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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 8 days

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Unraveled 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)

Note: thanks for waiting on this one.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The carriage stops outside a brick building. A walk-up in Marleybone, just along Upper Baker Street. An address you couldn’t even dream of living near, let alone within. You peer up at the facade, the orange brick unstained by the coal and smoke of the backstreets.

Gavin appears to open the door and sets a step down before you can emerge. He offers his hand gallantly and you let him assist you down to the road. You thank him as you peer up at the arched front door of 221b.

“You need only knock, miss,” Gavin goes to pat the horse’s haunch as it kicks. “Ask for Mr. Holmes, he is expecting you.”

You grip your bag tight and set your chin. You might not belong but only you are troubled by it. You climb the steps alongside the iron rail and lift the heavy knocker mounted on the thick wooden door. It’s clang rattles even you.

You wait, both hands on the handles of the bag. Gavin appears behind you with the rolls of fabric, breathless as he struggles to keep them from touching the ground. You return your attention to the door as it opens.

“Hello, I’m looking for Mr.--”

“Holmes,” the very man you’re seeking stands before you, “forgive me, my housekeeper... resigned.”

“Not to worry, sir,” you assure him.

“Come in,” he backs up, gesturing you within with his large hand. “And how was your journey? I hope you didn’t come upon any scoundrels.”

“Only upon her destination, sir,” Gavin japes as he steps in behind you.

“Eh,” Holmes tilts his head at the driver, “allow me.”

Holmes takes the rolls of fabric from Gavin. He hugs them effortlessly in on arm as he faces you again, dismissing the driver with no more than a nod. You stand rigidly by the wall, hesitant to go any further. The door closes and the click makes you flinch.

“Allow me to show you around,” Holmes offers, looming in the tight space of the entryway.

“I need only see your sister,” you insist.

“Ah, yes, Enola, you will, but it only polite to get you acquainted with the space,” he rebuffs.

“With respect, sir, I’ve come out of my way and without warning to this appointment. More work does await me at my shop,” you squeeze the leather handles until they squeak, “it is a lovely home, I’m sure, but I’ve come upon business, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t take very long,” he counters, “yet, if you’d rather keep this formal, by all means, I will take you to my sister.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You bite down, wondering if perhaps you were more curt than you should be. The apartment is rather far from your neighbourhood and the travel time alone will impose upon your ongoing commissions. You don’t expect he considered that. He does seem the type to command rather than ask.

He directs you to the stairs, just across from the door, and waves you onward. He follows as your skirts brush the top of your boots with each step. The wallpaper is tightly decorated with framed newspapers and portraits, cluttered together but not garishly so.

You get to the top and he advises you to go left. You obey as he keeps pace.

“Did you... discover what led to that woman’s fate? Or who she was?” You ask as you take measured steps.

He isn’t demure as he walks next to you, crowded against you as his broad figure allows for little space, “sadly, yes and no. Not her name. Only that she was a factory woman. I won’t say much on the matter as it is ongoing and confidentiality is a part of my contract, I would only gird you to keep your doors locked and yourself alert.”

You chew on his answer. It makes you nervous. You know the woman was found close to your shop and home. The news has been whispered for blocks.

“I will be sure to hede your advice,” you say.

You walk past a door as he stops to knock on it. You spin back, skirts swirling around you, and he glances at you as he plants his hand on the door frame. There is activity from within, scratching and creaking. He sighs and stands straight as he slides his hand down the pillar. He raps with his knuckles again.

“Enola,” he booms through, his voice shaking you. “I told you to be ready.”

You hear furious footsteps and the lock flicks back with similar furor. It opens and a young woman with a slumping bun greets Mr. Holmes. Strands fall loose from the clip and her blouse is half untucked as her sleeves are rolled to her elbows. She has a long oval face, flushed as she shows her teeth.

“I told you, I’m busy--”

“Not so busy that you would waste this good woman’s time,” Holmes insists, “she traveled all this way. We discussed this.”

She flutters her lashes and huffs. Her eyes flit over to you and she softens her expression, “if her time is wasted, it is hardly my fault.”

“Hm,” he hums flatly, “isn’t it? It wasn’t I who fed your dresses to the furnace.”

She smiles, a smug look that pinches her cheeks, “I was cold.”

“Sister,” he warns dangerously, crossing his arms, his breadth wider than ever.

“You know what, I welcome her company. Much preferable to your own,” the woman sneers and turns her shoulder to her brother, “come on, then. Suppose I need a dress for the banquet.”

You inch forward. A flare of resent burns in you at the position Mr. Holmes has put you in. Plainly, this appointment was not upon his sister’s behest. She holds the door for you and her brother exhales deeply.

“All you need do is stand still, I’m certain you can handle that, sister,” he rebukes, “do let me know when you are finished and I will call the carriage.”

“Thank you,” you utter without looking at him. He sets the rolls just inside the door and backs up to watch you.

You enter the bedroom and find it cluttered and cramped. There are books in stacks with more littered around the bottom. A dried-up paint palette and an easel draped over with several jackets and unpaired stockings. There is a four-post bed with scrambled covers and a canopy twisted around the poles. Vials upon vials line shelves and an inkwell stands uncapped over untidy sheets of paper.

“Very well,” the woman shuts the door, “I am Enola, the famous detective’s ne’er do well sister and you are the seamstress who will make me a peacock.”

You stare at her and swallow tightly. You offer your name before you begin, “I’ve only come upon his request--”

“Ah, yes, I’m certain you have. He’s still trying to make a lady of me. I see through his guise, though he doesn’t think it. He underestimates me, see. He lies but I will go along for I will more easily avoid his snare if I do.”

You nod and narrow your eyes. The wealthy can always afford to be so eccentric. You don’t think any woman you know would view a new dress as such a curse. She is young, she cannot know.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll only take your measurements,” you offer, “I can always fit upon the dress form.”

“Do what you must,” she sighs, “shall I strip down?”

You put your bag on a chair as she unbuttons her blouse, “not-- if you--” You look up at her as she reveals a corset and reaches to undo her skirt. You focus on your bag and scoop out your measuring tape.

You approach her as her skirt heaps at her feet. She is tall, her legs on long, her figure lithe. You begin your work silently. She raises her arms as you request and puts them back down.

“Suppose if I wasn’t here, I might’ve become a dressmaker. I always enjoyed stitching,” she muses as you scribble down each number, “it seems lonely work. Quiet work.”

“It’s work,” you say as you take out the envelope and unfold the page to examine the dress again. You hold it up and glance past it at Enola.

“May I see that?” She asks but doesn’t await an answer before she snatches the paper. “Oh, is this really what he chose? No, no, no, this won’t do. I want my shoulders covered.”

You slip the envelope back in your bag, “it is only what I was given. If you prefer adjustments, it is your dress.”

“Yes, my dress and my body,” she crumples the paper and tosses it onto the rug.

You close up your notebook and go to the rolls of fabric, “would it be too much for me to do some piecework?”

“If you insist,” she pouts.

You take out your scissors and turn your back to her. She isn’t rude, per se, but you’re not in the habit of associating with this sort of clientele. You get numbers on a sheet and you sew. A living form is not quite your forte.

-🪡

When you finish, you can sense Enola’s agitated impatience. You don’t blame her. It’s plain she didn’t want the dress or your visit. It is more so upon the shoulders of her brother. Mr. Holmes. You’re similarly irked that he would put you in this position.

Enola is already fiddling with some instrument before you can go. You emerge and pull the door shut after you. You stand in the hallway, bag at the crook of your elbow as you hug the fabric. You move with hampered steps towards the stairs. As the top creaks beneath your weight, your name is called from further down the hallway.

“Ah, are you set then?” Mr. Holmes asks as he stops just outside a door, “I was thinking, to make up for your efforts, you might want to stay for tea.”

You look down at your armful and back to him, “that’s very generous, but--”

“I believe I paid an adequate fee for the appointment,” he strides slowly towards you, “but I am open to a barter if it was not sufficient.”

You feel the heavy sovereign tucked into your jacket. You crook your lips and raise your chin, “no sir, it will do for today and the making of the dress. The fabric... I don’t have any as rich as the style requested.”

“Another service I may require of you. If you wouldn’t mind to select the material, I would be happy to reimburse the expense.”

“Would there be a colour? A fabric preferred? Velvet? Satin? Chiffon?” You prompt, “I solely work in cotton and wool, as I forewarned.”

“Perhaps we might find a fabric seller at Covent Garden? You could accompany me on my next sojourn--”

“I don’t know if I would have the time. I could write down some fabrics which would suit the silhouette we agreed upon,” you offer.

“Mmm,” he hums, “you are rather professional. How about tea, then? Melinda from across the road sent some mutton over.”

“The hour should see me back to my shop,” you shift your bag.

“You are fastidious,” he stops before you and puts a hand on the fabric, “please, allow me, you are overburdened.”

“I’m--”

You can’t argue as he takes the fabric from you. You let him have it if only to avoid disaster you lean back on your heel. He angles the rolls under his arm easily and grins. A curl strays down his forehead.

“I suppose you are right, given recent events, it would be best to see you home before the evening sets,” he says, “I would gladly see you home safe, miss.”

He is overly polite, or perhaps you aren’t used to it. It is his home, he supplied the carriage, and he has paid generously. It makes each denial feel trite.

“If you must, but I would be just fine on my own comportment,” you accept.

“It isn’t any fuss, I will fetch a jacket and the driver,” he extends his arm past you, “after you.”

You spin on your heel and face the staircase. You descend with your hand on the railing. As you come to the bottom, you wander towards the entry way and take in the fineness of the decor. Is much more becoming than your slanted rooms.

Mr. Holmes places the rolls just beside the door and takes a jacket from the rack. He pulls it on and tells you to wait before he disappears outside. You linger as you are, sliding your bag down to your hands.

When he returns, he reaches within to retrieve the fabric first. “Gavin is bringing up the carriage,” he declares and offers his free arm, “shall we?”

You consider him. You wouldn’t want to be unkind. You step through the door, pulling it shut as you accept his bent arm, your hand in the crook. He accompanies you down the narrow steps, each step crowded by his.

Gavin appears in the driver’s seat and reins the horse to a halt. The beast looks miserable. Mr. Holmes escorts you to the door and releases you to open it. He helps you with a strong hand and you sit within with your bag on your lap. He shoves the fabric in ahead of him, his head bowed as he fits through the small door.

He closes it with a snap and settles on the bench on the other side of you. You stare across at the cotton, expecting he’d have taken that seat instead. His leg is on your skirt.

You keep your hands on your bag. He knocks on the ceiling and the carriage rumbles into motion. You rock with it along the street, silent as you wring the leather handles.

“I hope my sister did not cause too much stress. I know she can be a lot but she’s old enough now. She should start behaving as a lady,” he spreads a large hand across his thigh. “Perhaps, once she finds a husband, that will be easier.”

You nod, uncertain of a proper response.

“Not to mean... I don’t mean to assume, I am known however for my observations, and I have concluded you are not married,” he continues, “I gather if it were the case, you might not have a shop to sew in.”

“Suppose not,�� you reply dully.

“It is only to say that my opinion of my sister isn’t general. A woman such as yourself is admirable.”

“A spinster?” You supply.

“I didn’t--”

“I’ve chosen not to marry, that is true. I am not bothered by that fact,” you say, “isn’t that what you deal in, detective, facts?”

“Fair,” he shifts on the bench, “but not everyone can detach emotion from facts.”

“And why should I be emotional about that fact? I am much more happier than any woman could be with a husband,” you stare at the opposite wall of the carriage. “And I will assume, sir, as I am no detective, that you have neither taken to the altar.”

He curls the fingers on his left hand, “I have not.”

“And I’m certain you enjoy your bachelor lifestyle in your grand apartment,” you return, “while my own is not so extravagant, I find solace in it. On that, I think you might understand me.”

He takes a breath and lets it out with a thoughtful hum, “I suppose we are similar in some way.”

#sherlock holmes #dark sherlock holmes #dark!sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #unraveled #enola holmes #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series

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r6shippingdelivery · 2 years

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There’s been a lot of talk about AO3 and censorship lately, due to one of the candidates to the OTW board. And I realised I have very strong Opinions:tm: about censorship and the freedom AO3 stands for.

Censorship is not a solution. It doesn’t work and it’s not even easily agreed upon where the line should be drawn. What some people might deem as immoral or reprehensible is not the same others will consider so. For example, you and me can agree that sexual stories about minors turn our stomach, yet other people would also include LGBT+ content there, even the sfw ones, and others might decide that any sexual content at all is immoral. So, how do we agree about what to ban, when nothing of it is even illegal?

because let’s be honest, it’s all fiction. As in, not real. Things like incest, rape and pedophilia are illegal irl, but not in fiction. Cause they’re not harming anyone. Really. You can find it disgusting, I certainly do, but I also recognize no person, no actual human, is harmed in the making of those stories. Because they’re made up and about made up characters. I won’t seek it out, and if I see someone making that kind of content I will most probably avoid them/block them (without harassing them), but they have the right to create any kind of fiction they want.

It always baffles me how readily understood that is when it comes to murder and violence in fiction. Nobody thinks that someone who writers murder mysteries or procedural shows really wants to go out and kill people. However, as soon as it’s about sex, people are up in arms ready to believe that those make believe scenarios are an indicative of someone’s real desires. Why is that? And since we’re on the topic of double standards: why are people clutching their pearls about fanfic, but literature gets a free pass, more or less? You go into a library and you’ll find lots of books with shocking and distasteful topics, including those that contain pedophilic content (like Lolita, to put a famous example), incest (Game of Thrones, among many others), rape, murder, etc. But they want me to believe that fanfic, the medium with severely impaired social acceptance and magnitudes smaller reach, is the actual problem that will “normalize” those ideas? Nah fam, I smell a moral panic, and people finding fanfic writers easier to bully into submission. Because this is all about controlling what forms of creative expression are deemed acceptable. Fanfic IS a form of art, popular art if you will, but still art. And by virtue of how AO3 is designed, it’s ridiculously easy to never see the kind of stories that you find objectionable.

Tags are a wonderful thing. I can specify what I want and what I don’t want in my story results when searching! Tags are the author being responsible and giving due warning. Especially the “dead dove: do not eat” tag, it lets you know that the content of the story will have questionable content, proceed at your own risk or keep scrolling. Same as the “chose to not use archive warnings” that one is a warning in itself that the story might contain triggering/upsetting content, and it’s the prerogative of each reader to decide whether they’re comfortable continuing reading or not. Ultimately, it’s all about taking responsibility for one’s decisions. People who are in favor of censorship in AO3 either don’t know how to control and curate what materials they access, or feel entitled to everyone else taking their morals into account instead of taking responsibility for their own experience in the archive.

None of the stories on AO3 is illegal. Fictional stories are not illegal, not even those dealing with unsavory topics. The archive makes people agree to continue reading whenever you click on a story with a certain rating (or without any rating at all, just in case!), so the reader is giving their consent to continue reading, they’re making an informed choice. Same as with the tags. They’re there, they’re a warning. If someone reads the tags, finds them displeasing and still continues reading, that’s on them. If I find a story with tags about rape/non-con, for example, I keep scrolling. Cause I know I will find the story displeasing and upsetting. The people clutching their pearls and going “but think of the children!” are, mostly, people who refuse that responsibility and ask the world to accommodate them and their morality. And then throw around words like pedohilia and accusations of “kiddie porn” careleslly, watering down the seriousness of such accusations. No, an explicit fanfic of twin, underage siblings going at it is not CSA. Cause there’s no real children involved in it. It might be disgusting for a lot of people (me included), understandably, but you can 100% avoid reading it and interacting with the people who write those.

Finally, let’s not forget the recent history of fandom spaces, shall we? LiveJournal and Fanfiction.net both had purges of content, after some campaigns for censorship gained traction and popularity. So now everything relating to certain topics is eliminated! Well, except that also includes communities of support for survivors of sexual abuse (it happened in LJ). Well, except that the people pressuring for censorship weren’t happy with the gay smut either, so a lot of LGBT related stuff is now also gone! (happened both in LJ and ff.net). Except, in some countries anything sexual at all, is frowned upon, so why not ban that too? Censorship supporters will always move the goalposts, forever shifting their aim whenever they accomplish something. Because it’s easier and more comfortable to make others conform to their standards than accepting some artistic expressions will be uncomfortable to some people. And trust me, none of them will care if the dark fic in question was written by a survivor of similar experiences trying to cope with their trauma or raise awareness, or if it was done simply for titillation or to safely explore different scenarios in fiction. And the topics that were banned in those websites didn’t disappear at all, they just weren’t properly warned for/detailed in the summaries, so anyone could stumblre upon them by accident. The complete opposite of what happens in AO3.

AO3 was created by people who lived through those censorship events in different fandom spaces, as a response to it. To seeing whole communities and swathes of fan content being unceremoniously deleted overnight. AO3 is an archive and an online library, not a social media platform. It’s a safe haven for anyone to host their fan creations, but that doesn’t mean it’s a safe space as people understand the term in other platforms. In AO3 you make your safe space by using the tags. Because that is the only real way we can have a safe haven for EVERYONE.

The thing about freedom of speech is that sometimes, you have to defend things you dislike (that, I repeat, are legal in this case), because experience has shown time and time again that as soon as you give an inch to the censors, they take more and more. And today they’re up in arms about “pedophilic fanfics”, but once that is done? It might be all nsfw content, it might be trans related content, it might be something else. But it will happen.

#ao3 #fanfiction #fanfic #censorship #freedom of speech #anti anti #okay I'm entering the discourse I'm sorry

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thevirgincherry · 3 months

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HONEYTRAP !

ft. leon s. kennedy x reader x ashley graham

tags. p in v, threesome, president leon, daddy-daughter incest (ashley/leon not reader), voyeurism, oral

note. haiii :3 sorry for mistakes it’s unedited! not the proudest of this! got messy and clunky 😭 but rbs and feedback always so appreciated :3

tumblr has started to remove fics that for example use tw non-con and any nsfw tags in general from the tags. for this reason, as i’d like my fic to appear in the tags, please understand that this fic contains dark content under the cut. reading this comes at your own risk.

“No, babe, it’s online, you can watch it, and can you tell Chris to watch it? I’m excited, I know he’s not happy about it, but, I am,” Claire’s voice is obfuscated by the chatter in the background, “This is a big deal for me, I mean—“ She cuts herself off, voice distant, “Oh, yes— No, not at all, it’s lovely to meet you—“

Beep!

You blink at your phone. She hung up on you. Granted, she’s been one busy bee so you let her off. For now. You shoot a message to Chris, tell him that as Claire said, this means a lot to her, and as tight as he is with the Kennedys, that she’s his sister, she should come first. You’re well aware that he knows that, that he wouldn’t dare put anyone above his sister, she’s at the centre of his world - it’s just for good measure.

The interview is lengthy, you suppress a groan because really you should very much be interested in the state of current affairs. And this is Claire’s line of work, and Claire is your girlfriend, and you should support her in her endeavours. Clicking on the link she’s forwarded opens up a grayscale website. The first video is President Kennedy in all his glory, which is not a lot of glory to be quite frank. He’s an eyesore to you. Like, that chin? Seriously? He should consider some sort of medical procedure, you don’t know if that’s a thing, but you know a girl who got her cleft lip fixed, so why not the chin?

Most of the video is full to the brim with political jargon that you fail to understand. Completely different language. Could understand Morse code better than this.

Skip, skip, skip.

“The issue with Penamstan? I hate to be rude, Mr. Kennedy,” No, she does not, Claire loves to be rude, “But do you know where that is on a map?” Claire, always straight to the point.

“I know all the stans,” President Kennedy smiles, charming and stupidly stupid all at once. He’s kind of cute when he smiles. It’s really just that chin. Very American though, you’ll give it to him. Named Kennedy too? America loves a Kennedy, he had it easy.

“What?” Not even an excuse me.

“Pakistan, Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Penamstan… The, uh, more forgettable stans,” He trails off, taken off guard by a woman in a pantsuit leaning down to talk to him, a hand cupped over her mouth, he blinks up at her slowly, “Uz-beki-stan,” President Kennedy sounds out as if the word is foreign on his tongue, and it is, so incredibly foreign, “Turk… Turkmenistan, and Penamstan, of course.”

That’s all you needed to know he has the brain density of a wafer. Was the most interesting part though. He would’ve made a good stripper or a boy-toy, you think. Instead, he’s being marketed as this all-encompassing package of a man, which he is not.

Skip, skip, skip.

Penamstan— Foreign Policy— Penamstan— Voting— Penamstan— Radicalisation— Terrorism— Your predecessor, Graham— Sexual relations— Gaffe—

You pause, rewind a minute or so back. Sexual relations. This is what you’re into. No idea who Monica Lewinsky is, know all about the dress though.

“You’ve heard of the accusations, yes?” Claire frowns so much like Chris you have to turn away.

President Kennedy’s lack of jaw tightens, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him behave so offstandish in the fourteen minutes you’ve ever seen of him. “Yes.”

“You didn’t like that,” Claire notes, her lip twitching upwards.

“Didn’t know we had a psychologist with us today,” His lips are stretched thin into a smile that resembles a grimace more than anything. There’s scattered laughter, and the lady beside him, poised as ever, taps him on the shoulder. “My apologies,” He straightens up immediately, “Ask away.”

“Thank you,” She responds coolly when she is anything but, “You- I mean you have to admit that it’s strange to behave that way with your daughter of all people, otherwise there wouldn’t be accusations in the first place,” Claire challenges him with a tilt of her head, he mirrors it.

The lady taps his shoulder once more, leans down once more, whispers conspicuously, they nod to each other. A gesture to someone behind the camera is made, and then, much to Claire’s clear dismay: “We’re sorry to cut this short—“

The video ends, and the opening frame pops up once more. Huh. So President Kennedy is tonguing his daughter on the side. Maybe you need to pay more attention to things that are actually important, or you need to listen to Claire more often unless she’s failed to mention the most interesting part of whatever case she’s building. As far as you’re concerned, if voting doesn’t go in the red, you’re fine. Claire says being a centrist is the worst thing you can be, it’s just that you’ve got your own shit to worry about. Work, college, Claire, family. It takes up your life. You pitch in to vote for whoever’s democratic, watch the descent into chaos and forget about it in a week as most do, an attempt to forget the state of the country.

You wonder what she looks like. His daughter. If it’s worth risking the presidency over incest she must be a cutie. And she is indeed, cute like a teacup terrier, you can see why he’d be balls deep— but that is purely because you’re a bit of a horndog. Harvard Law School, a privilege you’re sure, girl looks like a total ditz. Barbie doll legs, the palest of blondes, and her smile is adorable. Not like her father’s smarmy one in the slightest, sweet and genuine for a girl whose teeth look done. Braces? Veneers? Not a single gap between them, not a single one out of place, not a single one is coffee stained.

The headlines pretty much say the thing. Kennedy fucks his daughter. Kennedy said she reminds him of Marilyn, so what does that make him if he’s a Kennedy? Truly, they harp on about it with no proof, apart from that photo of them too close for comfort— And the other one where they’re too close for comfort— And the last one where they’re too close for comfort.

Claire returns in the early hours of the morning, her jacket squeaks when she takes it off, hanging it the back of the vanity chair. She gets into bed, touches your hand to check if you're awake, her eyes sparkle even in the dark when she asks, “Did you see it?”

“Mhm,” You pinch her doughy cheek when she grins, “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Claire says, head dipping to rest in the hollow of your neck, “I got cut off at the last minute.”

“I saw… He got touchy about the daughter-fucker thing.”

“He always does,” She huffs out air through her nose, “Only people who fuck their daughters get defensive when people accuse them of fucking their daughters. Oh, and his wife, she doesn’t go to a single event, it’s always Ashley, Ashley, Ashley— it’s so fucking strange.”

“True,” Your fingers slip beneath the loops of her hair tie, loosening her ponytail, sometimes you fear it’ll come off clean with how tight she makes it. It’s like Claire’s intention is to recede her hairline on purpose. “What can you do though, right?”

Her lack of response is eerie, you pass it off as her falling asleep. She’s had a long day, an exciting one at that, Claire’s likely just crashing. So you kiss her head, let her nestle into your chest, the spot where she’s most comfortable.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Giving your girlfriend the benefit of the doubt when she’s putting you up to the most outrageous scheme quite possibly ever is hard. “I have work, Claire.”

“Work can wait, babe, this is seriously important, it means a lot for America’s future,” Ugh, you don’t like when she talks like that. Sounds like a propaganda poster come to life.

“I don’t care about America’s future, I care about mine, babe, I care about ours, I don’t think Kennedy fucking his kid has anything to do with America’s future.”

“Babe, America’s future is our future,” She insists, “I won’t ask of you ever again,” Claire clasps her hands together, kneels in front of you as if you’re in fresco on the ceiling of a half-painted chapel, as if Claire Redfield, famous and outspoken atheist activist is the most pious woman to set foot in the USA.

“I have work, I have to get ready, I don’t have time for this.”

“See, this is what I mean, you’re so—“ Before her frustration reaches its boiling point, you watch Claire mouth the words one, two, three and onwards to fifteen. “Baby, darling,” She cups your cheeks, “This would mean the world to me when I say I would never bother you again with my shit, I promise. Pinky swear.”

“Don’t call me darling,” You wriggle out of her grip, “I can’t risk another day off, Claire.”

“There’s an opening in the office,” She offers, “It’s not much, but it’s better than what you’re doing now.”

“How so?” Your interest is piqued.

“Desk job,” Claire shrugs, “It’s easy, babe, you’re smart, too smart for retail.”

“I am too smart for retail,” You agree with a sigh, it keeps you on your feet all day, then you end up blowing your paycheck on pedicures.

“You are,” She coos, kissing the back of your hand as if you’re the most delicate thing since butterflies, “And you’ll do so well, that’s why I want you to do it, babe, ‘cause I just know you’re the only one who could do it,” Flattery does get Claire somewhere, it gets her in your good books, “The, uh, you don’t mind the, uh, y’know, incest part.”

“He’s not my dad, she’s not my sister.” Detaching yourself from the incestuous element would be best, you don’t know if you have a strong enough stomach to handle it in any other way.

“You can’t kiss me,” Claire frowns, her professional face on, “From now on, we can’t be seen with each other, okay?”

“Babe,” You pout, she scowls, “You look so good tonight, I don’t want to leave you.” The notched lapels of her suit make her shoulders look broader, you want to drag your nails over the cashmere, over her tender skin.

“Your name is on the guest list,” Your alias, she means, you don’t know how she did it, but Claire manages to manage, “Please…” Don’t fuck this up for me, you assume, “Good luck, okay?”

The security process is tedious, they drone on and on about a topic in which you have no knowledge, they pat you down— Should they be doing this to someone who might be an esteemed guest?

You pass through, the crowd is full of beautiful girls with made-up faces and dark ringlets and dresses like wedding cakes. There’s less than savoury men. She doesn’t stand out in a crowd like this, but you spot her anyway. Nobody in their right mind would wear that shade of orange. Ashley Kennedy, according to your girlfriend, is fucking her father, and so she is clinically and mentally and psychically and biologically and any other ally insane. So, yes, she would wear rust orange proudly, she would go out of her way to purchase a floor-length evening gown in that exact colour. Just to prove that, yes, she is indeed fucking her dad. Would calling it quits at this very moment be justifiable to Claire? Would your reasoning be enough to accuse a girl of fucking her father?

To your utter astonishment, both Mrs and Miss Kennedy approach you first, both as in Ashley. As she is both his wife and daughter if Claire’s deduction is correct.

“Hi,” Ashley’s smile is as perfect as it was in the tabloids, her skin is dewy, and her lashes light with no attempt to darken them. It would look unnatural.

“Hi,” You grin back at her, focus on the pendant that swings low, a silver eagle that sits cushdy between her perky tits.

“Daddy told me I had to—“ Her face drops for a split second, “Oops,” She covers her mouth, swallows back a nervous giggle, “Dad told me I had to socialise, make connections,” She imitates his formalities, “Oh, gosh, I am totally being so rude right now!” Ashley waves her hands at you, “My daddy- Dad is the president, sorry to come onto you like that like you were supposed to know, gosh, I’m Ashley by the way.”

“I know,” You take her hand in yours when she offers it, squeeze it warmly, “Don’t sweat it, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t know you.”

“Right, right, I guess that’s true,” She hiccups, “Sorry, god, champagne, I’m so new to drinking, I really don’t think it’s for me.” This girl is making it too easy for you.

“You just haven’t tried the right one, I love your dress by the way, colour brings out your eyes.” Like how grass brings out the pumpkins on a pumpkin patch.

“Oh my goodness, thank you!” Ashley follows after you, lost and clinging to the person she has deemed friendliest.

“Have you ever had a French martini?”

“Oh, no, what’s that? It sounds exotic.” She’s bubbly, excitable, so sweet you almost feel bad setting her up like this.

“Do you like pineapple?”

Ashley ponders, “Only juice, eating pineapple eats at my tongue, I totally know that’s what it does, but still it feels so weird.”

“You’ll like this then.” You assure her, and she bobs her head up and down in agreement, her trust for you is unconditional within five minutes flat. Claire deserved that spot at Harvard.

“There’s vodka in it,” She hums, “Daddy,” Her third slip-up of the night, “Dad doesn’t even let me near vodka.”

“Really?” You raise a brow, then your glass and she does the same.

“Never, he sucks when it comes to me doing, like, adult things,” Her nose twitches at the first sip, she reminds you of a bunny, an energiser bunny.

“Like what?”

“Drinking, driving, partying,” Ashley lists off, “He’s okay, but he’s protective, I know it comes with, like, president’s daughter territory, it just totally sucks!”

Drinking, driving, partying— Dad doesn’t mind when she’s doing adult things like sucking his dick though. That’s not a problem!

“I like you,” Ashley says, two French martinis and one cosmopolitan in, “You’re so fun, I don’t really get to meet people other than, like, the one daddy introduces me to. Don’t get me wrong, I get it, I’m privileged so I talk to privileged people, but they’re so…”

“Stuck up,” You finish for her, “I didn’t expect you to be so sweet.”

“Oh, I can see why, I get it, I’m not offended or anything,” She sighs softly, gazes at the chandelier as if she longs for more than ball gowns and Havard and spending her days shifting idly through the clothing racks at Dolce & Gabbana while her daddy lounges on the chaise chairs. “I just think you’re so down to earth,” Poor thing, it’s a shame she’s fucking her dad, you hope to uncover an entirely different truth, that they’re close and it’s nothing more, “Who did you come with by the way?”

“I’m a plus one,” You knock back your drink, grip tightening on the glass, “No one important, just lucky, I guess.”

“Huh,” Ashley takes in your words, she nods, another drink slips down easily, and by the end of it, she is clinging to your arm like you mean the world to her, “You should sooo come back to my room!” Her words slur until her sentence is more of a single word, “We could have fun,” Whether she’s soliciting sex or she wants your company, you don’t mind, “Me and daddy are staying here tonight.”

“Really?” You ask, as if Claire hadn’t briefed you on the room number prior to this, “Then I guess I wouldn’t mind coming.”

“Yay!” Her security detail emerge from the crowd, and you’re dumb for not having noticed them beforehand, but what Ashley says goes. “Gosh, you don’t have to tell, daddy, he’s busy right now. No, we’ll be fine, you can leave us to it, when daddy’s done then he’ll come up.”

An elevator ride up and up and up to the top floor, through the stretch of hall to the finest suite. Ashley is high energy, for a lack of better words, she is tiring. She kicks off her heels, still stands tall, modelesque in shape. Boyish hips jutting out of her square torso. The key card is left on the side when she’s not paying attention, which luckily for you is most of the time, you slide it beneath the door frame and shoot a text to Claire who is hovering nearby. A minute later, she confirms her success.

“Ugh, I was so over it,” Ashley groans, “Do you mind helping me out of this?”

“Of course not,” You say smoothly, wondering if this is an invitation to something more. The silk of her dress is made by the wealthiest of silkworms, just as you get your hands on her, the door unlocks.

“Ashley,” President Kennedy is panting like he ran up all twenty-nine flights of stairs at the Fairmont, “Princess, you worried me.”

“Daddy, you scared me, you scared us,” She gasps, he’s swift in his steps, tips her chin upwards as if he’s checking for damage on her angel face, he thumbs her smeared lipstick.

“Did you kiss… Did you?” Kennedy’s eyes flit from your lips to Ashley’s, you wonder why he’s so wound up about a kiss, must be the incest. Her lipstick is smeared on the rim of her martini glass, not your lips.

“What? Daddy, no, don’t be silly, not yet at least,” She makes her intentions clear, “I thought you were busy, daddy.”

“Ashley, I’m not too busy for you, I have things to oversee, but…”

As your father, I have to oversee your sex life, Ashley! I demand to watch!

“But, what?” Ashley cocks her head to the side, her hands running along the shape of his shoulders, then downwards over his chest.

“You’re more important, you know that.” Kennedy strokes her head, she bats her lashes at him, they’re barely visible so it’s more a flurry of blinks.

“Oh, daddy, you’re so sweet,” She giggles, puckers her lips and the sentiment is shared between them— They kiss like lovers do, dirtier than you and Claire. Unaffected, Ashley looks over his shoulder at you, “We can still have fun,” She promises, “Daddy can just watch, won’t you?”

Jesus Christ. Now that you’re actually faced with it. Incest in the flesh. It’s nerve-wracking. How is one meant to digest incest?

“Ashley, I don’t watch you catching anything nasty,” He tries to be discreet, you hear him loud and clear.

“Daddy,” She scolds, hitting his chest. He shucks off his suit jacket, laying it out on the back of the chair adjacent to the Alaskan king bed that could fit a family of five let alone the three of you. He sits, stares at you with his glassy eyes. President Kennedy is handsome in real life, you kind of get the appeal now, the camera does add ten pounds, ages him by ten years too apparently. There is something about him that is effortlessly masculine yet soft, sweet almost.

Ashley’s dress comes off next, she cares little for the way it is left wrinkled on the ground, her hand finds its way between your thighs. She’s not inexperienced. She knows her way around your body like she would her father’s. Her fingers are long and slim, nimble when the pads come to ghost your clit, lifting back the hood to press her thumb into it.

Instinctively, your hips buck into her hand, she kisses you, smiling into your mouth. Claire is at the forefront of your mind, she’d given you the permission to do this, but it feels wrong still. The incest feels even worse. You’ve been trying to ignore it so far, pretend it’s just Ashley here. Ashley’s lips on yours, her fingers in your cunt, her tits pressed flush to your chest— His eyes are so blue.

Ashley scissors you open with two fingers, you suck on her tit, both of you tangled up within each other. Pulling off with a pop, she takes out her fingers and you’re left empty. You taste yourself on her tongue, on her fingers and grow sick of it.

“C’mere,” You take the pillow that’s propped up against the headboard and slot it underneath her hips to keep ‘em raised. Ashley’s cunt is perfect like the rest of her. You wonder if there are procedures to get it this pink, her labia pokes out past her parted pussy lips as does her swollen clit, you give a tentative lick to her cunt, unsure of how she likes it. Claire likes it messy, but Ashley’s rich, she might like it classy. You could eat pussy classy if you tried hard enough.

She lies back, her head sunken into the mass of pillows - the one you had taken barely left a dent in the pile, her tits are small but round and her nipples are pointed and as pink as her pussy. Ashley takes initiative, daddy’s been giving it to her real sloppy it seems, ‘cause she pushes your face into it. Your nose bumps her clit and she sighs sweetly when your tongue works its merry way up her slit, from her slick hole to her twitching bud that you pay extra special attention to. It deserves it, pretty like a pearl, wrap your lips around it and suck till her thighs close around your head.

“Outta the way,” Mr. President, fully clothed, cock hard straining in his slacks, takes Ashley’s leg and spreads her further, “Keep it there for daddy, princess.”

When you lift your head out of pure curiosity, he kisses you, jams his tongue into your mouth to taste you like your tongue wasn’t just jammed in his daughter’s cunt. His daughter who is spread-eagle on the bed for The United States of America. Though, from the way they’re behaving, Ashley is a renowned patriot, this isn’t her first time confessing her love for all things red, white, and blue. And rust orange.

Dumbfounded by his takeover of the pussy you were having so much fun eating, you crawl back over to Ashley while daddy blows raspberries on her clit, spits on the First Daughter’s, his first daughter’s, cunt like she’s a corner whore.

“Daddy,” Ashley moans, she’s unabashed, grabs his hair and forces him deeper, she tells you to suck on her tits, she’s bossy when it comes to sex. Mastered the art of fucking.

“I’ve got you, princess,” Her daddy says, he can talk while he’s eating it, impressive if you do say so yourself. The most you can do is go down on Claire till you get lightheaded, breathing is out of the question.

She cums sweetly because there is no other way in which Ashley can behave. The blood that runs through her is inherently sweet unlike her father’s. Mr. Kennedy slurps away even as she jolts due to aftershocks, he’s intent on drying her out.

When he does decide to join the two of you above, it’s to press kisses into Ashley’s neck, to sniff her perfume, “Good girl,” He praises, “Daddy’s good girl.” Those lines sound like something out of a cheap porno. Hard to believe that it’s real. That you seriously just sat there and got cucked by Ashley’s father.

“Thank you, daddy,” Ashley giggles, stroking through his dark hair as he suckles on her nipple, spit stringy on his lips and her breast when he pulls back. “No, not me,” She refuses when he, with his slacks mid-thigh, presses his cock to her inner thigh, “I want to watch you, daddy.”

See, you’ve taken dick, you take Claire’s silicone dick often. Taking presidential dick, it’s new to you. Presidential dick that could’ve possibly at any time today been lodged inside his little girl, meaning you’re being double dicked not only by a presidential cock, but an incestuous one. It’s fat, browner than it is pink, uncut, the tip is leaky like nobody’s business.

“Aw, oh my gosh,” Ashley coos, “Don’t be scared, you’ve got this!” Your nerves don’t stem from taking his mediocre, prized dick, but from everything else about this situation. “Daddy’s good at it, it never hurts.” She holds your hand, brings it to her lips to kiss, fluffs the pillows and peppers kisses all over your face as President Kennedy, a man of assumed integrity pushes your legs to your chest.

His cock rubs up and down your cunt, catches on your clit, the fat tip is sucked into your stretched hole and inch by inch he forces his way into your hole. With each inch, not that there’s many, it gets thicker, till the base is engulfed into your greedy pussy. Ashley wipes the sweat from your brow, “Isn’t it good?” She gushes, “Daddy’s just the best, I don’t think I could ever be with anyone else, he’s just so good at it, isn’t he?” In response to her blabbing, you can only whimper, giving a quick bob of your head to satisfy her.

Inside of you, each vein embeds itself into your walls, the head jabs at your cervix painfully, and most of all it feels stupidly good. His cock is thick and sturdy like all good dicks should be. And he’s fucking you like he hates you. Which he does. Deep, hard, slow and nasty.

“Is it good, daddy?” Ashley asks innocently enough, her hand rests on your tummy, grows bored and trails lower to flick at your clit.

“Not as good as you, princess, never,” Comes his instant answer. You take offence to this and clench around him so tight he groans and his head drops to your neck, lips on your collarbone. There’s a sticky sound each time he draws his hips back and pushes in, you’re dripping for Ashley, for him— You don’t know anymore, head so clouded you’ve let the incest slip.

“Aw, daddy!” She places a hand over her heart, then she’s back to pinching your clit between her fingers, forcing you to unravel.

His thrusts are deliberate, mean, and he fucks you like it’s all your fault. As if he doesn’t get to hump Ashley at all times of the day. The squelch of your cunt is embarrassing enough for you to be over and done with, each stroke is a hit on your ego and on your cervix, the latter being a more delicious hit, but a hit nonetheless. When he cums, he does it on your stomach in white, watery ropes, and it pools in your belly button as you writhe with the immense pleasure he and his disgusting cock have bought you. Ashley’s bony fingers helped to some degree.

“Is it my turn now?” Ashley perks up when her dad kisses her all sloppy on the mouth, spit and drool included.

“Give daddy a minute, princess, I can’t keep up with you,” He chuckles, pats her head, they’ve started their incestuously affectionate display, so you cover yourself up and shoot Claire a second message while they begin to act lovey-dovey in bed. Let their guard down, and you hate to do this to such a lovely girl, but your girlfriend is an even lovelier girl.

Soon enough, she and the gaggle of reporters burst through the doors, flashing cameras in hand. Ashley was foolish for letting off her security detail for the night, President Kennedy is the bigger fool, and Claire, well, you’ve never seen her smile so big.

#leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut

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lemonlover1110 · 3 months

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𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤

Suguru Getou & Kento Nanami

[Chapter 3] Awkwardness

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Pairing: Suguru Getou x f!Reader x Kento Nanami

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Kento thinks that he should ask you out on a date but the nerves get to him at the mere thought of it. He’s so scared of rejection and ruining your friendship, so he’d rather just suffer silently through his feelings. But he thinks about how you act a lot like a couple, and that his second thoughts are holding back from something that could be amazing.

He also doesn’t want to take your attention away from your daughter but Kento guesses that you should start dating someone eventually. He’s also a perfect candidate since he loves Sayuri as if she were his own– But he also risks losing that if you reject him.

You invited him to join you for dinner, and he holds a bottle of wine for you two to share, and a toy for Sayuri. He knocks on the door, waiting for you to open the door and let him inside. He’s thinking if tonight is the right night to ask you out on a date, maybe during dinner he can suggest going out or after. He doesn’t have everything planned out yet, but he thinks he’s doing it tonight.

The door to your apartment opens, and Kento almost sighs when Suguru opens the door. Suguru rolls his eyes, but allows Kento inside because he can’t dictate who is and who isn’t allowed in your home. The last thing Suguru needs right now is another argument with you. Kento walks past Suguru without saying a word, and the moment he steps into the apartment, a sweet little voice yells his name which makes him crouch down to the floor to receive the hug Sayuri runs to give him.

“Do you want to see my new toy?” Sayuri asks when she pulls away, and Kento shows her the toy that he just got for her, which makes her gasp. She snatches it from his hands and runs to the living room to open it.

“What do you say, Sayuri?!” You yell, walking out of the kitchen to greet Kento. He chuckles handing you the bottle of wine before giving you a side hug.

“It’s fine, she’s just excited.” Kento says, and you click your tongue. Of course he’d say that, he supports anything and everything Sayuri does. But luckily it’s not a problem since Kento is just an uncle, for now at least. It’s a problem when Suguru does it.

“Sayuri!” You raise your voice, and she pouts before saying,

“Thank you, Nanamin.” Kento chuckles, putting his hands in his pockets as he walks to the kitchen. He manages to completely ignore Suguru, putting all his attention on you.

“Would you like a glass?” You ask Kento and he nods in response. You then look at Suguru who nods in response. You serve three glasses, handing the first one to Kento, and keeping one to yourself. The last one is left on the counter for Suguru to grab, and he rolls his eyes because you don’t bother handing it to him. He does know that you aren’t in his good graces because he’s been lacking as a parent lately and he’s been too noisy about your private life.

“There’s this new restaurant that opened near my apartment, do you want to go over the weekend?” Kento questions and you nod in response.

“Woah, not so fast. We have plans, remember?” Suguru chimes in, and Kento glares at the man. Plans? What could you two possibly do? Kento often forgets that Suguru is not just a pesky little bug that bothers your life but also the father of your child.

“Right… We have our little family trip over the weekend. I forgot.” You say, and Suguru sighs at the evident disappointment in your voice. You’d invite Kento along but you know the whole trip will be tense– Kumi is joining you though, so how much different could it possibly be if Kento tags along. “You should join us.”

“No! Absolutely not.” Suguru immediately replies, and you glare at him. Suguru takes his glass of wine and walks away before you can start an argument. He knows you won’t argue in front of Sayuri, so that’s where he goes.

“I’ll argue about it later.” You tell Kento, and he chuckles.

“Is it okay? I’ll just make things awkward.” Kento says. He would love to join you and spend time with you, but he doesn’t want to ruin a family moment for Sayuri. He can sit it out.

“Kumi is coming, she’s already making things awkward. If he can bring someone that will ruin my trip, I can bring someone that can ruin his.” You share, and that’s perfect reasoning for Kento. Still, he isn’t quite sure what you’re doing so maybe he should ask before deciding to agree. It’s like you read his mind though, and you tell him, “We’re going to the beach. Suguru got a house for the weekend and we’re staying there.”

“That sounds… Fun.” Kento is surprised that Suguru is actually doing all of this– You’ve been complaining non-stop about him because he has been lacking as a father. In other words, choosing Kumi over Sayuri, simply because Kumi hates your guts and Sayuri never wants to leave your side. “How big is this house though?”

“Three bedrooms. I’ll get Sayuri to sleep with me– Which is going to happen either way, especially since we’re sleeping somewhere she doesn’t know.” You answer. You check on the food before the two of you walk to the living room to take a seat. A subtle smile comes over Kento’s lips when he notices Sayuri playing with the toy he bought.

“Mommy…” Sayuri drags out, and you hum in response. “I’m hungry.”

“Dinner is almost ready, baby. Just a couple more minutes.” You say, and she sighs. You glance at Suguru, watching how he’s focused on the TV, tense that he’s near Kento. He’s clearly annoyed which annoys you. You clear your throat before ordering, “Go set the table, Suguru.”

“I can do it.” Kento offers, but you glare at him which causes him to remain in his seat. Suguru sighs, standing up from the couch to do as you say. Suguru usually sets the table without being asked to, and without a problem, but it seems that when Kento is around, he has to have an attitude with everything.

“I wanna help!” Sayuri stands up with a bright smile on her face. She follows her daddy around, hoping that he’ll let her set the utensils down on the table. You both know that she’ll grow up and hate having to do it.

“What a dandy helper you have.” Kento comments, and you hum in response, a chuckle coming from your lips.

“But tell her to clean up her toys and she’ll throw a fit.” You say, and he laughs. You stand up when the table is set, and you begin to serve the food. Sayuri is sat first, eating away all the food that you gave her because she’s so hungry.

“Is it good, Sayuri?” Kento asks, watching her devour her food. It’s no surprise to him when she nods in response. Sayuri is a fairly picky eater, if she wasn’t enjoying her food, you would know. It doesn’t matter how hungry she is, if she doesn’t like something, she won’t eat it.

You all quietly begin to eat. The table is uncomfortable to say the least, the only person that could mend things in a way is Sayuri and since she’s eating, it feels awkward to speak up. It’s fair to say that Kento won’t bother asking you out tonight because it’s certainly not the right time.

“How was work today, Kento? Did your workload lighten up?” You ask, and Kento hums in response. After a very long and busy month, he finally feels like he can breathe with his job. He tells you a bit of what’s going on, and you listen attentively. Suguru plays with his food, bored out of his mind. You notice and you ask, “Did you not like the food or something?”

“It’s good. I’m just full.” Suguru puts his fork down, which causes Sayuri to do the same. You can’t have him in your home because Sayuri mimics just about everything her father does. You knew you made a mistake by inviting Kento to dinner.

You can’t help but sigh, but you’ve learned your lesson.

You ask Kento to leave after dinner since you have to chat with Suguru about a couple of things. You order Suguru to put Sayuri to bed so you can talk. It’s a little earlier than usual, and Sayuri protests the sudden change, but she’s knocked out when Suguru finishes reading her bedtime story. And when he’s out, you’re on the couch, your eyes set on your phone as you scroll through social media. He clears his throat to catch your attention.

“So… What did you want to chat about?” Suguru asks which makes you put your phone down. You watch him as he walks to the couch and takes a seat next to you.

“What do you think I want to talk about?” You respond, and Suguru puffs out a breath. He doesn’t want to talk about your stupid friend, he doesn’t want to waste his energy on that. You move your legs, putting them on top of his thighs so he can’t move from his seat, and he rolls his eyes in response. “You have to be nicer to Kento.”

“Now, why would I do that?” Suguru’s annoyance is evident in his voice, which makes you click your tongue. It’s as if Suguru doesn’t want you to move on with someone better– Because that’s what Kento is, better than him. As a partner at the very least, Kento would be ideal.

“He’s my best friend... You at least can try to get along with him.” You say, which causes the man to furrow his brows. He really wishes you would realize just how smitten Kento is with you. He doesn’t treat you and Sayuri so well because he’s a great friend, it’s clear that Kento just wants to get into your pants. He knows that you’ve been together (from what you’ve told him), but Kento wants more.

Or maybe Suguru is just jealous because he’s scared that Sayuri will have another father figure that will be better than him. At least you didn’t mention wanting to date Kento, which brings some ease to Suguru’s poor mind.

“I guess… I’ll try to be nicer to him for you. Just don’t invite him to our little dinners, because I might as well invite Kumi as well.” Suguru responds, his hands resting on your legs. He throws his head back, a sigh escaping his lips.

“What’s wrong with you?” You ask, wondering why he sighs all of a sudden. Suguru looks tired, overworked. You know he’s taking more clients than usual, working on days that he usually takes off. You have an idea on why he’s saving up but you’re going to let him share it with you instead of straight up asking him.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” He responds. Suguru watches as you unlock your phone. You look for something, and when you find it, you practically shove the phone in his face.

“Look at this picture I took of Sayuri– She loves going into my closet and putting on my heels.” You share, and Suguru chuckles as he looks at his three-year-old daughter who tries on shoes that are far too big for her. You usually send pictures of her throughout the week but sometimes you’re too caught up in your own world that you forget about Suguru. It’s easy to forget about Suguru when he doesn’t make himself known.

“Send me that.” He tells you, and you hum in response.

You sit in silence for a couple of minutes. Usually you try to talk but Suguru is too tired to keep up with a conversation. You have a good relationship with each other when others aren’t involved so conversation flows easily; the only time conversation is forced, is when either of you is accompanied by someone else.

“I should get going.” Suguru says, lightly tapping your legs. You take your legs off him, and he stands up. He begins to walk to the door, and before leaving he tells you, “I’ll be here in the morning.”

#jujustu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen geto #suguru geto #getou suguru #getou #geto suguru #geto x reader #jjk geto #jujutsu kaisen suguru #jjk suguru #getou suguru x reader #kento x reader #nanami kento #kento nanami #nanami fanfic #nanamin #jjk nanami #geto fanfic

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cryptidcorners · 5 months

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Suit & Tie - Mike Schmidt x GN!Reader [ 100 Follower Special ]

Description: You've been stood up on a blind date you were deathly excited for. Miserable and smeared with disappointment, you decide to visit Mike to cool your frustrations—though, it looks like you aren't the only one having a hard night.

Media: FNaF!Movie

Character: Mike Schmidt

Tags: 100 Follower Special, Hopeless Romantic!Reader, Rough Night, Fluff, Romantic, Friends to Lovers, Confessions, Lots of Kissing, Sweet Talk, Flirting, Shy/Awkward + Tease!Mike, Slice of Life, Domestic, Mike being a Sweetheart.

No Warnings.

read my TOS + Mike Schmidt Masterlist

It was one of the worst nights of your life.

You had fixed yourself a wispy, rich fit for your blind date. As well as saving up enough to pay and have some leftovers to indulge in last-minute activities. Blinded by excitement, you had prepared too much for your own good, and ended up waiting in your booth until after hours. Wrecked with frustration, you began to march outside to hook a taxi driver to drive you home silently. Only to realize a storm you hadn't expected muddied up the roads and made it almost impossible for someone to risk their time for a hopeless romantic like yourself.

So, now you were straying along the lines streets lightly flooded with blankets of darkened rainwater that were filling your shoes and weighting your fabrics. Disaster unveiled within your already distressed twister of a mind, as well as regret and heartbreak. You felt like an oblivious character thrown into the spotlight with a single to be humiliated and ragdolled. You couldn't believe your date had done that. All those bubbly giggles across the phone line, smooth walks in the park. You hugged yourself in an attempt to warm your frosted skin, as well as applying some solo comfort. Hot breaths tunneled out of your throat desperately to challenge your aches, blowing on your timid hands didn't give you a lick of justice. Nor hope.

How badly you wanted to go home and sink into a mindless of blue-screened entertainment from your glitching television to forget everything. To just pass away after all this cruel effort and embarrassment.

Had you really felt so connected to your date? To somebody you'd talk to over a table dressed with scarlet and a vased batch of yellow tulips within the center? Did you think it would work? To click with somebody—it felt so foreign, so alien, so unreal. You hardly knew them, but you still made the glorious effort to fall into available arms at any chance. To be cradled lovingly, to be covered in soft kisses, to be cared for. Would you ever find that?

Your eyes narrowed as tears mixed in with the shower above the black sky. Would you?

As silence crept into your conscience, you heard a voice thorned into your attention. You jolted up, eyes flickering like some startled deer. You wondered if you had imagined it, and your energy halted.

“—Hey! What are you doing outside?” Your eyes veered towards a tall house, drenched in shadow and fog. It was Mike, calling your name. Suddenly, you felt your heart throb intensely, from not only the sight of him, but from embarrassment. You chewed your lip at the thought of Mike strolling past his dripping windows and seeing your figure, head down getting soaked by the rain. You could draw him being incredibly startled in your head.

“Hey?” Mike echoed. “You’re soaked! Come—Get over here!” Now knowing you couldn’t ignore his signals to warm hospitality, you sailed across the street. Almost limping as you felt incredibly uncomfortable at the feel of mushy socks growing heavy in your pooled shoes. You huffed, scrambling up the steps to meet Mike’s gaze. His wear was surprisingly lacking that cozy picture you had seen so many times. Instead, he was sharp. Ruffled curls now backed and silky, face lightly shaved and his wear neatly ironed. Your face flushed nervously, “Hey. Hey, how are you?” You sheepishly smiled. It was a pathetic attempt to look grounded, but you couldn’t help yourself. Feeling vulnerable in front of him tugged you in a way you couldn’t explain, as if you had to impress him somehow.

Yet, despite his golden appearance, he looked defeated, and heartbreakingly exhausted. You desperately wanted to kiss his pain away, or see his face light up with that infectious grin you could never mentally shut up about. Mike stepped aside, inviting you inside. “Don’t worry about me just yet. Come inside,” he said and once you entered, Mike unleashed a concern lurking in his mind, “weren’t you supposed to be on a date? A—what’s it called? A blind date?”

“A blind date.” You confirmed, eyes awkwardly flicked on the mud and storm you were dragging on his hardwood. Mike noticed and stammered quickly, “I can get you a towel, or something. Coffee?” He scrambled quickly to his kitchen, flicking on the light after holding onto your gaze for much longer than he wanted. Before you could speak, you could already hear the flicker of the stove. Mike called over, gripping a bag of coffee beans that was light from great useage. You wanted to deny, but you were too broken to push aside such an offer. With a slim exhale, you answered shyly, “That’d be nice, thank you.”

As the smell of brew calmed your senses, you relaxed on one of the dining room chairs. Mike turned back to you, smiling, “Right, so. What happened? I thought you wouldn’t be here until midnight?” His gaze hung to the bubbling coffee in the pot, opening up the cabinets to prepare a decorated cup. “Was the date early? Oh, traffic?”

“No, oh God, no.” You huffed, “I got stood up.” you said casually, and you heard something clatter from the surprise. Mike immediately turned to you, shocked. Without the context, you would probably laugh at his dumbfounded expression. You cleared your throat, “It’s—fine, really. We didn’t even know each other that well,”

Mike poured the coffee with his eyes occasionally flickering towards you. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,”

“No, really.” Mike approached, “Here–,” and you whispered your thanks. “I just didn’t expect you to get up like that, you know? And you had to walk home? I could drive you back after you get dried up, you know it’s never a problem for me.”

You breathed heavily, “Thanks, Mike. But, I think I’ll be walking home. You’ve already made me coffee.” you humored. “I think I’ll be fine.” Despite the feel your cup resembling cinder against your fingertips, you still swallowed and cringed at the heat. Though, it pumped some warmth through your veins despite lightly damaging your throat.

Then, you felt your skin grow hot as he leaned close to you. “I insist.” Typically, Mike getting close to you wasn't all that rare, it was just something he did. Though, tonight felt different. “I’ve had a rough night too, and me helping you could make us both feel better.” He explained, “Of course, you don’t––you don’t have to. I’m just, suggesting.” Mike pulled away.

You were fond of his quick rambling, so this question was plastered with a smile, “So, what happened to you, handsome?”

“Fired.” He stated.

“What?” You coughed, regretting your playful tone in a flash. “Mike, that’s horrible!” That explained why he looked like that. His gaze washed, “I know, but, I have a lot of other numbers in my cabinet. I could look, they seem to pay well.”

He sat next to you, “It’s not as bad as what happened to you, though. I haven’t even told Abby yet.” Mike sighed. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Mike,” you were shocked. “Don’t compare what went down tonight for you, that’s—terrible, I can’t even grasp how sorry I am for you.” You cleaned your coffee-stained lips. Mike’s eyes had been particularly hyper focused on your expressions, your body language, your lips. Just to name a few. Mike shrugged as you leaned forward slightly, “I guess we didn’t get what we wanted.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” Mike suggested. You were immediately confused, “What do you mean?” you hadn’t realized how quiet everything had gotten. Even the rain pitter patting against the window had no affect, it was only you and Mike. Paired up with your warm breathing. Mike’s eyes, for once, were maintaining contact. “I mean, I can still tell you how I feel. Like, how pretty you are. And how much I wish I could give your date a piece of my mind right now.” His laugh had always enchanted you. There was something so healthy and wonderful about it. It sounded as if nothing terrible happened to him, that he was content. Mike’s face flushed, “I’m sorry, am I going too far?” he asked breathlessly. As if he weren't tearing you to shreds right here and there. If he knew he was such a tease you doubt you'd be the victim of so many oblivious moments where you swore you were going to faint due to Mike's antics.

You whispered as your tone grew intimate, "No. It looks like you have more to say,"

"Well, I can say whatever you want me to." Mike's voice mirrored yours, and he dragged his chair. Your legs were touching, yet you pretended not to notice. You knew you were so lovesick, and that you could possibly be romantically interested in your best friend. The man that had always been there for you. His attitude was a flux, and Mike was raising his head with a sluggish grin as if he were surprised he uttered such a line. Which somehow made him more desirable in your world.

"I won't tell you anything. You need to tell me honestly." You toyed, "I know you're holding back."

Mike exhaled, "You know you're opening a door you can't close, right?"

"Maybe I want the risk." You tried to stay stable, "Who said I was scared?"

"Nobody."

"You looked like you were implying it, Mike."

He answered with a low chuckle, "So, you aren't going to run away?" Mike's face was dangerously close now. You could taste his breath, his skin was fresh with cheap cologne and lavender soap. Paired up with his lazy gaze and tired voice. It was enough to drive you to the edge, and you could barely muster a reply. "No."

He was so desperate for your approval, the moment you shook your head and opened your mouth, Mike was already smothering you gently. You melted into the kiss, your wet clothes and skin dimming onto his neat fit. Mike's hands were secure around you, obviously testing the waters and going slow. Meanwhile, you were needy. And desperate. And a little new. Both of you were, but that was the magic wasn't it? You had always prayed Mike would be the first person you would kiss. Even if it didn't cradle romantic context. You just wanted him. His giggles, his kisses, his kindness, his love. You wanted his love more than anything it hurt your heart how much, your passion burning in your gut.

You were both growing tired of sitting, so you stood up, growing handsy and messy. It wasn't until Mike found your neck, you folded. Before you could sink into pure joy in the moment, Mike pulled away, gasping. "I'm sorry, you're just standing. Are you okay?"

"More than okay,"

"Well, good, because I—" you cut him off, dragging him by only his tie and your lips to his couch. Passion stirred within the air as you began to unveil his collar and pepper his throat. Where, surprisingly, he was most ticklish. Mike was giggling the whole time, while also growing antsy. You had no concept of how long you two were making out for. Maybe a couple minutes? An hour? You didn't care, even if it hurt your lips, you wanted to be with him. With Mike. Somebody who understood. Your eyes grew glossy as he pulled away, catching his breath while pathetically mumbling a: "I love you, so much. So, so, so much." Then, he brought you back into his eclipse of pleasure. Everything was blurring and the only way to detect a number was by counting all the red marks on his skin because of you. It was all because of you.

You were growing crazy, humming and chuckling as your mouth grew tired of sharing oxygen with him. Once it was finally over, Mike rested his ruffled up curls against your forehead. You were more or less the same. There was silence, until you delivered: "I'm in love with you too." And it had circled, all over again. His lips and hands were on yours, just like you wanted.

Then, you both really stopped. Mike was drinking up the air robbed away from him. He giggled, face bleeding from blush from his flustered expression. "I'm sorry just—give me a second, Lord. I'm gonna pass out."

"Take it easy." You joked and you rested his head on your chest. Your skin was still radiating from your fling, and you couldn't help but blush like a teenager when he gazed up at you, eyes dark with an obvious love for you. He felt the need to repeat, "I love you."

"God, love can't even top what I feel for you." You cupped his face, "But that being said, I'll always love you more."

#💤 mike schmidt #mike schmidt #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt fluff #josh hutcherson #fnaf movie #fnaf #writers on tumblr #writing #🫢 100 followers

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seresinhangmanjake · 5 months

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From Two to Four: Part 3 - Preview

Single dad!Jake Seresin x single mom!reader

It’s your turn, and that unspoken but typically obvious courtesy has been driving you insane.

It’s been over a year since you last consistently met up with a man, and your memory had failed you, leaving you a few steps behind until you finally recalled that taking turns is how this whole thing works. There is back and forth. Vulnerability on both sides. An equal showing of interest.

Jake had broached the subject of going out on a date, but you never gave him a firm answer. You just assumed he would officially ask when he's ready. After all, he's been the one to reach out and plan all of your children's get-togethers. It seemed likely that he'd be the same when it comes to dating. But then it clicked---Jake hasn't texted you about anything other than your kids in the last thirteen days, eight hours, and—you glance at your phone's clock—seventeen minutes, give or take; A pretty strong indicator that if you want to start seeing him as more than playdate chaperones, it very much lies on your shoulders.

However, there is a touch of hesitation in taking the next step to advance your own form of playdate. You like him...a lot. Sometimes you wish you didn't, but you do, and there’s no easy excuse to give him up. He’s perfect. Stupidly handsome, smart, and a wonderful father from what you can see. He matches your openness in discussing past relationships, and most importantly: Jamie loves his daughter.

Your son and Olive Seresin are a match made in chaotic heaven; wild in their young spirits, but from their bond you sense a supportive future. One where they are always one another’s shoulder to cry on, their ear to listen, their voice of reason. Jamie needs that, and you know Olive does too.

So, you can admit, at the moment, you are the only obstacle. Your willingness to accept that Jake couldn't possibly be like Jamie’s father is easier said than done. Nick was once perfect, too, or so it seemed.

In some ways, Jake reminds you of Nick. Unfairly attractive with a megawatt smile and a sense of humor that perfectly compliments yours. That’s how Nick got you in the beginning. But he changed overnight, and your one hope that Jake won’t do the same is that he has Olive to think about. Jake knows responsibility and commitment in a way you expected of Nick but never found once it was time for him to prove himself.

But then you overthink whenever you consider what comes next if you start going out with Jake. If you develop a deeper relationship where you kiss him and sleep with him and laugh and, eventually, share thoughts of a future, what happens if it all goes to hell? Not just for you, but for Jamie? You can’t put your child’s friendship at risk. For the first time, your choice of inviting a man into your life might damage your son’s.

Your past dates never knew about Jamie. If they got too close, you cut them off, not trusting that they would treat him right or, if they did, worrying that Jamie would get attached. You couldn’t handle forcing Jamie to cope with a father figure being ripped away from him, which is another branch of your hesitation tree. Jamie looks at Olive and sees a sister. He looks at Jake and already sees a father. Your boy has an open heart and a vivid imagination that has allowed him to grow excited for a future you aren’t sure is waiting for him.

When you let your mind wander, though, you can't deny that it could be a lovely future if you give it a chance. But to do that, you would actually have to go on a date first. One that you initiate, without your children there as buffers.

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tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @ssa-sadboi @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @sailor-aviator @penguin876 @rogersbarnesxx @nani-kenobi @tgmavericklover @emilyoflanternhill @wretchedmo @shanimallina87 @crowsreadsarahjmaas @abaker74 @dizzybee03 @alana4610 @thewitchesofart @daggerspare-standingby

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #jake seresin fic #jake hangman seresin x reader #top gun #jake hangman seresin fic #top gun hangman #jake hangman seresin x y/n #dad!jake seresin #jake seresin fluff #jake seresin fanfic #jake seresin fanfiction

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tarotwithdanise · 10 months

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Your future best friend's personality

1 - 2 - 3

SOURCE AND CREDITABLE : All of the pictures are collected and downloaded from pinterest , I don’t own any of them but credits goes to the rightful owners however edits goes and the reading itself belong to me. I use the editor tools canva and ibispaint for the header and divider. If saved/downloaded the divider use a proper credits and tag/mention along my acc @tarotwithdanise. Expect grammatical errors with this reading, bear with it because english isn't my mother tongue.

💌 check out my back-up account @danisetarot bio ; click the link, choose your favorite deals that you wanted to purchase and then send all of them to my email account ([email protected])

Pile one

This is someone who already on their spiritual awakening. They are someone who you can't just tricked and fooled easily, this person makes you think twice of all your actions. They are smart people, if you play trick ways, they will know it immediately without any hesitation because they are mastermind. You will meet this person to any spiritual groups and places. It can be that this is where they work or they're someone who used to teach others. People come at them to ask for their advices, they're great mentor. They like to inspire and be inspired. They might come off as mysterious and secretive individual too. You two will create a strong foundation of friendships. It's not yet the right time to reveal themselves fully to you. But all of i had said was the highlights of them.

Pile two

-this gonna be long compared to previous pile, this person is like an open book.

If I were describe this person, they always look at the bigger picture. Most likely, this is is someone who have vision board or they already have an idea what they want to be in the future. Most likely this person is someone who have a young spirit or probably younger than you. They enjoy and love to try new things, they're adventurous and brave individual. They're quite rare individual and ready for any change that surrounds them, in fact they're risk taker and will enjoy traveling around and across each country - they're adventurous individual. I see that they're talkative individual, someone who likes to share their MU's and crushes to you. They're typically jolly and has an extrovert personality, they like encouraging people. If I am not mistaken this person is probably the one who will try to get you out of your comfort zone. I picking up a strong masculine energy so they maybe a boy? but they can also be a girl that just embodied a masculinity. The cons of their traits is that, they experience unstable mental health and might have a very childish attitude, they probably has a lot of break downs with their past that's why. It's like they see their past self to you, that's why they're trying their best to help you as they can with pure intention.

They might be young but their experiences is level up into the next level that most of their ages doesn't yet uncover. I do also see here that even though they not really a ‘star pupil’ or a ‘straight A's pupil’ their classmates or their co-workers likes them to be their leader ; someone who will guide and lead them into a project or teamwork. Some people feels very irritated towards them because they're very jolly, hyper and friendly, somehow their friendliness can affect you because you only have them while they have many choices but what's more interesting here is that they're longing always for your presence, you maybe way more matured and intelligent when it's comes to logic rather than them so this is one of reason why few people take an advantage to their innocent and kindness. And what else? They prefer and like more to share their problems and secrets to you more rather than to their other friends. Like they typically see you as their only lifetime best friend while the rest of their friends is temporary. You tickled this person heart, you got their full trust. This feels like a friendship between a straight forward and trash talker person with their wild and funny friend.

Pile three

This is someone who maybe from a well-off family, it's either the relationship with their family is okay or in other way, it's broken. This is someone who is same age as yours, they likes traveling whether inside or outside of country. They also likes country music and artists. They are not emotionally stable and may need someone to lean on. It's hard for them to somehow find balance between two choices. This friendship may lead from friends to lovers, if both of you will pursued this connection. They may not be good at decision making but they are kind person and will do everything to share the life they have to their friends and other people. This person might own atleast one pet at their home and probably someone who may like the color of black. They maybe act spoiled and stupid sometimes but they're totally kind, it's just they used to act one. They may have an unpredictable nature and maybe someone who hold a lot of responsibilities even though they can't.

#pick a card #tarot #pick a pile #free tarot reading #tarotcommunity #tarot online #pick a card reading #pick a pile reading #tarotblr #witches #tarot witch #witch #witchblr #divination #cartomancy #spirituality #fortune telling

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herebecritters · 7 months

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Welcome to my HTF blog, I have lore and gore all for you to enjoy.

What’s goin on here?

Well I make a Happy Tree Friends Au called Be Brave that delves into why htf is the way it is. Why is everyone dying all the time? Why won’t they stay dead? Why do I love laughing at their misery? What’s up with those weird little stone idols?

Well wonder no more…unless you have your own headcanons. That’s fine too. But if you’re hankering to hear my take, here’s a quick disclaimer and some convenient links to make navigating this blog a wee bit easier.

DISCLAIMER

This story and this blog is NOT intended for a child audience. There will be violence. There will be gore. There will be foul language. There will be sexual humor and adult jokes and topics. Consume at your own risk.

Ocs will play active and important roles in this story. This includes many of my friends ocs. If this is a problem then oopsie poopsie, aw well. Cry me a river.

Shipping is a thing. FlippyXFlaky is my main canon ship and it will be explored in this story. As well as a bunch of oc ships. A few other canon ships may be mentioned or shown as well. If any of this is also a problem then too bad, too sad.

Harassment is not tolerated. I am not afraid to block. I’m old and tired and I give no fucks. The real world is already enough of a stressful nightmare, and Auntie Critters needs their wine and story time to unwind. Just don’t be a dick. It’s as simple as that.

Be patient! Again, I am doing this for fun. But I want to be able to share that fun as well cus I really love the stuff I’ve been cooking for this. However, making content to convey all these ideas I have to an audience is a LOT of work. And I am doing this on my free time. So do not expect there to be a set schedule and understand that I am unfortunately a slave to the whims of my hyperfixations. But I will do my very best to deliver all these stories to you 😤

Now onto the fun stuff…

———

Quick links!

Origins of a curse series:

* Dino-Sore Days Lore

* The First Civilization (coming soon)

* The 300 Year Colony (Coming Soon)

———

Be Brave: An comedic adventure comic with notes of horror and existentialism sprinkled throughout. Follow Flaky as they are roped into saving the Isles and everyone trapped on them from an ancient and evil curse.

*To start reading the Be Brave comic, click here

———

Other links!

* Character References for the God Trio

* Lore Tag

— Paleo Files —

* Cro and Dumuzi Paleo File

*Geshtu Paleo File (Coming Soon)

*Nergal Paleo File (Coming Soon)

*Kyle the Mononykus File (Coming Soon)

*Splash the Plesiosaur File (Coming Soon)

— Tales of the Ancient Past —

* Cro and Dumuzi Backstory (Coming Soon)

* Nergal Backstory (Coming Soon)

* Geshtu Backstory

* Meeting Kyle the Mononykus (Coming Soon)

* For What it’s Surf (Coming Soon)

#happy tree friends #htf #htf ocs #htf cursed idol #flippy x flaky #htf Fancomic #htf lore #htf be Brave #htf Nergal #htf dumuzi #htf Geshtu #I have almost all these stories written #just gotta draw em #but this should make things a little more organized here #may add new links n stories in the future #a living document

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feybeasts · 6 months

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Personally, I think a lot of issues with mature tagging and such would be solved with a general visual filter one can then apply their own labeling to.

As is the conversation going around right now, “not safe for work” and “explicit” are two very different things- The former is something that could potentially get you in trouble for viewing at work or in such a setting, the latter is- depending on one’s own culture and definitions- things that are outright explicitly sexual/violent/whatever. Kink content is often the former, yet very often doesn’t actually satisfy the definition of the latter, but your options right now are “tag it mature and have it vanish from sight entirely by default” or “don’t tag it and risk having the overzealous automated moderation tag it as something “sexual” without justification.

Frankly, I think we’d be better served with a general filter that an author can choose to apply- a simple filter button that will blur an image with the choice to have a brief description of what it is and why, a bit like spoiler tagging on discord or the like. One click on the image, the filter drops, but the post itself isn’t hidden from feeds, it isn’t treated like some taboo thing that needs to be hidden away. A way to have a “woah hey don’t look at this in a public setting” filter without condemning art to an orwellian memory hole.

Letting people curate their experiences is good- I would prefer not to be flashbanged by genitalia as a matter of personal preference, but people should have the right to post their art without dooming it to a complete lack of exposure, as it stands under the current system.

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bg-brainrot · 27 days

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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 17: What We are Now

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, blood, lots of talk of blood

WC: 11.5k words, 17/?? chapters

Summary: When you’re left to your own devices, you find yourself knee-deep in mystery. Despite all of this, Astarion never leaves your mind. And perhaps you never leave his.

Ao3 | [Ch16][Ch18] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

When you awake for your twenty-second day in the house, you wonder if you should even bother counting anymore. Astarion is done with you, what use was staying for another week? Should I just… leave? You think, blinking yourself out of your reverie.

You don’t leave immediately– rather, you can’t bring yourself to. He has condemned you, called your little situation over, but he hasn’t forcibly removed you, so you sit on the bed and think.

Let’s say he really never wants to see me again… What do I do now?

Your mind answers quickly, I need to help the spawn.

Well, I can’t just stay here! … Can I?

I don’t want to go, you answer. Maybe I’ll just stay until I get kicked out?

That wouldn’t help. Astarion may only be more upset. Shouldn’t you get out before you make him hate you even more?

Maybe he just needs time, you defend. I can hope, can’t I?

You’re not sure how long you spend just thinking, but when you finally finish you decide on a few things.

First, you will stay here as long as you can, until the vampire kicks you out himself. Second, this changes nothing– you may be the only one who has the means to help the spawn and you cannot abandon them when you might be their best hope. And third, no matter how much it hurts, even if Astarion abhors you with every fiber of his being, you can’t seem to feel anything but love for him. It’s like a valve you’re no longer able to shut. So, you will simply need to see where the flow of love guides you– whether it be into the man’s arms for forgiveness or away from his disdain.

Path decided, you spend the rest of the day hard at work memorizing the cipher. You light the paper as Dal instructed, illuminating an intricate pattern of symbols and their corresponding Common counterparts. Fascinating, you think, taking a quick perusal. It seems a mixture of some elvish, some infernal, and perhaps a smidge of thief’s cant?

Several of the symbols simply make sense, clicking immediately in your mind. Others swim in front of your eyes, as you realize with growing dread that you’re starving . Not enough to warrant risking an encounter with Astarion, right? Right, you think, steadfastly focused on trying to decipher the paper.

Eventually, your hunger becomes too much for you to ignore. Spending another day without food is certainly out of the question– you’re not sure how vampires seem to do so regularly given their unrelenting hunger– so you summon your remaining courage and intone an Invisibility spell.

Now invisible, you sneak out of the room to tiptoe down to the kitchen. You pause for a brief moment on the stairs, debating whether or not you should steal Rhapsody while you’re invisible– you decide against it, afraid that going anywhere near his room could get you caught. Perhaps you should wait until it feels like you’re no longer welcome. Only then, only maybe, you should steal it as a last ditch effort.

Once in the kitchen, you grab anything that might stay well, dried fruits, nuts, grains, and slink back to your room. You never see the man you’re avoiding, but you’re certain that he knows you’re still here. How could he not?

Does he just not care? you think. The thought fills you with unease, dreading his apathy more than any amount of antipathy…

Back in your room, hunger sated, thirst quenched, and feeling more like yourself, you get back to work on memorizing the cipher. It’s easier once the growl of your stomach stills, allowing you the clarity you needed for some of the trickier symbols.

Ah, I see, you think at one point. In all of my dreams, I would never have guessed that symbol translated to this. What a clever little system. I wonder if Astarion contributed to it.

Astarion– you mind keeps coming back to the man. Despite the dull ache in your chest every time a thought of him crops up, you can’t stop thinking of him. Even now, knee-deep in research he would loathe, your mind strays to him. I wonder what he thought of it all, back when my past-self started the research. He always let them do their work before eventually distracting them away. He must have been fine with it once upon a time, albeit unenthusiastic.

You think of him once more a few hours later, once you think you’ve nearly memorized most of the cipher and recognize his name written in code on a journal entry. It takes a moment for you to translate, but it reads, “Astarion is to join me on the next expedition. If you’re reading this, love, please finish packing.” You smile at the note, wondering if Astarion did end up reading the reminder.

The smile drops when you read the next line, “We’re exploring at coordinates 38, -22, it’s our best lead yet– a bit hidden, but I’m nearly certain it’s the wizard’s tower.” You set the paper aside, wondering if it had in fact been that fateful place.

Halfway through the day, a knock comes at your door. Your heart catches in your throat. Could he be…? You head to the door cautiously, quietly, as if you could sneak up on it– As if your silence could keep the man on the other side from reconsidering and running away. Maybe he understands, maybe he spoke with Dal and finally, truly–

You open the door to see Dal, waiting patiently, a kind, open look on her face.

“Hello,” she says, bowing her head slightly. “I’m sorry to arrive here unexpectedly, but I spoke with Astarion.”

You try not to let the mention of his name affect you, or the fact that it’s not him at the door show in sheer disappointment. You’re not sure how successful you are, but your voice sounds somewhat normal when you respond, “Hi Dal, it’s alright. We, um, fought. As I’m sure he told you.” If you could call that a fight…

She nods, and you wonder what he said to her, if he was as mad at her as he was at you. “He was hoping I would talk to you, actually. To… convince you not to help us. I told him I didn’t want to do that.”

Of course she wouldn’t, or she wouldn’t have snuck in here without his knowledge in the first place. But you’re still curious where this leaves them. After all, they still clearly all care for each other. How did they all manage to stay ‘siblings’ this long, with this many disagreements? As an only child, you don’t suppose you’ll ever understand. “Is he mad at you?”

Dalyria scrunches her face a bit, as if unsure how to answer that. “Yes. But not in the way he seems to be mad at you. I won’t delude myself into thinking that any of us matter enough to Astarion to warrant more than a century of, well, brooding.”

Again, it feels like you’re speaking with an old friend– if your heart didn’t feel so thoroughly beaten, you might have even laughed along and assured her otherwise. As it was, you could only manage a simple response, “I see… So I really did ruin everything, didn’t I?”

“Hardly,” she says with the shake of her head. “He will come around. He just needs… time. And maybe for a few of us to beat him over the head.” She gives you a reassuring smile that doesn’t quite do anything to reassure you.

“Even if he has all of the time in the world, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop trying to help you, so what difference does it make?” you ask. It’s not in your nature to give up on something like this. You can tell that that runs deeper than who you are now, it’s who you’ve always been.

“We appreciate that. And I hope that Astarion will too, in due time,” she says looking down, perhaps to where Astarion may be at this very moment. “As much as he doesn’t want you to do this, he still cares about us enough to give me this chance.”

You look at her, furrowing your brows in confusion. “What does that mean?”

“I would like you to stay to help us,” she says, looking at you intensely. “But you can’t exactly stay in the colony, not with all of that… well, blood in your body. You might get eaten alive before you can read a single piece of paper.”

It makes sense– Petras had mentioned as much when you had been locked up in their cells. You can’t imagine being locked up and without magic again would be of much help anyway. “So, what’s happening? Is Astarion letting me stay here?”

She nods. “He won’t be staying here with you though. He’s still quite upset. I’ll try talking to him, of course, but we aren’t on the best of terms currently, so no promises.”

You feel a weight lift off of your shoulders. The dread you had been carrying with you all morning fades ever so slightly. Thank the gods, I have time. “How long?” you ask.

“He said you’re allowed to stay until your ‘previously agreed upon time’,” Dal intones in his voice, and you do laugh this time.

A week. Not a lot of time, but enough to at least get through some of these notes, ask Dal questions. Maybe start to look for new leads…

“Okay,” you say to her, with a firm nod. “I can work with that. Thank you, Dal.”

“It’s the least I could do,” she says, waving away your thanks. “I am aware that you’re sacrificing a lot for us. Just as you did in your past life. Know that I will never forget that.”

In this lifetime, you don’t know what it’s like to have a sibling. But gods do you wish that you could count Dal as one. You wish that you could ask her for a comforting hug, for her to listen to all of your problems about Astarion– maybe you’d had that before, but you’re too afraid of ruining yet another relationship to find out. “I’m happy to help you all, just as I did before,” you say. “Maybe when this is all said and done, you can put in a good word for me with Astarion.”

The woman laughs. “If you manage this, I will help you win over anyone. An archdevil, a god, you name them, and I will make it happen.”

Even with the world on offer before you, you know that your heart only wants the one man. “I think I would be quite content with Astarion,” you say, blushing despite yourself.

She gives you a knowing smile, eyes warm as she looks upon you. “Don’t worry, my friend. He will come around eventually. A love like yours doesn’t transcend lifetimes for it to fade like that.”

Gods, you want to believe her. Just like you wanted to believe Halsin. So you nod, trying to keep the burning in your eyes from turning into tears. “Yes, you’re right,” you respond, with no real conviction. I just hope he believes that someday.

"I know I am!" she says, emphatically, sensing your lack of faith. "You know, when you first arrived, when you were locked in the cell– he and I spoke. He told me he wanted nothing to do with you."

You recall as much, so you gulp and respond, "Yes, he made that very clear."

"He only agreed to speak with you for our sake. I asked him to check at the very least, to see if maybe you had a means to help us. After all, if he wanted nothing to do with you, it wouldn't matter, would it?" She offers up the question like a challenge, one he likely took up with ease.

Sure , you think. Pawn off the weird elf that showed up on your doorstep to your desperate siblings. "That… makes sense." You still feel a sting of disappointment at knowing he truly didn't care what had happened to you. “He asked me about your hunger at the very least.”

“Well, he's nothing like that now. He wants me to leave you the hells alone,” she says, as if the answer was right before you. “Don’t you see? Whether or not he knows it, he cares now. He only wants to keep you safe– he just has a very… Astarion-way of showing affection."

That's one way to look at it. "I know, Dal," you say with a sigh. "I'm afraid that affection isn't enough in this case."

She looks at you for a long moment before she shakes her head in frustration. "Gods, you two really aren't any different. A hundred years, two hundred years, you'll continue to completely lose all sense of reason about each other."

You want to defend yourself, even Astarion, but you suppose she's right. "Did we… fight often?" You're afraid of the answer.

"Not particularly," she says, smiling at you ruefully. "But it was always about something truly exasperating like this."

You wish you'd dreamt of some of those arguments, if only to figure out how to fix everything– you doubt any of it would be that helpful for this particular situation though. Perhaps Dal remembers. "How did we fix things afterward?"

The woman shrugs. "Not a clue, honestly. I just know that eventually Astarion would show back up with a skip in his step, acting like the sun shone out of every dismal crack in the Underdark.” She gives you a lighthearted chuckle, which you reluctantly reciprocate.

“Fine, I’ll retain a modicum of hope,” you relent. “But in my past-life, they had more than a hundred years of love between them, resolving their issues together. I’ve had what? Three weeks of awkward fumbles and apologies?”

At that she snorts, throwing her head back a bit. “You’re both so dramatic. You will just need to believe me when I say, this has been the happiest, most alive I’ve seen Astarion for the past hundred-fifty years.”

The thought fills you with guilt more than any type of joy. Not only had your previous life sent him into a broken limbo for decades, but to think that you also had ruined the first bout of happiness he’d experienced? You feel like the villain in Astarion’s story more than anything. “Well, let’s hope that proves to be enough, despite all of this.”

“Like I said, I’ll speak to him,” she assures. “Now, I should get back to him before he tries to murder Petras.”

Dal looks to be about ready to leave when she adds, “Oh yes, here.” She shoves a Sending Stone into your hand. “It’s Astarion’s.” She adds before you can ask, “Don’t worry, he gave it to me. Something about keeping his house from blowing up, but I suspect he also wants to make sure you’re alright. This way we can communicate a bit faster. If you need anything, Leon and I are ready and willing to help, either to answer questions or get you any materials.”

Your hands close around the stone, hugging it to yourself tightly as you recall that the last person to use it was likely Astarion. “Thank you, Dal.”

“Think nothing of it! I know this feels… bad,” she winces at the understatement. “But it might be a good opportunity for us to investigate openly– without needing to hide from Astarion’s worried glares.”

It’s true enough, you suppose. But you still feel like the bad outweighs the good. You decide not to tell her that though, since this is her life on the line. “Yes, I’ll be sure to call you up here if I find anything, ask any questions with the stone if I have them.”

With one final wave, the woman leaves you to it, heading back down the way she came. You think it’s the last you’ll see of her for the day until you receive a message from her once she’s out of sight.

“Testing the stone. Also, don’t forget, no matter what happens, we’ll always be your family too.”

Your heart clenches at the shy admission of love from her, and you promptly reply, “The stone works. And thank you, Dal. I appreciate that more than I can say.”

You spend the rest of the night ensuring that the cipher is thoroughly memorized. Once you’re certain you could recite it forward and backward, you light the corner of the parchment with a small fire. As you watch the paper burn in your hands, you can’t help but feel a sense of real accomplishment for the first time since you’ve arrived.

Every other success has come with a caveat so far. You had gained entry into Astarion's house, only under his strict limits. You had helped save the colony, but not without exhausting yourself. You'd managed to gain Astarion's trust, only to destroy it quite thoroughly.

So you relish the feeling, soak in the momentary victory. That night your reverie comes quickly.

You dream of the Hero's life that night. At first, you suspect it's another useless, albeit comforting dream of Astarion, cozy in the man’s arms. But when you open your eyes you find his hands aren’t caressing so much as restraining.

Your body struggles against Astarion’s grasp. “Let me go, Astarion!”

“No!” he hisses, pulling on you tighter. “We need to go. Now.”

Oh no, you think, as the dream settles around you. You can feel a chill in your bones, the deep dank of the Underdark around you. You must be in the necromancer’s tower. Is this… that day?

“Astarion, we can’t turn away now,” you plead, tugging against him. “We’ve come too far for that.”

“Nonsense,” he responds with another forceful pull. “We can, and we shall .”

You can feel your body’s heels dig in, into the dusty tiles beneath you, crushing them slightly with the pressure. “I know what I’m doing. I can get to the wizard’s laboratory and–”

“Wizard?!” he all but yells in his panic. “I know you want to help, but this, my dear, is a necromancer’s tower. You know as well as I do that this isn’t worth it.”

“It is worth it. And I know what I’m doing,” your voice counters, strong in its confidence. You can feel that certainty, and maybe they had been prepared for all manner of inevitabilities. Unfortunately not the one that mattered. “If we leave now, we will have to wait another month until the tower is available to us. Will we be any more prepared then?”

“Fine,” Astarion growls, nostrils flaring with anger. He turns his body away from you and you’re left facing his armor-clad back. “Go on then. I’ll be waiting here when you finally come to your damned senses.”

And so you continue on alone.

Unlike other dreams, where you wish you could control your body, run into Astarion’s arms, save yourself– you don’t shy away this time. You already know how this will end, and you know that no amount of cowering will save you. So you embrace the experience.

Your body walks throughout the tower, careful all the way, but with solid, steady steps. You know that their confidence isn’t unwarranted. They’d faced necromancers before, they’d been in magical towers– the only difference was that back then they had had help.

After what feels like hours of careful sneaking and searching, you find what you suspect was the laboratory from their research.

It’s as disgusting as one might expect a necromancer’s lab to be– beakers full of dark, suspended liquid, the thick stench of undeath in the air, and more than anything, blood. Gods, there is blood everywhere. The man who worked here was not a kind one if the splatters and trails of the substance were any indication.

Your body tiptoes around some unknown liquid on the floor, carefully inspecting every inch of surface, looking for something. The notes, you think. They’re probably hidden away somewhere…

Thinking in a similar vein of thought, your past-self heads toward a large, imposing desk at the end of the room. Opening drawer after drawer, they pull out papers, looking through them, tossing them back on the table once they dismiss them. Eventually, they find a compartment behind one of the drawers– tucked behind is a familiar stack of papers. The very same that Dal had deposited in front of you earlier in the day. Only this time, they’re pristine.

Your past self starts shuffling through the papers, clearly written in a language that neither of you read. Perhaps something long dead by the looks of this place. They seem to be unsure if these are the papers, their confusion seeping through to you, until they get to the final page.

There, a ring is sketched, several notes pointing out elements within the design.

The elation your past-self feels is blinding in its strength– It’s like staring into the sun, and you feel the reverie receding as a result.

No, no, you think. There are other emotions, anticipation, concern, curiosity– all of them call to you, indicating that there’s still more to find here. I need to learn more. I can’t–

The dream slips out of your fingers, and you’re left laying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling in disappointment.

Somehow, you're still counting down the days in this house. It's your twenty-third day, and you have free reign of the place– an odd sensation after Astarion's watchful gaze monitored many of your movements for three weeks.

It's not unwelcome though. Despite its overwrought decorations, the mansion is lovely. With a sigh, you get out of bed and wander down to the kitchen. Ah, you think, opening the pantry to a sad, lacking sight. I need to go get food.

You had skipped several meals last week, as a result of battle, injury, and general disposition, so yesterday you'd been able to forgo your weekly trip. Now, you nod and close the empty cabinet, ready to go restock. All the while aware that it may very well be your last trip to this market.

As you head out, you can't help but think about what an inconvenience this is. Gods, I wish I didn't need to eat. At the same time, what would the alternative be? An ever-present hunger that gnaws at you every moment of every day, like a vampire? You suppose you should be grateful for your mortal body’s needs.

The thought does result in you spending the trip thinking about blood.

There is a lot of blood in the world, and some mortals are even willing to offer their blood up freely. However no amount of mortal volunteers would be enough to satiate the entire colony of vampires.

You could try to create a source of blood for them, but would the hunger ever truly leave them? Or would they just need to keep drinking, stuck in a sanguine cycle of continuous thirst? You’re not certain, but therein lies the dilemma: How can you ever satisfy a hunger born of vampirism?

Gods, I wish that myth had been reality, you think, heaving your groceries over your shoulder and heading back to Astarion’s mansion.

It's on the way back that you're reminded that you’re not the only one out to sate a vampire’s hunger. There are plenty lining up, just waiting for their chance.

As you climb up the stairs to the grand door of Astarion's manor, you spot someone waiting at the precipice. They seem to be nervous, not approaching the door even as the seconds trickle on. When you pull up behind them, they startle.

“Oh sweet hells,” they breathe out, hand on their heart. “Who… ?” They look at you confused, and you get a good look at the stranger. They’re a tall, purple tiefling– a bit lanky and awkward, but overall neatly arranged, with the appearance of a bardic scholar.

“Sorry for the fright,” you respond, nodding at them. “If you’re looking for Astarion, he’s away.”

The tiefling does nothing to mask their disappointment, but looks at you appraisingly. “And you are?”

Who are you? You’re not entirely sure how to respond. You’re not his lover, his housekeep, nor his colleague. You’re nothing but a stranger to him, you suppose. Pushing aside the introspection, you only say, “A guest.”

They look visibly relieved, and something in you stings at how easily they believed that. Do I really look that ill-suited for him? You decide not to express this as you push past them and toward the house.

“Excuse me,” they say, holding a hand out to you as you walk past. “Do you know when he’ll be returning?”

You could be honest, say that he won’t be back until the end of the week and even then, he will be leaving. Or you could be even more honest, say that he wouldn’t want to see them anyway. But for some reason, you hold your tongue, shake your head, and add a simple, “Sorry.”

They give a sigh, dropping their head in a deflated defeat. “Well then. All this way for nothing.”

Your curiosity can’t help but poke at that. “How far did you travel?”

“I hail from Athkatla,” they say, with a grimace. “I don’t much look forward to heading all the way back.” In Amn, you recall. Certainly a distance to travel, though not near as far as Neverwinter. It’s likely that they didn’t have the luxury of a teleportation circle though.

Such a sizable distance for a chance to meet with Astarion? Surely that couldn’t be the case. Then again, that was the case for me… You still ask, “Why come all this way for Astarion?”

They look at you as if you’re daft. “Are you quite certain you are a guest here?”

“I am,” you say, adjusting your bag as you try to stand a bit taller, prouder. “Why?”

“Because there’s not a single hopeless romantic alive who isn’t aware of Astarion,” they say, and you can practically see the ill-placed longing in their eyes. “Naturally, it’s a slim chance, but for the love of a good vampire? It’s the very fabric of legends.”

“Don’t you know that legends aren’t always what they’re cracked up to be?” you ask, a bit too bitterly. Both thoughts of the mythical sunlight ring and of Astarion’s long-unbeating heart turning your lips into a scowl.

The tiefling doesn’t seem to care, laughing lightly. “That’s where you’re wrong. All good legends have a kernel of truth to them. It’s simply a matter of finding it!”

Huh, you think, considering the odd optimism of their words. Externally, you respond, “Well then, good luck finding the truth.” You bow your head as you walk away, eager to put this conversation behind you and get back to your own myths.

“Wait! Could you– maybe you could relay a message to the man?” the tiefling calls, desperation raising the pitch of their voice.

You’re about to agree– after all, what harm would pretending to relay a message do?– when you take a pause. Maybe they should have the cold reality of the situation laid before them. Maybe they won’t have the same, horrendous experience you’d had, if only you can dash the last remnants of hope from their heart. Or maybe, just maybe, you’re feeling jealous. More jealous of this real, living person in front of you than any of the hypothetical lovers who’d arrived at his door in the past century.

Embracing the starting smolders of jealousy, you say, “He’s uninterested. In fact, I recommend that you rewrite the legend.” You take a step back toward them, staring at them with what you hope is an intimidating look. “He’s not a lonely, good vampire, waiting for someone to come save him. He’s flawed. He’s rude. And his heart belongs to one soul and one soul only.”

They take a step back, clearly uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. “And who are you to say such things?”

There’s that damnable question again. This time though, you tilt your chin up, ignoring the guilt in your stomach, the ache in your heart. Because you know who you are, despite everything that’s transpired between you. “Astarion’s long lost love. Write that in your next legend.”

With those words, you turn back toward the house. You ignore their spluttering responses, opening the door, entering, closing it behind you. Once you’re alone with your thoughts again, you let out a deep breath.

Gods, why did I do that? you think to yourself, acutely aware of what a disrespectful show that was. The tiefling hadn’t done anything wrong– nothing that you hadn’t done anyway. How could you snap at them like that? One day you realize you love the man, the next you decide to declare it to a stranger. Worse yet, a stranger who was vying for that same man’s love.

Love really does drive people mad. You go to organize your food supplies for the week in a fog of shame. Underneath it all is a subtle satisfaction: you had only spoken the truth. Astarion really has refused to love another, you truly are his lost love. All you need to do is fix everything that you’ve broken and the pieces will align again. Or so you tell yourself. It’s a solid driving force to keep you going forward, away from the depths of despair.

Perseverance is really all you need right now, because you have a large stack of papers with years worth of information, just waiting for you to uncover it.

You start at the beginning. Or at least, you think it’s the beginning. It’s hard to tell with the way that Dalyria has stacked the papers, and you take it upon yourself to start reorganizing them as you read.

After many hours, you find several distinct piles emerging in front of you.

The first pile is where you place all of the research on blood: what makes blood, how vampires process blood, how it impacts them even if they can survive without it. Plenty of it is knowledge you know, only with the depth of someone who’s obsession is evident in the details.

The second pile is composed of all of the research you had done on the mage’s mythical enhanced sunlight rings, as well as the mage’s tower. Some of it overlaps with the research on blood, but a large portion of it is looking into the myth, tracking down its source, and where the mage lived.

The next pile contains all of the ring diagrams that Dal mentioned. Plenty of intricate design work, courtesy of your past-self and perhaps some of Gale’s work as well– you recognize a few magic runes in his script. The designs range in sizes, in complexity, in form. From a glance, you can tell that the rings were designed with two major components in mind: a material needed to be embedded within the base metal and another material needed to infuse it. Truthfully, it’s basic enchanting, likely their initial design ahead of visiting the necromancer’s tower based on Gale’s conjecture.

The final pile consists of, well, everything else. You place notes about vampirism, journals of your past-self’s process, and investigations on other leads among other things. These leads include a mythical fountain of blood in Evereska, a stone said to contain the life’s blood of an entire nation, even a tall tale of how a man staved off hunger for three centuries through discipline and more than a little blood magic– all incredibly dark, gory legends which seem to be even more far fetched than the rings. It’s unsurprising to see the depths to which they would have gone to fix the problem, although a bit concerning.

Gods, you think. I would have hidden some of this away too.

And the forbidden nature of these legends takes you to the singular uncategorized piece of information: the necromancer’s notes. They’re grotesque, of course– a testament to the dark depravity of this man’s magic. But they also feel distinctly different from your own notes.

A quick Detect Magic shows that none of the materials in front of you are directly magical in nature, but you can tell simply by the heavinessness in your heart that they are important. Perhaps there is more to this legend than meets the eye…

You wish you could tell though. It’s difficult to decipher the notes, with the dark, dried splotches of blood covering a large portion of the text. Surely Gale would have removed the blood if he’d been able to, but you still attempt a quick, magical clean.

Sure enough, the blood remains, and you curse the nine hells. “Fine then,” you growl at the notes in your hands. “We shall have to do this the hard way.”

The hard way will have to wait though, as it’s already gotten quite late in the day, your mind is inundated with information, and you’ll need to prepare a new set of spells to fight this particular beast. So you set down the materials, leaving them in an orderly set of stacks for the night, and enter your reverie in a bit of a huff.

That night you dream of a life in which you were a bard, spinning your tales of legend at a tavern. It’s one of your less preferred lives, as you’ve gathered that they’re somewhat of a scoundrel. You can’t help but wonder if dreaming of them is born of your guilt from the day, a form of wicked penance. It certainly feels like it as you spend the reverie playing the lute for a pittance.

On your twenty-fourth day in Astarion’s manor, you wake up well-rested and truly excited to get to the bottom of this necromancer’s notes. Underneath the excitement is a bit of dread. Only three days without Astarion, and you’re already wondering if you might ever see him again.

I hope I’ll at least see him when I leave, you think. Surely, he wouldn’t let me leave without a goodbye?

You try not to dwell on it as you prepare a few key spells for the day: Identify, in case there’s any spell put on the papers; Remove Curse, just in case that spell isn’t a kind one; and Comprehend Languages, to be able to read the archaic text.

Alright, you think to yourself, as you hurriedly scarf down a meal. Let’s try to figure this out.

Several hours, a few spell slots, and a lot of swearing later, your excitement has thoroughly wavered. What the hells are these made of, you think, staring down the necromancer’s notes in frustration.

They are certainly not made of paper, because any attempts to transmute the material have failed immediately. They are not magical in of themselves, but they do seem to have some kind of preservation magic affecting them, protecting them from everything save for blood. The notes seem to be written in it. And, worst of all, your own dying, damnable blood will not let you make out the text save a few spots– likely all of the same spots that Gale already took a look at. No wonder he wasn’t able to make heads or tails of this rubbish, you think with a sigh.

Those spots are informative, to an extent. Once you’re able to comprehend the ancient language, you find a few key pieces of information. They describe what Dal mentioned, that the blood of a vampire lord was key. They describe that the rings must be made of a magical metal, infused with that very same blood– you briefly wonder if you’d be able to melt Rhapsody down without Astarion noticing.

Finally, the notes describe a vampire’s hunger in deep, deep detail. You don’t want to know how this necromancer could have gathered this much detail, but it was clearly an integral part of his research. One passage in particular stands out to you:

A vampire’s hunger is unquenchable. It is as eternal as their souls, seemingly intertwined into their very essence. As such, I knew I would need to find the source of this unquenchable thirst and do the unthinkable: quench it. Naturally, I have utterly smothered it.

When faced with the dilemma of an eternal gift coupled with an eternal curse, you must somehow separate the two. So I have done so.

All you need to do is take this hunger, give it new form, and fill that form beyond all reason. Simple, really. How could it have taken me so long to find this solution? How could I have limited myself to the mere moral quandaries of mortals?

Of course the most natural ingredient of all is blood–

The words cut off, as your own past-self’s blood cuts off the rest of the page. You’re not sure what to make of it. It certainly sounds like the lunatic ravings of a man drunk on his own power, but it also doesn’t seem entirely impossible…

Regardless, the magic is dark. It almost sounds like he took the curse of a vampire’s ravenous hunger and gave it physical form, then quenched that physical form with the very thing vampire’s require: blood. More so than removing the curse, it seems to imply transferring it to an object, essentially, to sate your own thirst. You can’t even imagine how much blood you may need for a ritual of that magnitude.

I should think that this is ludicrous, you think, glaring down at the parchment. I do think that this is ludicrous. But… Some part of you isn’t wholly convinced. Yes, it sounds insane. Yes, the necromancer was likely mad. But, blood aside, it doesn’t seem that far from your own magic. Transmutation at its very core is modification, it’s changing the nature of things. This isn’t pure madness.

That’s all well and good, of course. However there’s no use dwelling on it while the rest of his notes are so entirely illegible.

In fact the last time these were legible was…

The thought strikes you like a crack of lightning. I was the last person to see these notes in their entirety. Well, not you. But it may as well have been you, given that you have their memories.

Just a few nights ago, you read through the notes in your reverie, understanding none of them. You want to facepalm at the sheer misfortune of it. “What in the Outer Planes am I supposed to do with that?”

You remember from that very dream that you weren’t done in the tower. You have no clue where you could have ventured to cause your death. What else could you have been looking for?

Should I… the thought feels wrong. You don’t want to finish it, Astarion’s angry face all but burned into your mind. But finish it you do. Should I head back to the tower?

You’re not sure if it's your heart or your soul that aches at the thought. And you’re not sure if it's in pain, fear, or a deep, unshakable thrill.

You still the emotions with a singular deep breath. No, I can’t go. Not yet.

There’s no point in going until you know what it is you’re looking for. You wish you could figure it out by simply racking your brain, but memories, reveries don’t work like that. You’ll need someone with arcane magic to help you.

The Sending Stone is out of your pocket a moment later.

“Dal, do you have a wizard, maybe a sorcerer, available who knows Detect Thoughts?” you send.

Her response is as immediate as it is disappointing, “Leon has some experience as a sorcerer, but never learned Detect Thoughts, but can’t replace spells. No one else comes to mind. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. I’ll figure something out. Thank you Dal.”

Another dead end.

Fine, you think. I’ll simply wait. It’s only a few more days of being here. I can have someone back in Neverwinter help me.

The thought causes your heart to clench in fear. You had tried to avoid thinking too deeply about where you might go after this, but the thought of returning home makes you want to scream. It may not be returning home in shame– after all, you did manage to learn quite a bit– but it feels miserable.

After a few more hours of reading, ignoring the fear steadily building around you, you lay down for your nightly meditations.

That night, you dream of your previous life as a blacksmith. It’s initially a rather welcome dream, as always. Repetitive and warm, soothing all of your frustrations easily.

Then you realize that everything’s going wrong today. Your metals aren’t welding, cracks keep appearing after you quench. At first, you hate it. The additional stress to your already burdened mind is too much. But after the fourth mistake, you realize that your past-self is still going at it– a new metal, a new tool, a better form.

Right, this is who you’ve always been. You will persevere.

In the end, it’s an informative dream, and you take notes from it before you can forget. After all, if your delusions of deciphering the ring’s magic bear fruit, you will need to forge six thousand rings. You may want to learn from yourself before that.

For your twenty-fifth day in the house, you spend most of it taking your own notes.

After a quick breakfast, an even quicker wash, you’re back in front of the pile of papers, on to find another avenue for the spawn’s salvation.

You’ve always found that the easiest way for you to figure out next steps is by writing all that you know out. So you consolidate a lot of your learnings from your past-self’s notes, adding in some notes of your own context. And, as you continue to retread the notes, you start to uncover some odd patterns.

Under the diagrams of several ring designs, you spot a few symbols, ones you don’t recognize from the cipher. Once more the Sending Stone is pulled from your pocket.

“Dal, another question. What are these symbols underneath the diagrams?” you message.

You can practically hear the sigh that precedes her message, “Despite our best efforts, we never could make heads or tails of those. Even Gale had no clue.”

It piques your interest though, nudging at something in the back of your mind. “Are there any other symbols like this in my notes?” you shoot back.

“Yes, some in the enchantment notes. Others in notes of the tower,” she responds.

“Thank you, Dal.”

You go back to inspect those notes, and, sure enough, you find a different set of symbols. “What in the hells?” you speak out loud, as you recognize the one under the ring’s enchantments.

It’s the symbol of your shop– of your past life as an enchanter.

You flip back to the ring design and comprehension dawns on you. It’s the blacksmith’s initials composited into a brand, the one you used on the items you forged.

Are they referring to some of your past lives in these notes? You take a closer look, unsure of what the symbols could indicate. But as you spot the acronym of the innkeeper's inn under the tower’s notes, it all but confirms it.

You suppose they would have experienced the same lives you had, and some of the same reveries, especially around anything that might have been helpful to their life. The thought that they could have experienced memories you haven’t concerns you though. “What does this mean?” you think, tracing over the symbol with a finger.

Gods do you suddenly wish you had taken better records of your other, less interesting lives. Really, it’s your past-self’s fault for living such an exciting life. Astarion’s fault for being so damn captivating.

There’s no use in regretting now though, there are plenty of other mysteries for you to solve as you let that one ruminate.

Let’s say the daylight ring really is our best bet, you think, laying out the various diagrams. What would I need?

You know quite well at this point in your life the components of a spell. There are three component types, and the more complicated the spell, the higher likelihood that you will need to incorporate all three in greater amounts.

First, material components. Items that a spell consumes to be cast. In the case of the ring, you suspect that this is blood. A lot of it. Included in that is the blood of a vampire lord.

Second, somatic components. Hand movements to bring the weave into your spell. In this scenario, you suspect these components will be the actual crafting of the ring. Likely a complicated process, and one that you may be able to decipher from Gale’s added notes.

Third, verbal components. An incantation, a phrase, a song– anything to tie the spell to the material plane. Here, you had next to no clue where to begin. There’s not even a hint of an incantation in any of these notes, and, even if there was one in the necromancer’s notes, you don’t suppose you would be able to find it.

Looking at the three different elements laid before you, you know that your options are limited for now.

Save one.

Rhapsody. You know exactly where it is, you know exactly what it’s capable of. You could take it now and begin to find a way of transmuting it or… you could leave it. Because it’s Astarion’s blade and you’ve already taken enough from him.

He’s told you he hates it, you think, trying to rationalize your theft as you stand up.

He’s not even using it, you think, walking down the long hallway to Astarion’s room.

He probably won’t even notice it’s missing, you think, entering the room silently.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re standing in front of Rhapsody. The wicked blade seems to call to you, its allure twisted and warped by years of serving a dark lord.

It’s not Astarion’s– not truly. He hasn’t used it in almost 300 years, if Dal is to be believed. So when your hand reaches out, grasps the handle, and wraps the blade in a soft cloth, you only feel the barest twinge of guilt.

You can’t help but turn to your former self’s portrait next to the bed, wondering what they would think of all of this. The answer is clear enough by the fire you see in their eyes, the conviction in the set of their shoulders. They would want you to finish this.

Before you head back to your room with the pocketed blade, you head to the parlor. An idea struck you, courtesy of your past-self’s portrait. Perhaps the anvil in the room didn’t belong to Astarion after all. Perhaps it was just another remnant of your past-self that he’d been too afraid to throw out.

Once in the room you make your way back to the oddly shaped sheet. Throwing it off, you take a closer look at the tool.

Just as before, you notice various metalworking tools, a few pieces of metal that you think you recognize as Platinum, Iron, even a few scraps of Mithral. Almost as if Astarion had covered it with a sheet without bothering to clean up your previous work. You suspect that that’s exactly what happened when you find a pair of pliers still squeezing a piece of gold.

From your notes, you recall that your experiments with the spawn and advice from Gale had led you to believe that gold or silver would be your best bets as conduits for the magic– assuming that the metal from Rhapsody would play well with them. You recall from your reveries that not every type of metal would weld together properly.

Surely you had more material than this to work with though. You look around the room, wondering where else Astarion may have stashed your previous treasures.

Your eyes land on a covered seat that seems a bit lumpier than the rest. Upon uncovering it, you discover various small pieces of metal, some common like copper, others much rarer, like Adamantine. You grab a few, in case you do end up transmuting Cazador Szarr’s blood-infused blade.

Back in your room, you lay out some of your material components. This shall do for now. You decide that tomorrow you will focus on solving the much bigger problem: blood.

It’s late now though, and time to rest on what you’ve learned.

As you lay your head down for your reverie that night, you finally allow yourself to believe Dal. You truly may be the only one capable of piecing these clues together.

The idea warms you as much as it concerns you. Knowing that it’s up to you, your memories, to save the spawn? You feel the pressure for the first time, an uneasiness settling in the pit of your stomach. No one has depended on you like this before, and the pressure feels almost tangible.

That night, you dream of your life as the innkeeper. Again, the inn is dead, not a customer in sight and likely none for the rest of the night. So you pull out a book.

Following along with your past-self, you read a story about a beautiful man who has been cursed, the adventurer that saves him. It would all be very touching if the adventurer didn’t resonate so well with you, leaving you wondering if perhaps you were as dull and predictable a ‘hero’ as Astarion had led you to believe.

The story ends with the hero saving the man, of course– as all good, happy tales do. You love experiencing the twist with the innkeep, feeling their emotions rise and fall as the hero faces their challenge, and surmounts it with the help of those around them.

It's a nice sensation after all of the frustration of the day and you stir from your rest with a content smile.

Your twenty-sixth day in the house, you see red. On top of missing so much information, you know that you have another major dilemma to figure out: where will you find a lot of blood?

After several hours of brainstorming, considering different sources, magical substances or items, you land on one that seems the most feasible.

You could create blood with alchemy. While you would need a large amount of starting material, you could likely use water or another liquid. You yourself don’t have the capability to create water, but it would be easy enough to acquire.

But the solution seems too simple. Surely Dal and the rest would have found a way to transmute blood on their own, would have done so for the spawn at some point over the past several hundred years?

So you message her.

“Hi Dal, have you all tried transmuting water to blood before?” you send.

“Hello. Yes, we have. It would help if it worked, but it never seemed to quench our thirst.” She immediately sends another message, “When we looked into it, we found that it was lacking any life essence. We needed to find a way to make it real.”

“Understood. Did you find any leads on that?”

“None on my end, let me check with Leon.”

A few minutes of silence pass as you continue to scratch notes with your quill. You’re a bit startled when she follows up, “Nothing on Leon’s end either. Though he said that your past-self had some ideas. He recommends looking at the research on blood composition.”

You thank her and are about to get back to work when you stop, Sending Stone still in hand. Before you can second guess yourself, your next message is on its way, “How is Astarion doing? Have you… made any progress?”

The pause that follows feels incredibly loud, your heartbeat pounds painfully in your ear as you wait for a response. It comes a second later, and gods are you unsure how to move or feel or react to it. “He’s been a bit stir crazy. I think he misses you.”

You remind yourself that Dalyria is only being kind. That she is rooting for you both despite the fact that neither of you want the same thing, that he’s not over your past-self, that the odds are so heavily stacked against you you may as well try again in your next life. But the idea of Astarion missing you sends you falling back, collapsing on your bed in a dramatic fashion.

Clutching the stone to your chest, you send one more message, “Thank you Dal. I hope I can see him again before it’s time for me to leave. Do you think I will?”

“I’ll drag him along myself if I need to. And I will definitely come by before you leave,” she replies, and you close your eyes in a mixture of relief and anticipation.

Despite all of the work you’ve done in the past several days, you miss him– more than you thought possible. More than you’ve missed anyone in this lifetime. You don’t regret a single moment of the progress you’ve made, but gods do you wish you could share it with him. He would look over your work with a ‘tsk’, maybe remind you to go get a meal before you drive him insane…

Imagining the scenario, eyes closed, laying flat on your bed, you’re struck with the stark, sad reality of it. I may never have that happen.

Perhaps you shouldn’t have asked Dal anything after all, because now you find yourself lulled into a sad daze.

The final few hours of the day are spent on daydreams of Astarion, as you futilely try to retain information on the composition of blood. When you lay in bed for your reverie, you’re unsurprised to find yourself in his arms once more.

“Astarion?” your past-self asks. You’re both in the kitchen, though it looks nothing like it does now. The walls are a different color, the table is different, shelves are stocked.

“Mmm,” Astarion murmurs, burying his head into the nape of your neck like a cuddling feline.

“What’s the matter, love?” you ask, as you prepare yourself a meal.

He shakes his head into your neck more, and you can feel your emotions surge with love and concern. “Did something happen with your siblings?”

Astarion gives a noncommittal hum, his arms squeezing around you tighter.

“I can’t help you if you won’t let me,” you say, tone chiding, but heart still full of compassion.

The man pulls his head away from you for a moment, his ruby eyes meeting yours. “Aurelia said that they’re tired of living like that. That they would never have agreed to my suggestion of the Underdark had they known…”

Your past-self takes their food off of the stove, turning around to face Astarion. “Love,” you start, hand cupping his face. “It’s not your fault. None of it is. And they know that. What would the alternative have been? Dying in Baldur’s Gate?”

He closes his eyes, leaning into your hand for solace. “I know you’re right. But…”

“But nothing,” you say, stopping him in his tracks. “We’re doing all that we can to help them, and they appreciate it. It’s simply been a difficult few weeks and they’re on edge. Once we find someplace new, everyone will sleep a little more soundly.”

Astarion sighs into your palm, pressing a light kiss to it before opening his eyes to you. “You’re right. Gods, you know how annoying it is when you’re right this often?”

“I know,” you say with a smile. You kiss him on the nose, on the cheek, on the lips as he chases your lips down. “Now, let’s find a suitable place so that everyone settles down, alright?”

The two of you sit down at the table over your meal, beginning to discuss various areas of the Underdark. You simply listen to the conversation, already knowing the outcome, knowing how close they all truly grew despite the disagreements. You also take the time to appreciate the ease of your relationship, wishing that you too could solve problems like this, with Astarion by your side.

Your ache for the man persists when you wake up, and you find that your twenty-seventh day in the house isn’t as productive as you’d like it to be.

You’re so filled with the building fear from the week. A stormy cloud hangs over you, dousing you every few minutes with thoughts that you’re about to leave, about to be tossed out unceremoniously. It’s consumed most of your waking thoughts, offering you little space to continue your work.

You were already so afraid to be left alone for the week. To think that you may never see him again, save maybe to come help his family…

What you need is to wash these thoughts away. You decide to take a long bath today, hoping beyond all hope that it will cleanse your mind. In the bath, you allow yourself a bit of pity.

Gods, I don’t want to message my parents, you think, sinking into the water. It’s the least of your concerns, really, but the easiest one for you to focus on. What will I say? Sorry, I tried, but it turns out we’re fundamentally wrong for each other?

You wince at that, scrubbing at your skin furiously to strike the thought away. No, I would say: It turns out I’m not the same person I was in my past-life. You were right all along!

The scrubbing comes harder, and your anger builds. Or maybe I’ll pin the blame on the metaphysical… My soul has a hero-complex and I don’t quite care to fix it.

You stop scrubbing. You feel almost raw, your mind suddenly blank.

No, you finally think. I shall simply tell them it didn’t work out.

With a sigh, you continue to soak for a bit, considering the far trek back to Neverwinter with a hollow dread.

After the bath, you manage to pull yourself out of your dreary state. You focus, decide to keep your mind preoccupied with the work, shoving down any Astarion-related worries until tomorrow, when they are warranted.

Right. Blood composition, you think to yourself, pulling out the notes that Leon had mentioned once more.

Rereading them, thoroughly this time, you think you know what he meant. While at its core, transmuted blood is made of all of the same things, iron, carbon… it’s lacking something that gives it life. Likely whichever bit makes people’s blood distinct from one another, you think, recalling how Astarion had commented on your flavor.

You look through the notes, trying to see if there was a way for someone to contribute that life essence, but find that nothing clear comes to mind. At the bottom, you spot in your own handwritten code a small name, “Halsin?”

It makes sense, you think. Druidic magic is different from your own, honing into the very nature of life, they can tap into magic you cannot. Perhaps you ought to pay him a visit once Astarion kicks you out…

You push that thought aside once more, trying to focus on your research. To still your mind, you think of all of the leads you’ve earned in the past week. Your memories, your past lives, Halsin, the tower. Gods, you think. I appreciate my past-self’s head start, but I wish they’d left a to-do list.

So you run through all that you know, all that you have, and all that you will need to make these mythical sunlight rings come to fruition.

You have the metals to test the crafting, and have found several good diagrams from your past-self. You have Rhapsody to work with. All that you’re missing on the material components is a vast quantity of usable blood.

You are positive now that the crafting itself is part of the somatic component, having reread Gale’s suggestions. It’s certainly where all of the materials come together, and you think you should be able to learn the process with a bit of trial and error.

You haven’t the foggiest what the incantation might be, other than in the illegible notes from the necromancer. Or worse yet, it’s back in the tower. You decide not to worry about this part until you find a wizard to help you.

Satisfied with your learnings from the week, you’re determined to begin testing materials tomorrow– maybe try to sort out Rhapsody’s composition. None of your previous life’s tests included Rhapsody, as they’d only learned of its importance after your passing, so now is as good a time as any.

That night, you enter an uneventful reverie as the enchanter. You break down a few magic items, and try to remember what you can for when it comes time to finally melt down Rhapsody.

At the end of the week, you feel like Astarion has all but given up on you.

It’s odd, but after spending nearly 28 days in his house, it feels like your house as well. You suppose you shouldn’t get attached to that idea, since the man who owns it hasn’t said a word to you in almost a week.

And not another word of him from Dal, not a message or a sign that he even cares enough to think of you. You don’t need him to love you, as you continue to remind yourself. You only wish that your time together had meant to him even a fraction of what it meant to you.

However the man is nothing if not full of ill-timed surprises.

A knock comes at your door. Likely Dal, you think. She said she would be coming by before you left.

“Come in!” you call, not bothering to move from your place on the floor. You’re in the middle of taking notes on various metals, and you think Dal will appreciate what you’ve learned so far, so what’s the point in putting anything away.

The door opens, and you look up to see a familiar, silver-haired vampire at your door. He finds you surrounded by papers, a piece of Platinum in your hand, and knee-deep in research you just know he would hate. All of the shock and embarrassment pales in comparison to the way your entire body reacts to the sight of him.

It’s only been a week days apart, and your heart seems to be beating doubly fast to make up for lost time. Was he always this beautiful?

Yes, he has always been this beautiful, your mind answers. And this charming, and this graceful, and… you cut yourself off before you can be frozen in place.

“Astarion!” you all but scream, scrambling to shuffle papers out of his view, dropping the piece of metal. You didn’t expect him, and you’re not sure what to do, but you know he wouldn’t believe that you’re up to some light reading.

“What–” Astarion begins. He shakes his head before continuing, “You know what. I don’t care about whatever it is you’re up to.”

“You don’t?” you ask, incredulous.

“No, I don’t.” His voice is deadpan, his expression blank.

“Oh. Okay.” You’re baffled. You’d thought throughout the week of what you might do if you saw him again before you’re kicked out. And it certainly isn’t what’s transpiring here. He cared a lot about this last time you saw him. “You absolutely don’t?”

“Nope, we’re going to pretend I didn’t see all of that.” He gestures at it dramatically with both of his hands. “And I’m going to continue with what I came here to do.”

“And that is?” you can’t help but ask, still subtly kicking papers under the bed, lest he change his mind.

“I came to ask you if you’d like to go to Waterdeep with me.”

You stare at him, certain that you’re hearing him wrong. This isn’t the conversation you’d expected to have the next time you saw him, not in a thousand years. You? Go with him? “To Waterdeep?”

“Yes,” he says, taking a deep breath, as if this is all quite the inconvenience for him. “I’ve always been offered a guest. I suppose it’s about time I impose on that damn wizard.”

After what had transpired between you, you’d been so prepared to be kicked out by the end of the week, this shocks you more than you expect. You’re certain your face is an open book and your voice is certainly eager when you ask, “Really?”

“Don’t make that look, or I'll regret asking at all,” he says, groaning.

You don’t know what look you’re making, but you wipe your face as much as you can before you ask, a little less hopefully, “But honestly, really, I can join you?”

“Yes,” he repeats. “But if you make me say it once more, consider the offer revoked. I expect to see you prepared for at least a few days' stay by morning or I shall leave without you. Understood?”

You tamper down the remaining urge for confirmation and nod. “Got it.”

“Very well,” he says, turning on his heel to go.

But it’s the first time in days that you’ve seen his face, heard his voice, you can’t just let him get away. “Wait, Astarion,” you call. What could you say? ‘ Sorry?’ It wouldn’t be honest. ‘Why?’ You’re afraid that the answer is just ‘Dal.’ ‘ Are we–?’ No, you’re absolutely not all better. So you simply say, “Thank you.”

He turns back to you and you get a better look at him. The expression on his face is light, unaffected, but there’s a strain to his eyes, his cheekbones look a bit more gaunt than you’re used to, and the tightness in his jaw betrays any semblance of nonchalance. “No need to thank me. I’d already been planning on inviting you.”

What? You’re about to actually ask him why when he exits your room, leaving you confused and your questions unanswered.

Aside from the elation you feel at having seen Astarion again, let alone having received an invitation from him, you’re giddy with thoughts of Waterdeep. You’ve never been before, and you will have the opportunity to meet the Gale of Waterdeep? You feel your face breaking into the same ecstatic look Astarion chided you for.

After researching the ‘useless’ formula for the ring for so many days, you want to get to the bottom of it. This is it, you think. This is my opportunity to pick Gale’s brain. Putting aside whatever it was you’d been in the middle of before Astarion arrived, you begin packing all of your notes in your Bag of Holding.

I’ll figure it all out later, you think, practically shaking with excitement. My gods, I can’t believe it. I will get to go to Waterdeep!

Before you pack the rest of your clothing, you sit down and send a message to Dal. “Dal, Astarion invited me to Waterdeep! I’ll be gone for a bit, but I think I’ll be coming back?”

She responds and you can practically hear the smile through the message. “I figured that’s why he kept me from following him. Enjoy, and we’ll see you back here soon.”

She’ll see me back here soon! you want to scream to the heavens, out the window, under the floorboards. But you don’t because you’re not about to make Astarion change his mind, and truly you’re not certain what this means for you. Until you know why he wanted to bring you to Waterdeep, then you shouldn’t assume…

That doesn’t stop you from feeling light as a feather for the rest of the day. From practically tripping over your own feet as you pack a few snacks for the road.

You don’t see Astarion for the rest of the day, but you can feel his presence in the house, as if he’s watching you make an utter fool of yourself– you find you don’t mind. As long as the house feels full of him, you continue along, a smile never leaving your face.

That night when you sit down for bed, you pull out your journal and quill with jittery, anxious hands. Your journal entry reflects your week of learnings, of fears, of excitement:

I think I’ve made some real progress! I think I know how to make the rings, but not… how to make the rings. I know the materials I’ll need, the somatic component of creation, though I am missing the actual incantation and the actual materials. Better than I would have thought after a week, but my past-self seems to be guiding my hand every step of the way.

As for Astarion, well… I don’t think we’re better per say. But I also don’t think he hates me. He invited me to go with him to Waterdeep without much explanation. Surely he wouldn’t invite me if he hated me, right? We leave in the morning. I can’t wait to meet Gale, hopefully have a chance to ask him some things. Though I suppose it may all depend on Astarion’s mood.

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