#my naomi fic

[mediumgayitalian]

“What are your parameters for loving me?”

Careful to keep her head locked forward, Naomi glances over at her son. Will’s picked-bloody fingernails scrabble at the worn bandage around his wrist, twisting until his knuckles turn white. The car shakes with his violently bouncing leg, out of time with the shuddering engine and rumbling dust roads under the wheels.

“There aren’t any.”

“There have to be — some.” The bandage is longer than she thought, unspooled in his lap. He winds it back up again quickly, hands blurring; darting around his wrist, tapping on his knees, flexing and locking, flexing and locking. “I mean, what if I became a misogynist?”

She snorts. “I think you’re good, honey.”

“No, Mom, what if? Think about it for real. You’d stop loving me, right?”

“I might knock you around a bit, but it’d pretty hard to stop loving you completely,” she teases. She pinches the stubbornly-clinging baby fat of his cheeks between her knuckles, ruffling his hair when he ducks away.

“Seriously, Mama.”

“I dunno, Will. I’d send you to work for your Auntie Di for a while, probably. Reckon she’d straighten you out good.”

“Okay.” He nods, twice to himself, chewing on his lip. The bandage is wrapped around his elbow, now, pulled tight enough that she can hear the groan of his joints. “Okay. What if I killed someone?”

“Be a pretty hefty secret for the two of us.”

“An innocent person. Cold blood, just because I wanted to.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I could, Mom. People are — unpredictable.” He picks at a hole in his shorts until it’s wide enough to slide three fingers through, pulling the bandage in after them. It looks yellowed next to the green of the fabric, worn. “Sometimes you think you know someone but you don’t.”

“I know you.”

She pushes on her turn signal, slowing to a near stop. Will’s twitching fingers unconsciously synch up, cri-tap, cri-tap, cri-tap. The rusted rims groan as her tires amble around the bend, quieting as she lurches forward. They both duck as she hits a pothole, narrowly avoiding the warped ceiling.

“Cold blood, Mama.”

“I’d — it would scare me, I guess.” The next few potholes are smaller — she can avoid them with some manoeuvring. A mouse darts out onto the road, rushing out from the surrounding cornfields, and she slams on the break, thrusting her arm out to the passenger side. Will’s hands come to cup over her forearm as he slams into it, grunting softly. The mouse sprints across the rest of the road, tail swishing behind it, disappearing into the stalks. She settles back into her seat, brushing across Will’s seatbelt as she does, and presses the gas again. “More for you than of you. For what would happen if someone came knocking.”

“You wouldn’t report it?”

“No I wouldn’t report it, Will, Jesus.”

“But I — but I did something evil.”

“This is a hypothetical, baby.”

“And in the hypothetical. You’re —” He scrubs his hand down his face, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re a good person. You have — morals.”

“I’m a person, Will.” The GPS beeps at her — twenty-five miles to the Tennessee border. “And I’m a mother before that.”

“So if I — you would just — just like that? You’d — forgive me?”

“I’d love you,” she corrects.

“But you wouldn’t forgive me.”

She shrugs. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”

“So how do you know you’d still love me?”

“Because there’s nothing you could do, baby. I mean it.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Not even if I was a bully? Or a landlord? Or if I — liked boys?”

He says it quickly, or tries to, but he stumbles over his words, tripping over the syllables. Naomi sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, biting it hard.

“You would still love me, if I — if I —”

Keeping her movements steady, she removes her boot from the gas. Will glances, fast, at her tightening knuckles on the steering wheel, looking quickly away. She guides the car to the shoulder of the road, pulling into park, and kills the engine, unclipping her seatbelt and turning ninety degrees to face her son. Will crowds into the corner of the seat, hunching in on himself, shoulders tense and curling, hair failing over her lowered head.

“Oh, Will.”

His body shakes as she pulls him into her, hands trembling so bad they spasm, twitching out of the fists he makes. She shifts until both of her arms wrap tightly around her torso, ignoring the burn of the trench, tucking his forehead into her collarbone, dropping her lips to press against his temples, his cheeks, the crown of his head.

“It’s okay, baby.”

“It’s — not. I’m still, I can still —”

“Sh.” His tears drip onto her shirt, her skin. He chokes back a sob and she tightens, reflexively, pulling his whole body even closer to her, somehow, making space for his too-long legs, knees hitting his chest, feet dangling off the seat, gearshift shoved into his thigh. His chest heaves with the effort of keeping his cries locked up in his throat, hidden behind clenched teeth, squeezed shut eyes. His fingers cling onto her shirt, twisting the fabric so hard it warps. Her own fingers clutch desperately at the ridges of his spine, the inside of his elbow; squeezing, holding, bruising. His voice is rough as raw grit and reedy as pond scum, barely above a whisper.

“I like boys, Mama.”

“I heard you.” She rests her forehead on his shoulder, her own breaths shuddering. “I heard you, sweetheart.”

“I like — a boy.”

“Okay.”

“For a long time.”

Her swallow constricts her throat, shoving the air back in her lungs. How long, she cannot bring herself to ask — when was it, exactly, that he decided he could not trust her with this? When did she lose that privilege? Was it when he started protecting her from the pain in his life, or before? When he lost everyone close to him at once, or when he broke down and told her about it? When was she no longer the person he ran to when he was scared, nervous, afraid?

He used to come to her for everything.

“I love you,” she whispers, voice wet as it slides against the lump in her throat. She squeezes him again, and this time, he squeezes back, pressing his face into her skin. “Will Solace, you are what keeps me going, do you understand that? Come up here, baby, look at me.”

His eyes aren’t hers. He takes after his father, really; after his older brother once upon a time. But he speaks like she does and smiles like she does and stands like she does, and when he cries he gets that same look, like the ocean has emptied itself inside of him. She cradles both palms to his wet cheeks, thumbs pressing under his eyes, kissing his forehead, his cheekbones, wiping the tears away.

“Fifteen years long you’ve been the light of my life. I need you to understand that, Will. I have never loved anything like I love you and there will never be anyone who comes even close. There is no hypothetical, no situation, no anything that could change that. There are no parameters. None. You understand me?”

“Everything stops,” he croaks. “Everything has a limit.”

“Not me,” she says firmly. “You ain’t a baby no more, baby, but you’re gonna have to pretend for a moment that I know everything again. I am telling you that there is no boundary. And I am not giving you the option to disagree. You are my son and my sun and that’s final, Will. That’s final.”

His face crumples. She pulls him close again, sighing, letting him curl up in his lap like he’s ten years younger than he should be, instead of the ten years older he acts. She runs a hand through his knotted hair and another down his back and presses her lips to his temples, holding him every place she can reach, and rocks them, even though there’s no room to do it, humming slow and low under her breath.

“We’ll get there,” she promises, tapping a beat on his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Okay?”

He nods into her neck. “Okay.” His voice is small but not cowering, thankfully; small like he’s hiding in her instead of from her. She fights the urge to sag into him, to burst into tears of her own.

“I love you, Will. No matter what and forever.”

“I love you too, Mama.”

[bsdladiesweek]

🌸 BSD ladies week 2025 prompts 🌸

the prompts for BSD ladies week are here!!

you may mix and match prompts for each day as you see fit, and interpret them however you wish so long as your creations follow the rules. BSD ladies week will run january 19-25, 2025. for posting, please tag this account + use the tag #bsdladiesweek2025 so we can reblog everyone's works!

happy creating💗

rules || faq

plain text prompts under the cut ↓

prompt list: (dates are in month/day format)

day one (01/19): casual wear/dress up || found family || fantasy au

day two (01/20): baking/cooking || post-canon/post-season 5 || band/idol au

day three (01/21): ability || tending to wounds || swap au (role swap, organization swap, ability swap, etc.)

day four (01/22): girls’ night/group hangout || blood || school au

day five (01/23): disability/chronic illness || festival || pirate au

day six (01/24): unexpected friendship || arson || beast au

day seven (01/25): aquarium || hiding a body || vampire au OR free day

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter one: as it was

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Full Chapter List (Coming Soon) 🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter CW: Blood kink, masturbation, minor character death, Astarion being racist/hateful towards gnomes

A/N: This fic incorporates vampire bride lore and headcanons. Special thanks for the wonderful @locallegume for beta reading.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“Sometimes, however, the emotion may be close to what mortals classify as love. The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers. In these cases, the vampire might actually believe it is bestowing a gift when it turns the mortal into its bride - the gift of freedom from aging and death.”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

Come to me.

Astarion allows their connection to slacken. With each step she takes nearer to him, springy anticipation pulses through their bond. It’s not unlike the wag of a tail.

And the slow dawn of his smile behind the fan of his fingers isn’t so different from the sun peering between the clouds. The sight of his most precious pet stokes that same delectable warmth inside of him.

“My sweet sunlight,” he calls to her, “how was your trance?”

His voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling of the throne room. There’s enough space in the chamber to hold dozens, but there’s only seating for two. The lavish chair at Astarion’s left is vacant as it always is. And this morning, only one needy patriar comes to the Crimson Palace to pay its lord homage. Lord Ventris is stout for a human, with a face lined in age and a dark, well-manicured beard. His attention follows Astarion’s eyeline as the gilded doors at the head of the hall groan apart. 

Finer company comes his way, following the red runner that crosses the checkerboard marble. Naomi’s shift sways just past her knees. The silk robe draped over her shoulders hardly offers any modesty; she didn’t bother to cinch it.

“I was well,” she answers primly, “until I woke without you.”

Astarion adores her in that shade of mauve. It wakes the faint trace of pink in her cheeks, the flush that only blooms after she’s fed. There’s hardly any hint of it now. Astarion’s smile fades.

Lord Ventris balks, scandalized by the sight of those lithe, lilac legs striding past him. “My lady!”  

Naomi matches Astarion’s unflinching stare, a slight lift at the corner of her mouth. His heart skips to the soft sound of her bare feet climbing the dais.

“It’s nearly midday,” Ventris prattles on, “surely some shoes, at least slippers--”

“Are you worried I might step on something sharp?” Her voice is steel as she stops, her cheek only halfway turned.

“I-I’m merely expressing benign concern. Not many drow hold title here, so perhaps you’re uneducated on the typical decorum befitting your husband’s house. But--”

“You shouldn’t worry so much. This is my home. I know exactly where all the sharp things are.”

Astarion pats his thigh expectantly. Like a sword to a sheath, Naomi slides into her customary place in his lap. He lets out a long, satisfied sigh while she settles against him. Her smile curves against his collar. 

To Ventris, he snaps, “Our house is the reason why you still have one. And I understand it’s a further favor you came here to ask. Do get on with it.”

“I-- “ he stammers, “of course, Lord Ancunín. As I was saying, you’ve invested greatly in the city’s revival, in the restoration of so many of our most prized institutions. I know you recognize the value of legacy, and its role in the renewed prosperity of the Gate. The preservation of its eldest, most distinguished lineages…”

Ventris speaks as he’s commanded, but Astarion doesn’t deem to listen. His head dips to the fine edge of Naomi’s ear, nosing past a stray wave of ivory hair hanging free of her bun. His arm winds her waist, clutching her close.

“Are you well now, darling? Now that I’ve remedied my wrongs?” 

Naomi hums contentedly, eyes shut, head tucked into the crook of his neck. And yet, he’s acutely aware of the disquiet lurking at the fringes of her happiness, circling their safe haven like a mangy dog seeking scraps.

“I think not,” Astarion murmurs darkly. “You're hungry, aren’t you, sweet thing?” His fingers stroke beneath her chin and guide her gaze to his. 

Even as the ascendant, he can’t curtail her hunger entirely. He can only see to it that she never feels it for more than a moment.

“Only as much as you allow me to be,” she says, batting her eyes open again. There’s a glimmer of laughter in them, among his favorite shade of cherry. He expected her eyes to change color when she turned, but he hadn’t expected she’d keep a tinge of her former violet. A lovely surprise.

You’re full of surprises, he’d told her once, when they were only just beginning. Aren’t you?

Astarion had known he was making a bride, and not simply a spawn, the night she knelt for him. He’d known they’d be bound for eternity. Aeterna Amantes. As it should be. As it was always meant to be.

As it will be. Forever.

But how was he to know how heady her delight would feel, when it fluttered like a hummingbird from her mind to his? How intoxicating her submission would taste, when he could witness the very moment her thoughts bent for him, feel her mind yield before her body gave way exactly the way he wanted? 

Without compulsion. Without question. Without barriers. With a bond like theirs, nothing between them is secret and all of it is sacred.

Perhaps accounts of other such unions exist. But there’s never been a vampire ascendant before; there’s never been an ascendant bride, either. None of the crusted scrolls he inherited from Cazador could’ve warned him how utterly offensive her slightest discomfort would come to feel.

That he’d feel it exactly as his own discomfort.

“How could I sit idle while my precious treasure starves?” He implores her with a blooming pout. “What manner of husband would I be, hm?”

Ventris, on the other hand, seems to have forgotten his manners entirely. He dares a step towards the dais, volume rising with the red in his cheeks.

“...and so I ask you, Lord Ancunín, what manner of philanthropist makes donations to some Sharran sanctuary? Hasn’t this city seen enough fanatics? They say those cultists have a new compound, thanks to you! And the Upper City has a new, so-called theater in your so-called lady’s name! Well, sir, I see no lady here! And that should tell you what opinion I have of that den of debauchery she’s opened!”

Astarion arches a brow. Ventris’ lower lip quivers as he babbles on.

“And you build all of this while my own house remains half-ruined! It was a proud estate before that business with the brain. Curious how all of my neighbors managed to escape the worst of the debris. Curious how they’ve already rebuilt what was broken!”

Naomi raises her head, surveying Ventris lazily. Astarion hears her effortlessly, as if the words were said aloud. Were you going to kill him with or without me? 

Astarion’s answer is honest, if not innocent at all. You’d be fed either way. It’s simply a happy accident.

“It’s quite simple, Ventris,” Astarion shrugs. “You’re not necessary. Your daughter will marry that sweetheart of hers that you hate so much, what’s remaining of your pride will be inherited by their heirs, and the world will be better for it. Without you and those gaudy pillars in the way of what should be a pretty sea view from the Upper City.  A pity the mindflayers didn’t finish leveling your estate. Though, I suppose they made the job easier.”

“How dare you!” Ventris fumes, spittle flecking his beard. “I’ll have your name dragged through the streets! The city will know you spent coin on the Sharrans-- and that gods forsaken whorehouse--”

“You won’t. Besides, Grand Duke Ravengard already knows. He’ll suppress any slander because he knows every other patriar is in my pocket. After all, their own coffers are so pitifully empty these days. That’s why you’re here, Ventris. To beg.”

Ventris shrivels into his ill-fitted suit coat. Astarion’s free hand curls around the armrest of his throne.

“So I’ll say it a second time,” Astarion sneers, “There won’t be a third. Get on with it.”

“I--” Ventis stammers, cheeks purpled with indignation. “You won’t get away with--”

Naomi snaps her fingers. Violet light sparks between them. “On your knees.”

It’s not the kind of compulsion Astarion can wield, but a spell that works in the same vein. Ventris drops with a shrill cry, kneecaps crunching against the hard stone. 

Naomi slinks from his lap. Astarion catches her hand as she goes, brushing a kiss to her knuckles. The faint, lingering thrum of her magic tingles pleasantly against his lips.

She stalks forward, predatory. As her hands slip from his, her robe slips from her shoulders, pooling like spilled wine at her heels. Ventris quivers, a little leaf buffeted by the wind, but he can’t flee. And he still can’t help himself from staring, ogling at what isn’t his. 

Astarion’s grip on the armrest tightens to a chokehold.

Sunlight slices the room in brilliant rays, as righteous as any flaming sword. And in it, Naomi is scintillating. The sheer fabric of her shift seems more mist than material. His eyes burn across her supple shape, taking in the ripple through her breasts with every step, and the tease of her nipples, pushing pert against her nightgown. 

Astarion wets his lips, letting a fang tug at the tender flesh. Anticipation thrums through him again, only now, it’s hot. Thick. Permeating.

His grip on the armest eases as he leans back in the chair.

Ventris’ mouth hangs open, a great gaping maw for such a middling, waste of a man. His wide eyes bore into the last sight he’ll see. And what a sight she is. Naomi tilts her head one way, then the other, peering down at her meal like a bird choosing a worm.

She’s careful, picking her vein. She’s not, when she claws a hand into his hair, lifts him from the floor by a fist of it, and rips into his throat.

Because she wants it to hurt. 

Screams slap wet against the palace walls. Astarion’s head falls back in his chair, his eyes slitted. The ceiling swims in a blur above him. He can feel the blood flooding warm in Naomi’s mouth, the spray of it coating the back of her throat. The thickness of it, swelling stiff within his trousers. 

He parts his buttons hastily, stroking his hardened length, scarcely feeling his own touch. It’s her tongue he feels instead. Surrounding him. Sucking so greedily. Taking, just as he taught her to. 

Her cheeks hollow as she pulls for more, more. And of course, more is what she gets. Blood leaks sticky sweet down her chin. Astarion’s cock throbs with her every moan. 

It's effortless now, to pretend it's her mouth around his girth and not his own hand. He doesn't even have to picture it. She lets him feel every pleasure that ever paints her pretty lips. Like they were his own.

She is his own. Naomi and all her tenderness belong to him. Every pleasure she takes, Astarion takes, too. And while she’s taking her fill, she feels the familiar fit of his cock in her mouth, pouring fresh heat into the body he made perfect forever. Into the woman he’s unmade an untold number of times.

His hips buck into empty air. A groan splits through his teeth. Naomi peels from her meal with a slick pop of lips, gasping with the raw edge of a growl. Astarion’s release spurts warm across his fingers. He slouches limp and boneless in his seat, relishing in the feel of her soaked within and without. Just as she should be.

He blinks blearily, chasing the breath he takes for pleasure and not for purpose. Slowly, the room steadies. He sits up, wincing as he tucks his sated, sensitive cock back into his trousers.

Naomi eases back, crouched over the corpse that was Ventris. Her chest heaves. She pants in tandem with Astarion. Not because she has to; her body echoes his own, reeling from the feel of his ascended heart thudding within his ribs.

When they’ve both come to their senses, Astarion comes to her. 

“What memory kept you tranced so late, dear?” His voice is soft, even as he scolds. What could ever be sweeter than meeting again in the flesh?

“I missed you, too.”

Astarion raises his hand lazily, and she leans forward, still kneeling. One by one, his fingers slip between her plush lips, her tongue wicking away the spend still left on them. When they’re clean, he grips her chin and turns it aside so he can see the marks on her neck that made her his evermore.

Blood blooms in stains near the neckline of her shift. It reminds him of the flowers found in their courtyard garden. His eyes drip with the leak of her leftovers, roaming over her the fresh flush waking in her skin. What a lovely, murderous, and reverent thing she is. Pride flares like a lively hearth beneath his ribs, fed by the warmth billowing from her head into his. 

She’s hungry no longer. And happy. An easy smile lifts his lips.

“Well?” He prompts, expectant.

“I was remembering our wedding hunt,” she answers dreamily, eyes-half lidded.

Astarion’s smirk widens, his fangs peering out. What a delicious memory to sink into. Savory enough to trance the day away.

There was the night they wed truly. After taking her fill of him, Naomi knelt, and Astarion had his fill of her. He bit her thrice, drained her dry, and bound her as his bride for all of time to follow. The papers that came later put her surname on record as Ancunín. But they didn’t make her his; she belonged to him already.

There was the party. Mostly, they hosted it for the patriars they intended to weave into their web of influence. They spared no expense for the lavish affair. He could think of no finer way to spend Cazador’s fortune than on his and his darling’s debut into Baldurian high society.

And then, there was the hunt.

Wordlessly, it slips into his mind from hers: not the extravagant soiree, but the party of unfortunate souls that stumbled into the palace drunk that very eve. They later woke to white, opalescent stone walls. Pearly bricks laid where Astarion had once shrieked and bled uncounted times beneath Godey’s blades. 

But that night, not a speck of blood or dirt stained the corridors to the old kennels. Astarion still hasn’t settled on the chambers’ future use, but he rather likes them better this way, as a polished blank slate. The sheen is crisp enough, he can see his clear reflection every time he stalks those halls. 

He sees his own stunning visage again in the play of Naomi’s memories. He sees the seven huddled, sniveling figures that awaited them there, and feels their spines shudder again. His mouth waters at the mere recollection of it.

“The last of you alive will live forever,” he told them cheerfully, before cutting them free of their bonds. “Run along now! Go on!” 

And off they scampered, scrabbling over each other in their desperation to reach a destination forever out of reach. There’d be no escape. Not a living one, anyway. 

Astarion had turned to his bride. So beautiful, sheathed in an ivory gown with the finest of shimmers, her long white hair plaited back, a sheer veil draped over it. A teardrop train of lace fanned from the flared edge of her skirts, and her eyes glowed with the promise of violence.

He lifted Naomi’s chin in a delicate grip. “Now, feast, my sweet.”

The memory smears, vivid red. Red, like the dripping trails down the walls. Red, like color she stained his pristine coat when their lips collided, a hungry mess of blood and adoration. Red, like the streaks across her wedding gown as Astarion tore through it. He swore he saw handprints at her skirts, in the brief blur before he ripped her free of them. Perhaps her victims gripped them for mercy. 

Astarion’s grip on her hips was anything but merciful. Binding, perhaps. And liberating, all the same.

It was hours later, his body weak with bliss, Naomi bare and drifting towards trance in his arms, that he lifted her from his throne and brought them both to bed. 

Presently, she muses, “It took me forever to find that fucking Harper. Could’ve been her that you made spawn instead of Zylar.”

Astarion smirks. Naomi drained all but one of their late-night guests that evening. Their final victim was a promising twenty-something human named Zylar with no surname, no family, and nothing but a fervent dedication to his duties as a Flaming Fist. Astarion took that dedication for his own. Now, Zylar will be young forever, live out all his small dreams of climbing the Fists’ ranks, and, most importantly, serve the interests of the Ancuníns above all else.

When Zylar rose as Astarion’s second spawn, gaping in horror at the blood-smeared walls that surrounded him, Astarion told him, “Clean it up. With your mouth, if it pleases you.”  

Within the hour, the old kennels were spotless once more.

Now, he snaps his fingers at the cloaked shadow lurking at the edge of the audience hall. At once, Zylar peels from the perimeter, prowling towards the corpse at the heart of the room. There’s barely blood on the tiles at all, but Astarion’s sure there won’t be a speck of it left by the time they return here.

“Your lessers will see to the scraps, my dear,” he says, offering Naomi his arm. She takes it, rising to his side. “I have something to show you. A present.”

The happy hum in her head is a knowing one. They enter the ballroom, where the white marble tile swirls with gold, and a long, windowed wall overlooks the palace gardens. There waits her latest gift, shining radiant in the sunlight. Her smile is a fitting match for it.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.

They’ve had three such marvels call this ballroom home in just as many years. She’s said the same of the other two as well. He’s inclined to agree. The grand piano shimmers, resplendent. All but the keys and its insides are coated in gold leaf. The lid is propped, shedding light on landscape painted on its underside: Baldur’s Gate, by view of the sea, vivid in the setting sun.

Astarion allows her to part from his arm and rush to the piano, as if it’s a lover she’s running towards, and not away from. His arm sways, empty at his side, in the wake of her momentum. The delicate stroke of her fingers down the keys plays the most delectable shiver down his own spine. A long, stuttering sigh leaves his lips.

Strange that, only three short years ago, she didn’t know what to do with the first piano he gifted her. He remembers, crystal clear, the timid trepidation that crept across her face, the hesitancy with which she reached and just barely brushed the keys. 

“Little love,” he’d purred in her ear, “whatever could be the matter?”

“I-I don’t know how to play it,” she’d confessed, sheepishly retracting her fingers. He’d seen those same nimble hands curl the neck of a fiddle and flit effortlessly across a flute at least a hundred times over.

Astarion only grinned, letting his teeth graze the slant of her ear. “You’ll learn it. We’ve an eternity now, darling. You can take as much time as you wish and never run out of it.”

He never tires of taking his time with her. Taking her here, in the ballroom, even at the expense of their most expensive furnishings. No, this one won’t last any longer than the others, he decides as she saddles over the cushioned bench, her hands poised. He wets his lips, mulling over at least a dozen ways to put an arch in her back as she straightens tall.

But, in the interest of not breaking her gift so soon after it's been given…

He turns, like the perfect vision of restraint he is, and says, “Why don’t you play me something as pretty as you are?”

The instrument was made for her, and Naomi plays it as if it’s what she was always meant to do. What pours from the piano melts across his ears and leaves a saccharine taste on his tongue. It carries the tang of her magic with it, as all her music does. Tantalizing. Mesmerizing. Numbing, in its own way. Astarion could spend hours soaking in it. He’s spent so many mornings this way, warmed by the sun, staring out over the city he and his consort share, complicit with her in shared contentment.

Siren, some call her in whispers. They’re right to whisper. Astarion’s seen Naomi kill with one.

He stiffens to the sound of a throat clearing. It’s a cutting, and unwelcome intrusion. Claude, the rancid little gnome who tuts at him so expectantly, is eternally an intrusion. 

It’s the carrot of vampirism Claude chases. It’s easy enough to dangle it, just out of reach. He served Cazador with a religious fervor. He serves Astarion with even more zeal. He’s mortal, still, and Astarion can’t think of a single good reason to turn a servant already so eagerly playing their role. The thought alone makes his stomach roil.

“My Lord,” the nasally wretch says, “they’re waiting for you in your office.”

Astarion scowls. For all the patriars they’ve killed, there’s still a bumper crop of them crowding into his office every other week. Wanting the favor of Baldur’s Gate’s best-loved benefactor. Unknowingly begging at the heels of the one and only Vampire Ascendant. 

Such is the ignorant bliss of the cattle. He’s more than they know. But they know well enough to beg while they still can. 

What they do know is that he’s a hero. A savior of the city. The holder of its purse strings, while his heroine lover pulls the strings of the city’s heart. All in service to the web of power and influence that will see him named Grand Duke by summer’s end.

“Shall I tell them you’ll reschedule?” Claude asks.

“No,” he relents with an exasperated groan. “You shall not.”

Naomi plays on as he passes, but he feels a tug in the back of his mind. A flicker of a familiar feeling: her hand leaving his, and his arm left loose with an empty grasp.

I won’t be but an hour, my sweet. And then, I think, it’s back to bed with you. I think you might never leave it.

Her answer floats about his mind like a dandelion buffeted by the wind. I think I died happy.

Happy, Astarion muses, already half a palace away from her. He pauses by the mirror in the corridor, adjusting his high collar before he makes for his office door and the waiting patriars. As you should be.

Astarion drums the richly polished oak with restless fingers, his chin situated in his other palm. From his seat at the table’s head, he has a prime view of today’s entertainment: a pair of bickering magistrates. They hold the table’s attention as they trade barbs, too ablaze in their own irritations to notice their host’s growing disinterest. 

Do try to pay attention, dear, Naomi snickers in his head. We paid a hefty sum to get this little feud off the ground, after all.

Ostensibly, Lady Ancunín isn't interested in politics. Such manners bore her, and would detract from her management of the city’s finest theater. In reality, it's as if his little love never left his lap at all. She should be in this chair. He’s the one who's bored. 

Naomi’s left the piano now, though it plays on without her. Her steps patter in the back of his mind as she takes to the footpath through their gardens, her music still wafting pleasantly with the scent of the roses. With their minds linked, she listens more closely to his meeting than he can bear to.

Astarion’s gaze drifts to the open windows, to the bustling Gate, throbbing with life. Ripe for the taking, all due to his careful tending. A breeze ruffles the curtains, carrying the salt of the sea with it. 

It used to thrill him, to sit here, steeple his hands, and watch his empire be built brick by unwitting brick. He’s amassed enough influence to carry a current, even while sitting entirely still. There’s an inevitability to it all now that should please him. Instead, he feels the restless urge to pluck those bricks from the pile and dash all the heads in this room with them. To hear fresh screams instead of circular whining. But instead, he must endure their peevish--

Silence.

Abruptly, Astarion stiffens. The patriars prattle on unbothered, but beneath their noise, a stagnant quiet furls through his halls like a fast-moving fog, setting his hairs on end. Across the palace, the piano ceases playing. It’s not a remarkable change on its own; the magic expires after some time without Naomi’s touch.

That familiar, slipping sensation comes again: the feel of Naomi’s palm sliding from his and leaving it empty. His head feels empty as an echoing, vacant cathedral, only home to his own thoughts. His own mind. 

Darling? The word reverberates inside his skull, making it no farther than it would if he said it aloud in this room without her. His nails claw the table’s edge.

Naomi? Answer me. He calls again, anger flaring, but it feels futile. Like banging his fists against stone. 

Footsteps race down the corridor. His head turns for the door before the knob even moves. By the time it opens, he’s already standing. Every head in the room turns to Claude stammering frantically in the doorway.

“M-My lord, a visitor--”

Astarion grips his collar, storming from the room with the little wretch in tow.

“Lord Ancunín,” an old crone of a tiefling barks from the other end of the table, “what is the meaning of--”

Astarion slams the door on her inane protest, not even pausing to savor the flinch that passes through his captive audience.

“Where is your mistress?” Astarion growls. 

“The throne room,” Calude answers meekly. “W-we think.”

“You think?!” Astarion releases his grip on Claude’s shirt, wiping his hand on the leg of his pants. 

He doesn’t wait for Claude to elaborate. Astarion sheds his form and flies. Moments later, he materializes again before the great shut doors to his audience hall. A blue veil of magic simmers over them.

With a boiling vitriol, he rounds on the other elf kneeled near the doors. Strictly speaking, Emilia is his favorite of his lesser spawn. It isn’t the highest of praises; her only competition is Zylar, and her knack for magic makes her useful. And yet, he feels a dawning hatred for her as she crouches there, glowing hands outstretched in vain.

“What in the hells is this?” He shouts, the sound bounding like fitful thunder. 

“A magical barrier, my Lord,” Emilia says, strained. “It’s elaborate, but I’ll have it down shortly.”

“Who cast this? Who’s in there with her?”

“We received a visitor at the front door. He said the gatekeep allowed him entry, that he was a scholar from Waterdeep here to inform you of something of great import. He didn’t give a name. We intended to turn him away, but Claude went to Lady Naomi to inform her, and the lady said she would see him in your absence. She awaited him here, but all the doors closed when he entered, and the barriers appeared at once.”

Astarion grits his teeth. “And the guards at the gate simply let him pass?”

“It seems so.”

How could that be?! Astarion snarls, his fist curling with flame. He hurls it at the barrier, but the firebolt only melts harmlessly against its surface, dissipating into useless smoke. 

His bond with his bride can be turned like a faucet on either end, but neither of them can stem the drip of it entirely. Naomi would never wish for such separation. But even if she had, she could never hide from him fully. 

And yet, he hadn’t even an inkling of this stranger’s arrival. The last he felt her, she’d been in the gardens raking her fingers through thorns, savoring the sting of the cuts, and thinking of his fangs. 

“I believe Zylar is in there as well, my Lord.”

Astarion tenses, thoughts racing. Zylar never stays anywhere alone with Naomi if he can help it. Ever since the wedding hunt, he’s stayed terrified of her.

His mind blanks abruptly. The barrier dissipates, flecks of magic raining down from the doorway like sleet. The doors part. Through the narrow split, he sees Naomi as her knees buckle against the marble. 

A cloaked figure looms over her, one hand outstretched, the other clutching a fluttering scroll. Red magic twists just above Naomi’s forehead, coiling on itself like a knotted vine. Astarion surges towards them.

Ascension made him swifter than anything he’s yet to encounter. Sharper. Stronger. But now that he’s  near enough to see the spell reflecting in Naomi’s irises, near enough to see them washed in fear, his bones feel leaden. Slow. 

Weak.

The spell flares into a blinding, burning orb. Bloody light scorches the room. Astarion feels the heat of it spear through his temples. Carving, like the tadpole used to. Cutting. His lips split around the pain, but it’s Naomi’s scream that pierces his ears.

The quiet that comes after lays against the room like a knife to a throat.

Naomi wavers where she kneels. Astarion skids across the floor, catching her before she can collapse. The light vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving the cloaked mage crumpled in a limp heap. 

“Master!” Emilia gasps. “Master wait-- she might--”

“Shh,” Astarion coos, caressing a hand through Naomi’s hair and down her cheek. Blood leaks from the corners of her fluttering eyes, drying in dark trails. The magic burns a ruby outline around her body before it sinks beneath her skin.

“I’m here,” he rasps, pleading. “Come to me, darling. Come back to me.”

He holds a taut breath as her eyes open wider. Naomi blinks dazedly up at him, lips trembling, face glazed in confusion. Her gaze settles to his and sharpens. 

“W-who are you?”

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean the world to me if you let me know you did in box at the end here. It's scary and exciting and invigorating to share a new story!

And HUGE thank you to so many Tumblr moots and discord friends who have supported me along the way in drafting this one. 💜

[valfeathers]

girl boss + her serial killer

[disinhume]

Women who are evil 💕💕💕

[kaurwreck]

Hi! I was reading your post about Kyouka and Lucy, and I would be really interested in just about any thoughts/takes you have on bsd women if you want to share them. I feel like fandom in general leaves so little space for women and it is very frustrating. Also if you did post exclusively Yosano&Naomi fics I’d read the heck out of that lol

I have lots of thoughts/takes on women in bsd, but I wouldn't know how to write anything on "bsd women." They're each individuals whose bsd characters, irl works and irl lives have depth, thematic relevance, and narrative-driving force in bsd. It would take me hours to write a post on my thoughts on each individually, all of them tossed in together would be a small academic text.

That said, I do have some existing posts on some of the women in bsd (in addition to other, just-for-fun posts, and where they come up in my other analyses):

Yosano, Dazai, and Mori

Yosano and Eroticism (based on the outsized scandalized reaction folks had while rewatching the bsd episode in which she heals tanizaki; with excellent commentary from @homoesia)

Kouyou's Role in the Port Mafia

On Louisa and Little Women (with excellent commentary from @sarahworm)

The Implications of Teruko's Backstory

I also very much recommend @ice-devourer's Yosano takes, which can be found here:

Yosano Analysis

Asks including information about irl Yosano's Early Life and irl Yosano's Childhood Grief

Also, @sarahworm is a scholar on women and Higuchi especially. Although I haven't convinced her to write a comprehensive analysis on irl!Higuchi and bsd!Higuchi, I did bait her into sharing some of her thoughts on my birthday post for Higuchi (which also contains a light smattering of my own thoughts about irl vs. bsd Higuchi).

[stafsar]

L. Lawliet is a gifted photographer who believes he has understood the light and its secrets. Light Yagami is a young, unstable and slightly crooked model. Together, they kill time.

I had a bookcover design assignment so obviously I chose @devilinthebox's literary masterpiece of a fanfic Our Bodies, Possessed by Light

[just-a-dinosaur-i-guess]

simple thing, where have you gone

Naomi wordlessly shows her her phone as Teruko tries to glance over at it too, leaning too far back in the chair. Naomi bites back a sigh as Teruko nearly falls. Haruno’s quiet for a moment, then smiles, “Maybe we could handle it ourselves?” “Wh- really?” Naomi blinks, pulling her phone away. The notion feels strange. This would be her first case in her brother’s absence. - on naomi, a strange case, and adjustment periods

oneshot, 6580 words, naomi-centric, part of my post doa au

aka: on a busy day for the agency, naomi, haruno, and teruko take on a case themselves.

[cows-wearing-my-sweater]

nothing wrong with a little self-indulgence

word count: 851 warnings: none !! this is pure fluff notes: shorter post for tonight :) ive had this written for awhile and it's up on my ao3 but i wanted to put it here as well,

Sun shines down on you through the tall bedroom window, gently warming your shoulders. Though the beams feel nice, they’re unwelcome. Barely able to open your eyes in the battle against falling back asleep, you struggle to pull the comforter further up in order to shield yourself from the responsibilities of the morning. Your shifting in bed causes a groan from beside you.

“Don’t tell me you want to get up early today, darling,” Matty whines, eyes still closed. “I was just having the most wonderful dream about my beautiful girlfriend.”

You manage to blink your eyes fully open at this, catching sight of the sly smile on Matty’s face. You push yourself a little closer to him and nuzzle your head in the crook of his neck. “I would rather stay here, but…”

“No ‘but’s.” Matty wraps his arm tightly around you, replacing the warmth of the sun that had been on your back with the heat of his own body. You’re pressed against his chest now, just as he knows you like to be. You take in the feeling of his chest rising and falling gently, the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. The idea of getting out of bed and getting on with the day feels like a lost cause now.

Matty tilts his head down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. His lips linger there, allowing himself to take in everything about you; the softness of your hair, the way you smell, the way your legs are tangled with his. 

There’s silence for a while, save for the sound of each of you breathing. You’ve fallen in sync with Matty; inhale, hold for a beat, exhale. You move in unison, two halves of one whole. You’re not sure if Matty is still awake at this point. His grip keeping you close to him has loosened slightly, and you take the opportunity to pull back from him ever so slowly as not to disturb his rest. You do this so you can properly admire him in his vulnerable state. You want to envelop his soul in calm and quiet, protect him in the bubble of peace he rests in now.

Your eyes begin to wander all around him, trying to capture every single detail as it is. The corners of his mouth are pointed upwards in an almost imperceptible smile. His lips are parted so slightly; you’ve kissed those soft lips countless times, yet your craving for them never ceases. A few stray, messy curls lie haphazardly on his forehead. His chest is bare, almost beckoning for you to come back to your place against it. And you do. You bring yourself back to his warmth, and when you close your eyes you attempt to burn the image of a sleeping Matty into your mind, keeping it somewhere tucked away and safe.

For the next hour or so, you fall in and out of sleep, yet each time you wake you’re never out of arm’s reach from Matty. His fingers brush against your arm while he sleeps. You mimic his movements, bringing your fingertips to the tattoos littering his arms, tracing the designs. His skin is soft. It’s familiar.

 Finally, Matty begins to stir once more. His eyes flutter open and immediately land on you. He follows your gaze out the window; the sun has now undeniably risen. You can’t kick the notion that a responsible adult would have started their day long before now, and Matty seems to sense this within you.

He sighs gently before saying, “We can put off work for today, my love. I know how stressed you’ve been. You can’t hide that from me.” You don’t say anything in response, so he adds, “Let me take care of you today.”

You prop yourself up in bed and look at him. “I have so much to get done, Matty,” you groan and rub your temples.

Matty sits up next to you. He frowns and intertwines his fingers with yours. “You’ve earned this day off, [Y/N]. We can take it slow today. I’ll run you a bath, I’ll take care of all the cooking. You won’t lift a finger today.”

You sink back into the pillows. Matty pulls you to him again, fingers running through your hair. His hands wander down to your neck and shoulders, gently massaging. You sigh happily.

“Just lay here with me,” he whispers.

You concede to this, knowing Matty would never change his mind. And you’re happy to comply. This is safety. This is comfort. Matty presses a kiss to the back of your neck, then turns you so he can leave his mark on your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your jaw. His kisses are lazy as he reaches your lips. You can feel him smile against you. You can tell as he pulls away from you that he wants to deepen the kiss, to grace your neck with his lips, but he decides not to. That could be saved for another day. Today he holds you, and that’s enough. It always has been.

[starsuncounted]

winter-touched, frost-bitten

Spinning Silver, Miryem/the Staryk, T, 1.1k. In which the Staryk has a lapse in self-control and a new bargain must be struck.

The Staryk released my hands and traced my cheek with a single cool finger, stepping closer as he did so. I felt the chill radiating from his chest, like standing next to a window heaped with snowdrifts. His touch was gentle, far gentler than I would ever expect from a being as hard and cold as the frozen mountain peaks. I couldn’t bring myself to move; I could only stare in shock.

His other hand came to rest on my shoulder, and I felt its chill even through my thick layers of clothing. He caught my face and tilted my chin up, studying my face with his pale, fathomless eyes, and then he swiftly closed the distance between us.

His lips were smooth and cold, and despite how accustomed I had grown to his frozen kingdom, I flinched when they touched mine. But his mouth was as gentle as his finger had been, and it moved slowly against mine. I closed my eyes against the frost that haloed his face and pressed back against his mouth, tentative in a way I seldom remembered being. He drew me closer in response, splaying his fingers across my shoulder blade, and the hand that held my chin pressed harder, his cool fingertips curling into my hair. My heart thudded loudly between us, surely pounding against the barrier of his cold chest.

With a sharp gasp that left me breathless, he pulled away. His face shifted into a shuttered, neutral expression, and the brilliant blue limning his cheekbones receded.

Free of his embrace, I realized how warm I was, as warm as if I had put on several dresses and coats and sat in front of the fire on a mild spring day. My lips, cheeks, and neck burned.

Read the rest on AO3.

[mediumgayitalian]

prev

———

She brushes another kiss to his hidden face and settles against the car door, holding him. She thinks for a moment and decides on something old, a tune she heard on the radio once upon a time and never heard again; she’s warped it, now, no doubt about it, humming it from memory so long it’s changed to whatever she has made it. But Will recognises it from years of lullabies, picking up on the swooping baritones and mumbling the words into her shoulder.

“You know, that Han Solo shrine up in your room makes a lot more sense, now that I think about it.”

The melody dies in his throat.

“Mama.”

“I’m just saying.” She bites back a smirk, swatting away his smacking hands. “There was a point in time I thought it was admiration, you know, but you have a lot of posters of that open vest —”

“Mama!”

She acquiesces, this time, never having seen his poor face so scarlet, trying and failing to keep her laughter to herself. The tear tracks have long since dried and his breathing is steady, now, gangly limbs tucked into her ribs and hanging off the bend of her thigh. Flopped all over her like he used to to when he was young and she was still touring, when the world was too loud and too bright and too mean and she hid him from the sun. Her hands in his hair are to touch instead of soothe.

“Who’s the boy?”

“No.”

“C’mon, babydoll.” She pokes at his ribs, grinning widely when he rolls his eyes to hide his smile. “Tell me.”

“It’s nobody, Ma, gods.”

“Yeah, right. Not like you were comparing having a crush to killing someone in cold blood twenty minutes ago. Clearly it’s somebody.”

He, very pointedly, doesn’t answer.

Unfortunately, he forgets that he gets his stubborn from her.

“Hm. Can’t be anyone I haven’t heard of in a few weeks, or else it wouldn’t be bothering you. What names have you mentioned?”

He looks at her in horror. “You wouldn’t.”

Absolutely, she would. Her smile widens.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess it ain’t Chiron, ‘cause then I’d have questions —”

“Oh my gods! Stop!”

“— an’ I doubt it’s that security fellow, with the eyes, although if it is no judgement —”

“I’m throwing myself out of this car! Right now! I’m gonna lay on the road ‘til someone hits me!”

“— Lord, you don’t mention many names. You’re a recluse, baby. You gotta make more than two friends.”

She stills. Will, perhaps guessing where she is going, makes a noise of deep, personal agony.

“Oh my stars, is it Cecil?”

“Ew, Ma!”

He strains against her hold but she tightens, hooking her elbow around his shoulders and flexing her other hand, pretending to examine her nails.

“It is, isn’t it? I mean, he is a very handsome young man. And he has a good heart, too, despite the — how to put it — distaste for the law —”

“I just threw up in my mouth! Right now! Stop it!”

“I should probably stop letting him stay in your room when he stays over, huh, that one’s on me —”

He wrenches himself away from her, finally, clambering over the seats and gagging like the mere idea makes him nauseous.

“Ew! Ew! I do not have a thing for Cecil, oh my gods, I might as well marry my cousin! Augh! I’m gonna throw up for real! Why would you even say that, oh my —”

“Alright, alright!” she laughs, kicking his rapidly repeating shoulder. “Holy Jesus, you are dramatic. I should call up camp and tell him you’re out here retchin’ at the mere thought.”

“Good,” Will says darkly, voice muffled from how deeply his head is buried in his hands, “make sure to also tell him he is a weasel.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that I am going to deface his vintage Hot Wheels collection.”

“Y’all have a strange friendship.”

“He’s not my friend, I am stuck with him via circumstance and because he refuses to leave me alone.”

She holds up her hands in surrender, refraining from pointing out the friendship bracelet he is currently wearing with a CM on it and that has not left his wrist in four years.

“Alright, alright. Not Cecil.”

He scoffs in agreement, ignoring her rolled eyes.

She wracks her brain for other boys he’s brought up in their phone calls, aside from people in passing. Mostly he mentions patients, really, answering her endless inquiries — it will never stop astounding her that he baby can practically sew heads back on bodies; she tells people he’s in med school and preens at their wide, impressed eyes — but there are other people he mentions, in between that and the pranks he’s frequently pulling with his friends.

“There was that boy you were so excited to keep around. Nick?”

“His name is Nico,” he corrects, and then immediately goes scarlet. “I — I mean, I have a friend, named Nico, not that —”

Her grin gets sharp as nails.

“He is — unwell! He’s travelled a lot, he needs monitoring so I am — monitoring him, you know, out of concern for his safety —”

“Nico and Wi-ill, sitting in a tree —”

“Oh my gods are you five —”

“You are steaming! I can actually feel the heat pouring off of you right now! You love him, you want to kiss him, you —”

“I am never telling you anything again in my entire life!” he hollers. “Never! Next time I think I should tell you something I’m just gonna — swallow glass!”

She snickers. “Drama queen.”

He sticks out his tongue as she situates herself back in her own seat, turning the keys in the engine. His puts his dirty converse on the dash despite her grouching, reaching over to fight her for control of the radio, flapping his hand excitedly when she lets him win and something bright and overdone starts playing. His bandage stays where it is, tied loosely around his wrist.

“I’m glad you told me, you know.”

He smiles, small and genuine, leaning into the palm she cups around his cheek. The dimple in the centre of his right cheek is back, the scrunch of his freckled nose. She presses a lingering kiss smack dab in the centre of his forehead and he leans into it, trusting.

“I know.”

[curseofdelos]

Solar Powered (1/1)

Relationships: Naomi & Apollo, Naomi & Will Word Count: 14k Summary: Apollo, god of music, was how he had introduced himself.  Naomi had assumed he was joking, and he didn't correct her. She had dated musicians and poets before. They all had an ego, and those same words would not have felt out of place from either of her exes. She merely downgraded Apollo from potential boyfriend to potential fling, and didn't think twice about it.  Now though…. Now her son could heal wounds with a single touch, and her world was tipping on its axis.

Read on Ao3 [LINK]

[serqphites]

me laying in bed reading @gingerjolovers writing before i go to sleep

[deadwhisper]

Ep11: ALONE

The magnus archives

@deadwhisper

[foldingfittedsheets]

I know there’s lists that float around or whatever but does anyone have good fantasy recommendations? I need something new, preferably queer, but mostly just something you’re passionate about. Pitch me your fav.

Easy to get into is a plus with school starting back up.

[nonascoldcoffee]

now if i wrote a naomi/apollo fic would yall read it,,,lmao