#but on the other hand I think it’d be sort of freeing for them

[sparky-is-spiders]

I think Jon should give his statement to Gertrude as a child and be so haunted by the nightmares it gives him that he seeks refuge in the Lonely. Like obviously he wouldn’t know what he was turning to (not until it was too late) but he should anyway. The awful watching figure he dreams of making him fear being seen, DESPISE being looked at completely, and make an already isolated and lonely child desperate to avoid other people and, well, Lonely. And as he gets older this would probably mix really badly with the gender dysphoria too, as well as worsening his aversion to eye contact.

And I think that’s when he’d notice the faint fog that’s always creeping around the edges of his vision.

[vampiefemme]

in which ellie shows you exactly who you belong to.

18+ minors dni!

You and Ellie aren’t together. 

You’re not a couple. You’d both agreed to keep things casual. You’re just roommates who mess around sometimes; simple as that. 

So why do you feel so guilty for going on a date with someone else?

You’re dressed and ready, adding the final touches to your makeup in the mirror, and you should be feeling excited - your date is a total dreamboat. Perfect on paper and so, so hot. But instead of that giddy, fluttery feeling in your stomach, all you feel is guilt. 

You and Ellie aren’t together, you keep reminding yourself. You repeat it like a mantra in your head. There’s nothing wrong with going on a date, right? Because you’re single… Right?

On your way out, you run into Ellie, because of course you do. She’s sprawled out on the couch, head propped on a pillow, playing her Switch with a determined look on her face. Your stomach clenches when you see her. She looks up when she hears you walk to the front door, her eyes following you as you slip into your shoes. 

“You look nice,” Ellie says from the couch. You look over and see that she’s paused her game; she’s sitting up and drinking in the sight of you, eyes lingering over your frame. You pretend not to notice. 

“Thank you, Ellie.” You grin and look down at your outfit, palms smoothing over the fabric of your skirt. You do look nice. 

“Where are you going?” 

Your cheeks go hot at the question, and your first instinct is to lie - to tell Ellie that you’re going to see a friend. Just catching up with someone from college over dinner. But it’d be stupid to lie - you’re single. You’re allowed to go out.

“I’m, um, going on a date.”

You don’t look at her when you say it - you know you’d feel guilty, even if the two of you are just friends with benefits. Or… Roommates with benefits?

“Oh,” Ellie says, as you busy yourself picking off nonexistent lint from your shirt. Anything to avoid her gaze. “Okay. Have fun, then.”

There’s no bitterness in her voice, which you had expected. You glance at her face, and she’s back to that determined expression, focused on her Switch again. 

You clear your throat. “Thanks. I’ll, um… See you later.” 

Naturally, you spend the entire date thinking about Ellie. Her eyes, green and dotted with flecks of brown. Her hair, which falls in her face just right. Her mouth, and the way it feels against the supple flesh of your throat, Ellie’s lips soft and wet as she trails kisses down your neck. 

And her hands - her strong hands. You can almost feel them on your hips, on your chest, between your legs. 

God, this date was a mistake.  

Still, you have the common decency to see it through. You pretend to be interested in your date’s job, their hobbies, their five year plan. They drone on for hours, only asking you a few pointed questions about yourself, and when the dinner’s finally over and they’ve signed the check, you’re itching to leave.

Not long after you’ve made it back home, you’re face-down on Ellie’s bed, moaning into the mattress as her tongue circles your clit. 

She’d asked you about your date between heated kisses, her lips flushed and swollen. You hadn’t given her much details aside from it was boring and I just wanted to come home and do this. That seemed to give Ellie some sort of complex, because now, as she pumps her fingers into your cunt with one hand and lands a stinging smack on your ass with the other, she pulls back from mouthing at your clit to rasp, “That’s it, moan for me.” 

And she’s always been talkative in bed, all slurred curses and dirty comments, but there’s something different this time. You arch your back deeper, giving her more access to pound her fingers into you, and she groans in approval. 

“Good fucking girl,” she breathes, using her free hand to dig her blunt nails into the flesh of your ass. She gives it another spank for good measure. “Wanna tell me whose pussy this is?”

There it is - something she’s never said before. You can feel yourself getting wetter, tightening around her fingers as your hips involuntarily push backwards against her palm. You forget to respond entirely, every thought in your head smooth and shapeless, disappearing as quickly as it came. But Ellie won’t let you off so easily. 

“Flip over,” she orders, the rasp in her voice sending a thrill up your spine. You obey wordlessly, and when you’re on your back, you see it: a possessive glint in her gaze, a sharp edge to her expression. You gush impossibly wetter, cunt clenching around nothing - the absence of Ellie’s fingers makes you want to sob. 

“Ellie,” you whisper, brows knitting together. Her gaze softens. “Please make me come.”

A smile tugs at her lips and she nods, her palm rubbing over your stomach in soothing circles. 

“I will, princess,” she assures you, “but I need you to tell me who you belong to. Think you might’ve forgotten.”

Guilt twists in your gut. “You, Ellie.” 

“What about me?”

There’s a challenge in the teasing lilt of her voice. You swallow. “I… Belong to you.”

“Mm, that’s right.” Ellie’s hands travel upward from your abdomen to your chest, closing around each of your tits. You suck in a shaky breath when her thumbs stroke over your pert nipples, making them draw even more taut. “These are mine?”

“Yours,” you gasp, chest rising and falling quickly. Ellie’s bangs fall in her eyes as she leans over to suck a nipple into her mouth, tongue swirling over the bud until you go cross-eyed, hips canting upward. She repeats the same torture with your other breast, leaving both of your nipples swollen and sensitive. 

“What about this?” Ellie asks when she pulls back, her hand moving to the heat between your legs. You whine, a desperate, pathetic little sound that makes Ellie want to eat you whole. 

“Yours, Ellie, it’s yours,” you say, voice betraying how needy you are. She dips a finger into your wetness, your folds silky with arousal, and you almost miss the way her eyes flicker back into her skull for a moment. She’s enjoying this just as much as you are. 

“This is mine?” She drags her fingers up to your clit, drawing torturously wide circles around it - close, but not close enough. You could start crying right there. You nod, frantic.

Ellie clicks her tongue, tuts in disapproval. “No, baby, I need to hear you say it. Whose pussy is this?”

And it’s not so hard to admit - Ellie’s had you under her spell long before you went on that stupid date tonight. You realize it now, cheeks warming at the obscene sounds of Ellie’s fingers playing in your cunt, unable to look her in the eye without squirming. 

“My pussy’s yours,” you pant, “s’all yours. Nobody fucks me like you, Els.” 

You’re pushing your hips towards her touch, your tits in your own hands now, pulling at your nipples like it’ll relieve the growing need in your belly. Ellie eyes you with half-lidded eyes, lust heavy in her gaze, and it’s like you can see the remnants of her resolve break. She sinks between your legs and finally, finally laps at your desperate cunt, drinking in the taste of you as you whine and writhe above her. 

When you come, it’s with Ellie’s name on your lips. And you know it’s true - you’re entirely hers.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Walk The Line.

Carmen gets a little jealous. You don’t mind in the slightest.

roommate!carmen berzatto x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. semi public antics.

word count - 2.5k

authors note - ask and you shall receive 😌. i’ll never get enough of roommate!carmy. i’ll be writing him forever. <3

as always, if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging!! reblogs are the only way to circulate my writing, which generates more of it. feel free to send me a comment or an inbox, too!! thanks, my loves!! <3

series masterlist. masterlist. inbox.

He’s a little out of his depth, admittedly.

The invitation had been slid under your front door, pretty handwriting on creamy paper.

“A… party?”

“Does it say party, Carmen?”

“No, it says ‘mixer.’ What the fuck is a mixer?”

You laugh, scrubbing a mark off the final dish in the sink before placing it down in the drying rack. Carmy is sat on the counter across the kitchen, reading the invite over and over.

“Seriously, babe. The fuck does mixer mean? So it isn’t a party?”

You dry your hands and make your way over to take the paper from him, eyes scanning over it carefully.

“A mixer is like… a get to know each other thing. It’s sort of like a party, I guess, but not really. Just a casual gathering type situation.”

“Sounds fucking stupid,” he grumbles.

You smack his shoulder, rolling your eyes.

“Lighten up, asshole. It could be fun.”

“Fun? You think having a mixer with all the neighbours from our building on a Friday night is gonna be fun?”

“I think it sounds like an incredible time. My ideal evening. I can’t wait.”

You can’t even pretend not to laugh, grabbing onto his thigh to keep yourself balanced. He puts his hands on your shoulders, trying to look serious, but the grin fighting its way up his cheeks gives him away.

“You really wanna go?”

“Carm, if it’s terrible, we’ll just lie and say we’ve got plans elsewhere. We’ll run away screaming if we need to. It might be good for us though, to meet our neighbours properly. It’s good to get to know them, just in case we ever need anything.”

“What, like a cup of sugar? What is this, the thirties?”

“When you’re testing recipes and fucking them all up, you might be grateful to be able to nip next door and borrow a cup of sugar.”

“I don’t fuck recipes up.”

“No? Then why were you yelling at a lavender and oat crème brûlée last week?”

“It was mocking me,” he grumbles under his breath, hanging his head.

You can’t help but laugh, moving closer to stand between his manspread legs where he still sits on the counter. You brush a piece of hair back from his forehead, tracing your index finger in a featherlight touch down the bridge of his nose. He looks down at you, eyes glued to yours.

“I know for a fact you don’t have anything else planned on Friday,” you whisper.

He rolls his eyes but leans into your touch anyway, where you’re still tracing along the features of his face.

“You promise we can leave if it’s terrible?”

“We literally live in this building. We can just walk up the stairs and be home.”

He huffs, but relents.

“Fine. But please don’t leave me alone with all of the middle aged moms. They love me.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” you giggle, leaning in to rest your head on his chest. His arms encircle you, pulling you as close as he can.

Is this scene too intimate for roommates? Without a doubt.

Do either of you care? Not in the slightest.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

It’s not as bad as he thought it’d be.

The middle aged moms have pulled through, actually. The lobby is decorated with fairy lights, tables covered in alcohol set up against the walls. Everyone has a drink in their hand, chatting and mingling amongst themselves.

You and Carmen walk downstairs a little late. He’d finished his shift and run home to shower and make himself look semi presentable before facing the neighbours.

“We need a signal,” he says suddenly, right as you reach the staircase. “In case of emergencies.”

“Pat your head.”

“Real subtle.”

“It doesn’t need to be subtle, it needs to be noticeable for me.”

“Fine,” he mutters, bumping his shoulder into yours. “Don’t leave me alone with that Erica lady. She scares me.”

“Yes sir,” you mock salute, slipping your hand into his momentarily. “You’ll be fine, Carmen. Like I said, we’ll just leave if it’s awful.”

It’s not awful, actually. It’s quite fun.

It’s nice to get to know the people in your building, seeing as you have lived there for a couple of years now. Carmen has been there even longer.

“Excuse me, sweetheart?”

You turn around to be met with an old lady, leaning carefully on her cane.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I’m Dorothy. I live in 2B, and I just had to tell you that you look beautiful in your dress.”

You smile, pulling out a chair for her, which she takes gladly. You sit down next to her, spotting Carmy chatting with a couple of guys across the room.

“Thank you so much!”

You introduce yourself, telling her your name and apartment number.

“Ah yes,” she hums in recognition. “You live with your boyfriend who has all the tattoos.”

You almost choke on your drink.

“We’re just roommates,” you say eventually. “But yes, that’s him.”

“Oh, my apologies. I just assumed.”

You’re curious, suddenly. You know you shouldn’t be, but you can’t help yourself.

“Can I ask? Why you… thought we were dating?”

She chuckles knowingly before placing a hand on your knee.

“Honey, he’s got a hand on you at all times. He looks at you like you are the sun. Every time you walk past my window, you’re both laughing. Sounds like love to me.”

Her bluntness is refreshing, if not a little intimidating. No one will say it how it is more than a little old lady who can’t mind her business.

“We, uh… we’re close. He’s a good roommate. A good friend.”

She doesn’t look convinced in the slightest, chuckling as she pats your leg.

“Uh huh. That’s what I said about my husband - real good friend. We’ve been married 58 years.”

You smile, shaking your head.

“Is he here with you?”

“He’s upstairs. He can’t really leave the apartment, these days.”

“You know, if you ever need anything, me and Carmen would be happy to help.”

“No, sweetheart, I couldn’t ask you to-”

“-you’re not asking me, I’m offering. Carmen is an award winning chef at one of the best restaurants in this city. He’d be more than happy to make a meal or two when needed. And I can pick you guys up stuff from the grocery store when I go, too.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, grabbing your hand in her frail one. “You’re good kids, you two.”

You grin at her, squeezing her hand gently.

“You know where I am, if you need me.”

She nods, standing up carefully.

“I’m going to go see if that handsome Jeremy will come and fix my shower for me. He did promise.”

You laugh, watching as she makes a beeline for one of the dads stood in a huddle. You catch eyes with Carmy, who’s still chatting away with a few of the younger guys. He winks at you, all cheeky and carefree, and you can’t help but flush, heat prickling across your skin. You shake your head, smiling, winking back.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on your bicep. You spin sideways, to be met with the sight of a very handsome man. Dark hair, big brown eyes, tall - he looks slightly like a movie star you can’t quite remember the name of. You crane your neck to meet his gaze, smiling softly.

He holds out his hand to introduce himself.

“Hi, I’m Daniel.”

You tell him your name, trying to ignore how his hand engulfs yours.

“Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

You laugh, shaking your head.

“Have you lived here long? Think I’d remember a face like yours.”

Now he shakes his head.

“A month, maybe. I live in 6C. I’ve been working a lot, so haven’t had any time for introductions.”

“Ah. What do you do?”

“I’m a model.”

Of course he is.

“What do you do?”

As you start to tell him, his eyes fix on yours, not leaving for a moment. He listens carefully, both of you blocking out the noise and focusing on each other.

Turns out, Daniel is good company. The two of you find a spot in the corner, away from the noise and the wine drunk moms. The two of you laugh, joke, and talk about Chicago as if you’re old friends. Time slips away from you easily, conversation flowing with minimal effort.

“I don’t want to leave, trust me… but I have a super early call time tomorrow. If you wanted, we could grab a drink sometime, somewhere that’s not our buildings lobby?”

You laugh, nodding.

“Yeah, I’d like that. It was nice to meet you, Daniel.”

“You too. Here,” he says, handing you a small business card with his number on, “text me.”

“I might do just that,” you tease as he walks away grinning.

You’re on your way to grab another drink when a hand slinks around your wrist.

“Hi, Carmen.”

You don’t even have to turn to know who it is, recognising the feeling of his calloused hand against your soft skin.

“Where’s your friend gone?” he all but grumbles.

“He’s gone home, got to be up early for work.”

“Haven’t we all.”

“Ooo, okay Mr Attitude. You’re not having a good night? You didn’t give me the signal.”

“Would you have noticed if I did?”

You spin around to face him properly now.

“Yes, I would have. Because we’re in a tiny fucking lobby and not a football stadium, Carmen.”

He huffs.

“Didn’t think you’d notice if the building fell down, the way you were lost in his eyes.”

“I know it’s a foreign concept to you, Carmen, but eye contact is actually a very important part of conversation. Try it some time.”

Carmy rolls his eyes, grip on your wrist tightening.

“Come on,” he mumbles. “Wanna show you something.”

He practically drags you up the stairs, and up some more, and up some more. Eventually, you reach the roof.

The sun is just setting, casting the city in a warm orange glow. Everything is so calm, so peaceful, so serene. It’s beautiful.

You’re admiring the view when suddenly your feet are no longer on the ground. Carmy has you over his shoulder, carrying you across the rooftop to the brick wall.

“The fuck are you doing?” you cry as he finally puts you down.

He smashes his lips to yours, choosing to shut you up rather than answer you. You kiss back eagerly, confused but not disappointed at the turn in events. Slipping your hands into his hair, you tug him into you, groaning as he grabs at your ass.

“Carmen,” you breathe, “why don’t we just go home?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he mumbles against your neck, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. When he bites down, you smack his shoulder.

“No marks, asshole. The fuck is up with you?”

Again, he says nothing, just slips his hand under your dress to run his fingers over your underwear. You part your legs instantly, leaning back into the wall to steady yourself.

“Carmen, someone’s gonna see if they come up here.”

“Well then you better come quickly.”

He slips your panties to the side, running his fingers through your wet heat. You keen, knees buckling already.

“Oh baby,” he chuckles. “This all for Daniel?”

It all clicks for you suddenly.

“That’s what-” you choke as he slides a finger into you. “That’s what - fuck - has you so riled up? Daniel?”

“Don’t say his name when I’m knuckle deep, baby. It’s rude.”

You attempt to scoff, but it comes out as more of a moan when he presses his thumb to your clit, circling carefully.

“Am I not giving you what you need, honey? Is that it? Greedy girl just wants more, so she looks elsewhere to get it?”

“No,” you justify quickly. “You know that’s not true.”

“If you can still form sentences, I’m clearly doing something wrong.”

He slips a second finger in, curling them exactly the way he knows you like.

“Carm.”

“He couldn’t make you feel like this, babe. You and I both know it.”

You’re nodding, fingers gripping his shirt tightly as if you’re scared he’s going to walk away. His lips press into your neck again, nipping along the expanse of skin.

“Say it.”

“Hmm?”

You’re dazed, mind hazy with Carmen Carmen Carmen Carmen Carmen.

“Say. It.”

He punctuates his words by curling his fingers harshly. You’re seeing stars, legs giving out.

“He - he… fuck, Carmen, please.”

“So close, honey. Try again.”

You know he won’t relent. He never does, when he’s in a mood. You have to just give him what he wants.

“He couldn’t make me feel this good, Carm. It’s all for you, only you.”

“Good girl. Knew you could do it.”

With that, he speeds up his fingers, his other arm snaking around your back to keep you standing upright.

“Give it to me, baby. Know you want to. That’s it, atta girl.”

“Come for me, there we go. Can feel you.”

“Good girl, good fuckin’ girl. So pretty like this.”

You fall over the edge, clenching like a vice around his fingers as you throw your head back. There’s a sheen of sweat coating your skin, chest heaving with every breath you take. Your vision goes white for a second, gripping onto Carmy’s biceps for dear life.

You rest your forehead against his chest, panting as you try to recover.

“Jealous Carmen is kinda mean,” you mumble into his shirt.

He laughs, wrapping his arms around you.

“You know I didn’t mean it, right? You’re free to date whoever you want. You could do a lot worse than Daniel the hot supermodel.”

You pull back, looking at him carefully.

“I know. I just… I don’t know if I’ll go. Seems a bit unfair to date him when my mind is on someone else.”

You both know exactly who you mean. You both also know that tipsy on a rooftop is not the place to have that conversation.

“Did you ever master the lavender crème brûlée?”

He chuckles, not expecting the sudden change in subject.

“Yes, I did.”

“Do we have any left?”

“We don’t. But I did make chocolate soufflé this afternoon, if that’ll satisfy your sweet tooth.”

“Fuck, yes,” you grin, leaning in to kiss him tenderly.

“I’ll make you a crème brûlée in work tomorrow. Promise.”

“Will you make two extras?”

He quirks a brow in confusion, so you continue.

“We’ve got two elderly neighbours. They’re not very mobile, so I said we’d drop stuff off every now and again.”

He smiles at you, all soft and melted.

“Of course. That heart of yours is too big for your chest, you know.”

You take hold of his hand, placing it there.

“Only sometimes.”

He kisses you again before throwing an arm over your shoulders.

“Let’s go eat chocolate soufflés and drink the rest of that wine you bought.”

“You’re a mind reader,” you laugh, making your way downstairs.

Maybe he is, you think later. You don’t mind in the slightest.

[drabblesandsnippets]

Confidence, Part 2

Hot Bucky Summer 2024 - Week 4

Pairing: Sex Worker!Bucky Barnes x Plus-size female character (unnamed)

Prompt: FREE WEEK | [Optional prompts: “A” - Anal Hook, Acarophilia,  Age Play] @buckybarnesevents

Summary: (3k) Bucky is a full-service sex worker who enjoys helping women become more confident in their sexuality. This picks up right where part 1 ended. 

Warnings: 18+ Only. Very brief mention of an abusive ex. Mention of insecurities. Pet names (sweetheart, baby). Consent talk. Dirty talk. Praise. Oral (m receiving). Fingering. Squirting. 

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

Bucky’s the first person, other than herself, that’s ever been able to make her come. The intense experience has left her wanting to explore more with him, the need to bring him pleasure suddenly her only focus.

“Can I suck your cock?” 

She’s just full of surprises tonight.

The question has Bucky grinding harder against her, the delicious heat and wetness of her seeping through his underwear doing nothing to help him regain control. It’d be so easy to just give in to his carnal desires, to give her exactly what she’s asking for, but he’s a better man than that.

There was a reason she was reluctant to begin with and Bucky needs to make sure she’s not doing this out of some sort of obligation.

With a soft groan, he meets her gaze, one hand underneath her head to keep her attention as they move together. “Is that what you want, baby?” The increased pressure against her sensitive clit is almost too much, but he refuses to let up, watching as she gasps and trembles underneath him. “Or, are you only asking because you think I want you to suck my cock?”

She can’t seem to concentrate, her body and mind overwhelmed with conflicting thoughts. She’s breathless, clinging to him, her hips rocking against his, seeking out whatever he’ll give her - but she’s also worried that maybe she said the wrong thing. Maybe it’s not even something he wants. Maybe she overstepped.

Bucky doesn’t want her to get in her head about this - he needs her to say exactly what she’s thinking, without hesitation. Forcing himself to ignore the whine that tears out of her as he reluctantly pulls away, his own body just as desperate for hers, he murmurs, “Easy.” He reaches down to still her hips, his tattooed hand still cradling her head, encouraging her not to look away from him. “I need you to understand something, okay?”

She wants to keep him against her, but she doesn’t fight it, letting him be in control, her hands resting on his waist.

“You don’t owe anyone anything,” he tells her, the slow shake of his head conveying the seriousness of this conversation. “Certainly not me.”

A wave of regret and embarrassment washes over her, her first instinct to wish she never told Bucky about her ex. There’s nothing sexy about admitting your only experiences with giving head is with an ex who pressured you. 

The look he gives her isn’t one of pity though. It’s understanding. Compassion. Desire. All the things she’s longed for in a lover. 

She can’t let her insecurities win. Not anymore. Especially not while she’s lying naked and wanting underneath a man who already made her forget her own name. She wants more of that. More pleasure. More fun.

Taking a risk, she slides her hand down between them, not stopping until she reaches the waistband of his underwear, her fingertips tracing along the elastic. The grin that appears on his face gives her the last bit of confidence she needs to tell him, “I want this… not because it’s expected, I just… I want to make you feel good… if that’s okay?”

The need to reward her is too strong to deny and Bucky leans up, careful not to move away from her touch, wanting her to make the decision when to take the next step. Instead, his hand coasts from her hip up to her throat to loosely wrap around her neck, the intimate action causing pleasure to wash over both of them.

“I’d love nothing more than to have my cock in your pretty mouth, sweetheart,” he promises, his breath quickening to match hers, the sight of her body arching underneath him causing his cock to ache with need. “I just needed to make sure you want this as much as I do.”

There are a lot of things she wants right now, but none more than this. With her newfound confidence - and the fear that it’ll fade - she asks for permission to touch him, more than ready to keep going. 

Bucky’s eager response has her giggling, the sound fading into a moan when she finally makes contact. Just the softest brush of her palm along his covered erection and he’s moaning with her, pressing against her hand, his own fingers twitching around her throat.

She might not know what he likes, but that doesn’t mean she can’t learn. And if his immediate reactions are any indication, she’s already on the right track. 

Refusing to allow herself to overthink things, she keeps the same slow pace, stroking the length of him through his underwear, the obvious signs of pleasure spurring her on. There’s something intoxicating about being the sole reason for this beautiful man’s moans and grunts and she needs more.

“I want to suck your cock.” 

There’s no hesitation or hint of nerves in her words and it has Bucky cursing, his cock growing even harder for her. He can barely concentrate as it is, the taste of her still on his tongue, her bold touch leaving him breathless, and before he knows it, he’s helping her rid himself of the last bit of clothing, freeing his thick cock from the confines of his underwear.

This time it’s her turn to curse, a laugh bubbling out of her as she blurts out, “Well, now I know where your confidence comes from.” He’s bigger than she anticipated, despite the several times she’s felt him throughout the evening.

Bucky laughs along with her, proudly displaying his body, the mattress dipping as he kneels next to where she lays against the pillows. He’s aware he’s above average, and even though he doesn’t believe he’s nearly as intimidating as she’s making it seem, he’s quick to tell her, “I appreciate the ego stroke.”

Taking advantage of the obvious set up, she reaches out to touch him again, a playful grin lighting up her features as she asks, “Do you appreciate this kind of stroke too?” 

If he wasn’t suddenly overwhelmed by the warm grip around his cock, he’d be able to tell her how proud of her he is. For allowing herself to be in control, for asking for what she wants, for having fun and letting herself be completely in the moment with him. But the only thing that comes out of him is a soft grunt mixed with laughter, “Fuck yes.”

She doesn’t need any more convincing than that and starts a slow rhythm, using the pooling pre-cum at the tip to get him slick. She’s mesmerized by the way his breathing gets faster, the slight tensing of his thighs each time she works her hand over the head of his cock, the look on his face giving her just as much pleasure as his touch is.

With his left hand on the headboard to keep himself steady, his eyes follow the path his other hand takes, just in awe of her body as she is of his. The slight bump of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the softness of her stomach. And god, her thighs. He wants them wrapped around his head again, to feel her squeezing him as she comes.

Bucky almost asks for it. The image of him burying his face between her thick thighs while she sucks his cock has him thrusting against her hand. She’d probably let him too, but this isn’t about him. She was clear about what she wanted and he’s not going to push for anything else right now. 

Not that it’s hard for him to give in anyway, the hungry look in her eyes encouraging him to move closer, his cock soon within reach of her mouth. And then every thought leaves him. The need to taste her again, the desire to suggest a different position for her comfort, all of it gets shoved to the back of his mind. 

The slow swirl of her wet tongue quickly makes his breath catch and he loses focus, his hand stilling on her thigh, his fingers gripping her soft skin. “Fuck,” he exhales.

She’s already moaning, the salty taste making her crave more of him as her hand starts to stroke her saliva along his cock. She can’t get over how hard he is for her, barely having done anything yet, and the realization that everything she does seems to be turning him on has her comparing this to previous experiences.

There won’t be any second-guessing herself though, and as she pulls back to look up at him, her hand keeps moving, not wanting to stop the pleasure she’s giving him. She can tell it’s hard for him to concentrate, but she still asks the question, trying not to blush. “Will you tell me if I do something wrong?”

For a second, all Bucky can do is blink, his breath shallow from the way she’s touching him, the occasional brush of her thumb over the tip of his cock making him stutter. “Not… not gonna happen.”

She briefly bites her lip, his reactions causing her body to pulse and she resists the urge to touch herself, wanting all of her attention to be on him right now. With a soft giggle, she asks, “Because there’s no such thing as a bad blow job?”

Bucky grins and shakes his head. “No, sweetheart.” His free hand moves off the headboard to tenderly cup her face and his thumb slides over her bottom lip, the bit of saliva there making her even more gorgeous. “There are definitely bad blow jobs - if anyone involved isn’t enjoying themselves, no one’s gonna have a good experience.” 

Her words aren’t needed, but she still feels compelled to say them. “I’m enjoying myself.” 

“I know.” The grin on his face grows at the same moment his lips part and he exhales sharply again, the tip of her tongue teasing over the pad of his thumb almost making him forget what he wants to say. “Just… keep doing whatever feels good, okay? ‘Cause everything you do feels fucking amazing to me.”

She doesn’t need more instructions than that, and after letting his thumb slip from between her lips, she guides his cock back into her mouth, sliding the head along her tongue. She follows her instincts, finding an easy rhythm, listening to the way his breathing changes with each pass of her hand working in tandem with her mouth.

The incredible sounds she’s already eliciting from him ignite the fire inside of her, and she shifts, using the pillow underneath her shoulder for support. Her elbow digs into the mattress to give her more leverage and she starts moving faster, paying attention to the way her tongue flicking against the sensitive glands has him gripping the back of her head.

Careful not to take charge of the pace, Bucky runs his fingers through her hair and allows himself to get lost in the moment, his eyes never straying from her. The stretch of her lips around him, the occasional string of saliva that keeps him connected to her when she pulls back to take a breath, the perfect way she keeps stroking his cock.

“God,” he breathes, “you feel so good, baby.” 

She hums against him and he nearly loses it, his hips tensing, wanting to thrust into her mouth. He holds himself back, taking the opportunity to start touching her again, his hand moving from her thigh to her large breasts, the sight of her tits bouncing with each bob of her head driving him crazy.

The moment his fingers gently pinch one of her nipples, she gasps and pulls back, driven by lust to do everything she can to make him lose his mind. She slides her hand up, stroking just the tip of his cock, and tilts her head, slowly dragging her tongue along the underside of his shaft, all the way down to his balls.

“Oh fuck,” Bucky curses immediately, his cock twitching, oozing more pre-cum, and he’s overcome with the urge to praise her, the words tumbling out of his mouth between soft grunts. “Look at you… Such a good girl… Doing so good for me…”

It’s too much, each utterance making her body pulse with arousal and soon her hips shift, spreading her thighs wide, her pussy just begging to be touched. She doesn’t even give him a chance to react though before she’s taking his cock deep in her mouth again, the head brushing the back of her throat.

The gag she makes barely even registers as her free hand moves between her legs, seeking out her swollen clit for a bit of relief. She’s so turned on and the only thing that would make this better is if Bucky finally stops holding back. She wants nothing more than for him to fuck her mouth.

And all it takes is just a bit of encouragement from her, the hand on his cock sliding between his thighs to grab his ass, pulling him towards her. The words spill out of him unfiltered, his hand on her head gripping her hair as he tentatively thrusts into her mouth, “Is this what you need, baby? For me to fuck that pretty mouth while you play with your pussy?”

It’s enough to almost make her come and she shifts, opening her mouth wider, welcoming his thrusts as he starts to move a bit faster, both his hands tangling in her hair for leverage. It’s never been like this for her and she can’t get enough, doing her best to relax her throat as she takes him deeper each time, hungry to take all of him.

Bucky doesn’t want to overwhelm her, but he follows her lead, holding her head steady as makes her take more of him, his body tensing at the tight heat of her throat. “Shit, baby, oh my god.” He’s having a hard time breathing, let alone talking, but he wants to keep praising her, loving the way his dirty talk brings her pleasure. “You’re so good… taking my cock so well… You wanna come like this? With my cock down your throat, sweetheart?”

Her fingers speed up, pressing hard against her clit, the familiar tingle building deep inside of her, and she can only imagine how she looks. Tears wetting her lashes, her saliva dripping out of her mouth, her hand gripping his ass as she moans and whines around his cock. 

“That’s it,” he growls, “don’t fucking stop. Want you to come for me... Show me how much you love sucking my cock.”

That’s all it takes, and her hips lift off the bed at the exact moment that Bucky pulls out of her mouth, his grip on her hair forcing her head back, letting him get to witness her fall apart for him. The cry of pleasure that pours out of her has him nearly coming with her and he reaches down to cover her fingers with his, keeping the pressure up as her legs clamp around both their hands.

“Oh, good girl.”

“I’m so fucking proud of you.”

“You did so good for me.”

She’s so overwhelmed, intense waves of pleasure rushing over her, that all she can do is grind her hips, chasing the euphoria, even after it starts to become too much, her body quickly growing sensitive. 

Bucky already seems to know her body well though, how to keep her right where he needs her to prolong the feelings, and his fingers soon seek out her entrance, her walls still fluttering with aftershocks from her orgasm.

“Oh god,” she gasps, reaching out to hold his arm as her trembling thighs spread for him, already desperate for more. “Bucky… I… it’s…” She doesn’t even know what she’s trying to tell him, but he immediately soothes her, settling next to her while he teases her with just the tips of his fingers.

“Just relax for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss her softly, trying to find a balance between helping her catch her breath while also wanting to make her come again. “I’ve got you.” 

Her mind is still foggy, her thoughts hazy with the lingering effects of coming so hard, all because she was so turned on from giving him head. But, she can’t stop thinking that his pleasure was cut short for hers, and now she’s come twice. “What about you?”

“What about me, baby?” Bucky’s grinning, knowing exactly what she’s asking, but he wants her to tell him - to at least try. She’s come so far in such a short time, he doesn’t want her to regress.

She doesn’t want to either, and with a soft exhale of a laugh, she tries to explain how she feels selfish, whispering, “I… you didn’t… fuck.” It’s so hard to string a coherent sentence together, his fingers still stroking along her wetness, and another soft laugh leaves her as her hold on his bicep tightens.

Bucky takes pity on her, brushing his nose along her cheek, his soft beard tickling her jaw. “You made me feel so good.” Her breath catches and he keeps going, her slick pussy pulsing each time he teases her entrance. “But, right now, all I can think about is feeling you come around my fingers again. Is that okay?”

For just a split second, she almost tells him no. But, that’s her anxiety talking - her insecurities telling her that she’s already had enough pleasure and they should be focusing on him. But, if there’s anything he’s proved to her tonight, it’s that making his partner feel good is just as satisfying as being on the receiving end.

As soon as she’s telling him yes, he’s thanking her, his deep voice sending shivers down her spine and he pulls back just enough to watch her. The way her thighs tense and shake, her soft gasps and shuddering exhales, the fluttering of her eyelashes. He can’t get enough of her and the urge to fuck her senseless drives him to suddenly fill her with his fingers.

He wastes no time before he’s curling them, pressing hard against her front wall, massaging her g-spot, reducing her to nothing but breathless whines and cries of “oh my god” again. Her head thrown back against the pillow, her eyes shut tight, each stroke coaxing more wetness out of her.

Bucky’s on a mission, remembering how she told him she squirts sometimes. She’s never done it with anyone else before, and he wants to be the first person to have the pleasure of witnessing it. To be the first person to make it happen.

The only thing she can do is go along for the ride, her left hand spreading her pussy for him, giving him the perfect opportunity to grind his palm against her clit, his soft words of praise filling her head. She can already feel the pressure building, his fingers never letting up, fucking her perfectly as she cries out of his name.

She thought she’d be nervous or hesitant about this part, but it’s impossible. He’s just as turned on as she is, enjoying himself right along with her, and she wants to give him everything. Especially when he growls, “Give me what I want. Squirt all over my fucking hand, baby. Let me feel it.” 

Whatever he wants, she’ll give him.

With a loud gasp of a moan, her body lets go, her wetness soaking his palm, the wet, obscene noises pushing her over the edge. Her breath gets caught in her throat and her back arches, her thighs threatening to close but Bucky quickly sits up, using his free hand to hold her open, fucking her through her orgasm, making her squirt over and over.

“You’re so fucking hot.”

“Holy shit, look at that.”

“Never seen anything so beautiful.”

“So fucking perfect, baby.”

He doesn’t stop until he’s sure she can’t take anymore - the twitching of her thighs, the tensing of her stomach, the soft whimpers telling him exactly when to pull back, immediately gathering her in his arms. HIs fingers don’t leave her until his lips are on hers, swallowing the whine she makes from the loss, kissing her passionately as she shudders underneath him.

Bucky’s so proud of her, and he can’t wait to show her everything else she’s capable of tonight.

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

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Hot Bucky Summer Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[grimm-writings]

rainfall

…ft! dazai, chuuya, fyodor x gn! reader

…tags! fluff, some hurt/comfort on dazai’s, headcanon format, rainy day off with the boys!

…wc! 308 ; 369 ; 345 = 1022 

…notes! i don’t think i’ve ever seen fluffy idiot content of fyodor. i must rectify this.

Dazai

Dazai treasures rainy days more than anything.

“Oops sorry Kunikida, I can’t come in to work!!! Rain is just sooo heavy you know?”

The office is literally down the block he’s just not bothered

Who needs work when he has his beautiful partner?!

That’s what he whispers to you with a giggle and a grin as he nuzzles into your back.

Most times, that’s all it really comes to: a sleepy Dazai, cute compliments, and being lovingly held against your will.

Other days, it isn’t so easy.

He’s like a rock. The only notion you have that he’s awake is one of his eyes staring at the window outside, at the rain.  He doesn’t even message about his absence in advance this time – that’s up to you.

He isn’t as snuggly, but he doesn’t stop you from wrapping your arms around him and holding him.

Eating isn’t exactly something on his mind on these sort of days.  Even with that in mind, he’s always sure to quietly thank you when you hand-feed him meals.

Those days are difficult, but you make them easier.

“You have work today, right?  Don’t bother with the dishes,” Dazai calls out to you from the bedroom.  The clattering of the porcelain couldn’t exactly be hidden, you admit. Dazai sighs as you continue washing and drying.  New weight on the bed behind him makes him aware of your presence a few minutes later.  Your arms wrap around him without hesitation. “You don’t have to stay,” he says to you when the silence becomes too much for him. You merely snuggle further into his bandaged body.  “Yeah.  I want to, though.” To his own surprise, Dazai relaxes into your touch and words. “...Well.”  He smiles for the first time all day, softly, and his eyes linger up to the rainfall again.  “If you say so.”

Chuuya

Days off are all too rare in Chuuya’s line of work.

As soon as he’s free, he’s tiredly at your side, and he is not leaving.

Seriously he is … so clingy when he’s tired.  Whether you’re shorter or taller than him, prepare for his arms to be slung over your shoulders and his face in your hair.

Mention it to him and he’s grumbling all crabby lol.

You’ll have to wake up in the mornings to his work clothes sloppily discarded throughout the hallway to your room.  He wanted to conk out STAT.

He insists he’ll pick it up later (when he’s getting dressed for work again)

Rainy days aren’t exactly anything that stops him from working, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take the opportunity to call in for a day off once in a while.  He can almost hear the smile on Mori’s face over the phone telling him to enjoy it.

He’s fairly average at cooking when he eventually does get up, maybe sometime in early afternoon.  If he’s too sleepy though?  …Yeah, keep him away from the heat.

Overall, it feels… super domestic having these free days with him.  He wouldn’t mind this every day, if the opportunity presents itself.

If you knew you’d be greeted to this, you would have woken up a little earlier to at least catch him. “Mornin’!”  Chuuya leans back against the kitchen counter, breakfast on the table between you two.  A tired smirk is on his face, proud of his cooking.  Simply dressed in his work shirt and his boxers, the look of him is just too much for you to handle right now. You walk over to give him a small peck on the cheek, thanking him gently.  As you eat, wondering what it’d be like if he could make you breakfast every morning, you glance up and point a fork at him. “After this, I want some snuggles for at least another hour.” Chuuya couldn’t stop himself from scoffing playfully at your ‘threat’, resting his chin on his palm.  “Well… I’ll see what I can do.” You smile, digging back into your food.  You know he wouldn’t let you go once you’re back under covers.

Fyodor

It all started with you judgementally asking if he even has a life outside his work.

You didn’t expect him to get so offended, but his glance over and raised eyebrow gave you all you needed to know about his answer.

The next morning, you didn’t expect to actually have him be beside you as you shake slumber off you.  He’s almost always at his computer by the time you’re up.

It’s not as if Fyodor is neglectful in any way, he’s just … a little peculiar in his habits, for lack of any nicer terms.

Before you could even ask, he’s already greeting you in a gentle voice, tacking on a sweet nickname on the end of it.

Oh.  Oh he was awake the whole time.

This is a competition to him.

You could almost sigh in disbelief.  For someone supposedly so intelligent and wise, he sure has his moments.

Rainy days with Fyodor are spent with him suggesting activities to do together, but it’s very obvious he just put “at home activities” in the search bar and clicked the first link.

You don’t remember having this many board games.  How did he do this.

The night comes to a close as Fyodor sits with you in his lap, finishing up some professionally recorded opera of sorts.  You couldn’t understand half of it, but Fyodor laughed at it a few times, so it must have been good.  His chin rests on your shoulder and you can feel his smile. “So, did I prove you wrong?” “...What, about having a life?”  You can’t help but roll your eyes.  “You sure proved something alright.” Fyodor hums, sarcasm dripping from just that single note.  “You should treat me more fairly.  I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.” You would bite back with another retort, if not for Fyodor twisting his neck so he could peck your lips before resting back against the chair. Trying to ignore the flush of your cheeks, you sigh.  “You’ll get it with practice.” “Ah, so there IS a next time.” “Shut it.”

[reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeko]

Sebek Zigvolt crush head cannons 💚

my first post on here uhhhhhh hiii feel free to request if you enjoyed reading this :)

❦ Sebek is the type that when he develops a crush, he has no idea it’s a crush. Like he’ll assume he’s sick with some human disease and think he’s dying. After extensive research, as well as “help” from some of the other freshmen. He learns it’s not some human disease. He still isn’t sure what it is though, so he turns to the only source that could know what this sickening feeling in his heart is. Lilia.

❦ When Lilia tells him it’s love, (after copious amounts of teasing from the older) Sebek is confused. This isn’t like the love and admiration he feels for Malleus. It’s different, it consumes him and it makes him feel awkward. If he sees you around your other friends, it’s instant jealousy. Why weren’t you hanging out with him? Don’t you know they’re not fae that are training to be royal guard? He is the only one that can protect you. Sure Jack may be absolutely bulked up but still! Sebek has muscle too! 

❦ okay maybe it’s slightly more obsessive but still! He’s a sweetheart when the two of you are alone. Need help carrying your books? He’s already there grabbing them for you. Can’t reach something in the Alchemy lab? Luckily for you he had extras so you can take some of his! Can’t find your notes for magical history and you have an exam next period? He’s next to you offering his notebook and scolding you softly about the importance of placing things where you’ll remember them. He’s quite literally your number one helper. Other than Malleus, you’re the only thing on his mind!

❦ He didn’t even know how to confess at first. Spending hours going through romance novels in the library to try and gain some sort of idea on how to tell you he loved you. Even turning to using Lilia’s computer to search up the most romantic ways to express his love. Eventually, the older fae saw his struggle and decided to help. So, with new found knowledge, he gathered the things Lilia had told him to and went on his way to confess.

❦ Sebek had shown up to Ramshackle the very next evening, a bouquet of your favorite flowers wrapped in small lights, candied fruit, and a box of chocolates in his arms. He had tried to dress up abit, only to get poked fun at by Silver and Lilia. So instead he wore his dorm uniform, hoping it was formal enough.  Nervous was an understatement. He was terrified as he cleared his throat and knocked on the door, silently praying that Grim didn’t answer.

❦ He luckily got his wish, watching as you opened the door, a small smile on your face as you looked up at him curiously. “Sebek?” 

❦ He could feel his face burning a bright red as he bowed, offering you the gifts as he kept his eyes trained on the ground below. “[Name], it has come to my attention that I have developed romantic feelings for you.” His loud voice seemed to grow quieter the longer he spoke.

❦You were stunned for a moment, slowly taking the gifts from the fae with a small smile. “I’m flattered Seb…” He winced slightly, preparing himself for rejection. “Do you reciprocate my feelings, [Name]?” He straightened out his back, face still burning red as he looked down at you. Giggling softly, you nodded. “I do Sebek.”

❦he begins courting you immediately, granting you scary dog privileges from any students that think It’d he okay to treat you with disrespect. Like I said, he’s a sweetheart, practically putty in your hands.❤️

[lovebugism]

mean eddie x reader!

come join the sleepover (⁎˃ᴗ˂⁎)!

Eddie wasn’t mean to you. Not exactly. 

He was just an idiot who didn’t know how else to flirt with you.

It’s sort of like that dumb stereotype parents use when their kids are little and their daughter comes crying about a boy pulling at her pigtails. The whole “he’s just hitting you because he likes you” bullshit. Eddie isn’t quite like that because he isn’t a total asshole. He just finds it easier to tease you than to tell you how he really feels.

“Ooh, is that a new shirt?” he lilts like it isn’t at all embarrassing that he knows when you’re wearing something different. “Def Leppard merch, huh? Just say you’re trying to impress me, sweetheart. It’d be a lot less obvious.”

You roll your eyes at him, less than fazed at his relentless taunting. 

He stands uninvited beside you as you stack books into your locker. Once your hands are free, you tug at the bottom of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head so you’re left in nothing but the plain turtle neck you’re wearing underneath.

“Not so obvious now, am I?” you quip as you shove the crumbled up tee into your locker.

And rather than tell you that he actually liked the shirt or that you looked pretty in it (which is why he’d opened his mouth at all), he buries himself deeper into this hole and keeps on teasing. 

“And you’re giving me a free show? Oh, c’mon, sweetheart. Just tell me you like me before you get any more embarrassing.”

It’s always some iteration of that. 

You take him by surprise at how pretty you are — how funny or how kind — and, as though in retaliation, Eddie knocks you off your feet. He makes a joke about all the things he likes about you and tries to convince himself that he doesn’t really like them at all.

One morning, he finds you standing in the bustling hallways of Hawkins High. Your locker is open but abandoned beside you because your nose is stuck in some too big novel. You’re undoubtedly trying to cram a few chapters before the bell rings. 

And, since he’s so perfect at it, Eddie Munson decides to ruin your plans.

He abandons the Hellfire group at the other end of the corridor and b-lines over to you. None of the boys mind. They’re used to it by now. Typically, when they look over and notice their president’s disappeared out of nowhere, they find him with you.

He digs a cold fingertip into the junction of your neck and shoulder to get your attention. It startles you, makes you tense while you swat him away with one hand. You’re still too concentrated to pay him any actual attention.

“Go away, Eddie,” you gripe with your back still facing him. “It’s too early for this.”

He wants to ask how you even know it’s him, but the answer is obvious. No one else in school, or even in all of Hawkins, is quite as relentless in this way as he is. 

“What it’s too early for, sweetheart, is to be reading a book like this,” Eddie quips as he reaches around you to snatch the book out of your hand.

You should’ve seen it coming from a mile away, but your reflexes come a moment too late. Before you can jerk the novel away from Eddie, he’s already stolen it.

The boy grins. “A little slow this morning, I see.”

“Bite me,” you monotone as you finally spin around to face him.

“Say please, and I’ll think about it,” he answers without thinking twice. He shuts the book but leaves his finger wedged between the pages you were reading. His chocolate eyes scan the vibrant cover. “What is this anyway?”

“Crime and Punishment.”

“Never seen you read it before…”

“I got it yesterday at the library.”

“You got it yesterday, and you’re already halfway through?”

You shrug. “It’s a good book.”

This is the other part of your relationship. Underneath the petty banter and the relentless teasing, there are moments like these — innocent conversations without all the extra bullshit. Neither of you would admit to it, of course, but it’s almost like you’re actually friends.

“It’s huge,” Eddie emphasizes while he waves the book up and down, as though testing its weight. “It’s practically breaking my wrist, sweetheart.”

“If you don’t read, just say that,” you squint playfully over at him. Your hand reaches for the book again, but he dodges you and hides the thing behind his back.

“You’re right. I should probably read more,” the boy confesses with a scrunched nose. “Why don’t we go to the library after school, and you can show me where they hide the good stuff?”

Your brows raise. “You want to go to the library?”

With me, is how you really want to finish that inquiry, but you force yourself to stop short.

Eddie shrugs. “I’d ask you to go somewhere more exciting, but I feel like the library is more your speed. Quiet, dull, boring.”

“Well, if I’m so boring, why do you want to go anywhere with me?” you counter.

For perhaps the first time ever, Eddie’s stumped. 

He doesn’t have a quick comeback or a joke to downplay the situation he’s all tangled up in. And, for a brief moment, he almost caves. He’s a second shy from telling you that he doesn’t know how else to ask you out. But when his senses finally return to him, he covers up any sincerity with more sarcasm.

“I don’t know,” he lilts with a tone that suggests he actually isn’t all that sure. He bounces his shoulders with his pink lips jutted softly out. “I just figured maybe if someone actually showed you how to have fun, you might learn better. I’ll even let you jot down a few notes in your pretty pink notebook.”

You take a daring step closer to him. 

You’re still several inches away, but the sudden shortening of proximity makes Eddie’s breath hitch. The loss of having the upper hand is foreign to him. You come a centimeter closer than usual, and he’s crumbling like a piece of paper. It’s so not metal of him.

“Say it,” you squint up at him.

“…Say what?” he wonders with furrowed brows, genuinely confused.

“That you, Eddie Munson, want to take me on a date.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the boy laughs to cover up his flushed cheeks. “I never said anything about a date, sweetheart. Maybe that’s what you heard — because, you know, you’re obsessedwith me — but… I never said that.”

“Right,” you hum in response, obviously not believing him. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, sweetheart.”

“I want you—” you demand, pushing a finger at the center of his chest. “—to say something real… Then maybe I’ll consider going out with you.”

Eddie blinks down at you for a moment, considering the offer. 

It would be easy for him to call your bluff, to push you like he always does until you inevitably cave. But maybe you’re not joking. Maybe another round of stupid teasing would squash the opportunity. Or perhaps, he could finally be forthright with you and have to suffer your subsequent laughter.

He decides, ultimately, to be honest. 

He takes his own step closer to you, further closing the already minute distance. When he leans his free hand on the lockers at his side, it feels much more like he’s looming over you.

“Corroded Coffin’s playing a show at the Hideout tomorrow,” he tells you lowly. “I have to close and everything because, you know, I work there — but that means I get all the beer and leftover greasy food that I want. If you wanna come and stay after, I’ll think about sharing with you.”

You try your best not to grin. But when his rosy lips contort into a shy smile and he tilts his ear down toward his shoulder, you’re beaming sunshine up at him.

“See? Was that so hard?” you tease.

“What do ya say, sweetheart?” Eddie presses, a lot more obvious with his want for you than he’s ever been before.

“It’s a date,” you assure, trying your best to conceal your smile. 

You catch Eddie’s spare hand hanging at his side, your book finally free for the taking. He’s too distracted, caring less and less about the stupid thing, because he can’t take his eyes off you. It makes it exponentially easier to snatch it back from him.

“Ooh. You’re slow today,” you joke with a pretty smile. 

You walk back from him as the shrill morning bell rings overhead. 

Eddie watches, still partially stunned, as you drag a textbook and a journal from your locker before slamming it shut again. You head to your first-period class and call to him over your shoulder.

“Don’t go getting soft on me, Eddie Munson.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises. 

He’s lying, though, and both of you know it.

Eddie’s been soft on you since the day you met.

[dearharriet]

HII!! CAN I REQUEST TEN THINGS I HATE ABT YOU + JAMES POTTER PLEASE 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 I FOUND UR BLOG AND I AM OVSSESSED !!!!!!

hi hi you’re so lovely!!! i had to think on this one for a while but i think i like how it came out! james seems much more like cameron than patrick, i hope u don’t mind <3 (wc: 1.2K)

You get the sudden feeling that you’ve been completely messed about at this stupid house party.

Down the driveway, your so-called friend is climbing into the passenger seat of a Porsche, leaving you behind in less than ideal autumn-garb; A red dress that falls too short and clings too thin to your wind-whipped torso, and a sad excuse for a shawl are all you have for warmth.

And if things could get any worse, you’re likely going to have to walk home in the kitten heels you insisted on wearing.

Behind you, a clunky wooden front door heaves open, producing the sweet but hopeless guy who’s been following you around all night. James, you think is his name.

He’s relatively attractive, in a sort of lost puppy way. Big brown eyes and pouty lips, a softness to his tone that could probably buckle knees if he took better advantage of it. Still, he’s thinner and scraggly, and lacks any kind of social quip to make that likely.

He skips down the steps, his dress coat flung dejectedly over his shoulder, and a frown tying his brows together. His friend from earlier is nowhere to be seen.

“Hey,” you say tentatively and his hung head picks up, though his mouth only hardens its angry line. He takes in your unlucky state, and any trace of the puppy-love softness he’d shown you all night is gone.

“Where’s your boyfriend?”

You scoff. “Please. He’s not my boyfriend.” His face remains stony and unaffected. “I don’t know what I ever saw in him.”

James reaches his free hand up to push back his hair, and you stare at his tensing arm without really realizing it.

“Yeah, neither do I,” he says, hiking his jacket further over his shoulder and walking past you.

In a small window of time, you realize he has keys that he’s fishing out of his slacks pocket—car keys—and your aching feet override your nerves.

“Uh, James?” You both spin towards each other, your back now to the house and his to the cars. You realize that’s probably not the only thing that switched between you tonight. Ironically, you’re the one chasing after him now.

“Yeah,” he says, agitated, when all you do is stare. You look to the empty space where your ride once was, and back to James.

“Could you give me a lift home?”

Something about the way his expression slackens turns your insides out. When was the last time someone looked so disappointed in you? As far as you know, most of the decisions you make go over very well, and no one is ever upset with you (save your sister, who is never happy if she can help it).

But here is James, with eyes holding the most loathing likely ever directed your way, and with every right.

He shakes his head, but says, “Yeah, whatever.”

Somehow that might be worse.

Trailing after him, you come up on his old sedan, a car that seems like it’d have a myriad of mechanical problems. He has to stick his key in the driver’s door to unlock it.

When he gets his door open, he unlocks the rest of them, and you slide awkwardly into the leathery bench beside him. James seems to notice your unfamiliarity and shreds your self esteem further with a scoff.

“It’s not a convertible, I know. Sorry to disappoint.”

“No,” you immediately defend, warm from his apt assessment of you. James gives you a sideways glance of warning. “I mean, yes, I was expecting something else, but it’s—I’m not…”

“It’s fine,” James sighs, turning the car on, “it’s just a lift home. You made it pretty clear that that’s all you want me for.”

As James pulls into the street, you watch the house slip away, party like a fizzling ember fighting the midnight cold.

“That’s not true,” you say, though you’re not sure you feel it at all. Your voice is overly sweet, an attempt at the voice that serves to get you what you want, when you want it.

You’re not entirely sure what you want anymore, but James brushes it off anyway, like it’s a revolting bug.

“Yes, it is.”

It astonishes you how easily he can cut you down. He’s hardly speaking loud enough to be heard above the radio, just a bitter rake of a comment, but you’re floored all the same.

The car falls silent, and you stare at your lap instead of out the window. You feel thoroughly scolded, dissected and left to put yourself back together. You don’t think you’ll cry, but you’re not ruling it out.

When James pulls past a stop sign, approaching your neighborhood, he glances over at you.

“Yknow.” He pauses, licking his lips. “I didn’t even expect you to like me back.” His eyes return to the street “And it’s fine that you don’t, but—but you could’ve just told me.”

You rub your hands over the hem of your dress, a foreign set of nerves gripping your chest. Realistically, you could weather the storm until he drops you off, but for some reason you desperately want to rectify the situation.

You want to tell him that yes, of course you liked him all this time, because that should be true. Except it’s not.

James’ car rolls up to the curb outside your place. He sighs, gripping the steering wheel.

“I really cared about you. I went to that party for you, and I ignored everyone who said I was stupid for doing it.” Shaking his head, James looks at you, anger peeling back to reveal raw hurt. “But you’re so conceited.”

You expel a painful breath, all the wind knocked out of you.

“I know.” Breaking eye contact, you flick your eyes to your shoes. Flattery and shame twine together in your throat. “Did you really go to the party for me?”

James nods.

“Went to the party, got that guy to date your sister,” he lists. “I even learned French for you. And what did it get me? A whole lot of—”

Without really thinking, you surge forward and pull James’ lips onto yours. They lay warm and firm over your mouth, and you can’t deny how right it feels.

You’re expecting James to pull back, to push you away, but he does the opposite. One hand laces into your pristine hair, holding you to him, and the other wraps around your back.

It’s a perfect kiss, the kind that you always dreamed of, and it makes a giddy laugh bubble out of your mouth.

When you pull away, you’re dizzy and a little self-pitying. You could’ve been kissing James like this whole time instead of chasing after some pea-brained asshole in a nice car.

James seems to watch the thought wash over you, because he kisses you one more time to remind you that it doesn’t matter, that you’re here now. Then he lets you go, and you relish in the way his hands linger over your waist, your neck. The giddy feeling comes back twofold.

“Night,” you say through a prim smile. “Thanks for the lift.”

James’ eyes crease a little at the edges from his returning smile. “G’night, beautiful.”

+

thank you for reading! xx

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[xetlynn]

Until Dawn- By Your Side: Chapter Three, Arguments

(Josh Washington X Reader)

[two] [three] [four]

Ashley and Sam talk while I hold myself shivering. “WOOOoooOOoooooOOOO!” We hear from the other side of the door and Sam immediately goes up to the window. “Hi Chris, very funny.” She yells.

“How’d you know it was me?” He furrows his brows, showing his face. “Shouldn’t you be like, getting the lock open or something?” She ignores his question. “On it.” He makes a straight face and walks away. I sigh, throwing my head back.

I glance over to Ashley who’s crossing her arms over her chest. I grab onto her and hug her. Keeping us both warm. “Thanks, [Name].” She whispers, I hum in response, leaning my head on her shoulder. “He needs to hurry up.” I mutter, annoyed.

“Can I join you guys?” Sam asks, I open my arm and we all huddle together for the warmth. “Thank you.” She huffs up.

I hear Chris’s footsteps get closer and we let each other go. “We’re freezing our buns off out here!” Ashley complains and I chuckle remembering the conversation the boys were having earlier. Sam and I go up to the door and watching Chris put the fire on the handle of the door. He glances up at us when he stops and flings the door open. Hurting himself in the process.

“Thank you, thank you, thank, I‘ll be here all week-“ He bows but as he does a badger or some sort of animal runs out of the doorway making him squeal. Us three laugh at his reaction. “Crap that thing freaked me out.” He expresses, looking down at the ground.

“what was it? Are you okay?” Ashley attempts to stop laughing. “It was like a bear or a tiger or something.” He huffs. “Aw it was just a cute little baby wolverine!” Sam does a little pout.

“Baby?” Chris rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna be a big boy soon.” Josh comes up behind us, slinging his arm over my shoulder, wearing a smirk on his lips.

We all get inside, Josh letting me go to lead the way fully in. “Home sweet home.” He says.

“Sweet is not the word I’d use.” Matt mumbles under his breath.

“I think it’s nice, just needs a little cleaned up.” I get on my tip toes and kiss my boyfriend’s cheek.

“Oh my gosh it’s so good to be inside. Even if it’s still kinda freezing in here.” Ashley happily announces. “I’ll get a fire going.” Josh squeezes my forearm before walking over to the fire place.

“This place barely looks any different.” Matt comments. “Yeah, nobody’s been up here.” Josh tells them.

“Even with all the police coming in and out?” Ashley tilts her head and I sigh at the question. “Not a lot of action up here lately.” Chris says for his best friend. “Nope.” Josh adds. I watch over him as he gets the fire started.

“What’s up party people!” Mike throws his hands in the air excitedly. “Heeey!” Jessica grins. “Hey!” Josh smiles. “Make yourself at home bro.” Josh tells Mike, I only give him a short wave. I’ve never really been his friend. We have a mutual silent agreement where we don’t really speak to one another unless necessary. “Will do.” Mike pretends to take a hat off.

“Yeah, come on in.” Matt says with some sort of disdain laced in his voice. “Take a load off. Have whatever you want.” He stands up. “You just take whatever you want anyways, right?” He gets closer to Mike and I take a deep breath knowing some sort of argument is about to happen. I lean on the wall of the fireplace beside my boyfriend. “Woah, easy there cowboy.” Mike steps back.

“what the hell were you doing with Em out on the trail, huh?” Matt questions him. “What?” Mike furrows his brows. “I saw you and Em. Through the telescope.” Matt explains where he got his information. “Before? We just ran into each other. It’d been a while so we hugged and I said hello. Is that against the law?” Mike asks, I don’t think he’s completely lying but Matt supposedly does with his next sentence. “Erm. Right. Right I’m sure it’s all it was.” Matt sarcastically says.

“You know what? You can think whatever you want. It’s a free country.” Mike tells him. “Watch yourself, Mike.” Matt warns before sitting back down on the couch. Mike goes and sits with my little sister. I subtly glare over at them before looking down at Josh.

“Oh. My god. That is so gross.” Emily’s voice pierces the room. “Are you trying to swallow his face whole?” She asks my sister and I get up from the wall. “Em…” Matt steps in. “Seriously can she be any more obvious?” Emily looks at everyone in the room. “No one wants in on your territory, honey.” Emily tells Jessica.

“Excuse me, did you say something?” Jess stands up.

“Oh did you not hear me? Was your sluttiness too loud?” Emily comes back at her and I shake my head. “Sounds like someone’s bitter she didn’t make the cut.” Jess smiles to her boyfriend who seems like he’s enjoying the show. “Yeah. It’s all a big cattle call with that dreamboat. Congrats, you’re top cow.” Emily congratulates her. “Cuts real deep calling Miss Homecoming a cow.” My sister says.

“Hey, let’s calm it down, both of you.” I point to them. “You’re making everyone uncomfortable, Jess.” Matt adds in. “Jealous much?” Jess asks him. I close my eyes trying to restrain myself from yelling at them. Somehow Josh doesn’t even care as he still works on the fire. “Emily too frigid for you, too?”

“Hey, that’s, that’s uncalled- look-“ Matt starts. “Whatever. I don’t give a crap what you think.” Jessica tells them.

“At least I can think. 4.0 bitch, honor roll.” Emily says and I press my lips together. “Suck on that when you’re trying to sleep your way into a job.” I get closer to Emily and wave her to stop.

“Knock it off, please.” I whisper, looking over to my boyfriend who just wanted a fun trip. “Who needs grades when you’ve got all the natural advantages you can handle.” Jessica says and I wince at the horrible come back. “Oh please.”

“You couldn’t buy a moldy loaf of bread with your skanky ass.” Jess snaps at Em. “Are you serious? Do you think that’s insulting?” Emily laughs. “That bitch is on crack or something.” Jess looks to her boyfriend.

“Jessica, you need to shut your mouth, okay?” Matt tells my sister. “Matt, zip it.” I groan, planting my face in my hands.

“no, you’re the one who needs to keep your nose out of other people’s business.” Jessica points a finger at him.

“I’m about to get right up in your business you bitch.” Emily steps closer and this is where I jump in. “Are we about to get real? Cause I am down to get real.” Jessica gets in Em’s face.

“Alright, enough you two. What the fuck?” I push them both back. “Are you serious? This is not why we came here.” I tell them and Josh is standing behind me. “This is not helping. It’s not what I wanted.” He says to them and they look down.

“If we can’t get along for ten minutes then maybe we need a little bit of a break, right?” Josh says and I notice the girls glaring at one another again and I shove both of them. “Knock it the fuck off, seriously.” I whisper.

“Mike, why don’t you check out the guest cabin. The one I told you about.” Josh offers to him and my sister. I snap my head over at him with wide eyes. “Yeah… yeah, alright.” Mike stands up, reaching out for Jessica but I step in between them. “No. No, just for you to screw my little sister like the asshole you are?” I furrow my eyebrows. “Hey, calm down. I’m not going to do that.” He scoffs.

Jessica hits my arm. “It’s not your place to say no.” She tells me. “I’m just looking out for you.” I argue, slapping her back. “I don’t need you to do that. I’m going where ever that whore isn’t.” She walks past me and joins Mike.

“You’re so stupid Jessica.” I huff out, super irritated. “What ever, [Name]. Stay out of my life then.” She tells me and I roll my eyes. “Would love to.” I mumble, crossing my arms as I watch Mike and her walk out of the room. “It’s right up the trail.” Josh directs Mike and I give him a look. A very angered expression. Matt lets out a large sigh. Doing a mind blowing noise. “Glad that’s over.” He says.

“Yeah.” Josh gets back down to start the fire. “So Josh… uh, should we get this fire going?” Matt offers a helping hand.

“Where’s my bag?” Emily asks suddenly. “Huh?” Matt looks back to his girlfriend. “My bag! The, the little bag with the pink pattern. The one I got on Rodeo.” Emily questions. “Matt are you listening?”

“Oh my god, don’t you remember? Next to the Italian shoe place where I got the stilettos and you knocked over the rack while you were drooling all over that girl at the counter?” She reminds him. “well, I mean, she was asking about my letter jacket-“

“Right. Because she gave a shit about your designer letter jacket.” Emily rolls her eyes, I just plop down on the couch. Over the arguing that Emily always seems to bring. “Why do you hate my jacket?” Matt steps closer to her. “Matt I need my bag!” She says.

“oh my god Em, maybe you just forgot it.”

“Do you seriously think I’d forget my bag?” Emily questions him, raising a brow. I look over to the stairs to see Ash, Sam, and Chris there awkwardly as we all listen to this. “Well, I-“ “Do you?” She cuts him off. “Guess not.” He falters. “You must have left it down by the cable car station.” She says and he groans. “C’mon hun. We’ll be back soon.”

“And then we can get warm?” He asks and I know what he means by that. Every guy here is a pervert. “We can get very warm.” Emily responds, sway her body. “Okay. Okay, let’s go.” He motions to the front door and they leave.

“Okay. I’m gonna go take a bath.” Sam stands up, heading up the stairs.

Josh stands up, suddenly remembering to give Mike the keys and even though I’m upset with him. I get up to follow. His hand finding my own. “You’re mad at me.” He states quietly. I don’t look at him, only shrugging. “I’ll make it up to you.” He tells me.

“We’ll see.” I let go of his hand and open the door. “Here’s the keys.” I take them from Josh and throw them over to Mike who catches. “Hey, sorry to kick you out like that.” Josh goes over to them and I fold my arms over my chest beside him. “No worries man.” Mike waves it off.

“Oh I’m sure you’ll find a way to entertain yourselves.” Josh smirks, Jess hums in response and I feel like I’m gonna gag. “You have fun with the peanut-gallery.” Jess points into the house. Josh does a gun noise, pointing fingers to his head. He walks backwards but then stops. “Oh! Almost forgot. Gotta fire up the generator so you can see where you’re going.” Josh says. “It’s dark out there.” He goes back inside. I stand there for a minute looking between them. Shaking my head as I head back in as well.

“You ruined it, Josh.” I tell him, moving past him sort of angrily. “I figured.” He sighs, grabbing onto my arm before I could make it too far away from him.

“I just want everything to be perfect tonight.” He whispers, bringing me close to him. I know I’m not going to stay mad but what’s going on with Jess has been too much lately. She doesn’t even seem like my little sister anymore. “I… I understand.” I frown. I don’t understand but this trip is about Josh. Not me.

“I love you, [Name].” He says out of the blue staring into my eyes. I shyly look away. It took us a while to say the “L-word,” both of us having weird pasts with relationships and unfortunately what just happened to his family. So whenever he says it, it still feels like the first time. “I love you too.” I tell him, he pulls me into a kiss. “More than you’ll ever know.” He mumbles, holding me tight like I’m going to disappear. “Getting a little sentimental on me, Josh.” I pull away just the tiniest bit. His hands still around my waist.

“Only a little bit.” He chuckles, we head back to the living room.

“Sammy!” I shout. “What?” She asks back. “Need help getting the bath ready?” I tease her. “Um, well. I’m about to get into said bath.” She chuckles as my head peaks into the room. “Do you need any help with that?” I smirk. “Hardy har.” She smiles.

“I was just checking in with you.” I stop messing with her, watching as she turns the water on. I cross my arms, figuring the hot water isn’t on. “Do you know how to hook up the hot water in this big fancy lodge? Or at least your boyfriend hopefully does.” She turns to me and I shrug. “We’ll go get it figured out. Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone.” I blow a kiss, jogging out of the room and back down stairs.

“Love-“

“You can do it, man. We believe in you.” I hear Chris quietly say to Josh so I immediately quiet down. “Yeah! Totally! Woohoo! Let’s go Jo-osh let’s go!” Ashley cheers.

“Okay well I am pretty sure that somewhere in this crazy place we used to have… a spirit board.” Josh randomly tells them, I make a face remembering when him and his sisters used to try to get me to play the board with them. “Those things are a joke, man. They don’t do shit.” Chris says.

“No way bro. We used to do it all the time. [Name], me and… well.”

“Hey, love. The hot water isn’t on. Sam is pissed!” I got over to him, slinging my arms dramatically over his shoulders. “Oh, we gotta fire up the boiler. It’s in the basement.” He tells me, I let him go. “You guys see if you can find the spirit board.” He points to Ash and Chris, Ashley gets excited. “Chris let’s go find it, it’ll be like a scavenger hunt!” She grins.

“Umm… okay… guess so.” Chris slowly goes after her. “Rad. You’re not gonna regret it.” Josh chuckles. “You ready?” He turns to me, sticking his hand out for me to take. I hum, taking it.

“You notice how I gave Chris and Ash a mission together?” Josh asks me as he takes a flashlight out of a drawer. “I did.” I smile.

“Yeah I was thinkin’ they could use some ‘alone time.’ Like we could use some alone time.” He wiggles his eyebrows and I laugh. “You thinking tonight’s the night?” I ask, messing with him.

No, we haven’t done “it” yet. With everything going on it just didn’t feel right. Along with the I love you thing. As much as a pervert Josh is, he’s actually a sweetheart. Sex also just isn’t on his mind like that. We both respect one another on that. “Really?” He tilts his head, I could tell he actually got excited by my question.

“If you want to… I wouldn’t be opposed to it.” I take the flashlight from his hand and lead our way

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[koolades-world]

Hello is hug deprived anon again (this might be becoming my name oh no) and I’ve had an idea

I’m sure we can all agree that mammon deserves all the love, especially because his brothers are too mean to him, they pretend they don’t love him too constantly

So, what if Mammon is away for a week, doing photoshoots or dealing with witches or something, and MC is moping because they miss him,, like, they keep turning to their side to whisper to him and then like deflating when they see no Mammon,, and like, reaching out on that side to hold his hand and then being confused when there’s nothing there, and then they realize :( maybe they stole his blanket from his room because it smells like him, so it’s the best substitute for Mammon hugs while he’s away

Maybe Beel (idk if any of the other bros would be nice enough to tell him) is texting him like “your human is too sad come back soon” and sending him pictures of MC doing this stuff

When Mammon returns MC jumps on him for hugs like “you’re home!!!!!”

Idk I think he’d cry

I think he would feel very loved and probably also cry abt it

What you think? What do you think he’d do?

(If you choose not to write anything about this no worries obviously) (but I eventually might lol I think it’d be very cute and make him very happy to have someone who really misses him when he’s away)

HI!! haha if you want and plan to request more, feel free to pick an anon name! or I could just call you something like hug LOL

wayyy back when I first got into obey me in like 2021, there was this one specific fic I read kind of similar to his idea where mammon was upset at be mistreated and mc stood up for him and it was this cute bonding moment, and this request kinda reminded me of that!! gonna try to channel it a little bit

this idea is literally so cute and I'd be happy to write it! it makes my brain like a cat who has the zoomies hehe enjoy :D

How Ironic

You watched agonizingly as the clock ticked by even slower than usual. You'd been trying to do some sort of work, or anything other than stare at the damned clock forever now, but you just couldn't focus.

It had been exactly four days, six hours, and fifteen minutes and counting since Mammon had left for a week long promotional photoshoot in another ring of hell. You had your sad, but sweet send off and you promise yourself that time apart might be good for you. After all, it always felt like you could never get anything done with Mammon around. Yet, here you were, staring blankly at a clock with a blank piece of paper and pen in front of you.

Finally deciding to throw in the towel for now, you got up from your desk in your room. A walk to a local convivence store was in order. Snacks and fresh air wasn't a combo you could pass up. On your way out, you passed the door to his room which was slightly ajar. You briefly had the thought to poke your head in and ask him if he wanted to come, before remembering that he wouldn't be in there. You continued your walk to the front door, where you put on your shoes and grabbed a bag that had a few necessities in it for the short journey.

Thankfully, you hadn't passed any of his brothers on the way there, meaning you didn't have to explain yourself or have them ask to tag along. While you enjoyed their company, they weren't Mammon. If you needed help, you could always summon one of them thanks to the pacts, but you needed this short walk to clear your head.

The air was unfortunately stifling and overly humid outside, making you glad you were dressed light. It was basically just your pajamas but when you went out with Mammon, the two of you did this every time. As you autopiloted to your favorite corner store, your thoughts wandered back to Mammon again. You wondered how he was doing and if he missed being at home. You couldn't blame him if he didn't and hoped he was enjoying his time away from home as much as you wished he was by your side.

Once you got to the store, you wandered around for a bit, debating what to get. After grabbing a small basket, you began to pile in various things that sounded good. Once the basket was full, you came to the realization that all the snacks were Mammon's favorites; hell sauce flavored instant noodles, Chaos Devil Cider and ginger ale to mix, Devilbee honey popcorn, and a variety pack of Devildom gummies. This is what he introduced you to the first time you did a snack run together. You decided, in light of this discovery, to buy extras for him for when he got back. You figured he would enjoy it and it was the least you could do to thank him for introducing you to so many tasty things you would've not tried otherwise. Once you checked out, you returned back to the House of Lamentation with a new skip in your step.

You made your way back up to your room, and passed the ajar door of Mammon's room again. Memories of the two of you together flooded back again, and you couldn't help but step in. Just being in his room was like he was really right next to you again. You couldn't help but sit on his sofa and think about how much you missed him even though it hadn't even been a full week. His absence made you realize how much you missed his presence. After a moment, you decide to leave the snacks you bought for him on his bedside table so his brothers were less likely to wander in and find them before him.

As you were setting down everything you'd gotten for him, you something caught your eye just about to fall off the end of his bed. After you picked it off the edge of his bed, you realized it was the hoodie he always wore around the house. It was faded from lots of usage and the strings were fraying. You knew it smelt like his cologne and his shampoo from all of the tight embraces he'd given you while wearing it. You for sure thought he would've taken it with him, but it looked as if he had thrown it off last minute and thrown it on his bed without looking back.

Looking around as if someone might be watching (which could very well be the case since Lucifer was notoriously quiet), you pulled it to your chest and deeply inhaled. Of course, there was the chance that it was dirty, but you couldn't care less. It wasn't anything you hadn't seen of him before. Since there really wasn't anything stopping you, you took it back to your room with you. You weren't even really that cold, in all honesty. It was more of the idea that he was right next to you since it smelt just like him.

You continued your night like you had before you left, just with his hoodie on. You were magically much more productive wearing it and you managed to get several things done. Usually, you would be chatting with Mammon on the phone at about this time to talk about how your days were, but he was unfortunately busy with something work related. Instead, you decided to send him a sweet goodnight text and send a picture of your set up with the food and the show you've been watching one episode at a time. Not expecting a response before you called it a night, you turn your phone off and focused on eating and watching tv.

Beel wasn't sure what woke him up first: his stomach or Mammon blowing up his phone. Sitting up in his bed, he peered at his screen, squinting at it. He had at least twenty texts from his brother asking him to check on Mc for him after they hadn't responded to his texts. He wasn't sure if Mammon knew they were probably asleep or if he was just worrying for no reason. Either way, he decided to check on them for him anways. After his kitchen run, of course.

After letting Mammon know, he got out of bed and left his room. On his way to the kitchen, however, he ended up following the smell of cup noodles to Mc's room. There, he was able to complete both of his missions. He snapped a picture of Mc fast asleep with a couple half finished snacks, then took the snacks. Mission complete.

Mammon was only halfway through the only kind of dumb business dinner when he spammed Beel about Mc. He was more worried than he would admit to himself about them. He knew it was probably nothing and that they had fallen asleep, but Beel was usually awake at this time eating anyways. The food was nice and he was the star of the show, but the dinner was much too stifling for his taste. Most importantly, it was cutting into his precious time with Mc, something he looked forward to at the end of every day. He loved getting to hear their voice after being away from them for so long. He missed getting to see them in person, but getting to hear them was next best.

As he was poking at his food, he finally got the response he was waiting hand and foot on. Beel had responded with just an image at first, so he scrambled to open it. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was a picture of his beloved Mc fast asleep in their bed. You looked so peaceful but your face was barely visible because of the hood pulled up over your eyes. After squinting, he realized the hoodie you were wearing looked oddly familiar. He realized that that was his hoodie, the one he'd left on his bed when he was late the morning he left.

He could barely contain his excitement and it must had been evident on his face since those around him glanced at him, and then between each other a few times. He saved the photo to his phone, and texted Beel back a thanks. As everyone talked around him, he debating asking to leave the shoot early right then and there. If he left right now, he would be able to make it home before you woke up. While he entertained this thought for a while, eventually he decided to stick it out since there were only a few days left. As soon as he was allowed to leave, however, he would buy you something with the paycheck he'd be given. Something nice, maybe a gold bracelet that would remind you of him when you see it. He spent the rest of the night thinking, then dreaming about you. He could only hope you were doing the same. (you were <3)

After those final two and a half agonizing days and many texts later, it was finally time for Mammon to return home. For now, he decided to leave his car parked just outside the house, since he may or may not have been planning to take you out to dinner later that day. As soon as he walked in the door, one of his suitcases in tow, something, or rather someone, attacked him with a flying hug. At first, he was processing the situation as Mc began to squeal and squeeze him as tight as they could into a hug. He wasn't really sure where they had come from, but he knew who it was as soon as their arms were around him.

"MAMMON!" Mc swung the both of them around, buzzing with excitement. "Diavolo, I missed you so much. I don't want to let go of you. If you don't take me with you next time, I might die of sadness and loneliness!" Their arms were around his neck, and their face in his chest. He finally let go of his suitcase and hugged them back. He held them close, shutting his eyes for a moment to take it all in.

"I missed ya too. 's good to be back." He, again, couldn't stop the smile from growing on his face. His brothers never expressed themselves the way Mc was to him in that moment, so he wasn't quite sure how to feel. They never seemed excited to see him, so it was so refreshing to see Mc visibly excited and made him feel truly loved. All their time apart was worth moments like these.

As MC was squealing, a few of his brothers began to gather around the foyer around them. Perhaps they heard them, or maybe they knew he'd be back today at around this time. Either way, he waved at them, still keeping an arm around Mc.

"Guys! Mammon is back." Mc nuzzled his neck, still holding onto him.

"We can see that." Belphie remarked, sounding unamused. Mammon's smile faded a little. So, they didn't care that he was back, did they? He should've expected that from them. Actually, they probably wished he'd been gone for longer with the way they treated him sometimes.

"I talked to you guys about this. I don't expect you to do what I'm doing, but you need to show him you're happy he's back. You can't lie, he's irreplaceable! I don't know what I'd do without him, and I missed him so much." Just like that, Mc's words lifted him back up. Suddenly, he was no longer upset that his brothers didn't care. He had the attention and care from the person he thought about the entire time he was gone. "Shame on you all. Don't expect me to talk to you for the next few days. Let's get your things from the car, and go upstairs. We have so much to catch up on!" Mc only let go of his neck to grab his hand instead. They dragged him back out of the house, shutting the door with their foot behind the two of them.

"Mc, ya didn't have to do all that fer me..." Mammon glanced back at the shut door. His brothers didn't open it, or try to follow them.

"But I did! You're my first man, after all. I really can't express how much I missed you and just saying it doesn't feel like enough." They reached into the trunk of his car to begin taking out his suitcases. Mammon moved them aside gently, not wanting them to do even more for him that he felt as if he didn't deserve.

Mammon was silent for a moment, then decided to go digging through his backpack for the bracelet he'd bought for you. He hoped it would make it easier to tell you how he felt. "Here, this is fer you." He presented the small, black box to them. Looking caught off guard, they accepted it and opened it carefully. Your mouth dropped open as you saw the golden piece of jewelry he bought for you on the drive back.

"Mammon! This is beautiful. Thank you so much! But, I don't understand why. What's the occasion?" You removed it from the box and held it up to the light to study it. Several small charms hung off of it.

"That's the thing. There isn't one." He took a deep breath and looked down at his feet before continuing. "I just... yer so good to me. Ya texted me daily, called me daily, thought about me while I was gone, and even waited fer me like that so ya could surprise me when I got back. Ya care, and I know I'm not the best with showin' I care and it makes me feel shitty. Thank you, fer everythin'. I really missed ya." He couldn't see how Mc reacted, but was essentially tackled into another hug again by them.

"Mams, you show me you care in little ways. Just because you don't say it, doesn't mean that you don't. You just being back here with me is more than enough." He immediately thought about how ironic the entire situation was. He never actually told them how he felt and treated them like garbage sometimes, and he thought it might've been pushing the person he cared for most away, but really, he never had to worry about that. he'd never considered that they could see past his inability to admit his feelings. He hugged them back, savoring the moment since this time they were alone.

"Thank you Mc." He held back happy tears.

"No, thank you! Thank you for always being by my side. Now, instead of actually unpacking, let's just lock the car and sneak back inside. Maybe they'll eventually feel sorry and come looking for us, but we'll actually be hiding right under their noses. It'll be like a spy mission." Mc giggled leaning back to see his face. Mammon let them look him in the eyes, glistening tears and all.

"Yeah, let's do that. We can watch that movie ya wanted to watch and just share headphones." He found himself joining in with the quiet laughing along to something he wasn't sure either of them really understood. Something he did understand however, was that he knew he was loved back by the one he loved the most, and couldn't ask for more.

[piratefishmama]

Forgiven Not Forgotten | Part 7

Never let it be said that the Harringtons knew how to go small. They didn’t. The quaint little two bed they’d been living in was always going to be temporary if Steve came home. Even if it was now… technically theirs. It was a nice house, perfect for many a small family, which technically they were.

But they were also… filthy stinking rich.

The Harringtons didn’t really know how to go and stay small. Which is why by the following weekend, Eddie’s release from hospital looming upon them and the two bed house feeling more and more cramped by the day, they already had a cash offer in place on a five bedroom estate in Bloomington.

Five bedrooms, four bathrooms, a finished basement games room, just under eight acres of land, a pool, and an extra little pool house outfitted as a detached bungalow on the property.

The little house they’d lived in… given it was theirs, well. They had no real plans for it yet. Selling it on was a potential, it was too far from the estate to even contemplate handing the keys to one of the families linked to theirs through their children’s shared trauma, although that’d be a nice gesture on their part, the idea of separating their kids after such an ordeal?

Nope. They’d clung to each other. Kept each other alive. They needed each other.

One of the reasons they even chose the bigger property was because “It’s big enough for you all to be there.” That’s what Lynda had told Steve when he’d asked about it. “It’s not going to happen for another couple of weeks, so the house is still going to be a little cramped with everyone in it, but…”

“We have no intentions of separating you from your family, Steven.” John finished for her, nodding over Steve’s shoulder to the multiple sets of eyes watching them. “Like your mother said, what we have now is too cramped, this new place will have plenty of room for everyone.”

“And… what about when their parents turn up?” Because it was a when, not an if. “Just gonna go back to an empty house?” They were operating on when. Nevermind that they’d never seen their parents get out of Hawkins. Nevermind that the only parent they knew for certain was alive and well outside of Joyce and Hopper, was Karen Wheeler, Ted having put himself between his kids and a Demogorgon during the early days and hadn’t come out as the victor. It didn’t matter that they’d seen horrors beyond anything a child should have to witness.

The kids needed to operate on when.

“Then we’ll help them find homes in the area, but until then, the house will be… a home base of sorts. A comfortable starting point for all of you so you’re not too far away from each other, it’ll never be an empty house, Steven. I know it might look like we’re just spending money for the sake of it but… it’s not like that anymore.” They weren’t doing that anymore. They’d found a better way than being away from home all the time. John worked from a home office and delegated important tasks and jobs to others to free up his time, and Lynda decided she wanted to be at home.

They were just glad Steve was allowing them to just decide to be there for him all of a sudden. He didn’t have to.

“…Forgive me if I still doubt that.” No amount of tearful apologies could erase all that history “But thanks, for… for thinking of us. It’s true, we kinda stuck together like glue after Mr Wheeler…” he trailed off. After they’d gotten Karen and Holly out of that house while Ted held back that shaking door, huge, clawed fingers tearing through wood. He still remembered Holly’s screams, still remembered Karen crying, begging them to go back as Nancy and Mike dragged her out, Holly running straight to Steve. “We were never far apart from each other.” It’d be weird without them, unsettling when the dust finally settled. When parents returned to claim their kids.

“And you wont be.” John placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, firm, squeezing it in comforting reassurance. “You won’t be.”

~~

“Aaaand this is your room.” Had it not been for the fact that Eddie had been in a coma for the last god only knows, where he could, with rules, conjure ridiculous shit, he’d have probably assumed he was still out.

He had a room. In what was essentially. A mansion. But he’d never seen it before, so he wasn’t still in his funky little void because he wouldn’t have been able to conjure it.

Only what he’d seen, only places he’d been.

He had his own room. Bigger than his old one at the trailer because of course it was. Currently empty of personal belongings, void of personality, but Steve was holding boxes. Boxes with stuff in them, rolled up tubes of paper, stuff wrapped in newspapers, and he was setting those boxes down one by one inside the room. “…What’s in those?”

“Shit we saved from the trailer, it’s not much but… it’s something.” Eddie silently turned to just. Stare at him. Brows furrowed, confusion so evident Steve had to ask “what?”

“…How long has it been since I died, Steve?” He had to ask again, just to be sure of something, even if it was a weird question to ask.

“Bout two years, why?”

“… And in that time, Hawkins basically ate shit, right?”

“Yup, where’s this going?”

“How’d you save my stuff for that long? Why did you save my stuff for that long? Shit couldn’t have been easy to keep safe, right? So… why?” Steve fell silent, his jaw shifting, lips pursing, visibly going through all the possible reasons he could have saved that stuff, all the reasons why he would have saved that stuff, all the potential excuses, the boy would be terrible at poker.

He settled on shrugging his shoulders.

“Because I did. Because I could. Like I said, it’s not much.” It was so much. Not quantity wise, no… Steve was right there wasn’t much in those boxes, probably why Steve could carry multiple at a time but it meant so much. Steve obviously wasn’t going to go into the why’s or the how’s with him though. He was going to brush them away, without answers. “We saved some mugs, there’s some posters in here, uhh, I got a bunch of your tapes and your deck, I wish I could say I saved your guitars but… I’m sorry man, it was just too risky carting around something that could make noise. I think… they might still be there but—”

“It’s fine, Steve… this—this is way more than I could have asked for.” He could always get a new guitar, eventually. It’d mean saving up somehow, or using some of the hush money that the government had promised him for signing, he was planning on using that to find Wayne though.

It’d been over a week, the hospital had slowly been cleared of survivors, the Sinclair’s were the only parents who’d made it thus far, having been staying with Sue’s sister a few towns over doing the exact same thing as the Harringtons. Waiting. Hoping. Praying for news on their kids, any news. Anything.

They’d taken the Harrington’s offer to stay in the converted pool house with Karen until they could get housing arranged, the kids staying in the main house with everyone else.

“Yeah well… we’ll sort you out a new one eventually. Can’t leave the bard without his instrument, right?” Eddie’s wide eyes were on him again, a beaming smile spreading across his lips, dimpling his cheeks, stretching the scar tissue on his jaw, and Steve had to look away, he had to, because otherwise he just might fall again, and he couldn’t… he couldn’t make that mistake twice.

“Be still my beating heart, was that a D&D reference, Harrington?” He could feel the warmth seeping into his cheeks at the attention, as Eddie leaned in a little closer, got into his space, it’d been so long since someone had paid him any attention. Even if it meant nothing to Eddie, even if he was just being silly, be still his own beating heart.

“Maybe. Now get to unpacking your shit.” He put the last of the boxes down on the bed, purposefully turning away from Eddie to hide his reddening face, to hide what he knew Eddie had never wanted to see. “We’ll be heading out into town in an hour to find us all some new clothes, maybe some new stuff for the rooms too. Hop to it.”

“You’re not gonna help lil ol me unpack? I just got out of hospital!” Eddie called after him as Steve made to leave the room.

“With a clean bill of health! You can manage a few boxes!” And he was gone. Running away. Like a coward.

[jtl-fics]

Fluent Freshman - Part 09

PREVIOUS

Thanksgiving dinner really wasn’t that bad. It’d been years since FF had been to one as lively as this.

Kevin is loud and demanding when it comes to what needs to be on the TV and the exact perfect schedule to catch all of the Exy games being played. Wymack brought bourbon and has put it on the highest shelf in Abby’s kitchen right next to where Abby put the second pie for the exact same reason: Keep Andrew out of it. The Monsters and FF all get roped into helping Abby prep the meal.

He’s told that usually there are more people staying over Thanksgiving but this year more had gone home or gone to friend’s homes to celebrate. The only ones there are the Monsters, FF, and Jack.

Jack sits sullenly on the couch no matter what task Abby tries to give him.

Eventually, potatoes are mashed, turkeys are carved with appropriate knives, corn is creamed, macaroni is cheesed, canned cranberries have been de-canned, and the stuffing is…there on the table.

“Dig in!” Abby says not bothering with grace.

It’s good.

FF still misses his grandma’s cooking. It’s nice to have this loud Thanksgiving like he used to get but there’s something special about helping his grandma in the kitchen and the two of them sitting down to eat.

He definitely misses his grandma’s company when Jack starts to loudly complain about every last food item that Abby has so graciously laid out for them.

Wymack & Captain Neill both tell him to knock it off and threaten grueling exercises when practice starts back up while Andrew just threatens him with a knife multiple times to shut him up but FF can see Jack looking in the kitchen as he sits in silence after Andrew not so stealthily held a knife to his ribs.

Jack is looking at his grandma’s pie up on the top shelf.

Jack is going to complain about his grandma’s pie.

He looks at the Monsters and knows that there is only one person at this table who can POSSIBLY stop him is the person that FF fears the most.

Still….

He figures Andrew owes him a final request before he’s murdered in a basement, secondary location or (a new option he thought of on the way over to Abby’s in Andrew’s absurdly nice car), a secondary location’s basement.

“I want you to stop Jack from having any of my grandma’s pie.” He says in German drawing the attention of Aaron, Nicky, and Neil. Andrew blinks at him but says nothing so he continues. “If he says something mean about it then I’ll lose it.” He says.

FF means that if Jack insults his grandma’s pie that she had managed to get to him through some sort of grandmotherly wizardry then FF will burst into tears. He’s got what doctor’s call leaky eyes and there is no cure for these bad boys. He knows he’ll try to defend his grandma’s pie from whatever issue Jack will take with it but he also knows that he will be sobbing during that defense.

Andrew hears that and thinks that he might finally get to witness what FF looks like when he’s angry. From Kevin’s screaming, to Jack’s taunts, to Andrew’s own barbs, he has yet to see FF get mad. FF’s ability to stay in his own lane and regulate his emotions is one of the reasons that Andrew considers him a friend. He thinks about the bags under FF’s eyes and how desolate he had looked staring down at the ‘CANCELLED’ notification on his phone.

Andrew is getting into the art of doing something nice. For a friend.

He gives FF a singular nod and pulls one of his knives out of his arm bands and makes his way over to the pie. He ignores some various questions from the other, irrelevant.

“I want a slice at least!” Nicky demands and he nods as he cuts up the pie into seven normal sized slices. He puts each on a plate and Neil, every understanding of Andrew’s intentions, hands them out to the Monsters, FF, Wymack, and Abby.

“Good, finally get to try this stupid pie.” Jack says and Andrew levels a knife that has an apple slice slowly sliding off of it at Jack’s face.

“People who can’t appreciate the free dinner don’t get to have dessert.” He says and watches as Jack’s face goes through an entire range of emotions, “You saw what I could do to a turkey. I have no problem doing it to you if you try anything.” He says and Jack goes white before he trudges out of the dining area entirely.

Andrew watches him go before picking up the remainder of the pie (nearly a quarter) and making his way over to the fridge.

FF pipes up, “Try it without the ice cream first.” He says because even if he likes his pie à la mode the first bite has to be pure pie.

Andrew shrugs and eats the apple pie filling off of the knife.

It’s immaculate.

It’s the best pie that Andrew has ever tasted in his life and he has tasted some pies.

He has no idea what Jack would have complained about other than the fact that FF had an entire one of these all to himself. This pie had travelled across the continental United States and tasted like this. Andrew can only imagine what it is like when it is coming fresh out of the oven.

He grabs the ice cream from the fridge and watches everyone else try the first bite of FF’s grandma’s pie.

“I want to meet your grandma and shake her hand.” Wymack says eyes closed even as his hand reaches for some bourbon.

“I want to your grandma to adopt me.” Nicky says.

“She can adopt both of us if it means pies like this.” Aaron agrees.

“This is good.” Kevin says as he continues to eat it.

“Really good.” Neil agrees.

“Maybe she could share the recipe with me. I’d love to make this.” Abby says as she drinks a glass of milk.

“Thanks, she’ll be happy to hear it.” FF’s shoulders loosen as he puts away his own slice quickly.

There is some grumbling as Andrew hoards the rest of the pie himself and only gives bites to Neil. “I wonder if we should get the whipped cream out for it?” Neil asks him in Russian.

Andrew frowns and considers it for a long moment, “We have plans for that whipped cream tonight and the stores will be closed.” He says back in the same language. FF has paused in eating the last of his slice. “Problem?” He asks.

“Last bite.” FF responds back immediately and Andrew lets it go unaware that FF had spent 2 seconds wondering how whipped cream would play into whatever torture device Andrew was going to shove him into the second they arrived in Columbia before realizing that it was a sex thing.

He lets his hand go into his pocket and rub the paper of his grandma’s note to him.

It’s not a bad last meal.

NEXT

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[gingerbreadmonsters]

better half

or: here comes the... um...

gn!reader, strong language and innuendo, good old-fashioned fluffy stuff. my undying love and gratitude to the gang over on discord who have kept me sane for the last two months or so - @zozo-01 @pinksparkl and @autisticempathydaemon i would be LOST without you!! a veritable tropefest of all my favourites - just don't ask me when it's set, i beg. astarion taking matters into his own hands in 20,700 words or less.

“No, no, do go on. And the marigolds?”

Dear gods.

“Well, they’re a fine variety, to be sure - and fresh as anything, just come in this morning from-”

It was the right thing to say - the man keeps talking, voice lifted slightly over the bustle of the market as he chatters on about petal density and stem texture and who knows else. You’re only half-listening, nodding along and making encouraging little noises whenever he starts to run out of steam, but you’re not really paying attention.

You’d only come to this damned city in search of some complicated magical artefact that Gale’s been wanting - according to him, there’d been an auction back in Waterdeep not long after he left, and the nobleman who’d bought it arrived back home here just a few weeks ago. As luck would have it, he’s throwing a party in a little less than a tenday’s time for a bunch of the city’s rich folk, so naturally you’ll be taking advantage of the distraction to quietly sneak in and steal the artefact when nobody’s looking.

Or at least, that had been the plan, until closer inspection had revealed some pretty nasty enchantments protecting the manor from intruders. Gale and Shadowheart had both had a look, and agreed that while they could probably break them, given enough time, it wouldn’t exactly be discreet - rather, it’d probably set half the house on fire or something equally ridiculous. You’d all been standing around a few streets away, trying to figure out a plan for how exactly you were going to pull this off, when-

Really, now. Did they teach you idiocy at wizard school, or did it just come naturally?

You’d turned, surprised - Astarion, appearing out of thin air and self-satisfied as ever, swanning past Gale with a dismissive flutter of his fingers. I don’t suppose you’d know, but some of us have actually been to parties before.

Ignoring the affronted squawking from behind him, he’d dropped an expensive-looking roll of paper into your surprised hands, before looking down at you expectantly. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be an invitation to the manor, addressed to some minor lord you’d never heard of.

How on earth…? You’d been shocked at his good fortune - what are the odds he’d run into someone carrying an invitation for a party that’s happening days from now? Where did you-?

All taken care of, darling, he’d said dismissively, even though you could see the smug smile tugging just slightly at the corner of his mouth. A word in the right ear is a wonderful thing. We won’t be interrupted, believe me.

It had been that sort of smile - you’d said a silent prayer for whatever poor soul he’d lifted the invite off of. ‘We’?

Please. As much as I’m sure Lae’zel would love to spend an evening hanging off my arm - he’d dodged the kick to his shins with infuriating grace - I think we both know that the answer is obvious.

He’d gestured to the paper in your hand - ah. You hadn’t seen that part.

What say you, dearest? he’d said with a bow, taking your free hand with a princely flourish and laying a delicate kiss against your knuckles. Shadowheart had rolled her eyes at Astarion’s antics, mouthing something at you from over his shoulder before turning to start herding the others back towards the tavern you’re staying at. Fancy an evening as my beloved?

Obviously, there was no way this could possibly go wrong. You’d replied with your best Astarion impression, gasping in theatrical shock and trying desperately not to laugh. You could at least ask me properly, you know.

We’ve no time for courtship, sweetheart, he’d groaned as if in pain, kissing further and further up your wrist, your forearm, your elbow. I simply must have you - and tonight, no less!

Tonight? At least wait ‘til we’re wedded, dear, you’d gasped in return, smacking him in the shoulder and utterly failing to hide your grin. I’ll have the ring first, then we’ll see.

Conniving little magpie. He’d said it like he’s any better, the bastard. Is that how I’ll win your heart, then? Dangling sparkly trinkets over your head, putting a shiny ring on your finger?

The others are long forgotten, vague shadows in the street. If it were from you, my lord? Nothing would please me more.

He’d raised a single, silver eyebrow, something unreadable sitting just behind his smile. Nothing, you say?

Well. You’d shrugged as he laughed at your faux-serious expression, looking him up and down with an exaggerated leer. I can think of at least one thing…

He’d been about to reply, but you’d caught sight of Karlach halfway down the street behind his shoulder, leaning over to Wyll and whispering something with a chuckle. At that distance, you hadn’t been able to make it out, but that’s what vampires are for - Astarion’s jaw had dropped theatrically with an indignant I heard that, you-!

An unapologetic middle finger from Karlach, and an outraged huff from Astarion as he took your arm and started after them. Defend my honour, won’t you, my love?

For sweet Astarion, paragon of innocence? Dragged laughing after him by the elbow, you’d not really had much of a chance to protest, but it’s not like you were going to anyway. Why, always.

Yesterday evening and today have been dedicated to prepping the pair of you for this little mission, and you really can’t tell if you’re more excited or terrified of the whole thing. Is it a bad idea? Yes. Is it a ridiculous solution to the problem? Yes. Are you going to do something that inevitably gets you both discovered and kicked out of the house empty-handed at best, or run through with something sharp at worst? Almost certainly.

That being said…

What’s the right way to put it? It’s not good for you, to be doing this. It’s not going to do you any favours. It’ll be nice at first, but when the glamour falls away, it’ll hurt even more than it did before.

You like him. Or maybe you don’t. Or maybe you’re scared of what liking him might mean, so you’re trying desperately to convince yourself that there’s nothing out of the ordinary about the way you like him. It could mean anything, the way your eyes always seem to fall upon him first. It could mean anything, the way any joke you tell isn’t funny unless he laughs. It could mean anything, how his voice makes your stomach drop and his smile makes your lungs hurt and his fingers on your skin make you want to tear your heart in half.

He’s something else entirely. The sting of his fangs in your neck, the comforting way he sits in the corner of your eye. This is going to destroy you.

For what it’s worth, the others have been doing some intelligence gathering on this nobleman that Astarion’s supposed to be. Wyll and Halsin ventured out to one of the nicer parts of town last night to see if anyone might have drunk enough to spill anything good, while Shadowheart and Karlach had been making the rounds of some of the… less respectable establishments to try and dig up what dirt they could.

According to their collective notes, he’s one of the younger sons of a relatively unknown house somewhere up north, and he was due to arrive yesterday on some sort of business for his father. It can’t be for anything too complicated or expensive, seeing as a wealthier house would probably have a more famous name, and likely wouldn’t want to be seen sending a fourth or a fifth son as a negotiator.

He seems to be a fairly private figure - no especially distinctive features, and no particular public scandals or habits that Karlach or Shadowheart could discover, which is definitely good news for Astarion’s cover. Gale didn’t recognise the name in a magical context, and Lae’zel hadn’t heard of them as a notable military house - altogether, it’s likely that they’re probably a merchant family that’s come into money through trade, as opposed something like land or banking or politics.

Unusually, he seems to have brought someone with him - the invitation is addressed to him and a nameless betrothed, but none of you have been able to find anything out about them whatsoever. Nobody’s seen them, or heard about them, or even seems to know their name. As far as the people of the city have let slip, they might as well have never existed. Astarion had even said as much when you’d asked him.

I mean, he certainly didn’t look the type, he’d said, grimacing faintly as he pictured the man he’d pickpocketed. I’m more than aware that travelling can be a thoroughly unpleasant business, but really. If he does happen to be affianced, as you say, then I do pity the poor creature - it was barely the afternoon and the man reeked of alcohol.

An easy target, then, you’d replied with a grin. Please tell me you left him with some gold for a place to sleep last night.

He’d made a face, waving a hand dismissively. Oh, don’t be ridiculous, darling. He’ll be halfway home by now, I expect, if the look on his face was anything to go by.

A few seconds had passed.

What? I’ve told you before, I can be very persuasive-

And the fiancé?

You’d been able to feel the headache coming on already. No. No, you didn’t.

…Ah. He’d had the good grace to at least look a little bit sheepish. I, um-

You mean you sent him home without the fiancé? Who I’m supposed to be impersonating? By this point, you’d had your head in your hands, already picturing the myriad of ways this could so easily go wrong. Who’s probably going to turn up at this stupid party and tell everyone that w-

No, no - none of that now, dear. It’ll be fine, I promise you. He’d not sounded entirely sure, but you’d grudgingly let him shush you, featherlight pressure on your shoulder. I’m sure this fiancé - you know, are we even sure there is a fiancé? That it wasn’t conjured up at the bottom of a bottle? The fool was practically pickled - I’m telling you, darling, it wouldn’t be out of the question.

I’ll pickle you in a minute, you’d grumbled, not entirely joking. If we die, I’ll kill you.

Oh, my love. I look forward to it already.

“You know, I had a gentleman come by, not half an hour ago, swearing up and down I’d got these confused with the peonies - peonies! Can you imagine!”

Startled out of your daydream, you’re left blinking back at the man in hapless confusion. “Sorry, come again?”

“Well, that’s just what I told him - but apparently…”

The flower seller launches right back into his monologue, and you’re starting to wonder if there’s a reason nobody was looking at this stall when you arrived. Curse these ridiculous noble types and their ridiculous fashions! Wyll had taken one look at your - admittedly somewhat slender - wardrobe and declared that none of it would do, either for the sin of being far too cheap or terribly out of vogue. Fortunately for your wallet, you’d collectively been able to cobble together something halfway decent out of bits and pieces your little group had thieved over the last few weeks.

Unfortunately, they don’t exactly fit too well, so you’ve been sent out to get it all tailored into something suitably expensive-looking to wear. Astarion, true to form, had jumped at the chance to take you shopping, although you couldn’t tell if it was because he’d been dying for the chance to indulge in a little retail therapy at your expense, or just all of the various trinkets and knick-knacks he’d be able to swipe from unsuspecting merchants.

Oh, and you mustn’t forget about our little ruse, dear. Who knows who might be watching?

And thus, you’re stuck at this damned flower stand where he said he’d meet you, trying desperately to avoid whatever increasingly-unsubtle flirtation the flower seller aims at you, and really wishing you’d brought a book. Maybe that would have distracted you from the horrible, twisting feeling in your stomach at the thought of what might happen when he does show up.

Is it going to be weird? Oh, it’s a stupid question - it was always going to be weird, doing something like this with him. Acting as though you’re faking liking him, pretending to have to pretend, the double-triple bluff. It’s bad enough as it is, heartstrings all stretched and sore from the weight of keeping it all inside - but to be allowed to indulge, just this once? Falling into the fantasy of what could never be, letting yourself believe for a long, golden moment that he might actually love you the way you dream of. You’re afraid you’ll snap completely.

To be honest, the waiting isn’t helping. He’d rambled something last night about having some sort of business nearby - what sort of bloody business could he possibly have in a town he’s never seen before? - and that he’d catch up with you by the flower stall by mid-morning at the latest.

Naturally, that means that it’s nearly midday and you still haven’t seen hide nor hair of him, one eye on the crowd as you stare absently at the colourful buckets of flowers. The noise of the market all around you, the sun in your eyes, the mild breeze that’s more hot than cold - you were right, you definitely should have brought a book or something, because where in all the hells is that blasted-

“There you are, dearheart!”

Your head whips to the right at the sudden weight of a cool arm around your waist, pulling you to the side. Surprised, you’re already reaching for the borrowed dagger at your hip, only to be met with-

“I - oh, darling!” Before you really know what’s happening, you’re swept into an uncharacteristic embrace, face-to-face with a slightly-harried, definitely-late, maddeningly-beautiful Astarion. Hurriedly, you paint on a smile, looking up at him with what you’re hoping reads as blissful excitement. “Back so soon?”

“Soon?” He takes you at your word, the bastard, like he wasn’t supposed to be here hours ago. “Oh, it’s never too soon to be with you, my sweet.”

It’s infuriating, how your heart stutters at the rakish grin he gives you as he says it, at the thought - fake as it may be - that he might actually mean it. Pressed against him like this, strong hands keeping you close as you steady yourself against his chest, it’s even worse than usual. Can he hear it? Does he know?

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the flower seller trailing off clumsily in the middle of his sentence, clearly now at something of a loose end. He settles for reaching down to adjust one of the displays, but you can feel his eyes on you even while he pretends to look away.

He doesn’t suspect something, does he? No, he can’t - why would he even be suspicious? He doesn’t know that this isn’t real.

Astarion must notice too, diving down to kiss your cheek so lightly that it almost tickles - you make the mistake of letting the involuntary laughter show on your face, and immediately regret it when it means he goes right back in for another one. Then another, then another, dipping you further and further back and smothering your protestations in kisses that shouldn’t feel as good as they do.

“Wh-hey, hey - darling!” Embarrassed, you struggle against him, trying to escape his hold, but it’s no good - he’s just too strong. “We’re - this is hardly the time-!”

He relents slightly at that, bringing you back upright and turning you around to face back towards the flower stall, before draping himself over your back and locking his arms once more around your middle. Somehow, it’s even worse than before - now you can definitely see the awkward flower seller, trying not to stare at the absolute mess that you two must be right now.

“Mmm, my apologies for the interruption,” Astarion mumbles against your throat, thoroughly unrepentant, and you can feel him smile as he kisses over the soft, tender space where his fangs normally go. “You were saying?”

You wrack your brain, but there’s nothing there except the swirling, flustered mist that fills your mind whenever he gets this close. What would you say, if this were real? Blindly, you reach for something to say - anything, that might get him off your case. And your neck.

“Did you, um-” You pause, stumbling over the words slightly. He probably doesn’t want all and sundry knowing what he was up to before he arrived, and he probably isn’t going to admit it anyway. Better to just make it part of the charade from the start.

“Did you find anything good?”

“Mm, nothing much,” he hums, fingers tracing tiny spirals across the front of your shirt. “A little bit of this and that, you know how it is.”

Okay, great, a total non-answer. Good to know that he’s really trying to make this act believable.

  “Very well. Keep your secrets.” You turn your face away in faux-offence, before softening with a smile as a petulant hand comes up to turn your chin back towards him. “Did you at least get everything you wanted?”

“Really, dear,” he huffs, soothing the blow with a barely-there kiss against your temple. “Can’t a man have any secrets from you?”

Gods below, he’s up to something. If your brain wasn’t too busy melting into goo, you might even wonder what it is - alas, you just have to settle for discreetly elbowing him in the ribs.

“Of course not,” you reply matter-of-factly, even though the words make your heart ache just a little bit. If only it were true. “What’s yours is mine, and all that.”

“How could I forget?” Sweet hells, he says it so softly, like he’s trying to make it hurt. “As if I could ever be free of you, my love.”

You roll your eyes, even as you lean back into his chest - you’re vaguely aware that you were supposed to be doing something, but you’ll be damned if you can remember what it is. “You make it sound so appealing, you know.”

“Do I? It’s not on purpose, I assure you.”

You gasp, hand limp against your forehead in a mock-faint. “Rude.”

“All part of the plan, darling,” he says, nonchalant, and it’s ridiculous how it does actually make you feel better. “For a prize as lovely as you? I have to find some way of keeping you all to myself.”

You’re about to respond when the flower seller clears his throat awkwardly, evidently not really sure what to do with the pseudo-couple flirting incessantly in front of his stand - you jump slightly at the reminder, feeling weirdly like you’ve just been walked in on.

Astarion, meanwhile, remains annoyingly unfazed - when you turn to look at him, he’s… smiling? No, not quite. It’s less of a smile and more of a smirk, but not his usual one - and yet you can’t quite put your finger on why it’s different.

“Go on, then,” he prompts you, nudging you gently in the side. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend here?”

“Right, right, um-” Shaking your head slightly, as if to clear it, you smile as brightly as you can at the flower seller. Fuck, what did he say his name was again? “Love, this is - oh, this is…”

“Osric, sir.” The man comes to your rescue, tipping his cap in Astarion’s direction with a friendly smile. “Pleasure to be of service to you both.”

True to form, Astarion meets him with a flat, haughty stare, seemingly unimpressed. “Charmed. Now, sweetheart, I believe we were just on our w-”

“Ah - just a moment.” He recoils ever so slightly at the interruption, a tiny tremor that you feel but don’t see. Got him. “I might like to look a little longer.”

It’s only really for show, but you make a point of umming and ahhing over the display, surreptitiously stepping on the toe of his boot as you do it. If he’s going to try and empty your wallet today, as you’re sure he will, you’re not going to let him have all the fun.

“Really. If you want me to buy you flowers, pet, you only have to ask.” Astarion shakes his head indulgently as he catches your drift, rolling his eyes at the young man behind the stall in pretend commiseration. “Trust me to find the one creature in all of Faerûn who’d rather I spend my fortune on dahlias than dinner.”

You twist slightly in his arms without looking away from the flowers, one hand slipping idly up to cradle his jaw as the other drifts over the box of tulips. “But you do it anyway.”

He sighs, exasperated and achingly fond in a way you wish he meant, turning to press a gentle kiss to your palm. “Yes, I do it anyway. Fool that I am.”

You’re forced to step slightly to the side as a lady comes up beside you and starts chatting to the vendor, which gives Astarion the perfect opportunity to dial down the act a little bit. It’s hard work even for you, and you’re not even really faking it - you can only imagine how annoying it must be, having to do all this with someone you’re not actually in love with.

For some reason, though, he doesn’t. Instead he seems to double down, swaying the two of you lightly from side to side as you examine the flowers on display, cold hands warming with your body heat as they smooth absentmindedly up and down your sides.

“Tempted by anything, darling?”

A classic line - somehow, it makes the whole thing easier. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and you know exactly what he wants to hear. “Oh, plenty,” you say, not even trying to hide your grin. “Nothing fit for polite company, though.”

You don’t even have to turn and look - your mind’s eye is enough to see the faux-outraged face he’s making. “Do I look like polite company to you?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

The lady accidentally bumps you with her bag as she walks over to look at some of the other displays, and you can’t be sure, but it almost sounds like you can hear Astarion muttering something under his breath. “I don’t think you want me to answer that, you know.”

“Mind if I answer for you, then?” He waits for you to nod, cautiously curious about what he’ll say, before lifting a blasé hand to the flower seller and beckoning him over with a lazy wave.

“Six of the roses, if you will.”

“Certainly, sir,” the vendor replies with a nod. “Right away.”

What?

Utterly bewildered, you watch detachedly as Astarion points to the colours he wants, some comically cliché blend of red and pink and white. He can’t be doing what you think he’s doing. “What in - what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

A sideways glance, faintly bemused. “Pardon?”

You should probably be more embarrassed about the way you’re tripping over the words, but you’re more concerned with wondering if he’s actually, genuinely lost his mind. “I don’t need - it’s fine, let’s just-”

"No, no, you're right, six won’t do." He’s unmoved by your futile attempt to drag him away, free arm locking around your waist to keep you trapped against his chest as he corrects himself to the flower seller. "Make it a dozen."

“Astarion!” you hiss, as quietly as you can so that nobody overhears. “This is - you can’t just-”

“I’ll have you know I certainly can,” he replies, producing a handful of coins out of nowhere and casually dropping them into the flower seller’s palm. Absentmindedly, you notice that he’s wearing more rings than usual - your eye is drawn to a particularly lovely gold one on his left hand that you haven’t seen before. “In fact - oh, would you look at that? It seems I just have.”

You - he - you’re going to m-

“Do close your mouth, sweetling,” he sighs, eyes bright with concealed mischief, one elegant finger pressing up under your chin. “It’s dreadfully unbecoming.”

Sweetling. You’re going to strangle him.

The excellent retort that you were surely about to give is cut off by the flower seller, bouquet in hand and clearly very amused by the whole situation. “There we are - a dozen roses, compliments of your gentleman friend.”

He’s certainly no gentleman, but that’s hardly the worst of his crimes. Hateful, traitorous creature, that scheming villain, tormentor of your mind and thief of your heart.

“Excellent taste, sir,” the vendor says innocently over your shoulder as you lean forwards to take the flowers from him. “They’re some lovely blossoms, those!”

“Mm, aren’t they just?” Damn it all, you know what it means when he uses that voice - when you turn around, his eyes flick back up to yours with a shameless grin. “And the flowers are rather pleasant, too.”

“I - you-!” Oh, you could just smack him for that - you can guess what he was talking about, and it certainly wasn’t a bouquet. The vendor hastily stifles a laugh behind you as you glare daggers at Astarion, sorely tempted to take a swing at him. “When I get my hands on you-!”

Cackling wildly, he dances out of the way with an annoyingly dignified sidestep, bidding a quick farewell to the flower seller over his shoulder before looping his arm around your waist and sweeping you away further into the market. “Careful there, petal. We wouldn’t want the whole town to know about where you’ll put your hands on me, would we?”

You’re going to kill him. You’re actually going to fucking kill him, and nobody is going to blame you.

“Come now, darling, no need to look so glum,” he murmurs, leading you gently through the crowd. “Don’t you like them?”

Irritatingly, you can’t actually say you don’t. The roses really are stunning, each one beautifully rich in colour, all soft, velvety petals and long, elegant stems wrapped in thick paper. They’re also far too expensive for him to be wasting money on like this, but you know exactly what he’ll say if you try to protest.

Instead, you settle for honesty. Staring down at the delicate flowers in your hands, you let yourself believe, for just a single second, that they mean what you wish they would mean. That he gave them to you because he loves you, rather than as a prop for a foolish charade - that the kiss marks burned into your skin spell devotion, instead of duplicity.

“They’re gorgeous,” you say. “Thank you, my love.”

A sudden, scuffing sound from close by - next to you, Astarion suddenly lurches forward slightly, fingers digging almost painfully into your sides for a fraction of a second before relaxing. If it was anyone else, you’d say he’d just stumbled over his own feet. But this is Astarion you’re talking about, fleet-footed master of thievery and rogue extraordinaire, so that can’t be what just happened.

There’s a momentary pause, before-

“You’re very welcome, dearheart.”

He says it softly, low and unusually sincere. You don’t want to think about why. “And for what it’s worth, I do think your blossoms are really rather lo-”

“Alright!” You cut him off before he can finish the sentence - that’s quite enough about your blossoms, thank you very much - and practically drag him after you, bouquet cradled in the crook of your arm as your other hand reaches down to grab his. “No need to lay it on too thick, now.”

He doesn’t stop laughing until you’re almost there, magnanimously letting you pull him along with a shocking lack of complaints. The tangled streets that surround this part of the market are something of a maze, but before long you’re standing outside the tailor’s shop that you’ve been tasked with finding.

Thankfully, it doesn’t look like it’s too busy inside. There’s a few people working, but it’s not as packed as you’d feared - with any luck, it’ll mean that they’ll have the time to work on your requests, rather than just rejecting you outright.

“Ah - just a moment, dear.”

Your hand freezes on the door, and you turn to see Astarion fiddling with a hitherto-unseen pouch of some kind. It looks like leather, and the way he’s holding it makes it look like there’s something delicate inside. How odd. Did he steal it? You don’t recognise it.

“I have a little something for you that might help with our…”

He trails off, eyes not quite meeting yours, gesturing awkwardly with one hand as he tries to find the words. “Our little arrangement, shall we say.”

“Really?” Intrigued, you step away from the door and back to his side. “What is it?”

No reply. Instead, he takes your hand in his and holds it flat, before upending the contents of the little bag into it and letting you see for yourself.

“I do hope it fits.”

It’s just a prop. It’s just part of the disguise, and he would have done it for anyone. Your mind doesn’t stop, your heart doesn’t ache. It doesn’t mean anything, the lovely engagement ring sitting innocently in your palm.

“I…”

Wordless, you can only stare. Perhaps a more critical eye would call it plain, but to you it’s nothing short of beautiful, a tasteful gold band with a delicate tear-shaped ruby in the centre. It looks new, polished and pristine in its finish, not at all like any of the rings you’ve picked up on your travels so far. There’s something inscribed inside the band, but the letters are quite small and difficult to make out - is that Espruar?

Of everything about it, that’s probably the strangest thing. As much as it stings to admit it, at the end of the day it’s a fake ring, so why bother having it engraved at all? Nobody’s going to see the inside except for you.

He can’t possibly have bought it. He just can’t have. Creature of luxury though he is, he’d never waste money on something so… so frivolous. He must have stolen it. That’s the only explanation. He didn’t know it was engraved when he took it, so it doesn’t mean anything at all. And in any case, he’ll probably want it back when this is all over - you’re sure it’ll fetch a lovely price when he’s sold it by this time next week.

You’re interrupted in your examination by Astarion, discreetly clearing his throat, and oh, hells, your face feels like it’s on fire.

“Here. Let me.”

Ever so sweetly, he takes the ring from your hand and slides it carefully onto your finger. Head bowed, gaze fixed on his task. He’s so close. If he looked up, right now, you could almost be kissing. You’d only have to lean forwards a tiny bit.

The thought sends a shiver right through you that you try to hide - but true to form he notices anyway, pulling his hands away like it’s his cool touch that startled you, and you mourn the loss as soon as he does it. He’s right that the metal is cold at first, but it quickly warms with your skin, and you smile as you realise that he’d guessed correctly. Slim yet sturdy, a reassuring weight. It fits perfectly.

“I…”

Sunlight. Washing him in gold, filling the street with light, sparkling on your finger. Vaguely, you remember thinking something about a ring earlier, but you can’t quite remember what it was.

“Let’s get you inside, darling,” he says, and something in his voice aches in a way you can’t describe. “We can’t have you catching a cold out here.”

The bell above the door rings cheerfully as he pushes it open for you, one hand on the small of your back to steady you as you step inside. It’s a tiny little place, jam-packed with all manner of fabrics and half-mended garments - you’re barely able to get the words sorry, it’s kind of last-minute out before the no-nonsense lady by the counter is ushering you back behind a curtain, plucking the roses out of your hands, and pulling it shut with a brisk nod and instruction to the assistant there to help you get dressed.

You can vaguely hear Astarion being pelted with questions as you retrieve the bundle of clothes from your bag. Now that you really look, it’s obvious that some of this stuff has suffered somewhat over time, what with all the fraying seams and threadbare patches, but all things considered it’s not that bad. With a little bit of love, you should be able to decently pass yourself off as the minor noble you’re supposed to be.

It’s lucky that Astarion has such expensive taste, magpie that he is. He’d managed to come up with a reasonable ensemble last night with relative ease, thanks to the various spoils he’s picked up while you’ve all been travelling. His doublet is a little bare, though, so he said he was going to see if they could embroider something for him.

Ordinarily, you know he would have done it himself. He tries not to let on, but you’ve seen him picking through his little sewing box - yes, he does have one and no, he refuses to admit it exists - at camp in the evening when he thinks nobody’s looking. Perhaps the others haven’t noticed how his clothes seem to magically repair themselves overnight after a fight, or perhaps they just don’t care to comment. Either way, he’s certainly more skilled with a needle than you’d first thought, but life on the road doesn’t exactly lend itself to fine embroidery thread. He almost certainly doesn’t have any, or at least not enough, and he’s far too proud to ask if anyone else happens to.

He really is very particular about how he looks, and you suppose it makes sense. Considering all that’s happened to him, the monstrosity of his servitude… well. It’s hardly a surprise that any measure of control, even over something as seemingly trivial as the shirt he wears, might be intoxicating. If he wants to dress himself in nice things, however gaudy or over the top they might be, then he may as well. Hopefully, nobody out there is getting on his bad side about it.

Actually, now that you think about it, it’s probably not the best idea to leave Astarion unsupervised in a room full of people who you need to like you. Hastily, you start changing a little faster, in what little space there is behind this curtain - clothes like this are so complicated that the assistant back here has to help you, but there’s so little room that you’d almost rather be alone. At the very least there’s no shouting from the rest of the room yet, but you know what he’s like. No point in risking it-

“-haah-!”

“Darling, are you quite alright in there?”

Wincing, you emerge from the cramped little corner, fully dressed and clutching your banged elbow. You can’t move all that fast, seeing as some of these clothes are a fair bit too small, but it doesn’t really matter. The lady has you up on the riser in the middle of the room, and you’re swarmed by a handful of shop assistants armed with pins and measuring ropes, all chattering away about letting one seam or another out, let’s put darts in here, this’ll need covering up, I see what you mean about the sleeves…

To be honest, you’re not really paying attention, content to have them just get on with it. Wyll had said that this place deals with rich types all the time, so you’re sure they know what they’re doing far better than you do. Astarion, meanwhile, seems to be having the time of his life lounging in his little chair and making snide comments here and there, occasionally getting up and pointing at various bits of you that need embellishing - you’re strangely reminded of a child playing dress-up with a favourite dolly.

“Lift your arms a moment, if you please.”

The tailor gestures for you to raise your arms at your sides, so you do. Her voice is nice, sweet and smooth like honey, and you idly follow her instructions as she tells you how to move. Some of the assistants have gone off to sift through fabrics, but most of them are still clustered around you, honeybees to a flower.

How long have you been up here again? You’re surprised there are any bits of you they haven’t measured yet.

Your mind starts to drift as they keep picking at you, but fairly soon it catches on one of the girls closer to the front of the shop. She’s strikingly beautiful, all fine features and gentle grace, pointed ears peeking out of long, silky hair that reaches all the way down to her slim waist. She hasn’t come over to you, and at her bench it looks like she’s working on a doublet of some kind, so it makes sense that she’s talking to Astarion. It makes sense, because she’s probably asking what he wants embroidered on it.

Yeah. Yeah, that’ll be why she's standing so close to him, so she can hear every detail of exactly what he wants. She’s smiling so much and laughing at every little thing he says, because she wants him to feel welcome here. She’s guiding him away from you and closer to her workbench, so that he can make sure that she’s embroidering the right pattern.

It makes total sense. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“And if you could just turn this way, please?”

Only it doesn’t make sense, because you know for a fact he’d never be caught dead in that particular shade of coral pink - it clashes horribly with my eyes, don’t you think? - and he’s never liked that type of slashing on the sleeve.The laces are in the wrong style, and the length is all funny. Astarion wouldn’t wear anything like that, not even as a disguise. It’s garish and tacky and altogether far too tasteless. It can't belong to him.

So what in all the hells does that girl think she's doing?

Astarion, for his part, doesn’t seem too fussed about her - rather, he looks to be fairly entertained. It’s fine, though, right? He’s probably just humouring her, isn’t he? To say nothing of the way his fingers flex at his side, like he wants to reach out and touch her, or the way his gaze fixes on her face like he can’t bring himself to look away.

It’s fine. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter - and it’s hardly your place to tell him what he can and can’t do, anyway. This whole thing is just a ruse. He doesn’t know how much you wish it were true, and he doesn’t need to know. If it hurts, that’s your own fault.

Besides, he’s probably just looking for some fun, right? He’s never exactly been shy about it. He flirts with everyone, but it’s not love that’s on his mind - and you’re not stupid enough to think he’s any different when it comes to this. Whether it’s out of boredom or hedonism, it isn’t because he wants to make you feel good, and it isn’t because he’s just so friendly. It’s because he wants something.

You’re not so naive to think he might actually mean the things he tells you, pretty though they may be. When he says he wants you, when he says he wants to please you - every time, it’s as charming as it is frustrating. Charming, because you think you’d give anything for it to be real, for him to like you - desire you - care for you the way you do him. Frustrating, because you know that someone like Astarion would never bring himself to settle for someone like you.

“Face this way for a second, please?”

Even men like him need a change of pace. When he makes faces at you across the campfire when Gale starts rabbiting on about his magic tricks, when he presses his lips against your neck for just a second before he bites, when he softens every practised line with a flick of his wrist and a teasing smile. You know what it means. It means he knows he doesn’t have to pretend, doesn’t have to play the fool with you - he’s not worried about getting you into bed, because he knows you know he’s out of your league.

He doesn’t want you. He trusts you to not want him either. And you, idiot that you are, thought you’d go ahead and ruin that by falling in love with him. How much worse could it be?

He’s your friend, loath as he is to admit it sometimes. You can’t bring yourself to hurt him with the admission - the part of you that knows he doesn’t come to you for sex, and the part that can’t help but wish he did. If he’s looking for somebody to warm his bed tonight, why would he ever waste time talking to you?

Yeah, that’ll be it. That dull ache deep inside, soaking into all the soft parts of you, watching the man you love give in to a girl he met fifteen minutes ago. And you can’t blame him at all, because it’s your own stupid crush that’s got you into this mess. The pain isn’t his problem. If you were the sort of person he could love, then maybe you wouldn’t have to hurt this way - but you’re not, so you can’t complain.

Gushing, sloshing, seasick. It’s not like he’s actually in love with you.

He’s turned slightly away from you to face her, so you can’t see exactly, but it looks like he’s… smiling? And look, he’s beckoning her closer, leaning down as if he might have a secret to tell her, and if you didn’t know better you might think he was just about to-

“Darling!”

Both of them whip around to face you, and neither of them are as good at acting as they think they are. The girl is breathing hard, pretty lips stretched into what you’re sure she hopes is a convincing grin, and you’ve seen enough of Astarion’s fake, hasty smiles to know when you’re looking at one.

You hadn’t really thought about what you were going to say next - blindly, you scramble for an excuse to get his attention back. “Won’t you come and help me choose?”

“Choose what, my love?” The girl scurries back to her bench as Astarion looks pointedly down at her, but you can still see how she watches him walk over to you, wide-eyed and flushed even as she tries to go back to her work. “Are you finished already?”

Fortunately, one of the assistants comes over to you at just the right moment, holding out a hand to help you down off the riser. Astarion clearly notices what she’s doing and offers his hand to you as well - and if it’s a sick sort of pleasure that runs through you as you deliberately ignore him, taking the assistant’s hand instead of his, then that’s nobody’s business but yours.

(In the corner of your eye, as you step down, he looks almost… well, it doesn’t matter. The moment has passed.)

“The sampler’s on the table, when you’re ready,” says the assistant to you, bowing slightly before vanishing behind a table piled with rolls of fabric, and you take a shallow breath as she leaves.

“The - um, the embroidery. You can pick.”

Your voice is small, too small, and you can’t quite meet his eyes as you say it - by all the hells, you’re pathetic. Don’t let him know, don’t let him see what this curse of a crush does to you. Weighed down, one hand that’s so, so heavy.

“Are you sure, dear?” Something dangerously close to worry crosses his face, just for a moment, but that can’t possibly be real. “Wouldn’t you rather decide for yourself?”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head and smile as best you can, already starting to step backwards towards the curtain where your ordinary clothes are. Anything, just to get yourself out of this for a second. “I’m sure you’re better at this than I am.”

He nods stiffly, eyes narrowed, and lets you go. You’re obviously not off the hook just yet, but there’s nothing he can say in front of everyone in here - gratefully, you take the reprieve and disappear back behind the curtain. It’s almost certainly your imagination, but you could swear you feel his eyes on you the whole way, burning through the back of your skull, setting your skin alight.

It’s only after about thirty seconds before you realise the problem at hand, and you can’t help but swear under your breath at the thought. This fucking outfit - you can’t even reach half of the buttons and laces that keep it on you, and this time there’s nobody back here to help you. Trying on your own will be pointless, seeing as you’ll probably just get yourself even more stuck, and if you go back out there now, you’ll have to face-

“Let me.”

Another lie. You should have known.

Quiet, slipping unnoticed behind you, cold hands searing through the layers of silk and velvet that separate you. Inch by inch, button by button. As always, he sees right through you.

“Careful,” you say, trying not to notice how hollow it sounds. “You and I, all alone. People might talk.”

He scoffs, and it’s something like lighthearted. “What would they say? Heavens forfend, I should spend a little time with the love of my life.”

Does he have to be so cruel about it? Stinging, smarting, lemon juice in the cut.

“I’m told that said time is normally meant to be spent fully clothed.” His fingers work their way deftly across your back, unbuttoning and unlacing all the pieces of your silken armour, and you fight to keep your voice steady. Whose idea was it to put you in this many damned layers again? “You’re a wicked man, my darling.”

“Oh, certainly,” he replies, and you don’t have to look to feel the careless shrug he gives. “Can you blame me? Between you and a second-rate sampler, I know which is the better view.”

“Depends how much you like embroidered flowers.”

“Not at all.”

“Then I commend your choice of entertainment.” The final button comes undone, and you gesture over your shoulder for him to step back outside. “That’s everything.”

He hums quietly in acquiescence, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he just turns to face away. The rustle of fabric is loud in the sudden silence as you step out of your outfit, skin burning with the closeness of him - as you reach past him to the pile of your ordinary clothes, careful not to accidentally touch, you can feel the coolness of his body in the air. A shadow on the wall, drinking in the heat of you.

“It looked like you were having fun.”

It’s a normal thing for you to say, in a normal tone of voice. Easy, casual, teasing in the way a friend might be. Judging from the way he tenses, spine stiffening ever so slightly, you very nearly manage it.

“Did it?” he asks, and there’s something in his words that you can’t quite figure out. “From a distance, perhaps.”

“You know, I think she likes you,” you sing as you pull your shirt back over your head, poking him in the shoulder to disguise the fact that the note is slightly sharp. “How’s that for a scandal?”

“Hardly her fault.” He makes a show of preening himself in front of the invisible mirror, inspecting his nails and raking a practised hand through his hair - if your tongue didn’t taste so sour, you’d laugh. “An occupational hazard for a gentleman such as myself.”

See, if you weren’t already so stupidly infatuated with him, you’d keep pushing. If you were just a perfectly ordinary, entirely platonic companion, that’s what you’d do. So you say it, and you try your best to ignore the horrible churning feeling that settles in your stomach as you do.

“You ought to go back to her,” you muse, as lightly and sweetly as you can. “If you asked, I’m sure she’d make time for a private fitting.”

To be entirely honest, the innuendo isn’t your best work, but that’s not the problem here. It’s a perfectly ordinary comment for you to make, a normal sort of joke that he really should have been expecting. So then, why…?

Astarion freezes, unnaturally still, one hand still tangled in his curls as the words register. Maybe it’s magic, or maybe it’s just your blood running cold - either way, the temperature between you plummets until you could swear you see your breath turning to mist in the air, frozen solid with the chill.

“A pri- sorry, a what?”

It’s a good thing you’re mostly dressed by now - he turns back to face you with an almost comically incredulous expression, looking for all the world like you’ve just told him you’re thinking about asking Lae’zel for ballet lessons. “And why in all the hells would I want to do that?”

“Well, you know…” Your hand waves clumsily in place of words you can’t quite say - surely he knows what you mean. “I won’t stop you, if you want to stay and let her, um… ”

“What?”

It’s a thoroughly bizarre situation, watching the gears turning uselessly in his brain. Normally, you’ve barely had time to think of the innuendo before he’s already said it, and you were expecting this time to be no different. What’s changed? Isn’t that what he was after?

“Darling, you don’t - I didn’t-”

Wait. Oh, shit, don’t say it’s true. You’ve got this totally wrong, haven’t you? He must have genuinely liked her, must have wanted to speak to her - you know Astarion well enough to know that he won’t waste his precious time on somebody he doesn’t care for. That’ll have been why the girl was so close when you saw them speaking, and it’ll be why he’s so confused now. Shame blooms deep and bitter in your stomach as it finally dawns on you - gods be good, he must really think you’re an idiot now, accusing him of trying to solicit some torrid affair when he just wanted to have a chat with someone h-

“Um… excuse me?”

Both of your heads whip towards the voice coming from just outside the curtain - one hand instinctively flies to the still-undone front of your shirt, while the other darts out to cover the sudden flash of light in the corner of your eye. Astarion nearly jumps a foot in the air at your touch, uncharacteristically on edge, but he lets you push the half-drawn dagger back into the sheath at his hip regardless. As much as he might protest, whoever’s speaking probably doesn’t need to be greeted by several inches of sharpened steel.

“Yes?” he snaps, and you notice that he’s moved slightly to put himself between you and the curtain. “What is it?”

“The alterations, sir,” the voice replies. “We can’t start without the, um… without the actual garments.”

Right, yeah, that does make sense. Astarion looks at you as you swallow down the furious humiliation bubbling in your throat, but you can’t look back. Turning around, you’re just reaching for the pile of clothes on the floor when-

“Five days should be more than enough, yes?”

Fortunately, you have the presence of mind not to shout as the world blurs around you, cold hands shoving you gracelessly through the curtain and out into the room proper. Stumbling over your undone boots, you barely avoid tripping headfirst into the poor tailor’s assistant standing just outside.

“I, uh - well, we’ll do our best, sir, but-”

“Excellent.”

You can only watch as Astarion grabs the pile of clothes and dumps them into the woman’s arms along with a sizeable handful of gold, before practically lifting you off your feet and carrying you out of the shop entirely. The elvish girl from before looks up with wide eyes at the kerfuffle, but he swans past without even sparing her a glance.

“Right, then. I suppose we’ll be seeing you all soon, won’t we, sweetheart?”

He’s gone mad. Absolutely mad. It’s the only explanation you can think of, head spinning from the speed, dazed and dizzy as he coos the words down at you - there’s just enough time to catch the confused assistant’s eye and point to one of the nicer embroidery patterns on the forgotten sampler as he whisks you past it, before the door swings shut behind you and you’re back in the sun-bathed street outside.

(Numbly, you realise that you’re holding your bunch of flowers again, tucked loosely into the cradle of your arms, and that your bag is slung over Astarion’s shoulder along with his own. When did that happen?)

  Silence. Thorns, crawling up your throat, greedy stems clawing their way out of your soft, bloody mouth. Everything tastes like roses.

“Well, then.”

Your voice is remarkably calm, if you do say so yourself. Red sunlight, dancing on the wall every time you move your hand. It’s cold.

“Love, I-”

“Let’s just go.” He recoils slightly at the undertone of venom in your voice, cutting him off, but it doesn’t send more than a faint twinge of regret through you. The more you play this game, the worse it gets - you’ve already put your foot in it once, and you’d rather not do it again. “You don’t have to pretend when it’s just us. I won’t make you.”

Anger and embarrassment bubble in your chest, a sour cocktail that sears a hot flush all down your cheeks and your neck as you extricate yourself stiffly from his hold. It’s useless to try and hide it, but there’s something small and shameful inside that forces you to turn from him anyway, quick steps down the street.

Upset over nothing, you’re making a scene. You won’t cry, you won’t, but you could if you wanted to - clutching the flowers to your chest like they might stop him from being able to hear the rattle of your heart against your ribs, from knowing the heat of your blood as it soaks through your skin.

“You couldn't make me do anything.”

He's quiet, bitter words flung at your back. You slow down, but don't stop.

“Yeah.” Oh, if only he knew how much you wished you could. “I know.”

Sunlight bears down on you, no relief from the fierceness of its glare. Perhaps that's what this has always been about. Selfish from the start, always looking out for yourself, and just too afraid to admit it. This whole fiction you’ve created, that you’ve allowed yourself to indulge in. A puppet strangled in its own strings, a control freak in love.

He doesn't love you, and it burns that you can't make him - so here you are, playing house like a spoilt child, forcing him into the charade. Sweet hells. You really are pathetic.

Cool fingers, warmed by the sun, lock around your wrist.

“I always said you were a fool, you know.”

It’s so kind of Astarion, to really twist the knife like this. “Thanks.”

“No - no, not-” He cuts himself off with a frustrated groan, tugging you towards him and sighing when you still won’t look at him. “I didn’t mean-”

“It doesn’t matter, alright?” you snap. “It’s fine.”

“But it’s not fine, is it?” he retorts, louder than you think he meant to be. “It’s not fine, and it does matter, because I - I’ve-”

Stone shifts beneath your feet, lightheaded, vertigo. The tadpole.

I’ve hurt you.

He’s in your head, flat pressure against the bubble of your mind. Not pushing, just waiting. A quiet street in the middle of town.

Please. Let me show you.

You want to. Dear gods, you want to, but even now you know that out here, this won’t be good for either of you.

“Not here,” you say out loud, shaking your head. “Not like this.”

He looks a little affronted that you don’t reply in his mind, but acquiesces all the same. “Where, then?”

“Just…” A woman and her son turn down the street behind him, walking hand in hand towards you. They look well-off, to say the least, and you quickly thread your arm through Astarion’s like the lover you’re supposed to be. You can never be too careful. “Inside, at least.”

Not refusing, just postponing. Ever the gentleman, he gestures forwards with a little bow, eyes closed in mock-deference. “Lead on, dearheart.”

After a little bit of walking, inside turns out to be one of the taverns you’d passed on the way here - not the one you’re staying at, but one that might be acceptable for a couple of your supposed stature. It’s only the early afternoon, so thankfully there’s not too many people inside. Astarion goes off to get something to drink while you settle yourself at one of the tables, slightly out of the way and hopefully where nobody else will be able to overhear you.

He’s gone for a little while, coming back with a pitcher of wine and two cups. One for you, one for him, and you watch as he pours them both with a generous hand.

“Any good?”

He takes a tentative sip, pretty lips twisting into a telltale grimace. “Same as ever, I’m afraid.”

“That’s my love,” you sigh, light and airy as you take the offered cup. Contrary to what he’d have you believe, it’s actually fairly nice, much sweeter than you were expecting. “Always such a picky eater.”

“Oh, darling, we’ve been over this,” he moans, betrayed, gently kicking your shin under the table. “Not picky, dear. Particular.”

“Particularly difficult to please, you mean.”

“Difficult? Hardly.” That predator’s grin, sharp fangs in the low light. “I can think of a few ways you could please me, if you’re so inclined.”

You shrug, swallowing another mouthful of wine. “No accounting for taste, it seems.”

“There’s something I’d like to taste, certainly.”

“Somehow, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing any more.”

He laughs as you roll your eyes, knocking his cup against yours in a poor mockery of a toast. “The story of my life, my sweet. The story of my life.”

The air between you feels a little warmer than it had before, sitting across from him like this, like it’s just another ordinary day. He looks a lot more relaxed than he had outside, and you suppose you must be the same. Dancing in and out of each other’s words, the familiar rhythm of your back-and-forth.

A bunch of roses, lying next to you on the windowsill. This is… nice.

Is this better?

Astarion’s voice is an echo in your head, ripples on the surface of the sea. You look around, but it’s fine. Nobody’s watching.

He reaches across the table, palm face up. Your hand slides into his so easily, fingers brushing over his wrist, the imagined pulse of an undead heart.

Go on, then.

Your mouth tastes like oranges.

Show me.

The world shimmers and swims around you, iridescent like a soap bubble, melting into something new. The chill of the early morning, weak sunlight not yet enough to warm the street that you find yourself remembering.

“Good morrow, sir. Can I help you?”

A haughty mask, concealing the nerves beneath.There’s nobody else in the shop, early as it is, and it’s an enormous relief - you get the strange feeling that if this strange new heart could race, it would.

“I have a rather… urgent request, I suppose.”

“Urgent, sir?” The man behind the counter looks intrigued, smoothing down the front of his apron, and looking altogether far too cheery for such an early hour and his only customer. “How so?”

Unbidden, the scene twists before your eyes in a blur of sunlight, the cold feeling of impatient anticipation swirling through you like ink in water. Vague impressions of the town rush past you, smoke and sound and life as the sun rises in the sky, before you’re suddenly stepping through exactly the same door as you were a minute ago.

“Ah, sir.” The same man as before, a little less neat than he was several hours ago, the sound of hammering metal louder than you’d like. “You’ve been well since last I saw you, I hope?”

Restless, nervous, fighting the urge to fidget like a child. “Yes, yes, quite. Do you have them?”

“Aye, sir. Just a moment, if you please.” The blacksmith in front of him walks over to the side, rummaging through a drawer full of little leather bags. “Oh, it was good of you to write it down for us - we make a lot of posy rings here, sir, but not so many in Espruar, you see.”

He finds the one he’s looking for, soft brown leather with a drawstring, and carefully empties its contents to be inspected. A familiar ruby ring, scarlet fire in the blacksmith’s palm, and a lightly-patterned gold band that you now realise you’ve already seen before, as the hand it adorned paid an unknowing flower seller for a dozen roses.

Both rings are engraved inside, and your borrowed brain supplies the words with no small degree of pleased satisfaction. Amorie ent vivas est ma vie, proclaims the ring that now sits on your finger, ubi amor ibi fides the one that Astarion kept for himself.

“All to your satisfaction, I hope?”

“Hmm?” Astarion’s mouth replies but you can feel that his mind’s far away, curled up warm and content in some possessive, instinctive corner of your shared skull. “Oh, yes… lovely stuff, certainly.”

Seemingly satisfied, the blacksmith tips the rings back into the little leather pouch, exchanging it for no small sum of gold from your own pocket. The rings are hidden away, safe in the depths of Astarion’s bag, and he’s quick to turn on his heel to leave.

“A good day to you, sir.”

From what brief glimpse you catch, the man looks a little taken aback at your hasty exit, but this body doesn’t really care. The sun outside is high overhead as you pull the door open, and you feel yourself waving your hand vaguely over your shoulder. Whatever. There are far more important things to think about.

“Yes, yes. And to you.”

After all, you’ve got a date to keep.

“You see?”

As quickly as it came, the scene disappears around you - blinking, you’re once again sitting opposite Astarion, gentle pressure as his thumb rubs slowly back and forth across the backs of your fingers. “I wouldn’t just be late for no reason, dear.”

You can’t really tell how you feel, to be honest - strangely vulnerable, but pleasantly comforted all the same. Knowing he’d gone to all that trouble, for something that you’d thought was just a stolen trinket…

“Elvish?” you ask, eyebrows raised, relishing the way his head dips just slightly to the right like he wants to hide his face but knows he can’t. “You’re getting awfully sentimental in your old age, you know.”

“I - you!” If he could blush properly, would he? As it is, you can just about catch the faint flush of blood - your blood, taken last night up in his bed, while everyone else was still downstairs in the tavern proper - spreading high across his cheek. “Mouthy little thing, aren’t you?”

You shrug, hand slipping out of his to exaggeratedly inspect your nails, not even trying to hide your grin. He really does set you up perfectly sometimes. “Never had any complaints.”

He laughs, low and surprisingly sweet, and reaches absentmindedly for another mouthful of wine. “Don’t sound so sure, sweetheart. I’m sure I’ll get a noise complaint or two out of you yet.”

Bold words for a man who’s barely even seen your bed, let alone set foot in it. “Well, when you learn how, let me know.”

“Darling. Chance would be a fine thing.”

He takes a sip and apparently remembers how bad the wine was the first time - his expression sours, and you very kindly don’t point out that it looks a lot like the face Lae’zel gave him when she caught him absentmindedly licking blood off a dagger she’d grudgingly lent him after a particularly nasty fight a few weeks ago.

(Astarion assured you at length that it had been a very long day and he’d only been having a snack, and really wasn’t it an honour, a real compliment, that he thought her blade to be so immaculately kept that he’d even want to lick it?)

(Shadowheart had not been pleased. Astarion’s not allowed to borrow things from Lae’zel any more.)

While he’s busy making various disapproving - you won’t say endearing, you won’t - little noises about his curse of a drink, you slide the ring off your finger and hold it up in front of your face. It’s warm from the heat of your hand.

Turning it this way and that, idly admiring the way the light plays off the shiny metal, the flaming flicker of the ruby. Hells, it really is beautiful.

Gold band, red stone. Amorie ent vivas est ma vie.

“‘To live in love is my life.’”

He’s watching you, slowly swirling the wine in his cup with one elegant hand. The words are even prettier on his silver tongue, ringing metal like a bell.

“I thought…”

Distantly, a floorboard creaks. Dust, floating in the afternoon sunlight.

“I thought it made sense.”

Carefully, he twists the ring off his own finger, and presses it into your palm. A simple pattern of vines and leaves, curling around the band. Ubi amor ibi fides.

“You should’ve let me pay.”

He frowns. “What?”

“You paid,” you say. “For this. Those flowers. My clothes. You didn’t have to.”

“Really?” It’s almost shameful how your heart stutters when he meets your gaze, even if it’s only so he can roll his eyes at you with a dismissive smile. “Come now, dear. I have to spend my ill-gotten gains on something, don’t I?”

“There are far better things to sp-”

“No.”

His hand comes up to grasp your wrist, tugging it towards him until he can press your fingers to the side of his throat. His ring is heavy in your other hand, knocking against the one already on your finger, clicking against the inside of the band.

“No, there’s not. And if there were, you wouldn’t get to tell me what they are.”

If he’s going to be stubborn about it, so be it. “Clothes that you’re not going to wear are the best things you can think of to waste money on?”

“Do you think about me not wearing clothes that often, darling?” It’s your turn to roll your eyes this time, definitely ignoring the way you can feel the vibrations of his voice through the skin, the purr in his voice as it dips low and tempting. “Naughty.”

“I’m just saying that you don’t need to throw money away by - mmf!”

Astarion mutters something under his breath you don’t catch, before there’s the sudden rush of air past your face and a blunt strip of pressure against your stomach, pulled forwards until you’re half out of your chair. It takes your brain a second to figure out why your words aren’t coming out any more - there’s something in the way - he’s so close - oh, he’s kissing you-

Fingers going slack, a quiet thud as his ring hits the table. Neither of you hear it.

Without even thinking about it, you’re already melting against him, hand sliding up from his neck to tangle softly in his hair as the other braces your body against the table. Ah, that’s what that pressure is - the edge of the table is digging into your middle where you’re leaning forward over it, but you don’t really care. You’re far more focused on the sharpness of his fangs as they dig into your bottom lip, the insistent grasp of his hand as he cups your jaw, the faint sweetness of wine that still sits on his tongue.

“Shut up, shut up,” he mumbles into your mouth, “I don’t care about the damn money, you heinous little ingrate, I - mmm, I just want you to stop being so - so-”

The rest of his words are lost in a frustrated hiss that absolutely shouldn’t be as hot as it is, and you wince as the tadpole behind your eye squirms sickeningly when he breaks the kiss. His right hand is still holding your wrist, warm with your body heat, and he groans as he slumps back into his chair and bows his head, pressing the back of your hand to his face. Something reverent, something sacred, saint and devotee.

Just let me be good enough, he thinks, words floating in the dark water of your mind. Tell me I’m good enough for you.

Your jaw tightens. Why does he have to be so vicious with it? That’s not the problem.

Then what is?

He can’t see it, but even so, you’re not going to cry. How could this be what you want? I can’t - I’m - Astarion, you deserve m-

Gods, how stupid can you be? he spits, freezing venom splattering your skin. I know, alright? I know! I deserve more, I deserve better, all these fucking things you won’t stop telling me - has it ever crossed your empty little mind that I might want to actually have the things I apparently deserve?

If he was looking at you, you’re sure it would be with a scowl. I deserve love, or so I’m told. Yes?

Of course.

Then let me have it, dammit!

He takes a deep breath that you feel more than hear, a thin veneer of calm stretched over the words he wants to say. Darling. Dearest. Sweetness. I am in love with you.

Well, that’s… that’s, um…

Hm. You don’t really know what it is.

A strange shiver races through you, giddy with nerves and bitter excitement. He can’t mean it, can he? This can’t possibly end the way you want it to, he can’t possibly be saying - saying that, of all things.

…Right.

Try not to sound so pleased about it, dear, he mutters. I’m only pouring my heart out for you here.

Well - well, yes, but-

He finally looks up at that, interrupting the stammering jumble of words falling out of your sort-of-mouth, handsome features slightly soured with annoyance. But what, exactly?

You don’t…

Pinned in place by his stare, all you can do is faintly shake your head. You don’t have to lie because you think it’s going to make me feel better. It’s not your fault, alright? It’s not.

You’re desperately fighting the urge to flinch. He deserves to know, but it’s a painful admission all the same. I said before, you don’t have to pretend. You’re not a - a prop, or a toy, or anything like that - and I shouldn’t have made you do all of… All of this. I was just being selfish.

Thin, sharp words, papercuts all the way up the inside of your throat. It’s for the best.

Selfish? Astarion laughs harshly, somewhere between outraged and hysterical. Are you serious?

I mean, I - I just…

He’s gone mad. Absolutely mad. All you can do is watch in confusion as he smiles, sweet at first before it turns manic, dissolving into some sort of - well, the only words that come to mind are giggle fit, which sounds much cuter than he’d probably like, but it’s true. Even the damned tadpoles give up, connection splintering and falling away as he loses concentration and falls back into his chair - anyone looking would think you’d got him with Tasha’s Hideous Laughter or something, it’s that bad.

“I’m in love with an idiot,” he manages to choke out, “an actual, bona fide idiot!”

Such a charmer, your Astarion. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Any time, darling,” he laughs, one hand on his stomach and wincing slightly as he sits up - belatedly, you realise you should probably sit down again before people start to stare. “I’m here all week.”

His little fit of laughter seems to be a little more under control - you can’t help but melt at the pretty smile that still lights up his face, even though you’re still not quite sure what was so funny. “My love, my love - traveller of the realms, slayer of monsters, and proud owner of the thickest skull south of the Spine. Gods, it must be safe as houses in there - that tadpole of yours is really very lucky, dear.”

“A rogue and a comedian,” you reply dryly. “Don’t quit your day job, I’d say.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you are my day job, darling,” he says, nonchalantly picking up his cup again - he doesn’t drink anything, though, and you’re starting to think it’s just because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.“In case you’ve forgotten, I do have a rather vested interest in keeping you alive long enough to get rid of our…”

Apparently, he’s decided now is the time for him to start being subtle about your collective situation. He waves his hand awkwardly towards his head with his cup, wine sloshing loudly but - thankfully for his doublet - not spilling. “Of certain mutual friends we seem to have acquired lately.”

Well, you’ll play along if it makes him happy. “See, it all comes out in the end,” you sigh, wiping away an imaginary tear. “Marrying me for my famed tadpole-killing expertise. What a fairy tale, hm?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he picks up his ring from where you’d accidentally dropped it on the table, and slips it back onto his finger where it was before.

“Yes. Yes, I…”

Astarion trails off, eyes slightly unfocused, and you get the feeling he’s trying to find the words for something.

“That’s what it was.”

The floor tilts beneath you, a wriggling pulse behind your eye.

“That’s why I did this.”

He meets your eyes. A silent question, or maybe an offering. No laughter - something small and vulnerable in its wake that you can’t quite name, raw and aching, hollow bones like a bird.

You nod. A whirling blur of colour, and all at once the world is a tailor’s shop a few streets away, awfully cramped and thoroughly too noisy.

“Let’s get you inside, darling. We can’t have you catching a cold out here.”

This whole your-mind-his-body thing really is incredible - you can feel the smile spreading across his face as he holds the door open for past-you, even though you obviously can’t see it from here. Unfamiliar muscles forming a familiar expression. It’s weird.

A flurry of questions that you’re not really paying attention to, your new eyes lingering on the shape of your real body as it disappears behind a drab-looking curtain on the other side of the room. Astarion’s hands, fishing a doublet out of his (your?) bag and handing it off to some wretched assistant or other, but not before making it very clear that it is to be embroidered in gold, not silver, to match with his betrothed.

The boy he’s given it to scurries off with a nod, and something flickers deep inside - instinctively, you try to look down, but the memory of Astarion’s body doesn’t let you. Oh, it felt good when he said that. Something lighting up in your chest, fluttering and fizzing, a still heart that dreams of beating.

“What can we help you with today, sir?”

You’re still not entirely au fait with this whole mixed-consciousness thing, but it’s gradually getting easier to let Astarion’s mind talk over yours, relaxing into the gaps to watch the memories like you would a play. Well, it’s sort of like a play. It’s more like an opera, really, or you might say a pantomime if you were feeling especially mean - he’s as theatrical in his head as he is out loud, and it’s absolutely fascinating to realise that this really is how he sees the world.

Some woman or other comes over and starts chatting away, steering him over to a chair on the other side of the room, a little closer to the riser. She offers him a drink, but you see him wave it away - it’ll hardly do to be distracted when there’s time to be spent with you. There’s so little time to be alone nowadays, what with everyone else always clamouring for your precious attention. He’s not about to spoil such a golden chance by filling his head with wool.

(The sentiment is unexpectedly sweet, and inside his head where nobody can see, you can't help but smile like a fool at the thought. He likes spending time with you, he wants to spend time with you. With you!)

He can still hear you changing, cloth rustling behind the curtain, so he gradually tunes back into - gods below, is this blasted woman ever going to stop for breath? She’s still twittering on about… well, he’s not been paying attention, so he doesn’t actually know, but it’s probably not that important.

“Just alterations, sir? Or embellishment as well?

Right, right she’s asking about what he wants them to do. Fine, fair enough. “Family legacies, sent by a rather poorly-informed relative, I’m told. See to it that it’s appropriate for evening, and that it matches mine.”

“Certainly, sir. We’ll do our best for you and your… friend - um, companion? Companion.”

Seriously? The nerve. Friend. Well, perhaps it’s a little rude for her to be presuming anything, but he can let it slide just this once.

“Betrothed, actually,” he says, casually running his left hand through his hair and enjoying the satisfied pride that fills him as her eyes focus on the ring on his finger. “Something of a recent development, but certainly not an unhappy one.”

“Ah, is that so?” she says with a smile, much more genuine than before. “I’m sure there’s quite the story there.”

He shrugs, and you can feel how much effort it takes to make it look like he doesn’t care. “Well, it’s not for a lack of trying, I assure you.”

“Oh, my brother was just the same,” the woman replies, like she’s known him for years. “I couldn’t tell you how many times he asked his wife to marry him before she said yes - you know, I told him she’s far too good for him, didn’t I?”

She shakes her head, sighing fondly, and your borrowed heart twinges at the thought of this woman, this glimpse of an ordinary family with ordinary troubles. “But he wouldn’t give up, oh no, I’ll marry that girl yet, Ros, just you wait and see, and now they’ve been married for - ooh, must be going on eight years? Nine? Happy as a clam, he keeps her, and there’s not a man this side of the Spine who loves his wife more.”

“I commend his fortitude.” Astarion tips his imaginary cap to the woman, and it’s so stupidly charming that you could just scream. Bless this ridiculous elf you’ve had the fortune to fall in love with. “I shall have to live up to his example, clearly.”

“Well, obviously your circumstances are a little different, sir, but I should very much hope so,” she says. Her mouth opens, like she’s just thought of something she wants to say, but-

“-haah!”

Astarion’s head snaps towards the curtain where your voice came from, room blurring with the speed, half-out of his chair in an instant. What’s wrong? Who’s hurt you?

“Darling, are you quite alright in there?”

The curtain that hides you swishes as a hitherto-unnoticed assistant pulls it aside, revealing you in all your stolen finery, and the woman - has he actually asked her name yet? Did she say it? - turns to usher you over. “My congratulations to the two of you. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

“Yes, I…” Astarion trails off, and something in his voice feels like candle smoke, trailing up into the sky. Wistful. “Thank you. I rather think we will.”

(It’s incredibly sweet that he was so committed to the role, even when you weren’t there. Isn’t he a gem?)

She leads you across the floor, and… oh dear. It really doesn’t fit, does it? Well, that’s what you’ve come here to fix, after all.

It’s an eclectic mix, to be sure, but he supposes that’s what you get when you’re just stealing for fun, rather than to order. You’re all stiff and awkward when you walk like the underpieces are all slightly too small, and the rest of it is all oddly proportioned, sleeves heavy but cut too short, laces pulling tight in some places and hanging slack in others.

As dire a situation as it might seem, with a fair amount of elbow grease, he’s sure it’ll turn out wonderfully. The colour is lovely against your skin, and the embroidery is rich and detailed, gold thread twisting and curling around your body, over your shoulders, your chest, your waist…

Dear gods, he wants to know what it feels like. Raised stitches under his fingers, trailing across your body, pressing delicately until he can feel the soft give of your skin beneath the treacherous cloth that separates you. Would it be warm with the heat of you? Would you want him to know?

That’s my darling.

The sinful, stolen thought blossoms in his mind like sweet honeysuckle, out of control, filling his mind with that heady, giddy scent. Look at you, little love - aren’t you a picture, dearest? Mine, all mine.

His teeth ache, biting back the words as they threaten to tumble right out of his mouth. I want you, let me want you, I want to want you. Just right, just right. Pushing himself out of his chair for something to do, palms itching with the loss of you, restless energy thrumming in his bones. I want this to be real. So beautiful, let me hold you, soft and lovely. Spoil you, spoil you, sweets for my sweet. Honey, honey, honey…

(Sorry, wait - that’s what he was thinking?)

(You - you don’t…)

It’s a wonder he’s able to string words together as he watches you, admiring every angle as you turn, the bubbly taste of gleeful shame as he spots the places where everything’s just slightly too tight, revealing just a little bit more of you than it should. Is that wrong? Because if it is, he doesn’t care. He’s far too busy enjoying the way your eyes seem to glitter in the golden light from the window, the way he can see your chest rise and fall with every breath, slightly shallower than normal as you fight not to rip any of the ageing side seams.

The staff in here are mercifully receptive to his suggestions, clearly appreciative of his discerning eye and tasteful sensibilities. One of the stupider ones tries to say something about replacing the neckline with some hideous striped monstrosity, and he takes a grim sort of pleasure in thoroughly rejecting that particular brainwave - same with the one who seems to be advocating for a sort of avant-garde asymmetrical sleeve thing, that looks less like a fashion statement and more like it’s already been chewed by that little owlbear. Twice. Honestly, it looks ghastly.

He’s just about to say the thing about the owlbear out loud - the others won’t get it, but it’ll make you laugh, so it’s worth it, really - when there’s this… this voice.

“Oh, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

No. No, no, no. He knows that tone.

The laughter falls from his lips as his gaze flicks to the left, to be met with some waifish elven girl standing altogether far too close for comfort. She smiles when his eyes meet hers, in a way that’s just slightly too pleased to look as demure as she thinks it does. “I don’t believe we’ve met…”

“Quite.”

He’s terse, tension locking him in place and filling his voice. The girl’s hand comes up to just barely brush against his elbow, so lightly that he doesn’t even really feel it - but even that is enough to make him jolt, instinctively jerking away and one hand drifting towards the comforting weight of the dagger at his hip.

“Would you come with me a moment, sir?” she asks, undeterred, delicate fingers twisting in her hair and swishing it back over her shoulder - obviously, almost embarrassingly coy. “My workbench is just over here, but there are more rooms this way if you’d rather talk in private.”

Ugh. She’s not even subtle about it - he doesn’t need any sort of elevated senses to be painfully aware of what she wants. Her heart’s fast, eyes bright, breathing a little too hard. It’s almost comical. He’s been faking the exact same thing for longer than she’s been alive.

“And what, exactly,” he spits, “could I possibly have to say to you?”

She laughs - laughs! Normally, the vitriol dripping from his voice can clear a room in seconds, especially combined with the crimson glare that he’s currently levelling at her. Apparently, though, this idiot girl is an exception to the rule.

“Your doublet, sir? I’m an embroiderer, sir, and…”

If she fiddles with that ridiculous hair any more, he’ll cut it clean off and take her fingers with it - does she not see the way he’s desperately trying to keep his hand away from his dagger? “Well, I’d hate to disappoint you, and you seem like the sort of gentleman who’s very knowledgeable about all sorts of things…”

So she’s stupid as well as vain. Dear gods, darling, pick a battle.

“Do I look like I want to talk about embroidery?” He resolutely turns his back and tries to focus back on you, still as lovely as ever up on your little perch. “Do excuse me. My betrothed requires my attention.

“Oh, no need to trouble anyone else, sir.”

Forget the hair. If she makes that infuriating giggling noise again, she’ll be lucky to leave this room with a head.

“I’m sure we can find something to talk about…”

Her hand comes to lay lightly at his elbow again, and that’s it. That’s it. You’re going to have to apologise to that woman from earlier for him, because he’s about to stab this pathetic little worm right in front of everyone, and he’s not even going to feel the tiniest bit bad about it.

She lights up as he turns to face her properly, beckoning her a little closer with a single finger. It soon turns to horror as she sees the predator’s grin that splits his face, the façade of politeness cracking like a duck egg, fangs unashamedly on display.

“Shall I tell you a secret, little elfling?”

(You’ve always known that Astarion’s attitude to murder is a little unconventional, but murdering someone for the crime of threatening a relationship that isn’t even real? His head spins with the euphoria of the kill-to-be, and you’re dizzy with how much he wants it. Is it bad, that he likes the taste of her fear? Is it worse, that you like it too?)

The girl freezes on the spot as he leans in, something sharp and brittle in the way she trembles but can’t force her feet to move. Shivering, shuddering, perfect glass splintering like ice. A prey animal. This is going to be fun.

“There’s a funny thing that always seems to happen, to people who try to get in between my darling and I.”

“It - sir, I - I didn't-”

He laughs over her, dark and wicked, already salivating at the thought of what’s to come. Ooh, you could just kiss him.

“Don’t worry, little madam, I’ll give you a clue. It starts with please, sir, I’m sorry, and it rhymes with I don’t want to d-”

“Darling!”

It’s you - sharply, he pivots on his heel to face you, hurriedly smoothing his expression back into a slightly more pleasant, we are in public, Astarion, stop looking so bloody murderous all the time smile. The swarm of people around you has dissipated some, and it’s nice to finally have an unobstructed view of you. “Won’t you come and help me choose?”

“Choose what, my love?” Bless you, bless you for the excuse to abandon this grasping little wretch. He fixes the terrified creature next to him with one last self-satisfied smirk for good measure, enjoying the way she gasps and trips over her own feet as she stumbles away, before letting the magnet in his chest pull itself gleefully back to you. “Are you finished already?”

Some hapless assistant comes drifting by, clearly not noticing him, and holds out a hand to help you down off the stand. Well, that certainly won’t do - does nobody in this accursed place know that he’s engaged to you? Because he’d thought he’d made it really rather obvious. The ruby on your finger glitters in the light, and he thinks about the words he knows are pressed against your skin, a secret promise.

Amorie ent vivas est ma vie. It’s only right, it’s only fair. How could anyone ever look at you and not know that you were made to be loved? You were made to be doted on, kissed and held and adored like the precious thing you are - spoilt absolutely rotten, thoroughly and entirely, toothache and cavities.

You deserve love, so much more than he could ever give you, but by all the hells, does he want to try. This stolen, golden day isn’t nearly enough.

Perhaps he’s tipped his hand a little too far this time, but it’s true, it’s true. Ubi amor ibi fides, where there is love there is faith. Two hundred years of blood, cracked open on the altar, a broken heart that can’t afford to cry. He’s been abandoned by gods before. A faithful sunflower, ever turning to face you, held blissfully captive in your gravity. All that love that lights your path, that fills your world - would you let it be his, poor and pitiful as it is? Divinity. The crackle of a campfire, truth is faith is you.

Why, then…?

Don’t you notice it when he reaches out to you, palm upturned to help you down beside him? Weren’t you expecting him? Surely, surely he’s not done such a poor job as your fiancé that you didn’t think he’d want to hold your hand, that you’d choose some random shop girl over him.

I thought - I just-

Silently, he watches on as you step down from the riser, the phantom warmth of your hand in his. Does it matter? Of course not, of course not - how could you know that it even matters to him at all? You probably just don’t want to trouble him, or maybe you really didn’t see. It’s his own fault, after all, for trying to find meaning in the very charade he’s brought upon himself.

But I’m here, his traitor’s heart whispers, confused. Won’t you let me help you? What did I do?

So caught up in his own puzzled musings, he barely even notices it when the assistant mumbles something and runs off. The too-loud beat of your heart, the too-quiet sound of your breath, echoing through his skull.

“The - um, the embroidery. You can pick.”

Shit, shit, what’s wrong? You won’t even look at him now, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder, and you sound all - all sad…

“Are you sure, dear?” He won’t push it, not out here in front of everyone - no matter how much his empty arms ache to hold you, press his mouth to your temple, smooth away the tiny, worried creases in your skin with his thumb. “Wouldn’t you rather decide for yourself?”

“It’s fine.”

It’s worse than he thought. Before he can even do anything, you’re already backing away from him - inch by inch, step by step, like he won’t notice if you move slowly enough. You’re scared. “I’m sure you’re better at this than I am.”

You’re afraid - no scent of your blood in the air, no lingering taste of magic, but he’d know your fear anywhere. Fingers trembling ever so slightly, eyes forgetting to blink, pulse beating against your skin like a drum. Did someone hurt you? Say something to you? Fuck, he must have missed something. Who was it? Who was it? Tell him, and he’ll have them turned inside out before you can s-

The thought hits him like an arrow, cold shock spreading through his chest before it turns to horrified pain. He dismisses you with a nod that surely must look as wooden as it feels, unable to take his eyes off you as you scuttle away behind that damned curtain - but in his head he’s still half a mile away, replaying the last ten minutes in his head over and over in search of the thing he must have done wrong. One hand unconsciously comes up to his chest, just to make sure that the crater in his ribs hasn’t bled all over his front.

Broken heart, punctured lung. Are you afraid of him?

A low, stifled curse from the other side of the room brings him back with a jolt, and without really realising it, he’s already ducking through the curtain. Fingernails catching on velvet, still air, floorboard that creak underfoot. Something about forgiveness or permission, or one of those other things he never remembers to ask for.

“Let me.”

Quick fingers skimming across your back, undoing buttons, untying laces. Flashes of a thousand others in your place, pushed haphazardly to the back of his mind, gritting his teeth to stay, stay, stay. Seams tearing, lace ripping, buttons scattering across the floor - but that’s not right, he’s here with you, and you - and you-

“Careful.”

A quiet sort of affection, creeping up on him, the gentle blade that slots between his ribs and begs to stay buried there. Greedy, guilty hands, craving to ruin you, only knowing how to destroy. Protective, possessive, cursed for sure. Dread. Satisfaction, thick, dark blood smeared across his face, the carnage of his feast painted down your neck. The softness of your body, curved against his chest - desire, rich and syrupy, honey-sweet and terrifying in its sincerity.

“You and I, all alone. People might talk.”

I wish they would, whispers something in his head. I wish they knew - and I wish you knew too.

You feel your shared mouth open, but he doesn’t let you stay any longer - before past-him can reply, the scene dissolves into mist and falls away, leaving only Astarion looking back at you across the table.

“Clear enough for you, darling?”

The words crackle against your senses slightly, electric. You nod, left in something of a daze.

“Quite.”

You don’t say anything else, for a little while.

(Absentmindedly, you take a sip of your wine. It’s still not great, but it’s better than nothing.)

He’s on edge, fidgeting slightly in his seat, but it barely registers - your head is swirling with everything you’ve seen, everything he’s shown you. So he - so he had wanted this? It hadn’t been… everything he’d said…

It doesn’t make sense. How could he be so stupid?

You’re not good to love - you’re not good at love. Someone so precious, something so treasured. What could you possibly give him that he couldn’t find elsewhere? What do you have that he hasn’t seen a thousand times over?

You don’t know how to help him, or even where you could start. He ought to have someone he can trust with all those deepest, darkest parts of him, who understands him the way he doesn’t even know he needs, who knows just what to say, just when to listen. Someone confident and funny and kind, someone with the sort of love that’s warm and all-encompassing - a sunny summer’s day, a lighthouse in the storm. Sturdy, dependable, honourable. Safe. He deserves safe.

Instead, all you’ve got is a silly, reckless crush, a clumsy, gangly, unpracticed thing that you barely even know what to do with. Can you even call it love? Would he recognise it, if he saw it? Some trembling, pathetic infatuation, the best your body can do, thin and liquid in the marrow of your bones. Not blood, just water, filling but not full. Nothing that would satisfy him.

It’s not fair, it’s not fair. He’s lovely and he’s wicked and he’s clever, he’s cruel and he’s sweet and he’s made for so much more than you.

“I, um…”

He’ll thank you later. Not out loud, obviously - this is Astarion you’re talking about, after all - but he’ll know this is all for the best.

“Well, I’m very flattered, but…” Carefully, you arrange your face into what hopefully looks like sympathy, rather than pity. He’s clearly not in his right mind - he needs to think this is you offering to fix this together, rather than you letting him down gently. “Maybe this isn’t th-”

“Oh, for the love of - for once in your life, will you take the fucking hint?”

Reeling, your jaw drops as he practically shouts the words at you, hands slamming down onto the table with a thud.

“I didn’t even-!”

“No! No, you didn’t!” The tadpole in your head writhes as his mind opens to you once again, white-hot and shaking with rage. Does he even know he’s doing it? “Because you gave me that big, sad, I’m-so-sorry-I’m-so-useless look as you opened your silly little mouth, and I knew exactly what you were going to say!”

Snarling, biting, this must be what it’s like to be hunted by him. “So here’s what’s going to happen, darling - I am going to tell you what’s going on here, and you are going to sit there and listen, yes?”

Snap, snap, snap - he clicks his fingers insistently in front of your face when you don’t reply. “Yes?”

“Yes, mother,” you grumble, thoroughly chastised. “Listening.”

He narrows his eyes at the name, but lets it slide. Apparently, he’s got bigger fish to fry here.

“I am not a child.”

A thousand sarcastic replies flit through your head, most of them involving some variant of you’re right, a child wouldn’t be such a messy eater, but the murderous look he gives you as you open your mouth tells you that now might not be the time.

“I don’t need you to choose things for me. I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” he spits, fingernails biting into the wooden surface of the table. “I have had enough, of other people giving me orders, deciding things for me - do you hear me?”

His voice, low and bitterly cold. “You don’t get to be my master.”

There’s nothing you can really say to that, so you just nod, feeling slightly sick. Where’s he going with this - gods, what have you done?

“Oh? So you do understand!” he cries, throwing his hands up in the air in apparent frustration. “So it’s finally dawned on you, has it? You’re finally going to let me do what I want, is that it?”

“Yes,” you choke out, voice thin and cracking. “I - yes.”

“So if I told you I wanted to - to write a book about the uselessness of lockpicking, or let Gale turn me into a frog, or dye my hair purple, or something, you’d believe me? No matter how out of character you thought it was? You’d let me do it, even if you thought I’d lost my mind?”

There’s not even space to get a word in edgeways - he’s really, properly ranting now. “Or if I said I wanted to, um - oh, I don’t know, rob a bank, or run for mayor, or go into business writing terrible Sylvan love poetry - you’d believe me, yes? You’d say to yourself, oh, that Astarion, he’s big enough and bad enough to know what he wants, wouldn’t you?”

Another nod, a little bit more confused this time. Faerie love poetry? “I would.”

“Oh? Is that so? My, you sound awfully confident.” He feigns shock, one hand splayed mockingly across his chest. Sarcastic, almost jeering, a theatrical gasp.

“I must be so lucky, hm? To have someone who knows me so well, who trusts me to do whatever I want? Respecting me, caring about me, telling me that what I think matters?”

Something moving very fast - wine spilled all over the table with a clatter, a curse, a crescendo. “Well, then, dearheart - why can’t you seem to keep it in your ridiculous little head that I am in love with you?”

A beat.

“And before you say it - no, it’s not a joke, or whatever fool excuse you’re busy coming up with,” he snaps, pointing an accusing finger at you like it’ll keep the words from forming in your head. “I’m cruel, dear, but not that cruel.”

Sighing, he flicks his hand and the dripping, crimson wine stain soaking his sleeve disappears.

“Do close your mouth, sweetling,” he murmurs, reaching slowly across the table, pausing just before he can touch your face. “What did I tell you, hmm?”

“About my open mouth?”

Your voice is weak and the joke’s not your best, but you lean forward, letting him graze his fingers lightly across your jaw. “Not to make promises I can’t keep.”

“Gods. I really have taught you well.”

Words spill unbidden into your mind like oil, writhing in what might be fury or terror. Crawling into the strange, empty space that lies between you, dark and filled with agony, out of your body and inside your head.

Know me, see me - what a joke, that I should want to be seen at last, and by you, of all people. Are you there? Are you listening?

A thousand tiny moments, rushing past you in the current of his madness. You couldn’t make me do it, can’t you see? You couldn’t force me to love you - I have no need of force, not for you! It’s no pretence, it’s no game.

You couldn’t make me, but I did it anyway because it’s real, it’s all been real - why can’t you believe me? Do you think me so spiteful, so cruel, that I would do that to you?

Walls collapsing, worlds colliding. Where you go, he follows - always a step too slow, reaching out a second too late to find your hand already gone.

The words you think I wish to say, the pity and the scorn and the endless mockery that you imagine fills my head when I look at you. Is that what you want? Am I to be nothing but a hapless instrument of your own self-hatred, your own monstrous thoughts spilling from my lips, poisoning you with every word, every kiss?

My love, he wails, my love, my love. You’re so cruel to me.

Is this still only in your mind? The air is thick and close, seeping heavy into your skin. You make me sound so hateful, full of spite and loathing, bent on your destruction. Do you think me incapable of love - of loving you?

Tell me, savage darling of mine - tell this vicious, twisted creature that you say you see before you. Why can’t you believe that I could ever be in love with you?

Ragged, fevered fingernails tearing at the brickwork, half-mad with wanting. Ageing silk, soft and fragile as it frays. A whimper that might be a screech that might be a howl.

Why did I have to be a monster? he sobs, voice splintering and cracking - a phantom hand, all claws, desperately searching for your ankle. Couldn’t I have just been a man? Couldn’t I have just been in love with you for my own sake, because I care for you more than anyone I’ve ever known?

Please, my darling, I beg. Don’t make me this way.

You…

You don’t know what to say. Formless, faceless in this imagined space between - how would you speak, even if you tried? What words could reach his heart, could soothe this pain?

Whatever you say next, it can’t be a lie. Not again. He’ll know.

Paralysed with fear, but why? You like him. You want him, want to love him - and here he is, telling you that he feels the same. What’s the problem, then?

I’m scared.

The edge of the cliff, crumbling away beneath your boots. You know how to want love, but you don’t know how to do it - what does that even mean, for people like you two? How does it even work?

You don’t know what you don’t know, and it’s terrifying. Foolish and inexperienced - won’t he be ashamed of your clumsiness? He always seems so… so capable, so much bolder than you are. Confident, if a little too arrogant, and a healthy dose of vanity on top of that - ever unshaken, ever above it all. And yet, even in the moments when the act stretches too thin, when you can see it for the charade it is, it doesn’t matter. Astarion’s still miles beyond you, braver than you could imagine being.

He always seems to have an answer, he always seems to know. You’re embarrassed that you can’t match him.

I won’t - I can’t-

But that’s not all, is it?

He’s so precious to you. He matters, more than he thinks and more than you’ll admit, and he’s in pain. You don’t want him to be in pain. But you’re afraid that your love, weak and unpracticed as it is, won’t be enough to stop it.

Is it because you don’t want to see him hurt, or because you don’t trust yourself not to hurt him? He should want more, he shouldn’t settle for you. Selfish, lazy you, wanting but never deserving, complaining but never really trying. All these ugly, shameful parts of you that he must not know, or else he never would have said any of this.

Surely, he can’t know. Nobody could know all these things about you, and still pretend to love you the way he does.

And yet…

He says he doesn’t suffer fools, and you’ve seen him threaten to stab enough of them that you know it’s true. He says he doesn’t waste his time on things he doesn’t care about, that he doesn’t bother with anything he doesn’t like, and yeah, those also seem to be threatened with stabbing on an alarmingly-regular basis. So maybe it’s more about the propensity for knives than any particular economy of affection, but even so - you still believe him, don’t you?

He’s a liar. It’s the one thing he’ll always tell the truth about. But now, knowing what you know, you’re starting to think that’s not quite right either.

It all comes back to fear. Scared that it’s not true, that he’ll change his mind, that he was lying the whole time. Scared that you’ll be hurt, that you’ll hurt him, that he really is as cruel as he thinks he is. Can you do it? Trust him when he says you’re enough for him, that you’re what he wants? Trust him, when he says he means it?

It’s too much.

Your messy, sticky heart. A breathless, fluttering creature, laden with roses and sick with love.

I don’t want to get it wrong.

A cool hand cups your cheek, and the world comes back to you.

Stinging, your eyes open - weren’t they already open? - to find Astarion close, much closer than he was before. While you weren’t looking, he must have moved, but how on earth did he…?

“Steady on, darling. My eyes are up here.”

However he did it, Astarion looks down at you from where he’s perched in your lap, sitting sideways across your legs with one arm around your shoulders to keep himself balanced. Slowly, he coaxes your face up from the floor to look at him, fingers pressing into the softness of your cheek.

“Ah, that’s better. There you are.”

He doesn’t look angry, as you’d feared. Maybe pleased is the right word? No, that sounds too much like self-satisfied - not reverent, that’s too grand, and not proud either. It’s something softer than just happy, something contented and uncharacteristically tender. Charmed, perhaps.

Slightly awkwardly, you quietly clear your throat. Your body hasn’t cried, but it feels like your mind has, and the gap between the two is kind of disconcerting.

“I’m sorry.”

Astarion tilts his head, pretty eyes faintly confused, but you carry on. “It’s just a bit… you know. There’s a lot.”

Your hand stutters as it waves stiffly through the air in front of you, like that’ll somehow help you say what you mean. Everything that’s happened today, everything you’ve done, all summed up in some inept little gesture in your lap.

Luckily, he seems to understand well enough. With a sigh, he leans forward until his head is resting on yours, pulling you gently towards him to settle your head against the curve of his throat, safe in his embrace. Without really realising it, your arms find his middle, settling loosely around his waist in return.

“You know, I think I’ve changed my mind,” he says slowly, fingers tapping idly against your skin. “I think we do have time, after all.”

Bemused, you frown against his shoulder. “Time for what?”

Another memory, teased out of your brain by the tadpole. A sun-filled street, and a plan that couldn’t possibly go wrong.

What say you, dearest? Fancy an evening as my beloved?

Even now, you find yourself smiling at his overblown antics, the cocky flick of his wrist as he took your hand and kissed it. You could at least ask me properly, you know.

We’ve no time for courtship, sweetheart… Did he sound quite so mournful the first time? Or do you just remember it that way? I simply must have you - and tonight, no less!

“Let me ask you again, darling,” the real Astarion asks you. Well, with his chin resting lightly on top of your head, he more so asks your hair, but the meaning is clear. “Properly, this time.”

“Mmm…”

Is it a tiny bit mean of you, to make him wait? Probably, but he likes it when you’re mean. “You’ll have to convince me…”

“Oh?” Of course, he plays along, with a smirk that you don’t have to see to recognise. “Then set the scene for me, dear. However shall I win your hand?”

It takes a few long seconds for you to settle on an idea, fingers absentmindedly tapping against his back. This is nice.

“Tell me how it’s supposed to be,” you say, warm words against cold skin. “Tell me how this should have gone.”

“Well, it wouldn’t start like this, certainly,” he declares, tracing tiny, maybe-unconscious circles on the floor with the toe of his boot. “I wonder how we would have met? Something grand, I’m sure…”

He makes some gesture you can’t see, painting the picture in the air. “Perhaps a ball, or a gala, the kind they have in the Upper City - ooh, maybe in the foyer of an opera house or a theatre or something.”

“How… refined.”

“Oh, it would be terribly dull, I assure you,” he replies. “You’d have been to a thousand of these things before, and you’d be bored out of your skull.”

You can’t help but laugh at the way the words fall out of his mouth, full of longing and yet totally blasé. “And you’d save me from it, I assume?”

“Naturally.” Astarion runs a practised hand through his hair, adjusting himself in your lap slightly so he doesn’t fall. “I’d catch sight of you across the room and be utterly captivated by your beauty, darling. Then, I’d bring you a glass of wine and make some excuse to get you talking, and we’d spend the rest of the evening being absolutely awful about everyone else there.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Oh, you can’t help yourself - you have to stretch up a bit awkwardly, but you lean up to kiss his cheek, just once. Maybe twice. “Then what?”

He hums, deep in careful consideration. “I suppose I’d have to - oh, we’d both be living in the Upper City, by the way - I suppose I’d have to find your family’s home the next morning.”

“Bold, don’t you think?” you ask with a grin. “It’s barely been half a day since we met.”

He scoffs. “Like that would matter to me. They might show me into the drawing room, but they wouldn’t let me see you - I fear I might make quite a scene, you know. I’d stay as long as I could, waiting for you to come downstairs, and I wouldn’t leave until I’d begged permission to court you properly.”

The image of Astarion in all his finery pops into your head, perched defiantly on the sofa in the lavish drawing room of some imagined townhouse in Baldur’s Gate, arguing with the maid as she tries to shoo him away - it’s so ridiculous, and yet so absolutely him. Who else would turn up on your doorstep and elbow his way into the parlour, setting himself in the middle of the furniture like he owns it, and refusing to leave without an offer of courtship from the family?

“And what’s so funny about that?” He pretends to be affronted as you muffle your laugh into his shoulder, but there’s no heat in it. “Don’t tell me you’d keep me waiting, now.”

“Never, my love,” you proclaim, thoroughly charmed. “Once I heard the racket from downstairs, you wouldn’t be able to keep me away.”

“Racket - you think I’d be making a racket, darling? In what world?” he gasps. “I’ll have you know I’m the very picture of politeness. Very subtle. You wouldn’t even know, unless I wanted you to.”

“Right, right, subtle…” You nod exaggeratedly, taking in his perfect look of offended outrage. “And I assume that’s why the picture of politeness is sitting on my lap and trying to get his hands up my shirt in the middle of a tavern?”

Cold hands freeze against your sides, skin against skin, and you grin. Got him. “Nice try, though. I was almost convinced.”

“Of my subtlety? I’m sure I could persuade you...” He raises an eyebrow down at you, gaze dark with half-hidden promise. “You don’t think I could be quiet?”

“I’d be disappointed if you were. You mean you wouldn’t let me hear you?” You’re deliberately disappointed, a little whiny in the way you know he understands - a familiar dance, made all the sweeter by the fresh excitement of this new air between you. If he wants to play the game, you’ll play too. “Besides, I thought you liked it loud.”

“Oh, I do,” he breathes, one hand sneaking out from under your shirt, index finger pressing softly against the underside of your chin to keep your eyes on him. “Especially when you’re the one offering, darling.”

See, now you're speaking his language. “Who said I’d offer you anything?”

“Please. You wouldn’t get the chance, dear,” he scoffs, unfairly handsome in his arrogance. “Offering it to me? No, no. You’ll be begging me, pretty thing, and you’ll like it.”

The way he shifts to resettle himself in your lap is certainly no accident, and you really have to fight to keep your gaze up - you can just about keep looking at his face, but you can’t quite stop yourself from staring at his lips as he continues. “So how about it, hm? Would you be loud for me, my sweet?”

“I - well, I…” Your thoughts melt into nothing as the hand under your shirt slips just barely higher, words stuttering and faltering on your tongue. Curse his stupid face, curse his awful voice, curse his ridiculous hair and his strong hands and his pretty smile and his sweet kisses…

“Mm, I think you could be,” he muses, smug like the cat that’s got the cream. “I’d ask you very nicely, you know. And you’d be good for me, wouldn’t you? If I asked you nicely?”

The tadpole twitches behind your eye, the heat of something liquid and indulgent, a tantalising taste. Half memories, half dreams. Clever hands keeping you close in the middle of a crowded market, pulling you into a side street, pressing you hungrily up against the brick. The swish of a soft curtain, voices just outside, quiet now, darling, or do you want them to hear? Soft and warm and sweating, a trail of fabric in your wake - closer and closer, snatched up in his arms and - and-

Words, you have to say words - dizzily, your hazy mind latches onto whatever it can find. “Nicely?”

“Yes, honey. Nicely,” he sings through a wicked smile, faintly condescending in a way that really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. “That’s right, sweetheart. Very good.”

He knows he’s got the upper hand and he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, that’s all. You’re not going to fall for it, you’re not. Was it always this warm in here?

“Look at you, darling. Feeling a little hot, are we?”

The flash of fangs as he presses the back of his free hand to your cheek, blessed coolness, before sliding it down your neck to toy with the collar of your shirt.

“You should have said something, poor thing. I know a way we could cool you down.”

He looks thoughtful for a second, expression pensive before it melts back into a smirk. “Well. Maybe not straight away. But I’d get you out of all these layers, at least…”

Promises, promises. Your hummingbird heart, fluttering out of control. Graceful fingers picking at your collar, digging playfully into the softness of your waist, skimming across the skin. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it…

“You want to do this here?” If you sound a little more out of breath than normal, which you’re not saying you are, then that’s neither here nor there. “Whatever happened to biding your time?”

“It’s your many charms, my darling,” he replies, endearingly - um, infuriatingly ready with a comeback, leaning down to kiss just beside your eye. “A man can only resist so long.”

“Bastard.”

“Mm, I love you too.”

The self-satisfied look is quickly wiped off his face by the bitterness of his wine - he takes one last sip before disgustedly dumping the rest of his cup into yours. “Gods, this stuff is vile - let's be off, darling, before anyone tries to palm another bottle off on us.”

Pushing himself up off your lap, he turns back with a neat little bow, palm upturned to help you out of your chair. “Delightful as the company may be, life is far too short to spend it drinking such dreadful wine.”

“This from he, the undying.”

“And I wouldn't waste another second of my undeath on it,” he sniffs, pulling you gently to your feet and brushing imaginary dust from his shirt. “I’ll have you know, being dead is no excuse for subpar drinks.”

“Your idea of a nice drink is human blood, dear,” you reply dryly as you pick your roses up off the windowsill, paper crinkling in your hands. “I’m not sure you're exactly an authority on the matter.”

Astarion rolls his eyes as he picks up his bag, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Touché, my love, touché.”

He leads you back through the tavern, stepping across to hold the door open for you. The barkeep lifts a hand in farewell, and as you go to do the same, something glitters in the sunlight coming in through the open doorway.

It’s true, it’s true. Sweet relief and incredible terror all at once, resolving into something bright and brave and fizzing. Where there is love, there is faith. Is this what stories feel like? Wanting and wanted, a kiss that’s a dance that’s a promise.

Thin gold, red light. Amorie ent vivas est ma vie.

“...Darling? Hello?”

Startled out of your reverie, you look up just as Astarion raises an eyebrow, amused, motioning towards the door. “Some time today, my sweet.”

“Right, right, yes…”

Hastily, you duck out of the doorway and step out onto the street, bathed in the warm light of the late afternoon. Astarion follows, offering you his arm with a flourish, and you take it gladly.

“Where to next, then?” you ask, falling easily into step.

He shrugs, gesturing in front of the pair of you with a wry smile. “Why, wherever the road may take us, of course! We’re free as birds, dear - the very world is our oyster.”

“Back to the others then.”

“Well, yes.”

“Thought so.” Wordlessly, you turn to head back through the market, a little less noisy than this morning but still busy enough. “Unless you were planning on throwing even more of your money at the flower boy, that is.”

He gives you a playful nudge, discreetly shifting you both to the right to dodge a man walking the other way with an enormous crate of apples. “Don’t tempt me, dear. Five minutes to acquire the necessary funds, and you’ll be walking home with more than an armful of roses.”

“Planting me a garden, are you?”

“You’ll have a veritable meadow, my sweet,” he replies like it’s nothing, grand as you like. “As many as there’s room for, and one more for good measure.”

His free hand reaches across to yours, lifting it to his lips and kissing it like a prince from a storybook - it’s almost embarrassing how much it gets to you, and you’re sure he can hear your heart speeding up at his touch. “You’d never buy perfumes or oils again, if I had my way - in fact, you’d be hard-pressed to wash the smell of roses off of you, my love.”

Oh, you can’t let him off that easily. “They’d be roses, would they?” you ask, thinly feigning disinterest, although the effect is somewhat lost when you have to speak up a bit to be heard over the woman hawking fish just behind you. “So cliché.”

He lets out a tortured sigh, pained expression on his pretty face. “It happens to the best of us, I’m afraid.”

“You’re right, it does,” you muse. “Can’t imagine why it’s happened to you, then.”

“Oh, you-!”

He makes a grab for you, but you’re already gone, slipping out of his grasp and away into the crowded market, ducking through the gaps between the stalls and laughing as he chases after you. “Get back here, you villain!”

It’s a doomed endeavour - you know he’ll catch you, but you run anyway. Weaving in and out of the crowd, he’s never far behind. Fingertips that just barely brush the back of your shirt, shouted threats that grow more and more ridiculous each time you twist away.

“When I catch you-!”

If he wanted to, he’d have you in an instant, but it’s not about that, is it? The chase, the catch, the game. It’s the one you love to play, and you love it even more when you lose.

“There you are, darling.”

Rose petals flutter in your wake, a ruby glitters on your finger. Cold hands pull you close, and the sky, the sky, the sky.

masterlist

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

[junicult]

I love how you write harvey sm!!! You had me swooning with every words !! So sweet, short, and straight to the point but very flavorful and entertaining! i'm so happy i came across your blog !

I have a prompt that u can feel free to use!

What do you think Harvey is like when he & the farmer just got married? For example, is he very timid that he couldn't sleep when next to the farmer? Is he very hesitant to hold them? Or other things u think/headcanon? Would love to read your thoughts! Thank you so much for your time !!<3

!! harvey as your new husband

contains ; domestic fluff. another post of me rambling lol. entirely sfw! gn!farmer / gender is never implied. short drabble.

note ; i’m in a harvey brainrot rn that every time i try to sit down to write for the other bachelors, i just end up staring at my screen doing nothing 😓

when you were only dating, it wasn’t rare for harvey to come over while you were working after he found some time of his own.

even once, after you invited him over and sighed about how dirty you felt the cottage was since you hardly had time to clean—he became accustomed to do so just for you.

bringing over his own cleaning supplies just to sweep the dust, help with laundry, clean your kitchen and make dinner for you.

and he didn’t even mind doing all of it, just to help you lift the weight of your chores.

so after that one time, and you came home to see a squeaky clean home, and your excellent boyfriend after a particularly exhausting day—you could’ve cried.

not to mention, he goes the great mile. those large yellow gloves over his hands, non-slip shoes and a hardware apron over his clothes so he wouldn’t get himself dirty.

some may say it’s a bit dramatic, but he says prepared.

anyways, it became a routine he was fond of doing.

harvey came over a lot. to the point where his own house didn’t really feel like home anymore.

he hated those nights when he couldn’t come over, forced to sleep in his own bed without you by his side. it would take him longer to fall asleep if he couldn’t feel you next to him. he probably had to hug a pillow just to feel something lol.

so when you got married, it’s safe to say he was ecstatic to be moving out of his lonely apartment. especially when you made time to come help him, packing stuff in boxes.

it really made him realize how life changing it is. to see you labeling each box, sorting through his cds and tapes while talking about your future together.

“i think these would look nice in our living room, i could move my bookshelf over and we could squeeze this in…” you ramble on, face full of concentration.

it made his heart gush, even just hearing you call it our living room.

when you’d “ooo” and “aaa” at items of his you looked forward to decorating the house with, and “uhh” at the ones you didn’t. he couldn’t possibly be upset, if anything, he’d laugh at your honesty. there’s nothing that’d make him upset right now.

so when you were finally married, you had to work but he spent the majority of the day squeezing his stuff into the house like you both planned, it still felt right.

you didn’t have to be beside him, helping him unbox for him to be happy. he found everything seemed to fit in place.

settling in didn’t feel as much of a task as you both thought it’d be. there was always a cloud of sadness when he’d have to leave, so finally that experience was tarnished after the knot was tied.

there’s no leaving anymore, because he always comes right back.

at this point, his nerves being around you were fizzled, but of course he still got butterflies when he’d see you.

any moment he was intimate with you still made him feel much younger with the way his heart would pound and his palms would grow sweaty. even if you were just leaning in to kiss him.

so the first night you two were living together as a married couple—i don’t think he’d be so nervous.

or at least, not nervous in a bad way.

“which side of the bed should i sleep on?”

“harvey, we’ve slept together before. this isn’t new.” you tease.

“well we’ve never slept together as a married couple who lives in the same house. this is the start to the rest of our lives, i want to make sure we’re making the right decision,” and after he realizes what he implied, he’s widening his eyes and shaking his head, “no! not like that! as in, what if i sleep on the right side, but i sleep on my right side so my back is always turned to you—“

“harvey, honey…i’m not going to be mad at you if i wake up and you’re not facing me.” you giggle.

he really knows how to overthink everything.

but once you’re finally tucked in bed together (you on the right, him on the left) i don’t think he’ll overthink at this point.

by now, you’re both so in love that he doesn’t second guess reaching over to hold you anymore. he doesn’t need to rethink all of that.

when you latch onto him, pressing your face into his chest and wrapping your arms around him—he’s bound to get butterflies. you may even hear his heart beat a little quicker. but he’s not shy to give you the same treatment.

if he could, he’d hold you all day. he never wants to let go.

[cherry-muses]

tom riddle x gn! reader: oneshot

<a/n: oneshot after the image! haven't written in a while so i lowkey feel like this sucks. ps: sorry i disappeared for like 5 months lol i had to graduate. >

tags: mentions of a difficult childhood, orphanage, bullying, hurt/comfort, fluff

He was sat across you, writing his History of Magic essay with his ever-so-neat handwriting. The only sounds you could hear were those of his quill scratching the parchment and of you turning the pages of your Potions textbook.

As Riddle wrote, his other free hand rested on the table, and you couldn’t help but appreciate the fact that he had really pretty hands. Your eyes subtly scanned them and eventually landed on the sleeve of his robes… which seemed to be a little torn and frayed at the edges.

You smiled to yourself, knowing the exact spell required to make the sleeve good as new… secretly hoping that Riddle would give you one of his rare smiles when you did. Perhaps it’d make the boring study session slightly more entertaining, and the rather bleak winter evening more colourful.

You tentatively reached your hand to gently hold his wrist, and gave him a soft smile. “I could fix that… may I?” You asked, gesturing to the torn sleeve.

To your surprise, Tom did not give you even the smallest smile. In fact, he flinched and harshly pulled his hand away, giving you an accusatory glare at the same time. “I’d much appreciate if you wouldn’t disturb me when I’m trying to work. And I know perfectly well to take care of my own clothing, thank you.”, he snapped. “I think I’d much rather spend my evening with someone who isn’t so dull and irritating to the core.”

“I didn’t mean-”, but you were rudely cut off mid-sentence by Riddle slamming his textbook shut, stuffing it into his satchel and storming off, out of the library.

You were left sitting alone in the library, feeling an odd mixture of guilt, anger, and confusion, holding back tears.

It was the next evening, when you were approached by the dark-haired prefect again. You had been reading by the fireplace in the Slytherin common room when he came up to you, fists clenched at his sides in nervousness. “What do you want, Riddle?”, you spoke, rather harshly, as you sat up straight to face him.

“I am… sorry.”, he replied, voice strained as if it was taking him a great deal of effort to get the words out.

You slammed your book shut, tossing it aside on the couch in annoyance. “I am sorry too.”, you replied, not a hint of emotion in your voice.

“You’re sorry?”, he asked, frowning in confusion.

“For assuming we're friends.”

For a split second a look of hurt flashed across his sharp features, until, ever the Slytherin, Riddle schooled his expression to appear vaguely sad.

“I should not have spoken in that way to you.”, he begins.

“No, you shouldn’t have.”, you retort.

You are both silent for a few moments, and the air has a sort of charged tension which makes you feel like either one of you would be storming off at any moment.

It comes as a bit of a surprise, then, when he instead chooses to sit close to you on the black couch, the water from the Great Lake casting a greenish glow upon the two of you.

“I really am sorry. I must admit, out of sheer habit I had assumed the worst intentions out of you.”

Those deep brown irises of his conveyed a kind of sincerity you had never before seen in him. You hoped to Merlin it was genuine.

“It is no excuse but I’d like to…er, explain why I behaved in such a way. Not justify, just explain.”, he said, a request for you to kindly hear him out implicit in his words. You somehow found yourself nodding, silently urging him to continue.

“You know where I grew up. I much prefer to hide it, but somehow your… constant affection has gently coerced me into entrusting to you the things I wish I could hide even from myself. ” He pauses, sighing and staring outside the dungeon windows, into the depths of the Great Lake.

“As would be expected, the orphanage wasn’t made of money. They could hardly feed us twice a day.” He was practically avoiding your eyes now. “My wardrobe essentially consisted of the worn clothes people donated. And, well.” A pause. “My first time on the Hogwarts express, a group of Ravenclaws found it a good enough excuse to remind me of my inferiority… and throw a couple of assorted hexes my way.”

Realization dawned on you, and at once you took his hand in yours, gently caressing his skin with your thumb. “Oh…”

“Well, since then I’ve managed to handle such issues with reparation spells, but I suppose I missed my robe’s sleeve. Which caught your attention yesterday. And… and when you tried to fix it, I just...”

You could bear it no more, and without any warning he was engulfed in a hug. “Tom, I’m so so sorry. I should’ve known.”

“No, it is my fault, for comparing you to someone who was been cruel to me, when you’ve always shown me nothing but the complete opposite.”, he breathed out softly.

There was a look of steely determination on your face now. “Promise me one thing, Riddle.”

“Hmm?”, he inquired, far too occupied with staring into your eyes to bother with actual words.

“Next time you feel like that, please… please just talk to me.”, you request. “I hate when we hurt each other in such a way.”

“Anything you ask.”, he says. You beam at him and gently kiss his forehead

The rest of the evening was spent cuddling on that couch, whispering sweet nothings to one another and watching the fish swim by in the lake.

[aspiringsophrosyne]

Critical Role’s fights cannot be as long in animation as they are in the stream. They just cannot. And even if they could, they shouldn’t, because it’d be a massive slog in that context.

However.... some battles need to feel long, even if they’re not. They need to feel tense and dangerous, like you just want them to end already. Not in a boring way, but in a suspenseful, scared for characters you love way.

The final battle of campaign 2 is an obvious pick. But there are others in that campaign that come to mind besides that one.

Let's talk about one of them.

(Spoilers for Campaign 2, specifically the last arc, below.)

More than almost any other fight in Campaign 2, we need the one between the Nein and the Tomb Takers from episode 123 to feel long.

And there’s something we can do to get us there. We can make the fight feel longer without actually making it longer if we inter-cut the fight with other previous scenes.

In episode 121, while traveling with the Takers, the Nein takes watch. Jester with Yasha, and then Fjord with Beau. During these shifts, Jester and Fjord reveal their kiss, and Yasha and Beau reveal their upcoming date. Everyone is excited by these developments.

I say, don’t show the romance talks when they are supposed to happen in the timeline. Skip them. Then, during the fight, flash back to them.

Like so:

Beau slams down off the back of a giant eagle into the snow among the Tomb Takers, popping several of them in the face one after the other. We cut away to:

Beau: No, on that note, I kind of — We were in, like — We just walked through a creepy forest and we were, like, a mile beneath the earth and I kind of asked Yasha on a date. Fjord: You did what?! Beau: I know. Fjord: You asked her out on a date? Beau: Yeah, yeah. Fjord: What’d she say?

We cut back. Lucien stalks up to her while she’s still swinging and unawares. When she turns, he puts his hand to her throat. His eye tattoos glow. Her head rocks back, but not out of his grip. Blood gathers in the corners of her eyes like tears.

Beau: She said yes. She said yes. That she was— Fjord: Shit!

As blood pours down out of Beau’s eyes, out of her nose, as she gags up a thick trickle of blood from her lips, as Lucien’s grin widens in sadistic satisfaction, we don’t cut away. Instead, this audio plays over him Rending her Mind.

Beau: She was, like, really excited. She was like, “I’m happy about this because, like —" I don’t know whether it’s — I just want a fresh start with Yasha because we’ve been through so much.

[...]

Beau: So it just felt like maybe, maybe a date.

She sucks in a desperate, blood choked breath.

Caleb and Cad crawl backward through the snow, frantic and trying to get their magic to work. Yasha swoops down towards Beau in her eagle form. Just before she gets close enough to make the grab, we cut away:

Jester: But did you give her the poem? Yasha: Well, I was working on it and then I just sort of ended up writing her a letter. I still have a poem, but I just ended up writing her a letter. It felt weird and it felt like really I wasn’t ready yet. So I just wrote her a note and yeah, and then she asked me out on a date, yeah.

Yasha makes the grab, Beau’s free.

Later, when Fjord’s on the opposite side of the battle field from everyone else, he brings his blade down on Lucien’s back. It's blocked without him even turning around. As he does turn and the two lock blades, Fjord’s eyes travel to the rest of the group and we see-

Fjord: Hey, I meant to tell you, I-- I told Jester how I-- how I... Beau: You did? Sorry, Caduceus. Caduceus: (snores) Beau: You did? Fjord: Yeah, on the-- real, yeah. Beau: How’d it go? Fjord: It went okay. I was pretty nervous. Beau: Yeah? What do you mean okay, though? What’s okay? Fjord: No, it was good. I-- uh. We kissed. Beau: (gasping) Sorry, Caduceus. Sorry.

He’s struck, he teleports near Zoren. He’s closer to the rest than he was, but he’s not there yet.

....And I mean, I think you get the idea at this point. You'd maybe want to pace it out slower or a little differently, but this is just to give you an idea of what you could do.

What also could be cool is intercutting this fight or later ones with scenes where the Nein talk about the city; what’s coming to Exandria if they die in Eiselcross without stopping the Tomb Takers. Remind the audience what’s at stake on a macro level (the city coming to swallow the world) and a micro level (the Nein have started more intimate relationships and might not get the chance to experience them) to keep tension high.

This is just one example, but you could use it for multiple important fights. Other good candidates include both Iron Shepherd fights, the King’s Cage fight, the Cathedral Fight and one or both fights against the Sea Spawn that come for the orb.

Sometimes you really don’t need a lot of fancy effects or animation. Sometimes just some creative storyboarding and/or editing can elevate a story in a way you wouldn’t expect.