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moonlitstoriess · 12 days ago

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Binding Lies- Eris Vanserra x fem! reader (mini-series) Part 2

Summary: When Y/N, Azriel's secret half-sister who lives far away, and Eris Vanserra form a strategic contractual marriage to further their own agendas, what begins as a carefully crafted arrangement soon becomes more complicated. As they pretend to be a perfect couple, the lines between duty and desire blur, and neither is prepared for the consequences.

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Warnings: none for now either, I think

The morning sunlight trickled into the room through cracked shutters, casting golden lines across Y/N’s worn wooden floor. She sat stiffly at the edge of her chair, her gaze fixed on the tepid tea in her hands. The cup was shaking slightly, her fingers unable to stop trembling no matter how tightly she gripped it.

It wasn’t the tea. It wasn’t even the too-bright sunlight piercing her bleary eyes.

“Marry me.”

The words from yesterday echoed in her mind, louder than the birds chirping outside, louder than the clock ticking relentlessly on her wall. It had been more of a command than a proposal, Eris’s tone leaving no room for discussion. Her jaw clenched at the memory of his smirk, so infuriatingly sure of himself, as though the entire world bent to his whims.

She had wanted to scream, to tell him he could shove his proposal somewhere unpleasant. But no, she’d stood there, stunned and silent, while he outlined his outrageous plan. A fake marriage. Pretending to be a princess. Attending the royal court.

Her stomach twisted violently, and she abandoned her tea on the table.

She had barely slept, tossing and turning as her mind warred between outrage and disbelief. How could he expect her to agree to such madness? She didn’t even like him. The idea of being tied to him—even pretend—made her want to claw at her skin.

She had spent the entire day trying to distract herself. Fixing the squeaky hinge on her front door, scrubbing floors that didn’t need cleaning, reorganizing her tiny kitchen shelves. But no matter how hard she tried, his words wouldn’t leave her.

Even now, as the morning sun warmed her modest home, her thoughts refused to settle. Eris’s smirk. His sharp, calculating eyes. His promise that this would be the only way to save the lands, to protect innocent lives.

Her teeth ground together. Why me?

A sharp knock at the door startled her out of her spiraling thoughts.

Her head snapped up, her pulse quickening. She froze, staring at the door as if it might bite her.

No. Not him again. Please, not him.

The knock came again, firmer this time.

Y/N groaned, running a hand through her hair. “If that’s you, Vanserra, I swear to the gods—”

She marched to the door, yanking it open without a second thought.

What she expected: Eris, standing there with his smug smile and some new ridiculous demand. What she got: two women draped in flowing, shimmering robes and headscarves that caught the sunlight like liquid gold.

Her words caught in her throat as she blinked at them.

The shorter of the two, a woman with warm bronze-toned skin and large, intelligent eyes, inclined her head politely. “Good morning,” she said softly, her voice smooth as honey.

Y/N blinked again. “Uh…” She glanced between the two women, her grip on the door tightening. “Can I… help you?”

The taller woman, her sharp cheekbones framed by the loose fabric of her scarf, stepped forward. “We were sent by Princess Leone.”

Y/N’s brain stalled completely. “…What?”

The shorter woman—who introduced herself as Noura—smiled gently. “The princess cannot risk her plans being overheard. She sent us to escort you safely to the palace.”

Y/N’s jaw fell open, her grip on the door slackening. “I’m sorry—what?”

The taller one, Samira, tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes glinting. “You are to leave immediately. The princess’s orders were clear.”

“Wait, wait, hold on.” Y/N threw up her hands, stepping back as if to put more space between her and these absurdly calm women. “I haven’t even said yes yet!”

The two women exchanged a look, as if they were sharing some private joke. Noura folded her hands neatly in front of her. “You haven’t?”

“No!” Y/N snapped, her voice rising. “This whole thing is insane! I’m not some princess, and I’m not—” She waved her hands wildly, her voice breaking into a frustrated laugh. “I don’t know what I’m doing!”

Samira stepped forward, her movements graceful and deliberate. “Your doubts are understandable,” she said evenly. “But the princess chose you for a reason.”

“That reason being Eris Vanserra,” Y/N muttered under her breath.

“We cannot stay here long,” Noura interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “The princess does not take risks lightly, and neither should you.”

Y/N glared at them, her hands planted on her hips. “So what, you just expect me to pack up my life and leave?”

Another shared look passed between them, this one tinged with amusement.

Noura stepped inside, uninvited, her soft slippers making no noise on the wooden floor. “You won’t need to pack much. Everything you require has been arranged.”

Before Y/N could argue, Samira placed a firm hand on her shoulder and guided her toward the small chair by the table.

“Wait—what are you—”

“Sit,” Samira said briskly.

Y/N sat. Mostly out of shock.

Samira immediately began undoing the messy braid Y/N had thrown her hair into that morning, her deft fingers working with surprising speed. Noura, meanwhile, produced a bundle of fabric from a satchel she carried, unfolding it to reveal a gown so stunning it made Y/N’s throat tighten.

“Wait, wait,” Y/N said, lifting her hands as if to ward them off. “What is this?”

“This,” Noura said with a small smile, “is your disguise.”

“I don’t need a disguise!”

Samira arched a brow as she twisted Y/N’s hair into an intricate knot. “You’re pretending to be a princess, darling. You do need a disguise.”

Y/N groaned, slumping in her seat. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“You’ll survive,” Samira said dryly, securing a final pin.

The two women worked efficiently, leaving Y/N little room to protest. By the time they finished, she was draped in layers of shimmering twilight-blue fabric, her hair braided and pinned with delicate silver ornaments.

Y/N stared at her reflection in the small mirror Samira held up. “Gods,” she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I look like I’m about to be sacrificed to some ancient deity.”

Noura chuckled softly, but her tone turned serious as she said, “We need to leave. The others are waiting.”

“The others?” Y/N echoed, her stomach sinking.

Her question was answered the moment she stepped outside.

Her mouth fell open as she took in the small caravan parked just beyond her gate. Horses, sentries in gleaming armor, women dressed in elegant gowns that rivaled her own. A small, ornately carved carriage waited at the center of it all, its wheels gleaming in the sunlight.

Y/N turned to Noura, her voice shrill. “What is this?”

“The princess’s most trusted court,” Noura explained, motioning toward the group. “She chose them carefully. They know the price of betrayal.”

Y/N’s stomach churned. “And what is the price?”

Samira’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Oh, honey,” she said, her voice filled with wicked amusement. “You don’t know our princess at all.”

One of the sentries stepped forward, bowing low. Samira took Y/N’s hand and guided her toward the waiting carriage.

Y/N shot one last, desperate look back at her little house, her stomach sinking further. “Thank the gods my house is far from civilization,” she muttered as she climbed into the carriage. “At least my neighbors won’t see this circus.”

Samira smirked as she settled in beside her. “You’d better get used to it,” she said lightly. “This circus is just getting started.”

The carriage began to roll forward with a slight lurch, and Y/N clutched the edge of her seat, her knuckles white. The horses’ hooves clattered against the cobblestones, the sound accompanied by the rhythmic creak of the wheels. She stared at the plush velvet interior of the carriage, trying to calm her racing thoughts.

This was fine. Everything was fine. She’d agreed to this madness, and now she just had to—

“We’ll start with the basics,” Noura announced, her tone brisk and no-nonsense, snapping Y/N out of her spiraling thoughts.

“Wait, what—”

“You’ll be going by the name Amira Yasmin Idrissi,” Noura continued, as if Y/N hadn’t spoken. “Your family is one of the oldest and most noble bloodlines in the Southern Courts. You’re a distant cousin of the royal family through your mother’s side, which explains why you haven’t been seen at court often.”

Y/N blinked at her. “Amira what?”

“Yasmin Idrissi,” Noura repeated patiently.

Samira leaned back, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips. “Keep up, darling. It gets better.”

“It gets worse,” Y/N muttered under her breath, but Noura was already plowing ahead.

“You’ve been living in isolation for the past few years, mourning the tragic death of your parents,” Noura continued, her tone shifting into something softer, more sympathetic. “They were assassinated during an ambush on their estate—”

“Assassinated?” Y/N interrupted, her voice shooting up an octave.

“Yes, assassinated,” Noura confirmed, frowning slightly as if it were obvious. “The Southern Courts have always had their share of political tensions, after all.”

Samira snorted. “You’re not a true noble if no one’s tried to murder you at least once.”

Y/N stared at her, wide-eyed. “What—”

“Anyway,” Noura interjected smoothly, “you’ve been in mourning. That’s why no one has seen you until now. You’ve spent your time traveling through secluded estates and keeping out of the public eye.”

“Secluded estates,” Y/N repeated flatly. “That sounds... convenient.”

Samira raised a brow. “What did you think? That we’d send you to the palace with no story at all? This isn’t amateur hour, sweetheart.”

Y/N groaned, slumping back against the cushioned seat. “Gods, what did I even sign up for?”

“You’re also an only child,” Noura added, ignoring her. “Which makes you the sole heir to your family’s lands and titles.”

“Perfect,” Y/N muttered. “I’m a grieving orphan with a target on my back. Sounds like a dream come true.”

Samira grinned. “Don’t forget, you’re also breathtakingly beautiful, adored by all who meet you, and an absolute darling of the court.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s pushing it.”

“Oh, no,” Noura said, dead serious. “You are adored. That’s part of the story.”

Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re killing me.”

The carriage hit a small bump in the road, and Y/N jolted forward slightly. She shot a nervous glance at the window, her curiosity finally getting the better of her. She pushed back the curtain just enough to peek outside—and her stomach dropped.

The streets were lined with people.

Men, women, and children stood in clusters, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the carriage as it passed. Some whispered to each other, their eyes wide with curiosity. Others simply stared, their gazes fixed on the ornate design of the carriage, the fine horses pulling it, the glittering armor of the sentries surrounding it.

Y/N let the curtain fall back into place, turning to Noura with a horrified expression. “Are they... watching us?”

Noura smiled faintly. “Of course they are. You’re a princess, remember?”

“I’m not a princess,” Y/N hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. “This is all pretend!”

Samira smirked. “Tell that to them,” she said, jerking her head toward the window.

Y/N groaned, sinking lower into her seat. “I hate this.”

“Don’t slouch,” Noura said sharply. “A princess never slouches.”

Y/N shot her a glare but straightened her posture reluctantly.

“You’ll also need to work on your manners,” Noura added, as if Y/N wasn’t already overwhelmed. “Proper greetings, courtly etiquette, how to carry yourself in the presence of the king—”

“The king?” Y/N cut in, her voice rising. “I have to meet the king?”

“Obviously,” Samira said dryly. “You’re his niece. Well, technically, his distant niece. Twice removed.”

Y/N’s head spun. “How am I supposed to keep track of all this?”

“You’ll manage,” Noura said briskly. “The princess wouldn’t have chosen you if she didn’t think you could handle it.”

Y/N groaned again, burying her face in her hands. “This is a nightmare.”

Samira patted her shoulder, her grin infuriatingly smug. “Cheer up, Amira Yasmin Idrissi. You’re about to live every little girl’s dream.”

“Every little girl’s nightmare,” Y/N muttered.

The carriage rattled on, and Noura launched into more details about her supposed backstory—details that only made Y/N’s head hurt more. Her family’s estate was located in a fertile valley near the southern border. Her favorite pastime was horseback riding. She was a skilled harpist.

“I don’t even play the harp,” Y/N interrupted, exasperated.

“You do now,” Noura said firmly.

Y/N sighed, massaging her temples. “You’re all insane.”

Samira laughed. “Welcome to the court, darling.”

As the carriage began to slow, Y/N’s anxiety doubled. She peeked out the curtain again, catching a glimpse of the palace gates towering ahead. Her breath caught.

The gates were enormous, gilded in gold and flanked by towering marble columns. Beyond them, the palace rose like a shimmering mirage, its spires gleaming in the sunlight, its windows reflecting the bright blue sky.

“We’re here,” Noura said softly.

Y/N swallowed hard, her hands gripping the edge of her seat. This was it. There was no turning back now.

Samira leaned in, her voice low and teasing. “Ready to meet your adoring public?”

Y/N shot her a withering glare. “Not even a little bit.”

The carriage rolled to a stop, and Noura straightened, smoothing her gown. “Remember, you’re a princess. Keep your head high, smile politely, and don’t let them see you falter.”

Y/N took a shaky breath, forcing herself to sit up straighter. “Right. Princess. No faltering.”

Samira opened the door, and sunlight flooded the carriage. Y/N squinted against the brightness, her heart pounding as she stepped out onto the polished stone pathway.

The palace loomed before her, grand and imposing, its walls alive with the whispers of history.

And just like that, her quiet, ordinary life was gone.

The moment Y/N stepped out of the carriage, it was as though the entire world shifted its focus onto her. Dozens of faces turned in her direction—guards in gleaming armor, palace servants bustling about, courtiers idling in the grand hallways. All of them stared, their eyes narrowing with curiosity, suspicion, or outright disbelief. The weight of their gazes felt like a hundred-pound boulder pressing down on her chest.

She hesitated, her feet glued to the smooth marble pathway that led to the palace entrance. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure everyone within a five-mile radius could hear it.

“This was a terrible idea,” she muttered under her breath.

“Keep moving,” Noura said softly, her voice laced with a calm authority that left no room for argument.

Before Y/N could argue, Samira nudged her forward—not unkindly, but firmly enough to get her feet moving. “Head high, shoulders back,” Samira instructed. “You’re royalty now. Walk like it.”

Y/N resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but she forced her spine to straighten, her chin to lift. As she ascended the palace steps, the grand doors loomed larger and larger, their intricate carvings and gold inlays glinting in the sunlight.

When they finally entered the palace, it felt like stepping into another world. The air was cooler, scented faintly with jasmine and polished wood. Sunlight poured through towering stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns across the pristine floors. Everything gleamed—marble, gold, crystal. It was opulent, almost offensively so.

And everyone was still staring.

Her palms grew clammy, and her mind raced. Did they know? Did anyone recognize her?

Y/N faltered for a moment, her steps slowing as her gaze flicked nervously to the courtiers who whispered behind their hands, their sharp eyes trained on her every move.

“I can’t do this,” she hissed under her breath, her voice barely audible.

“Yes, you can,” Noura replied smoothly, taking her arm and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Keep walking. Smile faintly. Don’t let them see your nerves.”

“Smile faintly?” Y/N repeated, incredulous. “I’m about to keel over, and you want me to—”

Samira jabbed her lightly in the ribs, making her jolt forward. “Less talking, more walking, princess."

Y/N shot her a glare but did as she was told, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

As they passed a group of finely dressed courtiers, one of them—a haughty-looking male with sharp cheekbones and a jeweled cane—raised a brow at her, his lips curling in a faint smirk. Y/N resisted the urge to throw something at him.

She could already hear the whispers trailing in her wake: “Who is she?” “Is she truly from the Southern Courts?” “She doesn’t look familiar. I’ve never heard of an Amira Yasmin Idrissi before…”

Her stomach churned, but she pushed forward, letting Noura and Samira guide her through the labyrinthine halls of the palace.

As they walked, her thoughts began to spiral. I was a servant here. Just two nights ago, I was scrubbing these floors, serving wine to these glorified highborn bastards. And now? Now I’m supposed to convince them I’m one of them?

Her lips twitched in dark amusement, but the humor was short-lived. Gods, what if the servants recognize me?

Her steps faltered again, and she shot a panicked glance at Noura. “Wait—what about the servants? They’ll know who I am. They’ve seen me.”

“Relax,” Noura said without missing a beat. “The princess has taken care of it.”

Y/N frowned. “Taken care of it? How?”

Samira smirked. “You really don’t want to know.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Y/N muttered.

“Stop overthinking,” Noura said, her tone firmer now. “The princess wouldn’t have sent for you if she wasn’t certain everything was in place. Trust the plan.”

Trust the plan. Easy for her to say. Noura wasn’t the one being paraded through the palace as a fake princess, pretending she hadn’t spent years cleaning these very halls.

They turned a corner, and Y/N caught sight of a set of massive double doors ahead. Her breath hitched. The doors were intricately carved, depicting a scene of blooming roses and curling vines, their edges gilded with gold. Two guards stood on either side, their expressions impassive, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

Her feet slowed, her nerves spiking again.

“This is it,” Noura said quietly.

"You are doing great, just try to act less like you are heading to your execution and more like you are about to meet her royal highness herself." Samira whispered with a small amused smile.

Before Y/N could respond, the guards stepped forward, their movements perfectly synchronized. They each grasped one of the doors and pushed them open with a low groan of ancient hinges.

The room beyond was bathed in golden light, the air thick with the scent of fresh flowers and incense. The ceilings soared high above, adorned with intricate murals of battles and celebrations. At the far end of the room stood a figure clad in flowing, jewel-toned robes—the stunning Princess Leone herself, her dark eyes sharp and calculating, her regal beauty utterly intimidating.

But it wasn’t the princess who stole Y/N’s attention.

Standing just to the side of Leone, dressed impeccably in tailored black with his auburn hair catching the light, was the bane of her existence.

Eris Vanserra.

And he was smirking.

Gods help me, Y/N thought, her stomach sinking. What have I gotten myself into?

Y/N stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes still fixed on Eris, the bane of her existence. Every inch of her body felt like it was vibrating with rage, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She was barely aware of the princess’s greeting, her words floating in one ear and out the other as her gaze remained locked on Eris’s infuriating smirk.

"My distant cousin," Princess Leone's voice rang out, smooth and melodic, with an air of graciousness Y/N could never hope to match. "How happy am I to meet you at last."

The princess stepped forward, her arms wide as if she were welcoming a long-lost relative, and for a brief, surreal moment, Y/N almost wondered if this was all just some ridiculous dream. But no—no, this was real. This was her life now.

The two ladies, Noura and Samira, both nodded with pride as Leone turned to them, offering a pleased smile. "You’ve done a marvelous job," she said, her voice laced with a compliment that seemed as natural as breathing. "Well done."

Y/N barely heard this, her thoughts still tangled around the sight of Eris, who was now lounging in one of the luxurious chairs near the princess. His arms crossed in that irritatingly confident way, his eyes never leaving hers as though he found this all just one big joke.

Noura and Samira moved to sit beside Leone, and Y/N was ushered forward, her feet heavy as lead. She took the seat opposite the princess, the silken fabric of her new royal gown sliding around her uncomfortably. She wanted to stand. She wanted to walk right out of the room. But all eyes were on her.

It’s fine. It’s fine, she repeated to herself, but her mind didn’t seem to believe it.

Her hand trembled slightly as she placed it on her lap, and she cursed inwardly at how her body was betraying her.

"Ah," the princess said with a soft laugh, her dark eyes glinting with amusement, as if she could see exactly what was happening in Y/N’s head. "I am aware of how absurd this all must seem to you."

Y/N’s lips twitched, and before she could stop herself, she shot back, "You could say that again. One minute I’m scrubbing the floors and serving wine, the next I’m supposed to act like I’ve been born into royalty. It’s a bit much, don’t you think?"

Leone smiled gently, and for the briefest moment, Y/N saw something in her eyes—a sharpness that told her the princess was far more calculating than she let on. "I know, it is not a position one would choose lightly. But it is necessary."

Eris, meanwhile, was far less tactful. He leaned back in his chair, eyeing Y/N with that all-too-familiar smirk. "You’re handling it well so far. Not every servant gets the chance to play royalty, you know."

Y/N’s teeth clenched, but before she could respond, her voice dripping with sarcasm, Leone raised a hand, her serene composure never faltering. "Eris," she said, almost as if scolding a petulant child. "Let her breathe."

Eris only chuckled, unperturbed. "I’m just saying, she looks the part."

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, and she shot back, "Oh, well, I certainly hope that ‘looking the part’ doesn’t involve being surrounded by irritating people like you."

The princess and her two companions exchanged amused glances, and it was clear that they were both entertained and a little impressed by Y/N’s sharp tongue.

But just as the tension in the room began to simmer into something more volatile, Samira cleared her throat politely.

"Yes, yes, I think we should focus," she said, her voice soft but carrying an undeniable authority. "We have much to discuss."

Leone nodded, turning her full attention back to Y/N. Her smile never wavered. "Indeed. Now, Y/N, let’s get to the matter at hand. You’re bound to have many questions, but rest assured, we’ve thought of everything."

Y/N was already running through the list in her head, her thoughts moving in a chaotic blur. She opened her mouth, but Leone cut her off smoothly before she could speak. "The maids. Yes, they have been given very specific instructions. They will not know you. They will not acknowledge you, not as Y/N. In fact, they’ll act as though they’ve never seen you before in their lives. You’ll have no need to worry about them. Their only job is to ensure you are comfortable while keeping the act intact."

Y/N blinked, trying to process the information. "And what about—"

"No," Leone interjected, cutting her off once again with a calm wave of her hand. "No, you needn’t concern yourself with the details. Everything will be taken care of. The servants, the palace, the way you’re seen by others. All of it has been accounted for."

Y/N’s mind was still racing, but she managed to suppress the urge to argue. "Fine," she said, though she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was something she was missing. "What about... the king? My family? What about the Autumn Court? Eris brought... other courtiers with him, right?"

The moment she said his name, Eris’s smirk deepened, and Y/N had to resist the urge to throw something at him.

Princess Leone raised an eyebrow, her voice smooth as honey. "Ah, yes, the king. He knows nothing of you—at least, not yet. Your family, as far as anyone knows, was part of a branch of the Southern Court that dissolved years ago, and your 'lineage' has been carefully constructed by us. The king has no reason to suspect anything unusual. Not yet, anyway."

Eris leaned forward, eyes gleaming with that dangerous charm. "As for the Autumn Court and my dear, dear father, well, he hasn’t a clue either. I’m sure they’ll be just as shocked as you when they see your 'family,' which is, of course, a bit... fabricated."

Y/N shot him a look of disgust, barely able to keep her temper in check. "Fabulous," she muttered. "A fake family for a fake princess. What could possibly go wrong?"

Leone chuckled, unfazed by the sarcasm. "What Eris means," she continued smoothly, "is that the whole court has been kept in the dark about you. We’ve carefully ensured that no one will know who you are or that your family doesn’t truly exist."

Leone’s voice broke through her thoughts once again, soft and reassuring. "The courtiers will behave as though you’ve always been one of us. They’ve been given very clear instructions, and they will be there to protect you if anything goes awry."

Y/N looked from one to the other, her head spinning with all the information they were throwing at her. "So, let me get this straight," she said slowly, trying to make sense of it all. "I’m supposed to pretend to be royalty, be part of a family that doesn’t exist, and fool a court that doesn’t even know I’m—"

"Exactly," Eris interrupted, leaning back in his chair with a smug look on his face.

Y/N didn’t even look at him this time. She turned to the princess, who was still watching her with those calm, measured eyes. "And when the king finds out—what then?"

Leone’s gaze flicked briefly to Eris before returning to Y/N. "We deal with that when the time comes. In the meantime, you’ll have the full support of me, my trusted courtiers, and the two ladies you’ve met, Noura and Samira. They will be your most trusted allies, assisting you through every moment of this performance. If you falter or hesitate, they will step in for you."

Y/N couldn’t help but exhale a sharp breath, the weight of it all pressing down on her. This was madness. And yet, it was the only way forward.

"And Eris?" Y/N asked, glancing up at him again, only to find him watching her with a look that could only be described as smug.

"Yes?" Eris asked innocently.

She gritted her teeth, trying not to snap. "Just... stay out of my way, alright?"

"Unfortunately for you," he replied with mock sweetness. "I can't do that, since...you know, we are soon to be married and all."

Leone’s soft laugh interrupted their banter, and she leaned forward. "Enough with the games, you two. We have much to prepare for, and very little time."

Y/N sighed, but this time, it wasn’t frustration—well, not entirely. There was a sense of inevitability creeping in. The plans had been set in motion, and she had no choice but to follow.

The room was unlike anything Y/N had ever imagined for herself. She stood at the entrance, her gaze sweeping over every inch of the space as the two ladies, with practiced grace, moved about, making sure her belongings were neatly arranged. The high walls, bathed in soft golden light, were adorned with intricate tapestries that shimmered in the sunlight, woven with scenes of distant lands and battles, gods and legends. Low, ornate lamps cast a warm, honeyed glow across the rich fabrics—plush cushions and rugs in deep crimson, amber, and sapphire hues sprawled across the floor. The wooden beams in the ceiling were carved with delicate patterns of swirling vines, their beauty lost on her as she stood still, completely frozen.

Her eyes lingered on the grand mirror hanging above the vanity, its frame designed in geometric patterns and inlaid with pieces of ivory and gold. She wasn’t sure why it felt so foreign, so alien to her. This was supposed to be her new life, a reward for her obedience, her silence, her sacrifice. Yet as she gazed at her reflection, she only felt a stranger. She didn’t belong here.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the vanity, gripping it to steady herself. This life—this palace of riches—felt so distant from the life she had lived just weeks ago. Back then, the days had been long and cold, spent working herself into exhaustion so she could afford the next batch of herbs and treatments for her mother. Her mother, who had been fighting a sickness that drained her strength a little more with each passing day. Every time Y/N had returned home, it had been like a new stab to her heart, seeing her mother weaker, paler.

But now? Now she stood in this stunning room, surrounded by riches she could never have imagined. None of it mattered. None of it could fill the empty space where her heart used to be.

Her mother was not here. No, her mother was in the healer’s place, just like she had been for the past few months. The Healing House, a place that Y/N had fought tooth and nail to get her into. She had saved every coin she earned, worked double shifts, and scrimped and saved for months, just to get her mother the care she needed. The healer’s place had been the only option after everything else had failed. It was one of the only places Y/N could afford where they wouldn’t just treat her mother’s illness, but actually try to cure it.

And yet, every time she visited, her heart had shattered all over again. Her mother, once so vibrant and full of life, was now reduced to a shell of herself—her frail body clinging to life, her once-strong voice now barely a whisper. Y/N had tried everything to help, but it was never enough. Every visit, every look into her mother’s weary eyes, was a reminder that she was failing.

She should be there. She should be with her, holding her hand, staying by her side. That was where she belonged. Not here, in a room like this, a room meant for royalty and power. This life, this palace, this engagement—it was all a distraction. A temporary moment that took her away from the only thing that truly mattered.

The thought of her mother, sick and alone in that healer’s house, brought tears to Y/N’s eyes. The guilt was overwhelming, crushing. Her mother had sacrificed everything for her. How could Y/N leave her now?

Why was she even here? Why did she deserve to be the one chosen? Because of her mother? Or had Eris seen something else in her? Was there something about her that made her worthy of standing next to him, of playing the part of this engaged princess?

A laugh escaped her lips, bitter and hollow.

She cursed her father’s name again, the same bitter, resentful curse she’d been repeating since she was a child. How could he have left them both to fend for themselves? He had disappeared without a trace, without a word.

She felt a bitter pang in her chest when she thought of Azriel. How lucky he was to have had a father, someone who cared for him, someone who fought for him. Azriel—someone who had a name for himself, who had a future, a destiny that was his to shape.

Meanwhile, here Y/N was, caught in a web of lies and promises, trying to fit into a life that wasn’t hers. She was nothing but a pawn in this game. She couldn’t make a name for herself like Azriel, couldn't rise to greatness. She was just a female who had been forced into a role she didn’t understand but needed.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let her emotions control her. She had to focus. She had to do this for her mother. For her mother. She couldn’t afford to think about herself right now.

This engagement to Eris, this life she was now thrust into—none of it mattered as long as she could get her mother the treatment she needed. That was the only thing that kept her from falling apart completely. Eris had promised her mother would be cared for. And even though she didn’t trust him, the way he had spoken about her mother had made her believehim, just for that one thing.

The door creaked open, snapping Y/N from her spiraling thoughts. One of the ladies entered, her voice light, but laced with an undertone of amusement.

“Will you stop staring so hard into the mirror? It might break, you know?”

Y/N blinked, startled. “Wha—when did you come back?”

The lady, Samira, gave her an almost affectionate smile. “Long enough to see you lost in thought, staring at your reflection like you’ve never seen yourself before. But no matter. We need to get you ready. You and Prince Eris are meeting the king soon.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of the king. “The king?” Her voice cracked slightly, but she quickly regained her composure.

“Yes,” Samira replied with a touch of amusement, stepping closer to help adjust her gown. “The king is... unwell. Don’t worry about him. He can barely remember his daughter's name, let alone yours.”

Y/N couldn’t help but feel a surge of anxiety at the thought of meeting the king, but Samira’s calmness was contagious. “You’ll be fine,” she continued, her hands deftly smoothing down the fabric of Y/N’s gown. “Just remember your story and don’t say anything to upset the king. He’s not likely to remember anyway. But don’t worry—all eyes will be on you.”

“Eyes?” Y/N’s stomach churned. “What’s this about ‘eyes’?”

Samira grinned knowingly as she took a step back, her gaze flickering over Y/N’s dress. “You’ll be stepping out as the engaged couple. The garden party in your honor, remember? We need to make sure everyone sees you and Prince Eris as the perfect match.”

Y/N’s lips twisted into a wry smile as she caught her reflection once more. Perfect match. The thought felt strange on her tongue. “What a joke,” she muttered to herself.

Samira gave her a look, as if sensing her discomfort. “It’s not a joke, not here. The court will be speaking about you both, and you’ll have their attention. Make them remember you. They’ll be whispering your name.”

Y/N’s chest tightened with a complicated mix of emotions, but Samira’s steady presence made her feel as though she could handle it. She could play this part, couldn’t she? For her mother.

Still, as the gown settled around her and the final touches were made, doubts and fears began to rise in her mind. Was she really doing the right thing? Was it worth all of this—this life, these lies—to ensure her mother’s safety? Could she really wear this mask, this façade, for as long as it took?

Her reflection stared back at her with a mixture of uncertainty and defiance.

And for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t sure what came next. But she had to keep moving forward. For her mother.

As Samira left the room and signaled for Y/N to follow her, Y/N found herself staring at the door, her heart filled with questions she didn’t know how to answer.

The grand staircase stretched down before her like a scene from a dream, its marble steps gleaming beneath the soft glow of golden chandeliers. Y/N hesitated at the top, her heart racing in her chest. She could feel the weight of the moment pressing on her, the unknowns that awaited her just beyond the doors below. There was a sense of finality in the air, an unspoken expectation, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she was truly ready for this.

Behind her, Samira stepped forward with a quiet grace, her hands brushing against the rich tapestries hanging along the walls. “Your grace,” Samira said, her voice low and steady, “I will escort you to the bottom.”

Y/N nodded, offering a faint smile, grateful for the quiet strength Samira exuded. There was something calming about her presence, though the fear in Y/N’s heart remained thick, unyielding.

They began their descent. The sound of Y/N’s soft footsteps echoed through the hall as they moved slowly down the grand staircase. The air grew heavier with each step, the pressure mounting. At the bottom of the stairs, Eris stood waiting for her, his tall figure framed by the archway leading into the next hall. His posture was regal, almost commanding, but there was something more in the way his eyes met hers—an understanding, perhaps, or something less defined.

His palm was raised, an unspoken invitation. “Shall we?” he said, his voice smooth, carrying the weight of both formality and something more, something that made her pause for a moment.

Y/N took a steadying breath, gathering the courage to place her hand in his. His fingers closed gently around hers, the warmth of his touch grounding her in that moment, even as the tremor of uncertainty ran through her. Samira gave a polite nod before she turned, her steps retreating as she left them alone.

The atmosphere shifted, becoming more intimate in a way that made Y/N’s stomach flip. The vastness of the room around them seemed to shrink, the silence between them stretching like a thin veil. She tried to steady her breathing as they began to walk side by side, Eris leading her down the long corridor toward the King’s Guest Chambers.

“So,” Eris started, his tone light but with a touch of something she couldn’t quite place. “I must admit, you look rather... eye-catching this evening.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a wry smile. “We’re alone, Eris,” she said, her voice dripping with an amused challenge. “You don’t have to pretend to be in love with me just yet.”

Eris’ eyes flickered to her, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he quickly recovered. His steps faltered just slightly, but only for a second. He cleared his throat, looking more uncomfortable than she expected. “Oh, I—well, you know, the guards are still around, and there are servants,” he stammered, his voice betraying him for the first time since they’d met.

Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle under her breath, shaking her head slightly. “Right. Of course.” She shot him a teasing glance, but before she could say anything else, Eris shifted the conversation, his voice dropping to a softer, more serious tone.

“Y/N…” His voice was low, almost hesitant, and it caught her attention immediately. “Your mother… she’s in good hands. I’ve made sure of it. Leone secured the best healers for her care, and I’ve ensured that additional funds were paid for the medicines required for her treatment.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, her mind momentarily breaking from the tension of the moment. “You did?” Her voice was soft, and she felt a rush of relief at the thought. “I didn’t have enough... I could never afford...”

Eris nodded, his gaze steady as he looked down at her, as if trying to reassure her. “I know. The treatments she needs are... expensive, and the herbs and potions are coming from abroad, so it may take a little time before they arrive in full, but rest assured, she is being closely monitored. That wasn’t something you could afford before, but I’ve made sure she’s under constant care.”

The words lingered in the air, and Y/N felt something shift in her chest. For the first time in what felt like ages, a weight lifted off her heart. Her mother... was truly being taken care of. In the best possible way.

Y/N let out a quiet sigh, her shoulders relaxing as she allowed herself to breathe a little easier. She hadn’t realized how much of her energy had been consumed by worry for her mother’s health. And yet, here was Eris, someone she barely knew, going out of his way to make sure that her mother had what she needed.

“Thank you,” she whispered, barely able to find the words for the overwhelming relief flooding through her. “I don’t know how to...”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Eris cut in quickly, as if he could sense her hesitance. He gave her hand a slight squeeze, his voice low but firm. ��I’m doing what’s right. You shouldn’t have had to fight for this.”

She nodded, her throat tight, grateful beyond words. The kindness in his voice—however it came about—was enough to soften her wary edges just slightly.

Before she could respond, Eris’s voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper as they walked. “Now, don’t get too comfortable. We’re nearly there.”

Y/N blinked, startled. “Wait, we—what?”

He smiled, though it was brief, his lips curving upward as he leaned in just a little closer. “We’re here.”

The words hit her before she had a chance to protest. The large, imposing doors of the King’s Guest Chambers stood ahead of them, the faint murmur of voices coming from within.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she glanced up at Eris, her stomach churning again. “Oh gods. Here we go.” Her hand trembled slightly in his, but she forced herself to stand tall. She wasn’t going to let herself falter now.

Eris seemed to sense her growing anxiety, his grip on her hand steadying. “Relax,” he whispered, the calmness in his tone almost surprising given the situation. “You’ll be fine.”

With a final glance at her, Eris gave a small nod to the guards standing at the door, and it opened with a low creak.

Y/N could feel the tension mounting within her as she stepped over the threshold, and there—standing in front of them, looking far better than she expected—was the King. His appearance was old, frail, but there was a life in his eyes that made him seem... less sick than she had imagined. He had clearly been through years of decline, but there was still a sharpness to him, something unyielding beneath the surface.

As Y/N took in the sight of him, her mind raced. She was about to meet the king—an audience that could very well change everything. And she had to make a good impression. She couldn’t mess this up.

The door behind them clicked shut, the sound echoing in the silence.

Eris gave her hand a final squeeze. “Relax,” he murmured again, before stepping forward, leading them both into the room.

The King’s chambers were dimly lit, filled with ancient tapestries and relics of a long-past era, but despite the ornate surroundings, it was clear that time had been cruel to him. His regal posture, once proud, was now bent and frail as he stood with a slight tremble in his hands. His gaze flicked between Eris and Y/N with a kind of slow curiosity, as if he were trying to piece them together.

After a moment of silence, the King’s lips quirked into a smile, albeit a crooked one. "Ah, prince Eris," he began, his voice raspy but oddly warm. "Quite the surprise, I must say. You’ve gone and gotten yourself engaged. Quite sad, though, that you didn’t pick my daughter, but—" he paused, his eyes glinting mischievously, "at least you’ve chosen someone from my lineage… apparently."

Eris’ lips curled into a smooth, controlled smile as he stood taller, his posture unchanged. "Indeed, Your Majesty," he replied, his voice steady and polished. "I believe this union will be most beneficial for all involved. As for your daughter… well, she is already well cared for in her own way."

The King nodded thoughtfully, his fingers absentmindedly tapping the armrest of his chair. "Hmm, yes, of course. Quite the match you’ve made then. How did you two even meet?" he asked, leaning forward in his seat, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he studied them both.

Y/N froze, the question unexpected and a little too pointed for her liking. She hadn’t exactly been prepared for this—this kind of scrutiny, so early on. A part of her wanted to hide behind her words, to retreat into herself, but she knew she couldn’t. This was a test, one she needed to pass.

Eris smoothly stepped in, answering the question with the same practiced ease he always seemed to have. "We met in an unexpected way," he began, keeping his tone light and engaging. "Though perhaps not quite as romantic as some would hope. There were matters of necessity involved." His smile deepened, turning charming but still impersonal. "But it was fortuitous, Your Majesty. Everything fell into place."

Y/N stood beside him, her hands clenched at her sides, unsure of how to react. She swallowed hard, her mind swirling with the absurdity of it all. It was a strange mix of relief and tension. Her heart raced as she watched the King’s expression. His gaze was fixed on them, calculating. He was still not fully convinced, and his suspicion lingered in the air like an invisible fog.

The King’s brow furrowed, and he raised his hand, gesturing idly as if lost in thought. "I see. My daughter, Leone, did speak of the family’s… history. How, supposedly, this branch of our lineage had been lost to time." He squinted at Eris, then Y/N, as though trying to unravel some hidden truth from their faces. "Tell me, how did you convince my daughter of your... authenticity? Prince Eris how are you so surely tying your family history with our seemingly unknown branch?"

Y/N’s stomach flipped, the question more unnerving than she anticipated. Her mind whirred, trying to find the right answer. What had Leone told him? What had been said to paint this story of their family’s legitimacy? She wasn’t even sure herself, having only recently learned of it. She could feel the weight of the King's gaze drilling into her, and her mind became a whirlwind of thoughts, swirling and turning.

But before she could think too much, a voice interrupted her thoughts. Eris spoke again, his voice cutting through the tension with calm precision. “Your Majesty, my family’s history is not one to be easily explained in a few words,” he said, his tone both respectful and deflective. "But, rest assured, our intentions are pure, and this union will serve both our houses well."

Y/N’s head spun as the conversation continued, the King’s voice growing quieter and more thoughtful, yet his eyes never left them. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was probing them, digging for something he was not willing to show. The deeper they went into their explanation, the more she felt like they were walking on a fine line—one misstep, and everything would come crashing down.

Then, suddenly, the King stopped mid-sentence, his eyes glazing over with an unsettling shift. His frail hand trembled as he clasped it against his chest. A quiet muttering escaped his lips, incoherent at first, like he was lost in some strange dream.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. She exchanged a brief, confused look with Eris, who had stiffened at the odd change. The King’s head jerked up, his eyes wide and unfocused, his body trembling as he began to speak louder, more erratically.

“No… no, not her… she’s... she’s—” the King stuttered, his voice rising in pitch. “She must—mustn’t get away! She must not! Mustn’t... No, not again! Not again!” His words were nonsensical, a jumble of madness, and Y/N couldn’t make sense of them.

Eris’ grip on her hand tightened instantly, a sharp jolt of awareness coursing through her. He had gone completely still, his eyes never leaving the King, who was now slapping his own face with increasing force.

“No!” the King shouted suddenly, his voice shrill. He began to hit his head with his fists, his body jerking violently as if battling invisible forces. “You’re all cursed! Cursed! All of you—all of you!” His words came faster, more frenzied, his mind unraveling before their eyes.

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat, panic rising like a wave in her chest. She wanted to step forward, to do something—but her feet were frozen in place. The sight of the King, so out of control, was more unnerving than she could have imagined. She felt like they were on the edge of something much darker, something far worse than just a simple meeting.

Eris didn’t hesitate. He jerked her hand hard, pulling her sharply to the side as his voice rang out, commanding and urgent. “Get back!” he barked at the guards, his tone cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Now!”

The guards, who had been standing by the door, immediately rushed into the room, drawn by the King’s erratic behavior. But Eris was already pulling Y/N away, guiding her quickly out of the room with forceful steps, his grip unrelenting as he pushed her ahead of him.

Y/N’s mind was reeling, her heart hammering in her chest as the world seemed to spin around her. They didn’t stop until they were far enough down the hall, far away from the madness that had erupted in the King’s chambers.

Eris’ breathing was heavy, his usual composure slipping for the first time since Y/N had met him. He didn’t let go of her hand, even as they came to a halt, his face pale, his jaw clenched.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice quieter now but still tense.

Y/N could barely catch her breath, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. She nodded slowly, unable to form any words. Her mind was still trying to catch up with the rapid sequence of events. The King… what had just happened? The madness, the erratic behavior—it was unlike anything she had ever seen.

Eris stood in front of her, his gaze searching hers, as though looking for signs of weakness, or something deeper in her reaction. "You’re safe now," he said, though his voice lacked its usual smoothness. It was strained, as if he, too, was coming to terms with the terrifying shift that had just taken place.

The silence between them stretched thick, the tension still crackling in the air.

A few minutes had passed before Y/N was able to collect herself. Her breaths had slowed, and her hands no longer trembled, but the memory of the King’s sudden outburst lingered in her mind like a dark shadow. Eris remained at her side, his usually composed demeanor returning as he led her down the hall toward the sprawling garden where the party awaited them. The weight of what had just occurred hung heavily in the air between them, neither of them speaking at first.

Finally, as they rounded a corner, Y/N broke the silence, her voice quieter than she intended. “What the hell was that back there?”

Eris glanced at her, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as though considering his words carefully. “The King is sick,” he said simply, but the weight of his words was enough to send a chill down her spine.

“What do you mean?” Y/N asked, her brow furrowing. “He looked completely… unhinged. I thought I was going to—”

“No, not like that,” Eris interjected, cutting her off with a slight shake of his head. “At first glance, you wouldn’t even know. He’s sick in ways you can’t see, not unless you’ve known him for a long time, like I have.” He sighed, his voice laced with a coldness Y/N had never heard from him before. “It’s not obvious, but it’s there. He's losing his grip on reality little by little. He’s been this way for years now. And Leone... she’s been handling more of the kingdom's affairs than most people realize. It’s why we didn’t worry too much when planning this whole thing and Leone having to cover for you. He is too ill to even remember."

Y/N absorbed his words, the reality of the King's state slowly sinking in. But there was something else lingering in the air, something Y/N couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Eris continued, his voice taking on a more neutral tone. “Leone is already in charge of many of the kingdom’s matters. She’s practically running everything. Soon enough, she’ll take her father’s place as queen. It’s only a matter of time now.”

Y/N gave him a sideways glance, her mind still reeling from the oddity of the King’s behavior. She didn’t know if she could ever get used to the sharp realities of this world—the political games, the whispered power plays, and the looming threats of madness hidden beneath the surface.

As they approached the gardens, the sound of laughter and the hum of conversation reached them, signaling the start of the party. The scene before them was nothing short of breathtaking.

The Montesere gardens sprawled out before them like something out of a dream. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and citrus blossoms, their vibrant colors spilling over from decorative stone planters. Lush greenery formed pathways that led through ornate arches adorned with ivy and fragrant vines, while stone fountains gurgled softly in the background. The party was set on large, elegant terracotta terraces, draped with silk curtains that swayed lazily in the warm evening breeze. The atmosphere was rich with the charm of history, yet alive with modern elegance.

Y/N felt a sudden wave of nerves as the eyes of the guests turned toward them. Her breath caught in her throat as their gazes swept over her, appraising, judging, as if trying to find her place in this strange, new world. The weight of their attention felt suffocating, as though she were caught in the middle of a stage play where everyone knew their part, but she had forgotten hers.

Eris, ever the master of composure, smiled—though Y/N could tell it was a practiced one, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stepped closer to her, his hand sliding possessively around her waist, pulling her closer to him. His touch was firm, almost protective.

"Just follow my lead, Princess," he whispered into her ear, his voice smooth, low, and deceptively calm. "I’ve got this."

Y/N nodded, swallowing her uncertainty, and let him guide her further into the garden, feeling the eyes of the nobles and foreign dignitaries watching every movement she made. As they reached the center of the party, the music quieted, and a hush fell over the crowd.

Leone stood at the podium, a vision of poise and elegance, her posture straight and regal, her gaze scanning the gathered guests. As she began her speech, Y/N felt the weight of her words settle into her bones.

"I’m pleased to welcome you all to this celebration,” Leone began, her voice clear and commanding. “As some of you may know, it is with great joy that we announce the engagement of my dear distant cousin, Amira Yasmin Idrissi, to prince Eris Vanserra of the Autumn Court. A union between two families, bound by blood and destiny, that will surely bring prosperity to us all.”

Y/N felt her stomach twist at the mention of her fake name, Amira Yasmin Idrissi—the name she’d had to adopt for this game of royal politics. A name that didn’t belong to her, but which she had to wear like a mask, like a second skin. She could feel every eye in the crowd on her, and yet, she forced herself to stand taller, to lift her chin, to wear the mask of a princess even if it felt suffocating.

Leone continued, her speech a mixture of formal pleasantries and diplomatic niceties. As she spoke of Y/N, her words were laced with calculated compliments, but Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that Leone was using this moment to secure her own position, to strengthen her image as the future queen.

As Leone spoke of her new relative’s “bright future,” Y/N found herself caught in a battle with her own mind, the voice inside her head questioning everything. She was supposed to be this poised, composed female who could command the room with grace. And yet, the tension in her shoulders and the knot in her stomach made her feel more like an imposter than ever.

But Eris was by her side, as always. His presence was a silent anchor, his hand at her waist steady and unyielding. His grip tightened briefly, and beneath the table, his fingers brushed hers. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible, but it was enough.

A sense of calm—unexpected, almost unnatural—washed over her in that moment. He was there. He was with her. And though their situation was built on lies, there was something strangely comforting about the idea of having him at her side.

The speech went on, and Y/N kept her face carefully neutral, responding with polite nods when necessary, offering nothing more than smiles. But every now and then, she felt his hand beneath the table, his fingers warm against hers, offering her reassurance in the only way he could.

As the evening progressed, the conversations grew louder, and the guests more animated, and Y/N soon found herself surrounded by a small cluster of nobles—officials from the Autumn Court, with their sharp tongues and inflated egos. The conversations were laced with subtle insults, veiled under layers of politeness.

One of the males—Lord Varin, if she recalled correctly—smiled condescendingly at her. “It must be such a relief to finally find someone of your caliber to marry,” he said, his tone dripping with mock sweetness. “One might say your beauty might be a tad... beneath expectations for such a prestigious family, but I suppose it’s all about making the right connections.”

Y/N clenched her jaw, her hand itching to lash out, but before she could speak, Eris intervened, his voice smooth but sharp.

“Lord Varin, I’m sure your expectations are as distorted as your sense of charm,” Eris said, his words laced with venom. “But, my dear fiancé, has qualities that are far more important than mere appearances. Though, I understand your sudden outburst, considering how such beauty hasn't been found in the Autumn Court in what?...ever. I’d suggest you focus on your own rather than judge hers.”

The sharp retort left Y/N momentarily stunned. Eris had defended her—no hesitation, no flinch. And it wasn’t just an act, she could feel it in his voice, in the protective way he spoke about her.

The evening continued, but as the night wore on, the distance between Y/N and Eris grew. She was soon pulled away by one guest after another, her composure tested with every conversation. She had to smile, nod, and maintain her position, even as the weight of the lies and the unfamiliarity of the situation wore on her.

Finally, just before the evening’s end, Eris stepped forward again, addressing the crowd with that same polished smile, the one that made him seem untouchable.

“My beautiful Amira,” he began, his voice heavy with affection, “we met by chance, but it was fate that made her mine. From the moment I saw her, I knew I had to make her my wife. Tomorrow, we shall be married, and I will call her my beautiful wife from that day forward.”

Y/N froze. Her heart slammed into her chest, her breath catching in her throat. Tomorrow? She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. This wasn’t part of the plan. Tomorrow? Her entire life had been spent in Montesere, surrounded by familiar faces, but now... now she was being torn away, being pushed into a future she hadn’t anticipated.

As the applause echoed around her, Y/N felt the reality of her situation hit her like a cold wave.

And then, as Eris finished his speech, Y/N slipped away into the garden, her thoughts racing. Samira and Nouria were by her side in an instant, following her as she made her way out of the crowd.

“What the hell is going on?” Y/N muttered, her voice a mixture of disbelief and panic. “Tomorrow? He can’t mean it.”

Nouria, always the calm one, glanced at Samira before speaking, her voice quiet but resolute. “You do have to return to the Autumn Court, Amira. The marriage was always part of the plan. It was just a matter of time.”

Y/N stopped in her tracks, the realization hitting her like a bolt of lightning. “I... I have to go back. To the Autumn Court.”

Her voice trembled, a flood of emotions rising in her chest. Her life had been here in Montesere. She had spent years in this land, and now... now she was being pulled away. She hadn’t signed up for this—hadn’t signed up for him. But as she stood there, surrounded by her two closest allies, she knew one thing for certain.

This was just the beginning.

The room smelled of roses, lavender, and something sweet—perhaps a hint of cinnamon—and yet, it was overwhelming. The scent lingered in her senses, filling every breath she took as Nouria and Samira worked around her. They moved with an elegant efficiency, their hands delicate yet firm, as if they had done this a thousand times before.

Y/N sat in front of the grand mirror, staring at her reflection, yet unable to fully focus on it. She barely recognized the face staring back at her—the woman who had to wear a mask today, for a life she never truly chose. Her gown was white, an intricate weave of silks and delicate lace that shimmered under the soft light of the room. It was magnificent—regal, even—but it wasn’t her. It was a costume, a dress to make her fit into a role she wasn’t sure she could ever fully inhabit.

Nouria expertly arranged the cascading waves of Y/N’s hair, twisting them into an elegant updo, while Samira applied makeup with deft precision. They had worked in perfect synchrony, their touches gentle but firm.

Y/N could feel the weight of the occasion pressing against her chest. Her heart was a tangled mess of emotions—fear, anger, confusion. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, trying to calm herself. But now, with the gown hugging her body, with her hair done and her makeup perfect, she realized that all of her preparations were nothing more than a way to shield herself from what was truly happening.

"I won’t go through with this," she whispered under her breath, her voice barely audible.

"You will," Samira said, her tone unwavering.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the edge of the chair. She wanted to argue, to scream, to throw it all away and run. She wanted to be free—to live a life not defined by the cruel fate handed to her. She thought of the Night Court, of Azriel. He’s so close. He’s within reach now, she thought bitterly. What if he somehow finds out?

Her chest tightened at the thought, but she shut it down immediately. No. I can’t. I won’t let him know.

He must never know.

She could never let Azriel discover that they were siblings. The bond they shared—the one that whispered between them even across vast distances—terrified her. She was about to walk into the Autumn Court, to be bound to a life that kept her near him but also kept her away. She was closer to him than she had ever been before, and that knowledge gnawed at her every waking moment.

Her heart ached for what could have been—for a life she could never have. She had to keep the truth buried, buried deep inside her.

As Nouria tied the final strand of her hair into place, Y/N swallowed hard, staring at her reflection. She didn’t recognize the woman staring back at her. This isn’t me, she thought. I am not Amira Yasmin Idrissi. I’m not some foreign princess. I am no one, and I will remain that way.

Her gaze drifted to the door. It was time. The day had arrived. She was going to the Autumn Court. Could he ever feel me? Could he ever sense me?

No. I will make sure of it. I will keep my distance, no matter how close I am. Azriel can never know.

A knock at the door startled her from her thoughts. It was followed by the soft, reassuring voice of Nouria, “Amira, it’s time.”

Y/N looked at her reflection one last time. The woman who stared back at her had eyes full of quiet defiance, but also a deep, hollow sadness that she couldn’t erase. With a deep, shaky breath, she nodded. This is for my mother. For security. For the future. She repeated the words in her mind like a mantra.

And then, she stood. The gown fluttered around her feet, its heavy fabric trailing as she took her first step toward the door. No more hesitation. No more fear. She was not Y/N. She was Amira Yasmin Idrissi, the female who had sacrificed everything for the sake of her mother’s memory. And that was enough.

Eris stood before the mirror, dressed in his formal wedding attire, the rich fabric of his tunic dark against his skin. His reflection was flawless—sharp features, tousled hair, and the same intense golden eyes that seemed to always reflect his turbulent emotions. But today, something was missing. Something he couldn’t quite place.

He watched as his servants finished fastening the final pieces of his ceremonial armor, each movement executed with precision.

As he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, the air around him shimmered, and without warning, four envelopes appeared before him, each one glowing faintly with magic. His eyes narrowed. Letters. At this hour?

The envelopes spun in the air for a moment, suspended before him. They were each stamped with the insignia of different courts.

The first was Summer, its wax seal an intricate sunburst that gleamed brightly even in the dim light of his chambers. The second was Winter, its icy blue seal contrasting sharply with the warmth of the room. The third was his father’s seal—Autumn—bold and unmistakable, and the last... Night Court.

He sighed, irritated, and plucked the letter from the Autumn Court first, knowing full well it would be from his father. The harsh scent of pine and smoke seemed to rise from the paper as his eyes scanned the contents.

Eris,

I trust you’ve kept to your word and made the right choice. The news of your engagement has already been sent to all of the High Lords. They are eager to see the new alliance solidified. As for your bride—this “unknown relative” of princess Leone's—while Montesere is a fine match for our interests, I’ll reserve judgment until I meet her myself. I expect you to return home soon so we can discuss this further.

I’ve already sent the messengers. Everyone knows.

His fingers clenched around the parchment. His father’s words were as cold as ever, filled with subtle judgment and that ever-present air of control. Of course, Beron had already told everyone. He always had to be the one to make the announcement. Always had to ensure his name was on everyone’s lips. Eris scowled, tossing the letter aside.

His hands reached for the next letter—the one from Rhysand, the High Lord of the Night Court.

Eris,

I’ve heard the news of your engagement to a foreign princess from Montesere. Didn’t quite see you as the type to fall for a female from there, but my congratulations. When you return, I’d like to meet the new bride at some point. A few questions I’d like to ask. Be careful though, I've seen that marriages in politics don’t always go as planned. But, of course, I’m sure you know that.

Eris slammed the letter against the desk in frustration. Rhysand. That smug bastard. He couldn’t even wait until the damn wedding was over to make his move. The letter dripped with condescension, as though Rhysand somehow thought he had control over the situation. His congratulations. As if this were a casual affair.

Eris’ jaw tightened. He hated Rhysand with every fiber of his being, and now this?

The last thing he needed today was to deal with that arrogant bastard.

Finally, Eris turned his attention to the remaining letters—the ones from Summer and Winter. But his mind was elsewhere, caught in a storm of thoughts about the marriage, about the bride he was about to meet at the altar, and about everything he had to do to secure his future. He didn’t care about the High Lords or their games. All of this... all of it... was a necessary step in his plan.

With a grim expression, he stood and moved toward the door. He had his role to play, his duty to fulfill. He would do what needed to be done.

The heavy oak doors swung open.

Eris barely noticed the murmurs from the gathered guests, the low hum of anticipation that filled the grand hall. His eyes were fixed entirely on her. On her.

The moment she stepped into view, everything else in the world seemed to fade away. Y/N, in her wedding gown, moved with the fluidity of a dream, her long, dark veil trailing like a shadow behind her. The gown itself shimmered as it caught the light, delicate lace and crystals woven into a masterpiece that made the very air seem to hold its breath.

Her footsteps were slow, measured—each one deliberate, graceful, as if she were moving through time itself. She wasn’t walking toward him, not yet. She was walking toward something much bigger, something far beyond their fleeting connection. But, in this moment, Eris could feel the pull, as if the universe itself had shifted, and there was no longer a choice but to follow.

Her beauty was unlike anything he’d ever seen. It was the kind of beauty that left one gasping for air, unable to look away, as though to do so would be to break the delicate spell she cast with every step. The curve of her waist, the soft fall of her hair—her features perfectly sculpted, but not in a way that seemed artificial. No. She was untouchable. She was ethereal.

Her eyes were downcast at first, lips pressed together in a serene but unreadable expression. But as she drew closer, as the tension in the room thickened with every step she took toward him, something shifted in her gaze. She glanced up, meeting his eyes for the briefest moment. And then, she looked away, as if even her gaze upon him was something too fragile to withstand.

Eris' heart stuttered. This was it.

Her gown fluttered against the cool stone floors as she took another step. The distance between them felt impossibly vast, even as she was mere feet away. His pulse quickened. She can’t marry me. He could hardly comprehend what was happening. She couldn’t possibly belong to him. She couldn’t belong to anyone. She had too much fire, too much life within her to be chained to something as empty as this marriage. But then again, what choice did they have?

The moment stretched on, as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable to unfold.

Every step felt like it was being measured by the gods themselves. The air in the hall was heavy, suffocating even, and Y/N could feel her pulse thundering in her chest, the rhythm of it too loud in her ears. Her gown, so beautiful and pristine, seemed to drag behind her, the soft lace brushing the floor with every delicate movement.

This is it. This is the moment.

Her veil—fragile, soft, like a barrier between her and the reality she was stepping into—gently swayed with each step. The weight of it settled on her shoulders, pulling her down, reminding her that this was the life she had chosen. Or rather, the life that had been chosen for her.

She had never imagined a wedding like this. She had never imagined him. She had never imagined herself here, standing in front of a sea of unfamiliar faces, moving toward a stranger she barely knew.

Her heart ached with a dull, unspoken grief. Her family, her home, her past… everything was slipping through her fingers, and now, it was just her—the princess.

Her eyes, for a moment, flickered toward the man standing at the altar.

Eris.

Her breath caught in her throat as she saw him for the first time since the ceremony began. His face was expressionless, his posture perfect. But his eyes… Gods, those eyes.

He was watching her with an intensity that nearly made her falter. The way he looked at her made her feel both seen and desired at the same time.

Focus, Y/N. You are here for the safety. For your mother. For the future. She repeated the words to herself like a mantra. You cannot falter now.

She could feel the pull of his gaze—unwavering, unwavering—and it was enough to bring everything else to a standstill. And yet, the closer she got, the more the heaviness in her chest seemed to grow. Every step toward him felt like a step away from herself.

The world seemed to grow quieter, more distant, until all she could hear was the pounding of her own heartbeat. This is it. The last step. The last time.

Her hand was cool when it settled into his, a perfect contrast to the warmth of his own. He could feel the slight tremble in her fingers, the subtle way she pulled her hand back, almost as if she were already stepping away. It didn’t go unnoticed, and something deep within him twisted at the thought.

The priest—someone Y/N had likely known her entire life, someone she trusted—stepped forward, his voice reverberating across the hall. “We are gathered here today in the sight of the gods, to unite Princess Amira Yasmin Idrissi of Montesere and Lord Eris Vanserra of Autumn. Let us now speak your vows.”

Y/N’s voice was soft but steady as she began, her eyes never leaving the floor. “I, Amira Yasmin Idrissi, promise to be your partner in all things. To share in the joys and the sorrows. To remain steadfast, even when the winds of fate blow hardest against us. I vow to protect what we have, even when the world itself conspires against us.”

Her words hung in the air, suspended between them, heavy with meaning. Eris couldn’t help but notice the way she didn’t speak from the heart. It wasn’t a vow born of love or even genuine affection—it was a vow of duty, of obligation. She had made her choice.

Her voice faltered, and in that instant, something inside of him broke. He squeezed her hand, a small gesture, but one that said more than a thousand words ever could.

Y/N’s eyes snapped to his, and he could see the hesitation there—the uncertainty.

She had no more fight left in her.

The words left her lips before she could even truly understand them. They felt hollow, like echoes from a distant world. She was giving herself away. Her final remnants of freedom, of hope. The last fragments of the female she had once been.

But the moment Eris squeezed her hand, something changed. A warmth, unexpected, bloomed in her chest. A connection she hadn’t known was there.

His gaze, so fierce, so unwavering, held hers. And for the first time since she had stepped into this hall, she no longer felt alone.

She felt his thumb brush lightly across her hand, a quiet acknowledgment. And for the briefest moment, she didn’t feel the weight of the gown, the veil, the responsibilities pressing down on her.

In that moment, the world around them faded away. All that existed was her and him.

But suddenly, the priest’s voice echoed in the room once more, “Now, you may kiss the bride.”

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Taglist: @batboyslutt @k-godling @littowl @jaybbygrl @kissesfromnovalie @talesofadragon @tele86

#acotar #eris #eris vanserra #eris x reader #eris x you #acotar imagine #acotar x reader #eris imagine #eris acotar #azriel acotar

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thewritetofreespeech · 1 year ago

Text

BG3 - Taking care of sick Reader

prompt: I'm sick. so I wrote this up to help me feel better.

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‘Your head throbs in tandem with your own heartbeat. Pain coursing through your body with every stifled breath you take, as your tight chest struggles to fill with air. It had been a long time since you were sick. You nearly forgot how uncomfortable it was. Without the tadpoles protective qualities shield you anymore, this new wave hit you like a stone wall. You almost wished to have it squirming mass back in your brain just to be over this. Luckily, you were not alone at least.’

Astarion

“There there darling, allow me.” He handed you a small cup of water. Letting you sip from it for a bit before he put it back, and you fall back against the bed. “You still look awful.”

You glare at him; or at much as you could with this pain behind your eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t mean it that way. I just mean…you must still be feeling bad and that is unfortunately for you.”

He sat on the edge of your bed, just looking at you. You can see a bit of concern on his handsome face. You wonder if he’s worried about you or what to do. “I’ve never had to take care of anyone who was sick before. I don’t know what to do.” So, it was the former. “Vampires can’t get sick. So I’ve spent the last few centuries in perfect health, minus a few injuries here & there.” He told you. “Should I…get you a new blanket? Prop your head up? Make soup? I’ve never actually made soup before either, but I’m sure I could be up to the challenge.”

You reach out and take his hand in yours. The cool feel of his skin a welcome reprieve against your warm, clammy one. - Just stay with me.

Astarion smiled. “I can do that.” He curled around to lay in the bed beside you. With no fear of sickness, he had no reason to stay away from you until this past. Your body letting out a sigh as his coolness enveloped you. Feeling some of your heat sap out, even over the covers. “You know, maybe I have a knack for this healing thing.” You let him think that, and curl into Astarion’s body to rest and try to regain your strength back. Sleep is easier this time. Hopefully you’ll be better soon enough.

Ascended!Astarion

Coughing and sputtering, you try to sit up as to not choke on your own spittle. An undignified end for a hero. To vanquish so many enemies and an Elder Brain, only to die by asphyxiating on their own sick.

“Still not feeling well, my treasure?” You look up to see Astarion standing in the doorway. His face neutral as ever, but with just the slightest hint of disdain only you can pick up on at the corner of his mouth. Maybe it’s the smell. Or perhaps because now you are so weak. “I bet you wish you had taken me up on my offer now, hm? This wouldn’t be happening to you if you had just listened to me.”

You watch him as he sauntered over to the side of your bed. Annoyed by his comments. You knew deep down Astarion was still hurt that you turned him down on becoming his spawn. He said such cruel things to you in the moment. Even with all that power, still the boy who lashed out at other. But even with everything he said, he’d never left you. Or more to the point you hadn’t left him, as this was his palace, but he hadn’t pushed you out. Comments and jabs here & there said out of latent anger, but always some excuse quickly on why you couldn’t leave just yet.

“Nothing can be done about it now though. I wouldn’t dream of biting you in this state. Agh…” You felt the shutter was uncalled for. You felt bad enough psychically already. Did you really need to be degraded too? “In any case, I’ve had the servants go and fetch you somethings to aid in your recovery. I wouldn’t know the first thing about mortal illnesses after all but they seem to know the trick.”

– Say nothing to him

Bending down at the waist, Astarion pressed his lips to your forehead. The cool touch soothing to your feverous brow. “Ugh. Salty. I’ll be much happier when you’re back to normal, pet. Anyway, must dash. If you need or want anything, please let the servants know. I’ve instructed them to tend to your every need, and expect no slip ups. I look forward to having a new conversation when you’re…better, my treasure.”

You knew, even as he left, what the conversation was going to be about. Another offer to turn you again. You had only turned him down before because you thought you’d have more time to decide. It was literally a life-changing decision. But, laying here, sick and weak as a kitten, you were beginning to wonder if the change might not be a welcome one, as you fall back asleep.

Gale

“Alright love. Here we are.”

You open your eyes and sit up. A little as a tray was sat across your lap. Bread, fruit slices, a bowl of something steaming, and…a flower, all adorn the tray in front of you, and you arch a brow at Gale. “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to feed you any strange potions or what not. Despite all my magic and study, there seems no cure for the common cold. No, no, this is just good old kitchen ‘magic’. A Dekarios family recipe past down for generations.”

You examine the bowl, but your mind is too clouded to make out anything other than the odd potato here and there. You trust Gale though and take your first bite. It is delicious.

“I’m glad you like it.” Gale told you with a smile. “I must admit, I feel a bit conceded in this moment in being able to help you. I wish I could say it was pure altruism, or concern for your health, but it’s not.”

- What do you mean?

“Well, I’ve never had someone to take care of before.” He told you. “Mystra never needed anything of me but my loyalty. And…my body from time to time. You need me for things though. Not as often as I would like sometimes. Your independence is a marvel still. But for now, I get to help you. Help you on the road to recovery. I hope it is a speedy one but I have to say,” he reached out and took your hand in his own, “I don’t mind taking care of you.”

You suppose his underlying message was sweet, and you weakly squeeze his hand back.

“I’ll leave you to eat and rest then. Should you need anything, anything at all, just ring this bell and I’ll come to help.” A bright, crystal bell appeared in Gale’s hand, which he presented to you before putting it on your tray. “Be well darling.” He gave you a quick kiss before he saw himself out. Checking on you regularly, with or without the bell, to make sure you didn’t need anything.

Wyll

“Still feeling under the weather then?” You look up to see Wyll entering the room. A bowl of something in his hand. “Come on. Sit up. You need to eat this.”

- Continue to lay down.

“Come on…don’t be like that.” Wyll moved to help you up with his free hand. As delicate and gentle as a badger as he hoisted you up. “Here. This will help you well better.”

You examine the bowl, but your mind is too clouded to make out anything other than the odd potato here and there. It smelled of spices though. Rich and full, as well as a red color to it. To humor Wyll, you take a bite.

- It’s spicy!

“Of course it is. That’s how you know it helps. Tri-pepper soup. My grandmother used to make it for me when I was sick as a boy.” You stop gulping the water by your bed and look at Wyll. “Since my mother was gone, she took care of me often when my father was away. The duties of his work, then Flaming Fist, and then again Grand Duke kept him away a lot. So, she stepped in to take care of me. Until she got older, I had to take care of her. ‘til the end.”

You lower your spoon and just watch Wyll. The loss etched on his face like his scars. For someone usually so good natured, you forget how much he had lost in his life.

“But! Her recipes live on. Now, eat your soup to help sweat out the sickness. And you’ll be right as rain tomorrow. I guarantee it.”

You feel a little manipulated into eating the spicy dish. How could you say no to such a fine, dead woman’s recipe? It takes a lot of will, but you eventually gulp it all down. Wyll seemed pleased. He then took your bowl and left you to rest. Your stomach churning with the spicy soup now bubbling in it. Unable to fall back asleep with the torrent raging in your gut.

Shadowheart

A cool towel pressed against your forehead like a soft caress. Gentle and serene.

“I wish there was more I could do for you.” Shadowhearts voice called out behind the dark of your eyes. “My magic is only for curing wounds and battle ailments. Sicknesses well…being a source of comfort was not something that was taught to me.”

You want to tell Shadowheart that she was doing a fine job. But your mouth was dry, and your tongue felt like it was made of iron it was so heavy in your mouth.

“I can’t recall a time I was sick like this in the past. But I do remember once I was poisoned. Part of my training. Warriors of Shar must be immune to all poisons, least we fail our mistress in such an unseemly way. Anyway, it was horrible. I would writhe in pain for hours while I waited for the poisons to pass. Nocturne would come in now & then, with Mother Superior was busy, and dab my head like this. It helped. I hope it helps you all the same.”

- Turn towards Shadowheart and tell her thank you.

“You don’t need to thank me.” Shadowheart replied with a sweet smile. “After everything you’ve done for me. This is the least I can do.”

Shadowheart took the cloth away and stood from the bed. “I’ll let you rest now. I can…find some herbs and salts to maybe help with the pain. Again, this is not my forte. Eliminating pain. But…I can try.”

She rushed out of the room. Set on her task as you continued to lay in bed. Slowly drifting off to sleep for now, now that your skin was not so hot and your mind a little clearer.

Lae'zel

“What are you still doing in bed?” You turn to look at Lae'zel in your doorway. Her frame stoic and strong as ever. “There is much to be done today. We must make hast.”

- I can’t Lae'zel. I’m sick.

“tas'ki! Absurd. You’re much stronger than some istik disease. Get up and get moving. Your body will not heal if you continue to wallow in this manner.”

You try to sit up as Lae'zel commanded, but your head swims the second you get upright. Lae'zel sucked on her teeth. “Nevermind. Clearly you are in no condition to be out of bed today. I am unaccustomed to this, as no true Githyanki would dream of falling ill and be a burden on their crèche. Perhaps rest is what is needed.”

Before you can tell her thank you, Lae'zel went over to the window and opened it. Letting the cool, fresh air in. “But you must leave this window open to purge the sickness out. Wallowing is one thing, but to marinate in such sick? Disgusting.” You glare at her a little. Not appreciating that she was implying that this was all your plan.

“I will leave you to your rest and check on your progress later. I trust your recovery will be swift.” Lae'zel stepped closer to the bed. Still far enough away, but closer than she was. “Get well soon. It pains me to see a warrior like you weakened this way. And someone I am fond of. It crushes my heart. I do not like it.”

Your face turns into one of surprise at Lae'zel’s back as she left the room. Closing the room behind her. You had not expected that from Lae'zel. To show open concern. The room was much colder now, but the crisp air was a welcome expanse in your lungs. You would need to get up to close them later, but perhaps that was Lae'zel’s plan all along.

Karlach

“Hey there soldier. Feeling any better?” You lull your head to the side to stare at Karlach. “Oof. That good eh? Sorry ‘bout that.”

She pulled up a chair by your bed and sat down. Face still in that almost perpetual smile of hers. Optimistic as ever, although a bit more tepid than usual. “But hey, you’ll be fine though. You’re tough! I’d check if you had a fever or something but…you know.” Karlach held up her hand. Still fiery and hot from her infernal engine, even if she was gifted to touch. “I wouldn’t be the best judge on who runs hot.”

The two of you sat there for a bit in quite. But quite was never long with Karlach. “So how do you think you got sick? Too long out in that swamp marsh? Going to sleep with wet hair again? Like, when I get stabbed, I know exactly where it came from. Do you know when you got bit by the sickness bug?”

- I don’t know Karlach. Please let me rest.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I tend to talk a lot when I’m nervous. Guess that doesn’t help. I’m just worried…you know…that this might not be something I can help you fight. Monster, demi-gods, ghouls, I can fight that all day! But this…you have to do it on your own. And I hate sitting by the side lines.”

Karlach stood. Leaning in to give you a brief, warm peck on your cheek. “I’ll let you get some sleep then. But let me know if you want some company. I’m really good at that part.”

The tiefling then left, and the room suddenly felt emptier without her presence. Like a void had just sucked up all the energy without Karlach in it. Still, you fell asleep. Trying to think of interesting dreams that you might share with Karlach when you wake up. You were sure she would enjoy that.

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vashtijoy · 2 years ago

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inaccessible scenes: after the engine room

Many sequences in P5R are not deleted exactly—they're inaccessible. They're in game, theoretically, but game mechanics make it impossible for you ever to see them.

For instance, there are a bunch of TV shows that exist, that are presumably in game, but you can't ever get to the TV to watch them—usually because Morgana makes it impossible for you to go downstairs.

A couple of these scenes happen around the end of Shido's Palace, around the Akechi fight. Once you go into the engine room, you cannot leave until you defeat Akechi. You can't use a Goho-M, you can't take the route out. You are well and truly stuck.

Plus, once you have defeated him, the game funnels you to the Treasure, and any attempt to (say) go to a safe room will again be cockblocked by Morgana.

This means that the last two safe room meetings in Shido's Palace are never accessible. And one of them is important. Let's have a look.

We all know about the meetings—you go to the table in the safe room, you talk to the team, you ask how your progress is. They say some shit. It's usually worth a regular check-in:

The first inaccessible script appears to be triggered by entering the engine room. You get it after going in, but before fighting the Cleaner—so presumably after fighting his mooks, while you chase him about:

Morgana: We found the engine room, so all we need to do now is get our hands on the letter of introduction. Haru: It would be nice if we could avoid a fight in the process... Yusuke: Hm, given his attitude up to this point, that is highly unlikely...

The second one appears to kick in after the Akechi fight. After Akechi has given his life to save you:

Yusuke: Goro Akechi... I believe he may have been the greatest casualty of Shido's actions... Makoto: Was there no other way? Ann: We'll avenge him when we take Shido down. Come on, we have the letters now—let's do this!

"the greatest casualty of Shido's actions", huh? And it's inaccessible, of course. Leaving the engine room will warp you to the locked treasure room door. If you run to a safe room, Morgana won't let you go in. If you try afterwards, you've been updated to the "we need to send the calling card" script. You never see this.

But I'd bet money it's there. Just out of reach. Just another instance of the PTs understanding Akechi, and mourning him, rather than (say) hating him and being glad he's gone.

one more thing

Most people probably know that you can lurk mournfully by the shutters in the engine room. Nonetheless, here it is:

#persona 5 #p5 meta #deleted scenes #goro akechi #the squad

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normatural · 7 months ago

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Echoes of Souls | A.T

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

Summary: In the old, abandoned castle, she found a love letter addressed to her, written by someone who died a century ago.

Word Count: 1.121

A/N: Feedback is always welcome. English isn't my first language so excuse any mistakes but feel free to point them out to help me improve.

Chapter 1: Echoes of a Forgotten Past

The old castle stood quiet and forgotten on the outskirts of King’s Landing, its once-glorious exterior now a ghostly relic of the past. Long vines of ivy climbed its weathered walls, making it appear almost as if nature had attempted to reclaim the abandoned structure. Shutters banged against cracked windows, held only by rusty, old hinges, while the wind whistled mournfully through the broken panes. Even the birds seemed to shun the place, their songs the only absence in an otherwise haunted landscape.

It was this eerie, magnetic pull that had drawn you here—a sense of familiarity combined with an insatiable curiosity for between all the projects the company allowed you to choose, this was the one that stood out for you. As you walked through the creaky front doors into the sprawling foyer, you were struck by the imposing architecture, which still held a sliver of its former grandeur. Your footsteps echoed softly against the hardwood floor as you moved through the house, your fingers lightly grazing the banister of the grand staircase.

A sense of déjà vu washed over you. You paused, trying to pinpoint the origin of this haunting familiarity. Why did every corridor, every room, seem like it held a secret, a memory just out of reach? It was as if you had been here before in another life, another time. But that was impossible—or was it?

As night fell, the castle’s eerie charm only deepened. You made your way back to the trailer with the delivery you had ordered. The moonlight casts silver shadows through the window. Exhaustion soon claimed you after dinner, and you drifted into a deep, dream-filled sleep.

In your dream, the world was different—brighter, more vibrant. Standing on the verdant grounds of the palace, it was no longer an abandoned relic. It was alive, bustling with people, laughter, and the roar of dragons. The skies above were filled with the majestic creatures, their wings casting shadows on the cobblestone pathways below.

You looked down at yourself, your attire reflecting a time long past. Rich fabrics and intricate embroidery adorned your gown, and your hair seemed to be styled in the fashion of nobility. Heart swelled with emotions you couldn’t explain as you walked through the manicured gardens of the castle, the very same one that looked like a dried jungle just moments ago. Everything feels uncannily familiar.

Suddenly, you felt a pang in your heart. A strange vibration in your chest. And then saw him. Your breath caught as you took in the sight of him. His tall, statuesque form was cloaked in regal hues, the fabric of his attire moving subtly with each of his graceful movements. He reached out to touch a blossom, his long fingers brushing the petals with unexpected tenderness, and in that moment, you felt as though she was witnessing a secret part of his soul.

His face, chiseled and strong, held a serene intensity. The angles of his jaw and the line of his nose were softened by the play of light and shadow, creating a portrait that was both striking and ethereal. But it was his eyes that truly made you hold your breath. Piercing violet, it seemed to see right through the world and into the very essence of things. When his gaze shifted and met yours, you felt an electric thrill course through your veins, as if his eyes held the power to unravel your very being.

Slowly, a rare, faint smile touched his lips, transforming his face with a warmth that contrasted beautifully with his otherwise austere demeanor. The sight of that smile, so fleeting yet so profound, made your heart ache with an inexplicable longing.

Something inside you is alarming that the man standing a few meters from you is the very same from the letter whose words haven’t left your mind. Aemond Targaryen.

His silver hair glinted in the sunlight, and his piercing violet eye, filled with a depth of emotion you instantly recognized, locked onto you. He approached with a look of tender resolve, his footsteps confident and deliberate.

“Vaela,” he called you, a name from your past life that felt both foreign and intimate. Familiar. “I was waiting for you. Walk with me.”

You nodded, heart fluttering with a mixture of excitement and calm, and took his offered arm. Something inside you told you to stop staring but how could you avert your eyes from his figure when it was making your heart beat so fast? You strolled through the garden, the scent of blooming roses enveloping you, the sound of dragon wings beating in sync with your heartbeat.

“I have something important to ask you,” Aemond began, his voice steady yet soft. He led you to a secluded alcove where the garden’s flowers seemed to bloom more brightly. He turned to face you, taking both your hands in his. “I have loved you from the moment we met. In you, I found my heart’s true desire, a soul that mirrors my own. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Tears welled up in your eyes, the emotions flooding through you from both the past and present. Why was your heart-warming so abruptly at his words? Why did they sound so familiar? How the answer seemed to wish to jump out of your lips so quickly. Aemond was strange after all. Perhaps something is created just in your mind. But it couldn’t be, could it?

“Yes, Aemond,” you whispered, your voice trembling with joy. “I will.”

His smile, rare and sincere, was a sight that imprinted itself deeply into your memory. Wishing you could see it again. He lifted one of your hands to his lips, your knuckles being touched so softly and yet intimately by them as his violet eye seemed to stare deep into yours.

You awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream lingering in your mind like the last notes of a haunting melody. You could still smell the scent of the flowers. Feel the touch of his lips on your skin. You realized in that moment that your journey here was no accident. The castle, the dreams, Aemond—they were pieces of a puzzle you were destined to uncover. Meant to find.

Clutching the blanket tighter around you, you knew the first light of day would bring with it a new resolve. You would unravel the past, discover the hidden secrets of this place, and understand why destiny had led you here. There ought to be answers somewhere in those walls. It was not just an abandoned relic; it was a bridge to your past, a testament to a love that had defied time itself.

taglist: @donut-seam @strangersunghoon @teasweeter @darktrashsoulbear

#aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen oneshot

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tessellated-sunl1ght · 11 months ago

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A bit random but this a Fallen London map appreciation post because this piece of art is utterly enchanting. While I’m playing and need to switch locations, half the time I spend a few minutes just staring in wonder. The way everything slots together is amazing, all the details are amazing. The frickin windows of the Royal Beth have their curtains in different positions. All the boards on the windows of the Shuttered Palace are placed differently. The walkways and staircases to the Flit are so well done. Crates are scattered around Wolfstack Docks. Roofs and walls have little imperfections. Some buildings are more dilapidated than others. Every doorway, window, tree, mushroom, awning, stalagmite… I cannot imagine how long this took.

Idk, I was just thinking about this and wanted to get my thoughts out somewhere. I’m sure something like this has been said before but I don’t care. Thank You Fallen London for having a gorgeous cityscape.

#fallen london #rambles #LOOK AT IT ITS SO BEAUTIFUL

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juliusceasersblog · 9 months ago

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Mea-culpa

Warning, this is the first fanfiction I've written since 2021.... anyway!!

In this story, y/n is a not so innocent nun. She and the "beloved" Archdeacon of Paris are close. *Extremely* close.

Kinks ( innocence, degradation, sadism, masochist, size difference, breeding, orgasm control, age play )

Click, click, clack

The noise vibrated through the Cathedral as she walked. Pushing through the doors of the kitchen where Reverend mother Jaqueline was waiting.

"Those shoes of yours are absolutely far too loud, sister y/n." The stout woman replied as she walked over to younger girl.

"My apologies, Reverend mother..'' she spoke with a slight whimper at the end of her sentence. "They were given to me by my late sister. She passed of the pox." Y/n spoke with a shutter.

"I know child. You told me when you were in your novice training." The greying lady spoke. "I did?" Y/n shrugged. "I must've forgotten about it." The nun shrugged again.

"Archdeacon Frollo is requesting your presence in the hall of justice. Questions about the orphans singing at the Christmas mass." Reverend mother explained.

The Young nun sighed. "He couldn't call on sister Margaret?'' Y/n called out as she busied herself with pulling a cloth off rising sour dough. "He told me he'd like to talk to you in specific." Reverend mother explained.

"Alright. I suppose we did Have a rather interesting conversation at Thanksgiving mass." Y/n explained with a smile.

"Oh goodness. I suppose I should get going if Archdeacon Frollo would like to speak to me before the midnight bells begin to ring." Y/n laughed. "I'll see you in confession Reverend mother." The young girl smiled as she walked out of the kitchen.

The walk to The hall of justice was a cold one. Frost had accumulated around the windows of the Cathedral and as y/n threw her dark wool coat on. A ring of fur was around the collar of the coat. Another gift from Claudette. Y/n's late sister.

Y/n exited the Cathedral and the cold air of the parisian winter hit her in the face. The walk to The palace of justice was not a lengthy walk by any means.

But as y/n walked up the steps of the hall. Raising her hand to knock on the door. But before her fist could meet the door. A young soldier opened the door.

His blonde hair was rested against his head as a halo would rest against a angels head. "Hello, sister. I don't believe we know eacho-'' the young man was inturrupted ny the sister.

"Captian, we have met on several occasions. At Thanksgiving mass and at the children's benefit last week. Phoebus. Am I correct?'' Y/n said with a small smile spreading across her face. A light blush across her cheeks now.

"Oh- yes- your the one who I pulled under the stai-" the capitan cleared his throat as a hand was pressed to his shoulder. Spindly fingers that were adorned with rings and such.

"Ah, capitan Phoebus. Nice to see that you've found the woman of the hour." The Archdeacon snapped. "I've been waiting well over an hour for you. Sister." Claude clapped quickly. Escorting her up to his office.

The Archdeacon pressed the door of his office shut. Humming and handing y/n a paper. A large scroll of parchment with 3 unsigned signature marks. "Here.'' He said.

Pointing at the spot where the sister had to sign. "I need Reverend mothers signature as well." Claude explained as y/n dipped her quill in ink and Began to write her name.

"Of course, these things must be in order for the matron of the orphanage. She expects everything in pristine order. Although she is paying for none of it.'' Frollo laughed stiffly.

"Thats unfortunate. I suppose they don't have much money.'' Y/n shrugged as she handed the parchment back to Claude with a small smile.

"I do have to wonder. Sister. About something I over heard.." the Archdeacon started out. "With your novice training, you are not supposed to be having any sexual relations. And as I've seen on several occasions. You clearly aren't following any of your training." Claude smirked as he stalked towards the young lady.

"Excuse me? How dare to talk to me like that. This is highly inappropriate conduct." The sister shuttered. Had he seen captian Phoebus on his knees. Eating her out as the churchgoers got the holy communion.

"If you don't want you and your .. sun-god to be exposed to the entire church. I suppose you give me what." The older man smirked. Standing behind the sister.

"Your just like the rest of them aren't you? Men, you all want the same thing in the end.'' Y/n snapped.

Before the young woman could tell what was happening. Claudes arm had traveled up to y/n's face. His hand colliding with the nun's face. Earning a yelp from the sister.

Her face became quickly red. Her hand had sat upon her cheek. Whining softly. Y/n took her hand from her face. Putting them on Claude's chest. Resting against frollo with a whine.

Frollo took her face in his hand. Her chin in his forefinger and middle finger. His thumb resting against y/n's jaw. Bringing his lips to brush against the sisters own.

Frollos kiss was soon inturrupted as y/n bumped against his desk. She sat down and the Archdeacon yanked her skirt up. Kissing up her thigh. Nipping at the inside. Drawing blood.

Y/n let out a groan of pleasure as she pulled her habit off. Her hair sliding around to frame her face and shoulders. "Just- please fuck me already." The sister begged.

Claude brought his hand to cover the young woman's mouth. "Don't have such foul language in the house of justice.'' Claude said sternly. Standing up and undoing his robes. Black pants and a black shirt adorned his body.

Unbuttoned his pants quickly. Opening his hand. "Spit in it." He said quickly. Lathering his cock in y/n's spit. Groaning and taking her undergarments off quickly. Pushing into the girl as she put her hands on claudes shoulders.

Moving so y/n threw her head back. Moaning loudly and biting on Frollo's neck. "You certainly don't sound like a virgin.'' The Archdeacon taunted.

Y/n scoffed. "How many anatomy books have you looked at to know how sex works?" The sister taunted in response. Watching as claude growled lowly. Feeling his neck being bitten.

Claude let his hand move lower. Circling y/ns clit with tight and hard circles. Smirking as she bit down on her hand to draw blood.

The sister nearly came then and there. How was he so good at this? Was he a virgin. His movements inside of her said otherwise.

Frollos cock was large. Longer than it was girthier. Looking upon the girl as he felt her thighs began to shake. The soft flesh of her thighs shaking as she came around his cock. "F-fuck-'' the nun cried out.

"That was fast. Shall I cum inside you? On your ass? Your bosom?'' Claude called out.

"Inside of me- please?'' She begged. Claude was close himself. His age had been catching up with him snd he could tell he couldn't last as he used to.

Frollo came deep inside her. Spilling his seed all over her womb and kissing her as he did so...

_________________

That's it... #Yolo

#claude frollo x reader #HoND MUSICAL #the hunchback of notre dame #judge claude frollo x reader

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geraldofallon · 8 months ago

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Fallen London Travel Guide:

The Empress’ Court

Pray silence for her Imperial Majesty. Silence, and darkness.

#fallen london #my post #fallen london travel guide #fl travel guide #the empress’ court #shuttered palace

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dhampling · 11 months ago

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ivory tower 18+ ASCENDED!ASTARION X AFAB!READER, 4.6K

Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city; but you want this.

woah boy! my first ascended astarion piece, so please be kind! dal is back babey! woooo! thank you to @bhaalism and @lipstickghoulie for dealing with me while writing this i love you both endlessly. wc: 4.6k cw: afab reader, female language used. breeding, mind-control, p in v, ascended astarion, public fingering, private banging, great times all round, as always if there are errors no there aren't, creampies, yippee

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep. Not really.

She sometimes slows just enough to find some purchase amongst the muddle, though - tiptoes lazy through highsun in soft linens, the burgeoning swell of soap suds and sunny rosemary through wide open wooden shutters. Lingering - sweat-soaking worn leathers, the sore of the flex in the arch of your foot splayed over cobble. As if to grasp at the memory, your fingers stretch out from your side and on to the dark oak of the armrest, in a moment of sheer jubilance. Summer. The sun. Wide bright mornings. Hopeful and hot as a bated breath.

The city ambles onward this evening, no different despite the inclement weather and the din of an early darkness. Half-lidded through dark streets as rain smatters the roofs with wet, glistening something dozy under the tall oil street lamps and swirls of ever-present heavy fog. Gurgling whilst each drain fills with water and swallows deep into the sewers.

Scatters the hay, bears the slip; sings a slow drunken stutter of thunder-wind whiling at the windows into the small hours. There’s a comfort to be found in it.

The harbour bell will go on to toll for every sail weary ship coming in from the fog; the crescent caress of the Gate’s waiting arms lit low with oily dots of amber. That even this late into the night the bands of trawlers on the dock work crates and barrels into cargo holds with worn hands and ruddy cheeks. The gulls and their scattering squawks. The flapping of their fat feathered wings up into the clouds.

From where you sit in the Ivory Tower you can hardly see anything at all. Fog obscures the streets to a point, other than the light patches under the oil lanterns out on the ramparts. The window runs dripping wet with condensation. Pools under the pane.

A hideaway of sorts within the manor. Newly reclaimed by Astarion in some deal with the quivering council in order to keep him sweet. Not that he has any armies of undead in his retainer to command as yet, but they don’t need to know that. There’s time. You’re still blessedly mortal and able.

Astarion.

He should be skulking the halls somewhere below with that unnerving silent step he’s taken to using. Your cheeks grow warm, the blanket over your shoulders pulled closer into your chest as you allow your mind to run wild; the scald of bliss to your brain like that of some ironmonger’s poker, split straight to the core.

Your love. Your lover.

Amongst his many newfound desires and passions seemingly includes the impetus to redesign a centuries-old palace from scratch, and while you doubt he has the want nor willpower to take the project anywhere near to completion you’re more than happy to indulge him during this burst of creativity. A designer’s eye. Lavish yet not ostentatious, he tells you. Your own private wing of the palace, and one you’ll share together. He has no need for his own private chambers. You’re the only one he wants to be beside. You understand that at its essence, it isn’t even necessarily a want to design for creativity’s sake, it’s important to you both to have every memory of the residence’s former owner gone. Every threadbare tread of carpet, every scuff on the wall; every painting being demounted by workers downstairs and shipped to the auction house first thing in the morning. You can hear them if you still enough, heart still beating in your chest and the low chunter of layman gossip.

The version of him you knew before his ascension was so very scared. Beautiful, but wavering. You loved him of course; and you always will - it was that version of him, the one lost in the wilderness that you fell for, and gods; you fell hard - frenetic and whiny, fleeting as light snow never to settle on the forest floor. Wild-eyed.

But this Astarion - the real Astarion, as far as he is concerned - has you completely and utterly enraptured each day you wake together, the same as ever, from the second your eyes open. Wrapped in those Daerlunian-import plush linens atop your gargantuan newly-installed four poster bed. Face of marble with those cattish dark lashes and eyes of carnelian crush. Enchants every room he walks into, as he always has.

You don’t know he’s with you until a hand ghosts your shoulder, sinewy; with those deft pale fingers deep encroaching on your collarbone in his grasp.

“I didn’t hear you, lover.”

“But I heard you.’

He circles round the velvet armchair, resplendent in his home finery. Not a crease to be seen. Voice soft, yet laced with a bristling concern.

‘Why do you insist on sitting up here?”

You err for a brief moment.

“I can hear the rain on the roof, here. See some bustle when the fog clears. The city goes on.” You shake your head with a smile as he crouches beside you, nestling his head in the crook of your arm.

“But it’s cold. Dark. Come down - I can light the fire in our sitting room if you like?”

“We have so many centuries yet to see together! What sense is there in not observing the world as it is now? Keeping record of the city as we saved it?”

His head lifts and his eyes meet yours, some churlish quirk of a brow in the low light.

“An archivist, now? Is that to be your profession alongside me? Whilst you raise our young?”

“If I wish it to be, yes.”

He laughs, a gentle low hum.

“Then an archivist you’ll be - the most renowned in all the lands. We’ll make it so.’ He stands once more and takes your hands from your lap, bringing them clasped to his lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

‘I’ll begin planning on your archives - I presume you’ll want a library? Or something similar in your wing, maybe even an office. Who knows?”

Astarion looks to the room around you, the shapes covered with old canvas and the rickety floorboards underfoot. Cobwebs in the corner. There’s no grimace nor displeasure. He simply surveys as cool as still water. Objective.

“I’ll have some of the merchants relay their contacts come morning too. If you insist on expanding your territory up here then it must befit you.”

“Befit me?” You grin now. His hold on your hands remains secure.

“If you want me to say it, then I suppose I will. As many times as it takes to get it through that heavy skull of yours.’

His smile reaches his eyes as he circles back behind your chair, fingers splayed over your shoulders once more in a deep round kneading pattern.

‘There’s nothing you won’t have if you want for it. Nothing too good for you to covet, my solace; Saviour to the whole Sword Coast and every plain mite within its bounds.’

There’s a small pause as he bows to kiss the top of your head.

‘And I thank the stars every day that I can provide for you. That you saw the potential in me and lifted me higher, to such profane glory amongst the swill of common man. That my gold, my influence, and terror, and each lift of my blade is at your command and yours alone. That you stayed at my side.”

He doesn’t like to mention the gods, hence the stars. Pointedly brings the grimace back into play, occasionally even furrows with the slightest twinge of anger brewing at his brow. The gods had no role to play in your shared victories. No divine intervention saved him from two hundred years of torment, from certain death after the crash of the nautiloid along that sun-soaked span of rocky beach;-

You did. You with your strange inclination toward the weak man he once was. The shell he lived in like a hermit crab on the shore, nothing more.

On bright days, you thank him for giving you time.

Time to live, time to breathe with full lungs. Time to allow you to burn your eyes in the beating sun with a silver pot of fresh coffee and whatever ridiculous spew the papers hold between the pages today.

You know as you sit in comfortable silence that your time dwindles, and that your turning is inevitable. Your eternal wedded bliss is to be alongside him and will be as vivid in nature as all the colours of the astral plane, if he’s to be believed - and there’s no reason not to see his word as gospel. You can see each moment as crystalline as sea glass on sand. Forever with the man you love more than you’ve ever felt inclined to love anything. The bridal ceremony is but a drop in the vast ocean of your lives together.

He thanks you too. Often alongside you with eyes closed in some dozy recline, forearm hanging lazily whilst he takes the sun on his skin like a blessing. A loose linen shirt akin to the one he wore back at camp at the start of your journey together, strings wide open, a blaze of blinding flesh at the corner of your eye each time he shifts.

The veranda on a clear day. Astarion has assured you he’ll never take this from you. He’ll never take anything that you don’t willingly give him with a clear heart - and why would you give him your ability to bask in the sun, like a street cat in days-warm dust? What purpose does that serve either of you, beyond making you a less useful weapon in his prized arsenal?

At one point, all you wanted was to talk to him - and it rings true even now. The want to be the bearer of all his tales. To learn about him, to be close to him; to hear him tear the world apart with that dulcet snarl, walking alongside each other on the barren dirt trails out in the wilderness. Hop-skipping to keep up with his quiet gait. Giving him back as good as you got. The glimmer of his hair in the sunlight, the way he’d sometimes just stop.

Close his eyes. Feel the heat. The gentle burn of highsun on tender flesh. A soft inhale.

That morning out in the clearing after your first night together. Arms outstretched in a welcome to the light. It had taken a few minutes for it to click as you’d silently watched on, why his sun salutation was so fond. So open.

It’s to be a long engagement with regard to your transformation whilst the manor undergoes renovations. Reason after reason as to why now isn’t the ideal time to commit you to eternity. You know why he wants to keep a hold on your precious mortality for the time being, of course; and that keeps you from the forever embrace of his Dark Kiss. It never changes.

You’ll allow him to sire your children. You want him to. Crave it. Him.

Your very own lineage together, he whispers; frenzied by your ear as his fingers crawl the bare span of your thigh. He can breed you full like fate intended and you’ll have something - besides him - that’ll also last forever. Something of your own surpassing the death of all of your contemporaries. The Vampire Ascendant and The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate, flesh-on-flesh, skin smacking skin; his debauched groans and lewd whimpers as he buries himself inside you, your cooing breaths;-

You’ll wed normally too, for the interested eyes of the city. Some dull ceremony with the elites adorning all tables as gilded pieces might some decorative chess board, deceptive vows. Legally it makes things easier should anything befall either of you but the hassle almost makes the whole thing undesirable - gods, especially because he already treats you as some smitten newlywed might. Adores you. Follows you around the manor, stalking; like some wolf cub after its mother. Carries you to bed each evening and ploughs you senseless, until spit gathers in the corners of your wet, wanting mouth and you can’t see straight through grey-blear eyes.

He likes the idea of you taking his name by law. Melds with your own like it were meant to be, from the starter threads of whatever cosmic tapestry pulled you together, the marriage of your first name to his last, interwoven by a scholar’s hand in gold-shining delicate point.

Ancunín. The House of.

Tapestries. Large, spanning the halls. The Sarsantyr's over in Waterdeep - they’ll be able to create what you’re picturing.

A familiar gaze meets yours. It’s then that you realise you aren’t alone in your mind once more

“If you want tapestries, you only have to ask.”

“In fairness - you didn’t give me a chance to.”

He hums, tilting his head a little in the sun’s glare.

“I’ll send for them. The Sarsantyr's, yes? Have them pack up all their little-’

He pulls a face and lifts his hands in some kind of puzzled shake.

‘Sewing bits? Textiles? I’ll send carriages. They can come and stay in the lower rooms. Create the masterpiece you envision.” Astarion sniggers a little at the thought of putting them in the old dormitory while you remain lost in thought.

“Okay. Check them through first though, yes?

The real event - the wedding - will give you total ecstasy beyond your wildest preconception, you know this. Unfettered and euphoric. Books and books on the topic stacked clumsily beside your bed, reds and greens; the turning of a vampire bride in leather bound prose. You know what to expect in florid detail. You know to trust your lover, that the rabid creature you’ll become is only a temporary mental state precursing an eternity alongside him.

And yet, you wonder about the children. They’ll be here by then. However many he decides is enough, naturally; assumedly under the care of some hired help whilst you engage in your thoroughly bastardised pastiche of a wedding ceremony. You laugh now. He’s still in your head, mulling over your thoughts as soon as you can think them.

Will you miss them? Will they be your last thought before you pass away; Astarion unable to complete this ritual alone as he was unable to before? Will your death lead to his, leaving your dhampir offspring to ravage Baldur’s Gate unsupported by the windfall of knowing parents? There’s still no hesitation, though. You will bear his young. You want to. The consequences either way are vast and long-lasting, and you’d rather be at his side than facing his ire-

“Love, what are these thoughts? What on earth is going on in that very pretty head of yours today?” His voice is a low drawl, pitying yet laced with affection. He sits straight in his chair whilst a hand lazily searches for yours atop the sun-warmed table; beyond the scope of the ramparts wall the low meander of city life continues on.

“Mulling things over.”

“You don’t need to do that, pet. Come now.’ He beckons you onto his lap and wraps his arms around your middle, hand searching for the soft pillow of your chest as your ass backs up to his abdomen.

‘You want me to make it better?”

You nod gently, the sun catching your eye in a particularly bright beam and making you squint.

“Please.”

“Poor thing. It’s okay.” As he coos; one hand finds the curve of soft flesh at your chest, holding the weight of your breast firmly as he starts lightly thumbing at the nipple through your nightshirt.

“There, now. Good girl.” Your head falls back onto his shoulder, a deep sigh as he lulls you into a new state of calm astride him. Birds sing overhead whilst you nuzzle his neck.

“I will miss this warm flesh of yours, you know. Terribly so.’ His other hand moves to your nightskirt, gently hitching the material bit-by-bit up your thighs until you sit exposed to the air. Nobody can see you from here - the faceless crowd little but colourful dots below; Astarion giving a small tense laugh as he feels your pulse quicken against him.

He toys with your skirt, edging ever nearer your exposed cunt; and your eyes flutter closed.

‘But the greater purpose… I just can’t let it go. Us. Our lives together. I sincerely doubt you want to wither away to age; to lose your extraordinary beauty-’

A gentle groan as he feels your warmth.

‘Do you, my most precious flower?”

“Of- Of course I don’t. I want to be with you, as we are; forever.”

“Then we’re going to need to make a concerted start on the only thing setting us back, are we not?” His fingers gently tap on the crux of your pubic bone, threateningly close to your clit. You feel the familiar seep of your slit leaking onto the bunched skirt fabric and you think of honey. Some kind of sweet glaze.

“Yes.”

As you sink further into him his fingers move down just a little to meet your clit; and in response to your delighted sighs he very lightly begins to stroke either side of the engorged flesh. There’s no urgency to his movement nor his demeanour; just a treacle-thick teasing grin as he turns his head to kiss your blazing cheek.

“Good.”

There’s something borderline celestial about the gentle way he touches you, coaxing more of your slick from you with every gentle jerk. He deftly motions ‘come hither’ with a soaking middle finger dipping lightly at your hole then brings your arousal up to wetten your clit once more.

“You want this, don’t you?” A finger slips down to your cunt, this time slipping and nestling deep inside as you feel yourself writhe on him. One arm scrambles around the back of his neck to support yourself while he begins to curl at your spongy spot, and the anchor of your arousal shifts free.

“I’ve been rifling through that glorious mind of yours these past few days and I see you now. You want comfort. To comfort. To seek shelter in those warm lights on the horizon, to know you aren’t alone in the late hours.”

You nod furiously, wincing, desperate to feel him deeper. Thicker. You need more, your fox-eyed paramour giving only the barest minimum he can do to watch you squirm.

“You, with my babe in arm;- oh the image alone does things to you, doesn’t it?”

It’s as if he’s creating the visions in your head as he speaks them, bringing them to the forefront of your mind in hushed coos and silent gasps. As if by magic, the only thing on your mind is a primal need for him to fuck you full. Nothing else, no mind for coffee nor completed manor renovations.

You will be round. You will brim with life before he turns you, and you’ll take to his seed the minute he offers it to you. You’ll accommodate him like no other across Toril could hope to. You wonder if he has the power to decide how many, as he adds another finger to your unbridled torment. If he could choose to speed the process up with a celebration of twins, triplets. An heir and two spares. Maybe he’d wait instead until the first was born, just to ensure the viability of his bloodline. A test.

He’s doing this; you become starkly aware as he withdraws his fingers, spiderwebs of glistening drool clinging to your inner thigh as he brings them between his lips and suckles. He’s giving you these ideas of grandeur because he can. Because you are his. Because you wouldn’t want to belong to anyone else, to be tied to any other notion of whatever a fulfilling life is, if it weren’t one shared wholly by him. With him.

“Let me take you inside, sweet one. Let’s take care of you properly, shall we? Curb this fever, hm?”

Please, you think. Please take this burning hole in my womb and make it full with you. Extinguish the flame with your unholy spend and give me children. Give me oud and orchids and a life of warmth, however long we both may live.

“Use your words, my love. Tell me you want this.”

“I want this. Please.”

On the bed you now lie, the room cool and dark; balcony doors open wide with light-billowing curtains. Sweat consumes you as your thoughts run wild, the smell of your arousal, clammy hands and deep breaths in the low light. Astarion approaches like something from a dream, shirtless now; smirk plastered cheek-to-cheek as he leans over your trembling form with confidence - your lust-addled fingers reaching for his steady form like a ship to harbour.

“You want to feel it, little dove? Feel how you set me alight?”

He pries your wrist from him with gentle urgency, taking your hand under his and skating both downwards; down the plane of his tight torso, slowing to a stop just above his pelvis.

“Tell me - do you want to feel it?”

A small smirk plays at the corner of your lips, but he doesn’t seem to notice - watching the way your hand twitches under his.

“Hm?”

His groan is guttural. Thick. He doesn’t even try to mask it, eyes wide as his hand shifts yours just a little further down and over the blistering burn of his heavy cock through loose linen trousers. A hazy sigh as he moans a small whimper at your touch.

“Please, Astarion. I beg you.”

It’s like his fingers are enchanted, the way they reduce you to this sodden mess. Unable to think unless guided delicately by his superior whim.

“I need to bury myself inside you fully for this to take. I need your full attention, submission; your devotion to our lives together. Do I make myself clear?”

He’s giving you one final chance to withdraw. Your head clears for one sweet moment and you can do little else but stare at his bulge with heavy lids and your mouth agape.

“Crystal. I ache for you. Please, give this to me.”

You lift to meet him in a soft kiss, jaw slackened and cunt ablaze. Nothing else matters, no complications, nor possibilities of horribly mangled spawn from your womb as a result of your copulation. This scalding stupor that sends you insane won’t go away until he quenches it with his seed.

Your response has satisfied him, if the way he stands sharpish and unties his trouser laces is anything to go by. The glassy head of his cock stands purple at his stomach, leaking wild at the slit and red-hot as your hand reaches blindly for him in your hunger.

He gently taps you away and back down onto the sheets.

“Magic?” You hear yourself mumble, still amazed at how surely swollen he must feel with how sore he looks. Has to be.

“Just me.”

There’s a tenderness in his eyes as he crawls back over you, legs instinctively parting and lifting at the knee to accommodate him. Something that compels him to hold your face in the hand that isn’t supporting his weight and just look at you, fondly; for what feels like an age.

Then he shifts once more to angle himself, decidedly spending no more time on preparation. The heat of his cock against your slit is unlike anything you’ve ever known, dizzying yet pleasurable; hard and yet still yielding, and as he thrusts a shallow dip into your core you swear you see angels overhead. Yes, you’re ready. You’ve never been more ready for anything than you are for the sheer ecstasy you know he’s about to give you, and he’s going to give you it in droves. Seismic tremors as he shifts a little and you adjust to him once again.

He nods. He hears you.

Then, he snaps once more; and he’s lost.

Each glub of his cock meeting your spill as he ruts into you; the way you feel it running downward in long dribbles, with each and every mindless hump of his hips eking more honey from your cunt in spades.

You hear the sounds of your shared carnal pleasure and it makes you clench around him in some kind of self-perpetuating cycle. Groans and whimpers and moans and hisses and the frequent egregious slaps to your thighs whilst he chases his high.

He’s perfect like this. Halo of curls above you, voice silken as he calls you every pet name under the sun, his, always. Your legs ache already from being wound so tightly, interlocked around him, and you think of the prespill inside you already. How each fangy showman’s smile means he’s twitching at your cervix and leaking molten gold inside you with every thrust.

It’s not until he nuzzles down to your neck that you remember to offer it, potentially for the last time on this mortal coil.

“Are you asking?”

“Well, you didn’t offer.”

The immediate pang is one of violent nausea, subsiding quickly into a wooze coating the bottom of your stomach in black tar as he fucks upward. Unease. There’s something in his spit, you assume. Something that makes the gaping wounds a little more bearable, a little less raw as he kitten-licks the flesh between swallows. Ice courses your veins with adrenaline as it always does.

Astarion chokes down his first sip with an eager cough. The burgeoning panic wracking your limbs turns into a numbed haze as your lover feasts, big neat gulps whilst he clutches at your ribcage with fingers splayed deep and cock buried to the hilt, like a man starved. His hair tickles at your jaw, the smell of something herbal. Slightly lemony.

He splutters that he’s close and you feel yourself nearing your peak too.

There’s a profane desecration in what he’s doing, painting your walls in an attempt to get you pregnant. Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city. No villages to raise them, no cards nor flowers from friends or family; but you want this.

You want him to taint you in his particular shade of crimson, visibly; so the realms know who made The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate come to heel. The man who compelled her through sheer love alone and to whom she gave everything. The indomitable force for whom you’ll die, only to resurrect forever as his.

Visions of your turning don’t scare you - all lightning and thunder, the cries of your dhamplings in some nursery down the towering halls of your palatial wing; and yet you’ll be safe in his caress. He wouldn’t let a single thing happen to you. He won’t.

And as he cums; he calls your name.

Some rhythmic prayer over and over again; and with each kick of his cock he loses some of his bedroom charm and hurtles back to earth, humbly enraptured. More candid. His weary muscles tighten as yours threaten your own release around him.

“Cum for me, now. Milk me.” in a heavy whisper whilst he strokes the soft flesh of your cheek; and you do. You cum harder than you can remember ever before. Each wave of sheer pleasure some blackout tidal wave as you writhe, staccato in his arms.

If you die during the ceremony, you’ll die happy. Should the younglings bite their way through your womb, it won’t matter.

You’re loved. He loves you, in soft kisses and gentle arms carried all the way to the waiting washtub. In the way he sponges your aching shoulders and brings a washcloth to your dazed face.

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep, not really.

But tonight it will, in the patient, visceral bliss of calm before a summer storm.

#my writing #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate astarion #ascended astarion #ascended astarion x reader #astarion x female reader #astarion baldurs gate #astarion bg3 #bg3

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separatist-apologist · 7 months ago

Text

Long Live

Summary: All archeologist Elain Archeron wants is answers about the past.

Fate is determined to give them to her

MASSIVE thank you @abbadinfluence for having the idea AND allowing me to write - I've had the time of my life, this has been so fun.

And @octobers-veryown for being my personal Rome/Italy consultant- thank you for your knowledge, your time, and most importantly, catching when I used a particularly offensive and/or wrong swear word

For @elucienweekofficial | Read on AO3 | Chapter 1

Elain waited until she and Arina were alone to turn to her friend. Arina was one step ahead of her. “We’re fucked,” she said in English, face devoid of any true color. “He’s basically got us under house arrest.”

“They don’t trust us,” Elain said, taking an anxious breath of air. The last three days had been something out of a nightmare. They’d been arrested, put in chains, and then transported from the country estate to Rome, during which they’d been groped and threatened with assault more times than she could count. Elain had never known true fear until that first night outdoors, camping with a group of leering, bored soldiers.

She couldn’t enjoy seeing Rome, well aware of where they were being taken. Mamertine Prison was a church in the present day, built over the bones of prisoners sent to languish while they waited out their sentences. Elain had expected some low level judiciary to come and decide their fate. Not the newly crowned Emperor himself, accompanied by his older brother. Nor had she expected Arina to react so viciously once they were so close to freedom.

“We simply have to convince them they can trust us.”

“And how do you intend to go about that?” Arina demanded, picking through the clothes set out for the two of them. They knew enough combined history to get through this, she decided. If they could convince the Emperor they were no threat, Elain believed they could make their way back where they’d started and get back to their own home before they changed history.

“Well, for starters maybe we should stop biting patricians?” Elain said, rounding on her friend sharply.

“He’s no better than the soldiers who dragged us up here,” she snarled furiously. “He saw two unprotected women and decided we must exist for his pleasure.”

“Of course he did!” Elain hissed softly. “They’ve never even heard the word feminism. You know women are not on equal standing with men. Stop biting them.”

“If he puts his finger in my face again—”

“No biting.”

Elain turned, looking at the spacious room that belonged to her and her alone. Arina had been given a suite just down the marbled hall but had immediately followed after Elain, prompting two servants to lay clothes out for the both of them nervously. Elain knew what was waiting and was desperate to put her hands on true, Roman garments.

“Why aren’t you panicking?” Arina demanded.

“What good would it do to panic?” Elain asked, tennis shoes squeaking against the marble. The heat coming from the nearby hanging lamps made the room feel warmer than was comfortable, and Elain was quick to fling open the shutters of her window so cool air could push in. “Besides…haven’t you always wanted to see Rome as it actually was?”

“Not really,” Arina said, trailing after Elain apprehensively. “Not like this. What if we can’t get back, Elain? Or worse, what if the Emperor decides to make us some other man's problem?”

“This is Rome. We’ll simply kill him if he tries,” Elain said with far more bravado than she felt. Her room overlooked the garden, replete with beautifully manicured hedges, rows of olive trees, and flowers so vibrant she almost didn’t believe they were real.

“Elain, I’m serious. Aren’t you afraid?”

“Yes,” she admitted, turning back to the room made of marble and gold. Elain knew if Arina wasn’t so scared, she’d be examining the pillars and telling Elain all about the brush strokes and how the tiles beneath them had been cut. Elain, too, wanted to examine the palace piece by piece, committing it all to memory. Her phone was still in her pocket, the battery at seventy two percent. She could take pictures if she was careful…and then, what? No one would ever believe her.

Maybe just to have once she got home.

“We need to leave,” Arina hissed, her urgency echoing through Elain’s skull.

“What we need is to be careful. We were spared once, but I don’t think they’ll be so forgiving the second time. Better to play pretend and wait for our moment than to rush out and get thrown back into prison. Or worse.

Citizens were made slaves all the time, after all. Lucien could make them prostitutes in the eye of the law if he wanted and no one would be able to stop him. Here, at least, they had access to means and the privilege that came from being a patrician woman.

“He could do horrible things to us,” Arina reminded Elain, standing in the middle of the room with her arms wrapped around her chest. “Things he might think are kind.”

“Then we simply have to convince him not to,” Elain replied, thinking it was easier said than done. “Women might not be allowed a true voice, but there are plenty of Roman women who ruled behind the throne. If we can make him care about us, we can thwart the worst of his machinations. He’s a new Emperor, he’s about to meet his wife…he won’t have a lot of time to spend worrying about us.”

“You’re right,” Arina breathed, closing her eyes before exhaling slowly. “If we blend in and give them no reason to think about us, we can slip out in the night.”

“Or better, he’ll put us on a horse with gold in our pocket.”

“So what now? We just…play dress up?” Arina questioned, finally turning toward the stola. “Drink wine and lounge in the sun?”

“We could explore the city?” Elain suggested, reaching for the red dyed garment. “Tell me, doctor. Where do you think the fabric of this dress comes from?”

“Egypt,” Arina said, rubbing her fingers against the lenin. “It’s not silk.”

“If we could bring this back—intact—think of—”

“Are you crazy?” Arina hissed, cutting Elain off before she could finish her sentence. “We can do nothing. Make no suggestions, inform them of nothing, do not rip any wings off a butterfly. We aren’t supposed to be here, Elain, and we can’t go around meddling.”

“It’s not meddling. It’s history,” she protested. “And if we’re not supposed to be here, why are we here?”

“Maybe we’re not. Maybe we just ingested something toxic, breathed in too much lead. We’re probably in the hospital having a really vivid hallucination.”

Elain sat on the edge of the bed, sinking into the feathers and straw with delight. Covered in blankets, the mattress was softer than she might have imagined. “This isn’t a hallucination. It’s real.”

She’d thought the same thing when they’d first come through. Elain didn’t believe it anymore, though. They’d been gone for three days and some of her panic was beginning to subside into excitement. They were in Rome at the height of its power and living with the current emperor. Elain knew, from having memorized Lucien’s journals, that he would be meeting Helena soon if he hadn’t met her already.

She didn’t need to meddle—she could merely watch, go home, and reconstruct what she knew. If she could just find out what family Helena belonged to, Elain was certain she’d could piece together whatever tragic fate the empress met.

Like he so often did, Graysen’s face wormed its way into her memories, flooding her with guilt. She needed to get back—where was her urgency? Arina certainly had it, pacing the room like a caged animal. She’d become wilder by the day, viciously spitting curses at the Roman soldiers who’d dragged them to the prison cell, and again when Eris had tried to touch her.

She was afraid in a way Elain simply wasn’t. She ought to be—oh, how Elain knew she should be scared. They were at the mercy of a time period that valued women even less than the one she’d just left, under the care of a man who didn’t know them at all. They had no one to vouch for them, no refuge in which they could seek shelter in. No one to advocate on their behalf. If they angered the Emperor, he could have them exiled or worse.

And yet…Elain simply wasn’t worried about any of it. She believed they’d be fine, that Lucien would continue to be hospitable, and they’d make their way back no worse than they’d come through. If she was honest with herself, Elain felt a small measure of relief. She didn’t have to make a decision about her own life so long as she was here.

Sure, Graysen would move on eventually, but Elain didn’t intend to be gone for years. Maybe just a month—long enough to have one last, grand adventure. Maybe living in Rome would put some things into perspective for her, besides. Help her make a decision on her own life and relationship.

What did it say about her that she didn’t miss him?

Nothing good.

“Bath?”

Arina threw her hands up in the air with exasperation. “You’re not taking our situation seriously.”

“I am. I’m just realistic. We can’t go anywhere and I don’t want to sit in a bedroom all day. Don’t you want to see how they lived?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“The pipes here are made of lead, Elain. Lead. You’ll be drinking lead tainted water—”

“We’ve been drinking it for the last three days and I feel fine,” she replied, though it did worry her a little. “And we can drink more wine than water, if you’re really that concerned.”

“You want to bathe in lead tainted water?” Arina demanded.

Elain whirled on her friend, her frustration mounting. “There is no deodorant here and I smell like shit from two days of traveling and a night spent in an ancient prison. The water could have sharks in it and I’d still risk it.”

“You’re gonna dress up like a proper Roman lady?”

“Yes, because the alternative is letting them think we don’t belong, grow suspicious of us, and do something horrible. We need to play along, Arina…and we need to stop biting Consuls.”

“I hate him,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

Elain only shrugged, beckoning for her friend to follow her out of the bedchamber. The hall was brightly lit from both hanging lamps and nearby arched windows that allowed light and air to pour inside in equal measure. It was here that Arina seemed to relax a little, running her finger tips over the gold encrusted walls with awe.

“Look at this,” Arina breathed, pausing beside a Corinthian style column. “To see it…just…wow.”

The pair touched the marble on the column, craning their necks to look up at the ornate estatis just at the top. The whole thing was pure decoration and though Elain knew it had been built a good several decades earlier, the marble was pristine and vibrant.

“This is real,” Arina breathed.

Elain couldn’t help her smile.

This was real.

LUCIEN:

Lucien was having a difficult time focusing. He ought to be listening to important business of the empire…and yet his eyes kept sliding to the open window where Elena was, walking through his garden in a vibrant red stola. No one had done her hair and so she’d left it wild like a child, half hidden beneath a palla pinned into her dark curls. Lucien was so curious about why she wore it—he had it on good authority she wasn’t married. Was she widowed?

Did she not know the custom? He was woefully uneducated about life in Brittana, perhaps all women wore the palla. Maybe she was worried about her modesty like a good Roman woman ought to be? The only way to know was to ask and Lucien couldn’t ask without revealing to the men around him that he’d rather spend his time talking to a woman rather than dealing with important matters.

But he did want that. He wanted to try and piece together her rather charming accent…and if Lucien was honest, he wanted to touch her. Wanted to touch the coils of curls blowing in the breeze, wanted to run a knuckle over her unblemished cheek just to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.

He wanted to do other things, too—things that were wholly inappropriate if he was to find a suitable husband for her and get her out of his home. And then he’d spend the rest of his life wondering what it was like to have a woman like that in his bed, until he inevitably took her as his mistress, pissing off whatever man he’d arranged for her in the first place.

Problems for future Lucien, certainly.

Turning his attention back to the room, Lucien’s eyes slid to the map laid out before him. He wanted to invade Germania and succeed where so many before him had failed. Taking that northern territory would allow him to hunt down the saxon’s that plagued his coastlines, too, and take back the treasure they’d been plundering.

There were a few routes they could take in, but crossing the Rhine was Lucien’s preference. He’d been there during the first campaign and had assisted in building the bridge they’d used to cross—it had terrified the Germanic barbarians to see the might of Rome, sending them scattering further into the interior.

Lucien could build roads and bridges all he liked—getting through the forests was what plagued them. They didn’t have the tactical advantage and Lucien refused to go if defeat was the only path forward. If he was going to lose men, it was going to be in service of victory.

Agreeing to reconvene over wine that night, Lucien sent his advisors away for the time being, intending to meet with a few generals—and Jurian, who would lead his campaign—later that week. Just in time for the games to begin and spread the right amount of propagare that would convince the people of his authority.

Above all else, Lucien needed the backing of the people of Rome just as much as he needed the army. He was drowning in tasks, which didn’t explain why Lucien began his descent into the gardens the mere second he was alone. It was shameful to be so curious about a woman, especially one his brother had accused of being a whore and yet…Lucien’s father had always been especially taken with his mother. There had been no infidelity on his fathers end unless you counted the time he’d been sleeping with Amera while she’d been married to Beron.

Beron had divorced his wife for political reasons and Helion had merely swooped in and married her quickly and quietly before anyone could truly object. And then, when Beron was made Emperor, Helion took off for the outer provinces…just to be safe. It hadn’t been until Lucien had been a man and called back to the city that Helion dared to return, too.

Lucien just needed to know if another man had a claim to her. That was all—it was practical, he swore, adjusting his toga so the purple was especially vibrant in the afternoon sun. He knew he ought to cut his long, auburn hair to conform with the more fashionable short styles and yet…Lucien had left it long because he liked it. It had started on the battlefield, curling around his neck before the length straightened it all out. It had been a joke among the legion he was in—they always knew where Lucien was because of his lovely, effeminate hair.

What had begun as a joke had somehow transcended Roman norms and though some of the older patrician’s threw him a dirty look now and again, the rest of them didn’t seem terribly bothered so long as Lucien kept it neat and pulled out of his face. No braids or beads like the barbarian’s wore, no adornments of any kind. When he worked, he often tied it off his neck in a bun to give the illusion of short hair.

At least it wasn’t a beard, he reasoned.

He found Elain among the olive trees, one hand outstretched to touch one of the leaves. Lucien cleared his throat, hands clasped behind his back.

“Where is your friend?”

She turned abruptly, eyes wide. “She ah…” Elain bit her bottom lip. “She found the library.”

Lucien nodded. “Do you like to read?”

She shrugged. “I prefer being outdoors.”

“Do you spend much time outdoors?” he asked, noting the freckles dotting her nose. She must and yet her skin didn’t betray any of it. Most women preferred to stay indoors, far from the sun's vicious kiss that too often left their skin lined and leather-worn.

“Do you?” she replied, looking up at him through thick, dark lashes.

Lucien offered her a lopsided grin. “Of course. Especially when I have diverting company. Walk with me?”

“Only if you agree to answer all my questions.”

Something warm spread through Lucien. As he’d risen through the ranks, women had begun treating him differently—respectfully. In his mind, he was always thinking of Jesminda and how he’d been just another nobleman’s son and no one special at all. She’d teased him, taunted him—had wanted him without any of the fake modesty he loathed. Lucien had been fortunate to marry for love, once, and having had a taste of true marital bliss, he didn’t want the Roman arrangement his peers often found themselves embroiled in. Jurian was all but married to a woman he barely knew. It was a good prospect for him, if for no other reason than it increased his social standing and available wealth. Lucien didn’t need to worry about any of that anymore, though he would be a fool if he thought he could snub the fellow patrician families and choose just anyone.

Including the beautiful woman standing beside him. She was Roman and yet he knew she had no connection to anyone of importance in the city. He might as well declare himself in love with a barbarian princess and be done with it.

And he wasn’t. In love with her, that is. He was merely fascinated by her mouth and the way her curls caught the sun, making them seem almost golden in the right light. And Lucien had to admit he liked the sound of her voice and the rolling way she spoke.

“I’ll answer anything you ask of me,” Lucien agreed, offering her his bare arm rather selfishly. He just needed to know if her skin was as soft as it looked. She beamed up at him, the prettiest thing he’d ever seen in his entire life, and accepted. Her fingers were warm, gliding over his bare bicep without a care in the world. What would she look like adorned in gold, he wondered?

“How are you enjoying yourself?” he asked before she could get one of her own questions out. He didn’t need to answer anything if he did all the talking.

She considered his question and only after her silence stretched did Lucien consider that she did not speak Latin as well as he thought. He gave her space, walking her over a careful, stone laid path around the olive grove.

“Your hospitality has been generous,” she began carefully, fingers fidgeting in the pleats of her dress. “I’m sure Arina and I would be fine living somewhere on our own—”

“Who will protect you?” Lucien demanded, getting close to the question he was most interested in. “Two unmarried women shouldn’t be alone in the city.”

She nodded, not disputing his words.

Lucien pounced. “You’re not married?”

She glanced up at him, eyes narrowing. “No, I’m not married.”

“Why?”

She took a breath. “I have a fiance—”

“A what?”

She murmured something under breath in a language he didn’t understand. I forgot french hasn’t been invented yet. He didn’t like that Britanic language—it was too harsh, too angry to be coming out of such lovely lips.

“I am…sponsalia?”

Lucien blanched. “To who?”

“He lives far from here.”

“And he let you leave unaccompanied?” Lucien demanded, thinking if he met this man, he’d kill him for his cowardice. What kind of man sent his future wife on the road alone where any number of horrible things could happen to her? No, that man was no man at all. Elain had been overtaken on the road and had she not found his home, who knew what might have happened to her?

Lucien didn’t want to think about it.

“He trusts me,” she said foolishly. What did trust have to do with reality, he wondered?

“And look at how well that worked for you both,” Lucien replied, unable to keep the bite from his words. “You were set upon by bandits and then imprisoned for being a spy. If my brother had his way, you’d be working with the local prostitutes and your fiance would be disgraced to have ever been attached to you.”

Her cheeks reddened, not with shame like he expected, but anger. “Don’t do me any favors, Caesar.”

Why did he like it, he wondered? And yet… “Do you consider this a favor, Elena?”

“I did.”

“And now?”

She kicked a clod of dirt with her foot. “I feel like an imposition.”

“Disavow him,” Lucien commanded, halting in his tracks to look at her. “Say he means nothing to you.”

“I…”

“Disavow him and I will put the backing of Rome behind you,” he swore, wishing he had his sword to swear upon.

“I can’t—”

“You will.”

It was wrong, perhaps, to force her into ending whatever marriage she’d been entered into. The bond clearly wasn’t strong if he was willing to risk his future wife. Perhaps he hoped something would happen to her. The thought angered Lucien.

“Please don’t,” she whispered, but Lucien’s mind was made up and he would not be denied.

“Then call him to Rome to answer for his treatment,” Lucien ordered, certain she would not do that. Elain rounded on him, hands on her hips and he wondered with delight if she would deny him.

“So you can slaughter him?”

“You wound me. I believe in the rule of law—”

“What law did he break?” she demanded and oh. She had him there. Technically the man had done nothing other than offend Lucien. Wasn’t that enough? He was Emperor, why should he be offended by some man from Britannia that didn’t value his soon-to-be wife?

“You broke laws,” Lucien reminded her, scrambling for anything that would give him validity. “Your father is responsible—”

“My father is dead,” she said, some of the fire in her eyes extinguished.

“Then your brother or uncle—”

“I have none.”

Lucien offered her a smile so saccharine it tasted sweet on his tongue. “Which leaves your soon-to-be husband to answer for your crimes. Call him or disavow him.”

Elain looked up at him, arms crossed over her chest. “And if I disavow him, what then?”

Lucien’s grin widened. “I would be delighted to accept responsibility for you and find a suitable husband.”

“A terrifying prospect,” she grumbled. Lucien was half decided on who he’d marry her to—no one he knew was good enough for her. Was he? He wanted to find out. The more she spoke, the longer he breathed the same air, only made him want her more. “Fine. I disavow him. He means nothing to me, I owe him nothing.”

“Would he mourn your death?” Lucien asked curiously, tilting his head to the side. She blinked, eyes strangely glassy.

“I don’t know,” she finally said as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Lucien’s body went taut for a moment, eyes tracking the way she moved. He felt like a predator back on the killing fields, sword in hand even as he prepared to have his life ended. She could end him, too—not with a weapon but her words, a look, a touch. If she would not marry him, Lucien would take her in any way he could get her. He would deny he’d touched her if that's what she asked, would keep her as an ornament in his home and raise their illegitimate children. She had no father, no brother, no husband. No man who could deny him, though Lucien could not have been denied even if she did.

Reaching for her chin, Lucien forced Elain to look at him. Elena, he thought with pleasure. She’d need a more Romanized name to be accepted by the people. Would she like Helena, he wondered? He was getting ahead of himself and yet Lucien felt settled.

Pleased, too.

Holding her gaze, he said, “I would mourn you.”

“You don’t even know me,” she replied, drawing a soft, shaking breath.

Lucien shook his head. “I feel the opposite. I feel as if I’ve known you my whole life.” Like he’d been waiting for her. Guilt slithered through him, hot and oily as he remembered Jesminda. He’d once said the same thing about her. Was he the kind of man who could forget love so quickly? Lucien couldn’t help his foolish heart. Looking at the woman beside him, far paler than she’d been when they’d first begun talking, he knew he had his work cut out for him.

He could demand her hand—could assert himself as the sole authority over her and then demand she wed him. And Lucien could imagine just how well that would go. He’d have her in his bed, but she wouldn’t be willing, wouldn’t want him. He knew plenty of men with disinterested wives, who submitted out of duty but not desire. Having tasted love with Jesminda, Lucien wanted it again. Wanted it so badly he was willing to toss out tradition, at least until she got to know him better.

“Come,” he said with an easy smile, “let me show you the fountain. It’s my favorite.”

—

Arina didn’t care what Elain said—they needed to leave. Elain was too struck by the history of it all that she’d forgotten they were living in an ancient human civilization that was so far removed from their own that any number of horrible tragedies might befall them. Elain had, if nothing else, seen the toilet situation.

Holed up in the Emperor’s library, Arina forced herself to sit in a chair that was deeply uncomfortable, a book laid across her lap. On any other day, finding a first edition transcription of Aristotle’s teachings would have been a dream—she could touch it. Now, though, Arina couldn’t even enjoy herself.

In truth, she was terrified. Obvious problems aside, they had no way to get back, no way to escape. There were far worse things between Rome and the estate they’d broken into beside just Lucien and his army. But if they could steal a horse, could get some coins…well. Arina figured they could be long gone before anyone in the capital even realized they were missing.

And with some knives—ideally with poisoned blades—they’d be in decent shape. They couldn’t take on a good swordsman, but how many highway robbers were any better than them?

Arina heard the sound of leather on marble, heard the high, bronze doors open and without seeing who came in, she just knew. Eris. He was the blueprint for all modern Italian men—arrogant, certain of his own greatness, and desperate for a woman to subjugate. Just like her father, she thought darkly. He strolled in, dressed like the immaculate senator he was. Did he know that Arina knew everything about him? The would-be Emperor, ousted by his own father who knew ahead of time, had planned to kill his son. He hadn’t suspected Eris had conspirators, but he had destroyed every soldier who might have taken the city for Rome and alerted Helion who then moved quickly to ensure his own son took the city before it could fall into the hands of some hated rival.

Eris survived—thrived, even. He lived just as long as his brother, had a whole host of children with a foreign born woman known only to history as Agripina, and seemed generally happy in his later writings. Arina had never cared much for this period of time outside of the art, the sculptures, the architecture. Now, though?

Well, Arina would be an expert at this rate.

Eris made his way into the large atrium, amber eyes finding hers. His impassive expression shifted into a frown, his disdain plain.

“Who taught you how to read?”

Arina cocked her head and smoothed her blue stola beneath her hands. “Are you looking for lessons?”

She really shouldn’t test him—knew that he could make her life exceptionally difficult. And yet it was fun to see his gaze sharpen and his spine straighten as he recognized the challenge.

Striding toward her, Eris plucked the book from her fingers to examine the writings. “What do you know of Aristotle?” Arina wanted to laugh in his face. More than he did, she’d wager. “Enough.”

He handed the book back, closing the leather bound cover carefully before doing so. It was tempting to tell him that his own wife would be so literate that in his final years, she was the one who wrote down his every thought.

“You’re excused,” Eris informed her dismissively, turning toward the arching windows overlooking the garden. He made his way toward them, hands folded behind his back, to do the same thing Arina had been doing—spying on Elain and the Emperor.

Elain was so beautiful that every man who saw her fell a little in love with her. It wasn’t unusual for men to stop Elain on the street spouting sonnets about her beauty or begging for just ten minutes of her time. If Elain wasn’t careful, he’d be demanding she marry him before the week was out and they’d be in real trouble.

Arina rose to her feet, unwilling to argue with Eris. She couldn’t argue with him as far as she remembered. His word was law even in this place, and even over her.

“Che cazzo,” she hissed under her breath, well aware Eris had no hope of deciphering the actual meaning of her words. Italian wasn’t a language anyone spoke yet. Eris’s head whipped around all the same, eyes narrowed to slits.

“What barbarian tribe are you actually from?” he asked, crossing his arms over a broad chest.

Adopting her most brain dead smile, Arina said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“That language…” he wrinkled his nose with disdain. “Is lingua latina not spoken even as far North as Britannia?”

Arina couldn’t help her laugh. If only he knew. “But of course.”

“Tell me.”

“Why? So you can accuse me of any number of untrue things?”

Eris took a soft breath, nostrils flaring. “If I swear not to accuse you?”

“I would still lie,” Arina replied with that same saccharine smile. “Surely you understand the importance of speaking multiple languages? Or can you not speak Greek?”

“I don’t speak any of the barbarian languages—”

“Yet,” she interrupted, holding his gaze. “But who knows? Maybe in five years you’ll need someone who can.”

“What were you really doing in my brother's home?”

Arina’s eyes slid over his shoulders, toward the dots that were Elain and Lucien standing before a marble carved fountain. Studying it. She so badly wanted to tell him the truth—to tell someone all of her fears, of the nightmare she currently found herself in. She couldn’t. Arina pressed her lips shut, eyes returning to the man standing before her.

“I’m going to find out,” he warned her softly. “I’m a terrible enemy to have.”

She only shrugged, heart thudding roughly in her chest. “I’ve already told you everything. I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

She was nearly at the door when he called out, “‘Che cazzo.’ What does it mean?”

His Italian wasn’t awful—certainly less offensive than when Graysen had bid her a good day in the choppiest drawl she’d ever heard in her life. Arina knew better than to tell him the truth, and yet…

“Capitium,” she said, using the Latin for little head as Eris’s expression darkened. Dick. She could call a man a dick in every language.

Pleased with herself, Arina attempted to flounce from the room, satisfied she’d at least cut Eris down to size. It didn’t solve any of her problems but it did make her feel better.

She was nearly to the hall when strong fingers wrapped around her bare arm, pulling her back flush against his chest.

Lowering his mouth to her ear, Eris murmured, “The next time you reference my cock, I’ll assume you’re asking to see it.”

“You disgust me,” she whispered without thinking.

He only chuckled, low and soft. He smelled nice, a mix of spices she didn’t immediately recognize. Shouldn’t all men reek of body odor? This one, especially, ought to smell like sewage given how handsome his face was.

“I’ll bet you’d say that on your knees.”

Arina elbowed him roughly in the ribs, certain he would do nothing but let her go. There was the faintest echo of outrage etched on his features, but more horrifyingly, she found something that read like a challenge gazing back at her. That was dangerous, especially in a place where men could do whatever they liked to women under their protection.

Forcing herself to smile, Arina wrenched from his grasp to look up at the tall warrior gazing back at her. “If you put your cock in my face, you’ll regret it.”

“Such a filthy mouth,” Eris all but crooned, undeterred by the threat. “I look forward to using—”

She knew better. Oh, Arina knew better even back home, than to slap a man. It was dangerous back home where men were prone to violence when provoked—and literally anything might provoke them.

It was worse, here. He already thought her a barbarian, knew she had no male relative to watch over her, and just barely tolerated her. The two of them stood there, chests heaving as a patch of red bloomed across his cheek. Arina’s palm stung from the force of the blow, hidden behind her back as if she could take it all back.

Bracing herself for his fury, Arina steeled her spine even as she flinched back. Eris watched, head slightly cocked, his own hand rising not to strike her back, but to touch his face. Arina wasn’t going to apologize—he had no right to speak to her that way.

And still, she was scared.

Eris exhaled through his nostrils. “Watch yourself,” he warned her, lifting his chin as though that might salve his wounded pride, “or I’ll put you in the military since you want to fight.”

Arina exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “I—” I’m sorry. “Of course.”

Eris gestured for her to leave, turning his head and Arina, not willing to stick around and test his good will, tripped over the skirt of her dress in her haste. At the end of the hall, she turned to look over her shoulder, surprised to find him still standing in the archway.

Watching.

#elucien #i still see “disavow him” in my dreams

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 1 year ago

Text

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 7: Rogue Desire

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.5k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

The library is dim except for the oil lamp casting its snug ochre radiance, illuminating the page you’re reading. The window here is forever shuttered and draped to keep the sun off the assorted books and tomes, making you feel safe. Well, as safe as you can feel while sharing quarters with Astarion. Your fingers rub the harsh, bumpy surface of the book's old cover as your eyes feast on page after page.

“What are you reading?”

You close the book momentarily to let Astarion get a look at the cover.

“Ah,” he smiles, “I lent you that some time ago. Did I not?”

You nod, “I never got to finish it.”

Astarion lays on the lounge beside you, “Well, what do you think of it so far?”

You cock your brow at him, and your nose crinkles, “It doesn’t exactly strike me as the type of book you would read.”

He laughs, “Why’s that?”

“It’s well written, and there are gory bits, but it seems to boil down to a love story, and I can’t imagine you reading romance.”

“Do you think me incapable of romance, my dear? I was romancing people before you were alive.”

You smirk at him, “I’m positive you can feign romance exuberantly. I can’t imagine you being truly romantic, though.”

He waves dismissively, “What’s the difference? It’s all a show, isn’t it?”

“I suppose, but one has true feelings behind it, which makes it romantic. It’s not the “show,” as you say.”

He chuckles, “This is starting to sound an awful lot like a challenge, and I do love a good challenge.”

You frown, “I’m sure Elowyn would love a demonstration.”

He scoffs, “You said there must be true feelings behind it.”

What does that mean?

Does he even feel anything anymore?

Questions you want to ask him but choose not to because you don’t want to know the answers.

Astarion looks around the room, “Why do you read in here all the time? I thought you would be out in the courtyard, or at least in a room with a window. You used to love the sun,” he muses with a dreamy, faraway guise.

“I liked the sun. No one loves the sun more than you do."

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” his mouth twitches, “You and I used to watch the sunrise together often.”

“That was before,” you sigh at the memories, “This is now.”

He looks around anxiously while rubbing his hands together, “We could again if you wanted to.”

“I’m frightened that you will get angry with me, and in that rage, you’ll cease protecting me,” you retort bluntly.

His brows furrow with a resigned sigh, “Do you think you will ever trust me again?”

“Do you want me to?”

He sits upright and looks at you intensely, “Indeed, I do.”

Why? Why does it matter to him if I trust him or not?

Trust is a luxury I can’t afford.

“You have your work cut out for you then.”

He chuckles, “It’s a good thing we have an eternity ahead of us.”

Unless you kill me.

Biting your tongue, you swallow that retort. Astarion has been remarkably pleasant for several days and seems more himself than you can recall since he became the Vampire Ascendant. You’re not keen on upsetting him for something so silly and becoming reacquainted with the version of him that lurks in his ire.

“Why did you recommend the book to me?”

He glowers at you playfully, “I have no doubt you will figure it out sooner or later.”

So, there is a reason.

“You could just tell me,” you purr.

“Darling, where is the fun in that?”

Astarion stands and kisses the top of your head. Running his finger along the books, he picks one, “I will be reading in the courtyard, in the sun I love so much according to you, if you would like to join.”

You give him a curt nod, but once he’s left the room, a small smile meanders its way across your lips. Astarion having the ability to walk in the sun safely for the rest of his days after living centuries in the dark was one of the reasons you had helped him with the ritual. You didn’t want to be the one to damn him to an eternity of darkness as a spawn. As far as reasons go, you know it wasn’t a good one compared to the cost, but what’s done is done, and the reasons, good or bad, don’t matter now.

Letting your eyes roam the page of text, you try to distract yourself with the story, but your mind keeps drifting to Astarion, the courtyard, and the sun. Astarion asking if you could ever trust him again confuses you, and admitting he wants you to only mystifies you further.

Why does he want or care about my trust?

Could I ever trust him again?

You’re surprised by how much you long to trust him again. There had been significant trust between you at one point, but that utter conviction got you to this spot. When Astarion had Cazador kneeling before him, he said he knew what he was doing and asked you to trust him, and you did so blindly. Thus, assisting in turning him into whatever it is he is now.

I should have known better.

Closing your book, you descend the staircase on shaky legs. The mere thought of going and sitting in the sun still strikes terror into you. You’re still adjusting to having windows again. More than once, Astarion has caught you attempting to slink past the window, staying out of the sun as much as possible, or just standing there staring at it apprehensively.

He would giggle at you and make his silly, taunting quips, but he would also comfort you and tell you that you were safe with him, at least when it came to the sun.

As long as he’s not angry.

The door to the courtyard is open, and the bright mid-morning sun washes over the dark wooden flooring. Astarion sits on a bench bathed in the golden light, eyes down, skimming the page of the tome. He looks at ease and happy, and you can’t help but smile to yourself and cherish that view. Glancing at the rays warming the floor, you swallow your growing doubt.

Trust has to start somewhere. He will have no chance if I never give him one.

“You’re safe, sweetheart,” he coos without looking up from the page.

“Promise?”

Astarion stands, puts the book down and comes to the doorway with a tender smile, holding his hand out to you, “I promise. Come.”

Biting your lower lip, you slide your hand into his. Astarion coercers your body to move forward out into the courtyard with gentle force. Paving stones warm your bare feet as they pad along the ground, and the sun’s heat permeates your cold skin.

This is the first time you’ve seen this place in daylight, and it looks substantially less foreboding. At night, the courtyard’s high stone walls cause it to appear small and closed off. In this light, it seems open and pleasant.

A well-groomed tree towers off in one corner, providing some shade. The green leaves flutter in the slight breeze. Another bench sits under the willowy branches.

Astarion gently twists your arm, forcing you to pirouette as if you were dancing an elegant courtly dance, and you giggle at his playfulness.

He rests his forehead against yours, “Thank you for trusting me.”

Gods, he’s so close.

As it often does around him, your ability to be rational and keep yourself grounded slips at his proximity. You can hear his heart beating and smell the bergamot, rosemary, and a hint of aged brandy you’ve come to love.

You’ve felt frozen inside, numb, for so long, but his touch reawakens your purpose and thaws the ice that has solidified your fiery spirit and kept it subdued in the void his absence left.

“I missed you, you know. When you left,” he whispers.

Tears threaten to spring to your eyes at the authentic vulnerability, and your hands grasp Astarion’s arms. Inhaling a long, shuddering breath, you attempt to regain the plummeting authority over your body.

Astarion holds your waist tenderly with the same firm protectiveness you remember. You keep trying to convince yourself the man you loved died that night, that Astarion is gone, but here he is, standing before you.

Is this him, though? I still don’t know.

Astarion uses his index finger to bring your eyes to the vivid scarlet of his, which are staring at you with a searing ardour. You’re paralyzed by that gaze, carried away by the deluge of instinct and longing coalescing.

“Can I kiss you, Astarion?”

He smirks, “Little love, I thought you would never ask.”

His lips meet yours, and your eyes flutter shut. Your body wilts into his as if drawn in by his gravitational pull. You let yourself drown in him. Your senses scatter, and you’re swept up in his undertow.

His tongue persuades your lips to part, and he skillfully traverses your mouth. You purposefully find one of his fangs, and you run it delicately over your tongue, causing a shallow wound that weeps blood. He growls as the taste of you detonates his hungering desire.

“Fuck,” he groans, “I love it when you do that."

You smile against his lips. You know it drives him crazy, and that’s precisely the point. You want to fill him with you; claim him as he has claimed you. You want him to be addicted to you so he can think of no one else.

Astarion bucks his hips into you, and you grind yourself against his hard length greedily. You clench at the delicious friction against your swelling flesh and whimper demandingly. A deep growl in his chest vibrates against you as his hand ravenously roams over the contours of your body.

You let your splayed hand coast from the taut muscles of his abdomen to his chest lazily, savouring his silky, soft skin on your fingertips. His chest heaves under your hand, and you can feel the rapid, excited thumping of his heart.

Astarion grabs your thighs and hauls you up. Reflexively, you wrap your legs around his hips, securing yourself to him.

“Perhaps we should take this indoors, yes?”

You giggle, “Astarion, are you shy? I thought you enjoyed being the centre of attention.”

He kisses your neck, “I plan to make you scream my name until your throat is hoarse. Would you like everyone to hear your wanton incoherent cries?”

Even though you’re more than accustomed to his alluring taunts, you still feel the heat rising to your face. Thankfully, you’re dead, and your skin can’t redden.

“And if I did? Perhaps they would learn something,” you tease flirtatiously.

He chuckles while putting you down once you’re safely hidden in the manor, “Darling, the prudes of the upper city would surely perish on the spot if they saw what I’m about to do to you.”

Gods, yes.

Your walls spasm and clench at the carnal depravity that courses through your thoughts in vivid splendour. You tug his shirt out of his breeches, and he pulls it off, anticipating your request. His fingers undo the ties of your shirt, and he slips it off. Those hooded red eyes brimming with lust consume the sight of you gluttonously.

“You’re perfect,” he purrs deeply.

Your chest swells and falls as you pant purposeless air. For so long, you’ve felt fear, loneliness, hunger or nothing at all, but right now, you’re high on the love and desire overflowing in you, and you refuse to give it up.

You throw yourself at him in desperation to keep this moment alive. His lips meet yours with the same dire need. Your fingers curl into the white curls at the nap of his neck while your other hand undoes the ties that keep his pants secured to his waist.

His thumb traces the lower curve of your breast, and you groan, feeling your nipple already harden in anticipation of his touch. His fingers graze the sensitive peak. Your body quivers, nerves humming as liquid lightning rolls down your spine, and your clit pulses in tempo with his teasing fingers.

“Needy thing, aren’t you? How long has it been since you’ve been touched, tasted?"

You were the last one to touch me.

This isn’t something you would like to admit to him. You don’t want him to know how hopelessly in love and devoted you are to him. Astarion knows love, and he knows how to play with it, and you don’t want to give him more ammunition to play with you like a toy.

Reaching into his pants, your fingers find them wet with pre-cum, and your mouth waters at the thought of tasting him again. You grasp his cock, and his hips jerk with a panting grunt.

“Needy thing, aren’t you,” you taunt mockingly.

His eyes narrow, hypnotizing and brimming with lust, “I know you’re skirting around the question, darling.”

Astarion’s fingers glide past your waistband and trail down in an anguishing slow progression that makes a whine slip from your lips. He parts your wet folds, skillfully avoiding the bundle of nerves that is howling for his touch.

“Hells,” he kisses your cheek, whispering in your ear, “I bet they didn’t make you this wet.”

You sag into him and sigh, “Astarion…”

He teases your swollen flesh, circling the aching border, “Did they make your body shake with need?”

The first direct touch sends a shockwave rocketing through you, and you whimper, knees buckling. You are forced to let go of your grasp on his cock and secure yourself by holding onto his arms. Astarion smirks proudly. The pads of his fingers stoke and massage, and you moan loudly. The coiling tension builds and intensifies as his tempo does.

A knock on the door startles you, and you try to jump away from him, but his arm wraps around your waist, holding you in a steadfast grip.

“Ignore it,” he barks, “we’re busy.”

Another hammering rap on the door makes Astarion growl in frustration. His brow pinches in a dark scowl.

A pleading voice muffled by the door arises, “Master Ancunin! Master Ancunin!”

Pulling away from him, your body mewls in dejected objection at the discontinuation of sensation, “I think it’s for you.”

He groans and grins seductively at you as he sucks your arousal off his fingers, and you choke in a quick breath.

“As sweet as ever, my dear. My memories did not do you justice.”

The banging on the door resounds through the manor again with the same pleading shrieks from outside. Astarion rolls his eyes while he does up the ties of his pants. Not bothering to put his shirt back on, he moves to answer the door. You take quick steps backward to remain out of sight of the visitor.

“What is it?” Astarion sneers.

“Master Ancunin. Please forgive my intrusion, but your presence is urgently required.”

“We are not set to convene until tomorrow night,” Astarion snarls with an intensely domineering inflection.

“I know, saer. I am dreadfully sorry about this violation. I throw myself at your mercy.”

Astarion sighs, “And what exactly is so urgent?”

The man’s voice hushes significantly, and you can only catch small snippets here and there, but not enough to put together what’s happening that seems to require Astarion’s attention immediately.

“WHAT?” Astarion thunders.

Despite the booming shout, the intonation in his voice is dispassionate and unexpressive. You slink further back, knowing that whatever he was told has provoked his rage.

“Go. I will be there momentarily,” he slams the door harshly, cursing under his breath, “Fuck!”

Glancing around the room, you try to find a place to hide from him. You could go back into the courtyard, but if he’s angry and he decides you’re an easy target to take it out on, he might just let you burn. The stairs to your room lay too far away and would mean crossing paths with him.

Astarion turns the corner and jumps as if surprised to see you there. His eyes meet your face, and you’re relieved the crimson pools remain warm with liquid affection.

He must see the terror illustrated on your face because he frowns sadly, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You’re angry.”

He nods curtly, “Yes, but I am me, for now - you have nothing to fear.”

You gulp, “For now.”

Astarion runs his fingers through his hair. Whatever that man told him, it agitated him significantly.

He clears his throat, “I must go deal with this.”

He bounds up the stairs quickly to his room and must dress at a breakneck pace because he returns rapidly, fully dressed in his overelaborate coat, looking mouth-wateringly dashing.

Astarion heads for the door and tugs it open but hesitates, pivots and takes long strides toward you. Reflexively, you step back, frightened that the anger won.

Astarion kisses your forehead and the back of your hand, “I will try to be back for your lesson tonight.”

You nod, “It’s okay if you aren’t. Be careful, Astarion.”

He smiles, “As you wish, my love.”

Once Astarion is gone, you quickly run around and close all the heavy curtains, plummeting the manor into darkness. Sitting on the floor with your back against your bed, you close your eyes and reprimand yourself for letting things go so far.

Your role here is to try and figure out what’s ailing him and see if you can help him remedy it, not to continue getting closer to him, falling more in love with him.

If that’s even possible.

You wonder, though, if, by some miracle, you can find a way to conserve whatever remains of the old Astarion. Would you want to be with him then, or has the damage been done, and your relationship is doomed and wrecked beyond repair? Could you ever trust him again?

Gale is out looking for the Wish spell for you, but you ponder if you could use it to save Astarion from whatever evil plagues him. Could it be used to restore him to his previous self completely? Could it be used to turn back Ascension entirely? Would you do that to him even if it could?

Would I give up my one chance to be alive again if it meant restoring him?

You need to gather more information on what’s ailing Astarion. As well as the capabilities and limitations of the Wish spell, but you can’t tell Gale or Shadowheart that your motivations may have changed.

Where is Withers when I need him? He knew everything there was to know about souls.

You have a theory about what happens to Astarion, but it needs to be confirmed. You wonder if the Rite may have stripped away some of his soul, whether unintended or on purpose, and now the soulless part of him wars with the version that still retains the remaining bit of his soul, each contending against the other, vying for control.

You imagine the only way to figure this out is by talking to someone who deals in souls, but who? You’re still trying to work it all out.

With Astarion gone, you can finally let yourself get some much-needed rest. Laying down on your bed, you succumb quickly to your meditative state and slip into the tributary of your trance.

The walls of the Crimson Palace moan as they settle, cooling off after the hot sun beating down on them. You’ve been locked in your room all day, and those solemn whines are the only indicator you have of time.

The door to your bedroom snaps open, but you don’t even bother to look. You’re lying in bed motionless, staring at the ceiling of your pitch-black room as you have been doing since he locked you in here in the first place. Astarion keeps you corralled in here like an animal. You are not to leave without his approval, and if you do, the consequences are dire.

“My consort,” he drawls as he lights a candle.

“What do you want,” you say monotone.

“Get dressed, darling. I have need of you tonight.”

“No, thank you.”

“This is not a request,” he sneers, “You will come.”

“What are you going to do? Drag me there?”

“Oh, pet, I will do so much worse.”

“I’m not going,” you mutter scornfully.

Astarion grabs you harshly by the arm and drags you down the hall to the kennels, “You do remember this room, yes? Do not make me put you in here, strap you to that device, and teach you why you will obey me.”

He drags you back to your room as you pull and fight him with everything you have, but he merely laughs at your pathetic attempts. He throws you onto your bed.

“Get dressed,” he commands, “Wear the blue one I have laid out for you. We are going to a party, my treasure.”

Your fingers linger over the silky blue material he laid out for you. The dress is glamorous, you suppose, but nothing you would ordinarily adorn. The gown is far too low in the front and back and leaves very little to the imagination.

Whatever he has planned for you tonight, you don’t want to know, but if you disobey, he will put you in the kennels, and you don’t want to visit that place again.

You pull the dress on. The neckline hangs down below your belly button, and the back is just as low. A long slit up one side allows a view of your leg. You cringe at the idea of wearing something like this in public.

Astarion returns promptly, dressed lavishly and looking far too handsome, “You look exquisite. This will do perfectly.”

Astarion escorts you to some overly sumptuous estate in the upper city. The ballroom is packed full of the city’s nobles and high-ranking officials.

“Remember to smile, pet. They need to believe we’re a happy couple."

You scoff at him, “I don’t care what they think.”

Astarion grabs your face harshly, “You WILL smile, or you will be punished. Do I make myself clear?”

You rip your face out of his hand and glower at him, “Fuck you.”

"Maybe if you’re a very good girl tonight, I will permit it.”

He introduces himself around the room, using his practiced manipulations to make connections, but he never introduces you unless someone pays you any attention, which they generally don’t. The only attention they pay is practically undressing you with their ogling eyes, and it makes your skin crawl.

Astarion directs you to a quiet side of the room, “Do you see that man in the maroon jacket?”

“What about him?”

Astarion grins sadistically, “I need you to go over there and distract him by any means necessary.”

You gasp, “Excuse me. What?”

He snickers, “You will distract him by any means necessary. Take him to a bed for all I care, as long as you get him out of the way.”

He wants me to do what?

“I will not!”

You yell it loud enough to gain the attention of some of the partygoers nearby, who give you awkward glances.

Astarion scowls at you, “That was very naughty, pet. Go now, do as I ask, and I will consider letting that little display slide.”

If I refuse, it’s the kennels.

You lean close to him and whisper, “If you try and make me do that, I’m going to make a big scene and embarrass you in front of all your new, very important friends.”

He leers at you threateningly, “Last chance.”

I choose the kennels over my body offered in exchange for whatever he’s planning.

You scream, loud and resounding, “No!”

The high pitch of your voice echoes through the entire room, thanks in part to the absurdly high ceilings. The once loud laughter and voices cut off into an awkward, hushed silence as all eyes in the room snap to you and Astarion.

Astarion plays it off perfectly with a warm smile, “Of course, my love. If you do not wish to go, we won’t.”

He’s going to have to do damage control later.

Astarion grabs your hand and squeezes it so hard you whimper while he walks you out of that damn party with the excuse that you are not feeling well. He trembles with anger, and you know you’re in for it when he gets you back to the kennels.

Back in the safety of the Crimson Palace, you burn him slightly and try to run to your room, though you know it’s little use. He disperses into gas and appears in front of you before you can make it even halfway there.

He grabs you, screaming in your face, “You dreadful little wretch! Now, I am forced to have to teach you a lesson.”

“Astarion, stop. You don’t have to do anything!”

He laughs like someone deranged, “How else will you learn to obey?”

“I will never obey,” you spit hatefully.

“We will see about that, my unruly, little spawn.”

He drags you through the halls while you scream, cry and beg him to stop. Your sandals skid across the wooden floor, shrieking as your feet try to find purchase.

The kennels smell like fetid blood, and you cringe as the scent assaults your nostrils. Astarion chains you to the wall, so you have no choice but to stand while he strips you bare.

He laughs menacingly, “You will learn to obey me, my consort.”

Astarion’s crazed laughing resonates through the room as he blows out all the candles, submerging you in pure, inky darkness. The door closes, locks and you’re left in silence.

You know you could get yourself out of these chains, out of this room, but the consequences if you do would be far more dire than being left in this miserable place naked and alone.

If you spend days, weeks or months isolated, starving, and stripped in the dark, you have no idea.

The sound of a beating heart starts to pulse on the outskirts of your trance, and the side of your bed depresses, rousing you from the memory. Your pillow is damp from tears shed as you were forced to relive that barbarity.

“It’s just a dream,” Astarion soothes, rubbing your arm.

No, a memory.

Does he even remember doing that or the many other similar atrocities he committed against you? If he does, he’s made no indication of it. One day, you will have to ask him, but you don’t feel like exploring that particular abyss of suffering with him right now.

You nod, “Yeah, just a dream.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” Astarion glances at the wet spot on your pillow, “It seems to have upset you.”

“No, that’s not necessary. Did you deal with whatever you were summoned for, Master Ancunin?"

He smirks at your teasing, “In a manner of speaking, I suppose I did.”

That doesn’t sound good.

“You killed someone, didn’t you?”

He shakes his head and shrugs, “Perhaps multiple people. I cannot be sure."

“You don’t remember?”

He stares at his hands, “No. More often than not, I recall nothing.”

Does that mean he doesn’t recollect the kennels or the other horrid things he did to me?

“You lost yourself again?”

He sighs, running his hand over his face, “I think so.”

Glancing at his clothes, you register that he’s not wearing the same thing he left in, “You changed?”

“I did.”

He must have been drenched in blood if he bathed and changed before coming home.

“Are you okay right now, or should I be throwing myself at you?”

He giggles, but it has a crestfallen ring, “You can always throw yourself at me, love. But I’m fine. I’m not angry anymore.”

You wrap him in an embrace anyway. His demeanour is melancholic and subdued, and you wonder just what in the nine Hells happened when he was out to have him coming home so miserable.

Astarion leans into you, the corner of his mouth quirking in a small smile and sighs, “Thank you. Should we go out and continue your lessons?”

You rest your chin on his shoulder, “I am rather hungry.”

He pats your leg, “Well, we can’t have that, can we? Get dressed and meet me downstairs.”

The forest is tranquil, with nothing but a light wind rustling the canopy of the lanky trees. A crescent moon hangs high in the sky, but not much of its light makes it to the ground, making the colours of the forest appear more subdued than usual.

“Gods,” Astarion clicks his tongue disapprovingly, “your footwork is truly an atrocity.”

You roll your eyes at him, groaning, “I’m trying!”

“If this is you trying, darling, the realm will end before I can even teach you this.”

“Well, maybe if I had a better teacher!”

He inspects his nails absently, “You’re more than welcome to try and find a more adequate educator.”

Ugh.

“Can you just tell me what I’m doing wrong?”

“It would be shorter to list the things you’re doing right,” he quips.

“Astarion!”

He strolls a slow circle around you with his fingers on his chin. His studious gaze is so intense you can virtually feel his eyes stroking your skin. Shadows skirt handsomely, if a little forebodingly, across the angular planes of his face.

You watch him heedfully, eyes tracking his course as he stalks around you. You’re always on alert with him. It’s hard to know what will set him off and what won’t, and you can’t afford to be caught off guard. Even so, a part of you luxuriates in these moments with him, and you admonish yourself for it.

“Where did I say you should keep most of your weight?”

“In my heels.”

“Ah, so you have learned something,” he tuts, “and where is your weight now?”

Your eyes cast heavenward, and you sigh, “I’m guessing not in my heels.”

“Correct. You’re tottering on your toes. Again,” he scolds, “Shift your weight. You’ll have far superior balance.”

You focus on your body and how it’s positioned. Your centre of gravity is displaced, and you’re rocking slightly from your toes to the balls of your feet and back like a blade of grass in a gentle wind. With effort, you manage to transfer your weight into your heels. The stance feels unnatural to you, and you struggle to keep yourself in it.

“Good girl,” he purrs, “Now, lower your hips. You’re still standing too tall. Everything will see you coming a mile away.”

The muscles of your thighs groan as you try to descend further into the crouch. You’ve been at this for hours, and your body is starting to drone fatigue.

“Lower.”

“Hells, Astarion! How much lower?”

Astarion crouches behind you and places his hands on your hips. Applying a gentle force, he pushes you further into the crouch. The muscles in your legs begin to twitch and tremble, and your balance starts to wobble.

He rises and walks around you again before crouching down in front of you with a cocked brow, “You’re very unsteady.”

Astarion reaches out and pushes your shoulder, causing you to overcorrect and fall forward onto him, knocking him over in the process. Something tells you he allowed you to push him flat to his back on the ground. He could have easily moved out of the way and watched your face grind into the earth.

Regardless, you find yourself sprawled out on top of him while you laugh loudly.

“Are all Sorcerers this unlawfully graceless?”

You smirk, “Do all Rogues possess such a smart mouth?”

He lays his head on the grassy ground and rolls his eyes at you with a grin, “Sassy girl.”

You move to push yourself up, but his arm comes around your waist, bracing you to him, and Astarion pushes the hair out of your eyes, “I really did miss you when you were gone, you know.”

Can I believe him? Can I afford to let myself believe him?

You swallow your rising sorrow, “Do you still feel emotions, Astarion?”

His vivid scarlet eyes impale you and imbue you with a profound solace that spreads through your body like a cascading wave of warmth, prickling your skin.

“You make me feel,” Astarion’s sombre, earnest intonation causes a breath to hitch in your throat.

Feel what - Obsession? Possession? Dominance? You want to ask him, but you don’t, unsure if you’re ready to hear the answer.

His thumb traces your lower lip, and that familiar rush of electricity jolts through your body and twists into your stomach. You trace his jaw with your index finger, leaning in and ghosting the velvety smoothness of his lips with your own.

Gods. I’m losing it.

Astarion presses into your invitation, and your lips mould together, charged with impassioned longing. His hand meanders into the back of your shirt, and you bask in the lazy, comforting strokes of his fingers against your skin. Using your tongue, you coax his mouth open, and he groans, giving you the access you crave.

You can feel your walls spasm and flutter eagerly, silently imploring him to fill you. Gyrating your hips into his bulging erection, he hisses as your swollen, aching clit, gorges on the mouthwatering friction. You whimper against him as your body cries for the release you were denied earlier.

Your eyes pop open momentarily and take in the forest that surrounds you. Memories of the forest the first time rush forward, and you push yourself back abruptly.

Astarion sits upright quickly and scans the surroundings, confused with your retreat, “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Not here,” you pant.

His brows furrow for a second, and he looks around. Comprehension eases his features, “Oh, come now, was I that bad in the forest last time?” he pouts dramatically, “I didn’t hear any complaints at the time.”

“Bad?” You shake your head, “No, Astarion. Those memories are sad.”

His brow cocks, “Sad?”

You run your fingers through your hair, “I should have known what you were up to.”

Once it rolls off your tongue, you wonder if you will regret telling him this. You’ve carried this guilt around since he confessed in the first place. He manipulated you because he felt he had to secure your devotion, thus establishing his safety.

If only you had been less infatuated with him, you might have seen through that guise and been able to stop him from putting himself through that again.

Astarion stands, concern creasing his face, “Love-”

I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.

You cut him off, “Not here, Astarion.”

He nods curtly, and you begin the walk back to the estate. Once you get to the Lower City, Astarion offers you his hand to hold. It comforts you that he will stop you if you try to hurt someone. You’re not sure if he does it for your benefit or his. After all, if you did lose it and kill someone, you could end up exposing him, a risk he is unlikely to take.

The city streets are mostly quiet at this hour. The only sound you hear is your footsteps thwacking on the rigid ground until a random heartbeat starts repeating in your ears. You don’t give it much thought until her voice drifts out of the darkness. You recognize that repulsively sweet, harmonic tone.

“Astarion, darling! It’s been ages!”

Elowyn.

The woman saunters from the outdoor sitting area of a nearby inn. Her mulberry hair is pulled back, revealing her dainty face and ever-so-increasingly tempting neck. She wears a green dress that makes the sapphire of her eyes stand out.

What is she even doing out here at this time?

You clench your jaw. Something is off about her, but you can’t quite put your finger on what. She has an air about her that makes your skin crawl, but it could be the utter loathing you feel for her playing tricks on you.

Astarion smiles pleasantly, “Elowyn. How lovely to see you.”

Elowyn’s eyes fall to your hand clasping his, and her eyebrows pull down into a slight, barely noticeable scowl. She leans in close, puts her hand on his chest and kisses his cheek, lingering there for far too long.

Your palms warm, and your muscles tense as your jealousy ignites the raging inferno of your temper. Elowyn smiles at you sweetly, but a hint of hostility in her eyes makes you want to relieve her of sight.

“How nice it is to see you again,” she grins brightly, “You appear to be in better shape than when I saw you last.”

Astarion’s brows pull down, “Better shape? My dear, whatever are you talking about?

Elowyn’s cordial laugh fills the air and makes you want to rip her vocal cords out, “Yes, last I saw her, she was quite drunk and heading to see you.”

Astarion thinks for a second and then chuckles, “Yes, she was quite drunk.”

He shoots you a glance and squeezes your hand, telling you to play along. You roll your eyes and scoff contemptuously as if you were going to inform this weasel anything about you or your life.

“She was quite rude to me that night, Astarion dear,” Elowyn sighs dramatically.

Is this bitch seriously trying to get Astarion to hurt me?

Will he?

He smirks dubiously, “Was she? How utterly awful.”

Elowyn pouts, “I do hope you will teach her a lesson. She threatened to kill me after all. She must learn respect.”

Respect? Her? HA! Never.

The notion is so entirely ridiculous that a snide snicker escapes your lips as your face contorts into a threatening grimace.

Astarion stares at her, scowling, “Watch yourself, Elowyn. Do not make me remind you of your place.”

Elowyn’s carefree demeanour falters to concern at the warning intonation of Astarion’s voice. She swallows hard and forces her dainty face to dress in an overjoyed smile, and she’s back to her usual flirtatious facade.

I wonder if she’s gotten him angry yet. If she has, how did she live through it?

Her hand is splayed on his chest, and she presses herself further into him, “I have missed you so. I came by the palace the other night to see if you wouldn’t like some company .”

Company? Ugh. As bad as entertainment.

You scoff at her loudly and try to pull out of Astarion’s grip, but he only holds on tighter.

You frown at him, “Let me go, Astarion. I wish to leave."

“No, you stay.”

“Let. Me. Go,” you growl threateningly.

This is not a request. It’s a command. You may pay dearly for taking this tone with him later, but right now, you don’t care; you would rather endure his wrath a thousand times over than spend another minute in the company of Elowyn.

Watching her put her hands all over him stokes the fire burning in your blood to unfathomable temperatures. As your fury increases, so does the likelihood that you reduce her to a pile of ash.

Why do I care so much?

I left him.

“It seems your pet spawn would like to give us some privacy. Let her go, my sweet Astarion.”

Pet spawn?

Thank you to everyone who reads/likes/comments/reblogs!

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

AO3 [Crossposted]

PS: I hate Elowyn - excuse me while I go break something to get over writing her.

#astarion x reader #ascended astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 fanfiction #astarion #bg3 #astarion x you #astarion smut #fangs and fractured hearts

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