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burntheedges · 6 months

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Maintenance Request: Chapter 1

Joel Miller x f!reader | new chapter every Friday (fic is complete!) 18+ (minors DNI) | ao3 | main post & chapter list chapter word count: 2.4k

summary: Hot Construction Guy is the bane of your existence - he seems to only pop up at the worst possible moment for you, every time you see him.

There’s no way there could be something more there.

Right?

a/n: here we go, folks. this was my 2023 NaNo project. I’ll post a new chapter every Friday. there are 23 chapters and an epilogue. there is eventually quite a bit of smut, but it’s going to take us a little while to get there. see the main post for more info and/or the bottom of this post for a note about the reader. let me know if you want to be on the tag list! chapter tags/warnings: banter, drink mention (coffee), misunderstandings, romcom vibes, academia AU, modern AU, no outbreak AU, no use of y/n, mention of bra

Chapter 1

Wednesday, September 4 Second week of the semester

The day you saw him for the first time, you were running late.

It was almost one of those mornings, when everything that could go wrong did. But it hadn’t quite hit the tipping point just yet. Sure, your coffee maker had sputtered, smoked and heaved its last gasp before dying ignominiously on your counter rather than providing you with any coffee. And yeah, stopping for coffee had almost made you late enough to hit the bad traffic on the bridge. And of course, you were arriving just in time to have to park in one of the annoying spots on the ramp in your parking garage.

But none of that was a real dealbreaker. The day was still salvageable.

You took a deep breath as you turned on your blinker and finally turned onto the street with your garage. This was the homestretch — just a couple of minutes and you’d be parked and walking towards your office, not so late that you wouldn’t have time to finish prepping for your first class. The morning was still salvageable.

To your surprise, though, you turned the corner and saw nothing but red taillights. The entire block leading up to your garage was packed with traffic. You sighed as you joined the long line of cars, all completely stopped in front of you. You strained your neck to see why no one was moving forward and the hint of orange cones you saw near the garage was not encouraging. Even less so was the slow realization that all of the cars in front of you were being directed to pull a U-turn, one-by-one, and head back down the block away from the garage. The drivers of the redirected cars coming towards you looked frustrated, to put it mildly.

As you slowly crept towards the front of the line, you realized the problem was bigger than you thought — it wasn’t just the crowd of people in hard hats, or the cones blocking off the entrance. There was a spout of water reaching into the sky, 30 or 40 feet high, coming from the hydrant right in front of your garage entrance, hidden by the trees lining the sidewalk to either side. You sighed and closed your eyes. It was pretty clear you weren’t getting in there today.

You were definitely going to be late.

The driver in front of you began to pull their U-turn, and you finally saw the man directing this mess. In your mind he slotted right into the stereotype of a construction worker: dark jeans, flannel shirt, and orange reflective vest, topped off with a hard-hat and sunglasses. You barely noticed any of his features otherwise. You took another deep breath as you rolled down your passenger-side window. He didn’t step closer, so you leaned into the passenger seat and tried to make eye contact. He started to motion for you to turn around before you could even open your mouth but you pressed onwards.

“Any chance of getting into the parking garage?” You knew it wasn’t likely, but you had to ask. Leaned uncomfortably over the middle console, your voice came out a little more strained than you intended, so you tried to smile to lighten your tone. It felt more like a grimace. He was already shaking his head before you finished talking.

“S-” his voice came out raspy, and he cleared his throat. You figured he’d probably told at least a hundred people to turn around already this morning. “Sorry, ma’am. There’s an issue with the water line, no one’ll be able to drive through here for the rest of the day, most likely.” His explanation sounded rote, like he’d come to expect a bad reaction. You couldn’t tell if he was even looking at you at all behind his sunglasses.

You closed your eyes and took a long, slow breath. “Do you know where we might be allowed to park, since we can’t get in?” You tried to ease the frustration from your tone — the unexpected geyser wasn’t this guy’s fault, after all.

He nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. “They’re redirectin’ everyone to the South Garage.” He gestured and opened his mouth to say something else, but one of the cars behind you honked before he could.

“Sorry,” you said, leaning back into your seat and starting to turn. “Let me get out of the way.” You didn’t even glance back as you drove away, putting him out of your mind. Of course, it had to be the South Garage, you thought as you somewhat viciously turned on your right blinker at the end of the block. The South Garage was the farthest from your office and would take you about 20 minutes to walk from. Getting sweaty in your work clothes was always terrible, and the idea of it was threatening to turn your already mediocre-at-best morning into one of those mornings after all. And now you were definitely not going to have time to do any work before you had to rush off to teach your first class.

Ugh. You were going to be so late.

…

By the time you parked, gathered your bag and your coffee, and hiked all the way back to your building, you were a mess. Sweat was dripping down the small of your back and you knew your hair did not look like it had when you left the house this morning. You tried to remember if you’d replaced your office deodorant when you ran out last month — maybe? Shit. You hoped so.

You crossed the final path on the quad in front of your building, looking left down the sidewalk as you turned right to head towards the steps. You had no excuse, later, for not looking where you were going — just the relief of finally reaching your office clouding your mind and blocking out your surroundings.

At first you could only register two feelings: the sudden impact of running into something firm, and the unpleasant sensation of lukewarm liquid splashing down the front of your body. Without thinking you reached forward and grasped whatever you’d run into to hold yourself steady. You blinked. Looking down, you realized that yes, your coffee, which you had gone out of your way to get after your coffee maker broke despite how late you were, was no longer in the cup. It was all over you, splashed down the front of your white blouse. You blinked again.

Looking up, your eyes traveled across the torso of a very tall man whose (miraculously dry, coffee-free) shirtfront you held bunched in your fist. You took in his dark jeans, flannel shirt, broad shoulders, and scruffy beard, briefly glanced at his tousled brown hair, and finally, met his warm brown eyes. Somewhere distant in the back of your mind you registered that this guy was hot. Like, mind-blowing, turn-your-spine-to-liquid hot. Exactly your type hot.

You opened your mouth to say something but he beat you to it.

“You alright there, darlin’?” As he asked, he steadied you with a hand on the arm holding your now useless coffee cup. You might have been distracted by the endearment, or even the accent, if you hadn’t recognized his voice. That voice.

In your defense, spilling your coffee all over yourself was the final straw that tipped your morning from mediocre to actually awful. You could feel the heat climb up your spine and rise in your cheeks.

“You!” The word ripped itself from your throat before you consciously thought it. The volume almost made you wince. “Parking garage guy!”

He looked taken aback for a moment, before nodding. “Yeah, suppose that’s me.”

Your fist clenched more tightly around his shirt without you consciously noticing. “This is your fault!” If possible, he looked even more taken aback. “Do you know how far away the South Garage is from this building? Do you see the state of my shirt?” Your voice was reaching a pitch that your best friend Beth sometimes referred to as “channeling your mother” and you tried to take a deep breath to rein it in.

The man tilted his head at you and squinted a bit. “I am sorry about your shirt, darlin’. Didn’t mean to run into you, but you came around that corner like a rocket.” On another day you might have found this charming, but today it just added to your ever-growing mountain of small annoyances. It set you off again.

“Oh, so it’s my fault? You’re the one that made me so late I had to basically run to get here!” You took a breath. Ok, you needed to get inside. You really were channeling your mother if you were starting to blame people for things that didn’t even make sense. “Wait. I mean—” You started, planning to try and regain some footing in this conversation, maybe walk that back or even apologize, but he interrupted you.

“Nothing I can do about the water line.” He looked at you, and then looked down at where your hand was still fisted in his shirt. When he met your eyes again he had what could have been a smile but looked to you like a smirk hinting around his mouth. “Can I buy you a new coffee, at least? To make up for it?”

You forced your hand to let go and stepped back from him. Your shirt shifted unpleasantly as it clung to your chest where it was still soaked with coffee. “Um, no. That’s, that’s ok,” you muttered, not sure why he’d want to buy you coffee after you’d just yelled at him on the street. You cleared your throat and opened your mouth again, to say what, you didn’t know, but once more he beat you to it.

“Um,” he started, clearly trying to bite down on a smile and looking very intently into your eyes. Like he was trying not to look elsewhere. “You’ll probably want to change before class, I guess.” You looked down, taking in the damage now that you had put some space in between your bodies, and realized that your white blouse had become absolutely sheer. Right over your bra. Your lace-covered bra.

The noise that came out of you at the realization could have charitably been called a squawk.

Sweaty, coffee-covered, thoroughly done with a day that had barely started, and now flustered because you had basically flashed this man you didn’t know after yelling at him for no reason, you scrambled to cross your arms in front of you. The last, sad bit of your coffee sloshed out of the cup and landed on the sidewalk with a wet slap.

“Well, I— you— ugh. I have to go.” You closed your eyes and sighed before starting to turn away from him. Out of the corner of your eye you saw his eyes widen as you turned away, and you thought he might have started to say something, taking a step towards you.

Embarrassed, you didn’t wait around for him to find out what it might have been. You started walking briskly towards the door to your building, already trying to remember if you had a random t-shirt somewhere in your office from some campus event or other. Anything you could wear. Maybe from that Creative Writing Club event last month? As you opened the door, you glanced back at where he’d been, unable to keep yourself from glancing at him one more time. He was standing right where you’d left him, now facing you, clearly watching you go. You took in the shape of him and struggled against the knowledge that this was the hottest man you’d seen in months, maybe years, and you’d just made an utter fool of yourself in front of him.

You met his eyes once more and this time, he did smile at you. You felt your cheeks start to heat again and you tore your gaze away from his. If you were lucky, you’d never see him again, anyway — it didn’t matter how hot he was. He was probably just a contractor. What are the odds he’d even be on campus again, after the water line issue was fixed? You shook it off and started down the hall towards your office. Never mind whatever he was doing outside of your building.

You had a t-shirt to find. And a class to teach.

…

you (9:26 AM): [picture of a coffee covered white blouse, flopped on the carpeted floor of your office]

bestie (9:35 AM): shit (9:35 AM): wtf happened to you

you (10:32 AM): I ran into, and I mean LITERALLY ran into, the hottest man I’ve ever seen and spilled my coffee EVERYWHERE

bestie (10:33 AM): 😭💀 (10:33 AM): did you get a pic

you (10:35 AM): of the guy??? (10:35 AM): no I did not ask the random hot man who witnessed me pour coffee on my shirt if I could take his picture

bestie (10:36 AM): ok but how hot was he for real

you (10:38 AM): 😵‍💫 he was exactly my type, Beth (10:38 AM): like, could not have imagined him better myself (10:39 AM): he had a BEARD and an ACCENT and SHOULDERS

bestie (10:40 AM): shit (10:40 AM): I mean how bad could it have been, really

you (10:41 AM): my shirt was completely TRANSPARENT (10:41 AM): he could see my BRA (10:42 AM): and I yelled at him that it was his fault in that tone, you know the one

bestie (10:43 AM): 😬 you didn’t

you (10:43 AM): I did 😫

bestie (10:44 AM): ok well what did he do

you (10:44 AM): he offered to replace my coffee and I ran away

bestie (10:45 AM): 🤦🏽‍♀️

you (10:45 AM): shut up ok I know (10:46 AM): he pointed out my shirt ~issue~ and I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life ok

bestie (10:47 AM): well if you see him again don’t yell at him next time

you (10:48 AM): I don’t think I will I think he’s just some construction guy. I don’t know if he works here (10:48 AM): and anyway if I see him again I’m running the other way and hiding

bestie (10:49 AM): sure (10:49 AM): I totally believe that next time you see Hot Construction Guy you’ll run away (10:49 AM): absolutely

you (10:51 AM): shut up

…

You sent the same picture of your sad blouse to Ellie and she just replied with a laughing emoji, five skull emojis, a coffee emoji, and a thumbs down. You smiled and headed out the door to your class.

...

a/n: see you next Friday for chapter 2! update: I changed the formatting for the texts, I think it reads better? prev | next

note about reader: in this fic you’re a college professor, vaguely of English literature and poetry. You like live music, you like to read, and Ellie is your niece. You have a best friend named Beth, a sister who is having a rough time, and a difficult mother. I’ve avoided physical descriptions and most clothing descriptions, except when plot-relevant. You are vaguely shorter than Joel. No age is specified, but I imagined 36-year-old Joel here (and 14-year-old Sarah), and most English PhDs wouldn’t get to this type of position until they were 28 or 29 at the earliest, even if they went to grad school right out of undergrad. So you can imagine reader any age from there to mid-30s, or whatever you want, really.

hope you're ready for a long fic! we're at 80k and i'm finishing the edits on the rest.

tag list: @jupiter-soups (let me know if you want to be in the tag list)

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fic #my fic #maintenance request fic #x reader

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lnfours · 6 months

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inclinations (seven) | l.n

summary: a story told in two parts: summer and autumn. summer held the whirlwind romance that came crashing down too soon. autumn brought the repercussions of young love and learning how to fall in love all over again.

au: childhood friends to lovers, uni!au

warnings: WE’RE BACK!! something’s cooking w flo 🫣, loads of fluff, not so secret pining, anticipation and being unsure of how to tell someone to stay without actually saying it.

masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter | listen

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

the sun was officially set now, the sky dark as you sat in the passenger seat of the mclaren. the windows were down, the night breeze whisking your hair around as the music played softly through the speakers.

you had missed this, missed this part of summer. it was like something had been missing the past couple of years, but in reality, it was just him. he was the one who had been missing.

your phone buzzed in your lap, reading the text as it popped up on your lockscreen.

flo

sos!! need ur help!!

you furrowed your eyebrows, typing back a response.

y/n

with…?

flo

i have a boy coming over and i need you to keep lando out

y/n

and how do you expect me to do that?

flo

literally just make something up. you know he’d do anything for you

he’d do anything for you.

y/n

okay, okay. for how long?

flo

an hour… or two 🫣

y/n

FLO

flo

PLEASE

y/n

fine. you owe me

you locked your phone, chuckling softly to yourself and shaking your head.

“what’s up?” lando asked, stopping at the red light. you turned to look over at him.

“nothing,” you said, “uhm, do you wanna go back to mine for a little while? watch a movie or something?”

he nodded and sent you a smile, “sounds good, yeah.”

you smiled back over at him as he made the left hand turn onto your street. he parked the car outside, the both of you getting out as he followed you inside.

you unlocked the door and pushed it open, “my parents are probably out with yours.”

he chuckled, “yeah, they mentioned something about a winery to me earlier. guess they’re still there.”

you jogged up the stairs, him following behind you, “wouldn’t be surprised, honestly,” you chuckled, “do you remember that night they spent, like, 7 hours at the bar?”

his eyebrows rose, “oh my god, yeah! i forgot about that!” he laughed softly, “they didn’t even drink the whole time, they just spent time catching up and talking.”

you nodded, “i think we were 13? 14? something like that,”

“yeah, something like that,” he sat down on the bed as you kicked off your shoes, grabbing a pair of sweatpants to change into. he looked around the room, smiling as he grabbed the picture from your nightstand, “you still have this?”

you spun around to look at what he was talking about, seeing the picture of the two of you together from years ago. the both of you were dressed in your graduation caps and gowns, smiling for the picture.

“yeah,” you breathed out, “the year my mom made me bring my cap and gown so we could get pictures with you guys.”

“and because you were doing it, my mom made us do it,” he laughed softly, “i’m glad i’ve hit puberty since then.”

you snorted softly, “yeah, now you’ve probably got models tripping and falling into your dms.”

he shrugged, putting the picture back down, “not really what i’m looking for, anyway.”

you squealed internally as you searched your closet, pulling out a hoodie and another pair of sweatpants for him. you tossed them his way, “if you wanna change.”

he nodded, “thanks,” he examined the hoodie, the color being a little too familiar for him. upon further examination, he smiled, “you still have this, too?”

you turned back from the doorway to your bathroom, him holding up an old hoodie of his you had snagged off of him during one of the beach bonfires.

“guess so,” you smiled, “might still smell like bonfire.”

he laughed, bringing it to his nose. instead of the bonfire smell, he was introduced to the smell of your laundry detergent and your perfume. his heart clenched, shaking his head before speaking, “nah, smells good.”

you chuckled softly, closing the door to the bathroom before changing into the sweatpants and hoodie you had grabbed for yourself. you checked over your reflection in the mirror, fixing your hair and checking yourself over. once you were satisfied, you opened the door.

he was in the hoodie and sweatpants now, folding his clothes over the desk chair that sat in the corner of the room. you made your way over to the bed, sitting down and grabbing the remote before he joined you.

“what kind of movie do you want to watch?” you asked, hugging your left knee to your chest. he laid on his side, head resting on his hand as he shrugged.

“anything new you recommend?”

you hummed, “not really,” you made the mistake of looking over at him, your eyes meeting his. the same shades of blue with specks of green you had fallen for years ago. he was so close to you that you could almost feel the warm breath fanning your face. you swallowed, breathing out a soft response, “you?”

his head shook, his eyes dancing across your face as he took in the facial features you had grown into. you had always been beautiful to him. in the setting sun, when you just wake up, when your hairs a mess of because of the ocean. even when your cheeks are littered with tears and he’s thinking about punching the guy who upset you, he still thinks you’re beautiful.

“nothing interesting, anyway.”

you licked your lips nervously, trying to fight the urge to lean in and press your lips against his. you wanted him to make the first move, wanted him to want you just as much as you wanted him.

“y/n,” he mumbled your name, pulling you back down to earth, “i have something to tell you-“

you were anxiously awaiting was he was going to say before the sound of your phone buzzing interrupted. you sighed, leaning over and checking the notification on the lockscreen.

flo

okay you’re good now

i owe you!

you locked your phone, turning back to the man sitting next to you. you smiled softly in an apologetic way, “sorry,”

he shook his head, a smile on his face letting you know it was okay, “‘s okay. anything important?”

you shook your head, “‘s just flo, she can wait,” you said, “what were you saying?”

“no, it’s okay,” he said, “should probably get back before she thinks i’m missing.”

you nodded, mentally cursing your best friend as you watched him sit up off the bed. you were so close. so close to something you’ve been dreaming about since you were a kid, so close to having everything you wanted.

as you watched him grab the clothes off the desk chair, you held the mental debate with yourself. was it a good idea? probably not. did you really want this? absolutely.

he reached the door to your bedroom, but you caused him to freeze when you said his name, “lando, wait,”

he turned back around and you caught the little glimmer of hope in his eyes. or that’s what you thought it was anyway as you approached him.

“i, uhm,” you couldn’t back out now, “i had a really good time tonight.”

he smiled softly, “me too.”

you didn’t know what to say now, nerves washing over your body as you met his eyes, “good,”

he chuckled, “you alright? you look nervous.”

little did you know he was nervous, too. he just had a better front put up than you, “yeah, no, i’m okay, just tired.”

he nodded, “i’ll give you back your clothes after i run them through the wash.”

you shook your head, “keep ‘em, they’re yours, anyway.”

you didn’t want him to leave, but you didn’t know how to get him to stay.

“i’ll see you tomorrow? for brunch?” he asked, the annual brunch between your families totally escaping your mind until now.

you nodded, “see you tomorrow.”

“good night, y/n.” he smiled once again.

“good night, lando.”

he walked out the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall as he got further and further. you sighed, running your hands through your hair as you turned away from the door. you were so close. why couldn’t you have just told him?

you didn’t hear him turn around in the hallway, didn’t hear him toss the clothes on your bed. you jumped when he grabbed your arm, turning you towards him.

“fuck this,” he mumbled, pulling you into him as he cupped your face with his hand. your heart was beating so fast it was a shocker he couldn’t hear it as he pressed his lips to yours. you kissed him back quickly, your lips moving in sync. your hands had found their way to his hair, fingers tangling in his curls.

he pulled away from you, resting his forehead against yours, “this is a bad idea, isn’t it?”

“probably,” you breathed, “but i’ve wanted this for too long to care.”

“glad we’re on the same page,” he said, kissing your lips again. you smiled into the kiss, his teeth gently nibbling at your lower lip before his tongue slipped in.

you giggled softly when his head dipped to the space between your collarbone and jaw, curls tickling your cheek as he peppered kisses against the skin.

“lando,” you breathlessly said his name as he backed you up against the bed, your back hitting the mattress as you pulled him down with you. he hummed against your skin before you continued, “you’re all i ever wanted.”

he smiled, love filled eyes meeting yours, “you’re all i ever wanted, too.”

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris series #lando norris x reader series #lando norris fluff #friends to lovers #university au #friends to lovers au #inclinations series #ln4 #ln4 x reader #ln4 imagine #ln4 fluff #ln4 fic #ln4 x you #lando norris x childhood friend!reader #childhood friends to lovers au

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lesmiserabelles · 3 months

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cable street, southwark playhouse - 24 February 2024, evening (previews) Joshua Ginsberg (Sammy Scheinberg), Danny Colligan (Ron Williams), Sha Dessi (Mairaid Kenny), Debbie Chazen (Kathleen Kenny), Jade Johnson (Rosa Scheinberg), Aoife Mac Namara (Orlaith Kenny/Violin), Ethan Pascal Peters (Moishe Scheinberg), Sophia Ragavelas (Edie Williams), Max Alexander-Taylor (Sean Kelly), Sarah Leatherbarrow (Rachel Scheinberg), Jez Unwin (Yitzhak Scheinberg)

since it's been stuck in my head, sharing the opening number of new musical cable street, feat. a couple of former les mis cast members for those who are interested in such things

#cable street #musicals #audio #joshua ginsberg #danny colligan #sha dessi #debbie chazen #jade johnson #aoife mac namara #ethan pascal peters #sophia ragavelas #max alexander-taylor #sarah leatherbarrow #jez unwin

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bvtbxtch · 4 months

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Stephen | Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

“You’re my object of affection, my drug of choice, my sick obsession.”

Summary: 5 years since graduation, 5 years since you ran your way through Hawkins High, leaving boys in your wake…. Except one. Steve Harrington, apparent untouchable due to his infatuation with Nancy Wheeler. What happens when you see a worn out, former heartthrob with his fizzled high school flame stuck to him? Unhappy, feeling unloved and in a bind, you thought Steve could be the conquest of the night… or so you thought.

Pairings: King!Steve (Kinda) x Toxic!Fem!Reader

Content warnings: smut, angst, fluff. Non canon au. Steve and Nancy are together from Steve’s senior year to the time of the story. Cheating (emotional and sexual), p in v sex, oral (m and f receiving), Reader defs isn’t a girls girl but I couldn’t help it, alcohol consumption, one night stands, stealing, public sex. This is definitely 18+ MDNI!!!!!

WC:

A/N: Hi babies I have returned with something a little bit different from my little hiatus and am super excited to try something new! This fic is inspired by the song Stephen by Ke$sha! I hope you like it!! I love you all!

The pounding in your head mirrored that in your heart as you remembered the burn of alcohol down your throat from last night. Your makeup had been smudged off onto your pillow, some still remaining on your swollen, hungover face. The day after drinking anxiety had reared its head, but a wave of nerves hit you like a ton of bricks when a vision of you writing your phone number on Steve Harrington’s arm - more or less in front of his girlfriend - faded into view.

You cupped your hands over your face and your shoulders shook. You couldn’t help but giggle at the picture of her porcelain face twisted into a bout of jealous rage. You could fully admit to yourself that you lived on the side of delusion, but there was a piece of you that wholeheartedly believed that your former king of Hawkins High would call you.

And yet, you sat and stared at the phone perched silently on your nightstand while you nursed your hangover all day. The bright afternoon light evolved into an evening glow and still you hadn’t heard the shrill ring. You put on records and VCRs. You flicked through magazines and tried to pick up the new Danielle Steele book you had pocketed from the bookstore on main street. But the soundtrack of your thoughts was the hope that the telephone would ring and that you would hear a smooth baritone voice calling you. You fought to keep your eyes open while the blue light of your TV laughed back at you. You finally surrendered to the sleep your body had been pleading for, the blur of the night previous finally making itself clear in your dreams…

The music at the dive bar had been blaring. You were on your upteenth drink courtesy of Eddie Munson. The first time you had come to the Hideout it was your senior year, freshly 18 and ready for an adventure. You had snuck in with a fake ID and eyed up the curly haired 21 year old behind the bar. His eyes had been glued on you since you had walked in. Well, you worked your charm and lo and behold, Eddie had you bent over the chipped porcelain sink in the staff bathroom. After the orgasm you gave him, he knew he would owe you for a while - and free drinks you received ever since. You flashed him a wink as you downed the third tequila shot of the night. Your plump glossed lips twisted into a smile after looking at the winces of Heather and Chrissy. The three of you had moved a half an hour outside of Hawkins to the bigg(er) city of Indianapolis, but you felt the need to parade your luxurious city life to the hasbeen jocks of Hawkins High that frequent the only legit bar in town. You couldn't count on both hands the number of guys you had toyed with that now loitered around the musty pool tables and bar tops. By the time you graduated and got a job, you thought of yourself as a big fish in a small pond. You were ready to break big city hearts and leave the lame Hawkins lifers behind. That couldn’t be you. But there was always one that got away - one that you hated to admit was one guy that scared you, solely because you would let him domesticate you if he asked.

The girls beside you let out a small woo as another shot was sent your way, this time courtesy of Jason Carver who had fastened himself a seat on the other side of the bar with yet another Hawkins Hasbeen, Andy Robinson. You raised the small glass to your lips with a devilish smile across the bar. Jason still had his abs like he did when you graduated. Owning the small weightlifting gym on the outskirts of town had its perks, you guess. You looked at Chrissy and rolled your eyes with a snicker as the burning liquid slid down your throat. At least if you didn’t get lucky with someone else tonight, he would be there and more than willing to give you a half assed orgasm in the back seat of his beat up jeep cherokee - better than ending the night alone in your books (and probably his). You scrunched your eyes closed and a flash of stars lit up the darkness behind your eyes. You opened them to blurry vision, the feelings in your fingers were being replaced with warm fuzz. You knew that if you were to get off your barstool your knees would raise hell. You let out a euphoric giggle. This is just what you needed.

You heard a small “well, well, well,” slur out of Heather’s bowed lips as two new figures emerged through the metallic doors of the bar. “Surprised to see Harrington out here. Isn’t his past his bedtime? You know I remember…” Heather’s voice faded away as you honed in your focus to the pair at the door.

Nancy Wheeler - her obnoxious perm and housewife dresses… You couldn’t help but hate her. She was everything you weren’t: safe, boring, square. Her manicured hand rested in a much larger hand, and that hand was attached to toned arms in a light cotton crewneck. You couldn’t help but feel the saliva pool in your mouth. Nancy looked up to her beautiful brunette with her stupid doe eyes and he flashed her a small cautious smile. They stuck out like sore thumbs. She didn’t belong here, but Steve Harrington was too good looking to be in this shitty bar. It’s like your friends could read your mind. Chrissy pinched you in the side and Heather let out a childish giggle.

“Don’t even think about it, Y/L/N. Nancy’s had him on lock since, like, junior year.” You were well aware.

“Don’t even worry about it. I’ll be smart…” You challenged. Your friends were very aware of your determination. If you wanted something, you got it. And Steve Harrington was on the menu. You watched the handsome couple stalk to one of the tall bar tables across the room from your seats. Steve’s eyes locked with yours and you licked your lips. No matter how hard he tried, like a magnet, your gaze kept him locked on you. The man felt a tug on his arm as Nancy shuffled him to the table. As their conversation lulled on, you couldn’t help but attract Steve’s eyes again. You waved your arm to Eddie for another shot.

“I think it’s time to have some water, doll” the mophead behind cooed. For the first time tonight you ruffled through your purse to find a folded 20 dollar bill. You placed it in the hem of your bustier and flashed your sultry eyes at Eddie.

“You want a tip or not, Munson? I think I have already shown you how much I appreciate your customer service.” The man’s cheeks grew flushed as he grabbed the bill out of your chest with nimble fingers - hoping that his hands didn’t slip. Another tiny glass full of liquid in front of you. Before you put it to your mouth, you raised your eyes to Steve, his mouth slightly agape, having seen the performance you had just put on at the bar. You raised the shot glass to him in salute, he blushed and turned his eyes back to his girlfriend. God, his fucking girlfriend.

He watched your neck tilt back as the burning liquid slid down your throat. He had to stifle a small chuckle at your scrunched face at the reaction to your shot. Steve always thought you were effortlessly beautiful. But you were dangerous. A junior when he was a senior, he knew about the boys you had left in your wake. He made sure to stay away, betrothed to the girl sitting across from him at the bar. He sighed a choked breath of relief when Nancy coldly told him she was going to the bathroom then to get them some drinks. He let his shoulders shrug and rearranged his pants, which were a bit tighter than when he walked in. He wasn’t left in his silence for long. His shoulders shifted back up to his ears and his cheeks grew hot when he saw you saunter from the bar in his direction. His heart was in his throat and beating harder than ever. What the fuck was happening to him?

Your moment to strike happened when you saw Nancy’s pleated dress slither out of her barstool and towards the bathroom. You mirrored her and pushed your wobbling legs one in front of the other. You carried two glasses of brown liquor with you. Your face was calm and cool, but your hands were shaking as you crossed the dingy hardwood over to a beautiful head of hair.

“So, what is King Steve doing in a place like this?” You didn’t dare take Nancy Wheeler’s spot. You wouldn’t want to be compared to the likes. You leaned your torso over the table, edging closer to the man than you would be on a stool. You preferred it that way, and you had a sense that Steve does as well.

“I could ask the same thing to you, Y/N.” He mumbled, but you can tell his confidence was growing. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“Who told you I’m a nice girl?” You purred. “You looked thirsty over here, and I thought, since you’re in my domain, I could show you some hospitality.” You slid the drink over to him with a black painted fingernail and picked yours up and stirred it suggestively.

“Bottoms up then.” Steve grabbed the glass and clinked it to yours. Your heart stopped as you watched the beautiful man’s neck strain upwards to take his drink in one gulp. It took all of the drunken strength you could muster to not sink your teeth into his strong neck. His Adams apple bobbed in strain and the liquor made his cheeks bloom a darker red than they already were. You sipped half of your drink, desperate to relieve some of the tension running through your body, but you felt like you would completely crumble if you downed it all in one go.

“So.. you and Nancy… That’s pretty… serious?” You couldn’t help the venom that seethed out of your lips. Steve cleared his throat and stared into the bottom of his empty glass. He shrugged his shoulders. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Trouble in paradise, King Steve?” you jest.

“Nah, It’s just… it's been a few years I guess.” Steve’s voice was cold. You sighed audibly. The alcohol and the pure lust was getting to you, and you could barely contain yourself.

“Too bad… the word on the street is I could treat you much better.” You could barely bring yourself to look into his eyes, but when you did, you were met with an intense stare. You couldn’t read all of the emotions behind his eyes, but it made your core quiver.

“Word on the street is you know how to treat a lot of people.” Steve scoffed. His defenses were up. Why in the world were you coming to him now? He had always stolen looks at you. He knew how magnetic you were. He wished he knew you in high school. Maybe then he wouldn’t be stuck working at his dad’s law firm. With a girlfriend who he felt stuck with; no sense of adventure, no true love in sight. But then you sauntered up to him and made his heart believe in life again.

“Well you aren’t wrong. But I only have eyes for one right now.” You winked.

“Wish we could have had this conversation three years ago…” Steve whispered, hoping that you didn’t hear him. You were delectable, and laid out in front of him; and he knows that if he were to have a few more drinks, he would have forgotten all about the girl that he had come here with - his… girlfriend. Fuck, his girlfriend. You flashed him a pout and a disappointed smile. You had him eating right out of your hand.

“Well… Let me give you this.” You pulled out a sharpie from your purse and pulled his wrist towards you, pulling up his sweater sleeve. You began to scribble your phone number onto his olive skin. You had to breathe slowly to keep yourself from shaking. “Call me tomorrow if you want to pretend it was three years ago.” A look of need flashed on your face. You had been absorbed by Steve Harrington. It had felt like all of the bar had disappeared and it was just the two of you. Steve could feel that too, he had you right where he wanted you, totally absorbed and infatuated. You couldn’t help but think of Nancy and it made you shiver. You couldn’t have her invade this. Fuck his stupid girlfriend. You were determined to make Steve Harrington yours.

The two of you stayed transfixed on each other for a moment more. Steve fixed his gaze between your face and the new ink that you had given him. He wanted to nurture it like it was a real tattoo. You couldn’t help but take mental pictures of Steve’s face, so you could imagine whatever meathead you ended up taking home that night was him. You wondered what he would look like underneath you, gasping and panting for breath. What his skin would taste like: sweaty and sweet and musky. You wished that you could take his fingers and put them in your mouth right now. You were thirsty, parched for his lips on yours. You wanted to show him what you looked like underneath him, you wanted him to hear you moan his name. You wanted to fuck his brains out, the way you knew Nancy “White Bread” Wheeler doesn’t. You were connected, and it scared you because for the first time in forever, you wanted to fuck, but you also wanted him to hold you, to tell you that you’re beautiful. You wanted him to hold your hand and buy you flowers and take you out. You wanted to cook for him and play with his hair and rub his back.

You were torn from your world when you heard a small ‘ahem’ from behind you. Steve quickly adjusted his posture and pulled his sweater sleeve over his new love mark. You stood up straight and turned to see the frizzy haired brunette tapping her pleather pumps at you… tacky, you thought.

“Can I help you with something?” She peeped. “Or is there another reason why you’re over here talking to my boyfriend?” Nancy’s angry eyes flicked between the two of you and her brow was furrowed. Your gaze had hardened and you couldn’t help but chuckle; she looked like a toddler and an old woman at the same time. Steve’s cheeks remained a rosy pink. He had found whatever was on the floor oddly interesting. You took a step towards the girl.

“Nothing at all, darling. Just thought I would say hello to an old friend and grab him a drink.” You breezed past her, knocking her lightly on the shoulder.

“See you around, Harrington.” You sang behind you. You couldn’t see her anymore, but you assumed that if looks could kill, you would be on the floor. You strutted back to Chrissy and Heather and slumped back to your stool. You exchanged mischievous glances with the girls, and then turned proudly to Eddie, who was flashing you a disappointed look. A victory for you, a loss for Nancy Wheeler - or at least you hoped.

Steve continued to stare at the ground while Nancy eyed him suspiciously.

“What the hell did she want, Steve?” she pried. Steve huffed before looking up at her. Her eyes didn’t glimmer at him like yours did.

“She just came over to say hi…. I hadn’t seen her since Senior year.”

“Did you even talk to her senior year? You know the reputation she has…I don’t like her, and I don’t like her talking to you, Steve,” within the past year, he had thought of Nancy more like his mother than his girlfriend. He had been growing more and more confused lately. The love seemed to be lacking and he had caught himself wondering what his life would be like if he left it all behind, left her behind and started over. You made the idea of abandonment way more appealing. He felt himself growing unreasonably angry with the blue eyed girl sitting across the bar from her. He needed to defend you. You were the only thing on his mind.

“Who the hell cares, Nancy? What do you think that she was going to do? Fucking make out with me in front of everyone? She asked how we were doing. She asked about you and me. Chill out and have fun or let’s just get out of here.” He scowled. Nancy was taken aback and slid a chilled PBR across the table to Steve with a scoff. She drank her vodka cran in silence. Steve couldn’t help but let his eyes wander to your figure laughing and smiling with your friends. He wanted to laugh with you. He downed his drink, took Nancy's hand silently and pulled her towards the door. She had a permanent frown on her face as Steve pushed her through the door. Before his body disappeared from the door, he took one more glimpse at you. Your eyes locked one last time and you sent him a wave as he disappeared into the Hawkins night. If he couldn’t have you, he’d fuck Nancy until he forgot about you.

It was 3 am and your body literally couldn’t peel itself off of the plastic bar stool. Chrissy and Heather had gone home with Jason and Andy - your appetite spoiled when you watched the only person you wanted to be with leave the bar without you. You heard the stomps of old reeboks and the jingle of keys come up behind you. The lights had suddenly gone out.

“Come on, doll. Let’s get you home okay?” Eddie pulled you off the stool and wrapped your arm around his shoulder.

“Can you stay over, Teddie?”

“Not this time, honey. You need sleep and you need water. You aren’t thinking straight.”

You pouted quietly, but you decided to finally take no for an answer. The thought of sinking into your bed and hoping - praying - that Steve would call you.

Steve had pulled Nancy into his bedroom of his parents’ empty house. He feverishly pulled at Nancy’s belt as she fumbled with the zipper at the side of her dress. Steve’s mouth didn’t leave her skin, and his eyes remained shut, save to navigate himself around his house. A flurry of clothes, soft sighs and sweaty skin. Steve had only had two drinks, but he felt drunk thinking of your encounter at the bar. He pressed his eyes closed as he mouthed at Nancy’s chest, wishing it was yours. He slid down her torso pondering what sounds you would make if he was kissing towards your sweet center. He pulled Nancy’s panties to the side and swiped his tongue along her heat, thinking about how delicious you would taste. He then flipped Nancy over on all fours and slid into her with a grunt. He couldn’t stand to look at her, wishing her body was yours, wishing her sounds were yours, wanting to hold you in his arms after. Steve finished quickly, his perversions towards you spurring him on.

The couple collapsed into Steve’s king bed. Nancy traced small circles on his chest while they caught their breath. Steve felt satiated, his hunger for you ebbed, for now.

“Steve! What’s on your arm?” Nancy yelped. Steve’s heart dropped into his chest. He frantically turned himself away from his girlfriend. Nancy’s small hands grabbed Steve’s shoulder to turn him back to her. Her nails drug down to the tattoo you had given her boyfriend and her face began to heat up.

“What the fuck is this, Steve?”

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rosewaterandivy · 1 month

Text

Summary: it’s always the best laid plans of mice and men, isn’t it?

Pairing: s.h. x f!oc

W.C.: 5.4K

Warnings: gilded age!au, miscommunication, a comedy of errors/manners, society snobs, a masquerade ball mishap, arranged marriage, steve ‘down bad’ harrington, and a reader/mc who doesn’t have time for this shit - she was educated abroad, she went to Vassar with Miss Nancy Wheeler, okay?!, back on my iliad bullshit (i know, i know)

playlist | m.list

I. Coup de foudre

It’s a dreary December evening in Manhattan. The streets are damp and slick accompanied by the cacophony of hooves, equipages and carriages trundling down the way. Somber topcoats and fur-trimmed capes hide the tailored waistcoats of the men and ornate skirts of the ladies, as is to be expected with the current onslaught of weather.

Small white flurries of snow that are sure to bring a swift end to laborious dinners and engagements at the club. And the man in the sleek black equipage himself is all too relieved about it— at least he would be released from the obligation of hearing his father’s friends complain about these upstart robber barons descending like a horde of locusts on Fifth Avenue.

A quiet night in his study would be a welcome distraction.

That is, if they can ever get home in this weather.

He can hear the whinny of the horses from up front and the soothing tones of the driver. The streets are probably close to icing over at this hour, making it difficult to find traction.

Suddenly, the equipage swings quickly to the side and careens into something with a loud thud, sending its sole occupant straight into the door with a smack. He hisses lowly at the twinge in his forehead as the driver descends with a flurry of apologies.

He opens the door himself and steps outside before the driver can assist him. The white puffs of his breath speak to how quickly the weather had turned. He draws his coat closer and approaches the two drivers as they attempt to settle the horses.

“Gentlemen,” He greets, “What seems to be the problem?”

“Noting to worry about Mr. Harrington,” His man, Andrew, assures him, “The ice just snuck up on us is all.”

He nods taking in the damage, dents and scuffs on both vehicles but the horses appear to be fine. Reaching into his coat pocket, he brings out a small notebook and a pencil to scribble his information down for the other driver. Is about to tell the man to bill him directly when someone steps out from the carriage opposite.

The footsteps themselves are delicate and tentative. He tears his gaze from the driver’s, glancing back only to find a young woman emerging from the carriage. She’s holding her skirts in one gloved hand, shivering in the cold.

“Is everything all right Jesse?”

Her voice is like music to his ears, melodic almost. And she looks like something stolen from a painting— bright and alluring.

The winter light is quickly fading, and the lamplighters were sure taking their time this evening. Her cape is dark, like his coat, but the split at the front reveals a purple skirt trimmed in demure black lace, signifying an exit from her period of mourning.

Her man, Jesse, shepherds her back toward the coach, “Let’s get you back inside Miss, don’t want you to catch a chill.”

“Of course,” She says with a shake of her head, “How silly of me.”

And before Steve can embarrass himself in an attempt to introduce himself, she’s safely ensconced back in the carriage. Her driver returns and takes the paper from Steve, tucking it into his coat.

“Apologies gentlemen, but I must be on my way.” He pulls himself back onto the driver’s box, “Have to get the young Miss home to her brother’s, you understand.”

He tips his hat, and with a tug of the reins he’s gone.

Steve finds himself standing right where she left him, feet riveted to the very spot where she once stood. He must have taken a step toward her at some point, like an utter madman, probably startled the poor girl half to death.

Despite their disastrous non-meeting, he can’t seem to shake her from his mind. As if everything had been in black and white until she stepped down from the carriage and breathed color into his world, spring bursting forth at the sound of her voice. It sounds positively insane, even to himself, but if Robin were here, she’d understand.

Hell, she’d probably have a word for it too.

Something French, inevitably.

“Mr. Harrington,” Andrew says, a hand tentatively resting on his shoulder, “Is something wrong?”

Steve blinks; a feeble attempt to clear his mind from thoughts of the mystery woman.

Andrew refrains from rolling his eyes, “Right sir, let’s get you home then.”

The journey back to the Harrington family manse was uneventful. The familiar brownstone facade came into view as Andrew swung the equipage onto the street outside the house. Luckily, the home was large enough that his late arrival wouldn’t be noticed.

He thanks Andrew and watches as he takes off with the horses for the carriage house a few blocks away. Stepping into the house, he makes quickly for his study slipping through the door just as one of the maids turns down the corridor.

Steve shucks his coat onto a nearby chair and tugs off his cravat with one hand, the other pouring a healthy portion of bourbon into a highball glass. He downs the amber liquid too quickly, the burn welcome against his throat.

After pouring another glass to sip from, he settles into a heap on a club chair by the window. Resting his jaw on a hand, he faces the glass panes, eyes trailing the flurries of snow outside, unsettled by the quiet of the street. His mind won’t stop racing, vacillating between kicking himself for not getting her name and hoping he’d run into her again, albeit this time under better circumstances.

Little did he know, that several blocks away a man was questioning poor Jesse about his whereabouts when a slip of paper was placed into his hand. He scans it quickly, face paling at the name scrawled there: Steven Harrington.

“How could you let this happen Jesse, really? The accident, I understand, but allowing my sister out of the carriage unaccompanied?”

“Sir, I had no—”

“I’ll not hear your excuses.” Christopher Fairchild balls his hand into a fist, the paper crumpling in his grasp. “You said he saw her, Harrington, that is?”

“Unfortunately,” Jesse admits, “I intervened as best I could and got her back into the coach. He seemed rather transfixed by her.”

His employer grunts, “Yes well, that is unfortunate. What if someone had seen her with that man, no chaperone in sight?” He turns to the sideboard and pours himself a drink, says with a scoff, “Not even out to society and potentially scandal-ridden.”

At this point, his wife, Marian, chooses to enter, having seen the young lady to her rooms and getting her settled for the evening. She places a tentative hand on his shoulder while Jesse trains his gaze to the floor.

“Darling,” She soothes, “Your sister is asleep as is the baby, don’t get yourself into a fit at this hour.”

He sighs as her palm moves in slow circles against his back and takes deep breaths. “Of course dear,” He sips from his drink and turns to her. “I just worry about her. All the work you’ve put into her debut and planning the ball.” Christopher places a kiss on the back of her hand, causing her to blush. “I don’t want it to be all for naught.”

She sighs prettily.

“It won’t be,” Marian advises, “You’ll write to the Harringtons tomorrow and we’ll get this matter settled. And there won’t be a speck on your dear sister’s reputation, I’ll see to that.”

But, oh dear reader, where would be the fun in that?

As we all know, the New York winter season is winding down rapidly, and do we not deserve something to keep us warm over the holiday? I would say so!

So, in honor of her long-awaited arrival, let us give a hearty New York welcome to Miss Eleanor Fairchild! Fresh from the society of Paris and a graduate of Vassar along with Miss Nancy Wheeler, her debut this week is the talk of the town.

Despite her indecorous brush with Mr. Steven Harrington, I am sure she will not have a shortage of suitors after the ball this weekend.

But the question remains, my loyal readers, of who will take a shine to Miss Fairchild and step out from the long shadow cast by the Harrington name?

Only time, and this weekly missive, will tell.

Morning in New York was startling and nothing like waking in Paris.

House maids, lady’s maids, and valets moving up and down the stairs, knocking on doors to air out the linens and draw the curtains aside to let the murky winter sun stream through. There was, of course, the soft babbling from the nursery as Gus woke from his repose, the nursemaid and his mother close at hand.

A sharp knock sounded from the door just as you drew the bedclothes closer to you, content to roll over and sleep through the gray morning.

“Bonjour mademoiselle, vous permettez?”

“Oui!” You say, curious at the chipper voice now opening the door, “Sorry, yes, you may enter.”

“Merci, mademoiselle.”

The girl, your new lady’s maid, softly shuts the door and turns to regard the room.

It’s certainly larger than what you’d grown accustomed to in France. But then again, most everything was in New York, especially so since you hadn’t returned to the city in well nigh on a year or more.

The room itself is well-appointed and elegant, Marian saw to that; soft colors and fabrics, diaphanous and frothy, a subtle nod to Versailles no doubt. You hadn’t had much time or energy to give it a glance last night, more inclined to have a late dinner, divest yourself of traveling clothes, and pass out as soon as possible.

The lady’s maid continues her silent assessment as another knock sounds from the door. She steps to open it and let in the housemaid.

“Good morning Miss,” She greets with a smile, her voice rounded with a warm Irish lilt. “I ‘spect you’ll be needin’ a fire this morning.”

You nod just now noticing the chill in the air. She busies herself with the kindling and sweeping ashes from the fireplace. The maids exchange a few soft words before she steps out to get the firewood from the Useful Man down the hall.

“Apologies,” You say by way of greeting, “But I don’t believe I got your name?”

“Oh, pardonne-moi,” the lady’s maid curtsies briefly, “Je m’appelle Marie.”

“Marie,” You repeat, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Moi aussi, mademoiselle.”

And from there, the ritual of dressing began. The house maid, Louisa, lit the fire and spirited you out of bed to air out the linens. At Marie’s suggestion, she also tackled unpacking the various trunks placed near the dresser and closet.

“These are fine frills Miss,” She smiled, her fingers delicately folding chemises and hanging skirts or dresses. “The Missus said your debut gown came all the way from Mr. Worth’s shop in Paris, is that true?”

A soft sigh escaped you at the memory, ivory chiffon and silk revealing the décolleté and arms, gauze and tulle providing a tempting illusion of bared skin. A full skirt with bustle that would skim the floor accompanied by a small train. With gloves and a fan to match, of course.

“Indeed, it is,” You allowed with a cheeky wink, “But I think Marie would have my head if I touched it before Friday.”

Marie, for her part, merely smirked and continued her preparations for your bath.

Across a few city blocks, a footman knocks on the imposing doors of the Harrington manse. The family butler, Campbell, just happens to be descending the stairs and takes it upon himself to open the door.

“Good morning sir,” The footman says with a bow, “Mr. Fairchild bid me to deliver this.” He hands over an envelope addressed to Mr. Samuel Harrington.

“Yes, well,” Campbell sighs, opening the door to let the footman in. “I’ll get this to him. If you hurry, Cook can scrounge up some coffee and a pastry for you. Just take the servant’s hall to the right.”

“Much obliged,” The footman says with a bow as Campbell starts up the stairs.

The handwriting on the envelope is neat, if a bit cramped. Must be the young Mr. Fairchild then, rather than his wife sending the correspondence.

Mr. Harrington’s study door is cracked open, the sound of papers shuffling to and fro on his desk as the butler enters. He briefly glances up to find Campbell, “Happen to know where I put those contracts, Campbell?”

“Perhaps the drawer on the left, sir.”

Mr. Harrington pulls the drawer open, “Right you are, good man.” And thereby loses himself to perusing the documents and thus ignoring Campbell.

“A letter has arrived for you sir,” He says stepping closer to the desk, “From Mr. Fairchild, it seems rather urgent. I have his footman waiting for your reply.”

“Hmm, well let’s have it then.”

He takes the letter from the butler’s hand and slips the blade of the letter opener under the paper. Retrieving the missive, he scans through it quickly, lips pulling down in distaste.

“See to it that Mrs. Harrington gets this,” He instructs, pulling out a new sheaf of paper and beginning his correspondence. “If she wishes to see my reply, she best be quick about it.”

The letter itself detailed the unfortunate meeting between Mr. Fairchild’s sister and Mr. Harrington’s only son. The man was understandably concerned about how it would seem should someone have happened upon them sans chaperone, as the young lady had yet to make her debut into society.

Mr. Harrington’s reply was cordial in an attempt to smooth things over— the Fairchilds, like the Harrington’s were of good stock, two families of the New York Four Hundred deemed to be unblemished and acceptable company by none other than the Grande Dame herself, Mrs. Astor. It wouldn’t be fitting for reputations to be sullied as the result of a simple misunderstanding.

As expected, Samuel’s wife, Amelia, swanned into the study seemingly in the midst of her morning toilette. Her hair was up, but she still wore her housecoat as her day dress had yet to be put on by her lady’s maid. Mr. Fairchild’s letter waved about in one hand, while the other pressed upon her chest as if to stop her racing heart.

“That boy of yours is going to give me heart failure.”

Samuel signs the letter with a flourish and lays his pen to the side.

“Oh, so he’s only my boy when he acts indiscreetly with the fairer sex, but he’s your son when he’s winning accolades at Harvard and breaking hearts abroad, is that it?”

She tuts and sits demurely on the divan, “Well, yes. Precisely that Sam.” She fans herself with the letter as her husband leans against his desk. “The social set have already written him off as a lost cause and we can ill afford a whisper of a scandal, especially now.”

Sam passes the reply to his wife and pauses, as if to choose his words carefully.

“Still moving forward with your plans to find Steven a wife then?”

“Of course, dear,” She answers brusquely, “There are many suitable ladies this season of decent breeding and passable looks.” She glances up and passes the letter back to him. “Your response is sufficient, send it off with the footman.”

Amelia rises from the divan and turns to leave. “Wake Steven and have a talk with him will you? I’ll send Maude out to the florist, he should write a note of apology for her to send along.”

“As you wish, dear.”

Amelia leaves just as abruptly as she appeared. Samuel sighs and furrows his brow, the inklings of a headache coming on. He taps his fingers against the desk and checks the time.

“Campbell,” He calls into the hall, “Have Calvin wake Steven and tell him to see my in the study.”

“Of course, sir.”

He takes a seat and settles himself behind the desk once more.

“And have Cook send something up? Coffee and breakfast for two.”

Awaiting the arrival of his son, Samuel Harrington turns and faces the bay of windows that look out onto the street below. He watches as Fairchild’s footman hops on the back of the coach and slides from his view. He contemplates his son’s options, admittedly there are few.

Such are the advantages and disadvantages in marrying a woman who’s as sly as a fox. It’s just a matter of out-maneuvering her; an entertaining and seemingly endless chess match that’s lasted even longer than their marriage.

But the silver lining in all this, he supposes, is that Steven Harrington, their sole child and heir, just so happens to take after his father in this respect, in that he’s crazy like a fox.

Funny how things work out, isn’t it?

As for the young Mr. Harrington, well, suffice it to say he had quite the morning. The newly arrived Miss Fairchild, however, had a luxurious start to her day (that is, if one discounts the pulling and pinning of hair, the tugging on of stockings and tightening of corset laces).

You joined your brother and sister-in-law in the dining room while another maid fixed a plate of breakfast for you; Pierce, the butler, stepped in to pour the coffee. You thanked them both and broke your fast, listening as Christopher and Marian discussed the events of the day.

“I’ll need to see to the accounts today,” Your brother said, turning his newspaper with a shake. “Everything should be in order before the ball this weekend.”

Marian nodded and sipped from her coffee cup. “I have some calls to make today, and thought Nell could accompany me.”

Christopher slowly lowers his newspaper and glances your way— don't feel obligated to do this, you haven’t been properly introduced into society yet.

Buying time, you take a bite from the flaky croissant on your plate and ruminate. In a way, both Chris and Marian are correct; you aren’t obligated to escort Mrs. Fairchild, nor would it be wise to turn down an informal introduction to those in Marian’s circle. She would, after all, be serving as your chaperone, and, along with your brother, introducing you to Manhattan high society on Friday at the ball.

Your debutante ball, to be precise.

At the time, Vassar was a welcome distraction and reprieve for being paraded around like a prize calf at auction. But then came the unfortunate illness and demise of your parents, followed by a year of mourning.

It would seem that your time of delay had finally come to its end.

After all, no one wanted a spinster for a bride.

Dabbing at the corners of your mouth with a napkin, you clear your throat and brace yourself.

“That sounds lovely, Marian. I’d be happy to escort you today.”

She smiles and makes to reply, but before she can open her mouth to do so, a knock sounds from the front door. Puzzled, the three of you glance at one another, clearly not expecting a caller at such an early hour.

Pierce nods to someone by the door, bidding him to open it. He quickly returns with a beautiful arrangement of flowers, only to set them to your right and hand you a card. Baffled, you take in the spray of purple orchids, white tulips, lemon geraniums, the sprigs of rosemary, and tucked away behind the hearty green stalks, the shy blooms of forget-me-nots.

Respect, sincerity, an unexpected meeting, remembrance, and affection.

“Well,” Marian prompts from across the table, “Who are they from?”

It’s only then that you recall the card in your outstretched hand. Slipping from your reverie, you thumb open the small envelope.

Miss Fairchild—

Please accept my sincere apologies for our run-in yesterday evening. I hope it did not startle you. I’ve liaised with your brother about the repairs, and in the meantime will give you use of my equipage and pray it will suffice. I also hope that you’ll enjoy the flowers and please know that they relay my deepest and most sincere sentiments.

Cordially yours,

Steven Harrington

P.S. Je vous prie d’accepter mes sincères regrets et ma sympathie à l’occasion du décès de votre proches.

For the remainder of the week, Steve was a bundle of nerves. He’d written the note as his mother asked and even went so far as to accompany her to the florist, managing to slip in a few blooms that complemented the arrangement nicely. And if his mother didn’t happen to notice the errant sprigs of blue or the lingering scent of rosemary, then so much the better.

What he didn’t anticipate was the lack of a response.

“It isn’t done,” Miss Robin Buckley reminded him on their promenade in Central Park. “Until she is out to society, her brother is no doubt keeping her under lock and key.”

“You could provide the introduction,” He points out petulantly. “You’re choosing not to in order to entertain yourself with my suffering.”

“You cad,” She swats at him with her fan. “And no, I cannot. There’s a reason I fled to France after my disastrous debut, as you well know.”

And thus, Steve resigned himself to pining for a woman who barely knew of his existence, while the eligible bachelors of New York bided their time until her debut at the ball.

“For what it’s worth,” Robin says carefully as they round a bend, “There have been many deliveries to the Fairchild House, but yours was the first.”

He warms at the thought.

“That has to count for something, I suppose.”

She grins, “It will.”

They continue to walk, grateful for the brief break in the weather and discuss the evening’s festivities: who will wear what, how many dances until Robin steps on someone’s toes, how ostentatious the new money Vanderbilts will be.

They exit the park, parting ways as their carriages await. Robin catches a curious expression on her friend’s face, both dreamy and apprehensive. She lays a gloved hand on his arm.

“À cœur vaillant rien d'impossible.”

Steve glances down and says with a playful smirk, “Qui vivra verra.”

On Friday afternoon, Marian and Marie carefully assess your gown while Louisa dashes to and fro with the pearls, no the diamonds.

“Sapphires? No, that would ruin the effect.” Marian muses and Marie agrees.

You, by the by, are seated on the bed in a chemise and loosened corset, bored stiff, as the two hem and haw over how to best display you for the ball.

Because that’s all this is really, an overblown dog and pony show in which you’ll be paraded around and shown off to great effect all to attract suitors. It was enough to make one queasy. God forbid a woman do anything on her own or without the approval of a man.

As if men ever did anything worth doing that a woman didn’t have to make right.

Having quite enough of their chatter, you shrug into a robe and pull its sash tight, toe on some slippers and make your way down the hall. At the end of the corridor, you spy the cracked door to Christopher’s study. He’s shuffling papers and muttering to himself as you slip inside.

“I think the accounts can handle themselves for the evening,” you say with a smirk, settling yourself on a chair by the window.

He chuckles, “I suppose you’re right, clever girl.” Sorting the papers into a single file, he looks up at you with a quirked brow. “Had enough of Marian’s prodding, I take it?”

You sigh and dramatically cast your head back, “That’s the worst of it— they haven’t even begun!” Warming at his familiar laughter, you continue: “If I’d known that this is what I’d be subjected to, I would’ve stayed in France.”

Chris studies you at that; your weary sigh, crossed arms, and face a mask. Can’t make heads or tails of if you’re serious or not. Is it too soon? Did you still need time to mourn Maman and Papa? But then your debut had been delayed so much already…

“Is that what you want?”

It’s a question you hadn’t expected from him. But suddenly you’re reminded that he’s your brother, the only family you have left in the world. The man who dropped everything and took the first ship bound for France to be with you at your parents’ deathbed. He had insisted you stay at the house in Paris until you’d recovered your own strength and sent Marian and Gus to keep you company while he saw to business at home.

And knowing him as well as you do, Chris wouldn’t ask something idly.

So you choose your next words carefully.

“I no longer trouble myself with wants.”

The lightest dusting of snow begins to gather on the windowpane. Soon enough, all of the city would look like a snow globe. A perfect winter wonderland for the evening’s festivities, and your favorite kind of weather— snow makes everything look softer somehow, muffles the sound, and blankets the world in swaths of pure white. Your mother adored snow, had somehow convinced you and Chris that she could smell when it was about to begin. And maybe that’s why you’ve taken a shine to it now.

Turning from the window with a small smile, you rise to exit the study and get ready for the night. Leaving your elder brother puzzling over your parting phrase.

Steve could hardly forget your first meeting, but seeing you that evening nearly eclipsed the recollection. Without a cape and no longer in the purples and grays of half-mourning, you were quite a sight to behold.

And he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Several men from the club, Hargrove, Hagan, and Byers, were scattered around the room sizing up the competition just as he was. Somehow, Edward Munson had been granted an invitation— with his railroad money and lack of pedigree. Regardless of social standing, each eligible bachelor in the room was jockeying for position; who would be the first introduction, the first dance, did her eyes fall on him or the man to his left?

Steve was well-versed in this routine, he’d been to enough debutante balls to last a veritable lifetime. Usually, he’d enter and make the necessary greetings before grabbing a refreshment and picking a wall to lean on because god help him if he was going to actually dance more than the bare minimum required.

But in this instance, things were different.

Namely, that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since that fateful night. Despite the lack of interest from you (which was to be expected, really), he couldn’t help but think of you fondly. Descending from your coach to check on your driver and the horses, shivering in the evening chill, voice soft and sleep-worn.

There was also the fact that his mother was hovering somewhere behind him. She’d oh so fortunately seen Mrs. Fairchild as she was making her social calls earlier in the week and had received an informal introduction to you. She’d said as much at dinner that day and ever since then, she’d been subtly laying the groundwork for a possible courtship.

And as much as Steve did not want to bow to his mother’s machinations, he also desperately wanted an introduction with you. So he sips his drink and observes the goings on around him his attention turning to the grand staircase as someone announces:

“Presenting Miss Eleanor Joséphine Fairchild, escorted by her brother Mr. Christopher Fairchild.”

The symphony starts up as you descend the stairs to polite applause on the arm of your brother, eyes demure and downcast, your subtly rouged lips pulling into a soft smile. And Steve can hardly breathe— it’s as if the world slowed and went fuzzy at the edges, everything and everyone falling by the wayside save for you.

Because you are positively incandescent; beautifully angelic in your finery and reminiscent of Venus emerging from her shell. He feels as if he’s been struck, a warmth radiating in his chest, and wouldn’t be surprised to find one of Cupid’s golden arrows lodged there. And Steve knows a little of desire, of wanton lust; he is, after all, a man of privilege in a world that caters to his whims. But while this feels reminiscent of that— the heat, the wanting— there is also, oddly, restraint.

All eyes are on you as your brother leads you across the floor, smiling politely at those assembled, eyes never staying on one person for too long. You’re playing nice, presenting an unimpeachable image of the demure lady, it wouldn’t be done to favor one gentleman this evening. In fact, it would send the wrong message entirely.

Everyone present knows this; it is a game often played in polite society, even if its ramifications are— how shall we say it?— best left behind closed doors.

“A lamb and her shepherd,” His mother says, voice pitched low for only him to hear. “Bo-Peep will soon abandon his charge, and that, Steven, is when you will make your introduction.”

It’s all he can do to school his features and recede into himself; eyes glassy and blank, face a mask. Polite and charming, affable even. And while his mother thinks she is being helpful, it’s hard not to believe she isn’t pouring poison in his ear. Half expects her to say something akin to, “Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't.”

She doesn’t, and for that he is grateful. Instead, she melts away into the background and loops her arm through his father’s. And, sure enough, your brother does eventually leave your side only to be replaced by Mrs. Fairchild, who slips your wrist through a dainty loop of cream ribbon with a dance card and a small pencil attached.

The room stills, a pack of wolves lying in wait. Drinks are set aside, conversations cease; Amelia gives her son an unceremonious push forward, her gloved hand on his shoulder tipping him toward the inevitable. Steve nearly stumbles from the shock of it all.

Because in one moment he’s just another man in the crowd, an eligible bachelor at yet another ball prepared to drink the night away. And in the next, his eyes lock with yours, and he feels himself falling. It’s hopeless to fight it, this gravitational pull you seem to have over him; haven’t exchanged even two words, and he’s already in your thrall.

He can see your chest rise with your sharp intake of breath, eyes widening at his approach. Steve’s trying not to spook you, really he is. He thinks back to his favored horse, Balius, the clomping hooves and fierce breaths, tries to calm you in the same manner— a slow approach, a small smile, and soft words.

And while he would never bow to the stubborn dappled stallion, Steve does bow to you and says, “Steven Harrington, a pleasure to meet you officially Miss Fairchild.”

Your eyes light in recognition, of his name or him he cannot tell. But you curtsy all the same and offer him your hand, as etiquette dictates. He takes it gladly, marvelling at the fine fabric of gloves adorning it. His finger finds the racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, running along it slowly.

Another sharp intake of breath at the sensation, a heat skittering underneath your skin as his fingers loop around your wrist, your pulse thudding in their wake.

He opens the booklet and takes his time writing his name, well aware at the gathering of eligible suitors at his back. He’s loathe to release your hand and leave you to all of this, the wolves at the gate, but as much as he wants to whisk you away from what is sure to be an uncomfortable and tiring evening, Steve is required, as is everyone else, to play the game.

And Steven Harrington is playing to win.

Mr. Harrington—

It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance this past Friday, and thank you for your presence. I do hope the evening passed pleasantly for you and my apologies for not seeing to you more frequently, but other obligations, as you well know, prohibited me from seeking your company. Furthermore, I must apologize for being remiss in not offering my sincerest gratitude for the lovely flowers and the gracious use of your equipage. You are truly a generous man, and I am grateful for your friendship.

Cordially yours,

Miss Fairchild

P.S. Merci pour le sauvetage de Monsieur C—. Je n'avais aucune idée sur sa relation avec Mademoiselle C—. J’espère que vote intercession ne reflétera pas mal sur vous. Je vous suis redevable.

Steve’s postscript: Please accept my sincerest and deepest condolences on the passing of your parents.

Nell’s postscript: Thank you for the rescue from Mr. C—. I had no idea about his relationship with Miss C—. I hope your intercession will not reflect poorly on you. I am in your debt.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #fic: cf & dd

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sileaz · 1 year

Text

Worn Blade, Act I ✦ K.B.

✦ Kaz Brekker x Fem! Reader

━━━━━ ( SYNOPSIS. ) She who was known throughout Ketterdam as 'The Blade' disappeared years ago, leaving behind the blood of many victims. Yet, tonight, some claim to have caught the silver glint of a well-known dagger. But this is impossible: no one escapes from Hellgate.

-ˋˏ masterlist ✦ next ˎˊ-

ACT I. « In The City of Hell, All Souls Burn » ━━━━━━━━━ ✦

In the city of vice and crime that was Ketterdam, rumours travelled fast. Words had no role to play in this intricate pattern. Everything was known in silence. It was in this very absence of words that the news emerged: its weight was all the heavier and suffocated those who, with their looks, carried the heavy task of knowing.

One knows but prefers to keep it quiet. Perhaps this would give too much importance to what one thinks is true; perhaps the mere fact of formulating it would make the information real. In silence, it remains a mirage, a blur that needs to be elucidated—or not.

It is in the silence that rumours are born in Ketterdam, and it is also there that they die.

For several hours, the narrow streets of the Barrel, shiny with dirt and rainwater, had been silent, but the eyes were full of life and fear—the mirrors of the soul never sparkle as much as when fear tints them with black and tears. You never feel more alive than when you are terrified. You cling to what moves you in the hope that it will protect you.

The whole neighbourhood came alive alongside this poisonous breath of life.

Silence had even infiltrated the establishments. The card games, alcoholic drinks and sounds of kruge being dropped on the tables were abandoned when the rumour circulated from glance to glance, from frown to frown, without ever being pronounced—not even when all the lips mutely formed those two cursed syllables.

A name on every mouth, on every tongue. A name that had been hanging in a protective silence for several hours, which Jesper Fahey broke into a thousand pieces when he returned to the Crow Club after his shift.

"Rumour has it that The Blade is back in Ketterdam.”

He must have spoken loudly for all the customers turned as one towards him, towards the one who had just broken the sacred mutism, and with it, made this rumour real. It was as if, by pronouncing the forbidden name, he was invoking it here. Some hiccupped. Others left without a word, abandoning behind the promise of money, so weak in the face of the horror and fear this particular name provoked in them.

Ignoring the chaos he had just shamelessly wreaked, the sharpshooter joined the table, hidden in the shadows of the most isolated corner. He dropped into the chair next to Wylan, whose frightened look would have been laughable if it didn't reflect that of Inej. There were only two Crows around the table. The others must have been busy with other things: Matthias and Nina, snogging; Kaz, counting his kruge.

“Impossible,” Inej finally protested after she had recovered from the initial shock of the news. “She was sent to Hellgate years ago.”

“Well it looks like she found a way out," Jesper shrugged as he said this, far too busy pouring himself a glass of whiskey to worry about the Suli girl's reactions. “Besides, does it really seem far-fetched to you? It's The Blade, after all.”

“Stop saying her name!” Wylan pleaded, while Inej prayed to the Saints quietly.

For a while, none of the three said a word.

“They say that some people have seen the reflection of her dagger in the harbour,” Jesper finally said, this time in a whisper. Even if he was not as superstitious as the other two, it would be wrong to say that the prospect of one of the greatest criminals once again roaming around Ketterdam did not send shivers down his spine.

The Blade had been a legend in Ketterdam, like all those who were privileged enough to have an alias. Few people had dealt with her directly. Those who had faced her dagger and sword were no longer around to tell the tale. She acted in the shadows and was only ever betrayed by the silver glint of her blade. All, however, knew her name and her actions. Protean and ubiquitous—both a reaper and a saviour, a criminal and a vigilante—she was an intangible omnipresence that not even the Wraith could capture.

Everywhere in Ketterdam you could still feel her presence, even after she had been sent to Hellgate. She had scented the cobblestones with the metallic smell of blood for so many years that some of them were still stained with crimson: a sordid reminder of the horror that this city could harbour.

“I don't know if it's true, but why wouldn't it be?” Jesper continued. “It's been years since we've heard anything about her, and suddenly she's back. If people wanted to play a bad joke, they would have done it long before.”

The silence did not deceive, nor did the looks. The sharpshooter had seen them. A simple rumour would have faded quickly as it passed from ear to ear and would have taken as many forms as misunderstandings allowed. Here, people stubbornly cloaked it in the secrecy that the absence of words guaranteed. More than anything, its content did not change. The person concerned was still The Blade. The place was still the harbour. The subject, still that damned silver reflection.

“If that's true, we'll have to be ready,” Inej said, to which Jesper nodded. What this return implied seemed to suddenly dawn on them and on their shoulders. Their postures stooped under the weight of a certain, gloomy future. The tension in the room could have been cut off, so tangible was it.

Wylan asked what she meant by that. Although he knew who The Blade was, he, like many others, did not know what had really happened that night, years before.

The Zemini poured himself another whiskey, a grimace contorting his face. Inej took it upon herself to answer the chemist.

“Don't you know? It was Kaz who turned her in to the Stadwatch."

“And if I were her,” Jesper continued. “The first thing I'd do after I ran away from Hellgate is get revenge on the guy who sent me there.”

━━━━━━━━━━ ✦

Years before, far from the current violence of the Barrel, in a city still tinged with vice, an event occurred that all who lived through it still remembered.

It was an evening lulled by the usual Ketterdam melody, the dissonant harmony of a blood-stained score. The fat laughter of drunken patrons, whose pockets full of kruge were just waiting to be emptied in the gambling games, echoed and shook the ribcages. In the dark alleys and filthy dead ends, nameless criminals indulged in their favourite pastime: violence, the cracking of whose bones acted like the percussion of a piece that the occasional gunshot would complete.

One false note, however, tarnished this melodious ensemble. The city was more agitated than usual. The Barrel district, too, had become infected by the strange atmosphere. The curious eyes of the inhabitants perched behind their windows were riveted on the main street, or rather on the bridge at the junction between West and East Stave, where numerous Stadwatch had positioned themselves and were waiting, weighted batons in hand. Passers-by, even with alcohol clouding their senses, frowned at the sight of them: motionless, defensive, ready to pounce on their prey. Others roamed the streets, blind to the usual heckling.

They had colonised Ketterdam and every corner of it.

Many were surprised at the look of determination on their faces. Stadwatch were normally simple-minded soldiers, easily led astray if promised the right amount of kruge. No one had ever seen them walk with such confidence. It was as if, before the astonished eyes of the crowd, they had metamorphosed into an invincible army.

They moved like men on a mission. No one, however, knew what this very mission entailed. Everyone, that is, except one person, whose irregular footsteps indicated his presence to the other souls on the street, curious to know what was going on. The crowd split in two, leaving a clear path for the one they called Dirtyhands.

At the same time, three Stadwatch emerged from an alleyway dragging a figure whose damp hair—no one was quite sure if it was blood or sweat—stained a face that Kaz Brekker, much younger then, knew to be distorted with rage.

There were murmurs. Some wondered who it was, others seemed to know but could not bring themselves to believe it. The silver dagger in the hand of the guard on the left, still soaked in blood, spoke for itself, however. There was no doubt about who this new prisoner was.

The Blade had been captured.

In Ketterdam, there were no 'Wanted' posters, for no one would read them, glued on the sticky walls of bars. The city was teeming with people with vices, which would only worsen from one soul to another, all of whom more or less deserved to rot in a cell. One would not see the bricks anymore if everyone who deserved to be arrested were to have a poster bearing their effigy.

Every criminal was wanted, but the most dangerous of them had a bounty on their head—a way for the Stadwatch to delegate their work to someone braver than them.

No one usually held it against them, though. Who would try to capture a Dirtyhands or a Blade? No one was foolish enough to even entertain the thought. In the Barrel, that ocean of unlaws and sins, the strongest ruled and remained untouchable, thus taking the shape of holy sinners.

At least until today.

“Move.”

The figure, who was much less impressive without her reputed weapon, was hit twice in the stomach. In pain, she bent over and didn't have time to get up before she was violently pushed by one of the soldiers. Never before had the Blade offered such a pathetic sight to see, there, slumped on the ground, her face in the mud. The one who was thought to be untouchable was no longer so. Kaz gloated, happy to see a rival without a dagger, the only silver touch on her being the rusty handcuffs.

Fierce eyes met his, as if over the din she had managed to hear his thoughts. It had only taken her a second to find him, in that shapeless crowd of black figures.

“You'll pay for this, Brekker.”

She knew.

The Stadwatch pushed her again.

“Shut up and move. You won't be so smart in Hellgate.”

There were hiccups. The whispering started again. Some even protested: no one, not even criminals, deserved to end up there.

Hellgate. Hell on Kerch. Hell on Earth.

Impassive to his sentence, the woman did not take her eyes off Kaz's, who intentionally let a slight smirk decorate his face. This had the desired reaction. She seemed to become enraged, enough to try to escape the guards' grip. One of them was sent to the ground and she crushed his hand, the dreadful cracking of which, even more than his cry of pain, triggered many shivers of fear in the spectators.

She managed to take several steps towards him, splitting the crowd in two, but was soon caught. The punch in her face destroyed any hope to escape. Spitting blood in the direction of her rival—a last satisfaction—, the woman finally let herself be dragged out of the barrel, towards the harbour, where a boat was awaiting to take her to Terrenjel.

“You are a dead man, Kaz Brekker! Do you hear me?! Dead!”

These were the last words of the Blade before she disappeared for years, rotting in a cell in the Old Prison tower and only coming out of it for Pekka Rollins’ weekly fights.

That night, five million kruge were placed on Kaz Brekker’s desk.

━━━━━━━━━━ ✦

“But why did he do that?” Wylan asked after Inej had told what had happened that famous evening. "Five million kruge is nothing to him, even back then.”

“We don't know,” Jesper shrugged. He sipped on his third drink. “He never wanted to tell us anything. This came as a surprise because, even though they were rivals, they tolerated each other.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They even worked together several times. She was useful to him. He was useful to her. For him to turn her in to the Stadwatch and reveal her identity… There was more than just kruge at stake.”

To this day, the questions bubbled up in their minds but stopped at the tip of their lips, never getting past that fleshy barrier for fear of reprisals. The few times Jesper or Inej had tried to broach the subject, Kaz had cut the conversation short, chasing them out of his office or leaving the room himself, always muttering insults.

The questions were doomed to go unanswered; the reason, killed and sealed forever in a small corner of the businessman's head—the place where hope for the truth died out.

“So, get some bombs ready," Jesper finished. “Because we're in deep shit too.”

“I—"

The cane that came crashing down on the table startled the three and sent a tidal wave through Jesper's whiskey glass. The crow’s head, momentarily blinded by a leather glove, flickered for a second under the chandelier, reminding the sharpshooter of the silver glow everyone was talking about in town.

Oh, how ironic life could be.

“Can any of you tell me why I can't hear kruge being spent? Why are the tables empty?”

“Hey boss! What do you mean emp-? Oh yes, indeed. That's funny,” Jesper laughed nervously, glancing around.

The Crow Club was never empty. Whether it was windy or rainy, the patrons would always crowd the entrance and drown in alcohol and gambling. The call of greed was a siren song that even the most cunning sailors could not resist.

“Don't play with me, Jesper. Explanations, now,” he snapped.

Wylan ran his index finger over one of the flaws in the table while Inej seemed to find the painting on the wall—one of their many finds from a heist—fascinating. If they saw the Zemini's look of distress and reproach, they did not show it, finding in these trivial details a refuge that would keep them away from the growing fury of their boss.

Traitors, Jesper thought.

He looked back at Kaz, whose furrowed brow made him gulped. If there was one thing that particularly annoyed their boss, it was seeing his business disrupted. Like any good businessman, Brekker became an excellent mathematician when there was money involved, especially losses. It was almost as if he and the kruge were one, as if he could sense their presence—or absence, in this case—whenever he walked into a room.

Every lost kruge was bad news, but an empty Crow Club? An absolute disaster.

What would be the truth, the very truth that had drained the room and with it, their pockets? A cataclysm, no doubt. Powerful, destructive: one of those natural disasters from which one never recovers.

Unwillingly, Jesper had become an oracle à la Delphi—the bearer of an evil omen. The words he spoke would only bring chaos and divine wrath.

"The Blade is back."

Kaz Brekker wavered.

Wherever he went, this name continued to haunt him and was added to many other, much more painful, ghosts. In the midst of a pile of frozen, inert bodies, that of a living person would stand like a threatening tower, its blood-stained shadow hovering over his closed eyelids. The personification of Treason infiltrated his nightmares and, in its ubiquity, continued to plague his life, even when she was locked up in a cell all the way in Hellgate.

It was at night that this bloody spirit tormented him the most, although the daytime was not enough to chase it away completely either. It was that look—which had been full of rage that night—which pierced and tore at the fabric of his dreams.

Powerless, the Crows could only listen to this late-night spectacle, their ears pressed to the wall, as their boss insulted the Saints for sending him the Blade as punishment for his sins.

“Impossible,” he finally spat. “No one runs away from Hellgate.” His emphatic tone did not dispel the doubts of his Crows.

“What about Mattias?" Wylan interrupted, putting aside his wood-esque observations.

“The Blade acts alone. Without help, no one can get out of there. Impossible,” he mumbled again under his breath.

The word suddenly seemed meaningless, as if it had turned into a mere alignment of letters, placed end to end in an artificial order, whose syllables sounded stranger and stranger as they were pronounced. Kaz seemed to realise this because he abruptly stopped speaking, his lips pursed, holding back the 'po' that had wanted to escape.

Nothing was impossible. Especially not the escape of one of Ketterdam's greatest criminals. A criminal whose thirst for revenge had undoubtedly become the driving life-force behind her actions.

When you have neither money nor love, only rage can save the lonely soul in its relentless search for a goal.

The face of Pekka Rollins suddenly appeared to him, like a mirror held up to his own equally bloody motivations. He saw himself, able to cross all tides to see the one who had deceived him and Jordie suffer.

Only a small sea separated him from the Blade.

Kaz swallowed back a curse.

“Help! Please, help! Somebody! Hurry!”

Screams rose in the street, penetrated the walls, and made the four hearts in the room miss a beat—fearful harmony. The Crows stood up quickly, now alert.

A woman stormed into the club. Blood dripped from the end of her dress, staining the floor with a repetitive and macabre plop. Kaz stared bleakly at the growing red ink stain that made the floor a painting of death. Her hands were bloody too, and the two crimson furrows on her cheeks were evidence of a futile attempt to wash away the cardiac rain that had fallen on them.

In her terrible redness, she had become an allegory of Ketterdam's cruelty.

“They killed my husband!” she cried.

Kaz recognised her. Behind the tears and blood was the face of the wife of one of his Kregs: one of the club's bouncers, often positioned at the entrance to prevent any outbursts. That evening, however, he was not on duty.

“He was stabbed... I– It all happened so fast! I–I don’t–”

She was in shock. Her eyes were bulging; her voice, trembling. Wylan sat her down and handed her a glass of water, which she did not even touch, far too busy telling what had just happened.

A masked figure had appeared in front of the couple as they passed the Crow Club to meet friends in another bar. The woman had had no time to react before her husband was on the ground, a gaping hole in his chest, his white shirt soaked with blood. She only had time to catch a glimpse of a silvery glint before the figure disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind destruction and death.

“It can’t be...” Jesper didn't finish his sentence, feeling Kaz's black look on him.

“Inej, Jesper, go see what's going on. Wylan, go get Nina and Mattias and some ammunition.”

Protests erupted but he silenced them with a wave of his hand.

“Do as I say. Now.”

Kaz tightened his grip on the crow’s head, as if to reassure himself, to remind himself of his authority, which the mere presence of—if the rumours turned out to be true—called into question. Fragile as a sandcastle, the illusion of power seemed to crumble before his eyes.

The pain in his leg suddenly seemed to intensify.

As the rest of the gang looked on in astoundment, he hurried up the stairs, his face inscrutable.

The door to his office slammed and a vase was thrown.

“We're so going to die,” Jesper sighed, his hand on his guns.

✦ TAGLIST.

@losteroops @avianawrites @outlawqueen17 @lonelywitchv2

#kaz brekker #kaz brekker x reader #six of crows #six of crows x reader #kaz brekker x you #kaz brekker x oc #six of crows x you #shadow and bone #shadow and bone x reader #kaz brekker fic #✦ worn blade

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thedreamlessnights · 3 months

Text

Someone to shed some light - pt. 9

Astarion x gn!Reader

{series masterlist}

Synopsis: As you and Astarion settle into life in Baldur's Gate, more complications arise.

Warnings: Mentions of blood and death, description of a vampire bite, and some brief suggestive thoughts.

Word Count: 6.9k

A/N: I bring you more whiny prince Astarion! A pinch of jealousy, a smidge of potato peeling, a dash of terrible news. What else is new? Hope you enjoy! Comments and reblogs are very appreciated!

When Cal first caught you and Astarion in the woods, he told you that you’d changed. You hadn’t believed him, of course. If anything, it’d been him that changed. Working for Calthir, pressuring you into a position you didn’t want, never seeming to hear what you said. None of that seemed anything like the Cal you knew, but there he stood, and he’d done it all.

Maybe he’d been that way all along, and hidden it well. Or, maybe, you just hadn’t noticed who he really was.

There’s one thing you’re sure of: he’d been wrong about you. That day, you were who you’d always been, despite everything. Despite Erelin, despite the freedom taken from you, despite the position forced into your life. You were yourself, and that knowledge was a comfort. The last piece remaining when everything else was gone.

But you can’t say the same of yourself now.

No matter how much you’d like to.

These days, instead of lingering comfort, there’s nothing but a twinge of emptiness: something lost, never to be returned. It’s been so long since you’ve felt like an actual person that being treated like one feels… wrong. You feel wrong.

A warm bath. A bit of privacy. A glass of wine with friends. All of these things used to be normal and even expected in your life, but they feel like luxuries - like shining jewels you don’t dare touch, lest they turn out to be an illusion.

You’ve already caught sight of Calthirian soldiers searching the streets, and although it’s unlikely they’ll find you or Astarion here, knowing that Aris is already in the city is disconcerting. You’d hoped that you’d have a little more time to shake her.

And Cal… gods. You don’t even want to think about what they might have done to him. The mere image of his face in your mind has your stomach churning. But he’d made that sacrifice so you could get away. So you could be here, safe and free. It’d be a waste not to partake in some basic luxuries while you can.

And yet, here you are. Not partaking.

Pacing the floor.

When you’d been at the table with the others, a glass of Elverquisst in hand, something had gone very wrong. Mid-conversation, your breaths suddenly wouldn’t come out right. They were erratic, too shallow, air rattling around your lungs. You felt… strange. Out of place, even though you’ve shared a drink with Karlach and the others more times than you can count.

When you weren’t able to stand the feeling any longer, you’d left them all downstairs to enjoy their wine, muttering an excuse about needing to unpack. None followed after you. You were grateful. You’d needed a moment away - a moment to compose yourself, to sort out this strange sensation.

But considering that your hands are still shaking, you’re doing a shoddy job of pulling yourself together. And you’re still not quite sure what happened, or why you felt that way. All you know is that it’s the same feeling that plagued you when you watched Astarion talking with the guards. An unease that you can’t quite shake.

Maybe it’s the quiet.

This house is not silent - Karlach’s presence alone guarantees that - but it’s quiet, at least in comparison to the last few weeks of Calthir. No roaming soldiers, no barked orders, no clinking armor that keeps you up in the night. No forced meetings, or agony over your position, or terror that Astarion won't be there when you wake.

It’s peaceful, this chaos of Karlach’s home. It’s safe.

But that peace and safety you’ve so often longed for feels… unsettling now that it’s finally yours. You don’t trust it not to shatter at any moment. And, hells, when you finally glance into the mirror on the wall, you almost don’t recognize the person you see.

Your appearance is wild. Feral, even.

The look in your eyes is desperate and haunted. Your skin is spattered with dirt, littered with a number of ill-healed scrapes from the trees, and there’s even still a leaf or two caught in your hair. Hells, you’re a complete and utter mess. Why hadn’t anyone said anything?

It’s not as if you could have known what you look like - Calthir hadn’t been carrying mirrors around the woods. Astarion’s been looking impeccable all this time. Maybe it’d been foolish of you, but you’d assumed the same of yourself. Or, at least, somewhere in that realm. Decent, or presentable.

It was too much to hope for, apparently.

How does he do it, anyhow? There’s scarcely a moment where Astarion doesn’t look flawless. A natural state of gracefulness? A side effect of vampirism? A perk of royal blood you unfortunately never received?

Whatever it is, you’re envious, and you very much need a bath.

At your request, Gale is kind enough to summon up some hot water for you. It’s not long before you’re sitting in a steaming tub, scrubbing the mess off your skin with a strong, herbal soap. It’s nice. Soothing. A moment completely alone, which has been a rare occurrence in recent months.

And yet, it still feels wrong.

You’d always assumed that once you were back in the city, you’d return to life as usual. A laugh or two about what had almost been as the years went by. A moment spent reminiscing about your brief turn as royalty. Your sham of a loveless marriage.

But this isn’t that, and it’s not even the fact that Astarion is here, rather than with his mother. It’s that you don’t seem to be you anymore.

Something in you is fundamentally altered. Shifted. Knocked off balance. You’ve spent the last few months dreaming of being here, and now that you are, you can’t even appreciate it. What’s wrong with you?

Or - gods - more accurately, what’s left of you?

All that remains of your old self lies in pieces - the ghost of you, spread out among your past, haunting you in the present. It lurks in the dirty bath water that floats around your shoulders. It’s sprawled alongside a broken carriage; pacing around Erelin’s palace; standing frozen in a tavern.

Watching as Cal tells you to run, helpless and afraid.

The memory hits you like a blow to the stomach. Cal’s eyes, crinkling as he smiles. The panic, the fear, the anguish. Flickering torchlight, and the glow of the moon through the trees.

You don’t want to remember. Your hand stills from its scrubbing, clinging onto your soap as if it might save you, but the images flood into your skull nonetheless. Stinging tears press their way into your eyes, coursing down your cheeks as you squeeze your eyelids shut.

Don’t think that way, you tell yourself. He might be alive, held prisoner in the camp, valuable because of his connection to you. Then again, perhaps not. Aris likely wouldn’t have cared about that. She’d have made an example of him instead.

Still, he might have gotten away. Why couldn’t he have? Cal is quick and strong, and he has his spells. The Calthirian soldiers hadn't shown up in the city until late this morning - if they’d found him earlier, wouldn’t they have immediately followed? Yes, he could have run, just as you had. He could have made it to the city.

He could be alive.

The tavern. If there’s anywhere he’ll have stopped by, anywhere he’d have left a note telling you he’s alright, it’ll be there. You’d love to return more than anything, but with Calthir on the streets, you can’t go. Not yet, at least.

The tavern had been your home, and if Erelin had known that, Aris will, too. You can’t exactly waltz up to the place they’re most likely to look. You don't even dare to look for a tailor, despite desperately needing one. None of your clothing fits.

Every outfit you have is stained and torn, covered in dirt or blood or both. Some outfits pinch, and others lay much too large on your frame. They’re not quality, and most of them are your remaining pickings from the Zhentarim. Only a few provisions from Calthir remain. You’d left most of your good clothing behind.

Wyll had offered to loan some of his clothing to Astarion earlier, and now that you think of it… they’re probably sorting that out now.

You should go see them. You’ve hid away long enough.

Once you’re dried off and dressed in your cleanest outfit, you head downstairs and find that your prediction had been right: Astarion is trying on Wyll’s clothes, and he’s not exactly looking thrilled.

The outfit he’s in fits well, and it looks stunning on him - as most things do - but you’ve seen his clothing throughout your wedding and honeymoon, and you know that this is not his style. His glum expression agrees.

“Astarion, you look amazing!” Karlach tells him, nudging his soldier. “Want to take a look in the mirror?”

“I’d rather not,” Astarion replies quickly, turning to face Wyll. “Really. You’re the Blade of Frontiers. The son of a duke. You don’t own clothing with any degree of comfort?”

To Wyll’s credit, he only smiles. “I’m afraid that even the sons of dukes don’t have the luxury of a royal tailor. These clothes will have to do.”

Astarion glances at you in annoyance, and you give him what you hope is a reassuring smile. “You look nice. Really - you pull the look off.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says. “And that outfit doesn’t fit you at all, dearest.”

He’s right, of course, but you feign offense all the same. “Isn’t my husband supposed to flatter me?” you ask, laying a dramatic hand on your chest.

He tilts his head. “Tut-tut. I thought honesty came first, darling. But if you’d prefer that I lie…”

“Aw, soldier,” Karlach says, squeezing your shoulder. “Don’t listen to him. You look great. We’ll figure something out for you, yeah?”

“Gods below. I can’t take this any longer,” Astarion grumbles. "I’m getting us some decent clothing.” With a spin of his heel, he marches out of the room, shoulders squared in determination.

You follow after him, and when you realize where he’s going, well. It isn’t the worst of ideas.

Gale’s tent sits in the corner of Karlach’s living room, a glimmering display of gold and purple, bigger on the inside than it appears. The moment you follow Astarion through, you’re greeted with the fragrance of rosewater and honey: light and sweet. Books cluster around all corners, surrounding a large, very plush bed, and candlelight fills the space with a warm glow.

Gale sits on a nearby chair, reading a book. It briefly crosses your mind that if he were ever to be transformed into a tent, it would most certainly look like this.

“Wizard,” Astarion says without an ounce of decorum. “For the love of the gods, tell me you know some spells to make us new outfits. We’ll need good ones, naturally: quality fabrics, long-lasting craftsmanship, embroidery that ideally doesn’t look like it’s been made by a child. I’ve been dressed in the equivalent of parchment for weeks now. I can’t take it.”

Gale, without lifting his eyes, simply turns the page of his book. “The name is Gale, if you don't mind, Astarion,” he replies coolly. “And I’m afraid that if you’d like extravagant clothing, as you’re asking for, you’ll need to see a tailor. Should you need anything simpler, or enchanted, however, I’m happy to assist. I could always cast an illusion on any clothing items you possess-”

Astarion lets out a noise of exasperation. “Really, Gale. How difficult is it to conjure up a decent shirt?” he exclaims. “It’s not as if the two of us can stroll around town. Calthirian soldiers are searching for us as we speak! Would you prefer we be killed on the streets?”

“Ah,” Gale says, finally looking up. “Well, if that’s the problem, then a disguise spell should suffice. I’ll ensure that your measurements stay the same, of course. A few modifications, perhaps an additional measure of protection…”

“We’d appreciate anything you can do,” you chime in. “Thank you, Gale.”

You shoot Astarion a pointed look, and he sighs. “Yes,” he says, sounding like it’s physically painful for him to force the words out. “Thank you so very much.”

Gale ignores him, marking his place in his book before he rises to his feet. “Let’s see,” he muses, tilting his head as he examines the two of you. “Yes, this should work wonders. You may feel a slight warmth as it takes hold, but don’t be alarmed. It will pass.”

He murmurs a string of words that you don’t understand, then twists his hands in a quick series of movements. Just as he’d said, a layer of warmth folds over you like a hot bath, sinking into your skin until the sensation disappears. When it’s over, Astarion is staring at you in shock, eyes wide as he takes you in.

“Any complaints, Astarion?” Gale asks him.

Wordless for once, Astarion shakes his head, swallowing hard before he looks away.

“Very well,” Gale says. “Your turn, then.”

He repeats the verbal component of the spell, then the somatic, and a faint glow rises from his hands before settling over Astarion - golden light that envelops him like a glittering cocoon before it finally fades, leaving a dark-haired human where he’d been standing. You’re looking for any familiarity in his features, but Gale has done his job well. Only the shape of his now-grey eyes remains.

His face is round and softened, his hair thick and straight. Healthy, glowing skin, flushed cheeks, freckles spread along the bridge of his nose. Same height, same frame, same expressions. Different… everything else.

Handsome, but not Astarion.

No wonder he’d been staring; the change is jarring. Every movement he makes feels like him, but looks anything but. You give him a coy smile, and the corner of his mouth tugs up in response. Yes. Still very much Astarion.

“Well?” you eventually ask. “How do I look?”

He tilts his head. “Different,” he answers. “But - like I said, not awful. Just… strange.”

You roll your eyes. “Thank you, kind sir.”

“My pleasure, dear. Honesty, remember?”

Gale, meanwhile, seems to be admiring his work, looking you both up and down with a smile. “Even I wouldn't recognize you,” he remarks. “I’ve added some underlying protection, just in case. Anyone who sees you won't recall your face. And,” he adds, handing you each a small stone, “if you get into any trouble, use this to communicate. I’ll be on the other end. I’m hoping the two of you can stay out of danger, of course, but we’re better off safe than sorry.”

You tuck the stone away into one of your pockets, then give him a smile. “Thank you again, Gale,” you tell him, reaching out to lightly squeeze his arm. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“Oh, I’m always happy to help,” he replies. “If there's anything else you need, I’m here to assist.”

“Anything but a decent outfit, apparently,” Astarion says. His voice is steely, and when you turn to look at him, his gaze is fixed on your hand - still placed on Gale’s arm. You immediately let go, but he’s already turned away.

“Well?” he asks, making his way to the tent’s exit. “Are we ready?”

“Astarion-” you start, but he’s already gone.

Gale smiles, shaking his head. “I’d suggest you follow him,” he says, his voice filled with mirth. “Another moment with me, and I’ll be shocked if I make it through the night.”

You hesitate, trying to find the words for an apology, but he gives you a light nudge forward. “Go on,” he says. “I quite enjoy living, if it’s all the same to you.”

Biting back the urge to laugh, you finally push out of the tent and find Astarion waiting near the front door. He’s holding your cloak, and when you approach, he swings it around your shoulders. Your breath hitches as cold fingers brush against your neck, fiddling with the clasp, eyes determinedly not meeting yours. Then he swings the door open, offering you his arm.

You take it.

Outside, Wyll and Karlach are leaning against the front of the house, chatting about something or other.

Karlach stiffens when she sees you leaving her home, straightening up and narrowing her eyes. “Hey! What in the hells are you - hang on. Is that you, soldier? Astarion?”

“Gods above,” Wyll says, grinning. “I didn't recognize you, either! Let me guess: the two of you are off to see a tailor?”

“Gale helped us out,” you reply. “What do you think? Did he do a decent job?”

Karlach squints, her tail flicking as she observes you. “Yeah. Out on the street? Never would have known it was you,” she says. “Be careful, yeah? Wyll and I are off to pick up some ingredients for dinner tonight. Shouldn't take very long.”

“I’m always careful,” you tell her, and she laughs.

“Of course you are,” she replies. “How could I forget?”

Astarion shifts, clearly impatient. “We’d better head out,” you tell them, giving a wave. “See you later!”

“Stay safe!” Karlach calls back.

As soon as the two of you are off, the wind hits, and hells - it’s colder outside than it has been in ages. The longer you’re in the chill, the worse it gets. Even just a minute or two has you fighting not to shiver, and movement isn’t doing much to warm you up. Moisture hangs in the briny air, dampening your skin like sweat. The wind that howls past is bitter and harsh, and although you’re grateful for the warmth of your cloak, Astarion’s touch is still icy on your arm.

Gods, it’s strange to look at him, expecting to see a silvery set of curls and instead finding straight black hair tucked behind his ears. Grey eyes, rather than red. What color were his eyes before he’d been turned? Dark, like his mother’s? Green? Blue? Grey, like they are now?

You picture them all against the memory of his real face, but none of them seem to fit.

You’re mostly letting him lead you along, weaving through the crowds, but Astarion seems to know where he’s going. You’d nearly forgotten that he knows this city as much as you do. Maybe better than you do, now that you think of it.

That look he’d worn when you touched Gale… you’ve never seen it. Not on him, at least. It’s incredibly selfish of you, but there’s a small, smug piece of you that hopes he’s jealous.

You and Gale have never been anything more than friends, but Astarion doesn’t know that. All he knows is how happy you’ve been to see your friends. Then again, perhaps he simply doesn’t like Gale. It’s not unbelievable.

Still… who knows what he’s thinking. Maybe you’d read the situation entirely wrong.

Your thoughts fade into dust as Astarion stalls, shoving a door open with his free hand before tugging you in with him, and the warmth of a tailor’s shop floods over your chilled body like a pint of warm mead.

The room is fresh and inviting, filled with the scent of mandarin, green tea, and a hint of salt. The fabrics around you are lush and bright, dyed in every color you could possibly think of, and the outfits displayed are extravagant enough that they could easily pass at a royal ball.

This is certainly not the type of shop you’ve ever set foot in. Back when you worked at the tavern, you’d have been afraid to even glance at one of the window displays, should your gaze somehow damage a product you could never pay for. Needless to say, the sparse coin you’d picked from the Zhentarim is not anywhere near enough to cover clothing like this.

“Astarion,” you hiss, pulling him closer so as not to attract the attention of the other shoppers. “We can’t afford this!”

“You can’t afford this,” he says, dangling a heavy coin pouch from his fingers. “I most certainly can.”

You balk at the sight, quickly shoving the bag under his cloak. “Put that away before someone sees and robs you blind! Where in the hells did you get that kind of coin?”

He grins. “My mother. Where else?”

“You’ve been carrying that around with you this whole time?” you ask. “Since the carriage? And you didn’t think to mention it?”

He gives a light shrug. “I couldn’t exactly spend it while we were marching through the forest, darling. Don’t worry - I’ll pay for yours, too.”

You’re about to argue with him further, but a booming voice cuts you off.

“Welcome, welcome!” it calls. The two of you turn to see a dwarf, dressed in a beautifully-embroidered suit, standing in front of you. “Figaro Pennygood at your service,” he continues. “How may I help you today?”

“My partner and I were just looking at getting a new wardrobe,” Astarion answers immediately. “You wouldn’t be able to assist us, would you?”

Figaro’s smile freezes in place as he takes in the sight of your clothing. The rips, the dirt, the quality. “Well - that is… er, you see…”

“We’ll make it worth your while,” Astarion adds, once more letting the coin pouch dangle from his fingers.

“Oh, of course! Very good, sir. If you’ll just follow me…”

He leads you into a back room, and Astarion flashes you a grin. It pays to be rich, you suppose.

A few hours later, the two of you return to Karlach’s home with several new sets of clothing, and thankfully, yours aren’t anywhere as lavish as you worried they’d be. Instead, they’re perfectly fitted and extremely comfortable, neither of which you can complain about.

Astarion’s wardrobe is somewhat akin to what he would have worn in the palace. Functional clothing, but still expensive. Velvets and silks, wools and linens, all fitted with dyes or detailed embroidery. Royalty isn’t flashy, or gaudy. The quality speaks for itself.

At least, that’s what Astarion told you. Multiple times.

Once the two of you have put everything away, you both head down to get your disguise spells removed. You won’t need them any longer, after all. It’s still too risky to make the journey to the tavern.

The moment you set foot inside Gale’s tent, Astarion’s hand moves to rest on your waist. There it remains, the weight of his hand seeming to scorch every inch of skin it touches, until you finally leave.

Then it shifts to your lower back.

Later that afternoon, Karlach pops her head into the doorway of your bedroom, asking the two of you to join the group downstairs and help with dinner.

“Help?” Astarion asks once she’s left. “What in the hells does she mean, help?”

“It’s simple,” you assure him. “Peeling potatoes, cooking meat, that sort of thing. Since we’ll all be eating, it only makes sense for everyone to pitch in.”

You know he’s not thrilled, but it really shouldn't be all that difficult. Even for a prince.

Astarion raises a brow, staring at you for a long moment before his gaze finally sinks down to your neck. You have to wonder if he can see your pulse hammering under your skin. “Darling-”

“Yes, I know, Astarion,” you quickly interrupt. “You won't be eating. But they don't know that, and you’ll look much less suspicious if you help. And,” you add, “you can drink from me afterward, alright?”

“Oh, is that how it is?” he practically purrs, leaning closer. “I help you with your chores, and you’re my treat afterward for being so… good?”

“No,” you reply firmly, despite the fact that your cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “You can drink from me whether you help or not. All I’m saying is, if you don't want them to suspect…”

“Fine,” Astarion sighs, as if he’s Faerûn’s greatest hero for taking on this clearly and utterly terrible burden. “I’ll help your little friends, since they can't do it themselves.”

As it turns out, Astarion is a skilled potato peeler.

Should it be a surprise, given his dagger expertise? The rhythmic slide of his fingers pressing against the hilt is entrancing. Your cheeks warm with every neat slice of skin, every clean, controlled motion. Soon, you’re frozen in place, distracted by the deft movements of his hands, the nimble scrape of the sharp knife.

You know all too well how those hands feel, trailing down your-

No, you think firmly, cutting off your train of thought and forcing yourself back to your task. This is not the time nor the place.

Still, you can't say you don’t know why this is happening. His jealousy seems to have sparked something inside of you, to have lit a flame that won’t go out.

It’d been difficult to think of such things when you were held prisoner by Calthir, when nights were filled with anxiety and nausea and days were full of pounding sun and aching feet. In the midst of it all, sex and attraction had fallen to the sidelines. A kiss here or there. A flirtatious comment that faded into nothing but wind.

Now, partially safe and mostly unburdened, it’s all too easy for the memories of that night to pull to the front of your mind. The feeling of his mouth pressed against yours. The way his lips had fluttered down your neck. The icy sensation of his teeth in your skin as your pleasure had pulled closer and closer, as your blood poured into his mouth and his hips had rolled against you…

Gods, pull it together!

You shake the thoughts away and viciously go back to chopping the onion in front of you. You’re desperately trying to convince yourself that Astarion isn't staring at you, but the presence of his gaze is like an itch under the skin. Can he tell? Even now, several feet away, can he hear the flutter of your heartbeat quickening? The rush of your blood?

A minute or two later, you finally gather the courage to look up, and find him staring at you dead-on. And, judging by the look he’s giving you, he knows exactly what you’re thinking about.

“Careful, darling,” he says softly. “We wouldn’t want you holding a knife while you’re distracted, would we?”

You clench your jaw and ignore him, even though your hands are shaking.

When the meal is finally prepared, only four of you take a seat at the table. Astarion spoons some food onto a plate and mutters something about eating in his room. All of you watch him go - Karlach with some disappointment, Gale and Wyll with some suspicion.

“I take it he’s not a fan of potatoes?” Gale asks.

“That’s it. I’m officially wounded,” Karlach says, frowning down at her food. “I know my cooking isn’t exactly up to royal standard, but are all princes this hard to please?”

After a moment, you realize the question is directed at you. Your voice chokes - you have to clear your throat to respond. “I - I’ve only met the one.”

“Right,” Karlach replies, grinning. “Almost forgot. What kind of food do they have in those fancy palaces anyway?”

You shrug, looking down at your plate. “Honestly? It isn’t much different than this.”

“Is that so?” Wyll asks, raising a brow. “He’s quite the picky eater, then. I haven’t seen him have a bite to eat since he’s arrived. Not counting the wine.”

Gale hums in agreement. “He’s certainly missing out on a delightful meal.”

“I’m surprised he helped us prepare it,” Wyll adds. “I half-expected him to throw a tantrum at the very thought.”

The conversation is lighthearted and teasing, but the comments still sting - even if they’re not directed at you. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, swallowing the food you’re chewing like it’s made of parchment.

“He’s really not all that bad,” you tell them. “Everything is just… new for him. He’s not used to any of this.”

“Of course,” Gale says. “And, it seems, he’s very worried we’ll infringe on your marriage. Or, at least, that I will.”

Your cheeks go hot. “Gale-”

“What’s this I’m hearing?” Karlach asks. “Astarion is jealous?”

Gale smiles a little, pouring himself more wine. “Oh, yes. I’m still partially convinced he’ll attempt to kill me as I sleep. He has a chilling gaze, truly. Daggers for eyes.”

“Very funny,” you say, stabbing your fork into your potatoes. “At this rate, I’m inclined to let him kill you. In fact, I’ll personally ask him to do so.”

Karlach snickers into her hand, badly covering it with an unconvincing cough. Wyll doesn’t even attempt to hide his laughter. You ignore them and reach for your wine.

“I don’t think he needs to worry, really,” Karlach, leaning back in her seat. “He’s a catch, soldier. I see the way you look at him.”

Your cheeks have gone so warm, you’re frankly surprised there isn’t smoke coming out of your ears. It’s all you can do to set the wine down and bury your face in your hands. “You’re all very helpful.”

“Indeed we are,” Wyll says, a gleam in his good eye.

You shove the rest of your food into your mouth as fast as you can and clear your plate, retreating up the stairs with as much dignity as you can. Laughter follows you all the way up to your room, where you step in and shut the door behind you, drowning it out.

Astarion is sprawled out on your shared bed, sprawled out and waiting for you, a book in hand. When he sees you, he sets the book down and sits up.

“Changed your mind, darling?” he asks. “Or are you here to share that lovely neck of yours?”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” you reply, hoping your voice sounds stronger than your composure. You take a seat in front of him, and this time, you barely flinch when he touches you. Every trace of his skin against yours seems to linger, marking your skin with invisible ink. His lips meet your neck, and then the sharp sensation of teeth hits.

Your body shudders in response, and he grips you tighter - holding onto your shoulder. Gods. Every time, it’s like he has to force himself to tear himself away. As if he’d like to keep going, and never, ever stop.

Maybe Karlach was right about him having nothing to worry about. He could be in a room with a hundred other handsome men, and you’d still only see him. He could be rooms away, and still plague your thoughts. Even though you know where it leads, you’re almost tempted to let him drain you dry.

When he finally pulls away, a shaky breath escapes you. Relief, maybe. Disappointment. Blood trickles from the fresh puncture marks on the junction between neck and collarbone, and he’s quick to swipe it up along his finger and lick it up.

Which is what he’s doing when the door swings open and Gale steps in. Licking your blood off his fingers as you sit there like a complete idiot, frozen in place, blood still dripping down your shoulder.

Gale’s eyes widen. “I knew it,” he hisses, pointing a finger at Astarion. “A vampire spawn. You, my friend, are the very epitome of one.”

Astarion quickly wipes his mouth and leans back, pasting on an air of relaxation even though you can see the tension knotted in his shoulders. “If you’re planning to stake me, wizard, please do so sooner than later. I’m a very busy man.”

Gale blinks in surprise. “Stake?” he exclaims. “I’m quite the open-minded individual, thank you! And I certainly don’t plan on - on staking you, or anyone else in this house!”

Wyll must hear the commotion, because he appears just behind Gale. “Hold on, what’s this about staking?” he asks. His gaze lands on your neck, and he takes a step back. “Ah,” he says. “I suppose… I should have known.”

When you speak, your voice is frantic. “Please, if everyone will just relax-”

“What?” comes Karlach’s voice, back behind the others. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

She pushes forward, and it takes her a moment longer than it had for Gale or Wyll. Her eyes sweep over your neck, then Astarion’s face, then back to your neck, then finally to Wyll. After a moment, she lets out a surprised laugh.

“That’s why you weren’t eating?” she exclaims. “I thought you just hated my cooking!”

“But what about the sunlight?” Gale cuts in. “I’ve seen you in direct daylight. You should’ve been burnt to a crisp!”

“Gods,” Astarion says, clearly overwhelmed. “I don’t know. My mother had some… magical device implanted in my brain while I was asleep. I know next to nothing about it.”

Gale’s eyes light up. “A magical device capable of protecting you from the sun?” he asks. “Would you mind if I inspected it?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Astarion replies, tone suddenly stiff. “I’ve had quite enough of people rummaging around my skull.”

“Of course,” Gale answers instantly, stepping back. “My apologies.”

In the meantime, Karlach’s expression has darkened. You see her hands stray toward the engine in her chest for just a moment - an engine that’s been stable for years, but will never replace the heart that was taken from her.

“Did they… ask to do that? To put that thing in you?” she asks softly.

“No,” Astarion answers. His voice is tight. “They didn’t.”

There’s a long beat as she processes what he’s said.

“Well, fangs,” she starts, her voice a little shaky, “you’re alright with me. No issues here.”

“So long as I don’t wake up with sharp teeth at my neck, there’ll be no complaints from me, either,” Gale adds.

“Nor I,” Wyll agrees. “Your secret is safe with us.”

“How sweet,” Astarion says. “Now, was there anything else?”

“Er - yes, actually,” Gale replies, his expression going solemn. “My apologies for the interruption, but we’ve received some bad news. I think you both should hear it. Would you mind joining us downstairs?”

Astarion rises first, offering you his hand, and you take it. He pulls you up and guides you down the stairs, following after the others. You’re more than happy to let him do so, given the bout of lightheadedness from the blood loss.

The two of you take a seat, and the grim expressions all of them wear do nothing to ease the rising dread in your gut. Your mind instantly starts spinning up the worst scenarios, weaving them into a million little horrors. Your hands go clammy, and even the feeling of Astarion at your side does nothing to calm you.

“We’d have liked for the two of you to have more than a few hours of rest before discussing the war,” Gale begins, his brow creasing in concern, “but certain events have made prolongation unwise.”

You straighten up. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Wyll clears his throat. “My father has been named a traitor to the Sword Coast,” he says. “Not an hour ago, the queen issued a notice for his arrest on the grounds of treason. Working with the enemy.”

The blood drains out of your face. “Oh gods, Wyll-”

“It’s not as dire as it seems,” Wyll gently cuts in. “We’ve received word from someone internally, and from the sound of things, the guards haven't been able to find him. In fact, no one has seen him in weeks. Wherever he is, he’s well hidden.”

A sigh of relief escapes you. “I know you told me you didn't think he would work with Calthir. Do you still believe that?”

“Not willingly, at least,” Wyll confirms. “It’s possible he’s been taken hostage and forced to cooperate.”

Gale nods. “Which brings us to our next point of subject.”

“Karlach and I mean to infiltrate Calthir’s inner forces,” Wyll explains. “We’ll be disguised, of course - with my father named a traitor, it’s not safe for me, either. But as long as he’s out there, as long as the queen means to force him to stand trial, I cannot stay put. I must find out where he’s hidden. If it’s as I suspect, and he’s not acting of his own accord, then we’ll free him.”

The room seems to spin underneath you. “What?” you exclaim, planting a hand on the table. Gods, there it is again. That feeling. The strain of your lungs. The blur of your vision. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You aren't the only one involved in this, you know,” Karlach says. “Trust me, soldier, I understand how you feel. But this is our city, too. Wyll’s family.”

“But you’d be putting yourselves at risk,” you point out. “There's no guarantee anyone will trust you in the first place, and even if they do - what if you get caught? They’ll make an example out of you! Torture you, try you for treason, kill you!”

“I know,” Wyll says. “But I cannot sit back and let this happen. Too much lies on my father and his whereabouts. Whether he’s with Calthir or not, I need to know. I need to find him.”

Your voice is starting to grow frantic. “And what about me? What about Astarion? Are we supposed to sit here twiddling our thumbs as you’re all out there risking your lives?”

“I suppose that’s up to you,” Gale says. “Another shapeshifting spell wouldn't go amiss. Whatever the case, I’ll be trying to communicate with some elder wizards. In times like these, their support will be more than helpful.”

Astarion leans forward. “I, for one, would like to know where my mother is and what she plans to do,” he announces. “If I can eavesdrop on her guards, find out their plans, I can locate her. For now, it’s entirely possible that she thinks Calthir is holding us hostage. I do know this: she wants to avoid war as much as any of us do, but she won’t hesitate to attack if she thinks I’m in danger.”

Your hands are shaking under the table like a leaf in the wind. “We just got to safety, and you want to run back out there again?”

Astarion’s eyes narrow. “If you think we’re safe anywhere in this city, then you’re not paying attention,” he snaps. “It’ll be a miracle if he hasn’t already seen us.”

You shake your head, casting a hand over your eyes. A headache is beginning to form, coursing a sharp pain through the crown of your skull. You force yourself to take a deep breath despite everything. “When is this happening, Wyll?” you ask. “Tomorrow?”

“At first light,” Wyll responds. “We can’t afford to wait. There are already alliances being made. The longer we wait, the more will rise. I’ll say it plainly, Astarion: I have no love for your mother. But from everything I’ve heard, I don’t trust Calthir, and they’re gaining support. People already think my father is involved. Cazador Szarr has pledged his assistance to their cause.”

At the mention of Cazador’s name, you and Astarion both flinch.

Gale’s brow creases at your reactions, his eyes flickering between the two of you. “Well? Anything you’d like to share?” he urges.

The three of them really should know, but you’re not sure how much you’re allowed to say.

“Astarion?” you ask softly.

Astarion takes in a sharp breath, swallowing hard before answering. “Lord Cazador Szarr is a vampire lord and an enemy of my mother,” he explains. “Now that there's an opportunity, he’s making his opposition known. If he’s pledged his forces to Calthir, there’ll be more that follow. And, of course, there’s the small matter of him being my old master. Now that I’m out of my mother’s hands, now that I’m back in the city, he’ll be hunting for me with everything he has.”

“Calthir struck a deal with Cazador,” you add. “We found proof. They would hand over Astarion in exchange for help in the war. It’s why we left the way we did. But now that he’s gone, I have no idea what they’ve offered him.”

“Great hells,” Wyll curses. “The more I hear, the worse it gets.”

Karlach shakes her head. “No offense, soldier, but your people sound like pricks.”

You manage a small smile. “I’m with you on that, unfortunately.”

Gale taps his fingers on the table, ruminating over something. “I’ve heard stories of this Cazador,” he says. “None of them pleasant. Are you sure you’d rather be out in the streets?”

Astarion nods. “Better to find my mother than to sit here waiting for him to find me,” he replies. He glances over at you, and you find a fierce determination in his eyes. “I’m going, darling, with or without you.”

For a moment, you picture yourself - pacing around your room, terrified that you’ll be met with the news of their deaths. Astarion, Gale, Wyll, Karlach. You can’t afford to lose any of them, but you can’t stop them. And you refuse to stay here alone, helpless to save them.

“Fine,” you relent. “I’ll come with you.”

Astarion gives you a half-hearted smile, and the tension finally leaves his shoulders. “Just so you know,” he says, “I have absolutely no intention of dying again.”

tags: @amica-aenigmata-naboo @sadslasher13 @peachy-possum @the-lonely-abyss @maddiedrmr @starved-kitten @catching-fire-in-the-wind @aoirohi

#astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x tav #bg3 x reader #astarion fic #mywriting

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