Altair had been a consistent beacon of hope for him. “What does it symbolize?”

“The constellation represents strength,” Altair replies, “I assume my father wanted me to be strong, knowing the hell he left me to live in.”

He shudders, remembering the things he had to do to survive in the Underdark. It was times like these where he cursed his elven memory, wishing he couldn't remember every fight he's ever had, every scar he’d ever gotten.

He wishes he didn't have to remember the desperate looks of his opponents. He knows that the same desperation was mirrored in his eyes.

His guilt doesn’t make him feel any better, but he hopes it serves as some kind of penance. After all, they were the same as him, people who were victims of sick games that drow nobility used to entertain themselves.

“He left me in the Underdark, so that he could live up on the surface with my mother.” Altair says, “They were happy, according to him, but my mother was killed by monsters a few years after they left me.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” Astarion replies, moving to hold Altair’s hand, his fingers running over the back of it. “They traded your freedom for theirs, that's awfully unfair.”

“An eye for an eye, I suppose."

Altair thinks back to when he first got to Baldur’s Gate after escaping the Underdark. He met his dad there, peacefully idling away at a book. Oh, how angry he was to find out that the man that had abandoned him was just living his life, acting like there was nothing wrong in the world.

He remembers that one of the first things he did was slap him, and cuss him out. Gods, he was almost dragged away to jail before his father stopped the soldiers. His father let out endless apologies, but all he thought at the time was that his father looked pathetic.

The next thing he did was ask him questions. “Why did you leave me?” “Why didn't you try to save me?” “What made you think this was fair to me?” “Why did you put me through that?” “Do you regret it?”

“Did you ever miss me?”

They’ve talked since then, argued, apologized, the whole nine yards. He's reconciled with his father, but he doesn't think he can ever forgive him for leaving him in the Underdark. Nothing can ever convince him that his father did the right thing, or that it was the only thing his father could’ve done.

“A woman named Ariadne gave that scar to me,” He admits, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck, “She was the first person I ever befriended down there, she's the one I thought would help me escape. Unfortunately, she sold me out for the mere chance of gaining power.”

“Was she the one who made you become a gladiator?”

“No, but she did sponsor many of my fights, and a lot of my cosmetics.” He motions to the myriad of star-related tattoos on his body. “These tattoos were one of them, along with..” He tucks his hair behind his right ear, revealing how half is cut off, “This lovely parting gift.”

“Couldn't aim for the neck, could she?”

“She fancied herself a killer, but she was pathetically bad with a knife!” He barks out a laugh, “Clearly things have changed since then, because she’s confident enough to try and kill me again.”

“I don't think we should worry too much, if half an ear is all the damage she can do to you.” Astarion chuckles, “Karlach would have her set ablaze before she even got to your tent!”

“I’m sure you’d take a chunk out of her neck before she could take one out of mine.”

“Oh! Such high praise from someone as strong as yourself!” The two are laughing with each other, hands intertwined. Altair wants to savor moments like these, wanting to remember what it feels like to be normal, to care for someone like this.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to ask-” He turns to Astarion, catching his breath, “When we met, you recognized me, where did you first find me?”

“Well, at some shit tavern, no offense to your musical skills, mind you-” He sighs, recalling the moment. “You piqued my interest, being a drow playing the violin and singing. Here you were, a sparkly, singing drow! I even tried propositioning you!”

“Oh, that can’t have gone well.”

(He knows it didn't.)

“You rejected me, very harshly!” Astarion dramatically leans onto Altair’s shoulder, a hand over his forehead. “My ego! Horribly wounded by a sparkly bard!”

“What was it that I said exactly?”

“You said I looked sickly! Like I could barely walk up the stairs! Never mind getting in bed with you! I thought I hid my whole “being dead” thing well- until you came along!”

“Oh yes, it was something along the lines of, ‘Perhaps you should visit a hospital bed before you visit mine.’” Altair snickers, remembering the mortified look that Astarion had given him. “And you left in a huff after calling me a few choice words. In my defense, I was incredibly wasted."

“I mean, I got to bed you eventually.” The elf snarks, “So I guess everything worked out in the end.”

“I guess it did.”

2.

“..aand that's how I bravely defended myself from an assassin!” Altair’s piss drunk, spouting about absolute nonsense, “In fact, that's how I got thiis rapier!” He waves his sword around, laughing.

Astarion rolls his eyes, sipping from his own bottle of wine. He knew Altair had a drinking problem, he just didn't think it was this bad. However, it was certainly fun to see him yelling and screaming. It was a nice change of pace from his usually more put together and cheery persona.

“Wait- hand me my violin!” He slurred out, his arm was wrapped around Alfira’s shoulders. “Alfira, we should play togeth’r, a duet! A duet! You said you wanted to be bard in Baldur’s Gate, riight? I know a great tavern tha’ would be perfect for youu~”

“Now, I think it's high time you let go of your bottle.” Astarion chides, taking Altair’s wine away from him. The drow responds with a groan, and looks up at Astarion with pleading eyes. “Don't look at me like that, darling, you need to be cut off at some point. I don't want you whining to Shadowheart about a hangover.”

“Oh come onn, I know how much I can drink.”

“Oh, you're such a big baby.” He politely smiles to the group of tieflings that had gathered around Altair, and then pries him off of Alfira, dragging him towards his tent. “Apologies for my dear partner, I’ll be taking him off your hands now.”

Astarion sits him down, going off to find a bottle of water for him. Altair watches him attentively, prompting Astarion to turn, raising an eyebrow.

“What? See something you like?”

“You caree about me~” He giggles, thinking it’s the funniest thing in the world. How silly! To think that someone like Astarion would care for him! To think that anyone would care for a mess like him. “Youu care! Hahaha!”

“Only because I know you won't remember it in the morning.”

“I will!” He retorts, flailing his arms about, “I will! I swear!”

“I doubt it, love.” Astarion pushes the rim of the water bottle to Altair’s mouth. “Drink.”

“What are you, my-” The rest of his sentence is cut off as Astarion tilts the bottle, forcing water down his throat. He sputters, pushing it away from his mouth. “ghk- Gods, alright! I’ll drink!”

“Good boy.” Astarion gives him a pat on the head, before settling down next to him. “After you finish drinking that, go to sleep.”

“Aww, but I wanna talk with youu.”

“We can talk when you remember how to speak without slurring your words.”

“Noo, I wanna talk now!” He whines, leaning into Astarion’s shoulder. “I wanna tell you more about myself, s’only fair after you told me about Cazador..”

“Oh, just go to sleep, you idiot.”

“I will if you let me talk to you!”

Astarion groans, but relents. “Fine, if it gets you to rest.”

“Yaaay!”

Altair thinks for a moment about what to tell Astarion, he did want to share something, after how much Astarion had shared with him. Maybe not about his horrible time as a slave, something more lighthearted- but his life was so horribly depressing. What could he even talk about?

His eyes glance around his tent, before landing on his violin.

Wait- He’s a bard!

“Astarion!” He exclaims, grabbing the elf’s hands. There are stars in his eyes, and Astarion feels like he's in for a long night, and not the kind he likes. “Did I ever tell you about how I became a bard!”

“No?”

“I-” He pauses, looking confused for a moment. “Wait, giive me a second..”

Astarion grins, amused at his antics. As Altair is thinking, he shifts, letting Altair rest his head on his chest. His fingers go to thread through his hair, gently running through the strands.

“Don't tell me you don't remember, love.” He softly laughs, “Did the wine erase your memory too?”

“No! I just need a moment..” He yawns, sinking Astarion’s touch. He always loved when Astarion would comb through his hair like this, he felt like could just drift off. “Just give me a second..”

-

What in the hells did he say last night?

Altair blearily wakes up, wiping away the sleep from his eyes, finding that his body was sprawled over Astarion’s. His hair is undone from its usual braid, and is instead tangled in Astarion’s hands.

“What..?” He groans as he pushes himself off of Astarion, carefully untangling his hair from his fingers. “Gods, my arms are sore..”

His eyes flit back over to Astarion, who's still sound asleep. He racks his brain for memories of last night, he got drunk, yelled a little, sang, told some shit story about his time in the Underdark.

Oh.

He told him everything. Or- most of it anyway, just the parts about how he was forced to fight other slaves while starving and only found solace in creating and telling stories. A perfect conversation topic, the best way to reveal your fucked up past! Dammit, did he show him his journal too?

A rustle from behind him makes him snap his head back around, tensing up. He doesn't know if he can talk about it now that he's sober.

“Ngh, good morning, Altair.�� The vampire sits up, yawning. “Glad to see you sober again.”

“Morning to you too, Astarion.” Altair mumbles, running a gentle hand over Astarion’s head. “I.. how much did I tell you last night?”

“Just bits and pieces, most of it was unintelligible to me.”

“Sorry about last night.”

“What for?”

What does he mean “What for?” for just dumping his trauma all over him, especially when Astarion was trying to get him to bed. Gods, he's not a child, he should be able to take care of himself!

“For making you listen to me,” Altair tries to remember what exactly he revealed, was it the torture? The brutal fights? He had to know how much Astarion knew about her. “I told you about when I was a gladiator, right? and that I was..”

A killer hangover has him hissing in pain, holding his head. His memories are still foggy, and his head can't take the strain of trying to remember. It’d take a good couple hours before his mind was clear enough for him to try.

“You told me that you wanted to be a poet.” Astarion says, putting a hand on Altair’s shoulder. “Don't hurt yourself trying to remember everything, I can just tell you.”

“Alright then, what else did I spill?”

“You waxed poetically for a while about how you took solace in art, about how you shadow wrote some songs and stories for a while. You attempted to show me your journal.”

He pointedly looks at the open journal on the ground, some of its pages scattered on the floor.

“Don't worry, I didn't get to read much of it. You ended up crying as soon as you opened it, and I had to calm you down.”

He pauses, hesitantly continuing. “You.. you cried about how you were living in the Underdark, about being forced to become a gladiator.”

“Oh.” Altair shakily sighs, running a hand through his hair, “What did I tell you exactly..?”

“Mostly about the living conditions,” He replies, “You were crying too much for me to understand, so I ended up just coaxing you to sleep.”

“Well, thank you for taking care of me, sorry for being such a child.”

“You don't have to be sorry, love.” Astarion yawns, getting up from Altair’s bedroll, “You listened to me whine about Cazador, it was only fair I do the same.”

“Still, thank you..” Altair gets up as well, following Astarion out to greet the morning. “..for listening to me, when you didn’t have to.”

3.

They’d been in the Shadowlands for a while now, Shadowheart was still talking about Shar and her protection, and Gale was geeking out about how the curse had affected the land around them. The usual day for their party.

He’d just talked to Raphael, shook hands and made a verbal contract, the whole nine yards. Astarion said he was ready to go and find whatever monster they had to kill, ready to learn more about his infernal scars and about how to stop Cazador. All he was waiting on was Altair’s command.

Altair, on the other hand, was more concerned with how Astarion seemed to be slower. They hadn’t lost any fights yet, but none of his attacks had his usual power behind them. He wasn't fit to be in any fight right now, and Altair knew it.

He pieced together why quickly, as he realized that there weren't many animals here for him to eat, the only ones they’d seen had been taken by the shadow curse. He hadn't offered to let him feed recently either.

Astarion was starving.

“Astarion,” Altair stands in front of his tent, arms crossed, “You haven't fed in a while, have you?”

“Well, there aren't exactly any animals here, and I’d hate to take my chances with the rest of the party.” He sends him a flirtatious look, licking his lips, “Unless you're offering that pretty neck of yours~”

His mouth is watering at the mere mention of feeding from Altair- and he does a poor job of hiding it.

“Astarion, I’m being serious, are you alright? I don't want you starving at tomorrow’s fight.”

“I-” Astarion was starving, but he was planning on sinking his teeth into a rat or something. He'd seen a few in the Gauntlet of Shar, Altair didn't have to do this for him. “Well, if you insist..”

Altair nods, the two heading into Astarion’s tent. He lays down on Astarion’s bedroll, letting the elf unlace part of his top. His dark skin is exposed to the frigid air, and he shivers. Astarion’s hands leave feather light touches on his neck as he brushes away Altair’s hair.

Gods, Astarion was already salivating at the sight of his neck.

Altair lets out a gasp, fangs sinking into his neck. Astarion’s tongue eagerly laps up the blood that spills out, groaning. A week without a proper meal leaves him greedy, and Altair can feel himself getting lightheaded.

He gently pats Astarion’s shoulder, “That's enough. Any more and I’m going to pass out.” Astarion whines, but unhinges himself from Altair’s neck. The drow pushes himself up, padding around for his violin so that he could cast Lesser Restoration on himself. “Astarion, I’m going to grab my violin, I left it in my tent.”

“I’ll grab it for you, just give me a moment to fix your shirt.” He motions for Altair to lean forward a bit, and he starts to lace his shirt back up. “You're in such a hurry, darling. Don't go running off topless in front of the party, I’d get jealous.”

“I don't think you should be the authority on decency, Star.” His breath hitches as Astarion’s cold fingers brush against his collarbone. “I think you’ve been seen in more scandalous positions than I have.”

“Oh, are you implying something, love?” Astarion leans in close to Altair, whispering scandalously as he holds the drow’s gaze, “Do you want to be seen when we have sex?”

He pulls the thread of Altair’s shirt tight, sending a shudder through his body.

“No.” Altair breathily replies, “I.. I like being a sight for your eyes only, Astarion..”

“A pity, I’d love to share this..” He drags a finger up Altair’s neck, “..beautiful body with everyone. But you being all mine doesn't sound too bad either.”

He lightly taps Altair’s nose, cheekily smiling at him.

“Astarion..”

“I’ll go ahead and grab your violin, darling.” He pecks Altair on the forehead. “Try and entertain yourself while I’m gone, why don’t you?”

He smiles to himself as he makes his way to Altair’s tent, the face that he’d made when he left was priceless! His cheeks were positively flushed, all the way up to his ears, he was sure that he looked the same though, his pale skin being warmed by the drow’s blood.

Astarion rummages around, spotting the violin behind his pack, as he moves to grab it, he knocks a journal off of Altair’s desk. He mumbles out a few curses, before leaning down to pick it up. It’s open to a page, written in Elvish.

“...ordered another punishment for the Comet, and he came crying to me! He’s a fool, coming to me for help.”

What?

He knows that Altair would hate him if he read it without his permission, especially if it was full of documentation of his torture. But it irks him a little bit, not knowing the extent of Altair abuse.

All he knew was that he was a slave in the Underdark, and that the house he was in forced him to fight in gladiator matches. He’d only made passing mentions of his living conditions, things like being starved or in constant pain, which he could unfortunately relate to.

Sometimes there was mention of a mysterious woman- Ariadne. She came up the most when they were exploring the Underdark, it confused him, as Altair would go from near panic attacks to describing fond memories when talking about her.

Astarion shuts the journal, his touch lingering a bit on the swirling gold embroidery.

Should he talk to Altair about it?

They were getting close to finding a cure for the tadpole, and Altair seemed set on heading to Baldur’s Gate after investigating Moonrise Towers. He didn’t know how much longer Altair was going to stay with him, they certainly had something going on, but he didn’t know if it was enough for Altair to stay with him.

He wanted Altair to stay with him, even after their journey together.

He just didn’t know how to ask him to stay.

He sighs, figuring that Altair has waited long enough for his violin. He heads back to his tent, trying to sort out his thoughts.

“Found your violin.” He sits down next to Altair, who’s reading one of his books, “Oh, I quite like that story.”

“Really? Wouldn’t peg you as the type to enjoy horror.”

“Well, it’s kind of like a comedy after everything we’ve been through. Helps me laugh at it all.” Astarion hands him his violin, “Does it help you any?”

“A bit, but I’ve been mostly laughing at the bad writing. Let me tell you that gladiator fights are nothing like this!” Altair huffs dramatically, “So much talk about honor, and how they describe the equipment? Incredibly inaccurate.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, but how did you escape the Underdark? You don’t have to answer if it’s a sore subject, but you’ve never gone into much detail about it.”

He sighs, recalling the first time that Astarion saw him break down in the Underdark. He was a fool then, trying to pretend like the place didn’t haunt him. Altair holds his violin, gripping his bow a bit too tightly. He should tell Astarion, they were getting close to Baldur’s Gate, and he couldn’t endanger him like that.

“There’s a journal in my tent, it belongs to Ariadne, the person who promised to help me escape. I think I already told you that she betrayed me though. She was cruel, and I wish I could say that I hate her with all of my being, but that’d be a lie.”

He nervously plays with the pegs of his violin, “She was still the first to treat me like I existed, you know? She gave me food, money, and some kind of social interaction. I know that what she did was wrong, and that she was never my friend, but a part of me misses her.”

Astarion looks at him sympathetically, understanding how desperate you get for any kind of interaction when you’re isolated. That time he spent stuck in a coffin comes to mind, being trapped in the dark with only his thoughts, nothing but silence for days on end.

He knows that Altair spent most of his life like that, trapped in a stone cell, only let out to be fed or to fight. Altair was able to create stories, and pretend like all his fights were epic tales, but even he admits that much of his time was spent staring up at a cold, stone ceiling. That, and being beaten for not performing well enough in fights, or whatever fault they found with him.

“I finished reading most of her entries, I assume she lost it before getting to Baldur’s Gate though.” Altair says, “She was in the middle of chasing me out of a tavern before I was kidnapped and put on that mindflayer ship. According to her journal, she’d found out where I worked. I fully expect that she found my house soon after I was kidnapped”

He turns to Astarion with a determined look, “I have to go back, I can’t keep running from her. Not to mention, my father is still there, and I don’t know how long it’ll take before she resorts to using him against me. I need to kill her, to finally be free.”

“And here I thought I would be the only one meeting my old master in Baldur’s Gate,” Astarion jokes, “Good to know we’re both on a mission to get revenge.”

“It’s not revenge- I wouldn’t call it that.”

“Killing the person that ruined your life? I’d say that’s the textbook definition of revenge, darling.”

“It’s not- well, it’s more about me being free.” He explains, looking away from Astarion. He knew that Astarion wouldn’t understand how he felt about Ariadne, it’d be so easy to hate her if all she did was torture him, but she didn’t.

“She- She was still nice to me, you know. She was the very reason I learned that there was more to the world than my cell, and that I still even had a father. Ariadne was my first friend, she was a lot of my firsts, even though she ended up wanting to kill me.”

“That journal I found details some things from my enslavement, and it hurts to read sometimes. It only proves how bad of a person she is, that she hated me from the start.” Tears start to fall from his eyes as he relays his emotions to him.

“It’s tainted all the memories I had with her, every single one that I’d go back to when I trance, wanting to remember the better moments of my life. She hated me the whole time. It was funny to her, how little I knew, how even though I was the better fighter, she was still superior to me.”

“Killing her is going to be my way of getting closure, and reclaiming my life.”

Altair is still crying, crying and bloodless, he remembers. His hands shakily move his violin under his chin, placing the bow on the strings.

“Sorry- The blood loss is starting to get to me- I just have to heal myself”

“I don’t think you’re in playing condition, dear.” Astarion gently lowers Altair’s hands, taking his violin and setting it down behind him. “I think you’re in need of a good night’s rest, Shadowheart can take care of it in the morning.”

Altair nods, but looks at Astarion warily.

Why wasn’t he saying anything? No disgust at not hating his torturer? He would understand if Astarion was confused, angry, even. Was he really just going to help him fight some unknown danger?

If there was one thing he learned while in the Underdark- from her, it was that love meant nothing. He loved people, cared for them, only to be hurt. It was always finite, his relationships never lasted, despite the effort he put in, why would this one be different?

He’d help Astarion get rid of the tadpole in their heads, and then help him kill Cazador.

After that, he’d be on his own.

Right?

“Why are you giving me that look?”

“You’re really going to help me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” The elf gives Altair a confused look, wondering what was going on in his head, “You, the bleeding heart that you are, promised everyone here help with their problems, and yet you think I wouldn’t help you fight some drow?”

“No? You have no obligation to help me, you don’t get anything out of it.” Altair has an incredulous look on his face, “You- What do you get out of helping me? My loyalty? Unless I’ve misread something, no one here has to help me- I don’t expect any of you to help me!”

Astarion is a little angry, was he stupid? What did he mean he didn’t expect help? Was he truly that blind to how much he cared for him, to how much everyone cared for him. Did he simply think that the people here wouldn’t fight for him the way he fought for them?

“We- I care about you as much as you care about me. You’ve done so much for the party- for me, and you just expect me to let you charge into a fight alone?”

“Yes? People don’t- they don’t just help for no reason, Astarion!” He stammers out, Ariadne had drilled that idea into his head. She only reinforced it when she betrayed him, and even more so through her journal entries.

“I don't expect help from anyone! I didn’t see why you would be different, even if you said you cared for me. I thought that you were only playing along with my antics, using ‘love’ to get a free night of sex, or someone willing to protect you!”

That comment hurt Astarion. Altair was right, he was the one who’d emotionally manipulated him into a relationship, being nice to gain something. But he’d changed, he started genuinely caring for him. He tried showing him that he cared.

The nights he spent comforting him, listening to him talk about his past? The silly banter they’d have while Altair was healing him? How he constantly- constantly threw himself into danger to protect him? Did that mean nothing to him? Did Altair only see that as repayment for his affection?

Altair still sits there, confused. He wasn’t wrong, he thinks. All his life has been a game of giving. He cares about people, gives them his trust, his words of love and soft kisses, keeps that person happy, until they abandon him.

They leave, and he pretends like all those emotions weren’t real, that nothing happened, he uses the feelings in a ballad or story, and tries to forget. Wash, rinse, repeat. He’s lived like that for 215 years, and he hasn’t had anyone try to break that cycle or tell him he was wrong. It was just life, after all.

“Did everything we do mean nothing to you? Was it all just you playing along to entertain me?”

“No! Gods, No. I care about you Astarion, I do!”

“Then why do you act like everything I’ve done for you means nothing?! Do you think I don’t care about you too, Altair?”

“I..” He holds his tongue, he truly didn’t think Astarion loved him. He didn't think anyone truly cared about him. He’d been alone this long, after all. Why would Astarion be any different than his past relationships?

He’d done the same for all of them, listening to their past, helping them through rough patches. Altair had done everything by the book, he revealed bits of himself to them, but always- always, they'd leave him.

No one wanted to stay after learning that he wasn't a charismatic bard, they didn't want to risk being killed because of his past. Sometimes they were disgusted with what he did as a gladiator. But he’d always understood, why would anyone want to try and bear the weight of his past with him?

His silence is all the answer that Astarion needs to hear, and the vampire frustratedly grabs his hands, moving closer to him.

“I’d follow you to the ends of Faerun, and help you fight whatever horrible monster from your past shows up.” He states firmly, holding Altair’s gaze. “I’d do this because I know you’d do the same for me, no matter how scared you are- I love you, Altair, even if you don’t believe it yourself.”

“I-” Altair looks back at him, fear behind his eyes, “I want to believe you, I do. But I can’t, I don’t know what to do if you just love me, what do I do in return?”

His mind is spinning, relationships never worked like that. It was always give and take and give and take-

He wasn’t worthy of a relationship, a real relationship, he had to compensate for all his flaws. He had to, or that person would leave him.

Just like how Ariadne did.

She would leave him alone in his cell for days on end, sometimes years, if he offended her enough.

Darkvision doesn’t help much when the walls are the same color, and his mind could only entertain itself for so long before it began to spiral. He was never enough, he had to always make up for it. It was the only way he wouldn’t end up alone, stuck in a stone cell.

“You don’t have to do anything.” Astarion softly smiles at him, “You just have to accept it. I’m loving you with no strings attached, dear.”

Was it really that simple?

“Is that really it? I just accept that you love me? Even though it’s..” Altair trails off, vaguely motioning to himself.

“What, like loving you is hard?” He pressed a kiss to the palm of Altair’s hand, cradling it against his cheek, his red eyes looking up at him through his lashes, “Loving you is easy, you just have to accept it."

“..oh.”

It was that simple.

4.

White-hot pain flares up from Astarion’s back, and he feels warm blood dripping down his arms.

It’s him.

A choked sob rings through the halls, as Cazador’s laugh rubs salt in his wound. Tears mix with blood as he white knuckles the carpet below him. Why was he back here? Where did everyone go?

“Did you really think you could escape?” Astarion’s head is forced up, clawed hands digging into his cheeks. “Foolish boy, you know I can find you anywhere. The audacity to even try and run!”

He roughly lets go of his face, moving to a table that he can only assume is lined with tools. Cazador hums as he traces his hands over every single one, and he starts to prattle on about how he’s going to use them on Astarion.

His mind races as he tries to rationalize everything, he's not here, he's at camp, in his tent. His breath hitches when he catches a glimpse of a familiar half-drow.

No.

Altair lays limply on the ground, chained to the wall. He turns to Astarion, and his stomach turns-

His eyes are red.

“Altair!”

“This is your fault.” Altair’s head lifts up, gaze boring through him. His voice is hoarse, and Astarion can see pointed fangs just past his lips as he opens his mouth “I should've never trusted you.”

-

Altair sits comfortably outside Astarion’s tent, hands idly plucking a tune on his violin. They were camped outside of Rivington, only a night away from getting into Baldur’s Gate.

“Let him go! Stop!” He turns to Astarion, who’s writhing in his bedroll, tears falling from his closed eyes. “Please..”

“Astarion!” Altair throws his violin to the ground, rushing to his side. Astarion’s having a dream, a kind that Altair is all too familiar with. “You're safe, wake up, come on..”

His voice is soft as he gently shakes Astarion’s shoulder. “Cazador isn't here, you're having a nightmare. Please wake up..”

As if listening to Altair’s pleas, Astarion’s eyes snap open, nails digging into his wrist. Frenzied, red eyes meet his, and he loosens his grip as he realizes what happened.

“Shit- I’m sorry.”

“It's fine. Are..” He wants to ask if he's alright, but he knows the answer. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Astarion stares at him in response, hand still holding onto the drow’s wrist. He was safe, Altair was safe, Cazador isn't here.

“I had a bad dream.” He laughs, ‘bad dream’ would be an understatement, “It was about Cazador. He had you, and you were- you were turned. Gods, I hate this, we're literally on our way to kill him, and he's still tormenting me!"

“They have a way of doing that to you.” Altair rests his hand atop Astarion’s. “Our torturers, I mean. We can never really forget, but we can kill them.”

“Ha, that we can.” Astarion thinks it’s unfair, that he has to live with the memories of torture, with scars that will never fade. All while Cazador gets to die, and never suffers the same way he did. “Funny how that works out, two ex-slaves going to Baldur’s Gate to kill their enslavers.”

“Sounds like great material for a story.” Altair hums, “Maybe I’ll write a little song about us, ‘Astarion and Altair: Free Elves’ has a nice ring to it.”

Astarion groans, laughing. “Gods, no. Don't tell me you're going to be singing that at taverns, Altair.”

“I would never!” He replies dramatically, gasping in mock surprise. “That'll be one of my personal songs, for my ears only!”

“Oh please, I should have some right to hear it, my name is in the title!” Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Besides, I’ve already seen your whole journal. I assume I’ve seen all of your ‘private’ songs.”

“You've only seen the most recent one. There’s more at my home.” He sighs wistfully, “I’m excited to finally sleep in my bed again, provided Ariadne left the place intact.”

“Personally, I’m excited to finally take consistent baths. I’m tired of smelling like shit all the time.”

They sit in a comfortable silence as their laughter dies down, Altair looks back up at Astarion. Concern still hangs in his mind, “Are you feeling better now?”

“I am.” Astarion sighs, wiping an exasperated hand down his face, “Cazador will know I’m back, and my brothers and sisters will probably be everywhere trying to look for us.”

The worst part about all of it was that he was still scared. Countless ‘what ifs’ run through his head. What if they failed, and he died? What would happen to Altair and the others? They’d gotten a place in his heart, even though he’d never care to admit it, he didn't even want Cazador touching them!

“After we kill Cazador, and the Absolute..” Altair’s voice snaps Astarion out of his thoughts, “We should settle down, you could move in with me, and maybe I could help you find a job.”

“Hm, that sounds dreadfully boring.”

“I think boring is what I need if we succeed in taking down a cult.” Altair laughs. “Besides, it wouldn’t be too bad. I’m confined to the dark as much as you are, I’m practically blind during the day. Stupid tadpole lets me enjoy the day without sun sensitivity setting my eyes ablaze.”

“I wasn't aware that you had light sensitivity.” He knew that drow had a hard time seeing in sunlight, but chalked up Altair’s resistance to him only being half-drow.

“Mm, it was pretty bad. Pretty sure the tadpole made me immune, like you. I’m going to miss not having my eyes fried to a crisp whenever I open my curtains.”

“Oh, but you’ll have me.” Astarion pulls Altair into his bedroll, and pins the drow beneath him. “And I still look just as ravishing in the dark, darling~”

“I-'' A blush graces Altair’s face, and he lightly hits Astarion’s chest, laughing. “Gods, what am I going to do with you?”

“Oh, I’d love to know what you’d do with me,” Astarion teases, earning a groan from Altair, “Or what I’d do to you.”

“Well, I’d love for you..” Altair puts a hand on Astarion’s chest, “..to shut up and let me sleep.”

“I’d love to sleep in your bed, darling. Or in any bed really, but having a handsome drow next to me would be a great incentive to sleep in yours.”

“Gods, no!” He stammers out, “My room is a mess, you’d have to wait outside with the rest of the party while I try and clean whatever is left of my house.”

“Where is your house?” Astarion questions, “I’m sure you aren't living in luxury, but I know you didn't live in the sewers or anything.”

“It's in the lower city, near the Blushing Mermaid. I play a lot of my gigs there, even though the patrons are drunk out of their minds and could care less. Started a lot of bar fights, too.”

“200 years and some things never change.” He sighs wistfully, recalling the years he spent there drinking his misery away, “Though, you were quite sloppy with your kills there.”

“What?” Altair’s eyes widen in shock as Astarion lays down next to him, an amused smile on his lips. “I never told you I was a contract killer!”

“You didn't.”

“What did you see me doing?” Sure, he took a few jobs killing people in Baldur’s Gate, and sure- he wasn't the sneakiest, but for Astarion to have caught him? He was worse at his job than he thought.

“I smelled some blood in an alleyway, and lo and behold-” He makes a dramatic gesture with his hands, motioning to Altair, “There you were, dragging away a body!”

“This is so embarrassing..”

“Oh, but don't worry, no one else saw!”

“But you did! And I was only a hitman for like 20 years!” Altair only became a contract killer because he didn't have many other skills when coming to Baldur’s Gate. Not his proudest moment, he admits, but he did a lot of odd jobs while trying to keep himself afloat, killing people just happened to be one of them.

“Makes me glad that you rejected me back then, otherwise I might've been killed by you.”

“I would never.” Altair scoffs, “Killing someone as pretty as you would be a crime!”

“Exactly!”

Astarion laughs along with Altair, but his mind wanders.

They could've killed each other 200 years ago. He knows that some people had caught onto his vampirism, and that Altair very well could've taken a job to kill him.

Conversely, he could've seduced Altair, and brought him to Cazador; he had tried and failed, after all. He thinks about that possibility, if Altair hadn't refused him so harshly, he would’ve been another victim. If Altair was a mercenary for longer, he could’ve killed him.

He grimaces at the thought.

“Well, hopefully we get a few years of peace after this whole cult fiasco. But knowing you and your bleeding heart, we’d be off on another adventure right after ending a cult!”

“I’d like to spend at least a few decades with you before we're whisked away, maybe get married or something.” Altair chuckles, but his head snaps over to Astarion when he realizes what he said. “I mean- only if you want to..?”

“Well, why not?” Astarion brushes a hand across the half-drow’s cheek, cracking a small smile at his flustered face. “There isn't anyone else I’d like to spend my eternal life with.”

“Oh.” He’s laughing, tears in the corners of his eyes, “Gods, this isn't how I wanted my proposal to go.”

He wipes at his tears, face flushed. “I was going to serenade you, and give you a ring and everything! It was going to be beautiful.”

“For a bard, you aren't very good at keeping your composure.”

“I swear I’m better on stage!”

Astarion laughs, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead, “Sure, darling.”

[anyon-else]

Desperate Measures (The Hunger Games pt. 7) | Keigo knew that escaping into his dreams was a bad habit, but it was one he’d never been able to shake. Waking up in the arena becomes harder the better his dream is. – spotify playlist | read on ao3

Pairings | Hawks | Keigo Takami x Reader + Dabi | Touya Todoroki, Eri, Kota, Midoriya Izuku, Bakugo Katsuki, Shouto Todoroki, Momo Yaoyurozu, Ejiro Kirishima, Mina Ashido

Warnings | gn!pronouns, violence, weapons, cursing, descriptions of injuries

Word count | 4.3k

(previous chapter) | (next chapter) | (series masterlist)

Keigo woke up the morning before reaping day with an empty feeling in his chest.

While it wasn’t the first time, and certainly wouldn’t be the last, he couldn’t shake it as he began to go about his day. He left his house, but the empty feeling followed him out into the market. Usually, he left it at the door, and it was waiting for him when he arrived back at his house, swallowing him once again in solitude.

Today, it clung to him, leeching on his energy and leaving him feeling hollow. What was left was the uncomfortable press of deja vu, and the mental strain of grasping at memories that were just out of reach.

“Keigo, dear,” Chiyo smiled, folding her hand over her cane as he approached her stall. He gave her a nod, glancing over the her impressive collection of medicines and salves. Every day, she seemed to have gotten her hands on some new and remarkably effective medication. Keigo wouldn’t have been surprised if the old woman had black market connections. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for today?” 

“Just some burn cream,” he smiled, accepting her outstretched hand and giving it a firm squeeze. 

“Oh dear, is Touya having trouble again?” 

“He’s just stubborn,” Keigo sighed. It had been a long time since Dabi’s burn scars had given him problems, but they’d been more irritated than usual recently, “I’ll convince him to use it, don’t worry.”

“You know I can’t help it, dear. That father of his...” she breathed in slowly, shaking the words away, “well, it’s none of my business. You just make sure he uses this.” 

She pressed a generous jar of burn salve into his hands, shooing him away and greeting her next customer before he could ask what he owed her. He left the market reluctantly, not yet ready to return back home. 

"Hawks!”

Keigo turned just in time to catch Eri as she jumped into his arms with a laugh. Kota was close behind her, smiling just as wide and grabbing Keigo’s arm.

“Hey there, kiddos,” he knelt down, a hand on each of their heads, “somethin’ exciting happen?” 

Eri nodded silently, covering a giggle behind her hand. Kota leaned towards her, putting a finger to his lips with an even louder laugh. Both were peeking over their shoulders, glancing at each other and bursting into new fits of laughter each time.

“Eri! Kota! Run!” 

Both squealed and whirled around when you came barreling towards them, smile widening when you spotted Keigo. You were laughing, barely catching yourself from falling as you turned a corner sharply.

“Hawks!” Eri yelled, pulling at his pant leg with a laugh, “come on! He’s gonna get us!”

“Who–” 

“Let’s go!” 

You grabbed his hand, barely slowing down to prepare him to be pulled into a run, followed closely by Eri and Kota. He glanced back at the corner you’d all come from and saw Dabi running at you at full speed. You followed his gaze and let out a dramatic gasp, ushering Eri and Kota around a near corner and dragging Keigo with you, putting a finger to your lips both to quite the kids and yourself. You were laughing between huffs for air, peeking around the corner and giving Eri and Kota a confident thumbs up.

“We lost him!” you whispered, and Keigo couldn’t help but huff at how you managed to make your whisper louder than your usual volume.

“There’s a backway, dumbass.”

Eri turned with a screech, grabbing Kota by the hand and pulling him behind Keigo.

“Hawks! He’s gonna get us!”

Keigo took a moment to look over Dabi. He was completely soaked, water dripping from his clothes and hair to form a puddle where he stood. You laughed at the sight of him, momentarily forgetting the chase.

“You look like a wet dog,” you told him between fits of laughter.

“Eri. Kota,” Dabi was doing his best to look menacing, but it was difficult when water was still dripping from his flattened hair and darkly stained clothes. “Whose idea was this?”

“It was Y/N’s idea!” Eri leaned against Keigo’s leg, pointing back at you with wide eyes. You gasped, backing away as Dabi marched towards you. 

“Eri, you traitor!”

“Hawks will protect you!” Eri shouted confidently, pushing Hawks in front of you and running behind your legs, pulling Kota along with her.

“Oh, he will, will he?” Dabi asked with a raised brow. Keigo could see the smile that Dabi was fighting to keep from showing on his face, but he knew as well as you did that Dabi had a soft spot for Eri and Kota. Keigo made a show of blocking you and the kids behind him, backing against the wall and glaring at Dabi with a grin. 

“That’s right,” he lifted his chin, eyes bright. He could feel his stress from this morning seeping away, almost forgotten now as he picked faced his friend, both him and Dabi fighting to contain smiles. You laughed behind Keigo, letting out a quiet “oh, sorry” when Eri hushed you.

Keigo was barely able to catch himself when Dabi tackled him, wrapping an arm around his torso and wrestling him to the ground. When both were on the ground, Kota jumped on Dabi’s back with a furious cry, pulling at his shirt until Dabi sat up and attempted to reach behind him. Kota let out a noise that sounded like a mix between a squeal and a laugh, jumping from his back and dashing to Keigo’s side. 

“Nice assist, kiddo.” 

Dabi stood and glared at Kota, though he had a smile on his face as he tried to get around Keigo to tackle you and Eri. Eri squealed, holding on to your shirt as Dabi grabbed you by the waist and flipped you over, protecting yours and Eri’s heads from hitting the ground. He landed with the two of you on top of him, and you rolled slightly so all of your weight was pinning him down. His vision was blocked, but he could hear your and Dabi's loud laughter.

He realized with belated certainty that he was in a dream.

Everything about these moments–the joy, the laughter, the absence of fear–it was all a sign of the past. A sign that this was a memory.

The only thing that was foreign was the intensity of his deja vu, and now his recognition that this moment wasn't real. Well, not anymore. He was in the arena, cold and desperate and wrapped up in your arms. He looked at you–at this dream-version of you–that was suddenly looking back at him like you could see through his skin and bone and into his brain. Like you could read his thoughts like words on a page. He shuddered, uncomfortable under your scrutinizing gaze for the first time in his life.

He wanted to know how to escape. He wanted to know how to stay forever. He didn't know that he could have such an intense internal battle in his subconscious mind, but here it was: the urge to run and the urge to reach out and hold you and Dabi and Eri and Kota and never let go. They fought furiously, and Keigo looked between the four familiar figures that were all now staring at him with that unfamiliar expression. One that told him that he either needed to except the dream as his reality while he could, or wake up and leave the memory unchanged and untainted.

He decided to stay. Moving back into the space of the memory felt as easy as breathing. Suddenly, he was laughing again. Suddenly, he was free from the games. For just one night, he forgot his present and dove head-first into his past.

"Do you think we'll eventually be able to move somewhere new?"

Keigo had been caught off guard the first time you'd asked that question. Moving out of one's district was almost unheard of, and the rare cases of it happening were usually either related to the games, or a specific trade. He'd never heard of anyone leaving their district just because they felt like it.

Now, thought, he was used to the question. It was a familiar dream that you shared with him, and one that he found himself ruminating on often.

I live outside of District Eight. A life outside of Panem.

A life of freedom.

"If there's a way," Keigo took your hand, guiding you towards him until you were standing between his legs, "we'll figure it out."

"You're very sweet to indulge me," you teased, pressing a kiss to his forehead. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding on and pressing you as close as he could. When you straightened, he buried his face in your stomach, sighing against your skin as you ran a hand gently through his hair. It had been a while since he'd cut it last, but he liked the feeling of you running your fingers through it now that it was longer.

"Do you think I deserve to leave?"

Your grip tightened on Keigo, and he closed his eyes when he felt you tug gently at his hair. The days before the Reaping always brought back unpleasant memories of his parents, of his father telling him that he should volunteer as tribute and either win and bring home some money, or die and quit being a burden on them.

It was the only thing they remembered his father saying to him before he was arrested for illegal distribution of pain medication. The charges were based on a tip that Keigo gave the peacekeepers.

On the day of his father's death one year later, he found his mother mother in their kitchen, a empty, unprescribed bottle of pain reliever clutched in her hand.

He hadn't been sorry about it then. He still couldn't find it in himself to grieve.

"You know the answer, Keigo," you told him softly, gentle with him even as you tugged at his hair to force him to meet your eyes, "you know you deserve better than this."

He shook his head, taking your hands and lacing his fingers through yours. They were beginning to tremble, and he tried in vain to still them before you noticed.

"I want to give you a big house," he whispered into your stomach, forehead pressing into your ribs, "and a nice garden. We can grow our own food. And Dabi can cook for us. Eri will take care of us when we're old and decrepit."

"You would trust Dabi in the kitchen?" you laughed, leaning over him when he pulled you forward, pulling you onto the bed until you were hovering over him, pressing his hands to the bed and leaning in to press your forehead to his.

"No," he grinned, "but we can teach him. He'll practice."

"Hm," you pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I like this life you're planning for us. Sounds like we won't have to do anything."

"Mhm. Just laze around day after day."

"You know you'd get bored," another kiss to his cheek.

"Not with you there," he spoke lowly.

"Sounds like a peaceful life," another to his jaw.

"I think some peace would do us a lot of good."

"Yeah," you smiled, pressing your hands on either side of his face. He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch, feeling like putty in your hands. "I'm sorry, Keigo."

"Hm?" he opened his eyes, though it was hard to do much else when you ran a hand gently through his hair, nails scraping over his scalp. "Why are you sorry."

"I wish we could stay here," you said, and he felt a twinge of discomfort. This wasn't the way this was supposed to go. He knew this moment; it was as familiar to him as his own reflection, but this wasn't part of it.

"We can," he whispered.

"No, my love," you shook your head, pressing your forehead against his and taking a deep breath, "you have to wake up."

"No, I–"

"Win," you interrupted him, voice soft and so, so gentle. He wanted to scream. He wanted to stay, "come back to me."

Day six of the 74th annual Hunger Games

Keigo woke from his dream disoriented, squinting his eyes against harsh sunlight and covering his face with a dry, calloused hand. It was the cold shock if his palm on his cheek that reminded him of where he was. He felt the soft blanket he was wrapped in, as well as the shirt that he’d used as a pillow, but when he reached to the side he felt nothing but cold, hard concrete. 

He rolled over, opening his eyes and scanning the empty spot where you’d fallen asleep next to him the night before. Your undershirt was still balled up as a makeshift pillow next to him, and the blanket that you'd shared was draped over around shoulders. Your space on the ground was just as cold as the rest of the concrete.

“If you don’t let me look at it, it’ll get infected,” he heard your voice not too far away, impatient and exasperated. “You were the one who grabbed the blade, idiot.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you were holding it to my fuckin’ throat,” Bakugo growled. Keigo groaned, sitting up at the same time that Shouto told Bakugo to quit being difficult. His eyes were slow to adjust to the light, and his mind was even slower to shift from recalling his pleasant dream to understanding where he was. When he was finally able to comprehend the scene in front of him, he almost laughed. 

You had apparently convinced Bakugo to let you dress the wound on his hand after seeing the condition it was in after three days of letting it sit unwashed and exposed. Bakugo was facing away from you, hand held out and scowl etched into his face, deep and clearly unhappy with his current position.

Midoriya was peeking over your shoulder, watching you melt snow between your hands to clean the wound.

"Ow! What the fuck?"

"If you would sit still for more than two seconds, maybe it wouldn't hurt so bad."

"Maybe it wouldn't hurt so bed if you had steadier hands!"

Bakugo watched you wrap the cut on his palm with the torn fabric from his shirt. Keigo was almost reminded of Kota, stubbornly refusing your help after he scraped his knee during a heated game of tag.

"Alright, just don't get dirt in it and you'll be fine."

"I was fine before," Bakugo grumbled, but he studied your work and flexing his hand carefully, turning his palm over and looking at the meticulous way you had wrapped and tied the cloth. Keigo couldn't help a smug smile; maybe Bakugo wasn't the rabid animal that he'd been during the interviews.

"Hey!" Midoriya perked up when he saw Keigo beginning to stand. "We decided that we should start moving today. Maybe see where the other tributes are."

"Really?" he furrowed his brows. He would've thought that waiting it out a while longer would be a better strategy; avoiding conflict until the other tributes had weeded each other out had been his plan—especially with Toga and Jin still running around with a grudge. He glanced at you, looking for confirmation. You just shrugged.

"They seem pretty set on it."

There was something about the scene in front of him that seemed so familiar. Maybe it was the fact that Shoto was sitting next to you that reminded him of home, but he couldn't help the nostalgia that rushed into him in waves. He'd been wanting to see the boy alive and well for so many years, for Dabi's sake as much as his own, but this wasn't how he'd wanted it to happen.

He hoped Enji was watching. He hoped he regretted it.

"Alright," he sighed, brushing the dirt from his hair and stretching with a quiet groan, "I don't see why not."

"Great," Midoriya jumped to his feet, moving towards the pile that the three boys had made of their supplies and shuffling through them, "since we all agree, we should head out."

You glanced at Keigo as the others followed Midoriya, collecting their things and putting on their layers. They sure are in a rush to get moving.

"We'll go this way," Midoriya said with finality, pointing towards a grouping of buildings to the north. You shrugged, and Bakugo grunted his assent.

Shouto fell into step with you and Keigo as you began following the others, staying silent as he listened to your chatter about the remaining tributes. Eventually you both fell into silence, and you took a moment to glance at Shoto.

He had certainly grown since you last saw him. His hair was longer, almost covering the upper part of his scar, and he was much taller—he had barely reached Keigo's height when he left. Now he had a couple of inches on him.

But he still looked like Shoto. He looked like the same kid who used to ask you and Keigo to help him drag Dabi to the park, and then rope all three of you into a game of hide and seek. The same kid who loved to ride on Keigo's shoulders and tell him to chase you and Dabi around like the captain of his own little ship.

But he didn't look as happy as before. He'd put on muscle training for the games, and you hadn't seen him smile once since you'd reunited.

You were worried about him.

"Congratulations."

You blinked, looking up and meeting Shoto's eyes once you'd broken out of your daze.

"Huh?"

"On the engagement," he clarified, nodding towards the ring on your finger. Your eyes widened, and you adjusted the jewel so that the stone was centered.

"Thank you," you said softly, glancing at Keigo. He was staring at the ground, a mixture of emotions on his face. He caught your eye and gave you a small, forced smile as he laced his fingers through yours.

"I remember when you bought that ring."

Keigo looked up, staring at Shoto with wide eyes.

"What?"

"I remember Touya telling me about it," Shouto shrugged, "you took him, right? To help you find it."

"I...yeah, I guess I did."

"He told me about it when he came home that night," Shouto said fondly. "He was really happy for you."

You pictured Keigo and Dabi looking through different rings, discussing your taste in jewelry and struggling to find the perfect one. You almost laughed imagining them arguing about it in the middle of the shop.

You missed Dabi. You missed your home.

"Is he...is my family okay?"

You tensed, and you saw Keigo stiffen beside you.

What went unsaid in that question was, is my father still hurting them?

"They're okay," Keigo responded, meeting Shouto's eyes and giving him a firm nod, "they're safe."

Shouto let out a long breath and nodded back, shoulders dropping as some of the tension drained from his shoulders.

"Hey! Bakugo!"

You and Keigo jumped back at the voice, and you grabbed Shoto's arm to drag him with you.

"Wait, it's–"

"Calm down, idiots," Bakugo grumbled when he saw your and Keigo's expressions. You both had hands on your weapons, and you probably looked ready to bolt at a moment's notice. You glared at Bakugo as he strode towards the voice, looking very unalarmed by the newcomer.

"It's fine," Shoto said to you and Keigo, "that's Kirishima. We know him."

You gave him a bewildered look, then glanced back at Keigo.

If Kirishima was their ally, then your group now made up half of the tributes. That meant that, once the others were gone, you'd have to fight it out amongst yourselves. You weren't exactly keen to go up against Bakugo and Midoriya, and from what you'd seen, Kirishima could handle himself well in a fight.

And Shoto...well, you hoped that he'd support you and Keigo if it came down to the six of you.

"Mina?" you heard Midoriya ask nervously, looking around for Kirishima's partner. You glanced behind you, knife still resting safely in your hand. Keigo didn't look very reassured by Shoto's claim of an alliance. He was probably thinking the same thing you were.

As far as strategies went, this one wasn't very practical. Large groups never worked well, even before the infighting started.

Their mentors must have told them that.

"Oh, she's just...she should be right behind me," Kirishima said, turning around to look for the pink-haired girl, "yo, Mina! Where'd you go?"

"Here!"

You saw her hair before you saw her face. It popped from behind a few bushes, curled on top of her head like she'd styled it carefully that morning. When she came into view, she had a wide smile on her face—in all honesty, the positivity practically radiating from her was very refreshing.

Seven. That was more than half of the remaining tributes.

"What happened?" Midoriya asked eagerly, reaching towards Mina and pulling her into a tight hug. The girl giggled, lifted her feet as Midoriya pulled her off of the ground.

"We'll tell you later," Kirishima said, finaly spotting you and Keigo beside Shoto, "what're they doing here?"

"They're with me," Shoto said, taking a subtle step in front of you.

It seemed unnecessary, as Kirishima accepted the answer with a shrug and turned back to Bakugo.

"And?" Bakugo asked impatiently. "The edge?"

"Oh, it hurts like hell, man. Almost killed me."

"Well why'd you touch it, dumbass?"

"I didn't mean to! I didn't see it."

"I did!" Mina interjected, raising her hand happily, "and I tried to warn him, but he just ran right into it. I thought I was gonna hafta give 'im CPR, but he just popped right up after. The guy's indestructible, I swear."

"Don't tell him that, or he'll start doing stupid shit to see if he can take it."

Kirishima pouted, then let out a shout when Bakugo wrapped an arm around his neck and held him at his hip, laughing maniacally as Kirishima struggled.

They seemed...really close.

"They're our allies," Shoto said when he saw you and Keigo's bewildered expressions.

"Pretty big group you've got here, Sho."

"It's–"

"Ejiro, look out!"

The shout came at the same time that you heard a screech. You watched in near slow-motion as Mina's body hit the ground. There was an arrow sticking from her shoulder, and she groaned as Kirishima lifted her up to run her towards cover.

Bakugo and Midoriya were already racing towards the source of the arrow, and you and Keigo followed Shoto when he lifted his bow and pointed it in their general direction. He stalked forward, slow enough that he'd be able to stop and shoot at a shout from his allies.

"You're all idiots!" you heard someone shout, and you recognized the accent from the interviews. It was unmistakably someone from district one, which meant...

"Calm down, Momo."

The girl had come into view now, panting as she pointed an arrow at Midoriya. Shoto spoke calmly, as if he was taming a wild animal.

"No," Momo laughed, "no, this is not what the games are for. This isn't what we trained for! For years, we've known that we were going to go into this together, Shoto! Why are you throwing away your opportunity–"

"Shut the fuck up," Bakugo growled, taking a step forward and stopping when Midoriya held a hand in front of him, "you don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Cameras, Momo," Shoto said, pointing at the general surrounding area and keeping his eyes locked on his partner's. She finally looked at him, then she locked eyes with you and Keigo.

"The couple, right?" she laughed, "they roped you into their little group too?"

You narrowed your eyes, watching the girl laugh again and glare back at Bakugo and Midoriya.

"This is fucked," she said, "you're all gonna die, you know. None of you are going to win."

"Jesus," Bakugo muttered, turning towards Shoto, "just kill her, Todoroki. She should already be dead."

"You can still join our group, Momo," Shoto said, just as stoic as always.

"I don't want anything to do with you. I thought...I thought we would be allies, but you just..."

Shoto looked moments from loosing his arrow. Like if she said the wrong word, he'd loosen his fingers.

Despite how frantic she seemed, Momo looked steadier than Shoto. Her stance was expert, and her eyes were narrowed in a way that screamed precision. If she had a target, she'd hit it. You could feel it in the way she stared at Shoto.

Then she moved, and the arrow was suddenly pointed towards Keigo.

"You're both idiots too, you know," she laughed. "It was cute and all, the whole 'engagement' thing. Smart. But it won't get you anywhere."

You took a step towards Keigo, but he blocked you. His eyes were hard as he stared Momo down.

"This game should be fair," she snapped, her gaze and her arrow back on Shoto, "and I won't let you drag those two down with you."

She was going to shoot Shoto.

You moved before Keigo could stop you, knocking Shoto to the ground as the arrow flew over both of your heads. It gave Bakugo the chance to leap towards Momo, knife at her neck and lips pulled back in a snarl.

"Are you okay?" you asked Shoto breathlessly, moving off of him and letting him sit up in a daze.

"Yeah," he sighed, "thanks."

"Todoroki!" Bakugo shouted from behind you, "if you don't tell me to stop in the next five seconds, I'm ending this!"

You saw the conflict in Shoto's head. You saw the pain pass through his gaze. Then it disappeared, and he turned towards the others.

"Kill her."

Momo's pleas for mercy were silenced, and the canon sounded above like it had been shot from the depths of hell.

Author's note | man it's been ages since i wrote for this series. i got a burst of inspiration and i'm hitting a lull with the kakashi series so i might pick them both up and post for them at the same time.

i hope everyone enjoys this chapter! i'm sorry for the slow updates. i love writing this series, as well as the kakashi series, but to be honest it's hard to stay motivated when i'm getting so little traction. if you're enjoying the story, please let me know! hearing from people really makes me so so happy, and knowing that people are actually reading what i write and getting something out of it is a huge motivator. anyways, thank you for reading!

[salvador-daley]

For real, Salv, you look super young and beautiful so you can get away with acting as young as I know you feel for a good number of years yet.

😭😩 Aww, you are so sweet to send platitudes to make an old lady feel better about her advanced age and encroaching senility. I love you! ❤️❤️

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

Dear Ma,

I made it to Morrowind! Not the part where Mournhold is, but there’s lots of stuff to see and I can get there eventually. I hope you’re not too mad about me getting in trouble, I’m REALLY sorry. (Don’t tell Dexion I said I’m sorry though because I’m not sorry at him and I think probably he should get lit on fire more often to build character. I promise he didn’t even get hurt he’s just a big baby and a s’wit. You can tell him I said that part.)

I saw they have a courier’s office in the place they dropped me off but they said I have to deliver a package for them before I can send anything myself. I think that’s a weird rule to have but probably Llaalam just forgot to tell me that’s how the mail works here. I don’t think it’s drugs because it looks like pretty official Imperial business but they did tell me to be really secretive and discreet about it.

---

Don’t worry I’m not a drug runner!

---

I think maybe I gave drugs to that old man.

---

Ma,

They have guildhalls for the Mages Guild here too! I was going to tell them I haven’t gotten my recommendation letters from everywhere else, just the one in Chorrol, but the lady in charge here in Balmora was really nice and said I could help as an Associate! So I made a new friend and I’m helping her study mushrooms and flowers and stuff. There’s a lot of plants here we don’t have back home. I pressed one of the flowers we picked for you—I hope it stays nice in the mail. Ajira says this one’s called stoneflower. Do you think when I come home we could plant some in the garden?

Are you doing alright? Is someone helping you with the laundry and the dishes and the cooking? Is it someone nice? I hope it’s Helene. Remember you aren’t supposed to bend over because of your knees so don’t let her put the big pot under the sink. Ajira’s showing me how to use some of the plants we found to make this tingly salve that’s supposed to be good for joints, so when I come home I’ll make it for you.

---

It’s me again, Ma,

I haven’t been sleeping well because

---

I’m sleeping GREAT and you don’t need to worry at all about

---

I am getting the normal kind of sleep and food and they’re letting me stay here in the guildhall while I’m helping Ajira. The food isn’t as good as yours. I’m trying to get this soup recipe from them though because I think you’d really like it if we used some of the spices from the mudhopper stew. Ranis said I have to be higher rank to learn guild secrets (this is a VERY good soup) so tomorrow I’m going to see what she says I have to do to get promoted to Apprentice.

The old guy I delivered the package to says he needs help with something too, and I feel bad because he doesn’t seem like he has any friends, but learning about all the flora has been keeping me pretty busy. I think maybe I’ll ask Ajira if she’d come with me to see what he needs help with. I have to make sure he told the courier’s office that I gave him his package anyway so I can send your letters.

---

Dear Ma,

I know you said I probably wouldn’t ever be able to hear it but I think being closer to Black Marsh made something click? Sometimes I feel like somebody’s whispering even when I’m by myself

---

I miss you. I’m sorry again.

Love,

Your Hallie

[bucknastysbabe]

if it isn’t done . impact play aegon if possible ? ( with him as the recipient .. love torturing that man )

YUPPPPPL the final kink bingo fill, I too, enjoy torturing the blonde bimbo. Enjoy mwah

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Incest, Age difference, AU!Vis and Daemon have a sister, incest, older woman/younger man, Aegon’s mommy issues, paddling, impact play, kink bingo, aftercare, ball smacking, fluff

A/N: I found this awesome vintage vid and had to use it…

She grinned at the spreader bar holding Aegon’s skinny ankles apart. He laid over the elongated leather stool, whimpering. His aunt laughed. She hadn’t even begun to paddle the brat yet. Aegon looked up with quivering lips, his violet doll eyes red rimmed. The older woman smirked, petting his soft cheeks. She cooed, “Will you be alright for this princeling?”

The Targaryen took after her elder brother, Viserys. Daemon could be harsh and cruel. She inherited the inclination to inflict punishment like Daemon but she loved coddling her perfect nephew so much more. Hold his shaking and battered frame while Aegon sniveled how good and perfect she was. The Princess’ actual husband preferred younger whores and ladies of the court. Deemed her too old.

Aegon said once, “He’s a fool, you’re as beautiful as ever.”

Enough of the reverie.

Aegon wanted to hurt. An outlet for his inner frustration. The elder blonde slid the paddle up his pale quivering back. She hummed, “Tell me when you’re overwhelmed. Just tap if you can’t speak. I have some wine, water, and cheese over by the window.” Aegon nodded earnestly, wiggling around like a fish. The woman couldn’t help but smile.

Aegon whispered, “No talking this time, just hit me. Mother has berated me enough.”

“Okay.”

The aunt stepped behind Aegon, placing a gentle hand on his lower back. She reared back and smacked his pale rump hard. Aegon shifted and moaned lowly, begging for more. His hard cock was trapped underneath him, probably felt good with all that squirming.

She did it again in quick succession, one paddle for each cheek. And again. And again. Aegon sobbed and stuck his ass out for more. He sniveling, “Yes- yes- hurts so good.” The princess smiled and rubbed a hand around the reddening cheeks, the prince mewling at the tenderness. She tapped his swollen balls a couple of times, earning a whorish howl.

“More, harder!,” he cried.

Hmm. He’d never asked for that before. She’d be gentle, smacking the hard wood against his sac until they tightened up and Aegon was humping the leather. He gasped out little sobs, looking a right mess, skin reddening all over from arousal. The princess thumbed around his tight pucker while laying strokes on his ass and balls. She moaned in delight when Aegon seized up, back muscles rippling as he dug his hips into the leather and wailed. The princess smacked his thighs through the brunt of the orgasm, Aegon spilling so much it dripped off the side of the stool.

He whimpered, “E-enough, oh gods, that was good, oh thank you aunt, oh you’re so kind.” The poor thing developed into overstimulated sobs, interspersed with more declarations of passion. His relative unchained the bar and sat up the limp prince, pulling him into a tight hug, hand rubbing his heaving back. Aegon wetted her braids and top, clinging on desperately.

The princess murmured, “Was that good? You were gorgeous.” Aegon croaked, “The balls, I like that,” he idly fidgeted with her blonde hair, meekly asking, “May I have some wine?” His lover smiled and stated, “I’ll be right back with the tray.” Aegon’s sulky eyes waited for her return, eagerly gulping down the red and nibbling on cheeses, hand fed by his aunt.

Aegon swallowed and pled, “Don’t leave me? You love me right?”

The elder thumbed his tears, tucking back a stray of pale hair. She promised, “Love you always, not going anywhere.” The woman sealed her declaration with a kiss, content on pampering her prince for the rest of the day. After she applied salve to his sore ass, of course.

[sarahfeliciam]

The Ultimatum Ch 57

Chapter 57

Remus’ bedroom was essentially one giant lounge pad for the day. 

Despite begging for there not to be a fuss, Sirius and Tonks took it upon themselves to gather every blanket and pillow from every inch of the cottage and stockpile them alongside some fresh bread and plenty of chocolate into the room. 

Remus watched, weary but amused, as Emeline lay against him, both of them now in much cozier pajamas and her fast asleep.  

She was snoring quietly against his chest, the Sleeping Draught having worked wonders after a nightmare roused her awake. Remus relented immediately to giving her the potion. 

Though he didn’t want her sedated all of the time, he did want anything that could ease her pain during this first recovery. 

He felt it was the least he could do. 

He rubbed her shoulder absentmindedly as Sirius tossed him a chocolate bar and Tonks bounded back in the room, in her own pajamas and the jar of pain salve in her hand.

Remus groaned when he saw it and she shook her head as she approached him.

“Ah ah ah, no whining. You need to take care of yourself to take care of her. This is supposed to be an hourly thing, it’ll heal much faster.” 

He sighed heavily and relented, turning his face to reveal the long gash against his neck. 

Tonks applied the salve gingerly with her fingers, and Remus found himself unsure if the chills running down his spine were from her touch or the cool salve tingling at his wound. 

Either way, he gave her a sheepish smile as he met her eyes when she was finished.

“Thank you.” He whispered, leaning back against a fluffy set of pillows that she had ensured were ‘just right’ about an hour ago.

“Do you reckon she needs anything else right now?” Tonks asked quietly, looking down at Emeline with large, teary eyes.

“I think she’s alright; the draught should keep for a few hours. It may be a good time to get some sleep.” He couldn’t help the yawn that escaped his lips and apologized for being rude.

It did not matter; Tonks was already dimming the room with a wave of her wand, glancing up happily at Remus’ enchantment of storm clouds against a deep blue sky. 

“You sure you don’t need anything else, Moony?” Sirius asked, still somewhat uncertain of how to tread around his bestfriend after their disagreement. 

“Yes. Thank you both.” He mumbled, his head already resting against Emeline’s with closed eyes.

Satisfied with their work, Tonks and Sirius drew the curtain and the room was so cozied and dark, you’d have no clue it was only one in the afternoon. They each took one of the blanket piles on the ground and settled in for a nap themselves.

It was their little secret that they hadn’t been able to sleep all night prior, worried about what was happening in the cellar.

•

It wasn’t until nearing six o’ clock in the evening that Emeline startled awake. 

In an exhausted haze, with the drool in the corner of your lip that only comes with heavy sleep, she rubbed her eyes and winced at the pain in her arms. It was then the recollection of all that had taken place came flooding back to her and she groaned, throwing her head back aggressively, completely exasperated this had not been another nightmare. 

“What’s wrong?” Remus asked quickly as he awoke to her slamming against him.

Emeline turned to him and apologized quickly, having been unaware she’d thrown herself back into her father’s chest.

“Have you been here all day?” She asked quietly, trying to lean forward but failing miserably with a lack of strength. 

He kept his arm tight around her shoulder as she relented to leave her head on his chest, and he offered her a tired smile.

“Haven’t left,” he muttered. “We have company on the floor, too.”

Emeline peered around the room and though it was dark, she was able to make out the mess of blankets and Tonks and Sirius sound asleep. 

She let out a relaxed sigh. 

“How do you feel?” She asked, peering up at him. 

“Oh, same old. You’re due for more salve. How’s your side?”

“It’s busted, right?” She asked quickly. “It hurts but it feels like the pain has numbed itself. Perhaps I’m too tired to care.” 

Remus chuckled and nodded, amused, with a smile highlighting the crinkled corners of his eyes. “That sounds about right.” He sighed and reached over to the end table. “Yes, it re-opened. You lost a lot of blood last night.” His tone shifted slightly and she looked up at him expectantly. 

Eventually, he did continue.

“I could go the rest of my life without seeing you like this again.” His whisper was barely audible and Emeline took a deep breath once she heard him. 

“I could go my whole life without feeling like this again.”

Her lighthearted joke did not work, and instead Remus shook his head slowly.

“Emeline, I would give anything to take this away from yo-“

“-I know that.” She pulled the quilt higher up around her shoulders and he felt her shiver as she squeezed her eyes shut.

She felt the back of his hand against her forehead and kicked her feet in discomfort.

“Fevers are normal the first few times; I had them.” He assured quickly, moving to get her lying flat and under more blankets as he slid his arm from under her to open the salve. 

He cast a warming charm over her blankets quickly and she settled in immediately, the heat becoming the most blissful thing she’d ever felt on her aching muscles. 

“May I?” He asked quietly, motioning to her shoulder wound. 

She nodded slowly and he pulled down the side of her shirt gingerly, rubbing the salve over the deep gash against her collarbone. 

She whimpered quietly in pain, biting her lip as tears stung at her eyes, still closed. 

“I’m sorry, Emeline. I’m so sorry.”

Remus heard the rustling of blankets on the ground and a moment later, Sirius was standing next to the bed. 

“Everything alright, mate?” 

Remus nodded with a sad smile, and stood slowly. His limbs protested immediately and he sucked in a painful breath as Sirius steadied him. 

“The salve stings at first; sorry to wake you.” He managed through gritted teeth. 

Sirius opened his mouth to respond, but Emeline beat him to it. 

“Dad?” Her eyes cracked open again and he looked down at her lovingly despite the burning through his body.

“Yes, Emma?”

“Are you leaving?”

Her voice was so broken; she didn’t sound sixteen. He didn’t want to leave her, but he desperately needed to stretch his aching muscles and cater to his own torn flesh. 

A warm bath was everything he wanted at the moment. 

“I don’t have to, darling.” He replied instead.

“S’alright,” she said quietly. “I don’t want you to be unwell, either. But could you wake Tonks?” Her voice cracked slightly and he nodded quickly, feeling something sweet in his soul at the thought of having a female partner in crime in that moment. Not to mention, his daughter loving her so much.

“Ofcourse I can, darling.”

“Remus, how about I make a cauldron of liquid chocolate? I can make it a bit… stronger if you’d like, and we could talk?”

“That sounds lovely, Padfoot. I’ll see you down there.”

Sirius grinned and disappeared quickly as Remus moved to wake Tonks. He instantly realized that kneeling down was going to be more difficult than he anticipated, but with every bit of self control he had to avoid crying out in pain, he did so. 

He rested a hand on her shoulder and felt that same electricity he had before. She stirred immediately under his touch, opening her eyes slowly before a large grin took over her face. 

“Remus, you alright? What time is it?”

“It’s evening. I’m alright, but I’d like to run a bath after talking to Sirius. Emma wanted to know if you could be awake with her. I’m sorry to bother you, I won’t be long at al-“

“-don’t apologize! I’m happy to see you taking care of yourself.” She was moving to stand immediately and whilst biting the inside of his cheek, he did the same. 

They steadied one another quickly; she had one hand on his waist and he was gripping her shoulders gently as they looked at one another in the dark. 

Somehow, she was just as beautiful as when he surveyed her in full light. 

The scars across his face were illuminated by the flickering candlelight and her hair darkened slightly as she looked at them. She reached up and ran a finger long a particularly long one and sucked in a slow breath. 

“You’re very handsome, you know that?” 

Her voice was low, but Emeline’s heightened hearing was not to be overlooked. Remus blushed lightly, unable to be seen in the dimness. 

Before he could speak, Emeline chuckled hoarsely and broke the silence.

“I may vomit and it has nothing to do with the moon.”

“For such a matchmaker you seem to enjoy running interference.” Remus quipped gently, still staring at Tonks, whose eyes were now a dazzling emerald green. 

“Let’s not embarrass her further.” Tonks offered, kissing him on the cheek from tip toe before sliding into bed next to Emeline. 

Her embrace felt warm and motherly instantaneously, and Emeline sunk into her arms like a young child.

“I won’t be long.” Remus whispered, headed for the door.

“Take your time.” Tonks smiled back, looking back to the peaceful teen huddled against her. 

She knew it, then. 

Despite the circumstances and what they would always mean for Remus and Emeline, there was no place in the world Tonks would rather be. 

[illusivesoul]

Hi 😊

Since the TimShep one was already asked, I'd love to read about Leli Wynne ❤️

Thanks for asking, friend :) As the name implies, it's a ship fic about Leliana and Wynne cause I've been obsessed with this rarepair since last year. It starts with Leliana and Wynne meeting a few years before the events of dao during the time Leli was still a bard in Orlais, and then how their relationship develops throughout the events of dao and beyond. I want to make it a slowburn but I always fail when I try to make those lol. Let's see if this time its different. Here's a snippet of the fic:

“It’s an old wound. The scar healed long ago, but I still get these… cursed pulses of pain from time to time. The salves help a little, but it's still hard getting used to them”

Wynne traced the length of the scar with her finger as she applied the herbal ointment, a concerned look on her face “You got this from your time as a bard, did you not? You don’t have to tell me how if you don’t want”

“Yes. On my last day as a bard, actually. It’s…” Leliana’s eyes closed for a moment, and the deep breath that followed told Wynne enough to know all the pain and tragedy that involved the story of that wound “I am sorry. It is late and I shouldn’t be bothering you at this hour”

As Leliana stood, the glow of the fire illuminated the taut muscles of her back and arms, the testament of a lifelong usage of bows and weapons. Wynne couldn’t help but think of the symbolism there was in the dozens of small scars spread throughout the woman’s skin, a living picture of the dangers of the Game. 

“Leliana, if you ever need someone to talk to, I am always here for you. I can’t promise that I won’t judge, I know myself too well to promise that, but I am always willing to listen to your problems. That sounded harsher than I intended. What I meant to say is…”

“I know, Wynne” Leliana answered with a smile as she placed her shirt back on shortly before she exited the tent “Thank you”

[tokuteasings]

Dating: Kadota Hiromi

Dedicated to @narashikari and @askrikkaiandhyotei the latter having requested this and the former being the #1 Hiromi simp...and I don’t blame either tbh.

Warnings: Nothing. im just projecting. 

Okay first thing’s first, Hiromi is a good cook. This man will ensure that you will not leave his damn house hungry. If you both are working (at Fenix, Bluebird, or separate jobs) Hiromi tends to wake up in the morning extra super early just to make bentos for you both! If you happen to cook as well, you two take turns on who gets to make bentos for the day. Your coworkers are always jealous whenever they hear that your boyfriend made lunch for you!!! It’s so sweet. But if you don’t cook, that’s fine! He’s simply happy that you enjoy the stuff he cooks. He mentally makes notes of the stuff you like and dislike and takes your criticism about his cooking to heart. Sure he isn’t like an expert chef or anything but I personally think that Hiromi does genuinely enjoy cooking on his off days. 

Speaking of which, if he decides to make new recipes, you are always the first to taste-test them! Honestly, cooking is such a love language for him. 

See, Hiromi has a lot of scars on his person. He fights as a Rider after all, and you tend to his wounds more often than not. It’s gentle times that Hiromi is reminded how much he loves you, and how much he has to leave behind if he ever dies. As promised to you and the Igarashi fam, he will not lay down his life anymore but…if anything you’re his reason to keep going. To keep on fighting in a world that seeks to put them down. Your touch is so gentle and he leans it into each and every time you help him put on salves, bandages, etc. He murmurs gentle appreciations to you whenever you do it.

Always gets a kiss before he leaves for a fight, it’s his good luck charm. 

Cuddling is mandatory. You hear me? Mandatory. When you two are alone it’s most prominent. It’s gentle hand-holding and kind of chivalrous. He holds open doors for you, kisses your hand, asks for permission to like kiss you and stuff. It grounds him, and again it reminds him of what he’s fighting for. Hugs are one of his favorite ways to display affection, especially hugging you from behind or vice versa - rocking with you to an unknown song that is in his head or yours, and just…existing. 

Public displays of affection are not sparse but more so…reserved. It’s not that he’s shy about it, but more so he doesn’t think about it much in public. Yes he has a reputation to uphold but to be honest, he’s rather happy to receive affection from you in any and all forms. His head is just filled with work that sometimes you need to give him a random kiss on the cheek to remind him to take his time and relax and that you’re by his side - always. To be honest, it’s worth the teasing from the coworkers, Daiji, Hana, Tamaki, and others. 

Dates are also sparse because he’s rather busy and you understand that. So whenever you two have time to yourselves, Hiromi plans to soak it all in. Sure he is always on standby or emergency calls if Deadmans attack or any other sort of emergencies, but in general there is nothing that is going to stand in the way of your one-on-one time together. His preferred dates are days at home, eating like take-out or something and watching a movie together, cuddling in bed or just soaking up one another’s presence. If you two are outside, Hiromi enjoys lowkey dates and prefers long walks with you - at a park or at a beach, whatever comes to your mind! Hand-holding is also, similarly mandatory. 

Whenever he can, Hiromi always takes you back to his hometown in the countryside. Whether it’s to visit his mother’s grave or his neighbors! He is proud of you and wants to show you off to the people he loves in his life. If you knew his mother before her death and were dating him during that time, his mother would have loved you! She would always ensure you never left their old house with an empty stomach and always teased her son on whether or not he proposed to you yet! He would always flush and complain and try to shush his mother but she means well, lol. 

You watch him train more often than not, and honestly it’s quite the sight. Muscles barely restrained underneath his built arms and back. It’s a drool-worthy sight and Hiromi always chuckles, teasing you back, “I’m trying to concentrate, my love.” but there’s this slight embarrassed pink tint to his cheeks that you can sometimes catch. He drinks up your attention on him whenever he can!

Hiromi is not a jealous person. He trusts you in this relationship. But it doesn’t mean he isn’t protective of you. He teaches you how to fight and how to defend yourself, practices with you all the time too! It ends up in make-out sessions sometimes lol. But more than anything, Hiromi tends to put himself between you and your aggressor if there is some sort of situation at hand. He’s naturally very protective of you, and when he does things like this, he holds on to your hand and squeezes it. It’s not a…restraint or anything, but more so of a comfort. A, “I’m here, my love, and I won’t let them hurt you.” sort of silent telling. 

We all know Hiromi can sing and he tends to sing you lullabies from his childhood whenever you can’t sleep. That or you catch him singing to himself or humming while doing chores. Sometimes you two just belt out into song together! It’s so sweet and it brings a smile to Hiromi’s face whenever you two do this! Sometimes you dance together in your living room as you two sing and it’s these moments that Hiromi just…it’s right. It’s perfect. It’s what he’s always dreamed of. Sometimes he has pinched himself to ensure that this isn’t a dream, and wonders if he deserves this sort of happy ending. But you remind him that he does! He really, truly does. 

As cheesy as it is, Hiromi keeps a picture of you as his wallpaper and screensaver on his phone at all times. He changes it to different pictures of you or you and him together but this has also earned teasing from his coworkers. He doesn’t mind! He’s proud of it! His ringtone for you is a song that reminds him of your relationship, or a song that is the song that belongs to the two of you! So it’s kind of obvious whenever you’re calling, lol. 

Fights aren’t something that happen often. If Hiromi is upset about something, he waits for a while to process his emotions and calculate how to approach the subject before telling you. He’s very upfront about this. The one thing he will argue on is your safety. If you’re a Rider or something who fights on the frontlines with him, these arguments will be the most often. They never escalate as Hiromi rarely gets angered but he tends to list out points and reminders that you need to be safe. Likewise, you argue that he needs to be safe too. Whether you fight or not, you always worry for him whenever he goes out to fight. So these arguments will end as quickly as they come and remind each other that you two are in this together. 

Dating Hiromi is nothing short of a dream. He cares for you in the most gentle and knightly ways, that you tend to call him your knight in shining armor! He takes to this in stride of course but adores you oh so much. If anything he’s house-husband material. 

[sabraeal]

to all the ghost still standing in this room, Chapter 2

[Read on AO3]

Written for @kirayaykimura for her birthday! Starting this got pushed back SO MANY TIMES due to bingo, and so when I finally got to it and asked if she had a last minute change in request...she finally admitted she wanted more liliwon 🤣 It’s been a nice little break from the months of frantic obiyuki writing!

A king must act decisively. Kyesook had told him that, back when they were simply Yuhon’s heir and the boy his supporters had trusted to mold him. Barely six years his senior, he’d given his lessons with all the airs of a priest reciting a sacred truths. But a king must also be cautious. And above all else-- even now his expectations weigh heavy on him --he must be in control.

Control, ha. Soowon marvels at the trembling wrist in his grip; at the thick, mottled skin now streaked by the pale band of his fingers, silvered like long-healed scars instead of shackles. A pulse throbs against his fingertips, slippery with rage and thwarted wrath, but there’s no fear in his eyes, no sense of how close he’s come to death.

Not yet, at least.

“As much as the lady might annoy...”  His grip tightens, just a hair, but his tone never strays from pointed civility. “Striking a woman is unnecessary.”

“Annoy?” Ah, of course. A man’s fist might quiver inches from the delicate bridge of An Lili’s nose, but that’s the stone that change’s the river’s course. “This man shakes a poor woman down in the middle of the streets, but I’m annoying for trying to--”

“Shake her down?” The man’s eyes bulge in their sockets, no longer a blade but a bullfrog belching its complaints to a ripple that’s splashed too close. “This girl is getting in the way of my business--”

“Your illegal business.” Lili surges toward him, heedless of the danger she so narrowly avoided. “I don’t think Kouren is going around, letting men like you issue permits--”

If she keeps this up, she might well win this argument by default, if only because the man’s died of apoplexy. “What do you know if it, you little--”

“I think you will find--” it’s in his softest, most dulcet tones that Soowon speaks, smile stretching his lips like a rack does a skin “--that denying this young woman’s wishes might cause more problems for you than it solves.”

He might be slender where this man is meaty, calm where he seethes, but when Soowon looms head and shoulders over him, bones groaning in his grasp, the man finally recognizes him the same way a rabbit recognizes a fox in the brush: as the superior being that cradles both his life and his death in its grip.

One that squeezes a little tighter as he says, “I speak, of course, from experience.”

Those bulging eyes no longer fix to Lili, no; they swing back to him, trembling like the rest of his squat body. Soowon, for his part, tries to find no pleasure in it. He fails of course. Ah, what his old minder might make of this mess? Nothing that would earn that man’s sparing praise, that’s for certain.

“F-fine then.” That man’s lips may flap but all that falls from them is this false bravado, useless save as a salve to his own pride. “Guess she can have her way, if it’s so important to her.”

“How kind.” Soowon’s grip springs open, sudden as a trap. The man stumbles, catching himself on his back foot. “Your graciousness will not be forgotten.”

There’s a threat in those soft words, hidden beneath the cushion of civility. A cleverer scoundrel would take it, a lesson learned about what a fair man might hide behind his sweet smile, but this one-- this one cradles his wrist against his chest and spits, “But if she gets in my way again...”

It is the work of a single step to slide between them, to break the furious path of his glare.

“That won’t be a problem. Or at least--” his voice drops to his chest, eyes falling open from their squint “--you better hope it is not.”

He’s impossible, that’s the problem here. When Lili left camp-- hours ago now, coaxing the most biddable mare in their entourage with the dried fruits she smuggled into her skirts during breakfast-- Soowon had still been in his tent. Sleeping, she assumed, or sulking if he couldn’t bring himself to have regular, basic needs like all the rest of those lesser mortals. He was still supposed to be doing that now, only inside that terrible darkened cage that passed for a palanquin.

And instead he’s-- he’s here. Haunting her heroic moment. Just swooping in and handling things when she definitely didn’t ask him to. Sure, he’s got that scumbag already scurrying into the gutters where he belongs, but he’s stooped over the woman too, wearing that stupid smile of his, the kind he squints into so no one notices it doesn’t reach his eyes.

A slender hand slips out from beneath the gleaming white of his robe, and oh, he’s stealing her rescue, too! Here she is, the one who bothered to step in to begin with, but that poor woman is all eyes for that beanpole, flushed and stammering as he guides her to her feet. Which is something Lili would have been happy to do, as soon as her own legs quit trembling. Just a few minutes and she would have been the one to gallantly offer her hand, the one to dust off the woman’s dirty knees. But instead--

Instead it’s Soowon fussing over her, offering with his stupid voice-- not even his real one, but the one he uses to come off as gentle and inoffensive, for all the good it does him-- to take her home. And it’s to him she clings even as her she insists he’s done enough.

Shameless, that’s what he is. Doesn’t even bother to look sorry when he finally glances her way either. Oh no, for her, he’s smug. Bastard.

Well, he’s not going to have the satisfaction of floating over here and pulling that angel act on her, oh no. Lili storms over to him first, legs stronger with every stomp, and demands, “What on earth are you doing here?”

Oh, he smiles and simpers for all the smallfolk, playing benevolent savior, but for her-- for her there’s no squint, no pretense that he’s doing anything but looking down on her when he says, “Saving you, it seems.”

“You?” It’s stupid that he’s so tall; if he’s going to be so obnoxious, she should at least be able to put her hands around his throat without having to jump. “Saving me?”

It’s ridiculous. Absurd, even. And worse yet, terrible, because if she’s being generous-- which she shouldn’t be; he doesn’t deserve it-- it might even be true.

That insufferable smile widens when he reaches out for her, and she means to duck, to sidestep, to do something if only to keep him from acting whatever way he likes, but--

But she’s frozen instead, breath caught up in her lungs as his fingers graze past her ears, disrupting the flyaway hairs that always gather just there no matter what Tetora does. A shiver traces down her spine, trembling her already weak knees, and it’s-- it’s nothing. Only that he never gets this close to anyone, not on purpose, so it feels...different. Weird.

That is, until her hood tumbles over her eyes, leaving her with only slash of his smirk in her vision. “Yes. Like always.”

She wrestles with the fabric until it sits properly back from her face, sputtering and spitting but never quite forming words. Always. The gall of him. “Where’s your babysitter?”

His eyebrows lift, two elegant questions over the still seas of his eyes. “Where is yours?”

Lili scowls; it’s not until her palms prickle that she even realizes she’s clenched her fists. “I don’t need one! I can take care of myself just fine.”

He doesn’t even bother to open his mouth, just pointedly glances at where she’d stood, too stupid to see a punch coming, and-- and--

“I can!” A hit like that would hardly kill her. “But now that you’re here, Joodoh is going to be tearing across the whole countryside to find--”

Funny, she wouldn’t have though his spindly hands it could fit so perfectly over her mouth. Or that his grip could bite so harshly into her wrist.

She glares up at him, ready to give him a piece of her mind, muffled or not, and finds a smile that is all teeth.

“Why don’t we move this discussion to a more amenable location?” he asks, and oh, it’s phrased like a suggestion, but every twitch of his eyes says, you’re making a scene.

Ha. If he thinks this is a scene, she’d be happy to show him what it looks like when she does a whole production--

Until she follows the quick flick of his eyes, gaze quickly drawn to the gleam of pauldrons, to the tooled leather insignia branded across the chest of more than a few men now lingering at the edge of the market, watching them. 

With a quick catch of her breath, his hand peels away. “Come.” He tugs at her wrist. “This way.”

“All right.” Lili slips like water from his fingers, one moment solid under his grip, and the next idling behind him in the alley, arms-crossed. “What are you doing here, really?”

Ah well, it’s fine enough; he hadn’t thought she would allow him to lead her this far from the market, let alone to somewhere properly secluded. “I might ask you the same thing.”

“Ugh, yeah you could,” she huffs, hands flailing wildly beside her already listing hood. “Or you could just answer the question like a normal person!”

He blinks at her, stymied. That’s hardly a standard he’s ever been expected to aspire to. Exceptional, certainly; superior might as well go without saying; but normal...?

“Fine!” Her head flings back with a groan, and ah, that explains how it keeps falling. “I’m here because Lady Lili only gets to see flower gardens and tapestries and maybe a decorative pond or two. And that’s fine or whatever, but Yona isn’t going to care about whether or not the castle’s lilies are growing well this year. For that matter, neither do I!”

His mouth opens, only to find that there’s nothing to say. “Ah...hm.”

“And also you’re horrible to travel with,” she continues, quite unnecessarily. “That’s a big part of it.”

“Well.” There’s a half dozen idiosyncrasies he could lay at her door as well, a litany of habits that could make even the most pious of the priesthood rethink temperance, but what comes out is a stilted, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“So...there.” Her fluttering hands finally perch on her hips, ready to take flight with a single shift in the wind of her moods. “Your turn now.”

It would be simple to answer; he had prepared a response to that very question before he even left camp. Not the truth-- no one liked that, no matter what they said-- but the sort of regal humility expected of a cousin to the crown. I wanted to see the people of this land with my own two eyes, he would say, gaze fixed to the middle distance, properly melancholic. The care my cousin shows our people has taught me to seek its like wherever I go.

But as pretty as the words are, as melodic a cadence as he had composed to cradle them, it feels...inadequate. Lili may not speak to him with eloquence, but she is earnest, the way he had once been with...

Ah. An uncomfortable thought.

“The last time I was here, I came with an army at my back.” An invader, hoping to subdue a weakened rival with an application of suitable force. “I have to admit I was...curious. About what may remain after...everything.”

About what they might say about King Soowon, the man who failed where Princess Yona flew. Ah, Empress Yona, now.

The answer had been surprisingly little. He’s not sure what would have been worse: for his name being synonymous as their oppressor, or the fact that his gambit left so little mark that few remember it.

“It’s so different now, isn’t it?” The tightness around Lili’s eyes eases, the whole of her face softening as she skims the streets. “There’s scars where Kai and the nadai carved them, but...”

“I expected more,” he agrees. “A testament to Kouren’s leadership.”

“Oh?” One of her narrow brows quirk, too interested. “Is that so? Do you find that an attractive trait in an ally, or--?”

“Don’t start,” he grumbles, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “It’s insulting enough that Yona has tried to dress this up as a...a diplomatic mission, I don’t need this from you too.”

“But it is a diplomatic mission.” For once he wishes An Lili was a better liar; then he wouldn’t have to suffer her subterfuge. “Kouka has to send someone to the coronation, and who better than Yona’s own cousin, a--”

“An usurper and kin-killer.” His teeth ache as he strains his well-earned titles through them. “And though my lovely cousin would never admit it, I am a superfluous and inconvenient member of the royal family. She might well have spared me her mercy and killed me instead, the reception might have been kinder.”

For all that it’s true, Lili scowls at him, as if he’s a disappointment. “Yona has spent the past two years trying to involve you in every aspect of Kouka’s governance. She made you the Sky Advisor! You can’t really think sending you here to--”

“Woo a queen who has every reason to hate me?” For all her hot air, Lili deflates. Ah, so they had not thought he would figure out this portion of their plan until it was already well underway. “Yona would never be so rude as to suggest it outright, but I’m sure it would put her most at ease if I found Xing so diverting I never return to Kouka.”

Lili unleashes a groan so weary it practically creaks. “She would like you to be happy, instead of just...haunting your end of the castle and finding new ways to make yourself miserable.”

“Haunting.”

Her sharp little finger stings where it prods his chest. “You’ve spooked several servants, mister. Surprising we can still get people to go clean down that way when they’re all spun up about restless spirits wandering the halls.”

Soowon smooths the dimple she leaves in the fabric. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“You said it, Yona’s too nice to tell you the stuff you need to hear.” Her mouth gives an insufferable little twist. “Like that you need to go out and get some fresh air.”

“And you’re...not.” It’s not a question. He has met her, after all. It’s one of the most tolerable things about her.

One of her slim shoulders lift, unconcerned. “Someone has to.”

“How...” He lets a few possibilities roll around on his tongue, savoring each one. “Considerate.”

“Listen, if you’re so concerned about why Yona chose you for this party--” her tone implies heavily that he shouldn’t be “--you’re a royal, like you said. It’s an honor for people to host you. Fussing over you makes them feel important. And the fact that Yona’s letting them do it makes her seem magnanimous.”

His eyes narrow. “I see. And the fact that I am the highest ranking unattached member of the imperial court...”

“Fine,” she sighs. “Yeah, if by some cosmic coincidence you somehow fell wildly in love with one of Yona’s staunchest allies and the strongest queen of her vassal countries, I’m sure she wouldn’t be mad about it.”

The only queen of her vassal countries. His breath whistles out through his nose. At least it’s a more flattering option than Mei-nyan. “How optimistic of her, considering how the last time I was in Xing, its first princess was calling for my head.”

“That’s Yona for you. Now...” Lili cranes her neck, peering around his side to-- ah, to his pockets. “Are those rice cakes?”

Ha. He had quite forgotten those were there. “Is there a reason you are asking?”

A grin splits her face as she threads her arm through his, all teeth. “Because if you’re going to show me around this place, you’re gonna have to share them.”