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bardic-inspo · 17 days ago

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aeterna nostalgia

chapter four: the mourning after

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter Three |🩸 Chapter Five (Coming Soon)

🩸Full Chapter List |🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire.

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter Summary: Astarion reels in the wake of his consort's amnesia, and forms a plan to restore her memories.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“To whom can a vampire bare its soul and admit its fears? With whom can the vampire vent some of the intense sensuality that seems to pervade its breed? From whom can it receive consolation for the past, comfort for the present, and hope for the future?”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

Blood smears over Astarion’s swollen lips, painting his front from neck to navel. He’s already drained two thinking things dry today. The dirt from their graves still lines his nail beds. No matter.

The nobles’ screams will sound just as sweet, whether they see the horror coming or not.

After he laid Naomi in the safety of their shared chambers, and laid Claude and Thessa to rest in the gardens, the other patriars had remained in his study to be dealt with. Claude had the foresight to lock them there. But the door would only hold the conniving fools for so long.

Astarion would be sure to clean himself of all the gore before waking his darling. And when he wakes her, he’ll wash away the woes of the day with one last compulsion: remember.

His steps thud down the hall. Racing heartbeats slap his ears like boots smacking through puddled streets. So much wet, delectable noise. He swipes his tongue across his teeth in anticipation.

Astarion lurches towards the study door. His hand claws around the knob.

In an instant, he could be rid of the patriars for good. Pour their pride, their hopes, their lives down his throat until only he remains. And he’ll do the same to every footsoldier that comes calling after. Even Duke Ravengard, when he inevitably comes to visit righteousness upon the Crimson Palace.

Astarion could take everything, in light of what’s been taken from him. He should. It’s only right someone else should suffer. Naomi’s not here to argue any different.

Her name pangs through his temples. Astarion recoils abruptly from the door, his hand dropping slack at his side as he bites back a pained hiss.

The vampire ascendant sits at the head of the conference table in his study. His fingertips curl and unfurl into fresh grooves worn down in the mahogany.

At the table’s other end, Naomi surveys him in portrait, her expression guarded and glittering. She’s not alone; they’re seated on separate thrones in the towering canvas, hands delicately clasping each other’s. Both of them are drenched in jewels, clad in finery worth more than any who set their eyes upon it. The gold-leaf frame on its own cost more than most peasants make in a decade.

There’s a more lascivious version in their private chambers, with Naomi seated on his lap. The only finery she wears there is that of her bare figure, with Astarion likewise undressed. It’s lucky he preemptively covered it before she batted her eyes open. Given how she reacted to her own reflection, she may not have taken kindly to her likeness twined so completely with his.

Her reflection is a gift, granted by the greater present of his presence. And yet, his generosity is entirely lost on her now. She's forgotten all of the times he's taken her so tenderly, all the wealth he's lavished over her, all the pains she's been spared as his treasured consort. She's forgotten the love they share, the love that broke through the dirt of those sunless centuries and seated them here: happy, eternal, untouchable.

She can barely stomach his touch at all, now.

“Oh darling,” he utters in the barest whisper, his pounding head dropping into his hands. “What am I to do with you?”

Outside, night falls in a dark curtain across the Gate. The windowed wall overlooking the city fills with little motes of flickering lantern light. From here, they seem small enough for him to reach out and extinguish, one by one, with just a pinch of his fingers.

His jaw clenches. He could’ve been far crueler to this city. He’s been utterly benevolent by comparison.

And this is how his kindness -- his restraint -- is repaid. This is the thanks he gets.

The empty kind, bleated by sheep who don’t know their own luck. Every one of the patriars muttered their gratitude as they filed from the room without so much as a scratch. Any misgivings they had were soothed with the calming timbre of his Ascendant Authority -- a devilish boone that grants him the ability to bend the perception of even those he doesn’t have direct dominion over.

It’s time for you all to leave. Everyone expected to attend the meeting was present. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. You definitely didn’t notice any blood.

It isn’t the bludgeon of compulsion. The effect is more subtle, and must operate within the reasonable expectations of whatever captive audience he seeks to manipulate. He cannot command those he hasn’t bitten, but he can curate. Such revision is made all the easier by the blood of his new spawn thrilling through his veins, and the mundane, repetitive song and dance all the nobles come to expect. The cattle long for their routine, and will readily return to it at the sight of a strong hand.

Astarion drums his fingertips restlessly against the pages of an open book. His abilities will stave off immediate inquiry into Thessa Gray’s sudden disappearance. For most, it will be enough not to arouse any suspicion. Unless pressed -- and who would have reason to? -- the other nobles will offer threadbare replies as to the day’s dealings. But such answers could crumble to confusion under scrutiny.

If someone knew better, they might know a vampire had a hand in muddling their minds.

Wyll knows better. Wyll will know about Astarion’s new spawn soon enough. Time enough for Astarion to sort out this matter of memory.

He skewed the patriars’ recollections easily enough. They had recollections to tamper with. The spell scroll didn’t simply mold Naomi’s memories. It stole them. He can’t curate absence. Evidently, he can’t compel it away, either.

“By the bloody hells!”

The table rattles with the sudden pound of his fist, but the pain needling his temples barely recedes. It doesn’t flee like it should. The low, guttural growl in the back of his throat doesn’t scare it off, either.

His head hurts. His head shouldn’t hurt. Nothing so mundane as a headache should have a hope of harming him! Astarion grits his teeth, nearly ripping the page from the tome in front of him as he turns to the next.

It’s the same cruel pain that plagued him when he woke Naomi. After the incident in the throne room, he’d braced for her hostility. He hadn’t accounted for her terror. Or that it would feel like teeth sinking into his skull.

The woman cries in glass; every tear down her cheek has the same lethal sheen. No soothing words or gentle touch could dull the sharpness. And now he bears the unseen scars of it.

His compulsion didn’t work. His consort can’t remember their precious time together. And he, the vampire ascendant, is suffering something so inane as a migraine.

If Naomi feels the pain, too, then at least she’s trancing through it. Their bond requires emotions to be shared. He feels any harm that comes to her as if it were his own, and vice versa. His triumphs are hers, and their joys are joint.

She would not recoil from him so, stranger or not, if she could feel his affections. Astarion’s lip curls. She had no problem seeing the monster of him, turning a blind eye to the care he’d taken in her comfort. Her fear could’ve cut a throat as easily as a dagger. Astarion tried to scrape his way past it, but when her eyes set sight on her own reflection, it climbed into something consuming. It was reflex to send her into trance again. Like shirking away from a fire spitting sparks.

She can’t trance forever. The back of his throat grows drier, the longer his thoughts linger on his consort. She needs to feed.

And pain is not the same as fear. They are complementary colors, not identical ones. Astarion is intimately acquainted with all the subtle shades in between. The distinction stirs a festering disquiet in his gut.

Can she feel their bond at all? Her memories may have taken the direct hit, but their bond is…strained. Twisted in on itself. So loud and large are her feelings, maybe his are simply quiet in her head.

Or, maybe, the time for his restraint is over.

It could be a stronger hand that’s needed for her thoughts to open to him again. The seamless telepathy they shared before was something cultivated over time. A conscious choice they each made until it became an unconscious one. Either of them, in theory, could choose to shelter their own thoughts. Feelings would still seep through, and such deprivation didn’t suit a union so harmonious as theirs.

It’s a choice she would never ordinarily make. One he could grow to forgive when this interruption in their eternity is so far in the past, it can be forgotten.

With a long-drawn sigh, Astarion snaps the book shut and tosses it into the piles of others strewn over the floor. In lieu of tearing out the patriars’ throats, he’d torn all the tomes from the shelves. So much for all the coin he’d spent furnishing Emilia’s studies. He’s yet to find anything of use in the rare arcane texts his library boasts of. No cures for his consort’s ailing memory. Only more and more incendiary possibilities of what caused it.

A charm? Unlikely. Emilia said it herself: by your bond, she’s immune to anyone’s will but yours. An enchantment would’ve ended when the caster did. The man turned to literal sand before Astarion’s eyes, and still, Naomi’s amnesia persists. What’s left of the culprit sits in a bronze dish further down the desk, alongside the burnt scraps of the spell scroll. He can’t make sense of such remnants -- it’s in a strange, geometric script he can’t decipher.

A curse on the other hand…

The notion nips at his mind like a putrid rat. At first, he bats the idea away. But as night bleeds to dawn, it recurs with a sickening nausea he can’t ignore.

What a specific insult to add to this particular injury; Naomi has been the victim of a curse before, albeit of a very different nature. Only those who knew her during their tadpole days would know that intimate detail. She herself didn’t understand her own plight when they first met. Astarion freed her of those bonds long ago. What lingering effects of her former curse remain, Naomi learned to wield as weapons of her own.

Astarion rubs the fresh creases on his forehead. Only a day ago, Naomi smirked and said: this is my home. I know where all the sharp things are. And now, she cuts her own lips on the fangs she’s unfamiliar with. Her abilities could be further hazards, if she no longer recalls how to use them.

Still, it was no mere wizard who cursed her in the past. All things considered, this is a far simpler predicament than last time. It should follow that the solution is simpler, too. If it is a mundane curse, then a mundane cleric should be able to cure it. Or, another wizard. One more skilled than Emilia was.

Astarion knew such a man once. A shame that man is no more. Gods never answered Astarion’s prayers in the past, and he’s not about to depend on one, now.

He still knows a skilled cleric. One that might answer the call of his coin purse. After all, where would the Mother Superior and her House of Grief be without his financial sympathies?

But no. His consort won’t need either of them. Astarion stiffens abruptly, a new realization latching into place in his mind.

It wasn’t Gale or Shadowheart who saved Naomi from her first curse. It was Astarion. It was never clear to him if the act of making her vampire did the trick, or if it only worked because he was the vampire above all others. Either way, Astarion usurped Naomi’s former chains by binding her to him instead.

He lets out a strangled laugh, the only sound for hours in the deathly quiet palace.

It all comes down to blood, really. It’s the way he’s solved all of his problems in the end, one way or another. He needn’t worry himself with magic when the old vampire cure-all could have her in his arms again within hours.

One drop should do. She’ll remain a vampire bride as she was meant to be -- there can be no separation, and no making of a ‘true’ vampire unless a sire wills it. She will sup of him once more, and know him again.

And what bliss that will be.

A sudden smile wakes on his lips, warming his face with the fresh daylight streaking through the windows. His nose tilts towards the ceiling, and his eyes flutter shut. Naomi’s touch feels far too muted in his mind when it’s only memory he’s drawing from, and not the live current of their flourishing bond.

It’s a comfort all the same, to imagine her fingers coursing through his curls, her nails scraping against his scalp. Her scent of lavender and lemongrass, sharp and sweet, never fails to make his mouth water. He’d sup of her, too. Take that divine nectar from her neck and take her with her stomach laid flat across this desk, back arched, legs spread wide, his hands hooked around her thighs, his name a fountain from her mouth.

Astarion.

His eyes flash open at once. He gags back a raw whimper in his throat. Pain, not pleasure, flares within his skull. His lustful fantasies dissolve into one piercing recollection: the distress on her face when she woke beside him earlier.

“Do you know my name?” He’d asked his wife.

Astarion, she said. He mulls over the shape of the sound in Naomi’s mouth, the way she said it with such warring confusion and certainty. Even as she answered him without hesitation, he saw the surprise cross her face.

Astarion. To her, he is inextricable. He is instinct.

She isn’t lost to him. She isn’t. She can’t be.

Astarion shoves from his chair so violently, it topples over. He doesn’t bother to right it again before storming from the room like a thundercloud. The corridors echo with his footsteps and the shrill squeak of his heel as he turns down another. Before long, he comes to the closed door he seeks, a faint glow of silver magic glittering around its edges.

Emilia had the enchantments carved at his behest. They’re a part of the manor itself, and so they still survive without her. None but he and Naomi can see the effect without some manner of arcane detection. None might enter or exit without the spell’s password, known only to him and his consort.

A detail, like so many others, Astarion’s sure she’s forgotten.

Soundlessly, he turns the knob and presses the door open. It’s absurd, the way he tip-toes towards the bed. As if she could wake without him willing it. It’s absurd to be looking in on her at all. Of course, she’s still here. Astarion forces out a long breath. It doesn’t sate the anxious scamper of his heart beating in his throat.

It’s equally ludicrous that he hesitates at his side of the bed, glancing furtively between the empty space beside her body and the empty chair in the corner. Ridiculous, really, that the corner is where he ultimately retreats to. But then, the situation itself is outlandish in every sense. No ill was ever supposed to befall her here, in their home, beneath his protection.

He sits stiff-backed, legs crossed, with his hands clenching the armrests in a rigid grip and his eyes fixed on his trancing bride. Her white hair splays over the silk pillowcase. The lace of her nightgown drapes off her freckled, lilac shoulders. Except for the occasional flutter of her eyelids, she’s utterly still. Astarion is a statue at her bedside.

What memories play behind those closed eyes? He wonders. Perhaps, in her trance, she relives her time in the Underdark, and the temple to Eilistraee that raised her. Naomi still remembers her mortal life, something that fades for most vampires in time.

Without such mortal memories of his own, for centuries, all Astarion could remember was Cazador’s cruelty. He learned to substitute reverie with sleep. It gave him a chance, at least, to dream of something different, instead of replaying something agonizing. Some nights, he was luckier than others. Cazador could still turn a dream into a nightmare, after all.

Astarion has been nothing but lucky since knowing Naomi. And he’d no longer needed to trade reverie for sleep. He hasn’t gotten a wink of either since she’s forgotten him.

It’s nighttime again when he rises from his seat. He latches the door behind him just as quietly as he coaxed it open. His legs move sluggish, as if wading through waist-high water. The cool air of the garden courtyard tickles his collar, rousing him from his daze.

Something clatters nearby. Movement flashes in his periphery. Astarion’s heart lurches in his chest as he pivots and stiffens. With the culprit locked in his sights, he lets out a long, pained groan.

Gods below. It’s only the gardener, skulking as she’s wont to do. Astarion studies the skeletal figure with equal measures of disgust and fascination. She was only a dusty pile of bones when he and Naomi happened upon her in some forgotten closet. No doubt Cazador locked her there years ago and threw away the key without a second thought. Astarion has no idea who she might’ve been.

But the second Naomi sang, the skeleton became whoever his consort wanted her to be. And Naomi wanted a gardener to help her grow all manner of beautiful, exotic things. Astarion’s heartbeat settles, though it aches like a bruise with every pang. He starts off again with a huff.

Floral sweetness cloys in his nose, lush petals framing the stone path to the heart of the courtyard. The gardens are home to every shade of violet ever known. His favorite are the petrea vines, hanging like garland from the trellises. Wistfully, he reached out to cradle a strand. The delicate blooms are so similar to the shade of Naomi’s eyes, when she was still mortal. Water babbles from the enchanted fountain up ahead, mingling with the faintest sound of piano keys.

Astarion’s eyes grow heavy. If he only closes them, perhaps he can pretend he’s still in the ballroom, that the moonlight bleaching his cheek is the sun, that he never left Naomi alone at all. That she plays for him, still.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Astarion whirls around, seething. “What are you doing?!”

The gardener scuttles on, trowel in hand, without so much as a croak in reply. It’s a relief, really, that the thing can’t talk, even if it is uncanny in its understanding when others do. Naomi thinks his distaste for the gardener is a matter of favoritism, that he simply values his own progeny over her bonier servants. He doesn’t dwell on it long enough for any other reason to come to mind, though his eyes linger on the trowel’s sharp edge until the gardener disappears between the hedges again.

That Naomi’s servants still function as they should, he supposes, is a good sign. Her magic remains as strong as ever, it seems, even if her memory isn’t.

When at last he comes to the bare patch near the back, strategically shielded from sight by lush hydrangeas, the dirt is already writhing. He watches coldly as the soil shifts and sinks. An arm bursts through, raking madly at the air, and then another. The hands are the color of a faded rose, and tipped in dark, pointed claws. Thessa.

“Finally!” Astarion sighs. “I was beginning to think I killed you for good!”

He reaches forward, grips a flailing hand, and pulls.

The tiefling bursts from her grave, collapsing at Astarion’s heels. Her clogged scream sends a score of crows into the sky. At least the cacophony drowns out her awful retching.

Claude still hasn’t stirred. Well, Astarion won’t weep if he fails to. He doesn’t weep over the same ceremony that once started his own existence as a snivelling spawn. With Zylar and Emilia, he took time and pride in molding them, and even mustered a fair amount of pity for their lesser state. The burial was something he prepared them for. Something they saw for the rite of passage it was.

There’s no time for such luxuries now. Astarion’s kindness cost Naomi dearly. Whatever Zylar did or didn’t do in the throne room before Astarion arrived, it led to Naomi’s current state. The wretch will stew and starve in his cell while Astarion sees to his fresher spawn.

The dirt of Claude’s grave begins to crack. A ragged snarl rips from Thessa’s throat. She’s filthy, streaked in dirt, eyes wide and wild, blood and spit hanging from her chin like some slavering dog. Astarion knows what’s next. He steps back neatly as she lunges, leaving her to thump face-first at his feet.

“You will not allow harm to come to your-- wait!” Astarion holds up a finger, brow furrowing.

Thessa stares ahead blankly on all fours, an empty canvas awaiting his command.

“No,” he decides. “Not that.”

He taps the same finger against his lower lip, abruptly pensieve. He was about to say: you will not allow harm to come to your sire. But it was that command that caused Emilia to harm Naomi. And Emilia’s inability to conceive of nuance led to her downfall.

If he compels Thessa in the same manner, she’s likely to meet the same fate as the spawn that came before her. She’s not special or smart enough to steer herself towards any other outcome all on her own.

So he settles instead on: “You will not harm your sire or his bride. You will protect them both to the best of your ability.”

He can’t help but feel a small twinge of disappointment at how quickly the compulsion douses Thessa’s fire. His shoulders stung for an hour after her death: a product of the frantic, scorching spells she lashed at him as he drained every drop of blood from her body. Now, she merely lies limp in the dirt, haggard and panting, glaring daggers at her new master.

Claude surfaces shortly after. Astarion heaves him from the hole by the collar, setting him atop solid ground with little ceremony. The gnome echoes Thessa’s sputtering for air he no longer needs, but he refrains from any foolhardy aggression. He quivers as Astarion repeats the same compulsion he bestowed on Thessa. When it’s done, Claude’s wet, pleading eyes fix on Astarion. No longer are they colorless gray, but a gleaming, ruby red.

“H-hungry,” Claude stammers, voice fraught.

“Yes,” Astarion says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Come, both of you.”

He leads them to the dining room, where he pulls out the chairs across from where he and his consort typically seat themselves. On grander occasions, the lavish hall hosts all manner of rich and powerful guests. Most days, it seats only two.

Stiffly, Thessa sits. Claude nearly collapses into his chair, clutching the armrests for dear life. The man is pale, even by vampire standards. He always had a sickly pallor in life. Undeath didn’t relieve him of it.

The nearby hearth bursts to life with a snap of Astarion’s fingers. He crosses the hall to an ornate cabinet. The lock opens at Astarion’s mere touch. He takes a decanter, with velvet red liquid sloshing inside, and a pair of wine glasses from the cabinet before shutting it again and sauntering over to his waiting spawn. The lock re-engages with a faint click.

Claude’s eyes track his every motion. Thessa leans in, hypnotized by Astarion’s fingers toying with the glass stopper. It calls to mind a cat, with pupils blown wide, preparing for the perfect moment to pounce.

He’s not a monster. Well, not entirely. This isn’t an act of kindness. It’s necessary, if he doesn’t want them wilting over like desiccated waifs.

With a thin smile, Astarion twists the stopper free. The scent hits the roof of his mouth at once, rich, ripe, and succulent. He can see the second it reaches his spawn. Their eyes glaze over with raw, overwhelming want. Thessa’s lips twitch towards a snarl. The sound that seeps out instead is nearly obscene. Claude shudders hard enough to shake his chair, too.

“Wait until it’s set in front of you,” Astarion chides, carefully pouring each glass in turn. They recoil only slightly. “And do try to drink like you’re civilized.”

They can’t help but not be. Like meat tossed to starving dogs, reason leaves them, and instinct takes the reins. Between their frantic gulping, glass shatters. In only seconds, they’ve downed their first blood, and shed just as much of their own in the process. With a low growl, Thessa plucks shards from her lower lip. The same broken pieces glint from fresh cuts in Claude’s hands.

Astarion could’ve compelled them into composure, but the demonstration suits him. It’s an important lesson for any spawn of his to see how little control they have, and how much their sire holds.

“Now that you’ve become acquainted with your new nature,” Astarion says pointedly, fully aware their attention flits between him and the decanter he shifts casually between one hand the other, “ let me acquaint you with our current predicament. Your mistress…”

Astarion clears the abrupt thickness from his throat as he contemplates what to say to set his spawn to task. He could lie, say Naomi’s been wounded, or fell ill. But any vague excuse could raise suspicions of a make-believe weakness. And weakness, even if only pretended, is something fresh spawn would be all too hungry to exploit. Such is the way of those lowest in the ranks. There’s no time for needless distractions that could muddle their aims.

No, the truth will have to do.

“...was the target of a powerful spell. It’s taken a great deal of her memories. You’re going to help me get them back. Your aid in this will be duly rewarded. And let me assure you: there is much I could reward you with, should I choose to.”

As if he snapped his fingers, their focus recenters on him.

“Claude, you will show Thessa to Emilia’s chambers. These are to be her chambers now. And then, you will take her to my study. There, Lady Gray, you shall discern how the caster who so harmed my beloved disintegrated into sand before anyone else could lay a finger on him. Claude will assist you with whatever you require. Neither of you are to leave the palace. And neither of you will speak of Naomi’s ailment to anyone else.”

Thessa’s eyes narrow. “I’m a sorcerer, not a wizard. I’m certainly not a healer or an alchemist.”

“If you’re not useful, you’d best endeavor to change. And quickly.” He offers a humorless smile. “You’re welcome, by the way. You won’t be able to tell by looking in a mirror, of course, but I’ve done wonders for those wrinkles of yours, darling.”

Hesitantly, her fingertips ghost across her own smoothed cheek, tracing upwards to the corners of her eyes. Her hand falls back to her side, gaze dropping to the floor.

Quietly, she says, “My family will ask after me.”

Astarion clicks his tongue. “A secondary problem. One we can solve to your satisfaction, should you first earn mine.”

“Master,” Claude blurts, voice raw and rasping. “Might we have more?”

The gall of it! Anger sparks like waking embers in his gut. Astarion stills the decanter within his grip, holding it close to his chest.

“You might,” he croons, “but neither of you will unless I permit it.”

The gnome’s lip quivers. Perhaps he’s pushed poor Claude too far. No -- this is all heavenly compared to Cazador’s vampire orientation.

Astarion heaves an exasperated sigh. “For your own good, you’ll have to learn restraint. That learning starts now. It will be trying. But we’ve no time to be delicate, I’m afraid. I’m certain you can shoulder the burden.”

Sheepishly, Claude nods. “Yes, my lord. To your new quarters then, Lady Gray.”

As they leave the hall, Astarion spies another figure stirring at the perimeter. It clacks across the tile, a broom and dustpan in skeletal hand. Ah. The maid. Another one of Naomi’s ‘spawn’.

This one, at least, seems intent on disturbing him as little as possible. The skeleton crouches as it nears the table, carefully collecting the remnants of the shattered wine glasses. Astarion repays its consideration by leaving it to its work.

He eyes the decanter of blood wistfully, but doesn’t hesitate as he replaces the stopper and stows it back inside the cabinet. Though he’s a man of immense appetites, tonight, he doesn’t intend to spoil his supper. Not this time.

He’ll be dining with Naomi, after all.

A/N: Thank you so very much for your patience! I've been battling a recurring sinus/respiratory infection that just won't quit. Between that and the holidays, this chapter took a little longer than I would've liked.

More Naomi and Astarion in the same room together in the next chapter ;) And, as some of you suspected, we’ll be seeing at least one other familiar face soon-ish, too.

HUGE thank you to the amazing, phenomenal, incredible @pinkberrytea for pre-reading this one, and for being a constant source of encouragement and inspiration. Please check out her lovely fic!

And a shout out as well to another dear friend, Garnett Gibson, who recently gifted me an amazing one-shot of non-amnesia Naomi x Astarion engaging in some steamy hunter/prey play. If you enjoy this story, or liked Blood in the Mortar, you'd love Garnett's one-shot. And their other wonderful fics, too!

Thanks for reading! <3

#astarion #ascended astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #tavstarion #tav x astarion #aeterna nostalgia #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #astarion fanfic #dark consort #vampire lord astarion #naomi tavriel #my writing

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mavrintarou · 7 months ago

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[4:38 PM] Oikawa Toru [10 & epilogue]

It is long, but you all deserve it.

Warning: miscarriage, angst, implied smut (nothing extreme explicit)

Ninth part

Toru pressed his forehead to the back of Y/n’s cold hand. He’s tried to warm up her fingers, blowing warm air at them for the past hour.

It’s been three hours and she still hasn’t stirred at all.

It was three hours ago when everything became a blur. Painful flashbacks came in cuts, but all he could clearly remember was catching Y/n before she lost consciousness.

“Call an ambulance!” Toru shouted at Woojin who quickly reached for his phone.

Toru blocked out Woojin shouting frantically at the emergency responder.

“Y/n… oh God, Y/n… wake up… open your eyes? Hmm? Please? Please open your eyes?” He shook her gently in his arms, cradling her carefully in the crook of his arm. “Don’t do this… please, wake up… open your eyes for me?”

Warm tears slipped down his cheeks as he recalled the painful memories of the doctor finally emerging from the Emergency Room.

The first three words were enough for them to understand Y/n’s condition. “I am sorry…”

She has been heavily sedated and is said to wake in a couple of hours.

“Wake up, Y/n…” Toru murmured, pressing the back of her hand to his cheek. “Please wake up…” He turned his head, remembering he was not alone with Y/n.

Woojin has been standing in the corner of the private room looking out the window to the cloudy sky. He had not said a single word after finding out that Y/n had lost the baby, yet he lingered like a ghost.

“How…” Toru’s hoarse voice spat, “how did you know she was pregnant?”

Slowly turning his head, he stared blankly at Toru before looking back out the window. “Her friend Naomi.” He inhaled softly, “apparently Y/n was supposed to come to Korea for me, her friend reached out to me to check in to see if she made it and if we discussed what to do with the baby…”

Toru shut his eyes, exhaling deeply. It was silent between them for a bit before he spoke, “there was a possibility that the baby she was carrying could have been mine, and we went forth with the test to see if I matched with the baby to avoid unnecessarily involving you.”

“It was my baby!” Woojin roared, spinning around. He slapped a hand against his chest, “I know it was my baby – “ his voice choked as he ended his sentence. A tear streaked down his cheek, “it was my baby... it has to be mine…”

Toru was speechless seeing this grown man in a state of distress. He couldn’t deny that deep down, he knew the baby was not his and was Woojin.

“I’m sorry.”

Meeting his eyes, Toru frowned, confused as to why he was apologizing.

“I love her, so much,” he confessed, “but it’s not reciprocated.” He looks at Toru with sad eyes, “the first time I saw you after Y/n came out from your apartment, I knew you were the one who had occupied her heart all this time.” His breath hitched before it was released quietly, “I never fully had her whole heart. She loved me the best she could but she couldn’t fully love me the way I fully loved her.” Woojin pinched the bridge of his nose, and let out another breath, this time, it sounded like a breath of relief. “I’ll leave you two alone, I’m going to go get some rest.”

Toru nodded in acknowledgment and watched the man leave and as soon as the door closed behind him, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Turning his attention back to Y/n, he reached to adjust the blanket for the nth time. Sitting on the edge of the bed he leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers. Quietly he whispered, “wake up, Y/n. Wake up for me.”

He prayed silently, prayed with his heart and soul.

“Toru?”

His head snapped up and Y/n groaned, her eyes fluttering until she finally saw him. Through it all, she still smiles at him.

“Why – why am I here?” she asked softly before her face morphed and eyes widened, her hands immediately placed over her flat belly. “My baby! Is something wrong with my baby?”

Toru towered over her, gently pressing her down into the bed to keep her still. “Calm down first, Y/n…” the straining in his voice was painful. “Let me call the doctor now that you’ve woken up.”

She listened and laid down, looking up at him with awaiting eyes. Their hands tightly gasped together as they waited for the doctor to arrive.

After evaluating her and confirming her vitals the doctor inhaled sharply before looking at Toru. “Ms. Y/L/N, I’m afraid you have miscarried.”

Toru took a deep breath before he entered Y/n’s private room again. It has been over 12 hours since she woke up and was made aware of the miscarriage.

As soon as the words left the doctor’s mouth, she closed her eyes, tears rolled down her cheeks and turned her head without a word.

She has not spoken to him or anyone, just staring out the window with her palms resting against her belly.

“I’m back,” Toru announced cheerfully with a gentle smile. Y/n glanced at him and managed a forced smile. “I brought your favorite food,” he said.

She watched silently and lifelessly as he set the food down before her.

“Where is Mateo?”

He almost didn’t catch her soft voice, his eyes widening momentarily before he smiled at her question and responded, “he’s with my mom. Should I bring him over later?” he suggested hopefully.

Y/n nodded and reached for the utensil. “Thank you for the food,” she murmurs before eating.

“You’re welcome,” he answered happily. “Let me know if there’s anything else you would like to eat, I’ll get it for you.”

He sat beside her bed and watched her eat, occasionally reaching over to push food aside or asking if she would like more rice or water.

“Toru, when can I go home?”

A shaky breath escapes before he replies, “I’ll ask the doctor and as soon as they say it’s okay, I’ll take you home.” He reached up to brush her hair behind her ear. “I’ll get you home soon, okay?”

She nodded and turned to look outside the window. Her hollow eyes that had no light in them staring off with a bleak expression made his heart ache.

Toru cleared the half-eaten food in front of her and waited a few minutes, long minutes before reaching for her hand. He runs his thumb over her knuckles before pressing his lips to them. “Talk to me, Y/n. I’m dying in your silence.” He pressed his forehead to her knuckles. “I’m trying to be patient and give you space and time but I want you to know I love you. I love you and I care about you. You are not alone, I’m right here with you and you don’t have to carry the burden alone. Let me in, let me help you.” His voice croaked, “please, Y/n.”

He looked up when he felt something drop on top of his head. With her eyes shut tightly, tears streamed down her cheeks as they dripped onto the top of his head. “Y/n,” he called her name softly, shifting to sit on the bed and pulling her into his embrace. “Cry, let it all out. I’m right here with you. I got you.”

Mateo sat quietly and obediently in Y/n’s lap as Toru pushed them in a wheelchair. They took a stroll outside, basking in the sun and fresh air.

“Look over there Teo – it’s a rabbit,” Y/n pointed ahead of them. Mateo observed the white fluffy animal, eyes staring intensely.

Putting the breaks in place, Toru stepped around and crouched down to their eye level. He gently poked his son’s chubby cheek before wiping the drool away. “Do you see the rabbit, Teo?”

Earlier when he went to pick up his son, he could tell that his son missed him just as much. When he picked him up from his playpen, he curled into his father’s embrace. He did the same the moment he saw Y/n in the hospital, together they hugged each other.

Toru’s smile faded as something moved from the corner of his eyes. His breath hitched slightly before he stood up, acknowledging Woojin.

Woojin has not returned since the day he left distraught. Toru also has not mentioned him to Y/n and she has not questioned him either, he wasn’t sure if she even remembered his presence before she had collapsed.

Looking up at Toru, she followed his line of sight and looked over her shoulders. “Woojin?”

“I wasn’t sure… if you were there that day or if I was hallucinating.” Y/n couldn’t admit that she had been thinking about Woojin the last few days until she collapsed.

Woojin sat on the bench and beside him was Y/n in her wheelchair.

“Why – why didn’t you tell me you were preg…” he inhaled sharply, “that you were pregnant?” Those words were much harder to say than he anticipated.

Y/n’s fingers fumbled and she remained silent for a second before quietly answering, “I was scared. I truly did not know I was pregnant. I was…” she couldn’t tell him she was sleeping with Toru, it was none of his business. “The timing was too close and you and I weren’t talking. I… Since I am with Toru, I thought I would take a test to determine, if it wasn’t… Toru then it had to be yours…”

From beside him, Woojin handed her a white envelope. “Your result.”

Her fingers trembled but she opened the envelope and pulled out the sheet within. Her eyes scanned the sheet until she saw Toru’s name and the result was marked negative beside his name.

The baby was not Toru’s.

She had a hunch but to have official results gave her closure.

So, it was Woojin’s baby.

Was.

Uncontrollable tears slipped down her cheeks.

Her baby was gone.

It didn’t matter who the father was, her baby was gone.

And it was all her fault.

Had she not been so impatient in wanting to know who the father was… had she just waited until they were born… had she just… accepted them regardless of who the father was…

“It’s all – it’s all my fault…”

Woojin effortlessly scooped her out of the wheelchair and pulled her onto his lap, hugging her tightly. “No, it’s no one’s fault. The doctor said things like this happen… timing and… our baby wasn’t strong enough.”

Her fingers clenched his shirt tightly as her breath grew heavier, her tears soaking his shirt. “I… I wasn’t strong enough – for them…”

“Enough,” Woojin commanded softly, “it is okay to grieve but we have to move on.” He pressed his lips to her temple, enclosing her tighter in his embrace. He wished he could hold her forever in his arms. Y/n was truly someone he cared for and loved but he knew her heart was never his from the beginning.

Toru feels like he’s walking on eggshells with Y/n the following week after they’ve been discharged from the hospital. He has talked Y/n into staying with him so he can keep an eye on her. He didn’t know why he was surprised but he was when she agreed.

He thought of having Mateo stay with his parent during this time but Y/n was reluctant and wanted him home.

“It’s not your parent's responsibility,” she reasoned when he told her that Mateo would be staying with his parents as she recovered, he also reasoned that he wanted to give her his undivided attention.

“Don’t,” she croaked, “don’t treat me any differently than before.” She reached for the end of his t-shirt. “I need him as much as I need you too.”

He sighed, understanding, and brought Mateo home.

Everything about her was making him anxious, he felt like he was more on edge than her.

She carried on about her day. They would spend time together with Mateo, cuddle on the couch or if she were not in his unit, she would be at hers playing the piano, which seemed to be her source of solace.

Y/n began seeing a therapist, the only time Toru was reluctant to allow Y/n out of his sight alone.

“Toru.”

Y/n called his name quietly as he exited Mateo’s room after putting him down for the night. His eyes connected with hers as she was seated at the dinner table.

A rush of anxiety began clouding him.

In a flash, Y/n is in front of him with a look of concern. Her mouth is moving but he can’t hear her.

His vision blurred as if he was looking at Y/n through an inverted lens. A loud, annoying screech filled his ears, drowning out her words, though he could see Y/n’s mouth moving.

“Toru!” She shouted his name, cupping his face and forcing him to snap out of his trance. “Toru, look at me,” she begged, pulling his forehead down to hers. “Come back to me…”

Toru blinked, alternately closing and reopening his eyes. He felt both hot and cold. Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, he tried to push the dizziness away.

He released a breath and wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her close. “Don’t… don’t leave me… don’t leave us.”

Opening his eyes, he let it adjust to the lowly dimmed room. It was his living room.

He shifts and sees Y/n asleep leaning against the couch. He was lying on her lap. Turning his body, he nuzzles into Y/n’s belly. He will never get tired of her scent.

“Toru?” Y/n’s quiet voice called his name. She sits up and touches his forehead, “how are you feeling?”

“Yeah,” his voice croak, remembering the events earlier. “How – how long have we been sleeping?”

Y/n glanced at her watch, “maybe an hour or two? It’s just a little after midnight.” She exhales softly, “Toru, what happened?’

He swallowed, feeling shamed and embarrassed rush over him.

“Hey,” Y/n said, pulling him out of the darkness. “Don’t be ashamed that you had a panic attack… I’m here for you.”

Toru blinked, was that what it was? A panic attack? He’s never had one before.

“I was scared,” he finally uttered. “I was scared you were going to leave me, Teo, and me.”

“I won’t lie that I did not contemplate that – no – wait listen to me,” she saw how fast his eyes widened. “During therapy, Dr. Tsuchiya suggested maybe I need to take a vacation and get some fresh air outside my circle.” Her thumb smoothed the crease on his forehead, “I was going to visit a colleague in Vienna since that’s where I first stayed when I began my career after leaving Japan. This might help spark a new love for the piano.” She smiles down at him.

Closing his eyes, Toru inhales and exhales.

“I was going to bring it up with you but I can see how edgy you were and was going to wait…” She brushed his hair like how she often did with Mateo during feeding or trying to put him down for a nap. “I was only going to take a three-week vacation.”

Rolling onto his stomach, he buried his face against her tummy once again and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Three weeks is awfully a long time…”

“Toru, I think you should also find your love with volleyball again too. You don’t need to go back to playing professionally, but you should keep that passion alive.” She urges him to sit up, then crawls into his lap, straddling him. “We both put our careers on hold if you haven’t noticed and for the longest time, they were all we had – until we found each other. Don’t you agree?”

He nodded, “agreed.”

“And we should find that spark again.”

He nodded, “agreed.”

“Baby steps, it’ll be a little different but we’ll get there.”

He looks into her eyes for a few seconds, “together?”

She nodded, pressing her forehead against his. Closing her eyes, she cherished the intimacy of the moment. “Yes, together,” she promised, pressing a light kiss to his lips.

[Weeks later]

Y/n counted the long seconds as the elevator rode up to her floor.

As soon as the door dinged and opened, she rushed out. Instead of turning left to her unit as she had for years, she turned to the unit to the right.

Toru and Mateo had no idea she was arriving earlier than expected, that was her surprise to them.

It was nearly four in the morning in Japan, she was sure neither of them were up yet.

She entered the apartment as quietly as she could, setting aside her luggage, she hurried toward Toru’s bedroom.

She longed for this moment, to return to the two people she missed and loved most.

The three and a half weeks away from Toru and Mateo was treacherous but she needed it. She cried her eyes out the first night she arrived in Vienna, missing them two dearly. She needed this moment away for herself and she constantly reminded herself that it was to better herself, for herself, and Toru and Mateo.

She wanted to be the best version of herself for them.

On her second day in Vienna, Y/n dedicated herself to rediscovering her passion and connection with the piano. She collaborated with other pianists who also experienced stagnation, and with their help, she began to find herself again.

Toru’s room was dark but even in the dark, she could navigate through his room. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, but she could see the lump on the bed. She walked over to the bedside table where she knew there would be a lamp and switched it on, the warm yellow light dimly lit up the room.

With his back facing her, Y/n knelt on the bed and leaned over to press a kiss to his temple. “Toru, I’m home.”

He rolled over quickly, shifting himself on his elbow and rubbing his eyes, blinking as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Y/n?”

She was about to hug him but something else caught her eyes, something else besides Toru began shifting and whining.

“Mateo,” she cooed, pulling back the covers. The baby, who had grown so much in her eyes, scrunched up his face ready to cry for being disturbed. “Mateo,” she cooed again, rubbing his head. “I’m home baby.” Her voice only lulled him back to sleep, nestling closer into his father’s arm.

“You said you weren’t going to be home until tomorrow?” Toru said in a low tired voice.

Focusing her gaze on the man she loves wholeheartedly, “I missed you two too much and couldn’t wait another day to be home.”

He smiled, reaching to cup her face with one palm. “We missed you every second you were away, welcome home. Now, come sleep with us.”

. . .

Epilogue

“Oops,” Mateo’s finger stopped moving over the piano keys. He looked up at Y/n with wide eyes, “momma I hit the wrong note.”

“It’s okay baby, try again.” Y/n smiled, encouraging him to begin where he left off.

At two years old, Y/n began teaching him the piano and now at three almost four years old, he was able to play over a handful of piano pieces on his own.

Y/n watched her boy play with admiration and pride.

After her return from Vienna, she and Toru tied the knot in front of a handful of family members and friends. As an official family of three, they enjoyed traveling together and watching Mateo grow each day.

Toru found his new spark and accepted the role of coaching the boys’ volleyball team at their old high school.

Y/n wanted to focus her attention on Mateo, but any free time she had, she volunteered as an instructor to educate and inspire new pianists at the School of Piano in their hometown.

Y/n rubbed her pregnant belly, and at almost eight months, the unborn baby girl was quite active in her womb and had only calmed down when her brother began his piano practice for the evening.

She wasn’t going to deny the fear and anxiousness she felt when she discovered she was pregnant. They had been trying to conceive, wanting to give Mateo a sibling.

“I’ll be here with you, every step of the way,” Toru promised.

He rocked his hips, his cock slowly rubbing inside her tight pussy. The thought of trying to have another baby, one with Y/n, made Toru feel many different things. He was damn excited. He couldn’t wait to have a child or three with Y/n.

It was four months later when tears pooled her eyes when she saw the positive pregnancy test.

“I’m home!” Toru’s voice rang through their place. He walked through his unit and through the wide doorway that led into Y/n’s unit. They had reconstructed and turned their units into one.

Walking over to them, he pressed a kiss to Y/n’s lip, then Mateo’s head, and lastly, dropped down to one knee and pressed a kiss to Y/n’s belly. “I missed you guys.”

Mateo giggled and wrapped his arms around his dad’s neck, “hi daddy, I missed you too.”

Y/n rubbed her thumb against the stubble of his jaw while her other hand rubbed her belly, “we missed you too.”

. . .

E/n: Thank you. Thank you. THANK YOU. For all your patience with me, and your kind and encouraging words. Thank you for hanging on this ship with me. We have reached our destination. I tried to make this chapter as realistic as possible, there's a handful of things that I'm like... "hmm, that wouldn't slide here in the US..." but needed to remind myself otherwise.

Now, one story done, going to wrap up Lord Gojo part 3. Stay tune - I have some spicy Lords coming soon.

@queenelleee @mfreedomstuff @erintaro @callmeraider @chaotic-fangirl-blog @wolffmaiden @cloud-lyy @rukia-uchia-98 @anejuuuuoy @tooruchiiscribs @mommyourcall420 @haikyuubiggestsimp @lilguycoded @random-734 @ghostlyneckoaftoad @abcde12345 @shotenvinsoot @princess-sunshyn @anonymoussimper @junglewoos @basically-an-anime-stan-acct @mih311 @m1nt-3lla @qualitygiantshoepsychic @whatamidoing89 @ssc7514 @lupita97lm @ushygushybaby @appepel @kozumiie @yakuswifeeeeeee @chxrv

#haikyuu smut #haikyu x reader #haikyuu oikawa toru #haikyuu oikawa #oikawa angst #haikyuu oikawa tooru #oikawa fic #oikawa smut #oikawa fluff #oikawa x y/n #oikawa x reader

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