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seelestia · 8 hours

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✧ the gambler and his knight.

aventurine can't stand having his outfit exposed to the elements nor to the rude hands of clients that won't cooperate – luckily for him, he has you to take care of it all. { aventurine with a bodyguard!reader. }

⎯ fluff & angst. 2.9k wc. headcanons w/ some written scenes. the plot is vv subtle but it's there a.k.a aventurine simps for you (jokingly) but you both end up catching feelings (not jokingly). mentions of violence, death & russian roulette. pre-penacony timeline. a self-indulgent piece to celebrate this blog's 2nd anniv! ★

★ 〜 masterlist.

aventurine who graciously welcomes you under his employment with a game. just a little something to ease your nerves and get you used to his ways. you look at him with such incredulity as if he just fell and hit his head silly. he pays no mind to this – finds it to be amusing a great deal, actually. keep it up, newcomer!

“heads or tails?” he asks, flipping a coin in the air and catching it seamlessly. a routine for him, you would've figured from the sight. “that's. . . an odd way of saying hello,” you point out but your tone bears no hint of protest. he notices that.

“i've heard that one before,” aventurine tilts his head with a smile, nonchalant. “so what's your guess?”

“tails,” you reply without any delay. it's a mindless answer; getting it wrong this way would prove to bear less disappointment compared to putting actual thought in it. “heads for me then,” he whistles.

aventurine opens his palm. it's heads. you frown as if to suspect foul play—but you don't because you know about his notoriously good luck—and your new boss chuckles, almost placatingly.

“looks like i win,” he grins without a care in the world at all. “aren't you starving? let's fetch ourselves a meal, friend.”

a loss rewarded with a prize? you blink. with grace so in contrast to the whiplash you feel, aventurine walks past you with a trail of expensive perfume in his wake. obviously, he expects you to follow and you do after a moment's reluctance.

(this guy is more confusing than the stellaron.)

aventurine who grows quite fond of seeing you acquiesce to his wishes, whether serious or trivial. could you ward off those reporters? could you pour him a drink? could you play a game of poker with him? could you join him for lunch? you're always so professional that he starts to find some mirth in pushing your buttons (never too much). unlucky for you, he does it to be affectionate and lucky for him, you always say yes even if you roll your eyes every single time.

aventurine who trusts you with his credit card. . . to a worrying degree. when asked if he's sure about this, he just waves it off and says it'll be safer in your hands. seriously, this card has been in your possession longer than it's ever been in his. sometimes, he does ask for it back – only to drop some 200k credits to your account. “a tip for doing a good job,” he'd wink casually while you're flabbergasted beyond belief.

aventurine who finds it extremely attractive whenever you step in to protect him from harm. dealing with uncooperative clients is a day in his life, yet some are so brutish they resort to getting physical – but he has you to make sure their hands stay off him. a gun in his direction? knocked off before the trigger even has a chance to get pulled. reaching out to grab him by the collar? they're already on the ground, your foot threateningly pressed on their back as a warning. what a dashing sight – and thanks to you, his pristine outfit has been saved more times than he could count at this point.

aventurine who likes to call you his “knight in shining armor” teasingly. awh, you don't like it? he thinks you're more than deserving of that title with the way you always swoop in to get him out of trouble. if the thousands of credits he gives you aren't enough yet, won't a cute title suffice? “it sounds corny,” you tell him with a grimace—and maybe, yes—but he just chirps coyly, “dunno. i think it's fitting.”

aventurine who makes it his responsibility to check on you after a rough mission. credits are no problem, he'd even reserve the most expensive private doctor in the cosmos if that means you'll recover faster. sadly, he has little to no medical skills – so the most he can offer you is bandages. sure, you can take a bullet to the stomach and handle a punch or two, that's your job, but what about tiny scratches? . . .don't tell him you're about to reject his kind offer.

“what's your favorite color?” he queries, somewhat out of the blue considering the situation where he is helping you tend to a minor cut on your finger. you raise an eyebrow, “why do you wanna know?” as he gently plasters a plain-colored bandage on your skin (which he's only been granted permission to after minutes of begging you to let him do it).

“for the bandages,” aventurine answers. he finds no need to hide his intentions as he runs a thumb over the bandage, softly as to not hurt you, to keep its position secure. “so that the next time you ask, i'll have some in your favorite color for sure.”

“how. . . thoughtful of you,” you snort, amused.

(briefly, he resists the urge to ask if he can place a kiss on your cut for 'luck'. but if he does, you might have his head. so, he'll try another time.)

aventurine who slowly begins to find a sense of comfort in your company. maybe, it's the way you scoff at his quips with a smile or the way you always tell him to be careful. maybe, it's the way you take him seriously or the way you stay by his side—is your job description the only reason why?—or maybe, he's just pathetic and reeks of so much loneliness you feel sympathetic. he can't tell, but he hopes the luxuries he has can persuade you to stay just a little longer. even if you don't actually care. (you do.)

aventurine who notices how anxiety brims in your gaze when you watch him gamble at the table – with a sum too high to be considered sane and sometimes, his own life. he can see it all; how your hands shake as if you want to reach out, how your lips tremble as if you want to tell him to stop. but this is what he's made for, is it not? he'll survive one way or another. . . until fate decides the bill for all his past good fortune is finally due. and when the time comes, he'll be ready for it. (will you?)

a game of russian roulette.

it always starts with thrills only to end with carnage spilled all over the table. luck is the only thing worth praying for at that point and oh, is luck not the dearest friend aventurine ever had? hence the reason why he always agrees, not with a yes but with a “why not?”.

you're there as his protector yet, utterly condemned to the role of a witness as soon as aventurine nods along to that darned game. panic rushes through your veins as the gun is passed around so relaxedly, so easily with laughter all around. aventurine's next in line, you realize grimly. the next decision that comes after is spontaneous, so different from your usual calculated nature – you drag him out of the casino in a frenzy before the weapon even lands in his hand. in your head, there is no other thought louder than: he could've died.

“a shame i didn't get to the fun part,” you hear him hum from behind you, too disturbingly calm for your liking. the bustling noises inside the establishment have all but faded into the background. “that was close, hm?” he laughs, a sound you would've found endearing if this was another occasion. any occasion that doesn't involve teetering dangerously on the precipice of death.

you stop in your tracks and aventurine, behind you, naturally follows. your silence is something he first takes note of and the way your hand shakes as it holds his is the second. you still haven't let go. what's going through your mind? he calls out your name softly, perplexed at your lack of explanation.

“. . .why did you say yes?” you respond with a bitter question. “you could've died. you almost died,” you try to hold back a shout – yet, your words are spat in such a fusillade he feels a seed of guilt starting to bloom inside his lifeless heart. he discards it in favor of putting on a frivolous smile.

“oh, relax,” he lets out a chuckle, one that sounds so ignorant of the taut tension in the air. “it's just some russian roulette. why so serious?” he shrugs as if to physically brush off any seriousness clinging to his figure. his remark gives off the assumption that every single hint of your worry has flown over his head.

“it is serious. . .” you bite your bottom lip. he sneers in return, “yeah? since when?” as if to challenge you to give an actual answer. his life is full of risks, to say otherwise would be a lie. “you're sweet for worrying but you don't actually care about me that much, do you?” he snickers to himself. like the thought of your caring about him can't possibly be true, like it's all just a terrible joke.

but he's the only one laughing.

aventurine falls quiet and finally, genuinely meets your gaze for the first time that night. he doesn't like what he sees. your lips are downturned, unamused and saddened—you do care, a realization that has been left unsaid—and all remainders of levity in him are replaced by immediate dread. it only now registers that the anger, concern, frustration on your face is for him; they're the unavoidable consequences from caring about him.

(his eyes widen. no, no, no.)

“c'mon, you—” he covers it up with a carefree smile, as feigned as it came. he shoves his hand in one of his pockets. it's shaking. “. . .worry too much. you've seen me play a handful of games before. i've never lost a wager, remember?”

you don't look convinced at all. in fact, you look as if you've arrived at the brink of seething. “and if you do? for once in your life, you lose?” you prod him for more. for something, for anything – perhaps, for a promise that he won't do it again.

(but you know aventurine, you know there would be no such promise.)

“then i lose,” he says, final and resigned. “there's really nothing else to it,” he tries to offer you another smile but it didn't quite reach his eyes. “hey. at least, you'll be there to witness my spectacular fall, right? it'll be a show to remember.”

he nearly doesn't manage to keep up the façade. it's already as precarious as it can be. you don't reply to him this time – instead, you let go of his hand to wipe at your cheeks. his gaze trails after your fingers and it freezes upon seeing the pearly tears falling free from your eyes.

aventurine has never seen you cry before. you're always so stone-faced, so hard to break that he recalls almost cheering when he heard you laugh for the first time. that was when you finally won a round of poker against him. a pity, he would've reminisced about the memory more. . . if only the matter of losing and winning a game isn't as serious as it is now.

“don't say that,” you mutter, harshly wiping away at the incessant tears pouring from your eyes more than you'd ever allow them to. some make their way into your mouth, they taste just as bitter as your current frustration. does he truly value his life so little? you can't fathom it, you can't fathom him at all.

but there is one thing you were certain of, at the very least: “you hired me to protect you,” you shake your head unrelentingly, “so i'll do it. until you throw me away, i won't let you die.”

you've stopped crying then. aventurine feels remorse; the tears that you shed because of him are starting to dry. the selfish part of him wants to reach out and brush them away with his thumb – but would you let him? would this lead you further down the rabbit hole that is him? in the end, he decides against it.

“. . .i'm sorry,” he sighs instead, raking a hand through his messy blond hair. whatever it is he is apologizing for, he doesn't have a clue either. he lets his eyes slip shut. he can't bear to look at you, can't bear to look at his pitiful reflection in your eyes.

(he's not worth caring about, can't you see? he dances hand in hand with death – there is no need to subject yourself to be a spectator.)

the two of you then part ways that night with shallow pleasantries on your tongues. no inside jokes, no evident yearning for the other to stay, no more than an awkward exchange of “i'll see you tomorrow.”

on his way 'home', regret and relief clash to form something inexplicably hollow inside kakavasha's chest. he wanted to wipe away your tears—what a regret he—but if he did, they would've burned on his skin and became another mark to haunt him—what a relief he didn't. and frankly, if destiny is about to reap his debt, he'd rather go with no regrets at all.

whether those regrets include you? he doesn't have an answer just yet.

(the name at the bottom of his contract with fate is signed as kakavasha. but you wouldn't recognize that name. not as him, at least.)

aventurine whose eyes can't flutter close at night ever since thoughts of you fill his mind more than they already do before. you care for him, you want him to live—all his fault, he allowed himself to get too close—but these realizations are rooted in too deep and refuse to leave. what to do, what to do, what to do?

it isn't supposed to turn out like this.

what he and you have is meant to be transactional; he'd be spared from unnecessary scuffles and you'd be compensated with monetary payment. he means to keep it superficially fun; for him to tease you with jests—so you'd stay and save him from the deafening silence in his head—and for you to dismiss him with that adorably annoyed look on your face. just some silly banter, that's it.

so then, since when are there rounds of poker where he'd coo over your frown when you lost? or the sound of your lecturing after he secretly got you a high-end item? or meals shared together where you'd bicker over the bill? or bandages in your favorite color kept inside his bedside table? since when do you start to care? . . .since when does he start to care?

think of something else.

kakavasha tosses and turns in his bed, but the soft pillows and blanket do nothing to quell these bothers of his. are feelings always this complicated? he places a hand over his eyes, tired and exhausted, and stares at the ceiling as if it could provide him with an answer.

but there's no use.

in a moment void of logical thinking, he reaches for his phone and hovers a finger over your name in his contacts. he is usually good friends with bad ideas – but not this time, he sets his phone down and lets out a frustrated sigh that only his expensive pillows are there to hear.

(for gaiathra's sake, he hasn't even told you his real name yet.)

aventurine who becomes awfully distant the next time he sees you. you accompany him to meetings with clients per usual, but it's different. . . he talks to you succinctly, not verbosely with that trademark grin of his. his face is bereft of the things you grow to like seeing on him. a sincere smile instead of one just for show, for example. but even that's difficult to ask for since he only speaks to fill the silence with empty chatter. he doesn't look you in the eyes either; you feel a pang of hurt, you've always loved his eyes.

aventurine who discards all thoughts of you as soon as he steps inside pier point to be assigned a project. a conclave between the stonehearts is a matter of top confidentiality and you, dutifully, are ordered to wait for him outside the office. though, he'll admit; your absence by his side actually does leave a gaping void—such hypocrisy, really—but at least, those pesky voices in his head know how to shut up when it comes to work.

“penacony. . . is diamond finally ready to do something about it?”

aventurine rests his left hand on the small of his back, fiddling with the clubs-shaped detailing on the fabric there. it looks like an act of idleness from afar, but anyone observant enough would know it's a way to subdue whatever nerves he wishes to hide.

he waits for the person in front of him, gazing at the purplish-red sky of pier point at sunset, to speak. for their next words shall mark the start of his next journey in fate's course.

aventurine who hesitates to let you come to penacony with him at first. but it'd be poor reasoning not to, since some might have a bone to pick with him as the corporation's representative. . . and he knows you'll protest to come with anyway. fine then, situationship discomfiture be damned – not even a second after he steps out of the meeting, his neon eyes finally meet yours. “so, how does a trip to penacony sound?” he announces with a confident smile. you blink, noticing how his lips are wobbling at the sides. you don't say no, however. (if only the two of you know what sort of ride you're getting yourselves into.)

— thanks for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated. why don't we all sob over this man like it's a cryfest ♡

#hsr x reader #aventurine x reader #—stellaronhvnters.#honkai star rail x reader #aventurine x you #hsr headcanons #hsr imagines #hsr fluff #hsr angst #seelestial.inks

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claudiasescapesubmarine · 21 hours

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Going back my post about the fight (you guys left so many good tags!)

I'm not completely sold on the idea that Armand purposefully and methodically planned to trigger Louis into a meltdown/suicide attempt (which the rescue of would be delayed) for the purpose of keeping him by his side in a weakened state, not because it would make what he said and did any less wrong, but because it goes against what we know about Armand as a character.

From what Assad Zaman said, Armand is a guy who actually has less control than he appears and wants, and is sometimes without a full/correct assessment of the people around him. Just because one has all the power, that doesn't mean one's own insecurities or overestimation of self can't get in the way of effective control. He did leave his partner and the "homewrecker" alone together this episode thinking everything would be fine, after all; that does not spell out someone with great calculation skills. He also has this pessimistic passivity to him. He will see trouble coming, but because of his past experiences, feel there's no use in stepping in to prevent the situation because it will only delay the inevitable. He then tries to convince you and himself afterwards that he could not have prevented any of it from it happening (as @rosesocietyy said, his commitment to deniability will choke him one day). He's not a man who can prevent an implosion, but he is a man who can commit to the clean-up afterwards (see how controlled he appears during his fight with Louis vs him playing 'nursemaid' afterwards).

I feel like when we talk about abusers, it's pretty easy and even dangerous to see them as ones who plan everything out from the beginning, who always know what's going on/what's going to happen, and are always in control (it goes back to the whole 'Armand planned Claudia's death from the beginning to trap Louis', 'Armand abracadabra-ed how Claudia died who Lestat really was from Louis's head', "Armand has been mind-controlling Louis to stay with him for 77 years" "Armand actually planned this interview because he wants to break up with Louis/get with Daniel' theories). Not only does it paint a portrait of abusers as one-dimensional villains even though anyone could be one, it also misses the point of why something or someone is abusive in the first place. It's not about whether you intended your actions to have consequences or not, whether your past trauma has compromised your skills to self-regulate or connect with others, or whether you have control all the time or not. It's about how your actions have hurt the other/made them feel helpless regardless, and whether they're (rightfully) afraid it's going to happen again.

During that fight scene, I see Armand's facial expressions and behaviour change multiple times during that fight. I see the look of anger slowly turning to regret then worry when Louis runs out of the room. That didn't look like someone who planned any of that to happen or is plotting to delay Louis's rescue, but someone who was coming off the high end of their subconscious/released pent-up emotions. Armand to me is honestly scarier because of that unpredictability and lack of clear thought-process. With Armand it's never really about boiling his decisions down to one reason; it's about the effect someone as powerful as Armand has when he feels he has no control.

#armand #iwtv meta #iwtv spoilers #iwtv season 2 spoilers #vampterview #i think what i'm trying to say is that armand isn't great at planning ahead or maintaining control but he is effective at punishment #and wearing others down #hence how he was in the fight scene vs afterwards #also as a fictional abuser he's written with a lot more complexity than what i think a lot of the fandom narrow him down to #which is either a coldly calculating one dimensional villain or a crazy out of control gremlin #meanwhile there are hundreds of different things going on in that guy's head- all swirling together in a black void

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thedreamlessnights · 22 hours

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Give The Devil His Due - pt. 2

Gale x F!Reader

{part 1}

Warnings: Major BG3 Ending and Epilogue Spoilers. Mentions of death, the use of the Netherese orb, grieving and loss. Amnesia, self-hatred, guilt-tripping. Raphael being a dick.

Synopsis: Gale is back. He's real, and alive, and... he doesn't remember you. You should be happy, shouldn't you?

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: Hi all! Thank you so much for your patience as I got this chapter out. Life has been crazy, essentially. Apologies for the angst - next chapter will be happier, I promise! We'll also see more Gale then ♥

You must have sat on this balcony a hundred times in the past year. More, maybe. Sometimes, Tara curled up on your lap as you read a book, her purring a constant comfort. Other times, you fell asleep watching the ships sailing by and woke in the darkness.

The view was always beautiful, even in the storms. Crystal-blue skies against an aquamarine sea. Lavender sunrises that swirled with orange. Dark clouds, streaked with silvery flashes of light and the bone-shaking crashes of thunder. You can certainly see why Gale favored it.

Until about two hours ago, it was a place of comfort. Now, it feels wrong. Or rather, you do.

Every inch of your presence feels out of place. A transplant, neatly sutured into surrounding skin only to be rejected a year later.

The moments after you’d kissed him are nothing but a blur in your memory. The sheer, utter horror when he hadn't known you. Morena’s voice taking on an edge of panic. Your feet moving you away - anywhere, anywhere where you couldn’t see the look on his face anymore.

You’ve been sitting on this balcony ever since.

Before today, thinking of Gale was painful. Every thought was a fresh shard of ice plunging into the warmth of your chest, slowly thawing - until a new wound came to start the process over again. But it’s different now.

It’d be easier to deny this situation, to pretend that it isn’t really Gale in that room, but you know better. You know that it’s him, just as you know that darkness will follow the sun’s fading light and greet you with the shimmering stars.

Gale is alive, and he doesn’t know you.

Gale is alive, and every memory of him - his face, his words, your old life - feels like it’s rotting away in your chest. You’re grasping at every thought, determined to keep him from slipping away, but there's only so much you can prevent.

Even you have to admit, it’s better than you’d expected of a devil’s deal. You’ve spent the last year picturing all the ways it could go wrong, laying out the risks and estimating the reward. If I word things in a specific way, you thought, if I prepare for the loopholes, then perhaps I can avoid the worst outcomes.

But a part of you had always known that you could have ended up like Mayrina. Dragging around a corpse just to cling to that tiny scrap of hope that Gale might return.

Gods, you could have had so much worse. Why, then? Why had Raphael let you have this? What more could he possibly want from you?

This isn't the first time you’ve felt this way. During your travels, Astarion had made a deal with Raphael to learn more about the scars on his back, and the only thing required in return was Yurgir’s death. You made a deal to bring back the one you love, and you’ve gotten it only at the cost of his memories.

Your soul remains intact. Gale still knows his mother and his tressym. He’s alive. That’s enough, isn’t it?

No, your heart says. No, it isn’t. But you’ll survive, as you always have. You’ve had worse than this.

Nearby, there’s the rustling of fabric. You know who it is, even before she speaks.

“I thought I might find you here.” Morena’s voice is gentle, as though she’s afraid she’ll startle you away, but it’s filled with a fullness - a radiant warmth you’ve never heard before. She gives you a reassuring smile as she approaches, then sits at your side and reaches for your hand.

Your throat goes tight.

“My darling, I know this was your doing,” she says. Her voice is measured, as well as her face, but the crinkling at the corner of her warm brown eyes - Gale’s eyes - bleeds the joy she’s trying to hide into her expression.

There’s no point in lying to her. She’s much too perceptive for that. All you can manage is a small nod in response.

“It’s really him,” she breathes. Her voice is suddenly thin. Hollow, almost. “I always thought… if we could even get him back, he wouldn't be himself. But it’s him.”

Tears sting at your eyes, hot and unwelcome. “I know,” you say. Your voice chokes at the last second. “He doesn't remember me.”

“No,” Morena murmurs, “he doesn't.” She squeezes your hand, resting her other hand on your shoulder. The comfort feels more like pity, and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth. You’d known, but the confirmation still hurts to hear.

“What does he remember, then?” you ask, slow and careful.

Hesitation flickers across her features. The hand on your shoulder slightly tightens. “You have to understand, he’s still very confused,” she starts. “His memories are muddled, grouped together. It’s entirely possible more will start coming back, if you just give him a little time-”

“Please, Morena,” you interrupt, desperate with anticipation. It’s always the not knowing that hurts you most. The cruelty of your mind that swirls out horrors that needn’t be there. “I need to know. Is it - is it everything but me? A hole in his mind where I used to be? How much of himself did he lose?”

She sighs, and her expression crumples. “It seems to be a… specific loss,” she says. “A cutoff point, really. Everything before the Netherese orb is perfectly intact. Everything after, well…”

She trails off, and her silence says the rest.

It isn't only you, then. It’s everything else you know of him. The tadpole, the Absolute, the Elder Brain. His friendships with the others. All the months of travel, and every single experience you shared. Even his year of isolation in the tower has been lost.

His abandonment from Mystra; her charge for his life.

Something cold and numb blooms under your skin, trailing from the nape of your neck down your spine. Your lungs don’t quite seem to fill with air.

You’d hoped he wouldn't have to bear the burden of remembering his own death, but this… counting the time after his death, two years worth of life has been all but turned to ash. Morena doesn’t know of it, and Tara only knows glimpses. Your precious memories of him only encapsulate a few months of his loss. Is he still the man you fell in love with?

The spinning under your feet is making it difficult to think. You need to speak with Raphael. You don’t even know what you’ll say to him, but at this point it hardly matters.

For a moment, you’re silent, almost forgetting Morena is there. Then, you remember her presence and swallow hard, forcing yourself to breathe. “I don’t think we should… tell him about me,” you start. “All of this… it’s enough for him to take in already. I would only complicate things.”

She gently pats your hand. “Your kiss said more than enough enough,” she replies, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Gale is a smart boy. Believe you me, he’s already pieced it together. Aspects of it, at least.”

Gods, what had come over you, kissing him like that? If you hadn't been so impulsive - if you had just waited a little longer, this would have been much simpler. The split would have been clean.

“Some time, then,” you land on. “I think it’s better for the both of us if I… if he - has time to process this. At least for now.”

Morena nods. “I can't pretend to know how incredibly difficult all of this must have been on you,” she says. “Whenever you need to come over, feel free. I’ll make an excuse for you.”

She gives you a wink, then rises to her feet and places a kiss on the top of your head. “He’ll come back to you,” she whispers. “I know it.”

Her words linger long after she’s gone.

The moment you’ve stumbled your way home, you’re met with a burst of orange light in the kitchen. You don't bother looking for the source - the scent of cinnamon and honey in the air says enough.

“My, my. Whatever happened to our poor resident wizard?” comes Raphael’s voice, a few feet to your side. “How… unfortunate that he’s lost his memory, don't you think?”

You’re in no mood for his games. You toss your things to the floor and meet his gaze dead-on, staring daggers at him. “What do you want, Raphael?”

“Tsk, tsk. What a temper,” Raphael purrs. “Aren't you satisfied? You got what you asked for. Gale Dekarios is alive and well. Of course, if you’re unhappy, I could always return him to the grave...”

You suck in a breath, attempting to dissipate your lingering fury. “I’m very happy,” you force out. “Thank you for bringing him back.”

Raphael eyes you, tilts his head, and finally sprawls himself out on one of your chairs. He trails his fingers along the table, then hums. “You know, of your ragged little group, I’ve admired you in particular. Such ambition. You could have dominated the brain, had you really tried.”

He pauses, and his gaze seems to sear straight into your soul as he looks at you. “Tell me, why did you let Gale sacrifice himself? Were you afraid of yourself, little mouse? Afraid that, given the chance, you’d have taken the power you so desperately wanted?”

Your eyes squeeze shut involuntarily, the way they always do when your brain decides to relive this moment. No merciful sensory images to distract you. Nothing but sheer agony, even now, when he’s alive.

Fear. It’s what you remember most about that day. Regret had come afterward, but first it had been fear and exhaustion and pain. Stiff joints. Fatigued muscles. How in the hells am I supposed to go on like this? you’d been thinking. How can I defeat the brain on nothing but fumes?

And with the fear had come temptation.

The voice of the Absolute was always a siren’s song in your ear. It was a path to complete control, to security and safety like you’d never known. No more humiliation, no more fear, no more pain. Nothing unless you wanted it, you commanded it. Even as shame and horror bled in your gut, keeping you from sleep, you ached for it.

With every inch closer to the Elder Brain, the temptation had strengthened. An itch that you could not stand not to scratch. A whisper in your mind that grew until you could hardly hear your own thoughts. By the time you’d reached the brain stem, it was so terrifyingly potent that you were ready to lay down your sword and end the internal battle you were undoubtedly going to lose.

Anything to stop yourself from going down that road and betraying your friends. Anything to stop the vision of

And when Gale had offered to use the orb, it had all been so fast… even now, you can't remember saying yes. Only that he’d insisted, despite your arguments. Just as you’d wanted to save him, he’d wanted to save you.

The rest is blurry, but still there. His last words. The helplessness you felt as his magic overtook you, teleporting you and the others to safety. The all-consuming panic as you met with the reality of what it meant for Gale Dekarios to die, much too late to stop him.

A flash of light.

And then, agony that never ended.

When the memory releases you, your body is stiff and heavy, and your cheeks are wet and raw. Your chest throbs. You feel as though you’ve been hit by a Thunderwave. At your side, Raphael’s face drips with false sympathy.

“Is that what you want to hear, Raphael?” you ask thickly. “That Gale suffered because of me? That I’m the reason he chose to use the orb?”

Raphael leans back in his seat. “I want to know one thing, and one thing only,” he replies. “Is Gale losing his memory a cruelty, or is it a mercy?”

You're silent, but your lack of reply must say enough.

“Really?” he muses, rising to his feet. “I see it as a mercy. The orb must have been dreadfully painful to detonate, after all. Not to mention the fear he felt as he plunged the knife into his chest.”

Raphael steps closer, and though he doesn't touch you, you can feel his presence on your skin. “How terribly alone he must have felt in those last moments,” he murmurs, his voice honeyed but sickening in your ears. “Yes. What a relief to have that washed away.”

He smiles, and the tension in the room finally breaks. “On that note, I must take my leave. I’d love to stay, my dear, but I’m a busy man,” he says. “Watch over the wizard, won't you? I brought him back just for you.”

Without waiting for a response, he snaps his fingers, and he’s gone.

You buckle over and wait for the pain to pass.

#gale x reader #gale x tav #gale x you #bg3 spoilers #bg3 epilogue spoilers #my writing

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wc-confessions · 2 days

Note

the discourse about people shipping Darkstripe and Tigerstar is so stupid.

anons before me have made big long eloquent posts about how so much of the fandom is too strict about shipping, and this ship in particular comes up as an example pretty frequently.

i just want to add some thought to this conversation about this ship specifically —

in general, yes the fandom needs to unclench a bit and realize the family tree is irreparably messed up and sometimes things get a bit muddy. but if two characters aren’t explicitly mentioning their familial ties in the text, don’t seem to acknowledge them whatsoever, and have potential, and aren’t in a weird power dynamic (ex. mentor/apprentice), then for gods sake just let people have fun and ship whoever they want. have some sense of whimsy and mind your own business.

obviously, Darkstripe and Tigerstar are related according to the family tree - but it is never once acknowledged by them or any character in the books a single time - so for the sake of the point i’m leading up to, let’s extend our imagination a bit and consider them unrelated.

well, this ship is still problematic you might say because of their mentor/apprentice relationship, and the “abuse” Tigerstar puts Darkstripe through. there is an age gap, an imbalanced power dynamic, and unhealthy behavior aside from that. so clearly, this ship wouldn’t be healthy, family ties or not.

but, hear me out, a healthy relationship is not the point of this ship. i honestly don’t ship them, but in my mind it’s basically canon that Darkstripe is obsessed with and in love with Tigerstar. do i condone that? no. do i enjoy it? also NO. but the point of the ship isn’t romance or healthy love or enjoyment!!!!

they are evil and toxic and would be a terrible couple!!!! but that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to ship it or headcanon it in some way!!!

if anything, IT MAKES SENSE. like - yes they would be toxic and abusive, but they are also murderers??? they are absolute freaks????? they are evil monsters condemned to hell???? of course they’re relationship wouldn’t be healthy - power dynamics and incest or not?????

Darkstripe developing a ROMANTIC and unhealthy obsession only makes sense though - Tigerstar groomed him CANONICALLY to be the perfect henchman and to put his wants and needs before his own always. Darkstripe thrived on Tigerstar’s approval and praise and it was his main motivator even after death. CANONICALLY.

I don’t think it’s far fetched to add a romantic attraction on Darkstripe’s part. that very often occurs with grooming victims. it’s not implausible.

just because it’s bad and weird and toxic, doesn’t mean it’s not possible or not okay to headcanon.

just because something is “bad” and you headcanon it anyway or it’s just how you interpret the text, doesn’t mean you’re condoning the “bad” thing.

i really think a lot of the fandom needs to learn to think more deeply and more critically, and not immediately villainize anyone who says they headcanon something that isn’t “safe” or “correct”.

i rambled a lot i hope this makes sense.

#text #confession #anonymous #warrior cats

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dawneternal · 1 day

Text

The Benevolent | Eight

☁︎ Eris x Healer OC

☁︎ Notes: okay. This is kind of a big one 👀 pls let me know what you think, if the descriptions make sense, etc. I'm really hoping the concept for Aya's powers is actually interesting and not dumb but here we go

I've gotten a lot of notes from new readers lately and I wanna say thanks so much for the love and comments!! 💛💛

☁︎ Warnings: battle/war, injuries, blood, death, grief (it's not that graphic I just wanna make sure I get all the tags needed)

☁︎ Word Count: 3.5k

☁︎ AO3 Link / Masterlist

☁︎ Latest Artwork

☁︎ Taglist (let me know if you want on or off) : @cauldronblssd @teddyhoneybear @tele86 @mybestfriendmademe @imma-too-many-fandoms @allyjoe755 @milswrites @shadowdaddies @zenkindoflove @landofpetrichor @secret-third-thing @bookwormysblog @mal-adaptive-dreams @daycourtofficial

The secret behind Aya’s power was the extra eye in her mind. Whether they were simply visions or she had some connection to another place, she did not know. But either way, she was born seeing things that no one else could.

Aya had discovered another world, visible only with closed eyes or when she let her vision go hazy. It was a place where wards and spells were visible things, overlayed on top of reality. She could see the building blocks of the universe, the materials that made up the world. And she could reach out and touch them. They were hers to fix and break and manipulate how she pleased.

After years of observing people and the things that they were made of, she came to understand that they could be sorted into three categories. Sewn things, woven things, and things to be fired in a kiln. The first three people Aya had known were one of each. The first memories to exist in her mind were ingrained with their imagery. Her mother, a tapestry. Her aunt, a quilt. And Thesan, a vase.

It took nearly a decade of life for Aya to understand that no one else saw things the way she did. No one else had another realm materialize when they closed their eyes. No one else healed by patching those quilts, stitching down loose threads, or filling cracks in pottery with veins of shimmering gold.

There were many, many times when she wished that she had never spoken about it to anyone. She could have learned sooner to close her eyes and not let anyone see the golden light that shone when she used her power. She could have taken less time to understand that she was different. Or maybe she could have been born knowing that she was not the same as everyone around her.

But it was too late for any of that. Her life had already been molded by her differences.

In truth, using her power was easy. So easy that it scared her. Sometimes an extensive injury or a complicated spell would draw a sweat from her brow, but even then she could go for days if she wanted to. The store of energy within her seemed endless. She had never experienced burnout, or ever been close.

There were so many terrifying truths lying underneath the lid she kept on herself. Her morbid curiosity, the things she could do, how much she was capable of. She never dug too deep, never once in her life testing the limits or possibilities. She could not bring herself to. She would not let herself become a thing that destroyed.

The fear that others carried around her was tangible. Whispers of witchcraft followed her everywhere - apparently her mother hailing from the continent was suspicious, with less known about the origins of their magic. And Aya's own tapestry was stained with the echoes of her mother calling her a liar, holding deep grudges over the discrimination that Aya had brought upon her family. There was no shortage of things that had made this existence difficult.

But on days like this, no matter how much she hated it, Aya thrived.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

The battle had seemed so endless. The shouting, screaming, and clashing of weapons were a constant song, and Aya did her best to tune it out as she ran from bed to bed, cleaning, bandaging, and healing wounds. Her ears rang, desperate for a moment not filled with terrible noise. Her muscles ached, begging for her to take a break. But there were always more buckets to haul, more soldiers to drag to safety, more wounded to heal. She ignored every protest of her tired mind and aching body as she splashed through the mud, dodging arrows and swords, zeroed in on whoever needed helping.

She also ignored the magic within her that sang, thrilled to be used and stretched and tested. It pushed her body to keep going long after she had reached her physical limits, always restless and desperate to be let loose. But she would only ever release as much power as she needed to do her job well. Never any more.

Even still, Aya was always the last standing, the glow of her healing still going steady when all the others had used their last sparks. In class, this earned her jealous looks and accusations of cheating or witchcraft. But of course today, there was nothing but murmured thanks and praise. Aya ignored those, too.

At last, dusk fell like a funeral shroud, covering the silhouettes of broken bodies littering the battlefield. All of the gore blissfully hidden in the darkness. The sky could not, however, hide the sound of suffering and grieving of those who still lived, reaching toward the heavens in desperate tones.

Now, it was an effort to keep her head upright as she sat beside the High Lord of Night, her hand hovering over the gash in his arm. Rhysand, even with his weary eyes and the grime caked into the lines of his skin, watched her heal with a keen interest. If it was a different time, and her heart felt a little lighter, Aya may have asked him about it. Maybe he knew something that she didn’t. But right now it was taking too much focus just to stay awake.

When she closed her eyes Aya was stitching silver stars into a quilt, each block made from a different shade of night. Slightly darker shapes made up the subtle outline of a city, constellations hiding in same-colored thread here and there. It was lovely work, the stars twinkling and shimmering, the night sky velvety soft beneath her fingertips. It did not take long for his arm to be healed. With eyes glittering like the thread she had just held between her fingers, Rhysand thanked her and swaggered off to find his mate.

Truthfully, Aya liked him. Often, she came away from a healing session feeling as though she had read the person's soul front to back like a book. And in Rhysand, she liked what she learned. He was deeply kind, very clever, and generous. She knew without a doubt that his story of Under the Mountain was true. She could see the scars within him, like rips and tears in the quilt that he had tried to fix himself. Some were smoother, aided in their mending by his loved ones. He did not know how lucky he was to have them.

Of course, there were dark patterns in the fabric of his being. Shadows much deeper than others seemed to carry. But that seemed to be a burden bestowed upon all of the High Lords.

Aya liked the Night Court general, too. She had healed Cassian many times over. At first she thought it was recklessness and it was an effort to bite back on her lecture about looking after himself. But she learned, upon closing her eyes, that it was all deliberate. Calculated. It was not carelessness, but devotion. He would take shots and blows for others as often as he could, his shouts and commands ringing out louder than the din of battle. In his mind, he had not done his best unless he was nearly falling apart.

Healing Cassian was like knitting homespun wool yarn. Each stitch snug and precise, marled grey and white like the Illyrian mountains. The colors were so solemn, the material so practical, but the finished product warm and comforting. That seemed to sum him up. He always had a grin and a wink for her, always a genuine thank you and some absurd compliment. He was consistent, always, like the woven pattern of his being.

Over the course of the battle, Aya collected those images, like a scrapbook of the people around her. She mended seams, knit and wove, spun thread, molded clay. Every once in a while, she was too late. The knitting had too many missed stitches, too many loops had come loose and it all unraveled beneath her hands. Every time, she mourned with her whole heart. Grieved until it hurt.

If she kept her eyes closed, tuned into that other realm, she could watch the soul depart this world. Always drifting toward the sky like a wisp of smoke. The first handful of times she had witnessed it she had not been able to look away, frozen in place by some terrifying curiosity. Or perhaps it was the desire to see them off, on the chance that her guidance could provide one last comfort.

But she did not like to watch it anymore. It would show up in her dreams that night without fail, always with her hands reaching and that soul slipping through her fingers despite her efforts. Today, she did not need to give her nightmares any more material to work with.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

Aya did not see Eris until the battle was over. The possibility of seeing him here, of seeing the worst, had haunted her every moment since she had arrived with the rest of the healers. She never had the heart to scan the lifeless bodies for his pale, freckled face, but she also feared that she would be the last to know if something had happened to him. There was a long list of people who would take priority first.

It was a strange thing, the aftermath of battle. The air was thick, relief and mourning twining together into something heavy and difficult to breathe. Celebratory laughter and singing clashed with the solemn sounds of funeral rites and grieving songs. Metal clanged as armor and weapons were moved and cleaned, soldiers lay resting wherever they could before the journey home.

Among the chaos, a glint of red captured Aya's attention and she turned to see Eris striding across the field, armor glittering in the sun and that crimson cape billowing behind him. Her breath caught in her throat as he pivoted and his russet eyes locked on hers. The relief was immense, almost painful as she drowned in it.

Even so, she was prepared to see him turn the other way and pretend he hadn't seen her, as he had done at the High Lord's meeting. And she would be content, just knowing he had lived. But he did not look away. Eyes growing wild, he turned on his heel and rushed toward her. He pulled off his gauntlets and let them thump to the ground, hands reaching for her face the moment he was close enough.

"Sparrow," He murmured, turning her head back and forth to look for injuries. He took in her tired eyes, swiping a thumb over the purple bags and lines of dirt. "I was afraid I'd find you here. I'm so glad you're alright."

Aya was speechless, staring up at him with her lips parted as she searched for words. She was still confused, her thoughts snapping back and forth between lingering anger and relief to see him. Her skin burned under his touch, under the eyes of those that watched them as she could practically hear the gossip forming on their tongues.

"I never got to apologize," He said in a rush, his voice hoarse. He paused, tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips.

Aya’s head throbbed. She did not have room for this in her mind, today. Not for the memories of their last conversation or for whatever game he was playing now, looking at her like she was the sun when anyone could see and overhear his pet names.

Her mind was still reeling from these last days, trying to process everything she had seen and heard and felt. There had been no room for hesitation and no place for her fear, all anxiety barred from her body so as not to weigh her down. Now the fear and pain rushed back in, like predators reclaiming their territory and she was nothing but a vessel for the conflict, barely holding herself together.

So, Aya let her gaze drop from his eyes and fall to the grass, breathing deeply in an attempt to placate the beasts threatening to tear her apart.

Eris watched, and she missed the understanding dawning on his face as he studied her trembling form. He swallowed the dozens of things he wished to say and put aside his desire to extinguish the nightmare that had haunted him since the High Lord's meeting. Later. He could say it all later.

As her eyes trailed back upwards, they snagged on Eris’s hurt knee, blood dripping between the plates of armor on his leg.

"You're hurt," She said, unable to resist despite her tiredness, "Let me heal you."

"Alright," He was still for a moment as he considered protesting. But right now he'd do anything to lift even a fraction of her burden, so he picked up the gauntlets and followed after her.

She led him to a quiet tent, only a few others inside, resting or bandaging fellow healers. A few heads turned at the Autumn heir, tall and regal. And then their stares flickered to Aya, the black sheep of the Dawn Court leading the way for him. She ignored them, as she was developing quite the talent for.

"Sit," She murmured, scurrying to find a clean rag.

Eris obeyed, sitting on the edge of a cot and removing the armor from his leg to reveal his bloody knee. He watched her trembling hands, chest aching as he imagined what she may have been through. The memories of his first battle had stayed sharp through the centuries, the desolation still so heavy after all this time.

"Aya," He said when she’d returned, keeping his voice soft.

Taking the supplies from her hands and setting them aside, he reached out and took her shaking fingers in his, gently pulling her in to stand between his knees. He rubbed his thumbs over her icy knuckles, grimacing at the dried blood under her fingernails. His power was nearing the dregs, but he still willed a bit of heat to the surface to warm her skin.

She looked up at him, such sorrow in her grey eyes, and when her chin wobbled, it broke him. Aya was strong and brave and could do whatever she put her mind to. But he would still choose to keep her away from this place, too full of death and hurt and blood.

"You did well, today," He whispered.

They stayed like that for a long moment, Aya standing in the shelter of his body, absorbing his heat and all the comfort he tried to emanate. This time as she closed her eyes and took deep breaths, Eris's warmth began to wash away the terrible things she had seen. The ways she had failed. The lives that had slipped into the afterlife while she had no choice but to watch.

The burlap tent dimmed the sunshine, beams of light sneaking through ripped holes in the fabric to dapple Eris’s skin. Between those golden spots and his whiskey-brown-sugar scent, Aya could almost pretend they were somewhere else, under the canopy of the Autumn forest.

"Thank you," She murmured. Her eyes fluttered open and Eris let out a breath, relieved at the return of the steadiness he'd grown used to.

Heaving a deep sigh, Aya grabbed a cloth and began to wipe the blood from his skin. With the tender moment passed, the silence between them was heavy, charged with unsaid things. It did not help that the air was filled with the tang of blood and the cries of the injured.

Aya tossed the bloody rag into a bucket and closed her eyes once more.

Through the darkness, shapes began to emerge, that other world coming into view. Searching for his essence, she found the woven texture of Eris's tapestry. It appeared before her in all its loveliness - a gorgeous scene of Autumn woods, adorned with thread that shone like rubies. She had seen it a dozen times by now, but she was always captivated by it's beauty. By the secrets hiding between the threads.

She desperately wished to know the meaning of all of them. The hounds and the maple leaves were clear enough, but what of the birds and the chess pieces and the interlocking pattern cleverly hidden in the leaves of the trees? There were stories in all of them, pieces that made Eris who he was. Her hunger to know them had never lessened, and she was beginning to wonder if it ever would.

The section that needed fixing was interlaced with gold, and Aya found herself already equipped with a length of gold thread, wrapped around her forefinger like it was a spool.

She went to work, filling the gaps in the images and stitching down loose threads. Her magic eagerly rushed to the surface, still energized and ready. Its endlessness reminded her of the time of daily faebane doses to keep her powers from being revealed to Amarantha. The memory was bitter on her tongue, the horrid taste of faebane like a vengeful ghost.

At least now, she did not have to rush. There were no rows of beds waiting for her help. It was just Eris, patient and calm and not in any danger.

There was just enough golden thread around her finger to finish the job. But as she tried to find the end of the spool and tie off her work, she found it had wrapped in a loop in the exact place her golden band should be. Pulling on the string revealed it to be as unmoving as Edana's ring, as if it were attached to her skin. Aya tugged her hand back but the thread pulled tight, attaching her to Eris’s tapestry.

Again, she pulled, but it did not budge. A pulse traveled back down it, sending a tingling feeling through her hand, as if the tapestry had tugged back.

What was this? This was like no healing she’d ever experienced. Once more, Aya yanked as hard as she could, and heard Eris make a choking sound in front of her.

Her eyes snapped open. She was met with the image of Eris, his brows furrowed in confusion, a hand resting on his armored chest. Aya's heart stuttered, her throat closing with her rising panic. Time seemed to slow to a stop, and through the blood rushing in her ears, she heard his heartbeat. Her own echoed, calling back like a songbird.

"What's wrong?" she whispered, afraid of the answer.

"A chest pain," He said, and he shook his head, any suspicion clearing from his mind. He was oblivious.

Aya could not breathe. She closed her eyes again, willing her lungs to fill with air, and she could still see that golden thread, bridging their tapestries. She dared not pull it again, not with Eris right in front of her.

Had she done that? Had she made it herself? Was she that powerful, that she could forge a bond with her own hands?

"Are you alright?" Eris asked, eyes flicking back and forth between hers.

She ignored him, thoughts whirling faster and faster. She couldn't look at him anymore. His gaze burned, burned like fire and it hurt. The space between them was painful and her body was crying out for her to close the gap, to weave every thread of herself together with his and become one.

“I need you to go,” Aya swallowed hard. Eris opened his mouth to protest but she cut him off with an unconvincing smile and added, “I just need to lie down.”

He stared at her for a long moment, anxiety written so clearly in his eyes. It took all of the strength Aya had left not to tear away from his gaze, not to let tears rise to the surface and his hands wipe them away. The magnetic draw pulling her towards him only aided in confirming her suspicions and furthering her panic.

Finally, his lips drew into a tight line and he nodded.

“Please take care of yourself,” He said, slotting the armor back into place. At the entrance to the tent, he gave her one last glance before returning to the field.

Aya managed to wait until he had left to let the tears fall, dropping slowly to her knees and bending to let her forehead rest on the edge of the cot. What had she done?

She hadn't meant to do it. She had only been trying to heal him. Oh gods, had she trapped him, by accident?

All at once, everything that she was not flooded her mind. He deserved someone better. Someone less strange, someone people weren't afraid of. Someone smart and gorgeous with a mind for politics. Someone from Autumn, who Edana would love and welcome.

Trapped trapped trapped hammered against her skull in a steady rhythm. What had she done? Selfish selfish selfish.

She cursed her power over and over. It was not possible. It could not be possible.

And yet, she felt empty, her body acutely aware of his absence. The thread itched, begging her to chase after him and be closer. She had dreamt of a mating bond before, in the way that most young people did.

But this did not feel like a rose-tinted daydream come to life. This was another nightmare.

______________________________________

p.s. there is a metaphor in here that was especially fun to write if you can find it I'll give you a prize 👀

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marvelstoriesepic · 1 day

Text

Tangled ropes

Pairing: Sailor!Bucky x reader

Summary: A new sailor arrives at the docks amongst Captain Barton’s crew. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, the way he carries himself, or perhaps it’s the way his eyes are the echo of the ocean in color and depth. But something about him makes you want to untangle the ropes that seem to choke his spirit.

Word count: 8.2k

Warnings: allusions to death, slight mentioning of illness, scared reader, a dog in distress (he’ll be fine)

Author’s note: okay so, I actually wanted this to be a one-shot, turns out that’s not gonna happen. I'm working on a second part, but I also didn’t forget about my series 'breaking chains'. So I can’t say what I'll be focusing on next. Let me know what you think, and please be kind because I love this! <3

Masterlist

The docks always held a special place in your heart. It was lively. The air hung heavy with the scent of brine and tar, a salty tang that clung to your clothes and hair long after you left, but you never really minded it - you embraced it. It was the scent of home.

Sun-bleached wooden planks groaned under the constant foot traffic. Wooden stalls lined the piers, their colors all varying and mismatching but it held an undeniable allure.

Fishmongers stood side by side, with hoarse voices from hawking their glistening displays of cod, oysters, plump lobsters, and perhaps the occasional octopus that writhed in wicker baskets. The lovely woman with the sun-kissed skin, who sold vibrant bouquets of wildflowers always greeted you with a beaming smile when you went to get some florals for your mother.

Dockworkers always bustled around, wrestling crates and barrels, their shouts punctuated by the rhythmic creak of ropes and the groan of timber under heavy loads. You held admiration for those men, watching them work all times of the day and weather, muscles sculpted and faces etched with sun and sweat.

Women in billowing skirts and sensible boots bartered with vendors or gossiped with each other, their baskets overflowing with fresh bread, glistening food, and colorful bolds of fabric; sometimes even some seashell jewelry or iron cookware.

You loved to watch the children running around and weaving through the people in glee, chasing after stray dogs or climbing rickety piles of rope, all while their laughter and shrieks echoed off the wooden planks. Seagulls cawed raucously overhead, swooping down for scraps or squabbling over morsels.

The best part, however, was the open ocean stretching before you, a cerulean expanse that mocked the limits of your vision, blurring into the hazy promise of a horizon forever beyond reach.

Your legs often guided you down to the docks on their own accord with an unbidden pull to let the untamed wind whip through your hair, nothing in its path to hold back, carrying the sharp and salty scent of the sea that would fill your lungs. You would usually close your eyes to take it in.

The rhythmic lap of the waves against the wood was a lullaby, a constant that soothed the ache in your heart. It was the closest you could feel to your father, the only connection that remained after the years of his absence.

But it was a strong connection.

Though time had dulled the edges of his memory, the warmth of his presence lingered in these salty breezes. You couldn’t recall the exact color of his eyes anymore, or the way his laughter crinkled the corners of them.

But the feeling of safety when he held you close, the love he held for you, and the endless blue expanse were etched into your soul.

Here, on the docks of your small port town, which had been a mere dot on the map for your father, a different kind of memory took root.

The sea became his domain, and so it became yours too. It was the anchor that held you fast - that vast emptiness that both echoed his absence and held the promise of a connection that could never be broken. It was a poignant yearning, a bittersweet symphony of salt and sorrow, that bound you to the rhythm of the waves and the memory of your father.

The sea held its secrets and you guessed it would hold your father's fate for eternity, ingrained into the indifference of the waves. He was a sailor even before you were born, exploring the ocean and the islands and cities that lay in their wake.

Every few months, sometimes years, he would return, his warmth and laughter filling the short gaps between his journeys. But those gaps grew longer, the laughter strained. Until the docks remained absent from his ship altogether.

Whispers and rumors had filled the void, twisting into conflicting narratives.

Some spoke of a terrible illness, a plague that had swept through his crew, claiming life after life until it finally took him too. Others muttered of a violent raid, your father perishing while defending his hard-earned goods. The most outlandish tales painted him a traitor, a man who’d abandoned his family and his life for the thrill of piracy, a black flag now his banner.

Your father was a well-respected sailor, having kissed the shores of countless countries, his name a murmur of respect in taverns across the globe. You had the evidence of that in souvenirs that cluttered your small home. A carved jade dragon from the East, a woven dreamcatcher from the West, polished seashells once laying on a beach - all from beyond the horizon.

So it was expected that people would talk and spread stories as to what might have happened to him. But no matter what they said and told you, your memories of him remained untainted.

He had shown you the art of knots, his patient hand untangling your fumbling attempts. You had practiced fiercely during the times he was gone. Perhaps he had wanted to give you a distraction. It had worked, because you one day helped him secure the ship to the dock, in recalling how to wove the ropes while he followed your instructions, since you weren’t able to do it on your own with your small and weaker hands. A triumphant grin had spread across your rosy cheeks as the ship was secured and your father had hoisted you up in the air, pride radiating from him in waves.

You would forever cherish the times he took you down to the docks, letting you wander around on his ship. You remembered his calloused hand guiding yours across the weathered deck. Your soft fingers had traced the grooves and marks in the wood, wondering how they made it there.

His voice was a blur in your mind, the cadence of his tone lost in time but you remembered how he would spin tales of adventures that made your eyes widen and laughter ring out across the open deck. He exaggerated monstrous waves, how he outsmarted the Kraken which was likely just a seagull, and described the creak of the ship as he fought a sea serpent - or so he had claimed.

All he wanted was to hear you laugh.

You had noticed how hard it was for him to leave every time, missing out on his daughter growing up. He carried around a heaviness, an ache burning in his eyes that mirrored the one in your mother's gaze whenever he set off again. It made you cling to him tighter when you could.

The image of him boarding deck and watching the ship shrink, shrink, shrink, until it was swallowed by the horizon had been a constant in your life. Unlike your mother, who couldn’t bear to watch him vanish, you had stayed until the last sliver of his ship disappeared, a tiny speck against the vast, indifferent canvas of the sea.

Those goodbyes had carved a hollow ache into your chest, a sorrow that had seemed to tear into your flesh and bones. You had felt his loss, mourned him even before the rumors of his death made their way to land. Yet, you had always wondered what really happened. Nightmares used to haunt you, showing you visions of him swallowed by unseen monsters lurking in the depths.

But as the years rolled by, a sense of peace bloomed alongside your grief.

The town itself became a living testament to your father. You had those souvenirs at home and the stories they came with. The people of the town spoke of his courage and kindness with a reverence that warmed your heart.

You even had him here, at this very moment, standing at the docks and watching the vessel of Captain Barton appear over the horizon.

Earlier, you had immediately perked up at the shouts and clanging from the lookout boy, announcing the arrival of the ship; dropping the unfinished basket you were weaving.

You had rushed down to the docks, joining the throng of merchants, ventures, dockworkers, and townsfolk already buzzing with anticipation, voices rising. The arrival of Captain Barton’s ship was an event, a chance to stock up on exotic goods your town wouldn’t otherwise see.

For years, Captain Barton’s crew had filled the void left by your father’s disappearance. While your father had ventured into the unknown, charting uncharted waters and bringing back exotic rarities, Captain Barton stuck to well-worn trade routes, providing your port town with silks, spices, tools, and trinkets.

You had never once missed the arrival of the crew, because it gave you a glimpse into the lifeline your father had sailed, even though it now was shrouded in mystery. It felt like a bridge across the endless of blue, strengthening the connection you had with him.

The ship grew closer and details came into view. It was nothing like your father’s had been, you could tell from the way it cut through the waves, a touch less weathered, a hint less daring. Captain Barton’s vessel boasted a newer sheen, the paint brighter, the sails crisper. But it carried the spirit of the open sea, the same spirit that had called to your father.

A smile spread on your face.

The wind whipped at your hair, carrying with it the tang of the sea and a thrill that danced in your stomach. You barely registered the young boy rocketing past you, your skirts billowing around your feet.

With each passing moment, the ship inched closer and your focus narrowed on the sailors scurrying about, mirroring your anticipation. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as a cannon boomed - a salute to the town.

Your heart thrummed inside your rib cage, matching the relentless pounding of the waves against the wooden piers. The shouts of the dockworkers, the excited chatter of the townsfolk, the thudding of feet on the weathered planks all became background noise for you, as you kept your stare on the ship.

Your intense focus shattered as you felt a tug on your hand. Snapping your gaze away from the approaching vessel, you looked down to see a small hand nestled in yours. “Papa is coming back!” Morgan shouted, her high-pitched voice ringing out in the din of the docks.

She tried dragging you through the sea of people, getting closer to where Captain Barton’s crew was about to dock. “Do you think he has something for me?” she asked you, blinking at you with wide eyes, laden with childish excitement.

You let out a soft laugh, squeezing her hand gently. “I’m sure he got you something, pumpkin,” you reassured her, laughing harder when she let out a delightful squeal, her eyes sparkling with pure joy as she bounced on the balls of her feet.

Morgan was like your little sister in all but blood. Her father, Tony, was amongst the crew mere feet away from the docks. He had once sailed alongside your father more than two decades ago. They grew up together, starting as cabin boys on the same vessel, and shared adventures for the years to come.

But a fickle wind that steered the course of lives had scattered them. There was an attack, one that had left Tony battered and scarred, physically and emotionally. He got away with his life, but only barely, and it was enough for him to choose calmer waters, a life under Captain Barton, away from the relentless call of the open sea. He had craved the security of a routine, in comparison to your father's love for adventures.

You never learned the exact details, never dared to asked, but your father never stopped speaking of Tony with a deep respect and a touch of melancholy, although they might have never crossed paths again.

Since your father's visits had ceased altogether and more people than not were sure he died on the open waters, Tony quickly became a second father figure to you, spreading warmth whenever he stayed on port.

Watching Morgan now mirrored your own childhood - a little girl waiting with wide-eyed wonder for a father who brought the world home with him, even if it was just for a fleeting visit.

You looked around for Pepper, Morgan’s mother, who likely stood amongst the bustling crowd. Like your own mother, she bore the weight of a sailor's wife; sharing whispered stories, anxieties calmed with the sight of a returning ship, and a love that stretched as vast as the ocean itself.

Thunderous cheers and shouts erupted around you once more and you couldn’t suppress your own cheers as they bubbled up in your stomach, watching the ship getting anchored. It loomed large now, its imposing shadow stretching across the docks. The rhythmic creaking of the ship as it settled against the pier exhilarated you, shivers running down your spine in waves.

Morgan craned her neck and you lifted her high in your arms, making sure she was able to see the spectacle. Her joyful excitement blended into the crowd.

You watched the crew on deck scurrying across the rigging, securing lines, and lowering gangplanks. The sails were being expertly furled.

You knew the process of the arrival by heart. As always, a team of dockworkers charged forward. Some were armed with thick ropes, attaching them to sturdy bollards lining the dock. Others used large hooks and secured lines flung down from the ship, ensuring it wouldn’t drift with the current.

Captain Barton stood on the quarterdeck of his vessel, waiting for the approach of the port officials, clad in crisp uniforms. They exchanged briefly, a verification of the ship's manifest - a detailed document listing the cargo and passengers onboard.

Then followed the health check. Another official, his demeanor seeming a little more gentle, stepped forward. He carried a satchel filled with vials and basic medical instruments. You didn’t hear what they said, but you knew the questions he would ask the Captain.

It were the same questions your father got asked, about any illnesses encountered during the journey, and if it were necessary to perform cursory examinations on some crew members.

Your father had always held his stoicism when talking to the officials, but you'd known him better than that. His eyes had shifted, subtly searching the crowd of onlookers for his family. His impatience was in the way his foot tapped on the wood and his hands adjusted his hat.

The curt nod of the official was the final permission for the sailors to enter the dock and once again, loud cheers went through the crowd. Captain Barton raised his hand in acknowledgment, a smile gracing his face and the gangplank was lowered, a sturdy wooden bridge connecting the ship to the dock.

The familiar crew began disembarking and you had to tighten your arms around a squeaking Morgan as her father stepped on the solid ground of the docks. You scanned the rest of the crew with a smile on your face. Years of Captain Barton’s arrivals had etched these men into your memory, their stories woven into the fabric of your life by Tony’s tales.

There was Bruce Banner, the ship's healer, always looking a little awkward at the attention they all received. He walked in the shadow of the hulking frame of Commander Odinson, who held the wisps of his long, blond hair in a red bandana. You spotted Gabe Jones, Dum Dum Dugan, and Jim Morita, who seemed to playfully wrestle with each other as to who would reach the docks first.

Other midshipmen followed, such as Steve Rogers, a gentle smile on his face as he looked out into the crowd. He looked stronger, you noticed. The shirt he wore was looser the last time you saw him, his shoulders now broader, and he carried himself in a way that made him look more masculine.

Joy bubbled within you, as you spotted the perpetually enthusiastic cabin boy, Peter Parker, bounding down the gangplank. His youthful grin was wide enough to split his face as he waved at the townsfolk.

Your smile faltered.

Behind Peter, an unfamiliar man descended to the wooden planks. He still looked younger than most men of the crew, maybe about Steve’s age, but in comparison to Steve’s gentle spirit, he carried himself with a quiet, almost stoic calmness. He didn’t seem overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the docks, as if he was used to it by now, though he also didn’t look like he acknowledged anything around him at all, seeming indifferent. He wasn’t part of the crew the last time, you were certain.

There was a subtle tautness to his movements, a hint of a muscular build beneath the worn fabric of his shirt. You studied him as he disembarked to meet his crew. He wasn’t really smiling, you noticed. He wore more of an unreadable mask. It wasn’t a frown exactly but it looked detached, that made you wonder what burdens he might carry.

He barely even lifted his face to watch the crowd but you still caught glimpses of the sharp jawline and the contours of his nose. His hair looked a little unruly and windswept as a few brown strands fell onto his forehead.

As his worn boots met the solid ground as well, he clapped Steve on the shoulder, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. But before you could glean anything further, the throng of people surrounding you shifted, momentarily blocking your view.

A pang of disappointment burrowed in your stomach at the lost sight of the stranger. You craned your neck, hoping to catch another glimpse, but Morgan wriggled in your grasp and you managed to set her down gently before she launched herself at an approaching Tony.

He scooped her up effortlessly, her giggles muffled against the rough fabric of his slightly torn shirt as he twirled her around. With the unfamiliar sailor momentarily forgotten, you stepped forward yourself, a smile so wide on your face, it ached in your cheeks.

Tony beamed at you; shifting his daughter to one arm, her tiny fingers wrapping around his neck like a lifeline, and pulling you to his chest with the other.

“Well, well, look at you, all grown up, eh young lady?” he teased, his voice a warm rumble over the din docks. He leaned down, his salty beard tickling your hair as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

You rolled your eyes, though laughter spilled from your lips, despite yourself. “Grown up for years now, Tony,” you protested, your smile ever-present. Relief and a deep sense of contentment filled your chest and you took a deep breath so as not to let your emotions overwhelm you.

He smelled of the sea, with the hint of dust, wood, and sweat - a heady concoction that somehow felt like home.

He released you slightly, but not before holding you at arm's length for a closer look. “Still, you seem to have spouted a good inch or two since last I saw you, dear one. Are you eating properly? How fares your mother?”

“Mother is well, Tony,” you replied, your voice a gentle reassurance at the worry you read from his eyes. “And we are both well-fed. We manage to keep the food cupboard stocked.” His concern tugged at your heartstrings and you reached out to gently squeeze his arm. “No need to fret over us,” you added gently, though, with a hint of a playful drawl and it eased the lines on his face.

As Pepper joined you, hugging and kissing Tony with tear-filled eyes, you decided to let them have their moment and started pacing the docks, taking in the usual frenetic energy. Old Hughes, the gruff-looking but fair cobbler, unfurled his work canvas awnings, displaying a colorful array of boots and shoes for the sailors. Mrs. Cook, a stout woman with a booming voice, set up tables laden with fresh bread, glistening cheeses, and plump, juicy fruits.

The dockworkers had already swarmed the ship, lowering large wooden crates filled with the cargo. The gentle breeze carried the sweet perfume of exotic spices right over to you as you took another deep breath. The sailor's crew helped unload the crates. Some were hauled onto large flatbed carts pulled by dockworkers, while others, the smaller and lighter ones, were hoisted onto the shoulders of the sailors.

You watched with fascination how they all seemed to joke and tease each other while still working efficiently. Their grunts and laughter carried over the lively chatter of the townsfolk.

Your eyes swept through the crowd on their own accord, trying to find the unfamiliar sailor, not knowing exactly what made you so interested in seeing him again. But you also didn’t put much effort into trying to suppress that nagging curiosity that tugged at you.

Lost in your search for the guy, you completely missed the treacherous snag lurking beneath your feet. A thick hemp rope, used to secure a nearby crate, lay coiled and unsuspected. You were about to take a step forward but your boot promptly caught on its rough weave, sending a jolt through your leg and nearly toppling you over.

A startled gasp escaped your lips as you lurched forward, flailing for something to break your fall. Your hand quickly grasped a sturdy wooden post, one of many supporting the overhead awning of a nearby vendor. The worn leather of your boots met the worn wood of the planks with a resounding thud, echoing through the bustling dock.

You held your breath, bracing yourself for a painful collision with the ground. But luckily the post held firm, helping you regain your balance. A wave of relief swept over you, quickly followed by a pang of embarrassment.

You glanced down, wincing as your gaze fell upon the culprit. The hemp rope, still tangled around your boot, had caused a small tear in the fabric of your skirt. Taking a deep breath, you knelt down, fumbling with the coarse rope until it loosened its hold. With a sigh, you inspected the damage. The tear wasn’t major, but it was certainly noticeable, and your mother surely wouldn’t like it.

You rose to your feet and looked back up, just to meet the eyes of the brunette sailor, the unfamiliar man. You stilled in your movements, staring back at him. He still stood a little in the distance, a half-hoisted crate resting precariously on his shoulder as he was slightly turned in your direction. His gaze was pretty clear, but his expression was unreadable.

He didn’t seem to feel as uncomfortable as you, though. The way his eyes flit over your form, lingering on the part of your skirt you had just ripped wasn’t intrusive, but rather a quick assessment, as if gauging whether you were injured. He held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary and you almost could have believed he was able to hear your heart pounding over the distance. Perhaps he could see through you, watching the blood rush through your veins and up to your cheeks as they heated up.

He turned away then with a curt and subtle nod you wouldn’t have picked up if you weren’t watching him so intensely. You might even interpret it as satisfaction at seeing you regain your footing, or simply a confirmation that you were alright.

His gaze very well may have lasted for mere seconds only but you were flustered. You weren’t sure why his brief scrutiny had sent a jolt through you, or why you felt a curious mix of embarrassment and intrigue. Perhaps it was just the fact that you weren’t used to seeing a new face around here. Especially as handsome as his.

Absentmindedly, your hands brushed over your skirt as they had gotten a little clammy and you couldn’t help but steal another glance at him.

The mysterious sailor had returned to his work, carrying the crate on his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt strained across his back, revealing those broad shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick forearms, with a few veins running up and disappearing behind the fabric. Pale pink lines seemed to be marrying his left arm - scars, undoubtedly - though the details were blurred by the distance.

Your attention caught the couple rips in the fabric of his shirt, revealing skin on his shoulder and a little on his side. All your father's shirts had been adorned with similar tears. One day, you had asked about them and he had granted you with one of his gruff laughs. “Keeps the pirates at bay, my sweetheart,” he had said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

It wasn’t true of course. You always knew that, but your father's playful answer had instilled a sense of comfort back then, making you feel like he was safer out there than he actually was.

The brunette navigated the bustling docks with a practiced gait and you narrowed your eyes at him as your gaze followed him weaving between towering crates and barrels, his destination likely a designated storage area near the harbormaster's office, depending on the nature of the goods he carried. Your gaze remained fixed on him until he disappeared behind the market stands.

****

You had finished the basket you’d been weaving as the boy on lookout had announced the arrival of Captain Barton's ship - a sturdy work of woven reeds, perfect for carrying fresh bread or plump vegetables.

Your mother had insisted you could finish it tomorrow, but you still had a lot more to do and you needed the money.

The day had bled into dusk by the time you had sold it for a few coins down at the marketplace, the fiery orange of the setting sun replaced by the cool, silvery glow of the moon.

The rhythmic clatter of cobblestones beneath your worn boots echoed around the brick walls around you. The salty tang of the sea was now tinged with the smoky aroma of woodsmoke, wisping from chimneys.

Laughter, boisterous and male, spilled out from a nearby tavern - perhaps Captain Barton’s crew drowning their sorrows or celebrating their return in mugs of rum and ale. You made out raucous singing, sometimes punctuated by a heavy thump on the table. You could even glimpse a few silhouettes through the grimy windows, swaying and stomping to the tune of a jig played on a weathered fiddle.

The melody of a lone violin drifted from a brightly lit window a few steps further down the road, and you found yourself listening fondly.

You weren’t surprised to find your feet carrying you back towards the docks. The festive chaos of the arrival had subsided, leaving murmured conversations reaching your ears from people lost in the shadows.

The ache your father had left you with had dulled throughout the years, becoming a part of you. Most days, it resided peacefully in the background, a constant but manageable hum. But on these days, when the excitement of Captain Barton’s arrival ceased, your composure would usually fray at the edges.

A heavy fog rolled in, settling like a lead weight on your chest. It squeezed your heart, not with a fist, but with a thousand tiny, suffocating fingers. The air thinned in your lungs, replaced by a hollowness that echoed in your stomach. A hollowness no amount of food or water could ever fill.

So, the docks were the only place you could find a semblance of solace.

You knew better than to walk on the open docks at night, staying in the shadows of a few shops near the pier. You made out the rhythmic creak of rocking ships, the groan of a straining rope. Moonlight danced on the water, casting shimmering pathways that stretched out towards the inky blackness of the open ocean.

Gas lamps strung along the docks, casting pools of warm orange light that struggled to penetrate the bat darkness of the harbor. In their flickering glow, dust motes waltzed.

Further down the docks, you made out the rhythmic hammering of a lone shipwright, his work illuminated by a flickering torch.

A new sound pierced the night air.

It began faintly, a whimper barely audible over the creaking of ships and the distant shouts coming from taverns.

But with each passing second, the sound grew louder, a plaintive whine morphing into desperate cries.

It was a dog.

Your heart lurched. You scanned the dimly lit docks, your eyes flitting from shadowy figures to stacked crates. The whimpers and cries were frantic, leading you towards the easternmost pier, a relatively deserted area where a few neglected fishing boats lay moored.

There, half-hidden beneath the skeletal frame of an old, beached vessel, you spotted it. A dog - a scruffy mutt with a coat the color of dried mud and a desperate glint in his eyes.

It was entangled in a thick mess of rigging rope, the lines binding its legs and torso like cruel restraints. The dog's frantic struggles only tightened the knots, its whimpers turning into pained yelps.

Adrenaline surged through you. Your mother warned you enough times to stay away from the docks at night. They could be treacherous, a labyrinth of shadows and unseen hazards. Yet, the dog’s whimpers tugged at your heart, echoing the silent emptiness within you.

You pushed aside the trepidation that had coiled your gut and rushed towards the pained dog, without further thinking. The moonlight was the only glow you could lean on as you knelt beside the tangled animal.

“Hey there, fella,” you murmured, speaking in a soothing tone, probably more for your own reassurance than anything else, as you reached out a tentative hand. The dog flinched, knots tightening, a low growl rumbling in his chest. You kept your movements slow and deliberate. Your father had once told you to avoid eye contact as a sign of non-threat.

Taking a closer look, you assessed the situation. The ropes were wrapped around its front legs and middle in a haphazard manner. The knots, however, seemed more amateurish than sailor-made, a tangled mess rather than a secure bind. That’s why the poor thing must have gotten caught. This wouldn’t have happened with the right knots. You didn’t see any blood on the ropes, nor the dog, but it wouldn’t take much for the rough material to nick his skin.

So you slowly extended your hand towards the dog's head, whispering low and soothing. You avoided its gaze, aiming for the reassuring scratch behind his ear that most dogs craved. If the dog remained calm, you could assess the knots more closely and see if there was a way to loosen them without causing further distress.

The dog's whimpers grew softer, visibly settling with occasional shaky breaths. He watched your hand, as you reached behind his ear, a tentative sniff grazing your palm.

Your relief at the dog's response to your gentle approach was cut short.

A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and broad-shouldered, casting a long, distorted form across the moonlit wood as it moved in your direction. A sudden chill crawled up your spine, panic jolting through your body and you instinctively snatched your hand back, almost tumbling over in your haste.

The surprised yelp of the dog at your sudden movements pierced the air, a sharp bark that echoed like a gunshot in the stillness of the night.

The figure in the distance quickened its pace, its shadow dancing grotesquely on the pale wood of the pier.

You were frozen. Completely and utterly frozen on the ground. Your heart was pounding erratically, almost painfully, threatening to drown out the dog's frantic barking.

Broken nails clawed at the wood underneath and a whimper nearly escaped your own lips. You felt as trapped as the dog - only that the ropes binding you in place, scratching and clawing at your skin, taking your breath away the more you moved; were fear.

Each rasping breath you could take in felt like a struggle, your chest a tight cage around your rapidly inflating lungs.

The warnings your mother had ingrained in your head, that the docks were no place for a young woman at night, swirled around in your mind in sharp and mocking whispers.

The newcomer, perhaps sensing your panic, slowed his approach. He raised his hands high in the air, palms open, taking a few measured steps forward, as if taming a frightened animal. Like you had with the dog just moments before.

How ironic.

“Woah there, easy,” he called out softly, as he came to a halt at a respectful distance, hands still raised in placation. Only the moonlight helped you make him out, casting his face in an eerie half-light, revealing him only in fragments.

Yet, it was enough.

It was him - the brunette sailor that had caught your attention earlier, with the sharp angles of his jawline, the strong bridge of his nose, and a hint of a scar over his brow you hadn’t been able to see over the distance.

You didn’t know if it was relief that swept through your body since it felt numb to feeling anything anymore, but you were able to draw in a somewhat steadying breath again.

“I mean no harm. Didn’t mean to scare you, apologies for that,” he continued and it was then that his voice finally registered in your mind. It was a low rumble, rough around the edges and tinged with a hoarse weariness. Yet, there was a hint of concern and something like a soft reassurance underlying his tone and it cleared the fog around your eyes.

His gaze was solely fixed on you, somehow ignoring the barking dog beside you. There was a faint crease that furrowed his brows, his lips tugging into a frown and his fingers twitched as if wanting to reach out to you.

Your voice remained trapped in your constricted throat as you concentrated on getting the air back in your lungs. The man before you seemed to soften further.

“Heard that dog cryin' like a lost soul. Had to see what all the fuss was about. I reckon that’s what brought you out here too. Mighty brave of you, though these docks ain’t the safest place for a lady after dark.”

He cast a brief glance around, his hands slowly returning to his side as he swept the dimly lit area before returning his gaze to you. It was too dark to make out the color of his eyes but they glinted with something you couldn’t make out as he lingered on your form. He tilted his head slightly, a slow smile forming on his lips.

You might have found it charming, disarming even, if your mind hadn’t been running on scrambled eggs.

“I remember you,” he countered softly, seeming patient to wait until your voice found its way back to you. “Saw you when we docked.” His gaze drifted downwards, lingering on the still ripped section of your skirt from your earlier inattentiveness. A line etched itself deep in his brow as his gaze traveled back to your face, seeing the tear up close. “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself there.”

Maybe the calming tone of the sailor also had an effect on the dog, because his whimpers had softened, replaced by weak pants. Or perhaps his struggle had simply drained him.

Regardless, you finally managed to pry your voice loose from your throat as you cleared it, the sound a little scratchy. You brushed the dirt and dust from your hands on your skirt and rose to your feet. Your legs still felt a little wobbly, but you regained your footing.

“I-I’m fine,” you croaked out and watched the way his shoulders relaxed, relief etching the lines on his face. His own chest visibly deflated with a released breath and his posture softened further.

“Let’s see how we can help our furry friend here,” he exclaimed after a moment's pause, as if remembering what he came here for in the first place. He took a step closer and crouched down to the height of the dog, you now towering over his seated form.

It surprised you. His actions, the way he spoke to you with an easy respect and approval that wasn’t always afforded to a young woman.

Especially not to you.

Your family name took a hit after the many rumors about your father's disappearance cursed the seas. There still were people praising him and talking about his adventures, but those would throw you pitying glances whenever you walked past. Conversations would halt, in fear you might crumble under the weight of some words. Of hearing your father's name. They would treat you like a fragile child. Or perhaps a ticking time bomb ready to blow up at any second.

Some treated you as a victim, some as a ghost, and others saw you as a heavy reminder of the shadow that had overcome the town at the perceived betrayal of your father to sail under pirates.

You grew accustomed to it - the pity, the suspicion, the condescension.

It still took you by surprise as you watched that man lowering himself beside you, with you towering over his crouched frame as if it meant nothing. His gaze had lacked judgment as it lingered on the tear in your skirt you obviously hadn’t changed since you ripped it. He only held concern.

It was a respite from the heavy loads you normally had to deal with and you felt a flicker of warmth chasing away some of that chill that had settled in your bones.

You snapped back to the present as the sailor reached for a small knife tugged at his belt. The worn leather handle was dwarfed by his hand, its blade a dull silver under the moon's glow.

“Don’t,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself, squatting down beside him. His head twirled in surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing his features as his gaze met yours. The dog whined softly.

“He’s moving too much,” you explained, your voice regaining steadiness. “If you cut the ropes, you might nick him.”

A slow, amused smile spread across the sailor's face. It wasn’t a mocking grin, rather a playful challenge that crinkled the corners of his eyes. They were blue, you realized. “I’ve got a steady hand, doll,” he teased, his voice low and rich with amusement. “You doubtin' my skills?”

Heat flooded your cheeks, a blush creeping up your neck and you averted your eyes. “No, of course not! I didn’t mean-”

His warm chuckle cut you off, a deep sound that seemed to vibrate from the core of his being. His chin fell to his chest, brown strands falling onto his forehead as his shoulders shook slightly.

You hadn’t expected him to laugh but a strange sense of ease settled in its wake, making you suppress a smile of your own.

“No offense taken, doll,” he softly declared. “If you’re worried about the blade, then we will find another way to help the fella out.”

His voice was calm and gentle, a stark contrast to the gruff exterior he presented and the looming figure that had scared you as he had appeared from the shadows. Your heart skipped a beat, but not out of fear this time.

You decided to focus on the task at hand, to predict him recognizing the blush scorching your cheeks. “The knots are messy,” you assessed again, tracing the ropes with careful fingers. “We can untangle them if we find an opening.”

Scanning for any frayed ends, any loose thread that could serve as a starting point, your peripheral vision picked up on the sailor doing the same thing right beside you, letting his hands trace over the ropes. You worked in silence, the only sounds being the rhythmic creaking of the nearby ship, the gentle lapping of the waves, and a lone seagull's piercing squawk.

A smile grazed your face as you made out a frayed end peeking out from beneath a few knots. Deftly, you began to untangle the ropes, working with the kind of ease that came with years of weaving. You wound the excess rope around itself, creating a loose coil that wouldn’t snag on anything. The dog grew still as you neared his legs, whimpers replaced by shallow breaths.

As you worked the ropes against each other to loosen their hold, you felt your skin prickle with the gaze of the sailor on you. He had stilled his own movements, now watching you quietly, with an intensity that made it hard for you to focus. Perhaps it was some form of astonishment that radiated from him, you couldn’t tell, but it felt warm on your skin.

The brown mutt barely flinched as you unwound his legs, being exhausted by its ordeal. You worked your way to his middle, careful not to touch the sore parts of his body that had been squeezed. With a final tug, the last knot yielded, and the dog was free.

You breathed a sigh of relief, a soft smile curving your lips. “There you go,” you whispered, barely audible over the noises of the docks.

The little fella remained motionless for a moment, probably still in shock. But he quickly seemed to regain sense of his freedom and bolted away with a sudden yelp, disappearing into the shadows.

You were relieved he hadn’t gotten hurt in the process, still being able to run, but the sudden departure of the small dog left you a little disappointed.

Another comforting chuckle from the sailor, with a name you still had to learn, echoed beside you. “Consider him grateful,” he said, a lightness in his voice that made you laugh softly, tension easing from your shoulders.

You turned back to the discarded ropes, silence stretching for a few moments until you spoke up again. “He wouldn’t have gotten tangled up in those if they were secured properly,” you declared, your voice a quiet murmur, underlying a hint of resentment at the person who didn’t take his job very seriously.

The sailor looked at you for a few beats, then nodded to the heap of ropes. “And you know how to knot them correctly?” It wasn’t a challenge, nor was it laced with doubt or disbelief. There was a genuine curiosity in his tone, a spark of something deeper that caught you off guard.

Perhaps it was the way he had watched you work with that kind of amazement as your nimble fingers unraveled the knots. Or the way he looked at you with that glint in his eyes as if he already knew you would say yes. Maybe it was the satisfaction of helping a helpless dog in distress, or the intrigue this man had ignited within you, but a surge of confidence, unexpected and exhilarating, coursed through you.

“Are you doubtin' my skills?” You countered, mirroring his question from earlier, teasing in your voice.

A flicker of surprise, a delightful surprise, crossed his features, eyebrows shooting up. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, and he bit his bottom lip to prevent it from spreading. He looked away from you for a few beats, schooling his expression into a semblance of composure, but the amusement still danced in the corners of his eyes as he met yours again.

You turned your attention back to the ropes, beginning to feel that heat creep up your neck again at the way he looked at you. Starting to weave the rope in the familiar motions your father had taught you so many years ago, calmed the jitters that had taken root over you.

Moments passed in a contemplative silence until he broke it.

“I’m Bucky.”

You momentarily stilled in your movements, lifting your head to look at him. A touch of bashfulness colored his features and he lifted his hand to brush against the shadow on his chin.

“Should have introduced myself before. Rude of me not to.” He huffed out a breath, wincing at himself and you found his sudden shyness endearing, a soft smile on your lips.

“Don’t worry about it,” you replied sweetly, “it’s nice to meet you, Bucky.”

You liked the way his name rolled off your tongue, testing its weight on the night air. Your focus returned to the knots you were weaving, contemplating to tell him your own name, when he interrupted the silence again.

“Who taught you that?”

You hadn’t noticed how intensely he was watching you, gaze following the movements of your fingers as you secured another knot, your hands seemingly working on their own.

Mastering the skills of knotting was never really a necessity for you, though you remembered that broad smile, that had split your fathers face as you’d told him you wanted to learn more than the simple basics he’d shown you. It had been like a game, a simple way to impress your father and make him proud.

It felt like a gift tonight.

The way Bucky asked the question, so intimate and soft, as if he was as concentrated as you, mesmerized by the way your fingers moved.

“My father,” you answered him, voice laced with a fondness that always appeared when you got the chance to talk about him.

Bucky’s gaze lifted, his eyes searching your face. Perhaps he heard the glimmer of grief in your voice, or maybe the quiet pride that intrigued him to study your expression.

“He a sailor too?”

You took a second to answer. “He was.”

Silence settled over you both once more, it was heavier than before. Out of the corner of your eye, you made out that Bucky dipped his head slightly, perhaps as a silent gesture of respect, or he was simply lost in thought.

“I’m sorry,” he then countered, the words sounding clear in the night air. His voice was gruff, however, laced with something else, something like understanding.

You met his gaze again, with a small smile grazing your lips. You couldn’t quite read his expression, but it was captivating, the depths of his blue orbs drawing you in. Blue, like the rich, inky tones of the ocean you had looked upon so many times already and never could grow tired of.

Your hands had stilled as the intensity with which he looked at you was the only thing you could focus on. You felt both exposed and strangely safe under his gaze. There seemed to be so much hidden behind those eyes, as there was behind the horizon.

“What’s your name?” The question was barely a whisper as if he was just as lost in this moment as you were.

“Y/n.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed slightly. “Y/n? As in Y/n L/n? So, your father…he is…”

You let out a sigh, the sound heavy with a burden you’d carried for far too long. It wasn’t a secret, not exactly, but the whispers that followed your name became a constant itch you couldn’t scratch.

Not noticing how he used the present form at referring to your father, you confirmed his suspicion with a curt nod. “Yes, that’s him.”

A shadow crossed over his eyes. The softness his gaze held just seconds before had vanished, replaced by something unreadable, something dark. A shudder ran over your spine, a chill settling in your bones as if your body only now became aware of the nightly breeze that swept by.

His features were hardened over, as his gaze left you, staring beyond your shoulder. His jaw was clenched, as if in silent contemplation. There was a war brewing behind his eyes, a storm beneath the surface that mirrored the exaggerated tales of your father.

There was a tension that crackled in the air and you knew now that the chill you felt had nothing to do with the night air.

Uneasiness squirmed your stomach, but before you could act on it, Bucky’s gaze softened again, the storm clouds parting to reveal the azure depths. He cleared his throat with a subtle shake of his head, ridding himself of whatever had plagued his mind.

“It’s a nice name,” he stated, voice as gentle as before, but something lingered and you couldn’t put a name on it. “Now let me help you finish that.”

He reached for a length of rope, his calloused fingers moving with an ease that indicated he had done this a thousand times already, knotting them alongside you.

You finished in silence, the earlier tension easing a little but it still remained a faint echo in the air. You suddenly felt incredibly aware of his presence beside you, almost watching his movements more than your own.

Questions swirled in your mind, you didn’t dare to voice. Somehow Bucky’s shift in demeanor hadn’t scared you off as you believed it would have. It spurred the intrigue that had already simmered beneath the surface, a new layer to a man who was already an enigma.

Earlier the day, as you had watched him walk down the gangplank to meet his crew on the wooden plank you had glimpsed it already. The guarded detachment in which he had carried himself, an unvoiced burden that seemed to have a tight grip on him.

Maybe he was as tangled as the dog had been, invisible ropes wounding around his body - binding him, squeezing him, choking the warmth that had glimmered in his eyes moments before.

Thankfully, your father had taught you how to untangle them.

“We learn the rope of life by untying its knots”

- Jean Toomer

#bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #james buchanan barnes #sailor Bucky #medieval #age of sail

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spotforme · 2 days

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i am actually in love with Cat and Lister's friendship or whatever the hell it is they've got because they're so different in style and philosophy but together they belong. i am thinking about btl spesifically, that's a place where they can have anything and they choose to fuck around together, drive places on Lister's motorcycle and judge eachothers' eating habbits. it is so much fun.

like of course there is the way the present themselves, Lister with his often sloppy, dirty, worn out clothes and biker rolling through a ditch austethic and Cat with his never-wearing-the-same-thing-twise, outfit colours and styles fluxuate through the seasons' trends and often to multiple a day. like i can't believe they really get what the other's going for but they don't really say much on the subject

then there are their views on dramatic topics like death, crippling injury and the like. it's hard for me to describe them exactly, but the Cat has an attetude adjasent to 'if you can't do anything about it without getting your hair messy, then dont' like i feel he'd much rather spend time sewing a new dashing outfit than mourn because what good is feeling bad gonna do now really. whereas Lister very much needs to get his emotions out there, be it crying at a romantic movie, missing a friend or displacing an arm amd wanting some reassurance. like Lister is emotionally intelligent as fuck sometimes, and lonely when he doesn't have anything to pour his affection to, and it feels a bit cruel sometimes that he was placed on that ship with only emotional garbage (sorry to Rimmer and Cat. i love them both but they have their moments of absolute dogwater insensitivity) and maschines.

so they don't always mix well, Lister and Cat, but they still do because there's enough mutual likes and mutual hates. there is that they're the only people left who they can still touch that isn't just cold old metal or plastic, i'm just saying an arm to grip every once in a while goes a long way to keeping oneself sane. they are nice to eachother, they are scoundrals together, they share schemes they share crimes, sometimes they even share a braincell. they're like the only thing in the universe they have to a normal friendship and i am so not normal about them.

like when Cat steals a shampagme bottle and shares it with Lister, like when Lister lets Cat take naps in his bed, how they share snide and embarrasing remarks at Rimmer's expence, the way they pair together on missions and (barring Guarantine) they don't hate eachother after decades of occupying the same space, they're still being dumb and bitchy together. everyone else has left, been changed into another version, or both but these two have both been through all of it. they're such unlikely friends but they're the best. sence the first moment they met and Lister decided he's keeping the Cat and Cat somewhere along decided that it's fun to hang around and that he's keeping Lister too, they've got such a bond i don't know what is going on with them. they make an odd couple of weirdos that i'm obsessed with

#i swear this was supposed to be a two sentences long post #this always happens to me i swear to god i need a break #red dwarf #but once the thoughts start coming the maggots just spew out like they're escaping a fire #i just thought ''cat in a pretty suit being neatly styled and lister in a week old tee sure make a fun looking couple of weirdos''#i should never write anything down it always gets out of hand

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tetitous · 2 days

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Yugo and queerness in Wakfu part 3

Part 1 Part 2

Yugo’s crush on Tristepin: You may not believe that one, and you would be wrong for not at least trying.

Based on Yugo’s feelings towards Amalia, you could infer a few traits that Yugo tends to be attracted to, and also the stuff that he can go over when he does crush on them.

I believe Yugo is attracted to people with heroic tendencies, with a noble, dedicated and adventurous spirit, because those are some of Amalia’s greatest qualities. I think he also likes people with a lot of ingenuity, people that he finds impressive, due to how genuine and effective this attempt to flirt back into her good graces was:

“Yes, I’m impressed by you Amalia.” with the light twinkling in his eyes and everything, at her finding a way for everyone to stay connected at a distance.

His attraction towards those traits tend to overcome his obvious distaste for some of Amalia’s more self-centered and sometimes egotistical habits (which I would argue is still better than Yugo’s self-centered and often self-sacrificial tendencies), though they are sometimes too much and become cause for tension.

You know who else embodies a lot of those traits? Tristepin.

Ingenuity aside (and even then, he has his moments), Tristepin is someone who aspires to be a hero, and as such does his best to embody these traits, though at the beginning it is mostly on a superficial level. Yugo is smart enough to know Pinpin is not quite all of those things at the time, but contrary to some other members of the team, it is still visible that Yugo does find him heroic. For example, he never call him a Iop brain, whereas every other member may have called him some degree of idiot.

Not only that but after his death and resurrection, Yugo develops a sort of unhealthy obsession with Tristepin’s safety (I won’t show you all examples of this, this file is already quite heavy, and it gets obvious if you watch the show). Would seem just fair, but it’s important to notice not even Eva is as worried about it as much as him. Adamai knows it’s one of his brother’s greatest fragility, that’s why he gratuitously exploits it at the beginning of s3.

Honestly the most fucked up thing he ever did. Yugo is seeing all that through his eyes.

Yugo would literally put the world in danger for him.

In OVA3, this is literally the reason for Ad and Yugo’s conflict.

I’d also like to add that even though their bond has eventually been labeled as brotherly it doesn’t mean that Yugo’s feelings on the matter have ever been totally platonic, or that there cannot be more complexity in the way he feels, so I genuinely don’t think it invalidates anything. They also share a few moments that can be read in a romantic lens.

In s1ep6 there is a slightly distasteful but short scene that was clearly intended as a gay joke.

You guys both agreed on sharing that bed, why are y’all panicking?

In s1ep12, when Tristepin defeats Kriss la Krass, leaving everyone dumbfounded, he decides to not keep that victory to himself. Instead, he shares it with Yugo.

A show of nobility from Tristepin, one that probably deeply touched Yugo as he decided to carry him towards the goal.

In s2ep20, when Yugo is freaked out due to his connection with Ad being interrupted, it’s Tristepin who gets to comfort him, making a clear parallel with Cleophée’s attitude towards him at the beginning of the episode, but mentioning that it’s Eva, his girlfriend, who taught him about comfort in intimacy, it’s heavily implied Yugo ended up putting his head on Tristepin’s shoulder as the episode ends.

He actually manages to get a smile out of him too.

During OVA3, as the fight with Ogrest comes to an end and they’re on the verge of being defeated, Yugo and Tristepin land on each other and have that terribly bittersweet small interaction.

“We lived some amazing adventures, right?

- Amazing ones, Pinpin.”

At that point they’re both embracing death, glad that at least, they’re at each other’s side when it happens. Keep in mind that Pinpin is very much in a committed relationship with Eva, sure, but it is a very strong moment between the two and it deserves to be acknowledged.

Yugo’s other guy “crushes” (a non exhaustive list): some of them look more like crushes than others, but you get that it’s there.

Kriss la Krass: From s1’s boufbowl arc we know one thing only, Yugo finds him very cool.

Kriss demonstrates a few traits Yugo typically doesn’t like: dishonesty, cheating, egocentrism,…

He almost makes Yugo cry when he pays for 4 minutes of cheating.

But all of this is done with one goal in mind, to offer a show worth watching to his audience, to whom he’s very devoted.

Kriss takes being defeated by Yugo very personally,

He’s actually the first person in-show to consider what Yugo may look like as an adult. Way off-mark, but points for trying.

and yet he still accepts his loss by shamelessly acknowledging his victory

It may not sound like much, but added to his easy acceptance of defeat at the end of the episode, it will of course make an impression on Yugo. To him, Kriss is probably what heroism looks like when applied to sport.

Right after a scene where Eva goes on a date with Jay, Yugo gets an interaction with Kriss in which he gets a signed photo of him.

They meet once more in s2, in Brakmar, when Kriss is basically about to be executed for being a traitor to the nation. Yugo immediately decides to take his defense.

He’s taking offense in people laughing at Kriss so strongly he actually goes angry red, which we never saw before. It’s almost personal at that point.

He brings up all of these traits mentioned the s1 part, confirming what was previously inferred. You can say he may have become his greatest fan (I am here referencing s2ep12 once more, in which there is a flashback of Kriss asking Maud if she would like to become his fan in Bonta, with the implication being romantic in nature)

After this Yugo and team starts looking for a new player, and a familiar photo appears:

It seems Yugo kept that photo on him for a whole year. It’s been folded into a tiny rectangle, and the corners are damaged, so it may have been looked at more than once.

Yugo gets very angry, and sad that no one seems to want to help them, that they laugh at Kriss, at them instead.

Eva looks worryingly at Yugo. She knows it means a lot to him, just a bit more than typical hero stuff.

Well they find a way, and during that match, if someone gets worried about Kriss it’s typically Yugo. Until the identity of the Masked Boufbowler gets revealed, then we get the whole deadnaming debacle, and Yugo ends up in a very dangerous situation. It’s Kriss who saves him from this by mastering Maud’s secret technique, then Maud and Kriss collab together and defeat the character, whose name is very annoying to write. The three of them end up landing the winning point.

Justice Knight: I don’t think I need to add anything to s2ep8.

Yugo looks at the guy like that, eyes twinkling, and even Eva starts to take the guy seriously because of how atypical it is for him. We also get confirmation that he and Amalia kinda share a type, and it’s the Justice Knight kind.

Ush: There isn’t much to say about their very first interaction. Yugo and Ush were on opposite sides, and time was of the essence. Yugo was only interested in the guy insofar as he was trying to get two Eliatrope Dofus back from him. They do have a sort of mind game dynamic being set up, with Yugo at first at an obvious disadvantage.

Ush explains the rules of the curse he inflicted upon Yugo right before wrecking his shit. For some reason he does call him “my dear little Eliatrope” during that explanation though.

Yugo ends up outsmarting him by deducing the fact that the Dofus are hidden in the statue within the time limit, and it’s the first time Ush actually loses one of his bets.

He ends up looking at him longingly as he leaves, right after Yugo calls him a liar and Ush foreshadows the events of s3. This time he calls him “my little Yugo” btw.

I believe the scene above is setting up that Yugo thinks there is more, not just to everyone’s actions, but to Ush specifically. If what he said after losing is true, then he does have a sense of honor that probably doesn’t fit the image Yugo had of him. And it does get followed up up in s3ep6.

“Ush!” upon their second meeting. For some reason Yugo’s eyes are twinkling.

This time, Ush calls him “the great Yugo”, about as mockingly as his nicknames in OVA2, but with a more respectful undertone, he doesn’t infantilize him this time, and actually asks about his whereabouts, in an almost friendly manner.

S3ep6 is the episode where an actual dynamic, a rivalry, is set up between the two. Ush, who is still bitter from OVA2, admits to having been obsessed with his very first defeat, and therefore with Yugo. His tone in that interaction ranges from mocking to almost flirty, though it is implied to be in part his natural way of speaking.

“You’re not being very convincing Yugo, let me teach you how to really beg.” Sir, are you flirting??

He is once again having a run in the park with Yugo and his team,

The tension between two people playing cat and mouse really isn’t like any other.

until once again, he gets outsmarted (the rules are not clear, but basically it was implied the inhibitor was not meant to be tempered with, except, since it wasn’t an explicit rule of the game, the team messing it up and Yugo gratuitously using his powers to win wasn’t cheating)

He was very proud of that one. (btw sorry if I’m taking a lot of time with that one I happen to really like this episode)

There are a few surprising things about his defeat. First is how well he is taking it, for a guy who lost only twice, and to the same person, as he seems to mainly focus on Yugo, he even admits he had fun. Yugo smiles at him, and recognizes his sense of honor, you can tell that he went from not really caring about him to genuinely wanting more of his company.

Actually his attention remains so much on him that he just mindlessly teleports Amalia to safety without looking at her. Typically Yugo would be all about her. That’s what a rival does to you.

During their very short interaction in s4, Ush is slightly more antagonistic, and acts as if he couldn’t stand too long near an Eliatrope, because of Yugo. Part of me believes he’s just being a bit of a tsundere and having a hard time admitting he does like him to some extent, but Yugo doesn’t have much of a reaction for him.

Goultard: listen, I have no clue what they ate during the end of s4’s production, but this image exists now.

Somehow became the endgame battle duo.

And we’re all the better for it.

Small Count Harebourg addendum: there is nothing there but it’s funny that he tried to convince Yugo to use the Eliatrope Dofus for him while trying to marry Amalia at the same time. If you watch the episode while thinking of this as him attempting to start a polycule with them it’s funny how pathetic that kinda makes him look.

Hi I just wanted to say I really like your vibes.

Yours are rancid, get lost.

The Eliotropes (again): If that wasn’t obvious, they were the thing that convinced me Yugo’s queerness might just be canon. Going back to the notion they are “versions” of Yugo, while their sexuality is not revealed, it is implied they feel some of Yugo’s feelings. Specifically, Oropo confirms that the reason he’s attracted to Amalia is because Yugo is. Did they all feel that way? Oropo seems to imply that might be the case, and since there are female Eliotropes, either all female Eliotropes were lesbians and male Eliotropes were straight, or, depending on the variability of Yugo’s attractions, many degrees and forms of attraction could be found in all of them.

I want to counter Oropo’s argument with his own feelings. He wasn’t just in love with Amalia, he was with Echo as well. Therefore there is more to an Eliotrope’s attraction than a mere reflection of what Yugo felt for Amalia. They can, and they do fall in love with other people. And if that’s the case, then once more, at what point do those feelings only belong to them, and at which do they start to belong to Yugo? Oropo was shown to be attracted to women, but who’s to say he was straight? And who’s to say the others were?

This part is mostly based on supposition, obviously, but since Eliotropes were shown to be very different from one another, I still believe it’s possible that there was a huge diversity of sexualities within their group, and again, that to some extent, they were a reflection of Yugo’s.

Well, that’s it! Overall all of this is based on me overreading elements present in the show, and I’m aware of that. But there is a lot, a lot that can be read into when it comes to Yugo.

If I may leave somewhere, let it be on this image of Yugo proudly harboring the colors of the pansexual flag.

Yup. Those are almost the same colors. Happy Pride everyone!

#wakfu #wakfu spoilers #wakfu yugo #yugo #yugo the eliatrope #lgbtq+#pride month #wakfu meta

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thelyingjoke · 11 hours

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not enough attention is put towards kokichi's belief in Freedom. i think. because it informs so much of How and Why he is the way he is

he believes that everyone should be free to do whatever they want, as long as they don't take away the freedoms of others. which is why he's so against murder (and like i don't think he Needs an explanation for that because nobody else does. Murder Is Bad. but this is one); because it's the ultimate form of taking someone else's freedom. you can't do anything after death. and by extension the killing game (a game you're forced to play and all that)

i mean there's a moment in chapter 1 where he literally spells it out. there's a fight in the cafeteria and he believes it's their right to argue, so he won't stop them. but it's also completely in kaede's right to try and convince them to stop, so he won't stop her from stopping them.

and that's part of why he likes lies so much too. there's only One Truth. but there's so much more freedom with lies! and why he hates when other people tell him to stop lying, but they lie themselves. that's just hypocritical. he has the freedom to lie, too. that's what i think he means when he starts fake crying when other people lie...he's making fun of them. "i hate liars!!!" said by the liar. he's not actually being hypocritical, or being secretly self-deprecating. he's pointing out their hypocrisy by going "yeah that's what you sound like!!!"

anyway that kinda got off the point um. freedom is a very important thing to kokichi. and i don't think this is realized enough because it explains a lot about him that i see people sometimes complain about it having no explanation

#kokichi ouma #danganronpa #ndrv3 #bow rambles #analysis

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autistichalsin · 2 days

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A fic writer's guide to leaving comments

I'm sure you've seen posts from fic writers expressing dismay at the death of feedback culture, and especially lamenting the phenomenon of people making private Discord servers to share fic recs, so that instead of having a chance to stumble on nice comments in the wild on Tumblr, Twitter, etc, fic writers are increasingly less likely to see good comments left about their work.

I also see the comments on those same posts flooded with people with concerns about commenting, so I am writing this as a guide for those new or unsure.

Firstly: some of you are probably asking, "why do fanfic writers need feedback at all? Shouldn't they be writing just for themselves?"

Well... No. Not really. People can and should create things for themself, yes, but that doesn't mean "continue to post content when no one seems to be engaging." Imagine cooking for someone who eats in utter silence and never says a single word about the meal. Imagine putting on a concert and receiving not a single applause, a cheer, nothing at all. It sounds utterly horrifying, doesn't it? Maybe even humiliating?

Writing for oneself means that positive reviews shouldn't be the sole factor in deciding whether to write/post/continue a story, not that a writer should feel obligated to write thousands of words for a story no one really reacts to in any way, especially when the writer sees creators of similar content (edits, fanarts, fanvids, fansongs, etc) get praised effusively for their work without this expectation being placed on them. It is very rare that artists are told they should draw for themselves the way fic writers are.

Further, and this may be a hot take, but I actually don't think it's inherently wrong to make positive reviews the main or even sole reason for writing or making art to begin with. People like being praised for things they do well. It's one of the most basic parts of human psychology. Human beings want to be praised, encouraged, validated, and celebrated sometimes; why do you think we celebrate birthdays? It's not egotistical. It might, perhaps, be setting oneself up for disappointment, but there's nothing inherently wrong with it, anyway.

Basically, all that to say: it's nice to tip your Uber drivers and baristas. It's nice to thank/compliment your spouse when they make you dinner. And it's nice to thank fan artists and fanfic writers when they make arts/fics that you enjoy.

Moving on: I also know some of you have some specific things you worry or are confused about, and those things might be stopping you from leaving feedback. So here is an FAQ of sorts:

Q: What if the story has a lot of chapters/the author has written many stories? Won't it be weird to go and leave so many comments on them?

A: You definitely can review only the latest chapter/fic and future installments if you so choose, but for the record, fanfics aren't like Instagram/Facebook; mass-commenting and kudosing old stories and chapters isn't seen as stalkerish. It's seen as a sign you're enjoying the content we made. Think of it this way: if a new Star Wars came out, and you were new to Star Wars, it would only make sense for you to go and watch (and post about) the previous movies, right?

Q: What if I don't know what to say?

A: That's perfectly okay! I have a guide at the bottom of this post if you need some ideas. But honestly, writers would rather a single ♥️ than nothing at all, so if you really can't think of anything, that's a good last resort.

Q: I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing and upsetting the writer.

A: There is almost no chance that you will say the wrong thing, unless you are giving unasked-for criticism (see below).

Q: What if I don't like the fic? Should I still comment?

A: No, it's definitely better to silently move on when you didn't enjoy it at all.

Note that while in the past, giving criticism was common practice, this has generally become less of something authors enjoy over time (perhaps tied in with the general lack of feedback; getting fewer comments in general can make it far more frustrating to get critical ones). If you are close to the writer, or if the criticism is just a SPAG issue, you can try asking the writer if they'd like to hear it, but otherwise, leave it be unless the author has indicated somewhere they're open to it. But please be nice. Anything you wouldn't say to an artist, don't do to a writer, please.

Q: In the past, I commented and the writer got mad at me.

A: If you weren't leaving unasked-for criticism, then likely the problem was that particular author. Don't let it deter you from commenting on others. Every group of people has assholes, including writers.

Q: I saw an author who requested no comments on their fic/turned off comments on their fic.

A: Not every writer ultimately DOES want comments, though the majority do. Likely that person was having anxiety, or had recently been harassed/received rude comments and didn't want to bother with it.

Q: An author limited comments to registered users only.

A: See above; likely they did this either as a harassment mitigation member or to prevent minors from reading their fics, especially if it was an NSFW work.

Q: I saw a note that a writer had "enabled comment moderation" on their story. Does that mean they don't want me to comment?

A: Not at all! It means they likely have been harassed/received rude comments, or have reason to fear they will (I.E. have recently posted a story dealing controversial themes, or have received such comments on other sites), and are activating a setting where you can comment, but they need to manually approve the comment before it shows up, which will prevent nasty comments from being read. In these cases, a nice comment might actually mean even more to them, because it shows they have support- so by all means, show them some extra love!

Q: Are there any cases where I shouldn't comment?

A: Yes, but these are mostly individual cases, not a hard rule. In addition to the circumstances listed above (author preference or leaving a negative comment), please do not comment if you are a minor and the fic is rated higher than teen (you shouldn't be reading these to begin with, but if you are, please don't make it obvious you did so), or conversely, if you write higher-than-teen-rated fics and the fic is written by a minor. Also, if the author has blocked you on other platforms, do not comment, as this is block evasion.

Q: Is it okay to comment just to ask for an update/to prompt another fic?

A: It depends largely on context, tone, etc. "I hope this updates soon" is 100% fine. Guilt trippy messages, like "it's been two years, I know you have been going through a lot but you have an obligation to your readers" are NEVER okay. Similarly, with prompts, saying "I hope you explore (thing) one day" is fine, especially if you know the author, but if your first comment to them ever is requesting a fic for a completely different scenario, ship, etc than they wrote, with little or nothing about the actual fic you're replying to, it will come across as rude.

Q: Is it okay to ask an author for permission to translate the fic into another language or make another derivative work?

A: Absolutely, but not every author will want this to be done, and you need to be prepared to respect their no if they give one. Think of it like asking a restaurant for one of their recipes. Some will happily give it out, others consider it a personal/guarded secret.

That said, do not even dare ask about feeding the work to an AI. Fanfic writers DO NOT want AI touching their work. Same for artists. Yes, this includes trying to make an ending for an abandoned fic. Do not do it.

Q: The author of this fic has held their story "hostage" by refusing to update until they get a certain number of reviews. What should I do?

A: This is a hard one. Of course, no one owes an author reviews, and this sort of thing is considered cringey, and endlessly mocked, for a reason. However, please try to do some perspective-taking and practicing empathy here. Authors are having to put out PSAs on this site and others just to try and get people to engage with their content. Imagine being a musician, getting on stage, performing song after song, and being met with silence, or maybe a single courtesy golf clap here or there. You'd start to doubt yourself, wouldn't you? You might feel inclined to stop playing unless you start getting an indication people actually care about your music, because performing to utter silence is absolutely humiliating. The manner of doing so is all wrong in this case, but try to show a bit of compassion, and imagine how awful, how utterly crushed the author must have been to do this in the first place.

It is definitely your right to not engage with the fic/author anymore, especially if you had been reviewing before the fic got taken 'hostage' and felt the author wasn't grateful for your comments. But if you wanted to be especially kind, you could take some time to try and lift the author up instead, and show them that even if others are not leaving comments, the fic ultimately does mean something to you. It just might be enough for the author to rethink their position.

Q: Why isn't a kudos enough?

A: It's not that a kudos isn't enough, per se: we all enjoy getting likes. But to continue my metaphor above, well... when you perform music, a cheer does feel very different than a courtesy golf clap, you know? You appreciate the golf claps, they are very kind and always welcome, but cheers, "YEAH!"s, and such are what you really live for. And a standing ovation? That could literally change your entire opinion on your art.

Q: I want to leave a comment, but I'm really scared/don't know how/don't know what to say.

A: That's totally okay. Below, I give some ideas of what to say, but keep in mind that if you really don't know what to say, emoji are totally fine! A ♥️ is still really great and will make us smile. Put some keysmashes! Put in just a ton of exclamation points and nothing else! "AHHH OMG!" Those are all perfectly fine!

BUT, if you want to leave something a little more in-depth, here are some great places to start! Trust me, fanfic writers LOVE all of these and would be delighted to get these comments.

ASK QUESTIONS! "Does this mean x?" or "I'm curious, when x said y, is that a sign that z is at play?"

Tell us how you felt while reading the story/chapter. If we made you cry in a particularly sad scene, PLEASE TELL US FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! WE LOVE THAT!

If you are in a Discord or other space that's talking about the story, tell us what you/your mutuals/your friends are saying about it. This is a great idea for if you don't know what to say! Even just a "we never shut up about this fic in the Discord" is wonderful to hear.

Tell us what drew you in to the fic (did you like the summary? Was it recced somewhere?) and what made you stay.

Say something you found unique/intriguing about the fic. Maybe you liked the characterization, or the author did a really good job of setting the scene. Let them know!

Make a personal connection to the text, especially if the author wrote something that felt very real to your lived experience.

YELL IN ALL CAPS THAT YOU WANT TO HURT THE VILLAIN OR HUG THE SUFFERING WOOBIE OR SMACK THE MAIN PAIRING FOR BEING OBLIVIOUS ABOUT THEIR FEELINGS!

If this story has changed something for you, tell us. If it changed how you see a character, made you ship a ship you never thought of before, changed how you see canon, opened your eyes to a societal issue, gave you a line you think about a lot- please tell us!

Indulgently play along with our cliffhangers. Pretend you don't know that the character will be fine. Pretend that we would actually do it and you're SO SCARED RN for this character.

Wanna know a secret? Wanna know a writer's catnip? Want to know an instant way to make a writer print out your comment for motivation to read later? Quote/paraphrase/reference a bit of text that you loved and tell us your exact thoughts and emotions on it, why you loved it, etc. Quote half the damn chapter back at us in the comments and we will probably propose marriage to you on the spot tbh.

Remember, if you truly can't think of anything to say, just a single emoji still does wonders!!

Hope this guide helps! Happy commenting!

#fanfiction #ao3 #archive of our own #fandom #fandom culture #fanfic

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certainty2witch · 2 days

Note

For Crocodad theory, imagine if the way everyone finds out isn't either of them admitting it. It's Sengoku being mad after the events of Marineford and deciding to hand over declassified info on the revolutionary army, collected by Cypher Pole, which proves that Crocodile is Luffy's birth parent, to Big News Morgan. Imagine everyone has just started their two years of training when they pick up the daily newspaper and right on the cover is confirmation that Crocodile is Luffy's parent.

Since you mentioned the revolutionary army, I suppose you’re talking about my revolutionary crocodile au, even if you talked about Marineford.

And i take some time for adding a bit of lore for my au because is important:

(Answer for anon’s ask after the ‼️‼️‼️)

Crocodile was never evil and with so he never did something wrong in Alabasta. But, he’s still a warlord, and a fake pirate, because he’s a revolutionary undercover.

But let’s say that the marines discovered Crocodile is a revolutionary and that’s a way for putting him in impel down?

Iva obliviously, since is there too, save him and bring him at level 5.5, they both wait for the right moment for escaping (imagine Croc being uncomfortable around all that extravagant people, he doesn’t like loud people, and Iva likes to torment him because they think Croc miss Dragon and Croc says he doesn’t.

Is the truth btw he just wanna run into Dragon’s arms and kissing him).

And with so, Impel down arc happens, but Croc is always with Iva instead of being locked at level 6. His reaction to his son almost dead is pretty devastating, just imagine that… I mentioned in a recent post that they have a deep and special bond when Luffy was little. With older Luffy this keep existing!

So Marineford is pretty the same with Doflamingo bothering him (lmao, sorry babe your love is busy with the world’s worst criminal, he’s not a single man), with him protecting Ace (this time for Luffy and only for him💕) and other canon stuff.

And he suffers seeing his son losing his sense after his brother’s death. He obliviously protect him and Jinbe from Akainu (in every au he always saves him in that scene *sigh* good daddy).

So after Marineford he and Luffy separate, and he finally reunite with Dragon.

‼️‼️‼️

And now about the ask.

But first i add little warning.

Cw //mention of gender dysphoria!

Somehow Sengoku knows and decides to reveal everything (my god you should just close that trap sometimes, stupid marine) I honestly can’t imagine why he would know something like that, maybe due to Garp? (Close that trap too!!) because yep Garp knows Croc is trans and Luffy’s other dad.

Crocodile never liked the idea of people knowing his secret: him being Luffy’s other parent. He knows in that world people like him are seeing in a bad way and if others will discover he isn’t cis, my god I’m sure people will keep misgendering him… and he would hate that. I imagine his past full of transphobic people, keep using wrong pronouns with him and forcing him to just be like “Mother Nature made him”… you know useless things like this. So well he grow up frustrated and angry, Iva was his light, the revolutionary army were his light. Even after hrt, Crocodile felt the oppression of not being cis (mostly when he got pregnant of Luffy). But in this Au, he with the support of others started to feeling more and more comfortable just being himself. He’s not cis? Who cares!

But if people will discover he is Luffy’s dad too and with so, the father that gave birth to him, i like to imagine him asking his friends (and love) some support. He is more comfortable being trans, but something like that is hard to handle anyway, because nobody asked for his consent! If that was his secret, and he wanted to keep that hidden, well there’s a reason.

I hope I explained everything at least in a decent way, feel free to ask for some more if you are curious or to ask something else in the ask box.

And correct me or tell me to change something, if you think is inappropriate please.

For a dear anon that i still didn’t answer, if you are seeing this, just know that your idea inspired me. I will draw what you said, because I know what to draw hehe but i need time because i have other art first 🙏🏻

#cw mention of gender dysphoria #anon ask #ask #revolutionary crocodile au #sir crocodile #crocodad #trans crocodile

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the-case-book-of-fanfiction · 5 hours

Text

The Golden Elf

Love Bites, Chapter 4 // Love Bites {Masterlist}

Ship: Astarion Ancunin x fem!vampire spawn!elf!Tav/reader

Summary: Sometimes, vampires choose their spawn specifically. Sometimes, they're in the wrong place at the wrong time and are lost to their loved ones for centuries. These days, that's all you can think about.

Word Count: 9,769 words

Warnings: 18+, smut & fluff, flashback within a flashback, past perspective, established relationship, Astarion pre-vampirism, Astarion's parents, the ruling, slice of life, direct mention of Astarion's death, you being deeply in love with Astarion, cuddling, sappy relationship, family dynamics, appreciating Astarion,

18+ Warnings: explicit smut, multiple instances of smut, unprotected sex, soft sex, slow & gentle sex, consensual, love making, fingering, vaginal sex, pull-out, aftercare, dirty talk, touching over clothes, mirror sex, multiple creampies, riding, oral (m receiving), changing positions, rough sex, consent check-ins, cockwarming

Note: This is a long chapter, possibly the longest in this whole series, and it's mostly smut. Have fun!

☟ Continue below the fold ☟

Morning dawned brightly in your bedroom—almost too brightly, which was explained by the curtains still being open from last night’s adventure to the roof with your boyfriend.

You squeezed your eyes shut again and rolled over in bed, burying your face in his chest. “You left the curtains open, you dolt,” you complained into his chest.

Astarion chuckled, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. “Good morning, darling. Nice to see you, too.”

To make up for your sour attitude, you moved to quickly peck his lips, then hid your face in his chest again. “Morning.”

“Oh, come on, darling. Can’t I get a better good morning kiss?”

You grumbled and shook your head. “Not yet. I’m not awake yet.”

“Fair enough.” He squeezed you tightly, rolling to lay you on top of him. He kissed the top of your head. “Sleep well?”

“I did. Until I was rudely awoken by the sun,” you added.

“The sun is beautiful and wants to say hello to a very beautiful woman,” he teased. “That’s you, by the way.”

You grabbed your pillow and whacked him softly on the head with it. “It’s too early for this, Astarion.”

“Nonsense! It’s never too early for me to lavish my lady love with praise.” He kissed your temple. “Come on, darling, can’t I see that pretty face?”

At last, you raised your head and looked up at your boyfriend. Despite your bedhead and morning grumpy attitude and your squinty eyes, his handsome face broke into a smile at the sight of you.

“There she is,” he cooed, cupping your chin and kissing your forehead softly. You hummed happily, leaning into his touch, and then put your head back down on his chest. “Still sleepy?”

You nodded. “Mhm. And you’re very comfortable… I could go back to sleep on you like this.”

Astarion’s body was warm beneath you, his skin soft and his body that wonderful in-between of muscle and soft flesh. His arms wrapped around you are more comfortable than the blanket draped over the two of you, the only thing keeping the two of you from giving your neighbors across the street (who were known to be quite nosey) an eyeful of two naked elves.

“Oh, really? How about I…wake you up, then, darling?” he suggested, grinning cheekily and winking when you looked up at him. The only trace of the shy boy who’d nervously asked to make love to you for the first time so long ago was in the pale blush on his pretty cheeks, a much lighter shade than the flush you’d seen that first night.

With your words slurring together, you mumbled, “You have to go to work, Asty.” Still, you clung to him, not quite ready to let him go yet.

“Nuh uh,” he said, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “It’s still early—almost two hours early. We can have a little fun, go back to sleep, and I can still be perfectly on time.”

“Two hours? We woke up two hours earlier than normal because you left the curtains open? No wonder I’m not awake enough yet.”

“Almost two hours, not quite,” he said. He rubbed your back, his hand drifting toward your ass and squeezing. “What do you say, darling?”

You harrumphed. “Not until you close that curtain, dingus.”

“What, you don’t want the whole street to see how much pleasure I can give you? You’re no fun, dearest.”

You scoffed. “Oh, yes, because that’s exactly what Baldur’s Gate needs—to see one of its top magistrates banging his girlfriend in all the nasty ways she likes at five in the morning.”

“Fiancée, darling,” he corrected. “How long is it going to take you to remember that? Did I not make my proposal memorable enough?” He pouted playfully.

You giggled. “You did, believe me,” you insisted. “I just like hearing you say it.”

Astarion beamed. “Oh, really?”

You nodded. “Now go close those curtains, honey.”

He laughed as he stood up. “So now she wants sex.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” you said. “I can’t help it, I have a wonderful man in bed with me.”

You watched as he closed the curtain, the muscles in his shoulders and upper back flexing beneath the skin. For a man living a mostly sedentary life, he certainly kept in remarkably good shape.

Astarion turned back to you, the curtain closed behind him, a very pale light filling the room so that you could still see his face. “Happy now?”

The look on his face alone made you kick off the blankets and beckon him back to bed. “Very happy. Come here, you. Come kiss me.”

You didn’t have to tell him twice. Astarion crawled on top of you and slid his arms underneath you, kissing you heartily. You smiled into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck. You let one hand drift over the shell of his sensitive ear and his entire body shuddered.

“Two can play at that game,” he warned, returning the favor. Pleasure shot through you and you sighed softly, arching to press your body against his.

“Gods, Astarion,” you whispered. “Keep—keep doing that.”

He kept touching your ear as he moved down your body, kissing down your neck and collarbones, stopping at your breasts and paying special attention to one while gently squeezing the other in his free hand. Between kisses and sucking, he asked you, “Did I hear you say you wanted it nasty earlier?”

You rolled your eyes. “I was exaggerating.”

He looked up at you. “Do you want it nasty though?”

You shook your head. “Soft and sweet, please.”

Astarion smiled. “Thought so. It’s a bit too early to be rough with you, huh?”

“Mhm,” you agreed, smiling as he went back to sucking on your nipples. “Feels good, Asty…”

He took his hand away from your ear and instead brought it between your legs. “Can I touch you, darling?”

“Please do,” you whispered to him. “I want it.”

Astarion smiled against your skin and slid two fingers along your entrance. You spread your legs more for him and sighed contentedly. He kissed your stomach softly as he rubbed slow circles around your clit. You moaned softly.

“Just like that, honey,” you breathed. But after a few moments, you bucked your hips against his hand. He knew exactly what you wanted and slipped two fingers inside you. He curled them at the knuckle and you keened, muffling your sounds in his shoulder.

“That’s it, darling,” he breathed. “That’s it. As soon as we have our own place, you can be as loud as you want, but not yet.”

His fingers moved deftly inside of you, quickly working you up. He rubbed them against the soft, sensitive places of your walls while his thumb circled your clit. He pressed his soft lips to yours for every curl of his fingers.

For some reason, you were particularly sensitive this morning; it didn’t take long before your body was twitching and spasming and your legs were beginning to shake.

“Close already?” he asked. You nodded. “Mind if I replace my fingers with my cock, then? I know it’s faster than normal, but I want to feel you cum around me.”

You nodded once again. “Please, honey…”

He pulled his fingers out of you and licked them clean. Your eyes remained glued to his face, so you didn’t see him push in, but you did see his face scrunch up in pleasure and you felt the delicious stretch of your body trying to accommodate him. For a moment, it was a struggle and you whimpered quietly. He kissed you softly.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “Can I keep going?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

“Alright. Good girl. That’s it, take my cock, darling.” He pushed all the way in and stayed there, holding you close to him for a moment, pressing his forehead against yours. “Tell me when I can move, and stop me if it hurts.”

You kissed him gently. His lips were a balm to any discomfort you felt in your nether regions, though there was hardly any of that anyway. “I’m ready now, Asty. You can move.”

“Tell me if it hurts,” he said again and kissed your forehead before he started to thrust gently and slowly.

Your head fell back against the pillows and you arched your back, pushing your body against him. He chuckled, bending to kiss along the column of your neck.

“Feeling okay?” he asked, his tone teasing; he knew perfectly well you felt okay.

“Uh huh,” you mumbled, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as he moved deeper. “Feels good… You’re— You feel good, honey.”

“Oh, do I?” he joked, punctuating his words with a languid roll of his hips. You moaned, wrapping your legs around his hips. You pushed his head down to yours and kissed him heartily.

For a few moments, there was nothing but the sounds of your heavy breathing in the room, the slide of bodies against silk sheets, and your ceaseless kissing. He was moving so slowly that the sound of skin on skin was slight.

Into your mouth, he murmured, “You feel so good around my cock, darling… So tight and wet, like I’ve been working you up for hours… Did you, perhaps, have a pleasant dream about me?”

“I’m always having pleasant dreams about you, though not always the kind you’re suggesting,” you replied, smiling cheekily at him. He raised an eyebrow and you continued, “Dreams of our future together, dearest, and how much I love you—not just of how good you fuck me.”

He grinned. “Oh, you little minx! How I love you.”

Astarion reached down and began to rub your clit just the way you liked, thrusting a little harder, kissing you with a bit more force. You moaned happily into his mouth and he giggled. Gods, how you loved that little giggle.

He pulled away from you and brushed your hair off your face. He cupped your cheek, smiling down at you.

“You’re so beautiful, darling,” he whispered.

“So are you,” you told him. “You look like a god right now.”

It was true; his curls framed his face beautifully, glowing a soft silver at the ends, his honey eyes dark in this lighting. His cheeks were a pretty shade of pink with exertion, his lips parted, his gaze more than a little blissful.

A mix of embarrassment and pride flooded his features. “Oh, darling, don’t flatter me…”

“I mean it,” you promised, cupping his cheek. He leaned into your touch. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Thank you, darling,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours. You leaned up to kiss him again, your hand sliding from his shoulders and down the planes of his back. You adjusted your legs to hold onto him tighter.

His thrusts grew harder and more punctuated. The head of his cock kissed your walls with every thrust. You let out small, barely contained whimpers with every thrust. He stopped kissing your mouth and nudged your chin up with his nose. He began kissing your neck, leaving delicate hickeys behind.

“A little louder, sweetheart,” he breathed. “I want to hear you a little more.”

“But your parents—”

“Are in a room downstairs. They can’t hear us. And if they do…well, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Astarion’s fingers sped up on your clit, giving you no choice but to moan for him. You panted his name, digging your fingers into his curls. He smiled against your skin, his movements quickening.

You were clenching around him in no time. “Asty— Asty, I’m almost—”

“I know, darling, I know,” he cooed. “Let go for me. I’ve got you, just let go… I’ll be there with you soon.”

Comforted by his words and his hold on you, you relaxed and leaned your head into his shoulder. A few more gentle thrusts and a few more swipes of his thumb on your clit and your walls were trembling around him. You finished around him, moaning quietly into his neck, far more subdued than normal but enjoying yourself nonetheless.

“That’s it, good girl,” he breathed. “You did so well, darling. Mind if I finish up?”

“Please do,” you whispered, kissing his cheek.

His moan of relief was closer to a whimper. “Thank you, my sweet…”

One, two, three more thrusts and he was pulling out of you, spilling himself on your stomach. His jaw dropped open, his eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaved. He moaned softly as he came, silencing himself by kissing you heartily. He collapsed onto you the moment he was finished. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and held him close to you as the two of you tried to catch your breath together.

“Was that good?” Astarion asked after a few moments, once again that shy, nervous boy seeking your approval. “You were quieter than normal.”

“It was a soft, quiet kind of morning,” you said, kissing his forehead. “You were perfect, Asty. I loved it. Every second of it. Did you?”

“Mhm,” Astarion said with a grin. “You always feel so amazing.”

You brushed your fingers through his curls. “I’m glad you liked it. I think…I think we need to have soft sex like that more often. It was quite nice, and we only ever do it in the morning.”

He glanced down at your body, at your abdomen still covered in his cum. “Here, let me clean you up.”

You watched him get up and disappear into the adjoining washroom. He came back a few moments later with a cloth soaked in warm water. You watched him cross to you, your eyes soaking up his lean figure and long, skilled fingers.

“What’s that look for?” he asked, crawling back onto the bed and beginning to wipe down your stomach.

“Oh, nothing, I’m just admiring the love of my life,” you told him. He paused in his cleaning to kiss your lips.

“I love you,” he whispered to you, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

“And I love you,” you returned, smiling softly at him.

He sat between your legs, gently wiping your folds and your entrance. You relaxed, humming softly, as he worked. When he was finished, he laid down next to you.

“Gimme that,” you mumbled, grabbing the cloth from him. You wiped him down also, cleaning his own release off of his abdomen from when he collapsed on you and your combined releases from his length and hips.

“Thank you, darling,” he said when you were finished. You tossed the cloth to the floor, a problem for an hour from now, when you actually got up. He beckoned you back into his arms and you happily laid in his embrace. He stroked your hair and kissed the top of your head, hugging you to his chest, your legs twining together.

Several peaceful moments passed, your mind stuck on the image of his cock dripping onto your stomach, twitching against you as he finished. At last, you said, “Astarion?”

“Yes, dear?” he mumbled into your hair, a few moments away from sleep.

“Later tonight…I want you to cum inside me.”

He jolted awake faster than you had ever seen. “You want me to what?”

Heat flushed through your body and your embarrassment rushed to your cheeks. “Only if you want to, but I…I think it might be nice. And we’ve waited long enough for it.”

Astarion tilted your head up with two fingers under your chin. His eyes were dark with desire again. “I understand your reasoning for it, darling, but I desperately want you to say it again.”

Excitement fluttered through you. “Tonight, when we have sex, I want you to cum inside me.”

A whimper escaped his lips. “Oh, gods above… Darling, you’re— Yes, absolutely, I— Yes!” He cupped your face and kissed you softly. “Oh, sweetheart… Gods, I can’t wait!”

You smiled. “You’re going to have to, honey, we have to get up soon and I would like my next hour of sleep back.”

He huffed. “Oh, yes, yes, I know. But tonight…you’ll let me?”

You nodded. “Absolutely. You’ll have something to look forward to all day.”

Astarion groaned. “If I get hard in court, this is your fault.”

You laughed. “You better not be thinking about fucking me in court, Asty, I think that would count as negligence.”

He frowned. “How so?”

“Because when you think about fucking me, you can’t focus on anything else. Believe me, I’ve seen the look in your eyes, I know when your brain’s elsewhere.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, hush. Just lay with me instead of teasing me. I want to hold you.”

Smiling, you snuggled into his arms. “Alright, alright. Let’s go back to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning, honey.”

Astarion kissed the top of your head, humming his agreement. He let you snuggle into him and get comfortable before he rested his head atop yours and began rubbing soothing circles into your back. You drifted off, warm and happy in his arms.

~❊~

A brief knock on the front door announced Astarion’s arrival before he himself walked in, shaking rainwater from his coat and hair and carrying a paper bag with the corks of two wine bottles sticking out of it.

“Hello, hello!” he called, not realizing you and his mother stood together in the kitchen, in the middle of making dinner. “It’s raining something awful out there— Oh! Hi, Ma.” He hung up his coat and joined you in the kitchen, kissing his mother’s cheek. He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind and kissed your temple softly. “Is Dad home yet?”

“Not yet,” Selwynn replied.

“How was work, hun?” you asked, turning your face to return the kiss.

His face darkened briefly. “That’s a conversation for when my father’s present,” he told you and you knew instantly something hadn’t gone well. The more you studied him, the more exhausted he looked.

“Are you alright, though?” you asked.

Astarion shrugged. “I’m alright.” He kissed you again and the softness of it alleviated your worries, but only a little.

From behind both of you, Selwynn tousled his hair. “Go wash up, darling, dinner’s almost ready. Your sweetheart will be waiting for you when you get back, I promise.”

You blushed and he rolled his eyes. No matter how many years you had spent with the Ancunin family, acknowledgement of your relationship with Astarion always brought heat to your cheeks, just as it had when you were kids and in denial about liking each other.

Astarion left the kitchen and you helped his mother set up the dining table. Halfway through, his father, Thesan, came in—also complaining about the rain.

“Like father, like son,” Astarion’s mother whispered to you before going to greet her husband. You watched with a smile; with their greeting hugs and forehead kisses and the respect they held for each other, it was their marriage you and Astarion strove to emulate.

Astarion surprised you with his arms around your waist again and a gentle kiss to the nape of your neck. “Smells amazing, darling,” he whispered to you. He peppered kisses down your neck and to your shoulder.

You giggled. “Keep that up and you’re going to wipe away the makeup I put on to hide all the hickeys you left on me this morning!”

“Ah, so that’s what’s missing! I knew something looked different,” he teased. He kissed your lips softly.

“Behave yourself,” you reminded him, only half-teasing.

Astarion greeted his father as the four of you sat down around the table. You passed dishes back and forth, serving yourselves, while Astarion’s father talked about his day and the rulings he’d made. Astarion tensed when he asked how his day at court had been. He took his time responding.

“Contentious,” Astarion finally decided. “There’s a group of Gur who aren’t too pleased with a ruling I made today.”

Thesan raised an eyebrow. “A ruling? What about?”

“Trade regulations,” Astarion said idly, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. There has been worse backlash over bigger problems than not being able to sell the teeth of vampires they’ve caught and brutally murdered.”

His father nodded. “The Gur can be a nasty sort, anyway,” he said, “and quite vicious.”

You pursed your lips. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t mean going against the Gur’s, I don’t know, is monster hunting a lifestyle? Doesn’t matter—ruling against them in this capacity, doesn’t that technically mean…the ruling protects vampires?”

“Not at all, darling,” Astarion assured you. “It doesn’t prevent them from hunting vampires, just from selling their teeth. Talk amongst my coworkers suggests there’s someone of high standing who wasn’t too pleased to find a necklace of vampire fangs in for sale by a Gur vendor.”

Thesan raised his brows. “So is this a ruling made by, or in honor of…pressures from, ah, on high?”

Both you and Selwynn tensed. The word bribery was never used by the two men, but it didn’t take much to deduce they’d both taken bribes for certain rulings before. It made your gut twist unhappily; Thesan could do what he wished, but you had hoped Astarion would avoid following in his father’s slowly corrupting footsteps.

“Not exactly,” Astarion said, his tone too light to be completely honest, which was all you needed for confirmation. “I’m not lining my pockets by making this decision, that is. But I’d rather there not be vampire teeth on the market, especially if it can put the rest of us in danger.”

You cast your eyes back to your plate. You could hear the tone in Astarion’s voice, the one that suggested he didn’t really believe what he was saying, only rationalizing it. You loved the man, but, gods, how you hated how easily swayed he was.

“Anyway, that’s beside the point—but no, the ruling doesn’t benefit the vampires in any way. Vampires aren’t even mentioned aside from the teeth!” Astarion added with a little laugh. “The Gur are angry because they believe it benefits the nobility. But it’s really neither here nor there, I think.”

Thesan was nodding his understanding. “Likely because there are no similar restrictions on the nobility.”

Astarion shrugged. “I think all we need to do is provide that restriction to calm the waters a little. Fair is fair?”

“Now, be careful with that, son,” Thesan said. “Nobility don’t take kindly to being told what they can and cannot do.”

You looked up sharply. “But won’t letting them do whatever they wish lead to—to outright lawlessness? It starts small, then works its way up to egregious crimes, all in the name of ‘an eye for an eye’?”

His father inclined his head to you with a small laugh, much deeper than Astarion’s. If it weren’t for the eyes they shared, the similar way they held themselves, and the fact that Astarion’s voice sounded just like his father’s when he got angry, you would question whether or not they were really related. “Quite the quick thinker you are, dear. Perhaps it would, though I doubt it. Most nobility would rather trade in bribes, political threats, and lies than get their hands dirty.”

You frowned. “Yet the Gur trade in death threats. They aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Why not cater to them? They pose a bigger threat!”

“Darling, nobles are quite dangerous, even if they don’t seem that way,” Astarion said, reaching a hand out to you and a nervous glance to his father. Clearly, he could also sense the argument that was about to happen.

“The Gur are dubious, deceitful, morally inept vagrants,” Thesan replied, his tone stonier than before. “Nobility are predictable; Gur are not. We know how the nobility will respond, but the Gur are a wild card. It’s best to stick to what you know.”

“So you’d trust the knife you can see versus the one hiding in the shadows? Even though the one in the shadows has the advantage?” you pressed, a mix of confusion and anger welling up inside of you. Astarion winced.

Thesan was clearly fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re assuming one has to be trusted,” he said. “But neither should be. All a magistrate should trust is himself.”

You sighed, putting down your fork. “I’m sorry, Thesan, but it really doesn’t seem that way. It— Forgive me, but it seems like you’d rather trust the corrupt, and the known corrupt, at that, rather than take a chance on people who are…brutally honest.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you insinuating that I—”

“Father,” Astarion cut in, his voice sharp. “She’s not insinuating anything. She’s making clear what her perspective is.”

“I don’t need her perspective, I’ve been a magistrate—”

“Well I value it!” Astarion snapped. He clenched his jaw and, calmer, continued, “I value her opinions on everything and have asked her to share them. I find it helps me make informed decisions—ones not mandated by our coworkers and higher ups.”

Miffed, Thesan snapped, “I hardly need the input of children, Astarion! You may ask for her opinion, but I have no need for it and I will not be told how to do my job by—”

“That’s enough!” Selwynn said suddenly, loudly, smacking one hand on the table. You all jumped. “Neither of you are at work. This is a family dinner. Thesan, they may be young, but they are wise. We will listen to them without belittling them. And both of you are reasonable men who can solve things without shouting at each other—and ought to do it anywhere but my dinner table! As for you, my dear, you would do well to remember that Astarion and Thesan are not the same man, and while my son will take advice, my husband will not.”

You bowed your head to her. “Yes, Selwynn. I’m sorry.”

Astarion’s cheeks and ears were pink. He looked like a scolded child. “I’m sorry, Ma,” he said quietly. Selwynn took his hand and squeezed, then kissed the top of his head.

Thesan got out of his chair and went around to his wife, kissing her cheek. “My apologies, my love. My temper got the best of me.” He looked at you beside her. “I’m sorry, dear, I shouldn’t have dismissed you so easily. I will think on what you’ve said.”

You inclined your head in thanks.

As Thesan returned to his seat, Selwynn cleared her throat and turned to you. “So! Tell me, my dear, how has your work at the tavern been going?”

Relieved the topic had turned to something far less contentious, your shoulders relaxed and you found yourself smiling. “Much the same as always—the same regulars with mostly the same problems. Kit’s finally getting a divorce but she’s terribly upset about it because she’s afraid her husband’s going to get the house. Lianon broke his foot and is convinced the only painkiller he needs to take is alcohol. Oh, I almost forgot! Tivi was asking after you, she wants to know how your newest sewing project is going. I said I’d ask, but I didn’t tell her you’re sewing my wedding veil, I knew she’d start screeching and we were quite crowded.”

Selwynn beamed. “Oh, it’s going quite well! I’m just finishing up on the trim—a string of lilies going around the edge, to match the ones in your crowns and on the tables. I must show you after dinner.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow. “Am I allowed to see it, or must I wait until the big day?”

“You can see the veil, just not the dress, and especially not on me,” you teased.

“Are you still working as the barkeep?” Thesan asked, rejoining you all at the table. “I’m surprised you haven’t managed to swoop the whole business out from Barnabas’ feet, now that he’s getting up there in age.”

You bit back a grin. “Actually, he offered it to me. They want me to become the tavernkeeper once he retires.”

Astarion looked up. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“I only found out today,” you said apologetically.

“Do you want to take it?” he asked, biting his lip.

You shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not sure.”

“It would be a wonderful opportunity,” Thesan said. “Taverns are excellent moneymakers, even in a city like Baldur’s Gate, where there’s plenty of them. If you run it right, you could make it the best one around.”

You glanced at Astarion. He nodded encouragingly. “Well…Astarion and I have been talking, and… I’ve been considering leaving the tavern after we get married.”

Thesan propped himself up on his elbows. Selwynn shot him a look and he put his hands back in his lap. “Are you looking for something that might be more…sustainable, long-term? Or perhaps a higher wage?”

“Possibly?” you said. “I’m not exactly sure of the details yet—how long I’d stay at the tavern after we get married, for instance—but I think…” Astarion nodded again. “I think mostly I want to leave for better hours. It’s difficult enough when Astarion works in the day and I mostly in the evening as it is now, even with days like today when the other barkeep is working, but it absolutely won’t be manageable once we—” You licked your lips. “Once we have children.”

Selwynn gasped. “Are you expecting?”

“What? No!” You blushed profusely, glancing up at Astarion, and wondered how many times his parents had overheard you making love. “No, not yet. But we’ve been talking about it, and we want to start a family.”

Selwynn shrieked with joy. “Oh, that’s wonderful news! May the gods bless you with a babe, when the time is right for it.”

Thesan clapped Astarion on the back. “Congratulations, my son!”

Astarion blushed. “She’s not pregnant yet, Dad, wait until after the wedding!”

“You’ll tell us?” Selwynn asked. “When you are with child?”

You nodded. “As soon as we know for certain. But Astarion’s right—we won’t be trying until after we’re married.”

“Don’t be too discouraged if it takes a while, dearie, it took us almost a hundred years to conceive Astarion, and we were trying quite diligently,” Selwynn said, patting her son’s shoulder. He looked slightly mortified to learn this about his parents’ sex life. “The gods are careful with which elven soul they will give you to nurture.”

You finished dinner quickly and each of you helped clean up the mess of the meal until you told Selwynn and Thesan to sit down, and you and Astarion did the rest together.

“They took it well,” Astarion murmured in your ear.

“Of course they did, they want to be grandparents. Though I’m surprised they already want that this early—you’re only thirty-nine, you’re still technically their baby.”

Astarion sighed. “My mother misses holding an infant.”

The two of you lapsed into comfortable silence, you washing dishes and Astarion taking them from you to dry them. Eventually, he restarted the conversation by kissing your head.

“Darling?”

“Hmm?”

“What you…what you told me this morning…” He hesitated, blushing like a teenager again. “Are you trying to get a headstart on having our family?”

You smiled. “Oh, goodness, no. I very much doubt we’ll get that lucky, and I’m quite certain I’m not ovulating. It won’t happen this time.”

“You’re ‘quite certain’ you’re not?” he asked. “How long have you been tracking it?”

“Several months now. I’ve been…wanting to tell you to—” You lowered your voice, even though you were already speaking at a low volume. “—finish inside me for quite a while, but I didn’t want to risk getting pregnant before our wedding. But I know that won’t happen tonight.”

Astarion kissed your cheek. “Have I told you you’re perfect?”

“Nearly every day, honey,” you laughed, leaning into him.

“That simply will not do—I must tell you twice a day how perfect you are, darling!”

You giggled. “Careful, Asty, I might start to believe it.”

He lifted your head with two fingers under your chin, a warm smile in his eyes. Leaning in for a sweet kiss, he whispered, “I certainly hope you do.”

~❊~

The evening went on with talk of your wedding plans and the presentation of your unfinished veil over a couple of glasses of the wine Astarion had brought home. His parents retired to bed first while you and Astarion remained sitting in front of the hearth, sharing a comfortably padded lounge chair, the fire’s warmth making you sleepy in his arms and the orange glow turning him into a sun god.

Astarion lazily swirled his wine in his glass. “Do you want to go upstairs?” he asked. You gave a noncommittal hum. “As much as I love it when you fall asleep in my arms, sleeping in this chair, though cozy, will do our backs no favors.”

You slowly extricated yourself from his arms. “Oh, alright. Upstairs, then.” You stood up and stretched. He finished the last of his wine and you both picked up the glasses and recorked the bottles. With that taken care of, you held out your hand for him and walked up the stairs together.

While you washed and dressed for bed in the washroom together, you asked him, “Do you want to go out on the roof tonight?”

“There’s a chill in the air, and you’re wearing a short silk slip,” he said, sliding his hand up your inner thigh for emphasis. “You’ll freeze to death. Besides…” He leaned closer to your ear and squeezed your thigh. “There are better things for us to be doing.” His fingers found the gusset of your panties and he tsked. “You won’t be needing these tonight, darling.”

You leaned into his chest as his fingers kept stroking your covered slit. “Honey… Let…” You swallowed harshly. “Let me finish washing up first.”

He kissed the shell of your ear. You bit back a whimper. “I’m just going to make you dirty again, darling… Sweaty and slick and filled with me, in every way possible.” He began nibbling on the lobe of your ear.

“Asty,” you mumbled, craning your head up and pulling his mouth down to yours, your back to his chest. You spread your legs, letting him cup your clothed mound in his hand. He kissed you hungrily, moving his hand from your thigh to your ass. He squeezed gently and gave you a light smack before holding you around the waist.

“Look at us in the mirror,” he murmured into your lips. You glanced into the mirror and found him already staring at your beautifully twisted body. You whimpered instantly, seeing the appeal. Your back was pressed to his bare chest, the hand cupping you from behind visible against the dusty blue silk, your back arching slightly off of him and pushing your tits forward, your hard nipples poking through the fabric, color flushing both of your faces, his plump lower lip still between yours. He whispered, “You’re so beautiful when you’re desperate for me, my love.”

“I’m not desperate yet, hun,” you whispered.

He chuckled. “The pink on those ears says otherwise, darling.” He traced your ear again.

You moaned and pushed your lips firmly against his, your tongues sliding together. He brought his hand up from his waist and squeezed one of your tits. You whimpered into his mouth and he grinned. He kneaded your breast over your slip and began stroking you through your panties again. Something about having him so close but not really touching you was making you crazy. You writhed against him, bucking your hips with need, moaning into his mouth.

“You’re so wet for me, so needy even through these panties,” he murmured. “You horny little thing…”

Astarion wasn’t keeping his composure, either. He panted into your mouth, his erection pressing into your back through his boxers. Every so often, his hips stuttered against yours; you knew it wasn’t intentional. He groaned into your mouth, finding your clit and stroking. You moaned happily, your body trembling in response.

“Oh, gods, darling—can I touch you? Can I really touch you?” he moaned.

“Yes, please, fuck,” you whimpered.

Astarion moved quickly. He shoved your slip underneath your breasts, his hand gripping one and toying with your nipple. At the same time, he slid your panties to the side and stroked your slit with a single finger. You moaned in tandem. Astarion sunk a finger into you and began rubbing at your walls, pulling quiet whimpers from your lips. You threw your head back and he immediately began kissing his way down your neck and over your shoulder.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured against your skin, “just feel good for me… Just feel good and be beautiful. Look at you…”

The reverence in his voice made you glance in the mirror again and you understood his sudden attraction to the column of your neck. You leaned into him, sighing happily against his open-mouthed kisses.

“Need you,” he murmured, nipping at your skin until fresh bruises began to appear, overlapping with the ones he’d sucked into your neck this morning. He tucked you against his body. “Need more of you.”

You turned in his arms, whining at the loss of his fingers inside of you but still enjoying the way he held you to his chest like you’d disappear if he let go of you. “You can have me, Asty.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Here? Against this mirror?” He pushed you against it, pushing your slip up to your waist. He rubbed his palm over your ass and gave you a soft, affectionate smack. “You do look rather gorgeous bent over the basin like this.”

You locked eyes with him in the mirror, holding yourself up on the marble basin’s rim. “You can take me however you’d like, honey. Just as long as you finish inside me.”

Astarion grinned at you through the mirror. “Oh, darling, I intend to.” He kissed your shoulder. “As many times as I can.”

You moaned and pushed your ass against his erection. “Asty, please!”

“Patience,” he cooed softly, but he still slipped one finger under the waistband of your panties. He slowly pulled them to the side again to expose your cunt to him. Cool air hit you and the string of arousal still connected to your panties. You shivered, whimpering slightly.

Astarion stepped away from you for a moment, admiring the mess you were making between your legs. “Gods, darling, you’re so fucking wet.”

“Just fuck me already,” you whined.

Through the mirror, you watched him scramble to yank his boxers down. As soon as his cock was free, he pushed the head against your entrance. He looked up at the mirror, watching your eyes roll back as he filled you. A soft moan escaped him as soon as he was fully seated inside of you. He bent over your back and kissed your pointed ear.

“Does that feel good, darling?” he murmured. Your entire body shuddered beneath him, your walls clenching around him. He made a sound that was a cross between a laugh and a moan. “Guess it does.”

Astarion wrapped his arms around you and began thrusting slowly. He buried his head in your neck, moaning into you. You panted heavily, whimpering with every slow, deep thrust. You grabbed one of his hands and laced your fingers together, moving to meet his thrusts.

“I love you like this, darling,” he murmured. “This position… You feel so tight around me.” He pressed soft kisses to your neck and shoulder. He met your gaze in the mirror and smiled at you, a sweet smile that made your heart melt. You turned just enough to kiss his cheek; he adjusted to catch your lips with his. He moaned into the kiss, one hand snaking up to grope your chest. You whined, pushing your breast into his hand and your ass into his pelvis.

“Honey,” you moaned, the arms holding you up beginning to shake.

He nibbled briefly on your ear. “Do you want more, my love?”

You whined and nodded. He let his other hand slip from your waist and to your clit. He began rubbing gently, adding pressure with every swipe. You moaned breathily, your legs beginning to tremble.

“Astarion,” you moaned, clinging to him. “I love you.”

He kissed the back of your neck. “I love you, too, darling.”

The words became a mantra falling out of your mouth, timed with every single one of his thrusts: “Love you love you love you love you love you love you love you!”

Astarion whispered into your ear, “You’re so close. Cum for me, darling. Cum on my cock. I’ll…I’ll follow you.”

You whined, surrendering to the feeling of his hand on your clit and his cock hitting all the right spots. With a few more thrusts, your moans grew louder, your breaths shorter, and your entire body shook as your walls clenched around his cock. You unraveled around him, crying his name loudly.

Astarion groaned and buried himself deep inside of you, biting his lower lip as he came inside of you, panting. He rubbed your clit until you cried out, overstimulated.

The two of you panted when your orgasms had run their course; he wrapped his arms around you, hugging you tightly, both of you still bent over the basin. You locked eyes in the mirror.

“Are you alright?” he whispered.

You nodded. “Are you?”

“I’m perfect,” he murmured, kissing the side of your neck. “Gods… You have no idea how good that felt, darling. Inside of you. Hells, I… I want to do it again.”

“I told you that you could,” you reminded him and he grinned.

“Bed?” he suggested. When you nodded, he pulled himself off of you and slowly pulled out. Your mixed releases slid down your legs and you groaned in surprise and discomfort. Your slip fell back into place as you stood straighter, your legs trembling even more.

Astarion offered you his hand. “Come here, my love. Let me help you.”

You let him hold you up as the pair of you went to bed, already kissing and giggling again like teenagers. He gently laid you down in bed and crawled over you. He covered your neck and chest in kisses, once again tugging the neckline of your slip down to kiss your tits. He licked your nipple and then sucked on it gently, once again sliding his hand between your legs and rubbing his fingers along your soaked slit.

You curled your fingers into his hair, pulling him back up to you and kissing him heartily. “My turn,” you whispered into his mouth. You wrapped your legs around his hips and flipped the two of you. You straddled his thighs and pulled your slip off over your head.

Astarion grinned, putting his hands on your ribs. “Darling! Aren’t you gorgeous? I could get used to this view.”

You smiled, reaching down to pump his cock. He moaned. “This view belongs to you, Asty, don’t you forget that,” you said. “I’m all yours.”

His hands dropped to your hips as you lifted yourself up and shuffled forward, positioning yourself over his hard cock. He moaned happily as you sank down on him. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he threw his head back.

You moaned, putting your hands on his shoulders to balance yourself. You began to bounce on him, letting him sink deeper every time you came back down until you were sitting on his pelvis. You began to roll your hips slowly and Astarion moaned loudly, his fingers gripping your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises come morning.

“Oh, honey,” you moaned. “You feel…so damn good.”

He helped you ride him, guiding your hips with gentle hands. He twitched inside of you, his heaving breaths becoming soft, barely concealed whimpers. You smiled as you bounced on him and leaned back to give him a better view as he slid in and out of you.

“You look so beautiful with me inside of you, darling,” he moaned. He grazed his thumb over the bulge of him visible in your stomach. “Gods, look at that…”

“Honey,” you moaned. “Asty. Asty, I’m so damn close already!”

He chuckled. “I can feel it, my love, I can feel that pussy clenching around me. Just cum for me, I want it.”

You huffed in protest. “Not until you do.”

“Darling—”

“I’m taking care of you,” you insisted. “Let me do that for you, Asty. Cum for me, and I’ll cum for you.”

His face softened. “You’re perfect, you know,” he whispered, lifting his knees up to give you something to rest against as you bounced. He held your hip with one hand, then held your hand with the other. His eyelids fluttered, torn between wanting to close them and wanting to watch you, and he let himself relax against the bed.

You brought one hand from his shoulder to his cheek. You caressed his cheekbone softly. “You’re so beautiful, my love,” you murmured, the first of many sweet nothings to encourage him along. “You’re so pretty when you let yourself get lost in me, when you let the pleasure wash over you. Just do that for me, honey, just let go and take what you need from me. Relax here in bed with me, handsome. Finish up, I’ll be here when you’re ready. I’ll help you ride it out. I love you, more than anything in this world. I love you.”

Astarion threw his head back with a loud cry, his hips stuttering up into yours. He came hard, the warmth of him filling your cunt until he began to leak out of you. You sat on his pelvis and reached a hand down to your clit to finish yourself off. Despite his deliriousness and the tears sliding down his cheeks from the force of his orgasm, he slapped your hand away and put his own thumb to your clit until you convulsed on top of him and came on his cock.

The moment he could, he pulled you off of him and into his arms, wrapping you in a warm embrace and covering your entire upper body with kisses, murmuring an “I love you” between each one. You let yourself melt into his hold, cuddling into him and relaxing even more with every kiss.

You eventually wriggled around until you were laying next to each other, still staring into each other’s eyes. You brushed your hand through his curls, putting them back into place with your fingers.

“Hi,” you whispered. “Feel okay?”

He smiled at you. “Never better, darling. That was…amazing. Thank you for that.”

You kissed his cheek. “Well, I figured it had been a while since I’ve gone for a proper ride on you—it was long overdue, and I thought we’d both appreciate it.”

“You thought correctly,” he murmured. He tackled you in a tight, warm hug. You hummed happily, curling your arms around him and wrapping your legs into his until you were as close as you could get to becoming one. You slowly worked your fingers into his hair, scratching his scalp until he began to very nearly purr. He rubbed your back, occasionally pressing dainty kisses to your forehead, and you returned each kiss with one of your own. Eventually, he pulled back and asked, “Are you up for one more round?”

You grinned at him. “Absolutely, hun. I thought you might have more in you than you were letting on.”

He blushed like he hadn’t just cum inside you twice. “I could have gone without it if you didn’t want to!”

You giggle and drag your finger up the underside of his already semi-hard cock. His eyes rolled back into his head and his entire body shuddered. “Oh, really?”

Astarion whined, the sound not quite human. His chest heaved. “Darling… Gods, that feels good.”

You kissed his nose. “Wanna know what else I haven’t done in a while?” You pushed your lips against his as he nodded, muffling his hum. Into his mouth, you murmured, “Sucked you off.”

Astarion groaned. You took advantage of his open mouth and pushed your tongue into his mouth. You rolled him onto his back again and crawled on top of him, never once breaking the wet, sloppy kiss. You wrapped your hand around his cock as you kissed him and pumped him idly, careful not to set a pace and let him get used to your touch. He whimpered into your mouth, his cock twitching into your hand every time you slid your hand up to his tip. Only when he was hard enough that you knew it was starting to be unbearable did you break the kiss. He whined but let you shimmy your way down his body until you sat between his spread legs.

“May I?” you asked, locking eyes with him as you settled, your face inches away from his leaking cock. You let yourself admire the view of his heaving chest, his entire body flushed with need, his dick red and angry and oh so tempting.

“Y-yes, please,” he whispered, gorgeous with his hair tousled from your hands, his ears pink, his lips kiss-bitten, and his pupils blown.

“Thank you, Asty,” you whispered, pressing your lips to the skin of his V-line. You kept kissing just around his cock, never quite reaching the base, until he twitched and pre-cum began to dribble down his length without you even touching him. Only then did you take mercy, licking him from the base up to his tip and taking his head into your mouth. He keened loudly, arching off the bed like he so often made you do.

Seeing your lover get so lost in everything you were doing and enjoying every second of it made your entire body warm with joy and arousal. The wetness between your legs was obscene for having not been touched or teased for so long, but you weren’t surprised; Astarion enjoying himself was more than enough reason for you to be as excited as you were. His ecstasy was always so godsdamned beautiful—not unusual for an elf, of course, but you liked to think your fiancé was special in this aspect.

You took him deeper, licking the underside of his cock as best as you could as his girth filled your mouth. He whined and bucked his hips involuntarily.

“S-sorry,” he moaned, throwing his arm over his eyes, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

You popped off of him for a moment and took his hand. “Don’t be sorry, my love. Take it. Take what you want. I’m here to give it to you, hun.”

He whined again and thrust his hips back up, simultaneously trying to wiggle closer to you. You giggled and took the hint, taking him back in your mouth and sucking. He stayed still for a few more moments, letting you please him, but then you felt his hand in your hair and you paused in your movements. He started to thrust slowly into your mouth, not deep or hard enough for you to choke but enough for you to really feel him in your throat. You moaned around him with every thrust until he became more frantic.

“Darling!” he cried. You glanced up to find silver tears on his flushed cheeks and pulled back, seeing the overstimulation on his face. “Please, my love, I need— I need to fuck you again. I need to be inside you.”

Without a second thought, you sat up and caught your breath from where you sat between his legs. He took a second before sitting up and pulling you on top of him. He pushed inside of you easily and chuckled breathlessly.

“Someone’s wet,” he teased. You didn’t have the energy in you to respond as he started thrusting. You went limp in his arms, collapsing onto his chest and focusing only on the feeling of him pumping in and out of you. He held you tight, both of you clinging to each other as you chased your releases.

Astarion adjusted his legs slightly, lifting himself up, and his cock hit just the right spot. You cried out and clenched around him, your hold on him tightening. He growled animalistically, pulled out of you, and flipped you onto your back. He folded one of your legs up and slid back inside of you.

You screamed so loud you were sure you had woken his parents—and perhaps the entire neighborhood—as he began pounding into you relentlessly. You could already tell you were going to struggle with walking tomorrow.

Between pants, he asked, “Are you okay? Is this okay?”

You were out of breath to even attempt to speak, but you nodded and brought him close enough to kiss you. He took control of the kiss almost immediately, possessing you in every way he could: his cock in your cunt, his tongue in your mouth, his hand gripping your calf. You gave into him, letting him take you, relaxing against the mattress and trusting him with your body.

Astarion took care of you, going only as rough as your body could take at this moment, taking his pleasure but granting you yours simultaneously. Your orgasm swept through you with a vengeance, powerful and hard. You arched your back, screaming as much of his name as you could get out before you ran out of breath, your fingernails digging into his back. Astarion let out a high moan as he followed you before you could ride out the rest of your orgasm. The two of you grabbed at each other, clinging desperately, panting and moaning and crying with pleasure. You felt tears on your cheeks and you honestly weren’t sure if they were yours or Astarion’s.

At last, you came down from your high. You watched him in awe as he finished his, slowly and gently thrusting into you until he was spent. He gently lowered himself on top of you and buried his face in your neck. You laid there, panting, struggling to form thoughts.

“Holy shit,” he muttered into your skin and you chuckled. Your arm shook as you brought your hand to the back of his hand and soothed him with a hand in his curls.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Holy shit.”

He looked up. There was a glassy look in his eyes. “Are you…are you okay? Did I go too hard? Was that too much?”

“I’m fine, hun. You were perfect. Gods, that was…” You whistled, unable to pick a word from your dazed mind to describe what you were feeling.

Astarion giggled. “Yeah… It was.” He snuggled back against your chest, then asked in a whisper, “Can I stay inside you tonight?”

You raised a brow. “Do you want to?”

He shrugged. “If you’ll let me…yes.”

You kissed his forehead. “Sure. Let’s try it, see if we like it.”

Astarion perked up immediately. “Really?”

“Yes, why not? Here—pull out and let’s get cleaned up, then you can spoon me and go back inside, okay?”

He nodded quickly. You cleaned each other in the washroom, Astarion holding you up to keep you from falling on weak knees. He stole kisses as you washed each other and then tucked you back into bed.

“Do you want your slip?” he asked, climbing into bed behind you.

“No, just you,” you whispered. You heard his soft laugh and knew how pleased he was that you wanted his body directly against yours.

Astarion curled up behind you and lifted your leg with a gentle hand. With only the slightest bit of difficulty, he pushed himself back into you. He gave a few gentle thrusts, then settled and pulled you close and buried his nose in your hair.

You sighed happily. “You feel good,” you told him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kissed the back of your neck. “Good, I’m glad.” He rubbed your side with a gentle hand. “Tell me if it starts to get uncomfortable.”

You nodded. “Think I’m gonna fall asleep before that, actually…”

Astarion laughed softly. “Alright, love. Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”

Humming, you leaned back against him and let sleep take you with him still inside of you and wrapped around you like a warm blanket.

~❊~

Astarion was late.

He should have been home at least an hour ago—but you knew how long these court cases could take. There had been days before where he didn’t return home until after dark. You always hated those days, but he repaid you with lots of kisses and snuggles and a surprise date later in the week when he came home early.

You were getting ready for work in your shared bedroom, finishing up braiding your hair in the mirror Astarion had fucked you against last night. Your core still ached, but your limp had mostly disappeared. You could always fabricate a story for your boss about twisting your ankle or something equally mundane—anything less embarrassing than having to admit your fiancé had fucked you within an inch of your life.

You tucked the last few strands into place and checked your makeup one last time, making sure your very, very dark hickeys were covered. Unlike Astarion, who had left for work with one easily spotted above his collar, you would rather your coworkers didn’t ask questions about your sex life.

Downstairs, the door opened. Astarion! You silently thanked the gods that you would see him before you left for your shift at the tavern. You heard low, murmuring voices and had the impression that the day had been a long, tiresome one. You’d give him a long hug before you left, even if he didn’t want to let go and it made you late.

Selwynn screamed. Plates crashed.

You were running down the stairs faster than you thought possible. You slammed into the door jamb on your way into the kitchen and found Thesan standing stock-still and dumbfounded in the middle of the kitchen, Selwynn on the floor and surrounded by shards of ceramic. She was sobbing. There were two unfamiliar men in the uniform of Baldur’s Gate officials standing in the doorway, somber.

“What happened?” you demanded. “Where’s Astarion?”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” said one of the men, taking off his hat. “I take it you are Astarion Ancunin’s fiancée?”

Knots formed in your stomach. “I— Yes, I am. What…what’s happened? Where is he?”

“I’m sorry, he…” He gained control of the sudden sorrow that crossed his features. “I regret to inform you that Astarion was found dead. Murdered, in fact.”

☞ ❊ ☜

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Baldur's Gate 3 // Astarion Ancunin

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