#Like Slow Spinning Redemption

[anmylica]

Like Slow Spinning Redemption Chapter Four

Tagging the Usual Crew: @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @sotangledupinit

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Catch Up Here: 01 02 03

Liam moved through several rooms, shuffling papers and opening doors. He had walked into a couple of rooms where one of the others was also searching, and so he couldn’t move outside to destroy the pages yet. The only person he hadn’t met was Emma, but he knew that she had stalked off into a completely different area of the manse so as to avoid everyone else. He smiled slightly at Henry, which Henry returned as he moved into a new location. Liam watched Henry leave, and then he listened for the sounds of any of the others. 

Hearing nothing, Liam decided that this was the best time to finish what he had started. He moved to the window facing the back yard, and noted how close he was to a door that led to the yard. Looking around him once more to check that he was alone, Liam slunk off towards the exit that led outside. He moved as quickly as he could without making much noise. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. He opened the door as quietly as he could and closed it without pulling the latch; he didn’t need the door to make any extra noise. He didn’t know how much time he had, so he crossed over to the well quickly, stopping at the edge and pulling the pages out of his pocket.

Hades hadn’t left any specific instructions on how exactly to destroy them, but he did say that all the waterways led back to him.  Liam decided that the best way was to follow Hades’ orders was to throw them into the nearest waterways. Remembering the well he had spied as he came into the mansion, he supposed that he could throw them in there and that would be enough.  Moving fast, he managed to avoid everyone else searching and got to the well without anyone seeing him.  He quickly took the pages out of his jacket and let them fall into the well.  He watched them fall into the water and sink to the bottom almost immediately upon touching the water. It was done.  He was free, finally free at last, of his secret’s hold on him.  This was it, the whole reason he was still in purgatory.  He could finally move on from this place.  The regret at betraying his brother was outweighed by his singular relief at getting away with keeping his treachery a secret.  He sighed as a weight lifted off his shoulders.

—————

After the altercation with Liam earlier in the day and her quasi-argument with Killian about whether Liam was hiding something, the last thing Emma felt like doing was searching for the missing pages.  She actually felt more like hitting something (or someone, or possibly even multiple someones), an emotion which was apparent in the way she threw open doors and slammed them shut, roughly yanked open drawers and caused their contents to rattle, only to throw them shut in the same aggravated movement.  Without Killian around her to see, she let her emotions reign as she stomped around, on her face a screwed up scowl, and she didn’t linger in any place for long.

She knew that Liam was wrong in his assessment of his brother’s perceived lack of heroism, just as he was wrong in his villainized judgment of her.  She just didn’t know how to get Liam to see that there was more to Killian than that supposed “darkness” and view his younger brother for the hero that Emma knew him to be (and she also didn’t know how to get Killian to see that same fact for himself, only she was beginning to suspect that somehow Liam, himself, had to be the key to that’s endeavor).  She couldn’t care less whether Liam Jones’ opinion ever changed of her; she just wanted to change his opinion of Killian (and of Killian concerning himself).

She wandered into another sitting room and paced through the length of it, scanning absentmindedly for any sign of the torn pages of Henry’s storybook, Underworld Edition, when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye.  She stopped and turned her head back to where she had caught it and realized she was seeing through a window into a yard just beside the house.  She stepped closer to the window, her brow furrowed in confusion and suspicion as she realized she was looking at Liam.  His back was to her; she couldn’t see what it was he was doing, but why would he be out in the yard when he had sworn he wouldn’t stop looking until they were successful in locating the lost pages?”

Making a split-second decision, she hastily left the room and made a beeline for the nearest exit that would get her to that yard and into yet another confrontation with Killian’s older brother.  Her inner lie detector had been going off ever since their first conversation, and she was going to find out why it was alerting her to something being off with Liam.  She owed it to Killian to investigate his brother’s shady actions, even if he wouldn’t appreciate her for it.

————-

Liam rubbed his hands together, watching as the pages floated down into the well and disappeared into the water, wishing that the ink hadn’t stained his hands so badly, and he heaved another sigh of relief.  He hadn’t realized how tense he had been since seeing his brother once more. But all would be well. He would not have to answer Killian about what he had done, and Killian would never find out about his mistakes. He would remain a hero in his little brother’s eyes.  They could move on from this place together. He would finally have his brother back.

He was just about to turn to find a place to wash his hands of the ink that had stained them when he heard Emma’s voice.  

“I thought you were inside looking for the missing pages,” she called.  Liam whirled around to face her, balling his hands into fists so as to hide the stains and stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets as he did so in order to further conceal his treachery.

“Emma,” Liam replied, a bit breathlessly.  “I thought a bit of fresh air and a change of scenery would get the inspiration flowing.”  

Emma didn’t respond.  She just smiled slightly, preparing to lay her trap though Liam didn’t know it. “Find anything?”

Liam shook his head minutely. “I’m afraid a ship’s captain can only be cooped up for so long. I had to come out and get some air. What brings you out here?” 

Emma wondered if Liam realized how hollow his words sounded to her ears, how tinny they were with his lies, but, of course, he didn’t know about her super power. She walked closer to Liam so that he could get a good look about what she was going to show him. She hoped that the way to breach Liam’s lies was to use Killian to do it.

“I wanted to show you this,” Emma responded, pulling the chain out from under her shirt that had the ring Killian had given her in Camelot.  She held the ring out as far as it would go to Liam to allow him to see what it was she beheld.

Liam leaned in a bit to look closer. “Oh. It’s the ring I gave Killian. I noticed he wasn’t wearing it.”

Emma smiled softly and played with the ring in her fingers. “Because he gave it to me,” she confirmed. “And you know what he told me when he did?” She paused and waited for Liam to shake his head before continuing.  “That it belonged to a much better man than him. You’re his hero. He doesn’t think you can do any wrong…”

Liam squirmed uncomfortably, moving to scratch behind his ear in the same mannerism Killian had when he was uncomfortable. “Yes, well…” Liam tried to respond before falling silent, not knowing how to respond.

“Which is why,” Emma continued with no great concern about Liam’s feelings, “I can’t figure out why you would lie to him.” Emma stopped speaking and stared at Liam, a serious expression on her face. 

Liam stared back, struck speechless by how blatantly she had called him out. Emma could tell he didn’t know what to say.  He stared at her a moment before looking at the ground out of shame, and in that action Emma knew she had him. She just didn’t know what the lie was.

Before Liam could stammer out a reply, Killian joined them outside. “Liam? Emma? What’s going on?” he called out as he joined the two by the well. Killian looked between his brother and his lover, trying to puzzle out the tense air between the two people he loved most.

Liam looked to Killian and then Emma. Emma seemed as if she was content to let silence ring, so Liam responded to Killian’s question. He swallowed before saying, “She thinks I lied to you.”

“What?” Killian said under his breath, not sure if he had heard Liam right. He instinctively looked to Emma.

Emma nodded once to Liam. “He took the pages.  I can prove it.  Ask him to show you his hands. He’s been hiding them from me since I got here.”

Liam’s heart stopped, but he knew a way out of this trap. “Look,” he shrugged, “if it would help to clear things up, I’d be happy to.” 

Emma shot him a look of challenging disbelief, but before she could accept his proposal, Killian spoke up.

“That won’t be necessary,” Killian said as he shook his head in exasperation. “I don’t need proof to know what’s really going on here. Emma, when are you gonna admit that this isn’t really about my brother?”

Emma looked taken aback, Liam noticed. Hadn’t the thought occurred to her that Killian would automatically assume that? It seemed Emma didn’t know Killian as well as she thought, Liam smugly thought to himself. 

“What else would you think it’s about?” She asked slowly, confused about why Killian was questioning her motives.

Killian gestured between him and Emma with his hook. “Us,” Killian said plaintively. “You think if you can prove that Liam is a villain, then I’ll somehow feel like I was less of one. That you can convince me I’m worth saving and that we’ve got a future together.” 

Liam glanced between his brother and his brother’s lover, wondering if she caught the same rough edge to Killian’s voice at that last bit that Liam had. Liam felt a surge of guilt go through his stomach at the thought that Killian’s hopes were being dashed, but Liam knew that it was for the best.

Killian walked closer to Emma, almost unconsciously, Liam noted. It seemed to him that Killian couldn’t break himself away from her no matter how much he said he wanted to. It suddenly struck Liam that he wasn’t the only one lying in this yard.  In fact, Liam wondered if the only one of them telling the truth at this moment was Emma. He wondered if she were the only one who could possibly tell the truth now, as caught up in his mistakes as he was and as disappointed in himself as Killian was. 

Emma’s face turned down and sadness peppered her voice. “You agree with him?” she whispered, and Liam’s heart lifted that their scrutiny seemed to be off of him and onto each other.  Selfishly, he had no thought for Killian’s discomfort.

Killian shrugged. “Why bring me back if I should just love on?  After we defeat Hades, I won’t be returning with you. My fate isn’t in Storybrooke. It should be determined here.” Killian’s eyes kept shifting back and forth from her eyes to the roofline of the house. He couldn’t look her in the eyes as he said his words. 

Liam saw how much it hurt Killian to deny Emma the one thing that she wanted most. He wondered if she knew Killian was lying as well as Liam did.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Emma responded, tears welling in her eyes.  “You can come home.  You just have to forgive yourself.”  Emma sighed and paused, trying to catch Killian’s eye, though he stubbornly looked over her shoulder.  When she wasn’t successful, she continued, “Thing is… no matter how many times I tell you, or anybody else does, you have to do it yourself.”  At that, she turned and walked past Killian towards the house.

Killian turned and shouted, “Emma!”  When she didn’t stop, he made to follow her, but Liam grabbed his arm before Killian could take more than a step.

“Let her go, Killian.  It’s for the best.”  The sooner Killian could let Emma go, the sooner he could move on with Liam.  Liam knew that desperately holding onto the ties to the Living was the reason why so many people down here couldn’t move on.  Killian going after her would only delay the inevitable.

Killian sighed in frustration and looked down at the hand restraining him.  He loved his brother, but he was really getting annoyed with the man.  If he were to move on, he didn’t want things between him and Emma to have ended in strife and pain.  He was just about to retort this to Liam when his eyes processed why Killian hadn’t looked back up to his brother’s face.  Liam did have ink stains on his hands.  Ink stains that Killian knew hadn’t been there when they arrived at the mansion.  Ink stains much like the ones he himself had incurred when he rifled through the book’s pages in search of Hades’ story.

“Your hand,” he mumbled, dumbfounded.  “You are hiding something.”

Liam tried to jerk his hand back, but it was too late.  Killian grabbed Liam’s arm and held it up so he could check to make sure he had seen ink stains.  

“It’s nothing,” Liam halfheartedly to excuse.

Killian stared at his brother’s hand uncomprehendingly.  “It’s ink from the pages.  Emma was right,” he said softly.  Killian swallowed and looked up to stare his brother in the eyes.  “Why would you lie to me?!”

Liam tried to find the words to explain, but his voice died in his throat.  To be honest about this would mean admitting to what he had done, to the deal with Hades, all of it.  Liam didn’t have it in him to admit to those failings, but how could he lie to Killian otherwise?

“Because…” called out a voice.  Liam and Killian both turned to see their old captain, John Silver, approaching them with the rest of their old crew.  “He’s got much bigger secrets than what’s in some book.  Like the truth about what he did to us.”

Killian turned to Liam, his eyes blazing with a hard, desperate look.  “What’s he talking about?  What did you do?”

Liam looked back at his brother, pain and tears in his eyes.  He stuttered, trying to find the words that could somehow both explain and excuse what he did, but they wouldn’t come.  He knew that nothing he said would mend what was now breaking between them.  Killian, in spite of his quick temper and tendency to seek vengeance as retribution for wrongs committed against him, had always had a very healthy streak of justice running through his veins.  Perhaps it had been because their mother had died young and their father had abandoned them, perhaps it had been because the navy had given him purpose; Liam didn’t know.  What he did know was that Killian had always, always believed in good form, in helping others less fortunate than they, in always making the right choices, in fighting against tyranny and those who would mistreat others for their own gains.  And this, Liam was ashamed to admit, was the very opposite of good form his brother had always believed in, and that he, Liam, had tried to foster in his younger brother as they had grown up.

Liam had sowed the seeds long ago, and now he was going to reap the benefits, no matter how hard and difficult.

“Your brother made a deal with the devil,” Silver answered when it looked like Liam would say nothing.  “He allowed us to die in that storm that sank our ship in exchange for the Eye of the Storm.  Hades struck that deal with him to save you and condemn us to die.”

Killian stared at Silver in shock before turning to Liam.  “Is this true?” Killian asked, shock and disgust coloring his voice.  As he looked at the anguish on Liam’s face, Killian knew it was true, and the image of his brother, his unfailing, strong, heroic brother, began at last to fracture and crumble.

Liam swallowed and nodded once.  “It’s true.”

Liam watched as awareness of just how wrong about h is brother Killian had been made its way into Killian’s eyes.  There was no going back from this.  He stood staring at his brother helplessly, not knowing how to right the wrongs, only stirring when Silver spoke.

“Tie ‘em up and take them away, boys,” Silver demanded.

Before he could utter a word in protest, Silver then signaled to the rest of his crew to carry on with binding them up with rope.  They took Liam’s hands and bound them behind his back, and he watched helplessly as they did the same to Killian.  Killian tried to fight them off in typical Killian fashion, but there were too many of them. Killian had always been more of a fighter than he; Liam had always been more of a pacifist, only fighting when absolutely necessary but reluctant to stir up the status quo when it wasn’t.

Liam had always believed that there were certain facts that were incontrovertible, certain situations that one couldn’t change, so fighting them was pointless.  It felt to him as if this situation they were in was one of the latter ones.  What was the point of fighting now?  He deserved whatever fate that his old crew members had in store for him.  He just regretted that Killian had been dragged into this and be made to pay for Liam’s own follies.

Killian continued to struggle even as the men threw bags over their heads.  Liam wondered whether Killian, as a pirate captain, was plotting out a violent and bloody way out.  He thought not, as he rather got the impression that Killian didn’t actually want to hurt the men.  When they had successfully bound Liam and Killian, they began frog marching them to Hades only knew what destination.   As they tripped and stumbled along, Silver began to talk.

“Imagine my surprise when I came down to the bar for my nightly drink, Liam, and saw that Hades had paid you a visit.  Up until that point, I had no idea what had transpired to cause our deaths.  I have to hand it to you, you sure did manage to cover up your tracks.  I never would have suspected it if I hadn’t heard Hades allude to it.”

“Hades wanted you to hear it,” Liam muttered resentfully.

“It is a rather juicy detail, you have to admit,” Silver retorted.  “If it were your death, you’d be interested in it, too.”

“I can’t believe you sentenced them to death all because Hades wanted you to,” Killian gritted out towards his brother, ignoring Silver’s words.

Liam gritted his teeth against his brother’s censure, desperately aware of the audience they had.  “Don’t deny you would have done the same thing!  You always talked of getting vengeance,” he deflected.

Killian snarled.  “Justice!  I always talked of justice! But what you did wasn’t justice; it was vengeance.”

“Oh what’s the difference, Killian?  They deserved what they got in the end.”

Without quite realizing it, they had arrived at the entrance to the building that housed the entrance to the Boiling Sea where final judgment occurred.  Everyone stopped as two of the crew members went to open the outer doors, though Killian and Liam could not see this.

“The difference?” Killian echoed in amazement.  “Only innocent lives, Liam!  That’s the difference!  How many of these men deserved retribution?  How many of them directly attacked us?  I only remember one who did.  I can’t believe you would condemn them to this hell.”

“You have no idea what it was like, always having to look after both of us, not having someone else to bear the burden of making sure that we were clean or had food.  Of making sure you didn’t succumb to the darkness inside you!  I gave up everything to make sure you had a future!  I was more a father than a brother to you, and because of that I did what I had to do.”

“I didn’t ask you to be that!  You took that burden up all on your own!  And what did it get you?  I still succumbed to my darkness, and you blackened your heart for yours!” Killian shouted, enraged at Liam’s pigheaded attempts at justifying his actions.  “And what’s worse is you lied about it.  You looked me in the eye and lied.  You hurt Emma, damn near convinced me that my future wasn’t with her, and you took away our best chance of defeating Hades.”

“I did everything I did to save you!”

“Well, congratulations!” Killian snarled in response.  “You did an excellent job of it!  And to hell with everyone else in the process!”

“It was worth it to have a chance to save you from the darkness,” Liam protested once more.

“You didn’t save me from my darkness; I saved myself!  I took it in and damn near destroyed it for good!”

“All because of her!  Emma doesn’t are about you, only herself!  She is the absolute worst thing for you.”

“Milah, my ex, was the worst thing for me!  She encouraged the darkness inside of me.  Emma has been the inspiration for me to be better, to be the man I want to be.  But you’ve never had that kind of influence, so you just keep giving into your darkness! You lie and you let others die for you and your selfish desires!  When does this end Liam?!  You’re the one who’s endangered me this very moment!”

Liam stared towards Killian helplessly though he couldn’t see him, knowing that he was right.  Liam was still succumbing to his inner darkness.  Killian surely hadn’t fed his own to the extent that Liam had his, even through all his years as a pirate hunting down the Dark One.  But Liam didn’t know a way out.  Liam didn’t see a way to stop this.  As sure as the world, he was about to pay for his sins, and Killian was about to pay the price for a crime he hadn’t committed.

The crew finally wrenched the heavy doors open, and Silver pushed Liam through the threshold.  The last thing he saw before the crew members finally wrenched open the doors was Killian’s anguished blue eyes staring back at him as if he didn’t know him.  Liam knew with absolute certainty that his story ended here.

[bisaster-energy]

u guys listen to vindicated by dashboard confessional after watching and being overcome by the themes in spider-man 2 or was it just 11yo me

[hells-wasabii]

A/n: this one is a little on the shorter side like its predicesor, but I made up for it with a bit of a Drabble!

Part 1 | Part 2

Character: Alastor

Type: Headcanons + Drabble (Alastor x Doe!reader pt 2, Fluff)

Alastor was... gone. No broadcast, no letter, no cryptic bullshit. Just gone.

As were the demons that kept tabs on you. The overlord undoubtedly thought you didn't know, but you were a doe, and they weren't exactly subtle about it. One even outright told you.

It had been that way for seven years now.

That is, until you had seen and heard a television turned radio broadcast through out the city. You stood in front of the televisions in the store window, eyes wide and jaw practically on the ground. Like a deer in headlights. The radio demon was back.

Just as suddenly as he had disappeared all those years ago he was back. That... That bastard! Who did he think he was?!

Your ears flatten as an angry snort escapes you. And you knew exactly where he was, too.

The hotel wasn't too hard to find, you could pick Alastor's magic out of a croud. The place reeked of it, you thought as you scrunched up your nose. Before you knew it you had pushed open the doors of the establishment, finding yourself face to face with a blonde demon you assumed to be the princess of hell

"Hi, welcome to the Hazbin Ho-Oh." You pushed past the far too cheery woman making a note to apologize to her later, and marched right up to that damned deer. As if he could sense the danger he was in, Alastor finally turned to look at you. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw you.

"Hello, my dear!" As smooth as ever, he swept in to take you in his grasp, spinning you around in a small dance to slow your momentum. As soon as the two of you stopped Alastor took your hand in his and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, as gentlemanly as ever you supposed. "It's been some time now, hasn't it?"

Your eyes narrowed at your fellow deer demon, while his smile only grew, clearly delighted by your angered state.

"You have some explaining to do, Alastor."

You did forgive him eventually, but that didn't mean you weren't still upset about it. He wouldn't tell you why, either, which certainly didn't help his case, but your forgiveness still came, nonetheless.

Things at the hotel seemed simple enough, and you had to admit you were curious about this whole 'redemption' shtick that Charlie Morningstar was constantly on about. Plus Nifty was even there! She had been one of the contractees that Alastor had assigned to keep tabs on you so long ago. The little psycho. (I love her, she's so chaotic)

When it comes to Alastor's contractees, you only knew of a few, Nifty included, Husk, however, you only knew by name. So imagine your surprise to discover that Alastor employed a disgraced overlord. Unlike Nifty, however, Husk mostly kept away from you, associating you with Alastor's inner circle as it turns out. He seemed pretty apprehensive of you.

Now that the two of you were back in each other's lives, you settled into a routine of sorts. He quite enjoyed accompanying you in your morning routines, whether that meant a stroll or meditations, It meant that he could make up for lost time, and he couldn't think of a better way to spend his mornings.

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 26: The Edge of Erasure

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 5.8k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

Blood splatters across the ground in a grotesque arc as the creature’s claws sink deep into Astarion’s side. His crimson eyes widen for a split second before narrowing into a deadly glare, lips curling back in a snarl of fury. His body jerks under the force of the blow, but he doesn’t falter. A guttural hiss escapes him as he digs his dagger into the creature’s arm, twisting it with brutal precision.

The beast howls in pain, rearing back as Astarion pulls free of its grasp, but he’s staggering. Blood pours from the gash in his side, staining his pale skin even paler. He meets your eyes for a fleeting moment, and there’s a flash of something—rage, perhaps, or maybe something more elusive.

Your heart—or at least the hollow space where it should be—contracts painfully. The sight of his blood, his body trembling from the injury.

Astarion glances down at his wound, grimacing before turning back to the creature, defiant even as blood drips from his torn flesh. He moves with a limp now but still manages to stand between you and the beast, his dagger raised. It charges again, its massive body shaking the earth beneath its feet.

This time, you don’t freeze.

With a surge of desperation, you channel the Weave, your hands sparking with magic as you unleash a blast of energy, casting Shatter, toward the monster. The spell hits its mark, striking the creature’s side and causing it to stumble, but only briefly. It shakes off the blow, growling in fury.

Astarion’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Is that really all you’ve got? Try not to embarrass yourself.”

The creature lunges toward you with impossible speed, jaws wide, but you’re ready. With a snap of your fingers, an arcane shield flares to life just as the creature’s teeth come dangerously close to tearing into your flesh. The impact rattles you to your bones, but the shield holds.

“Ah, so you do have a spine,” he mutters sardonically.

You don’t have time to respond. The creature recovers from the blow, its tendrils writhing like snakes around its body, and it charges again. But this time, you’re moving with it. You duck low, dodging its massive claws with more agility than you thought possible, your pulse racing even though there’s no heartbeat to guide it.

You spin around, gathering a blast of magical energy in your hands, and unleash it with a sharp, controlled strike. The bolt of force slams into the creature’s side, a burst of light and power that sends it skidding back, its roar of rage echoing through the maze.

Astarion laughs darkly beside you, his blade gleaming as he darts forward. “Not bad. But try not to get in my way.”

He moves like liquid shadow, slipping under the creature’s swiping claws and driving his dagger deep into its hide. The beast lets out a strangled howl, whipping its massive head around in a blind attempt to catch him, but Astarion is too fast. He leaps back just as its jaws snap shut on empty air, his eyes glinting with the thrill of the fight.

For a moment, the two of you seem to have the upper hand. The creature is bleeding now, thick black ichor dripping from its wounds, its movements slower, more erratic. But you know better than to let your guard down.

The monster lets out a guttural snarl and suddenly slams its tendrils into the ground. The earth beneath your feet shakes violently, cracks spiderwebbing through the bedrock. You lose your footing for a moment, but quickly catch yourself, already summoning another spell to your fingertips.

Astarion is not so lucky. The ground splits beneath him, sending him stumbling, and in that split second, the creature strikes. One of its tendrils snaps out like a whip, wrapping around his waist and yanking him off his feet.

“Astarion!” you shout, but he doesn’t respond. He’s already slashing at the tendrils with his blade, but the beast’s grip is too strong. Its massive jaws open wide, preparing to tear him apart.

You don’t think. You just act.

With a shout, you thrust your hand forward, channelling every ounce of your power into a single, concentrated blast. The spell shoots from your palm in a brilliant arc of light, striking the creature’s tendrils with a crackle of electricity. The monster howls, its grip loosening just enough for Astarion to free himself and tumble to the ground.

He lands hard, blood staining his torn shirt, but he’s already moving, his eyes blazing with fury. “I told you to run,” he snaps. “Or are you just hoping to watch me bleed out for your entertainment?”

“I’m not leaving you,” you fire back, your breath ragged as you prepare for the creature’s next attack.

Astarion’s eyes narrow, but before he can retort, the beast lunges at both of you. You dodge to the left, narrowly avoiding its claws, and retaliate with another blast of arcane energy. It hits, sending a shockwave through the air, but the creature is relentless. It charges again, faster this time; its gaping maw aimed right at you.

You’re ready.

With a flick of your wrist, the ground quakes as Hold Monster paints bright ruins underneath the massive beast, tendrils of arcane energy wrapping around the monster’s legs.

But it’s stronger than you anticipated. It tears free from the magical bonds, its glowing eyes locked on you with murderous intent. It lunges, jaws snapping, and this time you’re too slow.

Just as the creature’s claws are about to tear into you, Astarion appears in a blur of motion, slamming into you with enough force to knock you both to the ground. You gasp as the wind is knocked from your lungs, the sharp sting of pain radiating through your body as you hit the jagged terrain.

“Pay attention!” Astarion hisses, his voice harsh in your ear as he pulls you up by your arm. His face is close—too close. “I’m not dying because you can’t keep up.”

You push him away, breathless but defiant. “I don’t need your protection.”

He smirks, that cruel, mocking smile twisting his lips. “Oh, please. You need someone’s protection. I’m just the unlucky bastard stuck with you.”

The words sting, but you don’t have time to dwell on them. The creature is regrouping, its massive form towering over you once again, and charging at you with renewed fury.

You and Astarion move in sync this time, ducking and weaving through the onslaught of claws, tendrils, and teeth. You cast spell after spell, each one landing with more precision and power than before.

Suddenly, the beast slams its massive body into the ground, sending a shockwave that knocks you both off your feet. You roll, your vision spinning as you try to regain your bearings, but when you look up, the creature’s tendrils are already wrapping around Astarion again, pulling him toward its gaping maw.

“No!” The word rips from your throat as you struggle to stand, but your legs buckle beneath you.

Panic surges through your veins like ice. You’ve thrown everything at this creature—arcane blasts, protective wards, fire, lighting, thunder, force, desperate attempts to slow it—and still, it persists.

Astarion’s struggling, slashing futilely at the tendrils with his dagger, but his movements are weakening, the strength ebbing out of him as blood drips down his torn shirt. His crimson eyes meet yours for a fleeting second, filled with rage but also something far more dangerous—fear.

You feel it too. That icy spike of terror, realizing you’re out of time. A voice, low and malevolent, whispers in the back of your mind, its cold whispers wrapping around your thoughts like chains.

"Use it."

Asmodeus's warning flashes across your memory. Do not wield Hellfire lightly. It is destruction incarnate. But the vision of Astarion—broken, his body torn to shreds by this creature—overrides the caution in your mind. The Weave flickers in your grasp, faltering, fading. You’re running on fumes. You know it. Astarion knows it.

But there is one last power left to you.

The voice presses harder, darker, as if sensing your resolve. Turn it to ash. Save him, but at what cost?

Your hands tremble, your magic slipping out of control, but you force your fingers to steady. "I’m sorry," you whisper to yourself. To him. To whatever remains of your soul.

Then you reach for the flames of Hell itself.

The air around you ignites, blazing white hot, banishing the shadows, as Hellfire surges through your veins, overwhelming, terrifying in its potency. It burns hotter than anything you’ve ever felt, searing through your blood like molten iron, your body screaming in protest as you channel it. But you don’t stop. You can’t.

It erupts from you in a violent torrent, engulfing the entire clearing in a scorching inferno, white-hot flames so intense they seem to burn even the air itself. The creature screeches as the fire consumes it, its body crumbling to ash before your eyes, leaving behind nothing but charred earth and the echo of its agony.

But the flames don’t stop there. Now that they’ve tasted the world, they surge forth with a ravenous hunger, twisting through the calcified trees of the maze. The heat sears your skin, but the raw power feels like a symphony inside you, a rhythm that refuses to be silenced.

The flames whip through the maze like serpents, leaving trails of burning white light in their wake. Even the shadows ignite and dissolve into plumes of smoke as the Hellfire carves a molten path through the darkness.

For a moment, you let it run wild, watching the trees turn to cinders and the air shimmer with heat. A pathway opens ahead of you, lit with the fire's eerie, otherworldly glow, promising an escape from the labyrinth's twisted clutches.

And somewhere in the inferno’s roar, you wonder—if you let this power consume everything, would it also burn away the pain? The loss? The truth that lingers, a wound that even Hellfire can’t sear shut?

Astarion falls free, tumbling to the ground. When it’s over, silence descends, thick and suffocating. The Hellfire dies down, leaving nothing but scorched earth. You stand there, shaking, your hands still glowing faintly with residual flame. The power lingers, even after the fire’s gone, curling in your chest like a coiled serpent waiting to strike again.

As the last embers of Hellfire flicker out, you feel something—shift—inside you.

It’s subtle at first—just a faint tug deep in your chest, like a thread being pulled loose. But then the sensation grows sharper, more insistent, until it feels like something vital is unraveling. You gasp, clutching at your chest, but there’s no wound, no visible scar. Just this terrible, gnawing absence.

Something is gone.

You don’t know what it is—can’t quite grasp the shape of it—but you feel the loss like a cold void settling in your bones. Your soul? No, it’s something deeper, something you can't name.

But you do know. Hellfire doesn’t come without a price.

In the distance, that familiar dark voice chuckles, smug and satisfied. You shudder, the weight of Asmodeus's warning hanging heavy over you.

Astarion is crouched nearby, his hand pressed to his side, but he’s already trying to straighten up as if nothing happened.

You move toward him, taking in the deep slashes across his body, the dark crimson of his blood soaking through his clothes. He’s hurt—badly—but his expression remains cold, distant, like it always does when he’s trying to hide something.

“You saved me,” you say, your voice quiet but laced with the weight of the truth. His body took the brunt of the attack, shielding you, and for a moment, you saw him—your Astarion—the one who would have done anything to protect you. Not this cruel shadow he’s become.

He scoffs, a dismissive sound that cuts through the tension. “I need you alive. You’re worth far more when you’re breathing, even if you don’t actually need air.”

His words are keen, but you can hear the slight tremor in his voice. He’s brushing it off, deflecting—again—but you’re not fooled. You can smell the blood on him, thick in the air. His clothes cling to him, soaked in crimson, the red pooling beneath him like ink bleeding into paper.

“Astarion,” you say, stepping closer, “you’re hurt. We need to—”

“I’m fine,” he snaps, cutting you off before you can finish. He’s already moving, or at least trying to, his steps faltering slightly as he pushes past you. His hand is still gripping his side, blood seeping between his fingers. “We don’t have time for this. If we don’t keep moving, we’ll end up as something else’s midnight snack.”

You reach out, grabbing his arm. He feels strangely cold, but the warmth of his blood smears across your skin. “You’re not fine.” You don’t back down, not this time.

He glances down at your hand on his arm, and his crimson eyes narrow. “And what do you suggest? You patch me up? Last time I checked, you weren’t exactly a cleric.”

“No,” you reply, not missing the bitterness in his voice. “But I can still help.”

Astarion wrenches his arm free with a sharp tug, though the effort costs him. His face tightens, and he bites back a groan, the pain finally slipping through his mask of indifference. “I said, I’m fine,” he hisses, taking a step back. “I’ve had worse. This?” He waves vaguely at his wounds. “Just a scratch.”

You cross your arms, unconvinced. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”

He rolls his eyes, attempting to keep his facade intact. “I heal, remember?”

“Right,” you say dryly, “you seem to be leaking quite heavily for someone who heals.”

Astarion’s lip curls, a flash of fangs appearing, though there’s less menace in the gesture than usual. “I appreciate the concern, darling, really,” he says, voice laced with sarcasm. “But if I stop to rest every time I get a little bruised, I’ll never get out of this godsforsaken place. Now, shall we?”

He tries to step forward again, but his legs falter, and he stumbles. You dart forward, catching him before he falls completely. His weight presses into you, cold and heavy, and for a moment, he doesn’t push you away. His breath is ragged, more laboured than it should be for someone who doesn’t technically need to breathe.

You both stand there, his blood soaking into your clothes, the air laden with silence. You think back to the way he shielded you from the creature’s attack, how instinctively he moved to protect you despite everything. It’s confusing, this twisted version of him, the cruel barbs that mask something deeper. The Astarion you loved, the one you married, your Astarion is still trapped somewhere inside him.

But for now, this is all you have.

“Let me help you,” you say again, quieter this time, trying to reach through the walls he’s built around himself. “You can barely stand.”

He looks down at you, his eyes still cold but... softer, for just a fraction of a second. Then, with a bitter smile, he finally relents. “Fine. But if you try anything funny, I’ll have your head.”

His threat is hollow, more out of habit than genuine malice, and you can’t help but smile slightly. “Deal.”

With Astarion’s arm slung heavily over your shoulders, you guide him through the path you’ve carved with Hellfire. The maze is no longer a labyrinth of dark, calcified trees but a charred, smoking ruin. The flames have burned a path straight through.

Astarion leans against you more than he’d probably like to admit, his steps uneven and laboured. Every now and then, a pained grunt slips past his lips despite the sharp set of his jaw, and his weight grows heavier, dragging at you with each faltering step.

Ahead, the skeletal remains of a ruined building loom, half-collapsed and broken, but offering some semblance of shelter. It might’ve been a home for someone or something once, but now it’s little more than a hollow shell with crumbling walls and a sagging roof. But it’s better than being out in the open.

You guide Astarion toward it, your own legs trembling under his weight, but you force yourself onward. When you reach the remnants of a doorway, you manoeuvre him inside, easing him down against the wall, careful not to jar his wounds. He slumps against the rough stone, breath ragged, his face twisted in pain.

His eyes are locked onto you, watching your every move like a predator waiting to strike. Even when he's weak, the tension between you both never seems to fade.

You kneel beside him, your fingers brushing the torn fabric of his shirt aside to assess the damage. His skin is pale beneath the blood, the wounds jagged and deep. For someone who claimed it was “just a scratch,” he looks dangerously close to falling apart.

The wounds are too deep, and he’s bleeding far too much. You glance at the gaping lacerations and know what you have to do. “We need to cauterize them,” you say, your voice firm, but uncertainty creeps in as you assess his injuries.

Astarion balks at your suggestion, his brows knitting together in distrust. “Cauterize? You think I’ll let you work your magic on me?” He scoffs, a bitter edge to his tone. “You’ll just use that trick of yours to turn me to ash and free yourself from this delightful little nightmare.”

“Are you serious?” You snap, your patience wearing thin. “You think I want you dead? I saved you! I didn’t let that thing take you! You should be grateful instead of throwing accusations my way!”

“Grateful? For what? Putting me in the hands of a creature who would’ve devoured us both? The only thing you’re good at is running headfirst into trouble, and I’m not keen on being your next victim.”

“You think I enjoy this?” You counter, your voice rising. “Every time I save your life, I’m the one risking everything! Maybe if you weren’t so consumed by your own arrogance, you’d see that!”

He stares at you, amusement dancing in his eyes despite the pain etched across his face. “Arrogance? No, no, no. Here’s a thought: perhaps I don’t trust you because you’ve proven time and again that you’re as unpredictable as the night.”

“Unpredictable?” you hiss, anger boiling over. “You’ve been the one pulling my strings, Astarion! Your need for control blinds you to the fact that I’m trying to help you!”

He scoffs again, dismissing your words. “Help me? Spare me the theatrics. I’ll take my chances with the bleeding over whatever you concoct.”

“You’re insufferable,” you growl. “Fine, but do alert me when you get your head out of your ass, Ascendant.”

Astarion finally relents, the weight of his stubbornness crashing down around him. “Fine,” he concedes, his voice low and taut. “Just get on with it, then.”

You take a deep breath. The air crackles with the energy you channel. You don’t have much left, your reserves running low, but you have enough for this task. “Just try to hold still,” you murmur, feeling the tension thrumming between you like a taut wire.

“Easy for you to say,” he shoots back, but there’s a slight tremor in his voice that gives away his apprehension. You can see the way he braces himself, every muscle coiling like a spring, ready for the pain.

You splay your hands over the wounds, the blood leaching between your fingers. You carefully let the burning heat culminate over the gaping wounds on his abdomen, hoping to seal the torn flesh without causing further damage.

Astarion hisses out a sharp breath as the flames make contact, his body jerking slightly. The sharp smell of singed flesh fills the air, but you keep your focus, pouring your will into the magic. “Just a bit longer,” you urge, your voice steadier than you feel.

“Do you always take such pleasure in torturing your friends?” He snaps, though the bite in his tone is tempered by a hint of something softer—almost like a challenge.

“Friends, are we? Presumptuous, even for you,” you reply, a touch of defiance creeping into your voice.

As the last of the flames dies down, you sit back on your heels. The wounds are cauterized, the edges charred but sealed. Astarion’s breathing is ragged, but he’s still upright, and you allow yourself a brief moment of relief.

“Not as bad as I thought it would be,” he says, his sarcasm thick. “But don’t get used to it. I’d rather not have you playing nurse again anytime soon.”

You lock eyes with him, and for a moment, the world around you fades. “Astarion…” you start, but the words falter on your lips. The man before you is an enigma—a cruel imitation of the husband you miss, yet somehow still capable of stirring something inside you.

He seems to sense the shift, his gaze narrowing slightly, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. “What? You’re not going to wax poetic about our predicament, are you?”

You shake your head, forcing yourself to push aside the tangled emotions. “No. Just… stay alive, okay?”

A smirk dances on his lips. “Oh, darling, you’ll have to do better than that to win my heart. But I’ll consider your request, for now.”

His wounds, although cauterized, are still severe, and you know from past encounters that he needs blood to heal quickly. It’s a fact you cannot ignore, yet it weighs heavily on your conscience. The idea of being at his mercy, even for a moment, sends a shiver down your spine.

“Astarion,” you begin, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “You need to feed.”

“Are you really willing to offer yourself to me?” he asks, the edge of his mouth curling into a cruel smirk. “How delightful. But what makes you think I won’t enjoy it a bit too much? You know I have a taste for... taking what I want.”

You swallow hard, your resolve trembling. “I don’t think we have a better option.”

His expression shifts slightly, a flicker of something almost resembling appreciation glimmering in his cold eyes. “Oh, darling, how sweet. How very... naive,” he taunts, but there’s a hint of something softer lurking beneath his sarcasm. “You do realize that you’re playing a dangerous game, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you sigh.

With that, you position yourself closer, tilting your neck slightly to expose your skin. A wave of vulnerability washes over you, but you steel yourself against it. You have to trust him—at least for this moment.

“Oh, no, my dear.” Astarion surprises you by pulling you into his lap with an unexpected tenderness. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

As he leans in closer, his breath is warm against your skin. When his fangs pierce your neck, the initial pain quickly morphs into something entirely different—a pleasurable warmth that ignites a fire in your belly. You gasp, feeling a rush of sensation that dances along your nerves.

Astarion groans softly against your neck, the sound reverberating through you as he tugs you closer, almost possessively. You can’t help but lean into him, surrendering to the moment as your blood begins to flow into him. There’s an intoxicating intimacy in the exchange, and as you feel yourself slipping into him, your blood coursing through his veins, intertwining your very essence with his.

The world around you fades away, leaving just the two of you suspended in this charged moment. You’re lost in the sensation, teetering on the edge of danger and desire, caught between the man you want him to be and the monster he sometimes is.

He drinks deeply, and your fingertips begin to tingle, body trembling against him. Just when you think he might drain you completely, Astarion stops, much to your surprise.

He pulls away slightly, his fangs still glistening with your blood. “I must admit, you taste quite delectable,” he quips, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. “Almost as if you were meant to be mine.”

You roll your eyes. “Flattery won’t save you from being a monster, you know.”

He laughs softly, the sound low and rich. “Ah, but I’m a handsome monster, aren’t I? It’s all about the presentation, darling.” He leans closer, and you can’t help but feel the heat radiating from him. His gaze is intense, searching your face for any signs of hesitation. “You know, I could have drained you completely. But where would the fun be in that?”

You arch an eyebrow, trying to regain some composure. “Fun? Is that what this is for you? A game?”

“I told you, everything with me is a game,” he replies, his tone mock-serious. “And right now, you’re losing.”

You scoff. “And if I refuse to play?”

“Then I’ll have to make this a very short game,” he replies, his eyes glinting with mischief. “And that would be a tragedy. Your blood has quite the... kick to it, and I do so love spicy food.”

His words hang in the air, and you feel the heat rising between you. A strange tenderness lingers, a contrast to the cruelty you’ve come to expect.

Slowly, cautiously, he leans forward. “Just one more taste, then,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost reverent.

When his lips meet yours, it’s electric. The kiss is fierce, passionate, igniting a fire deep within you. You can taste the metallic tang of your own blood on his lips, an intoxicating reminder of your shared connection. His mouth moves against yours with an urgency that sends your heart racing—even if it doesn't beat, it feels as if it should.

You find yourself melting into him, responding instinctively to the warmth of his body and the heat of his desire. Despite the danger, the betrayal it might symbolize, you let him in, surrendering to the moment as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

In this fleeting exchange, all the pain, the darkness, and the uncertainty fade away, leaving only the sensation of his lips against yours, the warmth of his body, and the undeniable pull of the bond that ties you together.

Astarion's eyes flicker between listless and vivid scarlet, a telltale sign that this twisted version of him is losing its grip on his body. For a fleeting moment, hope blooms in your chest, a desperate wish that you might finally reclaim the Astarion you once knew. The man who loves you, you think, cherishes you, who feels joy in your presence. But that hope shatters as he suddenly thrusts you off him, his expression contorting with rage.

“Don’t you dare manipulate me!” he snarls, voice dripping with venom. He springs to his feet, though the movement causes him to grimace, and paces like a caged predator. “You think this pathetic display of emotion will ensnare me? That you can just worm your way into my heart and destroy me from the inside out?”

You catch yourself, tumbling back, but you hold his wild gaze. “Is that what you think this is?” you ask, forcing your voice to remain steady, though the tension coils in your chest like a vice. “Some kind of trick?”

“Yes!” he snaps, his lips pulling back into a sneer. “You think I don’t see it? You want to make me weak again, turn me into that simpering fool who fawned over you. But I’m not that man anymore. This is who I am now, darling. Get used to it.”

He spits out the word like a curse, mocking and bitter, and you flinch, but you don’t look away. Instead, you steel yourself against the onslaught, taking in the tremors of pain he’s trying so hard to hide. “I’m not looking for a fool, Astarion,” you say quietly, your voice threading through the jagged edges of his anger. “I’m looking for you. The real you. Not whatever this... this twisted version is.”

Astarion steps closer, looming over you with a menace that should make you shrink away, but instead, you stand your ground, meeting his glare head-on. “You think you can play saviour, don’t you?” he snarls. “That you can swoop in and ‘fix’ me like some broken toy? It’s laughable.”

“It’s not about fixing you,” you shoot back, your voice rising, matching his fury. “It’s about not letting you drown in this—this darkness that’s devouring you. I know you’re still in there, Astarion. I can see it.”

A bitter laugh bursts from him, harsh and cutting. “Oh, how romantic,” he drawls, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Spare me your delusions, love. You’re not some tragic heroine rescuing her lost lover. You’re just a fool clinging to the past.”

The words are like knives, stabbing into every raw, vulnerable part of you. You almost snap, almost give in to the urge to fight back with all the hurt and rage he’s digging up. But then you see it—the brief flicker in his eyes, a shadow of uncertainty, of fear. It’s buried deep beneath the anger, but it’s there, and it stops you cold.

You take a breath, forcing yourself to stay calm, even as he glares down at you, waiting for you to lash out. “Maybe I am a fool,” you say softly, each word carefully measured. “But I’d rather be a fool than give up on you.”

Astarion’s expression twists, his sneer faltering for just a heartbeat. “You’re lying,” he hisses, though there’s a note of desperation behind it, like he’s trying to convince himself more than you. He grabs your arm, his grip bruising, but you don’t flinch.

“I’m not lying. I just want to help you, Astarion. Even if it means facing this... monster you’ve become.”

He stares at you, breath coming in ragged bursts, his grip tightening painfully on your arm. For a moment, you think he might hit you, might lash out with more than words. But then he just shoves you away again, turning his back to you as if he can’t bear to look at you any longer. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he mutters, and his voice is a low, broken rasp. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Maybe not,” you admit, your voice carrying through the cold, ruined space between you. “But I’m still here, aren’t I? I’m still fighting for you.”

Astarion keeps pacing, a restless, erratic energy to his movements, like a cornered beast unsure whether to flee or attack. His eyes burn, seething, unable to settle on anything for long. He’s relentless, hurling words at you with the precision of a blade, each one meant to cut deeper than the last. He accuses you of everything he can think of—of deceit, of using him, of never really loving him, and it seems to unsettle him more when you don’t react.

“You can try to hurt me all you want, Astarion, but I know you’re in there somewhere,” you say, your voice low but unwavering. “And I know you don’t mean any of this.”

He lets out a harsh, mocking laugh. “You think I don’t mean it? Oh, I assure you, I do.” His voice drops to a dangerous whisper, every word laced with venom. “And you know what? I could end you right now. Just... snap your pretty little neck. Or better yet—let you rot away under the weight of your own delusions.”

You hold his gaze, letting him see that you’re not afraid. “Then do it,” you challenge softly. “If you really think I’m your enemy, then do it. But I don’t think you can. Because I think some part of you knows that I’m not your enemy.”

Astarion’s smirk widens into something truly unsettling. He takes a deliberate step closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing some dark secret that only the two of you could ever understand. “Do you want to know what those runes are for?” he asks, his tone dripping with false sweetness. “It’s quite the masterpiece, if I do say so myself.”

You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to hold steady even as dread claws its way up your spine. “What did you do, Astarion?”

His smile sharpens, and he leans in so close that you can feel his breath against your ear, each word like a serrated blade. “They’re a conduit. An open channel that links us. And through that channel, I can bleed you dry. Not just your strength, your power... but your very essence. Your mind, your memories—every little piece that makes you who you are, if and when I chose to do so. All it would take it a snap of my fingers.”

You feel the world tilt beneath you as his words sink in. The ground seems to drop away, leaving only the cold reality of his cruelty hanging in the air between you. “You’re... feeding on me?” you whisper, the horror twisting in your chest. “You’re stealing me?”

“Oh, not just feeding, darling. Consuming. You see, it’s not enough for me to break you physically. No, that would be too simple, too quick. This is something... more intimate. A slow unravelling, thread by thread, until there’s nothing left of you but a hollow, empty thing that knows only me.”

A chill creeps through your veins, turning your blood to ice. But even as terror coils around your heart, you force yourself to meet his eyes, to push back against the darkness that radiates from him. “You think that makes you powerful?” you snap, trying to keep the tremor from your voice. “You think that turning me into a thing will bring you any closer to being whole?”

Astarion’s smile fades, and for a moment, a flash of something almost like frustration cuts through his expression, but it’s buried quickly under that same, twisted arrogance. “I think it makes me free. Free from your endless meddling, your desperate attempts to'save’ me. Free to take whatever I want, without any of the messy strings attached.”

The weight of what he’s done, of what he’s trying to do, settles into your bones, a sickening realization that claws at your insides. He’s not just trying to control you. He’s trying to erase you. To strip you down until there’s nothing left but a vessel for him to twist and fill with his own darkness.

But even as that fear gnaws at you, you refuse to let it claim you. You hold your head high, forcing steel into your voice. “You’re wrong, Astarion. You can’t take everything from me. No matter how much you try to consume, there will always be something left that you can’t touch.”

He tilts his head, considering you with a look of mocking curiosity. “Is that so? And what might that be, my love? Your unyielding spirit? Your infuriating hope?” His smile turns vicious. “Let’s see how long that lasts when there’s nothing left of you but a whisper in the dark.”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

[sheriffaxolotl]

Fallen: A Path to Redemption (Chapter 2) Alastor x Reader

"Solace, you say? Well, my dear fallen friend, in Hell, solace comes with a price."

“What kind?”

“How about... your soul, my dear.”

Word count: 5,403 ✿ Friends to Lovers ✿ Slow Burn ✿ Eventual Romance ✿ Drabble | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 |

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Well, this certainly wasn't how you envisioned spending your day.

Taking in your surroundings, you find yourself standing in the grand foyer of a hotel. Normally, a hotel lobby would be alive with the hustle and bustle of guests and staff, but here, it resembles more of a ghost town - nothing but a hollow shell.

Despite its dilapidated appearance, there was an undeniable charm to the Hotel. Its faded grandeur spoke of a bygone era, a time when it had been a beacon of luxury and opulence. But now, it seemed destined to fade into obscurity, a relic of a forgotten past. Maybe that’s why you liked it.

With a wry smile, you couldn't help but shake your head in disbelief. It's a disaster in every sense of the word. This place would need a desperate touch-up. As you scan the room, you notice a few other individuals, their curious gazes fixed upon you. Some faces are familiar, adding a touch of familiarity to this otherwise surreal moment.

Charlie Morningstar. The name echoes in your mind, stirring up a knot of conflict over what you heard her discussing on the news this morning. Her vision for the hotel clashed and aligned with your own beliefs, leaving you torn between admiration for her ambition and concern for the consequences of her actions.

Husk. The feline demon's presence brings a wave of familiarity, and you share a silent acknowledgment with him. There's no need for introductions between the two of you; you were witness to the deal he struck with Alastor to retain his powers. You remember the mix of pity and sympathy you felt for him at the time, though you tried to convince yourself it was for the best.

Niffty. Your absence during the deal-making process for her doesn't go unnoticed. You had been on annual leave at the time, a rare break from the chaos of Hell. The irony isn't lost on you as you inwardly chuckle at the thought. Who would have thought the Radio Demon would grant you such a luxury? In some twisted way, the perks and benefits he offered over the years almost rival those of Heaven.

Alastor, the enigmatic Radio Demon, his presence here still puzzles you. What could have possibly prompted him to bring you to this strange place? You mull over the possibilities, the puzzle of his actions spins through your mind, each potential answer more confounding than the last.

The angry-looking moth lady and the arachnid demon are two figures you're unfamiliar with, though there's a nagging sense of recognition with the latter. You rack your brain, trying to recall if you've crossed paths with the arachnid before, but nothing concrete comes to mind.

Sensing that they're waiting for you to break the ice, you take the initiative and step forward, offering a polite introduction. "Hello, I'm (Y/N). It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," you say, placing a hand over your chest and executing a graceful curtsy.

The princess's eyes light up with excitement as she eagerly returns the gesture, albeit with a hint of haste and clumsiness. It's endearing, and a small smile tugs at your lips. She seems harmless enough – at least, that's the impression you get. But in Hell, appearances can be deceiving.

"Oh my gosh!" Charlie practically leaps towards you, her enthusiasm palpable as she seizes your hand and shakes it vigorously. The boisterous energy of her greeting threatens to jostle the rest of your body as she welcomes you to the Hotel with unbridled excitement. "Welcome to the Happy Hotel! I'm positive you are going to love it here!" she gushes, her words bubbling with genuine warmth.

You offer a forced polite smile as you reluctantly withdraw your hand. "Ah, well, we'll see," you reply, unable to shake off the uncertainty lingering within you. "I still don't know the exact reason I'm here for…" Your voice trails off as you cast a sidelong glance at Alastor, who looms over the scene with an intimidating presence. You can't help but feel dwarfed by his stature, a sense of insignificance washing over you in his grand shadow.

"Well, what else if not to help me and keep track of paperwork!" Alastor interjects with his signature taunting grin, gesturing mockingly to a stack of paperwork piled high on the reception desk. You suppress a grimace at the sight, inwardly bracing yourself for the daunting task ahead. That's a lot of paperwork to tackle …. It's going to be a long day.

"Wow. That's definitely a lovely stack if I don't say so—" You begin, making your way over to inspect the paperwork, but before you can even lay a finger on it, the poor pile collapses, sending papers cascading across the lobby in a flurry of chaos. "Oh! Oh no!" you exclaim, scrambling to gather the scattered documents before they disappear into the chaos of the hotel.

"I'm so sorry!" Charlie rushes over to lend a hand, her expression mirroring your panic as she apologizes profusely. "I really haven't had time to organize it, and Vaggie has been so busy—" Her words tumble out in a jumble of apologies and explanations, but before you can reassure her that it's okay, Alastor intervenes.

"No harm done, dear!" Alastor's voice cuts through the commotion, his wide grin betraying a hint of amusement as he surveys the scene before him. "Accidents happen, after all. No need to make such a fuss, dear!" Alastor interjects smoothly, his voice oozing with confidence as he effortlessly lifts the princess off the floor. " (Y/N) has an innate ability with paperwork! She'll get it sorted in no time! No time at all!" With a smug grin, he gestures grandly with his arm, the epitome of self-assuredness. "So, what do ya think?"

Charlie's eyes light up with unbridled excitement as she gazes around the lobby, taking in the flurry of activity Alastor has set into motion. "This is amazing!" she gushes, her cheeks flushed with amazement. She can hardly believe her luck right now. Before her was a real group of staff for the hotel. That Alastor had pulled out of thin air.

"It's... okay," Vaggie huffs, her demeanor a stark contrast to Charlie's bubbling enthusiasm. She stands by her girlfriend's side, arms crossed tightly over her chest, radiating skepticism. It's clear that she doesn't share Charlie's excitement about the new staff, her distrust evident in the furrow of her brow.

Vaggie's reservations stem from her deep-seated mistrust of the newcomers, all handpicked by one of the most dangerous and powerful overlords you can come across in Hell. While she loves Charlie dearly, she can't help but feel a sense of frustration and apprehension. She knows her girlfriend's heart is in the right place, but she also recognizes her naivety. Not all demons deserve a second chance, and Vaggie fears that Charlie's unwavering optimism might blind her to the true intentions of their new recruits.

Despite her reservations, Vaggie remains committed to supporting Charlie's vision of redemption. She wants to believe that there are demons out there genuinely seeking redemption, eager to turn their lives around. She's determined to protect Charlie and the hotel from becoming another pawn in the Radio Demon's twisted games. ‘At least one of the sinners Alastor brought looked half decent..’ Vaggie thought as she glanced over at you, watching as you had been glancing curiously through the paperwork. You don’t seem half bad.

Alastor's laughter fills the air as he pulls both girls close, his arms enveloping them in a deceptively warm embrace. "This is going to be very entertaining!" he declares with a mischievous glint in his eyes. With a swift motion, he distracts Charlie by extending his hand, inviting her to dance, while simultaneously maneuvering to push Vaggie out of the way. The room is suddenly filled with the faint strains of music, drifting in from some unseen source.

"Ugh," you groan softly to yourself as you gather up the last of the scattered paperwork, carefully restacking it onto the reception desk. Despite your best efforts, you couldn't help but be reminded of Alastor's flair for theatrics. It's almost impressive how seamlessly he manages to orchestrate chaos and entertainment in equal measure.

"You have a dream, you wish to tell," Alastor croons as he spins Charlie around the room, his magic weaving through the air to transform their outfits into something far more dapper, as if they were out dancing of an old fashioned movie. The sudden change catches Charlie off guard, but she adapts quickly, twirling gracefully in his arms. "And it's just laughable, but hey, kid, what the hell?"

As the impromptu song and dance unfold before you, you find yourself tuning it out, focusing instead on the task at hand. With a determined air, you break down the pile of paperwork into smaller, more manageable piles. Inventory. Bills. Subscriptions... You pause, a furrow forming between your brows as you come across a particularly peculiar document. What subscriptions could possibly be of interest in Hell? With a shake of your head, you push aside the thought, deciding it's best not to dwell on the mysteries of paperwork in Hell.

Caught off guard by the snap of fingers, you're swept up in a whirlwind of theatrics as a strange sensation washes over you. Before you can even comprehend what's happening, your clothes morph into an elegant V-neck black 1920s flapper dress, complete with fringes that sway with every movement. But as the music fills the air with its lively melody, you feel yourself being pulled into the rhythm of the dance by a mysterious force. It's as if invisible hands guide your movements, coaxing you to join the lively spectacle unfolding before you. But amid the musical chaos, your gaze catches a familiar sight—– the silhouette of a shadow whisking in front of you, unmistakably one of Alastor's shadows. The shadow pulls you further into the song and dance, its presence both eerie and mesmerizing. Despite the uncertainty of the moment, you can't help but surrender to the magic of the music, allowing yourself to be carried away by the rhythm.

"Inside of every demon is a lost cause," Alastor sings, his voice carrying through the room as he grabs Angel and Husk close, manipulating their movements as if they were mere puppets on a string. In the blink of an eye, hats appear atop their heads, completing their transformation into characters straight out of a vintage cabaret. Husk seems torn between irritation and resignation, his fist raised threateningly before ultimately settling for a defiant flip-off directed at the Radio Demon. Angel, on the other hand, merely smirks and responds with finger guns, already embracing Alastor's proclamation with a devil-may-care attitude. "But we'll dress them up for now with just a smile!"

Before you could even register what was happening, Alastor materialized in front of you, his presence commanding and unmistakable. A fox fur draped around his shoulders added a touch of elegance to his attire as he deftly wrapped it around your neck, the soft fur caressing your skin with a delicate touch.

With surprising dexterity, he spun you around, the fur trailing behind you like a playful companion. The sudden movement left you momentarily stunned, your senses reeling from the unexpected whirlwind of events. As you tried to regain your composure, your eyes widened in shock at the audacity of his actions.

A teasing grin played on Alastor's lips as his hand landed firmly on your backside, the gesture bold and brazen. A wink accompanied his playful demeanor, adding to the mischief dancing in his crimson eyes. The sheer audacity of his behavior left you speechless, your hand instinctively flying to cover your open-mouthed gasp.

Caught off guard by his unexpected antics, you found yourself at a loss for words, your mind struggling to comprehend the sudden turn of events.

Alastor seems satisfied with his handiwork, his grin widening as he dances away with a flourish while he continues his song and dance. But on his way, he shoves Vaggie out of the way, a move that doesn't go unnoticed by the fiery moth demon who angrily shakes her fist at him. Anger burns in Vaggie's eyes as she glares daggers at Alastor, her frustration palpable even from across the room.

As I try to collect myself after the unexpected encounter, you didn’t how to interpret Alastor's bold actions. While he's always been comfortable enough to nudge me or place a guiding hand on my back, his recent actions were something he had never done before – even in jest.

Lost in your thoughts, you're suddenly jolted back to reality by a deafening explosion from the other end of the room. The doors to the hotel are sent flying, taking little Niffty along with them in a whirlwind of chaos and confusion.

As the chaos settles and the others rush to inspect the hole in the wall, you can't help but grimace at the impact the tiny demon took, already anticipating the soreness that will undoubtedly plague Niffty tomorrow. While the rest of the group shares a look of surprise, you divert to get the door off of Niffty, who miraculously bounces back up the moment the door is lifted off her.

"Again!" Niffty exclaims with a gleeful grin, her enthusiasm undiminished by the unexpected collision. Before you can offer any protest, she darts off, joining the others who have ventured outside to investigate the cause of the explosion.

It's only a few moments later that you emerge from the hotel, your gaze drawn upwards to the sight of a looming aircraft hovering ominously above. The sound of voices reaches your ears, and you strain to make out the words amidst the chaos.

"...harboring the striped freak!" The declaration draws your attention, and you look up to see a familiar figure—a snake-like demon you recognize from encounters with Alastor in the past. Memories flood back to you of the times when he would orchestrate ridiculous attacks on the Radio Demon, his antics once a source of amusement. But now, faced with the reality of the situation, amusement is the furthest thing from your mind as you brace yourself for what comes next.

As the snake-like demon addresses Alastor with a less-than-menacing expression, you quickly make your way to join the others, glancing up just in time to catch Alastor's contemplative expression.

"Do I know you?" Alastor's question is met with a wicked grin from the demon, his malicious intent clear despite the seemingly genuine tone of his voice.

"Oh yes you do!" The demon's reply is accompanied by a retreat into his aircraft, his actions accompanied by the aggressive clanking of levers and buttons being pushed. The tension in the air is palpable as everyone braces themselves for whatever comes next.

"And this time I have the element of... Surprise!" With those ominous words, a giant weapon emerges from the aircraft, positioned directly in front of you all at eye level. The air crackles with energy as the weapon charges, threatening to unleash destruction upon everyone in its path.

"Hahahaha, I'm so evil!" The snake-like demon's cackle echoes through the air, sending a shiver down your spine as you prepare for the inevitable confrontation that lies ahead.

As the menacing aircraft and its looming weapon are ensnared by fiery rings and engulfed in smoke, monstrous black tentacles emerge, gripping the ship tightly. The cacophony of sirens blares through the air, mingling with the snake demon's horrified screams as it struggles against its inevitable demise. Amidst the chaos, Alastor remains unperturbed, his signature grin etched upon his face.

Static crackles and arcane symbols materialize around Alastor, his figure shrouded in an aura of otherworldly power. His shadowy minions swirl around him, a silent testament to his mastery over the dark arts. The tension in the air is thick as the inevitable unfolds before your eyes.

With a deafening explosion, the aircraft erupts into flames, scattering debris in every direction. The group stands frozen, a mixture of dazed and terrified expressions etched upon their faces. However, you can't help but shoot Alastor a knowing look, silently questioning the necessity of such a dramatic display. After all, you've seen worse from him before – unfortunately.

Despite the destruction wrought by his actions, Alastor remains unfazed, his grin widening as he revels in the chaos he has caused. It's a chilling reminder of the darkness that lies within him, a darkness that you know all too well.

With a sudden shift in demeanor, Alastor's cheerful and oddly friendly persona returns in full force, his arms outstretched in a display of excitement.

"Who's hungry for some grub?" he exclaims, his voice exuding enthusiasm. "I'm in the mood for some jambalaya! My mother once shared with me her wonderful recipe for jambalaya. In fact, it nearly killed her! Ha ha ha!"

As he makes his way back toward the hotel, Niffty skips along beside you, her boundless energy infectious. You fall into step behind Alastor and the others, observing the dynamics between them. Angel Dust blows a playful kiss to Husk, who looks on with a mix of confusion and irritation. Charlie offers Vaggie a reassuring smile, but the worry still lingers in her girlfriend's expression.

When you lock eyes with Vaggie, you offer her a small, reassuring smile of your own, hoping to alleviate some of her concerns. However, your attempt at comfort is short-lived as you hasten your pace to catch up with the group. The events of the day whirl through your mind, leaving you with a sense of unease about what lies ahead.

You didn’t notice the sign on the hotel changing from ‘Happy Hotel’ to ‘Hazbin Hotel’.

You followed the group through the makeshift entrance, the remnants of the door scattered around. Your steps quickened as you headed toward what you assumed to be the direction of the kitchen, but your focus was abruptly diverted by the sight of the paperwork once again strewn across the reception desk floor.

"Oh boy," you muttered under your breath, a tinge of frustration evident in your voice. With determined strides, you hurried over to the mess, bending down to gather the papers. As you sorted through them, a sense of order began to emerge as you stack them into piles. Bills, reminders, a letter from... oh, coupons, and yet another bill—

"It’s not very polite to sneak up on people. One of these days something is surely going to happen," you remarked, your tone laced with a hint of mock warning as you sensed a familiar presence behind you. Turning slightly, you were met with the sight of Alastor, his grin as unsettling as ever. His presence always seemed to catch you off guard, his sudden appearance feeling like a twisted game of cat and mouse.

"Now, now! That's never going to happen, my dear!" Alastor dismissed your concern with a wave of his hand, stepping closer to inspect the stacks of papers you had organized on the desk. His jovial demeanor didn't waver as he continued, "Come on! This can be dealt with later, we have-"

"Am I not here to work?" you interjected, cutting him off abruptly. Alastor paused, his gaze shifting down to meet yours, towering over you with his imposing presence.

"Well, yes! But only charity work that I have volunteered you for!" His tone was almost gleeful as he spoke, seemingly reveling in the idea of assigning tasks to you. Despite the lightheartedness of his words, you couldn't shake the feeling of unease creeping into the back of your mind.

As you glanced up at Alastor, you noticed a strange mixture of pride and something else in his expression, something you couldn't quite place. It left you feeling grateful for the opportunity to contribute to something greater than yourself, even if it was labeled as "charity work." You had been working alone in that radio station for seven years. A change of pace would be nice. Yet beneath that gratitude lingered a sense of suspicion – it was unlike Alastor to offer assistance without some ulterior motive.

Lost in thought, you hadn't noticed his lean a little closer to you until you felt a stray strand of your crown braid being twirled gently. Startled, you glanced up to find his piercing gaze fixed on you, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

"You still wear your hair like you have a halo," he remarked, his fingers delicately toying with the loose piece of hair. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a strange mix of confusion and familiarity within.

A rush of warmth flooded your cheeks at his words and actions, the subtle intimacy of his actions stirring something deep within you. Despite your efforts to maintain composure, you couldn't deny the blush that heated your cheeks. You chalked it up to his absence, convinced it had impacted you more than you realized. Surely, it was just the result of your lack of social interaction or contact with others for the past seven years.

Your heart skipped a beat as he twirled that loose strand of hair and you found yourself holding your breath as you met his gaze. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, leaving only the silent exchange passing between your locked eyes. Was it judgment you detected in Alastor's gaze, or was there something else lurking beneath the surface?

The fleeting moment of connection sent a shiver down your spine again, but you quickly pushed aside the unbidden thoughts, refocusing on the task at hand. There were too many questions swirling in your mind, too many uncertainties to dwell on in that fleeting moment of intimacy. You forced yourself to maintain composure, burying the stirring emotions deep within as you turned your attention back to the paperwork, determined to remain professional despite the unsettling encounter.

With a small, nervous smile, you nodded in response to Alastor's comment, feeling your cheeks still flush slightly under his scrutinizing gaze. "Old habits die hard, I suppose," You replied, attempting to brush off the unexpected intimacy of the moment.

Alastor's grin widened, a knowing glint flickering in his eyes. "Indeed they do," he murmured cryptically, his tone laden with unspoken meaning. He lingered for a moment longer, his presence casting a shadow over your thoughts before finally stepping away with a flourish.

He simply grinned at the state you were in before turning away, his demeanor shifting seamlessly as he made his way back to the kitchen. You followed in his wake, your mind still reeling from the brief encounter. As you both navigated the bustling corridors of the hotel, a sense of unease gnawed at the edges of your consciousness.

Despite your efforts to quell your doubts, you couldn't shake the lingering questions about your friendship with Alastor. Was his warmth genuine, or was there a darker motive lurking beneath his charming facade? He had been gone for seven years – maybe you were just overthinking a little bit. You had spent too much time apart, and now that he was back, you were struggling to readjust to his presence. Memories of your past interactions flashed through your mind, moments of camaraderie and laughter mixed with shared experiences and moments of your odd friendship. You found yourself torn between the familiarity of your friendship and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. 'Mistaking a friendly gesture for something more… Come on, (Y/N)…'

In typical Alastor fashion, he moved on as if nothing had happened, his attention already focused on the task at hand in the kitchen. You hurried to join him, eager to lend a hand and put the unsettling encounter behind you.

As you worked side by side, the familiar rhythm of their collaboration brought a sense of comfort amidst the uncertainty. The clatter of pots and pans, the little calling of ingredients being pulled out —it was a welcome distraction from the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you. It reminded you of old memories of similar moments like this – some with Rosie at your side as well. It causes you to smile to yourself a little.

You watched him move with effortless grace through the bustling kitchen, you couldn't help but wonder what he had been doing for seven years.

Before you could dwell on it further, Alastor snapped his fingers with a flourish, and in an instant, both he and you were adorned in matching aprons. The sudden change brought a startled laugh to your lips, momentarily breaking the tension that had been building within you.

"Ah, much better, don't you think?" Alastor chimed in, his grin widening as he gestured to their new attire. "Now we can tackle these culinary delights in style!"

You couldn't help but chuckle at his remark, feeling the tension easing between you. "Absolutely," you replied, a genuine smile spreading across your face. "Nothing like a bit of flair to spice up the cooking process."

As you worked together, the playful banter between you and Alastor flowed effortlessly, each teasing remark and shared laugh easing the tension that had lingered in the air. It was moments like these that reminded you why you had missed him during his absence, why his sudden return had stirred up such conflicting emotions within you.

But amidst the laughter and camaraderie, there was an undeniable undercurrent of something more—a subtle shift in the dynamic between you that left you feeling both exhilarated and apprehensive.

As you continued to work alongside Alastor, your attention occasionally drifted to the tender moments shared between Charlie and Vaggie. Their love for each other was palpable, evident in every glance and touch.

And of course, there was Niffty, flitting about the kitchen with boundless energy and enthusiasm, a ball of energy. Her antics never failed to bring a smile to your face, even if she was a bit odd at times.

You couldn't help but notice the way Angel Dust flirted shamelessly with Husk, his usual charm turned up to eleven as he attempted to win over the grumpy bartender. It was a sight that never failed to amuse you, the sheer audacity of Angel's advances paired with Husk's deadpan responses never failing to bring a smile to your face. You chuckled to yourself as you watched their interaction unfold, grateful for the lighthearted distraction.

During all this you got a moment to introduce yourself to Vaggie and Angel Dust, even if it was just quickly. The latter seems to really look you over with a raised brow. But you tried to not read into it.

Once everything had been finished and everyone did their own little jobs to get the table set – even with a bit of complaints from certain individuals -, it was a nice moment considering everything that happened that day.

At the head of the table sat Charlie, her vibrant energy filling the room as she presided over the idea that her vision for the hotel was coming to life, with a wide smile and infectious enthusiasm. To her left, Vaggie sat with a stoic expression, keeping a watchful eye on the newcomers, while to her right, Alastor lounged in his seat, his signature grin never leaving his face.

You found yourself seated between Alastor and Niffty, the energetic maid chattering animatedly as she passed around platters of food with lightning speed. Despite the chaos of the moment, there was a sense of warmth and camaraderie that permeated the air, a feeling of belonging that you had rarely experienced in the past few years.

As plates clinked and glasses clattered, conversation flowed freely around the table, a cacophony of voices and laughter that filled the room with life. The sound of Husk getting annoyed at Angel Dust flirting or Niffty popping off for a moment to chase something on the ground added to the lively atmosphere. It was moments like these that made you feel like maybe you had been missing out on something.

Despite the cheerful ambiance of the dinner table, you couldn't shake the nagging feeling of unease that lurked beneath the surface. As the conversation flowed around you, laughter ringing in your ears, you couldn't help but feel like an outsider looking in at that moment.

Charlie's infectious enthusiasm and Vaggie's watchful gaze created a sense of warmth and inclusion, yet you couldn't shake the feeling of being disconnected from the group. Memories of past betrayals and broken trust danced at the edges of your mind, casting a shadow over the otherwise joyous occasion.

You found yourself retreating into the safety of silence, unable to muster the courage to contribute to the lively banter. Despite the genuine smiles and friendly gestures directed your way, you couldn't help but question the sincerity of it all.

Was it all just a facade, masking hidden agendas and ulterior motives? Or were you simply allowing your past experiences to cloud your judgment, projecting your own insecurities onto those around you?

You tried to push aside the nagging doubts and insecurities that plagued your mind, but they stubbornly persisted, whispering cruel reminders of past betrayals and disappointments. The laughter and conversation continued to swirl around you, but you felt like a stranger in your own skin, unable to fully immerse yourself in the moment. You couldn't help but feel like you are a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. It was a familiar feeling, one that had haunted you since your fall from grace —a constant reminder of your inability to trust others completely.

As you sat there, feeling disconnected from the lively atmosphere around you, a subtle shift in the air caught your attention. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Alastor's gaze lingering on you, his keen observation picking up on the subtle signs of your discomfort.

With a knowing smile, he turned slightly in his seat to face you better. "My dear, forgive me if I'm mistaken, but you seem a bit... unsettled tonight," Alastor remarked, his voice low.

You glanced up at him, surprised by his perceptiveness. "It's nothing, Alastor," you replied, trying to mask your unease with a casual shrug. "Just... feeling a bit out of place, I suppose."

Alastor's smile faltered slightly at the edges, a flash of something flashed in his eyes before it was gone. "Is there something troubling you, (Y/N)?" he asked, his tone gentle yet probing.

You hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. But with Alastor's gaze fixed on you, you found yourself opening up despite your reservations. "I suppose... I haven't been the best socially since your disappearance," you admitted, your voice tinged with vulnerability. "It's always been hard to trust others completely, especially after everything that's happened."

Alastor's eyebrows shot up in mock surprise, his lips curling into a playful grin. "Well, well, well," he teased, his tone light but tinged with amusement. "You mean to tell me that my absence has left you socially inept, (Y/N)? I must say, I'm quite flattered."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help but chuckle at his jest. "Oh, please," you retorted, playfully swatting at his arm. "Don't let it go to your head, Alastor. I'm sure I'll manage just fine without your charming presence."

Alastor feigned offense, clutching his chest dramatically. "Ah, but where's the fun in that?" he replied, his grin widening. "Why, you'd be denying yourself the pleasure of my company, my dear."

"Perhaps you're right," you conceded with a smirk, enjoying the banter despite your lingering worries. "After all, who else would I have to keep me on my toes with their ridiculous antics?"

Alastor's grin widened, and he leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ah, but my dear (Y/N), you know you wouldn't have it any other way."

"But fear not, my dear (Y/N), for I promise to make your suffering as enjoyable as possible."

You couldn't help but laugh at his audacity, the tension in your shoulders easing as you shared this moment of camaraderie with him. Despite the uncertainties lurking beneath the surface, you found solace in Alastor's familiar presence, grateful for the brief respite from your worries.

Little did you know, however, that the calm before the storm was merely a fleeting illusion, and that soon, your world would be turned upside down once again.

♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿

My AO3 account!

Before I sign off, I wanted to extend a heartfelt thank you to each and every one of you for your comments and kudos/likes. Your support and engagement mean the world to me, and I'm genuinely surprised and grateful for the response the Drabble and the first chapter has received. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I can't wait to share more with you soon. Until next time! - Ivory

[thirtysomethingloser92]

Chapter 1: As The Rain Keeps Falling, I Hear You Calling My Name.

Summary: You have a curse: you can’t control when or where you travel through time, but you’re always tethered to Remy LeBeau’s life. For him, you’re a mysterious constant—someone who’s been there at every stage of his life, never aging, never changing. For you, he’s the soulmate you’ve loved across timelines, though you never meet him in the right order.

You’ve seen him as a reckless thief, a heartbroken lover, a guilt-ridden outcast, and a hero struggling for redemption—always knowing him, while he pieces together who you are with every encounter. Pairings: Remy Lebeau/Reader, Past!Remy Lebeau/Bella Donna, Past!Remy Lebeau/Anna-Marie. Warnings: Slow-Burn, Swearing, Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff.

Masterlist

You felt the hard thud reverberate through your body as you hit the hardwood floor, the impact jarring enough to momentarily knock the breath from your lungs. Disoriented, you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to steady the spinning sensation in your head. No matter how many times you'd been hurled through time like a cosmic plaything, the aftermath of time travel never got any easier. Every muscle in your body ached as though you'd been folded and tossed into a blender. You groaned, pressing a hand against your forehead to will the dizziness away.

“Oh, this sucks,” you muttered, your voice barely above a rasp. The words felt heavy, like lead on your tongue, but the humor still carried through. “Love being the universe’s ping-pong ball.” You forced yourself to sit up, your palms pressing into the cool floor as your head swam. Taking a deep breath, you opened your eyes and looked around.

The room slowly came into focus, revealing a cozy, lived-in lounge. The faint glow of a streetlamp filtered through half-closed blinds, casting slanted golden lines across the wooden floor. A deep, burgundy couch sat in the center of the room, its cushions slightly worn but inviting, with a folded blanket draped over one arm. A mismatched coffee table sat in front of it, cluttered with playing cards, a half-empty glass of bourbon, and a dog-eared book. The walls were littered with framed photos that told stories of adventures and mischief—some of faces you recognized, others unfamiliar. A faint scent of tobacco and leather lingered in the air, mixing with something distinctly Remy. You dragged yourself to your feet, brushing off your clothes as you mumbled to yourself, “Now where am I today?”

Your gaze lingered on the mantlepiece, where a collection of smaller photos stood like trophies. One particular photograph caught your eye, and you couldn’t help but smile as you walked over to pick it up. It was a younger Remy LeBeau, flashing his signature devil-may-care grin, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief. His arm was slung around a grizzled man with a cowboy hat and they were surrounded by what looked like a makeshift poker table. Typical. “Remy LeBeau, you charmer,” you murmured, running your thumb over the edge of the frame before setting it back on the mantle.

You let out a small sigh and turned away, catching sight of a dimly lit hallway. Moving silently, you ventured down it, your footsteps muffled by the worn rug underfoot. The faint sound of snoring reached your ears, pulling you toward an open door at the end of the hall. You poked your head inside, curiosity driving you, and leaned lazily against the doorframe, crossing your arms as your gaze settled on the man inside.

Remy lay sprawled on his stomach, the sheets tangled around his waist, leaving his toned back bare. You couldn’t help but trace the lines of his muscles with your eyes, the way his shoulders rose and fell with each steady breath. His auburn hair was tousled, strands falling over his face in a way that made him look almost boyish in his sleep, a stark contrast to the charming rogue you knew while awake. For a moment, you let yourself linger, taking in the rare peacefulness of his expression. It was like catching a glimpse of something you weren’t supposed to see, a vulnerable side hidden behind his usual arrogance and wit.

But then your gaze shifted—and your stomach dropped. Lying beside him, half-buried in the sheets, was a blonde-haired woman. Her face was turned away, but there was no mistaking the golden cascade of curls spilling across the pillow. Your chest tightened, the sharp sting of disappointment twisting in your gut, but you forced yourself to push it down. This wasn’t new. You knew what kind of man Remy was, and you had no right to feel anything about it. Still, a grin tugged at your lips, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Bella Donna,” you muttered under your breath, pushing off the doorframe, “So we’re before he joins the team. Helpful, I guess.”

You quietly pulled the door shut behind you, careful not to make a sound. As you walked back down the hallway, the faint pang of jealousy simmered beneath the surface, though you tried to shake it off. The floor creaked softly under your footsteps as you headed toward the kitchen, muttering, “Hope you’ve got something decent to eat this time, LeBeau.”

The kitchen greeted you with a mix of rustic charm and organized chaos. The cabinets were painted a muted green, their paint chipped at the edges, and the countertops were cluttered with evidence of Remy’s life. A bowl of half-eaten gumbo sat abandoned near the sink, a wooden spoon resting on the rim. An empty wine bottle stood precariously close to the edge of the counter, and a deck of cards was scattered across the small kitchen table, as if they’d been left mid-game. The fridge hummed softly, its surface plastered with a collage of magnets and scraps of paper—receipts, a takeout menu.

You tugged open the fridge, the cool air brushing against your skin as you peered inside. Its contents were as unimpressive as you’d expected—bare essentials and questionable leftovers. “Figures,” you muttered under your breath, eyeing a carton of eggs, a bottle of hot sauce, and a container of something that looked like it had been there since the dawn of time. You wrinkled your nose at the mystery container and grabbed the eggs instead. Setting them on the counter, you muttered, “At least you’ve got something edible this time, LeBeau.”

The kitchen was quiet, save for the faint ticking of a clock on the wall and the hum of the fridge behind you. It was a cozy, chaotic little space, so very Remy. The cabinets were painted an outdated green, their edges chipped and worn. The countertops were cluttered with signs of his life: a forgotten deck of cards, a half-empty bottle of bourbon, and a coffee mug that read World’s Greatest Gambler—probably stolen. A small vase held a single wilted flower, like someone had once tried to brighten the place up but promptly gave up. It wasn’t fancy, but it felt lived-in, warm.

You started rummaging through the cabinets for a pan, pulling out a few mismatched pots and pans until one slipped from your grasp and clattered loudly to the floor. The sound was deafening in the stillness of the house.

“Shit, my bad,” you whispered, wincing as you froze in place. Your head turned toward the hallway, holding your breath to see if the noise had disturbed him. Silence lingered, and you exhaled in relief. “Alright, let’s not do that again,” you muttered to yourself as you retrieved the pan and set it on the stove.

You turned back to the cabinets, opening one after the other in search of bread. “Where do you keep your bread?” you mumbled to no one in particular, pulling out random items as you searched.

“Top right, chère,” came a low, lazy Cajun drawl from behind you.

You jumped, spinning around so fast you nearly knocked over the egg carton. “Jesus, LeBeau! You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me like that,” you said, pressing a hand to your chest as you tried to catch your breath.

Remy stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with that infuriating grin of his. His auburn hair was a mess, falling into his face in soft waves, and his crimson-on-black eyes gleamed with amusement. He was shirtless, his lean, strong frame illuminated by the dim kitchen light. The faint scars that marked his chest and shoulders only added to the rugged charm he carried so effortlessly. Low-slung pajama pants hung loosely on his hips, and his every movement screamed confidence, like he knew exactly how good he looked.

“Don’ go blamin’ me, chère. You’re the one ransackin’ my kitchen at three in the mornin’,” he teased, his voice dripping with that Cajun lilt as he stepped into the room. “Droppin’ pans like ya tryin’ t’ wake the dead.”

You rolled your eyes and gestured toward the cabinets. “Well, maybe if you didn’t hide your bread like a damn treasure map, I wouldn’t have to.”

He chuckled, pushing off the doorframe and strolling toward you with that slow, deliberate gait of his. “Top right, I said,” he drawled again, his voice low and smooth like molasses. He reached up and opened the cabinet, his arm brushing yours as he grabbed the loaf of bread. The scent of him—spice, smoke, and something distinctly Remy—washed over you, making your breath hitch for just a second. He placed the bread on the counter and leaned back against it, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched you with that crooked smirk of his.

“You’re the one sneakin’ ‘round my house,” he said, tilting his head as his grin widened. “But I’m the one sneakin’ up on you? That don’ sound fair, chère.”

You huffed, turning back to the stove as you cracked the first egg into the pan. The sizzle filled the room, grounding you. “To be fair, not like I planned this,” you muttered, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

“You never do,” he replied, his tone laced with humor. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter, his eyes never leaving you. “So… where’d you just come from? What kinda trouble you been causin’ now, hmm?”

You grinned as you cracked another egg into the pan. “Just having some bonding time with future you,” you said simply, flipping the egg with a satisfying flick of your wrist. “Want some?”

“Nah, I’m good,” he replied, shaking his head as his hair fell into his eyes. He pushed it back lazily with one hand. “Future me huh?”

“Oh, he’s fine as fuck,” you teased, smirking as you glanced over your shoulder at him. “Like, damn. But he’s in the void. I was in the void. He’s all brooding and got some shit going on, you know? The usual.”

Remy let out a low chuckle, the sound deep and warm as it rumbled in his chest. “Broodin’, huh? Sounds like me,” he said, his voice teasing, but his eyes softened as they lingered on you. “Guess I age well, though. Like a good bottle’a whiskey.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you replied with a laugh, shaking your head as you flipped the eggs again. “But yeah, he’s still getting into trouble. Some things never change.”

Remy leaned closer, resting his chin in his hand, his sharp crimson eyes softening as they studied you. The ever-present smirk that usually danced on his lips faded into something quieter, something almost vulnerable. “An’ you?” he asked, his voice low, a tender rasp smoothing out the Cajun lilt. “You alright, chère? Look like you been through it.”

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you froze, spatula still in hand as an egg sizzled in the pan. His words hung in the air like a thread stretched taut between you, pulling at something deep inside. You glanced over your shoulder, meeting his gaze. It wasn’t the teasing, flirtatious look he often gave you when he was trying to get under your skin. This was different—his crimson-on-black eyes searched yours with a rare sincerity, like he was peeling back the layers you kept so carefully guarded.

You tried to brush it off, offering him a small smile—one of those smiles that felt like a deflection but still held a sliver of truth. “Yeah,” you said softly, the word almost swallowed by the hiss of the pan. You turned back to the stove, focusing on flipping the eggs even though your hands felt a little clumsy. “Just… hungry, for now.” Your voice dipped lower, admitting something that had been sitting heavy in your chest for longer than you cared to admit. “Feeling like I’m spending my life holding my breath and waiting, you know?”

The room settled into silence, the kind of silence that felt heavy but not uncomfortable, like it needed to exist to let the moment breathe. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, and you didn’t have to look to know that he understood exactly what you meant. Remy LeBeau was no stranger to waiting.

He didn’t say anything right away. He just watched you, his eyes tracing your profile as if committing it to memory—again. And maybe that’s what hit the hardest. The waiting wasn’t just yours to carry. It was his too. You both lived with it, this constant, agonizing anticipation. Waiting for your powers to stabilize. Waiting for the day they would stop yanking you through time like a leaf caught in the wind. Waiting for the moment when the universe would finally stop playing games and let you… breathe. Let you both breathe.

Because there was something between you—something bigger than either of you could put into words but that neither of you could deny. A bond. A pull. A connection that had been forged across the countless times your powers had dropped you into his life.

You didn’t know when it started, not really. Maybe it had always been there, from the first time your powers had flung you into his path. You remembered it vividly—how you’d landed, disoriented and aching, only to look up and find him standing there, cards in hand, his cocky grin faltering into surprise when he saw you. At first, you’d thought it was just dumb luck that you’d been thrown into his orbit. But then it kept happening. Again and again, you’d find yourself in Remy LeBeau’s life, at different points in time—sometimes when he was young and reckless, other times when he was older, wearier, and carrying the weight of too many regrets.

Sometimes you stayed for hours. Sometimes for days. The longest had been four days—a fleeting eternity where, for a brief moment, you’d allowed yourself to imagine what it might be like if you could just… stay. But you never could. Your powers would always pull you away, like a cruel joke from the universe, leaving both of you standing in the wreckage of whatever connection you’d managed to build in the short time you had. Every time you disappeared, it felt like ripping a thread out of a tapestry before it had a chance to weave itself fully.

And yet, no matter how many times you were torn away, no matter how much time passed between your visits, the bond always felt stronger when you returned. It was like the universe was tying you to him, over and over, with threads that refused to break no matter how far you were flung. You knew what it meant. You’d known for a while now. Soulmates. The word felt too simple, too small to describe the depth of what connected you to Remy. But that’s what it was. It wasn’t just attraction or chemistry or even love—though all of that was there, undeniably. It was something deeper, something ancient, as if your souls had always known each other and had just been waiting for the rest of you to catch up.

But knowing it and acknowledging it were two very different things. How could you let yourself fully embrace that bond when you knew, at any moment, your powers could rip you away again? How could either of you? It was like living on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the wind to push you over. So instead, you both lived in this limbo, this cruel in-between, holding your breath and waiting. Waiting for the day you wouldn’t have to leave. Waiting for the day you could finally stop pretending that you weren’t in love with each other.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as you fought back the weight of those thoughts. The eggs in the pan were done, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. You felt the ache of it all settle in your chest, heavy and unrelenting.

“Chère…” Remy’s voice broke through the silence, low and warm, and when you turned to look at him, he was already standing closer. His expression was softer now, his usual arrogance melted away, leaving just the man underneath. “You ain’t gotta say it,” he murmured, his accent wrapping around the words like a reassurance. “I feel it too.”

You blinked, your breath hitching slightly as the weight of his words sank in. It wasn’t just what he said—it was the way he said it, the quiet resolve beneath his voice, the way his eyes softened as they met yours. The truth of it hit you like a slow, crashing wave, dragging you under and filling your lungs with emotions you couldn’t quite name. He wasn’t just talking about the waiting. He was talking about everything.

The bond between you. The love neither of you could fully give voice to, even though it was as constant and undeniable as the pull of gravity. The pain of knowing that no matter how much you wanted to stay, no matter how much he wanted you to, the universe hadn’t let you yet. And maybe it never would. The ache of it was a familiar one, a quiet companion that had settled itself between you both long ago. It was a wound that never quite healed, but somehow, neither of you had stopped believing it would, one day.

You could see the weight of it in his eyes, too, the way they searched yours with a rare vulnerability. His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach out, to close the tiny, frustrating distance between you, but he didn’t. He never did. Because Remy LeBeau was a man who respected boundaries—even the cruel, invisible ones that the universe seemed intent on keeping between you. And yet, there was something in the way he held himself, in the quiet strength of his presence, that told you he wasn’t giving up. He never had. No matter how many times you disappeared. No matter how many times you’d flung yourself back into his life, disoriented and apologetic, knowing you’d leave again. He’d always been there. Waiting. Hoping.

“The ultimate cosmic fuckery, right?” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. It was something the two of you had joked about before—a way to make light of something that hurt too much to face head-on.

Remy’s lips quirked into a small, wry smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but still held warmth. “The ultimate cosmic fuckery,” he agreed, his voice low and smooth, like a quiet promise beneath the humor.

You turned back to the stove, more to give yourself a moment to breathe than because the eggs needed your attention. The spatula shook slightly in your hand as you flipped one of them, the sizzle of the pan grounding you. You could feel him watching you, his presence as steady and unyielding as ever.

“I see Bella’s still around,” you said quietly, your tone casual but with just enough edge to betray the emotions you tried to bury. You weren’t sure why you brought her up—maybe it was self-sabotage, or maybe it was just the easiest way to put some distance between the two of you before you let yourself believe too much in something you couldn’t have.

Remy shrugged behind you, the motion lazy and practiced, but you could hear the shift in his tone when he replied. “She goin’ somewhere?” he asked, his voice light, but with an undercurrent of something heavier. He wasn’t defensive. He never was when it came to Bella Donna. If anything, he always sounded resigned when her name came up, like he’d long since accepted the complicated role she played in his life.

You pursed your lips, your grip tightening on the spatula as you stared at the eggs in the pan, not really seeing them. There was nothing you could say to him—not about his personal future, at least. The rules of your powers were clear: you couldn’t interfere. Couldn’t tell him about the things he wasn’t meant to know. Couldn’t warn him about the heartbreaks or betrayals that lay ahead. And even if you could, what would be the point? Bella Donna was a woman who shaped the trajectory of his life in ways that no one else could. She wasn’t just a part of his past—she was a pivotal point in his story.

You remembered the first time Remy had told you about the events around Bella, years ago, when there was just a moment of quiet in the X-mansion and it was just you and him sitting in the garden. He’d been caught in the tangled web of his family’s expectations, the bitter rivalry between the Thieves’ Guild and the Assassins’ Guild like a noose around his neck. And at the center of it all had been her. Bella Donna. The perfect embodiment of the life Remy had been born into but never truly fit into. She’d been his childhood friend, his first love, and eventually, his wife. Their marriage had been an attempt to bridge an impossible divide, to unite two families that had been killing each other for generations. But it had only ended the way it was always going to end: in bloodshed and heartbreak. 

That chain of events had haunted him ever since, the scars of it buried deep even if he didn’t always let them show. Bella Donna wasn’t just someone from his past—she was a pivotal piece of it

The memory of all this churned in your mind as you worked the spatula over the pan, but you kept your tone light, breezy, masking the thoughts that threatened to drag you under. “No idea,” you said simply, hoping the lie would slip past him unnoticed.

Remy tilted his head, giving you a look that was equal parts amused and skeptical. “You know you’re a terrible liar, chère,” he drawled, stepping closer until he was beside you. He leaned casually against the counter, his eyes flicking to the pan with exaggerated concern. “An’ I think you’re burnin’ the pan.”

“I’m not burning the pan,” you shot back, rolling your eyes as you flipped the egg a little too aggressively.

“Yeah, you’re burnin’ the pan,” he said with a smirk, reaching over you to turn off the stove.

“This pan can’t get any more burnt,” you pointed out, gesturing to its already scorched surface. “Pretty sure it came out of the factory like this.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, folding his arms as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping into that teasing, honeyed tone that always made you want to throttle him—or maybe kiss him, depending on the day. “Y’know, some people might say you’re distractin’ yourself with all this cookin’. Coverin’ up somethin’ else, maybe.”

“Oh, and some people might say you’re projecting,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at him. “Just because you can’t cook doesn’t mean I can’t.”

Remy chuckled, low and warm, the sound like a spark lighting up the dim kitchen. “Chère, I can do plenty’a things in a kitchen,” he said with a wink, “but cookin’ ain’t one of ‘em.”

You snorted, shaking your head as you reached for a plate to scrape the eggs onto. “Yeah, well, if you’re trying to impress me, it’s not working.”

“Who said I was tryin’ to impress you?” he countered, raising an eyebrow. But the grin that tugged at his lips betrayed him, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

Before you could fire back, a soft voice broke through the banter, cutting the moment short. “Remy?” 

You froze, the plate still in your hand, and turned toward the doorway. Standing there, framed by the dim light spilling in from the hallway, was Bella Donna. 

She was stunning, of course, in that effortless way that made you acutely aware of your own disheveled state. Her long, platinum blonde hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, catching the light with an almost ethereal glow. Her features were sharp, refined, like she’d stepped out of a painting—high cheekbones, full lips, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to take in everything around her in an instant. She was wearing one of Remy’s shirts, the fabric hanging loose on her slender frame, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Even in her casual state, there was a quiet, dangerous confidence to her, like she could command a room with nothing more than a look. 

Remy’s face softened when he saw her, his usual smirk fading into something more genuine. “Mornin’, belle,” he said warmly, crossing the kitchen toward her. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, the gesture casual but intimate, and your stomach twisted in a way you weren’t proud of. “We’re just cookin’ breakfast,” he explained, gesturing back toward you with a wave of his hand. 

Bella Donna’s eyes flicked to you, sharp and calculating, and for a moment, you felt like you were being weighed and measured. There was no malice in her gaze, but there was caution, an unspoken question lingering in the air between you.

You gave her a small wave, forcing a polite smile. “Hi,” you said, your voice light but awkward, unsure of what else to say. 

Remy glanced back at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before his lips quirked into a faint grin. “Wait,” you said suddenly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Have I met her yet?” 

“Not yet,” he replied, his tone casual but with that underlying mischievousness that always made you feel like he knew more than he was letting on.

There was a beat of silence, heavy with things unsaid. Bella Donna lingered in the doorway, her gaze sliding back to Remy as if she was trying to read something in his posture, his expression. He turned to her fully, murmuring something too low for you to catch, and she nodded, stepping closer to him. The easy intimacy of the gesture made your chest tighten, though you quickly shoved the feeling down before it could take root.

You turned back to the counter, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the space felt with all three of you in it. The eggs on the plate looked less appetizing now, but you busied yourself with them anyway, your mind racing. You’d known this moment would come eventually—Bella Donna was too important to Remy’s story for you not to cross paths with her at some point. Still, standing here now, watching the two of them together, you couldn’t help but feel like an outsider looking in on a life you were never meant to stay in. 

The sound of their quiet voices behind you blurred into the background as you focused on the plate in front of you, your fingers tightening around the edge. You weren’t sure what to feel—jealousy? Resentment? Sadness? You weren’t even sure you had the right to feel anything at all. After all, this wasn’t your place. It never had been. 

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to push the thoughts aside. You’re just passing through, you reminded yourself. You always are. The words felt hollow, like a mantra you’d repeated so many times that it had lost all meaning. And yet, you clung to it, because if you let yourself think too much about the way Remy’s life carried on without you—would always carry on without you—it would break you. 

But as you glanced back over your shoulder, your breath caught when your eyes met his. For just a moment—barely a heartbeat—Remy’s gaze flicked to you, soft and searching. It was that look, the one that always left you feeling like you were standing on the edge of something too big to name. It wasn’t just affection. It wasn’t just longing. It was a tether, invisible but unshakable, something that tied you to him no matter how far your powers flung you across time and space. 

You swallowed hard, breaking the connection before it could pull you under. Your lips curved into a small, polite smile as you turned to face Bella Donna, deciding to introduce yourself because standing there in awkward silence wasn’t helping anyone. “Hi,” you said, holding out your hand in what you hoped was a casual, friendly gesture. “I’m—” 

“You’re the time traveler, aren’t you?” Bella Donna interrupted, her voice sharper than her cautious gaze. The recognition in her eyes flickered like a flame, lighting up a memory she hadn’t realized she’d been holding on to. She didn’t take your hand, but she didn’t step back either, studying you like she was trying to piece together a puzzle she’d only just realized was in front of her. 

You froze for a heartbeat, then glanced at Remy, arching an eyebrow. “Really? This is what I’m known as in your life?” you said, your tone teasing but laced with mock indignation. “The time traveler? That’s it? I feel like I should at least have a cooler title, considering I’m literally attached to you.” 

Remy snorted, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the counter, clearly enjoying himself. “What? You don’t like ‘time traveler’? Thought it sounded mysterious, chère,” he drawled, his grin widening. “Besides, you kinda are the time traveler. What, you want me to call you somethin’ else? Like, I dunno, ‘Chrono Queen’ or somethin’?” 

You shot him a glare, though you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” 

“Hey, don’t knock it,” he said with a shrug, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Coulda gone with somethin’ worse. Like… ‘Egg Burner Extraordinaire.’” 

“Oh, wow,” you deadpanned, placing a hand over your chest in mock offense. “You wound me, LeBeau. Truly.” 

Remy chuckled, the sound low and warm, and you couldn’t help but laugh too, the tension in the room easing just slightly. 

Bella Donna’s gaze flicked between the two of you, her sharp blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Y’know,” she said, her voice cool but laced with an edge of curiosity, “you two seem real comfortable for someone just ‘passin’ through.’” 

That caught you off guard, and for a second, the easy smile you’d been wearing faltered. You glanced at Remy, but he didn’t miss a beat, his grin never wavering. “What can I say, belle?” he said smoothly, his tone light but with just enough weight to make it clear he wasn’t brushing her off. “I got a knack for makin’ people feel at home.” 

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you turned back to Bella Donna. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds,” you said, brushing off her pointed observation. “I pop in, screw up his life just enough to be annoying, then I’m gone before anyone has time to get sick of me.” 

“That so?” Bella Donna said, her tone unreadable. She tilted her head slightly, still watching you like she was trying to figure out if you were a threat or just another piece of the chaos that followed Remy wherever he went. 

“Pretty much,” you replied, keeping your voice light even though her scrutiny was starting to wear on you. You weren’t sure what she was looking for, but you got the distinct feeling that she wasn’t entirely thrilled about your presence. 

Remy must have noticed the shift in the air, because he stepped forward, placing a hand on Bella Donna’s arm in a gesture that was both reassuring and grounding. “Relax, belle,” he said softly, his tone gentler now. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry ‘bout here. We’re just cookin’ some breakfast, that’s all.” 

Bella Donna’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before she finally nodded, though you could tell she wasn’t entirely convinced. “Alright,” she said, her voice softer now but still carrying that edge of caution. She turned her attention back to Remy, resting a hand lightly on his chest. “You comin’ back to bed soon?” 

Your chest tightened at her words, and you quickly turned back to the counter, pretending to busy yourself with cleaning up the pan. You weren’t sure why it stung so much—it wasn’t like this was the first time you’d seen Remy with someone else. But something about the way she said it, the casual intimacy of it, hit a little too close to home. 

Remy hesitated for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to notice, before he gave her a small smile. “Yeah, belle, I’ll be there in a minute,” he said, his voice soft but steady. 

Bella Donna nodded, giving you one last glance before she turned and disappeared back down the hallway. 

The silence that followed was heavy, pressing down on you like a weight. You didn’t turn around, didn’t look at him, because you weren’t sure what you’d see in his expression. Instead, you focused on scrubbing the already-burnt pan, the rough scrape of the sponge against the metal filling the quiet. 

“Y’know,” Remy said after a moment, his voice light but with a hint of something else beneath it, “you didn’t have to introduce yourself. Pretty sure she already figured out who you were.” 

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to be rude,” you said, your voice steady despite the emotions swirling beneath the surface. “Besides, it’s not every day someone recognizes me as the time traveler. Really makes a girl feel special.” 

Remy chuckled, stepping closer until he was leaning against the counter beside you. “Special ain’t the word I’d use for you, chère,” he said, his tone soft but teasing. 

“Oh, yeah? What word would you use, then?” you asked, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. 

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. The weight of it made you pause, your heartbeat hitching slightly. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady, threading the air between you with quiet honesty. “Complicated,” he said. 

You snorted, shaking your head as you turned back to the pan. “Well, you’re not wrong,” you muttered, trying to ignore how much weight the word carried. 

But complicated didn’t even begin to cover it, did it? You could feel it—heavy and unspoken, hanging in the space between you. The way the universe seemed determined to keep you at arm’s length from him, no matter how many times you were pulled back into his life. The way he looked at you sometimes, like he was trying to memorize you, just in case you disappeared before he had the chance to say what he really wanted to. And the way you felt about him—tangled and messy, like a knot you couldn’t unravel no matter how hard you tried. 

Still, the two of you fell into the familiar rhythm that had always defined your time together. A dance of banter and stolen moments, of laughter that never quite drowned out the questions neither of you had the courage to ask. The tension lingered, a quiet undercurrent, but it was easier to pretend it wasn’t there. For now. 

As you grabbed a fork from the drawer and leaned back against the counter, you couldn’t help but wonder how long this would last. How long before the universe decided it had had enough of giving you time with him and pulled you away again? The thought settled in your chest like a weight, but you pushed it down, focusing instead on the warmth of the moment. 

“How long you stayin’ for this time?” Remy’s voice broke through your thoughts, soft but curious. 

You hopped up onto the counter, letting your legs dangle as you took a bite of your food. You made a show of chewing slowly to buy yourself a moment to think, but the truth spilled out anyway. “I’m hoping long enough for a nap, to be honest,” you said, your voice light but tired. 

Remy laughed, the sound low and warm as he leaned against the counter beside you, arms crossed. “Want me to set up the couch for you?” he offered, his tone teasing but genuine. 

“Could you?” you asked, setting your plate down beside you. “I’m so tired. I haven’t slept since, like…” You trailed off, frowning as you tried to remember. “Three jumps ago, I think?” 

His eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head, watching you with that mix of amusement and concern that always caught you off guard. “Three jumps ago?” he echoed. 

You nodded, your brow furrowing as you murmured to yourself, trying to piece together the timeline. “Doesn’t seem like a lot, but there was a big gap in years,” you explained, waving a hand vaguely as if that clarified anything. “One jump put me in the middle of some kind of… riot or uprising or—I don’t even know. You were like twenty-ish? That was exhausting. And then the next one was just…” You paused, your gaze dropping to your lap. “Long.” 

You hadn’t meant to let that last bit slip out, but it hung there between you, raw and honest. You didn’t dare look at him, afraid of what you might see in his expression. 

Remy didn’t say anything right away, but you could feel him watching you, the weight of his gaze grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. Finally, he broke the silence with a soft chuckle. “So, three jumps, huh?” he said, his voice light but warm. “Guess that explains why you look like you been dragged through hell and back.” 

You shot him a mock glare, though your lips twitched into a small smile. “Gee, thanks for the compliment, mon cher,” you said dryly. “Always a charmer, aren’t you?” 

“Only for you,” he replied, his grin widening. The words were teasing, but there was something softer in his tone, something that made your chest tighten. 

You shook your head, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck as you hopped off the counter. “Alright, big guy,” you said, handing him your empty plate. “If you’re so concerned about my well-being, how about you actually set up that couch for me instead of just talking about it?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a mock salute, taking the plate from you with a grin. As he moved toward the sink, you watched him for a moment, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips. 

It was easy to fall into this rhythm with him. Too easy. And that scared you more than you cared to admit. Because no matter how comfortable it felt, no matter how much you wanted to stay, you knew it wouldn’t last. It never did. 

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you leaned against the counter. “You know,” you said quietly, almost to yourself, “sometimes I wish I could just… stop. Just stay in one place long enough to breathe.” 

Remy glanced back at you, his expression softening. “Maybe one day you will,” he said, his voice steady, like he believed it. Like he was willing it to be true. 

You met his gaze, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket. You wanted to believe him. You really did. But the truth was, you didn’t know if you could. 

“Maybe,” you said softly, looking away. It was the best you could offer. 

A comfortable silence stretched between you after that, broken only by the sound of water running as he washed the dishes. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself savor the warmth of the kitchen, the quiet hum of being here with him.  <><><>

After the dishes were done, Remy disappeared into the other room, leaving you standing alone in the kitchen. The exhaustion you’d been trying to push through finally hit you all at once, settling like a weight over your shoulders. You pressed your palms against the counter, closing your eyes for a moment, letting the quiet hum of the space seep into you. 

“Alright, chère, your royal couch accommodations are ready,” Remy called out from the living room, his voice laced with that familiar teasing energy. 

You let out a soft laugh, pushing off the counter and making your way toward him. When you stepped into the room, you couldn’t help but smile. The couch had been cleared of its usual clutter, and a blanket—one that looked suspiciously soft and smelled faintly of him—was draped neatly over the cushions. He’d even grabbed a pillow from somewhere, fluffing it up with exaggerated flair as he leaned back and admired his work. 

“Wow,” you said, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize I was getting the five-star treatment.” 

“Nothin’ but the best for my favorite time traveler,” he replied, flashing you a grin. “Although, I gotta warn you—this ain’t exactly a luxury suite. No minibar, no room service. You want somethin’ extra, you’re on your own.” 

“First no nap, now no minibar,” you said, shaking your head with mock disappointment as you made your way to the couch. “I don’t know, Remy. You’re really slacking here. What kind of establishment are you running?” 

He chuckled as he stepped back, watching you plop down onto the cushions with all the grace of someone who hadn’t slept in far too long. You let out a groan, already kicking your boots up onto the armrest and tugging the blanket over yourself like you intended to cocoon there for the foreseeable future. It was soft—softer than you expected, and it smelled faintly of him, like leather and spice. 

But just as you started to relax, Remy’s voice broke the quiet. “Oh no,” he said, his tone dripping with mock judgment. “Boots on my couch again? Thought we already had this talk.” 

You cracked one eye open, peering up at him with a smirk. “I’m doing this because the last time I slept without my boots on, I lost them,” you said, gesturing dramatically at your feet. “They’re somewhere in New Orleans with a version of you who I think stole them.” 

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he leaned against the back of the couch, arms crossed. “Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly, “that sounds about right. I bet I looked good in ‘em, too.” 

“You didn’t even need them!” you shot back, feeling a laugh bubble up despite your exhaustion. “Who steals boots?”

“Can’t help it, chère,” he replied with a shrug, his grin widening. “I’m a thief. It’s in my blood.” 

You rolled your eyes, rolling on to your side as you burrowed deeper into the blanket. “Well, this time I’m not taking them off, so you can’t pull that trick again,” you muttered, your words muffled by the pillow. 

“Good plan,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “Though, if you wake up tomorrow and they’re missin’, don’t come cryin’ to me.” 

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you settled in. The teasing between you was familiar, comforting in a way that made your chest ache if you lingered on it too long. 

As the silence settled, you felt the couch shift slightly. Opening your eyes, you found Remy crouched beside you, his tall frame folding effortlessly as he rested his chin on the armrest near your head. His crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, soft and almost tender as he watched you. 

“You get some sleep,” he said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual playfulness. There was something in his tone that made you pause, something heavier beneath the words. 

You searched his face for a moment, the teasing banter fading into the background as something unspoken passed between you. “And if I’m not here in the morning?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. 

His expression didn’t change, but you saw the way his jaw tightened, the faint flicker of something raw in his eyes. “Then you make sure you stay safe,” he said, his voice steady but laced with quiet conviction. “Wherever you go. My life ain’t easy or safe.” 

He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face with a gentleness that made your heart clench. “And I hate knowin’ you could be in any part of it,” he murmured. 

You blinked at him, your chest tightening as his words settled over you. It was rare for him to say things like this out loud, to let the cracks in his armor show. He was always so good at hiding behind his charm, his grin, his endless quips. But now, crouched beside you, there was no mask—just Remy. 

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. The weight of his gaze, the quiet vulnerability in his voice, left you feeling stripped bare. Instead, you simply nodded, your voice catching as you said, “I’ll try.” 

He gave a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good,” he said softly. “That’s all I need.” 

For a while, neither of you moved. He stayed there, crouched beside you, his chin still resting on the armrest as he watched you with a quiet intensity that made it feel like the world had slowed down. You wanted to say something, to break the silence, but the weight of the moment pressed down on you, and all you could do was close your eyes and let it wash over you. 

Eventually, you felt him shift, the warmth of his presence pulling away as he stood. The couch creaked softly as he rose, and the room grew quieter, the faint sound of his footsteps retreating as he moved toward the doorway. You thought he might leave without another word, letting you rest, but just as he reached the threshold, you smirked, your voice cutting through the stillness.

“Night, Cajun,” you murmured, your tone teasing even as your eyes stayed closed. 

His footsteps stopped, and you could feel him turn to face you, the weight of his grin practically tangible in the air. “Night, Chrono Queen,” he drawled, the nickname rolling off his tongue with that infuriating charm you could never quite resist. 

Your eyes snapped open, glaring at him from your blanket cocoon. “Oh, I hate you,” you said, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “You’re an awful person.” 

He chuckled, leaning casually against the doorway, his silhouette outlined faintly by the dim light from the hallway. “Aw, don’t be like that, chère,” he said, his voice warm and teasing. “It’s catchy.” 

“You know what? Next time I jump through time, I’m going to find you in, I don’t know, 1812 or something, and I’m going to call you something ridiculous. Like… ‘Bayou Boy.’” 

“Bayou Boy?” he repeated with a laugh, his grin widening. “That’s the best you got?” 

“I’m tired, okay?” you said, your voice muffled as you buried your face in the pillow. “I’ll come up with something better after my nap.” 

“Can’t wait,” he replied, his tone light but with a softness underneath that made your chest ache. 

You peeked at him again, catching the way he lingered in the doorway, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave. His grin had faded into something quieter, his crimson eyes warm as they met yours. For a moment, neither of you said anything, the air between you heavy with something unspoken. 

“Night, Cajun,” you said again, softer this time, the words carrying more weight than you intended. 

“Night, ma chère,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. 

He lingered for just a second longer, then turned and disappeared down the hall. 

The room fell silent again, but the warmth of his presence lingered, like a faint glow that refused to fade completely. You shifted under the blanket, letting your eyes close once more, and as sleep began to tug at you, you couldn’t help but smile despite yourself. 

You could still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, the quiet echo of his words lingering in the back of your mind. The way he’d brushed that strand of hair from your face. The way he’d told you to stay safe, like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted from you. 

And for the first time in a long time, you felt safe. Even if only for a little while.

[aifanfictions]

Can I request Alastor x female reader who loves 70-90 year old jazz? Maybe she's Charlie's sister, and Alastor hears music coming from her hotel room. Probably something like Ruth Etting or Annette Henshaw.

Jazz of the Heart

In the heart of Hell, within the walls of the Hazbin Hotel, chaos and mayhem reigned. Among the residents was Charlie, the determined princess of Hell, and her sister, (Y/N). (Y/N) was unlike her sister in many ways. While Charlie was passionate about redemption and salvation, (Y/N) had a deep love for the music of a bygone era.

Her heart belonged to the tunes of the 70s, 80s, and 90s, especially the enchanting jazz of Ruth Etting and Annette Henshaw. As she settled into her room at the hotel, the smooth melodies of these jazz legends echoed through the walls, serenading the restless souls of Hell.

Alastor, the charming Radio Demon, couldn't help but be drawn to the sultry, nostalgic sounds. He had heard countless songs from different eras, but there was something enchanting about the vintage jazz tunes that (Y/N) played.

One evening, as (Y/N) sat by the record player, carefully selecting the next vinyl to spin, Alastor decided to investigate the source of this delightful music. He followed the alluring melodies to (Y/N)'s room and knocked lightly on the door.

(Y/N) opened the door to find the grinning Radio Demon. "Alastor, isn't it? How can I help you?"

He tipped his hat with a charming flourish. "Why, (Y/N), I couldn't help but be drawn to this mesmerizing music of yours. Quite the aficionado of vintage jazz, aren't you?"

She smiled, appreciating his recognition. "Oh, indeed. There's nothing quite like the classics. They have a soul that modern music often lacks."

Alastor stepped inside, and as the melodies of "Button Up Your Overcoat" filled the room, he extended his hand. "Would you do me the honor of a dance, my dear?"

(Y/N) was taken aback for a moment but couldn't resist the charisma of the Radio Demon. She accepted his offer, and they began to waltz around the room. Their movements were as smooth and enchanting as the jazz itself.

As they danced, Alastor couldn't help but be captivated by (Y/N)'s grace and love for the music. He found himself falling deeper and deeper under her spell, and he knew he had to have her in his life.

The soft, velvety notes of the song enveloped them, creating an intimate atmosphere. As the music swirled around them, Alastor's scarlet eyes bore into (Y/N)'s, and he gently pulled her closer. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony, each step a declaration of their growing connection.

With every subtle touch and the close proximity of their bodies, an electric charge filled the room. The scent of old vinyl records mixed with the faint aroma of (Y/N)'s perfume, creating an intoxicating blend. As Alastor's hand rested at the small of her back, a shiver ran down (Y/N)'s spine.

The song reached its climax, and Alastor couldn't resist the magnetic pull drawing him to (Y/N). In a fluid motion, he dipped her low, their faces mere inches apart. The world around them seemed to blur as time slowed down. Their breaths became shallow, and they shared a charged silence.

As the final notes of the song lingered in the air, Alastor, his voice as smooth as honey, whispered, "My dear (Y/N), it seems the music has brought our hearts together."

With an irresistible charm, he closed the remaining distance between them. His lips brushed against hers, gentle and tentative, igniting a spark that neither of them could deny. The kiss deepened, a passionate fusion of two souls drawn together by the enchantment of jazz and the intoxicating allure of their shared attraction.

The world outside faded into insignificance as (Y/N) and Alastor surrendered to the magnetic pull they couldn't escape. His gloved hand cradled her cheek, and the kiss became an exquisite dance of longing and affection.

It was a kiss that transcended time and place, a kiss that marked the beginning of a love story that defied the boundaries of Hell. In that fleeting moment, (Y/N) and Alastor discovered that love, like jazz, was timeless, resonating in the deepest recesses of their hearts.

As they broke the kiss, (Y/N) was left breathless, her eyes filled with both surprise and a hint of desire. Alastor's grin was filled with satisfaction and a hint of mischief. He took her hand, and as the music continued to play, they swayed together, their hearts in sync with the rhythm of love.

In Hell, where chaos and darkness reigned, their love shone like a beacon of light and passion, and the jazz of their hearts would play on, a melody that would never fade away.

NOTE! This story was generated by OpenAI

[birdiely]

Something Uniquely Human

The first chapter of the Bill Cipher redemption fic is here boysss. (There's no billford in this fic btw sorry, gamers.)

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Smoke covered the horizon and the sky had faded into a deep red. Buildings empty, and the nearby forest devoid of all life. Rubble was scattered throughout the streets. Where there was usually the hustle and bustle of the day, the chirping of birds, and the humming of small bugs, only silence remained.

Stanford walked slowly, cautiously, throughout the abandoned town. He looked behind himself quickly, the overwhelming feeling of being watched taking over him. When there's nothing, he continued on. His breath was shallow and strained. He could hear his heartbeat in his chest. A deep, agonizing feeling swirled around in his stomach, begging him to run away, to hide and close his eyes. And yet he continued his slow descent down the road.

Something broke behind him, a small crack traveled to his ears, making him spin around. His breath caught in his throat; nothing was there. The buildings, the road, the trees lining the horizon line–it was all gone. He found himself completely alone in a vacuum. Frantically, he whipped his head around, scanning the area desperate to find any discernible features. He looked down, he was standing on the only piece of grass for miles stretching on into eternity. The darkness around him threatened to swallow him whole. He was small and vulnerable in the great vastness of nothing. Fear was gripping him so hard he felt as though he would dissolve into a pile of ash at any second.

He looked out to a sea of stars. He could feel each one staring him down, judging him. Myriads and myriads of eyes all fall on him. An all too familiar laugh rang out and bounced around his head. He felt so sick; it was unbearable.

The ground beneath him crumbled and gave way. He fell, disappearing into the void. No one can hear him. No one is there to help him. He woke up.

—---------------------------------------

The smell of salt and fish filled the air. The sound of waves rising and falling had become so normal it faded into the background and eventually was tuned out.

Ford shot up with a gasp, hitting his head on the low roof above him and falling back down. He took a moment to breathe before sitting up with a groan in the small space under the deck of the Stan o’ War II. He swung his legs off of the bed and rubbed his hands over his face. He's always had chronic nightmares; ever since he shook hands the eldritch horror he was naive enough to call his friend. But the past few days had been different. They were getting worse, more vivid and surreal. The fear of his nightmare had followed him into the waking world. The nausea did too, so he forced himself out of bed and up to the main deck to eat and hopefully settle his stomach.

A familiar sight calmed his nerves, at least a little. Stanley sat laid back in a fold-out camping chair, cigarette in one hand, fishing pole in the other. He losely held onto the handle, more so holding it between his thighs. Ford walked passed him, sluggishly making his way to a small mini fridge, digging through it like a raccoon through a trash can, before crashing harshly in a chair of his own.

“You look like you're in a good mood,” Stan said, puffing out a cloud of smoke as he spoke. Ford turned his head towards him with a deep, tired, scowl etched onto his features. Stan turned his head too, not fully seeing him out of the corner of his eyes. He snorted in amusement when their eyes met and had to quickly turn away to choke down the laughter. Ford's face softened with a quiet, humored nose exhale.

“When do you think we'll get there?” Ford asked. Stan took another puff and answered, “We'll meet the port by 3…ish?” Ford hummed in response, looking out into the ocean. Still after all this time he finds himself completely mesmerized. “How many of those have you had?” He gestured to the cigarette. Stan lifted an empty pack and waved it in his face with a grin and a snicker. “Just today!?” “Hey, I gotta get it all in now y'know?” Stan put his hands up in mock defense.

They had been slowly making their way back to Gravity Falls for a few days now. Soos generously offered up the shack for them to stay in during their visit, and they were both over the moon to hear that Dipper and Mabel were coming back to visit as well. And yet Ford couldn't shake this gut wrenching feeling. As each day passed and as they grew closer and closer, he found himself more and more anxious. Today was the day they made it, and he was drowning in dread. He tried his best to logic his way through his fears but that didn't stop the nightmares from getting any worse.

Around evening they made it to the sleepy little town they had called home for so many years. Ford was terrified that by the time they got there there wouldn't even be a Gravity Falls left, his heart expected fire and terror and death. He was relieved when instead he was met with smiling faces and warm embraces. The sky was clear and blue, the familiar scent of pine and grass filled his senses, and the distant sounds of woodpeckers mirrored the distant calls of seabirds he had grown so used to. Yet, somehow, something still felt wrong.

When they finally walked the winding path to the Mystery Shack, Stanley smiled on seeing Soos’ face light up with their arrival. He wore a suit and a couple of shiny, silver rings. He ran towards the twins with his arms outstretched and almost tackled Stan to the ground with the force of his hug. Stan laughed it off and patted his back in return. When it was Ford's turn he grunted as all the air was squeezed out of his lungs.

“Oh dude, it's like, so good to see you two bros! It's been since forever!” “Yeah, feels good to be back,” said Stan, and they both followed Soos into the house. Melody was carrying a box from one of the back rooms. She stopped for a second when the three of them walked in. “Oh hey, look who it is! So good to see you guys,” she greeted. They exchanged a few words, but truthfully Ford wasn't paying close attention. The aching feeling in his chest only seemed to get worse now that they were physically in the shack. Soos led them to the spare bedroom, he had kept it clean and mostly empty apart from two twin sized beds and a dresser with nothing in it, just in case they ever visited. Stan and Ford thanked him for his generosity, and they spent a while unpacking and making the room feel like their own.

That night was uncomfortable to say the least. Ford lay staring at the ceiling of a room he hadn't been in in years, let alone slept in. The room was cold, there was a loud box fan rattling and struggling to stay on filling the small space with noise. Stan was in the bed next to his. Ford didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to shut his eyes and see horrors beyond human comprehension, and he didn't want to open them back up in another nightmare. To some extent he felt like a child, trying to stay up all night to avoid a bad dream, wanting to hide under his covers from the monster under his bed.

Stan must have noticed how lost in thought he was because he whispered in the dark room, “Hey, what're you thinking about, Sixer?” That snapped Ford out of it briefly, and he turned to his brother with a surprised expression, like he was shocked anyone could perceive him. “Hm? Oh, nothing. It's fine.” He answered. Stan scoffed, “Yeah, right. You look completely fine right now.” Ford didn't appreciate the sarcasm, he rolled his eyes. “Come on, tell me what's on your mind. ‘Share with the class,’ like Mabel says.” Ford smiled fondly before his face scrunched back into a grimace as his mind began to fill back up with what if's. “I'm just worried, I suppose.” “‘Bout what?”

Ford paused to think. What was he really afraid of? The world spontaneously bursting into flames? The earth opening up beneath his feet? His arch enemy coming back from the dead? He threw all of those thoughts away from him, writing them off as fantastical and impossible. Or at least highly improbable. “I don't know,” he sighed. “It's probably nothing and I'm just being paranoid again.” He chuckled humorlessly, but Stan nodded his head in understanding and suddenly he felt so much less alone. “It's just….a lot–being back here, being in this house.” “Yeah, I get you. But hey,” he reached over the space between them to lightly tap Ford's arm. “Try not to think about it too hard. By tomorrow everything will be fine.” Ford nodded his head and Stan rolled over to sleep.

Ford didn't get much sleep that night. He stared upwards, mind unable to put itself to rest. Stan on the other hand snored loudly next to him. The noise drowned out everything else, but Ford had grown used to that long ago.

—---------------------------------------

The next morning was better. Soos had made a big breakfast, laying out six plates on the table. The kitchen was bright and cheery, the morning sun lit up the room with a gentle orange and the open window let in the melodies of songbirds.

A light conversation was passed around the table. It was stopped abruptly at the sound of two knocks at the door. And then two more. And then the knocking turned into a rhythmic song. Everyone's eyes lit up hearing it; of course they knew who was on the other side, no one else would knock to the tune of Taking Over Midnight by &ndra. Soos swung open the front door excitedly, and the Stans followed close behind him to welcome the bright-eyed teens. Soos lifted Dipper and Mabel off the ground in a lung-collapsing hug. When they got through the door the two of them nearly knocked Stan to the ground with another round of tight hugs. They were almost his height now, although Mabel had a good two inches on Dipper, and Stan ruffled their hair affectionately.

The breakfast was filled with cheery conversation and fond laughter. The teens watched in amazement as Stan waved his arms around retelling their sailing stories. Ford smiled and rolled his eyes hearing how he was embellishing.

“And Poindexter here would've died! Lucky for him he had the world's best brother to save his skin.” Stan smugly wrapped his arm around Ford as he told the story. Ford chuckled and slapped his hand away. “That is not what happened.” “Right, like you would know? You were busy being all smoochy with that siren.” He made mocking kissing sounds at Ford and cupped his hands together. “Get a load of this guy.” Stan pointed his thumb towards his brother, cupping a hand over that side of his mouth as if he wasn't sitting right next to him. Ford opened his mouth to retort but his sentence was cut short by Mabel slamming both her hands on the table. “Shut up! You're telling me you met a real life mermaid?!” “Well, technically no.” Ford chimed in. “Mermaids are a purely fictional half-fish person derived from Greek mythology. What we encountered was a siren, who are almost completely fish and only appear human as a lure for exhausted sailormen.” Mabel slumped back down in her chair, slightly disappointed.

“That sounds incredible,” said Dipper. “I can't believe you guys got to go on so many cool adventures while we've been stuck at highschool” “Hey, I think just being around that kid who tried to backflip into a bunch of cactuses was adventure enough.” Mabel elbowed Dipper as she spoke. “Cacti.” Dipper corrected. “That's what I said?”

They gathered their plates when they were done eating, taking their conversation with them as they washed dishes. The rest of the day went just as well. The teens took a while unpacking and setting up the attic. Mabel spent extra time making the small space look “aesthetic.” They spent a large part of the day just catching up in the living room. It felt nice; to be in the house everyone had suffered so much in 5 years ago, and instead be huddled up around the TV laughing and telling stories. For just a moment it made Ford feel calm, he felt like while he was here with the people he loved so much nothing else but them mattered. No one could hurt him.

But as day came to a close, as pinks and purples painted the sky, something just didn't feel right. Soos and Melody were in the kitchen making dinner, humming and dancing in between stirs of the pot. The pair of twins, meanwhile, had started a movie trilogy. However, by halfway through movie one it was clear the internet had absolutely no sense of what a good movie was, and they took to mocking it for entertainment instead. Ford laughed with the antics of his brother and Mabel for a while, but kept catching glimpses of an increasingly antsy Dipper out of the corner of his eyes that worried him. Eventually, shortly after they had started the second movie, it seems Dipper couldn't take it anymore. He stood, and tapped Ford discreetly as he left the room. Ford waited a second before following him so as to not look suspicious. When he did stand up Stan reached for him and snapped for his attention. “Grab me a soda on your way back, will ya?” “Sure,” he answered, brushing him off in his mind, and continued toward Dipper in the hallway.

“Grunkle Ford, can I talk to you about something?” “Of course, son. What's on your mind?” “Well, I…” he thought about it for a second and rocked on his heels awkwardly. “Nevermind actually, it's nothing, I'm sorry I bothered you.” “Dipper,” Ford put his hand on the boy's shoulder, “Is something wrong?” “Yeah, kinda. It's just that ever since we left home I've been having these awful nightmares. And now that we're physically here…But that's stupid.” Dipper kept his eyes anywhere but Ford's. Ford's previously soft and understanding expression hardened into one more serious. “That's not stupid, my boy,” He squeezed his shoulder and sighed. “They're just night terrors, Dipper. There's nothing here to be afraid of.” He wondered who he was really trying to convince, Dipper or himself. “I know,” He admitted with a look of defeat. A moment went by as Dipper carefully chose his next words. “I know you're probably right but lately I've been so worried that-” He trailed off. “Grunkle Ford I have to make sure it's still there–the statue–I just have to. Will you come with me?” He looked up at the older, young eyes full of grief and desperation. In too many ways he looked just like Ford. “Of course.” Ford replied. Truthfully he needed to see it too. He hoped that seeing the statue–now probably covered in moss and bird poop–would put both of them at ease.

“We'll be back,” Ford said and he strode through the living room with Dipper trailing close behind him towards the front door. Stan waved at him half heartedly, paying too close attention to the movie to even process what was being said. The door to the Mystery Shack creaked open and shut. A wave of thick summer air hit them both and wrapped around them like a sweater. The walk out to the forest was filled with awkward small talk and light banter. Ford secretly hoped that if he kept talking the eeriness of their destination wouldn't consume him. He wondered if Dipper felt the same way.

The forest was lush and small animals filled the air with song and trills. To anyone else but the Pines family it would've been calming and serene. After an agonizingly long walk, they finally arrived at the small clearing where the statue lay.

They stopped in their tracks, and all conversation was forgotten. Ford's heart sunk to his stomach, and his stomach threatened to vomit it back up and onto the grass. A beating so loud it rang in his ears drowned out any outside noise and engulfed his thoughts. His face drained of all color and his hands felt numb.

Where there was once the ominous statue of a being long since dead, a reminder that the world would never again be blighted by the evil that lurks beyond this world, there was now a body lying curled up in the grass. A lanky, tan man with mostly blonde hair apart from his dark roots lay motionless in front of them. Remnants of stone peppered the area around him. “Dipper. Get back in the house.” Ford couldn't take his eyes off the scene. “But-” “Now!” Dipper tried to protest but was quickly shut down. He ran the opposite direction back towards the Shack.

Ford's mind raced a mile a minute and any explanation to what was happening just raised more questions than it answered. He had no idea how long he had been staring, but it must have been a while because soon his concentration was broken by the sound of Stanley shouting his name behind him. He broke out of his trance and looked over to Stan with a horrified face. “Stanford what's wrong? Dipper said something happened,” He was holding a crowbar and had it raised like a bat. Ford's mouth opened but no words came out. He continued to stare at the figure in utter disbelief, and Stan followed his gaze. Stan dropped his weapon slightly, “Oh sugar honey iced tea.”

[spiritlion]

66 dratchet please 👀

“This is exactly how I imagined it” is the prompt hehe thanks friend! It’s perfect anyway send me asks from this list it’s very sexy.

A soft steady purr of an engine drowned out the sounds of Ratchet moaning as Drift thrusted into him from behind. Ratchet frame was overheating as his fans worked in overtime, as Drift slowly but surely worked him into an agonizingly slow overload.

Kneeling on the floor of their habsuite the older mech had Ratchet seated on his sinful thighs. The medic’s own thighs we held open by Drift’s servos, as they both heatedly watched themselves in the floor length mirror on the wall.

Ratchet met his conjunx’s gaze in the mirror and Drift just smiled sultry as he thrusted upward into him valve again. Work had been stressful on both of them recently, especially with entering the new universe. With so much unknown information they had been overwhelmed with each new place they discovered.

Leaving little time for one another recently so when Drift had brought out a bottle of nightmare fuel; both had graciously decided to relax for the evening. Hot air brushed Ratchet’s face plate as Drift’s cheek vent brushed his helm as he settled it onto Ratchet’s shoulder. “How you feeling sweetspark?” He muttered as he tightened his grip on Ratchet’s thighs.”

Ratchet grunted as his valve squeezed Drift’s spike in response making the mech grin showing off his fangs. The sight of them always made Ratchet’s spark spin for whatever reason, perhaps it was that dangerous aura Drift always carried. Even after years of devoting himself to peace and redemption that part of him still tended to arise in certain situations.

“Ratchet ~” Drift cooed as he nipped at the medic’s neck cables.

The sensation of fangs pulling at his sensitive wires made Ratchet’s plating shudder as he overloaded hard. A soft gasp left him as Drift thrusted hard upward again and bit his neck collaring as his own overload followed.

Both mechs slumped in on each other as Drift draped forward taking Ratchet with him as he gathered there bearings.

“This was just like I imagined it,” Drift muttered.

Ratchet let out a exhausted laugh as he reached up and petted Drift’s finial pulling a soft purr from him conjunx.

“Hmm good.” Ratchet said.

[greencloakedfae]

I'm in the process of writing a Nelfia oneshot and it's giving me so many thoughts about Nell and Sofia, aged 40-50. Like post Sofia redemption and them getting together, now at the stage where they've been together for a good number of years and have settled into their routine together.

Where Nell still runs the Talbot. But Roxy and Amadin have long since moved out and started their own family, and George is out getting into her own adventures. With Sofia having moved in originally under the presence of keeping Nell company, but ends up taking on more and more responsibility around the pub and they end up running it together.

Nell living her best older woman, no nonsense, butch life. She's done her share of boasting about her adventures to patrons, and has honestly gotten a bit sick of the tourists that come just to gawk at 'The Rebel Nelly', but will still spin tales and recounts stories to the young children of the village, with funny voices and acting to match.

At this point she's also realised she's got some sort of charm that has people swooning over her. She still could care less, but she had over the years figured out how to get a few more tips and purchases out of these customers with a cocky wink and a well timed pet name. The locals all know its an act though, shaking their heads anytime a traveller tries anything further, knowing they'll get brushed off.

Cause Nell is very much dedicated and loyal to her wife, Sofia. They aren't wives in the legal sense, a pardon for Sofia was as much as they could wrestle when it came to the law. But, they are definitely wives in any other sense of the word. If you're paying attention you might notice a soft look, or a quick kiss between them while they tackle a busy night of drunk and rowdy patrons.

Despite earning her redemption, Sofia still notices the suspicious glances and conversations pausing when she comes near. It's nothing overt, not anymore, not after Nell found out about the treatment she was getting when she had first settled in. If anything, to Sofia it's the best she's ever been received by the town. Younger people tend not to care about her past, having not been affected by it personally and only knowing her as she is now, and will make friendly conversation with her. She's even made a few friends over the years. She's finally not isolated, and if that means ignoring a few glares from the older townspeople, she's okay with that.

Sofia doesn't mind working behind the bar, but she'd much prefer watching Nell do her thing there. Instead she's content to move around the room on a busy night collecting glasses and wiping tables, or will sit in the corner with a candle and her ink, pen and paper working on any accounts or communications need doing. Sometimes, on a slow day she will even add little magic effects to accompany the tales Nell is spinning for the little ones.

Just, sleepy sunny mornings where they lounge about their shared bed after late energetic nights in the pub. Soft looks and petnames and quick banter thrown across the room. Domestic moments and the odd adventure when it gets a bit too stuffy in the town. Just, yeah.

[anmylica]

Like Slow Spinning Redemption Chapter Six: Epilogue

Tagging the Usual Crew: @kmomof4 @snowbellewells @sotangledupinit @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @tiganasummertree @whimsicallyenchantedrose @deckerstarblanche @their-seafaring-ways

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Catch up here: 01 02 03 04 05

Killian stood there by the edge of the water until the rowboat got out of sight and the water receded back into liquid fire.  Though he would miss Liam terribly, he knew that he would one day see him again.  It wasn’t Killian’s time to move on.  Not without Emma by his side.

After the scene retreated, he left the cavern and made his way as quickly as he could back to the mansion where he had last seen his lover.  He couldn’t go any longer without resolving their disagreement.  She had come down here just to save him and bring him home.  The least he could do was make that easier for her.  Besides, he didn’t really want to be without her, anyway.  Not if it mean having to leave her behind.

Sprinting faster once the mansion came into view, he hoped she hadn’t left yet.  He bounded up the stairs and into the house.  He tore through the rooms, stopping short when he finally found her in a sitting room, looking frustrated and vexed.  

Upon hearing someone come in, she turned and faced him, her eyes widening upon seeing him there.  

“There you are!” she exclaimed.  “Where the hell have you been?”  Her voice sounded breathless, as if she had been running laps around the mansion.  “First you and Liam left, then Henry ran off somewhere.”  She waved a hand to indicate her lack of knowledge at where her son had gotten off to.  “I’ve been looking everywhere around this place for you guys.”

Killian stood still for a moment, drinking in the sight of her, no matter how annoyed with him she looked.  He couldn’t believe he had almost given up a life with her for moving on with Liam.  He meant no offense to his brother, but Emma was far easier on the eyes than Liam could ever hope to be.  He felt just as off kilter at seeing her now as he did when he saw her for the first time in the Enchanted Forest.  He couldn’t believe she had came to the Underworld for him.

She shook her head slightly and shrugged, obviously waiting for an answer.  

Killian smiled slightly and looked down at the floor.  He said, choosing not to answer her question and instead looking her in the eye briefly before looking away, “I'm sorry, Emma. You were right about Liam.”  He watched as her eyes widened at his words.  “He destroyed those pages because of a deal he made with Hades years ago... A deal that almost got us thrown into that boiling sea.”

“So that’s where you were?” Emma asked, concerned.  “Are you okay? Where is he?”

Killian nodded to indicate that he was fine before continuing. “He, uh, sacrificed himself, but his sacrifice helped a crew we once sailed with. They finally moved on, thanks to him.”

“Did he move on, too?”  Emma took a step closer to him, a step that he mirrored to her.

“He did... but he helped me see the truth before he went.”  Killian smiled and gazed into Emma’s eyes as hard as he had that day in this very manse when he had thought Emma would give up her magic, when he feared that she would be sucked into that damn hat.  He watched as her face brightened at the meaning of his words when he continued, “I'm glad you came down here, Emma. Perhaps I do deserve saving after all.”

Emma brightened and smiled softly.  She stepped closer, and Killian saw the visible joy in her features as she absorbed what he had said, and heated what he didn’t say.  She wouldn’t be his Swan if she didn’t push just a little bit more, though, if she didn’t make sure what he meant.

“Does that mean, when this is all over, you're planning to come home?” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

“Yes,” Killian breathed, beaming at her, which prompted her widened smile in return.  “Everything Liam did was to ensure that I had a future, and I damn well intend to have one.”

In a move reminiscent of their first kiss, though with the roles reversed, he grabbed her arm in his hand and used his hook to guide her hips as he tugged her into his arms.  He kissed her fiercely as he hadn’t allowed himself to since he had been reunited with her, not wanting to give into his need for her love, her closeness, after having nearly killed her family as a Dark One.  He had been afraid that she couldn’t forgive him, couldn’t let go of his betrayal (which had been so much worse than hers to him), but she had proved him wrong as always.

Emma kissed him back as fiercely as she had in Neverland, and it sparked in him an even larger inferno of heat, love, and desire than he had started with.  He didn’t know how he could have ever contemplated letting this go.  He had won her heart, as sure as he had claimed in Neverland, and he knew he wouldn’t give it up without a fight.  Let Hades try and separate them again.  Killian would make damn sure that the god never succeeded.  

They slowly broke apart, their lips barely separated from the other’s as they rested their foreheads together, breathing heavily from the attraction that always buzzed just beneath the surface.

“I love you,” Emma said softly, and Killian’s smile widened at finally hearing he words given freely from the love of his life.

“I love you, too,” he replied, kissing her softly once more.

Of course, their sojourn to the Underworld did not go as planned.  Though he had never, in his wildest dreams, thought that Emma would end up being his True Love (a failed attempt at a True Love’s Kiss tended to take away one’s belief in that), let alone that they would be vetted by the gods in a way that none of the other true love couples they knew had been, they had not been able to succeed in returning him to life.  Neither the heart-split nor the ambrosia had been able to work, and they had once again been separated.  

Killian had truly thought this was the end of their story.  As Zeus had stood before him, he had tried to make peace with the fact that his doing as Emma requested would mean that he would never get to see her again.  His heart ached at the thought, but a promise was a promise, and he didn’t want to break his last to her.  He hoped that she could continue to go on and eventually find love again, to be happy for the rest of her life as she deserved.

So it was a great surprise when he opened his eyes and saw that he was in the lushly green, damp, rainy cemetery that Storybrooke boasted, his True Love just in front of him, her golden hair pulled back into a ponytail and damp from the rain.  Their reunion was one borne of the desperation of never thinking they’d see each other again, a great relief washing over them as their hearts were returned to the place where they were meant to be: side by side.

Their trials weren’t finished, though.  Not by a long shot.  Emma still had to go through the final battle and learn the price that all saviors paid.  They got through all of those trials the same way they had gotten through the previous ones: together.  Finally, their story ended with a wedding and a life shared in the house that he had chosen for them all.  Eventually Henry left to seek out his own story, but his departure came with the arrival of a little girl, and Killian’s heart was so full he thought it impossible that it hadn’t yet burst with love for his family.  His home.

He hardly spared a thought for the happenings with his brother in the Underworld.

That wasn’t the case for Emma, though.

Once Emma was back in Storybrooke and her family was again safe with Killian counted firmly among their ranks, her life was much the same as it had always been: dealing with crisis after crisis. Due to the chaos with the Evil Queen and then Gideon and the Black Fairy, she hadn’t been able to come to terms much with how she felt about Liam’s abrupt goodbye and his subsequent moving on, as much as Killian tried to assure her that Liam fully acknowledged how wrong he had been. Every time she thought back to her last conversation with Liam, she felt vaguely dissatisfied, or maybe let down, that their last interaction had been so negative.

She regretted leaving things with Killian’s brother the way she did, even if it hadn’t been because of her doings.

Killian had told her about what happened after he was dragged off with Liam by their old crew. He told her about how they wanted to send him and his brother both into the boiling sea because of Liam’s choices that resulted in their deaths. He told her how he tried to change their minds, to encourage them not to pursue vengeance, but he had failed, and because of that failure, Silver had been condemned to living with the reality of his thirst for retribution for all eternity. He told her of how Liam finally decided to make things right and accept his fate, that his hand in their deaths had earned him an eternity paying for his crimes. He told her that that was what had enabled Liam and the rest of his old crew to move on into the next stage of their afterlife.

He had told her his last farewell to Liam, and how they had finally gotten the closure they both had desired for so long. 

Emma was happy that Killian had gotten that opportunity, that he had gotten to say goodbye to his brother after Liam had been so tragically torn away from him before. It seemed to have healed some part of him that was torn apart and suffering. He was different, changed in some fundamental way. Perhaps he was more settled in who he was and who he had been?  

Whatever it was, Emma was glad for it. But she still felt dissatisfied with how things had ended between her and Liam.

She had been to Archie about it, and he believed that it was a reaction to wanting Liam’s approval and not getting it directly from the source. She wanted to be accepted by her love’s family, but she hadn’t exactly gotten that.  Archie had tried to work through the issue with her, and she was definitely in a better place than she had been during their misadventures in the Underworld, but she still felt the way she did about the whole thing.  She had resigned herself to never getting any kind of closure from Killian’s older brother, and for the most part, she had come to accept that.

Only now, she and Killian were married and talking about expanding their family. And she realized that, even though she hadn’t needed that last conversation with the man who had been half the reason her husband became the man he was, she still would have liked to have had it with Liam. Not being able to directly make peace with the man who had long since been able to move on was one of the things Emma regretted about the whole sojourn to the Underworld.

After an evening spent with her two True Loves, she climbed into bed, exhausted from another day of typical sheriff's duties and feeling vaguely nauseous like shehad for the last couple of weeks. Her head hit the pillow and it was as if she had pricked her finger on a spinning wheel, she was asleep so fast. Her husband’s warm form was cuddled around her as it was every evening, and she had never felt so safe and content. 

Her dreams that night were nondescript in the sense that, if she dreamed of anything prior to this experience, she didn’t recall it. She floated through the stages of sleep much like always, but before long her dreams shifted.

She was on a raft in the middle of the ocean, floating along and staring up at the night sky.  It was a vast ocean of stars, each one so bright and close that she felt as if she could reach out and touch one.  The constellations were strange to her, but familiar at the same time; they were the ones visible from the Enchanted Forest.  Emma looked around her, taking note of her clothes (she was clothed in her pajamas from earlier with her hair pulled back into a ponytail), and noticed the emptiness around her.  Emma was alone in the raft, which had shifted into a sort-of dinghy in the time it took her to notice what it was she was floating upon, but she didn’t feel afraid.  She felt at peace.

After an immeasurable amount of time passed, she felt the need to paddle.  Emma was, by nature, a person who had always been on the move, so to be stationary while floating wasn’t a desired state for her. So Emma grabbed the oars and began to row her dinghy along, feeling the sudden need to get to a destination, though she couldn’t have said which.  After rowing for just a few strokes, she saw a beautiful tall ship appear as if out of nowhere, and she hastened to get to the side where she knew the ladder lay. Once there, she clambered aboard, not worrying about the dinghy, for it had seemed to disappear once she had climbed on the ladder.

There was no one on deck for the night watch, a fact which, under normal circumstances would have concerned her (for how many times had Killian extolled the virtues of having a good night watch aboard a ship?), but for now just made her smile at how she had the whole deck to herself.  She glanced up at the night sky, which seemed to glow with an unearthly happiness due to the amount of stars, and she smiled.  The sails flapped welcomingly in the wind, rattling the many ropes and pulleys and lines in a way that reminded Emma of all her time spent aboard the Jolly Roger.  Her heart seemed to sing a magical song, reaching a crescendo at the thought of her husband, that the sky responded to with a brightening of the starlight.

`

“I was hoping you would come aboard, lass,” came a voice just behind her.

Emma didn’t startle, for she knew this voice and was glad of its timbre.  She turned and observed the man to whom it belonged.  “Hello, Liam.”

Liam was dressed in a naval captain’s uniform (Emma assumed that this was similar to what he would have worn during his time of service to the immoral king he had first served under, and she had the sudden desire to see what Killian had looked like in his Lieutenant’s uniform).  The colors he wore were light blue and white, though Emma didn’t know what the significance of those colors were.  His hair was shorn at the same length as it had been when Emma had last seen him in the Underworld; in fact, he looked like he hadn’t changed a bit since their last meeting.

Liam smiled.  “Hello, Emma.  It’s lovely to see you again.”

“Is this your new ship?” She gestured to their surroundings.  Liam nodded his head without moving his gaze away from hers.

“Indeed.  Zeus saw fit to show me favor in the after life.  She’s a fine vessel, finer even than the Jewel of the Realm.  The crew I sailed with as an indentured servant has consented to sail along with me, and I couldn’t have a finer crew.”

Emma nodded.  “I’m glad for you.  I’m glad that you found peace.”

Liam looked at his feet a moment before looking back up at her.  “It’s all thanks to you that I have this.”

Emma tilted her head, considering him for a moment.  “I think you would have gotten there, eventually.”

Liam chuckled.  “No, I wouldn’t have.  I was too stubborn to admit that I had committed a wrong, that I had strayed, myself, from the hero’s path that I so desperately wanted Killian to follow.  He strayed from that path because of my choices and mistakes, but he returned to it because of you.  He convinced me to forgive myself because of you.  He convinced the rest of my crew to forgive me because of you.”

Emma shook her head.  “It wasn’t me; it was Killian all along.  I just gave him a reason to be the man he always wanted to be.”

Liam shook his head and gazed at her fondly.  “You still don’t see the effect you have on people, do you?”

Emma’s response was just to look at him quizzically, and Liam laughed.

“You saved my happy ending, Savior,” he simply said instead of enlightening her.  “But ask Killian about the effect you have; he’ll know what I mean.”

Emma nodded. “Will do.”

“I seriously misjudged you,” Liam said after a moment’s hesitation.  “I projected my own pain and failures onto you, and for that I am truly sorry.  Can you ever forgive me for my transgressions, milady?”

Emma smiled.  “I can, and I do, Captain Jones.  I understand wanting to protect Killian at all costs.”

Liam nodded.  “I’m glad to know you do.  I hated the thought of you harboring any ill-will towards me.  I can sail the rest of my days knowing that all is right between us.”

The sun peaked its rays just over the horizon, illuminating the world in its light.  Emma blinked, dazzled for a moment, and turned to watch the sunrise.  

“Unfortunately, that means our time is nearly done.  Good luck to you Emma.  And to Killian as well.  I know you both have been considering having another child to add to your family.”

Emma turned to Liam, shocked.  “How did you know?”

Liam smiled.  “I have my ways,” he responded mysteriously.

Emma smiled, choosing not to comment, instead replying, “Maybe sooner than we think.  I don’t know for sure, though.”

Liam grinned broadly.  “Give my brother my love, and take care of him for me.”

“Always do.”

Liam took her hand in his and raised it to his mouth to press a kiss to its back.  “Thank you, Emma.  For everything.  The next time I see you, I hope to greet you and my brother aboard my ship after you both have led long, fulfilling lives.”

Emma smiled.  “I look forward to that day as well.”

The light shone brighter, and Emma raised her hand to shield her eyes.  When she removed her hand, she was lying in her bed, her husband’s arms wrapped around her, with the sun shining brightly through the window onto her face.  It was still early in the morning.  She smiled at the memory of her dream, her heart finally at rest knowing that she finally did have the approval of Liam Jones, even if it wasn’t real.  Rolling over in her husband’s embrace, she nuzzled against him, resulting in a half moan half growl from him, and she giggled.  

She looked up to see Killian’s ocean blue eyes staring back at her, darkened and heavy from sleep and the desire that always simmered between them no matter how long they had been together.  She pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his chest, and he pulled her in tighter to him.

“Minx,” he murmured as he nuzzled her neck and nibbled her ear.  

She ran her hand through his hair.  “Tell me about this ‘effect’ I apparently have.”

Killian’s brow furrowed in confusion at what she was talking about, but he didn’t comment as he pressed another kiss down her neck and pulled her in closer to him.  “Well, your effect on me goes a little something like this.”

They spent their morning together embraced in the heat of their love, thoroughly enjoying living their happy beginning, and Killian made sure to breathe the words in her ear every chance he got about the effect she had on others.  Though it wasn’t the ending Liam had wanted for him and his brother, the fact was the ending they both got was so much better than what they had always planned.

[harringroveobsessed]

@robthegoodfellow @feedthefandomfest

All done! Thank you for this challenge, although I never need an excuse to binge Harringrove I’ve had a grand old time 🩷

Billy and max - these streets will make you feel brand new by whenyouwishuponastar @whenyouwishuponastar7

Another one of my favourites. Sneaky successful Billy and a flustered Steve trying (and failing) not to fall head over heels in love with the hot guy on the subway. Lots of Robin and Steve fun too. It’s so gooood, I’ve read it too many times to count and adore it every time!

Fix it - Billy Hargrove Is Not Dead melanie_bxx @harringroveera

Another of my favourites. I used to sit every Tuesday staring at my phone waiting for my email with a new chapter. Billy gets his man and a family all in one go. So much lighthearted fun and good vibes in this fic, it always puts a smile on my face. My ultimate fix it Billy fic of all time.

Soft Billy - spinning out (waiting for you) by unlikely_alliance

It’s season 4 with bonus added BILLY so naturally it’s amazing. Little found family action with Billy and the Byers/El which is sweet. Soft boys falling in love while vecna tries to kill everyone and end the world. It has everything you would want to read.

Gay Billy - .｡❅*⋆⍋* Warm Nights at Frosty Heights *⍋⋆*❅｡. By BouncyPickle

Harringrove antics at a fancy fucking 80’s ski lodge. Come on now that’s just fucking amazing. 9 chapters of Steve absolutely wooing Billy with everything he’s got. I smile whenever I even think about this one. It’s just super fun and lighthearted and COSY and makes me feel like Christmas came early.

Billy redemption- Something Like a Family by HashtagLEH

I’m forever obsessed with this one, season 2/3 with much, much more Billy. Like he’s there from the start. Billy & El are besties. Max and Billy fix their shit. Harringrove sweet sweet slow burn. It’s basically how the series would have gone if Harringrove fans could have had their way. Amazing.

Hurt Billy -What If You Loved Me by firstiwasliketheniwaslike

This fic broke my heart several times but it’s already on my reread list. Happy ending though obviously do not fear it just takes a long while to get there. Lots of good honest hurt Billy in this one. There is just so much story spanning over so much time I can’t even summarise anything. You just gotta read it to appreciate it!

Top Billy - California dreaming by writer_in_theory @writer-in-theory

6 years after Billy’s ‘death’ guess who finds him working in a tattoo shop (!)… Steve obviously. I love this one, anything with past lovers coming back to each other has me on board and this fic stole my heart. It’s just lovely and the boys get their happy ending on the beach. I couldn’t ask for more from this fic it’s perfect.

[teecupangel]

I had an idea, but am stuck on a Desmon/Deimos (Alexios) fic. I don't no which way to take it. Either way it starts a little after Kassandra first sees Deimos is alive, Desmond gets teleported back in time. Dropped right at Deimos' feet. He thinks Desmond is a "demigod" to and a gift from the gods. Spins it in his own head that Desmond could be the Aphrodite to his Ares. Every god has a consort after all.

Now here is where I'm torn. Would it be better to go with

A.) Desmond escapes him and as Demios is hunting him down at the same time Desmond runs into Kassandra. He tells her there is a maniac hunting him and Kassandra is just like "well that sucks I'm in the middle of something, but stick with me and I'll help you." unaware that it is her brother hunting him. They stick together, bond, and somewhere down the line Demios catches up to them.

B.) Stockholm syndrome Desmond who is just tired of everything and kinda just gives in. Cause Demios is certainly devoted, obsessively so, but is it such a surprise that Desmond just wants someone to love him.

C.) Not quite Stockholm syndrome Desmond where he sees what the cult has done to Demios and tries to help him through it because all he sees is a more dramatic version of the farm. Demios being a more suped up version of what they wanted him (desmond) to be.

Or D.) Dark Desmond who is equally as tired as B desmond but goes about it much more different. He has a rather powerful "demigod" in love with him who would raze cities in his name and lay any treasures he asks for at his feet. Demios could help him get more POEs and hell, maybe even kill an isu your two. How could he pass this up?

Those are some ideas but I'm not sure which is the more pleasing option.

Any help would be appreciated <3

Sorry nonny, this answer is a month late TTATT

Also, if by help you mean help you choose, I will be no help at all.

Instead, I’ll give you more ideas for each ideas you have XD

A) This could easily turn into a found family between Desmond and Kassandra, with the crew of the Adrestia as well. In this one, you can focus on Desmond joining Kassandra on her travels because he has nowhere else to go and Kassandra doesn’t mind picking up ‘strays’ as long as they work at the ship. Plus, Desmond was good at sailing, more than anyone else in the crew. He also has the strangest ideas for upgrades that works really really help so, truly, Kassandra wouldn’t mind saying that Desmond was a godsend. Of course, Deimos would see them close and become jealous. It doesn’t matter if Kassandra and Desmond don’t have any romantic feelings to one another, the fact that his Aphrodite chose his older sister instead of him just covers his wounds with salt and he’d become more obsessed with having Desmond. This could be the one where Deimos has a heel turn and a redemption arc or… a story of how obsession can burn everything around it.

B) This can be the smuttiest of the four with a heavy serving of a not healthy dom-sub relationship. Their relationship would be toxic for both of them and this is one where Desmond doesn’t really care about anything while Deimos tries to win his affection by doing what he does best… murder and chaos. This can turn darker than D honestly.

C) Okay so this is like B but Desmond keeps his sanity and tries to help Deimos to his redemption arc. This would work better as a slow burn with Desmond simply trying to help him, not realizing that he’s falling in love with him until it’s too late, he’s in too deep and fuck it he’ll follow Deimos to the depths of Tartarus just so he could drag him back up.

D) You can make this a Dark!Desmond setup where the pain of dying and being thrown into the past had changed Desmond in more ways than one. In this one, they could both be two people starving for love and affection that found one another. But instead of helping each other be better, they just make each other worse. A lot of “the world versus us” mentality with Desmond being the whisper in Deimos’ ears that would lead to him taking out the cult himself just to please Desmond. Desmond, on the other hand, does love Deimos, he truly does, but he also has a warped sense of justice by this point and would probably create his own Assassin Brotherhood. This one could have Deimos worshiping Desmond as a god turned mortal, more of the Persephone to his Hades than the Aphrodite to his Ares.

[ohthewh0rror]

GALE DEKARIOS PLAYLIST

A/N: I usually don’t make playlist for my favorite characters, even short ones like this, but I couldn’t help it. So pls enjoy this playlist for our favorite wizard!

Vindicated - Dashboard Confessional

“Hope dangles on a string / like slow-spinning redemption winding in, and winding out / the shine of it has caught my eye / and roped me in so mesmerizing / so hypnotizing / I am captivated / I am vindicated, I am selfish, I am wrong / I am right, I swear I'm right / swear I knew it all along / and I am flawed / but I am cleaning up so well—”

Notes in Constellations - Chiodos

“I see her smile, in her sleep / I know that she's a dreamer / oh, I'll follow every move she makes / it's been a long, long night / say you're mine, say you're mine / can I keep you tonight? / and we dance around, just like constellations / you keep my body warm / and we dance around, just like constellations / you’re keeping me awake at night/ you make my body warm—”

Dalily — Movements

“And I think it's time you had a pink cloud summer / 'cause you've gone too long without a smile / I think it's time you found another reason to stay for a while / you should stay for a while / I sit and watch now with new eyes, for the green side / lose myself, sink into your sunlight / breath in the breeze like a sweet sigh / keep me tongue-tied / if this lasts forever, I'll be just fine / oh, I'll be just fine—”

Look At The Time - Sawyer Hill

“'Cause when you say that I'm the only one / did you mean that I'm the closest one around? / you know that talk is cheap and don't mean a thing / did you say you loved me 'cause you liked the way it sounds? / the past it hurts / but the future ain't got nothing to do with you / your loving words are for the weak at heart or the simple-minded fools—”

Ornament - Nothing,Nowhere

“In time I'll be hanging on your nightstand by myself / as I sit in the dust while you lay with someone else / and I wish that you could feel how it felt / knowing I am just an ornament on your shelf—”

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 10: Soulbound

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.9k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

Your fingers twitch and knead against satiny textiles as wakefulness begins to return you to existence. A lightheaded daze shrouds your vision as your eyes crack open. The canopy of your four-poster bed suspends above you. The drapery is embroidered beautifully with stars, constellations, moons in all phases, and soaring dragons, all revolving around the central sun. In this dream-like state, the depictions seem to move, playing out their destinies against the indigo astral sea as shadows gambol over the extravagant fabric. It would be enchanting if it were not making your head spin uncomfortably.

As you squeeze your eyes shut, your fingers clench and twist the fabric beneath you, and a feeble whine sighs from your lips. Your tongue feels numb and lazy, sagging in your mouth uselessly, and your body feels as fuzzy and impotent as your blurred vision.

“You are awake.”

Astarion’s voice grates at the inception of your consciousness, and you recoil as much as your bloodless body will allow. You still feel his hand around your neck, squeezing tight, halting the pleas in your throat as his fangs sawed at your neck, ripping and tearing the soft flesh. You tumble off the edge of the bed in your panic, and his hands break your fall.

He’s touching you. Hells, he’s touching you, and you want, nay need, him to fucking stop lest you suffocate.

“Don’t touch me,” you sob with a croak, flinging your hands up to protect yourself from further harm, palms heating as your magic surges. “Please. Gods. Don’t touch me.”

Astarion’s hands jerk away, and you shudder while trying to breathe. The stabbing pain in your throat is intolerable, fresh tears springing to your eyes, and your fingers tentatively prod the tender flesh. You don’t need a mirror to know that your skin is revoltingly bruised, a hemorrhaging mural composed by his wrath, and you whimper at the contact of your fingertips. The muscles in your arms and legs still feel like gelatin. They wobble weakly as you push yourself into a corner, hugging your knees to your chest.

“Darling-” Astarion’s hands are poised near you as if he might be able to stop the inevitable crumbling if only he could find the right place to brace it.

“Leave me alone.” You choke out grimly, swallowing the pain caused by your gruff inflection.

“It’s me,” he says, small and shaky.

You need time to think, to regain your composure, and you cannot do it with his eyes on you, his voice repeating your name like a prayer and his hands trying to find where your pieces are weakest so he can give them strength.

“Get out!” You wail despite the barbaric sting that causes more tears to rain out of your eyes. “Get the fuck out!”

“I… Yes, of course. As you wish.” Astarion stutters hesitantly as if he’s not sure if he will heed your commands. The door hinges creak as he closes it behind him, “I’m sorry,” he breathes with a sigh. “Truly.”

Like an ancient ruin that can no longer persevere against the ravages of time, you let yourself collapse and crumble.

The overbearing walls of the Crimson Palace wash over him in waves as he roams through them in a stupor. His fingertips drag across the chilled panels as he tries to orient himself. It feels like he’s waking from a nethermost trance, and his alertness has not fully recovered.

He dives for the desk when he enters the study. It’s full of papers and ledgers in neat piles, and he grabs at parchment chaotically, sending it scattering, sheets fluttering to the ground around him. His eyes scan the documents as he shuffles through them quickly. All in his hand, signature, name, but he does not recall any of this. He tosses sheet after sheet to the side until he finds one with a date.

Eight months.

Eight months of nonexistence. Of something walking around wearing his skin, using his name, speaking in his voice, imitating him.

Where the fuck has he been all this time?

He slams his hands on the desk. It cracks and caves in, regurgitating its contents to the floor. He frowns, takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Her voice still reverberates, an echo in his mind, as she said goodbye in a hauntingly melodic timbre.

Why did she leave him?

Dashing through the halls, the floor mocks him in creeks and groans for his heavy steps. He pushes all the doors open as he progresses further into the palace until he finds what must be his room. Opening the wardrobes and dressers, he tosses his clothing haphazardly to the floor, detached from his typical compulsion for fastidiousness.

Nothing. Not a single article of clothing and none of her possessions are here. Why?

His heart pounds as he jogs through the palace until he catches her scent at the top of the dark staircase leading down into a murky darkness – the old spawn quarters.

No. This cannot be, surely. He wouldn’t. Right?

He bounds down the stairs, 2 or 3 steps at a time, until he comes to a slightly ajar door in the hallway with a lock that he does not recall being there. The pads of his shaky fingers stroke the cool metal, and he swallows the lump balling in his throat.

This has to be a nightmare. This cannot be real.

The door whines when he pushes it and peers into the room. It smells strongly of Jasmine, Honeysuckle and Vanilla - it smells like her. Astarion staggers in and throws open the simple wardrobes and chests, breaking the doors off some of them in his haste.

She left everything, which can only mean one thing - she fled.

What has he done?  

“Lord Ancunin?”

Good Gods, he’s come to loathe that singsong voice like nails on a chalkboard, and the back of his throat tickles as it hauls him away from his reflections.

“Elowyn,” he sneers spitefully, crinkling his nose in disgust. “How many times must we have this discussion? If this disobedience persists, I may have to reconsider our little agreement. I have no need for a spawn that cannot follow simple orders.”

The lie rolls off his tongue, smooth and modulated with the hint of a threat. Elowyn wishes to be given the gift of eternal life, and she’s idiotic and vain enough to believe he would ever grant her such a thing, but it is a simple enough falsity to keep her happy and submissive.

“I beg your forgiveness, Master.” Elowyn whimpers, dropping to her knees with her hands clasped in her lap, “It won’t happen again.”

“Good girl. Be sure it doesn’t, or you will force me to teach you another lesson.” He drawls unenthusiastically while staring at his nails. Threatening her brings him no pleasure. He finds it all a rather tedious business. “Now, I did not come here to chitchat. Araj, tell me what you have discovered.”

Araj glares at him with her arms crossed. The Drow has much more spirit and is more arduous to keep in line than her counterpart.

“Hungry, Lord?” Araj quips and leans her head to the side with an egregious grin. “You are considerably ill-tempered today. There’s always a neck here available for the biting if you were so inclined.”

“You can offer all you wish,” he snaps, rolling his eyes. “The answer will be no until the end of time. You disgust me.”

“Such harsh words for an old friend.” Araj pouts sarcastically before launching into the excuses he’s already heard. “Your blood is not easy to work with. It’s volatile and eats through everything like caustic acid.”

“You brought me here to tell me of more failure?” He snarls, baring his teeth. He considers killing them both. Their tests have gotten him nothing and no closer to understanding what’s wrong with him, but there is at least one more answer he seeks before he can do away with them. “And the sun immunity?”

“It’s hard to say,” Araj shrugs. “Why the sudden interest in the sun resistance? I thought we were here to see what your blood may be capable of, not to waste our time trying to bottle useless effects. Why would you need a potion to make you invulnerable? You are already immune.”

“What yourself, Araj,” he growls threateningly, his brows knitting together in a fierce scowl that casts shadows over his eyes. “You are under my employ. I get to decide what’s useful to me and what isn’t. You will do as instructed.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Araj smirks. “If this is about that lovely spawn of yours, it may be prudent to allow us access to her blood.”

He’s out of his chair before Araj can blink, slamming her against the wall with one dagger to her throat and the other pressed harshly to her abdomen.

“If you touch her, I will liberate your vile innards from your body. Then, I will hunt down your family, lovers, and friends, turn them into my obedient meat puppets and let them rot away in my dungeon for eternity. She is off-limits. You are to go nowhere near her. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Araj swallows hard, her eyes wide with fear. “Perhaps you might consider an alternative? Turn Elowyn, and we can use her blood for testing instead.”

Throwing his head back, he laughs loudly, making both women jump, “You do not give the hound a bone until it has won the race. Find another way.”

He releases Araj, sheathing his daggers, and stalks away.

Araj’s voice stops him, “Elowyn tells me you’re refusing to give her more samples. We cannot run further tests without it.”

“No.” She would not want him to do this, and he has failed her enough for one day, “You will get no more samples from me until you have done as I ask. The next time you request an audience with me, you better have results, Araj, or there will be consequences.”

“Is that a threat?” Araj spits harshly.

“My dear,” he drawls nonchalantly. With a subtle movement, a dagger hurtles through the air and embeds into the wall so close to Araj’s neck that the shiny steel pets her skin. He looms over Araj, forcing her to arch her back while he hauls the dagger from the wall, “It’s a fucking promise.”

There’s an odd beauty to darkness, an inky void that obscures your surroundings and allows you to delude yourself into believing the elixir of lies you pour into your soul. In it, you can pretend, if only for a moment, that you are not a prisoner of your past and your sins are rendered null as they circle like vultures smothered by the shadows.

So, you lay in the jet-black abyss. Even as your bones begin to rue the rigid floor, and your eyes can shed no more tears, you lay unmoving.

Astarion sits beside you on the floor with his back pressed flat against the wall. He hasn’t uttered so much as a syllable since he settled there hours ago. When you look into his eyes, you see mayhem, starlight and darkness, treading the edge between diabolical and divine. He is a devil cloaked in the skin of an angel with blood dripping from his eyes, but Gods, you’ll ignite the world and walk across the hot coals of its remains if it means preserving the light in him.

You’re a warrior. When life threatens you with a battle, you will awaken every monster, every dragon, every demon that slumbers within you and answer with bloodshed.

You’ve wallowed in your self-pity long enough. A war awaits, and you intend to win it or die trying.

Crawling into his lap, Astarion wraps his arms around you. One of his hands comes to the back of your head, and his cheek presses tightly to yours as you slip your arms around his neck.

And Gods, it feels like heaven to be held in the arms of hell.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes next to your ear while he sweeps your hair away from your neck. His fingers shake as they brood over the bruised skin and gnarled, coin-sized holes that his fangs left. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

You press your hand against his, flat palm to palm. His hand dwarfs yours, “It’s okay.”

Astarion scoffs while his fingers interlock with yours, “It is most certainly not okay. I very nearly drained you dry, and who in the Hells knows what I would have done with you afterward!” His voice is unsteady, labouring beneath misery, “I will take you back to Shadowheart and Gale come morning. We can continue your lessons until you can feed yourself. Once that is accomplished, our business will be concluded, and you will never have to see me again. Freedom, as much as I am willing to grant you, is yours.”

Your eyes distend, and your brows pull down. Astarion is granting you the freedom you want. You should be happy, ecstatic even. So, why does it fill you with dread?

“Is that what you want?” You choke out, faint and tuneless, and pray to any God that hasn’t turned their back on you that his answer is not yes. “You want me to leave?”

“No, little love,” he finally answers in an eerily, delicate baritone after too many agonizing minutes of silent contemplation. “I am selfish as I always have been, perhaps even more since the Rite. Of course, I do not wish you to go, but you are not safe with me. I cannot control it. I have lost days before - days of not knowing where I had gone or what I had done.” He chuckles sarcastically, dismal and sullen, “We get what we deserve in the end, I suppose.”

Perhaps we do.

“I’m not going,” you state matter-of-factly. “Do you trust me, Astarion?”

Astarion gently draws you back to look into your eyes, sorrow dulling his expression with his lips firm in a tight line, “You may be the only person in the entirety of the cosmos that I trust implicitly.”

“Then trust that when the spark in your eyes is snuffed out, I can be your glow,” you vow, chillingly formidable. “My soul is forged in fire, and I will burn brighter than your demons and choke the darkness. I will do whatever it takes. I will always bring you home.”

“Don’t be a martyr. Do you have no sense of self-preservation?” he admonishes you with a shake of his head. “Why are you doing this?”

“Good Gods, you can be obtuse sometimes,” you roll your eyes at him. “You can stop posturing this charade of ignorance any time. I know you heard what I said to Gale.”

Astarion’s eyes drift to your hand, embraced with his, and his thumb skims up and down yours, “What if I am incapable of loving you back?”

Can’t or won’t? 

“I don’t expect you to,” you strive to keep your voice steady and casual even as your heart fractures and implodes in your chest. “Love given with the requisite of reciprocation is not love. I give it to you freely, as it always was, as it always will be. May I speak plainly?”

Astarion arches a brow, “Go on.”

“I don’t think you’re incapable of love, Astarion. I believe you’re scared of it.”

“Love is a sickness of the heart.” Astarion takes a deep breath, his voice grave. “It will hail itself your saviour but be your downfall.”

“Then...” you shrug, “down I go.”

Astarion loving you is a fantasy you’ve long relinquished. A pathetic hope that would asphyxiate you in pools of failed attempts. But wrapped in his arms, staring into scarlet eyes dusted with an ethereal radiance, a murmur begins to bite at your thoughts, quickly becoming a roar, filling your ears.

There’s that feeling again. That connection of invisible threads bridging the gap between you and the presence lingering in the back of your head that you cannot touch. It tugs at the borders of your mind with a request. No, an invitation. For the first time since it made its home in your consciousness when you reach out, it does not shy away, and you embrace it.

There’s an ear-splitting rush and a feeling of sinking. Your body jerks, trying to right itself, but Astarion holds you firmly, pulling you tighter.

“Let yourself sink,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Trust me just a little further.”

You stop fighting the feeling and plummet. Suddenly, you’re not just you any longer. You are you, and you are him simultaneously. One being in two bodies. You can feel the comfortable pressure of your body against him, and his heart beats behind your ribs.

Another abrupt drop. It makes your stomach flutter, and you’re in the bowels of a stygian doom. You feel the corruption you heard in his mind as if it were in yours, infecting your thoughts with sadistic rants and relentless chittering. You can almost taste the rancid colloquy on your tongue, and you fight the urge to retch.

A hunger longing to escape, thundering against the bars of its prison. It hums enticing promises in an absorbing, almost angelic inflection that compels you to release it, and you’re horrified to find yourself tempted.

You’re dragged away, a feeling of hurtling through time and space, not entirely unlike portal travel. His voice echoes in your mind, bellowing in your head, begging you to peer into his darkness, dance with his demons, and love him anyway.

I do, you answer, you are safe with me.

Your eyelashes flutter as you come back. You no longer hear the voices mumbling or feel that malevolent spectre with its seraphic affirmations, but you can still feel him in a way you’ve never felt before.

“I- I don’t understand,” you breathe, trying to reestablish yourself with your body, thoughts and feelings, “What was that?”

“I have always been with you.” Astarion gently taps your temple, “In here. You cannot tell me you have not felt me. I know you have because I always feel you.”

You can’t help the awe transforming your face as you continue feeling his desires, wants, and fears flowing through you as you flow through him, two stars colliding and recollecting unified.

“I thought that was just how you could compel me.”

“Well... it is,” he nods, “but there is much more to it than that.”

“Did you have this with...” You cut yourself off when you realize what you’re about to blurt out, biting your tongue so hard you draw blood.

Astarion smirks, “You know it works both ways, right?” You hear his voice in your head and only realize that it’s not him speaking when you comprehend his mouth isn’t moving, “Just because you don’t say it doesn’t mean I don’t hear it.”

Fuck. Are none of my thoughts private any longer? Did I throw open the door for the devil? 

“The devil, hm? A little harsh, don’t you think?” Astarion giggles. He must see the terror in your eyes, or Hells, does he feel it? Either way, he squeezes your hand. “Say what you were going to say,” Astarion instructs. “You might as well just say it.”

“I didn’t mean that you’re the devil!” You yelp and swallow hard, “Did you have this with Cazador?”

You wince as the name strolls off your tongue. You were never to utter that name in Astarion’s presence, and whenever you did, you paid for your carelessness. You impulsively cower, thrusting your eyes shut, magic rising in a sharp upswing.

“Easy, darling. I’m not going to hurt you. I would make a very dashing devil.” Astarion coos while rubbing your arm, “Yes and no. I felt something similar; that ubiquity rooted in my mind gave him the power to control me, but the link concluded there. This… bond, if you will, is unique to you and me.”

“Why did it not feel like this before? I can feel you, Astarion. I can feel your heart beating as if it were in my chest.” You push your palm against his shirt and let it heat slightly, and your skin starts to heat in concert, “I can feel this as if I were doing it to myself. I feel your desires, wants, and fears. Good Gods, I feel everything.”

It’s gloriously overwhelming, akin to a pleasure so intense that it borders on pain. Your nerves and synapses are overloaded as they attempt to make sense of all this information circuiting.

“I had to open the door, so to speak.” Astarion kisses your heated palm with a wolfish grin. “Tell me. What do I want, little love?”

I want you, it arises in your mind, drifting on the current between you.

“Me.” You stutter, feeling like all the breath has been sucked out of your lungs. You stare at him wide-eyed, “You want... me?”

“Until the world falls down,” he purrs tenderly with a genuine smile. “Do not worry. You are able to close and open the connection, same as I. I need not be in your head all the time. Your dirty thoughts are private if you wish, but I do hope you share.”

“Can you force the connection open?”

“Yes,” he retorts blatantly, “but I have not crossed that line, and I do not plan to, and before you ask, no, you cannot force it open. You can, however, request it simply by reaching out. Wherever I am, I will feel it.”

You rest your hand where your heart used to beat. Hells, it feels like it is beating again, but you’re feeling his. You thought you missed this sensation, but right now, you’re finding it a harsh cramp in your chest.

“Astarion, this… this is incredible.” Tears well in your eyes. He’s letting you in, and the significance of this gesture is staggering, “Thank you.”

“It is quite something, isn’t it?” Astarion takes his lips in yours, and you can feel his eagerness, his rampant desire and his enjoyment. When your tongues meet, tasting each other, you’re blown away by pleasure, yours and his mixed.

“Oh my, this will make for some very depraved carnal fun. I could read your body before, but now I can feel it. Hmm, the possibilities are titillating.” Astarion grins devilishly, “But that will have to wait. You are weak and must rest. I could find you some food if you wish. It will help you recover quicker, but it will not be of the four-legged variety.”

“Unless it’s your purple-haired hussy, I’m not interested.” You smirk. “I will make an exception on my dietary restrictions for her.”

“Oh, still positively green with envy, I see. I can feel your hatred. It’s delectable,” Astarion giggles. “My pretty consort, I do not like to see doubt cast upon your face. I told you I’ve never taken her to my bed. You need not be invidious.”

“Will you take me to your bed? I- I,” you stumble embarrassingly over your tongue. It feels cumbersome in your mouth, “I would like to rest with you tonight.”

You feel a rush of delight mixed with astoundment. Perhaps what’s more flabbergasting is that he simply lets you feel it, not attempting to camouflage or muzzle it.

“You do?” Astarion’s brows rise and curve upward, “I mean,” he clears his throat. “Of course. I can deny you nothing. You need not ask permission. You’re more than welcome to rest with me any night.”

“Well, in that case,” you smirk foxlike, “which wardrobe is mine then?”

The question only further increases the exhilaration you’re feeling ebbing from him. It’s so potent, a high so gratifying that you could get addicted to pleasing him - a dangerous notion.

“I suppose I will have to acquire you one.” Astarion chuckles and kisses your forehead, “Can you walk, or shall I carry you to bed?”

You scoff and do your best, but your muscles are still depleted of the sustenance required to function, and you wobble even with Astarion stabilizing you.

“Carry you, it is, clumsy thing.” He laughs lightheartedly while taking you into his arms. “Come, my love. Let’s go to our bed, hm?”

“Our bed,” you muse, kissing his cheek. “I do like the sound of that.”

“Me too,” he says, suddenly frighteningly serious, “Very much.”

The mattress dips as Astarion gets into bed. You’ve never really realized how enormous this damn bed is. Even with both of you lying in it, there’s so much space that it makes him feel far away, and you mourn the physicality.

A grin splits across his face, and he raises his arm, inviting you in, “I can feel that - you know, your desire to be close. No, it’s more than that. Isn’t it?” You can feel him scan the emotion, deciphering it, “It feels like a need. I suppose I should not be surprised. You never could get enough of me.”

“Astarion.” Pushing yourself close to him, you rest your head on his arm. The pads of your fingers rub the silken skin of his chest. Rest is starting to beckon you toward your trance. “What does this mean for us?”

“It can mean as little or as much as you wish it to,” his fingers meander the valley up your spine. “Nothing has to change between us, or we can… try for something more.”

As the dreamscape unfolds behind the closed lids of your eyes, your sensibility fading, you whisper, “Do you love me, Astarion?”

Emotional pandemonium tosses like waves on a rough sea. Alarm. Resentment. Dread. That proverbial portal slams closed frantically with so much force that it peppers your vision behind your eyelids white, and you lurch upward with your hand to your forehead with a howl.

It feels like a guillotine to your soul, slicing it in two. You are hollow. Your chest is still, the borrowed beat from Astarion’s heart dying. The slipstream of emotions no longer flows and combines as one enchanted ballad.

You are alone, completely incomplete, and you have never felt more dead than this moment.

“I’m sorry,” Astarion rubs your back and kisses your shoulder softly. “I did not expect it to pain you. I’m still learning. I will take heed of my haste from now on. That’s enough rooting around in my head for one day. Rest now.”

The pain ebbs, and your thoughts reform, piecing themselves back together. You lay down without a word because you’re unsure of what you can say in your state of confusion. The feelings, none of them love or even affection, but you’ve been feeling his veneration all night.

What the Hells does it all mean?

The sun-warmed stones of the courtyard thaw the icy chill of your skin as you lay under the radiant rays. The sky is full of fluffy, white clouds like unsheared sheep grazing across a cerulean plain. You thought this might make you feel as alive as when the bond between you and Astarion was open, but instead, it’s another reminder you’re a walking, talking corpse.

A feather-light breeze flutters your hair around your face and carries the smell of food, well, people but food to you, reminding you of your hunger. Those cramps in your stomach have returned, and the unquenchable thirst is parching your throat, making your tongue feel like an arid desert.

Firey orbs rotate above, and you twist them into constellations, which you often do when your mind is unsettled. Astarion said you could try for more; it sounds like fantasies made reality until you remember that he’d said he wasn’t sure he could love you. In that case, what does more even mean to him? Do you take the risk and put your heart on the table?

Everything is getting so fucking messy.

How can you tell what is genuine with him? Gale wasn’t wrong when he said Astarion knows how to manipulate you. He hardly needs to compel you because he knows what buttons to push and pull, the words to say, to get what he wants. He always has. All roads always lead back to him. Is it your heart that gravitates to Astarion, or is it something far more sinister? Are you just ingrained to be drawn to your creator? How can you know your feelings versus just an innate reflex that was planted and has taken root in your consciousness?

“What’s troubling you?” Astarion lays down beside you with an arch brow and his crimson eyes vivid in the sunlight.

“Everything,” you sigh, “Just everything.”

Astarion rolls to his side and puts his hand on your arm. He looks bothered by your answer with one brow pulled slightly down with his head cocked, “Is it something I did? You can tell me.”

“No.” The orbs start to absorb each other until there are only two remaining. You make them violently clash and burst like a firework, “You didn’t do anything. Where did you go this morning? You weren’t here when I woke up.”

“I would like to take you somewhere today.” Astarion sits and takes your hand, kissing the palm and all your fingertips, “Will you come?”

Sitting, you pull your knees to your chest, “You want to go out during the day?”

“Yes, during the day.” He purrs in a soothing baritone. “You’re safe from the sun with me. You need not hide in the manor all the time.”

“It’s not the sun, Astarion.” A lie. It’s always a little bit about the sun. That phobia is alive and well. You’re starting to wonder if it’s less of a phobia and more of some weird vampiric instinct. “It’s all the people. I’m hungry, and my control is dreadful. I can’t be trusted around them. I’m not sure how you did it.”

“Centuries of practice, love. You do quite well for a young spawn. Cazador kept us in the kennels until we could control the hunger. I was in there for many years, I think.” Astarion cocks his head, drawing his brows down as if he didn’t mean to divulge that information but continues. “You have my word; I will not put you into a situation you cannot handle.”

“Okay,” you say hesitantly, “I’ll go.”

“Splendid,” Astarion stands and hauls you up with him, “You can ride a horse, yes?”

Your brows pop up, rounding your eyes, “Me? Of course. Do you? Last I checked, you hated those beasts.”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Astarion rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue, “I am more than capable of riding the beasts. I don’t have to like them."

“This is going to be so much fun,” you giggle. “I truly cannot wait to see this. The Vampire Ascendant on a horse. Miracles never cease!”

“Cheeky pup,” he smirks and bumps your shoulder.

It’s been a while since you’ve been in the saddle, but you settle quickly. With your feet in the stirrups and hands on the reins, the dapple-grey mare canters with a rhythmic stride. Astarion’s steed, a large jet-black gelding, keeps pace effortlessly. It’s hard to keep your eyes off Astarion. In the saddle, he attracts attention with a cut debonair form, his shoulders back, hips rolling smoothly to match his gelding’s long strides, and his hair flowing handsomely in the wind.

He catches you admiring him with your mouth dropped open and smirks with a chuckle, nodding in the direction to follow and eases his gelding into a gallop. The two horses soar over the plains outside Baldur's Gate with booming hoofbeats, manes streaming in the wind, and tails held high.

There is something so unbelievably picturesque about this moment, so familiar yet unsettling. You spent so much time travelling with Astarion across areas like this. You, him and dirt roads from dawn to dusk, but this isn’t the same man from your memories - is it? It’s getting increasingly more challenging to be mindful that Astarion may look and act, well sometimes act, like the same person you knew, but he isn’t.

He no longer becomes shy when you ask him for a kiss; gone are the awkward hugs, the way he used to mutter to himself to test what he was about to say, and the way his eyes would dart away when he said something sweet.

Now, he’s prone to blacked-out fits of violent, deadly rage and can let you burn in the sun at any moment should he choose, force himself into your mind, and take away your agency with a thought. He can turn himself into a bat, mist, and who knows what else. He said he felt his powers growing, and you have a feeling you haven’t seen the full extent of what he can do.

How many people has he killed in his blackouts? How many people has he compelled? Has he compelled you? You have yet to see other spawn, but who knows what he’s hiding.

Yet, you love him all the same - even with his demons, darkness and madness.

In these moments, when things start to feel too much like old times, you can’t help but mourn the man he was – a man you still miss.

I wonder what he would have thought of himself turning me into his spawn? 

Astarion reins his horse to a trot and guides the gelding into a dense thicket with a barely perceptible path. He twists in the saddle, “This way. It’s not far.”

The trees, smelling pleasantly of pine, are towering with thick trunks. A chorus of birdsongs flows like a river softly floating through the air. It’s easy to forget how beautiful nature can be. When was the last time you were out like this during the day?

After several minutes, the thick trees start to thin and give way to a pristine clearing with thick green grass carpeting the ground and a lake. The crystalline water looks as blue as the sky reflecting on its mirror-smooth surface.

“Here we are,” Astarion dismounts his horse. His feet land on the ground in silence; not even the snap of a twig can be heard or the crunch of his boots on the earth.

Your eyes scan the area with reverence. The colours are bright and vivid, as though painted and composed from an artist's rendering of a fairy tale. It’s been some time since you’ve seen anything of such beauty during the day. If you had breath to take away, this would surely confiscate it from your lungs. You pat the mare’s muscled neck, haul yourself up and hop off the saddle much less gracefully than Astarion.

Astarion’s hand comes to the small of your back, “This way. Come.”

He takes your hand and leads you toward thick blankets, pillows, chilled wine, flowers, and candles in a stunning presentation.

“Astarion,” you gasp, below a whisper as you take in the scene, “Did you do this?”

“Yes.” Astarion slips behind you and puts his arms around your waist, hugging you close to his chest, “I thought you might want to get out of the manor for a day.”

You lean into him, “This is beautiful. Thank you.”

“I told you I can be romantic,” he quips with a boyish smile. His cardinal red eyes are set ablaze by the sun glinting off them, “You did not believe I was capable. Before you say it because I can see it on your pretty face, yes, little love, true feelings - they were a requirement, if I recall correctly.”

Do I ruin this moment by asking about what feelings?

I must know.

“What feelings, Astarion?”

Astarion kisses your temple and coos, “My feelings for you, of course. You said you were hungry earlier. I will go find you some food.”

He’s trying to retreat from the conversation.

“No, I’m fine,” you clutch his arm, afraid that if you let him go, you might awaken from this dream. “Stay, please?”

“Are you sure? It would not take me long, and I will be sure to stay close.”

“I’m sure, please.”

“As you wish,” Astarion removes his shirt and lays on the blanket, closing his eyes and basking in the sun. “If you change your mind, you have only but to ask. I do not like letting you go hungry.”

You sit beside him and grab the wine, uncork it and drink it straight from the bottle, disregarding the glass flutes.

He opens one eye momentarily and chuckles, “Hells, I see you’re still as boorish as ever.”

“Oh, shut up,” you giggle while giving him a playful shake, “You used to love my lack of decorum.”

When you used to love me, or at least, I thought you did.

Astarion takes the bottle from you and drinks straight from it with a wink, “Who says I don’t still love it, you delinquent.”

He hands the bottle back and lies back with his eyes closed. There’s something so tranquil about him like this. You can barely believe that just a day ago, he had his hands wrapped around your neck while he tore at your throat. It feels like a distant nightmare and makes you question if it really happened.

Your fingers trace the scabbed, coin-sized holes he marred your skin with as if to prove to yourself it was real. There’s always a dull, icy throbbing in your breast as if you’re heart believes it should be beating and is trying to rival its death. Some days, the pain is easily overlooked, but right now, it feels like someone is driving barbed shards of ice through your heart with a heavy hand and thundering strikes. Bringing your hand to your chest, you put pressure on it as if that might impede the malignancy.

You need a distraction, a physical sensation on your skin that you can focus on before you try to claw your heart out, “Are there any people around here?”

Astarion listens intently for a few seconds before shaking his head, “No, there’s no one around for miles. Why?”

You swallow your anguish and give him a devious grin, “Can I swim in that water?”

He probs himself up and grins, “It’s not running. You should be fine.”

“Excellent,” you giggle, taking another big drink and handing him the bottle.

You remove your clothes and wade in, disturbing and rippling the glassy surface. Diving into it, you let yourself sink to the murky bottom. The water is cold, even to you, and nips your skin like needlepoints being dragged across your flesh. The sunless silence is serene, and you consider letting it swallow you whole, but when you open your eyes toward the surface, you can see the silhouette of Astarion standing on the bank. Bending your knees, with a push, you propel yourself to the surface, to him, because that’s what you do – is it not? You always return to him, even at your detriment.

Astarion’s eyes you regardfully with nervous scrutiny, as if he had been afraid you may never come back.

“It’s cold,” you warn him.

“That’s really not a problem,” he chuckles, relaxing his expression once he’s assessed you’re safe. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

You arch a calculating brow at him, and he rolls his eyes, “Sweetheart, get your head out of the gutter. Gods, you’re a freak sometimes.”

“Another thing you used to love about me,” you snicker while walking up to him. “What would you like to show me?”

“Used to” hm? That’s another wildly inaccurate statement,” Astarion tsks while he takes your hand and places it on his warm skin with a soft exhale and a wince that makes you smirk your “I-told-you-so” look. Slowly, his body cools until he’s as cold as you.

Your brows furrow as you place your hand on random spots of him. Icy cold everywhere. “You can control your body temperature?”

“I can do a great many things,” he chuckles with a cunning lop-sided half smile twerking one corner of his lips up, “Interesting ability, although I have found little use for it until now.”

Before you can register what he’s doing, Astarion giggles mischievously, picks you up and throws you back into the lake as if he were throwing a pebble, removes his trousers and wades in with you.

“That was rude!” You glower at him playfully and tap your chin with your finger, “Retribution may be required. I might have to get your hair wet.”

“Don’t you dare!”

With a wicked grin, you start splashing him, and he lunges toward you. By the time he’s subdued you with his arms wrapped around yours, he’s drenched, including his hair, and you’re both laughing loudly.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he giggles. “Naughty thing.”

Laughing, you comb your fingers through his hair and muss it further, “Don’t worry, you still look earth-shatteringly dashing.”

Astarion brushes wet strands of your hair out of your eyes, “You’re a vision.” He purrs while pulling you close to him, guiding your legs around his waist.

His thumb traces your lower lip. When he takes your lips in his, the kiss is raw with emotion, demanding and primal. His finger puts gentle pressure on your chin, opening your mouth for him, and his tongue explores you with a longing groan.

Astarion abruptly breaks the kiss and stares off to the side, a million miles away. An almost startled confusion distorts his expression, which perplexes you. Have you made him uncomfortable somehow?

“Astarion,” you cradle his face with your palm, “What’s wrong?”

Astarion’s jaw clenches, and he swallows hard, making his Adam's apple bob. His eyes snap back to yours, a scarlet tempest of determination raging athwart his irises, “I think we need to talk.” 

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

Please note - we may end up giving Tav a name. I've been agonizing over the idea for a while because it was something I never meant to do, but my resolve is weakening haha. If you're incredibly against the idea, please let me know.

I know my portrayal of A. Astarion is a softer version - I guess I have a weak spot for an Astarion that's all-powerful but still not completely cold and horribly abusive - although, he does have his moments.

[vir-tanadahl]

Summary: After the events of DATV, Solas and Lavellan embark on a journey of atonement and healing after escaping the Prison of Regret. As they confront past mistakes, their bond deepens while they seek a way to soothe the Titans and the Blight. Together, they uncover secrets, explore the Fade, and find redemption through love and shared struggles. Read on Ao3!

Chapter 9: Fragments of a Song

The air in Dagna’s workshop buzzed with latent energy, the hum of machinery punctuating the rhythmic clink of metal and the soft scrape of quills on parchment. Lavellan stood near a cluttered workbench, her arms crossed as she scanned the room. Solas was at her side, his expression distant but contemplative, his violet eyes darting between scattered diagrams and the softly pulsing glow of the Resonance Amplifier in the corner.

The sound of boots on stone echoed through the hallway, followed by a hesitant knock at the open doorway. Lavellan turned, a warm smile breaking across her face as Harding stepped into the room.

The dwarf’s posture was tense, her fingers curled into loose fists at her sides. Her auburn hair was tied back, and her Warden-issued cloak hung loosely around her small frame. Despite her wariness, her sharp hazel eyes carried an undeniable determination.

“Harding,” Lavellan greeted, stepping forward and extending a hand. “Thank you for coming. I know this isn’t an easy ask.”

Harding took the offered hand, her grip firm. “How could I say no? If there’s a chance I can help... well, I’d be a fool not to try.” Her voice was steady, but there was a flicker of uncertainty beneath her words.

Lavellan guided Harding further into the workshop, introducing her to the others. Dagna bounded forward with her usual exuberance, her goggles askew and a grease-smudge streaking her cheek.

“Harding!” Dagna practically flew out from behind a table cluttered with glass tubing and rune-etched metal coils. Her cracked goggles were perched haphazardly on her forehead, and her apron was smeared with ink and grease stains. “You made it! Oh, come here!”

Harding’s smile widened as the two dwarves embraced briefly, Dagna bouncing on her toes with barely contained excitement. “Look at you! Still as excitable as ever, I see,” Harding said, her tone warm and teasing.

But seriously, I am so glad you’re here. This—” she gestured wildly at the labyrinthine mess of her workshop, “—is some of the most exciting work I’ve ever done, and I need your help. Like, desperately.”

Lavellan stepped forward, smiling at their reunion. “Harding, thank you for coming. I know how much you’ve been through already.”

Harding’s expression softened as she turned to Lavellan. “You don’t need to thank me. If there’s a chance I can help stop the Blight, then I’m here. Whatever it takes.”

“Spoken like a true hero,” Dagna said, clapping Harding on the shoulder before spinning back toward one of her contraptions. “Okay, okay, focus, Dagna. Right. Harding, I need to catch you up to speed because your Eternal Hymn—it might just be the key to everything.”

Harding blinked. “The Hymn? What does it have to do with—”

“Oh, everything!” Dagna interrupted, waving her hands dramatically. “The Blight, the Titans, the weird frequency shifts we’ve been detecting—it all lines up! I’ll explain.”

The group gathered around the Resonance Amplifier. Its copper coils glimmered faintly in the lantern light, and the crystal core embedded in its center pulsed with a slow, steady rhythm. Antoine and Evka joined the circle, their expressions attentive, while Solas lingered slightly apart, his sharp eyes fixed on the device.

Dagna cleared her throat. “Okay, here’s the short version. The Blight isn’t just spreading anymore—it’s changing. Almost like it’s... responding to something. And from what we’ve pieced together, it might have something to do with the Titans. Their song isn’t just music, Harding—it’s a stabilizing force, a harmony that keeps magic, the Fade, and the physical world balanced.”

She leaned closer, her voice dropping slightly. “But it’s fractured. Broken. And the Blight? It’s exploiting those fractures. Twisting them. But if we can refine these frequencies—if we can tune them properly using the Resonance Amplifier—then we might be able to push the Blight back.”

Harding shifted uncomfortably, her hand grazing over the edge of her cloak. “Dagna… I’m not sure how much help I can be. The Hymn isn’t something I can explain. It’s... it’s like a feeling, not a sound. It’s instinct. Sometimes it’s soft, like a distant hum in the earth. Other times, it’s sharp—jagged. Like something wounded and trying to scream but can’t.”

The room went silent for a moment as Harding’s words settled over them. Solas stepped forward, his voice low and contemplative. “You said it feels wounded. Broken. That is... telling.” His eyes met Harding’s, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of understanding between them. “You are sensing something ancient, something vast. The fragments of a being—or beings—that have been shattered. The Blight thrives in those wounds.”

Dagna snapped her fingers excitedly. “See! That’s what I’ve been saying! If the Hymn is fragmented, then we’re only catching pieces of the melody. But if Harding can feel it, if she can help us interpret it, then we might be able to adjust the Amplifier to match those broken frequencies.”

Harding hesitated, her hazel eyes flickering with uncertainty. “I’ve never… I’ve never tried to focus on it before. Not like this. It’s always been there, like something at the edge of my hearing. But if you think it’ll help…”

Dagna nodded. “This,” she began, gesturing grandly at the Amplifier, “is the key to understanding how the Titans’ song interacts with the Blight. If we can isolate the resonance—their frequency—we might be able to counteract the corruption. Like retuning a song that’s gone horribly out of tune!” She turned to Harding, her eyes shining with anticipation. “But to refine these frequencies, we need your help. If your Eternal Hymn is connected to the Titans, it might hold the missing piece to all of this.”

The faint hum of the Resonance Amplifier filled the brief silence that followed. Harding took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders as if bracing herself for a plunge into icy water. “Alright,” she said firmly. “Tell me what I need to do.”

Dagna let out an excited squeal and practically bounced back to the control panel. “Yes! Okay, okay, here’s the plan: I’m going to power up the Resonance Amplifier, and I’ll need you to focus on the Hymn—however you hear it, however youfeel it. Try to hold onto it, follow it, let it guide you. And then tell me where it leads.”

Solas’s voice cut through the flurry of excitement like a calm current. “Be cautious, Harding.”

Harding nodded, her gaze sharpening with focus. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

The experimental area of Dagna’s workshop was a symphony of motion and sound—a tangled maze of copper coils, enchanted crystals, and arcane scribbles illuminated by flickering lantern light. The Resonance Amplifier dominated the center of the space, its runes glowing faintly as if holding their breath.

Nearby, scattered diagrams and waveform charts were pinned to every surface, marked with frantic annotations in Dagna’s sharp handwriting. Harding stood before the machine, her small frame silhouetted by the amplifier’s soft glow, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tilted her head slightly, listening to something far beyond the physical world.

“Alright, Harding, let’s try again,” Dagna called out, her voice sharp with focus as her fingers flew over an array of switches and dials. The Amplifier let out a low hum, its sound vibrating through the stone floor like a distant drumbeat. “Start from the beginning. Just… follow the Hymn.”

Harding nodded, her hazel eyes narrowing as she exhaled slowly. She closed her eyes, drawing a steady breath as her gloved hands flexed slightly at her sides. A faint shimmer traced along her fingertips, like threads of blue light unraveling from within her. The air around her grew heavy, charged with an invisible tension that prickled against the skin of everyone present. Harding’s brow furrowed as she focused, her posture steady despite the strain beginning to pull at her shoulders.

The Resonance Amplifier reacted immediately. Its copper coils crackled faintly, and the crystals embedded in circular frames began to flicker, their glow syncing with the faint, rhythmic pulses emanating from Harding’s outstretched hands. Energy built around her, a vibration more felt than seen, like the deep hum of something vast stirring in its sleep

Dagna’s fingers twitched over the controls, her eyes flicking between the Amplifier and a set of delicate crystals mounted in circular frames around the device. The hum of the Amplifier grew louder, its vibrations intensifying—but then, with a sharp crackle and a burst of static energy, the crystals flared violently and then went dark.

“No, no, no, that’s not right!” Dagna groaned, slapping the side of the machine with a grease-stained glove. The discordant sound rattled through the workshop, setting everyone’s teeth on edge. “That was wrong. Too sharp—like trying to play a lute with a cracked string.”

Harding winced as she pulled back slightly. “It’s… off. The Amplifier is trying, but it feels like it’s reaching for something it can’t quite find. Like it’s out of tune.”

“Alright, okay,” Dagna said, biting her lip as she adjusted a series of brass knobs with meticulous care. “Let’s recalibrate. Lower the harmonic range. Try to let the machine follow you this time, not the other way around.”

From the side, Lavellan and Solas observed quietly. Lavellan’s arms were crossed over her chest, her expression drawn tight with worry as she watched Harding close her eyes again and begin to call forth on the old magic of the Titans. Beside her, Solas stood utterly still, his head tilted slightly as if he too could hear the faint fragments of the Hymn threading through the air.

Dagna leaned closer to the control panel, her breath held as she carefully fine-tuned the Amplifier’s output. The crystals embedded in the machine began to glow again, their light steady this time, pulsing softly in time with Harding’s stone-magic.

“There we go…” Dagna whispered, her voice barely audible. “Come on… stay with it…”

The vibrations shifted subtly, the resonance of the Amplifier aligning itself with Harding’s magic like it was recognizing it. The sound that filled the workshop was no longer discordant but something else entirely—a fragile harmony, trembling on the edge of something greater. It was raw and incomplete, like a splintered mirror reflecting only fragments of an image, but it was something.

Solas’s sharp eyes flicked to Harding, his expression unreadable as he spoke softly to Lavellan. “She does not merely echo the Titans' song,” Solas said, his voice low and threaded with a profound realization. “She embodies it. The Hymn isn’t a sound she perceives—it’s a force she channels. A connection, deeply embedded in her spirit, threading her to something ancient and wounded.”

Lavellan glanced at him, her eyes wide with quiet understanding. “Then she’s not just guiding the Amplifier,” she said slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “She’s anchoring it.”

Solas nodded, his gaze never leaving Harding. “Precisely.”

Harding’s voice faltered slightly, and Dagna’s fingers flew over the controls to stabilize the frequency. The Amplifier groaned in response, but the crystals held their glow, their light steady and unwavering. The resonance in the air grew thicker, pressing against their chests, vibrating through their bones. It wasn’t just sound—it was something deeper, something older, resonating in the spaces between reality and the Fade.

Harding’s face was tense with concentration, her stone-magic wavered again, but this time, Dagna caught the fluctuation in time, compensating with a deft twist of a dial. The harmony settled once more, tenuous but holding.

Solas’s voice carried through the hum, steady and precise. “Dagna, secure the frequency. If you can hold it steady, we might be able to maintain this resonance.”

“I’m trying!” Dagna said through gritted teeth, her hands flying over the dials as she worked to hold the resonance steady. “Harding, keep going! You’re almost there!”

Harding’s hands trembled as she extended them toward the Resonance Amplifier, her fingers splayed and her palms angled downward as if reaching into the earth itself. A faint, rippling energy radiated from her touch—subtle vibrations that pulsed through the floor, threading into the Amplifier's crystalline core. The air grew thick, heavy with a pressure that pressed against the lungs and dulled every sound. For a brief, impossible moment, the room felt... still. Balanced. As though the entire workshop existed within a single breath, suspended between one heartbeat and the next.

And then, with a sharp, shuddering breath, Harding staggered back, her connection snapping like a thread pulled too tight.

The Amplifier gave one final hum before falling silent, its crystals dimming but not extinguishing. The air hung heavy with the aftermath of their efforts, the faint echoes of the Hymn lingering like a fading dream.

Harding staggered slightly, and Lavellan was there in an instant, steadying her by the shoulders. The dwarf’s face was pale, her breaths coming in shallow gasps, but her hazel eyes were sharp and focused.

Dagna let out a slow, shaking breath, her goggles slipping down over her eyes as she leaned heavily against the control panel. “Well… that was something.”

Solas stepped forward, his voice low but carrying a weight that seemed to settle over the room. “This is no small achievement, Dagna. You’ve grasped a fragment of the Hymn—a delicate frequency, fragile and fleeting, yet brimming with potential.”

Harding shook her head slightly, her voice hoarse but steady. “It’s… it’s still broken. Still scattered. But… it’s a start.”

Lavellan offered her a small but fierce smile. “And a start is more than we had yesterday.”

The group stood together in the quiet aftermath, the faint glow of the Resonance Amplifier casting flickering shadows across their faces. It wasn’t a victory—not yet—but it was a foothold. A fragile bridge built between what was broken and what might yet be whole

The controlled testing area of Dagna’s workshop was a stark contrast to the chaotic tangle of wires, enchanted crystals, and scattered blueprints in the main chamber. Here, heavy stone counters were etched with protective runes, glowing faintly with soft blue light. Glass domes, inscribed with intricate sigils, encased samples of Blighted roots, corrupted soil, and dark shards of crystalline red lyrium. The air felt heavier in this space, charged with the acrid tang of dark magic and the faint metallic scent of lyrium dust.

At the center of the testing area stood the Resonance Amplifier, its copper coils and embedded crystals humming faintly with latent energy. The largest glass dome held a jagged root twisted and blackened with Blight, its surface pulsing faintly with a sickly black-red glow, like the heartbeat of something deeply, deeply wrong.

“Alright, team,” Dagna said, her voice tight with focus as she adjusted a final series of knobs and switches on the Resonance Amplifier. Her goggles were pulled snug over her eyes, the cracked lens reflecting the faint glow of the protective runes. “We’re going to start slow. I’ll bring the Amplifier up to half power. Harding, when you’re ready, let the Hymn guide you.”

Harding nodded, her expression pinched with concentration as she positioned herself a few feet away from the Amplifier. Lavellan stood close by, her eyes sharp with concern, while Solas lingered in the shadowed edges of the room, his piercing violet gaze fixed on the Blighted sample.

Harding stepped forward, her boots planted firmly on the stone ground. She exhaled slowly, her hazel eyes narrowing as she focused. Her hands hovered over the Amplifier, her gloved fingers spread wide, trembling faintly as if feeling for something unseen. The air around her seemed to thicken, and faint ripples of energy spread from her fingertips, sinking into the floor and weaving through the Resonance Amplifier like roots searching for purchase in deep earth.

The crystals responded instantly, their glow flickering and pulsing in time with the subtle vibrations radiating from Harding. The energy she wielded wasn’t fire or lightning—it was something deeper, more primal. It moved through her, through the earth beneath them, threading into the Amplifier’s core and syncing with its mechanical resonance. The hum of the machine shifted, aligning with the raw, grounding force Harding channeled.

At first, nothing happened.

Then, almost imperceptibly, the Blighted root twitched beneath the glass dome.

The black-red glow began to fade, replaced by a faint flicker of something else—something softer, less jagged. The pulsing slowed, and the twisted fibers of the root seemed to unwind ever so slightly, the sharp edges of corruption softening. The change was subtle but undeniable.

“It’s working…” Lavellan whispered, her voice a breathless thread of hope.

Dagna’s hands hovered over the controls, her goggles slipping slightly down her nose as she stared at the glass dome. “Yes! Yes, it’s responding! The resonance is breaking through the Blight’s discordance—it’s stabilizing!”

But the fragile harmony did not last.

A shudder ran through the Blighted sample, and the sickly black-red glow flared suddenly—angrily. The root pulsed violently, its twisted veins lighting up like molten fissures in cracked earth. The low hum of the Amplifier stuttered, the crystals flickering as if struggling to maintain their focus.

Harding’s hum faltered, her voice breaking as she gasped sharply, clutching her head with both hands. Her knees buckled, and she staggered backward, her face pale and contorted with pain.

“It’s—something’s wrong,” Harding choked out, her voice trembling. “It’s fighting back—it’s like it knows.”

“Harding!” Lavellan was at her side in an instant, steadying her with firm hands on her shoulders. “Focus on me. Breathe. You’re not alone in this.”

Dagna’s hands flew over the Resonance Amplifier’s controls. “I’m shutting it down! Hold on!” Her voice was sharp with alarm as she flipped a series of switches. The hum of the machine stuttered, then began to fade as the crystals dimmed and the copper coils stopped crackling with energy.

The Blighted root flared one final time—a sickly pulse of violent energy surging outward—before it went still. The faint black-red glow flickered and then dimmed, leaving the sample frozen in an unnatural, brittle stillness.

Harding sagged against Lavellan, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. “It was… loud. So loud. Like it was screaming. Like it was fighting me.”

Solas stepped forward, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor as he approached the glass dome. His violet eyes narrowed as he studied the now-dormant sample, his expression carved from stone but shadowed with something heavy—something close to regret.

“The Blight’s resistance suggests it senses a threat,” he said, his voice low and measured, carrying an edge of grim certainty.

Dagna exhaled shakily, pulling her goggles up to rest on her forehead as she pressed both hands flat against the edge of the Amplifier. “We had it. For a moment, we had it. The resonance worked—but it wasn’t strong enough. It couldn’t hold.”

Harding straightened slightly, her breaths beginning to even out as Lavellan helped her to sit on a nearby crate. “It’s more than that,” she said softly, her voice still raw from strain. “It didn’t just resist. It fought back. It felt… deliberate. Like something inside it was aware. Like it knew the song was a threat.”

The group made their way back to the central workspace of Dagna’s workshop was a chaotic mosaic of scattered parchment, glowing crystals, and ink-stained charts pinned haphazardly across every surface. The faint hum of cooling machinery underscored the heavy silence that lingered after the failed experiment. A single lantern hung low over the central table, its golden light casting sharp-edged shadows across the grim faces of those gathered: Lavellan, Solas, Harding, Dagna, Evka, and Antoine.

Solas stood at the head of the table, his long fingers tracing absent patterns over a map of Thedas littered with black splotches marking Blight incursions. His violet eyes were sharp with thought, his brow furrowed deeply. When he spoke, his voice was low but clear, slicing through the silence like a blade.

“The experiment has proven one undeniable truth: the Titans’ song can weaken the Blight. The resonance Harding carries—the Hymn—can stabilize it, even if only temporarily. But what we saw in that sample…” He paused, his gaze flicking up to meet Lavellan’s. “The corruption wasn’t simply reacting to the Amplifier—it was fighting back. That level of resistance was deliberate, calculated. It suggests a will, not merely an instinct.”

Lavellan’s brow furrowed as she leaned forward, her eyes searching Solas’s face for a long moment before she shook her head slightly. “I’m not sure I agree with you, Solas. It looked like resistance, yes. But it didn’t feel like resistance. It felt… desperate. Almost as though it was reaching for something, not trying to stop us.”

The room fell into a weighted silence as everyone processed Lavellan’s words. Her voice had carried an undercurrent of conviction, an instinctual certainty that was difficult to dismiss.

Solas tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Desperation and resistance are not mutually exclusive, vhenan.”

Lavellan exhaled slowly, her gaze distant as she stared down at the map. “I can’t explain it. I just… I have this feeling. Whatever is happening inside the Blight, it’s not simple malevolence. It’s not just hunger or decay. It’s something else.”

From her seat at the edge of the table, Harding spoke up, her voice hesitant but thoughtful. “You might not be wrong, Lavellan. The Hymn… when I was trying to hold onto it, it felt fragmented. Like… like pieces of a shattered melody trying to come together, but they couldn’t find their way back to each other.”

She paused, her hazel eyes flicking between Lavellan and Solas. “It’s like… they’re trying to sing, but they’ve lost the melody. And every time they try to piece it back together, the Blight twists it into something wrong. If we could somehow… restore it, maybe the Blight wouldn’t have anything to hold onto. Maybe it wouldn’t know how to resist.”

Solas’s sharp gaze turned to Harding, studying her as though she had just laid out a puzzle piece he hadn’t realized he was missing. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he gave a faint nod. “That is a possibility worth considering. If the Titans’ song is fragmented, then every resonance we attempt is like striking only a single note on an instrument meant to play a symphony. The Blight may be reacting—not out of willful aggression, but out of confusion. Or pain.”

The weight of his words settled heavily over the group, the implications stretching far beyond the workshop’s stone walls.

Dagna, who had been scribbling furiously on a scrap of parchment during the conversation, suddenly shot upright, her smudged goggles slipping down her nose. “Wait, wait, wait. That’s brilliant! All of it! Yes, yes, it’s fragmented—it’s jagged and incomplete, which means our Amplifier isn’t working because it’s only focusing on isolated frequencies. We’re hitting notes when we should be weaving a melody!”

She grabbed a piece of chalk and darted to one of the blackboards, scribbling overlapping circles and tangled lines as her thoughts spilled out. “Right now, the Amplifier is trying to mimic the resonance of the Titans’ song, but it’s too limited. It doesn’t account for the counter-resonance of the Blight—it doesn’t adjust when the Blight pushes back! If we want to get anywhere, we need to simulate a more complete version of the song.”

Dagna turned to Harding, her sharp gaze zeroing in on the dwarf. “Harding, your Hymn—it’s instinctive, right? Emotional? That’s because you’re feeling the fragments in a way no machine can replicate. But what if we use your Hymn as a foundation? A baseline melody for the Resonance Amplifier to build from?”

Harding blinked, clearly caught off guard by Dagna’s sudden burst of energy. “You mean… use me as, what, a guide?”

“Yes! Exactly!” Dagna’s hands flailed with excitement as she darted back to the Amplifier, tapping on its copper framework with a wrench. “You’re not just feeding the Amplifier notes; you’re giving it a song. A starting point. And if I can tweak the machine to harmonize with you, instead of just trying to copy what it hears, then we might be able to simulate a more complete version of the Titans’ resonance.”

Antoine, who had been quietly observing the exchange, stepped closer to the table. “But wouldn’t that mean Harding would have to maintain the Hymn during the entire process? That’s… a huge strain to put on her.”

Harding straightened slightly, her voice calm but resolute. “If it’ll help, I’ll do it.”

Lavellan’s brow creased with concern as she turned to Dagna. “And if we can’t stabilize it? If Harding pushes herself too far—”

Dagna held up both hands, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “I’ll build failsafes into the system. If it destabilizes again, we shut it down immediately.”

Solas stepped closer to the Amplifier, his long fingers grazing one of the softly glowing crystals embedded in its frame. His expression was distant, his violet eyes reflecting the flickering light. When he spoke, his voice was low, weighted with measured caution. 

“If this works, we will not simply validate a theory—we will tread a precarious path between creation and ruin. One misstep, and we risk unraveling far more than we intend to mend.

Lavellan’s eyes met his, her voice soft but steady. “We are all aware of the risks and everyone’s goal is safety.”

The group fell into a quiet determination, the faint glow of runes and the Resonance Amplifier casting long shadows across their faces. Dagna began sketching frantic designs for modifications, while Harding leaned against the edge of the table, her eyes closed as if listening to something distant.

No one said it aloud, but the unspoken truth hung heavily in the charged air: they were no longer just fighting the Blight. They were trying to understand it. And that understanding carried a cost none of them could yet comprehend.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, the planning area of Dagna’s workshop had been hastily transformed into a war room. A massive map of Thedas, marred by ink stains and frayed edges, was spread across the central table, its surface dotted with hastily scrawled runes and sigils. Faint magical light flickered over the parchment, illuminating blackened blotches marking regions where the Blight had taken hold. Around the table stood Lavellan, Solas, Harding, Dagna, Antoine, and Evka, their faces shadowed with focus and determination.

Lavellan leaned over the map, one hand pressed against its surface as her eyes scanned the marked regions. Her voice was calm, measured. “If we want the Resonance Amplifier to work in the field, we need to choose our ground carefully. We’re looking for areas rich in Titan echoes—lyrium veins, ancient dwarven ruins, anything tied to the Titans’ song. Alternatively, places where the Veil is thin might amplify the Hymn in ways we can use.”

Harding nodded. “Here,” she said, her finger hovering over the map. “Near Kal-Sharok. There is a Titan here. But…there might be one closer by…” Harding paused as she scanned the map. “When I connected to the Titan, it was like I was also given memories…there…” she pointed to an area nearby.

Antoine stepped forward, his expression hopeful. “The Warden’s can help. The deeper we go into these places, the closer we’ll get to Blighted corruption. And the creatures that dwell in it… they’re getting more aggressive. We’ll need to be prepared.”

Dagna, who had been scribbling something furiously in her notebook during the exchange, suddenly clapped her hands together. “Okay! Enough brooding—we have something shiny and exciting to unveil!” She practically skipped to a nearby workbench, where a small device sat nestled in a bed of velvet cloth. Its structure was a delicate combination of polished silver and copper, etched with faintly glowing runes and embedded with a core crystal that pulsed with soft green light.

“Behold!” Dagna said with a dramatic flourish. “The Harmonic Resonator! Sleek, portable, and will probably not spontaneous combustion. Probably.”

Harding arched a brow as she stepped closer, her fingers hovering hesitantly over the device. “What… exactly does it do?”

“Glad you asked!” Dagna beamed, adjusting her cracked goggles as she leaned over the Resonator. “This little beauty is like… your Hymn, but mechanical. It’s designed to detect and measure Titan resonance frequencies in the area around you. Think of it like a sonar for magical harmonics. It’ll guide you to places where the song is strongest—and where the Amplifier will have the best chance of working.”

Harding picked up the Resonator carefully, turning it over in her hands as the soft glow of the core crystal reflected in her hazel eyes. “And you’re sure it won’t explode?”

Dagna hesitated, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Let’s say… reasonably sure.”

Lavellan couldn’t suppress a small laugh, and even Solas’s mouth twitched faintly at the corner. Harding, despite her lingering apprehension, smirked and shook her head. “I’ll take ‘reasonably sure’ over ‘definitely dangerous’ any day.”

Dagna’s grin stretched ear to ear. “That’s the spirit! Oh, and one more thing—it can also record fragments of resonance. So if you stumble across something really interesting, we’ll be able to study it later.”

Solas stepped closer, his gaze fixed on the device in Harding’s hands. “This will help, but it does not negate the risk. The deeper we go, the more the Blight will resist. And Harding…” He paused, his voice softening slightly. “If the Hymn becomes overwhelming again, you must step back. Pushing too hard could break you, and we cannot afford that cost.”

Harding swallowed, her grip tightening slightly around the Resonator, but she nodded. “Understood.”

Evka, who had been quiet up until now, crossed her arms and let out a long breath. “Then we’d better pack what we need. If we’re heading to that area, it’s not going to be a gentle walk through the wetlands.”

Antoine nodded, his eyes scanning the map one final time. “We’ll need supplies, protective wards, and enough lyrium reserves to keep the Amplifier stable.”

Dagna began scribbling furiously in her notebook again. “Right! And I’ll make a few more tweaks to the Amplifier before we leave. If I can reinforce its stabilization runes, we might be able to hold the frequency longer without overloading the system.”

Lavellan took a step back from the table, letting her gaze sweep across the faces of the group. Determination radiated from each of them, though the weight of uncertainty still hung in the air. They were walking into the unknown, with only fragments of knowledge and fragile hope to guide them.

* * *

The clearing outside the Warden outpost was still, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the wind and the distant hum of magical wards etched into the perimeter stones. Protective runes glowed faintly across the ground, forming a shimmering barrier around a small, restrained Blighted creature.

Its twisted, malformed body twitched within the containment field, its hollow eyes glowing faintly with sickly black-red light. Chains enchanted with silverite and runes of containment bound its limbs, preventing it from lurching violently against the magic-laced barrier.

The team stood just beyond the edge of the protective circle. Harding cradled the Harmonic Resonator in her hands, its crystalline core glowing faintly as it pulsed with gentle energy. Beside her, Lavellan stood steady, her eyes sharp and focused.

Solas lingered a few steps away, his staff in hand, fingers flexing subtly as though already channeling Fade magic. Dagna fussed over the Resonance Amplifier, tightening copper coils and scribbling last-minute notes into her already overstuffed journal.

“Alright,” Dagna said, her voice tight with anticipation. “Everything’s calibrated. Harding, you’ll activate the Harmonic Resonator first—get a reading on the creature’s resonance. Then we’ll bring in the Amplifier and the Hymn. If all goes well, we’ll see some stabilization in the corruption. And if it goes badly, well… we’ve got Solas and Lavellan ready to jump in.”

Harding swallowed and nodded, her gloved hands tightening around the Harmonic Resonator. She stepped closer to the containment field, exhaling slowly. “Right. Let’s see what this little marvel can do.”

She thumbed a switch on the side of the Resonator, and the device let out a faint chime, its crystal core glowing brighter. A ripple of pale green light pulsed outward, washing over the restrained creature. The Harmonic Resonator emitted a low hum, its crystal flickering intermittently as it seemed to “listen” to the corrupted presence before them.

“Steady resonance detected,” Harding said softly, her brow furrowing as she studied the faint readout on the device. “But… it’s erratic. Like something is trying to—” She stopped abruptly, her eyes flicking up to meet Lavellan’s. “Like it’s trying to drown itself out.”

Dagna’s eyes went wide behind her cracked goggles. “That’s fascinating! But we’ll analyze it later. Harding, it’s time. Connect with the Hymn.”

Harding nodded once, lowering the Harmonic Resonator to her side as she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. A stillness settled over her as though she were sinking into something deep and endless. Her brows knitted together in concentration, and her chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths.

The Resonance Amplifier flared to life in response. Copper coils crackled faintly, and the crystals embedded in the machine began to glow in harmony with the faint shimmering energy beginning to thread around Harding’s form. It wasn’t a song, nor was it a visible spell—this was something else entirely. A frequency, an alignment with something ancient and immense that resonated far below the surface of Thedas.

The restrained Blighted creature reacted almost immediately. Its twitching slowed, the frantic spasms of its malformed limbs growing weaker. The sickly black-red glow in its hollow eyes dimmed slightly, and for a moment—just a moment—it seemed still. Calm.

Lavellan let out a soft breath of astonishment. “It’s… working.”

Harding’s face was tight with focus, her hands trembling slightly at her sides as though she were holding invisible threads pulled taut. Sweat beaded on her brow as she maintained the fragile connection. The Amplifier’s crystals pulsed steadily, each beat perfectly in sync with the faint threads of energy coiling around Harding.

The creature inside the containment field sagged, its jagged, corrupted form seeming to soften at the edges. The sharp hum of discordant magic lessened, and an almost unnatural quiet settled over the clearing.

But then, something changed.

The creature’s chest heaved suddenly, and its head snapped upward. A violent pulse of sickly black-red light rippled through its body, and the chains around its limbs groaned under the strain. The Amplifier’s harmonious pulse faltered, the resonance sputtering as a harsh, discordant vibration erupted outward.

Harding staggered, clutching the Harmonic Resonator tighter as her knees buckled. Her breaths grew ragged, her connection to the Hymn fracturing like glass under pressure.

“It’s—It’s pushing back!” Harding gasped, her voice trembling as her head bowed under the strain. “It’s like it knows! It’s fighting me—fighting the connection!”

“Hold on, Harding!” Lavellan was at her side in an instant, her arms steadying the smaller dwarf as her knees threatened to give way.

The Blighted creature let out a guttural, unnatural sound—half screech, half roar—as the energy Harding had been weaving began to unravel. The Amplifier flickered, its core crystal flaring with an unstable light.

Solas stepped forward, his staff rising with deliberate precision. His voice, sharp and commanding, sliced through the chaos with an edge of authority.

“I will anchor the Fade’s connection. Dagna, diminish the Amplifier's power—quickly, before it fractures beyond repair!”

“On it!” Dagna’s hands flew across the controls, twisting dials and flipping switches. The Amplifier’s hum lessened slightly, its resonance stabilizing but still fragile.

Solas closed his eyes, his free hand rising as faint threads of Fade magic curled around his fingers. The lines of his face seemed sharper, more otherworldly, as though he stood partially in the Fade itself. The air around the containment field stilled, the faint golden shimmer of Fade energy seeping into the space where the Blight had pushed back.

Lavellan’s voice was low, steady as she continued to support Harding. Harding gritted her teeth, her breath sharp as she fought to reestablish control. Slowly, painstakingly, the threads of resonance around her began to pull back into alignment. The Amplifier’s glow stabilized, its crystals shining steadily once more.

Inside the containment field, the Blighted creature went still. Its movements slowed until it was little more than a husk held upright by its chains. Its black-red glow dimmed into a faint, flickering ember.

Dagna let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Well…that’s not what we wanted. Some improvement though, I think”

Solas lowered his staff, his breathing slightly uneven as he turned to face the group. “Its resistance grew the moment it sensed the Hymn’s influence. This was not mindless hunger—it was reaction. Instinct. Perhaps even… intent.”

Harding slumped slightly, Lavellan keeping a firm arm around her shoulders. “It felt… like trying to calm a cornered animal. Desperate. Angry. But… scared, too.”

Lavellan nodded, her eyes somber as she exchanged a glance with Solas. “This was only a fragment. A single test. But it proves one thing: the Blight feels the Hymn.”

* * *

The night air outside Dagna’s workshop was cool and crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of lyrium dust and smoldering lantern oil. The distant hum of machinery still echoed faintly from within the stone walls, but out here, beneath the vast expanse of the star-speckled sky, it was quiet. The world felt still, as though holding its breath after the tense chaos of the experiment.

Harding stood a few paces away from the workshop entrance, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she gazed up at the stars scattered across the velvet sky. The faint golden glow from nearby warding runes cast soft light across her face, highlighting the lines of exhaustion etched into her features. Her hazel eyes were troubled, her expression drawn tight with frustration and doubt.

Lavellan approached quietly, her boots barely making a sound on the worn stone path. She stopped a few steps behind Harding, her eyes soft with concern. “Lace?” she called gently, her voice carrying across the still night.

Harding didn’t turn around immediately. When she spoke, her voice was low, raw with emotion. “I thought I could do it, Lavellan. I thought if I focused hard enough, if I pushed past the fear and the noise, I could hold onto it. But it’s like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. Every time I think I have it, it slips away. I feel like I’m… failing them. Failing everyone.”

Lavellan took a step closer, her voice steady but filled with warmth. “You’re not failing them, Harding. You’re giving them something no one else can—a voice. You’re reaching out into something ancient, something wounded, and you’re listening. That’s more than anyone else has been able to do.”

Harding let out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping slightly as she ran a hand through her auburn hair. “But it’s not enough. I can feel them, Lavellan—the Titans. I can feel their pain, their confusion, their fear. And I can’t… I can’t fix it. I can’t make it stop.”

Lavellan closed the distance between them and placed a firm, reassuring hand on Harding’s shoulder. “You’re not meant to fix it all on your own. None of us are. But what you’re doing—it’s more than any of us could have hoped for. Every time you reach out with the Hymn, every time you try, we get closer to understanding. Closer to helping. That’s not failure, Lace. That’s courage.”

A quiet moment passed between them, broken only by the distant chirp of night insects and the faint whistle of wind threading through the trees. Harding’s shoulders relaxed slightly under Lavellan’s grip, and she let out a long, slow breath.

Behind them, Solas emerged from the shadows near the workshop’s entrance, his silhouette sharp against the faint lantern glow spilling from the doorway. His staff was absent, and his hands were clasped lightly behind his back. His violet eyes were thoughtful as he regarded the two women before him.

“Harding,” Solas said softly, his voice carrying the weight of quiet certainty. “You are not failing. What you are attempting is without precedent—a bridge into something ancient and shattered, a wound carved into the foundation of the world itself. That you can even reach it, let alone sense its pain, is extraordinary.”

Harding turned to face him, her expression cautious yet attentive. Solas met her gaze, his voice steady and deliberate, carrying the weight of careful contemplation. 

“Each step you take brings us closer to unraveling the Titans’ pain, to comprehending the wound that festers at the heart of this world. In that understanding lies the seed of hope. You are not pursuing failure, Harding—you are navigating a fragile path toward harmony. It is slow, it is fraught with uncertainty, and it will demand more than seems fair… but it is necessary.”

Harding’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded faintly, her hazel eyes glimmering with something softer—something close to belief. “I just… I wish it didn’t feel so impossible sometimes.”

Solas’s expression softened, the ancient weight he carried etched into every line of his face. Yet, in his violet eyes, there was a faint glimmer of something gentler—something hopeful. 

“The impossible has been achieved before, Harding, and it will be again. But not by solitary hands. It requires people like you—those willing to step into the dark, carrying only a fragile light, and…” Solas paused his eyes flickering to Lavellan before returning to Harding, “…trusting others to walk beside them.”

Lavellan’s hand remained steady on Harding’s shoulder as the dwarf took another deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’re right,” Harding said finally, her voice quiet but resolute.

Lavellan gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “And we’ll be right there with you.”

Solas inclined his head slightly, his violet eyes catching the faint lantern light as he stepped back into the shadows. “We should rest while we can. Tomorrow will bring fresh challenges.”

The three of them stood in the quiet of the night for a moment longer, the weight of their task settling heavily upon their shoulders but no longer feeling quite so impossible. Above them, the stars burned brightly against the endless sky, distant but unwavering—much like the fragile hope they carried with them.