#< my fic tag i guess?

[amateurenjoyer]

Consequence

Consequence, Chapter One (?)

Astarion x The Dark Urge In my first playthrough, Astarion did not ascend, and when I finished the game I became deeply preoccupied with Astarion's relationship to all those vampire spawn. I also wondered how his still fresh relationship with my Dark Urge (Kryn--a name I didn't realize already had meaning in the D&D Multiverse) might fare under new stressors. So, I began writing this fic, which is truly my first piece of fanfiction. It has since evolved into a separate project of its own, but I've decided to post (some of?) the handful of chapters I worked on, because I like them, and because the new project only barely resembles this one. Perhaps I am just trying to give myself permission to return to this fic in the future? We shall see. This was written before most of the story/dialogue patches were rolled out, so it begins right after the scene on the docks, and deviates from the end of game content from that point on. I don't really know who this is for, but maybe it is for you? WC: ~2900 CW: BG3 Spoilers, Blood, Physical Injury, Immolation, Death of a Child

Fires still rage in the Upper City, casting their light toward the sky and leaving all in a suspended, crimson twilight. It is night, I think, but I am in no state to risk testing that assumption. The ashes of burning patriar estates—a notion both enthralling and perhaps a little heartbreaking, if only for the destruction of so many grand and beautiful things held within their walls—coat the broken skyline and city streets in grime and soot. Illithid bodies pile up in squares and on street corners as Flaming Fists sort through the dead. Sinew from shattered Nautiloids hangs from rooftops and towers, and where the ships were not sundered into pieces, city blocks and their former inhabitants lie crushed beneath their weight. Chaos reigns Baldur’s Gate.

A weary Manip in armor stained with red and silver blood alike rallies precious little sympathy for some frantic, baby-cradling father, explaining that they haven’t found anyone matching his wife’s description, not yet. Unsatisfied, the man pushes his way past her, lurching toward the mass of long, shiny skinned corpses stacked waist high beyond the Fist’s impromptu barricade. Two other officers stop him. The man twists and shakes himself away from their grasp, moving with such reckless desperation that I am momentarily convinced that he might lose hold of his child and drop it head first on the cobblestones. Hungry, that brutal thought overwhelms me. I can nearly taste the mineral earth of the road mingling with blood, and my hunger begs the man to continue his carelessness. Perhaps the child would be better off. It’s mother’s fate was certain—the man and the Manip knew this as much as I, but they were too cowardly to accept it: her life had been cut short by a violent transformation, every piece of her identity shredded in an instant as a mind flayer emerged from the soft cocoon of her body. She died a monster, unidentifiable and soulless. A horrifying end, and one seen all across the city today, again and again and again.

The baby’s cries turn into a painful ringing in what remains of my ears, and with great effort, I roll my head away from the scene playing out on the street.

The Illithid threat had been thwarted, at least; the mind flayer’s body snatching was put to an end by a cohort of unlikely and utterly strange allies who, up until a few hours ago, had counted me amongst their number. We had been traveling and fighting together—questing, truly—for a season, infiltrating the cult of Absolutists that had grown around the Netherbrain at the center of the invasion. The cultists thought that they were hearing the voice of a new goddess, the Absolute, a divinity that would see the remaking of the world. It was our band of misfits that discovered the truth: like every other divinity, the Absolute was a disappointment, a monster in god’s clothing. Nothing more than an Illithid on a mission of conquest.

I suppose that in the long book of history, or indeed on the pages of next week’s Gazette should it ever come to print again, our actions will come to be lauded with the same enthusiasm and reverence as any of the Sword Coast’s mightiest heroes. The Saviors of Baldur’s Gate. Laughable praise, if laughter wouldn’t crumble my lungs into dust just now. I was never motivated by such lofty ideals, and save one or two of my companions who harbor more saintly notions of self-delusion, the same can be said for the rest. We were survivors, it was as simple as that. Even Kryn, our de facto leader, sought freedom from the forces working to control us above all else. The ambitious conspirators who had set this whole ordeal into motion had threatened our continued existence with their squirmy little parasites, turning each of us into a living incubator. Well, some of us were doing more living than others. Thrust together by circumstance, we did little else than search for a solution that would prevent us from sprouting tentacles and getting ripped apart from the inside by a mind flayer. Heroism had been a by-product, and one that I certainly would not be reaping any benefit from.

If future generations of Baldurians try to imagine the pomp and parades that greeted us in the days following our heroic deeds, they should do so with the understanding that the vampire spawn was absent for such celebrations. That Astarion Ancunín was instead treated to a slow, final death in some dark Lower City alley, wretched and alone.

Where is Kryn?

How pathetic I must look, slumped here, waiting for strength I know will not return. I test one hand, moving slowly. The sight of my skin—now papery ash and cinders, flaking away in tiny particles, floating through the hot air around me—well, it isn’t a comforting sight. Radiant pain greets me with every effort, and though I know my face fares no better than my hands, I cannot help but touch my ruined fingers to it. The spot sears at my touch, my cheek is like charcoal, and my finger the charred end of a smoldering branch, scratching. Underneath the brittle, peeling mess of my skin, I can feel my muscles tense and pulse, urging me to act, to run, to find the one spot in this city consecrated to my name and dig until I find solace. But I cannot meet my body’s demands, so I remain hideous and limp, hand falling to my side.

Gods, it just isn’t fair. Why should I be suffering again, alone in the dark? I had fought alongside the heroes of the day, and whatever uncountable number of lives that had been ended here in this city, I was part of the reason that number was not infinitely larger. Wasn’t I?

I try to be very still. If a passing rat mistakes me for a real corpse, I might be able to catch it.

Cazador would have loved this. As my master, he always took great pleasure in my agony, particularly when it was administered directly by him. But this? This was my own doing, and that would have been another kind of delight entirely. The irony would have given him tremendous satisfaction. Of course, he is no longer of this world, having been rendered into a fine dust at the end of my dagger, but that seems less of a victory now that it was all but certain that I’d be stuck here until the sun rose again and finished me off.

I had known that our collective decision to command the Netherbrain to eliminate itself would end my time in the sun, that the parasite which had somehow protected me from many of the afflictions of my curse would shrivel once it’s master was no more. I was prepared to make the sacrifice. I had Kryn by my side, as devout a partner as I could have ever hoped for, and the prospect of a sunless life seemed more bearable so long as they were willing to share it with me. Even so, as we recovered on the docks, the sun beginning its descent over the horizon, I had half-hoped that perhaps something would intervene on my behalf. Maybe the little worm behind my eye would endure, maybe some divine entity was finally paying attention now that I had done the world a good turn—several thousand good turns, really, if we’re counting. Maybe Kryn and I could have a chance at a life without any more sacrifices, the kind of life we were owed. Weren’t heroes meant to be rewarded for their do-gooding?

I had stood there, and hoped, and was reduced to ash. It did not feel like a reward.

Were my companions looking for me? Kryn surely organized a search, but the Lower City is dense and winding, and I had stumbled my way well beyond the open air of the docks, desperately outrunning the sun at my back. If anyone had been paying attention to the elf flailing helplessly through the streets of the Gate, I’m sure they would have found me to be quite graceless. Pale and frantic, I careened into shadows hoping to find one long enough to keep me safe until night, but they all seemed to slip toward me, shifting unhelpfully, and my mind was too ablaze with panic to trust that these little shadows would remain on my side. I ran wildly, darting from thoroughfare to side street, seeking some place smaller, darker, narrower, where time and shadow would ally with me. All the while, I burned, lit by some invisible flame. My energy spent, my body crumbling, I finally spied a sliver of proper darkness in the form of a narrow and bent alley, and hurled myself into it, slipping over my boots in the process. The tumble took more from me than I realized, and half-destroyed as I had become, I knew there was little chance of me getting up once I hit the ground. I had vigor enough to prop my shoulders against the wall, keep some sense of my surrounds, maybe snap at some mostly dead pest, but it now seems that I have burrowed myself a little too safely, and will be found shriveled under tomorrow’s noon sun by some stranger before anyone comes to my rescue.

Time stretches strangely as night sets in proper—still lit red-brown by the burning city—and the street beyond my alley empties. Bodies are carted away, Fists get new orders, and fathers with their babies get escorted elsewhere. The city still churns with chaos, the night punctuated with shouting and wailing, grief and mischief, but the sounds slip further away the longer I remain here.

My hunger keeps me company, at least. It is greedy, but this is nothing new. A vampire’s hunger cannot be sated, not in the way mortals understand their own appetites. It might be brought to heel by will or a master’s command, but when one is weakened, hunger’s aching thrum can grow so loud it drowns out all other thought. This greed, this intensity, is not without purpose. Though I am too far gone for blood alone to save me, enough could give me the strength to get to the little cemetery on the border of the Upper City, where a grave bearing my name waits to be put to use once more, a bed of ancestral soil for some healing rest. As I watch barely there stars struggle against the smoky sky, it is my hunger that keeps me alert, focused on the potentiality of this one task, ready for the last chance at saving myself. I wait for life to chance upon me.

A shuffling sound snaps my focus to the darker end of the alley, opposite from the street, where the shadows are deep and spill around a corner. There, in the crook, a creature hunched on all fours, stalking. It is all elbows and bony limbs, spine arched high above its head, which it holds at a painful cant. The creature has seen me, and pauses, holding itself tightly as it waits to see if I will run. It does not know that I, too, am a predator—though perhaps not in this particular moment. Two red eyes, small but bright, cut through the darkness. The sight is a familiar one, and though the face is unrecognizable, the wave of undeath scent that follows it confirms my suspicion. Another spawn, like me, but smaller, wilder. A child, and feral at that. The ache at my core grows dense at the realization.

The thing had been one of Cazador’s. Another sibling, of sorts. A tenday ago, it had been locked in a cell under the city, waiting to be sacrificed by our master. I had saved it from that fate when I destroyed Cazador, but it was not supposed to be up here. I had sent them all away, thousands of them, to—well, to some place safe from the sun at least. Why aren’t you with the rest? Why didn’t you go?

I try to make a sound, but only manage to wheeze out a dusty cough, losing more of myself in the process. The spawn is not deterred and draws closer, until its face is level with my own. It twists its neck so that our eyes are aligned, bones cracking as it moves. Gods, was I ever such a beast? At last, I manage a warning, some kind of pained hiss, my fangs bared, but I am too ruined for the thing to comprehend what it is seeing. It does not yet know what variety of horrors may befall our kind, so it does not recognize what I am, or what I am not. It mirrors me, drawing its lips back to expose its own fangs, all putrid yellow and rust. A horrid smile, tense in the wrong places. Dried blood, days old perhaps, is smeared across its mouth and nose. It has been feeding.

It slinks across my body, arms and legs bent like a spider. Pain screams through the spots where its body brushes against my own, but I cannot cry out. The little corpse hovers above me as it searches, sniffing for blood like an eager hound. It could feed from me, but it would not be fed. Vampires cannot sustain each other. Nothing to be gained, save a little violent delight to occupy its time. Why doesn’t it know? The creature cannot find a hint of living flesh on me, but it senses that I am some kind of being, something that might be consumed, and looks into my eyes again, assessing. Had the beast any sense it would move on, and through my gaze I do my best to urge it to leave, to find better prey. There was plenty of it crying in the streets.

It mightn’t smell life in my veins but it sees the intelligence in my eyes and that will be enough. A whiny growl spins up in its throat and the tension in its posture releases at last, as it springs toward my neck. I summon the last dregs of my strength to roll us both before it can make contact, pinning the small thing under my weight. I feel a crack in its sternum, and it screams out, a terrible sound. Not the sound of a monster, but of a child. The kind of sound that by design summons even those least willing to rush to an innocent’s aid. I make myself as heavy as I can and try to smother the thing, frantically trying to quiet it, but it will not be tamed. Its nails, thick and long with neglect, dig into my ashen face, carving out pieces. The pain is hideous, but I will not be ended by this wretched little pest. I pull back, one hand pressing its face into the ground, the other planted on its broken chest, and bear down on the beast’s neck with my fangs. Its throat is so small that even with only a thread of my vitality remaining, I crush it with a single bite. Its blood tastes sour, turns my hunger wrong, and I let go, spitting. Something that feels like silence fills the alley as the two of us go still, the child’s blood, thick and slow, pooling with the cinder ash remains of my own flesh.

I am catapulted off of the little corpse by quick, successive blasts of force rocketing into my side. The world is upended and everything spins into true darkness. I feel my body crash into one of the stone walls that had been sheltering me, but I do not feel any pain. Nearly all sensation falls away, as I spiral away from awareness. There are voices shouting, how many I cannot say. The voices float through the darkness, far from me, distant tethers I cannot grasp. Only one comes through with any clarity, a panicked, hoarse whisper, half-familiar, “Shit, shit, shit.” It drifts by me, out of reach.

Several moments of interminable length pass. Then I am flooded by something iron and sweet, buzzing with power. Voracious, my hunger snaps taut, pulling my mind back toward my body. I remember my fangs, and beneath them I feel the warm press of skin, delicate, with veins and tendons pulsing. A quickening heartbeat. A wrist. Kryn’s, smelling faintly of rain.

They’re saying my name, I think, but I am lost to the stream of blood, bright and warm as the dawn. The most sensational taste I have ever known. I am biting down hard, chasing the thread of life that beckons from Kryn’s heart, a loving invitation. I am being asked a question. It is difficult to hear. I am so parched. They are asking me for help. Help? But I am so weak. The buzzing intensifies, and I feel resistance. My fingers tense, I am begging Kryn not to pull away. "Don’t leave me." The wrist is wrenched away from my fangs, but some of Kryn’s kindness lingers on my tongue. "Godsdamn it! What do I do? Astarion!" They sound so desperate. How remarkable, that they summon such emotion for me. I should try to remember. There’s somewhere I should go.

[astronnova]

doodles (as i avoid work) of the super awesome you wouldn't like me alive fic by @ectoplasmranch which i binge read in a 7 hour sitting yesterday

[welcomingdisaster]

an inexhaustive list of diagnoses given only to the quendi

mind-deafness: that is, inability to use osanwë

pre-traumatic stress disorder: characterized by excessive and disturbing foresight of events yet to come; dwelling on an ill future; depressive states following a resignation to fate or compulsive attempts to thwart it. if the event is survived, this sometimes, but not always, may develop into a post-traumatic stress disorder diagnosis.

partial retrograde amnesia: colloquially referred to as "forgetting," this is a state common and accepted among the edain, but highly unusual and concerning for elven-folk.

major cognitive exhaustion: described as declining motivation and will to live, coupled with anhedonia and a feeling of extreme fatigue. some in the community believe this condition is equivalent to major depressive disorder, and ought to be characterized under the same diagnosis. most elves, however, prefer a separate label.

amusia: tone-deafness; difficulty processing music or beat; inability to perceive musical tone and pitch. this is rarely considered a serious medical diagnosis for edain and khazad individuals, but the significance placed on music in quendi culture means quality of life for tone-deaf individuals is severely affected. elves with severe amusia, or those who find music unpleasant, report very poor social outcomes in quendi society.

[aterfish]

Another "Guess that Artist" game in Haunting Heroes discord server. This time drawing fanarts for fics with less than 10k hits on ao3.

I chose amazing IRIS Log #1548 by @deadchannelradio!

Love this fic. "As buddies" got me. Hilarious and absolutely worth reading and then rereading twice. Or trice.

@arzuera thanks or hosting the game! @serxeri thanks for tormenting me! i won tho.

[glassedplanets]

i am still soooo charmed by that one set of eyecatchers

[ferritins]

IN A STITCH, IN A PINCH | J. TODD

SUMMARY: you’ve developed something of a friendship with the Outlaws, but you’re not quite sure about what the irascible Red Hood thinks of you.

WARNINGS: graphic description of burn injury, oblique reference to canonical parental drug dependency, reader is a meta.

NOTES: bringing back an old work! Re: the burns treatment depicted here - my area of study was clinical microbiology, not emergency medicine; everything I know about burns is relegated to opportunistic Staphylococcus aureus infection and how Gram negative skin flora influence wound healing. Take none of what you see in this fic as medical advice; if you do have a severe burn, call 999 and get your arse to an A&E ASAP.

After an extraterrestrial incident in your city that ended with something to the tune of 5 and a half million dollars worth of property damage and you knitting Arsenal's torn-open back together in a moment of adrenaline-fuelled insanity, you've developed something of a friendship with the Outlaws.

What that really means is that you periodically come off your shift at the hospital to find 2 mercenaries and an alien princess divesting your fridge of it's contents, and get wheedled into using your meta abilities to heal wounds that would otherwise take them out of play for a good few months.

You're under no illusions. You're aware that a healer is a useful contact to have, that should the situation necessitate it they'll take the few scant inches you can give and run a mile with them.

However, you're also aware that being a meta is a risk and that it pays to be liked and valued by dangerous people.

It's a friendship of convenience, but a friendship nonetheless.

Kori picks you up bodily and spins you in a tight circle until you're giggly and dizzy when confess her favourite shirts of yours are always freshly washed, just in case.

Roy gives you a vulgar wink when you order his shirt off to take a look at where his back scarred over, but faithfully applies the Vitamin E cream you give him for the scarring, trusting you to ease his discomfort, and sneaks bottles of your favourite elderflower cordial and the tins of Zambuk you can never find in the US for you to find when he leaves.

The only one you can't quite puzzle out your relationship with is Jason. He's taciturn, stands watch faithfully as Roy and Kori pull you into friendly hugs and dizzy spins, pepper playful kisses on your cheek and rub their knuckles into your hair. He rolls his eyes at his teammates' antics, huffs through his nose at your fussing.

Sometimes though, he'll call you sweetheart in a low rasp as he bumps you away from the sink to take over doing the dishes.

Sometimes, you think you catch him watching you with something unnameable and warm in his eyes.

You're not expecting your front door to fly open and damn near off the hinges late on Saturday evening — just as you're fresh out of the shower and only just into your pyjama shirt & shorts, might you add — but your alarm and annoyance die on your tongue when you see Roy and Kori's grim faces and the way that Jason sways despite both of their considerable strength holding him up.

You smell the odd, sour-smoke char of burned flesh as they pass you to ease Jason down oh so gently onto your sofa, and your gut goes cold with fear. The burn, once you get his shirt cut open, is not as extensive as you'd feared, but it's still something from a horror scene.

It's a third degree burn, skin mulberry-red, weeping and blistered in a long arc that curls up from his right hip to just under his right pectoral.

"Bloody hell." You breathe, horrified.

You run to your room, digging out your first aid kit, and drop to your knees by the couch as you tear it open.

Roy snorts, bitter as cyanide. "Yeah, that's a fairly accurate summary of the situation, sweets. The only reason he's still alive is because he dodged and got a glancing blow from the energy beam instead of a direct hit."

You look up from Jason's side.

"I'll need you and Kori to get some things." You say, hands shaking at the prospect of the task in front of you. "I can reduce the severity of the burn to a first degree, maybe, but it–"

"What do you need?" Kori snaps, terse. You reel off a list - topical antiseptic, light bandages, a banana bag & an IV kit, amoxicillin - and then look to Roy.

"I need you to get him to take some co-codamol. It'll kick in in about 10 minutes given his enhanced metabolism, but I can't do anything until he's got painkillers in him."

Roy's brows tighten further.

"Jason doesn't do opiates."

"Roy, if this was anybody else he'd be hooked up to IV morphine! If I start working on him without him having painkillers, he'll go into shock which could kill him." You exclaim.

You make low, soothing sounds when Jason tenses at the shouting, only to groan at the fresh wave of agony in his side.

The sound of Jason's pain seems to be decisive enough for Roy, who moves round the couch and grabs the box of effervescent tablets, dissolving two in water and coaxing Jason into drinking it down.

When the glass is empty, Roy is back to his feet, quick as lightning. He strides to the door, shepherding Kori out of your apartment.

"We'll be back with everything you need in half an hour, tops. Please, help him."

Jason comes out of the shrieking adrenaline of agony to the sound of your voice, and a slight cotton fuzz in his head.

Narcotics, then, but a fairly low dose for him to still retain this degree of alertness. Feeling the encroaching spectre of that terrible pain just barely held at bay, finds he's grateful for the medication.

He goes to prop himself up on his elbows, only to strike a line of phosphorus-white flare of pain down his side that has him hissing breath through gritted teeth.

Above him, you make a startled sound, press a hand to his sternum to keep him down. His eyes catch yours, and he sees the relieved sag of your spine and shoulders at the alertness in his eyes.

"Thank fuck you didn't go into shock." You sigh. "Stay still, I've just about got this down to a second degree burn. I've just got your hip."

You snap off your nitrile gloves and lean forward, cupping his face in your hands. "Don't make a habit of this. You'll kill us off with stress if you keep on nearly-dying."

As if on cue, the front door opens and Roy and Kori come into the living room, pharmacy bags clutched tightly in their grips and fragile hope in their eyes.

When they see Jason's alert eyes, the slow knit of skin and sub-dermal tissue and hear his sheepish grumbling in, response to you, their smiles are like sunlight.

Healing the burn is slow going, taking a full five evenings after your shifts.

Roy and Kori are intent on Jason staying the full course of treatment — settled by a, literally, on account of Kori, flaming row when he asks for his helmet and body armour —and though your entreaties are quieter, they're no less insistent.

It serves him right, probably, but it's driving him to distraction.

Specifically, the feeling of your hands over his skin is driving him to distraction.

He's not sure whether it's mercy or the sweetest of torture when you approach him, eyes darting down his body in a way that's half-assessing, half appraising before the heat-shock of your touch makes contact, pieces his skin back together.

(The thing is, Jason's attuned to everything about you, has been ever since you pulled Roy's flayed skin back shut whilst the city was still smoking behind you, totally unafraid in scrub trousers and a hoodie.

He's got it bad, and it's not exactly subtle.

Roy and Kori haven't missed that, or the way he reacts to you, judging by the raised eyebrows and teasing smirks as they lean up against the wall and watch you work.

He hopes the glare he levels at them over the top of your head communicates exactly what he'll do to them if they open their mouths.

It all comes to a head on Monday evening, when you come home from your OR shift, duck into the shower and then come into the living room in a too-large grey t-shirt and deliciously short sleep pants.

Jason's heart stops for a second. He lets his eyes flit despairingly over to Roy and Kori as you prep your kit, watches their unrepentant grins with a burning resentment towards them.

Having you this close to him, worry-soft and lit like a Rembrant from the lamp on the side table without being able to touch you is the closest thing to hell there is. You're close enough that he can smell the overlapping, inoffensive fragrances of your facial skincare products, see the faint pearlescent sheen of the residue of some serum on the apples of your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the soft line of your jaw.

Your nitrile-gloved hand settles gently on the raw new skin just above his hip and he jumps, his own broad hand flying up defensively to catch your wrist and still your movement. It's a mistake he regrets immediately.

The skin of your wrist is still tacky-soft with still-settling moisturiser, hair curling damp where the spray of your shower caught it. Jason's mind spins an unbidden reel of your hands, smoothing lotion over the plush expanse of your thighs, the line of your neck and the gentle swell of your décolletage, the curve of your hip.

He presses his eyes shut tightly.

He feels feral, the hungry bones of him blown open and exposed like the hull of a shipwreck. He wants to worry marks the shape of his mouth into your thighs, your neck, across your collarbones. He wants your knees bracketing his hips, the weight of you on top of him.

God, he wants–

"Are you okay? You're not in too much pain, are you?" He hears you ask.

He knows he's in far too deep when the thought of tasting the way the words roll off your tongue flits across his mind.

"Sorry." He croaks, releasing your hand. "Instinct."

(Roy turns to Kori with a snort, murmuring low so you can't hear.

"He's been watching like he wants to eat them alive since the first time we met and it's a miracle he's got enough blood north of his waistband to be capable of speech, but sure. Instinct.")

[dontfindmeimscared]

i wasn't lying, these two are stuck in my damn head.

redraw of this from like a year ago

[mizartz]

a deep sea danny for mermay~

i got inspired by @meowmeowmeowmeow4x's lovely fic, Dark Blue Moon and the Suffering Sun! I don't think my depiction of danny is completely accurate to the story, but i looooved the description of his transparent skin with visible bones and organs and wanted to give it a shot!

[demaparbat-hp]

“Zuko?” Ming searched for the Prince in his silence. He was staring intently out of the window, mouth blown wide open, eyes distant and awed and sincere. Oh. His whisper was a fragile, breathless thing.

“We're here.”

Ming’s doubts and concerns are hers alone, but that doesn't mean the rest of the Crew doesn't share them. This sudden mission, Zuko's change in attitude, his obsession with the Water Tribes...

Ming tries to discover the root of it all in For the Spirits Chapter VIII: Make You Stay, but will Zuko let her in?

[sboochi]

Now make them smooch 🔫

(Yes I mean hiijack)

(please)

Thank you for giving me an excuse I was missing them 🥺

[helianyx]

rescuing kittens -

pairing: sylus x mc word count: 2,509 summary: While attempting to rescue a poor cat stuck in a tree, MC… also gets herself stuck in the tree. Fortunately, a certain 'Good Samaritan' known for helping strays just happened to be passing by… tags/warnings: lighthearted, slice of life, flirty banter, developing relationship, silly sweet shenanigans in the style of some Tender Moments. a/n: This was my first little lads fic, technically a one-shot that could have a future follow-up but I don't have anything in mind for it atm. Mid-point in the slow burn, definitely before Grassland Romance & Wander in Wonder. P.S. I forbid any use of my writing in any form of generative or AI training.

(ao3 link)

“Sylus!” Against all odds and reason, she couldn’t stop herself from a thrill of excitement and relief seeing that familiar face just happening to pass beneath her on the sidewalk.

An eyebrow arched as he stopped, lifted his sunglasses, and looked up.

“I’ve heard of cats getting stuck in trees, but this seems a little ridiculous, kitten.” The pointed emphasis on the pet name was particularly heavy-handed this time around. She sighed. Yeah, even amidst her relief she’d expected his teasing.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up…” she grumbled, awkwardly crouched among the branches of a tree in a street-side park, a tiny tabby tucked in the crook of one arm. 

“Care to explain?” 

“I… miscalculated.” Her face scrunched up and she hung her head. 

She had been sure she could extricate the little critter just fine on her own, but now that she was several feet in the air with the cat in her arms, she had to reconsider. It was behaving well enough, but by the look in its eye and the twitch in its tail, she couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t react unpredictably if she suddenly leapt or otherwise maneuvered down. She didn’t want it to hurt itself because of her. 

“I’m not sure this little guy is going to cooperate if I make any sudden movements.” 

“That sucks.” He drawled with faux sympathy, replacing his sunglasses and moving to leave. “Well, good luck with that.”

“Wait! Come on! I know you’re not that heartless! Can you really leave a-...” she pursed her lips, swallowed her pride, and then did her best to put the most pathetic pair of puppy eyes on she could muster. “-Two adorable kittens to their sad fate?”

Sylus choked out a single bark of laughter, looking insufferably smug as ever. 

“All right, all right.” He shook his head in amusement, taking a few steps closer to position himself beneath her. “But I have one condition.” 

“Don’t agree and then tack on favors!” She scolded, and then was painfully, keenly aware she did sound a bit like a hissing cat.

“If a kitten needs saving, shouldn’t it be making cute little sounds so someone will come help it?” He ignored her. And of course he went and said something ridiculous. She felt the corner of her mouth twitch.

Deep down, she was pretty sure he’d help her even if she refused. Or she could even propose a different deal, and in her experience he was typically pretty lenient with her… But in this situation, nothing was coming to mind. 

“...Are you sure about that? That’s what you want?” When had she ever ‘meowed’ in her life? 

He folded his arms and tilted his head. “What? Is the Kitty Queen incapable of mastering her own native language?” 

She sighed and shook her head. “All right, you asked for it…” Clearing her throat, she took in a deep breath through the nose. A meow. A cute, small sound that tugged at the heartstrings. 

“Me- meow~!” It started strong! But then her voice cracked and it sounded a bit like she had a hairball stuck in the back of her throat. Or a cat in heat. She clapped her free hand over her mouth in vehement, physical, knee-jerk denial such a sound had left her mouth.

Sylus just laughed, and even as her face burned with embarrassment, she could hear the warmth in it, rather than sounding particularly mean-spirited. 

“Oh, that was very cute.” He lifted his arms up. “All right, I’m compelled. Hop down and I’ll catch you.” 

She groaned quietly to herself, but took careful hold of the cat in both of her arms. This way she could focus on keeping the cat restrained instead of how best to land. 

Funny, actually, the complete faith she had that Sylus wouldn’t let them get hurt. She’d suspected him many times in the past of trying to deceive or otherwise mislead her, but as he said: when he made a promise, he always followed through.

So while she did her best to angle herself towards him, she otherwise didn’t hesitate to take the leap. She was hardly surprised when, in an instant, dark energy wrapped its tendrils around her waist, significantly slowing her fall to almost nothing. Though once she was in reach they dissipated, replaced by his hands on her hips, effortlessly lowering her down to the ground.

For all of her concerns, the cat in her arms didn’t seem to so much as bat an eye. It mewled softly -and unquestionably adorable- as if saying thanks. 

“And now the kittens are safely returned to terra firma.” His hands withdrew, but instead he lifted one to pet her hair like one would a cat. “Try not to repeat the same mistake, hm?” 

“I don’t see the problem,” she said, brushing his hand off. “You could use all the help you can get stocking up on good deeds to balance your scales.”

He scoffed, and started to say something, but the real cat had expended all of its patience and began twisting and squirming around. Quickly she knelt down to release it, watching as the furry little critter bounded off and disappeared into some bushes. 

“Aw… I wonder if it lives around here. It seemed pretty young.” 

“Young and feisty. Smart, too.” Sylus mused, his eyes glinting with mirth as he looked at her. “Definitely sounds familiar.” 

Denying him for the millionth time seemed pointless. At this juncture she was more or less resigning herself to her fate. There were worse things than being a cat, she supposed.

“Not sure how smart either of us were getting stuck in a tree,” she mumbled, brushing off the fur she’d accumulated on her shirt as she stood up.

“It was smart enough not to scratch the hand that helped it.” He shrugged. She narrowed her eyes at him - and then mimed a scratching gesture, hooking her fingers like claws.

“Just like I haven’t scratched you yet?” Was what he was getting at. He just chuckled, idly rubbing his thumb over the pads of his other fingers. 

“I believe the emphasis there is on ‘yet’.” 

She recalled that he had a habit of caring for stray cats, though. And a habit of getting scratched to ribbons for his trouble. As well as a habit of never holding a grudge against them…

“It’d be worth it regardless,” he went on to say, tucking his hand in his pocket as his gaze leveled on her. “I got to witness a truly fascinating new side of you.” 

Of course he wasn’t going to drop that, was he? She huffed and folded her arms over her chest. 

“Being cutesy isn’t exactly my forte. You should be more grateful for the rare opportunity.” 

For a second he looked genuinely bewildered, and she didn’t think it was because of the second thing she’d said. But if she’d blinked she would have missed it, because it was quickly replaced by that subtle arch of his brow and less-subtle smirk. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I find you cute plenty of the time.”

“You have a delightful way of making that sound uncomplimentary.” She could feel her glower deepen - along with the wrinkles between her brow. 

“Another astonishing misunderstanding.”

Even if she accepted that he was being honest, she didn’t want to really reconsider what that meant at the moment. Instead she dropped her arms along with her bristly attitude and exhaled, letting ease overtake her. She was truly grateful for his help, after all. 

“Anyway, thank you for the assist. It’s still a bit early for you, though, isn’t it?” She cast a brief glance at the sky; the sun would be going down before long, but it was still fairly bright for him to be strolling around Linkon. “I suppose you had business here?”

“I did, but it’s all wrapped up now.” 

“I’m sure I’ll be hearing about it on the evening news,” she sighed. But how warped was she becoming by association with him, that there was a tell-tale bit of amusement in her tone she simply could not deny? 

She might have still had plenty of reservations about him, but at least in her limited experience, most of his enemies were criminals of the worst caliber. There was no way she could quite define him as a ‘vigilante’, but there had yet to be an instance where she felt the people he dealt with were particularly deserving of pity.

“And what about you? You’re not in your hunters uniform. Are you such an altruist you spend your days off looking for more good deeds to hang on your scales?” 

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I was just heading out to get an early dinner, when I heard cute little sounds begging for help.”

He didn’t quite laugh, but gave a low, breathy exhale that came close. 

“I was also just about to get a bite to eat,” he said, his tone shifting ever-so-slightly. A hint of gentleness crept in through the cracks, a subtle sweetness that never failed to entice her. “Would you care to join me?” 

It was a little distressing to realize how quickly she felt inclined to accept his offer. Which felt directly correlative to how much she wanted to spend more time with him. Which was borderline humiliating. The more her heart sang, the more she wanted to shove a pillow over it and press down until it stopped.

She tried to make a show of giving an exasperated huff, but it trembled pathetically on the way out as if betraying her. Still she stuck to her very stubborn guns and said: “You could have used that as your bargaining chip to get me down instead of making me meow.”

“I’ll admit the thought did cross my mind… But that wouldn’t be much better than coercion, now, would it, kitten?” 

Her lips tightened into a thin line. “I suppose. Maybe.” 

The real question was: Would she have minded? But the fact he cared enough not to use such ‘underhanded’ methods only made her singing heart that much more exuberant.

“What were you thinking? That sandwich shop nearby?” He offered his arm to her not unlike he had at the auction. For a split second she was bewildered by the fact he had psychically divined her destination - then she remembered this was Sylus, and rounded back on the fact he was just cruising ahead again.

“I didn’t even agree to anything.” It sounded like such a pathetically empty resistance. Because it was, and it had been from the moment he asked.

“Maybe not out loud, but… Didn’t you already make up your mind?”

“Aughh…” She hooked her arm around his. She really didn’t have to do that either, did she? And yet he seemed so finely tuned to knowing exactly what she really wanted, deep down. 

“Okay, but how did you know about Benny’s?” 

“It was just a guess. You like sandwiches,” he said as matter-of-factly as if it were common knowledge, “and when I looked earlier, the ratings I saw would suggest it’s the only place in this area that would make it worth coming this far from your apartment.”

Yeah, that level of calculation sounded like him. Well, she knew a thing or two about him, too!

“Sounds like you’ve never been there, then. Their slow-cooker French dip is one of my go-to’s, I think it’d be right up your alley.” She said with no lack of confidence, enthusiasm beginning to bubble over. “But they’ve got their seasonal apple cider pulled pork right now I’m dying to check out.”

“Hmm, those do sound good,” he nodded, shooting her a grin. “Should we go splitsies?” 

She snorted and laughed, hearing him say things like that always caught her off-guard in the best way, and he seemed to know it. 

“I thought you didn’t like to share. I seem to remember a greedy crow who complained whenever I tried his food before.”

“There’s a key difference between sharing and stealing.” 

She couldn’t stop herself from a mischievous little giggle remembering the look on his face when he’d gone for his last dumpling and found it mysteriously vanished.

He leaned towards her a little, lowering his voice, his breath brushing her ear. “But I suppose… we don’t need to worry about such distinctions between us anymore.” 

Rather than bend away, she turned her face towards him, drinking in his closeness. “How benevolent of you.” 

He laughed and straightened up, and she tried not to be too disappointed. 

“You’re the only one who would say that about me.”

“I’m just calling it like I see it.” She shrugged one shoulder. “But I’m fine being the primary recipient of your benevolence, too.” Grinning up at him, she lifted her free hand to poke his cheek. “Especially if that means I can rope you into a few good deeds here and there.”

He gave her a brief glare for the poke, but it was almost hilariously short lived and as paper thin as her resistance earlier had been. How was she supposed to just ignore that? 

“So that’s your angle? Course correcting me onto the straight and narrow?” 

“Hmm…” Considering it briefly, she probably would have said yes before. But now? It was less about that than she found herself worrying for his safety. “I think I’d be happier if you maybe had fewer people trying to kill you at any given time.”

“That would be quite the list… And who was it that once sat at the top of it, I wonder?” He flashed a ruthless grin. Her expression immediately soured as she nudged her shoulder into him.

“Are you ever going to drop that?”

“Well, I still haven’t heard a sincere apology, sweetie.”

“And now definitely isn’t the time for it, either.” She mumbled, feeling the heat of embarrassment along her cheeks and the tops of her ears. Still she gave her all in shifting the subject by making a sweeping gesture of her free hand to the building in front of them, cheering enthusiastically. “Because we have arrived! Time to eat!”

“Haha, how convenient for you. All right, then.” 

Benevolent once again, he did indeed drop it as they made their way into the restaurant. But he wasn’t wrong, and she knew it. For something like that though, all of the rage, hatred, and vengeance she’d pinned on him… A simple apology wouldn’t do. 

She was going to have to think of something, some way she could truly show how sincere she was, and paying for sandwiches wasn’t going to cut it. In truth, she didn’t think he cared much about whether she went to extreme lengths, but the real guilt she felt over it wouldn’t be assuaged by half-hearted measures. She needed to really think of how she could make it up to him, even if he didn’t truly seem to hold any grudge against her - like all the strays that had lashed out at him before.

[veliseraptor]

this morning I am thinking about this little gem

and specifically about the feeling I've been turning over in my head for...a while, I think, about the way that there's this ambient assumption on Tumblr (and quite possibly elsewhere, this is just where I am) of...sub/masochist-as-normal-state, or at least sub/masochist-as-fine-but-not-questionable state, and it feels like that, on the flip side, ends up incidentally or purposefully constructing doms/sadists as the deviants, as inherently "sus."

and it lines up to a certain extent with the way that the conversations I see on this website about kink/BDSM often come from a sort of "presumed sub" perspective that leaves very little room for the thoughts and feelings of doms as valuable or important, and thoughts about an essay I read a while back that talked about the comparable societal acceptability of "fantasizing about being hurt" vs. "fantasizing about hurting people," and how "sadist" is a dirty word in a particular way that "masochist" isn't

it feels like sometimes there's this sense that (a) it's normal to have a little bit of sub/masochist tendencies, that's fine but (b) the only acceptable way to be a dom/sadist is if you feel bad about it. the ideal is to feel vaguely guilty, and mostly do it for the sake of somebody else's pleasure rather than your own.

I made a post a while ago that I can't find right now but it was, if I recall, "nails sign to tumblr door that says "doms have feelings too"" and I was joking but also I'm not.

[princemonarchempress]

I needed to draw them and this was the first idea in my mind

[beefcakekinard]

pulling someone in by the waist please??? 💜💜

28. pulling someone in by the waist

Spread out on the sheets in front of him, Evan is a vision in pink.

Against the white cotton, his skin takes on a rosy tint, glowing warm and vivid with the blood pumping steadily through his veins. The scars on his leg shine pearlescent, peeking out from under a veil of dark hairs. Tommy's eyes travel up each of Evan's legs, over his bent knees, up to his inner thighs where healing hickeys bloom in carnation. Tommy smiles at the memory of leaving them there, two days ago. They beg for refreshing.

Tommy's eyes linger next on Evan's cock, the rouge that deepens and deepens at the tip where it rests against the swell of Evan's stomach. He forces his gaze higher, to Evan's dusky nipples, the bright cherry flush of arousal that starts on his chest and seeps up his throat, over his cheeks and his ears. Evan's orchid-petal lips part on an exhale and Tommy aches to touch them. He looks at Evan's mulberry-sweet birthmark and can almost taste his skin.

"See something you like?" Evan asks, his lips curling into a grin. Tommy slips his hands to cup Evan's calves and relishes his living heat.

"You're beautiful," he confesses, and he'd say it a thousand times for how it makes Evan's blush deepen.

"C'mere," Evan beckons. Tommy can't deny him.

He leans over Evan's body, holding himself up by his forearms on either side of Evan's face, scarcely allowing their skin to touch as he presses their lips together. Evan sighs into Tommy's mouth, wraps his arms around Tommy's shoulders and his long, long legs around Tommy's waist; he pulls Tommy down against him until Tommy covers him like a blanket, miles of skin on skin that Tommy could get drunk off of.

"Are you gonna fuck me or what?" Evan asks. He rolls his hips up, grinds their cocks together, and pleasure pulses deep in the pit of Tommy's stomach. Tommy kisses down Evan's neck as Evan continues to grind against his stomach; he nips at Evan's skin right where he knows he's sensitive, relishes the gasp this pulls from him, then sits back up. He immediately misses the heat of Evan's body, and Evan reaches to pull him back in.

Then he says, "Turn over," and Evan gives him a cheeky grin. He complies, settling on his hands and knees in front of Tommy.

Tommy grabs the lube and slicks himself up, slips two fingers into Evan, easy as anything, making sure he's still ready from earlier. Evan groans when he crooks his fingers and rubs gentle circles into his prostate. He waits until Evan starts rocking his hips into the motion to pull his fingers out and wipe his wet hand against the sheets.

"You're gonna kill me," Evan mumbles.

Tommy chuckles. "What a way to go, huh?" He kisses the arch of Evan's spine and leans in close to his ear, where he murmurs, "You ready, baby?"

"I've been ready, Tommy, please."

Tommy pulls back again then shuffles closer on his knees. He wraps his hands around either side of Evan's waist and settles them into the position he wants, with his dick pressed up to the soft give of Evan's hole. Tommy doesn't press in so much as he pulls Evan back to meet him. He pulls Evan onto his cock by the grip he has on his waist, until Evan's ass rests against his thighs, his legs splayed to either side of Tommy's.

Evan moans as Tommy bottoms out, whines, "God, Tommy," into his own arms, his face pressed down into them. Tommy's own breath catches at how easy the slide is, how readily Evan's body accommodates him, how eagerly Evan's already rolling his hips to grind Tommy into him deeper, deeper. Tommy uses his hold on Evan's waist to rock him forward, then back; it's barely any movement, but the hot wet press of Evan around him already has Tommy's head spinning.

"Show me how much you want it, baby," Tommy says, and helps Evan repeat the motion. He nudges his own hips forward at the last second, drawing a whine out of Evan, a shudder working its way up Evan's spine to his shoulders. Evan starts moving himself, working himself in earnest on Tommy's dick.

Evan's voice always gets higher when Tommy fucks him, desperate whining ah ah ahs escaping from the top of his throat with every thrust. He can still draw them out like this, helping Evan fuck himself onto his cock - Evan's voice breaks on one when Tommy shifts one of his legs to get better leverage and manages to sink deeper into him. Tommy takes a moment, watches where they're connected, how he disappears into the soft, wet heat of Evan's body again and again.

"Tommy," he whines. "Please, please, I need more-" He cuts himself off on a deep, gasping groan as Tommy shifts again, dragging his hands down to Evan's hips and adjusting their balance just so to give Evan a hard, brutal thrust.

The whole world narrows down to them - the way they gasp each other's names, the way Evan still begs vaguely for more; the way it feels for Tommy to bury himself in Evan, the slick-tight glide around his cock pulling him in and in and in. Tommy leans over Evan once more, reducing his thrusts to a tight grind he can tell is directly over Evan's prostate from the way Evan keens and claws at the sheets under his hands. He gets his hand around Evan's dick - leaking so hard he's drenched with it and Tommy doesn't need any lube at all to glide his fist tight around him.

"Come on, baby, come on," Tommy grunts. The pitch of Evan's moans grows higher, higher, until his whole body locks on a gasp and he shudders the air out of his lungs as he shudders through his release. Tommy grinds in deep, once, twice, and follows, choking on a moan when he reaches that peak and he loves it like this - when he knows Evan's pleasure through the tight squeeze of his body, and finds his own from it.

When he's ready to think again, he pulls out and flops onto his back beside Evan, who immediately drags himself to lay on top of him, shoulders-on-shoulders and skin-to-skin all the way down. Tommy takes his full weight gladly and smiles when Evan starts carding his fingers through his hair.

"Hey," Tommy murmurs. He wraps his arms around Evan's waist, holding him tight, even though there's no chance either of them are going anywhere anytime soon.

"Hi," Evan returns, with a big, dopey grin.

Evan's cheeks swell bright and round like ripe peaches with his smile. Tommy kisses them both, back and forth, over and over until Evan's giggling on top of him and grabbing at him to keep him still. With a hand in Tommy's hair and the other cradling his cheek, Evan kisses him soft and slow and this - well, Tommy could do this forever.

[nostalgicish]

A scene from love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling by artimess_chimes (@x-soapbox-x here on tumblr !)

Genuinely I love sooo many of their works and I highly recommend reading their stuff ! and the title for this one??? are you kidding me?? it’s SO clever

P.S. I have no idea why the quality is so bad on mobile and I have no intention on finding out why bc I’m lazy so look at it online for better quality 💪