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brabblesblog · 20 days

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𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Ch 10: Yes.

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.

Once in a while, right in the middle of a (not so) ordinary (un)life, love gives us a fairy tale.

Professionally edited by @editing-by-night

Read on AO3.

Masterlist

Commissioned from my dear friend Leira Art <3

Astarion’s thigh was starting to get numb. Ban was on her stomach, stretched out beside him, her hands cradling her face. The unfortunate fact that her elbows were digging into his thigh was something she missed entirely.

He’d arranged for a small moonlit dinner in the gardens, just bedding laid over the grass and nothing but the moon and the stars to keep them company. It had seemed like the perfect idea after a long day of trying to broker some sort of arrangement between Shadowheart and the city about the now-abandoned Sharran cloister. Ban had gone to see Shadowheart for this purpose when she’d first come back to Baldur’s Gate; that had been the day the mirror had been delivered. The two had been coordinating in anticipation of today’s meeting ever since.

He sighed and flexed his leg in an attempt to get Ban to notice his discomfort. She shifted along with the muscle, but merely looked at him, smiling.

“You’ll have to move soon, else your poor husband loses his leg,” he remarked.

She lifted from his leg, smirking. “Nonsense. You’re undead. Regardless, bodies don’t work that way; all you’d get is a… spasm, of sorts, which I’m sure you can handle.” She gave him a soft pat on his beleaguered limb, playfully dismissive.

“As enlightening as you think that is, I actually do know what cramps are. Being undead doesn’t save you from that particular torture, as I’m sure you know.”

“Just teasing you,” she said amiably, lying down to rest her head on his thigh instead.

He looked down at her, admiring the way her hair fanned out in a halo around her head.

“Cramps, spasms… you’re all too familiar with such things, aren’t you?” He wrapped his fingers around her bicep, squeezing. “You’ve probably had more than your fair share, flailing about with that frankly ridiculous weapon of yours.”

“Says you.” Ban huffed, glaring good-naturedly at him. “You couldn’t even swing it, Astarion. You and your little crossbows and daggers…”

He laughed, sliding his hand over her shoulder. “You’ll have to tell me how you became so… forgive me, brawny.” Astarion watched her consider the question, eyes glazing over as she brought forth memories.

“After I ran away from my family, I found my way into the employ of an innkeeper, as a barmaid. Not a horrible place to earn your keep; they were kind enough to allow me to live in one of the rooms of the inn. But as in all such establishments, you occasionally get… unpleasant clientele.”

He rolled his eyes. Of course. “And so this was a way to protect yourself.”

“It was,” she agreed, “One day, a customer managed to get their hands on me; before anyone could intervene, I broke his nose. It was mostly a lucky shot, but the innkeeper saw potential in it. They had been a skilled fighter, and decided to pass their skills along to me. Over time, I built a small reputation keeping the peace in the tavern, took a shine to… all that, and eventually received offers from merchants and the like, to help out or provide protection.”

“With a greatsword?” he said, a little incredulous.

“No, although I wish I had. Merely a longsword; easier to handle, but a lot less impressive.” Her hands mimed swinging one, the movement quick and efficient, if inelegant.

His hands covered hers. “You’ll have to teach me how to wield a greatsword one day.”

Her answer was quick. “Not a chance you’ll have the patience for such a slow weapon, Astarion.”

He chuckled. “Truer words have never been spoken. Besides, finesse and dexterity are all you ever need, really.” He twirled their entwined hands, flipping an invisible dagger in the air. She giggled, and he watched their hands against the night sky, dancing amongst the stars.

“This was a brilliant idea. I’m impressed you came up with it.” He peered down at her as she spoke; he’d thought she’d passed into sleep - her eyes had been closed for some time.

“I’m far more capable than you give me credit for,” he scoffed. Since she was not asleep after all, he gave in to his lingering urge and wrapped his hands around her wrists, tugging her off his much-abused leg and up. Spreading his legs, he guided her to sit between them. She leaned against his chest, closing her eyes as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Far more romantic is what I would have said,” she corrected, “not that I’m complaining. But this is something that… I don’t know, Gale would have done.”

“Gale?” Astarion scoffed in mock offense, “I can do better than anything he could conjure up. Had you said Wyll, I’d have to admit I’d have a slight challenge on my hands.”

“A slight challenge?” Ban laughed, “It would be quite a bit more than a slight challenge for you to outdo Wyll in romantic gestures, Astarion.”

“Tell me, then. What would you consider the most romantic,” he rolled his eyes, “thing he’s done?”

Ban was silent for a moment, then raised a finger in an aha! gesture. “He gave up his life in Faerûn and followed Karlach to the hells.”

His stomach turned, the comment stinging as it hit sensitive spots. She said it in jest, but there was an underlying truth behind her playful words.

“You truly think I wouldn’t do the same for you?” He was a little piqued, the offense not entirely feigned anymore.

Ban shrugged, failing to sense the change in his mood. “And give up everything you have? Every bit of luxury? Your palace, your art, your suits… the sun? Why would you?” she quipped airily.

A soft hiss escaped him. “I would do anything for you; have already done so, to be frank. I’ve fought everything we’ve had to overcome, have I not? Everything we’ve ever faced. I fought for you, for us - fought our enemies, our companions, the Absolute, my master, myself…” he took a sharp, pained breath, “I have clawed my way through everything for the privilege of being the one by your side. Nothing would part me from you.” He clenched his jaw, his scowl deepening. “If anything, I should ask the same of you. Would you go to the hells for me?”

He watched her face. She barely considered the question and answered quickly - too quickly for his liking.

“I would, of course,” she replied, her tone still light and conversational, as if she didn’t take his statement or his question seriously. She smiled at him, but it did nothing but agitate him further.

Why would she take him seriously? It was hypothetical, nothing serious, even though his words had been from the heart. They’d even been to the hells before, however brief, although that was for thievery and to save the godsdamned world. For a moment his mind flashed to Haarlep, his daggers sinking into that cursed incubus’ flesh, for her, always for her-

“Forgive me for asking such an inane question, then,” he snipped, all mirth gone, “For the longest time I’ve felt… unsure. Of how much you love me.”

He’d always felt it, he realized. From their days on the road - wondering when she’d come to her senses and he’d be left to rot, to the early days of his ascension - wondering where she had gone though her body had still been there, to their eventual reconciliation - wondering if he’d ever be enough for her to love him as he did her. Always doubting, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was exhausted.

She blinked, surprised. “Don’t I tell you enough? I love you so, so much. Endlessly so.” He felt her body stiffen in his arms; it merely served to irritate him even more.

“You do say it more as of late, which I find gratifying. Thank you.” The bitterness bled into his voice; not that he’d tried very hard to mask it. “Whether you truly mean it or not remains in question, especially with how you’ve…” he tilted his head in that cold, arrogant way of his, a defense mechanism she hadn’t seen in awhile, “treated me, since we reconciled.”

She finally realized the extent of his pique, that it ran deep, and that her flippancy had reopened the wound. She lifted herself up to meet his gaze.

“Astarion, I… I am sorry. I-”

“Do not apologize, at least not yet.” He took a moment to clear his head; the Ascendant could never be allowed free rein in conversations like this. Never again. “I refuse to hear mere platitudes in an attempt to placate me. I wish for you to hear what I have to say, and should you feel it appropriate, you may do so then.” He was stern but holding the vitriol back. This needed to be said, but it need not be an argument.

“Alright.”

He watched as she pulled away from him. There was a sudden spike of fear there, one that dissipated when Ban stayed within the circle of his arms. She’d shifted just far enough so that she could meet his gaze.

“I’m listening. Say everything you need to say,” she said gently, offering him a nervous smile. She rested a hand on his thigh, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

I’m here. Her mind touched his, something she’d been doing more and more often these days. He let her in, lowered the walls he’d been hiding behind for so long.

“I am aware you love me. How can I not be, when you have shown me so time and again?” A small, rather sad smile graced his face as he spoke. “What concerns me is the intensity of it - rather, the strength and longevity of it, compared to mine.”

“Strength?” Her lips tugged downwards as she considered his words.

“But I… I did tell you. You’re enough. You’re all I want,” she sighed, “But I also know it’s probably not enough - they’re merely words.”

“I am enough, for now,” he corrected.

A small series of thoughts were passed to her: a memory of their argument after her discovery of the contract, moments when he’d expected her to commune with him but instead she retreated, times he’d hoped she’d feed from him and nourish herself with his blood in moments of intimacy, only for her to turn to their stores instead.

“Would I still be enough, were I to displease you again? We’ve discussed this, but I must confess that I haven’t been completely forthright with my feelings on the matter.”

He wanted to tell her how painful it had been; how reminiscent of being punished by his master it was - to a lesser degree, of course, but it opened the same wounds in him nonetheless. He found his heart failing him, unwilling to inflict pain. He wished he could say it but he couldn’t allow it, wouldn’t willingly hurt her, wouldn’t let her even see-

And what of it, if she treats me that way? I can handle it, have handled it for centuries. I’m not worth better; they’ve all drilled it into me - Cazador and his patrons, our companions, even her. She turned away from me when I was lost, shut me out when I tried to understand her, withheld her heart from me until I begged, wielded silence like a weapon when I didn’t behave. Yes, most of that was my own fault, but that merely serves to prove I’m unworthy of it all. Of her.

Just shut up, Astarion. Let whatever needs to happen happen. You don’t-

He felt the air in his lungs escape him as her arms crashed around him and held him tightly, so tightly it felt like it could bruise. He found himself pressed against her chest, realizing she was murmuring into his hair.

“No, no, don’t hide, please,” she whimpered, barely coherent, “You- I didn’t know, I didn’t see, and I know you’ve tried to tell me before but it felt like barbs you were throwing mid-argument. I didn’t want to see there was truth behind them. I’m them, aren’t I? I’m so sorry, Astarion, please.”

He let her hold him, allowed her to cry into his hair, fingers digging into his back with a desperation he hadn't seen in her before. His hands rubbed her back, but he didn’t speak. His thoughts had slipped into her mind as they’d flitted through his, he realized, but he didn’t regret it.

“I love you. I love you so godsdamned much and I realize I’ve been doing it wrong, not loving you the way you deserve. I’ve been neglecting your needs in favor of my own. I’ve been… all of them. Cazador, everyone who ever used you, even my wretched parents. I’m like them - I’ve been being everything I hated in them all and I’m just like them and I should just-”

Her frantic words cut off in a sharp intake of breath and she tried to pull away, her face stricken with horror. Astarion held on, refusing to let her go.

“Don’t go,” he crooned softly, as if calming a skittish animal, “because that would only serve to hurt me more. If you do love me so much then tell me. Show me. I need both in equal measure, my love.”

“I thought I was,” she choked out, “I thought I had been trying. And I’m not sure I’ve succeeded at all-”

She bit back a sob, refusing to allow her words to dissolve into tears. Not right now, when he deserved to hear more than sad blathering, knowing that his first instinct would be to backtrack. The tears came anyway, pooling in her eyes. She took several deep breaths to collect herself before continuing.

“There’s trying, and there’s not trying hard enough. I’ve been the latter; I see your pain and I make attempts in the moment, but then you seem better and I let myself carry on. I slip into old habits and behind walls that are all too easy to hide behind - and I let myself ignore what’s outside those walls.” She laughed, the bitterness evident. “Ironic, I think, that I’ve been doing what you did after the rite. I’ve been hiding myself from you, the way you hid yourself from me. You’ve tried so hard to heal my pain, attended to my needs, at the expense of your own… worked tirelessly at undoing the damage of those early months, and you’ve succeeded… but it was so easy for me to keep letting you do that, to be neglectful attending to you and your needs. To your heart. I will try to be better - No. I will be better. I swear it.”

And there were truths, painful ones, that needed to be said. She steeled herself; there wouldn’t be a better time.

“It has been better,” he assured, “These past weeks have been wonderful; they’ve soothed a lot of the ache. I suppose I merely wanted you to know, and even then I wasn’t sure if it was worth the risk of dredging up.”

“Oh, but it is. There’s something I should have told you, something I should have talked to you about the moment we reconciled, or any one of a hundred times since. I should have told you that although I never stopped loving you, and wanted to be with you again, I didn’t forgive you. That I resented what you’d done to me, resented it enough to keep holding it against you, to measure every good thing you did against the past - and I found it lacking.”

“Ban-” he tried to interrupt, his face a mask of worry, but she shook her head; her eyes begged him to allow her to do what he’d done for her barely more than a month ago. He quietened once more, tightening his grip on her, grounding them both.

“I withdrew at every sign of discomfort; I didn't even really try to trust you more, not outside of our bedroom, anyway… Even as I promised to work on us... I used affection as currency - I saw it as… justified retribution, at times. Not consciously, not deliberately, I don’t think, but neither did I deliberately try to move past those feelings. Even as I speak now I’m only now finding the words for it. All I know is I should have told you this, should have realized earlier what it was I was doing to you. I should’ve been fighting to improve myself, and our relationship, like you were, instead of putting all the burden and responsibility for my feelings and our happiness onto you alone.” She finally let him go enough to cup his cheek.

“We desperately need to learn how to talk, Astarion, as laughably simple as that sounds. Let’s both do what you promised to do for me - if we find ourselves unable to talk it out, we’ll use the connection to think it out, together.” He nodded in agreement and she sighed, calmer now, but no less agonized over these personal revelations.

“I wish I… hadn’t done any of that, or that we had found our way to talking about it earlier, but I also know how… recalcitrant I can be. And of course you feared yet another retreat, or worse, had you tried and it escalated. I didn’t make any attempt to talk about it, and you didn’t feel safe enough to try. We've both spent too long afraid to talk, me fearing compulsion and now you fearing abandonment.”

He chuckled. “On that I cannot refute you, and thus can provide no comfort. On the other hand, not all of my concerns are because of your transgressions, or mine. Some of it is concern about your… former mortality.”

Ban froze for a moment, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“It isn’t a fundamental issue, but if we are to talk about love, and its relative… longevity, even though such a concept is nebulous at best,” Astarion’s eyes flicked away, gathering the strands of the thought he was trying to piece together. “I suppose this is worth bringing into the discussion.”

She saw the way his eyes darted away, locking onto some distant spot; the way his shoulders squared, the bated breath. Even now he tries to diminish his own feelings to avoid upsetting me further. Now that she was watching for it, she couldn't believe she hadn’t seen it all this time - rather, that she had seen, but had refused to acknowledge it, so much so that it had stopped registering in her conscious mind. Never again, she vowed silently.

“What ‘this’?” She was confused, but allowed him the space to think.

He stayed unmoving for a few moments, then finally reached for her mind.

What flowed into her was immense - seemingly boundless stretches of time, of days flowing into months flowing into years, decades, centuries. The moon rising and setting, interminable nights of untold suffering and the rare, quiet moments in between, stretching seemingly endlessly. To her, it felt an eternity - although she knew this was a mere grain of sand in the infinity of time.

Fragments of memories, the earliest of which were mere wisps, lost to the weight of the centuries; then his time with Cazador, bathed in cruelty, a parade of bodies and the scents of rot and sex and filth, blood-red and tinged with pain and fear and anger and self-loathing, all blending together in one massive wave of anguish - then silence.

His year alone, she realized, a small gasp escaping her as he allowed her to see a fraction of how it had felt. The maddening isolation, the despairing, desperate prayers to every god ever named, his fingers bleeding throat raw stomach hollow every muscle aching mind racing and this is it forevermore the four corners of this cold tomb please let me die please-

“Astarion,” she cried out, gripping his shoulder, trying to stop him from spiraling. Those beautiful eyes locked onto hers and to her surprise he was calm. He took her hand, squeezing it.

The memories shifted. The colors became more vivid, the smells became warm and heavenly in comparison to everything else before. The chirping of birds. The smell of grass and earth. Sunlight. Blood from a boar, warm and so, so much of it, and his stomach had never felt so full…

Footsteps, a blade held to someone’s throat. Cautious, hesitant trust. The smell of thinking blood, so close he could lean in and taste it. Laughter. Voices. Her voice. His teeth, sinking in, that first taste forever dooming him to crave it, crave her. Their first nights together, the push-pull of his heart and mind, warring between thinking her a gullible fool and the flickering ember of warmth and affection in his chest.

I want us to be something real.

But not merely real; thiramin - passionate, true, eternal. Nights under the stars. Fighting back to back, daggers and sword flowing seamlessly. Banter by the campfire. Frustration as he regarded her hands, trying to teach her how to pick locks, only for her to give up and smash the chest with one swing of her sword. Those same hands, touching him with an aching tenderness. Uneasiness slowly morphing into trust and then into comfort and then longing, into home. Touch me love me see me be with me, forever and longer than that. I love you, I love you and I will say it, soon, every single day, when I am free.

His eyes left hers, downcast as the memories continued to flow.

Power, as it flowed into him, exhilaration drowned by the look on her face and the disgust in her heart until all he felt was loss and anger, that the thing he loved most would slip through his fingers when freedom was finally his. Regret, still stabbing even to this day. Visions of her face, cold and angry and at times frightened. His voice, commanding, demanding her subservience - on your knees, a finger pointing downwards. The denial of any vulnerability - rebuffing her when she reached for him, admonishment for the attempt. The slow corruption of what was between them.

Astarion didn’t shy from it, his hand merely tightened on hers. The stream of recollections didn’t stop, but his eyes flicked back to hers.

The agony of losing her, the hopelessness, the emptiness. The slow process of prying open his heart once more, at first nearly impossible and then increasingly easy. The sheer joy of seeing her smile at him again, her face emblazoned into his mind. Memories of more recent, happier times. Elation mixed with spikes of anxiety whenever she retreated from him - confusion, worry, fear. And finally, the slow ebbing of those feelings, contentment suffusing more and more of the final visions, the doubt ever-smaller, more easily brushed away.

And then she was seeing through his eyes, he through hers, here in the garden with no other soul, only the stars in the sky. One last feeling - love - and he retracted from her mind, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Ban snapped back to reality, to her own mind, reeling. In front of her Astarion looked fond, his hand still cradling hers, waiting for her to settle before he continued.

“A long time to live, and I am still young for an elf,” he began, “I would assume the weight of it infinitely more burdensome for someone as young as you, from a short-lived race.”

She nodded. “I wouldn’t contest that. Were I not turned, I would have died within the century.”

“But you will not,” Astarion reminded, “I am merely concerned about your capability of loving steadfastly, long past the normal span of your lifetime. The constancy required for a love that spans millennia, that follows us through reincarnations… It is something elves are born with. It is not so for humans. I simply… wanted to bring it to light.”

“Astarion,” she said, voice tinged with hurt, “Just because I’m human doesn’t mean I will fall out of love with you in a century or two. No one can know the future, but I swear to you - I will love you for however long this-” she gestured between them, “-undeath lasts, love you the best that I am able. Eternity, if it comes to that.”

Ban weighed her words, weighed the visions he’d allowed her to see. “I know I can’t prove anything today. The future is never set, and I’ve hurt you. I have no idea how to measure our love, to even consider if they are things to be compared against each other-”

“They are not,” he assured her, “But I appreciate that they have now been spoken out loud. That I am understood, seen, and that you do not disagree.”

“If that’s the case, I can promise to continue comprehending. To… see you, fully, even when it’s uncomfortable for me. To understand, to do better. To listen and care, and love. To work toward your happiness as much as my own. To fight for us, always. I can’t prove it today, but I will prove it. From today, until forever.” She made this vow without hesitation or reservation, and with utter sincerity.

Astarion smiled at her, a soft, almost hesitant smile, one that told her she’d soothed a lot of his heartache, before leaning his forehead to touch hers. They sat, quietly, absorbing one another’s feelings through their bond.

“Astarion…” She lifted his hand and placed it over her heart as she spoke; his brows raised in surprise. They had spent a long time in heavy but comfortable silence, basking in the closeness of their shared emotions. Hearing her speak aloud nearly startled him, but he was eager to hear what she may have to say.

She waited until his eyes met hers, until that slight surprise passed into curiosity. He held her gaze, lips parted as if to speak.

“Let me get this out,” she interjected before he could respond. His lip quirked, eyes narrowing, his brows shifting into an expression of wry, if fond, amusement.

Ban locked her gaze onto those beloved crimson irises, ignoring everything else. If she considered any more of his beautiful face, she was sure her courage would fail her. She’d been thinking about this, had been considering it for a long while before the mirror, before her family came back into their lives. She had lain awake thinking of it as she was cradled in his arms, had almost spoken it into being numerous times in post-coital bliss or in quiet, happy moments. It had never been quite the right time - something had always come up - whether it be some small quarrel they had, some playful remark that derailed her line of thought, or simple cowardice. She’d let her lingering doubts serve as excuses, but the idea never went away for long. This finally felt like the right time, to finally fully open herself to him, to let her faith and love and trust shine through in actions, as well as words.

She felt her hand shake, tears threatening to blur her vision, and swallowed hard.

“I figured I would say this sooner or later, or if I’d kept letting my cowardice win then later than sooner, to be frank. It’s been on my mind for…. Well, I’m not even sure how long, but it’s been a long time. It first crossed my mind that it would make sense, politically - legally it would make sense as well: properties, assets, all that - and no one would question the legitimacy of our union, would solidify alliances and our good standing, and-”

Her words were cut off by a soft laugh. He leaned in, keeping his hand over her unusually fast heart, and pressed his lips to her forehead.

“Keep going,” he urged, his tremulous voice filled with a hunger she barely recognized, and although he was smiling, his eyes were misty and intensely focused, as if not a single other thing existed in the world besides her, and him, and this moment. “I think I’d rather like to hear what else you have to say.”

She couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, so she gave up trying. Taking a deep breath, she whispered, “I love you.”

“I’m aware,” Astarion responded, the picture of patience. “And you’re well aware of how much I adore you in turn.”

“This isn’t… politically it does make sense,” she said again, knowing full well she was repeating herself. “But I don’t want you to think that, I- I’m not doing this because it makes sense. It- that’s not it, and I’ve just been thinking it and it’s not that, do you un-”

This time it was his lips on hers that interrupted her, a soft caress that was unhurried and filled with nothing but reassurance. He held the back of her head, keeping her close. She allowed herself to melt against his parted lips, allowed his tongue to slip in and explore her, but he barely dipped in before retreating. He didn’t speak, merely gave her a small nod, thumb wiping away a falling tear.

She took several deep breaths, collecting her thoughts as best she could; she was appalled how much she had fumbled it thus far. “I’ve thought about saying it so many times, and in just as many ways. When I was lying in your arms, when I’d made you laugh, over meals, when we talked about our plans, even when we argued…” She shook her head. “Gods, even before that. I fantasized about it that first night in the clearing - stupid and naive, I know, but there it is. It just kept popping into my head, ever-present, always a wonderful daydream that I daren’t speak into existence. I was afraid I’d ruin it.. I knew… I knew it would seem cold, calculated, because there is so much benefit to our goals in it, and I didn’t want it to be for that. I didn’t want to say it when you might think it was only about that, because it isn’t, not at all. And then the time never felt quite right, and I was so scared of making you feel it was cheapened by politics…” She sighed, pausing again to gather her courage.

The words finally managed to leave her mouth. “I want… forever. I want what you wanted, all this time. To be real.” Another shaky breath, and she saw the smile on his face fade, replaced by an eagerness framed with such tenderness it almost broke her. “I was your first. I want to be your last. I want you to marry me. Say yes, please.”

“Ban,” Astarion chuckled. It was a soft, wet sound, his sniffling ruining the intended effect. “You merely had to say ‘will you marry me’ and it would have sufficed.” He flapped a hand dramatically. “You could have gone with some quip, like ‘if you turned me into your bride, why don’t we make it real’ or some comment about how I already call you my wife…” He trailed off as he realized she’d begun to sob, shoulders shaking.

“Love… yes. Of course yes!” He shook his head at the utter idiocy of this moment, of how she’d assumed, even for a moment, that he’d refuse, as if all that babble wasn’t just his own nervousness coming to the fore, the old theatrics a way to defuse strong emotions. He pulled her to him tightly, pressing her to him, his joy overwhelming him as he felt her return the hug with just as much strength.

Yes. Of course, yes. Astarion recognized it for what it was - a large step - and felt joy suffuse him. I am seen, chosen, cherished, loved… I am enough! Everything he’d wanted and had ever needed, condensed into the being of this magnificent person he held in his arms. He pulled away to peer at her face and she shied away, cuddling deeper against him, as if she could stay there forever to avoid his prying eyes.

“Darling, your tears will stain my shirt,” he chided, as if he wasn't crying himself, tears streaking all over his own face. There was a muffled sorry and she let him go, her hands moving to cover her face; he was quick enough, however, and caught her wrists.

“There’s no need to hide, nor cry for that matter,” he murmured, blinking his own tears away. “This is a happy moment. We’re to be wedded, for real this time - not that it matters, really,” he scoffed. “I’ve considered us husband and wife for, gods, I don’t even know how long.” That made her smile, at least, and she finally opened her eyes, although she hadn’t looked him in the face yet.

“Do indulge your to-be-husband, Ban. First, don’t enlist a cleric to officiate the ceremony. I won’t stand for religious prattle. And second, I want to be wed quickly. No more than a month.”

“A month we can do. As for the other, I was thinking Ulder might help us,” she finally said. He blinked in surprise, impressed.

“So you have planned this,” he mused. “You figured you could pull favors from dear Wyll’s old man, get a wonderful ceremony, and consolidate political influence, all in one fell swoop.” He clapped his hands in amusement. “I’m impressed.”

“Well there was also the fact that I get to marry you,” she quipped, eyes still pointedly staring at his chin instead of his face.

Astarion placed a hand under her chin, tilting her face up. “I know,” he murmured. “I know all too well.”

He leaned in close, slotting his lips against hers. This time he didn’t pull away, allowing the kiss to intensify. He waited for her to part her lips then pushed his tongue in, tasting and devouring. Finding a fang, he pressed his tongue against it, longing for her to taste him.

When they parted he was breathless, eyes locked onto her face. “How long have you been considering this?”

“A while,” came the answer, spoken hurriedly as he pulled her on top of him, lying back onto the dewy grass. “After the clearing, it was a daydream - a silly, romantic wish. I first thought of it as more than a fantasy, in terms of the political benefits, shortly after we reconciled, but of course didn’t really think seriously on it then. In terms of when it became something I definitely wanted, for myself - for us… When we had the ball to celebrate our first year. I could see us doing that, but instead of celebrating an anniversary, it would be our wedding.”

“Then why not ask me earlier? That was months ago.” He shivered at the feeling of her lips pressing against the base of his ear; Ban was obviously seeking to correct previous shortcomings. He felt her trail a small path of kisses across his jaw, and then the underside and down his throat. He sat up a bit, propping himself up on his elbows, baring his neck to her, a plea for her to continue. “Did you think I would be so foolish as to decline forever with you, when that’s all I’ve longed for?”

“I thought you would find the ceremony involved trite; like you said, you already obviously considered us wedded,” Ban said. “I also didn’t want you to think it was merely a political move. I didn’t know how to make it romantic and not… pragmatic.” There was a quick pause and then her lips were replaced by fangs, cautiously scraping against his skin, far more hesitant than he would have been. The sensation sent a wave of delight straight to his groin, regardless. “I apologize that I haven’t been feeding from you. It’s not you. I- it’s taken a long time to be comfortable with what I am now.”

“Forgiven.” Astarion purred as her hand wrapped around his nape, guiding his head to the angle she desired. Fingers caressed the curls at the base of his neck, sending more shivers racing along his body. He’d known of her issues coming to terms with her undeath - he’d been hoping learning how to use her powers would help finally ease her into it. That being why she rarely sank her fangs into him was a significant relief, chasing even more of his concerns away. “It is trite,” he admitted, a small sigh escaping his lips as he pressed his hips against hers. “As much as I do agree - doing so will solidify your legitimacy as my partner, afford you more respect, provide a wondrous opportunity to host a grand ball, provide ample chance for mingling, and bind us together in a new way, one that I want very much. I am no fool; I am not incapable of knowing both can be true at the same time.”

“I know you’re not. I just didn’t want you to-”

“To be hurt,” he agreed, placing a hand over his chest dramatically, the effect significantly lessened by the fact that he was painfully hard. The comfort at her openness, in the acknowledgment of his hurts, the balm of her promises, the all-encompassing joy of their engagement, the pleasant weight of her straddling him, grinding against him, the press of her fangs against his neck… It all blended, forming an irresistible cocktail of desire. “Darling. I’m touched. A little insulted you’d think me that incognizant,” he chuckled as she huffed at him, “but very, very glad you have thought of me - worried for me.”

“That being sa-'' he began to say, but the words were aborted in favor of a low, undignified whine as her fangs finally found their mark, sinking into his neck. Pain and icy coldness spread from the pinprick wounds as she drank - rather clumsily in his opinion - the pain quickly followed by pleasure. His hips bucked as her fingers gently traced the edge of his ear. “You- ah- might want to suck and then swallow, instead of… whatever it is you’re attempting to do.” He shifted to center his cock against her, allowing her to feel all of him with every grind of her hips.

Ban opened her mouth to snap out a retort, forgetting to lick the wounds to stem the flow beforehand. Blood gushed and she swore, tongue immediately latching onto his neck to seal them shut.

Astarion snorted. “Messy, Ban. Whatsoever would you do if you actually did have to drink someone dry? You’d have half of it spill.” He took a look at his shirt and sighed. “There’s also the fact that you ruined my sh…”

He cut off with a groan, her wicked tongue lapping harder at his neck, sliding down to his collarbone, licking the blood that had pooled there. A soft snap heralded his shirt being torn open, buttons flying off in every direction, baring his chest. There was another sharp flash of painful pleasure as she nipped at the hard planes of his chest, nicking him slightly above a nipple; he opened his eyes to see her licking at the small rivulets of blood.

“Fuck the shirt,” she said, eyes glinting mischievously. “I want you to forget everything but my name.”

He swallowed, his skin feeling a little too tight, and his cock gave a long throb at her words. He was rather taken aback, surprised by the uncommon forwardness; he delighted in it, in fact. “You’ll have to try harder than that.” Not that he thought she’d have a hard time of it - Ban knew him as well as he her, and all she had to do was place her finger-

But that wasn’t a finger, was it?

She’d slid up his body again, pressed a kiss against his lips - quick and hurried - and before he knew it she’d taken his ear into her mouth, sucking it once. Hard.

The sensation was gone as soon as it came - wet and hot and tingling all around his ear, almost overwhelmingly intense for that split second. He whined at its loss, hips violently jerking up against hers, cock straining against his trousers.

There was want, there was need, but there was also desperation.

“You utter…” He shook his head. “Where did you learn that from?” More, he thought, I need more.

Ban laughed, pulling away to shoot him a wry grin. “A couple of suggestions from friends, here and there…”

He groaned. “Shadowheart?”

“Perhaps.”

He felt her hand snake down, wrapping around his clothed length; his hips canted upwards of their own accord to meet her, seeking friction. The other hand traced an ear, tongue swirling around a nipple and gods he refused to come like this, at least not tonight…

“That’s quite enough.” There was no bite in his tone - he thought it impossible at the moment - but she paused long enough for him to lean her back until she was underneath him. One long, hard thrust - pressing his cock against her, fabric the only thing between them and oh gods he could feel how wet she was - and he pulled away enough to flip her over.

“Was it too much?” She propped herself up, looking at him over her shoulder with careful, slightly concerned eyes. Astarion shook his head.

“On the contrary; I want more of it, much more - but later, else this won’t be a long enough nor a worthy enough encounter for our engagement night.” He considered her, laid out in front of him, eyes and body beckoning to him. “On your stomach, darling,” he whispered, pleased at how quickly she obeyed, lying flat and resting her head on her hands, the muscled expanse of her back and ass presented to him. He ran his hands up the back of her legs, slipping under her dress, fingers digging into each ass cheek before rucking the garment up and off, tossing it to the side.

She turned to look at him, amused. This he matched with a wry grin of his own as he sat up and made a show of stripping off his trousers - slowly undoing the laces, hooking his fingers under the waistband and tugging them down inch by painstaking inch to reveal pale, perfect hipbones, running a hand over the tented outline of his cock, causing her to bite back a moan. She knew Astarion was fully aware of how he looked: bloody shirt torn open, wounds already closing, grass in his hair, cockhead finally slipping out of his trousers. He stroked himself again, eyes locked onto her.

“Hurry up, you tease,” she admonished, rolling her hips to briefly lift her ass up in the air.

He didn’t need to be told twice. Trousers and underwear were roughly tugged down and kicked off. He crawled towards her and she began to spread her legs in anticipation, but he stopped her with a gentle touch. Guiding her thighs back together, he slid his legs on either side of hers. He grasped himself as he shoved her underwear to the side, sliding across her folds, rubbing himself against her.

She watched him throughout all this, her look of amusement changing into one of lust. He gave her one last smug smirk, then slowly sank inside her; the position made the fit deliciously tight, but she was so wet he slipped in without difficulty, burying himself to the hilt. They both groaned when his balls pressed against her.

He leaned forwards, palms gripping the small of her back, thrusting into her. Utterly perfect, that tight, wet, heat that was taking him so well, the feeling of being home. His thrusts gradually lost their slow pace as his self control dissipated. With every stroke he could hear her moan, feel her clenching all around him in an exquisite rhythm that was only her, could only ever be her-

He wrapped his hands around her waist, urging her to sit up. He sent an image over their connection, showing her what he wanted, and she had to bite back a moan of anticipation. He knelt as her legs slipped out from under him, watched hungrily as she straddled him, her back arching against his chest as she slid down onto his length once more. Her ass was pressed wonderfully against him and she began to ride him slowly, gliding her hips languorously, keeping him deep inside her. He rolled his hips up into her, working with the rhythm of her movements, slipping a hand lower to part her folds and find her clit, tracing circles in a slow but insistent pattern.

“Astarion, I love you,” she groaned out. “I’ve always loved you. Have always wanted you, longed for you, needed you. You… you deserve everything - love, happiness, the world. I haven’t been the best at giving it to you, but I swear I will. I’ll love you and cherish you and choose you, over and over again, in every lifetime and beyond. My life didn’t really even start until you. You were my real beginning, my future… you’ll be with me at the end, and for every step in between. You’re the part I’ve always been missing, the half that makes me whole, the other half of my soul. There’s only ever been you, there will only ever be you.” She was babbling, words spilling freely, words she had kept behind walls for so long.

Words he had always needed to hear. Words that only fueled his desire and joy, that brought tears to his eyes and drew a whimper from his lips, hips thrusting faster in response. What he had hoped she’d be to him for so long, finally reciprocated. In her own words, yes, but very much the same. He breathed the words out into their bond, hoping she understood.

My thiramin. Finally. My very own. I’ve waited for you for so long.

They both sighed, both overwhelmed by the headiness of the moment, their bodies moving in unison. Their grinding gradually began losing rhythm as they both approached their peak, the quiet gasps and groans becoming more urgent. His hand snaked up her body to her neck, fingers wrapping below her chin to pull her head back; she felt him press his lips against her pulse, then replace them with fangs.

“I should show you how it’s done,” he purred. “How to bite perfectly, to suck, to swallow, to lick.” Each word was accompanied by the action itself. A small nip, enough to break skin and draw blood, then pleasant suction, and then loud, exaggerated swallows, accompanied by moans of satisfaction breathed right beside her ear. In conjunction with those talented fingers on her clit and the unhurried rhythm of their lovemaking, it was almost too much, but she never wanted to stop.

She leaned into his touch, arching her back and neck to give him even more access. Tangling her fingers in his curls, she tugged, urging his head forward. He followed her lead, eyes closed. She could tell he was close, possibly even closer than she was - his short, rapid panting, the now-frantic rolling of his hips, the fingers on her clit losing their tempo - she saw it all, saw her husband lost in her, lost in his pleasure and joy, and she intended to give him more.

He was pressed tightly against her, jaw digging into her shoulder as he drank from her neck, his eyes roved down her body, watching everything. He was so focused, so lost, he didn’t even register her movement as she shifted to wrap her lips around his ear again. She took it in and gave a long, firm lick and then a sudden suck, swallowing as she did.

She felt him come before she heard it - the sharp, hard jerk of his hips, the sudden, violent slam of his cock so deep inside her it bordered on pain, and the fingers on her neck tightened, overwhelming her with sensation. His loud, whimpered gasp followed a half a heartbeat later, quickly chased by his low, guttural moan as he spilled inside her. The feeling was so intimate, so delicious, so perfect and she came undone as well, clenching tightly around him over and over as their joint pleasure took them both.

Perfect, his cock buried in her, her spasming around every inch of him, his fingers working her through their orgasms. Suddenly, their minds linked, each reaching for the other at their peak, reveling in the joy and the love and the overwhelming pleasure the other felt. Her clit, his cock, his hand on her neck, her fingers in his curls, his ear between her lips, her nails digging into his thigh - every sensation mixed together in a golden spiral that was magnificent and wonderful and beautiful and euphoric and consuming and it was everything and then suddenly it became too much. They instinctively drew away from the contact, the edges of it having become too keen, leaving them both overstimulated, overwhelmed, and a bit delirious.

Their bodies slowed in unison and they collapsed into each other as the last waves washed over them. She leaned heavily against him; he released her neck and held her close.

“That,” Ban said, licking her lips shakily, “was new.”

“Far newer than even you intended,” he agreed. “I however found it glorious - both things, in case you were wondering.”

Ban nodded. “That last thing we’ll have to use sparingly, I think. I…” she sighed, feeling lightheaded. It was amazing, far more intense than the time they’d melded minds while touching themselves before their reconciliation. Remember, Ban, openness, she admonished herself. She found it easy to do, suddenly realizing the lack had been more a force of habit than any actual need to hide, for awhile now. “It was amazing, much more intense than when we shared our pleasure from afar.” Her voice was quiet, almost distant, her mind struggling to retain thoughts in the aftermath.

“Agreed.” Astarion’s voice cut through the haze in her head, and he slowly repositioned them, turning her in his arms to cradle her in his lap. She could see him peering at her, the concern in his gaze obvious. “Are you alright?”

“Oh yes, just a bit adrift, like my mind is more exhausted than my body. I do think I’ll need a break after this, though,” she admitted.

He hummed softly, thoughtful. “Perhaps it would be a good time to bring back that idea we had - that little game we wanted to play. We agreed on a tenday, yes?”

Ban chuckled, tickled even through her exhaustion. “I’ll do you one better. Not until our wedding.”

“Not until-” Astarion cursed. “Gods. You are evil, you know that? You give me the best meal of my life and then decide on a month-long fast - evil. Unmercifully, unrepentantly evil.”

“It’s a yes or a no, Astarion.”

He smiled, seemingly pleased at the prospect despite his complaints. “It is not unprecedented amongst elven mates, to fast in this way, for long periods, to heighten the pleasure…” he mused, a devilish smirk blooming at the thought. “I’d very much like to see how intense things can be after a month’s respite.”

“Yes, or no,” she pressed.

He laughed. “Yes, darling. Yes to everything.”

To every question she’d asked today, to every one she would ask from this little game to eternity - yes.

Bonus: Was listening to this song while writing this chapter!

Taglist: @tavamarie @ayselluna @enterthedreams @coltaire @qiific3 @misscrissfemmefatale @vixstarria @eatyourheartoutmylove @micropoe10 @thegoodwitchs-blog @akirahime @velcyrptr @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @babblebrain-blog @asterordinary @last-but-not-the-least @artist4theworld @gracemisconduct @decedentcoffeewizard @rootin-tootin-n-kind @pursuitseternal @youngtacobanana @krispeenuggiez @girlygmer-blog @cheezits4lyfe @vinegarjello @the0ldmann @wisteriaofthegraves @midnight-musings-of-nyx @toni-winchester @icybluepenguin @beepersteeper @hereliesblackdragon @generalstephkenobi

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cheetahing · 13 days

Text

i keep asking people for their dihua first kiss headcanons (feel free to tell me yours!) so i figured it was about time i wrote mine out. reminder that requests are open, so please don't be shy about sending some in.

so, a'fei kisses him. it doesn't quite feel familiar but it doesn't feel wrong, and after a moment li lianhua parts his lips and reciprocates. it's a sweet, slow thing, exploratory and with a tiny hint of teeth. a'fei tries to chase it when li lianhua pulls away, but a firm hand on his chest stops him.

"ah," li lianhua sighs, regretful and faintly aggrieved, "no, no, that won't do at all."

"you liked it," a'fei says. "why not?"

"oh," li lianhua says, schooling himself into a somewhat proper posture and not the dreamy slump of the recently kissed, "you'll understand when you're older."

a'fei squints at him.

"there are a lot of reasons," li lianhua amends, aiming to sound prim and not quite succeeding. "you'll remember them someday."

"i don't think i'll care," a'fei says, and li lianhua smiles at that.

"well, that's for the you of then to decide, not the you of now."

"if you say so," a'fei says, doubtful, but doesn't try to stop li lianhua when he makes his escape toward the tower door.

"well," li lianhua says with the sly look he gets when he's sure he's got a winning hand, "it wouldn't be the first time di-mengzhu kissed me."

di feisheng's scowl is thunderous. "i wasn't myself," he says, "it doesn't count." it doesn't! a'fei had done a lot of things di feisheng wouldn't, and even if this, perhaps, was not one of them, it doesn't count.

"don't deny it, you'll wound my maiden heart," li lianhua says with an exaggerated swoon.

"did you like it that much," di feisheng says, frown deepening. li lianhua had quite liked it, hadn't he. di feisheng feels vaguely wronged, as if something has been taken from him.

"why, lao di," li lianhua says, sounding positively delighted, "are you jealous? of yourself?"

"preposterous." di feisheng crosses his arms. he is a man who simply takes what he wants; he does not get jealous! especially not of some other version of himself taking initiative that he hasn't.

"you are, aren't you," li lianhua says, nearly glowing in the moonlight. it's a terribly good look on him.

"they'll find us if you get any louder," di feisheng says, deflection as threatening as he can make it sound. li lianhua makes a show of covering his mouth as he laughs.

"come now, lao di," he says, crossing over to di feisheng's side of the table. "it's a fairly easy problem to solve, isn't it?"

di feisheng glares at him. li lianhua doesn't seem to notice, easing himself down onto the bench and twining his arms around di feisheng's neck. "isn't it?" li lianhua repeats, smiling up into his face.

it's awfully unfair of him, some beleaguered corner of di feisheng's mind notes, but they're kissing before he can finish the thought. his hands come up to anchor themselves on li lianhua's too-thin waist, squeezing possessively. it's less gentle this time, more teeth and more tongue, the edge of frustration making him impatient. li lianhua nips back gamely, and it isn't long before they settle into a rhythm of give and take, retreating and pursuing.

di feisheng drags li lianhua's lower lip out between his teeth as he pulls away, surveying li lianhua's blown pupils and flushed face with an air of proprietary triumph. he brings one hand up to cup li lianhua's face and trace his spit-shiny lips with his thumb.

"that," he says, "is our first kiss."

#mysterious lotus casebook #di feisheng #li lianhua #dihua #feihua #fic meme #once again tho no one asked for this LOL #it's fine i write to please myself #i just love the idea of dfs being jealous of himself lmao

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clangenrising · 1 month

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Month 13 - Newleaf

Russetfrond sat perched at the top of the cornerstones, tail tip twitching slightly. He watched as Mystique and Yarrowshade crept through the foliage on opposite sides of a pair of squirrels. More accurately, he watched Mystique with a hawk eyed glare. At Goldenstar’s insistence, she had started joining hunting patrols over the last few days and he was there for every one of them. He didn’t trust anyone else to keep an eye on her.

She moved softly through the undergrowth, somehow managing not to cause a single noise from her bell collar, her long blue coat brushing just above the leaves. She stopped a couple fox-lengths away from the squirrels and waited for Yarrowshade to move into place and, as she did, she cast her gaze up to Russetfrond. He scowled and she smiled and his scowl deepened. He wished she would stop smiling at him all the time. As if she could read his thoughts, she smirked and shook her head.

Yarrowshade had moved into position. Mystique wiggled her haunches and then lunged forward, scuffing her paws noisily through the pine needles and leaf litter, a laugh burbling up from her chest. The squirrels panicked and fled straight into Yarrowshade’s waiting claws. He pounced on the smaller of them and snapped its neck in his teeth. The other squirrel veered off course and raced up a nearby tee. Mystique bounded after it and her paws were on the trunk when Russetfrond spoke up.

“Leave it,” he ordered.

“Oh, come on…” she complained, tearing her claws down the bark. “I could have caught it!”

“Exactly,” he frowned. “You still don’t get it.”

“Right,” she rolled her eyes, “I forgot there were a bunch of arbitrary rules about what prey you can and can't catch.” She sharpened her claws on the tree trunk for another second or two and then pushed off the trunk with a huff.

“It’s not arbitrary,” Yarrowshade said. “We’re trying to preserve next year’s hunt. If we killed every squirrel we found there would be no squirrels next year and we’d all starve.”

“Okay, but why not catch the fat one?” Mystique said. “Won’t that feed more cats?”

“It was probably pregnant,” he shrugged, licking prey blood from his lips. “It’s that time of year. We let it go, that means more squirrels later on.”

“I guess I see your point,” sighed the kittypet. Russetfrond huffed to himself and she looked up at him, nose scrunched petulantly. She even stuck her tongue out. He lashed his tail, hoping he had managed to come off as irritated rather than flustered. He hated how she got under his skin like that, especially with such childish behavior.

“I think we’ve got a pretty good catch,” Yarrowshade said, unaware as usual. “Why don’t you grab the bird you caught earlier and we can head back.”

“Aww, I wanna stay out,” she said. “The camp is so stuffy!”

“Too bad,” said Russetfrond. He rose and bounded down the sloping side of the Cornerstones. The rough, mossy stone felt comforting under his paws and he imagined himself leaving a Gathering like this, leader of his Clan descending from the place of highest honor, walking in his mother’s pawsteps. It was a comforting fantasy, off put somewhat by coming down to be face to face with Mystique.

“Come on, please?” she asked.

“Does that work on cats in the city?” he scowled back.

“Sometimes,” she pressed her ears back against her head.

“Just grab your damn bird,” he sighed. Yarrowshade was already heading off towards the border and he didn’t want them to fall too far behind. Mystique gave a beleaguered groan but went and fetched the bird from where they had stashed it without further complaint.

They padded through the trees in silence until they reached the outskirts where the trees started to thin. The river stretched out in front of them. It was deep and fast near the SkyClan border but widened and grew shallow as it flowed towards EarthClan. Mystique brightened when she saw it, like she did every time, and her tail started to wave above her back.

“Ooh, maybe we could take a swim?” she suggested.

“Uh, no thanks,” Yarrowshade laughed.

Mystique leaned in to bump her shoulders against his. “What, you afraid of a little water, Yare Bear?” Russetfrond grimaced.

“I’m not afraid,” said Yarrowshade, fur puffing up. “I just don’t like getting wet.”

“What are you talking about?” Mystique said. “Getting wet is the best feeling in the world.” Russetfrond couldn’t help but huff a little laugh through his nose at the phrasing. Mystique glanced over at him and smirked. “See, Bee Face gets it.”

“Don’t include me in this,” he said, a touch of humor still lingering. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about that.”

Mystique laughed, loud and bright. “Wow! Big self-own from Bee Face.”

Yarrowshade looked puzzled. “W- Oh, stars, are you two flirting?” He rolled his eyes. Both Russetfrond and Mystique turned to scowl at him.

“No,” snapped Russetfrond.

“Gross,” said Mystique.

“And besides,” continued Russetfrond, “if we were, you’re the last person who gets to complain. I can’t count the times I’ve had to suffer through your painful attempts at flirtation.” Yarrowshade bristled sourly.

“Ooh!” Mystique’s gaze sharpened with interest. “Are you a little Romeo, Yare Bear?”

“Don’t call me that,” Yarrowshade said, casting his face away uncomfortably.

“What, Romeo or Yare Bear?” Mystique asked.

“All of it,” Yarrowshade grumbled. “It’s weird.”

“I dunno,” hummed Russetfrond, “I think it’s growing on me. Maybe I’ll start calling you Yare Bear.” Mystique chortled.

“Ew,” Yarrowshade grimaced like he’d stepped in crowfood, “Stop it, man.”

“Stop what, Yare Bear?” smiled Russetfrond.

“Yeah, what’s wrong, Yare Bear?” asked Mystique, poorly hiding her laughter.

“I’m serious!” Yarrowshade hissed, “Stop it!” He sounded so much like a whiny apprentice that Russetfrond couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“Oh, come on,” he said, “have a thicker hide than that.”

“Yeah, we’re just poking fun,” said Mystique.

“Whatever,” Yarrowshade scowled, his tail lashing. They reached the river shore and Yarrowshade angrily leapt to the first of the mossy crossing stones they had used on their way over. When he jumped to the next, his paw slid off of the slick moss and the river drenched his back half as he scrambled not to fall in entirely. Mystique fell over cackling and Russetfrond bit his lip to stop himself from laughing out loud. Her laughter was infectious even without the added hilarity of Yarrowshade’s predicament.

Yarrowshade turned back, fur fluffed up in all directions except where it clung wetly to his skin, cheeks bright red in embarrassment. He seemed to growl tightly around the squirrel in his jaws. Silently fuming, he turned and quickly finished crossing, then dashed off into the grass without them.

“Wait!” Russetfrond tried but he couldn’t stop the laughter tinging his voice and he knew that Yarrowshade was long gone. He sighed, shook his head, and looked over to Mystique who had rolled onto her back, overwhelmed by her own laughter. The bird lay beside her, forgotten.

“What a dork!” she snorted. “Is he always like that?”

“Pretty much,” Russetfrond said.

“Man, it’s almost too easy!” She stood up and stepped into the river, ignoring the crossing stones.

“Hey, don’t forget your catch,” Russetfrond’s scowl returned.

“I’ll grab it in a minute,” she said, wading deeper into the river. “I wanna cool off for a sec.”

“We’re going back to camp,” he said stubbornly. “Stop fooling around.”

“Oh, you like it when I fool around,” she scoffed.

“I do not,” he puffed up slightly with indignation.

“Do too,” she said back. By now she was sinking into the river to douse her back.

“Ah, the pinnacle of eloquence,” he droned sarcastically.

“You know it,” she purred. She dunked her head under the water briefly and tossed it back, sending glittery droplets flying in a perfect arc. Russetfrond was ashamed at the way his throat tightened.

“Get out,” he snapped, “We’re going back to camp now.”

“Make me,” she smirked, looking over at him. He stared, dumbfounded. Was she really going to risk injury or getting banned from patrols over a few minutes in a river? Her grin only widened at his reaction. “You can’t, can you?”

“Of course I can,” he said, leaping to the first of the crossing stones.

“Yeah?” she challenged, silky fur swirling around her as she turned to face him. “I bet you can’t.”

Russetfrond shifted his weight to make sure he was steady on his stepping stone before he tried to reach out and snag her by the scruff. She dipped into the water and let it carry her backwards, out of his reach.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” she clucked, “You’re gonna have to get wet if you wanna stop me.” He growled one paw held to his chest as he considered her words. It looked like she was right. He didn’t enjoy getting wet but he didn’t hate it either, it was the aftermath that he hated, the chilly evaporation and the hours of grooming. Still, he wasn’t one to shirk an unpleasant task. Carefully, he adjusted himself for a jump, calculating the best place to land and making sure that he wasn’t about to faceplant or slip on a stone. Mystique watched him intently, hovering lightly on her paws with all but her head in the water.

A moment, then another, and then Russetfrond jumped, landing on top of her with an enormous splash. She sank to get out from under him but he lunged and snagged her collar in his teeth. With a sharp tug, he yanked her to the surface. She gasped for air and reared up onto her hind legs, suddenly lifting him. She was taller than him, imposingly so on her hind legs, and he realized a second too late that he should have let go.

She slammed forward, topping him backwards into the water, and her weight forced him to the bottom of the river. He realized suddenly that he was in danger. She had much better control in the water than he did. Had this all been a cunning ploy to drown her guard and get away? Adrenaline suddenly spiked through him and he lashed out with his hind claws. Her thick, unshed coat tangled his claws but the force of the kick landed in her gut and she quickly backed off of him. He spun to get his feet underneath him and burst from the water, gasping, then rounded on her, prepared for a counter attack.

He wasn’t ready for the worried expression she was wearing.

“Are you alright?” she asked, sounding genuine. He coughed a little and scowled at her, not yet ready to ease out of his battle stance.

“I’m sorry, I thought we were just messing around,” she continued, “I didn’t realize you couldn’t swim.”

“I can swim,” he said, feeling the embarrassment of his fizzling adrenaline rising to his cheeks. “I just- I thought you were pulling something.”

“Oh,” she sat down, face blank. Her lack of reaction made him even more embarrassed. Teeth gritted, he stomped out to the other side of the river and shook to get the water out of his ears.

“Grab the bird and let’s go,” he growled. “I’m done wasting time.”

“Yeah, okay,” she said limply. She sailed easily through the water, back to the far shore, and grabbed the bird, then slipped back into the water like a duck and pulled herself across. Russetfrond couldn’t understand how a cat could look so at home in water. Kittypets, he thought sourly.

“Thank you,” he grunted. “Let’s go already.”

“Yeah, okay,” she said, ears drooped. It was unsettling to him to see her this way. The sooner they got back to camp and he could stop thinking about her, the better. He picked up the pace through the grass, following Yarrowshade’s trail and trying not to shiver.

After a while, Mystique said, “Hey, sorry about that. I promise I’m not gonna like… murder you.”

“Why would you promise that?” he glared back at her.

She frowned in surprise. “Uh, cause I’m not a monster?”

“We’re enemies,” he said harshly. “What if your brother storms the camp and we’re forced to fight? You’re saying you wouldn’t raise your claws to defend your family?”

“I’d probably try and stop the fighting,” she snapped as if he were being irrational. “I don’t have to choose between killing you or killing my brother.”

“You might,” he said.

“No way,” she insisted. “It’s unrealistic to say those are my only choices.”

“That’s the kind of thinking that got Smokyrose killed,” he snarled, turning on her. She bristled and flattened backward. “You’re naive if you think Razor will give you another option.” She swallowed, searched his face, and he turned his head sharply away. He couldn’t stand that expression on her face. Without another word he stomped back to camp, only pausing to make sure she was behind him. She followed and for that he was grateful. She didn’t speak again and the walk back was stiff and silent.

When they returned he assigned someone to guard her and went to clean his fur on top of the Stoneperch. Why did he feel betrayed somehow? It wasn’t even the fight that upset him, it was how she had gone all soft and quiet like a kicked dog. That was the part that upset him the most and it didn’t make any sense. He hoped that Goldenstar would do something about Mystique soon ‘cause he wasn’t sure how much longer he could put up with her.

#clan gen #clangen #warrior cats #warriors #warrior cats oc #warriors oc #clangen oc #clan gen oc #clangenrising #Mystique #Russetfrond #Yarrowshade #Newleaf

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silver-ink-iron-words · 1 year

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i love your writing SO much <3 i've read EVERYTHING you've written, and every time i see another snippet by you come up on my dash it brightens my day instantly! if you're still open for requests, can i ask for one where the hero decides to keep the villain imprisoned to prrotect the public, but ends up developing feelings for them? tysm!!!

Oh wow this makes me so happy! Thank you for the prompt request :)

----

“Hey there, bootlicker,” the villain said, their eyes closed.

“How’s it going, criminal?” The hero settled onto the chair just outside the villain’s cell.

On the other side of the glass, the villain laid on their cot perpendicular to the hero. The hero tried not to focus on the sharp outline of their profile.

The villain’s dark hair had gotten long and scraggly, and their clothes were wrinkled. Yet they somehow didn’t come off as messy. Rather, they looked artistic. Misunderstood. Revolutionary.

The paintings the villain had done in captivity helped the image. Canvases awash in vibrant colors were littered all over the floor.

“Do you need more paint?” the hero asked.

“I wouldn’t mind some gouache,” the villain said. “I’ve been thinking I should experiment with a different style.”

The villain’s head rested on their pillow in such a way that their long neck was fully exposed. It looked scandalous. Like they were in an old film about vampires.

The hero was most certainly not thinking about what they’d do if their mouth was on that neck.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the hero said. “Sorry I can’t get you more supplies.”

It hadn’t always been like this. Back when the villain was out there taking hostages and destroying buildings, it had been easy to hate them. And when the hero had first started visiting the villain’s cell, it had mainly been just to check that the city’s greatest menace was still securely confined.

But then the villain had been friendly. They had no one else to talk to, after all. And when they were friendly, they were so very . . .

The villain cracked open an eye and smiled. “Ah, don’t worry about it. The more often I’m missing something, the more often you visit me.”

The hero fought the urge to fidget. Yeah, they were so very that.

“There’s some topside news, again,” the hero said, after clearing their throat. “[Supervillain] and [Vigilante] are dating.”

The villain’s grin widened, and they turned their head a bit to glance at the hero. “Well that’s nice. They deserve – ”

“What is that?”

The villain turned fully to the wall, but not before the hero saw their eyes widen.

The hero stood from their chair. “[Villain], what was that on your face?”

Up until that point, half the villain’s face had been hidden. But before the villain had turned, the hero had thought they’d caught a glimpse of . . .

“[Villain], show me right now.”

The villain chuckled a bit. “I always underestimate you, don’t I darling?”

“[Villain], now. Or I’m coming in there.”

With a beleaguered sigh, the villain rose from their cot and turned around. They stood before the hero with their arms crossed.

An angry cut. A split lip. A sickening purple bruise that snaked all the way from the villain’s jaw to their eyebrow.

“Who did this to you?”

“Consider for a moment that I may have had a reason for not wanting you to know – ”

“Who?”

A surprised expression dashed across the villain’s face, before being suppressed by a smirk. “What, do you love me or something?”

“That wasn’t an answer to my question.”

The villain’s smirk grew. “No, but the look on your face is certainly an answer to mine.”

The hero’s cheeks went hot. “I swear to god, if you – ”

“Don’t you want to know if I reciprocate?”

“What?”

The villain stalked closer. They grinned. “Don’t you want to know whether or not I stay awake at night thinking about you?”

The hero swallowed. The villain was teasing them. They had to be.

The villain’s grin widened. “Promise to drop this business about my face, and I’ll tell you everything.”

#villain #hero #villain x hero #hero x villain #heroes and villains #writing #villains and heroes #writing snippet #writeblr #not a prompt

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armoricaroyalty · 2 months

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𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 / ❛ boy crazy ❜ part two (@nexility-sims)

When Zofia walked into a room, everyone noticed. It might have been the enormity of her hair or the constant noise of her rings and bracelets or else the overwhelmingly sweet scent of her favorite body mist, but she was captivating in every sense of the word. Hannah had been jealous of her, once upon a time. It would have been impossible to grow up with her without any jealousy: next to Zofia, everyone became shabby and dull. Ranks didn't matter at all, no title or royal honor could ever compete with that kind of natural charisma. Hannah loved her, but there had been days when she'd hated her, too. Now, though, she was only grateful. When Zofia walked in, nobody noticed the rest of them slipping out.

read part one here

author's note: @nexility-sims and I have been working on the zofia/rui romance since....early 2022? some time in 2021? since #rufia has completely dominated 2/3 of our joint brain power for years, it seemed fitting to finally let them out of our DM's to celebrate Love Day Valentine's Day. Happy V-Day, everyone!

Transcript under the cut.

CHEF | Aren't long nails against dress code, anyway? SERVER | [laughs] Girl, I don't give a fuuu— SERVER | You wanna know who else is wearing acrylics tonight? CHEF | [bored] I dunno, who? SERVER | Oh, nobody, just the Princess Zofia. CHEF | [gasps] CHEF | Shut. Up. You actually talked to her? What was she like? SERVER | She's fucking gorgeous. Like, obviously, but up close, she's even more beautiful. CHEF | Yeah, yeah, but what was she like? SERVER | Okay, so I didn't actually talk to her because she was all over her new boyfriend. They were like, so into each other. It was so sweet. CHEF | Really? I heard it's just a PR relationship so people will think she's over Sigis. SERVER | No way! They're obviously crazy abut each other. You can't fake— UNIDENTIFIED MAN | [offscreen] EVERYBODY OUT! HUGO | What, do I gotta say it again? All of you, clear out! HANNAH | [sighs] Please excuse us. HANNAH | My cousin and I need somewhere to speak privately. Will you please excuse us for a moment? CHEF | ??? SERVER | [shrugs] HUGO | ...anyway, did you see it? HANNAH | See what? HUGO | That stupid little hair flip. He did it a million times. HANNAH | He's growing it out for her. HUGO | Really? Hard to believe, he's so fucking vain. HANNAH | She told me she asked him to grow it long. [deep, beleaguered sigh] She thinks it's sexy. HUGO | What, are you for real? HANNAH | Oh yeah. She's always had a thing for guys with long hair. HUGO | ...huh. HANNAH | Anyway...what's your take? Personally, I don't see what she sees in him. HUGO | [snorts] He's better than Marshall. HANNAH | That's the world's lowest bar. Subterranean, in fact. HUGO | So what are we going to do? HANNAH | He's not a dog, we can't just run him off. HUGO | Well, you can't, but maybe if I— PIDGE | [offscreen] HEY! What are you two talking about? PIDGE | ...and why are you hanging out in the kitchen? ARTHUR | ....hi. HUGO | [icily] Farrier. HANNAH | It's late, Pidge. What are you still doing up? PIDGE | Uh, excuse you. Mama said I can stay until midnight. ARTHUR | ...you two aren't talking about Rui and Zofie, are you? HUGO | ... HANNAH | ...no. PIDGE | You two are such LIARS! PIDGE | Both of you are judgy control freaks! I thought he was really nice. HUGO | He could barely string a sentence together. ARTHUR | I mean...Armorican is his third or fourth language, isn't it? HUGO | Whatever! He gives me the creeps. HANNAH | Well, she says she's in love. HUGO | [scoffs] In love? They've known each other for six months. PIDGE | So? What if it was love at first sight? HANNAH | [exasperated] Pidge— HUGO | Just ignore her, she's fourteen. PIDGE | For your information, I'm fifteen. And I'll be sixteen in May, sooo— HUGO | Yeah, a baby— ARTHUR | Can I remind everyone that Zofia is twenty-two? She's an adult, she can make her own choices, and this is none of our business. HUGO | You're right, Farrier. It's none of your business. HANNAH | [offscreen] Hugo, enough. PIDGE | [mouthing] Rude. HANNAH | Arthur, what was your read? ARTHUR | I don't know, and I don't want to form a judgment until I've actually gotten to know him. He seems...fine? On par with the other guys she's dated. HANNAH | [sighs] "On par with all her other boyfriends" is the entire problem. HANNAH | I just don't want her to get hurt again. This happens every time, you know? She falls hard and fast and then the guy turns out to be a scum-sucking lowlife. PIDGE | [laughs] Hellooooo, what about Van? He was— HANNAH | Probably thw worst of all of them. Trust me, Pigeon. He's...he's no good. HUGO | [jokingly] You see, baby bird? That's why you're not allowed to date until you're thirty and why Hannah's gonna join a convent— PIDGE | No way, that's not fair. HANNAH | [tiredly] Hugo, shut up. No one asked. PIDGE | Yeah, Hugo. No one asked. ARTHUR | Look, I think we should at least give the guy a chance. HANNAH | [sighs] I guess we owe her that much. PIDGE | Guys, I actually talked to him, and trust me: he is like, sooo nice. HUGO | ... HUGO | I bet I could take him. PIDGE | Hey! Hannah, did you hear what he just said—

#armorica story #behind the scenes #character: hugo st. fleur #character: hannah st. fleur #character: margaret st. fleur #character: arthur farrier #holiday special

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after-witch · 1 year

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A Family Picture [Yandere Vash x Reader]

Title: A Family Picture [Yandere Vash x Reader]

Synopsis: Vash always wanted a family.

Word count: 2000ish

notes: yandere, possessive behavior, toxic relationship, pregnant afab reader, babytrapping

You thought you had known what it felt like to be shocked.

You were shocked when you came home from school one day to find your aunt in your house, with a sad but patient smile on her face, and the news of your parents death in a shootout on her lips.

You were shocked when you found out that the man you’d been flirting with all afternoon was Vash the Stampede, quite literally the most infamous man (if he could be called a man, technically speaking) on the planet.

But this? This goes beyond being surprised or shocked. This is something you were not expecting, ever, and it feels like you’ve been held upside down and shaken for a good long while. And then some.

“Miss?”

The doctor’s voice cuts unpleasantly through your shaking thoughts and you stare at him, feeling your gaze barely registering as you blink and blink and try to understand.

“Thank you,” you murmur, and the paper in your hands crumples as you grip it tightly and rush to get dressed. You ignore the doctor’s request for a follow up, and his remark about bringing the father in for a consultation as well.

That thought made you chuckle, bitter and breathy, as you hurried out the door of the office. Christ. You couldn’t bring the father into the doctor. Not unless you wanted to get surrounded by scientists, at best, or locked away in some lab at worst.

You had to get home. And then what? You didn’t know.

All you know right now is… you would have to tell Vash. There was no way around it.

You were pregnant with his child.

Vash’s expression doesn’t change for several long, agonizing moments. In those moments, your hand instinctively rests on your stomach. In anxiety. In desperation. In hope? You don’t know, you don’t know exactly how you feel about any of this.

All you know is that you can’t stand that look of quiet contemplation on his face. The uncertainty, the worry, something else--disbelief?

And then, just like that, his expression breaks and there’s a beautiful, soft smile and he’s looking up at you with tears in his tired eyes.

“S-Seriously? That’s what the doctor said? You’re not pulling a prank, are ya?”

You shake your head, feeling dumbfounded--feeling the tight coil of shock and anxiety begin to gradually unloosen.

“No, he…” You curl your fingers against your stomach. “He was pretty clear about it. He wants you to come in to see him, but um…”

Vash lets out a shaky laugh and runs his finger through his darkened hair.

“I’m not too keen on that kind of attention, so I think we’ll keep to ourselves, huh?” His grin doesn’t quite smooth over the real danger associated with what’s happening, but it does help you feel a little better.

You sigh, tired, beleaguered. And Vash is right there, pulling up one of the well-worn chairs you’d fished out from a dumpster a few weeks back. He slides it underneath you and helps you down, as if you’re already 9 months pregnant and need the help.

You laugh a little bit. “Hey, I can sit down on my own, you know.

Vash waves you away, and looks at you with this bright tenderness that makes your heart twist. “Call me a worried father, I guess.” He pauses at his own words, and you can’t help but grin at the almost surprised look on his own face.

He’s coming to the same realization that you’ve already dealt with; or at least, dealt with the initial shock: you’re going to be a parent.

He looks serious, suddenly. “Just… let me take care of you, okay? You and the baby.” He leans down and wraps his arms around you. His words are muffled against your shoulder, but they come out clear enough. Clear and strained and protective. “I won’t let anything happen to either of you.”

His hug is too tight, but you don’t say anything. You’re too relieved that he’s excited about all this to care about anything else.

Later, you swear to yourself, you’ll ask Vash how this was even possible. He’d told you on the night you’d first made love that it was impossible for you to get pregnant from him, because of his biology. That’s why you’d never used protection. It seemed a pointless expense.

Later, that question will come. But for now, you stroke Vash’s hair and let him hold you, and try not to worry about the future.

After one, two would come. Not right away.

Your daughter was about four when Vash brought up the idea of a sibling. You’d hesitated, if only because of Vash’s own history with his brother, which you still didn’t fully understand, because it was a painful subject that was best left untouched.

“It’ll be good for her.”

There was something so soft and sweet in his eyes, that it was easy to ignore the desperation in his tone. It was even easier to ignore the fact that you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted another child.

It was… different, being a parent. Especially with Vash, who was kind, of course, and loyal and protective. But it wasn’t like you could live an ordinary life together. He was too famous, his face plastered all over the world.

And whenever his identity was discovered or someone came looking for him, the three of you had to pack up and move on, often quickly, leaving behind treasured items in the name of safety.

But he pleaded. He wheedled. He convinced you. It would give your daughter someone to play with, when she was lonely. Goodness knows she had enough of that, especially during the days when you had to keep low and didn’t dare let her play with anyone in whatever town you’d ended up in.

Sometimes--privately, in your heart--you debated leaving Vash. Taking your daughter and just leaving. It wasn’t like your face was famous, or hers. She would be safe. She would be normal. She would get to live an ordinary life where mom and dad didn’t hastily bundle her up with a few of her favorite toys and get the hell out of town in the middle of the night.

And you… would be normal too. It was selfish to think about that, you knew. But you wouldn’t deny that you missed being able to live like a regular person, without the fear of people finding out who you were with, and who cared about you.

But could you leave him? He loved you. He loved her. There was no doubt about that. Every time you thought you made up your mind to leave, you simply couldn’t.

There would be no money in the jar for train tickets out of town, making it impossible to leave. Or your daughter would get sick, and you certainly couldn’t take her while she was ill. Or Vash would be exceptionally sweet that day and guilt would eat your thoughts up.

So… two came. And with two, the thought of leaving Vash seemed to ebb and flow, sometimes becoming unbearable and sometimes fading away to almost nothing.

It wasn’t like you thought about it all the time. Just now and then. An occasional thought that you carefully weighed in your hands before putting it back on the shelf so it could gather dust for another few months.

You loved Vash, and you loved your family. God knows you did, and would always.

But Vash could be… a lot. Especially now.

He was overprotective to a degree that made you irritated. You weren’t allowed to get a job anymore, because he didn’t trust anyone else to watch over your children. If you made friends with a neighbor, he wanted to check them out, to make sure they weren’t someone shady--or someone trying to collect the bounty on his head. Going out on your own, with or without the kids? Nearly impossible, unless he was in an exceptionally docile mood and you turned on enough charm.

And the running--it was unbearable. You were hardly settled into a new town before Vash came in, a familiar well-worn look on his face, sweat on his brow. And every time, you knew.

You would have to leave. Again.

It was always the same. Vash would come in with that smile that was more like a grimace. A hand sheepishly running through his hair, his eyes downcast. Apologies spilling from his lips, familiar words in familiar tones.

And then what little life you’d created was packed up, your children were uprooted, and life had to begin anew somewhere else.

Sometimes, on those long nights on the trains, crowded and noisy, kids and Vash and clutched luggage at your side, you thought: Is this the life I wanted to lead? Is this the life I want them to lead? Always running, always looking over our shoulders?

But after two… there was the third. Unplanned. A total surprise, especially because you’d been buying protection every chance you got.

But with the third, a little boy with chubby cheeks and a shock of blonde hair, your thoughts of leaving seemed to naturally subside.

Not because Vash had changed, or you’d learned to accept the things you hated.

But because you weren’t stupid enough to think that a woman towing three children behind her would be able to make it on her own on this forsaken desert planet, regardless of the new Earth outreach that was gradually making life more bearable in some places.

Vash smiles and watches his trio of children running about in the backyard, tripping over the sand, squealing in delight at the toys he’d picked up for them in town. The sound of their laughter is music to his ears, no matter how many times he hears it.

He glances into the house through the back window and you were there, in the kitchen, idly humming a nameless tune as you fixed dinner.

You seem to sense his gaze and give him a tired, worn, pressed-down smile. He grins back at you and your eyes flit back down to the stove, stirring something, throwing a handful of this and that into the pot.

Vash sighs and returns his gaze to the children. The oldest was the ringleader, of course. Bossy as all get out, prone to jutting out her chin and demanding her siblings do what she says.

The second was the quietest, a little slip of a girl, who was more content to read books in her mama’s lap than run around with her siblings. But she could be persuaded, in the right mood.

And the third, a boy, whose smile makes Vash's heart squeeze. Because it’s a familiar smile. Not his smile. But… sometimes, when his son turns his head just-so, or asks Vash a question in a particular lilt, his heart pangs tightly in remembrance of his twin. Someone like him, but oh, not quite.

The pain was mingled with the bliss of fatherhood, of course. And his love for you.

You would never know how much he loved you, really. It was that love that brought the five--five, even thinking the number made him smile--of you where you were today.

It was that love which made him swear to never, ever reveal the truth about your pregnancy.

Yes, it was a surprise when you’d rushed home from the doctor and told him about your pregnancy all those years ago. Not because he didn’t think he could get you pregnant. No, no. But only because he thought it would have taken longer, once he’d prepared his body for impregnation.

It was a bit funny, he thought, that he could turn on his fertility like a light switch. It made it easier to plan for kids… well, on his end, of course, since you knew nothing about it.

It was a secret that only one other person from Gunsmoke knew, and that man was dead. William Conrad, long since murdered by Knives. Vash didn’t like to think of Conrad too much--grief for that man was complex, distant and mingled with bitterness.

But he did have Conrad to thank for leaving behind clues to tests he’d run on independent plant biology, including their ability to have children under the right conditions.

He’s not heartless. He knows it wasn’t right to surprise you with that pregnancy, or encourage the others--not just because he wanted children, but because he knew it would make it harder for you to leave. But it was for your own good.

Besides… you loved the children, too. And him, though he could tell you weren’t always happy with the restrictions forced upon you because of his infamy. Yet you were a wonderful mother, and a wonderful spouse, and when you did manage to smile, it still lit up the entire room.

You were made for this, he thinks.

He just had to clip your wings a little to make you see that.

It wasn’t right. But… sometimes you have to do hard things to keep the people you love safe.

Vash knew that fact better than anyone else on Gunsmoke.

#yandere trigun #yandere vash the stampede #yandere vash #afterwitch writes #yandere

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darebeardearest · 2 years

Text

majima, to his subordinates, kicking his long ass legs in the air as he lays on his stomach on top of his desk: send my crush this epic pic of me holding my customized pocket racer i made to match my blazer 🥰

nishida, in charge of The Phone: *beleaguered sigh* of course boss

#yakuza #yakuza kiwami #yakuza kiwami 1 #kiwami 1 #rgg #ryu ga gotoku #majima #goro majima #kazumaji #i’m Obsessed with bisexual diseased little Majima

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light-of-the-two-trees · 5 days

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A draft scene from a long, daunting AU that I hope to one day fully write, in which Miriel survives to give birth to all five of Finwe's children (meaning they are full siblings), and Feanor is also the third of five children rather than the eldest, younger than Fingolfin.

(The happier timeline of two even for this AU, in which I don't make things play out just as they do in canon regardless of the changes as I want to in the sadder timeline. The birth order for the Finweans here is Findis (not so named), Fingolfin, Feanor, Lalwen and Finarfin, if anyone's curious). Scene features Feanor and Fingolfin reconciling after Fingolfin sails to Beleriand.

It was a shock seeing him standing there, despite expecting it fully. His brother was still dressed in all his royal finery like a stray piece of Aman that had neglected to blend into the grim darkness of Endórë. He looked every inch the High King of the Ñoldor — which Fëanáro distantly realised he was now — right from his swept-back hair to his impossibly clean boots. No blood stained his clothes, and the salt and sea-spray seemed to have marred them not — in fact, it seemed he'd even fixed his hair. Upon his gleaming dark hair sat Atar's crown, the silver circlet sparkling there as if it belonged nowhere else, and right then Fëanáro wanted nothing more than to rip it off, any damage to Ñolofinwë's perfectly styled hair be damned, and toss it into the ocean because it was just another reminder that their father was gone, and never going to return.

In stark contrast of course, Fëanáro was soot-stained, shivering, bleary-eyed from having stared at too many maps and records with nothing but lamplight, and not at all fit to be meeting any person, let alone a King — just like everyone else except for His Most Royal and Exalted Highness, so it did not bother him very much.

He stared at Ñolofinwë, waiting for him to announce his business.

'Should I sit?'

Fëanáro pointed to a chair, and Ñolofinwë sat. Then, without asking, he reached out for a metal cup and jug by the chair, filled the cup with water from the jug, and took a long swig from it.

After that, he sat there and did nothing but stare the cup or into the middle distance for some time.

'Why are you here?' Fëanáro asked at last, when the silence and expectant staring grew unbearable. Ñolofinwë looked up from his long-since-emptied cup, and sighed.

'I was here to ask if you're alright.'

Was he alright? Fëanáro did not know, nor did he understand why Ñolofinwë might have been asking. But he wasn't not alright, as far as he knew, so he said, 'Yes, I'm alright.'

Ñolofinwë nodded, and turned back to the cup.

Fëanáro decided to pretend that his brother was no longer there, and went back to the map that Círdan's people had given him.

Some more time passed.

Then, at last, Ñolofinwë broke the silence. 'Why were you going to burn the ships?'

It wasn't at all a considered movement when Fëanáro turned around. snatched the cup from Ñolofinwë's unresisting hands, and threw it to the ground furiously. He even took a moment to stare at the cup and then his hand in bewilderment before crying, 'Why did you conspire to have me killed, then, brother? Answer this first!'

Ñolofinwë had gone very still again. After a moment, he breathed, stood up slowly, and picked the cup up from where it lay before placing it down gently upon Fëanáro's desk. His face looked hard and cold. 'Who told you that?' he asked evenly.

'It takes no Loremaster to figure out your designs,' Fëanáro snapped back. 'You wanted to have me sent to Lórien. Your intentions could not be any clearer.'

Ñolofinwë let out one of his long, beleaguered sighs. 'I will admit, Fëanáro, that I was asking Atar to convince you to visit Lórien. But my aim was never to kill you — I can't see how you would even imagine that from such an innocuous suggestion.'

'You do not send people to Lórien simply for a holiday.'

'But what of comfort, and counsel? Those are the reasons for which most people visit Lórien!' Ñolofinwë's voice rose a little, and he pushed it back down into his courtly, even tones. 'You were...I am not sure how to put it, Fëanáro, but you scared us during those last days. We did not wish for you to be suffering.'

Fëanáro shook his head. 'I was quite well all throughout,' he insisted, though his mind flashed back traitorously to the awful headaches, the exhaustion, the constant worry at the back of his mind as to whether the Silmarilli were safe and well. 'If you wished for me to depart for Mandos, you need not have arranged a route via Lórien. A knife to the heart would have—'

'Stop!' Ñolofinwë cut in sharply. 'Do not speak of killing, Fëanáro — I do not care to hear it, and especially not so callously. And tell me, please tell me, why do you think sending — not even sending, but suggesting you to go to Lórien, would be anything other than a suggestion for seeking advice and rest? Why would it ever be done to kill you? I don't understand!'

Another heavy, oppressive silence hung in the air.

Then Fëanáro cleared his throat and whispered, 'Ammë went to Lórien.'

Ñolofinwë's face went ashen, and he fell back into his chair. 'Oh. Oh, Fëanáro...'

'It was the only way you would know to kill.'

As suddenly as he'd sat down, Ñolofinwë stood up again and pulled Fëanáro into a tight embrace.

Fëanáro let him pull him close, unresisting — it felt like being young again, when being held by a parent or sibling was enough to drive away any fear, no matter how awful. 'I had never meant it that way, Fëanáro,' murmured Ñolofinwë. 'Lórien does not...I didn't know you thought...I wouldn't...'

'Truly?' asked Fëanáro, moving away. His mind went back to the overheard conversation, the rumours about something dark in Lórien. Where had he heard it? From his sons? Who'd heard it from...whom? Had he asked them, or simply believed it, since it had made good sense at the time?

Moringotto... of course. Curse Moringotto a thousand times over!

'Yes, truly,' said Ñolofinwë, earnestly. 'And I am sure the business with the swords was much the same, wasn't it? I'd heard whispers of your 'madness', though I do not remember where they came from...'

'I was wearing two swords that day, you know. I'd brought one for you,' Fëanáro admitted quietly. 'A gift of reconciliation.' That sword was still unbloodied, unlike his own, lying under this very desk, in fact. 'You must have heard the same sorts of things — that I hated you enough, was mad enough, as they put it, to wish you dead.' He'd never wished it, he knew, never had. Even with the flaming torch in his hands, ready to toss, he'd only hoped his brother would turn back and go home, as Arafinwë had.

He did not want to think about what might have happened had he set the ships aflame.

'Moringotto,' said Ñolofinwë, having drawn the same conclusions. 'I'm going to kill him.'

'I am,' Fëanáro retorted. It felt so wonderfully banal, nothing but a pointless, teasing argument with his elder brother only for the sake of it, that his lips stretched into a smile, after what must have been months.

'We could do it together,' Ñolofinwë suggested. The ice had already melted from his eyes and face. 'With both of us, I doubt he'd stand a chance.'

Fëanáro snorted. 'You're right, but you don't even — wait, no, you do.' He crouched down upon the floor, and felt around in the dark recesses under the travelling desk before pulling out an intricate scabbard, from which a silvery-dark hilt gleamed. He stood up, and handed the sheathed blade hilt-first to Ñolofinwë.

'Is it the one you were going to...'

'The very same,' replied Fëanáro. 'I'll make better ones once we have the proper facilities, of course. Some of the people around — I'll tell you all about them soon enough, and their highly fascinating language — mentioned all sorts of interesting metals that might be made into useful alloys. But until then, you'll at least have an actual weapon apart from your formidable anger to go against Moringotto with.'

Ñolofinwë smiled, and pulled the sword from its sheath, admiring the gleam of the pale blue-white lamplight upon its sharp blade. 'Thank you.'

'Don't...don't thank me like that.' Fëanáro took a deep breath, and gathered his thoughts. 'Should we try to put this behind us, if we can? Please?'

His brother nodded at once, and Fëanáro felt a crushing weight lift from his shoulders. His back straightened, and for the first time in so long that he could not quite pinpoint when and where it had begun, the gaping wound between Fëanáro and his brother felt like it was coming a little closer to healing over.

#i'm starting to try and tackle the task of *writing* this AU that's been rattling around in my head since like august last year #so prepare to hear about it lol #the silmarillion #silm #legendarium tag #feanor #fingolfin #children of miriel au #<- tentative au tag #and it was not void #my fic

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rosewaterandivy · 9 months

Text

keep the windows open wide

🎵🎵 I like the way that your hair tangles, the way your suntan’s only on one side 🎵🎵

Summary: Summer roadtrippin' with Steve.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem reader

WC: 2K

Warnings: the usual - prose idolatry and feelings (my blog is NSFW 18+, minors DNI), self-edited, waxing poetic about summer Steve.

A/N: Inspired by “When We Drive” by Death Cab for Cutie & reading poetry, as per usual. Reblogs, feedback, & likes are appreciated - reposting is not. Enjoy! 💜

divider by @newlips

There’s something poetic about a midsummer drive in an ancient car from god knows when. Indigo blue with the paint peeling off. Dry snakeskin ridged cellophane on rolled down windows, crinkling a static refrain as it flaps violently against the glass pane.

The air conditioning occasionally works, so you make do with dry summer breeze sweeping through. Blessedly, if it pleases, surging down the neckline of your shirts, cooling your backs for only a second. A small ice chest is under your foot, full of popsicles and Gatorades. The trash bag is shoved in the backseat behind Steve, overflowing with crushed plastic and stained wood sticks.

“You alright?”

A dull pang behind your eye. You shove the sunglasses further up on your nose, hoping the dark lenses will be enough to dampen the bright summer sun blazing through. With one hand, you scrounge around for your bag in the footwell. Steve reaches over, popping open the cooler to rifle around.

Piercing the foil, you pop the pill into your mouth and swallow. He tears open a packet with his teeth. “Here.”

A small smile as you take it from his slack grip. Electric blue like the way he shocks you with his touch. The sugared ice slides right down your throat and soothes the fever in your fingertips. A warm hand falls to your thigh giving a light squeeze.

Steve has already returned to his side, staring at the road ahead, eyes catching the mile marker signs.

You end up stopping at dusk.

Not long after taking some maxalt for your migraine, Steve suggested that you try to lay down for a nap in the backseat. “S’okay honey, I got the wheel.”

Clambering over the console and settling yourself against the bench seats proved to be a momentary relief. The issue, as it happened, was the being in motion bit. The nausea crept in slowly enough that you could alert Steve.

“We gotta stop.”

“Like, right now?”

He reaches an arm behind him to seek you out, warm hand against the damp of your limbs. As if he has to feel for himself to ensure you’re right where he left you.

“Gettin’ dizzy,” You rasp, arm thrown over your eyes.

Steve hums a patient tune, squeezes your forearm, fingers lingering against your skin and you watch as the sunbeams drape his chest like a mantle.

“Jus’ that place, there,” You sit up and blearily point at what you hope is a motel sign.

Steve turns off the highway and into the parking lot with a sigh. Killing the engine, he turns toward you, looming over your prone state in the backseat.

“The It’ll Do Motel?”

“Sure.”

“But,” He sputters, eyes taking in the sign that’s seen better days, perishing the thought at what else in the motel had seen better days—

“It won’t do,” frustrated.

“I don’t think we’re in a position to be picky here Harrington.”

Another beleaguered sigh as he runs his hand through his hair, the muffled shutting of the car door. You close your eyes, curling up against the seat cushions while attempting to take steady breaths in and out.

“Just your luck,” The motel clerk greets him with a bright smile. “We’ve got one room left for tonight, and it’s all yours.”

Steve takes the key from the woman’s hand and signs the guest check-in form. Thanks her for the help as he turns to leave, the buzz of the neon sign clicking on to display ‘No Vacancy.’

He returns to the car to see you passed out in the backseat and is careful when easing into gear to park in front of your room for the night.

“C’mon champ,” He says, nudging you awake.

You scrunch your nose and sit up feeling like an eyesore next to Steve. Tummy quivering at the sudden motion, you brace yourself against the car door. Steve’s there in an instant, hands wrapping around your arms, steadying you.

It’s unfair how effortlessly handsome he looks. Hair windswept and annoyingly perfect, bronzed skin, the barest hint of five o’clock shadow against his jaw and cheeks—

“Hey.”

He’s peering up at you from his crouched position outside of the door, eyes finding you through the hazy blue of the evening. You turn and blink, looking back down. “Hey.”

Your breath rushes out like a current as Steve stands, reaching in slow-motion, or what feels like it as your blood thumps in your ears. The collar of your ratty Hawkins Phys. Ed. shirt soft against the column of your neck. He’s close. Nose nearly touching your cheek, hair centimeters away from your jaw.

The wind gusts by, lifts tendrils of your locks onto exposed collar, pulling forth a shudder. Under the chill of the night air, your goosebumps prickle awake, stinging your chest with apprehension.

“You gonna make it?”

Steve places his hand on your chin, a light stroke of his thumb and pointer, and it feels like a firework. Scorching hot, igniting every nerve ending. He doesn’t wait for either protest or approval. Instead, he slides back into the growing darkness, extending only his hand. The surface glistens like a beacon, slivers bouncing light over his eyes.

A brief nod, the pain behind your eye flaring up again momentarily as you slowly stand. He’s there, as he’s always been, a guide in the darkness and always close enough to touch. You lean against him while he opens the door, key jangling against the metal of the doorknob.

Ushers you inside the dark cool of the room with ease, a hand to your lower back as he closes and locks the door. Barely able to make out that there’s one bed in the room, you mumble,

“Don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

He quiets your worries with a low purr.

“Y’sure? I’d be fine on the couch.”

A press of his stubble to your neck and then a soft sigh. You don’t quite know what it means, this affection. Transient poetry, at least. Requited love, if only.

“S’fine,” You get out before collapsing on the bed, tugging Steve down with you. Sleep coming swiftly thereafter.

Steve doesn’t sleep as easily as you, too wound up from the drive— he can still feel the phantom wheels turning beneath him despite it all. Didn’t want to chance the sound or light from the TV waking you, so he contented himself drawing lackadaisical patterns onto the exposed skin of your side.

Shirt rucked up from tossing in your sleep, seeking out the warmth of his body, not satisfied until your fingers found purchase against his waist, head tucked against his chest— the sound of his heartbeat lulling you toward blessed oblivion.

Chilled from the A/C blasting through the room, your hands somehow slipped beneath the worn cotton of his shirt, splayed against the dip of his low back in an effort to warm them. You were an absolute menace in sleep, desperate to seek out any shred comfort and warmth even in your unconscious state.

Steve didn’t mind it, in fact, he was more than happy to oblige.

The imprint of your body is a solid comfort against his. Has to remind himself to just act normal. Because you’re friends on a roadtrip, a desperate attempt to escape the summer heat and drudgery of Hawkins. It shouldn’t matter that his heart flutters in his chest with each breath you take, that he’s trying so hard to keep his eyes and hands to himself.

But it does matter, because it’s you.

He can’t remember where he’d picked it up, but once upon a time Steve had heard something that stuck with him and it was something like this: that falling in love was like falling asleep, slowly at first and then all at once.

And he hadn’t realized he was falling until he was in the middle of it.

As close to you as he’s ever been.

And you, blissfully unaware and lost in dreams— snuffling against his chest every so often and turning to burrow in even further, as if you possibly could. Steve would let you, without question— you could cleave and carve into the cage of his ribs, make yourself a home there if it meant he got to keep you.

Just for a while, at least.

It’s with this thought that he finally succumbs to sleep.

Morning broke over the treescape early, shone white and livid into your tired eyes. Steve found the two of you tangled in the sheets, fingers entwined and you snuffling into the pillow. He squeezed your hand, pulled you up with him, and let you shower first.

The axels squeak as you pull back onto the highway, leaving the sleepy motel behind in the early morning light. Steve’s riding shotgun, sunglasses lazily thrown on and balancing precariously on his nose— he’s leaning back against the seat, facing the window.

Before leaving town for good, you spot a drive-thru that’s not too crowded and get in line. The intercom sputters to life— the cashier greeting you lazily all the while trying to remain hospitable. Steve’s shoulder brushes against your cheek as he clambers over the consol to place the order, his shirt smells like the sage and cedar of his cologne run through with a bit of detergent.

He rattles off your order like it’s nothing, route memory at this point—two hash browns, one black coffee, a bacon egg and cheese biscuit. Adds a sprite on as well, because you’ll inevitably want one later. The attendant rattles back the order to Steve’s satisfaction and the car lurches forward. He’s retreated back to his side now, save for the hand on your leg.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary, Steve is tactile like that; always has to have contact with some part of you— hands, fingers, thighs, so you think nothing of it. The static of the radio crackles through the car as he fiddles with the dial until catching on a nearby station.

“Shit yeah,” he says, settling back into the seat. Sings along with the Eagles, “Come on baby, don’t say maybe, I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me.”

Steve sings along to the radio while you follow the sloping curves of the Rocky Mountains. It makes your heart swell because damn, how’d you get so lucky?

He only gets louder as the song comes to an end, turning to serenade you through the mountain pass— you grin, trying desperately to focus on the road while his fingers tap idly against your thigh.

“Here Stevie,” you say linking your fingers through his, and place both entwined hands on his thigh.

He chuckles, bringing the back of your hand to his lips for a kiss. Warmth floods your chest at the motion, the intimacy of it— so much for not getting distracted, dealing with Steve Harrington and his wiley ways.

Steve lets your hands drop back to rest on his leg, eyes twinkling with some secret knowledge.

“What?”

“You called me Stevie.”

“Did I?”

“Uh huh,” He smiles, the pad of his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. “S’nice.”

“That so? Might happen again,” you tease, pastel hues breaking along the treeline as the car chugs up the slope.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

You hum in response. He turns toward you, glasses pushed up into his riot of hair— bedhead run rampant only mildly contained between the plastic arms of his sunglasses. Eyes unguarded, flecks of golden patina surveying you steadily.

Gold like his summer skin under the sun. Gold like the laughter that bubbles from your mouth as he sings along to the radio and points out every kind of wildlife he sees. Gold like how you’ll miss him, miss this— carefree summers by his side, seeing where the road takes you.

In your head and heart you know, like you’ve always known, that it’s always back to him. Steve knows too, but for now is content to watch, waiting for your permission.

The road stretches out long before you, as the sun bursts above the horizon heralding a new day.

#steve harrington fan fiction #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fluff

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