Reader Imagines

One day, after your husband left through that door, you stayed behind to tidy the shared bedroom. You took an iron and ironing board and began folding the clothes to put them away. When you went to Henry's closet to get his clothes out, you noticed that one of his jackets, the one he had worn the day before, was torn at the arm near the elbow. Confused, you gently picked up the fabric and ran your thumb over the tear; your finger sank in immediately. But it was a small hole; you could mend it.

You left the room and walked down the hallway, Holly watching you closely; she was always lurking near the kitchen. You went to an old closet and rummaged through the things. High on a shelf was a somewhat rusty sewing box. You carefully picked it up and, with a satisfied smile, returned to the bedroom. You sat on the edge of the bed, placed the jacket inside out on your lap, and patiently began to sew.

After a few minutes, the brown jacket looked as good as new. The seam was almost invisible because you'd sewn it from the inside. You sighed with a smile and continued your work. But you'd enjoyed it so much that you started looking for more clothes to sew. Unfortunately, none of Henry's other clothes were torn, which didn't surprise you since he was very careful and meticulous. What was strange, though, was that only one jacket had ripped. What had torn it? Oh well. You didn't dwell on it and went downstairs to the kitchen to find Holly.

When she saw you, the little girl's face lit up with a smile. "Hello Mrs. Whatsit!"

You gave her a sweet smile and waved, wiggling your fingers. "Hello, sweetheart. Tell me, is there anything you need mended?" you asked, as if it were nothing.

She tilted her head like a dog, puzzled. Then she pouted and looked up at the ceiling, lost in thought. Suddenly she smiled, remembering something. "Well, now that you mention it, actually, yes!" she exclaimed. "The seam of my light blue dress ripped when I tried to put it on," she reported shyly, as if afraid of being scolded.

Instead, you smiled at her, almost happy that her dress was torn, because you'd have something else to do before Henry arrived. "Perfect then! Give it to me and I'll sew it up; it'll be as good as new."

Holly smiled, excited and surprised, as she jumped up in place. "Really?! Thank you!!" Then she grabbed your wrist and pulled you running upstairs. You gasped and giggled, trying to keep up.

The girl led you to her room. You waited in the doorway while she rummaged through her wardrobe, pulling out clothes and throwing them onto the bed until she found the light blue dress. With a triumphant smile, she trotted toward you and handed it over like a trophy. "This is it! Look, here," she said, pointing to the tear.

You gently grasped the fabric and critically inspected the tear. It had come undone in the skirt, where it met the bodice. A long, vertical rip the size of your pinky finger. You squinted and hummed. Yes, you could sew it. You draped the dress over your arm like a waiter and, stroking Holly's hair, announced

"Don't worry, I'll sew it and return it to you in a little while"

She nodded and smiled until her cheeks flushed. You went back to your bedroom and, following the same process, sat on the edge of the bed, turned the garment inside out, and started sewing. It was a piece of cake and only took a few minutes. Like a piece of cake. Literally. You stood up and sighed proudly, taking the dress in your hands and holding it up to get a better look. You headed to Holly's room and knocked twice. She opened it quickly, a little anxiously, as if she'd been expecting you.

"Are you finished?" she exclaimed, unable to contain her excitement.

"See for yourself," you smiled, handing her the full-skirted dress. Holly snatched it in her little hands and squealed with delight. She gasped with happiness, admiring your work. There wasn't a single tear left. She jumped up and down several times and hugged you around the waist. "Thank you, thank you! You're a genius!"

You laughed lightheartedly and rubbed her back. "Oh, it's not that bad, dear" She lifted her head to look at you. "Now, how about you bring me some more clothes to sew, hmm? From the others"

She nodded enthusiastically several times and ran off to find the others and ask them for torn clothes. After a while, Holly was carrying a huge pile of clothes in her arms. There was so much she could barely see where she was going. Laughing, you helped her and thanked her. There were pants, skirts, shirts, and vests. It was no wonder they were ripped since the children were always running and playing, and it was very likely their clothes would get caught on anything. You sighed, and despite the large amount of fabric you had to mend, this was what you wanted, so you got to work.

The hours passed, and when you finished sewing everything, you handed the clothes to the children one by one. They acknowledged your work with radiant smiles as they thanked you effusively. Minutes later, Henry arrived, hanging his hat on the coat rack as always and greeting you with a kiss. Of course, the little ones told him about your accomplishments. He looked at you with a curious smile, and you explained how it had all started because you had found a tear in his jacket. Henry seemed to consider your explanation and then nodded, smiling.

"Looks like you've found a hobby," he whispered to you as if he had read your mind.

Later that night, as you two were getting ready for bed, before turning off the light, you said to him, "Darling, it's not that I'm complaining..." you began cautiously, "but whenever you leave me here and go, I get so bored. Sewing is fine, but when all the mending is done, what will I do?"

He turned slightly to get a better look at you. His gaze softened, becoming understanding. He took your hand and traced circles on the back of it. "I understand, my love," he whispered, then brought your knuckles to his lips and kissed them. "I'll see what I can do for you..."

You smiled, not entirely convinced and unsure of what he might do. But your husband always gave you what you wanted and more, so you trusted him. The next morning, as your husband put on his hat to leave, he kissed you on the cheek and stroked your wrist. "I hope you're not too bored today," he whispered, and the way he said it made you feel he was hiding something. It didn't seem like a mere wish, but rather a certainty.

You smiled at him, confused, but nodded and said goodbye. Later, after you had cooked, served, washed the dishes, and prevented a few fights or arguments between the children, you went to your room, sighing, hoping to find another torn clothes in your husband's closet. But upon entering, oh surprise! On top of the dresser was a sewing box. A new one, not the one from before. This one wasn't rusty. It was Irish green with embossed yellow and pastel pink flowers on the lid and sides of the box, and it also had gold details. You let out a soft, gullible laugh as you slowly approached the object, as if in a dream. Next to the pretty sewing box was a note.

I'm convinced you will like it. Enjoy it

- H.C

Unable to wait any longer, you gently opened the sewing box and gasped. Inside were all sorts of embroidery supplies: various needles and threads of different colors. You brought a hand to your mouth, unable to believe it. Just like that, without a word, as if by magic, your husband had given you what you needed. And even though if he hadn't left a note, you would knew it was him. It was typical of Henry. Giving you and the children things he knew you wanted, but without saying a word, as if he were a mind reader. All afternoon you tried to embroider clothes using the instruction manual that also came in the sewing box. Happy and excited, you sat down in a chair near the window and began embroidering some of your own clothes first. The golden sun streamed through the curtains and bathed you like a halo. You hummed songs as you worked on your project.

One garment led to another. First, it was one of your skirts, on which you erased daisies from the hem. Then it was a shirt, on which you embroidered mistletoe leaves along the collar. And then it was the children's clothes. You happily asked them if you could embroider them. They enthusiastically agreed. So you went on embroidering leaves, flowers, and other small details. When you returned them, they seemed as happy as at Christmas, especially Holly, who was delighted with the hearts you had embroidered on her new dress. And finally, it was Henry's clothes. You wanted it to be a surprise, firstly because you didn't know how he would take it or if he would like it, and secondly because it was a way of thanking him for the gift. You spent the whole afternoon like this until you had finished several vests and jackets.

When your husband returned, you went to greet him, tired but happy. The first thing he noticed upon entering was the children with those new details on their clothes. The corners of his lips lifted in a small, satisfied smile. "Well, well. What do we have here?" he remarked, almost amused.

A child approached and exclaimed happily and singsongly "Mrs. Whatsit did it! She has magic hands!" the little one pointed at you.

Mr. Whatsit took your hand and brought it to his lips to kiss it. "I bet she's does" he purred, looking at you.

You smiled, blushing, and whispered, "And there's more... I also embroidered some clothes in your wardrobe, I hope you don't mind." you said shyly

He looked at you curiously. A little nervous, you decided to send the children off to play while Henry watched expectantly. You excused yourself for a moment and went to find the jackets and vests. When you returned, you handed them to him, a little unsure. He took them in delicate hands, inspecting your work as if he were an expert. You had exquisitely embroidered various flowers and branches with their leaves along the edge of the fabric, large enough to be noticeable but discreet enough not to take up the entire garment. Finally, he looked at you, and you held your breath.

"It's beautiful. A truly piece of art, my dear." He whispered, admired

You sighed in relief and a proud smile spread across your face. You shrugged. "I just wanted to thank you for what you did for me. I'm glad you like it" you said modestly.

"More than that," he said, leaning in to kiss your cheek. "From now on, I'll use it every day."

You’re squeezing rain from your hair under the farmhouse awning when you hear it.

A motorcycle engine beside your house. It cuts off and there’s a beat of silence. Then boots on gravel. You know that combination of sound anywhere.

When you turn, Sebastian is standing at the edge of your porch like he’s considering whether social interaction is actually required. He’s holding something behind his back and he looks like he regrets being born when he sees you standing on the porch.

“Hey,” he says, stepping up under the awning with you.

“Hey yourself. What’re you doing here?” You ask, a soft smile on your lips.

Rain beads along the collar of his jacket. His bangs are sticking slightly to his cheek, and there’s something tense in his shoulders, like he’s about to confess to arson instead of… whatever this is.

“I was in town,” he starts, which is already suspicious because he avoids town like it’s the plague most days, “And I saw these.”

He pulls his hand from behind his back. It’s a small bouquet. Not elaborate. Not Pierre’s best attempt at capitalism. Just a simple wrap of seasonal flowers tied together with some ribbon. The colors are soft against the gray day.

“For you,” he adds quickly, like he’s ripping off a bandage.

You blink, head tilting like a curious puppy, “For… me?”

He shifts his weight. Looks at the rain. The porch. Literally anywhere but your face.

“Yeah. I mean. You like plants. Obviously.” His mouth twitches, “You’ve built an entire empire out of parsnips.”

You laugh at that; and the sound seems to make him visibly recalibrate.

“I just—” He exhales, a thin, nervous thing, “I like being around you. On the farm. In the evenings. When we just sit there and don’t have to say anything.”

The rain fills the space between you, a soft percussion.

“And I don’t really… do this,” he admits, gesturing vaguely to the space between you, “The whole talking about feelings thing.”

You step a little closer.

He doesn’t step back.

“I think about you,” he says finally, voice quieter now, “More than I expected to. And I don’t hate it.”

He pauses, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, “I actually really don’t hate it.”

There’s something painfully sincere in the way he says it. Like it cost him HP to get the words out.

“So,” he continues, shoulders squaring as if preparing for boss battle level rejection, “I was wondering if you’d want to… I don’t know. Go out. With me. Officially. Not just… accidentally orbiting each other.”

You take the bouquet from him. His fingers brush yours. Warm, despite the rain, your voice soft as you speak his name, “Sebastian.”

He freezes, his breath caught somewhere in his throat.

You reach up and smooth the rain from his cheek with your thumb. He looks startled at first and then melts a fraction, “I’d love to orbit you on purpose.”

He stares at you like you’ve just handed him a legendary sword, “…So that’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes.”

There’s a visible release of tension. His shoulders drop. The corners of his mouth lift in that small, private smile he saves for rare things.

“Okay,” he says, almost to himself, “Yeah. Cool. Cool.”

The rain keeps falling, but it feels different now, warmer somehow. He hesitates, then leans forward, tentative. Lips parted like he may say something else. You close the distance first, kissing him gently, rain-damp and sweet and a little awkward.

He makes a soft surprised sound against your lips. When you pull back, he’s flushed, “…I was going to ask if I could do that.”

“You can,” you tell him, “anytime you want.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, “Right. Good. I’m… not great at this.”

“You showed up,” you say, holding the flowers to your chest, “In the rain. You brought flowers. I think you’re doing alright.”

He shrugs, but there’s pink in his ears, “Guess I figured if I was going to ruin my cool, mysterious reputation, I should commit.”

You grin, that soft giggle that makes his stomach flip falling off your lips, “well, you did a good job.”

He looks at you for a long moment, his voice soft, “… yeah, I did.”

And this time when he kisses you, it’s not hesitant at all.

🌻SDV Masterlist🌻 🦇Return to the Batcave🦇

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- When you three got together, Parker didn't want to do anything until Chance finally let him roll for their relationship (it landed on love).

- Parker is very much touch-starved. He loves to bite whenever he can, he also jumpscares by wrapping his arms around you when you least expect it.

- Chance loves quality time with you. He didn't really care what you two were doing, he'd be glad to know more about you and stay by your side.

- The three of you hold a game night, playing G&G except for Fridays, that's the only time you let Parker host game night.

- Parker once dm-ed for a change, things escalated into chaos and every npc was either horny, bloodthirsty or a capitalist.

- Both will shower you with praises, but in different ways. Chance's compliments are genuine, they're short and sweet, meanwhile Parker is straightforward, chaotic and has no sense of shame when it comes to you.

- Since the two have their own hyperfixations, they will not hesitate to talk your ear off. Expect them to tell you some random fact that they remembered, maybe even at the same time.

- They don't really care about each other as muxh as they care about you. But if you leave them alone for five minutes, they start getting very intimate with each other.

- Both get flustered very easily, it only takes two genuine compliments and a kiss on the cheek to make them both melt like butter.

- When you're having a bad day, Chance will care for you while trying to pull Parker away since he'll only make unnecessary comments and challenge you to a game.

It had been years since she had seen her family, absconding from their home with the intent to make a life for herself in Baldur’s Gate before being stolen by the mind flayers. She had written letters to them since, but she had settled nicely into her life with Astarion, finding joy and contentment like nothing she had felt before. So it had been ages since she had seen them, so focused was she on the moments of excitement and the moments of repose with her lover.

But with the holidays coming up, she’d wanted to see them. She had wanted to see her family again. She was on good terms with nearly all of them, although there was a strange distance that had grown between herself and her father. Yet that surely would not matter, not when she wanted to see everyone, when she wanted to reconnect and laugh and be in their company once more.

Astarion had obliged, musing about how he’d like to meet the people she had grown up with, and perhaps take a peek at old paintings of her as a child, and look for old beloved toys and books to tease her about later.

So they had sent a letter to her mother, and they had packed their belongings, and they had headed out to the village she had grown up in.

It was not a backwater by any means, but when they first arrived she gazed upon the central market, the rows of quaint houses that skirted the village borders, and felt strange. It was all as familiar to her as a recurring dream, and unknown as an uncharted land unmarked on any map.

It had been her home, but it was not her home any longer. She was a piece of a puzzle that no longer fit, this small world shifting around her absence, filling in the gaps as surely as she had filled in the gaps that had been left in her.

She’d spent the day with Astarion, clutching his hand tightly, the ring that allowed him to walk in the daylight glittering like a star plucked from the night sky on his finger. They’d gone through all of her favourite shops, had paused in restaurants to enjoy some of the foods she hadn’t had in ages, before finally arriving at her parents’ home.

Her heart had fluttered like an injured bird, and she considered turning tail and running. But with Astarion’s hand in hers she felt brave, felt safe as she knocked on the door, as she was greeted by the delighted shouts of her mother, of her siblings, of her grandparents.

The reunion was not without its awkwardness, exacerbated by Astarion delighting in stories of when she’d been in a child, and finding old paintings that had gathered dust of her childhood self. He’d even managed to find his way to her old room, the one she had occupied barely a week before she had first met him.

Laughing, he had wiggled beloved stuffed dolls above her head, teasing her as he pretended to play, eliciting annoyed shouts at first, and then laughter as she’d tickled his sides until he’d conceded.

She’d been able to fall into a comfortable routine with her family, and with her lover at her side. The years of adventuring had not diminished her love for them, nor had it made theirs falter. She no longer fit within the village, but she was still welcomed, still accepted.

Their plan had been to stay for a few weeks, touring the village and some of the larger cities nearby, and catching up with family and old friends. Most days Aspen and Astarion would spend their mornings together, Astarion lying on her chest like a weighted blanket, murmuring that he was too comfortable to move even as the sun made its way across the sky. Then they would dress, invite one of her siblings or her mother along with them, and they would head out into the world.

In the evenings they would return, and he would roll up his sleeves and offer to help with the cooking and cleaning her mother often did. It added to the strange delightfulness of everything, Astarion offering to do something he had often whined about at length when their relationship was still new as spring blooms.

It felt almost blissful, a strange sort of dream she found herself walking in. A scrap of domesticity, a glimpse into what life with him would be like if they ever settled down. If they ever decided to put down roots.

But as much as those days warmed Aspen’s heart, they could not last. It was all too good to be true, the softest, most magical part of the dream right before she awoke. The calm before the rage of a storm.

She loved her family, so entirely she did not always have the words to explain it. But as much as she loved them, they frustrated her beyond belief, beyond words or understanding. The little words that cut like a knife into her heart, picking at her life, at her interests and hobbies, at her choices.

The only difference now was that she no longer wandered her family’s home and the village roads with open wounds, dripping blood into the snow-covered cobblestones. When they wounded her with sharpened words, Astarion was there to stitch her back together, to hold her until the tightness in her chest began to loosen, knots coming undone.

There was never any true malice behind their words and actions, but that did not mean that it hurt her any less.

She loved them, but they frustrated her. The more time she spent with them the more things weighed her down, the more things chipped away at her confidence, at the slivers of courage she had found travelling Faerûn, at her own heart. She could feel parts of herself fading away, withering like flowers in a storm, like dying leaves falling from ashen branches.

Aspen was reminded of how difficult family could be, and none were more difficult than the man who called himself her father.

Just as surely as she’d been told she could be too much, she’d been told she needed to be careful around this man. To dance delicately around things that triggered his rage, to tiptoe through a field of eggshells to ensure nothing cracked.

But Aspen was not a rogue, not like her beloved, able to slink silently through shadows, able to dance through fields of fire, able to whisper honeyed words that calmed most people before aggravation could explode.

How could she, when there was a monster beneath her skin? And though she’d thought it finally tamed, it returned in a fury easily, far too easily for her liking.

It was a night when Astarion was not with her, when they were a hairsbreadth from the holidays and she was helping to cook and bake. Grating cheese and chopping veggies, measuring out chocolate and stirring batter.

Astarion had slipped out earlier in search of something he would not divulge. He would only grin in mischief, tap her nose playfully, and promise he wouldn’t be out too late.

And without him nearby, she’d had nothing but her songs and stories to while away her time with. So she had volunteered to help cook and bake with her mother, taking part in what had been a little tradition between the two of them when she’d still lived with her family.

Things had gone well enough, and they’d successfully prepared many treats for the holidays and the revelry everyone would be taking part in.

It had come as a surprise when her father had entered, forcing his way into their comfortable space. He’d started doing something else entirely, plates and bowls clashing in a discordant clattering that had her ears ringing.

Although her ire had been stoked initially, she’d had no reason to pay it any heed. What he was doing was no crime, and her mother was forever asking her to strengthen the bonds between the two of them, to close the strange chasm separating them that neither was ever able to fully cross.

And it had been fine, at first. Casual conversation shared between the three of them, her younger siblings having retired to bed already, and Astarion still lost to the night and whatever wicked surprise he was searching for.

But then it had been not fine, and too late did Aspen realize the claws of the monster in her blood had come out.

Her voice raised, her heart thundering in her chest, a plea to be listened to, to be seen and understood as the adult she had become. That she was not a fool, that the aches in her heart for things he refused to believe were valid, were just, if only he would listen.

They’d had many shouting matches in the past, leaving open wounds that had pushed them further apart the older she grew. So when his voice rose she’d thought perhaps it would be the same as the others, words thrown like rocks back and forth until it fizzled out.

But she’d said that he’d been talking down to her, that he’d been talking to her like she were clueless, a child.

And that apparently, was too far.

The escalation was abrupt. Sudden movement, the man squaring his shoulders to seem larger as spit had flown from his mouth as his voice had risen further. His words had turned cruel, derogatory. How stupid she was, how childish, how she was no adult and spoke like a fool, and words so much crueler that had made her eyes burn.

He paced, shouting loud enough to rattle the ceiling. And she had raised her voice in kind, shrieking now, shrill and enraged at him, at herself for being hurt, for thinking they could mend the rift between them.

And then the threat, a threat heavy with certainty. That he would hit her for her impertinence if she did not stop.

Hit her as a parent hit a child, beat her as a parent who did not know how to navigate their emotions beat a child that misbehaved.

Red had filled her vision, her heart as good as stopped for she could no longer feel it. Her blood had boiled and she had flung her anger back at him, a furious reaction to such a threat.

Her mother had promised he would never hurt her, but her mother seemed oblivious to the times he had, when she’d been little. No more than a parent punishing a child, keeping a troublemaker in line. But she remembered the sharp pain, she remembered the stark cold of the tub, she remembered the acrid taste of soap and the way she had heaved as she’d been forced forward.

Not many times, but enough to burn themselves in her memory, enough that she shrunk whenever a man’s voice was raised. Enough that she shook despite her best efforts when senseless rage was directed at her.

Such a threat was not something she would abide. Not now, not anymore. She was no defenseless child, she had lived, she would not be threatened in a place she was meant to be safe.

She said as much, thinking she was safe.

But she was not. He moved swiftly, looming over her like a monster, so close his forehead pressed against hers. Spit flew into her face, her ears rang, as he screamed and screamed, deep rage like that of the flames of Avernus, directed at her, so close she could smell nothing but the rankness of his breath.

She screamed in return, demanding he move, to get away. But he did not, still pouring his fury against her.

In the back of her mind fear sprung forth, slick and oily as disease. Her body trembled, not that she noticed, and she knew, deep within herself, that he was nearing his limit. That he would hurt her if she did not keep pushing.

But how could she not? Until he used those damned ears to listen, to acknowledge she was not some thing he could use as he pleased.

She tensed in anticipation, knowing the blow would come sooner rather than later.

But what she did not expect was the new shout that erupted behind her father, a figure blocked from her view from the hulking mass of the man who had pressed his face into hers and would not move.

Astarion dug his fingers into the collar of the man’s shirt, yanking him back.

He stumbled, whirling on Astarion, hand raised.

And Astarion bared his teeth, a knife pointed at the man’s throat.

“Make one move and I slit your throat.”

A snort, over-confident and haughty. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Another flash of Astarion’s fangs, his eyes seeming to brighten to a bloody crimson. “I would hate to waste warm blood, but in this case I could make an exception.”

Wild eyes turned to her, fists clenching as hands fell to his sides. “What kind of monster have you brought into our home?”

“Eyes on me,” Astarion cooed, deadly soft. “Lower those hands and go somewhere to cool off and I won’t spill any blood.”

The man swore, shooting Aspen one more murderous look before stalking away, muscles tensed like he was still looking to fight.

Astarion sheathed his knife, a ferocious predator for only a moment longer before he turned to her. His eyes softened then, his lips murmuring soft words as he moved towards her, catching her shaking body before she could fall over.

“You’re alright, darling,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her brow. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Tears burned, but they did not fall. She was shivering like a dying tree in a windstorm, and she clutched at him, words choked by the sob that was lodged in her throat.

“Let’s find somewhere for you to sit down, shall we?” He guided her to the kitchen table, settled her into one of the chairs.

In the aftermath, as the fury leached from her skin, she felt cold. Cold as a winter’s night, cold as the darkest moments of a snow-storm, cold as the frozen lake at the border of the village, drowning in the darkened waters.

It was only then that her mother stepped forward, having seemed to have disappeared during the fight. She’d nearly forgotten she’d been there, helping her to bake before everything had unravelled.

“You know you’re both just so similar,” her mother said, letting out a breathy laugh. There was no humour in the sound, and her expression was pinched.

Astarion turned to peer at her mother over his shoulder, his expression inscrutable. “Excuse me?”

She shrugged, wringing her hands. “They provoke each other so much. And you know you did start it, Aspen. You know that’s a trigger for him.”

Astarion leaned back as though he’d been slapped. He blinked, not seeming to understand what he’d just heard. “What do you mean?”

Her mother didn’t hear the edge to his tone, but Aspen did, just as she saw the twitch of his brow, the slight downturn of his lips.

“She should have just agreed to disagree, that’s all.” Another shrug. “What he did was unacceptable, and he shouldn’t have acted like that. But you know you can be just like that, too.”

At her mother’s words Aspen shuddered, for an entirely new reason this time.

She knew of the creature beneath her skin, knew she had to keep it in check, but never had she felt like such a monster as she did now. Her mother softly berating her for provoking the man supposed to be her father.

She could feel it in her veins, roiling like the rage of a storming sea. The monster in her blood, the one that used her skin.

Had she minded her tongue this would not have happened, had she minded her tongue they would still be joyfully cooking, and Astarion would not have had to reveal his vampirism to her parents.

As her mother came forward to comfort her as well tears began to spill, streaking down her cheeks in rivers of flame.

She hardly noticed through the silver blur the room around her drowned in from her tears, the way Astarion’s expression tightened. She didn’t even notice the way his hands tightened on her shoulders, giving her mother almost no room to kneel beside her.

She wanted to cry to her mother, to be comforted, to be told it was not her fault.

But it was her fault, wasn’t it? A horrible monster ruining the holidays, ruining their family gathering on the eve of their celebrations. Ruining things just as she always did, tearing apart the delicate happiness that had been in the air.

“Absolutely not.”

The sharpness in Astarion’s tone made Aspen look up, searching for his eyes in the haze of tears. She made to wipe her eyes, but he gently pushed her hands away, the pads of his thumbs soft as they gently brushed away her tears.

She sniffed, her throat raw as she spoke. “What are you talking about?”

“I will not stand for such slander,” he said, gentle, but firm. “I will not allow for you to be slandered after such a threat.”

Her mother shot Astarion an incredulous look. “That’s hardly fair, and I don’t appreciate you sticking your nose in our business. He’s her father, he would never hurt her.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Astarion sounded eerily calm, his brow arching in bemusement. “Because that looked quite aggressive. That looked like someone on the verge of hitting someone else.”

Her mother opened her mouth to retort, but Astarion stood suddenly, cutting her off.

“No, this is not acceptable.” He offered Aspen his hand, his expression softening for half a breath until he returned his gaze to her mother. “From what I saw he nearly hurt her. He threatened to hurt her. And while my beloved can handle much, being threatened by her own father is not something she should never tolerate.”

His gaze was sharp as he gave her mother a once over. “Nor should she tolerate such nonsense from her mother.”

“You weren’t here at the beginning of the argument, you didn’t hear-”

“No, you’re right.” He cut her off, no humour in his smirk. “But I know her well, so I can guess well enough what happened. And raising her voice and saying a thoughtless comment does not deserve such a response.” Then, quieter. “Nothing does.”

Wordlessly, Aspen took his hand. He drew her to her feet, wrapping his arm around her waist. “We’re leaving, darling.”

Her legs shook, and she feared her knees would give out on her soon. “Where?”

“We’ll find an inn for the night,” he said, not sparing her mother a second glance. “Then we’ll head back to Baldur’s Gate at first light.”

Her mother got to her feet, regret in her eyes. “But the holidays start tomorrow, and we planned-”

Astarion’s response was a snarl. “You stood by and did nothing. You didn’t want to choose a side, but you did all the same.”

They packed quickly, Aspen in such a daze that Astarion packed her things for her, murmuring softly that she was okay, that she was safe, that he would make sure she was always safe.

It wasn’t until they had headed into the night, until they’d checked into the first inn they found, until Astarion guided her to the rickety bed and she fell back, that she truly began to sob.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, taking her into his arms. He tucked her head against his shoulder, not making a comment as she stained the fine fabric with snot and tears. “You’re safe.”

“I’m sorry!” She cried, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain, hands finding his shirt, balling the fabric up in her fists. “I’m sorry! I ruin everything!”

“Nonsense,” he breathed, smoothing her hair back from her face. “You don’t ruin anything.”

“Yes I do!” Her voice was a shrill shriek, and she nearly doubled over from the force of the sudden sobs that ripped from her throat. “I ruin everything. I ruin every friendship, I ruin my family’s happiness, one day I’ll ruin this.”

She pressed her face against his shoulder, her sobs muffled, if only barely. “I’m a monster. I’m a horrid beast, always so angry and I can’t even stop it. I can’t stop myself!”

“Aspen.” The steadiness of his voice gave her pause. He kept his voice soft, but there was a firmness to it, like iron, that quieted her cries.

“Aspen, darling, look at me.”

She sniffed, shaking her head. “I look horrible.”

A soft chuckle, his fingers running through her hair. “I don’t think that’s even possible, my love. Even drenched in gore you are beautiful. A few tears and snot will hardly stifle your beauty.”

She pulled away then, fixing a glower to her face. “Are you sure about that?”

He smiled, cupping her cheeks with such gentleness that a soft gasp escaped her lips. Did she deserve tenderness? Did she deserve even a scrap of his affection when she was a beast? When she would hurt him as surely as she hurt her father, her family?

“You are radiant,” he said, no sign of teasing in his eyes. “Beautiful as always.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. The screaming, the rage, being whisked away so late at night. “Astarion, you just watched me scream my lungs out at my father and then sob so hard I’m pretty sure I bruised my ribs.”

He tapped her cheek, his brow arching. “Don’t forget staining my shirt, too. This was silk, you know.”

“Oh Astarion, I’m so sorry.” The tears began all over again, spilling like she might drown in her misery. “I’ve ruined everything.”

“Darling, darling,” he clicked his tongue softly, brushing her tears away as he stroked her cheeks. “You have not ruined anything, and you are no monster.”

“But I-”

“Hush.” He could have spoken sharply, but his tone was whisper soft. His brows drew together, his lips tilting down. “You are not to blame.”

How did she explain to him? How did she explain the monster in her body, the beast beneath her skin?

“You don’t understand.” Her voice wobbled, thick and rough from tears and screaming and the sobs still caught in her throat.

He was being so soft, so gentle in the face of the catastrophe made flesh that she was. “Then help me to understand, my love.”

Her bottom lip quivered and she drew in deep breaths, her nose clogged with snot. “I ruin everything, I make a mess of everything. I push him too far, trigger him and make him angry. I don’t even try to, I don’t look for a fight but everyone tells me I do. I’m told I’m too loud, I’m too angry, and I don’t even know I am until it’s too late. I’ve ruined my most precious relationships, I ruined the holiday by making my father mad.”

Astarion listened quietly, brushing away her tears as they fell, until they had all spilled, and there was nothing but dried salt on her cheeks.

When she was done pouring out her fears, her terror of what she could be, he nodded, silent still. She wished he would speak, was desperate for him to say something.

Maybe he would push her away, tell her that he had made a mistake, that she was not who he’d thought she was. Maybe he would tell her that she truly was a beast just as she thought.

But what he did surprised her more.

He drew her face close, brought his lips to the corner of hers.

“You are no monster,” he said, soft as a lullaby. “You can be loud, and you can be a bit overzealous.”

At that he smirked, tapping her cheek. “But a monster you are not. If you’re truly scared, then when we return home we can find someone to help, so that what you feel is truly tamed.”

She sniffed, pulling at his shirt. “But I ruin so many things! What happens when I ruin us?”

He rolled his eyes, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear. “My love, you have not ruined anything. You’ve told me of those friendships, and it sounds like those people were rotten from the start.”

“But what about-”

He brought a finger to her lips, silencing her.

“My love,” he murmured, exasperation in his sigh. “I’ve held my tongue far longer than I’ve cared to tonight. Let me speak.”

She nodded, wilting, and he withdrew his hand.

“You did not ruin the holidays for your family either,” he continued, cupping her face again. “Your father had no business reacting that way, no matter what. As much as I delight in a little violence, there is nothing that anyone could have said that would deserve such a response.”

She sniffled again, wiping at her nose as she felt snot dribble out. She looked disgusting, she was sure, and yet Astarion had insisted she was beautiful. How strange he could be.

“If anything was ruined, it was because of him,” he said, kissing her cheek again. “He should learn to control himself, and he was very lucky that I have so much self control.”

At that Aspen couldn’t help giggling, memories of all the times Astarion could not help himself brimming in her mind. But she held her tongue, not wanting to cut him off, not when he was being sweet as spun sugar.

“And you will not ruin us,” he said at last, firm, unwavering. “I want you, I want every part of you. Even your thorns.”

“Thorns?” She furrowed her brow. “Am I a flower to you?”

He grinned, twirling her hair around his finger. “The most beautiful and rarest of all flowers. But I don’t mind the thorns.” His smile grew, fangs catching the light as they came into view. “I’d let you prick me if it meant getting to stay with you.”

“I would never prick you,” she cried, horrified at the idea of hurting him. “I would never ever hurt you. At least not intentionally.”

His smile softened, and he brought his lips to her chest, above where her heart thrummed, finally beating a steady rhythm once more. “See? You have a sweet heart, you are no monster.”

“But-”

“No buts,” he interrupted. “I have met monsters, my love, and you are not one.”

He sighed, releasing the tendril of hair he’d been toying with. “And I plan to stay at your side for a long, long time. So long as you’ll have me.”

Her heart, a poor fractured thing, ached from his words. She felt like she were splintered glass, and she would shatter at any moment now. The only thing holding her together was Astarion’s hands, keeping her in the moment.

“I want you to stay with me,” she said, her voice soft as breath. “I want you to always stay with me.”

“Then I shall.”

Astarion’s arms slid around her waist, drawing her close. Aspen could think of nothing else to say, so instead she curled against his chest, feeling like she might fall apart at any moment now.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, murmuring softly into her hair. “You’re safe. I will keep you safe, my love.”

Although her trembling had stopped, it still took her a long while to truly settle. Her mind could not seem to rest, and it took Astarion singing her favourite songs off-key and reading from one of the books she’d packed for their trip for her mind to finally ease.

He was patient with her as she clung to him, murmuring soft praises, whispering that she was good, that he loved her. He sang and read to her, he stroked her hair, rubbed gentle circles into her back.

A stray sob would slip from between her lips every few moments, and she would absently wipe her nose on the back of her sleeve before nestling closer again. Astarion would press another kiss to her brow, her temple, his arms tightening around her, with every sob that escaped.

And slowly, so painfully slowly it might have taken her a century, she finally began to feel… She wasn’t sure entirely, but it was safer, comforted.

Not entirely better, but it was a start.

“I feel tired,” she murmured against his chest, her tears finally dried up, the last of her sobs lost to the night.

The shadows had grown so long, deepening until there was no light keeping them at bay but for the candles they had lit in their room.

“Why don’t we get you into a bath,” he suggested, tipping her head back until their eyes met. “You always like that.”

“I do…” She trailed off, even the miniscule effort needed to summon words to her lips exhausting her. “But it’s so late, and I feel so tired.”

“Leave it to me,” he murmured, smoothing back her hair.

Things were a blur after that, fatigue rushing through her all at once. Astarion carrying her to the bath, gently settling her into the steaming water like she were a delicate, precious thing. His fingers running through her hair, massaging soap and scented oils into her skin. His lips over her skin, scattering kisses in the wake of his hands as he rinsed the suds from her body.

When he was done he stepped free from the water first so he could help her out, holding her hands as she climbed over the high lip of the tub. He wrapped her in a soft towel, half-carrying her back into their room to help her dress and comb her hair.

Astarion’s lithe fingers twisted her hair into twin braids that fell down her back, much longer than she usually kept it. She made a comment to him that she would need to get it cut when they returned, and he pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, promising he would make an appointment for her with their favourite hairdresser.

“And then perhaps we can spend the rest of the day out,” he suggested as he helped her into bed, going so far to fluff the pillows, spoiling her like she were a princess in a fairytale.

“We can pick out some new fabrics, perhaps commission some new clothes,” he continued, brow quirked as he grinned. “You can never have too many new gowns, especially now that we’ve started getting invited to parties. And-” He let the final word hang in the air, quivering like a music note held at the climax of a song.

“And?”

“And I love seeing you in pretty things.”

She held out her arms, wanting him to hold her even now. He’d had his hands on her for hours now, her fingers wrinkled from how long they’d spent in the bath. But it was not enough, and she wanted to be held still.

Astarion obliged, lying beside her and drawing her into his arms. She tucked her head beneath his chin, breathing in the smell of bergamot and rosemary, and the faint smell of her own favourite perfumes and soaps, lavender and rose and the touch of citrus.

“Could we go to the bookstore, too?” She asked, yawning as he trailed his fingers down the back of her neck.

“We can go wherever you would like,” he promised. “But first you must sleep, my love. We’ll make the trek back home tomorrow when you wake.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice, and she quickly fell into a dreamless sleep, safe in his arms.

The morning came far too soon, but Astarion let her sleep late, until the sunlight was a golden glow that seeped through the curtains of their room and breakfast had long since passed.

They didn’t take the time to bid anyone a proper farewell, instead heading for the winding road that would lead them home.

Aspen didn’t anticipate spending her favourite holiday travelling on the road, but she found she did not mind. Even when silence blanketed the both of them, she was comforted in his presence. Astarion could be melodramatic, petulant, and overly confident. But he also showed her gentleness, kindness, an affection that warmed her like the gentle flicker of candle flames.

He took care of her as surely as she took care of him, and as eagerly as she had accepted him for all his virtues and flaws, so he had with her. Perhaps more so, because she’d kept them quiet for as long as she could, and she was certain anyone else would have left her in the cold for such deception.

The winds picked up as they travelled, reaching frozen fingers into her hair, tearing at her cloak and skirts. She tugged her hood over her head, although it did little as the wind snatched her hood back, tearing it from her head.

Astarion snickered, sliding a hand to her cheek. “I have to admit I am glad that your face is not hidden by your hood.”

“Astarion, I’m cold,” she whined, not caring how her voice pitched high, joining the keening of the freezing winds.

A roll of his eyes, followed by a delicate kiss to her cheek. “Here, I have an idea of what can help.”

He draped the side of his cloak over her, his arm slipping around her waist.

“Won’t this make walking hard?” She asked, turning to him. He was close now, his breath ghosting against her cheek.

“I don’t mind,” he said, his voice a warm tenor that caressed her skin like a kiss. “I’ll take any excuse to be closer to you, darling.”

She sighed, but it wasn’t sad, or even bittersweet. It felt the precursor to a laugh, that promised delight would follow in its wake. “You’re so sweet, did you know that?”

“I did,” he said, doing a poor job of trying not to preen. “But it sounds best when it comes from your lips.”

Now she did laugh, and there really was a little happiness in it, soft as the laughter was, freshly fallen snow that filled the world with glitter. “I’ll have to say it more, then.”

“I’ll hold you to that, my love.”

Walking as they did, Astarion’s cloak wrapped around her, slowed them down considerably, but they still made good time, and as the sun sank beneath the horizon, setting the slate-grey of the sky ablaze in fiery red and burning oranges, they arrived back in Baldur’s Gate.

The feeling she felt as they hurried through the streets, fatigue heavy in their bones, was something entirely different from when they’d arrived in her childhood home.

There she had felt like a piece that no longer fit, accepted but not entirely right. She had ignored it, because that had been where she’d grown up. That had been her home, it was where her family lived still.

But stumbling through the streets, thinking of the warmth of her own home, the heat of a bath, the crackle of a fire stoked high, and all the snacks in the cupboards of their kitchen, she felt something click into place.

The bustle of this city, that bakery she loved to visit, the darkened storefront of their favourite tailor, the merry lights and open doors of the bookstore that sold warm drinks in the winter months. All the parts of the city she hadn’t yet seen, so occupied were they both with travelling, adventuring to different lands.

This felt right. Being here felt right. She didn’t feel like a misplaced puzzle piece, a lost toy that did not match with the rest of the set. She didn’t feel like a puzzle piece at all, something that had to match everything that surrounded it.

She felt whole, she felt like she belonged, felt like she was home.

The wind had not let up since earlier that day, heavy storm-clouds chasing in their wake. As they walked up the steps to their home, windows dark and curtains drawn, waiting for them to bring life back into the empty building, she felt something cold touch her cheek.

She looked up, beamed at the flurry of white swirling through the air, caught up in the ice of the wind.

“Astarion, look,” she murmured, pointing skyward. “It’s snowing.”

He paused, barely a foot from their door, to gaze up at the sky, a soft smile beginning to stretch across his face. “So it is.”

He gave her hand a tug, attention already sliding from the snow and back to the promise of warmth and comfort only a foot away. But Aspen found herself frozen in place, staring up at the snowflakes cascading to the ground. Like the sky itself had opened up in welcome of her returning, of her finding somewhere she was safe.

As Astarion tugged her harder she obliged, following him into the house, the door closing with a soft click behind them. It blocked the snow from sight, but still she could see it in her mind’s eye, swirling in an ivory ballet overhead, covering the world in a pallid pearlescence, wiping away the stain that had grown from the day behind them.

She shivered, snapping back to the present as Astarion’s cool fingers glided over her cheeks, his voice teasing as he commented on how flushed she looked.

They helped each other with their cloaks, tossed their packs to the side to be emptied once they were properly warmed. All the while Aspen’s eyes flitted over their home, the familiar shapes of the furniture, the familiar smell of the cleaners and soaps and candles they preferred, the familiar twists and turns of the halls and stairways.

Astarion’s arms slipped around her waist, his chin perching on her shoulder. “What are you thinking of, darling? You’ve hardly said more than a few words.”

She leaned into his embrace, covering her hands with his. “I’m just thinking that something felt strange when we’d gone to visit my family. And that something feels right now that we’re back.”

He peeled away from her, giving her an amused smile. “Of course something feels right, my love. We’re home.”

Home.

She’d known she was coming home as she’d stepped into the city once more, the word seemed to hold a different weight now.

Home, where she had chosen to lay down her heart, where she had chosen to share space with the person most precious to her. Where she was safe.

She smiled, turning around to draw him into an embrace, pressing her face into his shoulder, breathing in the smell of pine and cold winds, and the smell of his perfumes that he so loved.

“You’re right,” she said, her words partially muffled as she nestled closer. “It feels better because I’m home.”

Astarion snorted, but she could imagine the tender smile curling over his lips like a crescent moon shining silver in the sky. He ran a hand over her hair, fingers toying with the soft baby curls at the nape of her neck. “You’re safe here. You’re safe with me, my love. I swear it.”

“I know.” Tears pricked at her eyes as she held him tighter.

“I will never hurt you, I will never raise a hand to you, or even threaten to do so.”

She clung to him, as surely as his perfumes clung to his skin, even a hint of their smell giving her comfort. “I know, Astarion. I’m not afraid of you.”

“I only want you to know,” he murmured, lowering his head until it rested against hers. “I want you to know that you’re safe. I’ll make sure you’re always safe.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, a futile attempt to stop the flow of the tears that slipped from the corners of her eyes. “Astarion, you’re making me cry.”

He clicked his tongue, stroking the back of her neck. “I didn’t mean to make you cry, my dear.”

“Too late.”

A sigh, a kiss to the top of her head. “Then allow me to make it up to you, darling.”

She sank further into his embrace, listening to the slowed beat of his heart. Her love, her shining star.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you so much.”

A moment of silence, the slow rhythm, of his heart seeming to stammer for a moment, beat a little faster. “And I love you.”

Aspen would have been content to stay there for the rest of the night, wrapped in his arms. But Astarion clearly had other plans, and after a few moments he pulled away, tapping her cheek playfully when she pouted.

“Don’t look at me like that, darling. I want to clean up and change into something warmer.” He sighed, taking her hands and running his thumbs over the backs of them. “And I want you to change into something warmer too, before you turn entirely to ice.”

“If I turned to ice would you find a way to rescue me?” She gave him a sly smile, a glimmer of mischief in her heart.

“Without a doubt,” he said, eyes bright with devilry. “Although I might have to tell you that I told you so, since if you turned to ice it would be because you ignored my request to warm up.”

“Well then I’ll make sure to heed your advice,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to upset you.”

He patted her hand. “An excellent choice, my love.”

She squeezed his hand, unwilling yet to let go. “Would you help me? I still feel so tired, and I would like to stay close, if you’ll allow me.”

Sorrow flashed in his eyes, the mischief in his smile softening. “Of course, my love. You need only ask.”

“And then we can mull that wine we bought before we left.”

He chuckled, tugging her from the entry, deeper into the heart of their home. “We can. But you’ll have to keep your wits about you, my darling, because I still have that surprise I had prepared for you before that little scuffle.”

She frowned, only now remembering that he’d vanished in search of something he would not tell her about just before the fight had begun. “What is it?”

He shot her a roguish grin. “You’ll just have to wait and see, darling.”

He was teasing her, and while normally she would at least pretend to get upset, in this moment all she could do was smile and laugh. There was no tension in the air, no fear of shattering eggshells beneath her feet.

Astarion accepted her, all of her, and he would not rage against her for saying the wrong thing, for being too loud. He loved her as she was, thorns and all.

They spent the evening together, and she fell asleep tangled in his arms, warm and safe, not feeling quite as hollow as she had the night before.

Aspen had hoped she would bounce back after their return to Baldur’s Gate, but of course things were not perfect, and little more than a week later, a letter arrived addressed to her, scrawled in her mother’s neat hand.

‘You should apologize. I believe you both should apologize, you both-’

She did not get a chance to finish reading before Astarion plucked it from her hand, tossed it into the fire.

A voice in the back of her head told she should probably be annoyed, angry even, that he took the first piece of correspondence she’d received from her family since and fed it to the flames. But there was no rage left inside of her, and even if there was, it would not spark, would not catch on the kindling forever in her heart, waiting to turn to a blaze.

She was thankful to him, for not forcing her to read such a letter. That blamed her as equally as the man who had threatened her. Who teetered on the edge of inflicting violence on her for the sin of disobedience.

“That’s utter rubbish,” he muttered, drawing her into his arms. And for that she was so painfully grateful that she burst into tears all over again, another bout in endless weeks of tears.

“It’s alright, darling.” He had said the words so many times over the past few days, comforting her in the morning when she awoke, trembling from dreams of screaming, from the fractures in her heart, the knowledge that there was no real going back, no crossing the distance between her and that man.

“You are not to blame,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “Your heart is good, darling, and it is not your job to please other people so they do not threaten you. Not even your own family.”

Aspen nodded silently, burying her face against his neck.

They could not hurt her here, they could not even slice her with their callous words. Here in her home, with her lover, she was safe.

“You’re sure?” She asked, sniffling. “You’re sure that I will not ruin us?”

He chuckled, warm and soft, nearly a sigh. “Do roses ruin a garden? Does a hawthorn tree ruin a forest?”

She peeked up from her hiding place, wrinkling her nose. “Pardon?”

“Roses have thorns, do they not?”

She nodded slowly. “They do.”

“But they’re everywhere, are they not? In gardens, in songs and poems, in bouquets given to lovers.” He tipped his head to the side, searching her face as he spoke.

Again she nodded, still unsure of what he was talking about. “I know that. They’re some of the most popular flowers.”

“Even though they have thorns?”

“I… Guess?” He was teasing her now, she was sure of it.

“And did you know,” he continued, toying with her hair. “That hawthorns, with their red fruits used in wines and jellies, and the pretty flowers that bloom on their branches, have thorns too?”

She shook her head, completely lost now. “I didn’t.”

He let go of her hair, settling his hands on her waist. “Well they do. And still they are not seen as something ruinous, but something people adore.”

When she didn’t respond, Astarion sighed, making a show of rolling his eyes. “My darling, you will not ruin us. I love you, I adore you. And I would choose you over all of the thornless, soft-hearted fools in the world.”

“I love you too,” she said, feeling small. “I love you, and I want you to stay with me.”

“And so I shall, darling,” he murmured, lowering his head, nuzzling his nose against hers. “I love you, thorns and all. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tears burned at her eyes, a stray few slipping down her cheeks, and she quickly wiped them away, smiling softly.

“You ought to become a poet,” she said, peeking up at him. “Especially after saying such pretty things.”

He snorted, pulling away to wave his hand languidly through the air. “What can I say? You bring out the romantic in me.”

“Thank you, my love,” she spoke earnestly, wanting him to know she was not joking around, that she meant it with her whole heart. “Thank you, for how kind you are to me.”

Astarion froze, the softest touch of pink blooming in his cheeks. What little blood stayed in his veins was rushing to his face, warming him, if only slightly.

“Yes, well…” He trailed off, stammering. “You make it so terribly easy. I hate the idea of your sweet heart being in pain.”

She smirked, teasing him now. “You know you’re pretty sweet, yourself.”

“Alright.” With a roll of his eyes he turned away. “Were we not planning to go out before we got that letter? We should hurry if we want to stop at the bookstore before heading to the performance.”

“Oh yes,” Aspen beamed, hurrying to his side, standing on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek before going in search of her cloak. “Right as always, my love. We must make haste.”

Laughter chased after her as she found where she’d last discarded her cloak, a deep deep the colour of a sunset, a perfect contrast to the powder pink of her gown and the coral-coloured ribbons that laced up the front of her bodice. She tossed it over her shoulders, clicking the clasps into place before heading to the entry, where Astarion waited for her, grinning brighter when he saw her.

“Beautiful as always,” he cooed, straightening the clasps of her cloak, disentangling the corners of her ribbons so the bows laid flat.

She beamed, pushing the letter from her mind, pushing the whole terrible event from her mind. What lurked in her skin was no monster, not a beast that destroyed everything that was dear. It was only her thorns, a part of her as surely as the blood in her veins.

Astarion had promised to help her soften them, so they did not draw blood when someone got too close. But there would likely always be a few that were a little sharp, despite her best efforts.

But he would love her anyways, acknowledging that they were a part of her, and he loved all of her, even the sharpest parts.

That knowledge settled in her heart, warmth kindling in her chest. Not the violent fire of rage, but the gentle warmth of love, of contentment, the kind of warmth that kept her safe.

The tavern is cozy. Loud and lively and warm. There’s a fire in the fireplace. The bartender keeps the alcohol flowing plentifully. And you’re seated at your favorite table–in the corner, against the wall but still close enough to the action to enjoy the tavern atmosphere–with your favorite cold-blooded company.

Astarion has dragged his chair around to your side of the table, and he’s sitting close enough that you can feel the chill from his skin.

You’re comfortable, a drink in-hand as you both watch the tavern’s small stage. There’s a musical group clustered together–a fiddle player, a flutist, a man with a hand drum, and a woman playing a horn–and there are people dancing just in front. 

Overall it’s joyous and raucous and fun, and though you’d originally had to practically bribe Astarion to come with you tonight, you can tell he’s enjoying himself all the same.

You both cheer when the band ends a song, and when they take a small break to chat with the crowd around the stage, Astarion leans back to say something to you.

But you never get to hear what he has to say, because at that exact moment, a man appears in front of you both. He’s handsome–strong jaw, piercing eyes, youthful energy–and his smile, though enticing, is predatory. A cat who has sighted a dove.

The man sizes you up briefly before turning his attention to Astarion. You can tell that the vampire knows what’s coming based on the way he tenses up. The stranger either doesn’t notice, or he doesn’t care, because he continues on without a care.

His opening line makes you roll your eyes. It’s cheesy and basic (“I saw you from across the room and I just had to come over and say hello.”) and he looks proud of himself when Astarion laughs and says “Oh, how positively quaint.” Poor sod can’t even tell when he’s being made fun of.

He’s shockingly persistent, asking questions, asking if he can buy Astarion a drink. For the most part, you’re sitting there, both offended because hello you’re right there and amused by Astarion’s polite but increasingly snarky responses.  

Around the third time the man asks to buy Astarion a drink, things start to get significantly less polite. And when the band starts up again and the man asks Astarion to dance, the vampire practically growls out “No. Thank you, darling, but I’m much more comfortable here.”

As he’s saying it, Astarion shifts slightly closer to you, as if he’s trying to get physically away from the stranger. You can tell he’s annoyed from how tense his jaw is.

“Oh, come on. Have a little fun.” The stranger’s persistence has finally pushed you to your limit and you snap “Gods above, he said no. Take a hint and fuck off.”

The stranger scowls, but ultimately, he does leave, and you follow him with his eyes as he weaves through the crowd and out the door of the tavern.

After a moment, Astarion stands, moving his chair back to the other side of the table. “I can handle myself, you know.” His voice is soft, but you can hear the hurt in it. “I know you think I’m just some pitiable creature that can’t set his own boundaries, but I assure you, I can manage on my own.”

You frown. Of course, you don’t think that. And of course, you know he can handle himself. You were trying to help. But when you go to say that, he shoots you a firm glare, and your words die in your throat. Instead, you simply say “It won’t happen again.”

You leave shortly after, the band no longer holds your attention, and you want to give Astarion some space. So you head out into the night.

Bloomridge is the nicest neighborhood in the Lower City. The City had gifted you the house after everything, and while at first, you’d chafed at the idea of living in the quiet, sweet, more affluent part of the city. But you’d both grown to love it. The view over Grey Harbor is unparalleled, and it’s shockingly nice to have somewhere quiet to settle down between adventures.

Your feet have carried you home, but you don’t really want to go in yet–the night is covered in a beautiful, light fog, and there’s a lovely breeze coming in off the harbor–so you sit on the front steps and lean your back against the door.

It’s only a few minutes later that you see Astarion picking his way back up the stairs along the side of the city wall. He pauses in front of you, and you can see the pain in his crimson eyes before he sighs and sits beside you.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly. 

Beside you, Astarion stiffens and inhales sharply. “Why are you sorry?”

“You’re right. I should have let you handle it. You’re more than capable.”

“I…” He deflates a little, and a confused frown creases his forehead. “I appreciate that you stepped in. Sometimes… sometimes it’s still hard to…”

He trails off, but you know what he means. Sometimes it’s still hard for him to enforce his boundaries. He tries, but 200 years of Cazador’s reign of terror don’t go away in a year. It can be difficult to walk the line between being firm and being outright rude (and as snarky as Astarion can be, he doesn’t always want to be rude).

These things take time.

Ever so gently, you clean off the remaining blood, dirt and gore from his face.

Despite the intimacy of the situation, you don't go for his flirtatious lines, simply concentrating on the task at hand. Often engaging in small talk, but mainly patiently wiping clean his pale skin and his silver hair.

One hand under his chin to tilt his head upwards, while the other moves so gently, Astarion is almost unsure if you're actually touching him. It almost feels a little reverent, like you're handling something precious that deserves to be treated with care.

And Gods, your face...your eyes are just as gentle, focused on the task as they scan every inch of his hair and face and a sweet smile at the corner of your mouth leaves him more at ease than any meditation cycle ever could.

You are aware how important outer appearances are for him, so you do not make fun of his looks nor what others would call vain tendencies. You're quite surprised he hasn't swatted your hands away while you clean the delicate silver-like strands.

Despite his vampiric condition, he knows that his heart would be about to burst out of his chest if it could.

He's so fussy about his hair and normally is adverse by others touching it, but this is different. It's not a passionate thrist on a dark alleyway, nor an unforgiving hand pulling at the elf's hair.

It's you, lovely you, showing true concern and care for him. And he has no clue how to feel or react to it.

Once you're done you simply drop the now bloody rag and give him an even bigger smile.

"There." You murmur while moving away a damp curl from his forehead. "As handsome as always."

Gods, he hates that you have managed to disarm him better than he ever could.

He does break the moment with some haughty remark. Please, he looks handsome no matter the occasion, but thank you for stating facts.

But despite how much he tries to deny it, on the inside he's just:

For some time, Vier had almost thought her goal was impossible, even with the help of the greatest wizard she knew. Gale Dekarios was absolutely essential to the creation of this item, of that there was no doubt. But for years, it seemed no matter what permutation of materials, spells, and methods of crafting they tried to piece together, the results ended with them no closer to success. One moment, the interwoven darkness spells would blind the wearer and leave them no better protected from daylight than they’d been before; the next, the heliodor would ambiently draw in too much sunlight and burn the flesh of even those who could freely walk in the day. Vier was absolutely willing to work for years, decades, centuries even; after all, assuming she didn’t meet an adventurer’s end or contract a terrible disease, she still had a healthy six hundred years remaining. But did Gale? While powerful wizards like Elminster certainly had a penchant for prolonging their lives, she didn’t want to hang the success of crafting this ring on assuming Gale would be in his full faculties a lifetime down the line.

But then, one day, the Wizard of Waterdeep sent Vier a summons: “May have found a lead. Meet me in Athkatla.”

Athkatla, city of a thousand vices, crown jewel of the nation of Amn. For once, Vier considered taking the journey alone. If the city was anything like she’d heard, even she’d be hard-pressed to keep on track with all of the temptations it provided. And Astarion? While she generally trusted him to behave himself, there was no telling what sort of shenaniganry he’d get up to if he had half the mind. So, of course, it was Gale who suggested the first thing they should do when they arrived in the city was to visit the local Temple of Sune which he’d heard had an absolutely lovely spa service.

“This all serves a very valuable purpose, I assure you,” the wizard responded to Vier’s clear displeasure. “Aside from making sure we’re relaxed and refreshed for the work ahead, I hear they have excellent private meeting rooms, where we’ll be neither seen nor heard.”

“Are you afraid someone’s going to eavesdrop on us?” Vier asked in return.

“Well, when one is dealing with difficult-to-obtain, possibly forbidden knowledge, it never hurts to practice precaution,” Gale answered in his typical chipper, yet slightly smug, manner. Vier’s lips couldn’t help but purse; she was certain Gale was far more interested in the spa aspect, but so long as this lead of his actually paid off, she supposed it wouldn’t hurt anything.

Surprisingly enough, though, Gale was actually being completely genuine about the private rooms. After she, Gale, and Astarion had been thoroughly bathed, splashed with tinctures, and massaged until their muscles were veritable piles of goop, they retreated to a lavishly-decorated rented room which had one way in, one way out, and seemed quite thoroughly soundproofed. The fact it was clearly some sort of boudoir had not gone unnoticed, and if only Gale hadn’t been there, it very well might have seen its intended use with just how relaxed Vier and Astarion had grown. Unfortunately for them - or, perhaps, fortunately for Gale - it wasn’t long before they were joined by a rather skittish looking individual with a satchel of scrolls. This person, Gale explained, was their information source, and he’d found an absolute whopper for them.

The visitor laid out one of the scrolls across the table between the four of them; its surface was covered with almost indecipherable writing and what appeared to be designs for a cloak of some sort. The man explained that over a century ago in Athkatla, there’d existed a vampire lord called Dragomir the Red. In his possession was a cloak which purportedly protected the wearer from all ill effects of the sun, but at the cost of severely weakening them in all other regards. Dragomir was long dead, and his cloak was nowhere to be found, but this individual had found something almost as, if not more, valuable: the original plans for the creation of the cloak by the necromancer Zulann Flass.

While Vier couldn’t translate the text half as well as Gale could, there was still much she could parse - symbols tied to specific spells, illustrations of ingredients to be woven into the fabric of the cloak, the exact order in which to imbue the material. The more she looked through the scrolls, the more her face began to light up. If they took those schematics and applied their own research to work around the cloak’s shortcomings…they could very well make their ring functional at last!

Vier and Gale thanked the informant profusely, though, as expected, he was not content with gratitude alone. He expected payment. Astarion floated the idea of a five finger discount, but the idea was quickly vetoed. This information, after all, had more than proven its weight in gold.

Of course, even with the schematics in hand, it would be another six years of work to once more amass funding, gather resources, and plan the new ring for testing. But at that first test, when the ring properly absorbed the beams of sunlight which hit it and the energy dissipated within the band, Vier nearly burst into tears. More testing followed, this time placing the ring on various summoned undead. While few had quite the same sort of issue with daylight as vampires, they still had a tendency to be somewhat weakened by the light of day. But with each new test, the new ring performed beautifully.

Soon enough, there was only one final test remaining, the test that Vier had been dreading most of all.

On that day, before the break of dawn, Gale joined Vier and Astarion in the Dawnshire Temple of Lathander. The church was perfectly situated on the tallest hill in the village, facing directly east so that the rising sun would always pour in through the massive windows behind its central altar. Every morning, Vier would greet Lathander’s light. This morning, she would not be greeting it alone.

As Vier turned to Astarion and slid the ring on his left hand, she could see he was trying to swallow his fear. “It’s a little gaudy, isn’t it?” he attempted to joke, though Vier knew his heart wasn’t in it. The look in his eye reminded her of that night, so many years ago, when he’d first poured his heart out to her. That night, she could see that he was willing to hope again, even if he was deathly afraid of the pain it would bring. Once more, he was hopeful. Once more, he was terrified.

As the sky beyond the windows turned a pale blue, Vier raised Astarion’s hands to her lips. “You know, I still have that moment just after we’d killed the Netherbrain seared into my mind,” she spoke quietly. “We stood there on the docks, Lathander shining brilliantly down on us as if he was celebrating what we’d accomplished. Deep down, I’d hoped that something of the tadpole’s effects would remain within us even when it’d been burned out of our heads, or that Lathander himself would make an exception for you in light of everything you’d done, and promise never to harm you again.”

“But then…I saw those silvery lines appear on your skin. I watched you crumble to dust. To have come that far and done that much, only to nearly lose you there and then…I couldn’t bear it. So I swore that no matter what it took, no matter how long I had to struggle, I would return the light to you. It’s the least you deserve.”

The tears in Astarion’s eyes shined nearly as brightly as the gems within the ring. “Gods, you…you truly are incredible, you know. In all this time, have I ever thanked you for all of this?”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” Vier laughed through tears of her own. “And if you haven’t, all I’ll ask for is a smile. But, I suppose we shouldn’t get too ahead of ourselves.”

She released his right hand and turned to face the dawn with him, his left hand still gripped in her own, both trembling. The first rays peeked over the horizon, and soon spilled into the church, slowly and painfully rising. Higher and higher, they rose, flooding the room with golden light. Yet, Vier didn’t hear a single whimper from Astarion. He didn’t flinch or cry out in pain as the sunlight washed over him. He barely even squinted as the sun reached his red eyes, as if he was daring Lathander to do his absolute worst. Even with the full form of the sun in view, he didn’t budge an inch. They stood there together in silence, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for the ring to prove it had its limits. But that moment never came.

Astarion was completely fine.

From the pews behind the pair, an enthusiastic cheer rang out; Gale could no longer contain himself.

“Elminster’s beard, we actually did it!” he laughed, a surprisingly raucous celebration for the man. He quickly stood and crossed the floor, scooping up Vier and Astarion into the tightest of hugs. “Gods be good, you can’t believe how relieved I am!”

“You think you’re relieved? I thought I was about to fall apart for a minute there,” Vier joked as she returned the hug. Astarion, however, was surprisingly quiet in all of this. Was he just overwhelmed? Trying to process that he was truly free to enjoy the daytime once again? Or was it something else? As soon as Gale broke the hug, Astarion pulled him away for a moment, whispering something into his ear. In response, Gale simply nodded, and handed Astarion something that Vier couldn’t quite see from one of his robe pockets. After a moment, Astarion returned to her, once more taking her hands in his.

“You know, you’ve given me a rather lovely piece of jewelry today, gaudy as it is,” he said, trying to maintain his usual flippant air and only partially succeeding. “But for a while now, I’ve felt like something was a bit lopsided here. See, you’ve been breaking your back trying to make a nice ring for me - with help, of course, but still - but I’ve had nothing to really give to you in return. And you know me, tit for tat and that. Soooooo…”

Suddenly, Astarion dropped to a knee before Vier, and produced the item that Gale had given him.

“I got you a ring of your own! And on my honor, I didn’t steal it.”

The ring looked almost identical to the one that Vier and Gale had crafted together - platinum band, black sapphire setting flanked by moonstones, yet in place of a halo of sunstone was one of pale blue opal. He slid the ring onto her left hand.

“Honestly, I never thought I’d be asking this, but…Vier Alurlssrin, will you marry me?”

The crushing pressure of hands around Rolan's throat is too much, cutting off his airway so he couldn’t breathe, and so tight that it could snap his neck in any moment. His sharp nails desperately scrape at the wrists positioned there, trying to find a breath that will never come, his tail lashing out from under him. He wants to fight harder, kick until his bones crack, scream until his voice is gone, bite until his jaw locks and breaks his teeth, but an unrelenting fear paralyzes him in place.

He can’t see the face above him through unfocused eyes; it's cast in an unnatural shadow with cruel blue irises staring down at him. It's unblinking, watching him struggle with a lack of reaction as his throat goes dry as sand, the urge to cough rising in need.

Lorroakan.

Rolan rasps, his nails- his claws leaving angry red welts across Lorroakan's forearms. He didn’t know the answer. What was the gods damned answer? Was it something about divination runes? The creation of the Weave? Or was it the Spellplague in the Year of Blue Fire? N-No, no, it had to be about the Nightsong, the relic that he so aggressively sought after. He can still fix this! He can correct himself and apologize. He'll grovel if he has to, knock his own pride down a few pegs to be more convincing and pathetic, just as his mentor wants him to be. He can do better, he has to do better, for Cal and Lia. After what they've both been through for him, for this damn apprenticeship he wanted so badly, it is the least he can do for them. He will-

“What is this, hm?”

Another face appears above him, one he should be so familiar with but it faded so much over time. It's been so many years since he looked at her portrait, one that was gifted to him by Cal when he was welcomed into their little family; he couldn't bear to look at it again, not after her funeral. Her eyes are just as vicious as Lorroakan’s, but she is someone Rolan fears much more. It makes his blood run cold, body shaking as if he was dunked in the frozen waters of Neverwinter.

“You were the sweetest child, but I see who you are now: A manipulator, and a thief.”

Please, no-

“You stole my family, little one. You stole them away for me. Did you wait idly for me to die in order to take them for yourself?”

The moment he tries to tear his eyes away, a new set of hands forces his head still with a grip on his face, maintaining the eye contact. He chokes still, desperate tears filling his eyes as his struggle intensifies. The tiefling couldn't even give her the courtesy of pleading for mercy, or to apologize, he just wanted to run away; after all, he is a coward. One who couldn't even look at a portrait of the person he thought of as his own mother.

These hands have delicate fingers but are just as tight, enough to bruise his fragile jaw; when did he get so small? “Little Rolan, a greedy child. I gave you my home, I fed you warm meals, and I gave you a bed; was that not enough for you? A selfish boy you are! A pitiful thing. The one time I feed a stray, he comes back for more. He takes and takes and never stops. They don’t need you like you need them. They don’t even want you.“

He knows, he knows that uncomfortably well, but by the gods does he need them. He needs them so badly. If they were gone, he would have nothing else.

He feels himself grow limp as more unnerving words are whispered. Most of it he can’t even register anymore, but he knows one thing for sure.

“They would be better off without you burdening them.”

He wakes with a sharp gasp, sitting up with a disoriented mind with wide golden eyes. Instinctively, he digs his nails into his neck, but it takes him a long moment to realize that there is no hands there, no hands to choke him. He breathes in heavy to get air in his lungs, heart racing as he takes in the dark room around him. He’s in his bedroom. He’s not on the cold wood or even in his workspace inside the tower, where he used to be tutored. He’s alive. He's not suffocating. He’s not dying. He’s not dying. Everything is as it should be.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to breathe through his rising panic, but it's not working; every time he sucks air in, it's never enough. He either ends up coughing or barely breathing at all. Nothing and everything feels real at the same time, is he even in the room? The silence presses against his ears, making him feel so, so isolated in the worst way possible. Lorroakan is dead. He can’t hurt him anymore, so why does he still dream of him?

Why does he still dream of her?

“Rolan…” A sleepy voice mutters, before he feels steady arms wrap around his waist, pulling him into another body. He bristles momentarily, almost spiraling into panic once more until he realizes who it is that holds him.

It’s warm, and it’s secure.

It's Tav. It’s safe.

He lets out an exhausted, shaky sigh, leaning back into the hold. His skin glistens from the cold sweat he woke up to. When he lifts up his hands to try and hold theirs, he sees how much they shake; his fingers twitch uncontrollably, and he idly notices that there were small sparks of magic attempting to get conjured. The spell is unrecognizable with how unstable it looks, he can't tell which one it is. Mage Armor? Magic Missile? Thunderwave?-

He feels Tav leave gentle kisses on the back of his neck and across his shoulder blades, making his internal questions pause. “Are you alright?” They question softly, but they know the answer; they know him too well, but it seems they want to hear him say it anyways.

A deep breath echoes in the bedroom, and he squeezes his eyes shut once more as the energy fades from his hands. “No.”

“Do you wish to speak on it?”

“No.”

“For later then. Come here.” They murmur, pulling him to lay back down.

He relents, but he feels disgusting with all the sweat. Gods, why is he sweating so much, and why does he feel cold? The dream was over, it was done.

Tav did not seem to mind the fact he clings to them, turning and letting him hide his face in their neck. It was a little awkward with the horns, but they make it work with their chin resting on his head. He feels their hand start to scratch at his scalp, and the amount of relief that gives him is absolutely embarrassing. His tail curls around their leg to keep them close, and the comforting sensations almost make him want to cry. They peck the top of his head, nuzzling into his sweat damp hair.

He doesn’t deserve this. He really doesn’t.

He’s unsure how long they lay there, it was mostly him trying to calm his heart. He feels fingers gently trace the ridges on his skin, cautious in how they touch. They were sensitive, and the trailing warmth made him shiver. He knows they’re trying to distract him; It’s sweet of them, truly, but his depression grips his chest so deeply. Usually he can handle these on his own. He’s a confident man, and he knows he has Cal and Lia by his side. That they want to stay by his side. If they thought anything else, they wouldn't stay in this tower he took over after the death of his teacher.

But some days are like these, where he can barely move and thinks he deserves nothing after butting into a family that will never be his.

Tav shouldn’t have to deal with this, though they think otherwise, it seems. It isn’t the first time this happened, he's had night terrors that sent him in a panic so bad he vomited and he can't even remember what it was even about. It bewildered and embarrassed him, but Tav didn't even say anything about it, they only cleaned him and the mess up as if it was not a problem. It won’t be the last time this will occur, no matter how much he wants it to be. But that’s what Tav signed up for, happily. They wanted Rolan, with all of his flaws and night terrors.

They shift slightly, pulling Rolan's body on top of them so he can rest there, arms snaking around his waist. Holding him close, their grip was loose in case this wasn’t okay. But Rolan only lays limply against them, energy gone but unable to go back sleep.

He just sees eyes.

“-ght, Rolan?”

Oh, they’re calling him. He can’t force his tongue to work. It feels heavy in his mouth.

They push some hair away from his eyes before cupping his jaw. “My love,” He listens, but their voice is muffled when it tries to reach his ears, a constant ring blocking the sound. It’s so loud. So loud. So loud-

A part of him startles when they start rubbing at his ears. They’re particularly sensitive, they know this after nibbling on them at some point in an attempt to be playful, and it’s enough to make him whine at the touch.

“Rolan,” They murmur, kissing him right between the eyes. “Come back to me, lovely. You'll be okay; you're with me, yes?”

He wants to believe that, even just for a little bit.

He buries his face in their chest, wanting to lay there. To be held, to be comforted. Doesn’t he deserve that after all the bullshit he’s been through? After the torture, the pain, the loneliness?

No.

No he doesn’t, and the thought alone makes him want to drink until he's numb, just like at Last Light Inn, where he thought his siblings, his only family, were dead and gone. Or possibly being tortured at Moonrise Towers. He doesn't know which one was worse to think about, his imagination knowing no bounds in its creativity. What would they have done, if the True Souls decided to hurt them? Would they take their eyes and cut out their tongues like how they did with Asharak-

Before his mind could grow darker, thumbs continue stroking his pointy ears as Tav speaks, “What’s the difference between Transmutation and Evocation? I keep forgetting...” Tav quizzes, feigning innocence.

A foolish question, even a child could answer it…but it’s distracting.

“Transmutation will physically alter the form of an object, or fundamentally change something in its entirety. Evocation is damaging effects mostly used in combat, but will also be used to heal wounds, as you see with clerics.”

“And what is another school useful in combat?”

“Abjuration; it specializes in defense protocols but some spells can be useful in combat, like Counterspell.”

They hum at the response, pulling him up more to kiss his forehead, right between his devilish horns. “You’re so smart, Master Rolan.”

He lets out a stuttering breath. Gods, this night is awful. He feels awful, Tav shouldn't have to deal with this.

When they suddenly start to sit up, his already fragile heart dropped into his nauseated stomach. Did they get sick of him already? Are they going to leave? Will they-

“Let’s take a bath.”

This snaps him out of his raging thoughts, staring at their eyes. "It’s late,” He states after a long moment of contemplating.

“So? Who’s going to be knocking on our door telling us not to take a bath in our own home? It’s your tower,” They say, helping him sit up as well before smiling teasingly. “Let’s take a bath, I’m sure being all sweaty is grossing you out.”

He is reluctant, but doesn’t say no when they help him out of the bed. It felt as if his body refused to move. It’s tense and rigid, his tail curled around his own leg. He can't look at them, and he’s unsure if it’s out of shame or out of fear. Fear of what? Tav? No, no! That would be idiotic to fear them. They love him. He loves them. He loves them so much it hurts. If he could rip out his very soul and gift it to them, he would do so without a second thought.

Their hand holds his firmly, something to ground him into their reality, and they lead him towards their private bathing room, decorated in lovely tapestries with a variety of colors. Some have subtle designs and are more abstract, while others have vivid images of Tav's heroics of Baldur's Gate. It's a courtesy of some citizens that they were gifted, but he cannot tell yet if they even like them there or not; still, he hung them up high for display because...well, he is so proud of them, how could he not be? He certainly thinks some of them are tacky, and he voices that opinion often, and it always makes his love laugh. The sweet, delicate smell of lavender hits his senses after Tav fills their large basin with water, bubbles forming almost instantly.

He watches their movements, seeing them strip off their clothes and kicking them off the side before they approach him again. Their hands smooth over his forearms, and they peck his nose as they unlace his trousers, stripping him as well. He lets them, a feral instinct inside of him begging for the touch, begging for any form of love they’re willing to give. He wants all of it, and he’s selfish for it.

They lead him into the basin first, getting in themselves after he’s settled. They then gently turn him around so he could press his back against their chest. It would be easier to wash his hair this way.

Both of them exchange no words, they only bathe Rolan while they hum to themselves, as if this was normal. This isn’t normal. He doesn’t deserve to be pampered when he’s done absolutely nothing to earn it. But he’s also too weak to resist.

So he lets them run their fingers through his hair, their nails scratching his scalp and rubbing the soap in. He closes his eyes when requested, letting the warm wash over him. Even when his hair and body are clean from the cold sweat, Tav insists on massaging his shoulders, working out any knots he may have. Being the master of a tower is stressful, after all.

During this he zones out, the silence deafening him as his thoughts run rampant once more. He hears them speak to him but the phrases never form coherently. Flashes of the dream drag him down into a form of despair, boring into him like ice pick.

His eyes start to sting, but then his worst fear comes to life; he starts to weep. He’s cried very few times in his life, and even then, those few times they at least warranted tears. He was allowed to cry. But this? In front of Tav and over a gods damned dream?

It only gets worse, because the weeping turns into full blown sobs, body curling forward with his face almost touching the dirty water as he hugs himself tight. His body thinks it’s in danger, somehow, and he can’t pull himself together. Voices tell him he’s nothing and deserves nothing.

Tav soothes him, leaning over him and littering kisses across his shoulders. They say nothing, and he’s thankful for it. He can’t imagine trying to speak in this state, when he tries his words die on his tongue. It's as if like he’s choking all over again, and the urge to cough grows.

Eventually his sobs delude to into sniffles and barely silent whimpers. Tav still doesn’t speak, nuzzling into the soaked skin on the back of his neck. When he calms down, Tav helps him out of the basin after getting out themselves, drying him off and changing him into new night clothes, one that was clean and softer than the one he chose before. He felt pathetic not being able to change himself, but he had no will to do so.

“I’m sorry,” He hears himself croak out. “You should be sleeping.”

Gods, they shouldn't have to even deal with him. What he went through is only a fraction of what they've been through. They saved the entire Sword Coast, possibly the entire world from the Absolute, all while they had a damn tadpole in their heads threatening to turn them and their friends into illithids. Yet, they're doing so gods damn well in their lives, a greedy part of him thinking it's unfair. Why are they fine while he is not? How did they do it?

“There’s nothing to apologize for. You had a bad dream, it happens more often than you would think,” They say, tracing their lips against his cheek while he processes the implication of their statement. “We don’t have to talk about it now. Just know that I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Though he lacks the energy for it, his mind wants to kiss them so deeply a never let go. He wants to drown in them, in their scent, in their body- damn it all, why is he so needy? He hates- no, he loathes how needy he is, how fucking desperate he gets. It's pathetic; he is so utterly pathetic. Pitiful. Miserable.

When they pull him back to their shared bed and lay down once more, they let him get as close as he wants, and he is thankful for it. It ends up with arms around them tight, him burying his face into their neck while his tail curls around their thigh. He wants to be close tonight, a silent plea for them to let him know everything is okay.

So they indulge his wish, playing with his hair all the while. He probably won’t sleep much tonight, but that’s okay by them, they always preach. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last, and they can and will live with that.