last two brain cells

unhinged writing | open to fandom asks/requests | 25+

[hades-in-bloom]

Masterlist.

What’s inside: Leon Kennedy • Vergil Sparda • Astarion Ancunin • Jonathan Reid | Minors DNI – all’s 18+, whether fluff or not.

Thanks y’all for reading, sweethearts 💛

Characters:

Leon S. Kennedy [Resident Evil] 🫀🔪

Silver Fox: drabble [leon kennedy x reader; man’s getting his first white hair]

Al Dente: drabble [leon kennedy x reader; a big scary federal agent can’t nail cooking pasta]

Shower Thoughts: drabble [leon kennedy x reader; he got home after yet another soul-crashing mission early]

Quit: drabble [leon kennedy x reader; problem solving for panic attacks took unexpected turn]

Scars: drabble [leon kennedy x reader; thinking of his scars]

Lullaby for the Damned: drabble [leon kennedy x reader; he can’t sleep, unless you talk—or sing]

Check-out: drabble [leon kennedy x reader; it’s time for your hotel checkout]

It’s Not Over / Black Roses: drabble [leon kennedy x reader; turns out he might be dying]

‘Till Death Do Us Part: pt 1, pt 2 [leon kennedy x reader; he didn’t show up to his own wedding, albeit having a solid excuse]

A Swim: one shot [leon kennedy x interpol!reader; our favourite drunkard got bothered on self-indulgent vacation]

But First, Coffee: one shot [post-di!leon kennedy x corp exec!reader; leon is after his next target when he encounters a not-so-cooperative informant]

Vergil Sparda [Devil May Cry] ⚔️💅

On Nights Like These: drabble [vergil x reader; after running away time and again, at once he stays—by accident]

Curious: drabble [vergil x reader; after he inadvertently ends up staying the night, he finds a reason to leave once more]

The Wrong Way: drabble [vergil x reader; he returned to ask a curious question]

A Necessity: drabble [vergil x reader; an unbearably human gesture of his to convey he wished you well]

The Beat: drabble [vergil x reader; attempt to visit a music concert ended up not to his liking for a variety of reasons]

Astarion Ancunin [Baldur’s Gate 3] 👀🩸

The Bigger Person: drabble [astarion x dark urge; was tending seven thousand spawns in the Underdark something he truly wanted to do with his freedom?]

Bitten Lips: double drabble [two different scenarios with astarion x tav and astarion x dark urge, featuring bitten lips]

Dr. Jonathan Reid [Vampyr] 💉🧛‍♂️

Delicate (Nightmare): drabble [jonathan reid x reader; a heated night at the hospital with a tad of aftercare]

[hades-in-bloom]

It’s Not Over / Black Roses

Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

summary: at once he makes use of your apartment keys and visits—only for you both to find out he might be dying. Prequel

contents & warnings: fluffy angst (angsty fluff?); older Leon (post-Vendetta to RE9); implied high-functioning depression; mentions of Raccoon City Syndrome (RE9 [trailer] spoilers, kinda?) + first signs of it; I feel like there’s some plot; in all the right ways mature reader; reader can be any gender

a/n: I don’t know what this one is lol It might age badly. But 4th trailer made me crumble, and RE9 definitely looks like an emotional roller coaster. Love you all and thank you for reading! 🤍 As always, proceed at your own risk. Enjoy! Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

soundtrack: jp saxe, julia michaels — if the world was ending and saint phnx — death of me

***

You don’t hear him come in—just turn around and stumble into him in the middle of the kitchen.

“Fuck! Leon.” Your yelp is muffled against his chest as he immediately pulls you closer. You gasp, struggle on reflex to free yourself. He holds you until you’re done fighting it.

“Sorry,” he rasps. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I called you twice, but you didn't pick up.”

You blink. You’d turned the ringtone off a couple hours ago—couldn’t concentrate, needed the quiet.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I was working. Didn’t hear you knock, either.”

“I didn’t. Used the key,” he confesses. Awkward, sheepish.

Right. Of course he did.

You gave him the thing and then forgot what it meant; that a particular someone could walk through your door now without warning—or rather, the usual burner phone ritual.

Your heart is still hammering—first in fear, now in stupid excitement.

Then a suspicion—a hunch cutting through the hesitant triumph.

“You smell like a gutter.”

He snorts—more out of resignation than humour.

“Just need a shower.” He keeps his voice light, but refuses to meet your eyes. “Then I’ll be golden.”

He doesn’t give you time to call him out. “Where’s that promised toothbrush at?”

You let him slip off the hook this time only to show him to the bathroom.

“That’s your toothbrush.” You hand him one, still in its package. Black bristles on a pink handle.

He stares at it, then lets out a defeated sigh. “Seriously, a pink one? You’re not funny.” It’s the faintest smile that betrays him.

“Am I?” you feign innocence, then point at the towel rack. “You can grab one of these—whichever fits.”

He doesn’t quip back. He just whispers it, grateful: “Thank you.” You can barely see his watercolour eyes behind his overgrown bangs.

You nod—a small, gentle gesture of understanding, a recognition of its own kind.

“I’ll get some tea going,” you give him that, then retreat, leaving him to shower.

The apartment is quiet enough to hear water running behind the shut door while you spoon tea leaves into the pot.

Then it reaches you:

“What the—fuck.”

You forget the kettle.

“Leon?” You catch the edge of panic in his voice.

“I’m okay!” he mutters from behind the door—too sharp, too fast. “Don’t worry. Just—don’t worry, sweetheart. I won’t be long.”

You pause for a moment. You don’t remember the last time he called you a sweetheart. Somehow it worries you more than his protective mumbling.

You give him another fifteen minutes as a courtesy. Then announce, loud and clear:

“That’s it, I’m done, Kennedy. I’m coming in—“

The water’s been dead silent for a while now.

The door handle meets no resistance—he unlocks it before you can make a fuss. And when it opens, whatever you were going to say dies in your throat.

He grimaces—barefoot, hair wet, a towel around his hips. A pink toothbrush cracked open on the sink. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”

You don’t listen. Your eyes stay glued to the blackened patch of flaking skin on his neck—not big enough yet, but flourishing. “What on earth is that?” you manage at once.

His gaze is heavy. “I can’t say. But you’re probably right to stay away from me. I—I’m not sure yet if it’s contagious. I don’t think it is, but—“

A shiver runs down your spine. “You’re telling me that’s a virus?”

He looks away. He’s not supposed to talk about it. “Yeah,” he studies the floor. “Ugh—I should probably go. I won’t risk you being exposed to it.” He picks up his things. “It wasn’t there this morning. I’m sorry.”

“No.” You’re determined. “Let me see.”

“Sweetheart,” he protests.

This again.

“Shut up, Kennedy,” you mutter. “I’ll get gloves. Wait right here.”

He grunts, but stays there until you return.

“Sit,” you gesture to him at the closed toilet seat. He follows, hands clutching the pile of clothes on his lap. You let him hold on to it like it’s a children’s toy, familiar and soothing.

“You can use my washing machine,” you mutter, putting the thin silicone gloves on.

He huffs. “You treat me as if I’m homeless,” he quips. “You do realise I actually have my own place, right?”

You shrug, hiding a small smile amidst the tragedy. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” you murmur back.

He rolls his eyes—annoyed, but affectionate. Then tilts his head to let you reach the corrupted spot. The corners of his mouth drop—he’s disgusted with what you see. You brush the damp strands out of the way.

You’re not a medic, but you can assess the damage. “Do you know what this is?”

He stays silent for longer than he should. He knows, you can see it in the way his jaw tightens. Yet he doesn’t want you to know.

The silence grows unbearable—then bursts. “Leon.”

His shoulders slump. Not a word. A spasm of fear knots your gut. “What’s wrong? It can’t be terminal. Right? Talk to me!”

He says it finally, barely above a whisper: “I don’t know. Though it might be—shit—lethal.”

You jolt at a heart stop—as if shot. He hisses when you tug at his hair too hard while spiralling into the darkness.

“How long?”

He looks up at you, confused. So you elaborate:

“How long did you know?”

He grumbles something—long enough he should’ve told someone, you realise.

You peel off the gloves as if they’re the worst enemy. The pink toothbrush watches from the sink as you pull him into a clumsy kiss. He gasps into your lips, startled.

His hand flies to your shoulder in a desperate attempt to push away. “Fuck—stop it. You shouldn’t—“

“No.”

Here we go, he thinks.

You stare him down without mercy. “You’re not doing this alone.”

“You don’t have to be there for it—for me. It’s dangerous, and not pretty—“

Your thumb skims the infected edge, not touching, just following the outline. The night-coloured seam bleeds into the healthy skin—a dirty ink dissolving in the water.

“It looks like a rose,” you say suddenly, captivated by the wrongness of it. “A black one.”

He blinks. Then huffs out a pained laugh. “Christ.” A surrender, even with his tightly set jaw. “You’re joking.”

You shake your head, the thumb dropping to his lips.

He tenses. “This is a nightmare,” he tries. “I’m a nightmare. Collect your keys and let me go.”

“Leon—don’t. It’s not over yet. Stay.”

“This is a bad idea, sweetheart.”

“I don’t care.”

He’s boring into your eyes. “Then I’m sleeping on the couch.”

You scoff—then you would, too. “Right.” You hand him the pink toothbrush—a weary witness. A relentless promise. “But before you go, don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

[hades-in-bloom]

Check-out

Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

summary: your hectic hotel arrangement seems convenient—until it doesn't. So you offer an alternative. Prequel | Sequel

warnings & contents: fluff with a touch of angst (inevitable); one blushing grown-ass man in a birthday suit; older Leon (assumed post-Vendetta to RE9); implied high-functioning depression; boy doesn’t know what comfort is; in all the right ways mature reader—take it as you will; reader can be any gender; no y/n

a/n: thanks y’all for your support! Here’s some more of vulnerable Leon <3 As always, proceed at your own risk. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

soundtrack: saysh — wide awake and five finger death punch — darkness settles in

***

He doesn’t remember drifting off, only waking—on his stomach, blinking at the dead bedside lamp—a strong feeling something’s off. Only then does he catch on that someone’s turned his alarm off. Good—he’s got nowhere to be.

The bed, he realises, is empty. He glances around, bothered, then winces as his head throbs—an aftermath of sleep too deep, too long. He hasn’t had one of those in years.

“Shit,” he grunts, hoarse and hungover-sounding. He’s been over a year sober, but his body still remembers the damn feeling.

You—already wide awake, washed and dressed—smile at the rare sight.

“I can’t recall the last time I woke up before you,” you murmur.

“Maybe it’s because I usually don’t sleep this well,” he rasps, blinking at you as he gathers his bearings. “Where the hell are you going this early?”

“It’s almost noon. I’ll be late to a meeting, if I stay longer.”

He’s startled by the revelation for a second.

“Noon?” he shakes his head, disbelieving. “I guess I need to get up, too.”

“Only to check out,” you remind him lightly.

Then your face darkens while you watch him struggle to get out from under the covers.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you say quietly.

He trips over his own feet, then glances at you incredulously.

“What?” He swallows and drags the duvet from the bed in an attempt to cover his nakedness. The question escapes his mouth before he can stop it. “Why?”

“I’m too old for this… whatever this is, Leon. You too, if I’m honest.” You sigh and pinch your nose. Then look up right at him—no cowardice, no hiding; it’s the least you can give him. “We’re neither teenagers, nor am I a prostitute—jumping from hotel to hotel. I don’t like how it makes me feel.”

He flinches, as if slapped. That’s never his intention. He won’t bullshit you about a white-picket fence and a bright future together, but he doesn’t want to be an asshole about it either.

He grinds his jaw, ashamed. Guilty—to him, a feeling way too familiar.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to.”

You huff in frustration, then relent. “I know,” you whisper. It doesn’t make it better.

Suddenly you grab your purse and pull a set of keys out of it. You throw them at him without warning or prelude. He catches them one-handed without missing a beat. His eyes go big and round.

“What the hell is that?” He lets them dangle from his finger, ready to be discarded—a hasty verdict. A delayed execution.

You stare him down, fighting an urge to quip. “My apartment keys,” you explain, steady now. Gaze trained on him, unwavering. “A duplicate.”

His brain doesn’t catch up for a moment, then he, a grown man, blushes—not too much, but enough to notice. A damning tell. “Oh.”

For a second, there’s a glimpse of his old self in all of it—a cruel reminder that he was, too, young and innocent once.

You fidget with a zipper. “It doesn’t really tell me what you think of it.”

He stares at the keys for a while before shifting his attention to you. “I don’t understand.”

“What’s hard to understand about it, Leon?”

“I don’t know. You want me to move in or something?”

“Of course not,” you huff. Neither of you is ready for that.

“Christ—then what?”

Now it’s your turn to gulp. “I thought you could just… drop by, when you're in town." You grip your purse tighter. “No rentals from now on. I'd even buy you a toothbrush, if you want.”

He stands there barefoot, processing, still shielding his crotch with a puffy duvet. A dirty blonde strand falls over his right eye, stubborn and distracting.

He lets the keys fall to the sheets, then fingers his tangled locks. “Fuck, that’s… new.”

“Kennedy!”

He grumbles quietly, all of a sudden looking embarrassed. “Ugh—alright.”

Your heart skips a beat. “That’s it?”

He shoots you an annoyed look with no bite to it. “Yeah.” A boyish grin tugs at his lips despite himself. “And you’re buying me that toothbrush.”

[hades-in-bloom]

Lullaby for the Damned

Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

summary: Leon doesn’t sleep—not unless he’s dead tired or unconscious from something. Or maybe (just maybe) you know another way. Sequel

warnings & contents: angst with a pinch of fluff; nightmares left for the ever-survivor; implied high-functioning depression; older Leon (assumed post-Vendetta to RE9); most likely minuscule to no age gap, but I concur—in all the right ways mature reader; reader sings (should it be a warning? idk lol); whatever gender reader is, idc <3; no y/n

a/n: Requiem’s been frying my brain, too, yep. To those who’s left asks in my inbox (and craving more Vergil), I’ll get back to y’all! As always, proceed at your own risk. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

soundtrack: letdown. — happiness is overrated and sam tinnesz — bloodshot

***

It isn’t first time for you and him to share a bed, though you never do so at a place either of you could call home. You drift between sterile safehouses and, more often than not, upscale hotels. Outside the battlefield, he seeks comfort—an illusion—a fragile normalcy, financed by a salary generously scaled to the horrors he’s witnessed.

The summons always rings from a burner phone. The voice on the other end is heavy and splintering.

“I’m back in town. Come over.” Then, an afterthought: “If you can, that is.”

He never waits for an answer; he simply shares the coordinates, and then the line goes dead.

It is always a take-it-or-leave-it offer. No grudges if you don’t show up. No strings attached if you do.

It’s not exactly a physical itch—although a way to blow some steam off; usually, it’s a psychological one. He can handle the solitude of the fight, but the solitude of a king-sized bed is a different kind of terror. He doesn't need a lover as much as he needs a witness—someone to prove he’s still human when the lights go out.

And when they finally do, he doesn't sleep—not unless he’s dead tired or unconscious from something. It’s worse now that he’s sober; it was much easier when he could just drink himself under. Now, he’s left to lie there, listening as the heavy buzz of the night becomes the only monster he can’t kill.

Tonight is a particularly bad night. You can hear him rustle the expensive sheets restlessly for hours on end. Though you don’t say a word, knowing how easily he’s startled; how much he hates pity.

The thing is, while sharing a bed with him, you can’t sleep either. Not anymore—not after you slept too soundly once, on a night when he didn’t scream, only wept. The night you’d rather not relive. Now you’re not only a witness, but an accomplice.

Yet tonight, his swarming settles into a grinding frustration. You’re not angry—but exhausted.

“Leon,” you hiss.

He glances back at you over the shoulder; his eyes are the eyes of a trapped animal, deciding whether to bolt or bite.

He swallows a curse. You can see the apology forming—the clipped sorry-didn’t-mean-to. You despise those, but you never quarrel over them either.

“Say something else,” he growls a plea instead—a beggar for any sound to follow back out of the beehive of his mind to the surface.

For a moment the sheer desperation of it renders you speechless.

“Like… what?” you breathe out. Your own voice feeling small.

He snaps. He turns and invades your space with the ferocity of a lost child.

“Like… How would I know?” he huffs. His words muffled into the curve of your bare shoulder. “I don’t fucking care. Just say something.”

“I can sing a lullaby,” you mumble. It’s a half-joke, a desperate reach for levity. You keep the conversation going simply for the sake of it—like he wants you to.

He’s left disoriented by your offer for a second. Then he lets out a dry scoff, hot on your skin:

“A lullaby for the damned,” he jokes bitterly. “Cute.”

You don’t offer a retort. You realize you don’t give a shit if he finds you ridiculous. You settle your weight against the mattress, take a breath, and start to sing—a little song from your own childhood—about the moon, the heart’s longing, and the shining light on the one you love. You’re remarkably on tune, too; that surprises even yourself. You don’t remember the last time you sang.

He goes rigid at first, his hand gripping your side tighter. When you’re done, there’s a beat of silence—one that’s purged of terrors at last.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, his breath ragged. “You can actually sing.”

He hesitates, then drowns in the intimacy of it all without regret—or mercy.

“Sing again.” An order. But then, a capitulation: “Please.”

When you don’t resist, he finally rests his eyes. For him, it’s the first time in a long while—when the room is just a room, and the night is just a night.

[hades-in-bloom]

The way you write Vergil is just gorgeous. Would you consider writing a scenario of him protecting his S/O from unwanted flirtatious remarks from a stranger?

Anon, thank you so much for your kind words 💔

I hope that below does your praise justice as well as follows your request closely enough! Lmk in comments/messages xoxo

The Beat

Vergil Sparda x Reader

summary: attempted visit to a music concert ended up not being to his liking for a variety of reasons. (But the bragging rights for the attempt itself are no joke in the Sparda household, so congrats!)

warnings & contents: fluff with a bit devil-triggered Vergil; assumed situational over-sensitivity to sensory stimuli on Vergil’s end (could also be PTSD); mentions of harassment and drugs; Vergil must be vergiling; could be age gap, could be none; public PDA (happy noises); the reader could be any gender; no mentions of y/n

a/n: this initially had much more exposition, but I trimmed it down to focus on the core story, i.e. anon’s request. Might write smth with the similar theme for Lady In Red/Nero’s mother at some point. As always, proceed at your own risk. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

soundtrack: metallica — fuel and des rocs — used to the darkness

***

The show was about to begin.

For you, a single glance was enough to read him like an open book.

“Vergil,” a faint, amused smile touched your lips. “Relax. You’re going to love it.”

Skepticism was etched across his face. How could you be so sure? He hated crowds and couldn’t understand the urge to frantically shake your limbs among sweat-drenched bodies.

The first beat hit him like a shockwave. Its intensity was deafening, stirring something deep within him. While he could sense the unexpected, obnoxious potential of it, right now the demon inside him roared. Feeling his control slip for the first time in a while, Vergil needed a distraction to maintain his sanity.

His gaze wandered before settling on you—the distraction he craved. Standing in front of him, you were clearly enjoying yourself, happily singing along and rhythmically shaking your head. You didn’t just like this; you loved it—exactly what you wished on himself; the sense of freedom it gave you. He was mesmerized by the sight of you, undeterred even by the buffoonery surrounding them.

He had always been amazed at how easily humans tossed around the concept of “love.” To the point that the word risked losing its meaning. Dante had managed to adopt their habits in this regard as well, loving his strawberry sundae or pizza. To Vergil, it was laughable—and yet it felt a bit endearing, too. Was he becoming a fool like the rest of them?

No matter.

His hands settled on your waist as his lips now hovered above your ear. You instinctively stepped back, right into his embrace. So trusting and vulnerable. Careless, even. His heartbeat mingled with the arhythmic roars of the bass guitar. The unbearable noise of the humans surrounding them dulled his senses, leaving him less aware. Not only deafened, but blinded, too. Feeling powerless among those for whom the name of Sparda meant nothing. Unacceptable.

“I need to step out,” he muttered over your ear. He might’ve learned to like it—but not today.

“What?” You genuinely couldn’t hear a thing above the crowd’s shouting.

“I need to go,” he repeated firmly, this time louder, too. Concern and confusion knitted your brows as you turned in his arms to face him.

You were disappointed. Not necessarily because of him, but because of the appeared outcome. You would deny it, no doubt. But he could see it nonetheless.

“Is it that bad?” You knew it was a poor place for a conversation, but what choice did you have?

“Yes,” he replied, opting for the most straightforward explanation. He didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but a lengthier response could lead to a messy back-and-forth, given the current chaos. It could’ve made the situation even worse.

You didn’t want to leave yet. He could see it, too. But the longer he stayed, the greater were the chances of revealing the secret of his devil trigger to the unsuspecting crowd.

“You can stay,” he suggested. He didn’t like the idea of it, but he didn’t want to be the reason you had a ruined evening. “I’ll meet you outside.”

You shook your head, a resigned sigh escaping your lips. “No,” you reassured him. “I’ll go, too.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Too selfless.

The guy beside you must have thought the same thing.

“Hey, sweetheart! If you need some company, I could be it.” The stranger seemed proud of himself for all the wrong reasons. Vergil’s eyes narrowed as he studied both him and you for a moment—you clearly didn’t appreciate the unwanted attention, and neither did the half-demon.

“I’m fine,” you shrugged, trying to brush off the talkative guy. Maybe he was a bit drugged, too. Nothing serious, just annoying.

Your response was too polite—too kind for Vergil’s taste. You sensed it, almost reading his thoughts, and rested your hand soothingly on his forearm. You caught a flicker of teal in his eyes; he needed to calm himself down.

The stranger grinned. He wasn’t much of a villain, you thought—just overly eager, his cockiness fueled by alcohol and cheap adrenaline.

“Oh, don’t lie to yourself, love. Your guy seems like a snooze fest! You’d be better off with me!”

You felt your irritation growing.

The stranger felt momentarily bold enough to reach for your shoulder, but he was no match for Vergil’s supernatural speed. In an instant, the half-demon blocked his hand, denying the unwanted grab before you even realised it was happening.

“You weren’t given a permission for it.” Vergil’s voice remained calm, somehow cutting through the noise with astonishing clarity. What a pity he couldn’t resolve this situation with a swift slash of Yamato’s blade. After all, you had asked him to stay civil earlier.

His blue-grey eyes now emanated that soft teal glow you caught the glimpse of earlier. Now you were alarmed. You began to understand the full meaning of Vergil’s desire to leave this place.

“Vergil!” Your mildly raised voice was enough to snap him out of it. He growled reluctantly, burying the demon deeper within him, his irises returning to their usual blue-grey hue.

“Freak!” With that, the stranger vanished, likely convinced he was hallucinating.

At least the nuisance had been dealt with.

You had never seen him lose control before, and while your heart ached with gratitude for his protectiveness, you knew that jealousy, in its ugliest sense at least, wasn’t the only reason for his outburst.

In the meantime, the half-demon’s gaze suddenly turned distant as he inadvertently and unwillingly slipped into the depths of his painful past. You hesitated, puzzled by his reaction.

“Vergil,” you called to him gently after a bit, thinking the moment might be right. Might be gentle. He was brought back from his reverie, and his eyes flickered back to meet yours. The merciless noise, the beat flooded his senses once more.

“Is everything alright?” You were too gentle.

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice tinged with hesitation. Then, with unexpected softness, he admitted, anticipating your perceptiveness, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Not now. One day, he would be able to make this decision on his own—to share the story that occupied his disciplined, but anxious mind.

You nodded affirmatively without prying. You understood that this level of openness was difficult for him, and above all, you respected him and his boundaries. Although there were times when it felt like you were walking on eggshells around him, you knew it was inevitable because of his wounded trust with others. And it was worth it.

“Are you alright?” There was it again, and you smiled. Too caring for a demon.

“Yes,” you instantly got acutely aware of his warm breath against your face as he leaned closer, trying to ensure he could hear you over the music and shouting. “Thank you.” He hummed, satisfied with your answer. His lips thoughtfully touching your forehead before leaving your skin.

Your fingers brushed against his palm, weaving between his own and intertwining with them carefully. “Shall we?”

He did consider the familiar course of action—running, keeping as far away as possible from the burden of attachment, that you were dragging him into. You noticed a faint grimace on his face as he wrestled with himself, managing to push his habits aside. At the end, he didn’t pull away.

Quite the opposite—he pulled you closer, his lips meeting properly, locking with yours for a brief moment. He wasn’t a stranger, after all.

There was a certain level of freedom in sharing a moment like this in public. Wasn’t it what you wished for? He savored it, relishing the sound of your soft gasp. Then you leaned closer, your eyes fluttering shut as you accepted his gesture. Too trusting.

He stepped away sooner than you would have liked.

“We shall,” he cleared his throat, glancing to the side as he brought you along, away from this moaning and screeching hellscape, your hands connected.

[hades-in-bloom]

A Necessity

Vergil Sparda x Reader

summary: an unbearably human gesture to show that he wished you well. Prequel

warnings & contents: fluff with tEnSiOn (no other way to write it); Vergil is vergiling; flower gifting (with Vergil, definitely a warning); could be age gap, could be none; the reader could be any gender; no mentions of y/n

a/n: am having way too much fun writing for this man. As always, proceed at your own risk. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

soundtrack: now that we’re alone — the people’s thieves

***

Whatever he was doing in that moment, it was not necessary. And anything unnecessary felt unnatural to him. After all, necessity had been at the core of his actions for far too long; it was ingrained into his very being for decades. Since he had become lost, since his childhood he pursued no desires—only needs. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have commanded the impressive power he wielded now. In his opinion, desires existed only to weaken human beings, and neither weakness nor humanity was something Vergil could afford to embrace—or truly wished to, given the circumstances. After all, greatness demanded sacrifice.

Then why, despite being unnecessary, did those visits to you—both promised and unspoken—start to feel so natural lately? He had far more important things to focus on than indulging his own curiosity while standing at your doorstep. He had always excelled at managing his priorities. So how could you, his poisonous desire, his deadly want, have become one? How did it come to be that you transformed into a need? A necessity.

In his world, necessities were meant to make him stronger—while you were meant to be his forbidden weakness. Now, in his world, you were a walking and talking contradiction. Uninvited. Yet, welcomed. Impossible. Yet, inherently natural.

“Vergil.”

You opened the door just moments after he knocked. Had you been waiting for him? Impossible. Yet, it might have felt natural for you. He was only beginning to realise that you might have foolishly waited for him like this many times before. At the thought of it, he felt nothing—at least, that’s what he wanted to believe in. Feeling anything else would’ve been unnatural. Dangerous. Forbidden.

In the meanwhile, you stared at him. You couldn't believe it, and both your facial expression and tone of your voice conveyed that clearly, unmistakably.

He wasn’t sure if it was a good sign or a bad one.

“What is this?”

His gaze dropped to the object in his hand. Pale violet flowers, brought into a small bouquet, were cascading down his palm.

“Wisteria.”

“Why?”

He blinked at your question, his shoulders tightened. A wave of frustration washing over him. Why had he even bothered? He felt like an idiot, and he should’ve seen this coming. This was consequential, after all. He had taken the foolish advice of his equally foolish brother—and somehow acted on it. He should have known better.

You noticed his discomfort and shook your head gently. With his silent permission, you took the bouquet from his hands, admiring its simple beauty. He watched you with a hint of puzzlement in his furrowed brow.

“I’m sorry. That came out wrong,” you acknowledged softly. Naturally, you needed no explanation for why he brought you flowers. It was an unexpected gesture on his part, but common enough—though among humans. “Why wisteria?”

The puzzlement on his face shifted to surprise, and he seemed genuinely pleased. He hadn’t expected you to be this thoughtful.

“It represents good luck,” he replied, his eyes locked on you. “As well as long life and prosperity. I thought these would never hurt.”

He also chose wisteria because the very thought of bringing you something as vulgar as roses—like Dante suggested—was threatening to give him a heart attack. But he also wanted you to know that he wished you well, despite his chaotic presence in your life.

You hummed in response. “I see,” a smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you.”

He nodded, awkwardly lingering at the doorstep.

“May I come in?”

“Sure.”

You stepped aside, allowing him to slip into the apartment. He set Yamato down, leaning the sword in its sheath against the wall as casually as someone might drop a set of keys onto a table upon arriving home. Then he knelt to unbuckle the straps, removing the protective leather piece from his shin, and only after did he take off his shoes.

When he stood up from his knees, you had already placed the wisteria in a delicate vase and set it on the bureau in the hallway.

And now, you stood directly in front of him.

“Why?” you asked again, your voice quieter this time.

This time he could sense what was on your mind. Why had he returned?

“Because I promised,” he replied calmly, thinking it was obvious. He’d been many things, both good and bad, but he wouldn’t break this promise.

“You didn’t have to,” you insisted. He took a deep, steadying breath.

“I didn’t,” he admitted. As he had thought before, this wasn’t necessary. “But I wanted to,” he added.

Your eyes widened, your limbs froze, and your heart stuttered.

“I needed to,” he concluded at last, his eyes never leaving yours. His wants and needs had now intertwined, leaving him with a growing headache and a fearful pit in his stomach. Yet there were no regrets; he had enough of those over the past couple of decades.

You said nothing at first, the weight of his confession sinking in. At your silence, he thought of the worst, as he often did, so he muttered. “But if you don’t want me, I’d understand.”

You thought about it, then stepped right into him, encroaching on his cherished personal space as your arms wrapped around his waist. Caught off guard, he faltered under your affectionate touch.

This wasn’t supposed to feel right. Instead, it felt necessary. After a moment of hesitation, his hand settled on your back, pulling you closer.

“You thought,” you scoffed gently, a hint of approval in your voice.

[hades-in-bloom]

more vergil…i beg…

Anon! I don’t know if you like it, but I’ve brought some ❤️ Thank you so much for reading!!

[hades-in-bloom]

The Wrong Way

Vergil Sparda x Reader

summary: curious, he returned to ask a question. Prequel | Sequel

warnings & contents: fluff peppered with a pinch of angst; Vergil keeps on vergiling; but he’s learning this time (slowly, but surely); Yamato in action! (kinda); could be age gap, could be none; the reader could be any gender; mentions of cigarettes and alcohol; no mentions of y/n

a/n: this one feels a bit longer than usual, but still bite-sized. As it goes, proceed at your own risk. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

soundtrack: gang of youth — achillies come down

***

This time, he had been gone longer. A month had passed, and you found yourself questioning whether the wait was truly worth it. The wait felt burdensome and disheartening. It made you feel sad. This so-called ‘situationship’ with Vergil had never been meant to be like this. Miserable.

One night, you decided to let yourself forget about him. That’s what you needed—to escape his becoming-poisonous presence just for one night. So that night, you dressed pretty and walked yourself out to the nearest bar. It had been ages, maybe even centuries, since you had stepped into a place like this. Although you’ve never liked places like this, that night it felt good.

As the night went on, you found yourself slightly drunk, smelling of someone’s cigarette smoke, laughing at the bar’s doorstep with a small crowd of people whose names you didn’t even know. And it still felt good—very good. And it definitely felt much, much better than awaiting Vergil’s return while sitting at home alone.

Then a curly brunette snorted out of the blue.

“What a funny guy!” she said, pointing to the side lightheartedly. “Who is he, some kind of cosplayer?”

A couple of guys in your group joined her laughter. You turned your head out of curiosity. Only to find your eyes widening in shock.

To be fair, to the ordinary folk, Vergil should have seemed unusual. In his fancy leather attire and with a katana in hand. This group of friendly drunks were better off seeing him as an anime fan with a prop, rather than a half-demon capable of manipulating time and space with his dangerously sharp sword.

You didn’t move as he approached, unwillingly mesmerised by his smooth stride.

His eyes were on you alone as he asked a question, a hint of awkwardness in his voice, clearly taken aback by seeing you in public. “May I have a word with you?”

He didn’t like it—or rather, he didn’t like them. People in general weren’t his favorite.

“Do you know that guy?” the curly brunette blurted out, her eyes widening. You let out a heavy sigh, your gaze trained on him. A rebellious urge stirred within you at the thought of running toward him like a loyal puppy after his unnecessarily long, unexplained absence.

“What do you want?” Your voice came out harsher than you intended. A touch of alcohol coursing through your veins was doing its dirty work, encouraging your rebellious side. “Is this so urgent that you finally decided to show up in person?”

“Yes,” he replied without missing a beat. Then his features softened just a bit—not enough to be vulnerable, but enough for you to notice the shift in his demeanor. “We need to talk.” His gaze flickered to the group, and you could sense his discomfort; he hated feeling cornered.

You had to swallow a curse word and stepped to the side, unable to ignore him. If you were honest with yourself, you didn’t really want to ignore him either.

He gestured for you to move away from the crowd, and you both walked side by side down the starry alley in silence for a while. It felt good. It felt much, much better than chugging down alcohol and engaging in mindless small talk all evening.

You broke the silence first.

“Did you really have to bring Yamato?” you muttered with a weary sigh. Your question caught him off guard. Before he could respond, you added, as an afterthought that struck you suddenly, “How did you even find me?”

He slowed down, and you followed suit, lifting your head to meet his gaze.

“I must always be armed,” he replied thoughtfully. “Just in case I need to defend myself.” He frowned at an unspoken thought, his gaze fixed on your features. “Or you.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. You didn’t want to ask about the horrors that might accompany his presence in your life. One day, perhaps, but not tonight.

“So, what is it you wanted?” you asked, your tone softer than before.

He made sure to choose his words.

“I wanted to see you,” he said finally. “I also wanted to discuss a particular matter.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You need my help? How intriguing.”

“You could say so,” he grunted reluctantly.

You waited once more. He kept staring at you until he finally spoke.

“What does love mean to you?”

You glanced at him, as if seeing him for the first time. “Why? Where does this come from?”

“I’ve been… curious,” he replied carefully.

Now it was your turn to stare back at him.

“Just curious?”

“I don’t like the smell of cigarette smoke on you.”

“Vergil,” you countered firmly. He sighed, acknowledging his failed attempt to clumsily deflect your interrogation.

“I’ve been… thinking,” he said, his voice growing quieter. “About us.”

“There’s no ‘us,’” you reminded him, a sense of disappointment creeping in. “You said you didn’t need this last time I saw you.” You took a deep breath. “Whatever this is.”

“I know. I know,” he said, tightening his grip on Yamato as if it were a lifeline—and he was drowning. “But that’s not what I inquired about.”

Right.

You thought about it for a moment.

“I believe love is complicated,” you admitted. He scoffed, but you pressed on. “It isn’t as sweet as romance. Raw love is messy, confusing, and painful. But it can also be peaceful—if done right. Stable. Nurturing.”

“How do you make it right?”

"That's a trick, you see?" you said, a smirk on your lips, but your eyes devoid of joy. "There’s no such thing as love done right."

And just like that, he found himself back at square one.

"What a bizarre concept,” he mused. “There must be a right way of doing it if there's a wrong way," he reasoned logically. "I should know—I’ve done it wrong before." His voice tightened. "With Nero’s mother. With you. With Dante, too, in some way.”

“Are you talking about your brother?” After all, he rarely brought him up despite their feud.

“Is that all you’ve heard?” he shot back with a piercing stare.

Your breath hitched. As if you were in one of those stupid movies with happy endings. Then you shook your head.

“I don’t want to hear a love confession,” you warned. What a waste of his potential would it be.

A faint smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Fascinating,” he murmured to himself, clearly amused.

“What is?”

“You,” he replied, his tone thoughtful.

This time, he left you speechless, a flush of embarrassment warming your skin.

“Would you be at your address tomorrow evening?” He asked politely. “I’d like to stop by. If you don’t mind, that is.”

You met his gaze.

“You’ve never really needed a formal invitation before.”

He hummed absentmindedly, “I didn’t, did I?”

Ensuring no one could see them, he unsheathed Yamato, opened a portal, and stepped through without uttering another word.

You grumbled as you pulled out your phone to call an Uber.

[hades-in-bloom]

Curious

Vergil Sparda x Reader

summary: after he finally (and by accident) stays the night, he finds a reason to leave again in the morning. Prequel | Sequel

warnings & contents: fluff all over; a little bit of angst; this silly little man does deserve good things (eventually); Vergil is vergiling again; could be age gap, could be none; the reader could be any gender; no mentions of y/n

a/n: this thing wrote itself. So it’s not my fault. As always, proceed at your own risk. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

soundtrack: luma — devil saint

***

Everything about this feels strange to him. Foreign. Alien, even.

He tracks you with his gaze as you move around the kitchen, still in your pyjamas. He finds this particular piece of clothing strange, too.

"I need coffee," you grumbled at him right before that. To him, ‘need’ feels like too strong of a verb for something he doesn't consider essential. And he would never. Yet for you, it seems vital. This piques his curiosity. Or rather, you pique his curiosity. You—and those little frivolous rituals of yours that seem to shape the world you live in.

To him, it’s fascinating.

He continues to watch your every move until you draw closer to his chair. You hold two cream-colored cups filled with a dark, bitter liquid. Extending your arm, you offer one of them to him. His eyebrows furrow slightly in confusion. He doesn’t expect the gesture, you can see it in a way his shoulders tense, too.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asks bluntly, eyeing you up. There’s no malice in his tone of voice, just a smidge of frustration. Barefoot, he sits there clad in his well-tailored leather pants and an intricately designed combat vest, the buttons fastened all the way up to his chin. This way he makes an attempt to shield himself, clinging to the remnants of his dignity.

You give him a smile.

“Drink it,” you say, nudging the cup closer to him. You’re used to him slipping away without a word at dawn, so his decision to stay this morning leaves you taken aback. But you suppress your emotions, determined not to scare him off. “Come on, Vergil. It’s just coffee.”

He hesitates for a moment longer before his slender fingers wrap around the cup, taking it from you.

“Surprised you know what coffee is,” you tease gently.

He smirks faintly. “I’m a demon,” he retorts, “not a caveman.”

“Half-demon,” you remind him playfully.

He hums into the cup as he takes a sip. He doesn’t say a word back. You know he wishes he didn’t have a human heart. You know he believes it makes him weak.

“How is it?” you ask, watching him sip the coffee.

“Appalling,” he mutters in response. “Why do you feel the urge to drink it every morning?”

“Why do you feel the urge to flee from my bed in the mornings?” you counter with a teasing grin.

And then your heart stops. You heart sinks as you realise what you've just said in the heat of the banter. He frowns, and panic washes over you.

“Vergil…” you gasp, but he interrupts you.

“Silence,” he says firmly, though his voice is low. Gentle, even. You comply without question. He pauses to gather his thoughts. He needs a moment of his own to process.

“I am sorry,” you try again as the silence becomes unbearable.

“You have a right to be disappointed. I suppose,” he says suddenly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks as if this conversation is giving him a headache, but you know him better than that. He’s actually trying to talk to you about his feelings. Your breath hitches.

“I’m not disappointed,” you try to reassure him. He gives you a telling look. “Alright,” you admit quickly. “I am a bit disappointed. But I do understand.”

“Do you?” he muses, his eyes narrow. You understand his skepticism, too. He’s been through Hell and back, both literally and figuratively. You don’t necessarily share much in terms of life experiences.

Except for one thing: humanity. At least to some extent.

“I won’t hurt you,” you give him a promise.

“I’m not scared,” he scoffs, but there's a hesitation in his voice.

“Then what is it?” you ask bluntly.

“I…” He trails off, his jaw tightening. Abruptly, he stands up and sets his cup on the table. “I don’t need this,” he claims, grabbing his things and soon after leaving the house without glancing at you even once, retreating in shame.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing mind and nerves. Your heartbeat soars before gradually settling as a realisation hits you: he will find you again.

After all, he’s curious.

[hades-in-bloom]

On Nights Like These

Vergil Sparda x Reader

summary: after running away night after night, Vergil finally forgets to leave. Sequel

warnings & contents: fluff with a teeny-tiny assumption of spice happening behind the scenes; seriously, mostly cuddling; Vergil is—well—vergiling (this man be blessed); turned out more poetic than I thought it would; could be age gap, could be none; the reader could be any gender; emotionally mature reader though; no mentions of y/n

a/n: h-hi! It’s been a while. I got myself into writing an actual book, so that’s been happening (aside from other life stuff). In the meantime this silly man has been making me lose my mind, so I had to come back, even for a blurb. As always, proceed at your own risk. Love y’all. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

***

Vergil never stays the night.

He’s already irritated enough for that he feels compelled to come over again. The long-buried sensation of another's touch sends his mind into a frenzy; at first, he resents it, feeling as though he’s losing control. It gnaws at him from within, breaking through the iron-clad defences he’s built for himself since he was a kid.

He’s a survivor, and then he’s the Alpha and the Omega. He was there at the beginning, and he will be there at the end, no matter the cost.

He’s so accustomed to being haunted for decades, whether it’s his past or ambitions, so when you offer him a safe haven in your embrace, his brain short-circuits. It feels both wrong and sweet, like forbidden fruit. He’s been alone for so long, consumed by his feral pursuit of power, so the only true horror for him is the one of depending on anyone but himself. He knows that your touch could shatter every belief he clings to, yet he reaches for it anyway, surrendering to the overwhelming urge to connect and explore.

On nights like these, he lies beside you, a mix of vulnerability and yearning in his eyes, resorting to desperate measures to reclaim his power when all else feels futile.

On nights like these, his touch is rough and demanding—his way of asserting control over you when he feels utterly powerless. He’s lost and frustrated, and it shows in every movement, in the way he touches you, worships you, and uses you.

You are weak—in his eyes, just a human with all the needs and desires he has tried to cast aside over the years. He’s better than that. He’s better than you.

Yet while he sees you as weak, in his eyes, you are far from powerless. The influence you have over him drives him mad, and time and again, he succumbs while punishing you both for the vulnerabilities you share.

On nights like these, he takes so much from you, but it doesn’t bother you—he gives in return plenty.

And then, on nights like these, he runs. As soon as you fall asleep, he slips away, leaving you to awaken in an empty bed. You never know when he’ll return, yet deep down, you know he will—sooner or later.

Until, on one of those nights, he forgets to leave at all. When you wake at dawn, his head rests on your chest, and his breathing is steady and calm. One of his arms curls around your waist, and in that moment, he looks almost angelic despite his demon blood. It makes you uneasy; you’ve never seen him so trusting before. For a brief second, it’s your mind that is plagued with the thought of running.

He shifts in his slumber, as if your thoughts of abandoning him have disturbed his nightmares. A frown creases his brow as he barely opens his eyes. Then his eyes widen in fear as he realises what he's done.

He’s succumbed. He always knew you would be his ruin, and now it has happened—tonight.

Tonight, you gently brush your fingers through his hair, keeping his head resting on your chest. Tonight, no one is running away.

“Sleep, Vergil,” you whisper. It’s not an ask—an order. A clear-cut command despite your gentle touch and voice. A faint smile graces your lips as you close your eyes, drifting back into blissful dream of your own.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you give him a promise.

He scoffs, but chooses not to protest as he closes his eyes once more. Tonight, he’s weary from running; tonight, he succumbs.

[hades-in-bloom]

It seems like you're inactive but your Vampyr Jonathan X reader fic has cured me of anything that was wrong with me before. If ever you come back and are still accepting requests I would be forever indebted if you were to do more for Jonathan, no matter fluff or smut or both or whatever. Either way I hope your life is full of ease and abundance.

Anon! This made me happy ❤️ I might not be posting much lately but I’m regularly checking in on this blog.

If you have any other thoughts on what you’d like to see for Jonathan, let me know. Otherwise I’ll wrap my head back into the character, and will be thrilled to write something up for him sometime in the near future.

Take care!

[hades-in-bloom]

I am haunted by the thoughts of Grand Duke Wyll and Vampire Lord Astarion competing for the influence over Baldur’s Gate’s elites.

Until I can write a blurb about it, I’ll just keep whining.

[hades-in-bloom]

I didn’t have a confirmation that it’s canon before, but there we go LOL

(In the meantime, Wyll seems to be oblivious…)

[hades-in-bloom]

I am haunted by the thoughts of Grand Duke Wyll and Vampire Lord Astarion competing for the influence over Baldur’s Gate’s elites.

Until I can write a blurb about it, I’ll just keep whining.

[hades-in-bloom]

Bitten Lips

a/n: happy Astarion brainrot—two silly blurbs for both Tav (#1, w/ Spawn A) and The Dark Urge (#2, w/ Ascended A) using the same keywords (see the title; like, also don’t ask how and why, pretty please). Summaries and additional warnings per blurb below. As always, proceed at your own risk. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

spoilers for Act 3

warnings & contents [for both]: depictions of self-harm (non-suicidal); mentions of blood; the reader could be any gender; Tav/Durge could be any race or class; age gap (hard not to with a 200-years-old vampire); could’ve been a headcanon

[1] : lucky one

Spawn!Astarion Ancunin x Tav!Reader

summary [1]: Tav is nervous, and somehow it makes Astarion climb a wall.

+warnings & contents [1]: unadulterated comfort with a pinch of anxiety; silly bad habits driving Astarion insane; cheeky Tav

soundtrack [1]: måneskin — honey (are you coming?)

***

Astarion snaps when you bring wandering fingers to the bottom of your face again.

“Stop it,” the elf demands, mouth pressed into a thin line as he attempts to keep his frustration in check. You wince slightly, picking a string of dry skin from your wounded lips once more without realising the gravity of your actions.

“Sweet hells,” Astarion grumbles. “Why would you do it? It’s disgusting.” A bizarre mix of annoyance and worry is almost palpable in his well articulated voice. He’s seen worse sights, but you hurt yourself—that’s what he finds appalling.

As thin blood gushes out of a fresh rip on your lip, unadulterated guilt floods your essence instantly. You feel your cheeks heat up, and anxiety crooks your fingers, while you finally realize how sore your lips are since you kept violating them repeatedly in the past half an hour, agitated and a little bit overwhelmed. A prospective of turning into a mindflayer with no lips whatsoever soon down the line would make anyone nervous after all.

Astarion gives you a long stare, so you look away and mumble, “I’m sorry.” To be honest, you didn’t expect him to pick up on your silly bad habit; no one ever pays that much attention to it—there are always bigger problems to tend—but somehow he does notice.

Your tongue runs across your bottom lip, and you taste metal.

“Seriously, what’s wrong?” The vampire frowns, his voice rising an octave. He frets, however hides the feelings behind a playful facade everyone’s been so used to. “Otherwise you’re ruining that pretty face of yours for no reason.”

He asks difficult questions, so you huff, unsure of what you’re supposed to say. You’ve never been great at talking about your feelings, bottling up your emotions deep down instead, where no one would ever think of rummaging.

“You didn’t expect me to always be a damned ray of sunshine, did you?” You revert your gaze to him reluctantly.

To be fair, usually you’ve smiled inappropriately often. If there were any expectations in this regard among the party members, you are the one to blame for it.

“Gods, no. Also, too much sun is bad for my health, so...” Astarion shrugs off your cynicism without a second thought. “You do you, lover.”

The pale elf’s stare lingers on you way too long for your liking, mildly unfounded uneasiness growing inside you. You want him to drop it; you want him not to care, when you don’t have answers for him. Of course, it’s too much to ask. You lose your patience at once, rolling your eyes in defeat.

“You won’t let it go,” you acknowledge, and his lips curl into a faint smile in response.

“I will if you stop doing that,” the pale elf retorts with a hint of desperate outrage as your finger innocently slides over your sore lip unwittingly, probing before the next torture.

You turn your obsession into advantage, and there’s a mischievous spark in your eyes. “I won’t be able to stop by myself.”

He catches up almost instantaneously, with his gaze fixated on your bloody, tortured lips now for all the wrong (or right?) reasons.

Astarion eliminates the distance between you two with a shameless smirk forming on his face—the smirk you knew quite well.

“Darling, aren’t you lucky,” his voice sings, and he wraps his arm around you, pulling your bodies close, leaning forward meaningfully. “I might just be willing to help you out.”

[2] : broken one

Ascended!Astarion Ancunin x Consort!Dark Urge!Reader

summary [2]: Astarion’s partner falls a victim of their dark urges once again.

+warnings & contents [2]: Durge is durging; mentions of murder; mild descriptions of death; unhinged kisses; implied power struggle?

soundtrack [2]: bella poarch — villain and dutch melrose — runrunrun

***

Tonight the palace giggles in your voice, and It can only mean one thing. Astarion hears what you did well before he steps into the bedroom, blood champing under the sole of his exquisitely made shoe. Right there, in the epicentre of massacre, your figure is hunched over maid’s body, now lifeless. Her head hangs limply from your lap, while your twitching fingers are sorting through strands of gore stained hair.

Astarion takes stock of the committed atrocity for one moment before he begins to approach. “What a mess,” he sighs, slightly wrinkling delicate features in annoyance, making his verdict. “Why, little love—this one is particularly sloppy.”

You have not come to senses yet to argue; there is a dreamy, unsettling smile on your face as you glance at your beloved glassy-eyed. Astarion smiles tenderly in return, his fingers gripping your chin to lift your head.

“Poor thing,” the man cooes a tad condescendingly, seizing the moment, when you are incapable of biting back.

Animalistic grunt escapes your throat, and you snarl, but the vampire lord holds you in place tightly. He covers your bleeding, bitten in heat of the urge lips with his own, fangs dragging over your sore skin, making you gasp, almost weep instead.

At other times headstrong and fierce, able to fight back against his caring tyranny, at this point you are exhausted. You cling to his embellished doublet with the last of your strength, pleading, surrendering yourself at his mercy.

“My lovely consort,” Astarion mutters with affection, satisfied with your obedience to the point of one’s disgust.

The pale elf kicks back maidservant’s body with his foot and picks you up in his arms, holding tight to his chest as he carries you to your shared bed. You can feel the urge leaving your body, taking your consciousness away with it.

“It’s going to be over soon, my love.” Astarion whispers soothingly, although you can’t hear him anymore. “It’s going to be over soon.”

[hades-in-bloom]

The Bigger Person

Spawn!Astarion Ancunin x Redeemed Dark Urge!Reader

summary: after saving Baldur’s Gate, Astarion and his partner descend into the Underdark to take care of Cazador’s misdeeds. All seven thousands of them. Was it something the elf truly wanted to do with his freedom?

spoilers for Act 3/Pale Elf and Epilogue

warnings & contents: teethy fluff; established relationship; comfort, sass, and class; hints of existential crisis; the reader could be any gender; mentions of trauma; some hugs; assumed drow or half-drow background of the reader but could be any race

a/n: I am kinda terrified of writing for Astarion as I respect Larian’s work SO MUCH (so Larian, please forgive me, if I ever do this goofy dagger-happy love wrong). This blurb came out of nowhere as I was bored during my long ass flight. As always, proceed at your own risk. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

soundtrack: miley cyrus — used to be young

***

You watched Astarion from afar as elf was basking in the azure light of a Sussur tree. His pale skin glowing, eyes half-lidded—one of, if not the most beautiful sight you’ve seen in your entire life. Radiance of a Sussur flower might have been the closest thing to the sunlight the vampire spawn had now, after the ever-protecting tadpole was gone.

It was barely a couple of weeks since the Netherbrain crushed into the Chionthar. The exhausting journey was finally over. Your thoughts for a moment went to Gale—how was he fairing now, taking into account his condition? And what any of you was supposed to do with your lives now, after saving the world?

You shook off your guessings by and by—only to notice that it was Astarion’s turn to stare at you. His smooth lips curved into a mischievous grin.

“My once murderous little love, what were you daydreaming of?” The man wondered as he stepped towards you, stretching out a hand for you to touch, inviting you to feel the soothing coldness of his forever-young skin. The elf tilted his head a bit, curiously; studying you.

“You seemed… far from here.” Although his tone was lighthearted, you could see concern in the wandering gaze of garnet eyes. After all these weeks traveling—and now living— together, you could read him quite well.

“It’s nothing,” you mumbled before coming to your senses; a gentle, slightly teasing smile appearing on your face. “I was stalking you, actually. You fit quite well with the Underdark, you know.”

Astarion didn’t seem to object your observations.

Obviously.

“Well,” he gestured abstractly, pretending not to care, although he cared quite a bit. “You don’t say, my sweet. Although I'd assume that my features should look aesthetically pleasing in most of the attention worthy places.”

You couldn’t keep a straight face as you laughed, enjoying his lazy attempts to hide a proud smile.

“Behave, Astarion. There are kids in the close vicinity, after all.”

The man changed in the face and let out a soft groan. “Seven thousand of them,” he muttered with slight annoyance in his voice.

Despite grimaces Astarion made regularly, you could see him enjoying it—taking care of the murderous horde of vampire spawns to whom the elf showed mercy in the palace. He was their mentor, their leader now—a counterpart to what Cazador was, the monster that created them all. Now so much better than him.

“I blame you,” Astarion continued in the meantime, playfully pointing a finger in your direction. “That’s all your nasty influence. Be the bigger person, dear!..” he passionately—and painfully accurately—mimicked your tone of voice while saying the last piece. You, though, weren’t offended in the slightest. You liked him even more when he dared to show the silly side of his complex, wounded personality.

You felt his hand crawling around your waist as he huffed next to your ear shortly after. “Why should I be a bigger person, darling, when I can be happy and petty?”

You snorted. “I don’t think you’re holding back on pettiness, love.”

His smile stretched across the skin of your neck in a silent, although eloquent enough reply. None of you said a thing for quite a while, staying motionless close to each other with heads buried deep into your own thoughts.

“Thank you.” You blurted out eventually.

Astarion shifted, looking into your face with his eyebrow raised. He was visibly confused.

“Thank you for choosing this. Choosing them.” you continued as you met his gaze with yours. “Instead of your… freedom.” You struggled to find a better word for that.

Astarion didn’t seem to be convinced; didn’t seem to follow at first. “I’m free,” he replied gravely. “The bastard is dead.”

You shook your head slightly. “You could’ve been anywhere. Doing anything,” you retorted with care. “But you’re here instead.”

His facial features softened as he understood why you were saying what you were saying. There was a pinch of truth in your words—he spent some time thinking about it, too, after you’ve both descended into the Underdark and began building this fort; the safe harbor for Cazador’s cursed—as although perpetually hungry vampire spawns now, these people deserved to have a place to call home, no matter how dangerous or uncivilised per human standards it was.

You heard Astarion letting out a reluctant sigh as he came to terms with his own decision once more.

“This was the right thing to do.” The elf concluded at once.

Mild aversion to his own heroism that manifested itself in his whole appearance in that particular moment made you giggle suddenly.

“My, my. Who thought you'd be up for doing The Right Thing the first time we met.”

The elf gave you a friendly, tad fiendish stare as he rolled his eyes, and you scoffed as he spoke. “Not that you were a paragon of virtuousness back then either, being your daddy’s scion.” You made an unamused face that made him smile.

Astarion reassured you then with playful seriousness, letting his lips and teeth slide affectionately to your neck. “Don’t keep your hopes up, darling. Now my quota of the rightful deeds is fulfilled for the upcoming century.”

You smirked as you locked him into a hug, not believing a single word of what that man just said as you felt him hugging you back.

[hades-in-bloom]

Today Astarion called my Durge his “sweet, conflicted villain” and I can’t get over it.

(My third playthrough, never heard this line before.)

[hades-in-bloom]

Scars

Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

summary: thinking of Leon’s scars (with a little bit of touching).

warnings & contents: fluff; assumed older Leon (more of RE6 and Vendetta, although I keep using ID! to illustrate); could be age gap, could be none; lots of cuddling; mentions of violence (sorta); the reader could be any gender; no mentions of y/n

a/n: a blurb, because I can. As always, proceed at your own risk. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

soundtrack: billie eilish — when the party’s over

***

Leon’s figure was resting on top of the bedsheets, his bare back exposed to one’s curious sight with his features relaxed, while he was catching up on hours of sleep he was deprived of this week; thanks to another one of those excruciating missions. You couldn’t hold back a small smile; he looked so peaceful, lying there with disheveled dirty blonde hair and not a glimpse of worry on his face—something you would die to see more often after everything he has endured.

You were doing your best to stay as quiet as humanly possible so you wouldn’t wake him up when your gaze got drawn to the network of scars, interspersed with moles, scattered across his pale skin. There were a couple of fresh bruises flourishing into purple and yellow blobs, too, adding to a rich picture. You winced like you could feel his pain. You’d never get used to seeing him this way—seeing him hurt.

Your touch was lighter than one of a feather when your fingers slid over one of his scars, tracing its shape slowly, with care. This one seemed to be old, fading away over the years, thus one of the rarest ones—as there were many more those anew, coming in different shapes and shades of pink. It didn’t matter, though, how many of them were on Kennedy’s body—you knew them all, keeping the count.

You pulled your hand away in a swift motion as you felt Leon stir. He was still half-asleep when he opened his eyes a crack, his gaze fixed on your features. You looked guilty.

“Hey,” he muttered hoarsely with a faint smile. He didn’t sound irritated—rather exhausted. “Can’t keep your hands off of me, sweetheart?”

You chuckled softly as you eliminated the distance between the two of you, and then rested your head on the edge of his pillow. His hand immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you even closer.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake you up.” You pressed your lips against his forehead. You kept your voice barely above the whisper, hoping he’d be able to go back to sleep.

He hummed, “It’s okay,” with his eyes almost shut again, as his mind stayed in the half-place between awakeness and dreams. His thumb caressed your side mindlessly, soothing himself down.

You put your hands on his back in a kind of hug, feeling the bumps of his scars under your fingers.

“You have never told me their stories,” you said quietly, cradling him with your touch.

Leon’s body tensed slightly, his face now hidden in the crook of your neck. His warm and even breathing sent shivers down your spine.

The man became silent for a moment, taking his time before he replied, “I don’t believe these are stories that I should make you listen to.”

He preferred not to bring his work home.

You didn’t insist—you have always respected his choices. You left a kiss on his temple while Leon hugged you tighter.

“I’ll listen to anything you’d be willing to tell me, handsome.”

He smiled; you could feel his lips stretching out on the skin of your neck. It wasn’t a trust issue; Kennedy could tell that much—but he needed time to gather the courage to drag you into his waking nightmare.

“Maybe one day, sweetheart,” Leon sighed deeply, his tone calm as he admitted; his eyes now closed. “Maybe one day.”

You spent the next minutes running fingers through his hair until he drifted back into a blissful sleep.