#you should read gold on ao3 if you haven’t

[stranded-cetacean]

“Who is that anyway?” I actually don’t want to talk about it

[separatist-apologist]

Long Live

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

Fate is determined to give them to her

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

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

For @elucienweekofficial | Read on AO3 | Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No biting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe just to have once she got home. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing good.

“Bath?”

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

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

“No.”

“Liar.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is real,” Arina breathed.

Elain couldn’t help her smile.

This was real. 

LUCIEN: 

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

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

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

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

Problems for future Lucien, certainly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is your friend?”

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

Lucien nodded. “Do you like to read?”

She shrugged. “I prefer being outdoors.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded, not disputing his words.

Lucien pounced. “You’re not married?”

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

“Why?”

She took a breath. “I have a fiance—”

“A what?”

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

“I am…sponsalia?” 

Lucien blanched. “To who?”

“He lives far from here.”

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

Lucien didn’t want to think about it. 

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

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

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

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

“I did.”

“And now?”

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

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

“I…”

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

“I can’t—”

“You will.”

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

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

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

“So you can slaughter him?”

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

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

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

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

“Then your brother or uncle—”

“I have none.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pleased, too.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, Arina would be an expert at this rate. 

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

“Who taught you how to read?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You disgust me,” she whispered without thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still, she was scared. 

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

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

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

Watching.

[amywritesthings]

silver underground. / chapter 17.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin)

Word Count: 5.3K

Summary: flashback seven - also known as the day you meet the special operations squad after the underground heist failure... and a familiar face

Warnings: death ideation, mourning and grief, mentions of death, depression, lots of hurt, lots of comfort, a treat at the end

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 17 - FLASHBACK: SEVEN

note: this is the final chapter that is heavily influenced by the ova 'no regrets'. this is my interpretations of the material. watch/read that first, otherwise you will get spoiled on elements revolving around levi's backstory.

“So these are the barracks.”

Petra Ral is nice. 

A bright-eyed ginger with too much excitement on her hands and too high of an opinion of the world — every time she opens her mouth, you’re painstakingly reminded of Isabel.

With your sudden intrusion into the Scout Regiment, all you have been met with are cold shoulders and judgmental eyes. Erwin was right: they resent your lack of cadet training. Quite frankly, you’re certain they resent everything about you.

Yet Petra glows in a warmth so many of the other Scouts lack.

She shouldn’t be here, and she shouldn’t be trying so hard to make friends in a line of work dedicated to dying.

Because if the gangs of the Underground were a revolving door, then the Scout Regiment was a windmill caught in a storm of bodies.

Under direct order from Commander Erwin, Petra has been assigned to play as your guide in the interim between now and the next Special Operations expedition. She’s responsible for catching you up to speed on anything from proper ODM gear usage (as if you need any) to team formation strategy (as if you’ll memorize any).

Erwin is, above all else, thorough. Nothing is left to chance in his branch and rightfully so; one bad move and a multitude of deaths will be on his hands.

Over sixty percent of Scouts die.

That number is not lost on you.

(Eventually you’ll be part of that statistic. It’s just a matter of how fast.)

The interior of the castle headquarters within Wall Maria is expansive. Beautiful, with gold-trim corners and marble floors — you marvel at the way the sun makes the white floor so much brighter, nearly blinding your retinas every time you stare a little too long.

Truthfully, you haven’t stopped staring. Not since you left the darkness and walked up those fateful Underground passage stairwell with the commander.

Just as you dreamed, the surface is beautiful. Breath-taking. Mind-numbingly overwhelming. From the luscious greenery surrounding the castle grounds, to the lively birds chirping in the endless sky, to the palpable warmth against your skin — you find yourself getting lost at the sights and sounds each passing window brings.

Petra finds your curiosity endearing, at the very least.

Erwin must have already disclosed your oddity — a dweller of the Underground City — before assigning her the task of babysitting. 

She doesn’t seem to care — about where you’re from, about bypassing standard cadet training, about your unwillingness to speak. Not like the others.

You’re not sure why.

Maybe she sees what you’ve tried hiding: the sadness that follows like a ball and chain through every room of this castle; the emptiness of your eyes when they meet hers; the way you fidget incessantly with your necklace, never quite letting go for longer than a few minutes.

(It’s all you have. That's all that’s left of them.)

“This is my bed, actually, but yours will be easy to find!”

Petra smiles brightly in your direction, eyes crinkling at the corners when they shut.

She should keep them open. She can’t trust you like that.

“It’s at the very end of the hallway. It’s got two sets of bunk beds but, uh…”

The original inhabitants recently died.

She doesn’t want to say that part.

“The rest of the team should be making it back soon.”

Petra steps out of the hallway, waving for you to join her. You numbly obey.

“How many people are on this team?” you ask.

“Currently?” she asks, and you nod. “We’re an expedition squad of five — well, seven, if you count Section Commander Hange and Moblit, but they don’t always come with us. Otherwise we have a couple dozen Scouts stationed in other areas to cover ground.”

“How come?” When she doesn’t answer right away, you clear your throat and clarify. “How come those two don’t always come with you?”

“Oh, Hange and Moblit? You’ll meet them eventually,” Petra explains, guiding you back to the grounds. “Hange is a little, uh, on the intense side, but they mean well. They head scientific research for the Scouts, so their work can keep them behind. Commander Erwin left to fetch them a few hours ago, actually, but they should be back by now. Probably going over titan reports.”

Quietly you follow her down a staircase, listening with little interest. Petra continues explaining the most recent discoveries of the Scouts — empty handed, no surprise there — and how she’s excited to learn from your skills — like you’d ever try.

Over and over, the pad of your thumb brushes the pendant between your fingers.

You haven’t slept in days.

You’ve barely eaten a crumb.

Everything has been at lightning speed and slow motion all at once.

The large oak doors at the front of the building have been wide open to air out the interior all day. When the two of you reach the foot of the staircase, you see movement in the distance outside.

Clouds of dust and dirt kick up behind them, but they’re too small to be titans.

“What’s that?” you softly ask, and Petra turns her attention to you.

“Hmm? Oh! The horses,” she supplies, waving you once again to follow her to the mouth of the entrance. You step in time with her. “That’s everyone coming back.”

“Everyone?”

“Yeah.” Petra leans against the hinge of a castle door, crossing her arms over her chest. “Eld Jinn is our second-in-command on Special Ops. Then you’ve got me, Oluo — pretty sure you already met him, but I don’t think you looked at him when he said hi — Gunther is with them, too, and—”

“Petra.”

A warm, deep voice calls out to your companion from behind. 

Immediately Petra stands taller, chin raised. You belatedly turn your head with an air of disrespect but never quite face it.

Because, by now, you know that voice belongs to Commander Erwin Smith.

(You don’t care what this son of a bitch has to say.)

“Commander, sir!” she greets.

You keep your focus on the tiny cloud of smoke kicked up by the horses. The green cloaks billow out from their shoulders, stretching like wings behind them.

From this distance you can make out the hair colors of the first three in the formation — a blond, a brunette, and in the center, a smaller black-haired individual.

“Are the stables ready for the incoming horses?”

“Yes, sir,” Petra chirps. “I already took care of everything before showing James around.”

“Great work, Ral. James.”

Erwin calls your name, but you ignore it. Instead you keep staring at the nearing horses. You try to time the clicking of their hooves to nothing in particular.

Anything, to avoid talking to him.

“Lieutenant.”

At the title, you finally blink your attention towards the taller blonde. He takes a step forward, standing what would have been shoulder to shoulder if not for his height.

“Yes, Commander?” you murmur, tone dripping with disinterest.

“Ready to meet the rest of your team?” he asks without skipping a beat.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you reply, drawing a slow exhale. “Though I can’t imagine they’ll be excited to meet me, considering I’ve—”

“Opted out of the rigorous cadet training like endured to get here?” the man finishes for you. Your brows instinctually furrow. “Unlikely. Your skill will speak for you once you’re out in the field.”

His chin raises towards the nearing Scouts.

“And as it stands,” Erwin continues, “you are not the only soul on this squad to bypass tradition.”

His verbiage almost makes you respond freely.

(What the hell do you mean by that, Smith?)

The first horse to enter the castle perimeter whinnies, loud and piercing.

You turn.

Blinking back to the returning Scouts, you feel it start in the pit of your stomach:

Neutrality bubbles and churns into something nasty, like you might get sick at a second’s notice, the second your eyes lock with the center-positioned Scout.

Under a wind-blown, jet-black fringe stares two sunken, narrowed eyes. The frayed pieces of hair kiss the man’s high cheekbones, accentuating the narrow point leading to his chin. He’s pale, sickly, with a sharpened nose and tightly pressed lips.

From the look of the bags under his eyes, he hasn’t slept in weeks.

He nears with the reins tight in either fist. His neck is covered with a chiffon ivory cravat, neatly tied to perfection against his Scout Regiment uniform — gone are the billowing sleeves and auburn vests where a tan, cropped jacket takes their place.

The emblem on his breast is the Wings of Freedom.

There’s no way.

You blink twice, three times, as many as it’ll take to wipe away the mirage in front of you.

Because it can’t be real.

That can’t be—

“Levi.”

Commander Erwin speaks. The horse kicks up its front hooves from a knee-jerk pull of the rein and protests with a high-pitched whine. Levi Ackerman turns his head in the direction of his voice.

Abruptly his chin stops midway, never quite finding Erwin.

Not when his eyes, overtaken by a growing white, see you.

And your world — his world — suddenly stops.

Levi’s complexion pales. All he does is stare — at you, at nothing but you, frozen in this momentary lapse of time with you.

Levi is alive.

Wetness wells at your lower lash line, unable to stop.

You can’t speak. You can’t run. You can’t breathe. Your mouth is dry. You haven’t blinked.

One word floods your mind.

Alive.

Alive, alive, alive—

“Captain Levi,” Erwin repeats, this time adding a… title?

Titles don’t exist in the Scouts. As far as you knew, you were the only one carrying something beyond Section Commander and Commander.

You can taste his reluctance when Levi forces himself to blink over to his superior office. He hoists a leg over the saddle and hops down to full height, yet turns his back to the rest of the squad to tend to his midnight black horse. He doesn't pivot.

“Commander,” he gruffly greets. “What is this about?”

Your throat closes up at the mere sound of his baritone, unimpressed voice.

It really is him. Levi never went to the gallows.

(And Erwin knew? The commander knew this entire time and said nothing?)

“What’s the status of our perimeter?” Erwin asks simply, ignoring the smaller man’s question.

“Only one three-meter ugly bitch within range,” Levi replies against the saddle. “We handled it.”

“Good,” Erwin chimes. The other Scouts — one blonde and lanky, another older with brunette hair, the last with a buzzcut and a serious expression — step off of their horses and face the Commander. “You arrived just in time to meet the replacement of this squad.”

“We already have new titan fodder?” the one man quips, smirking as he runs a hand across his horse’s mane. “Guess we did lose a lot of people last time.”

“Oluo,” Petra warns, eyes narrowing. “That would be Lieutenant to you.”

“Lieu-what?” the man named Oluo repeats under his breath.

Levi’s hand twitches at the rein.

Only then do you realize your hands are trembling at your sides.

“Lieutenant?”

Levi spits it out as he finally turns his chin over his shoulder, glaring daggers. The word is nothing more than a bite. Acidic.

“First a Captain, now a Lieutenant?” a lanky man with a ponytail asks, slowly and carefully.

“As of now, yes. We have a Lieutenant in our ranks. The first of her kind,” Erwin confirms. “And you’re to treat her with the same respect as you’ve shown our Captain.”

“With all due respect, sir—” Although Levi’s words are respectful on paper, they are anything but against his lips. “—I was under the impression that my squad was to be handpicked and handpicked only going forward.”

Erwin hums. “You would be correct, Captain. Lieutenant James, however, will be a vital asset to your newly-acquired squad. Petra has been kind enough to help her get acquainted with headquarters.”

“Has she been through training?”

Wait.

Is Levi pretending not to know you?

You stay perfectly still, unable to watch anything but him. He continues to stare at Erwin with such forced neutrality that you can see a vein protruding just under the white cravat.

“No,” Erwin plays along, raising a heavy brow. “She’s already proficient in handling ODM gear and hand-to-hand combat."

"She is?" Gunther pipes up, his surprise bordering on admiration.

Erwin continues. "Strengthening our numbers at haste after a significant loss was our most efficient strategy, and I think it will serve us well. Did you miss the detailed briefing I left on your desk before your patrol, Captain Levi?”

The castle grounds fall silent.

Levi’s shoulders, pinched together, now fall.

“Must have missed it,” he replies, feigning an annoyed boredom that you’ve heard so many times before. “So long as she doesn’t slow me down. If you’ll excuse me, I have shit to do.”

Lamely you watch him near you, heart trapped in your throat. You want to run to him, hold him, scream and cry about everything — the heist, the gang, the fucking Scouts — but you do nothing when he passes right by.

Straight past Erwin and into the castle, where he disappears up a flight of stairs and out of view.

As if he never existed.

(His scent is still the same calming fresh linen with a dash of chamomile that your brain clings to, but no comfort comes.)

Did you hallucinate his—

“Lieutenant,” Erwin says, breaking you out of this fever dream. “I want you to introduce yourself to Captain Levi once he’s settled. I think it’ll be good for the two of you to meet.”

You can’t help it: when you lock eyes with the commander, you let him know exactly what you’re thinking — that you know he’s tricked you with the narrative of death, that you’re trapped between relief and grief, and you want nothing more than to cause him pain.

With the way Erwin’s expression smooths, it stands to reason this was intentional.

To see what you’d do — what Levi would do — in this moment.

Though whether or not he understands the type of reunion he’s played out, you aren’t sure.

Two days ago you wanted to die, to simply disappear at the idea of losing Levi, and now? He’s in the flesh wearing a Survey Corps uniform, manning his own squad, and…

You feel something wet slick against your palm and look down:

Red.

You’ve pressed your fingernails so hard into your hand that it's drawn blood.

“Permission to leave, Commander?” you ask, teeth grit against every syllable. “I have to get settled in myself.”

“Permission granted,” Erwin replies with authority.

You waste not a minute more to bolt into the castle.

Petra calls after you to wait for her, but the ringing in your ears, the panic attack budding in your veins, drowns her niceties out.

Levi is alive.

Levi is alive and a captain in the Survey Corps.

You have to find him.

.

.

.

.

.

You search for hours.

In the supply basement, in the sparring chamber, in the kitchens —

Levi is nowhere to be found.

Did you imagine him today?

The conversation with Erwin, the arrival of the Scouts… most of it feels real, but you doubt your own sanity when you cannot find your best friend.

Several doors are locked, but when you lean your ear against the wooden slab, no noise emits.

Empty.

Eventually Petra finds you stalking down a hallway and convinces you to come with her to the mess hall. Supper with the rest of the Scouts could mean he’s there, so you agree.

He isn’t.

The man they call Oluo is as pompous as he’d been outside. The others — Gunther, the buzzcut one, and Eld, the lanky blonde that asserts himself as a second-in-command — are less invasive and more so curious about how you’ve managed to get here.

All you do is ignore them and stare at the stew growing cold on your spoon.

You want to ask about Captain Levi, but you’re too afraid to speak his name — as if breathing his existence into their presence may snap the only red string tying you to what was once a dream.

When Gunther opens up a bottle of wine, you quietly excuse yourself to bed.

No one objects.

Rushing up the stairwell, you head towards the bedroom Petra assigned to you.

It takes every ounce of strength not to scream at the top of your lungs like a madwoman in the middle of the hallway from the growing stress attaching itself to your brain.

You feel crazy.

Are you crazy?

Are you just sleep deprived enough to —

Something latches onto your arm and pulls you roughly to the right. You fumble into something solid, diving headfirst until your back collides with a cooled stone wall.

A warm palm presses to your mouth to keep you from speaking.

Yet the protest would’ve died the second you saw that mop of black hair anywhere.

Levi Ackerman stands before you, pinning a hand against the wall parallel to your head while the other keeps a rough hold on your mouth. His head is bowed, the dark fringe covering half of his face, with lips parted. 

The cloak is gone. The cravat is slightly out of place.

Then his chin lifts to meet your wide eyes in the dark.

Within an instant your pain, your anguish, your hatred, melts. For what feels like forever you both stare at each other in this comforting darkness, waiting for something to come next.

So he speaks, barely above a whisper and sharp like a knife’s edge:

“How?”

You tremble under his touch, eyes welling with the tears you didn’t shed earlier. The bags under Levi’s eyes twitch, and gently, slowly, he removes his hand from your mouth.

“I promised,” you whisper back, and his eyes widen to match yours.

Abruptly his hand drops from the wall to grab yours and harshly tugs you towards a door right across the hall. It’s a vacant office, pitch-black without candles or torches.

“In here,” he demands, pulling you with him.

He swings you away from him to press the door closed, cautious not to make noise. It slowly clicks into place, and he locks the two of you away from the outside world.

Just the two of you.

You can’t help yourself: you rush across the room towards to be near him, to hold him, to feel —

His hands, lightning fast, grapple your wrists and keep you from ever entering his orbit. Your feet spin from his pull, positioning you between him and the door.

You jerk to a halt, deterred by the way his eyes gradually narrow to mere slits.

(Did you do something wrong?)

“Don’t,” he orders under his breath.

“Le—”

“Answer my question first,” he tells you like you’re the enemy. Everything in your stomach drops through the floor. The necklace under your uniform button-down burns. “How?”

A beat passes as you contain your emotions. “...how what?”

“How did you get here?”

You run your tongue against the seam of your lips, deciding what you should start with. A million questions run through your mind.

Did Erwin capture you the same way he captured me? Where is Isabel? Is Furlan safe? Did you willingly join the Scouts?

Did you make a deal with the devil, too?

“Commander Erwin,” you tell him.

His expression flickers with an indiscernible emotion. "Erwin?”

“I had no choice,” you continue. “I was ambushed by the Scouts two days ago. It was either handing myself over to the Military Police or joining the Survey Corps under him.”

The grip on your wrists tighten in a pinch. “Ambushed in what way? Did they hurt you?”

“No.” You shake your head, but he shifts his weight. “I mean, a little, but it—”

“Who?” he interrupts in a murmur. “Who hurt you?”

You search his eyes for the right answer to give, uncertain if he’ll burst from the room to blow your cover at the truth.

“Some asshole named Miche, but I’m fine.” His nostrils flare, eyes darting to the door with deadly precision, but you jerk your wrists in his hands to bring his attention back to you. “Hey. I mean it, I’m fine. Besides, he’s none of my concern. Not when Erwin’s here.”

Reluctantly, Levi returns his attention to you. He hesitates with ebbing anger. “...what the hell does that mean?”

“I said yes to the Survey Corps to take Erwin out,” you tell Levi, which causes him to sharply lift his chin with apprehension. “I didn’t give a shit what happened to me. They made it sound like… like you weren’t alive anymore. They never told me you joined, too.” You swallow to coat your throat. “Did they do anything to you?”

The abrupt blink to stare at the door behind you once again is your answer: yes.

“What about everyone else?” he cryptically asks, ignoring your question.

You shake your head, deflating. “Gone. We managed to survive for almost two months. When the MP pressure got out of hand, someone turned and ratted me out. But most of them made it to safe spaces undetected, I promise.”

He doesn’t let go of your wrists, but he lessens the intensity of his grip. When you lean in closer to whisper, he leans back — determined to keep this distance intact, crushing your heart.

He watches you like an object to solve, an obstacle to overcome.

Whatever love and adoration you were met with two months ago has vanished.

“We can kill them,” you say, earning his attention once more. “All of them. I don’t care.”

Levi remains silent, immobile. Your arms go limp in the hold he keeps.

“Whatever they did to you? Whatever they did to Isa and Furlan—”

“Stop.”

“—I’ll burn every last Scout to the ground—”

“James.” He nearly barks your name to get your attention. Levi hangs his head, dropping his chin to his chest. “Just… stop. Please.”

A mere whisper of a plea.

The soft defeat in his voice is terrifying. It isn't like the Levi you remember at all. Nonetheless, you listen. You stop.

Silence envelops the room.

So this is what it meant for the two of you to come to the surface.

You managed to escape the life you desperately wanted to leave behind, but at what cost?

Even now, you both hide in the dark.

(Was living in the sun everything you had ever hoped for?)

“...what happened during the heist, Levi?”

You hate how your voice cracks between the syllables of his name. He continues to bow his head, though the sound of his rushed breath betrays his composure.

“Where’s Isabel and Furlan? Where—”

“They’re gone.”

Everything feels freezing and boiling all at the same time.

His defeated tone echoes through your mind. You wait for him to lift his head, to tell you that they’ve traveled or escaped.

He doesn’t.

You know.

You know exactly what Levi’s saying, but denial hits you like a ton of bricks.

Isabel’s cheeky, bright smile. Furlan’s all-too-cocky smirk. The sight of them in front of the blazing sun flashes through your mind until they evaporate into the light. 

Death is an old friend. She’s sat at your table in Roxy’s more times than you can say. Except this feeling, this dread, this sorrow cuts deep with an iron-hot knife and slices down your torso with little remorse.

Levi refuses to look you in the eye. You can almost feel it against your forearm: the tremble of his own hand as he holds onto you for dear life.

“...when?” you ask, but you barely hear your own voice.

A pause passes.

Levi lets go of your wrists, trailing his fingers down your forearms.

“Two weeks ago.”

Tears cling to your eyes but never fall. “How?”

“Titans,” he says, words dripping with guilt. “We thought we could handle them.”

“And you saw…?”

He swallows, coating his throat. “Yeah, I saw.”

That’s all he needs to say.

Woozy in your own stance, you fall back against the door and wait — for the sob, the wail, that’s right at the base of your throat, yet you make no noise.

You relent.

Slowly you feel your legs give out, from your calves to your knees, until you’re sat on the floor. Instinctively you reach for your necklace, your last line of stability, and hold the pendant between your thumb and index finger.

Blinking hard, you squeeze your eyes together in the hopes that the world will become clearer when you open them.

It’s still dark.

You can barely make out anything besides the silhouette of Levi Ackerman.

“So this is the surface,” you whisper to yourself. “This is what we always wanted.”

Leather creaks above you until that very silhouette drops to its knees. You feel it before you see it — the reach for his fingers to find yours. They’re not as strong in conviction as they once were, as if mending from being broken.

Then he speaks, and you almost miss his words completely.

“Don’t do it.”

When you lift your chin, the tears clouding your vision finally fall and warm your cheeks. Levi stares back at you, struggling between two worlds: the one he’s always known, and the one he’s had to make with you.

Just as you endured the last two months.

“Do what?” you ask despite yourself.

“Go after him,” Levi clarifies under his breath. “Any of them.”

Your brows furrow. “But they let Isabel and Furlan die.”

“I let Isabel and Furlan die,” he argues, as if he wishes he were dead right then and there. A bone-chilling confession, a woeful repentance at your altar, as if you can grant him forgiveness he cannot find within himself. When you open your mouth to ask, he continues. “Two weeks ago they put us on a mission. I went off on my own thinking I could kill Erwin myself. I thought I could handle it. I thought if I could sneak up on him, then I could get the documents we needed to escape — then I could go back to the Underground and get you out of there, too. Assassinating the commander was my only chance to save us. Sounds like a load of fairytale bullshit out loud.”

He doesn’t sound like himself.

What was once sure and earnest comes out fractured and uncertain. Like one false move, one gentle touch, and you’ll disappear like stardust in the night.

“But once I realized titans were flanking us from every side, it was no use,” he continues, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Titans got the upper hand and massacred everyone in sight. By the time I came back, you couldn’t tell where one body started and the other ended.”

“Levi—”

“So I’m not watching you die, too.”

His black hair shakes in the moonlight. Sorrow seeps into every syllable.

“I couldn’t save Isabel. I couldn’t save Furlan.” You can see just how much his jaw clenches, threatening to break his teeth in half. “I hoped they wouldn’t find you, but Erwin’s not fucking stupid. He needed a fighter."

We need a fighter. A softer, youthful version of Levi's voice from yesterday whispers in the still air.

Both times it was said to save you.

This time, however, it feels less like salvation and more like a certified death sentence.

"And this selfishness has already bit me in the ass, I know, but I can't—" He chokes on his words, frantic to hold onto his wits. He fails. His next words hitch on a crack in his voice. "If you die, I won’t—”

Propelled by grief, you scramble from the floorboards and rise to your knees, encircling your arms around his body to pull him against you.

His entire body goes rigid, impossibly tight. Too afraid to fight back. Too afraid to let go. You embrace his fear, absorb it, consume it, desperate to show him he's no longer alone.

That you're here to the bitter end, whatever that may look like for the two of you; a blaze of glory or a soft exhale into sleep.

Cradling the back of his head with the palm of your hand, your cheek presses to his cheek.

Warmth.

A sign of life.

I'm here. I'm alive.

He smells just as you remember.

He feels just as you remember.

“I won’t,” you vow against his ear. “I won’t go after them. I'll leave Erwin alone. I won’t die on you.”

Your words deflate his entire being.

Finally, finally, his arms wrap around you and crush your torso against his. In this dark, locked room, he can bury his nose into your skin and breathe — and it’s the slowest, shakiest breath you’ve ever heard.

“Promise,” he chokes. "Promise me."

You nod, face contorting in pain from the hurt in your heart. “I promise you, Levi. I swear it.”

He doesn’t reply.

For what feels like hours you both sit in silence, mourning — remembering — all that you’ve lost to get here. On the floor, in the dark, he holds you close while no one else can see. You embrace him with all your might.

(Until the bitter end — you can promise you'll live, that you'll be by his side, right until the last possible moment.)

Eventually he speaks quietly against your cheek. His words are languid again, smooth like hot tea.

“I saw your pack in my old room.”

Your heart flutters as you pull your head from his, staring him in the eye. Your vision has adjusted by now, focusing solely on his pale face.

“My what?”

“Pack,” he repeats. “They stuck you in our old room — Furlan and Isabel used to be in there, too.”

The bunk beds. A mixture of sadness and relief swirls in your gut.

"And where are you?"

"Erwin moved me into my own room. Said a captain should get their own space," his eyes flicker to yours. "It's just across from you."

You sit up straighter. "So you're... near me?"

Levi nods. “As if I’d be letting you out of my damn sight anyway. I spent the entire day trying to come up with a fucking excuse."

"For what, the logistics of me sneaking into your room when no one's watching?" you tease, but the humor is exhausted on your tongue.

"No one's ever caught you before," he replies with a wit that's entirely Levi. It almost makes you smile.

He runs a hand along your waistline, then raises his palm to lightly press the pad of his thumb against your lower lip.

“Erwin’s aware of our business connection, but I don’t think he knows…”

He trails off, seemingly memorized by the way your lip moves under the guidance, the pull, of his thumb.

A feeling stirs in your belly, one that has been dormant for weeks.

“...but you don’t think he knows beyond that,” you finish softly, bringing him back to reality. His gray eyes meet yours, half-lidded and exhausted. He nods once. “So we keep our past a secret.”

“Just us,” he agrees.

“For as long as we can,” you finish.

His thumb drops from your lip to your chin. Your gaze drops from his eyes to his lips.

Waiting.

"They opened the wine in the mess hall," you add in a murmur.

"Means those shitheads plan to pull an all-nighter," he murmurs back. "They have a thing for commiserating."

"So we have time." A beat passes. "And I'm just across the hall."

"My room's desolate," Levi warns.

"I don't give a fuck," you reply, refusing to waste another second.

Your hand seeks the nape of his neck.

His palms cradle the sides of your face.

And after what feels like an eternity, your lips crash.

.

author's note: WE GOT A REUNION AYE-YOOOOOO. So happy that these two very sad idiots found each other again. Sorry for the pain. We only have about 3 more chapters of flashbacks to go, and then we will be returning to the present.

Thank you so much for you patience and wonderful comments and reblogs and eeeeverything. Seriously. I am so very grateful for your support. A reminder that I am going to switch to a bi-weekly Friday update - I will see you for Chapter 18!

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami @voidszoro @tanyeonn @chishiyasan @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @nomi98 @urfavcelestialangel @milkersonmac @blossomedfloweroflove @carries-blenders-and-stuff @hurtcomfortwhore @ahxiaoshi @littlerequiem

[justporo]

A Night of Song and Laughter

Well, Baldur's Gate and Astarion have me by the neck, more than I'd like to admit... So I wrote fanfiction to get my love out for this vampire. It's about Astarion and Tav settling down in Baldur's Gate, trying to enjoy some domestic peace as couple but also getting into some trouble that always seems to find them. And also I thought, wouldn't it be nice if they showed each other their favorite spots around town? So they go to a tavern, drinks are had, lots of fluff and some smut happens, knives are held to throats, exes (Tav's) are met... A whole lot of fun. Read here under the cut or directly on AO3!

Rating: Explicit (especially for later chapters)

Pairing: Astarion/Fem!Tav (You)

Summary: Set some time after the events of Baldur's Gate 3 Astarion and you (Tav) decided to settle down in Baldur's Gate and see what the city has to offer for you. You enjoyed some domestic peace but you didn't seem to be able to shake off the trouble that surely always came looking for the both of you - and maybe you delighted in that as well.

One night you decide to show Astarion one of your favourite places in the city hoping to enjoy some drinks, maybe dance; just have some fun. Fun comes in very different kinds of flavours though as you two should know: from being twirled around endlessly in your lover's arms or stealing naughty kisses and maybe even more in dark hidden alleyways to holding a knife to someone's throat who's threatening what you love the most in this world.

Spoiler warning! (Gif from here)

Part 1: Down, down the cobblestones...

You convinced Astarion to stop the ritual so the vicious cycle of heedless and cruel power might be broken. You believe you two can figure out whatever life may throw at the two of you, you’ve already had come so far, haven’t you? So you settled with taking everything you could gather from Cazadon’s estate and liquidate it to kickstart a new life together in Baldur’s Gate. You bought a small but quite luxurious town house in the better part of town which you'd probably gotten criminally under it’s market price, but the two of you could be quite the convincing duo.

You’ve spent the weeks after your long and exhausting adventures with the mundane aspects of life. Since Astarion has yet again become a creature of the night you decided to adapt to his daily cycle. After all you also once were very keen to keep to the darker times of day when survival for you meant a quick sleight of hand and even quicker feet even you didn’t mean to get caught.

You decorated your new home with an assortment of different things: thick brocade curtains for every one of the tall windows to keep Astarion safe and dark, a bed of course – the largest one you could find - , books, trinkets, more furniture. For the time being the two of you were perfectly fine with being settled down and just enjoying slow and relaxing days, making love every night. As long as the gold from your adventures lasted you were more than happy to just focus on the two of you.

You also made a habit out of it to show each other your favourite places around town, since you had such different experiences – even though both pretty dark and traumatizing – living in different areas of the city. It could have been two different cities altogether. So this night you decided to show Astarion your favourite tavern in the city.

You were walking down the cobblestone roads of the upper city. It was a pleasant night in late spring. Summer hadn’t really grasped the city yet, but it was already delightfully warm but the nights still long: in other words, perfect for a night out for you and Astarion.

You had your arm hooked into his and your head leaned on Astarion’s shoulder.

“So, tell me again please, darling, where exactly are you taking me?”, Astarion said while softly patting your hand you had nestled in the crook of his arm.

“Maeve’s”, you answer, lifting your head up and smiling brightly at him. You knew exactly you were at this terrible lovebirds stage of your relationship where everything in the world is pleasantly pink and warm – except everything in the world was possibly very grossed out because of your lovey-dovey demeanor. Neither of you could have cared less, this was the first shot both of you ever got at just being happy in life.

“Oh, please spare me with all the details, my love”, Astarion replied, sarcastically raising his voice and leaning his head to one side. Humour glinted in his ruby eyes.

“It’s a tavern”, you replied dryly and shrugged your shoulders. You untangled yourself from him and walked backwards while facing him. Then you tugged at the sleeve of his dark shirt he picked out this evening and dragged him along to move quicker. “Come on, we’ll be late.”

“Late for what, darling?”, he asked mockingly getting more desperate as you pulled on his arm. You just grinned at him more broadly and shrugged your shoulders again.

Astarion sighed, lifting his gaze to the clear night sky. The moonlight reflected in his light hair. Sometimes you still felt overwhelmed when you looked at him – like getting to be with him in this way was still a dream you could only wish would become true.

You stopped walking and just looked at him. So did he, his sharp rogue senses not wasting a split second to react. You put a hand on his chest, lowered your head to one side and said: “It’s ‘Maeve’s most exquisite drops and pops’. Me and the crew hung out there a lot when we had the coin for it and got shit-faced.” Astarion lifted his eyebrows and smiled appreciatively at you, having finally bribed you to answer his questions.

“Ah, so I am to learn something of your past tonight, hm? Delightful”, he replied and smirked at you in his signature way. You stole a quick peck on his lips before you turned and entangled your arm once more with his and started walking again. “Pops?”, he simply asked then, raising a single eyebrow.

“Yes, pops – you know, as in popular songs?”, you answered. Astarion just looked confused. “Ugh, I forgot I am basically with an ancient relic. Get with the times, Astarion”, you joked and then laughed as he frowned and mumbled something about the youth and their useless need to shorten perfectly good words.

“Are the many words meant to make it seem more… exquisite? Because I don’t feel like it is working”, Astarion chuckled. “It might just be. I can assure you it is not though. The beer is cheap, and the wine is even cheaper. And keep away from anything edible there unless you wanna be sick for three days straight. And that” – you point a finger at him – “includes necks, my dear. But that’s how you know it’s a great place”, you kept on explaining.

The vampire raised a pale eyebrow at you: “Help me see the reasoning here, my love.” A shit-eating grin split your face once more: “Because no one’s going there for the drinks or the food but the entertainment makes more than up for it.”

Astarion looked at you as if you might have gone slightly insane but simply let you talk and lead him on in the darker, meaner, and much poorer parts of the city.

“It’s quite a famous place where travelling bands and bards come to play for a night or two. And not the talentless yappers, like Volo and the such, but the ones that really know how get a room full of grumpy and mean Baldurians going: singing, dancing, getting their blood pump. If there hasn’t been at least three fights at closing time it was a dull night”, you kept on as your eyes glossed over for a moment as you remembered days long gone by. Not exactly happy days but happy little memories, nonetheless. A slight smile danced on your lips while you remembered.

The vampire looked at you warmly and put his hand over yours on his arm once more. His heart filled with warmth at the sight of your easy smile and honest joy. His thumb slowly brushed the back of your hand: “That indeed sounds like a lot of fun, my love, maybe I’ve been to quick with my judgment. Let’s see what the night may offer to us tonight. As long as it ends with you naked in my bed, I shan’t complain.”

“Our bed”, you corrected him and teasingly poked him with your other hand.

“Of course, our bed, beautiful”, he repeated correctly. His smile grew and you led him further down the streets of Baldur’s Gate.

[brabblesblog]

𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Chapter 17: Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

Astarion begins to unravel the mystery of Ban's family.

Professionally edited and collaborated on by my dearest friend <3 @editing-by-night

Masterlist

Read on AO3.

Art by @nyx-knox <3

Astarion sat with his legs crossed. The stool was as filthy as when he’d last seen it, but he’d accepted it this time, if only to accentuate the desired effect. In front of him Roderich dithered, trying to explain away his actions - not that Astarion cared. He forced his attention back onto the man, as unpleasant as it was, and leaned forward.

“It was a desperate time. There wasn’t enough money to fund our… our way of living, and the guild is rich. Far richer than it had any right to be,” Roderich stammered. “Meiros must have taken some too! I’m sure he skimmed some off the top as well, considering there was no one to look into his activities. He’s just as guilty, his hands just as bloody. I don’t see why you would even begrudge me this!”

None of this stayed in Astarion’s mind. He had considered the information irrelevant. “Repeat the last thing you said,” he drawled. “Your bleating proved too much for me.”

Roderich clenched his jaw, looking out the store windows. The moment Astarion had walked in and demanded an audience he had sent his customers away, telling them to come back in half an hour. They were outside, waiting, and the minutes were ticking by. “I just think… this conversation should be held somewhere else, if at all.”

If at all. If nothing else, he could admire Roderich’s nerve. He lazily looked over to the small group of people waiting outside. Behind them his carriage loomed, black and gold and waiting to whisk him away from this drivel.

“Oh, but I haven’t yet touched on why we’re having this conversation.” He crossed his arms. “Did you really think I would care about you stealing guild funds?”

“I suspected you wanted to punish me for… for whatever imagined slights you think we committed against our daughter.” He took a deep breath. “We’ve done nothing of the sort. She may have been unhappy, but everything we did was for her wellbeing - her success.”

“Your success,” Astarion corrected. “I daresay I’ll be the judge of whether wrongdoings were committed or not - and they have,” he glared, “but that isn’t why I’m here. Nor is it why I’m bringing up your financial indiscretions.”

Astarion looked at Roderich, relishing the way the older man looked at him - equal parts fear and indignation. He could feel Roderich’s anger bubbling, his wariness keeping him from allowing it to boil over. Any other man would have assumed Astarion couldn’t do much in public, with the crowd peering at them as it was. But Roderich knew that if he pushed him too far, he’d find himself waking up to fangs sinking into his neck.

So Astarion waited for Roderich to master his temper, idly looking past him to the display of mirrors. He was reflected in all of them, from various angles, and he couldn’t resist admiring himself a little. From the corner of his eye he saw two of the patrons outside fanning themselves and rolled his eyes.

Finally Roderich found his voice. “Then what was this visit for?”

Astarion smiled and returned his attention to Roderich. “A matter near and dear to Ban’s heart, and therefore mine. Your son.”

Roderich spluttered. “Adrien? We already told you-”

“And we are painfully aware you’re lying.” He gazed at Roderich’s reflection, eyes boring into him. “Don’t make it difficult, Roderich. We can have a nice, civil conversation,” he thought about it, “or I’ll have to resort to less… pleasant measures.”

Roderich sighed. “I… of course. I would at least prefer to talk in private. Perhaps in my home.”

“Fine. I can’t keep the good citizens desperately wanting mirrors waiting, can I?” There was also the fact he figured having Arlette around for this conversation might be better - if only so that he could have all possible information at hand. That, and watching the people peering at him through the glass was starting to grate.

“Thank you,” Roderich breathed. “After the day is done, head there. I can have Arlette prepare supper, and you could bring Ban.”

Astarion stood. Roderich tracked every move he made, but didn’t speak. Astarion stepped closer, enough so that he could look down at him. “Just me, unfortunately. My wife has far more important business to attend to. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

The raised eyebrow made Roderich shrink back, to Astarion’s satisfaction. The man rubbed at his bald head. “Why of course. We’d be more than happy to host you.”

A wide smile graced Astarion’s face, the tips of fangs peeking out. “I’m glad to know that. Provide my chauffeur with your address, and I shall be there tonight.”

The house was large, situated against the walls of the upper city, although just like the shop it showed signs of neglect. As he approached, the door opened before he could even rap his knuckles against it. Arlette’s pale face greeted him and this time her eyes did not rake over his features. As he stepped into the house she looked at his feet and cleared her throat.

“Erm. Your shoes, if you would be so kind.”

He fixed her with a pointed look and stepped forward anyway. The request reminded him of Ban, but he brushed the thought aside. She had stayed home, knowing he was handling the issue with her family. Seeing them again would not do her any favors.

Arlette hurried alongside him, walking fast to keep up with his longer strides. As he walked he took in the house. Ban had lived here most of her life. He allowed his mind to wander a little, musing. Where would she have sat? Had her room been neat? Had she owned dolls? Read books? Had she dreamed of adventures, or being swept off her feet by a dashing prince?

His thoughts were interrupted by Arlette. “I hope you don’t mind. We weren’t sure what you’d prefer to… eat, but we assumed some soup and roast would be-”

Astarion held up a hand. “I prefer we skip the niceties and get to the matter at hand. Where - or rather,” he scanned the house - what he could see of it anyway - finding no sign of a third person, “when am I ever to see this son of yours?”

He had surmised that he wouldn’t see Adrien in his brief conversation with Roderich earlier today. The man had said that he would explain everything, whatever that meant, as he’d hurried Astarion out the door.

As he turned the corner and entered the dining room he saw Roderich sitting at the head of the table, waiting. Roderich stood as Astarion walked in, obviously tense. “There was no need for all that unpleasantness earlier today. We would have told you, had we known what you wanted.”

Astarion sat on the opposite end of the table, steepling his fingers and settling in. He could almost taste their discomfort, and it was gratifying. “We provided you the chance to disclose everything civilly, remember? You chose to lie and be difficult.”

Roderich bristled, but Arlette put a hand on his shoulder. “You could have us removed from the guild, but the coin… it doesn’t exist anymore. It’s gone.” Her eyes locked onto his steepled fingers. “You’ve gotten married.”

“Hm?” He raised his hand for them to see. “Indeed we have. I won’t apologize for the lack of invitation. We wanted only those important to us in attendance.”

He savored the affronted looks from the couple, daring them to voice their complaints. When none came, his thoughts drifted back to the misappropriated guild funds.

He wasn’t surprised. Meiros had mentioned that the Glasscrafts were used to a life of relative luxury; the loss of customers and their retreat from active networking would have put a dent in that. Their theft from the Guild coffers had been discovered a few years ago but Meiros had deemed it unnecessary to take action at the time. Apparently, the amount of coin had not been significant, and he’d felt some pity for Roderich after the disappearance of his daughter was made known. In any case, Astarion was glad; it provided him ample ammunition to leverage the Glasscrafts with, if needed.

Astarion reached for the carafe, pouring himself a glassful of what looked like wine. He sniffed it, ascertaining it to be so, and took a small sip. It felt safe, at least.

“Whether the money is gone or not, all I have to do is to ask. Meiros will act at my behest.” He locked gazes with Roderich, allowing the silence to stretch. He lounged back, waiting.

Roderich broke, clasping his hands together. His eyes were downcast, fixed on his own hands. “After Ban left us, the… arrangement we had with her betrothed’s family fell apart. We needed to find another suitable arrangement, and so we quickly found an associate with a daughter around Adrien’s age.”

“He was displeased, just like she had been, and one night-” Arlette began, but Astarion held up a hand.

He laughed. “You drove both children off the same way? How very ironic. You’d think you’d have learned your lesson the first time, but no - you had to push the other away too!” The savage glee he felt definitely raised Arlette’s hackles - he saw her eye the fireplace poker.

“Oh. I wouldn’t even attempt that, Arlette.” He waved a hand at her. “Or you could try your luck, I suppose. I wouldn’t mind livelier fare tonight.” He gave her a quick grin, baring his fangs, and was satisfied when she backed down.

“A wise choice.” He curled his lip. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? ‘My son left, same as my daughter did, because I was an abusive ass’,” He copied Arlette’s cadence, the smile only widening as she seethed. His eyes then returned to Roderich. “Now. I’m assuming you know where your son went?”

He knew the answer was likely not. Ban had, after all, stayed in the lower city for several years, within the same city, and her parents had never bothered to seek her out. He surmised they were the type who would not deign to head into the lower city unless absolutely necessary.

Roderich sighed. “We asked everyone we could ask. All we know is that the night he left…” he glanced over at his wife; Arlette finally sat down beside him, glaring at Astarion.

“Contrary to your assumptions, my lord, Adrien’s departure was not like Ban’s.” She sneered, or her best approximation of one, anyway; her fear of him prevented her from managing true disdain. “He did not take anything with him. No clothes, no extra coin. No materials other than what he’d usually bring on a night out.”

“We had an argument,” Roderich interjected. “The usual one, about him wanting his… freedom,” he scoffed, “to choose his spouse, and how the girl we’d betrothed him to was a spoiled, overgrown child.”

“And ugly, to boot.” Arlette shrugged. “He wasn’t wrong, but really.”

“So he left to cool off. Not an unusual occurrence, except he didn’t return. We assumed he’d found someone to keep him company for the night, and would return on the morrow, but… he never did.”

The hardness in Arlette’s features disappeared for once. “We waited. Days, weeks, months. We asked folks that we knew. No one knew where he’d gone, nor had they seen him. It was as if he’d disappeared into thin air. There were whispers we heard then, rumors.”

To Astarion’s surprise, Roderich pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re Szarr’s heir, are you not? You would know better than most. The stories of folk disappearing, of debauched parties in the night. You would know.”

His pique rose. “And you know someone who’s disappeared, beside your own children? Both of whom ran away of their own free will?” Astarion challenged. They’d been specifically forbidden from hunting in the upper city. Cazador had preferred victims from the lower classes, and rightfully so. Nobody ever went looking for them, not for long anyway.

Roderich looked away. “Well… no.”

“What does it matter? Whatever those rumors were alluding to - they’re obviously true!” Arlette stood and rounded on him, hands on the table. “Look at you. Look at what you made our child into.”

Astarion refused to allow their words to slip under his skin. Her anger was meaningless. All the same, he couldn’t resist baring his fangs at her. “I’d be careful pointing fingers, Arlette. Your daughter left too, and she didn’t end up as food for… monsters, did she?”

“Well, she became one herself!”

He laughed, the sound theatrical and dangerous. He stood as well. “Considering that she was raised by a pair of them, I doubt she found it much of a leap.”

Arlette screamed in frustration, scrabbling for the knife on the table. Astarion watched, amused, as Roderich slammed his hand down on her wrist, preventing her from aiming it at him.

“Let her go. Let her try, if she chooses to.” Astarion crossed his arms.

Roderich shot his wife a warning glare, then slowly lifted his hand away. She stood there for a second, chest heaving, hand clenched around the knife. Astarion merely stared indifferently.

Finally she cursed, letting go of the knife. “I would say I hope the gods curse you, but… I think you’re already there,” she spat.

He took it in stride. “Rude of you, really, when I’m here to find your son. Not to return him to you, of course, but I would have at least informed you when I found out if he was safe, something you two have obviously failed to determine.”

Roderich’s eyes bulged. “You dare-”

“Yes. I dare.” He picked up his glass and refilled it with painful, deliberate slowness, dragging the moment out. “I assume you asked people you knew, not people Adrien knew.”

“He didn’t have a lot of friends. He kept to himself.”

“Perhaps he did not prefer the company you made him keep?”

The two did not respond. Astarion swirled the wine lazily. “Tch. Your investigation was incomplete. If you employed the same methods you did when Ban first left, then you certainly haven’t even scoured this city, let alone further.”

Roderich gulped. “We… did not look for her.”

Astarion blinked. He balled his fists, and the urge to snap their necks was almost irresistible. “You… did not look for Ban, but looked for Adrien.” He said it slowly, enunciating each word, voice dripping with venom.

“She left with most of her belongings. And, well… Adrien was still there…” Arlette stammered, shrinking back as Astarion began to stalk towards them.

“Of course. Your beloved son was there, so what did her departure cost? Nothing.” He drew closer, eyes narrowed into slits. “Why would one failed arrangement matter, when you had the more valuable piece still in play, hm?”

He raised his eyebrow as Arlette finally grabbed the knife and lunged for him. Too slow, of course, but he admired her verve. Roderich reached for her, but Astarion was faster, catching her wrist effortlessly. He pulled her close, hissing against her ear.

“I would relish the opportunity to rip you apart, and then tear your husband into pieces,” he whispered. “But I doubt Ban would be pleased to find out that I’ve eviscerated her parents without asking her first. Consider this, however, your final warning. One more false move,” he pried the knife from her hands and set it down on the table, “and I will accept her ire and act in… well, let’s say self-defense.” He let her go, and she sank back onto her chair, her husband standing protectively behind her. He eyed Roderich.

“Any complaints?” He didn’t respond, and Astarion smirked. “I thought so.”

He leaned against the table, making a show of looking at his nails. “So. You did not bother to search for Ban, but did so for Adrien. Despicable, but unsurprising from you lot.” He raked his eyes over the pair. As much as he wanted to rip into them, there was the far more urgent need of actually finding out where Ban’s brother was. “When you say you searched for Adrien… who exactly did you talk to?”

“Like you said,” Arlette said, her voice small. “We asked the people we knew. The rumors about Cazador Szarr became the only lead we had. And it was just… that. Whispers. Someone knew someone who knew someone, who’d heard stories.”

Astarion shrugged. “No doubt it was easier to believe a monster had taken your son than to think the ones in his own home had pushed him away.” He glanced at them, daring them to try contesting his words. When no dissent came, he returned his attention to his fingernails.

“I shall be conducting my own investigation. If I find Adrien…” he considered this for a moment, “and he does not want to be found, I shall tell you of his survival at the very least, if you two cooperate with my search and never come close to either of them, ever again.”

“But-”

“It’s that, or I seek out Adrien on my own and you never learn what I discover. I’ll also request Meiros to very kindly look into the missing funds from the guild treasury. And were you to breathe a single word of what Ban and I are, well. I never refuse a free meal.”

The two exchanged a long glance, and then finally nodded. Satisfied, Astarion straightened up. “Are we agreed, then?” Slowly, they nodded again.

Astarion sat back down. “If you could provide more details - how Adrien looked, what he was wearing, the date of his disappearance, any other details you would deem pertinent - that would be delightful.”

“We last saw him four years ago, a year after Ban left. He was twenty-one then,” Roderich provided.

Four years younger than Ban, Astarion noted. “And the day?”

“Thirteenth, of Alturiak. It was a chilly, rainy night.”

This, he also noted. “Was he dressed appropriately?” If not, Adrien could not have gone far without purchasing a cloak.

“He was, to a point,” Arelette offered. “He was wearing the jacket I’d made him. It did not have a hood.”

Astarion sighed. That widened his circle somewhat, and reduced his chances. He had hoped to encounter a vendor who might have sold him clothes. He took a long look at the couple.

Arlette walked away, quickly leaving the dining room. He could hear her rummaging around and she came back with a locket. To his surprise she pressed it onto his palms.

“This is a portrait of Adrien. We stowed all the family portraits away when he disappeared. It was… too painful… to look at the mantelpiece and see his face. But this should help.”

He opened it to reveal a young man. There was a small tug of familiarity, and little wonder. He had strikingly dark eyes - Ban’s eyes. Raven-black hair, the same golden skin, the same half-smile. He could be her twin, he thought as he closed the locket.

Along with the locket was a cufflink. It looked expensive, jewel-encrusted, and he held it to the light.

“His favorite cufflinks. We never found the other.” Roderich nodded at it. “We assume he had it that night.”

Astarion pocketed both items and stood. “I shall write to you if there are any developments. If anything comes up, I shall expect the same courtesy. You do remember where to write, yes?”

“The Crimson Palace,” Roderich said, and Astarion smirked. He’d never forgiven the man for not knowing that the first time they’d met.

“Perfect.” He reached over and downed his glass. “Thank you for the dinner. It was most… enlightening.”

He gave them a small, sardonic bow, and headed for the door.

Astarion fingered the clasp of the locket as the carriage made for the palace, flicking it open with one hand. He stared at the face looking back at him, frowning. The other half of the locket had a piece of paper in it instead of a portrait, one seemingly folded in half. He reached in, pulling it out. The paper was thick; he unfolded it carefully.

The content of the paper was not what he expected, and not anything useful, but he was glad he’d opened it all the same. Ban, from years ago, her face less lined, a little fuller and far softer than she looked now. She was illuminated in what looked like a sunset; the golden light highlighting the side of her face that it hit. Her hair wasn’t tied back in her usual ponytail, or even the bun she occasionally preferred - it fell in loose, long waves, framing her face. He’d seen her with her hair down of course, but almost never in public.

He ran his finger down the side of her face, then traced those lips he’d come to know so intimately. His thoughts drifted back to her, of her youth spent in that house and in that shop. He couldn’t recall his own past - two centuries of torment had ensured it was all but gone - but he did not envy Ban hers. Astarion closed the locket, but kept her portrait for himself, pocketing it.

As the carriage drew to a stop and he stepped out, he spied her in the foyer, waiting. The sight never failed to make his heart swell, and he made a beeline for her.

“Home at last,” she said, as he drew close for a quick kiss. “I trust everything went well?”

“Mm… well enough.” He had no intention of informing her of anything until everything was laid bare, as they had agreed upon. “Some progress has been made, I would say, but nothing concrete as yet. You’ll have to wait a little longer.” He’d told her where he’d been headed, but had not informed her of any pertinent details.

She led him to the dining room, not bothering to turn towards him as she spoke. “It’s not a huge pain. I’ve… not even thought of them in so long. I can stand to wait a little longer to see how Adrien’s doing.”

He helped her into her seat before seating himself. Taking a bite from her fork, she eyed him. “Were your dealings with Meiros at least helpful?” Whatever their arrangement was, she hoped it had been useful.

“Yes… and no,” Astarion admitted. “I would have achieved the same effect without it, but it would probably have taken more… convincing. I would not have minded doing that, but you might have.”

Ban scoffed. “As prideful as they are, they’re cowards. They’re frightened of you - of… of us now, I suppose. I have little doubt they’d immediately cave.”

He laughed, remembering today’s encounter. “You’d be surprised. Your mother may or may not have attempted to kill me.”

“She wouldn’t.” Her eyes widened at the look on Astarion’s face. “You… you’re serious. Really?”

“With a knife, which I’m sure would have done the job, given enough time.” He began to eat. “I can see where you inherited your… spirit.”

“You mean to say my temper.”

He bit back a mirthful bark. “Your words, darling, not mine.”

There was silence for a while as they both ate. Astarion’s eyes flicked over to her, unconsciously comparing her face with the portrait that was now in his pocket. He burned with a desire to ask her for more, but wasn’t quite sure how to broach it.

Her eyes drifted away from Halsin’s wedding gift on the mantelpiece - a dragon sitting on its haunches - and noticed his staring. She tilted her head. “Something on my face?”

He shook his head. “Is there a reason why you wear your hair the way you do now?” He fingered the paper inside his pocket, then took it out, handing it to her.

She unfolded it, silent as she took in the portrait. “Mother preferred my hair down. Said it would hide the… features of my face. One of the few things she and I did not disagree on.”

Astarion considered this. He ran his eyes down her current - and now permanent - physique, mulling over the potential implications. She handed the portrait back to him and returned to her meal; he quickly stored it. He was sure he’d ask about it some other time, but for now, he was content with what she had revealed.

They were walking in the garden after dinner when he broached the topic. “Darling… was your mother the first person to tell you you aren’t… attractive?”

She paused and turned to look at him, half bent over to look at a particularly large rose. “What makes you think that?”

“Your comment about your hair. The way you always glance at the prettiest woman in any room, then down at yourself. The clothing choices - cloaks, capes.” He ticked these off with his fingers. “Even your hair. Held up now, yes, no longer quite hiding - but still plain. As if you feel like any adornment other than your braids would be a waste.”

“Well.” She took a deep breath, then plucked the flower. “Having my hair up became a habit after I ran away. Came with the job, really. Fighting with it loose would be unwise.” She straightened up, smelling the rose.

“And everything else?”

She chuckled. “Everything else you got spot-on.” She fell into stride beside him, tucking the flower by her ear.

“You are perfect, and your mother is a wretched woman whose opinions have no real merit, other than in her own miserable mind. You’d do well to realize none of her comments had any worth.”

Ban raised both arms, flexing them at him. “This isn’t what you’d normally see on a beautiful woman, Astarion. Not what most men would want, even.”

“Yet you chose that,” he noted. “Perhaps you wanted to be strong, truly strong, unlike what your mother wanted you to be.”

“She wanted me strong, but not in this way, that’s true. This I chose for myself.” She put her hands down, then ran her hand down the swell of a tricep. “I wanted it, yes, but I’m also aware this isn’t-”

“And why should we bother with the opinions of fools and miscreants who would not know how to tell a gem from a rock?”

“Because… I mean, Astarion. Let’s face it.” She took both of his hands, and he fixed his gaze on her. “Look at me. Then look at yourself. Tell me you don’t see what they see. You even said it yourself - they see me as a trivial matter in their path to you, right? Because I look the way I do.”

“Then they can shove their frankly insipid, dull ideas of attractiveness,” he snarled, “far, far up their own asses. And if they dared to breathe a word of it to you, or me… well.” A smile broke through her dismay, exactly as he’d hoped, and he led her to the fountain. He slipped behind her as they both admired it.

“You are beautiful to me,” he murmured, “and considering I am looked upon as world-endingly beautiful myself, that ought to mean something, shouldn’t it?” He leaned in, the humor slipping away. “Trust me.”

Those familiar words sent a shiver down her spine. Trust. Something she had given so freely before, and something she had been giving again recently, even though there were times that it still felt hard. It would be work, she knew - she’d need time to do better, just as he had - but she hoped she was at least making some headway. Her mind wandered, away from thoughts of her appearance to hoping this conversation was at least a sign of progress in his eyes.

“Ban?” Astarion paused from the path his lips had been making down her shoulder. “Is everything alright?”

Ban turned to focus on his face. She could see the fear beginning to creep in his eyes, and she quickly kissed him. He visibly eased, exhaling.

“I- I thought for a moment…”

“No. You did nothing wrong.” She kissed his jaw, then his cheek, running a comforting hand through his hair. He leaned into the touch, eyes shuttering. She fought the instinct to just leave it at that, and pushed on. “Can you tell me, love, if all this… everything I’ve been trying to do... Has it been working?”

“Your hair could stand to be decorated sometimes.” One look at her withering glare and he shifted gears. “Er - the wedding arrangements were more than sufficient,” he said automatically, “and I think everyone went home satisfied. Well, perhaps not Minsc, but-”

“Astarion,” she said, a note of urgency in her tone. “Quit deflecting. You know what I mean. Fixing… this. Us. Being better for you.” Somehow these words felt harder to say than even her wedding vows, and she tamped down the voice inside her that told her that this was unnecessary talk.

“Yes.” He met her gaze, uncertain, but unafraid. The irony was not lost on her. “I suppose the wedding and the whole…” he waved a hand, “...game, occupied most of our time recently, but, yes.” His eyes darted across her face, and he bit his lip. “I see more of you. Feel more of you.” As soon as he said it his eyes flicked away, and she caught it.

“Please?” she asked, and he exhaled.

“I would be lying if I said everything is perfect.” He braced himself, then met her gaze head-on. “It’s far too soon to tell for certain, and we’re both aware that wedding planning wasn’t the most… normal of times.”

“I understand.” She leaned forward and rested her head against his collarbone. “But I promise you. I will be who you want me to be… maybe not the hair, though.”

He chuckled softly, wrapping his arms around her. “I will adore you regardless of who you are and what you choose to look like, Ban. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

Astarion awoke from his trance just as the sun began to shine, its rays slipping in through a gap in the drapes. He stood up to close them, not wanting Ban to stir. Before he pulled them shut he stood, watching the light touch the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the palace grounds.

He’d have to begin his search somewhere, and it was likely that he would get no answers in the upper city, but he planned on sending some of his staff to ask around just in case. He would handle the lower city himself, figuring that would yield more results, considering Roderich hadn’t explored that option. It likely hadn’t even occurred to him until last night, the idiot.

The question, however, remained. What would happen once they found Adrien? The relationship between the siblings didn’t seem exactly… warm. His eyes wandered over to Ban’s sleeping form, worry creasing his brow.

What if her brother rejected her for what she’d become? For what they had done? There was no need for him to know, but he wasn’t sure if Ban would tell him everything - including the circumstances of the rite. Save for their companions, no one else knew of the price that had been paid. To everyone else, he was a regular noble. To the people he had met on their journey who knew what he was, he had merely found some means of being able to withstand the sun.

Well, other than the Society. They had quickly inferred that it had been a contract of sorts, no thanks to Omeluum. They had kindly kept the information confidential, but he was still irked at the thought that they knew at all. Ban had suggested keeping them close, to foster goodwill, which they had done.

He brushed away the unpleasant path his thoughts had taken. He needed to focus on the matter at hand. Sending out feelers in the upper city, and venturing into the lower city. Ban may know the names of some of Adrien’s associates, the ones their parents hadn’t approved of.

He merely hoped all this would lead to her finding some closure.

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - June 30 - Week 26

Hello, friends! Hopefully you had an amazing week. As a quick note, tomorrow AO3 will be down for a substantial amount of time, so be sure you have your fic needs prepared for that. I’ll be sharing the monthly podfic rec list later in the day to account for that. 

Now here’s this week’s recs! 

*

I don't think there's a manual for this by itsallAvengers

So. His son can stick to things, apparently.

If only Tony had realised this before he'd caught him hanging off the 89th floor of the tower.

Well. Parenting was never going to be a smooth road, was it?

my thoughts: it’s so fluffy. Steve’s exhaustion and panic are spot on for a new parent, and Tony just needs a nap and toddler proof glass. 

Found My Heart Wandering by ItsMayBiTheWay 

The scenery, for lack of better words, is simply breathtaking. The colors of the sunset before him, as he crosses his legs on the wooden pier, reach inside Steve’s sternum and cradle his heart gently, the soft pinks and blues swaying in the sky to create the perfect shade of lilac.

They fill in the cracks like the ancient art of kintsugi, proudly emphasizing all the scars with gold- you are better for all the scars you take, Steven, it shows you have loved, it shows you have lost- it all shows you have lived; instead of wasting your heart away, the voice of his mother repeats.

Backpacking across Europe for inspiration for his upcoming art show after a bad breakup; the last thing Steve expects to find is love.

my thoughts: i love a good meet cute. This was adorable. 

Take the Moment and Taste It by betheflame

“You cannot be serious, Tony! A friendship bracelet.”

Tony Stark grinned up at his business partner from his place bent over the lawnmower engine he was tinkering with. “Aw, Pep, come on. It worked for Travis.”

Pepper pinched the bridge of her nose. “If you honestly want to pattern your love life off of a fanfic come to life, to a straight man, be my guest, but have you considered that you cannot just waltz into a mall and wait in line for a hockey player’s autograph?”

Or, Steve is a closeted hockey player, Tony is a publicly gay fanboy, and the NHL has no idea what's about to hit it.

my thoughts: a Tayvis flavored sportsball AU? What’s NOT to love?? I had a lot of fun reading this one and was sad when it ended. 

it might just have been you by Areiton 

"You have the whole world in front of you, Tony," Steve says, slowly. "When you get off this boat, there's nothing to stop you from living the life you want. If that's as a mechanic with a nice Alpha--you can have that. Just because what you grew up with is trash, doesn't mean that all alphas are. You can still have exactly what you want."

Tony laughs, and it feels brittle, sharp, cutting at his throat as it spills between them. "There aren't nice Alphas, Captain. No one is nice enough to walk away from a billion dollar fortune for someone like me."

"I would," Steve says, and it feels like a confession, like something he doesn't mean to share, and all the more precious for it. 

my thoughts: um. Well, so I wrote this one? But I haven’t read it since I wrote it a year ago and it was a lot of fun to see what happened with these two. Bearded Steve is kinda amazing. 

If The Collar Doesn't Fit by askaniblue 

Subs need to belong to a dom. That's the law and being Captain America doesn't place you above the law. But when Steve shows up to a fight with ugly looking injuries Tony gets worried. Tony starts digging. Of course Iron Man is a switch, everyone knows that, so what does he know about what goes on between doms and subs? And why should Steve listen when Iron Man charges in to his defense? No other dom wanted the contract of an overgrown sub like Steve. Not even Mr. Stark.

My thoughts: i really love the dynamics here and Tony taking care of Steve is everything to me. 

[putnamcapital]

Some love for the YR writers, and their OCs

As a small gesture of thanks to the incredible creativity and generosity of fanfic writers, during this time of holiday excess and the AO3 YR tag being just lit!, I thought i’d pull together some favorites to share. Hopefully if you’ve haven’t read these fics yet, they might entice you. I know we all know and love the endless iterations of Wille and Simon, and Sara, August, and Felice, but did you know there are some truly incredible original characters in the YR fanfic library? Here are just a few of the characters that have stayed with me. Made an effort not to spoil in the descriptions! I’ve tried to spread the love across lots of writers and have tagged you if i know you're on Tumblr. And i mostly read AUs. If you’ve got other OCs you just love, please add to this!

So, in no particular order … Part 1 of ?.

Chetna from Tis the Damn Season by littelbluefish, (M, 15/15) - “in a near-constant state of dancing readiness” (i love her for that alone), also witty meddler, dispatches unwanted men with savage accuracy, pitch perfect level of snark, loves Simon to pieces.

MJ and Mario from And that’s how you make history baby by waybeforeyourtime (T, 16/?) - it’s difficult for me to choose between the two, but i think maybe the author would agree they are inseparable. MJ and Mario run Benders, a bar where Simon ends up performing. They literally jump off at the page at you. MJ, appearing as Mary Jane, gets one of the best entrances i’ve seen in a while. (“Mary Jane sat in front of the door of Benders in a crudely made replica of the Iron Throne from Game of Thrones, except it was dildos that adorned it, not swords. She wore a pale pink strapless dress, white fishnet stockings, and black patent-leather Mary Jane platforms.”) His partner, Mario’s, first words to Simon: “"I don't have time for games. Violet, kill the light.”, but it was a match made in heaven. The dialogue between these two!!! Read this fic! Run! Don’t walk!

Melvin from Simon Eriksson: Just some guy from biology (G, 1/1) by fandom_commitment_Issues (@zee-has-commitment-issues) - good student, considerate partner and father. On this list because he does deadpan so well. He kept a straight face when W huffed “I’m getting married to an idiot”.

Alba from Taking me Back (M, 6/?) by wilmonlibrarian - for being one of those too smart for your own damn good teenagers who sees straight through her own father, Simon. (Alba isn’t buying it. “So, you’re saying nothing I experience in the next few years will matter to me in the future?”) and yeah karma really is playing a terrible joke on poor W & S in this.

Luis from All the Places we’ve been (M, 10/10) by This_time_its_just_me (@in-amor-veritas) - Simon’s roommate in New York, Simon who has his own life and successful career as a singer. Gives Simon essential advice on what to wear to meet his ex (yes, you know the ex). (“Oh please, none of your clothes fit you correctly, Simón”) He works at one of NYC’s biggest fashion magazines. Think Devil Wears Prada, friends. Just the absolute funniest and most loving wingman, takes absolutely none of Simon’s bullshit or his polyester. Has entirely the correct reaction when he finds W in his bathroom.

Lotta from Heart and Homeland (M, 33/ ) by @bluedalahorse and @heliza24 - An intrepid, loyal, and revolutionary woman with a heart of gold, who holds the key to a major plot twist in this masterful AU set in the early 1800s, where Wilhelm is at the center of a fight for Sweden’s future, and everyone writes each other a lot of beautiful letters. (“Lotta sighs and giggles like we are best friends and says we should tell one another romances or fairy tales and I want to tell her that princes are not the same in real life as they are in stories.”) Don't miss this fic!

[my-favourite-zhent]

Fortune and Favour

Hello folks, a new AU long fic for you.

Summary:

AU set in Luskan 1480DR. Rugan has assumed leadership over the Coin Spinners gang and taken the name Clearlight. When a Waterdhavian noble comes snooping around for Illuskan Netherese relics under the gang's headquarters Rugan steps up to put them in their place. What he instead finds is the chance at an amazing payday and an unexpected prize.

Notes:

This AU is straight out of the filthy mind of @fistfuloftarenths. She head canoned the idea of Rugan of Clearlight based off the screenshots of @captainsigge. Fistful also came up with a lot of the scene ideas, so I'm bordering on being her ghostwriter at this point. Also thank you to @dustdeepsea for helping me with the title and summary. Big shout out to all three for beta reading for me. These fics are pretty much written for the Zhentil Keep Perverts at this point.

Banner by the lovely @coreene

Chapter One below the cut or here on AO3

Chapter One

1480 15 Uktar

Eden of Clearlight was dead, had been for many months now. While she had rallied many of the other gangs to the Coin Spinners banner, she had lost almost as many men in the ensuing chaos. The Coin Spinners had been left adrift, weakened, directionless and Rugan had seen an opportunity.

He’d only been a lieutenant in a lower ranking gang – so low its name does not bear recounting – when Eden had pulled them all into the fold. But now she and most of her officers were dead. There had been a few others that vied for leadership, and all had found a knife in their back. Either each other’s or Rugan’s.

So it came to be that at barely twenty-four Rugan had become the new head of the Coin Spinners, and with it acquired the title Clearlight. So named for the temple-come-fortress that housed them. He had struck decisively at the other criminal organisations before they had gotten their feet back under them. Most had survived but in weakened states. There were few left who would dare challenge him now. Which was why Amnos’ information came as a surprise.

“Some girl’s been asking about you down in the Cutlass,” the redheaded man had said as the pair stood in front of the altar to Tymora that marked the centre of the fortress.

“That right? Looking to get recruited?” Rugan drawled in his lilting Luskan accent. He tilted his head as he spoke, tied back flaxen hair catching gold in the sunlight that trickled through the stained-glass window overhead. It was said to be the last glass window in Luskan, and for which the temple and now Rugan derived their name.

“Doesn't seem like, looked a bit posh to be joining up.” Amnos scratched his beard pensively.

“A noble?” His eyebrow quirked. That was interesting. Not that he had any love for nobles but he’d never heard of one stooping to joining a street gang, especially not in Luskan of all places.

“Seemed so, dressed nice and spoke real educated-like too. Southern accent it sounded like.”

“Who’s she affiliated with?” The thought of a southerner stirring up trouble did give him pause. Kalen Dren, one of the parties who had been involved in the annihilation of the Luskan gangs, had been from Waterdeep and had since returned there. Any locals would’ve known to stay out of Rugan's way.

Amnos shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like she knows the local gangs, we haven’t seen her make contact with anyone. She’s just been reading books when she’s not harassing the locals.”

“Suppose we should pay this little interloper a visit then. We can’t have just anyone trading on my good name.” He smiled shark-like.

+++++

The Cutlass was one of the busier inns. In the city’s heyday it had been a sight to behold. Still turned a profit as it was, but much like Luskan it’s glory days were long past. The timbers were old and rotted, and its windows were made of thin sheets of animal horn rather than glass.

A nervous silence had fallen over the taproom when Rugan and Amnos entered and he felt a smile play at the corner of his mouth. There was power there, in being feared. Rugan’s exploits against the other guilds had been cutthroat and his reputation well earned. He had little interest in the common folk though. These customers had no reason to fear him as long as they didn’t cross him, but there was no need to tell them that.

He nodded at Amnos to wait for him down here before ascending the stairs to the inn’s rooms. The girl had been under watch for a few days now and his men had informed him of which room was hers. He knocked at the door. Whatever this little noble wanted, he'd be sure to send them packing.

The door swung open and there she stood. Little was right, she barely came up to his chest. But gods, she was beautiful. With soft raven waves cascading past her shoulders, a small but perky bust and a delicate waist that was begging to be grasped.

“Heard you've been asking around about Clearlight, lass.”

It was meant to be intimidating, well, just a touch to start. In her excitement the girl didn't seem to notice. She clasped her hands together under her chin and looked at him with wide eyes.

“You know about the Clearlight temple?” The delight in her voice was unmasked. Her eyes were sparkling, and they were lovely too, framed by thick dark lashes.

The girl’s reaction was the exact opposite of what he had intended, and he felt himself swallow unexpectedly. She grasped his hand in both of hers.

“Oh, do please come in!” She began pulling him into the room without waiting for a reply. Rugan allowed this, but not without some trepidation. Was this a trap set by a rival faction?

“I'd love to hear your opinion on the maps. It took a while to piece them together.” She ushered him towards a table that looked like the victim of a mad cartographer. Several maps were scattered over its surface, weighted down with pebbles. He could see underneath was a larger sheet that had connections between these disparate pieces drawn in.

“Now, no one source had all the sections of the undercity of course. What information we have on Netheril and Illusk is fragmented at best. But based on the complete diagrams from various other Netherese ruins we know that the general floorplan of a Netherese vault house follows a distinct pattern…” The girl had taken a seat at the table and continued to chatter on, but she had lost him a while ago. He sat down in the opposite chair, scrutinising her as she spoke. 

A thin braid encircled the crown of her head, adding a touch of order to the chaos that was her hair. Her blouse looked to be of a fine cotton, with ruffled trim along a neckline that dipped deliciously low. He admired how the swell of her breasts peaked out from beneath her top. It was cinched under her bust by a green velvet jacquard corset, laced up the front. Her pants were tan leather, they looked smooth and barely worn. Amnos had been right, entirely too posh to be a recruit. Some noble out of Baldur’s Gate or Waterdeep mayhaps?

“I keep asking about the temple but no one seems to want to talk about it. You'd think it was dedicated to Beshaba rather than Tymora with how skittish the locals have been.”

“People can be a bit superstitious here in Luskan,” he offered, inwardly grinning at his good fortune. 

She was a complete and utter fool. For all her research she had neglected to look into the local criminal organisations before coming to Luskan. Of course she didn't know that the Coin Spinners had taken the temple as their base, and that he had taken its name for his own.

“Ah, forgive my manners. I've forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Isolde.” She held out her hand for him to shake.

“Rugan.” He replied, taking her hand and raising it to place a kiss upon it.

She was taken aback, eyes wide with surprise.

‘Didn't think a guttersnipe like me knew how to address a noble lady, did ya?’ Rugan was both rankled by the thought and smug that he had proved her wrong. 

He noticed a blush creep over her cheeks and how she seemed to be appraising him now as if noticing him for the first time. He felt the beginnings of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. No, it was more than surprise, she was flattered.

“P-pleased to meet you,” she managed to eke out.

“Indeed.”

Then, just as quickly, it seemed his hold on her was broken by a sudden recollection.

“Ah I almost forgot! The onion skin!”

“Onion skin?” 

But she was already out of her seat and rooting through her pack. She returned with a roll of paper that when unfurled was semi translucent. He supposed it did resemble the skin of an onion.

Carefully she placed it overtop the other maps, pinning it down based on some landmarks only she perceived. There was a map on the onion skin he realised. Tymora’s tits, this was—

“It's the blueprint for Tymora’s temple. The clerics in Waterdeep let me take a look at their copy. Took a bit of maths to get it to scale with the others but luckily the walls are mostly square. Mind you, this is from when it was built in the 1370s, there's no way to tell what it looks like now over a hundred years later. At least not short of going in yourself.”

Now this was something. It galled him to think that a map of the hideout had just been floating around in some Waterdeep temple for any preening noble to come have a little look-see.

“And these markings here?” He gestured to the map, careful to keep his tone neutral.

There were four circles and three crosses marked on the onion skin which lined up with structures on the maps below. He already had a sneaking suspicion what they were based on their locations.

“Passages down to Illusk. The circles are confirmed, cross-referenced with some old journal entries of a priestess I found in Candlekeep library.” 

She was correct, two were caved in, but the remaining pair the Coin Spinners had heavily trapped and kept watch over. Never knew what manner of sneak or beast would come up from the undercity.

“And the crosses are unconfirmed?”

“Right, I couldn't find any historical records that mention them specifically, but based on the fact that the first four correspond with the Netherese designs, I think it's safe to assume there would be a temple counterpart for the remaining three. Two of them are connected to a hidden inner chamber while the third connects to the high priest’s chambers, which would explain why they weren't widely known. I mean, it's just a hunch, but I'm fairly confident.”

She looked proud, and he supposed she had reason to be, having found three unguarded entrances to slip into his lair.

“Why would the temple builders create passages, and not just loot the undercity?”

“They may have already looted it or attempted to. But I suspect the temple's location would be particularly auspicious, sitting on top of a coin house. The number of passages also suggests this—seven was considered lucky in many human cultures.” She mused.

There was a sharp whistle and they both started from their chairs.

“Shit, the kettle.” She hurried over to the opposite table where a ceramic kettle bedecked with runes was steaming. Nobles and their magic toys.

“Would you like some tea?” She called over her shoulder.

“Oh, aye.”

Rugan took the opportunity to consider his next steps. He had come here expecting an upstart wanting to buy their way into the guild, or perhaps some imposter trading on his name. Either one he would've cowed or killed, depending on how much he disliked them. He was certainly prepared to dislike some preening noble.

But, technically she was innocent of any crime outside general nosiness. If anything it was his good luck that he had found her before some rival did. He could just take the map but that left the girl as a loose end. 

Rugan watched as she prepared two cups of tea. Killing her would be easy enough, but it would be simpler to find the entrances with her know-how.

‘Besides,’ he thought, as she tucked her hair behind her ear revealing more of her slender neck, ‘Noble or not, it would be a crime to remove such a pretty thing from the world.’

She returned with the two cups, and he noted she had left two sugar cubes on his saucer. Sugar had been a luxury in Luskan of late, seemed like more and more things were luxuries nowadays.

“My thanks.” He accepted the cup politely and dropped both cubes in before stirring. “You bring all this with you from Waterdeep?”

“Yes, that's right. Generally prefer to travel light but the merchants I know in the city were of the consensus that it’s a bit harder to get supplied in Luskan, and in any case it was just the one boat up.” She took the seat beside him and sipped at her tea.

“Not too long of a trip I hope?”

“A little more than half a tenday by galley. Not long at all.”

He nodded and took a deep draught of the tea. Rugan was no deckhand, but you don’t grow up in the city of sails without learning a thing or two about ships. A galley was one of the fastest and most expensive ships to book passage on, just one way may have run her fourty or fifty gold pieces. Definitely moneyed, maybe a merchant family out of Waterdeep? She might fetch a nice ransom. No servants though, at least none that Amnos had observed. This wasn’t entirely unusual with tourists who thought part of the fun was ‘roughing it’ . Especially if they were stingy tourists.

“I’m being rude again, I’ve forgotten to ask about your interest in the temple.” And she really did look sorry.

“Well I live there for one.”

“Live there!” She straightened in her chair. “But the clerics in Waterdeep, they said the clergy has long since abandoned Clearlight temple.”

“We’re not really associated with the Waterdeep branch. None of the large organisations have any interest in Luskan since the Spellplague. You could say we’re a bit esoteric compared to most Tymorans.” Rugan didn’t consider himself a particularly good liar, but the girl hadn’t seemed to have noticed.

She was leaning in close now, barely containing her excitement. “So you’ve been inside? You’ve seen the passageways?” He could smell her hair now, it was like jasmine and orange peels.

“Aye lass, some of them. Most are collapsed but those new ones on your map I haven’t seen before. Could be worth an investigation.” The girl was almost leaping out of her chair, this was too easy.

“Would you permit me to come look?” Her voice had already been high but it seemingly shifted a whole octave up now. “I promise not to disturb anything, and of course there would be a split of anything found down there.”

He let his features fall into a charming smile. “Well, if you're promising.” Of course the split would be highly in his favour, if he let her keep anything at all. Unlikely.

It was his lucky day, Tymora be praised. He was going to secure the fortress, possibly a payday and—he let his gaze linger on her a moment—a bit of company if he played his cards right.

She must have noticed his stare, noticed how close they were because her cheeks were reddening and it seemed like her breath was caught in her throat.

“Are you a treasure hunter, then?” Her cup was no longer steady in her hand and he gently took it from her, placing it on the table.

“N-no, just a student. I've been writing my graduation thesis on Illusk.”

“And the treasures they left behind?” He leaned in closer as well so they were mere inches apart. 

“It's the records I'm interested in.” Her voice was quieter now, it had a breathy quality to it.

“Not the coin?” She merely shook her head and he reached forward to palm her cheek. When she didn't protest, Rugan felt confident in his approach. She was younger than him, not by much, but enough that combined with a sheltered upbringing she was likely inexperienced in these things.

“Seems to me, if we're going to be working together we should get to know one another a little better. Don't you agree?”

[bg-brainrot]

Hugs for a Vampire (Astarion x GN!Reader) - Chapter 11: After Meeting Petras and Dal

Chapter 11: After Meeting Petras and Dal

Each chapter can be read as a standalone hug.

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Rogue!Tav)

Genre: Fluffy, Filling in Canon

Rating: Teen

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Act 3, Canon-typical violence, Astarion's quest, cw: Astarion's trauma, Astarion's coping mechanisms

WC: 1.4k words, 11/18 chapters

Summary: Set in early Act 3, Rogue!Tav and Astarion encounter Astarion's siblings.

Ao3 | [Hug10][Hug12] | Hugs for a Vampire Masterlist

To say that you’ve had a crazy week between Rivington and Wyrm’s Crossing would be an understatement. Deep gnomes, drow twins, devils, doppelgangers, you feel like you’ve lived an entire lifetime in mere days. In fact, compared to how you all looked entering Rivington– haggard from the Shadowlands, running on fumes and willpower– you look like completely different people.

Just yesterday, you took a detour to Carm’s Garms and, while you normally don’t pay for goods and services, you couldn’t resist having some of those garments immediately. Especially once you had Astarion try on a few options. Needless to say, you’ve never spent so much money before, especially on clothing or dyes.

So when you set out this sunny morning, you take a short detour to his tent to witness firsthand the results of your shopping trip. “Don’t you look dashing,” you say, with a satisfied little smile. Your love is dressed to the nines, in a delicately embroidered obsidian coat, its filigree a deep crimson to match his ruby eyes. 

Astarion pulls at the lapels of the coat, tilting his head up toward the sun. “Don’t I always?” he asks, the pride in his voice feels fresh, renewed by a confidence you’re happy to see in him. He does deflate a moment later, fingers picking at the trim of his sleeve. “Not that I would know. I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“Shall I get another statue commissioned of you?” you ask, half-joking. The half that is serious knows that if he says yes, five-thousand gold is a small price to pay for even a moment of his happiness.

He doesn’t take you up on it though, laughing at the suggestion. “Maybe once we’ve settled somewhere more permanently. If Lae’zel and Karlach have to carry a second statue of me from campsite to campsite, I may not be long for this world.”

You take a moment to imagine a world where you are settled somewhere with Astarion, where you can decorate with as many statues and paintings of him that you can commission. “Very well,” you respond. “When this is all over, you won’t want for a mirror, trust me.”

Something about the sincerity in your voice throws off his usual veneer of vanity. “My love, you really are quite frightening when you set your mind to it.”

“Don’t you forget it,” you respond with a grin. The unspoken communication of what’s to come after this is all over still lingers, and you’re drawn to it like a foolish moth to a flame. “Speaking of planning ahead, you mentioned that we should look for your siblings before we enter the city?”

Astarion’s face sours into a grimace, but he doesn’t shy from the subject. “Yes, we should look about the dirtiest hovels. I would start somewhere like Fraygo's Flophouse, it looked miserable enough.”

You nod at his suggestion, ready and willing to face his past. “Let’s go today.”

– 

Well, you thought you were ready and willing to face his past. While you started your encounter with Pale Petras and Dalyria on a strong note, with Astarion interrogating his siblings, ultimately getting the information that you need – you end it on a sour one. As soon as his siblings flee, you come face-to-face with an Astarion you haven’t seen in weeks. 

“We have to face him and take that power for ourselves,” he says, a low growl to his voice.

“Not that they were the epitome of a loving family, but those six spawn are your brothers and sisters,” you start, an eyebrow raised in challenge. “Are you ready to sacrifice them?”

“Trust me I’d rather slaughter someone else’s family, but… if that’s what it takes,” he says dismissively, waving away your concerns with his hand. “And it’s not like they’re sweet innocents: they brought Cazador just as many victims as I did.”

You give him a look, not hiding your disapproval of his words, nor his dangerous train of thought. “It’s not like you had much of a choice. I don’t blame you for your actions, I could hardly blame them for the same thing.”

“You’re not getting sentimental, are you? I thought you were with me on this,” he says, an unveiled attempt to appeal to your practicality, your pragmatic leadership. When your expression doesn’t waver, he continues, voice infused with a new emotion: desperation. ”We are a team, aren’t we? You are still with me?”

Despite yourself, your heart aches at his pleas. “I just… want you to be happy,” you say, honestly.

“Then you’ll help me in this. Nothing would make me happier.” You stare uneasily at him, before hazarding a glance at Karlach and Shadowheart, their worries are clearly written on their faces. 

“We’ll do our best, Astarion,” you swear. “We will deal with Cazador one way or another.”

He seems mollified at your words, and a bit of erratic glee enters his tone as he says, “And now we know he’s skulking beneath his palace, we can take the hunt to Cazador.” 

You and your companions nod warily, tiptoeing around the anxious energy about Astarion. Something in his demeanor scares you more than even your most fearsome foes have. His familiar attitude, the oddly comforting sass and sarcasm, is nowhere to be found. You need to do something, anything, to diffuse the situation.

“Love,” you begin, deliberate in your small movements toward him. You reach out a single hand, palm up, facing him. “I know that was a lot to handle this early in the morning. Would you like a hug?”

In his regal attire and smug look, he seems leagues away as he scoffs. “Oh, please. It was nothing,” his words are confident, but something about the way he’s standing, posturing, seems defensive, afraid. “I don’t need comfort for dealing with a sniveling fool like Petras.”

You’re not convinced, of course, but drop your hand regardless. “Suit yourself, my dear.” You pause a beat, as you settle on a new way to bring your vampire out of his temper. “Truth be told, I was being a bit selfish– after all, it’s not every day your handsome lover grabs someone by the throat like that.”

Karlach’s startled snort sounds like music to your ears. It snaps Astarion’s face out of his pompous expression. When he looks at you, surprised and satisfied, you know he’s a bit more himself again. “Well if that’s what gets you going, I’m happy to provide a cuddle.”

You don’t need any further affirmation, closing the distance between you with a step. Your arms wrap under his, holding his body tightly to yours by his shoulders. Astarion, despite his airs, melts in your arms easily. There’s a bit of a crinkle to his movements, as the fresh garments bend in unfamiliar ways. 

This is by far the nicest outfit you’ve ever hugged your lover in– you can feel every exquisitely stitched seam, the cloth is soft to the touch, pristine and shining. You have a brief moment of wonder; is this what hugging Astarion two centuries ago would have felt like? It’s likely he hasn’t had anything this nice in recent years. You’ll need to sort out an entire new wardrobe for him, of only the finest make.

Something about the moment compels you to say as much. “When this is all over, we’ll need to find somewhere to put your new wardrobe, in addition to all of your statues and paintings,” you whisper, a promise meant for only his ears.

He chuckles into your hair. “You like fancy clothing as well. I’m learning so much about your preferences today, love.” You roll your eyes at his teasing and move to break the hug, but he only grips harder. His words are the barest breath on your skin, “Just… one more moment.”

You would happily give him as many moments as he needs, and you curl back into him. Karlach and Shadowheart don’t interrupt, perhaps sensing that he needs the comfort he so vehemently denied. For your part, you can feel the tension leaving his body, slowly but surely. The instinctual fear that Petra and Dal evoked, the memories of his past life, retreating back in the face of his overwhelming reality. He is safe here, in your arms, with his friends– each of you ready to face his fears alongside him.

“All right, let’s go,” he says, finally releasing you. Then, with his usual flair, looks around, as if realizing where you’ve had this moment. “This place stinks of rat blood and despair.”

“Let’s go,” you confirm. “We've almost made it back.”

[tact-and-impulse]

Realized taking a particular quest can be possibly done after starting the friends with benefits dynamic, @shepherds-of-haven, and the potential messiness was too good to pass up lol. Edit: AO3 link

fair play

Gold filigree and brilliant emeralds. Chase recognized the necklace immediately; it was the one she’d worn that night. He had rummaged for the perfect jewelry, and knew it was the right choice. He remembered the glitter against her warm skin, the searing temptation to break the clasp in his eagerness. Now, the intricate links draped over a silken blouse that wasn’t her usual style. Rouge darkened her lips, pursed in thought as she read a paper scrap.

He slid his hands in his pockets, aiming for nonchalance, each casual step pointed in her direction. Carefully, he delivered a teasing greeting. Then, he tracked the flurry of emotions on her face - embarrassment, panic, a spark of desire - before her own brave mask fixed into place.

“You’re back early. What’s toward?”

“I should be asking you, with how gorgeous you look. What’s the occasion, darling?”

Her fingers played with a smaller gem. “A spare job, I suppose. An anonymous request for a party companion, a scheme of some kind.”

He couldn’t suppress the rolling twitch across his shoulders. “Interesting.”

“Yes, ironic, but it’s for the reward.”

“How much do you need?” He inquired, before thinking twice. “No-name can find another, I’ll give you the money. Even better, we could earn it together.” In a lower tone, he added. “And we’ll have fun.”

She nearly caved, a sharp inhale and shiver at the idea. But she shook her head. “Chase. I can’t say.”

Of course, it wasn’t as if they were truly lovers. He rocked onto his back foot. “Ah, understood. Good luck in getting your treasure, sunshine.” Weakly, he attempted to slither off.

He didn’t expect her to grab him, just under his collar. He pivoted, her name escaping him.

Remorse flooded her shining eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hide it. The money’s for buying you something in exchange. I want to be fair, I wouldn’t feel right otherwise. But I’m horrible, I haven’t had great luck in r…” She stopped, catching herself. “Anyway, the job isn’t worth upsetting you. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

His gaze dropped lower. He itched to steal that unspoken word from her mouth. Instead, he forced a smile. “Right. Friends. And I’m not upset…except, you shouldn’t put yourself down. In fact, I’m touched by your thoughtfulness. You’re far too kind for me.” Now, he was treading dangerously close to honesty. “I’m glad you like the necklace enough to wear it a second time.”

She flushed, her reply indicating he was an idiot. “You gave me this. Of course, I love it.”

His pulse kicked up, heat building within. “…You know, we can still have fun.”

“After I return, with your gift. Before you ask, it’s a surprise. I’m sure you can wait.” She smirked. And then, with a bold kiss on his cheek, she darted away.

It’d been a long time since he felt robbed, and he crouched, cradling the side of his face. She could try but she wasn’t fair at all.

[daryascurse]

𝔗𝔥𝔬𝔲 𝔖𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔱 𝔑𝔬𝔱 ℭ𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔱

Commandment Part X: Mei Mei x Reader [nsfw] [2.5k wc][minors dni]

POV: second person, AFAB reader, feminine pronouns

tags: submissive reader, dominant Mei Mei, femdom, edging, teasing, orgαsm delay / denial, light bondage, oral, mαsturbation, fingering, finger sucking

Mei Mei covets. Mei Mei is the definition of one who covets, greedily, shamelessly, with no secret of it. You can practically visualize her in the Louvre, an oil painting of shimmering silver, caricatured with fistfuls of jewels and a haughty smile playing across her lips. But then, it wouldn’t even be a caricature.

Here she is before you as you sit, bound with ropes of gold in a grotesquely exquisite chair, coaxing almost another orgasm out of you.

“I’m so proud of you,” Mei Mei says, her voice sultry, a tinge of a laugh in her words. “You’re holding on so well so far– really, so, so well. You should be proud of yourself.”

keep reading below the jump or on ao3 ||| set the mood with Mei Mei's spotify playlist

I have a very strict adult-only interaction policy. Ageless, blank, and clearly minor-run blogs that interact will be blocked. If you have questions about what that means, please read the byf in my pinned post.

Mei Mei covets. Mei Mei is the definition of one who covets, greedily, shamelessly, with no secret of it. You can practically visualize her in the Louvre, an oil painting of shimmering silver, caricatured with fistfuls of jewels and a haughty smile playing across her lips as she raises a diamond to lick against scarlet lips. But then, it wouldn’t even be a caricature.

Here she is. Just as regal as your fantasies, in the flesh before you, before you as you sit, bound with ropes of gold in a grotesquely exquisite chair, coaxing almost another orgasm out of you.

“I’m so proud of you,” Mei Mei says, her voice sultry, a tinge of a laugh in her words. “You’re holding on so well so far– really, so, so well. You should be proud of yourself.”

You, tied naked and panting, can say nothing but just let your eyes follow her fingers. They move back as alabaster shadows, ghosting away from your body, teasingly slowly. Mei Mei’s fingers are slick with you. She spreads them into a V and back together, as if admiring how your wet arousal strings out into a web between her, silver gossamer shining almost like her hair in dim light. You already feel sore, already pulled to the edge and stopped, and she’s just done it again. It’s tiring.

But your silence isn’t appreciated, and Mei Mei lets you know that. She squats fully down with her hands on your knees. She pushes them as far apart as your ankles, tied to the bottom of the chair, will allow. You let out a strangled sound in the throat as your thighs strain in response. The thick braid over her eye slides as she glowers up at you, the pleased smile draining from her lips as the laughter dies.

“How many?”

You pant for breath, and the edges of her manicured fingernails dig into the skin of you knee. “Oh, you haven’t cum yet, have you?” she asks scornfully. 

“I haven’t,” you moan, finally finding the words. Your muscles stretch as you gasp out the response. You feel the urge to struggle against her grip and push your knees together, as the fire roaring below your belly gets dim again. You can practically feel your skin pulsing, the faint fluttering of muscle beating away again. “I haven’t cum, Mei Mei, I swear.”

“Very good,” Mei Mei says, and she practically purrs the words.

She leans closer, platinum blue glossy over her face. You blink, almost wincing, feeling the stark contrast of your bodies – you, sheening with sweat and furrowed brow as you strain to keep it together, and her, eyes passive and face kept porcelain smooth with matte powder. Mei Mei smells like almond and pear, the scent wafting at you with luxurious challenge. She smiles. It's sweet and dainty.

But her hand is strong as she turns, clamping on your knee to slowly inch up your thigh. It feels like she moves a mile up sensitive skin, and your feet jerk up in reflex.

“How many have you come close to?” she asks again.

You feel an ache as the last of the build dies, even as her hand comes closer. Her thumb pushes into the soft flesh of thigh. “T-two,” you say.

Mei Mei digs her other hand into your knee and repeats the slow push up your leg. You feel your hips roll forwards, even as your arms tied together behind the back of the chair strain at the pulling motion.

“Hmm. Two. I haven’t decided how many I want to take from you yet,” Mei Mei says, stroking her finger up right at the outside of your folds. You shiver at the feeling – velvet, and hot, so hot, enough to bring the blood rushing under her touch. “But you know the rules. And I want you to really keep track. Don’t get sloppy on me.”

“Yes, mmm – ”

Your response is cut off with a groan as Mei Mei pushes her face between your thighs. No, pushes – delicately somehow. You feel your heart begin to pick up speed again, the tingling and warm sensation coming back down somewhere below your belly. But Mei Mei moves slow, achingly slow. She kisses your inner thighs, giving a wide-mouthed bite to the soft sensitive skin, and you whine.

She’s greedy, and she plays with her treasures to her satisfaction. Each time she comes between your thighs, with fingers, with tongue, with toys, it’s something different, trying something new at her leisure. The last orgasm she built you to was fast and fiery before ripping it away. And now, she goes slow, achingly slow.

She gives one long, unhurried lick against your folds, up, and down, before drawing away again without even coming to your entrance. You let out a gasp as your heartrate stutters. The teasing is cruel.

“No.. please, Mei Mei, please touch me,” you say in a whimper.

She slaps her hands down across your thighs in sudden surprise, causing you to jerk up as your body automatically fights against the restraints. Whatever next words you had to say melt into a yelp. The warmth pools below your belly, coming faster again, encouraged by her lingering touch.

“You taste like you need it,” Mei Mei says.

You shudder, trying to breathe deeply. Your legs bouncing up and down as best as you can as your heels knock against the chair, unable to touch each other and rub together to sooth the throbbing. The desire for friction pounds harder without having any of Mei Mey’s touch against you. “I… do,” you say. You’re pleading now.

But Mei Mei isn’t easily swayed. She smirks those plump lips, as if it’s funny that you’d think begging might work to convince her. The cherry gloss of her lipstick beams in the light. She pushes back on your knees again, standing up before you. She tosses her braid back with a flick of her wrist, looking you square in the eyes with that faint smirk still playing across her mouth.

“You want me to touch you… how? Like this?”

She pulls her ribbed black shirt over her head, and pauses as she bends her elbows back to delicately unclasp her bra. It falls, . She watches you as you watch her trail those currant gelled fingers down tight stomach muscles. There’s a pause of anticipation as her fingers tease at the lace black border of underpants just peeking out at her hips. With a smirk, Mei Mei smoothly undresses herself to display her body almost tauntingly in front of you, to show what you can’t have.

But she can have anything she wants. She’ll take it with a wink and, here, a private strip.

“Like this?” she asks again, voice dangerously soft as she brings one hand down to her bare cunt, using her index and ring finger to spread herself open to show you. Her middle finger strokes down gently, slowly with that red nail polish twinkling, coming up to press against her clit. She shines with slick, already aroused and wet from teasing you before, a precious pearl.

Beautiful.

Mei Mei moans, and you shift in your seat, trying to press against yourself and ease your urges, as the electricity in you begins to jolt harder and harder.

She moans again, another “like…this?” and she doesn’t demand an answer. It’s loud, theatric, just to make a point. You watch, eyes unable to move from her hands as she moves her ring finger down to join her middle in stroking herself in little finger bends of pleasure, up and down, rubbing hard and moving steadily faster and faster. As the tempo increases, so do her moans, and you hear yourself, whining again and again, begging for her touch as your voices crash together in breathless, pleading pants.

“Mei… Mei…”

Mei Mei closes her eyes, her other hand moving up to cup her chest, moving anxiously as if she can’t comfortably settle. She pinches her nipple and pushes, massaging herself before changing to the other. Her hips rock back and forth into the air, and her moans turn breathy, somehow even more lewd, more erotic. Standing becomes too much as she arches her back, almost thrusting her hips towards you, and she drops to her knees, leaning back, presenting herself directly to you as her hands move faster and faster over herself, pressing harder and moaning louder.

Fuck, she can put on a good show.

But it’s hard to tell if this is still just a show to tease you.

You feel your body pulse with roaring blood under your skin as you grind back and forth against the chair. The very heat of your cunt begins to burn hotter, aching for something. It’s wet between your thighs. You might even be dripping onto the seat, but you can’t look, can’t tear your eyes away from Mei Mei lasciviously displaying herself.

And your muscles and very bones begin to ache too. Your wrists strain behind you, sore against the ties, unable to touch yourself and satiate your arousal. You feel so dirty, like a pervert, getting off watching someone even if you can’t touch your own body. But Mei Mei opens her eyes, staring right into yours, just as she lets out a loud, vocal moan, and everything self-conscious flies from your mind leaving only lust.

“Mei Mei, fuck, come on!” you hear yourself cry out, your voice rising. “Please – let – me!”

Mei Mei slows, letting her eyes droop into a heavy-lidded gaze. She just barely sticks the tip of her tongue out of her mouth in a girlish tease, head tilted, before leveling it to stare at you again. The braid falls heavy from behind her shoulder to settle over her forehead once more as she straightens her back. She drops her hand from her chest, then lifts her hand from her cunt.

She drips diamonds from her fingertips.

She leans forwards, crouching between your legs again, and raises her wet hand to your lips. You lean as far as you can and catch her fingers in your mouth, licking the taste of her clean. Mei Mei is musky, sweet as honey. She reaches further, sliding her fingers around your mouth, giving you the chance to feel the texture and slick heavy on your tongue.

“Good girl,” Mei Mei says, smiling deviously again and withdrawing her hand. “How did that feel? Did you come close? You seemed to like what you saw.”

“God, Mei Mei, I really fucking need you,” you say hoarsely, feeling the sides of your mouth still wet with her arousal. Saliva pools below your tongue. The taste of her is still heavy.

“So, was that three?”

“Yes,” you say, rocking back and forth in the chair as the heat subsides again without the same force of external stimuli.

“And you liked that?” Mei Mei asks, her voice dangerously sweet. “You liked what I showed you? Is that how you want me to touch you?”

“Fuck, Mei Mei, yes, please, fuck, any way you fucking want, just please touch me.”

“Well, since you asked me so nicely,” she says sardonically.

Manners may be just a tool to Mei Mei to get what she wants, and she humors you with a sweet smile when she comes between your trembling legs again. You gasp as her tongue moves straight into you again, licking enthusiastically, fingers coming to tease against your entrance and rubbing together against the slickness of your arousal. Your feet flex and bend against the chair legs, spreading as wide as you can for her.

You feel Mei Mei’s grip adjust, left hand coming over to spread your folds from the top. Her shoulders push at the inside of your legs, and her tongue runs along you, up and down. She looks up through heavy silver hair and the apples of her cheeks rise in a smile, rolling her tongue up and flicking quickly against your clit.

“Ah!”

You groan, almost finally actually satisfied, feeling the heat rise again, the tingling spreading all through you. You flex your fingers in their binds, hands sore and almost numb behind you. You fidget and push your knees together as close as you can around Mei Mei’s head, and her free hand comes up to grip your thigh. She pushes into you, holding so tight you feel you might bruise little amethyst crystals in the morning. Her eyes dart up to you to keep contact again, just as her tongue dives up, curving and curling to find your clit and hold that pressure.

“Mei Mei - ”

She licks slowly and gently first, her tongue tracing across your sensitive pearly nub, and your hips jolt, moving up. She runs her tongue over it once more before starting to slowly, gently, suck against your clit, and her name turns into a howl as it comes out of your mouth again and again and again.

You’re so close, so close for yet another time, your heat beating in your ears and the heat pulsing from her touches beginning to ripple across your body. Your legs tense, and Mei Mei digs her hand harder into your thigh in response. Her tongue takes on a pattern of circular movement across your clit, and her fingers slip into your entrance. She moves, first one, then two fingers into you, and you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to keep her steady gaze.

“Ah – ah – ah – fuck – ”

It just becomes swift nonsense.

She curls the fingers up inside you. It feels amazing, it feels so good, and your breaths come closer and closer, desperately close to the climax, and desperate to find the words to tell her.

“Mmm..Mmmei Mei…”

Your cunt clenches, inner muscles tensing to pull her, draw her deeper inside. Your clit begins to ache and beat in time with your heart, almost overstimulated by all her touches. The need to come is throbbing against Mei Mei’s tongue and lips and fingers. It’s all too much, and not enough at the same time.

The release is so close, so close, and then Mei Mei withdraws. You open your eyes, and she’s learning back again, smiling, playing with her wet fingers as they sparkle with glistening diamonds again.

Déjà vu, déjà vu.

“Four,” Mei Mei says, almost a song. “I want to get to five.”

You fall, limp against the chair as your heart begins to slow evenly again and the fire flares frustratingly in a familiar feeling. You stare into her gleeful topaz eyes, wondering wildly if you’ll get a release tonight at all. But it’s up to Mei Mei and what she wants. And Mei Mei takes whatever she wants.

fin.

Author's note: Just a note that I don't think Mei Mei is like, the best person ever, especially not with what is alluded to in the series, I just think she's hot. And her scent is inspired by the perfume Burberry Brit.

[heylittleriotact]

Spiked (A Senna One Shot)

Rating: M

Summary: Takes place during Senna's adventuring days prior to them becoming archfey. Once upon a time, the party's cleric - a spirited but naive cleric of Sune - bargained away her soul to a devil to save her companions. As they work together to try and devise a way to get her out of the contract, Senna has a realization about the wording of said contract and comes up with a plan of their own - a plan that must be kept to himself if it has any hope of working. She might never forgive him for it... but at least she'll be free.

As is tradition, chaos ensues.

Read on ao3 or under the cut

@allofthebarks - Thank you for bringing Nayeli into the world. No hard feelings, yeah? 😘

Should the promisee, at any time after entering into this compact and in perpetuity, through any action, inaction, spoken or unspoken word, thought, feeling, or other such gesture, interfere with the promisor claiming the immortal soul of the promisee, the promisee shall be found in

breach of contract.

The hellish jargon ran through Senna’s head over and over, only one of many clauses designed to make escaping the contract impossible but easily the most damning of them: despite knowing the importance of breaking free of her contract, any interference on Nayeli’s part would be an automatic breach of its terms and the young cleric’s soul would be automatically forfeit. Though he’d discovered in studying the contract, that in and of itself presented an opportunity.

This could have been avoided entirely of course had she not bargained away her soul to a devil to save them from a grisly death at the vicious claws of a Bone Devil.

He wished there was another way, but as he considered the clause backwards and forwards until he could repeat it by heart, Senna came to terms with what the solution would require. 

Unfortunately the nature of his solution meant that he couldn’t disclose his plan to Ennic or Kali. Kali could likely be trusted if worst came to worst, but Ennic lacked subtlety, and if it turned out badly… no… it would be better for their hands to be clean… better that they had plausible deniability.

He came to a stop on the street corner under a lamp whose light fell just short of the opposite corner. He looked across the intersection and waited for the glint of a pair of eyes in the shadows and the slightest inclination of the head they belonged to before crossing casually, vanishing into the darkness. 

“Having a hard time sleeping. What have you got?” Direct and to the point - that was the best way to manage these transactions. Little did the thin, pale pusher know that there wasn’t a substance in the world that could conk Senna out. Not anymore. Elves couldn’t be magically put to sleep, but naturally occurring substances could do the trick - at least they could before Senna developed his immunity to poisons. Drinking had certainly lost much of its appeal since…

“Look well enough rested to me, feyling,” the pusher snorted, picking his ear with one hand and digging around in the pockets of his well-made but street-worn jacket. Beautiful golden haired Eladrin with tanned skin and pristine clothing were likely not this fellow’s typical clientele. 

“Bad memories,” Senna claimed curtly, following the pusher’s lead and sinking further back from the shadows. “Haven’t tranced in days. I’d rather sleep and deal with nightmares if it meant I caught a couple of hours of rest.” 

“Yeah, you and every other broken heart in this city I’d wager.” The pusher withdrew a small vial from his pocket at last, holding it up in the dark - he was half elven, he knew Senna could see it just as well as he could. “Milk of the poppy. This’ll send you off to dreamland faster than you can say ‘Menzoberranzan’ - two gold for this, got halves that’ll cost you one.” 

“I’ll take this one,” Senna said, reaching into his tunic and withdrawing the coin. 

The gold was extended but not released until the pusher dropped the vial of white liquid into Senna’s waiting palm. It vanished inside the gaudy jacket and the pusher licked his lips. “Good business, sir.” 

Senna dipped his chin in a polite nod to the pusher and turned to set off before pausing. “What is the ideal dosage for this? I would hate to overindulge… I just want to sleep.” 

The pusher threw his hands up in the air, “Oh yeah! Gotta get it right with this stuff or you might never wake up. There’s four doses in there - little lines on the side of the glass shows you how much is in a dose. Now this is really good shit, so a strapping statue of a man like yourself would find the best sort of relaxation in two doses, I’d risk three if you’re really in the mood to sleep for a week, but I wouldn’t down the entire vial in one go - like I said: you may never wake up if you take too much of this beautiful substance, sound good?” He clicked his tongue and threw a crooked snarl that Senna could only assume was a smile his way. 

“Perfect, thank you.” He bowed his head again, pocketed the vial, and walked out of the shadows into the well lit street, fiddling with the waistband as if he’d innocently stepped out of view to take a piss. 

The next evening, Senna sat at a table in a secret demiplane with Kali, Ennic, Nayeli, and her father, Malek: the hulking Efreeti they had freed from the dreadful prison in the fire plane where he had languished for the entirety of his daughter’s life until very recently. 

Upon his return to the inn the night before, Senna had spoken with Ennic and Kali while Nayeli was doing her evening prayers and the three had hatched a plan: bring Nayeli to her father’s safehouse and somehow talk her into staying with him while they ventured to the hells to deal with the matter of her contract… do everything they could to hang the fact that she had a lifetime full of memories to make with her absent father over her head and hope that it was enough to guilt her into sitting this one out. 

It was a terrible idea, and arguably opened her to knowingly breaching the contract if she agreed to it - which she wouldn’t, judging by what Senna knew of the stubborn cleric by now - but no one else needed to know that. 

All that mattered was that they were here, around this table, sharing a sumptuous feast from Malek’s magical pantry as father and daughter continued to acquaint themselves amongst cheerful company. Wine was poured, truths were told, jokes were made and memories too. 

Timeless as this plane was, hours flew by in effortless enjoyment. It was hard to come by guiltless laughter and frivolity for the four thrown-together adventurers these days. Senna found himself enjoying the novelty of well-wasted time with others… a feeling he hadn’t felt deserving of in centuries. 

But there was still work to be done. 

He flipped his silken golden hair over his shoulder with one hand and reached over the table, making to nudge Ennic’s scaled hand away from the plate of massive olives - one of the many delectable treats on the table. “S’cuse me, your lordship.” A jesting mockery of the white dragonborn’s proud noble heritage. 

“Hey now!” Ennic chided, the air around his nostrils clouding as he huffed with indignance. 

Senna popped an olive in his mouth, meeting his scaled companion’s glacial eyes purposefully as he slid the fruit over his tongue and delicately gnawed at the soft flesh, stripping it away from the pit with his molars. 

Kali was pouring herself another glass of wine. Nayeli was speaking loudly to her father, her hands flashing through the air as she regaled him with some tale. Malek stared at her, attention rapt - taking in every word, every motion, every breath of his daughter as if she might vanish into dust any moment. He clearly adored her, and that fact made Senna more nervous than anything. The love of a father… not a feeling he knew anything of, of course.

“You seem… tense,” Senna said, lifting his hand up to draw the naked pit from his mouth, watching the dragonborn’s eyes follow the path of his fingers all the way from his lips to the bowl where the other pits were piled up. His left hand popped the cork from the vial he had procured the night before and as he dropped the pit that was in his right hand, his left extended over the table in a precise, fluid movement. It passed over Nayeli’s cup of wine - one, two - then back to him, his fingers snagging another olive, the half empty vial secreted in his palm and briskly tucked back into a pocket. “Want to talk about it?” He flashed Ennic what he knew to be a devastatingly coy smile. 

Ennic squinted then rolled his eyes, picking up his cup of passionfruit juice and swirling it with dignity. “Ha-ha. Mister I-Hate-Rich-People-And-Look-Good-Doing-It-Because-I’m-A-Pretty-Elf trying to bully me around because of my upbringing. Soooo predictable!” He took a sip and pursed his lips defiantly at Senna. 

Senna arched a brow and chuckled. “I only wanted an olive. You’re the one that made it personal.” He made a point of drawing his lower lip through his teeth, earning a faint rush of pink that sashayed over Ennic’s snout. Next to the dragonborn, he marked the movement of Nayeli taking a big drink of her wine - she was well in her cups and well past the polite sipping she’d been doing earlier. She slammed it back on the table, spilling a few drops before launching back into her story. 

“Look, I don’t know you three the way you know each other, but sometimes I get the sense that you’re not telling me everything.” Ennic said.

Senna smiled drolly around the second olive, eyes lidded as he stretched his bare arms up over his head luxuriously. “How does one put a definition to something as inescapably broad as ‘everything’ though?” He worked the meat from the olive once more and maneuvered the pit with his tongue to the front of his mouth where he gripped it very, very gently with his incisors. 

Ennic’s rose-pink blush deepened, and his eyes darted away. “Stop that.” 

The pit fell into Senna’s waiting palm and he chucked it effortlessly into the bowl. “Stop what? I’m only eating olives… I wasn’t aware that’s a crime in this demiplane.”

Ennic’s neck frills flared, quivering slightly and throwing off flecks of frost as his claws dug into the table and he leaned over the banquet to Senna. He opened his mouth to retort at the exact same time Nayeli very loudly declared, “There were orgies in Sune’s temple, but not as many as you would think!” She shot to her feet, downing another mouthful of wine and pointing at nothing somewhere over Malek’s shoulder. “The lookie-loo tourists were verrrrrry disappointed… buncha perverts…” She frowned, swayed, looked directly at Senna as confusion flashed across her face, then comprehension. Then the frown became an expression of rage. “You fucking dare–” she spat at Senna, and then she collapsed back down to the bench and folded face first onto the table. Her goblet rolled from her hand, its contents staining the weathered wood. 

The room turned crimson, then white. Steam billowed off of Ennic as the windowless sanctuary they occupied became unbearably hot in an instant.

“WHAT?!” Malek was on his feet, fists the size of swans slamming onto the table. “MURDERERS!” He roared, white flame blazing from his eyes and curling up his brow.

Huge. He was huge: his arms were easily as wide around as Senna and he towered over his daughter’s so-called friends, sparks spilling from his mouth as he looked at each of them in turn as if deciding who to roast first.

At the sudden sound of Nayeli hitting the table, Kali had sprung away from the bench, pressing her back to the wall and holding her daggers before her defensively, lip curled in a fanged snarl as her pointed tail cut through the air around her. 

Ennic was staring with an awestruck expression at Malek, and Senna clambered over the table to stand between the enraged Efreeti and the dragonborn, hands held high. Between his own considerable height and the added height of the table he was nearly eye-to-eye with Malek.

“No! No murder! She’s fine - just sleeping. I swear it.” 

This. This was why Ennic and Kali couldn’t know of his plan: better he be subjected to a molten ass-kicking at the hands of an extremely pissed off Efreeti than all of them if he couldn’t talk him down. 

Senna ducked under the fiery fist that was barreling towards his face and nudged a pile of rolls off of a silver platter, kicking it up into his hand as he straightened. “She’s fine, see?” He knelt on the table and with deliberately exaggerated tenderness turned Nayeli’s head so she was no longer facedown on the table. He held the platter in front of her mouth and angled it so Malek could see her breath fog the polished surface. 

This appeared to at least somewhat quell Malek’s rage as he appeared to be gripping the edge of the table in a concerted effort to restrain himself from throwing another punch at Senna. The wood under his fingers sizzled and blackened. 

“I would very much like to know why you think you can come into my home and poison my daughter in front of me and leave this place alive.” Sparks flew from his mouth with each word. “Explain.” He demanded in a tone that promised painful death should the explanation not satisfy. 

“Not poisoned either - it’s Milk of The Poppy - I ensured the dosage would do her no harm. She’s sleeping and will be in perfect health when she wakes.” Not giving Malek time to think longer or ask more questions, Senna said, “And they had nothing to do with this, let’s make that clear.” Senna pointed at Kali and Ennic. “This was entirely my idea, and they had no foreknowledge of it, so whatever consequences are earned are mine alone. If you decide you want to melt my skin off or wear my guts as a necklace you’re welcome to, but you have to let these two go.” 

“Why?” Snarled Malek, and Senna had the presence of mind to put some distance between himself and Nayeli. 

“I brought her here because I knew she’d be safe. Here. With her father.” He tossed the platter down onto the disarrayed table with a hollow clang and straightened, lifting his chin and pushing his shoulders back. “You’ve read her contract - Nayeli can’t knowingly do anything to interfere or tamper with its fulfillment.” He repeated the clause in question word-for-word for Malek to underline the fact that anything done by Nayeli - passively or actively - that involved any provable knowledge or participation in events that concerned the contract would immediately and unequivocally put her in breach of it, condemning her soul instantly to the hells instead of at the time of her death. 

Malek swore.

“So when she wakes up and the three of us are gone, you’re going to explain everything to her: tell her how relieved we were when she passed out, and how we knew you’d be furious, but we’ve been trying to find a way to shake her dead weight for awhile now, and dumping her here with you seemed like the best possible option. Really sell it - make us sound like assholes who secretly hated her and only put up with her for as long as we did out of necessity.” The words were cruel and untrue - he quite liked Nayeli and was grateful to know her - but Senna’s feelings about the matter were inconsequential. “We have a world to save - the Queen of Chaos to foil - we don’t have time to squander away in a dangerous attempt to get one naive, impulsive cleric out of an idiotic contract she made with a devil.” 

“You are going to the hells without her… to break her contract without her knowing.” Malek said quietly, the fire in his eyes guttering and then dying out entirely. “To save her.”

“And she cannot learn the truth of that under any circumstances.” Senna said, deadly serious now. “Even if she becomes suspicious or guesses the truth of it - you must not tell her where we’ve gone and why… no matter how persistent she is… and I am familiar with her incredibly tenacious spirit: my sympathies in advance.” 

Malek considered Senna, crossing his muscled arms and cocking his head as he did so. “Fate is unkind in the fact that you have known my daughter for more days than I have, Eladrin, but I knew her mother and the cruel, small-minded family she was born to. I know that they rejected my child when her mother and everyone else in Sune’s temple died and I was locked away, unable to be there for her. I know that their refusal to accept her created deep wounds in her heart, and for a long time she believed there was no one left in the world who would care for her - about her. She told me this, you see.” His eyes landed on the snoozing form of Nayeli and they softened further as they filled with love as he stared at the girl with hair that smoldered and danced like flame. “But one does not need to be her father to know that the price of your deception is not cheap: if I lead her to believe that you and your companions joyfully abandoned her…” blazing eyes returned to Senna’s. “She will never forgive you for it. Not even if you are successful in your journey and find yourself in a position to eventually reveal the truth.” 

The room was brutally silent - the only sound was the soft rhythm of Nayeli’s breathing as she slept, blissfully unaware of the arrangements being made without her knowledge.

“Little love lost there to begin with, I think,” Senna smiled joylessly. “I never really got the sense she cared much for me anyway. May she lead a long and healthy life and hate me until her dying day without having the destination of her immortal soul lurking in the shadows of every memory she makes.” 

Malek appraised Senna’s defiantly cool expression again and said, “You are a good man, Eladrin,” and Senna knew he was no longer liable to rip his head off and use his skull as a teacup. 

It would be polite to respond in gratitude to the compliment, but Senna couldn’t bring himself to, so instead he climbed down off the table and started righting bottles and cups and trays that had been tipped and flipped when Malek slammed his fists into the table. 

Apparently the Efreeti took Senna’s silence as an invitation to continue. “Do you want to know how I know that, Eladrin?” 

“Do tell,” Senna said nonchalantly, setting a candelabra upright. Ennic and Kali silently began assisting with tidying the table.

“No daughter of mine, no daughter of hers –” He pointed at the portrait on the wall of a stunning woman with rich brown skin and thick, wavy black hair that draped over her shoulders and chest. “- would make a deal with the Archduchess of Malbolge to save a trio of strangers from a Bone Devil unless she saw something worth saving in them.” 

Traditionally, whenever the Bone Devil business came up, Senna enjoyed teasing Nayeli by reminding her that he was never actually in any danger from it because he was busy sprinting through the network of tunnels underneath the town of Rhalden in an attempt to locate and disable the stockpiled explosives set at various points that would blow the town into the sky if they were detonated. Little point in slaying the Bone Devil if they were going to be blown to bits for their trouble, he figured. 

Nayeli preferred to assert that he was actually running away because he was a coward. 

Of course, he wasn’t about to share this ongoing bit of repartee with Malek, so he capitulated, placed a hand over his heart, and bowed his head in silent thanks. 

“How’d you spike her drink?” Ennic grumbled, scooping mashed potatoes back into a bowl with his hand. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice: I am very hard to pull one over on.” 

“Evidently not when there’s flirting and olives involved,” Senna quipped, burying his heavy heart under self-congratulatory taunting. Just because he came up with this plan knowing full well that Nayeli may never find it in herself to forgive him for it, didn’t mean he had to feel good about it. “‘T’was far from my first time slipping a substance into someone’s drink undetected.” 

“Well you’re terrifyingly good at it,” Ennic declared in his jaunty brogue - less silken than Senna’s, with perhaps a bit more flourish on certain consonants. “A fine reminder that it would be in the poor interest of anyone to piss you off.” 

Clever dragonborn. 

“Speaking of pissed off: aren’t you worried she’ll come after us?” Ennic asked Malek. “There are people on the Prime that want us dead very badly. If she goes off on her own trying to track us down and she dies before we can end her contract, she’s hellbound.”

Not so clever, perhaps: Malek immediately stiffened at the mere hypothetical mention of his daughter dying under his watch. 

“I am confident that I will be able to convince my child that she must remain here with me for the time being,” he rumbled, his tone cautionary. Senna wished he’d had the foresight to spike Ennic’s juice too. 

“Look, I know you think you can, and you haven’t had as much time to get to know her the way we have, but as Senna said: she can be wildly recalcitrant, and–”

“Ennic.” Kali barked, speaking for the first time since dinner had gone awry. The pretty tiefling was more of an actions over words person, and Senna admired that about her. “I think he knows how to deal with Nayeli better than you,” she drawled. 

“I’m not saying he doesn’t!” Ennic said defensively. “I just think that rather than running the risk of her coming to any harm, it would be better to take… precautions.” 

The fire returned to Malek’s eyes at the implication of the word, and his voice was a dangerous rumble. “Are you suggesting that I imprison my own daughter?” 

Ennic’s neck frills ruffled, but he barrelled on. “You have that fancy closet that Dezzy was locked in. Would it be so bad if you knew she was safe?”

Senna knew what this was. Having joined their group unexpectedly part way through their adventure, Ennic had needed to earn their trust - and he had - but it was no secret that he still felt like an outsider whose ideas were given less consideration than they deserved. In this case, he obviously felt personally slighted that Senna hadn’t deemed him trustworthy enough to share his plan with him, so now he was trying to tack on his contribution… clumsily.

It came from a place of hurt, not malice, but Senna felt no regret about his choice not to involve him. Hells, if Ennic wanted to hate him too, so be it.

“I am not condemning my daughter to the same unearned punishment that I was subjected to for her entire life!” Malek vowed.

“I think we’re all on the same page in regard to the best approach with Nayeli’s delicate situation,” Senna said, his voice taking on a deliberate edge as he stared down Ennic: hurt feelings or not, he hadn’t orchestrated this plan and personally assumed the risk of being on the receiving end of Malek’s rage only for the druid to undo his work. “I do not think we need to meddle further.” He placed a hand on Ennic’s forearm: a gesture of comfort… and warning. 

Ennic shook free and opened his mouth once more. “Listen, let me just–” 

Before anyone could interject, Ennic brought his hands up and there was a brilliant flash of starlight that turned the room white. When it faded and Senna could see again, his eyes were immediately drawn to the place where Nayeli had been sitting. 

Where she had been resting at the table, there now snoozed a turtle, its shell the same fiery shade as Nayeli’s hair.

“You absolute fucking idiot…” Senna breathed. 

“Ennic! What the fuck?!” Kali snapped.

“There! Now she’s a turtle and can’t escape on you!” Ennic hurled the declaration at Malek, belligerence clear.

Senna hardly considered himself a father - that title belonged to people who actually deserved it - like Malek. But despite that, and despite the fact that he’d never actually met his child who he knew to be alive and well, Senna knew precisely one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt:

If someone had taken it upon themselves to transform his flesh and blood into a different creature in front of him without said flesh and blood’s consent… it would most certainly be the last thing the caster of the spell ever did. 

Malek seemed to share a similar mindset and the temperature in the room rose once again, along with the Efreeti’s voice. 

Senna blocked it out and picked up his own wine goblet from the table, refilling it before raising it in silent toast to Ennic, who was understandably not looking at him, but if he had been would have been met with a wry expression of: you’re-on-your-own-with-this-mess-friend. 

He drank deeply and found what appeared to be a relatively safe spot against the wall where Kali lingered. He leaned against the stone and observed as the dragonborn sought to undo the damage he’d done, and as his eyes lingered on the slumbering turtle, he found himself missing his son in that moment. He became caught up in wondering what his hair was like, or if his laugh sounded like his mother’s. 

Guilt turned his stomach as he fabricated an image in his mind of his child - a grown man by now, more likely than not - and he couldn’t let go of the sense that the indulgence was greedy and undeserved. 

He may be on the same level as Malek when it came to knowing what a father would put on the line to save their child, but Malek deserved a relationship with his child in a way that Senna did not. 

He probably does laugh like her… I bet it sounds beautiful.

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 21: Body Horror

Big Thanks to my friend Lucky @carryingstarlightinherwake for letting me play with her Were!Abba AU for today's @whumptober prompt! Perfect for Halloween season!

Prompt: Body Horror Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Character: Abbacchio

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Read on Ao3

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Howl

It’s the night of the full moon and Trish is determined to keep her werewolf body guard company during his transformation. (from carryingstarlightinherwake’s Were!Abba AU)

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“You don’t have to worry about me. Just lock me in my room and get out of the house for the night.”

Trish glowered at Abbacchio, arms folded over her chest. “We’ve been through this before, Abbacchio, I don’t feel right about leaving you here alone. I’m not going to lock you up! You’re not some animal—”

She bit her tongue as the older man snorted wryly.

“Except I am, at least during a full moon.” Abbacchio also folded his arms over his chest, trying to look as intimidating as possible, gold and lavender eyes glowering down at Trish. “Just because I haven’t hurt you during a transformation yet, doesn’t mean it can’t happen. I never know what I’m going to do when I turn. And it’s a super moon tonight. It will be even worse than usual.”

He looked exhausted underneath the front he was putting up. Trish knew he didn’t get much sleep during the week of the full moon. Last night, the first night of his transformation had been bad enough and everyone had been here to help calm him down. Now an urgent mission had taken all of the others away, leaving Trish to watch over their resident werewolf.

“Even more reason for me to be here by your side,” Trish told him firmly.

Abbacchio’s fists clenched. “Trish, please, I am begging you to leave. Remember what happened last month?”

“What? You broke a flimsy coffee table and an expensive vase—so what? We all agreed that vase was ugly anyway.” She was trying to get him to smile but he was obviously not going to play along. The tension in his body made it look like someone had cranked his muscles tight.

“You could be the one I lash out at tonight.”

“Abbacchio…”

“You know I don’t like you guys seeing me like that,” he protested.

“You’re the only one,” Trish pointed out. “Look, of course we hate seeing how much pain you go through during the transformation, but we don’t love you any less just because you’re in your werewolf form. I think you’re pretty cool, actually.”

Abbacchio’s glower deepened, unimpressed. “So, you refuse to respect my wishes?”

“If that’s the way you insist on looking at it, then yeah, I do,” Trish retorted.

Abbacchio clenched his jaw, his glower deepening before he finally threw up his hands. “Fine. But if I swing at you, promise me you’ll run or use Spice Girl or something, okay? I promise you won’t do much damage to me in that form, so look after yourself first. If you’re going to be so infernally stubborn.”

He spun on his heel and went off to sulk in his room.

Trish felt proud and a little relieved for getting her way. She knew how hard it was for Abbacchio to show that side of himself, the side he counted as a weakness, but she was determined to help him feel a lot less self-conscious about it.

She started to prepare for the night ahead, finding the items she wanted and arranging some things in the living room. She was determined to make Abbacchio as comfortable as possible

***

Abbacchio paced restlessly as Trish watched. She had tried to get him to sit down and watch TV with her until the transformation started but the rising of the moon was already wearing on him.

She watched warily as he started to scratch at his skin, light patches of hair were already starting to break out on the backs of his hands and arms, visible with the old tank-top and sweat pants he wore. Abbacchio bared his teeth in a quiet growl, eyes squeezing shut.

“You should try to sit down,” Trish urged him.

“I can’t, he snapped, voice slightly deeper. “It feels like my skin is going to crawl off of my body. I can’t sit still right now.”

His jaw clenched and he gritted his teeth as his nails started to lengthen, strengthening into claws. He hunched slightly and Trish could already see his muscles rippling under his skin, twitching and shifting.

“How long does it usually take?” she asked, trying to keep him distracted.

“A while,” Abbacchio growled. “Longest on the full moon.”

His shoulders hunched and he suddenly reached out to grab the back of a chair, digging his nails into it.

“Hey,” Trish snapped, throwing an old pillow at him that she had dug out of the closet. “Tear this up instead.”

Abbacchio caught the pillow and held it to his chest, sinking his claws into it.

He continued pacing, his motions quickly becoming more erratic. Fur was spreading over his face, his teeth longer. There were soft clicks every time he stepped now, as his toenails turned to claws as well.

The first muscle spasm took them both by surprise. Abbacchio cried out, collapsing suddenly on his knees, shaking.

Trish was on her feet, taking a step toward him. “Abbacchio?”

“Stay back,” Abbacchio snapped. “For now.” He cried out again, voice ending in a growl as he doubled over, his back and shoulders broadening. He panted, and as the next spasm took him, he tore the pillow open, batting spilling out as he curled toward the ground, forehead pressed to the floor.

Trish got up and went to kneel beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder, feeling the trembling and the soft fur spouting under her hand. “It’s okay. You’re all right,” she murmured.

Another, more violent spasm ripped through Abbacchio’s body and he let out a strangled cry that ended in a dog-like whimper. He jerked away and staggered to his feet, throwing the remnants of the pillow away.

Trish got up the instant she saw Abbacchio going for the lamp on the side table.

“Careful!” she said, snatching the lamp away as Abbacchio swiped, knocking a couple books to the floor instead.

He snarled in response, doubling over again as his shoulders rippled, growing in size. Trish could hear the creaks of his bones and tendons as his body shifted, straining against his tank top. Abbacchio was letting out ragged breaths as he buried his face in his hands, pained whimpers escaping.

Another violent spasm went through him and he was back on his knees, an agonized howl ripped from his throat.

“Abbacchio come lay down so you don’t hurt yourself,” Trish told him, trying to get through. He had said that saying his name during transformation could help, so she was going to try to keep him grounded as much as she could.

He didn’t seem to hear her so she reached out to touch his shoulder again.

Abbacchio’s head whipped up with a snarl. Trish startled slightly, not having expected his face to have changed already into its wolfish form, but she schooled herself soon enough. She had already seen him like this on a couple of occasions. It wasn’t actually that scary. Not when she realized he had the same eyes as he always did.

A bit of blood sat in the corner of his mouth where he had bitten his lip and Trish felt a pang of sympathy for the obvious agony he was going through.

“Come on, Abbacchio. Not much longer now, right?”

He let out a whimper, curling into himself again as his back arched and twisted. His shirt and pants were starting to tear from the strain of his body shifting, getting bigger. His claws dug into the floor, leaving a few scratches.

“Here.” Trish pointed to the pile of blankets and pillows she had made in the middle of the floor. “Come here.”

Abbacchio crawled in that direction before he collapsed on his elbows and knees again with a howl. His tail had sprouted, swishing back and forth a few times before he righted himself again and crawled into the pile of blankets, balling them up with his clawed hands, sinking his teeth into them as the transformation continued, the cracks of bones and tendons becoming more violent and sudden as the turning came to its peak.

An end finally seemed to be in sight as Abbacchio’s body tensed, his head rolled back, and he let out a wolf’s howl.

Trish watched as he finally slumped, body trembling from the fatigue. The figure who was now more wolf than man, covered in pale silver fur with lavender patches.

She knelt, placing a hand carefully on his back. “Abbacchio?”

He flinched, head coming up, eyes meeting her own.

Trish offered a smile. “Hey.”

Abbacchio let out a soft rumble and sat back on his haunches, catching his breath. He looked wrecked.

Trish rearranged the blankets and pillows in the center of the living room floor, forming it back into a cozy nest.

Abbacchio stared at it for a long moment before he crawled into the center of it and collapsed, flopping like a dog.

Trish couldn’t quite manage to hide a smile, watching his tail twitch back and forth in contentment.

“Comfortable?”

He let out a soft whine then reached out.

Trish inhaled as his claws caught in her sweater though were careful not to catch against her skin. Abbacchio tugged her in until she was forced into the pillow nest as well.

Trish huffed, curling up in the pillows and blankets as her werewolf bodyguard decided to curl around her, chin resting on top of her head.

“Fine, fine, I’ll stay here then. It’s safer to sleep like a pack, isn’t it?” She said with a giggle, reaching up to scratch behind Abbacchio’s ears.

His ears twitched and he growled in warning, shaking away her fingers, but he settled soon after, falling into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Trish felt safe curled up against the furry flank of her ‘pack mate’ and closed her eyes as well.

“Sleep well, Abba,” she said quietly before she too drifted off to the low rumble of wolf snores.

[ghuleh-recs]

★ Ghost Fandom Fic Rec Tag ★

VERY annoyed about the anon hate I’m seeing in my favorite writers’ ask boxes lately. So! I thought I'd live up to my username. Let’s appreciate some amazing writers and rec some fucking fics.

Rules (re: loose guidelines)

Pick some fics from your AO3 bookmarks or your likes/reblobs here on tumblr, and post them with links and a blurb about it. Maybe a summary or just a reason you liked it. As many or as few as you feel like sharing. Then, as one does, tag your friends.

This is a ZERO pressure tagging situation—if you’re too busy or don’t feel like participating, no biggie at allll. Let’s just spread some love and positivity shall we?

I’ll go first (some slightly spoiler-y descriptions ahead):

[REC] and 1080P by @st-danger We've got some absolutely delicious vulnerable Dew x completely smitten Swiss right here. Long story short, they send a video of Dew in panties to Aether. These are scorchingly hot. Part of Saint’s Kinktober series—which you better subscribe to if you haven’t already.

This Swiss x Aeon stoned hand kink ficlet from @crimsonclergy actually set my brain on fire yesterday. So there’s that.

This fic from @riconas featuring insecure Dew knotting Aether. A little desperate, a little mean, a LOT sexy.

A Touch Too Much by @miasmaghoul Hey have you ever wondered what would happen if Dew went into heat during a ritual? And how he might react to Papa singing about daddies and caressing him during KTGG? Hmm? You ever wonder about that?

It would tear me apart, it would haunt me forever (so much you'd never get to know) by @littlemoon-beam oh boy this is some stunningly good Dew angst. This fic will hurt your feelings and then you’re gonna thank Moon for it. She really blasted into this fandom like the Kool-aid guy and we are honestly so hashtag blessed for it.

Now for some reader-insert if that’s more your style.

Misaimed Desire by @violet-lazer Whoops. You accidentally texted Secondo something saucy and he summons you to his office. Whatever will he do to you? Part of her excellent First Kisses: Papal Edition series. Terzo is next so y'all better subscribe.

Banchetto by @angellayercake This. This right here is the good shit. Terzo is wasting away, not handling life after the Ghost Project well at all. Primo and Secondo enlist your help seeing as you’ve got some serious cooking skills. This is gorgeously written with some god tier slow burn and eventual smut. It’s a WIP but the most recent chapter is super satisfying, don’t you worry.

The Cardinal's Bride by @ramblingoak If you’re not following along with this, you’re REALLY missing out. This is pure bodice-ripper GOLD. Some of the most satisfying slow burn I have EVER read. I reread the whole thing every time Oak drops a new chapter.

The Prince by @kissingghouls Vampire!Terzo x slayer!reader need I say more? I am loving the latest installment of Suck Club (you should really read them all). Terzo is pathetic and wears crop tops and it has me actually kicking my heels and giggling as I read.

One last thing:

Leave a comment on ao3, or reply/reblog (with tags) here on the hellsite anything you enjoyed that someone else recommended. I dare you. The author might even reply and you’ll feel oh so special.

I tag: @littlemoon-beam, @rightintheghoulies, @myghemicalghostmance, @angellayercake, @ramblingoak, @neekocalico, @kissingghouls, @stede-bonnets and anyone reading this that also enjoys fanfic. Yeah you. I’m so serious. Don't test me, boy.

(Feel free to tag me back because I have soooo many others but this already got way too long.)

[missusk]

have you eaten yet? (ArvenxReader)

Summary: You’re everywhere, always, helping everyone all the time because you’re as kind as you are strong. You saved the academy and you saved Paldea and helped him out too, what with those Herba Mystica, so Arven wants to show you how much he loves you give back in the way he does best! Everyone loves homecooked meals, right? So why can’t he spit it out so that’s why the words so often falling from his lips are

“Hey, little buddy! Have you eaten yet?”

Word Count: 6173 Warnings: Game spoilers Author’s Note: this was sprouted from shower thoughts!!! Oughgh I love arven!!!! Just thinking about what your little journey could be like from his perspective AND IF HE WAS FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOU .but also has inner conflict bc this guy really needs a hug. please enjoy!! :) - missusk

Read here on Ao3

~~

“Have you eaten yet, Arven?” came a call from the lighthouse.

“No!” the child said enthusiastically, bounding up the dirt hill to his dear father. A Maschiff was hot on his heels, panting alongside the boy after their rigorous game of fetch-and-chase. The sun was beginning to set, with rays of gold glimmering on their toothy smiles.

“Well come on,” Dad chuckled. “Let’s cook together before I have to get back to work.”

“Okay!” Arven replied, giddy with anticipation in what he’d get to cook with his favorite person in the whole wide world. What would it be today? Pasta? Curry? It’s been so long since they last ate together, and now they can cook together too?!

“You didn’t peek at that new book, did you?” Dad asked from the lighthouse. Arven faltered in his run home. Whoops, he didn’t put the storybook away correctly, did he…?

“Uh-“

There came a chuckle, then a tousle of his hair as Arven finally reached the threshold of their small home. Arven clung with sticky fingers to his father’s dress pants in a quick apology.

“Well, that might’ve spoiled it, but let’s read from it together after dinner, shall we?”

“Okay!” Arven said through a now-guiltless grin, kicking off his boots as they walked together into the lab. “Can we have sandwiches?” He hoped that sounded like an innocent, totally random request, and certainly not inspired by a storybook he didn’t steal a glimpse of earlier that day when Dad was busy.

“Of course, my son.”

Those words were so seemingly inconsequential at the time, but as Arven sits drumming his fingers on the doodle-smudged desk, watching the second hand of the clock tick-tick-tick by, he only wished he remembered more of those seemingly inconsequential times. He heaves out a sigh – whatever, those thoughts haven’t gotten him anywhere before, and it’s not like anything would change by thinking about it more today.

“Phones away, please,” came Mr. Saguaro’s voice, interrupting Arven’s hazy sepia-toned memory like a shock of bright blue. “Before we begin class, I’d like to introduce our new transfer student.”

Oh? A new student in this part of the term? That was interesting enough to draw his attention away from missing his dad the hangnail he kept picking at.

Arven glances up, teal gaze meeting that of the new student. He immediately recognizes you as the very same student who took responsibility for that brute back at the lighthouse few days ago. So, you were a student here after all. Perhaps he should be keeping better track of you and Miraidon… but then again, what would that matter? Not like dad would care anything would be traced back to him if a weird looking robot lizard thing was suddenly crawling around Paldea. Lots of weird things happen in Paldea. If anything got back to him, he’d just say, that, like, 80 percent of the ocean was still unexplored, so that’s where it was from. Or something.

Your introduction is normal enough. You like Pokémon, are excited to be here, blah blah blah. Minus the innate talent you had for battling, you seem as average as the next person. Arven did notice your sweet smile, but brushed it off as easily as he would crumbs off his apron.

Well, whatever.

While a new student was seemingly inconsequential to the esteemed Uva Academy, you’d think the hallways had a mass outbreak of Combees with how the students buzzed with rumors about you the next few days.

“I heard she fell off a cliff before coming to the academy.”

“Well I heard she already beat student council president Nemona in a Pokémon battle.”

“I heard she took on Team Star on her first day!”

Even some of the academy’s teachers seemed to be whispering among themselves. While many of the rumors were stupid and mostly untrue from what Arven could tell (as he himself was well acquainted with being the butt of weird rumors) one thing seemed certain – this new student was quite skilled with Pokémon battles. Perhaps his defeat at the lighthouse wasn’t explanatory of his lack of skills, but rather a signifier of yours.

As the days passed and the academy settled into the term, Arven became less aware of the latest gossip and more focused on slowly connecting the numerous sticky notes and push pins scattered on the Paldean map on his dorm room wall. It had taken countless nights of coffee and research and more coffee, all until he was able to identify five locations mentioned in the Violet Book. The only real obstacle would be what the book called ‘Titan Pokémon,’ and with his ace being unable to even open his eyes at this point, he needed some help, fast. Thankfully, while cleaning up in the home ec classroom, another bout of whispers made it to his ears.

“I hear she claimed war against Team Star!”

“What, seriously?!”

Geez, this new girl couldn’t catch a break. He knew the annoyance of having a million rumors about him, so his heart went out to the poor transfer student.

“She transferred in at a weird time, I bet she’s just trying to get people to like her.”

“Oh, that’d make sense. Why else would you do something like that, if not for attention?”

Arven raised an eyebrow. A new, fresh face, wanting attention and affection in a scary new school? In a new country? With no friends and barely any family? Perhaps someone so moldable could help with his own little treasure hunt…

It barely took a day before catching you in the cafeteria. Arven didn’t mean to be so selfish when requesting help, but he also didn’t try to not be selfish when requesting help. He sprinkled in a little flattery, a big smile, and played into your desire to ensure your classmates like you. He spouted some nonsense about loving that picnic life, and more compliments about how you’re such a natural with Pokémon – you’d be perfect to help, so please please please?!

And just as he was hoping, he was able to rope you into helping with those pesky Titan Pokémon.

 ***

 It didn’t take long before you were both in the South Province fighting a Klawf that had no business being that size. You made quick enough work of it, and gloriously enough, the first Herba Mystica was in Arven’s grasp – and soon to be in a delicious sandwich. Step one, done, and it barely took any time! Despite all the prep work he had to do with those news articles and dusty library books to locate it, the actual Titan-beating wasn’t all too bad.

Arven splays out his purple gingham tablecloth, flicks on his lantern, sets out the ingredients, then notices you’re still standing there.

Oh, right, new student girl. You ran all the way out here to find the Titan, and he probably wouldn’t have beaten that giant Klawf with just his Shellder and Squovet, so perhaps some form of payment was due.

“Have you eaten yet?” Arven asks casually, and when you shake your head, he sets his hands on his hips. Alright, easy enough. One five-star sandwich seemed a fair enough trade for your work. “Well, then it’s your lucky day! You’re about to get a taste of my delicious, nutritious, herb-mysticious cooking.”

You smile at that, which for some reason, seems to catch Arven’s gaze for an extra second. Once that second is up, he turns back to his tablecloth filled with sandwich ingredients and gets to work. He slices, he dices, then he hands you a sandwich.

He wonders if you’ll like it.

Then he strikes the thought from his head. Of course you’ll like it! He’s a good cook. Despite that self-reassurance, Arven glances to you a few times, waiting for your reaction to the first bite. Just to see what the Herba Mystica does! Yes, that’s the only reason he’s scanning your features like that. But, despite that herb being the only reason he’s watching you, his brow furrows when that brute of a Pokémon blasts out of its Poké Ball, sniffing away at the sandwich he made for you. His jaw drops when you don’t even hesitate to give it to Miraidon! What the heck?!

“Hey!” Arven bursts out. “I went through all the trouble of making that for you, and you just give it away?! That thing didn’t even taste it, just inhaled it whole!”

You then have the gall to simply shrug. Arven scoffs.

“I hope you realize that’s all there was, so now there’s none left for you.”

“That’s fine,” you say with a smile. There’s that smile again.

“Aw, come on,” Arven sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. It’s fine, he shouldn’t get mad at you. You don’t realize the importance of the ingredients that were in that meal, nor do you know what else Miraidon has stolen from him. “Now you’re making me feel like I’m the selfish jerk here.”

You blink a few times, but when your mouth fumbles for something to say, Arven rips his sandwich in half and holds it out to you.

“Here,” he sighs again. “You can have half of mine. But you’d better savor every last bite.”

You smile again and nod, accepting the sandwich half. He doesn’t bother watching to see if you like it – hmph.

Soon you’re both done with your respective sandwich halves, and he really needs you to get moving so he can do what he really came here for. Maybe if he started to pack up, you’d get the hint. When you motion to help fold the tablecloth, Arven shoos you away. Geez, can’t you be bothered to be selfish for one second? You find the Titan Pokémon, defeat the Titan Pokémon, give away your dinner, and are going to help with the dishes too?!

“Oh, don’t worry about cleaning up, I’ll take care of it,” Arven says. “But I suppose if you want to help, I’d be much obliged if you started looking for the next Herba Mystica.”

And you actually agree.

Arven blinks a few times, returning your wave as you bound off into the night.

Huh.

You’re pretty nice, aren’t you…?

He bites his lip. Maybe you really did just help him out because you’re a good person. He lets out a sigh.

“I really owe you one,” he mutters to himself, as he pulls the Poké Ball out of his bag. Though he knows you’ve already left, he glances around just in case. His thoughts fully turn to what he really came here for. “Okay, the coast is clear. You can come out now.”

 ***

 “Did you get a good look at its face, though? I didn’t expect a Titan to be such a li’l cutie!” Arven says. He wants to call you a li’l cutie, what with how sweet and shiny your little smile was, but he settles for calling you his little buddy instead. He prepares four sandwiches, and when you raise an eyebrow at him, Arven feels a hint of red seep into his cheeks.

“O-one is to-go,” he lies. “And the other one, uh…”

You add a smirk to your raised eyebrow, and his blush deepens despite himself.

“I definitely, absolutely, did not make extra so that brute could have a sandwich, okay?” he huffs. You respond with a sarcastic ‘mmhmm’, which for some reason makes his insides twist.

Miraidon inhales the stupid sandwich whole, again, but at least he got to catch your expression after your first bite this time. You seem to like it. That’s a relief.

“Wow, this is really good Arven!” you enthuse with your shiny little smile and crumbs on your cheeks, and that makes his insides twist even tighter. Usually he’d simply agree and move on with his life, so he’s not sure why time seems to snag when he’s around you.

While he’s searching for something to say, suddenly Arven’s composure cracks when Miraidon goes for the last sandwich.

He can’t have that.

He CANNOT HAVE THAT.

“That’s not for you!” he bursts out, causing you and Miraidon to jump as his shout fades from the cave walls. Miraidon shirks back as Arven quickly snatches the sandwich from the plate. Your eyes are wide, and there’s a small pang of guilt tugging at his gut for being the reason for that fear on your face.

“I, sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled,” Arven says meekly. When you don’t say anything, just nod after a moment, he bites the inside of his cheek.

As the last echo of ‘he can’t have that’ finally fades from his mind, Arven lets out a sigh. He calculates and derives and estimates, but finally thinks that maybe… maybe it would be fine. If you knew.

Arven didn’t have any intention of sharing his deep dark backstory, but he supposes he could share with you. He kind of wants you to know, maybe it would be more bearable to not be the only one holding onto this pain. You deserve to know, now that you’ve helped him out thus far.

So, he lets Mabosstiff out of his Poké Ball. He shares what happened, and you listen intently. He can’t seem to meet your gaze, for some reason. Would you call him stupid? Unimportant? Would you leave him too?

“He’s the only thing that I really care about.”

The words slip so quietly from his lips, as gently and inconsequentially as water melts from a frozen branch when the backdrop is the sun. He isn’t sure what else to say, or why he said so much. He nearly jumps out of his skin when you suddenly pat his arm – a little awkwardly – and say,

“I’ll help.”

He meets your gaze. The intensity in your eyes is as fiery and as bright as cloudless dawn. Now it makes more sense why everyone talks about you, why everyone wants to be around you.

“I’ll help you,” you repeat. “I’ll help you find the rest of the Herba Mystica.”

It’s not that Arven ever bothers to hide who he really is (he’s been called weird and strange many times), and yet that hardened something within him seems to crack when you look at him like that, when you say something like that.

“Thank you,” is all he can manage to reply.

You nod, removing your hand from his sleeve.

Thank you… he repeats in his mind. Thank you. How can he thank you? What does gratitude look like? What does care look like? What does importance look like?

“H-have you eaten?” Arven asks suddenly, eyes flicking between yours.

You smile, eyebrow raised again. Did he say something stupid? Have you ever stood this close before?

“Um, yeah,” you say. Oh. “I just ate your sandwich.”

Oh yeah.

“Oh yeah.”

You blink. Arven blinks. Have you always had those little freckles on your nose?

“R-right!” he finally spits out. “W-well let’s get on it then, yeah? Only three more to go!”

He flashes a shiny smile at you, unsure of why his heart is pounding so fast, nor why his skin seems to tingle where you touched.

 ***

 “Ever since I teamed up with you, good things keep happening!” Arven exclaims, jumping up and down. That makes you laugh – the first time he’s heard it – and now he kind of wants to do everything he can to make you laugh again.

So he jokes and he’s a little more weird than normal and it works. It works, and he smiles because it works, and he smiles because you smile. He smiles and you smile and Mabosstiff is smiling too. It’s weak, and it’s small, but it’s the most uplifting thing he’s seen in a long time. This is the most he’s smiled in such a long time, and a lot of it is thanks to you.

“Thank you,” Arven says, suddenly gripping your hands in his. He can’t help it, he can’t help the joy that’s spilling out of every pore. “So much, thank you!”

“Y-you’re welcome,” you reply bashfully, a bit of red staining your cheeks. He wonders why you’re blushing, and it isn’t until your hands fidget in his that he realizes how close you are. Your hands are so small in his, he wonders how long you’ll let you hold them.

“Oh, sorry,” he says, quickly releasing your hands, yet still reveling in the deep blush in your cheeks.

“That’s okay,” you stutter. “I-I’m glad Mabosstiff is feeling better.”

“Me too,” Arven says. “Only two more to go.”

 ***

 It was just meant to be a brief glance your way to make a silly joke about the Stony Cliff Titan and the Klawf sticks he was putting in this sandwich, but Arven’s breath catches when he sees you in a quiet moment.

You seem so… tired, the way your head so delicately leans against that beast, the way your eyelashes flutter closed in what you think is a private moment of reprieve. Your shoulders slump, and Arven wonders how heavy that backpack is that you’ve been carrying.

His brow furrows when he wonders how heavy your shoulders feel with everything you’re carrying. Tackling the gyms, always battling that psycho student council girl, whatever it was you’re doing with Team Star, then keeping up with your actual studies, all on top of having just moved here…

His hands pause.

And here you are, donating your time and talents to a guy you barely knew.

He chews on his cheek, trying to figure out what to say. How could he help someone like you? Someone so kind and capable and kind of beautiful, he’s just now noticing? You really are just helping him because you’re a good person – what’s in it for you? He shoved off a practically useless Pokémon onto you, and you just took it in stride. At least it can glide now, apparently. Arven drums his fingers on the tablecloth, watching your chest rise and fall with each slow breath. The lamplight catches the color in your eyes, and Arven wonders again if you’ve always been this beautiful.

He's not sure why his cheeks feel warmer, now that you’ve caught him staring.

“Hey, uh,” Arven coughs out, eyes flicking back to his hands. “Have you eaten yet?”

You shake your head, eyes flitting towards the sandwiches on the table.

“Here, this one’s on the house then,” Arven says, smiling and handing you a sandwich.

You take it, smile shining as you chirp out a ‘Thanks!’ like a little bird. It makes him smile too.

“Just don’t give it to that brute,” he added with a grunt.

“No promises,” you say, and that earns you a roll of the eyes.

He’s not sure what else to say, he just knows he wants to keep talking to you. He’s not one to often get tongue-tied, so he’s not sure why it so often happens around you. You barely take a bite of the sandwich before your Rotom phone suddenly rings.

“Hey, Cassiopeia here,” came a tinny voice. “How’s Operation Starfall going?”

“Um,” you reply. Your shoulders are stiff.

“Not that there’s a time limit, but the sooner we can finish off the last three, the better… Since you’ve only gotten through two so far…”

There’s a tense silence for a moment.

“I-I was just on my way to the next base,” you spit out.

“Great to hear, I’ll be in contact when you’re close.”

“Okay,” you say simply, and start gathering your things. “I’ll be there soon.”

“I’m counting on you.”

Arven’s not sure why his heart drops. Maybe it’s how guiltily you set the sandwich back onto its plate. Maybe it’s how rigidly you sling your backpack onto your shoulders. Maybe it’s how stiffly your hands brush off the lackadaisical crumbs from your shirt.

“I should get going,” you say.

And maybe his heart was on his sleeve more than he intended, because his expression makes you pause.

“O-or I could stay?” you say suddenly.

“What?”

“Do you, um,” you stammer. “I could stay? For a little bit longer? You just, um. You seemed sad.”

“No! No, that’s okay, you should get going,” he says. “Well, unless you want to?”

He wished he hadn’t asked, because he doesn’t like the thick pause that comes afterwards.

“O-or, you shou-“

“I should go-“ you say in unison.

Your eyes meet for another moment. Arven clears his throat.

“Just don’t forget about that last Titan!” he says, forcing a smile on his face. “I’m counting on you, little buddy!”

You pause, and something in your expression shifts. You don’t say another word when you hoist your backpack higher on your shoulders, then head out into the desert sand. As soon as you leave, Arven practically deflates, slumping onto the boulder beside Mabosstiff.

He’s heard you mention this operation before, but suddenly his skin prickles in frustration, especially when picturing your expression upon leaving. Why are you the one who has to do everything? Why are you the one that has to take down what’s basically an entire student rebellion? What are the academy’s faculty even bothering to do about Team Star?! Why do you have to leave him because of it?

…But then again, why are you the one that has to tackle the Titans for him? Arven rubs his hands over his face.

“I wonder how often she hears that,” Arven wonders aloud, patting Mabosstiff on the head, who lets out a curious grunt. “’I’m counting on you,’ I mean. People always need her for stuff. She shouldn’t have all of that pressure on her.”

Mabosstiff just grunts again.

He’s so close to the last Herba Mystica, and the herbs really are helping Mabosstiff, so he still needs your help… but…

Arven lets out another thoughtful sigh.

But maybe after that… he could… do something for you? Or something. Just… something to make you smile again. Or smile more. Or just something to help ease that slump in your shoulders.

You are his little buddy, after all.

 ***

 You’re both soaking wet and shivering from the False Dragon Titan, then the other False Dragon Titan, then from the storm outside the cave, but you’re both smiling. It was maybe a little too early to play some hardcore fetch, but Mabosstiff had been romping around the cave for a while. Arven said it was just the rain, but he knew you didn’t believe him when the tears kept pouring.

His tear tracks have since dried, and Mabosstiff and Miraidon are snoozing beside the makeshift fire he started. The storm doesn’t seem like it’ll be letting up anytime soon, but Arven doesn’t really mind since you look really pretty in the light of the fire you both could use a rest after felling the final Titan. You’ll get to the lighthouse lab soon enough, as Dad requested, but right now it was nice to just… sit. Alone with you.

“Are you cold?” he asks, and just as you knew when he was lying about him crying, he knows you’re lying when you shake your head. He rolls his eyes and pulls his winter jacket out of his backpack, draping it over your shoulders. “At least this is dry.”

You mutter out a sheepish ‘thank you’, and Arven nods, smiling lightly at how his coat practically swallows you whole.

“I should be the one thanking you,” he says as you adjust the coat around you. “For your help.”

Maybe it’s the euphoria of his best friend feeling healthy again, or maybe it’s the subdued atmosphere of the cave’s thick air, or maybe it’s some third thing, that Arven lets slip something he would usually keep hidden.

“You mean a lot to me,” he says suddenly. He’s not quite sure what he’s saying, or why he’s saying it. “Thank you, really.”

“You’re welcome,” you say, smile forming on your lips. You’re so cute in his coat. He wonders if you’re any warmer.

You sit in a peaceful silence, save the rain outside and the crackling of the fire. You rustle when you pull his coat tighter around your shoulders.

“If you’re still cold, I-I could, uh,” he stammers, words still spilling from his mouth like melting snow. He could what? His voice catches. “I could…”

I could hold you

I could hold you close to me

I could help keep you warm

“M-make you something else to eat? Something warm?” he finally spits out.

“That spicy Herba Mystica was more than warm enough,” you chuckle. “But thank you, Arven.”

His name sounds so sweet when it slips from your lips like that.

He isn’t able to revel in it long before your Rotom phone sounds its familiar ring.

“Hey! Where are you at now?” came the tinny voice.

“Lake Casseroya,” you say. ‘With Arven’ is what he wants you to add.

“How’s your gym circuit going? You’re so close! You should head to Montenevera next, I’m actually headed that way myself!”

“Okay, I’ll meet you there,” you say, and Arven’s brow furrows.

“Great! I’m counting on you!”

The click of the phone is a click of closure as you shake off Arven’s jacket with a quiet sigh.

You both stand, and you turn, just for Arven to catch your hand.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and your eyes widen at the question. “How have you been faring?”

Your eyes immediately well with tears – an expression that tightens Arven’s chest, that swirls guilt in his gut. The glassiness in your eyes formed their sheen as quickly as the rain hits the lake outside. How long have your tears been barely at bay?

Oh, little buddy… how could he have not even bothered to ask this until now? His brow furrows when you tear your gaze from his to look at a new text on your phone.

“N-Nemona is waiting for me,” you say suddenly. “She wants to be champions together s-so I have to… I want her to be happy. She needs my help. I’ll meet you at the lab afterwards.”

And with that you push his coat into his chest and run out of the cave, and Arven can only watch your retreating silhouette until its melds with the pouring rain.

His fists clench, heat welling within him.

That stupid student council girl, what was her name? It didn’t matter, but what mattered is how his chest tightened when someone’s stolen you away from him yet again. Didn’t she realize the world doesn’t revolve around Pokémon battles?! Did you even want to be a champion, or are you just doing the gym circuit because Nemona said you should? Had she ever even asked?

His heart dropped.

Had he ever even asked…?

Had he ever even asked about what the treasure was that you were looking for? Had he ever asked what was important to you? You’re running errands for everyone in Paldea, and his dad too, apparently, but was any of it anything you even wanted?

He wanted to think of you, of how to help you, but the thought of his father welled an overwhelming wave of anxiety in his chest. He had to be selfish for a little longer, at your expense. He pinches the bridge of his nose, patting Mabosstiff when he rests his head on Arven’s lap. This was supposed to be everything he wanted – his Pokémon was the only thing he cared about. But now with you and with Dad and with Area Zero…

Arven heaves out a deep sigh, as heavy as Lake Casseroya itself.

 ***

 It’s time. He’s collected Nemona and Penny, and now he just needs you before heading to Area Zero. Mabosstiff is barking away, jumping at his phone at the sound of your voice, but it just makes Arven’s chest tight.

 ***

 The student council president and the pipsqueak are snoozing soundly inside while you and Arven forage for snacks. Nemona was trying to secretly nurse an injury, but her suspicious lack of stamina didn’t go unnoticed by him. Penny wasn’t used to the treacherous landscape either, so spending the night in the third base of Area Zero seemed like a wise move. They had an incredibly strong team between the four of them, so there were plenty of Pokémon to keep watch while they slept and while you foraged close by.

“Do you need a break?” you ask.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Arven replies, sighing as he stands straight. His back cracks as he leans backwards far enough to see the sky – or rather, the layer of fog that separated this world from the rest of Paldea.

The air between you has been tense since the final Titan, and Arven knows it’s mostly his fault. Maybe he feels guilty. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe he's had every emotion coursing through his veins and beating through his heart for the past few days. There’s you and his dad and… well, mainly that was it. But there were so many combinations of those two things, of those two people, that made his head feel like radio static the entire time he’s been in this forsaken place.

“Do you want to go back in?” you ask, stepping over to him. Your skin and eyes seem to glow as glitter floats around you. He wishes you weren’t so beautiful.

“No, it smells like mildew in there,” Arven says, snacking on a Sitrus berry he found.

There’s another tense pause between you.

“Arven,” you say suddenly. He feels like when Mabosstiff eats off the counter when he shouldn’t – he can barely look at you, but he does.

He wishes he hadn’t. While you don’t have the bags under your eyes like you used to, the sorrow in your gaze cracks his heart even further.

“Arven are you mad at me?” you ask, so brokenly.

“What?” he breathes out. “No, of course not, why would you think that?”

“You just… you’ve been distant. And distracted, I don’t know,” you say.

“I just have a lot on my mind, it’s not you,” he says. Only one of those things was a lie.

“You’re right, you’re right,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be selfish.”

“You’re not!” Arven blurts out. “You’re not selfish, don’t say that. You’re the least selfish person I know, honest.”

You shrug, and before he can stop himself, Arven is stepping towards you, gripping your shoulders in his hands.

“I mean it,” Arven says. “This has just been…”

The worst few days of my life

My dad loves you more than me

My dad loves Miraidon more than me

I’m scared of seeing my dad.

“I’m scared of seeing my dad,” he says.

He didn’t realize he had said it.

What is it about you that loosens his tongue like this? You’re confusion and clarity all in one.

“Arven,” you say again, and the determination in your voice draws him closer to you like a magnet. “Whatever happens,” you say, emotion catching in your throat. “Whatever happens I’ll be here for you, okay? I won’t leave you. I hope you can make amends with your dad but… but whatever happens I’m here for you.”

His heart can barely beat, as shattered as it is, and yet you try to mold it back together as you wrap your arms around him.

 ***

 “H-hey,” you say, gently closing the door behind you. Mabosstiff bolts off the bed to greet you, which is just enough distraction for Arven to wipe the tears from his face. In his defense, Mabosstiff hasn’t seen you since the events of Area Zero. When you finally manage to push the Pokémon off of you, you make your way to Arven, then gently sit beside him on the bed.

“Hi,” Arven replies thickly, trying to discreetly shove the bundles of tissues beneath his bed.

“How are you doing?” you ask. He wishes you wouldn’t look at him like that, with such genuine care in your eyes. When you so delicately set your hand on his arm, immediately everything comes flooding back – the memories and the feelings and the tears, so overwhelming that all he can do is turn to you, to fall into your arms, to sob into your shoulder as you wrap your arms around him.

Everything. The loneliness, the pain, the betrayal, the abandonment. What was he to his father? What was he to anyone? Was there anyone who cared? If his own mother left when he was born and his father left years ago too, who was he but a lump of rotting meat, just taking up space in a world so hastily moving towards the future?

He isn’t sure how long he’s crying into your shirt, nor how long you’ve been rubbing his back as you sit on his bed. Mabosstiff’s head is resting beside him, and Arven sniffles when he pushes his cold nose under Arven’s hand.

“I’m here for you,” you mumble into his hair, and Arven can barely manage a nod. You don’t seem to mind.

More time has passed, where now you’re cradling him in your arms, leaned against the wall beside his bed. The window is cracked, letting in the cool breeze of dusk. He pushes himself off of you, surprised to see your eyes are red too. You stare at one another, unsure of what to say. He rests his head on top of yours, since now your shoulder is soaked with tears. You sit there, beside one another, until dusk pulls into the night. Arven eye’s flutter open when you clear your throat.

What will you say? ‘Get over it’? ‘You should be proud to have a father like him’? ‘It’s no big deal’? How will you frame your sentence to hide the fact that the world lost his father, rather than the fact that he lost his father?

“Um, h-have you eaten yet?” you ask.

Has.

Has he

Has he eaten yet?

Arven blinks.

Has he…

He shakes his head.

“I brought some sandwiches,” you say. He nods, and you wiggle out from your spot on his bed and over to your bag. “They’re not as good as yours, of course, but I thought I’d try my hand at a new recipe.”

He meets you at the edge of the bed, where you hand off a sandwich. You got one for Mabosstiff, because of course you did, and when you look at him with such kind, hopeful eyes, Arven isn’t quite sure what to say.

“I know you’ve been through so much,” you say. “But you’ve got people who care about you and want to be there for you!”

You smile at him – that small, shiny smile, and Arven’s breath catches in his throat.

Thank you

This means so much to me

I feel so seen

So cared about

You’re so thoughtful

“I love you,” he says.

And something finally clicks.

That’s what this is – love.

You’re attentive and kind and you’re there for him. You’re here. You’re here, right now, holding him, and you have been for hours at this point. For days, for weeks.

You’re here.

You’re here, and, and, and and you help him and you think about him and he doesn’t have to beg for your attention and and… and.

“And you’re everything I’ve needed,” Arven says through a wet sniffle. His words are pouring out like a snowy peak’s river – building strength the further it travels, the further it warms. “I’ve been through a lot and you’ve been through a lot but you’re there for me and you help me and I want to help you and when I’m around you I feel supported and I think you’re so beautiful and-“

Arven keeps listing, and listing, and revealing every thought he’s crossed out in his mind until Mabosstiff lets out a whine, reminding him to breathe. Arven sucks in a breath, closes his mouth, eyes wide, now realizing that while he’s finally realized it to himself, he’s now realized it out loud to you.

“I love you,” he says again. “Sorry – was that? Was that a lot?” he sniffles.

And your smile isn’t like the sunset of a sepia-toned memory, but like the bright clear dawn of home and of comfort and of knowing that you’ll always be there. You lean in and press a gentle kiss to his cheek – it’s a little sloppy, and a little wet, but neither of you seem to mind.

“I love you too,” you say simply. “Now lets eat before the sandwich bread gets any soggier… or before you get any soggier.”

“Gross,” Arven says, smiling a free, warm, genuine smile for the first time in days. In years. As you head towards your bag, he risks another question. “Maybe after dinner, we could read something together? Or watch a movie or something? Just…just be together?”

“I’d love nothing more,” you say with that shiny smile as bright as the dawn. “Than to always be here, together with you.”

[eris-snow]

Deku's birthday series Q n A!

This will most likely be my last post pertaining to the Deku's birthday series for awhile. I'm sorry it came out late! 😭

There are some behind-the-scenes screenshots over on my Instagram if anyone wants to see, so go visit my post after you’re done reading this! https://www.instagram.com/eris.snow/

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Katsuki, slamming the door open: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

Now, I have no idea what you’re—

Katsuki: NO! YOU HAVE EVERY IDEA WHAT YOU’RE DOING. HOW DARE YOU, LEAVE ME WITH THE NERD AND HIS FUCK-ASS MEMORIES. FREAKING. FUCK. YOU!

Come on, it can’t be that bad—

Katsuki: JUST SUCK FACE WITH HIM ALREADY

No.

Katsuki: I will kill you and make it look like an accident, come here you—

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Hey I’ve always wanted to do one of these.

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Question: Is there going to be a part 3? Deku birthday series

Ans: Yes, there’s going to be a part 3, and it will be the last part of this Izuku trilogy of Deku’s birthday series! (Because I’m unwilling to milk this more than necessary)

Question: Why the ending? (Aka, why did you write another cliffhanger ending that’s so unsatisfactory) -Revelation

Ans:

The answer to that is that I felt it was a little unfair to have Izuku have Starlight handed to him on a silver platter. Frankly, I want to see him work for Starlight, because she’s worth it, and we haven’t really seen that. Also, angst.

Question: What can we expect in the next part?

Ans:

Definitely more flashbacks from Izuku’s point of view. Also, it will be a happy ending, confirmed. I think it’ll be a little irritating to see things go nowhere if I make a part 4. I really don’t like dragging things out longer than necessary, but the next part should be more Izuku-centric. Plus, there are a bunch of scenes I wanna write that are now unlocked because Izuku remembers, so stay tuned for that!

Question: How did you come up with the story’s narrative? -Secret

Ans:

Honestly, I have no idea. As I was writing the first two chapters, I was bouncing ideas off with one of my loved ones, and it just clicked. I did a little reshuffling, and then ironed out a cohesive storyline. Secret came at like a odd spot of, should I write a birthday series for him, because I did it for bakugou. On Tumblr, it was a lot more popular than I thought it would ever be, and Secret struck a gold mine with my AO3 audience.

Question: Do you relate to Starlight (Y/n)?

Answer: In some ways, yes. Sometimes, you’re afraid to let go of pain when that’s all you’ve ever known, and I wanted to show that. After all, Izuku and Y/n are teenagers. They have no idea what they’re doing, just working with bits and pieces. Kinda like how sometimes, we have no idea what we’re doing at whatever age we’re at. Also Starlight’s internal debate of whether to accept the offer of removing one of her feelings, and dissociating herself. Sometimes, cutting of feelings seem better, especially when you need to steel yourself. But no one should ever cut their feelings of entirely.

Question: What’s next in terms of your content?

Answer:

Er, a lot. First, I need to finish Anachronism and Juxtaposition, because I’ve been delaying doing that. And request, oh, gosh I’m so sorry to anybody who put in a request recently. But, I’ve still got lots of ideas I want to put out! Thank you for supporting me, and I hope that you’ll enjoy my other series! If you have any suggestions on what my long fic should be about, you can ask me on Tumblr or Dm me on Instagram at eris.snow!

Question: What’s next for Deku’s birthday series?

Answer:

Err, I really want to do an audio adaptation of this (Something like a CD drama), because I’ve had offers from really nice people to turn my story into something like an audiobook. I don’t think that’ll be really good for my work, so I kinda want to turn my story into a script and pull strings together to make it into a CD drama, ASMR roleplay, honestly idk what to call it.

Still working it out though! If you want updates or to ask for more questions about that, you can find me at eris.snow on Instagram and tumblr (I post more on Tumblr, like the freak I am). Looking for VAs interested to voice these people, so if anyone wants look forward to a post coming out somewhere in November ish that will release more details!

It’s going to be my first time doing something like that, so if anyone has any pointers, please tell me, I need all the help I can get 😭

PS: This is only tentative. I’ve expressed interest in doing it, but nothing is set in stone yet! However, if there are people interested in this idea, then I’ll definitely take it into consideration whether or not this will, or will not happen!

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That’s all I want to address. Hope this clears things up for everyone!