#the motley coast | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

porcelainseashore · 2 months

Text

Pairing: Guitarist! Leon Kennedy x Singer! Fem! Reader

Summary: You've joined Chris, Claire and Leon in Stars Rebellion as the band's new lead vocalist. If you thought chasing fame was hard, dealing with your growing feelings for a certain blonde guitarist might just take the cake.

Content & Warnings: Rock bands, friends to lovers, romance, slow burn, feelings realization, fluff and angst, swearing, recreational drug use, drinking, implied alcohol abuse, sexual harassment, suggestive themes, panic attacks, religious guilt, other Resident Evil characters (Chris, Claire, Ada, Wesker, Jill, Luis, Irons, Steve).

Authors' Note: Mostly imagined RE4R Leon in this, though he's a cocky little shit in the beginning and mellows out later. As inspo, I’ve had Ethel Cain’s Michelle Pfeiffer on repeat and you’ll see why in the story. Special thanks to AliBelleRosetta for your wonderful feedback!

AO3 Link

It had only been a few weeks since you’d joined the Stars Rebellion, the band you were currently in, thanks to the recommendation of a friend of a friend. You’d somehow coasted along through college, finally free of your parents’ clutches, and made a new life for yourself along the way. It was as if you could be who you really were, without any tied past or history holding you back, and you’d never felt more alive.

You were backstage, warming up before it was time to head out for your first performance. Chris had come over to give everyone a pep talk, while Leon tapped out a beat on the body of his pacific blue Fender guitar impatiently. Claire was nodding away to her brother’s words as she frowned at herself in the cosmetic mirror, the bright LED lights illuminating her flawless skin. You sat at the back, quietly keeping to yourself as you always do, ignoring the jitters in your hands. The adrenaline was kicking in now, you were used to it. Soon, you’d be a completely different person. It was as if once you were on stage, a match was struck and you were on fire.

For now, you contented yourself with recalling the events of how you ended up with this motley crue. It had been a warm, humid Thursday afternoon, when you were done with your classes for the day, and you made your way over to one of the rental practice rooms at the back of a second-hand record store just a little off campus. Your friend Jill had told you that another friend of hers was looking for a new vocalist for their band. Seeing how you’d been singing on and off with various student bands that never really had the drive to go anywhere, she hooked you up, stating that said friend, Claire, was the most determined person she’d ever met.

So here you were, knocking on the door of the shabby, makeshift rehearsal room, covered in countless band and anarchic motto stickers.

“Come on in!” A chirpy, high-pitched voice called out.

The door creaked on its hinges as you opened it by just a crack, enough for you to poke your head through.

“Aw, she’s a shy one,” a boy with floppy, blonde hair who was sitting at the corner, hunched over his guitar remarked. His tone had no hint of maliciousness in it, just pure curiosity.

“Shut it, Kennedy.” The lady, wearing a distinct red leather jacket that matched the color of her hair tied back in a springy ponytail, rolled her eyes before greeting you with a warm smile.

“Hey…” She stuck her hand out, as you cautiously entered the room, taking in the new faces around you. “I’m Claire. You must be Jill’s friend.”

You returned back a feeble smile as you shook her hand. “Yeah, uh, and the Stars Rebellion, huh?”

“That’s right,” a beefy guy with cropped, dark brown hair behind the drum kit piped up. “Our previous vocalist left,” he paused, with his brows furrowed as if he had been reminded of something unpleasant. “You know how it’s like these days.”

You nodded understandingly as he continued. “We’ve got a sweet gig in about two weeks, so we need a replacement fast. You heard our stuff?”

“Yeah, ’course.” Jill had sent you all the recordings and info you needed to prepare yourself for today.

“Great, so-”

“Whoa, hold up a second,” Claire interjected. “Older brothers,” she sighed. “You know what they’re like.” She pointed towards the drummer. “Speaking of which, that’s my very own one over there.”

“Chris, say hello,” she ordered.

“Hi,” his monotone greeting accosted you while he waved over with a drumstick in hand. His confident and no-nonsense persona struck you as someone who was the natural leader of the group.

“Don’t worry about him, he’s really a cuddly bear underneath,” she whispered loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. “Isn’t that right, Chris?”

He grunted in reply, still looking as stoic as ever, his square jawline unflinching, as if his sister’s words had no effect on him.

“Anyway, I guess you can already tell, I’m on bass.” She swayed her hips a little, gesturing towards the instrument that was strapped around her.

The blonde cleared his throat, seemingly irritated at being relegated to the position of the last person to be introduced.

“And that.” She pointed over to him. “Well, that’s just Leon.”

With a bold smirk, he cradled the guitar to his chest, as his fingers danced along the fretboard, unleashing a cool, intricate riff that spiraled through the air.

“Also a fucking show off,” Claire retorted.

You caught his gaze and the bright blue eyes that lured you in dangerously close, like you were Icarus flying towards the sun. He was one of those boys your father had warned you about. Handsome, charming, but the devil in disguise. You could still hear his stern words about perdition and hellfire booming in your ear. You closed your eyes before they hurt too much.

“So, erm, why don’t we start with the first track on our demo?” Claire’s voice snapped you out of your reverie.

Blinking your eyes open, you bowed your head slightly in response, before getting into position behind the mic. You can do this. A silent prayer reverberated through your head, as the opening chords played.

And just like it happened every time, that magical switch flipped, and you became someone else entirely different from yourself, yet it belonged to every part of you. As you bellowed, growled and sighed breathily into the mic like a rockstar on acid, you noticed a change in the air around you and how your future bandmates looked at you in awe. It felt like an electric current coursing through your veins. It felt like coming home.

You only needed to go through another two more songs, before they were completely floored and decided there and then that they wanted you in. The vibe between the four of you was great, there was no denying that. And you had already started throwing in some moves that were usually saved for performances with Leon, as all of you jammed together.

“That was fucking awesome!” Leon exclaimed, with Claire following suit. Even Chris was smiling widely.

“Yeah, that felt really good,” you panted, a little out of breath from the exertion.

All at once, Chris patted you on the back, cementing your entry. “Welcome to the family.” You felt your heart tug at the last word. Could you really belong here now?

“Nice to finally have another girl in the band!” Claire blurted out, as she pulled you in for a quick hug.

“Mm hm, very nice.” Leon gave you a cheeky wink, before Claire smacked the back of his head.

“Behave.”

“Oh, I will,” he snickered.

You shuddered, wondering how a silly remark like that could get you so riled up, as you chose to suppress whatever thoughts that came bubbling towards the surface. He was just one of those cocky bastards who would let fame get to their head, you discerned. Probably had a bunch of groupies lined up too. So you paid no more attention to him than needed.

A large, rough hand landed on your shoulder, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “You good?”

You shook yourself out of the daydream, coming back to reality backstage, as you eyed the imposing, broad figure in front of you. “Yeah, I’m ready. Thanks, Chris.”

“Don’t mention it.”

As you strode out onto the stage, the crowd clapped and whistled, though the reception seemed rather lukewarm. Perhaps most of them were waiting for the later bands, who also happened to be the more established ones, to play. It didn’t matter though. Your job was to get them hyped up, and you knew how to do it well.

Leon nodded at you, indicating that he’d start running through the beginning licks of the song on the setlist you’d all prepped. At the same time, he gave you an encouraging smile, which eased the tension a little. Even though you’d only got to know him a few weeks ago, you soon realized that your first impression of him wasn’t exactly the most accurate, and that despite being an insufferable prick, he had another side to him that was caring and gentle. He’d patiently helped you run through the songs with him, and even took a couple of your suggestions in improving them. He hung out with you outside of band practice, wanting to get to know you as a person, and trying to make you feel comfortable within the group. Most musicians had a stick up their ass and would’ve never given you the time of day. But he did. You’d even go as far as to call him a lovable asshole.

As the whirring of Leon’s guitar filled the space, you clenched your fist, pumping it above your head as you let out a low snarl into the mic, before belting out the lyrics, your voice raw and powerful as it soared over the riffs and the steady rhythm of the drum and bass. At a particularly heavy drop, you leaped into the air, before landing on your feet and tearing through the vocals as you rocked out with Leon at the front, playing off the energy you exchanged with each other.

It was infectious, like a feverish dream, and the crowd’s excitement grew. Among the sea of bodies pressed together, you could just about make out the look of enthusiasm on their faces, their eyes sparking with the thrill of the moment, as they jumped, moshed and cheered to the music. Time seemed to pass by so quickly, as one song flew into the other. In between, you made sure to introduce the band, thank the organizers and the audience themselves, coaxing more screams and shouts in unison as you teased them about hearing another song, what it was about, praising them on how great of a crowd they were, and with a sly wink, asking them if they could give you more. And they were more than happy to oblige.

In the final track, a devilish grin broke out across your face as you turned towards Chris and Claire, both of them laughing and shaking their heads as they knew what was coming next, before you faced the audience again. Tapping your foot in time to the beat, you murmured sultrily into the mic, “You wanna see me swallow this mic whole?”

The crowd went mental at the proposal as your velvety laughter rang out across the venue. “Come on, you can do better than that.” You pouted, licking your lips suggestively. “How much do you want it?”

Once the crowd roared, you nodded in approval and pulled the cord of the mic taut between your hands, making a grand show of it, as you tilted your head back, slowly inserting the head of the mic downwards into your mouth. As it went in, you bit at the bottom of the head, gripping it securely between your teeth, as you went hands free and a scream ripped through your throat at the climax of the song.

Sweat and energy radiated from every pore, as your band members kicked into action. Leon jutted his hips out, launching into a fierce, breathtaking guitar solo, his fingers pressing and weaving in and out of the strings like a blinding lightning. Claire remained the grounding force in a whirlwind of melodies, keeping a consistent beat effortlessly, as her head swayed from side to side. Chris added to the wall of sound with each strike and rattle of the snare drum, quickening the pace as he worked in the bass drum pedal and clashes on the cymbals in perfect timing, his eyes laced in concentration on the controlled chaos unfolding before him.

To say you ended in a bright explosion of sound was an understatement. The four of you hugged each other tightly and bowed to a resounding chorus of cheers and hoots, stamping their feet for yet another encore. You saluted and waved at them, your final words spilling out into the mic in gratitude, “Thanks so much, we are the Stars Rebellion! Have a good night!”

As you headed off stage, Leon pounced behind you, pulling you flush against his chest in a sweaty hug as you gasped in surprise. His hair was in a mess, darkened and clinging to his forehead in damp tendrils. “Holy shit, you were a completely different person up there! Y’know, like Ian fucking Curtis or something?”

He blabbered on nearly incoherently, name-dropping various famous lead singers. “Karen O, yeah? And Alice Glass…”

“God, just give her a break already,” Claire giggled as she shoved Leon off of you.

You stifled a laugh, your meek personality returning the more you moved away from the spotlight. “Yeah, I guess? Um, thanks.”

Leon paused, looking at you in disbelief as he shook his head. “Jeez, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Lady in streets, freak in the sheets,” he mumbled almost inaudibly as you choked on your saliva and coughed violently at his quip.

“Leon,” Chris warned, as Leon held his hands up in mock surrender.

Turning towards you, Chris sighed wearily, “Sorry about that. You did good though.”

Before you had a chance to answer, an alluring, provocative voice interrupted. “You all did good out there.”

Spinning around, you came face-to-face with a stylishly dressed lady in a red, skintight catsuit and dark leather heeled boots. A sleek, black bob framed her face, highlighting her sharp features and high cheekbones. You noticed that she focused all her attention on Leon, even though she was addressing the group.

Leon’s eyes widened, her outfit clearly seemed to pique his interest, and you could feel Chris tense up behind you, as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. At this, Claire whispered into your ear with a hint of venom, “That’s Ada, the bassist of Midnight Sun.”

Midnight Sun. That rang a bell. They were one of the more established bands in the scene, though you’d heard rumors about how haughty they could be and that they would stop at nothing to climb their way up.

“Oh, there you are.” A man with slicked-back blonde hair and dark sunglasses sauntered over coolly. If someone had told you that he was an extra from The Matrix, you would’ve believed them in a heartbeat.

The look of disdain was prominent on his face as he glanced over at you and your bandmates. He clucked his tongue derisively. “Tell me, what is it like being the warm up crew?”

Leon was about to lash out, but Chris’ reflexes were faster, holding his shoulder in a vice-like grip. Leon huffed, as he shrugged Chris’ hand off, conceding to remaining cordial for now.

“Wesker, you’re on next!” A stagehand called out from afar.

The man tipped his head in response, before wrapping an arm around Ada’s shoulders, pulling her away from your group as he smirked. “Watch and learn, amateurs.”

“Bunch of douchebags,” Claire muttered as all of you made your way towards the dressing room to freshen up.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted Leon peering over his shoulder another time at the lady in red.

━━━━━━━━━━━

“Seriously? That’s what was written?” You groaned, chucking Leon’s phone to the side as both of you lay sprawled out on a picnic mat across a grassy hill which connected to a park. A couple of liquor and beer bottles littered your side. Clearly, this was more of a boozy brunch than an actual brunch at all. You should’ve known better than to trust Leon to prepare something substantial. However, whenever he was around you, it seemed like he would make an effort to control his drinking habits, at least to a point where he was only tipsy but not wasted each time.

Since the last gig, the band had received many other offers to play at various venues and Chris had been eager to accept them all, in the hopes of attracting a talent scout who would spot and sign you to a major label. You’d gone on stage a few more times, with each round bringing you new fans and followers, as well as getting hounded by music journalists. Claire seemed to have a word for everything and this was no exception. She described them as rats, and in particular, a man named Luis Sera proved to be the biggest one of them all.

You remembered his irritating voice which had a slight lilt to it, as he called out for you after one of your shows in the previous month. “Señorita… hey!”

He definitely had a flair for making a spectacle out of everything that he did, and soon you’d discover that he was also a master of exaggeration. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, mi amor.” He bowed his head dramatically, as he took your hand, bringing your knuckles to meet his lips.

In the end, your band had given him half an hour of your time, only for him to grossly alter whatever answers all of you had provided during the interview when the article was published. He had pitted the Stars Rebellion against Midnight Sun, when in your opinion, both bands sounded nothing like each other and he was just doing it to stir up sensationalist shit. In addition to that, he spent most of the article writing about your looks and sex appeal, as opposed to the actual music.

To be fair, that was part of your showmanship, but it seemed like yet another case of sexism in the industry, where other male vocalists weren’t subject to the same fate as you and the handful of frontwomen, who still cut their teeth and pushed forward.

“Great,” you whined, burying your face in your hands. “Now, not only have we become an even bigger rival of Midnight Sun, he’s got people wondering if I can actually sing at all!”

Leon seemed amused by your mini outburst, but was otherwise unruffled by the comments in the article. “That’s what journalists do.” He shrugged. “Create fucking bullshit and drama. What’s new?”

He turned over to face you, taking your hand in his and squeezing it briefly before letting it go. “You’re insanely talented, you know that. Don’t listen to them.”

You smiled at his affirmation. The past months had flown by in a blur, and along with it, your bond with Leon had strengthened. You were the very definition of fast friends, having discovered many similar interests and common topics of conversation between the two of you. Although he still made the occasional off-putting remark, and was a bit of an attention-seeker, especially among the ladies, you enjoyed the time spent with him. It felt like you could be yourself and could talk to each other about anything without judgment.

Judgment. That word aroused conflicting feelings within you. On the one hand, being on stage felt freeing and you could do so many things there that would’ve been considered shameful in any other public situation. It was as though you could ignore the judgment or were immune to it. Yet, when it was time to return to the ‘normal world’, judgment haunted you wherever you went.

“Got a question though.” Leon grinned, and you knew he was coming up with another one of his pesky jokes again. “Can you sing?”

You whacked his chest as he howled with laughter. “Alright, come on, look. We’ll do it together, ok?” He whipped out his phone again, tapping on his music playlist. “I just wanna hear you sing something softer, please?”

Sighing in exasperation, you gave in to his curiosity, clearing your throat as you exposed the falsetto that you’d been hiding all this while in the city you’d run off to for college. Leon joined you on the backing vocals as you flowed through the song together, while you tried to ignore his gaze which lowered at your lips, seemingly entranced by what he was listening to. A blush crept up along your neck as the song ended.

“Didn’t realize you had that side to you,” he muttered in astonishment. “Where did you-”

“Church choir,” you uttered abruptly, hoping he wouldn’t press further.

“Oh.” That seemed to surprise him even more. “Didn’t take you as the religious kind.”

“I’m not.” You swallowed thickly, looking away.

“Your parents-”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” you hissed through gritted teeth, a little harsher than intended.

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean to-” He cut himself off, before sharing about his background instead. “My parents were kind of shitheads too. Well, mostly my old man.” There was another pause, as he shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Liked the bottle a bit too much.”

“I’m sorry.” You placed your hand over his, as he brushed his thumb over your knuckles.

“Don’t be. The band’s our family now.” He shifted himself up to his elbows, kicking mud off his boots. “Anyway, we don’t have to talk about your folks if you want.”

You softened up at this, realizing that he still had your best interests at heart, though a part of you felt like divulging what you had kept to yourself for so long. “It’s embarrassing,” you began. “Singing like that, kinda reminds me of the past I wanted to leave behind.”

Twiddling your fingers anxiously, you continued. “My parents were very into that whole religious thing. You could say it was almost cult-like,” you laughed nervously. “It wasn’t what I wanted to be, so I got out of it.”

Frowning, you pursed your lips as a vague memory of leaving your hometown amid a heated argument and tears came to mind. “Haven’t spoken to them in years. Probably disowned by them by now.”

“Their loss,” he replied sharply, staring you dead in the eye.

It wasn’t something you had expected to slip out of Leon’s mouth, but he had articulated it so transparently. You raised an eyebrow at him in confusion.

“You could’ve been a great televangelist,” he joked, and you chuckled along with him, finding humor in the otherwise unpleasant subject.

“It’s too bad, isn’t it?” You took a swig of the vodka bottle he offered you, wincing as the smooth liquid burned its way down your throat. “You know, when I’m up there performing, it feels like I can be whoever I want to be.”

“You can be whoever you want with me,” he spoke softly. You tried to search for any disingenuity in his eyes, but found none. “I like you all the same.”

“I like you too,” you professed, only to contort your face in horror a split second later, as you realized the implications of what you had just said. “Uh, I mean, not like that,” you sputtered helplessly. “You know, like-”

He rolled his eyes and snickered. “C’mere.” Tugging at your hand, he pulled you in close, giving you a solid hug.

Gingerly, you wrapped your arms around his neck, inhaling deeply and relaxing in his embrace. Both of you carried a mild scent of alcohol, but you didn’t care. You were just happy to find a like-minded soul who saw you for who you were, as you did with him.

A random thought popped up in your head that you wanted to run by him that instant. It gnawed at your chest, waiting to escape. “Leon?”

“Mm?” You could feel him nuzzling your neck and wondered if he had gone past being tipsy.

“What do you think about writing a softer song? Like something more emotive,” you explained.

He still didn’t let you go. “I think that sounds great,” he murmured into your ear. “We’ll write it together.”

“Just you and me, us against the world,” he added wistfully.

You wondered what had gotten into him, but the idea of working on this creative project together felt right to you. Like a link in the thread of fate that was meant to happen.

“Us against the world,” you repeated, sealing your fate, as you felt his smile against your skin.

━━━━━━━━━━━

On a hot, sunny afternoon, you were grabbing milkshakes with Claire, before heading over to the skatepark, where another friend of hers, Steve, was trying out a couple of new tricks. He had a slender build and spiky red hair, with a punk aesthetic. In other words, the perfect skater boy. You were pretty sure he had a crush on Claire, but she seemed to be either oblivious or ignored it outright. Whenever he landed a cool trick, he’d look over at Claire for approval, only for her to give him a friendly thumbs up.

While you sat by the benches, Claire turned towards you, wiggling her eyebrows as she commented, “You and Leon have been hanging out a lot together lately.”

“Uh huh.” You tried to appear nonchalant about it, as you sipped on your milkshake guardedly.

Truth be told, the increasing amount of time spent with Leon was causing certain inconvenient feelings to grow within you. You lied to yourself, claiming you saw him as nothing more than a friend. Falling for a lovable asshole was out of the question, especially one who might break your heart. Yet, the day where both of you drank in the park, accepting each other in ways you never thought possible, constantly replayed in your mind. Then there was the song you were working on together, the late-night calls, and the pick-me-ups for days when either of you needed support. He would drop everything to help you, and you were there when he sought comfort.

Each time you saw him flirting with one of the female fans or exchanging coy looks with Ada, you died a little inside. He was just a horny 23-year-old guy chasing after anyone with legs - at least, that's what you tried to convince yourself. So, you stayed silent about the whole affair, holding back how you really felt about him, in order to preserve your friendship.

“Anything going on between you two?” Claire asked casually.

What else could you expect from a final-year Communications major? Of course, she would have picked up on how weird you’ve been acting lately.

Still, you continued fighting a losing battle. “We’re just friends,” you asserted, poking absentmindedly at the leftover froth and cream in your drink with the straw.

She wasn’t having it though. “The question is, do you want it to stay that way?” Checkmate. You could almost see her gloating at you as you froze.

You shook your head, sighing defeatedly. “It doesn’t matter, he’s into other girls anyway.”

“Have you told him?” Crap, she got you there again.

You just gave her a noncommittal shrug.

“Look, I’m gonna level with you.” She set her drink down with an air of determination, as if she meant business. “In all my sad years of knowing that loser, he’s never behaved this way with a girl like you. Maybe he just needs a little push to see that.” Folding her arms, she cocked her head to the side. “You should tell him.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” You sucked up the rest of your drink until there was nothing more than the bubbly, gurgling sound of air and drops of fluid. With a mischievous twist of your mouth, you added, “By the way, you should probably tell Steve you’re not interested.”

━━━━━━━━━━━

When you had finally plucked up the courage to try and tell Leon about your true feelings, things didn’t go exactly as planned. For starters, he had been rather distracted about the upcoming music festival that your band would be participating in and specifically, a promo event that was tied to it. It was all he wanted to talk about, so you couldn’t get a word in.

“It’ll be the perfect opportunity to get noticed,” he pleaded. “You have to go!”

“I’m not- I don’t do very well in these types of social situations,” you argued. “You know that.”

“Excuses,” he huffed dismissively. “It’s gonna be fun, come on.”

“Chris and Claire will be there with you,” you countered again.

Placing his hands on your shoulders, he declared, “No, I want you.”

Although you knew he didn’t mean it any other way, your cheeks flushed as you turned your head away, heart throbbing at the innocuous statement he had just uttered.

“I’ll be there beside you, the whole time,” he promised. “Please, just come along?”

Biting your lip, you weighed your options, even though your emotions had already gotten the better of you, and you had made your decision regardless of what he might say. “You swear?”

“Cross my heart.”

Unfortunately, you wish you had never agreed to him in the first place, because 24 hours later, you were singing an entirely different tune.

Leon had picked you up and headed over to the event with you as arranged. It was held at a swanky members-only club with a lot of pomp, ass-kissing and too much champagne. You felt completely out of place there, but tagged along like a lost puppy behind Leon, who was reveling in the publicity and getting to know who’s who. A number of the other festival bands were there, but you weren’t particularly close to them beyond a courteous ‘Hello’. You fiddled with the cocktail that Leon had got you, praying that the Redfield siblings would show up sometime soon.

At some point, Leon caught your attention, every so often looking over his shoulder for something, or someone. “I, uh, I need to head to the restroom.”

You nodded in puzzlement, wondering why he seemed so shifty all of a sudden.

“Cool, um, I’ll make it quick.” He gave you a sheepish smile and a wink before heading off hurriedly.

He looked even apologetic? You shrugged off that thought, nursing the lone drink in your hands as you thumbed the fabric of your silvery playsuit. After a while, you checked the time on your phone. A good ten minutes had passed, but he hadn’t returned. Weird, did something happen to him?

As you continued waiting, it started to dawn on you how oppressive and suffocating the atmosphere was. It reminded you of the times when you were surrounded by the rest of the community you’d grown up with in church, scrutinizing your every move. Cold sweat formed on your palms as your breathing grew rapid and shallow. A sense of dread developed within you as your vision narrowed.

Oh god, oh god, not here, no… You latched onto the wall for support, trying to apply the tactics you usually used to calm yourself down.

“Hey there!” Claire’s upbeat voice pierced through the downward spiral you had nearly been consumed by. “Where’s Leon?”

“Um, he went to the rest-”

“What the fuck.” Claire’s jaw dropped wide open and when you followed her line of sight, you understood why.

From afar, you spotted Leon and Ada in tow, sneakily heading out of the restrooms. Bold red lipstick was smudged across Leon’s face as he wiped away at it furiously, and his pants remained unzipped, like an afterthought. Ada combed through her ruffled hair with her fingers, adjusting the bottom of her figure-hugging dress. There were no guesses as to what had occurred there. Your mouth ran dry.

“That fucking-” Claire growled. “Ugh, I’m gonna wring his neck!”

“Claire, it’s okay.” You tried to placate her, but your voice was quivering.

She turned towards you, eyeing you sympathetically as she rubbed your back. “I’m sorry,” she offered. “Well, Chris is getting some drinks. Let’s go join him?”

You accepted, making your way towards the refreshments table, still mulling over what you had just seen. As you picked up a glass of sparkling wine, Claire relayed the entire scenario over to Chris, who just shook his head disapprovingly.

A few moments later, Leon had stumbled upon your group. “Where’ve you been? I was looking all over for you!” He barked, visibly frustrated at your disappearance.

Claire scoffed, and without another word, bumped against his shoulder as she brushed past him. Chris followed suit, without the bumping, though he made a face at Leon as he chugged down his beer. They expected you to come along, but you hung back, giving Leon one more chance to redeem himself.

“What’s up with those two?” he muttered in annoyance.

You held his gaze impassively. “What took you so long?”

“Is this a trick question or what?” He couldn’t look you in the eyes as he tried to evade your quizzing.

But you didn’t let up, not budging from your place until you had an answer.

He threw his hands up in exasperation. “There was a queue, okay?”

A rush of disappointment and heartache surged through you. The least he could’ve done was to be honest with you, but he hadn’t even managed that. He was lying directly to your face, which currently felt as if it had been given a tight slap in humiliation. With whatever dignity you had left, you excused yourself from the table, heading over to the Redfield siblings, as Leon looked on in incredulity and disbelief.

You spent the rest of the evening with Chris and Claire, who were mostly interested in the free food and drink, and knew a couple of the chiller, more down-to-earth musicians on a personal level. In an unexpected turnaround of events, you were actually having fun chatting with people who appeared to be on the same wavelength as you and making wisecracks about corporate functions like these.

In fact, it served as a fairly effective distraction from the boy you were pretending didn’t exist. He lurked around like a shadow, leaning against the walls in the corridors and the sides of the rooms. You saw him everywhere, hovering just within reach. Scowling moodily at you and your newfound friends, he tossed back a never ending supply of alcoholic drinks. You suspected he was on the verge of getting sloshed by now, and although a part of you was concerned about his well-being, you didn’t want to play the role of a babysitter, at least not for tonight.

Towards the end of the night, Chris and Claire had decided to take their leave and you would too, after getting some fresh air by the pool. However, this proved to be a mistake, as the minute you were left alone, you heard heavy footsteps shuffling up next to you. You felt a pit in your stomach, knowing well who it was before even facing the culprit.

“What did I do wrong?” Leon was slurring his words, and his eyes were glassy and bloodshot. The stench of alcohol on him was overwhelming.

Wrinkling your nose, you backed away, stating plainly, “You’re drunk, just take a cab home.”

“Don’t-” He grabbed your arm, attempting to steady himself. “Don’t walk away from me.”

“Leon,” you warned.

“What happened to us against the world, huh?” he retorted.

“Did you think about that when you ditched me to fuck around?” The accusation tumbled out of your mouth before you had a chance to rein it in.

His grip on you loosened, as guilt flashed across his eyes. “That- I, it wasn’t-”

“You’ve always been a bit of an asshole,” you interjected. “But a loveable one, who was also sweet and kind.” Tears started to collect at the corners of your eyes. “Now, you’re just completely horrible,” you spat, with a look of disgust plastered across your face.

Leon’s face contorted in anguish as he tightened his hold on your arm again. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t like you like this,” you admitted, trying to break free from his grasp, as tears started to roll down your cheeks.

He tried to reach out with his other hand and caress your face, but you pushed it away. “Let go,” you demanded.

However, it seemed as if he couldn’t comprehend why you wanted to be as far away from him as possible. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “Can’t we just sort this-”

Then, something in you snapped. All the times when you had finally had enough and set your boundaries in the past, burning bridges along the way, came to a head. “No!” you yelled, shoving him off you, as he fell backwards and landed into the pool with a loud splash.

Some of the spectators laughed and jeered, as he floundered around mostly in shock, while you stormed off the site.

━━━━━━━━━━━

The next band practice session was awkward to say the least. You were running a few minutes late and when you’d reached, you could hear the shouting from outside the door to the studio.

“... sleeping with the enemy!”

“How is Ada an enemy?”

“You’re always messing things up for us!”

“Okay, break it up you two.”

Expelling a hefty sigh, you swung the door open, and the room fell so silent you could hear a pin drop. You could feel their gaze on you as you placed your bag in the corner before getting to your usual position behind the mic, making sure to avoid any eye contact with Leon. The festival was coming up in the next month, and on top of that, you still had a smaller gig to play in between then. The last thing you wanted was for personal issues to get in the way of professionalism, so you buried your emotions deep within the abyss.

“Hey, um, you, uh-” Leon croaked out, trying to get your attention, but you ignored him, turning instead towards Claire.

“Sorry I’m late, shall we get started?”

Despite regarding you with a look of concern, she obliged and Chris counted off before all of you jammed to the opening song.

It continued on like this, where you gave Leon the cold shoulder. You had stopped hanging out with him and only communicated when necessary. He didn’t realize how much he would miss your company until it was gone. Things felt duller and emptier without you. Whenever he wanted to share his joys, sorrows and just the mundane things that were happening in his life, he’d try to call you, only for it to go unanswered. He left you countless voice messages, each more desperate than the last one, ranging from a mixture of hurt, blame and grief. It had only been a little over two weeks, but he was starved and alone, without the person he could truly count on. The song you had been working on together remained unfinished.

During the smaller gig you were playing at, you rocked out with Chris and Claire near the back, instead of vibing with Leon at the front. Maybe you were being petty with the way you were treating Leon, but he hadn’t given you a proper apology since the incident. The chemistry and connection between the two of you on stage was lost. Nonetheless, you gave the performance your all, and the fans went wild, so much so that when you crowd surfed, you ended up with shredded leggings and a bloody mouth. A random fan tried to grope you, but security intervened and you were dragged back up on stage by Leon, whose eyes were clouded with worry and apprehension. However, the adrenaline numbed the pain and you finished the gig on a high note, leaving the crowd buzzing with exhilaration and the sound of thunderous applause. It was a confidence booster and a great way to warm up for the festival gig.

Backstage, Claire helped you with cleaning the cut on your lip, as you reassured her that you were fine and such injuries were inevitable when you threw yourself headfirst into the crowd. She made you promise not to pull that stunt again, at least for the foreseeable future, before leaving you to finish up.

Just as you were heading out to regroup, an older, bearded man with neatly styled, graying hair and donning a snazzy waistcoat approached you.

“Brian Irons.”

He held out a sleek, matte finish card with a crisp white background, his name in bold, black font in the center. Below, in smaller, elegant sans-serif type, were the record label he managed and his contact details. A thin, silver border surrounded the edges of the card adding a touch of sophistication. You took it from him, rapt by the design.

“Shall we speak somewhere in private?” he offered, beckoning towards one of the empty dressing rooms towards the end of the hallway.

In your elation and unwillingness to turn down such a timely opportunity, you jumped the gun, accepting his request immediately without waiting for your bandmates. Instead, you messaged them the details and informed them you would join them soon after.

“Amazing show,” he complimented. “You really are quite stunning.”

“Thanks, um, Mr. Irons.” You shifted your weight between both feet nervously, unsure of how to respond. Something in the way he looked at you made you seem like a prey caught in a bear’s trap and his words felt loaded.

“For you, it’s Brian, honey.” His lecherous tone sent shivers down your spine.

“Brian,” you echoed, slowly backing away to put some distance between you and the man.

“So, you kids wanna get signed, huh? Stars Rebellion, wasn’t it?” He advanced towards you with deliberate, measured steps, as if he were playing with his food at the dinner table.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered, regretting the decision you had made earlier and the direction this conversation seemed to be steering in.

“Well, I can certainly help with that…”

Your back was flat against the wall now, as he sidled up to you, eliminating any space between you as he caged you in with his body. His breath felt hot and heavy against your cheek, and reeked of coffee and cigarettes. As his hand rode up your thigh, you closed your eyes, holding your breath as a nauseating wave crashed over you and you tried not to puke.

“The fuck’s going on here?” A sharp, biting voice sliced through the air like a knife.

Brian pulled away and you saw Leon by the doorway of the dressing room seething with fury and a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Hey, easy there, kid. Just getting acquainted, that’s all.” Brian tried to laugh it off as a joke, but Leon wasn’t having any of it.

“Get away from her,” he ordered, his steely demeanor unrelenting. “Now.”

Brian backed off, but came up to Leon threateningly. “Talking back to me like that?” he sneered. “I’ll make sure you’re ruined, punk.”

Leon took a step closer, issuing an unspoken challenge. “Yeah? Go ahead, sue me.”

At this, Brian cocked his fist back before taking a swing at Leon. Leon ducked to avoid the blow, shoving him aside as he unleashed a quick jab which connected with Brian’s nose. Brian fell to the ground, whimpering in pain while covering his face with both hands. Blood trickled down, staining his shirt as he cowered before Leon.

“Touch her again and I swear to god I’ll kill you,” Leon hollered. “You hear me?”

Brian nodded furiously as Leon walked briskly across the room, wrapping his arm around your shoulder before leading you out with him. Once you were at a safe distance, he cupped your face in his palms, examining you for any further signs of injuries.

“You okay? Did he hurt you?”

You didn’t respond, instead you clung to him in a tight embrace as your body trembled uncontrollably. He held you against his chest, resting his chin on your head as he stroked your hair soothingly. Both of you stayed there for a while, locked in each other's arms, until he suggested, “Let’s get you home.”

━━━━━━━━━━━

When Leon had informed Chris and Claire about the events that had transpired, they vowed to keep a closer watch on you and each other. There was now an agreement that if the whole band could not be present at a meeting, then at least two people at the minimum should be there.

Your band had upped the intensity of the practice sessions, as the date of the festival loomed nearer. However, when Jill spontaneously announced that she was organizing a house party at her place, all of you jumped at the invitation, seeing it as a way to let off some steam.

At the moment, you and Leon were in this weird, intermediary state of being not quite friends, yet not quite on opposing ends either. It seemed as if it was eating away at him inside, since the minute he saw you at Jill’s place, he weaved through the throng of familiar faces and approached you, asking if you were ready to talk about the elephant in the room. It wasn’t possible to keep ignoring him forever and you were tired of all the arguments and drama that had occurred lately. So, you decided to let him into your life again, or maybe just a foot in the door for now.

In one of the quieter rooms of the house, you sat beside Leon as he initiated an apology for the first time for his prior actions. “I know it’s not enough, but I’m sorry, I really am.” He swallowed a lump in his throat. “I was a complete dick-”

“Yeah, you were,” you replied testily. “I panicked, when you, um, took your time.”

“What? Shit.” He looked down at his hands in shame, balling them into fists. “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t want that to happen to you.”

Clenching his jaw, you saw him drown in a sense of self-loathing. “God, I keep fucking things up. Please-” He took your hands in his, squeezing them as if he were proposing. “I’ll make it up to you, just give me another chance to prove it.”

“I missed you,” he whispered. “A lot.” It was as if a dam had broken, and he couldn't stop himself from pouring out all his admissions. “You weren’t talking to me, you weren’t returning my calls…”

“Whenever something stupid came up, all I could think about was how much I wanted to tell you about it.” His eyes glazed over, as if he were recalling a distant memory. “Guess I kinda took you for granted.”

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you made yet another decision against your better judgment. Although you had no guarantee that he would not repeat the same mistake, you placed your trust in him again, hoping that this time he would treat you as you deserved.

“Okay.” You nodded, offering a weak smile. “We’ll try again.”

You yelped as he suddenly gathered you into a snug embrace, grinning widely from ear to ear. “I got you back,” he murmured into your ear.

“Don’t make me regret it,” you teased half-jokingly.

“Guys, get your free shit! Oh-”

You and Leon quickly disentangled yourselves from each other as you saw Jill staring with her mouth hanging open. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No!” Both of you exclaimed in unison.

Jill rolled her eyes, her face etched with doubt, though she didn’t probe further. “Anyway, downstairs! First come, first served.” She jerked her thumb in the direction behind her, before trudging off to the next room.

“You wanna?” Leon gave you a knowing smile.

“Hell, sure, why not?” You shrugged, once again erupting in laughter with the boy you wanted to cuddle with and strangle at the same time.

So, that was how both of you ended up lying next to each other, strung out on a mattress facing the window. You knew the drill. Jill’s housemates were creative types whose generosity knew no bounds. House parties with them involved usually meant a certain supply of free drugs, which people could choose to engage in recreationally. You figured you were being very rock’n’roll by doing it, but sometimes you enjoyed how open they made you feel, like you could loosen up and forget about the things bothering you.

As usual, you and Leon had taken the same pills as before, both of you agreeing to take care of each other throughout the duration of the high. He held your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours, as you giggled over a topic you had been discussing.

“Ready to watch the curtain breathing contest?” he chuckled.

“There.” You pointed in front of you, indicating that the shades were now moving on their own, like ripples in the tide.

“Atta girl.”

It felt nice like this, laying beside him. You could talk to him about anything in the world and he’d listen intently to you. That’s when you thought it was a good idea to make your confession.

“I’ve liked you for a while now,” you gulped, your heart constricting though the urge to reveal your secret was stronger. “As in, more than a friend.”

He angled his head towards you, gazing at your expression with an affectionate smile. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Leon Scott Kennedy, asking me why-?” you snorted, clamping your free hand over your mouth as you struggled to hold in your cackles. As if he wasn’t aware he had a reputation for sleeping around with no strings attached. “I didn’t want to be just another notch on your bedpost.”

He tutted and sighed. “You wouldn’t have been. It’s different… with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re one of the few people who’d tell me exactly as it is, you care to listen,” he explained. “It just feels right, being with you, and… I trust you.”

You were reluctant to take what he had said at face value, after all both of you were tripping. As if sensing your hesitance, he professed, “I like you too, a lot.”

Still, a part of you denied it. “You’re just saying that.”

He groaned in vexation. “Am not.”

“Are too.”

Narrowing his eyes at you, he huffed in defeat, “Look, ask me again tomorrow when we’re sober, okay? Pretty sure I’ll say the exact same thing.”

“Fine,” you conceded. “You better not try anything right now though, ’cause I bite.” Baring your teeth, you snarled at him playfully.

“Uh huh.” He burst out laughing. “You’re kinda high off your face, aren’t you?”

“Just a little.” You winked.

“Alright, let’s try to get some sleep,” he grunted, shifting to his side as he extended his arms towards you like an invitation. “No funny business,” he promised.

You relented, nestling yourself into his arms with your back against his chest. He dipped his nose into your hair, breathing in the peace of the moment. Closing your eyes, you drifted off to sleep, your bodies spooned together in perfect symmetry.

━━━━━━━━━━━

The first rays of the morning light filtered in through the curtains, as you awoke to the collective chirps of the dawn chorus. You squinted, pressing a palm over your eyes to shield yourself from the sun, as you stretched yourself out against Leon’s sleeping body and yawned groggily. He stirred a bit from your movement, but easily fell back into slumber, snoring deeply. You remembered everything you had disclosed to him the night before and it scared you. What if he didn’t feel the same way when he woke up? What if it had all been a mistake? How would you be able to look him in the eye now? You felt anxiety rising in your chest.

Stealthily, you lifted his arm off you, creeping out of the bed and making your escape before you had to face the consequences of your actions. Grabbing your stuff, you snuck out of the room, tiptoeing so no one noticed you exiting the front door of the house.

It was about an hour later when Leon woke up, confused to find you missing from the mattress with him. Though in your rush, you had accidentally left behind your notebook, which you carried around with you everywhere to jot down inspiration for song lyrics. Picking up the chestnut brown, leatherbound journal, curiosity got the better of him as he flipped it open to the page you had bookmarked.

As he skimmed across the words you had scribbled down in your off-beat, cursive handwriting, he gradually realized that they were the draft lyrics to the song you had been previously working on together with him, before the temporary break in your friendship. He re-read the text again to catch the meaning between the lines. It was then that it struck him, you had essentially composed a love letter from within, expressing the depth of your feelings and yearning for him. It made his heart ache that you had been keeping this from him the whole time and he had been blind to it all.

Tapping your name on his mobile screen, he called you right away, but it went straight to voicemail. Fuck. What were you afraid of? He thought he had been clear in how he felt about you last night, but it seemed like you had gone into hiding again.

Showing up at your place directly after this may cause you to retreat even further, but he was determined to win you over somehow. A plan began to hatch in his mind, as he drove home with your book in the passenger seat. Despite his exhaustion from the party, he set out to work on the music for the lyrics you had written, spending the rest of the day and even pulling an all-nighter to finish it.

After about a dozen energy drinks and cups of coffee, he marched up unannounced to the door of your dormitory, where you shared a room with another final-year student from your class, rapping on it several times for good measure. Your roommate opened the door, but her expression gave everything away before she had the chance to concoct any sort of tall tale. She could never really keep a poker face.

Placing his arm against the door to prevent it from closing on him, he called out your name. You appeared in his view then timidly, mumbling to your roommate that you would handle it. She packed up a few things and left, giving you and Leon some privacy.

“Your book.” He passed it over to you, before setting his guitar case down by your bed. “Open it.”

You glanced briefly at him in mild bewilderment, but did as he asked. It flopped open to a page with a deep crease in the center, naturally showing how frequently that section had been revisited. You gasped when you saw a bunch of chord notes written below the lyrics you had penned down from earlier. Your complexion turned a light shade of scarlet upon realizing that Leon had discovered your innermost thoughts, but there was no awkwardness in his behavior towards you, he was calm and collected.

Unzipping the case, he took out his acoustic guitar and perched himself on the edge of your bed. Resting the instrument on his thigh, he grasped its neck, tilting it slightly as he strummed a couple of opening chords.

“I pieced together the melody for this. Maybe you can join in when you’re comfortable,” he suggested.

It seemed he had memorized the entire song by heart, as he didn’t need your notebook for guidance. His mellow, honeyed voice cascaded through the room as he serenaded you with the song both of you had crafted, albeit separately. Now, you were coming together to bring it to life.

Seating yourself next to him, you harmonized with his vocals, pouring the entirety of your emotions and every moment of longing you had built up within you into the music, until the final note trailed off. Throughout it all, Leon had observed you closely, captivated by the raw, unfiltered quality of your voice and the vulnerability you displayed in your delivery of the lyrics.

His gaze lowered from your eyes to your mouth, as he leaned in, brushing his lips gently against yours, kissing you tenderly. Bringing his hand to your cheek, he caressed it, coaxing soft sighs and moans which he returned as you reciprocated the kiss. Panting as he came up for air, he traced your bottom lip with his thumb, feeling every dip and groove, as if mesmerized by its outline and shape. He didn’t need to utter a single word for you to understand that his feelings for you mirrored those you had confessed in the song.

Closing the distance, he pressed into your lips again, this time more fervently, as the kisses grew in intensity. His nose nudged against yours and you felt his warm breath tickling your skin, as he grasped the back of your neck, taking you deeper, breathing every essence of you in. Clutching his shoulders, you parted your lips slightly as he licked along the entrance, allowing his tongue to meet yours, twirling around it as saliva coated your lips, forming a glistening string between the two of you when you pulled away.

Grazing his knuckles delicately across your cheek, he asked, “Do you believe me now?”

You smiled, claiming his lips with your own in response.

━━━━━━━━━━━

The next time you performed the song live was at the festival, where thousands had gathered to watch the impressive lineup of bands. Chris and Claire had fallen in love with it when you and Leon had showed it to them, and were keen to expand the band’s range into something that delved into the territory of rock ballads.

All four of you wondered how it would be received by the audience, as it was rather different from the punk rock style your band was known for. Even so, you were psyched to finally showcase it to the public.

It was the song you ended with on your setlist, and the one which created such a poignant, special atmosphere, that it became a memory you would treasure forever. The hall fell into hushed anticipation as Leon plucked his guitar strings under the soft glow of the stage lights. Each note resonated deeply, minimalistic and stripped back, which added to the earnesty of the music.

Your voice opened the duet, intimate and haunting, as the melody unfolded like a story being told, rich with longing and a melancholic beauty that ached. The audience stood there entranced, as a soulful rhythm built up with the entry of the bass guitar and drums, adding another layer to the sound.

Leon moved towards you, sharing your mic as he sang his part, cementing a bond between you. Locking eyes with you, he pressed his forehead against yours, mingling sweat and tears as you both continued singing into the same mic, your heartfelt lyrics heavy with emotion. Some of the older people in the crowd sparked their lighters, while the younger ones whipped out their mobile phones, swaying them in time to the music, until everything was awash in a sea of flickering lights.

Your lips and Leon’s were barely touching as the last notes lingered in the air. His faint breath fanned across your mouth, as he swept his fingertips along your jawline, resting them under your chin. The space was thick with palpable tension, and your stomach fluttered just as it had the first time he had kissed you. Like a magnetic pull which he could not resist, he placed his lips over yours, kissing you again and again. It was as if the world had paused, just for the two of you.

Singing this way no longer reminded you of punishment and shame, but rather of the connection you and Leon had. Wrapping his arm around your waist, he led you off-stage, past the phenomenal reaction of the crowd and the fist bumps shared between Chris and Claire.

Ada came around not only to congratulate him, but also to test the waters and seize the opportunity to flirt. Despite that, he held onto you tightly, maintaining a suitable distance from the woman he had previously been infatuated with, yet feeling nothing deeper compared to what he felt for you. It took him more than half a year, an explosive fallout and a few weeks of your absence to realize that. She smirked and shook her head, walking away as Wesker continued to ignore you.

Some things never change, yet some things had.

“How about some time alone?” he proposed. “Just us.”

Us. It was always meant to be about us.

You nuzzled your nose gently with his. “Yeah, just us.”

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy angst #band au #resident evil #porcelainscribbles

442 notes · View notes

naffeclipse · 6 months

Note

I had a thought while working today since I saw something baby penguin related

What if harpy!y/n already had a lil baby penguin of their own when they meet eclipse? How would reactions ensue, eclipse's, sun and Moon's, and the lil penguin's themself?

Just imagining eclipse marveling how the baby is even softer than y/n-

Oh my gosh, the thought of this is making me melt!

Already parent Harpy!Y/N is hyper-vigilant of any threats to their chick. They keep far from the water and are always cuddling their baby to protect them from the sub-zero temperatures. Their penguin harpy young has soft, gray downy to help her through the cold but it's still not enough without a parent's help. Y/N only leaves their baby to get food and that's only for seconds.

Y/N does notice a prowling siren in the waters. That's all the more reason Y/N evades and hides as far as possible from the icy coast, but the baby needs food. Y/N can't stay away forever. They tremble in fear at what harm a siren might bring to them and their little girl.

Y/N returns from one of those rushed hunting trips, fish in their mouth, when they stop in absolute horror to find a large orca siren holding their baby in his clawed hands and crooning over the soft fluff of the little one. Y/N flies towards their chick—knowing full well that they do not have a prayer in this fight to defend their young—but are gobsmacked when the siren catches them and neatly places their baby back in their flippers.

Eclipse doesn't let the beautiful harpy go. Of course, not. He needs to tell them that he is so thrilled to finally meet them and how lovely their little one is. Y/N is still in panic mode, waiting for the violence to begin and how to shield their little girl from it, but it never comes. Eclipse is all sharp teeth and curiosities. He can't wait to bring the two harpies to meet his adoptive young—what a beautiful family they'll make!

Y/N is still terrified for their baby's sake but Eclipse is so insistent (grabby) and then, oh, there are two siren young. Y/N is tittering between "this siren is going to feed my baby to his babies" and "oh... they look cold..."

It takes a long while for Y/N to be okay with Eclipse holding their baby and to believe that the siren young can be cared for in their own harpy manner, but eventually, they all form a little motley unit!

Sun and Moon are larger than the chick and love grabbing fistfuls of that fluff because that's what they do with harpy Y/N's feathers but baby chick isn't okay with that, so, the little sirens are taught to be gentle. Siren young are a bit more durable than Hapry offspring. The baby chick, however, has two warm and snuggly buddies now.

The little girl harpy is so intrigued by all the commotion! She knows something's not right when her parent isn't happy with the weird black and white fish holding her, but she loves playing with the other smaller fish, and she wants to be tough and play rough like them and sing like they do!!! But she chirps a lot and her notes are quick and shrill. She loves Eclipse like a father and she loves her harpy parent, too.

#this is so freaking cute gah #cardinal instinct #harpy!y/n #siren babies #harpy baby #orca!eclipse #orca eclipse holding the cutest and softest baby harpy in the palm of his hand for the first time: *choked up* i'm your dad now #vixenfoxpup

258 notes · View notes

gnomishcunning · 3 months

Text

bg3 companion camp habits

ft. astarion, karlach, wyll, shadowheart, lae'zel, gale & halsin

Astarion

earliest to bed, earliest to rise. it leaves more time to sneak around at night. unfortunately for him that means lae'zel has him on hunting duty, in order to find something substantial for dinner the next day.

insures team tadpole camps within walking distance of some source of running water. if not running water, a lake; if not a lake, a pond. after tagging around with tav all day and coming home covered in blood, his daily soaks are sacred

despite actually not needing to sleep, his tent is the cushiest in camp: his bedroll is piled high with luxurious furs and silken pillows

trances with curlers in his hair. that coif doesn't maintain itself y'know, as much as astarion would like you to think it does

Karlach

her tent is open-air in order to reduce the likelihood she catches it on fire overnight

simultaneously a super-light sleeper while retaining the the ability to fall asleep within five minutes in any given environment, on any given surface. ten years in avernus have honed those survival instincts into a sharp edge, and she can be up and ready to brawl in an instant

banned from contributing to dinner on account of infernal taste buds: the amount of chili powder she'd added to the group soup that one time almost killed shadowheart and made astarion get the night sweats for the first time in 200 years

her contributions to camp including anything involving copious amounts of hot water. unfortunately, this usually has her stuck on laundry duty with halsin

Wyll

next to halsin and karlach, wyll's the most comfortable camping in the wilderness on a day-to-day basis. seven years as the blade of the frontiers meant wandering the sword coast looking for monsters, and not all of that was near civilization

crippling addiction to tea. picks up local varieties at every settlement the party passes through; it's what you see him swirling in that silver cup of his night to night.

while gale's in charge of dinner, wyll's in charge of breakfast. he's got a carafe of coffee on the fire when people start to rise, and there's always a pan of something delicious-smelling and ready to dish out by the time someone manages to wake up halsin.

he's had that ripped-up crop top he sleeps in since his teens, and it's been worth to that point of sweet age-soft. he has trouble sleeping in anything else at this point

Shadowheart

doesn't need as much sleep to function at full capacity the next day: she's perfectly fine on five or six hours. whether that's a lucky genetic twist of shadowheart's genetic heritage or a blessing of shar is anyone's guess - this usually has her as the second one awake

tends to volunteer for first watch and uses that time to pray

has a bit of a second sense for finding good campsites: places with highly defensible positions, a fresh water source, carefully tucked into the shadows of natural glades or high rocks

has one of the more elaborate hair routines in the group, second only to astarion's curl-care. she and the vampire spawn have a silent agreement to assist with setup and share haircare products when necessary.

Lae'zel

self-assigned camp commander (not camp mom - astarion tried to make a snide comment once and was glared down). her militaristic upbringing has left her the only one with enough organizational skills to insure the motley crew of team tadpole don't accidentally starve themselves to death in the wilderness

keeps an exacting inventory of what they have on hand, from food to spell-scrolls and spare socks and tadpoles in brain-jars, must to her chagrin. anything taken from the traveler's chest must be noted so she can keep track of what the team needs

created a chore chart. the chore chart is holy. it plays to everyone's strengths and evenly distributes labor. astarion once tried to fuck with it: he was left doing his own laundry for a week, much to his chagrin

as much as she'd like to brag about githyanki endurance, she requires an exacting eight hours of sleep to function. the rest of team tadpole insures she gets it, since nobody likes a grumpy githyanki

Gale

self-assigned camp cook within days of joining team tadpole. to his surprise, lae'zel completely agreed

has a few cookbooks stacked among the piles of literature around his tent, including a dog-eared recipe book from mama dekarios. his travel spice-rack was an additional gift from her as well, one he covets with all his heart.

could care less about his lion's mane and mostly resolves to slicking it back with whatever oil or grease they have on-hand first thing in the morning, but takes exacting care of his beard

has a bad tendency to stay up too late sleeping, and is subsequently the last one to rise first thing in the morning\

Halsin

doesn't even bother to set up his tent half the time, perfectly willing to spend the night in bear form. this has caused some confusion first thing in the morning when an actual bear wandered into camp one morning and wyll greeted it warmly, much to halsin's amusement

will grow goodberries to add to the morning's oatmeal or pancakes; secret weakness for coffee

tends to tackle laundry duty with karlach, mostly since the giant mountain of a druid is the best at actually toting mountains of blood-spoiled linens across camp.

assists with hunting duties, even if the meat he tends to bring backs is a little more roughed up compared to astarion's exsanguinated prey

bonus:

Tav

group oddball, usually ends up doing whatever odd chore lae'zel assigns them

unofficially in-charge of campfire entertainment, including breaking up fights between lae'zel and shadowheart over go-fish, or insuring astarion doesn't cheat during poker

the camp keeps meaning to buy them a tent. they never do. tav's been crashing around the campfire since the beginning, and they only actually get a tent once they have a significant other

not allowed to assist with dinner since the Noodle IncidentTM

#bg3 #bg3 imagines #bg3 headcanons #bg3 companions #balduramblings

122 notes · View notes

utilitycaster · 1 year

Text

It could be true that Ludinus survived the Calamity, but I think he is as old as he appears to be, which is to say, perhaps 650 or so. And if that’s the truth, this might be his story.

He was born in Molaesmyr - the only real city in the region, and quite honestly, the only one of size on the continent. There are scattered communities on the coast. It is unclear if the Kryn have begun to rebuild in the shadow of Ghor Dranas and if they are, who would think to look there? Perhaps there are dwarves who survived under the mountains and have rebuilt, but elves and dwarves do not always communicate much. The humans and halflings of western Wynandir are surviving as best they can. This is Wildemount, circa 200 PD.

The forest around him had burned for over a century. Molaesmyr is an oasis of greenery and civilization surrounded by ash that is only just beginning to regrow.

His parents remember a time when great workings of magic were common. He hears stories of the times before the Calamity clear in the memories of older elves, a shining time before the end. This is a motley crew of survivors and their children in Molaesmyr, some of whom had been on the terrestrial cities for whatever reason when Aeor fell and had survived the remainder of the devastation by whatever means they had. Some could remember escaping Avalir, as children, on skyships that left for anywhere but the lost continent of Domunas. Some had always lived surface-side, in cities that don’t exist anymore. Some believe themselves to be the only survivors of those cities.

They say Zemniaz crashed some ways to the south, and Draconia even further. Cross-continental communication is rare, but rumor is that Cael Morrow is gone. Nothing has been heard from Tal’Dorei. Only Vasselheim stands, of the cities his parents recognize from their youth.

In Molaesmyr, the elves worship Corellon and Sehanine. The oldest clerics can perhaps be persuaded to speak of a time when they met these gods - when they walked Exandria like anyone else. Some saw them in battle, to the east, massive, fighting against their betrayer counterparts.

But the gods aren’t here anymore. They can only reach them in dreams, in indirect signs achieved through ritual and prayer. There is a hesitance in the ceremonies young Ludinus Da’leth attends. Something missing, or something that never had to be done before. It feels slow, as if it’s pushing through an impossibly thick barrier. There is a sadness that surrounds the older clerics that makes services an awkward affair, and once he’s old enough, he stops going.

Ludinus doesn’t want to be a cleric. He studies the arcane, or what’s left of it. So many secrets have been lost. One of his teachers mutters that they wish they’d paid more attention, that they didn’t know half the spells of Exandria could now only be found in their ancient, battered spellbook.

The world around him ended not long before he was born. That’s what Ludinus knows, most of all. He was born into a dead world scarred by the gods, and his city is what they’ve managed to make of the scraps that were left.

Centuries pass. Human culture begins to rebuild. Marquesian sailors and the Ki’Nau people of the western coast of Wildemount form a seafaring society and a loose chain of allied cities forms. Two human nations arise, one in the southern valleys and one out of the ruins of Zemniaz. They fight and form, however disjointedly, an Empire to the south.

When Ludinus is in the prime of his life, the world ends again. Well, not the whole world, but the part where he is, which is what matters.

The child refugees of the floating cities, now in their old age, die in the poisonous haze. Molaesmyr falls in days. He is shocked at how surprised he feels, because he has always known, before he knew anything else, that what takes centuries to build can disappear in a fraction of that time. No one can step in to save Molaesmyr. No one can fight for it. There is no god coming in battle like the clerics have recounted.

He sees the power vacuum created after what the Empire calls the Eve of Crimson Midnight, and he steps into it. Power is a tool, after all, and he needs to amass it. The Empire is a modern creation, no mageocracy, and the kings will accept anything he tells them if they believe it’s for the good of their expansion. Whatever information he needs becomes a matter of national security, and elves live a long time. Long enough to find the answer, when the texts from Vasselheim are unveiled.

Maybe the smaller moon did speak to him. It’s possible that red storms gave him nightmares, and that he fled the purple-gray mist nearly laughing hysterically, that his dreams had been right but the color was wrong before he learned the truth.

Or he might have never dreamt of Ruidus. He might have just read a missive from Vasselheim, that something was broken into, and perhaps worthy of mention to other important political powers, and despite growing up in its shadow, did not know the history he was about to retrace.

#critical role #critical role spoilers #ludinus da'leth #long post #call it fic or call it meta either is valid i suppose #want to be clear: he still fucking sucks but this is a nihilism i have seen borne of circumstance #i also have an equally uh. being so normal about this post about Imogen inside me that I might write #bc i am on a train for the next 3 hours still

241 notes · View notes

silverslipstream · 10 months

Text

writeblr intro!

Well, hello there! Welcome to my page! Thought I'd finally get around to writing and pinning an intro, seeing as my writeblr recommendations post has gone STRATOSPHERIC and I've followed so many new accounts!

I'm Jeb (he/him), 20 years old, and an aspiring writer, poet and disaster dork from New Zealand (who currently lives in the UK - England, to be more precise). I'm a huge lover of writing and reading science fiction works, particularly hard sci-fi - Arthur C. Clarke's Space Odyssey series and his novel The Songs of Distant Earth were the works that inspired a young me to start taking writing seriously. I also write fanfiction, romance, horror, a smidgen of fantasy, spy fiction... whatever takes my fancy, basically! I also love writing and reading poetry, and hope to have some of my poems published professionally by the end of 2023!

Outside of writing, I'm a huge motorsport lover. Formula One is my main passion, and in fact I originally joined tumblr to post about my then-WIP, The Edge Of Control. TEOC may be in cryogenic storage, but my love of speed and high-octane racing remains: I regularly watch F1, IndyCar and the World Endurance Championship. I also love spaceflight, astronomy, Shakespeare, teen movies from the 80s/90s (ESPECIALLY John Hughes' work), many cheesy romcoms and lasagna. (What? It's literally the perfect food!)

Right, now with all that out of the way, let's get onto the real good stuff... (sorry in advance for the lack of taglists, I haven't remembered how they work!)

links to my work:

jebberjabber on AO3 (my main account, for fanfiction) degnercurve130R on AO3 (for F1/racing works) KesslerCascade on Wattpad (for original works)

works-in-progress

You Can't Take It Back Now!

type: fanfiction (fandom: Bittersweet Candy Bowl, Webcomic) genre: romance (of the sapphic, friends-to-lovers variety) summary: Sue and Amaya have been best friends ever since they met in second grade. They're proudly inseparable, but when a secretive confession from Amaya turns into a sudden kiss from the assuredly-straight Sue, everything changes. Can they navigate their friendship while dealing with their rampant emotions? Is it just drama, or did Sue have more investment into their kiss than she let on? status: six chapters currently complete, with two published on AO3! Bi-weekly updates planned. link: You Can't Take It Back Now! on AO3

White Sky

type: original work genre: hard science fiction/mystery/thriller summary: It's 2094, and the Earth-Luna Treaty Organisation (ELTO) is planning the upcoming 125th anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing. Meanwhile, Katarina 'Kat' Lloyd, a reclusive scientist, is framed for a crime she didn't commit and forced into outer space. Seeking refuge aboard the cislunar debris hauler Dowager Caroline, Kat and the Caroline's motley crew discover that her framing was simply a cog in a much bigger plot - one with dire consequences for mankind... status: currently in the planning stage, rough draft established and plot outline written

works published on Tumblr:

An Acquired Taste - In a post-cyberpunk/solarpunk imagining of 22nd-century New Seoul, a corporate engineer makes a chance meeting with a street vendor and makes an important discovery.

Executive Decisions - In an alternate history where the Cold War went hot, a US Air Force nuclear-bomber crew face a moral dilemma as they near their Soviet target. Operation Trident - A soldier experiences a combat drop on the Belgian coast, as part of an ongoing human offensive against an alien occupation force. Ignition Sequence - An experiment with a second-person perspective where the watcher observes a Space Shuttle launch in Florida.

#writeblr introduction #writeblr #writeblr community #writers on tumblr #fanfiction #science fiction #silverslipstream #writers community

68 notes · View notes

mirabai0821 · 6 months

Text

WIP: Blood and Honey CH 1

Pairings: F!Tav / Astarion Tags: Mentions of pet death, blood sucking Word Count: 2.9K Summary: Tav assembles the party and will not stop lying to them. Unfortunately for her, a vampire can see right through her.

Her first lie had been her name.

“You may call me Tav,” she answered when asked. Most didn’t notice the important distinction. Karlach, Wyll, Shadowheart, and Gale accepted her evasive bit of wordplay with no problem. Astarion, however, pounced upon it immediately.

“‘You may call me Tav,’” he repeated back to her that day on the beach. His voice dripped with suspicion, disdain, and the barely restrained glee of someone delighted that they had been clever enough to notice something others did not.

“That is what I may call you. Well that just implies there are other things you’re called then, doesn’t it darling?”

She did not clarify, filing the interaction right next to the moment before when he pulled a knife on her. This was someone to watch, to withhold from trust no matter their shared circumstances and entwined fates.

But, her eyes and her heart softened a bit as, even though she did not clarify, he also did not press. I know you have a secret, those red-wine eyes seemed to tell her as the wreckage of the nautiloid smoldered behind them, but I will not do you the dishonor of making you reveal it. So long as you do not make me reveal mine.

Her second lie had been her profession.

She said she was a bard but she wasn’t very good at it. She knew some spells of a bard’s repertoire, but could barely swing simple weapons. Indeed, she even had the talent of a great singer, perhaps one of the best in the Sword Coast, but she hadn’t performed in over a decade, and wasn’t planning on taking the stage any time soon. Instead, she hummed while plucking her lute and strumming her lyre while muddling along flinging the cantrips of a sorcerer with barely enough skill to fend off the average highwayman.

Her third lie, the worst of them, was to herself.

“Are you alright Tav? I think I heard you crying last night.” Gale, the kindly wizard, asked on the morning of their second day as almost-mind flayers.

That first night at camp had been miserable. She found a Githyanki warrior, a Waterdhavian wizard, a swashbuckling warlock, a fiery barbarian, a disreputable rogue, and a cagey cleric – all saddled with the same affliction. Managing to assemble such a motley crew united in the singular purpose of saving all their lives should have given her some measure of comfort. But she felt nothing except the sucking, gasping, yawning void of emptiness.

Tav would give anything to have him back. Wrap up all of the little gifts of her life – her voice, her uncanny talent for lyrics, her prized lute, and equally prized lyre – and return them to their various senders if it meant another lifetime with her beloved dog Kanid. But such things could never be, not even with the talent of necromancy. You’d need a corpse for that and she didn’t have one.

His loss was still so fresh and so utterly disorienting that when she laid down at camp that first night, curling into a little ball, she made space for him to fit in the gap. Like she expected him to suddenly appear and sleep within her arms as he had done every night in his 13 years.

Oh Kanid was a precious little thing. Reaching no higher than her calves and about twice as long. He looked more like a warm loaf of bread with ears than any pet. He often resembled one too, lounging in the sun with his stubby little legs sticking straight out behind him giving his butt the distinct appearance of a heel of bread fresh-cut from the loaf.

He was the only creature alive or even dead who knew all of what she was and loved her anyway. No other being, not her mother, father, sister, or any of her half a handful of former lovers could boast the same.

But Kanid knew her. Seen her at her very worst and her very best and somehow knew those moments were often reversed. Covered in blood or with a song on her tongue he loved her.

And she would never be so wholly loved again.

Even if she somehow survived the parasite making a nest in her brain matter.

The realization crept up her infernally blessed body, sinking deep into her clay-red flesh until everything from the hard, bony tips of her horns or the twitchy rounded point of her tail ached with grief.

That first night she sobbed till sunrise.

“Crying? I don’t remember crying,” she lied to Gale before muddling her falsehood with a bit of truth. “Probably was just having a nightmare.”

As the days stretched to weeks and as her new companions fretted over goblins, druid groves, “kreshes”, bog witches, civil war between the adherents of Vlaakith and Shar, and the intangible menace of “ceremorphosis”, Tav thoughts remained firmly with Kanid.

Then a scruffy white mutt crossed their path.

“Tav, darling, I don’t think our camp has the room or the inclination…”

Tav ignored Astarion, fussing over the ragged little four-legged thing. He was dirty and thin, the curve of his ribs not too well concealed underneath his shaggy snow-white coat. He seemed well trained though, not that it would have mattered if he wasn’t. Tav would have taken home a half-rabid owlbear if it meant soothing even a fraction of her wounded heart.

“I bet you haven’t eaten in a tenday. What have I got? What would you like, hm? A sweatmeat perhaps? A hunk of cheese? Whatever you want, name it and it’s yours.”

She went rooting in her backpack searching for an appropriate treat. Finding none she turned to Astarion and stuck out her open hand like an imperious beggar. “You’ve got meat in there.”

It wasn’t a question, more like a command that brooked no protest. Astarion sighed and handed her a sausage as long as his forearm.

“That was dinner!” Complained Gale.

“Yes!” Tav agreed cheerfully. “Just not yours!”

Though it was barely mid-day, Tav called off the search for the goblin encampment and the druid held hostage therein. She scooped up the dog, named Scratch by his collar, and carried him all the way back to camp, cooing and humming as she went.

“My dog, so sweet, your eyes astute. You bark, you bite, I boop your snoot.”

She giggled at her improvised couplet while Scratch permitted her intrusive fussing with blissful incoherence, his tongue lolled out in a happy pant. Tav repeated her ditty the whole way back, each time with different flourishes and flavor, sharps and flats rising and falling in concert with the gentle, rolling hills of the Sword Coast.

Astarion watched her, the very picture of annoyance, his otherwise pristine, alabaster face beset with the soft, shallow wrinkles of his frown. It wasn’t that her blatherings were annoying, it was the fact they were not. Her voice enticed him with an unnameable, ethereal sweetness that made even the birds stop and listen.

“My dog, so sweet, so white, so cute. You eat, you play, your poop, I scoop!”

He listened too.

Never one to turn down an easy meal, that night, he went looking for the mongrel, brandishing another limb-length sausage to tempt the creature.

He stalked the camp, “Here Scratch, here Scratchy boy.”

The vampling had to be cautious. He had managed to keep his peculiar, dietary restrictions let’s call them, a secret, and knew upon (or, more likely, off with) his head be it, if anyone, especially that githyanki shrew, found out.

He found the mutt curled contentedly at his new mistress's feet. Wiggling the cured meat in its face, Scratch’s ears perked and he gave Astarion a dopey, trusting look as if to say, “More? For me?”

“Yes, you flea-bitten pile of intestinal worms, for you, now come!” He ground out, careful not to wake Tav.

Scratch unfurled himself and followed happily before black talon tipped hand closed itself around Astarion’s wrist like a vice.

“What are you doing with my dog?”

Astarion had the measure of each member of camp ranked according to how easily he could take them in a fight. At the top of the list was Lae’zel and the barbarian. He’d rather chew his own fingers off than face either of them. In the middle sat Wyll, the charming little warlock, and the Sharran – not easy but not difficult, fights he could win at moderate cost. Near the end of the list was Gale. He could stab that man bloodless before he could get his far-too-nice-to-grace-those-feet boots on.

And at the very bottom was Tav. She was a natural leader, yes, but a capable fighter? Ha! Corpses were more threatening than her since those, at least, could still harm through disease.

But from the way she gripped his wrist, he was considering shuffling the leaderboard a bit.

“I…I was…”

Tav shifted off her bedroll, fire burning in her hell-touched eyes. “You were going to eat him weren’t you?!”

“Wh-what an absurd idea! And quite offensive at that. Do I look like the type to stalk around draining the local fauna bloodless? Really now!” He feigned ignorance, but she didn’t buy it.

Her grip tightened and though he no longer had a blood-pumping heart, he could feel his hand start to throb.

“That boar, near the swamp…that was you!”

Astarion gawped. He had been so careful. How?

Well, the game was the game and this time, at least, he had been outplayed.

Caught out figuratively and literally Astarion relented. “Alright fine, yes I wanted to eat the dog. Well, not literally anyway.”

Tav kept her grip and her gaze tightly on him. The heat of her black-sclerea’d hellfire eyes started to feel distinctly uncomfortable, like the first rays of dawnlight after a long night out hunting for Cazador’s next meal.

“Not him, never him, do you hear me?” Tav’s voice dropped low, not menacing but melancholy. Astarion was mildly shocked that she didn’t seem to mind there was a vampire in their midst, more preoccupied with what he ate and now how.

Astarion relented, giving up the night’s easy meal was an inconsequential price to pay for such uncharacteristic open-mindedness. Had it been Lae’zel who discovered him, Astarion shuddered at the thought.

“Fine, not the mutt.”

“Promise me.” Her voice took on a desperate edge that made Astarion even more uncomfortable.

“I promise, I promise! Now let me go.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat before she released him. Astarion shook out his hand, noticing the deep imprint of her fingers in his flesh. “Good gods, all that for a dog?”

She broke her stare, casting it into the dirt. “He’s worth more.”

For a moment he wasn’t sure if she was speaking to him or to something beyond him, something that couldn’t hear her anymore. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Astarion groaned. “Whatever, see you at sunup I guess, now that you’ve ruined a quick dinner.”

“No, wait.”

Tav shuffled her nightshirt undoing the strings at her collar. The loosened fabric revealed a tender, juicy looking neck the color of deep red clay earth kissed by a healthy rainfall. Her flesh was ridged with the tell-tale scarification marks of tieflings, up each wing of her collar bones and down the meridian of her body between the valley of her breasts. He couldn’t see beyond their first initial swell but…gods, he wanted to.

The tadpole granted him many new things, protection from sunlight and Cazdor’s will primary among them. But he wondered if the tadpole cured afflictions psychological as well as physical. He hadn’t yet tested that hypothesis, no time and no participants. She’d be his first, he decided. Not now, he needed a plan first, but…soon.

“Nothing comes for free,” Tav said, craning her neck to reveal a delectable swath of flesh from pointed ear to rounded shoulder. “You gave me a promise, I give you a meal.”

“You’re…offering yourself?”

Revulsion flashed across his face. More than once in his un-life he encountered vampire fetishists who were a bit too enthusiastic about the whole biting business. Cazador kept a few around the house as slaves, eager to do the most menial tasks if it meant immortality. His master never rewarded them though, stringing them bloodlessly along at the point of his canine while Astarion was, of course, never allowed to sample the goods. He was disgusted by the very idea that free mortals debased themselves for a chance at vampirism while he, the vampire, yearned every day for the freedom of his mortal life.

“Nothing more than tit for tat,” Tav answered simply. “If it keeps your fangs out of the dog, I’m more than happy to sub in.”

“Do you mean it?” This felt like a mean-spirited trick, punishment for threatening the animal. She had been so equanimous about all this vampire business already. Surely there was a limit to her tolerance?

“Of course,” she said sincerely. “Everybody eats. We didn’t hunt for our dinner tonight, why should you?”

Astarion pressed his unfathomable good fortune to the point he was sure would break it.

“Do you still mean it if I tell you I’ve never sampled a thinking creature? That I’ve only feasted on animals and then until they were drained dry and dead?”

Tav looked at him with a wide-eyed terror and swallowed thickly.

But still, she nodded.

Astarion knelt in the dirt beside her, doing his best to suppress his drool. She smelled delicious, scented with some kind of sweet vanilla fragrance he could not place. Tav stared nervously into the middle distance, tail twitching anxiously, unwilling to even look at Astarion the way a skittish patient has to look away from the doctor before a shot.

“Will it hurt?”

Something small and precious bled inside his chest. Her question made her seem so small though her actual size engulfed his own by at least a few inches in both directions. He almost felt guilty taking from her like this, like he meant to deceive her, engaged in some artifice that he would later use to break her heart. Worryingly still, he didn’t want to…break her heart, that is. He had no qualms about drinking from her. He was hungry and it was her fault.

“Oh darling, It might sting a bit,” he admitted. “But I promise, it won’t hurt for long. Now, lean back for me.”

He was bone-meltingly tender as he took her in his arms, grave cool hands on each side of her face guiding her.

“Yes, like that,” he murmured just before the bite.

Tav flinched and hissed and swallowed down the rising, panic-tinged urge to fight him off. She promised him. She promised him. She wrenched her eyes shut and balled her fists, breath coming in sporadic gasps until warm bliss flooded her veins.

Gods, she was glorious. Her blood burst into his mouth like a ripe berry split between his teeth at a harvestime feast. He groaned, ruined for all other sustenance. And as he supped, his mind grew cold and calculating. This would not last, her generosity, something so sweet and good never did for him.

He would need to find a way to make it.

Astarion pushed those thoughts away for the moment, lest he get lost and take too much. Every muscle in her body relaxed and she sagged into his embrace, taking on the telltale lethargy of a vampire’s victim. It would be so easy to just keep taking. She was so good, the vanilla of her scent somehow flavored her blood. It was divine.

“P-please,” she called weakly and Astarion pulled away sharply, her sweet blood trickling down the angles of her collarbones, overwhelming him with the urge to lick.

But not the blood.

Sated by her blood, he was surprised to find he desired the taste of the flesh that housed it. He caught himself staring at her, trying to tease her apart to understand just what it was that made him forget himself so.

“All done?” she asked woozily.

“Yes, darling.”

“Get enough?”

He had an answer ready, but something from somewhere long dead beat out the lie before it could leave his mouth.

“If I didn’t, would you let me have more?”

She nodded, laying back down to her bedroll. “Mmhmm, everybody eats.”

He chuckled good-naturedly, a first of that particular flavor since the Nautiloid. “Well, I’ve eaten my fill tonight. Now rest.”

“Mm-not gonna turn am I?”

“That’s not how this works, darling. But if you did,” he felt exposed, betrayed again by errant thoughts slipping out from between the bars of his teeth before he could snap them shut. “Would it be so terrible?”

“No,” she answered sleepily, easily, and his undead heart twisted uncomfortably in his chest. “But only if you promise to show me the ropes.” “Well, sweetheart," he cooed, biting back the discomfort with charm poisoned with insincerity. "Should you ever find yourself in that lamentable situation, I promise to teach you everything I know.”

“Promise?”

“Of course, darling.”

Her half-lidded eyes suddenly snapped open, fixing him with a fiery gaze that did not burn but warmed. “When you make a promise, you gotta keep it alright?”

Astarion nodded, but only to acknowledge the sentiment not agree to it. Though Tav, bloodless as she was, would not be able to intuit the difference. Pacified, her eyes slipped closed again.

“Not the dog.”

“Not the dog,” he affirmed.

“Good night, Astarion.”

But he was already gone.

END

Author's Note: Hello, starving masses of the Tavalstarion fandom. I have come to feed you. A word of warning: this is a WIP and I do not mean to regularly post this fic until it is done. But! I am a kind and gentle mistress who will, during fits of pique, post a snippet of a chapter here and there in random order.

Fortunately for you, I already have! If you've enjoyed The Old Bear's Still Got It or Confession? Go See A Priest (and I know you have, I can see the notes go up) then hopefully you'll also enjoy the larger context in which those were written. Enjoy!

#bg3 #astarion x f!tav #eventual halsin x tav x astarion #tavalstarion #bg3 fanfiction #i cannot believe no one's claimed this title on AO3 in the BG3 fandom #it's righ tthere!#caught you lacking it's mine now #its anybodys ofc #who gives a shit #but i get to be the first :D #we are no where close to even half finished with this behemoth ass fic #but i am happy enough with the 20k words to post the first chapter #slow burn

26 notes · View notes

rhapsodynew · 22 days

Text

The first pancake is a lump: unsuccessful debut performances of future rock stars

The path to the stars is thorny, and not everyone manages to overcome it at once. It may be hard to imagine now, but rock legends like AC/DC, Guns N’ Roses and Def Leppard started out with small, dirty and empty halls before reaching the status of stadium teams. Let's recall the first concerts of famous musicians, which turned out to be a complete failure.

Guns N’ Roses

Los Angeles, June 6, 1985

On June 6, 1985, Axl Rose, Slash, Izzy Stradlin, Duff McKagan and Steven Adler performed for the first time under the name Guns N’ Roses in their native Los Angeles at the Troubadour Club. Immediately after that, the band went on a tour of the West Coast, in which the team was extremely unlucky. Their car broke down in Fresno, and they had to hitchhike to the next city for 40 hours to eventually find out that they would only be paid 1/5 of the promised amount for the show. The remaining concerts of the tour were canceled, but McKagan writes in his autobiography that such adventures hardened the band.

Metallica

Radio City, March 14, 1982

At Metallica's first concert, Hatfield felt insecure and clamped down. He recalled in an interview with Kerrang!:

I was very nervous and uncomfortable without a guitar. On the first song, Dave [Mustaine] broke a string. It seemed like it took forever to replace her, and I stood on the stage in complete embarrassment. We were very disappointed with this concert.

Motley Crue

April 24, 1981

At the first Motley Crue concert, the problem was not in the venue or even in the band itself, but in the audience. Well, and a little bit in the character of Vince Neal, of course. In the biography "Dirt" he recalls:

People were screaming: "Fuck you!" They were giving us the middle fingers. And then one jerk in a black AC/DC T-shirt spat phlegm that flew onto my white leather pants. Without hesitating for a second, I jumped off the stage in the middle of a sentence and started hitting him. I looked back, and Nikki lifted his bass over his head and smashed it on some guy's shoulder blade.

Def Leppard

Schaffield, United Kingdom, July 8, 1978

In addition to the fact that the musicians received only one fifth of the five pounds promised for performing at a local school, Def Leppard guitarist Steve Clark learned an important lesson about the need for a full-fledged sound check before performing. Forgetting to turn on his amplifier, Clark tried to powerfully start the show, but only caused laughter from the audience. Joe Elliot recalled:

He started twirling the guitar in his hands, like Pete Townshend did, to kick in, but nothing happened. The audience laughed.

The Police

New York, October 20, 1978

If you play your first concert in one of the most famous clubs in New York, it would seem that what could go wrong? Well, first of all, the musicians were offered to use a dirty toilet as a dressing room. Secondly, in order to cross the Atlantic, the group had to fly on a budget flight and huddle in uncomfortable small chairs along with the equipment. But the main thing is: It was worth it. The audience, even though there were very few of them, received the group warmly.

As Andy Summers recalled, "By the end of the first set, the audience jumped to their feet and started singing along." Perhaps that's what helped the band play 23 more shows in the next three weeks.

Heart

Vancouver, 1974

The first Heart concert was held in a cave, and almost literally. The club where they performed was called The Cave and, as Ann Wilson recalls in the band's biography, its walls were decorated with decorative stone. She also talked about how at that time the team was so poor that they had to eat only rice.

Troubles also plagued the musicians during the audition in front of the club owner: a sudden gust of wind knocked the guitar out of Wilson's hands. Nevertheless, Heart ignored this fact, did not consider it a bad omen and went on stage anyway. Who knows, if they had acted differently, would they have been able to achieve their success?

KISS

Queens, New York, January 30, 1973

For decades, KISS has been building huge stadiums around the world and making millions from ticket sales and merch. But in 1973, at the Popcorn Club in Queens, the band performed in front of less than a dozen people, and received only $50 for it. Gene Simmons himself organized the concert after the departure of their then manager, who stated that KISS had "the worst music he had ever heard."

AC/DC

Sydney, Australia, December 31, 1973

The musicians had only been playing together for a couple of months, and they still didn't have enough songs to put together a decent setlist. Why, Angus Young didn't have his famous school uniform yet. But neither this nor the quality of the venue prevented the band from winning the hearts of the audience at the very first show. The band's bassist Dave Evans recalled:

This place was very cool in the 50s and 60s, but when we performed there, the days of its glory were long gone. It was a small playground with a tiny stage and no dressing room

In addition, the middle-aged manager of the club turned off the electricity every 20 minutes because it seemed to him that the musicians were playing too loudly. Despite everything, Young told me:

This concert was just wild. On New Year's Eve, the atmosphere is already wild, but if you add to this what we did, you get complete madness.

Yes

Essex, United Kingdom, August 3, 1968

The first performance of the Yes band took place just a week after its founding. Chris Squire, John Anderson, Peter Banks, Bill Bruford and Tony Kaye went to perform at a youth camp in Essex. They didn't have much time to prepare, and there were a lot of covers on the setlist, but the band performed them in their own way, in a progressive rock style. Banks recalls that they made their own arrangements for all the compositions, but they did it with respect to the original.

The Doors

Los Angeles, March 1966

The Doors' first performance took place on the legendary Sunset Strip, where the famous Troubadour and Whisky a Go-Go clubs were located. But Morrison and company performed at an institution called The London Fog, where they shared a tiny stage with exotic dancers. This club was a favorite place for alcoholics, prostitutes and various slippery types, but the show there gave The Doors the opportunity to try their hand on stage and subsequently form a corporate style of performances.

The Velvet Underground

New Jersey, December 11, 1965

The auditorium of a high school in New Jersey turned out to be not the most suitable place for the debut of Lou Reed and his team performing experimental and intellectual rock and roll. The band played only three songs, and managed to capture the attention of only half of the audience of students and their parents. There She Goes was a safe option to start the show, which is not true of the songs Venus In Furs and Heroin that followed.

8 notes · View notes

a-quiet-feeling · 6 months

Text

Ramil Basilio Ragasa of Loudwater College of Lore Bard and Freelance Playwright

In my limited independent years, I've made my way along the Sword Coast and have met my fair share of colourful personalities; Not to mention my own kin and their sheer numbers... Yet, none quite as strange and intriguing as those of my travelling companions.

Still, in a world where I'm sure to find ample resources in pursuit of a cure to this condition on my own, there is something about this motley crew I can't help but be drawn to. For all their prickly personalities, there is a surprising but unmistakable sense of fondness I feel for these acquaintances. Be it endearment or desperation, still yet to be determined.

For whatever may lie ahead, I do hope that, if anything were to happen to me, this record of events finds its way to the Ragasa estate in Loudwater.

With utmost affection,

Ramil Basilio Ragasa

Character card illustration is by me (@erisperitas) ~

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 tav #baldurs gate 3 tav #oh brother ramil #bg3 oc #baldurs gate 3 oc #The illustration in his character card is how I picture he still looks in game #but I cant mod in floppy ears cause nobody else makes tieflings look like that-#Ramil really joined his party of gale shadowheart and laezel with no trauma #and left with so much of it and a fiance #how fun #my art #illust #erisperitas

13 notes · View notes

anonbeadraws · 10 months

Text

More confluence work. The Motley Coast is full of what some other planes might think are aquatic life, but here, airracuda, sluice manta and the majestic and vast skywhale's populate the skies!! Find out more about these creatures on our twitter! All work here is mine!

#anonbeadraws #shan bennion #confluence #confluence ttrpg #ttrpg #digital art #digital design #vid dev #visual development #creatures #fish #manta #whales #design #creature design #digital

2K notes · View notes

bakuliwrites · 3 months

Text

Mirror, Story One: Vessel

Disclaimer: Post-Game Spoilers!!!!!!

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI) for Eventual Smut

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Relationship: Astarion x Tav (OC)

Summary: With Baldur's Gate saved and Cazador gone, Astarion and his beloved work to try to carve out a life for themselves. But freedom does not come without its complications and challenges.

An anthology of short, post-game stories featuring Astarion and my Tav, Orlando.

Chapter Tags: BG3 SPOILERS, ACT 3 SPOILERS, Fluff, Angst, Comfort, Grief, Mentions of Character Death, Depression, Telepathic Bonds, Kisses, Hugs, Karlach hugs and soft kisses from Wyll, Past Tav x Gortash, Ceremonies, Healing from Trauma

Read here in this post or over on my AO3

The streets of Baldur’s Gate are full of mirth, construction paused so that its citizens might celebrate the very fact that there is a city left to rebuild. They dress in their finest, flooding the streets with celebratory joy. Alleyways strewn with rubble are filled with dancing revelers. The air, thick with settling dust, is light with warbling song. And the night sky brightens with shimmering fireworks, sparks fizzling down into the harbor. Vendors sell delicious treats and memorabilia to remember the day Baldur’s Gate was freed from the Absolute. While the city proper is alive with good cheer, anticipation thrums through Wyrm’s Rock as people try to squeeze into the audience chamber, eager to catch a glimpse of the famed Heroes of Baldur’s Gate. They all murmur to one another, whispering rumor and speculation, peering excitedly at the motley crew of adventurers standing before the throne.

“I heard the Duke’s son made a pact with a devil and that’s why he has those horns now.”

“They look quite fetching on him, don’t you think?”

“Is it true that one of the Tieflings has got an engine for a heart?”

“Oooo, bet she’d keep me nice and toasty at night.”

“That pale elf is rather handsome, don’t you think? Mischievous looking, too. Bet he’s a boatload of trouble.”

“I’ve never seen a Tiefling with webbed ears before.”

“Rumor has it that she and Gortash were quite the item.”

Meanwhile, Astarion fidgets restlessly where he stands, a dour expression on his face. He does his best to entertain himself by tuning in to all the various theories being slung back and forth throughout the hall. There’s plenty of rumor, true or otherwise, to keep him distracted from the empty feeling that has pervaded him since he awoke this afternoon. As the sun sank beyond the glittering waters of the Sword Coast, Astarion found the elation of the last several weeks gradually emptying from him, like a slow leak in a cracked bottle. Has it really only been a little over a tenday since the defeat of the Netherbrain? Battling the Absolute feels like a lifetime ago, and yet, the deep exhaustion makes it seem as if Astarion and his companions fought only this morning. His sore muscles and creaky bones need months to heal. And his foggy thoughts, even longer. He feels weary already from this evening and nothing has even happened yet. It’s nice to be honored, he supposes, but it also seems, perhaps, a bit too much, a bit too soon. He’s hardly had a moment to breathe.

A gentle caress draws him briefly from his swirling thoughts. Orlando’s lips feather kisses along his cheekbones, sending a gaggle of young men and women into a bit of an uproar near the front of the crowd. She chuckles at their nonsense before cupping Astarion’s face in one hand and smoothing her thumb over his cheek. He leans into her caress, letting his eyelids flutter shut.

“You look lovely, my darling,” she whispers in Astarion’s ear, the tickle of her breath sending delightful shivers up his spine. The outfit he sports is one Figaro tailored just for him: a royal blue tailcoat with feathered, gold embroidery and a white undershirt with a frilled high collar. His knee high boots are made of black leather and have the slightest kitten heel. Orlando helped him pick the shoes, which are both comfortable and stylish, perfectly showing off his shapely calves.

Astarion casts a coy look at her, crimson eyes dragging up the length of her body. Orlando looks bewitching in her black and gold robes, swirling tentacles embroidered along her collar and sleeves. She is every bit a formidable warlock and sorcerer, enigmatic and not to be trifled with. And yet, her gentility shines through even her most severe apparel. Her dark hair, long now from many months of journeying without a haircut, cascades down her back in ringlets and waves. Astarion delicately tucks a loose strand behind her webbed ears. Her bioluminescent spots over her eyelids and on the shells of her ears twinkle in delight.

“And you, my dear, look ravishing,” he purrs, savoring the blush that dusts her cheeks. Before their flirtations can go much further, the din of the crowd softens as the grand doors are flung wide once again. Counsellor Florrick and Grand Duke Ravenguard make their way to the dais, taking their places aside the ragtag team of adventurers who somehow managed to save Faerûn from the doom of the Absolute.

Wyrm’s Rock lulls to a hush, silenced by a simple flick of the wrist from Counsellor Florrick. Astarion feels the eyes of hundreds fall upon him, upon his companions, and a sudden flutter of anxiety tickles his lungs. He shifts uncomfortably, hardly one to stand on ceremony. He cannot recall the last time he addressed a crowd as large as this. Back in his years as a magistrate, public speaking was not unfamiliar to him. But in the two-hundred years since, it has become nearly as foreign to him as the sun on his skin.

“Don’t worry, my love,” Orlando had reassured him earlier that evening, “Wyll’s in charge of the speeches today.”

Astarion hopes this remains true. It was already hassle enough to request this gods-forsaken ceremony be held at night, rather than in the morning like it had initially been suggested. He thinks of the hullabaloo that would ensue were he to open his mouth and flash the sharpened canines housed within. He can’t even begin to fathom the uproar that might occur were it to be discovered that a vampire spawn is one of the Heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Though, stranger things have happened, he supposes. Flying brains wasn’t exactly on his docket for this year. And neither was the adoring woman beside him, flashing a loving look his way just as the festivities officially begin.

The voice of Ulder Ravenguard drones in the background. Astarion is far too focused on looking poised to pay any attention to what the man is going on about. Praise, no doubt. Camaraderie and pride, blowing smoke, yadda yadda. It’s all well and good, but there’s a million other things Astarion would rather be doing with his freedom than sitting through some long winded speeches. The after party promises to be far more entertaining than the ceremony itself. Karlach has challenged everyone to a dance off, which Astarion would gladly pay to see (though he’s not sure he wants to participate). And the after-after party with Orlando promises to be a delight, as always. He catches her eye once again, smirking devilishly at the coquettish beam that plays on her lips. His mood brightens for a little bit after this small exchange.

As the evening wears on, however, the chilly emptiness begins to creep in again. An inexplicable untethered feeling; like he’s adrift in the ocean, unmoored and without direction. Astarion and his companions each gain a crimson sash, heavy with medals of honor and valor. Ordinarily, Astarion might scoff at something so- heroic. But in the wake of the vacuum forming in his chest, he feels a swell of pride when Florrick greets him with a smile, lowers the sash over his head, and moves aside to adorn Orlando with one of her very own. The crowd erupts into cheers, applause, the hall overflowing with joy, relief, elation. Astarion feels their energy burst within him, pushing aside the icy chill in his heart, chest filling with an overwhelming sense of gratification.

Until anxiety rears its head once again, sudden and without explanation; and all excitement peters out, a flickering candle snuffed out by rain. A thousand eyes on him. Eyes in the shadows. Lurking. But he cannot tell if it is something real, a malignancy out to get him, or if what lingers in the darkness are the ghosts of his past. He searches the faces in the crowd for one in particular, but he cannot find the narrow face of his master, the hateful glowering gaze. And why would he?

Dead and gone, he reminds himself, I killed him, myself. I watched him die.

Relief has not found Astarion, yet. He cannot help but look over his shoulder when he travels through empty alleyways. He cannot help but cower in the shadows at the slightest hint of sunlight. He winces at the sharp calls of hawkers in the market, as if their cries are admonishments for his failure and not promises of goods. His back prickles, tiny needles stabbing his scarred skin, the memory of a blade carving his flesh still poignant in his nerves. There is blood in his mouth, rat fur trapped in his teeth, the horrible crunch of bone when he bites down. Red eyes in the dark, eyes that aren’t there, but seem to leer at him from ages long gone. He has not dared venture anywhere near Cazador’s Palace, now abandoned, but still no less frightening.

When will it end, this feeling of paranoia? Shouldn’t it be gone by now? Shouldn’t Astarion be feeling the full rapture of his freedom? The full force of ecstasy that comes with the unshackling of his bindings? Shouldn’t he be feeling- happy? And not whatever this hideous, soul-sucking vacancy is?

Beside him, Orlando’s breath hitches in her throat. Astarion can feel that same lacuna in her, that same draining emptiness. Behind her soft smile is a deep sorrow, an immense exhaustion Astarion, himself, is wholly familiar with. Her eyes reflect a weariness etched permanently into her soul. He nudges her gently with his elbow while the crowd is distracted by Wyll’s rousing speech. They’re seated now, in one of the pews near the front. The Tiefling smiles weakly at him, intertwining their fingers when he slips his hand into hers.

“What troubles you, darling?” Astarion whispers, nudging at her thoughts with his own. They are forever bound, a telepathic link born not of the tadpole, but of Orlando’s eldritch heritage, a gift from her most generous patron. Astarion cannot use it very well and she is still learning, one toddling step at a time. But they each can use it well enough to pass secrets back and forth, or gossip from across the room at parties and what not. However, sharing memories seems to come easy to them both.

Orlando lets him in. The familiar exhaustion of months on the road is first to greet Astarion. He knows that feeling all too well. The constant walking. Gods, the endless walking and jumping and climbing. If he never has to hike again, he could die a happy vampire. Roughing it in tents, trying to find comfort in thin sleeping rolls, and bathing in whatever water they could find has sapped him of his vigor. It has been an absolute godsend to be able to sleep in a comfortable bed and bathe in an actual bath tub, even if it is at the Elfsong Tavern for now.

Deeper than this surface-level exhaustion, however, is a pervading sense of weariness in Orlando’s soul. The pain of her childhood: searing sunlight, brackish water, coarse salt, and jagged rocks. Harsh words thrown at her by a tyrant father, fleeing, and wondering if she’ll ever be safe. A brief reprieve, immense love, shared laughter with her mother and brother, the bustling harbors of Baldur’s Gate, the smooth ocean against her scales, freedom and independence. Confusion, uncertainty. And then darkness: trapped in a dank basement, confined to the shadows, lost and confused, separated from her loved ones, now the property of a devil. This all merges and congeals with the pain of loss throughout these last several months. Betrayal, anguish, ruin. Innocent lives lost, and for what? Tadpoles and brains and undead armies. The death of her father, a complicated and raw recollection. The severing of her tie to his despotic patron. Joyously reuniting with her own, M’aheth, Daughter of the Cosmic Sea. Being named Twin Star, honorary daughter. The pride that comes with such a title.

Orlando’s thoughts lift for a moment, recalling her relief when she and her mother and brother finally became free of their ancestral ties. But something Wyll says sucks her right back down into wallowing.

“Gone are the tyrannical days of Enver Gortash,” Astarion hears Wyll’s voice call out to the crowd. A soft murmur ripples through the room, some voices resounding in approval, others in staunch disappointment. That name is a complicated one amongst the citizens of the Sword Coast. For Orlando, it sparks an aching sorrow, a bereavement riddled with anger and shame. The memory of Gortash lingers strong in her mind, mournful and rife with confusion. Astarion feels this pain on the fringes of all her thoughts. Images of Enver as he was, youthful and mischievous, sweet and intelligent, gifting Orlando a tiny, mechanical figurine of a mermaid, flit before Astarion’s eyes. These images do not compute with the ones that follow: Enver lording over Baldur’s Gate, cool and uncaring gaze sweeping over enslaved Gondians, dead citizens, and pools upon pools of writhing tadpoles. Orlando’s mind struggles to contend with the sickening squelch of the metaphorical knife she plunged into the lordling’s back, an eternal curse falling from her lips out of anguish, a final kiss in his dying breath. Laying motionless at his side, for an engulfing eternity, staring vacantly into an abyss she almost couldn’t return from.

This abyss enshrouds Astarion’s vision for a moment. Suddenly, Cazador blips into Orlando’s thoughts, and it’s then that Astarion realizes the focus has shifted to his mind. The agony of stolen youth pummels him, sunlight bright and warm on his skin, a forgotten memory. Blank eyes gazing at him in a mirror, eyes he cannot remember the color of. Arrogance, pride, power in his early years as a magistrate. And then pain, body broken and mind fuzzy as he’s beaten senseless. Fear as he realizes he is going to die, and he is going to die alone, in some stinking back alley of Baldur’s Gate. Fear turns to hope- a figure emerging from the shadows, austere, angular face swimming into view, promising he can save Astarion. Promising an end to his suffering.

Icicles in his neck, pinpoints of pain. And then emptiness. Dirt, loam, stifling and cold. His fingernails bleed from how hard he is scratching the inside of- dear gods, this is a coffin. Screaming, wailing for someone to help, please help, he’s been buried alive. Clawing his way through the earth, the first sweet breath of fresh air, only to retch. Rotten blood burbles in his throat, foams in his mouth. And then darkness, for two-hundred years. Darkness and agony, self-hatred and ruin.

Orlando squeezes Astarion’s hand, drawing him back to the present. He sucks in a breath, as if he’d been holding it. As if he has any breath to hold. He re-orients himself. Wyrm’s Rock, ceremony, Wyll’s boring speech. Astarion settles, quietly pressing a lingering kiss to Orlando’s temple. He feels her mind almost sigh in relief. The contact settles her thoughts and the desolation seems to wash from her mind in a gentle sweep of comfort. Suddenly, Astarion is bathed with the rosy warmth of adoration. All thoughts of Cazador disintegrate, turning to ash and sifting away. Orlando offers up an image of a house he’s never seen before: built out of cream-colored stone, a lush herb garden skirting the perimeter, smoke rising from the chimney. Astarion feels cozy in this vision, the scent of rosemary filling his nose, lungs blooming with warmth.

“Your home?” he puts forth, limited to simple questions by their infant telepathic link. Perhaps this is her childhood home, the one she spoke so fondly of when it was just her, her mother, and brother. Orlando shakes her head, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Ours,” she corrects, squeezing Astarion’s hand. He ruffles her thoughts with his surprise, his excitement. He wants to ask her more questions: did she buy it already? Is this a house that actually exists or just the idea of one? What does she mean “ours?” But before he can, he feels her thoughts shift. Now, he sees the two of them on the road, packs slung over their shoulders, hand-in-hand as they traipse through a sparsely wooded area. Fresh air, bright and clean in his lungs, and a clear night sky. The world is aglow with moonlight, a silvery band of stars streaking across the heavens. There is a promise of tomorrow in this vision, of possibility. Of adventure.

“Adventure, with a home to return to,” Orlando posits, a well of joy overflowing in her heart, “Not ready to settle down quite yet.”

She winks, knowing Astarion is just as restless for adventure as she is. Though having a home to return to would be more than ideal (less hiking that way, more resting). How long has it been since Astarion had somewhere he could call home? Somewhere that wasn’t a dungeon or a jail. How long has it been since he’s been allowed to go where he pleases, when he pleases, how he pleases? They could go anywhere. Excitedly, images of Waterdeep, Chult, Neverwinter, Avernus, even, pop into Astarion’s head. Orlando stifles a chuckle from beside him, beaming brightly at the vampire’s enthusiasm.

Wyll’s speech comes to a close. Duke Ravenguard instructs his son and his companions to rise from their seats so that the citizens might thank them one more time. The audience chamber is filled once again with raucous cheers. Looking around, Astarion sees the faces of his fellow adventurers. His friends . He sees the faces of his fellow Baldurian’s, jubilant and proud. Astarion feels simultaneously overwhelmingly full and painfully empty. Cheers ring in his ears and it's as if all of Baldur’s Gate is pouring itself into him. The world is ahead of him. Life is ahead of him. Freedom. But there is something terrifyingly vacuous about knowing he is free. With both everything and nothing to look forward to. Where do they go from here? Astarion’s veins fill with an icy cold at the thought of having to carve out a life for himself.

Orlando gestures for Astarion to lean down, crashing her lips to his in a passionate kiss, thawing the anxious chill that had begun to numb his fingers. Astarion pulls her close, caught up in the exuberance of the moment, caught up in the reminder that he is not alone. Karlach, beside herself with excitement, tears in her amber eyes, pulls the little group into a massive, crushing hug. Warmth spreads through his body, fills his limbs with a tingling joy. Wyll squeezes Astarion’s free hand, presses soft kisses to his, Orlando’s, and Karlach’s cheeks. There is uncertainty, and that is the only thing Astarion can, funnily enough, be certain of. But in this moment, he is reminded that he will not be facing his uncertain future alone.

“Our home,” Astarion repeats to Orlando after a little bit, having to shout over the roaring applause, “Our adventures.”

“Our future,” she returns, stealing one more kiss before the adventurers are led out of the audience chamber, followed by shouts and cheers. People spill out into the streets, ready to spend the remainder of the night in carefree revelry. Astarion pauses at the threshold, the shining city of Baldur’s Gate ahead, his nearest and dearest companions at his side.

Deep breath. Release.

Wyrm’s Rock exhales, and Astarion is free.

A/N: Hello, everyone! I wanted to write a post-game story for my Tav, Orlando (a Sorlock), and Astarion. I've been a little bit all over the place with writing down her story (as in, I can't seem to write it down in any particular order). I have a couple things up on my Tumblr about her and I do plan to write a story that takes place during the events of the game. But for now, I had an itching to write some post game content, so here it is.

Some notes: this occurs post-game with Vampire Spawn Astarion, Orlando and crew managing to stabilize Karlach's heart (which I wish you could actually do in-game), and Wyll managing to rescue his father. Orlando was severed from her Warlock patron with the insertion of the tadpole, but has since reunited with her patron, M'aheth (the baby of another Great One patron called the Cosmic Sea). She comes from a family of Sorlocks that worshipped a cruel Fathomless patron, but Orlando managed to sever her ties with her family and the Fathomless. She and Gortash were trapped in the HOH together and were in an on again/off again relationship for many years. If you have any questions, feel free to ask! I'd be happy to answer. More info to come. I mostly wanted this story to be about her and Astarion adjusting to living a life of freedom. Most of this story will be about Astarion, but I wanted to give a little context for some things mentioned in this chapter.

*Edit (02/09/24): Changed a line about Gortash’s death.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #act 3 spoilers #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #orlando moonwater #my writing #my fanfic #dani writes #wyll ravenguard #karlach cliffgate #postgame spoilers #fluff and angst #eventual spice #angst #fluff

7 notes · View notes