#the bard turns in his grave

[wastemanjohn]

dean & john // william shakespeare - sonnet 35

[frantic-fiction]

I'll Find My Way Back to You

(Can't find source of pic if it's yours let me know)

Astarion x GN!Reader

Prompt: A century after Tav passes Astarion comes across an artist who is oddly familiar and paints moments that seemed to be pulled straight from Astarion's life.

Thank you to @justporo for letting me use their idea. Go show them some love.

Warnings: Tav's death, brief mention of s*icide, angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 4.6k (Oops kinda went overboard)

Masterlist

“There’s no world I wish to live in without you,”

“My dear Astarion, we will find our way back to each other. This is not the end.”

Over a century has passed—a long, lonely century without Tav by his side. Astarion doesn’t understand how he’s endured, not with the void in his chest that appeared the moment he laid them to rest. The absence of his person, his love, his Tav, has left Astarion once again alone. 

For nearly a decade, he found himself trapped in a state of near-catatonia, a prisoner of time within their empty home. He wasted away, the days blending into one another, each marked by a silent ache in his chest—the void left by Tav’s departure. Tears soaked into the earth of the carefully tended grave, adorned with vibrant flowers from Tav’s garden. He often contemplated surrendering to the sun’s embrace, letting its rays turn his existence to ash for a semblance of peace.

He yearned to end the pain, yet he refrained. He made a promise whispered with heavy hearts and painful sobs—a promise that forced them to confront the harsh reality that Tav would always leave first. Instead of embracing the end, Astarion wasted away, a ghost of his former self, yearning for the return of his love. Change arrived when Tav visited him in a dream; the details were blurry, but Tav’s beautiful smile was etched in memory. The sweet words in that dream eluded him, yet upon waking, a faint lightness settled within him. Astarion graced the night with a flicker of energy for the first time since Tav’s passing.

Tav would have wished for him to move on. They would have wanted him to live. The stagnant life he clung to wasn’t what Tav would want for him. So that day, Astarion gathered his essentials into a bag and set forth as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. Only momentarily stopping to bid his love a final, tearful farewell. Since that moment, he hasn’t stopped moving.

Astarion believed Tav would take pride in the life he’s built—the good he’s accomplished over the many years. He traversed all over Faerun, from Waterdeep to Skull Crag, never lingering in one place for too long. He wasn’t the hero Tav was, but he aided towns against monsters, dispatched goblins, and took odd jobs to help however he could. Throughout his travels, he dedicated most of his time to sharing stories of Tav, ensuring their memory lived on. When he first heard the bards’ songs recounting the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, he knew he had succeeded. Now, you can’t sit in a tavern without hearing tales and melodies about Tav.

Every day, he longed for Tav to be by his side. He yearned to feel their soft skin, experience their tender kisses, and sense their warm arms encircling his waist—the echo of their laughter dancing in his ears. He missed every aspect of Tav and would do anything to see them again. Yet, the world ran out of miracles for him. Instead, he learned with time to cope, to come to terms with their absence, and keep them close to his heart. 

***

Astarion traverses the dusty cobblestone of Wyrm’s Crossing and finds himself back in the heart of Baldur’s Gate—a city he’s consciously avoided for most of the century. It’s a place drenched in memories from his past life with Cazador, but mostly, the streets seem to be haunted by the presence of Tav.

His return to Baldur’s Gate remains shrouded in mystery. All he can discern is that he awoke one day in Daggerford, gripped by an inexplicable yearning to revisit the city. A compelling force tugging him down the Sword Coast, Astarion initially dismissed it as mere homesickness, scoffing at the notion. Yet, the persistent thought lingered, infesting his mind until he could no longer ignore the instinct to return.

The city remains strikingly unaltered despite the passage of time and the trials it endured. The same piss-stained cobblestone, alleyways cluttered with remnants of urban life, and a diverse array of inhabitants navigating the night. It’s an unsettling constant, especially juxtaposed against the transformation of Astarion’s existence.

Wandering through the back alleys and side streets, Astarion meanders aimlessly. Occasionally, a sight triggers memories, evoking a lump in his throat. The Elfsong Tavern, once familiar, now bears a different name and identity, a formal establishment concealing the echoes of nights spent in Tav’s comforting embrace. Bloomride Park, the graveyard, and the docks—all weave together, painting a vivid tapestry of Tav’s omnipresence.

Amidst the tumult of emotions, Astarion grapples with why he subjected himself to this emotional turmoil. The urge to retreat, to flee Baldur’s Gate before the dawn breaks, lingers within him. Yet, the itch persists, buried deep within his bones, propelling him forward. He silently promises himself the night to wander the city, and by this time tomorrow, he will be on his way to another town for another adventure.

Venturing into a dim, isolated street, Astarion observes a solitary lamplight spilling its soft glow from a store window. Peering through, he discovers a small art studio. Within, a graceful elf seems to dance with a paintbrush, each stroke deliberate yet flowing. Like a harpie song, Astarion is mesmerized and utterly captivated. He watches on silently, observing the elves happily consumed with their work. It gives him a wave of nostalgia, moments of watching Tav as they painted, unaware he was watching from the door. Astarion could almost hear the sweet hums that filled the room between brush strokes. 

Then he freezes, gaze snapping to the paintings that adorn the studio, scattered reflections of his life. Images of Karlach, Shadowheart, and all the others grace the space. However, it’s the depictions of himself that seize his breath. Compelled by an unseen force, Astarion walks right into the studio. In a far corner, he sees an intimate portrayal—an embrace that resonates with familiarity. 

The bell rings, and you break from your artistic trance. Startled, you look up, and there stands the pale elf in the doorway—the hero of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion—the man who has clouded your dreams for as long as memory serves. Startled, you look up, and there stands a pale elf in the doorway—the hero of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion—the man who has clouded your dreams for as long as memory serves.

The dreams began as mere fragments—white curls, sharp teeth, delicate hands. Gradually, they evolved into more vivid scenes—muffled conversations by a campfire, laughter and gentle shoves, and stolen kisses between bed sheets—private moments of a stranger, a byproduct of an active imagination intertwined with an elven crush. Or at least that was what your mother would say. Now, the subject of those dreams stands before you.

Astarion, surrounded by the art that mirrors his life, fixates on a miniature portrait. The details are hazy, yet he recalls the campfire, the desperation in his gaze, and a significant confession followed by an embrace.

You pick up a fallen brush with a trembling hand, placing it in a water cup. Asterion was just as breathtakingly beautiful as your dream portrayed, but to see him in person has your heart hammering in your chest and your breath quickening with nerves. Wiping paint-covered hands on your smock, you took a deep breath and gathered the courage to approach Astarion. 

Staring at the portrait, you utter quietly, “This one’s my favorite. Though I wish I could have captured the others’ images better.”

“Tav.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The person you painted. My partner Tav, they used to paint too,” Astarion’s voice carries the weight of unspoken emotions.

“Oh, yes. They were the leader of your group, if I remember correctly. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Astarion remains silent, the canvas now a source of unbearable memories. He moves through the studio, examining the art up close. It’s weird to have your muse perusing around your gallery. It’s embarrassing to have Astarion see just how many pieces have been dedicated to him. What do you do at this point? Should you follow him, tell him about each piece and the dreams behind them? No, that seems pretentious, so you retreat to the canvas you’ve been working on for the better part of the week.

This piece was different—a symbol rather than a person or scene. Rings of unknown runes fan out in jagged edges, evoking a sense of beauty tinged with profound sadness. It disturbed you to your core, but you needed to paint it. It’s how it always goes. Once a dream pops into your head, whether it’s a scene, a person, or a symbol, it refuses to leave until you’ve laid it on a canvas. Picking up the brush, you dip it back into the red paint and continue to bolden the lines. 

“Who are you?” Astarion’s voice is right behind you; you jump, knocking a pot of paint over. Cursing softly, you quickly right the pot, attempting to salvage the spilled paint. Paint isn’t cheap, and in your non-upper-class circumstances, every drop is precious.

“Oh, I’m sorry; I have been very rude,” you offer your name. “I, of course, already know you, Astarion. It’s hard not to come across the tales of the heroes of Baldur’s Gate, but I guess—” Your rambling trails off pathetically as something changes in Astarion. There’s tension in his shoulders, a coldness in his eyes. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you nervously play with a loose thread on the smock.

Astarion scrutinizes you with a piercing gaze, his eyes lingering on your face as if searching for hidden truths. The air becomes taut, charged with an almost palpable intensity. Then, as if propelled by an unseen force, he reacts like a tightly wound rubber band snapping. Reaching out, he harshly pulls you to him, bearing his teeth at you. Your stomach drops, shocked by the aggression. 

“Have you been following me? Stalking me?” His voice carries a storm of anger, his grip on your shoulders unyielding, the coldness of his touch akin to ice piercing through the fabric of your being. “Don’t lie to me because I’ve shown one person that fucking scar, and I buried them.”

Your heart races, fear coursing through your veins as you whimper a response, tears welling up in your eyes. “I-I don’t know, I’m sorry,”

“Don’t lie!”

“Please, I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know; I have dreams; I don’t know why, b-but I dream of you,” your voice falters, and your vulnerability is laid bare. “I dream of you, your friends, and places I’ve never been. I’m sorry, I’ll stop, I promise.”

As abruptly as his hands seized you, they vanished, leaving you stumbling to your knees, unable to contain the torrent of tears streaming down your face. Curling in on yourself, you can’t stop the cries of apologies and promises of never picking up a brush again, of burning every last piece in the room. 

Astarion looks down at you, his expression shifting from anger to a complex amalgamation of horror and something else—perhaps realization. Stepping away, he leaves you rooted to the spot. Your gaze fixed blankly out the window. Odd and conflicting emotions swirl within you—fear, confusion, longing?—all clashing fiercely. Amidst the tumult, one thought emerges with undeniable clarity—this won’t be the last time you see Astarion.

*

Astarion’s breaths come in ragged gasps as he runs through the barren streets, escaping the grasp of the haunting memories that threaten to consume him. His thoughts are a raging storm, and he pays no heed to the bewildered faces of those he rudely pushes past. The town of Rivington is a blur as he sprints through it, a desperate escape, picking a direction and refusing to stop until his body aches, halting only when the sun begins its ascent above the horizon.

In his frantic need to run, there was no consideration for shelter from the sun’s relentless rays. Mercifully, he stumbles upon an abandoned cave. Dry, dusty, and shrouded in darkness, it becomes his refuge. In a corner, he sinks slowly against the cool, rough wall to the ground, seeking solace in the obscurity.

Astarion pulls his knee to his chest, pressing his forehead against his crossed arms. Shaking and shivering, a stark contrast to the bitter summer heat enveloping the cave, he clings to his vulnerability. Eyes shut tight, jaw clenched, fingernails dig deep into his arms as if attempting to anchor himself in the reality that threatens to crumble around him.

Desperation claws at him, and he yearns for Tav. The desire to feel Tav’s warm embrace, hands crossing over his chest, pulling him close, torments him. He longs for the soft whispers of love and the gentle press of lips. Astarion can’t navigate this without Tav. He’s a mess, barely holding on, living each agonizing day, acutely aware that the best part of him is gone, and he can do nothing to reclaim it.

The cruelty of encountering such intimate moments from his past life with Tav wounds him deeply. These were moments meant for him and Tav alone. Realizing that a stranger could capture those cherished memories intended for one person alone turns his stomach.

Anger becomes a conduit for his overwhelming emotions, and the terrified look on the artist’s face is etched in his mind, an indelible scar on his conscience. Shame burns within him, a searing reminder of the boundaries he violated. Physically assaulting someone in their own space—what would Tav think of him now?

The artist adds another layer to Astarion’s confusion. The familiarity is uncanny—the excited calf raises, the almost-stumbles afterward, the nervous lip biting, puffed cheeks during deep concentration, and the mindless dancing when no one is watching. Every little thing the artist did mirrored Tav, and with all his memories physically displayed, Asterion finds himself lost in a sea of confusion. Why does this stranger resemble his love so deeply?

The bards’ tales of soulmates and reincarnation, once dismissed as mere children’s stories and fiction, now claw at the edges of Astarion’s consciousness. What if? What if Tav found their way back to him? Weirder things have happened in his long life, and the possibility plants a seed of hope within him.

Yet, he forcefully suppresses that hope. It won’t serve him, not now. Instead, he resolves to learn more. By nightfall, he returns to the city, catching the first boat to Waterdeep. After a day and some change, he stands outside the Wizards’ tower, resentment simmering as he contemplates turning to Gale, his best chance at answers.

A groan escapes Astarion as he hangs his head, and a series of knocks echo on the thick wooden door. “This better be worth it…”

The door swings open on its own into a dimly lit foyer. Astarion follows a familiar path, the cool air and faint scent of ancient tomes embracing him. He ascends the staircase with nostalgia and reluctance, each step echoing the countless times Tav and himself sought knowledge and assistance within these walls.

As he pushes open the study door, a scene unfolds before him. Gale is hunched over a worn scroll, graying hair ruffled, and a small pair of reading glasses set on the tip of his nose. The room is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, creating an intimate ambiance. Notes adorn the margins, evidence of Gale’s ceaseless quest for understanding.

Gale looks up, a broad, warm smile gracing his features, and Astarion is momentarily transported back to the times when this sage was only a joke he poked fun at across camp. Removing his reading glasses, Gale pushes up from his desk, an air of welcoming familiarity enveloping the room.

“Well, look who the tressym dragged in. How are you, Astarion?”

Astarion stiffens as he is pulled into a spontaneous hug by Gale. The embrace is both unexpected and oddly comforting, a physical manifestation of the genuine camaraderie they’ve shared through the years. Astarion, unaccustomed to such displays of affection, awkwardly pats Gale’s back before gently pulling away.

“I’m afraid I’ve been better.”

Gale’s eyes convey concern and understanding as he gestures for Astarion to sit. The worn chair creaks under the weight of memories and the weightier burden of Astarion’s troubled soul.

“Then sit down, my friend, and tell me how I can help.”

***

Days of tireless research and a network of favors exchanged between magical acquaintances have led them to a glimmer of hope. Though not expansive, the discovery hints at the possibility that souls entwined so tightly may have a magnetic pull toward each other. A pull is so strong that souls can find each other in different lifetimes. Tales have described soulmates experiencing memories from previous lifetimes together, but they were vague at best. The specific remains elusive, shrouded in mystery, yet it’s enough to kindle a spark of hope within Astarion’s lonely heart.

Gale, ever the bore, offers a gentle reminder, “Now, just remember, if you try to force feelings before—”

“I would never!” Astarion’s retort carries a venomous edge, an unspoken warning to watch his following words carefully. Gale raises his hands in defense. 

“My point is the brain is a prickly thing. It’s best not to rush anything it’s not ready for.”

“Yes, yes, you have said this five times already. Would you please activate the portal? I have an apology to make.”

Anticipation hums in the air, a palpable energy that courses through Astarion. A fleeting smile graces his lips, and for a moment, the weight of his grief is replaced by a glimmer of life.

Looking at Astarion with a fondness born of shared trials, Gale responds, “Of course, Astarion.”

With a confident shake of his wrist, he activates the magical circle, and the room is bathed in a radiant glow of bright runes, their purple luminescence dancing in the semi-darkness.

Astarion steps toward the portal, his heart pulsating with trepidation and newfound hope. However, before crossing the threshold, he turns around to face Gale, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Gale. I will not forget this.”

“It was my pleasure. Now, I expect to meet this lovely artist sooner rather than later.” Gale’s parting words hang in the air, infused with the hope of rekindling a connection beyond the realms of understanding.

*

Back in the heart of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion swiftly navigated the bustling streets, an air of anticipation accompanying him. His purpose was clear—to reach your studio and beg for your forgiveness. A brief pause along the way allowed him to acquire a small bundle of daisies, a spontaneous choice fueled by the memory of Tav’s fondness for these delicate blooms.

As Astarion approached the studio, a surge of uncertainty clawed at him. Hesitation gripped his every step, the shadow of fear etched across his features. The fear in your eyes during the last encounter was seared into his memory. Had his previous outburst irreparably damaged any chance of reconciliation? The conflicting forces of his desire to see you again and the instinct to flee wrestled within him. Yet, he pressed forward, forcing himself down the street, and there you stood.

The scene that greeted him was a chaotic masterpiece of colors. Paint adorned your cheeks and arms, a testament to the artistic fervor that consumed you. Your hair, a cascade of untamed strands, framed a face that mirrored both exhaustion and creative passion. Astarion had a sudden urge to brush the strands away and press a soft kiss to your cheek, something he often did with Tav.

Your weariness was palpable—shoulders slumped, eyes half-lidded. Perhaps, he pondered, he should postpone this encounter, allowing you the reprieve of rest. The realization that he might be the last person you wanted to see compelled Astarion to take a step back, an unspoken retreat.

But just as he moved to leave, your eyes jumped up to meet his, you froze mid-stroke, and Astarion couldn’t read your expression. He should go. Why did he think this was a good idea? He’s just about to run when you nod for him to come in. Obliging, Astarion found himself standing awkwardly within the studio; you went back to painting. Your brush danced across the canvas, applying a vibrant shade of blue in deliberate strokes. Astarion’s attempts to break the silence faltered, his words dissolving into the room’s stillness.

“What are you doing here, Astarion?” The steadiness in your voice pierced the calm. You tried to hold on to your anger for the man all week. But upon seeing him standing so lost on the street had your resolve crumbling. You can’t deny the mild excitement that fluttered through your veins upon seeing him again.

His voice, momentarily lost, found its way back. “I-I came here to apologize for last week. My behavior was deplorable, and I wish to make things right.”

A wry amusement flickered in your eyes as you evaluated the bouquet, now slightly worse for wear under his tight grip. “And you believe a bundle of broken daisies would win you my forgiveness?”

Astarion, caught off guard, looked down at the bruised bouquet. “Um…well, I was hoping for roses, but they were fresh out.”

A snort escaped you as you put down your paintbrush and approached him. A tentative touch on his forearm transferred the flowers from his grasp to yours, eliciting a shiver down his spine. The longing to reach out is strong, but Astarion holds still as you retreat.

Intently studying the daisies, you began to divide the bundle into two piles. Astarion watched silently, recognizing echoes of Tav’s essence reflected in your actions. While understanding that you were not Tav, the profound sorrow gripping his heart seemed to ease in your presence.

“Half,” you declared suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“Half of the daisies survived.”

“And where does that leave us?”

With a theatrical flair, you pondered the question, pacing the room. “That, good sir, is the question. What is my forgiveness worth? I did luck out; daisies are my favorite, so you’re a step farther than roses would have gotten you.” 

Astarion, grasping the playful undertone, decided to play along. With a hand on his hips and a wicked smirk, he responded, “Well, I am a pretty lucky man. Now, please, I beg, what more can I do to gain your forgiveness?”

You hummed softly, tapping your chin. You keep Astarion in suspense for a moment before you suddenly turn to the man. “How about…I get dressed, you take me out to dinner, and we’ll go from there?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” The agreement hung in the air, a hope for something more lingering. 

***

The dinner evolved into an evening stroll, a seamless transition from pleasant chatter to playful banter. It was an unexpected evening, but the time spent with Astarion was so easy, so familiar you didn’t want it to end. Reading about the saviors of Baldur’s Gate was intriguing, and dreaming of a vampiric elf held its allure, but nothing compared to the tangible presence of the real Astarion.

Astarion embodied the epitome of perfection – handsome, intelligent, and endowed with a wit that had you giggling all night. He was the quintessential gentleman, the embodiment of every mother’s hopeful wish for their child.

What started as a single date quickly snowballed into a series of enchanting encounters – one date led to two, then five, until you found yourself drawn into his orbit every week. The pace was exhilarating, and being around Astarion felt like being charged with an electric current. It was not just addictive; it was a whirlwind of happiness, and you couldn’t help but revel in it.

If one indulged in whimsical tales, the idea that Astarion might be your soulmate would have crossed your mind. His ability to read you so intimately sometimes felt like he delved into the depths of your mind.

The dreams persisted, evolving into a kaleidoscope of memories that intertwined your moments with Astarion and a phantom era where someone else shared his company. Astarion, at times, would cast glances at you as you transferred another dream to canvas, an anticipation lingering in his eyes. Despite his attempts, he couldn’t veil the disappointment when the visions resulted in nothing more than another painting adorning the wall.

Then, it occurred on a serene spring day, three years since Astarion first entered your studio. The sun had yet to set, and you found solace curled up with Astarion. Limbs tangled, chests pressed together, hands intertwined – a tableau of intimate connection. His cold nose nestled against the crook of your neck, his white curls playfully tickling your nose.

Behind your closed eyelids, soft images of a forest clearing unfolded – Astarion shirtless, beckoning you towards him. Something clicked, and suddenly, the foreign memories that greeted you each night became a mosaic of your own experiences. The floodgates opened, overwhelming you with a lifetime of moments – kisses beneath the stars, laughter resonating around a campfire, and heart-stopping close calls with death.

Astarion often spoke of Tav, a robust and kind soul who played a pivotal role in shaping him. He wouldn’t be who he is today without them. You now knew a bit better; yes, you had nudged him along the way, but his growth was his own, and you couldn’t be more proud. To think of the years he spent without you, the grief he must have had to push through. If the roles were reversed, you don’t believe you would have been strong enough to keep going.

Startled from his slumber, Astarion found your body descending upon his, your hand meeting his chest with firm slaps. “Stop you, little gremlin.” Groggily, he attempted to restrain you in a tender embrace. He was met with your swift departure from his lap. He heard the patter of your feet retreating from the bed.

“You are a bastard, Astarion!”

Fully alert and by your side instantly, “What did I do, my sweet?”

Worry etched into every crease of his face as he cupped your jaw, looking frantically into your eyes. You intertwined your fingers with his, your other hand reaching out to caress the skin of his hip. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Astarion scrutinized your face, his eyes delving deep into yours. The faintest furrow of his brows betrayed his thoughts. As if following an unspoken script, he pulled you in by the waist, foreheads gently meeting.

Glistening with unshed tears, Astarion whispered, “You remember?” His voice trembled.

“Yes… maybe it’s all still tangled. But yes, I remember Tav – well, I remember us.”

Astarion’s smile widened, his fangs peeking out, and his lips met yours in a heated kiss spinning the two of you around the room. It was a slow dance of lips as if Astarion had all the time in the cosmos to savor this moment. While you could quickly lose yourself in the embrace, you were privy to all his subtle tricks. You turned your face when he attempted to draw you back into the kiss.

“Gods, Astarion, for three years, you knew and never said anything. I’ve painted you for almost as long as I could wield a brush, and for three years, you knew why!” Another slap graced his chest, and tears trickled down your cheeks, eagerly wiped away by his thumbs.

“I wanted to, my love. The moment I realized I wanted to. But this couldn’t be rushed; you can’t rush the mind.”

“Star, I’m so sorry I took so long,”

“No, stop; you took as long as you needed to return to me.” His forehead rests against yours once more, and the room stands still for a moment. “What matters is you’re here, in my arms, and I’m not letting go anytime soon.”

A choked sob mingled with a chuckle, and you nuzzled closer into Astarion, hiding your face into his neck. “Gods, I love you, Astarion.”

“And I love you.”

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

Okay loves, let me know what you think. I've been working on this for over a week and still find some sections I'm not all that happy with, but I want to move on to other pieces. Any and every interaction makes my day.

Taglist: heartfully10, ayselluna

[bellrose]

A Kindness

Summary: Your brother has been lost to the flames at Rook’s Rest and the anxious whispers of the Court do not give any consolation. However, the words of a knight in green do. How you wish you could give him a kindness in return.

Gwayne Hightower x female reader

Warnings: Angst. Loss of a family member. Descriptions of injuries by dragon fire

Word count: 2.615

The host had returned to Kings Landing with a fanfare akin to a funeral march. 

The flies buzzing like bees amongst the rotten flesh of Meleys a song for the dead. Vhagar had been there on the battlefield, the King himself fallen from the sky, and the hope you held close to your heart and in prayer had been a child’s dream.

Your brother isn’t among the men climbing stiffly from their horses. Nor the men carrying the banners with their ragged edges, specks of rusty brown marring the King’s crest. He won’t drink with his fellow brothers in arms, revelling together in their victory until the cups double in their quantity. He will never smile again. A crooked smile, for he had lost a tooth during a tourney right before attaining knighthood.

No, he will never return.

You’d known when Father received the raven and his hands shook to hold the message. The sight of Meleys’ severed head being paraded through the streets a finality. It is an omen, the folks whispered to themselves. For who dares to slay such a formidable creature? Your brother laid rotting like the mighty beast and the hapless mass of fallen soldiers. Overlooked by Sisters guiding them through their final hour, if they were lucky that is. 

The dead don’t speak. They wait to be reunited with their families. Or to be lost in a field. 

Nameless. Forgotten.

Turned black like coal at the bottom of the hearth they’d whisper. Faces molten into an eternal scream they'd hush behind fans flapping away the noon sun. I heard they fed the remains of those poor boys to one of those beasts, for the sheep had fled. How awful!

There are others who share your grief, who barely leave the Sept or gorge themselves on any rumour that might bring reprieve. The Ladies of the Court give you their pity, their condolences, though it is half-hearted and they refuse to look upon you truly. You do not blame them. 

Rumours cannot explain the seven hells that had opened up on those grounds, and with the King’s condition a barely kept secret, they grow less sensical by the day.

Father would know, for he wakes up with a tome in his hand and an age old tale on his tongue. Surely he must know the truth? You wish he would speak to you, but he has thrown himself into his duties and refuses to receive you in his small chambers. 

Ladies smile demurely and sip politely on sweet reds. They don’t scream. There are no more tears to cry. You’ve exhausted your grief to the point your eyes feel dry and brittle. Like parchment, and you wonder how long it will take until you, too, shall crumble underneath the dragon’s might.

“Lady Waye says the Queen has shadows underneath her eyes as deep as the night,” Edeva murmurs to your right, low enough that only your ears catch it. “That her whispering has returned tenfold.”

“I think her Queen’s Ladies in waiting should put their grave concerns into action instead of turning to gossiping,” you bite, a bit louder than intended, only it gets lost in the clamour of tinkling glasses and a bard playing the lute. 

Edeva has been your companion, a good friend to turn to in the halls of the Keep, and you feel ashamed for pushing her aside. She tries to distract you by pointing out the dish full of lush summer fruits being set upon the table by a servant. However, the sight of their ripe, glossy skins makes you nauseous.    

Without announcing your leave, you slide past the gowns and grapes further into the Keep. You have no destination in mind, other than it has to be anywhere but here. 

The stairs blur beneath your heavy skirt. Every breath locked high in your throat. You turn a corner, another, the colourful tapestries twirling in your periphery. The stories they tell a mockery. A servant leaps out of your way. Another step of stairs, and then - the sound you keep hidden escapes into a shocked huff when you collide against something solid.

A hand grabs your wrist to steady you, warm through the dark brocade.

It does not take long to recognize who stands before you. The tower spewing flames engraved on the leather doublet telling enough. His ruddy hair brings forth the invitation to a dance, that same hand guiding you over gleaming stone to the cacophony of a summer ball away in the past. Father telling another tale of a tourney. That dreadful day when the Stranger took Queen Aemma and her newborn son, when Prince Daemon drove him to the ground on his black steed.

You will never claim to know him well. Only a flash of red and green through the years when your paths crossed before taking residence in the Red Keep. Like so many faces he is out of your reach, a familiarity, but not an acquaintance.

Ser Gwayne Hightower's face does not bear any scars of Daemon’s lance. These are the nicks and scratches of a different battle.

He had been there. He had stood on the field where your brother met his grisly demise.

“Apologies Ser,” you whisper, voice cracking around the syllables. You retract your hand and slowly bow your head and knees in curtsy.

“The apologies are all mine, my Lady. The halls of the Keep are mighty. I fear my feet get lost in their splendour,” he says, the hint of a smile on his face a tad tight-lipped.

The steps of the seat of the Hightowers can be more daunting, and the structure itself grander than the Red Keep could ever be. You feel there is more to the white lie, a contempt.

There is a horror hidden in the ashes stubbornly clinging to the grooves and fibres of his clothing. His face has been scrubbed clean on the road, but the dirt of travel still sticks in his hairline, a little smudge behind his ear. You imagine you can smell it, even if leather and the natural musk of men try to hide it so. The stench of dragon fire; of burnt flesh and desperation, of loss - and if you cannot smell it you can see it in his eyes.

Gwayne does not possess the doe brown of the Dowager Queen. His eyes shine brighter. Like the precious gems Lady Nelda likes to wear around her neck whenever the occasion arises. On another day they would have been inquisitive. A bit haughty. Now they are exhausted. Duller. Something unsettling swirling in those depths. You are hit with a different kind of familiarity, one of understanding.

“My Lady,” he bows.

The moment is gone. Gwayne averts his gaze to a point further down the hallway and you wish he would look upon you again.

The knight in green has taken but a few steps before you find your voice.

“My brother... Ser, I-”

He halts. The expression on his face is a mystery, though his shoulders stiffen.

“Was he in the company at Rook’s Rest?" he asks lowly.

Your nails bite in the palm of your hands. “Yes. He was.”

Gwayne turns back around. A scrutiny in those dimmed gems when they rove from your balled fists to your face, and you cannot start to guess what he finds there. The despair bottling inside overflows into a torrent.

“The men- They say dragon fire melts the flesh like wax. Turns the bones to dust, to scatter in the storm. That there is nothing left of their prey but soil to grow our gardens.” Something changes in his stance, the dullness receding and it encourages you even more. “Is that what is left of my brother? Dust? We cannot bury what is lost on the wind.”

“I do not know, my Lady.” Gwayne takes another step forward. “I do not know of the fate of your brother. I wish I could give you that amenity, to ease your mind.”

“Does it ease your mind, Ser?” you ask, aware how your tone is rising in pitch. Shrill. “To have witnessed the dragons dance and live to tell the tale?”

And how dare you pose such a question? When it is loud and clear he has witnessed the unspeakable that the fiery beasts left in their wake? But he is here, standing, breathing, and he sees.

“I wish it were that easy,” he answers, wavering before he rightens his shoulders, clenching his jaw. “We need to be brave, my Lady. Be brave for your brother. Be brave and find it on your own, as I cannot give you the solace you seek.”

“It is not solace that I seek. I-”

He cuts you off. “You want answers. You want an elaborate summation of his gruesome faith, is that it?”

Gwayne takes another step forward, closer now, and you have to lift up your chin to follow. At first you believe it is rage that meets you, anger at your accusation. It is helplessness instead.

“Many good men died at the foredoor of Rook’s Rest. The dragons tear off each other’s limbs in the clouds, trampling them all underneath their feet and breath. What folly…”

He drifts off, his attention now on one of the many tapestries adorning the walls. A wry chuckle bursts from his lips. “It seems the many days on the road have disrupted my manners.”

“I fear there is no propriety in grief Ser,” you confess quietly.

Gwayne tilts his head sideways, considering your words, before he smiles once more. A real one this time, still edged in a shared sorrow, but it’s warmer.

“I guess not.”

“I do not know what I seek.”

“Then stop seeking.” His eyes find yours again, and his next words are spoken earnestly, kindly. “Do not tarnish what is the memory of your sibling, my Lady. He would have wished to be remembered whole, for then he cannot be lost to the winds.”

Gwayne grabs your right hand, unfolding the balled fist. His thumb stroking over the indents your nails left behind and turning the palm downward. His lips are warm when they touch your skin, lingering for a moment too long.

“A good day, my Lady.”

“Good day, Ser.”

You watch him go. Steady steps carrying him down the hallway. His words mulling over in your mind and for the first time in the past moon, ever since your brother left the Keep, you feel a peace.

The stone steps underneath the soles of your shoes are still a bit damp, the ground forth uneven where hoofs have trampled and disturbed the earth.

There’s a flurry of activity in the yard. Green with golden dragons on shields and banners, knights gleaming like silver coins rolling on a hardwood table. For a fleeting moment, you expect to see another face, one with a crooked smile who belongs only in your dreams now. 

And then you see him.

Dressed in his armour bounding towards his horse, as if he cannot wait long enough to leave. As if Kings Landing is worse than what awaits outside its seven gates. Perhaps it was, or he would rather not delay the inevitable. And what is that? A quick death? No.

Ser Gwayne offered you a kindness with his understanding, and you wish to understand him in return. To offer something steady in a world that is tilting on its axis the longer the war continues.

Deep in the pocket between the fabrics of your skirt, your hand grasps the hidden piece of cloth. The stitches tickle your skin. It steadies you, dousing the nervous thoughts that have been following you all morning. 

It’s not a handkerchief. Not in the traditional sense. You found it among the garments in the chest of your quarters. Dark green, almost blue, and the moment you touched it, an idea would not leave you alone.

The needle still feels clumsy at times between your finger tips, as you were never the patient pupil your mother had wished you to be and rather spent your time learning the harp, but the flowers they bore are delicate. Pretty. Refined. White petals with a core of deep orange; the colour of the sun peeking over the horizon. Your Septa would have been proud. Though, she would admonish the purpose behind it.

A kindness. Be brave.

It is that sentiment that moves you forward, past the guards standing sentry near the stairs and interweaving through the crowd filling the yard. His destrier, standing out with its magnificent armour, shining on the morrow, is in the hands of a squire. Gwayne does not see you coming, too busy speaking to the boy. Voice short and clipped.

“Ser Gwayne?”

The squire bows and runs off. Gwayne watches him go for a quick second before his gaze lands on your form. There’s surprise in the way his brows raise, the corner of his mouth turning up just so.

“My Lady,” he says, loosely gripping the reins of his horse. The destrier noses the pauldron at his shoulder. “How may I help you?”

Promise me to return all these men to their families, to come back, but that would be too much to ask and too forward, as if bestowing him with your needlework isn’t daunting enough.

“I sincerely regret not thanking you properly for what you said to me that day,” you state politely.

His head tilts down in understanding. The sun catches the red in his hair like honey. “Your regrets are misplaced. You do not need to thank me.”

“You misunderstand me Ser, I do.” Bolder now, you fish out the embroidered cloth from the hidden place of your dress. “You will be in my prayers, but please take this as a token of good fortune.”

He accepts the cloth mutely, brows rising further and gloved fingers studying the wreath of flowers you stitched along the edges. For a moment you fear the gift is too unbefitting after all, that the warmth that you had felt besides the kiss upon your hand a figment of your imagination. That he will reject it. 

He’s quick to crush those doubts, but not quick enough to halt the blush of regret that is slowly blooming on your nape. 

“I will cherish this gesture my Lady,” he says, eyes glittering. “But do not trouble yourself with concerns on my behalf, there are much more important matters to ponder.”

“This I cannot promise you Ser,” you answer honestly. “I’ll be awaiting your return.”

“That sight alone might make me forget the pungency these streets carry,” Gwayne parries, a hint of smugness that is purely in jest, and studies the cloth again. “White Lelas... They grow near Goldengrove, do they not?”

“Yes. My late mother used to put them in my crib when I was a mere babe, as my father tells me.” You think of the washed white stone of your grandfathers’ Keep and tall grasses holding a vast array of flowers. Too many to count. “I barely remember what they smell like, but I always thought they were quite charming.”

“Quite indeed,” Gwayne hums, though he is not looking at the cloth anymore. He turns towards his horse, looping it around a buckle on the saddle in a strong knot. The fabric will sway against his leg with every step the steed took. It will be with him when he confronts the enemies of the Crown.

A memory, a constant. 

“I hope the day will be upon us soon my Lady,” he says and the kiss on the back of your hand is a farewell.

For now.

Did I purposefully mirror the phrasing of “turned to dust” from Cole's we're-all-going-to die-anyway spiel for possible parallels and continuation purposes? Why, yes. Maybe. It was never my intention to write this anyway but the brainrot is real. Damn you, Freddie!

Thank you for reading

[ecc-poetry]

BALANCE THE PARTY

social justice barbarian Never met a nazi they wouldn't punch. Never met a cop they wouldn't call a nazi. Treats the soft animal of their body like a lance to the heart of a tyrant. Their anger is a gift from God– it transubstantiates.

social justice necromancer Reads her history. Says their names. Goes through cemeteries leaving flowers, grave-borrowing tactics. Coaxes the spirits from their beds to let them dance; we realize we have always been beautiful.

social justice rogue Unplucks the landlord's tapestries at night. She covers her face, she code-names, wipes the prints from her hand after shaking. She's a lot. A blade in the dark that daylight can't soften. She hums a mantra called mission; it's all the warning you'll get.

social justice bard Makes his sincerity a lute and plucks fingers raw upon it. Has brass knuckles on the inside of his throat. Knows what to say to soothe the scared guy sleeping rough, to make the officer laugh instead of shove.

social justice druid Gives you grace and space to grow. Makes a weird balm to calm your hurts. Turns into a panther once a day dispensing courage; turns into a dove once a day dispensing peace. Serves the world from the half-empty vessel in their heart.

social justice warlock Sold her soul to do DEI for a Fortune 500 company. Walks each day through thicketed razors, carving footholds in a hill of glass. The job takes its pint of blood so slowly, it is possible to believe she doesn't feel it.

social justice paladin Always knows the words. Is afraid of what will happen if they forget them. It's not an excuse, but it is sandpaper, truths nailed into the shoebeds. They're implacable from the outside. They can't believe I would love them without their fury.

social justice cleric The people tell her, "Your mouth ruined our movement. You suffer in silence all the time–what's one more?" She believes in a love whose demands cut friends and enemies alike. She cleanses, sad surgeon. She is martyred twice. From the ground where her tears fall, a perfect flower grows.

social justice warforged Has a fuckin' truck!!! He rolls up to mutual aid and the people rejoice at his truck. He is become a mover of things, a Christ-bearer: mattresses and gasoline, the girl who needs a ride across the state. She says bless you, bless your truck, and his heart swells. He never knew he could be so needed.

social justice giant crab Strength +1. Intelligence -5. She is a crab. She has 13 hit points and claws for hands– but she can breathe water and air. She knows what the surface looks like from underneath. She carries wisdom in her crab body that the arc of the universe will always bend to rediscover. Don't you get it? That we all have gifts to give?

-elisa chavez

[shy-urban-hobbit]

"I'm telling you Geralt, my songs are definitely working."

"A few contracts not skimping on payment isn't proof Jaskier. It's coincidence." Geralt replied as he stuffed his newly purchased supplies into Roach's saddlebag. After two years, he didn't need to look to know the bard was probably doing his uncanny impression of a landed trout. His default expression when he thought himself gravely offended.

"Oh hoho. So it's proof you want? Fine, I'll get you proof you old cynic - wait, I'm here calling you old, how old are you? I know Witchers age differently but it's all so contradictory. I remember one text claiming you aged backwards. Backwards!"

Geralt was blessedly distracted from Jaskier's tangent by a small tug on his cloak causing him to look behind him and then down.

A small, tear stained face with huge, liquid brown eyes looked up at him. The hand that wasn't clutching Geralt's cloak fisted in the skirt of a green dress as she shuffled her small, booted feet. Witcher and child stared at one another and even Jaskier had fallen silent.

"Are you the White Wolf?" She asked in a small voice.

Geralt could only nod in response, keeping an eye and both ears out for angry adults about to accuse him of kidnapping.

"I can't find my Papa." She sniffled, voice trembling and eyes welling up.

He felt himself slip into Witcher mode, trying to think what could be snatching people from a crowded town in the middle of the day, "What do you mean you can't find him, has he gone missing or-"

"Sweetheart, do you mean you got separated from your Papa in the market?" Jaskier gently interjected before Geralt could start fully interrogating her. The girl gave a small nod, turning her attention to the bard now kneeling in the dirt next to her.

Geralt felt his face heat up. Right. Just a lost child. That was also a possible (and the most logical) explanation.

"It's ok, we'll help you find him. Won't we Geralt?" Jaskier's tone of voice leaving no room for argument.

It turned out that Jaskier's idea of helping was having the girl perch on Geralt's shoulders and scan the top of the crowd for her father while he stood playing silly little dittys to keep her from crying again. Geralt holding onto her shins lightly and trying to ignore the mess being made on his cloak by muddy feet.

"I see him! Papa! Papa!"

Geralt tightened his grip slightly as her weight shifted with her frantic waving. Waiting until he was clearly making his way over to them before setting her gently back on the ground.

"Mika! Oh thank the God's." He turned his attention to the two men, his eyes widened as he took Geralt in fully.

"You're-"

"Hmmm."

Geralt tried to hide his surprise as the man grasped his hand in a firm if slightly clammy grip. "My thanks Wolf. I swear, if I went home without her my wife would make sure I shared the same fate as that Hag from the song of yours." He said, smiling awkwardly at his own attempt at humour, "Come on Mika, say goodbye. Oh, here."

He reached into his satchel and pulled something out. Geralt could smell warm sugar as he handed it over. "It's not much, but I don't know a single person who doesn't like cake. I could do with cutting down myself." He said, patting his own slight paunch before taking his daughters hand with a final "Thank you." Mika turning back to give a wave which they both returned before the two of them disappeared into the crowd.

"What?" Geralt asked as they left the town. The bard hadn't stopped grinning at him like the cat who'd got the canary.

"Nothing. It just, the timing and everything. Seems Destiny agreed with me for once. The songs are making a difference."

"Hmm." Geralt fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh don't give me that." Jaskier said, swatting Geralt in the side as he unwrapped the package Mika's father had given them, "You saw as well as I did there were plenty of town guards around but she went to you. She wanted you. Oooh, maybe this would be good for a new song. The Gentle Wolf! Yes I- hey! "

"No cake for you until you stop." Geralt stated, popping a piece into his own mouth to hide his smile.

[sl-vega]

♫ 05; ↠ STARTING ON A SOUR NOTE 

↳ my heart beats for you-a scaramouche smau

Both of your hands rested on either side of the sink in front of you as you pushed your weight onto it. The restrooms in Favonius were surprisingly fancy (and somehow super clean?) for a live house.

You lifted your gaze to make eye contact with your reflection.

Were you having an existential crisis in the bathroom to avoid an incredibly awkward encounter with your ex?

Yes.

Would Lumine scold you like a disappointed parent once you get back? (Assuming that you'd actually leave the peace and lovely solitude of the enclosed room)

Also yes.

You splashed some running water on your face to try and bring yourself back to your senses-not that you had any in the first place-but you'd digress.

You groaned as you lightly slapped yourself, hands still moist due to the sink water.

You looked into the mirror once more, your reflection's gaze daunting, it was almost as if the mirror was also telling you that you had to face the music (pun intended).

Suddenly you heard a knock, and an unfamiliar voice came from outside the restroom door.

"Um excuse me? Is someone in there?"

It was the voice of a young girl, probably around your age, most likely one of the employees.

You silently cursed underneath your breath, how long had you been in there? An hour? Two? Three?! It would be a miracle if they didn't think you had gotten sick or something.

"One second!"

You called out from inside, quickly smoothing out your clothes and drying off your face from the splash earlier. You zipped up the purse that you had brought into the room and you lifted your guitar case that was leaning against the wall and you turned towards the exit.

You opened the door, and the swing was more aggressive than intended. After stepping out of the restroom, you were met with a petite girl with light green hair with glasses and a name tag that read "SUCROSE" in gold print.

"Sorry I was just..."

You paused trying to think of a good excuse that wouldn't embarrass you.

"...doing my makeup!"

Yeah, real smooth there (Y/N)

The girl looked at you with a blank expression, her mouth forming an "o" shape, clearly trying to make you less uncomfortable by trying to believe your clearly untrue excuse.

"You're Miss (L/N) right? From C✧LESTIA?"

Wow, so formal...

You gave her a curt nod in return.

"The rest of your group was looking for you."

Shit

Well, you may as well start digging your grave now, Lumine was probably planning on doing it for you.

"They're in studio six by the way, just turn left and keep walking until you see it."

The girl, Sucrose you assumed, had explained gesturing down a wide hallway with glass panes and doors, all numbered one through fourteen with gold engraving.

You muttered a quick "thank you" to Sucrose before making your way towards the studio, lugging your guitar next to you as you walked by the other numbered doors.

Taking several breaths, you stopped a few feet before studio six, the door seemed almost daunting before you.

Maybe you could turn back now, call in sick maybe? But then again Sucrose already saw you, and chickening out now would certainly cause several problems once you saw the rest of the band back at school.

All you had to do was open the door, and walk into the room, and you were just about to do the latter, but then it turned out someone else did it for you.

To your surprise, the door had slowly creaked open, and a familiar green bard with his signature braids had walked out holding a mic set. He was calling out instructions to some other people into the room before turning to you and realizing your presence.

"Heizou, just let Xiao carry the drum set what're you trying to prove-Oh! Hi (Y/N)!"

Venti exclaimed, he leaned against the door to keep it open for the rest of his band mates.

"We're just gonna run some sound checks at the stage so you guys will have the studio all to yourselves."

He flashed you his signature grin before the rest of 5WIRL started trickling through the door, first Kazuha who smiled and gave you a quick hello, who was quickly followed by Heizou who did the same. Then Xiao, who just glared at you, but said hi nonetheless.

Then the ever so lovely Scaramouche, who simply side-eyed you and murmured "Took you long enough..." followed by a prompt roll of his eyes.

You didn't care about decorum so you just stuck your tongue out at him, yeah both of you were being childish but it was the norm for you two.

And followed by Scara, was the one and only Aether who smiled at you, the same smile he always seemed to reserve for you, before, during, and after your past relationship, he was practically beaming at you.

"Hi (Y/N)!"

You muttered a quick "hello" in response looking down at the ground.

Archons, why can't I just be normal around him?!

The band made it's way past you and you picked up brief snippets of what they were saying, mainly of Heizou teasing Aether, and brief mentions of your name could be heard.

Well opening the door was already done for you, now all you needed was to step inside.

And so you did.

The second you entered the room you were met with silent greetings from your fellow bandmates, and most importantly, a certain vocalist making her way towards you.

"Unpack and tune that guitar in the next three minutes or else I'm turning our next gig into your fucking funeral."

You could basically feel the tension radiating off Lumine.

"Yes ma'am."

Well today was off to a great start...

additional notes:  

NEW CHAPTER LETS FUCKING GOOO

so sorry for not updating

technical issues and shit have been happening but chapter 5 is finally out!!!!

i've been meaning to tell y'all for a while but the love @ectomotive has created a playlist for this smau! the link is here

give it a listen I ADORED it

notes on the actual plot:

xiao seems to have smth against our leading lady here, maybe it has something to do with her breaking the heart of his beloved bestie perhaps 👀

(XIAOAETHER ANYONE-)

ahem not spoiling anything tho <3

and oml sorry for not including that much scara in this chapter T^T

dw he'll totally get his chance to shine in the next few

hope y'all enjoyed! and ty again for being so patient with my super inconsistent updates

masterlist

<prev ll next>

MY HEART BEATS FOR YOU

Pairing: [BASSIST!] Scaramouche x [GUITARIST!] Reader

Genre: rivals/enemies to lovers, rivals to friends to lovers, fluff, crack (?), comedy, angst (?), slowburn, high school au, band au, modern au, social media au, smau

Synopsis: You're the lead guitarist for your band, C✧LESTIA and Scaramouche is the bassist of 5WIRL. The two of your bands have a friendly rivalry, but you and Scaramouche don't. On top of being academic rivals, you and him have never been on good terms. Always one-upping each other in grades and in music. Even your bandmates have grown tired of your constant bickering with each other. But when your usual practice hub gets flooded, you and the rest of C✧LESTIA are forced to find a new place to rehearse. So when 5WIRL offers to share their studio with you who are you to refuse? Of course, this forces you to spend time with your sworn rival whether you like it or not. But maybe the two of you can overcome your differences and actually be friends?

Or maybe even more?

(OPEN) TAGLIST: @featuredtofu, @levianamor, @danfelions, @thatoneswordgirl, @lolmeowing, @bananasquash, @xiaosantenna, @kaitfae, @mujiwuji,@peaceindreams, @freyao7, @rinquin, @justpeachyteastea, @cobraz, @b2ne, @skyoverkill1, @scaradooche, @morallyrainyday, @adres-tia, @justadvena6, @agaygothicmushroom, @aiher, @kyon-cherri, @aether-darling, @ukinya, @sketcheeee, @ibawa, @shutingstar, @eutopiastar, @kunimix, @twilightclouds, @waffledforbreakfast, @ectomotive, @yourfavoritefreakyhan, @b4tm4nn, @h3xi2g0n3, @rine39, @danfelions

(names in bold mean i cant tag you)

[thedemonofcat]

For years, Geralt had been cursed to turn to stone whenever sunlight touched him, remaining immobilized until the sun moved away. This curse forced him to navigate the world through shadows and become more nocturnal, deepening the isolation that already marked his life as a witcher.

Everything changed when he met Jaskier, a bard who was his polar opposite. Jaskier, too, was cursed, but in a very different manner. Named for a flower, Jaskier would fall gravely ill if he was deprived of sunlight for too long.

Suspecting their curses might stem from the same source, Geralt and Jaskier decided to join forces in hopes of breaking the spell. Yet, their conflicting curses made their quest challenging: they could not touch each other due to the nature of their afflictions.

[kiri-tatsu]

This time I won't leave your side

you died before their eyes many years ago barely lived your life, you still had many years before you, this time you come back to them, living and breathing again. Was this a sick joke played by Celestia on them? But no matter, they wish for more as you are back, after all they will love you a thousand more times no matter how you come back to them, they will always be able to tell it's you.

tw- some angst, reader death, fluff, strictly platonic(Qiqi & Nahida), the rest could be read as platonic or romantic, leaning more to romantic on them tho, characters- venti, zhongli, raiden, nahida, wanderer/scaramouche, xiao, aether, lumine, albedo, and qiqi

Venti

A man, a bard, a god, an archon, immortality was granted to him when he be came the Anemo archon, whether it be a curse or a gift, he didn’t know anymore. But he knew it was a curse bared by him the moment he found his beloved laying in a field full of bloodied flowers.  

If only he had been quicker, or if he never let them go alone by themselves to do their commissions, then maybe, they wouldn’t be six feet under.  

Every day he would visit their grave in the late hours of the night, sit and talk with a bottle of dandelion wine, as if they were there with him. He knew no matter how much he spoke, his words will never make it to their ears.  

One day he awoke by their grave, he drunk himself drunk and decided to just spend the night with them. But there was someone else by him when he awoke, they had messy h/c, and he couldn’t see anything else.  

“Who... Who are you?” He asked as he sat up, and the stranger turned to him, and he felt his heart leap to his throat, his chest hammering, and his eyes widened in astonishment. “Good morning, sir, it seems like you had a fun night,” they smiled at him as he sighed nodding with his own smile upon his face.  

“That I did,” he knew that they wouldn’t remember anything, but to have them here now, he was happy and content. He took up one of the unfinished bottles as they sat in the grass beside him, and they spoke for hours beside the grave.

Zhongli

He lived for eons; lovers, friends, people he thought of as family, have came and gone. He should’ve been used to it by now, but no matter what he could never handle it each time he seen it.  

He is immortal, he is cursed with seeing mortals he grows close to die in front of his eyes no matter what, that is just the way of life. No matter how many times he sees it, he will never grow used to it.  

Rain poured from the night skies heavily one night, it was difficult to see, and he knew as he waited for his love, they might perish in the storm. The next morning, he was right, someone awoke and seen their body on the side of the road, cold, and frail.  

He blamed himself no matter how much someone else told him otherwise, when the 76th director of Wangsheng Funeral Parlor died and his young grandchild had taken over, he went to work of her, Hu Tao was her name.  

Visiting the grave of his beloved was painful, but every year on their birthday, on their anniversary, or even on their death anniversary, Zhongli would get up, ask Hu Tao for the day off, and sit at his beloved grave for the whole day.  

Their birthday was coming up, so he decided to ask Hu Tao for the day off, and he was allowed to leave for the whole day. He went to go prepare; flowers, tea, some letters he written to them, and even some of their favorite food.  

When he carried all of the things in his arm, he nearly dropped some of the stuff, “Hey, do you need help?” That voice nearly made him freeze, but he turned with a small nod. “That would be very appreciated,” he spoke kindly to them, and when he looked into their eyes, he knew.  

He knew they had found him again on their own, and like always, he would stay by their side, until the end of his curse. He would love them no matter the shape or form in their next life, it was still his love.  

Raiden Ei/Shogun

Life and death, such a concept what hard to accept when you lived hundreds of years. No matter how much death you witness, or how much you try to forget it, it will always be there to haunt you until the end of time.  

The land of eternity was difficult to live in with all the hostile people, the lightning and all the rain, yet it was such a beautiful place. Beauty would always be found in the storm no matter how you see it, and the electro archon knew that.  

The day her darling passed due to some treasure hoarders, he promised herself to rid of all of them on her lands and that she did, well, her puppet did. Still meditating, she waited for until her puppet would come back, and this time she did with someone else in tow. 

They seemed familiar, and they looked beaten up, she looked at her puppet who looked elsewhere as she tugged on the rope that was connected to their hands. “Shogun... What is the meaning of this?”  

The person looked up at Ei, and she felt her heart drop to her stomach, their eyes formed into a glare as they looked at her, but her heart was beating rapidly against her chest. They were back again, and she was glad to have them back and alive.  

“You, what is your name?” When they stated their name, her heart fluttered as she nodded with a soft smile to herself, they are back, they are alive and breathing. They are safe now, she told herself. 

 

Nahida

She was a god of wisdom, of course she knew of reincarnation, she was locked up for nearly five hundred years, she had a bit of freedom, and she made a friend, one of the sages that had her locked up, they were nice. They wanted to go against Azar’s words and let her free, but the other sages knew of their plans, and they were disposed of.  

Nahida no matter how much she sees people come and go, she wouldn’t be able to handle it, she may be over five hundred years old, but she still was a child no matter her knowledge. She cried for hours and hours when Azar came with one of Y/n’s belongings, tainted with splotches of blood.  

When she was freed from her prison and Azar was delt with, she would stay by the blond traveler’s side at times. When they had decided to take up a rather difficult commission one day, she went with them, but even then, the two were enough, they just needed a bit more power.  

A person from out of nowhere jumped in swinging their weapon with their vision, and they turned to the three with a large smile and wiping the sweat from their brow. Paimon asked loudly for their name, and they stated it with a loud voice clearly proud of their self.  

Nahida smiled with a nod, the sage from all those years ago was back, and they were a vision wielder now. The traveler introduced them self with a smile and offered dinner as their gratitude. “And this is Nahida,” she held a hand to her chest, her heart fluttering in happiness. “It’s nice to meet you Y/n, I hope we can be friends,” again, she wanted to say but stopped herself.  

Wanderer

The betrayals, as he called them, made him into the man he was years ago, The Balladeer, Scaramouche, The Sixth of the Eleventh Harbingers. He was feared by all, but there was only one person who lived in a cottage in the forests of Snezhnaya, he stumbled across them one day during a harsh winter.  

His first thought was to rid of them for even seeing him vulnerable, but he bit his tongue and said nothing as they treated his wounds. Every few weeks he would go and visit them, but he would rather die than let them know.  

A particular harsh winter had gone over the land of ice and snow, he knew that tiny cottage wouldn’t be able to keep them safe, so when he went to go visit them after the ice storm had passed, he was met with his fellow harbinger dragging their body out of the home.  

“Oh, you need not to worry for them, they are my latest experiment Balladeer,” and he bitterly turned on his heel and went back, their smile and kind eyes pushed into the dark backside of his mind.  

When he resided in Sumeru and received his Anemo vision, and his pasts memories as The Balladeer, surprisingly their smile was the first thing he had gathered in his mind. The lands of Sumeru were hot on the day he strolled around, going about his day aimlessly.  

He bumped into someone, a small scoff leaving his mouth, “I am so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going!” They rambled as they picked up their things, and they looked up at him with a small frown. His breath hitched as they smiled at him softly, “I’m sorry again,” and they turned on their heel and walked away from him.  

Without knowing his own feet moved on their own, and he followed after them without another words, they turned with a smile and he held his face flush. It wouldn’t be so bad to open up to someone now after all that he has been through.  

Xiao

The Yaksha, a protector of Liyue, a conqueror of demons, and an adepti. He wished to only rest one night, but in the dead of night, he heard the faint whisper of his name. With a wisp of black and teal, he was met with the sight of his beloved covered in blood and fatui agents and gunners surrounding their body.  

All he saw was red as he felt his mask consume his face, there he slayed the ones who caused his dear harm, and once they were slayed, he dropped to his knees by their side. Tears cascading down his cheeks as he took their dying into his arms, their cold hands raising to gently brush some of his tears away.  

They spoke lowly, “I love you,” and with that their body fell limp in his arms, be forced himself to carry their body and bury them, no matter how much it tormented his heart. And he forced himself to promise to never go to another mortal or love ever again.  

Lantern Rite, the time to be happy, to let xiao lanterns float up into the sky, and spend time with your loved ones or ever friends. But this was yet only year he no longer had his beloved by his side, but instead the blonde traveler and their floating fairy by their side came up to the balcony of Wangshu Inn.  

Following behind them was another person, bright/dark eyes, and a smile on their face as they carried a xiao lantern in their hands. “Xiao, this is Y/n,” and his heart fluttered hearing their name, but he crossed his arms and closed his eyes trying to keep his composure. “It’s nice to finally meet you, conqueror of demons,” they said with a smile making him want to hug them tightly and never let them go, but this wans’t his beloved.  

This one was a new Y/n, not the one he used to know, but still, he will try to make some conversation, “Likewise mortal.” 

Aether

A lone traveler from another world, traveling with his sister, but he lost her along the way to this new world. Teyvat... It was strange, but it was a newly welcomed adventure. The person he met was a beautiful/handsome person in his eyes. He thought he shouldn’t get too attached until he found his sister, but that was inevitable.  

They easily broke past his flimsy walls he put up; teasing him for hours that they would spend together, but he knew nothing of this world’s horrors. He thought he was safe just carrying around a sword unknowing of visions.  

One day he ventured out to find some fruit leaving his beloved alone in their makeshift camp, and hearing a scream from a bit aways, he turned and ran back. If only he didn’t leave, then maybe he wouldn’t be cradling their body in his arms as they smiled up at him, their eyes closed as they held his hand limply. 

And then he found himself staring out into space reminiscing about his days before his floating child companion, she was complaining about something, but he couldn’t hear her as he stared at the person before him. They waved their hand in front of his face as he final was snapped out of his daze.  

“I’m sorry... What were you saying?” They let out a small chuckle as he felt his cheeks flush, “I was asking what would you like to order?” Oh, that what Paimon was yelling about, food. But he knew not what to say his words seeming to die on his tongue the more he looked at the person before him.  

Who knew reincarnation was possible in this world, but then again it was full of surprise that he was willing to discover as long as this Y/n stays by his side safely at all times.  

Lumine

An abyss princess, she was forced to see death and destruction. In every world she traveled with her brother, it was always different, but this was the first time she traveled alone without him.  

Back in Khaenri’ah, she was alone, but she bet a blond man, and another person, her first love in this world. They were an amazing person; kind, calm, beautiful in her eyes, and she told them after a few years of friendship.  

And when she was going to propose to them, the archons of this world has decided, Khaenri’ah should be no more. Blood, fire, death was everywhere as people ran and screamed for their lives, but where was Y/n? 

They were no where in sight as Lumine ran around trying to find them, just as she was about to run into a building the roofs began to cave in, and before she could react, she was pushed out the way.  

Her honey-colored eyes turned to see a familiar head of hair get crushed by the fallen debris, and she knew, her love sacrificed their self for her. With a heavy heart, and tears in her eyes as she moved to leave, she looked to see the sky painted red, and fire reaching towards the heavens.  

Hundreds of years later she looked over a cliff to watch her brother, the blond man, and a floating child. Took caught up in her gaze, she failed to notice a person running to her, swinging a claymore around.  

But before she could get hit by their attacks, she raised her own sword and their blades collided as sparks flew from the two metals. Her breath hitched as they jumped back, their weapon coated in elemental energy as they grinned at her widely. “And so the abyss princess knows to fight,” they snarked with their eyebrows furrowed with that grin upon their face.  

“You... What is your name?” They slung their weapon over their shoulder with their grin still upon their face as they jabbed their thumb to their self. “Names Y/n, princess.”  

Albedo

Relationship; complicated, complex, and too much effort to maintain, it’s what he always thought. He knew any type of relationship relied on communication, quality time, and even effort.  

And somehow, some way, a mortal managed to worm their way into his heart, his darling, his love, his first; Y/n. They were his everything, his friend, his lover, his muse, the reason for him to live. He wanted nothing but to have them in his life for all eternity.  

But he was too late, too late to do anything when a sword impaled his darling, all he saw was red as he slayed the beings that harmed them, and when he fell to his knees by their side he was too late to even be there in their last moments.  

And after that he never left his lab, be it the one in Dragonspine, or even the one in the one in the Knights of Favonius building. The only time he would turn to see something else other than his research was Sucrose bring more supplies or Klee pestering him.  

Out of material for his latest experiment, he heaved a heavy sigh as he looked around his lab; messy, dirty, unorganized, maybe he’ll clean up once he comes back. Leaving his lab, he walks slowly, how long has it been since he left? How long did he stay with his experiment?  

His eyes trailed up to the sun; how long has it been since he had been outside? His legs carried him until he collided with another being. “Oh, I’m sorry,” they spoke as Albedo rubbed his head and looked up at them and their outstretched hand.  

His heart nearly stopped beating in his chest, “Uhm... Hello?” They questioned a bit awkward from his staring. Shaking his head, he took their hand as they pulled him up, and gave him a smile, “Sorry for bumping into you, I was told by Sucrose to help deliver these to Albedo,” his eyes still couldn’t leave them, but how could he not? His Y/n was back.  

He sighed taking in reality, his Y/n was gone... This one was a new one, “That would be me, my apologies, I am a bit out of it,” they smiled at him and waved their hand at him. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to form another companionship.   

Qiqi

When she heard of the passing of the person she loved as her parent when she was just barely a few years old to understand, she cried for hours. When she died, her memories of that person were wiped completely but at time you could hear her mention a person’s name when she rambled under her breath to herself about remembering things. 

So Baizhu had gifted her a journal to write anything and everything she possibly wanted to remember. And every day she would write about everything and anything, some days she wouldn’t have anything for her journal.  

One day she was writing in her journal, and in strolled in the Traveler and Paimon, and her eyes looked up at them a bit disinterested. “Doctor Baizhu is not here... Qiqi will help you instead,” and a person accidently bumped into the traveler making a Qiqi look at them.  

“You are clumsy... Apologize,” she said as they helped up the blond and looked down at the little girl, “Hi Qiqi, Doctor Baizhu sent me to come get these for him,” they handed the little girl a slip of paper giving her a smile.  

She took the paper with a little smile at the mention of her caretaker as she looked down at the paper, “Qiqi will get this for you...” She smiled up at them as she turned on her heel and gathered what the paper said, when she returned, they were talking with the traveler.  

“Qiqi, has gotten what Y/n needed,” she said not realizing what she said, and the person turned to her with a surprised look, before they shook their head and gave her a pat on her hat. “Thank you Qiqi,” and with that they left, and Qiqi took out her journal and wrote the name.  

It was familiar as she flipped through her journal, and saw the name on the very first page, Y/n... They had come back, and the zombie girl didn’t even know it, all she knew was she felt warm all over when she talked to them.  

im so srry this took awhile, i haven't had any motivation lately :( but i am trying my best, i have an idea for a kaveh x reader oneshot if anyone would be interested to read that when that comes out &lt;3

[grapesplease]

i love you (i'm sorry)

astarion x half-drow!male!bard! tav

sum. altair has a panic attack in the underdark (being an ex-slave does that to you) and astarion is the one who keeps him together. he also has some conflicting feelings on his relationship with altair.

an. first altair piece i ever wrote, all of it will be posted here but if you want to find the rest of it its posted on ao3 under the user grapesplease. i love writing for my tav and will be writing much more :)

wc. 2.1k

The silence was deafening.

Astarion knew that something was wrong with Altair, he’d be a horrible partner(?) otherwise. Gods, he’d be an idiot to not notice, whatever was going on with him was obvious to the whole party.

Shadowheart sends him a glare, “Say something to him!” She mouths.

He glares back, mouthing, “What?”

She groans, and Astarion huffs out an exasperated sigh. What would he even say to him? There wasn’t any doubt that he was close to Altair, that was made clear after their first rendezvous at the tiefling’s party, and with how the party expressed their annoyance at them, he knew that they knew too. He still wasn’t even sure that their relationship was anything more than the flirty banter and the occasional late-night tryst.

“I think we should set up camp.” Lae’zel, surprisingly, was the first to speak, breaking what felt like hours-long silence, “I think everyone can agree that a night’s rest is needed.”

Altair’s eyes scanned the area, and he acquiesced, only giving a nod and a quiet, “Alright then..” to the rest of the group.

The elf can’t help but worry, as much as he hates to admit it. Everyone is, as he’d wormed (no pun intended) his way into everyone’s hearts. Astarion doesn’t know if he should go and talk to him, and he doesn’t have the opportunity to. As Lae’zel is, again, the first to speak up.

“Altair.” She stands in front of his tent, Altair flinching as he turns to face her, “What is wrong with you? You’ve been awfully alert, is there something wrong with this place? Or is there something wrong with you?”

Astarion cringes at the face Altair makes when Lae’zel asks if there’s something wrong with him.

“It’s nothing. Lae’zel, I’m just feeling a little off being here."

Astarion scoffs, a little off? As if he wasn’t making the “I’m going to murder someone” face for like three hours straight.

“Underdark doesn’t exactly bring back fond memories, you know, with the whole forced servitude thing..”

She only sighs, grumbling but taking that as a satisfactory answer. “Just don’t let it endanger us, istik.”

Altair lets out a sigh of relief as she walks off, and his gaze flits over to Astarion, realizing he was watching the whole thing. He lets out an exasperated groan, and motions for Astarion to come over. He shuts his book, plastering a flirty smirk on his face and sauntering over.

“So, is there ‘something wrong with you’, dear?” He jokes, mimicking the cadence of Lae’zel’s voice, “You have been awfully on edge, darling.”

“That obvious?”

“Very.”

He groans, sinking down to the ground, his face buried in his hands. “Fuuuck. Gods, I’m stressed.”

“That much is clear.” Astarion retorts, moving to sit down next to him. “Good to know that it’s stress, I couldn't tell if you were wanting to kill me or needed a drink.”

“I go for either right now, to be honest.” He jokes, looking up at Astarion, “I found something here, Astarion.”

He doesn't like the tone that Altair takes, it sends an uncomfortable jolt up his spine. He follows him into his tent, spotting an journal atop Altair’s makeshift desk. The journal's a pretty little thing, its gold embroidery shimmering against the light of Altair's lamp.

“Oh, is it cursed? Is this one for Gale or for me?” He asks, running his fingers over the embroidery. He would've appreciated the work more, if not for how grave Altair sounded.

“It might as well be.” He grabs the journal, flipping through its pages. “I haven't been all too honest with my background, Astarion. I don't think I can hide it anymore, either.”

The vampire raises an eyebrow, “So you're telling me that you aren't just a bard from Baldur’s Gate? What a surprise!”

“I’m being serious, Astarion!” He snaps, flipping to the most recent page of the journal. Astarion tenses up, frowning at him.

“The writer of this journal, she's out to fucking kill me! She found me back then, when I was in Baldur’s Gate, she- she found where I lived, and she's found me here too! Gods-”

His hands grip tightly at the edges of the journal, his breathing getting ragged and uneven. Astarion softly places his hands on his shoulders, trying to ground him.

“Breathe, darling.” He hasn't had much experience calming people, but he hopes that this is working. This is a new side to Altair, one that he’d hid well up until this point. “She's not here, we're safe, and even if she finds us, we can take her, I’m sure of it.”

“No! No, that's how she gets you!” Altair chokes out, looking up at him with fearful eyes. “She pretends, she acts all nice, getting you to trust her- then she tears it all away! Everything! She's already done it once to me, and now she's going to do it again! She’s going to torture you- and everyone here, and she's going to make me watch.”

A sob falls from his throat, his tears leave dark splotches on his pants, “And she's going to do it because she owns me- and- fuck, she’s going to find out I care about you! She’s going to make me fucking miserable, going to make me beg and grovel under the heel of her boot for forgiveness, and then she’s going to kill me.”

What?

..He cares for him?

What a mistake, he thinks, a stupid mistake, putting faith into someone like him.

But this is exactly what he wanted, right? To have Altair, the poor sod, the easiest target, his victim, care for him enough to protect him. To be willing to fight and inevitably die to Cazador or the Absolute for him.

It was the same stupid charade, one he’d done for 200 hundred years.

He forces those thoughts back down, looking Altair in the eye. This- This he could deal with later, his newfound guilt wasn't what was important here. The sobbing mess in front of him was, the sobbing mess that foolishly cares about him was what was important right now.

“Listen, she isn't here. I’m not going to die, I promise. She would've been here ages ago if she wanted to kill me.” He forces back the bile that threatens to rise up his throat as he comforts him, feeling like the biggest hypocrite in the world, “We’re safe, dear.”

Altair only sharply inhales, shaking his head, his long hair falling over his face.

“No- no, she's here, I can feel it, I know. She's fucking hiding in the shadows, waiting to strike!”

“Look at me.” Astarion brushes away the hair from his face, his voice lowering to a whisper. “We're okay, I’m safe, everyone’s safe, I’m not dying today. No one is going to die. I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I- I..” Altair tries to steady his breathing, despite how his heart thumps wildly in his chest. “You promise?”

Astarion tries to hide his guilt.

“Yes love, I’m not going anywhere.”

Altair heaves out a heavy sigh, wiping his tears. Gods above, this was all too much for him, too many of his feelings laid bare for a man who he wasn't even sure really loved him. His true feelings had been unceremoniously spilled, his heart exposed for Astarion to see.

He wasn't a bard who told beautiful tales of romance or adventure, nor a gladiator who fought valiantly for his own freedom. He wasn't any of those fucking things. But gods! He wishes he was! He wishes he had the strength he pretends to have in front of everyone, but now Astarion knows.

He knows that he’s just a scared man, constantly running and hiding from everything that scared him. He knows that he cries like a child, forever terrified of his past.

Altair isn’t someone who confronts his past, he hides like a coward, running away to the far corners of the world thinking that he can hide. He wants to love Astarion, wants to care, he wants to do all of that without the looming fear that it’d be taken from him.

That his past would eventually catch up to him and it’d all disappear.

“Astarion, I..” His face is flush with embarrassment, head hanging in shame, he feels like he could die on the spot, “I’m sorry, for all of this.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” He calmly replies, “I think we’ve all been stressed, and it's not like you haven't seen me panic every once and a while.”

Altair snorts, letting out a dry chuckle, “Yeah, last time you did, you ended up killing a man.”

“He deserved it!” Astarion retorts, gasping dramatically.

“Sure, sure..” He wipes at his eyes, but realizes that Astarion is already moving to exit his tent. Was he just going to leave, now that Altair had calmed down? No, he couldn't be alone yet.

He tugs at Astarion’s sleeve, stopping him in his tracks.

The man turns and tilts his head, giving Altair a sultry smirk, “What? You just got your breath back, and now you want me to take it away again? Darling, if you wanted to sleep with me, this is a cute way to ask~”

“No! No, I just want-” He groans, refusing to meet Astarion’s amused gaze, “I wanted you to stay.”

“That’s what I’m offering?”

“Not like that!” His head snaps up to look at him, seeing a brief flash of surprise from the elf, “I don't want to be alone, not yet.”

“Not yet” Astarion feels a pang of familiarity, Altair sounded like he was resigned to being lonely forever, like Astarion himself would be temporary and he’d never talk to him again after this night.

He hates how he can relate so much to that feeling. It only worsens the pit of guilt in his stomach. He wishes he could just leave, but he knows he can’t.

He can scarcely believe that Altair just wanted him to just- be there? To what, cuddle in his bedroll and fall asleep together? He hasn’t done that in centuries, nevertheless with someone else.

“So you just want me to…” he makes a vague hand motion, “to just be here?”

“If you want.” Altair sputters out, a nervous panic seeping into his voice, “I just- I don't want to be alone, I still feel like she's there, and I'm- I’m scared, Astarion.”

It takes a great deal of effort to admit this to him, and Altair feels so vulnerable. Fuck, he's so, so scared, scared of Astarion saying no, scared that the moment he takes his eyes off of him that he's going to disappear, and that the next time he sees him, all that's left is a mangled corpse.

He’s scared that the man he’s starting to love is going to disappear, and leave him all alone with his feelings for him.

“I’ll.. of course I’ll stay, if you're scared. I did promise, after all.”

Altair shakily laughs, glad that Astarion didn't reject him. Moving to his bedroll, he motions for Astarion to join him, and he obliges, laying down beside him.

“Can we cuddle?”

“You don't have to ask, darling.”

“I know.” The drow turns on his side, burying his face in Astarion’s neck.

“Sappy.”

Astarion’s fingers thread through his white locks, messing with the long strands. It really was sweet of him, and he comes to the dreadful realization that Altair is slowly becoming more to him than just protection.

He wants to ask more about Altair’s past, who was this woman he was so afraid of? Was she really so strong that she’d kill the whole party in one fell swoop? Is she someone who’d torture him, for the sole fact that Altair cares about him?

Shit, he’d almost forgotten about that.

He's still a bit in denial about it, the fact that Altair cares for him, and that he might also care for him back. But he knows that he would never do this much for anyone else, gods, cuddling in the night? Sharing gentle touches while patching each other up and longing glances between battles? He knows that Altair is so much more than just protection.

He knows that he has to reveal his true intentions to him, but whatever confession he has dies on his tongue. The half-drow is sound asleep in his arms, softly snoring into his chest. His heartbeat calm as he buries himself further into the fabric of his shirt.

Astarion knows that he has to confess his real intentions to Altair eventually, but it could wait a little longer. He could wait a little longer to reveal how horrible of a person he was, how he was no different from Altair’s tormentor.

“Good night, love.”

It could wait.

[heaven-s-black-box]

Notes- Worlds Collide Anemo Boys minus Aether

Return to File

Recovery date: September 20th, 2024

Description: ok, fourth time?! I rlly am addicted to ur blog atp ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ so uh this time, maybe the reader and the anemo boys meeting their deceased friends and family? Separately ofc, but maybe not for aether bc I don't rmb him having any deceased friends or family. Thank you, and as always, feel free to delete if this is too angsty for u!! (i think i might come back a lot, so can i be ⭐️ anon? If u allow, ofc!) aaaaaa im so sry i forgot to say that for the anemo boys, i meant that if they're decreased friends and family were still alive what would their relationship be with the reader aaaaaaa in sry😭😭

Notes: This work was recovered in conjunction with researcher ⭐️, we thank them for their contributions. So glad to have you back! I will say it's funny that you were worried it would be too angsty, and I think I made it angstier because bringing the dead back/ making it so they never died would seriously change our character and their stories. So I found other ways for them to meet reader!

Back to directory

Venti

Unfortunately, retroactively reviving the nameless bard would cause a lot of problems

But, Venti likes to think about how your lives might play out if he were here somehow

He thinks you’d get along

You’d love the bard’s lyre playing

If you sing/play an instrument with Venti, he’ll totally write songs for the three of you

Likes to think you’d play pranks on the bard with him, maybe you would, or maybe you’d scold him

If you ever got married the Bard would be his best man

Xiao

Once fell asleep to Cloud Retainer’s dream machine

He “awoke” to thundering laughter and a hand slamming against a table

You were sitting against a tree, his head in your lap, and his fellow yaksha were sat around the nearby table

Bosacius is slamming one of his hands against the table as he’s doubled over laughing

Indarias is laughing too, she’s leaning against Bonanus who’s trying not to spill her wine

Menogias is trying to use one of Cloud Retainers many inventions to grill fish with Pervases

It’s when he starts to sit up that you realize he’s awake

He notices your clothes are different, they must have been made by Menogias

Before he can say anything, he’s called up to play his flute

You join the other Yaksha at the table as he starts to play, and as he closes his eyes he sees many others approaching from the distance

Kazuha

Having settled in Inzauma with you, he finds his sleep to be deeper and more restful

This results in him dreaming more, finally able to indulge in the deep sleep required

On this night, he opens his eyes to find you crouched down with a white cat

It’s his friends, though he thinks it’s odd it’s not standing guard of his grave

Then his friend speaks from above him, calling you adorable

He looks up to find him lounging in the tree branches

His friend looks down at him and calls him lucky, asking to be invited to the wedding

Before Kazuha can say anything else, his friend jumps down and challenges you to a sparring match

You eagerly agree, declaring the winner Kazuha’s best friend

He sits back to watch, joined by the cat, with a fond smile

Heizou

Heizou dreams of his friend often when the festival where they met rolls around

This year you attended together and left an offering at his friends grave after

Maybe that’s why tonight he doesn’t think this is quite a dream

It feels to real

You lean against him, leaning across him to talk animatedly with his friend

He should feel embarrassed as you swap stories

He should remind you to eat your food that’s growing cold

Instead he places a kiss on the top of your head and turns to his friend

Two can play at this game, he cuts in with an embarrassing story of his own

You’re thrilled, and Heizou finds himself keeping you up right on your stool as you laugh so hard it shakes

He’s glad you got to meet his friend, and he thanks whatever power gave him this chance

Wanderer

It’s a gift from Nahida

When you agree to spend the rest of your life/ forever with him

That night you dream of the furnace, and Niwa and his family

The boy, his first friend, is there as well though he’s grown

Niwa pours you some more tea as you happily discuss your most recent trip together to Sumeru

It all feels so comfortable, Wanderer finds himself slumping against the table

The boy struggles to peel a bulle fruit, and you gently take it from him to help

Niwa elbows him and whispers something about children

He rolls his eyes

The boy sets the bulle fruit in the middle for you all to share

The next morning Wanderer finds his pillow stained with tears

[annmarcus63]

Jaskier is the luckiest man on the continent. He and Geralt are together now. After so many years of longing, the witcher has finally seen him. He can finally comb the witcher's hair and pep kisses all over his handsome face. He can cherish him every way he can to make him feel wanted, worthy of love and safety. 

The best part? Geralt is willing to accept his love and he seems happy with it. Jaskier wants to believe that even more happy that when he is with Yennefer. Geralt also shows him how much he cares about him. Some days Jaskier finds in the witcher's gaze something close to love. Jaskier's happy too.

Geralt hugs him close at night, the sounds of crickets the only thing that break their closeness, their love. Jaskier is starting to believe this is going to last forever. They want to spend their lives together as long as destiny lets them. It's the perfect life.

Too perfect. The truth crushes his reality in the form of a beautiful and dangerous sorcerer.

"It's not real, bard" says Yennefer in a mocking tone.

"You're only jealous cause I won! Geralt now loves me as much as he loves you, no, I think he loves me more!" he's behaving like a child, he knows, but he's allowed to do it after so many years trying to be better than her, trying to get Geralt's attention.

"You haven't told him?" it worries Jaskier that the mocking expression on Yennefer shifts immediately to one of apprehension.

“I can’t” says Geralt looking away from them.

"Ok, now what are you talking about?" every time Geralt and Yennefer have a silent conversation Jaskier is always the one to lose. Please let this not be it. The bard pleads silently to no one in particular.

"Yen" Geralt warns but Yennefer doesn't listen to him, she never does.

"He's under a spell bard" says her while looking at his eyes with grave seriousness, like you'd do to a child.  "This is not real. The same spell prevents Geralt from telling you the truth. I'm sorry."

"But... no, no, it's not truth. Geralt, tell her." The witcher look at him with so much sorrow and shame drowning the love from before. And then, Geralt looks away and doesn't say anything.

He can't see anything behind the fat tears wetting his face. The white noise in his ears must be the noise of his heart shattered beyond repair.

Jaskier turns around, takes his things from Roaches saddlebags, and flees to the trees.

He thinks he hears Geralt calling his name.

This is a part form a love spell au I publish a long ago but i can't seem to find. Sorry for that.

[throughtrialbyfire]

𝐖𝐈𝐏 𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 ♥

hello!! i'm on time once more <3 thank you to the amazing @skyrim-forever @umbracirrus and @thequeenofthewinter for tagging me this week!!

tagging the great @dirty-bosmer @changelingsandothernonsense @your-talos-is-problematic @orfeoarte @saltymaplesyrup

@wispstalk @gilgamish @archangelsunited @kookaburra1701 , and YOU reading this!! no pressure as always, i'm excited to see what everyone's been working on!

this is a tiny snippet from my rough draft of chapter 33 of Cycle of the Serpent! Viarmo has summoned the trio up to his office a few days before classes begin at the bard's college.

Even though he outwardly dismissed all worry about Viarmo's summons, Emeros couldn't help the gnarling bramble of nerves turning over in his abdomen. Sharp and poisonous, he had to wonder just what the headmaster could want with three of the new students. He didn't see anyone else with the letters, but perhaps this was something he did here and there to check on new people. For all he knew, the headmaster could have summoned Jorn the same way on his first day at the College. What did it matter, anyhow? If the trio were in deeper troubles, then it would be more than a polite letter under the door, certainly. The idea pecked at Emeros' mind, even as he made attempts to lift the spirits of his companions with discussion of the town itself. Solitude was a gorgeous city, and it wasn't hard to pick out details to bring up, from the stone walkways carefully laid to the buildings constructed of sturdy stone and surrounded by blooms of various flowers, but still, the cormorant bird of warning called in his mind, that this city was more than its opulence, and more than its histories. It was alive in a way that unsettled him. The march up to Viarmo's office lead them through the ground floor of the Bard's College asking for directions from Giraud, who pointed them the way. Then, several flights of stairs and a cramped tower's well, then a knock on a grand door. A call by a gravel-voiced man lead to Emeros pushing open the door, his friends behind him. "Ah, there's our newest students," came the voice, summoned from the throat of a sharp-faced Altmer, whose beard jutted out from his chin into a point. His blond hair was tucked underneath a grandly feathered cap, and every stretch of material on him bore shades of gold and teal. Expensive materials, and well kept, too, there was not an out of place stitch or mended tear on them as far as the Bosmer could see. He looked to Athenath, who fiddled with their hands, then to Wyndrelis, who shuffled his feet. "I take it you got my letter, then? Good, Arteus is a great messenger, but he tends to be a bit absent-minded at times."

"Forgive my forwardness-" Emeros began, cut off by Athenath stepping forward and starting their own sentence. "Can we ask what this is about? I didn't see anyone else with letters." They kept their eyes focused on Viarmo, but something tense caught in their voice, Emeros' gaze snagged on the edge of their shoulder. Viarmo leaned back in his chair, his barrel-figure elaborately dressed, complete with his darker teal, velvet cloak covering his shoulders, slits in its side making holes for his arms to move through. The headmaster didn't speak for a while, merely touched the tip of his tongue to the inside of his cheek, and Emeros' mind flooded with the worry that his friend had just made a grave mistake. He didn't voice this concern, however, as before he could put word to it, Viarmo laced his fingers together over his middle and smiled. In a low voice, as though sharing a secret with the trio, he said, "I hear you three were at Helgen. What's more, Phoebe tells me that you played a crucial role in the taking down of that dragon in Whiterun. Is this true?" The trio looked between one another, sharing glances understood in the tiniest shreds of expression. Athenath answered, "yes, sir. We, uh, didn't expect to… Encounter dragons, but we did." Viarmo leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on his well-polished, mahogany desk. It was definitely imported from Alinor, Emeros thought as he took in the details, drinking of the carved, frond-like shapes in the legs of the desk, along with its multiple drawers, its mother-of-pearl adornments, its strong stature. Each carving was the pinnacle of Aldmeri wealth, and he almost deigned to think of what it cost before dragging himself from such speculation. Whatever it amounted to was enough to dizzy him. Either Viarmo was a very celebrated bard in both the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion, or he had friends in high places, and he didn't find himself in the mood to question which one it was. "You do realize what this means, don't you?" Viarmo pressed after a long moment, as though giving the question much thought, himself. "The return of the dragons, that is." "We figure it's probably something very important to history, that's for sure," Athenath replied quickly, managing to bubble out a small, uncomfortable laugh. "Sir, may I ask what all of this is about? I know we didn't audition, but-" "Oh, nevermind that," Viarmo sat upright and waved the thought with a heavy hand away, "we've barely got enough students to justify a building right now. Yes, normally, we'd have you three audition and then carry out tasks for the College, but right now, well, it's a complex situation, you see. And what's more, with the war going on… I'm not surprised more bards are choosing to stay in their home cities or just flat out go to other provinces that aren't Skyrim." Athenath's shoulders relaxed as the headmaster spoke. The blond Altmer shifted his posture, rummaging around for extra paper and a quill, drenching the end in thick, good-quality ink. "Now, tell me about the dragons. What were they like?"

It wasn't hard to sum up the dragons themselves: large, threatening, big teeth, and they shouted men to pieces. They set fire with a word in a language none of them knew, and they swept across the land like a great shadow, death in its wake. Viarmo furiously wrote down every detail, asking a question here or there, and when the trio finished giving their account, he looked up with a clever grin. "You know, as Giraud would tell you, history is nine parts truth, and one part fiction. Your factual accounts of the dragons are invaluable to future generations of bards who may never get to see the beasts themselves, and the College thanks you for it." As he set the paper aside to dry, he flattened a palm in the direction of the door. "If you don't have any questions for me, then you're more than free to go. Classes begin on the sixth of Heartfire, so do be sure you have all your books and supplies. Your instructors will tell you what you need." Athenath gave a small nod, turning to the door, Emeros and Wyndrelis following close behind the younger Altmer. Dismissed, the trio made their way back down the squared, winding stairwell, and back to the ground floor. Several students were making their way around the main area, up and down the stairs to the dorms and kitchens, the large, museum-like room housing the instruments filled with more presences than the previous day. This would become routine, it seemed, for the next few days.

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

If you still want prompts, how about 2 for Geraskier? 💚💕

2. A casual touch on the shoulder to acknowledge them

Jaskier is sitting by the campfire, hunched over his lute as he mulls over a particularly tricky lyric, when he’s startled by the unexpected feeling of a hand brushing his shoulder. With a shriek, he startles and drops his lute. It’s not until a hand snaps out and seizes his lute before it can crash to the ground that he realizes that it’s not some ruffian who’s snuck up on him while he’s composing, but Geralt.

“Geralt!” Jaskier claps a hand over his chest. “You just scared the shit out of me! I didn’t know it was you!”

Holding Jaskier’s lute in one hand and an apple in the other, Geralt looks at him blankly. “Who else would it have been?”

“I don’t know! That’s why I was scared shitless.” Jaskier doesn’t point out that in the months they’ve been traveling together, Geralt has touched him a grand total of three times. Once was the punch that Jaskier can fully admit that he deserved. The second time was when he grabbed Jaskier’s arm to drag him away from a drowner who was about to snatch him while he bathed. The third time was to press a damp cloth over a gash in Jaskier’s arm left by a griffin. All three times, the contact was brief and businesslike, lasting mere seconds.

Jaskier gets the impression that Geralt doesn’t like being touched, which has been an adjustment. He’s used to exchanging casual touches with his friends and family—kissing his mother and sisters on the foreheads, picking up his nieces and nephews and spinning them around, throwing an arm around Essi’s shoulders, leaning against Valdo while they sit together. But every time Jaskier forgets himself and claps a hand on Geralt’s shoulder or picks a bit of grave hag out of his hair, the witcher looks like he’s just swallowed something sour.

Geralt snorts and holds out the apple. “Here. Your stomach has been growling for an hour.”

“Oh.” Jaskier blinks and takes the apple. Now that he’s not entirely focused on his composition, a new version of Toss a Coin recounting Geralt’s heroic defeat of a wyvern, he can feel the hollowness of hunger in his belly. “Thank you, Geralt. That’s… very thoughtful.”

“Hm. All the rumbling is disturbing my meditating.”

“And me playing the lute isn’t?”

“Getting fucking used to that,” Geralt grumbles, handing Jaskier his lute, and turns away.

Jaskier finds himself grinning at Geralt’s back. “Does that mean you’re starting to like my music?”

All that gets him is another grumble, but Jaskier’s spirits aren’t dampened. Because this is the first time that Geralt has ever touched him just to touch him. It wasn’t much, just a simple hand on his shoulder. It certainly wasn’t the myriad ways he’s guiltily fantasized about Geralt touching him over the last few months. But it’s still the first sign the witcher has given that he’s starting to grow comfortable in Jaskier’s company. That someday, he might even like having Jaskier around.

“Thank you, my friend,” he calls.

“Not your friend,” Geralt says, as Jaskier expected him to. Ah well, progress is progress, no matter how slow.

Jaskier takes a bite of his apple. It’s the best thing he’s tasted in a long time.

24 Touches Prompts

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome @toapoet

[imgeekgirlfan]

I Will Follow You Into The Dark

Pairings:  Astarion x Original Female Character(Named Tav)  [From Baldur's Gate 3]

Tag/Warnings : Canon Compliant, Post-Endgame, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Tragedy, Mentions of past abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, References to Depression, Angst and Hurt/Comfort

Synopsis : Astarion returned to the city of Baldur's Gate, following the final request of his beloved, who asked him to bury her next to his grave. As dawn approached, Astarion held the lifeless body of his love, reminiscing about the countless memories they shared together.

A/N : The story started when I came across this tweet: 'do you guys think your tavs/durges stayed with their love interest long term or not?'

I got the idea to tell the story of my Tav and her love interest, Astarion. What would happen to them after the end of Baldur's Gate 3? I've been thinking about it a lot and it's quite heartbreaking.

From these little headcanons, I developed this one-shot about them.

My Tav is a human bard with a noble background. So, I imagined her as the daughter of a noble Baldurian,which contrasts with Astarion's background. Their initial relationship was more of a adversaries before blossoming into love in the end.

Listening to the song "I Will Follow You into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie gave me a lot of inspiration for this couple. (At first, I wanted to use the song "Take Me To Church" as the title, but it's too popular. I thought a song that many might not have heard of would be fitting for this tale.)

Read in Ao3 : here

"Jones," Astarion whispered, calling his beloved, but she didn't respond. 

Her eyes closed tightly, her body growing colder with each passing moment. 

Astarion pulled her closer, hoping his slight warmth might warm her. He knew it wouldn't help, and she would never wake to look into his eyes again.

Human lives are fleeting, from young maiden to old crone, from crone to spirit. 

Her entire life was a blink of an eye compared to his cursed immortality. 

Once, Astarion had both disdain and curiosity about this human. A race so fragile and feeble, never wielding a sword to harm anyone, raised in a noble family, spending half a comfortable lifetime in a grand mansion in Baldur’s Gate, surrounded by obedient servants bowing to her every whim.

He couldn't make sense of her. For a vampire like him who had struggled to survive amidst enemies and a cruel world for centuries. He was nothing but a bloodthirsty creature, a servant under a master's foot who got treated worse than a common slave, struggling to sustain his life with the taste of filthy rat blood that almost made him vomit.

Astarion envies her for an ideal life in the gilded cage he could only dream of. envied the short-lived human existence. While he had no right to die willingly if his evil master didn't want him to die,

And he wondered why she had fled her high-life in the capital city of Baldur’s Gate to suffer with them. why someone so inept at fighting would risk her life battling monsters, from goblins and evil undead to even gods, to aid them and help everyone unrelated to her.

He thought Jones was foolish, and he didn't like fools.

Ironically, eighty years later, he found himself shedding tears at her death.

"I wish to be buried beside your grave, Astarion." That was one of her last wishes before she breathed her last in his embrace. This led Astarion to make the singular decision to step out of the Underdark and return to Baldur’s Gate, the city where he once hated heavily, to fulfill the last wish of his beloved.

The black sky began to turn deep blue. Astarion knew he should hurry to bury Jones properly before the sunrise. As he contemplated, his eyes caught withered flowers left on the ground near his own grave marker. For a brief moment, Astarion reminisced about the memories he shared with her. He had once brought Jones to his own grave, recounting his life before turning into a vampire. and then visualizing a future where he wished to live with her,as his past had died over two centuries ago and she was the only future he desired.

Astarion remembered his overwhelming fear that Jones might refuse him. She was the highborn daughter of Baldur’s Gate's noble families. Why would she choose to endure the hardships of life with an elf vampire like him?

Yet his fear vanished instantly when he saw the soft smile on her smooth face. She placed flowers on his grave and embraced him, accepting his love wholeheartedly. 

That night was the night he died and was reborn in her embrace. Not as the enslaved Astarion, not as the villainous Astarion, but as Astarion the redeemed, never to be alone again because he would have her by his side forever.

But the words 'forever' don't really exist, especially for humans and vampires.

Still, Astarion couldn't help but secretly hope.

Sometimes, darker thoughts overshadow his mind, eclipsing all the goodness he has left. Astarion often secretly pondered that if he chose the path of power, performed an ancient ritual to sacrifice seven thousand souls to a devil, and transformed himself into a vampire ascendant, he would have enough strength to walk in the sunlight with her and enough power to turn her into a vampire like him. Then they could live together forever without the fear of death taking her away.

But it was Jones who restrained him then. She persuaded Astarion to see that these powers offered him nothing but the dark legacy of the Vampire Master, an inheritance of wickedness that would never end. She told him he could be better than Cazador, his former master, and he didn't have to continue killing others to sustain his existence anymore.

Astarion trusted her, though he couldn't deny feeling deeply regretful. And Jones sensed his feelings. She gently grasped his cold hands and earnestly vowed, "Astarion, I will find a way to cure you of vampirism, so you can walk under the sunlight with me again."

And she kept her promise. After successfully helping Baldur’s Gate city fend off the threats of the Mind Flayers and Nether Brain, she and him began a new adventure together. They journeyed across the entire continent of Faerûn, from Waterdeep to Athkatla, Neverwinter, Luskan, and even the mysterious realm of Feywild, all in pursuit of finding a cure for him.

Those times were special, building strong bonds and beautiful memories between them. They laughed together, danced together, fought together, and held each other close under vast skies and twinkling stars as witnesses.

Until Jones began to age and couldn’t continue the journey. That was when they both realized how little time they had left. And no matter how much time and effort they put in, there was no way to find a cure for him anymore.

Facing the harsh reality was incredibly difficult. Astarion had to hide his deep sorrow while he tried to persuade her to stop the adventure and live out her remaining days in the Underdark, the dark and sunless realm, the only place where he could be with her.

He knew what the near future held. Nothing would hurt as much as watching his beloved age continuously, waiting for her time to pass while he remained unchanged.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you as I promised. Please forgive me," she said during their time in Underdark. Her bright blue eyes, the very eyes he fell in love with, overflowed with guilt.

Astarion wanted her to know that he could never be angry or hate her.

The shovel still lay untouched on the ground, with no sign of being used anytime soon. While the vampire elf sat silently in front of his own grave marker, letting old memories flow through his mind once more,. Both his arms cradled her lifeless body as if she were still alive.

"My beloved, please continue to live on for me. I wish to see you happy for a long time," another of her last requests echoed in his mind. The gentle touch of her frail hand on his cheek still lingers in his heart to this day.

"Jones." Astarion whispers her name again. Tears, which he had not shed for a long time, now streamed down his pale face. "I can't do it," he murmured to her lifeless body. "How can I find happiness without you?"

A golden beam slowly crept in, chasing away the darkness from the vast sky. Yet Astarion's body remained unmoving, just like the eyes of the vampire, which refused to leave the withered face of his beloved for a second. He memorized every detail of her, keeping it in his memory as best as he could. She still looked as beautiful as ever in his eyes—always and forever.

"I wish the next life was real. I hope we'll meet again, live together, and build a family," Astarion whispered softly, planting a tender kiss on the edge of her lips. "Wait for me, darling. I'll follow you soon, no matter where you choose to go."

Finally, he tore his gaze away from her, looking up at the sky once more. For the first time in centuries, he had the chance to gaze at the nearing dawn with full eyes. As the sun peeked over the horizon, followed by the warm rays starting to seep through his skin, cracks began to form, turning his skin into tiny specks of dust.

Before his final consciousness faded, Astarion's thoughts remained vivid. 

This was the most beautiful dawn he had ever witnessed.

[britishassistant]

Gale’s Excellent Adventure (2)

Gale thinks that things are going well so far!

They’ve met and recruited a githyanki warrior—the first Gale’s ever seen outside of illuminations in scholarly texts!—and a rather dashing warlock who answers to the moniker “The Blade of the Frontiers”.

The fellow was hunting a war-devil, who turned out to be an unaccountably lovely tiefling with an infernal engine in her chest as well as a mindflayer tadpole on the brain.

He is looking forward to learning more about this exotic trio over the course of their travels together. And he’s learned so much more about his current companions too!

He now knows that Shadowheart is a cleric of a deity she will not name, but one that prizes secrecy and an intimate knowledge of torture and interrogation tactics among its followers.

(He’s relatively certain it’s not Mystra. Relatively. Almost probably.)

That Astarion channels the innate cruelty and ruthlessness of his profession into being very skilled at stabbing people in the vitals and relieving them of any valuables they possessed.

(Also he contains a puckish glee for “odd” names. He was in stitches over “Wyll-with-a-Y” for hours.)

That Yuu has yet to receive any formal training as a bard or a combatant, but improvises with what few cantrips they do know to devastating effect.

(They’re trading him magical items for lessons on the Weave. Gale’s surprised at how he enjoys it.)

There’s been a few…fractious moments between certain individuals who shall remain nameless, but he’s certain everyone will be fast friends soon enough! They’re all in this together, bonded over getting rid of the mindflayer tadpoles.

And best of all, no one’s noticed a thing.

He’s been patient, and observant, and has learned enough by now to mimic the spasms the others get when their tadpoles are…tadpoling. Their mental communications are harder to fake, but nothing a sneaky “detect thoughts” can’t fix.

Yes, he’s blended in splendidly, if he does say so himself.

***

“Gale? Can I have a word?”

“Hm?” He looks round, drawn out of his musings by one of his new friends. “Ah, Shadowheart! How can I be of help?”

She glances around, taking in Karlach debating with Lae’zel, Astarion needling Yuu while they’re trying to hold a conversation with Wyll.

“It’s a bit of a…personal matter.” She leans in. “Would you mind if we took this somewhere more private?”

Oh. Oh!

Well, this is a little awkward. Gale knows he’s handsome man and a capable wizard. It’s only natural that, in such close proximity for so long, someone would fall in love with him sooner or later.

Still, he reflects as they arrive in the ruins behind the camp. His dedicated monogamy to Mystra does mean that he has little to no idea how to let someone down gently or ask if he can get to know them a little better first before committing fully. She certainly provided no example—swept in with power and a whirlwind romance only to just vanish into the night and never respond to his sendings or prayers. Oh hells, how is he going to—

“I know you don’t have a tadpole, Gale.” Shadowheart announces gravely.

Gale promptly chokes on his own spit.

“Wh-wh-what?!” He splutters. “What are you—how—that’s—!”

“Really?” She tilts her head at him, a cross between sardonic and pitying. “That’s all it takes for you to break? Gale, I made one statement. Do I need to teach you how to lie so the others don’t unmask you so easily?”

“I don’t know what—?” He tries to lie, but she folds her arms, stare growing even more unimpressed. “Alright, alright, but not so loud! How in Mystra’s name did you find out?”

“It really wasn’t that difficult.” She shrugs.

He lets out a little snort, kicking a twig. “Spare my feelings, why don’t you.”

Shadowheart sighs, taking pity on his pouting. “Fine. It started in the Druid sanctum. When we happened upon the druidess menacing the tiefling child, the rest of us were treated to a…rather unpleasant vision. Involving a much smaller Yuu, an elven beauty, and attempted horn removal.”

He feels as though he cricks something in his neck, whipping around to face her. “I’m sorry, there was what?”

“It doesn’t matter,” She dismisses, far too casually in his humble opinion. “What matters is that, given that Astarion and myself were both effectively deaf, dumb, and blind thanks to the tadpoles forcing us to view that charming little scene, how were you able to remain aware enough to keep Yuu from impulsively murdering that druid?”

He thinks of how he’d had to lunge when he noticed the tailless tiefling tugging free the spear they’d scavenged, the way the teenager had turned to him with glassy-eyed incomprehension before they shuddered back into themselves as if shaking off lingering night terrors.

“The pieces fell into place from there easily enough.” Shadowheart continues, meandering as she talks. “You react a moment too late if something the tadpoles do affects us physically. And you respond like a normal person ought to when confronted with other instances of the parasite that we’ve come across.”

“I see.” Gale mutters. Then, fiddling at his sleeves slightly. “A normal person, as opposed to…?”

Shadowheart’s face creases into a disgusted grimace. “An abiding compulsion from our guests to find more of the little monsters and slurp them down as if they’re a bowl of your fine stew.”

“Ah. Urgh.” Gale can’t keep his own nose from wrinkling.

The two of them marinate in companionably disgusted silence for a few moments.

“…And now?” Gale asks, unable to bear the silence any longer. “Is this where you announce to hither, thither and yon that I’m a fraud? Or did you have some personal retribution planned for my disseminations before proceeding with my banishment?”

A soft, sweet smile curves Shadowheart’s lips. Even with the mischievous twinkle in her eyes, it’s one of Gale’s favorite expressions of hers.

“Well, I wouldn’t say we need to go as far as all that. You’ve been a fine companion, Gale, even without the tadpole. I feel the tenor of this group would drop dramatically if you left us. The quality of our meals certainly would.”

A single ember of hope sparks into a quivering flame in his chest. “So then—!”

“But,” She holds up a finger to interrupt him. “I will require something in return. A guarantee, of sorts. I’m hardly Lady Popularity, after all, and if the others discover I’ve been lying for you then things could get quite sticky for me, you understand?”

He dithers for a moment, before letting himself nod. “Anything. I’ll do anything—ah, short of harming or endangering our fellow companions. Or myself. Or you.”

She tosses him a sardonic look. “Gale, would I ever?”

He elects not to answer that.

“I need you to keep an eye out for something.” Shadowheart says. “It’s a…keepsake of mine. I had it with me on the Nautiloid, but when I woke up afterwards, it was gone.”

“Oh. Oh dear.” Gale frowns, considering. “Well, I’m happy to aid however I can. What does it look like?”

She kneels down and, picking up a twig, sketches a vague dodecahedron with strange, angular characters decorating its surface. “It’s a little smaller than a fist, and black with orange markings. It is vital I get it back, it—! It means a lot to someone very important to me. Someone I’d hoped to reunite with in Baldur’s Gate.”

And call him a soft touch, but Gale’s always been partial to grand romantic gestures of devotion. “Alright. I’ll keep a keen eye out for it, don’t you worry. Might even dust off some of the old divination textbooks to see if scrying would be of any use!”

“Thank you, Gale.” Shadowheart smiles, verdant eyes sparkling with warmth like sunlight dappled through tree leaves. “You’re an excellent friend.”

It may be a little embarrassing, but that praise warms the cockles of Gale’s heart for the rest of the evening and well past noon the next day.

That warmth quickly goes tepid when it turns out the keepsake is in the custody of their intrepid leader, so revealed when the teenager pulls it out, bold as brass, to ask him if he can identify whether or not it is some form of communication device.

They at least heed his urging to return it to Shadowheart, even if they grumble slightly about the spies for the Order of the Companion as they do so. Shadowheart is rightfully indignant, but willing to forgive. His secret is safe. Gale is content that all is right with the world.

Which is when they all discover that Yuu literally, physically cannot give up the artefact.

***

“Wizard.”

“Gah!” He can’t help jumping.

“Ah, Lae, Lae’zel! You startled me. Can I help with anything?”

She scowls at him. Or possibly just looks at him neutrally. Perhaps even favorably! He’s never quite been able to tell.

Being too intimidated to maintain eye contact may have something to do with it.

“Follow me.” Lae’zel orders.

As with most of her orders, Gale obeys mostly without question.

Mostly.

“Rather, rather unusual for you to summon me, isn’t it? Not that I don’t enjoy conversing with you, far from it! I’ve always found it highly, ah, enlightening to learn more about githyanki philosophy and custom, particularly in matters of—!”

He finds himself transfixed by a pair of golden eyes staring into his soul and by a finger pressing to his lips.

“Cease this prattle.” She snaps. “You are no yank begging for mercy from a varsh. I have matters of import to discuss, so be silent and listen.”

Despite his usual difficulties with the task, Gale finds himself shrinking mutely back into the tree she has him effectively pinioned against.

A gleam of approval enters her gaze.

He chooses to interpret the removal of her finger as a proverbial carrot to incentivize his behavior.

“I know of your deception, wizard.” Lae’zel pronounces. “That you merely pretend to be afflicted with the parasite the rest of us suffer.”

His blood turns to ice.

“Ha. Hahaha!” He laughs, nonchalantly, like Shadowheart’s taught him. “That is. That is a. Funny joke, Lae’zel! Truly, you are the comedic backbone of this camp!”

Her expression does not change.

Gale tries desperately to concentrate on maintaining the illusion of mirth.

He fails.

“What gave it away?” He asks wearily, recognizing a thorough routing when he sees it.

“It was simple for one such as I.” She declares. “Of all who fell sweating and diminished under the tadpole’s machinations, you alone were flush with health. The gi even used this a proof to keep me from purging the camp.”

“Gi?”

Lae’zel rolls her eyes. “Gi, student in Common. The tailless one requested my instruction in combat, so they would not perish as they almost did aboard the Nautiloid. But that is irrelevant to the matter at hand. Which is that the next morn, you again were the sole member of this sorry band who did not immediately come forward with talk of a figure in golden armor in your dreams, telling us to utilize the tadpole.”

“Ah.” Gale had personally thought his improvisation when Yuu had consulted him, cobbled together from elements he’d overheard from the others, had been rather inspired all things considered. “Might there be anything I could do to convince you to not evict me from camp?”

Lae’zel crosses her arms. “And risk losing what is a blessing from Vlaa’kith herself? Do not be foolish!”

“Erm?” Says Gale.

“I would make you my ally, wizard.” She announces. “As the only one free of ghaik infection, you alone are free of their trickery and deceptions. You alone see things as they truly are, instead of what the parasite would have us believe them be.”

He considers this with a sense that is not quite dread, but is not far off in how it looms over him, makes his breath short under its scale. The anticipation of a burden to bear, perhaps.

“I…suppose so.”

“Do not suppose, know. That is what wizards claim to be their domain, is it not?” She challenges, a cocky bent to her smirk that makes Gale want dearly to rise to it. To prove himself worthy, somehow.

“Very well. And what would this alliance entail?” He queries.

“I would have you as my touchstone. To assure me of what is real and what is mere fabrication.” Lae’zel asserts, in the manner of a commander dispensing orders. “And, should the ghaik infection progress beyond this, aid me in ending the misery of the others and myself.”

Gale does not choke this time, but it’s a near thing.

“You what?!” He squawks. “Lae’zel, you can’t be serious!”

“And why not?!” She fires back. “You, above all others, know the danger of the ghaik! You know what will happen if we are allowed to transform! I will not permit it!!”

“Yes, well, but—! Lae’zel, you asked me to act as touchstone for you.” He implores, seeking out her gaze. “Then let me. This is madness speaking, Lae’zel, the purest folly. Losing you, or any of the others, that could in no way make the world a safer place. If anything—!”

He pounces on this new line of reasoning that has just dawned on him. “If anything, isn’t it far more likely that this is one of the tadpole’s insidious commands?”

Her eyes snap to him, alert as any bird of prey. “Explain.”

“Well, consider it,” Gale proposes, warming to his topic. “When we came upon those Absolute fellows with tadpoles in their heads, we didn’t join up with their cause, did we? In fact, Yuu deliberately orchestrated their demise while fighting that owlbear, so even their corpses couldn’t give a clear account of their killers. Maybe the tadpoles have realized you all have far more, erm, vigor and vim than they can contend with? Thus leading to them attempting to encourage you to terminate yourselves or each other to keep you from growing too powerful, opposing whatever their plans may be?”

He can see the cogs turning in her head as she gives his words due consideration. “Hrm…that would explain why Shadowheart is so irascible, and unwilling to allow the gi to return the aretfact to my people.”

He privately considers that this may have more to do with the fact that Shadowheart is still very determined to gift the artefact to her beloved in Baldur’s Gate and that she just greatly dislikes Lae’zel, but decides discretion is the better part of valor in this case.

“To think that the tadpole could even use the training of crèche K’llir against me…” Lae’zel shakes her head, disquieted. “Already this alliance bears fruit. I will keep your secret, wizard, and keep you appraised of when the parasite attempts its trickery again.”

Gale sags as the tension he’s amassed over the course of this conversation escapes him all at once. “R-right, erm, of course. Please, please do.”

She nods to him and strides off back to camp.

He waits until she’s out of sight before letting himself sink against the base of the tree in exhaustion.

Well all’s well that ends well, he supposes. And if that means Lae’zel occasionally comes to him to complain about certain habits of their companions that inspire murderous rage in her, and it turns into a bit of a gossip session…

Well, it’s certainly better than the alternative.

***

“Care for a drink, Gale?”

It’s late, and most of the camp is curled up in their bedrolls and tucked away in their tents. He had presumed that the only ones left awake were himself, pouring over a rather interesting volume of Fringe Philosophy, and that dog which followed Yuu back from goodness knows where in the woods.

The frowsy canine has been eyeing his boots with intent, he just knows it.

He finds himself for once welcomely mistaken when he looks up to see Wyll proffering one of the bottles of Ithbank that also returned with the scouting party.

“Ooh, don’t mind if I do.” He puts the book to the side, scooching to make space for his new companion in libations on the log.

Wyll takes a seat next to him, muscled thigh bulging where it presses against Gale’s own.

Gale tries in vain to focus instead on the gratifyingly full cup the Blade of Frontiers passes him. The wine itself tastes tart and dry as it goes down.

“Oh, that hits the spot.” Gale sighs happily. “My deepest thanks, good sir. I must admit I did not realize how sorely I needed this.”

“Ah, think nothing of it.” Wyll replies modestly.

The pair of them sup together in convivial silence.

It’s when Gale is refilling Wyll’s cup for the third time that he ventures, tentatively, “Gale? You would consider us friends, correct?”

A horrible, prickling feeling starts up the back of Gale’s neck.

“Of course. I hardly know of a situation where somebody could fight alongside you and not look upon our relationship with a considerable degree of amicability.” He responds, wetting his lips. Then, with a slight undertone of suspicion, “Why?”

“As if we are friends, like you and I have agreed.” Wyll goes on doggedly, somehow managing to give an entreating gaze with one eye hell-red-on-black and the other made of stone. “Then it would be right and proper of me to let you know of certain deductions I have made about your person. Correct?”

Oh, for the love of Mystra—!

“Out with it, then.” He mutters gloomily, seizing the bottle for a generous pour. “What, when, where, why, how?”

Wyll takes the bottle with a measure of trepidation, lips softly pursed in deliberation before he sets it down in the grass between them.

“Well, you remember the phase spiders. In the well?”

Gale lets out a piteous moan. “Please don’t remind me.”

“You were trying to cast magic missile on one of them, but its vermin-riddled servant was coming up behind you.” Wyll continues, “And no matter how Yuu and I tried to connect with your tadpole to warn you, it was as though we couldn’t reach it. As though it wasn’t there in the first place. And then Karlach shoved you.”

“And then Karlach shoved me.” He repeats numbly. The burn where her elbow got his ribs healed without a trace after one potion.

The memory of her horrified screaming when the arachnids swarmed her and somehow didn’t immediately meet a fiery demise will take a much heavier draught to recover from.

He groans, taking a too big swig from his goblet.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting something then, in exchange for not running me out of camp at first light.” He states, the wine making his inhibitions loose and speech spill freely. “Some arcane knowledge your patron has failed to provide? The retrieval of a family heirloom? Counsel from a former archmage?”

“What? No, I—!”

A muffled snort interrupts Wyll’s passionate rebuke. After watching the dog settle itself again by the fire with bated breath, Gale is drawn back to his drinking partner’s earnestness.

“I require counsel for…” Wyll pauses, considering. “A lot of things in my life right now. But. But more than that, I would be forever grateful for a friendly ear. Someone to commiserate with, without needing to plan and solve things that are beyond help.”

Gale swirls his cup and watches the small whirlpool of red.

“Hm. They are a bit of a doer, aren’t they?”

Wyll does not even ask who he means, just groans in a way Gale can sympathize with. “I—Yuu’s very capable, and Helm preserve me but I like them, but do they ever switch off?!“

“I”, Gale confides in his most conspiratorial tones, “Once saw them pull out that journal of theirs after speaking with Lae’zel and begin scribbling down a detailed synopsis of the conversation they’d just held. While we were inside the hag’s lair.”

Wyll stares at him, eyes bulging. He lets slip a bark of laughter he instantly muffles by clapping a hand over his mouth.

Gale can’t help the surge of pleased satisfaction that courses through him.

“Gods above, but that cannot be healthy. Leading every excursion out of camp, acting as arbiter within it, recording everything, concocting alchemicals, training with you and Lae’zel…” Wyll scrubs a hand over his head, frowning in annoyance when he bumps the horns sprouting from his brow. “I’m growing worried that we’ll wake one morning to find them expired in their bedroll from exhaustion.”

“They’re young.” Gale soothes, taking perhaps a larger gulp of his Ithbank than he originally intended. “Driven. I was much the same at their age, impatient to prove myself worthy to those who equaled me in skill but surpassed me in age. I think with some time and guidance from those in our company they ought to calm down somewhat, mark my words.”

Wyll sighs heavily and lists gently into Gale’s side, solid and warm. “I hope so, for all our sakes. But by the gods, I’m twenty four. I’m too young to be feeling old.”

Gale, in his mid thirties, does not comment on how old that particular comment makes him feel.

“Ah, be that as it may…” He trails off, scratching at the rim of the cup with his nail. “I hate to press, but can I be assured of your discretion in this matter?”

The fond smile that rewards this query near takes his breath away.

“Don’t worry, my friend.” Wyll squeezes his shoulder firmly. “I won’t tell a soul, I swear on mine and my father’s lives.”

Gale is unable to do much more than nod dumbly, soon deciding to turn in before he does anything too daring for sobriety.

It doesn’t keep Wyll from sharing that soft, secretly fond smile with him as they journey onwards, or share conversation in the evenings.

He’s certain it can’t be good for his heart.

***

“Oh, Gale darling~”

It’s almost pavlovian, how Gale’s shoulders hunch guiltily at the affectionate address.

“Astarion. How can I help you?”

“I’ve a sudden and uncontrollable craving for your company. Quite irresistable, I’m afraid. Come,” The pale elf beckons. “Won’t you walk with me?”

It’s a trap. It’s so obviously a trap that Gale would be fool to fall for it.

Astarion tilts his head, peering up at him from under his eyelashes.

Gale falls into step with the weary resignation of a sentenced man making his way to the gallows. Still, the walk is almost nice, getting to gaze upon nature in all its splendor as Astarion somehow manages to make nattering on about everything and nothing sound compelling and engaging.

Right up until he says, “…though that pales in comparison to what I heard you and Wyll talking about the other night, darling.”

All of the muscles in his body lock up like someone had enchanted him by mistake in place of their chest of valuables.

He sighs. “I don’t supposed I could convince you that I’ve no worldly clue what you’re talking about?”

“Hmm, maybe.” Astarion hums. “But then I began thinking about you seemed blissfully unburdened with flashbacks from the Descent when the little bard was conversing with our devil friend. Also the incident with the grease—”

“Yes, well, we don’t need to get into that.” Gale grumbles, wishing he knew how to craft a draught that represses those memories of his early tactical errors.

“Of course, I’m never one to kiss and tell.” Astarion places a hand on his chest, faux innocence practically leaking from every fiber of his being. “But, I might need to ask for a small favour in return. To ensure it stays just between us.”

Gale nods for him to divulge his demand.

“Well, first things first.” The pale elf backs him up against a tree in embrace that has blood rushing furiously to his cheeks. “I should probably let you in on my little secret. I just so happen to be what some colloquially refer to as a vampire.”

“Oh. You’re a vampire?” Gale repeats dumbly. Then, as several key details suddenly slot into place. “Oh fuck, you’re a vampire.”

The newly outed vampire has the audacity to roll his eyes. “Please, I’m a spawn, darling. No need to fret about my turning you. And while I’ve been getting by on animals, I need something more…potent to unleash my full potential.”

His nose, oddly cool now Gale takes note of it, skims over his carotid artery. “And you, my dear, have them all beat for potency.”

The proximity and near-intimacy of it is making Gale’s head spin, which is why he doesn’t think about any potential downsides, until Astarion’s pleased hum after his fangs sink in turns to a muffled sound of incredulity.

“Gale.” It takes him a moment to blink back into himself to register he’s being spoken to. “What the fuck is wrong with your blood?”

“Ah. Well.” He scuffs some of the leaves underfoot with the toe of his boot. “You recall the camp meeting I called last week about the orb of dread Netherese magic in my chest?”

“The what—?!”

“..re you there? Astari—!”

Gale jolts as Astarion springs away from him, the pair of them staring wildly at the unofficial leader of their merry troupe, who looks as mortified as Gale feels. “—Oookay, I did. Not mean to walk in on. You two?”

“You could sound less surprised, darling.” Astarion pouts silkily, not an errant drop of red to be seen.

“I’ll admit it wasn’t who my gold was on,” Yuu mumbles, almost too softly to hear. Gale can’t help but wonder what they mean by that as they raise their voice with a little cough.

“Look, I don’t care if you two want to sneak off and, and give each other hickeys—”

He can feel his cheeks warm violently at the implication. “That’s—!”

“I know, I know, completely none of my business, but.” Yuu comes to an abrupt stop. “Wait. Gale, are you—are you bleeding?”

Gale suddenly realizes the warm slide down his neck that he’d taken for nervous sweat is in fact a substance of the more sanguine variety.

“Erm.” He tries. “No?”

Astarion stares at him, eyes round with disbelief.

“Are you fucking joking?!” He demands, in the same breath as Yuu exhales, “Oh fuck, you’re a vampire. How the fuck did I miss that?!”

“Now, now hold on a moment!” Gale, sensing imminent disaster, steps between them. “Yes, he may be a vampire, but he’s hardly some, some bloodthirsty beast like the tawdry excuses for literature we’ve been scavenging would have us believe! It isn’t like we’ve been waking up to any one of us drunk dry during the night, is it? All five of us, yet Astarion has had the near, near deific self control to hold out until this very evening before requesting—quite politely, if I may add!—if I would find sympathy for his plight and contribute to his welfare so that he can continue to aid us to the best of his ability. As he has done thus far without acknowledgement of his sacrifices.”

Yuu raises an eyebrow at him. “And you agreed?”

He spreads his arms helplessly. “I—How could I not?”

Yuu glances warily between him and the vampire. They pinch the bridge of their nose and let out a sigh.

“If we arrange a voluntary feeding schedule, would that help, Astarion?”

For a moment, the vampire just stares at the two of them, mouth agape.

Slowly, he nods.

“We’ll go over exact amounts and who’ll be participating later.” Yuu announces brusquely. “I need to gently break the news to the others first. Give me an hour, and I should have everyone on the same page.”

“Thank you,” Gale clasps his hands in their direction. “Your foresight is invaluable, as always. You won’t regret this, I promise.”

The would-be bard raises a blithe hand in acknowledgement as they crunch through the leaves back to camp.

“I’m genuinely unsure whether I should kiss you or kill you.”

He blinks at Astarion. “Erm? W-Well, I’d rather. Rather the former than the latter if it’s on the table. Though please don’t take it as an obligation of some kind! I never had any intentions of indebting you to me.”

“Please.” Astarion drawls as he slinks over, looping his arms once more around Gale’s neck. “How could I let such a…gallant defense go unrewarded? And our little bard did say we have an hour, after all…”

“Oh!” Gale says. Then. “O-ohh…”

And, as a gentleman of discretion and valor, he will draw the curtain on the scene there.

***

“Hey, soldier!”

Karlach falls into step next to him as they trudge through the Underdark. Up ahead, he can faintly make out Astarion and Yuu quietly conferring about whether their crossbow or his bow would be more suitable for removing the red glowing mushrooms that litter their path to the wizard’s tower.

“So,” She says, waggling her eyebrows at him saucily. “You and Fangs, eh?”

“Fangs?” He repeats, confused.

“Astarion,” She clarifies. “Even with the donation system and all that, he seems to be sweetest on you. You two a thing at all?”

“Ha! Ah, I’m not sure.” Gale demurs. “On the one hand, even if I have to disagree with your definition of “sweetest”, he has been the perfect gentleman when he’s not busy driving me round the bend. On the other, he apparently managed to tune out all of my explanations about the Netherese orb currently residing in my chest. Claims he was too distracted by my boots, of all things.”

“They are nice boots,” Karlach observes, which does make Gale preen. “Was a bit more taken with you kneeling while pressing Yuu’s hand to your chest, m’self.”

“That was for practical demonstration.” He stresses, cheeks flushing with the belated embarrassment that’s dogged him since about fifteen minutes afterwards. “I could hardly expect you all to take me seriously without proof.”

“Right, and your proof usually involves you getting on your knees, does it?” At his indignant splutter, Karlach lets out a laugh that’s no less lovely for how it resembles a bray rather than bells tinkling. “Joking, I’m joking Gale. Though, if you’re not with Fangs, would you instead say that you’d been involved with Shadowheart? Since the tenday before last? Loudly?”

“Shadowheart? What in—” Gale suddenly notices how his conversation partner’s eyes keep darting to the tailless tiefling a few meters away from them, recalls their comment from the evening Astarion’s secret had been revealed. It all clicks.

“Wait. You aren’t—are you betting on my love life?!” He demands, scandalized.

Karlach shrugs, tip of her tongue caught between the teeth of her unrepentant grin.

“Well, we’ve gotta do something for entertainment, don’t we? The others keep circling around you like they’re wargs and you’re a set of deep rothé ribs! And who can blame them? You’re a catch.”

Gale is for once extremely glad he can blame Karlach’s ambient temperature for the way his face suddenly and inexplicably feels burning hot.

“That’s—! I’m afraid you’ve the entirely wrong end of the staff if that’s your line of thinking.” He says stiffly. “None of them have any truly amorous interest in me, just discussing something. Something private.”

“Oh.” Karlach frowns for a moment.

Then she says, “What, did they work out you don’t have a tadpole as well?”

You’d think, after the fifth time such a revelation was made, Gale would be sufficiently prepared to not have a physical reaction to it.

You would be wrong.

“How?!” The words, meant to sound dignified if resigned, emerge with more of a trimming of petulant whine.

“Known ever since I met you.” She devastates cheerfully. “Got prowling around the Gate from Fangs, dragon’s fire from Lae’zel, training in the dark from Shadowheart, talking down mercs from Yuu, hunting me from Wyll, but from you? Nothing.”

“Ah.” He acknowledges. Then, “So, is that what happens every time you all meet someone new with a tadpole? You get a concentrated history of their past exploits through communication between the parasites?”

Karlach’s mouth twists as she considers. “Hm, I don’t think so? You can still keep secrets, else we’d have all known about Astarion a lot sooner. And the cult leaders woulda had us all killed the moment we walked in. It’s more like…snippets of that person? I’m not sure if it’s bits and bobs about them that are more like you or just what they think about themselves.”

“Fascinating,” Gale breathes. He’ll admit, given all the subterfuge he’s had to go through, he’s only been able to glean piecemeal information about the affliction.

After all, it’s hardly like he could just wander up to the others and ask them about it off-hand. Could he?

“Probably for the best you don’t have it, on the whole.” She stretches, toned muscles standing in stark relief with every movement. “Aside from the whole mindflayer-y thing, you at least didn’t have to deal with Yuu’s hangover in your head.”

Gale winces in commiseration. A lot of people had been plying their erstwhile leader with alcohol at the tiefling party, to the point where they ended up passed out in their bedroll halfway through the evening. From the way they still looked bleary after Shadowheart and Halsin cast Lesser Restoration on them the next morn, Gale would bet all his gold and then some that they’ve very little experience drinking so heavily, if any.

Still, he drums his fingers against his leg as he considers how best to broach this next bit.

“Although…you do understand if I ask that you not repeat this, please? Given that not quite everyone is…aware.”

“Course.” Karlach says, tapping the side of her nose. “Mum’s the word, eh?”

“Quite.” Gale wrings his hands together. He opens and closes his mouth. “And you don’t…want anything?”

Karlach tilts her head. “How’d you mean?”

“You know.” Gale makes a frittering notion with his hands. “Something to buy your silence, or what have you?”

“What?!” She looks askance at him, snorting in a way he finds unreasonably attractive. “What’s the point in that? You don’t want me to tell, so I won’t. Simple as that.”

He can’t help smiling broadly at her, at the way the flames licking off her skin reflect in the vents protruding from her shoulder, off the dancing humor in her eyes.

They both turn to observe their companions are taking potshots at the mushrooms and cheering when one of their projectiles manages to set off a chain reaction.

“Actually, there is something.”

Ah. Damn.

He tenses despite himself. “And what would that be?”

“When I get Dammon to fix my engine proper so I don’t burn anymore,” She decrees with the regality of a queen. “You’ve got to give me a big hug. A proper one. If you want to, ‘course.”

The sudden release of nerves is almost euphoric.

“I’ll hold you to that.” He vows.

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Jaskier and Lambert learn they have more in common than first thought.

CW historical abuse, child abuse, beating.

Jaskier silently ground his teeth in agitation as Lambert kicked off again, saying something about the little Lordling not liking hard work when Jaskier collapsed at one of the long tables after spending the couple of hours before dinner helping them repair one of the walls (typically, the three Wolves hadn’t even broken a sweat). People underestimated how thick a skin you needed as a Bard, but even Jaskier could only take so much and Lambert was relentless. Geralt had imparted the usual, trite advice of ‘ignore him and he’ll get bored’. Unfortunately, whilst Jaskier may have succeeded in keeping his mouth shut in the name of civility, his emotions were doing all the talking for him and the scent of Jaskier’s hurt and annoyance only seemed to spur Lambert on. If the sneer on his face was any indication, he could tell the Bard was nearing the end of his tether.

“Give it a rest Lambert.” Eskel growled warningly, “It’s been four days. If Jaskier’s not had enough of your shit by now, the rest of us have.”

“Not my fault. Maybe next time Geralt should bring somebody who didn’t have such a spoilt, cushy upbringing.”

And there went the remnants of Jaskier’s self control. He stood up quickly enough to tip the bench, turning to Lambert with a snarl of his own. The Wolf smirked in return at having finally gotten a reaction.

“Let me show you how cushy I had it.” Jaskier scoffed. Before any of the others could react, he turned his back and lifted his shirt. The tension in the room switched from uncomfortable to stifling as the Witchers took in the sight of the Bard’s bare back. Raised scars from both whip and belt crisscrossed his flesh, some of them showing the outline of a buckle.

“My father wasn’t a very nice person.” Jaskier said dryly, “First time he took his belt to me was because I was laughing too much. I was six.”

Geralt felt a wall of ice slam into his gut as he thought back on all the times he’d told Jaskier to shut up, manhandled him. That time he’d actually punched him....

Jaskier lowered his shirt, “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll be in my ivory tower.”

“Jaskier-“

“Don’t. Just...don’t.”

As soon as Jaskier was out of sight, Eskel rounded on the youngest Wolf, “You never learn. You always have to take shit too far.” He snarled.

“How was I to know?” Lambert bit back, “Geralt, you’re the one who’s been travelling with him for years. Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”

“I... didn’t know.” Geralt said truthfully. All things considered, it was rare he saw the bard shirtless and when he did, Jaskier always made sure to stay facing Geralt. Even here at Kaer Morhen he was always the first one in and the last one out of the hot springs, “He never put his back to me.”

“And that didn’t seem strange to you?”

“Not turning your back is one of the first things they drilled into us here, so no.”

“Oh, for fucks sake.”

Jaskier sat at the top of one of the more stable towers, swinging his feet idly in the open air below him and occasionally swigging from the half bottle of wine he’d retrieved from his room on the way up.

He was half aware of someone sitting next to him, spite and petulance making him continue to stare ahead rather than turn to see who.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before his mystery companion spoke up.

“My old man was always careful not to leave any lasting marks. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away by our own clumsiness.” Lambert said, taking a swig of his own bottle.

“Hmm, mine was determined to make sure the lessons stuck. Apparently I was a slow learner.”

“He still living?”

Jaskier shook his head, “Died not long before I met Geralt. Yours?”

“Died decades ago, probably. I swear, if I knew where he was buried - if he was buried. It’d be more than he deserved - I’d go and piss on his grave.”

“I actually did that. It’s not as gratifying as you’d think.”

That startled a laugh out of Lambert, Jaskier giving a small chuckle back.

“To arsehole Sires.” Lambert said with mock solemnity, holding his bottle out to Jaskier.

“May they enjoy eternity in the deepest pits of Hell.” Jaskier replied with equal gravity, knocking his own against Lambert’s in a toast.

They sat drinking and watching the sun disappear behind the mountain tops, each of them lost in their own memories. When the night time chill started to descend, Lambert silently offered a now slightly tipsy Jaskier a hand up. Jaskier wordlessly accepted.