#and how acute that absence must be

[gr8ntaire]

Alain always saying he has so many things he wants to talk about with/ask Ayrton 💔💔💔💔

[aventurineswife]

hear me out, aventurine wraps himself up in ribbons or something (with help ofc (how is he supposed to tie himself in ribbons by himself)) for reader, for christmas

i just had this thought bc of your status thing :3

hes the only present we will ever need :3

I WANT AVENTURINE TO BE A REAL PERSON SO I CAN LOVE AND SPOIL HIM😭

(maybe it's also bc i wanna wrap myself up as aventurines christmas present.. BUT NOT IN THAT WAY)

-:3 anon

The Greatest Present Awaits You

Summary: As Christmas approaches, Aventurine decides to surprise you with the most unique gift he can think of—himself, wrapped in silk ribbons and nestled beneath the tree. His charm and flamboyant flair shine through as he turns an ordinary holiday into an unforgettable evening. But the question remains: will you unwrap the greatest gamble of the season?

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Fluff, Humor, Romance, Winter Special, Playful Banter, Gift-Giving, Suggestive Undertones, Wrapped-Up Present, Over-the-Top Gestures, Flirty and Fun Dynamic.

Warnings: Mild Suggestiveness (by the end), Mischievous Behavior(it's Aventurine we are talking about💀).

A/N: Funny thing is, I had something planned like this for other characters on Christmas but I lost motivation to write all of them so whoops🫣🤧

Snow cascaded gently outside the frosted windows, cloaking the world in a serene white. Inside, the room was warm and filled with the glow of the crackling fire and the twinkle of fairy lights. The towering Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, its branches adorned with ornaments, garlands, and a star shining atop it. Beneath it sat an array of presents, but one, in particular, stood out—a large, expertly wrapped box with shimmering green and gold paper.

The evening had been calm, but you noticed Aventurine's absence more acutely as the hours ticked by. He had been unusually secretive for the past few days, dodging your questions with a mischievous grin and cryptic remarks about “the ultimate gamble of the season.” It wasn’t unusual for him to keep you guessing, but tonight, the suspense felt deliberate.

As you approached the oversized gift by the tree, a soft laugh echoed inside the gift.

“Ah, my dear, I see your curiosity is as keen as ever,” Aventurine’s voice purred.

Turning toward the sound, you were met with his signature smirk and sparkling eyes peeking out from inside the box. His tousled hair shimmered in the light, and his presence alone was enough to quicken your heartbeat.

“I had some help preparing this,” he said, his tone teasing. “And I promise, it’s a gift you’ll treasure.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion until he gestured toward the box. “Open it.” he urged, his smile widening with barely contained amusement.

Kneeling by the tree, you carefully untied the golden bow and peeled back the wrapping paper. The box opened with an exaggerated flourish, revealing a sight that took your breath away.

Aventurine sat inside, wrapped in vibrant red and green silk ribbons, his arms crossed casually over his chest. The ends of the ribbons formed an intricate bow around his neck, and his white trousers were tucked neatly under the glimmering coils. His blazer was nowhere in sight, leaving his spade-cut shirt to reveal glimpses of his toned chest beneath the crisscrossing ribbons.

“Well?” he drawled, leaning forward slightly with an amused gleam in his eye. “Am I everything you hoped for this Christmas?”

You blinked, stunned, before laughter bubbled out of you. “Aventurine, what—”

“Ah, ah,” he interrupted, holding up a ribbon-bound finger. “Don’t ruin the moment, darling. You see, I’ve been thinking. This year, I wanted to give you something truly irreplaceable. And, well...” He spread his arms in a theatrical gesture. “I am rather one of a kind, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your laughter softened into a fond smile as you reached out, gently tugging on one of the ribbons wrapped around his wrist. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” he replied smoothly, his grin widening. “Now, I must confess, getting wrapped up like this was no small feat. It took several attempts and a very patient co-worker of mine. But for you, my dear, no gamble is too great.”

He leaned closer, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart flutter. “Of course,” he added, his voice dipping into a suggestive murmur, “unwrapping me is entirely up to you. Take your time—or don’t. The choice is yours.”

Your cheeks warmed at his tone, but the twinkle in his eye revealed his playful intentions. It was classic Aventurine—charming, ostentatious, and utterly devoted to making you smile.

“Well,” you said, matching his smirk with one of your own as you tugged on another ribbon, “I suppose I should see if this gift is as ‘irreplaceable’ as you claim.”

“Careful, darling,” he murmured, leaning in even closer, his breath warm against your skin. “The best surprises are always at the end.”

And as the ribbons began to unravel, Aventurine’s smile remained as enigmatic and captivating as ever—a gambler who had staked it all on this moment, and somehow, against all odds, had won once again.

[dark-and-kawaii]

Can I request Raphael realizing he’s caught feelings or has fallen in love with his little mouse? I just discovered your blog and love your Raphael content! Would greatly appreciate this!

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒫𝓇𝑜𝒷𝓁𝑒𝓂

Raphael x Tav/Reader

Summary: The problem with Raphael was you, and how he can't get you off his mind.

Notes: Thank you for the lovely words anon and I hope my words captured your request xoxo

His gaze was fixated upon the flickering candle, brooding in solitude. The problem with him was you, for he couldn't rid his mind of your presence, consumed by thoughts of you incessantly. You, a mere mortal, insignificant in his grand scheme, a pawn on his grand lanceboard. Yet, you managed to infiltrate his very being, your touch lingering upon his skin. The boudoir felt colder, devoid of your presence, an emptiness he abhorred.

You, a feeble mortal. Him, a formidable and mighty Devil of the Hells. You, a flickering light, delicate and small. Him, an inferno, fierce and majestic. And yet, fate dictated that the two of you couldn't resist each other's allure. It was as if you were irresistibly drawn to him, akin to a moth drawn to a flame. Your feet guided you towards him without conscious thought. Your hands dared to knock on his door without permission. His eyes would gleam with a dangerous glint, but fear never gripped you.

It is your doing that makes him feel unsettled. The problem lies with you, for you inhabit his every dream. In truth, whenever he shuts his eyes, he yearns to see you in his slumber. He needs you, not solely for the crown, but for something deeper. The problem lies with you, for your absence is felt acutely, and he detests the hollowness that enshrouds him.

Hypocritical, he must admit, it's not like he spends his nights alone when you're not present. However, he can't help but wonder if you awaken beside another in his absence. The wizard, the loathsome spawn of a vampire, the druid... The problem lies with you, for such thoughts contort his visage.

It is your fault, yet you remain blissfully unaware. The truth is he doesn't want you to comprehend it. The problem with him is that he would convince himself that he doesn't care if he never lays eyes on you again, but he knows deep down it's a deceit, for he is dishonest. In truth, he wants whatever this tangled relationship is, yearns to see you right now.

He, a Devil, was consumed by obsession. The torment was unbearable, and yet, an insatiable craving persisted. Raphael proved careless with his emotions, becoming increasingly aggressive, attentive, and protective as he grew closer to you. Just the other night, you departed from his bed without a word, leaving him plagued by agonizing questions. You bring forth the worst in him.

It took him a while, but eventually, he grasped the truth. The problem lies with him, yet he placed the blame upon you, begging deep down for you to be ashamed. The problem lies with him, for the devil had foolishly fallen in love with you.

[autisticlancemcclain]

The situation starts on the couches of a hotel lobby on a random planet at three-something in the morning, sprawled all over each other, exhausted, as Coran quietly checks them in.

“Hey, Lance,” whispers Keith, from somewhere beside the shoulder he offered. Lance groans, feigning more tiredness than he actually feels, heart racing since Keith first shifted so Lance would have somewhere to rest his head. He has this strange feeling of invasion, even though Keith offered, even though they’ve been in this position dozens of times before. He’s waiting almost for the other shoe to drop.

“Mm-what,” he mumbles, muffled into his roughed shoulder pads, words smushed together.

Keith sighs instead of answering. For half a second Lance tenses. But Keith only shifts again, not pushing Lance off but moving so Lance is pressed closer to him, and then the heat of his breath tickles the shell of Lance’s ear, and he tenses for a whole different reason.

And then there is, inexplicably, the feeling of what must be Keith’s lips, pressed to the side of Lance’s skull, gentle and lingering, and Lance thinks clearly to himself: what the fresh actual and genuine fuck.

“‘M sorry,” says Keith, so quiet it would be impossible to hear were his mouth not one single inch away from Lance’s ear. He kisses again, and he almost sags into the motion, into Lance. “I shouldn’t have been so dismissive of you earlier. I was stressed. I missed you, too.”

Lance opens his mouth. He muffles a choking sound with all of his strength.

“All good in the hood,” he finally manages, and then wants to strangle himself. “We’re — tight, Keithalicious.”

Somewhere, somehow, there is a God, and this God looks upon him with the utmost cruelty, and so Lance suffers, unjustly, every day of his life. He often prays that he will wake up one morning in the absence of a tongue. A hindrance and horrible sacrifice, of course, but one that may be worth the total sum of humiliation he feels so acutely and so frequently by virtue of God’s gift of language.

Shit is just not worth it, sometimes.

Keith’s laugh tickles a little. “I’m glad, sweetheart.” His final kiss is light, more of a peck than anything. He pats Lance’s hip twice before standing. Lance wonders, vaguely, when the hell his hand was in his hip area in the first place, and how the hell he’s supposed to rationalize that somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind. “‘M gonna go help Coran. See you in a few.”

“Yeah,” is what Lance means to say, but unfortunately when he opens his mouth the only sound that escapes is a strange kind of croak, clawing its way out of his throat and withering to death somewhere in the air between them. It may be, he realises with an intense flash of solemnity, the last remaining dredges of his dignity. Rest in fucking peace.

Keith just smiles again (a real one that shows his crooked incisors and crinkles his eyes and makes him looks handsome, not hot or sexy or beautiful but handsome, in a way that genuinely makes Lance weak in the knees) and jogs over to the front desk. Lance watches him place a friendly hand on Coran’s shoulder, leaning in and narrowing his eyes at the paper the front desk worker offers, saying something Lance can’t hear with his Black Paladin face in full force. When he finally manages to wrench his eyes away, he sees the faces of his team, gobsmacked, staring at him with wide eyes and jaws brushing the polished blue tiles.

“What,” Shiro manages eventually, “the fuck.”

“Since fucking when are you two boning!” Pidge adds, shamelessly.

“I thought you had a thing for Allura?” questions Hunk.

Lance’s own jaw snaps shut. His ears burn, worse than they already were, and he glances at the princess only to find her already looking away. Shame burns something fierce in the pit of his stomach. It’s an unwelcome replacement of the butterflies.

“What me and Keith do behind a closed door is none of your business,” Lance says hotly, straightening his shoulders and puffing out his chest ridiculously. His heart pounds. He raises his voice to drown it out. “We had a bonding moment, after all.”

Pidge barks a laugh. The rest of the snorts and giggles soon follow, and soon the team is looking at him in fond exasperation, rolling their eyes and muttering about Lance and his antics. Allura, even, looks him in the face again. The roiling in his stomach doesn’t change, but the pound of his heart is replaced with something bitter on the back of his tongue.

Anything is better than looking ignorant. Even if you look like a fool.

He settles into the corner of the couch — much less comfortable than Keith’s armoured shoulder, somehow — and lets his eyes slide shut, lets the familiar sound of his team quietly conversing and the ambient sound of a public place at night wash over him as he fades into a half-sleep. The same kind of sleep in a car on the way home from a long road trip, late at night; half aware of the movement and murmured sound of your parents’ whispering in front seat, time stretching around you like taffy.

He stirs slowly at the sound of boots hitting the floor, bleary eyes still half-shut. Keith slowly comes back into focus, standing in front of him now. He’s frowning, troubled.

“They booked us two separate rooms,” he explains, pursing his lips at the two keys in his hand.

Lance pauses. “…Yes.”

Keith doesn’t pick up on it. (That, at least, is familiar enough to make Lance smile.)

“You’d think they’d…well, whatever. I suppose it’s fine. I’ll come join you after you’re showered?”

“Keith —”

“I think my room has the bigger bed, actually. You come to mine.” He opens the little envelope thing and pulls out the extra key, sliding it into Lance’s hands. “I’ll bring up your luggage.”

“Keith, I’m not going to —”

Lance stops.

Keith, I’m not going to sleep with you, is what he was going to say. Keith, what the hell. Keith, you’re acting like a pod person. Keith, I don’t understand what’s going on. Keith, everyone is laughing at us and you don’t seem to notice. Or care. Keith, you’re acting like you’re my — boyfriend, or something. Keith, one day ago you didn’t want anything to do with me. Keith, now you can’t seem to get enough of me. Keith, I am going to lose my mind. Keith, Keith, Keith.

“Okay,” Lance says instead, quiet. He turns the key over in his hands. It looks like a regular white hotel key. It feels heavier, somehow. “Okay, I’ll meet you in twenty.”

Keith flashes a quick smile. It, too, is genuine, and Lance lips are quirking up to match before he can think about it.

“Liar. You’ve never taken less than a half hour shower in your life.”

“I have — so.”

Shaking his head, fondness bleeding from him, Keith steps forward, bending down and pressing a gentle kiss to Lance’s forehead. Lance feels all the air exit his body in one huge whoosh.

“I know you, goober. We got all night. Decompress. I’ll check the closet and under the bed before you get there. Don’t take too long.”

Lance stills. He watches after Keith with wide eyes. His heart, finally calmed again, fucking races.

He’s never, not once in his life, told anyone about the — thing. With the — closets, and under the bed. Not one person; not even Hunk.

It’s stupid, is what it is.

But Lance’s older cousin was kind of a — jerk. And when they were kids he would make these freaky fucking paintings with red eyes and smudged faces and — hide them, in Lance’s closet or dresser drawers or under his bed, and convince him they would come to life in the night and posses him, and it was so fucking dumb, but Lance has always been gullible and it used to scare the shit out of him, because he would never know when they would appear and it would just — freak him out. All the time. Unless he checked his entire room once in the daytime before sleeping, he would never be able to fall asleep.

And he’s never fucking — told anyone about that. Because as a kid it was terrifying to say out loud and as he got older it was just embarrassing. But Keith knows, somehow.

Keith knows.

Lance exhales, air whistling sharply from between his teeth, “Whatever. Whatever. You know what? Whatever,” and stomps over to the elevator. “This is — I’m going to shower. And not think. I don’t — whatever.”

He stews the whole way up to his room. He stews as the key doesn’t fucking work in the slot until the fourth try. He stews as he yanks off his armour and flings it into a random corner, relishing in the heavy thud as it hits the wall, hoping it cracks. He stews as he angrily presses all the buttons in the shower and hops in, cussing as he’s assaulted with an onslaught of hot-cold-hot-cold-soap-soap-soap, aggressively blinking away the sting in his eye and cursing the very air molecules around him. He stews the entire fucking forty minute shower, although admittedly he does, by the ten minute mark, start to calm down a little.

By the time he steps onto the bathmat, he’s just — tired.

“Whatever,” he sighs to himself again, but this time it’s more weary than anything. “Just — I guess. Sure. Whatever.”

There’s a fancy complimentary robe folded neatly on the stack of towels. He swallows the lump in his throat, thinking of his beautiful blue one, now ashes with the rest of the castle.

“Whatever,” he repeats to himself, firmly. Eventually he manages to blink the tears away.

The walk to Keith’s room is short, and cold, and probably embarrassing, since he is in a robe and slippers and a twisty shower hat, but he’s too drained to care. Every step is heavy. By the time he manages to slide the key in the lock — this key cooperates, go fucking figure — and shove the heavy door open, he feels…precarious.

Fragile, maybe.

It takes one look from Keith, one flash of soft indigo eyes and bedsheets untucked and folded over like he likes them and a nightlight shining low on the side table, for him to simply burst into tears.

“It has been a long fucking day,” he sobs.

“It sure as shit has,” Keith agrees, opening his arms, and Lance doesn’t bother thinking before collapsing into them, curling into Keith’s lap and tucking under his chin. Keith grips him tightly and squeezes, and it feels so strangely familiar and so perfect that it’s simply too much for Lance to worry about. He does not have the energy. It’s just — too good, and he’s so tired, and if this is all a trick or a dream or anything like that then he’ll handle it in the fucking morning. Right now Keith is warm and he’s a real fucking person offering real fucking affection with absolutely zero strings attached, none of them, and Lance is allowed to have nice things, actually, it’s written right the in paladin handbook, he knows because he wrote it there himself.

He can just — have this one thing.

“Let’s just sleep for a few thousand years,” Keith says, and he sounds exhausted as Lance does.

And if this is a dream than there’s absolutely nothing to lose, and also whatever, truly, so Lance gives fully into every impulse he’s been too ashamed to even admit in his own head and leans up to kiss him squarely on the lips. He is warm and sweet and tastes like toothpaste, and he kisses back without a second of hesitation, and his hands cup the side of Lance’s face and his calloused thumb brushes across his cheekbones, and it’s everything Lance could ever want it to be, and it makes all the horrible everything melt away. So Lance says screw you, universe, and kisses him until he’s too tired to keep his eyes open, and then he tucks in next to him and relishes in his arm over his waist and falls asleep faster than he ever has in his life listening to Keith’s heartbeat.

This is where the situation starts.

———

based on this thread

[thebenjiblackwoodexpress]

Jump then fall prt.8-The Finale

Description: Can Aeron and Y/N get their happily ever after, or will the impending Dance of the Dragons keep them apart? Dragons, a wild Benjicot, and tourney's, oh my!

Part 7

Writer's note: the final part of Jump then Fall! I had never written a fanfic before this but it's been so fun to get involved with the HOTD fandom. Thank you so much to everyone who read this series :) I'm not sure if I'll write for Aeron anymore as I'll be trying my hand at an Aemond series next. But Elizabeth will hold the fort on the Brackenwood twinks with her Benji content. This includes crossover content with The Blackwood Knight since we accidentally created what we like to call 'The Bracken Tree Multiverse.' 😏

Warnings: swearing, female reader, Canon divergent, hurt/comfort, brief angst, lot's of fluff.

As dawn broke, Aeron made his way to the border with Samwell and Edmund. They did not have to wait long for Benjicot Blackwood to appear over the top of a hill, making his way down to them alone to Aeron's surprise. He was either brazen or so in love with Aeron's cousin that he had become blind to risk. He addressed Aeron with more deference and respect than he'd expected, based on the hostility that had tinged all their previous interactions. "Ser Aeron, I was gladdened to receive your raven." Aeron tried to match his tone "Ser Benjicot, I thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I will get to the point. It is my intention to broker peace between our Houses, your relationship with my cousin has led me to believe you will be amenable to this." Benjicot looked up sharply, can he really have been surprised that his love for Aeron's cousin was the worst kept secret in the Riverlands?

Coughing slightly at the awkwardness of the situation, Benjicot straightened and assumed an air of pride. "I am indeed in love with your cousin. I hope you do not intend to take issue with this. I would prefer not to fight you for fear of upsetting my beloved, I know how she cares for you." Aeron smirked back at him. "I do not take issue with you Blackwood. But it has come to my attention you have been sneaking across the border to see the lady under cloak of darkness. I ask you to desist and to meet with her by day instead before you are married." An uncharacteristic dusting of pink tinted Benjicot's cheeks as he nodded wordlessly. Aeron continued  "I will arrange for you to meet her at the border and take her to visit Raventree Hall on the morrow should this be acceptable to you. The lady herself has already agreed to the arrangement." Benjicot's perpetually cocky smirk returned in full force "I gladly accept. Now tell me of your terms for peace."

The terms were shortly settled and Aeron turned to Edmund as soon as Benjicot was out of hearing distance. "Cousin, I am grateful for your aid today and must ask of you another favour. Can I entrust you to take a message to my Lady, requesting a meeting with her in a location of her choosing. I will not encroach upon her home in the current circumstances. In doing so I trust that you will also issue her with your most heartfelt apology." Aeron's eyebrows rose up at the last, Edmund sheepishly nodding in return. "I will see to it forthwith cousin." Aeron wished to inform Y/N of the fortunate outcome of his meeting with Benjicot in person. He felt her absence most keenly, and seeing her so distressed the previous evening had broken his resolve to stay away from her entirely.

He had just barely been able to bear it when he'd thought it was only him that was suffering so acutely, knowing that it was her wish for him to keep his distance. And he'd instead tried to be content with sending her letters each day and imagining her response to each word. But seeing Y/N look so unwell, watching her burst into tears upon seeing him, and having her practically faint in his arms, had broken his resolve. Nonetheless, he wished to approach this as respectfully and in keeping with Y/N's wishes as possible, sending Edmund with his message first and requesting that she appoint a meeting place herself.

Edmund returned to Bracken Hall before midday with his Lady's response. He let out a sigh of relief as Edmund informed him of her acquiescence to meeting him and that she awaited him presently under their tree. Aeron wasted no time, pocketing a small parcel and departing to meet her at a brisk pace. He slowed his pace as Y/N came into view, palm raised to the trunk of the Brackentree as if reliving a memory. Trying not to startle her, he endeavoured to make enough noise to make his presence known at a distance. She looked up upon hearing the tread of his boots and Aeron stopped a respectful distance away. He looked longingly into her expectant eyes, wishing he could take her hand but knowing his advances would be unwanted at present. He did not assume that because she had allowed him to hold her yesterday, she would allow him to do so today. "My Lady, I am grateful you agreed to meet with me. I hope Edmund was respectful and fittingly apologetic for his part." Y/N nodded, the corner of her mouth quirked up as if trying to contain a smile. "He was, i've never seen him do anything but preen and look obnoxious. I would say it made a welcome change if I could, but it was almost disturbing." Aeron laughed at her wit, the sound and feel of laughter almost foreign to him now, and he rejoiced that she should feel comfortable enough to jest with him. "I wished to tell you of my meeting with Benjicot Blackwood." Y/N eyes immediately perked up attentively at that, eager to hear his news as she leaned her back against the trunk of the Bracken tree. "He was amenable to my suggestions for brokering peace between our Houses and was generous in his offer to dispense with the boundary lines. You were right that my cousin had a secret love, it was Benjicot all along. He seemed willing to go to any lengths to ensure she would not be torn between our two Houses and so I could not have hoped for a better outcome."

He took some tentative steps towards Y/N, and when she did not startle or attempt to move from her position, he walked to stand directly in front of her. His voice came out soft and distant even to him as he became lost in gazing at her. He had not been able to gaze upon the woman he loved for such a painfully long period of time and drank in each detail of her appearance now, in the fear that she would not allow him to see her again. Pulling his focus back to her eyes he was startled to find that her eyes seemed to be flitting across his features in the same manner, and he felt his own heart stutter at the thought of her missing him too. "All that is left is for me to convince my uncle to agree to Benjicot's terms, and reaffirm my refusal to the marriage with Roslyn Tully." Y/N nodded but still looked to him unsure. "And you think you can convince him on both those matters?" Aeron's expression turned resolute, his gaze focused on her eyes "I am certain of it because there is no other option for me. I have only ever loved one girl my whole life and I will marry no other, whatever the consequences."

Y/N raised her hand to hold onto the sleeve of his tunic, pulling him towards her slightly, before looking back up to him with her own determined stare. "I must ask you to understand how betrayed I have felt, how much your actions hurt me, and that it is difficult for me to trust you now. But I love you, you know this already and there is no use in denying it." Aeron tentatively raised his own hand to lightly graze her ribcage with his knuckles, a barely there touch that still conveyed his affection for her. He did not try to interrupt her as she continued. "If you make me your solemn promise never to deceive me again, and to keep your word with regards to your intentions, I will endeavour to forgive you and hope that in time my trust in you can be restored to what it was."

Aeron smiled tenderly at her, her words so welcome to his ears. He pulled a small package from his tunic, unwrapping it to reveal a golden broach to her. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the golden stallion atop the clasp, the symbol of House Bracken. "I wish for you to take this small token as an assurance that I mean what I say, in my eyes you are already the future Lady Bracken, should you permit it." Y/N tentatively took the broach from him, finding herself genuinely moved by his heartfelt attempt to show her his true intentions. She looked back up at him with a gentle smile "Thank you, Aeron."

Lost in his feeling of elation at her acceptance of his small gift, he took a step closer to her as if to embrace her and she planted a hand firmly on his chest to stop him. Aeron instantly halted his movements as his head dropped and he took a step back. "Aeron, I do not wish to open my heart to any more dissapointment. I ask that you keep your distance oncemore. You may come to me only when you have your uncle's express consent to break off your betrothal to Lady Roslyn, only when you are free to marry who you wish." Aeron's expression turned pained, but he understood his Lady's reasoning. "As you wish it, my love." Y/N briefly raised her hand as if to touch him before seeming to think better of it, lowering it back down to her side. "Farewell then Aeron." Her eyes glistened slightly as she strode quickly away from him. Aeron stayed rooted to the spot, watching Y/N walk away from him until she passed over the hill that lead to her home and he could no longer see her.

Lord Amos Bracken was furious at first to learn of his nephew's meeting with Benjicot Blackwood and the pact they had made. To know that Aeron had acted on behalf of House Bracken without his consent. He refused to speak with his nephew for three days in his anger, despite Aeron's constant attempts to catch him as he left his council room or left his chambers to break his fast. By the third day, Aeron had had enough. His uncle's stalling was just extending the length of time before he could see Y/N again and so on the third day he boldly strode into his uncle's council as it was in session. "Uncle I will speak with you, should you permit it or not. I ask you now to decide whether I will do so in front of your council members or not."

His uncle gaped at Aeron's audacity before signalling for his council to depart with a wave of his hand. As soon as the room was vacated and the door shut, Aeron began before his uncle could forestall him further. "Uncle the pact Ser  Benjicot Blackwood and I have brokered will mean peace throughout the Riverlands. There will be no more cause for violence at the border, indeed we will need no border at all and can pass peacefully between Blackwood and Bracken lands. You reject it out of spite alone. Will you not see what lies before you? We assure our own destruction if you will not be swayed." Lord Amos merely glared at Aeron, saying nothing and Aeron threw his hands up in frustration before stalking from the chamber, leaving the door to swing harshly against the wall. However, Lord Amos had begun to consider Aeron's words, unbeknownst to his nephew.

The next day Aeron took a different approach and when he sought an audience with his uncle again, it was with Lady Roslyn beside him. "Uncle, I entreat you to consider the benefits of an accord between our House and House Blackwood. There is no need for us to tear the Riverlands apart for Targaryen overlords who have no care for us. I will not marry Lady Roslyn, nor does she have any desire to marry me and she has kindly accompanied me to tell you as much. It is Y/N I love and it is her alone I will pledge myself too. You can either except this absolute with or without the peace pact I have secured." Aeron was out of breath by the time he had finished his tirade but his persistence had been worth it. Lord Amos finally acceded the sagacity of a pact between Blackwoods and Brackens, particularly when the Riverlands were threatened by all out warfare and destruction by dragon fire. Together, the Houses of the Riverlands would stand strong. And at last, he consented to dissolve Aeron's betrothal to the Lady Roslyn, much to her own relief. Aeron was pleasant enough but her tastes lay elsewhere, she had already found love with her handmaiden. She laughed as Aeron ran from the hall the second they were dismissed, having no doubt of where he was headed.

Y/N was almost ashamed to find herself yet again sat in the windowsill of her father's home, that gave her a direct view of Bracken Hall. She knew that it was at her request that Aeron stayed away. She had not thought she could bear his closeness while still uncertain whether she would be able to marry him. It did not matter that he'd all but promised himself to her, not until Lord Bracken rescinded his betrothal to Roslyn Tully. The Blackwood heir's ready acceptance to peace terms had filled her with hope, but she was no fool and would not allow herself to be placed in a precarious position again as she had been when Aeron's betrothal had first been announced.

And yet she had almost convinced herself she could see Aeron walking the path that led to her home, as she had often imagined. Her heart leapt in her chest as she realised she was not imagining anything, that was Aeron making his way across the field which led to her home. He was far off in the distance but she could recognise his silhouette anywhere. Y/N knew that if he had come to her that could only mean one thing, that all her hopes were coming to fruition. She slid off the window sill, picking up her skirts and beginning to run. It was a difficult task with nerves racking her entire body, but she felt an inexplicable pull forcing her legs to move faster as she ran to meet Aeron.

He did not spot her at first, seemingly preoccupied with staring at his boots, a bouquet of baby's breath flowers swinging from one of his hands. But when he did his face lit up in a smile that was pure sunshine to Y/N, full of warmth, which only made her run that much faster. Aeron opened his arms to meet her as she practically flew into him, wrapping his arms around her and holding her to him in an embrace that lifted her feet of the ground. He held her aloft and against him for a long while, his face pressed against her hair, breathing in the smell of her perfume, before he slowly slid her back down to the ground. He kept his arms firmly encircled around her waist nonetheless, as if frightened she would dissapear, though she had no intention of leaving his arms anytime soon.

Still out of breath from her exertions, she spoke in between pants. "It is settled then? I am to be your wife?" She watched a soft emotion crossed Aeron's eyes. Removing his hands from her waist and taking a step back from her, which had Y/N inwardly panicking that she had misunderstood the situation entirely, he suddenly knelt before her on one knee. She blushed as she realised what he was doing. Taking both her hands in his, he looked up at her reverentially as if she were a goddess and he her humble worshipper. "I will make no great speeches now my love, for I hope there will be plenty of time for that in the days and years that follow. I know that I tarried too long in expressing this, my most earnest and longheld desire, that you should become my wife, so I will waste no more time. I offer myself to you as your husband, as one who loves you and wants nothing more than to cherish you for the rest of our lives."

Y/N could hardly speak through the all-consuming joy she felt but squeezed his hands and managed out a breathy "yes." Aeron was on his feet in an instant, oncemore lifting her off the ground and spinning her as they both laughed. Setting her back down, he slowly brought his hands to either side of her face, before pressing his forehead to hers and closing his eyes, as if trying to convey the love he felt for her with this touch. He brushed his lips against hers, whispering against them "I can no longer be a raven", seemingly referring to that pained period when the only connection he could have with his beloved was the daily letters he sent by raven. With that he closed the distance and captured her lips with his. Y/N pulled away from him after a few moments, fixing Aeron with a stern gaze. "Don't you ever do something so stupid again, do you understand me?" Aeron gulped down a swallow before responding "Of course my love, it was a terrible thing and I am sorry for it. I will spend a lifetime trying to make up for it." Y/N considered this and nodded, placing her head on his chest. Only a second later she abruptly pushed him away from her, seemingly not finished with scolding him for his previous misteps as she poked him in the chest with her index finger. "And don't think that you can just get away with..." Aeron quickly cut her off, pulling her back to him by her waist and crashing his lips to hers. Y/N found she did not care about his rude interruption, simply opening her palm to lay it flat against his chest and entangling her other hand in his hair. She felt him smile against her lips as she did so.

Aeron did not think he had ever been so nervous in his life as he stood at the altar of the Sept at Bracken Hall, waiting for Y/N. His feelings had clearly mapped their way onto his expression and Samwell lightly elbowed him in the ribs as he stood at his side. "Worried she's going to jilt you? Can't blame you, she was always too good for you." When Aeron shot him a look of utter panic at what he'd intended as a joke Sam relented and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Stop worrying. Y/N loves you, it may be misguided philanthropy on her part but it's true nonetheless. She'll be here." Aeron nodded and faced back towards the door.

He was glad of it as within moments Y/N appeared on her father's arm. Aeron's face broke into a smile at the sight of her. She had never looked so beautiful to him than she did now in her wedding dress of cream and gold, symbolising her affinity with his House. He had to remember to keep his breathing even as she walked towards him, but his nerves disappeared altogether when she removed herself from her father's arm to take his hand instead. He could barely contain his joy as they spoke their vows, realising that he could finally call Y/N his wife.

𝕰𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊

As the great Houses of the Riverlands came together as one to support Rhaenyra's claim, the war was quickly won in the true Queen's favour. A period of peace and prosperity was brought forth such that the Riverlands had never seen in living memory, the pact between House Blackwood and House Bracken cemented in treaties and in blood with the marriage of the Lord of Raventree, Benjicot Blackwood, to Aeron Bracken's cousin.

Aeron felt sure he'd checked everywhere for his favourite riding gloves, having turned his chambers inside out to find them. He was certain his Lady Wife would not be best pleased at the mess but he urgently needed his gloves for the tourney his uncle was holding on the morrow. He had neither the time nor the patience to restore everything back to its rightful place as he searched, leaving behind him a wake of destruction. A gentle cough behind him signalled the arrival of the very lady he'd been  thinking of and he turned to her with a sheepish smile. "I must apologise, my love. I assure you I will set everything back to rights, I just cannot seem to find my gloves anywhere." Y/N nodded, smoothing her skirts down and beginning to open up a cabinet he'd not yet checked. "I think it best we find the gloves first before we attempt to put anything back in order. I don't trust you not to mess it up again otherwise." She sent him a look that was half stern, half teasing. "Right you are of course, my darling." He smiled at her sweet nature as she joined him in looking for his missing gloves.

Opening a drawer in the bottom shelf of a dresser his hands grazed some crumpled parchment, and he pulled out a wad of letters tied together with lilac ribbon. As he continued to look at them he realised they were in fact his letters, or rather the ones he had written to Y/N in the weeks following that disastrous banquet, when she had refused to speak to him at all. He had imagined she'd thrown every letter out in her anger with him, it warmed his heart to know she'd kept them like precious treasures. They were crumpled and clearly well-read, as if she had gone back to them time and time again. Suspicious of her husband's silence, Y/N turned and her heart skipped a beat at what she saw. Quickly running over to him she made a grab for the letters but Aeron pulled them out of her reach. Her face was flushed with embarrassment but Aeron could not see why.

"You kept my letters?" Hearing the tenderness in his tone as his eyes softened, she realised he did not mean to mock her for her sentimentality.

"They were beautiful letters."

"I thought you had hated each one, though I could not find it in myself to stop writing. Those letters felt like the only thing tethering me to you at one point."

Y/N reached up to stroked Aeron's cheek. "I cannot tell you what those words meant to me. I read them over and over, they were the only thing that made me certain you did in fact love me. I cherish them and read them often even now."

Aeron took her hand from his face to place a kiss on her palm at her admission. "Perhaps I should write more love letters, then, if it would please my Lady Wife." Aeron smirked cockily at her. She swatted his chest, "Don't get too arrogant now, it doesn't suit you husband. I should be glad to receive your notes though if you deign to write them."

Aeron pulled her to him, his chin resting atop her head. "I shall dedicate hours to them each day. Nothing shall take precedence." Aeron jested. He did so love to hear his wife laugh.

As the morning of the tourney loomed, Aeron attempted with little success to put on his armour without the help of his bastardly squire, who'd gotten too deep into his cups at the opening feast the night prior. As he struggled to attach his pauldron to his breastplate he heard the shift of fabric as the flap of his tent was pulled up and his Lady Wife entered. "Husband, I can hear you clanging about with your armour from outside. Let me help you." She removed his hands from where he'd been fumbling with clasps as she deftly began to attach each piece with more patience and skill than he had done. He felt his heartbeat race, as she brushed her hands across his shoulders to survey her handy work. Though they were now married and he could barely feel her touch through the armour, she was ever able to have such an affect on him.

Handing him his gauntlet she nodded, seemingly satisfied with her work. "You are presentable, now make me proud." Aeron let out a hearty laugh, pulling his beloved wife to him with one arm wrapped around her waist as she braced her hands against his chest from the momentum. He leaned down and lightly brushed his nose against hers. "I shall win every tournament  which I compete in if it should please my Lady, and if she consent to give me her favour." Quickly pecking him on the lips Y/N affectionately patted Aeron on the cheek before pulling away. "None of that my Good Knight. You can get a kiss when you win your tournaments."

As Aeron reluctantly released her, a playful look lit her eyes and she made a grab for his sword. "You should teach me how to use this Aeron, it might come in handy when your cousin Edmund is being particularly reprehensible." Lifting it she attempted to swing it in an arch but stumbled under the weight of it, not having taken that into account. Aeron's eyes widened in concern for her safety as it swung wildly out of her grip in the direction of the tent entrance, only for Samwell to pop his head through the flap. The sword just barely missed his head as his eyes widened comically in shock. Y/N quickly covered her mouth in embarrassment and fear of what she had almost done. Seeming to recover his wits, Samwell turned his head in Aeron's direction. "I dare say my good man your Lady Wife almost decapitated me. What have you done to make her so angry she should swing your own sword at you."

Y/N took a step towards him, frantically uttering her apologies. "I'm so terribly sorry Samwell, I was being silly and messing about with it."

Samwell did not wish to embarass his friend's wife and so shrugged it off. "No worries my Lady, if I were bound to that oaf over there for the rest of my days I'd also have swung a sword at him by now." Aeron rolled his eyes at Samwell and wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders, rubbing his hand down her arm comfortingly. "I'll not have you undermining my Lady's swordsmanship Samwell. The blow was clearly well aimed and meant for you. I'm immensely proud." Y/N's embarrassment had begun to fade as the two men continued to jest and volley insults at one another, but she resolutely decided she would in fact ask Aeron to teach her to handle a sword in future to avoid any recurrences. With a soft kiss to the crown of her head, Aeron departed for the joust and Y/N made for the stands to cheer on her husband. She positioned herself close to the balcony railings of Lord Bracken's box so Aeron would be able to see her and ask for her favour. She well knew he had kept the first lilac favour she'd ever given him tied to his swordbelt, and yet she still knew he would ask it of her. She believed that to him it was his way of expressing to her what they'd both always known since they were children, that he was her Good Knight and she his Lady.

@lovebabe18 @poppyflower-22 @ithilwen-blackwood @spinachtz @lady-callisto @twistytimesandthoughts @abookloverlawyerfan-blog @mymoonempress @alexandracgg @rvllybllply2014 @nyrasnation @shemisseshome @margoniezniez @im-gonna-love-you-forever

[theneighborhoodwatch]

thoughts on the Eddie scene from the end of the commercial reel? :D

HAHA oh man. okay while i'm waiting on the results of that poll, i might as well answer this. thoughts under the cut:

so, this may be me being optimistic, but i actually don't think this is indicative of eddie being permadead or anything, and not just because i think it'd be kinda cheap to kill a character off this early into the story before we even got to really know them. rather, i think this is a pretty straightforward explanation for eddie's absence from the homewarming recordings: he spent most of the day in his office waiting to be called on, only got invited to the homewarming party once everyone else had wrapped up their shenanigans, and proceeded to disassociate so hard that he was borderline catatonic when frank managed to draw his attention away from whatever he saw when he looked beyond the veil - and it's implied that frank was the only (or at least, the first) person to notice his acute distress in the first place. in short, eddie's presence throughout the entire holiday of homewarming ended up being so inconsequential either way that he might as well have not even been worth mentioning. of course, if he is missing by the next update then like. egg on my face. but that's how i see it for now.

so, is The Void that eddie found himself in when he first opened his eyes real? i mean, certainly on some level, it must be. either it's the truth of the neighbors' world or it is simply true for home, since they were the only other entity there - and since home is at the center of their world, well...... . as for what the void represents - i feel like that's something we'll only have a clearer picture of once another character finds themselves in The Bullshit, but i can hazard a few guesses, the first and most obvious being that it's eddie accidentally piercing the veil by being just a little too OOC for the universe's liking, i.e. "silly mailman, you're the resident workaholic! you're not actually supposed to relax, that's just so this special can end!" the second interpretation - and one that i like just a bit more, if i'm being honest - is that it's a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy, or that distress over a deviation from the status quo makes one more susceptible to The Horrors.

hear me out: we know from the previous show scenes in the commercial reel that feeling useless or unneeded by way of having no work to do is a really easy way to get under eddie's skin, and his agitation over that was still lingering when sally invited him to the homewarming party. he's optimistic, yes - but very cautiously so. he's not used to it. something still feels a little wrong, which presents a prime opportunity for Something (home?) to wrap their arm around his shoulder and go, "buddy, you have no fucking idea." i remember reading a post that went something like "if a person goes from 1 to 100 seemingly out of nowhere, chances are they were at a 99 for a really long time, and they were just either hiding it or didn't even realize it." i think it's something like that. Something - home? wally? one of those two acting on the other's behalf? - sees this dissatisfaction, and in it, finds an opportunity to Make Them See. Make Them Understand.

something else i can't stop thinking about is that final shot of frank at the end. on the one hand, yes, it is very sweet how frank is willing to break away from formality if it means making sure that eddie's alright. on the other hand, though.... that shot of frank feels very idolizing to me. in the sea of red, frank is the one remnant of when things were fine and dandy for eddie just a few minutes before. he's in the center of the shot, and for that split second, arguably the center of eddie's world. they're even haloed by light, like an angel. again, whether they're in a properly established relationship by this point or if this is the beginning of their relationship turning from a playful flirtationship to something deeper, it's sweet to think that this is how eddie sees frank - as a refuge from The Bullshit. but i have to wonder... is eddie prepared for the possibility (or inevitability, rather) that one day, it'll be frank in that chair? given how frank likes things "just so," how is eddie going to react if, say, frank decides that the best way to ensure eddie's safety/wellbeing is to stay away from him? Many Questions Here.

[remembers that i suggested lower one's eyes as eddie's answer to frank's esperar pra ver once] [remembers that lower one's eyes is about a judas analogue being in love with a jesus analogue] [coughs up blood]

on that note, i know some folks think that at least some parts of "bug-a-bye and goodnight" are about eddie because "that's not the kind of thing you say about a bug!!!" but the thing about that is. it might not be what you would say about a bug. but it is absolutely what frank would say about a bug.

ok i'm done. For Now.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Published May 13, 2024

Governments and certain key opinion formers aren’t being open and honest about the risks associated with COVID-19 and their actions will have long-term consequences for public health and trust in science.

One of the criticisms often leveled at members of the Covid-cautious community is that they believe ‘everything is Covid.’ Critics say there is an element of alarmism or neurosis in the concerns this community has about COVID-19 because no pathogen could cause all the harms being laid at its door.

Unfortunately, the newest widely circulating pathogen in the human population uses a broadly expressed ACE2 receptor to infect cells1, meaning it can damage almost any part of the body2. Prior to the COVID-19 pandemic, few people believed coronaviruses could linger in the body, but members of the John Snow Project outlined their concerns in 2021 because there was extensive evidence going back decades to suggest coronaviruses could persist3,4. These concerns have since been shown to be justified, with numerous studies now demonstrating prolonged viral persistence and immune activation5-9.

The combination of a widely expressed receptor and persistent infection means the acute and long-term effects of SARS-CoV-2, the virus which causes COVID-19, can be unpredictable10.

SARS-CoV-2 has also been shown to harm the immune system in various ways11-14, many of which are common to other pathogens. This harm seems to have increased susceptibility to other pathogens such as dengue15 and strep A16,17.

We’ve previously written about government efforts to return to pre-2020 norms and how official messaging that we must all assess our own level of risk has been interpreted by most people to mean that it is safe to engage with the world in the same way one would have done in 2019 and that there will be no additional risk in doing so18.

Most people have resumed pre-pandemic behaviours, but there has been an increase in general ill-health, which can be demonstrated in rising levels of long-term illness19, disability20,21, GP appointments22, chronic absence among school pupils23-27, rising absence among teachers28 and worker shortages in a wide range of industries29. Many commentators theorize about the reasons for these phenomena, blaming a mysterious malaise among workers, indulgent or irresponsible parents, or post-lockdown laziness.

Aiding this apparent mystery is the rather bizarre way in which official figures are reported. A prominent Covid-cautious commentator pointed this out in a thread on X in relation to the UK Office of National Statistics figures on Long Covid30. The ONS analysis states, “The majority of people self-reporting long COVID experienced symptoms over two years previously,” but the way the data is presented skews the risk towards historic Covid-19 cases by using uneven time intervals, a practice which is in breach of UK government policy on how to present time series data31. However, when the data is presented as close to correctly as the raw data allows, the risk of developing Long Covid from a COVID-19 infection seems to remain relatively constant.

Another criticism leveled at the Covid-cautious community is that members are overstating the risk of Long Covid. High quality studies from all over the world point to the very real and significant risk of Long Covid32-34, and there is now evidence to suggest the risk of Long Covid rises with each subsequent infection35.

If anything, Long Covid prevalence is likely to be understated because of the dearth of public health information from official sources. There are still some people who are surprised they can be reinfected by SARS-CoV-2. There are others who know about the risk of reinfection but who falsely believe each subsequent infection will be milder. There are yet more who do not know each infection can carry a risk of long-term illness.

When we get into specifics, how many people know COVID-19 infection can cause headaches and migraines weeks or months later36,37? Or that it can cause fainting38,39? Nausea40? Heart attacks41,42? Cardiac complications in adults and children43,44? Embolisms45? ADHD-like symptoms46,47? Neurological issues48,49? How many people are suffering the long-term sequelae of COVID-19 infection but not drawing the causal link and instead ascribing their new conditions to bad luck or aging?

We’ve previously written about governments creating the space for antivaxx messaging to thrive by not correctly reporting the risks of COVID-19 infection29, but there are greater threats. Every time a Covid-minimizer says, “There’s nothing to worry about, look at everybody else out there living their lives, just resume your old ways,” they are undermining faith in public health measures because their reassurance is based not on the scientific evidence but on instinct, hope and, possibly, a vested interest in maintaining the status quo because they staked their professional credibility on infections being protective. Science and public health progress when we follow the evidence, not when we hold hunches and opinions in higher esteem than evidence.

The huge rise in dengue50, coupled with the evidence that dengue virus uses SARS-CoV-2 antibodies to enhance infection15 and the correlation of COVID-19 cases to dengue cases51 suggests there is an interplay between the pathogens that hasn’t been fully understood. Whooping cough is surging in the UK, with cases up 3,800% on previous years52-55, and adults who have been previously vaccinated or infected are now falling seriously ill. Similar surges have been seen in other countries, and while those who like to blame anything-but-Covid point the finger at lockdowns, which ended more than three years ago in most countries, sensible people would like to understand the interplay between COVID-19 infection and susceptibility to other pathogens.

It would only make sense to pursue ignorance if there was nothing that could be done about COVID-19, but we know that clean air policies can reduce the risk of all infections56, be they bacterial, viral or fungal. The “just get on with it” messaging of those who want people to forget about COVID-19 is a celebration of the sort of ignorance that has slowed and stalled human progress throughout history.

If there is a business case for investment in engineering and architecture that will improve human health, we need to properly understand the harms caused by COVID-19. Sweeping it under the rug, shouting down those with legitimate concerns, pretending the virus doesn’t exist, massaging data to make it appear things are safe, are all counter to this understanding.

It seems those with means have already decided their health will benefit from clean air57, and advanced ventilation and filtration systems are the latest must-have addition to high-end properties58, which suggests there is also an issue of equity involved in understanding COVID-19. The advancement of human knowledge has always empowered the general population, which is why it has often been resisted by those in power. Keep that in mind the next time someone says, “Stop worrying. Just get on with it.” They want your ignorance and incur no cost if you are harmed by being repeatedly infected by COVID-19 or any other pathogen that might be surging in its wake.

For information on how you can protect yourself from COVID-19 infection, please click here.

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 7: Complications Abound

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.7K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions.

** Warning ** This chapter contains implied/attempted sexual assault. Please be careful and read at your own risk.

The Sussur Bloom’s glow pours like a phosphorescent waterfall over the delicate blue petals. You can taste the honey-sweet aroma of the flower suspended in the air.

You observe it acutely, trying to figure out where the boundary of its effect terminates.

Aldous grins deplorably, “You would not believe how much this cost to procure.”

Does he think that will impress me?

Drawing in a deep breath, you calm your rampaging heart and swallow the terror balled in your throat.

Adorning your face with an overtly sweet, innocent smile, you summon every snippet of charisma you possess, “A beautiful flower indeed.”

“Not half as beautiful as my current company,” Aldous winks.

Ew.

“Where is your father?” your eyes flash around, assessing the surroundings for advantages you may be able to exploit, “I believe he should join us.”

“Father is away on business. He will not be participating in this discussion tonight.”

Convenient.

“Perhaps we should postpone this little discourse until your father returns.”

Aldous ignores you, “Did you know that the Sussur Bloom nullifies all magic in its vicinity? A useful item against an ornery sorceress.”

“Aldous…”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he sneers, wagging his finger at you, “You will give me the respect I am due.”

HA! A ludicrous notion.

You clench your teeth so hard that the nerves sing, “Saer, I’d like to-”

“Where is the man who was with you?” Aldous cuts you off, “The Elf.”

The door lock clicks, and you nearly wince, but you keep your illusion of poise intact. A grin slinks across Aldous’s lips as he stalks toward you.

“There was no other Elf. You were roaring drunk.”

He chuckles sinisterly, “You may have been able to pull the wool over my father's eyes, but I am not so easily fooled.”

The distance between you and Aldous recedes as he continues his menacing approach. You take wary steps backward, striving to retain as much space as possible.

The poorly lit gloom only deepens as you’re pressured further to the rear of the shop.

Glancing at the door behind Aldous, you concentrate on the stained-glass window. Daylight is fading fast. You silently rejoice and then scold yourself harshly for it.

I shouldn’t be counting on Astarion to save me.

You soak your voice in your most persuasive, candied inflection, “We can sort this little mishap out. There’s no need to involve anyone else.”

“Who is he?!” Aldous rasps.

Anger. A weakness I can exploit.

“No one.”

“Don’t play dull, Sorceress. I will pry it out of you one way or another.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” you smirk patronizingly, “It seems you’re seeing ghosts. Perhaps a visit to a healer is in order?”

Aldous growls threateningly at your taunting. His teeth scour together harshly, sending shivers rushing up your spine, making your stomach reel and pitch.

“He means much to you,” he sneers, “You protect him by putting yourself in harm’s way,” Aldous’s finger taps his chin, “I can’t help but wonder why he would let you come alone. Perhaps you don’t mean as much to him as he does to you.”

“Perhaps,” you shrug, “I don’t."

“You shouldn’t settle for that, Sorceress.”

This little shit dares scold me?  

“As if I care what you think.”

“You deserve someone like me,” his hand comes to his puffed-up chest arrogantly, “prestigiously bred of noble blood, wealthy, handsome, and influential. Someone who can provide you with a life of luxury.”

“Gods, you sicken me.”

Aldous places the Sussur Bloom on a table behind him, but close enough that you are within the negating influence.

His face burns red, brows pinched in a nightmarish scowl, “You’re going to have a very miserable night then.”

“If you fucking touch me, I will kill you.”

Not a threat, a fucking promise.

“You’re all bark and no bite without your magic. I will take my apology in whatever form I choose.”

Your stomach warps nauseatingly, and you swallow the bile that soars into your throat.

Grabbing the hidden dagger in your boot, you swipe at Aldous frantically, grazing a weeping cut across his pudgy stomach.

Aldous lunges at you with a howl, grabbing your arm and twisting it, slamming it hard against the corner of a towering bookcase. The dagger rattles to the floor, and Aldous kicks it away swiftly.

“You miserable swine!” he barks, eyes savage and enraged.

Aldous pins you to the bookcase with a bruising grip. His chest puts so much pressure on yours that the air you inhale whines when drawn into your constricted lungs.

Gods, please, just a little longer.

Aldous wrenches at the high collar of your robe, and a snarling shriek tears from your throat. His forehead slams into your face, cutting off your scream.

Pain causes a disorienting parade of light to erupt behind your eyes, and your lip swells and aches furiously. The sharp, ferrous tang of blood coats your tongue.

You spit, and red-tinged droplets splatter across Aldous’s face, “I should have killed you.”

“My, my, what's this on your neck?” he snickers while eyeing the bite mark marring your flesh, “If you like to be bitten, all you had to do was ask nicely. I would have happily obliged.”

Your stomach churns with the insinuation. You yearn to see the little worm beg and plead for you to spare his life."

Pale hands rip Aldous backward.

Astarion’s voice resounds in the dark, “I hear you like to bite, but do you like to be bitten?”

Aldous shrieks as sharp fangs sink into the supple flesh of his neck. You stand, a wicked smile on your face, watching the life slowly drain from Aldous’s eyes.

You could ask Astarion to stop. You could spare the feeble runt his life. You could, but you don’t.

I was never a hero.

Astarion releases him when his eyes are dull and listless, and Aldous’s body crumbles to the floor.

The door creaks unexpectedly, making you jump, and you grasp at the intrinsic magic usually ever-present, only to find a yawning void.

Right. Where is that godsdamned flower?

Gale jogs in, huffing harshly out of breath. Eyeing the Sussur Bloom sitting innocently on the table, you throw it down and grind it to nothing but a blue paste smeared across the floor with your boot.

Astarion and Gale study you with apprehension as if worried you may buckle and break apart. You cross your arms and frown at them.

How soft do they think I am? 

“I don’t need mollycoddling like a spoon-fed babe,” you tut, clearly vexed, “What are we going to do about him?”

Gale’s fingers his chin, “This will certainly complicate things.”

“I will handle this,” Astarion concludes.

“No,” you stammer, “I can help.”

Astarion shakes his head, “You and Gale go for a lovely, very long, relaxing night stroll. Greet, chat, mingle with everyone you see, stop at a pub and drink; I care not, just make sure you are seen far from here.”

Gale nods, “We must set the lanceboard in our favour, so to speak. Astarion can handle this. This is hardly the first body he’s had to make disappear.”

Astarion smirks, “Far from it.”

“I could simply set this whole place ablaze,” you muse.

An excuse, more than anything, to see this place eradicated from existence.

Gale pales, “Burn all these books?”

Astarion snickers and sighs dramatically, “Truly, darling, did you not consider the books?!”

You roll your eyes, “They would make for fine kindling.”

Gale mumbles, mouth agape, “How unseemly.”

Astarion giggles at the ill-humoured scowl darkening Gale’s face before looking at you, “Still that twitchy palm of yours. Nothing screams guilty like a raging, fiery inferno.”

“I suppose you are the expert in these matters, Astarion.”

“Oh,” he grins, “Please do continue showering me with your praises.”

“Good Gods,” Gale grumbles, “We should not linger, my friend.”

“Fine,” you throw your hands up, exasperated, “I will spare the damn books.”

Astarion snaps his fingers, “Gale, the scroll, if you please.”

The scroll?

You cock your brow at him. Astarion unrolls the scroll, recites the incantation, and it vanishes.

The swell and tender ache in your lower lip dissipates. Astarion pulls a handkerchief out and wipes the leftover drops of blood from your chin that had dribbled down from the split in your lip.

“Good as new,” he purrs, but there is concern laden in his eyes.

“Your incantations need work,” you tease to relieve Astarion’s anxiety.

He grins but clicks his tongue in disapproval, “As do your manners, it seems.”

Gale weaves you through small, dim alleys and paths while avoiding the populace until you’re far from the shop.

Once you can return to the main thoroughfare, Gale skillfully greets passersby, striking up mundane conversations to ensure you’re noticed and seen.

Neither Gale nor you speak of what happened until you’re safely back in the manor.

“Fuck,” your fingers wrack through your hair, “I’m so sorry, Gale.”

“You need not be,” Gale squeezes your shoulder, “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“We need a plan.”

Run. Run. Run. Take Astarion and run - your mind chants.

Hells. My inclination toward avoidance has gotten out of hand.

Gale pats your arm, “What have we always done?”

“Outflank. Outsmart,” you echo his words.

“Spot on,” he grins, “We can delve further into the particulars come morning.”

“You’re right,” you take a calming breath, “I think that’s about enough excitement for today.”

“You have a strange notion of excitement, my friend,” Gale chuckles, “Now if you will excuse me, I am in dire need of a bath. Hells. That vampiric bastard can move swiftly. Perhaps I have gotten indolent in retirement.” 

After bathing and changing, you sit on your bed and stare at the unfilled space beside you. Just this morning, you had awoken in Astarion’s room, and your eyes overindulged on the sight of him still peacefully at rest.

Can I go back to resting and waking up alone again? Moreover, do I want to?

No.

Your heart whimpers in your chest at the concept, sinking into your stomach with a quiver. The battle between your fearfulness and what you want continues to war on. Everything you crave is situated on the other side of your doubt.

Why do you keep yourself seated in the dark abyss you retreated to when he left when the light is right in front of you, and all you have to do is walk into it?

I’m still running.

Coward.

Reprimanding yourself for being so spineless, you leave the emptiness of your bed behind and make yourself some tea. Sinking into the chair on the terrace, your legs curl up under you.

The waves flourish and flaunt in the inlet, making the boats dance in concert and the tangy brine of the sea wafts in the air. Coasting clouds cause the pastel glow of the new moon to wax and wane.

The fluttering beat of wings alerts you to Tara’s approach before you see her soar and land on the terrace with a grace only she and Astarion could muster.

The pitter-patter of her little paws on the wood boards makes you smile as she draws near.

Tara stretches her wings before settling, “Would you like some company while you await the vampire’s return?”

“Tara, do you know the vampire’s name?”

“Of course,” she scowls, “You’ve been calling out to him in your sleep for months.”

Oh… 

Right.

“Why do you keep calling him vampire then?”

“He calls me cat or cat with wings, does he not?” she huffs exasperatedly, “It does not vex him as I hoped, though.”

You giggle at her, “You must try much harder if you wish to aggravate him.”

She nods curly as if she’s taken that into advisement, “I have not seen you out here recently. What is troubling you this night?”

Patting your lap, you invite her up, “It’s hard to find enough peace to rest when your heart is at war with your mind.”

Tara jumps up and lays down with a soft purr, “Have you always been so meek?”

Meek? Not a word I would have ever described myself with.

“No,” you stare off into the distance blankly.

Her round eyes reflect what little light the moon provides, “You have been lonely here, yes?”

How does she know these things?

The unmistakable glint of unshed tears brims in your eyes, “Is there a cure for loneliness?”

She cocks her head, confused, “You do not seem lonely when he is near.”

“I-” your brows pinch together, she’s right again, you think, “I suppose I’m not.”

“Then he is the cure you seek.” Tara concludes, “May I speak bluntly?”

She’s never asked before. This should be good.

“Please do.”

“You are being an idiot,” she says factually.

You laugh, almost spewing your tea at Tara’s curtness, “I’m sorry. Care to elaborate?”

“The longer you keep yourself tethered to this unhappiness, the longer you will live a life not meant for you.”

I hate how right she is.

Your fingers tap the mug fretfully as tears tiptoe out of the corners of your eyes, “What if I can’t get over my fear, Tara?”

Tara puts her paws on your chest, levelling her green eyes with yours with a stern yet empathetic glower, “Then you must do it afraid, Sorceress.”

She makes it sound so simple.

But it is really that simple, isn't it?

You stifle back a sniffle and scratch behind her ear, “Stop being so smart and wise.”

“Perhaps when you stop being an idiot.”

Another strangled laugh escapes your throat as you stroke her silky fur, making her purr loudly. Resting your head on the high-backed chair, your eyes flutter shut.

“You must do it afraid.”

I will.

I just need a little more time.  

Tara leaps off your lap, and your eyes open sleepily to see Astarion standing before you. Dirt streaks the pale skin of his face and hands, and trails, where sweat rolled down his temples and forehead, are evident.

“Wake up, sweetheart.”

You scan the sky as the haze clouding your vision disperses slowly. It must be only hours from dawn.

Your nose crinkles, “You smell like dirt.”

“I thought I would try something new; groundskeeper with a hint of grave robber,” his brow cocks seductively, “Is it working for you?”

You giggle, “Absolutely not.”

“Well,” he pouts with a dramatic sigh, “don’t be afraid to tell me what you really think.”

“I think you really need a bath.”

“I do love it when you sass me,” he tuts, “Naughty thing. What are you doing resting out there? You’re shivering fiercely.”

“I was talking to Tara,” your teeth chatter together, “I must have drifted off.”

He kisses your forehead, “Come on. Let’s get you warmed up inside,” Walking through the kitchen, Astarion turns to you, “Are you gracing my bed with your delicious self again tonight, friend?”

Hells. I was heading to his room without even thinking about it.

“Do you want me to?”

“It’s up to you,” Astarion shrugs as if it doesn’t matter, but there’s a hint of hope reflected in the scarlet of his irises.

Gods, tell me we belong together. Please.

“Tell me what you want, Astarion.”

“You, my love. Always and forevermore, you,” he purrs, taking your hand, “My bed it is.”

Astarion’s room is a chasm of blackness when you enter. With a flick of your wrist, you light the candles instantly with a smug smile.

He chuckles, “I forgot how handy you are to have around.”

“Truly indispensable,” you chime back in jest.

“Better set that ablaze as well,” Astarion points to the fireplace, “You get grouchy when you’re cold.”

You gasp, hand coming to your mouth theatrically, “I’m never grouchy!”

“Oh, don’t fret, my dear,” he glowers at you playfully, “You’re adorable when you're grouchy.”

“Go bathe, you smell.”

He giggles with a shallow bow, “As the lady wishes.”

You sit on the edge of Astarion’s bed, and a smile trails across your lips. These moments with him feel so familiar, so right, and they quiet the clashing present inside you.

Why are you making things so complicated for yourself? It could be as simple as telling him you want to be with him, so why don’t you?

He would finally stop calling me “friend,” at least.

Astarion returns with only a towel hanging loosely around his waist. He nudges your legs apart with his knee and leans in close. His hands slip up the bed by your sides, forcing you to lean back until you’re propped up on your forearms. Your heart parades in your chest, seemingly skipping beats the closer he leans into you.

“Well, you’re not wrinkling your cute little nose at me anymore,” Astarion taps the tip of your nose softly, “A good sign.”

Leaning in close, you kiss his shoulder while making a dramatic show of inhaling deeply, “You stink… less.”

He giggles and gives you a gentle shove, “Less?! Darling, I’m hurt,” he imitates shock with a sulky flair, “I smell excellent.”

Hells, does he ever.

“How do you know?”

Astarion taps your chest over your heart in rhythm with the quickened pace with a sly, boyishly handsome smile, “Your body tells me everything I need to know.”

“Pleased with yourself, are you?”

“Indeed,” he coos, “Now, to bed with you, sleepy love.”

Yes, rest. Gods, I’m tired.

Astarion’s thumb sweeps lazily back and forth over your arm, and you lay your head on his chest. Your eyes feel heavy and sag closed.

Lifting your hand, you draw all the flames from the candles into an orb floating above your palm, extinguishing them. The flaming sphere winks out, bathing the room in darkness except for the glow from the ebbing embers in the fireplace.

Astarion kisses your forehead, “Braggart.”

You giggle, but your voice sounds distant to your ears as the current of your trance pulls you under. Astarion starts to hum while running his fingers through your hair.

“I love you,” you say in a whispering sigh.

Wait… did I say that out loud?

Astarion’s crooning hum cuts off, and his fingers come to your chin, guiding your face up.

The silky skin of his lips caresses yours tenderly, “I love you too. Rest, my only one.” 

Gale rubs his eyes, “Where was Mr. Blackwell?”

“Aldous said he was away on business,” your leg bounces nervously, “He didn’t elaborate further.”

Astarion’s hand slips over your thigh under the table, stilling the ferocity of its jostling.

“We have some time then,” Gale concludes, “I have business in the city today. I could make some inquiries.”

“Bloody Hells, you are terrible at this,” Astarion groans, clicking his tongue and rolling his eyes, “Gale, if you go making odd inquiries, you’ll implicate yourself.”

Gale scoffs, “Oh, my deepest apologies if I am not proficient in the matters of covering up a murder.”

“Apology accepted,” Astarion drawls, “We could always kill Mr. Blackwell. What’s one more murder?”

“Mr. Blackwell has a wife,” Gale scowls, “Aldous’s mother.”

“You say that as if it’s a problem, Gale,” Astarion shrugs, “The wife as well then.”

Gale’s skin goes a deathly white as his mouth drops open, eyes round, “You cannot seriously be suggesting we murder an entire family!”

You cut them both off, “Astarion is trying to get under your skin, Gale. Don’t let him.”

“You’re no fun,” Astarion’s lips purse into a pout, “I had the wizard going.”

Gale’s body unknots with relief, “Very funny, my sharp-toothed friend.”

You rub your temples to stifle the headache brewing, “How well connected is Mr. Blackwell, Gale?”

Gale’s fingers tap his chin, “Connected would be an understatement. The man is friends with every high-ranking official in the city.”

Certainly a complication.

Astarion’s fingers drum on the table, “Could we not convince him that his son ran off with some trollop?”

“I could try,” you nod, “but Mr. Blackwell is already suspicious of me. He will not make an easy target.”

“You do have a very delicious silver tongue,” Astarion’s hand slips up your thigh and between your legs, “I have no doubt you could persuade him.”

You sit stiffly, trying not to expose the crudeness happening below the wood tabletop as Astarion’s fingers sweep over your crotch.

“I could try,” you choke out as you clench involuntarily at the sensation, “but it’s not foolproof.”

Astarion scoffs, “If you want foolproof, my dear, we better circle back to the murder option.”

“Do you not feel any remorse for what you’ve done!” Gale explodes out of his chair, irritation creasing his forehead.

Astarion stands with bared teeth, leaning threateningly close to Gale’s face, “I feel only pristine satisfaction. You have NO idea what he was about to do to her, Gale.”

“Stop it! Both of you,” you roar, slamming your hands on the table to get their attention, “I could have stopped Astarion, and I didn’t. If you must hold someone responsible for this, the blame is mine, Gale.”

“Enough!” Astarion’s crimson eyes send shivers down your spine, “You are not accountable for my actions!”

This is about more than just this event.

“Gale,” you sigh with a forced smile, “Go make your inquiries, but be discreet.”

Gale bows shallowly and excuses himself, glancing between you and Astarion. There is a grim tension in the air.

Astarion’s finger taps rhythmically on the table, a telltale sign he’s upset with you.

“Spit it out, Astarion. What is really troubling you because it isn’t this.”

Astarion’s forehead creases as his brows pull down low, and he shouts, “You must stop holding yourself at fault for what I’ve done!”

“Aren’t I?” you scream back at him, coming to your feet abruptly, “The night you left, I made you uncomfortable, and what happened? You fucking ran from me, from our life, from us!”

He left. Gods, he left, and it nearly killed me.

“It-” Astarion’s eyes dart around, “It wasn’t because of something you did.”

“My fault or not, I paid dearly for it.”

You ran and took my heart with you.

You rush to your room, locking the door. It’s too much. It’s all too much at once, and you cannot process it quickly enough.

It was my fault Astarion left in the first place, wasn’t it?

I pushed him too hard, didn’t I?

Gods, you don’t know. You’ve been punishing yourself for all of your missteps since he disappeared, and you can’t relinquish your guilt no matter how hard you try.

Why will I not allow myself to let this go?

Astarion’s soft knock resonates on the door, and your head plummets into your hands.

You cannot do this right now, and your voice rumbles, “Go away, Astarion.”

Astarion plunks down on the floor outside your door, “I will wait until you are ready to speak to me.”

He used to do this when you lived with him, giving you space but ultimately staying close by.

Wrenching the door open, you seethe, “Go. Away.”

Astarion rights himself and pushes into your room as if nothing is amiss. Despite your fiery temper, Astarion was never easily goaded into a fight with you.

“Astarion,” you leer at him in a warning.

“You’re angry with me,” he retorts, “I’m well aware and well acquainted with your ire.”

“Then you know you should be leaving me alone,” you admonish him.

“You never used to retreat from arguments with me.”

Fuck. He’s right. I ran.

Again.

You groan, slamming your door and drop to the floor. The headache you had felt starting is now throbbing in your temples like a battering ram. Pressing your eyes shut, you kneed at your head with your fingers.

Astarion sinks to the ground opposite you, and his hand settles on your forehead, “Darling, are you alright?”

The chill of his skin eases some of your discomfort, and you push into his touch with a relieved sigh, “Just a headache.”

“You did not get much rest last night,” his fingers massage your temples, “I’m sorry. I should not have shouted at you.”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“You do not have to talk, but you will listen, and listen closely,” Astarion tilts your head up, and you open your eyes to meet his, “You must stop blaming yourself for what I’ve done. The guilt is not yours to endure.”

“But…” you swallow the lump in your throat, wrench your eyes down and fidget with your fingers, “But I made you uncomfortable the night you left.”

“My leaving was not due to anything you did or did not do. I’m-” he sits back, running his fingers through his hair, tousling it, “I’m a coward,” he shrugs, “I’ve always been a coward.”

“You have never been a coward, Astarion,” you shake your head, “What’s changed? What will stop you from leaving again?”

“I am no longer afraid,” his fingers sweep across your cheek before rubbing your temples again, “Well, perhaps that’s not entirely true. I am afraid of losing you again.”

How did he get over his fear?

“Astarion,” you sigh as his fingers skillfully knead the throbbing ache, “you could never lose me.”

“I did,” the corners of Astarion’s mouth creep downward mournfully, “did I not, friend?”

This word haunts me.

“May I ask you something?”

You nod, “Anything.”

“Ever since I returned, you have been exceedingly gentle with me, far beyond customary, even for you. Why?”

“You mean,” your voice trembles slightly, “when it comes to being intimate with you?”

“Yes.”

Fuck, I don’t want to tell him this, but I must stop trying to escape from the truth.

“I-” you inhale a long, slow breath to calm your pounding heart, “You left me the night I made you uncomfortable. I suppose,” you pause, trying to gather yourself, “I suppose I have been worried that if I make that same mistake, I will scare you away again.”

Astarion takes your hands, “I promise you do not have to be afraid. I am here to stay. You need not be so gentle with me.”

Don’t I though?

“Can I trust you to tell me when it’s too much?”

“I will always tell you,” he says conclusively, “Could we please get off this floor now, beautiful?”

Right…

“Sorry. Where would you like to sit?”

“The bed,” he says, helping you to your feet, “Does your head still hurt?”

“Yes,” you groan.

Your brain is bashing against your skull, trying to escape your head.

“Sit. I will rub it for you like I used to.”

Sitting on the bed, Astarion pulls you between his legs, your back against his chest, and you let yourself sink into him. His fingers work the achy spots perfectly.

“What happened yesterday,” Astarion says in a low timbre, “with the boy. Are you alright?”

Am I?  

“It’s not the first time I’ve been attacked.”

“Yes,” Astarion looks around anxiously, “but there is a difference between being attacked and being,” he pauses, searching for a way to put it delicately.

“I know what you’re getting at,” you sigh, “I’ve lived a hard life, Astarion. This is just another one of those things that’s better forgotten."

“I understand,” Astarion kisses the top of your head, “But if you cannot forget, I am here if you need me.”

I always need you.

“Thank you.”

“You will tell me more about your life someday, yes?” Astarion’s voice is hopeful, “I wish to know everything.”

My past - another thing I run from.

“Will you tell me more about yours?”

“For you, my love, I am an open book,” Astarion murmurs, “Ask, and I will tell you to the best of my ability, but there are things I cannot recall.”

“Like your face?”

He smiles sadly, “Yes, like my face.”

You and Gale have been practicing magic together, and you asked him to teach you Mirror Image. The incantation was straightforward to learn, but Illusionary magic is not your realm of expertise and mastering the hand movements was tricky.

Mirror Image was meant to be used on yourself, but you and Gale often try to find new ways to use or cast various spells.

After many trials and failures, you’ve figured out how to use Mirror Image to mirror someone other than the caster.

Should I?

“Do you-” you trail off, wondering if this is a good idea, “I could try something - if you want. If I can pull it off, you will be able to see yourself.”

“What?” Astarion jolts off the bed, eyes round with astonishment, “How?”

You turn to look at him, “Do you remember that night in camp when Gale was inspecting a magical copy of himself?”

His red eyes shift around, crazed, and you wonder if you’ve made a mistake and stepped too far.

“Of course,” he groans, “How could I forget his incessant preening?”

Astarion looks anxious, and unease blooms in your stomach, “Are you okay? Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Please,” he pleads, his scarlet eyes wide and wild, “If you can, would you please?”

“This may feel odd at first,” you warn, “like countless fingers running over your skin. Don’t be alarmed.”

I can do this. I will do this.

Grasping the Weave, you wrap it around you and Astarion with the finesse of an archmage. Reciting the incantation is as easy as breathing, and it rolls off your tongue poetically.

The hand movements are far more complicated, but you’ve practiced this, and your fingers dance the perfectly choreographed pattern.

Astarion’s eyes stay locked on you.

You pull the threads, and the Weave unravels, only for you to stitch it back together in the image of Astarion.

“It’s done,” you smile, “All you need to do is turn around.”

Astarion takes a deep, shuddering breath but doesn’t turn, “What should I expect?”

You cock a brow at him. You’re not entirely sure how you expected him to react, but hesitancy didn’t even cross your mind.

Is he scared he won’t like what he sees?

“You will see yourself as the world sees you,” you say, calm and encouraging, “You don’t have to, Astarion. If it’s too much, I can always recast this when you’re ready.”

“No, I want to. Gods. It’s been so long, and I just… I just do not know,” he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, “Will you hold my hand? I do not think I can do this without you.”

“I’ve got you,” you interlace your fingers with his, “When you’re ready, love.”

He smiles, “That’s the first time you’ve called me that since I’ve been back.”

No… No, I couldn’t be. Is it? 

“I- Uh…I-”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he giggles, “I won’t get my hopes up, friend.”

Astarion takes another slow, shaky breath and turns around slowly. The image of Astarion faces him, but its eyes are closed. For a moment, you think you didn’t cast the spell correctly, but when you look at Astarion, the figure mirrors him as it should.

Giving him this moment, you lean your head on his shoulder and wait patiently.

Astarion recoils slightly when his eyes open, and he sees the image standing there. The figures stare at each other, awestruck.

Astarion takes a step closer to the image and touches his face, running his fingers along his jaw, down the bridge of his nose, and over his cheekbones. He racks his fingers through his hair. Leaning in closer, he inspects his eyes and fangs, utterly captivated.

“Good Gods,” he pants breathlessly, “That’s me?”

“It’s you, Astarion,” you can’t help but smile, “in all your earth-shatteringly, realm-ending handsome beauty.”

“I am positively magnificent, aren’t I?” he muses agog, “Now, all your fiery jealousy makes perfect sense.”

You nearly chastise him, but when you look at him to shoot back some witty retort your mind hasn’t yet formulated, he’s staring at you with tears shining down his cheeks.

Shit. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Fuck, Astarion,” you wipe the tears spilling from his eyes with your thumb, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He looks at the image of himself again, “I- I don’t believe I’ve ever cried happy tears before,” he chuckles low, his eyes downcast, “Not that I can remember, at least.”

Happy tears?

Before you can process his words, he sweeps you up in a cradling embrace, pulling you off your feet, “Thank you, my love.”

The spell wanes, and the figures form flickers before fading away. Astarion lowers you to the floor and looks at the empty area woefully.

“Astarion,” you guide his eyes back to you, still shiny with unshed tears, “I can recast that spell whenever you want. You only have to ask. This need not be the last time you get to see yourself.”

“Gods, don’t tell me that,” he sighs dramatically, with a striking crooked smile, “I’m likely to overindulge."

“Fine,” you giggle, “You will have to earn your overindulgence.”

“Oh,” Astarion smiles devilishly, eyeing you through thick lashes and hooded eyes, “How would you have me earn it?”

“Oh,” you tap your lips, “I’m sure I can think of something like warming Tara her milk,” you taunt.

Astarion scoffs, “The cat can wait for her milk. I was thinking more along the lines of depraved carnal lust?”

“Now?”

“Well,” Astarion smirks, “Now is as good a time as any, but I need to ask something of you.”

“What?”

Astarion sweeps your hair back and looks deeply into your eyes, “Stop being excessively gentle with me. I’m not as fragile as you presume me to be.”

Isn’t he?

“I-” you stammer with worry in your voice, “I will try.”

“Good girl.”

“Lock the door,” you tug at this shirt, “and lose this.”

“Demanding thing,” he chuckles, sliding the lock into place, “As you wish.”

Astarion pulls his shirt off and stands so close that your breasts graze his chest with the rise and fall of your breath.

Astarion’s fingers curl under the hem of your top, “May I?”

You nod, and Astarion lets his cool fingers caress the warmth of your skin as he strips you. The temperature contract makes your skin prickle, and desire flushes your complexion red.

Your nipples skim across the chilled skin of Astarion’s chest, making them harden into peaks instantly, and you shudder at the sensation.

The pad of Astarion’s thumb teases your sensitive peak, “You have no idea how perfect you are, do you?”

His teasing causes a breathy whimper to escape your lips, and heat pools as your nerves are set alight. Astarion takes your lips in his. The kiss quickly becomes primal, urgent, and all-consuming.

He nips your lower lip gently, forcing your lips to part, and his tongue traverses your mouth. Bolts of electricity ripple down your spine, awakening the achy need in your centre.

Astarion grabs your hips and rolls them against his throbbing erection with an urging grunt. The swell between your thighs sings with the decadent banquet of friction, and you moan low, ghosting your lips over his ear as you melt into him.

“You have no idea how much I miss being inside you,” Astarion growls with a voice soaked in burning want.

Gods. I miss it too.

The walls of your core clench uncontrollably as depraved thoughts and memories of him stretching you, claiming you, swim through your head.

Astarion shoves you hard, and you fall onto the bed with a giggle. Pushing your legs apart, he crawls up, kissing your stomach before swirling his tongue around your nipple, making your back arch and body twitch.

Gods. He could undo me with that alone.

Your splayed fingers slip us his chest, sweeping across his nipple, eliciting a pleasant rumbling groan deep in his chest. His lips meet yours urgently, and he bucks his hips into you, pushing the throbbing bulge in his trousers against your swell.

His presence is intoxicating, and you can’t control your body. Hells, you don’t want to control your body, and you writhe against him greedily, needy for relief.

Astarion’s hand slides up your thigh and his fingers ghost over the pulsating flesh, “How wet are you?”

Embarrassingly so. Nigh on soaked.

You groan as the flush of embarrassment courses through you and cover your face with your arms.

Astarion gently moves one of your arms away from your face, “Do not hide from me. You never have to hide from me.”

He rocks his hips against you, and you convulse and tremble against him with whimpering, sputtered murmurs.

“You’re soaked, aren’t you?” he teases, “May I, friend?”

“Gods, yes.”

Astarion slips his fingers into your waistband in an agonizingly slow descent that makes you wonder if you might combust before his fingers find their target.

He parts your folds while expertly avoiding that pulsing bundle of nerves that is craving his stroke.

“Hells, you are positively soaked,” he drawls, “You’re making quite a mess. We should get these off, yes?”

Astarion hooks his fingers into your waistband. You lift your hips in silent consent, and he slips your pants off you.

You squeeze your thighs together, feeling far too vulnerable under those piercing hooded crimson eyes studying you.

“I wish to look upon you, friend,” Astarion glides his hand between your thighs, “Will you let me?”

He uses gradual force to encourage your legs to part, and you allow your legs to spread for him.

Those cardinal red eyes devour the sight of you, full of unwavering adoration, “You’re beautiful.”

His fingers roam down your thigh to your folds, slick with desire. Breathy, sputtering moans escape your lips as your hips lurch at his touch.

His fingers trace the swollen border of your achy clit, “Do all your friends make you drip with need?

“Astarion,” you gasp.

“Yes, love?”

“Please,” you beg, “For the love of all the Gods. Please.”

“How many fingers?” he growls.

What?

Your mind can’t focus enough to string together what he’s asking. You squirm, trying to motivate his fingers to move faster, but he stills and waits for you to stop your writhing.

“When was the last time you were filled?” Astarion says firmly as he eases the contact of his fingers to nothing more than a light tease.

Do I admit this?

“You.”

Astarion’s brows pop up, eyes round with surprise, “Me? You haven’t been with anyone since I left?”

You stare at him, confused by his shock, “You are all I want, Astarion.”

Wait, does his shock mean he’s been with others since he left?

Don’t be so blind and naive. Of course, he has.

He has...

Under the overwhelming realization, your heart warps and bursts, violently rocketing the razor-edged shards you’ve been cutting yourself with, trying to glue them together. You clutch your chest as they tear you asunder anew.

The world feels like it’s crumbling down around you and drowning you in it.

Your cheeks feel wet. Are you crying?

Astarion’s hand cradles your cheek, and you leap off the bed to your hands and knees on the floor, recoiling from his touch.

How many others has he touched with that hand? 

Stop.

But Hells, how many since you?

No. Stop.

Astarion is coming toward you, distress twisting his brows and shining vividly in those beautiful crimson eyes.

How many people have looked into those eyes since you while he drove them to their release?

Stop. Stop. Stop.

Fuck. How many?!

His mouth is moving, but Gods you hear nothing over the stampede of your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

Run. Run. Run. Run and never stop , your mind wails.

You can’t breathe. Hells, you’re suffocating in this room as it caves in around you.

You can’t take anymore. You must escape. Picking yourself up off the floor, you throw on your clothes in a panicked scurry.

Astarion’s cool hand grazes the skin of your arm, and you shrink away, gritting your teeth.

How many? Fuck. How many?!

Astarion backs away from you, alarmed.

Run. Run. Run.

You’ve barely finished dressing before you find yourself sprinting through the manor.

You need to get away from this place, get away from him, get away from yourself.

Swinging the door open, the sunlight floods in. Someone cries out, but you barely register Astarion’s pained yelp. You launch out the door, slamming into a startled Gale, eyes wide with confusion.

Gale tries to halt you, but you push him away with a hard shove that nearly sends him toppling over.

You don’t stop. You can’t stop.

You run. 

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I hope you're enjoying reading this! Let me know what you think :)

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes: - Well, the noble is dead (yay), but how will they deal with the consequences? - Poor Tav :(

[blurredcolour]

Undone Before You

[One-shot]

John Brady x Female!Reader

John Brady's wedding day with his sweetheart has arrived at last, but the war and events back home have certainly left their mark upon him. After years of waiting, he cannot help but wonder if love is really enough to build a life on? All you have to do is take him into your arms and prove that it is.

Warnings: Grieving, Death, Graveyard, Wedding, Alcohol Consumption, Catholicism (light), Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [fingering - f receiving, oral sex - f receiving, virginity loss - m/f, premature ejaculation, multiple orgasms, cum play] - 18+ ONLY.

Author's Note: Technically a sequel to Parting Gifts but can be read as a standalone. Special shoutout to @precious-little-scoundrel for helping foster this from day one - this is truly a product of countless DMs.

Word Count: 3728

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John Brady’s wedding day began in a graveyard, which was certainly not how he had imagined the start to one of the happiest days of his life. Yet he had also not imagined spending over a year-and-a-half as a prisoner of war, nor his own father dying back home in his absence. All told, the last four years of his life had been entirely constructed of the unimaginable, most of it horrific and unspeakable, but there had also been meeting you. Asking you for directions, insisting on escorting you home, only to become even more hopelessly lost on the cold January streets of Sioux City, Iowa. Falling in love with you over those short months the 100th trained there, the letters which you sent to sustain him throughout his time at Thorpe Abbots and later in prison camp.

The war had torn the world apart and obliterated much of the life he had known and yet it had brought him you. A woman beyond compare, who had not only waited for him, but had made the journey to New York harbor to await his return on board one of the many ships of men recently freed from German captivity. He must have imagined proposing to you a thousand times – the style of ring he would buy you, the words of devotion he would speak as he sank to one knee as he slid it onto your finger. As it was, he had barely wrapped his arms around you before the plea for you to be his bride had flown from his mouth into your sweet-smelling hair.

You were even prettier than his memory had been able to maintain.

To his immense relief, you had agreed without hesitation, pulling his lips to yours, the softest sensation he had encountered in months. It was not easy to secure a date at the local cathedral. With the war in Europe over, marriage seemed to be on everyone’s mind, and so the pair of you had opted for the first available date near the end of August. It had worked well enough, meant your family could make the trip, allowed him to make the short journey to see the family of the waist gunner, Clanton, they had lost in the Munster raid. But the agony of waiting was made all the more acute with you so close at hand, just in the guestroom. While the paid of you had committed a great deal of sneaking around to satiate your need for one another previously, something about the idea of doing so under his mother’s roof had turned his stomach and had kept his hands very respectfully to himself.

It did nothing to stop the looks of longing across the dinner table or lingering kisses good night, however. And when your parents arrived and bundled you off to a local hotel for the last few nights before the wedding, he had felt your absence like a hole in the foundation of his childhood home. The very size and depth of his feelings for you was honestly terrifying at times, leaving him feeling lost, adrift in the churning expanse of them. It was the desire for a grounding conversation that had taken him to the graveside of his father, before his mother had even risen to make breakfast. Setting a simple bouquet of cheerful, hand-picked daisies, collected during his walk over, against the headstone, he crouched down to try and initiate a facsimile of the conversation he ought to be having with the man who raised him.

“I’m getting married today, father.” John murmured in the hush of the church yard, the birds only just beginning their morning song. “Wish you could have met your daughter-in-law, she’s something else.”

He exhaled deeply at the awkward silence that ensued, driving home how truly one-sided an endeavor this was. About to give up, to straighten and make his way back to the house to put on his nicest suit, he blurted out the question that he wished he could get an answer to.

“Were you terrified? I’ve flown into combat, marched across all of Germany through ice and snow, but I feel ready to jump out of my skin. Not of marrying her – god no, would’ve done that the first day back if I could, but…of disappointing her. I love her so much, I just want to make her happy and what if I’m not…” He trailed off, birdsong quickly filling the vacuum left by his silence.

“John?”

He straightened quickly and turned towards the sight of Father Hastings making his way through the rows of headstones.

“Morning, Father.”

“Thought that might be you, you’re up with the birds this morning.” His green eyes glittered beneath bushy grey eyebrows though the rest of his hair had gone stark white. John could not help but smile a little with a sheepish shrug. “Can hardly blame you I suppose, it’s the big day after all. Nice of you to visit your father.”

John nodded as the pair of them turned to look at the headstone, a little less lonely looking courtesy of his posy of daisies.

“Suppose today would be a day to sit you down for a talk about manly responsibilities and all that. Sorry this old, unmarried man is such a poor substitute – the only advice I can offer you is to love that woman with all your heart and soul. I’ve seen the way she looks at you, I’d say you two will be just fine.”

With a rough gulp, John took a shaky breath and offered the priest a nod of thanks. Somehow the answer had still managed to make its way to him, the very words he needed to hear. “Thank you very much, Father.”

With a warm grin, Father Hastings glanced at his watch. “You’d best go home and get some breakfast in you, don’t want you fainting on me at the altar. I’ll see you at one o’clock, John.”

He huffed a short laugh. “That you will, Father.” He replied before turning to make his way home.

Time took on a hazy, hastened quality, breakfast blurring into setting up the borrowed chairs and tables in the backyard for the homespun reception before he took his shower and shaved, then carefully dressed in his suit. His thoughts strayed often to you, pondering the lengths of your preparations as well, certain you were being subjected to all manner of womanly things that were utterly unnecessary as you were already stunning, in his opinion.

Stepping into the sanctuary, bedecked with flowers by your family that very morning, stretched an undeniable grin across his face. The blooms brought the familiar space to life with beauty and fragrance, gave him something to focus on as he and his brother took their places at the front of the church along with several of his schoolmates. None of the boys of the 100th had been able to make the trip, unfortunately, though the pair of you had extensive invitations to visit on your honeymoon. Kansas, Wisconsin, New York City, Wyoming. Perhaps not conventional destinations but certainly fitting for the connections made during his time in the service.

His perception of time seemed to inverse as the doors to the sanctuary opened and you followed behind your bridal party, everything slowing to a crawl as his vision narrowed in on you. For someone who was gorgeous every day to become so breathtakingly stunning…John was briefly worried he might faint on Father Hastings after all as he struggled to take in a sufficient amount of oxygen. And yet the moment your hand landed in his, balance was suddenly restored. The pace of the clock, and of his breath, returned to normal and he found his feet by focusing on the faint shimmer of happy tears in your eyes.

Vows were spoken, rings exchanged, and your union was blessed before everything was sealed with a ceremonial kiss – much to the delight of your gathered guests. Photos followed before the entire crowd descended upon the festooned backyard of the Brady family home for champagne, sandwiches, and cake. For the cobbled-together nature of it all, it felt like utter perfection. His hand rarely surrendered its hold on yours until you demanded freedom to change into your going away dress so the pair of you might make your escape to the Canandaigua Hotel where your families had booked you several days of privacy as a wedding gift.

“For that, I suppose I can let you go, Mrs. Brady.” He murmured with a small smile, which promptly widened as your lips pressed against his, to the nigh-obnoxious tinkling of cutlery against glassware. “Get me out of here.” He tacked on, basking in your responding giggle and releasing your hand so the pair of you might flee as soon as possible.

Packed into the car with much fanfare as the sun began to set, the sudden silence inside the vehicle was striking, your gaze meeting his as he navigated his way out of town, sending you both into a short fit of laughter.

“We did it, Johnny.” You breathed, your hand coming to rest on his shoulder, making him swallow thickly as the skin well-hidden beneath the layers of his suit jacket and dress shirt still came alive at your touch.

“We sure did, sweetheart.”

He set his hand, palm-up, upon his thigh and you promptly laced your fingers with his. The feel of the bands on your ring finger immediately drew his attention, his thumb shifting to trace along them as he glanced at your brilliant smile. It was difficult to maintain his focus on the road as you lifted his hand to brush your lips against the back of it, shifting along the bench seat to press against him, laying your head on his shoulder and setting your entwined hands in your lap.

John was acutely aware of the warmth of you, the faint scent of your shampoo and hint of icing combined with champagne on your breath. His lower belly ached with the need to taste that on your tongue.

“Just ten minutes.” He breathed, perhaps more for himself than for you.

You hummed against his shoulder in response, squeezing his captive hand but making no move to release your hold on him. As you neared the westernmost of the Finger Lakes, it was his turn to lift your hand, placing a kiss of apology to the back of it before gently releasing it, navigating his way to the modest four-story hotel that had become a main-stay of the area in the 1920s. Check-in was smooth, with your small amount of luggage, and the suite your families had booked was spacious enough to include a sitting area in addition to the bedroom.

“I’m going to freshen up, I’ll be right back.” You said with an enigmatic grin that had him swallowing again, his trousers feeling slightly too tight as he pulled you in to indulge in one thorough kiss before acquiescing to your request.

Licking his lips absently, he set about slipping his suit jacket from his shoulders and hanging it in the closet, unpacking the rest of his suitcase with well-trained, military precision. The sudden appearance of your bare arms slinking around his waist from behind halted his movements, his hands dropping to your elbows to palm along the soft skin of your forearms before unentangling himself. Stepping back and turning, his breath stuttered in his throat at the vision of you in the most ineffective underclothes ever produced – truly they left very little to the imagination, practically see-through and utterly tantalizing.

“Sweetheart…” He exhaled roughly, faintly registering the way your mouth ticked up in delight before his lips descended upon yours ravenously, grasping your waist to pull you flush against him.

Feeling you arch against him, pressing closer, he shuddered slightly and quickly began to manoeuvre you towards the well-appointed bed in the middle of the room, determined to take his time and please you in an appropriate place at last. No more bathrooms or closets or whatever locked door you could hide behind. You were his wife, and he would lay you out upon the bedding and worship your body accordingly. You let out a faint squeak as the backs of your calves found the mattress and he pulled his lips from yours to guide you to lay upon the pillows, shucking off his dress pants and shirt to remain only in his singlet and boxers.

Taking a moment to drink in the sight of you, laid out on the bed like some kind of offering, he took a deep breath before crawling onto the duvet beside you, trailing hot kisses down your neck as the hand not supporting his body began kneading at each of your breasts in turn, teasing the fabric of your lingerie against your nipples. Soft noises of pleasure echoed from your throat, sealed between bitten lips, swallowed down.

“No need to hide it now, Mrs. Brady, let me hear how good you feel.” He whispered into your ear, shuddering at the intensity of the moan his statement earned him, the sound of it sending a rush of blood straight to his cock.

“Mmm, Johnny!” You whimpered as his mouth dampened the lacy fabric over one nipple and then the other, leaving his fingers to toy with the taught bud he left in his wake.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Feels good…don’t stop…” The obvious difficulty you were having forming words stroked some egotistical part of his brain and brought a smirk to his face, eased some of the nerves that had been plaguing him for quite some time at the thought of bedding you fully.

“Good.” He murmured, quite pleased, and removed the fabric from the top half of your body, revealing an expanse of skin to be tasted and conquered by his greedy mouth.

Lips curling against the warmth of your sternum as he slid his hand between your thighs to find a generous accumulation of warm slick, he began to tease your folds until your chest was heaving beneath him, fingers digging into his shoulders, pleas falling from your lips.

“I’ve got you.” He placated with a kiss to your side, sliding from your grip to remove your underwear and settle on the bed between your thighs, the pressure against his throbbing length requiring he take a moment to steady his breath and regain his focus.

Draping your legs over his shoulders, he craned his neck forward to seal his mouth over your core and deliver a devastatingly thorough kiss to your folds. He could feel your thighs tremble against him, your fingers threading into his hair as a high-pitched moan floated down to him. It took all his self-control not to grind his hips into the mattress self-indulgently in response. As you began to buck and writhe in response to his ministrations, his hands slid beneath your buttocks to grip at your fleshy globes, both holding you still and angling you closer to his mouth, making it that much easier for him to dole out his pleasure to you.

Once again memory had failed him here, failed to capture and retain the erotic nuances of your sweet musk, and particularly combined with your newfound vocal liberty, John found himself in a new struggle for self-control. One that had him only doubling his efforts to obtain your release, wanting nothing more than to satisfy you before he attempted anything further. Plunging his tongue deep inside the alluringly plush warmth of you, and relentlessly nudging his nose against your clit, seemed to be the key to driving you over the edge as it did not take long of that combination until you were shaking and crying his name while flooding his tongue with still more sweetness.

Charting a course up your body with sporadic kisses, he smiled at you softly as he smoothed some errant hair from your face. “How’re you feeling?”

“Greedy.” Your murmur following by the sight of your teeth sinking into your lip punched the air from his lungs, gave him little warning before you pulled him down for a kiss and tugged at his undershirt.

“Yeah?” He puffed against your lips, feeling your eager nod in reply before straightening to efficiently strip himself completely, hissing a little at just how sensitive he was in his current state of arousal.

The look on your face as your eyes raked him over gave him pause, made him raise his eyebrow to confirm yet again, to which you nodded and opened your arms. Easing into them carefully, he settled his hips between yours, shivering almost violently at the smear of your slick across his length.

“Tell me if it hurts…” He ground out, throat wanting to clench up on him as he took his cock in hand, slowly pressing forward into your entrance.

While John was no stranger to the feel of your wet heat, the way it seemed to grab at his length and pull him in, wrapping around him so snuggly, had his eyes rolling back in their sockets. Pressing his face tightly against your neck, he bit off a string of curses, gritting his teeth against the prehistoric urge to slam home. Somehow prevailing upon himself to be a gentleman, he waited for your nod until moving again, the friction unlike any earthly feeling he had ever experienced, forcing an agonized moan from his throat and quickly driving his hips back into the warmth of you. Sweat beading along his hairline, he could feel his balls growing dangerously heavy and tight, the imminence of release not obeying his usual iron grip of self control in the face of the pleasure of you.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart…” He rasped in warning, in apology, before his hips seemed to take over, snapping into yours in quick succession as his orgasm overcame him.

Briefly disconnected from reality, there was only mind-numbing, blinding pleasure, until he returned to full consciousness, panting against your collarbone. Your hands were stroking lovingly across his shoulders, down his back, as you craned your neck to kiss at his temple.

“Mmmm Johnny.” You purred, not sounding the least bit annoyed with him and he slowly raised his head, eyes widening as you ducked in for a kiss. “Good?” You murmured against his lips, and he huffed a laugh.

“You are heaven itself, Mrs. Brady. I definitely didn’t intend for that to be over so quickly…”

A soft tut sounded before you were kissing him again. “How much pleasure have you given me, Mr. Brady? Thank you for letting me return the favor, though I hardly did a thing.” You smiled warmly, your fingers carding through his hair so very soothingly. “Regardless, we have our whole lives to practice.” You added with a mischievous grin that sent a molten flash of desire through his abdomen.

“Why Mrs. Brady…” He smirked slowly and nipped at your lower lip, fingers seeking out your still weeping core, determined to finish what he had started with his cock. “…that sounds an awful lot like a proposition.”

Your gasp as he found his target had his tongue dragging across his lower lip.

“Is it a proposition when you’re my husband?” Your voice took on a deliciously breathless quality as he sunk two fingers into you, but he was immediately distracted by the extra slickness he found there, suddenly recognizing that you were full of his cum.

Yet another jolt of desire rocketed to the apex of his thighs, and he found himself sinking lower down the bed, driven by deep curiosity as he continued to work you towards released. The sight of his white, sticky mess dripping from you as you once again began to climb towards climax, his thumb circling at your begging clit – it was all having an unexpectedly powerful effect on him.

“Uhn, Johnny s’good…please…” You whined and he pressed his lips to your quaking inner thigh in acknowledgement.

He could feel you beginning to tighten around his fingers, a sure sign you were not far off, and one subtle pump of his cock confirmed he was fully hard, by some miracle. That miracle being the sheer eroticism of you, surely. Pulling his fingers from you earned him a pitiful cry of protest and he quickly pressed his lips to yours.

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He soothed, taking a deep, steadying breath before thrusting into the sinful heat of you.

The mixture of your cries was practically pornographic, the fingers of his left hand lacing through yours, his wedding band pressing tightly to your skin, as the thumb of his right kept up the pressure on your clit as he managed twice as many thrusts this time. Combined with the thorough groundwork he had lain, it was enough. Enough to push you first into orgasm, clenching around him so tightly he forgot how to breathe, vision going white as he followed quickly behind with a cry so intense it erupted silently against your shoulder.

Laying on your backs, shoulder to shoulder with your fingers still semi-intertwined, panting weakly, John turned his head to find you already smiling at him adoringly.

“I love you, Mr. Brady.”

“Good thing too, can’t return me now, Mrs. Brady.” He smirked and kissed the scoff right off your face, caressing your neck warmly. “C’mon let me run you a bath.”

“Mmm, we sure made a mess didn’t we…” You remarked, shifting to stand.

“Sure we will again, too.” He chuckled, knowing full well he had a lot of practice ahead to perfect his technique. It was something he found himself very much looking forward to. Following your lead, he slid to his feet, retrieving your lingerie from the floor. “We also should get you new underwear, sweetheart. These really do absolutely nothing to cover you up…” He remarked, holding out the flimsy garment hooked on his fingertips with a raised eyebrow.

“They were a gift for you, Johnny…seeing as you stole my last pair.” You raised a pointed eyebrow in return, and he feigned complete innocence.

“Have no idea what you mean sweetheart, c’mon now, bath.” He slid his arm around your waist, kissing your temple as he guided you into the ensuite, knowing full well those pilfered panties were still hidden in the bottom of his footlocker back home.

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

Masters of the Air Masterlist

[thatwritterbeach]

Hugs and soul string tugs .2

Dc master list

Dick Grayson x reader romantic Jason Todd x reader romantic

Dick Grayson x Jason platonic Tim Drake x reader platonic

Summary: soulmate au, now with your very own Tim! Poor little soulmate less Timmy gets not one but three!

warnings: blood, conon typ' violence, rejection, soul sickness (soulmates au ) angst, unedited, nudity

A/N: I do not own dc

It took about two days for her temperature to even back out and her vision to stop swimming, making her more alert and aware of the...nest? that she found herself in. Blankets, pillows, and what could very well be coats were piled on and around her and both her lovers were on either side of her, both drenched in sweat but not moving to get the piles of warmth off of them, she must have been shivering and they were toughing out the heat. Her sitting up did nothing to stir them and she checked each pulse with a sigh of relief at the steady thrum, then eased out of the blankets. They shifted in her absence and latched onto eachother. She bit down hard enough on her tongue to taste blood to stop from oohing and awwing at them, but didn't have anything to take a picture with.

Sneaking down to the kitchen was second nature and far easier than she had expected, they must have stayed up to keep watch over her and were deep in the sleep land. She only stumbled once on the stairs and had to take a second to breathe through the sudden nausea caused by being away from her soulmates.

Alfred was up making tea and sent her a disapproving eyebrow raise but said nothing she went about making some coffee. Tim should be down soon for a cup, or so she'd gathered from their short amount of time together. She would ask about slipping him a sedative later, he didn't seem to sleep and nobody was making him.

"I've been cutting his with decaf," Alfred said from beside her, looking down at the second mug she'd say out.

"And he hasn't noticed?"

"No, I'm sure he has, but he hasn't complained yet, I hope to get him down to a cup a day. But wonders never cease and all that."

"Yeah, he's a little addict for sure. Still, he could be hooked on Adderall like most over achievers so..." She trailed oof awkwardly, realizing the kids almost grandpa wouldn't appreciate that.

"Quite right," he agreed putting a gentle hand to her head to check for fever.

"Broke last night, or is it still night? Any way, woke up drenched in sweat, till need to shower," she said lowing her gaze to the coffee pot and scrunching her brows. So maybe her brain wasn't all the way back, she hadn't even thought to shower before coming down and she was acutely aware of how her clothes were sticking to her skin no. Even her hands were damp, ew.

"Maybe I'll shower before coffee," she said more to herself. He took over making the beverages and gently shooed her away so she stumbled out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She stopped at the top and realized she hadn't paid attention to what room they'd been in, it didn't seem like their usual one but in the dark she couldn't be sure. With a mental shrug she headed to where she knew Dick's old room was, she would just steal some of his clothes and use his shower.

She could tell though the bond that both boys were still asleep so she didn't bother to hurry, simply grabbed a pair of joggers, a t-shirt, and a flannel she hadn't known Dick even owned. The shower large, though it was the same as the room she was staying in, she found herself missing the small normal tub/shower combo at Dick's bludhaven apartment.

"Stop that," she whispered to her brain.

They don't love you. Jason ran from you and Dick's just a sympathy bond, he was afraid of you breaking.

"That's not true," she whimpered digging the heels of her hands into her eyes.There weren't any tears yet but that didn't mean anything. She was all too familiar with the come down from soul sickness, Dick had helped her through it after Jay had died.

He won't help...

"Stop." But the voice didn't stop it's taunting reminding her that Dick didn't ever love her, just didn't want her die from not having a bond, Bruce hated her and was disgusted about her being with two if his sons. Tim seemed wary of her. She was curled up on the shower floor, shivering in the cold water and longing for Dick's apartment, the open floor plan that came in handy when she was sick, because being able to see him made the bond happy. She wanted the small bedroom that was stuffed with both their things because she couldn't sleep alone, it made her wake up screaming with memories of how Jason's death felt. She wanted the simple task of keeping Dick fed and making sure he slept at least a few hours a night. She'd been so young, but she couldn't go back to school, and no law enforcement came for her to send her back to her parents when Dick had explained what happened, the public version of course.

Absently she felt a gentle tug on the bond but she didn't know who had done it, afraid it was Jason she didn't respond. He'd denied her, ran away and died, came back to life and still stayed away, agreeing to be near her for the bond to heal but still so far out of reach, seeming to barely tolerate her presence and getting downright violent with his temper sometimes, never directing it at her, choosing to run away and made the bond ache instead. She doesn't even remember what they'd fought about that had him fleeing and making her sick, she wondered if he had felt her desperately pulling on the bond when she'd been high with delirium from the fever. Wondered if he felt the panic and pain flowing through it and ignored it. Emotions were harder to convey across the bond, but Dick had said that he could feel her pain. Vaguely she remembers waking up to him stroking her hair and telling her he was sorry she hurt like that, Jason had been nowhere in sight and she'd tugged at the bond unthinkingly, he hadn't tugged back.

There was another tug, this time she was sure it was from Jason, and the touch starved part of her sung when he did their code for 'i love you' she replied, albeit slowly still freezing with water pelting around her but now aware of how cold the tile beneath her was and ache in her joints.

'i love you' from Jason.

'i love you' from Dick.

'I love you' she tugged back to both of them. She heard two sets of foot steps and tried to force her limbs to move before they saw her but the cold and after effects of soul sickness wouldn't let her.

"Y/n, you ok," Dick said through the door.

"Just getting the sweat off," she said softly, cursing herself for the volume because there was no way they heard.

"Can we come in," Jason asked.

Her mouth opened but no sound came out so she curled in on herself more, trying to cover herself in a futile attempt at modesty. The door clicked open and the opaque shower door was slid open then two sets of hands were working, one turning the knob to make the water warmer and the other draping her in an over-sized towel careful not to brush against her chilled skin.

"Shit baby," Jason muttered testing the water temp and directing it to be on her more. The warm water seeping into the towel and stopping her shivers.

"Sorry," she forced out with a whine.

"Nothin to be sorry for," Dick soothed.

"Need us to call one of the girls, to uh help you finish?"

Oh right, there was still conditioner in her hair.

*****

"You can do it," she assured, her eyes closing in self disdain. Dick has had to do it before, she wore a swim suit and sat in the tub while he carefully washed her hair. Her lack of dress was no longer registering in her mind and she didn't have it in her to care.

"Alright, we'll be quick." Both men stripped to their boxers and Dick sat cross legged on the shower floor easing her into a seated position so she was facing him, he adjusted the towel so it was tucked around her neck and used one hand to make sure it stayed then the other to hold her up since she lacked the strength. Jason got on his knee behind her with the detached shower head and rinsed the conditioner from her hair using his fingers to detangle.

"Did you uh..get your..you know, skin-" he broke of awkwardly cringing at himself. She shook her head and missed the look the brothers sent each other.

"Uh, would it be ok if we..." Dick floundered uncharacteristically unsure.

"With words, sweets," Jason commanded gently, not wanting to overstep.

"You can wash me."

"Not exactly how I pictured seeing you naked the first time," Dick said trying to joke. Jason's nostrils flared and Y/n tugged at his bond to get his attention.

"No fighting, please." she sounded so defeated all the anger bled away and left him feeling like an ass. Since she was already in his arms Dick carefully stood them up and let the towel pool at their feet. Both his arms were around her to hold her up against his chest while Jason started scrubbing her back, arms, and backs of her legs. Gently she was passed back to Jason, his arms wrapping around her and holding her back to his front. Dick washed from her ribs to her hips, then each leg and was careful not to her anywhere he shouldn't certainly not with the state she was in. Even if the sight of her had caused a fog to roll over his thoughts.

She was rinsed and dried and dressed in the clothes she'd brought in then sat on the bed while they got dried and dressed.

"Sorry," she said when both men were on the bed next to her.

"Soul sickness is shit, you have nothing to be sorry for. I'm sorry we didn't have one of the girls here to help you, I should have prepared better, after last time..."

"What do you mean last time," Jason asked in horror.

"Jay when you died she was...catatonic half the time, the bond between us was only strong enough at first to keep her alive, but she still lost you?" Dick was looking at him like he was the biggest idiot on the planet and suddenly he felt just that and only an inch tall.

"'m sorry," he said earnestly grabbing both her hands and ducking his head to meet her eyes.

"It's ok," she said without emotion.

"No, it's not. I was-am horrible to you, I did this, more than once apparently and...that's, shit sweets that's not ok."

"I'll live."

"Your hand are shaking," he noted rubbing his thumbs over the backs of her hands trying to stop that.

"Happens sometimes...after an episode."

"What was it this time," Dick asked knowingly.

"That Jason doesn't want me, and you don't either, you just kept the bond so I wouldn't die..."

"Oh, y/n, you have to know that's not true, I love you." To try and prove it he tugged an 'i love you' on the bond and she responded on instinct.

"I love you too," Jason said letting go of one of her hands for Dick to grab.

"Love you both."

"Let's go get something to eat, yeah?"

"Ok."

Alfred, Bruce and Tim were at the table eating breakfast but paused when they came into the room.

"Feeling better," Bruce asked with what seemed like genuine care.

"Much," she replied taking a seat between Tim and Alfred forcing Jason to be between Bruce and Dick. He sent her a questioning glance and she covertly texted him.

You did just try to kill the kid, maybe he doesn't wanna share a table with you??-M

Shit, i'm an idiot-Cuddle bear

"No phones at the table, please."

"Sorry, Alfie," Jason said tucking it away.

Tim was healing faster than any of them had expected but he still looked like crap and having his would be killer share a house with him made sure the kid was on edge all the time. He'd forgiven Jason especially after watching the green haze leave his eyes, but that didn't mean he wasn't still afraid.

"So Tim, I hear you take pictures?"

"Uh, yeah, not so much anymore..."

"Well, I haven't seen basically anything in Gotham, think you could show me around when you lose the cast?"

"Sure, that's sounds nice," he agreed looking at her with surprise that didn't sit right in her mind. She held her hand out to him, under the table where no one could see and he latched on like she'd thrown him a life vest. Shit the poor kid was touch starved, how was that even possible with Dick as a brother?

"Richard," She said interrupting whatever he'd been saying to Bruce.

"Full name?"

"I'll be playing video games with Tim today, so you will both have to be there for the sickness to finish healing." They both nodded, questioning her across the bond but not saying it aloud.

"I'm afraid I've only played racing games but I'm sure you're a good teacher if you have something else to play," she directed at Tim who looked on the verge of panic. His hand squeezing her own. She felt a new string worming its way around her heart and when it knotted she gasped in time with Tim's yelp.

"Was that...?"

"You're mine now and I'm never letting you go. Uh Bruce," she said turning to face him," I'm now bonded to three of your children, maybe we should figure out how I can do that?"

"What," Jay and Dick shouted both testing the bond to see if they could sense Tim. Faintly they both felt Tim's panic.

"You...how is that possible. You're not even supposed to be able to form bonds after birth?"

"I know, and yet I now have your kids," she laughed, yanking Tim into her arms. Honestly the kid was too damn small, he fit in her lap almost. When her shirt started to get damp, she started carding her fingers through his hair.

"I love you, Tim. You might not understand it yet, but you're mine and I love you," she said rocking him gently. The soul sickness completely gone from the joy of a new bond. The waves of disbelief rolling from Tim were making her wanna punch some people, a few of which were in punching range.

"Th-thank you," he hiccuped into her neck.

"Tim, did you not have a soulmate," Dick asked, with clear discomfort.

"No, I thought I was meant to be alone." He was sobbing now.

"I didn't either, I'm so sorry Tim, I should have talked to you, I could have...helped," Dick trailed off.

"How about we move to the couch," she asked gently, food forgotten. Tim nodded and she tugged on Dick's bond to get him to come carry Tim, she couldn't stand with him in her arms. She kept hold of his hand while everyone walked through the halls to the den. The large plush couch was heaven when she laid down and patted her chest to signal Tim be laid on her. He cling to her like a koala, nuzzling in and gripping her shirt with a fierceness she was afraid would draw blood from his palms.

"So we have another," Jason said without emotion. Not only did he have to share with the first robin, now he had to share with his replacement. What's next she forms a bond with Bruce, he hoped not. Dick placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head, telling him without words now was not the time. Tim was still crying.

"Blackbird singin' in the dead of night," she started singing softly, one hand on his back and the other still combing his hair.

When they were sure the little bird was asleep they had a hushed conversation about how they would adjust. Jason throwing out the idea for a schedule, both sleeping and day. They might be bonded now but he doubted Tim would wanna spend hours at a time with him, just enough that the bond wouldn't feel rejected. Hopefully just having her would be good, but he knew Dick would take it seriously enough for the both of them. He'd already shoved his way in between Y/n and the back of the couch so he could envelope his bonds in an octopus hug (tm) his leg thrown over them and arm tucked over Tim and under Y/n. Tim woke up for about a second, realized where he was and was back out with a soft smile. The baby bird was cute, and it was surely the bond forcing him into protective mode of the little brat. Dick seemed to agree with a day time schedule, even a loose one, with Dick looking for jobs in Gotham and Jason needing to be out for crime lord things it would make it easier for them to leave her if she had another bond to cling to during the day, of course, Tim had work and school, but the kid could do his work in the den, or they could set up an office and she was willing to bring Tim lunch while he worked, and dinner if needed. Dick has blatantly and on no un-certain terms denied a sleep schedule, he told Jason if he needed space he could take it but no way was Dick sleeping in a different room. And with Tim's bond being fresh he would need to be close to all of them, and at night after patrol was the most obvious solution.

Y/n suggested they all take a day each week to play board games or something so the bonds could recharge. Jason had started to protest when she'd reminded him he owed her for nearly ya know dying over him.

Tim had blinked awake nearly an hour later still encased in love and was tearing up again before he could stop it.

"Hi, love," she cooed at him while Dick combed the hair from his eyes.

"Hi."

"You wanna go back to breakfast?"

"Can..."

"We stay here a bit longer, yeah," she finished for him when he trailed off uncertainly.

@stormz369

[readerramble]

I couldn’t find any fanfics or head-canons for Tristan and Morana and I am a sucker for angst and make-believe scenarios so here we go with an idea that took root and will not leave my head-

#1 Tristan X Morana

Years have passed, and the Caine siblings have reunited. But the reunion is fraught with unspoken tensions. Lyla’s trauma has twisted her perception of Morana, and now she can barely look at her without feeling an acute sense of loss—a haunting reminder of the life she could have had if she had been saved from the horrors that shaped her.

Tristan, the most perceptive of the siblings, doesn’t just sense Lyla’s pain; it consumes him. The desire to give Lyla the security she never had becomes his unspoken mission, and it tears at him, fueling a growing conflict within. He wants to protect her, to shield her from any more pain, but he doesn’t know how.

Subtly, almost imperceptibly, Tristan begins to change. He pulls back in small, silent ways: avoiding eye contact, stepping away from Morana in public, and downplaying their bond whenever Lyla is near. The shifts are so subtle they might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but Morana is sharp, and she feels every inch of Tristan’s retreat.

Morana, ever the understanding one, tries to accept the distance, but beneath her calm lies a quiet sense of betrayal. It isn’t her fault that she escaped unscathed all those years ago. And yet, the weight of Tristan’s struggle feels like a punishment for something beyond her control. One day, Morana reaches her breaking point. She makes the decision she never thought she would: she leaves.

Disappearing without a trace, Morana vanishes into the digital shadows. A master of technology, she covers her tracks flawlessly, severing ties with her old life and becoming a ghost. Years pass without a word. Tristan and Lyla are left to grapple with her absence. Lyla finds solace in the space left behind, using the time to confront her own demons. Tristan, on the other hand, retreats into himself, present but distant—alive, but only just.

Everything changes the day Amara needs Morana. A crisis pulls Morana back into the open, and she reappears for her friend, but she is not the Morana who left. This version of her is colder, distant, and utterly detached from Tristan. She is no longer hurt or angry—just indifferent.

What follows is a delicate dance, a relentless push and pull as Tristan struggles to tear down the walls Morana has built around herself. He fights to reclaim the bond they once shared, to revive what was lost. But Morana is no longer willing to be found so easily, and Tristan must confront the deepest parts of himself if he ever hopes to bridge the chasm between them.

[tomionefinds]

tomiones where tom falls in love

Hey Anon:

This is a pretty vague ask. Like, what does love mean? Obsessive? True love? Love but with power first? We'll throw a couple on here where Tom cares for Hermione but without more, we can't know if its meets the parameters- Haus

Pink by yuwoo

E | Two shot | 9k

If Tom had any say, he would not be here, but he has only just gained the Gaunt Seat. It is aberrant for one of his status to not possess a Thrall. Or: Tom thinks sex is gross and hates his massive penis. He finds out his favorite color is pink because it's the color of Hermione's privates.

All the Wrong Choices by Queenofthedreamers

M | Complete | 165k

Hermione Granger is kidnapped by Severus Snape and taken to Lord Voldemort, who behaves in a bizarrely familiar manner with Hermione. When she's rocketed back in time by Voldemort, she realises just why he knew her so well in the 1990s - it was because he'd known her very well indeed, as Tom Marvolo Riddle, in an entirely different time. She had to go back because she'd been there. But will she stay? Time-travel Tomione epic, re-upload. Complete.

Unsphere the Stars by Cocoartist

M | Complete | 222k

When you can't change time, but you can't go forward, what is left? Hermione learns how to be the protagonist of her own story.

Here I Dreamt I was a Rosier by nauticalparamour

M | Complete | 56k

Opening her eyes, Hermione became acutely aware that she was not in her bed, or even in Gryffindor tower. Panic quickly set in when she cataloged all of the places she could be and none of them matched the pretty princess room she was in. Hermione Granger has woken up in 1944 and must learn to exist with her "family" and their friends…

Inimca, Amator by QueenoftheDreamers

Not Rated | Completed | 73k

Hermione falls asleep in January 2000. She awakens in a Knockturn Alley flat in 1947. Confronted by the reality that she's been hurtled through time and space to the world of Tom Riddle himself, Hermione works to get back home. In the meantime, desperate for money, she takes a job at the only place willing to hire her - Borgin and Burkes, with the disarmingly charming Tom Riddle.

Absence by Ciule

E | Complete | 147k

She fed the green flash of silent death into the Time-Turner, willing it to go somewhere, to a time where she could change all that had happened, a time where she could stop this madness. A time where she could put an end to him too. But, as it happened, he had other ideas.

[three-drink-amy]

Thank you for the tag @thisbuildinghasfeelings!

Henry brings his tea over to the table and sits back across from Alex. “Must be pretty interesting to get to see your parents’ work that easily online.”

“Nothing you’re unfamiliar with, I’d imagine,” Alex quickly rebounds.

Something harsh flickers across Henry’s face and Alex immediately hates himself. He should have known that invoking Henry’s dad was off limits, especially here in this house where Henry must feel his absence so acutely.

“Yes, I suppose so. Quite different lines of work, though.” Henry takes a sip of his tea. “How long have your parents been in office?”

Alex sighs, thinking back on the campaigns and the first time he saw himself online, how strange it made him feel. “My dad moved out to California when I was 12. He got elected when I was 15. My mom was elected even before then.”

“Wow,” Henry says, his eyes a bit wide. “So, it’s been…quite a while then?”

“Not my whole life like you.”

Henry snorts, a wry smile on his face. “Mm. Count your blessings for that, then. Try having an awkward phase in the public eye.”

He’s not sure what makes him say it, but Alex watches Henry, and without conscious thought says, “I can’t imagine you having an awkward phase.”

There’s a look of surprise from Henry, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips that he hides behind a sip of tea. “Well, everyone does, don’t they?”

No pressure tagging: @everwitch-magiks @welcometololaland @rmd-writes @cha-melodius @kiwiana-writes @orchidscript @strandnreyes @carlos-in-glasses @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @alrightbuckaroo @dumbpeachjuice @liminalmemories21 @walkinginland @inexplicablymine @heybuddy-drabbles @cricketnationrise @reyesstrand

[naivesilver]

WELL HELLO THERE 💖 Lemme just repay the favour this is not the last ask you're gonna recieve right now hehe BUT what say you to a littleeeeeeeeee no.2 from the Angsty Found Family Prompts for Archie and Pinocchio, huh? 👀

So, to conclude this absolutely RIVETING round of prompts... Do you perchance remember when I was talking about the eventuality of a certain s2 event happening in Thousand Problems? 🥰🥰🥰

ANGSTY FOUND FAMILY PROMPTS

2. Needing help but being unable to ask for it

Archie feels watched. 

For someone who was recently stuck in a predicament such as his, it should be unnerving, but he's pretty sure he's not about to get kidnapped again soon - his disappearance was meant to serve a purpose, and now that he's been revealed to be alive, he's safer than most people in town. At least, that's what Emma said, and he has no reason to doubt Emma's judgment on the matter, given that she's the one who had to crack the case. 

Still, he's acutely aware that he's not alone. He's lingering at Marco's house because for now, his own feels a little daunting, as does his office; luckily, his friend is more than happy to let him stay for as long as he needs. Too happy, even - he has a tendency to hover, Marco, fretful to the point of being overbearing, though it can be forgiven, in this situation. 

It's not Marco who's watching him, however. The realization almost makes his smile - he hides it, because he doesn't want his observator to feel mocked, but he must admit it's a pretty endearing sight, the poorly concealed red-haired head peeking from behind the frame. “Do you need something, Pinocchio?”

The boy startles, then, his hiding spot revealed, shuffles forward sheepishly, his eyes firmly fixed on his shoes. “No.”

Archie's faint amusement tinges with sadness, and he reaches out to take Pinocchio's hand, squeezing it gently. “How are you doing? I'm sure it must have been confusing, what you've seen these past few days.”

And confusing is a polite euphemism, he adds, in the privacy of his own mind. It was shocking enough to find out that he'd been declared dead in his absence - he can't imagine what it could have been like, to go through all of it as it unfolded. Marco seemed troubled plenty, and he is a man grown, capable of taking things in stride; for a boy of eight, it must have been a nightmare, especially so close to the end of the curse. 

Still, Pinocchio doesn't deign him with a response, and simply shrugs, not looking up at all. Archie sighs, sinking onto the couch to be at a passable eye level with him, if the boy ever changes his mind. “It's alright. I understand. But look- everything's back to normal now. I'm sorry you had to think I was dead, but they were wrong, see? I'm still here. Like it happened to you, remember?”

“But Papa says I was dead for real that time,” Pinocchio replies, his voice small and wavering. “Were you dead for real?”

The doctor resists the urge to hang his head in defeat, instead brushing a wayward strand of hair off the boy’s forehead. “No, I wasn’t. Nothing happened, I promise- it was all just a big scare, and it’s over now. I know it’s hard to believe - it’s hard for me, too - but everything’s fine. You and your father held the fort for me just fine.”

He’d hoped that would grant him a glimmer of a better mood, but Pinocchio seems to sink even further into himself, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “I didn’t do anything. There was a funeral, but Papa figured all that out himself. I just held Pongo and kept him away from the food, ‘cause it was people food.”

“Oh, Pinocchio…”

“Lampwick came too. He said it was just to eat for free and that you’d hate that he was there, but I know he just wanted to check if I was freaking out- but I wasn’t. I swear, I was being good.”

At a surface level, Archie would be almost peeved. He’s having the rare, almost unique chance of experiencing something most people won’t, hearing what happened at his own funeral, and he’s sure he’ll have to unpack all of it painfully and methodically, once he can bear the idea of being alone with his thoughts - that a certain rough-and-tumble boy was cracking jokes in poor taste for most of it is just the cherry on top, really.

But he’s not alone, now, and he can appreciate that someone thought to keep an eye on this boy when he couldn’t - and that he can resume his job when it’s most needed, as well. “I’m glad you had your friend with you, to talk about it,” he says, choosing every word with the utmost care. “Do you…want to talk more?”

A stiff shake of the child’s head, as stubborn as it is clear. “I see. Would you like a hug, then?”

Again, there is no answer; but when the doctor opens his arms it’s a matter of moments before they’re filled with a trembling bundle of child, all but clinging to him as Pinocchio shakes with sobs so hard it’s a wonder he isn’t snapping a bone. Archie lets out another sigh, then gently engulfs the boy into the hug, rubbing his back and shushing him as best as he can. “It’s alright,” he repeats, though it’s hard to determine how effective it might be. “You’re alright. I’m here. I’m not going away again if I can help it, okay?”

Pinocchio gives him what could pass for a nod, sniffing loudly now that he’s not trying to conceal his face anymore. “I woulda taken real good care of Pongo,” he says, rubbing at his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. “I swear.”

“I know you would have,” Archie murmurs, squeezing the boy tighter, and he doesn’t know which one of them is being soothed more by the gesture, but he doesn’t think it actually matters, at the end of the day.

“You’re a good boy, Pinocchio. I know I can count on you.”

[bloody-bee-tea]

IntiMarch 2024 Day 2 - Don't leave

The prompt for this was "I don't want to be alone"

When Satoru wakes up, it’s with a smile. For the first time in four years he wakes up feeling content and happy and finally settled again, because Suguru came back. Suguru came back to him and things finally feel right again.

That feeling of contentment, of rightness lasts for as long as Satoru needs to open his eyes, because when he does he is only met with the empty side of his bed and once his brain comprehends that sight, there’s a flash of pain so acute that it almost feels like being carved open again before everything goes numb.

Suguru is gone.

Satoru blinks.

The bed right next to him stays empty and Satoru can’t feel Suguru’s cursed energy anywhere in the vicinity. That might not mean much because Suguru got scarily good at repressing his own energy signature but when Satoru looks with his Six Eyes he finds that the apartment is empty, devoid of any other presence than his.

He feels as if he can’t move.

Suguru came back, guarded and cautious, clearly expecting Satoru to be angry with him or to send him away again when all Satoru had wanted was to pull him into his arms and never let go. And he thought he got that across, he thought they were on the same page about that after they talked, and then fought, and then talked some more before they made up and then made up and Satoru had thought–

Clearly he’d thought wrong.

He carefully reaches across the bed, his fingers trembling against the sheets and he lets out a small sob when the space next to him is cold.

Suguru must have left a while ago then.

Satoru buries his face in the pillow, childishly thinking that maybe it will turn out to be a bad dream if he simply falls back asleep again, but there’s a gaping hole in his chest and Satoru finds that breathing is a little bit hard.

Suguru left again. He left him again and Satoru doesn’t know if he can live through this again. The first time almost killed him, made him volatile and reckless in a way that had even Yaga worried and most of all it had hurt. 

Satoru had felt as if half of his body had been missing, and to think that he’ll have to go through that again–

He chokes on his next breath. 

The tears that come out next feel hot on his skin and Satoru presses harder into the pillow, not caring if he’s going to suffocate himself like this. Nothing matters anymore, not if Suguru is gone again.

All these years, Satoru had known—generally speaking—where Suguru is; Yuki didn’t make much of a secret out of the fact that she had help now but Suguru stayed elusive, always out of sight, always out of reach for Satoru and in that regard Yuki had been no help.

She had told him to respect Suguru’s decisions, clearly not understanding how Suguru’s absence—and his continued avoidance of Satoru—had carved him wide open, bared all his sensitive bits to the world and then crushed them.

Satoru has tried for four years to get Suguru to come to him again, to show himself, if even just once, so when Suguru showed up in front of his apartment like this—Satoru had hoped.

He had hoped and clearly he had been foolish to do so because Suguru left without a word, seemingly without a care in the world, yet again and it’s just too much.

It’s all just too much.

Satoru wonders if this time hurts more than the first, but it’s as if he’s comparing bombs that were specifically designed to deal the most devastating damage to him personally. Both times wreak havoc within him except that this time he’s already scarred twice over. He’s not sure there’s still something left that even can heal from this, and in all honesty he’s not sure if he even wants to.

What’s the use in living in a world where Suguru is not by his side, where he made it so abundantly clear that he doesn’t want to be anywhere near Satoru. He even took the time to drive that point home twice and Satoru finds himself thinking that this time it might have done the trick.

He doesn’t want to try again; he tried so hard for four years and then even harder the last eight hours and what use had it all been? Suguru walked out of his life again as if Satoru doesn’t mean anything to him, as if they don’t mean anything and maybe it’s time that Satoru finally takes the goddamn hint.

A harsh coldness spreads through him, so unlike anything he has known before and Satoru lets it fill him whole.

It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters if Suguru is not by his side, Satoru has learned these last four years and the thought that he has to live the rest of his life like that makes him feel sick to his stomach.

The thought that Suguru chooses this, again, makes new tears well up in his eyes.

For a few short, blissful hours Satoru had hoped. Suguru had come to him, decided to talk to him, to fight with him, to make up with him; surely it must mean something, Satoru had thought.

But to have all of that thrown in his face like this—Satoru bites back another sob and forces himself to sit up.

There are things he has to do, he knows; Yaga is probably already calling him, because there is a mission he was supposed to go on today but once Satoru is sitting at the edge of his bed, he can’t find it in him to move again.

Surely he can have one day. One day to wallow in his misery, to let this pain fill him whole before the world will demand of him to bottle it all up again.

Satoru doesn’t want to be alone, never has been, but it seems as if everyone around him made that decision for him yet again.

He doesn’t know how much time he loses like this, shivering at the edge of his bed in nothing but his sleep clothes but it’s not as if he cares. The cold is one of the very few things that can touch him, even through his infinity, and a small part of Satoru wonders if it’s possible to die like this.

Maybe he’d like to try.

A shiver wrecks his body when Satoru hears something that sounds like his front door, but it can’t be, he knows that. Shoko doesn’t bother him here and Yaga would never step foot into his apartment, so it has to be a hallucination.

Hopefully the cold is getting to him faster than even Satoru thought.

Soft murmuring reaches his ears, which doesn’t fit with the people Satoru would expect to come to drag him out of his apartment, so he tries not to pay it any more mind. At least until he hears Suguru’s voice call out his name.

“Satoru?”

The tremor that starts in his hands at that have nothing to do with the cold; Satoru didn’t think his own mind could be so cruel as to conjure up this form of torture, but clearly he doesn’t know himself as well as he thought.

“Satoru, have you not gotten up yet? Seriously?” he hears Suguru’s voice go on, and after some brief muttered words that Satoru can’t make out he hears footsteps.

Footsteps that approach the bedroom.

It can’t be, Satoru reminds himself, keeping his eyes fixed on the opposite side of the room, because Suguru left. Suguru left him. He wouldn’t come back, not once he made up his mind, Satoru knows that out of his own bitter experience.

Satoru presses his fists to his eyes, wills these images and sounds to go away, but he only accomplishes to make stars burst behind his eyes. Everything else stays the same.

“Satoru?” Suguru asks just as the bedroom door opens and by now Satoru is shaking all over.

He didn’t hallucinate like this the first time around; maybe the second time is worse after all, in terms of how it fucks him up. Maybe he’ll need to invent an entire new scale to measure the pain he’s feeling.

“What’s wrong?” Suguru’s voice rushes out and then there are hands on his, warm hands, familiar hands and Satoru bursts into tears again.

“I don’t want to be alone,” he sobs out, still not daring to take his hands off his own face, even though he knows those are Suguru’s hands on his, because what if he’s just here to drive the point home once more?

What if he’s just here to laugh at Satoru and all of his stupid, hurt feelings?

“You’re not alone, I’m right here,” Suguru whispers, pulling Satoru into a hug and Satoru is helpless against it.

He falls into it. At least physically.

“You’re not. You left. You left me again, and I’m not—I’m not the strongest when it comes to that,” he gets out, words broken up by his sobs and Suguru only holds him tighter.

“I didn’t leave, I’m right here, aren’t I?” Suguru reminds him but it doesn’t matter.

Suguru left him without a word and Satoru can’t trust it.

“You’re always going to leave, aren’t you?” he quietly says once his sobs have died down because he needs to get used to this, he knows.

Suguru will always leave and Satoru will always have to pick up the pieces again.

“You really didn’t leave the bedroom, did you?” Suguru asks, and pushes Satoru slightly away.

Satoru is too numb to even panic over that anymore, but when Suguru’s gaze finds his, his heart gives a painful, shuddery thud in his chest.

“You weren’t there.”

“I made you breakfast. I left you a note. I left you my phone number, so you’d know I’d come back,” Suguru gently tells him but Satoru shakes his head.

“You’re lying. You don’t care. You left.”

“Oh, Satoru,” Suguru breathes out, his voice unbearably sad even as he leans forward to brush kisses over Satoru’s eyes, taking care to kiss the tears still clinging to his lashes right off them. “I’m right here. I told you I would be. I said I’m not leaving again, don’t you remember?”

“What does it matter when you still do it?”

“Alright, enough,” Suguru suddenly sternly says, framing Satoru’s face with his hands. “I’m here. Satoru, I’m here. I promise on my life that I’m here.” He suddenly tugs Satoru up and he’s there to catch Satoru when he stumbles over his legs. “Let me show you,” Suguru whispers into Satoru’s hair as he holds him upright and he doesn’t wait for Satoru’s answer before he steers him into the kitchen.

True to his word a bento is right there on the counter, a note attached to it. Suguru takes the note and hands it to Satoru.

“Read it,” he instructs him and Satoru’s eyes fall down to do just that.

I have to go and pick someone up, but I will be back at ten, at the very latest. Please eat something and in case you get bored, here’s my phone number. A string of numbers is scribbled underneath that but it’s the next words that make the breath catch in Satoru’s throat. I love you. I’ll be home soon.

“I should have known something is wrong when you didn’t bombard me with messages,” Suguru mutters as he kisses the top of Satoru’s head.

“You love me,” Satoru mutters, his eyes tracing over those words over and over again.

“I do. You know that. We already said it yesterday,” Suguru gives back, but despite his words he pulls Satoru closer to himself.

“This is—home now?” Satoru asks next, his voice almost failing him over the word but he feels Suguru nod.

“We’ll need to see about this apartment, because there’s something I haven’t told you yet, but home is with you. I promise.”

Satoru tenses at his words.

“Something you haven’t told me yet,” he repeats, fear clawing up his throat again. “What is it?” he still forces himself to ask and Suguru taps the note.

“I told you, I went to pick someone up. Are you ready to meet them?”

Satoru opens his mouth because he doesn’t know, isn’t sure about this, but he doesn’t get a chance to actually say anything when two girls suddenly step into the kitchen.

“Geto-sama, we’re cold,” the blond one complaints, her eyes fixed on Satoru despite the way she addresses Suguru.

“Who is that?” the other girl asks, voice much softer than her sisters and Satoru turns to look at Suguru.

“Nanako, Mimiko, this is Gojo Satoru,” he introduces him. “Satoru, those are my daughters.”

“Your—daughters,” Satoru repeats, unable to wrap his mind around what is currently happening.

“Remember the village? My last mission?” Suguru lowly asks and Satoru nods.

How could he ever forget the day that Suguru left him? The people who had originally called for help came back with a complaint to the school, shouting something about the devil himself and how he took two kids away from them.

Satoru had thought they were delusional, but maybe he should have listened more.

“I rescued them, I took them in. They are mine, now,” Suguru goes on, his voice just as low as before and Satoru shivers with it. “It’s up to you what you do with that.”

He says it without reservation, placing their future squarely in Satoru’s hands, as if there is any universe out there where Satoru would send them away again.

“Is this the guy you won’t shut up about?” Nanako asks, even as both Mimiko and Suguru make an embarrassed noise.

“Nanako, that’s rude,” Suguru chides her, a light blush dusting his cheeks but Nanako only puffs up her cheeks.

She can’t be older than eight, and Satoru finds himself thinking that he might want to squish her cheeks.

“But he’s the guy you still have as your background picture, right?” Mimiko chimes in and with every second that Suguru turns a darker red, Satoru finds his footing again.

Suguru always intended to come back to him. Suguru decided to introduce his daughters to him. He loves him and he called this their home. Surely, it must all mean something and for once, Satoru decides to trust it.

Decides to trust in Suguru.

“What picture does he use?” Satoru asks walking up to the girls and crouching down in front of them. “Can you tell me?”

“I can do you one better,” Nanako decisively says as she gets her own phone out. “I made a picture.”

“Oh, I do like you,” Satoru decides, ignoring Suguru’s spluttering behind him for now.

He needs to bond with his new daughters.

“Here you go,” Nanako says after a moment, shoving her phone in Satoru’s face so that he has to crane his head back.

He has never seen the picture that stares back at him, possibly because he’s asleep in it. He’s in Suguru’s bed, that much he can tell, and Suguru must have snapped it before he woke him up.

It softens something inside of Satoru to see it.

Satoru turns back around to Suguru who seems embarrassed beyond belief but Satoru only smiles at him.

“I love you, too,” he says and instantly Suguru relaxes.

“So this is—okay, then?” Suguru asks and he seems unsure all of a sudden, as if Satoru would send him away, simply because he comes with two daughters now.

“We’re lucky this apartment is waaaay too big for me alone,” Satoru says, turning back around to the girls instead of gracing Suguru with an answer. “You wanna see the rooms to decide on which to pick?”

“We’re sleeping together,” Mimiko instantly says and Satoru nods, taking it in stride. Though the way she clings to her sister probably comes with a story, and Satoru is not sure he’s going to like it.

But that is for later.

“Sure. One bedroom, one playroom? We can do that,” he says and gets up, holding out his hands for the girls to take.

They both peer around him to look to Suguru first, and he must nod, because soon after two tiny hands slide in Satoru’s.

He leads them to the first empty room he has—technically it’s an office, but it’s not as if he’s ever using it—and the girls rush inside the room to look at every nook and cranny.

Satoru doesn’t startle when Suguru steps up behind him because for once he knew that he would follow them, and when Suguru slings an arm around his middle he leans back into Suguru’s chest.

“Is this okay?” Suguru asks again and Satoru tips his head back until he can nose at Suguru’s cheek.

“Our home, right?” Satoru asks and feels Suguru nod. “Our family.”

He feels Suguru shudder against him at that and happily leans into it when Suguru kisses him.

“As long as you’re here with me, I’m okay with everything,” Satoru finally says and threads his fingers together with Suguru’s.

Satoru knows that it won’t be quite that easy; he has no idea how to raise two daughters and he’s more than certain that he’ll freak out every time Suguru leaves his sight for the foreseeable future, but he has his number in his phone, Suguru’s hand in his own, and his heart as well.

Maybe it will be enough.

“I love you. I’m here,” Suguru whispers again, pressing the words into his skin and Satoru sighs.

That will help as well.

[profoundbondfanfic]

do u have any favorite canon compliant / "missing scene" fics?

Hello there! Yes, here are a few suggestions with fics that include extra scenes like the 'fanfiction gap' and add something new to Cas and Dean's relationship.

a kiss for every season (literally) by sobsicles [Explicit, 22k words]

The first time Dean and Cas kiss, it's not really even a kiss at all. It is not, however, the last kiss that they share. ~~~ Dean doesn't think about it. Not about what it means, not about what it makes them, not about how it affects him. This life—that's not how things work. It's just this, these "in the moment" moments that always slip right out of his fingers because he lets them. He doesn't try to hold onto them, and neither does Cas, and maybe they shouldn't. Cas kisses him like no one else does, like no one else ever has. Dean absolutely does not think about it unless it's happening to him, and then he doesn't have the ability to think at all. What does it say about him that he occasionally kisses his best friend, who's a man? Dean doesn't know, and he doesn't really want to find out, either. 

All This Happened, More or Less by ceeainthereforthat [Mature, 88k words]

Dean had no idea that inheriting John Winchester's Impala was only the beginning of the destruction of his life. That Sam's dreams were more than just the consequences of late night pizza dinners. That angels looked like slightly rumpled tax accountants. And he's not ready for any of it.

Fracture Mechanics by Rend_Herring [Explicit, 43k words]

Admitting it won’t make Dean any more inconsolable than he already is, and he’ll never feel Cas’ absence any more or any less acutely than he does in this exact moment. “He’s gone,” Dean finally admits, because it seems like the only thing left to say. When the terrible, swollen vacancy of the room offers no recourse, Sam says, “I know.”

Home by FriendofCarlotta [General audiences, 2k words]

This is the story of a car, and the boy who loves it so fiercely, it becomes a home. As the boy grows into a man, his car is the one constant in his life. Until, one day, he meets an angel, and "home" takes on a new meaning.

If I Could Change One Thing by 2Minutes2Midnight [Explicit, 13k words]

Spoilers through Season 5 finale. When Dean gets sent into the future where he refuses Michael, he vows to change one thing, if nothing else. He must prevent Castiel from becoming human. No matter the cost.

Revisions by zeppazariel [Explicit, 127k words]

From the beginning, Dean and Cas continue to find their way together over and over. Chuck keeps erasing it.

That Wasn't Supposed to Fucking Happen! by anyrei, queerwerewolf [Explicit, 66k words]

What if it all wasn’t just subtext? Individual, subjective interpretation? What if we’re only seeing a fraction of what’s going on with the Winchesters? What would happen if we saw what was actually happening off-camera? Destiel might not technically “exist”, but that’s because the cameras haven’t captured it. Now that the fourth wall has been broken, subtext may become explicit text. Explicit being the operative word here. Season 12 Ongoing Fix It from 12x09 through 12x23.

The Sum Of My Regrets by LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch [Mature, 20k words]

“A quick trip to the past, that’s all. Look Cas, I know we can’t do anything about all the innocent people getting into the crossfire of our battles, but this I can do. Let me rescue this child and give Lily Sunder back her life. What can possibly go wrong?”  In which Dean Winchester travels through time, learns a thing or two about best laid plans and falls in love with an angel – all over again.

these masks we wear by deansnuggles [Mature, 24k words]

These are the things you hide, when you’re John Winchester’s oldest son: A feather Sammy found and gave you. A piece of satin you cut from a nightgown you swiped from the thrift store. You like to keep it in your pocket and rub it between your fingers. A romance novel left behind in a motel. You tape the cover of a Stephen King novel on the front. A picture of Robert Plant hidden under the fabric on the bottom of your toiletry bag. A cassette of Queen, a cassette of The Beatles. You like to draw. Knights and dragons and cowboys. A mockingbird. A lily. A boy in your class. You rip that one up and burn it. We follow Dean through important times in his life as he slowly learns to accept who he is and figures out what a happy ending means for him.

this ain't for the best (but i want you) by jewishdeanwinchester [Explicit, 8k words]

Five times Dean and Cas fucked, and one time they made love. Or, times Dean and Cas could've been but weren't. (Until they were.)

You can also check our coda tag for fics that follow along with specific episodes.