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whimzeee · 3 months

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Audaciously Yours,

Ramazith tower has ten billion stairs.

At least that’s how it feels to a pair of drunk fools leaning on one another while trying to climb them.

It’s late evening, perhaps a bit too late to be proper. Dinner lasted into the night and was served with one glass too many of the finest wine Dammon had ever tasted. At the hands of the three siblings he had been hosted like royalty that night. After Cal and Lia had called it a night, Rolan and Dammon stayed a bit longer. To have a conversation they could no longer pretend wasn’t needed.

They had both needed a drink or several to get through those nerves. One more so than the other. And the effect shows plainly; Dammon’s fingertips are a bit numb, but the entirety of Rolan’s legs seem to be that way.

He has Rolan’s arm hooked around his shoulders in the dimlit staircase. His warmth slumped against him. Arm around his waist, hand on hip. He’s not sure if the purple blush on Rolan’s face comes from the wine, or from the words they’d exchanged at long last. It’s no less pretty either way.

“Nearly there,” he encourages gently.

Rolan pauses, huffs an annoyed breath. “I am going to figure out portals…if it kills me.”

“Before these stairs do?”

“Mm.” Rolan glowers, but from the way his eyes blink, it seems less a glare of frustration and more just that he’s trying to see clearly. Were Dammon sober, he’d have stifled the snicker that bubbles up. He’s too tipsy to catch it in time.

Rolan’s sharp gaze is blunted and slow as he turns the glare on him. Maybe it would have been scary if he hadn’t started laughing too.

“Alright,” he slurs, gesturing loosely forward. “Laugh at me all you’d like, if you get us up these…damned steps.”

“I’m sorry,” Dammon giggles. “You’re just so...intimidating when you’re sober. It seems silly now.”

“Am I?” Is he…pouting?

“No,” Dammon corrects quickly. “Perhaps not after all.”

Rolan’s arm has begun to slip from his shoulders, so he hefts him higher—closer. Rolan's body curves to fit into his own and Dammon feels his face warming.

“I was the one intimidated,” Rolan mutters quietly. “You won’t believe how nervous I was. Still am, honestly.”

This is a brand new side of him. Rolan’s never been so honest. It’s always pomp and face, lace and ruffle when he talks. Always so concerned with decorum. Never just…real. Real like the friction between them as they lean drunken on each other in the small hours of night.

“No need for that,” he soothes, and pulls him up one more step. “It doesn’t need to be scary.”

Many missed steps and poorly stifled giggles later, they finally pour through the door to Rolan’s room. Dammon looks about with a mix of giddiness and trepidation. It feels like he’s not supposed to be here, somehow. But he is. For the first time.

It’s sparser than he’d expected. Cozy, but minimal. Organized so neatly it barely feels like a bedroom at all. But for a few books and two standing picture frames on the nightstand, one would hardly know whose room it was at all. A standing three-pronged candelabra next to the purple-quilted bed holds three perfectly un-melted lit candles, even though they must have been burning all night. Ah, right: Archmage Rolan. Downstairs he has a chandelier whose crystals lit up in different colors with a wave of his hand.

Dammon hauls the Master of Ramzith Tower's ragdoll body over to the bed and eases him down to sit. He takes this opportunity to get a closer look at the portraits. One is of Rolan and his siblings—gods help them trying to get Cal to sit still for that long. The second is quite older, faded and creased in some places. It depicts an older tiefling woman he doesn’t know, with a baby in her arms and a very young girl at her side, her hand resting on top of the child’s head. He recognizes the girl's horn shape, shared by the woman.

In the state Rolan’s in now, Dammon knows that if he asked he’d easily get an answer. So he doesn’t. It feels wrong. Like cheating at chess.

Rolan’s staring blearily at nothing, his head drooping. Dammon can’t help but smirk, biting his lip to keep from laughing at him any further. “Here,” he says gently, kneeling in front of him. “Let me help.”

Rolan’s eyes focus as he watches the blacksmith take his boots off for him. Unlaces them neatly and slides them off one by one with painstaking gentleness. When he’s finished, he’s a bit startled to see how big Rolan’s eyes have gotten, how he stares at him in…well, shock, really.

“Um… Was that okay?”

“I.” Rolan shivers, breaking the gaze as he feels suddenly self conscious. “Yes.”

No one has ever done something like that for him. So small but…just. Taking his shoes off for him. No one has ever.

“Are you. Sure?”

Rolan covers his face with his hands and falls backward onto the bed, flopping like a limp fish.

Dammon’s eyes peep over the side of the bed before he rises up onto his knees, leaning on the bed with his elbows. He observes Rolan quietly, waiting, but he doesn’t say any more.

"You've gone very quiet very quickly. Are you alright?" His smile fades to the touch of concern. "Not feeling sick are you?"

Rolan stares up at him like a first-time stargazer. His wide, shining eyes striving to focus.

"Rolan?"

"Mm. Mnyes."

"Did you hear the question?"

“Hn. 'F course."

Dammon waits, then huffs a laugh. "Would you care to answer it?"

"...I'm not sure."

"You're not sure what? ...Not sure you're going to answer or not sure if you're sick?"

"Right. Yes. You understand."

Dammon chuckles again, hanging his head. "Ohh, I wish I did."

Rolan catches his laugh, humming a lazy giggle as his sharp teeth flash in a manner he'd never allow sober.

Dammon takes a moment to admire it until it fades, Rolan's eyes slipping closed and his breath falling into rhythm. There is the faintest tug of disappointment in his heart, like when the top edge of the sun dips out of sight. He pulls himself to his feet and reaches down to lift Rolan’s legs, turning him rightways on the bed. He carefully places his head onto a pillow--fine downfeathers. Rolan must have been miserable on the road. While pulling a blanket over him, Dammon has the quite sudden thought that he wouldn’t mind doing this every night for the rest of his life.

For a moment, he waits there, staring at the gentle peace in Rolan's sleeping face. A thousand daydreams float through his buzzing mind. His hand twitches with the impulse to reach out and brush that stray lock of hair out of his face, but he's just sober enough to hold it back.

He'd better leave while he still has that much self control.

Before he can move two steps, he hears a short gasp, and Rolan snatches his wrist with surprising speed.

"W-what—"

"I am, actually," Rolan's voice tumbles over itself; he's more drunk than Dammon thought.

"Am...what?"

"I—yes, I'm. Feeling ill, actually, yes."

Dammon may have been concerned, had he not recently learned that Rolan is a terrible liar. His smile spreads slowly, like a new candle wick that must melt before it lights.

He sinks to his knees by the bedside, leaning on his crossed arms on the mattress. Rolan’s grip moves to his bicep and won’t let go. "Quite stricken, are you?"

Rolan swallows. "Terribly."

Dammon leans closer. His eyes glow in the candlelight. "Then I can hardly leave you all alone, can I?"

He can practically hear the perfectly fitted clockwork gears that power Rolan's mind grind to a halt. He looks for a moment as if he really is ill, the way his face pales and breath quickens.

"St…you must stay with me."

"Mm. Seems I must."

Despite having just insisted on it five seconds ago, Rolan shakes his head and covers his face with his hands. "No, no, of course not. It wouldn't be proper. Not proper at all."

Dammon's mild eyes sweep over Rolan as if he's never held such fondness before.

"Never much cared for what's proper," he smirks, gently prying Rolan's hands away from his face. "Unless you do."

"..."

"Would you like me to stay, Rolan?"

"Well...but. It wouldn't be..."

"But would you like it?"

"...Yes."

He smiles. So bright Rolan's eyes close against it. The hand that grips his is heavy and solid. The heat it stokes in Rolan’s chest going to make cinders of him. Once the fire hits him he’ll change shape—and does he want that? He won’t survive the night. Morning will see him darken again, made brittle by cold water. It’s not going to turn out. He’s sharp and thin and riddled with impurities. No matter how careful the hands that strike him, he will break beneath the hammer.

He jumps at the sound of Dammon’s voice. "Can you sit up a moment?"

Rolan opens his eyes just enough to glare. "Nn. Why."

"So I can take your hair down for you."

Rolan's squinted eyes go wide an soft. How is he going to say no to that? He tries to sit on his own, but because he is never one to miss an opportunity, he begins to roll and tilt toward the edge of the bed.

"Oh--gods, don't fall." Dammon catches him quickly, arm around shoulders. Rolan's entire body freezes. His face is buried in the crook of Dammon's arm, he can smell warm steelsmoke and hearth. And...rosemary. Has he used cologne?

It's too soon that Dammon pulls him back to balance, sitting him up properly. Rolan sways in place, hoping the cover of being drunk is enough to explain the starstruck glaze in his eyes.

Rolan must bite his tongue to stop himself making an absolutely unacceptable sound when he feels Dammon's fingers thread through his hair. Sharp, careful nails scrape the base of his neck and drag upward along his scalp. The violent shiver that overtakes his body is about as controllable as a sudden rainstorm in summer.

"Sorry," Dammon laughs, and begins to pull away.

"Oh don't you dare stop."

A pause, another small breath of laughter. Rolan wishes he was sober, so that he could memorize that beautiful sound in vivid detail, be sure that he could recall it at any moment he chose for the rest of his days.

With a touch so delicate as to belay fear, Dammon carefully pulls his hairtie free and shakes loose the wiry, tangled locks. With no comb nearby, he uses his claws. It's not the touch of a smith, but rather a jeweler, precise and delicate and no more than needed. So gentle. So unbearably delicate. Torture.

He wishes he’d grab a fistful and pull.

Rolan sucks in a breath and even he is surprised at the volume of the smack that comes from his hands against his own face. He's gone mad. He’s out of his godsdamn mind. He's terrible.

Dammon instantly lets go, flinching back. “What!” he pulls on Rolan’s shoulder, trying to get a look to see if he’s hurt himself. “Are you—wh-why—”

Rolan groans and flops back onto the bed, burying his face into the pillow instead. “T-thank you, that’s quite enough!” he panics.

Completely bewildered, Dammon reaches toward him, but hesitates.

He said it didn't need to be scary, but. It is. It’s still so new between them. Fragile and uncertain without structure. A seedling too delicate to bear weight just yet. It's only ten minutes ago they've confessed to feeling something more. Dammon wants this, he’s sure, but he’s painfully aware that he has no idea what he’s doing. How fast to move. And Rolan…deserves the best, after all of it. He deserves joy. Dammon wants to abandon caution and explore this newness, but more than the thrill of it all he wants this—the idea of them—to give Rolan something safe. It needn’t be painful, uncomfortable. It needn’t intimidate either of them.

“Wait here a moment,” Dammon says, his voice calm and soft. He pulls the blanket back to Rolan’s shoulders then steps softly away.

Rolan stays frozen in place, listening over the sound of his own pounding heart as Dammon leaves the room. Once he hears him on the stairs, Rolan sighs, cursing himself under his breath. The mess this man has made of him…shameful. Shameful, the way he’s acting. Drunk. Ridiculous. He’s driven him away now.

No. He said wait. Rolan does. He listens for the creak of the stairs, inexplicably desperate. He's felt this way before, hasn't he. He almost forgot being six. Listening for footsteps on the stairs.

“You won’t come back, will you.”

Out loud, he’s said that. Gods. How pathetic is he going to show himself?

Rolan opens his eyes, staring listlessly at the empty doorway. If he focuses hard enough, he can still feel the ghost of careful hands on his shoulders. If he concentrates, he can remember the warmth and weight of their sides pressed together, that hand gripping his hip ever tighter. Rolan wanted more. Still does. But it wouldn’t be…proper.

Gods. Who cares?

He doesn’t want to care. About appearance. About pretense, impression, fronts. How things are supposed to be done. Dammon doesn’t seem to. He loves that about him, admires it. The most genuine person he’s ever known. Never pretentious, never a liar. Like himself. How can he claim to care for him and yet lie to him—posture in front of him with lavish gifts and braggart peacocking in his big fuckoff tower?

It’s all he’s ever known: display. No one cares for you as you are. No one looks twice at you. No one ever gave one fuck. They struggled for so long. So long. The people most important to him in the world went hungry and abused, all the time, because he wasn't anyone. Couldn't do a damn thing for anyone. He’s better now. He pulled them out of the gutter. He’s worth something now. Isn’t he?

So why isn’t he coming back?

Rolan stares at the photos on his bedside table. He feels his eyes stinging.

“Dammon,” he calls, because he’s drunk, because it’s not fucking fair that he’s alone again. There’s a sob in his voice, anger. No dignity whatsoever. He doesn’t care. “Dammon!”

There are hurried steps in the hall, and Rolan regrets it instantly. Dammon appears in the doorway, alert, a steaming mug in his hand and a small towel draped over his forearm.

“Just here,” he assures, all soft worry and attention. “What’s wrong?” When Rolan doesn’t answer, he comes to sit on the edge of the bed, smiling gently. “Did you think I’d left?”

“No,” he lies. Because that’s all he fucking knows how to do. He groans at himself, shaking his head so that it starts to spin again. “Maybe…”

“I won’t.” He drapes the damp cloth over the back of Rolan’s neck. It’s cool but not cold and feels wonderful. “Not until you want me to.”

Rolan pouts up at him, disgruntled. “Where did you go?”

“To borrow Cal’s kitchen. Apologies to him.” Dammon reaches for the cup, little white steam rising from inside it. “Here.”

He helps Rolan rise, not really sitting up but at least leaning on an elbow so that he can take the cup. Inside is a light amber liquid which he only questions after he’s had a sip. “…Bitter. What issit?”

“Hangover killer. Smiths don’t get the next morning off. Dad set me up with the recipe; never failed him once.”

Rolan takes sleepy sips of the draught, grimacing throughout but refusing to put it aside. In the softness of the scene, Dammon sits by his side with his elbows on his knees and gazes at him.

“What are you smiling at,” grumbles Rolan, his face going darker again.

Dammon laughs softly, his eyes going shy as he turns them downward. “Only thinking.”

“…I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to share what about.”

“I’d answer anything you asked me.”

Rolan’s heartbeat is doing all sorts of wacky little tricks today. Before he can get hold of himself, Dammon continues, “Thinking how I’ve never had someone to make tea for. It’s nice.”

Rolan wants to tell him he’s the same, that there’s never been anyone in his life he’d wanted to care for so tenderly. To take off their shoes for them, carry them up the stairs, sit by their bedside until they feel safe enough to sleep again. He wants to. Instead, he says, “You’ve got a…unique idea of what tea is.”

Dammon smiles. The picture of patience.

“Thank you,” Rolan adds, so low it’s barely audible.

Dammon takes the empty cup from him, leaning across toward the nightstand to do so. It brings him quite close to Rolan. And when he begins to move away, something in him ignites—cold fire, frightened and desperate. He strikes out and snatches a handful of Dammon’s shirt collar.

Dammon’s startled, but his voice is slow, steady. Hardly a whisper. "...I meant it. I won't leave."

He's...not just talking about right now. Is he. Rolan feels himself start to tremble. So does Dammon.

“Are you alright?”

Rolan shakes his head, dismissive. “I’m fine, just. Feel a bit…dizzy, suddenly.”

“Mm…I might know the feeling.”

Their faces are so close together now, he can smell the sweetness of Dammon’s breath washing down over him. Peach and white wine. Moonlight from the window wages quiet war with the candles inside and their graceful clash drapes the room in flowing shadow. Rolan’s head spins trying to make sense of it all. He feels like they’re in another realm. A dream. Where maybe it’s not as frightening to reach out and touch whatever is hidden from light.

He does. His fingers are clumsy as they tilt Dammon’s chin and turn upward his eyes. Bluegold, like the sun breaking through a long winter’s frost.

"Did you mean what you said to me," he murmurs, his eyes flaring brightly with ache. "Would you take it back?"

Dammon holds his stare. "There's still time, you're saying?"

Rolan feels himself about to cry. He’s so afraid. So exposed. It’s here where they cut away the lifeline, or follow it back to safe ground. His voice shakes, only a whisper. "Still time. Should you have doubts."

Slow, gentle, Dammon slides his fingers beneath the palm of Rolan's hand. You'd think it was carved of precious stone, the way he cradles it so carefully. He raises it to his own face, presses it against his cheek and holds it there. Firm enough to impress his feelings, loose enough that Rolan could pull away.

"No there isn't," Dammon says, and turns his face into Rolan's palm. His lips press the softest kiss into it, a fragile thing, a clockwork butterfly that flutters so small and vulnerable inside the cage of his fingers. And then Dammon folds his hand into a fist.

"And no I wouldn't." His gaze is that of a prisoner looking out from between bars. He repeats what he’s said, nails shut his last window of escape. “Rolan. I care for you in a way I’ve never felt before. I don't know what it is exactly, yet. But I'd like to find out. And what I do know...is I want to feel like something special to you. Something you can use. I want to be for you what I’ve never been for anyone. No one has ever known me that way. I want it to be you.”

Rolan’s breath has abandoned him. He’s whimpering to get it back. His every nerve alight and shimmering like the weave. When he strikes out to grab the back of Dammon’s neck, electric tendrils spark out from his fingertips, unbidden. His eyes are glowing with white light. How swiftly, how easily he surrenders the run of himself.

Before reason can stop him, before sanity can intervene, Rolan wrenches Dammon close and crashes their lips together like tide on shore. What’s left of the wavebreak spills from his eyes, shut tight, brows arched and desperate. He feels Dammon tense, hesitate…then curl toward him. His mouth opens to his tongue and his head rocks in rhythm with the sudden seastorm.

Rolan feels as though he may faint. And like he'll never rest again. He feels awful, and ecstatic, and pathetic and happy and free. He could drink the ocean Dry.

Dammon’s hand snakes around his side and rests in the small of his back. Rolan arcs up toward him, his hands curling around the curve of his skull where it meets his work-tensed neck. Rolan lets himself explore the finely chiseled curves borne of every hammerswing he’d ever struck. The muscles so hard, sinew like braided iron cords—and yet the skin above so delicate soft.

Dammon breaks for breath.

“Rolan,” he mutters, keening, urgent. “S…stop.”

It takes a painful few moments, but Rolan does. He rips himself away with a delirious moan and buries his face instead into Dammon’s neck. His breath rasping hot and ragged. "I'm. Ngh. Sorry."

“It’s just…” Dammon sounds just as overcome. “Not that I don’t…but. You’re drunk, is why. I can’t.”

“Yes,” he whispers, teeth grinding together so tightly that they squeak. “I. Forgive me…I-I don’t know what…I.”

“It’s alright.” His hand grips the back of Rolan’s shirt, the other cupped behind his head. “Shh. Nothing’s wrong.” Dammon laughs, incredulous, giddy and tearful. He plants a kiss into Rolan’s hair, just between his horns. “Far, far from it.”

He clings to Rolan while a thousand fireflies buzz inside the hollow of his chest. He’s never been so happy, he thinks, not in all his life. Rolan is shaking, shrinking into him to try and hide. Though he’s more than a little worried, Dammon is nevertheless glad for the chance to be his haven. Honored. And he doesn’t aim to fall short of the role.

He lays the two of them down in the soft quilts, holds him against his chest. Rolan is beyond speech. For long minutes that stretch into hours, Dammon hushes him softly, repeats assurance and affirmation of safety and peace. Whether because of this, or simply from being so overwhelmed, Rolan eventually sinks below the still pond of sleep.

For a long time, Dammon stares at thin air in a wide-eyed daze. He can hardly believe…it plays over and over in his mind. He keeps still, daring not to move a muscle. He fears to wake him. Fears to shatter the wild dream they’ve fallen into. Gods above. All the fucking hardship. All the loneliness. Done. All of it behind them now. Rolan…

Rolan.

He loves him.

…Oh, gods. He needs to process this. Calm down. But his mind is spinning and he’s so emotionally exhausted, but there’s no chance in six hells he’ll get any sleep tonight. Maybe that’ just as well. He'd been invited for dinner. It would be a wild disrespect to sleep off Rolan’s wine, in Rolan’s house, in Rolan’s bed. On his first proper visit to Rolan’s home. A measure of guilt creeps into the bliss. He's always so concerned with appearances. What would his siblings think? …What would he think, more importantly, if he woke and found Dammon beside him?

As much as he'd like to get lost in the pretty dream of waking up at his side every single day to smiles and sleepsoft kisses...perhaps this time, it’ll be kindest to spare him the morning after. The last thing he wants is to imperil this…this miracle he’s just been given. He’ll wait a while longer, make sure Rolan won’t wake in the night and feel abandoned, and be gone by tomorrow. Tomorrow he will rise and run straight to the tabernacle to thank Tymora. Hells, tomorrow he will sing praise to every god he’s ever heard the name of. But tonight belongs only to himself and Rolan. To him…and the one with whom he is fully, irredeemably, fervently in love.

Audaciously.

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flowers-for-the-grave · 9 months

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Herons Aren't Lightweights

The Herons base was rowdy at night.

They all gathered together, tankards of beer in hand, drinking like there was no tomorrow. There may as well not have been to them.

Cleo continued brewing up drinks, adding input to the conversations going on around her.

Scott was up on the stage with Christian, asking questions in a hushed tone, yet somehow she could still hear the slur in his voice.

Eloise sat with Water, both singing somewhat poorly to bar songs and the made-up anthem of the Herons. Olive sat beside them, joining in every now and then but mostly just working on tuning their instrument.

Owen sat at one of the tables, head in his hands. He let out a low groan, eyes fluttering shut.

"Guys? I think someone needs to take Owen to bed." Cleo called out.

"Really? Already?" Olive asked. "We've only had...had..." Olive's eyes began to droop. They downed another drink. "We've only had, like, five drinks."

Water shrugged. "I can take him. Be back soon!" Water stood up, staggering a little, then approached Owen. "C'mon, let's go. You've had enough for tonight."

Owen only groaned weakly in protest.

Once Water had carried Owen out of the tavern, Cleo glanced over at Scott. He was still talking to Christian, and was gesticulating madly.

Olive and Eloise seemed distracted enough. They wouldn't mind if the next round of drinks didn't come for a bit.

Cleo carefully walked up to Scott, then paused a little behind him.

"What do I do? I- is there anything I can...do for him? I mean, we've just started talk...talking to each other again!"

Christian merely shrugged in response. "I am not sure. For now, give him some space and a little time. Eventually things between you will get easier."

Scott's ears flushed. "I don't have time to wait that long! What if one of us goes out on an expedition and never comes back? I may never get to see him again in time, and I don't want thing to be tense between us if and when that happens!" His voice rose in pitch and volume.

For a brief second, Eloise and Olive glanced his way. Then the two of them slowly turned back to each other and their drinks.

Cleo set her hand on Scott's shoulder. He spun around and grasped at the handle of his rapier, then let go when he saw it was her. "I think you should sit down now Scott. Give Christian a break."

He nodded meekly. "Yeah. Yeah, sure." Scott allowed Cleo to lead him to a seat at a table, then push him into it.

"Is it about Acho?"

Scott hesitated, then nodded. "I just...I just don't know what to do."

"Think about it in the morning. You're not thinking clearly right now. When you're sober, think about it then. For now, you can either keep drinking and drown your sorrows in alcohol, or you can take a rest like Owen. No shame in either option."

"Alcohol. Strong alcohol." He didn't stutter, and his voice was almost completely free of a slurred tone. Almost as if he hadn't had more drinks than most of the other Herons already.

"Sure?"

"Yes. I want you to give me so much alcohol that I can barely move around tomorrow. No, for the rest of the week."

Cleo sighed. It wasn't a good idea, but they were pirates.

Since when was anything they did a 'good idea'?

Olive let out a startled yelp, then a joyful squeal. "Cruppy! Hello!" Cruppy jumped at Olive's heels, rubbing against them and jumping like a puppy would. Olive bent down and stroked Cruppy, to which the crab-puppy-thing eagerly jumped into their lap for stroking convenience.

Smiling at the sight, Eloise was suddenly motivated to sing even louder and more joyfully than before. Olive joined in with equal vigour and Cruppy nestled in their lap peacefully.

Cleo shook her head with a warm grin, then grabbed the next round of drinks.

"To us!" She declared, holding her tankard tight and pushing it high into the air.

"To us!" The others parroted, with varying levels of volume and enthusiasm. Regardless, the sound could be heard well beyond the Herons' base and echoed through the town.

Water returned, arms free of Owen, and shouted, "To us!" at the top of her lungs. A delayed reaction, but a welcome one.

For the rest of the night, they all chanted the same thing over and over, falling asleep in the tavern.

They all regretted it in the morning.

But Herons weren't lightweights, and for some strange reason, they all wished to prove it.

#pirates smp #psmp #scurvyblr #scott smajor #dangthatsalongname #zombiecleo #owengejuicetv #watermunch #soupforeloise #olivesleepy #alcohol #getting drunk #drunken confessions #kinda #mentioned Acho

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jacksonlywife · 5 months

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A Drunken Deed

Synopsis: (Your best friend Choso, who you have a crush on, comes to your door in the middle of the night drunk and begins confessing and kissing you.)

(GN!Reader)

TW: Alcohol consumption

It was the middle of the night and you had heard a bunch of banging on the door causing you to jolt awake. Your head throbbed from the sudden change in pace as you got up to check who was at the door.

The door clicked open and you were met with your best friend Choso who looked flushed with half open eyes as well as him tumbling to the wall.

A scent of alcohol entered your nose and that's when it clicked to you.

Choso was drunk.

“Choso what made you drink?” You asked confused since he isn’t one to drink a lot or drink at all.

“Mh..can I stay over?” He said mumbling. Since he seemed beyond sober you let him in gently seating him on the couch.

“Why’d you drink?” You ask once again, waiting for a response.

“Don’t know how..to say it.” Choso said averting his eyes as the flush on his face got even darker then before.

What was up with him? You asked yourself your confusion on your face as evident as possible.

All of a sudden Choso grabs your shoulders and faces you with a look of determination.

“I..I..” He says trying to get it out but it doesn’t seem to.

“Choso. I won’t judge you. Please.” You say pleadingly trying to encourage him to speak what he was trying to say.

“I like you.”

Silence.

A blush spreads across your cheeks as you tilt your head trying to comprehend what he just said.

“D-Did I hear that right.? You like me?” You began stuttering because you also liked him but didn’t know how to exactly respond.

“I love you.” Choso says this time but with glittering eyes meaning everything he said.

“Choso..I-I also-” You're cut off when Choso grabs your face with both of his hands and kisses your lips gently.

The smell of alcohol filled your nose as the kiss turned passionate and eventually you both broke away panting heavily.

“I love you.” You say back, making him blush.

“Thank goodness.” He grasps your hands in relief and puts his head on your shoulder getting knocked out from the alcohol as you chuckle to yourself.

“Cute.”

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tsams-confessions · 1 month

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I think that the fandom could enter a time of peace if many would stop assuming things about the characters that are not seen on the screen and much less blindly convince themselves that their theories and canons are real, such as the unspoken orientations of various characters, Moon being interested in being in a relationship, the possibility of redemption for Eclipse and Blood Moon, Sun being an alcoholic just because he got high on wine in one episode, etc. Just relax please, if you want to believe all that, good for you, but don't impose those ideas others

#sun and moon show #the sun and moon show #tsams #sams #tsams confession #< block this if you dont want to see these #mod 1blood #people are calling sun an alcoholic??

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goldfeizh · 19 days

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"Like-like"

PAIRING : George Weasley/Male!Reader, crushing

FANDOM : Harry Potter, one-shot

CONTAINS : Drunk love confessions, fluff, like- one swear word, mentions of alcohol (THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD‼️)

Gryffindor parties are often described to be rather wild, and although it contributes to the stereotype that all Gryffindors are loud and obnoxious, it's not entirely false that the parties they throw can be over-the-top lively. However, nobody ever mentions the calmer aftermath, when the energy has died down and everyone is either wasted, exhausted, or have passed out. You expected George to get drunk— knowing that he and his twin are the life of the party —and you expected you would be the one looking after him, as you always do. Maybe you care for him just a little too much, because if you didn't, you wouldn't be painstakingly dragging the boy up the stairs toward the dormitories.

"Godric's sake, George—" You mutter under your breath as you attempt to haul him up. He's heavy, and certainly stubborn about staying sat on the cold, wooden floor. He groans in protest, whining with slurred words. It always seems like he becomes more irritatingly immature in moments like these. You sigh in defeat, leaning against the wall beside George in an exasperated manner then sliding down to sit next to him.

"Fine then, we're sleeping in the hallway." You mutter, clearly annoyed yet you can't really bring yourself to truly be mad at George. Your gaze wanders, and eventually it lands on the boy beside you. He's rambling on about something without a care in the world, his words don't make any sense. You find yourself chuckling at his ridiculously messy hair, and the way he tries to form coherent sentences and act as if he's sober. It's amusing.

"Then I looked.. I saw you, it was—" George pauses, as if looking for the right thing to say through his inebriated mind, "—It was like, woahh, y'know?" He gestures with his hands to convey an effect of awe, almost hitting you in the process. He turns to you with this stupid grin on his face, he's all giggly and dazed, and it makes you wonder if it's because he's looking at you.

You raise an eyebrow at his words. Humoring him would mean having to deal with drunken ramblings, you don't know if you have the social energy for that. Still, it would make your night less boring. "What d'you mean by woah?" You ask, curiosity hanging in the air. You watch as your friend's expression changes, looking as though he's processing what you'd just said. Or maybe it's a look of incredulity, like he can't quite believe you'd ask that, 'cause to him, the answer is obvious.

"Because," He pauses, leaning against you. For a moment, he just stares at you, until he realizes that you're expecting a reason. George clears his throat, "You're pretty— prettiest boy I ever, uh, seen." He states matter-of-factly, feigning a serious expression. Despite his efforts, a cheeky grin makes it's way to his lips as he snickers, "Aside from me, o' course!"

The compliment catches you off-guard— even though you know that he's under the influence of alcohol and sheer honesty is pretty common for people who are intoxicated, but you're still surprised. And although you laugh along with a scoff as you playfully push the other way, a thought lingers in your head. He thinks you're pretty. "Oh, fuck off." You mutter, rolling your eyes.

"What? Y'dont believe me?"

"Not one bit!"

"C'mon," He laughs softly, "I mean it!" George insists. He lets his head fall on your shoulder as he's slouched on the floor with his eyes closed. "I like your face."

You hum, "I like your face too, I guess."

It falls silent, a comfortable quiet that George immediately interrupts because he just can't seem to stop talking for more than 10 seconds, "The rest of you is pretty cool too."

"Really now?" You reply absentmindedly, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. Even with your attempt to act nonchalant, the warmth of your face gives away how affected you truly are by his comments.

"Yeah, I likee—" He trails off, the sound of his fingers tapping against the wooden floor rings in your ears. "Eh, you." George declares finally, nodding to himself like he's making sure what he said was right.

If you were surprised by his compliment earlier, this one has rendered you speechless. Partly out of shock, but also because you're far too busy running through rampant thoughts and going through every possibility or reason for him to say that to even think of a response. You don't want to get ahead of yourself and assume that it's a confession. Meanwhile, he doesn't seem to notice how tense your shoulders had become, "Like a lot," George continues thoughtfully. "More than anyone, actually. Uhm, 's that weird? I hope not."

You don't respond, because what are you supposed to do when your friend says something that you know he won't even remember in the morning?

George murmurs under his breath, "Think I—" He cuts himself off, abruptly sitting up straight. His eyebrows are furrowed yet his eyes hold that dazed stare, which makes you contemplate if it's George or the alcohol talking. "No no, I know that I..." He stammers, his expression one of concentration as he tries to find the right words to convey how he feels, or atleast that's what it looks like to you. "Like-like you."

It takes you a moment to react. He sounds so sincere and genuine, and you can't help but bark out a laugh because you'd never thought you would hear George ever say the words 'Like-like', especially not during a drunk confession. It doesn't take long for the other to join in on your laughter, although he doesn't really seem to understand what you find so funny and that just seems to make the situation all the more comedic.

"Alright, come on." You stand up from the floor, patting down any dust on your pants before you reach a hand out to George. "Let's get you to your dorm." You smiles as he takes your hand into his, and only now do you notice how calloused and warm his palm is. It's like all the worries you had moments prior have now been stored in the far back of your mind, you'll worry about it again in the morning. You haul the boy up, and this time he lets you pull him to his feet. He stumbles forward, legs still wobbly as you quickly catch him.

"For the record, I like-like you too," You finally admit whilst guiding George to his dorm-room.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

FINALLY, this took me way too long than it should have. Not my best work tbh, there are some parts that I like and some parts that I wish I had done better. I don't know if I did good on the dialogue, this is my first time writing a drunk character so I hope I did atleast half-decent. I'm still pretty proud of this, though. As always, likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated!!

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babygirlkaramatsu · 2 months

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first meetings + sharing a drink in the park

my pokémon special interest has had me in a death grip for months, but i wanted to take a break to draw something else. so it's kurokara time. 😏

#the first doodles were from last year but i still wanted to share them #and the second is actually supposed to take place the night they confess to each other so that's why i wanted to post them together 🤭#i am cringe but i am free in this moment...#osomatsu-san #ososan #oso-san #osomatsu-san oc #karamatsu matsuno #karamatsu #oc : kuroba #ship : kurokara #mj ocs #mj draws #tw alcohol

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suitetarts · 6 months

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reasons to be honest

Astarion x Original Female Character, Dark Urge Tav (Good) Angst, Comfort, Kissing, Fluff (Link to AO3) After Astarion’s confession, Delilah is conflicted but still very in love–which she hasn’t quite admitted to yet. Unfortunately for sober her, she is a sad drunk on a mission after the celebrations in Moonrise Tower. Angst-fueled barbs and comforting words ensue.

Another one shot with my Tav, Delilah. This one happens to make no reference to her features or gender, just that she's a drow with mommy issues. You can go to the AO3 series for the other fic I have for her, or click here.

“Another… please.”

The red tiefling boy hesitates as Delilah’s head rolls awkwardly to the side, the previous shots of liquor clearly hitting her hard. Her piercing red eyes dart to his unmoving hands and then meet his own in a cold glare. With a squeal, he grabs a new liquor bottle from Ketheric’s stores and begins to pour once more.

Another child, a bluish tiefling with tight curls, collecting bottles from the small goblin hovels hidden throughout the first floor of Moonrise, comes marching over to chastise. “Drow Lady, oi! That’s enough!”

“Mmm? I saved your sorry little hides ‘nd you’re cutting me off?” Delilah exhales out of her nose indignantly, easily swiping the nearly full bottle from the boy’s hands.

“Oi oi oi! But that’s s’posed to be mine to sell on the road,” the blue tiefling cries.

The darkness within her, the other parasite on her psyche that pulls her to violence, begs her to reverse her grip on the bottle and crack it open, spilling red across the floor in a viscous new style of carpet. Delilah lets out a puff of air and pushes the thought away with a spot of effort. As she walks away with a stagger, she raises her free hand to wave the children good night.

The various hallways and great meeting spaces that were host to a battle between her companions and the Absolute cultists only a few hours ago is now just a bloody path of stones, one that she hopes will lead her to her bedroll. These cursed lands had truly been a nightmare in every sense of the word. Delilah is hopeful that being one step closer to their goals will allow her some peace and rest. However, she knows that defeating Myrkul’s Chosen can’t possibly help the matters of the heart that tear her from a good night’s sleep.

As the liquid inside the bottle hits her lips, she winces. Blood red and horrendously strong like it was distilled from pure malice. Whoever had decided to keep this in their stores either had something powerfully flavorful to mix it with or hated themselves. Delilah ponders if there is anything in this tower that would be sweet enough to cover the taste, blushes, and takes a decidedly large and bitter sip.

She curses under her breath as she finds herself walking the ramparts of Moonrise, her mind wandering back to Astarion despite the severity of all their other issues surrounding the tadpoles. Delilah continued to mull over their talk the other night and had been unintentionally distant, even though she knew that there was still so much more to say. The discussion replays in her mind once more. Astarion had, at least initially, lied about it all. He had manipulated her so comprehensively, body and soul. He told her such sweet things, some that she recognized as flirtatious tricks, but others that she had come to actually believe. He laid with her nearly every night not because he wanted to, but to control her. The bastard had admitted to her face that the only part of his plan that failed is, essentially, he harbored guilt about doing it after catching feelings.

And even after hurting her so profoundly, Delilah had reassured him. The typical shrill tone with which he joked or complained or flirted during their adventures was absent, replaced with a lower, more melancholy genuineness that she couldn’t help but comfort. She said that she deeply cared for him, that she would stay by his side as he created boundaries for himself. The two had a productive yet brief discussion and she never lied, not a single sweet word or supportive touch.

All despite her heart cracking down the middle, threatening to shatter.

Delilah staggers, reaching to the cold stony walls of the tower for support. Her fingers grip the edge of one of the stones and she could imagine it was Astarion’s collarbones. Her nails dig into the sandy mortar for a moment as her temper flares, before guilt and sympathy eases the tension in her joints. She feels justified in her frustration, but he doesn’t deserve her anger. His situation is beyond complicated and she truly is trying to understand it from his perspective. She goes through the situation again, as accurately as she can manage:

After being kidnapped and implanted with ticking time bomb mind flayer parasites, a hot and powerful drow sorceress (with a tendency to murder without warning or reason!) prances around in the wilds of the Storm Coast with a group of equally powerful strangers, including a famous monster hunter and a fierce alien warrior. The sorceress comes across a vampire spawn that has done little else besides use his body to ensnare meals for his master and suffer indescribable abuse for multiple mortal lifetimes. It makes perfect sense that he would use the tools at his disposal to secure his safety with a band of questionable characters. It makes sense to deceive one of these powerful fools into a relationship. It makes sense to target her as the leader of the group. It makes sense to manipulate her until she is no longer useful. It makes sense to try his damnedest to not actually feel anything for her, because gods forbid she’s worthy of real love. It makes sense. It makes sense.

Delilah sighs into the darkness. Perhaps this was not the most favorable interpretation to Astarion’s reasons for pursuing her the way he did. He had admitted that he’d fallen for her, that he wanted them to be real. It was her who felt an implication in his words that he wanted them to be real moving forward and that everything before was never real.

A chill runs through her as she takes another sip of liquor and she decides to focus on finding her way to camp. She rounds the same door twice before going the correct path and finding a host of friendly faces. Lae’zel, Aylin, and Isobel are near the door, with the former two animatedly discussing fighting techniques while the cleric takes the opportunity to rest and enjoy the peaceful evening with her lover. Delilah stops for a moment to listen in before moving further into camp, where Wyll and Karlach speak in a more somber tone around the fire. She almost goes to join them, but Karlach’s heat and ire at the Chosen of Bane the group had seen right before the battle with Ketheric is palpable in the air. Perhaps it's selfish, but she doesn’t want to be angry for Karlach's sake. Not when she’s already feeling so anxious and irritated about her own stupid problems.

Owlbert barrels past Delilah with Scratch hot on his feathered tail, passing close enough to her that she dodges clumsily and begins to trip. Her hands are sent to break her fall but instead catch on the bleached white linen of Astarion’s shirt.

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth before speaking with a coy grin. “Darling, I knew you’d fallen for me but I didn’t realize you were going to take it literally.”

A fierce blush overtakes her, bringing a pink tint to her gray complexion. Her tongue rolls awkwardly in her mouth as she tries to cover herself, “I– I didn’t mean to fall. But thank you.”

“You’re completely trashed,” Astarion observes with amused surprise as he attempts to help restore Delilah’s balance. He steadies her forearms before tentatively letting go. Her red eyes, so similar to his own, beam up at him as she only slightly wobbles. His lips pull into one of those sweet half smiles that he only gives to her. “Adorable.”

“Y’think I’m adorable?”

“We’ve been over this. You’re very attractive.”

Delilah narrows her eyes and snickers, doing her best to rub her hands together like a villain in a street play while still holding onto the bottle of liquor. “Again.” He rolls his eyes and begins to lead her towards her tent.

“This–” Astarion emphasizes as he easily snatches the liquor from her loose grip. “–is for not returning the compliment.”

While Astarion has it hoisted in the air, he inches his nose closer before reeling at the strong vapors of the alcohol. She does not opt to carry herself with the typical pride of a female drow, instead choosing to whine and reach for the bottle. The two are evenly matched on height, but he's a master at using his tricks to keep any item just barely too far away.

“Tut tut tut. You know how this works dear.”

She stamps her foot down playfully. “I’ve told you a million times, ‘Starion. You’re–”

He cuts her off with a press of his index finger to her lips. “Ah-starion. If you please,” he asks with a shiteating grin. “Do continue.”

Delilah pulls her mouth to a straight line as she groans in her throat, but her eyes betray the annoyed facade she’s trying to convince him of. They’re smiling. She starts again, “I’ve told you a million times, Ahhh-starion. You’re perfectly gorgeous.”

He preens with satisfaction, tossing his hand through his hair for dramatic flair. “Thank you love, you’re quite perfect yourself.”

Delilah hums and turns away, in part to watch her feet as they approach her tent and also to avoid him seeing her as she repeats his words in her head. Her? Perfect? After all the nasty and selfish thoughts she’s had tonight, and every other night since he finally opened up to her? Hardly. Not to mention that falling for some charlatan with a pretty face and a sad life who tells her what she wants to hear is all far too unbecoming for a drow of her nobility and breeding. Her mother would literally kill her three times over for even an ounce of this behavior. It's frankly a miracle that a mistake like her made it to adulthood. And then there’s the whole thing with nearly uncontrollable murderous urges that, only a few weeks prior, had almost cost him his life?! Perfect.

Astarion notices Delilah’s withdrawal and leans forward to see her chin quivering and her eyes brimming with tears.

“Hey, hey, wait.” His voice drops its usual mirthful cadence. She stops, still facing away from him. “What’s wrong? Did I say something to upset you?”

“I’m not perfect,” she whispers just loud enough for him to hear. Delilah kneels at the rugs outside her tent, clumsily reaching behind her ass to take off her shoes. “Also, I think I’m mad… but I dunno.”

“Mad at what?”

“At you.”

Astarion freezes for a split second before nodding his head in begrudged acceptance. He sets the bottle down and kneels next to her, leaning forward to make eye contact. “Better to be mad than leaving me, which frankly, is what I expected when I confessed what I had done to you. I deserve your anger.”

“No, you don’t,” she says, doing her best to maintain eye contact as the liquor and tears threaten to make her crumble. “Everything you did makes sense.”

He clears his throat, giving himself a moment to gather his response. “I had my reasons, but that doesn’t mean the things I did were right .”

Delilah’s throat contorts as she tries to suppress a sob. All at once, the proximity of the others makes her panic and she quickly retreats into the darkness of her tent. When Astarion doesn’t immediately follow her, she kicks the flap. He peeks in to find her sitting cross legged at the far end, her eyes darting between him and a pillow just out of arm's reach of her.

Nervously drumming against the stiff canvas tent flap as he holds it open, Astarion sighs. “Darling, I’m not sure you’ll be pleased that we’ve had this conversation when you’re so drunk. Maybe this should wait.”

She wipes her eyes with the collar of her shirt. “I don’ care, sit.”

As he crawls in on his hands and knees, his fingers splaying out as his palm leans into the plush of her bedding, she closes her eyes to steel herself. Of their many encounters prior to Astarion’s confession, most of those had been spent here. She was no stranger to the ways of pleasure, but he had brought her to rapture in ways she had never imagined were possible. She had thought of those nightly trysts as an escape from reality, an easy and fun passion to help them both get away from the looming despair of the tadpoles. Just the thought of how Astarion must recollect those evenings makes her own memories turn sour and rotten.

He mirrors her cross legged sit from across the tent, laying the pillow in his lap so that he can fidget with the tassels and flange. He is uncharacteristically quiet.

Was he expecting a scolding, for her to hit him, or some other form of anger, even cruelty? Delilah looks down at her feet. “D’you think I’m gonna yell at you?”

“No,” Astarion says quickly. He plucks at the silver threads of her pillow. “Maybe.”

“I’d never–” she starts, before seeing a fang poke out of his smile and one of his eyebrows shoot up questioningly. “Well, not never, but not about this. ‘Nd I’m not really mad at you. I dunno. You just hurt me–a lot–when y’said you lied to me.” The words seem innocent and childish as she speaks them to her toes. After a pause, she adds, “For months.”

Astarion draws his shoulders forward until his nose almost touches his knees, almost as if he’s trying to make his body as uncomfortable as he feels. “I know, I’m sorry my love.” He looks up at her through his white lashes, a move that could fit right into his flirtatious fop routine if not for the sincerity dripping from his words. “You have every right to be mad.”

“Stop that,” Delilah begs, a smile breaking across her face as she lets out a short sad whimper.

He pulls his back straight once more, looking down before looking back up at her. “Stop what?”

“Stop apologizing and being so nice to me,” she sighs around a smile. But the smile quickly fades. She continues, “And complicated. I dunno.”

“I’m supposed to cut back on the complaints about the niceties you give to me, but you tell me to stop? I thought you wanted me to be all empathetic and sweet to every body,” he says with an air of their usual banter. The pair sit in silence for a moment as the tension once again rises, like a taut bow string waiting for the call to loose.

“What do you mean… ‘complicated’?” Astarion asks, without hardly using any air to carry his words, staring at the pillow flange’s thread between his fingertips as he unweaves it. She knows that he knows what she’s talking about, in general terms. Delilah huffs as she lays down on her side facing away from him, unable to explain this with even the possibility of eye contact.

“I had a lot of fun when we did, y’know, horizontal stuff. I thought you did too,” she starts nervously, holding onto her shoulders as she curls in on herself. “But now… Gods, I’m so gross. I took advantage of you. And you–”

“Stop. You didn’t take advantage of me.” His voice sounds strangled behind her. She can hear him padding closer to her, slowly. “Please, look at me.”

She curls further into herself. “But you didn’t want to fuck me.”

“Stop it, Del. Stop,” Astarion says sternly, pulling her back flush to the ground. He reaches over to hold both of her shoulders in place as he steadies himself on his knees to her side. His eyes unintentionally drift towards her neck, and she recalls this position, with him leaning his chest over hers, is much like that first night when he fed from her neck. His throat bobs, swallowing his sanguine hunger, and returns his eyes to watch hers. “I tried to explain the other night, but– Please understand me when I tell you that everything I did was what I wanted. My intentions weren’t, uh, always the most proper. But! I did want to fuck you. I want to fuck you now. It's just… not that simple.”

Delilah’s skin is hot underneath Astarion’s intense gaze and salacious words, especially the way his hands grip tighter at the idea of taking her at this very moment. She could almost be satisfied with this explanation if sex was truly all that mattered to her. Luckily for them both, it was not.

“Did you ever want to kiss me?” She breathes the question, her eyes softening under the heat of his presence.

He scoffs, releasing her shoulders to kneel beside her. He snakes a hand along both sides of her jaw and tenderly pulls her head up as he leans down to kiss her. Her hands fly up to his ears, her fingertips dragging through his curls. He brings her in closer, their teeth just barely feeling the pressure of the kiss, before he pulls away to hover over her face. He lets out a breath as he answers simply, “Yes. Any time you ask.”

“Even at first?”

“Even the most cold-hearted bastard wouldn’t look at a pretty thing like you and not want to kiss her,” Astarion says honestly, although a hint of his flirtatious tone seeps through.

Delilah tucks her chin into her shoulder, the blush creeping down from her cheeks to her neck and threatening to envelop her whole. She deflects to save herself from burning up. “That better not be a canned line.”

“Well…” His voice cracks and the smile on his lips falters, before he searches her face for some evidence of forgiveness. She still looks like putty in his hands, flushed and pliable. His eyebrows pull together, from pity or guilt or a combination of, as he answers her. “It doesn’t matter, da– Del. It’s true.” He leans back down for a chaste kiss before pulling his hands away from her and returning to a comfortable sitting position.

As he pulled away from the kisses, she did her best to give him a sweet smile but it didn’t quite make it to her eyes. He sighs, laying within reach of her onto his side with his head propped up by his arm. “I’m sure you’re not having an easy time trusting me lately, but… Honestly, it's true.”

She sympathized with his mild frustration. He was saying and doing all of the right things, and they were true, so why was she still upset?

Rhetorical question: she knew.

“Astarion?” She turned to face him with her elbows together and hands gripped at her chest.

“Yeah?”

“I… I think I love you,” she whispers. By the tension between them and the blank look on his face, she feels that the air has been sucked out of the tent. She feels light and breathless, floaty even, at finally putting words to her inner turmoil, and so she continues. “Even though you’re a liar. And I think I’ve loved you for a while now.”

Astarion lets out a large breath, rolling onto his back. As he fearfully studies the roof of the tent, Delilah wonders if he’s reliving some terribly sad memories of others who told him the same thing, others that were doomed to fall prey to Cazador. She wonders if it's the opposite, that he’s never been allowed to keep anyone long enough for them to love him. Or simply that he doesn’t feel the same and doesn’t want to hurt her even more. No matter what his reason is, she reaches a hand out to lay in the empty space between their bodies. An offering that she allows him to take or refuse, regardless of how much she wants to pull him closer.

“Del, I– I’m not sure what to say, but I–”

“If you don’t love me back, or you don’t know how, or whatever…” As she continues, the words trip and catch on the emotion pouring through and threatens to burst from her very soul. “Don’t tell me the truth. I can’t, I’ll… But please, don’t lie either. No more lies.”

Astarion rolls back onto his side to look at her, to look at what he’s done to her. One of his hands finds hers in the no-man’s land between them, as the other snakes through to hold the other against her sternum. “No more lies,” he repeats, earning a nod from his crying lover. “I’m so sorry. I’m going to work on, well, me, and as I do, I will become better. Stronger. For the both of us.”

Delilah curls inwards around their conjoined hands, breathing warm but fading sobs onto the cool skin of his arm. “Are we… Are we going to be okay?”

“Unless you or the tadpoles have other plans.”

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

He pauses, uncomfortable still with the concept of optimism. Promises of good tidings she made to him were generally met with a bitter snap from a man who over centuries had the ability to feel hope beaten out of him. But, in this moment, he softens at her, as he always has, and says, “Yes.”

They lay in silence for a few too many moments, just holding each other's hands and sharing a peaceful moment of mutual understanding. Delilah begins to lose the fight against her heavy eyelids. The anger, embarrassment, and heartache all seemed so trivial as she laid there with him on the brink of consciousness. He was right; they would be okay.

The last thing Delilah remembers is her grip loosening on his hand at her chest, but the lingering sensation of his cool skin on hers. When her trance breaks, she finds herself parched under a haphazard pile of blankets with a certain elf still resting at her side. She gently lays some of the warmest ones on top of Astarion before she leaves to nurse her hangover, just barely missing the way his eyes peek open mischievously. She misses the way he hesitates to follow her, instead choosing to snuggle into her warmth like a reptile to a sunny rock, trying to keep her heat to himself as the stones beneath the bedding already begin to sap it cold and dry.

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