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spurbleu · 4 months ago

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disciple ✞︎

[ken sato x afab reader]

S. if you look for God, you won’t always find him. but you always found Ken.

warnings: mdni, religious imagery, mentions of vaginal sex and oral (both receiving), angst, toxic(ish) situationship, grinding/leg riding, ken before his growth arc, maybe a lil ooc

a/n: this one is a little nasty, sorry. i promise the next one will be cute to make up for it lmfao. inspired by @mitskicain and her beautiful work here.

word count: 3.8k

vote on sequel here !!

࿓༚︎︎‧✞︎︎⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎✞︎࿓︎༚︎

Somewhere along the way, you had become devoted.

The Bible’s spine bound to your own- the alters of your chapel nailed to the foot of your bed. Velvet cushions the color of your undereyes- swollen mauve. You slept there, allegiance to something larger than yourself keeping you to its feathered seats, molded into a ceaseless kneel.

You could call him many things- a whore, bastard, a good (no, great) fuck- but Ken Sato was no god. Your spite made sure of it, refusing to enter the coitus infused oak that built your confessional. The stench of sex would not pull the truth from your stubborn lips, white in denial (wedding veil, erotic). His influence on yourself couldn’t be larger than your own.

It wasn’t. It would never be.

You wrote out that lie on his thigh, your teary cunt on the harsh fabric of his trousers. They felt rich against the lace of your panties- embroidered in every language of your arousal, highlighting the blush as it sheens through the fabric.

“That’s it, baby. Ride yourself out- filthy girl.”

Obedience. You groaned- frustrated, mostly with yourself. It was out of character for you- doing bidding without complaint. Sculpting your body in the ways he wanted you to, foggy minded and pussy drunk. Since when were you willing to take orders?

You supposed it was his drafting party- 3 years ago. Arrogant, young bastard then- high on the birth of his success- talking to you like he had the world in the palm of his large, fledging hand (Atlas, before the world wore him down, too). Despite it, your friend had begged you at the bar,

“Give him a chance.” She was dating a Dodger at the time, albeit a much more mature one.

Reluctant, you entertained. Forcing an airy laugh at his formless jokes, many of them losing the punchline behind his liquored teeth. You would run your hand up his shoulder, massaging muscles under Abercrombie. They had been bigger, then- plumper and less relaxed- yet another desperate attempt to stand out.

Obnoxiously amateur. It was stamped on his forehead, his tongue, and his knuckles as he drove you to his apartment, black ink cracking the faulty persona he had created for himself.

There, he fucked you senseless.

His god given gift must have been stamina, you decided. He made the night endless, morning suspended by the brutality of your next orgasm, the expanse of his mattress (not yet expensive, impatient for his first paycheck) memorizing the way you screamed his name and the taste of your drool (vodka, and the admissions you were wrong- prayers).

It’s when you realized his orders always seemed to align with your desires- spoken or not.

You moaned again, hips curling against the space above his knee, grinding like your orgasm would return your dignity with a fat, blue bow. Replace what you had lost to the shape of him, fill the hole that had once been your own. Now who’s the amateur.

He held your hips with a plum grip- thumbs bruising the patch of skin beneath your dress- folded in careless wrinkles on your waist. It was one of your favorites- not that he cared. He could buy you twenty more of the same ones, if he wanted to. But he didn’t- no, now, he wanted to see you fold and whimper over the shape of his quads.

“C’mon baby. Cum for me, show me what I do to you.”

It’s funny. Your knees were half bent, straddling him in shaky rhythm. Your fingers interlaced behind his neck, hands sailing the nape of his neck, brushing against shore of hair- searching the waters for minimal stability. From far away- it would’ve looked like you were deep in prayer.

The twist of your nose mistaken for devotion, not lust. Your interlaced fingers and touching foreheads a physical vessel for the god you were calling out to- his name spoken quietly in breathy moans that fell from under your tongue. A religious ceremony- the Eucharist between your legs- wine against lace (filth in a chapel, dust on candles).

Your orgasm was sinful, the damnation near worth it as you crumpled into his chest, sighing your reconciliation. His hands slid up from your hips to your waist, eager to hold the space under your arms, palms pressing against your rocky exhale.

He pulled your face from his chest with a single hand, gripping your teeth through your cheeks. It wasn’t rough, but it was strong enough to break you out of your sexed stupor, your eyes meeting his as you searched for answers in the grey of his iris.

How did you get here?

Grinding his leg like it was your deliverance- like it would somehow stop the horns from growing. Your transformation from a devil into something lucid- a little more deserving of limbo. The red of your lips kissed away into a tasteful pink, the dim light above his bed illuminating your mussed hair into the apparition of a halo.

Equally- he torn the putridity from you, smudging the grime in a cross on your forehead (Ash Wednesday, burnt innocence and palm branches). Your crimes, pockets of lust found between your weeping cunt and glossy lips, held you captive to his embrace.

You were one big step away from salvation, and three small ones away from hell.

So instead of moving, you lay stagnant on the bed of your shared apartment, his back turned away from yours. There, you were left to think about what brought you to Ken Sato- God or Satan? Perhaps both, found in the gentle snore of the goliath next to you, his features in sleep contrary to the harsh lines that structured his jaw awake. They were softer, here, innocent.

You knew better.

Ken wasn’t a man of chastity. The way he fucked acting as your testimony, near selfish as he chased your orgasms, each shudder of your legs a building block to his tall ego. How, when he arrived at your dimly lit porch, breath low, there wasn’t that begrudging, drawling slow talk. Pointless questions about the other that neither really cared about.

No, Ken pulled you close. Skipped the part where you get to know each other, or that airy friction before your lips meet. Instead, you both pilfer your manners, settling for the impolite shape of a kiss, a precursor to how he’ll fold you tonight.

Perhaps that’s how you know him well. You’ve become so good at reading his touch on you, palm searing the details of his day with his lifelines into the small of your back, that you don’t even need to ask. People tended to speak with their words- but Ken had a particular fluency for the use of his hands.

They tell you other things, too. How his immaturity can still be found in his desperate sighs and arrogance. How his favorite meal is the one between your legs. How quickly he can fall asleep, and how he talks in it. You listen, wondering if this time, he’ll say something forgiving (like your name).

But that’s where it ends. You both fall somewhere between strangers and lovers, knowing more than a stranger would but significantly less that a lover should.

You still don’t know his favorite color.

But why would you want to? You didn’t- shouldn’t- care. As long as he kept his cock buried the in plush of your cunt, or his mouth on it, you couldn’t. It could be something poetic like sapphire, for all you care. But you knew if he ever asked, he’d say something stupid like,

“The color of your cheeks when I make you cum.” Abhorrently charming, and motivated by his own libido, you’d think, before straddling his thigh. Romantic enough to make the request of you riding his leg, dirty enough to actually get you to do it.

Again, that thoughtless obedience. You were losing your edge, that ardor that made you chaseable, out of reach. But now he had you around his finger, and it drove you mad.

You both knew you have every ability to walk away. To stand up, pack your things, and leave. You could never see him again, find a decent man who doesn’t talk to you like you’re some whore, and settle down. White picket fence- within your reach- just out the door. Ken wouldn’t chase you- but that’s it- isn’t it? He wouldn’t care.

But you wanted him, didn’t you. He fucked the unpredictability out of you- the effortless curl of his index finger bringing you on your knees, mouth open in a worship. You wanted to have him guessing, on his toes, like he had you.

“I only fucked you because my friend had begged me too,” You had said one morning, an attempt at regaining it, “You were charity work.” You watched the ridged lines of his silhouette for a reaction.

But there wasn’t one. He only chuckled, standing as he stretched the inflation of the dawn off his shoulders, “Yeah…I was pretty annoying back then, wasn’t I?”

You were approaching tantrum. Had you lost your bite? Were your canines dulled- since when were you a domesticated dog? Where along the way had he cured you of your rabidity? You came up dry.

So defeated, you had said, “Yeah. You were.”

He turned to you, that familiar glint in his eyes, not dissimilar to a priest before a homily (delivering the truth), “But you came back, didn’t you?”

He was right. You called him- three days later. Midnight, swallowing your pride and your arousal as you asked, “Want to come over?” and hopeful when he replied “I will never say no.”

And he hadn’t. You suppose that’s where your bite came back, canines softer but still effective. That when they tear into the softness of his neck, coming back bloody and hysterical, he bent into you. He started kneeling, eating you out like somewhere, beneath your noxious folds, was redemption.

(Is this where you’re his god? Above him, moaning his name, hips rolling in tandem with his tongue? If so, you feel powerless. Because outside the bursa between your legs, you had nothing to offer.)

But he never said yes either. He would just hang up, and in 15 minutes be at your door, seconds before his mouth was on yours. Maybe, he was saying yes then. Spelling out a y, e and s in the hickeys he left on your neck. But the selfish, younger part of you wanted to hear him say it.

Whisper it in your ear as he fingered you, or as you licked his tip, kneeling before him as he whispered his little plea. Yes, yes, yes, yes. Hear the heat of orgasm in the bobbing of his adam’s apple.

But instead, he talked to you rather than about you, when he was close (delusion- that he saw you in that moment).

“Your littl’ cunt it my favorite- y’know that sweetheart?”

You were folded beneath him, a rare time when you faced each other. His head was against yours, hot breath fanning on your bruised lips as his rutted into you, shroom tip making stars fuzz on the sides of your vision. It made his utterance, motivated by your clenching walls, beyond intimate.

You couldn’t help the weight those words held in your hands. Favorite. Such a complicated feeling.

You knew he fucked other girls- his whorish grin buried into dozens of cunts before yours. But a young, childish creature was born in the cavity of your chest- envy. It’s plump hands tearing the rips in your indifference, revealing the head of your heart. Bent over into the bed that would never be just yours, you felt it leak out of the intimate parts of you, slicking his cock as if it would stain him.

Although, there was an impish pride in it all. That you had bewitched him enough, ass flaring against his hips, flesh opening wide and obediently for him, that he made a mistake in calling you a favorite. A pedestal for you to kiss his feet at, where you looked down at the other disciples and you knew, you fucking knew, he was a close to yours as he was ever going to be.

That’s why, in the normalcy of it all, of being ‘the one’ (less romantic than you had thought it was when you were a girl), you weren’t surprised when he asked you to live with him.

Two years ago, now. He had been lying next to you, the drowse of sex pulling his chest up in a rhythm you found repulsively soothing, he asked you, “Do you want to move in?”

And because you had never been more causal about anything in your life (exhilarating, the apathy an illusion of control), that you replied, “Sure.”

Huge apartment- stench of wealth written in every spotless crevice. Modern, grey arches and colorless domes- highlighted by the rich brown of the oak that surrounded the exterior. The bedroom view overlooked Anaheim, and most mornings you’d catch yourself staring at the sunrise, another sleepless evening behind you. It was your favorite view of the city.

Not that Ken knew- you never told him, and he never asked.

That’s how you planned to keep it. Even if you lived together, nothing about your relationship would change. You weren’t going to role play the happy wife- waiting at the door with his liquor and lace under your apron as you asked him “how was your day?” over dinner. There would be no domesticity. It would stay a house not a home.

But eventually, it became neither. Instead, it became a church.

Business with reality ate away at both of your lungs, that by the time you reached the door, you were breathless and crawling. You found ceremony in asthmatic sex; body already accustomed to the feeling of asphyxiation.

There was never room in your lungs for actual romance. Not all liquor could be rum- not all love could be sweet. You settled with the discovery as you rode out your frustrations on his cock, feeling as he stretched you out (merciless, perdition by pleasure) the grip on your thighs motivating your assault.

Tell me, it would say, tell me with your hips.

Routine.

It was your service. The Gospel, as he whispers in your ear how much he missed you today, how much he needed this- you. How quickly you were brought to your knees, feeling as his cock stretched your throat- more room for the hymn of his name.

How you became the choir, the altar servers, the priest and the attendees all at once. How he made you everything, then (except for of course, God. He played that role in your selfish exhibition). How when you screamed his name, your cunt memorizing the feverish pace he thrust into you, angels heard worship.

You could feel it happening- that subtle, long, change from a devil to a disciple. That as his cock reformed the shape of your walls, your cervix slowly morphing into the shape of a crucifix, he made you a follower.

It was another year before the candles snuffed. His mother disappeared.

You had heard of Ms. Kato before. Not that he would ever take you to her- you aren’t exactly the type of girl you bring home (a vice, really. No mother wants to meet their son’s damnation.) But everyone knew about Ms. Kato.

He talked about her in interviews, and besides slumber you haven’t seen his face that soft before. Admiration- a son who loved his mother. It humanized him, and sometimes you’d find yourself searching for a similar plasticity as he cleaned you up, holding your bambi legs (if you got lucky, he’d place a kiss on your knee, gracious. Hopeful.)

You decided she had no place here, with you. Not because you hated her (far from it)- but out of a compassion. You wouldn’t stain the one thing that made him redeemable. A tenderness that shouldn’t be corrupted. There were equally parts of you that you would never share, and he would never know- for that very same reason.

Because if you do, you’ll be judged empty handed and irredeemable.

But then he cried.

He cried, in front of you. The peak of vulnerability, curling into your arms after breaking a kiss that felt particularly dull, uncharged. You had agreed, so many times, to keep things casual. To ignore the tug at your tendons to reach out, or to ask about him. To find out his favorite color.

And against all your better judgment, you embraced him. You held him as he sobbed into your chest, a boy missing his mother. Your hands bridged the gaps in his hair strands, fiddling the parts of his body he couldn’t feel in that moment (keep some semblance of distance, if that were ever possible).

You both fell asleep like that, tangled in the dips and rifts in your bodies. His tears had stained your shirt, not that you minded. It was nice, having him daub you with something less lewd- placing his tolerance on the crest of your chest.

The next morning, you sat on the edge of the bed as you watched him get dressed. There was a sluggishness about him, a depression between the sleepy jostle of his shirt, stretching over his heavy chest. The daybreak was dimmed by his swollen eyes, the imprint of your chest showing up a red rash on his cheek.

“Do you…want to talk about it?”

A mistake, but an empathetic one. Asking about him. Without sensuality, the motivation to get between his legs, that familiar ache in your cunt. No, this was a different ache- much higher- fluttering in the bluntness of your heartrate.

When he turned to you, it swelled, and you realized you had crossed a boundary. A thick one, the one that glued things together for this long. He didn’t glare at you- in fact there wasn’t expression. Dulled knife without bloodlust, just a utensil, half used and ready for the next meal.

“No,” he had said then, and you knew it was over. End of an era, nail in the coffin.

He told you he was moving to Japan shortly after. As he was packing his things into the U-Haul, you watched him from the doorway, and the world seemed to narrow between his acnetis. You swallowed as he taped the last box.

He stood in front of you.

Thinner, than three years ago. Older, a bit more mature- hell you’d even call him a man. He wasn’t playing dress-up in a fancy suit or in his baseball uniform- no, here you found him rather casual- in sweats and old merch. A hat, brush back your favorite texture- thick rooted hair.

3 years of your life, packed in a U-Haul and out the window of an airplane. Not that you even expected it to last this long.

But what was it anyway? A sorry excuse for a relationship? An exchange of goods that both of you needed but neither knew how to ask for? An empty embrace, without personality but with all the intimacy? You couldn’t figure it out.

What happens to a churchgoer when it’s stolen from them? Candles snuffed, building bulldozed, the beautiful stained glass broken in faithless shards at their feet, eroded by angel tears. Left to find another one, you supposed.

But that’s the thing- you weren’t just going to church to worship something, but someone. And now he was leaving, as you both agreed you would not follow, left to explore the expansive hole he drilled within your body by yourself.

You weren’t bitter- in fact you found yourself understanding. Every God abandons- and it will always feel too soon. There wasn’t a point in begging, praying, kissing. You had done your job, washed his feet, let him move on (why couldn’t you do it with him?).

“What’s your favorite color?”

His eyebrows furrowed as he gave you the apartment keys, half out the door with his last box- photos. Maybe you were in there, somewhere (would he frame it?). “What?”

“You never told me,” you found a goodbye in his eyes, so there wasn’t a need to say one back, “I want to know.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. There wasn’t an answer that would satisfy him anyway. He searched your eyes, perhaps for your own goodbye. When he came up empty handed, his shoulders caved with a sigh.

“Don’t have one. But I…” guilt. There it was. The desire to clean up half the mess you made, recognition that by leaving, you’re destroying a follower and her morale, the goodness and obedience you had built for so long. It flashed across his features in a ripple, rock hitting the water. A weak smile, and for a moment you had been convinced it was real (God’s son, a little more human, a little more tangible).

“I have always loved the color of your eyes.”

Cruelly romantic, and in the most inopportune time.

You caught a glimpse of what could have been as he drove off. Taking you with him, fucking you in the airport bathroom, hand keeping you quiet. On the plane, he’d interlace your fingers through his as you lift off (he finds out your afraid of heights). You live in Japan, he teaches you patiently how to say hello, holding you after making your bed. A domesticity, a place of worship, lost to an inability to talk- to risk.

He didn’t kiss you when he left, but you both know that was for the best. That your frenzied physicality, the only thing that seemed to keep you attending church, was absent in your goodbye.

It really was over.

He left your apartment half empty (church without an alter). He didn’t call like he said he would, neither did you, and your devotion simmered into hardened, bitter lines. Resentment was found in every corner of that apartment (because there wasn’t a place where he hadn’t touched), and truthfully, yourself (again, imprinted).

It didn’t take long before you moved out as well.

While packing, you came across a picture you took together at his draft party. You both looked so much younger, and it reminded you how big you could smile. A memory- that although you had convinced yourself you were never charmed by that amateur, there was a reason you found yourself under him that night.

And, funnily enough, for the next three years.

You burned it.

Fuck him. You would think. Good riddance.

But above your head, a flame flickered to life- orange in its birth, fueled by the ashes of your fervor, the years of your bleeding knees, and that fucking picture.

Even now, he’ll remain in your subconscious fidelity.

What a bastard.

#kenji sato x reader #kenji sato x you #ultraman rising #ken sato smut #ken sato x you #ken sato x reader #ken sato #ultraman x reader #oneshot #fanfic

232 notes · View notes

catsteeth · 5 months ago

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Hii, I love your writings❤️ Can you write Podrick Payne and the fem reader? The reader is a Jon's twin sister, the Queen in the North. And Podrick has been in love with her for years, from the moment he first saw her. The reader is aware of the situation from the beginning, and when they meet again in the North at the end of the road, she notices once again how Podrick looks at her, but the only difference is that he is not a child anymore.☆

Growing Pains🍎

A/N: Thank you sm angel baby! Now this is what I AM TALKING ABOUT!!! Girl hell yes I can… I love this concept but I am going to take some liberties with the timelines and when Podrick is introduced in the story but let's all just sit back and have fun. You didn’t specify if you wanted smut but girls just wanna have fun so I did it anyway (there will be a cut off so you know when it's coming if you wanna stop reading beforehand) Hope you enjoy it and thank you for the request!! CW: SMUT MDNI, fuff, pining, mention of prostitution, mention of alcohol, fingering, grinding,

You had a hard go of it in life.

Being the bastard of Ned Stark and the twin of Jon Snow. Having the last name of Snow swayed every person's opinion of you. Except for one, Podrick. A squire of little influence. When he and his Lord Tyrion visited the North with the rest of the Lannister and Baratheon family, he found himself enamored with you.

At first he thought it was because of your fair beauty. Your skin had a glow to it, your eyes as well.

As the Stark family lined up to greet the royal family you and Jon were standing behind them. An embarrassment to the family but an open embarrassment nonetheless.

As you stood there, you studied all the knights and kings guard that stood before you and your family. You thought some of them were handsome but none captured your interest really.

That was until your brother Jon nudged you.

“It would seem you’ve an admirer, dear sister.” He teased as you looked and saw a shorter boy with short brown hair. He was certainly a squire. As your eyes met his he looked away

nervously.

You looked back to Jon, “Merely a boy, Jon.”

“Aye, as you are merely a girl.” He said with a smirk. You nudged him harder and gave him a cold and hard scowl, making him struggle to hold in laughter.

As Lord Tyrion descended from his carriage he stood beside Podrick while he waited for Robert and Nedd to be done with their reunion. However when he looked behind Nedd he noticed Nedd’s bastards giggling like children until Lady Catelyn shot them a glare that shut them up quickly.

However he also noticed how Podricks gaze was fixated on you. His face reveals how pathetically enamored he was with you. Tyrion chuckled to himself and then tugged on Podrick’s sleeve a few times until his attention returned to his Lord.

“Yes, my Lord?” Podrick asked,

“You are appointed to serve me, not Ned Stark's bastard daughter.” Tyrion said to Podrick in a teasingly scornful tone. “Is that who that is?” He asked his eyes to stay put on you.

Tyrion nodded, “(Y/N) Snow…” Tyrion spoke your name and to Podrick it sounded like poetry. He looked back over to you as Podrick mouthed your name back to himself. “A beautiful girl,” Tyrion said matter of factly.

“Yes, yes she is.” Podrick nodded, still unable to tear his gaze away from you.

“You know what they say about Northern girls?” Tyrion smirked as he looked up at Podrick,

Podricks gaze finally looked back to Tyrion with a confused look, “No?”

“Perhaps you’ll find out.” He said with a raised brow, making Podrick swallow hard.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Later that night during the feast you and Jon were turned away from the dining hall. It would be an insult to the royal family if you two were sitting in their field of vision. Gods forbid they were to see a bastard while they ate a meal that your family prepared for them.

You were content to go to your chambers and wait out the feast before you’d sneak into the kitchen and eat whatever was left. But the plum tree had recently bloomed and it was too tempting for you to wait until the feast was over.

Normally you’d convince Bran to climb the tree to pick you some but you were alone. So you did the next best thing, convince the next man you saw.

“Hello, kind ser. Could I trouble you for just a moment.” You said to a shadowed form nearby that was approaching. As it got closer you noticed it was the boy that was staring at you from the courtyard beside Lord Tyrion.

“Yes, yes, my Lady, no trouble at all.” He said, stammering nervously as he walked closer toward you.

“I recognize you… I saw you today. You’re not a Northerner.” You said with narrow eyes.

“N-no, my Lady I am a squire to Lord Tyrion Lannister.” He spoke softly and sweetly, but again, nervously.

“Huh, not a Ser then.” You furrowed your brows, examining the boy in front of you. Unsure if you could trust him or not.

He shook his head, “And you’re (Y/N)... Daughter of Nedd Stark.” He was careful not to use the last name of Snow.

“I am.” You said strongly.

“W-why are you not at the feast my lady?”

“Lady Catelyn thought it might insult the royal family for me and my brother to be seated in their midst.” You explained

“Why would she think that?” He asked genuinely, couldn’t understand you being hidden from anyone.

“I am.. unsightly.” You tried to find the right word,

“I don’t think that is the word to describe you-”

“A bastard… to put it simply.” You turned your mind back to the task at hand, unwilling to discuss the matter further. You looked up at the plums ripe on the tree behind you. “But nonetheless a bastard gets hungry just the same as anyone else.” You looked back at Podrick hoping he would get the hint. “Can't reach it though.”

“Yes of course,” He said quickly as soon as he understood what it was you needed from him.

You giggled to yourself as you watched him struggle to climb the tree. Just as he was about to pick the best one, his foot slipped and he fell out of the tree, with tons of plums following him. “Oof!” He grunted as he hit the ground and was covered in plums.

“Oh!” You shouted as you ran up to him. You couldn’t help but laugh as you kneeled beside him, “I am sorry, I do not mean to laugh!” You covered your mouth trying to conceal your amusement,

He looked up at you with stars in his eyes, that could have been the fall but he was sure that you looked like you were made by the Gods themselves. “That’s alright,” He said softly with a dimwitted smile on his face.

You kissed his cheek as a token of your appreciation, when you did he thought he might die. “I thank you.” You said as you grabbed a plum from his lap, making him blush,

“Of-Of course my Lady,” He stammered,

You bit into the juicy plum, ��I’m no Lady.” You stood and walked away.

However, that wouldn’t be the last time the two of you crossed paths.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

When Jon left for the nights watch and was to leave for Kings Landing with your sisters, Lady Catelyn made it clear she wanted you gone. So you went with your sisters, however in KingsLanding you worked as a handmaiden.

But this did just give Podrick more of an opportunity to fawn over you.

When given the chance, the two of you enjoyed each other's company.

On one occasion you and Podrick got drunk off of his Lord Tyrion’s wine when you were alone. You threw cherries across a room while Podrick attempted to catch them in his mouth.

Tyrion walked in when he heard the commotion and drunk laughter from the hallway. He could see the love in the drunk Podricks eyes clear as day.

He felt slightly responsible for Podrick and offered him a gift of experience. He took Podrick to a pleasure house where he said “If you’re going to take that bastard girl's maidenhead, you might as well know how to do it well.”

“We are only friends, my Lord.” He stammered nervously,

“Unlikely it will stay that way.” He said as he left him alone with the three women.

That wouldn’t happen in Kings Landing however. After the execution of your father you traveled North to your Brother Jon.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Years later however, after a long and hard battle, figuratively and literally, you were an adored and respected figure in the North. So much so that you were named Queen.

When you caught word that Podrick was on the grounds of Winterfell you felt an unexplainable urge to meet with him again.

You saw him sparring with a man on the training grounds. You watched as this once frail and inexperienced boy fought with honor and precision. It made you feel a tightening in your stomach. You felt yourself losing your trail of thought as you watched him, until he noticed you.

“(Y/N)” He said with wide eyes, and then bam! His sparring opponent knocked him down while he was off guard, “Oof!” He tapped out, “Enough for today.” He hopped off the ground and ran over towards you, smiling,

You smiled back, “You look different. Well, but different.”

“You look the same.” He said catching his breath

You narrowed your eyes slightly as you smirked, “I’ll take that as a compliment,” He nodded, “It is.” His smile was almost contagious.

“Who taught you?” You asked, trying to distract from the compliment. “Brienne of Tarth, I’ve come into her service after Lord Tyrion.”

“An improvement.” You nodded, “You fight well.”

He bowed his head slightly “Thank you, your Grace.”

“No need for such formality.” You waved your hand in dismissal,

“Your Grace-” Someone of little interest to you at that moment spoke. Rushing you off to your regal duties.

You couldn’t say your goodbyes before being rushed off. Just like last time.

The rest of the day you spent thinking of him. Of how different things were now, how different you and he were, how much a man he’d grown into.

It was only until that night when you had the opportunity to speak to him once more.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

As Tyrion, Jaime, and Brienne finished a drinking game, Tormund came in an attempt to court Brienne but of course was unsuccessful. As he faced the rest of the table in a defeated sorrowful look, Podrick smiled at him.

As the Giant man left the table, Podrick looked back and noticed you. Once he saw you, his smile grew into a bigger and genuine one.

“Walk with me?” You asked and he of course nodded. Leaving the table in haste, making Tyrion smirk.

The two of you walked around the grounds, that now with everyone in the tavern was empty.

As you walked around, he noticed the very same plum tree that he fell from all those years ago. The tree hadn’t bloomed yet but, he thought back on that memory so often he couldn’t have been mistaken.

“Last time we were here you were here because you weren’t allowed in the dining hall. Now you own it.” He smiled at you, proud of your accomplishments.

“And you were in the dirt covered in-” You said teasingly with a mischievous smile.

“Plums.” He said matter of factly

“You remember?” You asked genuinely surprised.

“Of course I do, I remember how you laughed at me.” He said teasingly as he chuckled.

“I apologized!” You giggled,

“It’s alright, I liked hearing you laugh. And seeing you smile.” He smiled at you in a way that caused a heat to spread throughout your whole body.

“You’ve grown.” You couldn’t believe how much more bold and confident he had become.

“You’ve grown as well.”

“People tend to do that.” You teased,

“That’s true, and yet after all that time I couldn’t ever get you out of my head.” He thought about his journey and how often he missed you, “On our journey we always heard murmuring about you. The things you were doing. The wars you and your brother won. The triumphs and lows of it all.” He looked down trying to contain himself, “I thought of you often.”

You felt a heat rush over your cheeks, “You were always a considerate friend.” You rationalized, and paused for a moment before you looked over at him, “I thought of you often…” you smiled “As well.”

“May I ask you something, and truly I don’t mean to offend-”

You raised an eyebrow. “Well this sounds interesting, go on.” You said smiling,

“What of any… suitors?” He asked awkwardly,

You huffed a laugh and then shook your head, “No.” You looked over at Podrick who was already looking at you with a dumbfounded look, “What?” You giggled. “I apologize, I just find it hard to believe that.”

“Well I’d not lie.” You smirked,

“No, of course not. It’s just that you are…” He looked at you, “Mesmerizing.” He studied you for a moment, and then felt content to do what he had been meaning to do for so long, “You’ve always been mesmerizing.” He took your hand,

“What?” Your eyes narrowed as he kneeled in front of you.

“Ever since I saw you, I’ve never been able to release myself from this feeling. The way your hair shines, the way your eyes glow.” He looked up at you, at how beautiful you looked under that plum tree, in the moonlight. “Ever since you kissed me, even though it was just-” He reminisced on the memory for a moment, “A peck on the cheek,” He shook his head, “I couldn’t feel satisfaction from anything else. And what's worse is that- I don’t want to, I don’t want to feel satisfaction from anything but the satisfaction you bring to me. And ever since I have been back here the feeling is so much worse.” His grip on your hand tightened as he searched your eyes for a hint of your own emotions.

You shook your head, “I’m sorry.” You said, not sorry for not feeling the same but for not understanding your own emotions.

“I-” He looked down, confident he was defeated, “Forgive me.”

“No,” You shook your head again, “Forgive me.” You held his face in your hands,

“For what?” He asked, his brows furrowed in confusion, and concern that he’d just ruined whatever relationship you two had had for good.

“For ignoring my own feelings for you.” You held his face closer to your own, “I’ve been doing it for so long…” Your eyes were filled with a pining that you didn’t know you had, “Far too long” He leaned in even further, your eyes drooping slowly but not losing contact with him. Your noses brushing against one another. Your lips finally meet softly, hardly even touching. his hand came to cup your jaw as yours carcassed the back of his head. As you closed your eyes your lips parted slightly allowing him to kiss you deeper.

nothing had ever felt so right. You knew then that you were born for him and he was born for you.

♥️

he gripped your waist, pressing you closer to his own body. He walked you back into the tree so he could lean into you even more.

“Gods” You whimpered into his lips, “You’ve gotten strong-“ your hands gripped at the muscles of his arms over his chainmail.

“Is this alright,” He asked to which you nodded and continued to kiss his lips.

The kiss somewhat restrained at first was now unhinged and desperate. His tongue met yours and you did not fight it, no you welcomed it.

His hand traveled down your jaw to your breast, gripping at it through your bodice with hunger. He groaned into your mouth but soon enough he couldn’t restrain himself and his mouth traveled from your lips to your neck, to your breasts. They’d been a weakness of his for too long. “Gods” He groaned

“Tell me to stop and I will,“ His hand traveled up your inner thigh. His fingers, now rougher than they were before, stopped just before they reached your silk small clothes. His eyes looked into yours waiting for your que.

You looked at him, you ran your hand through his hair once more. His eyes met yours, desperate and hungry, no starving. You nodded at him, which made him smile and breathe a sigh of relief as his face returned to your breasts and his fingers began to run up and down the sensitive slit of your clothed cunt.

“Mmphm,” You moaned into his ear as his lips traveled over your cleavage.

His middle finger pressed against your hot damp entrance while his thumb moved in circles around your sensitive clit.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as you whimpered from the pleasure. A pleasure so new. You’d used your own fingers or relieved yourself on a pillow before but this was different, a different game entirely.

You felt him grinding his arousal on your thigh as he moved your small clothes away, pushing one finger inside of you, slowly. “Ah!” You jolted towards him, grabbing ahold of his back pressing him closer to you.

He inserted another finger, pressing them deeper and deeper until they met your maiden head. His eyes found yours, and once again you nodded.

He kissed you deeply as he sunk his fingers into you. You gripped onto his hair and moaned out. As you moaned he bit your bottom lip. You held onto him tighter as the pain flashed across your body but was replaced by pleasure. “Are you alright?” you nodded, unable to find the words when he was pumping him fingers in and out you, “You did so well,” His eyes filled with love and adornment for you. But soon his lips returned to your neck and your breasts.

“Podrick,” You said breathlessly, “Pod?” You had to pull his face away from your breasts, though his lips wants to immediately latch onto yours, “I can’t,” You whined,

He pulled his fingers out of you and your hand away immediately,

“Not here,” You shook your head still trying to catch your breath,

“You’re the Queen, you can do what you please.” He said, half serious, wanting to rid you of your skirts and prove his love and himself there and now.

You giggled holding his face as he restrained himself for kissing you, “I want you to bed me in my chambers. Not here.”

“As you wish it, my Queen.” He smiled at you, and kissed you once more before rushing you off to your chambers.

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dhampling · 8 months ago

Text

sunburn dadstarion, <1k

She runs in with cheeks flushed, head wet with a thin clad layer of sweat. Remnants from some form of cool treat dry on her chin. Plaits - neat this morning - loose now with tangles and damp as she beelines straight for his workroom.

Face scalding as she buries it in his abdomen.

“You’re getting muck on my shirt, little one.”

She mimics his words with a cutting tone as she burrows deeper, wraps even tighter around him. Smells like cloves and hot paving and the dry-sweet musk of city dust. As he presses a kiss to her head he feels the sun lingering in her hair. Little white cowlicks brushing his nose.

If he stills he can hear you out on one of the cast-iron chairs with a glass of red in hand, talking to a friend of some parental variety in the early evening heat.

“You’re so cold”

His heat comes from woodsmoke and yours from the sun. Both familiar to her. He could light a fire but you’d moan at him for it.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

He pokes at her clammy arms with a fat laugh and she winces away, pulling a face.

“It’s hot.” She sneers. He quirks a brow.

“Sounds like a you problem.’

He lifts the last of her plaits and looks round at the ruddy blush beginning to bloom at the nape of her neck. She squirms at the ice of his fingers.

‘Run up to the washroom and get the cream. Quick.”

You sit just beyond the window - he can hear your laughter, the muffled lilt of your voice by the climbing ivy. He imagines the ornate carafe - left to aerate all afternoon - rich and ripe as the wine within soaks on your tongue and darkens your teeth. Your loving grin. The little wave you’d do; the light clothes he’d spent all winter designing for you to sit out front and feel comfortable in, in spite of the sweltering sun.

To throw a casual look through open shutters and see you out there again. A wink. A little sign that he’s thinking of you.

Maybe he’ll head out, when the stars are newly minted yet the sun still lingers. Feel the iron sear his skin through his clothes. The warmth of your palm as it wraps around his forearm.

It’s not until the youngling returns that his gaze shifts from the dark to her, a tired furrow on her brow.

“I’m too hot.”

Her mouth hangs open in a wide pant. Astarion kneels before her.

“Have you had any water?’

No.

‘Right then.”

Hours pass and you shuffle back in with a thick-knotted shawl draped lazy over your shoulders, the singe of a giggle still whisper-light in your breath as your friend shouts their farewells.

“She burned today, you know.”

He’s quiet as he stitches, merely an observation; thread between teeth. You sigh fondly in the doorway.

“She’s a child. It’s what children do.”

You bring your warm chalice to his mouth and he lifts his head to take a sip, humming softly. He looks up at you with a raised brow.

“Get burned?”

“You morose bastard. Sun-burn. Children get sunburned.”

She’s lounging on his worn chaise, hair wrapped in towel, with a small bowl of plums at her side and a drawing pad atop her knee. Contented in new pyjamas and the cool dim of her father’s workroom.

The cream has seemingly worked. The cool bath you heard her splash about in not so long ago must’ve been some clever placebo work.

“Found some pretty beetles today, but wasn’t allowed to bring them in.” She speaks as usual with Astarion’s theatrical whine, riddled with fatigue. You roll your eyes affectionately.

“What were they like, darling?”

He’s preoccupied, stitching something small in the gilded embroidery he works at; but there’s the persistent glimmer of interest in his tone. The slightest tilt of his head as his eyes find her in the periphery.

“Really pretty. Different colours. All pinky and greeny.” She waggles her fingers and sighs with a start.

“Draw them for me?”

She looks at him warily as you watch on.

“Will you keep it if I do?”

At that, Astarion stops. A gentle halt. The needle and thread in hand gently tucked into the stitchwork.

“I keep everything you do.”

You scoff. She looks at him with a tiny glare.

“Where is it then?”

“What?”

“All my drawings?”

“It’s where are they, darling.’ He chides, the smallest chit of his fangs.

You move to sit and your daughter lifts her head from the chaise, so it rests on your settled lap when dropped once more. The hint of a grin plays at his mouth.

‘And I keep them somewhere safe so when you’re old - like me - you’ll be able to look back on you now. You’ll be able to remember the beetles.’

He shuffles over to where you both sit, cross legged as he rests his chin on the chaise. Brings the back of a hand to her forehead and swears a sizzle as he pulls away.

‘Plus. I can’t see these beetles now, can I? My sunburn gets a fair bit more serious than yours in nature. I’d like to see them.”

She pauses for a moment.

“Okay. But ONLY because you can’t go and see them for yourself.”

#my writing #dadstarion #baldurs gate astarion #astarion baldurs gate #astarion ancunin #astarion #astarion x reader #bg3

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calypsocolada · 1 year ago

Text

SHAMELESSLY | f. dostoevsky

(final part in the series! click here for part one)

synopsis: after a demon escapes your grasp you hunt it back down. authors note: hiiiiiiiiii!!!!! thank u all so much for your nice words and such :3. this is the final part in this series so I hope you all enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it!!! cw: blood, gore, violence, suggestive, FLUFF, cussing, lil angst, fyodor is and always will be OBSESSED wit u ;) wc: 5.4k

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You’ve never worn a corset before and in this exact moment you knew why. You felt Yosano tighten the strings until you could feel the beating of your own heart.

“I think that’s too tight.” You choked out as Yosano giggled behind you.

“No pain no gain, sweetheart.” She said, tightening it just a bit more.

“I don’t understand why I need this,” You breathed out in exasperation. “It restricts my movements.”

“Stop complaining, after all it’s your fault the demon escaped.” Yosano teases as you let your eyes fall closed.

It was your fault, you let him trick you, let him touch you and steal the keys and now he’s gone. He’d been sending you things, flowers, chocolates, and whatever else all to taunt you. You feel Yosano grip your shoulders softly. “I was joking. He would’ve escaped one way or another, now you just gotta bring him back.” Easier said than done. You flopped down in a chair. Yosano fluffed up your hair and turned the chair around, tilting your head up by the chin. “Are you worried about seeing him again?” She asks. You remember his eyes, midnight plum, in the dark. His hand on your cheek, wiping blood from your face. He tricked you good. All of it was an act, to muddle your senses and leave you defenseless. It boiled you from the inside, left you angry and wanting. The anger was so palpable that it fueled your fire for the past two months since he broke out.

“No.” You answer truthfully, you couldn’t help the bitterness in your voice. Yosano tilted her head slightly.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were. That demon is something to be feared.”

“He’s something to be caught. Like a rat.” You quip as a grin breaks out on Yosano’s face.

“Glad you think that way.” She remarks, pushing back to her feet, dusting off her skirt. “As you know our intel’s iffy,” Yosano starts. You’d been chasing dead ends for quite some time now. You joined back up with the agency out of guilt and disappointed your parents. They were of course upset that you lied about it for a while but you promised the moment you caught the bastard you’d be back home. “Sources say he’ll be at this masquerade tonight so you need to be on guard and be wary of using your powers since he knows about them.” You already thought of that. Fyodor is highly intelligent and you’re sure that if you finally found him there’s a reason that only he devised. So impossibly you had to be more cunning. You pushed to your feet, leaning to look in the mirror. Yosano did you up, you almost didn’t recognize yourself without the sleep deprived bags under your eyes. You looked fresh even though you haven't been sleeping much. You straightened.

“Good work, I look human again.” You remarked as Yosano snorted.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Now you better get going. Oh, and Y/n?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t play hero, if you see him, stall him and wait for us.” Yosano advised, her voice deadly serious. You nodded your head but the only person that was going to slam the cell door in Fyodor’s face was going to be you.

The masquerade was extravagant. That’s really the only word you could use to describe it. You never went to dances when you were younger, you always thought you were too cool for them but in reality you wished you went. Though you were sure a high school couldn’t put on something this enchanting...

As you walked in the large stone doors into the venue your breath stuttered in your chest. It looked like a story book come to life. Every single soul was dressed to the nines, intricate gowns with matching masks, velvet suits and cuffs. Not to mention the entire venue, large ceilings with stained glass windows, long vines hanging from tall statues of sculpted men and women with little to cover the intimate parts. There were hundreds of people lining the hall, some dancing and some laughing, drinking from fancy looking goblets, eating even fancier looking desserts. You swept down the stairs, pulling the mask over your eyes as you scanned every face you walked by.

“I feel as though I walked into a different time.” You say softly, hearing a familiar crackle in your earpiece.

“Yes, someone really outdid themselves.” Dazai answers. You maneuver your way through the party goers, swiping a drink and tipping the glass to your lips. It’s sweet at first but strong when it slides into your stomach. You set down the empty glass and grab another. “Go easy there, alchy.” You hear Dazai admonish and you can’t help but roll your eyes. You walked not one but two laps around the room and you were fast approaching to losing hope, that the iffy intel was just that, iffy.

“He’s not here.” You say, hiding your lips behind the glass. You hear Dazai lean back in his creaky chair, probably putting his feet up on his desk.

“Take one more lap around.” He directs and you do. You check every pair of eyes, searching for those midnight plum eyes, searching for the coal black hair and the cruel smile. But he’s nowhere to be seen and you feel like a fool.

Another dead end.

You grabbed one last glass before heading towards the door only stopping when someone slid into your path.

“Leaving so soon?” Your attention snaps up to his face but the eyes are light blue. You don’t recognize this person but something in you stands at edge when he cocks his head to the side. “You look very pretty. Too pretty to not be snatched up to dance.” He offers his hand to you, his voice is familiar. Something in you twists and before you can say no your earpiece crackles again.

“Say yes.” Dazai asserts and you curse inwardly that you can’t ask why. You take in a sharp breath and hesitantly meet his hand. You watch his pink lips turn up into a cheshire cat grin as he yanks you, somewhat unkindly, to the dance floor. You weave through the crowd behind him and when he finally finds a place with a bit of room he spins around and pulls you to his chest. You gasp at the suddenness and force down any harsh words you have because maybe Dazai knows something you don't know about this man. A song starts in the distance, something slow and you force yourself to stay in this man's grip. One hand holding your own, the other sliding around your hip resting just above your ass. If he goes any lower you were going to tell him to eat concrete and with your powers he would. Slowly he pulls you into step, soft music caressing your ears.

“Not much of a dancer?” He asks and you're annoyed that he noticed but you force a cordial smile and tilt your head.

“That noticeable?” You remark and he smirks as though you were complimenting him in his cleverness.

“Not much, honey, you’re just a bit stiff. Do I make you uncomfortable?” He asks and it takes everything in you not to nod your head.

“No, I just haven’t danced in a while.”

“Why is that?” He inquires.

“Never been much for parties I guess.” You remark and he nods his head, spinning you around a bit too fast, he dips you in his arms and snaps you back up. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood.

“You’re too gorgeous to stay out of the limelight, you should be paraded around like an expensive jewel.” Paraded around? Did this guy think that was really a compliment? “If I had you I’d show you off to anyone that would listen.” He winks and you force a laugh that sounds slightly annoyed to your own ears.

“Thank you, uh, I guess I never got your name.” You say and the man levels you with a look, his hand around your waist tightens just slightly. Even before he reaches up his hand to tilt up his mask your heart clenches. His voice, his eyes were familiar because you knew deep down who it was. Who it was holding you, paradeing you around the room like an expensive jewel just like he said. Someone who you thought was dead, your nightmares filled with his face. You spent weeks in the hospital because of this man, you quit the agency because of this man.

Lord Francis.

He pulled you closer to him as he lowered his mask back, you froze like prey entrapped by a predator.

“Honey, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” You had. He laughs at your stricken expression, the same laugh he gave you before beating you until you didn’t recognize yourself. “I’ve been waiting a long time to see you again.” His hand that's around your waist slides up your back and around until his thumb brushes your cheek. “I didn’t even leave a scratch on you, Pity.” Something bubbles inside but you're too terrified to act on it. What’s the use or your power if your lips are trembling too much to say something. “Oh, and,” His finger taps on your earpiece. “I hope you don’t mind that I jammed your radio there, we needed privacy.” You tremor at his touch, gaining back a bit of your bite. You part your lips to say something but he shushes you. “I wouldn’t. You use your powers here and I’ll just have my men execute everyone here one by one.” He smirks and all the fight in you dies. You stare at him hard.

“What do you want?” You ask through clenched teeth.

“What do I want?” He echoes and you swallow dryly. He tilts his head. “Don’t tell me you don’t know, it’s obvious you are here for me.”

“I’m not.” You say defiantly and he laughs. You shove him back hard, he bumps into a few other couples dancing, looking at you as though you were some wild animal. He clenches his jaw, fixing his tie. He walks forward and you're reminded of why you held so much fear. You take a step back into someone.

“There you are, my love. I was just coming over to cut in but it seems you two are done dancing.” That voice. Your heart seizes. You turn and there he is. Midnight plum eyes, coal black hair, that cruel smirk.

“I think we may have one dance left.” Francis hisses and when he takes a step forwards Fyodor moves gracefully right in his way, somewhat protectively, blocking Francis's path to you.

“I think the lady should decide.” He intones, that accent hitting some part of you. You clench your jaw. Tonight was a night of surprises it seemed. Fyodor’s eyes slide to meet yours. His hair is styled to perfection, a loose strand falling in his eyes, a dark suit that fits him just right. He looked good but even the devil himself couldn’t get that out of you. “So which is it, my love?” A small feeling bloomed in your chest at the name.

“Fuck you.” You cursed, eyes sharp. Two words you’d been saving just for him. All your waking and unconscious thoughts were about him, he haunted your every moment. All that and you’d only spoken to him for maybe fifteen minutes before he tricked you. Francis scoffed a laugh and stepped forwards but stopped short. You extended your hand to Fyodor. “Can I have this dance?” You seethed begrudgingly. Between a demon and the actual devil you knew which to hedge your bets with. Fyodor looked smitten as he took your hand and swept you away from Francis. He didn’t drag you like Francis had and when he turned he softly pulled you into his chest, his hand wrapping around your waist and the fear you had with Francis diminished. Something far dangerous grew.

“Did you get my flowers?” He speaks softly right near your right ear. You tightened your jaw.

“Yes, I got your taunts.” You say exsaperatedly and Fyodor pulls back so he can look you in the eyes.

“I wasn’t taunting you, my love, I was flirting.”

“Writing, ‘come and find me’ on every note is your way of flirting?” You quip and he nods his head, pursing his lips.

“And you did, look at that, I feel so special.” He breaths. You tighten the grip you have on his hand as he moves you in step with the music.

“I’ve looked everywhere for you.” You scowl and he tilts his head, letting his eyes fall closed as he breathes in.

“How I’ve longed to hear that.” He says, opening his eyes and spinning you when the music picks up. “Have I told you how utterly striking you look tonight?” He asks when you spin back into him. He lowers his voice. “Because you look so ravishing I can’t hardly think straight.” Goosebumps rise on your skin, your heart doing a traitorous flip in your chest. The look in his eyes tells you he knows what effect he’s having on you so you force yourself to remember the basics. He betrayed you, used you like a fool. You held onto those two thoughts.

“I should command you to leave here with me.” You growl and the edge of his cruel mouth tilts up.

“You wouldn’t have to command me, dear, I’d go anywhere you told me to go.” He implores, his eyes soft on yours. You harden your thoughts. No being tricked.

“Even back to prison?” You ask and he pulls you into him, his lips just by your ear.

“I’d go to hell and back if you so wished.” You push him away instantly because your body wants him. You like the things he’s saying and it’s all too confusing and maddeding.

“Stop it.” You manage and he looks at you with cat-like eyes.

“Stop what, my love?”

“Saying things like that.” You hiss and he just smiles at you.

“You have the physical prowess to stop me yet you don’t. You let me say these things because deep,” He leans back into you, hand enveloping yours as the music picks up. “Deep down you want to hear them. As long as you like to hear them I will speak forevermore.” You hadn’t noticed how close he’d gotten until his lips barely brushed yours, almost like a kiss from the wind. You let out the breath caught in your throat. If you moved even a centimeter your lips would fully meet his. You're not sure how long you two were like this, the space between you practically non-existent, wanting him to be the one to give in. To put you out of your misery with a kiss. But alas, he pulls back, eyes like molten. “When I saw that man’s hands on you I saw red. I wanted to kill him.”

“Why didn’t you?” You ask, embarrassed that your voice betrayed you, showcasing just how much this moment was affecting you. Fyodor tilts his head.

“I didn’t think you’d like that…” He guessed, but it sounded more like a question. “Would you like me to kill him?” His eyes devoured your face, you swallowed to keep your lips from forming the word yes. You shook your head because you didn’t trust your voice. Fyodor just gave you back his soft smile, something he only saved for your eyes and your eyes only. “Hmm… yes, I guess that might ruin this party… After all, I planned this just for you.” He says and it’s like a bucket of cold water is thrown over you. He planned this ball. He invited everyone. Even Francis. He was probably working with Francis. He must’ve known Francis would rattle you enough to have you fall into his hands. And boy were you falling, shamelessly. You straightened, gaining back some sense of dignity. He was playing you again. Tricking you. You fell for it every goddamn time. Not this time.

“I think I’d like to change my mind.” You breathed out, your voice strong. His eyes light up at your words.

“On what, my love?”

“I think I do want you to kill him.” You say and watch a small bit of shock settle on his sharp features. He barely sucks in his bottom lip, running his teeth over it. He stops dancing, gently pulling you by the hand towards the back of the party. You follow, glancing behind you to see Francis, his eyes locked on you. You weren’t getting out of here unscathed. Fyodor whisks you into an empty room, leaning against the door to shut it.

“Oh dear…” He starts. You turn about the room before finding him. You put on your bravest face and cross the room back to him. He stays pressed against the door. You pull him in, you're directing this play now. You were tired of playing the pawn. He looks at you as though you’re about to whisper some riddle to him. As if he knows you so well that this would be some kind of joke. You lean your cheek against his and whisper into the shell of his ear.

“If you want me as badly as you claim, you’ll do it.” You say, finding his hand and tightening your hand on his. You feel him shutter against you. You wanted to call his bluff, to finally have something over him. But he just pulls back and you see resolve on his face, you see a man who was going to do exactly as you ask.

“How would you like me to do it, my love?” He asks and your left to wonder if he really means it. You both stare at each other for a moment as you try and gauge things. “Would you like me to slit his throat?” He offers in the dim light, the music swells behind the door. You swallow because you feel the control slipping. “Shoot him in the head? Although where's the flair in that?” He laughs softly.

“I don’t care how you do it.” You say and he drags a finger across your cheek.

“I must say, I like this side of you.” He’s smiling that wicked smile and something in you pulls and snaps. Your hands travel up his arms and you watch his eyes dart to watch them. You feel out of control but in it all at once.

“You bring it out of me.” You murmur, leaning your body against his, you feel his heart racing in his chest under your palm and you pause. Was he nervous? No, he was playing you so there was no way this was affecting him.

Slowly you dragged your eyes up to his and the way he was looking at you made you pause again. You remember seeing that look on your dad’s face in the morning as your mom sat breakfast on the table, or when you’d all be out and your mom would watch your dad laughing with that same expression. That was the look of love. Fyodor had no right to pretend to care and you felt vindictive, like he was soiling some precious memory.

You grabbed his tie in your right hand twisting it around your hand, holding it tight. Something flashed in his eyes at your somewhat rough treatment, something dark and alluring. You pulled him down and shocked the both of you by rocking up on the balls of your feet to meet his lips. Rationality had flown right out the window and despite the many warnings and reasons, something had ached inside of you, a craving that had finally been understood. In this madness you decided if you were getting played, if this was all some stupid game or a trick to get you killed then you’d at least take Fyodor’s dignity with you. Fyodor’s slender hands slid around your waist pulling you completely against him, his mouth moving eagerly against yours. The kiss was hot and all consuming and completely fucking mad. Your hands found themselves tangling and messing up his perfect hair, tugging it and causing him to groan against your mouth. He might laugh later and say it meant nothing and you might agree, but you both would be filthy liars. Your stomach burned with yearning, a sick and crazy feeling amongst all the others.

His cruel mouth is surprisingly soft, he kisses you reverently at first, as though giving you time to move away and make better decisions but when you don’t it grows deeper and more desperate. He’s wanted it, you can tell by the way he devours you, the way he holds your hips with one arm and runs his fingers through your hair with the other, resting his hand just below your jaw. When you both pull back to catch your breaths, Fyodor’s thumb tilts your head up so he can look in your eyes.

“Why do you really want him dead?” He asks through a staggering breath. Something in you twists triumphantly because he sounds put out, like you truly knocked him off balance.

“For the fun of it.” You coo and he cocks his head at that, shaking his head in an admonishing way.

“That isn’t like you, dear.” He says.

“Ah, cause you know me so well, Fyodor.” You hear him suck in a breath and before you can even begin to understand why his cheeks pinken in the dim light his hands slide up to either side of your face, his lips crashing against yours. You're stunned as he walks you back towards some kind of desk, the backs of your thighs hitting the hardwood. You realize distantly that you probably never had the control in the first place as his hands slide down to the backs of your thighs and lifts you up and sets you on the desk, his body parting your knees as he stands in between them. Your head is tilted up, hands grabbing at his suit jacket. He trails kisses away from your mouth to your neck and you shiver.

“You have no idea how badly I want to know you.” He mumbles against your neck, his hot breath tickling you. “Every single thought you have, I want to know what you're thinking…” His words are barely understandable as he attacks you with his lips. “I want to know who you are and where you are and-”

“You sound mad.” You say, flustered. He was talking crazy.

“You make me feel so utterly out of control.” He mewls, a bit more coherently. “I’ve never met someone like you.”

“You barely know me.” You quip and he pulls his lips away from your neck.

“I’ll take what I can get.” He speaks so softly and your heart swoons. With his hands still on your cheeks he leans in and for the first time, without desperation or shyness, kisses you kindly. You were done for. This went well past revenge. Him stealing the keys and your reaction to it felt utterly stupid now. Were you obsessed just for the sake of it, just for the sake of him?

“Don’t you.. Don’t you want more?” You asked and he looked at you. “If you were different… we could,” You stopped talking, unsure of where your thoughts were headed.

“You mean if I were good? Maybe made a difference in the world?” He asks and you find yourself nodding your head. “I didn’t care about making a difference in the world,” He starts. “But since it’s your world I feel as though I could change.”

The door opens and you push Fyodor back forcefully. Francis glides into the room, his cape trailing after him. You're hot and flushed as you slide off the desk, you hadn’t noticed your dress had ridden up on your thighs as it fell back down. Francis looks between you both and laughs a cold laugh.

“Is this how the agency deals with villains nowadays?” He asks and you straighten. Suddenly your earpiece crackles and you hear Dazai again, it takes everything in you not to jump at how loud it crackled.

“Y/n… Y/n? Clear your throat if you can hear me.” Dazai says and you do as you level Francis with a hard stare, unsure what to say. Was this the moment where they both killed you?

“It’s impolite to interrupt, you should leave.” Fyodor’s voice is hard and suddenly you're reminded of who he is… How could you’ve forgotten?

“Y/n… Francis’s men have been dealt with, use your powers.” Dazai informs, it takes everything in you not to smile at that. When you first fought you weren’t able to use your voice very well, but things were much different now.

“You're hogging all her attention, Demon, I think she owes me a dance still.” Francis slides his eyes back to you. “Isn’t that right, honey?” He asks, extending his hand. Before you can even part your lips to speak Fyodor, with surprising slyness, drives a knife directly through Francis’s palm, yanking it out as Francis cusses, stumbling back. When Fyodor raises his arm, poised to kill, you find your voice.

“Stop.” Your power seeps through his thoughts, halting his actions. “Stand off to the side.” You direct and he does, but you didn’t use your powers, he just listened. Francis holds his bleeding hand, his powers glowing. “You haunted my nightmares for so long,” You start, and he looks at you unafraid because he doesn’t know just how good you were with your powers now. “But I've realized something. You're just a man. A weak one.” His powers flare. “Freeze.” Francis is put in a standstill, his blood dropping to the floor. He stares at you, fear mingling in his eyes, you smile a smile you could only learn from Fyodor.

“I almost killed you once-- I can do it again.” Francis struggles but your compulsion is too strong.

“You… what?” You hear Fyodor ask, your eyes slide to his and you're staggered by the hatred in his eyes and in that moment you realize that he didn’t know what happened between you and Francis.

“Keep your mouth shut.” You direct and he looks at you with a sort of defalted expression.

“Y/n? Is everything under control? If so, we're heading in.” Dazai asks in your earpiece.

“Uh huh.” You answer, turning back to Francis. “Stuff your sock in your mouth and tie yourself to the chair.” Francis straightens, his eyes pleading you to say stop as he reaches to pull off his shoe. You turn to Fyodor. There’s something in the air.

“My love,”

“Don’t.” You say but it hurts, something in you breaks at the expression on his face. “You slipped out of my reach once, it’s not happening again.”

“My love, you wound me. Is that how you treat all your enemies?”

“Just you.” You say and watch his hurt expression melt into a soft smile.

“That gives me some solace.” He says, his eyes dragging your entire body, possibly cataloging it. You hear Francis mumbling something but the sock is muffling it. You ignore him because turning away from Fyodor right now seems like betraying yourself.

“You had to know this would happen.” You attested as you hear some slight bit of panic break out into the ballroom, the music halting. The agency was here. Fyodor leans against the desk, one that he lifted you up on mere minutes ago. He lets his eyes fall closed.

“Yes… I knew.” He starts, opening his eyes back up, those damned eyes. “I don’t mind. What’s love without a little grief?” He asks and you swallow something down. Why did this feel wrong? He was a villain and you caught him so why do you feel as though you're making the worst decision. Fyodor pushes off the desk and reaches for your hand, you let him take it as he kisses your knuckles. “I hope you’ll come back to me soon, my love.” Before you can even think to answer the door bursts open, Dazai and the other members stroll in. You step pointedly away from Fyodor. Dazai smiles warmly at you, ruffling your hair, after all you did just catch two for one.

The teapot on the counter starts to whistle. It startles you out of your thoughts as you push away from the counter, grabbing your mug. You pull the kettle from the stove top and pour the hot water over the tea bags, a strong scent wafting upwards, calming your nerves. You rip open a few sugar packets, pouring it in, grabbing the cold spoon, mixing it around. You palm the mug, letting the warmth heat your cold hands. Morning was still slow to approach, the sun not awake yet. You’d dreamt of that masquerade from almost three years ago now and slipped out of bed, seeking a cup of warmth. The steam warmed your lips as you took light sips. You heard the bed creak in the distance, feet padding against the wooden flooring. You turn.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” You ask as Fyodor, hair mussed from sleep, emerges from the dark hallway. He rubs his eyes, shaking his head.

“No, Y/n, can’t sleep?” He asks his hands reaching for you. His chest presses against your back, his hands sliding around your waist as he holds you, head on your shoulder. You turn to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I dreamt of the last time we danced.” You say, feeling a grin grow on Fyodor’s lips.

“Is that right?” He says.

“Mhmm.”

“You mean where you kissed me then tossed me in prison?” He jested and you turned, pressing your face into his chest, his sweater soft and warm against your cheek.

“Don’t remind me of that.” You blushed, holding in a laugh. He wraps his arms around your back, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“It was very cute, you pretending as though you didn’t love me.”

“I didn’t know.” You groaned, muffled by his sweater. He felt him chuckle warmly, reaching and placing your mug on the counter. You pulled back slightly to look up at him as he reached back and turned on the radio, he turned it for a moment before landing on a song you’d never heard before, a soft guitar strumming through the speakers. ‘Looking out the door I see the rain fall upon the funeral mourners…’ a male voice sang. Fyodor looked down at you.

“May I have this dance?” He asks and you breathe out a laugh, your cheeks flushing.

“God... you're sappy.” You coo, but you accept his hand, letting him dance you around the kitchen.

You made a lot of sacrifices to keep him here with you, things had finally settled, nice and quiet. You moved out of the city into a cottage near the outskirts of your parents hometown. They only knew Fyodor for who you introduced him as and not the person you met him as. You missed your friends from the agency but being here you never felt better in the entirety of your life. You never really cared about making a difference in the world, it felt more like a necessity or an obligation, so leaving the agency for the last time only hurt because you were leaving your friends. But they were all capable. Fyodor and Dazai had figured out some sort of pack and you used your powers to erase Fyodor’s life from anyone who knew him. Which honestly was few and far between. Now he really only existed to you and your family. Which was good, you worried you’d have to protect him for the rest of your lives, living in fear that something would finally turn upside down. But going on almost over two years, life had finally been easy going.

Fyodor dipped you as the song came to an end, slowly he guided you back up, you giggled softly. He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Ready to go back to bed, love?” You asked and you felt him melt. He liked when you used his nicknames, after all he called you that so many times it just slipped out sometimes.

“Mhmm.” He hummed and picked you right off your feet, you yelped, laughing hard as he walked you through the dark hallway. He pressed you down against the mattress, caging your body with his. He presses a gentle kiss to your lips, smirking against them. “Love, you’re not tired right this second, right?” He whispers against your lips, your body heats at the implication.

“I think I could stay up for a bit longer if needed.” You jest and he trails kisses down.

“Much needed.”

#bungo stray dogs #bsd fyodor #bsd x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky bsd #fyodor x reader

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rainbowcaleb · 5 months ago

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FICLET FRIDAY : Hot boi by the sea

Prompt: summer vacation | Rating: T | Pairing: shadowgast | WIP, currently 2400 words

A/N : I rediscovered this fic from June last year and have been finishing it for posting! Enjoy this longer snippet from the middle of the fic…

“But you! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear so little clothes!” She gestures at his outfit, the black linen sleeveless top and loose plum silk trousers.

“Oh, Light.” Essek mutters and uses his free hand to shift the wrap of his shirt a little more closed. His clothes suddenly feel so scandalous, despite being practically required for this coastal heat.

“Oh no, nonono, I’m sorry Essie, I didn’t mean to make you feel all self conscious, but is it really such a bad thing to be a little ogled at?” Jester looks so earnest that Essek feels compelled to answer.

“It is because you are right; it has easily been decades since I’ve worn such garments in public. I may have been a child last. You all have certainly…relaxed me, but I think my comfort level still has legs to stretch.”

Caleb’s hand is back, now brushing against his shoulder, still so careful to touch what is still covered in fabric. “If you’d like, I have a spare shirt packed, if you wish for another layer.”

“No.” Essek says firmly. “Thank you. I think perhaps the challenge is good for me. I would like to see the ocean, and partake in –what was it Jester?– the local iced poles.”

“Pops, but yes Essek!” She snaps the fingers of her free hand. “It’s hot boi summer, let yourself look hot!” She leans forward enough to catch Caleb’s eye on Essek’s other side. “Even Caleb agrees.”

“Ja, I—” He starts, mouth making a couple silent word attempts before continuing. Then he stands straighter. “Yes. Yes, Jester is right. Your chosen outfit is quite…” He trails off, eyes caught in the sheen of Essek’s pants and looking completely lost for correct words.

“You. Two. Are. Dating.” Jester sighs with the gusto of an elephant trumpet. “At some point you’ll see each others’ dicks so you should really stop blushing over clothes. Unless you have doodley-dooed already and you’re trying to throw me off?”

“Jester!” Essek’s sounds are the squeaking mouse to Jester’s elephant. “We, no, what we do is between us–”

Caleb, despite being tomato red, replies in a fairly reasonable tone. “You are one of our closest friends, but there are some things that will stay between us. For explanation, I was simply…flipping through my mental dictionary and coming up short.”

“Hot boi.” Jester rolls her eyes. “It’s his nickname for a reason.”

“You do look—” Caleb gives him a radiant grin, the bastard. “Very hot.”

Essek wants to bury his face in the inside of his robes, but alas his robes are absent and his shirt is far too low cut. “Thank you Caleb, I think you do too.”

“What, this?” He gestures at his open white shirt, offering a lovely view of bare chest and chest hair, and thigh length linen shorts. “You should see my swimsuit.”

Jester breaks out into a giggle and then quickly tries to stifle herself. Essek and Caleb share a look; it certainly sounds like there is mischief afoot.

“Blueberry.” Essek lets the word roll around his tongue, trying out the nickname. Jester looks at him delighted. “Speaking of swimming, we have been walking for quite a while and have yet to reach any sight of shore. I kindly ask again, this is a tourist town by the sea, correct?”

#shadowgast #critical role #mighty Nein fic #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #jester lavorre #Jesties #critical role fanfic #jessties #caleb x essek #my fic

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spookyjuicefiction · 11 months ago

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Violets & Plums: Astarion/Tav, Part 4

A/N: Look at me updating and not completely abandoning a work! I literally have no plans for this chapter I'm just gonna freeball it and hope it gets where it should go. I read a really sad Ascended Astarion fic last night that I want to flush out of my brain by rambling on and on with fluff

Also Astarion and Shawdowheart are besties and helping each other work through some trauma

Masterlist Part 3

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

Astarion emerged from trance sluggishly, feeling unusually well-rested. No nightmares clung to the backs of his eyes, and he was so warm.

He froze, suddenly alert.

He was never warm.

But she was.

His eyes snapped open and he took in the scene. The room looked stark in the morning light that cascaded through the skylight above; the previously flickering candles melted to stubs that dripped over the side of the bed table. And, of course, there was her. She took up most of the bed, her arms akimbo and hair splayed messily across the pillow. Her mouth hung open slightly, and she snored a little with each deep inhale. She was still shirtless; he took inventory of each scar and freckle dotted across the expanse of her skin. His limbs were tangled in hers, and he couldn't ignore the extra heat where his leg split hers open. Fuck.

They were so wound together that she stirred at even his slightest movement; he was trying to angle his morning excitement away from her hip.

"You better not be trying to get out of this bed."

Her voice was thick with sleep, eyes still closed as she yanked the blanket back up over their shoulders.

He chuckled awkwardly, unsure of what to do. He couldn't remember the last time he woke up in bed with someone. At once the warmth was both suffocating and intoxicating; he wanted to nestle back into her so badly, but he felt exposed and vulnerable in the sunlight. He tried to deflect.

"Darling, we have a very busy day today. There are so many goblins to kill! I should think you'd want plenty of time for your breakfast."

"I can have breakfast any day. I likely won't get to share a proper bed with you again until we reach Baldur's Gate, and I intend to enjoy it."

Astarion grinned in spite of himself. "Very bold of you to assume I'd jump into bed with you again. You must think you're quite the cuddle."

Smiling, she finally opened her eyes and looked into his. His stomach flipped at the expression they conveyed, all sweetness and sleepy desire.

"You wound me. And here I thought we had something special." She let out an overly dramatic sigh. "If you'd rather room with Gale in Baldur's Gate, I suppose I can understand. Just give me some time to get over it."

He was too weak to resist her. Her charming playfulness, her nudity, and her gentle hands on his shoulders were a heady mixture that his conscience simply couldn't contend with. He succumbed to the warmth, closing the distance between them with a hungry kiss that left them both a little breathless.

"If my only lodging option is Gale in the future," Astarion told her seriously, "I'm taking a page out of Lae'zel's book and swearing off beds altogether. I refuse to be the first person that dies in a Netherese orb explosion."

Giggling, she stroked his cheek and replied, "I swear to never make you bunk with Gale if you admit that I'm the best cuddle you've ever had."

Astarion rolled his eyes with exaggerated exasperation and she playfully slapped his cheek lightly, still giggling. "You bastard."

"Very well," he sighed, leaning forward and nuzzling his nose to hers in a way so a nauseatingly sweet he would certainly punish himself for it later, "you are the best cuddle I have ever had. And it's not even close." For once in his life, Astarion was telling the complete and entire truth.

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

The saccharine mood from the morning cuddle hung over them both as they strapped into their armor, packed, and headed to the dining area to meet the others. Astarion felt he hid the giddiness better than she did by nodding stiffly to the table at large and heading to the corner to sharpen his daggers in solitude. Tav, on the other hand, greeted everyone with unbridled enthusiasm that had the entire table raising their eyebrows. Very subtle, Astarion mentally chastised her. But even he had trouble committing to the thought, warming at the idea that he might be the cause for her smile as she sat down and dug heartily into her breakfast. Mine.

It didn't surprise him when Shadowheart fell back to walk in step with him on the way to the goblin camp once they set out. She seemed determined to dig up gossip on whatever was going on between he and Tav.

"How was your evening?" she asked innocently. Astarion shot her a knowing look, and she chuckled.

"Lady Shar would be ashamed at my lack of subterfuge," she remarked. "Although I'm not nearly as bad as you and Tav."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Astarion's tone aimed for dismissive, but even he couldn't hold back a smile when Shadowheart snorted in return.

They walked in companionable silence for a while, and Astarion found that he did not entirely dislike the cleric's company. He wondered if she considered him a sort of friend, the way Tav did.

"Can I ask you something?" he surprised himself by asking her quietly.

"Sure," she answered, sounding a little surprised as well.

"You surrendered your memories to serve Shar. Do you ever..." he wasn't sure how to ask the question that was on the tip of his tongue. "Are there times that you sort of.. clamp up? Like there's something you can't remember, but it... paralyzes you?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he felt Shadowheart regard him. After a beat, she answered, "yes."

He looked to her now. Her fingers were brushing the black spot on the back of her hand that she claimed was an "old injury that acted up from time to time". She continued, "it sort of feels like my brain is resetting. Like I should be able to remember something, but it's blocked. It makes me feel..." she searched for the right word. "Afraid. Outside of myself."

"Hmm," Astarion hummed in reply. He found that he wanted to confide in her further. "It happened to me last night, when Tav and I... I became afraid, quite suddenly." He frowned at the memory. "I feel... ashamed."

"Astarion, if there is anyone who would never judge you, it's Tav," Shadowheart reminded him gently. "But I'm sorry that happened to you. And I'm sorry for whatever memory caused it." He felt her hand touch his wrist, and she gave him a little squeeze. In response, he lightly bumped his shoulder against hers.

"What a mess we all are," he sighed. They were approaching the edge of the goblin encampment now, and the pair dropped to a crouch in unison.

"Well, luckily there are plenty of goblin skulls to crush as therapy."

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

"What kind of a name is Priestess Gut, anyway?!" Astarion yanked Tav behind a pillar as a flurry of arrows launched their way.

"That's what we all call you behind your back." She was panting as she chugged a quick healing potion and wiggled her fingers, willing electricity to buzz between them. The grand hall of the old Selunite temple was a mess; the group had managed to schmooze their way in and take out two leaders, but a guard had caught Karlach cracking a scrying eye against the stone wall and alerted the whole camp to their trickery.

"No no, that's what I call you after you pig out on sweetrolls after supper," he shot back through gritted teeth as he yanked arrows out of a dead body nearby. She shot him a wicked grin as the sparks between her fingers began crackling even bigger.

"Hang on, I've just had a thought!" Astarion plucked up a carafe from the ground nearby and flung it around the pillar, covering the ground with water. "Alright, sweetness, light them up."

She happily obliged, sending a current of pure electricity through the line of goblins in a chain reaction. The pair whooped excitedly as they ran forward, trying to catch up with Wyll and Lae'zel ahead.

"Watch out!" Shadowheart's panicked scream hit them too late; an arrow whizzed past Astarion's face. Looking up, he saw they'd missed a guard in the rafters, which he took out with a rapid arrow from his own bow.

"Little shit," he cursed, "come on-" but Tav had dropped to the ground next to him, slipping through his fingers as he tried too late to catch her.

"No, gods damn it, NO!" the rogue arrow was poking out of her shoulder, just above her heart. Her eyes were blinking rapidly as blood soaked her jerkin. Panic seized his heart as he tried to drag her out of the center of the room; the fight between Karlach, Gale and the last leader, Minthara, was spilling dangerously close to where Tav had fallen. Shadowheart was on the other side of the room shooting off shield spells, and Wyll and Lae'zell were rushing forward to join the fray.

What the fuck do I do? Tav was losing consciousness, and he needed to get her out of the way.

Suddenly, he remembered the ring Gale had pressed into his hand a few days before and the conversation that had ensued:

"Gale, what in the hells am I going to do with a Misty Step Ring? I don't even use magic."

"You have fey magic in you, Astarion. You never know when it could come in handy. Just hang onto it."

Astarion threw his arms around Tav and tried with everything in him to channel the power of the ring.

"Come on, fucking faerie magic," he grunted. I have to save her. He let out a scream as a white hot feeling crashed through him - and then they were gone.

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

What if she's dead?

The question wouldn't stop ringing in Astarion's ears as he paced outside the door to the room in the temple they had deemed as the hospital ward. He didn't quite know how to feel about the question. Only days ago he swore he wouldn't have cared if Tav had fallen off a cliff, but now... everything had changed. When was the last time he'd lost someone? Someone that mattered?

"It was quick thinking, mate," Wyll said for what must have been the third time. The warlock was cleaning a scrape on his leg on a bench along the wall. "You did everything you could."

Astarion picked up a piece of rubble from the ground and threw it as hard as he could down the hall. He hadn't done enough. She could be dead.

Belatedly, it occurred to him that he hadn't once been distracted by her blood as he tried to stopper the wound. It almost unnerved him that the frenzy of his thirst had been overpowered by his panic over losing her. He wanted to smack his skull against the wall. His confusion over his suddenly strong feelings for her flavored his fear of losing her with extra nausea.

Finally, Shadowheart appeared in the doorway, wiping her bloody hands on a rag. "She's alive," she assured him quickly, assessing the pure panic in his eyes. "She's lost a lot of blood and will need some time to recover, but she'll pull through."

Astarion thought his knees might give out. "Is she awake? Is she in pain?" he tried to peer over the cleric's head to get a look into the ward. "Will it be alright through the night?"

"I promise, Astarion, I've done everything I can." Shadowheart looked exhausted - depleted, even. He wanted to hound her further, but he knew she was telling the truth. He hadn't forgotten their tender conversation from earlier in the day, and he was grateful to her for that and for tending to Tav.

"Can I see her?" he asked in a small voice. Shadowheart nodded, stepping out into the hallway and holding the door open for him. Astarion understood - this was the changing of the guard for the rest of the night.

He moved into the dimly lit room to take up his post and nearly shuddered at the sight. Tav was laid stiffly out on a table in a way that reminded Astarion of a body at the morgue, covered by a loose piece of cloth. Her tangled hair was pushed back over her head, and her forehead and upper lip were glistening with sweat. He hesitated for a moment before stepping back in the hall, asking Wyll to keep an eye on her for a few moments.

He returned to the tableside with a bucket of warm water, his bergamot soap, a sponge, a comb, and a clean set of loose clothing. He spent the next hour gingerly scrubbing the crusted blood and dirt off of her pretty skin and gently working through the tangles in her hair. He sat at the head of the table and worked the strands into an intricate braid pattern that he hadn't realized he even knew how to do. Hair-braiding was an intimate act amongst elves; he briefly wondered whose hair he might have braided before to learn this design. He was glad that he didn't remember; he wanted it to be only hers.

When he had finished cleaning her, he sat and watched her for so long that he lost track of time. It felt as though he was trancing - thoughts seemed to come and go before he could catch them. They were tiny things, inconsequential. A vicious master, a putrid dungeon full of rats, a squirming parasite digging through his skull. An infernal tattoo. An army of cultists marching on the city. It didn't matter now, he knew. As he looked at her, he at last finally, calmly accepted the seismic shift in the cosmos. The center of his universe now lay on the table in front of him, dancing between life and death, the axis of the planet spinning unknowingly around the core of her being. He was but a tiny moon in her atmosphere, helpless to her gravitational pull. Perhaps it was time to stop resisting. With a sigh, he settled into orbit.

A dim light had begun to creep through the dusty windows when she finally stirred. A groan of pain, followed by a thick swallow. Astarion was at her side in an instant with a water skein, tipping it to her cracked lips. She swallowed and coughed lightly, blinking up at him.

"It smells like shit in here."

He chuckled, tucking a stray hair behind her ears. "My apologies, madam. I'm not sure I can wash away, what, months worth of goblin piss in one night? But I can certainly try if it should please you."

She huffed out a laugh that made her wince, tenderly bringing a hand to touch the wound area. "How bad is it?"

"Shadowheart says you'll live," he smiled at her crookedly, "though I had my doubts. You looked quite poorly."

"You must be disappointed she was right," she smirked up at him, although he thought he caught an unguarded flash of uncertainty. If she only knew what he now understood, she would never doubt his devotion to her. But how could he even begin to explain it?

"Not in the least," he all but whispered. Leaning down, he ghosted a kiss against her lips first, and then to her forehead. "Don't scare me like that again, please."

"Then don't forget to check the rafters next time." Tired as she was, her eyes were full of adoration as her hand clasped around his.

#astarion fanfic #astarion angst #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion x reader #baldurs gate astarion #astarion fluff #astarion #fic wip

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bloodfin · 1 year ago

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it's wash day so obvi i'm thinking about the ghouls and their hair

rain is blessed, he could wash those blue-black curls with dawn dishsoap and they would be perfect every single time. he does nothing, puts in 0 effort, and walks around like he was freshly styled every morning like the beautiful bastard that he is

dew has a large collection of hair products, some from the girls that they tried and hated, many more that he found to try. he likes to keep his gold, shimmery locks soft and tangle free, and he will bite if anyone comes at him with a hair dryer - he's a fire ghoul after all

mountain has a business mullet, party in the back for sure but slightly longer in the front so he can still pull his ruddy brown hair up into a bun. you couldn't find anyone less particular about their hair (except rain)

phantom has so much hair. it's so much, black with a shock of pale purple in the front. it's got some wave to it, but he's lost; even has an undercut to help manage the sheer amount of hair he has. he loves every time cumulus helps him out; she's slowly teaching him the curly girl method

swiss, like rain, doesn't have to do much to his dark plum curls. he has a mint leave in conditioner that dew is always trying to swipe. a solid wash every few days, followed by lazing around in his boxers while plopping his head with a microfiber towel. everyone loves swiss' wash days when he's feeling extra cuddly and lazy

cumulus has the most stunning, perfect, ice blue curls anyone has ever seen. so blue they're almost white, and you can tell she puts a painstaking amount of time into her hair - "you only look effortless when you try" she says (rain laughs). she locks the door on wash days, open only to phantom, and uses the time to relax and rest. doing her hair is almost meditative at this point

cirrus has much straighter hair, similar in color to cumulus. she always has it cut in the cutest wavy shag, and she always smells like fresh citrus. she firmly believes in cool air only, using her powers to quickly dry her hair, always looking like she came in from a windy walk by the shore, perfectly imperfect

aurora has the most beautiful, thick, bubblegum pink hair. it gets so heavy when it's wet she's always getting help to wash and braid it, preferring to keep it up and out of the way. cirrus will help her dry while dew combs it out, happily chirping with affection

aether keeps his hair cropped short. so busy taking care of everyone else he doesn't have time to put effort into the upkeep. he's reconsidering it, though, after dew swatted at his ass, hissing that he missed having something soft tangle his fingers in -

#nameless ghouls #rain ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #mountain ghoul #swiss ghoul #phantom ghoul #cumulus ghoulette #cirrus ghoulette #aurora ghoulette #aether ghoul #the band ghost #ghost headcanons #wash day

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charleslee-valentine · 1 month ago

Text

Carbolic acid, and a poison face

wordcount: ~7,500

warnings: abuse, physical abuse like slapping and beating, verbal abuse, period typical ableism, incorrect disability terminology, mean-spirited, cannibalism, unknowing cannibalism (tricking into eating people meat), Drayton Sawyer is his own warning.

description: A bond between the Hardesty’s mother, and Drayton, on account of Franklin’s condition. Spina Bifida is thought to be influenced by certain nutrients, including liver enzymes. Let’s say she knew this, and came to the best traders of meat in town; her neighbors, the Sawyers.

Idea proposed by my buddy Leslie over at @pierrot-fish! Thank you for giving me permission to write this based on your thoughts!!

Also on ao3!

____________

The first time anybody realized the Sawyer twins had no sense of what spelled danger, was as soon as they started on walkin’.

First time Drayton found their little cots empty, he just ran. He knew damn well they couldn’t be far, little fuckers still toddling ‘round barely long enough to cross one room. Was halfway between impressed and scared shitless to find them outside. The stronger of the two trying to drag his brother on his knees to the sunflowers to play.

Took ‘em ‘til they were past toddlerhood to get that far, still babbling nonsense but easing into all the affairs usual for almost three year olds. Makes perfect sense the second they was mobile they’d take off for more fun than a couple cloth dolls and wooden figurines could give ‘em. Adventure. ‘Bout to drive Drayton plum fuckin’ crazy with their adventures.

That particular instance knocked his sense out with anxiety so bad he didn’t even beat ‘em for it, just took ‘em back to bed and blocked their door with a few railroad ties and a ratchet strap around the handle.

Give ‘em a few years and he’d take those diapered little bastards over the worse hellions they become any day. ‘Stead of runnin’ off for the at least fenced in backyard, they’s makin’ for the road by five years old.

Their daddy took the same high road and left, just as quick as Drayton’s had, but it don’t seem right, that it’d be instinct to run off in the street. ‘Bout then they hafta admit them boys in general ain’t right.

Drayton’s the first baby of the fam’ly, but he knows from the stories mama tells what they s’posed to act like. Knows better from watchin’ folks ‘round Newt with’n their little ones. Prob’ly seems all kinds ‘a wise, but he’s just the observer- “stay quiet boy!” more’n well instilled in him.

Damn it he knows he’s stubborn, won’t give up that strong arm he were raised up with, but he likes to think he’s easy on them twin boys. When one of ‘em starts screamin’ their head off ‘cause it’s too dark inside the house an’ their itchin’ at their arms an’ worse, they get these headaches ‘hind their eyes, he takes ‘em out to burn off steam.

Won’t never take an eye off them when he ain’t at work, the only time mama or grandma’ll take over that role. That’d just be askin’ for some kinda accident, endin’ in two tiny caskets. Can’t do that again. Bury another kid. Mama done that enough, all her unfortunate pregnancies.

Out front is where the boys like best, ‘cause it’s got room to kick up dust from the driveway. Nubbins is still unsteady on his feet, bumblin’ ‘round like some kind of a deer with brainrot, but his brother’s runnin’ ‘round him in circles, some made up game prob’ly.

In the corner of his eye, he sees movement, figures it to be mama at first returnin’ from wherever the hell she been off to ‘fore the sun shown itself this mornin’. Flash of blondish-hair tells ‘im it ain’t.

Got a good knife for skinnin’ next to him on the stoop, crawlin’ his hands toward it slow-like fore he freezes entirely. Just the neighbor woman, swollen up pregnant from the looks of it, creeps her way forward, ignoring the boys past a faint smile. Hard, when they’re both squealin’ like hogs, but she manages. She’s gunnin’ straight for Drayton on some mission she’d already decided.

“Mr Sawyer? I don’t hope to be a bother, intrudin’ and all-“

“Don’t call me that-” Drayton touts, on the defense, before he catches himself. Clearing his throat halfway through, he stiffens out, feigning pleasantries, “Pardon. My grandfather, he’s the man of the house. Ain’t got enough wisdom goin’ ‘round to be callin’ myself by no honor-ifics. You- You call me Drayton now, ma’am.”

Neighbor woman gives him a nod, but it’s soft around the edges, ain’t a commitment. “Alright, Drayton then. You might know me as your next door neighbor. Mister Enright’s daughter.”

Wary, Drayton tries to get a glimpse at her cards ‘fore she plays ‘em.

“I know your business anyhow. Was our meat kept Newt from sinkin’, but I figure it’s y’all with the- the wool trade and the plants y’all got, that’s what’s doin’ any good.”

Much as he might hate the playin’ nice with strange folk, he’ll always hate the killin’ worse, so he’ll keep doin’ it. Prob’ly makes him seem honest anyhow, talkin’ down on his own trade like that, though this Enright girl don’t know the details she thinks she does.

“Oh, it hardly brings money.” She waves it away, hand coming to sit at the junction of her belly. Guess he assessed it right then, that she’s with child.

“Don’t I know it. That slaughterhouse, it’s rotten work, miss. Cain’t never scrub clean of it. Don’t like it, but it’s gotta be done. Way of the world, I s’pose.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here Mister- um.. Drayton.”

Now that certainly gives him pause. Goes stiff as a bloated corpse himself, “No, no, no ain’t a woman’s- Don’t mean no disrespect- my grandmother, this business put her through Hell, workin’ her til’ her bones was as weak as the beeves after their bout in the freezer. Women-folks is good for that kind of ruin.”

“No, I’m not looking for work. You see I’m with child-“ If she heard Drayton scoff, on account of already knowin’ such, she ignores it, feedin’ him the explanation she’d clearly done practiced, “My baby, they’ve done all sorts of tests on me, and they think my little one’s gonna be brought up sick.”

Ain’t gonna lie and say that doesn’t remind him of his own brothers. The gaunt little creatures they always‘ve been. Mama’s mama took one look at the shape of her belly and knew they was tangled up in there wrong, and what d’ya know, nine months later one of em come out with the damn cord ‘round his throat. Figure gettin’ an actual hospital involved oughta be even more of a science by now.

“..That right?”

Frazzled woman she is, starts a ramblin’, “Yessir. There’s this curse on our family, been around since at least my dear great auntie. Spina Bifida they call it. I don’t want my baby to be that way. We bless the memory of the others with it and love ‘em every day but, it’s the pain I want to avoid for my little one. Oh Drayton, could you imagine the fear of losin’ your boys before you even knew ‘em?”

This time his scoff is more like a barely choked back laugh. “My boys? You think them rotten twins is my boys. Woman you’re mistaken outright, those are-“

“Your brothers. Yessir, I understand that much, but it’s you raised ‘em up so well. I remember hearin’ their wailing from down the way, look at ‘em now and you’d never know what they went through. That’s what I want for my baby.” She pleads with him, reaching both of her hands for one of his.

Drayton lets her hold ‘em there for a moment, before slipping out of her grasp. His arms curl into his body like a mantis, easing off the greasy feelin’ of skin to skin contact on his dry cotton shirt.

“I don’t s’pose you think I got some fancy medical degree.”

At first she seems baffled, until it hits her she never finished her explanation before lettin’ her emotions build up too far, “I’m here about the meat, remember? They say it’s something with the liver that’s low. My body is deprivin’ the baby as it is. Some essential parts from the meat might help. And I’d like to buy some from y’all here.”

“Well that, I can do. Yes, ma’am.”

Out of that little request comes a deal, and a friendship.

It surprises Drayton that she keeps comin’ back, after skippin’ off with her prize in crumpled brown butcher paper the first time. Figures it’s either helpin’, or she’s convincin’ herself it is, to come back and deal with his attempts at social interaction. Not like socializin’ is easy when for him, it usually ends in untimely demise.

As far as his expectations, this arrangement only gonna last ‘til the end of her nine months, and considerin’ she was halfway along when they first met, it ain’t too long now.

The hope is just that it ain’t too late, gettin’ these things in her body to save that little baby.

Next couple times she comes, he learns her name is Gloria. She crochets tiny sized blankets and clothes to decorate a baby’s nursery in her free time. And she don’t have any intentions of just takin’ her medicine and leavin’ well enough alone.

It’d damn be rude to turn her comp’ny away. Plus it don’t hurt to have a hand with the boys, since ain’t another Sawyer gonna lift a finger to do it. Only one that would is Gramma and she’s been gone, at least mentally, a while now, bless her heart.

Gloria wasn’t trained on dolls the way plenty of little girls is how to change diapers and mix bottles and all that, or maybe that’s her excuse to spend more and more time over the house and practice it on the twins.

Probably so, since Drayton clues in on a secret- This far along, she’s gettin’ antsy for peace.

A fine hair brush in her hand, she’s tendin to the twins’ hair after they got into the jagger bush and got it all tangled up. But she’s talking to Drayton while she works it through, “You sir, don't seem like you’ve ever been afraid of anythin’.”

“Missy, been afraid so long I don’t got nothin’ to show for it.” He kicks at little Robert’s tiny boot gently as he goes to sit down, but the boy lunges up to retaliate, wailing on Drayton’s shin with tiny toddler fists and screamin’ nonsense. The adults ignore it except for adjusting their volume, “‘Tween the boys poppin’ out with no heartbeats to fightin’ every day to keep ‘em goin’, jus’ don’t think I feel much at all no more.”

“Was hopin’ you’d say somethin’ a little less glum. Is that selfish?” There's these deep purple halos of exhaustion under her eyes. Drayton looks away from her when she looks up at him and downright pleads, “I just can’t do it alone.”

Feels wrong, somethin’ about bein’ civil with her at all, let alone bein’ her shrink. But the girl’s got a good heart and Drayton knows he’d be a damn fool to bruise it on purpose ‘stead of bein’ a friend. Still, a little distance is customary.

“Hell, now you got yourself a brother or two and a nice little husband. A mama and a papa too. You’re set, little lady, don’t wanna know nothin’ about ‘alone.’”

She sends Nubbins along and calls Robert back from his battle his big brother’s attention, brushing through his hair next. Each tangle that manages to undo is like another tug at the plug keepin’ all her worries welled in, “I’m still the only one carryin’ this little one. And when my baby is born, if this didn’t fix it... I don’t know.. I’m half convinced they’ll reach right on up in me and take away my chance at ever havin’ a second child if I mess this one up.”

An idea so ridiculous strikes Drayton he downright chuckles, “Get my mama as your midwife ‘n there’ll be shotguns up their asses ‘fore they could even try all that.”

Gloria seems to take it serious, “But she knows what it’s like. Maybe it could be for the best.”

“Mama don’t actually know a damned thing about parenting her own childr’n. Stand up for just about anyone, ‘cept her own little boys. Best you can do is promise me now, girl, you ain’t gonna treat yours that way.” Was it bitterness and anger that caused the wobble in his words, addin’ years to his voice that he ain’t even lived yet? That and a little bit of grief over what he never had.

“Not ever. I wouldn’t be livin’ off half raw beef livers and about ten glasses of orange juice a day if I felt that way.” When Gloria promises it, he knows it’s true. That girl couldn’t lie if she had to. “I really am tryin’. I’ll be honest and say, if it weren’t for the desperation I wouldn’t have bothered comin’ out this far. Long time ago your grandfather made it clear we wasn’t to trespass.”

‘Course he would. Don’t got much say on the matter now without the strength to get up outta his chair. Drayton waves it off, “Grandpa don’t know what he’s talkin’ bout neither. You jus’ keep on. Eat the soft parts, the fillin’s, ‘n your body gonna be alright. I always say the parts that goes to waste is the best of it anyhow, folks just like the feel of that other stuff.”

“Lord, I see why. how do y’all keep that down on the regular?”

“Well I could give you the recipe book… Or- Hell, woman you’re ‘bout burstin’, the hell’s I thinkin’- I’ll fix somethin’ special up for ya, get that little one strong. Don’t got long now ‘til it’s here.”

Her faint smile slips away further ‘til her expression is mostly a grimace. “Don’t I know it, God almighty.”

“You religious, huh?” Drayton wonders before his sense can kick in to remind him it’s inappropriate to ask that. His attention slips down to the floor, to the game his brothers started playin’ with their hands, to avoid looking at her, in the case that she gets all offended.

It’s well known the Enrights are Godly folk, probably why Grandpa was so curt with them those years back. The Sawyers seen it as a fairy tale all along, refusing to fill their children’s heads with such things. All they believe in is the power of the sledge, though miss Gloria Enright probably counts as a convert of that belief, since she’s the one eatin’ the gizzards for the sake of her child.

And it’s true she ain’t as devout to the Lord as the rest of her family, giving a bashful sort of shrug, “Not the way you’d think. Not the way the others is.”

“Smart girl.” He gives the faintest smile, voice lilted with a special bit of pride. Good to know she’s gonna hold her own even after this kid is born and she’s on her own again.

But it seems to shock her, when she ain’t bein’ talked town to after admitting that defiance. She questions, “You don’t believe?”

The twins get up and run off, losing any sense of interest in sitting around listening to this, even though the hairbrush is still tangled up in Bobby’s inky hair. Drayton hears one of them coughin’ through their laughter in the next room over, wheezin’ when he tries to scream with the other. Makes up his mind perfectly well, “Can’t. Could never grasp why any child would be afflicted that way if the man upstairs could help it.”

“Havin’ this sickness around us brought us together though.” She points out gently. Her stomach has gotten too big to lean over much, but she manages to nudge Drayton in his shoulder. It’s a friendly gesture, but it causes him to tense up anyhow, averse to touch.

His question is fittingly bitter. “That worth it?”

“I dunno. You tell me, Drayton Sawyer.”

Turns out it’s unavoidable. Worth it or not they gotta deal with what comes.

He gets the phone call in October.

“So it worked, heh? Don’t figure you’d be callin’ me up if the news were bad.”

Egotism aside, he should’ve noticed Gloria’s sniffles as he answered, the background noise devoid of a baby's cries.

She snaps him into that reality quick with a brutal sob, “You’d be wrong then. Oh, you got no idea Mr. Sawyer- Drayton- I can't call nobody else. I just can’t tell ‘em yet.”

Now that’s got him thinkin’ the worst, gone from leanin’ against the gossip bench to snappin’ bolt upright, spine stiff against the expected tide of grief, “Well? You gonna tell me then?”

At least her panic ain’t so severe she cain’t explain it, gettin’ some answers out between her anguish. “My baby. He got it too. I knew it as soon as they started pullin’ ‘im out ‘cause of the pouch on his back, got all caught up.”

“Don’t reckon I know ‘bout that, girl.”

“Lord, you don’t want to. It’s just horrific. The baby, his little spine is well- it’s formed wrong- that’s.. that’s what the disease does, the spine don’t fuse. Now there’s fluid on the outside like some God-awful vicious blister. But that’s his feeling; the movement in his legs, the nerves, it’s all bundled up in there and it ain’t able to work. They’s doin’ a surgery on ‘im now, won’t see him ‘til the morning.”

Well he can imagine it clearly just from that. For a long minute Drayton just sits there dumbfounded by it. Can’t imagine any world so cruel where a woman can know the probable cause and do her damndest to fight it, and still end up this way. And to be neighbors with a woman like his mother that goes around spreadin’ her sort of sickness on purpose. Makes him feel sick and shaky and clammy all over.

“I’ll send y’all my prayers.” He chokes out attempted sympathies, knowin’ that’s what she’d hear from her folk if she called them.

Only, she didn’t call them. She called Drayton and that was certain deliberate. “No. No you ain’t sendin’ nothin’. I need a friend. My only friend. To be here.”

Drayton knows already he’ll be there by the end of the night, but murmurs all the same, “See what I can do.”

Lucky Gloria can read him just as easy.

“...Could you bring the boys? They’d probably love to see the baby.”

Feels like another wave of the cruelty they been drownin’ in to remind her of their disease. Transferable, unlike some deformity. Normally he’d be agitated, but he can’t blame the woman for focusin’ on a different issue when it came and fell right in her womb the way it did.

“They’ll just get ‘im sick.”

“Oh that’s right... But you’ll come, won’t ya?” She sounds awfully hopeful through the static of distance.

He’s already to his feet and grabbing his hat with the phone held up by his shoulder, as he answers, “I said I’ll see.”

Of course he had come then, with leftovers from supper. Gloria never stopped crying that day even over chicken soup. Or for the next few months, for that matter. Could’ve gotten a diagnosis of her own for that, were she willing, but she didn’t leave her home, didn’t dare risk exposing her poor baby to a world that would be so cruel to him already. Not until his surgery scars healed anyhow.

Unlike Drayton with the twins, she couldn’t set that boy off on his own. Can’t roll over on his own, or kick his legs or sit up. Ain’t just walkin’ he’ll never do.

She names the kid after her father, but that seems about awfully cruel when the bastard won’t even hold the child. Drayton’s got the kid on his front porch ‘fore the rest of his own family cares to know him.

The twins are just about five now and a lot behind most kids their age, but they think the kid is a doll. Nobody knows it yet, but when their baby brother comes along in half of another year, they’ll treat him the same, except with actually bein’ allowed to hold him.

Drayton won’t let them close to the Hardesty boy, not willing to run that risk.

Gloria finds it terrible, startin’ when she witnesses him backhand Nubbins for snaking past him to get his sick little hands on that innocent little, already broken baby.

Her view of him changes from that day on.

Except whether or not he’s a good friend, or even a good person, he’s still a friend, and he’s the only one she can confidently say doesn’t hate her for havin’ a fucked up kid.

So they drink sweet tea in the dry heat and let their kids play together every Sunday, once they’re all old enough, when the rest of her family is at church and Gloria stays home with Franklin, on account of his little wheelchair not fittin’ in between the rows of pews. Might get away with sitting him in some corner if he weren’t such a sensitive kid. Wanted to be close with his mama all the time.

Little Franklin never did have a chance to not be attached to her at the hip. Fragile heart barely concealed by a crippled body, a family that turned their back on him all except a few. Despite his mama bein’ reserved with the Godliness in her time, that kid clings to it like a lifeline. Prays and prays over every little mistake and bump in the road under his wheels. Scared to death he’s gonna be struck down and cursed over nothin’.

Drayton wonders if he should feel responsible for that. Gettin’ his mama involved in the family’s business the way he did by feeding her that horrible meat. If maybe the kid was cursed and he’d been the one to do it.

At least he knows who’s protectin’ him. Won’t ever play for more than a few minutes before he’s he’s throwin’ looks over his mama’s way to make sure she’s got an eye on him. Smart as he is anxious.

“Don’t know whatchu was so worried about. Your boy's doin’ just fine in that new little chair.” Drayton encourages her, when the kid ages out of his first wheelchair into one he can steer all on his own.

Takes him a while to adjust to playin’ with the growin’ twins, but he manages it, somehow. They treat the front yard like it’s the size of outer space, just tearin’ the hell out of it while they run and run. Or wheel, for that matter.

Gloria narrows her eyes at Drayton but don’t turn his way, attempting to hide that grimace in her glass, “Mm. Well I’d say the same but it ain’t quite true.”

“I hear you there.” Drayton sighs too hard it hurts his bones, exhaustion settled deep in them from workin’ all the mornin’, all the while his littlest, but no longer exactly small in his toddler years, brother stays hanging off of him. “If it ain’t the twins fallin’ half-witted and diseased it’s the baby wailin’ his damn head off.”

Here comes the reason for the tension she’s been swallowing back with watered down tea. “You oughta get them checked, fallin’ behind so bad. Or at least the baby.”

“He’s fine.” Drayton dismisses the idea immediately.

Only he knows it ain’t true. Just don’t got the money to do anything about it.

Gloria, she had them doctors tellin’ her how to fix her baby all from a couple tests. Advice that costed her thousands, and the boy was still born wrong. Can’t go takin’ that risk when it would end them up in the poorhouse. The boys’d get treated alright, but they’d get turned over to the state if he couldn’t pay the bills for it. Maybe he’s a fool, but to Drayton, that ain’t even close to worth it, no matter how much it would help.

But they play just fine. They love each other just fine. Forget milestones and their speakin’ skills and all, so long as they ain’t brain dead completely it's a non-issue.

That ain’t the way Gloria sees it. She urges him, “Some problems is invisible to us. My Sally for example.”

Makes him scoff at her. Sally’s the baby of the group of ‘em all, still in her infancy. The others can’t learn how to speak or walk right, but she’s still too little for it. Givin’ up hope too early, he thinks.

“Girl ain’t got a thing wrong with her.”

“You’d think that. But she gets these night terrors, worse than any bad dream, just zoned totally out in her little crib. It’s like the Devil’s got her or somethin’.” Gloria gives a stubborn nod, watching Drayton shrink back, just a little, from being corrected.

He’ll keep it to himself that he still don’t quite believe her word for it. Just chides, “Lock her door at night. They start to wander when they’s like that.”

“So I’m right that the twins understand that.”

“Uhn. Just Nubbins. Don’t need a doctor to tell me he’s knocked sideways like his mother. Schizophrenic.”

Gloria clicks her tongue at him, earning a quick flush of shame. She scolds him like he’s one of the children, “Oh, I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”

“Schizophrenic?” Drayton knows he’s puffed up like a turkey, offended by the notion that yet again he’s doin’ something wrong.

Giving the tiniest flick of her eyes upwards, as frustrated as Drayton is now, she tells him, “No, that’s just his reality. I mean Nubbins. It’s cruel.”

‘Cause he’s stunted. At his age he’s half the size he’s s’posed to be, left behind by his identical twin when it comes to growin’ up. Guess that makes it wrong to call him small. But he don’t see it that way, so Drayton defends it, “Told you before. Chose the nickname himself! Don’t think ‘a himself a damn lick diff’rent than most. Stumped up or not.”

“But that would be like nicknamin’ my Franklin by ‘cripple’ or somethin’ worse.” Gloria tries to get him to see it her way, but that only makes Drayton double down.

She wants to get drastic, he can do that. He turns cold like a stone sinkin’ under water. “Maybe you oughta. Toughen him right up. Been whinin’ enough-“

“Alright, hold your tongue! You can’t make me regret lettin’ you and your brothers into my babies’ lives, no matter how hard you try it, damn it!” That woman can yell ‘til she’s pink in the face, voice strainin’ to not get too loud between each heavy breath. Her pearly pink nail on the end of her finger hovers inches away from the tip of Drayton’s nose, a warning. “I ain’t your mother, and neither are you, and we both know damn well you love those kids so you can stop pretendin’ it’s all an inconvenience to you!”

Don’t know how to put it to words, the way that makes him feel. Mostly irritated, but not by her. By his own shame. By his weakness, for even listenin’ to what she was lecturin’ him about. Shouldn’t let it get to him so bad.

To bury that feeling, he extends the olive branch again, without looking up at her, “Put some lemon in the tea today. Sweeten it up. Know you like it that way.”

“It’s alright. Apology accepted.” But she sighs. Don’t sound grateful.

Things get awkward quick these days. The kids don’t stop growin’, so their curiosity don’t either. Drayton thinks they’s playin’ too rough, racing Franklin back and forth in his wheelchair and jostlin’ him around. Little thing is laughin’ his head off, but all the same. Can’t say much though lettin’ the babes down in the yard too, on a quilt and right in the line of chaos. Already had to reprimand them for treatin’ the little ones like a couple ‘a dolls. Both keep a close eye to make sure they don’t get too close to the babies.

Now and again, his nervous glares shift to Gloria, tryin’ to see what she thinks without showin’ too freely he cares.

One time she catches him looking and interrupts the building paranoia, partly anyhow.

“We still on for supper next week? My brothers’ll be over after church, I’d really like for y’all to come by. I’ve told Boude about your kids some- he’s the particularly religious fellow. A ranger- I think he’d like to meet them.”

Drayton for one don’t like the sound of that. Charity from most folk just comes out soundin’ like torture, makin’ even feedin’ poor miss Hardesty those organs sound Saintly.

“Heard‘a exorcism killed some little girl. Turns out there weren’t no devil in her, just some family illness. Don’t want no maniacs like that around them.”

“It ain't like that. Sometimes when you pray for somebody, it’s to have someone in your corner through the struggles, not just to wish ‘em away.” Gloria spells it out for him.

“God left this farm a long time ago, Missy. You used to know that. Why you think all these kids keeps turnin’ out this way?” Drayton knows she still feels the same about the faith, only acting accordin’ to the plan her family’s got for her with raisin’ those two little ones of hers, but she pushes back anyhow.

“Look, I don’t believe it either, so maybe that’s just the fate of it. Maybe even God was the one that knew I’d need help from your slaughterhouse and gave our children a beautiful thing to bond over.”

“Right. ‘Cause it’s so nice they’ll never learn to read, or live on their own, or understand how really dangerous runnin’ in the street is. Thank your Christ Almighty for that. And while your at it, kiss ass about Bubba’s tongue-tie too. Been real helpful havin’ that little one half-starved ‘cause his own body won’t let him eat.”

There’s real hurt in her face. Like she’d been hit, or maybe worse’n that. She pleads, “Drayton. Enough.”

The guilt of snappin’ at her starts to eat him alive. He tries the tactic from before, the reachin’ out in simpler terms. “Added just a pinch of milk to the tea too. You’d think the lemon would curdle it but-“

She shuts him down with all the viciousness of a feral animal. Anger and somethin’ much uglier bubblin’ under the surface, tricklin’ out as a tremor in her hands she couldn’t hide if she wanted. “I said enough.”

They’re starin’ each other down like two rabid coyotes, deadlocked over which is gonna say somethin’ nasty first.

Gloria’s little boy takes the honor of breakin’ things up, wheelin’ hisself right over with a confident, and clearly rehearsed, question, “Mama, can I stay the night, please oh please with sugar daisies on top? Nubbins told me his room gots spiders, and I wanna see ‘em.”

“Honey, is his room up the stairs? You can’t get up there if it is.” She points out for him. The adults know it’s an excuse to put just a little more distance between them and the Sawyers.

“Oh..” Little’s Franklin’s curly head hangs with disappointment, ‘til he thinks of somethin’ new to ask. “But Mama, we got stairs over home and I get up them jus’ fine?”

Gloria breaks away from Drayton to lean over her boy, get on his level without crouchin’ down and makin’ an ordeal of it. “Because your daddy carries you, silly.”

“Mr. Sawyer could carry me.” He looks past his mama and directly at Drayton as he says it, in this same habit as his mama used to be with the formalities. Difference is the innocent little smile he gives, unaware of the cruelty that comes with the Sawyer name.

But in Gloria’s anger, she doesn’t give Drayton a chance to tell the kid he wouldn’t be carryin’ him anyhow, ‘cause she shakes her head, “I don’t think so, baby. Maybe some other time. It's almost time for supper anyhow, and that’d be just rude.”

That was just the start of them breakin’ away. Gone and fucked a good thing up, he did. ‘Cept it weren’t just the argument that done that.

When Franklin relayed the news to the twins they couldn’t have their friend spendin’ the night, they both threw a fit, up until Nubbins ended up hollerin’ at Drayton. Sayin’ some childish insult about not havin’ friends of his own to understand it. ‘Bout bein’ lonely all because he’s so ugly-mugged and half-witted and bitter about it all that nobody could stand to talk to him.

Hits a sore spot. Ain’t ‘cause he’s fragile enough to let a child weigh in on his self-worth, but he had to learn them words somehow. Knows damn well Drayton himself had said them things one too many times and rubbed off on the kid. Ruined his chance at normalcy too. And that’s what hurts him, is knowin’ he done that.

He lashed out about it. Drayton grabbed his bony shoulder and cracked him ‘cross the face, good three or four times in a row ‘til his cheek had a split and was bleedin’. Nubbins didn’t cry a bit. Franklin did. Oh, that boy wailed and wailed all the way back to the next door property- Sally in his arms and Miss Gloria pushin’ the wheelchair with them both- and then some more cryin’, from the sounds of it carrying in the air from next door.

Got the twins both snifflin’ too ‘cause now they’re realizin’ they’s s’posed to cry when these things happen. Drayton gets Bubba and goes inside, leaves ‘em out there to go where they please and feel as they want. Doesn’t care if they get themselves killed in the street right now. Deep down those kids hate him, and not requirin’ so much introspection, he knows clearly that he deserves it.

All together they only see the Hardesty family a couple more times ‘fore it’s their last meeting. Before it’s goodbye.

Gloria comes on her own, without any kids, just a gloomy expression, “I thought you’d like to know we’re movin’ up North. Now that Ma’s passed on, We’re goin’ with Boude. I think it’s for the best.”

He’s furious. Would like to take the broom he’d been using to sweep up the porch and smack her senseless over the head with it. Foolish, since he knows damn well the fault is all his. Drayton stays frozen in place, tryin’ to plead but soundin’ more just like he’s demanding, “You can’t do that to my boys. The twins, they’ll-“

“They’ll be alright if you’d just stop treating them so poorly!” She snaps, marching forward from the tense distance to downright growl in his face, all kinds of tension in her voice from the build-up of tears. “My Franklin, he talks about the damndest things! And I know he learnt it all from yours.”

“Well like what?”

“Things like knives, and blades, and horrible, horrible deaths!”

Ah. That was prob’ly inevitable. From the second she came along askin’ for his help, her and that baby were bound up in this whole mess. “Ain’t it the meat you wanted, woman? How you think we get it here?”

“But my Franklin, he don’t need to know all that! Now he’s fascinated with it, won’t stop scarin’ his baby sister describin’ the insides of cattle. Makin’ her cry.” Gloria sounds so defeated and desperate.

Drayton has to look away from her, thinkin’ of how she’d react if she knew that the blame should be tenfold. That the twins ain’t just witness to the dirty work of the industry, but they gots their own way of doin’ it when the times gets extra tough. Humans as beeves and all.

That’s a decision he’ll stand by, if only ‘cause his heart couldn’t bear the shame of bein’ so deeply wrong twice. “Sounds like you just didn’t prepare yours for the real world.”

“Or maybe you forced it on them boys too early. Maybe the way you hurt them leaves scars on the mind too.”

Now he knows his face is all angry red, gone from takin’ each blow with a side of sadness to just blind rage. Comin’ after the way he was choosing to parent them kids that ain’t even his own. Like he weren’t barely an adult himself when they popped out and became his issue to deal with, sick in the head as they were in their hearts. Drayton’s got every right to handle them rabid dogs of children the way kids like them, kids like he used to be for his Mama, oughta be.

“I don’t- That’s punishment!”

“And Lord have mercy the day your punishment comes, ‘cause I know it ain’t gonna be pretty!” She practically screams it.

Don’t got a clue that for Drayton, this is the punishment. The isolation. The family business. Mama and Grandpa’s teachings. Don’t take the pleasure in it, never did ‘til the day he could help that Hardesty kid in his mama’s womb. Should’ve been a sign, when his spine never finished formin’, that that bond wouldn’t be enough to save ‘em.

“We’ll see, missy.”

“No, we won’t. I told you. We’re movin’. I appreciate everythin’, but I’ve had enough- more than enough of my share of the violence. I don’t know what life is comin’ to anymore.”

“That’s gonna be no matter where you go.” He warns her. All over the world there’s killin’. Crueler people than him when it comes to the way her two kids are. That Franklin especially gonna be in for it when he realizes most kids ain’t as carefree as them twins.

“Worst part is, I know you’re right.” Gloria agrees with the sentiment, the cold damn reality, and it cracks her fragile disguise right in two. She caves from an overwhelming flood rush of emotion, and wraps her arms ‘round Drayton. “Give them hugs from me too. And from Franklin.”

Takes him a minute to realize that was a hug and not her tryin’ to squeeze him ‘til his ribs break. By the time he catches up she pulls away and he’s just holding her arm, careful with her like she’s made of bone porcelain. ‘Cause he knows he might be the one to hold too tight and break her. Accidents happen. And lord knows he’s been quick to violence these days.

Vulnerability reminds him, “Don’t them- Don’t the boys deserve a damned goodbye?”

“I’m half scared they’d stowaway in the movin’ truck.” Gloria laughs lightly, but it’s wet, and the tears start dripping’ down her cheeks and off her nose.

Finally Drayton can see the humor in it, and gives her a little chuckle himself. “Hell, you’re prob’ly right.”

And because she is, all Gloria has to say is, “I’m sorry, Drayton.”

“No you ain’t.” He tries weakly to deny. To him, it’s better without the padding. Just give him the blow directly, tell him he never meant a damn thing to any of those damned Hardesty’s and leave without looking back.

Gloria has no such intention, being genuine, real gentle but with purpose, after bein’ so tough before.

“I am though. I’m sorry for a lot of things.”

Before he knows it, the well bursts with frustration and Drayton’s got a flood of guilt pouring out of him.

“I’m the one that couldn’t help ya! One shot at redemption and I failed it, prob’ly fucked that kid up worse by interferin’ at all! And the little girl too! Damn it, woman, there’s a reason us Sawyers keep to ourselves! You’d think, the diseases of the mind ain’t contagious, but with us- with us they is.”

Either so unmoved the disinterest is genuine, or worse, hiding her feelings from him again, rebuilding the wall that keeps them contained after Drayton’s own outpouring beat against its hardening exterior. Whichever way, she stays blank now.

Gloria speaks first. “I should go.”

“You should.” He agrees, giving a harsh sniff to keep from crying for real.

But she never follows through. Just stands there. “I don’t want to.”

“Got to, girly.” It’s not as friendly as it oughta be. Dry and sad and bored sounding, anything to distance himself if that’s how she wants to play it.

Only, Gloria hugs him again, this time pressing her face to his chest, so she could try to melt into him. To leave behind responsibility and expectations and the pressures of life and sick children. She ain’t oblivious to the cruelty of meat. Consumers and Predators and who’s got the sharpest teeth. Seems like Drayton’s job is to do the hunting, and Gloria, she keeps the prey animals in line. Sharpens their teeth to give em a chance, gets ‘em wheels for useless legs.

Could’ve been all she wanted, if she didn’t settle in and have her babies. There’s a time for proving her worth, and a time for layin’ down the fight to keep her family safe.

“In another life.” She mumbles, refusing to let go of the hug she’s got him in for far too long.

“Don’t be so final. They’ll grow up and find each other when we’s old and bitter.”

“I think we already are.”

“Yeh. Prob’ly right.” His shoulders deflate. Hunch forward. Drayton can’t stand to do this. Never had to say goodbye before when someone was fixin’ to leave him behind. “Go on, then. Drag it out any longer and I’ll be the one sendin’ the boys in your luggage.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” In a playful kind of way, she tries to fix her expression into stern, but it just kind of crumbles, for a second showing her grief all over.

Drayton doesn’t bother adjusting tone when he plays along. An emotionless back and forth, knowing full well it’s wrong to keep going, “I might.”

Gloria huffs in frustration, this conversation clearly not going to plan. Probably wanted him to break down and cry with her. Plead and plead for her not to leave so she could heroically change her mind. Force Drayton to be somebody he ain’t.

That illusion is long over now. The helpful friendly neighbor. Never was quite accurate to who he is on the inside. Or the outside after he’s been up to butcherin’. Best she goes now, thinkin he never did care for her or her kids, rather’n have to put ‘em on the hooks later.

“Stubborn as a mule, I tell ya.” She shakes her head at him, no idea how lucky she really is that he’s so distant to her.

Nothin’ left to say, Drayton keeps his mouth shut, hopin’ that’ll be enough for her to lose interest and turn away now. His thoughts have made him sick to his stomach, doesn’t want to see her face any longer.

Taking a couple steps back, about to turn toward the path, she gives him a warning of her own, “Just be good.”

“Don’t think it’s me you should be tellin’ that to.” He hums, though he knows damn well his family business is bad. No such thing here. Only one of them remotely well behaved is Drayton, and he’s the one with his hands elbow deep in corpses most days, whether they’re cattle or the other kind of beeves.

“I’ll pass it along to the boys.”

“I meant you.” Big round eyes all desperate for one final plea to change her mind and keep them rooted here, she’s searchin’ Draytons face as she speaks to him. Hopin’ to see under the exterior.

So he stays silent again.

Pisses her off, cause now she turns her back to him. Raises her voice so much it wobbles, “I won’t see you again, Drayton Sawyer.”

“Alright.” Is all he gives her.

Her silhouette is shaking, the force of her sobs popping out of her like boiling oil. Sharp and unexpected and painful. The last thing she ever says to him is a curse, upon him now for pushin’ her away, and for leadin’ her on all this time. Makin’ her think her and her babies was like family.

“Damn you. God damn you to hell!”

Got a one way ticket already. Don’t get no worse than killing. Smackin’ the boys around, sayin’ things he shouldn’t, none of it compares to the killin’. Figure if he stopped that but didn’t change a damned other thing about himself, he’d still be welcomed up above, if he just repented.

That’s one thing he refuses to do. Drayton ain’t gonna beg the universe, or a frail woman from next door, in her pristine little house with her pristine little family, for forgiveness.

Things need done. Children need fed. She should know that as well as any.

#my writing #my fic #tcm fanfic #tcm 1974 #drayton sawyer #nubbins sawyer #chop top sawyer #bubba sawyer #franklin hardesty #drayton centric #please read the warnings. I’m serious that this is mean spirited. very unhappy #a tragedy if you will #no ships. just friendship between the hardesty mother (I named her Gloria) and drayton

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aimfor-theheart · 1 year ago

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Act I, Part I

|| kaeya alberich x afab!reader || E/18+ || hurt/comfort/fluff || wc: 13k || ao3 || masterlist || Act I, Part II -> ||

When you, a beloved artist and performer of Mondstadt, attract the attention of the Fatui, there is only one person you seek out for help; the infamous Cavalry Captain of the Ordo Favonius, Mondstadt's beloved bastard.

minors and ageless blogs dni, 18+ only

❀ for you are the world (as i am in pieces) - @lorelune ❀

a/n: it is finally here!!! this is apart of a lovely collab with my buddy @lorelune that you should check out!! i've linked their fic above!! thank you so much to @acerathia for beta reading this!!! this is the first act of three that will be posted but this act has been broken into two parts because tumblr hates long posts so i will link that shortly as well! everything will also be on ao3!! thank you so much and i'd love to hear your thoughts!! <33

tags: afab reader (she/her pronouns but is rather gender fluid/binds her chest sometimes and presents both femme and masc), alcohol use, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of stalking/full on stalking from the fatui to the reader, eventual smut (not in this chapter), mentions of heartbreak/abandonment issues, bodyguard au technically, fake dating au technically

SCENE I

Our story begins first in the open night, beneath torchlight and on an ancient, well-loved stage in Springvale. And then our world should open up to the wilderness, to the Mondstadt streets, until we end up in Kaeya’s home; it’s as mysterious and stylish as he is. Everything could or couldn’t tell you everything about him, everything might or might not mean something to the Cavalry Captain.

The night sky shudders into shades of endless plum blue, kissed with silver-burnt stars and the gentle curve of a sweet moon.

Kaeya’s eye catches its brilliance, reflects it back like it was made from the very same moonbeam, the very same starshine.

You roar to life in the darkness.

Fire bursts from your mouth in a red-gold crush of heat, swinging in an arc around your head to illuminate you.

The audience cheers, hollering and clapping, murmuring excitedly at the way you leap from your pedestal above the stage into a crouch.

Your costume twinkles, shimmery and scale-like, jangling like mora in the pocket. It’s slinky, baring midriff and thigh, the curve of your bare feet, ankles and wrists adorned in jingling, scale-like jewelry. Your hair is wild, horns twisting out from your head.

It’s cute, Kaeya thinks, watching with an amused, little smile.

“The dragon careened from the sky and bore down on the knight!” Your narrator exclaims and with a flash of movement, you and the other actor clash in the darkness. Your fire lights up the stage only briefly, to catch another flash of movement, before plunging back into darkness. And then again, a burst of flames in another sharp picture;

The knight’s sword raised above his head to strike you down.

Darkness.

Before your fire explodes out in a plume to make the knight stagger back. The audience gasps.

You twist and turn and move serpentine, fluid like water, or the licks of your flames.

Kaeya hasn’t seen you perform in awhile, perhaps years, but it brings back memories of childhood.

The way you’d light up a room and perform whether it was to sing or dance or entertain.

As a child, you were bursting with it, with freedom and joy. He remembers nights in Ragnvindr manor, tucked away in smoky parlors with adults who cooed to you, who encouraged you to sing for them, to play the piano or violin. He remembers candlelight and the way it seemed to glow brighter for you as you opened your mouth and let all of that wonder out of you.

Your audience adores you here, too, out here in Springville, at this little outdoor theater which is perhaps just a couple half-hazard pieces of wood nailed together. Nonetheless, you make it feel like the rocky terrain of Dragonspine.

And by the end, your audience is hooting and hollering, on their feet, perhaps a little drunk, but adoring nonetheless.

Though it’s nice to see you perform, that isn’t exactly why he’s here tonight.

He sips at the mug of ale in front of him, leaning back in his chair.

He waits until you appear again in plain clothes, changed from your pretty costume, fresh faced.

And my, my are you popular. Everyone stops to talk to you, to snag you, to hug and hold you and laugh with you. He can tell, though, that you’re making your way to him as the night grows later and longer.

He waits.

Until you are in front of him once more, moon a halo above your head.

“Riveting performance.” He purrs.

“Captain Kaeya,” you say his name like it bursts sweet and sharp on your tongue.

He says your name in return, honeyed and slow, taking you in all your glory.

Then you say, “you came,” and your smile is an infectious little twist of lips.

“Of course I did.” He responds easily, looking up at where you’re standing in front of him, and then as if it was innate, only natural of him, “you asked me to.”

Your eyes flicker just behind him, catch someone in the darkness, before settling back on him.

Call it instinct, but he feels his hackles rise, hair on the back of his neck stand up. Kaeya knows danger well and can feel it now, the way you can smell a storm that is approaching.

You offer him your hand, palm up, and in the firelight of the torches around you, it shimmers in his vision, dancing with shadows.

He quirks a brow at you.

“Your place or mine?” He asks.

“You’re not even going to get me a drink first?” You ask, feigning scandal.

Kaeya feels the corner of his mouth tick up, “call me impatient.” He says, but he finally puts his hand in yours, envelopes it in his and realizes he has not taken your hand in many years. Perhaps not since you were children together. Your hands have grown, but so have his. Calluses rough up against your smooth, soft palm.

So untouched. So unscarred. Soft as–

“Yours.” You say decisively.

And you pull him up and into the fray of people, into the sweet night, turning away to guide him but with your hand still in his. He trails after you and if it looks suggestive, if there are some hollers and calls to you–

“The good captain, even?” A fellow actor of yours crows, ale sloshing in his mug, “is there no one in Mondstadt safe from your wiles?”

“Not a soul,” you vow with a laugh and the group roars with cheers, drinks spilling.

“Don’t tell me you two are leaving already!” Another says, “the night is still young!”

“All the more reason to leave now,” Kaeya sings and there is even more uproar, whistles and suggestive howls.

You seize his hand tighter and pull him closer, pick up your pace as if to show your eagerness, leaving all their laughs and hollering behind.

Your shadow persists, though, and Kaeya doubles his step to get closer, to sidle up next to your side. To guard your back.

“Been awhile,” Kaeya hums, “you must be desperate to have reached out to me.”

“Well, in all of Mondstadt, I could think of no one else I’d rather have.” You grin at him and the trouble is, you’re being honest. He can feel it, or perhaps he just wants to, that you would want his presence beyond this, beyond–

As you wander over trails and stones back to the city, hand always in his, he helps you along, or keeps after you like an eager dog. He lifts you off of a stone ridge you climbed, hands fitting along your waist like they belong there. He laughs when you dart away from him, chasing after you only to catch you around the middle, letting you yelp and twist in his hold, tossing your head back onto his shoulder to laugh up into the heavens.

It feels like he’s a child again, a teenager, stepping through time and into another. Nostalgia rips at him, tugs at the seams of him. He wonders if you feel it, too, but doubts it.

Not with the person loping not too far behind, keeping distance but not too much. Not enough.

The gates of Mondstadt are alight with torches.

You walk backwards to face him and for a moment, he really does almost lose his footing, because there is something so bewitching about you. He can’t stop looking, the curl of your smile, or the raise of your brow. It’s a natural sort of beauty, one born from within, he thinks, something in you that’s just so–

Wonderful.

And then you turn back over your shoulder and take off, pulling him after you. Nimbly, he is your shadow. Footsteps on cobblestone, clattering together, until you yank him into a dark little alcove. You press your back up against the stone curve, pulling him by the front of his uniform so that he crowds you, shrouds over you.

“Kaeya–” you say his name a little breathlessly and it echoes in Mondstadt stone streets, voice throwing so that someone could hear you. Will hear you.

He’s quick to catch on, ducking his head into the crook of your neck, though not close enough to touch.

Your follower has paused at the entrance of this alley. Kaeya can see the shadow in the torchlight.

You suddenly pinch his ear hard enough to make him yelp a little.

You laugh, but it’s warm and sultry, head falling back against the stone like you’ll give him more room.

“Right here?” He asks, but his gaze glances past you, at your follower.

You nod to his real question, but pitch your voice up in the charade, “please–”

The sound makes him flush a little.

And it makes your shadow scurry away when he realizes what you’re getting up to, clearly embarrassed, or in the least, shy about being a voyeur. Kaeya fights the urge to snort.

He does realize your hand is still curled in the front of his uniform. And the column of your throat is exposed, pretty, and open for the taking.

He focuses squarely ahead, listening closely to see where the footsteps have gone.

He only catches the grin on your face out of the corner of his eye, before you suddenly let out a louder, lewder moan.

He shushes you, almost reflexively, but he has to fight the urge suddenly to laugh. You do start to giggle this time and although it still sounds deeply intimate, he covers his hand over your mouth so you can laugh into his palm. So that you won’t blow your own ruse.

You keep this up until he finally takes your hand and pulls you away from the wall. You stumble with him, until he’s got you tucked up under his arm.

You’re still laughing a bit, clearly pleased with yourself, as he takes you a strange, meandering way to his own place. Your follower is gone, perhaps for the night off, assuming that you’ll be in Kaeya’s bed. He wonders if your shadow will find you again come morning or if he’ll scout out Kaeya’s own place for the night.

He leads you into his own apartment building, up the wooden stairs, and into his home. For an apartment, it’s rather spacious. Open. There’s a balcony off the bedroom, one that overlooks a great deal of Mondstadt’s streets. The bustling world below and the peaks of Mondstadt’s skyline above. It’s his favorite part.

Once the door is shut and the lock nestled into place, you finally drop the act.

His hand leaves yours, body leaves yours, for the first time that he’s seen you tonight and instantly, he can feel the rush of cold ease in.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, slinging off his own coat, setting his boots to the side.

He wanders in only to collapse on his sofa, eyeing you as you toe off your own shoes and carefully hang your own jacket beside his.

He forgets sometimes, what it's like, to have someone else here.

To have a coat beside his own, shoes kissing his.

“I take it you figured out my letter?” You ask, padding deeper into his home.

Kaeya smiles, “well, you can imagine my surprise when Jean handed it to me.”

“Jean saw that?” You ask, eyes rounding out in horror. “Does she think–does she know we’re not actually–?”

“Sleeping together? Romantically entangled?” Kaeya asks, standing suddenly to move to his office. You follow tentatively after him, only to watch him rifle through his desk and produce the very letter in question.

The envelope is covered in lipstick marks.

“You could’ve been a little more discreet.” He says, before inhaling a little sharply, “did you spray your perfume on this?”

“Do you like it?” You ask in return, “it’s new.”

He laughs, low and soft, “it’s nice. I think you traumatized Jean, though.”

“I wanted people to be too embarrassed to look inside the letter.” You retort, “clearly, I succeeded.”

“That you did.” He agrees, “and even if they did–”

An excited glow comes to your eyes, “did you figure it out?”

“Well, I knew it was some sort of code since the content of the letter was—fabricated, to say the least.”

“What? You don’t remember our clandestine trysts? I’m hurt—“

“You’re very clever.” Kaeya says then unabashedly and he thinks you melt a little at the praise. Or at least, you quiet down. “And it seems you’re in quite a bit of trouble.”

When you speak this time, it’s hushed, like you’re worried someone is listening now somehow.

“Can you help me? I had no idea who to turn to without tipping them off.”

“Well, if it’s one thing I’m good at, it’s dealing with secrets.” He muses, but then he gazes at your letter again, perhaps scouring the contents of it once more.

On the surface, it seems like a love letter, filled with winding, romantic phrases and memories of old; romps under star bright skies and hurried instances in the library. Nostalgic flashes of youth, when you danced the nights away with him. It details a sort of on and off again fling that neither of you can seem to quit.

But beyond that, there are ciphers, a code to uncover. And Kaeya pulls a slip of paper from another drawer of his desk, lays it out on the surface. Your true message reads very clearly in his messy scrawl;

Help. Fatui watching. Must be careful.

Kaeya gestures to the chair across from his large desk. You sink down into it with a nervous little breath.

“How long has this been going on?” He asks and perhaps the air changes, or the way his shoulders settle back. It’s the voice he uses as captain, twinged with authority and coolness.

“I noticed them following me about a month ago. Maybe longer, though.” You answer.

“Do you have any inclination as to why?” Kaeya asks now and he sets your letter aside.

You take your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment and Kaeya watches the movement, before you release it.

“It isn’t a secret that I’m not their biggest fan.” You finally answer. “I tend to toy with them if they get too close.”

Much like Diluc, you harbor a deep loathing for the Fatui.

You are a vocal and known defender of Mondstadt’s freedom from Fatui and their meddling hands. Notoriously, you’ve openly mocked them on stage and even worse, outwitted them in social entanglements. At every turn, when they tried to use your family’s name, coerce you financially, or corner you with social politics, you’ve managed to weasel by. They have tried endlessly to get you to bend to their whims, whatever they might be, and you have refused.

For the past few years, they have tried desperately to get someone as loved and known in Mondstadt in their pockets.

And for years, you’ve escaped them.

You’ve done much to outwit them. You’ve caused all out personal brawls between underlings, made a fool of yourself at one of the largest balls between nations, led them on wild goose chases that amounted to nothing, and even gone so far as to reveal salacious scandals to get your way.

Socially, in a battle of wits, you are a wicked opponent.

But physically? You are a sitting duck. And as beautiful as those flames of yours are on stage, you’ve never once used them in battle.

Kaeya remembers you as a child, trying to keep up with Jean and Diluc, well on their way to being knights, and all you did was cry and cry and cry.

It was so clear you were never meant for battle, always been more of a lover, in his mind. Crybaby that you were, you were meant for the arts; your sword a pen, your battle cry a song.

“No,” Kaeya agrees, “but many people are not fans of the Fatui, to varying degrees of vocalness. I can’t imagine they’d be so foolish as to target the very Heart of Mondstadt for no other reason than your disapproval or mischief now.”

The world has coined you Mondstadt’s Heart. It’s Light, it’s Shooting Star. You are as close to an adored princess (—and you’d scoff at the idea of royalty, like a true Mondstadtian—) as you can get in this nation and though you carry the bloodline of Imunlaukr, you have spent your days with the everyday man. You traveled and performed and dined and drank with those far from nobility.

As soon as he and Jean and Diluc had joined the knights, you had already joined an acting troupe. You were already off, free as a bird, to compose and write and perform and sing and dance your way across Mondstadt. Across the world.

But you always flew back home.

At one point, he’d been close to you perhaps, in his youth. You’d grown up alongside him and Diluc and Jean.

He always assumed, actually, that you and Diluc would—

Well, you’re both the beloved figures of Mondstadt.

It’s light and dark, truthfully, blessed by the Pyro Archon.

But everything had fallen apart when—

Kaeya had assumed you’d sided with Diluc and never wished to see him again. Or, in the least, you had nothing good to say to him. You’d never been rude to him, but he’d kept his distance nonetheless.

Perhaps for fear of your scorn. Perhaps he couldn’t face it. Of all the people who could scold him or reject him, yours felt particularly hard for him. He blames it on your otherwise playful and loving nature; to be despised by one of the sweetest of Mondstadt would be hard to stomach.

You used to write to him, more than just coded letters when you were in grave danger. But slowly, the letters stopped, and he assumed Diluc must’ve said something or—

Your paths were easy to keep from crossing.

Kaeya deals in secrets and shadows and is busy with the knights.

And you deal in brilliant light and open-hearts, your whole life on a stage.

Nonetheless, he’s surprised by your warmth.

“What are you thinking?” You ask softly and the way you’ve said it makes him think you could tell his mind was spiraling.

Kaeya sets down your letter, “that you’ll have to stay here for the night if you’d like your little shadow to believe your ruse.”

You open your mouth, perhaps to protest, to ask again—what are you really thinking about?

But you don’t.

“I suppose I’ll have to crash on your couch.” You answer, before a wry smile curls at your lips, “unless you’d like to stage a grand argument where I storm out.”

“You’re still trouble.” Kaeya hums, eyeing you perhaps more fondly than he should.

“And you were my partner in crime once! Don’t tell me you wouldn’t now—“

“I would, if it benefited us.” He assures you, smiling himself, “but for now, I think keeping up a false relationship for the eyes of others may help us a great deal.”

“Is this your way of asking me out?” You tease.

“I think it would give me an excuse to be around you frequently to protect you. No one would think twice about two lovers recently rekindled.”

“Surely, I don’t need—“

“In the least, I’d like to observe your observer.” Kaeya says smoothly, and then, “you’re not seeing anyone else, are you? We won’t have to worry about your real lover, do we?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment, suspended.

“No,” you say then, something strange in your voice, a little shake of your head, “what about you?”

“I’m far too busy with the Knights of Favonius for a relationship.” Kaeya says flippantly, forcing his voice to remain even. “At least that makes things less complicated.”

“Right,” you agree and there is a moment of silence as the situation settles around the two of you. There’s a shyness in the silence, a sudden uncertainty. Kaeya does not do well in it. And apparently neither do you, because at the same time, you both try to say;

“You can take my bed for–”

“I’m sorry to intrude on–”

You both laugh a little and try again;

“You’re not intru–”

“I can’t take your–!”

Silence again.

Your eyes meet and there is a smile in the corners of them, laughing eyes, crinkled with their life.

He opens his mouth to speak again but this time, you lurch forward and beat him to it, “I can’t take your bed!”

“I’ll change the sheets, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He says easily.

“No! It’s your bed and I’ve just–dropped in on your life!” You exclaim, voice pitching upwards. Dramatic little thing that you are.

But Kaeya can’t help but feel as if it’s a little true, not in any horrible way, rather in a way that is worse;

It feels poignant.

Right, even.

To have you fall back into his life the way you used to fall as a child, reckless and with wild laughter.

“Not at all,” Kaeya says and he finds, surprisingly, that he means it, “besides, the couch is comfortable–”

“Then I can take it.” You counter.

“No, I’m afraid it’s my home and I’ve already decided”

“Kaeya.” You say, as if to scold him.

He says your name in return, in the same tone, as if to mock you.

Eyes locked again, Kaeya takes you in fully.

After all these years, you have only grown all the more beautiful. Everyone knew you would be, but somehow you’re more than he remembers, a full bloom, a perfectly ripened fruit. A fledged angel. You’re more than he could ever fathom, somehow in his home, after years, and showing him a warmth and kindness he perhaps doesn’t deserve.

Faintly, he wonders if he should work up the courage to apologize.

For what exactly, he can’t name.

(But for years now, he has felt the urge to apologize. To everyone. For everything. And yet it will never loosen from his throat, lodged there, down deep.)

“Would you like to borrow clothes to sleep in, too?” He asks and if his eye skips down to your body briefly, he is quick to avert it.

Sheepishly, as sweet as ever, you smile and say, “if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he purrs and then he stands, stretches a little, hands raised above his head. “Shall we?” He asks and begins to move towards the door.

You stand to follow him.

“Kaeya,” you say suddenly, his name flying from your mouth like a freed bird.

He pauses in the doorway, the arch between two places; where you are and aren’t. One foot in and one foot out.

He can tell by the look on your face, so painfully expressive, shuddering with several emotions, that you want to say much. You’re like an open book for him to plainly read, so vulnerable.

He hopes you won’t say a thing, doesn’t think he can quite bear to hear it.

“Thank you.” Is what you settle on and it’s soft, painfully earnest.

Kaeya swallows, hides it all behind an easy, flippant smile, “of course.”

And he turns away from you, turns his back on your seeking face because he can’t be what you find, doesn’t want you to pry. Your eyes are too searching and he has to be careful, so careful–

He gives you soft, worn clothes of his. He is careful not to look too long at how you fill their shape, or how you look with your hair undone or your face free of stage makeup.

He is sure all the world wishes to know you this way.

He tries not to make you laugh or smile and is certainly careful not to hold your gaze.

He sleeps with his eyepatch on, shirt carefully buttoned and irritatingly twisted up over his body.

He stares up at the ceiling of his living room as you lay in his bed and he forces himself to think 0f anything but, to think of his duties in the morning, or the look on your face all those years ago.

Why are you being so kind to him?

He turns the question over in his mind like a coin, over and over and over, as if it may land on a side and reveal to him an answer.

He hardly sleeps.

And in the morning, the birds sing and so do you, humming under your breath as you dorn your clothes from the night before.

“My great walk of shame,” you sing with a laugh. “Hopefully all of Mondstadt notices.”

“Wait,” he says and the morning sun makes him lighter, your laugh brightens his whole home, and he disappears into his room momentarily to fetch his bottle of cologne.

If he were a worse man, he would dab it onto your neck with his own fingers.

But instead, he hands you the bottle, “if you’d like them all to really talk.”

You laugh again, full bellied and beautiful. So beautiful that you put the morning bells to shame.

You dab it on your neck, against your pulse points, the smell of sweet mint and amber, something boozy, almost like bourbon, hangs in the air and–and you smell like him. And your own perfume, the crush of vanilla and dark berries.

They’d almost compliment each other.

And then you hang in his doorway like the light beams that linger as the morning turns to day and finally you say, “it was good to see you again.”

“You’ll be seeing much more of me now,” he replies breezily.

“And I’m glad for it.” You tell him, “at least something good has come of this.”

He swallows hard. He averts his gaze from you and onto the Mondstadt streets beyond. The birds that flutter and coo as the day blossoms and grows.

“Go,” he says gently, “and spread your rumors about us.”

You laugh again and promise to do just that, skip in your step, as you turn to take on the world as if not a thing could touch you.

And he shuts the door quickly–to his apartment and home, and to his heart.

He doesn’t dare think about it as he throws the lock into place.

But he’ll hum the tune you were singing this morning for the rest of the day and well into evening.

When he sleeps that night, it is with the thought of your form burning in his bed the night before and he thinks if he prayed much, he’d say oh Archons, what have I done? What have I gotten into?

What does the world have in store for me now?

***

SCENE II

In Angel’s Share, warm and glowing, a love shared between the patrons.

You— have the uncanny, incredible talent of prying open all that is around you, so that it bursts sweet like a ripe fruit into your waiting hands. You have known this since you were a child; if you listen, the world will reveal its secrets to you. If you sang, something sang back. And when you danced, all was moved with you.

And now, all that world seems to hang on your every breath, the tavern hushed as your voice carries over the sounds of a lyre. All the patrons’ faces are relaxed, open for you, as you sing.

Venti plays beside you, fingers plucking carefully, stroking into a fuller sound as your voice carries and rises.

It’s a slinky little song, playful and flirtatious, heart-warming as the room coos and sighs. Not a soul is spared–and they never are, Venti always tells you with a laugh. You can feel it, the energy that simmers, that you manage to reach for and control.

You’re singing about love. You don’t do it often.

But the song is an old one, about young lovers, and petal blossoms. Spring fevers and moonshine. You trill and chirp like a bird, voice soaring and floating above the room.

Until the last note blooms from your mouth and the patron’s of Angel’s Share erupt into applause.

You hadn’t planned on singing tonight, only sitting with Venti and Diluc at the bar. But, as what often happens on lovely, slow-warming nights of spring, the tavern fills and the customers beg for a song as they grow drunker and louder.

You know they will likely ask you for one more—a rowdier one that you will kick up your feet to and dance. You will clap and stomp and pull a drinking man into your arms briefly and everyone will hoot and cheer as you teach someone clumsier than you how to dance to your tune, for a moment so that he might see the world the way you do.

Or hear it with your ears.

They never quite can keep up, but it’s fun nonetheless.

And then, for Diluc’s sake, you will play a slow, soft tune with a violin perched on your shoulder. It will be an old drinking song that you have slowed and made into a minor chord so it rings with melancholy and not cheer.

But it will lull the patrons and urge them to leave for the night, arm and arm, bumping shoulders.

You will help Diluc clean up and he will urge you to head home, too. Venti will linger, though hardly lift a finger.

For now, though, you retreat from your place of spotlight to take up your stool at the bar once more. Venti perched up beside you.

“Another round, barkeep!” He announces.

Diluc looks flatly at you, before his eyes shift to Venti and drawl, “with what money?”

“I’ll pay for it, Diluc.” You pipe up and he sighs and shakes his head like he always does.

(He never charges you for them, anyways. You’ll still try to leave money for the both of you at the end of the night.)

Instead, he says, “that was quite the song.” As he sets a glass of valberry wine in front of you; it is one of your favorites.

For Venti, an ale.

“A love song!” Venti adds, waggling his brows as he loops his hand around the mug of ale. He takes a large sip, throat working, gulping it down far quicker than he should be.

“I was in the mood,” you say breezily, lifting one of your shoulders in an easy shrug.

Diluc cocks an eyebrow but otherwise does not press you. He returns to wiping down the bar.

Unlike Venti, who slams his mug back down onto the bar (sloshing some of the ale and Diluc, the poor man, sighs as he runs his rag over the splash) and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before saying, “you’re seeing someone!”

Now, technically, you are supposed to be sharing this little rumor in hopes of it spreading like wildfire.

But lying to Venti? To Diluc—

About Kaeya, no less.

So instead, you say, “I wouldn’t say that, per se.”

Venti pounces excitedly, “but there is someone! Who is it? Do we know them?”

You swallow. Though you are an actor, you are hardly a liar and even now, it turns your stomach over itself to do it. You’ve never been good at lying; your heart has always been on your sleeve, emotions written so plainly across your face. Lying makes your skin itch, you can hardly ever do it, even rarer can you pull it off.

“Well,” your voice goes high.

“We do, don’t we?” Venti asks, impish grin hooked onto his lips. .

He mistakes you for shyness or awkwardness over a crush, rather than nerves or guilt. You let him.

Venti is a dear friend of yours and has been for several years now. It was a sort of instant connection with him; even stranger and more wonderful than that, once the world had given him to you, it had felt like he’d always been in your life, at your side. Your bard. Your drinking and dancing partner. Your confidant and mischievous accomplice. The games the two of you play are far beyond anyone else; you send each other all over Mondstadt with scavenger hunts and puzzles–for new sheet music he’s written for you to sing or exciting news you wish to tell him– tongue twisters and poems, cherished clues and inside jokes. Your letters are often in code or riddle. The two of you are always disappearing to secret places and hiding spots.

He’s your dearest companion.

Lying to him troubles you greatly.

You’ll have to ask Kaeya if you can tell him, if you could explain to Diluc that–

Still, you swallow, “you do, yes.”

“Let me guess!” Venti then says, tapping his chin in contemplation. And for a moment, you have half a mind to lead him down a riddle, instead of this guessing game. The wine is muddling your head, though. “Is it Franz?” Venti asks.

You laugh, surprised, shaking your head quickly; Franz is a fellow actor. He’s great fun but—

“Franz is seeing Emil!”

“It’s not Rosaria, is it?” Venti then asks, “I thought you said that was a one off sort of—“

“It’s not Rosaria!” You cut him off, cheeks suddenly blossoming into an embarrassed heat as you glance at Diluc. Venti had been the only one who knew about that.

Until now, of course.

You smile sheepishly.

“Rosaria?” Diluc questions, surprised as well.

“It was a one off sort of—“ You begin to repeat Venti, laughing nervously.

“I just had to be sure!” Venti then cuts you off, before taking another long sip of ale. He makes a show of mulling over his thoughts.

“Is it…” He trails off, before his eyes suddenly sharpen and pin you to your place. You swallow because you know him and you know that look. Sometimes, you think Venti knows too much. You don’t know if it’s intuition or–

“…Kaeya?”

You freeze.

“It is!” Venti crows.

“What?”

You wince.

“It’s just—it’s nothing—really!” You squeak out.

“I had heard you went home with Kaeya!” Venti continues, loud enough that, yes, this rumor will certainly spread now.

And more importantly, you believe it’s loud enough to reach the ears of the man who has been following you all day; the undercover Fatui member sits not far off, keeping his eye on you. He pretends to drink alone.

“You went home with Kaeya?” Diluc repeats and if he sounds as if he might scold you, you suppose you wouldn’t exactly blame him.

You lean in towards them and instinctively, they do the same, the three of your heads ducking close to each other.

“It wasn’t like that,” you whisper to them, “but if anyone else asks, it was like that.”

Diluc’s brows furrow and a frown settles onto his lips. Venti throws his head back and laughs.

“What are you two up to?” Diluc asks scornfully, eyeing you.

“Nothing!” You chirp but it isn’t very convincing.

“I knew you had feelings for him,” Venti continues, perhaps a little too loudly again, and somehow, it’s as if his voice could carry. Like he’s thrown it playfully, caught it on the breeze from the open window.

Venti has always been rather magical to you. In the same way it feels as if you’ve always known him, it feels as if he could have always been here, in Mondstadt, even before he appeared. There is something in Venti that sings to you, the way the wind does on a beautiful day, rushing through your hair and into your heart. You couldn’t name it, but you know it as well as you know the streets of your home, as well as you know your favorite sonnet or song.

You make a show of shushing him and he laughs heartily again before he throws you a wink.

You grin mischievously yourself this time.

“Has Kaeya ever taken a lover?” Venti asks now, perhaps wondering out loud.

“Too many.” Diluc grouses.

“He’s strange that way, isn’t he?” You muse, taking a slow sip of your wine. You consider your next words. “He somehow has the reputation of taking countless lovers, but I couldn’t name you a single one.”

Venti’s eyes twinkle, as if he knows something you don’t. Like a child, you sometimes wish to beg him to tell you what he seems to know, what the world has given him, but you know that is no way to learn.

“Diluc?” You question.

Diluc gives you another flat look, “I am not privy to Kaeya’s romantic life.” He puts away a glass a little more forcefully than necessary, the glass twinkling, “and I have no wish to be.”

“You can’t name a single paramour of your brother’s?” Venti presses and the two of you lean against the bar in intrigue now, excited, shining eyes turned to Diluc.

“No, thank the Anemo Archon, I can’t.”

Venti snorts at a joke you can’t seem to grasp.

But then you and he share a look, and this time, you can read very plainly what is in his face. You wear twin smiles, impish, and all trouble.

Diluc shakes his head, “don’t look like that in my bar. If you’re going to cause trouble, do so elsewhere.”

“You’re such a grouch,” you snip back at Diluc, taking another sip of your wine, the sweet burn settling deep in your belly. Warmth blossoms. “You’re not curious at all?”

“No,” Diluc says again quickly.

You narrow your eyes, “liar. I know some part of you cares, no matter how badly you pretend not to.”

Diluc huffs, “if I cared, I’d know.”

Venti hums, “then you do know.”

“I just said–”

“I think it has more to do with Kaeya, don’t you?” Venti then says lightly, perhaps too lightly, “if Kaeya wanted you to know, you’d know. Kaeya keeps his cards close to his chest.”

Another sip of wine has you feeling flushed. Open.

“Well, I’m just going to ask him the next time I see him.” You declare to the two, to the bar, perhaps to the whole world.

As if maybe it was you who asked for the truth, he’d answer.

“Good luck with that.” Diluc says dryly.

“Good luck to you!” Venti cheers, jerking his mug of ale out to you so that you may clink your glass of wine against his. You do so, just as he laughs;

“Good luck on your endeavor to capture our Captain’s heart! If anyone could, it would be you!”

***

SCENE III

The Mondstadt streets, early morning; bustling and lively. A flourish of colors as people pass to and fro. Our lovers meander, as if in another time entirely. Kaeya is often shrouded, by people, by vendors, by the world.

You walk beside Kaeya, shoulder to shoulder, past vendors of food and flowers and jewelry. Children yell and chase each other past you, mother’s hollering after them. The smell of fresh food and perfume floats on the breeze.

Kaeya swaggers beside you, sword at his hip, in his full knight’s uniform. You, on the other hand, are in simple skirts; white ruffled fabric beneath an outer layer of peach. A corset of flowers, woven, but hardy and loved, with silk ribbons in the back all tied up and tangled in your hair. Despite the dress, you’ve decided today to bind your chest. Some days, you bind, some you don’t. Some days you are more masculine and others feminine.

And often, you live in between, perhaps around the two. Both and neither all at once.

Heads turn as you pass but this is what Kaeya wanted.

He ducks his head now to say, “your shadow is certainly persistent.”

His voice is low and soft, kept hidden from prying ears.

You look up at him, “they always are. I swear, one day, they’ll follow me into the bathroom–”

Kaeya snorts, casting his eyes back outwards at the moving streets.

Now, he says, more obviously, “what have you got left on your list?”

You look down into the basket on your arm; the loaf of bread that is still warm, the couple of fruits and vegetables that fill in with color around it like large jewels.

“Milk and eggs,” you respond, “but I like to look at the flowers, too.”

“As you wish,” Kaeya smiles and you feel his hand at the small of your back, leading you through the crush of people, towards where you will find your milk and eggs.

“Kaeya,” you say, soft as the breeze.

“Hm?”

“I have questions.”

He quirks a brow at you now, intrigued, perhaps even wary. It’s hardly a flicker of his expression. But still, he asks, “of what kind?”

“Mostly the secretive kind.” You answer; you’d like to ask who you can share this false relationship with. You want to know if he’s informed Jean.

You step up to the vendor for milk and eggs with Kaeya at your back.

“You should save those for later, when you’re in my home.”

“Oh?” You ask, head turning over your shoulder to look at him,“I’m coming over later?”

Your eyes meet and if you didn’t know better, you’d think the tension is real, the little fissure of heat that kindles inside you makes you flush with warmth in the face. Along the tips of your ears.

Kaeya really is handsome. A true knight in shining armor or–he looks like a prince from a fairytale, you think. The regal line of his nose and pretty dip of his cupid’s bow lip, the depth of his blue eye; you swear it could be a shade of blue you have never seen before. One that you could give a new name to.

“If you’d like,” he says breezily, his smile sharp and handsome, “I’ll provide dinner.”

“And wine?” You ask, a smile of your own tipping up into a mischievous curve.

“Always wine.” He agrees and this time, you think his smile is more sincere.

You purchase your eggs and milk with twinkling coins that you press into the warm, wrinkled hand of the old farmer who sells them. And then you are on your way again, meandering the streets at Kaeya’s side.

“I do have a question that can be asked now, though.” You return, cradling the basket on your arm filled with your goods, letting it rest against your hip.

“By all means,” he replies, as if he’ll be that easy to give you an answer. He gazes back outwards, at the world around him.

And before you can lose an ounce of courage, you look up at him and simply ask, “have you taken many lovers?”

He laughs, surprised, and his head turns sharply to look at you again. “Is this a trick question?”

You laugh now yourself, “not at all! I’m being earnest.” You implore him with your eyes now, expectant, and honest.

He laughs again, softer, shorter, as if he can’t believe you. He returns his gaze to the street in front of him. “I’ve had a few.” He answers simply.

“A few?” You prod.

“My, you’re nosy.” He teases.

“I’m curious. I want to know!” You defend, nudging him a little, “I want to know more than just the elusive rumors about the casanova of the Knights of Favonoius.”

“Is that what I am?” He purrs, “a casanova?”

“Don’t change the subject!” You respond with another laugh and it’s almost a little dizzying, watching him work in real time to slip from your grasp. You feel heat in your cheeks, up along the nape of your neck.

But you adjust your grip, you try again.

“I’ve had quite a few.” He amends sheepishly, boyishly. “I hope you’re not the jealous type.”

“I am.” You snip back playfully, honestly, but still, “were any of them serious?”

You can tell he is weighing how to answer as he lapses into a brief silence and then, as if he’d manufactured it, he urges you suddenly to a vendor for flowers, with her large bushels of them, beautiful and bright and fragrant. He ducks behind a burst of them, appearing around the other side with one in hand, which he offers to you.

His grin is lopsided, handsome. “For you, my lady.”

It’s blue and beautiful, full of fragrant petals and blooming a deep purple at the center.

You snatch the flower from his grasp, “you’re avoiding my question.”

Still, you bring the flower up to your nose and inhale deeply.

Kaeya meanders around the other bunches of them and you follow after him, keeping the one in your hand close to your face, by your nose. It’s sweet smelling, soft and mellow, and fresh.

“What do you define as serious?” He returns your question with one of his own finally.

“Have you been in love?” You ask now.

“Sure,” he answers with a secretive slip of a smile.

You don’t know why, but you almost think he’s bluffing.

“So it was serious?” You encourage, trying to ease more out of him.

He shrugs gracefully now and gives you another, “sure.”

“Did you think you would stay with them forever?” You pivot now, knowing you have to be specific. The question bubbles from you without thought, as if you are asking if the weather is alright, or if he’d prefer the red or gold flowers this morning.

He stops up short.

He looks at you very strangely for a moment.

And perhaps it is one of the first straightforward and honest things he’s said to you, “nothing lasts forever.”

“No, but you could promise your own forever to someone.” You respond, letting the petals of his flower brush up against your cheek, soft and silky.

“Well, what about you?” He returns smoothly, carefully avoiding what you’d just said.

You smile, because you know now, you can tell he is an expert of avoidance. You smile like you’ve caught him.

And as if to teach him, you answer very honestly, “I have been in love many times, but I only promised forever once to someone.”

Now it’s your turn to meander around the flowers, turn over your shoulder and wander away from him a little.

He follows tentatively.

“And what happened?” Kaeya asks carefully.

You pull another flower out of the bunch to admire it next to the one he gave you, a wispy white one, twinged peach at the edges.

“I got stood up,” you admit and pick your head up from your flower searching to look at him briefly, “we were going to elope.”

The look in his eye is perhaps a little too delicate for your liking.

You return to fiddling with the flowers, pulling another, and another, to create your own, small bouquet of them. It’s easier when your hands are busy to speak about this still, which even years later, feels raw and prickly.

“It was while I was touring in Liyue–we were supposed to meet at some old ruins–an altar– and be married at dawn. I was going to leave the acting troupe, leave Mondstadt behind forever, and disappear with him.” You say, carefully arranging your flowers, delicately shifting and changing them. You offer a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and try to joke, “it was all very romantic at the time.”

You let out a breath, admiring your bouquet, “I waited all morning. And then all afternoon. All night. I thought something horrible happened to him but–”

You pick your head up again and this time Kaeya offers you another flower; one to match your bouquet. You accept it and it fits beautifully into the bunch of them, carefully placed at the center. It’s another blue one, soft and lovely and full to bursting.

“It turns out he just got cold feet. He married a Liyue girl a year later.”

“And what did you do?” He asks softly.

“I went on to perform in Sumeru, Fontaine, Natlan, and Snezhnaya. And then I came home to Mondstadt, licking my wounds, and haunting poor Diluc and Venti at the bar. Singing too many heartbreak songs, drinking a little too much–you know, the whole spiel.” You say and this time, you do smile, because despite how hurt you were, memories of Venti trying to cheer you up, causing a ruckus, and poor Diluc trying his best to help you as well flood to you.

Jean taking you out on girls’ nights and your fellow artists banding together to keep you afloat. Lisa finding beautiful copies of your favorite plays and stories. Good people who came back into your life and tried to put you together again. Good moments, despite it all.

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” Kaeya begins smoothly, reaching out to smooth a petal a certain way, “I think that is perhaps the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of any man doing.”

You snort and Kaeya continues, “I’m serious.” But you can’t tell if he means it or not, “Imagine losing the very Heart of Mondstadt.”

He suddenly takes the bouquet from your willing hands and goes to pay for them with shimmering coins. He returns the flowers moments later, settles them into the crook of your arm, but not before stealing one and tucking it carefully behind your ear.

“There,” he murmurs, eye flickering over your open face, unreadable as always, “perfect.”

And with that, he saunters away and you are left staring after him, on his coat tails for a moment.

But he pauses, he waits for your skip of a step to come back into place at his side.

The flowers fill the space of your kitchen with the color of blue you can’t name, the one that is caught in his eye, and the one you dream about in Mondstadt skies.

***

PRELUDE TO SCENE IV

Late afternoon. Outside the monumental Cathedral. Once inside, light pours from stained glass windows in a kaleidoscope of color. The way it touches you is almost a mystery, a vision. The audience should never fully see Kaeya’s face as he turns and moves, always partially shadowed.

“I need to check on something before we see Jean.” You tell Kaeya and he hustles to keep up with your steps.

“In the Cathedral?” Kaeya asks, brows rising over his face in surprise.

“Sort of!” You chirp and then you glance over your shoulder, throw him a smile he knows means trouble, and say, “it’s a secret.”

Kaeya masks his face well as he follows you around a sudden stone bend that veers away from the main room. He assumes it will go up, to the spires, but instead, it goes down. He stares at curled stone steps that lead into darkness. He glances around for a moment as if someone might stop the two of you, but no one does.

You disappear into the shadows and Kaeya follows behind quickly.

Now at a door, you turn, press your back to it and Kaeya comes up short. It’s a tight space, this narrow crook, and if Kaeya were to step away, he’d have to take another step up above you.

“Will you guard the door?” You ask sweetly.

Kaeya can’t help but laugh, a little surprised, “are you supposed to be doing this?”

“I have a key.” You protest, fishing out a necklace from beneath your buttoned up shirt–today you are in trousers, with your chest bound, but a pair of heeled boots. You hold it up and a gold key shimmers in dull light. It looks old and perhaps once illustrious, with a whirling, intricate design.

“Who gave that to you?” Kaeya asks.

You look perfectly innocent, “I found it myself.”

Kaeya can’t help the smile, “does anyone know you have it?”

You narrow your eyes, “you’re not going to tattle on me, are you?”

His smile turns into a fond laugh, warm and softly echoing in this little hallway, the arch of the door. “No. Should I be worried?”

“No,” you respond and he’s fit to believe you as you turn back to the door and fit the key into the lock. With a gentle, easy click, the door creaks open. “I’m just going to fetch my diary.”

“Your diary?”

Without an answer, Kaeya watches as you disappear behind the door, which leads to another, darker hallway. You lift your hand and light fills the space, a flame of yours licking to life. There is another door at the end of the hallway. He assumes you’ll go on, push through that one as well.

But instead, you turn to the side to face a bookshelf lining one of the hallways. There’s plenty of them. You push on what appears to be a small statue fastened to the shelf and use it as leverage to begin sliding it over.

Your eyes flick to Kaeya only briefly and you lift your finger to your lips as if to ask him to keep your secret.

The door shuts before he can stop it, sealing him away.

Instantly, he frets.

He pushes against the door but it’s locked now. And you have the key.

He tries to remain calm. He feels suddenly foolish or tricked. He just thought–

Well, he assumed you were a goody-two-shoes. Mondstadt’s proper, most beloved girl. He thought you didn’t have a rebellious or secretive bone in your body. He assumed, for all intents and purposes, that you were something of a prude in this way. A rule follower.

Huh.

Kaeya glances back from the way he’d came, to the door.

Perhaps he doesn’t know you as well as he thought.

He tries not to worry the longer the minutes grow.

He doesn’t want to call for you because he doesn’t want to attract attention but if you don’t return shortly–

The door suddenly creeks again and Kaeya has to step out of the way as you reappear behind it.

And in your hand is a small, leather-bound notebook.

You shut the door behind you, sealing your secrets away.

“Diary found.” You tell him with a smile, holding it up. Then, you tuck into the crochet bag on your shoulder.

He stares at you, still rather surprised.

“What?” You ask, brushing past him, to head back up towards the curved stairs.

“What secrets do you have in that diary that warrant such a hiding place?” Kaeya asks, still astonished.

You laugh, warm and bubbling, as you return to the main floor of the Cathedral. The colors of the stained glass in the afternoon sun shimmer on you, dancing over your skin in a wash of violets and peaches, blues and crimsons. Emerald colors your shoulders. Gold along your face. You look like a wonder. A fairy. Part god–

“Nothing so important–just my feelings. Songs I’ve written. Snippets of poetry.” You tell him and he wishes he could believe you. You say it so earnestly. “Secrets of the heart, I suppose.” You joke.

Kaeya glances behind him, then back to you, “and where did you–find that place? How did you–?”

“I know many places in Mondstadt that others don’t. I’ve stumbled upon them ever since I was a child.”

You catch his gaze over your shoulder, shimmering in his vision, and smile, “maybe I’ll show you more of them sometime.”

The afternoon light almost blinds him as you swing the massive doors open once more. He dumbly follows after you, taken aback, enamored, in awe.

“Come along, Captain!” You sing like a bird, “Jean is waiting!”

***

SCENE IV

Jean’s office. Golden hour. The light turns the wood of her desk and floor and the walls bronze. Papers are scattered around her desk, haphazardly organized. Her hair is a halo glow in the last rays of the sun. Kaeya’s back is turned, towards the bookshelves and away from the audience, like he might be searching for something. He is careful not to look at you.

You sit across Jean’s desk as the afternoon wanes into evening, the sun dipping you in honey rays, soft and dreamlike. Kaeya busies himself with the rows of books, keeping his back carefully turned away from the two of you. He listens closely, though, even as he pretends he doesn’t.

“So you’re not actually…seeing each other?” Jean asks.

“No,” you laugh, “did I scare you with my letter?”

“Yes.” Jean says seriously.

Kaeya fights the urge to turn and offer her a cold look. Still, she continues, “I thought I was going to have to lecture one of you. Though, I’m not sure which one–”

You laugh now, fuller, warmer.

It’s a lovely sound, it fills the space with warmth.

“Who else knows? Kaeya, I don’t appreciate you withholding this from me at first.” Jean says and Kaeya can feel her eyes touching the back of his shoulders like the tip of a sword might.

“You know I deal in secrets.” He responds flippantly.

“This is different.” Jean responds and perhaps he does know that.

You and Jean are childhood friends, he knows Jean cares a great deal for you. Or harbors some sort of over protective, sisterly feeling towards you. And even when you went away, even when you hardly saw each other, he knew the feelings didn’t wane.

No, he knows how childhood bonds are.

“It’s alright, Jean, we’ve had to be careful. We needed to establish a believable cover.” You are quick to mediate, perhaps defend him. “I started this, anyways.”

Jean won’t get mad at you, nor will she blame you for much.

“Currently, we’re the only three who know.” Kaeya pipes up, allowing his finger to trace over the spine of a book gracefully.

“I’m trying to convince him to allow me to tell Diluc and Venti.” You quickly add and Kaeya knows now that he’s lost that battle.

Jean will side with you.

“Diluc doesn’t know? Wouldn’t he be a useful ally now? She spends a lot of time at the tavern; he could keep an eye on her when you can’t.” Jean says.

Kaeya takes a moment too long to respond, he knows it, senses his mistake, because Jean pounces–

“You two are a pain.”

“Now, now,” Kaeya begins smoothly, “I just think the less people know, the better.”

“You know you can trust Diluc.” Jean scolds.

“Diluc is a terrible liar.” Kaeya snips and his head snaps to the side to glance at Jean over his shoulder. He quickly rights himself and shields his face once more, returning to his perusal of books.

“I’m sure if he knows what’s at stake, he could keep it together.” Jean responds, tone firm and unmoving.

Kaeya sighs heavily, but his next reply is cut off by your own voice, “I don’t like lying to him or Venti.” And then, because you’ve never been one to shy away from the truth, you add, “especially about you.”

“I think both would readily help us. The more eyes on her, the safer she is.” Jean agrees.

Kaeya can not explicitly express why this makes him bristle— or perhaps he simply doesn’t want to admit it. He knows it, somewhere inside of him, knows that the thing that claws and scratches looks a little too close to jealousy. It is perhaps just a little too green. Maybe, he wanted to keep you to himself just a little longer.

But he knows, logically, Jean is right. And if it’s for your safety–

Kaeya finally turns to look at the two of you. Which is foolish, because the sun is setting, and you are in its window. You are caught in its light, warm and relaxed, with your chin in your hand as you turn to look at him.

“As you wish, Acting Grand Master.” Kaeya says evenly and offers a (frankly) rude little bow. Jean will know he’s mocking her a little and that he doesn’t particularly like the decision made. And then he says to you, “shall we? I’d like to get you home before sundown.”

You prick your head up, concern and surprise on your face, “am I staying with you for the night?”

Kaeya is careful to let the tone of your voice roll off him and not take it or covet it.

“No,” he muses, “I thought I’d stay with you for the night.”

He pretends he doesn’t notice the way you brighten or the way you jump up from your seat to follow him. He doesn’t turn to look at you, but he hears your soft goodbye to Jean, and her murmuring something in return. Your sweet little laugh. And then your quick steps to catch up to him once more.

When you exit the Knights of Favonius headquarters, taking the steps with a little skip, you suddenly sidle up to his side.

Right underneath his arm, attaching yourself.

He is careful to school his features, dropping his arms around your shoulders easily. Yes, he supposes it’s wise to look like a couple heading home together.

“Sorry we ganged up on you,” you say and the way you peek up at him would be enough to send any foolish man’s heart into a tailspin.

Kaeya is desperately lucky he’s never been a fool.

“No,” he soothes, “Jean is right. And you shouldn’t have to lie to your friends.”

He feels your fingers flex at the bend of his rib, in the fabric of his clothes like you’re tightening yourself to him. He walks in step with you, with your side pressed to his.

Has he ever done this, he wonders, so openly with someone? Walked through the cobblestone streets with a lover under his arm? Or has he kept everyone in shadows and secrecy?

It doesn’t matter. This is a secret, too. It isn’t real.

And still, the question flies from his mouth before he is prepared for it, “why didn’t you ask for Diluc’s help?”

You stop walking and as he continues for a moment, you slip from his embrace.

He turns to look at you. The sun is a crimson flare, catching on your ruby Vision, on the look in your eyes.

You smile like a cat that’s caught a canary.

“Kaeya,” you say his name like a melody, “are you the jealous type?”

For a heartbeat, he almost feels harpooned, caught, suddenly struck in place. It’s frightening to be picked apart so effortlessly, with that smile on your face. Earnest. Horribly lovely.

What a strange creature you are, he marvels.

But then he laughs and lies, “not particularly.”

You hum and begin to saunter towards him, walk on past him, and he is caught in your shadow. He follows.

“It would’ve made sense to ask him.” Kaeya continues.

“But I asked you,” you say simply, “you’re who I thought of.”

Carefully, he reaches for your hand, the brushing of his pinky to yours. As if to ask, may I play pretend with you? As if to ask, may I take up the role of the one who gets your hand?

You readily accept it and the part, too. And then you smile at him again, impish, filled with mirth;

“Besides–can you imagine how scandalized Diluc would’ve been if I’d given him the same letter I gave you?”

Kaeya truly laughs now, deep from his belly, and you laugh with him as you pull at his hand, as you press up against his side. Your fit of giggles fills the sky.

And the world must watch as you stroll through Mondstadt together and wander up to your home on the hill. He thinks the world must watch as he slips through your door, through your fingers, like a serpent in a garden.

Like a sweet sinner, a non-believer, slipping into the back pew in the house of a love-spun god.

***

SCENE V

The trail from Springvale to the main city should feel familiar to us. Though lonelier now, shrouded in darkness that was easily chased off with two. Later, Kaeya’s apartment; a rapidly growing safe haven.

After your rehearsal on the stage in Springvale, you meander back to the city. Kaeya said he would meet you halfway, but currently there is no sign of him. As the hush of night descends, a feeling of wariness overtakes you. You hear the owls begin to hoot and the distant, far off call of a wolf. The wind rustles the bushes.

You turn to glance over your shoulders, again and again, half afraid that one of the times you may find someone staring back.

You try to calm yourself. You swear you’re being paranoid; you have taken this road countless times. There is little to fear.

And still, the feeling persists. It grows.

You turn fully to look behind you, allow a burst of flame to erupt in your palm to illuminate your darkening world.

“Is someone there?” You call out.

With everything in you, you wish to hear Kaeya’s voice reply. Or Diluc’s. Maybe a fellow actor lollygagging behind?

Your heart thuds hard in your chest, quickening.

And even before you see the rush of a shadow, something instinctive, something ancient in you, tells you to run–

You take off as you plunge yourself into darkness, fleet-footed and desperate.

You run hard and know certainly now that someone follows. You can hear it, feel it, the press of them behind you. The city lights of Mondstadt in the night sky are your beacon.

If I can just get to the city, to the light, to my city of light–

You run harder, more wildly. Fear sharpens and quickens you.

A flash of silver ahead of you.

Your heart knows it before your mind;

“Kaeya!”

You nearly collide with him but he’s got you, hands on your shoulders to steady you, eye flying over your face desperately.

“What is it? Are you hurt?” He asks before looking past you.

“There’s some–” you turn to look with him.

But the forest behind you is quiet. The darkness is hushed. Almost unnaturally so. Goosebumps erupt over the nape of your neck.

Your words die, dwindle in your mouth.

You swore–

You try to catch your breath, try to quell your racing heart. “I thought there was something behind me.”

Kaeya has gone inhumanly still, too, listening, watching. You think he senses something, too. He must know danger, know its call, no matter how silent.

He’s got his hand on your lower back, corralling you closer to him protectively. He doesn’t stop eyeing a spot ahead, though, in the darkness.

He hums. “Perhaps it was an animal.” But he seems to know differently.

After a moment, when you have your breath under more of your control, you manage to get out, “must’ve been.”

“Let’s go,” Kaeya turns you away, hand slipping around your waist for support.

You lean into him.

Belatedly, you realize you’re shivering. Hard. Trembling all over.

He ushers you into his apartment above the city once more. The moment the door is shut and locked tight, he moves with more urgency to guide you to his couch.

He disappears momentarily and you almost want to call him back, like a child, you want to reach for him. He returns with water and sets it on the coffee table.

He kneels in front of you now, like the knight he is.

“Are you okay?” He asks first and again, he searches you. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, the movement jolted, unsteady.

“I just feel–strange.”

Kaeya’s eye softens fractionally, “probably an adrenaline crash. I’ll grab a blanket.”

Again, he disappears and you want to stop him. You want to grab his wrist before he can slip from you, you want to sink into his arms. You want to be held.

But you sit and you tremble.

When Kaeya gently fixes the blanket to your shoulders from behind, you jolt, startled.

“I’m sorry,” he says then, “it’s just me.” He comes around again to kneel in front of you. He pulls the blanket tighter around your shoulders, affixing it to you, bundling you in it.

It smells like him. You try and take in a deep breath to still your trembling.

After a moment, you say, “there was someone.”

“I believe you,” Kaeya agrees softly, “someone was chasing you–I heard the second pair of footsteps and came running.”

You inhale shakily. Tense silence fills the space.

You can hardly speak, “do you think–do you think they were actually trying to–?”

Kaeya inadvertently answers your question, “I think we should be more careful from now on. I want eyes on you always from here on out.”

“I thought it’d be fine–I always walk home from rehearsal and–”

“I know,” Kaeya soothes, “I thought I’d get to you sooner. I should’ve been. I’m–”

“They’d just followed me around before.” You say uselessly, almost in disbelief, “why would they–?”

“We’ll find out,” Kaeya says gently, “but for now, you should rest. How do you feel?”

“Shaky,” you answer, “I’m not sure how I’m going to sleep tonight.”

“I’ll be right out here,” Kaeya promises, “they won’t try anything now. It’s clear they’re waiting until you’re alone.”

You want to beg him to allow you to stay on the couch with him, or for him to sleep in bed beside you. You feel needlessly clingy, like a scared child. How silly, he must think of you, to be so frightened of a little chase. You’re sure he’s seen so much worse, faced danger you can only conjure in storybooks.

You bite your lip, catch between your teeth so it won’t wobble. You nod.

Kaeya studies you for a long moment before you feel the careful press of his hand on your knee, the delicate swipe of his thumb in a soothing caress.

“Would you like me to draw you a bath?” Kaeya asks softly.

For a moment, you’re surprised by him or perhaps his attempts at soothing you. A bath does sound appealing though being alone doesn’t.

(Instantly, an image flashes hot in your mind, of you in the bath, and Kaeya leaning against the counter to chat idly with you. Or seated beside the basin, his sleeves rolled up, or–)

“No, I don’t need–” you’re quick to try and assure him.

“It’s no trouble at all,” he stands with grace and ease and makes his way to his bathroom. In a moment, the water is running and steam is filling the small space. The scent of iris and eucalypts.

You force yourself to stand on trembling legs, astonished with how thoroughly adrenaline has riddled your poor body. You’d think you’d be used to adrenaline in some way, the sharp plummet of your heart because of stage fright.

But performing dangerous tales is significantly different from being a part of one.

“Thank you,” you say gently, catching Kaeya’s hand to squeeze momentarily.

“It’s nothing,” he brushes you off and slips from you, allowing you to disappear behind the door to the bathroom.

All alone you can hear the drum of your heart again.

Your reflection looks strange to your own eyes in the mirror. Everything feels different; unreal, almost. You look away quickly, towards the running water, the filling bathtub.

You try not to think, to strip yourself bare, and to leave the jitteriness on the floor with your clothes.

You slip into the warm water.

Kaeya left you clothes of his, a towel.

You want to call for him. You want your heart to quiet. You want your fear to dissipate like the steam.

You force yourself to take deep breaths. You force yourself to wash and scrub at your face and neck. You are okay. Kaeya is outside the bathroom and you are safe.

Still, your feeling of unease doesn’t leave you.

Even after you have donned Kaeya’s clothes and stepped from the warm bathroom.

You linger in the archway of his bedroom.

He looks like he’s about to speak but you beat him to it, “will you stay with me? In your room?” In your bed?

You watch Kaeya’s brows raise in surprise before he quickly schools his features. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“I’m asking you,” you respond and perhaps there is a note of vulnerability, perhaps there is a wobbling, small part of you that sounds a little too desperate to his ears.

You find some form of embarrassment in the press of heat in your face. But you don’t retract it, let your honesty hang between the two of you like a pendulum.

“I’ll sit on the armchair in there until you fall asleep,” Kaeya compromises, “how does that sound?”

Relief is sweet and cool and winding around you. You let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding tightly to.

“I’d appreciate that.” You say and you turn to try and make yourself comfortable in his bed once more.

There has been several nights now where you have slept in his bed alone while he sleeps on the couch. Each night, you offer to take the sofa, and each night, he denies you.

Tonight, he drapes himself over the lovechair in the corner of his room.

He settles deep, eye flickering over you as you turn the covers over and crawl into bed.

In the silence, you can hear your heart again, “I’m sorry for making you do this.”

“There’s no reason to apologize,” Kaeya says smoothly, waving away your concern, “I’m glad I could help.”

You wonder if he means that or if he’s saying it because it is the right thing to say. You don’t dare ask him. You don’t dare press; some truths you would rather not be revealed to.

“You look like you’re about to tell an incredible bed time story in that arm chair.” You joke instead.

Kaeya snorts, head rolling a little onto his chest. He looks tired, too, disheveled a little in a way that he rarely is.

But he’s still so buttoned up; you wish he’d show you the defenseless side of him. The one not in perfect ruffled blouses or knights’ coats. The one without the eye patch or the carefully charming smile.

“Would you like me to tell you a story until you fall asleep?” He asks dryly.

But when you laugh a little and say, “yes, actually,” you mean it.

Kaeya’s brow quirks upwards.

“I don’t have many bedtime stories.” He tells you.

“That’s okay,” you reply, “I’m going to fall asleep soon, I’m sure.”

Kaeya hums lightly, letting his head fall back against the back of the chair. He hangs there for a minute, revealing the lovely brown shade of his exposed throat.

Finally, he says, “I’ve got one.”

“Please share,” you encourage.

Kaeya draws in a slow breath, allowing the silence of the room to be sucked in, too. He holds it so the only thing you can do is wait, watching him in the near-dark.

Finally, he speaks and his voice is nothing like you’ve heard it before;

“Once, there was a prince from a far away, forgotten land…”

The soft cadence of his story, hushed, and almost tentative, lulls you. It eases your heart and your mind. It reminds you of the wash of the waves against the shore or the wind as gentle as can be.

In no time at all, you are drifting off into strange, plum-darkened dreams of lost princes and beasts in the night.

And unknown to you, Kaeya gently pulls the covers of his own bed up over your shoulders. Gingerly, he tucks you into bed and watches your sleeping face for a moment.

With a breath loosened, he finally leaves your side and finds his place on the couch.

And in the morning, for once, you are awake before him and find him on the couch.

Carefully, you tuck the blanket he’d thrown over himself up around his shoulders. You brush a strand of his long hair from his face. You let loose a quiet breath.

He sighs in his sleep and turns towards your touch, chases it in his dreams.

And though you linger, you don’t bother him again, but turn to begin making coffee for the two of you.

You hum softly, an ancient little melody from a faraway land, and it stays in your head the entire day, with thoughts of a lost prince who, in your mind, surely looks like Kaeya; handsome and refined and beautiful. He must be noble and kind and charming like him, too.

And more than anything, his eyes must be stars like his, too, and his hands must be calloused and gentle.

And his voice must be like his, too, when he murmurs sleepily, rubbing at his eye, “where did you learn that song?”

“I don’t remember,” you reply and you set a steaming mug of coffee on the table beside him, “I think from a traveler, a long time ago.”

“I haven’t heard it since I was child.” He admits.

“You know it?” You ask.

“Thank you,” he says softly, voice still rough with sleep, “for the coffee.”

“Thank you,” you respond, “for staying beside me last night.”

“It was nothing,” he assures gently. And then he finally answers you, perhaps in a way that you know is personal to him, “it’s a lullaby.”

You smile behind the lip of your own mug, gentle and sweet, and say;

“Then the coffee is nothing, too.”

***

Act I, Part II –>

#kaeya alberich x reader #kaeya x reader #kaeya x you #kaeya alberich x you #kaeya x y/n #kaeya alberich x y/n #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impct x y/n #cielo's writing!#cielo writes!#cielo collabs!

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lavenderfluorite14 · 7 months ago

Text

A Taste of Plums | Astarion x Female!Tav

Chapter 6: Found

Summary: A stranger from Astarion’s past changes everything.

Chapter Warnings: Blood, gore, violence, panic attacks, murder, brief nudity. Full tag list on AO3.

Read on AO3. 1.2.3.4.5

“What’s that awful smell?” Tav winces, covering her nose.

“Powdered ironvine. An old hunter’s trick,” a deep, friendly voice calls out to them. A man emerges from the fog, approaching them with confidence and purpose. Twin braids are woven through his hair, each framing his scarred, but kind, face. A thick mustache sits above his lip. “Most monsters will think twice before making a meal of me,” he laughs jovially. Astarion prickles with disdain.

“You’re a monster hunter? I’m surprised. I thought all Gur were vagrant cutthroats,” Astarion taunts. Tav shoots him a disbelieving look but says nothing. He meets her eye, unashamed.

“And more! We steal your chickens, curse your crops, seduce your daughters, the list goes on,” he waves off Astarion’s cruel words effortlessly. “I wish I had half the power settled folk think I do. Alas, I am just Gandrel, a simple wanderer and monster hunter.” Astarion’s hackles begin to rise. Something feels off, but he has no idea what it is. A Gur alone and so far from Baldur’s Gate could not be good news.

“I assume you want to kill the hag?” Tav asks.

“Or make a deal with her,” Astarion suggests. “You probably think you can outfox the old dear,” he adds patronizingly. Tav shoots him another exasperated look but Astarion holds his ground. He knows the Gur people better than she ever will.

“Right, but very wrong. I’m hunting a vampire spawn, much less impressive than a hag.” The bottom of Astarion’s stomach falls away. “His name is Astarion, but I-" Every single one of his senses heightens in a sickening rush, his world narrowing to a horrible pinprick.

Cazador has found him. Cazador hired this bastard to hunt him down and drag him back to Baldur’s Gate like the dog he is. Astarion glances over at Tav, terrified of her response, but Tav has barely reacted at all. She seems merely puzzled, her arms crossed, her head tilted, her eyebrows quirked in mild surprise.

“Only a spawn? Pity. Not like it’s a real vampire,” Tav jokes. It’s Astarion’s turn to shoot her a disbelieving glare.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure a vampire spawn could still rip out your throat, if he felt like it,” Astarion returns smoothly. Tav snorts.

“He is right, unfortunately. They are only weak when compared to their masters. During the day we have the advantage, but at night, when they hunt, you won’t find a more deadly quarry,” the man warns.

“Yes, I’m sure they can creep right up on you,” Tav says pointedly to Astarion.

“We’ve all survived so far. Let’s focus on that,” he quips. Gods, it was one time. She can’t honestly still be upset about that night. She’d certainly loved the follow-up.

“Still, the threat is real. It would be wise to post guards at night,” the man says, sternly this time. “You should be taking this more seriously,” he chastises Tav directly.

“I agree, the threat is real,” Astarion rounds on Tav. “And we should do something about it.” His eyes bore into hers, silently begging her to understand. There is a pulsing behind his eye and he feels something tug against his psyche. It presses against him urgently, but doesn’t force itself inside. He gets the distinct impression that it is knocking, as if on a door. Curious, he tentatively opens his mind to the touch.

Astarion, what is going on!?

It’s Tav. In the sanctity of her mind, she can’t disguise her cold alarm. In the privacy of his, he can’t control his whirlwind of terror.

Cazador sent him. He wants me back.

His unfiltered panic crashes over her in a wave of adrenaline.

The Gur needs to die.

His mind presses insistently back into Tav’s, desperate. Her mind accepts him, enveloping him in a gentle rush of warmth. A deep shudder wracks him, but Tav’s mind holds him as he trembles.

Then he will die, she responds.

As if one, Astarion and Tav draw their weapons. The movement severs their psionic connection but Astarion feels the thunder of her heartbeat, the heat of her body beside him, and he instinctively knows she will attack with him. Gale and Shadowheart quickly follow suit behind them. Gandrel recoils, drawing a gilded crossbow.

“It cannot be?” He sputters.

“It can,” Astarion snarls as he lunges forward, aiming for the man’s abdomen. Gandrel dodges nimbly, firing an ensnaring bolt towards Astarion. It strikes him in the chest and thorny vines begin curling out of the arrow, wrapping painfully around Astarion. He struggles viciously but the vines quickly pin him to the ground, binding his wrists, hands, and feet. The thorns dig into his exposed skin, tearing at his flesh as he squirms. From somewhere far away, he thinks he can hear someone screaming his name.

His hands may be pinned but he still has his daggers. He nimbly flips one in his hand and begins sawing at the vine around his wrist. He quickly slices through it, then tears through the rest of the vine with a jerk of his forearms. With his hands now free, he begins slashing at any vine he can reach. As he works, he becomes aware of the sounds of battle. A fire bolt lands somewhere behind him, erupting in a burst of heat. The back of his neck prickles, a telltale sign that Shadowheart has unleashed a blast of shadowy energy. A hand clasps his shoulder and he recoils violently, nearly stabbing Tav.

“Get up!” She cries, ripping the bramble around his chest off of him. As she pulls him up, she whispers a quick healing spell and his flesh begins to knit back together. Astarion uncorks a healing potion with his teeth and chugs it.

Shadowheart and Gale have cornered Gandrel against a rock, blocking him from advancing towards Astarion. When Gandrel sees that Astarion is free he immediately fires another arrow, which Astarion barely dodges. Astarion grabs an invisibility potion and throws it back, disappearing into thin air.

“Why do you want to kill Astarion?” Tav demands. Astarion creeps forward, soundlessly inching his way toward them. Gandrel tenses, gripping his crossbow tightly. He scans the area carefully, waiting for Astarion to give himself away.

“My orders are to capture him, not kill him,”

“Why? Where will you take him?”

“I will tell you if you give him to me.”

Astarion strikes. He plunges both of his daggers into Gandrel’s chest, breaking his invisibility. They pierce his heart, tearing through the delicate muscle, rending the organ irreparably. Astarion watches the light fade from Gandrel’s eyes as he crashes backward to the ground, landing in a bloody heap. The soft green moss of the swamp floor cradles his lifeless body gently. In death, there seems to be something profoundly sad about his eyes.

Astarion stands over him, panting hard. He doesn’t need to breathe but his body remembers, sucking in air that doesn’t soothe him. The Gur is dead. He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe. Small tremors ripple uncontrollably through him. His ears begin to ring. He can tell they are talking to him, at him, about him, but he can’t hear anything through the soft buzz.

“-to stand by one’s friends in the face of danger,” Gale’s cheerful voice eventually cuts through the white noise, bringing him back to himself, and he reaches a trembling hand into his pack to grab a rag. He wipes his bloody blades down thoroughly with the rough cloth. The fabric is familiar and the repetitive motion is somewhat soothing.

“Here,” Tav says, coming up beside him. She hands him a potion, which he snatches from her hands. The sweet healing liquid slides down his throat, warming him with its magic. He feels a little better. Tav takes the bottle back, presumably to reuse later, and he is overwhelmed by a surge of feeling that has to be a lingering effect of the potion. She had fought for him. At just his word she had taken up arms to protect him. He had touched the inside of her mind and it-

“Do you need any more?” Tav asks, offering him another potion.

“I don’t need your help!” Astarion jerks away from her touch. “Go fuss over someone else if you need something to do. I just want to go back to camp and take a nice hot bath,” he laments, forcing himself away from her and storming back towards camp.

“Astarion, wait!” Tav cries as she rushes to catch up, hastily falling into step beside him. “So, a monster hunter is tracking you?” She asks as delicately as she can.

“Not anymore. Which is all that matters, really,” he sniffs, affecting haughty carelessness.

“But why was he hunting you? What did you-" “I didn’t do anything!” Astarion interrupts vehemently. She has no idea, no right to judge him. Even if she cares. He takes a deep breath, then another.

“It’s Cazador.” he finally says. Their group comes to a halt, circling him. It could almost be described as protective if he were any other person and this was any other situation.

“Do you mean Cazador Szarr? I’ve read about him in the histories,” Gale pipes up.

“The very same,” Astarion confirms.

“If what I have read is true, he’s quite the piece of work,” Gale adds, grimacing.

“I’m sure it is true.” Astarion pauses, weighing each of them. Gale, proud and powerful. Shadowheart, the scion of a dark goddess, judgmental yet kind. Wyll, bold. Karlach, strong. Lae’Zel, fierce. He doesn’t want to tell them. But as he looks into the eyes of the people, friends another voice softly insists, who have fought beside him, broken proverbial bread with him, kept watch with him, and who now have killed for him, a deep instinct urges him to speak. He looks at Tav, longing to join with her mind again, but his parasite doesn’t stir. Tav, who defended him so readily, as if there was no other course of action worth considering. As if he's precious.

If Cazador is hunting him then they deserve to know. They are now in danger too.

“Cazador Szarr is the patriarch of a vampire coven in Baldur’s Gate. He’s a monster obsessed with power. Not political power, mind you, but power over people. He sired me about 200 years ago and has kept me as a slave ever since.” His shame hangs heavy in the air.

“You are sure Cazador is behind this?” Tav asks.

“It was him, I’m sure. Only Cazador would know to send the Gur after me.” It was too perfect. There could be no other explanation. “It was a group of Gur who attacked me that night in Baldur’s Gate. I would have died had Cazador not appeared and saved me.”

“Saved you by turning you into a vampire slave?” Gale questions.

“Well, he failed to mention the slave clause at the time!” Astarion spits sarcastically.

“That seems rather convenient,” Shadowheart observes. “Cazador must have suspiciously good timing.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he was simply drawn to the scent of blood.” Astarion dismisses this idea, even as it nags at him.

It’s a thought he has considered numerous times over the years. But he has no proof that Cazador targeted him specifically, beyond his uncanny timing. If he had, he would have done more with Astarion, surely? Astarion would have been special. He had certainly never asked him about any possible political connections Astarion must have once had as a magistrate, nor had Cazador made any use of them, to his knowledge. According to Cazador, the only thing that made Astarion worth keeping around was his handsome looks. And his pretty screams.

But maybe that was Cazador’s game. Take someone beautiful and powerful and reduce them to a pathetic, ugly, wretch.

“But why send the Gur at all? To remind you of that night?” Tav wonders, her clear voice interrupting his reverie. “Perhaps. He probably thought it was funny,” Astarion says. Cazador had always had a bad sense of humor. “The point is, I have a history with them,” Astarion continues. “Cazador is sending me a message. He is reminding me of his power. Even in the middle of nowhere, he can reach me.” Astarion begins to pace, deep in thought.

“But why would monster hunters serve Cazador? He’s a vampire!” Tav presses.

“They may have no idea who they are working for. Cazador likely paid someone to pay someone to call in a favor, and here we are,” Astarion explains. “He doesn’t do simple plans. Not if he has a complex one that pits a dozen enemies against each other.”

How many times had he pitted his own spawn against one another, purely for his amusement and their degradation?

“No, this hunter is a message. He wants me back.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, ruining his already ruined curls.

“I know this seems bad. But you are safe with me,” Tav promises. She gestures to Gale and Shadowheart. “With us.” Gale murmurs in agreement and Shadowheart nods silently. Astarion jerks to a stop, whirling to face them.

“Safe? You think I’m safe?” he shouts. He advances on Tav. “Do you know the power a vampire lord possesses?” He condescends. Tav opens her mouth to speak but he interrupts her, gesticulating wildly. “Because he can change shape, turn into mist, call wolves to do his bidding, shrug off blows like they are nothing!” He invades her space, lowering his voice threateningly. “He can walk into camp tonight and kill you with his bare hands. And you’d be lucky if death was the worst thing that happened to you.” Tav flinches, closing her mouth quickly, but she doesn’t look away. She silently holds his furious gaze, taking everything he throws at her. Astarion’s lip curls at her defiance.

“Can he do that? Just walk into our camp?” Shadowheart interjects.

“Probably not," Astarion slowly concedes. He has to rest in his crypt during the day. I’ve never known him to leave Baldur’s Gate. But he has no end of lackeys. He has plenty of souls to command.”

“Vampires aren’t invincible. We could still take him,” Tav insists. Astarion’s throat constricts, bobbing involuntarily. It’s all he’s ever wanted to hear. But now that Tav has said it, he doesn’t think it’s true. He clenches his fists, his arms trembling with repressed emotion.

“You’re not listening. You don’t know him. You don’t understand,” Astarion whispers. She’s never been a slave, has never been at someone else’s brutal mercy. He doesn’t know how to make her see without cracking himself open and bleeding all over her. And even then, she will still do whatever she wants.

“Just trust me when I say we need to be careful,” Astarion says, turning away. “We just need to be vigilant, keep our wits about us. And kill any monster hunter on sight.” Astarion begins the long march back to camp again, charging forward alone, leaving the others to catch up.

A hot bath was not waiting for them back at camp. Instead, they have to make do with the cold rush of a nearby stream. Touching running water again had been a marvelous novelty at first, but bathing in it remained awful. What he wouldn’t do for a heated tub and fragrant soap.

Despite the chill, the silt, and the fish, Astarion takes his time. They only have one thin grimy bar of soap between them but there’s still enough for Astarion to work into a fine lather, slipping the suds over himself in a filmy embrace. He uses a clean rag as a washcloth, gently exfoliating his torn skin. His cuts and scrapes from battle sting a bit, but it’s nothing he isn’t used to. They will heal quickly.

Such tender touches are grounding. It’s a relief to wash the filth of the day away. Caring for his scarred corpse of a body provided Astarion with a deep comfort he rarely found anywhere else.

Cazador had almost found him. He had been this close to getting captured, this close to going back. Only but for the grace of Tav goes he.

Vampires aren’t invincible. We could still take him.

As if his siblings hadn’t spent over a century trying. As if they hadn’t spent sleepless days holed up in the dormitory, crafting plan after plan to end their torment. Astarion never helped them. It never worked. Cazador always won.

The endless black of the tomb. The unbreakable silence, the hunger pains that never dulled. His split, bleeding nails, his shredded vocal folds, his matted curls, his sweaty, stinking body, the teardrops endlessly dripping down his face, the loneliness, the aching, bitter loneliness-

Vampires aren’t invincible. We could still take him.

Who does Tav think she is? Does she honestly believe that a bard has a serious chance against the most powerful vampire his ancient coven has ever seen? What is she going to do, play Cazador a song?

He imagines it. He imagines Tav, perched on the small stage in the ballroom, playing an elegant tune on her violin as Cazador sits on his throne, bored. When she finishes, Cazador’s lips curl and he claps a slow, unamused clap.

“I suppose you would like to be paid for that pittance of a song, little bard,” Cazador would jeer. He wouldn’t learn Tav’s name.

Tav smiles through her teeth and nods so Cazador produces a gold coin from his purse, holding it aloft between his fingers. Tav trots over and as she reaches for the coin, Cazador grabs her wrist and yanks her towards him. He roughly fists his claws in her hair, wrenching Tav’s head back so that her pretty throat is bared for him. Tav screams but Astarion is rooted to the spot, magically compelled to watch as Cazador tears into her throat with relish. His first punishment. Tav chokes on her own blood as Cazador rips open her jugular-

Karlach unleashes a roar of rage as she swings her ax in a high arc, burying her blade in Cazador’s back. Then a Hold Monster spell wrenches Cazador away from Tav, who bashes him across the face with her violin. Her precious instrument splinters into bits, the shards slicing Cazador’s face open. Shadowheart whispers a healing spell, then conjures a searing ball of daylight that scalds his eyes and burns his flesh. Gale launches a fireball the size of a small star into the air, engulfing Cazador’s ghouls and wolves in fire while Lae’Zel picks off the stragglers. Wyll drives a radiantly enchanted stake through Cazador’s chest as Astarion, who is gloriously free, goes in for the final strike, decapitating Cazador with a hard, righteous swing of his sword. Blood spurts from his neck as his ugly head bounces dully across the marble floor. Cazador Szarr is dead.

It’s an old fantasy, but there are new elements now. Killing Cazador has never seemed so possible. And Astarion’s days are currently filled with impossibility possibilities. He can walk in the sun. He can drink whatever blood he wants. He can telepathically link his mind with his companions, one of whom likes him. Perhaps this would be the best chance he would ever get.

Vampires aren’t invincible. We could still take him.

Later that night, a mostly dry Astarion pours himself a glass of tepid wine and picks a spot by the fire to lounge. He flips open one of the many novels he’s stolen along the way and begins reading.

“Hey, soldier.” Karlach plops down beside him. “Whatcha got there?”

“The Realm According to Bumpo and a glass of Chultan Fireswill,” he grimaces. “Both are terrible.”

Karlach laughs a jolly, boisterous sound. A content beat passes between them. “Look, I heard about what happened today,” she confesses.

“News travels fast, I see.” Astarion sneers. “Who was it? Shadowheart? Gale?” His face darkens. “Tav?”

“That’s not important. Look, I just wanted to say that I’m here for you. We all are, if you’ll let us.”

Astarion shuts the book with a snap. “Who can you possibly help, Karlach? You can’t even help yourself.”

“You wanna try that again, you posh prick?” She retorts.

Astarion sulks. He sighs. He swirls his wine agitatedly. “I just don’t think any of you understand the magnitude of a vampire lord’s power,” Astarion finally says.

“Sure. Because what do I know about escaping from an all-powerful master?” She says. Astarion glumly stares back at her. “Alright, you don’t have to believe me, the Archdevil Zariel’s Lapdog. But talk to Wyll, yeah? Our resident monster hunter probably has a few ideas.” Karlach dares to wink at him.

“That’s hilarious, the monster hunter helping the monster,” Astarion says sullenly. “You should consider becoming a bard. I’m sure Tav can give you a few tips.”

Karlach guffaws. “No thanks. I prefer to do the fighting, not the talking.”

“And thank goodness you do,” Astarion replies. It’s snide, but he means it as a compliment. Karlach takes it as one.

“Speaking of Tav, you should talk to her too. She’s not as shaken up as you, but today clearly rattled her.”

“I am not shaken up!” He hisses. Karlach gives him a searing look. “Fine. I’ll smooth down her ruffled feathers.” He was planning on it anyway.

“Good. And then, when you’re ready, talk to Wyll.” She stands, ready to leave. “I want to be your friend, Fangs. Us escaped slaves have to stick together, don’t they?”

Astarion swallows thickly. He supposes they do.

Tav is not in her tent. Astarion scans the camp and quickly spots her deep in conversation with Gale. He can’t quite pick up every detail of their hushed conversation, but he catches snippets. Something about “magical items” and “urgent.” He taps his foot impatiently as he waits for whatever that is to be done. When Tav eventually leaves she seems perplexed, worry heavy on her brow. She wanders over to the fire and begins sorting through her pack, cataloging all the treasures they snatched from the hag’s lair.

He tries once more to touch his mind to hers. He stares at her, willing something to happen, but nothing does. The tadpole is silent.

Tav had protected him. And she had done it without a second thought. She is the reason why he isn’t bound and gagged, on his way back to the Szarr palace at this very moment. First the Tieflings, then Karlach, then Mayrina, and now him. Again.

Why was Tav so eager to risk her own life for other people? Doesn’t she know that it could get her killed or worse? He supposes it doesn’t really matter why. Now that he has calmed down, he can see this for the opportunity it is.

He would much rather find a way to control the tadpoles than confront Cazador, but if Cazador is hunting him then he may not have a choice in the matter. His worst fear is true. He needs allies more than ever now. And Tav had so generously offered her services.

He does not feel grateful. How pathetic to need charity. In fact, he knows exactly how he can pay her back.

As he stares at Tav, who is quietly organizing her pack by the fire, his faltering will finally crystallizes into cold, perfect determination. He will seduce her, romance her, make her feel like she is the only girl in the world. And after he has given her the night of her life, positively ruined her for anyone else, he’ll begin whispering in her ear. He will become her lover, her confidant. And then she will become his puppet. That was more than a fair trade. He will have a gorgeous meal, his space will be guaranteed in their little group, at the top where he belongs, and then somehow, he doesn’t know how, but, somehow, Tav will waltz their merry band back to Baldur’s Gate and drive a stake right through Cazador Szarr’s heart. For him. Afterwards, well, Tav had served her purpose. Then he could truly do as he pleased. Perhaps he will keep her around afterwards, if she’s useful enough.

Astarion smiles a wide, real smile and finishes his wine, wincing at the cheap, bitter taste.

At that moment Tav looks up from her supplies and catches him staring. He raises his empty goblet to her and she waves back, a warm smile softening her lovely features.

This is going to be so easy, he thinks, sauntering over.

#astarion #astarion fanfic #a taste of plums #astarion longfic #the night shift

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