Do not let them erase this. Do not let them tell you he meant "my heart goes out for you."
This man is the grandson of a Canadian Nazi sympathizer who moved to South Africa BECAUSE he thought the apartheid was just the coolest.
He has a gaggle of kids specifically because he believes his genes are superior and need to be spread to improve humanity.
He has thrown his support behind the neonazi party in Germany and the far right party in the UK, not to mention how far he's wormed up the ass of the Republican party.
He threw two sieg heil salutes back to back at the inauguration of the president of the United States and is trying to scrub the evidence off the internet.
I don’t know who needs to hear this today, but intrusive thoughts are basically your brain’s (sometimes very upsetting) way of saying “If there were two guys on the moon and one of them killed the other with a rock would that be fucked up or what?”
I’ve personally found that adding the “would that be fucked or what?” part in myself really helps put the more disturbing thoughts we sometimes get into perspective. Helps me say “yeah thar sure would be fucked up” and move on with my day.
It’s not not a secret desire, it’s not something that only occurs to you because you’re a bad person. It’s just your brain deciding to process the fact that it knows an uncomfortable thing exists in the world by feeding it to you in an absurd “what if” with you as the main character.
#something that really helps is i used to verbalize these thoughts in that way to my brother #like wed be cooking and id just go “i take your big chef knife and stab u. yeah?” and hed respond w smth like “i perfectly block. loser.”
This might be my favorite coping mechanism of this genre I've heard yet. Sibling goals.
Wrote this for me bc I have a migraine rn and I want Astarion to act as my personal cold pack. Beginning of Astarion's dialogue taken from the vid Neil did of an Astarion wake up call lol
Not proofread bc brain hurts
Warnings: migraine descriptions, pain, light angst if you squint, swearing, OOC Shadowheart
Word Count: 1,839
Main Masterlist
First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist
AO3
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The two knocks at the door split your skull. Each one like an iron spike hammered into your temples. All you could do was hide deeper under the covers, hoping they would muffle the sound enough to stop hurting.
“Darling, get up,” Astarion called through the wood. Two more knocks accentuated his annoyance. He groaned when he didn’t hear any movement. “Get the fuck up!”
You wished you could tell him what was going on - really you did. But the slightest twitch from your tadpole was enough to have you wishing for death. Hells, you’d make a deal with Raphael with unbalanced terms just so it would go away! Instead, all you could do was wait it out. It would be a long wait indeed.
With another irritated sigh, you could hear the familiar scrape of his lockpicking tools working at the lock. Even the quiet metal-on-metal grated right against your eardrums. Fortunately, he was exceptionally skilled, because with a click the door was swinging open.
He rolled his eyes when he saw the lump of your body underneath the blankets. “My gods, you’re so lazy. Just like Gale.” His footsteps, even as an elven rogue, were too damn loud. You pressed your nose into the mattress, willing the thumping pulse in your head to stop. It thudded behind your eyes with each step.
In one swift motion, the blankets that provided the small mercy of darkness were whipped off of you. You curled as tightly into yourself as possible, covering your head with your arms to block out the sunlight streaming into your room. Astarion scoffed.
“Get out of bed and get up!” He gestured to the window. Even though you couldn’t see it, you could hear the rustling of his shirt. “It’s the morning. Listen, I might be a vampire that’s been away from the sun for 200 years, and I can actually now walk in it thanks to a tadpole that’s induced my mind,” he rambled, before huffing indignantly, “but even I don’t rest in!”
Now was the worst time for his dramatics. You usually adored how sassy and silly he could be, but now it just drove a stake through your brain. Even the Absolute couldn’t cause a pain this agonizing.
You whimpered, reaching out with one arm to swat him away. You missed. “Please, stop,” you whined. “Head hurts.”
He clicked his tongue. “Nothing the cleric can’t fix. C’mon, she can do whatever it is she does on our way out of here.”
You shook your head slowly, burying your face further and further into the bed. Gods, why did it have to hurt so fucking bad? Your chest tightened as the burn of tears stung at your eyes. Even crying hurt. Your body trembled and shook, your hands tangling into your hair to press at your affliction, as choked sobs suffocated you. Each gasp for air felt like a vice gripping your brain.
“Darling?” Astarion spoke, much softer. You couldn’t answer. He sighed softly, no longer annoyed. Well, a little annoyed. He dragged the blankets back up to your shoulders. “I’ll get Shadowheart.”
His footsteps were much lighter as he rushed out of your room. Was… this the work of the tadpoles? But wouldn’t they be affected, too? Ugh, why couldn’t anything be simple in this damn group of weirdos?
Shadowheart rushed in a moment later, remembering to keep her steps light halfway to you. She knelt down, frowning at the sight of the group’s leader so shaken. “Is it a migraine?” she whispered.
A sharp pain bolted through your temples as you nodded. You whimpered.
She sighed quietly. There was nothing her magic could do; migraines weren’t something she could just heal. “I’ll tell the others and whip up some tea, alright?”
She didn’t wait for your answer and set to work closing the curtains over the windows. Astarion frowned, missing the golden light already. “What’s wrong with them?”
Shadowheart put a finger over her lips with a glare. He scowled, but didn’t say anything. She only spoke when she was right next to him in the doorway. “They have a migraine. They’re extremely sensitive to light and sound right now.”
“Can’t you do something?” He glared impatiently at her, crossing his arms.
“There’s nothing for it. All we can do is wait. I suggest getting comfortable - we’re not leaving today.” She slipped past him, back down the stairs to the rest of your anxious companions.
He tapped his arm as he watched the lump under the blankets shift slowly as you finally uncovered your head. Baldur’s Gate was so close. Cazador was so close. They couldn’t deal with these delays when he was so damn close to being honestly, truly free.
He hadn’t moved from his post by the door when Shadowheart returned with a steaming cup of tea. She placed it carefully on your bedside table. “Drink this,” she whispered. “It should help with the pain.”
You nodded slightly, wiping at your face. She offered a little sympathetic smile. She gave Astarion a stern look as she passed. “Don’t try taking a nibble, vampire.”
He forced a sweet smile. “Offering yourself up instead?”
She scoffed, scrunching her nose up at the mere thought. “They need rest. And you leering over them isn’t going to help.” She left once more, with a last cursory glance over her shoulder to see if he’d leave.
Once she was out of sight, Astarion stepped into the room, softly closing the door behind him. His feet barely made a sound as he found his way back to your side. At least you weren’t curled up into a little ball anymore. Or crying. Small mercies, he supposed. He had no idea how to deal with someone being sick, let alone someone crying.
You looked at the cup on the table. Liquid salvation. The real trick was being able to drink it.
With a deep breath, you forced yourself to sit up, wincing and whimpering with every jerky motion. He was honestly shocked you didn’t jump when he grabbed your arm to help, but perhaps you really were that out of it. Or you knew he was there. Either way, you thank him in the smallest, most pathetic voice he’s ever heard.
Comfortably propped up on a stack of pillows against the headboard, you reached over to try grabbing the cup. He caught your hand just before you knocked the cup over.
“Careful, darling,” he chastised quietly. With a put-out sigh, he sat down at the edge of the bed and picked up the cup. He brought the rim to your lips. “Since you’re so incapable…”
You carefully took a sip. Your whole face relaxed at the warmth, and the soothing herbs mixed in. It wouldn’t be an immediate remedy, but it was a very pleasant one. After you eagerly drained half the cup, he set it back on the table. You sighed with relief, content in the knowledge even a single percentile of your pain could be eased away.
“You don’t have to stay,” you mumbled, watching him through squinted eyes. Even the dimness of the room was too bright for you.
He rolled his eyes playfully. “Least I could do after such a rude awakening.”
You chuckled, but the sound was cut short with a strong wince. You sat there for a moment, face pinched and brow tight as you waited for the sting to pass. Once it did, your face softened once more.
“How bad is it?”
“Like Dwarves are taking pickaxes to my temples in search of gold.” You took a breath. “And like an ogre is sitting on my head.”
He huffed a laugh. “Not much I can do to help with that, love.”
You hummed, shaking your head ever so slightly. You didn’t want to go jostling the miners when they were so damned hard at work.
With a small gesture toward the cup, Astarion helped you finish off the last half of the tea. A small dribble fell from the corner of your mouth down your chin. He caught it with his thumb quickly, the knuckles of his closed hand brushing your cheek. You leaned into the touch immediately, without even thinking about it. You sighed with relief.
“You’re cold.”
“Mm. Comes with being undead.” He set the cup aside, but allowed his hand to linger. In fact, he opened it up so he cupped your cheek with his palm. A sharp chill raced down your spine, but you didn’t pull away.
It was curious, how easily you placed yourself in his care. Watching as your eyes shut in easy tranquility as you indulged in the coolness of his hand, how relaxed you became - it surprised him. You always found new ways to amaze him.
Slowly, not wishing to jostle you, he moved to press his hand to your temple. If he thought you were relaxed before, this was utter bliss. “Gods, don’t stop,” you begged.
He glanced at the door, half expecting Shadowheart to burst in and yell at him for disturbing you. But nothing happened. Still, it would be better to avoid being told off. He pulled away, but kept a hand on your arm. “Lay down, dove.”
Whether out of desperation to have him acting as a cold compress once more or just to take the pressure off your brain, you complied in a heartbeat. Slowly, you shimmied back down into the covers, head situated on a pillow once more.
Astarion thought for a moment. Did he really want to keep sitting here, back tiring out, arms reaching for hours? You whined, placing a hand over his on your arm, asking without words for relief. He hushed you.
As quickly as he could without shaking the bed, he stood, rounded it, and slipped in under the covers beside you. You gravitated toward him immediately, even as you winced. Head on his chest, arms clinging to him like a babe holding onto its mother, you relaxed into the natural chill he offered. He rested a hand back on your cheek, but slid the other to the back of your neck. That was the sweet spot, it seemed; you practically melted in his arms.
It wasn’t long before you were fast asleep, lulled into peace with the aid of the tea. He stared at the dark curtains blocking out the sun. One more day couldn’t hurt, surely. Not that they really had a choice, but…
You stirred in your sleep, turning your head to press your nose further into the ruffles of his shirt. Like this - bags under your eyes, hair a mess, a bit pallid - he was sure. He would Ascend. You’d never have to suffer like this again. Neither of you would. He’d be the most powerful man in the lands, with you at his side. Never again would he have to live in fear, bound in chains to someone else.
He sighed and rested his cheek lightly on your head. Gods. Just a few days now.
Summary: Staying dry is wishful thinking when it comes to Wolfwood giving his infant daughter a bath.
Cw: Domestic fluff, sort of implied Wolfwood x gn!reader but it's vague enough that you can honestly picture anyone you want.
Word Count: 1'150k
A/n: In honor of a Wolfwood Wednesday that coincides with St. Nicholas Day, here is a soft Dadwood drabble that I hope you all enjoy! 💖
It was a surprise to some, but Wolfwood has proven to be a meticulous man for the things that matter. Sure, while he may be more haphazard in his approach to most things in life, when it came to the comfort and safety of his family, there was no limit he could ever hold himself to, let alone even fathom.
If his children are sick, the grizzled and bag eyed preacher would stay up all night to soothe and comfort them. Lulling them with his baritone voice and tender head pats. If either of them needed his help, or just longed for his company, he would always find time for them. Without question. As far as Wolfwood was concerned, there was nothing on the entire planet more rewarding than seeing his children’s smiles, holding them in his arms, and hearing their happy laughter every day.
Which is why he is currently standing completely soaked through with soapy water by his kitchen sink.
Not thirty minutes ago, Wolfwood had diligently cleaned the sink before filling it with warm water—testing the temperature, mixing hot and cold until it met his standard of perfection. Then, he added the soap. A gentle blend he had bought from the local market that was made by one of the artisans of the town. It was lightly scented and very mild. Perfect for his little Clem.
Speaking of which…
A torrent of babyish giggles rings through the kitchen as the little rascal Wolfwood is bathing in the sink slaps her hands against the water’s surface, squealing in delight as the water and soap dances around her, effectively drenching both herself and her papa to boot.
Wolfwood winces, closing his eyes as he is once again splashed with the concoction of warm water and suds. It drips off his tousled black hair, it sticks his white shirt to his chest, and it utterly drenches the navy blue apron wrapped around his waist.
The once feared Punisher has now been reduced to a wet, soggy, slightly exhausted father standing in the middle of his kitchen floor. One would think that it was a nightmare but in truth, Wolfwood can’t imagine another place he’d rather be.
Clem shrieks with joyful laughter as she watches her papa make a face when he’s coated with water once more. Once she stills, Wolfwood cautiously opens a singular eye. Slowly, his little infant baby comes into view, and she is smiling up at him. Her adorable two bottom front teeth on full display, making her look so goofy and precious and Wolfwood can’t help but laugh.
“You’re a whole bucket of trouble, aren’t you my little munchkin?”
Wolfwood’s daughter coos, then raises her hand in a wicked attempt to slap the water again. This time however, Wolfwood is too fast and stalls her game by gently catching Clem’s hand before it could continue further.
“Oh no you don’t, little Miss Clemence.” Wolfwood chuckles. “Papa’s soaked enough.”
Clem pouts, but Wolfwood knows how to instantly turn that frown into a smile. Leaning down, the preacher nuzzles his daughter’s cheek and then starts to litter her tiny face with big showy kisses.
Clem squeals with utter delight, reaching up with her little fingers to grab at her papa’s nose, his chin, and lips. Wolfwood knows she has a fierce grip for a baby, but he has always somehow managed to wriggle free, and this time is no different. After letting his daughter smoosh his nose and pull on his lips, Wolfwood manages to escape—his daughter’s adorable little giggles in tow as he pulls away.
“There. You have your kisses. Now, stop distracting me and let me finish giving you a bath, squirt.”
“Papa?”
The soft voice calls Wolfwood to look over his shoulder. Standing in the kitchen doorway is his eldest child, Ezra. It’s uncanny how much Ezra looks like Wolfwood’s partner. Except for the eyes and the unruly jet black hair that covers his son’s head.
Wolfwood smiles as his son enters the kitchen.
“Hey Ezra, come to join in on the fun?”
Gaze curious, Wolfwood watches as his six year old son pulls up a chair so he can stand side by side with his papa at the sink.
“Did Clem get you soaked again, papa?”
“Uh, huh.” Wolfwood chuckles with a nod. “She doesn’t sit nice and quiet like you did when you were a baby.”
Clem vocalizes with delight when she sees her brother, babbling “Eh-a, Eh-a” as she usually does when she sees him. Ezra smiles shyly, always a little taken aback at his little sister’s adoration of him. Wolfwood watches affectionately as little Clem reaches towards her older brother with soapy fingers.
Ezra gives her his hand–without a moment’s hesitation—and she wraps her stubby fat fingers around his. Father, daughter, and son look at one another. All smiles and tender hearts.
“Maybe she doesn’t like it when you bathe her papa.” Ezra ponders. “She hasn’t splashed anybody el–”
Ezra’s sentence is abruptly interrupted as Clem raises her little left hand and slaps the water again, creating an enourmous splash that Wolfwood swears is expertly aimed towards her brother.
Ezra gasps as he is instantly drenched with a wave of warm water and suds.
“H-hey!” He yelps, pulling away from his sister. “Clem!”
Clem squeals with glee, clapping her hands as she then proceeds to splash more water on herself, joining in on the fun. If she was having a bath, then it only stood to reason that everyone in the room must want one too.
“Looks like our little troublemaker is practicing her aim.” Wolfwood chuckles.
Immediately noticing his son’s frown however, Wolfwood reaches for the fluffy towel that he set aside on the kitchen counter. Then with the precision and grace of a practiced father, he plops the towel square over Ezra’s head.
“Here,” Wolfwood says softly. “She didn’t mean it. Now, dry yourself off little man. Then if you don’t mind, could you get me another towel for your sister?”
Ezra sighs, rolling his eyes before nodding--the little grin that spreads across his lips a sign that he really isn’t that upset at all.
“Okay, papa.”
Wolfwood’s heart feels light as he watches his son make his way out of the kitchen, cozying himself into the fluffy towel as he makes his way.
He truly is blessed to have both of them. No matter all the torture he went though, the horrors he had seen and endured, or all that awful baggage he carries—Wolfwood can still have soft moments like these. Peaceful moments, where it’s just him and his family, living together happily and quietly. With all the time and freedom in the world to love and care for each other.
“Hurry up,” Wolfwood chuckles as he watches Clem give him a mischievous glance. “Before your sister decides she wants to keep improving her aim.”
we know that the criminal minds writers looooved hurting spencer but i would love to see bau!reader (bombshell!reader if you think it would fit) hurt and spencer losing his mind a little (ofc everything would end up being okay because we love fluff in this house 💗)! thank youuu <333
ty for requesting! ♡ fem, 1k
“Spencer, are you coming in?”
The boy in question winces, the cellophane wrapped stems in his hand strangled by an anxious grip. Your voice is hoarse, quieter than usual, though that could be attributed to the thick wooden door between you both. He takes the door handle in his hand, readjusts his fingers, can't quite get himself to go in.
“Spence,” you say, missing your usual cheer. “Please come in.”
He opens the door slowly. It weighs a hundred pounds, each inch heavier than the last.
You're propped up on the movable bed with a dinner table over your legs. Someone's brought you contraband, it seems, expensive soup from the fancy restaurant you like just outside of work. Next to it lies your phone, your chapstick, and a prescription bottle. The orange of it is too glaring to look at for long.
“Nice to see you finally, heart-throb,” you say, sitting back, rolling your shoulders as you smile. “Where've you been?”
Sapped by terror in the waiting room, mostly. “Sorry,” he says, offering no explanation. You deserve one, but he can't get the words out. “How are you feeling?”
“Shot at.”
“Is it bad?”
Your eyes soften. “No. Wanna see it?”
He does in an awful way. To alleviate his panic, sure, but to know what it did. To see what his stupidity resulted in. The unforgivable in stark scarring.
You lift your shirt and shift your soft bralette up a touch to show him the wound and all its grim stitches. “It almost missed me. Guess I'm not as lucky as I think.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not right now. They told me not to wear wire bras for a while, so you win some, you lose some.” You let your shirt fall back into place. He can see the indecision in your eyes. Not one for hiding like he wants to, you address the elephant in the room. “Now you've seen it's not so bad, can you look at me again?”
“I'm looking at you.”
“You know what I mean.”
The thing is, Spencer doesn't, not really. Half the time you act like you're sharing a secret with him but he doesn't have a clue what you're talking about, and the intimacy is lost, and it's his fault. He's never been good or smooth or charismatic, he's never deserved your attention, and it's his fault you're here, hurting, his fault you'd been prone on the ground, his fault Morgan had to hold your side closed, his fault you almost died.
“Spencer,” you murmur, “you know I don't blame you.”
Of course he knows that.
“You should,” he says tightly. He doesn't mean to get angry.
“Well, I don't. So give me my flowers and sit down.”
He bites the inside of his cheek. He's mad, but he gives you the flowers without any roughness, and you take them with a similarly thin thank you.
Your reunion isn't going how either of you wants it to, it seems.
Spencer sits in the chair next to your bed as you pick between the petals, admiring their colours, their softness. For a moment you're peaceful, but you close your eyes and press your nose gently to a small bud, and you ask, “Why are you acting like this?” Heartbroken.
He could explain it in halves. You passed out in the back of the ambulance. Your surgery had unexpected complications. Hotch was so angry, and he still wasn't as mad at Spencer as Spencer was at himself.
Seeing you hurt because of his mistake isn't a feeling he thinks he'll survive a second time.
“I don't get why you like me,” Spencer admits. “Not before, and especially not now. You should be pissed. This,” —he gestures to you quickly— “is my fault.”
“It's not your fault, Spence.”
“What would you call it?”
You put your flowers down and stare at your lap. He's pushed you too far. Nice, he thinks to himself scathingly, to upset you in your sick bed, that's exactly what he should be doing to make it up to. Great going, Spencer.
“Will you hold my hand?” you ask quietly.
He hesitates, his heart skipping a beat like a missed step down the stairs.
“Please? I just… this has been a lot. I'm not telling you to make you feel guilty, I swear, but it's been a lot. And so many times I wished someone was here. I wished you were here.” You turn your head away from him. “I thought you were mad at me. I'm still worried.”
Spencer stands up. He feels every stretch of muscle as he does it. You raise your eyes to his, holding out your hands; you know him better than anyone else, he thinks. He overcompensates every time.
“I'm sorry,” he says, crossing his arms behind your shoulders carefully.
“I told you it's not your fault.”
“For not being here to hold your hand.”
Your hand curls in the front of his shirt.
“M'not mad. Not even slightly. I mean, not at you…” He rubs your back with his thumb. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“What was I supposed to think?”
He presses his nose to your temple, eyes squeezed close in regret. “...You're right.”
This is what he should've done the moment you woke up. Instead, he let his mind focus on detail, what flowers demarcates remorse, or if cellophane wrapping would be an imposition. Anything to forget how your hands shook as the adrenaline wore off.
They're steady now as they wrap around his sides to rest at the small of his back.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, lips touching to your skin with each syllable, like fractions of kisses.
“I missed you, handsome. Please– don't do that again.”
He rubs your back. “I won't,” he promises. “I'll be here as long as you want me to be.”
Synopsis: Astarion gets a massage for the first time in his life.
Warnings: 18+ minors do not engage. Trauma release, feelings of worthlessness, unconditional love.
~
"Let me help with that." Her voice is hushed beside him in the semi-dark of her tent.
Astarion frowns, still holding his book between his fingers.
"Your back, love." She persists, "come on. Turn over."
A familiar lance runs through him, quick and cold. Exposing his back is difficult, even now.
Warm fingers find his cheek and wait for him, like always. He glances sidelong and finds no judgement or pity in her face. Only love.
"Only if you're comfortable." She whispers.
Slowly, he marks his page and sets the book aside. "Yes, well, I can not deprive you of my naked form, dearest."
The mask feels fragile as ice, here in the dark with her.
He sits up, takes a quiet, steadying breath that fills his stomach with acid, and tugs off his shirt. The fresh air on his back hurts somehow. Even alone, he always dresses quickly. Wanting to avoid the shame of the reminder that he couldn't fight back. That he just let it happen.
A warm hand finds his shoulder. Steady.
"Are you sure, darling?" She murmurs.
"Mhmm." He hates the way his voice breaks.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. This is ok. Tav loves him, she will not hurt him.
He lays on his front, hands folded under his cheek. The stretch feels nice, even under the rest. She settles across his hips. Between her warmth and her weight pulling his tight muscles, the vulnerability dissipates for a moment.
"Relax, darling." She breathes, pressing her palms into his shoulders.
Astarion scans his body. Isn't this relaxed?
He's shocked to find he has to consciously unclench his jaw, his fists, his thighs. Even his toes are tensed against her touch.
But this is Tav, he reminds himself. She loves him. She won't hurt him.
His muscles agree.
A waft of sweetness across his palate distracts him from her strong little fingers in his tight neck muscles. It warms him that she stole his own oils just for this. How long had she been planning it?
He briefly wonders if a vampire can become a puddle when her hands move into his hair, scratching at his scalp in the most delicious way. A pleasured groan escapes him, turning his head so she finds the best spots. It's mind-numbing in the very best way. Until her fingers drift lower.
It's slow enough that he could stop her if he wanted. The thought alone makes him feel sick - that she knows. Knows that he cowers like a child from that filthy memory. It's pathetic. His jaw clenches again.
It isn't her fingers this time, but the base of her palms that press into his muscles. Sure, strong strokes that follow the length of his spine as though no other pattern exists on his skin. His back tenses.
But this is Tav. She loves him. She will not hurt him.
A soft kiss is pressed against his ear while her hands work. Something wells inside him. He presses his face into the pillow.
Broken. Both body and everything else. He doesn't deserve this softness. This gentle devotion being pressed into the wreckage of his skin. It's only pain that resides there, and always will. Carved and bloody and relentless.
Somehow, his face is wet against Tav's neck, her strong arms tugging him up into her lap. "It's ok, Astarion, I'm here. You can let it out."
It chokes him. Wracks his chest and purges forth from the darkest parts of his soul into her neck. He becomes nothing but that pain within the confines of her arms, black and awful and unending. Centuries of it. Her fingers thread into his hair, her cheek warm against the top of his head as she reassures him.
Summary: During your post-game adventures, you get sick and Astarion takes care of you.
Pairing: Astarion x f!Tav
Tags: hurt/comfort, f!tav, established relationship, post-game
Read on AO3
Thanks @tragedybunny for being an amazing beta!
It's bone-chilling cold. So close to the Spine of the World, the snow and winds prove as merciless as demons from the Abyss. Tears freeze on your cheeks. Even Astarion, wrapped in his fur cape, shivers; the cold seeping into his undead body. He starves. The dark forest is silent, with no animals around to prey on.
"Astarion," you muffle through the thick scarf, "take a small sip, I beg you."
"No," he refuses yet again, unwilling to risk your life. Hunger and cold torment him, but he stands on his feet. Meanwhile, you, a fragile mortal, teeter on the verge of death in this frozen forest. Your back aches despite Astarion carrying most of the load. Your feet are numb as if submerged in icy water, and your throat burns with pain.
Astarion grabs your hand and lets you lean back on him. The nearest village is still miles away, and there's no chance you'll make it till sunrise. Nights are long, dark, and unforgiving. You need to set up the camp; it might be warmer in daylight.
But Astarion desperately holds on to his sanity, which he might lose if he doesn't feed soon.
"Astarion, please. We need to put up the tent. Sunrise is soon. I will just lay by the fire, and you can eat."
"We still have time, darling, and save your energy," he grits his teeth. The starving monster within him looks at you through Astarion's kind crimson eyes.
"Astarion, take my blood!"
He doesn't reply, leading the way through dark woods. If only there was an animal, even a rat. Looking up, you see the dark skies filled with prickly stars.
"What is it, my sweet?"
Suddenly, you realize you haven't been cold because of the snow and winds. You are cold from within. Your heart, lungs, and bones are freezing, much like what Astarion feels every moment since he died.
"Oh, fuck!"
You realize you now lie in the snow, unable to move, as the air in your throat burns with ice.
"Wake up, gods damn you!" Astarion's voice is desperate, betraying that he' is scared to death.
You hear the loud thump when his travel sack drops in the snow. Then he works on your belts, releasing your burden. A moment later, and you rest in his hands.
"Love, I need you to stay awake. You hear me?"
But you can't say anything. The cold rips through your muscles, turning into ice, and you lose consciousness, drowning in cold, dark waters.
So cold, so cold. It's a freezing grip of death on your heart, killing you. You think of Astarion, imagining him beside your lifeless body.
… You hear muffled talking and open your eyes. You aren't dead, that's for sure, but there is complete darkness around you.
And you lie under something weighty.
You try to move but can't, your. whole body shivers. You are almost naked, tucked in animal fur like some barbarian child.
The smell wood and herbs comes to you. And fire.
Then you remember the sun. And how Astarion carried you in his hands. Horror pierces your mind along with cold.
He is dead. He didn't make it till sunrise. It burnt him; he is gone. And the village people probably found you alone in the snow and brought you here.
While you think, you realize there are people in the room. Two people, to be precise.
"It's a freezing fever," the female voice says. "You two would have been complete idiots if you'd decided to put up a camp. She would have been dead by now."
"But now—is she ok?"
Astarion.
You have never felt so much joy in your life. He is alive and here, beside you. You can't comprehend how much strength he had to pull to make it with you in his hands by sunrise.
"She needs to take the potion. And then sleep in warmth."
You feel the familiar weight beside you. Then, two hands get you out of the blankets and make you sit up. Your head is spinning, and you shiver, though you notice sweat on the healer's face.
Astarion smiles at you and brings the bottle with the potion to your lips.
"Drink, love," he says.
"The taste is nasty," the healer shrugs. "Make her drink every last drop."
The potion is genuinely awful, burning your mouth. You start slipping away again, and Astarion tucks you in thick blankets.
"And people say vampires are soulless creatures. They should meet you two.”
When the healer leaves, Astarion lies beside you over the blanket. You wish to hug him but are afraid of his cold skin.
"Are you hungry?" you ask.
You hear a chuckle. "You are at death's door, and you ask about me?
"Take mine," you insist.
"Tav, darling, I ain't taking a tiny drop from you until you fully recover. There is prey in the woods. I will find it."
You want to say something else, but the freezing hand of the sickness grips your throat. You feel like you’re naked on ice, in the howling wind.
"Love?"
"It's still… cold…"
Astarion sighs and stands up. You want to cry, to beg him to stay, but you can't say anything as he leaves the room, closing the thick wooden door.
You feel like crying, alone, and freezing. The healer curses, "You, idiot, stay inside!"
You hide under the blanket in the fetal position, trying to save warmth. However, it's difficult since the core of your suffering is still within. What if you are dying? And you are dying all alone in this village without a name in the middle of nowhere.
It's been years since you left Baldur's Gate together, and you can't fall asleep without him by your side. Astarion is safety. Astarion is protection. Whatever enemy is out there to threaten your life and freedom, Astarion is always there with his fangs and daggers. He doesn't sleep—only meditates a bit—and he is your guardian when you are most vulnerable.
But now you are alone. Your mind grasps consciousness with the last bits of strength you have. The thick blankets don't let you move, and you lie like you’re in your very own coffin of ice. It's been a long time since you were left alone, but you know it's still dark outside.
And then you realize you aren't alone anymore.
Astarion crawls under the blankets and covers your body with himself, placing his head on your chest. He smells like blood, the hunt, and forest. He has already pulled off all his clothes, and you feel his skin against yours, unexpectedly flaming hot.
You can only wonder how much blood he has drunk. Sure, his body gets warm after feeding, and the more living blood he takes, the more alive he seems. But this is different. You can't see him, but you are somehow sure his skin has temporarily returned to its natural living color.
You wrap your hands around him and stroke the scars. Astarion groans and adjusts himself a bit.
"I've been hunting," he says, sounding drunk. "The healer told me there is a bear attacking villagers, starved and angry. I found and drained him."
"You shouldn't have risked it."
"I wanted you to be warm. I know how it feels to have a freezing grip on the heart. It hurts. All the time."
You press him tighter and kiss his forehead.
With him in your hands, you finally fall asleep. You have a strange dream—a summer day in the beautiful mountains.
And there is Astarion beside you. He smiles, exposing his face to the sunshine. You want to tell him to hide, to run away. But he opens his eyes, and you stare at him in disbelief.
They are green, not red.
… When you wake up, you feel hot. Sweat runs down your back, and the blankets suffocate you. You get out of them like a kitten squeezed by its mother.
"Hello, my sweet. You are so adorable with this bed hair," Astarion sits on the floor with a needle and a thread. You recognize his own shirt in his hands.
"How awful do I look?"
"You look like someone who finally got better. But I suppose you could scare away some kids in that village. Maybe I should tell them you are also a vampire. Food or bath?" he asks.
"Food. I am dying of hunger."
"My sweet, don't tell me about hunger." He mockingly kisses you.
He returns soon with a soup bowl. You try to take the plate in your trembling hands, but Astarion forces you to sit still like a baby and starts spoon-feeding you.
"Good girl," he chuckles. "The healer said it would take you weeks to recover, and you made it in three days."
"And you have been here?"
"Don't offend me with such questions."
"Oh, don't be angry."
With a full stomach, you feel much better and lie back on the bed, letting your body fully recover. Astarion studies your face as if seeing it for the first time. Then he lies beside you, allowing you to place your head on his chest. His skin is cold again, but it feels more like him.
"What is on your mind, Astarion?" you ask.
"I want to stay," he says. "Not exactly here, but I can't live like that anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"Living on the road. I can't do that anymore. You obviously can't either. I... listen… I've never had a home. Never had a place to call my own. I want one. I want one with you."
"Didn't you tell me it would be tediously boring?" you inquire.
"I wanted to see what life has to offer beyond the city walls."
"Astarion, it will be dangerous. No one would want a—"
You bite your tongue. "Sorry."
"Dealing with a nosey neighbor doesn't sound more dangerous than getting some weird sickness in the middle of nowhere. Besides, we can prove to people it's better to have a vampire of their own rather than be threatened by some unhinged vampire lord.”
"Astarion, I am afraid for you. People hate vampires!"
"And I am afraid for you."
You are both silent. You turn to him and nuzzle his collarbone. He wraps his hands around you. Vague memories return, and you suddenly realize you heard the voices while in fever.
"Don't die. Please, don't die. I need you."
A scared voice of a healer. "You are a vampire!"
"Please help her. I won't come inside. I will stay in the woods. Please, please, help her! She is mortal; she is dying!"
You remember being carried to the bed and a strong smell of herbs.
"How did you two end up together?", asked the healer.
"She saved me. From myself. Showed me I have a chance to be something different from what I was turned into. Tell me what I can do. Do you need herbs? Ingredients? I will bring you anything."
And then the face of the healer standing above you. She came to check on you in Astarion's absence, and the feverish mind remembered that.
"You are a lucky to have him, girl."
You caress Astarion's cheek. "Would staying in one place make you happy?"
Summary: You agreed to help Astarion with the Rite of Profane Ascension, but you can't watch him go through with it. You interrupt the ritual, and Astarion turns on you. Now, you must deal with the aftermath of your actions.
Word count: 3.6k
Disclaimers: Non-18+. Astarion x female/self insert Tav. Angst. Trauma and recovery. A very angry Astarion.
This is the first fanfic I have written for about 20 years. I should be working on my novel, but this story honestly possessed me. I hope someone out there reads and enjoys this! If not, it was therapeutic and cathartic to write it.
You know this, and you have seen it. You have seen it twist kind men into savages, transform wary women into beasts. Your own family had suffocated you under its clutches, leveraging your gifts and talents for ever more power and influence. Stripping you bare, squeezing out every drop they could get from you. You were their very own song bird, pushed about and paraded until your fingers were raw and throat was hoarse, to grant them entry into the best parties and social circles. But you were never enough. You never sang sweetly enough, or got large enough crowds. Not enough people knew you. You should have been prettier, more alluring. All the things they made you do, but you never did enough. It was never enough.
You have heard it a thousand times. The tales and the histories, all the songs you have sung. You are a bard, after all, and this story is as old and worn as your heart. Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
When you had escaped from them, you had vowed you would never be like them. You had promised yourself you would never become the thing you fought against. You would be different. Better. You would be good.
And yet.
You are standing in Cazador’s palace. Blood spatters the smooth ivory of Astarion’s skin. In the nightmarish hue of the ritual chamber, he glows a strange green. His crimson eyes are all fear and desperation.
“I can do this, but I need your help.”
In that moment, you cannot say no. If it were anyone else, you would refuse. There have been many conversations with Astarion - around the campfire, in his tent, even as you walked around the labyrinth of Cazador’s living hell. You have talked to him at length about this moment. You have listened as he has confessed guilt and need and hesitation and rage. You have been kind and patient, always careful not to criticise him, not to push back too much, not to hurt him. You have been good. He must make his own decision, you have been telling yourself. He has suffered enough.
So you open your mind to him, because he asks you to. You feel his frenzied hunger as he devours the sight of every scar on his back, as though their cruelty is now beauty. You watch his features which you have come to know so well. You have seen them in sleep, in battle, in laughter, in pain. You have seen them shrouded and masked, bare and open. You watch now as they contort into something that you recognise from so many other faces and times. And as you watch, you can barely hear Cazador’s deafening screams, or register the way his mangled mess writhes and gushes. All you can see is Astarion’s widening smile as he carves at Cazador’s back, his eyes dilating like sinkholes.
You think it, even as he whisks away Cazador’s mutilated body like a rag doll. Even when Astarion slams the staff on the ground and everything around you blazes red as the blood of his convulsing siblings and the seven thousand spawn about to be slaughtered. Even when Gale and Karlach cry out at Astarion to stop, that this is a mistake, that the cost is too great. Even then, you think to yourself: this is what he wants. It is his choice. It is his right.
But in the scarlet haze, you are remembering. You are thinking of his trembling voice when he promised a broken husk called Sebastian, just moments ago, that he would free him. You think of the way his soft eyes glistened when he had thanked you and clasped your hand, stunned with the realisation that he was not just a thing to be used. You feel the crushing weight of Vellioth and Cazador and the decaying dungeons and centuries upon centuries of madness and terror. And you remember the tenderness with which he had looked at you, not days ago, believing the power of the ritual would keep you both safe. That he would protect you with it.
“I can feel their power flowing into me!”
You stare at him, spreadeagled, monstrous.
Something has begun to well inside you, like a cracking of ice, a convulsion of tears. In that whispering, you remember the promise you made yourself all those years ago. And you know, from a deep and tattered place within you, that that promise is greater than your yearning for his love.
The blade springs from your hand on its own. You watch it sing through the air and hit its perfect note in Cazador’s maimed gut. Astarion and his siblings crumple to the floor. The crimson mist lifts, and in the silence you know, with the certainty of death, that you have lost him.
You say something, but you know it is meaningless. Nothing can repair the mistake you have made. You could have refused to help him when he asked. You could have reasoned with him, urged him to stop and think. You could have told him, from the start, that you could not go through with it. And now, you have kept your promise to yourself, but not to the man you love.
When he rises from his knees and turns to you, it is the face of a stranger that you see.
“I was so close. I could have had it all, but you took everything from me.”
Hatred hardens in his every word. And then, a tide of despair.
“Cazador won after all. I’ll never escape the hell he built.”
You cannot bear it. Your failure rips through you, and you want to reach out to him, to beg and plead and weep. But you just stand there.
He looks down at the staff in his hand.
“And if I can’t escape, then no one can.”
He splits the staff on his knee. It makes such a small sound as it splinters, but it echoes through you like an avalanche. It is the sound of seven thousand spawn being condemned to death. It is the sound of their eternal suffering. And it is all because of you. The horror and guilt erupts inside you.
It happens so fast after that. There is no time to think, to feel, to act. There is the glint of a dagger raised. You are knocked back, and a searing pain slices through your shoulder as you stare up at bared fangs looming over you. Your limbs are heavy with shock, and suddenly you feel a surge of heat and the great arc of Karlach’s war hammer over you. You hear Gale shout out a spell, and you watch as Astarion topples to the side, frozen except for the furious twitching of his eyes.
“Don’t!” you hear yourself shout. “Please, stop!”
Karlach and Gale rush to your side, cradling you up, fussing over your shoulder. But you do not feel it. You do not really feel anything. All you can do is look from them back to Astarion, pleading, but you are not sure what for.
---
“You can release his hold now.”
You are back at camp, and you have recovered your voice. For a long time, you could not speak. Shadowheart and Halsin tended to your arm, speaking soothing words over you. Gale and Karlach came to sit with you, their faces creased with concern. Wyll, Lae’zel and Jaheira stood at a distance, arguing in hushed voices. All the while, you stared into the distance, thinking of the hatred in Astarion’s gaze, and everything you had done to deserve it.
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Gale says, frowning.
“We can’t keep him like that forever.”
“The man turned on us. He tried to kill you.”
You look into Gale’s eyes. There is warmth there, streaked with pity.
“Can you blame him?”
Gale scoffs. “Yes, I can.” Then he pauses. His voice softens. “Well, perhaps in the circumstances, in the heat of the moment…” He shakes his head. “But he truly would have killed you, had Karlach and I not intervened. And that is inexcusable, after everything you – all of us - have been through with him. After everything you have done for him.”
Your vision blurs and stings.
“I fucked up, Gale. How could I have fucked up so royally? I should never have let him start the ritual. I should never have agreed with it. I’ve broken him. Seven thousand innocent people will die in agony because of me. Because I was…”
You are not used to burdening others with your emotions. You give and not take, even when you have nothing. When you are nothing. But now, you are afraid that you will break.
“…Because I failed.”
Without hesitation, Gale lays a hand on yours. It is a such a kind gesture that it chokes you. You have always been the one to look after others, to give them what they need. That is your role. It is what you exist for. If you cannot do that, what are you good for?
“Those things were never your responsibility, my dear friend. They were never your burdens to carry.”
“But he trusted me.”
“That does not mean that you must give him everything, or watch him destroy thousands of people and himself.”
You ball your fists. “Then I should have told him that, from the start. But I went along with it-”
“Because you love him.”
You have not spoken about this with Gale or anyone else. You know it is common knowledge that you and Astarion are entangled, but you have always wanted to hide the love you feel for him away. You have always known that whatever it was that lay between you was fragile. Astarion himself was not sure what you were.
Attachment does not come easily to you. You know that if you give people what they need, there is a chance that they will stay. But there is also a chance that they will snap their heads one day and no longer want what you have to offer. And then, they will go.
You have always tried to guard yourself against the pain of that departure. Even with Astarion.
“Many a mistake has been made for love,” Gale continues. “I understand this better than most.”
“This is a monumental fuck up,” you breathe. “Not a simple mistake.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Do you really want to start a competition about the magnitude and impact of our mistakes? Because if so, I believe that I would be a clear winner, and some others in our camp may also be worthy competitors.”
You are too weary to laugh. Too broken.
“Besides, I am sure if we knock our considerably enriched heads together, we can find a way to open those dungeons and release those prisoners. Especially with such a range of talented and well-resourced allies to draw on.”
You can see the questions taking shape in Gale’s head already. You give him a weak smile.
“You are only human, my friend. I know you try to be better than any of us, but even you are permitted to make mistakes.”
When he clasps you tightly to his chest, you let yourself rest into it. You want so badly to believe he is right, but you are not sure you can.
---
As you approach Astarion, you gesture behind you. You know the rest of them are all watching, wary and ready to strike at the faintest sign of danger. But you stand them down, and they linger at a respectful distance.
Released from Gale’s hold, Astarion hunches over slightly, like a cat backed into a corner. He knows he is outnumbered and vulnerable. He does not lunge towards you. His arms lie flat against his sides, his hands free of weapons. His fangs are hidden behind the tight line of his lips.
“What you did to me is worse than staking me. You might as well finish me off now.”
Every word is a cut. You flinch at each one, but you do not avert your gaze from his. Any gentleness, affection, and truth in those eyes is gone, locked behind blood-red walls. And in his abject contempt, you find a kind of freedom.
If he has already left, then you need not please him. If you are not enough, then it does not matter what you say. You have lost him already. He does not love you.
So you say what you wish you had said, from the moment that he showed you who he was, the moment you fell in love with him.
“The ritual would have killed you, your siblings, and seven thousand innocents.”
“Spare me,” he snarls. “You nodded and cooed at me, like you understood me, like you would help me. ‘I’m here for you, Astarion. I’ll help you Astarion. Tell me what you need and I’ll be there, Astarion.’ You fucking liar. You godsdamned hypocrite. You never understood me. You never wanted to help me.”
His fury is like a lash, but the pain is sobering. You brace yourself against it.
“I never said I would help you become Cazador, or let you kill thousands of people for power.”
“Please.” His laugh is vicious. “I told you from the start what I wanted. If you didn’t see that, then you’re blind. Delusional. A self-righteous idiot, living in a fantasy.”
“You wanted to be free, Astarion. To be safe.”
“You never wanted me to be free,” he seethes. “You liked me weak and broken, so I could come to you on my knees, and you could nod and smile and promise to fix me. Your own personal project, kept on a leash like a little puppy. Cuddly, harmless Astarion, healing from his hurts, all thanks to you. My saviour.”
Behind you, you can hear voices erupting and subsiding, a scuffle of shifting feet. You are grateful when no one interjects or rushes forward. This is for you and Astarion alone. It is your punishment to bear, and his truth to hear.
“You took all that power away from me,” he hisses. “It wasn’t your choice to make. It was my decision. You’re worse than Cazador.”
The words wound you like arrows, but you half expect them. You have called yourself worse things.
“Cazador would have just compelled me not to do the ritual. But you gave me a taste of what I wanted, then ripped it away from me. You’re the cruellest bitch I’ve ever known.”
You do not care that hot tears stream down your cheeks, and that your voice trembles. You let yourself say what needs to be said, not what you think he wants to hear.
“You’re right.” You take a step towards him. “I should never have let you do it. I went along with it, when I should have pushed back. But I wanted you to feel you always had someone on your side. Someone who understood. I wanted you to feel loved.”
His disgust does not deter you anymore.
“You think that this is all you are. You can’t see beyond it. What was done to you. What he made you do to others. But it isn’t. It never was. You were always strong. You can be more than what happened to you. You are more than what happened to you.”
“Like you?” he sneers. “A hero? Someone so chained to other people’s approval that you’re lost without a saving mission? That’s what you so desperately want to see when you look at me, isn’t it?”
“No.” You are surprised by the strength of your voice. “Only someone who won’t let thousands of people suffer just because you did.”
Jolts of anger course through him. “You have no idea what I suffered,” he growls. “No idea what I am owed. If you had the faintest idea of it, if you truly loved me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You would be burning the world with me.”
You have listened silently before, when he talked about this. What he deserves after two centuries of agony. His comeuppance. You did not challenge him because you were afraid. Afraid you would offend him. Terrified that he would leave.
“Look around you, Astarion,” you say now. “Look at everyone here. We have all suffered. No, none of us have suffered what you have suffered, and I am so deeply sorry for that. But Cazador is dead and no one else will have to suffer under him. And now, no one will have to suffer under an Ascended either.”
A snide sound of disbelief. “You are so full of bullshit I can hardly breathe from the stench.”
Your tadpole rages, ramming into his mind. You expect the resistance of loathing, but he does not fight. He allows you in. And for the first time, you show him. You let him see him your parents, and your pain, and everything that was done to you. You open yourself up, the masks you put on that you recognise in him, the performances you too are familiar with in the economy of survival. You show him your promise to yourself, and your choices, and the failures you carry around with you like a noose.
He glares at you after it is over, but you think there may be less hatred in his eyes than there was a moment before.
“Why did you show me that?”
It is easier, now that there is nothing to hide.
“Because if we all burned the world because of our suffering, there would be nothing left. And because you said you wanted something real.”
He seems backfooted that you mention it. His first moment of honesty. Your first moment of connection. The beginning of your love.
“This is real, Astarion.” Your gaze is a waterfall. You cannot stop it. “Real love, messy and painful, with a real person who makes mistakes and tells you things that you don’t want to hear. Someone who sees who you really are and who you can be, the worst and the best of you, and still loves you anyway.”
He steps back, his features clenched in spasm. You think of how his hands felt on your skin, cold as ice to the touch, yet warming you inside out like summer sunlight. You remember the lilt of his laughter as you traded jibes and jests under the furs of your tent on cold nights. You breathe in his scent on the air for the last time, those hints of bergamot, rosemary and brandy that you could recognise anywhere. You are already mourning their loss.
“Then I don’t want it,” he spits out. “And I don’t want you.”
And then he leaves.
---
You are alone. You are lying in a clearing a short walk away from camp. It is spring, and the smell of earth and grass hangs around you as the sun streaks through the trees above you. Your ears are drunk with birdsong.
It has been weeks since he left. You would be lying if you said you did not miss him. Sometimes you feel his absence like a presence. It haunts and stalks you, and when the darkness comes, you cling to your pillow in your tent and weep through waves of grief that surge through you like labour pains. But at other times, you find a kind of solace in your solitude. You are not shackled by a desperation for love from a man so broken he is not capable of giving it. You are not trapped by your own brokenness in this yearning, this ache to fill the holes in his heart. And this freedom is worth the pain.
When you had asked Astarion what he wanted, he had never known. And perhaps that had struck you so deeply because you had never known either. You had never truly known what you wanted, who you really were outside of what you could do for others. You thought you were only a thing to be used, a tool to fill someone else’s need, whatever that may be. You could be good at that. You needed to be good at that. If not, you were nothing.
But you are learning. Since he has left, you are learning that you are more than that. You are learning that you can live with your mistakes. That you are enough, just as you are.
You find that you sing now, even when there is no one around. Even when it is not for a performance, or for support in battle. You sing for yourself, and you take pleasure in it, even when your notes are off key and you cannot remember the right words, even when no one is there to praise you or reward you for it. For the first time, you are enjoying your gift for no other reason than that you wish to. It is a gift, and it comes without dread or shame or conditions.
You are humming softly as you stroll back to camp. Scratch greets you with a frenzied tail, and you roll around with him, kneeling as he plasters sloppy kisses all over your face. The simple joy of this dances over the cracks in your heart. When Scratch suddenly stops, you are almost disappointed. You glance in the direction where he has bounded, an ecstatic flurry of delight. Then your eyes catch on silver shining in the sun, two bright rubies on white silk. Your breath halts.
There he is. He is different, but the same. You look at each other. And in that moment, it is enough that there is no hatred in his eyes, which flicker with uncertainty. It is enough that his mouth is not curled into a sneer, and his brow is soft and even. It is enough that you have both survived. You have shown each other who you are, and you are still here.
nanami kento likes to be on time to everything. but when you're pressing kisses to his lips, his nose, his cheeks, he finds that he doesn't quite mind running late this time. after all, it's to meet gojo, so for all he cares, the white haired sorcerer can wait for an eternity as he indulges in your love. his hands rest on your waist as you stand between his legs, humming to yourself as you help to straighten his tie and press another kiss to his lips.
"i'm going to be late," he murmurs, but you don't miss the way he chases after your lips, searching for another.
your hands run up his chest until they're resting on his shoulders and you roll your eyes fondly and say, "you don't seem to be in a rush." it's the truth, but really, how can he be in a rush when you're looking at him so sweetly, holding his gaze as if daring him to be the first to look away. he pulls you closer instead, curling his fingers around you as he hums nonchalantly.
"i'd much rather be here with you," nanami admits. you feel your face warm at his words, so simple and yet said in that signature low voice of his, laced with all the love and adoration he holds for you. he's never been the best with his words, and you know this. without having to say it, you know exactly what he's saying.
nanami kento expresses his love through his actions. he swears to love you in the flowers he brings home everyday after work, and in the morning coffee that he brews as you sluggishly climb out of bed after him. he seals his promises with the slow kisses that you share in empty classrooms of tokyo jujutsu tech, as if you were both still in school, young and chasing after one another but too afraid to make the first move.
"you know i have to get to work too," and yet you don't make an attempt to pull away form him either. "i promised shoko i'd buy her a coffee." nanami hums and you can feel the way his fingers start to gently press into your clothes, subtly pushing you towards him. he doesn't have to say it, but you know that he wants you to indulge him just a bit longer. a glance at the clock in your room has you sighing softly.
"kento," you say softly. he savors the way you say his name, searing it into his memory as he fixes you with a knowing look, a smile tugging up on his lips as he tilts his head just barely.
"one more, for good luck?" he teases. you huff out a sigh, knowing that he'll ask for another, and then another, and before you know it, both your lips will be swollen and eyes glassy as you're rushing to leave home.
he chuckles, as if reading your thoughts. "i'll need all the luck i can get if i'm meeting with gojo." you hate to admit that this time, he has a point. in the back of your mind, you wonder how long it'll take for nanami to pull out his phone and send you a text, asking you to come save him from the sugary eccentric sorcerer who's roped him into training one of his new students.
"for good luck then," the kiss you give is chaste, far too quick for his liking and he doesn't care if you laugh at the way he sharply pulls you back in. the kiss he presses to your lips is searing and you nearly stumble forward had it not been for your hands immediately moving to grip his shoulders. you lose yourself in the moment, hands wandering just as his do.
it's only when the sharp ringing of your phone cuts through the room that you pull away to reach over to see shoko's name on screen. she doesn't even give you the chance to greet her when you pick up, instead opting to say, "i hope you're not sucking faces right now."
"if you're upset about your coffee running a bit late, i'll buy you another one tomorrow," you reply fondly. nanami huffs next to you, eyeing your phone as if contemplating grabbing it and tossing it across the room so he could pick up where you left off.
"i'll hold you to that," shoko sighs. it's silent for a beat before she speaks up again, "hey nanami, gojo's been texting me nonstop. he said you're not answering your phone." the sorcerer in front of you mumbles something under his breath as you bid shoko goodbye, promising to bring her coffee soon.
"i suppose that's our sign to go," you step out of his grasp and nanami nods as he tucks away his phone in his pocket. already, he's thinking about coming home and making dinner this time. he's thinking about what flowers the corner store might have today when you pat his chest and go to cup his cheek.
"have a good day my love," you smile at him. and in every silly cliche way possible, nanami's breath catches in his throat. this is what it must feel like to be in love, the kind of love that the books you ask him to read try to describe, but never fully capture.
"i'll see you later," he says softly, already leaning towards you, "text me if you need anything." you both hesitate, go to pull away, but fall back into one another for one last kiss before you go, your giggles still echoing in nanami's mind as he turns to go meet gojo.
nanami's always liked to be on time, but for you, he'll make every exception.
reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! <3
a/n: this is me coping and trying to emotionally prepare to watch the episode later
bethie omg🥺🥺🥺need to see dad Steve telling her she’s not weird and grandma is evil!!! love u
love you ♡ kisses before dinner mom!reader
Steve has lost his temper with you a few times and he's yelled, but each time he apologised afterward like the guilt was eating him alive, and he's never made you feel unsafe. He's the opposite of that, he's your sanctuary, and you wish you could be that for him now. Dove is crying and Bethie's hiding in the kitchen —you don't really have a choice but to let him recover by himself.
He stands in the middle of the living room with his hands over his face, just breathing. Beyond Dove's tears, a shocked silence has descended on the room. One minute Steve's mom was here, and mean, and the next she's being shouted at and forced out of the house. You weren't sure what was even said, but you caught the gist, and you don't regret his reaction or have any intentions of telling him off. It would've been nicer if he didn't blow up in front of the girls, but you can't always choose.
“What's wrong?” you ask Dove quietly, kneeling in front of her. She walks into your arms for a hug, but changes her mind and flops to the floors between your knees and the couch to cry there. “Dove?”
“Boppy,” she whines, putting her wet face on your legs.
“Boppy?” She wants her bottle. “Let's go make your boppy. Come on, come here.”
You help her up and she wraps her arms around your neck for immediate departure. You stop by Steve's side despite her grizzling and take his arm into your hand. He rubs his eyes.
“You okay?” you ask, a little worried he's going to snap at you too.
He drops his chin down, blinking at you. Dove cries and his head turns to her, a frown pulling at his lips. “I'm sorry,” he says.
“She just wants her bottle,” you assure him.
He turns on the spot to find Avery on the couch. “Honey, I'm sorry for yelling. Are you okay?”
“I'm fine, dad. You're not yelling at me. Are you?”
Steve pushes his sleeves up to his elbows and flattens his dishevelled hair. He looks nicer now he's not mad, handsomer, his pretty almond eyes wide and looking for forgiveness. “I really wasn't, did it feel like I was?” He puts his arms out and Avery bolts into them, giggling as Steve pulls her up into his arms for a dashing of heavy kisses along her hairline. “Your grandma, she makes me so mad–” He cuts off before he can rile himself up again. “Well. She's left. I'm so sorry for yelling, honey.”
“It's okay,” Avery says, voice warm with love as she squeezes him close in a hug. He groans in pretend squashedness.
“Thank you.” He whips his head back. “Where's Beth?”
“She went to hide in the kitchen,” Avery whispers.
“Yeah? Do you want to come and make sure she's okay with me?”
You're headed to the kitchen for milk anyways. Together, the four of you make your way out of the chaos of the living room and into your kitchen. Beth is a bundle of blue loungewear under the table, her little face pressed to her knees, arms wrapped around them as she sniffs.
You feel a strange pain, then. It's more obvious to you why Steve started shouting as suddenly as he did, worse when Steve has crawled under the table to ask if she's okay, and her breath catches as she insists, “I'm not weird.”
“No,” he says softly, “you're not weird.”
“Because gran'ma–”
“You're not weird, honey, even if she said you are.”
“I eat the puffs… th'edges are sharp,” she says sadly.
“I know. I want you to eat them exactly how you want to. I don't care what grandma said, and I've told her she can't ever say it to you again.” You watch Steve from the corner of your vision as you fill a bottle for Dove one handed, patting her back as she whines. He takes both of Beth's hands into one of his, head ducked so as not to hit it on the table. “Beth, you're not weird, babe. And there's nothing wrong with being weird, but you're not weird. It's okay to eat stuff differently. I promise it's okay, just like how I eat crust on pizza first, yeah? That's not weird.”
“You're not even weird,” Avery says supportively.
“But–” Bethie frowns, tears in her eyes. “She said I was.”
“Grandma says lots of things that aren't true. I'm sorry, Beth.” Steve rubs the back of her hand. “Grandma used to say I was greedy, and that I was going to get fat. But I never did, and it wouldn't have mattered if I did, either, because there's nothing wrong with eating well. She makes you feel like being one way is a bad thing, but that's because she… I don't know, she just isn't as nice as she could be.”
“You're not greedy,” Bethie says.
“Well, not all the time,” he says.
“You're not greedy, dad!” Avery says. “You're just a growing boy!”
He laughs and squints at her. “I'm all done growing, babe, I'm a grown up. I haven't done any growing for, like, eight years.”
“That's true,” you say, adjusting the bottle in Dove's mouth, leaning against the counter to take her heavy weight better. “You're shrinking.”
He sends you a look that's practically a kiss. “I thought you liked my hunch back?”
Bethie laughs at his tone and shuffles out across the floor to hug his knees. He breathes a sigh of relief, dropping his face into the back of her head. “I'm sorry if you didn't like my yelling, Beth. Not nice of me.”
“But it was for me?” she asks.
“Sort of, sweetheart. A little bit for me, too.” He covers her back with his arms. She practically disappears. “I'll never let her say mean things about you.”
“Me neither!” Avery says.
Steve drags her into the cuddle puddle. “That's ‘cus you're the best big sister on the entire planet.”
“And dad's the best dad,” you butt in.
“Yeah,” Beth says, smiling as Avery wraps an arm around her waist. “Best dad ever that they made.”
Genre: Steve Harrington x fem!reader / gn!reader; angst with fluffy ending, hurt/comfort, established relationship
Summary: Steve has a migraine attack but he’s too stubborn to take care of himself.
Word count: 1.4K
Warnings: one curse word, non-descriptive vomiting, migraine symptoms, chronic pain, crying, one use of Y/N, dumb joke, p*rn reference?
Author’s note: I know the migraine thing has been overdone but idc :) I'm pretty sure this could be read as gender neutral but you can lmk if that's not the case
Enjoy!
Main Masterlist
Steve knew he shouldn’t have gone to work. The second his eyes opened he knew it was going to be a rough day. The persistent throbbing on the left side of his face and the twist of nausea in his stomach would be enough to convince anyone else that they should take it easy.
Not for Steve though.
He’s done this dance before. The battle in his mind of not wanting to waste one of his precious sick days or if he should stay home and take care of himself so he can make it through the next day. He usually sucked it up and went with the former.
I’ve had worse before, he’d rationalize to himself. I can handle it.
His true motivation for leaving the comfort and warmth of his bed was the date he had planned for you two. Steve went all out with flowers, chocolates, dinner reservation at Enzo’s, and concluding the night snuggled up on his couch watching a rented movie.
But the customers kept coming. Steve could've sworn they were all there, not to rent a movie, but to exacerbate his migraine attack. Tired mothers bringing in their screaming babies, a group of smelly teenagers, and a boisterous man who was trying to convince Robin that The Godfather was the greatest movie ever made. That’s not even mentioning the flickering fluorescent lights that Keith refuses to change the bulbs in.
Robin began to take notice once Steve kept bumping into the shelves as he put away tapes around the store. She watched as he mustered up enough strength to pick up a stack of returned tapes and mindlessly put The Muppet Babies in the Horror section and something called I Dream of Weenie in the kids section.
By 4:30, he was absolutely fried.
“Go home, dingus,” Robin ordered.
All Steve could muster was a small grunt from his spot at the register. His forehead was pressed to the cool counter, toned arms wrapped around his head, trying to keep as much noise and light out as possible.
The bell on the door of Family Video was the final nail in the coffin. People have been coming in and out all day but this time the ring pierced through the side of his head like a burning knife, swiftly penetrating his brain and twisting it for good measure.
Steve’s back stiffened as he sat up too fast, stomach turning when he ran blindly through the store and into the bathroom before emptying out the contents of his stomach. He tried not to think about when the last time the toilet was cleaned as he kept his face in the ceramic bowl, spitting out the rest of the sour bile coating his throat.
Steve barely heard the door creak open through the throbbing in his head and the ringing in his ears, but he did notice the light in the bathroom turn off. “Go away, Robin,” he croaked out.
The disobedient footsteps continued towards him. He just wanted to be left alone, feeling too vulnerable in this state. He felt embarrassment twist in his chest at the thought of not being able to handle a simple headache.
A cold hand landed on the back of his neck and began to massage lightly. It felt comforting but Steve’s mind was rejecting it, “Robin, I said-”
He finally lifted his heavy head, half opened eyes widened slightly as he met your concerned gaze, only for him to start welling up. Steve’s lip trembled as it failed to keep a sob from escaping.
“Oh baby,” you whispered. “Not feeling good?”
Steve hung his head the best he could with his stiff neck and shook his head in response.
“It’s okay, Stevie. Try not to move your head too much.”
You squatted next to him on the nasty bathroom floor and gently brought him into your arms. You let him cry into your shirt, gently rubbing soothing circles on his back and neck. Steve knew that crying would only hurt his head more, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t understand the emotions he was feeling yet, but he knew he was relieved to see you show up. Like a superhero, there to heal and protect him from any harm.
“I’m here now, baby. Let’s get you home, okay?”
_______________________________________________
Steve was so out of it he wasn’t sure how it happened, but the next thing he knew he was snuggled in a cocoon of pillows and blankets. He peeled his eyes open and recognized the dark ceiling of his bedroom.
You were puttering around the room, tidying up a little so Steve would have one less thing to worry about. He admired how natural it looked for you, knowing where everything goes and even avoiding the loud creaking spots on the floor. Steve had the sudden urge to reach out but you tucked him in so well he was having trouble slipping his arms out.
His grunt of protest over the blanket entrapment alerted you and you were by his side in an instant.
“What is it baby?” you whispered gently, “you need some water? Or a new ice pack?”
Only when you removed the cool washcloth from his forehead did he notice the satisfying chill. He must have been practically asleep when you brought him home because he really doesn’t remember anything.
“What time is it?” Steve croaked out.
He leaned into the kiss you pressed gently to his cheek before you answered, “almost midnight.”
“What?!” Steve immediately went to sit up, but in his weakened state you were easily able to push him back down. “We had reservations!”
“I know, Stevie. It was really sweet of you to make plans but nothing we can do about it now,” you tried to reason. “We need to get you feeling better.”
“But I-”
“Stop that,” you demanded, still with a quiet and gentle tone, but it was still enough to cut him off. “Let me take care of you, Stevie. I know you feel bad, but I want to take care of you.”
Steve wasn’t sure if you meant he was feeling bad because he was sick or because of the immense amount of guilt he feels whenever he sees himself as a burden to others. Probably a little of both.
“I just…I was looking forward to tonight,” Steve muttered tiredly. “And this stupid chronic thing just always gets in the way and I don't…I don’t like asking for help.”
Steve wasn’t sure if he was making much sense but your smile showed him you understood. Your expression was soft and comforting as you gently raked your fingers through his hair. “Steve, I love you. All of you. Every single part of you I just adore. It doesn’t matter if those parts are feeling bad or good, I’ll always be here,” you stroked his cheek gently with the back of your hand, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. “I like caring for you Steve. It makes me feel good. So don’t worry about burdening me or anything like that, okay?”
Steve felt his lip tremble again but managed to gulp down his sobs this time. He whispered a quiet, “thank you” before fully relaxing. He lazily pursed his lips, silently asking for affection, which you happily fulfilled. You moved in close and kissed his lips as a way to let him know you will support him during this tough time.
Once you were leaned back you said, “now, on a scale from one to ten, how bad does it hurt?”
“Mm…Eleven.”
“No, it’s Y/N.”
Silence engulfed the negative space until a curious Steve peeled one eye open, only to see your shit-eating grin. He knew you’d be frozen like that until he laughed, but your expression was usually funnier than the joke.
He puffed out a laugh through his nose before shutting his eyes again. “That was horrible,” he said.
“Maybe, but at least I got you to smile,” you said smugly.
“Mm you sure did,” he praised you lightly. “Now c’mere. Cuddling is the best medicine.”
It’s called ‘chronic pain’ for a reason. Sure you can dull the pain with medications and treatments but it’ll always be there. Sometimes all you have to do is deal with it and ride it out, but it makes it so much easier when there’s someone there who loves and supports you.
Love may not be able to cure all kinds of pain but Steve thinks your love comes pretty close.
pairing: aaron hotchner x gn!reader (no pronouns used for reader)
rating: E
tags/warnings: mentions of headache/migraine, feeling bad in general, no use of "y/n"
----
this is completely self indulgent >:) i have a literal splitting headache and i would cry about it but thatd just make things worse so im just gunna struggle write :') if only i had a big strapping man to......................help me..................
when the alarm next to your bed goes off, you feel a crack of lightning strike through your skull and rattle your teeth. it jolts through your spine and for a second you're actually afraid to open your eyes. the light that's barely shining into your window through your eyelids is enough to make your retinas feel like they're going to sizzle out of your skull.
you fling your blanket over your head and let out a shaky sigh. headaches and migraines aren't super rare for you, but you get them enough to know that you are going to be miserable and useless for the next few hours, if not the entire day.
you slither your hand out to stop the loud, shrieking screams of your alarm, only to find that it's not your phone going off. you crack open an eye to look at your phone to make sure and slam it shut with a sigh.
you manage to roll over and shake aaron, who mumbles something and turns it off, and then rolls back over to engulf you in his sleepy, heavy arms.
you stay like that for a few moments before you feel the bed dip and hear him patter across the bedroom floor to the bathroom. it somehow sounds like it's echoing in your brain, making you wince and screw your eyes closed tighter. the thought of moving at all makes you want to throw up but you figure if you can get your head under your pillow, maybe the sounds will muffle enough to leave you alone.
you manage it, squeezing the pillow to your ear, some of the pressure barely easing the pain. you remember your hair is up in a bun and struggle with wanting to take it down for some extra relief or just leaving it alone.
you leave it because there's no way you can move again without actually having your brain sear its way through your skull and onto you freshly washed sheets.
it's taking everything you have to not cry, the annoyance of it all being too much. but you know if you start crying, you won't be able to stop and it will definitely make your headache so, so, so much worse.
after a few minutes of you trying to breathe through the pain, you feel aaron's presence in front of you and then immediately hear is hushed voice.
"honey?" he asks. he slides his hand under the blanket and rests it on the arm you have draped over the pillow, running his thumb over your warm skin.
you mumble a pathetic sound to acknowledge him and that's enough for him to know that you're in pain; you had a pretty bad migraine a few months ago and he can only assume that's what's happening now. you feel his arm move away from you and you can tell, even through the blanket and closed eyes, that he's drawn the curtains on the windows closed to help keep out the light.
he's back in front of you again, squatting next to the bed. "can you take the blanket off your head for a minute? you don't have to open your eyes, i just want to make sure you don't have a fever."
"don't." is all you can manage, and you hope he somehow knows you mean you don't have a fever and not "don't take off the blanket".
he waits a moment, before he peels the blanket off the top of your body and gently moves the pillow out of your death grip. you squeeze your eyes shut against the room, the light still too much for your pounding head. you have tears clinging to the seams of your eyes, and you feel him wipe them away as best as he can. he rests the back of his hand against your forehead and then feels your cheeks afterwards. no fever. he moves the pillow back and drapes the blanket of your head and you hear him get up and start to move away from you so you once again mumble a pitiful noise.
"do you want an ice pack or the heating pad?" his voice is barely a whisper but you can hear it like he's being projected inside your skull with surround sound on full volume.
you open your mouth to answer but it's too much and you immediately shut it and squeeze the pillow tighter to your skull. you feel his hand back on your skin a few seconds later. "tap my hand once for the ice pack and twice for the heating pad."
you use your free hand to squeeze his hand and then tap once. your bones already feel like they're on fire, there's no way the heating pad will not make you feel like your swimming in your own personal fire lake in hell.
you hear him leave and it feels like he's gone for an eternity before you hear him shuffle his socked feet back over to you.
"okay," he says softly. "i know you don't want to, but i need to remove the pillow and blanket."
you feel the blanket being lifted off of you and you curl further into yourself, clinging to the pillow that you still have pressing into your ear.
"i have an eye mask for you, i'll put it on you as soon as you let go of the pillow. and then i can turn you over away from the window and put the icepack on your neck. okay? tap my hand whenever you want me to start."
you want to cry because of the pain, sure, but the fact that your boyfriend is going out of his way to help you when you know he should be getting ready for work is not only the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for you, but also making you feel guilty because he is definitely going to be late for work.
also, when and where did he get an eye mask?
you take in a shaky breath and tap his hand. "okay." he says. you feel him start to pull the pillow off your head and you flinch, holding the pillow somehow closer and harder to your head.
aaron huffs out a small laugh. "honey..."
you reluctantly let go of it and he's quick to roll you over to face away from the window. you feel like your brain is sloshing around in your skull and it makes the pounding so much worse, but then you feel the ice pack at the base of your skull and you sigh in relief. it's going to take some time to work, but at least for now, you can focus on the uncomfortableness of the cold and not the gun fight that's ricocheting around your skull.
"i'm going to put the eye mask on you, so i have to lift your head for a second okay? i'm sorry."
you moan in pain when you feel him lift your head and settle the thin strap around your head. he realizes your hair is still in a bun, so he quickly pulls the band out and massages your scalp a little before he he softly places your head back down on the mattress and apologizes again. thankfully, the mask doesn't feel too tight and you sigh a little bit in relief when both of your eyes are completely blanketed in darkness.
you feel his hand smooth over your hair and then feel his warm lips against your forehead. "i have to make a phone call, but i'll be back in five minutes to remove the ice pack. we'll try the five minutes on, five minutes off method to see if it eases the pain any." you barely shake your head yes and then you feel him leave you.
~~~*~~~*~~~~*
you manage to fall back asleep, the cold from the ice pack and the sheer darkness that envelopes your eyes doing you wonders. your head still throbs, but it doesn't feel nearly as bad as it did before. it definitely feels like more than five minutes have passed and you take a risk to move the eye mask to look around.
the room is darker than it was before you went to sleep. the ice pack, you realize is gone and there's a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen sitting on aaron's night stand. you manage to pull off the mask and slowly sit up. your head has a dull ache to it, but thankfully it doesn't feel like your skull is going to split open anymore.
as you sit up, you rub your palms into your eyes. you roll your eyes around to test if that's going to make things worse or not. when you realize that your eyes don't hurt, you reach over for the water and pills in hopes to knock the rest of the dull ache out of your head.
you check the clock real quick, confused as to why the room seems darker than it should be, afraid that you somehow managed to sleep the entire day away. it's only noon. you barely remember his alarm going off at eight. you look over at the window to see that at some point, aaron had come in and draped a black sheet over the window. that brings a small smile to your face. but that quickly falters when you realize he must've called in to work to stay home with you. you slowly stand up to go find him but as if right on cue, he walks into the room.
"work?" was all you could manage.
"i called in. we don't have an active case and i would've just been sitting with jj in the office all day doing consults for nearby cases that didn't require us to be on the scene." he makes his way over to you and sits down on the bed. "jj and i did a zoom call and worked for the last few hours while you slept. it's all good."
you rest your head against his shoulder and he runs a hand over your thigh. "how do you feel?"
"better." you kiss his shoulder. "thank you."
he kisses the top of your head. "you don't ever have to thank me for taking care of you."
you hum a small laugh. "are you busy now?"
you feel him shake his head 'no'. "what do you need?"
"you."
he rolls his eyes playfully at that. he falls back onto the mattress, taking you with him and pulling you so that you're on top of him. you're quick to bury your face into his neck, placing a few soft kisses there before you thank him again. you hold him hostage in a koala hug for as long as you can before you realize you need to pee and he needs to get back to work.
Hi babe! Not sure how you feel about writing ab parents so feel free to ignore, but had an idea for kbd au if Steve’s parents tried to contact him/get into their lives and he’s all like stay away from my kids
kisses before dinner —steve has a tense relationship with his parents. mom!reader, 1.5k
The girls haven't seen their grandparents for… a while.
Steve's dad always has something to say about his life. How he's thrown everything away being a stay at home dad, or how idiotic it was to stay with you. The latter was enough for Steve to want to cut contact initially, but you convinced him not to do it on your behalf.
Steve, pretty much everyone we knew thought I was baby trapping you, you'd said.
Well, he'd said, attempting to lighten the mood, little do they know I baby trapped you.
Damn. Wanna do it again?
So it was funny. His parents didn't like you but they hardly liked him, he didn't mind —he was so fucking angry because who the fuck did they think they were, how could they look at you and not love you, you, in what world was it possible?— and he put up with their passive aggressive Christmas cards and their sparing visits, but then his mom took it too far.
He can remember it word for word. “Beth, honey,” his mom had said, her nose stuck in its permanent wrinkle, “why are you eating it like that? What do your friends at school think?”
“Mom, don't,” Steve had butt in. Beth didn't even go to school at that point.
“She's such a weird kid,” she said, shaking her head.
Some could argue it was fond or that she didn't mean anything by it, Bethie is very unique sometimes, but Beth turned her face to her dad with crestfallen eyes, as heartbroken as Steve had ever seen her before, and asked, “I'm weird?”
Steve doesn't remember the last time he spoke to his mom. A year ago at least.
He does miss her. But he doesn't really know her, never has, and he'd choose Beth over her without a thought. It would take a hundredth of a millisecond to decide.
That's why seeing her is a shock. He's going to see her, they live in the same town —you bumped into her a few weeks ago and had to give her the rundown. Everyone's okay. Yeah, we had another baby, she's doing great.
Steve had blown up at her. The girls had never seen him that angry in their lives and they haven't seen it since, and the gap is impassable.
Or so he thinks.
“Steve!” He tenses up. “Steve, honey!”
He can't decide what to do. He can't exactly run away; Bethie and Dove sit knee to knee in the shopping cart, Avery has her hand in his pocket, and Wren is strapped to his chest. Running would leave at least one girl behind, and where would he go? The frozen food aisle?
“Oh, it's grandma,” Avery says. “She looks… old.”
“She is old,” he says, turning reluctantly on the spot to watch his mother rush past a stack of cans of carrots. “She's ancient.”
“Steve, baby.” His mom stops in front of him, more flustered than he knew she could get back, struggling to maintain a sense of casualness. “How are you? Girls? It's been so long.”
Steve doesn't have an inkling of an idea of what to say. He's not mad anymore, but he knows she'll never change, and he knows that your family is a hundred times happier without worrying what grandma and grandpa think of you. “We're perfect,” he says.
“And this is baby Wren?”
Steve grimaces. “Yeah, this is Wren.”
She's only three months old but she has a good weight to her, and she's brilliantly healthy. She blinks at the woman in front of her without recognition, her dark lashes a thick hedging. She's a beautiful baby.
“She looks like you again, Steve.”
“Yeah, my girl's good at having babies, but she hasn't mastered the mixing process,” he jokes without thinking. Love for you falls off the tongue.
His mother has the sense to make herself laugh. “Where is Y/N?” she asks.
“Mom went back to get milk!” Avery says.
“Yeah? And how are you, sweetie?”
Steve clears his throat. He understands what she's trying to do, but he remembers Beth's crushed face and he can't abide this shit again. I let you let me believe I wasn't good enough, he'd said, he'd shouted, his voice hoarse with it as you pulled him back by the arm, but I will not let you do it to them. It's not happening, mom, I won't let it.
“Steven…”
“Mom, we have to get going.”
“I said I was sorry,” she says.
“But you weren't.”
“Steve–” She doesn't look a thing like her son beside the similar way they begin to cry, that frown, “Please, I know I'm not perfect, we don't have to pretend I've– I'll hold my tongue. I just want to see my grandkids. I've never even held her.”
Steve covers the back of Wren's head with his hand, her baby hair soft as down. The girls are being remarkably quiet, beside Dove, who's whispering, “Who is that?” to Bethie in her clumsy toddler drawl.
“That's gran'ma,” she whispers back.
Steve's mom is, at the end of the day, their grandma. And she sucks and she doesn't deserve anymore chances, and the girls are better off without her for the majority, but…
Steve screws his eyes shut. Don't make me regret this, he thinks.
“I just want to speak to them,” she says.
“Alright,” he says quietly, covering Wren's ear. “Alright, mom, fine, but this is it. This is your chance. If you ever upset or insult one of my kids again, we're done. We will never, ever speak again. You won't see them, and you won't see me. I'm serious.”
“I'm sorry,” she says again.
“Fine.” He pulls the strap off of Wren's harness and shushes her gently as she protests, lifting her out of his arms into his mom's. She doesn't have time to decide if she's ready. This is how it's going to be. “Her head.”
“I know how to hold a baby,” she says.
You come around the aisle slowly, a little wince to your step, some residual tightness in your hips as you recover postpartum, but the frown you wear slips into surprise. “Terri?”
You save Steve and take the reins, suffering a conversation on your pregnancy, birth, and Wren's first weeks of life as Steve takes a breath. His heart races, adrenaline and a sticky, icky feeling in his chest as he watches his mom. He doesn't know if he's doing the right thing. His arms ache to steal Wren back.
It ends in an invitation for dinner. Whenever you're free, whatever you want, Steve's mom offers.
He's glad to see the back of her.
You put the milk carton in the cart and touch his elbow. “You okay?” He hums. Your hand moves up to his face, cupping his cheek. “She makes you so mad, sweetheart. Do you need a moment?”
“I think I'm pissed because…” He glances down at Wren, who's happier now she's in familiar hands. “I didn't realise she was a shitty mom. I knew we didn't get along, the same with my dad, but I didn't know…” He sighs.
“It's okay,” you say, giving him a gentle squeeze before Dove demands you pick her up. You do it unthinkingly, and that's why he's mad.
“I know what a good mother looks like,” he says. “I know how hard it is. And I know she didn't even try.”
You're all sympathy, looking like you wanna wrap him up in a cuddle in the middle of the grocery store. “You deserved better. It makes me angry too.”
“Are we going to dinner?” Beth asks.
“What, with grandma?” Avery asks.
“Not right now,” Steve says.
“Good,” Dove says decidedly, wrapping her arms around your neck to hug you, squishing your cheeks together. “Cocoa?”
“Cocoa? You want hot cocoa?” you ask, pleased.
It breaks his heart thinking about himself as a kid. He knows there weren't any moments like this, no soft touches or sweet treats that weren't begged for. You don't even think about saying no.
“And marshmallows,” you croon, rubbing the little space between her shoulders. “And we'll have to get a cinnamon roll too, for your sister. How does that sound, Beth?”
Beth doesn't like hot cocoa but she loves cinnamon rolls, and she nods her head exuberantly. As quick as that, the girls forget their grandma's interruption, and Steve tries his best to put it out of his mind. Family is messy, and it's harder now he has to make decisions for all of them, but he has you. His support beam, his sweetheart, you put Dove on your hip and sew your arm loosely through his. Tonight he'll talk your ear off about things you know already. You'll listen without complaint, stroking his hair back from his forehead if you have a free hand. His family growing up wasn't worth calling a family half the time, just three people connected by blood and a shared house, but the family he has today takes the cake. There's no competition.
Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader (can possibly be read as platonic)
Something something Astarion would kill anybody who tries to take your drink at a party something something
I started this while sitting in the car doing laundry, and I'm finishing this while very sleepy. It was half proofread, again bc I'm sleepy
THIS FIC CONTAINS THEMES OF DATE-RAPE DRUGGING AND SEXUAL ASSAULT
Warnings: drugging, references to sexual assault, swearing, blood, murder, slight protective Astarion, no actual assault happens, hurt/comfort
Word Count: 1,374
Main Masterlist
First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist
AO3
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You blinked as the world tilted on its axis, blurring at the edges of your vision, before it stood upright again, only slightly hazy. Had you really had that many drinks tonight? It didn't seem like it. Maybe this tavern's brew was stronger than you were used to?
"Everythin’ alright? You look a bit sick."
You look up at Karlach with a reassuring grin. You hated to worry any of your friends, but least of all the tiefling. She wore her heart on her sleeve, and you'd hate to see it crack. "I'm fine. Think I should head to bed - this stuff is stronger than I thought it would be."
She frowned. "Really?" She peered into her tankard, confused. "Seemed a bit weak to me."
You chuckle. It sounded distant. "Guess I'm a bit of a lightweight." You push your mug away and stand on shaky legs, using the table for support. "Goodnight, everyone."
Those who hear you bid you goodnight as well, some raising their ales in gratitude and others teasing you about not being able to hold your liquor. Astarion stares at you like he's studying you, brow pinched tight. You offer him a smile, before doing your best to stumble toward the stairs.
Halfway there, a waiter comes to your side, wrapping an arm around you and smiling brightly. You recognized him through the fog in your vision; he'd been the one to serve you drinks. "Need a hand there, hero?"
You laugh, world spinning once more as you allow yourself to lean into his support. "A hero that can't hold their liquor," you drawl. "Some hero, eh?"
He chuckles by your ear. He bears most of your weight as he helps you up each well-worn step, steering you toward your room. How'd he know which one was yours? "I hardly think it affects the world's view of you," he assures. "After all, you did save Faerûn."
"It-" Your body lurched forward, all of your limbs turning to lead. The world continued to swirl and wave and twist, until you couldn't distinguish up from down or left from right. Black spots began dotting your vision, blocking out some of the vertigo. Your stomach churned, your head ached. "'t wasn' jus' me..."
"C'mon, love. Your room is just here. Let's get you to bed."
A bedroom spun in your vision, but not for long. The last thing you saw was the waiter's grinning face as you fell to the floor, too weak to stand any longer and too dizzy to stay upright if you had.
Where....
........... Astarion.........?
-
"Tav?" Something cold touches your face. "Darling, wake up."
"Mmnf..."
"That's it. You're safe now."
You blinked open your eyes but winced at the light that greeted you. You heard a soft hiss.
"Is that better?"
You tried again, and were grateful to find it was no longer so bright. You looked around, trying to get a sense of your surroundings.
"You're in your room." Astarion sneered, glaring at something on the floor. "But we should move you to mine before you try sleeping again.”
“Mm? Why..?” You groan as you sit up. Your body feels so heavy, like it was made entirely of stone. Astarion helped you up with a hand to your back. You followed where his gaze had been. Laying face down on the floor, in a puddle of blood, was… the waiter? You blinked stupidly at the corpse. “What happened?”
Once he was sure you wouldn’t fall backwards, he sat down on the edge of the bed next to you. “Bastard drugged you. Gods know what he would have done to you if I hadn’t followed you up.”
Your brain was still slow, trying to piece together what had happened before this. You remember celebrating a battle won. You’d bought drinks for everyone, and… You closed your eyes, taking deep breaths as bile rose to your throat. “Oh, fuck,” you gasped. “I-I thought the drinks were just strong, I-”
He carefully touches your arm. “It’s not your fault, love. No doubt he’d gotten good at tricking people.”
You shook your head, looking at him with wide, lost eyes. “What if he’d drugged you? Or Karlach or Shadowheart or- or-!”
He scoffed in disbelief, nose scrunching. “You just got drugged and nearly assaulted, and all you’re worried about is what could have happened if it’d been one of us? Darling, please, have a little perspective.”
You grimace as you glance back at the body. The sight of the blood or the corpse itself doesn’t bother you anymore. But the thought of what could have happened sat thick and unpleasant in your stomach. You grab his hand from your arm and hold it in your lap, fiddling with his long fingers to distract yourself. “How did you know to… To follow?”
“Well, for one, I trust Karlach knows when an ale is strong. Two, I’ve seen you hold your own against her in your little drinking games before. And three…” He curls his fingers around your hands, stopping your fiddling and rubbing a thumb along your knuckles. “I’ve seen men like him play this same game before. Too many times. I wasn’t going to risk it happening to you, too.”
A chill runs through your body. You lean forward to press your forehead against his neck. He hesitantly brings up a hand to run along your back, holding you to him. “Thank you,” you murmur. You bury your face further into him. “Gods, I can’t believe I…” You sigh, soft and shaky, dread overwhelming you as the reality of what happened sunk in. “Thank you, Astarion.”
“As much as I’d love to sit here all night, listening to you praise me over and over for the hero I am,” he teases, earning a quiet huff from you, “you need to sleep. And not here.” He gently pulls you away from him and stands from the bed, squeezing your hands before he lets go. “We’ll just tuck you in down the hall, I’ll go downstairs and scold the others for being too careless, inform the innkeeper of his employee’s exploits - perhaps even get paid for doing so - and then we can get the Hells out of here come first light.”
You chuckled softly. He helped you stand, an arm around your waist keeping you steady as he walked you around the body and out the door. “And if I want you to stay?”
He hums as though the thought never crossed his mind, before sighing overdramatically. “Then I’ll just have to get paid for my bold rescue in the morning. I suppose it can wait until then. I won’t be cleaning up that mess anyway.”
He unlocks his door at the end of the hall and guides you to the bed, setting you down on the edge. You clumsily kick your boots off and he sets them by the door, toeing his off right next to them. You plop back into the pillows, giving in to the weight in your bones. He huffs a laugh at how pathetic you look, but it’s far more endearing than he wishes to admit.
You do your best to get comfortable under the thick duvet the inn provided, sinking into the warmth it offered. He easily slithered in beside you, touching you almost pensively as you turn into him and cuddle close to his chest. You’re so warm. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, the other draped over your waist, keeping you close. Keeping you safe.
Even just thinking about what could have happened if he hadn’t had the good sense to follow fills him with rage. He should have torn that bastard apart, piece by piece, until he only knows pain and remorse for every single victim that came before. But you’re safe, and that’s what really matters, more than his own revenge.
You press your nose against his neck, hot breaths fanning across his skin. He could almost feel the brush of your lips as you murmured another thank you. Your arms slipped around his middle, wrapping around him so you were as close as possible. You muttered another thanks, and another, and another, until exhaustion overwhelmed you, and you fell asleep in his arms.
Summary: After a fight with a hag, the rest of the party wakes up to find you still fighting for your life. Astarion feels himself at a loss, afraid and helpless in a way he has never felt before. And it's all your fault.
A/N: Just a gentle reminder that I have not played the game, so in terms of the exact placement on the timeline, it's a little sketchy. Just know that this is well before the events of I Want It All, and we'll call it good. And, as always, PLEASE REBLOG AND COMMENT IF YOU LIKE THIS! I NEED VALIDATION TO SURVIVE!
Word Count: 6.2K
If Astarion never saw a hag again, it would be too soon. Just one was more than enough for several lifetimes. The bitch was not only a sore to look at but hit like a brick wall. Even after a full night’s sleep aided by Shadowheart’s magic, he still felt stiff all over.
The rest of camp wasn’t much better. The sun was almost fully overhead by the time everyone stumbled out of their bed rolls. All morning banter was replaced with mumbled greetings and not so subtle groans. Even Lae’zel remained quiet, seemingly too occupied with her own discomfort to comment on the weakness of everyone else.
Astarion counted himself grateful for that. He didn’t think he could endure a lecture on top of an aching back.
“Here we are,” Gale said, a little too cheerfully. “I know last night's excursion was rather strenuous, but if this doesn’t cure what ails you, nothing will. No offense, Shadowheart.”
“I would take offense, but I’m frankly too tired to care,” she countered, dryly.
Gale gave a good natured laugh before handing her a bowl of something hot.
The pout on her face fell away as soon as she took her first bite. The rest weren’t far behind, the low murmur of pain turning to something more pleasant.
Astarion observed, doing his best to push down the bite on envy in his chest. He could eat, technically, but it went right through him, not even granting him the temporary relief of a full stomach. If it didn’t smell appetizing, he wouldn’t mind so much, but it did. Yet another minor torture of his existence.
Eventually Gale did turn his gaze to him, that annoyingly persistent enthusiasm faltering.
“Do you…ah, require a refreshment?”
Deciding to have some fun, Astarion gave him his best seductive smirk.
“Very much,” he purred. “However, if you’re the one offering, I’ll pass. I’ve got someone much more appetizing in mind.”
He turned his head towards your tent, and immediately frowned. You still hadn’t made an appearance. Granted you were always one to rest in, but this was getting ridiculous.
Gale followed his eye line, grimacing as he came to a similar conclusion.
“Might need to hold off on that. They got it pretty rough last night.”
“I’ll go check on them,” Wyll volunteered, pouring a fresh bowl of stew. “If anything will get them out of bed, this will.” He then turned to Astarion, giving him a hard look. “Try to keep your fangs to yourself until they’ve eaten something.”
He answered with a mocking pout. “Oh mother, must I?”
Wyll didn’t raise to the bait, rolling his one good eye before making his way towards your tent.
Something odd twisted inside Astarion. He was struck with the sudden urge to trip the man. Childish perhaps, but he just couldn’t stand that tone of altruistic condescension. He would have spoken up if Wyll hadn’t beaten him to it. He was rather partial to the idea of you and him sharing breakfast in bed. It would only be breakfast, but he wasn’t in a position to try for more. At the very least, it would be a convenient excuse to check on you himself.
Gale hadn’t been exaggerating. You had gotten the brunt of the hag’s attention, running between everyone to provide whatever aid you could. By the time you made it back to camp, you could barely stand, skipping your nightly check-ins in favor of falling straight into your tent and a soundless sleep.
This troubled him in a way he couldn’t properly explain. It wasn’t like he needed you to tuck him in, but he had grown accustomed to your face being the last he saw before closing his eyes. He knew the others appreciated it as well. It was how you had found yourself as the leader of this merry band. You weren’t the strongest or the most powerful, you simply took the time to care.
It should have bothered him more. Gods knew he clashed with Wyll and Karlach on more than one occasion concerning their bleeding heart heroics. Perhaps it was because your heart always put the party first. You’d extend it to others, but never to the point it needlessly put them and, more importantly, him in danger.
You just…helped, with clear eyed understanding and so little fanfare it made it easy to forget just how much you did, until the moment you couldn’t.
He blinked hard, mentally yanking himself from wherever his mind was leading him.
He wouldn’t feed on you today, he decided. There had to be some boar or deer around. It’d be best if they stay put another day anyhow. No need to rush into the next life or death scenario.
“Shadowheart! Gale!”
Everyone turned, to see Wyll running from your tent. The two spellcasters were up the next second, all exhaustion rushing from their bodies, readying for a fight.
“What’s going on?” Gale asked.
“I don’t know. Something’s wrong with Tav.”
“What? How?” Shadowheart interjected. “They were fine last night. I healed them myself.”
Wyll shook his head. “That may be, but they’re not waking up.”
“We better have a look then,” Gale said, with an authority that left no room for argument. He took the lead, the two others falling quickly behind.
Astarion stayed where he was, frozen. There was a hard twisting in his gut. He could feel the hair rise on the back of his neck as the sudden need to run shot through his veins. He recognized the symptoms; fear was an emotion he was intimately familiar with.
Before he realized what was happening, he was on his feet, taking long strides towards your tent.
It couldn’t be as bad as Wyll was making it sound. Admittedly, you had been run rather ragged, but nothing the rest of them hadn’t felt. Perhaps he had taken one bite too many. This was nothing. You were fine. You were supposed to be fine.
He stopped at the threshold, pushing aside the flap.
Whatever breath he had in his lungs rushed out in an instant.
The first thing that hit him was the smell. It clung to the inside of his nose reeking of damp sickness. Your body was drenched in sweat, your hair plastered to your forehead in soaked clumps. He swore he could feel the heat of your skin burning. Your breath came ragged as if someone had wrapped an invisible hand around your throat and was slowly choking the life out of you. He could see how your body twitched and jerked. It was taking both Shadowheart and Wyll to keep your limbs in check as Gale mumbled some enchantment over your body.
His hand gripped hard on the fabric. He needed to take a step back. He had little experience with disease, but it was plain enough that whatever this was didn’t play by any rules he was familiar with. The survivor in him screamed to use this perfect distraction to grab whatever he could carry and run. Still, he didn’t move.
“What’s wrong with them?” he said, his voice rough even to his ears.
“I don’t know,” Gale admitted, clearly disturbed. “I haven’t seen anything like this before.”
“They were fine,” Shadowheart insisted. “I healed them, and they went to bed. Nothing else happened.”
“There were a lot of spells being thrown around last night. Maybe they were hit with something the rest of us weren’t,” Wyll suggested.
“Oh Gods,” Karlach said, just behind Astarion’s shoulder. “Do you think it’s the tadpoles?”
Something heavy sunk straight into his stomach at her words. It certainly was a possibility. They all knew the symptoms, but why now? Why you?
There was a slight rustle of movement just behind him. Lae’zel by the smell. A quick look out of the corner of his eye saw her standing just behind Karlach. Her back was stiff and her expression hardened in a way he had come to recognize.
He never moved faster in his life.
Before anyone could react, he ducked under Karlach’s arm, knocking Lae’zel off her feet. Her sword scattered clear of her grip, skittering into the grass. She fell with a hard thump as he used the momentum to trap her under the weight of his body and dagger at her throat.
“Now, what were you planning to do with that,” he said, as smooth as a knife.
Her surprise was evident, but quickly overtaken by a low growl straight from her chest.
“Unhand me, or I will unhand you.”
“Might need the sword for that.”
“Oi! What’s going on?” Karlach said, finally turning towards the scene.
“If it is the tadpoles, we cannot risk them turning,” Lae’zel snapped. “I am prepared to do what is necessary.”
Red blinded Astarion’s vision, a hiss escaping his lips as they pulled back to show bared fangs.
“Necessary?”
“We don’t know that yet,” Wyll said, stepping beside Karlach. “Just think a moment. If it was the tadpoles, wouldn’t all of us have felt something by now?”
Lae’zel ignored him, her eyes turning straight to Astarion’s. Her expression lost none of its fury, but there was a coldness to it that forced an air of calm.
“You know I’m right,” she held.
His jaw clenched. He did know. If even one of them turned into a mind flayer the rest were bound to follow. Killing you would be the logical thing to do to preserve his own survival. Still, it wasn’t your neck he was poised to cut.
“Nobody is killing anyone!” Wyll interjected. “Gale and Shadowheart will figure out what’s wrong with Tav. In the meantime, we are not going to do anything we would sooner regret.”
“Astarion?” Karlach said, cautiously.
There was a long pause. He could feel their eyes burning the back of his skull, but neither stepped closer. It was easy to imagine what he looked like; half crazed, teeth bared and blade ready. Not his best moment.
With what grace he could muster, he pulled away, quickly putting some distance between himself and Lae’zel.
She got to her feet, decidedly not reaching for her weapon as her eyes moved between the three of them.
“They live for now,” she allowed. “But if Tav does turn, you know what we’ll have to do.”
Astarion’s spine stiffened. The dagger twitched in his hand, just in time for Karlach to step between them.
“Walk away Lae’zel,” she said, sternly. “I’m not kidding.”
Lae’zel’s brow furrowed, her face twisting in disgust. “Tsk'va,” she cursed. “Cowards. All of you.”
She turned then, picking up her sword before making her way back to her tent.
Once she was a good distance away, some of the tension left Karlach’s shoulders as she pulled her attention back to him.
“You okay?” Karlach asked.
“Well, I certainly haven’t made any new friends,” Astarion said, his voice tighter than he intended. He glanced over at Wyll. “I take it still no answers?”
Wyll gave a long sigh. “Gale said he’ll need more time to detect the exact cause. He doesn’t think it’s the tadpoles, but there’s no telling just yet. Luckily, Shadowheart was able to calm them enough to sleep. At the very least they’re no longer at risk of hurting themselves.”
“So what do we do?” Karlach asked.
“Wait. This isn’t something we can fight. Gale and Shadowheart will do what they can, but ultimately, this is Tav’s battle.”
Astarion bit back a growl as red once again danced across his vision.
Wait? That was the fabled Blade of Frontier’s brilliant plan? Hells below was everyone in this camp completely useless?! He didn’t need to be a cleric to know what was happening. He knew what dying smelled like and none of them, not a single one, could think of an actual, tangible solution besides wait?
Forget tripping the man, it was taking every single ounce of restraint to keep from strangling him.
Draining the last of his patience, he turned on his heel, and made his way towards the treeline.
“Where are you going?” Wyll called.
“To go kill something,” Astarion spat. “Unless you want me to stay here and do it.”
Wyll looked like he was going to say something that would put his neck in Astarion’s teeth, but Karlach spoke up first.
“We’ll make sure Lae’zel keeps her distance. Don’t wander too far.”
Astarion didn’t have an answer. He just managed a tight nod before continuing out of camp and out of sight.
He didn’t know how long he walked. He just knew that by the time he stopped the sun was much lower in the sky. The sounds of his companions deafened in the overgrowth leaving him well and truly alone.
A shuddering breath escaped his lungs. Whatever strength in his limbs left him. He only just managed to catch himself on a tree as his hands began to shake.
What in the nine hells had he been thinking?
Well, that was the trick, wasn’t it? He hadn’t been thinking. Fear had been driving him and he had done as he always did when fear took over; he found a way to survive, damn anyone who got in his way. The difference was, it wasn’t his life that was in danger. When had your survival become so vital to his?
He knew he was reliant on you to keep him safe from Cazador. You were the only one who trusted him. Without your vote of confidence, chances are he would have been left to his own devices a long time ago. He needed you alive if he were to maintain the protection of the others. And he had put that protection in direct threat by holding a knife to one of the group’s best fighters.
He let out a frustrated groan, rubbing his face in his hands.
Fuck, this was a disaster. He had never been particularly gifted when it came to strategy. It was difficult to anticipate consequences when he never knew what fresh hell awaited him in the morning. Compound that feeling by two hundred years and it was no wonder all his plans fell apart.
Even if you did survive, he still had no way of guaranteeing you would stay loyal to him. All his attempts at seduction had failed. You certainly enjoyed his company, and he was sure you gave him more attention than the others, but he didn’t know what you wanted. Every single day he waited for you to name your price and every single day you failed to answer. It was driving him to insanity.
No wonder he had been so quick to draw his blade. Any grasp he had on safety was already hanging by an invisible thread.
He let out a deep breath, forcing himself to calm. There was little he could control at the moment, but he could control himself. It was a new sensation, one he was still getting used to. He’d have an easier time of it once he fed.
Blood of thinking beings was out for the moment. He’d have to settle for something big and preferably angry. There would be nothing elegant about this hunt.
He got his wish. While he might have preferred a bear, the raging boar did well enough for his purposes.
It was an ugly kill. He didn’t just bite the beast. He tore into its neck so deeply the bones of its neck became exposed to the open air alongside bloodied muscle. His hands did the rest, ripping it fully open so the innards spilled out onto the forest floor. In the end, he didn’t even get much blood out of it, allowing the earth to become wet with carnage.
He breathed it in, hoping it would somehow erase the smell of your convulsing body from his mind.
It didn’t work.
Even with fresh blood in his mouth, he could only think of your labored breaths and racing heart. The relief of sated hunger became tainted by the taste of sickness on his tongue.
He forced himself back on his feet, not bothering to wipe away the blood as he stumbled further into the forest.
There was nothing he could do. He’d sooner drain the life from you than save it. It was baked into his nature; a disease in his own right.
If he just had a target, something he could trick or kill, it would be different. Instead he was left to wait; useless…powerless.
His hands clenched, his nails digging into his palms to the point of pain.
Surely he didn’t need you so badly. If you died, he would just have to refocus his efforts on somebody else; Shadowheart perhaps, or even Gale. He wasn’t about to get sentimental now. He would survive you as he had done countless others. This wasn’t his end.
He found a deer next, performing the same ritualistic slaughter. Blood filled him. He could feel his mind becoming clear, but it wasn’t enough. He moved onto a burrow of rabbits, then a badger, and even a weasel. It was only when he caught himself seriously contemplating gutting a squirrel did he realize how futile it was. All the blood in the world couldn’t make up for his inherent weakness.
He had grown too dependent on you. It was making him sloppy, unbalanced. Maybe you were better off dead. He would be free then.
That was the point of this whole venture wasn’t it? To be free. Free of Cazador. Free of fear. And here he was ready to chain himself to another just because they’d shown him a bit of kindness. What was that kindness worth when the loss of it inspired a terror he'd never known before.
A fury rose within him, one he clung to like a lifeline.
This was all your fault. You brought him to this. How could he possibly forgive you?
He let the anger fester as he took the time to clean himself up. Blood caked his hands up to his elbows with tendons stuck under his fingernails. It took several washes in a nearby stream to get it all out. He counted himself lucky his shirt had managed to escape most of the viscera. The last thing he wanted was an interrogation.
He needn’t have worried. It was well after dark by the time he crept back to camp. All was still, in the same way a body became when holding its breath.
He spotted Gale easily enough as he poured over some tome, his lips moving along with the words. Lae’zel and Wyll sat together, polishing their weapons without exchanging a word. Shadowheart looked to be meditating while Karlach sat next to the fire, brow furrowed while throwing the occasional stick into the flames.
Aside from the faint scrap of stone on metal, not a sound came from any of them.
Against his own will, his gaze turned to your tent.
It struck him then, why the quiet filled him with such dread.
By now a steady flow of strings should be teasing the edge of his ears. You seemed convinced a half inch of fabric was enough to muffle your rehearsals. None of them bothered to correct this assumption. On more than one occasion, he found himself forgetting the book in his hand as he listened to you work out some new melody. There was something about the way you played, as if each note lifted a burden on your soul. And if the night wasn’t filled with your music, it was touched by your voice.
You had a way of sparking conversation, sharing countless stories while encouraging the others to do the same. You knew when to listen, when to comment and just when to laugh to make the telling all the sweeter. He spent more time than he cared to admit thinking about how to pull that sound to your lips. He found it had the same effect on him as your plucking.
Then there were the rare times, when banter dwindled and everyone became lost in their own thoughts, he could make out a song just under your breath, an unconscious hum to accompany your work.
It brought a comfort he couldn’t describe, one he hadn’t realized he needed, until it was gone.
With quick steps he made his way to you, slipping into your tent with not even the barest rustle of fabric.
He’d never been in your tent before. If it were any other day, he’d be taking the time to examine every inch of it, but all he could focus on was you.
You were so still. An improvement from before, but not an especially encouraging one. It was clear from the perfectly arranged pillows you hadn’t moved since Shadowheart put you back to sleep. The only hint you were alive was that barest intake and outtake of breath.
His jaw tightened, his body tensing as a growing panic rose within him.
No, this was good. You were stable, for now. He still had options, more time to plan. He didn’t have to make any decisions tonight. Best he left and waited to see what the morning would bring.
You took a sharp intake of breath, slightly deeper than before. Your eyes twitched behind your lids and then you settled.
He paused, glancing to the entrance, half expecting somebody to come rushing in. He was surprised nobody was in here with you, or at the very least watching the door. He had slipped by without so much as a “hey you”. Any vagrant could just wander in.
He could end it right now. All it would take was one quick slice. The picture became clear; a single surprised gasp, the smell of your blood and then…silence. Forever.
Bile rose in his throat. He shut his eyes trying to will the image away as that new desperate terror threatened to drown him all over again.
Damn you. Damn you to every circle of the hells!
The gods were mocking him. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. He couldn’t just like you. No, he had to go and start caring.
A small whimper broke through his thoughts. Your head jerked, your brows pinching in distress.
Shadowheart. He needed to get Shadowheart, or Gale, or Wyll. Hells, she may not be able to touch you, but Karlach would undoubtedly have a better bedside manner. Besides Lae’zel he was the worst person suited for this. Gods, what was he even doing here?
You took a sharp intake of breath, flinching away from something only you could see.
He was on his knees the next second.
Your body settled, but your breathing came hard and fast. At least it wasn’t rasping.
His hands hovered over you, unsure of what to do. He had officially given up on the idea of leaving. He’d just have to improvise the rest.
Hesitantly, he let his fingers brush across your forehead, pushing aside a few of the loose strands. You were hot to the touch, but he took comfort in the fact you weren’t sweating as you were before. Whatever had taken hold of you that morning, it seemed to have loosened its grip.
You began to calm, a soft murmur of contentment stumbling from your lips.
The irony was not lost on him, but it didn’t stop a part of him from melting at the sound.
“Now that’s hardly playing fair, darling,” he whispered. “I’m trying to be angry with you.”
You didn’t answer except for a sigh as you turned your head, following his touch.
He allowed himself to linger for a moment before placing the back of his hand against your skin to feel it properly. You really were much too warm. The relief you were expressing no doubt came more from his body temperature than his caresses.
Slowly, he pulled away as he glanced around the small space. There had to be a water skin in here somewhere. Surely the idiots would know better than to leave you to burn yourself from the inside out.
A soft groan caught his attention as he spun back to you.
You shifted under the blankets, rolling back and forth as if to get loose of your cocoon. Your eyes darted quickly behind your lids. Another huff of breath and then, all at once, there you were.
“Tav?” he breathed.
Your eyes were bleary. Your skin was sallow. Your hair was a mess. Everything around him smelled of sweat and sick. And for a moment, he swore he could feel his heart beat again.
A hint of a smile touched the corner of your mouth, your brows rising slightly.
“Tav? Must be pretty bad then.”
He had to laugh. It was a short, strangled thing, and just about the only thing he could do to keep the stinging in his eyes at bay.
“Worse,” he said, managing to gain some hold on himself. “Of course, it must be said, your worse is most best.”
You huffed out a small laugh of your own, which quickly turned into a series of dry coughs.
He straightened in alarm before quickly spotting the water skin hanging on the center pole of the tent. Thankfully it was full, allowing him to waste no time lifting your head as he guided the water into your mouth.
As soon as the liquid met your tongue you scrambled for more, pushing yourself further up to guzzle the rest.
“Easy,” he warned, pulling back the container. “Can’t have you choking to death after all of that.”
You gave a slight sputter, proving his point as you caught your breath. “Sorry. Just thirsty.”
“Clearly,” he quipped. “Do you need more?”
You averted your eyes, your expression turning suddenly sheepish. “Please?”
As tempting as it was, he decided to save his teasing for later. It was always more fun when you could give it right back anyway.
He lifted your head, resting it on his lap before guiding the lip of the lid back to yours.
“Slowly this time,” he cautioned.
Your muscles tensed with restraint, but you followed his lead, taking no more than he gave.
He tried to ignore the tight feeling in his chest. His mind flickered to his own thirst and, for a moment, he could see his own desperation reflected in your eyes.
Something stirred inside him; an ache he didn’t recognize. He’d do just about anything to keep that look from marring your face ever again.
Once you’d gotten a few more mouthfuls he pulled the water skin away, setting it down on the floor beside you.
“Thank you,” you said, your voice still a little rough, but an obvious improvement.
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “To anyone.”
“Don’t worry, nobody would believe me anyway,” you teased.
“Truer words.”
Without really thinking, he let his palm rest on your forehead. He had already gotten a sense of your temperature, but the way your eyes closed as you relaxed into his touch was too good to pass up.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Like a band of goblins decided to make a riot of my insides,” you admitted, before turning your gaze upward. “What about you?”
“Me?”
Your mouth turned in an apologetic half smile. “No offense, but you look a bit ragged. Did something happen?”
He blinked, surprised by the sudden flash of anger your question inspired. Of course he was a bit ragged. You had started this morning on the verge of death, the knowledge of which had been torturing him for near on…oh, who bloody cared how long. And yet you had the audacity to ask if something happened, as if that wasn’t enough; as if you weren’t enough.
It must have shown on his face, as your brows furrowed in concern.
“Astarion?”
He mentally shook himself, pushing down the emotion as best he could.
“Don’t worry about me, darling. Let’s focus on getting you better.”
You frowned, your lips parting as if to say something when the entrance of the tent burst open.
“Hey, thought I heard your voice!” Karlach said, with a beaming smile. “Good to see you awake soldier. Told’em you’d bounce back, just a matter of time. Shadowheart! Gale! Tav’s awake! Astarion is with ‘em.”
Astarion prickled at the announcement. He didn’t need the entire camp knowing his business. He had decided to sneak back for a reason. Surely nobody had seen him.
He got his answer, as Karlach turned back, lowering her voice.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “Noticed you slip in earlier. Thought I’d leave you to watch Tav, but then I heard talking and well…you know.”
“Yes, thank you,” he clipped, hoping the note of embarrassment would be blamed on getting caught and not…other things.
“Thanks Karlach,” you said, smoothing over any lingering tension.
“Don’t even think about it. Few more rounds of healing and you’ll be right as rain.” She then turned her gaze to him. “You got’em?”
His brow furrowed slightly. He could say no. Gale and Shadowheart would need space to do their work. It would be the perfect excuse to walk away and try to forget any of this happened.
He glanced down at you, your head still resting in his lap.
You looked so fragile. It was a word he had never thought to use before when describing you. The sound of it rang with a dissonance that made his hair stand on end. Still you managed a half smile, your head tilting as silent permission to leave if he wanted.
And what exactly would he do if he left; wait in the dark, just as helpless as before. He may not be able to do much, but he could do this. It was better than nothing.
He turned back to Karlach, his purpose clear. “I’ve got them.”
She didn’t say anything back, simply nodding in acknowledgement before dipping out, and allowing Shadowheart and Gale to enter.
Shadowheart immediately took a place beside you, her hands glowing with magic as she got to work. Gale, meanwhile, remained standing seemingly unsure of what to do.
Astarion couldn’t help but notice the way the wizard’s eyes shifted awkwardly between you and him. Some petty part of him felt vindicated in staying. Apparently he had taken his designated spot.
“Glad to see you awake,” Shadowheart said.
“So am I, funny enough,” you said. “What happened?”
“Nasty bit of business,” Gale explained. “That hag didn’t hold anything back. Combination of cause fear, ray of sickness, a few other bits of spell work and bestowed curse to keep them all knotted together. The healing magic Shadowheart gave you last night was able to mend your physical wounds, but little else.
“Luckily once we were able to identify the spells, I was able to untangle most of the effects and pluck that curse right out. All told, it looked much worse than it was. With the hag dead, it appears your body has been able to fight off most of the remaining effects on its own. Honestly, if you were at full capacity at the start of the fight, it likely wouldn’t have gotten as bad as it did. Much easier to recover when all your blood is inside your body.”
Gale’s eyes flicked over to Astarion.
His jaw clenched, knowing full well what the wizard was implying, but he wasn’t about to admit he was right.
“I’ll keep that in mind next time I take an arrow to the shoulder,” you said, dryly. “Just don’t bleed.”
Shadowheart gave a short laugh. “Good to see your sense of humor is intact.”
Astarion and Gale broke eye contact allowing whatever argument was about to ensue to die on their lips. There were more important things to worry about.
“What can I say, I’m a born entertainer,” you said, ruefully before turning your gaze evenly among the three of them. “I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Gale assured. “When compared to Karlach’s engine or my own condition, this is little more than a sniffle.” He glanced over to Shadowheart. “Anything I can do?”
“Honestly, there’s not much even I can do at this point,” she admitted. “We’ll just have to see how you feel in the morning. One of us should stay with you at least, in case something happens.”
“I’ll do it,” Astarion said, earning shocked looks from both spellcasters. He did so particularly love the look on Gale’s face.
“You’re sure?” Gale said, skeptically.
He gave a nonchalant shrug. “I’m not planning to sleep much anyway. And don’t worry, I’m just as capable of yelling as anyone else in this camp. Besides, I doubt either of you are going to be much use to anyone in a few hours.”
Gale looked like he wanted to argue, but not before you spoke up.
“He has a point,” you said. “The pair of you have done enough as is. I’m feeling a lot better already. I’ll be fine.”
“Alright,” Gale relented, with a grimace. “There’s some stew in that container there if you get hungry. See if you can keep some food down. And if they so much as twitch in their sleep–”
“I’ll handle it,” Astarion cut off with a sharpness that left no room for dispute.
Gale appeared taken aback. So did Shadowheart for that matter, but Astarion couldn’t bring himself to care. You had in a very polite, roundabout way told them to leave. His job was to make it clear how much better that would be for everyone’s health.
Both Gale and Shadowheart got the message, ducking out without another word.
Astarion waited, counting down a solid minute to make sure nobody else would come barging in. Only when he was certain they were gone did he finally allow his body to relax.
“You don’t have to stay.”
He pulled his attention back to you, his brows furrowing.
“I really am feeling a lot better,” you insisted. “I’ll be alright.”
His instinct was to argue. He wasn’t in the mood for any more quiet heroics from you, but something in your eyes gave him pause.
“Do you want me to go?” he asked.
“I…” You swallowed. The emotion in your voice was clear even from that one word. “You don’t–”
“Do you want me to go?” he repeated.
For a long moment, you didn’t say a word.
He waited for the predictable guilt to appear, an obvious sign of your irritating selflessness with maybe an apology thrown in on the side. There were hints of it, yes, but something else lingered, moving across your features despite your best efforts to bury it away.
“No,” you confessed, with a yearning deeper than he felt he had any right to know.
He thought back on what you told him, the bits and pieces you shared about your life. It was never obvious, just comments that slipped through, as if by accident.
You didn’t know your mother. Your father was little more than a memory. You never mentioned any siblings. A flurry of names and faces filled your stories from across Faerun, but they never stayed the same between tellings. Now that he gave it proper thought, he couldn’t think of a single one of them you had named friend.
He had to wonder how many nights you suffered through a fever alone, how many times you bandaged your own wounds and kept your own company on long nights in the middle of nowhere.
You hadn’t given him permission to go out of the kindness of your heart. You had expected him to. You just wanted to give yourself the illusion of control over when.
And yet, you asked him to stay.
“Well, that settles it,” he soothed. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Your lips parted as if to say something more, but you closed it again swallowing the words back down.
He counted himself grateful. He was liable to say any number of foolish things if you let him.
Slowly, your eyes began to droop as sleep overcame you once more.
As promised, he didn’t move, not daring to so much as shift your head.
Maybe…maybe this was your price. He couldn’t be sure. He doubted he would ever be sure of anything with you, but maybe this was what you wanted; somebody to care.
It was a dangerous notion. He had never provided anything real before. The concern he felt for you now was against his will. If he started caring for you on purpose, who knew where that might lead; the things he would be willing to do, all for you.
He blinked the thought away. He was getting ahead of himself. A little went a long way, especially with you. Honestly, it would be almost too easy; a kind word here, a helpful hand there, and he would have you curled around his finger in no time. It wasn’t so different from what he had done before. All he needed to do was not care anymore than he already did. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He could stop any time he wanted.
It was the thought that kept him through the night, the one he repeated to himself as he came as close to holding you as he dared.
Hello! Could you write about Vash and Wolfwood reacting to a shy/timid reader?
Thank you for this ask! I hope I did justice to what you had in mind! <3
I think Vash would see it as a sort of novelty to come across you – quiet and timid, shy to a painful degree. Most people he meets are brazen; gruff. To come across someone so…soft, is a treat in his long life.
He may not realize how loud he is at first. And even if he isn’t loud, he certainly catches quite a bit of attention. He’ll realize quickly, though, that this sort of attention is not something you enjoy. So he’ll do his best to quiet down and stave off any unwanted attention. He wants to talk with you, to see how someone remains so soft and shy in such a harsh world and survives.
If it has something to do with your living situation, you bet Vash will do his best to right it in some way. Maybe he’ll even offer for you to join him to the next town – see if you can start a new life there! If it’s just your personality though, Vash will see a strength in you that others often look over. It takes a lot of guts to remain soft and not crowd the world with your noise. He’ll have a great respect for you by the time you two part ways.
If you two decide to stick together, however, Vash may try to take over talking for you at first. He just doesn’t want anyone to walk all over you! You’ll have to grow into something a little more sturdy to adventure with Vash, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be quiet and strong at the same time. Quite the contrary. Vash often seeks you out for advice, as you often notice things others don’t. He will appreciate any look into your inner worlds, as they are vast and deep if he just has the patience to be let in.
/~*~\
Wolfwood would be a little jerk about it at first. He’d probably call you something like “Squeaky” for how timid your voice comes out or how you squeak anytime he looks at you. You remind him of some of the younger kids he was with in the orphanage – the ones who look lost and alone no matter how many kids are around. When he makes that connection, he turns into Big Brother™ and takes you under his wing.
Wolfwood would still tease you a bit, but it’s out of love and concern. If he keeps teasing you, you might actually grow some teeth and bite back one of these times. That would be a relief in his eyes, because he hates the thought of someone bigger than you coming along to rough you up. If you’re sticking with him and the gang, you’ll need to grow a backbone. Don’t worry, he knows it takes time. It’s a hard shell to crack! But with his help and jokes, you’ll be toe-to-toe with the best of them.
The longer you stick together, the more he seeks you out for company. Wolfwood may be able to keep up with Vash’s rowdiness and Meryl and Millie’s antics, but at the end of the day, he just wants to relax and have a smoke. You provide a warmth like that of dying embers on a perfect night. Your quietness turns more comfortable than awkward, as you settle into the routine of finding a secluded place to just sit and watch the sunset together. It can’t last forever – there are people to save and a Stampede to follow, after all – but it’s tradition. It’s sacred. It’s only between you two. He’ll protect you ‘til you’re ready to fight for yourself.
Even then, he’ll still call you ‘Squeaky.’
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