#soldier boy prompt

[glossykissies]

thinking about what reader i’d pair with soldier boy and it only feels right he gets handed spoiledbrat!reader. bratty, high maintenance, pouty. soldier boy might’ve been a god-like supe with damn near all the power in the world, but at the end of the day he was also a man… and you were packaged to him like a god damn fantasy.

it was so conflicting to him, you were simultaneously everything that got him off in a woman all while challenging his beliefs. feminine, soft, supple, pink and glittering — sure, but also you had the craziest attitude, you swore like a sailor and you were demanding. it made his fists clench, and dick swell.

the first time he’d been introduced to you with the boys, having found yourself wrapped up in their world — you were the only one in the room who he detected not an ounce of fear from. you. the little thing in the corner leaning on her hip, more interested in her nail bed than the banished supe.

immediately, and much to butchers irritation (he was pushed for time, and trying to stay on track here.) soldier boy focused his attention on you, taking a draw of his cigar from the couch in the hide-out apartment.

“and who’s this pretty little poodle? you fellas let a fan tag along?” his voice is smooth and rumbly like wheels on gravel and you raise a perfectly plucked brow.

“please.”

he hums out a chuckle, not hiding the way his eyes drag up and down your body. he was used to just taking what he wanted, his time being one of those things.

“so if we could just—” hughie steps forward cautiously, attempting to regain the supes attention to get things back on track but is immediately silenced by soldiers boy lifting a hand, eyes still on you.

“no really. what’s the deal with strip-club-barbie? i have met all of you cock suckers but she’s new. if she’s not a welcome gift, what the fuck is she doing in here listening in?”

“shes one of us.” butcher gruffs, shuffling in his chair, antsy to start explaining his diabolical plans.

“yeah? what’s her thing? you fellas passin’ her around in whatever fuck-dungeon you hole up in?” he teases, and before anyone can say anything — you’re defending yourself.

“jesus christ, get with the fucking times, old man.”

soldier boy smirks, and a tense silence falls over the room — half expecting to watch you get thrown through the thin walls of the apartment at record breaking speed. surprisingly, after he’d taken an amused and analytical gaze your way — he leisurely turned his attention back to butcher. “alright, out with this plan. don’t have all day.” he drawls, taking another drag. you roll your eyes at the fact he literally has nothing else to do, and you’re sure he notices.

most of your interactions went that way after that. soldier boy would make some kind of demeaning or misogynistic comment, you’d snap back, he’d either be amused or weakly threaten you. it was like clock work, but seem to put everyone on edge every single time.

there were many times the boys thought you were done for, hurling names and insults at him when he’d caused them more harm than good — only to have him stroll right past you, uninterested in your girly tantrum and not even struggling to totally ignore you. sometimes you would irritate him, only to get a “brats like you need to be put in their place. i’m warning you.” and maybe he’d smirk because he could just sense your little clit twitching.

there was even a time all of you had to pile into one car, getting away quickly after a mission gone south. you were the last in, and there were no seats left for you.

“just fuckin’ get in would ya?” billy commanded loudly, trying to keep an eye on the oncoming commotion. soldier boy smirks, completely suited up, damn near taking up two seats in the backseat and pats his thigh, spreading his legs.

“i am not sitting on him. someone get in the trunk.” you argue, crossing your arms all spoilt.

“just grab her!” hughie exasperates from the passenger seat, used to your ways. without hesitation, soldier boy yanks you into the car with ungodly strength, pulling the door shut as they drive off. you wriggle and fight until he’s got you situated — the mountain of a bulge pressed up against your panties beneath your skirt, legs spread a little on his lap.

you give him a sulky look over your shoulder, and despite the chaos in the front of the car — he’s utterly relaxed and unbothered by everything that just unfolded. in fact, he leans back with that same smirk — adjusting his hips, nudging the fat lips of your pussy open through your panties with his bulge. he watches your eyes nearly roll back like a baby-doll.

you turn back to the front, irritated and overstimulated, breathing all heavy and mad. never in all his years has he seen a woman fight against her urges like you were. he puts his hands on your hips and you dig your nails into his skin, sustaining no damage. you scratch harder, tearing and attacking him like a baby kitten and he gazes happily out the window, unmoved.

you try to chime into the conversation up front, try to stay tuned — but everytime butcher carelessly flies over a speed bump you’re being practically forcefully dry fucked by the supe. you’re sure he could even feel you leaving a wet patch — and surprisingly, when you all pile out the vehicle solider boy doesn’t bring it up. the gratification of flustering you enough to keep him happy.

the breaking point comes when you’re appointed to ‘babysit’ him back at the hiding apartment. literally no one else is free, but they need someone there to make sure he’s where he needs to be. there’s nothing you could do to stop him from leaving, but whilst he agreed to stay there — you were sticking around to make sure he keeps his word, strictly told to alert one of the boys if he exits.

“look, i’m sorry. i would take your place but i have to help annie.” hughie stresses apologetically as they walk you up to the building.

“i’ll be fine.” you roll your eyes, more irritated that you were missing your nail appointment for this shit.

“and keep that mouth in check, yeah? i don’t fancy scraping your intestines off the walls so keep a lid on it today.” butcher warns, sending you a look before you run off.

when you walk in, he’s chowing down on a burger. so american.

“well if it isn’t my favourite.” he drawls, more interested in the TV.

“whatever. i’m here to babysit you.” you sark, setting down your purse and rifling through it for your phone charger, spotting the pink wire tangled at the bottom of your bag.

“babysittin’ huh? you certainly had the sitting part down last time i saw you. maybe today we can work on the baby part.” he chuckles at his own joke, bringing the mouth of his beer bottle to his lips.

“shutup. you know i had no choice.” you don’t know why you get so defensive, strutting over to block his view of the television — staring down at the hulk of the man resting with his feet up.

“that why i could feel your little pussy throbbing? beggin’ me to help her out? christ, maybe if you got some dick you’d quit bitching all the time.”

maybe he was right.

it’s how you end up blubbering on your back with the backs of your knees in his huge hands.

“shit, maybe i’ve been missin’ a trick with this young pussy stuff. fuckin’ perfect.” his heavy cock brushes your folds as he stretches your legs up into a humiliating pose, not caring for your sniffles and angry pouts. he pushes your knees up higher with an intrigued smirk. “you’re flexible, huh? what, were you a cheerleader in high school or something?”

“are you gonna fuck me or what?” you whine, so needy and petulant that it makes him smile.

“you modern girls. no patience.” he slaps his cock on your folds and you flinch. “relax. only polite to knock before i enter, right?”

[thebiggerbear]

"What do you see in him?" "Everything you don't." - Soldier Boy Prompt Response

Summary: Hughie and everyone don't understand what you see in Soldier Boy but they also haven't seen what you've seen: Ben.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Female!Supe!Reader

A/N: This is part of the Soldier Boy/Beau Arlen/Dean Winchester/CJ Braxton/Alec McDowell/Jason Teague/Tom Hanniger/Russell Shaw/Boaz Priestly/Jake Gray/Jensen Ackles RPF prompt response project I've been working on the last month (previewed here). This idea immediately popped into my head for it.

All unbeta'd.

Warnings: language; implied past sexual assault (not SB); mentions of implied drug use; mentions of violence; mentions of death

Word Count: 2199

Taglist: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187; @rieleatiel; @hobby27; @impala67rollingthroughtown

Soldier Boy Taglist: @birdiellie; @heartlessdelusions; @brightlilith; @muhahaha303; @just-levyy; @solacedthistest; @deansimpala; @foxyjwls007; @onlyangel-444; @faephoria; @believeinthefireflies95

Jensen Taglist: @samanddeaninatrenchcoat; @deansbbyx; @lyarr24; @bts24; @deans-spinster-witch; @rebel-paladin; @nancymcl

Beau Arlen | Dean Winchester | CJ Braxton | Jake Gray | Jason Teague | Boaz Priestly | Russell Shaw | Tom Hanniger | Jensen Ackles RPF | Alec McDowell

Once MM stormed out of the room, followed by a glaring Butcher, Annie, Kimiko, and Hughie descended on you. Frenchie stayed in the corner, beyond shocked — so shocked he forgot to puff away at his still burning cigarette.

“Seriously?” Annie spat angrily.

Hughie looked more disappointed than pissed off at you, and that somehow bothered you more than Annie’s fury ever could have. “Y/N, you’ve got to explain this one to me. I don’t…” He took a deep breath and began again. “The guy’s a fossil. A racist, homicidal, perverted piece of shit fossil.” Hughie placed his hands on his hips. “What do you even see in the guy?”

Kimiko furiously signed a repeat of the question.

You knew Hughie was right. Soldier Boy had done a lot of fucked up shit — shit that wasn’t forgivable in any way, shape, or form. But you also knew Ben, the man underneath all of that asinine machismo and false bravado. You’d seen glimpses of him here and there when no one else had, when Ben himself hadn’t even known you had. It also didn’t hurt that you’d seen memories of his childhood play in his mind or saw flashes of his strained relationship with his father — the man he could never live up to or gain his approval, no matter how hard he tried. There was a lot swimming underneath the surface of that green suit, under that indestructible skin, that had gotten corrupted and then shaped by easy fame, a greedy corporation, and more drugs than any person should have coursing through their system on a daily basis, even a Supe. All of it was certainly no excuse for the things he’d done, but you knew there was more to him than who he’d been, who he was now even — you’d literally seen it.

So you looked your oldest friend in the eye and spoke as honestly as you could. “Everything you don’t,” you told him quietly before walking out of the room in the opposite direction MM and Butcher had gone in. You came to a stop outside the door when you saw Ben standing there, his green eyes watching you sharply. 

He had obviously heard every word and while it wasn’t exactly something you wanted him to find out, you refused to act embarrassed or caught out. So you stuck your chin up a little higher, daring him to say something he would end up regretting should he piss you off.

“You saw a lot more than you let on when they had you do a read on me after pulling me out of the tube.” Not a question but a statement, one that didn’t contain any traces of surprise.

He was right; you had seen plenty — some things you’d rather forget. But you had meant what you said to Hughie just before, to Butcher and the team before that. There was more to him than the green suit, than the America’s Son bullshit facade, and even the horrible things he had done in his time. There was something there worth trying to extricate, to let see the light of day that hadn’t in a very long time. 

You didn’t respond to what he’d said; you had no need to. You only watched him as he watched you.

Ben took a few wary steps forward until he was right in front of you. He carefully reached out a hand to your cheek, laying his fingers along your skin when he saw that you didn’t immediately pull away from him. 

“So,” he started, his voice a little more gravelly than usual as he spoke quietly to you, only for your ears and his. He tenderly ran his thumb near the corner of your mouth. “I matter to you, huh?”

When you thought he was indeed making fun of you as he thought he might, echoing your words back to you, you noticed a small smile forming on his face as his eyes roamed over yours. You had seen plenty of smiles from the man since you’d first seen him a couple of months ago or so — mostly smug smirks or leering grins, usually aimed at everyone but you — but you had never seen this one before. It caught you off guard so much, you were captivated. “You know you do,” you murmured. 

He stared at you for a moment, glancing between you and your mouth, and then slowly leaned in. When his lips gently connected to yours, you felt an immediate electric shock travel through your system. So much so that you started seeing images playing behind your eyelids that weren’t your own. 

…Him listening to you and Hughie bicker in the next room about which Billy Joel song was the best (We Didn’t Start the Fire for you and Pressure for him) and how he smiled to himself when you told Hughie in a playful tone to suck it when the little whiny bitch tried to show you what the critics helmed the better song. 

…Ben getting angry when some piece of shit Supe had the balls to put his hand on your ass at Herogasm — a hand he immediately crushed.

…Him surreptitiously studying each interaction between you and Butcher, noting the hostility but begrudging respect between you, wondering if there was a story there and if there was, how he planned to convince you that he was the better man for you compared to the backstabbing Brit.

…Him rushing to protect you with his shield when one of Homelander’s team of misfits you didn’t see coming nearly killed you with a massive blow. You felt the rage coursing through his veins when he noticed a small trickle of blood coming from a wound near your scalp as you glanced up at him gratefully. Most of the Supes you had engaged had died that day and now you knew exactly why.

…Ben watching you out of the corner of his eye when you stood at the window, arms crossed and ominously silent, after MM had mentioned The Deep while planning on how to take out Homelander. He waited until everyone had cleared out, even Hughie who had squeezed your shoulder as he passed you by, and Ben carefully approached you from behind, torn between wanting to pull you back into his large frame to cage you protectively in his arms or to ask what was the matter. He had ended up going with the latter and you simply said “Kevin’s not a good person” and walked away, your shoulders a little more sunken down than he’d ever seen them. You felt his resolve from that moment and now knew why he had gone after The Deep with such a laser focus before even bothering with Homelander. 

…You reassuring him when he suddenly woke from a sound sleep, gasping and wide-eyed, as his chest began glowing — a result of him not self-medicating nearly as much as he used to. He had wanted you to feel safe around him so he’d cut back on the Bennies, the reefer, the booze, and even the women. He would never admit it out loud but he cared deeply about what you thought. Unbeknownst to you at the time, when you had first seen inside his head, he had gotten a glimpse inside of yours, too. And what he had seen…he wanted to be a man worthy of you. Or at least try his best. You were everything he hadn’t even known he wanted until that moment. So he had made a valiant effort to kick the drug and alcohol habit to the side but it didn’t come without consequences for him. Ben had dreamt he was back in Russia, stuck in a box as they poked and prodded at him, laughing and telling him he would never be free and he would never see anyone again. When he heard your voice telling him he was safe, he grasped for you and you let him, even though he felt you tense up at his greedy touch. “Sorry,” he gruffed out and immediately released you, worried he had either hurt you without meaning to or had made you uncomfortable in his bid to make sure you were real. “It’s okay,” you whispered, picking up his hand and placing it in between both of yours. “I’m right here. You’re safe.” When he felt your thumb tenderly swiping over his knuckles in reassuring strokes, he rasped out, “Did you see?” Instead of answering, you reached up to lay a hand against his cheek. “You’re home now and you’re never going back.” Your words were a fiery promise enforced by the steely resolve in your eyes. “I won’t let you.” He gently held his hand over yours and the glow in his chest receded; he believed you.

…Him watching you as you slept on the opposite end of the couch. You mumbled and sighed a lot in your sleep and it fascinated him. Earlier, when you had found the show he wanted, he had asked you to sit and watch with him, just in case he didn’t understand any of the references. You had obliged and promptly drifted off two episodes in. To Ben, it was a huge ego boost; you felt safe and comfortable enough around him that you could fall asleep near him. As he watched you, hearing your sounds, he really wanted to know what you were dreaming about, especially when your brows knit together and you let out a terrified whimper. He had picked you up without waking you and held you close to him. “You’re okay, doll,” he promised in a soothing murmur to your hairline. “I’ve got you and nothing is going to happen. I won’t let it.” He heard you inhale deeply and then release a contented sigh a moment later. You relaxed in his arms, curling into him, and he stayed like that the entire night: holding you as he watched episode after episode of Friends, something he had only picked because he thought you might like it enough to agree when he planned to ask you to stay. As much as he enjoyed the sound of your voice when you patiently explained things to him, the night turned out even better than he dared to hope, especially when you subconsciously buried your face into his neck and stayed cocooned there. Only when he heard you beginning to stir back into consciousness hours later did he gently place you back in the spot you fell asleep in, pretending not to notice when you fully woke up, opening one sleepy eye to find him in front of you. He shrugged off your apology and glanced over to find you softly smiling at him, causing a strange twinge to happen inside his chest, something reminiscent of when the nuclear reactor inside of him went off but far less dangerous…and much more pleasant.

The images faded as he slowly pulled back a few inches, his green gaze staring deeply into yours. “Was that okay?”

You slowly nodded, still beyond shocked not only at what you had seen or how gentle the kiss had been, but also the sensations it had caused to sweep through you — things you were pretty sure you’d never feel in your lifetime. Hints of desire and a lightness whispered throughout your body as another stronger emotion gained a foothold and blanketed your entire being. Whereas it might have frightened you before, it didn’t now. You knew you were safe, protected, and after this kiss, you now also knew you were cherished to a certain extent.  

Almost as if he knew what you were thinking, fleeting relief gave way to a small smile on his face and he tenderly placed his thumb on your chin. “Good. Because you matter to me, too.”  

You couldn’t help but smile in return, seeing his eyes light up, and you gently framed his face in your hands. You stood on the tips of your toes and pressed your lips to his again, eager to see more as he willingly put his guard down to let you completely in. You also wanted to experience that rush of sensations again with him and this time when he wrapped his arms around you to carefully hold you against him, you buried your fingers into his hair and only deepened the kiss. It wasn’t Soldier Boy who was kissing you back and whose thumb tenderly brushed against your jawline; it was Ben — the very Ben you’d seen hidden underneath all of the layers of toxic masculinity, simmering rage, and the Supe tamping down the man with years of drug use, womanizing, and an overinflated ego. And from the images and thoughts swimming in your mind that didn’t belong to you, your Ben by all accounts. Something that sadly Hughie and the rest would never understand or even be willing to try. But as Ben soundly kissed you, when he broke away to let you catch your breath and placed his forehead against yours, tenderly rubbing strands of your hair that had come loose between his fingertips, you found that part didn’t really bother you all that much.

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[masempaix]

Y/n: Looking delicious in that outfit, babygirl *wink*

Soldier Boy: did she just ca—

Hughie: It’s meant you’re attractive man

[thewritersaddictions]

Day One: Soldier Boy + Baby It's Cold Outside

It's late december when Ben comes back from yet another search for a Vought member. He's not really a fan of christmas having never really gotten the things he wanted during his childhood.

The first time Ben hears the song it's during his time away at war. Ben is just thirty, and he loves music. Warming his heart in a way that not much else can. He hums to himself during his time away at war, and as his mother used to. It keeps him clam, and striaght with his thoughts.

It's when Vought takes Ben to be their test subject and their propaganda device, does the song come back to him. Years had passed, Vought wanted, and tried like hell to make the face of thier company sell.

What was worth selling? Sex has alway sold, and by the standards of the world then and now Ben is a deliciously sexy man. Now mix that together with money and you've pretty much got yourself anything you can dream of.

It forces Ben, or what Vought called him "Soldier Boy" to become apart of a few things. Movie titles, pinup posters, and songs. During the sevetnies, and eighties when the tech get's better the songs he laid down on records turned into shitty music videos.

During christmas time one of the years before he was caught by the russians. He does yet another albums filled with winter songs. Speicallifly the song he had used to keep himself level headed during the war, down in the trenches dirt and blood splattering his face.

Shaking the thought he does what he's told, and sings the song. That damn song that has been stuck to him like glue for the past twenty years at least. Ben does a few good things before getting caught by the Russians like buying the song on record his version and the orginal stuffing them away with other importnat documents, and things from his childhood.

Ben can see the stupid LED christmas lights from the apartments window as he walks up his duffel over his shoulder. With that he jams the brass key into the lock twisting and turning the knob before the door gives and he's let in. The lights are dimly light, and the sound of the tv plays in the background.

"I'm home." He says loudly so you can hear over the tv. He can the scampering of your feet on the hardwood, as he drops the duffel kicks the door shut with his boots, and sits down to unlace his boots.

Theres that beautiful smile he wishes he could see everyday whenever he's away. "Hey beautiful." He says with a contentment that you can hear in his voice. You smile sweetly down at him, and when ben gets up from his kneeled postion you smother him kisses.

You taste of choclate and mint, "What have you been up to while I've been gone?" He asks even though he really doesn't have to. The apartment is decorated ceiling to floor in christmas decorations. Ben feels as if he just walked into a christmas store, or maybe a hallmark.

"Well," You start with a smile written all over your face, "I've been trying to get into the sprit of christmas, and  I pulled some of your old records out looking for something a least a little bit chirstmassy." The words "your records."

"You weren't through my things?" Ben doesn't mean for the words to come out so harsh, but they do. Ben is and has always been protective of what he has and that includes you, but he wishes you could have waited till he was home and you had asked him instead.

The smile on your face starts to fall you open your mouth open to apoliges, but nothing comes out. You drop your hand from his, and get quiet moving over to the couch. "I'm sorry Ben." The tv is still playing but the sound is lower.

Ben can feel the tension in the air. Thick and it annoys him. He forgets just how sensitive you can be not used to being home just yet. Ben needs a drink before he can deal with that mess he's created.

He leaves you in the living for now, to mutter in your feelings while he finds in the kitchen a jug of eggnog. An old recipe card sits out, he internally groans. 'Fuck you for being so damn sweet to him.' and 'Fuck him for having such a sweet spot for you.' He pour himself a glass and it hits him with a tingle down his thoart. His eyes scan over the recipe card, In cursive, "Just a dash or two cups of whiskey."

He can't hear you, but cna hear the tv. He rolls his eyes has he pour himself anther cup, and you one as well. When he comes out of the kitchen you are right where he left you. Setting your cup on the side tablebut not before you move a coastar underneath it. He set his cup down on the other coastar. The silence isn't uncomfortable for Ben, but he can feel you messin' with your fingers and nails. He starts to scan what you took out. His records, and one catches his eye.

He slides his fingers over the old package, and pulls the record from the safety of it's home. The record is safe from marks, or scratches and so Ben slips it onto the record player. Grabbing the remote, turning the tv off.

"Listen baby," You don't look at him, "Honey, look at me." Your eyes are glazed with hurt, but you look at him anyways. He has to stifle his laugh at how adorable you look right now for him.

"I'm sorry for being short with you, you know it takes me a few hours to get back and used to being home with you love. Now get up here and let me fix it." Ben says, reaching out his hand palm up so your much smaller hand can fit right in it. You chew your bottom lip for a moment like your thinking of denying him, but as much as Ben's missed you you've missed him tenfold.

You grab his hand and Ben pulls you up effortlessly. He smiles for the first time since he arrived home, and your shoulders fall with contentment. Ben only lets go of your hand for a few seconds just enough to let the needle fall on the record and his hands to slip back into yours. One hand holding onto your hand and the other your waist. The two of you sway as the music crackles and then starts to play.

You rest your head against his large chest, and breathe him in. The first few tracks are not the song Ben's looking for, but he waits patiently. He likes being able to hold you like this, there's no rhythm or reason to your swaying.

That is until the song Ben had been waiting for hit his ears. The songs start slow, and then your movements become more fluid. Your socks glide on the carpet, and even if you accidentally step on Ben's feet he is still okay with having you in his arms. By the chorus of the song Ben's humming in your ear with his hand holding you with a warm grip 'round our waist.

"You'll sing it for me?" You ask with your cheek pressed into his chest. Ben's humming stops and for a moment so does the little swaying the two of you have gotten into. Ben thinks for a moment, "Maybe sweetheart. Maybe." But he can already feel you getting excited at the thought of him singing, "But for now can you take the hummin' and the swayin'?" He asks, putting a stray piece of hair behind your ear. Nodding, you place your head back on his chest, swaying, and humming resumes.

Completed on: 10/06/23

Posted on: 12/01/23

The Anti-Hero-

The Boys Master List // The Anti-Hero Master List // Christmas Stoires Master List

[legrandepapillon]

Hi! I saw you are taking prompts for Wyllsrarion fluff!

Such a shame there is a lack of content compared to other Astarion pairings (i.e. with Gale or Durge).

Prompt fluff ideas, first kiss where Astarion realizes the depth of his feelings for Wyll. Or Astarion confessions to Wyll. His realization.

Wyll playing with Astarion's hair.

Wyll letting Astarion see himself through Wyll's eyes via tadpole and feeling how much Wyll loves him.

Astarion being fiercely protective of Wyll which may or may not surprise him (depends how early it is in relationship)

Since your say you are fine with NSFW then by all means go for it, I won't say know to Wyllsrarion spice. But it's also not entirely necessary because their fluff is just *chef kiss*

Asking anonymously because I am bashful...

Rating: T

hi anon, thanks for all the prompts you gave me!! i chose to use this one to respond to your ask, but i still put the others in my requests so keep your eyes peeled for those. one of them might be the spice you were looking for 👀

i think there’s something super intimate in hair care/trusting someone else with your hair care and i wanted to explore that here. i’m thinking maybe a part 2 to this where astarion tries to figure out wyll’s hair care & it goes disastrously bc i can't reconcile a universe where astarion is good at doing wyll's hair lol

Wyll had noticed that vulnerability did not come easy to the pale vampire in their party. He could hardly blame him for the matter either; after two-hundred years spent being ground into nothing by another man’s heel, he might begin to recoil at the idea of showing any weakness himself. Hells, it’d only taken seven with Mizora’s claws in his soul for him to begin to tremble at the thought of anyone seeing him at his most vulnerable in the same humiliating ways she had.

It was probably easier for their pale companion to lean into the more bloodthirsty, power hungry nature expected of a vampire spawn. To cast aside fickle things like sensitivity or emotion or fragility. He kept every single of his defenses up, the tripwires and traps in conversations with him deterring most of the others from prying down to the white meat of who he is.  If it could be even remotely related to the feeling of helplessness, he would never want it associated with himself. Better to put on the armor of his more vicious traits, leave some of the softer stuff tucked in a well-armed chest at the back of his mind.

And yet. 

Yet he obviously had never bargained to meet anyone just as dexterous and twice as charming. In all his efforts of keeping others out with his sharp tongue and sharp blades and well-placed traps, he’d never accounted for the possibility that there might be someone out there able to parry each strike and disarm every obstruction. Wyll could tell he had Astarion on the back foot more often than not. And at first the man had scratched and kicked and hissed at the idea of being seen and surreptitiously cared for. Of someone seeing all of his breaks and tears and taking the time to mend them rather than grinding salt into the wounds. It was truly a sight, watching as he braced himself for impact and then immediately melted against tender touch. He marvels at it.

A quarter way through their journey, surrounded by the glowing unfamiliar flora of the Underdark, and Wyll has already weaseled his way past so many of those traps and alarms. He hasn’t quite gotten Astarion to trust him, but it’s a very near thing now.

It shows in the way he slips into his tent every night, back from his hunts for more duergar and drow blood. He would half-stumble past the flaps of Wyll’s tent, illuminated in the shadows only by the odd glow of the vegetation surrounding their camp. Prop himself up awkwardly across the tent until the warlock arranged himself in a way that’s satisfactory to him. Wyll would always be ready for him—taking Astarion’s head on his lap, and placing one of the trashy adventuring novels they shared in his hands. The elf would read aloud from their novel, sniping at the dialogue and rolling his eyes at the prose wherever he desired whilst Wyll tended to the night routine for those rakish silvery curls of his. 

All of it done with hardly a word these days, a tradition started after Astarion had gotten too drunk on a bear and kept for the sake of companionship. For the sake of having someone that understands intrinsically the fears of being vulnerable, the breath of a monster on your neck at each waking move, the exhaustion of being strong and the desire to be weak for a while.

It wasn’t trust, but it was as close to it as he could get.

Wyll begins rummaging through the small pouch of items Astarion keeps for his personal hygiene whilst the vampire flips through to the page they’d left off on. He daren’t bother with the intricate routine of the man’s morning care, the scrunching and twisting and styling a bit beyond his own proficiency. But he knows this act well enough, separating rows of hair gently with a comb and moisturizing both scalp and curls in a pattern. He does it himself, every two ten days—sometimes four, if he was too caught up with adventuring to tend to it sooner. His own hair is wild at the roots now, the fresh new growth peeking out from formerly tidy canerows. Since Mizora had given him his horns and claws, he’d been too afraid of attempting to navigate re-braiding with the foreign appendages. The thought of undoing the style, only to be stuck fighting with his hair in his face because he couldn’t redo it kept him off the task. Perhaps he’d be vulnerable enough to ask Karlach, when they got her touch fixed. Or maybe teach Astarion, so that their nightly routine could be reciprocated every now and then. 

Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone treat him as tenderly as he does them?

Surfacing with Astarion’s cream and comb, Wyll readjusts the older man’s head in his lap before starting on his work. Parting the row of hair closest to his ear, before dabbing some of the moisturizer onto his scalp and then combing it through his curls. He’d once offered up his oils, the first time Astarion had run out of conditioner and the next merchant was another four-days trek back. But he remembers the way the vampire had recoiled—first at the genuine gesture of kindness, and then at the reality of it. He’d batted off the offer by insisting Wyll’s oils would only make his hair greasy and unattractive, but had managed to thank him anyways.

That had been before their little routine. Had he known then what he knows now, he might not have been so put out by the clear dismissal of help. 

Another row, more of the conditioner. When he combs through the curls, he marvels at how they immediately shrink back into their perfect shape. It was the first thing he’d noticed about him, back at the grove. The sunlight that filtered through the halo of his silvery locks, the way they seemed to fall into place no matter which way the elf shook his head. Well-coifed and obviously tenderly cared for, he’d been utterly transfixed. Perhaps obviously so, with the way Shadowheart had snorted at his mention of it and Gale had given him one of those ‘I’m-going-to-find-out-what-you’re-up-to’ stares. There’d been no ulterior motive, of course.

Except for maybe this.

“Wyll, I can’t believe you read this drivel, darling,” Astarion complains, gently tugging him from his thoughts. Wyll doesn’t take his eyes off of his task, but he does make a noise to inform the other man he’s listening. “The young maiden hurried to cover her perfectly hairless body, squeezing her arms across her ample bosom. It did naught to help maintain her chastity though, as her full breasts spilled over her clutched arms. I mean, really. Talk about an author’s thinly veiled fetishes.” 

“Ah, The Lusty Luskan Lordess,” he responds, comb delicately parting one section of Astarion’s hair so that his finger can swipe a bit more conditioner along his scalp. “I didn’t pick that one, remember? You stole it from that Zhents pack back at their hideout.”

“I did?” Astarion flips the cover to reveal the front art. It’s a rather lewd painting of a young woman, half-dressed in finery and throwing herself at a tall, broad and beastly mercenary come to steal from her tower. The vampire makes a snort of acknowledgement after a moment. “So I did. I thought the mercenary looked disturbingly like Halsin, you know.”

Wyll’s hand stills briefly in Astarion’s head, confusion written expressly over his youthful features. He scrunches his nose. “You wanted to read smut about Halsin?” 

“No. I wanted us to read smut about Halsin. I thought it would be terribly funny,” Astarion lowers the book to get a good look at the other man—though upside down—and furrows his brow. “Don’t stop. That felt nice.”

“Your wish is my command, Lordess,” Wyll chuckles, before returning back to the small puddle of curls splayed in his lap. “Skip the smut if it bothers you so much, I want to know what her father will do now that he knows someone’s found her tower.”

“Skip the smut? And disgrace the artistic integrity of whatever pervert wrote this garbage? Absolutely not! We’ll read every bit of the smut, and I’ll add footnotes to correct it into something more realistic.”

“As if you’re the expert on sex,” snorts Wyll, walking face first into one of those many aforementioned conversational traps that Astarion had laid. The vampire stiffens in his hold a bit, and out of courtesy he withdraws his hands from his hair. It’s times like this, moments of levity followed by the crushing reminders about reality, that Wyll wishes they could’ve met in one of their fairytale books. With no Vampire Lord or Cambion Mistress to answer to, he wonders how their story might’ve gone. Would he have been able to sweep Astarion delicately off of his feet and off into the sunset? Would Astarion have allowed him to?

He laments how he’ll never know, and then puts those thoughts aside himself. Astarion is not the only one with a tightly guarded chest of fears and dreams and desires that he kept away from the rest of the world, hidden to where nobody—not even the devil that lives in his eye—could ever see it.

“After two hundred years, dear, I quite think I am,” Astarion hisses. Fair enough; Wyll had perhaps earned that one. The punishment for his misstep is not so bad, though. There’s a marked tension in the words of the man as he reads through the next line, and he lays stock still in Wyll’s lap. Curls half-moisturized by now, the damp bits chilling a spot on Wyll’s camp clothes. But he doesn’t get up and storm out, like he might’ve done in the early weeks of their odd arrangement. Nor does he curse the man to the planes of Avernus and back. Small mercies and little victories, the younger man takes what he can get and returns to his task.

Astarion does wind up skipping the smut scenes, grumbling that even he couldn’t wade through all that hogshit on a full stomach. Wyll isn’t perturbed either way, parting and moisturizing in methodical turns. They manage to finish two more chapters before his fingers half-abandon their task to merely run through the soft, silvery curls. Whether to placate Astarion or soothe himself is unknown, but it certainly does make him feel a bit calmer. He leans back against his tent, careful not to put too much weight on the precarious fabric. But with the gentle droning of Astarion’s voice and the steady, repeated motions of carding through his hair, Wyll feels like he could just doze off right there. His misstep in conversation goes all but forgotten as his eyelids get heavy, his ministrations against the vampire’s scalp slowed to a syrupy pace.

It isn’t until he feels Astarion move that he jerks back to alertness, adding a hurried, “I wasn’t asleep!” to make sure Astarion didn’t think his presence was at all boring or exhausting. The last thing he’d want is for these nightly rendezvous to come to an abrupt conclusion because he was rude enough to doze off in the middle of them.

“Ah-hm, that’s very convincing, sweetling,” Astarion mocks, before sitting up to run his fingers through his own hair. They come back slightly shiny with the conditioner, but even if Wyll fell asleep with a quarter left to do, the vampire seems satisfied enough with his work. “Come now. Before you wind up with a crick on your neck.”

He tries to protest, even as Astarion is already helping to arrange him into his bedroll. “I wasn’t done with your—”

“It’s fine, Wyll. More than fine. You did wonderfully; cut my morning routine in half, practically,” Astarion placates, though they both know he’s lying through his teeth. No matter whether he and Wyll finished their little night tradition, Astarion always took the same amount of time in his tent every morning. Gale had a running bet with the others on whether he was actually that self-conscious about his appearance or if he did it just because he knew Lae’zel preferred to get moving as quickly as possible.

Whether he’s being fed platitudes or not, Wyll gives him a warm half-smile. Astarion arranges the thin blanket of his bedroll around him in turn in order to give him a more comfortable rest. Their routine wraps up here the same every night. With Astarion’s hair seen to, and Wyll’s adventure romance novels read, company kept so that the others vulnerabilities would remain safe from the rest another day… the end of the evening would creep upon them. 

Wyll never fully remembers the moments between consciousness—Astarion’s head in his lap and lily lilt of his tone reading the novel droning on—and unconscious—waking up drenched a cold sweat to an empty tent, the leftover laughter of Mizora chilling him down to the bone. How he gets from one point to the other. Sometimes he’ll doze off still in his padded armor and awake in his camp clothes. Once even fell asleep across the tent, and woke up tucked sweetly into his bedroll. Only faint memories of silver curls illuminated into a glowing halo by moonlight, and crimson eyes that track forlornly over his form. 

And every night, Wyll would sleepily shoot out one hand to clutch at his companions’. Delicately wrap his warm digits around that frail death-cold wrist and give one half-hearted tug. His voice, laden with both exhaustion and deep yearning, he asks, “Astarion? Stay with me?”

And every night, Astarion would purse his lips into a line. As if he’s almost considering it for a moment. As if perhaps rummaging for a key to one of his chests that he’d long tossed aside, some sort of magic word that could make Wyll understand why he dances so hesitantly in and out of their… this… whatever it was. 

“Perhaps when we finish the book,” he says, like he does always, patting Wyll’s hand gently. “Go to sleep—you need more of it than I do.”

“Goodnight, Astarion,” Wyll responds, already half there, letting his head loll to the side and eyes flutter closed.

The next evening, when he approaches his tent at camp, a fresh book awaits him… and a new tin of the conditioning cream. They hadn’t quite finished the Lusty Lordess, with a handful more chapters before she and her mercenary were able to achieve their happy ending. But there’s a new book for them to start all the same, the last one probably long-discarded between the days’ events.

It isn’t a ‘no’. Just a ‘not yet’. Wyll sighs and settles down on his bedroll to wait for Astarion to come to him. It’ll hardly be while there are still others awake, able to see him slip in and out of the other man’s temporary lodgings. But he knows that’ll it come, and neither of them will mention the fresh start to a book when one still went unfinished between them.

It seems there’s a few more traps he’d have to disarm before he could reach the man behind them. No matter to it; Wyll is a patient, tenacious sort of fellow.

[ff7-has-taken-me-over]

Zack’s not a jealous guy. He doesn’t see the point in it really. He has faith in his partners and he’s confident enough in himself that it doesn’t matter if other people wanna flirt with them. If his partner is unhappy or wishes for something else he trusts they’ll tell him.

But apparently that doesn’t exactly translate well to his friendship with Cloud. Like, yeah. He’s got a crush on the guy, how could he not? The blond is so adorable and devastatingly beautiful sometimes and his dry wit and awkward charm make Zack giggle like a child. It’s hard not to fall for him.

So he understands, logically, why his fellow SOLDIER’s would be asking about the blond he’s been hanging out with recently. He understands why they’re all asking him to set them up with Cloud or maybe put in a good word for them. He gets it, would totally be one of them if he wasn’t already friends with the blond.

What he doesn’t get is why there’s so much seething jealousy when he catches them so much as looking at the blond. Let alone actually trying to ask him out. Every time one of them come and ask him to give them Cloud’s number he has to restrain himself from snapping at them.

Gritting his teeth and spouting off some bullshit reason of why he can’t do that. It’s wrong and he shouldn’t be gatekeeping his best friend like he has any say in who the guys dates but he can’t help it.

[jacklesversebingo]

Sign-up Here

The prompt list may have gotten a bit out of hand, but putting it together has been so fun. The list is long and varied, containing fan-favorite tropes, kinks, and AUs. It also includes quotes that have been twisted, tropes that have been turned on their heads, and maybe a few off-the-wall ideas.

Don’t worry, though. You can request changes if your card contains prompts that don’t inspire you.

Prompts If you are unsure of a prompt's meaning or its spirit of intent, please ask.

Quotes and song lyrics quoted as a prompt should not be amended

Songs - use all or part (e.g., lyrics as dialogue, soundtrack for fan vid, fic or art based on the song's vibe). Using the song title as the title of your piece is fine, but the content also needs to connect to the song in some way.

AUs, kinks, single-word prompts, etc., use as you'd like based on the guidelines.

Sample Cards

Round One starts October 1, 2023. Be sure to read the Guidelines/Rules and the FAQs before signing up.

[zepskies]

Tell me about Love Actually, and Michael, please, with whiskey and pie on top?

Well, hello there!!

I think "Michael" is @spnexploration's WIP, but thank you for asking about "Love Actually" - (Soldier Boy x Reader)! 🥰

It's a one-shot for @deanwinchesterswitch’s "Christmas in July" event (so it'll be coming out sometime in July!). It’s set in the same world as “Checkerboard” and “Break Me Down,” fitting somewhere in between timeline-wise, but can be read as a stand-alone. ❄️❄️

Summary: Ben gets in late on Christmas Eve with a Grinch-like attitude, but you’re determined to force some holiday cheer into his system. 

And here's a sneak peek:

When he opened his eyes again, they were drawn to the small, four-foot Christmas tree in the corner of the room, next to the TV. 

“That’s a poor fucking excuse for a tree,” he said. 

You frowned and followed his gaze. 

“I think it’s adorable,” you replied. And it was the only one you thought would fit in this cozy, but very narrow apartment.

Lol Ben's very much a grump in this one. 🎄

[fr-3-aksh-0-w]

I did a whole little story about a Soldier who broke into this little French woman’s bakery, aimed a gun at her, saw it was a mistake, then got chewed out in French by the woman, she also threw stale buns at him then demanded he fix her window which he managed to do even though he wasn’t handy.

She then basically conned him into buying a loaf of cinnamon coffee cake with the last of his money.

She made him try a bite which he liked and that made her very happy, she told him to come back with more money and to try everything. He said he would, then she sent him on his way.

Later that night, after the soldier got into the fight he was *supposed* to be at, he got wounded and managed to stumble back to the bakery after he was abandoned from evac, because he didn’t know anyone in this little town. He didn’t have to beg for her help, but she addressed him as

“Cinnamon Soldier” because of the coffee cake loaf he bought and she didn’t know his name yet. She took care of his wounds and one thing lead to another, and they ended up spending the night together. It was very soft and romantic. Neither of them had been in a relationship for a while either, so it felt like the first time all over again.

It was super cute.

She’s gonna teach him how to bake cause he don’t know shit.

[waynes-multiverse]

Kinda in the mood for some smut drabbles this week... 👀😇

So if you have little dirty requests for me, send them in. Can be for Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau, or Jensen. No rules. If I feel uncomfortable with something, I’ll let you know 😉

Dirty Inbox 🖤

[irl-dogboy]

🎵BUCKY

boys a liar pt2 awakened something deep within me. *lovecores your winter soldier*

(send me a character + 🎵 and i‘ll draw them using the first song that comes up on shuffle as a prompt)

[glossykissies]

was thinking about how soldier boy would work in a universe with no supes… n it got me thinking about divorcedneighbour!ben and hotyoungerneighbour!reader … ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ ౨ৎ

he moves into the house next door and he’s soooo tough and mean and scary, always drinking beer, smoking cigars, working out n keeping to himself… you find out he’s ex military and recently divorced his wife because people in your town talk and you can find out anything about anyone !!

you’re a sweetheart and can’t imagine how sad he must be on the inside so you’re constantly knocking on his door in your tiny little skirts just offering anything you can… extra cookies you baked, you offer to wash his car, you even hand him a set of keys and tell him to just go ahead and let himself in if he ever needs anything. the brooding man doesn’t say much, just sort of looks you over and tells you “not a good idea to just hand your spare key over to random men.” but you trust him so what’s the big deal !! <3

he’s bored one day and takes up your relentless offer to wash his car, thinking you’ll just give it a rinse over with the hose — but no, of course you’re out on the lawn in the tiniest bikini, suds rolling down your body sponging his truck down like something out of a playboy magazine from when he was younger. of course he sits out on his deck and watches with a beer, would be rude not to — and plus he doesn’t really give a fuck about the disapproving looks from the passers by. who were these people to stop him from enjoying a perfectly good show?

he’s trying to do right by you, kind of. he remembers being in his 20s just like you, being young and horny and always pushing his luck. now he gets to watch your desperate attempts through a frown and thick crossed arms— surprised by how relentless you could be.

[thebiggerbear]

"You're safe now, I'm here." - Soldier Boy Prompt Response

Summary: Soldier Boy has been on a ton of dangerous missions in his time, fought a lot of battles, but never did he imagine he would be undertaking the one you had just tasked him with. Shit.

A/N: This is a prompt from @sydnee-kom-spacekru. A sort of sequel to the prompt response for "Sleep. I'll keep you safe." Been working on this since January 3rd. I had way too much fun with this one.

Happy Mother's Day to all of the mothers out there, all of the fur baby mamas, and all those who celebrate!

@deans-spinster-witch this is what popped into my head when you said "dangerous mission" lol. Once it was in there, I couldn't get it out. I hope it's decent and that you like it.

Unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.

Warnings: Soldier Boy being himself; some misogyny; some homophobic language; some antiquated thinking (SB); angst; a lot of mentions of shit (yes, literal shit); language (I guess?); some smut; mention of breeding kink; a bit of a lactation kink (I know they did the Coke and milk thing in the show but you can't tell me he wouldn't have at least been on the verge of this kink if the opportunity arose)

Word Count: 11k+

Taglist: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187; @rieleatiel

SB Taglist: @deans-spinster-witch; @birdiellie; @heartlessdelusions; @nancymcl; @brightlilith; @muhahaha303; @just-levyy

“You’re safe now, I’m here.”

SDV Leah version ✨ Russell Shaw version 1 & 2 ✨

Ben let out an aggravated sigh for what felt like the fortieth time and turned back to the table, his nose wrinkled. He glanced down and saw his daughter’s wide eyes watching him as she kicked her little legs, slobbering all over the fingers of one hand she had in her mouth. He made a face and shook his head, remembering when he told her “You’re lucky you’re cute, kid”, when she’d done the same thing about an hour before. He didn’t know what was so tasty about those fingers especially when there were other tastier options available. 

Speaking of which, you just had to pick the fucking perfect time to do your pumping shit so he would be stuck doing this shit, in the literal sense of the word. Ben thought he’d been on dangerous missions before but nothing ever made him want to retreat in the other direction more than the one he was about to embark on. The smell wafted up to him once more as the baby kicked her legs again.

“Christ, this kid fucking stinks.”

“Language!”

He rolled his eyes and glanced back over his shoulder, though he couldn’t see you. “It’s not like she understands what the fuck I’m saying!”

“Ben! We talked about this!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, turning back to his little girl. “No cursing around the baby,” he mocked you in a high voice, smirking when a small smile formed on her face.

Another wave hit him and he held a hand up to his nose. “Are you almost done in there?” He complained.

“No! I still have a little more to go.” He knew that; he could hear the machine still making its weird noises almost as if it was next to his ear. He hated and loved that thing. Hated it because it was so damn loud to his ears and it ruined a perfectly sexy image in his head when he first saw you doing it. Loved it because it was helping your body do one of the natural things it was designed to do and it also allowed him to get some one on one time with you out of the house for the occasional few hours if you could get Elena or Queen Lesbo to babysit. As a matter of fact, as harsh as the sounds were and how unsexy it was, it got him downright hard sometimes when he thought of either scenario because both brought it all back to sex for him. Either he was daydreaming about fucking another baby into you while watching you or he was thinking about how he was going to be fucking you later that evening when the two of you were alone. This time, though, it was going to be neither. 

You were getting ready to go out to have lunch with Elena, have some girl time or some shit. Whatever the fuck that meant. It certainly wasn’t what he’d been thinking the first time you mentioned it, which to him was a complete fucking wasted opportunity. He wasn’t into Elena at all or The One-Eyed Bitch Queen but he was definitely into seeing you get off. Just as long as it wasn’t another guy, he was good with it. But instead, his hopes had been dashed when your expression of disgust transformed into you pinching the bridge of your nose and explaining what girl time for you actually meant. His annoyance grew (and his nerves skyrocketed though he would never tell you that) when you mentioned he would be the one babysitting this time. He wasn’t happy but neither were you and when it came down to it, you were the victor of that argument.  

And now he had this shit on top of it, pun very much fucking intended. Needless to say, Ben was beyond done at this point.    

“Just change the diaper already,” you urged, your tone strained with the last threads of patience. “The longer she stays in her own mess, the more likely she is to get a rash and possible infection. Then she will be in pain and she’ll have to see the doctor. We don’t want that to happen. I’ve told you this time and time again and I’ve shown you how to do it. No more excuses, Ben. Just change it.”

Ben could feel his ire rising. “So you want me to do what you should be doing? I’m not the goddamn woman here!” He regretted it as soon as he said it. He heard you turn the machine off and he knew he was in for it now.

“What did you just say?” He heard you ask menacingly from the other room. Oh fuck. He knew he had about ten seconds to turn this around or the rest of the day and night were going to be shit. Worse than the actual shit he was smelling. He’d be lucky if he’d be able to sit next to you at the table later at dinner, never mind touch you again for the next few days.

“Nothing,” he grumbled, pulling a new diaper from the open package next to him and glancing down at the squirming baby in front of him. He was relieved when he heard the machine start up again and leaned over the table to lay down the law to his daughter. “Alright, look, kid, we gotta make some sort of deal here. You can’t be shitting up a storm and stinking up the place while your mother is out. Piss I can deal with. Puke, bad but doable. Shit…no fucking way.” He began to unbutton her onesie, screwing up his face in disgust as the smell slapped him in the face. “So if you really care about your old man and you want him to be happy, you’ll stop shitting all over the goddamn place. Got it?”

The baby gurgled back at him and he saw more drool coming out of her little mouth. 

Ben shook his head, giving her a sharp look. The least she could do was not look so happy about him having to do this for her. He gently pulled her legs out of the onesie as you’d shown him how to do (he ripped one too many the first week she was home) and he frowned when he saw a damp brown stain, the smell becoming even worse. He lifted her legs and as he’d suspected, the shit was fucking everywhere, having catapulted past the edge of the diaper and down her back. He briefly shut his eyes and looked away, groaning loudly, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” He attempted to take a breath that didn’t smell like he was wading around in the worst shit someone ever took. Like he was that little bastard Termite and he’d shot too far off the mark. 

“Now what?” You yelled back.

“She shit everywhere! It’s all up and down her back.” He looked back down at his daughter. “Really?” Another gurgle. “Christ.”

“Yeah, because she’s been sitting in a full diaper for the last thirty minutes while you’ve been non-stop complaining about it, that’s why! Just get her cleaned up and into a new diaper, some new clothes, and then put her in her bouncy chair so you can clean the table. Or if you’re feeling adventurous, give her a bath. A bath is probably better.”

“Why don’t you come in here and fucking handle it then? I’ve told you, my sense of smell is about ten times what yours is!”

You huffed out an aggravated breath. “Because you have to learn how to take care of her, Ben! You’re her father for God’s sake. You should be able to handle one damn diaper change without being a child about it! What if I wasn’t here anymore? You’d be the one doing it all then.”

He straightened up at that, glaring back in your direction. “What do you mean if you weren’t here? Where the fuck would you go?”

“Language, Ben! Jesus!”

His jaw clenched and he turned back to grab a fresh wipe or five. He bunched them up in his hand and lifted the baby’s legs and began to wipe. There was so much shit, the wipes were filled instantly and it got onto his hand. “Fucking hell!” His daughter’s smile faded and she began to look as if she were about to cry. 

“What now?” You snapped. 

“It’s all over my goddamn hand, that’s what!” He bellowed.

“Well, wipe it off, get her cleaned up, then wash your hands.” There was no compassion in your tone, only irritation.

Ben should have shut the fuck up right then and there, and just done what you’d tasked him with. But, he was fucking done and livid at your obvious lack of sympathy. “This isn’t my fucking job! It’s yours! You should be doing this! Real men don’t change their kid’s shitty diaper! Women do!” 

The machine shut off again but this time, Ben didn’t give a fuck. He’d had it. He knew you’d be pissed at what he’d just said but too fucking bad. It was true, whether you liked it or not. No matter what today’s society had to say or not. Women were the caregivers, the nurturers or whatever the fuck he’d heard on that bald-headed doctor’s show the other day, the givers of life or some shit. Real men did their job in making the kid, being the father, and putting food on the table for his family while also providing a roof over their heads. That’s how it always worked and that’s how it should still be today. He’d done his job: he’d protected you, knocked you up with his kid, and stuck around to be its father, even after finding out it wasn’t going to be the son he’d initially hoped for. And here you were, trying to get him to fucking play Mr. Mom so you could go out for a few hours and get some girl time that wasn’t even going to reap any benefits for him after you’d left the kid with him all afternoon? No fucking way. His jaw tightened as he heard you approaching quickly. He didn’t care how pissed you were; he wasn’t backing down. 

But just then, the baby began to cry, having been scared by him yelling angrily (and probably because she was wet and uncomfortable and had been for some time now). He glanced down at her, his jaw unclenching and his features softening slightly. Fuck no. Ben could withstand a lot of shit (minus actual shit), and not a lot affected him, but his daughter’s cries? And because of him? That was his kryptonite. “No, no, no. Don’t cry, Princess. Daddy’s sorry he yelled, okay? He didn’t mean to scare you,” he quietly soothed. He went to pick her up to hold her, forgetting that she had shit all over her, and he only realized it when it dripped all down the front of his shirt and his hands and arms were covered with it as he balanced her against his chest. “Ahhh shit!” The baby began to cry louder.

You appeared, the top of your dress fixed and buttoned, a furious expression on your face. You held out your hands. “You’re safe now, I’m here,” you spat. “Give her to me.” 

Ben glared down at you. He had been spoiling for a fight a moment ago but after the baby started to cry, some of the fury went out of him, and apparently right into you it looked like. “Listen, don’t get all pissy because—”

“I said,” you snapped. “Give her to me.”

Ben shot you a look but did as you said. He watched as you got shit all over you but you didn’t even flinch. Instead, you snatched the fresh diaper from the table and unfolded it to place behind your daughter’s poop chute before grabbing the canister of fresh wipes and a towel. You didn’t even look at him as you passed by him to head into the bathroom. Fuck, he was definitely in trouble.

He grimaced down at his messy shirt and removed it, balling it up and throwing it into the baby’s laundry basket. He made his way to the open door of the bathroom, stepping in to wash his hands and forearms at the sink as he watched you in the mirror, sitting on the edge of the tub and filling it with water, the baby’s own tub inside it. You were cooing at your daughter who wasn’t crying anymore but letting out little whines that threatened to extend back into a crying jag if need be. The baby was unhappy and from the looks of it, so were you.

He dried his hands as you began to use the fresh wipes to clean your daughter. “There we go, Ellie,” you murmured. “We’re going to get you all nice and clean, okay?”

Hearing your soft-toned reassurances to the baby, Ben figured now might be as good a time as any to try to start melting away some of your anger with him. He cleared his throat. “If you want, you don’t have to use that thing. I can get in the tub with her. I have to clean up anyway.” He gestured to his bare chest but you didn’t even look up.

“I think you’ve done quite enough today, thank you,” you answered, your tone full of ice. Yeah, he was in fucking trouble. Fuck.

“Don’t be like that. I’ve told you, my sense of smell is ten times more powerful than yours. I tried and it just didn’t work out.” He crossed his arms, his jaw tight. Why would you be fucking pissed at him? He tried his best. He got shit all over for him as a result for Christ’s sake. And he only spoke the truth.

“And what the fuck do you think this is? Chocolate? Paint?” You gestured to the shitty fresh wipes sitting in the diaper and to your ruined dress. That wasn’t what stopped him short; you never cursed in front of your daughter. 

You continued to carefully clean the baby in your lap. “I told you when I found out I was pregnant that I would do it myself. You could take off and go do whatever you wanted to do after you held up your end of the deal. You could go get high, get drunk, fuck a ton of women, play at being a superhero — whatever. But no, you said you wanted to stay. Insisted on it, actually. I told you then.” You threw another freshwipe into the diaper and grabbed a clean one. “If you stay, if you really want this, then you need to be all in. Do you remember that?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I am all in.”

“You call this all in?” You gestured towards the messy baby who had her hands in her mouth, watching her mother, tears still dotting her eyes. 

Ben started to feel uncomfortable, something almost like shame itching at his skin, and he didn’t care for it. He dropped his gaze to the ground. “So I didn’t change one shitty diaper. You don’t need to make a big fucking deal over it.”

“Ben,” you seethed. “Look at me.”

He reluctantly glanced up at you, still annoyed. 

“She’s your daughter and she can’t do these things for herself right now. Sometimes it’s going to be messy and sometimes it’s going to smell so bad you gag. And yeah, sometimes it’s going to make you uncomfortable, but you push through all of that because you’re her father and you love her no matter what. Because you want to take care of her, to make sure she is healthy and happy every single day. She’s our responsibility for the rest of our lives. It’s no longer about you, me, or anyone else. It’s about her. Just her. That’s it.”

He unclenched his jaw, hearing the seriousness of what you were saying, the truth he didn’t want to think about underlying your very words. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his daughter, he did, but why were you so insistent on giving him the dirty work? You knew how he felt about doing this type of shit. Not to mention, it felt like you were trying to shame him for not wanting to change one fucking diaper, like you were implying that he wasn’t a good father if he didn’t waltz into the nursery, smiling and eager to do it. He was a good father and a damn good provider. If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t even have this place to call home. He was the one who sacrificed and played nice with the old bitch and Butcher. Hell, If it wasn’t for him, neither of you would even be here right now! 

Ben hated himself when he had that thought. What the fuck was wrong with him? But since he didn’t want to look at that too closely, instead he turned it back on you. 

“I don’t need you lecturing me on how to be a father. I am a good father, goddammit! Hell, I’m a better father than my old man ever was. I provide for her and you every single day. I gave up everything to protect you, be with you, and be there to take care of my kid. Which is a lot fucking more than some of the other dames I’ve knocked up over the years can say. I put my life on the line for you both! And this is the thanks I get? Because I didn’t change one shitty fucking diaper?” He scoffed. “You are one ungrateful bitch.”

Your eyes widened slightly and Ben regretted his words the moment they flew out of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say those things, not to you.

Your eyes dropped to your daughter in your lap who was staring back up at you. You nodded and after a moment, you scowled up at him. “Well, since we’re such a burden and keeping you from your great life…don’t let the door hit you on your misogynistic and spoiled ass on the way out.” He could see your eyes shimmering but he could also see the absolute fury and ice daggers you were shooting him with, too. He knew then just how badly he had fucked up. 

“Y/N, I—”

“I mean it. Get your shit and leave. I’ll do this alone just like I planned to all along anyway. There you go, you’re free. No more nagging from this ungrateful bitch, no more having to act like you give a shit about either of us, no more being weighed down. You’re free to go and get fucked up and drink all you want, Soldier Boy. Go knock up some more dames and then leave them to raise those kids all on their own, too. You know, like a real man does.” If your glare could kill alone, Ben would be six feet under right now, the one thing that could end him that the Ivans never found out about. 

You placed your daughter in her little tub and stormed over to him, shoving him out the door. You couldn’t really move him but he was so caught off guard at your outburst, your words, that he moved where you pushed him. “And best of all, no more shitty fucking diapers!” You slammed the bathroom door in his face and locked the door, knowing it wouldn’t keep him out if he wanted in, but the message was clear. You were done and you were willing to go it alone; you didn’t need him and you had enough of his bullshit. He’d not only heard it in your voice, your words, but he’d also seen it in your eyes. That hurt way more than he ever thought it would.

He stood there staring at the door, stunned. His daughter began to cry and he heard you soothe her with “Shhh, it’s okay, sweetness. Mommy’s here. We’re going to get you all cleaned up and feeling better in no time. Don’t you worry, Ellie.” You began to coo to her as you bathed her and before long, she was making happy noises again. You’d even made her laugh once.

Ben stood there, not feeling right about what just happened or that his family was on the other side of the door. He could break it down if he wanted to, you both knew that, but he wouldn’t. Nor would he break the lock to get in. He knew he had let his irritation get the best of him and he’d said some things that he couldn’t take back, no matter how he might try to apologize now. Why the fuck had he said those things, anyway? 

He loved the life you had now (minus the shitty diapers obviously) and the family you’d started to build. Hell, he loved you, something he hadn’t ever really felt before for a woman other than his mother. He thought he’d felt it once with Crimson Countess but he’d been wrong. What he thought he felt for her paled in comparison to what he actually felt for you. Not just for having his kid but also for loving him and not the suit. Yes, you’d gone to him for protection and yes, he’d done his best to take advantage of that fact, but something genuine formed between the two of you. Before long, he wasn’t just protecting you to hold up his end of the deal, he was also protecting you because he couldn’t bear to lose you. He was over a century old and he had never come across someone like you before, someone who actually saw worth in him as something more than a quick lay or a celebrity or a supe. Someone who worried for him when he left your sight or took on one of your would-be assailants. Someone who actually wanted to build a life with him — with him, not Soldier Boy. 

So why the fuck had he said those things? He knew why. You had made him feel ashamed that he hadn’t gotten the job done, that he hadn’t completed the one mission you’d given him and you hadn’t even left the house yet. You’d had to come in and rescue him, do the task instead, and you hadn’t balked or even thought twice about it.

You were softly singing to Ellie and he could hear a couple of breaks in your voice, betraying how upset you really were though you were trying to hide it for your daughter’s sake. 

Ben hung his head in shame when he heard you get choked up and stop for a moment, sniffling, before you started back up again. He threw on a fresh shirt and got to work cleaning the shit from the changing pad and this time, he didn’t complain.

Ben watched as you carried the baby into the room, still not looking at him. You saw that the table was clean and moved over to place your daughter on it, grabbing the clean onesie he’d set aside and began to dress her. “You’re still here?” You bit out though he could detect a hint of genuine surprise there, too. 

“Still here,” he murmured, hoping you would hear how sorry he was without him having to say it.

You finished buttoning up the onesie and popped the pacifier into Ellie’s mouth that he’d left out for you. “Think you can manage to watch her while I take a ten minute shower?”

“Since when do you take ten minute showers?” He’d meant it as a teasing question, to try to lighten the mood a little, but you turned a glare onto him, beginning to unbutton the top of your dress. 

“Forget it. I’ll put her in her bouncy seat and bring her in with me. You can go.” You went to pick up the baby when he held his hands out.

“I can watch her. Go take your shower.”

He could see the clear distrust in your eyes but you handed him your daughter nonetheless but not before you kissed her head. “Mommy will be right back, Ellie,” you whispered, stroking her back. You glanced up at him, unsure, but then turned to make your way to the bathroom, continuing to undo the fastenings on your dress. He let out a huge sigh when he heard the door snick closed and the shower start up.

“Daddy’s in big trouble, Princess,” he murmured to Ellie. She gazed up at him, going to town on her pacifier, her brows drawing together slightly from the effort. He smiled and dropped a kiss down on her little forehead. “That’s one thing you have in common with your old man. We love the nipples.” He chuckled under his breath, imagining just how hard you would roll your eyes and swat at his shoulder if you heard that. But instead, he heard a much more heartbreaking sound from you. You were crying…in the shower. Fuck. 

At that moment, he heard a car slowing down and pulling into the driveway. One glance out the window confirmed it was Elena. In the midst of all this, he’d forgotten you had plans for the day. Just then, he got an idea and hurried towards the front door. He had just reached it by the time Elena was about to push the doorbell. He whipped it open, making her jump in surprise. After she saw it was Ben with the baby in tow, she recovered quickly. “Oh, hey Ben. Is Y/N ready yet? Hi, Ellie.” She gave a tiny wave to your daughter, smiling.

“Uh, not yet. She’s in the shower. Hey, can you watch Ellie for a few? I’ve got something I need to do and I can’t take her with me.”

Elena seemed uncertain for a moment, studying him as if she were wondering what he was about to do, but then relented with a shrug. “Sure.” He opened the door wider for her to come in and once she had put her coat and purse on a chair, he handed Ellie over to her. 

“Thanks. Be right back, Princess.” He stroked the back of the baby’s head with his fingers before hurrying out of the room, intent on doing whatever he had to in order to make things right.

Ben quietly slipped into the bathroom, undressed, and snuck into the shower behind you. You had stopped crying after the doorbell sounded so you most likely knew Elena was here and waiting. You were rubbing suds-covered hands all over the front of your body. 

While you cleaned your front, Ben’s eyes roamed over your back. He was already predictably hard, just seeing you naked. You had the perfect ass and even though you still had some baby weight that you were trying to lose, in his eyes, you were fucking gorgeous. You had mournfully admitted a couple of weeks ago that your stomach was soft and you were embarrassed by the visible stretch marks and your wider hips, not to mention the few pounds sticking around. Your breasts were bigger (something he didn’t see as a problem), the areolas darker than ever before, and you were feeling a bit insecure about your new shape. He loved the new you, which he made sure to tell you over and over as he fucked you that night. You were the mother of his kid, you’d given birth to her, nourished her from your body, and you could give him even more. It endlessly fascinated him that his seed had taken root in you and a healthy child grew from it, one that was half you and half him. He’d literally fucked a baby into you and every time he saw you like this, he wanted to do it again (though you’d told him your body needed at least a year or two to recuperate before you could even entertain the idea of another pregnancy). You looked so fucking gorgeous carrying his kid and now, you were even more beautiful if that was possible. It was pure beauty that he saw when you breastfed his daughter, when you smiled down at her, talked to her, and rocked her to sleep. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t want you, on your back (or your hands and knees, he wasn’t picky), taking load after load from him until he knocked you up once more. 

So he had been dumbfounded and almost incredulous when you nervously admitted all of this to him, implying that maybe he didn’t find you attractive anymore and maybe he’d prefer a flat-stomached, tighter, younger, free-to-bang-all-day woman instead. That or some old lady. He’d fucked that notion right out of your head.

But now as he stepped toward you, not only was he incredibly turned on by you and how beautiful he still thought you were, but he also realized right then, just like he had many times before this moment, you were the only one he wanted. He wrapped his arms around you and pressed a kiss to your wet shoulder.

You let out a small gasp in surprise. “Where’s Ellie?”

“Elena’s got her.” 

“Well, I’m not doing anything with you in this shower so you might as well get out,” you snapped and attempted to wriggle out of his embrace. When you couldn’t, you huffed out an aggravated breath and went back to rubbing soap over your skin. 

He nosed your wet hair out of the way to get closer to your ear. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never should’ve said that shit.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” you muttered, gliding soap down your arms. 

“I love you,” he murmured to the skin of your neck before dropping a kiss. “I love my little princess.” Another kiss. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Really? Because it sounds like you want to be somewhere else.”

“No, I don’t,” he assured. “I told you when I knocked you up. You two are it for me.”

You slowed down your movements and he took the opportunity to hug you a little tighter, burying his nose underneath your jaw. “I mean it, doll. This is right where I want to be.” He slowly ground his erection into the small of your back to also illustrate his point. He meant every fucking word; with you, around you, in you — there was no other place he’d rather be. 

You attempted to turn around in his arms and he loosened his grip so you could. He nearly let out a soft groan at the feel of your soap-slicked skin sliding against his dick. You stared up into his eyes and the smirk that formed on his face was beyond dirty, thinking you two were about to get to the fun part, your argument a thing of the past when you cupped his bearded cheeks in your suds-covered hands. 

“Ben,” you whispered. “I need to know that if something happens to me…that you’ve got this with Ellie.”

Ben’s grin morphed into a frown and his brows furrowed. “What the fuck are you talking about? What do you mean if something happens to you?”

Your eyes began to glisten and his heart dropped inside his chest. What the fuck hadn’t you told him?

“Did some cocksucker threaten you?” He growled menacingly, the rage he worked so hard to tamp down for yours and Ellie’s sakes was attempting to breach the surface at the thought of someone even thinking about hurting you. Mallory had said you’d be safe here; had the old bitch lied?

You shook your head and that only helped to quell the fire burning deep within slightly. A light appeared on your face and you glanced down as it got brighter, eyes wide in fear. “Your chest is glowing. Ben, stop! You need to calm down.” 

He took deep breaths as he’d learned to do, telling himself that you were here in his arms, right now, and you were safe. You were not in any danger. Hearing the sounds of his daughter a few rooms away helped him to get this fucking thing inside of him under control. He hated it, hated what the Reds had done to him, but it was now forever a part of him. He would do whatever it took to keep you both safe, even from this goddamn weapon inside his chest.

When you met his eyes again, there was no more light, no more glow lighting up your face from below. You lifted yourself up on your toes and brushed your lips against his. “Thank you,” you whispered. 

Ben nodded and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you up against him. He nuzzled you, feeling much calmer than he had a few moments before, but he still saw the same worry in your gaze that he’d seen before his inner nuke started to fire up. “Talk to me,” he implored.

You pressed your lips together and briefly looked away and he knew you didn’t really want to say what you were about to. It made him incredibly nervous. While you two had argued before and you’d told him to go when he was being an ass…what if what you meant was that you wanted out of this? Fear immediately took hold of him — fear of losing you, fear of losing Ellie, and all because he’d been a stupid fuck who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. You both were the two best things that had ever happened to him since being injected with Compound V. He didn’t want to go back to before. He only wanted now and the two of you. Hell, he wanted to keep creating a family with you, the family he’d always desired but never had. What had seemed within his grasp just hours ago now seemed to be getting further and further away. 

That thought had him speaking — no, downright begging. Soldier Boy begging…only for you. “Look, I know I’ve been a dick and I said some really fucked up shit earlier but I didn’t—”

You gently placed your fingers against his lips, effectively stopping him. You stared up at him sadly and that fear kicked into high gear. Fuck, he was losing you. And all because he hadn’t been able to keep his goddamn mouth shut or change one fucking dirty diaper. He’d fucking failed and now he was going to lose you and that dream he wanted to realize with you all in one swoop. All because he really was America’s Asshole.

But when you finally spoke, you said the last thing he expected. “I spent months running from Vought’s death squads before I found you. Even with you protecting me, even after I got pregnant, I was still in danger because they wanted me dead.” Your voice broke on the last word, betraying the tears that were imminent, along with the shimmering in your eyes getting worse.

His brows drew together in concern but he gently grasped your chin, making sure that you not only continued looking at him but that you heard every word he was about to say. “But you’re safe now,” he murmured. “Vought’s gone, Edgar and Homelander are dead…I would never let anything happen to you.”

Tears began to roll down your cheeks. “I know, but I keep thinking what if something goes wrong? What if one of the supes out there finds us? What if they get wind that I’m still alive? What if the surviving board members decide that I’m still a liability?”

He shook his head, moving his thumb up to stroke your cheek reassuringly. “No one survived. I made sure of it.” He placed his forehead down onto yours. “I promised I’d keep you safe, you both safe, and I did.” Ben tenderly rubbed his nose along yours. “Still do.” 

He was slightly relieved that you weren’t thinking of leaving him but also unhappy that you had still been worrying about this all of this time and he hadn’t had a clue. He was going to do whatever it took to reassure you, to remind you that you were safe and that you no longer needed to worry about any of those pricks that you’d had to run from before. He still remembered the nightmares you’d had, the jumps and startles in the middle of the night at the slightest sound. Eventually, it prompted him to hold you when you went to bed, promising to keep you safe so you could get some sleep while he kept watch. You would finally relax in his arms and close your eyes, content to listen to his strong heartbeat underneath your ear, knowing you were indeed protected.   

Sure, you’d kept your end of the deal and let him fuck you once you’d gotten some rest from running nonstop, but instead of getting bored like he usually did after hitting the same pussy a couple of different times, he’d actually started to like you. So he’d kept you close while he turned the hunt around to make Onehander, Edgar, and all of those assholes the prey instead. When he found out you were carrying his kid, he decided he’d do whatever it took to make you both safe and even ended up teaming up with the Brit and his team again, though he still didn’t trust them. Hell, he’d even made a deal with them to settle in this area and get you this house when you’d told him you wanted a home for your child to grow safely up in, to put down roots. He’d put up with your nearby neighbors, with having to see the One-Eyed-WonderBitch again, and shifting from the Supe life to suburban life (which was not an easy transition for him by any means). He did it all for you…for you and Ellie and the family you had chosen to have with him.

So to see now that after everything, you still didn’t feel completely safe, well…that bothered him. What kind of man had he been for you to keep feeling scared that Vought might come back at any moment to haunt you? He’d never given you details of the day that he’d annihilated them all for you because he knew you didn’t want them, but maybe he should have. If he had, maybe that would’ve helped to allay your fears of any possible reprisals.   

“I know you do,” you broke into his thoughts. “But…what if something else happens? What if I get sick or get hit by a car or I have an accident and fall or I have a medical emergency that could be fatal or—”

“Hey,” he interrupted your rambling. “You’re spiraling.” Something you’d done quite a bit when you first met. His heart sunk at the thought; this had gotten to that point and he hadn’t had one goddamn clue. He’d been so wrapped up in you and Ellie and the life you were building that he hadn’t even seen it. Maybe his father had been right; he was a fuck up. An assertion by the old man that you’d unknowingly been dismantling every single day with how much you loved and believed in Ben, but now…now he felt as if he didn’t deserve you. He watched more tears spill down your cheeks and he knew he definitely didn’t; here was the proof.

“I know,” you sobbed. “I’m sorry. I just…” You took in a ragged breath and looked into his eyes, your bottom lip starting to wobble. “I need to know that if something happens to me, that you’ll take care of Ellie the way she needs to be taken care of. If I’m gone, she’s going to need you and I need to know that she’ll be okay.”

He tried his best not to be insulted, not to show it for your sake so he wouldn’t upset you anymore than you already were, but it stung his ego a bit. “Of course, she would be okay. I’ve kept her safe this long, haven’t I?”

“I’m not just talking about safety, Ben. I’m talking about you actually taking care of her. Not just providing for her, but actually being there for her whenever she needs you. Like the diaper change I asked you to do today. Is it disgusting? Sure. No one likes dealing with it, smelling shit, getting it all over you…but she’s your daughter and she needed you to take care of it for her. What if I had gone for breakfast with Elena instead? Would she have sat in her own crap until I came back home because you feel as a man that it’s beneath you to change your own daughter’s diaper?” More tears appeared. “What if something had happened to me while I was out? Would you just push Ellie onto Elena and Maggie to take care of her so you could go back to your old life? All so you wouldn’t have to do any of the messy or hard stuff? Would you abandon her just like that?”

“Of course not,” he snapped, his consideration for you now forgotten in the face of what you’d said. “How the fuck could you even think I would do something like that? Haven’t I been here through everything like I fucking said I would be?”

“Yes, but I’ve been doing everything!” The words burst out of you. “At first, you didn’t want to feed her, burp her, bathe her — any of it! And I did it all! Why? Because that was supposed to be the woman’s job you’d said!”

Ben could feel his temper flaring at you bringing that up. You were also intimating that he didn’t do anything for your daughter. Were you blind to all of the effort he had put in to help you raise Ellie since that fight you’d had a couple of weeks after she’d been born? Didn’t you realize that most mornings you woke up well rested was because he’d gotten up with the baby in the middle of the night so you wouldn’t have to? And you were still holding that shit over his head? What the fuck was wrong with you? “That was the way it was back then,” he growled out. “I told you that! And I’ve been doing all of that shit you just mentioned since then! So I didn’t change one shitty diaper today! I said I was sorry! When are you going to fucking let it go?”

Instead of responding, you exploded into more sobs and shame churned in his gut. He really fucking hated seeing either of his girls cry. It made him want to beat the ever loving shit out of some son of a bitch. Even if he happened to be said son of a bitch sometimes. 

“Christ,” he muttered. “C’mere.” He pulled you to him and you held onto him tightly, crying into his neck. His hand slid down your back in a tender caress and he pressed his lips to your hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to you.

He kept you in his arms, hoisted you up so you could wrap your legs around his waist, and let you get it all out. He even shut the water off, knowing the temperature had vastly cooled in the amount of time he’d been in there with you so far. He vaguely recalled his plan from earlier to join you, apologize for what he’d said during your argument, and begin making up with you. That obviously had gone to shit; there would be no making up happening now, that was for sure. And if anything would get his dick to go soft with you naked against him, it was the sound of you crying. 

Once your sobs quieted down and turned into ragged inhales and a few sniffles here and there, he moved your hair out of the way so he could see you. “Better?”

You nodded, sniffling as you looked up at him. “Yeah.”

“Okay, let’s get you out of this tub then and get you dried off.” He placed a kiss on your forehead and went to open the shower curtain.

“Ben?”

He froze and turned to look at you. 

You lifted your head, letting out another sniffle. “I’m sorry, too.” Before he could say anything, you continued. “I know you’ve been trying and you’ve been doing everything I asked you to with Ellie. I just…I freaked out about the diaper thing.” You wiped at your face. “Because it just brought back that worry, that fear I have of what would happen to her if I wasn’t here.” Your voice wobbled slightly but you forged ahead anyway. “You know, I wasn’t scared like this when I was being hunted down. I mean, I was, but not like this. Back then, I only had myself to worry about. And then when I got pregnant, sure, I was a little more scared but I also knew you’d keep us safe.” You took another ragged breath in. “But ever since she’s been born, I have been absolutely terrified. That something might happen to her, to me…to her if something does happen to me. I’m so fucking scared, Ben.” Your voice broke then, prompting fresh tears to roll down your cheeks.

Ben had been insulted before, almost as if you hadn’t believed in him or his ability to keep either of you safe, but now as he listened to your heartfelt explanation, he realized it wasn’t really about any of that. It didn’t really have anything to do with him, except that you wanted him to be ready to care for your daughter if something ever happened to you. That unpleasant tug inside his gut happened once more when you finally confessed just how scared you were. He thought back over the last few months since Ellie had been born. Your push for him to be more involved; your fighting with him over his antiquated mindset as you’d called it over his ideas of what fatherhood entailed; your rushing him during your sexual escapades the few times he’d managed to get you away from the house while Elena watched the baby no matter how much it pissed him off that he couldn’t take his time with you like he wanted; your insistence that he watch Ellie while you go to lunch with your friend; your anger today at his refusal to deal with the shitty diaper situation — all of it suddenly clicked into place for him and made sense. Fuck, he didn’t think it was possible for him to feel any worse. He had completely failed you on all fronts. He had been the blind one; he’d never seen what was going on with you when it was right in front of him this whole time. Christ on a cross.

He gripped your chin gently. “Look at me.” You reluctantly met his gaze, yours glistening with fresh tears, and he could see the fear there plain as day. Fuck, how had he missed it all of this time? But instead of focusing on that, he sought to reassure you. “You and Ellie are safe. Nothing is going to happen. I would never let anyone hurt you. Either of you. I love you both too fucking much.” He grazed the pad of his thumb over your cheek to catch a stray tear that had escaped at his words. “And if it’s something that’s going to make you feel better, then let’s sit down and make a plan in case anything were to happen to you. Or even if I bit it. I want both of my girls to be taken care of, even if I can’t be here to do it myself.” You gave him a tearful smile. “So, let’s do that and kick this fear in its fucking ass. Sound good, doll?”

You nodded and leaned in, kissing him and making him smile. He’d been able to make you feel better after all and he felt damn proud of himself for being able to do so. “I love you,” you whispered.

He fucking loved hearing those three words from you every single time you said them; he knew you fucking meant it. And so did he. “I love you, too, baby.” When you beamed at him, another tugging sensation happened in his chest but this time, it was a far more pleasant one. He pecked your lips and opened the curtain. “Alright, let’s get you out of here.”

Before he could take a step out of the tub, you reached up and yanked the curtain closed, making his brows furrow. Your smile suddenly transformed into a devilish smirk. Immediately, he could feel his dick hardening again. He knew what that smirk meant. “We didn’t make up yet,” you murmured, starting to rub your body against his. “And we always make up after we fight.” 

Ben felt the stiff peaks of your nipples gliding across his skin and his mouth practically watered at the thought of sucking on them while he rammed into you repeatedly. Fuck, he loved your tits. There had been a time after Ellie was born where you’d pushed his head away anytime he tried to get his mouth on them while he was fucking you, complaining that they were too sensitive due to all of the feedings. But recently, he’d been able to start that up again without causing you discomfort and once, he had even gotten a tiny amount of milk squirted into his mouth by accident. It had been surprising for him, embarrassing for you, but it had turned out to be a major turn on. He found he didn’t mind the taste and the idea of him drinking you down, you shooting something into his mouth for once and him needing to be the one to swallow, that made him hornier than he’d ever been in his life. He’d fucked a lot of women in his time, sometimes high, sometimes sober; he’d done things that made most people blush to hear about or uncomfortable to imagine, some things which you flat out refused to do. He’d founded Herogasm and had marathon fucks that were legendary. He’d hosted orgies where he would be the only one left standing, having never tired out and still raring to go when everyone else was down for the count. And yet, when you’d unintentionally squirted the smallest bit of milk into his mouth, his dick had gotten so hard, he was shocked it hadn’t exploded right there. Well…it did, but not the way he’d originally been thinking. He’d greedily swallowed you down and kept sucking, even through the first load of cum he’d shot into you in reaction to that fucking hot as hell moment. From that point on, while he knew your breastmilk was Ellie’s main food source and he loved that, his daughter had to learn to fucking share. 

That was another reason why he had such a love/hate relationship with the breast pump machine you had. When he would watch the milk fill the bottle, he didn’t know whether to cry, jerk off, fuck you, or just watch. Sometimes he even wished you’d get rid of the contraption and just let him help you; it could be a rewarding experience for you both while you made sure Ellie had plenty to eat. 

Your smirk grew, almost as if you knew where his thoughts had gone, and you ghosted your lips over his. “Ben,” you called to him in a teasing singsong voice. “I said, we always make up after fighting.”

He could feel something wet moving against his abdomen as you attempted to roll your hips, knowing it had nothing to do with your recent shower, and he ground out, “Yeah, we fucking do” before he slammed his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss that was all tongue and teeth. He turned around and carefully pushed you up against the tiled wall, making sure not to break it or you. It wasn’t long before he was inside you, his hips pushing into you at a steady pace, his mouth suckling at you and your fingers in his hair, tugging roughly, as you muffled your moans with your other hand. Neither of you had forgotten that Elena was within earshot; Ben just didn’t give a fuck. He snatched your hand away from your mouth, gruffed out a command of “Let me fucking hear you”, and he didn’t give two shits who heard the fucking hot soundtrack of your making up. Instead, as you cried out your pleasure for the world to hear, he went back to your incredible rack, focusing on filling up on you while he worked towards filling you up. The thought of any fear or resentment from your earlier argument was long gone as you both chased your highs at lightning speed. The only words said between you were dirty or full of love. And even when you both had been forced to take a mostly cold shower afterwards to clean up once you both had caught your breath, only smiles, tender touches, and kisses had been exchanged along with a few laughs, both of you completely sated. Well, you were; Ben would never get enough of you and he planned to try to fuck you again later after the baby had fallen asleep.

But as for right now, seeing the bright smile on your face as he carefully wrapped a towel around you, the weight visibly lighter on your shoulders since you confessed your fears to him, he was determined to do whatever it took to not only make you feel safe but also to keep you feeling this way and being this happy. 

When you’d laughed at something he’d said, darted forward to kiss him, and wrapped your arms around his neck, his embrace tightened around you and he kissed the juncture in between your neck and shoulder, making you that silent promise. Whatever it took to make you feel safe again, he’d do it.

Elena glanced up to see you and Ben stepping into the living room, both dressed and looking refreshed. You had been missing in action for at least an hour and forty-five minutes. Elena already had an idea what you two had been doing considering everything she’d heard. Maggie had even heard when she called to check in and see when Elena would be returning home, beyond disgusted at the sounds Soldier Boy was making as he railed you in the shower. She’d told Elena to call her when she was done babysitting so the archaic asshole could get laid and promptly hung up. But even if Elena hadn’t heard what you’d been up to, she would have immediately known after seeing you both. Ben’s hair was still damp and yours was freshly blown out. Both of you were touching, unable to keep your hands off of each other and sporting matching grins, looking like practical newlyweds. Ben’s hand moved to the small of your back and both of you suddenly smiled wide upon seeing your daughter.

“Thank you for watching her and for waiting.” Your cheeks turned a shade of pink but you held out your arms. Elena was only too happy to hand you your baby back. “There she is,” you cooed, pressing a loud kiss to Ellie’s cheek. “Were you a good girl for your Aunt Elena?”

“She was a very good girl,” Elena confirmed, watching as Ben strode over and stopped next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against him, his eyes centered on both of his girls with an affectionate smile to match. Sometimes Maggie still had trouble believing it, that Soldier Boy had been domesticated as she put it, but Elena never doubted how important you and Ellie were to him. She could see it every time he looked at you, at your little girl, and she actually thought it was beyond sweet. She had even said as much to which Maggie had rolled her eyes, muttered “Whatever, I’m going to vomit”, and walked away from the door while Elena waited to greet the three of you after she had extended a dinner invitation to your family one night. As expected Ben and Maggie didn’t get along too well, especially given their history, but the former seemed to be okay with Elena and she was okay with him because she knew how much he meant to you. And Maggie didn’t seem to mind you all that much, either. So you all somehow made the nearby neighbor thing work; for yours, Elena’s, and Ellie’s sakes if for nothing else. 

“She did get a little fussy, though, so I fed her one of the bottles you had in the fridge.”

You nodded and pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead, briefly glancing at the clock on the mantle. “It’s about that time. Thank you so much for doing that. I’m sorry that we missed lunch.” You blushed once more when Ben let out a quiet chuckle.

“No problem,” Elena dismissed with a smile and a wave of her hand. “I’m glad everything seems to be okay. Ben looked a little worried when I got here.”

You glanced up at him, your brows arching in surprise. Ben shrugged, seeming unbothered at this observation.

“We can maybe shoot for next week if you’re game,” Elena offered. 

You went to answer when Ben cut you off. “Actually, why don’t you guys still go and grab a late lunch or something? Elena’s already here and you both are dressed to the nines.”

Your eyes widened when you looked over at your husband, worry lining your expression for a moment. “No, that’s—it’s too late. By the time we’d get home, it would probably be dinner time.” You let out a nervous sounding laugh. “Besides, Ellie’s going to need to feed before then and I—”

“You pumped earlier, right? I can feed her.”

You seemed unsure, biting your lip. “I did, but I’m not sure—”

Ben released you and held out his hands, smiling reassuringly at you. “It’s settled. You go. Ellie and I have got this. Don’t we, Princess?” The baby had her fingers in her mouth, drooling everywhere. Elena saw Ben shake his head, seeming amused.

You glanced down at your daughter, the happiness from before replaced by uncertainty. Elena knew you struggled to leave Ellie the first few times she’d babysat for you both to have some time to yourselves. It wasn’t surprising; you were a new mother after all. But this time, you seemed even more reluctant than usual. 

“Hey,” Ben softly called to you, prompting you to meet his gaze. “Remember what we talked about. We’re going to be fine. I’ve got her.”

It was moments like this that convinced Elena of your importance to him. If Maggie ever witnessed them, she was sure her girlfriend would reluctantly agree. Never had Elena ever heard him speak that gently to anyone, even his own daughter. Not when she and Maggie were in earshot anyway. 

Ben gave you a meaningful look and after glancing down at Ellie one more time, you eventually handed your daughter over to her father. “There’s my girl.” He leaned down to kiss the baby’s forehead. 

You watched, anxiety still apparent in your expression.“Ben, are you su—”

He immediately darted forward to kiss you, cutting you off. Elena had the grace to look away and give you two a moment.

“We’ll be fine,” she heard Ben murmur to you. “I’ve got this. I promise, baby. Go have your girl time and then come home. We’ll be here when you get back.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” You checked one last time.

“Of course I fucking am.”

“Language,” you chided.

Elena glanced over and found Ben smirking down at you, leaning closer. “You didn’t seem to mind my language earlier.” As expected, your cheeks reddened and he barked out a laugh, kissing one of them. “Alright, go have fun and we’ll see you later.” Then he leaned in to whisper something to you that couldn’t be heard and your jaw dropped, gently swatting at his hip since he was holding Ellie in both arms. He laughed and moved away, his gaze a little darker than before as it stayed fixed on you.

You kissed Ellie’s head and stroked her cheek, smiling. “I’ll see you soon, sweetheart. Be good for your daddy, okay? I love you.” Ellie gurgled and you smiled wider, leaning up to kiss Ben goodbye who immediately deepened it.

Elena was on the verge of looking away again when you pulled back, panting, and glared up at the smirking man in front of you. “You know, for someone who’s trying to get me to leave, you’re doing a miserable job.”

“Just giving you a little preview for later.” The stare between you two was so intense that it felt as if any unfortunate bystanders would suddenly burst into flames just from being too close. This time, Elena was the one nearly blushing. She would have never believed you two had just been having sex if she hadn’t heard it for herself. You both looked hungry and not for any late lunch. 

You leaned in, as if to kiss him again, when you reached up and planted a kiss on his brow instead, smirking as you backed away. “Until then, Benjamin,” you snarked, turning to leave. “Love you.” You let out a yelp a moment later when Ben swatted your ass with a free hand as you passed. 

You shot another glare at him and he simply smirked. “Love you, too, doll.” 

Elena gently pulled you towards the door, thinking if she didn’t get you out of the house soon, you definitely weren’t going to leave at all. Or more like Soldier Boy wasn’t going to let you leave. Not with the way his eyes were unashamedly glued to your ass.

You waved one last time in your family’s direction. “Bye, Ellie. See you soon, babygirl.”

Ben picked up Ellie’s little hand and simulated a wave, making you smile. 

Once Elena had you in the car and backed out of your driveway, she could see the earlier uncertainty returning. “So, what’s going on? First, Ben looked worried and now you. Something I should know about?”

You bit your lip and seemed to be mulling over whether to tell her or not. Elena gave you a moment to yourself to decide. Eventually you turned to look at her and sighed. “Okay.” You then proceeded to fill Elena in on everything you’d been feeling since your daughter had been born, everything you’d just told Ben.

Ben watched as you and Elena got into the car and left. He knew you would be worried but he was determined not to give you any reason to be. He meant it when he told you he had this. He wanted you to know that he could look after Ellie the way she needed looking after, which is why he insisted that you still go out to eat with Elena. He was going to make damn sure he passed this test and he was keeping his promise to you, that he would make you feel safe again. And if that meant he had to play Mr. Mom and change a few shitty diapers while you were gone, then so be it. 

Once the car disappeared, he let out a sigh and turned to look down at his daughter. She was staring up at him with those beautiful eyes that reminded him so often of his mother’s, though absent of any of the heartbreak she had endured in her life with his father. That was why when you asked about possible names for your daughter after you’d given birth, he’d mentioned Eleanor to bestow upon her. You’d loved it, especially after Ben had explained the significance of the name to you, and so your daughter was named after her grandmother, though you both had ended up calling her Ellie for short most of the time. 

He gave his little girl a smile. “We’ve got the place to ourselves, kiddo. We can do whatever we want. What does my princess want to do, hmm?”

Ellie gurgled and he nodded as if he understood.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Let your old man show you his movies so you can see when he was a star. Good thinking, babygirl.” He chuckled when she gurgled again and turned to head into the living room. 

Just then, he heard the sounds he had been hoping like hell that he wouldn’t hear until you were back. Ellie began to grunt, a few short farts sounded, and an almost undetectable thud was heard as shit landed in her diaper. Sure enough, a moment later, the smell wafted up and smacked him in the face. The smell was beyond terrible, something you had told him previously couldn’t be the case since it was known that the poop of breastfed babies didn’t smell as bad as other poop. He’d looked at you then with disbelief; how the hell did you not smell it when you were wiping the kid’s ass? Then again, thanks to his super-powered nose, you wouldn’t detect what he would. Like right now. It was fucking awful, like sour milk mixed with shit. Christ.

“Ugh.” He extended his arms and held Ellie out, away from him. He should’ve known this would fucking happen. It was just his luck. “You know, kid, for such a small thing, you sure shit a lot.” Ellie continued to make happy noises as if she hadn’t just taken a massive shit that was rapidly stinking up the room. Ben pulled her closer, his face screwed up in disgust as the smell got closer, too. “You are way too happy for someone who just shit their pants for the second time today.” 

He glanced around, almost as if you would somehow come flying around the corner to help, or Queen Lesbo might show up out of the blue or something. Nope, this was all on him. He remembered your words from earlier, how he needed to know how to care for Ellie which included shitty diaper changes, and he let out a huge defeated sigh. “Fuck.”

Ben cradled Ellie in the crook of his arm, relieved there were no damp spots on her back this time, and turned to make his way to her nursery. “You know something, kid, if the day should ever come that I’m in diapers, you better fucking change ‘em without any complaints. I don’t want to hear a damn word out of you then, got it?”

Ellie made more happy noises and he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” A small smile slipped onto his face and he lifted her up to his shoulder, kissing her cheek. “You’re lucky Daddy loves you, Princess.”

Almost as if she’d understood his words, she gave him a wide toothless smile, drooling onto his shirt. Instead of being disgusted, he chuckled and continued his trek. She’d unknowingly just given him a perfect excuse to change when you got home and entice you to get another shower in later. Thinking along that same line, feeling proud that this was now something he could do for you and for his daughter, something that would help you to feel better overall…well, he found now that he didn’t mind the idea of any shitty diaper changes all that much.

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[masempaix]

Y/n: My cock . . . Where is my cock?!?

Soldier Boy: If you need a cock, I have it right here

Hughie: I don’t want to ruin your mood but she asking for her pet, rabbit

Soldier Boy: *Punch Hughie*

[rwac96]

BBTAG Jaune and Soldier Boy (The Boys)

Intro

Jaune: *unsheathes Crocea Mors* These guys look tough. Crap, we gotta come up with a plan--!

Soldier Boy: *chest glows* Skip the plan, let's get 'em!

Jaune: H-Hey!

Victory/Cross Tag

Soldier Boy: Hmph, not even worth a blast.

Jaune: Gods! That was way too close!

Victory Screen

Soldier Boy: Wait, you weren't injected with Compound V? You're a natural Supe?

Jaune: Um, my powers are simply called 'Aura' and 'Semblance'. Man, your world sounds...pretty bad.

[legrandepapillon]

maybe an easy prompt, but something that has been on my mind kinda based on theo's own gameplay and how mad he got at wyll for rizzing shadowheart up asdfghj

but, at any point of their relationship (pre, during, whatever act you prefer) astarion getting insane horrendously jealous of wyll's and shadowheart weirdo/weirdo friendship.

The Boldness Bloodwine Brings

Rating: M (to be on the safe side, there is no smut)

this one got away from me. i intended for it to be a drabble, just something idly written to pass my time & warm up to prompt filling, but it became a little bit more than that. the idea of astarion being jealous has always compelled me, and i got carried away.

i went with a distant post-game setting, so that i could work with a firm establishment of astarion & wyll’s relationship. i feel like if this had happened during game events or even before the epilogue, it might’ve been more of big deal than i made it here. also, i hope i give enough hints towards it but this is Astarion origin + Wyll romance + Avernus ending. Astarion’s party on my origin playthrough has been Karlach, Shadowheart & Wyll for Act 1 so that’s what i did here.

as far as shadowheart & wyll’s “weirdo relationship”, i looked for some of their banter but wasn’t confident that i could capture the two of them in that manner, so i just went with astarion going slightly crazy not quite girlfriend over the two of them. hope it’s still up to your tastes, anon!! thank you for the prompt, i had a lot of fun writing this

This is silly, really.

Astarion stews over his chalice topped with bloodwine, glaring over the din of his former—and some current—fellow adventurers with narrowed red eyes. Honestly, it’s all so inane. He should be positively luxuriating in the opportunity to be back on the material plane, spread over some velvet chaise longue with virgins offering up their wrists for him to suckle from like some overfed babe. Or in the very heart of Waterdeep’s noble elite, dressed in the finest silks from Amn and fattening his pockets with the jewels from drunk patriars. He even briefly contemplated an orgy the very picture of decadence and pleasure, the stench of sex and sweat and ecstasy laden beneath the smoke of freshly burning incense.

Or… well, perhaps that was shooting a bit for the stars. He doubts his dear Blade would content himself with hazy orgies. More of a romantic dinner and make love beneath the stars type, all told.

No matter whether or not he would’ve ever been able to convince Wyll to participate. Because Wyll is not at his side, lavishing him with unending attention and serenading him with prose so purple it’d attract the Kings of Calimshan and Cormyr alike.

No, Wyll is surrounded by Gale and Shadowheart telling some less-than thrilling tale of how they’d tricked a nupperibo into blindly waddling itself into its own demise. He imagines that Wyll, with all his honeyed words and dashing charm, makes the event sound a lot more thrilling than it was. In reality, Karlach had tripped right out of the bumbling blind idiots’ way and it’d face-planted into a boiling hot spring. It’s a story about as meaningless as ox shit, not at all as high-stakes as his dear Blade makes it sound, and hardly worth that stupid doe-eyed look Shadowheart is giving him.

Shadowheart. 

The grip on his chalice pales the knuckles around the middle, but Astarion rolls his eyes outwardly as his gaze lands on her.

She certainly looks more beautiful than she’d been tromping around in mud and dirt during their days of traveling, at least. Settled into a more peaceful life in the farmside, last Astarion had caught word of. Though if one were to attempt to guess by her dress tonight, farmhand may be the furthest thing from their mind. The Selunite way of life has sunken its fingers into her and held her tenderly, the gossamer white of her dress flowing like water round her ankles. Her whimsical white tresses have been taken into a braid by less-strict fingers, her hair fitting loosely and comfortably in the style as opposed to the tight black rope she swung around back on that beach. There’s a glint of something woven through with her braids, catching the evening light whenever she turns her head or tips it back to laugh. And her face… he hadn’t thought it possible, but perhaps without the burden of grief and loss leaning heavily on her shoulders, it’d smoothed out some of those worry lines in her forehead. Brightened up her eyes, made her smile more. She looks the fout of youth herself,  half-leaning on a wall and clutching a goblet of wine as she listens rapt on Wyll’s story. Entirely too young, by Astarion’s estimations. Truthfully, had he still possessed the desire to say flattery for the sake of saying it, he would compliment her on how well she’d gotten on in such a short time.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t. And can’t possibly think of a good reason to pay her a compliment now, while she fawns over Wyll like some buxom-bosomed maiden found a prince.

The thought almost makes him snarl, and when he catches himself, the tension withers from his shoulders. This is so… pathetic, banal, pointless, stupid. Astarion does not own Wyll—far from it. After each of them finally escaping the bondages of their former masters, able to go where they please and do as they please without someone tugging at the proverbial leash, they hardly were in a hurry to chain themselves to another. Wyll wanted romance, he knows it so. But in Avernus, the closest they could find was hot-mouthed embraces while resting at the House of Hope, or the lean of support following a particularly agonizing failure. As the Blade of Avernus, Wyll no longer had room for courting and romance like they’d had before the defeat of the Netherbrain. He tried whenever he could, by the Triad, he did. But there are no acorns filled with wishing magic or starlight beaches for dancing in Avernus and most of the wine had the lingering taste of ash or rotten eggs to it.

And Astarion was… well, he wasn’t dissatisfied with the arrangement. He quite enjoyed having just one man to bat his eyelashes at whenever he fancied, and kick into a different tent whenever he didn’t. His moods could change at the drop of copper, and Wyll went along with each one with hardly a murmur of dissent. Whenever they could sleep somewhere without having to worry about their heads being separated from their necks, he and Wyll did get up to a bit of romantic fun. And when there was no time for that, when it was nothing but the grind against mortar and pestle to behead sultry cambions or bully infernal mechanics into use… well, that was okay, too. A little well-presented carnage and chaos could just as well set his heart aflutter, Wyll surely knew that by now. He didn’t need something steady and storybook to feel desired. The way that Wyll always left his left flank open to keep a line of sight on him in battle, or how he kissed his knuckles in relief whenever they made it out of a scrap with a particularly dedicated group of abishai.

Wyll loves him in every way that matters. And he, albeit with great reluctance in admitting it aloud, loves him back.

So why does he feel so… unmoored at just how happy the young man looks with his equally young former companion. What is this acidic stirring in his chest, melting away all the genuinely good regards he’s used to keeping Shadowheart in? For nearly two years she’d been his ally, his partner, his co-conspirator and even his friend. How many times had the two of them sat on the very perimeters of camp, some vintage he’d nicked from a cellar filling their rusted bronze chalices, gossiping in Elvish about their companions until the wine tinged their pointed ears pink? She was more his friend than Wyll’s by any measure, even after she’d ditched her bitch of a dark goddess and turned towards living a life in light he couldn’t join her in. 

And yet all he can fantasize right now is sinking his canine into her jugular and drinking her dry so that she may never rest her pretty well-manicured fingers on Wyll Ravengard’s shoulder again.

A large warm hand clamps down on his shoulder, starling him from the satisfyingly murderous thoughts that had begun to inch their way forth. Astarion stumbles a bit in surprise, free hand twitching towards the menagerie of daggers he still has strapped all over his person out of habit alone. But it’s just Halsin—swaying a bit on his feet from the plentiful liquor, and smiling too widely for casual acquaintances. Astarion makes a show of tilting his head up haughtily to close some of that towering distance, and dusting off the spot on his shoulder that Halsin had touched. 

Though there’d been many changes from his friends in a year, Halsin seemed as though he was stuck frozen in time. The only visible differences being that his skin had taken on a deeper tan, and his warm green eyes had more wrinkles in the corners. Elsewise, he was still the big oafish elf they’d left behind in Reithwin. He, nor Wyll or Karlach, had gotten the chance to give a formal goodbye on the docks that day. But when Withers had managed to wrangle them all back together a few months on, they’d been bought enough time to escort him back to Reithwin before he helped them open a portal back to Avernus. He distinctly remembers patting Karlach’s back as she weeped, and promised that she’d fix her heart and come help in the rebuilding soon as she could. Halsin had in turn promised a cottage for them all, a little plot of land for them to grow their own livelihood. Settle down into a home after a life on the road. Wyll and Karlach alike had seemed enamored with the idea, but the thought of schlepping around in pig shit and feeding orphans has made Astarion’s spine recoil.

His mouth goes tight at the memory.

“Halsin. I see you haven’t gotten any bigger since I last saw you; fortune be for the Reithwin food supply.” 

His wry insult only draws a booming laugh from the chest of the man, and he claps another hand down—hard—over Astarion’s shoulder. Every muscle in the vampire’s body tenses, and he loosens his hold on his chalice only in the hopes to make the draw of a blade a bit faster should need be. Stabbing the towering tree of an elf might not produce molasses, but his blood would certainly be just as sweet if he kept touching him.

“And I see not even the Hells themselves could scare you straight into submission,” Halsin returns, with an easy smile. “All the glad to hear of it, my friend. You look well.”

“I look exhausted,” and he probably does. They’d portaled straight from the House of Hope to Gale’s rather decadent tower once they were sure it wasn’t some sort of trap. There’d hardly been time for more than a washing up and a change of clothing before they’d been whisked down to a full five-course dinner and as much alcohol as their bodies could tolerate. Astarion hadn’t had a moment to rest since they’d arrived…

… and more importantly, he hadn’t had a moment alone with Wyll. The thought sends him looking over his shoulder, catching eyes with the Blade himself. It seems as if Wyll was in the midst of sizing up the interaction, worried he might have to interfere before Halsin lost one of those paws. But when they lock eyes he smiles, and raises his glass in Astarion’s direction. Curse his feeble, weak, dead heart but he swears it flutters as he returns the gesture. It seems his misdeed of ignoring him tonight can be forgotten just that quickly. 

“Oh, and there’s no wondering as to why,” Halsin muses, having watched the brief interaction. “The thrill of young love. Unhesitatingly self-indulgent, and yet bewitching all the time. Between slaughtering devils and entrancing your Wyll, I doubt there’s much time for sleep.” 

There’s a playful wink and a nudge from the elf, but Astarion quickly bats him away like a disgruntled cat.

“It’s none of that; he’s not my Wyll. Even if it were, it’d be none of your damned business, druid. Don’t you have a schoolyard’s worth of progeny to be tending to?” He makes a show of looking around Gale’s spacious drawing room, but the only people there are a few old friends from the adventuring days and the Heroes of the Gate themselves. No wide-eyed sticky-fingered orphans in sight. “Where are the little devils tonight; I’ll know if my pockets are light, and I’ll know who to expect compensation from.”

“Worry not, Astarion. My children are back at home in Reithwin. They’re being watched by others in the town; it does take a village, as they say.”

“With your lot, it’d take a whole country,” grumbles Astarion, chasing the bitter taste of the talk of children with the bloodwine in his glass. The metallic undertones of the fermented blood adds a rather unusual flavor to the blackberry and herb. It provides both a refreshing quench to the ever-lingering blood thirst, and a lovely buzz beneath his flesh. Astarion can just almost disappear into his fantasies of being fed bloodwine by warm, amber tinted hands. The curve of horns against his cheek as lips wet from cherry wine press to his throat. A hot pink tongue chasing the dribble of wine that slips from the corner of his mouth, pushing it back into his own with all the youthful eagerness of a man made to please.

This one seems far more attainable than all the other half-baked fantasies he’d cooked up earlier. The only problem is… 

A tinkling laughter, louder now but just as delicate as it’d been back then. Shadowheart surprised by her own amusement hides her smile behind her glass, gaze resting warmly on the side of Wyll’s face. He’s half-turned towards her, hands gesticulating wildly into the air and evidently weaving another tale about their exploits into Avernus. Astarion bites down hard enough on his tongue that it draws blood. Still a novelty that he has enough blood in his system to draw it forth, he surprises himself with the pinch of pain and the sudden sluggish flow of inky near-black blood.

“Oh, enough of….” he half-mutters, slipping away from Halsin—who’d devolved into telling stories about his brats to a man that couldn’t care less. Astarion slinks across the drawing room towards the four gathered in the center of it, making a point to cut into the space between Shadowheart and Wyll. There’s plenty space opposite Gale to join in the conversation, but it’s so much more satisfactory to cut the proverbial thread that was the sliver of space that only just separated their shoulders.

The aforementioned woman doesn’t seem to pay any mind, merely shuffles over to accommodate the fourth body and flashes Astarion a genuine grin.

“Astarion! I was wondering when you’d come away from brooding in the shadows. Wyll has been telling us all about Avernus; sounds like you’ve become quite the hellish hero,” she appraises, raising her chalice to her lips. Astarion knows Shadowheart well enough to know it isn’t just the compliment she makes it sound like, but also a teasing about his capabilities. She doesn’t quite believe he’d slipped into the shoes of saving the helpless and slaying the wicked on his own accord. It seems everyone at this Gods forsaken party had caught wind of the love affair between the Blade and his sanguineous Dagger. Astarion has half a mind to appeal to Talos himself; make a real announcement of their amorous connection.

Perhaps maybe then Shadowheart would give him a wider berth.

“A hero implies that there is some sort of saving involved, sweet thing. In Avernus, there is no good or bad. Just us, and every other evil creature we stumble across. The only ‘heroism’ to be found there is in all that blood imps so eagerly offer up to prevent me from starving.”

There’s a grimace from Wyll around his mouthful of wine. “I’d hardly call that heroic, Star. You don’t tend to give them much of a choice; they don’t really offer so much as die screaming.”

The offhanded nickname seems to peak the interest of both Gale and Shadowheart, two sets of eyebrows raising to two hairlines. The wizard at least has the decency to cover his amused smile with his hand, though he cocks his head at the two of them as if he’s waiting any moment for Wyll to drop to his knee and make a sickening show.

“Star?” Shadowheart all but purrs, like a hungry cat that’s just come across the fattest mouse in the fields. “Well, now. There’s a story I’d be all too interested in hearing. When you two last left here, there were no pet names involved yet.”

Now, usually, Astarion would bat away the insinuation immediately. He’d insist that there were none still, because he was not Wyll’s star or sweetheart or anything else so juvenile. He’d bare his fangs at the lot of them, warn them off ever making mention of it again should they enjoy keeping their carotid artery tucked safely behind their jugular. In any other circumstance, he’d hiss and scowl and snarl at the very idea he’d allow himself to be roped into something so banal as a pet name. Like they were schoolchildren and not two men with some of the most powerful arch devils in the Hells calling for their heads.

In fact, from beside him, he can feel the tense in Wyll‘s shoulder as he expects him to do just that. When it was just the two of them in a tent or a room reserved at Hope, he could lavish Astarion with all the ‘my heart’s and ‘shining Star’s and lines from lovesick bards as he’d like. In fact, the vampire would display marked offense if he didn’t. But in public, most especially on the ever-dangerous roads of Avernus, letting anything overhear that there was someone you cared for was almost certainly signing their death warrant. He’d been chastised many times in his beginning for his open affection towards him, a wild-eyed Astarion so close to having something good for once and so pants-shittingly terrified at losing it.

Wyll was an affectionate lover, but he’d have to settle for the moments they could steal because there was too much death and hellfire around them for anything else.

But this time, Astarion leans into the man beside him. He drapes his arms over Wyll’s neck, rests his head in the crook of his neck and shoulder. His chalice of wine sloshes against the edges uneasily with the sudden movement, causing Wyll to bring a hand up to his wrist and steady his grip. It’s perhaps the most tender embrace they’ve shared in front of someone other than Hope or Karlach since they’d first left that dock for Avernus. It’s a deliberate show of their relationship. The thing that Astarion danced in and out of most days, dead heart so full of his foolish Blade and simultaneously so worried about putting him in danger by showing it. Let it not be said that Astarion Ancunín has no love in his body for the red-eyed man who he’d saved the world with. In front of all their closest friends and—dare he say it?—family, he makes a rather bold show of clinging to his fiancé.

The acorn he’d had strung along a bit of gold suddenly feels all too heavy beneath his silks and lace, resting right over his unbeating heart. But Astarion decides the minute discomfort with PDA is worth the way Shadowheart gives the couple a bit more space, a surprised flush to those porcelain cheeks.

Check.

“Well, a lot has changed between now and then. We are quite serious about each other, you know?”

“We always have been, to my knowledge,” Wyll chuckles, patting Astarion’s wrist. “but there’s little time for me to do things the proper way back in Avernus. We make do with what time together we can find.”

“And every moment is absolutely electrifying, wouldn’t you say, darling?” purrs Astarion, peering up into Wyll’s one functioning eye with something lascivious in his own. Shadowheart is practically teeming with intrigue at all the racy details of their bedroom; something far more intriguing than the slaughter of kobolds and bone fiends. Gale gives a small noise of disgust whilst rolling his eyes, though he doesn’t seem to make a move to leave either.

“Yes, Wyll certainly kept his little tricks close to his chest before but now… he’s quite the consummate lover.”

Though he says it to Wyll, his red eyes bore into Shadowheart’s gentle green ones as the words leave his mouth—a proverbial dog pissing on his post. He loves me, wants me, fucks me, and that’s how it’ll stay. He’s laying it on a bit thick now, surely. But the only one that seems to notice anything is amiss is the man himself, who quirks a confused eyebrow.

After two centuries with his sex life belonging to everyone but himself, Astarion didn’t often like to discuss what they got up to privately. Aside from the occasional bawdy joke with Karlach about ‘sheathing the Blade’, he didn’t tend to go handing out details about their bedroom so cavalierly. All the same to Wyll; far from a prude by now, but he’d rather some things stay sacred between the two of them. Public displays of affection aside, they didn’t talk about sex if they didn’t want to. And they didn’t want to… usually.

“I see the wines loosened that tongue of yours,” Gale appraises after a cough of surprise. The older man rocks forth on the ball on his feet, hands clasped behind his back and chin nudging in the direction of his cup. “Glad to see the bloodwine is up to snuff, Astarion.”

A glance from both Wyll and Astarion down to the chalice in his hand, a dawning on the latters expression as his half-baked plan forms another step. Truth is, Astarion isn’t fully aware yet that he’s making an ass out of himself. He doesn’t know… what he’s doing, per se. But Gale delivers an out to him so smoothly, he would kiss the man square on his lips if he wasn’t so appalled at the idea. Leaning into an overt display of drunkenness, he rests more of his weight across Wyll’s shoulders. 

“I don’t need to be drunk to tell you just how mighty the blade can—”

“—Alright, Astarion!” Wyll finally exclaims. The flush of blood to his face isn’t noticeable by eye, but Astarion smells it as it fills the apples of his cheeks in a sudden tidal wave. It’s all too intoxicating, far more than the mediocre bloodwine that Gale had proferred for him. There’s no show in the way he leans closer to chase the scent, which has Wyll clutching his waist now instead to maintain their shared balance. “Maybe we should get you some sleep, before all of Waterdeep knows what we get up to in private.”

“Maybe not all of Waterdeep,” Shadowheart returns warmly. “After all, Gale’s mother is nowhere to be found.”

“Hey! I resent that!” exclaims the man on his mother’s behalf, which only entices one of those sweet little laughs from their cleric. Wyll politely excuses the both of them from conversation before he can get roped into whether or not Morena Dekarios’ tongue is obliged to a bit of gossip. He passes his own glass to Gale and plucks Astarion’s from his fingers to hand over to Shadowheart, before securing a strong arm around the shorter man’s waist and hauling most of his weight to the staircase. 

He plays his part the whole way up, bumping him into the banister and tripping over his feet at the landing. It certainly isn’t the first time he’s played up the illusion of intoxication for someone else’s benefit. There was a certain breed of individual back in Baldur’s Gate that quite liked the idea of having someone that couldn’t quite tell whether or not they were being had. Astarion had perfected all sorts of tricks for seduction over two-hundred years, this is perhaps one of the most popular. Unlike the marks he’d targeted back in the Gate, though, Wyll’s hands do not wander beneath his waistline. He does not grope or molest, merely anchors his partner in a strong, steady grip as he maneuvers them up what seems to be unending flights of stairs.

Astarion waits until they’re safely within the bedroom Gale had offered them to drop the act—righting himself to steady feet and fixing the wrinkles from his waistcoat. He floats elegantly over to the vanity and settles down, picking up a fresh handkerchief and dampening it to begin removing the kohl from around his eyes. 

Wyll splutters in surprise behind him.

“Oh, Wyll, seriously dear,” Astarion leans over the chair of his vanity. “You didn’t really think I’d get drunk off of a few glasses of donkey piss, did you? My tastes are far more eclectic than that.”

The man shakes his head at his partner, collapsing with palpable exhaustion at the foot of the bed they share. “Gale had it brewed especially for you, Astarion, how was I to—nevermind that. Why did you pretend to be drunk?” 

Why did he? The only answer that presents itself, bright and clear at the forefront of his mind, is because he’d wanted to get Wyll’s attention away from Shadowheart. At the moment it’d made complete sense, but as he deliberates on it more, he doesn’t know why he’d wanted that either. What exactly had it been about her proximity to Wyll that had disturbed him so much he felt the need to cut into their conversation, make lascivious innuendos towards their sex life, and then pretend to be so inebriated he could hardly stand? What was that stinging, acidic feeling right in the center of his chest? Blooming in the space between his lungs and his heart, making the former constrict and the latter weigh so heavy? The way she batted her fingers against his shoulder, laughed at his jokes, smiled coyly over her wine… she’d done it all before, when they were on the road together. Battling against a giant mind control brain and the Chosen of the Dead Gods. It hadn’t bothered him then. So why did it bother him now? What was it about Wyll and Shadowheart laughing together that made him want rip her throat out and curse him to Arvandor and back?

Lips turning down into a scowl, he turns back to face the mirror. In the reflection he can only see the array of powders and creams he’d demanded of Gale’s house servant, and Wyll in the distant corner—now moved to light candles around the room. 

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” echoes the man, striking another match to light the lamp on Astarion’s bedside. “You just randomly decided to play at being a drunk for the fun of it?”

“Yes, exactly that,” the vampire agrees, flashing his lover a false smile over his shoulder. “Wasn’t it fun?”

“No, not really. You’re too heavy to half-carry up that many flights of stairs for no good reason,” Wyll crosses the space now, coming to stand behind Astarion. A hand reaches forward, hesitating only when the paler man flinches by instinct. “May I?”

“You may,” he sniffs, anchored by the sight of Wyll in the reflection of the mirror. Battle-calloused fingers gently tug the silk neck cloth from its spot tucked his doublet, exposing more planes of pale white flesh. Careful with Astarion’s niceties as he knows the man doesn’t get much chance to wear them, he folds the cloth neatly before leaning down to take one of his hands. Crimson eyes track his movements intently in the mirror, watching as Wyll first kisses each knuckle before sliding his rings from the accompanying finger. The jewels clatter loudly onto the varnished wood of Gale’s vanity, a mix of stolen gold bands and sweetly purchased sapphire gems. Wyll takes the other hand when he’s done with the first, repeating the process just as meticulously as he’d done before.

It’s in moments like this that Astarion can feel every muscle in his body finally relax. He spent most of his days walking around on the tips of his toes, constantly bolstering himself for the next catastrophe. Jumping straight from Cazador’s commands into the mix of Gods and cultists into literal actual real hell had done nothing to soothe any tensions. He was tightly wound at all times, constantly ready to brace or fight or flee. It wasn’t until Wyll took him in his rough hunters hands, deliberately and delicately unwound him bit by bit, that he got to experience what it felt like to be at ease. To be protected by someone, so safe with them that getting comfortable for a moment wouldn’t become an immediate death sentence.

Astarion sighs at the thought. It isn’t the first time it’s fluttered across his mind, alone with him. You make me feel safe. Like there’s nothing on Earth I have to worry about besides you. I hate it because of how much I love it. I’m so afraid of getting used to it, because once I do I know I’d destroy anything that tried to get between us. By the Gods, Wyll, I’m alarmingly in love with you. 

He doesn’t realize his eyes have fluttered closed until he feels a kiss press to each of his eyelids. Any other time he’d roll his eyes at such treacly sentimentality. But he can’t bring himself to ruin this for Wyll; especially not after he’s already ruined his night.

Red eyes fly open at the thought. They land on where Wyll is slowly unbuttoning his doublet; no ulterior motive behind those nimble fingers beyond getting him into more comfortable clothing. Astarion brings his hand to cover Wyll’s, cool fingers immediately sending a small shiver through the younger man’s flesh.

“Darling, you would tell me if I’d ruined the night, wouldn’t you?” he asks softly. Vulnerably. His voice trembles at the end of the question, brow furrowing deeply at the thought. He still hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of all the conflicting feelings that’d driven him to calling the night early. All told, he’d been having a grand time for most of the evening. They’d commiserated Karlach’s inability to leave Avernus to join the reunion, but had all gotten together to create a message on one of Rolan’s fancy projectors to take back to her. That had been followed up by Alfira strumming the strings to her lyre, kicking them up into song worthy of the most ribald dance hall. Between the long-fermented bloodwine—about as strong as mead but delicious as blackberry wine—and Wyll leading him in a few dances in Gale’s more than spacious sunroom, Astarion had believed he’d been having fun at first.

But then the party had quieted down, dinner and alcohol had kicked in and loud revelry had broken into quieter conversations throughout the downstairs of Gale’s home. He doesn’t know when he’d planted himself in that shadowy corner, or why he’d stayed there instead of joining the conversation with his friends. He doesn’t know why Shadowheart’s comfortable familiarity with Wyll had made him so annoyed, nor does he know why he’d chosen to call their night over it. But here and now, he does feel the guilt begin to worm itself into his chest right under that heavy burning feeling from earlier that still persists.

Wyll had given up so much of his life for others already. He’d given up his home in Baldur’s Gate to save the city, he’d given up chasing his own liberation from his pact to save it again, and he’d given up guaranteed safety as its Duke to save Karlach. Though in the time between now and then, Astarion had forced him into selfishness practically by dagger-point on more than one occasion, he could still catch him giving things up. Like tonight, giving up the fun conversation he’d been having with Shadowheart and Gale to tend to his selfish vampire partner.

“—Astarion, Astarion,” Wyll insists, squeezing his hands. He hadn’t realized he’d retreated so visibly into his thoughts, but when he blinks at the man, there’s a flicker of relief on his face. “My star, what ever could make you think you ruined my night?”

“Well, I don’t know. You were talking to Shadowheart. You seemed to really enjoy telling her all about your tales of heroism—she enjoyed listening to them, too, from what I can tell. I just hope that my flight of fancy hadn’t ruined your evening, that’s all.” He says it with a nonchalant air, a shrug to his shoulder and gaze askance as though the words leaving his mouth have no meaning to them at all. But there’s too much jerkiness to his movements and solemnity to his tone for it to ever be believed that he’s as apathetic to the matter as he claims.

“My evening with… Shadowheart?” says Wyll slowly, somehow confused and discerning all at once. As though he can’t parse where this is coming from, but he’s beginning to put the pieces into place. Astarion gestures limply in response, which isn’t much of a response at all. “Astarion. Did you think I was flirting with Shadowheart?”

“Oh, Heavens no,” A moment of relief on the face of the man kneeling in front of him. “You are rarely so bold. But she was flirting with you.”

Wyll splutters, entirely aghast at the notion. There’s that delicious smell of all his blood rushing to his cheeks again, and Astarion is suddenly reminded that the deer he’d drained for Halsin to butcher before dinner is the last time he’d eaten. His mouth salivates with the thought of helping Wyll with some of that misappropriated blood, but before his mind can get ahead of him, the man himself is gripping both of his hands so tightly he thinks they might actually lose a little color in the tips. Another novelty of a regulated diet, his skin was perhaps not as sickly pale as it’d been at first. He had the barest hints of color to his extremities, just enough to pass as elven in the right lantern light. 

“Astarion. She didn’t tell you?” Wyll asks, a twinge of amusement in his voice. “She and Karlach—they’ve been speaking through sending since our first time resting at the House of Hope. They’re smitten with each other, quite frankly. I was telling her stories about Karlach; it seemed to lift her spirits from the fact that she couldn’t be here tonight.”

The vampire spawn blanches, slowly connecting the dots. He can recall brief conversations between Blade and Warrior of Avernus, offhanded mentions of the moon cleric back on the material plane. Between their hunit for Zariel’s head, an internal mechanic worth his spit and the amount of fiends and devils sent to collect their head, he hadn’t bothered to put much thought into it before.

But the seemingly never ending supply of parchment and sending stones that Hope kept them in stock with, the bundle of letters that Karlach guarded with all the ferocity of a junkyard dog, and the dopey smile whenever anyone mentioned their old adventuring days around the tiefling… he doesn’t know how he didn’t put it together before. There was obviously someone waiting for her back here, someone she was eager to get back to.

“She… and Karlach… really? This whole time?”

“How could you not know?” chuckles Wyll, his good eye twinkling with bemusement. Whether at his reaction or the situation at large, the pale elf isn’t interested in determining. “Karlach practically bowls you over whenever we manage to get letters from this plane.”

“Oh, for all I could have guessed, she’d subscribed to one of Halsin’s adopt-a-bloody-orphan programs and was tracking the progress of her new progeny!”

“Astarion, were you jealous of Shadowheart?” continues the younger man, genuinely looking like he’s on the edge of devolving into full-out laughter. Astarion glares at him in return, mouth twisted into a scowl at the mirth that spreads from the smile on his lips to the red-iris of his working eye. But against all of his better judgment to protest and scoff and and lie and deny, deny, deny, he knows two things. He’s already revealed his hand to the man, and even if he hadn’t, Wyll would see right through him regardless.

For a man with only half his vision, he had a funny way of doing that. 

Still, he won’t also give him the satisfaction of a response. So he just stares at him indignantly, until Wyll finally cracks and dissolves into a fit of—admittedly, politely restrained—laughter masked beneath a hand cupped over his mouth. Astarion rolls his eyes at him, shoving the man away to return back to all the fancy hair and facial care that he’d made Gale’s housekeep go through the pain of finding for him. Whilst Wyll has a proper laugh at his expense, he finishes wiping his face clean from all of the maquillage he’d used.

After the laughter spans into minutes, he gives a huff of annoyance. “Alright, you’ve had your fun!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, my love,” Wyll returns, still wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eyes. “It’s just—you really were—and of Shadowheart no less?! What could you possibly have to be jealous of when it comes to Shadowheart? I’ve never paid her more than half a glance. All the time I’ve known her, and I still don’t even know the woman’s real name. Let alone have any desire to take her to bed!”

“Lots of things can happen in half a glance, Wyll, I don’t know!” huffs Astarion. “She looked gorgeous. Youthful. And she would probably be a more sensible fit on your arm than… well—”

“Nobody is more perfect for me than you, Astarion.” Blood-red eyes flicker up at this, mouth slightly agape. Not at the words; he’d heard some variant of them a million times before. But rather how quickly they come, as if Wyll didn’t have to think a moment before saying something so impossibly virtuous. The sizzling, acidic sensation beneath his chest begins to ebb away finally—replaced by that inexplicable fluttering of earlier. “You don’t believe me, my heart? What else do I have to do to show you? What words can I say to prove it?”

Floundering like a beached fish, no snarky retort or dismissive platitude comes to mind. Wyll closes the little space between them so effortlessly, a large hand coming up to swipe an errant curl from the vampire’s forehead. That same hand trails down, clutching both of Astarion’s hands between his own with the conviction of a pious man come to pray. His fingers gently squeeze at the man’s knuckles, his eye trails languidly over his lover’s face before finally landing contentedly on his own gaze. If looking at someone you love could provide sustenance, Wyll might be satisfied for the rest of his days—he drinks in the bewilderment in those scarlet red eyes, silent for several long moments in his contendedness to just admire his darling. The fluttering in Astarion’s chest becomes a war drum, pounding so hard against his ribcage it feels as though the bedeviled thing is trying to rip through his chest cavity and run into Wyll’s arms. 

Love must make people delusional, because he’d been certain that his heart couldn’t beat anymore after his undeath.

When Wyll speaks again, it’s with that dashing confidence of his. As if there was little more he could be sure of than this.

“You’re all that’s on my mind, all that lives within my heart. The truth to every word I speak, the spring beneath every step, the purpose behind every drawing breath,” he brings their hands to his lips, breath warm against ever-cool digits. Presses a sweet kiss to the spot where deep amber skin meets milky white. “My sun, my sky, my moon and my stars. Astarion, it’s you. In every dream, in every fantasy, in every desire. It’s always you and only you.”

Before his adventures with his friends and his descent into the Hells, Astarion had been sure he’d discovered every way someone could be knocked breathless. A punch to the stomach, a dizzying hit to the temple, a sudden stab to the lungs. He’s endured an uncountable about of torment and injustice alike, all that had been rather adept in reminding him that he was dead and even the air he bothered to breathe was useless.

Yet it wasn’t until he met Wyll Ravengard that he came to understand how not only mere words could knock him breathless, but how the feeling could be accompanied by thrilling euphoria as opposed to the usual sinking dread.

Whenever he begins to doubt the man, even for the smallest of moments, there was always Wyll to swoop in to remind him. This storybook prince of a hero, how had it taken two hundred years for some God to finally hear his prayers?

Perhaps unnerved by the silence, Wyll gives another squeeze to his hands. “Astarion… my heart? Are you alright?”

“That,” a gust of air he doesn’t need leaves his lips, as he stares wild-eyed at the man in front of him. Slowly sorting his thoughts; placing all of the sickly sweet love confessions of his own aside, choosing something that was perhaps more on brand. “was the most erotic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

And it’s not even a lie, to boot. He’s must be getting better at this whole romance deal.

“Astarion, it wasn’t meant to be erotic. I was trying to tell you that I love—”

“Oh, I know what you were trying to do. I don’t happen to get much say in what my dick finds attractive.”

A wince from Wyll, a flicker of concern that he recognizes well. Sometimes he fell back into old habits, unsure ofof any other way to show his genuine affection for the man. It’s obvious he worries now that this is what Astarion is doing, because he begins to draw away. “Star…” In an act of reassurance of his own, the rogue surges forward. Places two hands on either side of Wyll’s face, pulls him in for a kiss. “… mm!” 

They both taste of blackberry wine; Astarion’s lips a touch more metallic than Wyll’s own. It would be nauseatingly sweet, in any other context. The taste of fruits or the way his thumb caresses Wyll’s cheek or the saccharine little request for permission his tongue still does at his bottom lip. But in this moment, Astarion is not nauseated in the slightest. There is not curl of disgust in his stomach, no desire to let mechanics take over and slip into more pleasant fantasies. There’s no desire for anything at all, except to kiss this sweet, darling, foolish man breathless.

No fantasy could ever compare to the real thing when it came to Wyll Ravengard, something he learned anew everyday.

When he does pull away from the kiss, to offer his partner the air he, himself, doesn’t need, there’s a fond smile on his lips.

“And lest it ever be forgotten… I love you, too.” It earns a breathy chuckle from Wyll, who pulls him in again by the back of his neck. Their foreheads knock together and eyes flutter closed, one of the rare moments of peace they can steal from the unforgiving world. A rough thumb strokes the curls at the back of Astarion’s neck, longer and fuller since they’d begun their adventure. Pale hands cup a scarred cheek, fingertips resting gently against the divots of his scars.

The stinging, acidic sensation of jealousy is completely gone now, much to the vampire’s relief. There was never anything to be worried about with Shadowheart, of course. It’s made evident in their quiet moments like this that the only person that could catch Wyll’s eye is the one sitting in front of him. No amount of gossamer gowns or flowing twine-woven braids could ever tempt him from what they have; truthfully, he shouldn’t have doubted it in the first place. From his memory, Astarion has never been loved so fully and with so much devotion. He’s never loved anyone that way either.

He’s still learning, of course. He’ll be learning for a long while yet, according to Wyll. But it’s rather pleasant to know Wyll would be there to reassure him whenever he needs. A novelty upon novelties.

“Now. Take me to bed. We haven’t had rest on nice lenin in so long,” Astarion simpers, taking Wyll’s hand to tug him to the canopied bed instead. As opposed to their early days, the man doesn’t protest or dawdle; consummate lover indeed, Wyll was still a young man of some twenty-six years. The promise of sex, freely given and eagerly desired, blows the pupil on his red eye wide.

“Surely, it muffles sound much better than that threadbare shit we have back at the House of Hope; I truly do not wish the whole lot of them to hear just how much I love you.”

“Except for Shadowheart, I’ll wager?” jokes Wyll, leaning down to take off one of his boots. Astarion tosses a look over his shoulder; first menacing, before he breaks into a warm smile at his own expense.

“Well. Except for Shadowheart.”