#elf fever hours

[devotion-disorder]

he's just a bit taller than most :( i promise he's nice!!

i also sorta forgot he's kinda fucking massive LOL

[gojosoups]

cw: smut, unprotected sex, consensual sex, creampie, biting, marriage, reader running a fever, lovesick gojo, fem reader, all characters are 18+, MDNI, proofread ig?

a/n: guess who's back from being sick lol... burglar toji and elf king gojo coming next week :) enjoy <3

Even a fever can’t stop Gojo Satoru from fucking you.

Now obviously he took good care of you, making sure you were hydrated and well fed, checking your fever every hour, and giving you the right medicine to take like the diligent husband he is.

But it’s not his fault that he can’t say no to you. Especially not when, even on your fever, you crave him; his touch, his smell, his taste.

In sickness and in health they say.

Which is how you ended up here, legs wrapped around his hips, trying to pull him in deeper, closer, begging for him to go faster—but he won’t, especially when you were running a fever—and instead taking it nice and slow, savoring each drag of his cock against your velvety walls.

God his body was so hot, someone would have mistaken him as the one with a fever, not you.

His cheeks and ears blushing a cute pink, while the length and thickness of his cock curves against your sweet spot with each gentle and loving thrust. Glossy lips hovering over your flushed cheeks and pressing soothing kisses against your heated and sweaty skin while he makes love to you.

His thumb travels down south, latching on to your sensitive clit and rubbing soft circles against your bud, pulling out all sorts of gasps and moans from your lips as his eyes drink in your fever-clad self as he brings you closer to the brink of pleasure.

Tight pussy clenching around his cock, pulling him in as his cock head kisses against your cervix, a mixture of pearly white cum coating the base of his cock as he thrusts into your sobbing pussy.

Feeling your sharp nails dig into his muscular back as you reach your high, you sink your teeth into his neck as shudders travel down his spine, only further encouraging him to empty his load inside of you as you lock your ankles behind him. 

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐒 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform

[fuzybby]

Baby Fever

Halsin x F!Reader

Synopsis: Halsin wants a baby with you so bad, and who are you to deny him?

CW: BREEDING!!!, the word daddy is used once, rough-ish sex, lovey dovey shit

Life after the Elder Brain was strange in the way that it was comfortable. Instead of going back to your old life, the one you had before you were forced onto the Nautiloid ship, you decided to follow the love of your life. Halsin.

You went with him to go look after the bundle of kids whose parents had passed from the attack. Thaniels realm, otherwise used to be known as the Shadowcursed Lands, looks much better than when you left it. Now that the curse was lifted, the lands were no longer drenched in shadows and fog.

There were, however, many little feet running around the sanctuary you had made. There were a few little cabins for some of the kids to sleep, along with you and Halsin having one for yourself. Outside the cabins, tents and campfires were set up everywhere. Some of the kids enjoyed sleeping outdoors, saying that it brought them comfort to sleep under the stars.

As you tucked the final kid into their bed in one of the cabins, you tried to exit as quietly as you coud. When you came to be outside, Halsin stood next to your own cabin door, waiting for you to come to bed.

You chuckled to yourself as you stepped around the tents and the kids personal belongings, walking to your cabin. Halsins eyes fell onto the way your body moved, smiling to himself as he wondered how he got so lucky.

“Surprised you're not already in bed.” You joked in a whisper once you were close enough for your giant lover to hear.

Halsin opened the door and let you step inside first, before following and closing the door. He swiftly locked it behind him. “I wanted to talk to you about something.” He responded, the grin never leaving his face.

“Mhm?” You stepped over to your dresser, pulling out a tanktop and some shorts to sleep in. Halsin came up quickly next to you and put your clothes back into the drawer.

“I want a baby.” Halsin said. He was blunt, it was something you loved about him. Always getting to the point.

“We already have, like, twelve children.” You chuckled awkwardly, trying to pull your clothes back out of the drawers.

He was quick to put them back into the drawer, and even closed it too. “I want another one. Made from both of us.”

“Halsin..” You started, looking up into his eyes. It was something you had talked about before, being a mother wasn’t not off the table, you just didn’t expect it to be so soon. You loved the little ones you were taking care of. Adding another was definitely something that you wanted.

Without a second beat, Halsin smirked. “This also means I could fuck my cum into you every night, multiple times a night, until your pregnant.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Halsin had always asked to cum inside you, and there were only a few times you had agreed to it. He was always so sweet about making a day after potion for you, even if he was sad it wasn’t time yet. But now, he wanted it to be time. And so did you.

“Yeah..” Is all you could say, a big goofy smile plastered on your face. “Yeah.”

“On the bed, my heart. Let me grab the bottle.” Halsin said, the same kind of goofy grin on his face too. You didn’t think twice, immediately jumping into bed. You debated if you should take off your clothes, knowing Halsin would rip them off and most likely tear them.

Before you could really get your hands even on your clothes, Halsin returned next to the bed with a bottle of lube. Handmade by him, of course.

“I don’t understand why we still need that stuff. I take you just fine.” You sighed, looking up at your elf with puppy eyes.

“Sweetheart, it takes me almost an hour to prep you properly. And I don’t feel like waiting tonight. It’s necessary.” Halsin laughs, moving down to press a kiss to your lips. His lips are soft, and both of your tongues move to reach each others. It’s messy as much as it is passionate, and yet it doesn’t last long.

He pulls away and moves to sit on his knees in front of you on the bed. Hiking his hands up your shirt to cup your breasts. His hands are rough and large, but he touches you like you're made of glass. This is his pattern, be extremely gentle with you at the start to rile you up before he completely ravages you for all you are.

He takes his time, pulling off your shirt slowly so he can admire your entire torso. He presses the faintest of kisses against the skin of your breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth. His teeth just barely graze your pointed tip, his tongue working in circles to swirl around your entire areola. Before long, he switches to the other nipple, continuing the same ministrations on that breast instead.

He works slowly down your body, too slowly for your tastes, and you're tempted to beg him to hurry. Halsin hooks his pointer fingers into the waistband of your pants, quickly pulling them down along with your underwear. Throwing them into the corner of the room.

“Fuck,” Halsin growled, grabbing the backs of your knees to spread you open. “I love you.”

“I love you t-” You go to reply, but before you can even finish the sentence, Halsin licks a strip up your cunt. Swirling his tongue around your clit, much like he did with your tits. He moans into your heat, trying to bury his face as much as he can into you.

It felt glorious, his tongue was so warm against you, and so soft. It felt like fucking heaven. You moaned loudly, and had to cover your mouth to not disturb anyone outside. You could feel your wetness travel down onto the bed, or maybe it was some of Halsins saliva? Who knows.

Your legs shook, but his hold on them made it so your whole body spasmed instead. Arching your back up into the sky in hopes his tongue would reach deeper. Travel inside of you and ignite a flame of ecstasy.

You could feel a sweat break out against your skin, and suddenly everything in the room became too hot. Your body felt on fire as your lover devoured you.

“Almost..” You moan out, moving your hand down to hold onto his hair. You didn’t tug, holding it merely to try and keep you grounded.

Halsin didn't stop, instead opting to suck and focus on your clit as he entered a finger into you. It didn’t take too long for him to enter a second one, and then a third. You were wet enough for them to slide in easily. The feeling of being so full set you on edge, and you suddenly came with a cry. Your body shook, and you gripped both the sheets and Halsins hair in a death grip.

Halsin relented and pulled away, a line of his saliva stayed connected from his lips to your clit. He pulled his fingers out of you slowly, immediately putting them into his mouth to clean them off.

“Grab me the bottle my love.” Halsin huffed once he finished sucking on his fingers. You stretched your arm above your head to grab the bottle of home-made lube, and tossed it to your lover.

Halsin grabbed it and set it down on the bed next to him, it was now his turn to strip. Throwing off his shirt and trousers quickly. His cock sprang out of his pants and smacked against his abdomen. He was a big man, in all ways possible. He grabbed the bottle again and poured the smallest amount on his hand, and gave his cock a few pumps in order to coat himself.

He then drizzled a small amount onto your mound, and it made you jump as the cold liquid met your clit. He made sure to rub it everywhere, but made sure the most to finger you a little bit more while his hands were coated in it.

“Ready?” The giant had asked you, and you nodded.

He positioned himself first, pushing in only slightly so just the top of the tip was inside before he moved his body to hang above you. His free hand now came to grab the sheets next to your head for stability.

And then he started to push in more.

The first few times you ever had sex with Halsin, it took a while. Back and forth between trying to enter you and making you cum on his fingers. He never wanted to hurt you, and continuously tried to stretch you open enough on his fingers so that you could take him fully.

Now that you were more experienced with his size, it was easier to take him. But, that doesn't mean sometimes it didn't hurt.

The initial stretch is the worst, no matter how much prep work is done it'll still never be quite enough. But you always enjoyed the small thing of pain. Enjoying the way you hugged his walls, silently asking for him to never leave the warm space between your legs.

And god, the look on his face was everything. The scrunch of his brow, the way he wanted to bare his teeth like an animal, the moan he lets out when he first comes into contact with your warmth. It’s absolutely divine.

His hand that was holding his cock now comes to hold your face. He is so close to you, you could purse your lips and reach his own.

“Fuck, you feel good.” The druid growls, his mouth stays open in a silent moan.

Before long, he finally is able to push in all the way to the hilt. You can feel his heavy balls rest against your ass. You could probably feel them twitch if you concentrated hard enough.

“Fuck me already.” You beg, moving your hands to hold his thighs. Your fingers knees into his flesh, hoping to guide him to move.

Halsin smirks. “You know I love it when you beg.”

He doesn't wait a second more before he starts moving. He doesn't start with a slow or gentle pace, it's straight to rough and hard. The sound of skin hitting skin is all that can be heard from the room.

Whimpers and whines leave both of your lips, not wanting to be any louder in case to wake anyone nearby.

You felt so incredibly full, only for that fullness to leave momentarily and then come back full force inside you. Everything felt beyond amazing, your lover always knowing how to fuck you good.

You never relented on your hold on him, wanting to make sure he never pulled out.

Your sweat hadn't let up either, and everything around you was wet. The skin from your elf had the same sweat on him too.

Your brain had started to turn off, consistent quiet rambles fell from your lips. “Fuck a baby into me daddy!” and “I love you so much!” were one of the few sentences that Halsin could make out.

Halsin quickly grabbed onto the headboard as he pounded you, now not so close to your face either. His arm flexed as he held onto the piece of wood. The bed frame that he made with his own two hands now felt like it was going to snap and break from his constant thrusting.

“M’ gonna cum,” He moaned. The hair on his forehead bounced against the movements he was making.

“Inside!” You squealed, moving your hands to grab onto his lower back, intent to make sure he didn't pull out last minute.

Halsin smirked for the final time that night, “That's my girl.” He said quietly into your ear before slamming into you one final time.

The force of his orgasm caused your own cord to snap too, feeling his seed drench your walls as your own ecstasy covered his lower abdomen.

You both lay there for a minute, taking a breather. Watching one another with that same goofy grin on each other's faces.

“Melody if it's a girl.” Halsin said breathlessly, moving his body to lay on top of you, never pulling out.

“We're gonna make a list.” You laughed, holding him close to you. You felt hot as he lay against you, possibly almost too hot. “I need a cold bath.”

“Me too.” The giant agreed. “I can get one started for us.”

“Sounds lovely” You hummed, running your fingers through his hair. “Maybe have another round while we bathe?” You joked.

“Don't threaten me with a good time.” Halsin laughed.

Neither of you moved just then, continuing to stay there together. Entangled in eachothers arms as you both relax, hoping to Silvanus that no one woke up from the sound of you two lovebirds.

[rauferes]

Emmrich would absolutely ugly happy-cry the first time he holds his child. Forget dignity. Put that tiny rolypoly little thing anywhere near him and he's going to cry enough to end a drought half a continent away.

He will not be managing a coherent sentence for the next half hour.

Tag for @lavenderprose cuz I know you've got baby fever real bad. Suffer with me.

DA lore/story details for this particular baby under the cut:

Normally by DA lore, a baby born to a human and elf parent would be considered elf-blooded, and is visually identical to a human-- elven magic enables them to interbreed at all by suppressing the elven genome. This baby is an anomaly! Her mom is elven but not a mage. So in an extremely rare turn of events, it's Emmrich's magic that enabled them to conceive. I'm considering her "human-blooded", in that it's the human side that got suppressed in order to make her a viable embryo. She ends up being Emmrich's only biological child-- the odds of a successful human-blooded kid are exceptionally low, his wife has multiple miscarriages-- but they do adopt foundling children, so this baby doesn't end up being an only child. Both her parents were orphaned so the adoptions are really important to them both emotionally 🥺 this lil cutie was his first, though.

[anittmyer]

Maglor the Old Elf

In my AU, Elladan and Elrohir find Maglor on the beaches of Middle Earth, he is ill, physically worn, and even has visible strands of grey strewn throughout his midnight hair.

Maglor is taken to Imladris to heal and be at peace for the first time in many millenia. Elrond is beyond relieved and near tears when he sees his sons riding into Imladris with a very familiar elf with them.

Maglor embraces Elrond but tries to refuse care and healing, stating he did not deserve it. Elrond told Maglor that Imladris is a place of peace and healing, no amount of past deeds and self loathing will change that.

Maglor is treated long and hard for illness and fever that seems almost engraved in his bones. But Elrond works day and night to provide comfort for his foster father.

The Elves of Imladris are more intrigued by Maglor rather then feared or hated, the elflings especially, they found the mix of grey and black in his braids to be beautiful and his tall tales he would tell to his own young brothers wludl entertain them for hours. Maglor while recovering well is still affected by the years on his feet, his eyes and bones are old, his eyesight is not as sharp as it once had been and his bones are weary and frail, he takes to using a walking stick/or cane, a beautiful one made and carved by Elladan and Elrohir.

Many of the less familiar elves took to calling him "Maglor the Old Elf", as besides the silvan and Avari, Maglor seemed to have collected one of the largest sums of years, alongside Cirdan the Shipwright. He also weeps at getting to meet his mysterious nephew Erestor, Caranthir's son... one of the last of his family.

I also headcanon that Cirdan and Maglor become friends during this time as well. After hearing about the return of Maglor, Cirdan makes time to visit Imladris and examine the situation, but all he sees is an old, weary elf trying to warm his ever chilled bones with a thick quilt. Cirdan takes to talking with Maglor and the two soon form a strong friendship with each other.

From one old elf to another.

I have way more ideas on this if anybody would like some short stories!

[crispywriter]

Halsin's bleeding. Again.

And it's not just a little bit of blood—like from a graze after falling over, or a slip of the fingers whilst handling a knife—no. There's blood oozing down the left side of his face, hair and leaves stuck in the red as it streaks down his skin, dripping down his square jaw and staining the leather of his armour a dark red. The giant elf fills your doorway, grinning down at you despite his bruised, ruffled appearance, clearly rather pleased with whatever mischief he's been up to.

"Oak Father's great bushy beard—" You drop your knife and the aloe leaf you'd half-peeled onto your workstation table and swerve around your furniture to get to the druid, grabbing his bloodied face in your hands and dragging his head down to eye-level, inspecting the dirty, jagged wound. "What have you done to yourself now?"

There's four distinct scratches across the left side of his forehead, three of the nasty streaks ripping through his thick eyebrow. They're deep—not at all evenly spaced enough to have come from any kind of weapon you're familiar with.

"Gods, woman, be careful." Halsin winces as you just about dig your thumb into the smallest, leftmost slice, inspecting the wound as best you can what with so much blood seeping out and obscuring it. His large fingers wrap gingerly around your wrists and he pulls your hands away before he straightens up. "Let me get inside first."

You suck your teeth and step back out of your entryway, throwing a now very red hand toward the inside of your humble little home, flicking blood everywhere and sighing. "By all means, invade my space." You huff down at the crimson smattered on your floor and then look back up as the large elf shoulders his way past you, your eyes narrowing and tone sharpening as you watch him head right for your bed. "Don't you even think about it, Halsin. Sit at the table."

The druid tips his head back, his eyes rolling as he lets out a dramatic groan, but he complies with your command—steering himself away at the last possible moment from your clean blankets and taking a seat at your small dinner table instead. It's quite comical—how big Halsin is sitting on one of the regular sized wooden chairs, looking part giant with his knees tucked up and his shoulders hunched over as he faces you. You kick your front door closed and detour to your workstation, collecting a pitcher of clean water, an unused bowl and rag on your way to the dining table.

Halsin watches you silently. His green eyes are inquisitive as he observes you pour the water into the bowl and dip the rag into it, blinking at you as you stand as close as you can without getting too much into his space, gently picking the leaves and hair from the wounds so you can begin to clean it.

He's been like this since the day you met him all those decades ago, still just a boy. Cheeky, too curious, mischievous, always disappearing into the most treacherous parts of the forest far from the Grove and coming back hours, days, even weeks later covered in gore and filth, some kind of trophy in hand and a pleased smile plastered on his face. There's always been discussion about him, disapproving eyes shooting glares his way, coupled with years of rebuke—the elders say he's cocky, reckless, unaware, that he'll never grow out of it—despite him still being so young, despite his uncomparible strength, despite being the most powerful healer the druids have seen in centuries. But these things only seem to cause him to be all the more rebellious, something you're rather fond of deep down, his friendship and reliance on you never once tiresome or draining. You've had him sitting at your table countless times, much as he is now, while you stitched split skin back together as he complained, or had him delirious with poison-fever in your bed, sputtering nonsense as you spoon-fed him and nursed him back to full health again.

"Why do you never simply cast a healing spell?" Halsin says—as has become his routine.

You tut your tongue and sweep his hair back again, brushing the long russet tresses over his broad shoulders and hopefully well out of your way. "My skill lies in practical healing, Halsin." You try not to crowd him too much, but you're bent at a rather uncomfortable angle like this, dipping the dirtied cloth back into the water as you clean him up, "something you well know as we've had this conversation near a hundred times. You're the most talented healer I know, why not just cast a spell on yourself and save all the trouble? It'd certainly save you all the fuss of having me clean you up." 

The druid huffs and hunches forward, his large body closer now and a modicum easier to reach. "Isefa likes to remind me of how I am not to rely entirely on my magic." Your Grove's First Druid is perhaps the only other creature that sees Halsin in a positive light—sees the great potential in him. "Potions and poultices and what have you are just as important. Which I will never understand." He rolls his eyes and gives a slight shake of his head. "You wouldn't have the time to whip out a vial and drink in the heat of battle—it's not as if the enemy will patiently wait their turn to strike."

"And what if you've been silenced? A potion would do you a great deal of good then." You're stepping into the space between his parted knees before you can really think too hard about it, thumb and forefinger on his chin as you tip his head back toward the sunlight still thankfully streaming in through your kitchen window, set to work on cleaning the actual cuts themselves now. "Or perhaps you're travelling with a non-magic user? If you were to fall in a fight, how could they possibly heal you?"

You brush the cloth over the first of the gnarled splits in his skin, and Halsin's eyes are angry as he looks up at you, clearly frustrated by the topic he's chosen to speak on. "And if I were alone and subdued? Restrained? What good are moss concoctions for my injuries then?"

"Halsin." You immediately pause in cleaning him, placing the cloth back down into the water bowl and your other hand gently on his shoulder. "You talk as if you must choose either magic or medicine—you know it's not my intention to speak greater of one over the other, rather that we learn both so that we may use the best of both."

The handsome, irresponsible druid stares up at you, the stubborn set of his jaw clenching twice before he the fire in his green eyes ceases. You pick up your cloth and find yourself cradling his face in one hand as you work carefully over the second gash. "I apologise." He mumbles, pursing his lips in a silly pout you've seen a million times.

"It's fine." You brush your thumb over his cheekbone, flashing him a soft smile. "Though perhaps you shouldn't choose to speak about things you know will make you angry."

It's quiet a moment, the druid allowing you to work in peace, wincing every now and then when it gets a little too sensitive. You're as careful as you can be—gods know you've been much rougher with him on more than one occasion in the past.

"It was a bear." He says suddenly, softly, chuckling to himself. "I was in wildshape."

"I hope you're not about to tell me you've been in bear-form for the entirety of the three months you've been gone." You hum, totally anticipating him to say how he's been doing just that, but nonetheless still shocked by the expected confession.

"It was necessary. And don't chastise me for it—I heed the warnings. Usually." He doesn't.

"I would very much like to lecture you, but since you're bleeding I'll put it in my back pocket for now." You shake your head, "at least it explains why you're so grumpy today." At mid-wipe you pause, your gaze lifting to the window across from you as the reality of what Halsin has just said dawns on you. "Wait... Isn't it mating season?" You glance down at the tall druid and he looks amused, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"She was quite offended by my rejection." He's grinning now—ear to ear, totally pleased with himself.

Your mouth falls open around a breathy laugh of disbelief and you lower the cloth from the elf's face, completely gobsmacked as you thwack your free hand against his chest. "You did not go wandering about in the forest in the middle of godsdamned mating season!" Halsin catches your wrist before you can bat at him a second time, holding your palm flat against his chest as he laughs, his head tilting back in delight, obviously pleased by your reaction to his reckless behaviour. "Silvanus help us all—you stupid fool, what were you thinking?"

"Not about female bears or the rut, I assure you." There's something about the way that the word 'rut' sounds rolling off of Halsin's tongue that sends a fizzle of heat down your spine. "There's... strange things happening in the village. At Moonrise. A camp of goblins came through, stayed in the outskirts and used spells to hide—Thaniel is worried."

You hear the strain in his voice. "Regardless, what you did was foolish." You've gotten closer to the druid amidst the laughter, and when you lift the cloth back up to his face, Halsin has to tip his head backward completely. "Did Isefa send you?"

He shakes his head just slightly. "They camped far too close to the Grove. I could sense them, I'm sure Isefa could too, but I had to investigate. They clearly weren't here for us, but even that knowledge didn't cool my blood." You feel one of his strong hands on the back of your calf and your body hums with sudden warmth at the proximity. His face is level with your chest, almost resting upon it, and you wet your bottom lip before you find you instinctually raise your hand to slip it around the back of his neck, holding him tenderly as you continue to clean his wound. "I tracked them across the forest, spent three weeks on the borderline of Moonrise Towers. The guards were shockingly ignorant of the presence of a huge beast."

"You could've gotten hurt." You blink slowly, realising what you've said and scowling at the smile slowly spreading across his face. "Oh, shut up. You know what I mean. It's not an easy punishment for tresspass—Ketheric seems a kind man, but you can never be too sure."

"They didn't know." Halsin protests gently and you feel his arm snake further around your legs and it forces you even closer, your body pressed right up against his. "In any case, the bear was surely far more frightening."

"I'm not sure... This feels... significant." You take a shaky breath, trying to ignore the rapid beating of your heart. Since when did this man have this kind of effect on you? It must be the information he's told you. Nobody likes goblins. "Are you planning on telling anyone about this?"

"Isefa, yes. The elders? Absolutely not." Halsin replies indignantly. "You know they wouldn't listen to me."

There's a brief moment of silence, the depths of his injuries much clearer now they're cleaner. You sigh softly and feel the imposing elf thumb rubbing absent half-moons at your leg. "Calypsa was rather put out when you didn't show face at her nameday celebration. I wonder what she'll think when she sees what you've gotten yourself into this time?" 

Halsin groans, the weight of his head dropping back further into your hand, your nails scratching at the back of his skull as you smile. "Gods, don't even start."

"Her mother is quite determined to see the two of you together, it seems." You tease, dipping the cloth once more into the muddied red water. "Says it'd calm you down to take a good, level-headed druid by your side."

"Is that so?" You feel Halsin's large fingers squeeze at your calf, the touch burning even through your trousers. "Most of the mothers here gossip like old crones. Though I suppose matchmaking their children makes them happy, since druid's are famously noncommittal."

"Yes, well, they must keep occupied somehow." You have to focus harder on the task at hand to stop from reacting to the low rumble of his voice, cleaning the last little bit of the wound, the skin raised, raw and pink under your careful touch. "I can't really imagine you ever settling down anyway."

The elf smiles, raising his injured eyebrow as he looks up at you. "Ah? Why not?"

"You'd be a pain, for one." You swat the dirty cloth at him playfully before you drop it into the water bowl, then raising your hand to inspect the gash, blood seeping much slower now. "All the druids here are far to soft for you. You're a tad rebellious—I don't know if anyone's told you that before."

"Hmm..." Halsin's grin grows as you tease him, his chin still tilted back, head sitting heavy against your palm that continues to rest on the back of his neck. "Only a tad?"

"Maybe a little more." You smile back at him, then sigh deeply, your eyes flitting between the unwavering focus of the large druid's own and the fresh scratches carving up his face. "It's nasty. You may as well heal yourself, you know." You say softly. "I have herbal remedies, but they—"

"I want you to do it." Halsin interrupts, his palm is up around the back of your thigh now, trying to draw you closer. He's almost unblinking, his eyes clearer green than you've ever seen them. "You have to teach me your natural remedies, remember? Like you do every time."

"I don't—" You falter, "—it's not going to be enough. It'll scar. Badly." By Silvanus's hand, how much blood did he lose? What's with all this brewing tension?

"I'm not afraid of having scars. As you well know." The elf whispers and tips his head slightly to one side to show the one across his chin, but it forces your gaze to his and your breath catches, eyebrows furrowing as you try to convince yourself there's about a thousand reasons not to cross this line. He's your friend—you're friends. "I want it to scar." His voice is softer than the brush of wind over flower petals, expression sweeter than the wild honey he loves so much. "Then every time I see it, every time someone asks me of it, I'll think of you."

*~*~*

sorry y'all, this one probably isn't gonna go anywhere. i can't get the plot to plot. but I really liked this beginning so here you go!

[astarioffsimpmain]

I'm sick, I feel terrible, and I'm having Halsin thoughts.

This is self indulgent, don't look at me.

○ I want to curl up against this man's chest and purr like a cat. I feel like death warmed over so maybe, just maybe, being so close to his strong and consistent heartbeat will make me feel a little bit closer to life

○ I just know he'd play with my hair, even just absent-mindedly. Braid it, un-braid it, braid it again, run his fingers through it, pet it (I'm gonna purr again, just you wait), etc. Honestly, if Halsin playing with my hair for hours didn't put me to sleep, I don't DESERVE to sleep

○ He'd find healing herbs to reduce my symptoms and help me get through my sickness a little easier. "Here you are, my heart. Do not drink it quickly, the effects will last much longer if you sip. Good, my dove."

○ If I felt a little better one day, he'd convince me to take a walk with him in the woods because "nature can heal all ailments." But he'd feel guilty for taking me out so soon when, by nightfall, I was wheezing again, my head aching so badly I couldn't keep my eyes open. "It's alright," I'd tell him. "Nature is just taking its time with me." He would still feel responsible, but he would know I didn't blame him, and that would ease his mind

○ In the evenings, he would insist on cradling me to his chest as he slipped into trance, not wanting to delve too deep and possibly miss something I might need upon waking. I would try to tell him I'd be alright for a few hours without monitoring, but he wouldn't have it, gathering me up against his bare chest. I wouldn't complain either, curling closer to his warmth as his strong arms surrounded me and protected me

○ When the fever struck and no amount of layers could warm me, he would wildshape into a bear and wrap his furry body around me like a living heated blanket, and only then would the ice in my bones abate enough to stop shivering and rest. When he sensed that my fever had broken, and I had started sweating into his fur, he would nudge me gently with his snout until I awoke, then would transform back into an Elf to pat down my glistening skin with a cloth

○ Once I showed improvement over the course of several days, we would step outside once again. I'd be able to tell how much he'd missed being amongst the trees, and I'd feel guilty for keeping him from it. But he would see it in my eyes and admonish me tenderly. "I chose to be beside you, my heart, and I do not regret it. Nature will always be there when I return, but I may not always be lucky enough to have your beautiful eyes looking upon me. I cherish every moment that they are."

○ I would promise him quietly, later on that evening when all was quiet and still, and we were wrapped up in each other with myself on the mend, that I would always do the same for him should anything - even something as seemingly trivial as a cold - should ever befall him. He would hum against the flushed skin of my chest and pull me closer, his lips pressing his answer straight into my heart.

[tavyliasin]

In Sickness, And An Elf - Halsin Comfort Short

Written for a dear darling who is feeling unwell, a short and sweet SFW piece of Halsin x Reader to comfort someone suffering from flu (or a similar ailment)

Short below the cut~ (Yes, the title is a pun, and yes I am proud of it~) --- ---

“My heart?” Halsin’s voice was soft, quiet, his hand already pressing to your forehead. “Too warm…” He muttered, already channeling a little magic to cool his hand. He was right, too. You could feel the fever burning in your cheeks, your head spinning every time you tried to move, your throat raw from the cough that woke you every hour. “Hal-” 

“Shhh. There is no need for you to try so hard, my love. I have no intention of going far.” His hand smoothed back the stray hair that had fallen forwards, pushing it behind your ear before cupping your cheek. The kiss on your forehead felt achingly tender. “Close your eyes, wait here.” You nodded silently, earning another brief and chaste kiss to your heated skin before his presence withdrew. The sickness was dreadful, taking its toll on your whole body with the fever, the ache, the shivers that seemed to go from your skin and deep into your bones. Still…there was some comfort to know that the druid was near. Halsin’s footsteps roused you from an uneasy sleep you hadn’t even realised had crept back in, his face a blur as you blinked away to find him kneeling beside your bedroll. “Here, let me help you.” His arm slipped behind your shoulders, his other wrapping around your chest to brace your shoulders and help you sit up. More pillows had appeared behind you than were there when you lay down, providing a place to lean back a little. Your vision cleared more with a few blinks, the worry lines in his brow far clearer now. Golden eyes traced a path across your flush skin, assessing your symptoms quickly. 

“Drink this first, my heart, it will help. Even if it does taste terrible.” The mug had a smell of fresh lemon, spiced ginger, and a few bitter herbs mixed into the brew. He chuckled softly. “I am not fond of it either, but it will work.” 

Your nose wrinkled after the first sip. “I’m not sure how torture is a cure. Or is this poison to put me out of my misery faster?” “If you are good and finish it quickly, I may consider giving you a reward.” Halsin winked, a wry smile playing across his lips. “But that means no more complaining. Come, now, all of it.” The flavour did not improve, so you decided it would be better to just hold your nose and drain the lot in a few quick gulps. You fought the urge to gag, but true to his word your chest felt eased, your throat stinging yet strangely soothed by the spiced burn of the ginger. “There, that was not so bad, was it?”

“No, it was worse.” You managed a lopsided smile as you handed the mug back to him. “See? Empty. All gone.” 

“Very good, my love.” He kissed your cheek, a distraction as he reached behind him. “Just my cheek?” You huffed with mock disappointment. “I thought you promised a reward.” “I do not think raising your temperature further is wise.” Halsin dabbed the sweat from your forehead with a cool and refreshing cloth, the slight scent of mint infused in the water it had soaked in. “We can save anything like that for when you are fully recovered.” “I hope your medicine works fast.” “You’re not the only one…” His reply was so quiet you might not have heard it, especially with your ears feeling as blocked as your nose, but you could have guessed how he felt from the way he shifted his position. “Now, your reward. Open wide.” You closed your eyes, trusting him not to feed you more poison, or medicine if that’s what it was. You were pleasantly surprised by the sweetness that hit your tongue, the slick treat melting down across your tastebuds. There was a slight sting as you swallowed, but it was warm and soothing. You should have guessed this was what he meant. “Honey?” “Yes, my love?” Halsin laughed, already pouring another trickle onto the spoon for you. “A little more, it’s good for you. Then we will see if Gale is done with the soup he has been preparing for you. Karlach has been helping with the bread to go with it, though luckily Wyll is there to ensure it does not burn. Shadowheart and Lae’zel were very insistent on gathering and hunting the fresh ingredients, too. Even Astarion offered to supervise the pot so it doesn’t boil over, though truth be told he may be picking the job that allows him to put in the least effort.” 

“You’re all going to these lengths for me? Why?” You felt a few tears threatening to spill from your eyes. You hadn’t known them for long, and often you worried that you were bothering them with your questions or talking to them at camp. “Does it matter?” His thumb gently dried your eyes. “Let yourself be cared for this time. You have given enough of yourself to solve all of their problems, and no doubt you will continue to leap straight into the hells for any one of them.”

You tried to find the words to respond, to tell him that it was only the shared burden that kept them with you, but even in your mind that felt sour. They were putting in an effort, they were showing their care in their own ways. 

“As for me,” Halsin continued, pulling the blanket up to wrap closer around you before the chill of the night air could make you feel any worse, the energy slowly leaving you again as your eyes grew heavy. “Well, my heart, that is simple.” The whisper of his affection in your ear was barely audible, the depth of his feelings reaching you at the edge of your dreams as sleep won out once more. The druid pressed one last soft kiss to your head before standing to leave. “Rest well, my love. I hope you feel better soon.”

[dragonagegayz]

Reflection Ruesday

@alystrin03 tagged me to do this and YASSS I love these work in progress games and just all the little games that make their rounds in our lil community and its all so <<<333

So bust out an oldie that is just sitting collecting dust cause I was writing for my GW Skunch character but then I created Oz then Bas and well I have a fever and the only thing that can solve it is more Oz and Bas so sorry Skunch

But here is a part I was working on for a planned long-form series I probably won't ever finish or go back to but that's ok, I am called to greener, hornier pastures

But here is the work for my Rookanis piece, with my Rook that is TOTALLY not a complete and utter self insert... 👀👀👀 SFW surprisingly lmao

If there was anyone who deserved a night out, the First Talon of the Crow’s and the former leader of the Veilguard were the perfect two for one. Not that Lucanis and Rook were particularly outgoing people, they much preferred to stay inside, being in each other presence with a book in hand, or a glass of wine, a cup of coffee, or each other in hand (usually it devolved into being in each other’s arms, at least by the end of the night). So it was a little unusual when the elf had approached the Crow with a proposal to go out. “We never really go and do stuff, we couldn’t before with the whole saving the world thing,” Rook had said, the smile on his face was a tease, probably a response to the awkward smile Lucanis knew he must have been wearing. “But now we can, and I think we should if only to try it out and see if we like it or not,” That made sense and the assassin was more than willing to agree, willing to do anything to please his lover.

Now though he felt some level of regret as he searched through his clothes for an acceptable outfit he thought would woo Rook. They had separated after their late afternoon coffee where his Warden had mentioned the potential date, Lucanis had to return to some duties he needed to finish and then got home to find an outfit while the other went to go shopping, saying he didn’t have anything to wear for such an occasion. (The Crow had tried to give the Grey Warden money but he had refused, something about how a man should be able to pay for his own clothes. Lucanis still managed to slip a full coin purse into the man’s pocket as he gave a final kiss goodbye). When he had arrived home to find something, he knew Caterina’s eyes were following him throughout the manor though she had something nothing to him directly. Illario had been much more upfront.

“Eh, going somewhere fancy cousin?” He asked as he barged into the other’s room, hands on his hips as he looked around the now mess of clothes thrown all over Lucanis’ room. His cheeks burned under the scrutiny of the other Dellamorte. “Rook and I are going to the Diamond tonight,” The First Talon grumbled, throwing aside yet another jacket he found too old-fashioned, I mean who did a half-loop stitch anymore? There was a knowing chuckle from the other as he crossed his arms, a judgemental look on his face as the disgraced Crow looked around the room. “And it is going… well?” It was a tease, meant in good nature but it had only served to make the other assassin more irritated. “If you are only here for unwanted comments, you can go. I need to be there in an hour and your drivel isn’t going to help me find something suitable,” he snapped earning a fake, offended gasp from the other. “Oh cousin, I’m so hurt,” He threw a hand up to his forehead, leaning back with the other hand clutching his heart. “My fragile heart can’t take the abuse,” Lucanis just rolled his eyes, going back to the closet for another root around of something suitable for his lover and the title of First Talon, he had to keep up appearances after all. He could still feel Illario’s eyes on his back, it felt a lot like when they were teenagers growing up, screaming at his cousin to get out only to be met with just out of the door frame but still in staring distance. A look behind his shoulder confirmed as much. With a purposely overtly dramatic huff, Lucanis went to slam his door shut when the other’s foot caught it right before it could close.

“You are never going to find anything, I know your style. Let’s just say it’s less than… formal,” Another teasing smirk. Lucanis could perfectly picture Rook’s face in response, that confused head tilt and scrunched face. He tended to pull that face when his cousin was talking, much to the First Talon’s amusement. “I don’t prefer to look like a roaring peacock, no,” He snipped, throwing another jacket to the side.

[spin-birdie]

kinktober day 20: sex pollen

prompt list

word count: ~840

pairing: tav/astarion

rating: explicit

additional tags: gender neutral tav, dubcon, maybe hurt/comfort? (it's act 1, astarion is infected and hes really unhappy about it. he likes tav enough to accept their help but hes still in his Allergic To Feelings phase. this is somewhat angsty. consider yourself warned)

A flash of dim light catches Astarion's attention, and his eyes lock onto Tav's. His stomach tenses. He'd be sick with nausea and stop moving entirely, if only he could, but he knows if he pumps his cock any slower, it will just scream at him to continue.

So instead he snarls, baring his teeth at the intruder. "Get out!"

"No!" Tav scowls, ducking into the tent. "You've been going at it for, what, an hour? We can all hear you, would it kill you to--"

"Yes, actually!" Astarion snaps.

Tav lurches back, looking him over more carefully. Astarion grits his teeth and says nothing. His cock is harder than it's ever been, even though he's come who cares how many times, now. Undead or not, no elf could or should come this many times this quickly and still be this erect.

Tav at least seems to notice something is wrong. They tsk and kneel down to his level. "Look, what happened? You're clearly out of sorts."

Astarion sighs. The story is too fucking long and stupid to waste his breath on. Instead he reaches out to their tadpole, thrusting his memory of events into their mental link.

When everyone went back to camp, he stalked off into the big wide Underdark to hunt. Just when he found something that looked like it might have blood in it, a careless misstep made something explode underfoot. The next thing he knew, he was covered in thick, cloying, purple spores. He had no idea what kind of mushroom they came from, but the explosion scared away his meal, so he returned to camp hungry and bitter.

He was just going to sulk in his tent for the evening, try to ignore the roaring hunger inside him, but he was burning up. Worse than that, his cock was aching and leaking in his trousers, and his clothes were too hot and itchy, he needed to come, and he did, again and again, but the more he came the harder he got and gods, dear fucking gods, he's going to die if it doesn't stop soon, he needs--

Tav's mind lurches, and they sever the connection, physically reeling back. "Weeping hells. You need help."

"No shit," Astarion gasps, his skin prickling sharp with humiliation. His cock hurts, his wrists hurt, everything's too sensitive and he just wants to rest, but he can't stop moving, even under Tav's stupid sympathetic gaze. "Now help me or leave."

"I'm not going anywhere," Tav says softly, putting a hand on his knee. Their touch is an immediate relief, a soothing cool balm against his fevered skin. He wheezes, overwhelmed.

"Help me," he begs, and he chokes on the quiet part of himself that loathes how desperate he sounds. Of all the people who could have come to check on him, at least it's the person he's already sleeping with.

Tav puts a palm to his forehead, and he emits a stuttered, breathless moan at the relief it brings. It's not pleasure, per say, but he'll fucking take it.

"What can I do…" Tav mutters, seemingly to themself. They look over to the side, to Astarion's discarded clothes. They pick up his shirt, staining their hands with spores as they do so. (But more importantly, staining his shirt. He hopes he remembers to be pissed about it later.)

Tav lifts the shirt up to their face, and before Astarion can realise what's happening, they inhale deeply from the fabric.

"Don't breathe it in, what's wrong with you?!" Astarion hisses.

Tossing the shirt aside, Tav looks down at Astarion with conviction.

They run a hand over Astarion's stomach, gathering his come on their fingers.

"I won't let you suffer this alone," they tell him as they start to stroke his length.

It's still not comfortable by any means, but it feels so much better than his own hand, and he whimpers hysterically, squirming under their touch.

"You stupid arsehole," he grits out.

It's too much. Tav is too much. The sweet idiot just dosed themself with some horrible aphrodisiac-- for what? So they'd both be writhing, useless messes, humping each other until the entire campsite smells like sex? Why bring themself down to his level?

It can't be for his own sake, he thinks, even as he pulls Tav into a kiss so fierce their teeth clash. It can't be, because if it was - if Tav really is the sort of person who'd endure torment like this for the sake of another - it just…no. People like that don't exist. Not in Astarion's world.

If they're really that kind of person, where the fuck were they when he needed them?

Bitter thoughts distract him, but Tav's body pressing against his feels better than any medicine. They kiss him eagerly, their breath catching as the spores kick in. They need him. He's needed them for a while. So he takes.

He takes and takes, and allows Tav to distract him until he's returned to that familiar empty corner of his mind.

[devotion-disorder]

...he's just curious about human biology!!!!!!!

[fourraccoonsinacoat]

Midnight Prayer | One Shot

Pairing: Astarion x Dark Urge / Tiny bit of Enver Gortash x Dark Urge

Chapter Count: One Shot | Read on AO3 Word Count: 4,016

Summary: Takes place during the events of Baldur's Gate 3 after Gortash's coronation in Act 3. Explores the romance between Astarion and the Dark Urge after the implications of a past relationship between the Dark Urge and Enver Gortash are made known. Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Humor, Idiots in Love, Mentions of Violence, Soft Astarion, Spoilers for the Dark Urge and BG3 in general, Dark Urge as Original Female Character Rating: Mature

Author Note: Those new lines in Patch 6 between Durge and Gortash are to blame for this. Plus the fact that I adore the Astarion x Dark Urge dynamic because they're on the same level, meaning they're both barely functioning beings who no business getting into a relationship and yet they make it work. Also, Astarion gets to be the supportive one when Durge goes off the rails.

All these idiots live rent free in my head and I had this scene that just wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it out. This is a one-shot based on the same Durge MC, Eli, as my other ongoing fic - which I have not updated in some time, and I am sorry for that. Have some brainrot to make up for it! This is grade-A mushy, soft garbage.

Sleep was difficult to find as Eli lay on the stiff makeshift cot. Her glassy half-focused eyes were fixed on the patchwork ceiling of Astarion’s tent as her mind coiled around and around, like a snake trying to suffocate itself. Her thoughts were circular, aimless and chaotic as she chased the ghosts of memories that always haunted her nights.

Sleeplessness was nothing new, and Eli’s propensity for restlessness and nightmares was well known throughout camp. She had a tendency to toss and turn as rest evaded her, and when the darkness of slumber finally overtook her in the small hours of mornings it was never peaceful. She was often agitated and unsettled, mumbling low to herself until the shock of some cruel fever dream sent her into an outburst of screams as she flailed and fought to rouse herself from whatever terror had uncaged itself in her mind.

She’d wake shivering, breathing as if she were fighting for her life against legions of the Absolute rather than visions within her own mind. He was always there, though, whispering soothing reminders that they were safe. That they were together. That the horrors inside her broken mind were toothless phantoms. Remnants of a fractured past she could only catch flashes of.

She’d offered on many occasions to sleep alone, saying it made little sense for both Astarion and her to suffer because of her tortuous insomnia. He’d been firm in his refusals and finally told her that if she didn’t stop saying such ludicrous nonsense he’d figure out how to charm one of Gale’s used socks to jump down her throat every time she mentioned the idea.

Gods, was she thankful for that absurd and stubborn man.

She turned her head, eyes focusing on the pale elf who slept beside her. They’d settled into a habit of overnighting in his tent due to the plank of wood that served as a haphazard bed. Like her, Astarion’s sleep could be troubled, disturbed by his own breeds of monsters that lurked around the corners in his brain. His past was filled with grim and vicious memories. What small comforts he had been able to acquire over the past 200 years were things he clung to like life rafts upon a boiling and thrashing ocean. The stiff plank he slept on brought him a strange sort of peacefulness. He’d told her once that the only soft bed he’d been allowed to use while under Cazador’s control was the large plush bed in the palace’s guest room. The room where he and the other spawn “entertained” those who were brought back for Cazador to feast upon.

His bed in the dorms had been stiff and old, and yet he’d far preferred it to the lavish guest bed. Sleeping on something too downy and cushioned reminded him of the countless nights he’d spent being smothered into a pliable mattress by whatever piece of transient garbage he’d lured back to the palace. They’d have their way with him while he’d disassociate, his body working through the motions of sex while his mind walled itself off. It had become second nature to disconnect himself from the present the moment he slumped onto that soft bed.

It was a cruel byproduct of his torment that laying on comfortable bedding triggered a deep seeded anxiety in him, but Eli honestly didn’t mind the stiff makeshift cot Astarion had set up in his tent for them. Her body recalled sleeping on worse, even if her mind didn’t clearly remember the details. Astarion had even started laying down a thin bedroll atop the plank once their shared sleeping arrangements became a regular thing. It had been completely unprompted. One evening she’d entered his tent and it had simply been there, an unspoken acknowledgement of the validity of their relationship.

They were both uncouth morons when it came to navigating the delicacies and emotions of romantic relationships. They’d been quick to indulge in one another physically, the both of them looking to find refuge from the specters of their pasts in one another’s arms. They hadn’t meant for it to mean anything, and yet they’d kept seeking one another out - drawn together like kobolds are drawn to shiny objects. They’d tried ignoring their growing affections, but neither one of them were particularly good at pretending to be nonchalant and stable. Primarily because neither one of them really knew what that looked like.

Astarion had confessed first, admitting to his initially manipulative intentions with her and revealing truths about his enslavement to Cazador that made her heart ache for him. Eli knew, instinctively, that empathy was not an emotion she was incredibly familiar with. It made her anxious, feeling for someone else. And yet, when Astarion had said he wanted something real with her, she’d felt an almost wild desperation surge to life within herself. She wanted that, too. With him.

A cruel and vicious voice at the back of her mind had admonished her for her pathetic weakness. She should be punished, skinned alive for allowing herself to feel this kind of fondness and yearning for someone else. Once, she had been worshiped as a god by those around her. Once, she had been feared and her name whispered in awe and horror. Once, she had been something powerful, something violent and vicious, a conduit of destruction and carnage. Though the details were fractured, scattered about her ruined brain like shards of glass, she knew instinctually that she was a child of slaughter and that the bonds of mortals should have been beneath her.

But that didn’t stop her. Perhaps…perhaps she could be different. Something else. Something that was valued as more than just a weapon. Something that wasn’t just a means to an end. Something that didn’t need to butcher and rip the world inside out in order to be loved.

She’d pushed the Urge down, beating it back as she confessed her own affections for Astarion.

That had been some weeks ago, back in the Shadowlands. Now, they were just outside Baldur’s Gate, and things were…good between them. To her never-ending astonishment.

Her eyes focused on the sleeping elf next to her. He looked so peaceful, the worried lines of his face smooth and serene at rest. He was pallid, pretty and perfect like a cadaver forever tranquil. Just one stab, a stake through the heart and he’d always be like this – he’d never know torment or despair again. No one would ever hurt him.

She took a long, slow breath and banished the intrusive thoughts back to the shadows of her mind where they always lingered. She would never…she couldn’t…gods, she hated those thoughts that never let her be. They filled her with a sick guilt as she recalled nights tied up, howling and screaming and raging as she spat out all the ways she’d flay and ruin his beautiful body. Afterwards, once the Urges had quieted, Astarion would simply laugh as he cut her bonds, always joking about how you had to pay good coin for degradation like that in the city. He’d hold her until she calmed, the both of them quiet, content to just be together for one more day.

They shouldn’t work, not as a couple or as anything else, really. They were barely functional as individuals. Together, they should have been about as operational as a dumpster that was missing one wheel and was on fire. But they did work. They were careful with the broken pieces of each other, treating them with reverence and respect. They understood pain all too well, and not just the physical kind but the raw and panicked pain of having everything you valued ripped away. Of having your very self torn from your control…the pain of being used and the fear that no matter how loud you screamed or how hard you fought it would happen again.

The fear that you would never be anything more than a tool.

And so they were gentle with one another, in a way only reserved for them. Careful touches and trusting hands, concerned glances and warm smiles, constant wordless affirmations that they were at one another’s backs - that when one of them crumbled the other would be there to help build them back up, attentively and without judgement.

Neither of them knew what they were doing. Their combined histories with healthy relationships added up to an unsurprising number of zero. Astarion had admitted to her that he couldn’t remember ever bedding the same person twice. And Eli…well, she couldn’t remember anything, frankly. Her memories of past lovers were nonexistent…at least…

At least until today. Today, when they’d finally met the infamous Enver Gortash.

The name had always struck her as strange, from the first time she heard it when Karlach told Eli about the tiefling had acquired her infernal engine. The name had stirred something in her brain, like a familiar tune that she couldn’t remember the words for. And every time someone mentioned him, that sense grew stronger. It was as if there was a crack in her skull and every time she’d reach for that sense of familiarity, it would leak out and away just beyond reach.

Until today, when they stood in the opulent and grand hall of Wyrm’s Rock Fortress, surrounded by the elite of Baldur’s Gate, and she finally saw the man who had wrought so much suffering not only upon the city and the coast, but on her friends…

The flash in his eyes when they met hers…a sense of knowing, a sting of excitement. That spark of familiarity suddenly blazed hot and she knew this man was not a stranger. Not to her…

“If you keep staring, darling, I’m going to start charging you for the privilege,” a soft and slightly chiding voice lurched her back into the present.

Eli flinched, startled, blinking away the haze of her thoughts and focusing on Astarion, who now was peering at her through half-lidded and slightly weary eyes. He’d been sleeping with an arm draped across her waist – Astarion had grown fond of resting with an arm or a hand touching her, and she liked it, too. It was comforting.

He trailed his hand along her side in a calming manner, brows furrowing slightly with a hint of concern.

“Sorry,” Eli said with a slight yawn. “I was worlds away.” She gave him a small, tired smile as she reached out and brushed her fingers against the ruffles of his shirt, mindlessly beginning to fiddle with the cloth.

Astarion’s hand slid to her back, pulling her closer until her head was tucked below his chin and he could rest with his cheek against her silvery hair.

Eli could feel the soft rumble of his voice vibrate up from his chest as he chuckled quietly. “I’ve been told I have that effect on people,” he mumbled cheerily as his other hand began to gently brush through her hair, fingers carefully smoothing out any snarls as he stroked back and forth.

She hummed appreciatively, breathing deep and feeling eased by the familiar scent of rosemary and bergamot. “And who told you that?” she asked, teasingly.

“Hmm,” he pondered, running a dexterous finger along the side of her ear, causing goosebumps to prick along her arms. “I think it was you,” he mused slyly before his voice dipped lower into a growl and she felt his breath warm against her ear. “You remember, don’t you? That one night you told me I ravished you so thoroughly your soul left your body.”

He couldn’t see Eli’s exaggerated eye roll, but he could hear the grin in her voice as she responded. “I seem to remember that very same night you saying I exhausted you into delirium,” she teased, poking tenderly at his chest. “In the best way possible, of course,” Eli smirked.

Astarion sighed, the hand on her back drawing aimless circles as he murmured, “I do miss our nighttime trysts.”

Eli smiled, nuzzling into the crook of his neck and placing a light kiss there. “You know what they say. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or some such bullshit like that…”

“They sound awfully boring, whoever they are.” The vampire hummed low in his throat, kicking a leg over her waist and hooking his foot between her legs at her knees so that they were tangled together in a possessive embrace.

Eli just chuckled. They’d backed off the sexual aspects of their relationship for now, the both of them having their own flavors of hang ups that they needed to sort through. For Eli, that meant parsing through her strange, sometimes disturbing Urges which continued to insist that the lines between butchery and eroticism were blurred. Bloodplay was one thing, and that would likely remain a happy little staple in their titillating toolbox once they were ready to be that physically intimate again. But Eli had…other thoughts. Thoughts she wasn’t exactly comfortable with. Darker ones that bubbled up at extremely inopportune times and had her questioning whether she really wanted to shed light on her obscured past.

She breathed in Astarion’s scent, grounding herself in the now and pushing those musing away for another day. The desire between Eli and Astarion had not diminished, and on more than one occasion they had teetered precariously on the boundaries they’d set and wondering whether they should just say fuck it and…well…fuck. They’d always talk themselves down from the ledge, though, comfortable in the knwoeldge that when it did happen it would be earthshattering.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, love?” Astarion’s voice held a note of worry and Eli realized she’d been drifting off into the confines of her own brain again.

“Everything,” she sighed, frustrated with herself.

Astarion was silent for a moment, considering. The hand in her hair stilled while the one on her back pulled her in a bit tighter. “Is it…” he began, then paused a bit uncertainly, hesitant with his question. “Are you thinking about today? About…Gortash?”

He said the name so quietly that it would have been inaudible had they not been so closely pressed together. Eli wasn’t surprised about the question. She’d been acutely aware of how Astarion’s eyes never left her as she spoke with the newly crowned Archduke of Baldur’s Gate earlier that day. How he had discreetly positioned himself closely behind her, just off to her right. How he’d tensed, fingers ghosting near the hilt of a hidden dagger when Gortash said he’d always liked Eli. How his gaze darkened and his jaw tightened as Astarion sized the man up from across the hall before they left.

She knew this was a delicate situation for the vampire. Astarion despised showing any sort of vulnerability that could be construed as a reason for pity. Vulnerability, in general, was something he was still figuring out how to navigate after two centuries of living in an environment where anything and everything that could be used against him was twisted into a tool for subjugation and pain. Even with her, there were times when he wouldn’t let his walls come down, needing space to sort through his own internal barriers before he was ready to open up. Eli didn’t mind, and would give him all the time and space he needed. And bit by bit it became easier, for the both of them.

“That…yes,” she admitted, wanting to be truthful with him.

It wasn’t just Gortash, though. It was what he had told her, about Eli’s role in the whole Cult of the Absolute fraud. It was difficult for her to reconcile what she had apparently done with who she was now…the misery she’d set in motion. The lives she had destroyed. She shut her eyes and pressed closer to Astarion, seeking comfort in the cool of his skin against the inferno she felt inside.

He hugged her close, voicing a thought that had been gnawing away at his insides all day. “Were the two of you…close? Like us?”

The tentative, halting way in which he asked squeezed at her heart. As if he were bracing himself for something terrible, for something that would rip her away from him, just like everything else he’d ever given a damn about.

She thought for a while, mulling over the question. There was still so much that she didn’t know about who she was. Who she had been. She’d tell him what she could, though. He deserved that.

“I think we were. Close, I mean,” she clarified when she felt Astarion stiffen anxiously. “Not like us, though.”

She pulled her head back, out from under his chin, so she could see his face and meet his gaze with her own. Astarion’s eyes were round and distressed, the pinch between his brows furrowed and the lines of his face were tense. His eyes searched her own, desperately wanting to know who that man was to her while also fearing the answer.

Eli smiled warmly, bringing her hand up to brush one of his white curls behind his ear. His face softened slightly at her touch while the hand on her back clutched at her shirt as if to hold her here with him.

“There’s still so much darkness in my memory. But, there are things that have come back in flashes and fragments,” she explained, holding his gaze as her finger trailed to the edge of his eyebrow. “And while I’m not wholly sure what Gortash and I were to one another, I know it wasn’t like this.” Her hand came to rest on his cheek, thumb gently caressing his face near the corner of his mouth.

“Not like us,” she affirmed with a tenderness that allowed Astarion to relax, the stiffness easing out of him as the hint of a smile twitched at his lips. “He knew what happened to me,” she said softly, putting into words a thought that had been lingering at the back of her mind.

“He knew what happened to me, and he welcomed the person who did it into his confidence,” she said with a tinge of sadness to her voice. There was an ache of betrayal behind her words, and thought she didn’t fully understand everything her history with Gortash entailed, she understood this. “He stood by while I was unmade. While everything I was, the person he claims to care for, was brutalized and decimated.”

Eli’s words took on a cold edge, sharp as a shard of ice. Astarion listened intently, his breath caught at the back of his throat. He ached to pull her back into him, to wrap her up in his arms and shut the world out. Instead, he placed his hand on the back of her own and intertwined his fingers with hers, holding it against his cheek as Eli spoke.

“When I woke up on the nautiloid, I was nothing. Just the discarded scraps of whoever I had been. I had been thrown away. And nobody came looking for me.” She paused, her eyes flicking down in a brief moment of uncertainty.

There were some truths between them that had still gone unsaid. Truths that neither of them were ready to admit, and some that simply didn’t need words to be understood. Not this, though. This, she wanted him to hear.

“Since then, it’s been difficult not to think of myself as damaged goods. Something that was used up until it broke and was discarded.” She felt Astarion squeeze her hand and she looked back to him. There was a pang of recognition in his red eyes. “Everyone who I spoke to about my…urges, they all confirmed that there was something very wrong with me, even if they sympathized. Everyone except you.”

She paused, brushing her thumb once more against his face before she lifted her hand from him and took his own hand in hers. She pulled it to her lips, lightly kissing his knuckles while he stared at her, afraid to take his eyes off her for fear that she and this moment might evaporate if he did. He had stopped breathing, which luckily was not something he necessarily needed to do in order to maintain his existence.

Eli searched his face as Astarion waited for her to go on, breathless and just a tiny bit desperate to hear what she would say next. She wondered if he understood just how much it meant to her to have someone who didn’t see the wreck that she was when they looked at her. Someone who didn’t see a monster and only saw her, broken pieces be damned.

She thought he probably did…

“You were the only one who encouraged me to simply be whoever I was, darkness and all. I know at the time you were probably just looking to entertain yourself with whatever chaos and bloodshed I could cause,” she laughed and the expression on Astarion’s face melted into one of complete adoration.

“Guilty,” Astarion admitted with a laugh of his own. “And you haven’t disappointed,” he added softly, brushing a knuckle back up against her lips with delicate reverence.

She kissed at it, holding his tender gaze. “I don’t think you know how much that meant to me, though. And then later, when I was at my worst, you stayed by me and took care of me and you never stopped.”

Eli swallowed down the lump in her throat and blinked away the warmth that was threatening at her eyes.

“Nothing else could be like us, because no one has ever cared about me like you,” she concluded, smiling softly and whispering the words with the sincerity of a prayer.

Astarion stared at Eli for a long moment, emotions colliding and burning in his chest with so much vigor he was surprised his dead heart didn’t start beating again. He felt elated and awed by what she’d said. So much so that he was struck speechless and could only play her words over and over again in his mind, wanting to capture them perfectly and tuck them somewhere deep inside himself where no one could reach to steal them away. He couldn’t recall anyone ever saying anything to him that made him feel so cherished and significant. He traced the planes of her face with eyes that were beginning to wet as he tried to clear his throat and failed.

Eli watched Astarion carefully for a moment before her eyes widened in concern and she lifted a hand to him, carding it gently through his curled hair.

“Oh shit, did I break you?” she asked, only half joking as she stroked her hand through his hair.

The feel of it helped to calm him as a wide smile spread over his face, eyes half-lidded and looking at Eli like she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

“Come here you sweet, silly thing,” Astarion said, voice low and underpinned with a raw adoration that caused a flutter to take up in Eli’s chest.

He pulled her into a needy embrace; one hand placed softly in her hair as he tucked her head back under his chin, the other hand tightening around the small of her back to hold her close. He kissed the top of her head and breathed in slow, savoring her scent. She’d always smelled like wildflowers and the cool mist before a storm, like something exciting and freeing.

“Gods, you’re incredible,” he breathed, wondering what in the hells he had ever done in his irrelevant life to deserve her admiration. “I don’t think I’m ever going to want to let you go, my love.”

Eli wrapped her arms around him and for a moment she felt safe, secure and at peace.

“Then don’t,” she whispered against him.

They stayed wrapped up in one another until dawn, thankful to have one more day and hopeful for so many more.

[falsemilkbun]

Haven't You Heard the Word of Your Body? (ch. 1 rough draft)

I enjoy sharing process stuff and I'm still on my forty eight hour handgun purchase wait for my archive of our own account, so here's a rough draft of the first chapter of my run at applying a variation on omegaverse to elves. There's no inny-outy in this part, no one has boobs, I can put it on here...

This kept happening. They would encounter a monster, a fight would ensue, and the captain would deplete his mana stores because, as Kabru was learning through experience, he was no good at judging his own limits. He would march past the point of exhaustion. He would forget - or, worse, refuse - food and water. He was an absolute pain to put down to sleep. All these things had become Kabru’s responsibility, at least for the week it took Captain Mithrun’s team to reach them down in the depths of the dungeon.

It was getting worse, too. He grew weaker every time, and the periods during which he could be considered recovered got shorter and shorter. On that day, it had already happened twice when Kabru found himself ducking under Mithrun’s swooning body to catch him. Elves were lightweight, which was a blessing of a kind, but he was dead weight this time. His arms had lost the strength, or maybe the coordination, or even both, to grip anything. He couldn’t be slung over Kabru’s back, he had to be carried folded up against his chest like a little child. The most the Canaries’ captain could manage was to curl his body inward, pressing his pained face against Kabru’s chestplate.

This was more serious than mana exhaustion. He was sick, and Kabru had even less experience in nursing than he had in cooking.

The sweat crystalizing to his hair and the way his breath turned bright, solid white were visible signals but Kabru could feel the fever burning through the body in his arms. How long had he been sick? Was it the cold, or had he been unwell for days and never realized or said anything?

No matter. In the present moment, Kabru needed solutions to problems and not answers to questions, and the solution to their main problem would be finding a place to rest.

It didn’t take long to find one. He must have really wanted it.

Even if Mithrun had warned him not to want for too much, how could he be expected to stop? He had needs, and unlike Mithrun his mind and his heart registered them.

The shelter that the dungeon provided for them was too perfect. The rough wooden door was ajar, even, and he didn’t even have to set Mithrun down to toe it open and step inside. It as a lot like a sparse, one-room home, though the exterior consisted of little more than a shingled outcropping from the dungeon wall that shielded a pile of firewood from the ever-falling snow.

It wasn’t frigid in the shelter, but it certainly wasn’t toasty warm, either.

There was a bed, a narrow one dressed sparingly in a sheet over straw bedding, and he rolled Mithrun on to this. The elf immediately curled in on himself as if in pain, and Kabru asked his forgiveness to get water and light a lamp so that he could start treating him. 

Water was easy. The dungeon had provided it in the form of a basin on the floor that filled endlessly from the stone mouth of a spigot in the wall in the shape of a lion’s head. It was clear and cool and Kabru used it to soak the spare articles of clothes he could spare from his pack. He wasn’t thinking about fever so much as heatstroke when he did this, but he was forced by necessity to assume that the conditions were similar enough that he might as well try. He left the soaked rags draping over the edge of the basin and used a stout sprig of straw from the bed and the fire starter in his pack to light the  lamps on the walls.

Mithrun was watching him now, he discovered. His face was in full red flush and his eye was wide.

“It’s all right,” Kabru said, out of habit. He couldn’t be sure Mithrun knew or cared he was in danger. He stooped by the bed and pushed on Mithrun’s shoulder to turn him over onto his back. There was no resistance. “I have to remove some of your clothes to treat you. Is that all right?”

No response. Mithrun’s eye had closed again, and he seemed most focused on drawing and expelling breath and enduring whatever pain was subtly contorting his face. He did experience discomfort, Kabru had observed, just not any immediate motivation to resolve it.

“Captain?” He had to try again.

Nothing. No acknowledgement but a gasp that shuddered through him and dramatically raised his slight chest. Sometimes, having been raised with elves, KAbru could forget how small they were, how frail they looked. What he’d mistaken for uncharacteristic toughness on Mithrun’s part had been a lack of care for his own wellbeing, after all. Elves weren’t hardy, the danger to him was very real.

Well. If it turned out that losing his clothes was the one thing he could still care about, then he could be angry about it later.

“Whatever.” Kabru sighed. Mithrun wasn’t even opening his eye at that point. If he was going to be speaking to himself alone, there wasn’t any need for considerate speech. 

He exposed Mithrun’s throat first, then wrestled him lightly around to pull his tunic over his head. Mithrun cringed when he touched him, but there was no way to be sure if he did this as any kind of protest to the treatment. Kabru convinced himself, for the sake of having the wherewithal to continue, that he was simply dazed and uncomfortable. All he knew was someone was manhandling him and shifting him around when his body needed rest, that was all.

And even if it wasn’t…

But it was. It couldn’t be anything else. 

The expanse of Mithrun’s body left bare by the Canary armor under his tunic was scattered with pale scars. He was like Milsril, chewed up by his dedication to the Canaries’ cause. The slim lines where his skin had knitted itself back together caught the light from the lamps and turned it silvery.

That was routine enough. He was a soldier, his career was impossibly long to Kabru’s mind. It shouldn’t be distracting.

Kabru stripped the upper portion of Mithrun’s armor next, and the silver-threaded flesh of his chest swelled and rose to his palm when he slid a hand under the stiffened spider silk to lift it away. It was firm and smooth and furnace hot.

Behind the wall of his ribcage, his heartbeat was frantic.

There really was something wrong with his body, not just his attitude, like Kabru had suspected. There had to be. This was too sudden and severe for any other explanation to apply. Wracking his brain for any monstrous or magical effects that could bring on such a condition turned up nothing.

Was he simply frail after all he’d been through, pushing past his compromised stamina to achieve the only goal he had left? He looked it, flushed and breathless and half-stripped on a bed built for one person almost twice his size.

The cool air in the shelter would help, surely.

Kabru went to the basin and took two cloths back to the bed, a smaller one to drape across Mithrun’s throat and a broader one to put under his arms and across his chest. The chill must have shocked him, because his eyebrows knotted up and he made a sound like someone trying to cry out in their sleep.

“Easy, I’m helping you.” He felt like his foster mother in that moment, speaking to him before he trusted her. Patient and kind. Even if he’d never go ‘home’ to her if he could help it, he couldn’t convince himself that her love for him wasn’t genuine. Or that he was echoing her words out of sheer habit. “You’ll start to feel better soon. Just lie still and don’t stress your body any further.”

He took water from the basin in one of the tin cups in his mess kit and coaxed Mithrun into sitting up enough to drink from it without choking. Or, really, he scooped and hoisted him into such a position and let the hot frame of his body rest against him while he drank. His eye, open but just barely, was a watchful sliver reflecting the light like his scars had. He seemed just a little more lucid, and Kabru felt proud.

“Captain?”

No words, but the tarnished circle of Mithrun’s iris did glide in the direction of Kabru’s face. He could at least recognize that Kabru was speaking to him. That was a good sign.

He brought him more water and wet down the cloth for his throat again. When he returned to Mithrun’s side, he found himself pressed on by a body insistent that he hold it up with his own.

Was he one of those people who got needy when they were sick? That would be bothersome.

“Are you cold?” Kabru asked. 

Waves the color of fog rasped on steel when Mithrun shook his head. He was looking up at Kabru again, his expression open in a way Kabru might have called expectant if he believed Mithrun could expect anything from anyone.

“Lie down, then.” Kabru helped him. “I’m going to finish… dressing you for sleep, if that’s all right. Is it?”

“Yes.” The word was almost a breath, but it came without hesitation or consideration. He’d been understood, whatever faculties Mithrun had for protecting his dignity were engaged.

The rest of the armor came off, then Mithrun’s boots, and the hose he laced these over. Mithrun twisted and drew hissing breaths all through this process, but he didn’t explicitly protest.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Then stop squirming.” Kabru let the last of Mithrun’s proper clothes drop to the floor. The first thing he noticed once that was done was a dramatic splotch of wetness soaking through his underpants. On the one hand, this felt like an inevitable escalation. On the other, cleaning another grown man up like a toddler was almost too much to tolerate.

Still, Kabru couldn’t get angry if he tried. It was no one’s fault. Mithrun was unwell and couldn’t care for himself besides, and Kabru was still learning how to care for him. It was fine.

Really.

If he didn’t keep reminding himself of that, he was going to lose it before the week was out.

There was clean water, there were things that counted as wash cloths if he didn’t think too hard about it, and it would be unconscionable to not help him.  He hooked his thumbs in the sides of Mithrun’s underpants and pulled down hard, shocked but not unpleasantly when Mithrun lifted his hips to help him. If that was all, it would have been fine.

Mithrun’s head rolled back, exposing the underside of his chin, and he breathed a sigh that carried his voice. The cloth unstuck itself from him and came away with a shivering strand of viscous fluid clinging to it. 

Kabru, even under pain of torture in the West, would only ever have admitted to looking for a fraction of a second. That may not help his case, considering that elves were primarily hairless past their necklines and this left absolutely nothing up for interpretation. 

This would have marked him as a bastard for certain. No noble house would try to solicit matches for such a son, so they hardly appeared except in cases of infidelity. It was their bodies that did the soliciting, and they did it in a way that was not within their control. And they did it with men. Such a son wouldn’t be a pruned branch on the family tree, but the quality of any grafts couldn’t be assured. He would be an inconvenience, and a shame besides.

Kabru had heard - reading on the topic was scarce, for predictable reasons - several accounts of what was done with these sons. A mother in dire need might sell him. A family lacking in conscience might abandon him with another family and call it charity. If he were lovely and fair like his mother, they might put him to other purposes besides the maintenance of the lineage.

Press him into service of the Queen, good service doing good work. And if he died, well, he died as an expression of the house’s loyalty. His contribution could be controlled in this way.

“I’m sorry!” The anger that had risen up from Kabru’s chest and into his head bled through into the words and made them sound strange. He had to try again, even if Mithrun wouldn’t care. “Captain, forgive me, I didn’t realize. Forgive me, too, because I don’t know how to help you.”

Mithrun drew several deep breaths. “No, it was my mistake not telling you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I told you, I need to know things like this.”

“Sometimes, when I can’t decide what would be best to do, I imagine the person that I was before I became like this.” Mithrun patted around on the bed for the edge of the sheet and used his limited energy to pull it over the lower half of his body. This was probably more for Kabru’s benefit than his own. “I ask myself what I can imagine him doing, and I couldn’t imagine him telling you.”

“Can you imagine why not?”

“I was conceited and ashamed of this body.” Mithrun rolled over onto one side, pulling the sheet with him. “I always suspected that the love I left behind chose my brother over me because I wasn’t the kind of man who could give her children.”

As if the story needed to be any more complicated.

“Well, I know now.” Kabru moved to the head of the bed and reached down to press the backside of his hand to Mithrun’s forehead. Still hot, but not dangerously so. “How are you feeling?”

“You may not want to touch me,” Mithrun said, the words coming through a throat pinched tight.

“Why is that?”

A long pause. Was Mithrun checking in with his past self?

“I don’t want anything,” Mithrun finally said, his arms crossing tight over his chest as he curled in on himself as if evading Kabru’s hand. “But my body wants you very badly right now, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“I-” Kabru’s mouth opened and closed like a fish flapping on a riverbank until covered it with his hand to spare himself the embarrassment of having been knocked speechless.

Talk about complicated.

[bellejolras]

ride this like a wave

Isildur comes down with a mysterious illness… luckily Arondir is a talented healer and there to help. Set in ROP 2x04.

(in other words, this is an insane sex pollen fic for a ship that doesn’t exist until now. enjoy!!!!)

for @tolkienpinupcalendar kinktober 2024

Rating: E(xplicit) / No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Arondir/Isildur (so far)

WC: 3384

Other tags: PWP, sex pollen, blowjobs, dubious consent, semi-public sex, gratuitous ocean metaphors, crack treated seriously, putting the ‘fun’ in sexual dysfunction

checking off kinktober prompts (4) handjobs, (5) clothed sex, (6) aftercare, (14) begging, (24) intoxicated sex

It has been hours since they survived a near-death encounter with mud, but Isildur can still feel it dry and crusting against his skin.

No amount of scrubbing with river water seemed to be able to thoroughly clean himself or his clothes, leaving a persistent film behind. The day has truly been one unpleasant experience after another: the mud, the beast, the freezing river, and now an itching, aching discomfort.

It had been bad enough to strip in the water, freezing and bare, vulnerable to the elements and the eyes of his friends should they look his way. Estrid had left them to bathe in peace, setting up a fire and their encampment for the night nearby, but Arondir is there in the water. So stoic he seemed as he washed, the dim light shining off his strong arms and broad back, focused and impervious to the elements. Isildur had stolen a glance and, reminded of his own mannish fragility, shuddered.

Now drying off in front of the cooking fire, Isildur is starting to feel a bit odd. His heartbeat is pounding, he is short of breath, getting chills, and not just from the cold air. In fact, sitting closer to the fire seems to make it worse.

“Smells delicious,” he says, the meat of the mud creature crackling over the scrapped-together fire pit.

Estrid raises an eyebrow. “You must really be starving,” she says, unimpressed.

Arondir grunts in amusement, but keeps his eyes on the fire, prodding it with a stick. A spray of sparks shoots up and he jumps out of the way to avoid the puffing smoke. He leans over to poke the fire from a different angle and readjust the embers, a breath away from Isildur. Isildur shivers.

Unsurpassed in his elven perception, Arondir turns to look at him. “Cold?”

Isildur rubs his hands together by the fire, but the heat doesn’t seem to seep in. “Just the mud. I’m still drying,” he answers, hoping it’s the truth. He can’t stand the thought of having a fever out here in the wild, with danger lurking literally at every turn.

Arondir nods, and goes back to stoking the flames. “I feel it too,” he says. “Something weird in that pit. Nasty stuff.” With his free hand, he flicks a missed spot of dried mud off the front of his armor. It sizzles as it lands in the fire, as though still wet.

Isildur wraps his cloak tighter around himself and tries to remember how to breathe.

The meat is, as Estrid predicted, awful. Nothing worse than a mud beast steak with no seasoning. But food is food, and Isildur is grateful to have it.

It doesn’t make him feel any better, though. If anything, he feels worse. His head is pounding now, he’s beginning to sweat despite the cold, and his heart is still racing. He puts his head down to his hands, suddenly, rubbing his face and trying to take a deep breath.

When Arondir puts a hand on his shoulder, he nearly cries.

“Isildur,” he says quietly, nearly a whisper. “What is it?”

Isildur looks up at him, eyes wild, searching his face. Is it concern he reads on the elf’s face, or does he catch a glimpse of the same madness in Arondir’s eye? As quickly as the thought occurs, it’s gone. “I don’t know,” he rasps. “I need–” and suddenly breaks into a fit of coughing.

“Estrid! Can you get some water?”

The next thing Isildur knows, he’s lying on his back on the ground in their makeshift encampment, an elf gently pouring water into his mouth. There’s a blanket beneath him, protecting him from lying directly on the dirt. The enclosure is not much more than a tarp draped over sticks, but it offers some protection from the wild. And some privacy, Isildur thinks faintly. The water is cold, which is nice, but having Arondir so intimately near is oddly dizzying. Every nerve is on edge, and as the blood races through his body, heat pools in his groin. it must be an effect of the fever, but Isildur can’t recall this as a symptom before. Or maybe his mind is too foggy to think clearly. But when Arondir touches a hand to Isildur’s forehead, a moan escapes. Surely this isn’t a normal fever.

Arondir doesn’t pull away at the sound, though, but rather leans back in and brushes the damp hair off Isildur’s forehead. Isildur can feel the heat radiating off as Arondir leans in to whisper to him, something strange and foreign.

Isildur tries to focus on the words and not the feeling of Arondir’s breath hot on his cheek, but all his schooling fails him and the best he can tell is that it sounds like Quenya.

Arondir pauses, puts a hand back to Isildur’s face for a moment, and then sits back up.

“Isildur, I need you to disrobe”

Isildur’s eyes open wide and search Arondir’s face. “Disrobe?” This can’t be a good sign.

“I suspect poison, but I need to check for wounds. Rule out any injuries that could be causing this.”

Arondir helps him sit up, and shivering, Isildur pulls the still-drenched tunic off over his head. A breeze catches in the damp curls of hair on his chest, raising every follicle to a peak. He shivers, and looks up at Arondir kneeling by his side.

“Pants too”

Hesitantly, Isildur complies, undoing the waist tie and sliding the filthy material over his hips and down, past the stab wound from Estrid’s dagger only days before. He winces, hunching over, knowing Arondir can see.

But Arondir looks him over with only a glance, not appearing alarmed by the obvious injury in Isildur’s thigh.

There’s something much more prominent that catches his eye, a much more pressing matter. Not Isildur’s thigh, but rather between them.

read the rest on ao3!

[littlejuicebox]

Midwinter Carol 7 / The Interrogation

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Female Elf Sorceress OC

Word Count: 2.3K

Story navigation: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]

Summary/Setting: Based on the prologue/premise from my OneShot "A Midwinter Carol."

Astarion and the OC broke up after his ascension. She left Baldur's Gate for fifteen years, only to return just recently. Following the events of "A Midwinter Carol," Ascended Astarion has been convinced to pursue a new beginning. Will he be able to change who he has become, with the help of his ex-lover? Or will he ultimately fall victim to his pride and desire for power?

Preview:

Another surge of acid through his veins. Another healing potion. The Lord sits quietly next to Ani and watches the slow rise and fall of her breath as if in contemplation. Her fever finally broke not long ago.  Her arm is still deteriorating. Astarion leans forward and brings his bloodied, cracked hand to gently stroke her cheek along that tiny patch of vitiligo. And then he lifts two fingers to his lips, kisses them, and presses those fingers against that same spot, thinking about how he used to kiss it morning and night. 

Warnings: This will be 18+ / in game spoilers / Eventual Smut / Angst, trauma, fluff / Gore / Violence / PTSD / Astarion's past trauma

THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENCE.

A/N: And here comes AA with some absolutely unhinged behavior.

-----

At first, Astarion hires Delilah for several hours at a time. Typically, a half day, but sometimes more.

It’s always the same experience.

He pays her to morph into a likeness of Eirianwen, based on sketches from the Baldur’s Gate Gazette and his own descriptions. She never gets the vitiligo quite right, but the Ascendant, in his desperation, will take what he can get. 

In the beginning, he simply lays in bed as Delilah runs her fingers through his silver curls and hums. Sometimes he trances, sometimes he watches her without saying much at all. 

For the first time since Ani left, he experiences uninterrupted, nightmare-free sleep.

And the woman is smart enough to simply follow instructions and not pry. At least at the start..

Eventually, Astarion has Delilah make private calls to the Palace. He pays a ridiculous amount of gold for this, but it’s no matter. 

Most nights, she’s still a glorified sleep aid; other nights, he becomes more physical. But the voice and the vitiligo are wrong every time, and it takes weeks before he’s able to fully commit to the act. Even then, something feels not quite right. But it’s as close as he can get.

And then finally, several months after their peculiar agreement first began, Astarion, after far too many bottles of wine, reveals he’s a vampire to the shapeshifter.

“As in a true, blood-sucking vampire?” Delilah asks, eyebrows furrowed as she assesses the Lord. It’s a rare moment in which she’s in her own chosen form, rather than the likeness of Ani that he pays her for. 

“Something like that,” He laughs, though it comes out quite wry, “I can drink blood; I no longer need to for survival.”

“Show me,” She responds, her curiosity getting the better of her. Delilah is wholly aware she is flirting with danger, but she’s never been one to shy away from an opportunity, especially one that comes with the allure of money or power. 

Astarion stares at her for a long while, finishing off the final bits of his goblet, his thoughts entirely imperceptible. He taps his cup with his index finger as he tilts his head and watches the woman. She thinks he’s going to reject her request.

And then, surprisingly, he nods, “Very well. But you must morph, first.” 

Delilah obliges, and at first the Lord brushes her hair from her neck and moves to sink his fangs there. But he retracts at the last moment, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. 

It’s not really Ani, he reminds himself. 

After a brief pause and a sharp inhale, Astarion takes her hand and turns it, finding the pulse point on her wrist. He keeps his eyes locked onto the distorted appearance of his ex-lover as he bites into the changeling’s flesh.

And what a terrible decision that was. He’d just invited a devil onto his shoulder and a snake into his bed.

*

The constant bashing of Astarion’s fists sounds like a poorly played drum as he repeatedly swings into Edmund’s hanging body. The human is strung up by his arms in the office, dangling so that his toes barely brush the white marble floor. 

The bastard is annoyingly sturdy, and manages to stifle most of his grunts as the Ascendant continues his torment. This only angers Astarion further, and he begins to hit harder, now intentionally aiming for the man’s face every time and splattering dots of crimson around the room.

Great. He will have to call the servants into his private office to scrub the floor and walls. He might have to replace the curtains.

It’s clear that whoever turned this vampire has conditioned him quite well. It’s been an hour of repeated strikes and the human seems nowhere near his breaking point. 

Between the physical exertion of pummeling Edmund and the draining effects of his ring as Eirianwen continues to burn the poison through her system in the next room over, Astarion is beginning to tire. He is sure he must escalate his methods to rip any information from Edmund, but he refuses to give the spawn a single break in his torment.

So he barks an order at one of his own spawn standing guard not far behind him, “Thrak! Continue where I’ve left off. I have more important things to attend to than beating this disgusting vermin.” 

A final blow to Edmund’s face and then Astarion spins on his heels with a sneer, flicking his hand up to examine his cracked knuckles and bloodied nails in distaste. 

Thrak is a large half-orc with slashes running vertically down his chin. The marks are an intentional, cultural scarification, Astarion is told; his sister, Melga, has the same ones. 

Astarion focuses his eyes on Melga, where she is now watching her brother assault Edmund with mild interest. A few gestures of his hands, and the Vampire Lord communicates to the female orc that he wants to be informed if Edmund breaks. 

Melga quickly gestures her understanding. Astarion is not fluent in the sign language Thrak and Melga speak; it appears to be a mixture of Thieves Speak and something else he does not recognize. Perhaps they made it up themselves. But over the years, he has learned enough to get by and Thrak has always willingly worked as the translator. 

When the Ascendant first offered immortality to Thrak, the half-orc indicated he and his sister were a two for one deal. He would change with his sister or not at all; he hoped vampirism would restore the hearing she lost as a child. And the Ascendant, still thinking himself better than Cazador in that he did not change people against their will, agreed. 

Unfortunately, there are some conditions vampirism cannot fix.

*

Jaheira took leave to return home and check in on her wards. The druid indicated she needed to delve into her medicinal stores and confer with Halsin on the matter of Eirianwen’s affliction.

Mention of the wood elf’s name instantly caused Astarion to bristle. If Halsin had a solution, it would not be the first time the oversized elf helped Eirianwen in a way the vampire could not. The Ascendant is quite sure he loathes that man more than any of his other former campmates; he idly thinks it’s a bit of a shame it’s Edmund instead of Halsin strung up next door. 

Another surge of acid through his veins. Another healing potion. The Lord sits quietly next to Ani and watches the slow rise and fall of her breath as if in contemplation. Her fever finally broke not long ago. Her arm is still deteriorating.

Astarion leans forward and brings his bloodied, cracked hand to gently stroke her cheek along that tiny patch of vitiligo. And then he lifts two fingers to his lips, kisses them, and presses those fingers against that same spot, thinking about how he used to kiss it morning and night. 

Thrak continues to pound his massive fists into the foreign spawn next door, and now the Ascendant can hear the sounds of Edmund's resilience breaking. The pained grunts and sobs are music to his ears, and he smiles in sadistic delight at the spawn’s suffering as he simply lounges in his chair, continuing to watch the sorceress breathe. 

“We’ll figure this out, little love.” He whispers before he brings his hands together as if in prayer and analyzes the cries of agony from the next room. 

Not long now. 

*

He’s on the freezing marble floor. Cazador is straddled over him, pinning Astarion’s arms down with his knees. They’re in the spawn dormitory, in front of all his brothers and sisters. No one steps in to help him. 

In the end, it’s all about self-preservation, isn’t it? 

His master yanks at his silver curls and bends so close to Astarion’s face he can feel Cazador’s hot, disgusting breath on his skin.

“Where is it?!” The older vampire questions, pulling Astarion’s hair with vitriol and forcing a pained wail out of the spawn, “Where did you hide it?!”

“H-hide what? Master! Please, I don’t know what you’re–” 

A solid strike to Astarion’s face causes him to stop his defenses mid-sentence. 

“Petras! Leon! Bring me a barrel of water, rags, and a pillow case.” Cazador orders coolly, as his eyes briefly flicker to the elf’s siblings. The two other spawn quickly run to retrieve the requested items for their enraged Master. 

“You traitorous leech. Where is it?” Cazador asks through gritted teeth, gripping Astarion’s chin so tightly he is convinced the bones in his jaw are cracking under the force. 

He doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t know where it is. If Astarion knew, he would’ve already spilled all his secrets. It never takes this much to rip a confession out of the elf nowadays. 

He’s stunned into silence, staring wide-eyed at the older vampire, unsure what to do or say to make this interrogation stop.

Nothing. There’s nothing he can do or say. Astarion knows it and the thought fills him with dread.

Cazador growls and spits in the elf’s face before shoving a cloth in Astarion’s mouth and completely shrouding him in darkness with the pillowcase. Leon and Petras are instructed to hold the elf’s limbs as he emits gagged screams of anguish. He tries to break away from his brothers, but it’s to no avail. 

He was always one of the weaker spawn.

Astarion’s screaming is stifled by a shock of icy water filling his nose and throat as Cazador begins to waterboard him. He doesn’t need to breathe, but the sensation alone is terrifying. The silver-haired spawn continues to thrash against his siblings as their Master enacts his violent punishment. It feels like it goes on forever. The entire barrel is emptied over him before Cazador stops.

Astarion knew it was mostly for show. Cazador often made an example out of him to deter anyone else from committing the same act he was blamed for.

In the end, Astarion was thrown into the kennels for further torture. He never truly knew what it was, though he suspects he found it much later.

*

The Ascendant is straddled over Edmund as Thrak and Melga hold onto the foreign spawn’s bound limbs. Long, pale fingers grip the vermin’s jaw, prying it open with nearly enough force to rip the mandible from its joint.

“Last chance. Who is your master?” Astarion asks, tone low and coming across as far too bored for the violence that has recently ensued within this room. He’s watching Edmund with expectant, cold eyes. 

“Fuck you!” Edmund responds in a venomous hiss, glaring up at the Vampire Lord with what little expression in his face he has left after the hours of repeated blows.

“Wrong answer.” The elf sighs, and then he procures a spoon from his pocket and forces it into the spawn’s mouth.

Astarion chuckles sadistically as Edmund begins to thrash and twist against the half-orcs. The spoon is quickly wedged underneath the spawn’s gumline, and the Ascendant begins to slowly pry out the traitor’s left fang, grinning all the while. 

He could do this much faster, of course, but what’s the fun in that? The bastard deserves to suffer. 

The bastard deserves to die. And he will. Just not yet. 

First, Astarion gets to have his fun. A chance for him to make someone bleed was a rare, delectable thing nowadays. The temptation was difficult for the Ascendant to resist.

Edmund is screaming now, flailing around in agony and fighting for an out. But it isn’t going to work; three on one is never truly a fair fight. 

Especially as a starved spawn. 

“WHO. IS. YOUR. MASTER?” Astarion bellows over the tortured, terrified wails of the spawn. His curls are falling out of place, dangling in front of his narrowed scarlet eyes and obscuring parts of his vision as he continues to slowly peel fang from flesh, undeterred by the useless, pitiful crying and bucking underneath him. 

Eventually the left fang pops out with a spatter of blood across Astarion’s hand and he scoffs in disdain before cleaning his hand on Edmund’s barely recognizable, heavily swollen face. 

Disgusting vermin. 

“FUCK YOU!” Edmund screams, but his voice cracks at the end and he is no longer able to hold in the tears rolling out of two swollen sockets. 

Astarion tuts his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as if disappointed. Then he sighs a long, belabored breath as he rolls his eyes at the spawn, “You are strong, Edmund, I must admit. But what you have in brawn, you certainly lack in brains, don’t you?”

And then the Ascendant abruptly plunges the spoon into the human’s gum line just above his right fang. Edmund jerks his head at the last moment and the dull instrument slices against his mouth and tongue, still causing a laceration due to the amount of force Astarion is using on the manufactured weapon. 

Blood quickly pools in Edmund’s mouth and he spits it at the silver-haired elf in a final act of defiance. 

The switch is instantly flipped.

Astarion’s face contorts with pure, unfiltered hate. His heart starts pounding in rapid fire. Whatever modicum of control he had over his violent desires instantly slips from his hands as his grip around the spoon tightens. 

He doesn’t realize he’s wrapping his hand around the spawn’s neck and crushing it with the full force of his Ascendant power. He cannot think past his red, blinding rage as he’s stabbing into Edmund’s chest with the blunted instrument. 

He pierces through the spawn’s flesh over and over and over and over. 

When the Ascendant finally gains control of his senses, the first thing he sees is Edmund’s mangled body beneath him and his hands coated in scarlet. The first thing he hears, however, is a woman’s scream ripping through the office. 

When Astarion jerks his head toward the source, he sees Ani standing in the doorway, both hands clasped over her mouth. 

He hates what he sees.

Terror. Pure terror. 

She’s terrified of him. And she runs.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Do you have any stories of Bilbo’s time spent in Rivendell?

Ah, Bilbo. A legend in his own right, a poet, a troublemaker, and, above all, a menace with a quill.

There are countless tales I could tell of his time in Rivendell, but allow me to share a particular incident that is etched into my memory—one that solidified him as both an honored guest and a perilous literary hazard to all who dared cross his path.

It began, as most things do, with Glorfindel.

Bilbo had, on several occasions, mentioned to me that he found Glorfindel’s effortless golden-haired perfection deeply suspicious. ("No one should look that radiant all the time, my dear Lindir. It isn't natural.") He had also, in a moment of creative fervor, begun composing a most impassioned ballad about the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. It was supposed to be complimentary, I think—full of praises of his battle prowess, his golden locks, and his supposed lack of flaws.

But Bilbo, ever the mischief-maker, could not resist inserting a few embellishments.

The poem, once finished, was accidentally (purposefully) left in a place where Glorfindel could discover it.

I remember the moment Glorfindel found it. I remember the sheer confusion on his face as he read aloud the first stanza.

"Oh golden warrior, radiant divine, A beacon of battle, thy hair doth shine. Yet one must wonder, in candlelight’s gleam— Dost thou maintain such a glow in a dream?"

A harmless opening, surely. But it only escalated from there.

The poem, in painstaking detail, posed a series of increasingly absurd inquiries about Glorfindel’s glorious perfection. Did he, in fact, glow in the dark? Had he ever been caught with a hair out of place? Was his voice naturally melodic, or did he practice when no one was listening? Did he actually sleep, or did he simply close his eyes and remain ethereally beautiful?

The pièce de résistance, however, was the final stanza:

"If battle hath claimed thee, yet still thou dost shine, And beauty unmatched in legend be thine— Then tell me, oh warrior, tell me 'tis true: Is even thy sweat imbued with perfume?"

By the time Glorfindel reached that line, he was wheezing. He looked up at me, stunned, as if seeking confirmation that this was indeed reality and not some bizarre fever-dream.

Bilbo, of course, was standing just behind him, beaming.

"I must know," the hobbit said, utterly serious. "For the sake of historical accuracy, you see."

And that was the moment I, Lindir of Rivendell, had to physically restrain Glorfindel from chasing a cackling, very pleased-with-himself Bilbo Baggins through the halls of the Last Homely House.

I believe that poem is now forbidden in all official Rivendell archives.

But every once in a while, if the halls are quiet enough, you can still hear Glorfindel muttering to himself, "Sweat imbued with perfume—unbelievable."

Also, let's not forget Bilbo and his culinary crusades.

There was a particular morning—one that will forever be remembered in Rivendell’s history as The Great Hobbit Breakfast Incident.

It began with Bilbo waking far earlier than any elf would consider reasonable. You see, hobbits have a very specific relationship with food. Elves, on the other hand, are content with light meals, delicate fruit, and the occasional indulgence of lembas.

Bilbo found this horrifying.

And so, on that fateful morning, he decided that Rivendell needed to experience a "proper Hobbit breakfast."

When I stumbled into the dining hall—rubbing sleep from my eyes, expecting the usual serene morning calm—I was instead greeted by a feast the likes of which Rivendell had never seen.

Toast. So much toast. Mountains of toast. Entire fortresses of toast. Stacks upon stacks of golden-brown slices, accompanied by an alarming array of butter, jams, honey, cream, and preserves that I was fairly certain did not even exist in Rivendell until that morning.

And the elves—oh, the elves—were participating.

Glorfindel, looking entirely too cheerful for that hour, had a slice of toast in one hand and a ridiculous amount of blackberry jam smeared across the other. Erestor, usually composed and poised, was methodically buttering slice after slice with the precision of a scholar cataloging ancient manuscripts. Even Elflings, our resident chaos incarnate, were engaged in some unspoken competition to see who could pile more honey onto a single piece of bread without it collapsing.

Eredin sat wide-eyed among them, clutching a plate of at least six slices, looking both delighted and slightly overwhelmed.

And then, of course, Lord Elrond walked in.

The room fell silent. A particularly ambitious drizzle of honey dripped onto the table.

Now, Lord Elrond is not an elf who is easily surprised. He has seen wars, dragons, and the fall of kings. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the sight of half his household elbow-deep in toast.

He took in the scene with the slow, measured breath of a father who has woken to find his children attempting to recreate an entire Shire marketplace in his home.

Finally, his gaze settled on Bilbo, who—utterly unrepentant—gestured grandly to the feast before him and said, in his most magnanimous voice:

"Good morning, my lord! Would you care for a slice?"

A long, weighty silence followed.

Then, to the shock of everyone present, Elrond merely sighed, took a seat, and—with all the resigned grace of a ruler who has long accepted the absurdities of his existence—picked up a slice of toast.

Bilbo beamed.

And that, dear friends, is how Lord Elrond of Rivendell ended up politely eating jam-covered toast at the breakfast table, surrounded by a host of elves who had, for one morning, truly embraced the hobbit way of life.