#see more tags at ao3

[tugoslovenka]

Warding Bond - Chapter 1

Hope

The Feast of Heroes was meant to celebrate the efforts of common and special champions who took up arms against the threats that dared target the city of Baldur’s Gate. It would always include mention of some spectacular individuals that gave life and limb for their home. However, the legendary six were always at the forefront of these tributes, led by none other than the self-proclaimed leader of the group, pivotal in taking down the mind flayer threat.

Lord Astarion Ancunín.

Owner of the Ancunín Estate. Member of the Council of Four. All-powerful vampire ascendant.

And the target of Althea’s emancipation pact.

A/N:

Also posting on AO3!

I would like to preface this that this is a rather heavy fic with explicit mentions of SA, dealing with trauma, trauma bonding, PTSD, dissociation etc. The dark tag is there for a reason, so please proceed with caution going forward.

I am the biggest D&D nerd imaginable, so I’m absolutely including a metric fuckton of lore and mentions from the universe. It’s not going to be heavy, but those that appreciate it, I see you.

Finally, be careful in how you deal with the devil, lovelies. As in, don’t.

110 years had passed since the siege on Baldur’s Gate.

Those lucky enough to escape the illithids had mostly perished to disease, madness or the natural order of death. Elves, dwarves and gnomes were a minority amongst the population that had witnessed the horrors of the Grand Design and survived to tell the tale. Even those who were willing and able to carry on with their livelihoods after the assault took their businesses elsewhere—save for the few who cherished the attention each winter brought them during the Feast of Heroes.

Varra— Althea, as she now answered to—was not present during the mind flayer invasion. She was not aware of the plot that nearly brought upon the collapse of Faerûn, nor did she care. There had been enough heroes sprouting like lilies across every alleway in the city. Most of them met a fate worse than death before they could infiltrate the famed Cult of the Absolute.

Instead, back then, Varra was deep in the forgotten lands of Cania, treading through icy waters and monster-infested lands. It was irony from the Gods, sacrificing her to the whims of a petty lord, for her to endure years of torture and a hunger that could never be satiated, only to find false freedom in a cambion devil whose arrogance trapped her within the last bastion of Nessus. Some time had passed since she first visited the Eighth Circle of Hell.

Only now was she able to enjoy the bustling streets of the city she once called home. With one leg hanging off each side of the stone wall that overlooked the Lower City, she took a deep breath. It was almost time for the firework display. She hoped it wouldn’t be as loud as the tavern patrons promised.

Though, hope was a dangerous thing. 

“Just one nod, my dear, and I shall grant you freedom,” he mused, curiously inspecting the cage that Lord Cazador had designed in the likeness of the very devils he so admired. The vampire wasn’t aware of these nightly visits, of course, which gave her ample time to understand the true powers of the son of Mephistopheles.  

Raphael was his name. A handsome devil, true both in expression and physique. His presence was the only reason she could think clearly for the first time in, as she learned, ages.

He informed her that 75 years had passed since her imprisonment. Brief moments of the life she once had were now but a memory, occasionally flickering like candlelight in darkness. Varra would sometimes recall the crackle of flames underneath a starry sky. Often, she could smell a sweetness; honey, with a hint of woodiness that followed the sensation of a thick liquid coating her throat. People who she no longer recognized—men, women and children—rallied themselves in turns, revealed in memories that did not belong to her. 

And yet, the ache in her heart upon seeing them told a different story.  

With the years, the strangers she had been seeing in her dreams faded. Bit by bit, they were plucked from her mind as she stood, watching the locations and noise disappear faster than she could comprehend. Yet one person remained perfectly still. 

An elf. Unimposing and charming, draped in fine leathers and specks of gold, who always ensured his cuffs remained white. He stood at attention, one hand rested behind his back while the other held hers. A toothy grin revealed two sharp canines. Though he never spoke, Varra’s body seemed to instantly respond to his touch. Even in the blurred haze of her obliviousness, a spark of rage usually sprung her awake to her mindless existence. 

It took Raphael less than a breath to fill in the empty contours of her mind. 

“Astarion...” he answered her thoughts. “One of his spawn. One of his favorite spawn.”  

Astarion.  

With a flick of the wrist, the devil began painting in the details. An opulent ball, exuding grandeur and extravagance that befitted the highest socialites of Baldur’s Gate. A gown, glittering with color and fashioned from silk that inspired the finest tailors of the Court. A dance, lively and passionate that displayed more intimacy than the most intertwined of souls in the Material Plane. 

She laid against darkwood, coated in her own pleasure and listening to the lapping sounds of the partner kneeling between her legs. The tops of his curls glistened under the chandelier as she felt her knees buckling under increasing pressure. 

“That’s it, darling. Let go,” he cooed, his voice coated with deceit, and she could not remember why she trusted it still. His tongue was talented, that she would not deny. At no point had the elf made any efforts in prioritizing his needs. Instead, she vaguely remembered a gentle kiss that led to her sprawled on a table like a common whore. Astarion appeared to savor every touch. His hands were equally as talented, burying themselves inside her hair while his mouth explored the details on her skin. 

“Divine...” he mused as he took in the scent of her. 

Varra had scarcely ever been indulged in similar fashion. Not even the most romantic of novels could compare to the perfection—the practiced flawlessness—of his movements. She was no stranger to pleasures of the flesh, but while even the most charitable of men opted to service themselves, this stranger seemed to enjoy devouring her like a starved animal would food. Every reaction of hers was met with an equally methodical action—a second finger, a thumb circling her most sensitive nub, a purring of praise. 

Until he stopped. 

The main event, as he reminded, was still to come. It would only take a short walk to the main quarters. And so, with a lust-filled gaze and no sense of self-preservation, Varra followed the stranger through the halls of the estate. She hadn’t commented on the quiet walkways that led to a circular chamber. She didn’t raise an alarm when he left her to her lonesome for a minute too long. It was not until she was met with the glowing eyes of the master of the house, Lord Cazador, that she realized the seriousness of this ruse. 

This experience marked the eve she turned into one of his many spawns. 

Blinking back into the sore reality of her predicament, she met the eyes of the devil who so sheepishly looked at her. Reason had long abandoned her, but the undead that occupied the dark halls of these dungeons told her that eternity would involve torture unforeseen even by the Gods should she continue this path. 

Not even the Hells would be this cruel. She would hope.

With a nod, Varra simply said, “I accept.” 

“Wonderful.” 

Raphael clasped his hands in delight before disappearing from the very spot he apparated at. Soon enough, she felt a powerful force pull her through the marble until she found herself sitting on a lush chair, bathed in the glow from the torches that surrounded the dining room. The smell of ash overwhelmed her, though it was comforting when compared to the rotting flesh of Cazador’s estate. 

Her skin was no longer icy to the touch. The hunger that clawed at her insides was gone. The smell of blood was not etched into the deepest parts of her brain.  

“It is rather peaceful in my House of Hope, is it not?” 

The devil had sprouted wings. Horns decorated the top of his head, and his skin grew redder with each passing moment. The glow in his eyes was as bright as the spawns’ who shared her prison, though it was that of ambers and not rubies. He confidently walked to the other side of the dining table. Only then did she notice her mouth watering at the delicacies that decorated it. 

In the dungeons, food was a rarity afforded only on special occasions. It was a wonder seeing thirty souls fight tooth and nail to reward themselves with the scarce remains of a filthy rat. Varra was too weak to engage in the arguments that preceded the pecking order before a meal. She was not a fighter like some of the captives, which is why she opted to lick away the dried remains of the crimson vigor that splattered the walls while the other spawn satiated themselves. 

Her stomach growled at the offerings in front of her eyes. 

“Do spoil yourself my dear, far be it from me to deny a tortured soul a chance at reprisal.” Raphael raised a fine glass from the other end of the table. 

Dealing with devils was dangerous. Those who knew the perils of the Nine Hells were wise enough not to trust the words of imps, let alone the offspring of archdevils. It wasn’t until 135 years passed that Varra realized the twisted perversion of Raphael’s vow. The House of Hope was another trickery of the tongue, a life of servitude engulfed in oaths of freedom that would allegedly come one day. 

And so, spoil, she did. For what seemed like another harrowing eternity. 

A devil’s torment was unlike the indifference of a vampire lord. Instead of empty nihility that rotted away at her personhood, she was now overwhelmed with the promise of hope that could break the chains of her slavehood. Raphael was no mere executioner. Sometimes he would reward her obedience with trips to his boudoir where she would indulge in passions so fiery, it rivaled the hottest corners of Nessus. Very rarely, she would catch a glimpse of the Archive, which held the countless scrolls of souls that signed their life away to him. Never would she be allowed to touch the feast in the House of Hope. 

Varra had the misfortune of meeting countless other victims that had been courted by Raphael’s sharp tongue. She learned to remove her feelings from the interactions. 

She observed him for many of those years. The physical satiation of her most basic needs allowed her mind to sharpen—to piece together her broken past. Though she could never be certain if they were mirages or reality, some parts of the life she led before her enslavements, like missing puzzle pieces of her history, began putting themselves together. 

Varra. 

Baldurian. 

Gur. 

“Come now. Why play hard to get when you’re in deep over your tadpoled head?” 

Another set of guests had arrived at the House of Hope. Hurriedly, she made her way to the halls that led to the forbidden feast. A curious set of adventurers stood in awe as they examined the unknown surroundings. It had been too long since visitors required the protective charms that barricaded the servants quarters from the dining area. A one-way mirror to witnessing a master at work, Raphael had remarked. They must have been special. Hopeful. 

A one-horned Tiefling, whose beating heart seemed to be made of iron, looked particularly uncomfortable in this setting. They were an interesting bunch, no doubt—soon-to-be illithids carrying secrets sure to be plucked from them by the very same devil who charmed them. She caught their names; Karlach. Wyll. Shadowheart. Lae’zel. Gale. Astari— 

Astarion. 

Her cries of agony were deafened by the magical barrier. Still, Varra slammed against the translucent obstacle that separated her from the man who began her suffering all those years ago. Only when her hands began searing from the flames did she regain her senses. 

Disobedience never went unnoticed in his home. 

If he was gracious enough, he would offer her a lashing. Physical punishment was preferable to the alternative—a dark, quiet room, filled with nothing but her own thoughts. Once, he tricked her into believing her bravery would be rewarded with freedom. She awoke in Baldur’s Gate, no longer a spawn, capable of exploring the markets and taverns for days on end, meeting people, enjoying life. Companions she learned to call friends invited her to various adventures where she grew stronger, more experienced. Soon enough, she found a lover. 

All was well, until it wasn’t. 

In a tenday, she lost every person she learned to care for. Her friends each met a different gruesome end—drowning, burning, starving, madness. The lover she had taken soon found another, but not before taking every last coin earned in their years of labor.  

Varra hanged herself near Wyrm’s Crossing that same night. She swung there, watching another series of memories fling past her, as the gust of wind that grazed her face turned into the warmth of a crackling fire. Her neck was no longer swollen as she, once again, found herself perched on a lush chair in the House of Hope. 

The devil’s wicked smile was all she needed to understand the message. Her fate was that of eternal suffering. 

And so, Varra shut her eyes as Raphael circled her like a wolf would deer. Servants would often be compelled to share their thoughts during his interrogations, which is why she was praying to every God in the known realms that he would show mercy in his judgment. 

He snapped his fingers, which commanded her eyes open.  

“My, my. I must say, your impulse continues to impress me!” he said, stopping in front of her, his hands behind his back. “One could say a century would dull you into nothingness. Yet you truly risked my wrath for a moment of fury. Why is that?” 

“I… I do not know.” 

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tutted. “You know better than to lie to me, little lamb.” 

“It’s—that man. Astarion...” she murmured, keeping her gaze fixed on her master as she was taught to do. 

Raphael cocked his head, “The spawn?” 

Varra fell to her knees from the sudden intrusion into her mind. She wept and screamed as he combed through 200 years of her life. Empty cots under the waning moon, a woman with dusky skin similar to hers, roaring flames and loud singing, blades expertly slicing into flesh, firm handshakes with unknown faces, the tugging of rope at her waist, a belly full of wine, an invitation to a grand ball. Astarion. 

A smile was never a good sign in the House of Hope. 

“Well, my dear, you may have just proven yourself more useful than even my associates.” 

Varra—Althea’s—attention was momentarily brought back to the cold stone she sat on. The colorful explosions that bathed the sky in blues and purples were a sign of the celebration to come. The Feast of Heroes. An annual remembrance of the siege that was stopped by a group of brave heroes whose names were forever etched into the history of Baldur’s Gate.

The booming barrage prompted her to clench her fists. True to tale, it was as spectacularly loud as the residents had promised. What followed were thunderous cheers and applause, an anxiety-inducing concoction that reverberated through Althea’s body. Loudness was never appreciated in the House of Hope. Quiet was warranted in the depths of Cania. Silence was necessary in the Szarr Palace.

Yet, noise was a vital element when saluting the bravest in the realms. She swore even the local animals roared in choir.

“Gods bless the Heroes of Baldur’s Gate!”

Tales of their courage were permanently inscribed in books of fable and fact. Their names were sung in songs that reached the very edges of the Sword Coast. Never again would this world forget the sacrifice the special few made for the many in Faerûn.

Wyll Ravenguard, the Blade of Frontiers.

Karlach Cliffgate, the Fury of Avernus.

Gale Dekarios, the Prodigy of Waterdeep.

Lae’zel, the Champion of Vlaakith.

Shadowheart, the Dark Justiciar.

Astarion Ancunín, the Decadent.  

All assumed their titles, though none remained in Baldur’s Gate. Rumors spread that the Chosen of the Blade of Frontiers abandoned his duties to help the one-horned tiefling wreck havoc in the Nine Hells. Gale of Waterdeep assumed various positions at the many magical academies across Faerûn, though he too soon disappeared after a particularly disastrous affair involving the Netherese destruction orb inside his chest. Lae’zel’s destiny was one of servitude to her Queen following the triumph over the Netherbrain. She was the first to leave the Material Plane to travel among the stars, chasing away the illithid menace that threatened the Astral Plane instead. Not much was known of Shadowhart’s fate, though given her status as a divine servant of Shar, most wished her story would continue in silence. 

Most of these heroes, if not all, were dead by now.

Still, Baldur’s Gate was not without trouble. In just a few years, the city had suffered another attack from a new group of cultists. A few more decades passed, and another reality-threatening scourge would appear. Legions of heroes banded together to fight against whatever evil was queueing at the city gates. Through it all, one legendary figure remained steadfast in his attempt to preserve the city’s rich history. Most had by now been made aware of his particular condition —an affliction which councils in neighboring cities chose to ignore for the service he provided the realms during times of need.

The Feast of Heroes was a three-day holiday, meant to celebrate the efforts of common and special champions who took up arms against the threats that dared target the city of Baldur’s Gate. It would always include mention of some spectacular individuals that gave life and limb for their home. However, the legendary six were always at the forefront of these tributes, led by none other than the self-proclaimed leader of the group, pivotal in taking down the mind flayer threat.

Lord Astarion Ancunín. 

Owner of the Ancunín Estate. Member of the Council of Four. All-powerful vampire ascendant.

And the target of Althea’s emancipation pact.

[ao3-crack]

(x)

[secretagentspydetectiveninja]

posting this with absolutely no context

[nigesakis]

lord almighty they are doing crazy things to this guy's cerνix on ao3

[trensu]

Steve had always wanted to be a skilled fighter. The schools that churned out the best fighters all happened to be schools for holy warriors. It was possible that Steve maybe sort of lied a little (with the help of his friends Robin and Dustin) to get into this school by claiming he was full to the brim of religious fervor but hadn’t decided who to pledge his sword to yet. It shouldn’t have worked, if he were honest with himself, but by some stroke of luck it did, and he finished his training as one of the top combatants. 

The issue now was that he had to pick a god whose crest to carry. There were all sorts of gods. Gods of water, gods of air, gods of agriculture, war gods, cat gods, plant gods...the list was endless. And while Steve was one of the best fighters around, he was most definitely not one of the best researchers. Thankfully Dustin and Robin were very clever and knew where to find details about the many gods in existence.

“So what kind of god do you want to follow? Maybe we can start there,” Robin asked.

“Uh…a good one?”

“You’re no help at all, you know that?” Dustin grumbled.

They suggested a local god known as Carver who stood for righteousness, but Steve turned that down. It didn't feel like a good fit. They suggested a love god by the name of Chrissy, who valued love of all kinds, romantic, platonic, familial...Steve had been tempted, very tempted, because Steve had always carried an excess of love in his heart. Robin had vetoed that one stating that Steve was already too reckless with his love and she wouldn't stand by and watch him break his own heart over and over again.

Dustin suggested a god of knowledge, Clarke, who blessed and guided those with curiosity, imagination, and a knack for invention. Steve shot that one down immediately. He was never one to be overly imaginative or curious; he preferred to deal with concrete things. Out of their quickly dwindling list, Robin reluctantly suggested Hargrove, a war god favored by a nearby kingdom, but if Carver was ill-fitting, then Hargrove was outright repellent to Steve.

"C'mon, Steve, you gotta pick someone!" Dustin huffed in frustration. 

Robin thunked her head against the table in the library where they were looking up deities. She was obviously at her wit's end too. Steve, however, just dug his heels in with a particularly stubborn scowl.

"I can't just pick anyone!" Steve said. "If I'm going to pledge my sword to someone, it has to be someone...someone good. Someone that, I don't know, someone I can believe in, even when--no especially when things go wrong. That’s the whole point!"

"Yeah, I get that," Robin sighed, a mix of fond and annoyed, "but this is the eighth book we've gone through and the only one left here is called the King of Darkness which is hardly going to--huh."

Robin paused mid-rant to look at the page more closely. Steve and Dustin both huddled around her to peek into the book as well. Dustin also made a sound of curiosity.

"That's weird," Dustin said.

"Right?" Robin asked enthusiastically.

"What? What's weird?" Steve didn't get what caught their attention.

"This god only has a couple of sentences," Dustin explained, "And they don't really make sense. Something about dark creatures and the undeserving? The grammar and structure is all weird though."

"It looks like a half-assed translation," Robin added with a nod. "We should find the original text."

"Yeah! And if we can make a better translation, we could get it added to the next edition and they'd have to put our names on the book," Dustin said excitedly. Robin's eyes lit up at the thought and they both rushed off to the stacks to track down any original sources.

"Guys! Guys, what about my..."

The librarian hushed Steve, irritated. Steve groaned in defeat.

"...godly choices. Yeah, fine," Steve slumped back on his seat. "I need to find non-nerd friends."

Two days later, Robin and Dustin finished translating a slim, dusty book. They were nearly vibrating in their seats as Steve reviewed their notes on what they found. Dustin gripped his arm and gave him a shake.

"So? What do you think?" he asked excitedly.

Robin slung her arm across Steve's shoulders. With more tenderness than Steve expected, she said, "I know it doesn't seem like it, he doesn't really fit with your whole style, but it could work."

"Yeah," Steve said with a hopeful smile. "Yeah, this feels right."

--

It took longer than Steve would've liked, but eventually he managed to track down a small, crumbling shrine. It was an alcove carved near the entrance--no more than a crack in the stone really--of a cave at the edge of a lush forest. He almost missed it, it was so drowned in overgrown crawling vines and weeds. It bore a modest statue, no bigger than Steve, standing atop an equally modest plinth. There was a spot that obviously held a plaque once, but it must’ve been dug out by thieves at some point.

The sight of it made something in Steve's chest twinge; a strange pang of melancholy at seeing a god so forgotten and abandoned. It surprised him as he had never been particularly religious, but there was just something about this one that drew him in.

It was the middle of the day, so Steve quickly made camp and took advantage of the light to begin clearing the shrine. He started where the plaque had been, scrubbing off the dirt and moss that had filled the indentation. He knew a good smith; he could commission a new plaque to be made. After that, he weeded the immediate area around the plinth where worshipers would typically lay their offerings and pray.

By the time he finished that, it was late afternoon and he decided that was good enough for today. He had to eat and get a few hours of sleep so he could be alert once night fell. When he curled up on his bedroll, he couldn't help the grin that spread on his face. He was going to offer himself to his god tonight, and with any luck, his god would accept him.

--

He woke to a multitude of high pitched squeaks and the sound of many, many flapping wings. The sun had just fully set, and the stars that could be seen through the canopy burned brightly. Steve took his time to fasten on his armor and scabbard properly, and fixed his hair so not a strand was out of place. He took a few deep breaths to calm an unexpected bout of nerves before going to the shrine and kneeling.

His god had no official prayers. Or rather, the prayers for his god were forgotten. Robin and Dustin did their best to find anything prayer-like but it had been in vain. They suspected that most of the god's holy items and lore were purposely lost. Lacking that, Steve decided it was best that he introduce himself.

"Um, hi," he started and immediately winced. "Sorry. I'm not used to...this. I couldn't find any of your…holy words? Prayers? The right ways to speak to you, I guess.

"I'm Steve. Steve Harrington. I'm a fighter. I finished my training a few weeks back. I was the top of my cohort when it came to combat. I'm good with my sword and I know how to take a hit. I can turn just about anything into a weapon if it's needed."

Here Steve paused for a moment, straining to hear but there was nothing other than the typical sounds of a night out in the woods. Steve took a breath and plowed forward.

"I want to be more than a fighter, though. I don't want to just wave a sword around for nothing. I want it to...to matter. So I spent a lot of time trying to decide who to wield my sword for. It took me a while, but I found you. I want to be your shield and sword, if you'll have me."

Steve stopped again to listen. Nothing. Robin warned him this might happen. Gods didn't always accept warriors who offered themselves to them, and forgotten gods weren't always reachable. It was fine, though; he’d try again tomorrow night. Steve turned in just before dawn, eager for night again.

--

Steve worked on clearing the vines tangled around the statue's legs and feet. He yanked out the thick, scraggly vines, and carefully picked apart the prickling thorny ones. There was a particular gnarl of vines that didn't seem like they had a stranglehold on his god's statue. They were healthy and strong, and the way they curled and grew looked more like a caress than an invasion. He decided to leave those on, though he gently rearranged them while removing the more invasive vines so they looked more decorative.

When night arrived with the sound of squeaks and wings, Steve went to kneel at the shrine. He introduced himself again, gave the same spiel as the night before. Still he heard nothing. He scratched the back of his neck in mild insecurity.

“I guess I should tell you I didn’t find you on my own. My friends Robin and Dustin helped me. They’re way smarter than me, you know? Total nerds. I can swing a sword like nothing, but books and research? Yeah, that never works out for me, so they helped me look up all sorts of gods.

“There’s a lot of them. Way more than I thought. Dustin and Robin both recommended me ones or vetoed others. They were getting frustrated with me because I kept rejecting the ones they gave me. 

“Then Robin found you. Kind of by accident, to be honest. But she did her research thing and I knew that I wanted to carry your symbol. It took me forever to find this shrine. Robin said this was probably the only shrine you had left, so I had to find it. 

“Dustin kept saying it was on the other side of the forest, but obviously he was wrong. Not that he’ll ever admit it, the little shit, but whatever. I’m sorry your shrine was abandoned like this, but I promise I’ll fix it up. I’m good with my hands, I can do it.”

There was no response to his admittedly disorganized ramble. It was fine, he told himself. He needed to be patient. He’d come back the next night.

–

Around the statue’s waist there was another tangled mess of vines, except these vines had died and rotted to dark sludge. There was fungus growing on it, and it reeked. It was gross. Steve scrubbed at it for hours because the rot had stained the stone. He was able to get rid of the rot and most of the stains before going to catch a few hours of sleep in the afternoon.

Night fell and Steve was kneeling for the third time. He repeated most of what he said the previous two nights. There was still no response. He thought maybe he was pushing too hard. He’d never been the super talkative type anyway. He could share the quiet night with his god, if that was what his god wanted.

A few hours passed when he was startled out of his near meditative state by the sound of snapping twigs. He leapt to his feet, hand on his scabbard. Someone–a man by the look of it–stumbled out of the woods. He was pale and dark haired, dressed in ragged clothes that were probably awful even when they were new. He looked like a vagabond. 

Steve stepped in front of the shrine, protectively. The stranger grinned at him and Steve could already tell he was not going to enjoy the conversation that was about to happen.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Steve asked firmly, cutting the man off before he could speak. The smile only grew wider.

“I could ask you the same thing, sir,” the man said, adopting the annoyed huff of a wealthy lord. Steve scowled.

“I asked first.”

“I asked second!”

“You didn’t ask me anything,” Steve responded, somewhat smug. The man paused and then snorted a laugh.

“Yeah, okay.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “You got me.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” Steve repeated shortly. The teasing grin was back, and Steve felt his scowl deepen.

“Nothing and no one, m’lord,” the man bows mockingly.

“I’m not a lord.”

“Huh. Could’ve fooled me. You’re certainly as demanding as any lord I’ve ever met.”

“Oh fuck you,” Steve snapped. “I’m a holy warrior.”

The man laughed at him outright.

“Well that doesn’t sound very holy warrior-ish. Are your type allowed to swear?”

Steve grinded his teeth and decided it was not worth it to continue this conversation for much longer.

“Look, if you’re here to steal, I’ve got nothing on me.”

“That’s exactly what someone with something to steal would say.”

“Well, I don’t! I’m on a pilgrimage and I don’t want to spill blood on holy ground. So.” Steve wrapped a hand around the hilt of his sword. “Leave. Please.”

“Holy ground? Here?” the man barks out a laugh. “Don’t you know what this place is?”

“Yes,” Steve says shortly, placing himself more firmly between the shrine and the man. “Please leave. There shouldn’t be violence done here.”

“Oh, it’s far too late for that. This place used to belong to the King of Darkness. It’s said he was so evil that nothing grew here until he was run out and defeated by the god of righteousness. You know the one. Really plays up the holier than thou thing by making his hair all gold and glowy? Gotta say, you could give him a run for his money though.”

“You’re wrong.”

“No really! Your hair is great. Way better than Carver, even with the glowy thing.” 

“Not that!” Steve said in frustration. This guy really liked the sound of his own voice and Steve was starting to get a headache. It was near dawn and all he wanted was to spend the last hour or so in the quiet night with his god.

“So you agree your hair is better than a god’s?” The man tsks at him. “That’s pretty blasphemous. Are you sure you’re a holy warrior?”

“No! I mean, yes. Wait,” Steve growls at his own bumbling. “No, I’m not better than any god. But I am a holy warrior. Kind of.”

“Kind of.”

“Look, I’m working on it so I need you to leave. You’ve insulted him enough already.”

“Your god is the King of Dark–”

“Call him that again, and I will draw my sword,” Steve said, voice steely. “He’s the Lord of Night, and I won’t let you insult him at his own shrine.”

The man goes quiet for the first time since he showed up. He looked almost surprised, his mocking grin gone. His eyes flicked over to the dilapidated statue and then back at Steve.

“Lord of Night doesn’t sound much different than what I called him,” the man said lightly.

“Well, it is,” Steve told him. “Now, will you please leave?”

The man stared at him for a moment before shrugging. “Yeah, alright.” And then he left as suddenly as he had arrived.

The tension that had built up in Steve’s shoulders drained away. He went back to kneel in front of the shrine again when he noticed the barest hint of sunrise on the horizon. He cursed under his breath then was hit with a wave of embarrassment at cursing in front of the shrine and the whole situation that had transpired.

“I’m sorry about that,” Steve said, abashed. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

–

It happened again.

now with an additional snippet here and here

ps: i do not do those reader tag list things. if you'd like to keep up with my stuff, follow my writing tag: trensu tells stories

[harmonictechnicality]

model!steve and voice actor!eddie

part 2 here | ao3 link here

Eddie chose a career in voice acting to avoid shit like this.

Forced socializing. Schmoozing with hotshot directors who are used to everyone kissing their ass until their lips bleed. And Eddie doesn’t do that shit. 

… Okay yeah sure, Eddie kisses asses. But only in the literal, consensual kind of way. Usually after a few mediocre dinner dates, at least.

But this particular fuckhole of a director is insisting that Eddie attends the production shoot of the commercial that he’ll be narrating for. Which is weird - that’s not how this process typically goes. Eddie gets the script and records it in his studio. Easy peasy.

“I do things a little differently with my projects.” The director sneers into the phone’s speaker. Eddie silently gags at the oozing amounts of ego on this guy. “I want to immerse you into my vision.”

Ew. Eddie would rather immerse himself into a nap, but whatever. A job is a job.

“Understood.” Eddie agrees with minimal teeth-clenching. “I’ll be on set shortly.”

The phone clicks dead with nothing but a chuckle from the guy. No ‘goodbye,’ no ‘thank you.’ Rude… but that’s kind of an industry standard, so why did Eddie expect anything different?

He folds the script into his back pocket, throws on a shirt that screams ‘Los Angeles disaster gay,’ and makes his way to the studio lot.

Fucking yay. 

Upon arrival, the director immediately escorts Eddie into the green room. Rambles on about needing him to meet the lead model for this commercial.

“Isn’t he just posing with the product?” Eddie lets his snarkiness run loose with that question, knows it right away.

Luckily, the guy is too busy snapping at a crew member to notice. “You’ll be voicing his character’s inner narrations.”

“Right.”

“And I want your tone to be seamless with the energy that he’s giving in this shoot. Got it?”

“Loud and clear.” Mostly loud.

The director swings open the door and reveals maybe the most cosmically beautiful person that Eddie has ever seen.

“Eddie, this is Steve.” The director says. “Steve, this is Eddie.”

Models are beautiful people, that’s the goddamn gig. Makeup, no makeup. Photoshop, no photoshop. They just look better than the general population and society accepts that as a fact.

But Eddie is a grubby little voice actor that burrows himself up in his boxy apartment for days. Very little sunlight, very little human interaction, and a shit ton of takeout.

Long story short, he doesn’t get out much. So this? Seeing a biblically hot heartthrob in the flesh? With his own two eyes? It’s knocking him into deep space. Sending him into an astral projection without sticking a tablet on his tongue first.

“Nice to meet you, man.” Steve holds out his hand while someone brushes more powder onto his shiny, glowy skin. God, that’s the best damn skin Eddie has ever seen. Powder be damned, Steve doesn’t need it’s chalky finish.

Eddie shakes himself out of this spell, takes Steve’s hand like he’s somehow worthy of touching him. “Yeah, you too.”

Lame. So lame. On a scale of one to Star Wars prequels, his response is the CGI in Attack of the Clones. ‘Yeah, you too?’ Ugh, what a dumbass.

The director tells them to get acquainted and to be on set in ten minutes. Ten minutes. Eddie has to be convincingly normal for ten whole minutes. Pfft, that’s laughable, but he’ll give it a shot.

“That guy’s a total asshat.” Steve grumbles.

Oh. Eddie could smother him in kisses for saying that. Lick Steve clean of all that stupid powder and probably die of talc poisoning. Death By Licking a Model is one hell of a way to go.

“Yeah.” Find some new words, Munson. “Major asshat. But he happens to be paying my bills this month, so technically, he’s my favorite major asshat.”

“Oh, same.” Steve laughs. It’s fucking glorious too. Eddie kind of wishes he had brought his microphone so that he could capture such a wonderful sound with high quality recording software. Is that creepy? Maybe he should dial it back. 

... As if. This guy’s hair is sculpted with effortless perfection and his shoulder blades could slice through a French baguette. No way Eddie can dial it back or keep it together.

“So you’re doing the voice work on the commercial, right?” Steve asks.

‘Yup.” Eddie shoves both hands into his pockets. “Indeed I am.” 

Okay, that was borderline Yoda. Get a grip.

Steve seems unfazed though. “That���s cool. Can’t wait to hear what you come up with.”

“Thanks.” Eddie smiles warmly. Nerves mellowing out. “And I can’t wait to see you in action out there.”

“Hope I can give you some good inspiration.” And Steve winks, legit winks at Eddie. Does it like it’s normal too, like he winks at everybody. He probably winks at nuns just to see if he can get them to consider conversion.

Eddie is so hopeless. Fucking tragic at this point.

They walk into the studio and are greeted by a somber, archaic set design. There’s a massive throne in the middle that is draped with fur. 

It’s… tacky. That’s the nicest adjective Eddie has to describe it. Tacky bullshit.

“I thought this was for a cologne ad.” Eddie says, eyeing the snowy backdrop.

Steve nods. “It is.”

“So what’s with the secondhand Game of Thrones set?”

“Mr. Asshat thinks this is his cinematic debut.”

Eddie snorts. Loves that he already has inside jokes with this beautiful, beautiful creature. “Someone should tell Mr. Asshat that this is visual plagiarism.”

“Nah.” Steve runs his hand over the tacky fur piece. Smirks to himself as he speaks. “I say we let him suffer.”

Eddie’s legs wobble. “Damn, you’re hot.”

He sounds ridiculously uncool, so breathy and gone. But Steve shrugs in a non-pitying kind of way, so maybe Eddie's uncoolness is excused. Or expected.

While the camera and lighting crew finalize their positions, Steve takes off his robe, revealing his costume.

Torn, muddied pants. Ripped and clawed to shreds. A billowy white top that’s completely unbuttoned. Un-laced? Eddie’s not entirely sure about the mechanics - just knows that Steve’s chest is out, that’s all he can focus on.

There’s a dented crown that the stylist places next to the throne, right at Steve’s feet. It’s shimmery yet tarnished, catches the light in a kaleidoscope effect.

The product is called The Fallen King, so deductive reasoning tells Eddie that Steve is meant to be the physical embodiment of this scent. He recalls something in the script about his title being slandered by promiscuity and forbidden love. Apparently they’ve bottled up that smell into a cologne. 

Do people really want to smell like a dethroned monarch? That’s a thing? Huh.

Just to make the sexual torture even more unbearable, Eddie gets to spectate alongside Mr. Asshat himself. Which also means that Eddie almost has a center view of Steve’s performance.

Cause that’s exactly what he’s giving. A performance. A full display production of his body, his face. His whole godlike essence. 

It’s unfair how fucked Eddie is from watching Steve pose. He can hold the oddest positions without budging a single tendon. So still. Durable. Strong.

Every last thought in Eddie’s head is impure from that observation. He wants to wrap his fingers around Steve’s muscles until he finally moves, twitches. Eddie wants to watch as Steve’s pretty lips part, falling open with sighs. See how long it takes for those sighs to turn into moans.

Steve slumps back into the throne, legs spread obscenely far apart. His gaze droops low and dark, practically eye-fucking the camera. It’s crazy how jealous Eddie is of that stupid inanimate object. The things he would do to get eye-fucked by that golden sex god up there…

His internal porno gets interrupted by a new pose. A wicked one. Steve is on his knees now, looking up into the camera lens. He sinks into the dreamiest expression. Looks dazed, all spaced-out and helpless. Eddie kneads at the growing heat in his pants with the heel of his palm. Hopes it’s not fucking obvious that he’s so horned up right now.

The director clears his throat and yells over the camera’s constant shuttering. “Can you tilt your head back, Steve?”

And Steve does. So obedient, so exceptional at his job. His head rolls back on his neck, shoulders sagging with the shift of weight.

Eddie is chewing the inside of his cheek, nearly ready to take the horny loss and go jack off in his car. Steve is in the most ideal position now, totally vulnerable. Eddie could fuck him so good like that, let Steve melt into his touch. He’d treat him like treasure, spoil him with dick and praise. Eddie would catch him if his legs give out. Would lick Steve’s kiss-bitten lips until the swelling goes down.

God, Eddie is so sick in the head for conjuring up x-rated scenes like this. In public, surrounded by strangers. Literally on the clock. He seriously needs to get his head checked for having such a whorish imagination.

The shoot ends shortly after that last pose, the one that rocked Eddie’s world. He closes his eyes for a minute, takes a few deep breaths. Tries to inhale some goddamn decency.

“How was it?” Steve heads his way, snaking his arms back into the bathrobe.

Eddie blinks hard. “It was… you were…” And the words stop. Nothing else comes out, his throat is strangled and bare.

Steve gives a soft laugh, nudges Eddie’s arm with his elbow. “Guess you do better when there’s a script in front of you, huh?”

Oh. So he’s pretty and darkly playful? This is too good, too delicious.

Eddie wets his bottom lip, recovers quickly. “I do better when there’s not an earthbound angel in my presence.”

“Wow.” Steve raises both eyebrows. “That’s quite the compliment.”

“Oh come on - you must get compliments all the time.”

“Not like that one though.”

“No?”

Steve takes a step into Eddie’s space. “Definitely not.”

They just stare after that - mostly because it’s Eddie’s turn to speak but words are so secondary when there’s this much beauty to behold. Gazing becomes his top priority.

And before the conversation can lead to an exchange of last names or phone numbers, Steve is rushed off by his agent. Maybe his publicist. Maybe his mom, Eddie has no fucking clue. Just someone taking away his shiny new toy. He sort of feels like reenacting that scene in Cast Away when the volleyball drifts into the ocean. Be dramatic as all hell about this ending.

Eddie doesn’t actually jack off in his car, although he really wants to. No, he decides to use all of his adrenaline and pent-up hormones for the voice recording. It gives his vocals this strained, chesty sound. Sinful and corrupt. Cracking with emotion in certain spots, spiking the volume in all the right ways.

It might be too much, a little bit too suggestive for a lousy cologne advertisement.

But as he listens back, Eddie can’t help but picture Steve. Imagining snapshots of him from every angle, especially the unspeakable ones. The recording barely sounds like a script anymore. It almost sounds like Eddie whispering the lines directly into Steve’s ear. A dirty secret between them.

This is it, he thinks. Sends the audio file to his sound mixer without a second read-through, without a retake. This might be the best voiceover Eddie Munson has ever done.

[mamawasatesttube]

welcome, dc fans. planning to post something in the kon-el tag? i have a challenge for you: you must state three facts about kon-el, without mentioning either tim drake or lex luthor. (for bonus points, you can't mention young justice in general, either.) if you can't, the saw trap goes off, so choose wisely. your time starts... now.

[marragurl]

Saxaphone player Gallagher has not left my mind since the jazz night art dropped AND THEN Robin saying Halovian’s innately have good voices and Sunday used to hum lullabies to her as kids happened in the 2.2 special program, and I’m sure you guys can see where my unfortunate Galladay heart is going with this.

Whoever decided to make this art, I love you. I hope your pillow is cool every night, you’re never stuck in traffic, and your water is refreshing with every sip.

Also the art of Sunday with the White Gentlemen drink in the S.P.A.R.K.L.E jazz night event has also spiraled into me delusionally thinking that’s his go to drink. Which is hilarious since Robin has hinted before that he seems to have a massive sweet tooth in her letters.

(Sunday how do you even make holding a drink menacing, Sunday please get some therapy-)

So imagine this:

Pre 2.0 Galladay, where they’re both wary and suspicious of each other but didn’t do anything outright. Sunday slowly began to visit Gallagher’s bar whenever he had time to observe the Hound, initially on the down low just to get a sense of what he was working with and what to keep an eye on. He always gravitated to that one corner booth that every bar had with the most privacy, and just stalked there for a few hours before leaving. (Smol menacing birb in a tree vibes)

Gallagher obviously knew that Sunday was doing this (even though everyone else seemed to somehow completely miss him, Gallagher wouldn’t be surprised if Sunday was doing some weird Harmony mind tricks), and after the first few “stakeouts,” he bit the bullet and actually approached the table to engage with Sunday, on the off chance this was some weird “test of loyalty” by the Halovian to see if the Hound would swallow his pride to serve his so-called masters.

Nothing terrible happened, but he remained passive-aggressively polite when serving him, and Sunday remained passive-aggressively cool-headed in response. There was some snark of what dear “sweet-toothed” Sunday would want at a bar, and an icy reply of “aren’t you the master drink smith? Why don’t you show me those skills you boasted about?” which led to Gallagher being petty and giving Sunday the White Gentlemen drink, both for the story behind it being such a metaphor for Sunday, and because it was on the more bitter side of alcoholic drinks.

Sunday wasn’t too against the drink; it wasn’t something he would have ordered if it had been his choice, but it wasn’t a bad drink by any means. He couldn’t help but continue to drink it even after Gallagher left his little hidey booth to go back to the main bar, but he’d never stoop so low as to complement the Hound. Of course, he never ordered anything else from then on, only White Gentleman. In fact, over time it seemed to slowly get better, the flavors grew on him, and he couldn't help but look forward to it during difficult nights in the Dreamscape.

If Gallagher tried to needle him into a different drink, Sunday just bit back a “oh? Admitting defeat? I thought this was your best drink for me?” with a little smirk while Gallagher had to use every bit of self-control to not punch him in the face.

As time went on, the bar slowly became a place Sunday frequented to not quite relax, but to get away from the hustle and bustle of Penacony and his duties as one of its main faces. The stresses slowly started piling up, especially with the Charmony fast approaching in a few months and all that came with it.

Gallagher didn’t seem to loosen up regarding his attitude with Sunday, but he did get better at shoving down the visceral hatred he had for everything to do with The Family and Sunday as time went on. He didn’t get soft with Sunday per se, but he definitely kept an eye out for him, and definitely knew when to cut off his drinks on days where it seemed that Sunday wasn’t all that there for their usual veiled comments towards one another when he went to serve him his drink.

It started small, with Sunday staying later and later until sometimes he was the last one to leave the bar to return to reality. Gallagher wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, still wasn’t quite sure this wasn’t some weird long-term test Sunday was devising, especially since he still seemed to be the same ruthless Family member, the same Head of the Oak Family, when Gallagher was working as a Bloodhound outside the bar. For some reason though, within the enclosed space of this strange sanctuary, it was almost peaceful between the two.

One night, there was something wrong when Sunday entered the bar during Gallagher’s shift. He saw a bit of a crowd near the small stage that was within eyesight of his little hidey booth, it seemed some of the musicians of the live band were arguing? He watched as Gallagher came over, seemed to try to speak with the group before honing in on one of the musicians who had been making the most noise and seemed to be about to get physical with the rest. Sunday watched as Gallagher picked up the musician by the scruff of their suit with one hand and carried them towards the doors and lightly tossed them out.

(It was the first time Sunday had actually seen Gallagher perform anything resembling the actual duty of a Bloodhound. It only hit him that he’d only ever seen the other when giving reports, orders, or at the bar. Why was this so shocking to him, he’d seen the man’s arms before, hard not to with his slovenly dress and messy clothing style, as if he couldn’t bother to hide away his imperfections from the world, not like Sunday who refused to be seen by the world, to dare to show one thing off about himself despite his countless failings- he’s getting far too distracted by one meager showing of strength, focus Sunday)

There had always been a live music segment. Sunday was curious to see what would happen with the band missing a member, but was distracted by Gallagher placing his usual White Gentlemen in front of him before heading back to the musicians without a single word to him. Gallagher took a moment to speak with the rest of the band, who seemed to be coming out of their shock and took on worried looks. Sunday could only watch in muted shock as Gallagher went behind the bar and came back with a case, opening it to reveal a saxophone. He then went on stage with the rest of the group, positioned himself further to the side and in the back amongst the shadows within Sunday’s line of sight, and played with the band for the rest of the night.

Sunday couldn’t look away.

He was frozen as he watched Gallagher seamlessly transition from song to song, taking only small breaks to continue serving the other patrons before heading back in. Sunday only remembered about his own drink when his gloves began to get wet from the ice melting into condensation on his glass.

Something felt off within Sunday, and for the first time since Robin’s debut, he couldn't help humming to the music of the band, music that wasn’t of his own sister’s making. He couldn’t help but remember those little concerts the two would have, taking care of his little sister, his only world. He would do anything to keep the Harmony, to keep their family going. When was the last time they truly spent time together? Before he became the Head of the Oak Family? Before he couldn't recognize his own smile?

He was so lost in his thoughts, in memories he thought he buried, that he didn’t realize that it was once again closing time, and he was once again the last one left. He only snapped out of it when Gallagher came by to grab his empty glass, only quirking a questioning brow at him before heading back to the bar.

Gallagher had been keeping a quiet eye on the Halovian that night from the back of the band, in the shadows he felt the most comfort in when in the Dreamscape of Penacony. He had watched Sunday’s eyes glaze over, and the only reason he hadn’t felt offended by the seeming disinterest was the look in the other man’s eyes reminding him of his own when he looked in the mirror. The same look of shame, regret, loss, longing, of the wishes to regain everything he had lost. The same look he strove to hide under every bit of the facade he had crafted of this new self, but came back all too often with every reference of the Family found within his prison in the Dreamscape.

Maybe it was the shared nostalgia within his own heart, that little bit of his true self that he thought died when the Family tore out everything that made him who he was, that made him return behind the bar and begin making Sunday another White Gentlemen, giving Sunday a small nod to beckon him over. He wasn’t expecting anything from it, and he masked his own surprise when Sunday actually left his little shelter to come and take a seat in front of him at the bar. Even while out of it, Gallagher made note of the quiet confidence the other still carried himself. Nothing seemed wrong to anyone else looking at him, only for the lost look in his eyes.

The first time in the many months that they’ve been skirting around each other, and finally they seemed to be face to face.

It was quiet as Gallagher made Sunday his usual drink, a drink he had been slowly changing over the months to be sweeter and sweeter that Sunday never quite seemed to notice, or if he did, he never said anything, only seeming to savor it more each subsequent night. Maybe not even Gallagher noticed his own changes to the drink, subtle as they were.

It was quiet as Sunday took the finished drink, and it was quiet as his eyes slid over the bartop to see the saxophone case laying open with the instrument inside. It was quiet as Gallagher followed his eyes, as he came out from behind the bartop to take the saxophone out and take a seat in a chair only one seat down from Sunday’s. It was quiet as Gallagher began to play to his audience of one.

It was quiet as Sunday quietly hummed along.

It was quiet as they both knew that it would not last.

OK yea so this was all because I heard ‘La vie en rose’ at the end of the Jazz night event and went “Damn I wish that’s Gallagher playing on his Sax” and then we spiraled.

Uh. Idk what it is with me having a small ship moment which then spirals into a full blown writing session. My mind blanked out and as I came to I find out that I made a whole ass little one shot over here then completely forgot about it WHOOPS

So yea, hope my fellow Galladay enjoyers… enjoyed! I think I’ve slowly begun to crave… not domestic or fluff per se from these two, but after every AO3 fic being super dark between them (which I get! They are the toxic yaoi kings of Penacony as of writing this, no one is denying that!) I think I want to see them be explored in a more melancholic sense. Not quite the “forbidden” love angle, but in the “damn we kinda have some parallels, and maybe in another life we could have gotten along but there’s too much baggage and anger, both historically and currently to really even try anything”

I have this feeling this may not be the last time I write about these two… is Galladay going to be the ship that gets me to actually use my AO3 account?

[loosingmoreletters]

“Oh, how big are your fandoms?”

Small.

[ryssbelle]

Poppy for N2 au, it took me so long to make her design cuz I didn't really know what I wanted to do only because I feel like her design is pretty perfect.

But then I just thought about fun outfits to give her or outfits that I would find comfortable if I was wearing them and it all came together.

Poppy here is pretty much the same as here movie counterpart, as nothing really changes on her end of things other than having more insight on Branch through his brothers, and through Lief. Shes also a bit more understanding a bit earlier on because of it but it doesnt do much to change her own character arc I would say.

Bonus

Part of Poppys design was based off a design I had made for previous rulers of Troll Village/Tree

Namely Queen Protea who I designed as Poppys grandmother

Named after the Protea flower which part of her design is based off :D

In the context of this Au Protea was the one who conceptualized the tunnels while her son, King Peppy, was the one to follow through after her death

[tyciel]

officially introducing my geto teacher au *puts on my party hat* *cries into my hands*

[tugoslovenka]

Warding Bond - Chapter 4

Revelations

A/N:

Also posting on AO3!

The night’s slumber proved quieter than the punishment rooms for the disobedient lambs who tested Raphael’s patience on a bad day. Althea spent the hours staring at the painted ceilings, unable to stop herself from eye rolling at the heroic depictions of the famed vampire spawn, who naturally, was responsible for the defeat of the mind flayers.

The Decadent. A name that suited him, although it puzzled her why he encouraged its use in the first place. His ego was too easily bruised to be referred to as a common sinner, so being cited as the elven embodiment of societal decline shouldn’t have bode well for his newfound image.

A knock at the door prompted Althea to reach for the dagger under the fluffy pillow. A second after, an elven woman—not Elowyn this time—poked her head in. Her eyes were glazed over like the morning mists, and her voice held the same emotionless tone shared by most of his other spawn.

“Lord Ancunín requests your presence in the dining hall.”

Althea had no right to object to this request. Then again, she couldn’t recall a time when she could reject anyone.

It took her a few minutes to rummage through the five dresses she brought for this operation. Olive was a color that suited the duskiness of her skin tone—and the ivory of her disguise. It complimented the deep shade of copper in her eyes, especially alongside the touch of gold pigment she dotted onto the corners of her eyelids. Yet, even in crimson, she liked the eminence it brought out of her. Braids were quick to fix up and her hair wasn’t acting troublesome like the night prior, which meant she was dressed in under ten minutes.

The final touch included a single casting of Prestidigitation, for those small details that hid parts of her that would definitely raise concern with the master of the house. Especially the fangs.

The dining hall, she had learned, was just one room north of the main ballroom where even the biggest sinners of the Nine Hells would blush at the displays his lordship allowed.

Tall walls garnished the large room that was engulfed in darkness, save for one candle in the middle of a long table. It took some time before Althea adjusted to the darkness, examining the displays of food. Fruits, vegetables, meats, nuts, oils—perfectly placed on expensive china with no speck of dirt to be found.

The scent receptors in her nose detected a richness which involuntarily prompted her lips to smack in search of the source. She was struck at the realization that she hadn’t consumed her morning blood vial. In the rush of her dressing, she hadn’t considered the countless temptations that would impair her clear thinking if she missed her window of opportune feeding.

A rather amateur start to the day.

“Hungry?”

The husky voice he used for show would undoubtedly make any fair maiden swoon. So she did the same. Astarion used a finger to trace the outline of a wine glass, undoubtedly filled with the contents of his victims from the night prior. His gaze was piercing, calculated, waiting for the right response.

Like a puppet would, she danced at the whims of his strings.

“Oh.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, feigning a blush as best she could. “I just—I haven’t had a good night’s rest.”

It wasn’t entirely untrue. The vials held just enough sustenance to keep her mind sharpened. They granted her fleeting leverage over her sanity, though only temporarily. Having adequate rest helped in her ability to deter the primal needs that cursed her daily.

Of course, those exact needs were now clawing at her thoughts, screaming for the nourishment in his grip.

His fingers cupped the bottom of the glass, raising it to his lips.  She heard slow gulping, carrying the deliciousness of whatever poor fucker met the business end of his fangs. She tried commanding every molecule in her body to heed at the liquid dripping down his chin, and yet still she felt her stomach growl in response.

Astarion gently patted over the spot with a linen cloth, his eyes fixated on the woman who, mere hours ago, was introduced to his gardenia of bloodlust.

“Please, my dear. Enjoy!” He gestured to the feast that was undoubtedly prepared for this very meeting.

Half-truths were defensible. Lies were not. Raphael often shared the wisdom of his insight, pointing to the power that partial sincerity had over those who might have spotted falsehoods in his statements.

How she was to justify her hesitation without revealing her vampirism was another matter entirely. Spawn, similarly to their masters, could ingest nothing but blood to stay alive. What the living relished in, the undead couldn’t stomach. The difference was his lordship could handle a bite of a butter bun without vomiting his insides.

She could not.

With another forced grin, she awkwardly rattled the tall chair nearest to her—farthest to him—before settling comfortably against the cushions that supported her back.

“I suppose it would be rude of me to deny this food,” she began, leering at the bowl of fruits to her left.

“I suppose it would be. Although, was there a reason to refuse my advances? You seem to relish in refuting me, Miss Prilith.”

She smiled nervously in response.

“I’m simply wondering why you took an interest in me in the first place,” she admitted, truthfully professing her perplexity at the situation. WhileLord Ancunìn was a known womanizer, tales of his conquests were subtler than whisking away a complete stranger to witness the debauchery of his nighttime activities. 

A consummate gentleman, as he liked to refer to himself, would certainly not stoop that low.

“How could I not? You are striking, my dear.” He shrugged nonchalantly, as though it was obvious. 

“You flatter me.” She bowed her head, recalling Haarlep’s repetition of manners maketh brides even out of the simplest harlots. Men like Astarion would—do—find her meekness a testament to their strength. Vampires especially preyed upon the weak, though the lordling would probably protest that it was his undeniable charm that was the catalyst to his conquests.

Not even as a spawn did Astarion possess the bewitching powers he thought he did. A pretty face did most of the work for one night of passion and his, Althea would admit, was rather handsome. The wine in her belly and a loosened tongue did the rest.

“Nonsense!” he dismissed her embarrassment with a wave. “I have lived for many years, Miss Prilith. I have taken many consorts. None have drawn me in quite like you have.”

Like a moth—.

“What am I to do here?” she wondered, placing both elbows on the table and pushing her body against the edge of the wood. Immediately, his eyes lowered towards the valley of her breasts that were practically spilling out of their confines.

—To a flame.

He stood then, prompting Althea to lean back in her seat, following his deliberate steps as they stalked the length of the table. 

“Not much. All that you desire. You are under no obligation to do anything—or nothing at all.”

Devils had a manner of speaking that poached a person’s trust. Vampires, being the less powerful tricksters, did the same, she would have imagined. The riddles that escaped his mouth, coupled with the uncomfortably long eye contact pointed to a scheme she was being slotted into.

“I’m not sure I follow...” She placed both hands on the arm rests, gripping the rail on the side he couldn’t see. Her mind raced to the wooden stake and dagger that were fastened against her midriff, thinking of all the ways she could release them before he had the chance to sink his fangs into her neck.

“You are fascinating,” he whispered, trailing the table with his finger as he approached. Only once he paused a few feet in front of her did she allow herself to exhale.

“How so?”

“You come to my home, knowing full well the stories of the famed vampire lord, the kinds of parties that hundreds of people beseech themselves into poverty to enter, and yet you act with false naiveté.” He leaned down, the smell of bergamot immediately catching her attention.

“I… I simply wanted—I just thought—I—”

“What is it you’re looking for really, Miss Prilith?”

Althea glanced down at the nails scratching her own hands in nervousness. She had kept them nestled in her skirt, confident in her ability to not expose herself as a bundle of nerves.

Raphael would call it the performance of her life. A frail little commoner, charging neck-first into the fangs of a man that would make her his property for eternity to come.

She was aware this could not continue should he start having doubts. What she also knew was that there were more than one way of getting his guard down—when he did.

“How is it you came to be vampire ascendant, Astarion?” she finally blurted out, looking up to meet his curiosity.

He propped his chin against his hand, his gaze fixed on hers.

“Is this some sort of jest?” He furrowed his eyebrows, visibly dumbfounded.

Before Althea could disagree, she felt three fingers pressing into the sides of her cheeks, holding her mouth shut, squeezing with such force that she felt pain in her teeth. His scowl highlighted a fine line near his lips, and it was the only thing she could focus on as he came so close that their noses touched.

“Because I don’t like jesting,” he pronounced each word in painstakingly slow fashion. The deep thumping inside her chest brought her back, both mind and body. With a hand hastily finding the side of his waist, she murmured an incantation she prayed was coherent enough to work.

“What are you—”

The smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils, while the vampire’s ear-piercing scream partially deafened her. Astarion leapt back instinctively, hands patting over the ignited leather of his vest. The unintentional cedar of wood almost added a touch of calm were it not for the circumstances. Part of the table had been charred too.

Shit, she cursed herself.

Disobedience was likely not tolerated in the Ancunín Estate. Neither from his servants, nor his guests. Whatever plans she may have curated in the weeks of preparation for this very moment were now turned into ash alongside some of the oranges atop the nearby fruit bowl.

If she were honest, Raphael would probably have given her an hour before things went belly-up given her inexperience. Having lasted half a day, she was happy to beat the odds of her own dilettantism.

Quickly getting to her feet, Althea began backing away until she felt the cold wall against her back. The fires had already been extinguished, leaving but a wispy plume of smoke now visible through the single remaining candlelight. It was the two glowering red eyes, however, that she had to focus on.

“Who are you?” he asked, moving through the chair she just sat on as if it weren’t there. Swirling the weave through his fingertips, the hand at his side began radiating a vivid scarlet glow.

This gave her pause. Lord Ancunín was a notorious rogue during his days of adventuring, and even the stories that didn’t come from his mouth spoke of a shadow in the night that was capable of slicing throats at a moment’s notice.

A spellcaster, he was not. At least not according to the information she was given.

“Althea Prilith, my lor—” 

A harsh slap promptly shut her up. Flames tickled at her skin, burning away the thin strands of hair that were dangling in front of her face.

“Do not lie to me,” he warned.

Distant sounds of running drew her attention before she could respond. Not even a moment later and the door to the dining hall was pushed open, two elven spawn spilling inside in a panic.

Fast dogs. Obedient.

“My lord, are you alright?” Elowyn piped up first, her eyes narrowing once she scanned the disorderly scene. 

“It’s alright, pet. Leave us.”

“My lord, please allow us to rid you of this nuisance!” the male elf pitched in.

“Nonsense, River,” he barked, evidently annoyed at the lack of trust. “If you are needed, you will be called.”

The conversation lasted long enough for her to notice the smell of bergamot once more. The spectral claw that had just struck her was pressed against the wall, right at her side. The other rested over her head. He had her pinned with no way out but through a show of force—something she was certain he wanted to see again.

The spawn exchanged a look before quietly closing the door behind them. The muffled whispers that followed meant they didn’t stray too far. Any attempt at subduing him would mean reinforcements she could not take on. This estate was—while curiously quiet—probably crawling with hundreds of minions ready to do their master’s bidding. Risking that kind of confrontation was foolish at best.

“If you refuse to answer, I will make you,” he threatened, closing the space between them until she felt his cool body on her exposed skin. “Although, I have missed these quarrels.”

She sighed.

“My name is Althea.”

Partially true.

He nodded, apparently content with that response.

“I’m here to inquire about the details of your ritual. I want to know how you completed the Rite of Profane Ascension without the missing soul.”

“Has Thomas been digging in my affairs again?” Astarion inquired, mostly to himself. “I should have had that appalling excuse of a print shop shut down years ago.”

“Thomas?” She racked her brain, trying to remember the name and if it held any significance.

He seemed to pick up on her confusion, which only increased his inquisitiveness, judging by his expression.

“This isn’t another embarrassing display at asserting power through Baldur’s Mouth, is it?”

Althea slowly shook her head, not knowing if she was truly better off being dishonest, unnerved by the subtle smile that crept up on his face.

“Ah,” he cleared his throat, taking a step back and dusting off the cinders lingering on his clothes. “Apologies then. It seems an old man needs lessons in manners after all.”

His hand had returned to its pale color, and it was now being offered to her identically to the night prior. His head motioned towards the opposite end of the door she had arrived from as he patiently waited for her response.

What in the Nine Hells?

“I can see your thoughts forming into sentences from here, darling.” His posture hadn’t changed and Althea was certain he had forgone the need to breathe by how still he was. His voice held a confidence she only saw in three other men in her life. It terrified her, knowing she was about to enter the lion’s den with a pumping heart dangling from open ribs.

Whatever Astarion had in store through those doors was likely not in her favor.

“Come.”

Still, the clock was ticking. The pact only lasted for another 95 days. She couldn’t afford wasting an opportunity alone with the vampire, even if she had the disadvantage.

Like the docile lamb she had learned to become, she took his hand and followed the shepherd—the butcher—without uttering a sound. His grip turned soft once he was confident she wouldn’t escape. Just to be safe, he intertwined their fingers like a loving husband would his wife. The thumb occasionally brushed at her skin, likely a force of habit from sick comfort he gave all his victims before their untimely death.

“Oh come now, you can’t expect me to believe you took on a pack of ghouls!” Asarion slammed against the cracked wood of the bar inside Elfsong Tavern.

He had already consumed three glasses of wine, and excused himself each time after some silent gags he thought Varra wouldn’t notice. Nobles rarely had the stomach for alcohol that wasn’t distilled down to water.

The pale elf that met her acquaintance a few hours ago took to her like a bee to honey. He was transparent in his advances, posturing and repeating the same compliments he had most likely used on another unsuspecting poor. She didn’t say anything to break the illusion of his charms—anyone dressed in his attire surely belonged to a house worth rummaging through.

“Not by myself. I had help.” She crossed her legs, accidentally bumping the hilt of the longsword that was jammed between the planks of wood the owner called a floor.

“Oh?” He coughed uncomfortably, mirroring her and crossing his own legs in the process. “Anyone in here?”

“No. They prefer outdoor celebrations.”

A sigh of relief. Subtle, but she caught notice of it.

“What a shame...” He poured another glass, filling it halfway before pushing it towards Varra.

She raised her hand in protest. “If I take any more, I won’t remember your pretty face after I’m done riding it.”

“Fair enough,” he grinned. “Far be it from me to deny a lady her demands.”

He reached a hand out, raising his brow in hopeful curiosity. She considered it for a moment, knowing the dangers that Baldur’s Gate posed in the dead of night. Weapons dangled from the belt around her waist, but the wobble in her knees from the drinks Astarion had been buying her did present a potential problem.

Still, she took it. As though on cue, he intertwined their fingers and pulled her to her feet. He left on the table two gold pieces for the tavern keeper, who eyed him throughout the evening.

He was cold. Unusually cold for a man whose body was at least one-third wine.

“Where are we going?”

Blinking, she returned to the chilly halls of the Ancunín Estate. Her mind failed to remember the turns that brought her to this long hallway, or even how she got there in the first place. The ache in her shins hinted at a long flight of stairs, and the mist expelled by her breathing suggested she was being dragged somewhere high.

The tower. The newest extension of the manor that overlooked the sleeping city of Baldur’s Gate—and Astarion’s private quarters, rumor had it.

The passage of time was a strange concept to Althea. Some nights she would find herself staring into nothingness for what seemed to be moments—before she found her skin burning from the dawning sun. It shouldn’t have been so hard to separate thoughts from reality, though an acquaintance once told her to find kindness in her healing. A laceration from a monster was easily fixed; the century-old cut from a devil toying with the very essence of her being was not.

The foreign tongue the vampire shouted in was unfamiliar to Althea. The doors she sensed were protected by ancient magic appeared ordinary enough; still, she suspected attempting to pass through would incinerate her, at the very least. They parted, casting scarlet light from the room into the hall. Arcane lights illuminated a featureless room, which was barren of any furniture.

He stood before her, reveling in the smell of something she had grown familiarized herself with not too long ago—death—before stepping aside to reveal the single ornament that decorated the space.

“What is this?” Althea breathed, instinctively clutching at her waist where she knew her weapons rested.

A man. An elf. A rotting elf whose flesh was separating, falling to the ground like leaves during autumn. He was long dead, that much she knew, yet his body seemed to recycle the process of decomposition—never fully breaking down. His skin was covered in scars, undoubtedly from daggers that once pierced at it. There was no blood. His head was hanging low, hands tied with invisible chains that held his body in a kneeling position.

Astarion unceremoniously made his way to the corpse, at first gently pushing his fingers through the jet-black strands of hair that veiled most of his face. With a violent jerk, he raised the head—mouth open, eyes gouged—which prompted Althea to gasp.

Cazador Szarr. 

[harrowscore]

can't believe a show based on a videogame (usually games adaptations are notoriously bad, which isn't the case here tho) gave me the beauty and the beast/twisted mirrors/enemies to traveling companions/ruthless antihero+optmistic but still badass heroine who takes none of his shit/age gap but make it sexy dynamic of my dreams. as much as i love maximus and i think he deserves the best writing ever because 1. he's a clever deconstruction of the aspiring Knight bro who's actually a bit of a loser and, as much as lucy, sees the world in black&white at first and then doesn't get what he thought he wanted but what he needs (or at least i hope he'll eventually get it), and 2. he's a cutie and i want an epic love story for him too, it's very funny how they tried to give us a puppy kind of romance and the tumblr girlies still fixated on the "toxic ~she bites his finger off and he cuts hers off and sews it on his hand in what we'll pretend it's a symbolic marriage rings exchange or whatever~ asshole who used to be a nice guy/good girl™ with a lot of spunk and hidden anger but unshakeable morals" kind of relationship.

[ywpd-translations]

We need more engagement in this fandom!

So, as the title says, because I was thinking about this - I love this manga with all my heart as you very well know, and the main reason I started translating is because I wanted more engagement in the fandom, which was pretty much dead. Well, it still kind of is, which brings me here lol

I tried to keep this blog translations only to keep everything more in order and make it easy to find the various chapters and all, and I kept all my theories and ramblings either in the tags or on my main blog, except for the times I got asks.

But I would love for this fandom to be more active! I wanna talk about theories and headcanons and ships and all that! I want this fandom to start living again :')

So I was wondering - would you people like it if I started also posting about that kind of stuff? Reblogging fanarts, posts, fanfics or whatever I see around? Would you like to engage more in the fandom? I'm asking because: 1) maybe you'd prefer it if this blog stays translations only, kinda like an archive; 2) maybe there aren't many people who actually wants to engage in fandom activities anyway lmao

I'm asking honestly! I just really would love for this fandom to be active again :')

[ao3-crack]

(x)

[ambrosiagourmet]

When it comes to shipping or relationships in general in fic, if the characters are well defined and compelling in canon I don't care whether they actually have an established relationship dynamic or obvious reason to be hanging out. It's really fun to throw two guys together and think about how their neuroses would bounce of each other. What shared experiences they might connect over. What their mutual relationships might reveal.

Dunmeshi is this times 100 for me bc like even the smallest interactions characters do have are so rich and compelling. Almost every character has a backstory that could be a whole story unto itself. The layers of their histories and motivations are so rich and fascinating and fun to pick apart. I reread like 10 pages of one chapter and now my mind is spinning about Mithrun and Marcille and what they would think of each other at various points in the story and in post-canon. What they would do if thrown together in a crisis. How they could support each other or tear each other down.

Anyway this is part of why I think its so silly when I see people like complaining about certain ships bc characters don't interact much or don't interact romantically or whatever. The ingredients are here for a hundred different delicious feasts. What's wrong with getting a little silly with it.