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[lavender-romancer]

The Devil's Wife

Part Three

Dry Devil x Original Female Character

Henry X Hans Capon

Henry rides with Captain Zizka toward the notorious Devil’s Den, hoping for a straightforward mission to rescue Hans —but chaos follows him at every turn. Bloody skirmishes and the rescue of the legendary Dry Devil.

At the same time, a mysterious woman in the Devil’s life challenges everything Henry thought he knew about loyalty, power, and the danger of those who command it.

read on A03!

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

previous chapter

1381

She had been gone for just over two years now. Two years of boring himself to death every single day without her. Two years of missing her more than he thought it was physically possible to miss someone. His humour had disappeared, replaced by dry sarcasm, a restless rage, and unrelenting violence.

He had gotten married the year Anicka left. It hadn’t helped. The marriage didn’t matter. His wife was pretty enough, if you liked blond, milky-skinned women, but he couldn’t stomach her. They had fucked on their wedding night—that was it. Every time he saw her fair hair, pale skin, and perfect little hands, it felt like rubbing salt into the wound. He sought out dark-haired girls at the bathhouses instead. Any dark-haired girl.

He didn’t give a toss about having a child. He was in charge of the estate now, Hynek I of Kunstat, and by God he would take advantage of that power in any way he could. His father had died earlier that year, and with the title came responsibility, and with responsibility came boredom, and with boredom came indulgence in every vice he could find.

Anicka was in Blansko. She had said so in the first and last letter she’d sent him. He couldn’t write back. He couldn’t bear acknowledging that she was there, alive, while he was here—married to a pale ghost he didn’t love, running Kunstat like a bored tyrant. She could be tending another man’s child by now, teaching him to call her “mother,” ruling a little household without him. But no—he doubted that. She wasn’t stupid. She was spirited. She was stubborn. She wouldn’t roll over for some man she barely knew. And maybe she had found someone who was worthy of her. That thought made his hands clench into fists until his knuckles ached.

Then there was politics. Jobst and Prokop. Fucking ridiculous, even by noble standards. A relatively even split of the land wasn’t enough—they went to war over it. Naturally, Hynek had to ally with Prokop. His father had arranged it, and Prokop had kept his word of promised protection. Jobst had begun raiding Prokop-allied settlements. Kunstat would be next if he didn’t ride south.

Meetings with the council in Brno loomed. Life would be easier if they just fought instead of talking, Hynek thought, but no such luck. And if their ride took them through Blansko, that was alright too… Hynek could pretend he didn't yearn to see Anicka, but it would be in vain. Even his cousin, Petr had noticed his descent into madness when one of his advisors suggested a different route that wouldn't take them through the town. It was at least a four hour ride, good enough to rest and refuel before the longer ride down to Brno.

The road to Blansko was narrow, bordered by oaks and beeches. The air was still crisp with morning chill, and the rhythmic clop of hooves against dirt echoed through the quiet forest. Hynek rode in the center, Petr on his right, Jan on his left.

“Should I be expecting to find some noble bastard in this town, cousin?” Petr said, grinning.

Hynek didn’t bother looking at him. He gripped his reins tighter, the leather creaking. “You’d be disappointed. My cock seems unable to produce heirs when it has not entered this certain person’s cunt.”

“You’re a dirty-mouthed fucker, Devil,” Petr said.

How on earth did that nickname stick? He'd take fucker as a nickname over Dry Devil.

“Speak for yourself. I’ve heard you blaspheme like a heretic when you’re balls-deep at one of the bathhouses.”

Jan barked a laugh. Petr rolled his eyes. Hynek allowed a small, vicious grin, but it didn’t reach his scars.

The road opened to fields and farmland as Blansko drew near. The town lay half-hidden beneath the morning haze, the Svitava River flowing lazily to the south, lined by cattle and the occasional cart loaded with grain. The manor house loomed in the center, half-timbered and solid, with small outbuildings and an orchard surrounding it. Surprisingly, for the chaos of war in nearby lands, Blansko was mostly untouched.

Jan dismounted, low-voiced. “I’ll handle Erhart. You go do what you need.”

Hynek nodded, grateful. “Drink’s on me later,” he muttered.

He made for the inn. Inside, the warm stink of smoke, ale, and unwashed bodies made him feel right at home. “I’m looking for Anicka, a woman with dark hair?” he asked.

The innkeeper nodded. “North end of town. Farms that way.”

Hynek dropped a groschen on the counter and left, stepping back into the crisp morning air. Fields stretched ahead, tilled and fertile, dotted with peasants bending over their work.

Every movement in the fields, every shadow made him pause. Could it be her? Had she been waiting for him—or indifferent to his existence?

Hynek’s chest tightened. Two years of imagining this moment, of constructing it in endless daydreams, all boiled down to this one stretch of dirt road, these tilled fields, these tiny glimpses of life that might be hers. His fists clenched and unclenched. He wanted to run forward, seize her, curse the years she’d been gone, curse himself for letting her leave.

But he didn’t. Not yet. He waited in the shadow of the nearest birch tree, eyes sharp, every muscle coiled. Watching. Waiting.

Dark hair caught the morning sun, bundled up into a stained white coif, strands escaped to brush against her sweaty brow. She was bent over the rows of vegetables, sleeves rolled to her elbows, forearms taut and even more tanned from work.

Her dark green dress was stained with mud at the bottom hem, which swished against the ground, a white shift poking through the bottom of her skirts. Stained just as he remembered. Hynek felt as if he was 14 again, running from his father into the forest and hunting with her. A youthful unawareness of how separate their lives would be in just a few short years. She looked every bit the spirited, impossible girl he remembered—practical, stubborn, unyielding. And yet… still completely her.

Hynek tried to calm himself, breathing in and out. She had no idea he was there, no idea how much he had missed her, how much he had ruined himself waiting. And the thought made him want to curse God, the devil, and the entire bloody world for letting her be here, alive, and just out of reach.

When he finally approached the gate, one hand resting on the wood for a moment before he swallowed his pride and opened it. She immediately turned at the noise, seemingly startled. Hynek couldn't clearly see her face with the sun mostly in his eyes, but she was walking towards him, had dropped the basket she was carrying and began running.

“Hynek!” She exclaimed as she barrelled into him. Hugging him ridiculously close, with both arms fixed at his side. They were both twenty-one, too grown to act as children would. But it was too tempting. He wrestled his arms out from her embrace and held her close to his chest.

“I've missed you,” He could smell the pine on her. The scent had always calmed him, especially after she had left.

“You didn't write. I thought… I thought you had decided just to leave me here. When you didn't send a letter, I- well, it's alright now anyway.” She withdrew, brushing down the front of her dress and staring up at him with a smile.

Hynek’s eyes had adjusted to the sun, and he looked over her face, expecting to see more freckles since being out in the sun or a bump on her stomach where some other man's child grew. But she looked exhausted, and the warmth of the reunion drained from his face when he saw it. Under her eye, an ugly purple blooming down towards her cheek, stained yellow at the edges: he reached forward and touched her cheek extremely lightly, causing Anicka to flinch. The rage that festered inside of him was unrelenting as he returned his hands to his side, and they clenched into fists.

“Was it your husband?”

“Hynek, please, I-”

“Was it your husband?” He repeated, and after a moment she nodded, looking down as if all life had been drained out of her. His voice sounded angrier than he wanted it to; the fact that he had been able to even minimally control his rage was a wonder. His body screamed at him to find the bastard who did this to her and cut out his fucking eyes. Hyenk looked further into the field, seeing a farmhouse, he moved past Anicka and strode with overwhelming purpose towards it.

“Please, Hynek, stop. It will only make things worse. I don’t want you to hurt him!” Anicka pulled on his arm as she ran to keep up with him.

“And why the hell not!” Hynek yelled back, turning to face her. His rage made her shrink back into herself, and it made him even angrier. Gone was the stubborn, carefree girl he knew- any spark of her individuality was snuffed out, all laughter buried beneath fear- it left behind a woman irrevocably different because of the pain.

“You turn up here without a word in years and want to kill the man that, despite your anger, is still my husband! This is my home, my life, and you can’t just decide you know better.” She stood holding onto his arm, rooting him to the spot even though he could easily wrestle from her grip.

I do know better. I have to. I failed her once, and I’ll not fail her again.

“He hurt you.” Hynek whispered, low and dangerous.

“You hurt me as well, not in the same way but you are not a better man just because you didn’t beat me. I felt so alone, abandoned by the one person I thought would care. Why didn’t you write to me?” Her gaze was overwhelmingly accusatory, hand slipping from gripping his arm- it felt like an immediate loss of warmth in his body.

“I couldn’t. Acknowledging that you were here and I couldn’t do anything about it was too painful to come to terms with. Loosing you was,” He paused. “Well I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

“Poor. poor lordling. With your beautiful wife and silk sheets. Not having to do a day of work in your life unless you deem it appropriate. Control over your life in more ways than most have.” Her voice laced with ice, she let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I feel so very sorry for you, Sir.”

Sir? He winced at the word. Mud sucking at his boots as he lowered his voice. “Anicka, please. Let me take you back to the castle, be my wife’s maid or something I can-”

“You can’t click your fingers and fix everything!” she snapped, her eyes flashing up at him. "It won't fix how you left me, it won’t fix this,” She pointed to the bruise under her eye. “I am a part of your life you decided you could throw away.”

She’s right. I let her go. I abandoned her. And now I have to make this right, no matter what it costs me—or anyone else.

Hynek's throat tightened. He wanted to reach for her but stopped himself.“How did I throw you away? I wanted to marry you, keep you with me forever. You chose to leave and still stay loyal to your bastard husband!” His rage was borne of grief, uncontrolled grief he had not been able to express until this very moment.

“You didn’t want to marry me; you wanted to keep me.” Her voice wavered with eyes full of tears she had waited years to express. “You didn’t love me, Hynek. Not as I had loved you.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she took a deep breath before walking past him and picking up the basket she had dropped. Standing back up she straightened her shoulders, refusing to look back at him. He felt as if she had slapped him.

She’s slipping away from me again, even now. But this time, I won’t let her.

“Is that what you meant? All those years ago when you said you couldn't marry me?” He asked, calmer now as he followed after her.

“Yes. You Ox.” Her voice cracked and she took a deep breath before continuing. “I loved you for years, a deep childish love. I fooled myself into believing it was even somewhat reciprocated which made leaving a more attractive option. Seeing your marriage I- I couldn't do it.”

She crouched, lowering the basket to the mud and trying to pull up more crops. But her hands shook so violently that she fumbled with one of the stems and pulled out a half broken carrot. Staring at it for a moment where it dangled.

Hynek knelt down in the damp mud, his hose already ruined, he didn't care much. He could feel the water pooling around his knee as if it meant to root him in place until he finally fixed things. He reached for her hands and steadied them even as she half-heartedly tried to pull them away. Her hands were rough, as he remembered, calloused now with the work of the land rather than fletching.

“I was a stupid boy.” He whispered, eyes roaming over her face, just in case it was the last time. “Too concerned with his own problems to understand. Ever since you left I have thought of little else, but you. Every time I enter those damn forests I see you everywhere, you won't even leave me to hunt in peace.”

He smiled and a laugh bubbled out of her despite herself, raw and wet with tears. She hated that he could still pull it out of her. She tried to muffle it, pressing her lips together in protest. A tear flowing down the cheek that had been marked by her husband's fist.

“We never could have married, Hynek. No matter if we both wanted it.” Anicka gripped his hands as her own shook, overcome with the cocktail of emotions that had come to visit her front door.

“Why the hell not?” He was angrier now, but really it was the desperation leaking through. “I'm Lord now. I can marry who I please.”

“You are already married, as am I.”

“Why will you not let me take you away from that bastard?” He asked, exasperated.

“Because I would have nowhere to go. My husband will have all ownership over my decisions. I cannot get up and leave when I feel like it. Hynek, my husband will be home soon, you need to go.” But she didn't let go of his hands.

“I know you want me to stay.” He got closer to her then. “All you have to do is say it and I'll gut that fucking pig. You'll come back to the estate and not be bothered by a single man unless you want it to be so.” He was trying his hardest not to raise his voice and scare her further.

“I-” she paused, seemingly floored by the suggestion. “Would it even work? They would know it was me. He has no family nearby but they might come and check.”

“I could say he joined the army, and you joined as a healer, he died in some siege.” She tilted her head in consideration, a level of hope behind her eyes.

No one will suspect. I will make sure. I will bear the cost. She must live free of him, free of this fear.

There was a pregnant silence that fell over them, neither sure of what to say. As Anicka shifted the mud squelched beneath her boots, she was staring down at Hynek's hands. Whisky she should have pulled away, she did not.

“You could not hide such a thing,” she whispered at last. “Not forever. People would talk. The priest would demand to know why my husband no longer attends Mass, why his fields are left untended. The reeve would come sniffing, then the steward.” Her breath came quick, shallow. “And if anyone learned you had come here…” She broke off, biting her lip until the taste of iron filled her mouth.

Hynek shook his head sharply. “Let them wonder. I am a Lord, Anicka. My word pays more than gold these days. A dozen peasants could vanish in the night and it would scarcely ripple. One drunken swine of a husband would be no different. I would say he marched to war. I would sign the writ myself.”

Her eyes flew to his, wide with horror, though there was something else beneath it—something shameful, dangerous, something like belief. “You speak of killing a man as though it were a loose board to be mended.”

“He is no man,” Hynek snarled, his voice low but venomous. “He is merely a chain that keeps you in this place, a stain on your life that you would be better without.” His grip tightened slightly and then loosened at her fearful gaze. “No one will dare question it, I will do anything and everything to make that so.”

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before looking past him. At the little waterside town she had been trying to make a life in. She tried to think of happy memories here, a day where she didn't want to run. But it was impossible. Her husband's heavy footing entered the doorway, he'd just come from the tavern. The sting of his hand and the stench of ale. Her mother warned her before she died that wives are ‘bound as tightly as serfs to their husbands’. Had she messed it all up? Maybe she should've run away when her father made her come here, fight against him even more than she had. But he was getting old. There would have been no point making him lose his wife and also his daughter.

Her eyes flicked to him, searching his face, and for a moment he thought she might agree. But then she looked away, shaking her head softly as though entertaining the thought was a deadly sin.

“I cannot.” she whispered. “If I give the word, it will be my sin. His blood will stain me even if my hands never touch the knife.”

Hynek’s chest heaved, every breath tailed with the anger he had tried to swallow. His gaze was lingering on her, noting it all: the bruise, the tear streaked cheeks, and the quiet wisps of rebellion she tried to hide. She wouldn’t ask. Couldn't. And that was why he must.

“You don't need to say it,” he murmured, low and steady now. “I have heard enough.”

Her brow furrowed. “Hynek—”

I know. I will do it. And she will be free, whatever the cost.

He released her hands and rose from the mud, the chill biting at him.

Two years. Two years of cowardice. Two years of silence while she was dragged into a life I should have fought to stop. I was a boy then, too foolish to act. Too weak. Not anymore.

“I’m not leaving you in his shadow. If you won’t speak it, I’ll speak for both of us.”

She won’t forgive me easily. She has every reason to hate me. But I can’t let that stop me. Not now.

“Don’t you dare.” she snapped, yanking upright so fast the basket toppled, carrots rolling into the dirt. Her chest heaved, eyes blazing. “You think showing up and taking control will fix it all?”

She’s right to be furious. I deserve every word. And yet… letting her go again, doing nothing—I can’t live with that.

“I’ve thought about nothing else for years!” Hynek said, stepping closer, shoulders tense. “Every day I’ve pictured this moment. And now I know what I can do. What I must do!”

“You think you can fix it with your hands or some steel?” she spat, fists trembling. “I’m not some girl who needs saving! And even if I went with you, back to the castle—you think the servants and the ladies wouldn’t talk? I’d be whispered about as the lord’s whore before a week passed! That’s my life you’re offering me? Do you want me ruined?”

“I don’t care what they say.” he said, voice low and steady, battle-worn. “I’ve carried guilt for years. I let your father take you, let that man have you. This is the only way I can make it right. My hand. My choice. Not anyone else’s.”

Her eyes flashed with fury. “You don’t get it. I care! I can’t walk into that castle and face their whispers, their stares! You don’t seem to understand what that will do to me!”

I do understand. I know the whispers, the stares, the way they’ll brand her. And yet, if I don’t act… she’ll never be free. Never truly alive. Maybe he'd kill her.

“I understand more than you think,” he said quietly, his gaze locked on hers. “I’ve seen enough death, enough dishonor, to know when something must be done. You’ll be free, Anicka. You just have to hold on a little longer.”

“Free?” Her voice cracked, half scream, half plea. “You call this freedom? Living in someone else’s house, serving your wife, whispered about as just a scandal in your life? I’ve fought to survive, Hynek. I’ve clawed my way through the world on my own. And you… you think this is freedom?”

“I’ll bear it,” he said, knuckles brushing lightly over her bruised cheek, a strange gentleness juxtaposing the storm in his eyes. “All of it. Every risk, every consequence. Not you. Not anyone else. Me. I’ll carry it so you don’t have to. It is worth every risk.”

Worth it—not because she owes me. Not because I need thanks. Worth it because I failed her once, and I refuse to fail her again. This is my penance, my choice, and the only right thing I can do.

“I don’t want you to!” she cried, shaking her head. “I don’t want your blood for me. I don’t want to owe you. I won’t be ‘saved’ as if I am a powerless, pitiful woman ”

She's right. Of course she's right. Frustratingly intelligent woman. I wish there was another way. There is no other. Only this one. 

“I failed you once. I won’t again,” he said firmly. “I won’t let him touch you. I won’t let him control you. You’ll live, Anicka.”

She laughed, bitter and sharp, stepping back. “And what then? You think I’ll just march into that castle and start smiling at your wife? You think I’ll be anything but a scandal, a story whispered in every corner? Do you think I want to be the lord’s whore?”

Let them talk. Let them whisper. I cannot live with her death or humiliation at his hands. I will bear the scandal, the blood, the consequences. I am ready.

“You’ll have a chance to live,” he said, voice steady. “That’s all I can give you. The rest—your life—is yours.”

“But at what cost?” she shouted. “You risk yourself, you risk everything, and for me? Why risk it all for me?”

“Because it’s you,” he said quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “Because I let you go once, and I won’t let myself do it again. I’ve been a fool and a coward long enough. You’ll survive. You’ll have your life. He won’t touch you—not him, not anyone. I carry this because I must, and because you’re worth every risk.”

I’m not acting out of romance or fantasy. I’m acting because I failed you before. I’m acting because I can bear the cost. I’m acting because you deserve to live on his terms, and I’ll do everything to give you that chance.

Her hands fell to her sides, fingers trembling around the empty basket. She stared at him, torn between relief and fury, longing and dread.

Without another word, he turned and strode down the rutted path, mud swallowing his steps.

She stayed like that, in the field, trembling, staring after him. Rage, fear, and defiance twisted together in her chest. For the first time in years, she felt the weight of fate shift—but whether toward freedom or ruin, she couldn’t yet tell.

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

The three of them rode hard along the sun-baked track, the wagons trailing dust clouds behind. Jan nudged his horse closer to Hynek.

“Lord Devil,” he said with a grin, “you’ve been staring at the trees like you’re hunting ghosts instead of Brno. Did one of the spirits from Blansko follow you here?”

Hynek smirked. “If one did, I’d gut the fucker before breakfast and roast it all nice for supper.”

Petr laughed. “Aye, that sounds about right, Devil. Still brooding, or just lost in your own head?”

“Brooding?” Hynek snorted. “No. I’m just imagining whose arse I’ll kick first when we get there. And some of it will be out of sheer boredom—Brno won’t be anything but a room full of pompous tossers droning on about sieges and bloody treaties. I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than sit politely through it all.”

Jan laughed. “Ah, so the detour to Blansko wasn’t enough excitement, eh? You’ll be chained to a table for hours while Prokop and his Lords prattle on like hens squabbling over scraps.”

Hynek grinned. “Better the road than listening to that idiot. I'd rather gut a dozen pigs and piss on the remains than endure him politely.”

Petr leaned in, smirking. “Ah, so it is a detour worth making. Did you find trouble in Blansko, or just a maiden’s temper?”

Hynek barked a dark laugh.“Maidens? Ha! No maiden’s interested in me, cousin. You’d have better luck finding a nun in a brothel than finding one wasting her temper on this ugly bastard.”

Jan snorted. “Quiet, Devil. You’ve gone suspiciously serious for once. What’s gnawing at you—debts, dice, or just your own bloody conscience?”

Hynek shrugged. “Conscience? Never met the bastard. And if I did, I’d have him in the ground before he bored me with sermons.”

Petr let out a bark of laughter. “Saints preserve us—Lord Hynek, killer of conscience. You’ll have the priests choking on their incense with that one.”

Jan leaned over in his saddle, grinning. “Don’t mind him, Petr. Devil here’s only sour because he’s riding to Brno instead of into some wench’s bed. He’s dreading the paperwork, the sermons, the endless gob of Prokop.”

Hynek cracked a grin. “Endless gob’s the only thing Prokop’s good at. Christ, I’d rather tally plague carts rolling past the gate — at least they clear the filth quicker.”

Petr snickered. “Careful—say that too loud and Prokop will lop off your cock, mount it on the wall, and call it a trophy for discipline.”

“Or worse, you’ll be kicking your own bollocks round the hall when he loses his temper- Prokop’s temper is much shorter than his cock.” Jan looked over at Hynek, wiggling his eyebrows- Hynek just rolled his eyes. 

“Let him try,” Hynek shot back, smirking. “He swings slower than a gelded ox.”

The cousins roared with laughter. Jan wiped his eyes. “By God, Devil, you’ve got more bile in you than a drunk. You sound like you’re planning a fight. Should we be sharpening blades, then?”

Hynek’s grin bent darker. “Worth sharpening, aye. Some things are worth more than all the gold in Brno. And I’ve got some bloody plans”

Jan chuckled, shaking his head. “All brooding and grim, Devil. Next you’ll be telling us you’ve found faith—or worse, a mistress.”

Petr grinned. “If he’s lost her, she’s probably better off. Safer kissing a bear than warming your bed, cousin.”

Hynek barked a laugh, crude and cutting. “If I’ve found anything, it’s trouble. And if any bastard tries to stand in my way, I’ll gut him like a pig, roast his cock for supper, and feed his liver to the dogs. They can curse me from Hell’s arsehole after—I won’t lose sleep.”

The cousins laughed with him, trading nudges and grins, oblivious to the storm barely contained behind his eyes. Under the mask of humour, something hotter, darker, and far more dangerous simmered, waiting for the right moment to boil over.

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

The city of Brno rose ahead, red-tiled roofs glowing in the late afternoon sun. The stone hall smelled of damp timber and sweating men, mixed with the faint tang of burnt tallow. Hynek slid onto the bench beside Jan and Petr, ignoring the stiff cushions and polite bows of the scribes. To the court, he was Lord Hynek of Kunstat. To Jan and Petr, he remained the Devil.

“Ah, Lord Devil,” Jan whispered. “Try not to murder anyone before the meeting begins, eh? Prokop looks sensitive.”

Hynek smirked. “Sensitive? That prick? I’d sooner shove a dagger where the sun don’t shine than let him think he matters. Sensitivity doesn’t get wars won.”

Petr snickered. “You do look… dangerous, Devil. A glare like that could gut a dozen men before they even speak.”

Hynek leaned back, arms crossed, smirking. “Better a dozen men than sitting through Prokop’s bloody lectures. If he opens his mouth one more time about levies, I’ll carve the table into something more useful—like firewood.”

Prokop cleared his throat, thick and pompous. “Lord Hynek of Kunstat, are you prepared to supply a retinue?”

Hynek inclined his head, voice polite but firm. “Aye, sir. Archers or men on foot, whichever you require. I shall provide the numbers you request in due course.”

Prokop pressed further. “I must have specifics. How many men can I count on for the northern fortifications?”

Hynek kept his expression carefully neutral. “Sufficient, sir. I will ensure they are ready when called.”

Behind his calm mask, Hynek’s jaw tightened. Sufficient. Christ, you’d count them like pigs in a pen if I gave you a figure. I’ve seen men fall in fire and mud while you fools debate strength.

Jan nudged him under the table. “Careful, Devil. Keep that look on your face and they’ll think you’re planning to slit someone’s throat.”

Hynek snorted quietly. “Plotting? Only in my head, for now.”

Petr leaned closer. “You weren’t even listening, were you? He wants numbers.”

Hynek grinned darkly, voice low so only the cousins could hear. “Aye, I heard. My men fight, my men survive—how many I send is my business. That’s the only count that matters.”

Jan chuckled. “Since when did you get sentimental, Devil?”

Hynek’s grin sharpened. “Not sentimental. Just alive. And I plan to keep them that way.”

Hours dragged by. Prokop droned. Men argued over boundaries, levies, and minor disputes as if the world depended on them. Hynek endured it with a smile that looked polite enough for the nobles but sharp enough to frighten anyone who knew him.

The meeting finally adjourned, and Hynek stood, cracking his neck with a snap that made the scribes flinch. Dust rose from his boots as he strode toward the door.

Jan and Petr followed, laughing quietly. “Well, Devil, survived another one. Brno can’t kill you yet.”

Hynek smirked. “No. But it can bore me bloody senseless. To the inn cousins. That’s where the real fun starts.” 

[lavender-romancer]

The Devil's Wife

Chapter Two

Dry Devil x Original Female Character

Henry X Hans Capon

Henry rides with Captain Zizka toward the notorious Devil’s Den, hoping for a straightforward mission to rescue Hans —but chaos follows him at every turn. Bloody skirmishes and the rescue of the legendary Dry Devil.

At the same time, a mysterious woman in the Devil’s life challenges everything Henry thought he knew about loyalty, power, and the danger of those who command it.

read on A03!

*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.

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1370

Hynek was about ten when he first laid eyes on Anicka. She was the daughter of the head gamekeeper of the estate, often seen bringing pheasants and rabbits to the castle kitchens for her father. He was struck by the sight of a girl performing tasks he had never thought women capable of: fletching and bow-stringing, skinning game, and sharpening arrowheads. His mother, a placid woman who had withdrawn to the convent after bearing him and his elder brother, was a gentle presence, while the servants were shadows he scarcely noticed. Who was this girl to flout the order of things?

A sudden heat rose within Hynek, and he did not know why. The last time such fury had seized him, he had been six: his brother Henry had taken one of his many toys, and Hynek had lost all measure. He leapt upon his brother like a young beast, red-faced and roaring, scratching at Henry’s hair and face. Though older, Henry was scarcely taller, and Hynek’s small hands found purchase. Only after a servant wrested him away was he confined to his chamber, awaiting his father’s judgment. Hynek had stood stiffly, heart hammering, unwilling to bear his father’s displeasure again. The Lord had struck him across the cheek, a ringed finger leaving a small cut that would scar.

Hynek did not wish to harm the girl. No, he felt no ill will toward her. Yet the sight of her doing as she pleased, beyond the bounds of what was proper, gnawed at him. At ten, he did not know the name of envy, though it grew within him with fierceness.

“What do you do here?” he asked, leaning on one foot, hand resting upon the hilt of his dagger. She sat upon a tree stump in a forest glade, sharpening sticks, a pile of feathers waiting to be fletched into arrows.

“Preparing arrows, my lord,” she answered, not rising to greet him, which annoyed the young lord further.

“Look at me, girl,” Hynek said, his voice still thin, sharp as a child’s was when having a tantrum.

She lifted her gaze with a scowl that made him hesitate. Dark eyes, deep as pits, met his own, and he felt a shiver of something unknown. She worked with her hunting knife deftly, and he felt the stirring of an unfamiliar pang: jealousy.

“Can—” he paused to steady himself, “can you teach me?”

“How to fletch, Sir?” Her eyebrow rose in genuine perplexity. She brushed mud from her hands on her apron.

“Yes. I would learn, so that I might surpass you,” he said, smirking, and seated himself beside her upon the stump.

“Would you have the feathers prepped, the nocks, or the thread?” she asked, amusement threading her voice as she watched the little lord struggle to choose among tasks he did not understand.

“Uh… the feathers,” he replied, though he did not mean it as a question.

“Right, Sir. You must split the middle shaft—scribes use it for writing, or such-like. Dust and mud must be cleared off, and here you place them in the basket, ready for attachment.” She demonstrated swiftly, and Hynek nodded, keen to master her skill.

“Well, I knew that already. Begin then on the… other things,” he said, drawing his dagger and attempting the feathers. She tapped wood to the arrow ends, carving away the excess to leave a small divot. They laboured thus for a time, the gentle thumping of the nocks mingling with Hynek’s frustrated mutters as he slipped, tearing feathers with his dagger.

“Use this, Sir,” she said, offering her hunting dagger. Its handle was bound in maroon leather, worn and fraying with age. Hynek wrinkled his nose.

“You would have me use this… thing?"

“The grip, Sir. Your lordly dagger, though fine, is too slippery.” She smirked, and it drove him near distraction.

“Are you mocking me?”

“Only your stubbornness, Sir.” Her smile was warm, free of malice, though she remained hard to read.

“Call me Hynek,” he said, extending his hand. If friendship was to be won, it should not be based on ‘Sir.’

“I am Anicka,” she said, gripping his hand firmly, fear absent from her gaze. Hynek marvelled at the boldness of this peasant girl, and admiration replaced the hot envy he had felt. The anger faded; in its stead, a warmth bloomed. He had found a friend.

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

1374

“Maybe you’ll actually be able to understand church services now.” Hynek teased, and Anicka pushed him off the tree stump they both sat upon; he just laughed even harder. 

“You noble bastard, not everyone speaks bloody Latin, you Ox. It’s the one good thing that’s come from the King recently.” Hynek knew not everyone spoke Latin, and in turn could not hear sermons, but God, he would pay for that. The preaching would go on and on and on, with peasants none the wiser how dull it all was. He could not understand why Anicka, of all people, gave a shit if they were given in Czech or not. 

“I didn’t realise you were so Godly? Suddenly, you care about the church and its words?” He sat on the grass, gazing up at her, the sun framing her hair like a halo. 

“I am not. But it’s not fair to everyone else who cannot understand the word of God. They can’t read, so it must be this way.” She smoothed down her dress before standing with her bow and quiver. “Come along, Ox. I’ve at least got to hunt for my dinner.”

Hynek followed after her like a lost puppy; he didn’t realise it, but he would’ve gone anywhere she told him to. Deep into the brush was where they ended up, Hynek still working on his bow technique whilst Anicka showed him up at every opportunity. She could nock an arrow with barely a sound; the only noise was the arrow flying through the air before it hit its target (it always hit its target). Hynek, on the other hand, was good but not nearly as silent as he needed to be, generally already having an arrow ready at his side. 

“Straighten your back and hold your back arm up stronger. Your draw doesn’t get enough power.” She whispered as they looked forward at a small rabbit. 

“Perfectionist.” He whispered back with a grimace as he tried to draw back further, his arm screaming at him to stop. The fletch rested lightly on his lip, and he breathed in before letting the string go. It was a bow they had made together, a bit of a dodgy bend, but nothing Anicka hadn’t been able to fix, perfectionist. The arrow struck the rabbit, and it fell. Embarrassingly, it had been his first successful hunt in a very long time. 

“Still whining about me being a perfectionist now?” Anicka asked as she stood up and walked towards the kill. It was hardly large enough for a meal, still he still felt pride at his success.

“You love me really.” Hynek teased as she tied up the rabbit's back legs and attached it to her belt.

“Oh yes, a small little bunny will finally make me declare my undying love for you,” Anicka smirked and they walked further into the forest. 

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

1376

It had been a year of disease and ruin. Well—several years, in truth—throughout Bohemia, but the local spread was worse this year. He and Henry had both caught the pox: Henry was the unlucky one. Hynek, stubborn as an ox even in sickness, had outright refused to die. Covered in boils that swelled and burst, it was the most terrible agony he had ever endured. Looking in a mirror was hardly an option anymore. He had never been the fairest of lads, but now—Christ above—he was a disfigured wreck, which perhaps was a blessing in disguise.

Hynek had no desire to marry. He cared nothing for the estate, the title, or the other trappings of lordship. The title was meant for Henry, and he had been content to be the spare. Now, betrothals and lordly councils loomed, he was already sick of it before it had even begun. At least, this way, he might deter some ladies from seeking his hand; they would surely detest the beast. Yes, perhaps this was for the best.

He wished to see Anička before the day ended—ideally without terrifying the local villagers—but that was easier said than done. By sixteen, he should have been married off, bound by some clever pact between warring families to safeguard the blood of their kinsmen—as if that would matter in the slightest. His disillusionment with noble life had grown steadily alongside his friendship with Anicka. She was so absurdly no-nonsense that she had shown him early how ridiculous it all was.

Hynek knew he would have to wed a noble girl one day and give her a child, but he did not need to like it. Likely, he would have been married off had Henry not been the heir—a tidy arrangement made between him and Anna of Deblín. By his luck, he would be saddled with the woman without any choice.

He adjusted his cape about his shoulders and drew up the hood, opening his window wide to the night, making certain no light spilled from his chamber. Slowly, he made his way down to the first parapet, not far from his window. No guards could be heard below, so he continued his descent. Hynek was now a wiry young man, grown far too quickly in youth and thinned to the point of near invisibility. He moved with the quiet agility of a cat, slipping into corners, hiding as though his life depended on it.

Once on solid ground, it was easy enough to make his way to Anicka’s cottage—or rather, her father’s. He would be gone for at least the week, hunting game with Hynek’s lord father. Something about grief being eased with the blood of a stag?

The lordling regarded the cottage where the forest pressed against the edge of the town. It stood in the gap between the two, a modest dwelling that seemed claimed by neither side. Birch trees crowded close about it, their pale trunks shining in the moonlight like quiet sentries. Ivy had taken hold of the walls and roof, as though the forest itself meant to reclaim the place. The stone at the base, timber darkened by years above it, patched here and there yet holding firm. A thin ribbon of smoke rose from the chimney, carrying the sharp scent of burning pine and the heavier note of roasting meat. Anicka was in and better yet, she was having dinner. 

Hynek rapped on the door three times, then stepped back into the shadows, just out of sight. A sudden coldness gripped him. She had never seen him like this—pockmarked, scarred, a shadow of the boy she once knew. Weeks of fever and boils had left him unrecognizable, and the thought of her reaction made his chest tighten. What if she turned away in disgust? What if the friendship they had forged, the easy warmth between them, dissolved the instant she saw his face? He wanted to see her, but the fear of her pity—or worse, revulsion—held him frozen in place, hidden beneath the night and the hush of the trees. For the first time in a long while, Hynek wondered if he could bear the sight of her disappointment. For a moment, he wondered if he should turn back, disappear into the darkness and spare himself the risk. But the thought of never seeing her again, of letting her slip from his life so easily, was unbearable.

The door opened, Anicka was in a simple brown surcoat with her hair secured by a white coif: stained brown in places. A few wisps of dark hair had escaped across her face and Hynek almost chuckled at the scowl that dominated her face. 

“It's nice to-” Hynek began, but she screamed, chucking her hunting dagger in his general direction. The dagger clinked softly against the cobblestones, and he picked it up, stepping into the light with his head down. 

“Hynek?!” She exclaimed, holding onto the door frame like a support. “You scared me. Why are you sneaking around like that? It's been weeks!” 

“What can I say, I enjoy surprising you.” He was still looking down, staring at the bottom hem of her dress.

“What is it? I know it's dirty. I've been meaning to clean my skirts, but you know me, ever avoiding.” Anicka took a step out of the doorway towards him, and Hynek almost shrank away from her. “Hynek?” 

“I-I have to…” He stepped away again, the coldness gripped him once more, his chest growing tighter as he considered her horror, her pity. Hynek realised he had never faced true fear, he’d stared down death and told the world he wasn’t done with the world but this, this was terrifying.

“Hynek, I’ve been so worried.” She lurched forward and hugged him. Hugged him. She was warm and smelled like a mix of pine and cooked meat. She had wrapped her arms around his, keeping them at his sides, which in turn pulled his cloak downwards, unclipping it at the front due to the unusual angle. Anicka’s face was pressed against his chest; her eyes closed, she seemed at peace, and Hynek wished he could see that calm face every day when he woke up. To know that someone was so happy to see him that it calmed them.

“Didn’t think you missed me that much.” He smiled, and it stretched one of his scars uncomfortably. 

“Shut up, you stupid goat.” She sniffed, holding him tighter.

“You’re not crying over me, are you?” He was teasing, and she punched him in the stomach, not enough to wind him, but definitely enough to bruise.

“You’ve missed me, too, you stupid boy. I know you have, I’m wonderful.” Her grip was lessening, and he could see her starting to look up.

“Of course, when I was at my deathbed, I wished for the one person who calls me a stupid goat,” Hynek hadn’t realised his hood had fallen, and when he looked into her dark eyes, he began to panic. She wasn’t saying anything, maybe that was good: at least she hadn’t screamed. Her hand made its way to his cheek and up to his hairline. He cringed backwards at her touch, and she retracted her hand. 

“What on earth have you done to your hair?” She asked with a giggle. His hair had been cut short to treat any boils on his head; he hadn’t considered it an important detail, but he supposed it was another difference. “Didn’t think I’d miss the ginger helmet hair.” She was smiling and looking directly at him; she wasn’t scared. 

“My Lady, I apologise profusely. In my haste to heal, I had not considered the great tax on your delicate heart.” He clutched his chest dramatically. Anicka only rolled her eyes and tried to hide how she wiped her eyes. 

“Come on, I’ve just finished cooking.” She grabbed his disgusting pox-scarred hand tightly and pulled him inside. 

They sat for a while talking about nothing in particular, nothing about the illness or the fact that Anicka’s father had wanted to marry her off for years now. Two friends sat and ate rabbit stew, staying warm near the fire and laughing. 

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

1378

It had finally happened, the bastard had finally done it. His blockhead of a father had negotiated a marriage to Henry’s betrothed like a sick joke. There was no love lost between the brothers, and Hynek hadn’t seen a shred of care from Henry about the match; even so, it felt wrong. He knew it would still be at least a year until the marriage actually happened, as everything was finalised with a dowry and whatnot, an agonising year of appearances at fucking court events and pretending he cared at all. 

“You knew it would happen at some time,” Anicka told him as they sat in the castle courtyard waiting for the arrowheads that had been forged recently. 

“Why her? Henry’s leftovers.” Hynek groaned, but Anicka’s face was stony.

“Don’t call her leftovers, Hynek. That’s not fair, she will have ten times less control over the whole thing than you will.” She turned to look at the forge and away from him. 

“Ugh, don’t be angry. I don’t think I could take more bad news today.” He ran a hand down his face, still scarred but he cared a whole lot less. 

“Come on, we have work to do.” She thanked the blacksmith, handing him a bag of groschen before walking towards the forest. 

She was different. More removed from their usual conversations and it made Hynek ridiculously uncomfortable. What had changed? They were older but that hadn't seemed to matter at any other point. Her back to him as she continued walking deeper into the forest clutching a basket of arrowheads and carved wood. It was akin to a ritual for them, fletching was their time together away from it all. 

“Anicka?” Hynek stopped walking. Sick of the silence. 

“Yes,” she answered all too sharply and it felt like she'd winded him.

“What's wrong?” 

“Nothing I can't handle.” She was grimacing and trying to hide it behind a well trained smile. 

“You're lying, Anicka. You're not so sneaky as to hide your feelings from me.” He crossed his arms and she finally turned, eyes welling up. 

“I am to be sent away. Father has found me a husband and grown tired of my opposition so I am just to be sent away.” Her hands were trembling now and Hynek took the last few steps needed to be close with her. 

“I will forbid it. I won't let him give you away to some beast of a man.” His voice was low but serious. 

“You won't have time for me when you are wed anyhow. Maybe it is better this way.” She resolved and went to turn but Hynek suddenly reached out and gripped her wrist. 

“It is not better. If anything it's ridiculously worse, you must see that?” His grip wasn't tight but it didn't lessen. 

“What is the solution then? We are both unmarried, we can't just stay as we are. I need a husband if I'm to do anything in this godforsaken world. Your father will not relent until you are married. It has to happen so it may as well be now.” A tear ran down her cheek and she quickly brushed it away. Hynek didn't know what to do, life without her seemed unbearable. Whilst life with his new wife sounded all together awful. 

“Marry me.” He said before really thinking about it. Anicka furrowed her brow and laughed. A hollow humourless laugh. 

“Don't make fun of me. You know it can't happen yet you dangle it in front of my face like I'm a dog.” She tried to pull from his grip but Hynek wouldn't let go. 

“I would sooner marry you than the beast my father probably has me marrying.” He smiled, it was meant to be a comfort but it only seemed to upset her more. 

“I will not be a second choice to fix your problems, Hynek. You don't know what you are saying or how hurtful it is.” 

“Why is it hurtful? We are close friends are we not? Is that not better than a loveless marriage with no care or history?” His brow now furrowed, why was she so adverse to his touch, his company. 

“You still love me as a sister, do you not?” 

“I- yes I suppose.” 

“Then I cannot marry you, it would be on false pretences. And anyway you are promised to another!” She was looking down, unable or unwilling to meet his gaze. 

“What false pretences? I don't want to marry that woman! I would sooner marry someone I see as my sister.” 

“I do not love you like a brother, Hynek.” She paused and looked up at him with tearful eyes. “You must know that.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“There is no use explaining myself. Let us carry on with the day and talk of this no more.” She regrettably slipped out of his grip and began to walk further into the brush. 

“I will not move until you explain yourself.” 

“Then you will be waiting a long time, My Lord.” Her voice was full of malice that hit Hynek like a slap. My Lord? She hadn't called him that except in jest for years. 

“Anicka, please I-” 

“Stop. I beg of you. It's too painful.” She didn't turn but did stop, leaning on a tree for support as he assumed she kept crying. 

Hynek walked towards her, the dry leaves punctuating every step with purpose. He expected her to flee, like the startled hare she seemed to be reflecting. Her slight figure was rooted, the stillness of the trees mirrored in her composure.

Reaching out, he laid a hand on her shoulder, firm but not unkind. She did not flinch. Instead, she set her hand atop his, her nails rimmed with soil, the faint scent of pine clinging to her skin. There was strength in her grip, scared he would fly away from her. The wind threaded through her hair, carrying dark strands across her face like a veil, hiding her eyes. 

“We’re lingering too long in the woods,” Hynek said, his voice pitched in quiet reproach. “Your father might miss you.” 

Her lips curved, not quite a smile, not quite defiance. “I am always missed. By my father when I undoubtedly fail him, by my betrothed when I am not docile enough”

He frowned, tilting his head as though he might scold her for such words, yet his gaze soften instead. To him, she was like the sister he had never had—wild, stubborn, unpolished, but honest. He thought she sought his counsel, his protection.

She hesitated then, her fingers tightening upon his hand. Her breath quickened, her lips parting as though some confession pressed at the edge of speech. “And you?” she asked softly, almost swallowed by the wind. “Would you miss me, if—”

But she stopped herself, biting the rest of the words away. Her hand slipped from his, falling back to her side. She turned her face aside, hair sweeping like a curtain between them.

Hynek, puzzled by her sudden retreat, gave a small laugh. “You ask strange things. Of course I would miss you. You are as much a sister to me as my own blood.”

Her eyes closed at that—only for a heartbeat, a tremor unnoticed by him. When she looked up again, her face was composed, as though the forest itself had finally swallowed her up.

“You should go,” she said quietly. “The leaves carry whispers, and not all ears in the wood are kind.”

He nodded, turning back the way he had come. Yet as he walked away, he felt the faintest unease, like a word half-heard but not understood. The wind stirred behind him, carrying her soft cries with it. In years to come, he would remember this moment—the weight of her hand, the broken thread of her question—and wonder how he had not known.

next chapter

[lavender-romancer]

The Devil's Wife

Chapter One

Dry Devil x Original Female Character 

Henry X Hans Capon

Henry rides with Captain Zizka toward the notorious Devil’s Den, hoping for a straightforward mission to rescue Hans —but chaos follows him at every turn. Bloody skirmishes and the rescue of the legendary Dry Devil. At the same time, a mysterious woman in the Devil’s life challenges everything Henry thought he knew about loyalty, power, and the danger of those who command it.

Read on A03!

”*°•.˜”*°•. ˜”*°•. ˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜

The ride to the Devil’s Den proved more pleasant than Henry had expected. After Nebakov, he had not known what to make of Captain Zizka, but Trosky had changed everything. Henry would trust the one-eyed commander with his life now, and if Zizka believed that finding Lord Hynek—the so-called Dry Devil—would help them in turn rescue Hans, Henry was willing to follow. God willing, this time it might be straightforward.

Of course, it was never that simple. Suchdol had yielded nothing, and this den was the next best chance. Why the Devil would lift a finger to help find Hans, Henry did not know, but he could not afford to doubt.

Not knowing where Hans was gnawed at him, a sharp, constant pin-prick in his chest that drew into a knot in his stomach. Brotherhood, perhaps. But Henry suspected brotherhood was not supposed to feel this crushing. He had worried for Godwin, even for Zizka when they were imprisoned together, but nothing like this. Saving Hans mattered above all else.

“The den is quiet for the afternoon,” Zizka remarked as they approached the inn—a modest building tucked away in the countryside, its whitewashed walls spattered with mud and faded wine stains.

“Is that not good? Perhaps there is no trouble for once,” Henry began, but the door flew open and a man tumbled out, jug in hand, hitting the ground with a heavy thump. Zizka’s mace was in hand in an instant, and Henry drew his sword to follow.

“I warned you!” roared a man striding after the fallen drunkard. He delivered a hard kick to the man’s ribs.

“I didn’t cheat!” wheezed the man on the ground, smiling as though the world were in perfect order.

“Pay us our coin, or I’ll cut your head from your shoulders here and now,” growled another, blade levelled at the drunkard’s chest.

The fellow on the ground only chuckled, clutching his jug. “What can I say? The dice fall more kindly once I’ve had a drink. God’s own gift! And you wouldn’t get a groschen for a turnip like me in any case.”

“Ha! You’re right about that.” The sword-man raised his blade to plunge into the drunkard’s gut when Zizka’s voice cut through the air.

“I’d have a use for that turnip, you know.” He stood calm, unbothered, every inch the soldier Henry envied.

“And who the hell are you?” the man spat, turning his blade on Zizka.

“Lower that paper-knife before you hurt yourself, boy,” Zizka rumbled.

“Zizka! At last!” cried the drunkard, rolling onto his stomach.

“Still a drunken sod, Kubyenka?” Zizka shot back.

“You know me, sir.” With startling agility, Kubyenka sprang up and rammed a sword through one of his tormentors. Henry braced for the fight.

The rest proved hardly more than boys playing banditry. Their armour was no better than padded cloth, their swords dull. Henry dispatched his opponent with ease, grateful at least for the practice. The bodies bled freely on the inn’s courtyard stones, and Henry tried kicking sand over the mess, but it only spread.

“Handy with a sword, boy,” Kubyenka grinned, nodding to him. Henry managed a smile.

“Where is your band, Zizka?”

“You’re looking at it. Sigismund’s curs turned coat. This lad stood with me when it counted.” Zizka gestured to the blood-stained patch that now covered his ruined eye.

Kubyenka slapped Henry’s shoulder approvingly. “You must handle yourself well indeed!”

Zizka waved him off. “Enough. Where is the Devil? I need words with him.”

Kubyenka scratched his beard, sighing. “Well… he’s locked up.”

Zizka stiffened. “Locked up? How in Christ’s name—?”

“Some armoured bastards took him after a job in Kuttenberg went sour. Outnumbered us. Me and Adder tried to pull him away, but they were on him like cats. We’d all be in irons if we hadn’t run.”

“God’s wounds,” muttered Zizka.

Henry stepped forward. “Do you know where they hold him?”

“The town jail, I’d wager. But you’ll not drag him out of there—not alive.”

“How long?” Henry pressed.

Kubyenka shrugged. “As long as I’ve been drinking. A week? Maybe a month.”

“Why haven’t they hanged him?” Henry asked.

“Because of the price on his head. He’s the most feared robber-baron in Bohemia, lad. They’ll not waste him on the gallows. No, they’ll send him to Sigismund, make a grand show of it.”

“Then we’ll take him in transit,” Henry said quickly. Zizka nodded.

The ambush was brutal. Henry and Zizka carried most of the fight while the hired archers loosed half-hearted arrows. Still, with Zizka hacking and Henry skewering the last man with a roar, they took the wagon.

The Devil himself was bound within, grimy and bloodied, an arrow lodged in his backside. His body bore the map of old scars; his face was pocked, his lips pressed thin in a scowl. His eyes glimmered dark beneath heavy brows—a robber-baron made flesh.

“Fucking hell, Hynek!” Zizka leaned on the wagon. “Why were you so heavily guarded?”

“Why are you in a floppy bloody hat? And why is there an arrow in my arse?” the Devil bellowed, while Kubyenka slipped away.

Zizka loosened his bonds with a sigh. “Stay in the cart. We’ll take you back.”

“Too right I will. If Kubyenka loosed that shot, I’ll wring his neck—”

“Stop your whining. Save your strength,” Zizka grinned, clapping his shoulder.

”*°•.˜”*°•. ˜”*°•. ˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜

That night, the inn rang with noise enough for twenty men. The Devil had not drunk in weeks, and Kubyenka was already falling off the benches. Henry was grateful for the respite, however brief it would end up being, the stories and songs distracted him very well from pining over Hans and despairing over whether he was safe. 

“How is he drunk again? He was drunk when we found him!” Henry laughed, watching Kubyenka roll around and giggling.

“Boy, he was born drunk,” the Devil smirked.

Zizka chuckled, beginning a tale, when a sudden sound cut through the laughter. Outside, the wind carried the distinct thrum of hoofbeats—four of them, fast and deliberate, drumming against the dirt road leading to the inn. Henry stiffened, heart hammering, and the laughter in the room seemed to vanish.

Zizka’s hand went to his mace, eyes narrowing. “They’re coming,” he hissed, pulling Henry upright. “Get ready.”

From the shadows of the yard, four figures emerged, their forms partially obscured by the dim glow of the inn’s windows. Weapons gleamed faintly—swords, a crossbow, and something heavier at one man’s side. They moved cautiously, scanning for movement, approaching with slow, deliberate steps, each bootfall silent and threatening.

Henry’s grip on his sword tightened. Even from this distance, he could see their coordination: the lead man gesturing with a tilt of his head, the others falling into a staggered formation that balanced offence and defence. Every movement radiated intent, the tension in their shoulders betraying their readiness to strike.

“They’ve tracked us,” Zizka whispered. “Or maybe the bodies were found. Either way—they know we’re here.”

“But why announce themselves so loudly?” Henry murmured.

“Who gives a damn?” growled the Devil, cocking a crossbow from the shadows. “I could do with a bit of blood on my hands.”

Henry’s heart pounded. The four men continued their approach, shadows flickering against the trees lining the yard. Each slight rasp of armour, the subtle clink of steel, made Henry’s nerves tighten. This was no casual visit—they meant battle, and the inn would be their arena.

Zizka’s voice broke the tension. “Stay sharp. Don’t give them an inch.”

"Fuck that, I'm not going back." The Devil stepped fully into the yard, loosed a bolt, and a horse shrieked.

“Fucking horse!” a woman’s voice rang out, sharp and furious, "Hynek, if that was you, I will wring your neck!" The Devil went pale, dropped his bow, and ran into the dark.

Zizka waved Henry down. “All clear.”

Henry blinked, confused, until he saw the Devil return, leading a horse. Beside him walked a woman.

She was darker of skin than the Devil, chestnut with hair to match, lean and tall in riding boots. Her hair was bound back, revealing a gash from hairline to brow. She should have looked marred, yet she was striking—sharp-boned, dark-eyed, lips pressed firm with restrained fury. Her beauty was steel, not silk.

Her attire confused Henry further. A long riding coat, its skirt split for the saddle, cinched tight with a wide leather belt. Beneath, patterned breeches peeked through, and her boots laced to the calf. The sleeves tapered at the wrists yet puffed at the shoulders—tailored, not borrowed. When the coat shifted, Henry glimpsed the flat line of a dagger hidden at her side. Stranger still was her closeness with the Devil. She looked at him with simmering anger, the stare of one long used to his decisions, yet beneath it a softness flickered—a familiarity no other man would dare draw from him. The Dry Devil snarled at the world, yet let this woman cuff him about the head with something like fondness.

“If you stare any longer, boy, I’ll cut your cock off,” the Devil snarled, seizing Henry’s chin. Henry quickly looked away.

“Hynek,” the woman said, her tone laced with quiet command, “at least the lad didn’t shoot into the dark. Let him be.” She offered Henry a kind smile before smacking the Devil's head with easy intimacy.

Inside the inn, Henry whispered to Zizka, “Who is she?”

Zizka chuckled. “Who do you think the Devil would ever be tender with?”

“His sister?” Henry ventured.

“No, you fool. Think.”

“His… wife?” Henry blurted too loudly.

“Yes, my fucking wife,” Hynek growled from across the room, glaring daggers at him.

Zizka smirked. “And how does the Lady of Kunstadt and Jaispitz fare?”

“How kind of you to use my not-official title,” she replied smoothly. “The lands fare well enough in my husband’s absence—and the coin, less foolishly spent.” She glanced at Hynek with the smugness of one who knew him too well. Henry sat back, still reeling. He had come to rescue a robber-baron for a friend, and instead found a pair whose closeness, sharp wit, and unspoken history left him both confused and awestruck. He would not soon forget the sight of the Dry Devil tempered by this woman, nor the way her presence seemed to soften the fury of a man feared across Bohemia.

“Agh, stop fussing over her, she’s built like an Ox.” The Devil received a clap on the ears for that, but smirked down at her all the same.

“Bastard as my husband is, he’s not wrong; it’ll just sting for a bit. But Kubyenka, you have not yet told me how my darling husband ended up in a cell without my knowledge?" The Lady rose and approached a terrified-looking Kubyenka, who sat on the bench opposite her, nursing yet another humongous jug of wine. 

“T-that was an oversight on my part, and I am so-” Kubyenka was interrupted by the flash of a dagger being held close to his jugular. 

“If he so much as sniffs a jail cell and you are not also there with him, you'd best pray to any God in existence I've been made aware of prior or I will cut you from neck to navel. Do I make myself clear?” She raised an eyebrow at him, and Henry’s eyes widened when Kubyenka nodded. No wonder the Devil had fallen for such a woman; the robber baron stood with a wide grin plastered over his face, pure adoration in his eyes. She removed the dagger from Kubyenka’s throat and smiled at Henry, back to being the lady as she holstered it. “And who is this strapping young man?”

“Henry of Skaltiz, your ladyship,” Henry went to stand, but she waved him to sit down before moving around the table and sitting down next to him. 

”Honestly, the ladyship thing is more of a power trip on my end that Zizka graciously plays into. I’m Anicka, you’ll be told I’m a prisoner of my horrifying beast of a husband, but don’t believe what gossip says, especially in the discussion of Lords and Ladies. Most of the time they’re full of absolute shite.” She reached over and grabbed Zizka’s ale before taking a sip and grimacing, “Jesus, we need to get something better brewed here.” 

“My wife, the sudden critic of ale when she usually drinks any Bohemian piss you put in a mug.” The Devil joined them on the other side of Zizka.

“I’ll have you know that my time in Wencleslaus' court has refined my taste somewhat,” Anicka mentioned Wencleslaus so casually that Henry almost spat out his drink. 

“You’ve been in his court?” Henry coughed. 

“Aye, Prague is quite the circus at the moment, especially with von Bergows' decided stance against him. I mean, allying with Toth? One would do well to stay away from that snake. I heard what happened in Skalitz, Henry. For what it’s worth, and that is not a lot, I am sorry for the tragedies that happened there.” She placed a gloved hand on top of Henry’s with a soft smile that Henry returned. 

“It means more than you can know, thank you.” Henry looked down at the table, refusing to spiral back into thoughts of despair. 

“Come on, lad, chin up. We’ve got to find your Lord.” Zizka reasoned, and Henry nodded. 

“Which Lord is this?” Anicka asked.

“Lord Hans Capon of Pierkstein,” Henry said quietly with a sigh. He didn’t think it would be so utterly unbearable speaking Hans’ name, but the twisting feeling in his gut only worsened.

“Is that Hanush’s ward?” She asked, and Henry nodded, “Well then, I can help you, well, at least with whispers of where he might be. Von Bergow took him, right?” 

“Indeed, he did. What trouble have you got up to this time? Katherine won’t be surprised when she next sees you.” Zizka grinned.

“Oh, shove off, the machinations of court are one of hushed whispers in a constant circle. Apparently, Liechtenstein has been looking very deeply into the disappearance as well. Jobst doesn’t appear to have asked him to, so I have no idea why, but after you’ve gathered a few others, he might be your best bet to find your Sir Hans.” Anicka was nudging the Devil under the table, who appeared to be falling asleep.

“What! Oh, it’s you. Thought it might have been one of these ugly fuckers. Well, I won’t stab you for now at least.” The Devil smirked, tight-lipped and exhausted. 

“Thank you, Lady Anicka. You have no idea how helpful that information will be. I’m not surprised Sir Liechtenstein has his hands over this. Hopefully, the spymaster will remember me enough to tell me what he knows. I suppose if Jobst did know, he might have mentioned it at Suchdol. So this gives us a new direction, thank you.” Henry bowed his head and bid them goodnight. Zizka soon followed, hauling Kubyenka up the stairs in tow as he drunkenly stumbled. 

“I am sorry about- well, you know what about.” The Devil reached over and took his wife's hands in his.

“All is well, at least now I'm here. How could you not send news, my love? I had to find out through my little birds instead of you or one of the pack.” She raised an accusatory eyebrow but gripped onto his hands in fear that he would fly away once more. 

“I was a bit busy in fairness. Don’t get many messengers when you’re surrounded by four stone walls and a shit bucket.” He scratched the stubble on his cheek, “As for the rest of them, I have no fucking idea why they didn’t send word. I always told them you were the only port of call worth contacting.” 

“I’ll have to give them a swift kick up the backside when I see them,” She smirked, and the Devil let out a hearty laugh.

“Oh, darlin, I think they’d like that just a bit too much for it to be a punishment. You’re better off with the silent treatment, if I know Adder, he won’t be able to bear being ignored.” His thumb brushed against the top of her hand, a more beautiful creature he had never seen, especially with that little smile on her face. God, he knew he’d see that smile before he died.

“I think you deserve a reward for being locked up for so long,” She rose to her feet and walked around the table slowly before sitting down on the devil's lap, feeling her stir underneath her. 

“And what does the Lady have planned?” His hands made their way onto her waist, giving a little squeeze. She leaned down next to his ear and whispered-

“I might even let you touch me.”

“You evil witch.” The Devil exclaimed with a slap on her arse that was firm enough to result in a twitch from her and a smile.

“I have missed you, Hynek.” Anicka leaned in, deliberately close, her eyes locking with his. Her lips hovered over his for just a fraction too long, teasing, daring. She knew exactly what she was doing—and she enjoyed every second of it.

The Devil’s jaw tightened. That confident little smirk of hers, that brush of lips that threatened more than it promised—it was a challenge, and the Devil didn’t suffer challenges lightly.

“You always have to test me, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, with a growl that made her pulse spike. His hand lifted, sliding behind her head, drawing her gently yet firmly toward him. Not fast, not violent—yet charged with an authority she both knew and loved.

The kiss begins slowly, measured, almost a conversation. He lingered on her lips, tasting, exploring, waiting for her next move. Anicka’s fingers slid behind his neck, her grip confident, assertive—she wasn’t surrendering, she was meeting him, matching his force with hers.

They moved together, a rhythm born of years of knowing each other. Each press of lips, each tilt of a head, built anticipation. He brushed her jaw, tracing down her neck, and she leaned into it, her body arching, responding without hesitation. She loved that he was the Devil, and she loved even more that he belonged to her—and that she belonged to him.

Finally, he deepened the kiss, and it became hungry, urgent, yet still measured and neither rushed. They had all the time in the world—the slow burn of familiarity and desire stretching every second into an eternity.

When they finally parted, breathless, foreheads pressed together, Anicka’s confident grin returned. “You think you can intimidate me?” she teased.

The Devil’s lips curved, dark and possessive, his eyes blazing. “I don’t think, my wife. I know.”

next part

[lavender-romancer]

The Devil's Wife

Dry Devil x Original Female Character

Henry x Hans Capon

Chapter One

An: I'm finally writing for KCD2! I have been looking forward to posting this for so long heavily inspired to write this by work from @naraism @ihaveathingforfictionalmenlol @wqnown and Zimushka on A03 and their fic

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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Summary: Henry rides with Captain Zizka toward the notorious Devil’s Den, hoping for a straightforward mission to rescue Hans —but chaos follows him at every turn. Bloody skirmishes and the rescue of the legendary Dry Devil.

At the same time, a mysterious woman in the Devil’s life challenges everything Henry thought he knew about loyalty, power, and the danger of those who command it.

[lavender-romancer]

I'd Do Anything

Part Five

Tommy Shelby x reader

You met when you were sixteen and from there your lives ebbed and flowed closer and further away from one another but there was always something that brought you together.

”*°•.˜”*°•. ˜”*°•. ˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜

previous chapter

1919

He no longer felt like your Thomas and that was okay. You had made sure to convince yourself of that. To begin with there was healing that both of you needed to do, individually and together to come to terms with what you had seen in France. But it felt like he drew further and further from you with each action he took. You coexisted- sometimes in the same bed- but it didn't feel real, or special, or important. You simply didn't feel as connected to one another, it wasn't all Tommy's fault either as you hadn't tried to repair anything. It felt like so much work when you just wanted to rest. To exist.

The two of you still worked together very well and professionally there were no issues but things changed personally when two years prior you walked into the Garrison and saw him flirting with Grace. Well, you could tell he was even though to most people it would look like he was giving her the sternest look imaginable.

“Whiskey, please.” You said to Grace as you walked up to the bar and stood next to Tommy. She offered you a polite smile and poured you a glass. Tommy walked past you without a word into the private booth and left the door open for you.

You walked in with your glass and shut the door behind you.

“What did you want to discuss?” You asked, still standing by the door, ready to make your escape if he said something cruel.

“I don't know where we stand.” Tommy said quietly, pulling out a cigarette and tapping it on one side before lighting it.

“I'd argue you've made quite sure that we only stand in one place with one another.” You scoffed and leant against the door.

“You blame me?”

“We're both to blame, but it's ridiculous to ask that question when you have made no attempt to communicate or change our standing with one another.” You felt your mouth grow into an expression of disgust and tried to quickly usher it away.

“Neither have you.” Tommy said, sounding even quieter but nonetheless frustrated.

“I have told you so much. Tried to prompt any sort of conversation from you! I know I can never understand being a soldier but I saw bloodshed, I had men beg me to end their suffering. You're not the only one impacted in all of this.” you sat down in front of Tommy and put your head in your hands. “I don't think the person you’ve become loves this version of me.”

“And it's that simple to you?” He questioned and it caught you off guard.

“What?” You asked, bewildered.

“The people we are now… we don't know one another. We may as well be strangers.” Tommy breathed out a puff of smoke.

“Maybe. Or maybe, you don't want to fuck me anymore since you've found someone new. Do you even want to try? Put in any kind of effort?” You asked, standing up so you could make a quick exit.

“Maybe I do want to fuck her.” The statement just made you shake your head and get this feeling in your chest. An ache you had never experienced before, it was all you could do to walk out of the Garrison before the tears pooled in your eyes. You knew he would never cry over all of it. This new man was so unlike anything you had seen before that it scared you to think humans could be altered so drastically.

1921

He felt catastrophically empty. It had been two years since Grace had left him and two years since he fucked up everything with you: in some masochistic way, Tommy enjoyed the pain he deemed himself deserving of. Why should he enjoy a happy life when he had fucked around so much and ruined everything? The two of you worked together so well it was easy for him to forget that there were any issues; until it came to time out of work and how awkward it was. You didn't know how to talk to one another let alone discuss how you so obviously pined for each other.

He didn't know why he sabotaged himself when it came to you, sure Grace was an easy option to warm his bed but he had never loved her. After all the loss he had experienced he didn't know if it was worth considering a relationship with you when you could leave. What would he do then?

Tommy was so ridiculously self-destructive in those years following the end of war at least, he was when it came to you. He didn't know why. Some commentary about how you could do better than him or something, probably. Tommy wanted to hold you and never let you go. Have the world stop for a while and just be in a moment with you, sex wasn't important, he just wanted to be around you.

But, sex seemed to be the only time the two of you would be together outside of work and neither of you knew how you felt about it. Whenever Tommy thought back to before the war and how distraught he'd been when you left for London, it paled in comparison to the disaster he was currently living through.

He could run an illegal business, piss off a police inspector, fuck over the government and a multitude of other things. But he couldn't get it right with you no matter how he tried. Every single time he would do or say something stupid that ruined everything. You weren't devoid of blame but Tommy knew he was so stand-offish that it was hard to talk about anything with him.

This was one of the nights where you had shared a bed with one another and thinking Tommy was asleep you had tried to leave silently in the night. But then felt Tommy's stretched out arm as he brushed your hand. Muttering words like “please stay”or something to that effect, he was so tired he couldn't quite remember. But you did, and he held you closer than ever before.

Whether you would end up together or not Tommy knew that he would love you more than his future spouse, that if you asked him to run away with you, he would do it. Commitment was such a far off concept for him, a mystical story that never really worked out. Keeping you at arms distance had mostly worked. But you simply couldn't do it anymore.

You hadn't ever felt this worthless: it felt as if a melancholic cloud was stubbornly floating over your life like a plague. Sick of being a second choice, a back up for him to run home too. When Grace turned out to be a traitor, he ran back to you: but not in any meaningful way. No matter what had been there in your twenties you could no longer have so little respect for yourself.

You were nearly 31, you couldn't hold onto childish fantasies of marriage anymore. Sometimes you'd have these moments with Tommy, early sleepy mornings where you cuddled and spoke to one another as the sun rose. But then it would end and you were nothing to him again. Or at least just a conduit for his frustration to expel.

“Tommy, can I speak with you?” knocking on his office door before stepping in and closing the door behind you.

“What is it?” His monotone voice, as always, was a kick in the gut reminding you of his indifference to you.

“I think we should cease our activities out of work hours, I don't think it's healthy for either of us to carry on with it and-”

“Alright.” Tommy interrupted, not looking up from some documents he was signing. You waited for a moment, giving him a chance to give you an indication this had impacted him at all.

“Was there anything else?” He continued still not looking up and you sucked on your tongue to stop yourself from crying. Reverting to a technique you used as a child when the shouting matching between your parents got too much to deal with.

“I suppose not, I will see you for our meeting tomorrow, Mr Shelby.” Turning tail you dug your fingernails into your palm, the steady slight pain keeping you grounded.

He could seemingly let this go. It was casual after all. No matter how much you wanted to hold on to something that wasn't there. Maybe it was time to move on, a job down south in a bank or an assistant or really anything away from Birmingham. You opened your palm face up and looked at the indents your middle and ring finger had made. It was soothing in a fucked up kind of way. The indents would fade over time but you would always know what the pain felt like, sort of like leaving Tommy. It would fade away eventually, you'd move on eventually. He didn't have to be anything more than a footnote in your life.

Walking back into the hustle and bustle of the shop was comforting. You would much rather have you brain full of noise than be left thinking about what the fuck you were going to do. You didn't want to leave the company if you could help it, everyone you loved was here. Either way you had to make yourself useful for the time being. There was no point wallowing over someone who would never do the same.

You instead thrust yourself into work over the next year. Tommy wanted to expand into London and look at more tracks so there was a great deal of negotiations to be had. Taking a more direct role in management alongside Tommy as a partner was comfortable. Being on the professional side had always been your preference plus some unsavoury characters loved to interact with both you and Tommy. Sometimes for less innocent reasons when it came to you but if it aided deals going through you didn't mind as much.

The two of you worked incredibly well together, regardless of the fact you did not spend time alone outside of work, always keeping it professional and with a degree of distance. Whilst you would always harbour a familiarity with Tommy, you had practically let go of the childish notion of a second chance.

You'd started spending more time with Ada and Freddie in London recently and looking after little Karl more often. Their own little Marxist. It was rare you had enough time to look after all of John's kids at once but Karl was such a little angel.

“So when are you and Tom going to pull yourselves together?” Freddie asked one evening when you were staying at theirs. Karl was asleep on your shoulder and you were slowly rubbing his back.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh come on. You two are obsessed with one another.” He smirked in a knowing way.

“I don't know what you mean.” You tried to sound aloof but your panicked look gave you away.

“Oh leave her alone Freddie, she can't even bear to think about it herself.” Ada chimed in and you rolled your eyes.

“She’s in denial, my beautiful wife. Honestly, you should marry into the Shelby family. It's usually a delight.” Freddie giggled and Ada threw a pillow that he only just dodged.

“It's not that simple a-and anyway it's not as if we think of each other that way anymore we work well together. Thomas made it very clear when we got back from France he didn't want to pursue anything so I gave up a long time ago.” You stared at the hearth and yawned.

“We know that. We still think you're both incredibly stupid. How on earth can anyone stand the two of you when you’re so clearly made for one another?” Freddie asked.

“And to add that. My brother can never see what's right in front of him. Or he thinks he knows best when really it's me and Polly.” Ada tucked her feet up on the sofa and stroked baby Karl's back.

“Even if you were right Tommy is too stubborn to have that sort of conversation with me anymore.” Karl was beginning to fuss on your chest, probably hungry.

“Have you tried seeing other people?” Ada asked.

“Well that's a stupid question.” Freddie muttered.

“I don't know, not really. I've entertained the idea but it just never feels feasible.” The eagle eyes on you were unsettling but you knew why Ada was asking.

“It's so frustrating because you are clearly obsessed with one another!” Ada rolled her eyes.

“You know as well as I do that it will never be that simple. That's not the only thing that makes a difference.” You stood up slowly and began rocking Karl with a little bounce. “I might put him down for a nap.”

“We should hire you to be a governess at this point. You'll be teaching him mathematics next.” Ada grinned.

“I think I'm just his extra special favourite aunt who's got sleep deprivation and a work addiction, yes I do beautiful boy.” You looked down at his little face as he began stirring and you rocked him.

Walking over to the crib you pulled down the thin blanket and lay him down gently, he was moving about in his sleep now. It was times like these you wish you could still swaddle him. Annoyingly, Karl just kept growing, showing no signs of slowing down. It wouldn't be long before he was saying more than incoherent words and even as a sort of Aunt it was terrifying. You wanted more than ever to keep him safe and you knew taking even some of the burden off Ada was making it easier for her. Dark circles and pale skin were a constant for her these days, Freddie wasn't much better with manual work leaving him exhausted and aching.

You wanted nothing more than to just live with them and take care of the baby but you'd miss it all. The noise of the shop, John's terrible jokes, Arthur's booming voice or even Tommy's presence: you were finding it harder and harder to ignore the fact that you loved being around him. You couldn't bear to be aware from the family home for long for fear of missing Finn growing up. Whether you wanted it to be your existence was inextricably intertwined with Tommy's.

A few months later you felt empty, dressed in black with a veil flapping in the wind over your face. It was a bleak morning, the November rain patterning your black coat like melancholic polka dots. You stood with Polly and Esme, the red flags flying high over the other side of Freddie's grave. The very noticeable divide was troubling to you as Ada stood so far away with Karl in her arms. The priest finished his prayers and Tommy stepped forward.

“I promised my friend Freddie that I would say a few words if he were to pass before me. I made this promise in France when we were fighting for the King, before he became my brother in law. In the end it wasn't war that took him, it was pestilence,” Tommy paused and you looked over to Ada who had the most perplexing look on her face. You couldn't tell if it was anger or frustration.

“But even though he’d gone, his spirit had been passed to a new generation before he was so cruelly taken.” Whilst Tommy's words were sincere, his monotone nature undermined the meaning of them. It sounded flat especially as Karl started crying. The red flags blew in the wind as a sign of Freddie's ideals being continuously present even in death. You didn't know what to feel, you knew you missed Freddie terribly and you wanted to help Ada more than ever but there was such a divide. She was on ‘one side’ of the fight and you on the other even though a few months ago you happily existed together.

Later you saw Ada and Tommy talking to one another: it shouldn't have but it made you extremely nervous. You wanted Ada back or course, but it wasn't that simple anymore. You knew she couldn't stand the irony of her family's situation: that they had chauffeured Bugattis whilst much of the population starved. Anything for the image, as Tommy would say. Walking to stand next to Polly, you both watched the siblings intently.

“Has Tommy asked her to come back yet?” You turned to Polly, rubbing your gloves hands together.

“She hasn't slapped him yet, so I don't think so. Honestly, I don't know what possessed him, she will never come back no matter how much we want it.” Pol’s veil was being battered by the wind, it was blown flush to her face casting an even darker cast over her features.

“I can't say I haven't considered asking if I could live with her. Maybe starting anew would be best.” Even as you said it you knew it wouldn't happen, the way you began to anxiously fidget with your fingers told you that.

“Oh darling, I don't think you'd be able to stay away. For whatever reason, the work, the danger, the family: I'm not always sure what keeps you here but I think you'd find it harder to leave than you make out.” Pol slowly rubbed circles on your back before she saw Ada heading towards the car that would be taking her to the station. Polly excused herself and you took a deep breath, how was she so sure? Maybe she could see the future…

“She refused of course, maybe you can talk her into it.” Tommy walked to stand next to you, lighting a cigarette and holding out one for you.

“Let's try another time, she's only just buried Freddie,” you reasoned. “She needs to know why you want her back. Ada isn't stupid, she has the patented Shelby stubbornness of course but she wouldn't put Karl in danger.”

“Look at you, getting all analytically manipulative with the family.” He smirked.

“Oh be quiet, anyways I could never live up to your unachievable bar of fucking people around.” You nudged him playfully and we're surprised to see an eyebrow raise.

“Is that so? Well I suppose you will have to work hard to measure up.” Tommy let his arm hang down to touch yours. Hands not so far from one another now, not knowing when if it was appropriate to touch hurt your head. Testing the waters you continued to look forward and brush your little finger over the side of his palm. He tensed slightly but then slipped his hand into yours.

Peaky blinders taglist:

@queenofkings1212 @severewobblerlightdragon @cl5369 @fairypitou @stressedandbandobessed7771 @shadow-of-wonder @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns @curled-hair-red-lips @lucystivinsky1315

Series taglist:

@swordofawriter @jessimay89 @globetrotter28 @marcysbear

[pragnificent]

This is Money Snake. She only appears every 312 years. 

If you reblog her picture within the next twenty-five seconds you will have good luck and fortune for the rest of your life. 

[lavender-romancer]

I Really Shouldn't Stay

Cullen Rutherford x Female Inquisitor Adaar

A thread kept pulling at her, could the Golden God want a horned creature who stood a head taller than him in flat shoes? Could he want a woman who looked like people who had rioted in Kirkwall? She wasn't ashamed of her Tal-Vashoth-ness but it was a thread that kept fucking pulling at her. Maybe this was all slightly hopeless.

Or: In which a fake betrothal at the Winter Palace turns into something else

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The Winter Palace was a nightmare, even Inquisitor Isala had been mistaken for some kind of entertainer or jester a handful of times. Feeling most at home with servants she unfortunately had to meander her way around them and talk to the nobles. She had to appear stately and try to fit in, even when it made her want to fade back into obscurity.

Unfortunately, that was impossible now. She was the “Ox-Man” who had infiltrated the palace to convert them all to the wicked ways of the Qun. Every guest seemed to despise her on a first look, even though her face looked more terrified than determined. (Regardless of the fact that Isala had never spent a moment of her life under the Qun, the court seemed to have made their mind up.)

Isala had been talking to Dorian in the Guest Garden but the amount of longing looks he'd been directing towards Bull were getting agitating. She just wanted to be distracted from the terrifying task of protecting a fucking Empress! But she couldn't hold it against him for too long, making her escape in the direction of the Ballroom to see the one person that would calm her down.

Cullen.

The Golden God of the Inquisition and Maker he was Godly. He would never know how she felt about him because of the line Cullen had drawn- well he hadn't technically said anything or drawn any line but he was always one to stand on professionalism. She couldn't admit to herself that she'd seen him blush when she flirted because that would be accepting the possibility that he felt the same. That simply was not going to happen.

Among other reasons, she also knew Cullen had received tens upon tens of marriage proposals since being her Commander.

Unfortunately Leliana had already joked to her today about the fact that he had received some since arrived at the palace. It had been maybe an hour and everyone already knew how wonderful he was. She didn't have a chance. At this rate her cowardness would keep her restrained her whole life; she could hardly talk to a man who literally worked for her. It was just so hard, looking at his sweet face as he stuttered when he got flustered or how domineering he looked during a siege. Isala had not disregarded how enticing he'd looked at Adamant, more important things were going on at the time but… he did look wonderful.

She had hoped for some words of harsh encouragement from Dorian, he always was good at giving her a kick up the arse when she got anxious. But alas, those attempts had borne no fruit so she'd have to pull herself together and go talk to him. A thread kept pulling at her, could the Golden God want a horned creature who stood a head taller than him in flat shoes? Could he want a woman who looked like people who had rioted in Kirkwall? She wasn't ashamed of her Tal-Vashoth-ness but it was a thread that kept fucking pulling at her. Maybe this was all slightly hopeless.

The gaggle of Orlesians surrounding him were tiring at worst and downright overly forward at worst. Much too much touching for his liking, what happened to the good old-fashioned courtship? Before all the bloody touching got involved, Maker. Cullen just hoped he could make it through the evening without punching someone.

He stood in what he had hoped would be a quiet corner- perhaps not quite a corner of the room and definitely not quiet but he had to stay somewhere in the ballroom (at least in this position he was near to a balcony that he could jump off if anyone else asked for a dance). Cullen knew who he wanted to ask him for a dance and who he daren’t ask for fear of being immolated. Perhaps not that severe but his fear of rejection would override any attempt he made at courtship. Of course he was thinking of Inquisitor Adaar, a loudmouthed yet awkward woman who had enraptured him from their first meeting.

Cullen was starting to get to a point of no return, unable to control his thoughts straying to her at every given moment. It had become quite inconvenient honestly, he just wanted to get through one meeting without stumbling if he mentioned the Inquisitor. His soldiers were too shit scared to laugh but he knew that they knew. Gossip around Skyhold was equivalent to a self contained matchbox of bees; not much space to move around. He knew the general rumours; some said that they were having an affair, but some said (the worst rumour) that Isala was seeing someone else. Some believed it to be Blackwall, others considered Sera and a small handful even thought of Josephine as a contender.

He didn't know if he had a chance considering that most of his time was spent in his own office, not out on the road with her where he could really get to know her. It felt like there was an ocean between the two of them, cutting off any hope of connection. Cullen knew he wanted her, no matter how unprofessional or improper he had never felt this way about anyone. Even his crushes as a chantry boy or dalliances as he grew older didn't compare to this feeling. This all encompassing pull towards her that was restricted by protocol and social niceties- those of which he struggled to give a shit about- that could grow into something else, something solid.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, from her humility to the way she challenged him in meetings or her laugh and Maker, that smile. The ocean that was determined to keep them apart would soon get to a low tide and Cullen would thrash and fight to close that gap.

This whole evening has turned shittier and shittier, especially since being here meant he had to mingle with the worst sort of Orlesians, those who play The Game, Cullen couldn't think of anything more terrifying or annoying. He just wanted to see her. Even talking to her for a few moments would improve his mood drastically, that was a recent development he hadn't quite been ready for. His… attachment for want of better words was somewhat juvenile and definitely unprofessional but he couldn't help his unconscious thoughts that swam around. She was a force of nature, a continuous nagging voice that the Inquisition could always be compassionate and the most stunning woman he had ever set eyes on.

She whisked her way through the vestibule, hoping to rouse as little fuss as possible (which was hard when dressed in an impossibly bright red fucking ensemble and being taller than every man present) to get to the ballroom as quickly as she could. Now that her confidence had been emboldened by her eagerness she couldn't back down, the Inquisitor knew she was hardly going to do this again; maybe she would never get the chance to be at a beautiful party and talk to the man she always wanted to be alone with.

“Inquisitor!” Isala heard as she approached the ballroom doors, turning she saw a masked Comte approaching her. He was… Comte de Launcet? Yes, the disgraced Comte with an mage son. Hawke had told her at length about his son Emile and his escapades when he escaped from the Circle. A bastard grandchild and a mage in the family…Isala certainly couldn't fault the Comte's boldness at being at the party.

“Comte de Launcet, how wonderful to speak with you. Are you enjoying this evening?” Isala straightened her back and smiled as genuinely as she could.

“Dear Inquisitor, thank you for asking so graciously, the festivities have been pleasing so far. This return to civilisation has been much needed for me and my wife after the bastardisation of Kirkwall. Though I suppose you've heard all about that through the grapevines you people have,” he paused, a moment of worry casting over his face, “I didn't mean- what I meant to say was that I wonder, would you possibly consider mentioning to those in the ballroom my new endeavours-” he began to pull out a scroll from a pouch attached to his side and Isala felt a familiar sense of understanding wash over her. He was essentially trying to sell his soul to her in exchange for some standing in the court.

“Comte de Launcet, I am afraid that I will have to refer you to my advisor Ambassador Montilyet. I can recommend that she make contact with you when we can discuss this at a more appropriate time.” She could hear the whispers and giggles around the vestibule at the Comte’s blunder of a sales pitch. Throughout the night she had heard disgusted partygoers discuss the de Launcet’s and this would only make matters worse.

“Yes, Lady Inquisitor I- it is only that… no, I will reconvene with the Ambassador of course. I would not want to keep you from the party,” his eyes were sad but understanding, no doubt he could hear the commotion reverberating around the room as he spoke up.

“I do hope you enjoy the rest of your night, Comte.” Isala took a step back with a slight bow (she had no idea if this was the proper etiquette or not but it would have to do). God, what she would do to tell Cullen about this.

Cullen had retired to the balcony, it was finally a solitary place he could think. Rubbing a gloves hand over the back of his neck he looked out over the gardens, it was a miraculous quiet in the shadow of the ballroom. Sounds of dancing and revelry were beginning to pinch at his temples, all he could hope was that the bloody night would be over. The information he'd received from Leliana had been stress-inducing enough; Chevalier's all over the gardens, Harlequins stalking the Inquisitor, Morrigan showing up again, Briala and her bloody spies and to top it all off Isala was putting herself in danger at every turn.

Perhaps that was an overreaction. The Inquisitor was more than capable of looking after herself however, he couldn't help but think that all their efforts would end here with her death tonight. Cullen was an A-grade stress head so maybe it wasn't surprising he worried about every eventuality but it was frustrating for him.

“I thought I might find you out here,” Cullen heard Leliana slip out onto the balcony, closing the door behind her.

“Come to tell me something else concerning?” He asked, smirking.

“Oh nothing so dull. I just wanted to check you hadn't run off into the night with our lovely Inquisitor.” She was smirking now and Cullen's face rose to a pink tone.

“I- why would she-”

“Come now Commander, I think your protesting is misplaced. You think she wouldn't jump at the chance to run away with you?” The Nightingale leant her elbow against the ornate stone balustrade, her auburn hair falling past her shoulders by now.

“Come now Spymaster,” he said mockingly “You must be slacking on your role to be so misinformed hm?”

“Oh Cullen, are you to continue this charade that you do not see her affections? Josie and I have bets on whether you'll actually do something about it.” She looked out to the gardens, the moonlight moved unhurried as it's way through the treeline. It was the night time’s embrace over each flower bed and precisely cut hedgerow.

“So which side are you on? Trying to consolidate your winnings?” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, hoping he could charm his way out of this conversation but that was extremely unlikely when it came to Leliana.

“Oh I would never tell you, I would be influencing the participants and we simply cannot have that. A good clean bet is unheard of in Halamshiral so we'd like to keep it legal.” The Nightingale's devious smirk was not lost on Cullen, she was very much enjoying how pink his face was getting.

“And I would never trust you to honour a good clean bet, Leliana. You'd do something to weigh the scales in your favour in your sleep or something and not realise.” Cullen pulled at his collar, this uniform felt much too tight.

“I'll leave you to your thoughts, Commander” She turned to go and stopped “Oh, a little bird has come to see you, be on your best behaviour.” She said in a low voice before walking away. Cullen had his eyes fixed forward, what fucking bird was she talking about?

“Hello, Commander.” He heard her voice, the only person he had wanted to see this whole evening.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen slightly bowed his head “How are you finding the evening?”

“Do you want the honest truth or my professional front?” She asked, standing next to him.

“Honest, please.” Cullen turned his head to look up at her incredibly anxious face.

“I hate it, I hate it all. The people, the Game, the way I appear to these people. They're all terrified of the Ox-Man and I can't get a fucking foothold in this social ladder. They don't care that I'm Inquisitor, they don't care that I have importance as a figurehead, they don't even seem to care that I am apparently a religious symbol. It just makes me want to crawl up and die.” She slumped against the balustrade, chin resting on the palm of her hand.

“Who- tell me who has uttered such an insult and I will have them dealt with, publicly.” Cullen flexed his hand on the balustrade, if someone needed a punch he would be happy to deal it out.

“Not unless you want to gather almost the whole court and resort to public humiliation. But I appreciate the intention, Commander.” She smiled to herself, staring back out at the gardens, Cullen followed her lead. They truly were beautiful after all, he could see even more rolling hills beyond the palace, fields of what looked like lavender in the slowly darkening light. He allowed his gaze to fall over her face, so consumed in looking out that she could never realise the beauty she possessed.

Her body bathed in moonlight, a subtle devotion by the night sky from any God who would listen to preserve her beauty. Cullen would raise his hands in supplication to the Maker to allow his cursed eyes to gaze upon her again. There was no universe where he would not want to be near her.

“I would not allow such an insult towards y- the Inquisition.” He fumbled over his words and swallowed, eyes flicking anxiously from Isala in his peripheral and the garden. His hand was a vice grip against the stone.

“So… what are you doing out here?” She asked.

“I suppose I hoped for an escape from all the bloody noise.” Cullen smirked and didn't notice the downcast look on his Inquisitor’s face.

“Oh I… I apologise Commander it was rude of me to intrude so callously. I shall leave you to your silence, thank you for indulging me.” Before he could protest, she was gone. His heart plummeted into his stomach. You foolish fucking man- was all he could think. They were having an actual informal conversation and he fucking ruined it, his words coming out before he thought what they had meant. Cullen was the one who put up the walls, the one who was pushing back against her trying to open up to him. He was a pig-headed man who couldn't see what was in front of his face the whole time, a woman who was struggling much more than he. A wonderful woman who was trying to talk to him as a person not as her Commander. Someone who might just feel a modicum of the emotions he felt towards her.

He panicked for want of a better term, perhaps one that displayed him as less of a stress-head. But he frantically ran towards the balcony door and threw it open looking for the telltale signs of her horns as she stood above all others.

Stupid, fucking stupid fuck. Isala said to herself, her eyes felt like they were being picked with a thousand needles as she refused to cry. It was pathetic really, what notion had she really had that he was interested? Any flirting would make a chaste chantry boy blush, and she hadn't even considered the proposals. What if he was thinking of one of those suitors or multiple of them? She wanted to get as far away as possible, run away from this awful place where no one even wanted her to be. Walking through the gaggles of Orlesians felt like walking through a swarm of poodles snapping at her heels.

“Inquisitor!” She heard and silently cursed her heart as she took a deep breath and turned with a smile.

“She really is as tall as we thought.” One masked woman whispered with a contemptuous giggle.

“Inquisitor! You must aid us.” A man requested and Isala walked over to him.

“Good evening,” Isala greeted.

“Ugh, we are at our wits end! Your blasted Commander won't respond to any of our proposals! Couldn't you push him in the right direction. Which is to be clear, me?” The masked woman asked, her Orlesian accent highlighted her disgust when her eyes could not.

“You are a monumental nightmare, he should consider mine first.” The masked man added, nursing his glass.

“I don't know if the Commander is-”

“He is not accepting proposals as he is already engaged.” Isala felt the unmistakable presence of her Commander next to her as her heart plummeted into her stomach.

“Already! To whom?” The masked man asked and Isala looked down at Cullen who smiled up at her.

“My Inquisitor,” Cullen moved his gaze to the gaggle surrounding them, they erupted into a sort of cacophony of bird squawks (or at least that was what he was hearing). He placed a hand on the small of Isala’s back and led her out of the ballroom.

The Vestibule was still busy but not as packed as the ballroom and the Hall of Heroes even less so. Cullen walked with his Inquisitor down the steps to the Grey Warden memorial, both their faces lit by the many candles. Whilst having his moment of pretend was all well and good, the end result was accomplished. Isala would receive more respect as the fiancé to a human military Commander and he would be left out of the proposals.

“I apologise, Herald. I felt I had to act quickly to solve both of our situations.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck and glanced anxiously from Isala to the candles. She was silent for what felt like all too long, the ocean felt all like it was all around him, lapping at his thighs and rising up, up, up. He would go under if he had too.

“And was that the only solution, Commander?” She asked quietly, not meeting his gaze.

“I- I suppose it was not but I couldn't think of a quicker fix to both our problems.” He tried to laugh off the anxiety but it came out strained. She was pointedly not looking at him now, face flush from all the excitement and fast walking.

“Ah, well I appreciate the aid regardless. We can let the announcement dwindle on our return to Skyhold and hope it dies down, though I doubt the gossip will. I apologise for that now.” Her eyes closed for a few moments as if she was preparing herself for something. Cullen stood a step forward so they were next to each other, hands feeling like they were too close and yet not close enough.

“My Lady, what would you have to apologise to me for?” He looked up at her, enraptured by the glow she was emitting.

“Commander, I know you are a gallant gentleman but be practical. A marriage rumour where I am your bride would look awful for you, a marriage into the hated Qun with a feared Ox-Man. It would be societal suicide for the Inquisition, I am not a figurehead that they want and certainly not the wife they want for a Fereldan darling.” Her eyes weren't watering but they might as well have been, her gaze focussed on the candles before her, in a silent prayer.

“And what of me? The corrupt ex-templar who facilitated the horrors in Kirkwall, the survivor of a Circle Tower where I called for a mass-execution? A cowardly man who hid behind the order as a way to excuse his superiors’ actions as well as his own? I would be a poor match for a woman like you.” He flexed and contracted his hand by his side, anxiously waiting for her to tell him of her hatred for him.

“And what is a woman like me?” Isala finally looked down at Cullen, the emotion on his face nearly broke her, so concerned for her feelings that his own were left to their own detriment.

“A woman I would be proud to…” he took a deep breath “A woman I would be proud to care for publically.” he said so only she would hear it.

“Why?” She replied without thinking and Cullen scoffed.

“Need I list them? A powerful, brave and beautiful individual who is always determined to see the good in people before the bad. Someone who has been thrown into an impossible situation and rose to the occasion to save others. A woman who has dealt with publicly shame and humiliation for who she is and yet still perseveres. Regardless of what your feelings are towards me, know that I think of you with such a deep respect and fondness.” He spoke all too quickly and without thinking but it felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, he was completely and utterly enraptured. Even if Isala had beguiled him, he didn't care, he would work himself to the bone to ensure her success. Like a loyal hound he would come when she called, ready to lap up any scrap of time she would give him.

“I- I’m not sure what to say.” Her expression was unreadable but she definitely looked taken aback, Cullen couldn't decipher if it was negative or positive. She moved slightly away from him and a fear rose up in the Commanders throat, was this one sided? Had he completely read it wrong?

“Inquisitor, I deeply apologise for my candor. It was inappropriate. I will leave you for the rest of your evening.” He slowly turned and made to move away but she stopped him. A large but gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I only mean that I felt caught off guard. I- we have never been so open with one another and I was confused.” She furrowed her brow but still looked at him.

“I think I was perhaps overzealous with my wording but I do not regret any of it. I do respect you deeply. I do feel things for you beyond my duties and by the Maker it scares me, Inquisitor.” Cullen looked up at her with a natural tenderness, no longer afraid but vulnerable in this moment.

“Why had you not said that before?” Isala's hand slowly moves from his shoulder down to the crook of his elbow.

“It was not appropriate, it is not appropriate now but I couldn't seem to control myself. No doubt Cassandra will be racing around the corner waiting to hear our beautiful made up love story. Or Varric will be vying for another book plot.” Cullen rolled his eyes and gently put a hand over hers. “I am in no rush, I know this is all too sudden and confusing. If nothing else, think over what I have said.”

“I do not dislike it. You must know that?” She tilted her head to the side, a blush spreading across her cheeks as she acknowledged the warmth of his hand.

“You may have to be more specific, My Lady.” He was teasing her now but took a much bolder step closer to her. Isala's blush spread through her body, My Lady, it felt dreamy or a soft descent into madness.

“The fake engagement I mean, or the gallant rescuing I suppose or what you said. My thoughts stray to you often but I thought…” she trailed off for a moment, considering. “Honestly, I thought you wouldn't care for someone such as me in that way.”

“Why ever so?”

“Do you now need a list? Namely; many men I have encountered do not want taller women, the fact I'm Tal-Vashoth which would put a sour taste in your mouth considering what happened in Kirkwall and I'm a mage? I didn't think there would be any chance. So yes, there are many things that made me question if it was all in my head.” Isala rolled her eyes like it was the easiest thing, not seeing Cullen's dejected expression.

“I am… Do you really think I'm so surface level?” It seemed like a genuine question borne from confusion.

“I- I’m not sure I suppose. Judgements about me are so surface level so I generally worry about things such as those. To hope is to be disappointed, at least in my experience.” She pulled her hand away from his arm and scratched her head, once again looking towards the candles. The air felt much too thick with something, Isala couldn't pinpoint what but it made her want to run away.

“I'll admit I had some of those thoughts upon seeing you for the first time. I was a year or so out of the Templars but still reeling from Kirkwall and my experiences with mages. But I cannot believe my idiocy, my short-sightedness meant I couldn't understand how powerful you are. A Tal-Vashoth mage who will fight for freedom across Thedas even if no one thanks her? That is the real sacrifice.” Cullen placed a hand on her arm and tugged her slightly to turn, his hand rising to her bicep.

“I had no idea you thought so highly of me, Commander.” She laughed then, a small giggle that made Cullen's stomach flip. He was a young Chantry boy again, lusting over laundry-women and girls in the kitchen.

“More than you could know,” He gazed up at her longingly, knowing it was a small moment that would soon be snatched from the two of them.

“So you're not intimidated by me like all the others who vie for the political position of getting me in bed?” Her voice was lower now, more sultry, this was just for the two of them. Cullen's eyes went slightly wider before he raised an eyebrow and licked his lip.

“I happen to like your height.” Cullen said just as low and flirty, raising onto his tiptoes to get close to her. It was the smell of her that hit him first, bergamot and lavender.

“Commander,” a voice was heard behind Cullen and he almost growled under his breath.

“What!” He gritted his teeth and glared daggers at the Page, he held a letter and began to tremble in abject terror.

“A-a message from the a-ambassador, sir.” The Pages’ eyes were wide as he handed Cullen the letter and quickly ran away.

“Bloody messengers.” Cullen muttered.

“It is quite amusing how terrified everyone is of you,” Isala smirked, hand stroking up and down his forearm.

“Ah, well it is a useful reputation to have.” He rested a hand on her waist staring up at her as if she was the illumination of every colour in existence.

“You should probably get back to the ballroom, Commander if I'm to stop this distraction and go back to espionage.” She was teasing again and Cullen rolled his eyes.

“Fine, but only because you were so kind about it, I do hope we can return to this topic at another time.” He smirked and it stretched that scar on his lip that was ridiculously attractive for some ungodly reason. It made Isala feel warm inside, this godly man had made her feel actually good about herself… It seemed wrong. Like a fade rift had torn through the Winter Palace and warped everything.

“I-I hope so too. I mean that… well I hope this goes somewhere else I suppose.” Her hands felt clammy and her bright red ensemble much too tight.

“You'd have to actively push to keep me away,” he regarded her for a second as if he was contemplating something “Maker, when I look into your eyes there's a danger I can't explain but it just urges me closer.” Cullen took a step closer and was suddenly by her ear. “I wonder, Inquisitor. How dangerous would it be to push me against that statue and have your way with me?” Isala could feel a twisting in her stomach.

“I- I would be surprised you'd give up control so easily, Commander.” She managed to get out.

“Hmm, something to think about.” Cullen kissed her on the cheek and smirked again before turning around and walking back up the stairs. Maker, what had she walked into and why was it making her smile so damn much?

[jupitersmusings]

good things will happen 💫

things that are meant to be will fall into place 💫

[trans-ralsei]

[lavender-romancer]

Fools

Part Five

Tommy Shelby x male reader

CW: internalised homophobia, sexual themes

You always felt that you were hiding or running from deep inside of you, this feeling that you weren't like other men around you. When you met Tommy it made sense but how could you explore these feelings?

AN: Tommy is not married to Lizzie and Ruby does not exist

”*°•.˜”*°•. ˜”*°•. ˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜

previous part

It was raining again, the moon illuminating every droplet on the windows of Tommy's office. It cast a curious blue tinge to the room and only seemed to further represent his melancholic existence. Tommy lay on the floor of his office looking disheveled with huge bags underneath his eyes. He hadn't slept since being with you at that hotel because, it felt like as soon as he woke up he'd be a new person who would reject you and your love. It may have been irrational but it was also based so deeply in a never ending fear that he couldn't bear to face. Waking up and becoming a more heartless bastard than the day before sounded perfectly normal. But whenever he thought about your touch; the way your hair tapered around your ears or the fact that he was more and more convinced that he was in love with you, he couldn't fall asleep. It signified a severing of a cord, a destruction that he couldn't be party to even if it was the correct thing to do. The moment he fell asleep, he woke up a new man who could never allow himself to be in love with you.

When Tommy closed his eyes his mind was full of fantasies that could never be realised. Tommy had always been bold, he met you at a fucking fairie bar for god sake, but taking this any further felt wholly irresponsible. What could you do? Both get married to women and secretly fuck on the side? Was that a relationship? As he lay there in the dark on the cold hardwood floor with a bottle of whiskey next to him, Tommy had to consider what he was waiting for.

All this rage and sadness had been building up in him for a while and all he wanted was to fester in the rot it had created. Tommy wanted to fucking hate you, call you a 'bohemian' and move on with his life without you. But your light brought him out of the rot, it made him feel safe and loved and important beyond where he ever thought it could. As he considered all his options Tommy had to think of losing the strange fucked up connection you had. It made his body feel cold, as if he was on the slab and about to be cut into, what was the point of all of the life he had left to live if he was drowning? His own self doubt was pulling him deeper and deeper under the water, it would snake around his ankle to root him in place. So complacent in his own self sabotage that he allowed himself to think he could love you.

There was a sudden banging at the front door to the offices and Tommy sighed, at this point he would take an armed gunman over this fucking mess. Almost too nonchalantly he picked up his handgun and checked it was loaded before heading towards the door.

“Tommy! I need to talk to you. Your car's still here so I know you're in there!” You yelled as you rapped on the door. The unexpected downpour soaking you and your bag through as you shivered on the doorstep to his office. Silently you cursed yourself for forgetting a hat.

“Why are you here?” Tommy asked through the door and in an annoying sense you had to ask yourself the same question. But no, you needed to talk about this.

“I need to talk to you, I'm private. It's fucking pissing it down please let me in.” Your voice was regrettably pathetic but you did feel like a wet rat and had nowhere to stay.

As the door opened your throat grew dry even as the rain peppered your face with droplets, your hair soaked through and hanging over your forehead haphazardly. He looked beautiful as always but perhaps not at peace. There was a darkness to his eyes as he opened the door and then walked back into the building not seeming to spare you a look. You took a deep breath and pushed your hair back before following him inside.

The click of the lock seemed to bring Tommy out of whatever trance he was in, he turned around and ran a hand down his face before thrusting it into his pocket. The two of you looked at each other for a moment before you placed down your bag and shifted awkwardly between your shoes.

“Why did you come?” His voice was strained and it felt as if he might let out a sob at any moment.

“I was staying at a friend's.” Was all you said because your throat wouldn't let you get out any more words before you coughed.

“Fuck me, came back all this way with that groundbreaking news?” Tommy glanced at you with a sad smile.

“I know, Tommy.” It felt so simple in those three words, you still hadn't decided how you felt about it all but you needed to see that recognition in his eyes. But all he did was slowly walk into his office leaving the door ajar for you.

“What have you magically figured out then?” Tommy asked with his back to you, pouring two whiskey’s as you closed his office door behind you and leant against it.

“Do you know a woman named Mae Carlton?” You anxiously fiddled with your coat buttons.

“She trained my horse.” Tommy replied and you couldn't help but notice how he answered all too quickly as if he had been anticipating the question.

“And that's all, eh?” You picked up one of the whiskeys before sitting in one of the leather armchairs facing Tommy's desk.

“What were you expecting me to say?” He turned towards you but could only hold your gaze for so long before he too turned to sit in the armchair parallel to yours. Your heart sank and your eyes felt somewhat watery but at the very least you got an answer, even with it's vague nature it was easy enough to read Thomas when he wasn't trying to hide his emotions.

“You must have known that we knew one another.” Looking towards him he sighed.

“Not at the start, the way I met you was so uncalculated, same with Mae. But, in time I realised quite quickly.” There seemed to be a thread of shame that ran through Tommy's words as he admitted them.

“And you chose to continue fucking the two of us without any communication? If you realised quite quickly why in God's name didn't you stop?” Taking a long sip of your whiskey you craved the cold rain patterning your face with forgiving droplets. The constant tapping down the window felt like a metronome counting down the moments until this all ended. The silence truly was awful, there was a strange ringing sound in your ears as the silence stretched on and you refused to break it.

“I couldn't stop. Not if I wanted to stay sane anyways. If I stopped seeing you I would lose my mind in despair and, if I stopped seeing Mae I would lose any hope of feeling like a real man.” Tommy held the scotch glass on his leg and looked up at the ceiling again. Your chest ached with the heavy weight of shame placed upon it years ago by your own identity. It had never felt like it could or would ever go away

“Why don't you care?” You paused looking expectantly at Tommy even though you knew there was nothing he could say. “Why am I still here?”

“You know, in the back of my mind I've killed you. I've got to the point where this is all too much and I can't bring myself to look at you without feeling shame.” Tommy turned his head to face you as he gripped his whiskey glass much too tight and his eyes welled up.

“I might be your shame but I know that I'm also the only real joy you've felt. We all know, every man that lives our existence knows there's hardly any chances we get.” You pulled out your cigarette case and lit one before breathing out smoke in his direction.

“You want to talk about fucking joy? What about the neverending shame I feel when we're apart? How, I know we’re on borrowed time at best and that one of these days it's going to have to end? You have no right to bring up the struggle of men like us when we have no right to be this way!” Tommy exclaimed, standing up and walking to the window.

“You're so terrified of what you are that you'll push away any thought of happiness no matter how momentary! You seriously expect me to believe that your own self importance is what stands in the way of you accepting that someone cares for you? Truly cares for you on a level that no woman ever could.” You stayed sitting, concerned that approaching him would be akin to cornering a scared dog who would lash out.

“Self importance? Its self preservation! How am I a man if I'm more concerned with my own fucking feelings than what's right?” He turned around, finished his whisky and returned to the leather armchair to pour another.

“We're past what's right. Maybe I'm a fool for chasing someone, pretending that they love me because it's all that will keep me sane but I know it's not in my head. When you look in the mirror do you ever acknowledge what you are? That you love a man and you'll never love a woman no matter how hard you try, no matter how many you fuck.” Some of what you said felt marginally vindictive but you couldn't cope with the lies. He wanted to act as if nothing had happened, that you were business partners and nothing more. That he hadn't cried in your arms after such a vulnerable moment, that he hadn't bared his soul to you.

“You act like you know me inside and out, that through all this crazy shit we've got to know each other's history or anything of substance. But we've just been fucking, plain and simple.” His eyes were full of tears with none of them falling, he sniffed and lit up a cigarette. Leaving you sitting there with a sinking feeling, you knew he was lying that was obvious enough but did he really want to push you away so badly?

“I can't fix your hurt, I can't sort everything out but Jesus, I can't get you out of my mind. I tried, Tommy. I've been trying this whole time to understand why you push me away so viciously. But I don't understand the point? You fuck Mae to feel like a man, say that you'll go insane if you're not with me but call it all just a fuck? No matter how much you mince your words and try to hurt me I know it's all a facade. In reality you're a person who's terrified of being too much for me, or for any man.” You sat up on your chair, blowing smoke in his direction. Your eyes steeled in his direction as you prepared for the onslaught of insults.

“I beg you to tell me the fucking point. If I hate you, if I love you. It's all the same outcome because this can't go on forever. No matter how deluded you are, we cannot be with each other.” Tommy looked as if he would stare right into your soul and through you. You took a deep breath and braced yourself to leave

“I wish I could be yours but fuck, you're not even comfortable enough in yourself to accept that living a lie will make you happier than fucking a woman in a loveless marriage. Men like us are used to shame, our existence is shameful but I know you won't be able to leave it behind. Maybe it won't be me,” standing up you walked over to Tommy and took his jaw in your hand. “But I know that the rays of divinity you feel when another man holds your cock is too much to resist.” Dropping his jaw, you picked up your suitcase. Turning to walk out of that room and away from Tommy forever but, he caught your hand.

“Take it off,” he whispered as he started hurriedly pulling at your blazer. You looked at him for a second as he began undressing you, considering your options.

“What do you want, Tommy?” You took hold of his jaw again and slid your hand down to his neck before placing your suitcase down on the floor.

“You, please.” He closed his eyes and you let go of his neck as he sank to his knees.

Tommy scrabbled at your trousers buttons, suddenly clumsy and anxious with a level of submission you didn't expect. As he looked up at you, you were convinced you could die right there with this man below you. The pseudo control you had over this situation was tempting, Tommy stopped you from leaving, he initiated this interaction. But he let you believe you were in control, Thomas Shelby was many things but giving up control was not in his repertoire.

“You're so beautiful.” He whispered as he came up for air, panting slightly. But all you did was smirk before pushing him back onto you, holding his head there for a moment before letting go. The string of spit that started at his mouth and ended at your cock made the image all the more enticing.

It wasn't long before you came, Tommy swallowed and wiped his mouth much like you had not too long ago. The two of you stared at one another for a moment, hands slowly linking down at your sides as you considered leaving one another. It didn't feel possible in your mind, he was a fucking mess, you were a liability, but what was this if not love? The pain of considering leaving Tommy was enough to bring tears to your eyes, even after being so ridiculously vulnerable with one another.

“I can wait for you.” You said quietly as your foreheads pressed together.

“You shouldn't have too.” Tommy whispered as he gripped your hands tighter, his body beginning to shake.

“But I will. Thomas, I- there is no point in my life where I will not want you. You would haunt me, the love I could never have but I wanted with every fiber of my being. I can't say goodbye. I won't say goodbye I can't…” a stray tear blurred your vision and Tommy kissed your hand still clasped in his.

“I don't know what to do with any of this, with the shame or the worry or any of this shit.” His usual precise thought process wasn't reflected in the jumbled mess of that sentence but his stress certainly was. Could he love you as you love him?

“We can be with one another at this moment for a while. Just tell me you love me and that everything will be okay.” Your voice was so small you were scared he wouldn't hear the emotion in your voice. But Tommy lifted up your jaw so incredibly softly, staring at you with equally teary eyes.

“I love you.” He breathed and you pulled him so close and tight to you that you feared you might fuse together. Turn into one soul and never have to worry about being separated from one another again.

“I love you.” You whispered close to his ear before closing your eyes and praying for a better tommorow.

Peaky blinders taglist:

@queenofkings1212 @severewobblerlightdragon @fairypitou @stressedandbandobessed7771 @shadow-of-wonder @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns @curled-hair-red-lips @lucystivinsky1315

Series taglist:

@denzellovehazelnuts @edgyboi10000 @strnqer @flynnr2d2 @zablife

[lavender-romancer]

Baldurs Gate 3 Masterlist

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆. ───

Astarion

Push it Down

♡ Everyday it got worse, the longing stares interrupted when La’zel would curiously catch your eyeline always straying to Astarion. Or how you would always inextricably walk next to him regardless of the goal ahead. Shadowheart would often question if Astarion had to open “every lock we find” at your request. But you couldn't help it, being near him, with him was all you would think about

Starving

♡ Durge Reader

♡ He needed you. But in his dark pit of starvation he feared he pushed you away past the point of return.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆. ───

Rolan

Too Sweet

♡ Despite his abrasiveness, Rolan only wanted to love and be loved. Every time he was almost close to you he ruined it in some way, until he didn't.

[lavender-romancer]

Too Sweet

Rolan x Femme Reader

CW: angst, hurt, comfort, fluff

Despite his abrasiveness, Rolan only wanted to love and be loved. Every time he was almost close to you he ruined it in some way, until he didn't.

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

The so-called party after the Goblin leaders had been slain was as lackluster as Rolan had anticipated it would be. Your companions mostly drunk out of their mind and his fellow tieflings not far behind. Bringing some magic to the party was well within his repertoire and he intended to show everyone how skilled he really was. A beautiful illusion of a colourful firework show erupted from his fingers as he cast it. His siblings looked up at the display with the same look they usually had but it surprised him when he heard clapping. Turning he found your gaze, a smile he had not expected met his eyes.

“I didn't know you were so skilled in illusionary magic, Rolan.” You remarked, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow.

“I can remember when he could hardly cast that, constantly having us sit around for a fireworks show.” Cal whispered to Lia but in his drunken state it was more of a whispered yell that you definitely heard. Rolan cringed and kept his eyes on you as the illusion faded.

“I thought I should diversify my portfolio before I got to Baldurs Gate. Might be a way to impress Lorroakan, well not impressed but at at least show I'm more than evocation spells.” He rubbed his hands together, the strange prickly feelings he got in his fingers after casting an illusion was still ever present.

“I can show you how to negate the horrible feeling you get after casting an illusion, if you'll accept some brief tutelage?” Your smile was mischievous but your tone was entirely sincere and his fingers did still feel odd. Maybe it wouldn't be so awful… he nodded and suddenly you took his hand and pulled him to the beach not far from the camp. Your hand felt oddly well suited to his. Rolan’s siblings’ giggles rang in his ears but he struggled to bring himself to care too much.

“Come on then, what am I missing?” Rolan asked, arms crossed as you let go of his hand and a cold feeling spread through him.

“You're concentrating too much.” You said simply as if it was the easiest thing possible.

“How is it possible to focus too much? On a bloody spell?” he breathed out a sigh of frustration but you just smiled and took his hands in yours.

“If you stop being so grumpy, I'll tell you.” raising an eyebrow at him you cast a quick illusion of a cat on the sand next to him, it purred and laced its way between both his legs before settling at your feet.

“And you don't get an odd feeling in your fingers when you do that?” He asked, overly eager to learn.

“No, because I'm not focussing on conjuring my cat like it's the last thing I'll ever do. The weave should flow through you without you thinking about it, it's hard to master in a sense. You're concentrating on a spell but it almost doesn't feel like it because you're so enraptured in it all that it comes naturally.” You knelt down, ghosting a stroke on the cat's back before it disappeared, you stood back up with a smile. You looked positively radiant under the moonlight, it bounced off the water behind you giving an angelic hue to your face. Rolan was beginning to get distracted and suddenly realised that he hadn't been listening to what you'd said…

“Rolan?” You snapped your fingers in front of his face and he was brought back to the present, your smile still ever present.

“Yes, apologies. I was lost in thought.” As he looked down slightly at your face he couldn't help but be filled with a sense of hopefulness. Your smile emanated joy that he hadn't felt in a while, he knew that behind the wide smiles of his siblings was a deep sense of anxiety at their uncertain future. But you didn't seem to be tainted by the cancer of hopelessness and loss.

“Give it a try, still your mind and just imagine what you want your magic to do. Focus on the feeling rather than the illusionary magic itself.” You placed a hand on his arm and turned to stand next to him.

How he was able to focus at all with your hand fixed to his bicep was beyond him but, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes imagining home. The small study he worked in back in Elturel, the deep purple of the fabric embroidered in his office chair, oak furniture and his prized precious gems and fossils.

“Rolan!” You exclaimed, and Rolan opened his eyes to look at you. You began twirling around, looking at every expanse of his illusion with a smile. Even he had to admit the detail was the best he had conjured. “You did it! I'm so proud of you.” Leaping forward you pulled him into a close hug. It caught him off guard and his illusion changed around him as he wrapped his arms around you. Deep lavender tones surrounded the two of you with bright sparkles of white and gold shining through it.

Deep inside of him a feeling began to spread through his body, annoyance and it turned into an anger he hadn't expected. You thought you were better than him, he could tell. Oh let me help you Rolan, you're clearly hopeless, a hellspawn with no magical talent. Was all he could hear in your last words regardless of the thoughts validity.

“Elementary, I assure you. A child could have conjured it.” He let go of you and the lights faded, his face steeled as he looked at you and your smile faded. It tugged at a muscle in his stomach as he saw your expression change but he ignored it.

“What do you mean? I thought you wanted help with your-” but he cut you off.

“Oh great angel thank you for bestowing your help unto me so that I may conjure a fucking illusion. I don't need your pity nor do I need your help. Do you enjoy poking your nose into everyone's business or is it just my family?” He yelled and you visibly shrunk backwards, wrapping your arms around yourself protectively.

“I wouldn't have done anything if you hadn't agreed to do it. You… I thought we were-”

“You thought that we were what? Having a fucking moment? What a nice naive thought that would be when you aren't homeless and have only one prospect that has been delayed by your sheer ability to insert yourself into everything!” His anger was deep and seething now, all he could see was your pity. But his subconscious could see the tears that threatened to fall from your eyes and the way you comforted yourself through his harsh words, urging him to reach out.

“I apologise, Rolan. Have a good rest of your night.” You didn't look at him as you walked away, going straight to Shadowheart’s tent and visibly crying. Rolan didn't sleep that night, whether it was due to his anger or his hatred for himself he wasn't sure. But he knew that seeing you upset had left a worse feeling in his stomach than anything before.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

After Cal and Lia had been safely returned to the Last Light Inn, Rolan tried to mask his relief and genuine emotional response- convinced that if he cried they wouldn't be far behind him. Of course when he saw you and your band of companions stroll through the door after his siblings he wasn't surprised. Perhaps a bit perturbed by the sheer amount of blood you were covered in but nonetheless he was relieved that everyone was alive and kicking.

That evening had erupted into more merriment than he'd expected, a tad more alcohol and songs than he would have liked but it was nice to see Cal and Lia happy (even if it was mostly due to the Firewine). Finding it slightly overwhelming when he was only tipsy he secluded himself to the only other bedroom in this whole bloody place beside Isobel's, hoping for some respite. But he wouldn't be so lucky, turning and being surprised by your form sitting cross legged on the bed with an orb of light hovering in your palm.

“Zurgan! What are you doing up here?” He exclaimed and you looked at him with a perplexed expression before slowly sending the orb of light around the room, lighting up every candle with an enchanted flame.

“I didn't realise the room was taken.” You smirked and it infuriated Rolan.

“Shouldn't you be down there, celebrating how bloody amazing everyone thinks you are?” He responded with slightly more malice than he intended but you seemed completely unphased as you uncrossed your legs and lay back on your hands, looking up at him.

“And what do you think of me Rolan?” Your eyebrow raised and you cocked your head to the side.

“I think you enjoy meddling and playing the hero.” He glared down at you but you once again seemed unphased and it was growing more and more attractive by the minute.

“Oh, come now my fellow spellcaster. Why be so harsh? Are you frustrated I did it before you could?” You were teasing him and it sent a bolt of arousal through Rolan’s body. It was entirely too warm in this room, your focused gaze and the wine was not helping at all.

“I- no! I do not meddle the way that you do. You think too much of your skills if you think that will get a rise out of me.” Rolan was a few steps from you and it felt more and more like he wanted to be closer.

“I think I've already got one.” You stood up and closed the gap between the two of you, Rolan went to speak but couldn't find the words to respond. “If I'd known how handsome you looked when you were quiet I'd have teased you more a long time ago.”

“Gods, why are you so drunk on your own ego?” His gaze was fixed on your lips and you smiled.

“Only when I'm talking to you,” reaching up slightly, you kissed him on the cheek as Rolans eyes grew wide. “If you want me to stop you only have to say so.”

He said nothing and so you carried on kissing up and down his neck. Paying particular attention to his jaw before licking his ear. Rolan let out a moan he didn't know he'd been holding in and it annoyed him a great amount when he saw your smirk.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked and it took all of Rolans strength to not pin you to the bed and fuck you. But he nodded and you placed a hand on his cheek before kissing him softly. He had never kissed anyone that was as bound to magic as he was, it felt like a melding of two energy sources. Intertwining with one another as they amplified their power.

“Why don't you hate me?” Rolan asked breathlessly between kisses.

“Because I can't be bothered too anymore.” You replied, running a hand up his chest and then across his shoulder.

“Why not?” His voice was smaller than he intended it to be.

“Why do you care? Don't you just want to sleep with someone and move on? It would be one of the only good things happening in this forsaken place.” You stood back, exasperated and sat on the bed looking at the floor.

“I- I don't know why I care. But I do. Why are you throwing yourself at me like this?” He regretted the words he chose the moment his mouth was closed. Your gaze slowly rose up to meet his, eyes so tired and there was a new look behind your eyes. No longer pity, but an anger mixed with sadness he had been the cause of.

“If that's truly how you feel, Rolan. Then I'll stop bothering you I promise,” you stood up and reached the door hoping he would turn around and take you in his arms. But he didn't, you left the room and stood on the other side of the door.

Taking a deep breath you could only remember how deeply embarrassed you had felt after the party a few weeks ago. You didn't plan on crying to Shadowheart again but it was definitely a possibility, you thought that maybe if you acted more aloof or something that he would want you. Maybe changing yourself wasn't the right decision, but you thought he might like you. If he just got past his judgemental front then maybe he would allow you to see him. Not the mask of anger that he often worem But he still pushed you away as easily as the first time.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Dread rose through your stomach and into your mouth, an acidic taste of anxiety because you'd be seeing Rolan soon. Due to your previous transgressions- at least transgressions in Rolans opinion- you doubted that he would be happy to see you. Your last meeting was plagued with judgemental words from him and actions that weren't really in your nature. Regardless of your anxiety, you needed to visit Sorcerers and Sundries for Gale.

It was a beautiful day, sun streaming through the windows and the stained glass ceilings as Rolan stood at the entrance desk. He often thought as he started his shift that seeing an employee at the welcome desk with a face if bruises and burns would be moderately unsettling. But Lorroakan hardly seemed to care. Rolan supposed that humiliation must be one of his Master's great loves considering how this was a usual and common occurrence. As the bruises seemed to heal and hope would rise up inside that maybe this was the end of the test, that he had passed, the beatings started again. It was always nonsensical questions that Rolan had no way of knowing how to answer, knowledge he should have been taught by now but wasn't given the opportunity. The only saving grace for him was that no one be knew was ever in the shop, it was curious children or worldly Baldurians never someone that he- oh fuck.

When he saw you walking through the door, a backpack slung over your shoulder as you stood to the back of your group of companions. Gale strided forward to speak with him. Rolan wondered why you were hiding from him, but he supposed it wasn't so outlandish given the last time you spoke and maybe the state of his face.

“Rolan! It's nice to see you again, who should I talk to about rare tomes and spells?” Gale asked with a polite smile on his face as he attempted (badly) to hide that he was looking at the bruises.

“Welcome to Sorcerers Sundries, home to much magical information, items and spells. Tolna will be able to help you with any rare tomes, she's over there by the other counter. If you need any more help, be assured I will do my best to assist you.” Rolan's smile was so painfully emotionless that Gale sought only to smile and walk over to Tolna rather than stew in the awkward situation.

Gale was accompanied by Shadowheart and Astarion but you stayed, still looking slightly down and picking up a pamphlet on the front desk. The air felt thicker and not in awkwardness but with regret and a tugging feeling in his stomach that he once again needed to apologise. But you didn't look up and he wasn't sure whether to interrupt your thoughts or leave you to your reading about the Nightsong.

“How has your apprenticeship been?” You suddenly asked, your fingers grazing the top of the pamphlet delicately as you refused to reach his gaze.

“Most beneficial, Master Lorroakan is a wonderful tutor and I'm enjoying my time here as I said I would.” His lying was hardly with any effort, he didn't feel like he wanted to lie to you regardless of what you thought of him. He could only hope that you would want to speak to him more due to the very clear lie. It was after he said this that you looked up at him with a hard expression that immediately softened as you stood closer to the desk and lay your palms flat.

“Rolan…” you breathed before you hand gently reached up to cup his cheek. He wanted to shrink away, pretend that he didn't need help and that he didn't want your attention but he couldn't. He was so deeply starved of a kind touch or basic human decency that he leant into your hand. “What has he done to your beautiful face?”

“I-I assure you. This is the result of backfired spells of my own doing.” Rolan gently took your hand off his cheek and looked down, unable to meet your sympathetic gaze. Did you pity him once more?

“Rolan, we both know that you have never been that careless.” You stood firm and tilted his chin up gently so he looked at you, his eyes threatening to spill tears.

“Please, for once allow me to have my privacy!” He exclaimed suddenly and without warning. “Everytime you enter back into my life it's to butt your head into every aspect of it. My spellcasting, my family, my character, the autonomy of my own face! I can handle my own problems and I don't need your righteous help.”

Your face displayed the deep deep hurt that spread through your whole body. Tears pooling in your eyes as Rolan looked at you with misplaced anger and frustration. He couldn't take it back, once again he had ruined it all. You wanted to help him, everytime you showed up it had been his fortune and you were too sweet for him. Too kind to deserve a bastard such as he. Maybe it was for the best that he scared you away with his harsh words, it's not as if they would subside. He was a selfish, rotten man who couldn't accept kindness if it slapped him in the face.

“I'm sorry, Rolan. I didn't-.” You paused, seemingly considering your words carefully before sniffing. “I won't bother you again. I promise.” You'd said that before and he'd longed that you hadn't meant it, now he wasn't sure if you'd ever speak to him again. Slowly, you walked away with your head bowed over to your companions. Shadowheart hugged you extremely close whilst staring daggers at Rolan who just about shrunk in her accusatory gaze.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

When Lorroakan lay dead on the floor, Rolan had to take a moment and sit down near the body of his dead Master. It felt like his own body might collapse next to him if he stood up for too long. So mentally and physically exhausted but, with a stark realisation that his dream was over, he would never be a great wizard. Who else would take on a hellspawn with no formal magical education? He didn't mourn Lorroakan in any sense of the word but he mourned what could have been, his now forgotten future.

“You fought well, I'm sure you'll turn this place around soon enough.” Shadowheart stood over him with hands on her hips.

“What?” He asked with furrowed brows and she rolled her eyes.

“Don't tell me you're just going to give up and leave? You're the Master of the tower now so you better use that power well. Starting with apologies to people who deserve them, hmm?” She cocked her head towards you. You were standing in the corner, shoulders hunched and making yourself even smaller as you stood near La’zel. The Githyanki almost seemed to be standing protectively next to you.

Rolan nodded and Shadowheart offered him a hand to get up, that for once in his life he accepted and rose to his feet. Brushing off his robe he took note of the blood smatterings.

“Could I speak to you?” Rolan asked tentatively as he approached you, greeted by the accusatory glare of the Gith.

“Oh, me? Of course. Yes.” You walked next to Rolan and smiled to your companions as they exited through the portal with Aylin.

“Thank you. For what you did here today.” Rolan said so earnestly that you were taken back- no backhanded comment or snideness, just humility. “Without you all here today I… I don't know how long it would have all gone on.”

“Honesty, I thought you would scold me for being so meddlesome in your business.” You smiled to yourself, looking down at your muddy boots.

“Well, whilst that is true. It was only to my benefit in this case. As it has always been, no matter how cruel I have been, you have indiscriminately helped me and my siblings. There is no way to thank you that expresses my gratitude.” Rolan was looking at you now and you weren't sure whether to reach his gaze, too afraid he would say something like last time.

“I would have done it in every lifetime, I hope you know that.” You slowly looked at him, ready to wrap your arms around yourself protectively once again. But, he looked genuinely touched, tender even. It made you hope that you could really be friends even if it was never anything more.

“I know I've ruined things with you, I assume irrevocably given my behavior. But if you'll allow me, I would like to be your friend even if nothing more would come from it.” Now he was flicking his gaze from you to the floor and back again, anxiously fiddling with his fingers.

“If that's all that you want then who would I be to refuse,” you smiled sadly. “I think it's nice to imagine what could have happened between the two of us."

"What do you imagine?" Rolan asked, suddenly anxious but hopeful.

"Oh, I don't know. A date or two. Magic with one another and learning new techniques, spending time together etcetera etcetera." Your smile seemed to fade away as you looked into the distance.

"And that would be... favourable to you?" He asked cautiously and you weren't sure how to take it, was he horrified or curious?

"Very favourable. Regardless of everything my feelings towards you have remained constant and I think I would be remiss to act as if I only see you as a friend." You paused, "But that does not mean I don't want to be friends. I understand that my opinion doesn't necessarily line up with yours."

"I- I can't tell if you're joking? You have feelings towards me even when I've been such a cataclysmic fool?" Rolan scoffed with an expression of genuine bewilderment.

"Has that not been painfully obvious from the beginning." You stated wanting to run away to avoid the possibility of rejection but no, you needed this.

"You want me?" He was once again, bewildered.

"Gods, Rolan. Please listen, I've been thinking about you constantly since the moment we met. Ready to drop anything and everything to help you because it was the right thing to do but that didn't stop my real interest in you. That only grew and despite the fuck ups I knew you were in stressful situations and you can never predict how someone will react." You paused looking down at the floor.

"I tried to change how I acted around you whether it was being more flirty or more reserved and everytime I would feel the same afterwards. I wanted you as myself, maybe I'm too patient for my own good but I don't care. If you don't feel the same for me I would still love to be your friend and a friend of your family because you're good people and I adore being around you all." You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from word-vomiting any further.

"I- that is a great deal to take in." Rolan paused, pondering what to say next you assumed. "I can't believe that I'm not the fool who has fallen for someone who could never see me the same way." His smile began to grow and he slowly reached out his hand to brush against your fingers that dug into your arm. You looked into his eyes and struggled to find deception within them.

"I once asked you what you thought of me, what do you think of me now?" You asked, linking your fingers with his and letting your hands hang between the two of you.

"I still think you enjoy meddling and playing the hero but, you're considerate and kind, much too patient for a normal person to be. But more than anything when I think of you I want to be close to you." He squeezed your hand before laying his other hand on your cheek.

The kiss the two of you shared, the first true kiss was beautiful. The trust between two people built up through conflict and displayed through an expression of your deep care for one another. It didn't feel rushed or forced, you weren't pretending to be someone else and Rolan didn't feel as if he had to deflect his feelings into defensive anger. It felt whole.

[lavender-romancer]

Push it Down

Astarion x GN Reader

Everyday it got worse, the longing stares interrupted when La’zel would curiously catch your eyeline always straying to Astarion. Or how you would always inextricably walk next to him regardless of the goal ahead. Shadowheart would often question if Astarion had to open “every lock we find” at your request. But you couldn't help it, being near him, with him was all you would think about

AN: Astarion brainrot is a real condition people. Lots of lovely fluff.

You're a squishy wizard

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

“Do you have to make your feelings so obvious that it's painful?” Shadowheart asked as you looked through some random boxes you found in what remained of moonhaven.

“Do you have to bring this up again?” You jabbed back with a smile. “I'm not ashamed of it, but I will never outright admit it.”

“Lady of Sorrows guide you, I don't know how you're able to stand with your debilitating lack of a spine.” She raised her eyebrow and you simply rolled your eyes “Here, go give these to your boy-toy.” Handing you a few thieves' tools Shadowheart walked to another side of the room and continued looting.

You scampered outside, only realising when you were in front of Astarion how desperate it must have looked to run up to him like a dog wagging its tail excitedly. He was unlocking a chest that was one in a big group La'zel and Karlach had put together for him to deal with.

“Here,” you held out the tools with a smile that was much too big for such a small token.

“Thank you, darling.” He smiled up at you. “You're looking particularly overjoyed, what's got you so energetic?”

“Uh… looting.” You never were good at lying.

“Thank the Gods you never became a politician because your inability to deceive is one of your greatest qualities.” He opened the chest he had been working on.

“I suppose. But I wish I was better at more things like that, it just makes me so nervous to not be honest.” You fidgeted with your hands.

“Well, for starters you need to be better at improvising, it is adorable to see you try and lie to anyone and fail miserably. I'm convinced you should just be completely honest and people might not believe you.” Standing up he brushed the dust off his trousers and you were now face to face. Given, a few steps apart but it still made you smile and your feet shuffle anxiously.

“The tadpole has definitely made me better at lying, you have to at least admit that.” You were practically beaming, staring at him in awe.

“Still, you carry most of your emotions in your eyes and your inability to stop smiling. You'll get there eventually my friend, probably, I mean probably not but it's very sweet that you continue to try. Anyways, we should head back to camp for the evening I am positively spent.” Astarion walked past you to pick up his backpack and you internally groaned.

It was so deeply embarrassing when you couldn't keep your emotions hidden. A problem you had usually put down to anxiousness, but realistically it was just something you had to learn to live with. You were an open book with almost no air of mystique about you. Maybe that was why Astarion seemed so utterly uninterested in seeking anything but friendship or a quick night of passion.

As you lay in your tent, you conjured a mage hand to throw books at you to try and practice your telekinesis but it was going dreadfully. Whilst your magic was growing back to it's former strength before the tadpole you were still plagued by poor reaction times to basically anything. One quite powerful throw from the conjured hand hit your arm and you yelped, sure that it would leave a bruise.

“What mischief are you up too now?” A voice suddenly asked, distracting you from the task at hand as a book hit you square in the face.

“Fuck!” You exclaimed, dismissing the mage hand and rubbing your nose.

“Are you trying to be agile again? You know how that ended up last time.” Astarion joked as he entered your tent and sat down opposite you.

A funny but painful memory entered your mind when you had tried to climb over a very small wall to surprise some goblins and had instead ended up on your back in front of them. If falling over in front of some goblins wasn't bad enough, you had also slipped in grease that was extremely easy to avoid alerting the whole horde to your party's location. The bollocking you got from La'zel after that encounter made you promise to work on your ability to not be “such a fucking Wizard” whatever that meant.

“No, surprisingly I was failing at something else.” You quipped back at him, “anyways, did you want to feed or-”

“No, well yes but, I wanted to talk to you.” He licked his lips absentmindedly and seeing the slight glint of his fangs off the light of your candle made your eyes grow wider. You never knew you'd have a thing for vampires…

“Oh! Do uhm, talk away.” You cringed at your inability to string a sentence together.

“I- look. I know that I am beautiful and wonderful darling, but have you been looking at me slightly differently lately?” he asked, you could almost sense that he was nervous but you weren't sure why.

“What do you mean?” You responded with your eyes fixated on your bedroll on the floor as the alarm bells rang in your head.

“With more longing behind your eyes?” You hadn't noticed that same longing in his eyes which was often present in your gaze.

“Who- I- why did you get that impression?” You fumbled through your words and began fiddling with your robe.

“Oh, I…” he trailed off and you finally looked up, sensing his dejected tone you cocked your head.

“You sound disappointed.” Your tone was soft in an attempt to stop him from running away from the conversation.

“Disappointed? Darling if I wanted you I could most certainly have you.” Having returned to his snarky sense of security you frowned.

“Is that why you seem so annoyed? Because I rejected you before?” Your mind went back to drinking red wine with him, the sour taste filling your nose all over again. It wasn't that you didn't want him, you just didn't want the first time you could spend the night with him to be clouded with alcohol and regret. Maybe it had bruised his ego but there were so many reasons to try to let your bond grow overtime.

“You think that wounded me? I have laid with thousands and I'll lay with thousands more before I am hurt by that!” He exclaimed but you could see the hurt in his eyes that he struggled to hide.

“I didn't want it to be like that. Something that you might feel like was a mistake, a drunken mishap you'd rather forget. I didn't- I don't want you to think I did it because I did not want it. Under different circumstances things would have been different for me.” Clasping your hands together you tried to reach his gaze but it was so accusatory that it was making your heart pound.

“I- I don't think I've ever been rejected as tactfully as you did.” Astarion almost laughed with a far-away look in his eyes.

“It didn't feel genuine and I couldn't allow myself to be swept up in all of it knowing that we weren't on the same page with our feelings about one another.” Smiling sadly you looked at the book that had previously hit you in the face, pushing it to the side you moved a bit closer to him. “I'm sorry that you felt like you had to do that, that night I mean. Correct me if I'm wrong, please.”

“I'm not sure how you know me so well that it's almost concerning.” His voice sounded strained as he departed from his snarky performative notes.

“You've become my favourite distraction through all of this shit we've dealt with. I really like being around you, it will be a shame when it all comes to an end when we get to Baldurs Gate.” your voice didn't show your true sadness but your eyes certainly did and Astarion could tell.

“I was hidden for so many years within those city walls, imprisoned and kept as a loyal pet before the nautiloid. A grim reality was the only way to escape the even worse life I was living and… I never thought I'd make friends let alone feel connected to someone. But you, you're thoughtful and sweet and respectful and too perceptive for your own good but so silly and honestly so bad as hiding that it's hilarious. Finding someone who understands you is a great gift and I would not like to squander it.” Astarion reached out his hand and it shook slightly as he showed his true vulnerability. You looked from his hand to his face, it was genuine and really from everything you could gather, it seemed like he was being the most honest he'd ever been with you.

“You want to stay together?” Your voice was so hopeful as your head told you that you were an idiot.

“Yes. You fool. Was that not clear. Now hold my hand so we're not both fools.” He rolled his eyes and you hurriedly held his hand. Your clamminess was immediately obvious given his hand was ridiculously cold. “God you mortals are always sweaty aren't you.” He gave you a cheeky smile and you had to laugh or you'd descend into an anxiety ridden madness.

“Do you want to stay here tonight? I would enjoy a cuddle.” You asked.

“Just a cuddle Darling?” He flirted but there was still that look behind his eyes that was there after the tiefling party. The look you had come to understand was the dogma drilled into him to seduce, sleep with and then sacrifice all his conquests. Sex wasn't the same in Astarion's head as it was in yours but you didn't mind, it wasn't important to you.

“Just a cuddle.” You smiled in a way that you hoped was supportive and whilst he looked surprised he didn't seem disappointed. “Come here,” you lay down on the pillows and invited him to chest.

Whilst tentative he rested his head on your chest and slowly placed his hand on your arm. You without warning wrapped your arms around him in a squeeze of a hug that would probably suffocate someone who wasn't already dead. But he seemed to appreciate it as he nuzzled under your chin and his body began to relax. You stayed like that for a while until you began to snore and Astarion peeled himself from your embrace. He sat up and started to read, every so often glancing down at you. How an earth had he allowed himself to fall for a Wizard?

Astarion Taglist:

@anukulee

[lavender-romancer]

Starving

Astarion x (Durge) Reader

CW: angst, fluff, sexual tones

He needed you. But in his dark pit of starvation he feared he pushed you away past the point of return.

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

You didn't seek love in Astarion no matter how much you wanted it. What would affection and adoration do for him when what he really needed was a friend, a confidante. Someone he would never think was using him. After so many years of abuse that violated his very understanding of intimacy and consent, you wouldn't dream of overstepping any boundary in existence. Trying to talk him off a metaphorical ledge of ostracism was more important than physical urges. He didn't need to feel alone or terrified someone would hurt him again. Whilst Astarion could easily protect himself, you decided that when he wasn't hiding in the shadows you would protect him from any enemy he came across.

After saving Faerûn the two of you had decided to live together, much to Astarions confusion, you wanted to stay close to him. Offer up your blood freely to him and create somewhere that felt safe for him. He was still plagued with nightmares, but you began reading deeper into alchemy to try and help him through his trances.

He never understood why you were so supportive of him. 200 years and he never met anyone so genuinely dedicated without expecting much in return. All you asked was that he wouldn't run away if they had an argument and that he wouldn't feed on any other people. It was simple and there was a deep rooted respect between the both of you no matter how much you flirted with one another, there was a boundary. It had never been crossed, he had never been touched without giving his consent, just as Astarion would never touch you or bite you without consent.

Why you had decided to help and live with him after everything that happened was beyond him. Why not Shadowheart? Or maybe Halsin? Even Gale would- Astarion had to stop himself in thought as he remembered how utterly boring he found Gale. He was much better company, even with a very slight fondness for the wizard, Gale was hardly a casual conversationalist. Mostly resorting to threats about hurling a fireball at someone or casually reminding everyone he was a walking bomb. No, Astarion was more fun. Maybe that was why you liked being around him? But he had become so comfortable with you, he found it so easy to talk about his past when the two of you would sit by the fire in your respective arm chairs and read.

Those moments in front of the crackling logs were monumentally special to him, he had no idea how to express his gratitude

You expected so little, asked for much less and respected him. Whenever he would make a mistake or break something he would immediately start profusely apologising, still mentally conditioned to expect a physical punishment regardless of remorse. But all you did was ask for his help to clean up the mess and you both moved on, you were two barely functioning adults but seemed to help one another. You still remembered little from your past, your childhood or anything in between but helping Astarion gave you a purpose that mattered. It was hard to focus on your own shortcomings when you had a whiny (bitchy) vampire to live with and help. But it worked. The two of you were trying to be normal and doubted that you could on your own.

Whilst the two of you had your own demons you were in a pact of some sorts, neither of you wanted to leave the other to deal with those demons alone. Your other companions were constantly confused by whatever your relationship was. Assuming it was romantic and sexual but, being even more confused upon finding out it wasn't. There was always a feeling something would happen between the two of you, but neither you, nor Astarion would admit it. Both of you too scared that you would lose the other forever if anything romantic happened.

“What wine would you like?” You asked, walking into the front room holding two bottles of red. Astarion was sitting in his armchair illuminated by the fire. The orange hue danced around the shadows of his face and it made you want to take him in your arms and never let go.

“Whatever is older, darling. Things do rather improve with age you know.” Astarion replied with a slight smirk and you rolled your eyes.

He couldn't take his eyes off you as you left, the way you leant against the doorway showed the curve of your stomach and hips. Astarion had to snap his brain out of it as he realised he was staring at the curve of your breasts as you turned to leave. Why was he so unbearably horny today? He supposed it was the night that he usually fed on you. Maybe his bloodlust created a different kind of lust all together? He had been admiring you like this for too long now, it couldn't be bloodlust that made his cock twitch and the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Sparing quick looks as you made a confused face when you were reading and got to a word you struggled with, he loved when you would ask for help so openly and without shame . It was something he desperately envied about your character. Your nose would sometimes scrunch up when he would tell you how to pronounce the word because apparently it was “stupid to have silent letters”. But recently, especially when he had been feeding on you, he couldn't stop wanting to touch you. He wanted to pull you close and never let you go, fuck you for hours and never leave your side.

“I made something for you. Well. Decanted I suppose.” You walked back into the front room with two goblets of wine and a vial of something tucked under your arm.

“What's that?” He asked with a raised eyebrow. After setting the goblets down you handed the vial to him. He already knew what it was before looking more closely, he could smell it. Your beautiful sweet blood.

“For your convenience.” You smiled down at Astarion but he didn't look best pleased. You thought this might be easier, at least for you. Everytime he fed on you all you wanted was to touch him, get some kind of friction because to your shame it made you so ridiculously aroused.

“When did you…” his voice trailed off and your palms began to sweat.

“Do you not like the idea?” You asked sheepishly, ready to snatch the vial back.

“Well, darling, the feeding process is a nice experience and it…” he was trying to find any words to retain the physical closeness you had whilst feeding. “Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you last time it happened?”

“What makes you ask that?” You sat down in the armchair adjacent to his.

“I…” He felt if he opened up that things would never be the same. So it was easier to close everything off again. “If you would like to change things I can go back to stalking other pretty things in the night.” He narrowed his eyes.

“Sometimes you're impossible. This is more convenient for when I'm not here or when I-”

“When you eventually leave, you mean.” The words crawled out of his mouth with such malice.

“I did not say that, Astarion. Stop acting like a child and communicate!” You yelled back as the heat rose into your face and your eyes began to prick.

“Oh shall I get on my knees and pray to the saint that has allowed me to exist with her blood? There are plenty of places I can get it if you won't offer up your neck for free!” He fired back, getting just as riled up.

“I'm freely giving you my fucking blood! I'm still giving it to you. What difference does it make? I try so hard. So fucking hard to make you feel secure and understood but you react to everything like a child!” You stood up and walked a few paces towards the fire with your back to him.

“I didn't realise I was such an inconvenience in your pretty little head.” Astarion almost laughed, a petty attempt to get a rise out of you when he was quickly running out of options to keep you close to him. You stayed quiet for a moment, one hand on your stomach, the other leaning on the mantle above the fire as if you were bracing yourself for the pain to follow.

“I just want the best for you. For our friendship and I…” your voice broke as you choked down the urge to sob.

“Yes, our precious friendship.” He sounded so vindictive that you wondered if he really cared about you at all.

“Do you not want it? Our friendship?” Your voice was so small and defeated.

“Oh, making me the bastard in this situation is just pathetic. After two hundred years of pure shit where I was always in the wrong and punished for it I don't want to hear it anymore!” He roared back at you. When he stood up you actually flinched, a fleeting thought crossed your mind that this was when he would ignore every warning and just drink you dry.

“I-” You tried to speak but you couldn't. All you wanted was to cry, just let it all out because the emotions were too much for you to carry anymore. The carnal desire you felt for him, the deep and earnest care you felt and the sense of responsibility for his well being. It always seemed that you were in control when really he held all the cards.

“Fucking hells.” Astarion muttered angrily before storming upstairs. You could finally sit back in your chair and cry.

Staring into the flames that usually brought you so much comfort but now, they just made you yearn for a life that was never lived. So long ago he said you were the only person he had ever truly cared about, that he would never hurt you and never leave your side. Those longing looks you'd steal when he'd laugh or the way you played into his flirting from the first day you met him. To this day you remembered nothing before the nautiloid, but, you knew Astarion. You knew he'd be there when you came home and would listen to your anxieties. He had always been in your life as far as you were concerned. So why had everything changed over something so ridiculous as the way you gave him your blood?

You pulled your knees up to your chest and sobbed, he wouldn't be there when you woke up and you knew it was all over. He's gone now, he's running away from your grasp and you'll never get him back no matter what you want from him- the voices in your head told you. You hit your forehead repeatedly trying to get them to shut up but they wouldn't subside. Why did you ever think he loved you? That he needed you for more than a pretty little snack? You wait around hoping he'll take more fucking interest in you when he wants nothing more than your beautiful blood. You should drain him of every drop in his body. It would serve him right, the decimation of a monster.

You wanted to scream. To pull out your brain and scrub out the voices, hurt yourself to a point where you would no longer care about what Astarion did to you. But how could any pain, any anguish overcome the love you felt for him? The Urge. The Urge was clawing it's way out of the depths of your psyche. How could it really be gone when it had penetrated every memory you currently held. You didn't know life without the torturous spasms and depraved thoughts. You thought they might end with the death of your butler but, no. The Urge was ever present.

The fire crackled and lit the shadows of the room, yet you couldn't feel its warmth as you sat cold and alone. He was your warmth, your sun, your stars. Whenever you spoke to him your day would be brighter and your head clearer. Seeing him would make you smile and make you feel safe. You cursed yourself, you should never have been so dependent.

He felt like shit. Utter shit. Why had he exploded like that? What was the point when you didn't do anything wrong, it was your neck he drank from and yet he felt some kind of authority? No, it was not his place nor his decision and he really did feel like the fucking idiot. As he was about to leave his room to apologise he heard it. The noise that haunted him whenever he heard it. Your sobs, that permeated into his soul and made his dead heart ache. He adored you so deeply that whenever it felt like you were pulling away he would double down on harshness. It made him feel in control of the situation because, if he was the first to leave then he won.

Astarion sat down quietly on the stairs. Wanting to wait till your sobs subsided but they seemed full of a sadness that would never subside. All you ever did was help him, try to find a way for him to walk in the sun, sate his bloodthirst and yet… sometimes in his irrational brain it felt like you were trying to find a way to fix him so you could leave. When he was broken you could fix him in a never ending loop. But as soon as he was put back together there was no reason for the two of you to exist together. He would never get to be close to you, never touch you or hear you laugh. But now, due to his own stupidity you would leave anyway but this time with hatred for him.

Just his luck that he would be turned into a monstrous vampire, be threatened with turning into a mindflayer but the true evil was always inside of him. It felt ridiculous when he pondered on it. He was so at home here with you, so comfortable and safe but it was never enough. The evil inside of him would always rise up and ruin everything around him.

He felt like such a fucking bastard to make you cry. Make you feel so lonely that you would feel the need to cry, which you rarely did. Once or twice in the many years you'd known one another he had held you as you cried. Whispered words of support and affirmation as he held you close, it was such a rarity that he reminisced on those moments more than he cared to admit. Being able to be a comfort to you was ridiculously cathartic for him.

For centuries he had been a death sentence to everyone he got close to. Cazadors favourite errand boy, collecting lost pretty souls for him to gorge his ascension depravity on. He would never overcome that guilt, not that he should- it was his cross to bear. But being your comfort, your home… it made it all less soul crushing. When Astarion was with you he felt worthy, like he had a purpose to be your protector when you were really his. He felt safe and respected and if he ruined that then maybe he deserved to step into the sun.

Deciding it would be better if he slipped away quietly he waited for your sobs to subside. Suspecting you were asleep he crept down the stairs and stayed to the back wall, hoping to avoid his shadow being plastered on the wall in front of you.

“Is this it then?” You said quietly and it surprised even Astarion that his hiding skills had become so lax of late.

“What?” Was all he could say, bewildered at why you would care if he would leave.

“Is this it? Are you leaving me?” You slowly stood up and faced him, your eyes still watering.

“I thought it might be easier if I left when I thought you were asleep. It appears my hiding deficiency needs some serious attention.” He tried to smile and make some joke to thinly veil his panic.

“Please. Don't, Astarion.” You took one step closer to him and he wasn't sure if you were referring to him leaving or the poorly timed joke. The silence continued into what felt like hours to him. Having no clue what the right response would be, he could only remain quiet and hope that you wouldn't tell him to leave.

“Do you want to leave?” You asked, looking down at the floor and trying to hide the very clear tears in your eyes.

“I- if it would be best for you then I will.” Astarion was teetering between each foot, one closer to you and the other closer to the door. Maybe if he left now it would all be less painful, he could learn to forget you. But if he stayed, what if you grew to hate him? He couldn't survive it.

“But do you want to leave?” You asked again, surprised by your pleading tone.

“I don't know.” Was all he said and it was enough for you to lose all hope, you wanted to cry until it hurt but it wasn't fair on him. If he wanted to leave then you shouldn't be restricting him.

“If this is the last time I ever see you, I'm sorry. I thought I was doing the best thing for our friendship because I couldn't remain your friend and-” You interrupted yourself, because it wasn't fair to practically guilt trip him.

“In all the time I have known you, you have only made decisions to better others. But, what do you want?” Astarion turned to fully face you, no longer edging towards the door.

All you wanted to say was that you wanted him. You just wanted him, in whatever form that would take it didn't matter as long as he stayed. You could remain friends, though you'd always crave more but, it was better than never seeing him again.

“I want,” you paused, pondering on a response that wouldn't send him running away into the night. “I want you to be happy.” Astarion looked at the floor and smiled.

“My ever generous confidante. That can't be the only thing you desire, the only thing that you want. My happiness is inconsequential compared to your own.” He wanted to reach out, show that you didn't have to worry about him. Prove that he could stand on his own without needing you but he wasn't so sure it was true. The constant insecurities he had were only amplified by the possibility that you would see his shortcomings and push him away.

“Inconsequential? How can you even consider that? I care about you more than myself sometimes and I don't see it as a weakness. We support one another, help one another and what is the point of any of this if I have to pretend that something matters more to me than your happiness? You have no idea how important you are, how loved.” You said it without thinking and the fear was evident in your eyes to Astarion as he had the same look on his own face.

As much as he wanted your adoration, your love? It absolutely terrified him. Was it all just bloodlust? Was he using you as some willing blood bag? If he stopped feeding on you at any point would it all fade away into nothingness and he'd realise none of it was love, it was his insatiable hunger? The silence between the two of you felt cursed, the one to break it would have to be a stronger man than he was because he was too scared to say a word. Rooted in place, not able to flee because of that look in your eyes. He couldn't leave whilst you looked so terrified, he had an urge to take you in his arms. But he didn't, he stayed in place

“Astarion?” You sounded terrified.

“Your life would be so much easier without me.” He sounded so genuinely exasperated, unable to understand why you would want him in your life. His eyes welled up and he looked so beautiful in the light of the fire and, you couldn't help but feel more drawn to him.

“And?” You replied, more determined than ever to prove how you cared for him.

“That's all you have to say?” He asked and you nodded, it elicited a laugh from him that sounded hollow and yet relieved.

“You make my life better. It feels enriched and happy, you are the only person who calms me and comforts me. The only one I am completely comfortable with, the only one I want to be around this much.” you held one of his hands tentatively.

“You’re shaking, darling.” Astarion softly told you, leading you to your armchair and sitting you down.

“If your only reason is that it is better for me, please stay. I want you to stay here with me and we can carry on as we always have and-” he stopped you mid sentence putting a hand up.

“I don't think we can continue as we always have my darling.” He let out a sigh and you dug your nails into the arm of the chair.

“Then…what do we do?” You asked, still feeling like you were shaking and feeling even more pathetic by the minute.

“I mean, I don't know how any of this works, what comes next or what you exactly want from me.” whilst he couldn't reach your gaze he didn't seem upset.

“Well what do you want from me?” Your voice was strained and anxious, you were so completely convinced he would tell you that he wanted space from you.

“More, more than this. I don't… how the hells do you do all of this?” He sounded a mixture of happy and confused.

“Slowly. If that's what you want, it's not exactly that much of a transition from how we were. Less longing glances and more actual contact I suppose? I haven't ever had a companionship. Well, if I have it's before I lost my memory so this is… intimidating.” Your eyes flicked from the floor to Astarions anxiously.

“I don't remember ever having it either. We really are the weirdos of our odd little group aren't we. Even La'zel has probably had a companion. Losing to La'zel when it comes to romance is not something I plan on continuing.” Astarion held your hand tighter, looking up into your eyes.

“I care about you, so much.” You placed a hand on his cheek and he leant into it.

“Stop being so nice to me. Makes me feel like a good person. Ugh.” Astarion mocked disgust but you knew he loved the praise.

“Only leave me if you want to. Will you promise me that?” your thumb stroked across his cheek and you saw a single tear fall across your hand.

“Darling, I will never want to leave you, and the fact that you willingly give me a choice makes it clearer that I want to stay with you.” Astarion pulled your hand up to his face and kissed the back of it before hugging you around your stomach. Leaning his head on your lap. You finally relaxed and stopped shaking, stroking his hair in the firelight, you both existed in perfect happiness.

[lavender-romancer]

Hi so this is so random, but I've just finished reading Tired of You and I was overwhelmed. Still am actually. This must be the best thing I have read, ever. I actually have a friend that has mental issues but I never knew what to do or say, because I didn't really understand. Now I realize that everybody experiences it differently and that everbody has different issues and lives in different situations, but this just made me realize what power thoughts have. So thank you, amazingly gut wrenchin

Took me so long to look at my inbox and see this but omg, I'm so glad! I wanted a story that was like an outlet for feelings about mental health and this series felt perfect for it so I'm so glad that it came across as intended. It's so heartwarming to know it had a positive effect <3

[bhaalism-deactivated20240425]

— so I'll die there under you (every night, all night)

› astarion x reader

› wc: 1k+

› a/n: tysm dal @dhampling for the idea and direct inspiration for this via your preachers daughter prompt list <3 ilysm

warnings : grief, graphic violence, heartbreak, mention of suicide, blood, death, betrayal, compulsion, lemme know if I missed anything but yea this isn't happy in the slightest sorry

He likes to pretend you got away. That you simply broke free that night, bravery pounding thick and hot through your veins, as you fled in the night, swallowed by the dark never turning your back. It gives him a sense of pride for a flash of a second, because if anyone could survive he would hope it was you. If anyone had the tenacity and the cleverness it was you.

Even though he knows your bones are most likely moldering in some hole on the property, or buried in a pauper's grave inside the cemetery. Disgraced and forgotten by all but him.

It wasn't what you deserved.

It wasn't what he deserved.

The dormitory was oddly quiet as morning crept in, a rare moment he could steal for himself while sleep curled at the edges of his vision like a cat snuggling up to his lap. Exhaustion made his eyelids heavy, and he could feel the burn in his irises begging him to slip away into the sirens arms of rest but he stubbornly refused.

Even in reverie his memory of you doesn't quite do you justice. There was a time, in the first few months, he took any desperate opportunity he could to dip into those recollections because at least you were alive inside his head, your laugh just as real as it always was while you snagged his pinky in yours. The weight of your hand still felt solid in his. Steadfast.

Turning on his side to face the wall a little scoff escapes his lips, choking into the phantom of a wobbly sob. He never cried for you because he felt as if it would disrespect you. The knife doesn't weep for the neck it's been plunged into, after all. But you never held him like a knife, the only one in more than two centuries. You held him the way devotees hold their holy relics, and the memory of it makes him shove his knuckles against his lips to keep from wailing.

The feeling of his own fangs slicing into the skin, grating against bone, is an anchor against the tides of grief beating against his undead heart.

You never begrudged nor blamed him for the things his hands and body had done. The hands that stole and murdered and manipulated you kissed every fingertip of. The lips that had lied and cheated and insulted you mapped with your own tongue, committing him to memory. The body that had not belonged solely to its occupant...

He doesn't let himself indulge in those particular memories. Even inside reverie they remain shielded by a wall of the thickest ice, warped and indistinguishable no matter how hard one tries peering through it. It's better that way, easier. And he hates himself yet again for always treading the easier path but knows you also wouldn't blame him for it.

And that makes it worse. He wishes you were a spectre of some sort, malignant and malicious, because torment of that kind he can understand and he can respond to it. This silent self flagellation is infinitely more grueling, his own mind punishing him with lash after lash isn't something as easily quelled. For a moment he could laugh, being a phantom never would've been your style anyway. You were far too forgiving, far too loving.

As evidenced by the way you adored the beast that would kill you.

That first night began as nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. You had been in Elfsong, drunk off the company of others more than by whatever was in your cup. He'd watched you for far longer than he cared to admit, envying the carefree way you moved and spoke, the way every piece of you screamed self assuredness and freedom of spirit.

You were so beautiful it made his chest ache, a dull throbbing pain as he couldn't tear his eyes away from you.

When your eyes had landed on him he saw the familiar attraction cross your features and as easily as slipping on a jacket he donned the part of seductive stranger. Somehow though it didn't fool you, and as your eyes searched his with every honeyed word flowing from his lips he'd grown more and more fidgety. It was unnerving, as if his skin had suddenly become translucent and someone was now peeking into the rotten depths of him.

Nevertheless he kept going, fool that he was. You let him palm your lower back, dip his head to whisper against the shell of your ear the familiar lines that always had someone stumbling over themselves to jump into bed with him.

But you met his smirk with a twin one, lips so close to his they could touch as you spoke. It made his lungs burn with a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

Do those lines work on everyone?

Oh how your eyes had sparkles with mischief and challenge, and if his heart still worked it would've been hammering hard enough to burst from his chest, splattering viscera across the wood floors.

And gods your laugh. The way you'd tipped your head back and laughed from low in your body at the shocked look on his face. He should've been insulted but he couldn't muster up the feeling, if anything hearing that sound had made him want to grab your face and plunge his tongue down your throat. Find the source of it and hoard it for himself, hear it ring out for all his days.

That night you'd grabbed his hand, lacing your scorching fingers through his frigid ones, and tugged him out the door in a whirlwind. But you hadn't been leading him to a bedchamber romp, instead you tugged him along through side streets and alleys all the way to the back stairwell of Flymms Cargo.

It was so bizarre and bewitching he'd been powerless to do anything but let you drag him along, chattering all the while about showing him something more gorgeous than anything he'd find in your bed. The recollection makes him smile, lips bloody against his shredded knuckles. How you underestimated yourself.

But true to your word you had climbed atop the roof and told him to gaze out across the harbor. In that silence as both of you stared across the water, so black it was like someone had tipped crates of ink into it, and he felt the wind move through his hair and the way your fingers squeezed his. You turned to him with a smile, whispering about how you were going to cross that sea, going to fling your arms out and embrace whatever was waiting for across the other side.

The Gate had its charms but in a world so vast it would be criminal to shackle yourself to one spot, that's what you told him.

Your next words had his eyes blown wide, considering you irrevocably insane yet feeling like he never wanted to part from you. As if he was always destined to stand on this roof with you and hear the words cross your lips.

I only just learned your name yet I want to ask if you'd come with me.

You'd giggled again at the absurdity of it, but he felt rooted to the spot while the word yes clawed and scratched at his insides like a frantic little beast thrashing against a cage. It felt like providence, like being blasted by divine flame. As if, after two hundred years of screaming and pathetic bargains, a god finally decided to answer him.

The thought now makes him wince. If anything one of them had decided to dangle something so precious in front of him only to snatch it away, remind him he existed to be crushed beneath the heel of a boot and nothing more. He hoped whatever rotten bastard it was choked on it for eternity.

Some nights he still lurks up there, on that dingy cargo warehouse roof, to feel the breeze off the water and to imagine he can hear your voice drifting with it from some ship out there. He likes fantasizing that you fulfilled that longing you told him about in those months, and that in those remote places you were having the adventure you craved so badly. That you would write to him of all the incredible things you saw and the people you met. That you would tell him you loved him, missed him.

He met you night after night from then on, so exhilarated and giddy he still has no idea how he kept it hidden for so long. Well, it's more apt to say how long his master let him believe he had the secret of you clutched close to his chest. It was a unique cruelty, letting him have such bliss and roll around in fanciful daydreams with you until the fateful night his orders shifted.

In that loathsome little bed he shakes recalling it, trembles flowing down his spine and out through his ribs as he squeezed his eyes shut against the stream of memory. His body had acted mechanically, seeking you out and vomiting words like bile. Words that weren't his own, words that he tried so hard to snatch back but was helpless in the face of compulsion.

To your credit you knew something was wrong, thanks to all the nights spent stolen away together you could see the reckless fear in his eyes. But still you followed him. How he wanted to scream at you to go, run for a ship in the harbor and leave that night plans be damned if it meant saving your life. But hopeless little fool you were, you remained stubborn. Telling him in no uncertain words that you'd get him out of this, fight or bargain or both. That even if he couldn't board a ship you two would still pave your road away from here.

So you let yourself be led by the hand of a friend, a lover, to the proverbial gallows.

It would've been a kindness if his master had simply demanded you be brought to him like every other had. If you'd just been reduced to a meal maybe it would've hurt less. Haunted him less.

Instead he was armed with daggers, facing you as bleak realization cracked across your face in that half dark study. There would be no bargaining. Only his masters gleeful smile watching his spawn gut the idiotic little thing that dared believe they would be the exception. That had dared convince him he could be the exception.

His breathing becomes ragged, too fast, as everything plays out behind his eyelids for the thousandth time. How you hadn't moved to strike him, not at any point did you even consider it. Your hands had only tried gripping his forearms, tried struggling to wrench the blades from his grip as you said again and again that it was okay.

He wanted more than anything to be angry with you for that. The righteous sort of anger that cleaved mountains and leveled cities. How could you look your attacker in the eyes and say that it was okay? That you didn't blame him, it wasn't his fault no matter what happened.

It's not your fault Astarion.

Even as he jammed that blade into your stomach, rivulets of your blood running like little streams in the cracks of the woodwork on the floor, pooling into their own oceans. Hot flecks of blood spatter clinging to his skin, his hair. How the hilt had become slippery with it, his grip faltering even though his body wouldn't cease its pursuit of his orders. The feeling of the blade sliding through flesh as easily as water.

Even then you had said the same thing as he sobbed like a broken child, the past months flashing through his head and he couldn't even say he loved you. The words simply weren't allowed to be spoken freely.

But you spoke them enough for two.

I love you.

Blood bubbling in the corners of your mouth as your breath came in forceful squeezes.

It's not your fault.

Glassy eyes, unfocused, looking past him. Through him.

Everything is okay.

He presses his face into the pillow, fingers twisting into the sheets so hard they should have shredded in his grasp. The scream, a primal thing of abject agony, nearly kills him to hold in but he knows he must. He wishes it would kill him. Wishes he had the ability to kill himself, would do it in the blink of an eye if it meant he could hold your hand in his again. Hear those words again in that silvery lilt of yours.

The fabric is damp and hot against his skin, tears and whimpering breaths smothered across it.

Instead he has to be content with this piecemeal recollection of you until so many years pass the features of your face lose their definition. Until he catches himself unable to remember what your voice, it's cadence and lilt, actually sounded like.

Until all he's left with is the vague knowledge that once, forever and a day ago, he had met a little wildling who had given him the sweetest daydreams and stolen tendernesses.

It's with that thought that Astarion sinks into a restless sleep, akin to a ship swallowed by the sea as she takes on too much water to withstand.