#silence and squall

[beneathshadedbower]

silence & squall.

[grieverled-moved]

HE'D ALWAYS MADE IT WELL KNOWN TO THE MAN HIMSELF THAT HE WAS SOMEONE WHO WAS HARD TO READ. Practically a walking surprise, the gun-blader could hardly say whatever he'd come to expect from him was ever accurate or played out how he'd thought it should've. Usually, he had a heavy handle on that particular skill of his, honing it as sharp as he'd managed to be able to get an perfect read on someone long before he'd approached so he could anticipate what action to take next.

In his line of work, being able to make such a call well in advance held the difference between life & death, & yet . . . here the frustrating bastard was yet again proving that for all his self-perceived skill in this field, for all the things he'd seen or claimed he had — he still couldn't anticipate just who Zack Fair was, what it was he'd wanted, or whether his intentions were completely pure with no malicious motives.

Every bone in his body wants to trust him, but given his past, all he'd seen . . . it's a hard task to accomplish. In his opinion, there was no such thing as a good man — but Fair came scarily close. But it'd never upset the other. No, instead, the optimistic, forever sunny First would always reassure him that whatever answer Squall's given when he did ask him anything, it was fine in the end. While many SOLDIER's were hardheaded, stubborn, bearing their own sort of inflated pride at even making it within these ranks, Zack carried himself differently in a way that couldn't help but lure his attention.

He was genuine. Honest in his empathy, while ensuring his attitude was one that never harmed, always did his best to uplift those in his presence & under his care.

That sort of gentle tenderness was rarely seen by the Turk, enough that once he’s face to face with it for as long as he had been, getting to know the other man bit by bit, it stuns him frozen solid when the other reaches over to brush a bit of his dangling bangs from his eyes, slow as gloved fingers tuck the odd strands behind an ear more securely — he isn’t sure just how to react, what he’s supposed to do. He moves like he’s going to startle him, & maybe it’s wise he is, because Squall’s heartbeat is pacing so loud it’s hard to think logically, breath curiously catching in his throat as he glances up to watch the strange man with wide, questioning eyes.

His pen ceases its glide along the pages it scrawls atop, grip tightening in some budding anticipation, some fear, wielding it like a weapon if only for comforts sake. When Fair moves his hand to hover, a canopy ready to cradle the curved edge of his jaw in the open side of his palm, Squall exhales through his nose with a slow swallow.

❝ . . . Can I? ❞

The bastard doesn’t even need to ask.

*Send “...Can I?” for my muses reaction to yours asking to kiss them. ➤ @myristicisms [ ; ] “ Can I…? ”

[emcads]

ship tag drop.

[foldingfittedsheets]

My beloved wife is adding me onto a savings account. We put all my info into the website which then logged us out. When we tried to log back in it locked the account.

Simultaneously Korben is being an absolute menace and attacking us because we have not dispensed more delicious crunch ‘ems.

So my wife calls customer support to be like, “Hey, my account is locked.”

While talking to the lady on the phone they put the call on speakerphone.

In a lull I yelped loudly, wailing at a pitch to convince Korben that he had committed bodily harm to me and he needed to be gentler.

The lady on the phone very clearly heard me squalling. Into the silence she quietly said, “I do need to inform you that this call will be monitored and recorded….”

“It’s our cat! The cat is being naughty, everything is fine!!!”

“Oh! Okay, that’s fine then.”

[frannyzooey]

Short Days, Long Nights: 18

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: extremely soft

A/N: An epilogue to end our story, I'll reblog later with all of my thank yous. For now, this final chapter is dedicated to @mrsmando ❤ and her big giant heart, for whom this story wouldn't exist without.

Series Masterlist

-

FIVE YEARS LATER 

“Honey?”

Placing his keys on the table in the entryway, Joel tilts his head to the side and listens. Silence greets him instead, but it’s a warm one. Peaceful.  

Sunlight streams through the open windows in the living room, and he walks through the beams of soft light towards the back of the house, passing through a scene of domestic disarray: a blanket tossed over the couch, toys scattered on the living room floor, small shoes that he bartered for last week kicked off and tossed on the stairs. Bending down to scoop them up with a sigh, he carries them into the kitchen. Placing them on the table, he looks around for any sight of you. 

The backdoor ajar, he heads into the backyard. 

“Honey?”

“Yea?”

Calling to him from the middle of the garden, he spots you with a smile – right as a small body crashes through the bushes with a shriek. Running straight for him, Joel automatically holds his hands out to catch June, but she looks behind her and screams, dodging his reach instead. Another child comes through and then another; a game of tag that’s crossed borders between the houses. 

“Hey! Stop runnin’ through! Just go around em’!”

You stand from your place in the garden, picking your way carefully through the sprouting plants. Your face and shoulders come into view first, and then your stomach – the soft swell only just beginning to show. At the sight of it, he visibly softens and comes over to help you, lending you his hand. 

“You sound just like a cranky old man,” you tease, brushing the dirt from your knees. Looking up at him with a squint against the sun, you grin and mime shaking a fist. “Stay off my lawn!”

“Well I am an old man,” he says wryly, defending himself. “Besides, all I need is for a kid to get hurt bustin’ through those bushes like that.”

He looks over his shoulder and surveys the damage for a moment; the squall of children slightly muted from the front yard. Bringing his eyes back to you, he steps closer and reaches for your bump, splaying his touch over it. 

“How we feelin’ today?”

“Oh god,” you answer with a sigh. “Tired.” 

Letting your head drop forward, you rest it on his shoulder. His hands glide smoothly from your stomach to your hips, encouraging you to lean into him and you do, pressing your cheek against his chest. Warmth radiates through the material of his shirt, and you close your eyes and breathe him in. Sunshine, sweat, the faint smell of the stables and the horse he rode today while on patrol lingers in the fabric, and your body relaxes against his. 

“How was your day?” you murmur. 

“Good. Tommy n’ Maria wanna know if we can come over for dinner this week. Guess she’s been askin’ for that dessert you made last time, wants to know if you can bring it over again. What was it called?”

“Brown sugar pie.” You burrow even closer against him, and his arms slip around your back in an embrace. 

“That’s the one.”

“I think I have everything I need for it. I can do that.”

“I told him I would let em’ know tomorrow. Got patrol with him again at dawn.”

You look up at him with a pout. “So early again?”

He says nothing, bending to press his mouth to your forehead. 

“I miss you in bed when you leave so early in the morning.”

His kiss drops lower, catching your nose.  

“You know I like curling up next to you. You’re like a human furnace.”

The edge of his mouth lifts. “I know, I like it too. But duty calls and all that.”

Presenting your lips for a kiss, he grants a lingering, full press of his mouth to yours and then pulls back. 

“You need me to carry anything into the house?”

“I don’t need that kind of help just yet,” you reply. 

He puts his hands up in defense with a smirk, taking a step back. “Just askin’”.

You wave him away, turning back towards the garden and he turns to head into the house, calling over his shoulder. 

“I’m gonna take a shower. Is he sleepin’ inside?”

“Yes,” you call back. “Try to be quiet when you go in. He kept me up most of the night, so I know he’s tired too.”

Nodding, he catches the screen door before it smacks the frame behind him and quietly heads upstairs.  

The bedroom is scattered with the same lived-in mess that downstairs is: the quilt thrown back over rumpled sheets, his sweats on the floor, a scatter of items on the dresser. Reaching over his head, he tugs his shirt off in a smooth motion, and tosses it on the bed before sitting down with a soft groan, bending forward to unlace his boots. 

His bare back is littered with long ago healed scars, one of them pulling tight across his flank. Sitting up with a stretch, he rubs at it with his hand, the muscle underneath sore from so much time spent in the saddle. Heading into the bathroom, he tosses the rest of his clothes into the laundry basket and steps into the shower, letting the water beat down on his lower back.

Four years in, and he still lets out a sigh of appreciation every time. 

Done and dressed in fresh clothes, he pads around the bedroom in bare feet gathering the rest of the laundry. A mix of his and yours, a threadbare blankie that needs washing, a sleeper on the dresser. Tossing it all into the basket, he goes into June’s room to do the same. 

Picking up the small guitar she plays with while he practices on his own, he places it carefully against the corner of the wall and gathers the laundry she’s left at the foot of the bed. The room reflects the girl herself: purple walls, drawings taped up on every surface, a butterfly suncatcher that hangs in her window scattering rainbows over the floor. 

Hearing muted babbles from the next room over, Joel grabs a shirt off the floor before heading over to the closed door. Opening it, he’s greeted with a grin. 

“Hey big guy," he says lowly, setting the basket on the floor, peering over the side of the crib. Built by Joel shortly after you arrived in Jackson, he thumbs at the mending it needs on the corner, thinking about how it’ll need to be moved into the bedroom in about five months. 

Still puffy with sleep, the boy’s face resembles yours so much that Joel’s eyes crinkle with affection. “You ready to get up?”

One hand holding the basket and the other one dangling to let his son grasp it, they slowly navigate the stairs together, entering the kitchen just as June comes through the back door with you right behind her. 

“Someone woke up, I see,” you coo, scooping the toddler into your arms. 

“You done playin’ tag, June Bug?” Joel asks, squeezing her shoulder. 

“Yea. The other kids had to go home for lunch. Can you make me something to eat, Daddy?”

Routine takes over, the afternoon sliding into the evening, twilight descending around the house. The picture window in the front is a beacon of light; figures moving around inside. Dinner, playtime, bathtime. A freshly bathed June and Henry – Hank, for Hank Williams – in Joel’s lap on the couch while he reads them a book, the gentle clink of dishes being washed sounding from the kitchen.

After the kids are tucked in for the night, you find him on the porch. Pulling his flannel tight around your torso, you take a seat next to him and he wordlessly drapes his arm across your shoulders, tucking you close. Handing him a well worn mug with an owl on it, he hums with approval when he discovers the whiskey inside. 

“I saw the midwife today,” you say, spreading your fingers over your bump. “She said everything looks good so far, and gave me something for the heartburn.”

“Is it still real bad?” he asks, and you nod. 

“She says that it’s a sign it’s gonna be a girl,” you smile at him, shrugging. “I don’t remember having it too bad with June though, so who knows.”

Watching your fingers smooth your shirt over the small bump with a rub, the action moves in time with the slow rocking of the bench. Another sip of whiskey, and Joel thinks about how much has changed between then and now: a fleeting image of your younger face, a picture of a river, a cabin just beyond.

The comfortable silence between the two of you lets his mind continue to roam, the memories coming in flashes: the trek across the country, the simultaneous relief and on-edge anxiety he felt when the walls surrounding Jackson first came into view. A familiar voice calling through the fog, one he thought he’d never hear again. Favoring his left side due to a deep gash still healing from an encounter with raiders, warmth slipped from his eyes as he clutched his brother tight, unwilling to let go. 

The same brother he saw just this morning, and who he’ll see again tomorrow. 

“You’re so different than the guy I left all those years ago,” his brother said later on, and Joel had said nothing, just lacing his fingers with yours. 

He is different. 

The years have softened him around the edges, or maybe the kids have. Or maybe it’s you.  

Relaxing into him, his cheek comes to rest on the top of your head.

“You tired, honey?”

“Yea.” The word slips out, the edges rounded. “But keep rocking me?”

Fireflies spark and dance in the air, the wisps of a song caught on the wind from the neighbor playing their radio next door. Your profile is highlighted with the softened light from inside, your cheeks plump with health and happiness and enough food, the frown lines from ever present anxiety smoothed away years ago. He gently collects the soft hair at your temple with a soothing stroke and your eyes flutter shut. 

His boot pushing off the wooden floorboards of the porch, he rocks and presses a kiss to the crown of your hair, letting the gratefulness pass through him. 

The old life feels like a dream, or maybe this is the dream – with a wife sitting safe and sound beside him, on the porch of a home filled with his children. 

Everything possible because you imagined it possible. Everything here because of you.

“Come on. Let’s go to bed,” he murmurs, and you nod, not moving. 

The edge of his mouth lifting in a smile, he tucks you in closer and rocks.

THE END

[batbux]

It's forty minutes into the latest state of the company press conference and Bruce has had to mute his mic entirely to avoid being turned into a meme AGAIN for sighing too much at his own event. For all that he's spent almost 20 years coaching his own children on not making scenes, he's really not much better. It's hot and he doesn't want to be here. His ribs hurt. He's tired. He's hungry. He's every excuse Dick or Jason have trotted out over the years.

(Tim understands company manners and can almost always be trusted to stick it out as long as he's allowed to vent his frustrations afterwards. He's recently taken to smashing ugly thrifted dishes. Stephanie and Damian have been collecting any ceramic not entirely pulverized and turning them into pavers for Alfred's garden.)

(Bruce gave up after Tim. He really only needs one kid to tag along to social events. If the kid start to outnumber him they start getting IDEAS.)

His distraction is why it takes two very rude repetitions of his name for him to take notice at the young reporter pushing his way to the front. Lucius stands, cutting off the project manager currently presenting and speaks into the mic.

"Please keep hold all questions until the end of the presentation, thank you."

"Mr. Wayne," the reporter tries again and Bruce waves away Lucius's further protests.

"Can I help you?" He asks, smiling with the full force of Brucie Wayne's charm behind it. It's been awhile since his last scandal, but if the press is inventing drama then it's less work for him.

The man holds up a photograph almost accusingly. He reeks of gotcha journalism.

Bruce squints towards him, unable to fully make out the contents of the photo. Dick may have been right when he gently suggested Bruce add glasses to his Brucie Wayne persona but that was a hill Bruce was still willing to die on. It was bad enough he had to have a prescription COWL.

"What do you have to say about the presence of your adopted son, Timothy Drake at the illegal mob in Robinson Park last Saturday?"

"Drake-Wayne," Bruce corrected because Tim hyphenated, damn it. He was the first of his children to let Bruce tag the Wayne name on and it mattered, damn it. "Wait do you mean-"

"How about reports of him kissing a man while there?"

"A blond man?" Bruce asked, finally giving up and crossing to take the photo for himself. "Oh. No, that's his boyfriend."

There was a beat of silence before Bruce realized his mistake. Just as the reporters began to squall, he dropped the blurry photo and began to speed walk off, phone suddenly in hand.

Through the podium's microphone, the gathered reporters heard one thing as Bruce evacuated the immediate vicinity.

"Tim? Don't be mad."

---

Despite Bruce's best efforts, he becomes a meme.

---

Immediately following the bombshell that Timothy Drake-Wayne had a boyfriend, social media blows up, clamoring for more information. They're ravenous for it, desperate. Tim doesn't have a personal social media presence but they stalk his professional accounts religiously. Bruce does have personal social media, but he maintains radio silence.

In the end, a Gotham based "influencer" stumbles across Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne getting donuts at Kosher Donuts and Co. Dick is personable, as always, and stops to speak with the young woman briefly.

"Yeah, Tim wasn't mad," he laughs when asked. "Just disappointed. But man, he knows how to milk it."

"Bruce is in the doghouse, huh?" she asks, full of false sympathy.

"A little bit," Dick says as Damian mumbles, "Titus would never share."

"But," Dick continued. "Tim's spun it so Bruce is on the hook for like, half a million in donations for local LGBT charities. Tim says it would hurt less if he sponsored a new shelter too, so that's something to look forward to."

"That's a lot of money! Where's it all going?"

"Oh you know," Dick says and gestures vaguely. "A lot of different programs."

"Yeah? Anything you personally want to see done with the funding?"

"Drag story time," Damian answers before Dick can. He looks intense. "But not for children. For dogs. In the shelter."

---

A day later, Tim breaks the silence. He goes live on Bruce's Instagram.

"So the problem was that Bruce thought the reporter was saying I was being unfaithful," Tim explains. "He totally forgot I wasn't out to everyone yet. Bruce was just worried because he's already told me if I break up with my boyfriend, he's not uninviting him from any future family events."

"Luckily, I was in fact just kissing my boyfriend at PRIDE. Just because people got shifty with the permits at the last second because of protestors doesn't make it an illegal mob. If you wanna hear about Wayne's and illegal mobs, talk to Dickie about his younger years. Nothing I do can compare."

[vetalopis]

it's true though. there's nothing like winter's wrath. and i say that as a hunter main

best super sound and why is it Winter's Wrath

[hyvyinjie]

𓂃ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒙𝒊𝒂༄˖°

ᴄᴀᴍᴀʀᴀᴅᴇʀɪᴇ | ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀʀᴀᴅɪꜱᴇ

ᴍ! ᴍᴜʟᴛɪ-ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ! x ɢɴ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆｡ ✧° ☁︎ come be lonely with me ✧˖°.

𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓃 𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹, a shadow that lingers long after the sun has set.

how curious that something so jagged and raw can be the only companion that remains.

'are you okay? '

a query like a wisp of smoke from a forgotten altar; bewitchingly deciptive, answered by a mirrored gilded lie—a guise that conceals the soul’s deepest lament, like a siren's song cloaking hidden depths.

are you okay?

of course you are.

even as the cold rain—an icy deluge that seeps into your very marrow pours. the unyielding cascade chilling you to the bone.

of course you're okay.

in a reality alive with fleeting visages and laughter like the songs of ancient bards, why does the heart still bear the burden of solitude?

people flit like restless shades, phantoms that never truly pierce the essence of your soul, leaving behind the bittersweet ache of a connection unformed.

it feels like a movie, doesn’t it?

a grand performance where you are but a spectator, watching your own life unfold on a stage where you aren’t the protagonist in your own tale.

'it'll get better!' they chirp, voices bright as the sun, yet their words seem hollow, echoing in the cavern of your heart.

but did they ever consider if it was advice you truly crave?

of course.

...not.

what you seek is a stillness, a presence that holds space for your unspoken truths.

someone who listens, even in silence.

someone like a scroll of old; their pages turned with unguarded ease, revealing tales laid bare for you to read.

'i love you.'

'i care about you.'

such phrases, tossed around like autumn leaves slowly losing their weight in the wind.

just because they slip from the tongue, do they resonate with the mind? the heart? the soul?

perhaps they do—but will one act on them when the tempest of need rages the fiercest?

the brutal truth is, the chance that words blossom into action is as rare as finding a rose in a desert.

yet, when one hurls, 'I hate you.' you feel the sting of authenticity in those words, a far more potent rawness louder than any hollow praise of love.

drip.

drip.

drip.

Is it really the rain that falls, or are those the tears you didn't know you were shedding?—

wait—you’re..crying?

the hand that reaches to brush your cheek feels like a mirage, a distant echo of touch, as if you are caressing a specter, even while knowing it is real.

'why the tears?'

ask that question, and though you don’t have the words, the tears continue to flow, a silent rebellion against a world that insists you should stay strong.

even more perplexing is the emptiness that accompanies your sorrow.

why does even crying feel so void of meaning?

"guess we're both hiding in the rain."

the effort to engage, especially with a stranger—feels monumental, leaving you unmoved, eyes cast downward, heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

everything feels exhausting.

yet, it’s clear he stands with you. and regardless of the umbrella in his hand, he never once offered shelter to himself or to you.

amidst the howling winds of a titanic uproar; a mere shadow of the inner maelstrom that echoed the battles of gods—you both stood, steadfast warriors against the squall’s wrath.

his gaze is drawn upwards, rapt in the skies as if searching for answers among the clouds—while yours remains tethered to the ground, too heavy to lift.

thunder rumbles, a low growl in the distance.

but it feels..strangely comforting now.

the stranger offers no more than his initial greeting—was it even a greeting?—and the silence stretches between you like a vast ocean.

you are two strays, wandering adrift in a deluge.

lonely together.

♡ ˚ · . 良い一日���お過ごしください、愛 !

[astarionposting]

I. [photoset] MOMENT'S SILENCE (COMMON TONGUE) ♡ Hozier

❝All reason flown, as God looks on in abject apathy;

ㅤㅤA squall, and all of me is a prayer in perfect piety;

ㅤㅤㅤA moment's silence when my baby puts her mouth on me. ❞

[gifset 18+]

i'll be doing dark justiciar shadowheart scene later tonight + some of astarion's mischievous smile (as per lovely anon's request)

[musubi-sama]

Thunderbolt and Lightning

An after-dinner walk fulfills one of your hidden fantasies. Where the electricity is both metaphor and diegetic.

“Ready? Did you grab your keys?”

“Yeah, but I’ll leave my phone at home,” you finish slipping on your shoes as you step out your front door being held by Suguru.

In the summer, you enjoyed evening walks around town, walking off the incredible meals you prepared together. Well, mostly Suguru prepared, and you were his doting sous chef. Sometimes stealing a cherry tomato here, or a pinch of freshly grated cheese there.

Tonight, the weather felt heavy, the humidity oppressive and the clouds dark and roiling. But you walked on, arm looped around Suguru’s arm, clutching him close. You could smell the remnants of dinner on him mingling with his earthy cologne. Butter chicken curry, thick and rich. Fresh toasted spices lingering through his midnight-black hair, spread across his back and shoulders.

Admiring the dying hydrangeas lining the path, a signal of the change into the peak of summer. The rainy season is dying, soon you’ll face endless days of brutal humidity and burning sun.

You turn and head towards the river. As the wind picks up, a small gust ruffles the edges of your skirt leading to a brief cheeky peek of your panties. You snap your free hand down to push the fabric snug against your legs. You see Suguru looking further down the path, an almost imperceptible smirk on his lips.

Of course, he enjoyed that brief glimpse. He wanted to slip his hand closer to you, but you reacted just a fraction faster than him.

The soft evening sun is hidden behind a few clouds, the last few shimmering rays smothered by the darkening skies.

A flash in the corner of your eye. You turn your head, expecting to see a camera, but there is no one in sight.

“Did you see something?” Suguru breaks the calm silence between you. Eyes ever soft, inquisitive. He gives your looped arm a gentle squeeze, taut muscles applying gentle pressure to you.

“I just thought I saw a flash. But it was just nothing,” you lean your head on his broad, strong arm and continue walking along. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

Another flash.

This time you’re certain you saw a flash, a crack in the sky.

“That was defin- “

You’re cut off by a faint, but low roll.

“Hmm,” Suguru frowns, looking up at the clouds with scrutiny.

“That was thunder?” you ask rhetorically, secretly wishing for more, you mask your anticipation while looking around the sky.

Suguru feels a few stray heavy drops hit his face and shoulders. Frowning at the inevitable, wishing he’d chosen to wear boots over his cloth tabi shoes.

“Let’s head back. I didn’t bring an umbrella,” Suguru starts on a wide U-turn, but you stop him. Eyes pleading, pulling him back towards the riverbank.

“What’s a little rain? Maybe it’ll feel better once the storm passes. I’m sure it’s just a little summer squall.”

Flashing your husband a wide smile, he buckles to your will, this moment no different than all the others.

More flashes, the coinciding thunderclaps getting louder and closer together.

“One Mississippi, two Mississippi, thr- “ you’re cut off from counting at the next thunder roll comes. “The previous one was five seconds, it’s getting closer!”

Suguru chuckles fondly at your childhood game.

The rain starts to pick up in earnest; warm, heavy, fat drops of rain begin falling and the river gets choppy. The earthy and distinctive scent of petrichor fills your lungs.

Giggling as you run closer towards the sloping floodplain embankment, hand in hand pulling along Suguru, you both fall on the plush and verdant grass to accept your rainy fates.

The rain now fully coming down, wetting your faces, soaking your clothes. Cotton sticking to your skin, hair matted into the grass. Your heart warmed by the weather.

“I have a confession,” you roll onto your side, feeling a squish under your shoulders and hips as they sink into the softening earth.

Suguru raises one eyebrow as he faces you and matches your pose. He rests on his left forearm, slipping his leg across your hip and thigh.

“I love thunderstorms. The angrier, the fiercer, the better. I know some people hate them, but to me, it’s the purest expression of power. Electricity is created and shot through the heavens, the air shouts back with applause. I can’t get enough of it.”

Immediately regretting admitting your excitement over the storm, you start to roll into your stomach, tucking the flush of embarrassment seeping across your face.

“So why aren’t you watching it right now? With a little luck you might see a good bolt of lightning right in front of us!” Suguru pushes his leg fully across as he rolls you onto your back. His arms and legs bracketing you in, you feel a warmth beyond the heavy rain spreading through you.

Something about the electric atmosphere, nature’s booming soundtrack, erased any inhibitions over your next move.

You look up directly into Suguru’s amethyst eyes and see a mirror of the storm raging above you. Another flash of lightning beyond your field of view and before the light is gone, Suguru is biting at your lower lip, slipping his tongue against yours, matching the intensity of the storm.

The ensuing roll of thunder is felt deep in your core, a primal urge pushing you up from the sodden grass. You start to grasp haphazardly at Suguru’s back, trying to find purchase along his soaked back, shirt stuck to his skin.

Finally, you wind a handful of his hair into your hands, slipping along the wet and soft tendrils spreading out. With one snug pull, Suguru whines louder than the storm and his head rears back.

Suguru’s one weakness, coupled with the weather, made him feel like a Van de Graaff generator. Surely if you had let go of his mane, it would stand out in every direction and his head filled with nothing but static electricity.

Snapping back to reality, Suguru in one swift movement grabs your wrists from behind him and pins them with a squish above your head. Your eyes shoot open as you look down Suguru’s face and body, rain splashing across your cheeks.

A sharp gasp escapes your lips as another flash illuminates Suguru’s intense features. His eyes are narrowed and focused on you, lips slightly separated, and thanks to the soaking rain and thin pants, an incredibly revealing outline of his full erection.

Suguru rocks against you, dragging as much of his bulge as he can against the thin layers of polyester and cotton from your skirt and panties, making his presence and intent known.

Between the cracks of lightning and rolls of thunder you let out a long whine.

Keeping one hand pinning yours down, he snakes his other hand up under your soaked shirt and reaches into your bra to take your nipple in his fingers. He firmly rolls it between his thumb and pointer as you arch your back into him.

“Look up here and watch the sky,” you look back up just in time for another flash and another harsh pinch on your nipple. Your moans match the thunder in response.

Suguru moves his hand out of your shirt and releases your hands. He sits back on his knees and shucks down his pants just enough, letting his cock spring free with a twitch. In the same moment, another sky-splitting flash of lighting. You release the breath you hadn’t noticed you had held in a breathy gasp.

Leaning down on his forearm, Suguru pulls the edge of your skirt up and rubs his middle finger along your rain-and-arousal-soaked panties, pulling another arch from your back.

“Ah-ahhh! Don’t stop, please, don’t,” you whine, writhing in the sodden grass. The rain is coming down hard, but the cold splatter sets your skin ablaze from the sensations Suguru draws from you.

Pulling your panties to the side, Suguru slips his finger slowly, millimeter by millimeter into your warm, soft pussy. As his finger sinks in and curls upward, his thumb grazes and then pushes on your clit.

“Oh god, right there, right-“

As if on cue, a lightning bolt strikes, and you don’t know if the shock through your cunt was from the storm or Suguru’s touch.

“Fuck!”

Suguru smirks in response as he adds a second finger and slides them out and in lazily, thumb circling with gentle pressure. You grasp again at his shoulders, hands slipping until they find purchase at his tense biceps.

Mind beginning to go blank, filling with electric static, you force your eyes open and see your husbands’ dark eyes looking right through you.

Flash. Boom. Roll.

“Cum for me. Let me hear you louder than the storm.”

The electricity shoots through your bones, your body alternating between writhing pleasure and rigid shocks of ecstasy. You scream out, a garble of expletives and moans drowning out the storm for just a moment. The rain continues to pour down, small rivers sliding down the hill around you.

“I-I-“ you pant, barely coming down from your high as another flash of lighting and roll of thunder overtakes the skies. “I need you, Suguru. I need more.”

“I think this might be the neediest I’ve ever seen you,” a strained edge to his voice, Suguru sits back after nipping a few sharp kisses on your neck.

He quickly unzips his pants, freeing his swollen, heavy cock. He holds the base and gives it a few slow, lazy strokes as he moves to straddle you and align himself with your sensitive core.

Suguru has a wild streak - he practices shibari, occasionally taking a day or two for a full dom/sub scene, and you’ve even discussed attending a sex party together. But public sex, in broad daylight (more-or-less), without any nature to obscure yourselves from people wandering by? He can’t say he had considered it. But as cliche as it is, the air is electric, and he won’t deny that he’s turned on by the thrills.

Giving your needy cunt a few teasing slips as Suguru grip his length at the base before sinking into you in one thrust. His breath catches in his throat. He anticipates the coming sensation, but every time it never fails to make him see flashes - and not just the lightning this time.

As soon as you feel his girth split you open, you bring your knees up, ankles wrapping around Suguru’s thighs as you attempt to accommodate his length fully seated in you. Thankful that he is not moving, however you can feel yourself getting lightheaded from unconsciously holding your breath again.

Another crack of thunder and lightning, and that’s his cue to pull out just until his tip catches at your entrance before he slams back in. Normally one to tease and take his time, Suguru felt the intensity and urgency of the storm. Knowing it would pass before too long, and to reduce the risk of getting caught, he sought to rail you within an inch of your meager sanity quickly.

You can feel his urgency and you start to roll your hips up to meet him. In doing so, the angle of his cock inside of you shifted just so and you can feel the pressure beginning to build. Having already reached your peak once (and especially since this is round two of the day!), your body begins to fill with static much faster now.

The storm has picked up its intensity, joining you both in poetic harmony.

“I can’t-hold on-much longer,” you reach your head up to kiss the need off Suguru’s lips. To swallow his whines as his speed increases and he continues to chase his end. You hold on again as an anchor. You plant your feet firmly on the ground as your body is pressed further into the soft, sodden ground.

And in one last thrust, a blue-white bolt of lightning and immediate, near-deafening crack of thunder hits nearby, obfuscating the moans and cries from your shared orgasms.

Suguru pushes himself firm against your cervix, letting thick ropes of cum splash into you, filling what space there is in your cunt. His head drops into the crook of your neck where he mumbles words of love into your skin. Surely the residuals from this morning have dissipated and he must replace them with new affections.

The rain continues coming down, unsure if your eyes are weepy or the rain running down your cheeks. Your heart is beating almost too fast, now slowly relaxing, matching the pace of Suguru’s breathing above you.

After a moment in the afterglow, Suguru slowly pulls out, eliciting a hiss from him and a groan from you. He quickly slides a hand in to gather up the spilling cum, pushing it back in. You squirm at the welcomed tender touch, letting more soft moans escape your lips.

The rain has now subsided some, a calm gentle rain now softly falling.

“I think we should pay more attention to the forecast next time,” Suguru states, matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” you sit on your response for a moment. “Or do you mean…?”

Suguru stands up, having re-zipped his pants, and offers his hand down to you. You take it and catch a mischievous glint in his eye.

Once standing, he holds you with your back to his chest, arms crossed your chest, your hands reaching up to grip his forearms. You look up at him, and he leans down to kiss you. And grind his clearly-not-fully-soft dick into your ass. You fight every urge to not push back and grind against him.

“I think we should go home and get out of these clothes, maybe take a bath?” you suggest, knowing it won’t just be a straightforward bath waiting for you.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unexpected 52

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, pegging, Lloyd being the worst, post partum, csection, suicidial ideation, Andy is nasty in this, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Andy's palm clamps over your mouth, smothering any noise you try to make. You grasp at his thick fingers, puffing through your nostrils as you kick out, fighting his indomitable strength. This can't be. He wouldn't do this. Andy's a nice guy, the only decent guy you knew. It's why you couldn't bring him into your mess.

His arm tightens around your neck as he drags you backward. He presses his cheek to the side of your head and hisses, "shhhh, I don't want to hurt you. That's the last thing I want, honey." You whimper as your feet bounce off the ground, "even though you hurt me. Over and over." He rasps as he hauls you with him, "I only wanted to give you everything. If you let me, I still can."

He swings you around and wrangles you behind his house. Your panic surges as your eyes prick hotly. You shudder and try to calm yourself. Luna. You have to get Luna.

You let your arms go limp, taking careful steps to alleviate the constraint around your neck. He fumbles to open the door and turns you inside. He slams it behind him, closing you inside the impenetrable silence of his home.

He marches you forward. You don't resist. He takes you to another door, this one you've never been past. To be fair, when you were there, you didn't stay long enough to explore. There's a thick deadbolt on the outside.

"Andy," you force out your tight windpipe, "please, don't hurt me--"

"Honey, I won't. We got a daughter to take care of," he opens the door to a carpeted staircase.

"I know, I know," you shakily reach back to touch his hip, "let me go, I'll go down but I could fall if you don't."

"I won't let you," he insists and lurches you forward.

He keeps his arm around your neck, walking you awkwardly down each step, following the sharp angle of the staircase. The basement is made up like an apartment of its own. It's finished with carpet and paint on the walls, changing colours to delineate the space. The kitchen in one corner, a living space in another, a queen bed against the wall, and the corner where the crib looks eerily similar to the nursery in Lloyd's house. You stop and look around, horrified.

Luna whines. You pull against Andy without thinking. You have to control yourself. You repress the urge to claw and fight him.

"Andy," you bring your hands up to your throbbing chest, "I need to feed her. She's hungry... I hurt so bad."

He doesn't let you go right away. He exhales and slowly drops his arm, grazing your hip as he does. You restrain yourself from running across the room. You move cautiously towards the crib. She's there, squirming and squalling for you.

You lift Luna and hush her as you hold her close. She's bawling in fear, you can't let her feel your own. You pull up your shirt and put her to your nipple, angling her to latch. You sigh and turn, sitting on the rocking footrest in front of the glider. You coo and pet her head as she feeds greedily.

"I'm sorry. I tried to feed her," Andy says as he shuts the door at the bottom of the stairs, "she wouldn't take the formula."

"It's okay, she's fussy," you assure him, trying not to think of the surreal circumstance. Just be calm. "Very hungry."

He nods and comes closer, his cheeks kissed red from the bitter winter. He looms across from you, watching as Luna suckles noisily. His gaze weighs on you as you find his eyes fixed on your chest. You don't let the shiver roll up your spine.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

You try not to react. He's asking if you're okay and he's brought you down to his weird bunker? A place like this doesn't just appear overnight.

You gulp, "I'm just happy to have her back. Thank you, Andy."

He smiles and looks you in the face, "I'll keep you safe. Both of you."

You force a smile of your own. There's something off. You see it then in his glassy eyes, as if he's hypnotised.

"Do you have any tea?" You ask softly, "I'm cold."

He flinches and puts his hand on his chest. He clears his throat, "yes, honey, I'll get you some. You like green or--"

"It's late, chamomile?"

"Of course."

He finally backs up and you breathe through your nose as you look down at your daughter. You listen to him moving around the kitchenette. You hug Luna tighter. It's going to be okay, baby girl. I'll make sure of it.

You switch sides as the plucking turns painful. Andy sets down a steaming cup. You could throw it back in his face but you know better. That will only make him angry. You're not fast or strong enough to beat him. You're not getting out tonight.

"Thank you," you feel Luna ease in her hold, "she's getting sleepy."

He stands over you, turning to face you. His hand tickles over your shoulder and he leans it to caress Luna's head as she closes her eyes. You stiffen, livid as he dares to touch your child. You swallow it down as his hand wanders further and he squeezes your other tit. You wince.

"She's so beautiful, just like her mommy," he lets go and gets down to kneel beside you. He leans his head against your shoulder and watches Luna.

"Thank you," you breathe, roll your eyes back against a new wave of tears.

You never expected this, so how could anyone else? No one will come for you, you have to find your own way out.

🍑

Luna fusses and rouses you from your trance. Not sleep, just terror. The arm slung around your middle has you paralysed but it cannot keep you from your child. Slowly, you move Andy's arm away from you and sit up. He grumbles as you cross to the crib and lift your daughter, rocking her.

"What're you doing?" He rasps in his morning grit.

"Shhh, she might go back to sleep," you whisper, "she's just not used to her new... home."

He pushes himself up on his elbows and looks at you from under sleepy lashes. He yawns and sits up, fluffing the pillow up behind his back. He stretches his arm towards you, waving you closer, "I'll take her."

"Maybe in a bit, let me just calm her down," you cradle Luna tighter.

"I can do it," he insists, "let me hold our daughter."

His tone deepens, hard as iron. Our daughter? You can't let him hurt her. Or you, you're the only one there to keep her safe.

"Just be gentle," you gird as you come around the bed, "she'll be hungry if she stays awake."

"I know how to hold a baby," he retorts as he sits forward to take her. You carefully put her in his arms, reluctant to back away.

She wriggles as he gazes down at her. You twiddle your fingers, standing close, your chest tight and pounding.

"I go her," he insists, "can you get some coffee on, honey?"

You stare at him, blinking, then glance down at your daughter. "Sure."

You back away, inching to the kitchenette as you can't help but peek back over and over. He coos at her, his voice soft and higher than usual. It makes you want to throttle him even more. Luna feels much the same as her babbles turn to uncomfortable grunts.

You find a bag of coffee and open the machine in the corner. You quickly load it up as your daughter's voice tugs at you. You hear Andy growl.

"She won't stay still," he huffs.

"Like I said, she's probably hungry."

You go back to them and offer to take her. He hands her over but not without muttering. You pull up the same sweater you've been in since the previous morning. You get Luna latched and yipe as you feel a pinch on your other nipple. Andy tweaks through the rumbled fabric and pushes it up.

"Ow," you try to back up but he catches you by the hip.

You keep Luna in place as he turns his legs over the side of the bed and guides you close. You can't resist as you try not to jostle your child. He bares your other tit and in a second, his lips seal around your nipple. You cry out in shock, almost smacking his head as he suckles.

"What are you doing?" You exclaim.

"Mmmm," he hums and pops his mouth off, "you taste good."

"My milk is for her, Andy," you block him from trying again, pushing a hand against his chin as you keep your other arm under Luna. "Don't--"

He pulls his head back and reaches up to grab your tit, squeezing it until your yelp. It hurts so bad. A trickle leaks out as Luna's mouth detaches and she gurgles.

"Andy, you're going to hurt her," you snap.

He only kneads you harder. You whimper and your legs buckle.

"You have more than enough," he insists and slides forward, nibbling on your tender nipple. You whine and move Luna away from him, disgusted by what he's doing.

"Andy, please, I don't-- she needs to feed first--"

He ignores you and keeps suckling, your stomach churning as your daughter begins to wail. He doesn't care at all about your daughter, he's sick and twisted and would let her starve. Well, you won't stand for that. You will get her out of here, at any cost.

[cynautica]

i remembered i can just make stuff up (stream sketches + scrapped designs)

uhhhh quick fire for the second image from left to right juvenile vessel - old world cable maintenance - artistic diplomat vessel

Headcanons below the cut:

(Im not kidding word counter marked this as a 5 minute reading time open at your own risk)

While the sentiment of the architect network as "a thousand strings in a melody, not one louder than the rest" is a poetic interpretation of the network, it is not necessarily reflective of the precursors society as a whole.

At its peak, the species span billions of planets with billions on billions of individuals, all with their own degrees of autonomy and divergence. If each architect is equal in its power, than it is equal in its power to choose. Even if the soul of an architect, its very essence and its personality, is designed so perfectly that its primary desire is the perpetuation of order and advancement (two inherently divergent concepts), faults occur. Breakages occur. Pockets, cultural subsets, faded transmissions, and any other element of lost insight be it archaic or modern, lends itself to the impossibility of an entirely homogeneous society.

Whether a hive minded society reflects the only means to perfection is debatable, but its important to remember that our main portal in to the precursor world is Al-an, a known prodigy born and raised in to a society that has done nothing but benefit him. His view of his people is intrinsically skewed. He has never had a reason to see beyond the propaganda, nor question his directives. They have never once failed him.

But what of the little guys? The constructed failures so to speak. Those destined to be cast in to the bowels of poisonous cobalt mines and those who's birth purpose is to be irradiated and isolated for the greater good of the collective. Those who's genes prompted sub-standard intelligence who will never be seen as truly important. Their needs must be cast aside by design for the greater good of the collective. By design they must be ignored, their thoughts not relevant to the forwarding of progress.

Because there is true power disparity there is a true hierarchy.

Aware of this, the precursors devised a system of checks and balances to ensure that scientific progress remains at the forefront, rather than the accumulation of power by any individual.

As with all things though, power inevitably seeks to maintain and grow like a cancer.

One such exertion of power comes in the form of a "hive master". These unique individuals require precise expensive machinery in order to be produced, and as such are very rare. The vessels they require are likewise uniquely suited to only these hive masters and their unique ability to sway the voices and personality of any individual connected to the network. They themselves are invisible, completely undetectable except in physical form. Their unique telepathic abilities only work when paired with these vessels. They have no voice nor will of their own and are said to represent architect society on its most basal level.

Given their difficult to produce nature established personalities are very often used in place of new seed combinations. Personalities most suited for repurposing as a hive master include those who are most senior, intelligent, and aligned wholly with societal goals.

They are typically only found on heavily populated planets with more than a few thousand individuals. There they go undetected, like the sound of wind lost in a sea of voices, whose squall directs its very rampage. They are also enlisted for many unique duties on populous planets, such as the refactoring of corrupted individuals and silencing cultural sub-sets.

The average architect probably isn't even aware of the existence of a hive master unless their profession lies in the refactoring and diplomatic processes.

Despite the cultural drive for a monotonous and orderly society, artistic expression is common and encouraged in some sects. All architects possess the desire to express themselves, similarly to humans. Some do this simply with their inbuilt biolights that vary naturally with the individual, while others (less commonly) modify their vessel or design new and unique ones for themselves.

A vessel after all is a costly investment you cant just change like the season, its built to last you a couple thousand years. It's only natural that some seek to don something unique.

This behavior is sometimes detested by more traditional architects, but is not universally frowned upon.

Diplomats are actually encouraged to take on more artistically designed vessels. Often with their respective species' artistic values in mind. They've found greater success with alliances when they don't look like massive sticks in the mud.

Subsets of culture also at times develop unique vessels. Such as an order-over-progress movement that developed on the fringes of the network and preferred pie-bald esque vessels. Alternatively in the past as wars waged between the architects the opposing sides often don differing forms to show their allegiances. In more recent history, a wave of white-clad vigilantes advocated for a complete reset of the old-world collective.

Aside from artistic and affiliation vessels, mainstream precursor society also used a series of varying vessels to reflect personal occupation. Some of the most notable included the warrior vessel, who by design met the largest accommodations of standard architecture for the purposes of intimidation and physical altercations. Al-an's vessel likewise is very common as a heavier-built variant meant to face harsh outer worlds such as 4546B. On base, more light and energy efficient vessels make the dominant force where defense isn't a huge priority.

Microvessels such as those seen above in grey are fairly uncommon despite their energy efficiency. They are most efficient on old world planets that have been in development for hundreds of thousands of years, where the march of time means that not all builders past and present were on the same wavelength and as such small and precise forms mean that construction can be completed with minimal risk to crowded infrastructure.

Another unique and uncommon vessel is that of a juvenile grow-out vessel. These are seldom customized beyond survival needs, and are designed to acclimate a freshly generated architect to the physical world. Like a living vessel, they grow with the individual starting from broodling all the way until young adulthood. They tend to be a bit clumsy and lack the ability to interface with most technology. Always running a blue biolight, these vessels to not require a lot of energy to function physically. A juvenile architect must prove its maturity before it is allowed to graduate in to an adult vessel. This change-out phase is a diplomatic process and one can sometimes wait many years before being approved in to maturity.

The treatment of a new architect varies quite significantly depending on their birthplace and genotype. High performing juveniles are singled out very quickly for better education. Despite the rarity of surviving children in architect society they are not given much importance. A single broodmother may be the ward of up to fifty broodlings, each of which given little attention in favor of allowing them to develop social skills among themselves. Despite architect's seeming infinite power to control resources, broodling mortality is surprisingly high.

[kckt88]

I Just Can't Help Falling In Love With You.

Summary:

After the birth of their daughter Y/N worries about the changes to her body, so her husband Aemond takes it upon himself to show his wife just how much he loves her.

Contains a small flashback!!

Warning(s): Body Image Issues, Upset, Kissing, Spitting Lactation Kink, Smut – Oral Sex (F Receiving), P in V Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Different Positions, Language.

Word Count: 2639 - Some Fluff and SMUT!!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

MODERN AU - AEMOND x Y/N

PART OF DON'T MESS WITH MY MIND - But can be read as a one-shot.

Inspired by the song: ELVIS - I JUST CAN'T HELP FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOU.

Tag List: @immyowndefender, @zenka69, @iloveallmyboys, @summerposie, @namelesslosers, @dixie-elocin, @aemondsfavouritebastard, @toodlesxcuddles, @ammo23

As he entered the flat Aemond couldn’t help his sigh of contentment at the smell of talcum powder and baby shampoo lingered in the air.

After taking his shoes off and putting his car keys in the bowl, Aemond quickly tugged off his coat and ran a hand over his face, it was good to be home.

Walking over to the bookcase, Aemond picked up a photograph and smiled, it had been taken the day his precious daughter was born.

Aemond had no idea how much time had passed since Y/N was instructed to push, even as the labour tired her, she kept going. Her red face covered in sweat and tears.

Her nails dug into his skin as she pushed with all her might.

“That’s it, I can see the babes head”.

“You can do it my love. That’s it. Keep pushing” urged Aemond, grimacing slightly as Y/N squeezed his hand even tighter.

“Keep going. Your doing so well-“

"You’re doing it my love" exclaimed Aemond.

“The head’s out. Now just wait until the next contraction and push”

Even though she was exhausted, Y/N took a deep breath and gave one last push.

Then an ear-piercing cry shattered the silence of the room. 

Aemond’s heart swooped at the sound, his lips parting in amazement as a squalling pink baby was placed on Y/N’s chest.

Y/N whimpered next to him, her eyes shining with relieved tears. 

The baby was a girl.

“Mr Targaryen, would you like to cut the cord” asked the Midwife.

Aemond nodded eagerly as he wiped the tears from his cheeks, his hands shaking as he took the small medical scissors and cut where the Midwife pointed to.

“Aemond. Look, our girl” gasped Y/N.

“She’s perfect” whispered Aemond in awe.

His heart bursting with love at the sight of his newly born daughter in the arms of his wife.

“She looks like you” said Y/N happily.

The baby had a full head of dark blonde hair, never in his life had Aemond ever seen so much hair on a babe.

No wonder Y/N had suffered constantly with heartburn.

Suddenly a small cry broke Aemond out of his reverie and he went into the second bedroom that they’d converted into a nursery.

The light pink walls, adorned with butterfly wall decorations courtesy of his sister Helaena and pictures of various family members.

“Shhh my sweet girl, what’s wrong?” asked Aemond as he lifted his three month old daughter out of her cot.

“S-Sorry I was tidying the bedroom” urged Y/N as she entered the room.

“It’s ok, I just got here, I think she’s hungry-hey little miss, you won’t get any milk out of there” laughed Aemond as his daughter began rooting against his chest.

Y/N giggled sweet as she took their daughter and sat in the rocking chair by the window, Aemond watched silently as she undid her dressing gown and allowed their fussing daughter to latch onto her exposed breast.

“Is everything ok?” asked Y/N.

“Yeah, it’s fine, why wouldn’t it be” replied Aemond.

“You have that soppy look on your face”.

“Only because you’re so beautiful” said Aemond smiling.

“It’s only because I’m so in love”.

“No-no, it’s because I’m so in love with you” laughed Aemond.

“So, love has blinded you?” asked Y/N teasingly.

“Well, that’s not exactly what I meant” replied Aemond.

“But it’s probably true” smiled Y/N.

Aemond laughed again, and then furrowed his brow as his attention was caught on a pink bunny rabbit teddy.

This was new, he’d not seen it before.

“It was a gift” said Y/N as she rubbed their daughters back, trying to encourage her to burp.

“From whom? I thought my mother had sent some blankets she’d knitted”.

“She did, but it’s not from your mother. It’s from Aegon” replied Y/N.

At the mention of his brother’s name, Aemond’s head whipped round so fast, he almost gave himself whiplash.

“Please tell me he wasn’t in this flat, if he came anywhere near Mila I swear-“

“-Relax my love, the postman delivered it this morning” said Y/N.

“How do you know it was from Aegon?” asked Aemond as he took Mila from Y/N and laid her on the changing table.

“There was a note” said Y/N as she re-tied her dressing gown, watching as Aemond rolled up his sleeves, exposing the tattoo of Mila's footprint on his forearm.

“What did it say?” mused Aemond as he changed Mila’s nappy.

“That he was sorry for the way things had turned out, he said he missed you and he hopes to meet his niece one day”.

“Not a chance” quipped Aemond as he finished redressing Mila and then placed her in the cot. He took one of the blankets his mother had knitted at then covered their daughter with it, making sure she was safely tucked in before he turned on the dragon mobile.

As a soft melody began to fill the air, Y/N tugged Aemond out of the room leaving the door slightly ajar.

Aemond obediently followed his wife to their bedroom.

“What happened in here, looks like a hurricane has hit it” wondered Aemond as he noticed all the clothing strewn on the floor.

“W-Well, I-I Just-“ muttered Y/N shuffling her feet awkwardly on the carpeted floor.

“What’s the matter?” asked Aemond, noticing his wife’s shift in demeanour.

“I was trying on clothes and some of them don’t fit and-“ whimpered Y/N as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Hey” gasped Aemond as he walked over to his wife and wrapped his arms around her.

“I don’t look the same as I did before-how can you even stand to look at me”.

“Because I love you so much and you are the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever laid my eye on” said Aemond firmly.

“I-I’m not the same-my body it has changed” muttered Y/N.

“Your body grew and nourished our child; you are so beautiful my love” replied Aemond as he clasped Y/N’s face in his and pressed a kiss to her lips.

“Aemond” gasped Y/N, her cheeks tinged pink.

“What will it take for you to believe me?” mused Aemond.

“I-I don’t know” whispered Y/N, her fingers fiddling with the cord of her dressing gown.

Aemond’s singular eye roved over Y’N’s breasts that were visible through the gap on her dressing gown and smirked as his cock began to grow hard in his trousers.

“Hm-I think I know how” growled Aemond as he reached forward a loosened the dressing gown cord, his mouth watering as it fell open to reveal his wife’s luscious body.

“Aemond” exclaimed Y/N as he slipped the silken material from her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor.

“I’m going to show you just how beautiful you truly are” said Aemond as he stepped back and began pulling at his own clothes and in no time at all he was completely naked, his cock now fully hard and leaking.

“Is such a thing possible?” asked Y.N.

“All things are possible little mouse” replied Aemond as he directed Y/N to sit on the bed.

“You are a goddess, now let me worship at your throne” said Aemond as he took hold of Y/N’s legs and pulled her to the edge of the bed.

“Ooo A-Aemond” exclaimed Y/N.

“Such a pretty pussy " breathed Aemond spitting on her pussy before he ran the flat of his tongue up Y/N’s soaked slit, from bottom to the top, tasting her.

“Oh, my god” moaned Y/N her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it my sweet. Let me hear you”. 

“YES! It feels so good. Don’t stop. Aemond. Please” begged Y/N.

"Delicious" purred Aemond as he began lapping at Y/N, running his tongue along every fold.

"More" panted Y/N. "Please. I need more”.

Aemond inserted two fingers, sliding them in and out of her slick wet folds.

“Oh, fuck" whimpered Y/N; her chest heaving.

 Aemond’s fingers were soaking wet as they continued to pump in and out of her tight heat.

“I can’t wait to get my cock inside you. I don’t want to wait any longer, come for me” moaned Aemond.

Gods his cock was so hard, it was almost painful.

Finally, he felt Y/N’s inner walls start to flutter around his fingers, squeezing them. Her back arched taut as a bow, and she screamed her release.

Aemond pumped slowly and lapped at his wife whilst she came.

Soon her tense body went slack and pliant, her chest heaving with every breath.

Aemond slowly moved up Y/N’s body, pressing kisses to her soft body as he went, until he reached his desired destination.

“Daddy” whispered Y/N as she writhed against him.

Aemond looked at Y/N and smirked before he bent down to lick her nipples, he couldn’t contain his excitement as he went back and forth between his wife’s wonderful, enlarged breasts that nourished their daughter.

“Oh” muttered Y/N as she flung her arms over her face in embarrassment, as pearly white liquid began to leak from her breasts, running down her body in rivulets.

“Do not feel embarrassed my love” whispered Aemond.

Aemond ran his tongue over the milk that had dripped from his wife’s rosy nipples and delighted in the sweetened taste.

“Hm” moaned Aemond as he continued to lick and suck his wife’s breasts.

“A-Aemond” gasped Y/N.

“Surely you would not deprive me wife. Your mother’s milk tastes delicious” muttered Aemond softly.

“I need you” exclaimed Y/N.

“-Just a second” muttered Aemond as he reached into the draw of the bedside table and pulled out a condom.

Placing the square packet in his mouth, Aemond ripped it open with his teeth and quickly rolled the condom down his cock.

Aemond couldn't wait any longer. He surged forward and ploughed his hard cock into Y/N’s soaked cunt.

"AEMOND!" shouted Y/N, her eyes popping open from her post-orgasm haze.

"You feel so good" rasped Aemond.

"Fuck me, Aemond" urged Y/N, her tone bordering on desperate as she thrust her hips upward towards his.

Aemond chuckled and bit down lightly on a nipple, making Y/N moan and squirm.

He started to thrust slowly, trying to prolong the feel of his wife squeezing his cock.

"Faster, Aemond" begged Y/N.

"Patience, little mouse. This is our first time since you birthed our daughter" chided Aemond as he ran his nose up Y/N’s neck.

“Yes, Aemond, just like that-" panted Y/N.

Her hands ran over his arms, over his shoulders, and down his back. Her nimble fingers mapped his back muscles and then went down to his arse and gripped him - pressing him into her harder.

“Gods, Y/N" grunted Aemond, speeding up slightly.

"Fuck me, Aemond. Fuck me with that big, cock of yours. You feel so good inside me, filling me up. Give me what I need. Make me scream, make me come”.

Aemond knew exactly what Y/N was doing, but he couldn’t help himself.

Y/N wanted faster, and he was going much faster now; so much for having the control in the situation. His pace had increased with every filthy word that dropped from his wife’s luscious lips.

Now he was quickly thrusting in and out, shaking the bed, the headboard banging loudly against the wall.

Aemond lifted Y/N’s legs onto his shoulders and wrapped his arms around her thighs, squeezing them together as he thrust his cock into her soaking wet pussy.

Y/N folded her arms above her head as she moved her hips, meeting Aemond thrust for thrust.

“Aemond! I’m going to come. Oh, fuck!” screamed Y/N.

“That’s it baby-come for me” exclaimed Aemond as he felt her clenching on his cock.

Y/N always looked amazing when she came. Her head thrown back in pleasure, her eyes alive with lust, and her pale skin shining with sweat.

Aemond could feel the tension in his abdomen, but he didn’t want to come. Not yet.

Not even waiting for her orgasm to fully subside, Aemond moved Y/N’s legs off his shoulders and manoeuvred her onto all fours, she whimpered as his cock slipped out, but he bent forward to press a series of kisses to her glorious arse, his hands kneading the soft flesh.

“P-Please Aemond” whispered Y/N, her voice slightly muffled as she pressed her face into the mattress.

Aemond took his cock in hand and sheathed himself inside Y/N once again, his eye rolling into the back of his head.

Y/N arched her back and screamed as Aemond pounded into her, the sound of his hips slapping against hers echoed around the room.

“Fuck. Y/N-that’s it” moaned Aemond.

He took hold of Y/N’s hair, twisting his fingers in the silky strands before he pulled her backwards, her sweaty back colliding with his chest.

Aemond held Y/N tight too him as he fucked her, his cock reaching deep inside her.

“Give it to me daddy” pleaded Y/N her head lolling back onto Aemond’s shoulder.

Aemond could feel the tension building in his abdomen again, as he thrust his cock inside Y/N.

“I want you to come on my cock again, but not like this-” muttered Aemond as he once again withdrew from his wife’s wet heat and propped himself up against the headboard.

“-Aemond” exclaimed Y/N breathlessly.

“Ride me baby” replied Aemond as he pulled Y/N on top of him.

His hand moving to his cock, rubbing it along her folds before she sunk down and completely engulfed him.

“Oh” gasped Y/N as she rolled her hips against Aemonds.

“That’s it baby, take it. Take all of me”.

Aemond placed his hands on Y/N’s hips and marvelled at his wife as she rode him.

Y/N dug her nails into Aemond’s chest as she moved her hips against his, his cock hitting the sweet spot inside her perfectly.

“A-Aemond” moaned Y/N as he moved his hand to her breasts and once again took one of her nipples into his mouth, his teeth gently grazing the rosy bud.

“Let go baby, I can feel you clenching around me” exclaimed Aemond, as he moved to the other breast and lavished it with the same attention as the other.

Y/N’s thighs began to burn, as she felt her third climax approach, if her husbands face had been sculpted by the gods themselves, then his cock had been given to him by the devil.

It was sin incarnate and Y/N was ready to let it claim her fully, her husband had possessed every fibre of her being and she revelled in it.

“AEMOND” screamed Y/N her vision going white as she came around his cock.

Her husband threw her back onto the bed his cock never leaving her warmth as he pounded into her, her legs wrapped around his waist, trapping his body against hers as he chased his own end.

“God. Y/N” groaned Aemond as he exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he finally spilled his seed inside the condom, collapsing on top of his wife, breathing hard.

It took a good while for Aemond to regain his senses.

Meanwhile his wife was laid underneath him completely blissed out. Her heart pounding in her chest.

“I love you little mouse, and you are beautiful never forget that” whispered Aemond as he slowly pulled his softened cock from his wife and disposed of the quite full condom in the bin.

“That was a lot of-“ muttered Y/N

“Well, we haven’t had sex since before Mila and I haven’t touched myself either” replied Aemond as he climbed back onto the bed and enveloped his wife in his arms.

“Oh” exclaimed Y/N.

“H-Have you touched yourself?” asked Aemond curiously.

“Once or twice, it’s those damn sweatpants that you insist on wearing-they fit your body perfectly and it was driving me insane, especially when you came back from the gym all sweaty-”

“Hm, you naughty little thing, I must insist that you show me” said Aemond.

“I will once I get the feeling back in my legs” laughed Y/N.

[grieverled-moved]

𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒. Never really had a real reason to celebrate them before. Growing up as he had, it'd been nothing more than another day on the calendar, another day of the year with little time or incentive to actually bother. Or maybe that's just what he told himself to make the sting of it easier to bear. He'd watched as others celebrated theirs, surrounded by family or friends, loved ones that made sure to make it a true celebration of life, treating it as a gifted day where they'd been granted the others presence. It was sweet admittedly.

A reminder that someone was cherished.

Though again . . . as with most things he'd come to leave well out of his hands, he’d accepted it wasn’t meant for someone like him. With little to his name & an even smaller social life outside of those he knew in passing within his workplace, he was content enough to continue on as always without another thought.

It was fine — same as it ever was. Just like always.

So when he opens his eyes this day, he goes about his normal morning routine with little to no expectations of anything different to break that cycle. He finds it a little strange that Tseng hadn't given him a mission or stack of tasks to go through. Usually he was kind enough to give him something to do to distract himself. Gaze thinning, his lips press together, listening to his machine as it idly brewed away at his morning drink. Fatigue still drapes itself well along his frame, in need of something to chase it away if he wanted to function well enough — with nothing on the schedule, nothing to do, he's admittedly lost on what to do for his birthday. He fidgets with his pendant, turning it between his fingers in pensive thought, wondering if he should just hole himself up in his room to avoid anything that'd sour his mood or suck it up & go out, pretend it was a normal day like any other.

Before he can try to think further on his plans, he goes stiff when he hears someone at his door. Part of him says to ignore it, pretend he wasn't home, but before he can pay it any mind, he hears a familiar voice on the other side of the door that unfortunately, lures him to do the opposite. Clicking the locks, they twist, before he cautiously, suspiciously pries the door open a crack, just enough to peek through with thinned eyes that land on bright aurora sights. He looks him over a moment, blinking in confusion when he spots the cake in Zack's hand, pale eyes lifting back again questioningly to that brightly beaming face. Without needing to be prompted further, Zack explains, tone warm, honeyed in something affectionate, openly fond — complete with the use of his nickname of all things. Normally he'd scoff it off, divert attention to something else or reciprocate with something physically affectionate to make up for the fact he never knew just how to express his own cares back out loud.

But the others presence from the way he plants a chaste kiss to the edge of his nose, to the way he delicately handles the home-made cake — something gives, enough for him to duck his head & feel his icy walls melt, light smile teasing along the edges of his lips as he tries & fails to process how to respond & thank the other for being so . . . thoughtful.

Kind . . . gradually he knows Zack presence in his life is beginning to burrow away under his tough skin, that gentle, reassuring warmth of his, making itself right at home like the growing roots of a blooming plant within the hollow of his chest. He cradles it, sheltering it, willingly allowing it to blossom & grow even if it bears the chance of dying & withering away. It's worth allowing some softness, some vulnerability even with the risk of pain when the other man has more then earned it, displaying his own tender heart for Squall to study & hold with such honest trust.

The laugh he lets out is more of a short, quiet bark, shaking his head softly. It's a wet sound, uncertain if he wanted to cry or stubbornly hold it in before he opens the door, stepping through to use an arm to half hug the sunny man in thanks. He gifts a kiss of his own to the space just below his eye, mumbling a hushed thanks before a more genuine smile is given. He's still not the best with words, but he gets the feeling the other understands.

❝ . . . You say it like that's a bad thing. ❞

When he moves to step back into his housing unit, he leaves the swordsman ample room to enter, trying hard not to focus on the irony of him seemingly letting him in in more then one way.

❝ . . . But, really. Thank you, Zack. ❞

How strange it was to be able to spend someone's birthday with them; Sure he'd been able to see Angeal on his, or spend his own birthday with Kunsel and Cissnei, but to be able to greet someone he cares for and actually spend it with them? That was something that left Zack almost overwhelmed with anxiety, especially given his relationship to the birthday boy in question.

They've yet to actually put a label on their relationship but that's how most things within ShinRa worked to begin with, as it stood, Squall had the raven haired man's devotion fully, his heart and loyalty ever longing for the brunette Turk and that's what really pushed Zack into stressing himself damn near sick over what to do, what to get, what to say, anything and everything and slowly he understood why his former mentor always seemed particularly irate around July each year.

Squall doesn't appreciate large and social though, that's a fact that he made sure to keep in mind throughout his planning up until the day he showed up to Squall's residence, small cake that he'd baked in hand with a giant grin sat atop his lips, seeing his lover's confused expression had been worth the worries and stresses of the prior weeks full of careful planning. He's just grateful that Tseng was nice enough to not force the brunette on some stupid mission, birthdays might not have meant anything to ShinRa but they meant a lot to Zack, especially when the day was to celebrate someone he cherished far more than was likely normal.

“ Happy birthday Starlight, ” He begins, voice soft and so full of warmth as he plants a gentle kiss to the tip of Squall's nose, waits to be invited in before continuing onwards. “ Here's to another year yeah? This time you're stuck with me though. ”

a little happy birthday from Zack to Squall | @grieverled !!!!

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 17: Let Me Forget

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.4K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

With the medley of parchment laid out on Gale’s lengthy kitchen table, the silence hangs heavily over the room, suffocating the air with an oppressive stillness and unspoken words. The only sound is the angry rain, drumming on the grand, arched windows, and the raging wind that buffets the manor with forceful gusts. 

It is a foreboding sound. You have never been afraid of storms; you enjoyed watching them before, but you find yourself closing your eyes at every quaking groan of Gale’s tower and every rattle of the windows as they hold out against the blustery squalls. 

Gale finally takes one piece of parchment and examines it. His brows furrow, and he rubs his chin. Eventually, his eyes flit up to Astarion. 

“Dal’s.” Astarion sighs, answering the unasked question. Wracking his fingers through his hair, he points to each piece. “Petras’s. Yousen’s. Violet’s.” 

Shadowheart’s voice is softer than normal when she speaks. “Where are your siblings, Astarion?” 

“In the Underdark, as far as I know.” He shrugs. “I never returned to see them.” 

Your hand coasts over the indented, scarred skin of your arm from the time you visited the Underdark. “They were in the Underdark. They were using the Arcane Tower as a home.” 

“You saw them?” Astarion asks. “All of them?” 

“Dal, Petras, and Leon were definitely there, as well as the spawn we set free.” Your fingernails bite into your scars as you try to repress the memory. “I’m not sure about the others.” 

“Did they say anything?” Astarion turns to you with his speech a little more rapid than usual. “Anything at all?” 

“It was many moons ago, Astarion. They weren’t interested in talking to me much, but no, they never mentioned someone was hunting them or requesting to sketch their scars.” 

“Why do they have scars written in Infernal?” Hecat’s brows furrow as she regards the symbols. “It’s pieces of a contract.” 

“We know.” Shadowheart says brusquely. “We know what it says and what it’s about. What we don’t understand is why it’s here.” 

“Do you have scars like this, Astarion?” Hecat asks carelessly. 

Your whole body immediately tenses, but you master yourself and attempt to appear unruffled by her inquisition. Astarion is capable of deciding how to answer this for himself. 

“I do,” he nods. “A… gift from my old master.” 

“Who must be dead?” Hecat presumes, still trying to make sense of everything. You’re not sure how much you want her to know. “Since you’re here and all, and still a spawn.” 

“Yes, he’s dead.” Astarion answers calmly, but he subtly rests his hand on your thigh, and you realize his fingers are trembling. 

Taking his hand, you give it a reassuring squeeze. He squeezes back while breathing deeply. It is not something you’re used to seeing him do unless he’s trying to calm you. It alerts you to his unease, setting you further on edge. 

“I suppose I will ask the question none of us want to.” Shadowheart surmises with her lips pressed together and a clenched jaw. “Why are Astarion's siblings' scars drawn on pieces of paper we found in a manor hidden by illusion magic?” 

You frown and chew on your bottom lip. “Is it possible that another Vampire Lord can try to fulfill the contract?” 

Gale shakes his head. “We destroyed everything that even dared hint at that ungodly ritual.” 

“We destroyed the paper trail.” You nod and glance at Astarion. 

“But not the pawns of it.” He finishes, looking down at his lap. “The only people living who might be able to tell someone how to complete the ritual are my siblings, me, and all of you.” 

“Hells.” Gale rasps, his hand rubbing his forehead. “Do you really think that’s what this is all about?” 

“It makes sense,” you murmur. “But what we don’t know is if they are trying to collect the spawn that are already marked for sacrifice or if they simply need the markings on them.” 

“Either way, they will collect them.” Astarion concludes bitterly, with one corner of his lips curling up in contempt. “Likely to make sure no one else has access to those markings. Furthermore, the spawn we set free in the Underdark will be rounded up as well. A Vampire Lord is not going to waste time making 7,000 spawn if there are already that many running around in the Underdark who have been conveniently carved up already. Gods. I knew I should have killed them.” 

“So, what do we do?” Gale paces around, clearly agitated. “What can we do?” 

“There are still two of Astarion’s siblings unaccounted for.” You sit back in your chair. “Maybe Astarion and I should visit the Underdark. If they are rounding up his siblings, maybe we can get to them before they do.” 

“And bring them where, exactly?” Astarion spits, twisting in his chair to look at you. “Certainly not here.” 

“Not here, but maybe our house?” Astarion’s brows pinch together, and his mouth snaps shut. You continue, “It’s well hidden; they can hunt in the forests, and it’s already set up for the particular needs of a vampire.” 

You’re not particularly fond of the idea of letting them stay in your house. It feels like an encroachment, but it is the best idea you have right now. Judging from Astarion’s sour expression, he, too, is not pleased with it. 

“Kamena…” Gale’s hands rest on the back of a chair, and he looks at you with his expression clouded by somberness. “I don’t wish to overstep, my friend, but are you certain it’s a good idea for you to return there?” 

Astarion quirks a brow at you, and your hand moves to cover the scars everyone is now staring at. You ignore the urge to get as far away from this conversation as you can and take deep breaths. Admittedly, you don’t want to return there, but you don’t want to stay here either. 

If you’re being completely honest, you would take Astarion, disappear, and never look back. If this Vampire Lord is truly after the contract in an attempt to complete the ritual, then Astarion is in peril staying here. You should be getting him as far away from here as you can.

But you cannot leave your friends, who are now tangled up in this mess. 

“Thank you for your concern, Gale, but I’m fine.” You lie, and you’re rather impressed that you manage to keep your voice steady and strong. “What do you think, Astarion?” 

“I think the more of my siblings we can keep away from them, the better, but I do not relish taking you into a den of vampire spawn who are likely feral.” Astarion rubs his eyes, squeezing them shut hard, creasing the corners. “Perhaps it would be best if I went alone.” 

The thought of Astarion leaving makes your heart thud in your chest, seizing and being crushed under his words. He promised he would never leave you alone again, and now he’s trying to. 

You try to breathe deeply, but the air seems unfathomably thin, and you feel like you’re drowning. Your eyes feel frozen open, just staring at the table but not really looking at it. 

He wants to leave.

He wants to leave.

He wants to leave.  

He wants to leave me alone again.  

Would he ever come back? 

Does he want to come back?

Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to gag that voice in your head that tells you to run, to break his heart before he can break yours, and to repress the whirling thoughts of loneliness, abandonment, and dread. 

Is this just his way of trying to get away from me?  

“Kamena?” Astarion touches your shoulder featherlight, but it still makes you jump up. 

Your chair falls backward and clatters to the floor, and you stare the confused faces at the table. You ball your hands into fists at your sides so that they can’t see how badly you’re trembling.

“Excuse me.” 

It takes considerable effort to force yourself to walk down the hallway as nonchalantly as you can, but as soon as you get out of sight, you pick up speed and jog to your room. No matter how hard you try, the panic continues to grow like thorny vines around your nerves, and your breath comes rapidly through parted lips. 

You need a distraction from this downward spiral, so you grab the lock and thieves’ tools Astarion gave you to practice and draw a bath. Sitting in the tub, you listen to the soothing sound of running water, place the lock on a stool, kneel and hunch over the edge, and start trying to replicate what Astarion has shown you. 

Your fingers still tremble fretfully with both tools in hand, and you cannot, for the life of you, find the first pin in this stubborn hunk of metal. Even as your trembling settles and your mind stops its incessant whirling, you cannot get the stupid lock to turn even slightly.  

How many times has Astarion shown me this?  

Would he give you a defective lock you never had any chance of opening? Yes, you think he would. He would find that to be quite humorous once you figured it out. You peer into the keyhole to see if any of the mechanisms look... Well, fuck. You’re unsure what you should even be looking for, and you frown at the lock with spite. 

“You are staring at that lock like it has personally offended you.” Astarion chuckles, leaning his shoulder on the frame of the archway. 

“It has,” you grumble. “It will not fucking open!” 

“May I join you?” Astarion points to the bath. 

You nod, continuing to try to manipulate the lock while he undresses and slips behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, and he presses the sculpted planes of his chest into your back, hovering over you to watch your incompetent attempts while he rests his chin on your shoulder. 

“I can veritably hear you scowling at me, you know.” 

“Hells below.” Astarion groans dramatically. “This is truly painful to observe.” 

His arms come around you, and his cool hands grip yours as his expert fingers guide the tools in your hand to demonstrate again. He turns the tools slowly, performing some sort of Rogue devilry, you’re quite sure, until you feel a small pop and hear a metal clink. 

“Feel that?” Astarion glances at you, kissing your cheek. “That’s what you’re looking for.” 

He relinquishes his control and goes back to resting his head on your shoulder with his arms tangled around your waist. He murmurs, “Are you okay?” 

“You told me you wouldn’t leave me alone again,” you say shakily, swallowing the burbling fear. You hate how pathetic you sound. “Where you go, I go. Remember?” 

“The Underdark is dangerous — far more dangerous now than it was when we went gallivanting down here.” 

You hold your scarred arm out for him to see before going back to tending to the lock. The distraction is helpful, allowing you to focus instead of spiralling. “I’m well aware of how dangerous it is down there now.” 

Astarion’s hand glides down your arm, his fingers brushing over each indented blemish gently. “Are you going to tell me what in the Hells happened down there?” 

“I don’t know.” You answer truthfully. “The short version of it is that the spawn down there are feral and starved, and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

“I suspect there is far more to it than that.” Astarion rubs your back in soothing circles, kissing the back of your shoulder softly. “Alright, fine. Where I go, you go, and vice versa from now on, yes?” 

You glance over your shoulder into crimson eyes. “Promise?” 

He sweeps a lock of your hair back from your cheek and places his hand on his chest, above his heart. “You have my word.” 

You nod with a small smile and return to the lock in your hands before your mind can whisper and pull you under into a riptide of doubt. Astarion brushes his fingers through your hair, untangling any knots as he goes gently. It is entirely distracting, and one of the sharp tools slips from your grasp.

“Focus, darling,” he tuts, picking up the tool off the floor and handing it back to you. 

“I think this lock is faulty,” you huff in annoyance. 

Astarion has always made lockpicking look like child’s play. Most locks take him a matter of seconds to pick; even the ones in the Counting House only took minutes at the most. 

“Do you really think I would do that to you?” Astarion laughs when you quirk an accusatory brow at him over your shoulder. “Fine. Fine. I might for a laugh, but I assure you, this lock is perfectly fine. You’re just too impatient.” 

You groan, rolling your eyes, and take a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. A low growl of frustration rumbles in your chest as the tool catches on something and refuses to budge. 

Astarion chuckles as he takes control once more to correct the position of your fingers. “You cannot just brute force it like some barbarian. You must be patient, focus, listen to it, and tend to its unique needs.” His fingers brush the back of your hand softly. “Much like making love.” 

“For the love of...” you scoff. “Did you really just make that comparison?” 

He helps you rotate the metal rods deftly, pressing his body further into yours. “You’ll find it to be accurate. Every lock is different and requires a personalized approach. You cannot just shove the tools in the hole like an oaf and expect it to open and reveal its secrets.” 

“You’re making it sound intentionally sexual in nature.” 

“I cannot be blamed for the fact that dexterity comes in handy in a variety of situations.” He says, clicking his tongue softly. His lips ghost along the ridge of your ear to the tapered tip, and he whispers, “It is how I make love to you, no? Listen to your body, read your mood, and tend to your needs.” 

Heat rushes to your face, reddening your cheeks, and your heart jolts in your chest, escalating into a quickened pace as his words play your heartstrings like a lyre.  

“My mood?” You rasp with a silvery timbre.

The pop of another pin clinks. Astarion rescinds his control but keeps his hand poised near yours, skimming the back of your hand with his fingertips to encourage you to keep going.  

“Yes, your mood." Astarion drawls, "Sometimes you want it tender and loving, and other times rough and wild. Sometimes you want to control; sometimes you want to be controlled. It all depends on your mood, really.” 

You swallow hard, finding it extremely difficult to concentrate all of a sudden. Shivers spread across your body, prickling your skin as Astarion’s lips ghost along the back of your neck, raining kisses down your spine. 

Your hands jitter in the lock, making the rods ting against the metal housing. 

“You’re awfully distracted.” Astarion coos. 

The heat seems to drain from your face and into your lower abdomen, flaring at the seductive, husky baritone of his taunting. 

You clear your throat. “And what mood would you say I am in today?” 

“Hmm…” Astarion hums lowly. He regards you silently for a moment, as if reading a particularly interesting chapter of a book. “I think today you want to be taken, claimed, fucked. Perhaps, if you’re a very good girl, I will give you what you desire if you can unlock that lock.” 

His knee nudges between your legs, edging them further apart, and his hand cups the curve of your ass, giving it a teasing squeeze. Your mouth drops open as his fingers trail through your folds and settle on the intensely aching flesh. 

Your hips jerk, and your fingers quiver, nearly dropping the tools, but Astarion's other hand steadies your grip. “Focus,” he purrs, starting to rub circles around the throbbing border of your clit. “Keep a firm grip on it now. Try rotating it to the right a little.”

He cannot possibly expect you to keep focused like this, and you let out something between a whimper and a mewl, frustration and desire mixed. With his free hand, Astarion takes control of yours, guiding the tool in your fingers to turn the mechanism as his fingers change the direction of their circling — counterclockwise, clockwise, and back — in whatever way he makes you twist the lock. 

Another metallic pang comes from the opening, but you barely hear it underneath your gasps. “Hear that? You’re nearly there.” He groans, pressing chaste kisses down your neck. “Keep going, love. You’ve got this.” 

You are nearly there, but not in the way he’s implying. “Astarion… I can’t... Gods. Not when you’re-” 

“When I am what?” He increases his pace, making you slump over and moan, closing your eyes against the pleasure. “If you stop, so will I.” 

Good Gods. There is almost nothing you wouldn’t do to get him to continue, so you force your eyes to open, center them on the lock, and try to continue manipulating the godsforsaken device. 

Astarion presses his erection against your lower back with a shaky groan. He drags his finger up and down your seam, teasing your entrance, and then back to circling your demandingly pulsing pearl. The sensation is too overwhelming, making your core spasm involuntarily, and the tools drop from your hands in favour of holding onto the edge of the bathtub for dear life. 

His ministrations pause instantaneously. “The tools do you no good unless you use them, darling.” 

You roll your hips in a vain attempt to get any friction, but Astarion grasps them and forces them to remain still. You lean back into him; his cock pulses against you, and despite his outward poise, the low grunts and growls in his throat tell you that he’s losing his composure. 

“Astarion,” you whimper in disapproval. It takes everything you have not to take matters into your own hands, so to speak. 

“You want more?” He taunts, with a featherlight stroke to entice you. “Go on then. Unlock it.” 

You smile at his choice of words and grin at him mischievously. Before he has time to correct himself, your fingers dance, the incantation rolls off your tongue, and the lock clicks open for you. 

Astarion chuckles — rich and low. He kisses your shoulder, clicks his tongue, and tuts. “That’s cheating, Kamena.” 

“You said unlock it,” you tease. “You didn’t specify how.” 

“You naughty little vixen,” he scolds, kissing up the column of your neck. He whispers, letting his cool breath fan your heated skin. “I have half a mind to withhold your prize.” 

“What does the other half of your mind say?” You press into his arousal, rocking your hips side to side. 

“Fuck it." 

His fingers clutch your chin, turning your head in a possessive hold, and he kisses you ravenously. You only feel the blunt head of Astarion’s cock at your entrance for a moment before he drives himself to the hilt with a swift snap of his hips. 

Your eyes roll back, and Astarion’s hand covers your mouth to smother the loud, rapturous cry. 

“We are not at home any longer,” he grunts as he pulls back slowly, so you can feel every crest of his swollen head exquisitely drag across your ridges. “Are you going to stay quiet, or shall I keep you quiet?” 

There is no hope that when you speak, your words will be intelligible, and you simply put your hand over the one covering your mouth to let him know he should keep it there, lest the entire household know what carnal depravity you’re partaking in. 

“As you wish,” he purrs, nipping at your shoulder and snaking an arm around your waist to hold you steady. 

Your thighs tremble as you ride out the relentless pace Astarion sets. The bath water splashes over the edges of the tub with every one of his powerful thrusts. Every thought shatters into fireworks that burst behind your eyes, and all your doubts are drowned away as he slams into you, hitting a spot so deep that it makes your legs weak. 

“You are mine,” he growls, dark and dominating.

Yes. Yours. Make me forget every month, day, second I spent without you. Make me forget.

I want to forget. 

Astarion’s fangs crawl down your neck and sink into your flesh with a quick snap of his jaw. He doesn’t ask permission, but he knows he doesn’t need to. He plays with your clit, the pads of his fingers rubbing and circling, and the combination of all these sensations borders on overwhelming. 

The world seems to fall away around you, and all that’s left is you, him, and devastatingly intense ecstasy. Your hand drops and grasps Astarion’s thigh, fingers squeezing the taut muscles, feeling them work as he pounds into you unrelentingly. You’re a moaning, whimpering, mindless mess as the pleasure grows and grows until every nerve is humming with blissful tension. A loud moan rumbles in Astarion’s chest, and the tension snaps suddenly like an overwrought elastic band. 

You come, hard and loud, thighs shaking, hips rocking into him, every shockwave clenching upon his thickness so strongly that it draws ragged breaths from his throat. 

He removes his fangs from your neck. “Kiss me,” he orders. 

Even though your spirit feels like it’s just finding its footing back in your body, you turn your head with parted lips, blinking at him slowly. Your blood is smeared across his silken mouth, dripping down his chin. His eyes are glossy with genuine pleasure as he moulds his lips to yours. 

Astarion’s hand wraps around your throat, and he buries his cock as deep as you can take him thrust after sensational thrust. He entices your lips to part, his tongue eagerly seizing the whimpers and sighs from your throat. 

His hips stutter, eyes squeezing shut, and he cries in your mouth as his cock twitches and pulses, spilling his seed deeply inside you as he unravels in the Eden of his climax.  

You both slump forward as you catch your breath, holding onto the edge of the bathtub for support. Astarion’s hand slips from your throat to just under your breasts, and he keeps you pressed firmly to his chest, supporting your still-trembling body. 

In his arms, you feel safe and secure. 

Yet, there is a voice at the back of your head that warns you not to get too comfortable being this in love because if his life is in danger and being in Waterdeep with you puts him in mortal peril, you will send him away. 

You will break his heart to save his life — even if it breaks you.

The shadows spread out around you, with only the soft bioluminescent glow of crystals, flora, and your small fire providing any illumination to the hopeless dark. You gaze at the fire, absently morphing it into shapes of things you miss from the surface — the sun, trees, birds.  

Astarion.  

How long have you been down here trying to track down his siblings and the 7,000 vampire spawn you set free?  

Days? Weeks? Months?  

Long enough for your skin to start losing the kiss of the sun.  

When the flaming figure looks up from the book in his hands and waves at you, tears start to prick your eyes, and you curse under your breath as you relinquish your control and the fire rolls down into its natural state.  

You know better than to allow your mind to wander. Why you keep doing this to yourself, you’ll never understand.  

You glance around your little, makeshift, one-person camp situated in a spot you remember well. You thought it would bring you comfort to stay where you have happier memories, but the barrenness is only another aching reminder of his absence. Sighing, you grab the edges of your bedroll and start wrapping it up. You left your tent months ago when it became too threadbare and worn to be of much use other than slowing you down. 

Your fingers comb through your knotted hair quickly and tie it back. It’s not been properly washed in some time, and it feels stringy and gritty against your hands. You look briefly around the camp before walking down the little slope, taking particular care to evade the spore clouds from the timmask. 

Picking up where you left off the day before, you follow the path and keep a keen eye on the ground. Without the banter from your friends, an eerie silence spreads in all directions around you.  

But that’s how it’s been for months — just you, the road, and your nightmares.  

You crouch down, studying the tracks in the silt. Pressing your fingers into the dirt, you find it to be dry and dusty this far away from the lake. The ground would not hold impressions for long.  

I’m getting closer. 

Something snaps in the murk, making you jump to your feet and study the surroundings, but the darkness is deep and obscure.  

“Hello?”  

The stillness doesn’t answer. 

My mind is playing tricks on me again. 

After adjusting your pack, you do your best to follow the trail. The Arcane Tower looms in the distance, a spire that seems to blend in with the gloomy atmosphere except for the burning braziers giving off their blue glow. A flurry of pebbles bounces down a nearby cliff, clattering against the stone. Perception heightens all your senses, your skin prickles, and your hair stands on end. 

You’re being watched, tracked, and hunted. 

Casting Misty Step, you vanish and reappear, swiftly descending into a crouch, shrouded in darkness. Frenzied red eyes and dirty, gaunt faces begin to appear with their fangs bared in deranged toothy grins that spell danger. They scent the air, and their eyes snap directly to your position, their fingers poised in front of them, ready to claw their prey.  

They twitch and quiver, snarling and hissing like feral animals. You try to speak to them, but your words fall flat, muted by malnourishment and bloodlust. You search the faces for someone you recognize, but good Gods, they are filthy, cadaverous, and emaciated. 

Hells. Are they suffering because I didn’t have the strength to end it when I could have? 

You do the only thing you can and run. Their pursing footsteps thunder like a stampeding herd of Bulette. You sprint, pushing your body to careen over the uneven terrain faster, faster, faster until your muscles burn and cramp.  

But it is not fast enough.  

You scream for Astarion as your mind blanks momentarily from panic, but he’s not here; he’s never here, and he never will be again.  

You trip.   

Gods.   

You trip on rocks and gnarled roots, scraping your knees and palms. The scent of blood in the air only sends them further into a frenzy, and bony hands grab at you from all sides. You try to pull away, but it’s too late. You are jerked forward, back, and side to side as they contend over you as if you are the last decaying scrap of carrion in all of Faerûn.  

Numerous pairs of pointed fangs pierce into the flesh of your arms, legs, and neck. They are not gentle. Hells, they are not gentle at all, nothing like Astarion. This pain does not ebb into a pleasant, dull throb. It is sharp, with ice and fire rending your skin. They shake their heads, ripping and tearing, and their fangs sink through muscle and hit bone.  

How many of them are there? Hundreds? Thousands? 

Crimson eyes and hollow cheeks fill your vision, blotting out everything else. You thrash, you struggle, and you call for Astarion in high-pitched screams, but none of it is of any use. 

You lash out at them with your magic, allowing the flames to envelop your skin, but they hold your arms and legs, grinding your limbs into the dirt. They burn, but they do not stop; they cannot stop. They are too starved and too crazed. They will drain you dry even as they char and blacken.  

It’s over. 

You will die alone in the dark. 

A sheen of cool sweat dusts your skin, you grow cold, and the pain begins to recede into a cradling senselessness. You resign yourself to death as you walk the edge of it. When the darkness calls, you find that you want to heed it and tumble into the respite of your imminent demise. Your heart beats slower, slower, slower. It palpates in your chest, trying to pump blood that is no longer in your body. 

Your eyelids are heavy, lashes fluttering as they beg to close. Death approaches you, seductive and charming, with outstretched arms. It is attractive and tempting. It whispers relief. Death is all embrace me and never be alone again. It says don’t be afraid. It beckons you to join it in sweet, all-encompassing release. You reach toward it, taking it’s hand, and allow yourself to be led away from the pain, the cold, the loneliness — all of it. 

And you finally feel at peace.  

A voice bellows, agitating the edges of the still serenity you’re sinking into, and fangs begin to rip from your arm and legs.  

A man? 

You blink, trying to clear your clouded vision. The voice urges you to move, to get up and run. You try, but the earth here is unable to swallow your blood quickly enough, and you slip and fall into the pools collecting on the ground. Your eyelashes flutter weakly as you squint to look at the man standing before you, hauling, and throwing the hysterical, blood-mad spawn away.  

Astarion? 

The feeble beat of your heart jolts with hope, and you turn away from death, releasing its hand and resisting its siren song. You turn away from the peaceful nullity it offers, walk out of its dark caress, and back into your body.  

But all hope is expunged as soon as the shroud is removed from your sight. The blurred figure begins to take shape, and previously formless details sharpen.  

No… 

Not Astarion. 

Never Astarion. 

Though you do recognize him, your mind sluggishly tries to connect the familiarity with memories.  

His name. Gods, you know it, but what is it?  

Sebastian. 

The spawn attack, throwing themselves at him, rendered insane by the smell of your blood. You try to push yourself up again, but you only make it to your knees, wavering unsteadily as your head spins and unconsciousness summons. Sebastian starts calling out over his shoulder.  

“Get her out of here,” Sebastian barks to Leon who looks at you with brows furrowed in confusion. “Her blood is only making it worse. Dal and I can keep them busy long enough for you to get her away.”  

Leon nods curtly, sprinting toward you and throwing you over his shoulder. It’s not a comfortable hold, as his bony shoulder juts into your stomach and lungs. The swaying makes your head throb sickeningly, and you fade in and out of consciousness.  

Panicked voices rouse you back from the dark, but you cannot open your eyes. Your senseless fingers twist into your robe as you try to find a way to hold onto your wakefulness.  

“What are we going to do with her?” A woman’s baffled voice quivers. “What in the Hells is she even doing down here?”  

“If we don’t do something quickly, she’s going to die,” Sebastian says.  

“Let her die,” another man’s voice drawls, heartless and cold. “I could use a snack.”  

“Petras!” Leon scolds.  

Your eyes finally begin to open while they debate your fate. You’re slumped against the stone wall of the Arcane Tower. 

“You cannot seriously be suggesting we let her bleed out.” Sebastian mutters from the corner. “She killed Cazador. She saved our lives. She saved Astarion.”  

“She-” Petras stomps with his fists balled at his sides. “ She stood by and watched while Astarion roasted me!”  

Dal scoffs. “Are you still sour about that? Gods. Let it go.”  

“No,” he says, shaking his head and jutting his chin out haughtily. “I don’t think I will, sister.”  

“She means much to Astarion,” Leon sighs, rubbing his forehead. “We owe him to at least try and save her.”  

Your voice is weak, barely even a whisper. “Have you seen or heard from him?”  

All of their heads snap toward you with narrow eyes.  

“Who?” Dal tries to smile, stops pacing, and comes to crouch by your side.  

“Astarion. Have you seen him?”  

Leon frowns. “No. The last time we saw him was at the Black Mass with you.”  

You nod and let your head loll to the side. It takes every ounce of energy you have left, but you cast Detect Thoughts covertly.  

You knew it was a long shot, but they are not lying.  

“Let me die.” You sob. “Have mercy and let me die.”  

When your eyes crack and creep open, darkness so thick that it presses in on you, being drawn into your lungs with every shallow, rapid breath, suffocating you from the inside and out, is there to greet you once more. 

Death had been a mysterious, charming man, holding your hand, and gently walking you into that final repose, and you turned away from him and told him to wait. 

You told Death himself to wait because you thought Astarion was there. 

But he wasn’t. 

He was never there. 

Your eyes cry silent tears of mourning for the loss of the peace that was all but promised to you. Now, you must walk on the precipice of two existences. One in which you exist to hold everyone and everything together — a fearless leader, a lover, a light in the darkness — and the other where you watch yourself continually fall apart, crushed beneath the weight of it all. 

Shutting your eyes so tight it hurts, you clench your teeth, and instead of shying away from the pain, running, as you so often do, you delve into it. You force your heart to ingest your fears, doubts, and suffering until it shatters, you run out of tears, and you let it hurt until that too stops. 

A remarkable numbness circulates through your veins, like a wave cast out from your heart as it burst into fragments of all the things you used to be. There is no happiness or sadness, love or not, just a soft lull into emotionlessness, and you wade ever deeper into the treacle of frigid calm. 

Somewhere, deep inside you, a voice whispers that this is worse, that this is not healing, that this is running. 

You tell that voice to shut the fuck up. 

You manage to slip out of the room without waking Astarion, pad through the silent manor, and go outside into the courtyard. The storm still rages on. Rain splatters against your face, thunder and lightning crack overhead, and the wet strands of your hair whip wildly in the wind. You stay as the rain drenches you to the bone, you’re shivering, and watch the wild orchestra; the chaos of it mirrors the turmoil of your own soul. 

“Sorceress.” The voice comes from behind a locked, wrought-iron gate. 

The voice should make you jump, scream, run, but it does not even spur the shattered remains of your heart to quiver in their grave.  

“Aldous.” 

“My master would like to parlay with you.” He sneers as if it physically pains him to say. “She believes a deal can be struck to avoid fatalities on both sides.” 

“I don’t make deals with Vampire Lords.” You hiss, “You can tell your master I said to fuck off.” 

“Kamena,” Aldous slinks closer to the gate. Can he come through the gate? Is it just houses they can’t walk into uninvited, or is this part of the house? “You did not even ask what her offer was. I assure you that you will want to hear it.” 

Curiosity gets the better of you. “What’s she offering?” 

“Safety, for you and yours, including the blood sucker,” Aldous hisses the last part, and it makes you smirk. It must just be killing him to offer safety to the man who drained him dry and left him to rot. 

“Not interested,” you yawn, and stretch dramatically. “There are other ways to ensure our safety that do not rely on a deal with a Vampire Lord. I much prefer those ways.” 

“What about this?” Aldous holds up a ring. A golden band with a large ruby, but it looks otherwise unremarkable. 

“Jewellery?” You scoff, “Gods. Are you just fucking with me now?” 

“I admit it appears rather unremarkable, but it is the Ring of the Sunwalker. It will allow your lover to walk in the sun again unharmed.” 

Could it be true? Could an enchanted ring be mere feet away from you that will allow Astarion to see and walk in the sun again without fear? 

“What’s to stop me from taking it from you right now?” You stalk toward the gate, fire ablaze in your palms. 

“Ah-ah, Sorceress.” Aldous wags his index finger at you. He holds the ring in his palm, and you realize it’s an illusion. “My master is willing to give up such a unique treasure if you can come to an agreement.” 

“Because she means to complete the Rite of Profane Ascension, the one I stopped Cazador from completing. She will be able to walk in the sun, and she won’t need it anymore. Correct?” 

“Something like that.” Aldous smiles snake-like. “So, what do you say?” 

“Astarion and my friends are guaranteed safety, and we get the ring, but what’s the catch?” 

“We require an exact sketch of his scars to complete the contract as well as the incantation.” 

You could end this. You could take the deal, take Astarion, and run as far from Waterdeep as you can, leaving it to its fate under an Ascended Vampire Lord.  

How far would you go to ensure Astarion’s safety? Would you turn a blind eye to another Vampire Lord ascending and all the thousands of deaths that means? 

Could you live with yourself? 

“I will think about it.”

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Do we think Kamena is going to take the offer seriously?

I am curious. Would you consider it if it means safety for all your friends and Astarion, and a ring that allows him to walk in the sun unharmed, even if it means turning a blind eye to all that death?

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 32: Adrift

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: 6.6k

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. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

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

Rating: Explicit 18+ [Meant For Mature Audience]

Astarion’s tremulous body finally falls still as he slips into the semblance of his trance. His breathing begins to slow, though it remains uneven. Your fingers brush the edge of the bed absently while you linger there for minutes longer than necessary. The squall of voices is quieter, but they still persist, chanting an aria of fear and unrest amongst the residual confusion.

The faint creak of the door closing behind you feels deafening in the perturbing silence. You wish to be alone to allow your thoughts to settle, but the clink and clank of metal gears remind you that hope has no place in your existence anymore.

Karlach sits in a chair by an unlit hearth with her head bowed. She doesn’t turn to look at you, and you consider retreating, melting back into the dark like a coward. She will demand answers, which she deserves, but you’re unsure you have satisfactory ones to offer.

Her voice stampedes over the quiet before you can make your mind up. “You gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna face me like the Illyria I know?”

Your fingers curl into the hem of the oversized shirt she gave you to change into and nervously tug before you coerce your body to appear calm. You take the chair next to her and wait for the inevitable barrage.

The voices that haunt Astarion’s mind have found their way into yours, no longer distant echoes but fully present and suffocating. Every time you blink, the world blurs, but the cacophony never stops. They chant in a language that does not sound familiar, but somehow, you can comprehend some of the fragments of words.

It is beautiful, angelic even, a lullaby of corruption. Dissonant harmonies bleed into your mind like toxins that infect everything they touch. It insinuates itself into the corners of your thoughts until you cannot tell what’s yours and what isn’t.

You catch some of the whispers—let him fall, let them all fall, and then fall with them.

Whether foolish or noble, you push yourself into the kinship and draw the voices away from Astarion. The effort leaves you trembling, every part of you stretched thin, but you grit your teeth and hold the line. 

Astarion needs rest, and if the price of his rest is your unrest, so be it.

“Alright, soldier,” Karlach shatters what little focus you had left. “I think it’s high time you tell me what in the fuck is going on here.”

“Astarion is sick,” you begin, trying to find the right words. “The Rite had consequences we weren’t apprised of.”

Her brows furrow, and her tail lashes. “What kind of consequences?”

Your lips press into a firm line while you ponder exactly how much to tell her. “Mephistopheles,” you say, the name tasting like poison on your tongue. “He tainted the Rite, and when it was completed, his madness bled into Astarion.”

Karlach leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Mephistopheles was always a paranoid lunatic. Heard enough stories about him in the Hells to know he didn’t trust his shadow half the time. Why would he infect Astarion? What’s the point?”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “Freedom.”

“He used the Rite to dump all the rot he couldn’t stand into Astarion.” Karlach murmurs, the realization dawning on her like a hammer striking steel.

You nod, your throat tight. “The Rite made Astarion the vessel for everything Mephistopheles wanted to leave behind. All the instability, the anger, everything that was too much for even him to hold.”

“Bloody Hells,” Karlach breathes with fury braided into her intonation.

“Astarion’s soul is fractured. One side of him is trying to hold on to who he was and who he is. The other side…” You trail off, your throat constricting.

“The other side is what Mephistopheles left behind,” Karlach finishes grimly.

You nod. “It’s spreading. If we can’t stop it—if Astarion can’t hold on—then…”

Karlach’s gaze hardens, her fiery eyes locking onto yours. “Then what?”

“Then the Astarion we know will be gone.” Karlach leans back in her chair, exhaling slowly. “So what happened today…” “Wasn’t Astarion’s fault,” you cut in, sharper than you intended. An unusual rage prickles over your skin, like millions of needle points. You grind your teeth together so hard you’re positive you’ll crack them in an effort not to shout at Karlach.

If she had just left well enough alone, if she and Wyll had listened to you, if she could have taken a fucking hint…

You shake your head to redirect the stream of rage. You remind yourself that she was just trying to help, but it does little to quell the roiling inferno.

She doesn’t understand. None of them do. They wouldn’t even begin to comprehend.

Karlach leans forward, brows furrowed with a mixture of worry and confusion. “Hey, I’m just trying to—”

“What? Help?” you snap, the word laced with venom before you can stop yourself.

You immediately regret it but cannot find it in yourself to apologize, not with how your blood feels like it’s boiling beneath your skin. Her expression softens despite your outburst, which only makes the fire in your chest burn hotter.

The voices press in, their whispers like a deafening roar in your mind. They think you’re weak. Pathetic. They do not trust you.

You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms as you try to quiet them, but the rage refuses to subside. Every attempt to reason with yourself falls apart as the voices twist and churn.

Karlach doesn’t back down. “Look, all I’m saying is—”

“I know what you’re saying,” you interrupt, standing so abruptly that your chair screeches against the floor.

Your voice rises before you can stop it, cracking under the weight of your frustration. “I do not need your concern or pity or whatever this is! What happened today is none of your business.”

“It’s not pity,” Karlach says firmly, standing now, too, her broad shoulders squaring as she looks you in the eye. She’s calm, even steady, which only makes your rage feel all the more erratic and untamed. “It’s care.”

Care. The word feels like ash in your mouth. You want to scream, lash out, and tell her that care doesn’t fix anything.

But instead, your chest tightens painfully, and your teeth grind together again as the voices take on a mocking edge. She is lying. She does not care. None of them do. They will turn on you the moment you show weakness.

You shake your head, trying to drown them out, but they only grow louder, more insistent. The heat beneath your skin threatens to boil over, and your voice comes out low and trembling with restrained fury. “Just… drop it, Karlach. Please. It’s been a long day.”

She doesn’t respond immediately, and her voice is gentler when she does. “What are you going to do?”

“Astarion and I need to go to Cania,” you say, keeping your voice steady as if the words don’t carry the weight of an impossible task.

“Cania? The frozen layer of the Hells? Why in the bloody abyss would you go there?”

You hesitate, running your fingers through your hair as you search for a way to say this without giving too much away. “There’s… something there that might help Astarion,” you say finally.

Karlach’s fiery eyebrows rise. “You’re being awfully vague for something that sounds insane.”

You shrug, trying to appear casual. “It’s complicated.”

Karlach’s voice rises slightly, and she shakes her head. “Do you know what you’re walking into? Cania isn’t just snowstorms and ice—it’s crawling with devils who would sooner rip your head off than let you breathe there.”

“I know,” you reply softly. “There is no other way, and I don’t think he has much more time.”

You don’t think either of you do.

The door presses into your back, and you rake your nails over the skin of your arm as if you could claw this peculiar anger out. It’s not your anger, but it also is, intensified like someone is looking at it under a magnifying glass. The voices speak in truths and half-truths, making them hard to ignore, but when your eyes land on Astarion, the seething hisses subside.

You watch him with guarded tenderness, stopping a few steps away. The memory of earlier is still fresh—how his eyes had burned with panic, how he’d flinched away from you like you were the thing he needed to protect himself from.

The confusion, his fear, and the way he looked at you as though you were a stranger. The sting of it is sharp, and your jaw tightens. It wasn’t his fault, but it doesn’t make it easier to stomach.

You hover near the edge of the bed, and the urge to crawl into it with him flares briefly in your mind. Typically, you would do so without hesitation, but not now. He needs space more than he needs you crowding him, and maybe, though you hate to admit it, you need the distance, too.

For now.

Folding your legs under yourself, you curl up in the chair at his side. The room is still, save for the faint sound of Astarion’s breathing and steady heartbeat. You focus on it, letting its rhythm lull you into a degree of calm.

Your eyes flutter shut, but rest does not come easily. The silence of the room only amplifies the thoughts and voices. You shift slightly in the chair, curling up as tight as possible as if it might hold your crumbling pieces together.

Astarion does not stir even as the chair creaks. He looks peaceful, his face free of the torment that inhabits him, and you cling to that like a lifeline. You tell yourself it’s enough, that he is here, resting, and that he’ll wake and things will be better, but it’s a transparent lie.

You close your eyes and let your mind drift. It isn’t sleep, but it’s a half-trance, where your thoughts blur and bend, bleeding into each other until they’re shapeless. You focus on the sound of his breathing again, on the faint pull of the bond, and let yourself be carried by it.

You aren’t sure how long you stay in that liminal state between rest and wakefulness, but your eyes flutter open when you hear the soft sound of hesitant footsteps. When things come into focus, Astarion stands near the bedroom window, his shirt discarded on the floor, trousers hanging loosely at his hips.

Beads of sweat glide down his body, tracing the contours of his muscles like droplets of liquid glass catching the light filtering through the curtains. Your mind shifts into the link, and you realize the disorientation has not abated.

His thoughts start and stop, his memories incoherent and unsettlingly incongruent, like the timeline of his life had been torn apart, and he’s trying to reassemble it, but he can’t find where the pieces fit together.

You open your mouth, unsure of what exactly to say, but you need to say something. His presence is off in a way you can’t fully describe, so you say his name softly, careful not to startle him.

“Astarion?”

He whirls with wide eyes, locking onto yours with an edge of surprise and panic, as if he’s just now realized that he isn’t alone. He stands there, frozen, as though he’s trying to place you in his reality, but you’re not something he’s quite sure belongs.

You swallow thickly and try again. “Astarion?”

His lips part, but words don’t seem to come easily. His eyes dart between you, the window, and the surrounding space with such chaotic jerks that you have a hard time tracking what he’s looking at from one moment to the next.

“I… I did not mean to wake you,” he mutters, hoarse and apologetic, like he’s trying to smooth over a misunderstanding that isn’t there.

Pushing yourself upright, you do your best to keep your movements predictable and controlled, but the way he watches you sets your nerves on edge.

“Illyria,” he says, eyes surveying you but still distant.

Your name sounds like a question more than a statement, and it strikes you like ice forming over the nerves of your spine. Does he not remember me? The thought flashes through your mind, and with it, dread.

“Yes,” you nod, keeping your voice steady despite the wrenching fear settling in your gut.

“My…” he trails off, splaying his fingers in front of him and looking at the ring like he needs confirmation before he concludes the rest of his sentence. “Wife, yes?”

You try to keep your panic hidden, burying it deep where he cannot see, but it churns. Astarion should know you. But the man standing before you seems lost, piecing fragments of memories together as though he’s trying to form a picture of his life, but the edges won’t align.

How much of him is still here? How much of the Astarion you loved has survived, buried beneath the weight of his own mind?

“Yes, I’m your wife,” you confirm while rising from the chair.

His body seems to relax slightly at your confirmation, though there’s still a fog in his eyes, a distant confusion that makes him seem far away.

You clear your throat, trying to steady yourself. “What do you remember?”

Astarion stares at you for a long moment, his gaze searching, like he’s trying to find something within the recesses of his mind. Finally, he speaks, though his words are slow. “I remember you, but... you look different. Thin. Sickly.”

His eyes are wide with concern, though there’s a hesitation there, like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to care. The words sickly hang in the air between you two, like an accusation you can’t escape.

You can’t quite make heads or tails of this. Yesterday, his confusion had been evident—his panic a raw, trembling thing that had threatened to consume him. But at least then, it felt like he still knew you, still saw you in some way. Today, his panic has been mitigated, but what lingers is something different—an unsettling calmness.

Does he even see me? Does he even remember us?

You take a step forward, hesitating before you speak again. “You remember me, don’t you?”

His shoulders stiffen, just slightly, and then he turns to look at you. “I remember... fragments,” he says, his voice low as if testing the words before letting them escape. “But it’s all... hazy. I remember... us, somehow, but the details slip through my fingers whenever I try to grasp them.”

The pain in his voice is subtle, but it cuts through you anyway. There’s no anger, no bitterness. Just... loss. A loss you cannot fully understand, and yet it echoes in your chest.

“I do not know what’s real,” he adds quietly, his eyes locking with yours for just a moment before he turns away again. “But you’re real. That’s something.”

You don’t know what to say. Part of you wants to reach out and touch him, but another part of you is frozen, unsure of where to begin when nothing feels the same.

Astarion’s gaze is fixed on the window, his eyes scanning the view outside with a distant, disinterested look. “Definitely not in Baldur’s Gate, are we?”

“No, we’re in the Hells. Abriymoch, to be precise.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, but you hear him slick his damp hair back with a quick swipe of his hand. The motion is instinctive like it’s something he’s done a thousand times, though there’s something so vulnerable about the way he does it now as if he’s still trying to find some semblance of control in a place that offers none.

“I suppose that explains the heat,” he comments dryly, his voice dripping with frustration.

“Control your body temperature.”

Astarion freezes, his hand stilling midair as he looks at you, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Can I do that?” he asks, the question genuine but laced with an edge of disbelief.

His tone cracks slightly, revealing just how much he doesn’t know, how much he’s lost. Your heart sinks a little more, your chest tightening at the realization.

You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. “You can.”

But the silence that follows only serves to remind you how far he’s fallen from that version of himself. Astarion looks at you like he’s waiting for a deeper explanation, his mind still trying to piece together what’s real and possible.

“Why am I here? Why are we here?” He asks with an edge of helplessness.

You want to ease that confusion, but instead, you find yourself paralyzed by it. This isn’t the Astarion you know—the one who had answers to everything, the one who was always so certain.

This Astarion is... adrift.

He steps closer to you, his eyes searching your face as if looking for some answer he can’t quite find.

"Why can't I remember?" he asks hesitantly as though he’s afraid of the answer. "What happened to me? The memories are all... broken. I should know this. I should know you, but it's like... like I’m seeing you for the first time. Or am I? Is it real? Hells, am I real?”

His words trail off, and you can see how much it’s tearing at him, the uncertainty, the ache in his chest that mirrors the one in yours. He knows something is wrong, but he can’t quite figure out what it is, who he is—who you are.

You need to gauge the extent of his memory loss—his safety, and your own, depend on it.

“Astarion,” you venture, gentle but probing, “you do remember that you’re a vampire, right?”

He freezes momentarily, his brow furrowing before his lips curl into a smirk. “Am I?” he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest with mock horror. “A vampire, you say? How utterly shocking! What gave me away—the fangs, the complexion, or my irresistible charm?”

The exaggerated theatrics coax a quiet laugh from you, a sound that feels foreign amidst the tension. It’s a slight relief—a glimpse of your husband peeking through the cracks of his confusion. For a moment, the man you love is right there, clever and insufferable in equal measure.

But the smile fades as quickly as it came, and his expression sobers. “Yes,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands as though seeing them for the first time. “I know what I am. That much is... hard to forget. Some things never change, it seems.”

You nod slowly, watching him carefully. “Do you remember how it happened? How you... got here?”

He hesitates, his brow creasing as he struggles to reach into the tangled mess of his mind. “I remember Cazador. The chains. The slavery. The... cruelty.” He shudders, his hand absently brushing over the faint scars on his neck that remain etched into his skin. “I remember killing him.”

He pauses, glancing at you. “You were there. Weren’t you?” His gaze searches yours, uncertain but hopeful. “I think you were. You helped me... I couldn’t have done it without you.”

You nod again, though your chest tightens. “I was there. We killed him together.”

His lips part slightly, relief wavering across his features. “Good. Good. That feels... right. You were with me. You’ve always been with me.” His expression clouds, and he rubs his temples, frustration creeping into his tone. “After that, though... it’s all so hazy. I remember the Rite, the ascension, but it’s like I’m trying to grasp shadows. I remember power—so much power—and then...” His hand falls to his side, and he shakes his head. “Nothing. Everything after is... fragments.”

Your heart sinks further. The gaps in his memory are significant, yet he’s pieced together enough to know that something is very, very wrong.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, gripping his hair. “Why is everything so tangled? Why can’t I remember?”

You reach out instinctively but stop yourself short, unsure if touching him would ground him or overwhelm him further. “It’s alright. Whatever’s happened, whatever’s missing—we’ll piece it back together.”

He glances at you, his crimson eyes softening as they meet yours. “You sound so sure,” he murmurs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you, won’t I? You seem to know me better than I know myself.”

“You can trust me,” you conclude with conviction, though the weight of his words makes your throat tighten.

He tilts his head, studying you for a moment before letting out a quiet laugh. “Well, it’s not as though I have many other options, do I? If you’re lying to me, darling, you’re doing a very convincing job of it.”

He shakes his head, his amusement fading as he glances back at the window. “Still, it’s troubling. If I can remember killing Cazador, if I can remember the ascension... why does everything else feel so... scattered? What happened to me, Illyria?”

He says your name so tentatively that, for some reason, it makes your static heart clench. You can’t bear to tell him. Could he handle the truth in his state? What do you say to someone who is clinging to scraps?

“We will figure it out,” you repeat.

Scarlet eyes swish from side to side as if he’s reading an invisible book before him. The kinship in your head flares as he plucks its chords.

His brows furrow, and he tilts his head when he looks at you. “I can feel you in my head. It feels so… intimate. I do not understand it. Why are you in there?”

The question makes your knees shake with the urge to sink to the floor and weep, but you force the feeling aside. “We share a… mental connection that was formed when you turned me. It lets us feel each other's thoughts and emotions, among other things.”

He nods slowly as if the explanation makes sense but doesn’t quite settle. “What if I do not want this… connection, as you say?” He asks with a slight cant to his head; eyes cast upwards as if he’s mulling it over. “Could it be severed? Can I sever it? If I did, would you… go away?”

You falter, physically taking a step back like the words themselves pushed you. The last thing you want is for him to break that connection, to lose the fragile thread that continues to be together, no matter how precarious.

“If it’s too much, I can close it,” you offer, swallowing hard. “I can shut it off for a while.”

The raw panic in his reaction is immediate. He jerks forward without thinking in a burst of desperation, his hands outstretched. A sharp trill of adrenaline circulates through you, and your body locks into a defensive stance. It’s not precisely fear you feel but a shadow of mistrust rooted into your mind as a reminder that his affection usually turns to cruelty.

Astarion stops short, freezing in place. His fingers tremble in the air as he second-guesses himself. His face falls when he notices your reaction, hands still hovering helplessly.

“Apologies,” he stammers. “I did not want to frighten you. That was not my intention.”

With a deep breath, you force your muscles to relax. “I know,” you sigh but do not venture to provide any further explanation.

You reach your hand out to him, palm up, in the same way he did to you all that time ago. He glances at it curiously but seems to recognize the gesture as his hand finds yours with the same uncertain smile you remember from that night. He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s so close you can feel his breath ghosting over your face.

His voice is a whisper when he finally asks, “May I?”

There’s no need for an explanation of his intentions, and you nod. The moment his arms wrap around you, the chasm that's grown between you seems to crack open and close all at once. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this—needed this. His embrace is firm but carefully hesitant, as though he’s still testing the waters, but there is genuine affection in the way he holds you.

Burying your face in his shoulder, you melt into him and swallow the balled sob that builds in your throat. The tension you’ve been carrying for what feels like an eternity begins to ease, bit by bit.

“Please,” he murmurs against your hair, voice thickly suffused with emotion. “Do not close the bond. I… I could not bear it. It is the only thing keeping me grounded.” He pulls you closer, his fingers flexing into you firmly but not painfully, as if he’s afraid you might slip away like the rest of his memories do when he tries to clutch them. “I believe it might be the only thing keeping me present.”

“I won’t,” you promise. “I’m here, and I’ve always been here.”

Astarion exhales in a shaky burst of relief and rests his chin against your head. “Thank you.”

You don’t respond, afraid your voice might crack if you try. Instead, you hold him as he holds you, letting your bond hum with reassurance and love. For now, it’s enough to simply be in his arms, to feel that even in the haze of broken memories, some part of him still knows how to love you.

Astarion steps out of the room and into the main area with Illyria close by his side. The moment they cross the threshold, he can feel eyes on him before he sees them. His eyes flick upward, catching Karlach’s fiery glare and Wyll’s stern, furrowed expression. Karlach angles her body so that it’s between him and the chair Wyll is sitting on, like a sentry on duty. They fall silent, their conversation clearly interrupted by his presence.

He remembers them. Karlach, with her broad shoulders and the faint orange glow that radiates over her skin, who used to laugh too loudly and slap him on the back with far too much enthusiasm. Wyll, poised as always, a man of principle and loyalty.

They do not look at him with familiarity now. There is no laughter in Karlach’s eyes nor quiet camaraderie in Wyll’s posture. Their gazes drip with hatred so intense it’s a tangible scent in the air. He does not understand why, and it twists in his chest sourly.

What could he have done to earn such loathing? He cannot recall, and that absence of knowledge gnaws at him. He shifts on his feet awkwardly, one hand brushing against the seam of his trousers in a nervous fidget.

He forces a small, tentative smile and clears his throat. “It is such a pleasure to see you both again. Though, judging by the looks on your faces, I might as well have crawled out of the Nine Hells itself. Truly, what a warm welcome.”

Karlach’s expression hardens while her tail flicks behind her in barely restrained agitation. Wyll folds his arms across his chest with a scoff, his jaw tightening. The tension in the room grows thicker, and Astarion’s smile falters.

“Well,” he tries again, his voice wavering slightly. “Perhaps not a warm welcome, then. Tepid, at best? Lukewarm? Oh, do not all speak at once—I might be overwhelmed by the sheer enthusiasm.”

Karlach’s voice finally breaks through, low and simmering with anger. “You’ve got some nerve.”

Astarion blinks, taken aback by the venom in her tone. “I beg your pardon?” he replies, his attempt at charm faltering under her glare.

Wyll shakes his head, eyes darting to Illyria. “He doesn’t remember?”

Astarion frowns, his gaze darting between them. “Remember what, exactly? Is there some grand offence I have committed that has left you both so utterly... displeased with me?”

Karlach steps forward, her movements deliberate and controlled. “Offence?” she echoes, her voice dripping with incredulity. “You don’t even know—”

“Stop,” Illyria cuts in, her tone firm as she steps in front of him like a shield. “This isn’t helping.”

The incessant song in his head grows a little louder, warring with his ability to think and comprehend the situation at hand. The link with Illyria also hums, though at least he finds it oddly comforting, even when it’s trembling under her annoyance. Is it annoyance with him? Annoyance with them? He cannot tell.

He looks down at her with mounting confusion. “Illyria, what—?”

“Later,” she says sharply, her eyes flicking back to Karlach and Wyll. “Now isn’t the time for this.”

The tension remains, but Karlach steps back, her fists clenched at her sides. Wyll lets out a slow breath, though his gaze doesn’t soften. Astarion swallows hard, his smile now fully gone.

Whatever this is—whatever he has done—it is worse than he imagined.

Astarion watches Illyria as she swings a bag over her shoulder and approaches Karlach with an air of casual familiarity.

“Could you lend me some coin?” Illyria asks as though this is a perfectly normal request to make of someone glaring daggers at them moments earlier.

Astarion’s brows pinch. Borrow coin? From Karlach? He is almost certain they do not need to borrow coin from anyone. He is wealthy, is he not? Gold enough to burn, treasures beyond counting, that sort of thing. Why would they need to stoop to such a thing?

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it just as quickly. No, better not. The thought of asking why is too humiliating. He bites his tongue and decides to let it pass, pretending the whole exchange isn’t happening.

Karlach hesitates for a moment as though reluctant to fulfill Illyria’s request. Finally, she sighs and tosses a coin pouch to Illyria. “Fine.”

Wyll’s muffled groan pulls his attention away from that horror show. Wyll shifts weakly in his chair, rubbing his forehead with his eyes closed. Karlach gives him a concerned look and gently rubs his back.

“You alright?” She murmurs, retrieving a glass of water from a small table and offering it to him.

“Fine,” Wyll reassures with a small smile as he takes the glass, his fingers brushing Karlach’s in what appears to Astarion to be too intimate a touch for them. “This damnable headache won’t let up. Illyria, how did you stand it?”

A sharp spike of shame transits into his mind from Illyria, and her fluid movement becomes stiff. She glances at Wyll, though it appears forced. “It will pass,” she remarks.

Astarion’s eyes drift from the exchange to Wyll’s neck, catching the sight of two red puncture marks. A jolt of ice radiates through Astarion’s skipping heart, and he swallows hard, unable to look away from the evidence of a bite.

Did I do that?

His stomach churns as the thought takes root. Is this why they are so furious with him? Did he lose control, forget himself, and feed on Wyll? No. Surely not. He learned to manage his hunger centuries ago when he was a young spawn. Cazador saw to that—years of rotting in the kennels until he learned the discipline required to be around the living.

He wouldn’t have done something so reckless, would he? There is a sudden urge to defend himself, explain, even though no one has accused him of anything, but he bites it back. Even if he wanted to explain, he doesn’t know what he would say because he cannot remember doing it or why.

Illyria speaks again before he can settle on what exactly to do about this, tucking the borrowed coin away. “We’ll return later, and thank you. I’ll pay you back.”

“The absolute least of my worries right now is coin,” Karlach grunts in response while she stares at him with contempt, perhaps disappointment, maybe both.

The strident symphony that is always strumming in the background of his thoughts spikes again, but something siphons it away as quickly as it rises. Illyria winces almost imperceptibly, but he notices how her withered muscles flex.

She beckons him with a nod, and the tension eases as he follows her out of that suffocating room. They descend a set of stairs and into an inn crowded with infernal beings, a kaleidoscope of grotesque and elegant forms. Demons lounge at polished tables, devils haggle over contracts, and imps dart about carrying trays of drinks.

Illyria weaves through the crowd, appearing unbothered as if this infernal realm is merely another market in Baldur’s Gate. She approaches the bar, where the innkeeper—a hulking, grotesque thing with leathery skin—leans lazily against the counter.

“Excuse me,” Illyria begins, her voice steady and polite.

The creature does not so much as glance at her, earning only a scoff and a dismissive wave of his clawed hand.

She repeats herself louder, and the innkeeper finally deigns to speak. His guttural tongue grinds against Astarion’s ears like stones dragged across metal. Whatever he says is sharp and sneering, followed by a cruel laugh that ripples through the beings nearby.

Astarion’s lips press into a thin line. The audacity of this wretch to scoff at her so brazenly ignites a sudden strike of anger.

He steps forward before he even realizes he has done so. “That,” he begins coldly, “is no way to speak to a lady.”

The innkeeper snorts, his glowing yellow eyes narrowing as he towers over Astarion. “And who are you, pale thing?” he growls, his Common thick with his infernal accent. “Another mortal begging for scraps?”

Astarion’s smile is slow and dangerous as he tilts his head and lets his fangs flash in the dim light. “Hardly,” he replies, his tone light, almost playful. “But I do wonder if you speak to all your patrons with such disregard or if you have saved this particular brand of rudeness just for us.”

The creature straightens, head tilting slightly as though reconsidering. Illyria places a hand on his arm, a subtle pressure meant to calm him, but he does not budge. His red eyes remain fixed on the innkeeper, glinting with cold fury.

“Now,” Astarion continues, his voice soft but laced with warning. “My wife asked you a question. Perhaps you would like to try answering it this time.”

The innkeeper bristles, but something in Astarion’s gaze—or perhaps the underlying threat in his tone—makes him falter. He mutters something under his breath before finally responding, this time with strained civility.

Astarion’s smirk widens. “That is much better,” he says smoothly, stepping back to let Illyria resume her questioning. He glances down at her, his annoyance tempered by satisfaction. “Do let me know if he steps out of line again, my dear,” he murmurs, just loud enough for the innkeeper to hear. “I would be happy to deal with him properly.”

Whatever questions Illyria asks are lost on him as he glances around the bar, trying to elucidate hints of just how in the Hells he got here. He remembers being in Baldur’s Gate and remembers bits and pieces of their wedding, but everything else disintegrates before he can glimpse it. Even the timeline of events is a tangled web that sticks to his fingers like spider silk whenever he tries to unknot it.

Illyria taps his hand, and he follows her out into the oppressive atmosphere. The air is an acrid blend of sulphur and scorched stone, loud with raspy caterwauling, and far, far too hot. She glances up at him with an expression he cannot quite decipher.

She is quiet when she speaks, her intonation measured and smooth, calculating her words before they even leave her lips. “Did the voices in your head make you do that?”

He halts midstep and turns to look at her fully. What an odd question. The prattle in his mind—the endless, maddening whispers he has tried and failed to block out since waking—stands in the forefront of his awareness. They are an ever-present, disjointed hum that creeps along the edges of his sanity, but they had no bearing on what happened.

“I—no,” he confirms, shaking his head. “The voices did not make me do anything. I simply... did not like the way he was speaking to you.”

His gaze flicks to her, waiting for some kind of reaction, but she only nods with a wash of relief that confounds him further.

“That was kind of you,” she says gently, too gently. It’s equal parts warm and unsettling. “But you must watch your temper carefully.”

The words are spoken delicately, as though she is treading on fragile ground. Her tone makes him feel fragile, too, and he despises it. She knows something, and she is keeping the information clutched close and guarded.

His jaw tightens, the warmth evaporating as unease takes its place. “Is that what happened to Wyll?” he blurts out. He searches her face for answers, for some clue that might fill the gaps in his fractured memory. “Did I lose my temper and... bite him?”

The thought makes him recoil, and he grips his arms tightly as if to hold himself together. That does not seem like him, not the him he knows—or thinks he knows.

“That does not sound like me,” he presses, the words firmer this time. “I would not have—” He stops, unsure if he should finish the thought.

Illyria reaches up and tenderly swipes aside pieces of hair that stick to his sweat-veiled forehead. Her fingers are cool, and they linger idly, brushing back and forth as if she might be able to smooth away the swirling chaos. It stirs an ache he cannot place, though he finds the gesture impossibly soothing.

The coolness of her palm cups his cheek, drawing his scattered thoughts into sharp focus. He blinks, eyes locking onto the cracked crimson of hers. Exhaustion is etched across her face; dark bags extend under her eyes with gaunt, hollow cheeks.

How in the Hells did she get like this? How could he let her get like this? Did he? Why?

She shakes her head slowly, firmly. “No,” she sighs as her hand drops back to her side. “You did not bite Wyll.”

The reassurance brings a brief, fleeting sense of relief, but it wanes as quickly as it came. Illyria turns and strides towards wherever their destination is.

“If not me, then who bit Wyll?”

She stops but keeps her back toward him, and her shoulders stiffen slightly. Illyria does not turn to face him, refusing to meet his eyes. Her head dips, the strands of her hair falling forward as though she could use them as a curtain to hide behind.

“I did,” she whispers, almost too quiet for even his sharp hearing to catch.

Astarion’s mind reels with a thousand questions clashing for dominance, but none are coherent. She stands with her head bowed in shame, and he opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out at first.

“Why?” He finally manages to force his voice into compliance, but his confusion leaks into the word.

Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “Because he let me.”

The answer doesn’t help. It only raises more questions, doubts, and pieces of a puzzle that do not seem to fit together.

“No, no,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. “That does not seem right. You feed on me, yes? I cannot recall everything, but I recall that much.”

Her shoulders tense, and her head snaps up to meet his gaze, her eyes glittering with a storm of emotions he cannot parse. Anger? Shame? Defiance? Perhaps all of them at once. The idea of someone else’s blood on her lips—someone else’s pulse beneath her fangs—ignites a strange and unfamiliar sting.

Jealousy? Hurt? He does not want to examine it too closely.

Her shoulders rise and fall in a shallow breath, and her expression is inscrutable. “You were gone,” she says simply, as though that explains everything and nothing at once.

Gone.

The word settles like a stone, and for the first time, he feels the enormity of it—the gaps in his memory, the pieces of his life that seem to have slipped through his fingers.

He was gone, but where? For how long?

And what did he do?

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

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

Small Notes: - Poor Pookie 😔