It goes without saying that this is a Mature (18+) page. Pretty much everything I write is Explicit unless stated otherwise.
⁜ 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖘 ⁜
Demon Slayer // Kimetsu no Yaiba
My Hero Academia // Boku no Hero Academia
Baldur's Gate III
⁜ 𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖊𝖔𝖚𝖘 ⁜
The Devil You Know // (A gift for the phenomenal @backwardshirt, also my very first MxM fic, hehe.) -- (Jujutsu Kaisen) // Yuuji Itadori x Ryomen Sukuna // MxM
Storms & Sanctuaries // (A small homage for @rotpeach and their AMAZING 'Meanwolves' Universe) -- Werewolves/GN!Reader
Having such a devoted spirit always has its risks. And rewards.
(18+ )TW: Mentions of blood, violence, rituals, animal violence, rough sex
<<@rotworld -- Rotpeach has been working very hard to keep us all well-fed this Goretober! I thought it only fair to return the favor.>>
You had already been up for an hour, the world still the first flushes before daybreak when you knew he had come. Croissants were baking in the oven, fresh tomato and basil roasting for breakfast sandwiches over the scent of coffee brewing and steamed milk. You yawned and stretched, the sudden scent of cypress as familiar and welcome to your morning as you began to prep for the day.
He had sensed early on that it made you more comfortable to hear his footsteps as he approached; the expectant smell of the wood that always followed in his wake as he came down the stairs like you did every morning. The old iron keys and jingle bells had been hung on the doors and in the hallway since before you were born. He had looked at them the first time he had let himself in and chuckled in amusement, but minded his manners all the same. Mostly.
Your family had hosted all manner of fae for generations; had been well-known, in particular, for the acquiring and keeping of house spirits.
Dryads housed themselves in the eaves of your greenhouses, nixies sat at the edge of your wells and kept careful watch over you and your cousins when you swam in the old reservoir in town. Ancestral familiars that pledged themselves to your hearths and homes. Kitchen witches, folk healers, peasant magic. All of it honored the traditions that dotted all along the topography of your family line.
Sometimes you found them, or in your case, they found you.
You did not find it any small coincidence that the day after you unearthed a trapped fox from the muddy quarry in the woods that the eaves of your balcony were covered in curls of brilliant, red ivy.
You had heard of brownies, minor elven folk that kept themselves busy in their homes of their hosts mending clothes or keeping hearthfires lit. Perhaps souring milk when displeased with an offering. You, somehow, had entreated some other sort of spirit entirely.
Your wild and beautiful forest thing appeared the night the ivy bloomed, sitting expectantly at the foot of your bed. He had been whispering something to you, something dark and old that you did not understand.
Antlered, clawed, naked; He shook a spray of russet leaves from his long hair, his scent rich with freshly turned earth and moss. Airik’s eyes shone quicksilver as he unlaced your tightened knuckles from your blanket to tenderly kiss your hands, swearing his fealty, telling you he was in your debt forever.
He asked you for your name. You told him to call you Autumn.
You were careful in your daily routine and always minded what you said. You had to. You followed the Old Rules, the verses that your grandparents made you recite at the breakfast table until you knew them all by heart. The very first one was the easiest:
Do not offer your name.
So now you had your very own house spirit.. of a sort. You lived in a one-bedroom apartment above your storefront, and so by extension his protection included the tiny bakery you had opened downstairs. Airik was no brownie or common house elf: You learned quickly that a wild thing in your home meant broken dishes, laundry pilfered away to nest animals, a constantly flooded toilet. Your meager little houseplants became a riot of blooms and growth regardless of the season. You were constantly shooing him away when you needed to use the restroom or undress, completely unabashed as he watched you go about your day, endlessly curious about the goings-on of your mundane life.
He despised fire. Flames snuffed themselves out in his presence, but he tolerated the treasured old aga cooktop that warmed your kitchen. If he were feeling particularly charitable, he would watch in wonder as you lit candles in the evenings in your little room, keeping his distance. Miraculously, they were always melted down to gnarled stubs in the morning.
Airik appeared in the kitchen as you brought out the chocolate you had prepared the night before, then cheese, sugar, and butter from your personal larder; In an age ago, these had been considered priceless, precious things. Favored offerings. You prepared a new loaf in a clean bowl. He watched your hands intently as you sprinkled flour on the counter before working the dough, kneading cheese into the proof and neatly braiding it before covering it with a clean cloth to rest. You pinched off a bit of the cheese and lay it on the counter between the two of you- he knew by now that this wasmeant for him. He snatched and snuck the morsel past his lips with quick, clawed fingertips.
“You were cold last night, I saw.” He pushed closer into your side, claws hovering whisper-light just centimeters above your waist. “I can grow more ivy outside your walls, to catch the coming frost. My furs are very warm.” His touch lingered over your back, close enough to warm, but not to touch. “You don’t have to be cold ever again.”
You thought a moment before answering. Anything, everything you said was under scrutiny. You had become much more eloquent since Airik had bound himself to your household out of necessity.
You gave him a sidelong glance. “I’d be warmer if I could still use my fireplace, you know.” He waved his hand as if he had taken no part whatsoever in its destruction, a minor annoyance. You thought of the mantle now, the chimney choked with bright red leaves, stones, and all manner of forest bracken. He seemed pleased with himself when you saw it, and had laughed.
You pulled the tray of croissants from the oven, drizzled honey over thick pieces of buttered toast before arranging them in the cases out front. Airik helped you turn the lights on, flipped chairs off of tables before assembling them with clean tablecloths. He looked almost normal now- a man in a sweater appropriate for the weather with faded jeans and sneakers. If one was particularly perceptive, they could perhaps note the sharpness of his nails, the tips of his teeth. Not that anyone got too close, anyhow. The table closest to the counter- to you -and furthest from the door was his favored place in the shop. He merely glamoured himself as it meant he could stay closer to you. The pot of chamomile that you set upon his table never wilted, never needed watering.
Airik offered a companionable silence most mornings, and you were grateful for the help. Wordlessly, you warmed up a scone in the oven, covering it with thick, clotted cream and honey. You passed it over to him on one of your thrifted china plates and instantly the shop door jingled with your first customer of the day- he was pleased.
Do not thank them.
The morning passed with a few more people wandering in from the strip mall outside, the day running sleepy and long in the slow tourist season. Airik suddenly moved to sit closer to the door, folding up utensils in napkins- he adored the fat, old tomcat that came to sun himself on your windowsill in the late afternoon. You set out pain au chocolate and turkey and bruschetta sandwiches in the case. The door jingled open.
A vintage muscle car sat outside, shiny and an impressive forest green in the watery sunlight. A man stood at the door on his phone in a plush cardigan, comfortable slacks and scrutinized the space. He walked over to the counter, pointed at one of the chocolate croissants, and placed his card onto the counter before turning to lean onto the case and continuing his conversation. He gnawed off a bite from the croissant before taking his card from you and barely acknowledging you for the entire exchange. The man hung up the call, suddenly turning to you with his face pinched.
“What even is this?” He opened the paper bag, ripping open the remainder of his croissant like a wound and sniffed the contents in disdain. “The patisserie by Weyer in Obelos uses Ambrosiac chocolate. The authentic stuff. Not magicked.”
You sucked in a wary breath at the mention of it, Obelos. Your family stayed as far away as possible from the city. Your town had been close enough to benefit from the advances made at the academy, but distant enough to be safe. You knew what went on there. You all did.
“What are you trying to do to me?” He accused. It’s a credible threat. Shopkeeps with lesser principles did it all the time.
You find your voice in your fear. “I don’t charm my food. It’s chocolate with orange, a little bit of ginger. An old family recipe,” you offer, unsettled by the sudden confrontation. There are only four other people in the shop, but they boldly turn to stare and your face began to heat. “I’m sorry you don’t like it, sir. Please have that one on me and whatever else you would like to try.” Airik stood from his seat from behind the disgruntled man, his eyes a flash of patina, burnished silver. He's frowning.
“I don’t want anything from here. Made with village magic.” You gasp audibly at the insult. Belligerent customers are few and far in between here. You’re stuck to the spot in shock as the man continues his tirade, making a show of snatching a napkin to spit into and wipe his mouth. “My daughter goes to Weyer, top of her class. I know these things.”
You sucked in a breath, tried with every ounce of your being to radiate patience, to exude diplomacy. “Sir, I already told you. I don’t enchant my food-“
Thunk.
Airik whistles, long and low. The sound carries over the silence until you hear it again.
Thunk. Thunk-thunk.
The window darkens, a cloud settling onto the street outside, in one spot in particular. You jump when the man rushes out the door and slams it behind himself, causing the glass to rattle. Your rusted old bells clatter onto the floor.
A cry pierces overhead, another echoing off the street in sharp report. Then a million of them; a din, soon a chorus. A rock suddenly embeds itself into the hood of the car with an audible crunch of metal. He placed his hands on his head, face flushed with anger. The rock quivers, then screams. The shrieking outside reaches a crescendo.
Not a rock, you realize.
Birds of all plumage and sizes hail themselves over the man’s car. He fumbled his keys out of his pocket just in time before getting in, avoiding a shrike as it dove toward his head. The windshield cracks in several places. One bird managed to wrench itself into the space of his raised sunroof and sprayed blood onto the man’s whitened face in the cab, squawking and scrabbling to get free. He's yelling something, undershirt dampened with sweat. Another slammed into his side-view mirror and shattered it completely. Screams erupt from a few of the shop’s patrons as you watch on helplessly.
Airik watched from his table with his hands in his pockets. You run over to him. “Please. Stop.” You whisper tightly and grab his sleeve. “I feel safe. I’m not scared of him.”
He takes you in his arms, pulls you close and continues to watch the spectacle from over your head. “I’m not satisfied yet.”
He could have chosen a swarm of hornets. Grown vines thick with poisonous thorns that could puncture through leather seats. But he chose birds. Because you liked them.
The car’s engine roars to life, and it backs up, squealing again before the tires roll screaming down the avenue. The street becomes unsettlingly quiet. There is blood on the sidewalk outside, mangled feathers strewn about in the street. One patron quickly finishes their affairs and leaves. The others linger for a moment longer, took pictures on their phones, the sun setting quiet over the wood floor. Airik runs interference, smiling and waylaying any questions directed toward you before gently shooing any last minute onlookers out the door. By the time you lock up after the last person leaves, you’re exhausted.
The acrid smell of something being left in the oven for too long reaches your nostrils and you rush into the kitchen. Huffing in frustration, you take the blackened dough from the hot rack and throw it into the sink.
“You didn’t have to do that.” Your familiar is smiling, shrugging his shoulders like nothing particularly remarkable happened. “You don’t owe me anything,” you clumsily amend. The smile on his lips is decidedly coy; he let you have that one.
“You’re very welcome,” Airik purrs.
You’re still overwhelmed as you mop and clean the shop as best as you can. Airik helps, following you back into the kitchen as you wash your hands and set out flour to begin to prep dough for tomorrow. You hoped nobody posted pictures of what happened, shared what disasters your shop could host. You felt as if you’d aged a hundred years by the time you were done, eager to just take a bath and crawl into bed.
Something clattered to the street outside; something else pounds on the window. You groan. You already know what it is.
Afamiliar sportscar sat halfway onto the sidewalk, rusted and tarnished as it it had been left out in the rain for a decade. The man from before, his cardigan soiled with dirt and blood scrambled to the shop door and rattles the window with his fists, smearing the glass. He tries the doorknob, hands too slick with filth to gain purchase. His eyes quickly search out and peer at you and Airik through the glass.
“Make it stop,” he begged, eyes wide and white. “I’m so sorry. I was an asshole. I will buy something every day. I’ll buy everything. Anything. Just please make it stop.”
Airik smiles. Antlers begin to unfurl from his scalp, a crown of bone. A mantle of dark umber and ochre spreads across his shoulders, a pelt from all manner of beasts down his back. His hair is a dark tangle that spills over his shoulders; there is more over his chest, his muscular arms and legs. You know he is naked underneath. The scent of pine fills the air and you lick your lips. You both walk closer to the door.
"That,” He looks the man in the face with a smile from some primordial dawn. “Is not up to me,” He drawls.
The door swings open of its own accord, the man lurching forward to land at your feet. Something shrieks and slams itself into the concrete where he had been moments before. A magpie. You both scream.
He is in tears, moaning and blubbering. “Gods above. Please.”
Terrified, you look between him and Airik who returns your gaze fondly. You think of the wild, the wood, and the old ways. The man was an ass, but this was a curse. You’d need equal recompense. Blood had already been shed for your favor; you had to demand blood in turn.
“I- I can’t.” You turn to Airik and he frowns. Either you’d make the choice, or he would. You know which option would be far worse.
You walked forward and placed a hand consolingly onto the man’s brow, dampened with sweat. You sigh, and there is a hiss akin to a match being struck, your index finger becoming alit with an unearthly light. “You are arrogant,” you say to the man before you snuff your finger onto his forehead, burning a mark onto his flesh as he screams. You cauterize a glowing semicircle of embers, daubing a quick dot before drawing downward over his left brow as he wailed. You're unpracticed, but the binding holds fast.
Village magic, in the old days, meant survival.
It protected peasants from those more powerful than them. From people with more means and influence, people like him that filled cities like Obelos. This, too, was a time-honored family tradition.
“Plant a bulb in a pot, and tend to it. Every day, you must feed it a drop of blood and-“ You feel Airik come to stand right behind you, breathing as if in ecstasy. Your face began to heat. “-And your own seed. Every single day, without fail.”
The man does not move, his knuckles turning white where he gripped at his knees. You had an inkling of what curse your familiar must have put upon him, but you did not expect this level of obedience, for him to willingly endure this much pain. Whatever he had experienced in the last few hours must have been horrific. His eyes roll back into his skull as you continue.
“You must raise the creature that grows therein. It must thrive, must not come to any harm until it matures and will keep the curse at bay. Perhaps then you can learn compassion; Only then can I be satisfied.” The burns on the man’s head evaporate as soon as you finish speaking, but you know he can still feel them.
Airik retrieved the magpie’s corpse from the darkened sidewalk outside. Some of the streetlights had shattered, glass glittering on the asphalt. There is nobody to bear witness to this ritual, to his true form.
The creature you call Airik dips a claw into its gaping beak before returning to the man, drawing a sigil in dead blood onto his forehead. “Thou wilt do as thou hast been bid.” He grinned. “Or it all returns. Tenfold.”
The man scrambles to his feet on shaking legs, running out to his car and screeching away for a final time. The front door swungvshut, bells clattering as you hear the lock slide into place. The lights flicker, dim, then go out entirely. The air is filled with static, the smell of burnt flesh. You taste blood. You turn around in a huff.
“Airik.” Your voice is tired, and you rubbed the bridge of your nose as you sighed. “Look at this mess. And you know I hate doing things like that. Why would you-“
Your chin is gently tilted upward, met with warm lips, flesh as sweet as honey. He whispers your name- your real one -over your face. His fingertips ghost over your jaw, your lips. “I am your vested patron. I will protect you, always.” He smiled against your lips. “And I agree to your terms.”
You stiffen in shock. In a panic, you tried to rack your brain to understand what he meant, where you had let your defenses down. How? How-
You held your breath when you remembered your words to the cursed man, the sigil you had burned onto his forehead: ‘Only then can I be satisfied’. Airik’s curse, your blessing; the man had merely been a tool, a conduit. And you had agreed to it.
Do not accept their gifts.
Airik takes your hands within his, his antlered head hanging over you expectantly. “N-no. That’s not what I meant!”
“You know as well as I that what has been signed has been sealed.” He began pawing at your clothes in the dark, his body swaying as he pushed you into the kitchen. “We have a witness and a living contract. That was rather clever.” Your apron is untied and dropped to the floor.
You didn’t know much about contracts, or even summoning. Airik came and was bound to you of his own free will. The simple ward you had put onto the cursed man was anything but sophisticated, something to soften the blow of a hex. Even then you had relied on Airik to make it truly take hold. A grave mistake.
The back door slammed open, yawned toward the beckoning wood. You’re quickly dipped and swept up into strong arms as he strode through the door, into the night.
He’d never done anything like this before. He was too powerful to be bound solely to your home, but you never knew he could take you from it. You sucked in a breath in panic. The contract.
“Airik. I’m tired. I want to go back.” You try to reason. Your fingers tangle into the mantle about his shoulders and his grip on you tightens. “You know I don’t cast spells very often. I need to rest.”
“Ah, but you were magnificent. It comes naturally to you. I've always known.” He moved at inhuman speed through the dark, rushing by trees and shadows and nocturnal animals as they began to rise through the nightfall. His voice drops to an expectant whisper. “Truly, tonight is special. We must celebrate.”
He suddenly stopped. Your eyes adjust to the dark as he lay you down in the grass, at the base of a tree. This was his domain; the dirge of seasons and a creature of the wood. You had been keeping a lion as a housecat, and you could feel his raw power as the forest began to respond to his return around you.
Your wrist is taken, pinned over your head while he laces his fingers in your other hand to press into the earth beside your head. “There is so much I want to show you.” His lips crush into yours. Something heady, intoxicating flows into your mind, washes languid over your thoughts. You’re dizzy with lust as Airik whispers against you. “You’ve made me wait for so long.”
His lips kiss and push their way down your body, your clothes undone and pulled from you until cold air graces over your bare skin. You don’t get a single word out before Airik dips his head to mouth hungrily at your sex, hands gripping from beneath your thighs to spread you wider to him. Everywhere he touches you feels warm and tingles, radiating through you and settling into your belly. His long, deft fingers dip into your entrance as his tongue runs a hot stripe over your flesh, your hands fisting over his antlers, his hair. Tears stream down your face from the onslaught.
You breathlessly cry out his name you arch your back and climax, wetness spreading between you two as you buck your hips up into his greedy lips. You’re still whimpering when you come down from your high, where he turns his head to suckle your thigh and bites. You feel a stream of blood run down your skin before he licks over the wound.
Airik crawls back over you, his mantle sheltering over your body as his wide hips press against you, spreading you wider in welcome. You gladly give him berth as he grinds against your sex, the flesh still sensitive. Your caution, the Old Rules, everything flees your thoughts completely as you beg and cry for him to fill you.
He is ancient, a primordial creature, wearing the mantle of a man if only for your sake. He pushes himself inside you in a single, rapturous stroke; ruts you into the grass all the same. His fingers return to interlocking with yours as your thighs slap together. He moves back onto his knees, leaning over you as he watches you keen and cry out for him in awe. You feel yourself climbing toward your peak again.
The canopy of leaves over you rustles and shudders, a howl sounds in the distance. His hips snap into yours as he lathes his tongue over your throat, moving to kiss you desperately. His teeth nip at your parted lips, harder than you realize, drawing blood. Airik's hands cradle the back of your head, the small of your back, skin pressed hot and sweaty against yours, fluids mingling. This was an act of worship.
You cum with a hoarse cry, writhing beneath Airik as his arms tighten around you as he shakes against you. Everything turns tight, hot; you realize the inhuman noises filling the space come from the both of you, crying out your passions into the night.
You both fall into one another on the forest floor, smeared in grassand dirt an blood. You move to kiss his throat, and his arms pull you in closer, pulling his cloak over you.
Your eyes are heavy as he kisses over lids, pulling you back down even as you try to sit up.
"We can't stay out here." Your protest sounds weak, even to you. "I'm not ready for tomorrow morning." You feel the rumble in his chest, the stirrings of a chuckle. You both know very well that you are not opening the bakery tomorrow.
"Hmm," he murmurs, noncommittally. "I'm not satisfied, yet."
After three hundred and fifty years, it is a rare occasion for a certain Druid to be surprised or stirred by something. Or someone. Of course, nature always had a way of making Halsin see things from a different perspective.
**Spoilers for pretty much the entire game and Halsin's romance route**
A scared little voice reaches from the memory, drowned out by the churning sea and howling wind. A figure turns to hold the child with strange words that seem so familiar, and still so far away; they bring comfort all the same, wrap the child in a warmth so bereft from a memory drowned in a burgeoning storm. Shadows warped and waned, drained the color from the skies as a dinghy trembled on the waves.
A squall erupted. The meager craft emerges from the crest of a swollen wave, at the mercy of the seas and sheets of icy rain. Faces frayed like fabric as they turned toward her, voices threadbare with the hazy reminiscence of childhood. They moved and enveloped a small body in comforting arms, whispering loving words in a language she no longer could recall.
The voice had been feminine, maybe. Perhaps A mother or a sibling. Absolutely no one, after all, at the end of a dream.
All them suddenly looked into the heaving sky, face showered in sheets of frigid water just before the great wave surged to swallow over shards of lightning. The sea arose and took the boat and those sheltered within, frigid and merciless before falling into endless black into the darkness.
---
You had been invited into his company, alone.
Your friends were adamant about you not accepting such a suspicious offer and yet you felt you had no choice. The Archduke had been rather clear of his hospitalities in the coronation room: Either you offer yourself and your endeavors to vanquish the Elder Brain with his support, or he would consider you for treason and in league with the Bhaalist upheaval all over the city.
Between the tyrant of Bane, the Bhaalist, and an indomitable Elder Brain, your options were few and your time to decide had dwindled even more so.
You lent your companions a withered look before being led up a staircase, through a series of parapets and freshly embroidered bunting and pennants all in some fashion of gold and lacquer and splendor, suitably glamorous for a newly anointed Arch Duke.
An impressive mezzanine led to a balcony adjacent to the great sea of the Sword Coast, along with a dining table set for two: Upon it sat a cordial of brandywine, bread fashioned into articulate braids with whorls of nuts and fruit, figs stuffed with goat cheese and honey; Scones thick with clotted cream lay alongside rock sugar swirled artfully onto sticks to stir into steaming cups of tea afterward.
A platter heavy with a dressed, roasted fish sat proudly in the center of the buffet and you caught the eye of the Archduke as he regarded you both from where you sat on the opposite side of the table.
A creature to be preyed and fed upon.
“If you had informed me that you were inviting me to a private luncheon,” you sniffed, “I would have declined.”
Undaunted, Enver made a show of spreading his arms to you in welcome. “As I am well aware.” The Archduke moved to pull back your chair for you, utilizing the height of the brazen ‘Goodfellow Gortash’ persona he had been so keen on cultivating over the years. “But with you, I figured a bit of.. engineering would have to be in order. An opportunity. Please, indulge me with your company, nonetheless? I am hoping that you'll come around to accepting my offer.”
Codswallop.
You sat down, arms crossed as he pushed you into the table. Gortash then poured you a glass of wine and you made no move to take it as he stood beside you.
“There are… other ways. To ensure an amicable partnership.” His eyes raked over you with intention and you stiffened. “To maintain a stable rule. You, for one, mean to usurp me.”
You were decidedly coy about this revelation, blinking your eyes dollishly at him. “Why, whatever could you mean, Your Grace?”
Enver drummed his fingers onto the table, your eyes settling onto the glint of his gauntlet, the precious stone nestled within the center. “I do believe that our dear Thorm made a grievous error in not trusting you. To not entreat you to the same cause.”
You ringed a lazy finger around the rim of your wine glass. Still made no move to imbibe of anything proffered. “I’m not sure you believe half of the things you tell yourself,” You huffed, “But in the case that you do: What would you, the avatar of tyranny, want with me?”
“Hope.”
The word sounded trite coming from him, though you fought to keep your features composed all the same. A nervous petitioner made for an emboldened tyrant.
“A lonely little mermaid taken from the breast of Umberlee,” He hummed. “Rising as the hero who stands against the Absolute. It would make for an inspiring little ballad, wouldn’t it?”
You stalled instantly at his words.
All jeering and retort die on your lips with the exception of one word, the only one to be found in your confusion: “Where…?”
“…Are you from, little mermaid?” He coolly finished for you. As if he had no regard for your stupor he stood and held out a hand to you. Hesitantly, you grabbed it, and he swept you up into a stilted little dance, your mind swimming far too turbulently for you to deter the surety of his steps as he led you gracefully about the balcony.
“From far across the sea, my pearl,” he dipped you slightly and was sure to cant his hips into yours, his lips brushing against your temple. “But let’s not ruin the intrigue now, shall we?”
The metal of his gauntlet pressed into the small of your back. “I want to propose.”
“Propose?” You laughed, voice brittle. “What, so you can bait me with this information?”
He pressed you closer, his voice thick with allure. “No, you little coquette. A most divine of oaths; I want to propose to you.”
He reached then to grab your hand, brushing his lips over your knuckles. He may as well have kissed you outright, so taken aback as you were. A ringing began in your ears, the noise and bustle of the city and distant waves dwindling down into a faint fervor as his words and their implication sounded over and over in your mind.
A proposal. Of marriage.
“The life of an Archduchess could be quite fulfilling, I imagine. Everyone loves a wedding. It would be cause for even more celebration after being brought from the brink of ruin. Commerce into the streets. Invigorate the spirits of the people.”
He laughed aloud at the look of disbelief on your face, your body still stiffened against him in shock.
“And since the wayward son of our very own Ulder Ravenguard has proven himself more than incapable of having the people’s best interest at heart,” He smirked as he continued, “An heir would be the perfect crescendo of the whole affair to stir the people’s hearts. Allied under a new cause, a victory against the Absolute, and then we give them a symbol for the future. The Champions of Baldur’s Gate.”
An heir. He meant to make you swollen with his child.
Gortash regarded your look of horror with an impish kiss to your cheek, scooting you back into your chair before pushing you back into the table. He sat down, pouring wine for himself before raising it to you as if to toast. “Wedded bliss. Happily ever after. No more tadpole. Luxury and pleasures beyond your imagining. I could make you quite happy.”
Fury, then naked disgust stormed over your face.
Your glare set him ablaze, you bared your teeth like a threatened animal. Your hands clenched into fists onto the table and for a moment he placed his gauntlet onto the table as if you were meant to hurl something at him.
Then, nothing.
Your face alit into a smile, serene and comely. Benevolent, even. If ever even he could appreciate the light of Lathander, it was solely in that moment.
You took in a deep breath, your temper cooled at the sight of the ocean stretching before you in the distance. Somehow, you had the lurking suspicion that he had already known that the vista would have that exact effect on you.
“Lord Enver Gortash. If I didn’t know any better I would say you were coming onto me.”
A bland ‘hmm’, is his only reply, no conviction behind the sound.
He escorted you back to the tower, to the staircase leading back to the only family you have ever known without having touched a single morsel of food.
That night, a Paladin dreams of a home.
---
Your knuckles had been blanched white from the moment you had taken off your gloves in camp.
You were eerily calm after meeting with Gortash, your eyes downcast and anything but forthcoming with what had happened from the heights of the fortress. The Archduke’s influence was palpable in all corners of the city and that night you vetoed camping anywhere near Wyrm’s Rock, still looking about yourself warily as the party settled deep into the wood.
You only offered one explanation around the campfire for supper that evening: “He knew things. About me.”
You sequestered yourself away in your tent in the forest for days afterward.
Your merry little camp fell to silence as each of your companions were quickly bound to their own woes, the looming threat of the Elder Brain’s dominion trembling the city ever more frequently.
The Druid stumbled upon you one night, shuffling about as a bear. Your skin was wan, face drawn as you drowned in moonlight. You did not make any move to acknowledge him as he shifted back into a man, settling himself beside you. He knew that you were considering your options regarding the Archduke, how a single decision would change the fate of an entire realm. You bore much, but offered little in respite for yourself. He saw it so clearly in the moons of shadow beneath your eyes.
You rubbed at your eyes as if sensing his gaze upon you. Then, without further preamble: “I’ve been lying to you.”
Halsin felt your name fall softly from your lips. Worry colored over his tone but he stilled to listen to you. And you proceeded to tell him a story about a little girl.
Your memories were scant, but enough to paint an outline of a childhood fraught with loss. Indeed, you did dream of the ocean as he had mused before, though not to the same effect: a small boat, a sudden storm, the dinghy capsized at the mercy of the waves. Two people had been on the boat with you, forever lost when you had gone under.
You were an urchin, for a time; Owned nothing except for a small bracelet with an untold story and an unfulfilled promise.
He nodded, suddenly understanding as you continued.
The sisters of the Temple of Umberlee found you by the seaside one day and took you in. Called you a testament of the vengeful goddess’ mercies, their half-drowned destined. Your destiny.
You sighed, running a hand over your face, “And, somehow, Gortash knew all of this about me.”
“Back then, it all seemed so.. so grand.” You fingered a piece of grass shooting up from the earth. “I entered the temple as a little girl with bare feet, and left in a procession with banners and gleaming armor. Umberlee may not be the kindest of patrons, but she hasn’t seen fit to abandon me, either.”
“I felt so naked before the Archduke. How he had known something so intimate about me felt…” You ringed your arms around your legs again, nails digging into your knees. “It was not his secret to know. I wanted to tell you. And now, I feel as if I have betrayed you.”
Then, something more that made the Druid’s breath freeze entirely within his lungs, your voice soft: “He proposed marriage to me, Halsin. To strengthen the alliance against the Elder Brain, bolster the city’s confidence in his rule.”
His mind filled with unrelenting images of Gortash’s hands on you, a gauntlet digging fingers into your arm; you’d be fashioned into a pretty trinket for him to preen and polish his image, then locked away into your gilded cage when you weren’t needed.
“And-” Your voice was tight. “He wants a… successor, if we do.”
In that moment, Halsin had almost completely lost himself. He fought for composure, rage sundering all thought as his palm dug into the flesh of his thigh. He had reacted with such vehemence that you were broken from your reverie and reaching to take his hand. You had turned to regard him in quiet fear, saying no more of the encounter. The muscles in his arms went livid with tension as he struggled to bite back every curse he knew at your would-be suitor.
The tyrant would speak to you as if you were a decoration. If he had ever dared to touch you-
A moment passed, then another as he regained his faculties. Barely able to tamp down his feelings, he felt free to speak sanely at last.
The Druid breathed through his nose, feeling his tempers cool with the action. “Think of all the adventures you would leave unwritten. All of the people you have yet to meet, the friends you have met; The Archduke would be wary of anyone by your side.” Halsin's eyes traced over the curve of your eyebrows, the swell of your lips as if committing them to memory. “We’d never see you again.”
At this, you smiled, sighing gently through your nose. “Are we all not a collection of all the friends we’ve made since we started this adventure? Like threads in a tapestry, pearls on a string. If you think about it that way, I’ve a whole wreath of antler beads; I'm fortunate.” You sighed through your nose, propping your arms behind yourself so you could look back up at the sky. “But does that mean I have anything of myself that is truly mine?”
Worry furrowed over his brows. “He’d never let you out of his sight,” Halsin’s fingers moved to cover your own. "He has brought you into his confidence out of necessity."
“I.. I don’t know, Halsin. He’s a bastard, but at least he’s not letting a cult of murderous zealots run riot through the city." He watched with rapt attention as you licked your lips. "If we could only just get Orin’s netherstone-“
“You’re not truly considering this, are you?”
You kept your face pointed up toward the stars, your voice light. “Perhaps this is fate finally smiling on us. Mayhap this is our chance to make a real, actual change. It could be our only real chance at defeating the Absolute.” Your gaze was unreadable as it returned onto Halsin. “We could help all of the refugees, all of those lost children. Restore Reithwin, give you want you’ve been looking for all of this time.”
His gaze was dark, voice broken with his heartbreak. “And what could I ever possibly ask of you to sacrifice so much, little doe?”
You smiled as if it was the most obvious thing in the world- “Somewhere to be happy.”
“Oh, heart.” He heard the sharp intake of breath you took at the name. “We could do it all on our own. This dream. It could be real. We could make it ours. There is so much that we could do to help those who need it most within the city.”
You looked at him as if he had slapped you. “Halsin.”
He continued, voice thick with emotion. “We’ll do it all by ourselves like we have this entire time. Together. Chosen and Illithids and Brains be damned.”
You struck your palm against the dirt and he bit off his tirade as if struck: “I. DON’T. KNOW.”
You cradled your hands into your chest as you turned away. “I don’t know what else to do.”
The Druid was stunned into silence. For the first time since he had met you, you looked-
You had been exhausted in the Shadowlands, yes, beaten and shaken and still you rose triumphant. The way you acted now spoke of a loss of hope. Defeat.
A silence crept over you, punctuated only by the sound of insects, the nocturnal creatures that began to wake and traverse the night around you.
It began as a bubble. Then, a roil. Then, completely unashamed, you began laughing. Loud and sweet and full. He joined in, realizing that he hadn’t heard you do so in an age.
Months of constant stress, of fear and uncertainty rushed forth as if a dam had broken. You both laughed until tears were streaming down your faces, holding your stomachs, doubling over until it finally died down.
Your tears did not.
He pulled you into his arms and you let him, your body trembling with sobs. He continued to attempt to entreat you to your interests, your destiny, for no other sake than your own. “You would never have your own life ever again.”
“Maybe I just want to wake up and not worry about things trying to take over my body. Or trying to kill me." Your hand pressed into Halsin's chest, over the steady beat of his heart. "Or feeling like I'm constantly fighting against fate.”
Frustration struck through him like a lance at your reply. “You’d-“ He fumbled for one last argument to make you reconsider the grave existence you were steadily clawing yourself towards in your despair. “You’d be delirious with boredom come the first month.”
You couldn’t even rise to take the bait of the poorly lain jest. “Maybe for once in my fucking life I want to be bored.”
He was losing you.
Anguish clung to you like a mantle as you folded back into yourself. “Who knows. Once peace has returned to the realm and the Absolute defeated.. perhaps I.. could come to love him.”
“Gortash could never love anyone that was not himself.” Your words froze the breath in his throat. He lowered his voice. “Don’t you deserve true love, and to be loved in return?”
He would never see you again.
That seemed to give you pause. “Halsin… I…”
You turned to him, eyes shining. Your hands had had slid upward to cradle his face from where you from where he had hugged you into his chest. He felt his heart stop as your lips parted once more as you looked directly into his eyes.
“…I may as well be in love with the moon.”
Before he could discern the meaning of such a thing your eyes became bright with tears once more and you blinked them away as you gave a small, sad smile for his comfort. “What is my one, singular life compared to that of an entire realm?”
The Druid crushed you into himself, heart burning within his chest at your words. How could you treasure yourself so little? A person who had traversed endless dark to find him, time and time again. Who brought the world together everywhere she went. A miracle borne to the earth.
The thought of you alone, bereft of hope where you had kept him alive with so much of yours, tore through him.
And, finally, he knew and understood. There was something that had gradually come to belong to you without his even realizing it. Perhaps too late.
He breathed your name, taking your face into his hands before pulling you into an agonized kiss, unsure of how to comfort your aggrieved heart. Or his own.
The taste of tears lingered cold on his lips.
“Stay,” you whispered, kissing his fingers, your lips creeping upward to his palm, “Just for a little while.” A testament to endless nights alone, wondering and all too aware of the creature that crept behind your skull, biding its time.
You begged of them both, “Just a little bit more time.”
---
A few of your companions together were milling about camp, bearing expectant grins and raising their brows as you both returned to your tents well after sunrise, quickly dissipating as soon as they saw the drawn, somber expressions on your faces. It was certainly not the look of two sated lovers who had spent the evening entangled in bliss.
After that, you were noticeably more difficult to locate at camp. You were an empty seat at campfires, a set of footprints in the dirt before dawn every morning. An empty tent.
Another night, another empty plate beside the campfire. The Druid wandered out into the forest, farther still, mind unsettled and found you even further than he had before. You didn’t turn around but sighed as he approached.
“I can’t sleep,” you chuckled, “But, what else is new?”
You gave a small start when an elk bull called in the distance. Halsin’s heart lent itself to empathy at the sound, a kinship. Silvanus was not without his mercies after all.
He came closer, testing the distance as if you were going to bound away from him at any moment. “When I find myself with an uneased heart and an unsettled mind, I find that meditation has been helpful in subsiding both.”
You snorted. He could feel the dour expression as it settled over you, something like your former self when you had first met. “I am very poor at meditating.”
True, he knew you were prone to fidget when still for too long.
The elk called again. Stark and lonesome in the wood as it echoed through the boughs silvered with moonlight. His heart stirred once more, encouraged.
Surely there was something in the air, something far more palpable and real than a dream could lead him to believe. There was nothing to be afraid of here, with him. Only the lingering sense that being here with you seemed right and natural.
He pressed again, coming closer. “Perhaps I could help.” He felt his heart begin to stir, quickening, a buck hopeful in turn.
Finally, you turned toward him. “I could... try.” You took a doe’s step toward him, careful. “I could try if you showed me.
Wordlessly, he sat on the ground and crossed his legs, beckoning you forward.
Halsin lay his hands, palms up, onto his knees. You moved to settle yourself into his lap, relaxing into the warm muscle of his chest, hands placed into his. Soon, you were both stilled together, matched for each breath as his chest rose and fell.
“Feel your eyes become heavy,” He whispered over you. “All the tension is leaving your shoulders.”
He felt them abruptly sag at the command; your back, your body heat melted against him. He was suddenly aware of your skin, mentally tracing the outline of your form beneath your nightclothes where it was pressed against him.
“You are light,” He continued, listening to you sigh, “Free the tension from your arms. Your hands. Your feet.”
When you murmured gently, your fingers lacing within his, he reached his mind out to yours. Gently, like stepping into tepid water, so unlike the force and jarring pull of what you had described using the tadpole was like.
And you dream together.
Sprawled across the astral plane, heaven and earth and as one. The sky unto dawn, the earth as it delved from mountain peaks into the abyssal sea.
You were clutching at his hands as if you could float away from him and he rumbled, warm and low in his chest as he released one of your hands to pull you in closer and anchored you into the heat of his body.
You soared over tundras and white expanse of the Dalelands, witnessed the glorious sunrise over Athkatla and the grace of sunset as it dipped into the horizons of Waterdeep.
To the stars, all of their celestial raiment, and beyond.
And back.
You audibly gasped, pulled in deep breaths as you whirled around to face him. “That was amazing.” You were flushed, lips parted in awe. It was the most emotion he had seen from you in days “Is that what it feels like to be a Druid? An Elf?”
“No,” He chuckled at the look of wonder on your face, at that special, radiant flicker of the old you. “Just a mere glimpse of what I feel when I am with you.”
You sadden once more. “I wish that I could show you such things.”
His hands tighten on yours.
“But you have. You have shown me light in the most fervent darkness. Hope where there was naught but despair. And I-“ Halsin moved to hold you tighter, pulling you into his lap, lips whispering over yours like a prayer.
“I desperately desire to show you how much you mean to me.”
You looked at him as if you had never considered this before, eyes wide. He leaned down and you closed the distance, a promise held between your lips.
“Let me… take care of you.”
Halsin took his time, taking your hand to press a kiss into your palm, trailing up your arm. He nipped at your collarbone and moved to bury his nose into your hair, mapping every detail of your body as he could with hands calloused with time.
He halted at the collar of your nightgown, fingers edging at the fabric before you placed your hand over his before delving beneath the fabric. It was all the permission he needed.
The Druid undressed you with the careful attention of a beloved; the nuance and excitement of a lover.
He gently tugged the sleeve of your robe down over your shoulder, following the trailing fabric with his lips. Halsin then turned you around and lay you down into the grass, pressed his ear against the steadily rising heartbeat within your chest, murmuring into your skin as a mouth enveloped over a bared breast.
A torrent ran through him, furled through him in whorls and waves. You reached into his clothing, under the hem of his tunic and you fell into one another; The crisp bite of Autumn, the fervent blush of Spring. You both explored, gentle and curious, the warmth of Summer rain of each touch as you learned to temper yourselves on one another’s flesh as nature took hold.
He journeyed lower, gently parting and lifting your garments from you before nuzzling against the skin of your belly, placing a kiss onto your hip. His fingers followed suit, gripping onto warm flesh and he looked up to roam his heavy-lidded gaze over you.
Delirious with need, your hands suddenly kneaded over the thick outline of his cock beneath his robe and he growled lowly in his throat. He sheltered his body over yours, two hands placed on either side of your head.
“The moon rises and falls as it always has, housed in the heavens.” Halsin kissed your forehead. “It has stood vigil for an eon and yet it has given no thought to how the world would be lost to the darkness without its presence.” He kissed over one eyelid, then the other.
“You freed me from the dark. Redeemed me from a world cursed to shadow.” He moved to whisper over your lips, then pressed a kiss to them, whisper-light. “You’ve fallen, and risen. Again and again. And still you have guided me with your light.”
Your eyes shone with tears, and he chuckled above you.
“Tell me: Is it so impossible to love the moon? if I did not dare to do so, I fear I may lose sight of you over the horizon without you knowing of my true feelings.”
You wordlessly lifted shaking hands to cradle his face within your palms. You smiled- a true, genuine thing -and he felt you shift the world beneath him, once again.
“Then love me, Halsin. Always.” You averted your gaze then looked back up at him, suddenly shy. “I feel I’ve been in love with you from the moment you first spoke to me.”
There was a gentle understanding between you two, then: To need and be needed. To know that he, too, was desired. You began to pull at his robes, gently, afraid as if this frail moment, too, were a dream. Something passionate and desperate between you, clinging together like a lifeline, shared breath and heat. The barest of touches to your nipple, how your hands gathered his face to pull him into a searing kiss assured him that this, that you, were real. You were truly here, with him, as he spread you vulnerable and beautiful before him.
Your hands were plucked from where they were clutching desperately at his body as he sat back and divested himself of his clothing, your eyes running greedily over his flesh as soon as he was bare before you. Your wrists were then held in a steady palm as he made his way down your body, parting your clothing with as much patience as he could summon.
He nosed against your core from where they were shielded beneath the sheer fabric of your smallclothes and he heard you inhale a breath, nipping over the damp spot beneath them as you bucked your hips. He felt his cock throb as you began whimpering to him of your need, voice heated and passionate with impatience.
He hummed a soft chuckle against as you squirmed your hips, causing him to reach up as he peeled your panties from you, letting go of your wrists to pull the fabric down your legs to forget them onto the forest floor. You cried out as he cradled your knees onto his shoulders, then shamelessly traced your sex with his lips and tongue.
He had thought about you, like this, many times since that night at the Last Light Inn. Sometimes in the dead of night, delirious with need, fisting his cock until his teeth clenched and spend spilled over his knuckles. He had told himself that if you had ever been gracious enough to accept him- Silvanus willing -it would be a far more tender endeavor, bordering on genteel; the Druid would savor you, learning your body with as much time as you needed.
Instead-
Your hands carded and pulled restlessly at his hair as he parted you with his tongue, his fingers quickly following suit. Halsin felt his skin heat as your thighs brushed against his face, your cries becoming frantic, begging him for more. Need washed over him as he nipped at your blushing sex, running a tongue over your bud until your body was milking at his fingers. You screamed from your release, pawing desperately at the Druid as he crawled back over your body to reward you with a kiss. The taste of you mingled between his lips, a hand moving down your bodies to grip at and fist his cock, lining himself up with you.
The first push into your body is rapturous; Halsin, forever meticulous in his worship of you, your body his parish, groaned as he descended into your perfect heat and fought to control his urges. Livid tension ran the length of his arms and he slowed his breath, kissing over your eyelids where you lay panting beneath him.
He began to ease himself into you.
He groaned, gripping at your hip as you made small animal noises as each delicious inch of him gave way into your heat. The Druid made for a gorgeously tight fit within you, both of you trembling with effort as he held you close and pressed into you as carefully as possible. He finally canted his hips against you as the last few inches of his cock descended into your pliant body, taking him to the root. Your head tossed back as you gasped and moved your hand to where his cock had been fed into you. It felt so natural, so right.
Seeing you sheathed onto his cock fed into the urges within him; the surge of wild magic that began to creep along his spine was not new to him, but overtook him with its sudden intensity. He felt the feral sensation creep into his skull, naked lust smoldering behind his eyes until they turned into a crisp gold.
Powerful and slow, each thrust seated him to the hilt as your bodies swayed together on the forest floor. You trembled with each stroke, rewarding him with your shuddering sighs as your body received him eagerly. Halsin was enraptured as he whispered his praise of you, how breathtaking you looked spread open for him, how you took him so well.
Each stroke was slow, powerful: Each time he met you was punctuated by a new slip of his name from your lips while he mouthed heated kisses over the pulse of your throat.
“Hold onto me, my heart.”
You obediently gripped his biceps and he set a desperate pace, gritting his teeth until he tasted iron. The sight of you squirming pleasurably beneath him set his soul ablaze, mouth open as your cries began to reach a crescendo as your body bounced with each roll of his hips.
Deeper now, he growled as his strokes delved further, shifting your legs upward until he hit a spot within you that had you crying out mercilessly into the night. Your arms moved to encircle around his neck as his hands gripped the ground on either side of your head, raking fingers into the earth.
Halsin swore an oath to his god upon that moment; That he would forever strive to be worthy of you, a miracle given an earthly form.
He felt as you began to whimper as your body squeezed and fluttered around him. He increased his pace, hearing you moan in frustration as he snaked an arm beneath your back to pull you into each thrust; Torture, sweet and agonizing as he kept you balanced on the precipice. Your fingers were digging into Halsin’s back as each thrust became erratic, hips snapping without grace or mercy as you both chased your end.
The edges of his vision began to haze over. Nothing in the entirety of the world would be as perfect as feeling you climax while impaled on his cock, giving him your pleasure at your most vulnerable.
Like lightning crackling over his spine, he swore breathlessly against you as your body gripped him asyour back arched, breasts pushed against him as a dry sob wrenched itself from your throat as you came. You were mewling nonsense as you spasmed, body completely at his mercy as he gripped beneath your knees to push your legs against your chest until, finally: Halsin’s back straightened above you as he bellowed into the night as if in triumph, mouth opened heavenward, filling your frantic body with his heat. He sheltered your body with his once more, the Druid kissing at your face, your lips, licking your tears lazily as you both came down from the heavens.
His muscles slackened, gaze focusing back onto you to where you were looking up at him in awe, flushed. Halsin gently unfolded you, keeping his cock seated firmly within you as he rolled your both onto your sides. You gasped as you both suddenly felt your combined essences run from your union, to the dampness of your thighs, and you kissed his chin as he pulled you in tighter against him.
You tensed. “Wait, the others. What if Gortash-“
“Sleep. They will be fine,” he shushed you, gently. “Sleep, little doe. You are the safest creature in all the realms with me.”
And so, you were.
---
Astarion looked up from his book, making a face at the commotion in the forest before turning back to the passage he had been reading before the untimely interruption.
“Gods. Finally.”
(Previous)
+++Author's Note!+++
I have been plugging away at this story and ta-daa: It now means I have to add another chapter to get all the thoughts out.
Also, I began this before patch 5 when the epilogues were added so keep that in mind when finishing the rest of this!
As always, thank you for all of the kind comments, asks, and reblogs! I try to answer every one and it makes me feel so good that you are enjoying this.
Halsin can't cook to save his life. He's clumsy in a kitchen, and he keeps cutting his hands and fingers with knives.
Eating raw meat in Wildshape is second nature to him at this point.
He also has no table manner. He'll drink soup straight out of the bowl instead of using his spoon, and steer clear from knives and forks.
Don't bring him to a restaurant, lest you die from second-hand embarrassment.
Astarion has everything he has ever wanted: His freedom, immortality, and now, every pleasure and whim that the night-bound aristocracy has to offer. Regardless of his newfound influence and power, there is still one thing that always seems to elude him.
((Spoilers for Astarion's romance route, 'The Pale Elf' questline, and the end of the game))
(Baldur's Gate 3) Astarion/Fem!Reader (Tav) -- (18+) Drama, Minor Violence, Power Imbalance, Typical Vampire Shenanigans
Chapter 2
Hope is a fearful thing.
Every day that passed, that he waited for some inkling of your existence, had been torture. So, instead, he had settled within himself the urge to be mad at you. It was easier.
It didn’t last.
Many times more, he clung to his memories of you, like sifting through pages of a treasured book. You lived within his dreams, taunted him long after he had awakened. As a figment of both fantasy and physical; You had lain together before, but after he had ascended it had been nothing short of an act of worship with you- his first time as Sovereign. And his very last with you.
You were still warming up to the beast you had helped to create, skittish and unsure. In the days after he had taken possession of the crimson palace you had even seen fit to accompany him with the others, warily looking around yourself as if you still expected the shadows in the corners to materialize and grab at you. The young girl in the guest room had been respectfully dispelled and given a proper burial. The Chamberlain and his errant lover had been given rites as well, old ghosts and painful memories slowly being excised from silent walls.
Weeks afterward, stewards and maids were hired, along with a new Chamberlain. House staff were measured for personal livery and a posting for a new house chef was run on all the bulletins of the city. You had come to visit him once more, hopeful as you asked him if ascending had been what he had been wishing for all of these years. You were eyeing the wide, filigreed casket made in fragrant wood that stood adjacent to the canopied bed with curiosity.
“It will take time,” Astarion traced his finger over the designs, his tone earnest. “But I can do so much more.”
He turned to you. “I don’t want to do it alone.”
You started, stunned. Sighing softly, you moved forward to cradle his face within your palms, searching his eyes with yours in contemplation. He was still cold, as beautiful as porcelain. You could be the very same if you so wished.
"Astarion," you licked your lips. "I.. cannot be your spawn. I love you, but I- can't."
"Consort. My consort, love." Astarion gently corrected you coolly and kissed you, attempting to lighten an already mercurial mood. You were still frightened of him, made you mistrustful of his intentions. The thought of which tore through his heart, his response decidedly aloof: “I think you would make a splendid vampire. You keep mostly to yourself, can already turn into different shapes at will, and you hate having attention on you.”
“Oh?” Your breath warmed his face and you bit your lip. “One of your favorite pastimes is being perceived, Astarion. Or has the courtier life already changed you so?”
He feigned appearing scandalized, cheered by your attempt at a joke despite how uncomfortable you were. “I shudder at the thought. I am a poorer vampire for it.”
“You are incredibly handsome. I couldn't begin to fathom how difficult that must be for you.”
You were suddenly tense, looking him in the eye and back to the gravity of the situation. Your palms were warm over his face, a thumb running over his cheek.
“I just want you to be happy.” Your gaze softened. “Are you?”
He kissed you on the forehead and answered without a moment of hesitation. “Unspeakably.”
You visibly relaxed at this.
He slowly herded you backward with playful, predatory steps, lifting you onto the bed and began undoing your clothes. You cried in delight, kissing him happily in anticipation and moved to help undo his breeches, his shirt.
“Mmm,” you smiled against him as he dipped his head for another kiss, “Would you truly want me here with you?”
His voice shredded into whispers of what it would be like if he, as your Sovereign, turned you and you both spent eternity together. How he would fill the halls from top to bottom with flowers of every scent and color for you, spending days on end ravishing one another for as long as you pleased. How the night-bound aristocracy would simply adore you, how you would ineffably charm all as his consort, his queen.
A butterfly encased in amber, beautiful and pristine until the end of time.
You chuckled, humming softly as you trailed kisses over his jaw. “You’ve really put some thought into this, haven’t you?”
In moments you were both bare, moving restlessly against one another on the bed. He kissed you breathless, wrapping your legs around his waist. The vampire lord then groaned in relief as he descended into your perfect heat, shifting himself as your head tilted back and you moaned.
Astarion nipped at your exposed throat, causing your body to clamp tightly around him and he groaned. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be mine? Forever?”
He fucked you in long, languid strokes; moved to the rhythm of your heart pounding in your chest, measured how he slid between your sweaty thighs. Savored the warm, overwhelmed little breaths you made each time his hips met yours. You were so breakable.
He grit his teeth, mind filled with reveries about the future. You would both rule together, create your children and spread the touch of the night as Sovereign far and wide. He laced his fingers within yours, an arm moving to shift beneath your back to hold you flush against him. Your back arched beautifully into him as he mouthed over your pulse, sinking teeth into your flesh with a kiss of frost as you cried out.
If you were turned, he could fuck you without the constant fear of shattering you.
Your keening rose in pitch as you gushed over his cock, his voice falling from your lips as you begged him to tilt you over the precipice. He licked and kissed at your throat like a man possessed, his hips beginning to stutter and he caught your lips once more in a kiss, tasting iron. You fluttered around him, crying past his lips as he pinned you down and fucked you through your climax, finally tumbling over the same peak with a growl.
You were so tender and frail. You needed him. You could always do as you wished, yet instinct tore at him for your approval; your adulation and your surrender. All different facets of the same need: You needed to need him.
If you were turned, you could never, ever leave him. The thought alone made a snarl unfurl at the edge of his lips, bared his teeth.
Could you? Would you see it that way? The ultimate sacrifice, the perfect act of his love. By the time Astarion looked back up at you, you had gone completely still, eyes wide. He was still deep within you, cock twitching, gasping for breath.
“I'm worried about you.” Your voice was so small. He remembered you finally falling asleep, warm and naked within his arms.
Then there you were outside the palace, telling him you could not stay. And then you were gone.
---
And then: A letter. From you.
It were as if he had never set his eyes to print before. He was unfolding the roughened parchment the moment the steward had turned to leave the room.
‘Dearest Astarion,’
You did not mince words. The same, unfettered question that had destroyed him a lifetime ago: ‘Are you happy?’
‘I must admit that I have been remiss in not writing you sooner. I apologize. I-‘
There was an abrupt, shortened stroke of ink that pulled from the page. As if you had started a thought and then changed your mind.
‘The palace must be beautiful. If I know you, you’ve decorated it to suit your tastes, top to bottom. You deserve to live in a world filled with your own choices.’
You were as infuriating in missive as you were in absence; he was not sure how to decipher such a comment. Were you commending him, or lambasting him?
‘Sometimes, I think about the times before, traveling together with our friends. It has been nice to be back in my circle, watch the wood slowly cycle through the seasons. Has it truly been four years already?’
Four years. That was a blink of an eye for him; What did such a small, unfathomable thing like a handful of moments to him feel like to you?
‘In any case, I was hoping to reach out to everyone again. Halsin has written, and you should hear him talk about Reithwin, the children under his care. It is rather sweet.’
Of course, as Druids you both had instantly gotten along in your travels, he already knew you two were close. Why did that suddenly fill him with envy?
‘I’ll be in Baldur’s Gate in a week’s time. I’d like to see you, if I may.’
He read that line again. A second time. You would be in the city. Close to him.
And you wanted to see him.
---
As far as the city knew, the Lord Ancunín was a shadowy figure of the Upper City, pretending to the noblesse oblige as the mortals in the city would prefer of him; distant, some noble benefactor that brought interesting wayfarers and heavy pockets into Baldur’s Gate. It was obvious that many of the vampire aristocracy disapproved of his more lenient nature in regards to mortals for the time being, though they were too polite- or afraid -to state as much in his presence.
In any case, this was the first time the palace possibly had this much attention in decades. Fresh shipments came daily from the docks, a parade of workers delivering every manner of box and crate and coffer imaginable. Baldurans whispered amongst one another as to what could possibly be happening to cause so much fuss and fanfare, peering over the walls curiously whenever opportunity or audacity afforded it to them.
In older times, Cazador would have balked at all the attention. Astarion relished in it.
The windows were opened every night, washing out the stale air of yesteryears and the harrowing memories that clung to them. Fragrant incense burned in almost every corner of the estate and florists arranged sprays of blooms and greens all through the halls.
The dungeon and the adjoining sewer passages were permanently sealed off. The wretched little pit, the kennels, had been torn down completely and turned into a greenhouse, the gardener meticulous in what flora she would procure for the prestigious lord. When asked for his preference, he had only one answer: 'Wildflowers'.
He wanted the palace to feel lived in, to endear the space to you.
The dais that led to the dungeon’s elevator, adjacent to the ballroom, had been turned into a lounge for more… vibrant activities: Gauzy fabric hung from the ceilings to trail fingers of silk onto the floor. Recessed into the center of the floor was a nest of velvet cushions and satin, goose-down pillows and animal furs as soft as silk. Porcelain vases forever spilled with fat, exotic blooms perched on exquisite furniture carved from fragrant wood, gilded in gold and lacquer. One of his steward’s favorite tricks was to simultaneously ignite the tiers of candles in every corner of the room to the delight of his visitors that evening.
For the first time, he felt time pass. The sun crawled over the Balduran sky, two bottles of wine relinquishing to the horizon in far more rapid succession. A meal had been prepared, a fresh bed turned down for you. The silence of anticipation was a hell he had not felt in an age.
He paced. The maids opened the windows to his office, filled his glass with more drink. A raven alit onto the sill. He breathed your name as if it were a prayer. “Is that you?” Uncertainty washed over him, worse than that first day after you were gone. Worse than that final night when he had you at his mercy, how you fearfully looked up at him afterward. Much worse.
The bird made no move to reply, cocked its head to the side as if considering him. Flew off without any further fanfare.
He laughed bitterly.
The vampire lord then stopped his pacing as he heard the palace doors open, voices winding softly up over the balustrade from the front parlor. The sound of heels clicking on marble, toward him, the knell of it resonant even over the sound of others moving about their routines in the palace. He moved to quickly sit at his desk, took a swig of his drink, frittered about with the papers sitting on the wood and clumsily bowed his head with a quill over them. He wrote absolutely nothing.
An eternity later, the door opened. “Astarion?” The steward beside you bowed, took their leave.
Your features had gotten sharper, your hair longer. You stood tall, an air over your countenance that was not present before. Gone was the piece of alder on the chain about your neck, the unsurety of your steps as you smiled at him and walked forward.
He got up to meet you in several steps, hugged you and memorized the beat of your heart once more. He had filled his daydreams of how he would greet you, pull you into his arms as sure as strong as that of your old lover, seduce you; yet all he could manage was to hunch over you, your face buried into his chest. The scent of you lingered as he gave you a tour of the renovated palace, chatting idly as the ghost of your essence clung to the tapestries and rugs as you haunted past them. Footsteps, soft and hesitant, like you were afraid of disturbing the pristine silence of the halls. Staff, far less crazed than those terrorized by Cazador, stopped to greet you; to watch. You stood out, mortal and breathing and still so breakable, easily bruised if he were too careless with his touch. He swelled with pride when he opened the door to the greenhouse and you held your breath in what sounded like delight.
The vampire lord felt the world still as you turned to him and smiled. "You've changed the palace so much. It feels brighter here, warmer, somehow."
Astarion came up behind you, resting a hand onto your shoulder. Testing you, he realized. “It would be fitting to bring something so much more lively to halls that held so much death." His fingers squeezed gently onto you, but he could not discern any reaction from the gesture. "There are so many beautiful things in the world that could be shared here.”
For you.
His mouth watered. Old urges rose up through him, clawed at his heart. Steadily began to covet the little jewel that had returned to his grasp.
No.
"Truly, Astarion, I am glad to see that you've made your own way. You've changed." You did not move away, even leaned your head gently into his touch. Turning to look over your shoulder at him, your eyes filled with your tears.
After three hundred and fifty years, it is a rare occasion for a certain Druid to be surprised or stirred by something. Or someone. Of course, nature always had a way of making Halsin see things from a different perspective.
**Spoilers for pretty much the entire game and Halsin's romance route**
The incomparable grip of the shadow lands was even worse than he had remembered. He felt remiss at having forgotten, this stagnant world beneath a veil of rot and death a repentance of his failures before. But, this?
This was of the hells.
A land felled by a curse merely a century prior; he knew the stark contrast in which you would have regarded such a breadth of time. You were human, after all: Each season to you was far more precious than he could ever imagine.
The party had pretended to nonchalance at first, you especially. You had narrowly escaped a group of ambushed Harpers that were turned and began attacking you; then, a Drider spouting nonsense about the arachnid queen was slain with an entourage of Absolutists, but took several more of the Harper guard in the ensuing battle.
You were always sure to smile when you caught someone looking, but otherwise the horror of the curse was taking its toll on you. The feeling of chipper, hale friendship that had brought warmth to the camp began to wane. Stopping at the Last Light Inn was a welcome reprieve, and yet, the relentless, unnerving silence, the animal fear of feeling hunted swam about the sanctuary on all sides.
You were difficult to rouse in the morning, no longer rising to greet the dawn with your daily routine. Nobody to banter over meals. You all just huddled in main hall once you were ready to head out for the day into the encroaching dark.
Halsin wished you could have seen the land before he had managed to fail it entirely. To show you some of the forests that had been the emerald dream of the Sword Coast. Perhaps even the Horned Boy who held his hand and waited for the storms to pass before guiding Halsin safely home as a child. Who fell silent when the world was torn asunder in shadow.
Things worsen.
A ‘House of Horrors’, as Gale had described it: Some sort of medical clinic turned abattoir, an austere theatre of torture and the grave of many an innocent. No wonder the Fist he had seen at the inn was in some state of delusion, a dreamlike catatonia. The haunted look in their eyes had said it all.
Shadowheart had fainted by the end of the whole sordid affair and by the grace of the gods, the party had barely made it back. He went on to explain that even after you had healed the party multiple times, you were determined to find Halsin and help the Fist before resting.
The Wizard averted his eyes.
You had been trembling when you got back, breath shallow and pupils wide. You had been prattling on and on, tried to convince the party that you were fine, yet flinched when anyone got too close.
“I had to put her to sleep,” Gale mumbled guiltily before shuffling off to find his own bed.
Wyll handed over an old instrument, stalking off elsewhere shortly afterwards as Astarion snorted and moved to do the same: “Please. Take the godsdamned thing.”
The rest of the party began disperse and retire to bed, fires in the hearths dimming as the inn succumbed to a sort of false circadian rhythm, the mortal need for a night and rest. He wandered through the din of hushed conversations and lingering candlelight, nodding as he passed Jaheira as she sat hunched over a table with a weathered blueprint of Moonrise Tower.
You were in one of the smaller rooms, wearing little else but a map of bandages all along your abdomen and your underclothes. He was unabashed by nudity, but in your state it made him feel uneasy. It felt… inappropriate. Intimate, with how vulnerable you were. And still, he allowed himself to walk closer. Sat on the bed next to you. This close, your injuries were more grave than he had thought.
Halsin would never be able to show how indebted he was to you.
He guiltily eyed the bandage that had been wrapped on your torso, how you cradled the injured side with your arm. He should have gone with you. The deep, sunless cold beyond the shadow still crept beneath the protective veil surrounding the inn, and you instinctively pressed closer toward the warmth of his body. Halsin stilled, then brought an arm warmly about you and his tongue began forming the healing incant without thinking.
To his surprise, you blinked sleepily up at him, taking his hand in yours. Gale must have expended himself to his limits during the battle, leaving little else to put you to sleep. Halsin stilled as if realizing for the first time how your palm barely covered his own.
You gently began to tug his wrist away. “I’m alright. I can heal everyone once I’ve had some rest.”
You tried to sit up and he sighed, pressing you gently back onto the bed. “And, you?” His voice was low. Your eyes were still groggy, half-lidded; dark rings now shadowed beneath them. He noted how your brows furrowed in confusion as his eyes searched yours. “Who is it that takes care of you in return, little doe?”
You opened your mouth, then summarily closed it as an argument died on your tongue. Halsin could already hear it- and yes, you were more than capable of yourself, he had no doubt -but the larger fact remained that you were still trying to help others even when you were so exhausted. You didn’t let anyone take care of you. At least, not without contesting it.
You sighed, squeezing his hand. “What will you do after this?” …And dodged his question entirely. You would tell him when you were ready. Hopefully.
He hmm-ed to himself. “I am going to go find Thaniel.” The Druid found himself tensing at the thought- a century’s ruin over his failure, and he was finally at a point to make it right again.
You pulled back in shock, looking into his eyes. “Alone?”
“Perhaps,” he ran a hand up your back, slowing as he fingered the bandages wrapped over you. “I have… already asked far too much of you, my friend. But I would ask you again for your help, should you ever oblige me again. I would not think badly of you in the slightest if you said no-”
“Yes,” You nodded, “Anything.” Hesitation had not colored your words for even a moment. You pressed yourself into his chest again, closing your eyes. “But I want to ask one thing in return.”
The Druid nodded. You were trusting him. That alone was a treasure enough.
Your body relaxed. “Even though Isobel has kept us safe here.. I can’t stop thinking about the curse trying to make its way inside. About… them.” Eyes that hungered in the dark. Stealing warmth and breath.
“Please stay with me, until I fall asleep?”
He smiled. “Of course.”
Halsin pressed a hand against your forehead, chanting softly to himself until your breath slowed, evening into a steady rhythm. You had saved him, the grove, and braved the densest parts of the shadowlands; and all you had asked him in return was the chance to finally rest from your many acts of sheer goodwill. Many of them on his account, no less.
A question came to him then, unbidden: “Do you ever dream?”
You yawned. He watched as you licked your lips before answering. “Sometimes,” you murmured, “Usually memories. But I haven't here.” Your voice was breathy, light, the spell taking hold. “What does our intrepid Druid dream about?”
He chuckled softly, tucking the top of your head beneath his chin. “I often dream that I’m a bear. I go hunting for raspberries or catch fish in the river.” It wasn’t a lie, per say. “And, I…”
I have started dreaming about you. It died away on his tongue.
So often had he re-acted so many of his memories on the stage of his dreams. Precious, like pearls in his hand: A palm that shed shadows from beyond a cage and reached out to him in the dark. A peal of soft laughter that arose over distant revelry, a warm bundle safely in his arms. Meals and stories shared about a campfire, as well as thoughts and fears.
A stirring, small and yet so suddenly apparent that he was shocked that he had not been aware of it until now.
Halsin shifted himself carefully to kneel beside you on the bed. Taking your hand, he brushed his lips over your knuckles, upturned your hand to kiss your palm, then pressed it over his heart. He would follow you to the ends of the earth, to find the cure to your parasite.
---
You were reflected through the portal in watercolor light, a sea of flames just beyond you where a horde of the undead were clawing toward you. A host of winged beings encircled about you, wreathing you all in blessed light as he trudged toward the portal with wretched steps, agonizingly slow.
He had stayed with you the evening before long after you had fallen asleep, only rising again several hours later where he awaited you with a hunk of bread with cheese and a sliced apple.
You had given him this gift, your help, once again. Today was the day he intended to pay you back tenfold.
But, first-
You looked over your shoulder at him, your sword slicing downward into a rotten skull with a wet crunch. “Halsin!”
He held a small body tightly against his chest, wreathed in the scent of lavender, fighting against the current of multifold dimensions; fighting his way toward you. The fact that the portal spell had worked at all had been a miracle. Now, Halsin called upon the one that stood before him. Just once more.
The portal began to warp and fray, like unwinding fabric. You looked in panic at the onslaught before you, then back behind yourself at him. Distracted, one of the undead wound a knobbled wrist around your arm, pulling your throat toward an open maw of gnarled teeth. The angelic creatures dissipated in a haze of gold. Time had felt like it had barely passed since he entered the portal, but how long has it been for you? You could have just turned the undead creature but The Druid noted the exhaustion that pulled at your limps, made your shoulders sag.
You twisted your grip on your sword, smashing the skeletal creature in the face with the pommel of the weapon. Though a few teeth were knocked loose from the action, it didn’t budge. You used your elbow to strike it in the throat. There was the short crunch of bone breaking, the sickening snap as sinew tore but the undead was still undaunted.
Halsin felt his limbs lurch forward desperately as the creature managed to bodily wrestle you to the ground, its skeletal fingers digging into your wrists until you screamed. Its jaws still insistent toward your neck as you kicked and writhed in panic.
A host of storm clouds suddenly unfurled themselves from the sky from seemingly nowhere, a biting cold slicing through the air. The creature was kicked off of you, a cracked mandible now hanging uselessly from a shattered skull. Your eyes rolled heavenward in panic as Halsin pulled you and Thaniel close, sheltering you both with his body.
There was growling, then- an incredible shattering, a fine mist of frost showering into his hair. Sheets of ice plummeted to the earth in great shards, slicing and hailing on everything in its path. The Druid was unbothered by the storm, breathing steadily, pressing you both closer. The storm was gone as quickly as it came, the undead horde either encased in ice or crushed entirely.
Silence fell. Shouts sounded in the direction of the inn, winking lights following in a trail to where you were all huddled together.
You sniffed. For a moment he thought you had begun to cry, capturing your chin in his thumb and forefinger to make you look at him. Instead, you blinked up at him and lifted your arm to your nose.
“Ugh.“ You scrunched your nose like a little rabbit. “…I stink.”
---
Several hours later, Thaniel had been tucked into a bed in Isobel’s room, the denizens of the inn looking on in wonder. How could such a small being wield so much power? Halsin assured them that the spirit was the answer to lifting the shadow curse, though they would all have to wait until Thaniel was awake to figure out how.
Until then, he busied himself in one of the back chambers, a wooden tub having been filled with steaming water and a scavenged bar of soap.
Voices sounded outside. Calls for a good night and a sigh before the knob was turned and the door swung open before he could say anything.
He never took you as some Puritan in regards to nudity, or a blushing maiden; and yet, you stood as still as a deer, eyes wide as your eyes raked over his face, drawn over the width of his shoulders and to his broad chest before suddenly coming back to yourself.
“Oh!” You turned, shielding your eyes as you swiveled around. “I was told there was a bath drawn, I didn’t know that it came with company.”
He chuckled. “Its no problem at all.” He cleared his throat, absurdly ashamed for some reason. “Would you... care to join me?”
A pause. Awkward in its duration. Then, "Are you sure you wouldn't mind?"
"No," He answered honestly. "Not at all."
He feigned nonchalance as he took in your body as you shed your clothing, piece by piece. His heated gaze roamed over the expanse of skin as you finally undid and stepped out of your undergarments, to the junction between your thighs. Your hair was pinned up, showing the length and curvature of your neck. He licked his lips, the sudden urge to lick and bite overwhelming.
His palms were reverent as they hovered up over your calves, followed over the curvature of your thighs, over your ass, settling onto your waist he helped you into the water to join him. He wasn't sure of the stench that you had been talking about before. There was the faint hint of sweat, earned in your recent battle, but otherwise you smelled-
-Divine. You smelled mouthwatering. His ability to wildshape had attuned his senses over the years. He fought back against instinct.
Your breath was soft, a hand moving to caress up his arm to rest onto his shoulder, “May I.. ask you something?”
Halsin's arm wrapped around your waist as you inched closer, your leg brushing against his thigh as you shifted yourself, the tub didn’t allow for much space for more. You held his face and graced a thumb over his lip. He wordlessly licked the digit in response. “Would I be selfish,” you ran a finger over the droplets of water caught in his chest hair, “If I were to tell you that I have been distracted?”
He knew instantly as to what you were referring to: “Is that what you see me as,” He panted slowly against you, “A distraction?”
You were quiet. The gentle sloshing of water as you pressed closer made him aware of the fact that he was already unbearably hard beneath the water.
"No, I-" You lowered your lashes. "I’m afraid you have become far more than that.”
He dipped his head to test a kiss over your throat, teeth nipping gently at your pulse before running a scorching trail with his lips and tongue along your shoulder. You tilted your head back with a short exhale of breath, hands running along his back until they caught fast into his hair. Your chest pressed against his and his breath fanned over your face.
Your first kiss together is decidedly slow, thoughtful after weeks of sidelong glances and unanswered questions; His arms clutched your wet body against his as your tongue darted out to ply his lips open. You ground against him, giggling softly to yourself as your hand delved between your bodies to fondle his cock. For a moment, you were scant more than instinct, skin and heat, feelings that had been growing more with each passing day.
Halsin pulled away, nipping your lip as he panted for breath. “If you want me to stop, I need you to tell me.” You sucked sweetly at his bottom lip in reply and he felt the action shoot straight through him like a bolt of lightning. “Else I won’t be able to stop myself.”
You responded by tracing a line from his throat with your lips and tongue, moving downward to catch your teeth gently on his nipple, descending still until your chin dipped into the water. His cock bobbed just below the surface and you looked up at him imploringly, lips parted in expectation.
You were beautiful. Cunning and steadfast and kind and just so utterly fucking beautiful.
He immediately rose up to sit on the edge of the tub with you nestled between his thighs, your eyes widening as the length of him bobbed into your face.
“Gracious. It would seem you are always armed, Master Halsin.”
You caught his eyes just as the honorific left your lips, just like before. You knew exactly what you were doing.
Halsin swore under his breath when you reached to run a palm over his balls, daubing a fingertip at the precum pearled at the tip of his cock. You chuckled at the livid tension that trembled down the length of his arms, muscles spasming. He wanted to grab you.
Instead, his head snapped back with a groan as you ran a tongue over the hot flesh of his cock. You swirled it around the tip, pulling back as a string of precum pulled away on your lips by a sheer, shining thread. His fingertips then moved to knead at your shoulders as you pushed what you could of him past your lips, breathing through your nose before bobbing on him.
You made soft animal sounds as you worked your mouth around him, even more so when his hands tangled into your hair and began bucking his hips into your face. Your fingers digging into his thighs for leverage. Your little lips were wet, making debaucherous slurping noises as he attempted to temper his thrusts so as to not hurt you.
“Gods. Little doe,” His eyes snapped shut, bliss overtaking his features. “If you don’t stop, I am going.. ah,”
He felt the smile that pulled at your lips over him, pushing his length further into your warm throat.
Oh. Oh.
Halsin rode into your mouth for all he was worth, your face flushed as you held on for him. He stroked your throat like a cat’s as you milked his cock with your mouth as hips began to stutter, coaxing you, as he swore several oaths in Elven. You obediently swallowed as he came, taking every last drop.
The Druid was shaking, gaze heavy-lidded as he leaned down to kiss you on the lips afterward, lush and full. “I want..” You chuckled at his sudden lack of eloquence. He gathered your hands within his palms, panting heavily. “I want to savor all of you. I want to lie with you.” His hand cradled the back of your head, his touch tender. “May I, dear heart?”
You replied by licking your lips once more, your voice quiet as you smiled. “Yes.”
It was all he needed.
He could have cared less if he carried you, both stark naked, through the inn to bed you; but he lacked the patience. However, there was barely any room for the both of you to move in the tub, as it were. He flipped you over from where you were knelt between his legs and easily lifted your body into his lap.
He dipped his head to catch your lips as you offered your mouth up to him over your shoulder, his hands moving to grip beneath your thighs as he raised you out of the water and pulled your legs gently apart. You were writhing restlessly against The Druid, one arm slung around his neck from behind and he pulled away briefly to look down at your naked bodies where they were pressed together, panting.
Halsin’s fingers splayed onto your chest, cupping your breast before sliding between your legs. A growl pressed into your hair as his finger ran between the seam of your sex, feeling the wetness awaiting him. The Druid patiently opened you on his fingers, starting with one large digit and adding another until you were whining and begging him to feed his cock into you. Halsin shushed you, grinning devilishly to himself as you cried out when he swirled deft fingers over your clit.
Achingly hard again, his length pressed upward and teased from between your legs as you gasped and spasmed against him. Your voice, your body was all the sweeter as you climaxed. The smell of your arousal clouded his mind in a haze of sheer lust.
A single buck of his hips, and he would be sheathed in your blessed heat; His restraint held by a thread.
That biting, feral feeling raked talons of fire over his spine. He felt his teeth lengthen into fangs. He wanted to feel you cum onto his cock. He needed you to.
You were both panting, desperate in your need. “Gods, Halsin,” Your voice broke as if you were ready to cry. “Please-“
He could hold back no longer. The sound of you begging for him to fuck you eroded any resolve that he had left.
The Druid devoured your lips as you turned your head over your shoulder, shifting you to press your back against the firm muscle of his chest. The tip of him nudged past your folds as you gasped hotly into the kiss, his tongue darting out to drink in your cry as he felt your gorgeous body surrender to him; His fingers dug into your thighs as he began to roll his hips upward-
-as knocking echoed through the chamber door.
Drunk on lust, you both had barely registered the sound, to register what such a noise could possibly mean. He froze, the noise sounding again, more urgent this time. Both of you were still shaking, still desperate for the sweet release of completion.
Then, a voice: “Master Halsin, please forgive the intrusion. You are needed most urgently.”
He swore under his breath, “God’s Blood.” You were panting softly.
The voice continued, “It's Moonrise. Our scouts have reported that Ketheric has begun assembling some sort of militia.” Halsin felt his eyes widen in alarm, you sucked in a breath. “Jaheira has just left and the rest of the Harpers are preparing to depart as we speak.”
The voice that came from him was not his own. Deeper, curled around fangs and heated, animal breath: “Give me but a moment, and I will be ready.”
His grip on your thighs slackened. At some point he had knelt back into the tub, your skin breaking out into goosebumps from the lack of heat, and adrenaline. He gently lowered your body back into the water.
The spell was broken.
“Perhaps it is for the best,” you spoke, finally. “I… I’m sorry.” You were off his lap and out of the tub so quickly that you almost slipped on the floor. He had reached out for you but you were already bent over, shimmying into your underthings, getting your clothing back on.
“You were right,” you murmured, voice thick with guilt. “There are so many more important things to focus on right now and I’m… I….”
You laughed, short and forced. “I am being selfish.”
“I’ll go gather everyone else.” You turned to look at him in the tub, where he was frozen and could not find the words to answer you. “And we are going to find the Nightsong.”
Your smile was gentle. “I made a promise to you. The shadow curse ends today.”
you knew a werewolf when you were younger. your lives went in different directions, but you find yourself suddenly reunited under the worst possible circumstances.
->explicit. contains kidnapping, drugging, power imbalance, mentions of noncon and conditioning, biting, feral behavior, mild gore.
.
.
.
You’ve never seen so many stars before.
The thought strikes you only after the sharp burn of adrenaline dies to a simmer. Fear curdles into exhaustion. Time gets fuzzy. Between the hairpin turns of the road and the lush sea of furs and bedding all around you, there’s no way to get your footing or your bearings. You test the rope around your wrists again and there’s no give, no weakness, just an unpleasant, stinging friction where they’ve been chafing your skin. You hear the rumble of the engine, the scrape of tires over dirt, branches dragging like nails across the windows. You can barely see a thing, and it’s not just your blurry, swimming vision, the exhaustion clinging stubbornly to your eyes. It’s dark here and dark outside, the whole world just a mass of merging shadows.
And the stars…you must not be in town anymore. Not even close to it.
There’s nowhere to go but you still fight to sit up, to get to your knees at least. It’s not a dip in the road or a sudden turn that throws you off balance this time. Someone grabs the back of your neck and shoves you down again. That large, callused hand could almost wrap all the way around your throat if it wanted, but it settles on your nape, squeezing with the gentle but firm chiding of an animal scruffing its young.
“First one’s awake,” you hear.
There’s a sharp, amused exhale from the front seats, driver’s side. “The one who barely touched their drink, I’m guessing. You got a grip on them?”
“Yeah. It’s fine, they’re still groggy.”
You run your hands through the blankets, hoping you look confused instead of searching, trying to make sense of your surroundings. Wool. Flannel. A zipper? Someone curled up on their side, breathing softly. Your elbow bumps into a warm body beside you, a bony shoulder exposed by a sagging, oversized sweater. They mutter in their sleep. The hand on the back of your neck eases when you settle and don’t try to get up again, but it stays, thumb gently stroking. It takes everything you have to keep your breathing calm and even.
Three of you back here, you count. Captives. The other two still out cold. And four of them. Two in the front and two in the back, keeping watch.
“Should only be a half hour or so for the rest, as long as you didn’t give them too much.” You recognize the voice from the passenger seat. He was at the club. Smaller guy, not huge like the one kneeling next to you. Dark hair. Dazzling smile. And touchy, always trying to get in your space, talking a little too close for comfort. It all starts coming back in a slow trickle. Right. The club. And that guy, Corbin, you’ve seen him a few times before, thought he was a little weird but he always seemed to know when to back off. So how…why…?
“Wish we could’ve taken the fourth one, too,” the guy holding you down says wistfully. His hand rubs up and down your back in a soothing, absentminded motion. “Such pretty eyes, and a sweet scent.”
There’s a grunt of agreement from the other guy in the back, a hulking figure sitting against the wall further from you. “Bigger hunts are always more fun,” he murmurs.
“Aww, I know,” Corbin coos. “But trust me, they weren’t a good match. These three, on the other hand? They’re perfect.” There’s a glimmer of light in the front seat—the glare of a cell phone illuminating part of Corbin’s jaw. It’s nearly blinding after your eyes have adjusted to the dark, and it suddenly occurs to you why you can’t see anything. Not the men, not much more than lumpy silhouettes, not any trees distinct from the moving shadows beyond the windows; nothing but stars.
They’re not using headlights. These are wolves.
You surge up in a panic, scrabbling blindly for the doors. It’s probably not a good idea—even if they’re miraculously unlocked, you won’t accomplish much more than tumbling out in the middle of fucking nowhere, maybe skin yourself on the road in the process—but your terror is louder than your rational thinking. You fight the hands that grab you, screaming, clawing, biting like an animal, thrashing with all your strength. It takes both of them to pin you back down and you savor that even through the humiliating briefness of your rebellion, wrestled onto your stomach with a hand shoving your head down into the blankets.
You don’t expect him to bite you and that drags a shrill but short noise out of you. You’re not ready for what it feels like, the weight of him across your back and the crunch of his teeth sinking in, a hot gush of blood dribbling past his snarling lips. It hurts like hell and it doesn’t stop. Every time you squirm, every panicked jerk and attempted wriggling movement, makes him growl against your skin. He holds your hands down with his much larger, much stronger ones, fingers pinning yours on either side of your head, and that’s when you finally give in. You aren’t punished for the last nervous shiver that travels down your spine, or the whimper that slips out when he loosens his jaw and pulls away, strings of saliva and sticky blood slicking your neck.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Good human. Stay down.” The gentleness of his fingers stroking your scalp makes a sob build in your throat.
“You got it?” the driver asks.
“Yeah, sorry, I got it. Tried to keep the bite light, but they wouldn’t submit. Might leave a mark.” He traces his thumb over the throbbing wound he left behind, ragged and still bleeding.
Corbin chuckles. “It’s fine, I’ll vouch for you if anyone asks.” You can’t see him clearly but you can tell he’s turned around, leaning slightly around his seat to peer into the back. You can feel his gaze burning into you. “I won’t tell you not to fight. I hope you do,” he says, lowering his voice slightly. Talking to you rather than about you, you realize. “I chose you because I knew you would. It’s a good thing. Good for the pack. Eventually, you’ll learn how to pick your battles.”
“Fuck you,” you say, embarrassed by how shaky and hoarse you sound.
You can’t see what kind of expression he has, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “You’ll thank me someday.”
It doesn’t take long for the other two to wake after all the commotion. One just stares in silent shock and disbelief. The other starts to cry. The other wolf in the back pulls them into his lap and nuzzles his face against their cheek and neck, as though they want anything to do with him. He grunts unhappily when they cry harder and shove him away. You can just make out a chorus of howls over the sound of the engine. The wolf who bit you starts stroking your back again, a melodic hum rumbling in his chest.
“The heartland joining us tonight?” the driver asks.
Corbin hums softly. “They’re abstaining. A few might come to watch.”
“Ah, that’s a shame. I hoped one of these might be a good fit.”
“Linden needs an absolutely perfect match. It’s my next project.”
You don’t catch what else they say because those quiet, miserable sobs turn to heartwrenching wailing. The other person in the back starts to plead for their life. The wolf closest to them strokes their cheek. “You’re not going to die,” he murmurs. “Hush. It’ll all make sense soon.”
The van slows, relief and terror warring in your heart. You can run—and go where? You don’t know where you are, don’t know the way back to town. Outrunning a werewolf is a tall order under the best circumstances. You’re on their turf, in the dark; you don’t stand a chance. Doesn’t matter. You have to try. The road gets rougher, the foliage thicker like grasping hands. The van rolls to a slow, grinding stop and the engine dies. You’re surprised nobody tries to restrain you before the locks disengage and the back doors are thrown open, but it doesn’t take long to see why.
You’re deep in the woods. The full moon drapes a thin, silver gleam over the silhouettes of shifting figures, animal eyes shining in the dark. There must be dozens of them—thirty, maybe forty wolves, all sniffing the air, growling and pacing impatiently. More are still coming, slipping through the trees in the shape of both humans and beasts. You’re completely surrounded. They form a wide circle around the van, all eyes trained on you and the other two petrified people huddled at your back. You can hear them talking to each other, their voices half-feral with barks and growls.
“Three? Just three?”
“Three’s a lot for the off-season.”
“All awake, too. Afraid and alert. Gonna be a good hunt.”
“And look at that one in front, bristling like that. Think they’ll bite back?”
Laughter. Your stomach churns. One of the wolves gets out of the van while the other leans in close at your side, the two of them gradually easing you out and onto your feet. A door slams. The wolf who was driving gets out, stretches his legs. You see him kick off his shoes and shed his shirt, tossing his clothes into the driver’s seat before he suddenly falls down on all fours and shifts into a wolf. The change is nearly instant, a chorus of unpleasant, bone-cracking sounds, his skin engulfed in dark fur. Corbin wanders into view, glancing at the three of you with an expression of infuriating tranquility.
Golden light flickers in the corner of your vision. The crowd parts and the man who steps forward makes the wolves you’ve seen so far seem small and delicate in comparison. Massive and towering over all the rest, his chest bare and broad, muscled shoulders adorned with tattoos, he comes forward with a lantern in his hand and a sharp grin on his face. The others all have that intimidating air about them but this one truly looks like a werewolf, overwhelming and wild. His sharp gaze flicks to each of you. Your heart leaps into your throat as, one by one, he looks you in the eyes and speaks your names.
“Welcome, chosen,” he says. “My name is Vanagandr, and this is Hoarfrost Falls. The pack is eager to meet you. Are you well?”
It takes you a moment to understand this is a serious, genuine question. He waits patiently for an answer, studying each of you in turn. “Are we well?” you repeat in disbelief. “Are you for real?”
To your dismay, he finds your anger harmless and amusing, a soft chuff of laughter escaping his lips. “Let me rephrase. Do you feel sick or hungover? Any injuries, particularly to the legs or feet? Be honest. We have a medic.”
The two cowering behind you don’t say a word, too afraid to even lift their gazes. One of them is shaking, clinging to your shoulder. Still, Vanagandr waits, and the uncomfortable silence stretches on. Eventually, one of them shakes their head. The other mutters a quiet, “I’m fine.” The wolves around you stare and point openly, muttering to one another about which one of you smells the best, which one looks the softest, the most defiant, the most fun to train.
“I was bitten,” you mutter.
He doesn’t wait for you to show him, grabbing you by the shoulder and turning you in place. His hand is large, his nails sharp like claws. He traces the teeth marks in your neck and growls softly. The wolf who bit you stiffens and turns his head. Baring his throat, you realize.
It’s then that you see Corbin slink closer, pressing himself against the enormous wolf’s side. “It wasn’t his fault,” he says in a soft, demure tone, his head bowed so he looks up at Vanagandr through his thick lashes. “He couldn’t let up because they wouldn’t submit. It took a little while.”
“I figured as much,” Vaganadr chuckles. He rubs his face against Corbin’s neck and jaw, a gesture that strikes you as odd, affectionate, and a touch possessive. “Go on. Your alpha’s looking for you.” At that, Corbin’s eyes light up and he slips away with one last lingering touch to Vanagandr’s shoulder, but he doesn’t rush to leave. He meanders through the crowd of wolves and the others greet him with the same eager affection, grabbing him, passing him amongst themselves like a toy to sniff and touch and grope shamelessly. The display unsettles you and in your haste to find somewhere else to look, you see something that makes your heart skip a beat.
A small group has just arrived. These wolves are younger, noticeably nervous and fidgeting. They’re led by a wolf who looks like he got stuck in the middle of shifting, limbs long and furred, hands and feet tipped with claws, a bushy tail swishing behind him. He’s talking to them in a low, gravelly voice, something about herding and not rushing, but that doesn’t matter. None of it matters except for one wolf who stands out from the rest. Not because he does anything unusual. Not because he’s particularly big or intimidating looking—he always was bigger than you but here, he’s average. Right at home.
You know that wolf. You recognize the scars slashed from his hairline to his jaw, long, jagged lines clawed across the left side of his face. You remember that nervous little twitch of the nose whenever he ran into something new, some situation that made him nervous. He’s grown his hair out longer, let it spill over his shoulders and down his back in thick, black waves, but you know it’s him. The fearful expression on his face transforms into full-blown panic when your eyes meet.
“Flint?” All you can manage is a strangled whisper but you know he hears you. An unhappy, dog-like whine rises in his throat. “Flint? What—why are you here?” You aren’t thinking when you push your way towards him. No one is stopping you but you barely notice, don’t even hesitate to wonder why. You shoulder through the crowd, ignoring the whispers, the uneasy glances, Vanagandr gone completely still and silent behind you.
Flint lowers his gaze, staring at the grass by your feet. You’re further from the lantern and the shadows are thick, his face half-hidden in flickering, lurching darkness, but you can hear him panting the way he always would when he felt overwhelmed. Your name comes out in a needy whine, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “No…no, no, no, not yet…” He has trouble getting the words out, and even more trouble trying to look you in the eye. His voice is exactly the way you remember, low and rough and painfully quiet, like he’s afraid to speak any louder than a rumbling whisper. “I’m not—I’m not ready, I can’t…”
“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did they kidnap you, too?” you ask, your voice raising with anger the more you speak. You know next to nothing about wild wolves, but you know Flint is meek and easy to boss around, the kind of person who got picked on by other wolves when you were younger. The tall werewolf, the one who looks caught between human and animal, steps closer as though he means to separate you. “Don’t touch him!” you snap. He looks down at you, an expression of muted surprise smoothing into understanding.
“Corbin,” he says quietly. The smaller man rushes over, now carrying the lantern Vanagandr held earlier. “You two. Follow.” He doesn’t tell you where he’s taking you. He just starts walking. You’re startled that Flint obeys without question, keeping his head down. Corbin grabs your forearm and drags you along, frowning at your attempts to squirm free and pry his fingers off.
He leans in, lowering his voice. “Remember what I said before about picking your battles?” he asks. You’re suddenly aware of just how quiet the clearing has become, all eyes on you. Vanagandr watches you very carefully, his gaze hardened and threatening. You glance ahead where the tall werewolf has stopped moving, looking back over his shoulder.
Flint is hunched next to him, head down, whimpering. The wolf has a hand on his forearm, gripping hard enough to leave marks. You take a deep breath. Fine. You can play along for now. You’ll do anything for Flint’s sake.
*
Wolves have their own gods.
Flint knew that when he was little, of course, but it was a vague sort of awareness. Hearsay, rather than knowledge. Wolves, he was surely told at some point, have many faiths and traditions depending on where they live or where they come from. But these things are distant for city wolves, even shameful at times. Why stick out any more than you already, unavoidably do? His family had distanced themselves from any sort of archaic, wild customs long before even his parents were born. When he followed the family tree as far back as it went, tracing those ancient scribbles on the old, yellowed parchment kept hidden in his father’s lockbox, he found strange symbols and names he wasn’t sure how to pronounce. The word ulfhednar was written in thick, black ink.
When he repeated the word to his parents, they looked at him like he’d dragged a human corpse through the front door and dropped it at their feet. “It’s an old, awful thing that you shouldn’t tell anyone,” his mother warned. And that was that. For years, he went on thinking there was something wrong with him, some secret shame he’d unknowingly inherited. It isn’t until much later—until Hoarfrost Falls—that he finds out the truth. Ulfhednar is not a dirty word, but it is something city wolves don’t talk about.
That, and gods. They don’t talk about those either. Not the old ones like the Poised Fang, god of the perfect strike. Some have forgotten and some no longer understand. Sawyer taught him all about that. Sawyer, who leads the three of them now—him and the hrefn and you, he can hardly believe it, you where he least expects to see you, exactly the wrong place and exactly the wrong time. He hadn’t even planned on being there. He was still too new to take part in the claiming chase, still too uncomfortable with the realities of acquiring pack humans to even watch.
Sawyer had insisted. He was kind about it. He had waited until the evening lessons were over to pull Flint aside, dusk simmering like dying embers along the horizon. Flint’s peers had all come from loose, disorganized city packs. Like him, they had dulled senses and smothered instincts. Their shifts were slow and uncomfortable because they’d all learned to do it quietly, stifling the popping of their joints and the rearranging of their bones in a way that left them winded when it was over.
There was comfort and camaraderie in being new and terrible at everything together, but Flint knew he was falling behind. The others were just as clueless but twice as eager, embracing each new facet of wild pack life while Flint was still reeling. He didn’t think they were judging him for it—he desperately hoped not—but he wasn’t sure. He was used to being an outcast. His whole life, he’d been the obvious werewolf in a room full of humans. He was tall, strongly built, his limbs thick with muscle, his nails constantly needing to be filed down as they grew quicker and sharper than he could keep up with. He’d tried joining packs before. Things always started well and soured quickly. City wolves would look at him and assume he was something wild, and as soon as they realized he wasn’t, he’d start getting pushed around and singled out. He didn’t like making a fuss so he just did what he was told and kept his head down.
But you—you would fight for him. You always did. You’d find out, no matter how hard he tried to keep these things quiet, and you’d tell him you were going to his next pack meeting. You’d be the smallest one in the room between all those werewolves, and you’d still march right up to whatever loudmouth was calling themselves alpha and tear them a new one. You’d demand all of his stuff back if anything had been taken and placed in communal storage—family heirlooms, usually, fur-lined coats and old quilts. Sometimes you’d manage to get a few of his membership fees reimbursed by citing breaches of contract, listing all the ways his pack had failed to behave like his pack.
You’d gotten hurt doing that, just once. It was the last pack he’d tried joining, the last desperate attempt to find belonging. The alpha had claimed his car as a pack asset and taken his keys, and you’d marched in there and refused to leave until they were put in your hand. Yelling had turned to shoving and someone had bitten you. Flint is ashamed to admit that he can’t fully remember everything that happened, only that he woke up in wolfskin, lying on the tile floor of his shower. You were kneeling next to him beneath the spray of warm water and running your fingers through his fur, wet, partially shredded clothes hanging off your body. Blood swirled down the drain.
“Not mine,” you assured him. “Not all yours, either, but don’t move around too much.”
He thinks about that all the time. He dreams about it. Curled up with his head in your lap and your hands running up and down his body, your touch soothing and affectionate. That’s what he was thinking of earlier tonight when Sawyer stopped him as the others ran off to gossip excitedly with their elders about the new pack humans coming up the mountain. Sawyer led him down a trail that wandered away from the commune’s structures, deeper into the woods.
Flint smelled it before he saw it; perspiration. Excitement. Arousal. A human and a werewolf. The end of a chase. They were up ahead, tucked away in a grove of crooked, towering oak trees. The human was making soft, scared sounds as she was forced down to her knees and made to present herself in proper submission, but she smelled eager and Flint saw a smile before her head was shoved down into the leaves. The wolf growled playfully when he mounted her, nuzzling against the nape of her neck. He whispered something in Old Wolven Norse; a term of endearment, Flint guessed, from the tone.
It felt wrong to stand there and watch. They’d come here to be alone, hadn’t they? But Sawyer looked at him sharply when Flint glanced back the way they’d come. They were going to talk here? In earshot of another wolf and his human as they joined in bliss, rutting on the forest floor? Sawyer did nothing without a reason. There was something Flint was meant to see here, something he was supposed to learn.
“You don’t want to watch tonight’s claiming,” Sawyer said quietly. “I think you should.”
Flint said nothing. He couldn’t gather his thoughts. He was too focused on the human’s alluring scent, their needy whimpers and squirming as the wolf took them. Would…would you look like that, under him? Would you be so open, so sweet? So much had gone unsaid between the two of you before. You weren’t together. You’d never broached the subject, even though he could smell your interest in him. He hadn’t wanted to push, terrified of scaring you away.
“Flint.” Sawyer was studying his face in the subtle way wolves did, a sidelong glance whenever he let his guard down. “Something’s on your mind.”
Flint swallowed. He could feel himself reacting to the couple in front of him, the tender flesh at the base of his cock where his knot swells up pulsing gently, and he was ashamed. “I’m thinking about studying a different trade,” he admitted.
Sawyer said nothing. Flint found himself looking desperately at his face, searching for signs of anger or disappointment, and found him completely unreadable. Sawyer was stone-faced and taciturn most of the time. Flint had to take a deep breath, relax himself, and remember to look elsewhere for answers. Sawyer’s scent was…calm. His tail was still, slightly raised in curiosity but there was no evidence of aggression or displeasure in his posture. He tilted his head slightly and avoided direct eye contact, looking in Flint’s general direction rather than right at him, trying not to make him feel threatened.
Emboldened, Flint continued. “It’s not your fault, it’s all me. You’ve done so much for me since I got here. You’re always patient with me no matter what I screw up. I know I can tell you things and you’ll listen. It’s just…I don’t think I can do this. I wouldn’t be a good shepherd.”
Sawyer grunted. It was more of a wolf sound than a human one, a chiding growl and a resigned huff all in one. “You’re the only one who decides your path. But if you want my opinion, I disagree. You’d make an exceptional shepherd.”
Flint shook his head. “I could never hurt them. I can’t wrap my head around it. The whole claiming thing, the biting, the…”
“Fucking?” Sawyer said it so easily.
“We’re forcing them, aren’t we? They don’t want it.”
“They do. They just don’t know it yet.” Sawyer had barely taken his eyes off the wolf and the human since they’d arrived, something nostalgic and bittersweet in his gaze. He nodded to the two of them, the human writhing in mindless pleasure and the wolf pounding her breathless, groaning into the flesh of her shoulder. “They’re no different from us. Strip the wild out of them and they become caged, miserable animals. Here, they learn to heed their instincts again.”
Flint knew that. He’d been taught all of this before. Alpha Druian told him that most humans lived in societies of suffering, and Flint knew he was right because he’d seen it himself, had lived in it for most of his life. Taking pack humans, teaching them everything they’d forgotten after centuries of isolating themselves from wolves—it was all natural and beautiful. It was the steps in between that he had trouble rationalizing; the claiming and the training. The fear and the pain, how new humans shivered at the sight of him and whimpered when he came too close. He was told that this, too, was perfectly normal, a necessary and expected part of the process.
He heard a quiet chuckle. A smile tugged at the corner of Sawyer’s lips. “This is why you’d be so good at it,” he said. “I stopped shepherding a long time ago, but those instincts never go away. I know what to look for. All that thinking and worrying, that’s what we’re best at. The pack’s most tenderhearted are the ones who should be closest to our humans. Confidence is important. Being able to make difficult choices and administer discipline, that’s also important. But you have to care, more than anything. You have to want what’s best for them.”
He didn’t know what to say, so he hadn’t said anything. Sawyer had simply stood beside him as the shadows grew and the sky darkened, night draping across the mountain. They watched the wolf bring the human to climax once, twice, a third time shuddering and wailing as her toes curled, the wolf’s hands roaming her sensitive body. When he finally spilled inside her, he sank his teeth into her neck. The spot was already marked and the precise way he angled his head, tonguing at the indentations before biting down, told Flint that was his mark. His human. A bond, renewed and made even stronger. He thought of you again and realized he was fully hard.
And now—here you are. He’s not ready. He can’t meet your worried gaze. Sawyer leads the way to the guest house, a large cabin where friends and allies stay while visiting the territory. Neutral, scentless ground. You’re wary, probably because you can’t see very well. Corbin sets the lantern down on a table but the light is dim, unable to crawl into all the cozy nooks and crannies in the spacious common area. Flint is happy that you go to him, sticking close to his side, but he doesn’t like how stiff and standoffish you are. He risks inching closer, pressing himself against you—and he smells another wolf on you. Saliva. Blood. A bite? Without thinking, he tugs at the neckline of your shirt, nostrils flaring at the sight of the wound.
“I’m sorry, Flint. I had no idea,” Corbin says softly. “The bite happened on the way here. It was intended to force submission.” He reaches out, trying to offer comfort. You slap his hand away. Flint’s hand twitches at his side, instincts warring within him. He wants to soothe you. Wants to scold you. Wants to protect you. Wants to protect Corbin. Paralyzed by indecision, he does nothing. Corbin’s attention shifts from Flint to you, his expression thoughtful. Part of Flint lurches in fear at the thought of Corbin getting his hands on you. Training you, the way he helps Druian train all the new arrivals. He sees that eager look in Corbin’s eyes, the way his gaze roams. He’s sizing you up. Finding weaknesses. Memorizing all of your movements, conscious and unconscious, how you carry yourself, how long you can look him in the eye.
Another part of him, deeply buried, considers it with alarming calmness. Before Hoarfrost Falls, he’d blame those thoughts on his “inner wolf,” but Sawyer has cautioned him against that kind of mental partitioning. “Don’t cut yourself into pieces,” he’d say. He is a wolf and a man and the melding of those things, all together, all at once. He is the clear-headed human understanding that you have every right and reason to be terrified right now, and he is also the feverish need to wrap around you in wolfskin as though his closeness can take all of your worries away.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Corbin says. An absurd statement, intended to be disarming. You make a sound that’s not quite a laugh, sharp and guarded, not taking the bait. Flint is proud—excited—for reasons he is afraid to identify. “I’m serious. There’s been a big misunderstanding. I know how it looks from your perspective, but—”
“You slipped something in my drink,” you say, accusing. “You kidnapped me, and two other people.”
“‘Kidnapped’ is a really loaded word.”
“Sit.” Sawyer’s voice comes from the far end of the room, by the windows. He’s got the long, draping curtains pulled shut to hide your view of the woods, just in case the chase comes this way. Corbin drops where he’s standing, immediately settling onto the soft rug. Flint seats himself on the couch, dismayed when you don’t follow his lead. You’re still standing, looking Sawyer in the eye and glaring hatefully. Flint understands suddenly what’s happening here, why you’re not just uneasy but furious.
“It’s not like that,” he tries to tell you, tugging at your hand. “This pack, they’re not like the others.”
“That’s what you always say. And then they boss you around and take advantage of you,” you mutter. And that’s true. He would always say that everything’s fine. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of his problems, and he didn’t want you getting hurt trying to defend him. It was all backwards. He was supposed to protect you. The ulfhednar didn’t just have pack humans, they had human allies, human trade partners, human settlements within their territory they defended from harm.
And yet, here you are with another wolf’s bite on your neck. Here he is, failing you again.
“Sit down, human,” Sawyer repeats. “You want an explanation. I’ll give it to you.”
“Are you the alpha?” you ask.
“Beta. Sit, please.”
Flint lets out a shaky, relieved breath when you finally obey, sinking onto the cushion beside him. Sawyer makes his approach slow and indirect, pacing, pretending to fuss over the decor. He straightens out a blanket draped over the back of an armchair and returns a book left on the table to its proper shelf. It works. You don’t relax completely but you follow his movements with your eyes, curiosity rounding the edges of your annoyance. You try to hide it when Sawyer finishes his minor adjustments and comes to stand in front of you, towering over Corbin beside him, but your sweetening scent gives you away.
Flint knows he should let the pack beta speak, but the guilt is eating him alive. “This is my fault,” he blurts out. You look at him the same, soft way you always have.
“That’s not true,” Corbin insists. “It’s mine. I should’ve been more thorough—”
Sawyer growls quietly. “It’s nobody’s fault.” He mutters in Old Wolven Norse, “It’s fate. Keep your fangs poised.”
Flint’s heart skips a beat. He can’t. He can’t do this. He’s not ready. He feels a whine building in his throat and bites it back, embarrassed by how readily his feelings show. He’s always been bad at keeping growls and barks out of his speech, especially when he’s particularly nervous or excited, overwhelmed by emotion. Sawyer glances at him, holds eye contact for a meaningful moment, before he returns his attention to you.
“This is Hoarfrost Falls. We’re what you would call a ‘wild pack,’ although we welcome wolves of other backgrounds if they’re willing to make the lifestyle adjustment. My name is Sawyer. You’ve met Corbin, our hrefn—”
“Your what?” you say.
Sawyer visibly bristles at the interruption but doesn’t comment on it. He runs his hand through Corbin’s hair and Corbin melts under the attention, nuzzling his face into the dark, thick fur on Sawyer’s thigh. “It’s his rank,” Sawyer says, pausing to consider his word choice. “He’s a pack human with authority over our other pack humans.”
“Pack humans? That’s a real thing?” You sound horrified. You’re looking at Corbin like he’s something wounded on the side of the road.
“It’s real. It’s why you were brought here. Normally, you’d be enjoying your initiation right now, but I pulled you out for the pack’s safety.”
“The pack’s safety?” you echo, disbelieving. “How are you the ones in danger?”
Sawyer says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at Flint, and Flint looks anywhere else, and you know. You remember. He’s territorial. Obsessed, people used to say, as if they’d never yearned for a human before. City wolves like to pretend they don’t have instincts. He tried to pretend, too. But any little thing could happen—you could scrape your knee on the pavement, or someone could raise their voice a little too loud while talking to you—and he’d feel himself growling, bristling, ready to fight and die for you.
When he saw you earlier tonight, knowing what would happen, imagining you stumbling afraid through the woods with some other wolf lunging and pinning you and leaving marks, he felt that reckless urge rise up like an inferno beneath his skin. He’d nearly thrown himself at Alpha Vanagandr—would’ve, if Sawyer and the others hadn’t talked him down.
“It’s clear to me that you’re Flint’s. His…friend,” Sawyer amends, seeing your expression pinch in confusion. “I don’t know much about you. He doesn’t like talking about his old life and I don’t like to dredge it up more than necessary.”
Flint bows his head, feeling guilty again. “I left someone behind.” That’s all he could bring himself to say when the subject came up. It wasn’t entirely true; you’d both gone your separate ways. But he’d left first—decided to try his luck with distant family in another city, relatives his parents rarely spoke to. You’d tried to keep in touch but things had fizzled out. You were both busy with your own lives and your talks became less frequent. You left messages for each other on occasion; pictures from you, embarrassingly long and heartfelt texts that felt more like letters from him. He wanted you to know he was okay. He was strong and capable, and you didn’t have to worry.
“So can we go?” you ask.
The corner of Sawyer’s mouth twitches, the movement very quick and very slight but unmistakably a suppressed snarl. “We?” he repeats stiffly.
“I’m not leaving without Flint.”
Flint feels like he’s going to burst out of his own skin, terrified by your open defiance and how you won’t drop your gaze, even more afraid that he’ll lose control himself at any moment. He trusts his mentor but Sawyer has a reputation. He forgets to go easy on pack humans sometimes. He can be harsh, less forgiving of trespasses, dangerously aggressive in the heat of the moment. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Sawyer comes any closer. Flint knows there’s an old, awful story behind all his scars carving through the thick wolf fur he can’t fully retract. It’s not always easy to tell what’ll set him off.
It’s just as hard to predict what he’ll laugh off and deem unthreatening. Flint sags in relief when Sawyer lets out an amused huff, his posture loosening somewhat. Whatever he was looking for, whatever it is that reminds him of his scars, he doesn’t find it in you. If anything, he looks a little fond of you. “You’d better stay put,” Sawyer says. “The claiming hunt isn’t over. Won’t be for a little while. No one would purposefully antagonize Flint, but nobody is thinking clearly during a chase, either. Do you want something to eat or drink?” You glare at him. “Suit yourself. I have to speak with the alpha about this. Corbin, you’re dismissed. Let’s give them some space.”
Corbin never takes his eyes off you as he gets to his feet, returning your scowl with a sweet smile. “It was so nice to meet you,” he purrs.
Your frown deepens. “Feeling’s not mutual.”
“Mm. Give it time.” He winks before Sawyer herds him out the door with a playful growl.
Sawyer pauses on the porch, looking back at you with a sharp gaze. “Stay,” he rumbles. He smirks. You think he’s making fun of you, but his gaze shifts to Flint just briefly. Flint’s heart skips a beat.
Because Sawyer does nothing without a reason. All of that, every little thing, had a purpose. Getting you accustomed to hearing commands. Keeping his distance to put you at ease. Bringing Corbin along showed you that the pack keeps humans, that they’re fed, cared for, permitted some mischief from time to time. Giving you an order he knows you won’t follow wasn’t for you, though. That was for Flint. Because Flint is a shepherd, and when you disobey, it’s his responsibility to do something about it.
Your shoulders sag, a long sigh slipping out when the guest house door slams shut. The silence that follows is deafening. It’s just the two of you now. You and Flint. His hands shake. He tries to take deep breaths to calm himself but every inhale is full of your scent, the sharpness of your sweat and worry. He’s not ready. He’s petrified. What is he supposed to do now? What is he supposed to say? He wants to tell you so many things but the words won’t come. They never do. You’ve always understood what he tries to say, even when he can’t say it, but you don’t understand the situation you’re in now.
“Come on,” you say. “He’s probably bringing the alpha back with him. We have to hurry.” You rub your face on a few blankets and pillows—decoys. He recognizes this trick. You’ll take those with you when you run, toss them around to hide your trail. Then you rush to the kitchen and he follows nervously, reminded of a dozen other messes you’ve gotten him out of before. You turn on the sink and lather up the strongest-smelling soap you can find in the cupboards, scrubbing your face, your neck, your wrists, any exposed skin. Your natural scent isn’t gone but it’s smothered in earthy musk because all of the pack’s homemade soaps smell like the woods. Clever. Worryingly so.
“They didn’t…kidnap me,” he admits. “I chose to come here.”
You pause to look at him, your stony focus softening with sympathy. “Yeah? I bet it wasn’t what you thought it’d be,” you say.
You’re right. Just not the way you think you are. “This isn’t like before. They’re different. The alpha is good. I know it seems strange. They’re not like the packs we’re used to. But—”
“Flint.” You look up at him and his voice catches in his throat. “Come here. Your turn.”
He shouldn’t. Shouldn’t encourage this any further. He has to be honest with you, has to make you understand. “It’s not safe out there,” he says weakly. “Sawyer wasn’t lying about the chase. It gets…intense. If anybody catches your scent—”
“They won’t,” you insist. You take one of his hands in his and his resolve crumbles bit by bit, eroded by the tender smoothing motions of your fingers over his palm and knuckles and joints. He’s thinking about that shower you took together years ago. The warmth. The safety. The certainty that he was home at last, pack or no pack, that he had everything he wanted. Hoarfrost Falls is where he belongs, but something has been missing all this time, something important. He can’t help it. When you tug on his arm, he kneels, letting you smooth your hands over his face and neck, shutting his eyes and savoring your touch.
He’s not ready. But Sawyer told him he doesn’t have to be. Now and then, when the other lessons are done, they sit under the moon and talk about gods. “The Poised Fang is old. Very, very old,” Sawyer told him. “In his time, wolves had no names. Humans were prey. Smart, vicious prey, worthy of respect. The hunt is the oldest dance, and he is the best dancer. There are others who came after—gods of hearth-keeping and shepherding. But when you see a human—your human—you call on the Poised Fang first. That’s why we have that saying in Old Wolven. ‘Keep your fangs poised.’ It’s an invocation. Do you know the key to hunting humans?”
Flint hadn’t known. The topic made him squeamish. But Sawyer reassured him they meant it differently now. That the Poised Fang, timeless and eternal, was pleased that the hunt continued, even if its end had changed.
“The key is patience. It’s not strength. Not readiness. Patience. You’ll see this firsthand someday. You don’t have to be ready. You just have to wait. The moment will come.”
Flint opens his eyes and you’re staring at him, your palms framing his face. He nuzzles against your touch and you blink, startled, pulling away. It makes him want to growl but he holds it in. “We should get going,” you tell him. You’re embarrassed. He can smell it. You shouldn’t be. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. He wishes the two of you had talked about it before—all of it. Your feelings. His instincts. The desire to hold you close and leave you drenched in his scent. The throbbing need to sink his teeth into your neck.
“It’s a long way to the nearest town,” he tells you, his voice low but steady. “Hours. Too far on foot, for you.”
“Shit. They didn’t take your keys, did they? Guess we could steal theirs.” You laugh. Flint smiles. He’s not ready. He’s a storm inside, hope and fear and revulsion all crashing against one another. Some part of him has always known he would come back for you, but he wanted more time. More certainty. Then again, hasn’t he already had all the time he needs? Nobody knows you better. You peer through the front windows, then the back.
“Is there a river nearby?” you wonder aloud. “It rained the other day. Should be able to cover our scent with mud, if we have to.”
Flint inches closer. Afraid. Excited. He’s panting. He can’t help it. The truth is that he’s going to have to hurt you. Just a little. Just enough. You’re going to scream and cry and it’s going to feel like a knife in the heart, but he knows you’ll feel even worse. And that’s okay, he tells himself. That’s normal. Natural. Part of the process. Like when you were children, and he got a splinter stuck in his paw, and you sat him down with a pair of tweezers and scratched under his chin while he whined. He didn’t want you to touch it but you insisted. It had to come out. It would hurt just a tiny bit one last time, and then it wouldn’t hurt anymore. It’s just like that.
“Look!” you’d said, pointing up at a tree. “Squirrel!”
He knew, logically, that you were just trying to distract him. But he’d perked up anyway, took his eyes off of you, and then it was done. Over in a blink. It’s just like that, he tells himself. He whispers a prayer in Old Wolven Norse to the Poised Fang, begging to know if prey can ever forgive the predator for the sharpness of his teeth.
“I love you,” he says.
You freeze. Your palm hovers over the door handle. Looking up at him with wide eyes and mouth parted in shock, a question starts forming on your lips. And like the oldest of his gods stalking a primeval forest, Flint does not waste the moment.
Halsin wakes up early. Really early. He typically tries not to disturb you but will make you both breakfast to eat in bed. Otherwise he is getting his day started and will kiss you awake if you’re having a hard time getting up.
Halsin always finds an occasion to leave little notes and love letters for you to find. Some have the usual bits about how beautiful you are and how lucky he is to have you in his life. The others may have a few details about what he plans to do with you later…
Of course, Halsin has your favorite food and flowers memorized, and you happily return the favor. On special days, he can expect to come home to honey-sweetened treats and he will summarily kiss you breathless as thank you.
Halsin, who worships you head to toe when you’re intimate. Being three hundred and fifty years old has lent him endless patience… much to your chagrin, at times. He has learned exactly where to place his lips and tongue and hands on you until either begging for his mercy or release…
