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frantic-fiction · 3 months

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Tease 18+

(Pic: cheekylittlepupp)

Astarion x f!reader, Astarion x Tav

Summary: The party is taking the night off. You're convinced to wear a dress, and Astarion just can't control himself.

Warnings: Smut, MDNI, Semi-public sex, caught in the act?

Word Count: 3.2k

Mastarlist

Standing in front of the mirror, you pull at the dark green fabric, tugging it down this way and that. You try again to tie the corset but give up quickly. You swing your hips, and the flowy skirt swishes, tickling the skin above your knees. Looking yourself up and down, you zone in on your hips, squirming at the fabric extenuating your curves. So much skin on display makes you want to steal someone's spare cloak to hide in. You weren't one to be self-conscious, but you're used to donning armor and leather, not this scrap of fabric Karlach had convinced you to buy.

You should just change. Grab some leggings and one of Astarion's shirts, and call it a night. You didn't need a dress to catch his eye; you know how Astarion feels about you; wearing a dress won't change that. Backing away from the mirror, you're just about to rip the dress off when Karlach bursts into the room, Shadowheart following behind her at a much tamer pace.

"Soldier!" Karlach squeals, stopping suddenly in the middle of the room. She slaps her hands on either side of her face. "You. Are. Gorgeous!" Your face burns as Karlach pounces on you, spinning you around to give her the best view from every angle. Heat creeps up your chest and you giggle awkwardly.

"She's right, you look stunning," Shadowheart smirked and added, "Ten gold Astarion won't be able to keep it in his pants."

"20, he won't make it to a room," Karlach shouts.

"Gods! You both are ridiculous." You squeal, swatting Karlach's hands away and stepping back from her excitement. You huff and fix your skirt. Crossing your hands over your chests, you glare at the girls before timidly looking off to the side. "So, I don't look silly?" The hesitation is evident.

"All joking aside, I assure you, soldier, you are beautiful. And I know for a fact Fangs won't be able to keep his eyes off of you."

You beam under Karlach's compliment, doing a few excited calf raises because you have no idea how else to handle her words. Shadowheart moves towards you and fixes a fallen strand of hair. She gives you a soft smile and moves to finish lacing your corset, patting your arm when she’s done.

"Now we should go. The others are waiting downstairs," Shadowheart motions everyone to the door, letting you take a moment to slip your shoes on.

After months of endless travels and brutal battles, the party decided to take the evening to drink, relax, and enjoy each other's company. A night to forget the tadpoles and the Absolute. All except Lae'zel, who scoffed at the idea, were joining in on the fun.

Descending the stairs, you slammed with the melody of lively tunes played by a band of minstrels, competing with the animated conversations of patrons. The music, infused with the spirit of celebration, is so loud that it vibrates through the wooden beams of the tavern. The dance floor is alive with energetic movements as couples twirl and spin to the rhythm and the joyous laughter of those lost in the moment.

The bar is surrounded by a sea of drunk patrons clamoring for attention. Tankards slammed onto the worn surface as the bartender poured frothy ale and mead expertly. The dim light of flickering candles and oil lamps casts a warm glow on the diverse crowd. The unmistakable odors of stale ale, greasy food, and the tang of sweat intermingle in the air, creating a distinctive nostalgic and pungent aroma. You're lost in the crowd's movement, overwhelmed with the sounds. You grab onto Shadowheart's elbow like a lifeline.

"Karlach!" Wyll calls and you all snap your head to the side. The party had claimed a booth, and Gale and Wyll were standing up, waving their arms over their heads. They looked like they started early on the drinking; both men's faces were flush, and they each held an easy, dopey grin.

"Wyll!" Karlach linked her arms with yours and Shadowheart's and approached the table. You let her pull you, too busy searching for him. Astarion is slow to stand, but you know the moment he sets his eyes on you. You watch the subtle change in his body language. His hand tightened around the goblet; the exaggerated inhale of air as if someone had kicked him, watching the hunger grow in his eyes.

Now, you feel the confidence bloom in your chest. The dress no longer makes you squirm in discomfort; no, it gives you power and makes you feel desired and sexy. The flame ignites low in your abdomen. Suddenly, you were playing with fire and excited to get burned. A smug smile stretches your lips the closer you get. Pulling away from Karlach, you move and hook your arms around Astarion's neck. You pull him down and place a kiss on his cheek.

"Hi, handsome," you smile up at him, feeling his hand caress the small of your back. Cold fingers playing at the edge of the corset.

"Hello darling, you look breathtaking." He pushes you back gently, giving him space to take in your attire. "Turn for me, my love. Let me look upon the goddess before me."

You roll your eyes at his cheesiness but oblige his request, spinning slowly to allow Astarion to take in every angle. When you come full circle, Astarion captures your lips, and you fall against his chest. His lips meld against yours in a sensual kiss that was entirely inappropriate for the amount of people around, but neither of you seemed to care. Humming against his mouth, you cup his jaw and pull his face away. Astarion chases your lips and lets out a low groan when you deny him what he wants.

You give Astarion a mischievous grin, patting his chest when you ask. "Do you mind getting me a drink?"

He gives you a pointed look, visibly dissatisfied with his kiss. With one look and your hand running up his chest and over his shoulder, Astarion caves with a huff. "Yes, of course. Would you like your usual?"

"Yes, please." You say pecking his lips a final time before joining your friends in the booth.

Wyll was regaling the table with a tale of his early days as the Blade of Frontiers when Astarion slides in beside you. He sets your drink down, and you whisper your thanks before taking a sip and focusing back on Wyll. Gale is quick to call out Wyll's bullshit, Shadowheart pointing out the exaggeration the warlock had blended into his story. It soon devolved into a bickering match as Wyll tried to defend himself. You chuckle between sips of wine, leaning into Astarion, setting your head gently against his shoulder. His hand had found your bare thigh, fingers kneading the supple flesh.

Suddenly, your friends become background noise as your senses hone in on Astarion. The cheeky smirk that stretches his lips tells you he knows exactly what he's doing as Astarion inches his smooth hand further under your dress—never crossing the line but far enough to make you clench your legs together in need. You bite your lip, cheeks burning from more than the alcohol, and reach down to take his hand in yours.

"I know what you're doing,"

"Oh, and what is that, my dear?" Astarion grins, bringing your hand to his lips and gently kissing your knuckles. He leans to your ear, "Do you not want me to touch you?" His breath cascades over your neck, and a shiver runs up your spine.

"Not when you're trying to tease me in public."

"My sweet girl, I'm not the one being a tease."

"Soldier! Stop making goo-goo eyes at Fangs, and come dance with me!" Karlach yells across the table, breaking whatever spell Astarion had you under. Pulling away, you look up to see Karlach jumping up and down, hand outstretched for you to take.

"You know I won't say no to dancing." Astarion reluctantly moves to let you out of the booth. Karlach is quick to grab your hand and pull you towards the stage.

The time is lost in the beat of the drums and the flow of your hips. Karlach twirls you around, and you can't stop giggling. Wyll joins in the fun, and suddenly, the crowd has formed a unified line dance. It's messy, and you don't know the steps, but you watch Wyll and poke fun at Karlach's improvised moves. You dance until your breath is ragged and your feet start hurting. Moving your body until the sea of people starts to drown you. Maybe it's the alcohol coursing through your veins or the excitement of the dancing. Still, the fun quickly turns to overstimulation that blankets you in thick sheets. In an instant, the room is too hot and too loud, and if you don't get out now, you just might scream.

You leave Karlach and move towards the door outside to the back alley. Pushing it open, you stumble over the threshold and inhale the cold night air. It instantly sobers, clearing your mind and easing your panic. You stare up at the starry sky, soaking in the bright moon. Goosebumps spread over your exposed arms and legs, and you shiver. It doesn't stop you from stepping further into the alleyway as you breathe and allow your heart to settle its pounding. You can still hear the muffled music and thumping feet.

You hear the door open again but pay it no mind until Astarion speaks, "There you are, my sweet."

You turn on your heel and give him a soft smile. He glowed under the moonlight, an ethereal being standing before you, his face partially cast in shadow, staring at you with hunger. "I needed some air."

"I'm sure you did," Astarion smirks, stepping closer toward you. A predator stalks up to its prey. "All that dancing you were doing must have been exhausting."

"It was, but it was so fun." You reach out instinctually, wrapping your arms around his neck. Astarion smoothes his hands down your spine to the swell of your butt, moving to squeeze the soft, plump flesh. "You should join me next time." You squeak at his grip, pressing yourself closer to him.

Then his lips are on yours, and your back is digging into the rough brick of the alleyway. Astarion's tongue is in your mouth, and you're moaning, gripping his shoulders to find purchase. One of his fangs nipped your bottom lip, and your knees practically buckled under you. You would have fallen if Astarion hadn't pressed you against the wall.

"I think I just might take you dancing tomorrow." His cold hands caress your thigh, pulling it up and over his hip, pushing up the fabric of your dress with it. "I'll buy you a pretty new dress to add to your growing collection, and I'll have you move your body for me like you've been doing all night."

He rolls his hips into yours, and you cry into his neck, kissing his skin to muffle your noises. "Swaying those hips in this tight little thing. Gods darling, I've been hard all night, and it's entirely your fault, you naughty little minx."

"Astarion," You sigh, relishing the friction of his hard cock against your clothed core.

"Such a cruel woman, dangling a feast over a starving man. I'll have to punish you for that." Astarion purrs, running his nose along the line of your jaw, stopping to bite at his favorite spot; his fangs puncture the surface just enough to have droplets of your blood trickle out.

His tongue lavishes over your skin, making sure not a drop escapes. The moan that rumbles through his chest is purely animalistic, and a rush of heat gushes between your legs. "But right now, my naughty girl, I'm going to fuck you here against this wall."

You let out a whimper, hips bucking instinctually, heat coiling in your lower stomach. "Please.."

Astarion takes no time to push your underwear aside and push two of his fingers into your folds with a lewd, wet sound. Astarion begins to pump his fingers in and out of your dripping cunt, with each stroke curling up just slightly. The rough pad of his thumb finds your swollen clit, and applying pressure, he circles the nub in time with his fingers.

"You're already so drenched, always so ready for me." You pull his face in and sigh into his mouth, niping his lip playfully. Threading your hand through his soft curls, you give a soft tug, relishing in the grunt Astarion gives you.

You're painfully aware of your surroundings and know that someone could step out and catch the two of you any moment. The thought gives you a jolt of excitement you'll have to think about later. There is no room to take your time, so you tug harder on Astarion's hair loss, pulling his lips from the flesh of your neck he was playing with.

"Star," You roll your hips against his hand impatiently. "I need you to fuck me already,"

"So impatient, but you are right. This is not the time to play." Astarion tsk before unceremoniously ripping your underwear off and stuffing them in his pocket.

"I liked those."

"I'll buy you a new pair, maybe one to match your new dress." Astarion peppers kiss down your neck. Your hands move to pull his pants down, freeing his cock. It's red and looks painfully swollen. Astarion hisses through his teeth when you give the base of his cock a tight squeeze.

"I want one that matches the new dress and the same ones you just ripped." You countered, giving him a few languid strokes using his precum as a lubricant.

"Whatever you want, my love." He says mindlessly, taking you into another breathtaking kiss.

Astarion hands leave your cunt, and a whine leaves your lips. He kisses your pout and quickly grabs his cock. Astarion pumps himself a few more times before lining up at your entrance. When Astarion sheaths himself fully in your heat, the wind is knocked out of you. A collective groan of ecstasy escapes from both of your mouths. There is no build-up, no room to catch your breath. Astarion quickly pulls out and slams back into you—your back scraps against the bricks, and your foot slips on the cobblestone.

You yelp scrambling to hold on and not fall pathetically onto the dirty alley floor. Astarion, without skipping a beat, scoops you up fully in his arms. All you can do is wrap your legs around his hips and hold on as he pounds into your dripping cunt.

"Gods, you're perfect," Astarion signs into your neck. He pulls at your dress, moving the corset just enough to expose one of your breasts. He bends his head and sucks your nipple into his mouth. You choke on a gasp; cupping the back of his head, you press him further against you.

"Astarion," you moan, carding your fingers into his curls. Rolling your hips, you match his thrusts. Your lower stomach tightens, and you will not last much longer. Not with him pulling you apart in the way only he can. You tried to say as much, but you choke on a sob when Astarion's fingers find your clit.

He grinds your hips into the brick wall and brutalizes your clit with tight circles. His voice is raspy in your ears. "I'm close, love…ngh - gods, you feel so good."

"A-astarion, please!" Tears bead down your cheeks, pleasure overwhelming your senses. Your muscles are tightening. Your legs quake, and you clench tightly around him.

"That’s it, come for me, beautiful." And that is all you need to see stars, opening your mouth in a silent cry. Ecstasy courses through your veins, and you bite down on his collarbone to ground yourself in your pleasure. His hips stutter, pace faltering as he loses himself in your body, spilling his seed deep into you.

Neither of you moves; the brick is now uncomfortably digging into your back, but you can't find the energy to care. Astarion peppers kiss up and down your neck. You scratch his scalp softly and catch your breath. It’s nice.

"I guess I should wear more dresses."

"My dear, you could wear a burlap sack, and I would have still taken you against this wall."

"Horny bastard."

The two of you were too caught up in each other to notice the tavern door opening again. Nor did either of you notice two figures stepping out. At least not until Karlach's loud cackle echoed down the alleyway. You whip your head in her direction, Astarion following suit. Karlach is hunched over and on her knees, shoulders shaking with laughter. Shadowheart stands beside her, arms crossed with disgust and annoyance plastered on her face.

Astarion is quick to turn you away, shielding you with his body. He let’s you go and you scramble to cover yourself. He helps you fix your dress. Great.

"What did I tell you? Fangs couldn't keep it in his pants long enough to find a room!" Karlach booms, slapping Shadowheart on the arm. "Hand it over," her palm extended in wait. You hide your face in Astarion's neck, face burning in embarrassment.

Shadowheart mumbled something under her breath, digging in her pocket for her gold pouch. "Here," the gold is slapped into the tieflings palm. She turns to the two of you. "Find a different cleric to cure whatever disease you've contracted in this filthy alley." Shadowheart quickly turns back into the tavern, the door slamming behind her.

"Well, thanks for the gold," The tiefling beams and skips after Shadowheart, leaving you and Astarion alone once more.

You refuse to leave the space between Astarion's jaw and collarbone. Thoughts of packing your stuff and running to Candlekeep are crossing your mind. Karlach and Shadowheart are already telling Wyll and Gale about your exploits, and you don't want to handle the smug looks.

Astarion's chest rumbles with silent laughter, and you're pulled from your escape plans. You emerge from your safe space and glare up at the man. "What's so funny?!"

He laughs harder, and runs his thumb over your pout, cupping your jaw. You hold firm in your annoyance and turn your head. "Karlach is telling all of our friends that we just fucked in a dirty back alley, why would you be laughing?" You snap.

"You would think at this point Shadowheart would stop betting on our love life. Tsk, all the gold she's lost." You narrow your eyes at him. His playful smirk widens. "She and the other weirdos should know how shamelessly I want you. They were lucky I didn't fuck you on the table."

Rolling your eyes, you shove him hard, forcing Astarion to stumble back. Moving past you storm towards the door; he's laughing and calling your name. Astarion, only get your middle finger before the tavern door closes behind you.

Astarion is a cheeky shit. I love him.... Let me know what ya thought, i love your feedback.

Taglist: heartfully10, ayselluna

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #reader insert #astarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 #astarion ancunin #astarion imagine #fanfic #frantic fiction #astarion smut #smut #bg3 smut #bg3 x tav #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fic #bg3 fanfiction

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fanaticsnail · 7 months

Text

Remember Me

Hello Shanks fans!

This work was requested by @aishabbbb, which I linked back to here for the full description of the prompt. This is my third (technically fourth because my thoughts ran away with me!) requested work that I've completed.

I'm not currently taking requests, but if you do want to see my writing style depict a specific idea, I will honestly most likely hyper-fixate on it until the idea consumes me if you do ask me nice enough. I do appreciate a good prompt! And seriously, who doesn't love an amnesia trope!

Word Count: 6,636

My Masterlist is here!

Echoes of gruff laughter lingered in the air as tankards of ale clanged against one another. It had been a while since the Red-Hair Pirates had made port and as they viewed a rowdy port full of lively music, contagious laughter and bursting at the seams with a variety of pleasurable company; they could not resist.

This port had been known for some time to be a lawless town, accepting of any journeymen as they resupplied their vessels, sailors selling their wares and even the odd Marine here or there had graced the town with their presence. The World Government paid no mind to the comings or goings, knowing should the port be shut down; their supply of rum would slowly dwindle away.

The Captain of the Red-Hair Pirates sat upon a stool at the rear of the room as he stared into the bottom of his tankard, watching the amber liquid slosh from side to side. He withdrew into himself; his former joy and carefree attitude no longer present on his features this night.

A woman with a painted face sauntered over towards the captain, swaying her hips as she overemphasized her intentions.

“Care for some company, sweetheart?” she asked him in a sultry tone as she took his hand in hers that still clasped the tankard. He made eye contact and smiled from the corner of his mouth before withdrawing the hand from her grip and drew his drinking vessel to his mouth.

“Not today, love,” he said, taking a drink from his tankard, “but I can point you in the direction of someone who would be more than happy to share your time.”

She smiled as Shanks gestured to his senior officer, who had a black bandana featuring a white jolly roger insignia atop his lengthy blonde hair. His expression was one of a displeasing grimace, black glasses concealing more of his irritation behind them.

“See if you can bring a smile to his face, would you?” he laughed slightly as she nodded as she made her way to her next target.

Plonking two fresh pints down on the table before him, Benn Beckman sighed as he sat on a stool facing his Captain; taking one of the pints and gesturing for Shanks to do the same.

“You turned her away?” Beckman questioned his Captain, “I thought you’d enjoy a pretty blonde giving you attention this time.”

“I’m not as open today as I have been any other day to the company of a painted lady,” Shanks laughed in response raising his pint and clanging it against his First-Mate’s, “or any other man or woman you’ve since such sent my way. You know this.”

“Oh,” Beckman uttered, eyes widening before looking down at the table, “I didn’t realise it was today. Sorry Cap’n.”

“Don’t apologise, Beckman,” he smiled at him before drinking from the tankard. He moaned slightly as the cool, bubbling liquid hit his lips and he tasted the bitter flavour of the hoppy amber ale.

“How long has it been since-?” Beckman began, halting his words in search for the more appropriate way of phrasing it.

“How long has it been since my bride was claimed at sea?” Shanks offered to complete his First-Mate’s sentence. Beckman nodded in response, gesturing with his pint for Shanks to offer his answer.

Shanks sighed and leant back in his stool, his back thumping against the small railing at the back.

“This day marks ten years,” he added with a sad smile. A silence fell between them as they reminisced the day the Captain of the Red-Hair Pirate’s wife was lost to him.

After a brief pause, they commenced their drinking as they surveyed the movements of the patrons and crew interacting with one another.

Beckman raised his tankard to his lips and begin to gulp with gusto at the frothing liquid. He trailed his eyes throughout the bar as he did so; looking to Limejuice as he grit his teeth tightly at the blonde woman’s incessant and unrelenting flirtation was thrust upon him.

He continued his assessment of the room before his attention was caught by a group of sailors laughing amongst each other, a woman throwing her had back at the joke uttered by one among them. Benn Beckman spluttered into his tankard, coughing as the amber ale entered into his wind pipe and corrupted his lungs with it. He continued to draw in his breaths while maintaining visual contact on the situation unfolding before him.

“Benn,” Shanks addressed his choking crewman, “you alright?”

The First-Mate continued coughing and spluttering, managing to relieve his lungs of the bitter substance and gasping in a long breath. His pigment all but fled from his face as he continued staring blankly at the bar in horror.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Shanks laughed, placing his tankard down on the table before clapping a hand against the upper arm of Beckman’s shoulder.

“I-I think I have,” Beckman stuttered slightly before bringing his attention to his captain, “look to the bar and tell me if you can see her too, Captain.”

Shanks furrowed his brows in confusion, laughing lightly at the confession of his crewman before turning and immediately having the playful expression pulled from his lips.

“You see her?” Beckman asked him in a voice just above a whisper.

The Captain wordlessly rose to his feet, almost toppling the stool over in the process as he made his way to approach the woman. His bride, his queen. His whole world was carelessly and unaware of his presence as the melodical laugh fell from her lips; a sound Shanks never thought he would once again experience.

------------------

You tapped the chest of the older sailor in front of you as you continued to laugh at his joke.

“Harold,” you gasped, wiping a tear from your eye, “and that’s the reason you only have three toes on your left foot?”

“Honest to goodness, lass,” he continued to rumble laughter, his eyes twinkling with utter mischievousness, “the bloody crab nearly carved the whole lot off, if not for my quick thinking!”

He imitated the pinching movements of a crab’s claw and crooked his head to make himself look as crab-like as he could, prompting another roar of laughter to erupt between the sailors and yourself.

“Alright, I’ll get you that drink then,” you teetered your laughter and turned to address the bartender you had come to know, “Mary, give us a couple schooners of ale- the pale stuff if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Right you are, my love,” she acknowledged your order and began pouring the foamed liquid into two smaller cups.

It had been ten years since you found yourself lying upon the shore with no recollection of who or what you were before your arrival. Thankfully enough, your body was strong. You knew how to hold your own when it came to unwarranted and unreciprocated attention, often brawling with men to assert yourself among them.

As you needed a job to afford food, you managed to bully Captain Harold of the Angelfish Shepherds Fishing Crew and would accompany them out to sea, bringing in several catches a day and selling their many items throughout town. It was only when the sun would disappear behind the horizon, you would come home to the tavern: "Mary’s Resting Track" and make yourself comfortable with your crew at the bar; drinking well into the night.

Just as Mary had finished pouring from the keg, you felt an arm placed upon your left shoulder, prompting you to turn to face it's source.

“My bride,” a tall, red-headed man gasped in a voice above a whisper as he drew you in to place his lips against yours. You squealed at the tender impact, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth at the sudden softness and passion you felt from the unknown man. You pushed on his chest slightly before creasing your brows in confusion.

“Steady on, Sailor. Save it for your wife,” you laughed at him, collecting the two schooners from the bar and placing one into the hands of Captain Harold, “or at least buy me a drink first!”

You laughed, prompting your crew to do the same as they raised their glasses and took a drink. You rose yours to your lips and drank from it, keeping playful eye contact with the sailor before you.

He was handsome, his red hair immediately drawing you in. He had a black cloak shrouding his left arm from view and a three-point claw mark over his left eye. His face held a shocked, sobering expression on it as if he was staring at something extra-terrestrial in make.

“Y-You,” he stuttered out, “Y-You’re.”

The words caught in his throat as he again reached his right hand up to attempt to secure a fallen strand of your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. You swatted his hand away from completing the action.

“No,” you said firmly, playfulness leaving your face as your eyebrows collected themselves with a frown, “no one touches my hair. It’s out of bounds to even those who know me, and know me; you do not.”

You swiped his arm away fully away from your face while keeping a warning, reprimanding look on your features. He continued to stare at you, his eyes swelling slightly as they fluttered between your own; pleading with you and searching within them for a small shroud of recognition.

“She’s saving it for her beloved,” your crewman mocked you in a high-pitched tone, bringing humour once again to the room. You laughed at his jest, prompting you to turn away from the red head to scold his imitation.

“I don’t sound like that,” you laughed at him, prompting your crewman to again mock you by wobbling his head from side to side and scrunching up his face.

You turned back around to see the man again gazing with a fierce intensity born deeply into your eyes and managed this time to tuck a strand of your hair behind your left ear with his right hand. At this, you brought your own hand firmly up and struck the side of his face, all humour once again leaving you.

At the crisp strike, chaos erupted at the bar. A crew of pirates drew their pistols, pointing it towards you; while your crew of sailors pulled their own from their belt and aimed it at them in response. You kept your eyes completely fixed on the red-haired pirate as his face continued to hold a yearning expression.

“She gave you a warning, Sailor,” your Captain spat at him, “I don’t care how much ale you consumed, you respect the wishes of a lady.”

This seemed to shatter whatever illusion was held on the redhead in front of you as he looked to the assortment of pirates behind him. He held up his hands in defence of himself, taking a step back from his proximity near you and nodding his head in a deep bow.

“Easy, lads,” he smiled, “put them away. We don’t bring out our guns at one little slap.”

The crew focussed their attention on you as you shook your head and creased your brows at his address. He again turned to you, and bowed his head slightly deeper as an apology.

“You’ll have to excuse me, miss,” he uttered, “I didn’t mean to cross your boundary. It was reactionary, and for that I offer my most sincere apologies.”

Your gaze softened at his words as you gently used your pointer finger to raise his chin to look at you once more.

“Apology accepted on the condition of buying me and my friends a round of drinks,” you scrunched your nose with a small wink. He laughed at your remark, shaking his head and smiling once more.

“I would have to agree, miss. Definitely the next one on me,” he continued to gaze into your eyes as you withdrew your finger from his chin and tapped his nose with it playfully.

-----------------

You didn’t remember him. That must be the only reason you didn’t hoist yourself into his single arm and cling yourself against him. Why you didn’t lean into the kiss and allow him to lace his hand into your hair and relieve your face from it shrouding your vision. The act so intimately solidifying your relationship in the early days, holding onto it as you spoke your wedding vows.

No-one was to ever touch your hair apart from yourself and your beloved were the words you spoke while dressed in your white, lace dress aboard the Red Force; Beckman performing the ceremony all those years ago.

You were married in your youth, relationship blossoming from friendship to something more on the Oro Jackson under the watchful gaze of Gol D. Roger. The subtle glances turned into subtle touches, turning into kisses stolen from within the hidden halls of the Oro Jackson as you would press each other against the walls and roam your hands along your bodies.

He was obsessed with your hair, and with each caress, each embrace, he would find himself absent-mindedly playing with it. You vowed alongside your commitment in matrimony that only he and he alone would be allowed to tuck your hair behind your ear in adoration; and you be the only one permitted to place a kiss atop the crown of his head.

Shanks had to contain himself as his soul screamed within the chasms of his chest to embrace you, to hold you against him and cry out in joy at your return. He didn’t touch another woman in the ten long years it had been since your last departure; the notion turning to ash in his mouth at the mere suggestion. It had only been until recently that Beckman prompted him to seek out someone to relieve his tension, but he felt it would’ve been an insult to the beautiful memories you shared with one another.

You were even in the process of early conversations on what starting a family would look like aboard the Red Force with his assortment of rowdy crew.

You would bicker at having the ship make birth permanently at a port, returning every two weeks to the solid shore as Shanks refused to halt his travels. He wanted you and the children aboard, rearing them alongside his crew; an idea you immediately shot down as you understood infants waking and crying at every interval and the disruption would not be fair to bring to the crew.

Shanks remembered Beckman adding to that conversation with: “We’re already getting sleepless nights from the sounds echoing the halls originating at your quarters!”

He chuckled at the memory before he remembered the fear on your face as the storm threw you overboard in your attempt to raise the sheet from the topmast and secure it in place. The black sky and torrential winds making it impossible to see your form as you struggled against the waves. He didn’t see what happened, only noticing your departure once they successfully made it through the storm and into the central eye of it.

The roar-like scream rumbling throughout the chest of the Red-Haired Captain still reverberating within the ears and memories of the entire crew as they recollect it every year. The pain shared amongst them as their captain bore his grief openly; drowning in rum every night before Beckman pulled him out of his rut with the reprimand: “this is not what she would have wanted.”

It mattered not what happened to him from that point. The pain of loosing you was far greater than any earthly injury could bring forth. He didn’t even bat an eye as his arm was claimed by a great Sea-Beast; consuming his flesh within it’s belly. He was more upset by the fact his golden wedding band perished at its disappearance.

And here you were, not a scratch upon you; laughing as if you had not a care in the world.

You had no memory. That was the only explanation Shanks had as he gazed lovingly at you, drinking your free ale at his expense.

----------------

You shook your head at a comment made by one of your crewmen as they suggested to hold a drinking competition between the red-haired pirate’s crew and your own.

“I don’t think I have enough booze in the house for that,” Mary laughed from behind the bar.

You smiled at her comment, turning back around to see the far off look in the red-head’s eyes.

“You know,” you nudged him with your shoulder, bringing his attention back towards you, “for someone that leads in lips first, you’re awfully quiet.”

He chuckled at your comment, expression softening but with a hidden depth you couldn’t quite understand.

“I’m not usually like this,” he scrunched his nose up with a smile.

“Rough time at sea, then?” you asked him, gesturing to Mary with two fingers to indicate your intentions of purchasing the next round for you and the red-head.

“Not particularly, its just-,” his words trailed off, prompting you to gaze your eyes; flittering them between his own two deep brown orbs before he took a deep breath and looked forward at his crew interacting with your own.

“You gestured for the good stuff, right?” she asked, placing two short, round glasses down on the counter; spiced rum swishing in the base as she did so.

“That I did, love,” you replied, placing down your berry on the counter and taking the glasses from it. You went to place the glass into the red-head Captain’s hands, noticing it was already occupied with a half-drunk tankard of ale.

“You keen on a rum?” you asked him, bringing his gaze up. He gasped out a quick hum, raising the tankard and downing the remainder of his ale with haste and placing the empty vessel atop the bar. He rose his hand to accept your offer and his fingers brushed against your own as he claimed the drink from your hand.

He looked down to your collar bone and noticed a single gold ring hung from a piece of fine leather around it. He furrowed his brows at it as to inspect it from his great distance.

“The gold band around your neck,” he gestured down to your left hand, “are you married?”

“Not to my knowledge, Sailor,” you laughed at him, “I was found with it.”

You sipped at the rum and creased your brows as the heavy alcohol entered your system.

“I apologise for slapping you,” you uttered, “I, uh. I made a promise, you see. I don’t really know what about or to whom, truthfully.”

He hummed at your comment, fixing his eyes on your face as you spoke. He trailed his eyes over your body, looking at you with an expression completely unreadable. Somewhere between: bewildered, surprised, great sorrow, relief, curiosity and apprehension.

“I don’t actually have a lot of that – knowledge, I mean,” you reiterated with a smile, “For the better part of ten years, I’ve been building back what I think I used to be like. I have no idea, though. I could’ve been some prissy young lass with a string of twelve children; or some standoffish, uptight cow-.”

“-You were never like that,” the red-head interrupted you, prompting you to snap your gaze up to meet with his.

“Do you know me, Sailor?” you asked him, your brows creasing together.

“Shanks,” he corrected you, “my name is Shanks.”

“Alright, Shanks,” you corrected yourself, “Do you know me?”

He sighed, drinking a small amount of liquid from his glass and looking to the rowdy crowd as their boisterous laughter echoed throughout the walls.

“If you want to talk about it, I’m going to need two things,” he said, downing the remainder of alcohol from his glass in one quick swell, “another drink, preferably a bottle this time.”

You laughed at him, before asking; “and the other thing?”

“Privacy,” he uttered with a small hint of sadness. You expressed concern within your eyes before patting him on the back and rubbing small circles in comfort to him.

You weren’t sure why you brought your hand up to comfort him, it seemed almost reactionary. A natural instinct of familiarity; organic.

“Alright, Shanks,” you began, making eye contact with Mary once more, “I’ll buy you a bottle under one condition.”

“And what might that be?” he chuckled warmly.

“That you give me a small glint of information before we proceed to the beach,” Mary placed the bottle on the counter and you placed down more berry in response, “I need to know if you are threatening me with a good time, or if you plan on executing me to reclaim some debt.”

“Were we enemies?” you asked him, bearing your gaze at the wall behind the bar.

“Sometimes,” Shanks shrugged his shoulders, prompting you to snap your gaze back to his. He erupted a full belly laugh from his diaphragm at your reaction. He let out a deep sigh before he suggested; “let’s make to the beach and I’ll fill you in.”

Mary smiled, looking between the two of you before the beckoning of Captain Harold and several bottles of the cheapest rum called her from her place before you.

You nodded, neglecting to collect glassware while you grasped the neck of the bottle; not once removing your eyes from the red-head next to you.

You made your way down towards the beach, walking in step with Captain Shanks, as the crew bid him goodnight. You noticed several members of his crew gawked at you as if they had seen a phantom or something of the make.

Once gazing into the open sea, the Captain plonked himself unceremoniously on the sand, legs spread wide as he sat with his knees bent upwards. You smiled at him before crouching down to sit beside him, uncorking the fresh rum bottle in your hands and offering it to him. He smiled as he took it from your grasp and brought it to his lips.

You trailed your eyes over his form, trying to conjure a whisp of memory from the recesses of your mind. After having no image return to you, you rose up your voice.

“So-,” you began, only to be cut off my Shanks.

“You were – are,” he started to relay, laughing at the fact he spoke over you. You nodded to him to continue.

He paused, sighing before again voicing what he was attempting to confess to you.

“It’s been ten years to the day since I lost you,” he sighed, looking down to the sand near his knees, “and not a day went by that my thoughts were not drawn to you.”

You looked at him, puzzled at what he was telling you.

“Your gold band,” he gestured with his hand towards your neck grasping the bottle, keeping his eyes fixed on the sand below him, “was gifted to us by our former Captain we served under: Gol D. Roger. He had a lot of love for you and I.”

“The King of the Pirates?” you asked him, eyes wide before adding, “and us. What do you mean, us?”

He sighed again, this time bringing his head to slouch back as he gazed at the dark and cloudless sky above you.

“I can’t tell you what happened right now. It’s-,” he paused between the words, prompting you to inch forward and look at his face. He turned his face away from you as you attempted to gaze into his eyes; “-it’s too painful today.”

You frowned and instead reached down to the hand placed upon his hand, and swiftly reclaimed the rum bottle from within his grip. He turned his head towards you at this and trailed his eyes up to yours as you placed the lip of the bottle and downed two large gulps of the liquid. You squeezed your eyes as the strong alcohol burned its way down your throat and into the pit of your belly.

He laughed at your actions, finally the forlorn expression eclipsed by glee.

“You haven’t changed,” he uttered, reaching his hand up to your hair before recoiling it back again. You watched him do this, as processing the boundary you expressed earlier still lingered within his thoughts. Instead of reaching your hair with his hand, he fell his grasp to your hands as they held the rum bottle.

“Is there truly nothing you remember of me?” He asked you, looking down to where his single hand rested upon your own. You furrow your brows and search your mind through closed eyes, willing yourself to remember any aspect about him. You hissed out a growl in frustration as you found no recollection.

“I want to,” you whispered to him, “you seem a decent kind of man, if not a little forward with the kiss and all.”

He chuckled at your comment, his laughter building to a rumble. His shoulders began to quake lightly as his laughter died and morphed into soft sobs. He attempted to conceal them from you by raising his hand up from where it rested atop his knee and turned to face away from you. You were overwhelmed slightly by this man becoming wrecked with emotion.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to him, bringing yourself to rest on your knees as you pulled yourself closer to him.

You opened your arms and shimmied your legs forward, hoisting them over his bent knees and found a comfortable spot on the sand to rest between them. Your arms circled his shoulders as you felt his right arm wrap beneath your waist and hook up your spine. He held his face flush with your stomach and squeezed his hand to grasp at your body as if you were to slip away at any moment. You felt his shoulders begin to relax into your embrace while inhaling your scent. You looked down the top of his head before absentmindedly bringing your lips down to place a chaste kiss against his hair. He flinched slightly at this impact, tension building in his shoulders before he slumped them forward.

You heard him sigh into your diaphragm as you did so, bringing his face away from its hidden position against you and resting his chin atop your chest to bring his sights to look up at you. For some reason, this man as he held you in an intimate proximity did not have you thrusting him away from your with excessive force as you did with so many others.

You unwrapped your left hand from around his shoulders and set it against his cheek. His youthful smile returning as you caressed him. You warmly smiled in response, feeling the gruff of his stubble against the palm of your hand before he turned his head and placed a brief kiss atop your inner hand.

“I am willing to dedicate the rest of my life to getting you to fall in love with me once again,” he whispered against your hand before turning his head to meet your gaze, “this I swear.”

Your eyes widened at the comment with a small smile toying at your mouth.

“I gather my undying devotion is overwhelming for you,” he chuckled, prompting you to move your hand away from his face and place both hands atop his shoulders.

“It is, to be perfectly candid with you,” you giggled at him, smoothing your arms over his shoulders and tracing circles against them with your thumbs, “I have tried everything to bring a small fragment of the person I once was to the forefront of my being.”

He trailed his hand from its place at the small of your back and rested it atop your left hip, grasping it firmly within his palm and kneading the flesh beneath it.

You brought your attention to the gold ring on your leather necklace as you held onto his shoulder, narrowing your eyes at the metal slightly; pleading within your own mind to bring forth any memory of the man cradling himself against you.

“To put myself in your hideous sandals,” you uttered, prompting him to quirk his head slightly to the side, “you found me, and it’s almost as if you did so only to lose me again.”

“Aye, it is,” he nodded, looking down again and meeting his eyes with the flesh of your forearm. He ghosted his lips over your left arm, dragging it higher within the crook of your elbow. Your hair follicles stood on edge under his ministrations, as he continued to not kiss your skin; but rather feel the way your body tasted below his lips.

“And you looked lovely in my highly practical sandals, last time you wore them,” he smirked his lips against your flesh before placing a kiss against it. He trailed kisses varying in intensity back down your forearm and against your wrist, prompting your breath to hitch in your throat.

That comment was it. After a variety of interpersonal and intimate words shared regarding your prior relationship with the man beneath you; it was the ugly sandals that brought a flitter of memory to grace behind your eyes. Any other comment; the hand in your hair from earlier, the wedding ring gifted by Gol D. Roger before he was executed, anything else; it was the ugly sandals he found in the run of the mill town that he purchased and, much to your horror, wore in public.

You remember taking them from his room and fleeing above deck with them in an attempt to throw them overboard to rid yourself of their ugliness forever, only to have your waist caught by your husband as he twirled you around to face the deck again with playful reprimand in the process of doing so.

At the request of your husband, you placed them on your feet and experienced the absolute comfort they bore you; almost shrieking in disgust at yourself for relishing in the feeling; as he belly-laughed at you.

“We’ll get you some at the next port” you heard his voice within your mind, “then we can be matching.”

You remembered him wiggling his eyebrows, prompting you to place your closed fist against his chest and tap him slightly.

“We can even get tiny little ones for when you relent and let me put a child in you,” you remembered his tone, causing a blush to rise presently to your cheeks.

“Something the matter, love?” Shanks' voice brought you from your singular memory and back into the present moment you were sharing so intimately with your husband.

No other memory sprang forward, only a few whispers of certain smells: sea water, spiced rum and stagnant drinking water with the natural smell men aboard a boat. You circled your arms around his shoulders and again pressed him against yourself, smothering his face against your sternum between your breasts. Your mouth fell slack as you pressed your face into his hair and inhaled the aroma of the fragrance he favoured to utilise in his red locks: sandalwood and ginger prominent with his natural scent lingering beneath it.

You began to feel a rough flurry of taps from the man beneath you as he indicated for you to release him. His laughter was unrestrained as his eyes twinkled with mischievousness.

“As happy as I am to once again have my face pressed between your breasts,” he heaved his laughter, “I do require air to sustain me.”

He brought his eyes to meet yours as you stared your eyes on the crashing waves of the beach as the tide began to come in further. Your eyes remained wide as you continued to will a semblance of recollection to come to you.

Once you offered no rebuttal at his comment, he again reached his hand up towards your hair only to halt it once more.

“What is it?” he asked you, now placing his right hand atop your left arm, holding it lovingly.

“I-,” you began, the words now halting between your lips. You brought your eyes down to look down and you continued to flitter them between each of his own.

“I-,” you again said, leaning in closer to him; prompting him to have a sense of seriousness overcome his features, “-will never own a pair of those ugly sandals.”

Immediately his seriousness fell away and his face split into a wide grin as his laughter rumbled within his chest one more.

“Yes, you always hated them. I think they’re wonderful,” he gasped while stifling his laughter. You continued to hold his shoulders as his laughter teetered off into a dull rumble.

“I tried to throw them overboard,” you uttered almost inaudibly, “and you threatened me with buying more of them.”

“You remember,” he gasped out a breathy sigh, “you remember me.”

He brought his torso up further to bring your foreheads to rest against each other. He nuzzled your nose slightly at the impact and squeezed his eyes shut with delight. He began to lean in to graze your lips with his, only to be halted by your gentle touch to bring him back.

“I don’t remember anything else aside from your disgusting sandals,” you whispered, closing your eyes before reopening them again and looking at him half-lidded, “and the way you looked at me when you suggested we begin trying for a child.”

A small gasp left his lips as a single tear fell from his right eye. Immediately he pulled your head against his further, seeking out your lips with his own. He moved his hand from its place at your hip to snake around your waist and hold you firmly against his lap. You felt him moan against your lips as you reciprocated his enthusiasm by lacing your fingers into his hair and tugging lightly at the new growth at the back of his neck.

As your proximity was so flush against one another, you had no choice but to press your full weight against him as he laid with his back against the sand; his hair sprawling out atop the course surface. He expertly maneuvered his right leg beneath yours without breaking the kiss, gasping into it as he darted his tongue out to meet with your own.

A soft whimper flung itself from your lips as he relentlessly attacked your mouth with his own; flittering deep and hungry kisses while trying to taste as much of you as he could with his tongue. You unlaced your fingers from his hair and raked them down his shoulders to his chest, massaging the hard muscle beneath them as you continued in your exploration. He gently rose his hand from its place around your waist and drew itself beneath your shirt and groaned when he felt your tender flesh beneath the material.

Placing your right hand below his cloak, you raked your fingers further along his ribcage and drew them up towards his left arm – halting your movement as you found none residing there.

You squealed into his mouth, feeling him smirk against your lips. You attempted to break from the kiss, only to feel his hand climb higher beneath your blouse and lie flat against your spine between your shoulder blades and continue passionately exploring your lips.

“Shanks,” you murmured a warning reprimand against his lips. He smiled while maintaining his lips against your own, feeling the soft pearls of his teeth as they made contact with your mouth. He continued to chase your lips each time you attempted to flee from his embrace.

You brought your hands up to ball the material of his white shirt within your fists and held him further against yourself, prompting him to let down his guard as he whimpered into your lips at your sudden domination. As soon as you felt him relinquish a small spectrum of control, you pushed hard on his collar bones and pried him from your lips. He first groaned in frustration before his body was wracked with uncontrollable laughter. He collapsed against the ground, prompting you to roll your body from above him to onto your own back in the sand as his laughter became contagious.

And as earlier, the heaving of your shoulders in fits of laughter evolved into heavy sobs from the both of you as you mourned the time lost between you.

“My bride,” Shanks called from beside you as he placed his right hand upon his eyes in an attempt to control his emotions.

“Yes, my groom,” you said as more of a whimper than an address.

He rolled over onto his side and hovered his face above yours, as the tears freely fell down the faces of the two of you; the moonlight cascading over your lover’s hair. Hesitantly, he reached his right hand up to your hair and slowly brought some loose strands from your face and wove it behind your ear. He sighed in relief as he watched you close your eyes and lean into his touch, taking your quivering lip between your teeth as you did so.

“You are as beautiful as the day I lost you,” he whispered with a slight hitch of his voice. You reopened your eyes to watch him smiling through his sorrow. You returned his expression and caressed his chest and ghosting your fingertips over his left shoulder.

“And you are one arm less than I remember,” you beamed a wide smile and giggled a little at your prod. He joined you in your laughter and pressed a chaste kiss against your hair before rising to his feet and offering you his right hand to hoist you up to meet him. You took his hand and allowed him to hoist you to your feet, before he dipped his shoulder down to make contact with your waist and lifted you over his right shoulder. He secured you in place with a crisp slap upon your left ass-cheek as he effortlessly crouched down to retrieve the forgotten, half-drunk rum bottle. He rose again to his feet and began to walk with you over his shoulder, using his teeth to uncork the rum bottle and spitting it against the sand.

“Is this quite necessary?” you asked him, mock annoyance in your tone.

He laughed and took a long swig from the rum bottle and gasped in joy as the liquid burnt its way down his throat.

“Not only is it necessary,” he called to you over his left shoulder, “it is also compulsory.” You laughed at him as he almost jigged back towards the tavern, him joining you in your laughter upon arriving at its steps and flinging open the door with his feet.

The arrival of the two of you had cheers erupting and reverberating from every corner and crevasse of the wooden building. Tankards were thrust into the air, foam sloshing carelessly from the top and onto the floor; much to the many protestations of Mary.

Shanks placed you on the floor after setting aside the bottle of rum atop a cylindrical raised bar table.

“Alright lads,” he addressed the room, “let me reintroduce you to my wife!”

He extended his right hand out for you to place your left hand within. As soon as you did so, he effortlessly spun you into him, your left arm laced over your front as he cradled you against himself.

You looked up to his face, your neck laying against his shoulder as he brought his lips down to meet your own for the first time publicly in a decade. Applause, shouts of glee and delight, more sloshing of ale and verbal reprimands from the tavern keeper echoed the hall as you smiled against the lips of your beloved. Your husband, and his bride.

#one piece #opla #x reader #shanks opla #shanks x reader #red haired shanks #shanks #one piece live action #opla fic #amnesia trope #my playlist broke me #angst #angst with a happy ending

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tiderideraa · 2 years

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tag dump .

. music . › raise a tankard .

. wardrobe. › leathers & linen .

. ships . › to my endless lovers .

. ooc . › my art .

. ooc . › my edits .

. ooc . › what's a god to a nonbeliever .

. ooc . › psa .

. ooc . › references .

. ooc . › resources .

. interaction . › ic thread.

#tag dump.#. music . › raise a tankard .#. wardrobe. › leathers & linen .#. ships . › to my endless lovers .#. ooc . › my art .#. ooc . › my edits .#. ooc . › what's a god to a nonbeliever .#. ooc . › psa .#. ooc . › references .#. ooc . › resources .#. interaction . › ic thread.

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comatosebunny09 · 6 months

Text

prey | astarion a.

summary: he makes you feel like small, feeble prey. something to be slowly devoured and savored. warnings: steamy, language now playing: desert rose [ slowed ] - lolo zouaï notes: i blame astarion’s bedroom eyes for this. tagging: @nanaoise08squad

The tavern is lively tonight. Filled to the brim with laughter, music, and the clinking of mugs.

You hang back from the festivities, tucked away from the other patrons at a secluded table. Not lonely. Just prefer solitude.

You raise your mug to your companions every so often as they venture past, their mirth infectious.

There’s a smile on your face. Your body buzzes from the ale settling in your belly. You nurse your tankard, the contents of it gently sloshing about.

A laugh occasionally touches your lips. Watching everyone enjoy themselves is a welcomed sight, given the doom constantly looming over your shoulders.

Subconsciously, you find yourself sifting through the crowd in search of someone. A familiar thatch of white. Vermilion eyes. Sharp features. And like a beacon, you’re drawn to him, watching him chat up some pretty brunette on the other side of the bar.

You sit up on the barstool, unconsciously tugging at your collar. Feel your stomach plummet to your feet. Your lips part with shallow breaths, and your throat grows dry.

Who the hell is that? And why are they standing so close to him?

You’ve no time to coddle the envy blooming in your chest, for his gaze finds yours through the throng of people with laser precision. As if he sensed you looking his way, his eyes crinkle with the slightest hint of amusement.

Your heart stutters at the sight. You suddenly forget how to breathe. Trapped in a soundless stare-down, only the two of you seem to exist as the noise of the tavern fades into the background. It’s all a muddled mess to you, your senses heightened and all trained on Astarion.

His eyes dip into a mysterious shade of red whilst he studies you from beneath dark lashes. Makes you feel like small, feeble prey. Something to be slowly devoured and savored. Your bones licked clean and left on display on a mantle like a trophy.

And you still can’t quite get the hang of breathing.

He pays no heed to the person in front of him. As if they were a mere distraction—an appetizer to sate him until the main course.

He continues to leisurely undo you with his eyes, stripping you down to the marrow until you’re raw and exposed. You feel heavy. Pulsing. Dizzy. Not sure if it’s the ale filling your head with static or the depth of his stare.

Whatever the cause, you tear yourself from your seat. Wend through the crowd, gulping down air as you propel yourself into one of the dark and secluded back rooms.

The noise of the tavern peters into silence.

You press your back against a cool, textured wall, fighting to get your head back on straight. You clutch your chest. Screw your eyes shut.

Breathe. Breathe.

You realize all too late that you’re not alone.

The room’s pressure shifts. And like a prowler, he emerges from the shadows. Slow and meticulous in his steps, ingesting you with those devastating eyes aglow in the darkness, and his brows quirk with intrigue.

You can’t get your limbs to work—to move. So Astarion easily traps you between the hard press of his body and the wall, and he frames either side of your head on bent arms. The hunger in his gaze never leaves, only growing whilst his face slinks in. You swallow thickly, your legs ready to give way.

You’re a sheep cornered in a wolf’s den. Gazing up at him, your lids feeling so very heavy, your head swimming. He smells divine. Feels even better. You unconsciously tangle your fingers in the collar of his coat, drawing him closer.

His lips pan in, his lids shuttering, lashes thick. You stand on the tips of your toes, waiting with bated breath. Ever patient. Obedient. But the kiss never comes.

Instead, he teases you with the promise of one. Grazes your lips with his, sparkles of delight flittering across your face. He releases little pleased, hoarse groans you have to strain your ears to hear. And he revels in this, torturing you so. Coaxing petulant whines from your throat, and you kick your feet like an impatient child.

“Astarion,” you rasp.

“My love?” The rumble of his voice is heady. Makes you throb. His lips brush against yours again, kissing along the outskirts of your mouth, causing the delicate skin to tingle pleasantly.

“Why do you insist on being such a little shit?”

A chuckle. His nose nuzzles along yours, his hands cupping your neck below your jawline, thumbs smoothing over your chin and angling your head further back. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Astarion,” you growl. “Just…gods dammit, just kiss me already.”

You’re desperate. Breathy. Teetering along the edge, and you have to cling to him to keep from careening over it. Your senses are overhauled, filled only with Astarion. Too hot. Too many clothes. Can’t think straight. Can’t—

“Oh, darling,” Astarion croons, continuing his cruel game of keep-away when you move to close the gap between your mouths. “Where’s the fun in giving you exactly what you want whenever you demand it?” He noses along the torrid flesh of your cheek, and you can hear the cruel smile taking hold of his voice. “I rather like the sound of you begging.”

You scoff. Try to kiss him again, but Astarion won’t have any of that.

“Now.” He zooms in, ghosting his lips over yours, fully intending to make you suffer. You lunge forward as if to bite him, earning another low, guttural laugh that you feel in the depths of your belly. “From the top, my love.”

#astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x tav #astarion drabble #bg3 fanfiction

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dcartcorner · 6 months

Text

a fantasy/dnd au because i can't help myself and the thought of ancient blue dragon simon who disguises himself as a human brings me joy.

please enjoy this small one shot ft. s1 adventuring crew (please excuse any errors, writing is not my strong suit!)

Rumours at the Tavern Characters: Tim, Simon, Sasha, Martin, Jon Ships: none

It wasn’t what Tim would consider a nice tavern. He had performed in nicer ones, ones where the counters were meticulously cleaned and the patrons were at least passably polite to the serving staff, and a mug of ale would set you back a silver piece. This place was not quite like that.

Then again, Tim had been to worse sorts of dives.

The Lazy Storm sat right smack in the middle of the two kinds of taverns, perched on the cliff side overlooking the choppy seas of the western coast, amidst the fjords in the town of Killn’s Rest. Not a bad place, not a good place. Just a place, somewhere to find some warmth, a quick meal, and something to drink. It was also the sort of tavern that didn’t take fire hazards all that seriously, if the number of people making merry that evening within its walls was any indication of the owner’s outlook on safety. It was busy, to the point where crowds spilled out onto the street even though the summer had come to a close and the winter, with its biting chill, was fast approaching.

Perhaps that’s why Tim noticed him - the old man. Because he was sitting on the bar top.

There were few other seats around. Sasha had managed to charm their way to a table of their own earlier in the night while Martin tried to see about rooms, and their party had stayed planted at said table all night as the crowds slowly but surely filtered in for the evening. They were lucky, in this regard, as many other people were forced to stand shoulder to shoulder. Not that old man, though. Perched on the edge of the bar like a bird, smiling kindly at the person next to him.

And his choice of seat was not the only peculiar thing about him, Tim thought. He wore clothing that Tim could only describe as ornate. If this was one of those nice taverns Tim had played in, he might have expected that sort of the look, but this wasn’t one of those places. This was the Lazy Storm, and that man was incredibly overdressed.

“It’s weird, right?” Tim said aloud. Martin looked up, then glanced around. Sasha craned her neck to look at him. Jon didn’t look up from his book. Tim nodded in the direction of the old man. “Someone dressed like that in a place like this. That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” Sasha shrugged.

“Where?” Martin asked.

“Good on him, getting dressed up to go out for a night,” said Sasha.

“I think it’s weird,” said Tim. Because it was.

“Where?” Martin asked again. “Oh. Him? I mean. I suppose it’s… well, it’s a little odd.” The twist of a frown at the corners of Martin’s mouth. “Someone should offer him a seat.”

“Seems happy enough where he is,” Sasha said with a huff of a laugh as the other man at the bar leaned closer to the old man and whispered something to him.

“Could we please focus,” Jon finally interjected, shutting the book.

Tim rolled his eyes as he took a swig of his drink. It wasn’t silver coin ale. This was a copper-piece-per-tankard-ale, and it tasted like it. Which was to say, it tasted like a good night in the making.

“Have any of you actually asked anyone about any jobs yet?” Jon said.

“Asked just about as many people as you,” Tim said. By this, Tim meant: none.

“There’s a rat problem in the sewers,” Sasha said, “according to one guard. Doesn’t pay well, but at least it pays.”

“There are bandits, too,” Martin added. “Uh, just out east of here. Somewhere. Apparently they have a den in the woods? But I think someone might’ve already taken that one.”

“Mm.” Jon was not impressed. He looked over at Tim. “Anything?”

Tim raised his hands. “Don’t look at me, I can get a job whenever.” Plenty of people out there who were willing to pay for some good music. “Or did you forget who bought the rooms and drinks?”

Jon leaned his elbows on the table and put his face in his hands momentarily. Then looked up at Tim and said, “Could you please just. Ask.”

“Jon, maybe we should just… take a night off?” Martin suggested. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing…”

Jon shot him a look and that was the end of that conversation.

Well, didn’t matter. Jon didn’t have to join them in having a good night if he didn’t want to. Tim wasn’t going to let it bother him, and he got up to go order another drink with his own hard earned money, ignoring how much lighter his coin purse was compared to earlier that day.

Why was it his problem anyway, that they didn’t have much in the way of coin? He wasn’t going to let it get to him. It wasn’t getting to him. He and Sasha and Martin were just some poor souls dragged along on Jon’s pointless quest to find some answers that had nothing to do with any of them. So why did it matter?

It didn’t matter.

Dammit.

The old man was not the first person he asked that night about a job. As he waited for a drink he asked the person to his left and to his right, but neither of them were keen on talking - and it took him a little too long to realize they were part of their own adventuring party based on the matching bands on their arms, and wouldn’t be sharing any information with him. He tried to ask the bartender as well, but she was too busy to give him any answer that was not a look of inconvenience.

Tim sighed. And he kept asking, until finally his route around the tavern brought him to the old man at the bar. Sat there, dressed strangely, looking for all the world like he should be just about anywhere else.

“Are you quite alright?” the old man asked him. Tim blinked. “Not that I mind, but I’ve been told it’s rude to stare.”

Had he been staring? “Sorry,” Tim said. The old man smiled at him.

“Something I can do for you?” the old man asked.

Tim looked around briefly. The other person with whom the old man had been speaking earlier that night was gone. “Don’t suppose there is,” Tim said. “Unless you know of any get rich quick jobs around this place.”

The old man chuckled. “Well now, I can think of a few, but I’m not entirely sure those are the type you’re looking for,” he said, resting his hands on the head of his cane which he had propped up on the empty edge of one of the bar-stools. “Tough times, out there. Or so I hear. Something about the supply and demand of it all, I think. Too many adventurers, too few problems that need solving! At least around these parts.” The old man sighed thoughtfully. “This coast isn’t what it used to be. Time was you couldn’t take two steps on the road without running into bandits or cultists or a proper mountain troll. Now you’d be lucky to find a good sized rat nest to clean up.”

“Yeah, well. Killing rats doesn’t pay well,” Tim said.

The old man smiled, watching Tim over the rim of his glasses. His eyes were sharply blue, Tim noticed. “No,” the man agreed. “No it doesn’t.” He tilted his head. “Terribly sorry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to go further afield to find anything.”

“Thanks anyway,” Tim said, defeated.

“Although,” the old man said as Tim was turning away. Tim paused and looked back at him. “I’ve heard a rumour. There have been a few ships that have come into the harbour with some particularly strange news out of the Shivering Straight. Up north. Word is there have been a handful of whaling ships that have gone missing around Helkelson Bay. Only a couple of survivors. Those that do manage to best the frostbite say… well. You know how sailors can be, always creating the most fanciful stories. A ghost ship, they say! The mayor of Helkelson isn’t altogether convinced it’s anything so peculiar as that, though I hear he’s offering a handsome reward to anyone willing to… solve the problem. Whatever that problem may be.”

“Helkelson?” Tim said.

“That’s right,” the old man replied with a smile. “Ask around the docks, I’d say. Plenty of merchant ships coming and going that way. Of course, it’s only a rumour.”

Tim smiled back. “Better than nothing.”

It was at that moment the old man’s companion returned and gave Tim a wary look. Tim took it as his cue to leave with a nod of thanks and an imaginary tip of the hat before he returned to the table to join his companions.

“Let me start,” he said to them, “by saying you’re welcome. Now, any of you been to the Shivering Straight?”

#tma #the magnus archives #dnd au #fantasy au #tim stoker #sasha james #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #simon fairchild #fic #one shot #yes tim is a bard #fanart

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minaturefics · 19 days

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The Same at Heart

Request from @tolkien-fantasy: Eomer or Aragorn falling for an extremely intelligent reader who is witty and charming, but can be insecure and is reclusive when she gets tired (plus does translation of languages like elvish).

A/N: Hello friend! Thanks for the request :) I picked Eomer for this because 1. there isn't enough Eomer love out there and 2. I feel like him + reader's reclusiveness would make an interesting angst point lol I hope you enjoy it!!!

Eomer x Reader

Fem reader

No content warnings

3.2k

---

Meduseld was alive with music and laughter. Torches blazed in their sconces, the great fireplace lit, and everything glowed golden. Chatter filled the room, punctuated by the stomps and claps of the dancers, along with the clink of cups and the calls for more ale. There was an arm-wrestling competition occurring at one end of the room, and some sort of card game at the other.

Eowyn grinned beside you, her face flushed, and gestured to the room. “Are you glad that you came with me, my friend? You do not get celebrations like this in Minas Tirith.”

You laughed. “No, you most certainly do not.”

You had been introduced to Eowyn in Minas Tirith, assigned to help her translate some of the texts in the Houses of Healing from Elvish to Weston, and over the weeks the two of you had grown close. Eowyn was thankful to have another woman to confide in, and you were delighted and refreshed by her different ways.

She craned her head and scanned the crowd. “Where in Arda is Eomer? It is not like him to take so long to wash and dress.”

Your heart lurched at his name. He had not been at the hall when you and Eowyn arrived from Minas Tirith — he was at the Glittering Caves attending some matter with Gimli — and you were still yet to see him.

You smoothed down your gown and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, wishing that the hall was not so warm. Were you dressed well enough? Eowyn had assured you that it was an informal affair, but your cotton and velvet dress would not have passed for an evening dress back in Gondor. Perhaps you should have worn one of your silk one’s instead. Maybe you could rush back to your room and change before Eomer arrived.

“Ah, here he comes now,” she said and your eyes followed her gaze to where Eomer had entered the room.

He was greeted by a chorus of cheers and raised tankards. He grinned at his people, friends and subordinates alike, clapping them on their shoulders and shouting replies across the long tables. You swallowed, taking him in. He looked gallant and radiant, his hair golden and his fine doublet accentuating his broad shoulders. He truly was just as handsome in his more casual wear as he was in his armour.

Eomer’s eyes met yours from across the room and your breath hitched, memories from before rushing back to you. Him, throwing his head back, laughing at your joke, the warm sound filling the room. Him, asking about your translations, brows furrowed and eyes alight with awe. Him, glancing back at you, gaze intense and heavy, as his convoy rode out of the city.

“I wonder…” Eowyn muttered, watching her brother cross the room, a strange smile on her face. You raised your eyebrows in a silent question but she shook her head and laughed. “It is nothing.”

“Sister,” Eomer greeted, pulling her into a hug and squeezing her until she let out a little squeak. “It is good to see you. I am happy that you managed to visit.” He released her and looked at you, a wide smile on his face. “And you as well, my lady. I am glad to see you here tonight. I did not think you were one for parties.”

“I enjoy them on occasion.” Your smile grew sly and teasing. “Provided that the company is agreeable.”

He chuckled. “And have you found us agreeable so far?”

“Much more agreeable now,” you said with a smirk.

A slight flush rose on his cheeks and he coughed and glanced away. Eowyn snickered beside you. “How is your work coming along?” he asked, eyes coming back to you.

“Well enough. The work is easy, but tedious. The texts are long and winding, and very specific, and one has to be careful of mistranslations, especially in such things like medicine and healing.”

“No, I suppose one would not wish to mistake a poison for a cure.”

“Would it surprise you, brother, that many cures come from poison?” Eowyn asked.

You nodded. “It is the dose that decides whether one lives or dies. Too much of something is never good.”

He looked around the room. “I do not think one can have too much merriment.”

“Ah, but one can have too much ale.”

He laughed, low and full. “I cannot argue with that, my lady.”

“You would do well not to argue at all,” Eowyn grinned. “Even Faramir sometimes shrinks back from her debates.”

“He does not!”

“I have actually seen him hide behind Boromir,” she laughed.

“I wonder,” he said, a little softer, “if you find us crude and unlearned here without the same sort of lore and literature.”

You shook your head. “Unlearned does not mean unwise. And language is language, whether written or spoken. The words and lessons of your people do not mean any less simply because they are not recorded in books and scrolls.”

He nodded slowly, but still looked unconvinced. Eowyn, as though sensing his unease, smiled and said, “Do you know she is learning Rohirric as well?”

His eyes lit up, eyebrows rising. “Truly?”

“Eowyn has been teaching me, though we have only just begun.” He nodded, gesturing for you to speak, and you laughed. “I would not dare embarrass myself in front of the king with my untrained speech.”

He opened his mouth to reply but someone called for him from across the room. He glanced behind, gave you an apologetic smile and a bow, and left. Eowyn then looped her arm through yours and suggested taking a turn about the room. The rest of the evening was filled with introductions and chatter, the Rohirrim curious about your work and you interested in their traditions and legends.

But soon the noise became overwhelming, voices and laughter and clattering all fighting for your attention, and the room began to feel stuffy, the air growing thick and the bodies just all a bit too close. You glanced around the room, searching for Eomer, and found him laughing with a group of his men.

Your stomach clenched and you sighed. It would have been nice to speak to him again before the night was over.

With a few words to Eowyn, you slipped out of the hall and down the corridor that led to your room. You let out a long breath, weariness suddenly overcoming you, and shut the heavy door behind you. Your room was still and quiet, warm from the smouldering coals in the fireplace, and you sank into the cushioned bench, melting into the blessed calm.

Eomer ran his brush along Firefoot’s body in short, sharp motions. He was due for a grooming, and while Eomer normally let the stableboys handle it, he felt he needed a distraction. The scent of wood and hay, musky and earthy, soothed him while he worked. He did not understand you. He did not understand you at all.

Did he say something to offend you? Or perhaps you had taken offence to the fact that he did not come back to speak to you at the party? He grumbled to himself. He had wanted to, but there were so many people vying for his attention. When he extricated himself from them, he searched for you in the sea of bodies, but your familiar face had vanished. And then for the next few days, you had shut yourself up in your room or had gone on walks alone along the Barrowfield.

He sighed and laid his brush down. He started to work on the mane, unravelling the braid and untangling the soft strands. Firefoot snorted in approval and Eomer rested his forehead on the horse's neck and inhaled. He smelled like sun and grass, leather and sweat. Oh, Firefoot. Always so sure and steady. Eomer wished he could share in that security.

Or maybe you were avoiding him because you found him uncultured and uninteresting. You were so frighteningly quick and clever, always ready with some sharp observation or wry comment. And how beautiful you looked, poring over books, ink smudged on your cheek, eyes alive in the candlelight. The Rohirrim may be noble and valourous, but perhaps to a renowned Gondorian scholar, even the king of such people still seemed rough and brutish.

“Eomer?” Eowyn called and he lifted his head. “What is it that troubles you?”

“It is nothing.”

She joined him by Firefoot and stroked the horse’s muzzle. “Do not lie to me, brother, I can see it in your eyes.”

He let out a short breath and looked into his sister’s eyes. When did her gaze stop being so piercing and mournful? When did they become so gentle? They looked so much like their mother’s. “It is your friend, the scholar.”

“What is it?” Her lips curled up in a playful smile. “Has my dear brother grown fond of her perhaps? I suspected as much when I saw you last night — I do not think I have seen you so well groomed in years! And you were even wearing scent — no, do not deny it, I smelled it when I hugged you.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks and he shook his head. “It does not matter, she would not return my feelings.”

“Eomer! How can you say that?”

“You cannot tell me that you are not aware of what the Gondorians think of us.” He began to pace the stable, gesturing with his hands. “Bema, I know you know — we spoke of such things when you married Faramir.”

“And Faramir and I are happier beyond belief, no matter what some people of the court may think — I do not see how this is any different. My friend does not hold such foolish opinions.” The eyes sharpened and the steel he had come to know so well returned. “And do not forget, you are a king.”

“I am also a man,” he snapped. And then, in a rush, “I seek love as much as anyone else. I want to be wanted as I am, not for my title or my land.”

Her jaw tensed, and for a moment he was convinced she was about to unleash a lecture, but she sighed and shook her head. “Come, tell me what is on your mind.”

“I do not think she returns even a fraction of what I feel. We did not get to speak much that evening and I thought we could talk more in the coming days, but I have seen so little of her.” He ran his hand through his hair. “She is polite enough at meals, but afterwards she simply vanishes.”

She smiled indulgently. “She is just tired.”

“Tired? The journey from Minas Tirith was not strenuous was it? Unless you failed to tell me about some mishap or event.” He narrowed his eyes at her.

She laughed. “It is not the journey that tires her but people and noise and merriment.”

“I do not understand.”

“Not everyone is inclined to as much merriment and conversation as you are, brother.”

“But she was not like this when I was in Minas Tirith.”

“You had visited in a lull of parties and balls,” she said with exasperation. “I have known her longer than you have. This is simply how she is.”

“It is… it is not because of me?”

“Bema, brother. How could it be because of you?”

He looked down at his hands, callused and creased with dirt. “Perhaps she thinks me boring.”

Eowyn threw her arms up. “You are infuriating. Eomer, did she not spend most of her evenings conversing with you when you were in the city?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “She asked me to tell her stories of our forefathers. And I had asked her about the nature of Elvish speech.”

“And did she not agree to come with me to Edoras when she had no obvious reason to?”

He paused and looked at her. “Are you implying she had come to… to see me?”

“If you do not believe me, ask her yourself!”

His heart swooped in his chest, spirit lifting. He knew his sister; she would not send him forth if she did not have confidence. Was it truly possible that you felt the same way? There was no way to know for sure if he did not ask you himself. He glanced out of the stables at the steps rising to Meduseld.

“I will go,” he said. “After I have had a ride.”

He stroked Firefoot’s cheek. Yes, a ride would rouse his heart and wake his courage. And then he would go find you.

You stood up and stretched, rolling your shoulders and circling your wrists. The evening sun was slanting into your room, casting long orange rectangles across your desk and the floor. With a satisfied sigh, you closed the two books on your table and closed your ink pot. You looked out at the thatched roofs, eyes drifting down the hill to the green Barrowfield and onto the plains beyond. In your chest you felt the stirrings of loneliness, the pull to find someone and speak and laugh with them.

Perhaps you should search Eomer out. After all, it was him that compelled you to follow Eowyn to Edoras. You smiled to yourself. Eomer with his fiery hazel eyes, his expressive brows, his hearty laugh. He was radiant when he spoke of Rohan’s heroes, voice rising and falling with the retelling, hands moving, pantomiming the scenes. A man so well liked, so well loved, by his people. Your smile faltered. Did he find you bookish and boring?

A knock sounded on your door and you walked over. It was probably Eowyn come to prod and poke you when she thought you had spent too many days in isolation. “I was just going to find you, Eo —” You flung the door open. “—mer?”

He stood in front of you, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. The scent of hay and musk wafted in and you wondered if he had just come in from a ride. He always looked handsome in his formal clothes but he looked best like this, slightly dishevelled, hair wild and clothes rumpled.

“I did not expect to see you at my door,” you blurted.

“I wished to speak to you.” His eyes darted over your shoulder into your room. “That is, if you are not tired.”

“Of course,” you said, smiling, and stepped out into the corridor. “Would you like to walk with me? I think some fresh air will do me some good. To the garden at the back?”

He nodded and you made your way out. The small patch of green, shaded with a few trees and bordered by shrubs, overlooked the city. You walked the dirt path to the edge and gazed out. The city was winding down for the day. Horses were being led to the stables, shops were packing their wares, and the delectable scent of roast meat and onions drifted out of the houses.

“Even Minas Tirith is like this in the evenings,” you mused. “People are the same wherever you go.”

“Do you truly believe that?” He sounded strange and strained behind you. “There are a great many people who would disagree with you.”

“They are fools,” you said, laughing. “At our hearts, we are the same. Do we all not yearn for a moment of peace in the sun? The comfort of a safe home? The arms of one who loves us?”

He came up beside you and looked over his land. He was solid and reassuring and you felt the urge to rest your head on his shoulder. How lovely it would be to have more evenings like this, looking over a prospering people, a friend, a lover, next to you. You fidgeted with your hands. Eowyn had said that she suspected her brother might harbour tender feelings for you. But if he did, why did he not act? He was an impassioned man, was he not? Perhaps she had been mistaken.

Perhaps he thought you too soft, too plain. Unworthy for a valourous king.

The dinner bell rang out from inside the house. You looked behind your shoulder and turned on your heel. “Ah, we should go in.”

“My lady, wait,” he said, reaching out to grasp your wrist.

“Eomer?” you glanced down and he moved to withdraw his hand but you wrapped your fingers around his before he could escape your reach.

He stared at your joined hands before his head snapped up, eyes wide. “Why did you come here? To Edoras? My sister said it was to see me but I can scarcely imagine —”

“Yes.” Your heart sped up. Why was he asking? He would only be asking if he —

He broke out into a wide smile and drew you closer. “So it is really true! Tell me, my lady, do you care for me?” His eyes darted away, then back to you. “I am not learned in poetry and prose, and perhaps if I was I could express myself in language more fit for someone like you. But even then, there are no words that can compare to the plain truth. You have my heart, my lady, and there will be no other for me.”

Your heart stopped. Then started again. Laughter rose in your chest and you giggled. You reached for his cheek. His beard was soft, his skin warm. “There is no other for me as well.”

“You would suffer an unlearned man?”

“You are not unlearned. Your knowledge and wisdom simply lies elsewhere. Valar, I wish you would stop thinking that of yourself.” He chuckled and you smiled. “And you? You would suffer a scholar? Whose mind is forever turning and thinking?”

“I would hardly call it suffering.” His smile turned sly. “Though, if you feel you suffer from your mind, I could perhaps aid with that.”

“What do you —”

He cupped your cheek and brought his lips to yours. They were soft and full, insistent but gentle. He tugged you closer and rested his hand on your waist. He smelled like grass and hay and the lingering scent of bergamot. You drew back and his lips chased after you, capturing them in another kiss. You sighed, relaxing in his arms, and curled your fingers into his hair.

“We should go in,” you whispered, pulling back. “Or Eowyn will come find us.”

“I do not mind.” He laughed. “It shall be repayment for all the times I stumbled upon her and Faramir.”

“Well, I mind. I do not need her teasing me all the way back to Minas Tirith.” He grimaced and you stroked his cheek with your thumb. “I will not be gone forever, my love. There is still work to be done with the translations, and my things are all still there. Do not fret, we can write letters while we are apart.”

“I suppose then, I should get used to picking up my pen.” His fingers flexed on your waist. “But do not think I shall be squandering your presence here. I intend to get my fill of you before you leave.”

“You are always welcome to me, my love,” you said, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Now until forever.”

#eomer x y/n #eomer x you #eomer x reader #eomer fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lotr fic #eomer

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bg-brainrot · 3 months

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Hugs for a Vampire (Astarion x GN!Reader) - Chapter 1: After Raiding the Goblin Camp

Chapter 1: After Raiding the Goblin Camp

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

Genre: Fluffy, Filling in Canon

Rating: Teen

Tags: cw: Alcohol, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Act 1, pre-romance, awkwardness

WC: 1.3k words, 1/18 chapters

Summary: This hug takes place during the party with the tieflings, after raiding the Goblin Camp. Both Tav and Astarion are interested in each other, but love isn't in the air yet. Welcome to the awkward, uncomfortable first hug.

Ao3 | [Hug2] | Hugs for a Vampire Masterlist

“Hey!” Karlach yells over the crowd of tieflings. “Take a drink if you’re excited to be alive!”

Cheers move through the group and more than a fair share of tankards are raised in agreement. A dozen different tieflings are hurriedly gulping down their celebratory booze at Karlach’s command.

The barbarian may not be able to touch anyone, but she’s certainly taking the time to enjoy everyone else’s company in another way: by getting them all thoroughly trashed before it's time for bed.

You watch from your place near the fire, laughing as more than a few tieflings start swaying. For your part, you’re enjoying the night thoroughly.

The tieflings’ joy is contagious and their alcohol is strong, meaning that you and your companions have a certain fluidity about you that you may not have had on another night. You’ve already turned down a few surprise advances from your companions, leaving you somewhat giddy.

Not only that, but you actually took one companion up on their offer– you’ve arranged to meet with Astarion later, which you’re admittedly quite looking forward to. You’ve only known each other a few weeks, but he’s a handsome man who seems to appreciate your chaotic humor.

Initially, you thought you may not get along. After all, two rogues, one of whom drank from the other? The perfect recipe for disaster between violence, petty theft, and an abundance of lies. But somehow you’ve been making it work, moving and killing in unison. The goblin camp truly didn’t know what hit them. There is something about the way you two move together in combat that leaves you aching, wondering how well you might move together in other ways.

I won’t have to wonder much longer, you remind yourself, lost in a blissfully inappropriate daydream.

So distracted you are that you completely miss the object of your thoughts approaching you from behind, calling your name. “Don’t tell me you’re nodding off now, darling,” Astarion says, right next to you now. You jolt slightly at that before he continues. “Not when the night is so young.”

“I’m awake,” you respond, returning to the present. “I was just enjoying the lull. Everyone seems to want to talk today.”

“Ah, yes,” he murmurs. “I saw them speaking to you. I suppose I can’t blame them, you are a delectable little treat.”

You laugh and shake your head at him. “You don’t need any more flattery, I rejected them all. I already have plans, don’t I?”

He smirks, eyes crinkling in satisfaction. “That you do. I knew you had excellent taste.”

You wonder if that’s why he approached you, to ensure that you didn’t take anyone else up on their offers of carnal pleasure. You’re about to ask him when Alfira pops up on your other side.

“Helloooo,” she slurs, clearly in her cups, her heroic song long forgotten. “What are you both smiling about?”

“Oh, just discussing every sordid detail about our plans tonight,” Astarion says, leaning in conspiratorially. “In fact, it may even be of interest to you. Inspiration for some more romantic songs?”

Your face remains placid as your insides squirm. “I don’t think Alfira needs to hear all that.”

Alfira grabs Astarion by the shoulder eagerly and pulls him in for a side hug. She sways with him for a moment before responding, “Gods yes, I have been wanting to branch out. Musically, of course.”

“Of course,” he repeats before winking at you. You decide to trust him for the moment. “What would you like to know?”

With the kind of blind dexterity that only a drunk can exhibit, the bard pulls you in by the shoulders as well. The three of you are huddled, as if discussing an elaborate plan. “Ooooo, I’m just so excited,” she says, squeezing. “Tell me everything.”

You face Astarion head on now, both of you compressed to the same height. Catching his eye, you raise an eyebrow at him questioningly, as if to say, Now what?

Astarion doesn’t bat an eye at your concern, all practiced charm. Turning to Alfira he says, “Well, I heard that our newly minted hero here had to reject half a dozen suitors.”

Ah, you think. He wants to gloat, for everyone else to hear that he’s the one you chose tonight. You don’t mind, you haven’t exactly been subtle about your growing interest in Astarion. Some of your team had even remarked on your choice to seek him out first tonight.

A dramatic gasp escapes the bard. “Why would they do that?” Alfira’s eyes glitter with glee and a drunken glaze.

“Supposedly,” he pauses, turning back to you and locking eyes, “It was all to feel the embrace of their one, true love.”

You roll your eyes at this, and he laughs upon receiving the reaction he was hoping for. “That’s not what I heard,” you respond, taking his bait without hesitation.

“Really?” Alfira’s head spins to yours and you can feel her resting on your shoulder heavily as she stumbles. “What did’ya hear?”

“It turns out that a certain vampire,” your eyes dart to his before continuing, “has been pining pathetically for quite some time. Something about how his undead heart may never beat again without his valiant leader by his side?”

The bard nods in understanding. “Of course, vampires probably feel love…” She hiccups. “Differently?”

You nod back, not breaking eye contact with Astarion’s amused look. “From what I gather, he may never love like this again. It’s only natural that his darling leader would embrace him tonight.”

“Wow,” Alfira breathes out, awe-stricken by both of your words, and utterly oblivious to the playful smiles on both of your faces. “It sounds like, whichever of you is correct, love is in the air.”

Before either of you can respond, she takes you both by the shoulders and pushes you together. You both grunt in surprise as you narrowly avoid headbutting each other, your bodies pressing together forcibly with all the strength this small tiefling can muster.

“Embrace then!” she demands loudly.

Faces almost touching, stumbling into each other's arms, you can’t help but think that your taunting may have gone a step too far this time. You look to see that Astarion seems similarly surprised, not anticipating such gusto from Alfira.

Our bodies will be closer than this soon enough, you think to yourself, attempting to push down the awkwardness that seems to be bubbling up from a simple hug. But something seems different, weirdly more intimate, about this. Especially with how clearly Astarion is hesitating, looking like a cat trapped against its will. “Well?” you hiss at him quietly, so that Alfira can’t make it out.

The vampire chooses to ignore you, narrowing his eyes at the bard. “What a splendid idea, Alfira,” he says through gritted fangs. It’s then that he gives you quite possibly the worst hug you’ve ever received, all uncomfortable angles and stiff joints.

Gods below, someone get me out of this, you think.

Luckily, Alfira is too drunk to notice your discomfort. Utterly pleased with the display of affection, she says, “Ahhh, true love! I need to go write about this.” She practically falls off of the two of you, patting you both on the shoulders. “Thank you for inspiring me, and have fuuuun.” She teeters off, back toward the revelry, leaving you two alone and standing far too close.

You take a step back from him and break the silence, “That was all your fault, you know.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t expect her to be such a deranged drunk.”

“So we just pretend that never happened?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him. “Otherwise, I don’t know how much fun I’ll have later.”

Astarion returns back to his normal self in a heartbeat. “Pretend what just happened?”

“Good,” you say, nodding. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to reject at least two more people to keep up with the bard’s newest song.”

The vampire laughs, low and rumbling. “See you later, darling.”

#astarion #astarion x tav #fanfic #astarion fic #astarion x reader #rogue + rogue #astarion fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion fluff #astarion masterlist #hugs for a vampire #hfav #astarion x gn reader #astarion x gn!tav #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion

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ashintheairlikesnow · 8 months

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The Heretic's Confession, Chapter Three

CW: Drunkenness, alchohol in general, some implied dubcon starting at *** and ending at the next ***, magical mind manipulation, restraints, religious talk

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

One year prior to present-day

He still thinks of himself as Brother Grigori, in his mind, even though he walked away from the temple in the middle of the night months ago. He abandoned his goddess and her open arms in a fit of rage and grief, in the aftermath of a week’s worth of nightmares.

In his mind, he’s still Brother Grigori. To the world outside, though, he’s Greg. Or, well, mostly he’s the drunk over there.

He keeps his white robes carefully wrapped in canvas and twine, hidden in a bag on the bench beside him. He’s anonymous like this, just wearing a simple linen shirt and pants, rope sandals to take the edge off the boiling summer heat. His skin’s tanned to a constant warm, light brown now and his hair’s a mop he doesn’t bother to brush more than once every few days, grown out and streaked from sunshine.

No one would know him for a priest. Dromada’s Chosen seclude themselves in the temples, spend little time in the light. Priests are pale men in white robes who smile without pain or bitterness, and they certainly don’t hate themselves and sit up at night wishing they were dead. They absolutely don’t drink themselves into a stupor every single night so they won’t wake up screaming.

He looks nothing like the hero they made of him through well-intentioned lies and constantly expanding gossip, and that’s exactly how he likes it.

There are already four separate popular songs about his supposed courage and bravery. Standing up against the wicked bandits who want to tear the kingdom apart in the name of his goddess, his stalwart and true faith terrifying the evil men and women back into the dark of the great, thick woods.

None of these songs tell a story he recognizes as anywhere close to what happened.

He’s come to this tavern every day this week because it’s the one place where he never has to overhear any of the tripe they’ve made about his life. The barman, who also owns the inn upstairs, hates him - or rather, hates the idea of him from the songs, and has banned all the music that mentions his name, or even the thought of him.

Grigori is deeply grateful for him for it.

All the pretty nonsense played on lutes or sung in warbling voices about Dromada’s son, who stood up to the evil spat out by the Kaila trees… It’s all just lies, pointless lies to comfort the people. They want to think one man can make a difference. What could he even tell them? He couldn’t even save his own brothers in the temple. The men who had raised him from his infancy, and taught him to be holy and pure. When they could have used him, he wasn’t there.

If I had been there, I’d just have died with them.

The thought brings no comfort. It’s what should have happened, but didn’t.

He takes another drink, letting the liquor burn hot down his throat. He had never had anything stronger than watered-down wine in the temple before it all happened, and now he isn’t sure when he’s last been sober at all once the sun goes down.

Sobriety, for him, comes in bursts of hangovers - headaches and nausea and a stomach desperate for bread and butter nonetheless. Sobriety is the return of his self-hatred after he had spent the night before successfully drinking it away. Or sometimes not as successfully, but on those nights he just drank more and sooner or later he fell asleep with his head on the bar.

As long as he keeps paying, the barman doesn’t mind mopping up when ‘Greg’ spills a tankard or two when he forgets to keep holding onto it. Even if he suspects the man goes through his things when he’s passed out, he hasn’t said anything and he hasn’t kicked him out for being a priest who broke the vow of sobriety.

Grigory lets his head fall back against the wall, eyes closed. So many vows. He’s broken, what, two of them? To always wear his robes and make himself known as a Chosen of the goddess, and to pursue always sober living, staying away from wine that isn’t watered and all alcohol otherwise.

That leaves… poverty, chastity, obedience, and serenity.

He’s probably broken serenity, too, actually. Is being drunk all the time serene? Or the opposite? His hair brushes against his cheeks, and he wonders if blood vessels have begun to break, if he’ll get ruddy like the drunks he saw sometimes as a child, leaving offerings to Dromada and begging her forgiveness for the sins they confessed to the priests.

Dromada forgives, you have only to ask. So you have requested, so Her forgiveness is given. Walk in new peace and be free of your chains.

He hasn’t confessed any sins since the day the temple priests died and he didn’t. Not that it matters, not anymore.

Dromada isn’t listening. He isn’t sure if She ever did.

A cheery voice speaks entirely too closely to him, making him jump as his heart skips a beat. The voice is bright, slightly raspy and deeply masculine. “Well, don’t you need a haircut, a bowl of stew, and some clean shoes? Not necessarily in that order, of course.”

He blinks his eyes open, wincing a little as the light stings - even as dim as it is in here, the light stings. He needs to drink more. “What?”

A handsome man smiles down at him, a knit hat pulled low on his head, until it covers even the tips of his ears. White-blond hair sticks out the bottom over his forehead like hay, straight as a bone and every which way, but there’s a hint of closely-shorn hair just above his ears that suggests the sides are shaved. Unusually, his eyes are a thick and glossy black, with no sign of the shift between iris and pupil. It’s all one color, and seems to suck light in rather than reflect it. The stranger’s tall, having to lean over just to talk to Grigory where he sits, but he’s also lean, like a sapling ready to bend in the wind rather than break. “I said, you need a haircut.” The stranger reaches out and twines a bit of Grigori’s curly brown hair around his finger, letting it brush against his cheek.

He watches Grigori shiver with a slight, half-cocked smile, black eyes sparkling with a kind of good humor and interest that feels as dangerous as a threat.

“You also need a bowl of stew and some clean shoes. Sadly, only one of those can I be of assistance with. Bowl of stew, bit of bread? My treat, of course.”

“I… are you asking me?” The stranger nods, and Grigori hesitates… then sighs, and looks down, eyeing his sandals. Are they that dirty? They look fine to him. “No, but thank you. I am not hungry.”

“Don’t eat much these days, do you?”

Grigori’s frown deepens. “I eat when I am hungry.”

“No, you drink when you’re hungry. But you’re going to eat now.” The stranger laughs, bright and kind of beautiful, and Grigori blinks, his frown fading. He watches the man cross the room, calling out his order to the tavern’s owner, who looks over at Grigori with eyebrows raised. Grigori just shrugs, and goes back to his drink.

Or he tries to.

He has to stop when the stranger swoops in with two bowls of stew and a plate of bread balanced on the inside of one elbow, like a man who has waited tables in inns all his life. He then swipes the tankard from Grigori and chugs it all down, drops running from the corners of his mouth down over the long line of his throat.

Grigori’s mouth feels, suddenly, rather dry - for reasons Dromada would frown on, but Dromada already allowed his brothers to be sacrificed. He’s not sure he believes in her forgiveness and mercy anymore. No goddess who cannot protect her most devoted can be much of a goddess at all, can she?

“I see you undressing me with your eyes,” The stranger teases, and Grigori blushes even more deeply, dropping his eyes hurriedly back down to the steaming bowl of stew on the table before him, picking up his spoon with fumbling fingers and getting a bit of meat - cheap cut of beef cooked slow over a fire until it tasted as good as the richest man’s steak - and faking a consummate interest in the shimmering fat that had settled atop the broth. “None of that until we’re done getting some food in you. And no more beer until you’re full, either. Try dunking the bread in, it’s great.”

Grigori nods without looking up, afraid to see the sparkle in those eyes again. He’s never had anyone look at him like that before. Being raised by the priests, well… when you’re wearing Dromada’s robes, the people know you’re pure.

He feels like the stranger isn’t very pure at all.

“What’s-... thank you, for the stew,” He says around mouthfuls, discovering once he starts eating that he can’t seem to get himself to stop. His stomach growls after the first bite and somehow he finishes the bowl and starts sopping it up with bread in record time. “What’s your name?”

“Ooooh, he’s curious now that he can think,” The stranger says, still bright and cheerful. Grigori watches the line of his body as he sits back, fingers interlocked behind his head and elbows bent, kicking up his feet to rest his heels on an empty chair. “The formal name is Bohlinde hir Maksma en Ygridsen, which I hate. Call me Bohli.”

“You have a nobleman’s name?” Grigori’s curiosity gets the best of him and he looks up, eyebrows raising. “Or… partly. Maks is a noble house-”

“My mother was quite the little lady indeed,” Bohli says, and his smile twists sharp and cynical. Somehow it suits his equally sharp features, and Grigori feels an unsettling, unfamiliar shiver roll through him at the sight. Something about the room feels a little overheated, but when he glances over, there’s no fire in the fireplace, no reason for it. “My father… well. Ygridsen-”

“I know what it means.”

“You do?” Bohli’s smile stretches somehow even wider.

“Yes. We do training, in such things at-... at school.” He catches himself almost too late. He doesn’t share that he was a priest - no priest leaves his order, and they might find out who he is. He couldn’t stand it if that happened. He’d shrivel up and die, if the people had to see what their great hero really is. “Ygridsen means ‘god’s son’. You don’t have a father.”

“Well, I mean. Technically I have one. Just not the one my mother was married to when I was born.” He winks, and Grigori’s eyes narrow more in confusion than distaste. Bohli must misread it, though, because he sighs almost dramatically and grabs a hunk of bread himself, spreading it with thick butter. “Oh, what. Listen, my mother had an idea. It didn’t pan out for her, and here I am. Besides, you should be happy with me being a bastard.”

Grigori finds himself oddly fixated on the sight of Bohli’s long, thin fingers as he lifts the bread to his mouth and bites. A bit of butter sticks to one lip, melting against it. There are crumbs at the corners of his mouth. Grigori wants to do… something to it. But he doesn’t know what. “Why?”

“Because the man my mother was married to was ugly as a dog with mange and about half as graceful,” Bohli says, bright and cheerful, and then grins at Grigori’s shocked half-laugh in return. “There we go. See, I knew you’d be fun, given the chance.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Let me buy you another drink, since I finished yours.” Bohli lifts a hand and the barman finds his way over, pints of beer already ready to go.

Bohli pays for it all, seemingly no end to the coins he has on hand. At some point beer becomes whiskey, heady and too strong, and the room runs together along with all the people in it. Grigori opens up, a little - he doesn’t tell the truth about who he is, but he and Bohli talk about the dangers of travel in the countryside. Bohli nods sympathetically as Grigori explains how careful he is to avoid the Kaila and the bandits within, and how it means that he must always take the longer, winding route everywhere he goes. His words slur but Bohli seems to understand, or at least is polite enough to pretend to.

Grigori hasn’t realized just how lonely he is until he has someone to talk to and discovers himself utterly unable to stop.

Couching his words carefully, he even shares with Bohli that he is traveling because of the untimely murders of his family a year ago, and Bohli nods and murmurs comforting things and puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing one thumb back and forth in a way that sends a strange heat deep in Grigori’s stomach. He tips his head, looking at that hand, a little confused by its placement there. And far more confused by the fact that he doesn’t want it to stop being placed there, unless it moves down.

“I think I know how to help you,” Bohli says, and Grigori doesn’t know when it happened but the man’s lips are moving against his ear. His breath is hot and Grigori has to hold back a sound, something odd and helpless.

Is this-?

This is temptation. Sins of impurity, unchastity. This is his body wanting another’s, more shameful than the nights he wakes up in damp sheets from sweat and has to furtively clean and purify himself after the impure dreams that the priests say are natural, but will fade, in time.

Dromada’s priests are dead. The men who found him, raised him, made him one of their own… slaughtered by the Kaila-born bandits, destroyed. What use is chastity to a priest with no temple?

Grigori has to hold back a groan when Bohli’s fingers drift up to graze up the side of his neck, up into the nape, into his hair.

“You have a room here?” Bohli asks, all hushed voice and too much breathing against thin, sensitive skin.

Grigori nods, not trusting his voice, and grabs his bag and stands so fast he knocks his chair over, making Bohli laugh that beautiful brilliant bell-like laughter, drawing the eyes of the room.

Everyone knows what they’re about to do.

Everyone.

Just by the sight of Grigori all but fleeing to the stairs and the back half of the building, Bohli hot on his heels, still laughing.

****

Grigori has barely dropped his bag and closed the door when Bohli slams into him, surprisingly strong for such a lithe body, shoving his back against a wall and kissing him with a fervor that steals every ounce of willpower he might ever have had to resist.

The world is still spinning, from desire or drink he can no longer tell, when Bohli drops to his knees and yanks Grigori’s pants down until they tangle around his ankles. “Stay still,” Bohli orders, and takes him - already half-hard even not quite knowing what comes next - into his hand. The heat and grip makes Grigori shudder and let out a sound like a cry. It’s nothing like his own hand, nothing at all.

“Ssssshhh, keep it down,” Bohli says, but that teasing smile is back and his hand starts to move, stroking languidly. Grigori has to grit his teeth against the urge to simply spill right here and now, before anything has even gotten started. He swallows and closes his eyes so he can’t see the incredible sight of Bohli’s black eyes as his mouth closes slowly over him.

Grigori probably cries out again, but at some point Bohli stops shushing him and he no longer cares. He comes once and his knees buckle, but Bohli refuses to stop and brings him back to hardness again too soon, his back on the floor and the man straddling him, before he strokes him off a second time, laughing in a way that would be sinister if the pleasure weren’t so overwhelming.

Somehow they find their way into the bed, and Bohli brings him to his peak a third time, a mix of hands and mouth.

“Three,” Bohli whispers, when Grigori is boneless and sated. “That’s a sign if there ever was one.”

“Sign of… of what?” Grigori murmurs, eyes closed, drifting somewhere just before sleep claims him. Bohli is still fully clothed next to him, murmuring sweet soft things and tracing little patterns on his skin.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bohli whispers. “Just sleep, pretty man.” He kisses Grigori on the cheek, sweet and soft, and Grigori falls into the darkness, content in his sin, reveling in the broken vow. He can feel guilty and go to Confession tomorrow. He can worry about that when he wakes and has to feed the hangover again.

He sleeps without dreams, grateful for the peace he’s been given by this stranger he only just met, how his body’s release unlocked some rage and horror he’d been holding tightly within him and gave it the freedom to go.

***

He wakes with a groan, finding his arms stretched above his head, arching his back as he stretches further.

“Oh, damn,” Bohli’s voice says, husky and low. “Now that’s a pretty sight. They breed all your priests to look that good with your robes off?”

Grigori’s eyes fly open, and he moves to jerk himself upright, but his wrists catch. Wide eyes roll back to look up, and he finds his wrists tied with firm knots to the headboard of the bed. His ankles are tied to the posts at the end, forcing him to lie spread-eagled, naked as the day he was born.

“Wh-... what-”

He turns to look, wincing against the stinging headache and the hangover throbbing behind his eyes, and sees Bohli standing over in the corner. He’s surrounded by the contents of Grigori’s bag, the white robes laid out on the floor, picking up the first hints of dust, along with everything else he has brought with him or bought since he left.

“Why-... I have nothing to steal,” Grigori starts, his body washing cold with something close to fear. He broke his vows for a man who will rob him? What a small mean awful thing to commit such a sin for. “Nothing worth buying!”

“Mmmmn, beg to differ, but I could see how you might think so.” Bohli steps carefully over and around Grigori’s only possessions, until he sits next to him on the bed. He leans over, patting him on the stomach as if soothing a frightened animal. “You have lots to offer, though, Brother Grigori.”

His heart skips a beat. “Why-... why did you call me?”

“Oh, silly holy man. I’ve been looking for you for a year. I’ve been following you for a month. I guess I owe you the twenty marks, though, since it took me this long. Guess I didn’t know where you’d go. Never occurred to me you’d just… fucking stop being a priest. I’ll pay you later.” Bohli grins. “In kisses.”

Grigori’s eyes widen. In a burst of panic and rage, his vision blurs and then clears again, his headache fading. “You!”

“Me!” Bohli grins. “Me indeed. You didn’t forget me completely, then?”

“You… you bastard-”

“Right again!”

“-you killed my family-”

“Technically, that wasn’t me, but Harren did it on my orders, so I guess kind of-”

“Why?!” The cry is one of sorrow, a barely-human wail. Grigori’s grief wells back up and washes out of him, tears burning and running down his cheeks. “Why?!”

“Damn,” Bohli whispers.

Grigori can’t tell if he sounds guilty or like he wants to bed him again.

“Listen. I’ll explain later, once I get you back home.”

“Home?” For a second, Grigori stupidly thinks of the desecrated temple and its empty halls.

“To the Kaila. We live there-”

“Never!”

That just makes Bohli sigh, as if disappointed in him for his lack of enthusiasm. “Oh, hush. You’re going with me whether you like it or not, you know, Brother Grigori. I have need of a priest.”

“You… no.” Grigori struggles against his bonds, the ropes pulling tight, red marks growing on his wrists as the skin rubs raw. “No! I will go nowhere with you!”

“Now, see, you’re lying. I guess if you don’t realize it, it doesn’t count. But, look. You’re going. And you’re going to tell everyone who you are on the way there.”

Bohli leans over, slipping something over his head. A chain with a pendant on the end, simple stone with a runic mark carved in the middle. Grigori feels the burst of elven magic, his mouth dropping open in shock, and then-

His mind feels cool, like slipping underneath the water in a pond, only he has no need to breathe. He can’t imagine needing to breathe. His thoughts are still and calm, contented. Bohli leans close and Grigori wonders how he could ever have felt anger at such a lovely, kind man. The trap spell in the pendant, the elven magic that takes hold of him, feels like being held in such a sweet and soft embrace. It feels like the water closing over his head.

“There we go,” Bohli murmurs. “Pretty-pretty. I’m going to untie you. When you get dressed, make sure you put your robes on, all right? I want everyone to see who you are. I want you to show them off.”

Grigori swallows, nodding.

He can do that.

“Good. Then we’re going to my house, and that’s where you’re going to live now.” Bohli’s fingers made quick work of the knots on the rope, and Grigori sat slowly up, blinking as if he had to push through a haze to do it.

When Bohli hands him the robes, he dresses, clumsily. Bohli has to help him tie the belt at his waist.

“Good. You look great. I’m going to pack your bag back up, and then you’ll come with me and be my useful little traitor to the crown, won’t you, Brother Grigori?”

Another nod. He’s not even sure he hears what Bohli is saying. Or cares. He just likes the sound of his voice.

“Good,” Bohli croons. “Very good. Let’s go. I have a king’s reputation to ruin, and you are going to be my secret weapon.”

Grigori follows him downstairs, smiling when the people there eating their breakfast gasp at the sight of his robes. He’s happy to tell them exactly who he is.

Happy to tell them he’s the Hero they sing about.

Happy to tell them he’s joining the bandits, now, in the Kaila, because the king cannot protect them.

Happy to get on Bohli’s horse, sitting just before him with Bohli behind resting his chin on Grigori’s shoulder, and ride away.

The pendant bumps against his collarbone, and when Bohli whispers, “Sleep upright,” Grigori closes his eyes and lets himself sleep deeper into the pool in his mind, until all is dark and quiet and calm and he knows no more.

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @arlin-always-writing @sunshiline-writes @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @befuddled-calico-whump

#whump #kidnapping #abducted #sort of #drunkenness #alcohol use tw #drunkenness tw #mind control #magical whump #fantasy whump #whump writing #cheerful whumper #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #dubcon tw #restrained #religious whump #religion whump

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shirefantasies · 23 days

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I was a little scared to ask about matchups at first, but I saw the other one you did and I really liked it! My name is Darcy, I’m 5’4, and European. I have shoulder length brown hair with bangs, blue eyes, rigid features, and lots of freckles. I love music, both listening to and playing guitar. I write a lot of poetry in my free time, as well as painting and smoking. I love long walks in the woods and nature in general. Big thunderstorms and sunrise/susnsets are my favorite! Thanks so much for taking the time to read my request!! I love your work!

Well I’m honored you like my style 😌 of course I’ll take the time for you lovely 💕 your match is…

Eomer!

You’re nothing of what Eomer is used to in a woman. The women of Rohan are mild-mannered, severe even, and they know their place, for better or for worse. You, Darcy, are a free spirit. Your stoic features bursting into a wide smile as you strum your guitar and lightness coloring your motions when you reach for a pipe after the show.

Traveling performers were certainly a first in a land falling to peasantry and complacency. Riders fought tooth and nail to preserve the Horse-Lords’ honor and took little time to celebrate…until a group of musicians rolled in and treated them like any other venue. Using a recent victory as an excuse, the men accepted your company, though Eomer rolls his eyes a bit. He can’t help asking if you want anything more out of life than this. You shoot back that you see the world, play your songs, care for very little. In turn, he fires back that it would be of greater right if you did have something to care for. “What, and tie myself down? It would take quite the man to do that. You think you’re the one?” “That is not what I-” “You think I’m some flighty, defenseless whelp, do you?” Taking one more puff of your pipe, you grin. “I wager I could best you in a swordfight.” A chorus of ooooohs rings out from the men, and with another roll of his eyes the blonde marshal shrugs. “Can I, in good conscience, fight you?” “Afraid to lose?” He should have been, for he did. Proving you can defend yourself (and frequently did, having run into quite the number of orc packs in your travels), you grab a tankard and hoist it up, toasting your combatant and giving him a wink.

The next morning, Eomer is surprised to find you strolling peacefully through their pastures, arms extended to feel the rain. “What?” You ask. “Is this not peaceful? I’m holding out that we might have some good thunder and lightning later. And if not, how much more beautifully the flowers will grow.” His eyebrows raise at this. "I cannot say I took you for a nature lover." "Music lovers are often nature lovers, too," you tease him, shaking out your hair, "and isn't there just something magical about the rain?" "Always seemed inconvenient to me." Marching Eomer's way, you rest one hand on your hip, the other accusingly poking a finger to his chest. "You are just determined to be obstinate, are you not, Master Marshal of the Mark?" "It would seem we both are," he replies with a sardonic smile, "what do we do then?" Eomer really needs to learn to expect the unexpected with you, for he doesn't truly expect you to take the bait until your lips are already crashing onto his.

Suddenly he is at your heels, fuming a bit at your smirk as you silently put out your pipe and tune your guitar. "I wrote a poem that may stop your stewing," you tell him. He had followed you all the way backstage again after your saucy little walk of triumph, certainly not to be left standing in some cloudy field, bested. "Very well." Strumming your instrument, you take up a song about one seeing the world, avoiding vexatious feelings...until a recent experience led the subject to realize they'd been putting far too many walls up. In the short time you've known him, you have yet to see the marshal's eyes change so, softening with great care, staring with such thought and longing. "What does that mean?" He asks when you finish. Sighing, you lower your guitar. "I am not entirely certain," a smile creeps onto your lips, "other than that I might need some more time in Rohan. Know anyone who might be entertaining enough to convince me to stay?" "Ah," Eomer chuckles, "I can think of one man."

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @mossthebogwitch @ibabblealot @kilibaggins @joonies-word @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin | Reply/Ask/Message to join 🥰

#lord of the rings #lotr #lotr imagines #lotr x reader #lord of the rings matchups #eomer #eomer x reader #eomer x female reader #ask #anon #requested #matchup monday

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002yb · 2 months

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@chromotps

They're crowded close on too narrow stairs, knees knocking together to a jovial tune. Off beat because neither of them have ever had rhythm and made worse because Luffy is tipsy. So fuzzy and loose limbed that Luffy sways precariously to and fro as he sings, kept in place only because Ace keeps lifting his leg to bracket him - easily accommodating, always attentive, and not nearly as drunk as he should be for how much they've both thrown back.

Ace's cheeks are awash with color regardless, smile broad and laughter unrestrained.

To see his brother so happy - Luffy knocks their tankards together and cheers, so giddy he may as well be drunk on it. He grins when Ace's attention turns to him. The warmth in the dark of Ace's eyes makes Luffy's ears burn, makes him titter. Ace mirrors him, knocking their drinks together again before calling out to their crew - laughter bright as they call back to them.

They all celebrate and Luffy watches on. Beaming at raucous shouts and spirited cheers; the way Ace humors tomfoolery and spurs shenanigans. Lighthearted and mischievous. The easy way Ace banters, the playful way he teases, and the quiet, unwitting way he endears himself to everyone.

Liquor makes Luffy lethargic, head tipping back to rest against the railing behind him. Eyelids heavy as he contents himself with listening to his rowdy crew. Lulled into a daze by the press of Ace and his knees and Ace's hand laid over Luffy's thigh, fingers tapping along to Brook's music.

There's fire that tangles between Ace's fingers, fireflies that dance from his hands. They chase after their crew, teasing them with gentle heat before they extinguish. And when the small flames catch in their drinks, they're set ablaze - a show that has everyone raising their tankards again in delight; merriment.

One nearly lands on Luffy's nose, kissing it red.

The smile that pulls at his lips must be especially dopey because Ace pinches the brim of his hat and pulls Luffy forward, bumping their foreheads together - nuzzling their noses.

"Have you had too much?" Ace asks.

"Nah," Luffy drawls, only he thinks Ace and he might be talking about different things.

Ace doesn't look convinced, but seems humored all the same. Indulgent, even. When he leans back, Luffy chases after him. Stopping short because the world spins and - oh. Ace's leg is there to steady him again and Luffy laughs at himself as he leans back against the railing for support.

He's got his leg strewn over Ace's thigh, his sandal dangling from his toes. It slips from his foot as he swings it, but Luffy doesn't care. Too lost in the way Ace continues laughing with everyone, hand slapping down over Luffy's knees once, twice before squeezing.

Luffy extends his leg, pinching Ace's shawl between his toes and tugging. And Ace accommodates him, running his hand from above Luffy's knee to press his fingers into the muscle of Luffy's calf. Sweeping his thumb over Luffy's ankle, along the arch of his foot. It tickles, but Ace holds fast to him even when Luffy jerks back. Lips quirking into a smile because even if he's not looking at Luffy - he hears his laughter.

For a while longer, Luffy is content to watch. Teeming with pride because Ace is so good with their crew; because their crew is good with Ace, in turn. Luffy likes how they challenge him. Likes the way their care flusters him, the way their affection ties his tongue.

Luffy might always want Ace to have more of things like that. Might always want Ace to be more, too - more adored and loved; happy.

What feelings of content he has lasts until the exact moment Luffy wants to give Ace attention, himself.

Luffy plants his foot to Ace's chest and beams when Ace's gaze slides over to him. Curious and then endeared because Luffy is flushed from drink, loose limbed and silly. When Ace turns his head to face Luffy fully, it feels like a victory - like Luffy is triumphant, invincible.

Firelight catches across Ace's skin and reflects in his eyes. It warms him and Luffy feels flush from it. Still, he catches Ace's gaze, eager and with an impish smile. Toes curling against Ace's skin and the ink scarred over his heart.

Luffy's attention drops to it, gaze softening before he looks back at Ace. Something in Ace's expression might shift, too. Mirroring Luffy's softness, that smoldering affection.

When Luffy, unprovoked, tries to pinch Ace with his toes, Ace retaliates by grabbing Luffy's foot and dragging him forward across an already narrow step. It makes Luffy cackle as he slouches down, nearly teetering off the stairs until Ace catches him.

Laid over Ace's leg like that, Luffy smiles at him. Toes curling when Ace lifts his foot and turns his head into Luffy's ankle - teasing him with the brush of his lips as Ace smirks at him, warm and wild and wonderful.

Sometimes Luffy wonders if the novelty of it will ever go away. To have Ace aboard his ship, for his brother to have joined Luffy’s crew; to have him in this way, to have him at all - it’s a dream come true.

=====

Based on chromo's art!

#chromotps #acelu #based on chromo's art and post-ts!au //w///#and also giftfic because all the works you do are so wonderful and inspiring <3 #portgas d ace #monkey d luffy #words

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justgottafinishthischapter · 8 months

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How do I go about fleshing out a city and making it feel lived in? Especially when the main protagonists are royal/wealthy and don't see the city from the ground level

A character arc is identified by a few key character elements: namely the Lie and the Truth. The Lie is the false reality they believe at the start of the story, and the Truth is the true reality they discover. This can be an internal lie and truth, such as they are worthy of being loved, or an external truth, like the war is not a way of spreading their nation's greatness to other countries. The revelation from the lie to the truth is the turning point in the character arc, when they start to shift from their Want to their Need. When it comes to building a city, the lie is the glitz and glam they can see from their ivory tower. The truth is the scum and muck that they've never noticed before but was always there. Using LA as a great example, it's a city that looks like a paradise of celebirites, hot people, movies, television, music, and everything else. But LA also has low income housing too. Many flock to LA to chase their dreams, only to end up working minimum wage jobs. Artists successful and failed have higher drug usage percentiles in a big city like LA than other cities. So you need to ask yourself: what is the idealized image of the city. How do those outside the city look at it? Then ask yourself: what is the grim reality of the city? 19th Century london had work houses, child labor, people worked in extremely hazardous work environments where carelessness could lead to getting mangled in a machine, or going home with a lungful of soot. Charles Dickenson famously had a problem with 19th Century London's classism, which is why he often focused on poor working class protagonists.

I would suggest looking at movies and television that involve noble and/or royal characters and take notes on how their old world views get torn down by other characters. Zuko had to defect from the Fire Nation entirely and slum it through the Earth Kingdom to truly see the faces of the people hurt by the Hundred Years War. Amity had to meet Luz in order to realize there was a path forward that didn't involve joining the Emperor's Coven. By season 2, she doesn't even want to join it anymore because she's now searching to find what she wants to make of her own life. Weiss Schnee is a pampered spoiled heiress that was taught to be racist toward Faunus. But by the time she returns to her homeland of Atlas, she flings a random guy into a dumpster for saying racist comments about Faunus. By learning about these characters and how they make these kinds of changes can help you in writing your own characters.

As for designing the city: every memorable location needs a landmark or something about it that makes it recognizable. If it's a fantasy, you definitely want to think about defensibility. A huge seat of power for a royal family needs high walls to defend itself. Even if you're in more of an 19th century Victorian-styled setting, there could still be walls from long ago. Look at other fantasy cities. The Northern Water Tribe resembles an arctic venice, using channel locks to raise and lower the water levels to keep out outsiders, and ice doors to let allied ships in and out of the city. Ba Sing Se is instantly recognizable by its ring structure and its 100 foot high walls. Republic City is most recognizable for the giant statue of Aang in Yue Bay. The towns and cities in Attack on Titan have high walls for necessity to keep out the Titans. Likewise, any medieval fantasy world with ogres and trolls running around is going to want walls to protect the everyday commoners from harm.

Magic or technology can also change how a city is structured. Think again about how Earth Benders are imprisoned on a metal tankard in the middle of the ocean to rob them of their power. Public transportation like a bus or blimp is going to radically change how one gets about town. How many and how quickly can get from one side to the other. Are there hard restrictions on who is allowed where? Is a petty cobbler going to be carried out of Wellington Park by the police so the rich don't have to look at him? In Howl's Moving Castle there is both magic and technology. We see steam powered locomotives, but there's also flying machines powered by magic and the eponymous castle itself uses a fire demon as a power source.

Does your city have to protect itself from flying enemies like faeries, dragons, witches, demons, vampires, griffins, or anything else like that? Walls are great at stopping armies, but stopping a gargoyle from just flying over your walls is another thing entirely.

What about your city's economy? A city on the water is going to rely on shipping, sailing, fishing, and trade. A city in the mountains is going to rely on mining and smithing. An old city likely started as a fort or military outpost, like Paris or London. Other times, cities pop up because a resource was discovered there, or a bunch of people had to migrate all at once and all chose to settle in one area. That's how you end up with a city named Swedesville in the middle of the United States. And a big city especially is going to need to be extremely rich, and probably needs something to lure more people to it. But large cities also cause their own problems, such as traffic jams, higher rent, and crowded streets.

You also should ask yourself your city's backstory and history. Both the glorious stuff the state WANTS you to learn in history class, and the not so pretty stuff that also happened. For instance, my city was named after a lesser-known hero of the Revolutionary War. He was propped up as pretty important when I was in middle school, but aside from his role in the war, we weren't taught much about his personal life. I'm willing to bet he has a skeleton or two in his closet. Every city has a past. What defines yours?

I hope this helped you piece together an idea of what you want to do or where to start looking. And good luck with your writing!

#askbox #writing advice #writing tips #worldbuilding

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modern-inheritance · 4 months

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Modern Inheritance: Reunion (Complete)

(A/N: Here's the entire fic for the reunion between Arya and Glenwing in Ellesméra. There's additional A/N stuff on the original posts but y'all can find them if you'd like to.)

~~~~

The bustle of activity and near constant rush of people passed by in a blur. Arya let the crowd flow around her, sinking away from the main crush. She settled a few paces behind her mother where the queen was conversing with Däthedr, silent and watchful as she always had been.

She was glad that Saphira and Eragon took most, if not all, the attention away from her. After that whirlwind of political and personal business, Arya didn’t feel much like talking to anyone. Such situations always put her on edge, and after so long away the combat liaison was finding it increasingly difficult to hold her tongue and remain the polite and proper diplomat she pretended to be in the pines.

So instead of mingling, Arya settled into an ingrained At Ease stance and began watching the gathered elves. Well, not as much the elves. Brom was her main target. The man had been all but forgotten in the rush, just as he had planned, and he sat at a table nursing a tankard of faelnirv. Yes, an entire tankard. To himself. Because that would end well. As the hour went on Arya contemplated asking her mentor for his shortsword and rifle. There’d be hell to pay if Oromis had to come down early to corral his former student yet again.

Oromis. Arya suppressed a wince; facing him was just as daunting as facing her mother. He wouldn’t have left the world unwatched while the queen wallowed in her self pity. He and Glaedr had to have know about Eragon, Saphira, Brom. Their madcap running around the Empire. Farthen Dûr.

And he would know about Arya. And Gil’ead. She hoped he hadn’t seen too much of that.

For a split second Arya smelled wet concrete and tasted copper and iron. The lilting music and bubbly voices smothered down to a low drone, a buzz that dug into her ear as the suddenly harsh light flickered.

Behind her back she felt her hands involuntarily snap into white knuckled fists, nails digging deep into her palms. Her wrists burned, fingers tingling with sharp pins and needles as the wet fire encircled the ruined skin and rusted steel bit in deep–

It took a breath, a blink. A shaking thumb subtly run over the dark swathe of scar tissue under the cuff of her combat jacket sleeve. Feeling the half rumpled and half silky repairs to her body.

The world snapped back into focus in time for Arya to mumble a returned greeting as another elf brushed past. She bit her tongue for real this time. ‘Damn recall.’

The night dragged on, and while the rest of Ellesméra whirled and danced Arya could not help but feel rooted in place, stationary in both time and movement. It felt…wrong. She was no stranger to solitude, that was certain, but for some reason standing there, alone despite the sea of people, felt off.

The hollow feeling in her chest intensified. Ellesméra felt leagues bigger without them there.

Her bitter musings were interrupted by a violent yank on her arm.

Everything in her body snapped taut as Arya whirled, letting the attacker’s motion turn her as she brought up both fists. The momentum carried her raising arm up to lock against the inner elbow of the man that was now grabbing at her shoulders, ready to throw him off and slam him in the jaw with her free palm. He had both shoulders now, fingers tightening, one hand impossibly hard and cold–

Golden eyes caught her movements, freezing her in place. The entire world dropped away.

Arya couldn’t breathe. The dead man held her at arms length, his brow furrowed and silver hair still settling around his face from where it had escaped his ponytail. His eyes, they had always seen past whatever she said and found what she meant to say, searched her face with the intensity of a hunting dragon.

He had looked at her like that before, though not quite so intently. Every time she did something so remarkably stupid, like throw an artillery shell back over the trench wall, curl around a grenade to absorb its destruction into her wards, stuck her hand in a Broddring cannon, or, the worst offense of all, go without sleep in favor of double watch shifts and nights disappeared without a word beside their other companion. Always looking out for her. For them.

The last time she had seen his face it was planted in the dirt, blood pooling and trickling towards open golden eyes as they stared unseeing into the darkness, before the swarm of Urgals had blocked her view.

And now he was looking at her, bright, alert, and with so much fear and disbelief and hope and who the hell knows what else because Glenwing of House Svanran, healer and medic and best friend and dead man walking, was holding her by the shoulders and trying just as desperately as she to figure out if the person in front of him was really, truly alive.

“...Glen?” Arya half choked, the last air in her lungs used to voice her disbelief. She could barely hear it over the noise around them.

At her uttering of his name Glenwing suddenly seized her face in his hands and let out a cracked laugh. Tears spilled from his eyes as he half cried, half laughed, “Spirits, it is you!”

And his arms were pulling her in and around her and hugging impossibly tight.

Arya didn’t hesitate, hugging him back fiercely and holding on, unwilling to let go in case he too slipped away like the other memories. Something snapped inside her chest and in her throat as she let out a broken laugh of her own. “You’re alive! You’re alive!”

They stayed like that for what felt like ages, relief flowing off of them like a waterfall with tears of joy and disbelief. They weren’t alone anymore.

It must have been a full minute before the world around them became important again, and Arya reluctantly pulled back. “We should,” She broke off and wiped her eyes, cleared her throat before speaking again without the tremor in her voice. “We should probably go….”

“Good call.”

With a small gesture Arya caught her mother’s eye. When the queen inclined her head slightly the two reunited elves snapped their heels together and bowed, knocking their right knuckles to their left collarbones in acknowledgement before all but bolting to the edge of the crowded grove. Here, at least, it was quiet but for a low murmur of the gathered people and a soft thread of the music through the trees. No one would be looking out to the forest, not with something as amazing as Eragon and Saphira at the center of attention, and here Arya and Glenwing would have a modicum of privacy to talk.

It was Arya’s turn to take Glen by the shoulders, and she shook her head with another chuckle past the lump in her throat. “You fucking bastard.” They shared a laugh again. “You absolute bastard. I saw you die. And I never thought….”

“You’re complaining about me?” Glenwing beamed, wiping away tears with his right hand. “All those times I told you not to go running off and get yourself killed, and then I figure that you’ve gone and finally done it.”

“Hey, I was doing my job!”

“You always say that.”

“I actually was this time!”

After a few moments of excited chatter, Arya felt cold seeping back into the warm relief that seeing Glenwing had brought. Already knowing the answer, she looked out to the dark pines that hid from the celebration’s light. “Hey, I uh…” She blinked, cleared her throat as best she could past the returning lump. “I take it…you’re my only surprise tonight, huh?” When Glen shifted uneasily, Arya felt a pang of regret at her phrasing and shot him a weak grin. “Not that you’re underappreciated or any–”

Glenwing’s jaw tightened, and for a moment Arya saw his throat convulse as he swallowed. His voice was steady, though, when he gently, grimly, replied, “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. Didn’t say anything for a long, painful minute. “I couldn’t have ever asked for either of you to survive that. Couldn’t even think, imagine, hope, whatever.” Arya waved a hand vaguely, unable to put her feelings into words. “But, shit, Glen. We’ve done so much dangerous, wild–”

“Insane?” That grin was back, tinged with sadness but filled with a familiar wild undertone that everyone in their little fyrn breoal held.

“Insane!” Arya added with a laugh. “Everything we’ve done and everything we shouldn’t have survived…. I’m just happy you made it out. That we made it out. And look! We did it, we found them!” She pointed towards Saphira’s glittering form in the midst of the crowd that felt so far away. “Let’s just…let’s celebrate that right now. Celebrate him. Shit, can you imagine the ruckus he’d make? We did it! We finally did it.” She couldn’t hide the tangle of elation and relief that broke through the pain. This is what they had all been fighting for, together, for decades. Fäolin would want them to have that, to feel the joy for him.

A commotion drew their attention. Elves were returning from the cookfires, arms laden with dishes and bowls and platters. The sight made both the medic and the combat liaison stiffen somewhat, knowing that their brief time to reacquaint themselves was drawing to a quick end.

Arya let out a short huff and drew herself up, steeling herself for the rabble again. “Alright. Come on.” Glen grinned when she slapped his arm and seized his face with both hands, squeezing his cheeks. “Have to make sure you’re not some hallucination. Let’s go drink. We’re here. We’re safe.” She slid her hands to his shoulders, began drawing them down his arms in preparation to drag him off to meet the biggest pair of silver linings in history. “We’re in one…”

She trailed off as her right hand slipped down his left arm and stopped short at the bicep. That…that wasn’t….

“Piece?” Words stuck in her throat at the sound of the wry tone in Glen’s voice. He thought he was hiding the ache under that twisted tilt of his lips as her eyes snapped up to his. “Yeah…about that.”

“...Glen, what–”

“Later. I promise.” Without waiting for her protests, Glen slid an arm around his lost commander's shoulders and began walking back to the tables. "Celebrate, right? Introduce me to these two first. Then we drink."

~~~

The door creaked as it slid open, sticking at that same spot as it always had. Arya purposefully kept her eyes down as she closed it, avoiding looking towards her mother where she stood still half stunned outside. Just as she had told the queen, she really wasn’t ready to forgive her, not now. If she met her mother’s gaze there was bound to be a war between exploding at her in buried rage or breaking down after the many emotional hills and valleys of the day.

She made it two steps into the flat, pack already sliding off her arms, when she froze.

Glen blinked at her from where he was lounging on the couch, just as surprised as she was.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“I uh…” Arya tilted her head slightly. “Wow. Um. I forgot you were alive. And that you’d probably be here.”

The medic blinked again, bewildered, and burst out laughing. “You what?!”

“It’s been a really, really long day!” Arya threw her pack at him, ignoring the yelp of protest, and dropped onto the opposite end of the couch.

Glen moved the bag to the floor as his lost commander disentangled herself from her rifle strap, feeling her eyes on him as he leaned back. He wouldn’t admit it, but he too had forgotten that she likely would come back to the flat instead of her long disused room at Tialdarí Hall. He was drained from the night of food and music and emotion, and had trudged home and changed into sleep clothes as soon as he entered, completely oblivious to the possibility of intrusion.

The loose tanktop, standard issue to Varden soldiers in warm climates, left the metal of his bionic prosthetic on full display, the plating glinting dully in the low werelight.

They sat in silence for what had to be half an hour, recuperating. Glen made no move to cover the evidence of his missing limb. A niggling feeling in the back of his mind urged him to do so, whispering that she didn’t need guilt on top of everything else. He shushed it, reminded it that he knew that she wasn’t the reason he was down an arm.

‘But does she know that?’

“...What happened?” Glen rolled his head to look over at Arya, her voice quiet and softer than he remembered she could be. He had tried to lock in the memories of them all together during happy times, wild times, not the times where they had to quietly ask each other if they could keep fighting. “I didn’t…didn’t see where you got hit. I thought it was the chest.”

Glenwing lifted his left arm, the servos drawing power from the precious gems embedded on the insides of the plates whirring almost imperceptibly in the silence. He turned the wrist, tilted the forearm, bent the elbow. Stared at it. “Almost. One went through the bone just above my elbow. Another one got me in the hip.” With two fingers he tapped where the second bullet had entered. “Balan threw me when he got hit and I got knocked out.”

He inhaled through his nose and bit back a sigh. He could smell pinesmoke again, pungent and heavy. “I think…everything was over when I came around the first time. There was fire but the Urgals were gone. I was cognizant enough to realize I was bleeding out and used the bloodstopper spell to tie off the artery and veins in my arm but…” The fingers made a pleasing series of clicks as he curled them into a fist. “I passed out again. And it was a good bit before I was aware of anything after that.”

The elves in Vandral, the closest outpost to the edge of Du Weldenvarden where the ambush had occurred, had filled him in as best they could. How they found him half crawling, half dragging himself along the forest floor on their morning patrol. Fäolin’s cold body tied to his own by belts looped across his chest and secured under the dead elf’s arms. The remains of his left arm at and below his now pulverized, shredded elbow hanging on by mutilated muscle. The unmoving fingers white and purple and dusky from lack of blood. The burns on his chest, forearms, knees, thighs, from dragging himself and his long dead brother-in-war and remaining best friend through ashes and embers during the night.

The way he begged them to save Fäolin. Begged them to find her.

Waking up, his burns healed. His arm–

Pain at his metal wrist ricocheted up to his shoulder. Brought him back.

Glenwing forced the metallic fingers open. “I…I tried to save him.” He dropped both hands to rest limp in his lap, Rhunön’s masterpiece relaying his movements perfectly through metal and crystal. “He was gone before he even hit the ground.”

“I know.” When he looked over Arya was staring past him. “I saw it.” After a moment her eyes cleared, and locked back on him. “Your arm….”

“Bloodstopper worked a little too well, I’m afraid.” He forced a smile. He could still smell the burning pines, but it was fading. Instead it was slowly being replaced by the familiar scent of the worn leather additions on Arya’s combat jacket, gun oil, sharp pine sap and an undertone of gunpowder. It smelled like home, like the Varden, like Arya and Fäolin and decades of companionship and friends. It smelled like safety in their little group. “Rhunön built this for me, though. It works better than the old one!”

Arya shook her head, a touch of a grin on her lips. “I’m sure. She’s outdone herself.”

“How about you?” Glen didn’t have to know her for over five decades to notice the way Arya changed at the question. Her arms pulled in, the rifle settled across her lap. “What happened to land you with Eragon, Saphira, and Brom of all people?”

Instead of answering him Arya yawned. That was real, he wouldn’t deny that, but she was all too eager to postpone whatever answers she had. “Tell you what,” She stretched and rubbed the back of her neck, massaging a kink out of the muscle that connected to her shoulder. “That’s a story for later. Right now I’m about to pass out on this couch if I don’t get to sleep for a few hours.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Glen’s voice was lighthearted, but they both could hear the warning under the words. It was clear as day, a promise made decades ago. Don’t hide wounds from your fyrn breoal. Head, heart or body, commander, medic or sniper, the only way to stay alive and keep the others safe was to share. “I’m sure it’s a hell of a story.”

Arya waved at him over her shoulder, already halfway down the hall to the room she had shared with her mate. “Yeah. It’s a real doozy. Goodnight, Glen. You still alive bastard.”

“Goodnight, Arya. Resurrected prodigal wild child.”

She blew a raspberry at him as she closed the door.

Glenwing sat back on the couch, the grin fading. His eyes fell on her discarded pack, stripped of weapons and bedroll, sitting at his feet.

The lock on the strap still accepted his thumbprint. It took only a few moments to find what he sought, buried under a mess kit and a pair of socks stuffed in a worn knit beanie she had acquired nearly twenty years ago from a Surdan merchant. A thick file, stuffed with pictures haphazardly sticking out at odd angles, sticky notes and scratched out shorthand. A scattering of numbers and letters, followed by a bold ‘6’ indicated it was the sixth such file in the series, a collection of war wounds and physical exams and the occasional psych eval that never really counted due to the elvish mind being alien enough to circumvent any human or dwarf made test.

Glen pulled it out and brushed his fingers along the tabs till he found one marked a little over two months ago. He didn’t open it, just let his fingertips linger as he mulled over revealing the contents.

No.

She would tell him.

He left the file on the coffee table.

~~~

It hadn’t escaped him that she had left her combat jacket on that night. Or that she was wearing it when she came out the next morning. Or the day after that. Or the next six mornings.

They portioned out their days. Arya would spend the morning drafting reports and debriefs, filling out paperwork to reverse her apparent death and half begrudgingly taking on Brom’s share of more mundane documents as he joined Eragon and Saphira at Oromis and Glaedr’s lessons. They split the evenings, Arya going sometimes to guide Eragon and Saphira around Ellesméra or attempting to mend her fragile relationship with her mother. Other nights she joined Glen for dinner and spent the night remembering the days they spent crawling in trenches and infiltrating camps, Fäolin perched above them in his little nest.

Afternoons, though, were for wandering the pines together, walking aimlessly and just talking. Glen told her about the last months, his recovery and the process of fitting, building and bonding with his new arm. The struggles and the joys of connecting the nerves without further surgery, the excited yelling that earned him a pair of tongs to the face when he finally picked up a mug without shattering it or throwing it into his own teeth.

The three months he spent without leaving Rhunön’s shop. He didn’t tell her it was because he couldn’t find the courage to face the Queen.

In turn she told him the entire story of Eragon and Saphira, everything the two had shared and every bit of information Brom would reveal about his and their lives in the village of Carvahall. The Raz’zac, the disastrous first flight, Brom’s near death experience, the young son of Morzan and his surprising allegiance. Glen could tell she glossed over the madcap escape from Gil’ead, their eventual return to the Varden getting a similar treatment along with the post battle recovery under Farthen Dûr.

He didn’t press for a time. But eventually, he knew he had to.

It was eight days after their impromptu reunion, meandering alone past one of the solitary beech trees that some elf had planted and warded years ago with leaves near dripping with the winking lights of bioluminescent moths, when he finally tried to break through.

“You know you can take that off, right?” Glen teased, plucking a wrinkled fold on the arm of Arya’s combat jacket. “You’re gonna get more looks than usual if you keep wearing it with those cargos.”

Arya looked down with a frown. “Hey! I think it looks good with these! Green and tan go good together, right?” She had never been much for fashion, or even being all that presentable beyond the occasional inspection back during basic or black tie events for the Varden. At those, all it took was a black dress to get whoever dragged her along off her back, even if she insisted on wearing combat boots with it.

For a moment she remembered, with some fondness, the first time Fäolin had been forced to join her at a fundraiser in Surda. Teasing him about his slicked back hair, chucking him under the chin to get at the bowtie that was damn near choking him over the starched collar of his borrowed suit. His laugh when she asked him where he had put the backup pistol, her own when he subtly touched the grip of the one strapped to her leg under the dress. “You’re my backup pistol, remember?”

Then it was gone again.

Shaking his head as if his commander were a lost cause, Glenwing peered up from under his brows at the dappled sunlight filtering through the heavy needles above. “Come on. What are you hiding under there?”

“Nothing.”

The medic closed his eyes with a deep inhale and soft sigh at the deadpan tone, the sharp hint of warning contained in the single word. So it would be like that.

He stopped walking. “Arya.”

“What?” Her momentum had carried her three paces beyond, so she had to stop and turn to him. Her fists were jammed in the pockets of the combat jacket.

“We don’t lie to each other.” He fixed her with that look. The medic look. The look that said ‘I am here to help and if you don’t let me there will be a very difficult road ahead.’ A look that he hadn’t given her for years, decades.

His heart sank when she cut her eyes away from him. “I don’t…” Arya broke off and rubbed the back of her neck again, fingers digging in roughly. “There’s too much to do. We can worry about it later.”

“You finished the paperwork this morning.” Green eyes slid closed in a quiet, nonverbal curse for telling him that earlier. “You– we –were relieved from guarding Eragon and Saphira days ago, and we won’t be called to that again until they leave. Please.” Movement caught his attention. “Your hands have been shaking since you got back.”

Arya looked down. The tremors had been increasing in frequency since Tarnag. The moments of recall around her wrists always followed their appearance.

“Arya, you know that I can’t break my oath to you. I can only help you if you allow me. I can’t tell anyone unless you tell me to.” Careful that his approach was seen well before he reached out, Glen touched his commander’s shoulder gently. “I don’t want you to do this alone. I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

And still, she refused to look at him. “You don’t need this on top of everything else.”

“Cut the bullshit.” That got her attention. Glen swore only half as much as the rest of their little squad, and when he did it was usually cause for alarm. No one wanted the man holding their bleeding guts in suddenly swearing out of nowhere. “You’re scared. I understand. And I’m here to help you.”

The accusation made Arya let out a short bark of laughter. At Glen’s raised eyebrow, she merely shook her head, half a twisted grin on her lips. “Ah, Glen. I’m not scared. Nothing really scares me anymore.” Again she let out a short laugh, squinting up into the needles above much like he had and put her hands on her hips.

He really didn’t expect her explanation.

“I’ve puked on a shade’s shoes before and lived through the consequences. And I did it again, too. Twice.”

Glenwing stared, bewildered. It took him some seconds to find his words. “...I…I don’t know if you’re joking with me, or if this is your way of saying you’re going to talk about it, or–”

“Oh, I one hundred percent puked on Durza shoes multiple times. That’s one of the things that I like to remember about all that.” Arya was smiling broadly. It didn’t reach her eyes. “If you really want to know,” The smile fell. “I’ll tell you. But later.”

“No.”

“Glen–”

“I have the file. You know I do.”

Arya closed her eyes in surrender. The file had been sitting on the table for days now, a clear sign to her that he was waiting for her consent to begin the process of unraveling the last nine months. “Yeah.” She inhaled. Smelled wet concrete and tasted copper and iron. Released the breath with a rough sigh. “Okay. Tonight.”

“Tonight.”

~~~

Glenwing was sitting on the couch with tea already made, file sitting undisturbed on the coffee table, when the door slid open and closed. Relief seeped into his limbs, feeling cold on his left and warm on his right. He hadn't been entirely convinced she was going to show up.

He looked up when she didn’t immediately sit beside him. Arya stood in front of the low table, shoulders tight and fists again firmly shoved in the front pockets of her combat jacket. Every line of her body reflected tension, but her dark eyes glinted with steel when he met her gaze.

“You sure you wanna do this?” Arya motioned to the file with her chin, sharp and jerky. “It’s a lot less…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Brutal. If you read it from there.”

Glen nodded. He did his best to sound gentle but firm. “I need to hear it from you.”

Her jaw clenched. “...I don’t know how much I can tell you.”

“Whatever you can. Whatever you want to.” The medic patted the cushion next to him. “We’ll stop whenever you want.” She waited a few more moments. Then, with stiff steps, Arya sat a few feet down the couch. “Take all the time you need.”

Arya braced her elbows on her knees and leaned over, studying the moss that made up part of the floor of their flat. “I’m not…I’m not ashamed of what happened there.” A shiny backed beetle meandered onto the edge of her boot. She reached down and let it crawl onto her finger, lifted it to examine the iridescence of its carapace. “Hell, I’m proud of what I endured. I don’t know why it's so hard to talk about it like this.” She grinned as the little creature fluttered its hidden wings, the thin sheaves dark in contrast to the elytra’s color. “I’ve joked about it plenty.”

Glen leaned back. He had his notepad in his hands, rumpled and scuffed and one of the corners charred. “You’ve always preferred deflecting whenever something’s bothering you.”

With a gentle puff of air, Arya encouraged the glittering insect to take flight. They both watched it go, floating to the window where it escaped through the barely open latch. “...Yeah.”

She took a deep breath then, resumed her previous position, and rubbed the flats of her palms together. “I guess I should start from the beginning.

“That night we were ambushed, when you lost your arm and Fäolin was killed, Durza captured me after I teleported Saphira’s egg.” Again the woman focused her eyes on the ground, watching the miniscule hairs of the moss waver in the near imperceptible movements of air created by the cracked window, her breath, and Glenwing’s breath. Connecting currents that linked everything in the room. “I was in and out, but when I woke up fully I was in a cell under Gil’ead’s keep, their maximum security wing.

“There were shackles on my wrists. They weren’t connected to anything, so when Durza came in I obviously tried to take his face off.” Half a smirk touched her lips, a tone of bitter pride coloring her words. “So he locked the shackles to the wall. Then I tried to headbutt him when he got too close. So he put me in a chair and locked me to that.”

The woman tilted her head slightly, brow knitted in a hint of confusion. Her braid slid over her shoulder to hang free. “He just…talked to me that time. Sat across from me and told me who he was, gloated about the spells he made to break our wards with just bullets and Urgals at his disposal.” To Glen’s surprise, Arya had an almost wistful, crooked grin when she looked over at him. “You know what he did next?”

Despite her previous assertion that nothing could really scare her, Glen saw, buried beneath the convoluted and contorted emotions in his friend’s eyes, a glimmer of fear. He shook his head, afraid to break whatever courage was driving her to speak.

“He asked me, point blank, if I would submit. Asked if I would surrender then and there, knowing the spells he had created, the potential he had, knowing what he was. He told me what awaited me if I did. I would be taken to Urû’baen immediately and presented to Galbatorix. He would receive the information I had to give, take more if he wanted, and then I would be released into his service. I’d swear oaths to him and become his new Forsworn, and used however he saw fit to bring down the Varden, Surda and Du Weldenvarden.” She let out a soft scoff, that pained look still twisting her lips. “I told him ‘no.’ Only word I said to him besides ‘bite me, bitch’ and ‘fuck you’ a few times.” She laughed again, and it sounded desperate, near panicked at the edges. “He just smiled, that fucking smile, and said ‘good.’”

Her own smile gone, Arya dragged a hand down her face, skin going pale as she remembered. “He spent…I don’t know how long. I’ve got no sense of time anymore. He spent what had to be hours just…just telling me what he could do to me. What he would do to me. He paced around and around that stupid fucking chair, grabbed my neck from behind and whispered in my ear the experiments he wanted to try.”

A shudder passed from the back of her skull to the base of her spine. Arya did her best to focus on the swaths of moss between her boots. Pincushion moss. A bryophyte. They grew it there because it was soft and stayed that way even when the weather turned dry for weeks at a time.

She could feel his hand gripping the base of her braid, head yanked back against the metal edge of the chair. The way he cupped her throat, thumb pressing just under the joint of her jaw and stroking her skin as she did her best to appear nonchalant. Simply met his gleeful gaze with cold fire in her eyes. She would not look away.

The elf took a shuddering breath and untangled her fingers from where she had been clenching them together hard enough to leave bruises. “And then…he did. He did all of it and more.” She blinked, willed the floor to return to its green carpet rather than the grey creeping in. “And I fought it. I fought whenever I could. He stopped using the shackles in the cell because my wrists were shredded and I wouldn’t stop fighting them. I don’t know how long it was till I…” Her words caught in her throat. She blinked again. Why was this what made her choke up? “Till I couldn’t fight anymore.

“He dosed me with Skilna each day, tried to wear me down.” Her lungs hurt at the memory. The time that he had sat on her cot, one leg daintily crossed over the other while he let the poison run its course longer than before. Watched her, that fucking smile plastered on his face, the antidote held in his lap, as she coughed up blood until she couldn’t anymore, as she writhed against the feeling of her bones shattered like crystal glass and the overwhelming, all encompassing fever that turned her veins to molten lead.

He had wanted her to ask for it. To beg for the antidote.

She crawled over, every movement triggering more liquid glass to explode within her cells. Grabbed his leg. Saw that triumphant, gleeful grin in the haze above.

With her last ounce of strength she slipped a finger between his leg and his high, polished boots and deposited a mouthful of blood into the space.

Her gurgling laughter at his disgust made her smile briefly, lost when the noise ended abruptly with a crack and the sound of a tightly gripped, torn throat struggling to breathe. Still. The broken jaw and flail chest had been worth it. And she didn’t even have to ask for the antidote.

“He uh…” Arya cleared her throat, tasted the same blood as he dragged her out of the cell again, fury evident in each step. “He had to change it. To a longer form. One he could trigger at will. I was apparently getting some sort of tolerance.” She could see the pen moving from the corner of her eye. “He couldn’t always be there. Something about reporting to Galbatorix. He told the guards to keep his…his work, going while he was away. Only rule was no blows to the head. Needed the information in my mind unscrambled.”

Glenwing’s pen slowed. He didn’t want to ask the question. He knew she could feel his eyes on her, the way she shifted and raised her laced together hands to her lips. The way she tensed when he put the pen down and leaned toward her to touch two fingers to her forearm. “Arya….”

She refused to look at him. “They didn’t.” Her jaw was clenched. “They…they tried.” One of her hands twitched before the other clamped down on it. She blinked. “One of them…one of them must’ve found some old book somewhere…talked about elf customs or something.” Slowly Glen saw her entire body go tense, muscles locked and coiled to their limit. The first mumbled words of her next admission were lost in the quiet breath that delivered them.

“...tried to notch my ear.”

Glen’s blood went cold. The practice was ancient, heralding back to the bonding of the dragons and elves and the…peculiar…additions the dragon’s blood had on elves' practices of coupling. While a gentle bite on the ear of a mate was considered a pact of love, of devotion…a notch was a symbol of bitter solitude. Any elf with a notched ear was considered almost untouchable when it came to love, mating, partnership, acceptance. They were given only for horrific deeds, the slaughter of children, taking an unwilling mate, murder of a partner, and, above all else, for the betrayal of the entire elven race.

If Durza had learned of this from his men he would have carried it out as the ultimate humiliation, and bound the mark to her body so that no healing could touch the wound.

It took every ounce of Glenwing’s self control to not seize his best friend’s face and turn her to him, looking for the telltale rift. Instead, he steadied his voice as best he could and managed an only slightly enraged, “They tried?”

“They didn’t manage it.” The words were hollow, the memory of just how close she came to being marked still bouncing in her skull. Unlike the others, this one was…hazy. She could feel the panic in her chest and the many hands forcing her to the ground as she struggled to lift her broken body. They wanted revenge for the men she had…disposed of…after their attempts to take advantage of her weakened state. The cold, cold metal of a set of wire cutters sliding against the side of her head and behind her right ear.

Then just…relief. Gratitude? And spending time curled under the cot, pressed as tightly against the wall as she could manage until the pale hand dragged her out for another span of agony after a longer than normal gap.

For some reason the sense of relief sparked warmth that soothed the growing lump in her throat. She pressed her fingers into the spaces between her knuckles, grounded herself in the discomfort as she found sore tendons and protesting connective bands. “Eragon was captured some time after that. I don’t know how long. Adrenaline and pain tablets kept me on my feet long enough to get out with them. Eragon, Saphira and Brom healed what they could and got me awake. The rest you already know.”

Glen picked up his pen again and rolled it between his fingers. “Poison?” He had masked the tremor in his tone, but the rage wasn’t going to fade quite so easy. He wouldn’t press, not now at least. This was enough for one night.

“Right.” Gil’ead retreating from her mind, Arya straightened somewhat and clasped her knees with hands now blooming with fingertip shaped bruises. “Durza activated it. We got through the Hadarac before it caused problems. I might have…had to use the dream state to survive it.” She winced, fully expecting a lecture.

Instead, Glenwing chewed the end of his pen. “You got out of it.” It was a statement of fact, laced with a hint of assurance that he wasn’t angry. He had taught her how to trigger the dream state for emergencies, and poison was certainly on the qualifying list.

“After a bunch of Tunivor’s Nectar…yeah.” Arya blinked, suddenly remembering another visitor during her half-addled state in Tronjheim’s hospital. “And the Wise One gave me something to pull me out.”

Glen stopped his absentminded chewing, pen dangling from his lips as he shot his commander a look of shock. “She’s back?” The way the stylus bobbed with his words made him look almost comically like Brom with his pipe.

“Werecat and all.” Arya frowned. “Didn’t I say she’s the one that fixed Eragon’s back?”

“You kind of ignored the recovery period.”

“Ah.”

The woman’s bearing had shifted again. Glen saw more anxiety than before, less tension in her limbs as she cut her gaze away again and picked a loose thread by her knee. “Speaking of the recovery period…”

“I broke the Star Sapphire, injected myself with four full doses of adrenaline to try and stop Eragon’s back from bleeding, overdosed, had several cardiac events, and Vilks put me on strict orders and told me I’d die if I didn’t follow them.”

‘Ah’ indeed. No wonder she looked nervous. There was nothing that could trigger fear in a lifelong, diehard soldier with nothing else but their deployment than the anger of a very exasperated medic with the power to put them on an indefinite hold.

“You what?!”

Arya had already bolted off the couch, skittering past the coffee table. “Look, I know you’re upset with me for pulling a stunt like that again–”

“FOUR?!”

She was already down the hall, nearly slingshotting past her room when she grabbed the doorframe. “Just…read the file, Vilks took good notes, I’ll change, just…yeah!”

Torn between fuming and alarmed, Glen grabbed for the file on the coffee table. He swore when his knuckles impacted the side of the wood, the metal leaving a decent dent. Making a mental note to speak to Rhunön about his continued issues of emotional override, he snatched up the packet with his right hand and flipped it open to the tab at the very back.

Vilks’ handwriting still kept its tight scrawl in his advanced age, and after so many years the doctor had perfected the art of short, sweet and to the point in his notes. Possible seizures. Fluid in the lungs, intubation for two hours, O2 mask for six after. Five VTach events before AED applied, unknown number post. Repeated attempts to leave bed before fully aware. Restrained for aprox 10 minutes before reminded of patient history. Energy extremely depleted, side effects of poisoning, imprisonment, poor diet, adrenaline overdose and magic overuse. Given orders of NO MAGIC two weeks, consistent bedrest and sleep (unlikely), multivit 2/d two weeks, recheck two weeks. Warned of consequences.

A quick note at an angle, dated eleven days after the initial list, added ‘Given consequences after discovered participating in rigorous PT. Patient given icepack for forehead contusion and required to replace hospital clipboard at next possible opportunity.’

Despite his frustration, Glen couldn't help the smile that curled the edges of his lips. ‘Of course.’

“If you’re going to chuck that at me, let me get a head start first.” The medic looked up at his commander’s wry request. She had donned a pair of jogging shorts and a loose tshirt, the standard PT gear of Varden recruits in Fathen Dûr.

Glenwing snapped the file closed. “I wouldn’t warn you if I was going to throw it, especially after reading that. Let’s sit at the table, better light.” Arya shrugged, thumbs hooked in the small pockets of her shorts, and followed him to sit in the dining area where bright werelights hung above their heads.

They sat together, bathed in light tinged with the greens that dominated their home away from the Varden. Arya, after a moment of hesitation, placed her forearms on the table, palms down.

The medic resisted sucking his teeth, and instead bit the tip of his tongue as he reached out and gently lifted the woman’s left arm. A swath of scar tissue encircled her wrist, creeping up her hand and palm just slightly before diving down and dipping a concave wrap two inches down her forearm. The right side mirrored the same mutilation, both dark and a mottled red mix of soft ridges and silken patches. With a light touch to the back of her hand and a nod of acquiescence, he turned her palm up to reveal her tendons etched at the surface of her skin, as if locked permanently taut.

“They’re just like that.” Arya broke the silence. A half hearted shrug tilted her wrist, and the flexor tendons jutted out further. “Tissue’s gone. Tendons just kind of…stand out, I guess.”

Glen hummed in acknowledgement, inwardly swearing at the possible damage that lurked beneath her skin. “Do you have any numbness in your hands or fingers?”

“No. The shaking started when we were around Tarnag. It feels like pins and needles sometimes, but it’s not affected my grip or range of motion.”

Gently manipulating the joints, Glenwing confirmed her words before picking up his pen and scribbling a note down. “And you didn’t heal these…?”

“I like them.” Arya’s eyes were clear when he snapped his gaze up to hers.

“Arya, they've got nerve damage. In your hands.”

At that the woman pulled her hand from his grip and crossed her arms, hiding the dark bands from view. “Can you heal the nerve damage without healing the scars?”

Glen frowned. “Yes, but–”

“Then we do it that way.” She held him in her gaze for a long moment, waiting for him to acquiesce. “This is my way of taking it back, Glen.” And again, she suddenly cut her eyes away with a quiet mumble.

“What?”

“It helps…” He could see her flex her fingers involuntarily under her arms, gnash her teeth at some unseen jolt. She looked like he did when the phantom pain kicked in unexpectedly, a shock that lingered for minutes or hours. “It helps when I have recall. When…when I touch them it’s like….” The woman fumbled for words, distress building. “He never left scars when he gave me hallucinations.” She gripped the table edge with white knuckles, tilting the chair back slightly. “And when I feel the scars I just…I know I’m not there. It helps bring me back sometimes.”

Sometimes. Not always.

‘Recall.’ That cursed thing. Sensory recall and elvish memory went hand in hand, making the calling up of emotionally charged memories laden with past sensory detail a normal, if not somewhat uncommon, occurrence among their race. Arya’s had always been strong, bringing back physical touch and involving a majority of the senses for most of her moments of involuntary recall. Glen’s near rivaled hers, built up from the years of war and countless moments where PTSD took hold of the accursed skill, if it could even be called that. They both relived their traumas, ricocheting to the past as the world went on around them, seeing but not seeing.

Every time he thought of the ambush, he smelled the smoke, felt the hot ash and cinders embedding in his clothes and his skin. He could taste blood and pine ash, the grit between his red stained teeth and the excruciating wrong that was the needles and the dirt and bark and ash collecting, sticking to the mangled flesh of his ruined arm. He didn’t always see it, and for that he thanked whatever stars watched over him. That was his only escape. Seeing the metal limb that now dominated his left side, a zing of phantom pain that reminded him that the original limb was long gone…it made coming out of the recall easier. Something to remind him that the past was the past.

Glenwing reached out and, with a feather touch of his mechanical hand, reminded his commander to release the creaking wood of the table. He cupped her scarred knuckles, turned her palm to run a cold thumb over the ghost of a hastily healed burn.

“I’ll do my best.” He promised.

A rush of air left Arya’s lungs, a relief she didn't quite realize she needed. An acknowledgement of the scars beyond the cursory looks cast her way under Farthen Dûr, the concerned frown Brom gave them every once in a while. Glenwing understood their purpose, in a way that no one else could. “Thanks.”

Satisfied he could mend some of the frayed nerves, Glen turned to examining the smattering of new scars that littered the woman’s arms. Nothing was particularly egregious, and while several of the straight lines that slid down from beneath the woman’s sleeves looked near surgical, Arya simply told him it was ‘healed fully’ and ‘not a problem.’ Again, he didn't push it.

“Is there more?” Glen took a sip of his now cold tea, making a face before reheating it with a quick word. If this was all that needed checking then he could call himself pleasantly surprised given her previous description.

Arya paused. “There’s a few on my legs but those were…those were healed. He healed them to the surface at least.” She tried to shake the sudden jolt of seeing steel nubs protruding from her shin, the excruciating ripping, tearing, snapping, as the bone split down its length. All that remained were four pale pink spots in a line from the last time that particular method was used. “Eragon and Saphira healed a scrape on my right leg, but they did well. No complaints there.”

“Uh-huh.” Glen tapped the point of his pen at the upper corner of his paper, resisting the urge to chew on the end again. She wasn’t telling him everything. But it was a start. “Is that it?”

“...No.” Arya sighed and pushed back from the table to stand. “I’m not healing these either, okay?” Her voice was muffled as she tugged her shirt up and over her head. She tossed it into the achingly empty chair across from her and stood clad only in her shorts and sports bra. “Make me look badass.” She turned and pulled her braid over her shoulder, gesturing with a jerked thumb at the expanse of her back.

Glenwing dropped his pen. “Well. Shit."

“Hey!” Arya whirled to him. She seemed genuinely offended. “Come on, Glen! I survived this shit. You know what that took? I’m fuckin’ proud of these, and I’m not healing them for bullshit vanity.” He didn’t answer. Just stood and put his hands on her shoulders. “What are you–”

And pulled her into another hug.

Arya froze. She could feel the cold metal of his left arm holding her around her shoulder blades, a stark contrast to the warmth of his right hand squeezing around her ribs. Someone was touching her back and he wasn’t recoiling, wasn’t probing, wasn’t hurting. She wasn’t struggling, fighting, desperate to run away. An ache that she didn’t even realize had been tied into the muscles along her spine for months suddenly released, bringing with it a rush of relief and a soothing mix of warm where warm was needed and cool where cool was needed.

“Don’t lie to me.” Glen murmured in her ear, his voice catching. “You tried.”

Arya squeezed her eyes shut.

The day after Vilks cleared her for magic use. Checking the multitude of scars that covered her back and criss-crossed her skin with burns, cuts, hills and valleys of hypertrophic and concave bands. The visible slide of muscle where the layers above had been carved away. There was space between them, yes. But all she could see was the red, pink and silver of lingering damage made physical and, above all else, undeniable. She looked…she looked almost broken.

She had tried to heal them. And found herself scrabbling, clawing, writhing on the floor of that stupid little bathroom, choking back a scream of unimaginable pain as the nerves in her back exploded in protest. Everything she had endured, condensed and dripped in a steady, maddening flow along each pathway, electric and burning and pain. Once again it was all that existed for her in that moment, an extended second that encompassed months and months of time she could not begin to grasp nor understand the passage of.

She ripped away from the magic and lay, panting, on that stupid, stupid bathroom floor. Blood steadily streamed from her forehead to the tiles where she had cracked it on the stone, trying to breathe through the lingering aftershocks and remembering the spells that he had used to the same result. Felt, deep in her chest, an interwoven pity and horror for Eragon and the new hell he was beginning to endure. She couldn’t heal herself. And she couldn’t heal him. Magic wouldn't erase these wounds.

Arya reached up and grabbed onto Glenwing, clutched at the loose folds of his shirt under his shoulder blades as if he were her last hope against drowning. “They’re…” She shivered, pressed her forehead to his shoulder. She had decided already, that day back in Tronjheim, that if she couldn’t remove them then she would wear them as a badge of pride. She wasn’t broken. She couldn’t be. They were the proof. “I’m…. I beat them. I beat him.”

Glenwing didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He knew, and she knew as well. They’d weather it just as they always did, together and steadfast and strong against the push of everyone else. So they had scars. That didn’t mean they were lost, or broken, or could be cast aside as soldiers who had long passed their expiration date. Fifty years, seventy in her case, was a long, long time to fight.

They’d just have to keep fighting.

They wouldn’t have it any other way.

#eragon #inheritance cycle #the cyclists #the inheritance cycle #Ket's Modern Inheritance Cycle #modern inheritance stories #modern inheritance #arya #arya (inheritance)#arya drottingu #glenwing #ptsd #eldest #recall #look we got more lore and stuff for elf things #iunno it's your usual MIC fic with flashbacks and ptsd and trauma #quite possibly the longest fic we have so far actually

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pureheartcreativity · 10 months

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Drink With Me (Eomer x reader)

This is my first reader insert fic in ages so please forgive me if it’s not that great. On the other hand I've found my love of writing again so hopefully I'll carry on and proceed to improve as I go on!

I was watching Les Mis a while back and some of the music made me think of certain parts of Lord Of The rings and really liked the idea of ‘drink with me’ being before the battle of the Pelenor fields. Anyway I had planned to write a long fic at one point but I just cant think of how to tie together individual stories. So nothing romantic happens to be honest (just making eyes at each other mildly) You are an elf in this story though (Or there are mild mentions of you being an elf) Anyway I hope you enjoy the small amount I have written! Warnings - consumption of alcohol and manly angst!

You see him sat there, the glow of the fire light dancing across his face that was etched in deep worry his golden-brown eyes following the movements of nearby people in the camp as they busied themselves preparing for the for the inevitable ride to battle upon the rising of the sun at dawn. His own had gently cups his bearded chin his thumb rubbing over his lips as his thoughts seemed to take him. His eyes venture upwards when a tankard of ale id held before him then your view of the golden-haired man is blocked as a soldier of Rohan speaks with a hearty warming voice about past successes in war. You shift your position giving some positive reassurance to a young-looking soldier, passing by with a saddle looking particularly distressed. You look back to where Eomer had been sat to see him now stood with the tankard of ale in his hands his golden-brown eyes filled with a hint of hope, laughter, and reminiscence. A smile pulls of your fair features as you see this. Your elven ways were so different than that of men and yet you were enchanted by their ability to find joy and laughter of the knife edge of war. You took your eyes off Eomer to busy yourself with polishing the already pristine elven horse armour to distract yourself from conflicting thoughts. This was short lived though as one of the Rohirrum raised their own tankard into the air and spoke with a voice of confidence “Drink with me” resounding in a reply of cheerful grunts from men, drawing your attention back to less troubled Eomer too raising his own tankard.

‘Drink with me. To days gone by

Sing with me the songs we knew.

Here’s to pretty girls that went to our heads.

Here’s to witty girls that went to our beds.

Here’s to them and here’s to you’.

The conversation was loud but full of laughter as the soldiers teased each other about past encounters in their pursuit of women hues of pink mixing with the glow of orange upon each face of the men as they regaled in the tales. Your own cheeks and the tips of your pointed ears flushed pink at the humility of the conversations, that pink turning more of a beet red as you herd the mention of the golden-haired man.

“Eomer I’m sure has had his share of tales of young maidens he has successfully pursued in his time growing into the fine man he has become” An older man spoke his silver flecked beard full of crumbs for the food he had been eating laughing after he had spoken causing the brown eyed prince to blush beneath his golden facial hair. You didn’t know why but it made you sad to think of Eomer pursuing other people. He was you dearest friend and yet he had always failed to mention of any women of interest in his life to you. You had always assumed he had never found the right person, but he was at an age that his uncle would see him married to a suitor, through preferably of Eomer’s choice.

“Aye Eomer is the lord of all chivalry and could make young maidens fall to his feet with a single sentence” Another man about the same age as Eomer with dark hair slapped the brown-eyed prince on the back in a friendly manner causing the golden haired prince to splutter his mouthful of ale out, his cheeks now burning a bright red as he made eye contact with you a mixed look of embarrassment and guilt playing on his face as if he had done something terribly wrong, yet you knew he hadn’t. “But alas” The dark-haired young man spoke again placing his hand on his chest dramatically and bending to a knee bolstering the prince having taken notice of where he was looking. “Eomer shall leave a string of broken hearts behind him as he saves himself only for the lady who has stolen his heart from him” The dark-haired soldier feigned dramatic pain clutching at his chest feigning to be an inconsolable maiden all the while checking to see that you were still watching as Eomer’s face flushed deeper matching your own colour. It was only the gentle tug on your cloak that broke your concentration as a tankard was placed into your own hands by the young soldier that you had reassured. You gave a not of thanks and allowed the young man to stand beside you to continue to listen to the conversations ahead.

“Jest not. Men will die out there tomorrow” Another of the older soldiers spoke with treat and worry, bringing the severity of the night back to a troubling one.

‘Drink with me. To days gone by

To the life, that used to be.

Let the shrine of friendship never say die.

Let the wine of friendship never run dry.

Here’s to you and Here’s me’.

The sense was more dire in the camp again the pink and red faces had turned very pale very quickly as if ailment had taken them. “Men will die. Families will lose a father, a husband, a son, and all in middle earth will be doomed” The older man spoke again feeling the depth of the situation weigh heavily on him. A silence fell like that you would find of a death filled battlefield after a victory or loss. “If those in care of the one ring are successful there is still the cost of death on all lands” The man spoke again the breaths of men audible in the silence of the night air. You eye this man carefully and so with careful calculated steps come to the centre of the group carefully cradling your own tankard of ale considering the amber liquid inside before looking up standing tall and proud as if you were addressing a squadron of your own elven warriors. “Death must come to all in our turn. Hope is only lost if we chose to fear it” You speak in the hopes to restore life and joy into the group that had gathered, yet there was a firm uncertainty still lingering in the air.

“That’s easy for an immortal to say” The older man all but spat at you eyeing you like you were a danger to the company he kept. You look down at the tankard full of amber ale again inhaling the smoky sweet scent and the words came to you in a simple sweep. You raise your head from its stare into the liquid that reminded you of the brown eyed prince who had his eyes firmly fixed on you with questioning, and a little bit of frustration.

“Drink with me?” You speak unsure of your actions rendering the company around you completely speechless. Elves were far more serious than men in war situations and usually you were no exception to that and now you stood offering a drink with the men of Rohan, a surprise to even yourself. Then you found your confidence as the brown eyes staring directly into your own (Y/EC) softened encouraging to on with your words. “Drink with me” It was less of a question now and more of a statement as you raised the tankard enthusiastically some of the amber liquid sloshing over the rim onto your hand causing it to tingle pleasantly.

‘Drink with me. To days gone by

To the Life that used to be

Let the shrine of friendship never say die.

Let the wine of friendship never run dry.

Here’s to you and here’s to me.’.

Eomer immediately came to your side after your second request to drink with the men of Rohan sliding one arm around your waist and raising his own half full tankard with his free hand taking you up on the offer before lowering his tankard guiding you to do the same and clinking his against yours and taking a large gulp from his drink his eyes never leaving yours. You too took a long sip from your own drink enjoying your closeness with the golden-haired prince in this time, so much so you hadn’t noticed the group too talking drinks from their own tankard until Eomer pointed it out by gesturing to the group around them with his drink.

“The free peoples of middle earth will fall” you spoke again but this time with men more willing to listen to your more freeing words. “But middle earth will be free. Families will be cared for, and the dead will be honoured in the finest halls of the Valar” You speak valiantly eliciting a cheer from the drinking men. It was with this that the night blew over with joyful tales told across the encampment leading to the dawn and the mighty charge to war at the Peleonor Fields.

#Eomer x reader #eomer #Rohan #cute idea #lotr #lord of the rings #lord of the rings fanfiction #battle of the pelennor fields

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squadron-goals · 8 months

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Richthofen (by Erich von Salzmann) Part 1

On one of those beautiful spring days in northern France, we were standing in the street in Douai when a small, rickety car came rushing in. My friend Hoffmann raised his hand: “There comes Richthofen. Stop!” The car came to a halt. Two young officers got out; the one in the short, open fur, parted hair, medium height, stocky, introduced himself short and militarily: "Richthofen." So that was him, the pilot, who was beginning to become so famous. That was the first time I saw him. In my life I have met many people, many I remember, but also many I have forgotten. Richthofen was just at the beginning of his illustrious rise at the time, perhaps just one of many. In any case, I was immediately captivated by him. There was something about him that was particularly endearing.

That typical, endearing self-confidence that must be innate, that can never be learned, was prominently present in Richthofen. In his face was a calm, firm but nevertheless kind masculinity Without that distinct, hard streak that has emerged in some of our young heroes who are in constant life and death struggle. Back then he was still a Leutnant of the Militsch Ulans. In the army report, however, he had already been mentioned several times. His name began to be known among the broader strata of the German people. But one did not notice anything of this in his behaviour. He was still the humble officer from a good family who had been trained in a prestigious regiment. At that time, I was still the Hauptmann for him, the higher-ranking comrade. While walking across the courtyard he walked to my left and let me pass first through the entrance. I saw him again many times, visited him in his field of work, and he was my guest in Berlin. One of the most beautiful memories of my life is tied to Richthofen: I was able to fly with him. And yet. Again and again it was the same, the forms in which the young aristocratic officer was brought up clung to him as firmly as his own skin. You could tell he was a cadet, not in that somewhat exaggerated strictness, in that short, choppy language that waits to hear what the elder has to say. No! Just again and again in that hard-to-define, impeccable posture, in the gestures, in the speech, in the whole demeanour. It was always something controlled. He always had the hint of a friendly smile around his lips. We sat at the meal with excellent music. There were still drinks then. According to the old good Silesian custom, we had swung the tankard and had become merry. Richthofen remained the same. It would never have been possible for Richthofen to have done anything, to have spoken anything, that was not impeccable. Nevertheless, no one could have said of him that he was fake. No one wasnatural than Manfred Richthofen. Later, I saw Richthofen several times with ladies in my house here in Berlin. There, too, it was the impeccable form, the naturalness that was so well liked by the women. He was not a ladies' man in the familiar sense of the word. He was anything but. He was almost the embodiment of modern masculinity, but the ladies liked him, even though he never courted them in the way that many a famous young cavalier liked to do. We were once together at a race in Grunewald - for a while he remained unrecognised. He had been at Johannistal in the morning, trying out new planes, and his clothes were actually not very racecourse appropriate. In general, Richthofen did not care much about appearances, although he of course looked well put together. Suddenly people recognised him. The photographers came. I've seen other young celebrities at such moments, coy but posing. None of that with Richthofen. The completely self-evident confidence in his demeanor was striking. The young girls rushed towards him. He should write his name on the programme as a reminder. Richthofen said to me with a shrug: "What am I going to do?" Another would have walked away. Richthofen wrote calmly, patiently, always with the same friendly smile. The man was certainly harder on himself than almost anyone else, he controlled himself, that's why he ruled over the others. And yet! His soul was soft, he was good-natured and always friendly.

#manfred von richthofen #Ein Heldenleben

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ruiniel · 6 months

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Heya, dahling~ 👋 Do you perhaps have any scrapped scenes from a fic (any fandom) you'd be willing to share with us, please?? 😃 And what was the reason for scrapping it?? If not, have you ever had an idea for a fic that took a drastically different route while writing it??

Hi! Aww thank you, you're giving me a chance to bring back things I wish I could've continued. This one's a band+urban fantasy AU I'd called "Wandering Ghosts" and happens to be for the Castlevania series (2017). In short:

In a bustling capital of modern day Europe, Sypha and Trevor look for a vocalist to help their struggling band. ...Things don’t go as planned. What you’ll find here: nonbinary Alucard, crack, feels, some musical references, adventure, angst, polyamory

So here's 'the first meeting' and some random (sequential) scenes... I scrapped this one because I wrote these in a burst of inspiration, then didn't have the energy to build an outline and continue an actual story. Left it on the 'an attempt was made' shelf as I focus all my modern AU tendencies into Another Way. 🎭

Anyhow here we go:

“Your faith is an unshakeable pillar, Trevor Belmont.”

It all happened lightning-fast for both of them. Only a year prior, Trevor was hitchhiking through Europe, alone and penniless. It just so happened that Sypha was the one to pick him up one time, and from the very first exchange, it was like two magnets smacked together.

“Where to?”

“East.”

A raised eyebrow. “... that’s not very specific for a destination.”

“I know. But when you don’t know where you’re going…”

“... any road will take you there. That’s not an accurate quote, by the way.”

“Hah. Well, all I know is you’re heading in the right direction.”

A smirk. Fearless. “Hop in, stranger.”

“Also…” Sypha brings him back to the present, rising and walking to the counter. She lifts the lid off the pan with omelet, then turns around waving the spatula in the air. “No one else reached out.”

“That’s true,” Trevor says. “I can’t imagine why,” he mutters. “But I get your point. Something about beggars and choosers, was it?”

Sypha taps a finger to her chin. “Who knows? It might be a good fit.”

“Or it might be a serial killer.”

“Trevor…”

“Fine,” Trevor reaches for his phone. As far as choices go, this can’t possibly be the worst they’ve ever made. No, he’s got a shameful top of those, but now Sypha’s here, and since he knows her, it feels like he can face anything. “Give me that contact number.”

There’s not a whole lot that can go wrong, after all.

Trevor drums his fingers on the wood, nodding his thanks at the server who places two glass tankards of frothing ale on their table. He takes one and cheers Sypha before going for a generous swig, then stares at the blooming afternoon outside. He rests his face in his palm. “They’re late.”

Sypha shrugs, her large teal and silver earrings ringing with the movement. She runs her palms over her black leggings. “Let’s give them another few minutes.” They aren't at the fifteen-minute mark yet after all, but when Trevor and their prospect for a new band member spoke on the phone Trevor sensed some hesitation in the speaker’s voice, unusual considering they were the ones who reached out to Trevor and Sypha, not the other way around. Maybe they just weren't expecting to be called back.

Well, he trusted Sypha’s choices and instincts more than his own lately, and it never led them astray. Here’s to trying. He rubs at his eye, running a hand through his shaggy hair, and plays with the ball of his tongue ring as he does when anxious. They agreed to meet for a drink to get to know this person, have an informal interview of sorts. If all goes well, they'd all go and try out for a jam, then see how that fares.

Sypha nudges him. “In your head there, Trev? Or are you…” she wags her eyebrows at him in that way which always makes him both flustered and slightly annoyed, “...nervous?”

“Stop it,” Trevor smiles, pushing into her playfully and placing a hand on her knee, squeezing. “I mean, we don't have much to go on here. They didn’t send you any recorded samples when you emailed together, nor do we know what they look like, which is… weird to say the least?”

“Do looks matter here?”

“Of course not, it’s not that at all. It’s just, you know. In this day and age, y’know, when everyone's face is plastered everywhere…” Trevor adds, defeated, “It's kind of unusual to be so stingy with these details, don’t you think? Suspicious, almost.”

Sypha drinks from her ale, then shakes her head. Trevor has a hefty amount of bad-to-downright-traumatic experiences under his belt which formed the basis of his wary nature towards anything close to a red flag. It's Sypha that helped him immensely on that front, helped him open up and try to trust others more as well as himself.

“I don't think so,” she says. “And as for their skill, we’ll hear them play anyway, if we get there.”

“If,” Trevor nods, looking out the window again. The sun descends upon the city, mild titian light flooding the streets, slicing across buildings. They picked this place to meet for its quiet atmosphere and proximity to the rehearsal room. “I just hope this won’t be a waste of time, that’s all.”

The door to the bar opens, and someone walks in. Sypha looks ahead and blinks, and Trevor only notices her staring when he follows the direction of her gaze.

“I guess we’re about to find out,” Sypha says, elbowing him, and Trevor can’t see her expression because he’s too busy staring at the person who caught his gaze and won’t let go, coming straight towards them.

Well, fuck.

Tall and lean. The longest legs Trevor’s ever seen wrapped in tight, black leather pants belted at the waist, set in high dark boots. A white low-cut shirt under a black biker jacket. Long, wavy hair the color of ripe wheat in summer, flowing past broad-ass shoulders. They're coming closer, closer, stopping before the table.

“Trevor and Sypha, I presume?”

The accent. It's strange, and Trevor can't place it, watching them set down the guitar case they were shouldering. “Uh,” Trevor says, at which point Sypha helpfully intervenes, saving his gawking ass (bless her).

“Sure are!” She stands up gleefully — a bit too gleefully, a part of Trevor’s brain registers. “You must be… Adrian?”

“That I am,” the newcomer smiles, removing their jacket and throwing it onto the wooden bench before sitting opposite the two with a sort of casual fluidity that has a spike of something foreign buzzing at the back of Trevor’s neck: damn if that face isn’t straight out of those classical paintings people fawn over in art museums. When the stranger looks at him and meets his eyes, something else happens: his heart speeds up.

“Good to meet you.”

“Yeah, hi.” Trevor starts haltingly. “I'm Trevor,” he points at himself. Smooth as sandpaper. “I go by he/him. And yourself?”

Adrian nods, “They/them is fine.” His gaze slides towards Sypha. “How should I refer to you?”

“She/they, thanks!” she says, her earrings jingling with every move she makes.

Is she giddy? She's giddy. Trevor tries to ignore it. He suddenly can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something. He tilts his head to the side, observing the newcomer better. Drawn features, shapely brows. The eyes are something else — they’re the lightest honey-brown Trevor’s ever seen, close to golden, or maybe it’s the falling evening light that’s playing tricks on him. The black eyeliner doesn’t help to alleviate the effect. It’s like they trap the light of their surroundings within, and images of various nocturnal predators come to Trevor's mind; maybe a cat; or a wolf. But at the same time, the expression is soft, almost… content. He’s going to make a fool of himself, but whatever. “Don't take this in any way, but,” he waves a hand. “Have we met?”

Adrian raises an eyebrow, succeeding in looking stunning — why the hell is he noticing these things — but as they open their mouth, the server comes to inquire about their drink. Once they take care of the order they look back at Sypha, then Trevor, the softest expression on their face. “I… don’t believe so.”

Fuck, but he does feel like an idiot. Of course, they haven’t met. His mind must've blown a fuse from ogling strong thighs prancing about in too-tight pants. The face before him is not exactly one anyone would call forgettable, nor is that stare, suddenly too intent on him so Trevor must look to Sypha again for aid.

“So…” dimly he hears her talking, apparently taking the reins, and how grateful he is for it. “We're excited, aren't we, Trevor?” She asks him but doesn't wait for an answer, her red-lipped smile on Adrian as she continues. “We were looking for someone to join our music project, as you know.”

Adrian nods. “Yes. 'Wandering Ghosts', you are called?”

“That's right,” says Trevor.

A grin. Friendly. Perfect teeth. “I like the name. Thank you for the chance, I do appreciate this opportunity to meet with you and find out more.”

Why the hell are they speaking like they're on the cast of some period drama? The odd sensation at the back of Trevor's neck intensifies. His eyes flit involuntarily to the cut of that shirt again, to the pale chest adorned in beads and pendants, and the… long, red scar winding across the skin up to their collarbone. His gaze goes up, meeting Adrian's eyes. Trevor coughs, suddenly very uncomfortable. Luckily their drink arrives just then, and he breathes easier when Adrian looks away.

“And we're glad you could make it,” Sypha steps in again, amiable as only she can be. “Let’s tell you a little bit about ourselves.”

And so they do. They find out about Sypha and Trevor's story, how they met, how they got here, and what they're trying to do. Adrian listens carefully and attentively, and the way they look at her as she speaks should probably make Trevor uneasy or feel something along the lines of jealousy, but it doesn't.

Weird.

Bad? He's not sure.

“Do you have a talent manager, then?” asks Adrian before drinking from the ale. “A record label?”

“No,” Trevor jumps in, and when Adrian looks his way, the expression they had when listening to Sypha doesn't change; if Trevor didn't know better, he'd say they're… hanging on every word? Extra weird-points.

“No, we’re… we’re pretty much independent right now, so to say. On our own, uh,” he rubs the back of his head. Bluntness it is. “Look we're small-time, just forming our style, and haven't had much luck with exposure or gigs and we're balancing everything with our day jobs so… that leads me to the question you've probably been expecting. Why do you want to join?”

Adrian smiles then, eyes holding a nearly playful light. “I've heard some of your recorded songs, courtesy of Sypha.”

Trevor looks at Sypha in question, who shrugs innocently.

“Let me be honest, if I may. I believe your style has potential, but would benefit from a few tweaks and I have some suggestions I believe you might find appealing.”

Hold on. “Oh, so you mean… we need you, is what you're trying to say?” Trevor raises an eyebrow.

Adrian nods, unironically. “That is precisely what I'm saying. Oh—” they reach for their phone, “excuse me, I have to take this,” they smile again, get up, and leave the bar with the phone to a heavily-pierced ear, swaying away on those long legs as they do.

Trevor's head snaps to look at his partner. “What the fuck, Sypha?”

Sypha, who was resting her chin in her palm, turns away from her gaping. “What? I think it's going great so far. And… they're cute.”

“The hell they are,” Trevor gripes. “They just said we need them, which is the biggest fucking 'No' in my book, for smugness.”

Sypha tuts, tapping her beringed fingers against the tankard. Patient, she’s always so patient with him. “Self-confidence is a strong trait in a lead, isn't it?”

Grudgingly, he has to admit she's right again. “We don't know anything about them.”

“And I didn't know anything about you when I picked you up.” She wraps her hands around his arm, looking at him that way, which always melts his resistance like wax under fire. “We're doing this to get to know them.”

Trevor sighs, grumbles some.

“Look, let's just give them a chance, yes?” she whispers as Adrian steps back inside and walks over to the table.

Fine, fine, fine.

“Sorry about that,” Adrian retakes their seat, their rich, pale hair swishing like a sheet of silk about their shoulders.

“Tell me, Adrian,” Trevor begins, cutting to the chase. “What are you looking to achieve by… helping us?”

Adrian shrugs in a way that looks so familiar Trevor suddenly has trouble focusing. “Mutual success,” comes a smile, and Trevor lifts the tankard to his lips and drinks so he can pin the blush on something else. What the hell is happening… “I can offer you my time, my energy, and my skill.”

“Uh-huh,” Trevor says, and he can tell Sypha's positively beaming next to him. Smells like defeat already. Whatever. “You mention time. We try to practice daily, does your schedule allow that?”

Adrian nods again, and yeah, those eyes are creepy as fuck. “It does. Of course, I am thinking… you would like to hear me play, for a complete idea? See how we…” A moment of hesitation. “... work together?”

Aren't they moving fast… who's interviewing whom here, anyway? “Woah, buy us dinner first,” Trevor leans back, then starts as Sypha's foot hits him under the table. Adrian seems to not have noticed. Or maybe they did, as they briefly glance her way before the strangest smile Trevor's ever seen changes their face. It's fond and sad and tired, and Trevor can't find it in himself to look away.

“We do have to hear you play before we make a decision,” he wraps an arm around Sypha's shoulders, drawing her closer both to show their connection and to make it clear they're a united front. “And we need someone who's in this for the long run. Is that something you think you could commit to?”

The smile stays, and Trevor has a hard time holding that amber stare but does his darndest.

Adrian leans forward with their elbows on the table. “Yes,” they say, staring Trevor in the eye. “Yes, I believe I can.”

“What do you want to do?” Her lashes feel heavy, the heat in her lower belly building to a crescendo.

“Lie here, with me. So I can feel you're real…”

Sypha cups their jaw, pressing herself closer and being hugged tighter as she does. She softly kisses, feeling the tension of muscles from the slightest brush of her eager lips. Her hand comes over their chest, Adrian's heartbeat under her palm; their own hand grips hers. “I'm real. We both are,” she says, a sweep of her thumb clearing the wetness from Adrian's cheek.

#ruiniel:fanfiction

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