AUTOPSY: multi-fandom blog (expect lots of jumping around) // currently obsessed with true detective and twin peaks // slashers flicks // anime // video games // strawberry desserts // the cardigans // dark writing
trying to get back into writing but I am very slow. please feel free to drop a request and I'll try my best to answer. I'm always down to chat
LATEST KILL: "IN HEAVEN'S NAME (WHY ARE YOU WALKING AWAY) Part 1: HOLE IN THE EARTH" (L Lawliet x gn!reader)
after your horrible breakup with Ryuzaki, you move from your small town to the big city to start a new life without him. but a serial killer comes to the city too, changing your life forever.
multi chapter, slow burn, angst
"MOVIES DON'T CREATE PSYCHOS. MOVIES MAKE PSYCHOS MORE CREATIVE."
this blog contains dark content // 18+ only // don't interact if you're racist, a bigot, or really any kind of asshole variety
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I love how much of a dork Spike is when he’s let in to Buffy’s house in 5x22, it’s so precious. he comes right up to the door, and has to remind Buffy so awkwardly with a hand up against an invisible barrier that he’s not allowed inside. and it takes her a moment because she forgot that he couldn’t come in but there’s zero hesitation in re-extending that invitation with a little smile.
and then this over a century old vampire, badass Slayer of Slayers, has to fight a smile of his own and take a moment to appreciate his welcome, gazing at the seams of the entryway, before making the most tentative step over the threshold and saying “presto” at the lack of barrier, a catch in his unnecessary breath.
he’s so overcome by this moment. he’ll never again take for granted his presence in Buffy’s life and home, (not knowing that it will Buffy’s last time alive and in her home for a while).
Synopsis: Reader deals with creepy officers, and being taken advantage of at work until Rust steps in.
Warnings: sexism, niave reader, cursing.
Masterlist
January 1995
The Louisiana State Police office had taught her, in less than six months, that men could become helpless the moment a stack of paper appeared in front of them. Detectives who could walk into a murder scene without blinking would stand beside her desk holding forms as though they had been written in another language, asking where they belonged, who needed to sign them, whether she could type them, and if she happened to have a minute to track down whatever file they had misplaced three days earlier and only just realized they needed. She did it without complaint because she needed the money, because the work was better than waiting tables, and because every report she touched taught her something she could not learn from a textbook. Still, there were mornings when she arrived before sunrise and found so much paperwork piled across her desk that she could barely see the framed photograph of her sister tucked beside the telephone.
She was nineteen years old, halfway through the first year of a forensic science program, and determined not to be treated like a child even though almost everyone in the building had silently agreed that was what she was. They called her sweetheart, kid, darling, and sometimes little sister, though none of them ever bothered to get to know anything about her. If they had asked her any personal questions, then they would have known she had spent most of her own childhood trying to find her actual sister. Some of the men at the station treated her fondly, others treated her as an assistant. She had learned to smile when she needed to, ignore what she could and respectfully turn down any unwanted advances. That morning, Detective Marty Hart dropped three folders on her desk before she had taken off her coat.
“Need those organized by date, copied twice, and put in my box before lunch,” he said, already turning away. "Thanks Sweetheart."
She looked down at the folders, then at the stack of incident reports she had to finish from the day prior. “Detective Hart, I already have the evidence logs from Major Crimes, the filing from James, and the arrest summaries Lieutenant Burris wanted finished before ten.”
Marty stopped and looked back at her with the distracted expression of a man who had heard her words but had not assigned them any real importance. He was handsome in a broad, conventional way, with neatly combed blonde hair, a strong face, and a confidence about him that she never understood. She liked him well enough, he was decent, but he had a habit of assuming that because she was capable, she must also be endlessly available to do the part of his job he hated.
“You’re quick,” he said. “You’ll figure it out.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but he was already moving toward the detectives’ desks. She watched him go, released a quiet breath through her nose, and pulled the top folder toward her.
“You could tell him no.”
The voice came from a few feet away, low and flat, without judgment or amusement. She looked up and found Detective Rustin Cohle standing beside the filing cabinet with one hand resting on the drawer. He had been in the department only a few months, but rumors about him had already made their way through every office. He was strange, arrogant, cold. She'd heard he never slept. Others said he had spent years undercover with narcotics and come back wrong in the head. She had not spoken to him enough to know whether any of that was true. She did know that he was the most intriguing person she had ever seen.
He was older than her by eighteen years, she felt embarrassed by the way she noticed him, how her gaze always found him. He was an attractive man, slender, his hair was dark and combed back, his eyes sharp and focused. She had never looked at a man and thought much of his appearance before. Boys her age had asked her out, some of them handsome, some of them kind, but she had never felt that immediate, quiet pull she felt whenever Rust entered a room.
She looked back down at the folders. “I could.”
“But you won’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
She glanced toward Marty, who was leaning over a desk several yards away, speaking to another detective. “Because he has more important things to do.”
Rust considered that for a moment. “Does he now?”
He opened the filing drawer and began looking through the folders. He did not smile, but she had started to realize that his silences did not always mean disapproval. Sometimes they meant he was actually listening, which was more than she could say for most men in the building.
“I can finish them,” she said. “I’m not complaining.”
“Complaining’s usually what people do instead of speaking their mind directly.”
She looked at him again. “Do you always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like every sentence is supposed to make somebody uncomfortable.”
His eyes settled on her face, and for one strange second she wondered if she had offended him. Then the faintest shift touched his mouth, not quite a smile but close enough that she felt a ridiculous spark of satisfaction.
“No,” he said. “Sometimes I don’t talk.”
She laughed before she could stop herself. A few officers looked over. Rust returned his attention to the filing cabinet as though nothing had happened, but she sat there smiling for several seconds longer than she should have.
She had grown up independent because there had been no other choice. Her mother had raised two daughters alone until the older one began disappearing for days at a time, then weeks, then months. There had never been a father to call, no man coming home from work who could drive around town looking for a missing daughter or knock on doors people warned them not to approach. Her mother had worked long hours and cried quietly in the kitchen at night. By the time she was fifteen, she had started looking for Dora on her down.
She checked bus stations, cheap motels, shelters, hospitals, and street corners she had no business walking alone. She carried a photograph of her sister folded inside her wallet until the crease ran straight through her face. Most people said they had not seen her. Some looked at the picture too long before claiming they did not recognize her. A few gave her names, rumors, or places, but nothing ever lasted. Eventually, the trail dissolved, and her mother stopped wanting to hear about it because every new lead brought another fresh wound.
She had never stopped searching completely. That was why she wanted to work around police investigations, even though she had never wanted to become a police officer. She did not want a gun, a badge, or the authority to drag someone from a house in handcuffs. She wanted to understand. She wanted to know what blood could say, how a body preserved the truth.
She spent the next hour sorting the incident reports, correcting dates, and answering a telephone that seemed determined to ring every time she began concentrating. Marty returned twice to ask whether she had made progress and once to add another handwritten note he wanted typed. Each time, she smiled with increasing strain and assured him she was working on it. By ten o’clock, the ache behind her eyes had settled into a steady pulse.
Steve Geraci appeared shortly after. She noticed him first by the smell of his aftershave, which arrived before the rest of him. He leaned one elbow on the edge of her desk and looked down at her with the easy, familiar smile he seemed to believe was impossible to refuse.
“Morning.”
She kept typing. “Morning, Detective.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, call me Steve?”
“At work? No sir that wouldn't be right.”
“How about outside of here you call me Steve?”
She glanced up at him. “I mostly see you at work.”
“That could be fixed.”
He smiled wider. She gave him the polite expression she used when she wanted a conversation to end without causing a scene. “I have a lot to finish.”
“I can see that.” His eyes moved over the desk before returning to her face. “Hart working you hard again?”
“I’m fine.”
“You ought to let somebody take you out after all this. Dinner, get some drinks.”
“I have class tonight.” She says softly.
“Tomorrow, then.”
“I have class tomorrow too.”
“You go to school every night?”
“Most nights.”
He tilted his head with a smile. “You avoiding me?”
She smiled faintly. “I’m just trying to get through the day Sir, lot of my plate.”
She had become good at recognizing the moment when friendliness turned into something else. Geraci had never said anything openly threatening, but he stood too close, remained too long, and looked at her as though her discomfort amused him. She was not frightened of him. She had spent too much of her life entering places far worse than a police station, she didn't frighten easily. Still, she did not like the way he watched her, and she disliked even more that everyone around them seemed to notice without finding it worth interrupting.
A folder landed on the desk between them. Geraci looked down. Rust stood on the other side of the desk.
“Need the Johnson file,” he said.
She blinked. “The Johnson file?”
“Missing persons. Nineteen seventy-nine.”
She knew every file they had in the office, and the Johnson name was not among them. Still, she turned toward the cabinet without questioning him.
“I can get it.”
Rust did not look at Geraci. “Appreciate it.”
Geraci straightened. “We were talking.”
Rust finally lifted his eyes. “Looked like she was working.”
The two men looked at each other for a long moment. Rust barely moved, but the atmosphere around the desk changed enough that even she felt it. Geraci pushed away from the edge.
“See you around, sweetheart.”
She did not answer. When he was gone, she opened the filing cabinet and pretended to search for the folder. Rust stood quietly beside the desk.
“There isn’t a Johnson file, is there?” she asked.
“No there's not.”
She turned and looked at him. “Then why did you ask for it?”
“He was interfering with your work.”
A small warmth spread through her chest before she could stop it. She held his gaze, wondering how somebody so strange could make consideration seem almost accidental.
“Thank you,” she said.
He nodded once. “You don’t have to thank people for noticing what’s in front of them.”
“Most people don’t.”
Something changed in his face then, so quickly she almost missed it. His attention sharpened, not toward her but inward, as though her answer had touched something he understood too well. He looked away first.
“Cohle, you bothering my assistant?”
“She’s not your assistant,” Rust said.
Marty smiles. “I know I'm just kidding.”
Rust walked away with the same quiet indifference he seemed to carry everywhere. Marty watched him go, shook his head, and set his coffee on her desk.
“Man’s a walking root canal.” He says crossing his arms.
“I think he’s interesting.” She shrugs.
“That’s because you’re young.”
She looked at Marty. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything seems interesting when you’re young.”
She returned to the reports. “You seemed more interesting before you brought me six hours of paperwork.”
“There she is,” he said. “Knew you had a little bite under all that sugar.”
She smiled despite herself. People often mistook her kindness for softness. It was an easy mistake to make because she liked helping people, remembered birthdays, brought extra food when she knew someone had worked through lunch, and listened even when she had heard the same story three times before. She was sweet by nature, but sweetness had never made her weak. Her mother had raised her to survive disappointment without becoming cruel, and she had decided years ago that bitterness would be another thing she refused to inherit.
By 2 pm, she had finished Marty’s folders, corrected two errors in a witness summary, found a missing property report, and helped a deputy understand why evidence tags had to match the log exactly. Rust passed her desk twice. The first time he placed a single file in her incoming tray and said, “Whenever you get to it.” The second time he returned for it and thanked her after checking that she had finished the work she had already been assigned.
He was the only detective in the building who did that. She had been noticing other things for quite some time. He cleaned up his own coffee cups. He never leaned over her desk. When he asked where something was, he listened to the answer. He spoke to secretaries, janitors, and uniformed deputies in the same tone he used with superiors, which was not particularly warm but was at least equal. She appreciated it.
Late in the afternoon, the office settled into the dull rhythm that came before closing time. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Someone coughed near the copy room. A radio muttered softly from an open doorway. She had begun reviewing notes for an evening class on trace evidence when the phone at the main desk rang.
A minute later, Major Quesada stepped from his office and called across the room.
“Hart. Cohle. We got a female body out near Erath. Parish deputy says it looks strange.”
Marty stood immediately and reached for his jacket. Rust was already on his feet.
“What kind of strange?” Marty asked.
“Fuck if I know. Get out there.”
She watched Rust collect his notebook and gloves, every movement precise and unhurried. Marty grabbed his keys and called something toward another desk. She looked down at the forensic notebook beside her schoolbooks. She had spent months waiting for an opportunity to observe a real scene. Not photographs, not diagrams, not preserved samples passed around a classroom, but the actual beginning of an investigation before evidence was packaged, labeled, and carried away. She knew she had no official standing there. She also knew that if she waited for someone to invite her, she might spend another year organizing other people’s reports while learning nothing about the work she intended to do. She reached for the notebook. Rust stopped beside her desk. His eyes moved from the notebook to her face.
“You comin'?”
There was no mockery in the question. He sounded genuinely curious. She stood, slipped the notebook under her arm, and reached for her coat. Her heart had already begun beating faster, partly from anticipation and partly from the awareness that he was looking at her with that strange, steady attention that made her feel as though he saw more than she had said.
“If you'll let me.”
Marty glanced back from the doorway. “Let you do what?”
“Observe the scene, work with the other forensic spealicasts.”
“At the homicide? Why would you wanna do that?”
“I’m studying forensic science.” She walked toward him. “I won’t touch anything. I’ll stay out of the way. I’ll take notes, and I can help with documentation if they need it.”
“You ever seen a body?” Rust asks.
“No.”
“That answer isn’t helping your case.” Marty adds.
She held his gaze. “I have to see one eventually.”
Marty exhaled and looked toward Rust as though expecting support. Rust put on his coat avoiding their eyes. He couldn't care less if she was there or not, made no difference to him. Marty studied her for another moment. She gave him the sweetest, most hopeful smile she could manage, the one her mother said had gotten her out of trouble since she was old enough to speak.
“Please?”
He pointed toward the door. “You stay behind us, you touch nothing unless somebody tells you, and if you get sick, you swallow it.”
Her smile widened. “Yes, sir.”
Marty shook his head and headed down the hall. She followed, clutching her notebook to her chest. Rust walked beside her for several steps, close enough that she caught the faint scent of cigarettes and cold air on his coat. She looked at him and found him watching the hallway ahead, expression unreadable.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“I didn’t do anything.” He responds lowly.
She followed him through the station doors into the gray January afternoon, unaware that the dead woman waiting in the cane fields would change everything she believed she knew about life and death. Not knowing that this very scene would change her life forever.
I wonder if in his last few years that Kaz ever thought about how truly similar he had become to his dad. He already was born with his blue eyes and blond hair. He became a father like him. He became divorced like him. He was an instructor, but retired, just as he had. Kaz described his father as stooped over, barely able to walk by the time he saw him. His left leg is missing, forever requiring a cane. Kaz is older now. He can trace the wrinkles and sunken features of his skin that match exactly what he had seen in his father. His name, the one given by his mother as the embodiment of all her hope and dreams for a better life in a world that was so cruel, erased. Replaced with a new, comically American name.
I dont really have a thesis for this just something I've noticed
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i thought the “this is the face that launched a thousand ships, although now it would maybe be five-hundred.” line was just an internet joke but apparently that's a line Menelaus actually says in Nolan's Odyssey??
Not only that the language itself sounds straight out of a marvel forcibly funny haha moment, but Menelaus? The Menelaus who all thoughout human history, from Homer, to Sappho, to Euripides, to Virgil, to Shakespeare, to Brooke, to Barth; from Classical vases to Medieval poetry to Reinessance art, has been known as the man whose sword fell from his hands at the sight of his wife after 10 years apart?
"What joy for me to hold my wife" Menelaus?
"He flung the sword away, and kissed her feet" Menelaus?
"I believe all. I understand nothing. I love you" Menelaus?
"I have no fault to find; my wife, he daughter of Zeus and Leda, is mine again, she whom her brothers on their snow-white steeds, whilst torches blazed, made my happy bride, but gods removed her from my home." Menelaus?
The Menelaus who was picked out of the suitors by Helen herself? The Menelaus who couldn't kill a begging Trojan so his brother had to do it for him? The Menelaus who rescued Odysseus and got out Patroclus' body? The Menelaus who volounteered to fight Paris one on one so everybody could go home? Who kept expressing his guilt about himself being the cause of war through every assembly he spoke at in the Iliad? Who after 10 years away at Troy, took his wife through a 7-year long journey at sea back home, where he reinstated her as the queen of Sparta? Who wept like a child in front of Telemachus recalling the war and his brother and all the friends he lost and the only consolation being his wife' gentle hand on his?
You want me to believe that man scarred Helen's face and called her only worth half the ships because of it?
I'm actually physically sick just thinking about it.
Not only it’s extremely backwards and in fact a misogynistic choice to have a woman be punished, abused and disfigured when in the original patriarchal 3,000 year old (!) story she is described as reconciled with her husband, confident, clever and having self-agency, but also the way Nolan!Menelaus said that she was originally the face who launched 1000 ships sounded very sarcastic, like he didn’t really think she had that beauty to begin with. And then when Lupita’s Helen argued that it was never about her beauty and it was just about money and power, it actually decreased the impact of her beauty even more. It was all like Nolan was saying “yo guys she was actually just okay and nobody cared about her” and I honestly don’t know why Lupita thought she was participating in an improvement of Helen’s portrayal. (Maybe because she did not read the original story lol)
Summary: Astarion chooses to surprise you with a pair of underwear that you might find rather... stimulating.
Pairing: Astarion x female Reader, Astarion x You
Word count: 7k
Tags: Astarion x Reader, Astarion x You, Smut, Porn too much plot, Sex toy, Oral (male receiving), orgasms, MNDI, 18+, female Reader, Gale is not sure how he gets himself into these situations, Gale handles it like a champ.
A/N: Yay, 'Fangs and Cheeks' Part 2! It took me a year (a year!) to write and post this. I've rewritten this story so many times that I think it's as good as it gets. Please tell me if you notice any mistakes!
If you like it, please comment and reblog! My tag list is always open! Also, should there be Part 3 which focuses on Gale and his night to remember? Let me know what you think! 💖💖💖
Dividers bby @saradika-graphics
The morning sun fought its way through Gale’s heavy eyelids, the brutal weight of exhaustion pinning him to his bedroll.
"How are you feeling, mate? Do you need anything?"
He couldn’t remember the last time his bones had felt this heavy, but looking around the camp brought a faint, weary satisfaction. At least the others had the luxury of getting a good night’s sleep. His sleepless vigil had bought them peace.
"You have proven to have your uses, wizard." Minthara's voice assaulted his senses from somewhere nearby.
The drow stood a few paces back, her tone making it evident that she was uncharacteristically impressed by his actions. For Minthara to offer anything resembling a compliment, Gale knew he must look absolutely wretched.
"Truly, your efforts were not in vain, my friend." Wyll said, stepping up to squeeze his shoulder with a reassuring grip. "You better stay put and rest."
"Yes. I will remain in camp. A wizard with no magic is an easy target. You do not deserve to die a dishonourable death after what you had done," Lae’zel declared.
Her voice was a grave, unyielding vow as she took up a post right at the entrance of his tent. Hand resting on her sword, her spine perfectly straight, she began scanning the tree line for potential threats.
"Good morning, everyone!" You said chirpily, pushing aside your tent flap and squinting a little when late morning light hit your eyes.
All heads snapped in your direction, making you take a half-step back only to bump into Astarion.
"It seems that our pleasure aroused displeasure among our campmates." The elf raised his eyebrows and clicked his tongue, seemingly unconcerned at being the subject of such intense attention. "I suppose a good ol’ apology will not suffice?"
“Whilst I must congratulate you on making good use of the elf, your sexual escapades are becoming rather tiresome.” The drow drawled, looking only at you and deliberately ignoring Astarion’s indignant huff.
“I don’t see how whatever happens in our tent is any of your concern,” Astarion countered, lifting his chin. “But since you all seem to be in a boorish mood on this fine morn, I suppose I will volunteer to go to the market and replenish our supplies. Are you coming along, my sweet?”
You wanted nothing more than to crawl into some hole and not face your friends for a fortnight, but you couldn’t deny that you were to blame for their sour mood. Offering a sheepish smile and a small wave, you grabbed Astarion and set a brisk pace, practically feeling their disapproving eyes bore holes into your back.
The rest of the week passed in a merciful blur. Between the constant ambush risks and the endless list of tasks on everyone's plates, your late-night disruptions became old news within a couple of days. The teasing comments fizzled out, completely swallowed by the reality of survival.
There was only one thing that truly bothered you. Astarion was being remarkably quiet.
He wasn't brooding, exactly, but he was intensely preoccupied. Aside from a few obligatory, sharp-tongued quips, he hadn't initiated a single verbal sparring match with anyone all week. You knew better than to pry immediately. Whilst you couldn’t help but wonder what distracted your vampire, you decided to leave him to his thoughts.
Prior to meeting you, Astarion made sure that he did not let anyone know what he was thinking at any given time. Except lately he found letting his guard down more and more around you. You had noticed the signs. A wickedly smug curve of his lips when he thought you weren't looking, a dangerous, playful gleam in his crimson eyes. It was enough for you to realise that he was orchestrating something. Whether that meant a world of hurt for some poor merchant or an afternoon delight for you remained to be seen.
You yawned and closed your eyes. You were sure that you would find out soon enough. The afternoon was thick and balmy, the heavy scent of wildflowers lulling you into a boneless state somewhere between rest and wakefulness. You lay on your stomach, chin propped on your hands, determined not to move a single muscle despite the tall blades of grass tickling your neck.
"My sweet?"
Although apparently you would not be allowed to have a little snooze. You let out a weak, protesting groan, swatting blindly at his hand as an insistent finger poked your ribs.
"I have a surprise for you," he picked a blade of grass off your head and let it be blown away by the warm breeze.
You cracked one eye open. "Will this surprise involve moving?"
Cool fingers traced a path behind your ear, sliding slowly down the column of your neck to linger right over the twin puncture marks on your skin. "A little, but nothing that will inconvenience my darling too much. Lift your hips for me."
"Astarion, lifting my hips got me into quite a state the last time I listened to you," you muttered, stifling another yawn against your arms.
He let out a lilting laugh, thoroughly amused by the reminder. "It will be nothing like last time. If anything, I pride myself on not falling into a routine! Now, be a good girl and do as you are told."
"Pulling out the 'good girl' card and it's not even foreplay? Fine,” you sighed dramatically, “but no funny business Ancunín. We have to get going soon and I earned these twenty minutes of rest. "
You arched your back, lifting your hips off the grass. You felt his cold hands slide down your waistband, the air hitting your skin as he smoothly stripped away your trousers and underwear.
"I thought your surprise-"
"It's not sex. At least not now. It's a present."
Before you could question Astarion more, the soft friction of new fabric brushed against your thighs. He slid a fresh pair of underwear up your legs.
Curious, you pushed yourself up onto your elbows and looked down. The underwear was made of smooth, deep purple silk. What caught your eye, however, was a string of small, glittering gemstones running perfectly down the centre, from the front all the way to the back.
"Where did you get this?"
"Tsk, a gentleman never tells. Do you like them?"
"They are lovely. " You smiled and ran your hand through Astarion's curls, your vampire rewarding you with a pleased hum.
And they were. Which was to be expected since Astarion had an incredible ability to find exquisite, gorgeous things. Even if the embellishments were placed in a rather… unusual manner.
It took a while for Astarion to start giving you something so openly. In the past, you'd find a gift stuffed into your pack. A golden ring perched on your pillow. Sometimes you would look in the mirror and see a necklace already fastened around your neck twinkling merrily back at you. This unprompted, face-to-face offering felt entirely different.
"Hm..." His fingers danced along the waistband. "The colour looks rather fetching on you."
"I'm sure it does, my love. I trust you to know such things. But I can't help but think there's a catch."
"Oh?" Astarion raised an eyebrow, as if challenging you to elaborate.
Yet, he didn’t deny it.
Putting his palm on the sparkly gemstones, Astarion locked eyes with you.
"Darling," he said, rolling the r on his tongue in a breathy way that came out as more of a purr, and made the word sound delightfully wicked.
And perhaps it was his proximity, or his cool breath on your stomach, or just your imagination, but you felt a delicious vibration dance along your skin.
Before you could process exactly what happened, Astarion was already helping you put your clothes back on. In minutes, your vampire was on his feet and ready to leave.
"Now, my sweet, let's go and get those supplies. I find myself in a bit of hot water with our friends, so can't have them thinking that dinner will be delayed because you can’t keep your hands off me for five minutes!"
Thirty minutes later you found yourself gritting your teeth, eyes shooting daggers at Astarion's leather-covered back. That smug, insufferable ass! Who also happened to be the love of your life, but that was beside the point!
When you felt it the first time, you brushed the feeling off. The second time had you yelping, startling the vendor into dropping his produce. The third time you just knew that you did not imagine the vibrations. And the fourth time had you snapping your eyes in Astarion's direction because you knew without a slither of doubt that he was doing this to you on purpose.
The elf pretended to have no idea what got your panties in a twist. Quite literally. Astarion usually left the conversations to you in favour of feigning boredom. And yet today he was apparently too busy making small talk! Chatting a mile a minute with the vendors. All smiles and pleasantness. Asking questions and offering advice. Being so oh so charming and helpful.
You didn’t believe it for a second.
Because everything was 'darling'. The 'darling' delicate daggers and the 'darling' fruit. Delightfully 'darling' rings and 'darling' potion bottles.
"Oh, darling!" Astarion beamed at you.
You bit your lip not to let out a moan, leaning forward so the fabric didn’t brush against oversensitive skin.
It didn’t help.
Astarion’s nostrils flared, and he gave a light, self-satisfied chuckle.
"Darling! You simply must try these darling little cakes!”
You blinked as his fingers hovered inches from your face, Astarion holding a cake with a strawberry perched on a bed of cream. It looked tart and sweet, and decadently delicious.
“Only the best for my darling!"
You glared at him, stuffed the cake into your mouth and gave a defiant, angry chew. Another creature, who had a better sense of self-preservation, would interpret your look like the sign that it was the time to stop this game. But Astarion always enjoyed pushing your buttons a little more than others would dare.
“How do you like it, darling?”
He dropped his voice an octave, the word leaving his mouth in a sinful purr, sensual lips inches from your ear. Your fingers grasping his biceps in a vice-like hold, nails digging into fabric, only had him grinning wider. Putting his face near the heated skin of your cheek, Astarion took a step forward and chuckled, "Do you need me to lend you a hand, darling?"
He was so dead.
But first you needed to get this damn underwear off. Or his. At this point, you were not picky.
Half-delirious with want, you grabbed Astarion by his collar and dragged him around the corner and into an alley. Quite conveniently, you two seemed to be completely alone.
Good. There would be no witnesses. To what exactly you were still not sure of.
"You think this is funny, huh?"
Your warning fell on deaf self-satisfied ears as Astarion chose to dismiss your angry hiss with a shake of silver curls and a roguish grin.
"Well, I am not sure I thought of much when I purchased it, darli-"
"Don’t you dare say it!" You hissed, but apparently even half a word was plenty.
You moaned wantonly into his ear and pressed into him as every gemstone vibrated as soon as the word left Astarion’s mouth.
"You don't like it?" Astarion asked. First frown, first glimmer of doubt in his eyes.
"No!"
Yes.
"Okay, maybe I do.” You admitting the truth had his face light up in a way that would be sweet if you weren’t so annoyed. “But you can wipe that stupid grin right off your face!"
He pretended to try. A person that knew him less would perhaps believe that the chastened look was sincere.
"Why choose darling out of all words?" You asked in a shaky voice.
"I like calling you that because I mean it. You are the only one I mean it with."
The sincere admission immediately sent your heart aflutter.
Astarion pressed his forehead against yours, one hand snaking behind you to draw you closer, the other hand cupping your cheek.
"May I?"
Please.
"Oh, fine. Go on."
“Darling.”
A kiss on your lips.
“Darling.”
He palmed your breast and sucked on the twin marks on your neck.
Pressing a knee into your core, he licked his lips. Ravenous ruby eyes locked with yours and he whispered in a sinful voice meant only for your ears.
“Darling. Darling. Darling. Darling.”
You arched against Astarion and he quickly clapped a hand over your mouth, feeling you suck in a breath against his fingers as pleasure set your body on fire.
"Let's keep those pretty sounds just between us... darling," he couldn’t resist saying it once more. Not when you were enjoying yourself so thoroughly.
Moments later, you sagged against him and grabbed his biceps to steady yourself as you rode that last wave.
“How do you like my gift?”
“Huh?”
“Gift, dear. Do you like it?”
You licked your lips and raised a hand to give him a thumbs up.
"Not the most imaginative compliment, but I suppose it's genuine enough," he pouted.
You planted a kiss just under his jaw and then another on the corner of his mouth.
“Can’t get enough? I’m not surprised,” he gave a dramatic sigh and leaned in to let your lips find his.
“Do you want to try it?” You whispered as you broke apart. “Sharess’ is just around the corner. I bet the noises you’d make would be even sweeter.”
You meant for it to sound seductive, but it somehow sounded weird.
Shit.
“Unless you don’t want to!” You said quickly, kicking yourself for coming on too strong. “Which is okay! I mean, I probably shouldn’t have even suggested it-”
He put the tips of his fingers on your lips for a brief moment, promptly ending your embarrassing tirade.
“I’d like to try,” he said tentatively, in a way that seemed almost uncharacteristically shy.
“Yes?” You breathed, soft and hesitant.
“I’ll tell you if I want to stop.”
“Please do. I love you.”
“I know.”
And that was precisely why he wanted to try. With you, everything was different. There was no judgment. No being forced. It was simply two fractured souls experiencing one another, slowly uncovering what it truly meant to care.
Twenty minutes later, you rented a room at Sharess’ Caress. The moment the door clicked shut, Astarion turned the key in the lock, and your lips were immediately on his. You began stripping the clothes from each other’s bodies with a desperate urgency usually reserved for sneaking away from camp.
Which, in a way, you were.
Luckily, the last vendor in the Lower City had assured you that his delivery boy could be trusted to haul your purchases back to the Elfsong Tavern. The boy had offered a long-suffering sigh as he tossed the heavy bags of produce into a handcart, dragging it away over the uneven cobblestones. To be fair, you weren't entirely sure what or how much you had actually bought. You were not sure exactly what and how much you’d purchased, seeing as you were somewhat distracted when you were trying to shop. But you were sure that Gale would manage to make something of it.
Right now, however, dinner was the absolute last thing on your mind.
You kissed a heated trail down Astarion’s chest, dropping lower and lower until your knees finally sank into the plush carpet of the brothel room. Smiling up at him, you slid the purple silk underwear off your hips. You held the fabric in your hand, watching the row of crystals glint enticingly in the low, ambient light of the room.
“Will it work if I say it?” you murmured, looking at the gems.
“I’m not sure,” Astarion replied, shrugging his shoulders. “But you are welcome to try, darling.”
Licking your dry lips, you put your free hand on his sharp hipbone. You took a breath, attempting to mimic the exact, sultry tone he had used earlier.
“Darling.”
Nothing happened. The stones remained completely dark and still.
Figures.
“Well," you grumbled, looking up at him. "It seems these damn things only obey their actual master.”
“Oh, don’t pout, dearest," Astarion teased with a soft chuckle. "Look on the bright side. At least we now know you won't suffer any unwanted... stimulation if some passing stranger decides to get a little too affectionate with their words.”
“I suppose,” you muttered, refusing to drop the pout. You had suspected this might happen, but the lack of a magical reaction was still a bit disappointing.
Astarion reached down, dragging his thumb lazily over your lower lip until it parted under his pressure. Your tongue darted out instinctively, flicking against the pad of his thumb and earning an approving, low hum from the elf.
“Are you truly so displeased?” he asked softly.
“Well, yes! It’s unfair!”
“Perhaps it isn't. But then again, when can you honestly say anything in this life is fair, hm?” He slid his hand lower, his cool palm settling gently against your neck, his fingers brushing right over the permanent puncture marks he had carved into your skin. “Besides... if you ask very, very nicely, you just might convince me to lend you my voice, so to speak.”
“Tell me when, darling.”
The moment the word left his lips, a sudden wave of vibration rippled through the silk in your hand. The precious stones immediately buzzed to life, teasing and taunting your skin, answering solely to the call of their precious master.
You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, entirely bare down to your waist. Freeing his cock from his underwear, you brought your hand forward, pressing the humming line of gems directly into his soft, sensitive skin.
“Say it,” you whispered.
“I think I might need you to sound a bit more certain than that, dear,” Astarion murmured, running his fingers through your hair, his grip tightening just enough to make you moan. “Perhaps I require a sturdier hand. A little more steel in your voice.”
You hesitated and looked away. A familiar wave of uncertainty washed over you. In moments like this, when you wanted to push him, to tease him, and to pleasure him without mercy, you often found yourself instinctively pulling back. Because how were you to know if something was too much? What would be that seemingly insignificant, harmless word or action that would ruin the tentative trust between you two?
“Dearest?”
You felt Astarion’s long fingers slide beneath your chin, gently tilting your head upward to force you to look at him. Your eyes darted to his magnificent length for a split second before meeting his gaze.
“I know exactly what is going through that beautiful head of yours," he said, his voice dropping its usual performative edge, replaced by something profoundly sincere. "I am deeply grateful that you care enough to think about it. Truly. But I can assure you that I am most enthusiastically into this. So, I am telling you plainly. This is fine. Command me exactly as you see fit, lover.”
Your warm breath caressed his skin as you exhaled and swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous and parched. Astarion’s expression shifted, turning dark, heated, and predatory. His look was heated and predatory, chest barely rising and falling as he regarded you with an intensity that made you want.
You pressed the vibrating gems firmly against the smooth skin of his lower abdomen. At the same time, your free hand snaked around his hip, finding its target and giving a firm, possessive squeeze.
“Oh, I see!" Astarion gasped out a laugh. "It seems I am not the only one in this room who appreciates a shapely derriere.”
“You have absolutely no idea.”
“Are we returning to that lovely little conversation about the racy dreams you keep having about me, darling dear?”
Not letting him tease you more, you dug the stones deeper. The gems vibrated fiercely against him. Astarion gasped, his head snapping back as his mouth fell open. A sharp gleam of his fangs caught the low light before his jaws slammed shut, a ragged hiss tearing from his throat.
Encouraged by his reaction, you moved your hand lower, pressing the still humming gemstones directly into his softest flesh.
“Now,” you commanded.
“As you wish, darling,” he strained out.
The gems came to life with a rhythmic hum. A breathless moan tore from deep within his chest as he instinctively thrust his hips forward into your hand, desperately chasing the intense sensation.
“Oh, darling—” Another sudden wave of vibration hit him, forcing his knees to buckle slightly as he almost fell forward against you. “I’m afraid I was rather inconsiderate to you earlier... I- I haven’t the slightest clue how you managed to stay upright. I am finding it an absolute challenge!”
Smiling against his skin, you parted your lips and took him fully into your mouth, setting a slow, agonizingly languid pace that left him entirely at your mercy.
The slow, rhythmic slide of your mouth made it difficult for him to stay still, especially as the glittering gemstones continued to wreak havoc on his senses. Astarion’s fingers knotted tightly into your hair, not to pull or direct your movements, but simply to hold himself steady. His mouth parted slightly, his breath hitching every single time your tongue swiped over his length.
You kept the pace deliberate, agonizingly slow. You wanted him to feel every single second of it, to be left completely bare to enjoy the sensation. This was for him and for him only.
Astarion’s hips hitched in a desperate, uncoordinated twitch as you picked up your pace. The stones in your hand pulsed in sync with his quickening moans as he said the word over and over to activate them under his breath, his efforts rewarded with wave after wave of deep, electrifying pleasure. A ragged, broken sound caught in the back of Astarion’s throat—a raw vulnerability he only ever exposed behind locked doors, far away from the prying eyes of others.
Every muscle in his thighs locked tight. He curled forward and then threw his head back. The sheer intensity of the double stimulation was overwhelming. Between the cool, localized magic of the jewellery and the all-consuming, wet warmth of your mouth, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to last long.
You swirled your tongue around the sensitive tip, your free hand flattening out against his lower back, using your palm to press him even closer. Astarion let out a sharp, fractured gasp, his body shuddering violently from the base of his spine all the way to his shoulders. He didn't want to stop you because- oh hell! He simply let himself sink into the rhythm you set, his fingers trembling where they rested against the back of your head.
The vibrations from the purple silk reached a frantic, hummed crescendo. Astarion’s breath hitched as his hips gave one final, helpless thrust upward. A deep, breathless groan tore from his chest as he spilled into your mouth, his entire body going entirely liquid and boneless under your hands. He slipped out of your mouth and put one hand on your shoulder, leaning on you heavily.
And then, in a sudden movement, he flopped onto the bed, pulling you down with him.
“Well, aren’t you lucky to have such an inventive lover!”
"Ass."
"I think you mean, 'Thank you, lover. What a thoughtful gift. I will treasure the memories forever.' Though I suppose you chose to condense it to three letters."
“Something like that,” you smiled, tracing the contours of his face with warm, gentle fingers.
Astarion was not the one to plan. But he found himself rather enjoying the way this particular idea of his turned out. He knew what he’d be seeing in his trance tonight – your face, blunt teeth biting your lip to keep yourself from crying out and then failing so beautifully.
It was not something he’d thought he would ever come to enjoy. Seeing another in throes of passion, wanting to be a part of it. But perhaps it was indeed as all those bards said, love is a balm for the soul. Or something along those lines. He never actually listened to their songs.
At least that was what it felt like. Your presence in his life was soothing and healing.
Most welcome.
Being with you made him feel new. Made him feel unburdened. And although that feeling would not last – shadows of the past coming to haunt him when he was vulnerable – he knew that you would be there for him. And he knew that he would allow you to be there for him. And that, on its own, was the most precious gift anyone could have given him.
The walk back to the Elfsong Tavern was a quiet, comfortable sort. Astarion slid his hand into yours, his pale fingers intertwining with your own while his thumb traced lazy circles across your knuckles. The air was cooling down, and for a moment, the cult, the upcoming battle with all its dangers, all of it felt entirely distant.
That peace evaporated the moment you pushed open the heavy wooden doors of your shared room at the Elfsong. To your confusion, you walked in what appeared to be a remarkably loud, incredibly tense debate.
“Gith, I do not usually repeat myself. Although perhaps I should make an exception for a creature from another plane," Minthara’s voice cut through the air, icy and unyielding. "I am going to bed the wizard tonight. It is an honour. And he is more than eager and willing.”
“I am also not in the habit of repeating myself," Lae’zel shot back, her tone sharp enough to split stone. "But as you are clearly hard of hearing, know this! I wish to have him, and I do not share. Find another to warm your bedroll.”
You blinked owlishly, frozen in the doorway as you watched the two of them bicker. Your gaze slowly drifted over to Gale. You weren’t entirely sure when or how he had managed to become the central object of desire for two of the most dangerous women in Faerûn. Honestly, it didn't look like Gale had the answer either.
The wizard stood completely still between them. Minthara had a firm hand clamped onto his shoulder, her fingers digging deep into the soft cloth of his camp robes. On his other side, Lae’zel kept a vice-like grip on his bicep.
“Oh, my! A treat and a show! What a day!” Astarion’s face lit up with pure, unadulterated delight. His smile was all fangs as he leaned in, watching the spectacle with the keen, predatory interest of someone who was already calculating the betting odds.
“Hush, Star," you whispered, nudging his side. "This could turn nasty very quickly.”
“Perhaps it will," he chuckled, entirely unbothered. "In that case, my gold is on the drow.”
“It seems that we have come to an impasse,” Minthara declared, deliberately yanking Gale toward herself.
“Yes,” Lae’zel grunted, promptly yanking him right back.
Gale let out a small, high-pitched squeak.
You cleared your throat loudly, stepping forward into the firelight. “Did it occur to either of you that you should, I don’t know... actually ask Gale what he wants?”
Your entirely logical suggestion was immediately met with two perfectly synchronized scoffs of profound annoyance from the warriors.
“She does have a point,” Karlach intoned from where she was sharpening an axe, watching the drama unfold with a wide grin.
“Well, if he wants his head to be bitten off, then I think he should definitely go with Lae’zel,” Shadowheart smirked, leaning casually against a pillar. “I would assume that is a mandatory part of githyanki mating rituals, is it not?”
“Drow are also notorious for executing males who fail to please them,” Astarion chimed in, tossing his head back with a laugh. “Out of the frying pan and straight into the fire, wizard?”
Halsin crossed his arms, looking amused rather than concerned. In the early days, he would probably be worried. It seemed that he had got used to the chaos. “Gale has proven to be a worthy companion, a loyal friend, and a wizard of great renown. I’m sure he could easily handle them both.”
“In a fight, right?” Karlach snorted, her shoulders shaking with laughter.
Astarion snickered, burying his face against your shoulder.
“Sure," Halsin smiled good-naturedly, a glint in his eye. "That too.”
Gale’s eyes widened as he looked around the room for any shred of salvation. But then, the strangest thing happened. Minthara and Lae’zel stopped pulling. They slowly turned their heads, first looking down at the concerned wizard, and then at each other.
A quiet understanding passed between the drow and the githyanki. It was a look that could only be interpreted as mutual appraisal.
The silence dragged on. Gale held his breath, his eyes darting between the two terrifying women as they came to a decision.
Minthara was the first to speak as she looked Lae’zel up and down. “The githyanki are brutal. Direct. Efficient. There is a certain... commendable discipline in your form.”
Lae’zel tilted her chin upward, her grip on Gale’s bicep loosening just a fraction, though her eyes remained fierce and sharp. “And the Underdark breeds survivors. Cold. Calculated.”
Gale swallowed hard, a tiny spark of hope lighting up his face. “Splendid! A mutual understanding of military respect. Now, if we could all just release me, I believe that I—”
“A compromise, then,” Minthara interrupted smoothly, completely ignoring him. Her hand slid from Gale’s shoulder up to the nape of his neck, her fingers curling with possessive intent. “The wizard possesses a remarkable reservoir of magical stamina. It would be a waste to spill his blood over a petty dispute of scheduling.”
Lae’zel’s gaze dropped to Gale’s flushed face, a predatory smirk slowly tugging at the corners of her lips. “Indeed. A joint victory yields more glory than a divided camp. We shall test the limits of his magic together.”
The tiny spark of hope in his eyes vanished, instantly replaced by panic. He looked around the room, silently begging for someone to intervene.
“Oh, this is better than anything I could have possibly imagined!” Astarion practically vibrated with glee next to you, burying his face in your hair to stifle a burst of laughter. “Two fearsome conquerors joining forces over one miserable, bookish wizard!”
Karlach let out a booming laugh, slapping her knee. “Go get ’em, big guy! Just remember to breathe between turns!”
You could only watch in stunned, silent fascination as Minthara and Lae’zel seamlessly turned Gale around in unison. His knees shook slightly as the two women moved to escort him out of the shared room and into the smaller one just across the hall.
“If I do not survive the night,” Gale squeaked out, casting one final, desperate look over his shoulder at you and Astarion, “please... make sure someone feeds Tara.”
The panic on Gale’s face was too much to ignore. While the rest of the camp watched on, you gently pried your fingers from Astarion’s grip and stepped directly into the path of the terrifying females.
“Hold on a moment, both of you,” you said.
Minthara’s eyes snapped to yours, flashing with dangerous irritation.
“You dare disrupt a tactically sound agreement?” Lae’zel hissed.
“I am simply suggesting we consult the prize,” you replied smoothly, completely unfazed. You stepped closer, looking past their broad shoulders to lock eyes the wizard. “Gale. Look at me. Take a deep breath and forget about their swords for a second. Do you actually want this? Either of them? Both of them?”
The entire room went dead silent. Even Astarion stopped his snickering, leaning forward with immense curiosity to see what the wizard would say.
Gale blinked, looking at you as if you had just handed him a lifeline in the middle of a stormy sea. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, and took a ragged breath to steady his voice. He looked at Minthara’s sharp, striking features, then over to Lae’zel’s fierce, unyielding gaze. A sudden, surprising flush crept up his neck, turning his cheeks a brilliant shade of crimson.
“I... well, far be it from me to deny the profound honour of such... enthusiastic appreciation,” Gale stammered. He straightened his spine, clearing his throat. “In truth... yes. I am entirely willing. Eager, even, to explore this unprecedented alliance. If they are both truly inclined, I would be a fool to refuse.”
Astarion let out a dramatic, breathless gasp behind you, clapping a hand over his mouth. “Good gods! He’s actually going to do it! Even if I lose my bet, but this is infinitely better!”
Karlach let out a cheer. “That’s what I’m talking about, Gale! Go big or go home!”
Without another word of debate, Lae’zel gripped his upper arm again, while Minthara took the other, and together they resumed their march. Only this time with a perfectly cooperative, albeit heavily blushing, wizard leading the way.
The next morning arrived with a peaceful, golden light filtering through the windows of the Elfsong Tavern. The common room was unusually quiet, except for the soft clinking of cutlery and the rich aroma of coffee.
You and Astarion sat together speaking in low tones, enjoying a rare moment of calm.
Then, the heavy oak door to the sleeping quarters creaked open. Every single head at the breakfast table snapped up in unison.
Gale shuffled into the room. He looked as though he had been thoroughly dismantled and reassembled. His usually immaculate violet robes were hopelessly rumpled, one sleeve completely torn. His hair, typically kept in a tidy, sensible style, looked like a small animal had nested in it.
He didn't walk so much as limp across the room, his legs moving with a strange, unsynchronised rhythm.
"Good morning, everyone" Gale rasped.
"Well, well, well," Astarion purred, leaning his chin on his hand as he watched the wizard struggle to pull out a chair. "Looks like love is indeed a battlefield for some. Do you require a healing potion, hm? Or perhaps an entire crate of them?"
Gale slowly lowered himself into a seat, a long-suffering groan escaping his lips as his joints popped. He rested his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with a weak, breathless chuckle.
"I am... intact," Gale mumbled into his palms. "Though I am reasonably certain my soul was temporarily untethered from my mortal form somewhere around three in the morning. I saw Mystra. She looked unimpressed."
Karlach let out a laugh, sliding a heavily loaded plate of sausages and eggs right in front of him. "Eat up! You earned it! I've never seen anyone look so completely wrecked and incredibly smug at the same time."
"Indeed," Shadowheart remarked, taking a delicate sip of her coffee, her eyes dancing with wicked amusement. "Though I must admit, the absolute silence at one point was the most terrifying part. I fully expected that we would need to Withers at some point."
The door swung open again and Minthara and Lae’zel stepped into the room.
Unlike the wizard, the two warriors looked radiant. Minthara’s armour was perfectly polished, her posture immaculate as she adjusted her cloak with a deeply satisfied smirk. Beside her, Lae’zel looked refreshed, her chin held high, her eyes bright with the satisfaction one would have after a successful campaign.
They both glanced toward the table. Minthara's eyes lingered on Gale for a moment, her expression shifting into a look of begrudging respect.
"The wizard performed... well," Minthara announced to the room, her voice smooth and imperious. "His endurance is notable for a frail surface-dweller."
"Indeed," Lae’zel agreed with a nod. "A worthy display."
Gale slowly lifted his head from his hands, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he looked at the two women.
You hid your laugh behind a cough and suggested that Gale should stay behind and recuperate.
In ten days time, the final battle was upon you. You could hear nothing above symphony of screaming steel and the terrifying psychic pressure of the Netherbrain looming just beyond the tower. You threw yourself behind a crumbling stone pillar, pressing your back against it as a stray bolt of energy exploded right where your head had been a second ago.
You stood up on shaking legs, your heart hammering loudly in your chest. But, to your embarrassment, that was not the only thing that you could feel. Right against your skin, the purple silk underwear was humming like a captive hornet.
"Watch yourself, darling!"
The sudden, intense pulse of magical vibration caught you entirely off guard. Your knees buckled slightly, a gasp tearing from you as a wave of localized heat rippled through your core. You narrowly dodged a charging cultist, throwing yourself to the side and driving your blade through his chest.
You glared through the smoke, tracing the smooth, familiar voice to a nearby ledge. Astarion was currently perched precariously on a pile of rubble. His arrows flew from his bow with deadly precision. He looked completely in his element until he looked down, noticed your visibly flushed face and dilated pupils, and realized exactly why your balance was failing you in the middle of a battle.
His eyes widened, an arrow slipping from his fingers as he stared at you in absolute, utter shock.
"Are you... are you wearing those?!" he shouted over the roar of a nearby fireball, his voice cracking with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. "Now?! During the literal end of the world?!"
"I didn't exactly have time to do laundry!" you yelled back defensively, your face burning hotter than the magical flames around you. "It was the only clean pair left in my pack!"
"You've got to be kidding me1" Shadowheart shouted as she sprinted past your pillar, raising her shield to deflect an attack. She glanced down at your trembling legs, then looked up at Astarion. "If you two die because of this, I’m leaving you to rot!"
"Oh, have a little faith, Shadowheart!" Astarion laughed, dropping down from the ledge, onto what used to be stone bench and landing gracefully right next to you. He drove a dagger into a dying mind flayer, twisting the blade until the abomination stilled. The vampire set his crimson eyes on you, a wicked, smirk on his face. "Of all the times to run out of clean underwear, my sweet fool. You are truly magnificent."
"Shut up," you breathed out, your knuckles turning white around the hilt of your weapon. "Just... watch what you say!"
"I'll try my best, darling," he purred.
The vibration hit a frantic, trembling crescendo right as a massive armoured figure loomed behind you. Fuelled by a dizzying mixture of adrenaline, anger and overstimulation, you lunged forward, driving your weapon straight through the enemy's armour and bringing the troll down with a crash. You panted heavily as the magical stones slowly settled back down to a low, torturous simmer.
Astarion watched you, his tongue tracing his lower lip as a deeply heated, thoroughly impressed look flashed in his eyes.
"My, my," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that made the silk against your skin hum expectantly. "Remind me to neglect our laundry duties far more often when we get back to the tavern."
Hours later, the smoke over the river slowly drifted away, carrying with it the final, ash-choked memories of the Absolute. The sky above Baldur’s Gate was no longer bruised with foul energy. The Gate was a city that had seen many a battle. It had healed before and it would do so again.
You sank to your knees, your muscles aching with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. Your armour was scorched and some of it was torn clean off, your skin was smeared with soot, and your hands were still trembling slightly.
But, thankfully, the world was completely still. You let out a long, ragged sigh of pure relief, tilting your head back as you felt a cool hand on your cheek.
"Well. We survived," a smooth, familiar voice said nearby.
You opened your eyes to see Astarion looking at you. He stopped right in front of you, leaning his weight onto one hip as he looked down with a soft, affectionate smile.
"And more importantly," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, teasing cadence you knew all too well, "you managed to make it through the entire ordeal without collapsing under all that… pressure. I must say, darling, your focus was truly commendable."
Right on cue, a sudden, sharp vibrationrippled through the silk.
You gasped, your spine snapping perfectly straight as the localized vibration flared to life. You shot him a look of lethal irritation.
"Astarion," you warned, your voice a low growl. "I swear to the gods, if you say that word one more time before I find a proper bath and change, I will throw you into the river."
Astarion clapped a hand over his mouth theatrically, his shoulders shaking. He stepped closer, reaching down to gently take your soot-stained hand in his, his thumb tracing circles across your knuckles.
"Alright, I’ll be on my best behaviour," he chuckled, his crimson eyes gleaming with a mixture of relief and quiet adoration. "No more magic. For now.”
You couldn't help but smile, pulling him down to sit beside you so that you could press your forehead against his chest. The city around you was beginning to cheer, the surviving companions were gathering in the distance, but right here, in the quiet aftermath of almost the end of the world, you two were safe in each other’s arms.
you are NOT immune to cunty little detective. at some point in your life your brain will be taken over by a fictional detective and there’s nothing you can do about it. it WILL happen to you. you might even end up transgender about it
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genuinely so upset that the fight club movie replaced boiling marlas mother with stealing from a liposuction clinic that part of the book was insane. it better highlights how tyler claims he doesnt need women in his life, then proceeds to manipulate women and profit off of their literal flesh. i think it foreshadows very well how good he is at playing people no matter how special they believe they are to him, and how theres no reason he wouldn’t manipulate the narrator as well.
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