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darknight3904 · 4 months ago

Text

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖆𝖈𝖊

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴏᴄ! ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ / ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ /ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Rhaella is now 15, Aemond 14. Also, I've aged Benjicot Blackwood up he is now 16 in this fic.

130 AC

"I do not see why I must dress like this." Rhaella sighs, pulling at her dress, the corset is suffocating her.

"You are nearing the age to be wed. It is important you look your best." Edric says, "Stop fussing"

"I feel like I am being squeezed to death!" She whines as he hooks his arm with hers.

"It is only for the evening. Then, you will be able to wear your normal gowns." Edric says

"You speak so confidently, it is obvious you have never worn something like this." Rhaella groans

Maester Edric chuckles and gestures to his robe and chain.

"Forgive me, I'm not wearing a corset under all this. Although you never know."

Rhaella lets out an unlady like snort as they walk towards the throne room. King Viserys was hosting a ball, he had said it was just to celebrate his own rule, The queen had told her what it truly was. A way to meet suitors, after all she'd need to create an heir for Runestone. Rhaella hated the idea of marriage. She didn't want to leave the Red Keep and take her castle. Why couldn't Gerold rule for her? She wanted to stay here in the Capital with Aemond, swimming and reading until they fell over from exhaustion.

The ball is as grand as anyone could imagine. Lively music played as guests approached the high table to greet their king and his family. Viserys made a point to show Rhaella every eligible man who presented himself to her. Most of them were boring, all complimenting her beauty or here dress, one of them surprised her and had spoken a greeting in High Valyrian. Of course, he couldn't speak anything other than that greeting and she was left disappointed again.

"You remind me of Rhaenrya as a girl. Always quick to dismiss suitors without a second thought." Viserys says as some golden haired Lannister leaves them.

"Well they're all, twats." Rhaella says

"They are of the great houses of Westeros." Viserys says with a chuckle, "Some of them truly are twats though. Especially that last fellow."

Rhaella looks at Aemond who sits near his mother, Heleana on his left and Daeron on his right. If Aegon hadn't been present, Rhaella was sure he'd be the most bored at the table.

"Are there many more?" She whsipered, leaning towards Edric.

"A few, My Lady." He says sympathetically, "Perhaps you might dance with one, the night will go quicker."

"So they ask me boring questions? I'd rather let Sōna eat me." She laughed

"That might be less painful than a dance with some of them. I believe the Baratheon boy is drunker than even Aegon himself tonight." Edric says looking over at a very drunken first cousin of Lord Baratheon . The Lord of Storms End is trying to rouse his relative who is down for the night. At least Aegon's eyes were still open.

"My King." A voice greets, "My Lady."

"Lord Blackwood." Viserys greets

Rhaella turns her head, expecting another old man, or perhaps even an ugly young child who'd rather be playing with toys than greet the King. Instead, she was met with a tall and slim young man, short black hair sat atop his head, messy with curls.

"Lady Rhaella, I heard you claimed Sōna. I have heard tales that she is a marvelous beast, white as the winter snows from Winterfell." Lord Blackwood says

"She is magnificent, My Lord. Truly a marvel to see." Rhaella smiles, its the first compliment she's received all night that's not about her hair or beauty.

"If you ever have a chance, perhaps you can visit Raventree Hall. I'm sure she'd enjoy Blackwood cows as a treat. I'd love to see Dragonfire with my own eyes." He says

"Yes, that would be nice." Rhaella smiles

What an odd man, suggesting she visit his home to feed her dragon cattle. It was surely a different attempt at courting.

"Benjicot Blackwood, he's the young Lord of Raventree. A good match but his feud with the Brackens would drive any sane person mad." Edric says to her as Lord Blackwood goes back to his table.

"He is the only man close to my age in this hall tonight, and the only one who made interesting conversation." Rhaella points out looking at the room filled with older men and children alike.

"He suggested killing cows with your dragon as a form of entertainment." Edric says, looking Rhaella with questions in his eyes.

"It is better than talking of golden lions with the Lannisters." Rhaella says

"You are correct, my Lady." Edric smiles

Aemond could not believe what was happening in front of him. Rhaella, who had been dismissing suitors all night long with rude look or a comment was dancing with one of them. Benjicot Blackwood was twirling her around the floor like they were already wed and getting ready to celebrate for the next three moons.

"You are turning as green as mother's dress, Aemond." Aegon teases

"Ignore him." Heleana advises looking over at Aegon who shoves a bite of food into his mouth.

Rhaella's red and gold gown glitters under the lights of the many candles that light the room. Her silver hair is tied back, showing off how her face has sharpened over the years, baby fat falling away to give way to piercing Valyrian features. Aemond can feel his eye twitching with anger. Truly there was no reason for his current mood, there was no reason to be jealous over a single dance. Perhaps she was just being polite to Lord Blackwood.

It is when she tosses her head back to laugh at something he has said that Aemond cannot take it anymore.

"Mother, I want to leave. Am I dismissed?" He says, looking at his mother.

Queen Alicent lets out a sigh and gives him a nod.

"Straight to your chamber. I don't want you out with Vhagar now." She gives him a look

"Fine." Aemond conceeds, how did she know he was going to try to go for a nightime flight? A mother's intuition perhaps.

Rhaella laughs again as he's leaving. She leans in to whisper something to that idiot Benjicot as his hands are resting on her waist.

How disgusting.

Aemond hopes they both trip and fall face first into the pie that's being served to the guests. Maybe that would teach that barbaric Blackwood a lesson.

Rhaella finds Aemond the next day scowling in his chambers rather than in the training yard with Criston Cole.

"Are you sick?" She asks when she sits at the end of his bed

"I'm fine." Aemond grumbles

"Then why are you not training? Or at least meeting me in the Library like we usually do?" She questions

"I'm tired. Go away." Aemond groans, pulling his blankets over his head.

He had always been one for dramatics.

"You are acting like a spoiled child. What is wrong? Tell me." Rhaella commands, grabbing the covers and ripping them off him.

Aemond lets out a shout of dissaproval when he's exposed to the sunlight hits his eye.

"You haven't even dressed yet?" Rhaella asks looking at his night clothes "It is past noon!"

Rhaella's eyes are caught on Aemond's eye which is not covered by his eye patch. The sapphire that she had heard whispers about in the Keep was mesmerizing. He hadn't let her see his wound since he lost the eye.

"Don't you have somehwhere to be? A dance with Lord Benjicot Blackwood perhaps?" Aemond asked

Was that what all this was about? Surely Aemond wasn't jealous?

"Lord Blackwood is preparing to return to his home today. I do plan to see him off, but not if you are lying here, like some...self pitying...fool." She says

"I'm not a fool." Aemond says

"Then why are you acting like one?" She asks

Aemond suddenly sits up, Sapphire eye catching the bring sunlight that streams into his chamber. He's staring right at her and Rhaella suddenly feels nervous under his gaze.

"You can say goodbye to him, only if you promise to fly on Vhagar with me." He says

"What do you plan to do if I say no? Lock me up?" Rhaella rolls her eyes

"If I have to." Aemond jests

"I'd scream." Rhaella agues

"I'd gag you." Aemond declares

Rhaella huffs a sigh of frustation, Aemond was a wearisome individual today.

"Fine. One flight. But you're not allowed to let me fall off her." She agrees

Truthfully the idea of flying on Vhagar had always terrified her. That large of a beast taking to the sky was mortifying to her.

"Maybe I'll push you off." Aemond says, tone serious.

Rhaella shoots him a look, letting him know his joke has not been well received.

"Maybe I'll push you off and claim her for myself." Rhaella says

"I'd like to see you try." Aemond smirks

Next part

Guys I almost forgot Daeron was like...a thing so I had to mention his existence. Anyway, I love Bloody Ben so I had to give him a little cameo. Also when was HBO going to tell me that he's 12 during the dance? He is a whole child. Anyway, I've aged him up quite a bit here so its not as weird.

Also, whoever made this, they genuinely had me laughing on Pinterest...

Poor kid Aemond...

Comment below to join the taglist. (The taglist is not by chapter, once added, you will remain there unless you ask to be removed.)

Taglist:

@caspianobsessed

@starryhiraeth

@franzelt

@holymusicalmothman

@koobratzy

@schelfinser

@mizuki80

@flusteredmoonn

@sunmigs

@mizuki80

@dramioneforevertilltheend

@fix5idiots @canpillowscry

@aleemendoza2425-blog

@optimistic-but-very-realistic

@vieenr0se

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writingsofwesteros · 2 months ago

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Aemond and his MILF, lady tyrell.

They had been betrothed after her older husband died in a hunting incident, his grandsire finding it as an opportunity to restrength bonds with the reach. He though his betrothed would be an upset of their union, she was a few years younger then his mother and already had two little babes of her own. But she was just as excited or more than him for their marriage, having been married to an older man herself, she craved the touches and affection of a younger man. She would giggle at his slightly flushed after walking in on her feeding her youngest babe. For such a sophisticated prince, he always seemed a bit nervous when he’d break fast with her, his lady purposely wearing tight gowns and offering to fed him the delicious fruits of the reach while he held her sleeping babe. His pretty betrothed loved inviting him to the bathing pools of Highgarden, teasing him by swimming nude in the pool while he stared at the delicious sight of the water glistening on fat breast and full hips. It wouldn’t be long until the prince becomes responsive to her advances; suckling at her breast, groping her curves, and playing with her in the bathing pools. He thought he had been more than prepared for their wedding night but he found himself to be at the mercy of her touches and pleasures. His lady-wife had him stuck and sprawled outin their bed as she bounced on his cock and sucked him off like the whore from silk street. After their copious amounts of fucking, the lady of Highgarden would have another little babe in her arm, a little silver-head babe girl.

Aemond and his MILFS ! We love to see it !

Oh poor sweet virgin Prince is rocked by her with ease; her hands stroking up and down his bare, muscular arms as she bounces. Those fat breasts he had drooled over for so long now being pushed into his face to mouth at.

It seemed his father could do one thing right

#aemond hot thots

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caffeinewitchcraft · 2 years ago

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Cinderella Doesn’t Believe in Fairytales (pt 7)

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3). (Part 4) (part 5) (part 6)

This, Cinderella thinks, is a fairytale.

The nobles are bowing to the Prince, to her, and the air smells like the desserts on the table to her left. The music is still going, a sweet flute that serves a placeholder until the greetings to the prince are done. Over the bowed heads of the dancers nearest them, Cinderella can see her stepfamily curtsying to the arrival of the Prince.

Curtsying to her.

“I am glad that my tardiness did not hold up the festivities,” the Prince says. He inclines his head to the dais where the Queen and King sit. “We should resume.”

The Queen and King.

The Queen is as beautiful as the rumors say. Her long, black hair, streaked with grey, falls around her shoulders like vines, pinned into curled shapes against her violet gown with pins that sparkle like the night sky. She wears a simple gold circlet that glitters in the candlelight. Is it encrusted in jewels?

The King wears a heavier crown in burnished copper. His eyes remind her of the Prince’s, hawkish and knowing when he looks at them. He’s dressed completely in black except for the sash that crosses his chest. That is the same violet as his wife’s cape and his son’s jacket.

Cinderella is prevented from curtsying by the way the Prince presses her hand against his arm. She bows her head as best she’s able, heart thundering in her chest. Somehow looking at the Queen and King reminds her of the rainbows in the meadow. They swim in her vision as if obscured by power.

“Hold your head high,” the Prince whispers to her. His breath is hot against the shell of her ear and when she glances at him out of her peripherals, his eyes are warm. “You’re with me.”

Cinderella has never been with someone. She’s always been trailing behind, packages in hand, or at their knee with a hairbrush and sewing kit in hand. Even as a little girl she was never with her parents. She always felt like she was a step behind them, watching as the distance between them grew into an ocean.

She doesn’t feel like that now. The Prince’s arm is warm under her fingers and the gaze of so many people makes her face hot even if she knows the Prince’s magic protects her from being recognized. Cinderella has never felt so keenly in her own skin as she does in this moment.

Cinderella pulls her shoulders back and looks right over every noble to the blooming mosaic on the other side of the hall.

Well done, the voice in the back of her head purrs. There’s satisfaction curling in Cinderella’s stomach that feels foreign and heavy. She likes standing tall. She likes feeling bold and confident. Very well done.

“I know I promised you champagne,” the Prince says. He waves his hand and the music begins to play again. The nobles don’t resume their dance right away, their eyes fixed on the Prince’s every move. Expectant? Hopeful? Envious? The Prince only has eyes for her. “But I am jealous your first dance wasn’t with me.”

“Perhaps if someone had been on time it would have been,” Cinderella says. The Prince snorts and Cinderella’s smile widens. “Your highness.”

The Prince leads her onto the dance floor. The band is gently coming together again, string instruments rising underneath the lonely flute, the pianist adjusting on their bench in preparation. The nobles part for them like water, sliding back into their places without a word.

The Prince comes to a halt in the center of the dancefloor. If he notices the way the nobles stare, it doesn’t seem to bother him. He slides his arm out from under Cinderella’s hand, but doesn’t relinquish it. He kiss the back of her hand and asks, “May I have this dance?”

Cinderella must be beet red. She breathes in through her nose and smiles on the exhale. “Yes.” Then, because he is her friend, “You’ll be the first to have a dance from me, if that makes you feel better. The rest only shared one with me.”

Does the Prince’s gaze soften? Candlelight catches in his eyes, setting them ablaze. “Having or sharing, it doesn’t matter,” he says. “As long as it’s with you.”

Cinderella is speechless. The Prince takes the opportunity to sweep them into their first dance together, one hand on her hip, the other still holding her hand aloft. She’s not ready or at all prepared for it and has to rely on his grip for support when she stumbles.

“Where on earth did you learn to talk like that?” Cinderella hisses. She kicks at his shin and scoffs when he evades it easily. “Ugh.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s not how this dance goes,” the Prince says, tone mild. He’s smiling when she turns her glare on him. He whispers, “You’ll need to be faster if you want to kick me.”

Laughter bubbles in her chest. Cinderella fights it down. “You’d better show me how this dance works before I give into the temptation.”

“My pleasure.”

Dancing with the Prince is better than any of the other dances, though she doesn’t think she can bear to tell him that when he’s grinning like he knows it. He doesn’t guide her like Cy, her first masked partner, pulling and navigating her through the steps like a teacher might. He doesn’t make it a competition like Iz did, doesn’t change the rhythm whenever she manages to catch up to his pace. He isn’t considerate like Morrigan, waiting for her to catch her breath after a particularly tricky step.

Dancing with the Prince is like…it’s like being in the meadow. It’s like laying underneath the oak tree and watching the sun through the leaves, his gentle voice in her ear and the feeling of his magic chasing the chill away. It’s the feeling of being together where anything she says or does will be welcome or celebrated.

She doesn’t know when the other dancers join them, but she notices when the Prince nearly runs into a pair. She neatly takes the lead, spinning them to avoid a collision. The Prince startles and then scowls.

“I would have noticed,” he says. His gaze is dark on the dancing couple as if he’d like to curse them for the near accident.

“But you didn’t have to,” Cinderella says. Somehow she knows he isn’t that irritated. She thinks about spinning him but decides against it. She’s never tried spinning her partner before and is afraid of throwing him into the swirls of skirts and tailcoats that now surround them. She follows him away from the couple who nearly collided with them, surrendering the lead easily. “I did.”

“You did,” the Prince says, an inscrutable look on his face. It only lasts for a moment before he’s quirking an eyebrow at her. “Another song?”

Cinderella doesn’t feel tired at all. “Yes.”

They dance.

-----.

The night is a dream.

Cinderella holds onto it even after the Prince escorts her back to the Emerald Castle, after Helga pulls the pins from her hair, after she gulps down water and fruit before climbing into bed. They never did manage to have a glass of champagne. Cinderella can’t bring herself to regret the missed opportunity.

I’ll just have to try it tomorrow, Cinderella thinks with a thrill. Tomorrow. She’s going to the ball tomorrow.

She danced with the Prince all night. He delighted in each song with her, always keeping up with her mood and inviting her into faster steps or higher leaps. They talked and they laughed and, looking back, they must have seemed like children to everyone else. Cinderella felt like a child, free and excited in a way that she hasn’t been allowed to be in a long time.

She closes her eyes and can’t wait for the Prince to come pick her up for the ball tomorrow.

-----.

The carriage lurches and jumps as it transitions from the smooth Royal Road to the rougher cobblestones of the royal town. The silent occupants seem to wake up from their stupors all at once, the jostling as good as cold water on a dreamer.

“Mother,” Drizella whines. She doesn’t understand what went wrong. She did everything her mother said to do! She curled her hair and wore her lilac dress and didn’t dance with anyone other than the Prince. Except— “He only danced with her all night!”

“I have never been so embarrassed,” Anastasia says. She bites her thumb. Visions of the woman in green spin across the back of her eyelids every time she blinks. “We wore the same color! How dare she?!”

Baroness Ramsey doesn’t answer her daughters. She promised herself when she married the Baron that she would never allow anyone to guess at her non-noble past through her conduct. So she lets her face remain impassive and thinks carefully before she speaks.

Inside she is seething.

“That woman was in the wrong,” the Baroness says at last. She lays her hands daintily over her lap. “A ball like this – well. It’s for all noble ladies, isn’t it? The Prince was meant to dance with others. I’m sure the King and Queen will talk with him tonight. Tomorrow…”

She trails off. Her girls misunderstand as she meant them to. They perk up at the mention of tomorrow and the idea that the Prince will be different then. Anastasia begins debating what jewelry she will wear to compliment her gown tomorrow, going over the pros and cons of each one (“That woman wore gold tonight and won’t tomorrow, so the gold necklace might be the safest choice. But the prince wore silver tonight and might again and if I wear silver we could match.”) while Drizella pulls at her curls, lost in the daydream of what tomorrow could bring.

Inside the baroness is not so sure.

“A second invitation will be sent to those the Prince has taken an interest in. Expect news by dawn.”

They are not high nobility. It is only through the baroness’ hard work and clever deals that they’re nobility at all. Perhaps it would be different if her husband were better at networking like her, but he’s not (if he’s still alive at all) so they have no advantage through title alone. Their only advantage lies in her daughters’ beauty being recognized and – thanks to that woman – that didn’t happen.

Maybe I was hasty to leave Cinderella at home, the Baroness muses. Cinderella would have caught the Prince’s eye. There’s always been something…unsettlingly compelling about that girl. To be honest, the Baroness has always been a little afraid of Cinderella. Even as a child she always seemed to look through the Baroness rather than at her. With her golden hair and odd, light eyes, Cinderella would have been enough to compete with the woman who had captured the Prince’s attention. Then, when the second invitation arrived, the baroness could have kept Cinderella away to leave the real work to her girls.

She eyes her daughters. No. She could not have chosen any differently. It’s been hard work ensuring her daughters never grew afraid of their strange stepsister. Imagine if they were forced to watch the prince be bewitched by her? The baroness was right to leave Cinderella at home, dressed plainly, rather than allow her daughters to see through the soot and rough clothing to the strange, menacing woman beneath.

“We will stay up all night until the invitation arrives,” the Baroness announces. She won’t be able to sleep anyway. “I want each of you to go over every detail of tonight. Who did you notice? What could you have improved on? We will need to be even better tomorrow.”

Anastasia and Drizella complain, but the Baroness tunes them out. She knows what’s best for her daughters. If she says that they need to go over noble greeting they say, every pin, every broach, every conversation, they will.

It will come, she tells herself. The Prince may not have noticed her daughters, but the Queen was certainly interested in them. She seemed particularly interested in Drizella. Perhaps she will be the one to choose the prince’s bride. Yes, that must be it. She was too attentive to my daughters for that not to be the case.

The second invitation will come. The carriage squeaks to a halt outside of their inn and the baroness waits impatiently for the coachman to open the door. Yes, her earlier concerns were born from anxiety. Obviously the Prince won’t choose his own bride. Clearly! He’s a prince and princes must marry based on their parents’ wills. She, a baroness, wouldn’t allow her daughters to choose their husbands. Certainly the Queen, a fellow noble mother, feels much the same.

Cheered, the Baroness doesn’t yell for the coachman to hurry up helping her daughters down from the carriage. Anastasia does it instead and her Capital accent is even beginning to sound convincing! Drizella nearly falls when the coachman supports her step down too weakly, but her recovery is much quicker than it would have been two years ago.

Yes, the baroness must not lose herself to anxiety. She’s raised her daughters well and that will all pay off when she sees one of them married to the prince. Perhaps she should talk to the Queen herself tomorrow? Mother to mother?

Yes, that’s the best plan. She’ll leave her girls to the business of catching the eye of the prince. If they prove successful, wonderful. If not?

The Baroness hides her smile. There’s a reason she came to the ball despite the invitation not including mothers of the potential brides.

-----------.

Three important invitations are delivered at dawn.

One is snatched by the Baroness who breathes a sigh of relief that she must hide from her daughters.

The second is handed to Helga who rolls her eyes at the redundancy and promises to deliver it to her charge once she wakes.

The third is delivered via raven to a lone man on the road on horseback. He holds his arm above his head as soon as he recognized the purple ribbon tied around the bird’s neck, barely flinching when its talons cut through his thin, traveling shirt.

“A summons?” the man asks. The bird does not answer. It takes off as soon as he unties the message from its leg. He flips the letter over to examine the seal. His stomach lurches. “From the Queen?”

He can’t ignore a letter from the Queen. With a sigh, the man turns his horse gently before even breaking the seal. The Queen only accepts replies in person. A bitterness coats his tongue.

Another letter has brought him back to his ancestral home. A very important letter from someone he’s been forced to leave alone too long. And now, barely four days’ ride from the sender, he’s forced to ignore her once again.

I’m coming, Cinderella. Just a little longer.

Baron David Ramsey has been away from home for too long.

If you’d like to read more parts of Cinderella a week earlier, please consider checking out my Patreon (X)! On top of posting all my stories a week earlier there, I also post Patreon Exclusives.

#Cinderella fan fiction #my writing #cinderella retelling #this is turning into a full novella #this is why i write short stories #BECAUSE BOOKS GET SO LONG #long post

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lipstickmarks · 2 months ago

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Mor headcanons

— Mor x fem!reader

Warnings: brief mention of grief, mention of mor’s trauma, nsfw under the cut

Mor is as generous as rhys. that generosity streak runs in their family. she buys you gifts for every occasion. you never had fine jewelry until her and she makes sure you get a new addition to your collection at least once per season.

she has a love/hate relationship with key lime pie. she’ll eat it if it’s offered and wince at the strange, biting tang of citrus but still finish the whole slice, groaning about it as she does so. she’s prefers more classically decadent treats like chocolate covered strawberries, raspberry chocolate mouse, anything chocolatey with whipped cream.

she loves babies. Being Nyx’s fun rich auntie Mor is the highlight of her immortal existence. She loves poking his little cheeks and rocking him to sleep and buying him oodles of presents. try and take the babe from her when he’s cuddling on her chest after a big solstice dinner, I dare you. whether or not she has babes of her own really depends on if the two of you decide that’s your path but even so, I think she’d wait a long, long time before starting a family. She wants to have time to live for herself first.

when you two agree to the mating bond, she gets you an entire assortment of snacks. she wants you to be able to choose what you want. Mor isn't much of a cook so it's mainly snacks: fruit, chocolates, bread with butter, but it means the world to you that she put so much thought into it. you two decide to split a piece of chocolate.

she’s not super into books. not because she isn’t smart, I think she just prefers other hobbies that are more kinesthetic— dancing, working out, making snow angels, swimming, etc.

red is her signature color but she has a fondness for white and gold, especially on women. If you wear a white chiffon gown with gold accessories, she’ll melt. she’ll follow you around like a puppy and do anything you ask “baby, you look like a goddess”

picks flowers every year on Andromeda’s death anniversary and then sets them in the Sidra to float out into the ocean. usually it’s a small white flower to symbolize the purity of their love and she places it in the water and watches the current carry it out to sea. she stands there for a long, long time.

she’s very private with not only her sexuality and history but just in general. she doesn’t offer up information about herself willingly because she has a fear of it being used against her. so once you two are dating and there’s established trust, she will just casually drop random lore and you will be like “wait you have a tattoo? where?”

kind of a neat freak. her bed is always made and her sheets are always crisp and clear. no clutter in her bed or anywhere in her room. the only time she likes her bed messy is when you two trash it🙂‍↕️

nsfw

she prefers making love by candlelight. Sex has had to mean different things to her in her life so when she’s intimate with someone she truly loves, trusts, and wants to be with (you😍), she wants it to be as romantic as possible. Lights off and pillar candles scattered all throughout your room to set a sexy, ambient tone.

lingerie is her love language. It’s practically part of the foreplay for her. Whether it’s her own or yours, it always turns her on. She loves the femininity and sultriness of it, loves to pull and paw at the ribbons and zippers and buttons and sometimes tear it off altogether. She practically has on fancy underwear all the time and you grow quite the extensive collection once you’re with her.

still not huge on PDA even after being out to her family. holding hands or putting your legs in her lap is one thing but she won’t stick her tongue down your throat in the middle of family dinner

loves putting her hand in your back pocket

#morrigan #mor #mor x reader #morrigan x reader #acotar #morrigan acotar #mor acotar #mor acotar x reader #morrigan acotar x reader #mor headcanons #morrigan headcanons #mor hcs #morrigan hcs #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction

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heykaya · 2 months ago

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Degrees of Lewdity - Character Outfits & Descriptions

Found through the game's code.

(Checked: 28th September 2024)

This one took a while to compile since it’s spread across 2-3? different files.

If there is a line (_____) in between like this:

(Character Name)

Outfits <— The game chooses which outfit the character wears from these options. Loads first.

Outfits

_____

Outfits <— This one will load second.

Outfits

Character Outfits

Robin

"maleSchool”: ("school shirt", "school shorts"), desc: "school uniform"

"femaleSchool”: ("school shirt", "school skirt"), desc: "school uniform"

"maleSchoolLong”: ("school blouse", "school trousers"), desc: "school uniform"

"femaleSchoolLong”: ("school blouse", "long school skirt"), desc: "school uniform"

"maleSchoolSwimShirt”: ("swim shirt", "school swim shorts"), desc: "school swimsuit"

"femaleSchoolSwim”: ("school swimsuit top", "school swimsuit bottoms"), desc: "school swimsuit"

"maleTown1”: ("t-shirt", "shorts"), desc: "t-shirt and shorts"

"femaleTown1”: ("sundress top", "sundress skirt"), desc: "sundress"

"maleWarm1”: ("t-shirt", "shorts"), desc: "t-shirt and shorts"

"femaleWarm1”: ("sundress top", "sundress skirt"), desc: "sundress"

"coldPuffer”: ("puffer jacket", "slacks"), desc: "puffer jacket"

"pyjamas”: ("pyjama shirt", "pyjama bottoms"), desc: "pyjama shirt and bottoms"

* Not a mistake, (maleTown1 & maleWarm1) and (femaleTown1 & femaleWarm1) are written as the same outfits.

_____

Robin’s Christmas Outfits

("shirt", "shorts"), desc: "shirt and shorts"

("sundress", "sundress skirt"), desc: "sundress"

("tuxedo", "tuxedo trousers"), desc: "tuxedo"

("gothic gown", "gothic gown"), desc: "gothic gown"

("kimono", "kimono bottoms"), desc: "kimono"

(“christmas top", "christmas bottoms"), desc: "christmas outfit"

("ribbons", "ribbons"), desc: "mass of ribbons" - Robin wears a lewd ribbon outfit as a present for you.

Avery

"business”: ("business suit top", "business trousers"), desc: "business suit"

"maleFormal1”: ("tuxedo shirt", "tuxedo trousers"), desc: "tuxedo"

"femaleFormal1”: ("evening gown top", "evening gown"), desc: "formal gown"

"pyjamas”: ("pyjama shirt", "pyjama bottoms"), desc: "pyjama shirt and bottoms"

_____

Before 6pm: wear “business”: ("business suit top", "business trousers"), desc: "business suit"

After 6pm: wear “formal”

* Couldn’t find an outfit that’s just named “formal”, so I assume this means any clothing that is the “formal” type?

Kylar

"maleSchool”: ("school shirt", "school shorts"), desc: "school uniform"

"femaleSchool”: ("school shirt", "school skirt"), desc: "school uniform"

"maleSchoolSwim”: ("naked", "school swim shorts"), desc: "school swimsuit"

"femaleSchoolSwim”: ("school swimsuit top", "school swimsuit bottoms"), desc: "school swimsuit"

"maleTown1”: ("t-shirt", "shorts"), desc: "t-shirt and shorts"

"femaleTown1”: ("sundress top", "sundress skirt"), desc: "sundress"

"maleWarm1”: ("t-shirt", "shorts"), desc: "t-shirt and shorts"

"femaleWarm1”: ("sundress top", "sundress skirt"), desc: "sundress"

"coldHoodie”: ("hoodie", "sweatpants"), desc: "hoodie"

_____

If “formal” wear “formal" clothing.

If "goth" wear "formalRare":

Male: ("gothic jacket and vest", "gothic trousers"), desc: "gothic suit"

Female: ("gothic gown top", "gothic gown"), desc: "gothic gown"

If “swimsuit” wear “beach” clothing.

Otherwise: randomly generate an area-appropriate outfit

Whitney

"Whitney”: ("leather jacket", "torn jeans"), desc: "leather jacket"

"maleSchoolBlazer”: ("school blazer", "school trousers"), desc: "school uniform"

"femaleSchoolBlazer”: ("school blazer", "long school skirt"), desc: "school uniform"

"maleSchoolSwim”: ("naked", "school swim shorts"), desc: "school swimsuit"

"femaleSchoolSwim”: ("school swimsuit top", "school swimsuit bottoms"), desc: "school swimsuit"

"coldHoodie”: ("hoodie", "sweatpants"), desc: "hoodie"

Sydney

"maleSchoolLong”: ("school blouse", "school trousers"), desc: "school uniform"

"femaleSchoolLong”: ("school blouse", "long school skirt"), desc: "school uniform"

"maleSchoolSwimShirt”: ("swim shirt", "school swim shorts"), desc: "school swimsuit"

"femaleSchoolSwim”: ("school swimsuit top", "school swimsuit bottoms"), desc: "school swimsuit"

"neutralRobe”: ("robe top", "robes"), desc: "robe"

"coldTrench”: ("trenchcoat", "jeans"), desc: "trenchcoat"

_____

If at the temple: wear “temple” clothing.

If in school, at lunch, or in the library: wear “school” clothing.

Otherwise: randomly generate an area-appropriate outfit

Alex

"wildsFlannel”: ("flannel", "jeans"), desc: "flannel and jeans"

"AlexJorts”: ("flannel", "jorts"), desc: "flannel and jorts"

"AlexSkirt”: ("flannel", "skirt"), desc: "flannel and skirt"

"coldCoat”: ("coat", "jeans"), desc: "coat"

_____

If in the cottage and the time is between 9pm - 5am wear:

"maleAlexSleep”: (“t-shirt", "boxers"), desc: "t-shirt and boxers"

"femaleAlexSleep”: ("t-shirt", "boyshorts"), desc: "t-shirt and boyshorts"

Otherwise: randomly generate an area-appropriate outfit

*farm events mention that boxers/boyshorts are black and red.

Eden

“Eden”: ("ramshackle hunting coat", "torn hunting trousers"), desc: "hunting outfit"

Morgan

“Morgan”: (“ruined suit", "ruined trousers"), desc: "ruined outfit"

Briar

"maleBriar”: ("shirtless suit", "formal trousers"), desc: "shirtless suit"

"femaleBriar”: ("low-neck dress", "cropped dress skirt"), desc: "plunging neckline dress"

Darryl

"maleFormal1”: ("tuxedo shirt", "tuxedo trousers"), desc: "tuxedo"

"femaleFormal1”: ("evening gown top", "evening gown"), desc: "formal gown"

_____

Otherwise: wear other "formal" clothing.

Remy

"ridingFormal”: ("shadbelly coat", "chapette breeches"), desc: "formal riding outfit"

Landry

"maleLandry": "grey sweater", "dark trousers"), desc: "grey sweater"

"femaleLandry": ("grey cardigan", "dark trousers"), desc: "grey cardigan"

Charlie

"dance”: ("dance shirt", "dance shorts"), desc: "dance uniform"

Harper

"doctor"("doctor's coat", "white trousers"), desc: "doctor uniform"}

_____

Otherwise: wear other "hospital" clothing.

Jordan

"maleRobe”: ("monk robe top", "monk robes"), desc: "robe"

"femaleRobe”: ("nun robe top", "nun robe skirt"), desc: "robe"

_____

Otherwise: wear other "temple" clothing.

Sirris

"teacher”: ("teacher's uniform", "teacher's slacks"), desc: "teacher's uniform"

"townTurtleneck”: ("turtleneck", "jeans"), desc: "turtleneck and jeans"

"townCollar”: ("collared shirt", "khakis"), desc: "collared shirt and khakis"

Doren

"teacher”: (“teacher's uniform", "teacher's slacks"), desc: "teacher's uniform"

"townTrack”: ("tracksuit top", "tracksuit bottoms"), desc: "tracksuit"

"townCollar”: ("collared shirt", "khakis"), desc: "collared shirt and khakis"

River

"teacher”: ("teacher's uniform", "teacher's slacks"), desc: "teacher's uniform"

"neutralRobe”: ("robe top", "robes"), desc: "robe"}

"townCollar”: ("collared shirt", "khakis"), desc: "collared shirt and khakis"

Winter

"teacher”: ("teacher's uniform", "teacher's slacks"), desc: "teacher's uniform"

Mason

"teacher”: ("teacher's uniform", "teacher's slacks"), desc: "teacher's uniform"

"maleSchoolSwim”: ("naked", "school swim shorts"), desc: "school swimsuit"

"neutralSwim”: ("swim shirt", "board shorts"), desc: "swimsuit"

"townTrack”: ("tracksuit top", "tracksuit bottoms"), desc: "tracksuit"

_____

Otherwise: wear other "beach" clothing.

Leighton

"teacher”: ("teacher's uniform", "teacher's slacks"), desc: "teacher's uniform"

"maleFormal1”: ("tuxedo shirt", "tuxedo trousers"), desc: "tuxedo"

"femaleFormal1”: ("evening gown top", "evening gown"), desc: "formal gown"

Black Wolf & Great Hawk

"naked”: ("naked", "naked"), desc: "naked"

Ivory Wraith

"naked”: ("naked", "naked"), desc: "naked"

"moonRobe”: ("flowing robe", "flowing robe"), desc: "flowing robe"

Degrees of Lewdity - Text Based Masterpost

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woodle-isbae · 12 days ago

Text

In lust, we trust.

Farleigh.S x Catholic!Reader

Warnings: drinking, religion, little to no dialog, missionary, oral(f receiving), voyeurism, virginity loss, religious guilt, loads of projecting, Oliver hate, Farleigh is super sweet(to reader)🔥

A/N: this is sort of a self indulgence post, big guilty pleasure here🔥🔥/ Guess who posted this a little TOO late 👨🏾‍🦲

Kinktober Masterlist

You sat at the alter , kneeled over with your rosary clumped in your hands. Soft mutters of your prayer filling the empty Cathedral.

"Hail Mary, Full of grace.."

You were too drowned into your prayer to notice the figure that sat near you, waiting for you to Finish.

"-Holy Mary, Mother of God.."

You muttered the Hail Mary, soft breathing snapping you out of your focus, but still ignoring it and continuing.

"-Now and at the hour of our death..-"

"Amen."

You both said in unison, eyes shooting open to be met with your Boyfriend. He was dressed in a sweater and the colorful pants he always wore.

"Oh Farleigh..I didn't see you."

You got up, bowing and doing the sign of the cross before waltzing over to the man who sat with a slight smile. You knew something was off with him, but decided not to pester him about it.

He stood up to greet you with a hug, looming over you with a look of adoration and something else you couldn't quite decipher.

"Well..I do have alot to tell you!"

He chirped and walked with you hand in hand, many people believed you two weren't fit for eachother. He was known for sleeping around and doing drugs, you were a Saint who goes to church everyday and the sweetest soul alive.

That's why when hearing about your relationship, rumors spread about how he wanted to corrupt and ruin you for his own greed and lust. You were loving and understanding, helping him get over his drug use, never even daring to make you uncomfortable or sad from how you loved him.

He drove the both of you to the saltburn estate, having begged you to come just once and meet his family. He chatted about his school life and the things felix told him or has done, getting a reminded from you not to Gossip.

"Well , here we are m'lady!"

He hopped out the car before you, striding all around to open the door for you. You fetched your luggage and followed right after him ,he took you to a room that looked as if it was his, telling you that you will be staying in the room next to his to respect your boundaries.

You got into the floral printed room, knowing that Elspeth doesn't like her rooms like this she must've designed a room just for you, being Farleighs first genuine girlfriend had the whole family at your feet.

You unpacked your bags, enjoying the fresh country and a proper holiday away from friends and family. Farleigh peeping in to remind you that they're going swimming in the pond, they liked to call it their natural pool, telling you it's gonna be hot and wear sunscreen.

You wore a floral patterned one piece bathing suite, throwing on a scarf over your shoulders and sliding on sandels. You went down to the pond , sitting next to Felix and chatting about school and other things until you were interrupted by his friend, Oliver.

It's not that you hated him, but something about him was odd, like he was planning something sinnester but you couldn't tell through his cheery demeanor. You brushed it off and went to the water , floating around until you felt a pair of hands at your waist.

"Boo! Did I scare you?"

"Very funny Farleigh."

You deadpanned at him while he laughed at you, he rested his head on your shoulder and floated around with you. Having a conversation about day to day things and joking around, Elspeth comming around to greet you and reminding you that you need to dress up for tonight's dinner.

You guys finished up swimming and decided to start getting ready for dinner, Elspeth giving you a dark red ankle length lace gown along with a black lace scarf to tie around your shoulders. She remembered.

You got dressed and did your hair into a bun, strolling thought the mansions corridors until the large doors for the dining room, stepping in and finding your seat next to your curly headed boyfriend.

"I love the outfit Babe"

He whispered into your ear ,prepping a soft kiss onto your cheek and keeping a hand on your clothed knee. You glanced around the table, attention looking towards the large doors opening again, This time Oliver stepped in. He made his way towards the empty seat next to you ,since it sat across from felix, you were about to ask Felix something until Oliver cut you off.

"I really like y'dress, suits your body well."

You only stared at him, he gave you a sweet smile but something much deeper rested in those big bug eyes. You only nodded, feeling uncomfortable with him being around, as he was an evil spirit trying to rub onto you. The food arriving shortly, everyone else waiting for you to finish praying over the food before devouring it down. Exusing yourself to your room, finished with your food and ready for bed.

You slipped out of the dress and into a night gown, sitting under your covers with your Bible in hand, soft hymns playing from your recorder. You sang along softly , enjoying the cool night air that slipped in through your window, your thoughts interrupted by the door creeking open.

There stood Oliver, his blue eyes suddenly turned darker. He stood there for a good moment, relising you were staring back at him and threw on a small smile.

"Ah. . .thought this was my room..sorry"

He said before turning around and slamming the door shut, honestly shocked that nobody else woke up at that alone. You decided to ignore it, opting to tell Farleigh in the morning.

Time skip ��

You were currently walking with Farleigh to the fields, talking about how weird Vanetia and Ollie were acting during breakfast. You were the first ones to get to the field, getting undressed and sharing a blanket to sunbathe on.

Soon Vanetia and Felix joined, Oliver coming later. You glanced over at Farleigh, whispering what happened to you last night to him, which had him grimacing at just the thought.

"Yeah, he's definitely a weirdo now."

You lightly hit his hand, giggling a bit and telling him that's not nice. You continued discussing other stuff, feeling Olivers piercing gaze on you, getting uncomfortable and throwing over a bikini cover on your hips and laying down on your stomach.

The day activities went on as usual, everyone playing tennis in fancy attire while you kept score, skinny dipping in the pond and hide and seek in the maze.

Tonight was dinner with the Henry's, you wore a dark Blue velvet dress and a silk scarf over your shoulders, your hair done neatly and minimal makeup on. You strolled down the stairs, towards the crowded dinning room and taking a seat Next to Farleigh.

"Saved you a seat"

He murmered out, eyes locked in on the brunette who sat not very far from him, an obvious tension between the two. You only brushed it off, eating the food you were served before everyone left to go to the Living room, chatter filled the wide and nicely decorated room.

You sat next to Vanetia, fanning yourself with a drink in hand, enjoying the evening slightly intoxicated. Your boyfriend giving a brief performance with you cheering him on, the alcohol in your system had caused you to tip toe to him, whispering something about hanging out alone. Needing some quality alone time atleast once this summer.

You didn't know what to say, finding any and every possible way to get some time with him, the whole time you were here his eyes lingered on Felix's mousey friend. You fiddled with the scarf around your shoulders, searching in his eyes for some kind of answer.

"Sure"

He blurted out, walking ahead of you to get to his room, leaving the door open for you to enter in. He patted the empty side of the bed, laying his head in the crook of your neck, arms wrapped around your waist- He didn't even bother to let you change first.

"You look so breath taking in that dress babe...wear it more often."

His words flew into your ears, swirling around for a few seconds and slipping back out. You blushed, knowing the emotions he made you feel were normal- but not this one, it was strange and Degrading, it felt disgusting good .. the warmth in your stomach dropping lower..way lower

"Thank you-"

Your words cut off by his swift kiss, his hand cupping the side of your face as he moved up , placing himself between your legs while you two made out. Something of your had snapped, the vow you've taken to wait until marriage has been long forgotten, an insatiable hunger emerging from you.

Hands clawing to find stability in eachother, his own slipping under the dress and feeling your soft skin. Sounds you've never made before slipped through your lips as he pressed his hips against your own, having you feel exactly how he feels

"Wait- I don't want to ru-"

"Shut up, I want you. So, so bad."

You cut him off, your mind already made up and decided. You both flailed to remove any articles of clothing, continuing your starved kisses on eachothers bodies. You couldn't hold back from what you wanted mose anymore, begging him to work were you needed him most.

He slipped down, leaving a soft trail of kisses down your body only to come face to face with your cunt, instinctively diving in face first.

A foreign euphoria washing through you, gasping at the pure and utter skill he has to have your legs shaking already, making out with your puffy clit and twitching hole.

"Wait- Leigh!"

Your fingers coming down to tug at his curls, hips pushing up to gain more pressure and pleasure, adding on more for your first orgasm on the night. You clenched your eyes shut, keeping his plump and soft lips placed right at your core. Everytime you were near your orgasm, he pulled away- claiming that it helps with your orgasm.

This went on for nearly an hour, continuing his edging on your clit, by this point you've shed a couple of tears from the orgasm denial. Getting fed up with his actions, you pulled him over, straddling his lap.

"Oh my?, really bold!"

He grabbed a wrapper from the bedside drawing, slowly placing it on his girthy cock and lifting you onto his cock. Giving you a breather to get used to the new intrusion, prepping you with soft kisses and words of praise, promising not to hurt you.

You had given him the signal that your ready, he took this as a chance to lay you down on your back and softly move his hips, interlocking his large hand over yours. Your eyes screwed shut, bliss filling all your senses- and his.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, his face buried into the crook of your own, praises falling past his pink lips. The grip on your hips tight as if he would loose you any moment, lost in the moment of eachothers embrace.

The door had opened, Oliver walking in only to stop and stare, unsure of how he should feel in this current moment. Hes gaze was judgemental.Your eyes meeting for a brief moment, his gaze never leaving the two of you- almost allured by the sight. His watchful eyes spurred you on even more, your legs locking around the curly headed man's hips, chasing for your orgasm.

"Oh- Leigh, please!"

You weren't sure exactly what you were begging for, nonetheless it slipped through your lips, along with other things. Oliver stood there for a few more seconds before storming out, muttering something under his breath, but you were too out of to even focus on him.

The string in your core was tightening, threatening to break as Farleigh's fingers slipped down, playing with your clit. He gave you a deep kiss, continuing his harsh yet loving movements, his own orgasm reaching.

"You got this, yeah? Cum for me."

His voice was raspy, whining into your ear, his hips snapping into you with a speed you never knew was possible. He gave a few more sloppy thrusts, halting inside you with a deep groan, biting a mark into your shoulder.

This triggered a reaction in you, clenching around him as you came, shameful sounds coming from your lips and flying around the room. You both layed there, absolutely slumped and sweaty from the warm summer night, catching your breath until Farleigh decided to pull out.

You yelped a bit, foreign to the sudden emptiness that still in you, his fingers creeping up your body to fiddle with the cross that sat around your neck. That's when it dawned on you.

"Oh my..what have I done!?"

Farleigh stared at you, knowing you were filled with panic but decided against saying anything that might worry you even further. You quickly knelt by the bed, muttering a soft prayer, the brunette watching intently- careful not to make a sound.

"I shouldn't have drunk so much.."

You frowned, sitting back on the bed, shifting under the sheets of his bed. You only looked up to him, his face calm and unphased, knowing your commitment to your religion.

"There's a church near, you can confess there.?"

"I guess.."

You knew what you did was wrong, yet you enjoyed every moment, willing to do it again if you could. You only sighed, opting to go with the plan your boyfriend gave, deciding to get some rest in his bed.

You'll talk to Oliver aswell in the morning, but for now- all that sat in your mind was your sweet boyfriend.

#farleigh start x reader #azana #chubby!reader #x black reader #black plus size reader #sub! farleigh #farleigh x you #farleigh smut #farleigh saltburn

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gwynrieldreams · 4 months ago

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Things that I NEED like air to happen in Gwynriel's book:

Gwyn moving in with Nesta and getting out of the library

more late night run-ins with Azriel

falling asleep on his shoulder while researching

Gwyn buying dresses and wearing sth else other than her priestess robes or illyrian leathers

her singing in a beautiful gown and Azriel being utterly amazed

gleeriel

flying in Azriel's arms

exploring Velaris together

night swimming

Gwyn lulling him to sleep

riding her white pegasus with Azriel flying beside her

saving him from drowning during a mission

the Valkyries getting ready together and having a girls' night out

Gwyn dancing with Azriel

#gwynriel #pro gwynriel #gleeriel #gwyn berdara #gwyn #gwyneth berdara #pro gwyn #azriel #acotar #my post

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spop-romanticizes-abuse · 1 year ago

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so 96% of you wanted to see me do a redesign of mermista. and while i can draw, i've been stuck in an art block so i opted to just draw over her current design. i don't hate all of it so i'm not changing everything.

let me go through the complaints i do have about her design.

first off, she does not look like royalty in the slightest. she just looks like some girl who likes the color blue. even the gold accents don't really help. i'm not saying she has to walk around in a gown and tiara but at least add something to her design to indicate that she's a princess?

secondly, those clown shoes are NOT IT. who even thought of that? they look uncomfortable and ridiculous, and doesn't make sense for her character design.

those sleeves/armor (??? i honestly don't know what those are) and gold gauntlets also do not look practical in the slightest. they look like they'd be a hindrance for a swimmer. and guess what, she still has them in her mermaid form.

the OG mermista design wasn't the greatest but at least it looked like she could swim comfortably.

so my objectives were:

give her outfit a more streamlined look so it would make sense for her powers

make her look like actual royalty and not some girl with a cool color palette

expand more on the indian-inspired design and reflect that in her usual outfit, instead of putting her in a saree-inspired dress for one episode and calling it a day (i say saree-inspired because it's not really a traditional saree, but more like a modern and slightly western rendition)

i made two versions of her redesign - one with a dupatta and one without. the dupatta, i understand, could be a hindrance in certain situations but i just wanted to give an example of how to take inspiration from a culture instead of just using it for brownie points. a dupatta is something indians would wear with their casual attire, mostly with salwars, unlike sarees which are generally reserved for special occasions (there are sarees that are casual wear, but they're still not the most convenient).

secondly, i gave her a headwear inspired from desi wedding attire and older indian tiaras. mind you, indian tiaras themselves are a lot more complex and beautifully crafted, but 1. it would take me ages to draw all the details and 2. i figured mermista would go for a simpler look, especially when she's not at her palace. also, while indian headwears are usually made with gold and jewels, i gave mermista's headwear pearls because.. pearls, oysters, ocean. mermaid vibes.

i changed the shoes and gave her a pair that are inspired by water shoes. i know that she would transform into a mermaid while swimming anyway, but these still look more comfortable without serving clowncore.

i replaced her gold accents with silver because the gold doesn't really mesh well with the teal, in my opinion. while indians are known for their love of gold, a lot of people nowadays opt for silver, because it is less expensive and more compatible with casual wear.

i highlighted the fishscale pattern in her outfit since you could barely see them in the original.

i gave her a bindi and the necklace that 80s mermista wore, as a tribute to the OG show, and the design is complete. i know that some of these may not be the easiest to animate but if they could animate perfuma's cape thing, entrapta's hair and a hundred different outfits for catra; this design is just child's play.

let me know what you think of the redesign and if you want me to do the same for the other characters!

#spop critical #spop #spop criticism #spop discourse #she ra #spop redesign #character redesign #character design #mermista #mermista redesign

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blueshistorysims · 3 months ago

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As the paramour of a fashion designer, Francesca always wears the latest styles. Additionally, as a full-time working woman, she prefers practicality over style, and like many modern women of the 1930s, she has added more pants to her wardrobe. While it was still considered scandalous to wear pants in public, Francesca couldn't care less. She's also taken a larger interest in her Hong Konger heritage since the Crash, relearning the language and the culture, dressing as such. As always I aim for a cunty lesbian girlboss look for her lol.

Links and credits below the cut!

Daily: Hair, Earrings (Basgame), Dress, Stockings (Basegame), Shoes (Basegame)

Daily 2: Hair, Earrings (Basegame), Blouse, Slacks, Stockings (Basegame), Shoes (Basegame)

Travel: Hat, Hair, Jacket, Skirt, Gloves (Basegame), Socks, Shoes

Athletic: Hair, Sweater, Pants, Socks, Shoes

Sleep: Hair, Robe (Basegame)

Formal: Hair, Earrings (Get Together), Necklace (Vintage Glamour), Gown, Gloves, Pantyhose, Shoes

Party: Hair, Earrings, Dress, Inner Skirt, Pantyhose, Shoes

Swim: Hair, Swimsuit

Hot Weather: Hair, Top, Bottoms, Socks (Basegame), Loafers

Cold Weather: Hat, Hair, Coat, Turtleneck, Pants, Gloves (Basegame), Socks, Boots (Basegame)

Thank you to the these cc creators!

@simkatu, @happylifesims, @nolan-sims, @gilded-ghosts, @rustys-cc,

@historysims4, @ice-creamforbreakfast, @serenity-cc, @twentiethcenturysims,

@historicalsimslife, @simsfromthepast, @threethousandplumbobs,

@jius-sims, @imadako, @dzifasims, @monharicot, @sentate

#the walshes #the walsh legacy lookbook #francesca pace #ts4 lookbook #lookbook #ts4 #1930s #ts4 1930s #the sims 4 #1930s fashion #francesca pace lookbook #fem lookbook #adult lookbook

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brain-rot-central · 6 months ago

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Sonnet of the Lone Cardinal, Ch. 5

A/N: Holy hell, this chapter got hands. I sincerely apologize for it taking me almost two months to update. Buckle up -- we got some unsettling bullshit brewing within this one. As always, thank you all for your continued support, and please mind the tags. Happy reading!

Rating: Explicit Word count: ~8.2k (I'm rounding up) Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Female Tav (DU, named) Warnings: 18+, minor character deaths, depictions of murder, dark romance, pregnancy mention (of course), manipulative behaviors, toxic relationship, jealousy, abuse mention, minor references to suicidal ideation and overall mental health struggles Summary: Tav awakes after the events of the prior evening alone, confused. Having overheard a discussion between the servants, she makes her way down into the depths of the manor and uncovers a shocking secret.

♥ Previous Chapter ♥ Next Chapter ♥ Link to Ao3

She awakens; startled.

Her eyes snap open and Tav springs up from the plush cocoon of linens she's wrapped in – white sheets and a cream colored duvet envelop her. She looks around, frantically searching a room that is unfamiliar. There’s a crick in her neck as she turns her head too fast. She winces then raises a hand to rub over the spot. Raised scabs cover the two signature pinpoints in her neck as she continues to soothe the aching muscle.

There's a heaviness to her head as the events of the prior night swim to the surface of her mind, panic starting anew.

‘He bit me,’ Tav remembers, urgently. She extends both arms in front of herself for inspection, flipping them over again and again. At this moment, Tav cannot recall what her usual skin tone is – her chest heaves with labored breath as she looks hurriedly around the room for a mirror. In the corner, alongside the wall, sits a vanity. She bolts from the bed, rushing urgently to the mirror.

Grasping the edges of the vanity, Tav snaps her head up to meet the glass.

Her reflection…stares back at her.

Astarion had kept his word – he did not turn her.

She sighs, collapsing into the seat stationed at the vanity. Autonomic tremors wrack her body, adrenaline beginning to take effect. Closing her eyes, Tav focuses on her breathing. She takes a deep breath in through her nose, blowing it out through her mouth. Again. And again. As she rides the choppy waves of her anxiety, a sharp twist in her stomach has her laying a hand over her lower abdomen. With the palm of her hand, Tav rubs soothing circles over the plush softness of her growing belly.

“Glad to see you're okay,” she says affectionately to her stomach, lips curling up into a smile.

How did she end up here? Where is here? Peeling open her eyes, Tav gives the room an honest gander. It's not large, but not necessarily small, either. The room hosts hunter green walls with natural pine wood flooring. There’s a glass door to the front of the room, adjacent to the bed, with two smaller windows on either side; Tav can only assume it leads to a balcony. Beige drapes hang over the windows, parted gently down the middle and tied to the wall by golden holdbacks. There are plants – so many plants – throughout the room. Marbled pothos in hanging pots, a small belladonna on a stand; various other flora and fauna act as decor for the quaint bedroom.

She rises and walks back to the bed, noting that her belongings have been placed neatly along the bottom edge. Tav pokes through them, revealing each layer; her satchel, scarf, and hat are all present. Personal items are all accounted for as she rummages through her bag. It isn't until she notices her dress folded under her bag that she’s aware of her current attire. Somehow, she's now wearing a beige silk slip gown, the hem stopping just above her knees. The top and bottom of the dress are embroidered with white lace; a small bow is positioned right between the beginning of her cleavage.

Tav scans the room again and finds a matching bathrobe hanging on a hook behind the bedroom door. She quickly gathers the robe and throws it over herself, catching from the corner of her eye, what appears to be a note on the nightstand adjacent to the bed as she turns around. A vase of freshly cut red roses also resides atop the table.

Tav picks up the note and inspects it. The handwriting is Astarion's – of that, she's certain. The note is addressed to her. It reads,

‘Tavaria,

My apologies that you will wake alone with only this letter – I'm in rather high demand, today. I am hopeful this note will provide much needed clarification.

It seems as though we’ve had a repeat of our first encounter, yester eve. For that, I owe you an apology. I was overzealous. Truly, I'd forgotten how much I savor your blood, and just how easy it is to lose myself to it.

Rest assured, as soon as I'd realized you'd lost consciousness, I stopped. Everything. Nothing further occurred during your incapacitation. I gathered us both and brought you here, to your bedroom, to rest. I hope you don't mind my giving you a change of clothing; not sure how you'd feel about falling asleep in your day clothes. You did always make it a point to change before retiring for the evening.’

Tav smiles as she reads over the letter. He was right; she never fell asleep without dressing down for the evening. When he had asked her why, she'd told him that it would invite horrid dreams, were she not comfortable during sleep.

She continues reading,

‘I've tasked Magdalena with helping you around the manor. You need only ask that of which you desire, and she will assist. I suggest taking your morning tea out on the balcony overlooking the courtyard garden. The roses I've left were cut fresh from one of our many bushes this morning.

Tav looks to the glass door leading out to the patio. She catches a glimpse of the small courtyard beyond the ledge of the balcony. Various shades of pink and red roses line the courtyard walls; they're no doubt the source of his gift.

Although the urge to sequester you all to myself is an incredibly formidable one, our time is sadly not yet. You are free to leave whenever you desire. Simply inform Magdalena of your wish to leave, and she will escort you.

I do hope you make a habit of coming to visit. It would be lovely to have you at future events.

I ever so miss having you near, my dearest spitfire.

A. A.

Spitfire – his old moniker for her.

The first time he saw her charge headfirst into a group of Gnolls, he bestowed that name upon her. She'd yelled orders from her frontal position to the back line, the pack dropping quickly from their combined onslaught. All piss and raw vinegar as she cut them down, screaming with each swing of her great sword. For Astarion, it was exhilarating to watch the woman he was newly involved with take the initiative. He would later tell her it was a deciding factor in how he inevitably fell for her.

Tav places the note back on the table, raising her head toward the windows. She approaches the door to the balcony, placing a hand upon the handle. It turns with relative ease and Tav pushes open the door, stepping out onto the patio. The sun bathes her skin in a comforting warmth and she takes a moment to enjoy the sensation. Despite it being morning, she can already tell the weather will be unbearably warm by midday. Yet, for now, this is fine. This will do nicely to help soothe her worrisome heart. At least, for a short while.

Looking out beyond the balcony, Tav is greeted with a full view of the courtyard garden. She sees the rose bushes from before clearer, now. Various colored tulips outline the brick path cut down its middle, along with lavender and catmint, creating a dazzling display of color. Tav closes her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. A sweet floral scent meets her nose and she instantly relaxes, shoulders falling into a more comfortable position.

She recalls Astarion's surprise when they reached Baldur's Gate. “You forget just how much color there is in the world,” he told her. Seeing first hand how much vibrancy the garden possesses, it's no wonder he speaks so highly of it.

As she looks down at the grounds below, Tav sees gardeners trimming hedges. A couple look up and wave, having caught her in their periphery. She waves back as a kind gesture, and returns back to the bedroom. There's knocking on the bedroom door – three short taps with the back of a knuckle, just as she closes the door to the balcony.

“Lady Tavaria? Are you awake?” comes a light voice from the other side of the door.

‘Magdalena.’

“Y-yes! I'm up,” Tav answers. She walks to the bedroom door but doesn't open it. Instead, she chooses to stand in front, awaiting a response from the servant.

“Ah, wonderful!” Magdalena exclaims jovially. May I come in, my lady?”

Tav worries the inside of her cheek, hesitantly raising a hand to the doorknob. The woman is harmless, she knows, yet her heart still wavers. With a brief shuttering of her eyes, Tav draws in a deep breath again and opens the door.

Magdalena stands just outside the door, a tray of tea and finger sandwiches in her hands. “Brightest of mornings, Lady Tavaria,” she greets with a short curtsey. Her signature smile is widely on display. “I've brought tea and some breakfast, at the behest of Lord Ancunín.”

Tav nods and steps out of the way, welcoming Magdalena into the bedroom. The older woman places the tray on top of a wooden dresser along the wall. “Thank you,” Tav says, walking over to the tray.

Her stomach growls as she looks over the sandwiches. It dawns on her that she hasn't eaten since lunch the day before. As she reaches for a piece of sandwich, Tav notices a small scroll rolled up on the tray next to the tea pot. Choosing to forego food at the moment, she picks up the scroll and starts cautiously untying the binding. “What is this?” Tav asks, glancing up toward Magdalena.

“A scroll of Lesser Restoration,” Magdalena explains. “The young Master insisted you’d have need of it.”

Tav opens the scroll and reads over the incantation. During their travels, it wasn't uncommon for Tav to ask this of Shadowheart, especially after nights with Astarion. Shadowheart would scold her for taking things too far yet again with their vampiric companion, but would heal her, nonetheless.

“That's very thoughtful of him,” Tav answers, flatly. She recites the spell laid out within the scroll, a faint blue aura enveloping her. The scroll disintegrates within her hands as the aura clears. Her head suddenly feels clearer, her body stronger. Tav never quite understood how the spell works, but she chooses never to question it further. For now, she'll enjoy her breakfast, pouring herself a cup of tea before choosing a piece of sandwich.

Magdalena smiles again as Tav begins eating. “May I run you a bath?” she offers. “It will be done by the time you finish.”

“Ah, no,” Tav answers while chewing, raising a hand to cover her mouth, “that's quite alright. I think I'll just slowly get myself together.”

Their eyes meet as Tav lifts her head toward the older woman once more. For a moment, the servant's eyes glow. Tav furrows her brow as she studies Magdalena’s face. She's seen this look before, but not since Cazador was still master of the palace.

Suddenly, it clicks.

She's actively conferring with Astarion.

Magdalena's eyes return to their usual hue almost as quickly as they changed. Tav resumes her breakfast, feigning innocence of her discovery.

“Of course, Lady Tavaria. That would be no problem at all,” says Magdalena. The servant makes toward the bedroom door, but turns around before exiting. “Please feel free to call for me, if you have need.”

Tav nods again while taking a sip of tea. “Of course, Magdalena. Thank you, though there's one question I have.” She motions toward the note lying on the nightstand next to the bed, seeking to prove her prior theory correct. “Astarion said in his note that I may leave whenever I please.” She places her tea back down on the tray, locking eyes once more with Magdalena. “Is that true?”

A brief moment passes without a response. Faint glowing rings appear around Magdalena’s irises once again, then fade within seconds. “Absolutely!” the woman exclaims, positively. “You’re free to come and go as you please. Master Astarion would never keep you here against your will.” The smirk on her face is not her own but that of Astarion’s, a blatant display of his compulsion over the older woman.

Tav draws in a shallow breath, deeply unsettled. “Thank you, Magdalena,” Tav says quietly, placing her cup of tea down. Magdalena bows before taking her leave of the bedroom, the door shutting with a soft ‘click’ behind her. Tav stares at the back of the door, mind beginning to race.

Why spy on her if she's free to leave? Why offer her accommodations if Astarion has zero intent to keep her here? She winces as a sharp throb shoots through her neck. The scroll may have cleared her mind, though his mark is still very much present.

“He's hiding something,” Tav says aloud, raising a hand to rub the side of her neck. The scabs brush along her palm as she smoothes over the skin. She begins to ponder the night prior. The look on his face… His liar's smile. Tav knows the look well. He's used it on her and countless others across the duration of their journey together.

But why? It's her, after all. He can trust her, can't he? He can confide in her.

“You left me, remember?”

The words echo in her mind. She hates to admit it, but Tav broke his trust just as much as he broke hers. The exact moment of Astarion’s triumph is when she pulled away. When he finally achieved all he lusted after, she left. Rejected entirely the man he became, truly, for her. Sold the very essence of his conscience in a diabolical contract to achieve the confidence, power, and strength to protect her, to protect them, for the rest of eternity.

She drops her hand to her stomach, rubbing over the small bump of her lower belly. That same circumstance is the exact reason she's in her current position. It surprises her, though Tav believes Astarion is still somehow unaware of her condition. If he were, he would have half the manor waiting on her hand and foot. The best clerics and healers would be brought in from all around Faerûn. But above all, he would demand that she stay here. Tav has little doubt he would be an attentive and caring partner. Yet, it would mark the end of her freedom. There is no doubt in her mind about that.

Tav inevitably makes her way to the bath, stripping herself of the silken nightgown. She cleanses her skin thoroughly with care, looking delightfully at the array of soaps and oils provided to her. When she steps back out, she assembles her outfit from the day before.

With one more small bite of a sandwich and a sip of tea, Tav heads out of the bedroom and into the large hallway. She's unfamiliar with this wing of the palace – not somewhere that was accessible to during their initial visit. It's entirely possible Astarion had this built during the renovations, though the marble carvings within the walls state otherwise. Plush red carpeting lines the hallway, leading to a grand wooden staircase.

Looking around, Tav notes that there is barely a presence on this floor. She begins making her way toward the staircase, noting that even the floor below looks just as deserted. The gears in her head begin turning; where could everyone be? It's barely mid-morning – certainly the servants have chores?

Upon reaching the bottom of the steps, Tav hears soft echoes of voices coming from around the corner. She believes this to be the main floor of the manor. Is he having a meeting in the foyer? The ballroom? She travels down the hall and hugs the corner wall. Slowly she peaks her head over the corner. No one is present in the manor foyer, yet when she turns her head toward the ballroom, Tav quickly pulls herself close to the wall in an effort to avoid being spotted.

Cautiously, Tav again looks around the corner, staying as flush with the wall as possible. There's a gathering of sorts within the ballroom. Maids and servants are arranging table sets, ornaments are being strung from the walls. One servant is up on a ladder hand-wiping each crystal of the delicate chandelier that hangs from the ceiling.

Ah, this explains why the manor is so deserted. They're all here, seemingly preparing for an event. Tav looks around and quickly notes Astarion’s absence, yet catches Magdalena fussing with another servant.

“Why’s it we who have to do all this?” complains the young man. He's tall, thin, with shortly cropped ears. A half-elf, perhaps? Maybe even less. “Why's the Master get to sit all pretty while we're here working?” He's holding a silver teapot, polishing it with a soft, white cloth.

“Oh, Thaddeus,” Tav overhears Magdalena sigh, “Lord Ancunín trusts that everything will be up to his expectations, so long as it is us who do this.” The basket she holds comes to rest on a nearby table top as she turns to her companion. “You can hire just about anyone to do anything. But those finer details that have people talking for weeks?” She raises a hand, wagging a finger toward the young man. “Those can only be found by knowing your clientele. And we do.” She nods her head. “He knows that.”

Tav begins to pull back along the wall but stops once she hears the young man speak again, “You know him a long time, don't you?”

“I do,” Magdalena answers confidently.

“Was he always this arrogant?”

The pensive look in the woman's eyes gives Tav pause once again. “He wasn't always in a position to be otherwise,” Magdalena replies quietly.

Tav finally pulls herself back along the wall, looking down to the floor. It's how he survived Cazador. The slavery. The whoring. The hunger. All of it. “Spite made me who I am!” She remembers the venom laced within those words, having pushed him too far. Her heart skips in her chest as it floods with unsettling heat.

“Do I really have to go down there?” the boy from earlier says from around the corner. “It's cold down there. And smells awful.”

Tav listens closely as Magdalena responds, “Oh fine, you don't have to go right now. But someone must go down before tomorrow night’s banquet.”

‘Down?’ Tav ponders. The only thing she remembers being under the manor is the crypts. Those were left empty after the ritual, having sacrificed all those lives in the Rite. Nothing remained but the stench of death and stale air. What could possibly be down there that they need to check on?

In a split decision, Tav peers quickly over the edge of the wall again. The path is clear; every servant is occupied with their tasks at hand. She then dashes to the opposite wall, hugging it close as she listens to the activity within the ballroom.

Nothing. Just the same chatter as before.

If she has any hope of making it to the crypts, Tav remembers she needs the ring. That accursed fucking ring, engraved with the Szarr family sigil. She doubts Astarion has changed the enchantment, as evidenced by the heavy metal doors of the ballroom. ‘But where to find the ring?’ she ponders. Tav recalls a matching set – one within Cazador's possession, and the other…

Godey.

Astarion returned the duplicate back to fucking Godey. Or, really, what was left of him. Once obtaining Cazador's ring, he returned the prior to the skeleton before departing the palace.

“I very much deserve the real thing. Not some cheap imitation,” he says. As Tav watches him kneel before the corpse of his tormentor, he gives pause. They’re the only two occupants of the room, the others choosing to stay above in the foyer. The room smells horrid; fetid. Nothing but the stench of death and decay permeates the air. Astarion sits with his head bowed low, hands balled into tight fists on his thighs. Tav refrains from speaking, letting Astarion have his moment. Eventually, the newly ascended vampire lord reaches into his pocket and produces the duplicate ring, dropping it within the pile of bones that was once animated. As he rises, Astarion turns to Tav and says, “I’m done here.”

She quirks her brow. “Are you sure?” Tav asks in concern. “We should really talk–”

“I’m done here,” Astarion repeats again, more sternly. He walks past Tav without making eye contact and heads for the stairs. Tav looks back at the room briefly before exiting, then follows Astarion up the stairs.

Looking around, Tav realizes the layout of the manor has changed. “But has he changed the structure underneath?” she whispers to herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she finds it – a small stairway at the end of the hall leading down and–

‘Aha; there it is.’

Tav quickly scans the hall and upon realizing the way is clear, dashes toward the staircase. She hurries down the stairs, halting momentarily at the bottom to perform another quick surveillance of her surroundings.

Having Astarion as a teacher certainly helped improve her stealth. His two-hundred years of experience shined brightest as he glided about the night, lifting coin purses and trinkets with finesse so smooth they'd all be right out of earshot when the shrills of the victims finally rang out. Tav would stand in awe as he'd then pawn the hot items, using every smooth edge of his perfectly sculpted face to its full advantage. It was often that he'd come away with more gold in hand than the others during these exchanges, leading to the group agreeing unanimously that Astarion barter with all merchants.

The way looks clear once more and Tav ventures into the hall. This floor looks little changed; the…entertainment…quarters are off to the left, which means the kennels are still to the right. Tav turns her head as she approaches the threshold of the kennels. The blood-stained mattresses from months prior are still strewn about the floor of the room, coupled with the shackles welded into the stone. What makes her breath catch is Godey’s skeleton, lifeless on the ground. It's laying in the exact same position it was left in when he was slain.

Astarion hasn't touched it.

No one has touched anything in this room, let alone on this floor, from the looks of it.

With a heavy sigh, Tav steps through the doorway and enters the torture chamber. The air still carries the horrid scent of decay, but not nearly as strongly as the months’ prior. She kneels before the pile of bones on the floor that once was Godey, and without much hesitation, begins rummaging around for the ring. She finds it under his ribcage, nestled between his pelvis, and quickly stashes it in her satchel. Tav tries rearranging Godey’s remains as respectfully as she can, then rises from the floor.

She's quick to leave the room, not affording herself a glance back, and slinks back up the stairs. A servant passes as she reaches the top of the stairs and Tav halts, watching them intently. Thankfully, they fail to notice her presence, and she continues up into the hallway. Her next challenge is to somehow sneak into the ballroom, to the doorway off to the left that houses the elevator shaft. Astarion taught her an invisibility spell during their lessons, though her grasp on the spell is crude at best, only being able to hold the veil for half its usual time.

She'll have to be quick, is all.

Tav hugs the wall once more as she makes her way back to the ballroom. Silently she prays no changes have been made to that wing of the manor. She whispers the incantation for the invisibility spell to herself; her form blinks out of view and she dashes into the room. Holding her concentration as best she can, Tav nearly collides with a maid as she turns the corner. The spell flickers for a soft moment, threatening to collapse entirely, before she inevitably regains focus. She looks around briefly – no one within the ballroom seems to have noticed her mishap, and she quickly slips behind the door leading to the elevator, closing it promptly behind her.

Exhaling in relief, Tav releases the spell, retrieving the ring from her satchel as she walks toward the elevator. The gate opens as she approaches and she steps in. As she raises the ring to the corresponding sigil etched within the metal wall, Tav winces, hoping that the activation of the elevator doesn’t trigger an alarm. Ancient gears begin to wind, feeling the vibrations under her feet, and the gate closes. The elevator begins to draw down, and Tav sighs in relief.

The air shifts as she further descends down the shaft. An uneasiness takes root deep within her chest as the temperature shifts; she shivers, and suddenly, the elevator stops with a jump. The gate swings open and Tav steps off. She's assaulted by the scent of rotting organic matter and stale blood. Her stomach churns, half in nausea but also hunger. Curse the child growing within – already having such a twisted moral compass. Most befitting of the union between a vampire and a Bhaalspawn.

Her footsteps reverberate loudly against the tall stone walls of the dungeon. As she looks around, Tav realizes that this, too, has been left untouched during the renovations. Making her way to the main hall, she ponders where Astarion would keep his secret hidden, were there one. She turns off to the left and heads to where the remains of Vellioth lay; where most accounts from all prior lords of the manor reside.

Entering the stone room, Tav immediately notices the two sarcophaguses off to the right. They, too, are made of stone, their lids decorated with intricate carvings. She quirks her brow, drawing closer to the structures. These look new; a fine dust has settled on the ground surrounding each, most likely shaken off the while being placed.

A quick memory flits across her mind, of the two men mentioned within the Gazette. Evidence of fangs marks marring their necks, vanishing from the crime scene without a trace. Again Tav's stomach churns, queasily this time.

Perhaps these are Astarion's new sleeping chambers? Her brain is trying to form a positive explanation. Maybe he's grown tired of satin and feathered beds, craving the comforts of solitude.

She winces, seemingly staring out into nothing, and pulls her head to one side. ‘No,’ Tav thinks, ‘not after that particular event…’

She approaches the first of the tombs, cautiously extending her hands to the lid. With a breath, she pushes, the bellowing sound of stone grinding against stone cutting through the heavy silence of the crypt. Finally, the cover drops to the floor with a loud ‘thud’, the ground shaking briefly beneath her feet.

Closing her eyes, Tav leans forward over the lip of the stone coffin. She wills her eyes to then open observing the contents inside.

Her mouth drops open, breath arresting in her chest by what she finds.

Within the stone coffin lay a man in hooded black garb. Of elven lineage, most likely – not much older than a hundred. As she scans his form, Tav notes a discolored bruise on one side of the man’s neck. A trail of blood leads down his chest, obscured by the collar of his garb. Reaching into the coffin, she gently pushes the hood to the side, allowing her a better view of his neck.

Her pupils grow wide.

Within the blossomed bruise, two pin marks decorate the man’s skin. Tav raises a hand to her neck and traces the distance between each of her scars. She extends her hand over the man's neck, keeping her fingers aligned.

She gasps – the marks line up near perfectly with her fingers.

‘No…’

A surge of heat crawls throughout her body, her heart drumming loudly within her ears. Tav darts her eyes to the second stone coffin and sets to work on shoving off the lid. With one final groan from Tav, the lid hits the floor, ground shaking again from the impact. Quickly, Tav peers over the ledge.

Another young man in hooded black garb – a dragonborn. Tav reaches down to push the hood over, revealing the man's neck to her eyes. He, too, possesses the same pin marks as the first.

“Somehow I knew I'd find you here,” comes a smooth voice from beyond the corridor.

Tav halts, a shiver running down her spine. She knows that baritone voice, all too well.

Him.

Footsteps echo off stone flooring, the sound increasing in intensity as he walks down the hall. He emerges from the shadows and into full view; he's chosen his red and black doublet today, with a simple pair of black slacks. His loafers are the same as the day's prior. Not a single strand of hair atop his head is out of place. Perfectly poised, per usual.

“Shouldn't’ve taught me your entire repertoire, then,” Tav retorts with slight annoyance, swiveling her head to address him over her shoulder.

He smirks as he closes the distance. “Half, little love,” Astarion chides with a wag of a finger. “I taught you half of what I know.” He stands just within the doorway’s arch, crossing his arms over his chest. Astarion then tilts his head to one side, pulling his face into a questioning scowl. “Why exactly are you here?”

Silence hangs heavy in the air while Tav conjures a response. She narrows her eyes, shooting Astarion a searing glance.

“You lied to me, Astarion,” she accuses, raising a finger at him. “And I knew you did.” Looking to the twin coffins lining the walls of the room, Tav shakes her head. “I overheard the servants talking about something here within the crypts, and I–”

Astarion drops his brow. “Who did you overhear?” comes his stern response, laced within a deep growl.

Tav shrugs her shoulders. “Does it matter?” she suggests. “The damage is already done, Astarion. I know the truth.”

He's quiet as she walks toward him; stoic. He stops breathing, having no true need of it, and he’s a living statue before her eyes. Ivory skin with just the faintest hint of life. Piercing red eyes. A strong, sharp nose. Hardened jaw clenched tight…

Tav is quick to rid her mind of the creeping lust that threatens to bloom within.

“But what I don't understand is why lie to me, Astarion?” She continues to argue her point, pounding a fist over her chest. “What do you gain? What do you preserve?”

Astarion doesn't answer immediately, likely trying to piece together a sound reply. He shifts his weight onto one hip and sighs. “Has our dearest friend Wyllyam not told you of our arrangement?”

Tav shifts back a step, turning her face toward the side only minimally, eyes still fixated upon him. “What are you implying?”

Astarion’s resulting smile oozes malice. “Oh dear, you really don't know.” He drops his arms from his chest and closes the distance. Tav flinches as he leans toward her, dropping his voice to a purr, “And here I thought you were just playing the part.”

“Know what, Astarion? Speak plainly,” demands Tav.

Again, a momentary lapse in response. He stares blankly, expressionless as he says, “Awfully surprised this hasn't come up during pillow talk.”

Tav blinks in genuine shock. ‘Pillow talk? What in the hells–’

Suddenly, her brain mulls over the thought and she scowls. “Astarion, are you asking if I've ever slept with Wyll?”

He leans back, shifting his head again to one side. “I'm not quite sure, love,” he says, feigning innocence. “Perhaps you could tell me?”

Flabbergasted, Tav shouts, “He's the Duke, Astarion! I report directly to him!” She shakes her head in disagreement. “No, our interactions are strictly professional.”

“Of course, but old habits die hard, my dear. Surely you know that,” Astarion retorts.

The sentence churns within her brain. Tav recalls the events of their journey against the Absolute. Every dinner, every laugh, every intimate moment shared.

‘He can't possibly be referring to…’

Her attention snaps back to Astarion, who waits patiently as she unravels his meaning.

“We shared a kiss, Astarion,” Tav explains, mildly annoyed. “You and I pledged ourselves to one another soon after. You know this.”

“You both shared a rather intimate dance, as well.” He begins to circle her; Tav keeps her head on a swivel as she tracks his movement. “What else, I wonder, did you share in our time away from one another?”

“I already told you, our relationship is strictly professional. I harbor no additional feelings for Wyll.”

Astarion's raises his hands in defeat, bowing slightly at the waist. “I'll accept what you say as truth.”

Somberly, Tav looks toward the two stone coffins holding the unfortunate victims. “How does Wyll have anything to do with this?” she questions. “I doubt he'd take murder lightly.”

Astarion huffs a laugh. “Oh, my darling, how wrong you are. They aren’t dead.” Astarion moves toward the first sarcophagus, stopping just next to it. “And they're not innocent. I can assure you of that.”

She whips her head toward Astarion, bewilderment painted clear up on her face. “Not dead?” reiterates Tav. “Astarion, I'm sure of what I saw. Those two men are dead; gone of this world.”

“Did you touch them?” he inquires, lifting a brow.

“No,” she admits, shaking her head, “why would I?”

Astarion lifts his chin, nodding toward the coffins. “Touch them,” he dares. “Go on.”

Tav holds his challenging gaze for a moment before bowing her head. Cautiously, she walks toward the coffins again, choosing the one that holds the elven man. Quickly she looks to Astarion, who nods his head again in encouragement. Tav raises a shaky hand over the lip of the coffin, reaching for the young man inside.

The hand connects and her eyes grow wide.

‘His skin…it's…’

“Cool, but not chilled, yes?” Astarion comments smugly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Tav quickly retracts her hand, shooting a heated glance at Astarion. “What the hells is this, Astarion?” she yells. “What kind of enchantment is this?!”

Knitting his brow, Astarion says, “Tell me, darling – does this satisfy your desire to paint me as some type of devil?” Slowly he stalks toward her, like a predator encircling their prey. Instinctively, Tav backs away, desperate to create more distance. “Does this prove your preconceived notions correct?”

“Astarion…” Tav says in a small voice, but she halts her retreat – a wave of rebellion overtaking her. She stands steady, watching his every movement.

He stops before her, heavy breaths rippling through his nostrils. “Will you fly from me again?” he asks, jaw tight. He leans forward, adding in a growl, “Do you fear me, now?”

He’s spiraling.

Backed into a corner, he's poised to strike. As she studies his face, Tav notes the tension set deep within his features. “...Not unless I have reason to,” she challenges. Tav narrows her eyes in question. “Do I?”

The tension eases somewhat, Astarion's face softening. He straightens his posture, placing a hand on the lip of the coffin for support. “Of course not,” he admits, looking off to the side. Astarion worries at his bottom lip. “I would see this entire city burn, if you willed.”

A cold shutter runs down the length of her spine. “I would never ask that of you, Astarion,” Tav states, cocking her head to one side.

“I know,” he smiles, lips pulling into a smirk, “but my offer still stands.”

Despite offering to raze an entire city in her stead, Tav realizes he still cannot call this what it truly is.

Love.

How much he loves her. Loves the idea of them. His worst fear realized, Tav comes to understand, is her turning her back on him again. Walking out the door, never to return. Astarion still cannot admit to himself that he longs, desperately, for nothing more than them being together, for as long as the accursed Gods above allow.

But, she knows. She sees it – sees him.

Her eyes wander back to the elven man in the stone coffin. Tav turns to face the coffin and dips her hand once more, placing the flat of her hand against the man’s cheek. “How is it possible that they still live?” she asks, curious. “You bit them, didn't you? Drained them?”

“I did,” agrees Astarion with a slight nod of his head, “however, that's only the first part. They haven't yet reached the final act.” His chest rises as he draws in a breath, exhaling with audible force. He meets her eye as he says, “Currently, they lay between.”

Tav's jaw drops in silent question. “How do you mean between, Astarion?” she asks, mortified. “Are you implying they're in a sort of stasis?”

“Somewhat, yes,” confirms Astarion. “To create a vampire spawn, the victim must be buried under six feet of dirt. After which,” he continues, gesturing with a light twirl of his wrist, “they awaken the following night. Beckoned, by their new master.” A hollow look sets on his face, eyes dropping to the floor. “Bound to them. Forever.”

“This happened weeks ago,” Tav is quick to argue, the soft burn of panic igniting within her chest. “You've kept them here this entire time? In this state?”

Astarion shrugs his shoulders in nonchalance, adopting a sort of apathy as he says, “Not much else to do, unfortunately. Not until I decide otherwise.”

A heavy sense of dread looms overhead. Tav can hardly believe how seemingly detached he is from the severity of the situation – willfully keeping these men in limbo, until he, essentially, gets around to settling the matter.

Completely at his mercy.

“This is hardly fair, Astarion,” says Tav, voice quivering.

“And what makes you think they're deserving of such a gesture?” he asks with a quirk of his brow.

“Everyone is,” she states in an urgent breath, “especially in death.”

“You’ve no idea who your heart bleeds for,” Astarion counters in a low growl, teeth clenched.

In a display of confidence, albeit foolishly, Tav approaches the vampire. “Did these men give themselves to you willingly?” she asks, pushing forward. Taken aback, Astarion steps away. “Did they pledge fealty to you? Or did you take it?”

Still stepping back, Astarion says quietly, “That hardly matters.”

“No, that's precisely what matters,” Tav insists, forcefully. She halts her frontal assault, choosing to meet his gaze. “Answer me, Astarion – did these men give you permission to turn them?”

They stand, eyes locked in a heated silent exchange, before Astarion finally admits, “No.” it's a one word response, yet it holds the weight of an entire mountain within its meaning.

The fire within her chest threatens to burst into an inferno, and Tav can tell Astarion is feeling the pressure, as well. There's a sheen to his eyes that only appears before the fall. Before a breakthrough.

“Is that the sort of master you want to be?” she pushes. The consequences of such an accusation can leave her in the same position as the men in the coffins, though this is another test of their bond. “One who takes without consideration?” Tav continues.

Can he withstand moral objectivity? Criticism? ‘Comparison,’ she thinks to herself, ‘to Cazador?’

“I would not wish to create spawn of those unaware of this life,” Astarion states mournfully.

“But if you complete the process, they become your spawn, correct?” infers Tav, continuing to lay on the pressure. “You would have the ability to compel them.”

Astarion shoots her a side glance. “I would never do that to them,” he snarls defensively, his limit quickly approaching.

“No, but you would still have the option. Just as he did. And they would know that.” Astarion's nostrils begin to flare as Tav encircles him, his face screwing up into a tightly disapproving scowl. “Just as you did.”

“Tav,” Astarion growls out in warning, fists clenching with fevor. He follows her path around him, eyes glued to her form.

“That at any moment,” she continues, “you could bend them to your will. Just as he did.” Astarion's chest is heaving by this point. Strong, ragged breaths tear through his chest.

Yet, Tav goes on. “How long do you think you'll have before they rebel? Before they seek to reclaim the life you unjustly stole from them?” Tav stops just before him, craning her neck to one side as she says, “Does that sound like a familiar story to you?”

“I am not him!” Astarion shouts, hunching over. His fangs are bared, his palms splayed wide. His eyes flicker a bright gold for all but a second, but it's a second too long for Tav to not take notice. Astarion drops to his knees and Tav backs away, startled by the display before her.

Astarion's nails dig deeply at the stone floor below. He's snarling – saliva now drips from his mouth as his body gives over to a fit. Panic settles within Tav’s chest, though her feet refuse to carry her any further away. Astarion whips back his head – pupils blown wide – and their eyes meet; a thin ring of ruby red encircles them.

“Astarion…” Tav sighs. She eases herself to the floor, but doesn't reach for him. Instead, she sits attentively – an unspoken display of trust that he will not take advantage of her vulnerability. Hoping that somewhere, deep within, he's still the man she came to love.

A low rumble rises from Astarion's chest as he studies her face. His eyes roll into his skull and he sits back, blinking rapidly. Raising a hand, he swipes it down the front of his face, then shakes his head.

“...Are you back?” Tav asks, timidly.

Astarion gives a knowing glance, nodding his head in silent agreement.

“What was that?” she asks.

Settling his gaze on the floor, hanging his head, Astarion confesses, “I…I don't know,” His chest rises and falls with labored breaths. “Forgive me; I meant you no harm.”

Somehow, she knows. Trusts in the one impenetrable fact that he will always protect her. That no harm will ever come to her, either by his own doing or by others. Tav doesn't fear him, nor what he is capable of.

“I know,” Tav says, confidently. She holds out her hands, palms turned upward, in offer to Astarion. They don't have to talk about what happened just yet. For right now, they must move forward.

He gives pause at her gesture, but then readily accepts, enclosing his hands over hers. They aid one another in rising off the floor and stand, keeping their hands interlocked just a moment too long.

Tav speaks first, saying, “You have to do something with them, Astarion. You can't just leave them here and pray they'll go away.”

His hand finds one of hers again, entwining their fingers once more. “...What would you suggest I do?” he asks, unsure. Astarion looks to her from under his lashes, brow knit tightly in a concerned scowl.

Tav squeezes his hand encouragingly. “Show them the mercy you wish was afforded to you.”

Astarion lifts his head, eyes widening as he looks to her. “...You would allow such a thing?” he asks with a hint of desperation in his voice.

Tav brings their interlocked hands to her lips, placing a gentle kiss to the top of his. “I support you doing what's right, Astarion.”

His eyes flutter momentarily, somewhat surprised by the intimate gesture, before he dips his head in a short nod. “Fine,” he says, “I'll do it.”

Releasing his grip on her hand, Astarion moves to the coffin holding the young elven man. He reaches for his side, under his doublet, and Tav hears him unsheath his dagger from its hilt. Seconds later, Astarion pulls it free from his hip with a skilled jerk.

With a shaky breath, Astarion takes the opposite hand and begins tracing down along the breast bone of the unconscious man beneath. He feels, under the pads of his fingers, for each intercostal space, stopping once he reaches the fourth. Now moving his hand slightly to the left of the sternum, he dips his fingers again to confirm proper placement. The man's heart beats slowly under his touch; Astarion releases his breath, and looks again to Tav.

Tav sees the trepidation in his eyes. He's asking silently, again, for her permission to continue. If what he’s about to do is tolerable. Will she turn and run if he goes through with this? Would it be too much for her to witness him at his worst?

She nods almost instinctively, taking notice of her own heightened state. There once was a time when the call of blood and sinew thrilled her; though now, the adrenaline coursing through her veins exists for a different reason entirely. Her heart beats strong against its cage, flooding her ears.

Astarion means to kill these men. Mercifully, yes, but kill them, all the same. And she's allowing it. Encouraging it. Guiding his hand toward a path of resolution. A chance at redemption for his soured soul, all but forgotten by every God.

It's no matter to her, really – she longs to be his sanctuary. The savior of his damned existence. She wasn't strong enough then, during the ritual, but by the Gods she will never make that mistake again. Stop at nothing now to save him. To give him a new chance at life.

One where they all can exist together. Him, her, and the blossoming love that grows within.

Receiving the answer he sought, Astarion turns his attention again to the man’s chest. He raises the dagger, replacing his fingers with the tip of the blade. He pauses for a second, then begins pushing the knife forward.

A deep, agonal groan rings loudly against the crypt walls the moment Astarion's blade pierces heart. A shiver passes over Tav as she traces the movements of Astarion's arm. He twists the dagger within the elf’s chest, another garbled sound slipping past the young man's pale lips as Astarion carves through myocardium.

Astarion stands, near perfectly still, in the same position until the sound dies down. Only then does he pull the dagger free. He wipes the flat of the blade against his thigh, moving toward the dragonborn in a seamless transition.

A final groan spills from the older man. It reverberates within the crypt, drifting off into a dull dum. Astarion carefully removes the blade from the man’s chest, dropping it unceremoniously onto the floor with a loud ‘clang’. Astarion drags a hand down the length of his face and begins stalking backwards. “It's done,” he comments, turning on his heels and heading toward the exit. His head hangs low as he passes Tav.

She hardly acknowledges his passing – she’s too transfixed on the scene before her.

Finally, the two men lay dead. Her nose picks up the faint scent of their blood as it slowly trickles from their wounds, though the smell is not as fragrant as that of a fresh kill. The scent envelops her once more and her stomach lurches in disgust.

‘It's rancid!’ she cries to herself. Tav places a hand over her abdomen, rubbing soothing circles over her belly, hoping to calm this sudden wave of nausea.

The crushing reality of the situation begins to set in. Tav had encouraged Astarion to show these men mercy. Mercy that wasn’t shown to him. She knew he'd likely choose this option, but the why escaped her.

Until now.

“Astarion,” she calls out in a shaky breath, beginning to understand, “does this mean you…?”

Astarion halts just before stepping beyond the room's threshold. He turns slowly, looking at Tav as he says, “I'm holding a charity ball tomorrow evening. In Wyll's honor.” His voice is flat – devoid of its usual flair. “You should come. Speak with him. He can explain this better than I could ever hope to try.”

He's already rebuilding his walls.

Tav shifts to meet his gaze. A single tear tracks down Astarion's face and he quickly wipes it away, but she sees. Sees the bob of his neck as he swallows. Finds the hollow look in his eyes as he meets hers. “You did the right thing, Astarion,” she states, trying to provide reassurance. Give him an encouraging hand.

Yet, he's quick to refuse it.

“Then why doesn't it feel that way?” Astarion confesses, sternly. He promptly turns again and heads once more to the doorway, disappearing beyond the threshold.

Tav stands alone within the crypt. Her knees suddenly grow weak as the evening's events finally catch up to her. She guides herself softly to the floor, supporting her weight on a single arm as she leans to one side. Tav brings her other hand to rest over her chest and feels the crazed beating of her heart. The crushing weight of the evening settles deep in her bones.

Part of Astarion…wishes that were him.

#ascended astarion #astarion #fanfiction #bg3 astarion #sotlc #astarion fanfic #dark romance #astarion x female tav #astarion x female dark urge #astarion x female oc #character death #death mention tw #tw sucidal ideation #please let me know if i should tag anything else #i believe i got the big ones #i will be uploading shortly to ao3

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goldenraeofsun · 1 month ago

Text

Day 4: Hallucinations

Damian stares down at his hands, caked with dried blood. The horribly familiar scent of iron tickles his nose and makes his stomach churn. His head pounds.

“Robin?”

Damian jerks his head up, and his vision swims. He struggles to focus on the newcomer, a middle aged man in a boxy brown suit. Wire-rimmed glasses sit low on his nose, and he pushes them back on his face twice in the time it takes to enter Damian’s cell and take a seat at the lone table across from his bare cot. The man carries a clipboard and wears an ID badge that takes too much concentration for Damian to read, so he doesn’t.

“Do you remember me?”

“No,” Damian says, his voice cracking on the single syllable. He coughs, holding back a wince as his dry throat protests. But he can’t show weakness, not when he has no idea where he is, what he is doing here, or where his family is.

“That’s alright,” the man says. He sets something tall and clear-colored on the table. “We had to sedate you for your … the staff. I’m Dr. Vanne, the … we met last … if you don’t remember, you were … distraught.”

Damian blinks at him, catching every third word he says. “I understand,” he says untruthfully.

The man – Dr. Vanne? – nods. “You’ve been through … with Batman … harrowing for … let alone a child.”

Damian shakes his head, trying to clear it to focus. It’s ineffectual, but he needs to stay as awake and alert as he can. Only bits and pieces of the night before come back to him, a swish of a cape, the crack of a door splintering open, flickering lights. “Batman?” he asks. “Where is Batman?”

Richard will be able to explain everything. He’ll tell Damian why he’s in this cell, why he has none of his usual weapons, why he’s only wearing a mask and a hospital gown. He just needs to contact Richard –

Dr. Vanne’s mouth falls open as his brows pinch together with concern. “Robin,” he says as his gaze settles on Damian with an unnerving intensity, “Batman is dead.”

Damian’s whole body instinctively clenches at the bald-faced lie. “Batman is not dead,” he says, his voice echoing uncomfortably loudly in the small cell.

Dr. Vanne winces. “That’s why you’re in here.” He gestures to confines around them. “You were unconsolable and dangerous after you killed Batman.” He pushes the object on the table – a water bottle – towards Damian.

“You’re lying,” Damian spits.

Dr. Vanne shakes his head sadly. “That’s his blood on your hands, Robin.”

Despite himself, Damian glances down. He rubs his fingers together, and some dried flakes drift down into his lap, brown and rusted against the crisp white of his flimsy hospital gown.

“No,” he says, his voice deadly quiet.

Richard can’t be dead.

Richard is too full of life to be dead.

Damian is being held hostage by this Dr. Vanne character. He has taken Damian for some reason he has yet to tell him. This is some elaborate pantomime, constructed for Damian to give up his family’s secrets. Richard is planning his rescue right now.

“Batman is dead,” Dr. Vanne says in a horribly kind voice. “It was an accident; everyone knows. But the sooner you accept it –”

“Batman is not dead!” Damian roars. He launches himself at Dr. Vanne, but doesn’t make it all the way. He flails for those last few inches, landing heavily on the table. Breathing hard, he braces himself on one elbow to resume the offensive –

A syringe sinks into his arm. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” Dr. Vanne says sadly.

Everything goes dark.

* * *

Damian wakes up with a pounding head and dry mouth. He opens his eyes, squinting against his blurry vision. For an excruciatingly long moment, he has no idea where he is. But the familiar gray walls of his cell eventually solidify before him.

He pushes himself into a sitting position and gags as his stomach turns over. Bile rises to the back of his throat, and he swallows, grimacing. At the sound of footsteps outside his room, he jerks his head around, wincing his head throbs all the harder. Dark spots dance in front of his eyes.

The doctor, Vanne, taps his card against a portion of the wall Damian cannot see. The door beeps, and he enters. “Hello, Robin,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Release me,” Damian orders, the command rolling off his tongue with ease despite his distinct unease at all the unanswered questions about his confinement.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Vanne says patiently. “You’re still a danger to yourself and others. Until I can determine your threat level, we can’t discharge you.”

“You cannot keep me here,” Damian says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We can certainly try,” Vanne says. “Now,” he says as he takes a seat and adjusts his glasses, “that night, when Batman died, what do you remember?”

Never give the enemy more information than you’re getting.

When Damian remains quiet, Vanne presses on, undeterred. “Do you remember the fight?”

Damian glares.

“Do you remember who you were fighting?”

Damian’s frown deepens because he doesn’t remember anything about the night before he woke up here. But he’d rather pull out his own fingernails than admit his ignorance to this imposter.

“Do you remember how Batman died?”

Damian’s temper flares. “He is not dead.”

“Batman is dead,” Vanne says calmly. “Once you’re more stable, we can show you the proof.”

Damian levels him an unimpressed look. “Show me the proof now, and I’ll be slightly more inclined to answer your foolish questions.”

“You’re in a very delicate mental –”

“You will show me that proof now .”

Vanne shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Because you don’t have it!” Damian says triumphantly. “Because this is all part of your scheme to separate me from Batman.”

Vanne exhales a long sigh. He takes off his glasses – a tactical mistake – and pinches the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes. “I can’t show you the footage because it will retraumatize you. As a doctor, I took an oath to do no –”

Damian jumps the table and puts him into a headlock. Vanne’s glasses go clattering to the ground. “The proof. Now,” Damian growls in an acceptable facsimile of Dick’s facsimile of Father’s Batman’s voice. He kicks Vanne’s fallen chair out of the way so Vanne cannot use it against him.

“I can’t,” Vanne chokes out.

“You will.” Damian tightens his hold “It will take you ten seconds to lose consciousness. Who do you think will last longer?”

“Please – let me – go,” Vanne forces between frantic gulps for air.

“Not before you show me irrefutable proof,” Damian snarls in his ear, “that Batman is dead, and you aren’t a lying waste of –”

“Guards – Guar –”

The door slams open, and four guard stream in. They forcibly pry Damian off Vanne, and one brandishes a syringe. Damian howls like a banshee, scratching and biting every bit of flesh within reach. They may have taken away his man-made weapons, but Damian was trained to be a weapon, and he will fight until his last breath to see Richard again. The syringe sinks back into his bicep. Pathetically, Damian’s last shout comes out as more of a whimper.

* * *

Damian wakes up to the scent of boiled chicken. He pries his eyelids open, unsurprised to see Vanne accompanied by a security guard.

Good.

They are finally taking him seriously.

“You need to eat,” Vanne says gently.

Damian eyes the plastic bowl of soup distrustfully. They are not idiots, so they did not give him access to any metal utensils, wooden chopsticks, or even animal bones. Nothing to stab a body with or pick a lock with.

“What is the point of all of this,” he says as he leans over the bowl to sniff it. It’s chicken noodle, judging by the scent and beige chunks of meat and pale orange carrot cubes barely floating in the thin broth.

“To keep your strength up,” Vanne says, deliberately misinterpreting Damian’s words.

Damian sits back on his cot without picking up the flimsy spoon they provided.

“Grief can be a powerful appetite suppressant,” Vanne says. “But you should eat something.”

“I am not grieving because Batman is not dead,” Daman says through gritted teeth.

Perhaps they are not as smart as he initially credited them. They may have captured him, kept him away from his family, cut off most of his avenues of escape. But Damian will not believe something just because they keep repeating it, ad nauseam. If that worked, he would have stopped trying to kill Drake within a week of his arrival to Gotham.

“Batman is dead, Robin,” Vanne says, his tone aggravatingly patient. “Have any of your memories of his death come back? Trauma can do funny things with our recollections, but I expect they’re lurking in your subconscious, right underneath the surface.”

Damian stays silent, mulling over his options.

The door to his cell has no door knob or handle. Vanne uses a keycard to get in, but there is no similar pad on this side of the wall, so Damian cannot hack his way out. Barefoot and dressed in the hospital gown, he has no access to any Bat comms or lockpicks.

“Once you accept the truth,” Vanne continues, “your memories will make themselves known to your fully conscious mind. We can start trying specific techniques next week, if we see no improvement.”

Most frustratingly, Damian still has too many questions. Why did they take him? What do they want from him? Why pursue this fiction that Batman is dead?

Damian has been kidnapped before and held hostage. Every single other time, without fail, his captors demanded information or money within twelve hours.

“First, we’ll start with a mild hypnosis,” Vanne goes on. “If that doesn’t take, we’ll put you in a state of deep hypnosis. That has worked with the majority of my patients in the past, and I have all confidence it will be a success for you too.”

By Damian’s admittedly less-than-reliable estimates, he has been under Dr. Vanne’s supervision for more than 48 hours. Vanne hasn’t asked for money nor information.

Damian hasn’t seen Richard in two full days. Richard must be going mad looking for his Robin. Damian swallows, dread and shame coiling in the pit of his stomach. This isn’t his job; he is supposed to make Batman’s life easier. That is Damian’s whole purpose.

“As a last resort,” Vanne continues, “there are a few pharmaceutical therapies we can try, but those are all high risk for pediatric patients, so we’d have to contact your next-of-kin for consent.”

That draws Damian up short. “You’re in contact with my family?”

“Of course,” Vanne says, looking vaguely offended. “It would be unethical to hold you here without their knowledge or consent.”

“Bring them to me,” Damian says at once. “If you’re really speaking to them.”

Vanne falters, and Damian barely suppresses his grin of victory. Vanne reaches out as if to lay a comforting hand on Damian’s arm, but Damian spears him with a baleful look, and the hand retreats. As he pulls his hand back, Vanne says slowly, “Robin, they don’t want to see you.”

Lies.

Lies on top of lies.

Damian barely holds back his smile.

His family, his annoying, suffocating, loving family would never do such a thing.

“Then you’re obviously not telling the truth,” Damian retorts. “I know my family.”

“They don’t want to see you,” Vanne hesitates, “because you killed Batman.”

Damian jumps to his feet, as sheer injustice at the accusation courses through his veins. “I did not!”

“You did,” Vance says unflinchingly, a hint of steel and annoyance in his voice for the first time. “You killed Batman, and all your siblings trusted me to care for you because, despite your actions, they still want the best for you.”

But –

His family would never do that.

His family wouldn’t ship Damian off to some strange psychologist.

His family wouldn’t keep him caged, alone, like some sort of animal.

They wouldn’t abandon him even if, even if he –

Damian shakes his head. “I didn’t kill Batman,” he says, half to himself, half to Vanne. “I didn’t.”

“It was an accident,” Vanne says soothingly. “You didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t do it at all!”

Vanne sighs. He gets to his feet. “Eat your soup,” he says, “or we’ll have to resort to less ideal methods to keep you fed.”

And for the first time, Damian watches him leave.

The bowl of soup mocks him for the rest of the day.

Damian doesn’t eat a drop.

* * *

That night, Damian inspects his cell, searching for any weakness. He runs his fingers along every corner and inch of wall he can reach. He tugs at the bars that make up his cot, but nothing comes loose, and he breaks several nails trying to untwist the screws and bolts holding it together.

He cedes defeat several hours later, fuming.

When the lights come back on, Damian turns over in bed, head aching, stomach cramping, chest thrumming with a nervous, anxious energy he can’t dispel in this tiny, windowless room.

Vance comes in about three hours later. “Good morning, Robin,” he greets as the door closes behind the guard.

Damian doesn’t acknowledge him at all.

“How did you sleep?”

Damian stares straight ahead.

“Did you have any dreams?” Vanne tries next. And some of Damian’s skepticism must show on his face, since Vanne presses, “Did any memories resurface?”

“I dreamed of my dog,” Damian lies. He didn’t dream at all. He just dozed between failed meditation sessions.

“Interesting,” Vanne says, not sounding interested at all in that answer. “Because all our sensors indicate that you barely entered a single REM cycle last night.” He sighs. “You won’t get better if you don’t tell me the truth, Robin.”

Damian stays silent.

“Now, grief has well-documented effects on sleep hygiene –”

“I am not grieving, you imbecile,” Damian interrupts acidly. “I did not sleep because I am being kept here against my will, ineptly interrogated, and lied to.”

“I’m not lying to you,” Vanne says, hurt. “I’m helping you.”

“You can actually help me by telling me why I am here.” Damian clicks his tongue behind his teeth. “What are you hoping to get? A ransom? Intelligence on the heroes that operate in Gotham? Leverage over my family?”

Vanne takes off his glasses. Without them, his eyes are quite small. Watery. A dishwater greenish color. “Robin, I will tell you this as many times as you need to hear it: You are here to get better. To process the trauma you went through when you killed Batman.”

“I did not kill him!”

“Are you sure?” Vanne presses, leaning in, his eyes never leaving Damian’s face. “Can you say with absolute certainty that you did not kill Batman two days ago in a raid on some drug runners gone wrong?”

Damian fights to keep his expression neutral.

The Cartel. Of course.

They had been investigating a recent flush of crack cocaine into Coventry that was rapidly spilling into the Water District.

Richard suspected the drugs came from the Odessa Mob, as they took over drug smuggling in addition to their money laundering after the Gang War. But after months of fighting with the Triad, who were clawing out the seedier parts of the Upper West Side, the Mob was stretched thin.

Damian suspected that the Escabedo Cartel was responsible. They were the most powerful drug smugglers and sellers before the Gang War wiped them out, and from Damian’s extensive review of his father’s files, the Gotham gangs never stayed dead for long. And the Odessa Mob fighting with the Triad presented an ideal time to get a foothold in their old market.

“Are you starting to remember, Robin?” Vanne asks eagerly.

Damian glares.

“The raid? Fighting for the gun with Diego?” Vanne’s face falls. “Batman tried to help,” he says, his voice low but even. “The gun went off. He bled out in minutes.”

Damian shakes his head. Impossible. His father spent decades perfecting Batman’s armor, and Richard made his own improvements when he put on the cowl. “The armor is bulletproof.”

Vanne sighs. “It hit a weak spot.”

“Where?” Damian demands.

“The helmet’s integrity was weakened from earlier in the fight,” Vanne says, his voice pained. “It shattered on impact. You tried to help, to stem the blood flow. But he was too damaged.”

Damian’s empty stomach tightens painfully. “You’re lying.”

Vanne surveys him with a pitying look. He pulls out a sealed protein bar from his pocket and a water bottle. “Eat,” he says, “and drink. You’re a growing boy.”

“I am not a child,” Damian hisses.

Vanne sighs. “Medically and legally speaking, you are. And that is the only reason you’ve been entrusted into my care instead of being tried as an adult.” His glasses flash as he turns to face Damian head-on. “But if your condition does not improve and you do not show remorse for your actions, the courts may decide otherwise.”

* * *

The next day, Vanne comes in smiling. “Are you ready, Robin? This is the first step in your healing journey.”

Damian clicks his tongue behind his teeth. “You aren’t going to dangle a pocket watch in front of my face, are you?”

Vanne frowns. “That’s a quite outdated idea of hypnotherapy. It has been used successfully for a wide range of conditions like smoking cessation, anxiety management, and even weight loss. It would be more helpful if you come into this with an open mind.”

Damian rolls his eyes.

“But before we start, have you remembered anything about that night?”

Damian levels him an unimpressed look.

Vanne holds up his hands. “Okay, Robin, I need you to take a deep breath and relax,” he says. “Lay down, if that’s more comfortable.”

Damian stays sitting up.

“Now, I’m going to count down from 100. With each count down, you will become more relaxed. 100, you can feel the muscles in your forehead relaxing. 99, the muscles around your eyes – ”

This is useless. Damian was trained on how to resist hypnosis and mind control from the age of five.

What is taking his family so long to find him? Damian has been stuck here for at least five days now. Even if Richard was grievously injured during their raid, others would have led the charge.

The last time Brown was taken, they found her after twelve hours.

Drake, six hours.

So why has it taken them upwards of one hundred and twenty hours to get him?

His family does not hate him. They had their difficulties when he first arrived in Gotham, of course, but they have come to accept him.

Earlier this year, he jumped in an infantile moon bounce with Brown, and he didn’t use his ankle knife to stab her or deflate the whole pointless endeavor. Only two months ago, Drake unexpectedly appeared at Damian’s art show, even though Richard said he was the only one going.

His family loves him.

They do.

“44, the muscles in your hips are relaxing. 43, the muscles in your thighs are relaxing.”

They’ve even rescued Todd, after all. Damian was all for letting the man rot after that whole fiasco with that Scarlet woman, but Richard insisted they help his younger brother, and made Damian, Brown, and Gordon track him down to Mr. Freeze’s latest frozen lair under the penguin enclosure at the zoo.

That took three days.

For Todd.

“17, the muscles in your calves are relaxing…”

But Richard led the charge during that particular case. And if Richard is – is not there, then the rest of the family might be more reluctant to realize the urgency of Damian’s plight.

Damian gets on well enough with Brown, and he has a begrudging respect for Drake.

He has teamed up with Todd in the past, at Richard’s behest, with minimal grievous injuries.

“5, the muscles in the heel of your foot are relaxing. 4, the muscles in the arch of your foot are relaxing. 3, the muscles in the ball of your foot are relaxing. 2, the muscles in your toes are relaxing. 1, the muscles in your whole body are relaxed.”

They would never leave him here. Not as a prank. Not even as some sort of lesson.

Richard would never. But if Richard was –

“Now that you are fully relaxed, imagine yourself walking down a set of stairs. With each step –”

Damian balls his hands into fists in his lap. “This is beyond stupid,” he says loudly over Vanne’s inane hypno-babbling.

Vanne stops speaking. He straightens in his chair, raising one hand to adjust his glasses. “You aren’t relaxed at all, are you?” he says, sounding almost childish in his disappointment.

Damian raises his eyebrows behind his mask. “What do you think?”

“I was afraid of this,” Vanne says, shaking his head. He gets up, nodding at the security guard by the door. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“You will get the same results as today,” Damian says in a carrying voice.

Vanne stops at the threshold, half-turned to Damian. “I will never give up on you, Robin.”

Damian’s heart clenches. Richard said something similar the last time Damian nearly killed someone. Drake and Brown wanted nothing to do with him, and even Pennyworth was disappointed. But Richard – Richard still believed in him.

The door shuts and the lock clicks in place, leaving Damian alone in his cell.

* * *

Damian wakes as his mouth opens in a silent shout, alert in an instant.

Five security guards flood the room. He thrashes, but, weakened from lack of food and rusty from lack of exercise, they pin him down after a few minutes.

Damian does knock one out, though.

The rest hold his arms and legs down.

“Unhand me!” he shouts, the skin on his wrists and ankles burning from the friction as he twists and writhes under their grips.

Undeterred, one of them pulls out a syringe.

Damian’s eyes go wide, and his pulse spikes with fear and adrenaline. He bucks harder, drawing on the rest of his strength to try to shake them off. “Don’t you dare come near me with that –”

The needle sinks in his arm, and Damian dislodges two of the guards, but it’s too late. His vision blurs, and coherent thoughts become difficult. He vaguely registers some of the guards limping out of his cell, leaving only two remaining to hold him down.

A second or an hour later, a new figure swims before Damian’s face. His eyes widen at the sight of his own masked reflection in the twin lenses of a familiar pair of glasses.

Vanne.

“Now,” Vanne says pleasantly as he takes his usual seat, ignoring the guards holding Damian down. “Where were we?”

* * *

Damian wakes up with a splitting headache. He opens his eyes, just holding back a groan as the overhead lights stab into his eyes.

A wrapped sandwich and a water bottle sit on the table in front of his cot. Despite his mostly-empty stomach, he has no appetite. But he reaches for the sealed water bottle sitting innocently on the table without a second thought.

He drinks half of it in one burst, savoring the cool water against his raw throat.

Raw? He swallows, wincing at the unexpected pain.

He glances around his cell for any clues, blinking rapidly against his watering eyes. When he raises his hand to press down on his mask, he finds the skin underneath puffy and swollen.

It’s an uncomfortably familiar feeling and embarrassment creeps up his neck as he tries to piece together what must’ve happened.

The sore throat, the swollen eyes – he’d been crying. From another nightmare?

Not unheard of, he’d been getting them with increasing frequency the longer he was here.

The door opens, and Vanne enters. Damian automatically tenses, but nothing about Vanne seems changed from the last time he saw Damian and uncomfortably echoed the most profound words Richard had ever said to him.

“How are we feeling this morning, Robin?” Vanne asks as he takes a seat. “First, have you remembered anything about the night you killed Batman?”

Damian opens his mouth to retort in the negative, but he can’t get the words out.

Because he does remember. The memory tugs and pulls, resists being analyzed, but it comes when Damian focuses on it.

The stakeout before the raid. Richard joking about how all Damian needed to improve his crappy mood was some grub; “ Do you want to get dumplings in Chinatown after this?” Gunfire interrupting Richard’s increasingly inane jokes.

The Odessa mobsters swarming out of nowhere.

Richard barking over the comms for Red Robin to get his ass over here, “We needed backup yesterday!”

Bursting into the warehouse through a large, west-facing window and subding as many gang members and mobsters as he could.

Out of the corner of his eye, through the smoke bombs: a man who looked remarkably like a young Emanuel Escabedo fleeing through a side door.

Shouting for Batman, not waiting for an acknowledgement before pursuing Escabedo until he disappeared through a backdoor. Slam. Yanking ineffectively on the handle. Bending down on one knee, cursing Escabedo to the depths of hell and back as he fiddled with the lock.

“I’ve got this, Robin,” coming from behind him. Scrambling out of the way. Richard’s boot coming down heavily on the door before it bursts open. “ Go rendez-vous with Red Robin.”

Rushing in after Escabedo before Richard could stop him. This was his win. The Escabedo Cartel was responsible; Damian was right!

A spew of gunfire.

Leaping out of the way. Zig-zagging through the dimly lit hallway after his quarry.

Escabedo raising his gun.

A thrown birdarang. Escabedo stumbling back. Not dropping the gun.

A hand-to-hand fight.

“Robin!”

A gunshot.

Richard staggering out into the open, into a clearer line of fire. One of the ears of his cowl blown clean off.

“Batman!”

Letting Escabedo get away.

Dropping to his knees by Richard. Trying to staunch the blood all but gushing from the open wound in Richard’s head. The white sliver of bone through the hole in the cowl. Richard’s pained grimace, the bare skin around his mouth and jaw pale, so pale.

“Da-Damian –”

Telling him no names in the field. Telling him he’s going to be fine. Telling him Drake will be here soon.

Ignoring his watering eyes and stinging nose. Trying to hide his sniffle from Richard and failing abysmally.

Such a failure.

“I love you. You’re going to be fine – I know it. My Robin. You’re so strong, Damian.”

But he isn’t – he killed Batman. With his pride. With his inattention. With his weakness.

Red staining his hands, his knee pads, the tops of his boots from the ever-growing puddle surrounding the pair of them. Bright red, fresh, straight from the only family who has ever loved him, apart from his mother.

Vanne asks, “So you remember?”

Damian raises his streaming eyes to his psychologist, the man supposed to make him better.

With an inhuman snarl, he attacks.

Nobody can help Damian now.

* * *

They drug him again. Because of course they do. But they don’t kill him, for some unfathomable reason. He wakes up in the same cell, bruised, a little hungrier, a little thirstier.

They stop him when he breaks his knuckles against those cursed bare, white walls.

They stop him when he tries to claw his own face off.

They strap him down and stick an IV with a saline solution in his arm and a feeding tube in his throat. He still rubs his wrists raw trying to get them in his grasp to tug them out.

They should let him die.

Vanne says that’s not an option.

They take the tubes out after a few hours. They put them back in three days later after he still refuses all food and drink.

For the rest of his time spent awake, he lays on his cot. He lets time pass him by. He wallows, like he was never allowed at The League or at the Penthouse.

In The League, such self-indulgence was punished. He would have been put to menial task-based work because if he was going to let his mind wander, his hands might as well be useful.

In the Penthouse, Richard had an uncanny ability to predict whenever Damian felt like retreating into himself. He’d drag Damian out to the park, forcing Titus’s leash into one hand and Damian’s sketchbook into the other. And if Damian really wasn’t up for an outing, Richard would sit with him. They’d meditate together, and somehow just having Richard there helped ground him.

No wonder his family hasn’t come to visit him. If any of them killed Richard, even accidentally, they wouldn’t have survived the next 48 hours.

Hopefully none of them are vindictive enough to take their hatred for him out on his pets. Alfred and Titus are innocents, and the Bats value life over all else.

Poor Titus, he’ll never understand why Damian can never come home.

On the fifteenth day after he killed Richard, Vanne asks him what will make him feel better.

After a long stare-off, Damian says, “Nothing.”

“Now, I don’t think that’s true,” Vanne says kindly. “I think a distraction is what you need. You still aren’t sleeping well.”

He had thought his nightmares from his childhood in the League were terrifying. He was wrong.

“I think you need a break from this place,” Vanne says as he gets to his feet.

Damian stares blankly at him. “You’re transferring me?”

“No, you’re still under my supervision, but we’re going to leave this room. Come along.”

The door to his cell opens.

And stays open.

Damian takes a full minute to get to his feet. Vanne gives him an encouraging smile as he crosses the threshold and, for the first time, takes in the sterile hallway beyond. Two guards stand outside his door, and they follow as Vanne leads Damian to the set of elevator doors and casually pushes the down button.

Damian gets in after Vanne.

The doors open to a gym, and Damian’s heart clenches at the sight of the mats and smell of sweat and worn plastic.

Two burly men wearing sweatpants are boxing in a ring while two more in army green tac pants and plain white tee shirts egg them on. In the weights area, a half dozen men and women mill around, lifting barbells with grunts that echo across the gym. The five treadmills stand unoccupied, but one sweaty-faced woman with a towel slung around her shoulders is pedaling away at the stationary bicycle.

“Exercise has been proven to produce the same results as SSRIs in a third of patients,” Vanne says as he places a hand on Damian’s shoulder and steers him further into the gym, avoiding the crowded areas. “You must have a lot of pent up energy after being stuck inside for so long. It was for your own good at the time, but it’s undoubtedly detrimental in the long run for someone of your athletic ability.”

Damian just sighs.

“Go on,” Vanne chides, giving him a little push.

Damian doesn’t budge an inch. “I do not wish to.”

Vanne squats so he’s more on Damian’s level, and Damian nearly scoffs at the condescension. But he really doesn’t have the energy to do anything more about it, so he doesn’t. Vanne tries, “You must have a series of warm ups, yes? You don’t have to do anything more elaborate than that.”

Damian doesn’t react.

“Robin,” Vanne says, “You have the potential to do so much good.” As Damian turns his head to glance listlessly at the mats, Vanne nods encouragingly. “Don’t let one mistake keep you from the greatness you are destined to achieve.”

His mother used to tell him something similar in the League after he withstood their punishments for failure. She had no idea Damian’s destiny was to kill the only person who accepted him completely and loved him unconditionally.

“You have a bright future ahead of you,” Vanne continues as Damian stares blankly ahead, “And our operation could use someone with your unique skill set.” He gives Damian another little push. “Go on, then. You’ll feel better once you’ve stretched your legs. Trust me.”

From his initial look around, Damian saw three doors. Presumably two locker rooms and a staircase in the event the elevators are nonfunctional. Judging the fitness of the others currently exercising in the gym, he could defeat them. He might need a week or two to regain his strength, but he could escape. He could be rid of his little cube full of white walls and pain and Vanne and his ridiculous glasses. He could be free.

But where would he go? Drake, Brown, and Todd all despise him, and Damian has no loyalty to Gotham outside of his family.

Damian goes to the mats.

He still only sleeps three and a half hours that night. He wakes up with Richard’s blood on his hands, Richard’s bloodless face swimming before his closed eyes.

* * *

Damian wakes to a series of incessant bangs on the door.

“Robin?”

He goes cold all over at the familiar voice. Drake is outside? Has his family given up on Vanne? Have they finally come to take care of him themselves?

“Robin, are you in there?”

Bang, bang, bang.

Damian blinks, his throat going dry with dread. He swallows, and it feels like sandpaper.

“You goddamn menace, you’d better be in there, so help me –”

Damian scrambles back on his cot, tucking his legs underneath his chin and wrapping his arms around his shins. It’s hardly a defensive position, but he cannot fight his siblings, especially in this state, weak and out of practice. Moreover, he would never lift a hand against them or stop them from taking the vengeance they are more than entitled to. They are each owed their pound of flesh.

“Batgirl! Head to the next floor. This one’s a dud.”

Damian listens with bated breath as Drake’s footsteps fade. His ears strain in the nearly oppressive silence after Drake’s hamfisted entry attempt.

The access panel outside his door beeps, and Damian nearly jumps out of his skin.

A dark shape enters the room, and Damian’s heart stops dead in his chest.

It can’t be.

“Robin?”

Goosebumps rise along Damian’s arms at his name in that voice, every hair standing on end.

“Thank god we found you,” the hallucination says in a rush as it hurries forward.

Damian backs up until his elbows bump into the wall behind him. He can’t say a word, frozen to the spot. All he can do is cower. What does the wraith want? Does Richard’s ghost want its revenge too? Damian will let him have it. Damian will give it anything it wants.

It stops dead in its tracks, the cape swishing around its boots.

Damian’s skin crawls as he gets the worst feeling the specter is eyeing him up and down, evaluating him, finding him wanting.

“Damian,” it says, and it sounds so like Richard, tears spring to Damian’s eyes, unbidden. “Hey, no it’s alright,” it says, its voice horribly soothing. It takes another step forward, its arms out, as if going for an embrace.

“Stop!” Damian barks, his voice too high, too breathy, too panicked.

It stops. “Damian?” it asks softly, “It’s me, Dick. You know me.” It pulls off the cowl, revealing Richard’s familiar face, the face Damian has been seeing in his nightmares for days. Its brows are furrowed, the corners of its mouth pulled down in an expression of concern.

Damian shakes his head.

“Delirium?” the ghost murmurs to itself. “Memory loss?” It’s blue eyes zero in on Damian. “Do you know who I am?” it asks, its tone more business-like. If Damian didn’t know better, he would say Richard is just starting their TBI protocol.

As if Damian would ever forget the face of the most important person he ever killed. He nods.

“Out loud, please.”

The lump in Damian’s throat is enormous, but he forces out anyway, “Grayson,” because he knows what the wraith wants to hear.

The ghost’s shoulders slump in faux-relief. “We’ll get you checked out once we’re far, far away from here,” it says with a warm smile, and Damian shudders. “C’mon, let’s go.” It holds out its hand to help Damian up from the cot, but Damian scuttles around it and gets to his feet of his own volition.

He doesn’t dare touch the hallucination. What if he does, and it crumbles, taking the very last vestiges of Richard with it? No, he will let the illusion be. And if Richard has truly come for him, then Damian will follow him to his grave. It’s only fair.

The specter casts him one lingering look of concern before it tugs the cowl back into place.

It’s probably leading him to where Drake and Brown are waiting.

Damian silently tails Richard’s ghost out of his cell and into the familiar hallway. But instead of taking a right, Richard’s ghost takes a left, towards a half-open door that leads to a set of concrete stairs. He steps around the body of one of the security guards, slumped over, hands zip-tied behind his back.

“You’re oddly quiet,” Richard’s ghost says as they start to climb. “They must’ve really put you through the wringer. I’m so sorry we took so long to find you,” it continues, and Damian’s chest clenches at the words of contrition.

Richard has nothing to be contrite about, not to Damian.

Because Damian killed him.

He bites his tongue against the useless apologies fighting to escape his lips. They won’t bring the real Richard back. All they would do is microscopically soothe Damian’s guilt, which he in no way deserves.

“I was tempted to let Jason come along to burn this place to the ground,” Richard’s ghost continues, casting a strange look behind him. Is it concerned Damian isn’t obeying orders? Because Damian is following. He would follow Richard anywhere. “But we just got wind of a big arms shipment being delivered to the Odessa Mob, so he’s staking out the harbor while Tim and Steph make up the cavalry.”

Damian nods along, feeling sick. Two weeks ago, Todd shot Drake after he interfered in his Crime Alley business. A fickle ally in the best of times, Todd would never lift a finger to help the Bats as of late. But a hallucination would hardly listen to the rules of reason. Any version of Richard would want its family to get along.

They reach the ground floor, and Richard’s ghost leads him down another short hallway ending in a door illuminated red by the bright EXIT sign above it. A few more bodies litter the way out, all unconscious.

Feet from the door, it swings open of its own accord to reveal Drake.

“Damn,” he says, and Damian’s heart flies into his throat. His pulse roars in his ears, and he hardly hears Drake say, “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Let’s get going, twerp. We’ll take care of you on the plane.”

Damian follows with leaden footsteps. Naturally, they wouldn’t even give him the grace of killing him in the Batcave, Manor, or Penthouse. Why sully their home bases with Damian’s blood, when they could simply shove him out of the Batplane when they reach cruising altitude?

The ramp up to the plane’s entrance both takes forever and is gone in a blink.

“Damian!”

Damian freezes at the exuberance in Brown’s voice. He barely has time to analyze it before a cloud of frizzy blonde hair obscures his vision and dark purple arms wrap around him.

Brown is flat on her back on the floor before he consciously registers throwing her.

“Geez,” she mutters, coughing from winded lungs, “this is the thanks I get for hauling ass all the way to Alaska for you, Boy Blunder.” She makes no move to get up of her own accord and resume her attack. Instead, she just lifts one arm, fingers wiggling in his direction expectantly.

Damian falters.

Tentatively, warily, he reaches for her. But she doesn’t leverage his grip to throw him to the ground too; she uses him as a counterweight to get back to her feet.

“What a gentleman,” she says, rolling her eyes.

Drake snorts from his seat at the controls of the plane. “That’s Damian. Ever the little gentleman.”

Damian opens his mouth to retort that he is not little, he is growing, and he will be tall as Father was one day, before it crashes back down on him that no, he will not. He will likely be dead within the next few hours. Just like Father.

From behind them, Richard’s ghost peers down at him, concerned. It says, “He’s been acting off ever since I found him.”

Drake frowns. “How off? Are you sure that is Damian?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Damian sees Drake turn to get a good look at him, but all of Damian’s attention is locked on Richard’s ghost.

Drake replied to him.

That… can’t be.

“He’s not talking, for one,” Richard’s ghost says, stepping closer.

The twin engines fire, and Damian uncharacteristically stumbles despite the smooth liftoff, right into Richard’s –

“I see what you mean,” Brown says, amused, and it sounds like her voice is coming from far away as Damian focuses everything he has on the smooth, rock hard kevlar beneath his hands. It’s solid. Richard is… solid?

He wraps both arms around Richard’s torso, squeezing in death-grip. He has never felt something so miraculous, so comforting in his entire life. His breath hitches, and he buries his face between the armored plates

“I didn’t know the kid knew how to hug,” Brown continues.

“Be nice,” Richard chastises above him as his hand comes up to rest on Damian’s head. “He’s clearly been through a lot.”

“Oh my god, is he crying?” Drake says, and Damian stiffens at the shocked tone, his face flooding with heat. “Are you actually sure it’s really him?” Drake asks, deadly serious. “Robin didn’t cry when he was shot multiple times in the freakin’ spine. Did you make sure he’s not a clone? Or a shapeshifter? Or, I don’t know, possessed?”

Richard tugs at Damian’s arms, probably to get a better look at his face, but Damian just holds on harder, silent tears dripping down his chin in fat drops. “Oh, Dames,” Richard says, “talk to me, bud.”

Damian opens his mouth, but only an embarrassing hiccup comes out.

Richard more forcefully pries Damian off him, and Damian makes a little wordless sound at the loss, but he stamps down on his instincts to keep Richard as close as possible for as long as possible. Space, Richard is asking for space, so Damian will give it to him. Still, Richard keeps one hand resting lightly on Damian’s upper arm as the other pulls the cowl back. “Hey,” he says as his blue eyes flick down to Damian, raking over his face, searching. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Damian clears his clogged throat. “Not particularly.”

Brown lets out an obnoxious, “Ha!” before she disappears towards the back of the plane.

“But,” Damian doesn’t look at Brown or Drake, he keeps his gaze on Richard’s face, drinking him in, “I will tell you anyway.”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Where does he start? Waking up in the cell? His first meeting with Vanne? The feeling of Richard’s lifeblood draining out between his fingers?

Drake snipes, “Not getting any younger here.”

“Tim,” Richard says, annoyed. “You’re not helping.”

Damian clears this throat. Stands a little straighter. Debrief. He’s debriefed Richard hundreds of times before, and even though he never thought he would have the chance to do so again –

Richard’s face swims before his eyes as they water with a fresh wave of tears.

“Um,” Richard starts, alarmed, “I guess it can wait until we’re back in Gotham.”

“You’re being too easy on him,” Drake cuts in sharply. “We’re not getting to Gotham for another five hours. Just tell us what happened, Damian. Then you can take a nap or have a snack or whatever you need to be normal again –”

Damian turns to him, eyes flashing. How dare he. His hands ball into fists at his side.

“Tim –”

“I thought Richard was dead,” Damian explodes, “that I had killed him.” He can’t look at Richard’s face as he speaks, so he addresses Drake instead. His voice wavers, but he plows on, “And that it was my fault. I was being detained because my family couldn’t stand to be around me.”

Above him, Richard makes a sound Damian has never heard before, and the hand resting on his bicep twitches. “You didn’t believe it, though,” Richard says, his voice hushed but insistent. “You knew you’d never do such a thing.” His fingers grip Damian harder. “You knew we were coming for you.”

Damian can’t bring himself to respond.

“Holy shit,” Brown says as she steps back into the cockpit, two paper cups in her hand. “Here,” she says, thrusting one in Drake’s direction. “Coffee, even though you’re being a jackass. Or, you know, you could just take a nap, and finally catch up on that 100 hour sleep deficit.”

Drake sips at the coffee, the tense set to his mouth easing. “More like 56 hours, but I see your point. I’ll finish this and put the plane on autopilot.”

“Or let me pilot,” Brown says, rolling her eyes. She tugs him up from the chair. “Go to sleep.”

Drake goes, pausing on his way to the cots set up in the back. “Hey,” he says to Damian, “Sorry. It’s been a… stressful few weeks around here.”

Richard mutters, “Understatement of the century.”

Drake ignores him. “I’m – I’m really glad you’re back with us,” he says hesitantly to Damian.

Damian searches his face for any hint of a falsehood, but Drake is apparently being sincere. “Thank you for participating in my retrieval.”

Drake smiles weakly. “Once we figured out who took you, it was just a matter of figuring out where .” He makes a face. “As it turns out, Alaska, of all places.”

Damian blinks. “Alaska?”

Richard nods once. “A military base outside of Juneau,” he says, his voice curt. “the most remote army outpost in North America.”

Drake stifles a yawn behind one hand. “You should be honored, gremlin. They only took me to Bludhaven to recruit me. Not even out of state.”

Damian’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “They did this to you too?”

And Drake did not see fit to warn Damian? Damian would hardly describe their relationship as especially close, but he thought Drake respected him enough to spare him this torturous ordeal –

“And me,” Richard adds darkly, “back when I was Robin.”

Damian’s gaze bounces between them as Drake explains, “I recognized their seal on the door to the base. This special ops team led by the Veteran has been trying to get Robin to join their ranks for years.”

“Not me!” Brown says cheerfully.

Drake ignores her. “But Dick and I said no, obviously. They didn’t want Batman, and we were sticking with Bruce, if given the choice.” He closes his eyes, grimacing. “I never thought they’d go this far, though, to make sure Batman was out of the picture when they tried to get Robin to sign up.”

“They crossed a line,” Richard growls.

“We should send in Jason when he’s free to blow their operation sky high,” Brown calls, twisting around in her chair to grin at them. “You know how he gets when he thinks authority figures overstep. Kaboom.” She mimes an explosion with her hands.

“Quite,” Drake drawls as Brown just cackles. “Anyway, that’s the long and short of it. I’m gonna pass out now, now that everyone is accounted for.” He leaves.

“You two look like you could use a nap, yourself,” Brown says without looking up from the plane’s windshield. “I got everything covered over here.”

Richard smiles down at Damian, and, even under the Batplane’s dimmed stealth lights, he can see the deep circles beneath Richard’s eyes, the pallor in his face that make him look positively ghost-like. “How about it? We’ll have to share a bunk, if that’s OK with you.”

Damian nods once. “That is acceptable.” In a smaller voice, he admits, “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Richard lets out a weak chuckle as he leads them to the back of the plane. “Yeah, it’s been going around lately.”

“I keep dreaming about killing you,” Damian breathes as they stand in front of the free cot, his voice barely above a whisper, “so it would be… reassuring to have you nearby.”

Richard just sighs, “Oh, Dames,” the heartbreak clear on his face, as he starts unclasping his armor. “Let’s get some sleep, yeah?”

Damian hops onto the makeshift bed. As he lays down, Richard sweeps his cape over him. It’s heavy and a bit stiff, but it smells like Richard, and Damian can’t help burrowing deeper into it.

“I’ll be right here, okay?” Richard murmurs as sleep starts to tug Damian under. “I’m not going anywhere.”

#whumptober2024 #no.4 #batfam #batfam fanfic #fanfic #Hallucinations #Hypnosis #damian wayne #dick grayson #rae writes fic #dick grayson is batman #damian wayne is robin #Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne

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