#SHE CAN CURE MY DISEASE

[meritss]

MOTHER MONSTER IS FINALLY BACK 🔥

STREAM DISEASE

[bacchuschucklefuck]

[yangjeongin]

HYUNJIN | 200925 • BACK DOOR ( for @hyunpic 💘 )

[merevide]

thank you to lady gaga’s fiancée for making her get back into music or whatever idc. this is a hit and i need a collaboration with chappell roan announced by the end of the month

[plumbus-central]

what does Minnie's cutie mark mean?

its based off an incident that occurred before she immigrated to ricks dimension and planet. She is originally from a royal/noble family in a fantasy type dimension (picture like the underworld but with more infrastructure), and she was assassinated but brought back to life by necromancy magic which she then inherited the ability to use.

So basically its just Horse Skull = Necromancy

thank you for the question! minnie's been my oc for like a decade so i dont always remember the things i've shared abt her.

(i sort of went off in the tags but i dont want to copy n paste it all up here so just make sure to read the tags for more info on her powers. I prommy im working on a minnie info post! 😭)

[livvyofthelake]

whenever i remember my mutuals have Cared About Marvel Disease i feel so bad for them. you’re ruined for normal media forever now because you associate random frequently used plot points with how the mcu did them sooo badly.

[fieldmoths]

i wish i could concisely explain my sims world but i’ve been fleshing the same one out for almost 2 years. where do i even begin

[onika-t-maraj]

…

[gotmyass2marz]

save me fukouna girl SAVE ME fukouna girl !!!!!!!!save m

[cerealxperimentslain]

Hey! Hey you! Look at the original post!

Please Help Hala Daoud get to Egypt for treatment of her debilitating illness (MS)

If you laughed at the haha funny gollum clip, please give me another moment of your time.

Hala (@/halakamak) was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 2021. Multiple sclerosis is an autoimmune disease that targets the central nervous system, and if left to progress can be permanently disabling. There is no cure, but there is treatment that can mitigate the damage it does to the central nervous system. Hala needs this treatment, so she can avoid becoming permanently disabled by the disease, but after the collapse of their healthcare system it is not available in Gaza anymore. The medication is also extremely expensive, $12,000 for just one dose that lasts only 6 months, and she must now pay this all on her own. Please help her get to Egypt to purchase this medication!

in four months she has only raised €1,566 of the target €17,000

VETTED row 954 on The ButterflyEffect Project

VETTED number 307 on @/el-shab-hussein & @/nabulsi's Vetted Gaza Fundraiser List

[critterpick]

sorry Ive fallen behind on drabblecember already gang, the odd sleep patterns from adjusting to having crumb home has finally taken its toll on me...Im so eepy 😭

[madigoround]

Issue one: my great aunt (grandma’s sister) (there was a time I was very close to this aunt because she let me come live with her when I got away from my parents) had some weird blood test results earlier in the week and then Friday she was diagnosed with leukemia (aml to be exact) and the reason she was having those blood tests in the first place is that she already wasn’t healthy and was supposed to have gastric bypass surgery at the end of the year for her health cause she’s like close to 400 pounds I think so that makes her treatment options even less viable because she’s already not in a decent health place, she’s also 62 and apparently the chances of someone over 60 living with aml five years past their diagnosis is like 28%. Currently she can’t be transferred anywhere that isn’t by ambulance or medivac helicopter because her blood pressure or blood sugar or something is dangerous and needs to be monitored.

Issue two: said great aunt lives in Florida and other than a few friends she doesn’t have a whole lot of supports down there, all her family is here but now she’s only talking to like two of us when she feels like it and is kind of just shutting down instead of talking with us and giving information about her possible treatments and she has like six cats (maybe 7 she gets them so often it’s hard to keep up) and a house and a job and isn’t making any moves to handle any of it and is instead asking my grandma to come down to Florida to take care of her (my grandmother has had blood cancer for years but my great aunt has never offered to take care of her 👀) and earlier in the week my grandma got some less than great health news too so she really needs to be resting but instead she’s making moves to go down to Florida for a few weeks to figure out what is happening with her treatment and help take care of her. I am catching fire at work and was punished for taking a family emergency day earlier in the week for my grandmas health thing. I am completely powerless to actually help in this situation and instead am just doing a bunch of research in case I can find something that will help but it’s all bad news

[dathen]

We’re so used to the sexual reading of the entire book of Dracula, which takes the sensuality of the early chapters and jams everything that follows it into the same metaphor no matter how poorly it fits, but I feel the segment we’re approaching works much better with a lens of chronic illness and disease.

Vampire legends are inextricably intertwined with disease. Many of them are said to have been birthed by burying victims of disease too soon, who later seem to rise from the dead. But what’s more is that Stoker and his family have deep-seated trauma over disease: his mother had to flee her hometown at the age of 14 because of a horrific cholera epidemic, and Stoker himself was bedridden as a child from an illness that no one could identify.

Found this quote from Irish Historian Mary McGarry:

Bram as an adult asked his mother to write down her memories of the epidemic for him, and he supplemented this using his own historic research of Sligo’s epidemic. Scratching beneath the surface (of this essay), I found parallels with Dracula. [For instance,] Charlotte says cholera enters port towns having traveled by ship, and can travel overland as a mist—just like Dracula, who infects people with his unknown contagion.

I bring this up because a lot of academic analysis insists that Lucy sleepwalking is proof of her being the Slutty Woman archetype that needs to be punished. This suggested symbolism is hilarious when put next to the text saying she inherited it from her father, but I’d like to suggest a different angle from the lens of disease suggested earlier:

Lucy’s sleepwalking is a condition that predates Dracula but makes her an easy target for him to prey on. Through the lens of disease symbolism, she now is someone with chronic illness or disability who is especially vulnerable to infectious disease. This becomes a cross-section of Stoker’s trauma regarding disease: his own mystery illness and his mother fleeing a plague.

To wind down my rambles with a bit of a soapbox, I feel this adds a very poignant layer to the struggle to keep Lucy alive. The COVID pandemic showed a horrifying level of casual ableism vs disabled and immunodeficient individuals, shrugging off their vulnerability and even their deaths with “well COVID only kills them.” There’s something deeply gratifying at seeing the way everyone around Lucy fights to the bitter end to protect her and refuses to just give her up to Dracula, whether it’s Mina physically chasing him away or the suitor squad pouring their blood into her veins or Van Helsing desperately searching for cures. The vulnerable deserve no less than this. They’re not acceptable casualties.

[pseudowho]

Hanahaki

Nanami art by Osusiudon, picture edit by @pseudowho

Being in love with you was meant to feel good...so why was it killing Nanami Kento?

For more on the (purely fictional) Hanahaki Disease, please see here: https://fanlore.org/wiki/Hanahaki_Disease

I've altered things *just a little* to suit the story

Warnings: 18+, gore, smut, MDNI, unrequited love, angst, longing, hurt/comfort, cum as cure, TW anxiety, depression and low self-esteem

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"You've got to tell her. Nanami. You've got to tell--"

"--and burden her with this? No. It's inexcusable. This is...this is mine to bear."

Shoko stabbed her cigarette out with considerable force, driven almost to tears by this--

"--impossible man, Nanami Kento. You have options. We can fix this surgically, it won't be easy, but it will get rid of--"

"--my feelings for her," Kento interrupted, his voice brackish with pain, twisting in his lungs, all gnarls and knots and need. He felt the pain beginning to crescendo, doubled over on Shoko's surgery couch. If he groaned, he knew he would be choked in blossoms and blood. A fine mist of sweat collected on Kento's forehead, one arm wrapped around his belly as his lungs began to fill and burn.

Shoko was already lighting another cigarette, hands trembling, and snipped at Kento; "And what of it? She doesn't love you back, that's why you're in this mess."

Hearing the truth aloud was too much to bear, and Kento writhed, one strong hand gripping his throat as he coughed, choking, lungs and throat so full and packed and itching and--

--in one burning gasp, a congealed spatter of cherry blossom leaves and clotting blood left Kento's mouth at force, slapping into the surgery couch and dripping, viscous and sloppy, to the floor. Kento staggered, one knee collapsing, clinging to the couch as he retched and coughed, bent in miserable agony.

Shoko dragged on her cigarette, her back to Nanami, voice tight as she spoke; "So...you mean to die like this, then?"

Head swimming with blinding pain, feeling his lungs begin to fill again, Kento closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the couch.

All he saw was you. Your smile, effervescent with joy. Your small touches to his arms, all just tactile innocence. Your laughter, ringing down corridors as the students lolloped out of your classroom. He thought of you and all you were and all you could be, with or without him.

Kento smiled, a bloody kiss at the corner of his lips.

"There are worse ways to die."

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Kento wasn't sure what was worse; the excruciating pain rooted in his chest, spreading longer and deeper through his torso with each passing day...or the certain knowledge that you were in love with someone else.

It was inevitable, of course; he was exciting, extroverted; Kento was dour and introspective. He was powerful, the strongest; Kento may never surpass 1st Grade, let alone achieve a domain. He would fawn, simper, flatter; Kento loved quietly.

Kento was tense in the staffroom, the petals building in his lungs so much faster when you were near. He needed to leave, needing to hide this from you, but he was twisted with the exquisite double-edged sword of the need to hear your laughter and the need to escape.

Satoru bent over beside you, whispering in your ear as you giggled, slapping him on the arm. Kento felt a nasty, burning envy as your eyes twinkled up at Gojo. He had not realised his eyes had strayed from his newspaper until you looked behind yourself, your cheeks flushing faintly as you felt Kento's gaze on you, of course I'm interrupting a private moment, idiot Kento you fucking idiot--

"Ken--...Nanami, are you alright? You look...pale." The genuine concern in your voice, the kindness you treated Kento with even though he was an insufferable bore, far too morose for pleasant company, made Kento stiffen, his chin jutted outwards.

Satoru looked disappointed as you turned from him, heading over to Kento, reaching out to put a hand to his forehead and shit, I'm done for if she lays a finger on me--

Kento flicked a hand upwards, batting you away as you reached for him, shoulders bunched with the urgency that you should never know about this, it's not her fault, she deserves to be happy--

"I am fine. I'm a grown man, I'd prefer not to be coddled." Kento felt his vision blacken at the edges with the need to cough, chest clawing, drowning, and he stood to the tune of your feet stepping quickly backwards, stumbling against the coffee table and I can't catch her because then I'd have to touch her hold her look at her and I'll die she'll never be mine god I want her to be mine I want her--

Satoru stepped behind you, long pale hands on your shoulders, stabilising you and shooting a scolding look at Kento's fast retreating shoulders. Your eyes were downcast, lips curled in and pressed together, hands clasped and twisting.

"Don't worry about it," Kento heard Satoru reassure you as he stepped out of the staffroom, "he's always been pretty standoffish, you did nothing wrong."

Kento made it to the end of the corridor before wrenching open a window, leaning out, coughing bursts of blood-spray-blossom. He blacked out for a moment as he leaned against the frame, scarlet and petals at the side of his mouth.

She doesn't deserve this she doesn't deserve any of this why are you like this why are you so fucking unlikeable Nanami you piece of--

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Kento wasn't sure when it started...this obsession. It wasn't like him, to become so hyperfixated.

Was it when you started teaching at the school? You had baked, keen to make a good first impression. You had taken particular notice of Kento, your keen eyes astute and reading him, laughing such genuine laughter, the. laughing harder at the surprise on Kento's face that you found his sardonic fatalism funny, but nobody finds that funny--

Was it the love, the protection, the fierce defending shield you offered the children? It was beautiful. Kento saw your rage and your sickened rants at the diseased establishment and god I could listen to her all day she's wonderful what a mind what passion she needs someone with the authority to make her vision bloom not some low-ranked cannon fodder destined to die in battle--

Was it when he and you fought together for the first time? It was so easy. You were smart, there was no ego, no competition, so seamless together and suddenly the work felt so light instead of the fucking drudgery I normally go through and we've even got time for me to take her out for dinner maybe I should ask her out to dinner maybe she'll say yes but it's too soon and she's just being friendly and she'd feel so obliged she deserves so much better she's a hidden gem I can't be the only one to have noticed--

Kento wasn't, of course. He just wished it wasn't Gojo, of all people, to have taken notice. As much as I can't stand the guy I know he wants life to be better for the kids too so of course you'd appreciate him and he's sweet with the kids too and no woman has ever said no to him and I lost my chance I should have asked her out when I had the chance I should have asked you fucking coward Nanami you jealous little bitch--

Satoru made short work of occupying your lunch breaks. He was effusive, open in his adoration. Not shy in declaring his enthusiasm for you. Kento saw you trying to battle an enormous bouquet into your car, and you caught his eye, blushing at having been caught, looking so awkward. You had laughed, eyes downcast again as Kento offered you a gentle smile. You shrugged at Kento, unsure what to say.

"I should tell him, don't you think?"

Kento felt his heart sink at your admission, it's only natural she should confess to Satoru when he's welcomed her in with open arms he's made himself pretty clear it makes it easier for her in fact and god I'd just be happy if she's happy really I just wish it was me instead and--

"Yes," Kento said, tight and clipped, missing the way your shoulders dropped in resignation, "it's best to be honest about these things. I find it's less stress on everyone if nobody misreads the situation."

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat; "Yeah. We wouldn't...wouldn't want that." Your hand hovered over your door as Kento turned his back on you and what we could have had and that's dead and buried now so just walk away and you can get over it Nanami it's not like you deserved that anyway--

"Have...have a good evening, Ke--...Nanami. Stay safe."

You too stay safe I love you I love you and I swear to god if he ever hurts you I'll rend him limb from limb I'll make him wish he'd never been bor--

"Good evening."

Walking away had gutted Kento alive.

First came the blood. Then came the petals.

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Kento could not make his mission, the day after the staffroom. He could barely make it out of bed, waking, again, to petals and blood, rust-red and congealed all over his pillows. He changed the sheets again, gasping for air, passing out for a moment upon the mattress, with one hand in each corner of the sheets, exhausted.

This lovesickness, this diabolical sweet agony...was the best death Kento could possibly hope for. Sat on the shower floor, naked, chest heaving as the water tumbled over him, Kento scraped pink crumpled petals from the blocked shower drain as the water began to build up around him.

Lying on the sofa, in just his boxers, Kento shivered in pain. He could barely towel himself dry, and he knew he must stay this way, now, too weak to make it back to his room for clothes. Is today the day? Will they find me today? If I die god I haven't seen her I need to see her before I die even if she doesn't know I'd like to hear her laugh just one more--

The doorbell rang. Kento huffed, coughing a horrible clumped mess of petals and blood into an awaiting bowl. His breath caught, no oxygen making its way to his limbs and he folded like wet cardboard onto the sofa, gasping, fingers clawing at his chest.

A timid knock. A voice. The gentle swing of a hinge.

"Kento? I'm coming in. Ijichi gave me your spare-- oh my god-- Kento-- shit, I'm calling an ambulan--"

Kento reached towards the door as you ran to him, fuck Ijichi you had absolutely no right idiot now she knows she fucking knows--

Kento burned as you knelt by him, hands splayed across his chest, his back, eyes feverish as you stared at him. Stared at the bowl full of blood and--

"...blossom? Kento, is this-- what's happening to you? God, you need Shoko...Kento? Stay with me please, I can't lose you--"

"--it's none of your damn business, get your hands off me!"

Kento had snarled at you, face and hands contorted, clearly in agony. Your face crumpled, biting back a retort, keeping yourself calm despite the venom and gore spitting from him. You took a single deep breath, in...out.

"It is my business. I know you hate me. I know you can't stand me being near you, and I don't feel that way about you-- quite the opposite-- but it is my business when I find you dying alone at home, so if you can stop being such a stubborn prick for just five minutes, I can get you into the car and get you some help."

Kento was near tears, cornered, a feral, wounded animal. Hate you I don't hate you I just can't have your hands on me like this when it's all I'd ever get and I want to hold you day and night and--

"Fuck, you have no idea," Kento groaned, sniffing into his forearm, forehead pressed to the sofa. You blinked down at him once, then, face fixed firmly, you slung his arm over your shoulders, heaving him up.

"Nope. Probably not. But why would I? You don't tell me anything. And why should you?" You snipped, and Kento lurched against you, who somehow held him up against you despite his weight.

"Move. Now. I've got blankets in the car."

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Kento lay alone, in his hospital bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. The gentle hiss of oxygen from his mask kept him company.

You had asked him in the car, so many times, who his unrequited love was. He was steadfast in his silent refusal. You had read of this sordid disease, but never seen it in person. And on Nanami Kento, of all people, any woman loved by him would surely leap at the chance, I mean I would, if only he didn't fucking hate me, I'm not good enough for him anyway--

"Who is it, Shoko?" You whispered, holding yourself by the elbows as you leaned against an examination table. Watching Kento fade away before you through the little window, filled you with a thousand slivers of ice. His visceral dislike for you, his urgent need to push you away...no. You could not allow yourself to love him as you might have done.

Shoko frowned at you, trying to read you. She looked through the window, too, tapping her fingers on a clipboard in thought.

"You have no idea, do you?" Shoko mused aloud, soft, almost wistful.

You felt bile rise in your throat; "I don't need that from you, too, that's what he said. You don't have to treat me like I'm some fucking idiot--"

"You."

You faltered, your hand slipping off the examination couch you leaned back against. You looked up at Shoko, jaw dropped.

"...I--I'm sorry, what did you--"

"--you. It's you. He loves you."

You burst out laughing, a single harsh sound.

"Shoko. He can't stand me. Any time I'm near him, he just--"

"He just what? He clams up? Shuts you out? Doesn't let himself get any closer?" You nodded slowly at Shoko, still dumbfounded.

Shoko continued; "Nanami isn't the kind of guy to put himself first. Especially now he knows how Gojo feels about y--"

"Gojo?" You cried, fingers pressed to your temples, trying to hold back tears, "All this time I've thought I'm not good enough for Nanami-fucking-Kento, and he's held himself back because he thinks I want Gojo?"

Shoko paused, halfway to lighting her cigarette, drooping as her mouth dropped open. She looked to Kento, and back at you. Shoko pushed the cigarette back into its packet, tapping the box briskly on the table.

"You've got one chance to tell him," she snipped, "before I knock him out and take him for surgery."

Shoko moved to step out of the room, as you felt hope squirm in your belly. She gripped the doorframe as she moved to step out, white knuckled, not looking back at you.

"It won't go away until--...well. You do have to love him. Biblically."

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You would wait until you had dropped him into bed, you thought, hands tense on the steering wheel. You were lying to yourself, you knew, your admission ready to burst out of you in furious blooms.

Kento was silent beside you, coughing occasionally into a handkerchief, less and less stained with blood and blossoms now. He was ashamed of himself for looking so pathetic and at least I can just die at home in peace now.

It took everything you had to keep your eyes ahead, instead of on him, still dressed in nothing but boxers and a blanket. You swallowed thickly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Terse, cold. You felt irritation bubble in your chest.

"Stop lying, Kento." He tensed beside you, at his name on your lips, so sweet, I could listen to it all night, I wonder what she'd sound like when she's calling it out around me--

Huffing, he turned to look out the window, "A little better. It's none of your concer--"

"I love you." Kento felt himself shoot through with warmth. The cloying petals in his chest began to shrivel. He was speechless, dark-circled eyes wide as he turned to stare at you. Your hands trembled, turning into the driveway, pulling the handbrake, switching off the engine.

"I always have. From the moment I met you, I knew. But you knew better apparently and you pushed me away and now you're so sick and I--I--"

You sniffled once, steeling yourself before stepping out of the car and round to Kento's door, opening it. You reached in, arms round Kento's chest and heaving him up, amazed at how strong you could be for him when he needed you. Kento did not fight. He remained placid, mussed, still smelling bed-soft and coppery as you moved him towards his door, unlocking it and taking him inside.

Kento had never felt so stupid. So ashamed. So unworthy. He had done this to himself, and for what? He replayed months and months of him and you, flashing like reels through his mind's eye, reframing all of your interactions, your discomfort with Gojo's advances, your pain at Kento's biting distance, you fucking idiot Kento this is all your fault like all the people you lose are your own fucking fault--

Kento felt himself dropped into bed, with no memory of the journey from doorway to bedroom. He looked up at you, truly looking at you for the first time in months, drinking in the soft acceptance in your eyes, how his pain mirrored in yours exactly.

You blinked first, a few tears slipping out as you stepped away, opening Kento's wardrobe and pulling out a shirt. Kento gulped, turning his head on the pillow as you began to undress.

"--don't do this just for me, you shouldn't feel obliged to stay--"

"Shut up. Idiot. You stupid, stupid man. I'm livid at you and I can do what I want, and you should shut up and do as you're told for once."

You could have insulted Kento until the moon waxed and waned a dozen times, and it would still have felt like falling into a bed of feathers, hearing nothing but I love you, Kento I love you, I always did, I love you Kento--

Kento's breath caught in his chest, still painful, but somehow easing, as he felt your weight settle into bed next to him. He tensed again, frozen to your warmth, for having held you at arms length for so long. You rolled, switching the lamp off. You faced him, in the dark. You could hear only the light rattling of his chest.

"Just let me stay. I...need to keep you safe. Even if I just watch you sleep."

Kento's face crumpled, teeth bared and gritted as he pulled a hand over his eyes. Gratefulness and relief stole away his voice. Quiet, nestled together in the dark, you heard the gentle susurrus of a hand sliding across the sheets. You jumped to feel the back of Kento's fingers brush across your belly, graze over your chest and down your arm, until your hand was plaited with his.

"Do you...do you mean it?" You pressed your eyes closed, so fragile from the weight of the day's admissions and revelations. Biting your lips with tears on your lash line, you nodded, Kento squeezing your hand, focused on your silhouette.

You remembered meeting Kento for the first time, the beautiful rush of gold in your vision, as you panned past his introversion and discovered treasure. You remembered reading his every move, the uncertainty of each other, the timid dance. You saw the questions in his eyes, never asked. You remembered his seeping coldness after the force of Gojo's overbearing affection. You remembered the distance, the sniping hatred-- only, it wasn't. It wasn't ever hatred. Just grief. Loneliness. Worthlessness.

Kento could only hold back his wretched coughing for so long, and you watched in horror as he forced himself onto all fours, back and chest rippling in agony as a burst of blossoms sputtered past his lips...only, less bloody now. Almost as if he was getting better but not quite--

Shoko's words came back to you, a ghost; "...you do have to love him. Biblically." You felt yourself shiver from shoulders to toes as you thought of Kento this way, taking you. All those nights, where you had tried to think of anyone but him, biting into the pillow as you fingers slid, wet and practiced, over your aching little bud. Only, for his voice, thoughts of him inside you, rooting through you, taking you over the edge into sweet oblivion...every time.

Loving him had become so involuntary, you thought, as he slumped into your arms, blond hair splayed across pink blossoms in the moonlight, exhausted. Despite his suffering, he looked ethereal like this, arm splayed above his downy soft hair, eyes feverish in the gloom. You felt this obsession grow, no longer pruned and restrained, now that you felt his urgent need for you.

Quaking, you lay yourself beside Kento, drawing your leg over him so your soft inner thigh rested on his groin. You felt him twitch, a little closeness only making his pain worse, the full weight of a fertile Spring wracking his lungs. Your fingertips grazed over his belly, and you felt him shudder beneath you.

"What--" Kento rasped, swallowing back the thick taste of blood, "...what are you...?" He stopped as you shushed him gently, one hand rested on his thick chest as you nosed the side of his neck, the shell of his ear.

"Let me help you." You felt Kento tremble beneath you, his hand coming up to clasp your thigh tighter over his groin. Kento overrode his desperation, shaking his head with a gulp, feeling pathetic and weak and she deserves so much better and--

"Not like this," he choked out, his chest heavy and cloying, "you deserve--"

"We've already wasted so much time, convinced we weren't good enough for each other. I deserve a life with you. And we can't do that if you're dead."

Kento broke, lost in the ecstasy of your soft kisses against his jaw, tongue flicking out to taste the soft sweat tang of him. Your fingers rose up to cup his face, turning him to you. The total certainty in your eyes as you leaned in to press your lips to his, made the air hit Kento's lungs with such blissful relief.

Kento felt bursts of strength with every scrap of love you gave him, enough to tangle his fingers into your hair, and swipe his tongue into your open mouth. Your little squeak of surprise ran through his belly, hot and needy, his cock throbbing in his boxers. Kento kissed you, hungry for relief, needing escalation as the petals began to clog his lungs again.

"Please, touch me," he begged, shameless in his wish to live, "--hurts--please..." Feeling his teeth nip into your lip, pushy and desperate, you allowed Kento to grasp your hand and trail it down over the honey-blond trail of hair on his belly, to cup over his rigid cock. He groaned with relief as you cupped his length, squeezing him until a drop of pre-cum seeped through the front of his boxers.

"--more, I-- I need more--" Kento twisted under your hand, squirming and prickling with the itching joy of your tongue tracing his ear, whispering soft reassurances as he moaned, bucking up into your hand, masturbating him through the fabric of his boxers.

You were mesmerised, obsessed with the effect you had on him. Your pussy throbbed, neglected, edging yourself by pleasuring Kento instead. You found yourself squeezing his cock harder, hungry for his panting breaths, his furrowed brow, the way his fingers clawed at you for release.

Climbing above him on the bed, straddling his hips, you slipped his boxers down and reached into his bedside drawer. His cock, heavy, thick, wet with pre-cum, settled on his belly, twitching as you released him. Your hand settled on a bottle of lube, filling your hand with this white, sticky, cum-like fluid, warming it on your palm.

Kento huffed, chest heaving again as he coughed, a spray of blossom landing on his chest and belly, sticking to the sweat misting his abs. You removed your underwear with your clean hand, resting your throbbing cunt on his balls. Ready to beg again, fingers sinking into the fat of your thighs with bruising force, Kento hissed as your lube-wet hand squeezed down the length of his cock, coating him in glossy slick.

The feeling of his cock, velvet-on-steel, thick in your hand, was a drug. Kento moaned, bucking up into the wet little plaps of your fist, as your hand stroked and squeezed the length of him. Kento felt himself squirm, head tossing and turning as he crumpled the pillow up in one strong forearm, biting into the fabric and blossoms there, frowning, moaning, gasping.

"--fffuuuck yes-- hnnng-- just like that, don't stop please don't stop--"

You leaned down, sinking your teeth into the broad plane of his pec, smiling in spite of the desperation of the situation. Your hand sped up, determined that the first time Kento spent himself, would be just that-- the first time. You would be his lover and his healer.

"I love you," you whispered against the rolling muscles of his chest, "I love you, and I'm staying, and I'll make you better again, I promise..."

Kento twitched, jerking with the force of the stimulation, his hand drifting to cup around yours, the other tugging the roots of his own hair. He moaned, long and stilted, writhing and begging.

"--god I love you-- your mouth, in your mouth please--cumming--"

Kento's seed spattered into your hand and across your tongue, your mouth not fast enough to reach his pulsing cock. Kento panted, short, twitching pants as he watched himself cum uncontrollably, his cum dripping down your cheeks, your eyelashes. Slowing down your strokes, squeezing the last drops of seed as Kento twitched and moaned, overstimulated, you were surprised to feel him remain hard in your hand.

With breathless grunts, and new colour in his cheeks, Kento reached down, pulling you on top of him, chest to chest as he held you, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your hair. You felt him grip you by the hips, slipping them downwards, your belly sliding on the cum dripping across his abdomen. Tilting your chin to look you up at him, Kento looked down at you, nose stroking against yours.

"...all this time?" He asked, so desperate for the reassurance. You nodded, feeling the tip of his cock at your entrance, straddling him so his cockhead pressed inside you.

"All this time...just crushing how I felt," you insisted. Kento was lost in the heat of your pussy clenching around his tip, bucking upwards involuntarily, begging to be invited in. Forehead pressed against his chest, his arms locked behind you, embracing you to him, you gasped as you rolled your hips, sinking him inside you, flush to your core.

You moaned, high-pitched and mewling. You felt yourself clenching, hot and wet around his twitching cock; you were not used to feeling so full, having abstained for so long, with no new suitor ever holding a candle to Kento. You felt Kento cough weakly, a smatter of shrivelled bloodless blossoms colouring your hair.

"--I've got you, I've got you--...shhh, I-- fuck you feel even better than I imagined-- I can't-- can't hold back, I'm--"

Kento's hips rolled up into you, both barely moving, entwined together in the soft silent dark. Belly pressed against his, Kento's cock curled hard against the front of your soft spongy walls, jolting insistently over the plush sensitive spot that made him feel belly-deep. Meeting his thrusts with your own, Kento growled out his sighs, chest rumbling beneath you.

"--worth it-- was all worth it for this...for you, I-- ...was so scared-- wanted to die in your bed-- so lonely--" Kento poured himself out to you, weakened and vulnerable inside you, his cockhead kissing your cervix as he kissed away the tears on your cheeks. The closer he got to his peak, the pain in his chest subsided, and he felt stronger, better, more alive than he had in months.

Kento rolled, flipping you over without warning, and knelt above you, grasping your hips so his cock stayed flush within you. Wrenching his pillow down the bed, he jammed it under the small of your back, panting, overtaken by something otherworldly as he stroked one hand down from your sternum to your mound.

"--selfish...I've been selfish," he berated himself, his long fingers slipping between your folds to find your throbbing little bud. You jolted, a high keening whimper leaving you as he rutted into your angled pussy, rolling your clit delicately between his forefinger and thumb. Kento glowered down at you, his eyes dark with lust, and you shivered under his cool gaze; suddenly, the man who had captured your heart all those months ago; "let's fix that, shall we?"

Kento wasn't sure how he summoned the strength to make love to you like this, his hips rolling with devastatingly slow precision, and you twisted beneath him, feeling every ridge of his bulbous tip as he watched where you were joined, pulling out almost completely before sliding all the way back, making you whimper and squirm.

"--together," Kento insisted, controlling your upcoming orgasm, his touches as accurate as your own fingers within yourself, reading you as you begged and moaned your way to orgasm. Kento fucked into you, hips stuttering, sweating and messy, desperate for you to cum so I can cum too and this whole fucking ordeal can be over god she's so gorgeous how did I get so lucky--

You trembled and whimpered, hands reached down and clutching Kento's thighs, feeling light as a petal on the wind as you came. Eyes closed, face relaxed with this heady, euphoric bliss, you swore you smelled the faint sweet-blossom-nectar of Spring wash over you, there and gone in the space between heartbeats.

Kento felt the weight of the world slip from his shoulders, suddenly whole and complete again, deep and emptying himself inside you with a shudder, your name on his lips; "--...so well--good girl, the best fucking medicine...thank you, thank you--"

Kento floated back down to earth, divine beneath the power being bestowed back into him. His chest cleared, supernatural by nature, his breaths now smooth and swelling. You stared up at him, eyes glazed, dazed by how you had moved him from death's door to demigod, in just minutes.

"I swear-- I promise you-- I'll be the best I can be for you-- the very best--"

"Idiot. You always were. You just...never saw yourself like I see you."

[thisisnotthenerd]

god such good tactics from the bad kids in this fight.

quick level update: fig is a devotion paladin! joining the ranks with our most popular paladin subclass, among tuc ricky matsui, sunny biscotto, andhera, and viola. coincidentally she sits in the paladin chair (L1).

the bad kids have capped off at level 14; reference my last post on this for what they have here. they're going to this fight at like 3/4s of a tank; high level spells spent on healing and used in the last fight, hit die used, magic items spent.

ice feast prep: exhaustion and 1d12 damage, but cured of all poison and disease, immune to fire damage and stun, con saves with advantage, and hit point max increases by 2d10. incredible homebrew spell that complete fucks brennan in this fight. the immunity to fire lets them use the lava and environment to their advantage while making the enemies have to avoid the consequences of their own actions.

kristen getting k2 back? lovely story move. wanting a sister to share in your faith? brilliant. tactically, it gives them another full cleric who can move around the battlefield and heal while splitting attention. she has greater invisibility on and can just move around and get heals to people.

prepping fly on almost all of them means they avoid the difficult terrain and have mobility around the battlefield where they can get cover, remove line of sight, and calculate their ranges easily.

fabian killing ivy in one turn? exceptional. not just a good turn from lou but an example of what was to come from them. fabian has had one turn up in this combat and still fully removed the danger of ranger/fighter weapon attacks while drawing attention from the biggest threat.

riz casting slow with magical ambush? phenomenal. functionally took care of one of the big melee and one of the big spellcasters. mary ann did nothing, and ruben being slowed got rid of his counterspells. it made buddy waste a turn. also just fucking diving into the lava.

adaine with synaptic static? fantastic. really hitting the clump and making jace start damaged, when sorcerers are squishy to begin with. at level 20, and lets say a con modifier of +3, max he could get is 180, and realistically its closer to 120.

gorgug killing oisin in one turn and preventing him from going at all? fabulous. he's the one who could summon allies for the rat grinders--getting rid of him gets rid of that possibility.

kristen using the cover and then doing double rounds of healing from herself and k2? astounding. keeping out of sightlines for damage to hold bless. staying uncounterspellable.

fig with the enormous fireball? stupendous. sent ruben to hell, damaged mary ann, and really got all of the jaces, and broke buddy's banishment concentration

shout out to the melees: fig, fabian, and gorgug concentrated fire from porter as they took out the rat grinders. even though they all went down, they have reliable healers to get them off the ground. no holds barred. they took out the three rat grinders that are now dead.

none of them had rage tokens and they didn't get turned against their allies. they've spent this fight fully just dunking on the rat grinders, jace, and porter.

for the rat grinders: they've taken out ivy, oisin, and ruben--ivy with big ranged damage, oisin and ruben with 9th level spells and counterspells. they've bloodied all of the jaces and broken his big damage concentrations, broken buddy's concentration on banishment and damaged him, kept mary ann out of the fight pretty much until now, mostly avoided kipperlilly's sneak attacks, and riz is prepping to hit her with a spell on her turn. porter has taken some damage, but has been forced to use legendary resistances and can't get them to take him seriously.

realistically the difference between them comes from tactics. the rat grinders are being piloted by one guy who has to manage a lot of factors in this fight. they are not a team of adventurers who have read the book front to back and used it to prime advantage. they have not actually faced the monsters they farmed for xp. they likely don't have the types of magic items or feats that the bad kids have earned through their adventuring. their buffs have been knocked off one by one as the bad kids wreck house.

from a watsonian perspective they're not using basic party strategy: not protecting their wizard, not moving their melees to give the rogue sneak attack, clumping up and getting AOEed thrice to great effect, expending their big resources at the top of the fight, not using cover or other tactical advantages, giving themselves difficult terrain and having to deal with hazards the bad kids don't have, not coordinating their counterspells and other debuffs, not protecting their cleric or encouraging him to heal, and working on a ritual that they don't have all the tools for.

they're statted like power-leveled pcs, not npcs, and what do npcs have? magic items, unique abilities, and hit points. jace and porter have homebrew shit going on. the rat grinders are 20th level with the hit points of maybe 10th level characters. ivy only took 78 points of damage before going down. 2 attacks from fabian plus incidentals from fig's green flame blade. they all have glass cannon type builds except for maybe mary ann, and we haven't seen her go to work yet.

incredibly excited for the finale next week. sidenote the outfits are so fun. i might be late next week because i have a concert to go to, but still. i'll be back with xp counts and some reflection on what the rat grinders have actually done.

[petit-etoile]

in the moonlight (my darling, do not fear)

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 4184 content warnings: mentions of injuries, no in-depth descriptions, minor spoilers for astarion's act ii romance other tags: canon-typical violence, canon complaint, hurt/comfort, whump, developing relationship, love confessions, gender neutral tav, elf!tav archiveofourown: here. sentence prompt: "you're like a sickness, a disease, and the only way for me to be cured of you is to let you completely consume me until my body has no fight left." — from here. summary: defeating the orthon is no small task. the hardest part is what comes after.

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‘No!’ he shouts, and it’s so loud it echoes on the edges of your mind. ‘You can’t die.’

I’m not dying, you think but the words never leave your lips. In the depths of your consciousness, you can faintly remember the battle with the Orthon. Karlach had killed the displacer beast, hadn’t she? Shadowheart had blinded the Merregon… You remember violent flashes of light and the shaking of the Gauntlet. Trying to remember takes too much energy, and thinking about opening your eyes makes your stomach roll.

‘Get up, damn you!’ Astarion snaps harshly.

He paws at your desperately, shifting rock and ruin, and when he presses his hands to your side, stars flutter behind your eyelids so violently all you can do is moan. It’s your turn to shove at him. You push at his hands and feel your fingers glide against his skin. But I’m too tired, you want to say. I just want to sleep, to dream. Eventually, you give up your fight and relax into the darkness. Maybe when you awaken, the illithid parasite will be gone and you will be cured. You can only hope that it comes true.

Astarion has other plans for you. He curses your name so sweet it could be a perfectly mulled wine and leans forward. His ear tickles your lips, and whatever he hears come from it is enough to make him heave out a relieved sob. His hands are on your face again. His fingers are sticky, and they smell like powder. He jostles you so violently that you groan against your will, but it doesn’t seem to matter much to him.

Astarion rests his head against your chest right where your broken collarbone has begun to throb. You struggle to open your eyes and stare at the roof above you, but you don’t see the familiar ceiling of Shar’s Temple. The celestial glowing swirls have been blocked from sight by ugly granite floors. If you really put your mind to it, you can recognize Karlach’s desperate cries on the other side.

‘What happened?’ you whisper.

‘You were supposed to jump down!’ Astarion snarls. ‘Gods, why didn’t you jump down!’

The panic in his voice is enough to make you try harder to retrace your memories. You had plunged your blade into Yurgir’s chest but couldn’t manage to pull it out. It hadn’t killed him. Yurgir had laughed at you, had laughed at your friends  —  He had never hated anyone more at that moment.

It had taken the blade you kept on your hip to finally kill Yurgir. He had dropped bombs, you recall. It comes back to you easily now. Astarion had been right behind you and was going to follow you down, but you were so wounded he insisted on helping you jump away from the bombs before they exploded. But you hated heights, you hated the feeling of falling.

‘Scared,’ you admit.

‘Ha! Scared!’ Astarion repeats, tone pitching up in his hysteria. ‘Karlach was going to catch you!’

‘I couldn’t,’ you say. ‘I was scared. I couldn’t jump, I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry, Astarion.’

A shaky sob escapes his lips. ‘Don’t be sorry, my love,’ he whispers. ‘Don’t close your eyes again.’

A shudder of exhaustion runs throughout your body. You want to ask questions. You can feel them on the tip of your tongue, but moving your jaw is more work than you’re currently cut out for. Without craning your neck, you try to assess the damage.

The displacer beast’s claws had torn your sleeve. You remember how its teeth snapped shut close to your face, and how now matter how hard you tried to push it away, its thick neck kept you from escaping. Shadowheart had distracted it with a clone. Desperation had pushed you to follow Karlach up the steps so that you could fight the Orthon. For Raphael’s contract. For Astarion.

You do as you were commanded. You stare at the shaking, makeshift rooftop and blink dust from your eyes as it filters down like mocking snow. Astarion’s head feels particularly heavy at this moment. With a sudden, horrified realization, you fully come to terms with the situation you’ve found yourself in.

You are lying in a puddle of your own blood and too broken to move. Half of the floor you were standing on has fallen beneath you and blocked you from your allies, and the only one at your side is Astarion. It must be like death itself to sit there surrounded by blood while injured. He could heal himself if he drank. You raise your good hand and place it against his white-silver curls.

‘I know I usually offer first,’ you say sheepishly. ‘But if you need a drink  —  ’

‘Have you lost your gods-damned mind?’ Astarion hisses.

Before you can say anything else, he sits up and leans over you. You are easily distracted by his beautiful, marble-like complexion which is marred by the dirt and dust and blood. He’s beautiful.

Astarion’s cerise eyes are frantic. ‘I do not mean to alarm you, but you are dying.’

Like the ceiling’s fate above them, the reality of the situation comes crashing miserably down on top of you. Shadowheart’s spells cannot penetrate the wall that has come between you. You realize it now. You press your hand against the hole in your side delicately and laugh a little, staring at your fingers coated with blood. You close your eyes, but Astarion’s distressed whine has you search frantically for his face.

‘I’m sorry,’ you whisper, horrified. ‘I’m sorry. I’m  —  Do not hate me.’

‘Please,’ Astarion begs. ‘Just stay awake. Stay with me. Karlach is trying to get through; All you have to do is stay awake, please.’

You search his face for some hint of comfort, but it’s hard to see through the dark spots knotting in your vision. You do your best to push away the panic, to force the tears back into your eyes. You don’t want to die, not yet. Raphael still has to translate the runes on Astarion’s back. Shadowheart wants to finish the gauntlet. You want to save Karlach’s heart, to absolve Wyll’s pact, to save Gale. Selfishly, you want to kiss Astarion again without any of that which comes after. You want to savor the weight of his mouth against yours.

‘I’m sorry,’ you tell him again. You swallow harshly. ‘This must be like torture for you.’

Astarion chuckles hoarsely. ‘While you are very tantalizing, this is…nothing compared to two hundred years.’

You smile faintly. Two hundred years of carrion, and now you are laid out in front of him as delicious and forbidden as the feast Raphael offered you once. He ducks out of your view to lay his head on your chest. Though he tries to hide it, you can feel the little shudders of his sobs.

I’m sorry, you think to the ceiling. The weight of Astarion’s head against your shoulder is agonizing to your broken collarbone, but whatever he is doing, he is doing it with such reverence it reminds you of the religious devout and their steadfast adherence to their god.

He burrows his face into your chest, careful to stay small over you, to be mindful of your condition. He tries to balance his breathing so that it’s quieter and less disruptive, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot quell the frightened way his shoulders jump. You close your eyes for a moment just to memorize the sight of it.

‘No,’ he says suddenly, sitting up. ‘You promised. You cannot die, I forbid it. You said you would protect me, and you cannot do that if you are  —  Speak to me, damn you!’

‘’m awake,’ you say tiredly. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘You cannot,’ Astarion insists.

‘Next time,’ you say, ‘I will jump.’

Astarion shakes his head, and little drops of his tears rain down on your skin. ‘It isn’t the smell of you that makes it hard,’ he confesses brokenly. ‘It isn’t even about the damned Infernal runes. It’s you, everything about you. What is left for a disease like me when someone like you goes away?’

‘You will lead them,’ you tell him.

Astarion’s nose wrinkles at the idea. ‘I am not particularly interested in being the face of a revolution,’ he says. ‘No matter how beautiful I am. I am still a sickness, a beast. You are the only one good enough to lead us.’

‘You are like a sickness, then. A horrible disease,’ you say, mindful of the way his eyes narrow. ‘The only way for me to be cured of you  —  to be the cure for you, is to let you consume me until my body has no fight left, Astarion.’

‘How dare you,’ he says with a coquettish shrug.

You can hear Karlach slowly working through the rest of the rubble now. You hate to feel too hopeful, but you can almost hear the sound of the shattered floor breaking free. They were coming to save you, to save him.

‘That was rather poetic, you know,’ Astarion tells you. He watches your face intently as if afraid he’ll miss out on something exceptional. ‘You’ve never been one to use such gorgeous words.’

‘I wanted to,’ you say softly. ‘For you, my love.’

Astarion’s eyes widen as those words fall seamlessly from your lips. You aren’t sure if he meant to say them earlier. After all, he’s only ever been fond of calling you darling or a delectable little treat, treating you recklessly with careful honeyed words. As if getting any closer to you might coax him into accidental oblivion where your name might leave his lips thus solidifying you as something to be treated with care. A pomegranate seed between his teeth.

The shock doesn’t stay for long. Your eyelashes flutter though you fight against it. The decaying darkness around your vision has almost reached the center. You cry faintly and press a hand against your side, horrified that your blood is still pouring from you even if it is slower now. Perhaps you are running out of blood. You want to tell Astarion to drink it all up before it’s mixed with the sulfur and ash, but words are hard to form. Your heart skips a beat.

Don’t let me go to waste, you beg helplessly, reaching out to his mind when yours is all but gone. A heart-wrenching sob erupts from his chest. When you next awake, there is relatively less action than what was happening before. There are no violent tremors of a floor threatening to collapse. The sound of frantic shoving is absent. There’s only a dim hum in your ears, and the sound of a hushed fire burning well into the evening. You slowly open your eyes and blink away your sleepiness.

Shadowheart’s healing spell still hovers over you, but she’s not in your tent so she must be concentrating somewhere else. Your collarbone still smarts and you can definitely feel every single bruise you’ve ever received in your life, but you feel stronger, fuller. You reach a hand as if to inspect the wound at your side again and find the skin there is closed now.

‘You’re awake,’ Astarion says softly. ‘Thank the gods.’

You sit up quickly and feel the world turn sideways for it. Lightning dances along the back of your eyes as you try to steady yourself, and Astarion reaches out to ground you as you sway back and forth. You wonder just how long he’s been sitting there in your tent waiting for you. Your head throbs faintly once you manage to open your eyes.

‘Thank the gods,’ you echo breathlessly. ‘You brought me back?’

Astarion grimaces as though embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t the one who carried you back to camp, no,’ he says almost petulantly. ‘You’ll have to thank Karlach for that. But I have sat here since then, I must admit.’

‘Everyone  —  ’

‘Everyone else is fine,’ Astarion interrupts. ‘Halsin aided Shadowheart in your healing. Gale procured herbs, Wyll kept vigil at camp while you slumbered. It was all very twee. You’ll be sad you missed it.’

Astarion raises his chin much like a cat who desires petting. He would never admit it, but you can see it on his face. He’s relieved. If he were anyone else, he might weep for joy at seeing you awake again. It isn’t who he is, so you settle for knowing that he has not left your side since you escaped the Gauntlet.

You sit up further and wave your hand through Shadowheart’s healing spell. It doesn’t disperse as much as you wish, but you ignore it, crawling across your lumpy bedroll so you can wrap your arms slowly around Astarion’s neck. He freezes beneath your touch and begins sputtering, but then you feel his arms wrap around your waist. He burrows his face in the side of your neck.

‘I’m sorry for scaring you,’ you mumble against his ear.

You hear him swallow. ‘I’m not apologizing for yelling at you, if that’s what you want.’

‘I would never ask you to,’ you insist.

Before, you thought it would be a small hug. Something to show your thanks to him. You loosen your arms around him so that he can pull away, but if anything, Astarion drags you closer to him. He hides his face in the spot beneath your ear and inhales deeply, memorizing your healthy scent intently.

The hug lasts longer than you thought it would. It’s almost as healing as the magic, too. You hold Astarion as close to you as he will allow, rubbing circles and tracing his curls at the nape of his neck as if to promise that you will never leave again. You decide to sniff him tentatively as well, and beneath the dirt and ash from the collapse, he still smells like Astarion.

You startle a little when you feel his hand tuck beneath your shirt, his fingers reaching to touch a hint of your bare skin. Someone was kind enough to drag the heavier armor from you, but you still have your bloodied shirt on. Astarion’s cool touch is welcome against your aching spine.

‘I thought,’ he says slowly, ‘that you had sentenced me to a lifetime of loneliness again when you were felled earlier. At first, I was so angry that I thought I might hate you for your mistake. I wanted to kill you myself once the dust had settled.’

‘Astarion  —  ’ you start to say, hopeless apologies on your tongue.

‘You will let me finish,’ Astarion says harshly, though he nuzzles you. ‘Elves reincarnate, but how long does it take? How many years would I be forced to wait before I caught the scent of you on the wind?’

You’re freed from his grasp, but you aren’t allowed to escape far. You both kneel in your tent, one of his hands on the back of your head, the other at the side of your waist where your skin had been ripped open before. Astarion allows you to see him for who he truly is. His eyes are soft, weak when he stares deep into your eyes like he’s afraid he’ll forget you.

‘You have made this sinner a worshiper, though it’s no gods I am on my knees for,’ Astarion says to you. ‘The only hymn I care to rehearse is your heartbeat. The only prayer is your name. I begged the gods for years that they would save me, but you are the only divine who has answered my call.’

Your breath catches in your throat.

Astarion presses his hip into yours. ‘I wanted to wait to tell you,’ he says with a miserable shake of his head. ‘To think more.’

‘You still can  —  ’

‘I cannot,’ he admits. ‘When I close my eyes, all I see is your body beneath mine with your life’s blood spilling from you. You begged me to devour you.’

‘I wanted you to be strong,’ you admit. ‘Before, you told me you were only allowed to dine on creatures who couldn’t think. Who knows how long your strength would have lasted…’

His eyes seem to contain infinite sadness. You try to be intent with your words, but you’re distracted by the way he releases his head to palm your chest, pushing his fingers so forcefully skin it’s as though he’s determined to dig through your flesh to grip your heart in his hand. You’d allow him if he asked.

‘You are so self-sacrificing it’s insulting,’ Astarion snorts. ‘Do you think I would have continued in this realm without you? Never have I felt so selfishly about someone before.’

Carefully, almost as if he’s never done it before, Astarion leans forward and presses his lips against yours gently. All you can think about is his overwhelming devotion even as you respond to the kiss, melting against the touch. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this.

And you do miss it. You hate being in the Shadow-Cursed Lands more than you hate the lift in the mountains. Everything is dark and dreary and dead, and your companions are prone to being even more distant and distressed than they were before. You feel as though you are of little hope.

But Astarion kisses you now like a man who is breathing air for the first time. His mouth is hungry and insistent, and his hands cling to your skin more than he’s ever clung to you before. It causes you to blush. It’s unlike him to show such desperation. He’s willing, open, honest  —  yet this kiss is so different from the ones you experienced before. It’s almost chaste. He kisses you like a knight would kiss his charge.

‘But I want this,’ he whispers, breath ragged against your cheek. ‘I want you.’

‘Astarion,’ you murmur. That's all you can say.

He presses his nose against your jaw. ‘Whatever my intentions were before, to the hells with them,’ he says harshly. ‘I want us to be something real, something true if you’ll have me. It’s what you deserve.’

‘I do,’ you confess, almost embarrassed. ‘You must’ve known how silly I felt pestering you. You were the first person I sought out when I returned to camp.’

‘You did have a rather obvious air of desperation about you,’ Astarion says with a small laugh.

‘But I wanted you to come to me of your own accord,’ you continue. You touch the edge of his collar. ‘I lacked confidence. I did not want to force you into something knowing your history.’

He kisses you again. This time, it is a little less chaste. Astarion is determined to devour you, mind, body, and soul. His hands wander as though they’ve never felt your body before, and there’s something anguished about the way he returns to cradling the back of your neck. Your mouth is nothing but a scripture he is determined to practice.

You feel drunk with exhaustion. Having been settled between death and undeath for so long has left you feeling as though there is nothing in your sinew, and Astarion is making matters worse. Your head is filled with nothing but him and his unpredictable mercy. You cling to his shirt and struggle.

What have you done to deserve such boundless devotion? You have listened to, and pleaded with, every emotion he has given you. You’ve taken and given and created anew. Now Astarion becomes. Everything you have given him evolves to become this. When he is finally finished memorizing your mouth, he pulls away and confronts you with barely concealed hunger.

‘Say it,’ he begs desperately. ‘Say you want me too.’

‘I want you,’ you say. ‘Gods, you must know this. There’s nothing I want more.’

‘I wanted to manipulate you,’ he says, horrified. He hides in the crook of your jaw. ‘I wanted to use you as a shield, someone to stand behind.’

‘I am not a very big shield,’ you say.

He doesn’t laugh. ‘I was going to do what I had done before,’ he says. ‘Use your emotions for me as a weapon, but  —  I never want to see you near another weapon for as long as we live. Do you understand?’

You press a kiss to his hair. ‘Shall I stand behind you now?’

Astarion does laugh at that. He faces you fully now, hands cupping your cheeks. ‘You may as well be regulated to nothing but camp duty. You find a place for us to rest, you sew our clothes up when they come back with holes in them. I’d say you could make dinner, but…’

You brush a lock of his silver hair away from his eyes and run your thumbs against the swelling. He’s just as exhausted as you are even if he has yet to admit it. The building’s collapse has left him equally as tired. You encourage him to lay down with you, and he does, curling at your side with his head on your chest.

‘Will you be our fearsome party leader?’ you ask. You close your eyes and try to imagine it.

‘Oh yes,’ he swears solemnly for your sake. ‘I will hold the map and point us in the correct direction. Hopefully my leadership will lead us away from Shadow-Cursed things and back to the streets of Baldur’s Gate. I am so ferocious that whoever controls these parasites will give up upon seeing my muscles.’

You try to imagine your life without the tadpole. It seems relatively empty without Shadowheart and Lae’zel’s bickering, and you would miss the way Halsin and Gale are prone to rambling on about whatever is holding their interest at the time. You’d miss Karlach and her boundless enthusiasm for dancing. You’d miss Wyll, too. You’d miss the way he always watches your back.

Would you have met them in Baldur’s Gate? Would Astarion have picked up your scent and chased you down an alleyway intent on drinking your blood? He would be as he was before, angry and cruel and distant. For a moment, you’re almost grateful that the mindflayers had kidnapped you that morning. The circumstances surrounding it were dire, and you hated the gross wiggling the worm was prone to doing when it wanted you to be authoritative, but you would miss them.

‘I don’t regret it, you know,’ you say suddenly.

‘You do not regret what, exactly?’ Astarion asks. ‘Getting blown up and nearly dying? You should.’

You snort despite your best attempts not to. You press your palms against your eyes and try to keep from laughing too hard. For what it’s worth, Astarion does let out a small chuckle. You can hear his frown.

‘Aye,’ you relent. ‘I suppose I do regret nearly dying and. I don’t regret what came before it. If Raphael asked me to strike down all of the gods so that he would translate your back, I would do it without asking a question. You deserve to know.’

‘I cannot overstate how…appreciative I am of that,’ Astarion says finally. ‘But, just so you know, I would do the same for you without question. I have most of the time. I trust at least a third of your decisions.’

‘All of the decisions I make,’ you begin.

But Astarion interrupts, ‘I am sure you make them with everyone’s best interest in mind. Sometimes it works out. Sometimes you end up blown to bits.’

‘I do not regret letting you feed from me,’ you say, pretending he never opened his mouth. ‘I do not regret the silly way I fell into your honeyed words. I do not regret killing the Orthon. I do not regret you.’

‘We’ve barely just begun.’

You swallow. ‘And I will see it through until the end of time,’ you say. You’re fully aware that it’s too soon to make sweeping grand declarations of love, but you can’t stop yourself from saying. ‘You will never be alone again.’

You take Astarion’s silence in stride. You want him to know that he isn’t the only one capable of saying disgustingly romantic things. In the wake of your unconsciousness, you feel a rush of things you haven’t felt in quite some time. Life felt dreary in the mountains and worse in the Underdark. You hate when your world feels as though it’s crushing you. Now, even in the dark, it’s as if the sun shines on your face.

‘I love you,’ you say.

‘Say it again.’

‘I love you,’ you repeat, this time with more meaning. You try to roll onto your side, but your shoulder fusses too much. ‘I want you, and I want this. Forever.’

‘Forever,’ Astarion repeats, a sense of wonder entering his voice as he toys with the taste of it on his tongue. Once again, he sits above you, his head pressed against your chest, shaking as he listens to the sound of your heartbeat beneath your skin. ‘I like the sound of that.’ You smile at the sound of a purr in his voice, and allow yourself to imagine what forever means.