#hopefully you enjoy

[obsessedwhyyes]

A Tale of Fools and Tricksters (2)

Chapter 2: Looking Glass

Summary: The lingering tendrils of Astarion's enchantment take Elysia firmly in their hold. His glances, his gestures - they must surely be signs laid out just for her. Determined, Elysia sets off to find the elusive ringmaster, but confrontation, mystery, and reflection await her instead.

Rating: M Chapter Word Count: 5134 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC Content: Alternative Universe (Circus), Ringmaster Astarion, mild horror elements, eventual smut, eventual romance, basically a big whimsical (slightly dark, slightly trippy) fairytale of an AU. Chapter 1 can be found here.

A/N: This is what I like to affectionately call, ‘The Delulu Chapter.’ She will only be insufferable for a little while, I promise. She’s just having her Alice in Wonderland phase - she’ll grow out of it.

A thousand breaths caught in perfect unison. 

A thousand hearts skipped the same beat.

Gasp. Cheer.

Sigh. Swoon.

The sounds rippled through the crowd in perfect synchronicity, rising and falling like the tide.

Elysia couldn’t recall sitting down, nor how she’d come to be in this seat, surrounded once more by the plush velvet and soft murmur of the audience.

Thoughts of the past felt, simply, weightless, drifting beyond her reach.

She was here now. And that was all that mattered.

The Ringmaster spoke, with sweeping gestures befitting a man of such grandiose.

"Now, while I'm captivating enough on my own..."

Elysia's lips curved upward. She hadn't chosen to smile.

"... I suppose I should share the stage with our other little wonders. Our family has prepared something special for you tonight.”

With a flourish, his cane conjured a shimmering curtain of starlight. The glowing veil parted to reveal the first performer.

“May I present… Aurelia, mistress of flames.”

A woman stepped forward, her crimson and gold costume gleaming like embers as hoops of fire encircled her body. The flames licked and coiled around her, alive, feral, yet completely under her control.

Elysia’s heart fluttered. Aurelia was extraordinary.

But she wasn't Astarion.

“... Leon, who gives weight to dreams.”

The strongman emerged next, the stage dimming as his large frame became the focal point. His arms, broad and powerful, lifted a shimmering, gilded ring that seemed impossibly heavy, its edges glimmering as it reflected the light of Aurelia’s fire.

Elysia’s pulse quickened. Leon was a marvel.

But he didn't wear the crowd’s adoration like Astarion wore his charm.

“... And Violet, who dances between stars.”

A silver hoop descended from above, and Violet with it. Suspended high in the air and wrapped with silks, she moved with an ethereal grace, her body twisting and arching as though weightless.

Elysia couldn't help but gasp. Violet was breathtaking.

But she didn't enchant like Astarion did.

He stood apart, just behind the performers, his cane in hand, mask gleaming faintly in the ethereal glow. He wasn't the one leaping or spinning or commanding the elements. Yet, he was the axis on which everything turned; the force that made the whole performance possible.

His eyes found hers in the crowd as she watched him.

Or did she imagine that?

Surely he saw her.

Surely he felt it too.

Elysia had often wondered if love at first sight truly existed.

Often, she told herself it was simply the fancy of poets and dreamers, a comforting illusion woven to make life feel fuller. No - to Elysia, love was something that grew slowly, like tending a garden through the seasons. Something that needed patience and time to truly take root.

Yet here, now, she had never been so certain of its existence.

Was it not love to hold a person the way Astarion held her? To pull her close, until her world narrowed to his smile, his lips, his gaze? He was like a vision from a dream half-remembered, and he held her there, suspended, bound by starlight and shadow, captivated.

Yes. Yes, this was surely love.

If it wasn't love, what else could it be?

The performers took their positions. At Astarion's signal, they began.

They moved as one, their acts weaving seamlessly together like threads in an intricate tapestry. Violet soared through the air on her silver hoop, her silks trailing in elegant arcs as Aurelia’s flaming rings spiralled around her, fire and starlight intertwining. Below, Leon’s gilded ring spun like a celestial anchor, catching and refracting the light as Violet leapt from her perch, her movements mirrored by the rise and fall of the flames. A dance of fire, silk, and shadow. Three acts became one impossible dance.

The stage was like a living dream. It compelled her to...

Rise. 

The audience stood. 

Lean forward. 

Their bodies tilted as one. 

Hold your breath. 

Elysia's lungs burned with the others'.

A thousand faces turned at once, a thousand smiles stretched in unison.

The finale built higher as a crescendo of daring and grace. Violet dove through a ring of flames, her silks igniting in a burst of golden light as Leon caught her descent.

Colours blurred. Sounds merged. 

Fire and shadow. Music and motion. 

How long had it been since Elysia felt this light? This free? The weight that normally pressed against her shoulders - responsibility, duty, the relentless presence of death - had dissolved like morning mist in the summer sun. Here, she felt as though nothing could touch her. Not grief, nor guilt.

Looking at the audience, she saw faces slack with wonder, eyes glazed with absolute adoration. They were gleeful in their rapture, yet none of them had danced with him as she had. None had felt his magic against their skin, the intimate press of starlight binding them together.

None of them had what Elysia had with Astarion. Of that much, she was certain.

Fire and starlight spiralled together as the performers created their final masterpiece of the night.

Then everything stopped.

Light itself seemed to hold its breath. Violet hung suspended between earth and sky, caught in Leon's impossible hold. Aurelia's flames froze mid-flicker, crystallising into fractals of burning light. For one eternal moment, reality balanced on a knife's edge.

At Astarion's gesture, the frozen tableau shattered into pure starlight. The performers emerged from the glittering cascade, moving in perfect synchronisation as they took their final bow. Above them, the last fragments of their magic rained down like falling stars.

The audience erupted in applause. 

Elysia’s hands moved to clap with them before she realised. 

She couldn’t resist. She would never want to resist.

“Thank you, thank you, dear souls.” Astarion held his hand to his chest, dipping his head once more in a theatrical bow that made the light catch in his silvery hair. “May your dreams find you, even as you find yourselves.”

His gaze swept the audience one last time. 

Elysia could have sworn his eyes rested on her for just a moment longer than the others.

The slight tilt of his head, the way his fingers traced the handle of his cane - they can't have been mere gestures.

They must have been a silent invitation. A promise.

Elysia could never miss such glaring signs, clearly made just for her.

The need to understand, to unravel the mystery surrounding him, pulled at her, stronger than the remnants of the spellbinding performance.

It wasn’t just curiosity - it was a hunger. To know him - to be near him - felt as necessary as breathing.

Astarion was leading. Elysia must follow.

As the lights dimmed, the audience, still humming with awe, began to drift toward the exit, their faces glazed with dreamlike adoration. But Elysia hung back for just a moment before beginning her descent towards the stage on subtle steps, her gaze fixed on the velvet curtain where Astarion and the performers had disappeared. Her breath caught as she saw them slip through, leaving a ripple in the fabric.

But what caught her attention was the faint, rhythmic chime that followed each figure as they passed through the curtain.

Her eyes narrowed. Bells. A line of small, silver bells was strung along the top of the curtain, barely visible unless you were looking for them. They swayed gently with each movement, their delicate chimes swallowed by the crowd’s applause. The purpose was clear: the faintest disturbance would alert those beyond.

Clever, she thought. But it was not enough to deter her.

Elysia’s heart could never be deterred.

She studied the curtain for a moment longer. The performers moved with such grace that the bells just barely sang as they passed. The key was clearly precision, not speed.

She waited until the crowd’s murmurs swelled, the noise rising like a tide. Then, as carefully as a surgeon threading a needle, she slipped forward. Her steps were deliberate, her movements measured. She placed her hands on the edge of the curtain, just below the bells, and pushed it aside with the lightest touch, letting the fabric shift naturally around her.

The bells quivered. Elysia froze, holding her breath. 

But no sound came.

She sighed in relief.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she eased herself through the opening, the dim light of the backstage area welcoming her into its shadows. She let the curtain fall back into place, the bells swaying gently above her head.

No one had noticed. Yet.

The backstage air was a stark contrast from the grand theatrics of the stage area - muted, cooler, dimly lit by flickering lanterns. The faint scent of smoke and incense tickled her nose as she pressed herself against the nearest wall. For a moment, she allowed herself a quiet breath, her heart still racing.

She made it in.

Now, she just had to find him.

Elysia moved deeper into the warren of corridors, each step careful and measured. This place felt like another world entirely - a place where magic shed its glamour and revealed its seams. Props leaned against walls like sleeping creatures. Costumes hung from hooks like shed skins, still holding the shape of their wearers.

Gaps in curtains revealed brief glimpses of the performers as she explored. There was something oddly intimate about seeing them outside the allure of their performance - like seeing a bird folding its wings after flight.

But then a familiar voice caught Elysia’s attention.

Following the sound, she found herself near an ornate door left slightly ajar, golden light spilling through the gap. She pressed herself against the wall beside it, drawn forward by the familiar cadence of his voice.

Astarion. She had found him.

Though, his voice was accompanied by another.

“... and there you go again.” This other voice - it too was familiar, though dripping with barely contained contempt. “Such pride from someone who–”

“Who actually holds their attention?” Astarion cut in. “Yes, how terribly proud of me. Tell me, Petras - how does it feel to be forgotten the moment I take the stage?”

Petras. The name stirred something within Elysia, but she couldn’t work out what. Had they met before?

"At least I know my place," Petras spat. "I don't delude myself with dreams of–"

"Delude myself?" Astarion's laugh held no humour. "How amusing, coming from someone who spends his nights rehearsing my routine. Tell me - has my shadow filed a complaint yet? Though I suppose it must be used to you chasing it by now.”

Elysia risked a glance through the gap and had to stifle a gasp.

The dressing room was filled with mirrors. They were everywhere: lining the walls, standing on ornate frames, creating an illusion of infinite space. Each reflection caught and multiplied the candlelight, creating a kaleidoscope effect that was both beautiful and disorienting. She caught a glimpse of the two men, and the contrast in them was uncanny. Petras’s simple gold mask seemed plain, almost crude, compared to the intricate filigree of Astarion's.

"You forget yourself," Petras said. "The master has schedules for a reason. And when you deviate–"

"The master," Astarion's voice took on a strange tone, "has more pressing concerns than your petty jealousies over a few minutes' delay, don’t you think? Or have you forgotten last month’s little incident?"

Silence as Petras’s words seemed to fail him momentarily.

This was it. This was Elysia’s chance.

"I’m sorry to intrude." she stepped forward tentatively as she spoke, her voice hopeful. "I hoped I might find you..."

Both men turned sharply in her direction.

Astarion’s fingers brushed the silver filigree at his throat before smoothing out the coif of his hair in one fluid motion. "My, my… aren't you the determined one?"

Petras appeared rather vindicated. "The master needs to hear about this.”

"Must he? And I suppose you'll explain how she got past your... what was it you called it? Your 'enhanced security measures'?"

The blond man stiffened. "I hardly think–"

“No, you so rarely do.” Astarion's smile didn't waver, but his eyes kept darting to the shadows behind Elysia. "Perhaps we should discuss your recent performance evaluations while we're at it?"

Something in the threat landed. Petras's eager reporting instinct warred visibly with self-preservation. After a moment of tense silence, he backed towards the door, pausing only to give Elysia a look that might even have been pity if it hadn’t looked so much like bitter indignation.

Elysia found herself quickly irked by him.

“This isn't over, Astarion,” Petras said as he slipped out the room, punctuated by the sound of the door latch clicking into place as he closed it.

Being alone with Astarion felt different than she'd imagined - more real somehow. Her heart fluttered against her chest like a trapped bird.

But she was nothing if not determined. She knew she was right where she needed to be.

His smile brightened, though there was a tightness to it that Elysia couldn't quite place. “Forgive the uncouth display, darling. Some people simply can't help but be tiresome.”

"I came as quickly as I could," Elysia said quickly, watching as his fingers drifted again to his collar, then to adjust his already-perfect hair. “I know I should’ve waited for a proper introduction, but sometimes…” She felt heat rise to her cheeks at her own boldness. “Sometimes the heart knows when something is important.”

"You know," he began, "most admirers content themselves with flowers. Or swooning. Swooning is traditional. But you had to make things interesting, didn't you?"

"I suppose I'm not very traditional." Elysia smiled, her heart fluttering as he approached. In the mirrors surrounding them, a thousand reflections of Astarion moved in perfect synchronisation. And Elysia’s reflection was there with him. 

They were a study in contrasts - Elysia in her simple dress and blouse seemed grounded and unadorned, like earth; Astarion, in his intricate attire, was otherworldly in his theatrical splendour. Yet somehow the juxtaposition felt right - as though her very plainness made his ethereal beauty more striking, while his presence lent her simplicity a kind of grace.

Her lips parted as the thought flitted through her mind: We look good together.

“Our dance earlier - I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

“Few have. The magic of the festival is rather unique, wouldn’t you say?”

"And the way you commanded the stage..." Elysia began, but something in his posture made her pause. Even in the mirrors, she could see the slight tension in his shoulders.

"Command?" His laugh was almost musical. “Darling, I merely... suggest. Guide. Though speaking of guidance..." His eyes darted again to the shadows behind her, quick as a heartbeat. "You realise, of course, that I'm being remarkably generous about this whole affair. Most who find their way backstage discover a far less..." Another touch of his collar. "...accommodating reception."

Elysia’s pulse steadied, her smile turning faintly knowing. Of course, he had to maintain this necessary pretence - charm wrapped in formality, words dipped in grace. It wasn’t for her benefit, not truly. After all, what would the others think if they knew he'd invited someone backstage? No, these little warnings were just another performance, meant for any eyes that might be watching. Beneath it all she could feel it - something unspoken.

"I know this is a little unconventional…” 

"Unconventional? What a delicate way to phrase it. You do have quite the gift for making impropriety sound almost charming."

Elysia’s smile faltered as she met his gaze. “I just thought…” Her voice softened, the words catching like a hesitant breath. “I thought you wanted me to find you. It– it felt like I had to.”

Why? The question rose sharp and sudden in her mind. The urgency that had drawn her here felt familiar somehow, like an old song played in a different key.

“And here I thought I was the one with a penchant for dramatics,” Astarion said. “You give me far too much credit, my dear.”

His words were laced with humour, yet, he hadn’t denied it. The pull she’d felt couldn’t have been imagined. It was too strong, too undeniable. Surely he had wanted her to find him. Surely he’d left some trace, some sign meant just for her.

Hadn’t he?

Her lips parted, but the words she wanted to say dissolved before they could take shape. She glanced away, her gaze catching on the mirrors around them. Her reflection stared back infinitely, as though mocking her uncertainty.

And Astarion… there was something tight in the way he held himself now, like a performer who'd spotted a crack in their stage.

"Come, darling. Let’s not tempt fate by lingering here any longer. You’ve already wandered somewhere terribly dangerous.”

He took a step closer, his presence commanding her attention as though he’d physically pulled her from her thoughts.

That silken voice. 

That perfect presence. 

He's so close.

Her thoughts - those pesky doubts - scattered like startled birds.

He offered her his arm, a gesture so effortlessly charming that it made her heart flutter. 

He was right. 

Of course, he was right. 

There was nothing for her here. 

Only him.

And so she followed.

She hesitated for only a moment before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. His closeness brought with it a scent she hadn't noticed before - herbal and bright, with citrus and the faintest hint of something darker, richer; elegant as everything else about him. The kind of scent that made you want to lean closer, to search for its source. It took all her composure not to do exactly that.

"Consider this a gift. My generosity in exchange for your… discretion.”

He paused at the room’s threshold, glancing as though expecting something to appear from the shadows. “Shall we? The night market is particularly enchanting at this hour. All manner of delights to distract from more... dangerous pursuits."

"The night market?" Something about his insistence made her heart beat faster. 

The dim lantern light flickered as he escorted her through winding corridors, throwing his silhouette into sharp relief against the shadows.

"Oh, the things you'll see there," he continued, speaking faster. "Delicacies that would make your finest confectioners weep. Treasures that would make merchants' hearts stop. All manner of pretty little diversions. Much more interesting than these tired old backrooms.”

His steps were swift. Hasty.

Elysia fought to keep pace.

“And of course,” he said suddenly, his voice carrying a cheerfulness that teetered on the edge of too bright, “there’s a spectacular display of silks at one of the stalls. Ah, you’d adore them - exquisite craftsmanship, really, though I must admit I’ve never been terribly partial to magenta myself.”

The sounds of laughter and music drew closer. 

He glanced at her briefly, his eyes catching the light before darting back ahead. “Oh, and Dalyria with her card readings, the truths she reveals are quite– ah, but did I mention the night market?”

“You did.”

“Well, it bears repeating,” he replied too quickly. “Because it truly is a marvel. So much to see. So much to enjoy.”

The cane in his free hand tapped out a rhythm that didn't quite match his steps.

“Perfectly harmless, of course,” he added, his gaze darting briefly to the shadows behind them, before he turned back to her with another dazzling smile.

They emerged from behind the heavy curtains into the festival proper, where the eternal twilight cast everything in soft, dreamy hues. Something about the change in lighting made the shadows under his eyes more pronounced – had those been there during the performance?

"There now," Astarion said. His fingers found his collar one final time before dropping away. "Isn't this better? All the wonder, none of the... complications. Though do remember, darling - you now owe me quite the favour."

"Will I see you again?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Astarion stilled for the briefest moment, his smile frozen in place. Then he laughed.

"Oh, darling, the festival has a way of bringing people together, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t fret too much about when or how."

His answer wasn’t what she wanted, and something in her bristled. "That’s not what I meant," she said. "I think… I think I need to see you again."

That made him pause, his eyes catching hers. There was something almost imperceptible in his gaze - whether it was curiosity or resignation, Elysia couldn’t tell.

"Need is such a dangerous word," he murmured, tilting his head just slightly. "You sound so certain, yet you hardly know me."

"But I do..."

Did she? The thought disappeared as quickly as it came.

"... I feel like I do," she continued, looking to her feet.

"Do you, now?" he asked, his voice soft, almost indulgent. “What is it you think you see in me?”

“I…”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he closed the space between them in an instant. He reached out, his fingers brushing her chin, tilting her head so she was forced to meet his gaze. Her breath caught, the world narrowing until there was only him.

He leaned in, his gaze holding her captive. “Or perhaps you don’t see at all. Perhaps there’s something else you want.” His hold on her jaw firmed for a moment. “Ah. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself in me?”

The words hit her like a physical blow. Her chest tightened, heat rising to her cheeks as she struggled to find her voice, but it was useless.

He held her gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

But then he sighed.

"I thought so," he said quietly, almost to himself. "They always do."

He stepped back, his hand falling away.

"You’re bold, love," Astarion said at last. "It’s a charming trait, truly. But sometimes boldness gets people hurt."

"I’m not afraid.” Elysia held his gaze as steadily as she could muster.

"Of course you’re not," he replied, his smile broadening slightly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Fear rarely has a place here. It’s part of the magic, you see. But magic is just smoke and mirrors, isn’t it? It’s the truth underneath that tends to cut."

She felt the weight of his words but couldn’t fully grasp their meaning. His presence seemed to drown out everything else.

"The festival is a place for dreams, my dear," he said, taking a step back and sweeping into a graceful bow. "Don’t waste yours chasing shadows."

And then he was gone. The ripple of velvet curtains was the only trace of his departure as he returned to the shadows of the Big Top.

Elysia was alone.

The festival’s brilliance seemed to dim in his absence, its colours muted, its magic just a little less potent.

The crowd moved around her, their faces alight with joy and wonder, yet, with the Ringmaster gone, she felt curiously untethered. She glanced up at the sky, expecting some shift in its eternal dusk, but it remained unchanged. The colours of twilight bled together seamlessly, the horizon a perpetual liminal space between day and night.

Just how much time had passed?

A flicker of movement at the edge of Elysia’s vision caught her attention. She turned her head - an elderly woman brushed past her, a golden locket swinging from her neck.

Elysia blinked, confusion blooming in her chest. She looked strangely familiar.

The realisation came slowly. She had seen this woman before - on the journey to the festival. In the carriage. But the details of that memory felt slippery, like trying to grasp water in her hands. The more she reached for it, the more it eluded her.

Her movements were strange, almost mechanical, as though her body remembered how to walk but her mind had forgotten why. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides, and her lips moved soundlessly.

Elysia’s heart stirred with unease. She didn’t know why, but the sight of the woman set her teeth on edge. She couldn’t name the feeling, only that it was urgent and wrong. Her instincts flared, urging her to follow, even as another part of her hesitated.

It doesn’t matter. She’s not your concern.

No, Elysia thought. That’s not right, is it?

Elysia’s steps moved before she could think, her feet carrying her toward the woman. She didn’t know what she hoped to accomplish. But the woman needed help. Elysia didn’t know how she knew that - she didn’t know much of anything anymore - but the certainty burned fiercely in her chest.

“Excuse me! Miss?” she called. “Wait, please!”

The woman didn’t respond.

Elysia pushed through the thinning crowd. The further she followed, the harder it became to focus. It was like wading through molasses, her thoughts sticky and sluggish, her body pulling toward retreat.

The woman turned down a dim, narrow path that branched away from the bright stalls. Elysia froze at its threshold. The glow of the festival barely reached this place, its light casting weak, flickering shadows that clung to the walls like cobwebs. Something about this place felt hidden. Forbidden.

But the woman was already disappearing into its depths.

“Wait!” Elysia called again, stepping onto the path despite the gnawing unease in her chest.

Go back. It’s not your ti–

No. She’s unwell.

Her legs kept moving. Her pulse raced. It thrummed in her ears as she quickened her pace.

The path twisted unpredictably, narrowing with every turn. The vibrant energy of the festival dimmed further with each step, the laughter and music fading into a distant hum. The air smelled stale, yet sickly-sweet.

A glint caught Elysia’s eye.

The locket around the woman’s neck caught the light as it tumbled to the ground. She didn’t seem to notice.

Elysia bent to retrieve the locket, its metal surprisingly cold against her palm. When she looked up again, the woman was already disappearing down a narrow corridor she hadn't noticed before - a space between tents that seemed to fold in on itself, as though reality had developed a crease.

"Wait!" She started forward, locket clutched tight. "Please, your–"

The passage seemed to narrow as she followed, the walls of fabric pressing in until she had to turn sideways to continue. Each step forward made her heart beat faster, a creeping anxiety that whispered she should turn back, return to the lights and music and…

The thought slipped away as she caught sight of something ahead - not the woman, but a glint of light where there shouldn't be any. A broken mirror propped against what might have been a wall, its surface reflecting impossibly deep shadows. Something about its angle seemed wrong, as though it were reflecting a space that didn't exist.

She reached out, meaning only to steady herself against its frame.

But then her hand went through.

And then, she was tumbling.

The fall lasted both forever and no time at all.

Darkness rushed past her like silk against her skin. Stars wheeled overhead, though there was no sky - only the endless sensation of tumbling through space. The air grew thick, sweet, then suddenly thin, as though she were passing through layers of different worlds.

But then she landed as though caught by unseen hands, placed in a world that was eerily still.

When she stood, she found herself in a sprawling room filled with broken reflections. Mirrors upon mirrors. But they were broken, fractured, warped, split into jagged shards.

She moved through the space carefully, each step stirring motes of dust.

Around her lay forgotten remnants of the festival - tattered banners drooping limply from hooks and, scattered like silent witnesses, old stuffed animals. Two of them caught her eye. Two foxes, one bound tightly in rusted shackles. It seemed so small, its fur faded to a dull grey. The second fox lay unshackled, its chains broken and discarded at its feet. But it was no better off. Its seams were split, its stuffing spilling in soft piles onto the floor.

Her gaze flicked back to the rippling mirror she had stepped through. Unlike the others, it was untouched by age or damage, its liquid-like surface shimmering faintly in the dim light.

The air felt… different here. Clearer. Like breaking the surface after being underwater for too long - that first gasp that makes you realise how thick the water had been. Like waking from a dream you can't quite remember.

Like… shattering an illusion.

She took a step back. The clarity struck her like ice water. She could think here. The enormity of it made her stomach twist. What had been clouding her mind before? And why did the thought of returning to that haze terrify her as much as it tempted her?

Elysia pressed a hand to her heart, desperately trying to will away that ache that lingered in her chest.

Looking up, she saw her reflection watching her, the fractured edges of the mirrors around it splintering her image into countless fragments. Some stared back with clarity, others with a dazed, almost blissful expression. She reached out toward the nearest shard, then stopped herself, her hand trembling.

‘Lose yourself’…? She recalled Astarion’s words.

The foxes seemed to watch her in silence.

Astarion looked at his reflection in the mirror.

The Ringmaster stared back.

Isn't it funny how, with all these reflections, you can never truly see yourself?

He tilted his head slightly, studying the masked man before him. The sweep of his silver hair, the gleam of his skin, the curve of his lips - all perfect.

As they should be.

He sighed and allowed his gaze to drop, breaking the spell of his own stare.

He was alone. 

As he should be.

His eyes fell to his hands. They rested on the dressing table, pale fingers curling loosely around the carved wood. Such pretty lies they weaved tonight.

The silence of the room pressed against his ears, but he welcomed it.

It was better this way.

No expectations. No deceptions.

His hands tightened on the table.

The sound came softly at first. A faint jingling. Like the rattling of bones.

His stomach twisted.

No.

It wasn't his turn.

The sound grew louder, steady and deliberate. The delicate chime of something unnatural.

It can't be my turn.

Mist began to coil at his feet, swirling around his boots. The sickly-sweet scent of it clung to the air.

He'd done the right thing. He'd kept his smile, he’d played his part.

As he always should.

The jingling stopped.

He willed his face into stillness, smooth and unreadable.

A new sound emerged, sharp and distinct.

Tap.

Pause.

Tap.

Pause.

Claws against wood. They tapped slowly against the wooden door frame behind him.

Astarion raised his head slowly, forcing himself to meet his reflection once more.

The Ringmaster. Perfectly composed. Perfectly in control.

A thousand masks, a thousand lies, and somewhere beneath them all, a scream that never ended.

But, in his periphery, he saw him.

Standing in the doorway, motionless, bathed in shadow.

Watching him.

Smiling.

No Pressure Tag List: @roguishcat @davenswitcher @silverfangmarks @sparrowbard @chonkercatto @stokzr @trafalgarussy @asterordinary @bite-me-tonight @transparentkittenheart @hfxgamora @bg3-fanfic-reblogs

Masterlist can be found here!

[daffi-990]

Seven(ish) Sentence Sunday

Tagged by @diazsdimples @missmagooglie and @tizniz (I’m sorry if anyone else tagged me and I forgot .. it’s Sunday night for me and I’m tired 😴)

My brain is fried from a busy weekend away but I wanted to write something, and this is the result. Don’t know if it’s good or not but I’m posting it anyway.

From Rival Firefighters 🚒. Prev snippet here.

“We are going to do everything we can to find Buck, okay?” Bobby’s eyes bore into Eddie’s until he nods in agreement. “But right now,” the hand on his shoulder squeezes him firmly, “you need to be with Christopher.”

Christopher.

Eddie knows he needs to be with his son. He feels an overwhelming urge to rush to Chris and be by his side, to hold him close and assure him that everything will be okay. Knows that a part of him won’t feel settled until he sees with his own eyes that Chris is safe.

But Buck is missing and Eddie feels this desperate need to be out searching for him. Like Buck is out there just waiting for Eddie to find him.

It feels like he’s a fork in the road and whatever path he takes will lead him away from someone he loves. And it’s tearing him apart because Eddie already knows what path he’s going to take. It’s the same path every parent would.

Christopher comes first.

Always.

And Eddie knows that Buck would make the same choice if their roles were reversed. Knows that he wouldn’t place any ill feelings on Eddie. But as Bobby directs the zodiac to the trauma centre, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s abandoning Buck.

No pressure tagging: @wikiangela @hippolotamus @spotsandsocks @wildlife4life @king-buckley @puppyboybuckley @watchyourbuck @weewootruck @exhuastedpigeon @elvensorceress @eddiebabygirldiaz @epicbuddieficrecs @evanbegins @rainbow-nerdss @rewritetheending @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @athenagranted @steadfastsaturnsrings @thewolvesof1998 @try-set-me-on-fire @theotherbuckley @princessfbi @prettyboybuckley @devirnis @donationwayne @disasterbuckdiaz @fiona-fififi @fortheloveofbuddie @giddyupbuck @glorious-spoon @hoodie-buck @homerforsure @honestlydarkprincess @jeeyuns @jesuisici33 @lover-of-mine @ladydorian05 @loserdiaz @captain-hen @bekkachaos @spagheddiediaz @malewifediaz @nmcggg @monsterrae1 and anyone else who wants to share something ❤️

[bow-of-aros]

If you’re still taking prompts, maybe some curtwen? Your choice of lee

I saved this for when I was done with my current spies are forever instalment which took a bit longer than expected. It clocks in at 3k words and features some lovely lee!curt content for you, fresh off the grill <33

[moths-in-hats]

🌹🌹🌹

After deciding the sleeping arrangements (Scott, Stiles, Lydia and Malia in the bedrooms and Mason, Corey, Liam and Theo downstairs), the pack spent some time in the nearby river but once back that evening, everybody was too tired from the swimming and the car journey for anything more exciting than a comfortable dinner and sleep. Liam flopped down onto the one he and Theo were sharing for the night with little regard to the fact Theo was already in it. "So… Theobald?" He asked. "It's Theodore," Theo replied, fully used to Liam's aggressive physicality by now. "And it's just Theo. Theodore is only used by doctors and disappointed parents." From the corner of his eye, Theo saw the cogs turning in Liam's mind. Liam replied, "Ted?" "No." Theo shut him down firmly. "Teddy?" "No." Theo shut him down even more firmly. "Dore?"  "What?" "Dory?" "Definitely not." "Hmm…" Theo rolled his eyes. “I’ll find a nickname for you by the end of the trip,” Liam promised. Theo turned away from Liam and pulled the blanket up. Liam huffed but let Theo try to fall asleep.

[ionomycin]

my favorite pieces from 2024

[katsinspats]

Thematically appropriate comic for Make a Terrible Comic Day!!

I saw the original post this morning and it made me get out of bed to make something, so thank u Pseudonym Jones mission accomplished

[aur0raaura]

Yknow what- you're so right...

[otaku553]

Fire (part 3)

<- (PREV) (NEXT) ->

(Spade Pirate Sabo AU Masterpost)

[electrozeistyking]

"She's Gone"

This bad boy was started on the third of November, and finished on the seventh. In total, there are thirty panels (all of which were drawn separately).

A good chunk of N's dialogue near the end came to me after I did some improv to figure out what he should say. I have since dubbed it "N's Failure Monologue."

[coquexari]

Don't tell me you're not the same person.

[spacebubblehomebase]

"A New Day Will Dawn."

-Said some guy named Luke probably.

Welcome to my #HHStargazersAU! Stay Tuned~♡? -Bubbly💙

[florencebirdsong]

Healer Knows Best

Agatha Harkness x Reader

Healer AU - Chapter 1/3

Summary: you have a problem you can’t ignore anymore. The local healer, Agatha Harkness, is more than happy to help.

Tags: naive reader, virgin reader, first time, fingering, medical play, good girl, R is horny and doesn't have the words for it, no pronouns used for R, R is told it doesn’t counts as sex but does says yes to Agatha’s fingers so dubious consent, manipulation, corruption kink

masterlist | ao3

Authors note: dark grey Agatha my beloved

You knock on the healer’s door and wring your hands nervously as you wait for her to answer. Half of you hopes she isn’t home and the other hopes she is. Your problem is embarrassing but you know if she isn’t here now you won’t find the courage to return. Which means the feeling will only get worse.

She opens the door and you struggle to bury the relief and anxiety. Her beauty is startling and you curse your affliction for noticing. Her hair is braided back out of her face, a few strands escaping. The sunlight brings out the detail in her blue eyes.

“Healing or ingredients?” she asks.

You force yourself to look at the ground instead of staring.

“Healing please,” you say, forcing some strength into your voice.

“Very well,” she opens the door wider. “What seems to be the problem?” she asks as she leads you inside the small cottage. 

It’s every surface is crowded with materials and ingredients and tools. You look around nervously. This is the first time you’ve been to see the healer by yourself. You haven’t even been inside before. She doesn’t offer you a seat. She stops in front of the bench that has the most space on it, a mortar and pestle front and centre.

“It’s…um a bit embarrassing,” you say.

“Now, now, dear, I’ve been doing this for decades. There’s nothing I haven’t heard. Or seen,” she adds with a wink.

Something flutters in your stomach and it only makes the feeling worse. 

“It’s about,” you hesitate and then gesture vaguely to your lower stomach.

“Is something wrong with your monthly? Pain worse than usual?” She begins to move items around on the table.  

You cross your arms around yourself. You knew you’d have to explain it for her to be able to help but that doesn’t mean you were able to make yourself prepare for it. 

“It’s not that,” you say. “But it’s-it’s the same thing.”

The word is too vulgar. She turns back around.

“Thing? If it’s not your monthly then how can it be the same thing?”

“I mean,” you fluster, “It’s the same area.”

“You mean your cunt?” she asks bluntly. You gape at her. “This is a medical environment. Use the proper terms.”  You continue to gape at her but she doesn’t seem phased.  “What’s happening to your cunt?”

You gather yourself as best as you can.

“It-“

“My cunt,” she cuts you off. You look at her, lost. “Say it. I told you to use the proper terms. Say my cunt,” she makes a continue gesture.

“M-my cunt,” you force out and the smile she gives you in return warms you and makes that feeling grow, “feels…,” you hadn’t thought this far ahead, “weird.” You settle on.

“Weird how?” Her eyes trail down your form. “Itchy. Hot. Tingling. Wet?” 

She steps closer with every word. You swallow harshly and look anywhere but at her.

“Um, tingling. And the last one,” you say quickly. 

“Is there a colour to this wetness?” She asks, close enough to accidentally brush against. 

You shake your head.

“I see,” she says and her eyebrows furrow a little.

“You see?” your ask worriedly at her expression. “You see what?”

“It’s probably nothing,” she tries to wave you off.

It doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels like you’re going to go crazy. 

“But if it isn’t nothing, then what would it be?” your hands twist anxiously in the skirt of your dress.

“I can’t be sure yet. Hop up,” she taps the empty batch. You hesitate before lifting yourself to sit on the edge. “Now, this can be a little awkward but I need to be sure.”

“What can be awkward?” you ask as she steps closer.

She taps the inside of your knees and you open them without really thinking. She steps between them and you stare up at her with wide eyes. She’s close. Close enough that she’s the only thing you can see. 

Her hand grasps the bottom of your dress and you stare up at her with wide eyes. She doesn’t look away as she lifts the skirt of your dress to your hips.

“What are you doing?” you ask, sounding breathless.

“I need to check for myself. There’s no point upsetting you if it’s nothing.”

“You’re going to…?” you can’t bring yourself to say it.

“I’m going to touch your cunt. Yes.”

You swallow harshly, your mouth suddenly dry. You don’t stop her when she pushes your legs further apart or when she begins to pull down your underwear. You try not to squirm. She’s a healer. Like she said, she’s seen everything. There’s nothing to be embarrassed or nervous about. It’s still hard not to be when she finally looks at you there. 

“There’s no visual indications, which is a good sign, but I won’t be able to know until I touch,” two fingers stop inches from where you’re dripping and she looks up at you, “May I?”

There’s a look on her face you don’t have the name for you. You nod and her fingers gently run through your soaking folds. You gasp at the unfamiliar feeling. You look up at the ceiling when you realise it feels good. You don’t want the healer to see it on your face. 

Her fingers run lower and your hips twitch as they run over that special spot you’re not meant to touch. She does it again with a bit more pressure and your hand flies to your mouth to stifle the embarrassing noise trying to escape it.

“Good,” she murmurs quietly to herself.

You think it’s over until she runs her finger higher and touches that thing. That sensitive something that you’ve only ever brushed. You can’t help gasping at the tingle it sparks. Agatha’s eyes lock onto you.

“Did that hurt?” she asks.

“No,” your voice cracks. “But it felt weird.”

“What about this?” Her finger circles and you cling to the table. “How does this feel?”

“I don’t-I don’t know. I-“ 

She presses down on that spot and the jolt it sends through you makes you close your legs. Her hips stop you. She sighs and pulls her hand away. You aren’t sure if you’re meant to be so upset about it.

“Did that make the feeling stronger?”

“Yes,” you manage to say.

“It’s not as bad as I thought.”

“It’s not?” you ask hopefully. 

“No pain crosses out a couple options. The treatment will be easier that way.”

You relax for the first time. An easy treatment means the thing happening to you will be over soon.

“Do I take something or is it a paste?” you ask, hoping you brought enough money. 

 “Have you ever been with someone, dear?” she asks, ignoring your question.

“Yes.” Of course you have, you aren’t a hermit. You have friends and there’s always those yearly family gatherings. You aren’t sure how a person can go through life without being with someone else. Wouldn’t you die as a baby?

Agatha raises an eyebrow and studies your expression. You shift uncomfortably.

“Let me put it a different way,” she says and her hands land on your thighs.  “Have you ever been fucked?”

“I-excuse me?” you stutter.

“It’s a simple question, dear. One I need answered as your healer.” 

“I’m not married,” you say.

“So? That doesn’t mean you’ve never snuck off with another girl and let her fool around under your skirts.”

You’re so embarrassed that you feel like you’re going to die.

“Only your spouse is allowed to touch you under there,” you murmur.  “And healers,” you quickly add on.  

The look she gives you is almost amused.

“So that’s a no?” she asks and you nod your head. “I didn’t think so,” she says.

You watch, confused, as she moves to the other side of the room and picks up a small purple jar. She returns to her spot between your thighs, you didn’t even think to close them. She takes off the lid and tilts the jar towards you.

You peer in curiously at the jar. The gel inside of it is clear and you can’t smell anything.

“You’ll need to apply this twice a day,” she says. When she doesn’t say where or how much you ask. “In your cunt, dear.”

“In?”

“It can be a little uncomfortable for someone who hasn’t been touched there before,” she says sympathetically.

She hands you the jar and you stare down at it with wide eyes.

“How far in?” Is the first thing you can think of. 

She snorts a little and you look up at her.

“All the way, dear.”

“How-how deep-“

She grasps your shaking hands. 

“How about I administer the first dose?”

Your stomach twists. The feeling that’s been haunting you grows.

“Yes, please,” you don’t want to do it wrong.

You watch, almost entranced, as she takes the jar and dips two fingers into the liquid. She swirls them around for a few moments before scooping some out. She runs her fingers over you the spot you aren’t allowed to touch and you gasp at the cool feeling. One finger gently circles your entrance.

“I’ll go easy on you,” she murmurs.

She begins to slowly push one finger inside of you and you cling desperately to the table. The feeling is new and strange and you feel a slight stretching sensation. You look up from the strange, exciting image of a finger entering you to find Agatha focused solely on your face, analysing your every reaction. Embarrassment runs through you but can’t bring yourself to look away. Your breathing is heavy and it’s hard to think about anything other than her.

She pulls out before she’s all the way inside of you and you whimper at the sudden empty feeling. You’re surprised at how heavily you’re breathing and how desperately you want her back inside of you. 

“You’re tighter than I thought,” Agatha says, her voice now has a rougher edge to it. “I’m going to need to use more fingers to properly coat your insides.” 

“More?” your voice cracks and you try to hide how eager you are.

“It’ll feel the same as before,” she reassures as her fingers return to your entrance. “Just a bit tighter.”

She doesn’t give you time to question, she pushes two wet fingers inside of you. She’s just as slow as the first time and you fight yourself to keep still as every inch makes that feeling inside of you grow.

“It’s making it worse,” you gasp. 

You thought the mixture was meant to stop this feeling inside of your cunt.

“Take it,” she says warningly and you whimper. “This won’t work if we can’t get it deep enough and you need to be wide open for me to do that.”

You don’t fight as she pushes deeper.  You cling to her shoulders and try to open your legs wider, hoping that will help with the stretch. You whimper when she gets to her second knuckle and you can feel the shiver that runs through her at the sound.

“Good girl, almost there,” she says. 

The name makes the tingling spread and you desperately hope she calls you it again.

Her fingers stop and you look down. They’re fully inside of you. It makes the feeling grow more and you have to focus on staying still to not embarrass yourself further.

“Is that it?” you ask, a slight whimper to your words.

“Not quite,” Agatha says, she’s got a smile on her face you haven’t seen before but it quickly transforms back into her professional mask. “We have to make sure it’s spread evenly.”

“How-”

She pulls her fingers half-way out before pushing back into you. A noise you’ve never made before escapes you. There’s a look on her face that you don’t have time to question as she does it again. And again and again. You try to count how many times she moves in and out of you to distract yourself from the wave of pleasure growing and growing inside of you. It doesn’t work. All you can concentrate on is the feeling of her fingers. How good it feels every time she thrusts back into you. How much you don’t want her to stop.

“I’m not deep enough,” she says and your confusion comes out in a whimper. It feels like she is. It feels like she’s reached the deepest part of you. “I’ll have to use another finger.”

“I-I can’t take that much,” you say with a slight whine.

Two fingers feel good, they feel so good but the idea of her adding another scares you. Two barely fit. Yet the memory of how the stretch turned into spine-tingling pleasure has you willing to take anything she gives you.

“You will,” she says and slips in her third finger without anymore warning. 

Your cry quickly turns to a moan as the feeling inside of you intensifies. Agatha makes a small sound when she looks down at her hand. She slows down and your hips buck in protest. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t feeling overwhelmingly good.

She curls her fingers and that feeling triples.

“Something’s happening,” you say in a high pitched voice.

“Let it,” Agatha says, the reassurance from before gone as she concentrates solely on her fingers. She curls them again and hits something deep inside of you. You throw your head back and moan as that feeling snaps and your body floods with pleasure. It pulses inside of you in a never ending loop.

 Agatha slows down but doesn’t stop until your exhausted body tilts forward and leans against her.

She gently pulls out and you make a protesting noise. The feeling of being so empty upsetting after being full for the first time. She chuckles quietly and wipes off her wet fingers on your thigh. 

She quietly lets you get your strength back. Hands firmly holding you but not caressing. Your breathing is steadier when you pull back but it hitches at the look on her face. Her pupils are blown and she almost seems to be drinking you in with her eyes.

“Good,” she says and steps back. You feel a little lost. Agatha wipes her hand on a clean rag before picking up the jar again. “Repeat every two days. Let’s say, six times.”

You nod mutely and take the jar. You don’t get up. You don’t think your legs can hold you just yet.

“What happened at the end…” you trail off hoping Agatha will fill in the rest. She doesn’t. “Was I-was it supposed to?”

Agatha huffs a laugh.

“Yes, dear,” she says, “You needed to for the mixture to take effect properly.”

“Oh,” the tight hold embarrassment has loosens. Then anxiety takes hold. “Does that mean I need to do that?”

“Yes,” Agatha says with a secret smile. 

You swallow nervously.

“Like how you did it?”

“There are a few other ways but I don’t think you’re ready for that.”

You nod and fiddle nervously with the jar as you try to imagine pushing your own fingers inside of you. The idea isn’t unpleasant. You’re more worried about someone discovering you. Will they believe that a healer has told you to? How are you meant to prove otherwise if they don’t? Drag them down to Agatha? If they really believe you’re breaking such a rule they won’t give you time to do so.

Agatha must see the look on your face.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Lock the door, pull up your dress. It shouldn’t take too long with how sensitive you are,” she says and you fluster at her crassness. “Don’t be afraid to come back if you need some help with applying the mixture.”

You nod meekly and take the jar.

“I will.”

Chapter Two

[rosurie]

sometimes after a long day of being molested by the whole town all you need is to soak in the bath with your bestie (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)♡

with @wreckowafer 's yunie <3

[casualavocados]

Chen Bowen as CHEN YI & Chiang Tien as AI DI KISEKI: DEAR TO ME (2023) behind the scenes

[harbours-lighthouse]

this might be very self indulgent, but what about Jason with a reader who has terrible period cramps. like so bad they pass out from the pain. they just go to the toilet and suddenly it gets so bad they tumble to the floor, moaning in pain until their body just gives out. (yes this is me, no i am not okay)

he won't let me break apart (jason todd x f!reader)

author's note — hi, love :) thank you for sending in your request. i really hope your cramps have eased since you sent this in; mine can get quite brutal too so you're definietly not alone in the experience. make sure to drink lots of water and get some rest, and a hot water-bottle or shower does wonders. i hope i did this justice, and that you enjoy. hopefully jaybird brings you some comfort <3

content warning — semi-graphic description of period cramps; mentioning of painkillers (panadol is the same as tylenol); general bodily discomfort.

est. word count — 2.5k

You can’t breathe, and it’s three in the morning. Seated on the edge of your bed, you hug your stomach tightly. The pain is bright and bursting, stabbing through your abdomen with a ferocity that leaves you sucking in sharp breaths. But your lungs feel clenched, as if your body is inwardly bracing for each punch of pain. 

Period cramps aren’t uncommon to you, but this feels different. This feels like someone is thrusting a knife straight through your gut over and over, viciously. 

The thought of getting Panadol briefly strikes you, and you slowly stand on unsteady legs. The gritty wool of the carpet feels rough against your feet, and you shuffle through the inky darkness of your room. 

“Oh, geez…” your hand smacks against the doorframe to your bedroom, your body halfway out into the hallway. The black and white tiles are cold, gleaming under pale light from the singular window at the end of the hallway. 

Sucking in a shattered breath, you squeeze your eyes shut and let the sharpness of the pain fade back into a steady, pulsing ache. You don’t bother turning on the hallway light, knowing that the dull pain in your temple will erupt into a piercing headache. 

Reaching the small, dim bathroom feels like an eternity, your feet sluggish and your eyes bleary. The thought of a warm shower flickers in your mind, and you feel as if your skin is begging for heat, for something to soothe the agony. 

Dropping to your knees in front of the square cabinet beneath the sink, you pull the doors open and hear the hinges squeak in protest. Blinking, you try to make out the shape of the box of Panadol, and just as you do and reach out for it, your abdomen twists violently. 

Gasping, your hand drops to slap against the tiles, and you let out an audible whine, the sound broken inside the cramped bathroom. If it weren’t for the long, rectangular window above the shower, you would have thought the sound made the shower curtains quiver, and not the wisp of wind drifting through a crack in the glass. 

Your breathing feels rushed, erratic as you try to focus on the chill of the floor beneath your palm, the biting edge of the grout lines against your knees. But the ebbing of pain doesn’t come, and instead, a wave of nausea floods over you. 

Scrambling, your hands fly towards the rim of the toilet, fingers shaking as you curl over the porcelain. Bile bubbles in the back of your throat, your stomach churns. Though you’re ready to double over and vomit what little you were able to eat before bed, nothing comes. Frustration burns inside you. 

Tears spring to your eyes, and you can’t tell if it’s because you’re angry or because of the pain—perhaps both. Gritting your teeth, it feels as if the pain is compressing down on you, enveloping you in a tight grip that you can’t escape from. You’re so focused on the sting in your throat and the throb in your gut that you don’t hear the window in your living room sliding open, nor the soft thud of boots hitting the bare floors. 

Everything is too hot and too cold at the same time. Your stomach unclenches for a brief, respiteful moment, and you suck in a rattling breath. The corners of your eyes are blurred by warm tears.

“Sweetheart?” 

You shriek, your body jerking and nearly slamming into the side of the bathtub. The rapid movement of your body and the painful flutter of your heart sends your abdomen spasming with hot pain. Your chin dips and your teeth ache, and a croaked whimper escapes past your cracked lips. 

“J-Jason?” 

Heat vibrates from Jason’s body as he crouches beside you in a swift flash of movement, and large, warm hands reach for you before flinching back, unsure if he should touch you. 

“(Name)? What’s wrong?” Jason’s voice is hushed, but there’s a sharp edge to it. Worry bounces inside his chest, his fingers feel suddenly cold. He’s never seen you like this—bent and curled inward like a dying animal, eyes misty as they lift upward and find him. 

You want to feel humiliated, disgusted by the state you’re in and the fact that Jason is seeing you like this—but you can’t. The sight of his blue eyes dark with confusion and concern sends relief surging through you. You hadn’t realised how much you were craving him. How much you needed him. 

“Jay…” the word is choked around another spasm of pain, and your hands shake as you reach for him. Jason doesn’t stop himself this time, and his hands bring you to him. 

“Sweetheart, tell me what’s wrong, please—” 

“Cramps,” you gasp out into his shoulder, fingers gripping tightly onto the creases of his leather jacket. He smells like gunpowder and ash, dried blood and soap—your soap. Jason’s eyes flutter closed as he breathes a sigh of relief against your scalp; he hates that you’re hurting, he can’t bear the sight of you in pain, but at least it’s something natural, and not something someone had done to you, or something you had done to yourself.

He can feel you shaking in his hold, and he splays his hand against your back. He can feel the knobs of your spine as he rubs up and down, and even through the thin fabric of your sleep-shirt, he can feel how cold you are.

“You should have called me,” he says quietly, his voice rumbling inside the bathroom. He tightens his hold on you, caging you inside his warmth.

The thought had occurred to you before, to call his burner phone and ask him to come over, but you had buried that thought away just as quickly as it had come. You were not going to tear Jason away from his nightly duty, the work he does out on Gotham’s dirtiest streets. This city needs him, and you’ve handled period cramps like this before.

“Jason,” you push your face into his neck, ignoring his comment, “can you—I’m sorry—can you bring me Panadol?”

Jason glances at the open cabinet, and then the scratched lightswitch on the wall next to the door. For a moment, he thinks to switch on the light in order to find the painkillers, but your strained breathing dashes that thought away. 

Shifting with one arm still curled around you, he stretches his other arm out and fumbles around for the box of Panadol inside the cabinet. It’s hard to find it, the bathroom still dark, but the pale light from the window is enough for him to make out the shape of the box. 

He brings his arm back, snaking it around you, and his hands work at the small of your back, fingers pulling out a foil sheet and pushing two pills out into his gloved palm. 

You bite back another whine as a burst of pain skewers through you, shoulders hunching forward. The urge to cry grows stronger, and you want to bury yourself into Jason, drown in his warmth. 

A finger lightly taps close to your ear, which isn’t the nicest feeling as a headache threatens to cross the line of bearable to down-right splitting. Lifting your head away from the shelter of his neck, you take the gleaming white pills laid out on display in Jason’s palm. Your fingertips graze the thick, tightly-woven fabric of his gloves, and even that radiates heat.

Bracing yourself, you tip your head back and down the pills raw, feeling Jason’s gaze resting heavily on the dark shadows of your face. You mutter a small, ‘thank you’, your voice cutting out and dropping to a whisper. 

Jason’s fingers deftly reach upwards, and brush away the strands of hair that have fallen across your face. 

“Baby,” he murmurs, the gruffness of his voice subdued and gentle, “what else do you need?” 

Jason doesn’t know how to handle this—he’s never been forced into this situation before. But you’re you, and he knows he’ll do anything, you just need to point him in the right direction. 

Inhaling sharply, you feel the dregs of nausea begin to ease away, like dirt disappearing down a drain. Jason’s hands are heavy, warm. The ache in your abdomen throbs, and you want to simply fall into Jason and close your eyes. You want to wake up again when the pain is gone. 

“Just hold me,” you whisper, and Jason’s heart splits open. The desperation in your voice is subtle, but intense. You sound like you’re battling demons and not just agonising cramps. 

The muscles beneath Jason’s jacket flex as he scoops you up, and the jostling of your body has you whimpering softly, though you try to bite back the sound. 

“M’sorry, sweetheart—sorry,” Jason soothes beneath his breath, his large frame moving out of the doorway and down the hall. It’s still dark, not even dawn has reached its pale fingers into the sky yet. You hold onto Jason tighter, not bothering to keep track of where he’s taking you. 

Your body is softly dropped onto the cream cushions of your couch, and for a moment, you feel Jason pull away from you. Your hands shoot out against your will, fingers grasping for purchase on his jacket as your stomach churns. 

“Jason—”

“It’s okay,” Jason reassures, his body pausing in movement. His fingers move to wrap around your wrist, and he can feel your pulse beneath his thumb. It’s erratic, like the violent beating of a bird’s wings. 

“I’m just getting a blanket, okay?” 

You stare at Jason’s face, gaze flickering across his strong features—but it’s his eyes you’re truly studying in the pale light that barely filters into your living room.

“I’ll be back,” he whispers softly, his free hand reaching to the back of your head and pulling you forward lightly. He presses his lips firmly to your forehead, though it’s achingly soft at the same time. You visibly relax, and you let Jason’s touch slip away from you. 

You shift to lay comfortably on the couch, wincing as your abdomen clenches. You can hear Jason’s footsteps along the floorboards, the thud of his boots, and the sound of a cupboard door groaning open. Most of the hinges in your apartment are old, grimey and loud. 

When Jason returns, there’s a bundle of wool in his hands, and you recognise it as the blanket you bought while you were both out shopping in Gotham’s Upper Districts. The colour looks nearly black in the darkness, but you know that it’s a rich green, reminiscent of moss. 

Jason fans the blanket across you, and you thank him quietly. The fabric isn’t warm yet, but it feels soft against your chilled skin.

“Jay?” you crane your neck upward, and Jason’s already moving before you ask him to. Gently nudging you further against the back of the couch, Jason maneuvers himself to slot against you. He’s taken off all of his holsters and guns already, getting rid of any hard ridges that might dig into your skin painfully.

“You wanna try and get some sleep?” Jason asks, voice lowered. You’ve nestled into his side, and you hum with a small nod. 

For a moment, all you can hear is Jason’s breathing, the way each exhalation of air brushes against your temple. His fingertips graze against your arm, the touch fleeting like butterfly wings. You can feel the ache in your abdomen pulse, and you glance down at his hands. Gently, you bring one of them up to you, pinching the fabric between your thumb and pointer finger, and you tug his glove off. Jason doesn’t say anything, though his eyes follow your movements, his brows pulled inward. 

Then realisation dawns on him as you drop his hand against your stomach. Pulling you tighter against him, he dips his hand under your shirt, and presses his palm against your abdomen. His skin is warm, rough. Calluses live under his skin, but the feeling is comforting to you. 

“Feel okay?” Jason asks, and you nod. 

“Yeah. You’re warm.” 

Satisfaction bubbles inside him, and he hums quietly. The rise and fall of his chest is steady, consistent. His arms are caged around you, trapping you in a cocoon of heat. Though pain prickles under your skin, shooting through your abdomen as if something were piercing through your intestines, you let yourself surrender to the feeling of Jason, rather than the ache inside you. 

You hear Jason murmur your name, and you shift just enough to tilt your head up to him, your cheek resting on his breastbone. 

“Hm?”

There’s something hard inside his eyes, like he’s thinking about something troubling—something that hurts. It sends your chest clenching this time, rather than your stomach, and you wonder if you’ve done something wrong, if he’s uncomfortable with helping you like this. 

You’re about to open your mouth and utter some sort of apology, but he beats you to it. 

“Call me next time, okay?” 

There’s nothing in his tone that offers the chance of refusal or protest. His brows pinch forward, the frown lines between them deepened. It dawns on you that you’ve hurt him by not calling, by not reaching for him when you needed his comfort. 

Guilt gnaws against you, and tears spring to your eyes because it all feels like too much. The pain, the shame and humiliation of being seen like this, the guilt that’s flooded through you. It's too much. 

“I’m sorry—”

“No,” Jason cuts you off, his free hand, the one not pressing against your stomach, curls around your jaw, thumb brushing against your cheek. The touch sends your skin prickling, your heart jumping. 

“I’m not asking you to be sorry,” he says, “I’m just asking you to call me next time, okay? I—(Name)—I want to help you.” 

The first tear falls, and it’s hot against your skin. It’s not given the chance to linger though, as Jason brushes it away swiftly, as if the sight of you crying personally offends him. 

You feel him bend a little, neck stretched forward to place another sweet kiss against your forehead. That does linger, the warmth of his mouth, and you sink further into him. 

“I promise—” you croak out, “I promise I’ll call you next time.” 

There’s a deep inhale from Jason. His lips then move against your skin, his breath warm. 

“Good.” 

His fingers flex against your stomach, and the room dives into silence. It doesn’t weigh down on either of you, and it’s broken by the inner groans of the apartment, the outside noise of the city—cars cruising down streets, shouts floating along the wind, sirens wailing distantly. 

You don’t fall asleep instantly, nor does Jason. You both lay with your eyes hooded, open and watchful of the shadows that drift across the room, but your skin feels warm, and the pain starts to ebb away as time passes, like a scar softly closing over. 

thank you for reading, God bless <3

© harbours-lighthouse

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