#firewine
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loulouhattie · 10 months ago
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Sequel - ish to the firewine kobolds debacle.
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According to google: ‘Seriso’ is drowish for ‘lover’, and you can bet thats what Finn calls his boyfriend
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Safe to say, Astarions a bit less tolerant of Finn’s shenanigans, ESPECIALLY if his wine is a casualty to it
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csphire · 2 years ago
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Just drop Firewine barrels and give them all a wink. I'm sure they wouldn't question that.
"It's for a celebration... it will be oh-so fun. Don't drink it just yet."
i keep hoarding barrels in act 1 solely for this fight in act 2
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pupkinpumpkin · 14 days ago
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There is truly no feeling that can compare to absolutely OBLITERATING Raphael in one turn and seeing the carnage left in your wake
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(He's in the right corner of the screen right there)
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songofsoma · 2 years ago
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in case you wondered how the goblin camp went
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shevour · 2 years ago
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the gang after watching illyra dye every article of clothing she owns black : perhaps some color ? illyra : perhaps not .
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beefy-fridgers · 2 years ago
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finding out that the weight reducing effect of the chest of the mundane was in fact a bug has absolutely devastated me :(
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willpowers · 7 months ago
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mistercrowbar · 1 year ago
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Astarion just has no appreciation for the amount of prepwork Aldiirn puts in to make his sneak attacks flawless. u_u
Every time I go through the goblin camp I make it a game to see how much Astarion can do solo without aggroing the whole camp. It does mean meticulously sabotaging the war drums, which makes me SO peeved that killing Ragzlin auto-aggros the whole camp anyway. Like, I’m sure the sound of firewine and smokepowder barrels exploding is also pretty loud, but it’s different, okay???
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blubebbie · 2 years ago
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> Shadowheart: Show off new friend!
you hold up your excitable new friend to lae'zel, she seems incredibly irritated by this action! you can't imagine why!
> Karlach: Open the barn doors.
oh god. you really didn't mean to intrude… but now that you are, it is becoming increasingly more and more difficult to look away!
> Karlach: Save Astarion!
thank the hells you had this barrel of firewine on you to put him out. he'll be fixed up in no time!
==>
OH GOD HOW CAN FIREWINE BE SO FLAMMABLE
> Wyll: Calm down Karlach.
pt. 1
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renthony · 2 days ago
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I think the most fun I've had in Baldur's Gate 3 was the run where I used 27 barrels of oil, firewine, and smokepowder to completely demolish Dror Ragzlan's throne room without having to enter combat initiative at all.
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You'll drink from her barrels, indeed.
[Images are frame-by-frame screenshots of a massive fiery explosion, followed by a cropped screenshot of Dror Ragzlan's dialogue, "You'll sit at her tables. You'll drink from her barrels."]
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dhampling · 1 year ago
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the sunwalker's gift gn!reader, 3.3k
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“What is all of this in aid of, anyway?” He asks in a lazy drawl, seemingly unbothered. “The adventuring stuff. Do we have a destination yet?”
inspired by this ask where the reader finds a ring - after a lot of searching - that allows astarion to walk in the sun, and proposes with it. enjoy! wc: 3.3k cw: none. gn reader, fluff, all good stuff. no use of y/n. like one vague reference to sex. that's it. liberties taken with the idea of the sunwalker's gift.
Tardy.
“Here then, yes?”
A gentle dirt path carries to the town boundary, the marker one of dry wood and old brandish. Windows of amber; smoke rising to the stars, a biting chill settling on the ground as gateclose approaches.
You turn the map in hand to compare against the settlement before you.
“Think so.”
Astarion takes your arm in his, leaving the map hanging free in his wake. 
It takes all the will you can muster not to take his hands in yours and spin him in some sleepy glee-bound whirl in the sheer ecstasy at the thought of what you have planned - instead pulling each other something ragged down the slope in a half-step, half-cant; giddy at the thought of Firewine by a fireplace as your breath clouds the air foggy past your heads.
You’re in a position where - maybe for the first time since the Netherbrain fell - you can see the end. 
And it’s close. Ridiculously close. 
You want nothing more than to drop and do it now. Knees muddied in the dew-thickened dirt clod and breeze heavy with frost under the big pale moon - teeth chittering, looking up to him;-
Gods. You can picture it. His eyes hooplike with uncertainty, the one last drip of doubt teetering on his tongue - is this some kind of cosmic joke? - a quiet whisper under his breath, a little tilt of his head. Hair rippling in the moonlight. A moment of mutability as he reconciles all you are, all you’ve become together. That there’s a future in which sincerity is all he knows moving forward.
No.
Before morning, for sure.
-
The gate welcomes you in one last waning breath as the guards head to their watch turrets until dawn, and it takes a minute to truly come to terms with civilization once more. Your eyes flit to each of the little flickering lanterns and candles in windows; to the railings adorned with browning vines and disused terracotta pots.  
It’s been months since you and Astarion have been somewhat settled anywhere. Since the Absolute fell and you set off for adventures beyond anything you or he could ever imagine. Navigating the Underdark together, treading darkness above ground; wherever, it wasn’t of any real importance. You’d find lodging where you could, eat with whoever welcomed you; and you did it together.
Of course, your ulterior motive has managed to remain a secret. From clandestine discussions with the Society of Brilliance all the way back to the Gate; to fevered exploration in the deepest chasms of Sembia. Nights spent looking over the ferryboats on the Sea of Fallen Stars and discussing so many different futures the two of you could live. 
He is completely disarmed and unsuspecting at your side. Radiant. Hopeful. The world is changed and he wants to see every bit he passes with eyes wide open to good fortune.
“A town called Tardy? Really?” 
He sneers.
You shrug.
“It has a fun ring to it. Tardy.”
The word bounces on your tongue as you taste the mull-soak set between your teeth. 
A wordless mission to stave off the chill now has you settled fireside in the closest inn with mulled Glowfire. The clock ticks and there’s lively chatter a little behind you in the main tavern room.
“The Scoundrel's Cellar, though. Now that’s a good name.’
He takes a small sip. 
‘Why Tardy?”
You turn your head to him with a tight quirk of your upper lip.
“You’re asking me why?”
“Not really.’
Astarion looks at you and smiles.
‘It’s just… nice. To be able to talk at such leisure like this, I think.”
His cheeks are ruddied by the lashings of wind, the hint of a twinkle in his eyes as he reveres you. Hair a little unruly in the mop of curls atop his head but still unbelievably well-kempt for a man who's been on the road for months now. Lost wholly in his sheer exuberance, his joy in living despite the lack of a pulse. His chalice is close to his chest as he warms his hands.
You daren’t linger on your own appearance, thinking a silent prayer that the bathroom has a mirror. 
It’s a long moment before you reply.
“Yes! Yes. Absolutely.”
He throws you a quizzical glance but the smile doesn’t leave his face as he shifts to look down at his drink.
“I sometimes picture having a fireplace, you know. How-’
A brief pause.
‘How nice it’d be to sit by it, on an evening like this. Home.”
Astarion stretches a palm outward to the flame and closes his eyes, basking in the scalding heat. Amber shades. Pallid skin a perfect canvas.
“What would you be doing, by the fire?” You query softly as you watch the gentle flickers of his hand, outstretched.
“I- I’m not sure.”
Something resembling a coy smile creeps onto his face, overrun by a timid quiet uncharacteristic of your long-term lover. You lean over to him and take his nimble fire-warm hand in your own. A small kiss planted firmly on the hot skin.
“Go on.’
The willing smile on your face as you egg him on, chin to palm. He tilts his head coquettishly. 
‘What do you see in that beautiful head of yours? Because I can see it now - a sitting room full of tapestries and hangings; all of your design, of course. Patchwork blankets. Big comfy seats.”
“Ugh. Fine. Yes.’
Any ill-mannered jest fades almost immediately as he looks into your eyes and beams once more. He is safe here. He knows it.
‘I’m thinking big seats. Maybe-’
He brings his arms out wide.
‘Maybe this big? Possibly bigger? Somewhere to lounge, naturally.’
His hand finds yours in the low light once more, a tentative clutch as he maps out the vision in his head. 
‘Soft carpets on stone floors. Incense - none of the dull stuff though, darling; only pure patchouli - and… and lanterns with glass of all colours, so the room glows with light constantly.”
“So we’ve set the scene. Then what?”
Astarion rolls his eyes at you fondly.
“And then… I don’t know. A little cat on the cushions. Books, papers scattered on the carpet as despite the fact we have those big comfy seats; I’m not seeing myself to be inclined to move Her Majesty.”
“After the cat at the Last Light?”
“The very same. But I want a girl cat. Boy cats feel… weird to me. Cats are girls.’
He grimaces and waves his chalice-hand.
‘Anyway. Her Majesty on the lounger, me on the floor. I’m drawing up patterns early into the morning. Big, thick shutters over the windows; but it doesn’t matter because the lantern light is so vivid, and you;-’
There’s a feather-soft look to him when he does look at you.
‘Oh, you.’
You become aware of him drawing small circles with his thumb, eyes unmoving; unblinking. 
‘Always you. My love. Should you decide to join me in long-term domesticity-’
He plants a kiss on your hand as you did his. Your stomach is pure cream as you listen, nodding slowly with lids of honey.
‘Then you. Everywhere. Beside me on the carpet, laughing in that delicious way you do. Astride me in our bed -’
You smirk. He looks at you a little deviously.
‘Well, not just bed. Anywhere, really.”
“Is that what the loungers are for?”
A small grin.
“Maybe.’
You gesture for him to continue with a knowing grin.
‘Anyway. Yes. The future. Us. A townhouse somewhere in the Gate.” He sips slowly while pondering.
“What about younglings? You were fond of Yenna.”
The wine erupts down his pale chin in shock, eyes like saucers.
“I’m sorry?”
“Children.” You repeat, holding his gaze with firm affection. 
He moves to laugh but there’s a wavering indecision in the way his brows crease.
“Is that even possible?”
“I don’t know. But if it is?”
He stops to think for a moment when the call for Grand High Lord Supreme General Admiral Ancunín - his favoured travelling name - comes from the frazzled barmaid at the front of house to signal your rooms are ready, and all discussion overruled by the fact you’re both bone-weary beyond belief.
As your hand moves to your pocket, you feel it.
Sequestered away in the little velvet box you bought from the Night Market months ago and kept for this. 
Later.
-
Hours on and you’re settled. A small room with an adjoining washroom - modest, but surprisingly comfortable; and just as you’d hoped, there’s a balcony. 
Astarion lounges on the bed with a large leatherbound book, looking fondly at you from time to time as you busy yourself with your recent findings, taking inventory and stashing bits away in their respectively labelled bags of holding.
“What is all of this in aid of, anyway?” He asks in a lazy drawl, seemingly unbothered.
“What?”
“This. The adventuring stuff. Do we have a destination yet?”
“No, not in particular.’ You turn to look at him over your shoulder.
‘Why? You’ve not been bothered before?”
“And I’m not now. But I am curious.’
He grins devilishly on the bed and flips the book closed, placing it next to him and sitting straight - legs crossed. 
‘What’s the plan, lover?”
“Who says there’s a plan?���
He’s got you right where he wants you. 
You feel yourself becoming giddy again - heart wholly aflutter. You’re aware that he’s attuned to the regular pitter-patter between your ribs and despite the conscious attempt to regulate yourself back to calm; you almost want him to find you out this way. 
“Nothing. I’m just wondering where we’re - well, wandering. It’s beginning to feel a little aimless”
There’s a moment of silence, prolonged as you fiddle further with your trinkets.
“I-’
You reach for the box in your pocket and run a thumb over it reactively.
‘I’ll tell you later. I promise.”
He looks at you with a curious furrow, trying to eke out a little more information in the quiet din but you’re wise to it at this point in your relationship. You simply yield into his glance with a pleading smile. 
“Okay. Okay. I’ll leave it with you. But I do expect answers!”
You heave a sigh of relief. He’s definitely picked up on it.
Once all of your spoils are packed away you take a trip downstairs to purchase more wine and request a bath to be drawn - after all, you’ve been on the road with rivers as your only source of cleanliness for gods know how long.
There are nerves. Of course there are nerves, small pins prickling from within and setting you ablaze with each new thought of him beside you for life, threads weaving a rich tableau life together. Lilting violins and piano sonatas. Finery for days. Some small townhouse, just as he’d described it downstairs. 
But you found the thing you’d set out to find on your adventures. Where you head next is entirely up to the both of you.
Provided he says yes, that is.
You imagine the worst possible rejection he could give you - “No, darling. Let’s keep things as they are for now.” - and yet the thought of him calling you darling in that syrupy murmur is rousing enough to keep you afloat. 
The bath is tepid, door open whilst Astarion watches from the bed between pages.
“More wine, love?”
“Please.”
Calm. Rain on the thatch roof. 
He perches on the side of the washtub, one leg crossed over the other as he passes you a glass full of red. Hums absent-mindedly as he swirls the perfumed waters with a dainty hand. 
Your mind drifts to the ring. How beautiful it’ll look in place.
He looks at you with that curious glint in his eye, and you roll your head to the back of the tub in an attempt at meek avoidance.
“Pretty.” He quips. 
You laugh quietly.
“Hm?”
“You. Pretty. Hair all mussed like a siren. A vision.”
He lifts your wrist from the water and kisses the back of your hand a few times over, while you squirm in jest. He only retaliates by kissing you harder with a fiendish giggle. 
“You’re one to talk.”
The lantern by the mirror lights the tips of his curls from behind. Angelic.
“Yes, I am beautiful. So are you. My darling.”
It must be late now. Maybe late enough.
As you lift from the water - assisted by your lover’s hand - and enrobe once more, you feel it.
Now.
-
Astarion begins his usual routine of light-proofing the room and blocking the shutters as the threat of sunrise looms on the horizon.
Well. Light.
The rain doesn’t show any sign of ceasing.
Nonetheless, you feel ready. A habit you can’t wait for him to break, checking the shutters for cracks.
“C’mere.” 
He turns to you and looks you over.
“Hm?”
“Come here! Please! I’ve got something for you and it simply can’t wait any longer.”
The box is light in hand, soft. You’ve checked it multiple times for the ring and all is in place.
The way he steps to you is cautious. Catlike.
“Is this the thing? Is it finally time?’
You pull him in next to you on the edge of the bed, taking both hands in yours.
‘I can see that little box. Hopefully a trinket worth the hours of agony I’ve endured waiting for you to reveal your secrets.” He grins, pulling you in for a gentle kiss.
You don’t say anything, freeing one hand to take the box.
“This is-’
A sharp inhale.
‘This is it. Wherever we go from here, it’s mutually agreed. All of it. But this is what I’ve been looking for, hence my leadership skills taking forefront again.”
“Don’t tell me. It’s a Bracing Band!’
You shove him gently and he giggles, reinforcing his clutch on your hand. 
‘Okay, okay. I’m done. Show me.”
He waggles his fingers around your palm and grins expectantly. Gods. You rip the bandage off and open the box to him.
He’s seen a picture of it before - it’s in one of his books, that’s where you got the initial idea - but you know he hasn’t read it or he’d onto you weeks ago.
And he doesn’t recognise it. 
“I- What is this?”
A gentle whisper as his eyes run over the golden rays cast with aged enamel. 
“A ring.’
Astarion’s death glare takes a new form, this time wholly inhibited by the uncertainty in his frozen hunch.
You stand and spin to a kneel on the floor in front of him.
‘A special ring. Really, really special; in fact.’
Plucking it from the velvet, you hover the band over his fingertip.
‘Firstly though. Marry me?”
You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so completely and utterly shocked. 
Mouth firmly agape as red round eyes attempt to scan yours for any sign of deceit, jowls trembling a little in the yellow lantern glow. A small gulp as his lips meet once more.
“You picked an inn called The Scoundrel's Cellar, in a town called Tardy, in the middle of a thunderstorm; to propose marriage to me?”
“Had to be here, had to be now. Couldn’t wait any longer. You’ll understand in a minute, I promise.’
You rise a little to cup his jaw in hand, sinking into a chaste kiss. 
‘Astarion Ancunín, will you marry me?”
“Gods!’
There’s a brief tremor as his lips wobble, then a practised breath as he speaks. One hand reaches for your flushed cheek to mirror the gesture. 
‘Of course I will, you brute. Maybe you could’ve done with a better choice in ring, of course; but I can learn to love it, I’m sur-”
“You are beyond insufferable, Astarion. Kiss me right now.”
The immediately resulting kiss is brimming with yearning. A cup full to spilling as he takes the ring in your hand whilst you put it on him. 
He hunches all the way over to meet you on raised knees, grabbing at body-warmed bedclothes for one another; tenderly, in peals of quiet laughter between breaths and silent shouts.
“Wait. I’m not done.’
He’s giddy now, too. Knee bouncing. 
‘There’s a reason it had to be that ring.”
“It’s hideous, pet. Give me a reason to love it.”
You spin to your feet and to the furthest shutters, opening them a slight as he watches on in guarded curiosity with the biggest smile lingering on his face. 
The first hint of light. 
“C’mere.”
“You’re bossing me around an awful lot today, my darling betrothed.”
The weight of the moment is colossal, ocean deep. Despite his sheer joy he won’t come willingly. The burns from the dock the day the Absolute fell were molten for weeks and you still both have night terrors ringing loud with the sound of his agonising yells. 
A gentle hand extends to him. 
“The Sunwalker’s Gift.”
Then it clicks. Slowly. The final puzzle piece.
“No. Surely.”
“Yes.”
“It can’t be.”
“It had to be.”
“What if it isn’t?”
“Then we have a wedding to plan in the Underdark. But I wouldn’t traipse across the realms on just an inkling, you know.”
“I know you wouldn’t.”
“Well then.’
Your hand waits expectantly, fingers mimicking his waggle.
‘Just a finger. Please.”
He sits on the bed, spinning the ring mindlessly; before he looks at you with a resolute nod.
“I’ve trusted you with far worse, all things considered.”
Astarion approaches slowly and meets your hand, interlinking your ring fingers together and waiting for your word as you position yourself within the light.
“On three?”
Three arrives and nothing happens.
Hands raised, fingers lit in a single low beam of early light. Frozen.
“Astarion? All good?”
He moves your hands wholly into the light. Nothing. Twists the tangled fingers as if examining for damage. Rain careens into the window.
“I- Yes. Yes. All good.”
Dumbfounded.
You erupt into a bubbling grin, pulling him to the balcony doors and planting another soft kiss onto bewildered lips. Looking to the worn bronze handles with a brief head tilt.
A simple, overwhelmed nod. Brows knitted together in a milky daze, mouth slack. He looks like he’s going to collapse. 
The doors edge open and you cautiously step to lead him by arm.
Nothing. Not a single sizzle, no cinders. Forearm, arm, body; head.
No tug on your hand as he races back indoors. No wretched cries of pain nor gasps of hurt.
It’s a few seconds before he speaks. The sun now burns bright enough to see the streets below with razor clarity.
“The rain. My- my hair-’
Barely above a whisper.
‘Looks perfect. As it always does.’
Your eyes don’t leave him. Not once. He’s completely floored, gazing into the middle distance mindlessly. 
‘Love, sit.”
You gently tug an iron-wrought balconette chair over to him and help him to find purchase atop it amongst his overwhelm.
“I- I love you. Thank you.”
“Anything. Anything for you.”
He shakes from his haze once wet through, lightning on the horizon awakening the Astarion you recognise best. Closes his eyes with a soft smile.
“You’re going to catch your death out here, you know.”
His grip on your hand is vicelike, clutching it to his chest with zealous reverence.
“Then we’ll have to have a hot bath later. Right now though, I think a celebration is in order.”
You free yourself from his grasp for two moments, barreling back inside for the last of the wine and the large bedsheet. You place both chalices on the iron table and sit beside Astarion outside in fits of laughter whilst wrapping the sheet over both of your heads. He snatches your hand back and kisses it for an age. Devoted.
“To Tardy?”
He lifts his chalice in his free hand, and you do the same in yours.
“Tardy!”
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lsproutq · 1 month ago
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(Hi I really like your Firewine headcanons and now I'm dropping this firewind art I did pf Blue Slushy recognizing Windy's bird traits and asking him about it k bye-)
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OMG HI I LOVE YOUR FIREWIND HEADCANONS TOO (they were the reasons why I started hc fire spirit as a dragon)
I can totally see Blue Slushy being all over Wind Archer’s business, immediately recognizing that he was courting someone and being genuinely curious because she had never seen Wind Archer liking someone before. She will be asking about the nests and just teasing him “oh no, this nest you made was burnt! Who could do such a thing?” because of course she would be able to figure it out easily, while Windy is just dying from embarrassment while also trying to teach her a new bow technique. (I love them so much)
Also I love your art, just wanted to say that, thanks for gracing my eyes k bye 😘
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and-claudia · 1 month ago
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Bound by Winter (Spencer Agnew x fem! Reader) Prologue
Warnings: angst, arranged marriage
A/n: check out some of the easter eggs I have left in the story and comment if you find them (even the obvious ones like the characters)
Taglist Sign Up (Read Carefully)
Bound by Winter Masterlist
header made by yours truly
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The parchment trembled in my hands, though I’d like to think it was the wind coming off the bay that made it shake. The seal was unmistakable—black wax, pressed with the crescent-winged owl of House Agnew. Cold just to look at. My name was written below it, spelled perfectly. Like they’d known it all along.
My feet carried me without much input from my brain, and I found Father in the observatory. He was staring out at the sea as if it might answer him. It never did. That was my place. 
“You knew,” I said. “Didn’t you?” Although my voice was quiet, it cut through the air like a knife. 
He didn’t turn around. Just nodded, slowly. His hair looked more silver than gold in the firelight.
“There’s war coming, daughter,” he said, voice low. “And it won’t be fought with swords alone.”
The words hung between us like a noose. War. The kind that cracked kingdoms open and left bastards like me to be swept into its bloody tide.
“So, I’m to be married,” I said, letting the taste of it sour on my tongue. “To Spencer Agnew. Of Caerwatch.” 
At that, my Father finally turned. His eyes were red-rimmed, not from crying—I’d never seen Rhett McLaughlin weep—but from sleeplessness, from drinking too much of the smoked plum wine he saved for council nights.
“Virelia is splitting,” he said. “The East is sharpening its axes. The throne is weaker than it admits. We need the North. And the North won’t move without a binding reason.”
“So you’re offering me like a damned mare,” I snapped. “For peace.”
“For your people,” he corrected, harsher than I expected. “For Seastar Hold. For your name.”
My name. The one he gave me. The one I had held so dear to my heart, knowing he gave it to me when he could have easily left me in the brothel to be raised along with the other bastards. But no. He chose to take me in. To give me the honor of bearing his name. And now, I’d have to give that up.
I looked past him, out to the horizon. The clouds were purple—sunset bruised. In a week’s time, the torches would be lit, the courtyard filled with laughter and smoke and shouting. It would be time for our annual Fall Feast. The one he and Uncle Link threw every year with their strange fire-breathers and spiced meads and indecent songs. They called it a tradition—Mythical Evening.
I’d never missed one in all my life.
“Will I be here for the Feast at least?” I asked, already knowing and dreading the answer.
He didn’t answer right away.
“The marriage is set for the fortnight,” he said. “They ride to claim you in three days.”
So no. I would not be here for the Feast. I would not drink the amber firewine. I would not sit beside my Uncle Link while he made rhymes too filthy for a lady’s ears. I would not laugh until my ribs hurt, or dance with barefoot servants in the kitchen after midnight.
I would be on the road. Bound for frost. For a stranger. For a husband.
For a war.
“So, I am to go alone then as well?” I asked. 
Silence once again. 
“I’ve never even been to the north. All I’ve ever known is Seastar Hold and Brightmere Keep. I’ve never left the Mythic Reach… And now I am to go out alone?” I said, panicked at what the future may hold. 
“You won’t be alone, Lord Agnew has assured that he has sent his best men to bring you back with them to Caerwatch Keep. You will be well protected, I made sure of it.” My father said, in an attempt to soothe my worries. 
“His best men? When war is looming over us all? I doubt that. And what, my betrothed didn’t have the decency to accompany them to steal his bride away from her home?” 
“Yn,” My father sighed, clearly exasperated, “They are not stealing you away from your home.” 
“It feels like they are…” I said sadly. 
“I’ll send the handmaidens to your chambers to help you pack… I hope to see you at dinner. Your Uncle is riding here as fast as he can to see you before you leave.” My father said, dismissing me without actually doing so. 
I left the observatory with tears stinging behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall in public. I saved those for my pillow late at night. When I got to my room, I found my most trusted handmaiden, Emily, there. 
“What’s wrong?” She asked upon seeing me. 
I said nothing, just handed her the parchment I had been handed earlier by Maester Chase. 
“Are you fucking serious?” She asked, never one to be afraid to use colorful language in the presence of her lady. 
“Yup. Spencer fucking Agnew… his reputation is horrible. I’ve heard he’s not even the true heir to Caerwatch.” I said, opening my wardrobe and browsing which dresses I should take, not that any of them were remotely close to being able to keep me warm so far north. 
“Yn, do I need to point out the obvious here?” Emily asked. 
I went to speak but realized she was right, I was being a hypocrite, being a bastard myself, “That’s not what I meant… I mean, you’ve heard the rumors. Some say he was raised by crows and ghosts, that’s why he’s so different.” 
“Yn, they’re an old house, they have lore like that in all the old houses. Though his reputation in court is… lacking.” Emily said, preparing my trunk for me. 
“I know. Did you hear about how apparently the Crown once tried to summon Spencer to the capital, and he declined? Who does that? I mean, short of lying on your deathbed, I don't believe you refuse the crown without consequences, and yet he did. He acts as if he’s above politics. And yet he’s knowledgeable in them. I can only assume he is also knowledgeable in a battle, a house doesn’t live this long without passing on past battle wisdom.” I said. 
“I did hear that. I also heard that he has the eyes of a hawk, but the motivation of a house cat. He sees everything but doesn’t care enough to do anything about much. And when he does do something, it's usually a battle of wits that he never seems to lose.” Emily said. 
“That’s honestly what worries me. I don’t expect him to love me, but at very least I would like for us to grow to care for each other… but how could I expect someone who yawns at the thought of being challenged to a duel? He doesn’t care about anything.” 
“Well,” Emily began as she folded the few dresses I had laid out, “it could be worse; he could be known for his temper.” 
“Is that worse? His sarcasm alone is just as dangerous as wrath, honestly. I’ve heard he says just enough to start fires, but then walks away before they catch. In some ways, that’s far more dangerous who brings the fire already raging in his wake.” I said. 
However, before Emily could say anything, there was a knock on the door. 
“Who is it?” I called out. 
“It’s just me, here to see my favorite niece!” I heard my uncle call through the door. 
I smiled as I stood and rushed to the door, thankful for the brief distraction. 
“I’m your only niece, Uncle Link.” I said with a laugh as he wrapped me in a hug. 
“I brought something for you. I’ll have it brought up to your chambers during dinner.” He said, offering me his arm to escort me to dinner. Since it was just my uncle visiting, there was no need to use the grand hall for the dinner, so we’d be dining in the smaller dining room. 
“Emily, go ahead and eat dinner yourself. Meet me back here when you’re done.” I dismissed her before leaving with my uncle. 
“So, what did you get me?” I asked curiously. 
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He teased, “Well, before I tell you, please don’t be cross with your father or me… I have known about your marriage arrangement for as long as he has.” 
He paused to gauge my reaction, but I kept my face neutral as I nodded for him to continue. 
“I was not sure when it would be, but I knew it would be soon. So I had your favorite dress maker in Brightmere make something for you. It was hard to get her hands on just the right fabric, but she’s made you a beautiful wedding gown. I asked her to keep some semblance of home in it, the bottom is embroidered with your father’s sigil as well as your future husband's.” He explained. 
“It’s an odd mix. Ocean waves and snow owls.” I commented. 
Link nodded, “Yes, but sometimes the oddest pairing makes for the most beautiful in due time.” 
I sighed, “Did my father ask you to say that?” 
My father and I tended to butt heads. I’ve always been told that although I am the spitting image of my late mother, I had inherited my father’s temper, and perhaps even then some. The two of us cared for and loved one another fiercely, but when the two of us disagreed, gods help those caught in the crossfire. My uncle and I, however, were the complete opposite. He was softer than my father, more sensitive. He was the one to articulate what my father was feeling when he was too stubborn and coarse to say. 
He shook his head, though. 
“No, I truly believe it. You know, your aunt and I didn’t know each other until a week before we were wed. Would you believe that by looking at us now, all these years later?” He asked. 
I shook my head, “No, you look at her like she hung the moon and stars just for you… But you two came from the same place. You’re both from the west… Spencer and I couldn’t be more opposites. I'm from the western shores of Virelia, where the sun shines for nine months out of the year and even in the colder months you’d be hard prest to call it cold. Even now, with autumn beginning, the heat still flows through the halls. I was raised in the sun and salt. Spencer is from the northernmost part of Virelia. It snows more than it doesn’t up there. I doubt they go a day without wearing fur-lined cloaks. He was raised in shadows and ice… I don’t see how the two of us will get along…” 
“Just give it time.” He said gently just as we arrived in the small dining hall where my father was already sat waiting for us. 
I took my usual seat beside where he sat at the head of the table, and my uncle sat across from me. 
“I had the kitchens make your favorite.” My father said once we were settled. 
“Thank you.” 
I noticed the air was stiff, and not just from the lingering heat of the day. This wasn’t going to be one of the dinners where I got to smile and laugh at stories my father and uncle told of their times before children. No, this dinner was much more solemn. 
“We need to discuss your marriage a bit more.” My father began, “You understand what a queen's purpose to her king is, right?” 
“Yes… But-” 
“What is it?” He cut me off. 
“To provide him with children. Specifically, male children to be his heirs.” I said. 
He nodded slowly.
“House Agnew is not like us. They’re an old house- a respected house, especially by their people. You remember your history lessons of the major house of Virelia -how House Agnew was once a kingdom itself?” 
“Yes, it was before the Crownfire War, before the Shattering of the Watch. I believe one of the books says, ‘They broke the Owl's Eye, and the North wept.’ Now only Caerwatch remains.” I said, remembering the history books my father would read to me as a child. 
“That’s right. Although they are not on their throne any longer, their people still view the Lord and Lady Angew as a king and his queen. So, when you marry Spencer, once he becomes the Lord of Caerwatch, you will become his queen.” My father explained. 
“Oh, I’m sure the people of Frostspire will love to see a southern bastard as the Lady Queen Agnew,” I said sarcastically as I reached for the flagon of wine between the three of us. 
My father sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as I poured my wine, admittedly more than what would be deemed proper for a lady at dinner. 
“They may not love you, but they will respect you.” My father said. 
I sighed, taking a sip of the deep red liquid. 
“Fine. But why do you bring up heirs? I mean, I knew that would be part of getting married, I didn’t think you would have to point that out to me.” I said. 
“Well, because I have no male heirs. I had planned to name you as my heir, allow you to have some say in who you married, but the threat of war has forced me to change those plans… I am too old to be marrying and trying for a male heir, so I am temporarily going to name your cousin, Charles, as my heir… that is, until you have two sons. The first would obviously be named Spencer’s heir, then the second I would name as mine. If something were to happen to me, Charles would be acting Lord of Seastar Hold until your second son came of age.” My father explained. 
“Oh. So, now you really are selling me off like a brood mare.” I snipped. 
“Damn it, Yn! Please don’t make this any harder than it needs to be. Do you think I want to send you off? Do you think I am reveling in the fact that my baby girl, the last memory I have of the woman I loved and was too afraid to wed, is locked away in the north? Do you really think I am happy about this arrangement?” He finally snapped, and I swear this is the closest I had ever seen my father to crying. 
“You’re father is right, Yn. No one is particularly happy with this arrangement. That’s no secret. However, having an open mind about it may help you see the good it could bring. And… if nothing else comes of it, and you can’t bring yourself to love him and he can’t do the same for you, then do your duty as his queen and pour your love into the children he gives you.” My uncle said gently. 
I nodded, knowing he was right. The rest of dinner continued quietly. Once he was finished, my father excused himself from the table and disappeared. 
“Your father loves you, you know that, right?” 
“Yes, of course I do.” “I wasn’t supposed to share this with you, but another reason he sending you to marry Spencer is for your protection. Our houses are new, our names are not ancient like others in the realm. We have a target on our backs. Especially your father, who aided so much in the last war. There is talk that the first attack will be here, on Seastar Hold. If you stayed here, you’re life would be at risk. Your father also doesn’t have the men. Don’t get me wrong, the fishing villages along the coast are fiercely loyal to him, but they’re not real fighters. Next to the royal guard, House Agnew has the largest army, nearly 15 to one of the next largest. Your father needed this arrangement to protect you and Seastar Hold. I know it’s not ideal, and I know it’s hard to see it this way, but he did it for you.” My uncle explained gently. 
“I guess I never considered something like that… I’ll try to go into it open-minded, but you’ve heard the rumors about Spencer Agnew… he’s a silver-tongued lord to be with, seemingly always better things to do. I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t sound like someone particularly marriage material.” I said, slouching back in my chair in such a way that if she’d been present, Septa Stevie surely would’ve scolded me. 
“I know someone else who’s quite silver-tongued themselves.” My uncle said, sipping his own glass of wine. 
I smirked at his comment.
“And as for the rumors,” He said, leaning forward, setting his goblet down, “They’re rumors. Court gossip. You won’t know what he is truly like until you meet him.” 
I nodded, “You’re right.” I conceded. 
“I often am.” He said, leaning back, arms crossed clearly proud of himself for getting through to me. 
I shook my head in amusement before excusing myself and heading back to my chambers. Just as he had said, the wedding dress was hanging in my room. I was utterly speechless when I saw it. It was the perfect shade of deep, storm-silver silk, like the color of thunderclouds gathering at sea. The bodice had the softest dove-gray velvet that I recognized as Brightmere velvet that had been used on previous dresses my uncle had made for me. The velvet was stitched in a subtle wave pattern, making me smile to myself. The neckline was off the shoulder and trimmed in a delicate lace. I could tell there was a train on the dress as well, not anything crazy, but definitely one that would drag slightly behind me. The bottom of the dress was absolutely beautiful. My uncle had already told me about the embroidery, but I was blown away seeing it in person. The two sigils of my father and future husband were woven together in a looping, mirrored design: wave and wing, sun and moon, stitched in an endless knot. Where the wave crests, the owl takes flight. Where the moon wanes, the sun rises. 
“Do you like it?” 
My uncle’s voice caught me off guard as I spun around to see him and my father standing in the corridor outside my door. 
“It’s stunning… I- I don’t know what to say.” I said, truly at a loss for words. 
“Why don’t you try it on so we can have one of the tailors here make any alterations needed?” My father said, standing with his hands behind his back. I nodded, “Give me just a moment.” I stepped forward after Emily, who had been standing off to the side, entered my room and pushed the door closed. 
“Yn, this thing is gorgeous. If Spencer doesn’t fall for you once he sees you in this, Seven Hells, if he doesn’t, I just might.” She said, helping me out of the dress I was currently wearing. 
I laughed at her words. She carefully took the dress off the hanger and helped me into it. It was a lot warmer than I was expecting it to be. It was definitely a style I wasn’t used to. I was more accustomed to sleeveless, light, flowy dresses, which were a stark contrast to the long-sleeved, thicker, more structured dress I was now wearing. Once she finished, I did a once-over of myself in the mirror before nodding for her to let my uncle and father in. 
“So?” I asked. 
“It looks perfect.” My uncle said, and my father nodded. 
I looked at him and waited for him to say something, anything. Nothing. 
“Did you see the bottom? It has our sigil on it.” I said, kicking my foot forward to show the detail better. 
Once again, he nodded. 
Then, after a few beats of silence, he spoke, voice cracking as he clearly fought back tears. 
“You look beautiful, Yn.” 
Link caught Emily’s attention and nodded to the door before turning to leave with her following behind, pulling the door behind her. 
“I um… I have something for you.” He said, finally bringing his hands from behind his back. 
In his hands was a clearly handmade twined circlet of pearl and sea-glass. The pearls and class were all white, save for one pearl, in the front that was the most beautiful seafoam green I had ever seen. Having grown up playing in the tidepools on the shore, I was no stranger to pearls. I knew one of that color and size was rare to find. In fact, it was the second one I had ever seen, the first being set in a ring on my father's finger. 
“It’s a McLaughlin tradition to make their daughters a headpiece for their wedding… I know it’s not fancy, but I did my best-” 
“It’s perfect. I love it. Will help put it on to see it with the dress?” I asked, cutting him off. 
“Of course.” He said, lifting it up and carefully fixing it on my head. 
It sat perfectly, the seafoam colored pearl was on beautiful display in front.
“Thank you.” I said, catching his eye in the mirror, “Where did you get the green one? They’re so rare.” 
“When I found this one,” He held up his hand showing the matching one in his ring, “It actually continued two green ones. One larger one, one smaller.” 
I noticed then that the one on his ring was actually bigger than the one that sat upon my head now. 
“I kept the smaller one for this reason. I wanted you to wear it on your wedding day. Though I had always envisioned you getting married here. It still will keep us connected.” 
At that, I turned away from the mirror and threw my arms around him tightly. He didn’t hesitate to hug me back just as tightly. We stayed in our embrace for a few moments before he lessened his grip and placed a kiss on the top of my head. 
“I’ll go get Emily so she can help you out of this. I’ll have a special crate and jewelry box to transport them in before you leave.” He said, pulling away completely. 
“Thank you, I love you, Father.” 
“I love you, too, dear.” He said before walking out. 
As Emily came back in, I began to think that maybe this arrangement might not be so horrible. Just maybe. 
Taglist: @fan-g0rl
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cheerysmores · 4 months ago
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Another stolen moment
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Pairing: F!Tav (Dalia) x Gale
Rating: E (18+)
Word count: 2.6K
Contents: Face sitting + Soft Dom Gale.
AO3 link
A birthday gift for the amazing @magspeaches! Inspired by her Bard Dalia and THIS soul-meltingly hot art.
If there was one thing Gale Dekarios had learned, it was the preciousness of time. The calm between battles, those minutes of dawn when the world stayed sleeping, every second the parasite was still– each were a gift in their own strange way. He’d spent a year staring at the hands of his own proverbial clock and slowly becoming one with the other dusty mementos cluttering his tower. Back when death was the only certainty and the orb bit back at any glimmer of hope.  
Before the Nautiloid. Before her.
Dalia’s lips met his neck and her hands swept across his bare chest. He wove his fingers into her dark hair, watching as she skimmed a familiar path– his collarbones, his ribs, the skin below his navel. They were weak points he never knew he had, so of course she’d immediately found them and touched him to the point of madness at every opportunity she could. It was a bard’s tease, deadly and addictive as firewine. 
Their seemingly unending fight against the Absolute never afforded much time to indulge. Usually it was fleeting moments, hurried caresses under clothes or kisses stolen in the warmth of his tent. Today was a rarity. In a small private bedroom in the Elfsong tavern, they finally had the gift of hours. Hours he planned to use to his full advantage. 
Late afternoon light dripped like honey over their bodies. The smell of summer was soft in the air– hot cobbles, cold ale, honeysuckle and metal, the reminder that city life still bustled on despite the threat hidden beneath the streets. Their open packs laid in a heap by the fireplace along with most of their clothes. His robe was bunched somewhere at the foot of the bed, yanked off by her between desperate kisses. He’d managed to hold back, unwrapping her as slowly as he could. He needed to touch her, show her, wring every drop of pleasure from her sun-warmed body until his feelings were as clear as the orb carved into his skin.
The time and the bed were borrowed, but the home she’d made in his heart was permanent. 
A sigh escaped her lips as he rubbed the knots between her shoulder blades. He kissed her throat, his tongue brushing the flutter of her pulse until her back arched. Reflex? Invitation? He caressed the skin, careful against the cuts and scars that adorned her. Some were small, others raised and pink– fingerprints of adventures both old and new. He kissed across a few before closing his lips over a taut nipple. Her breaths grew harder. He massaged her other breast, rubbing her nipple with a gentle pressure he’d learned she liked. 
Before, he’d never he’d have the opportunity to be such a student of Dalia’s pleasure. Back when Mystra’s command still hung like an executioner’s axe above his head, one night was all he had. She’d let him show her everything, made love to her within the essence of the weave itself until the light dancing off her burned brighter than any goddess. He’d manipulated the stars around them in their bed, tasting the divinity from her lips, her skin, between her thighs– it was his practised perfection.
Then the next day she’d take him to her tent and stripped bare in front of him.
“No illusions. Let me see the real you. All of you.”
Once. That’s what he’d told himself. But in that moment, staring at her pink and naked with sinfully dark eyes he knew he’d never be able to deny her. Years it had been since he’d experienced mortal love. For so long intimacy was the power of the arcane, towering monuments in elysium and pleasures so abstract they burned like the sun. What an unexpected pleasure it had been to rediscover the physical, to love without expectations. He’d relished in their joint inelegance. In that moment they were blank pages on blank sheets, fumbling with clothes and shining with dirt and sweat. She’d scratched marks into his back and his heart, her lips lingering over the orb like she could tongue through his chest to that vile magic below. 
For once, it was easy to be imperfect. Everything was easy with her.
He kissed the calluses on her fingers– little ridges of a thousand different lyre songs. She stayed quiet as he did it again. Usually she’d gasp at the touch, grab at his face or his back and show him exactly what she wanted. 
Gale tilted her chin up. “Are you alright?” 
Her eyes were glassy, fogged with a thought too big to hide. They bloomed back into focus as he touched her again. 
“Ah- sorry.” Her smile was back and just slightly too wide to be believable. “The parasite’s feisty today.”
They both knew it was a poor lie. He’d seen that look before, one she’d always tried to hide if he found her staring at the two netherstones they’d gathered. Ever since she’d plucked Orin’s from a pile of sinew and bones she’d refused to remove them from her pack. The magic that radiated from them tasted like iron and tar. Sometimes he’d hear them at night vibrating with an off-kilter whine. The way she hummed along was altogether more unsettling, her eyes wide and raw like they might disappear if she so much as blinked. 
She did not have to tell him why. Those stones were their one chance to end this. A false God or no, the army the Absolute commanded was entirely real.
Gale touched the side of her face. “Is it the parasite or your own thoughts?”
Dalia sighed and flopped back against the mattress. “Both? I want this, you , right now. I’d just like everything else to be quiet for a moment.” She threw her arm over her eyes, hiding the shadows smudged like kohl around them.
He gently pulled her hand away, a slightly wicked idea forming. “You can unburden yourself with me. Or if distraction is what you would prefer…”
The invitation in his smile was clear. Her eyes drew more sharply to his.
“I’ll take the distraction.” 
He traced the red curve of her lips. “Kiss me.” There’s the edge to his voice, almost a command. She immediately complied. He moulded her body to his, running his hands over every dip and curve until she was pliant as wax in his arms. In this moment, he knows she’ll let herself be soft. To the world she was never some delicate thing. Her tongue was her blade, practised as his own and a miracle on the battlefield or against his body.
He nipped at her lower lip. “Wonderful. Now, put your hands in my hair.”
She threaded her fingers through and tugged just hard enough to hurt. He answered in kind, opening her mouth so he could taste the warmth of her breath. 
Her eyes were soft as ripe fruit when he pulled back. He pressed a softer kiss to the delicate point of her ear. 
“Good girl.”
A berry-red stain flushed over her cheeks and Gale held onto his satisfaction like a secret.
She gripped his shoulders harder. “Now what?” Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his hard cock and she slowly licked her lip. “Do you want me to–”
He shook his head. “This is about you. Now, get on your knees.”
That beautiful fire in her cheeks spread to her chest. She turned and lifted herself on her hands and knees, baring the full curve of her back. He draped himself over her, kissing the side of her neck then each ridge of her spine. His moves were deliberate, slow, a testament to his own steely patience to more than anything. She tensed as his lips found the small of her back. He waited a long moment, hiding his chuckle at her impatient breaths before moving lower. The folds between her legs were blush pink and quivering, begging to be tasted.
This sight was for him and no one else. But what he was about to do, that was purely for her.
Gently, he traced her wetness with his thumb. The sheets bunched under her calves as she pressed back.
He tutted. “Keep still, love.” He kissed her calf, the delicate skin of her thigh, then let his tongue explore her properly. He licked her again, then again, savouring the rich taste, the waver of her breaths so hot and muffled against the sheets. 
Truthfully it was not an ideal angle. Already his bandaged hand had begun to throb harder, a similar ache spreading in his chest. He pushed through, lifting her hips so he could properly tease her swollen clit with firm deliberate caresses. 
He could do it. He could hold on longer. Just until she was done. Until she was flushed and slick and crying– 
Pain shot from his chest to his hand, sharp and precise as a razor. He jerked back, trying to breathe through the familiar sting. He rubbed his fingers, cursing the strain as Dalia looked over her shoulder.
It had been days since his last flare. He’d come to realise the orb just loved to rear its head at the worst possible moments.
Dalia touched the wrappings on his right hand. “Bad day?” Her eyebrows drew down at his silence. “You should have told me.” She turned it between her palms, lightly caressing the cloth that was bound up to his wrist. The damage from the orb may be hidden, but she knew how it still festered.
Those first few days after it had invaded his chest were the worst. It thrashed like a maelstrom behind his sternum, boiling blood and chipping at bones in its desperation to be freed. The magic inside him immediately vanished to its gluttonous hunger. A hunger that spread on his skin like plague.
They were in Reithwin when Dalia had first offered to change his bandages. Her eyes were wide as she revealed the mottled skin, cracked and black as wetted charcoal. It was the first time he’d confessed that the wrappings were not to heal but to hide the way his mistake was rotting him from the inside out. 
There was no fear as she traced each ruined finger, nor when she washed them, kissed them then rebandaged them. Even after he’d learned how to coax the pleasures from her body, there was something even more beautiful about watching her own hands tend to his.
Gale kissed her until the worst of his pain ebbed. “I’m not done yet. Here.”
He laid down and guided her by her waist until her thighs straddled his shoulders. He kissed her navel, the flash of his tongue making his intentions clear. 
Dalia’s eyes were black as the sea above him. She swallowed, her fingers light as she cupped his cheek. “Are you sure?”
He stroked the soft skin of her hips and urged her forward. Her lips shook when his breath ghosted between her thighs.
“Now. Do not stop until you’re completely satisfied. Understand?”
The curve of her lip slowly twisted into a smirk. “I think I do.” She pressed both her hands against the wall and lowered herself to his mouth. Gale took a breath, planted his feet more firmly on the bed and put himself to work. 
He teased her for what felt like hours.
The orb glowed bright in his chest, stoked by the pleasure of watching the gorgeous woman moaning and writhing above him. He was unrelenting with his tongue. He traced the plump flesh, focussing on the tip of her clit until she pulled his hair to the root. 
Her cries shot up an octave as he thrusted his tongue inside her.
“Gods, Gale,” His name was poetry in her mouth. Her words could be sharp or silken, raise him to the heavens or undo him and by the Gods does he want to be undone.
He grasped his neglected cock and stroked it in time with his tongue.
Ardere. Arescere. Glacies. He traced the spell words with silent pressure over her clit. A flick of his hands and he could call forth arcane servants, build walls of flame, infect enemies with pestilence or blindness. Nothing was quite so wondrous as the way those words made her body move above his face.
Gale leaned back a little, pressing the image of her blush-drunk face between the pages of his mind. Weeks he’d spent wondering what her kisses felt like, the look in her eye when she was touched, what she showed the world and what she might save just for him. And then he’d seen her on his balcony, glowing and resplendent amongst the illusions of his home. She hadn’t gasped, hadn’t run or tried to find breaks in his spell. She sat and watched the sunset, smiling with quiet contentment like she belonged there. And she did belong there.
He groaned into her and stroked himself faster.
It could be real. Once this was all over, and it would be over. He’d folded away those desires, fleeting sparks of gold he’d clung to when being ripped apart in a fiery Netherese storm was his only future. Perhaps it still was, but right now, he had a few sweet and sinful moments to imagine.
Dalia bathed in candlelight in his library. Dalia weaving stories in the Yawning Portal, the patrons enraptured by her words. Dalia in his bed, his actual bed, asleep and tangled up with him.
The orb threw brighter waves of light over their bodies.
Dalia swathed in white. Dalia with a ring on her finger. Dalia with her withered hand in his own, both of them old and content as the sun took its fifty thousandth dive into the sea. 
Once he’d thought it impossible, but how many impossible things had she done with her voice alone? They’d all seen the illusory chaos she painted across the battlefield. A whistle from her lips and she puppetted their foes into ending themselves. Horrifying. Awe-inspiring, those words of venom melting to sweetness the moment she saw him.
He’d been steadfast in his choice to die, then to take the crown of Karsus and rip the mantle of god of magic from Mystra’s cold brow. All Dalia had to do was ask him not to.
“Gale, Gale I’m–” the words spill like ash from her tongue. Her head was thrown back, one hand cupping her breast, the other pressed against the wall as she rode him harder.
He met her eyes. “Come for me.”
She rocked down harder, his name dripping between them like the wetness soaking his face. He flicked his tongue over her clit again.
“You can do it. On my mouth, come for me.”
He licked harder, mercilessly teasing that soft little pearl until she shattered above him. He rode out her pleasure, tugging himself harder until he arched his back and finished in a mess over his stomach. 
The aftermath was quiet. She curled into his side, her face soft and hidden by waves of dark hair. He cleared their joint mess with a snap of his fingers and listened to the slow rhythm of her breathing.
He knew it was a fragile peace. They’d taken enough hours away from their mission, one that held whole worlds in the balance. Come morning they’d sharpen weapons and sort spell components while they made plans to take the final netherstone. 
But in this stolen moment, none of that mattered. Their future was bright and endless, not a danger in the world able to penetrate the flimsy walls of this tavern. 
Perhaps it was foolish. But it was enough. And they still had hours until daybreak.
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tessa-liam · 2 months ago
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Turning the Page Series
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Chapter #17 
Soirée de Célibataire
(Bachelor Party Evening) 
Book: Choices The Royal Romance, The Royal Heir AU 
Series Premise: As Riley Brooks journeys through life as a single parent in New York City. An epiphany strikes as she contemplates the future for herself and her two-year-old son. 
Turning the Page Series Masterlist 
Pairing: Liam Rys x F! MC Riley Brooks 
All characters belong to Pixelberry Studios, except William Brooks (Rys) and Matteo Magro, who both belong to this series. 
Category: On-going series, contains angst/fluff/depression. Cross-over fic with Choices, Perfect Match and Choices, Crimes of Passion. 
Rating: M – Warnings – Series will have crude language, weapons, NSFW material – not Beta’d - please excuse all errors. 
Words: 2300
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Summary: Leo’s plans are underway for his brother's bachelor party – Operation ‘Farewell to single life’ for Liam in a speakeasy in Monterisso. Joining the evening, Trystan Thorne, King of Drakovia, brings a surprise gift for the groom and his Cordonian friends. 
A/N: My submission for, #Choicesmonthlychallenge MAY mayhem2025 event. Prompts: guilty pleasure, two characters wake up handcuffed together, with no memory of the night before. 
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Monterisso
Leo slid into the seat next to Liam, the lively hum of the speakeasy already filling the air. "So, I hate to be the responsible one here, but I think we need to establish some ground rules for tonight," he began, his voice deliberately casual. 
Drake rolled his eyes with a scoff. "Rules? Really? We're grown adults, Leo, not teenagers running amok at prom." 
Bertrand, ever the pragmatist, gave a solemn nod. "Actually, Leo might have a point. The last thing we need is to see tomorrow's headlines plastered with scandalous photos of the groom's party." 
Maxwell raised a brow, his expression both amused and incredulous. "Gentlemen, the night has barely begun, and already we've got the buzzkill brigade prepping us for disaster. I shudder to think where the fun will come from at this rate." 
Leo grinned, leaning back in his chair with an air of conspiratorial confidence. "Relax, Max. I’ve got that covered. The bartenders are on standby, ready to keep the drinks flowing—and maybe stir up some mischief. Trust me, the party is just warming up." 
Liam shook his head, unable to suppress a laugh at his brother’s antics. "Just promise me one thing, Leo—no wild escapades that might result in handcuffs or public embarrassment. I’d rather my wedding proceed without any unnecessary drama." 
“Noted,” Leo smirked, clinking his glass against Liam’s. “Though I make no promises if you start singing again, little brother." 
“That was one time,” Liam muttered. 
Drake chuckled. “Yeah, and it was a legendary rendition of ‘Livin’ on a Prayer.’” 
Before Liam could fire back, the speakeasy doors opened with a dramatic creak, and all heads turned. Trystan Thorne, ever the showman, stood tall in his dark velvet coat, a devilish grin on his face. Behind him, two attendants wheeled in a large, cloth-draped crate on a trolley. 
“Oh, hell,” Maxwell whispered, eyes wide. “Is that a tiger?” 
“Better,” Trystan declared, walking toward them with theatrical flair. “A wedding gift... fit for kings.” 
The group collectively leaned in as Trystan whipped the cloth off with a flourish. Inside the glass case, encased in velvet and gold filigree, were six custom bottles of aged Drakovian Firewine—rare, potent, and strictly prohibited for export. Even Leo blinked in surprise. 
“You’re smuggling contraband to a royal bachelor party?” Bertrand asked, somewhere between horrified and impressed. 
“I’m a king,” Trystan replied smoothly. “I do not smuggle. I gift.” 
Liam laughed, genuine and deep. “This is incredible. Thank you, Trystan.” 
“Just don’t drink it all tonight,” Trystan warned. “Firewine has... consequences.” 
Maxwell leaned toward Drake. “What kind of consequences?” 
“Trystan consequences,” Drake said, grabbing one of the bottles with a shrug. “Best not to ask.” 
As the night wore on, laughter echoed against the stone walls. The firewine flowed, the jazz turned to swing, and the speakeasy transformed into a whirlwind of toasts, roasts, and dancing. A magician wandered through the crowd doing card tricks; a sultry chanteuse took the stage; and Leo, despite his own rules, successfully coaxed Liam onto a tabletop for a spirited duet. 
This was more than just a farewell to single life. It was a celebration of brotherhood, mischief, and memory. And in the heart of Monterisso, where secrets were kept like good liquor, the night was only just beginning. 
The lights had dimmed further, casting a moody, golden hue across the speakeasy as the chanteuse took her place at the microphone. She wore a sapphire silk gown that shimmered with every movement, and her voice—low, sultry, and smooth as velvet—melted into the warm chords of the upright piano behind her. 
Liam, comfortably two glasses of firewine deep and halfway through a third, was swaying lightly in his seat. The warmth of the drink pulsed pleasantly through his chest. His tie was loosened, his cheeks flushed, and his usual kingly composure had softened into something carefree and alive. 
As the woman began a jazzy rendition of “At Last,” Liam tapped his glass in time with the beat. When she made eye contact with him during the second verse, she gave a sly smile—and motioned for him to join her on stage. 
The table erupted with cheers. 
“Oh no,” Liam said, already halfway to standing. 
“Oh yes,” Leo grinned, clapping. “Give the people what they want, Your Majesty.” 
“You’re not married yet!” Drake added with a laugh, raising his glass. 
Trystan smirked, swirling his firewine. “Careful, Liam. She might steal your heart before Riley can make you an honest man.” 
But Liam wasn’t listening anymore. Emboldened by the firewine—and perhaps the unspoken magic of the night—he stepped up onto the small stage, offering the chanteuse a charming bow. 
The pianist, catching on instantly, shifted into the opening bars of “Come Fly with Me.” 
Liam took the mic, his voice slightly husky from the drink but still rich and melodic. The crowd whooped in encouragement as he sang the first verse, his arm extended toward the singer with playful showmanship. 
She responded at once, circling him slowly, her voice weaving around his in perfect harmony.  
“Don’t encourage him!” Bertrand snapped, though his phone was still suspiciously pointed at the stage. 
At the final chorus, Liam extended his hand, and she took it. With a spin and a dip, he closed the number with a wink to the crowd. 
Thunderous applause followed. 
Back at the table, Bertrand raised his eyebrows. “He’s clearly had too much.” 
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“I’m actually impressed,” Maxwell said, eyes wide. “He hit that falsetto. He hit that falsetto.” 
Leo laughed, slapping the table. “Riley is going to love this story.” 
As Liam made his way back to the table, the woman blew him a kiss, which he caught with a grin before nearly tripping over a step. Drake reached out to steady him. 
“You good, Sinatra?” he grinned. 
“Never better,” Liam said, breathless and flushed. “That was… oddly exhilarating.” 
Leo handed him another glass. “To the groom,” he said. “May your marriage have as much harmony as that duet.” 
Liam lifted his glass, his heart full. “To Riley. And to all of you. For making this night unforgettable.” 
The night rolled on—but for Liam, that stage moment lingered. Not because of the song or the spotlight, but because of the rare, fleeting sense of freedom it gave him. 
And deep down, he could not wait to tell Riley every detail. 
Liam collapsed back into his seat, cheeks still warm from the applause and the firewine, heart thudding from the impromptu duet. He reached for his drink—only to pause, brow furrowing. 
“Where the hell are Leo and Trystan?” 
The others glanced around. 
“They were just here…” Bertrand began, turning in his chair. 
Maxwell leaned sideways to peer past the bar. “Wait, didn’t Trystan leave right after Liam got on stage?” 
“And Leo?” Drake asked, his voice tinged with suspicion. “He was sitting right there ten minutes ago.” 
Liam narrowed his eyes at the now-empty glasses and the untouched bottle of firewine that Trystan had been guarding. “They ditched us.” 
“Correction,” Drake said, picking up Leo’s phone from the seat he left behind. “They snuck out.” 
Maxwell’s eyes lit up. “Bet they got into something wild.” 
Bertrand sighed. “Please don’t let this be another ‘riding a Vespa through a convent courtyard’ situation.” 
Liam chuckled but couldn’t shake the feeling that something was…off. 
The Next Morning – Somewhere in Monterisso 
Leo groaned. 
His head pounded like a drum corps had set up camp behind his eyes. He shifted slightly—and immediately froze. 
Clink. 
Metal. 
His wrist… was stuck? 
“What the—Trystan?!” 
From beside him, a similarly groggy groan: “Why are my arms numb… why do I taste glitter?” 
Leo turned his head—and blinked. Trystan was lying beside him on the cold marble floor of what looked like a wine cellar. Both men were shirtless, surrounded by scattered poker chips, empty wine bottles, a feather boa, and—most notably—handcuffed together at the wrist. 
They stared at each other. 
“What the hell happened last night?” Leo asked, voice hoarse. 
Trystan squinted at the dim ceiling. “I remember… the firewine. The redhead with the snake tattoo. And then… was there a goat? Or was that the jazz singer?” 
Leo looked down. “These aren’t even my pants.” 
Trystan lifted his free hand and picked a single rhinestone out of his hair. “Is that... a lipstick stain on your ear?” 
A door creaked open above them. Footsteps descended the narrow staircase. They both turned to look—blinking against the light. 
It was a Drakovian royal guard. He took one look at them and sighed deeply, holding up a phone. 
“Your Majesty,” he said in a tired voice, “we’ve been trying to reach you. You missed your security detail. The owner of this villa would very much like you to leave.” 
Leo sat up, wincing. “Villa?” 
Trystan gestured vaguely around. “This isn’t the speakeasy?” 
“No, sir. You broke into Count Girianno’s private wine estate and challenged two wedding planners to a ‘duel of decadence.’” 
Leo gave a long, slow blink. “...Did we win?” 
The guard hesitated. “Technically, yes.” 
Trystan leaned back against the wall, smirking despite the hangover. “Well, at least we’re consistent.” 
Leo groaned again, yanking lightly at the handcuffs. “Get the key. And get us coffee. And maybe a priest.” 
As the guard trudged away, Trystan glanced at Leo. 
“So… want to do it again next week?” 
Leo didn’t even look at him. “Not if we live through today.” 
Cordonia – Royal Palace, Morning After the Bachelor Party 
The sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the king’s breakfast room, casting a golden glow over the elegant spread of croissants, fresh fruit, and steaming coffee. Liam sat at the long table, still in his robe, with one arm draped around his bride-to-be, Riley, and the other waiting to help his son, William, cut up his pancakes. 
William beamed. “Daddy, I put syrup on the strawberries!” 
“You did?” Liam grinned, ruffling his son’s already-messy hair. “You’re a chef.” 
William nodded seriously, holding up a forkful of syrup-coated strawberries. “They taste yummy. You should try it, Daddy.” 
Riley leaned forward, her laughter carrying a melodic warmth. “Looks like you have some competition in the kitchen, Liam. We might have a budding Michelin-starred chef on our hands.” 
“Daddy, I can teach you!” William offered generously before turning back to his pancakes with the laser focus of a young artist at work. 
Liam’s wink sparkled with amusement. “Should I be nervous? William might steal my culinary crown before his fifth birthday.” 
Riley rested her cheek against her hand, her eyes filled with adoration. “He’s just like you, Liam—chaotic charm and all.” 
Before Liam could craft a response, Bastien’s composed nod and discreet voice interrupted. 
“My apologies for the interruption, Your Majesty, Lady Riley, but there’s… been a situation.” 
“A situation?” Riley asked, her voice tinged with curiosity. 
Bastien’s jaw tightened as he hesitated, clearly picking his words with care. “It involves Prince Leo… and King Trystan.” 
Liam exhaled slowly, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Let me guess. They didn’t take a vow of monk-like behavior after I left the bachelor party?” 
Riley raised an amused brow. “Please tell me you’re joking.” 
Bastien didn’t flinch, his tone as dry as ever. “I would prefer that. Unfortunately, the matter is slightly more… complicated.” 
“Complicated how?” Liam asked, leaning back in his chair with a practiced calm that did little to hide the flicker of irritation in his eyes. 
“They’re currently detained.” 
Riley blinked. “Detained? As in… arrested?” 
William paused mid-bite, wide-eyed. “Daddy, did Uncle Leo fight bad guys?” 
Bastien cleared his throat again. “Not precisely, young sir.” 
Liam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright, Bastien. Start from the beginning. And please tell me this isn’t as ridiculous as I think it’s going to be.” 
“They apparently… challenged two local wedding planners to something called a ‘duel of decadence.’ There were empty firewine bottles, a feather boa, several packets of glitter, and—reportedly—a rented goat involved at one point.” 
Riley gasped, wide-eyed. “A goat?!” 
“Yes, my lady,” the captain said, with a nod to the toddler. “A small one.” 
Riley bit her lip to keep from laughing, covering her mouth with her napkin. 
“They’re on their way back to the palace.  
Liam closed his eyes, trying to summon patience. “And are they… okay?” 
Riley leaned in, whispering through her laughter. “So… that’s the ‘responsible’ brother who wanted to lay down rules last night?” 
Liam gave her a look. “Don’t start.” 
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invinciblerodent · 2 years ago
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my plan.... has been set in motion
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........... do we think my computer is also going to explode, or............
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so I have.... a plan
do you think 41 barrels will suffice, or should i like. get more
or somethin
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