#another worshipper of the rose

[iron-roses]

[laylaplease]

Warnings — Birthday sex, dom!Anakin, praise, oral sex (Fem receiving), fingering, clit play, nipple play, slight daddy kink, pet names, missionary sex, hinted overstimulation. Ani's a worshipper in this one <3

Word count — 2.5k

Notes — Requested by a celebrating reader, happy birthday, pretty! 🤍🍪

Princess treatment wasn't something you weren't used to while being in a relationship with Anakin — the man goes above and beyond to satisfy your every need and desire, even the ones you're not aware of yourself. Your birthdays weren't an exception.

The morning sun shining through your Coruscant's apartment windows wasn't the thing that woke you from your slumber like every other day; this time it was Anakin's hands grabbing your thighs open and diving his head deep between your folds. "My sweet flower, I'm going to devour you all morning..." He had spent at least an hour all the way down, lapping on your wetness like a starved man while muttering endless praises and happy birthday wishes. And the best part is that he did not deny you any of the orgasms that shattered through your sleepy body. "Come, my love, let me taste you again and again..." The day was just too special; you deserved to feel as much pleasure as you desired.

After he's done with birthday breakfast, you are to spend a day wasting money in your favorite cafes and stores while gossiping with your best friends. Of course, that is after he steals your purse and sneaks in a credit stick with enough currency to swarm all of your favorite places around the Coruscant. By the time evening comes, Padmé literally has to drag you back home because you're having so much fun! But after she promises you another surprise at home, you bend.

You're welcomed with your place decorated with the prettiest flowers and colorful balloons. Once you enter, Anakin wastes no time to grab you and spin you around in the air, as if he's been missing you for months. He kisses your cheeks and lips with no shame, muttering how beautiful his birthday girl is. "My pretty princess, never seen an angel this beautiful." As you bathe in his affection, your friends are singing happy birthday to you, with Obi-Wan struggling to carry a two-story birthday cake without it falling in the background.

When unwrapping presents, you save Anakin's for last, just to toy with his anticipation to see the expression on your face when you see something you love. The second your eyes sparkle, it makes him absolutely melt; thus, he loved to spoil you with gifts just because of that little twinkle in your beautiful gaze. He's already given you a bouquet of your favorite flowers, but you surely were as eager to unwrap the neatly wrapped rose pink box with a matching bow on the top and a card that said, "To the love of my life." Unfortunately, he advised you to wait before everybody leaves. So the second you locked the door after the last guest, you rushed to your bedroom, where the secret box was hidden from the peering eyes.

"How I missed you all for myself." Anakin's needy arms wrapped around your waist once he followed you, nuzzling his nose into your neck. He wasn't able to resist the scent of you. He wasn't done pampering you. "Open it, sweetheart." He encourages you with a peck below your jaw.

You open the wrapping paper, careful not to rip the pretty pink apart. Satin ribbon slips off easily, and you're quickly welcomed with a lidded box with silver lettering of a brand name you've never seen before. Anakin admires the movement of your delicate hands exploring the presents, so gentle to treat each and every thing he gives you. The smile on his face, the soft caresses on your hip s— you could already sense he'd be glued to you for the rest of the night.

You lift the lid up to discover a floral lace lingerie set in a shade of lilac. It was a custom-ordered piece in which Anakin made sure to hide little pieces of you. The transparent cups were embroidered with your favorite flowers in silver threads, and between them — a zodiac charm pendant decorated with a tiny silk bow. Thin double straps would adorn your shoulders, and a matching pair of high-cut panties would sit perfectly on your body, leaving little to the imagination due to the transparent material lined with lace. And the last detail, a print of words in Anakin's handwriting on the inside of the waistband: "My beautiful starshine." The intimate nickname that only Anakin ever called you.

"Ani..." You look at him with awe in your eyes, thoughtful gift making your heart swell with joy. "That's— Thank you..." You cup his cheeks, leaning for a kiss. "I love it. I love it so much..." You whisper as his lips caress yours with an obvious eagerness he's trying to conceal.

"My starshine, my beautiful starshine." He pushes you down on the bed, climbing on top of you, while he explores your clothed body with his hands, kneading the skin and kissing your neck. "Happy Birthday, my angel..." He whispers with a shaky voice, trying to take his time, but you can already feel the hardness in his pants rubbing against your stomach.

"Ani— wait," You giggle, slightly pushing on his shoulders. "Let me try it on— Baby, p-please—AH!" His hand slips past your waistband and instantly finds its way onto your clit, rubbing it gently.

"No...No, sweetheart." He keeps touching you, enjoying every second of your beautiful whimpers and pleads. "If you'll try it..." He sighs shakily, pulling away his face from the crook of your neck to look into your eyes. "I'll tear it off your perfect body."

You could feel yourself stiffen at his dirty words; the tingle in your lower stomach increased with every sentence he whispered and with every hungry stare his eyes gave you. You knew he meant every word. Anakin was satisfied when your blushing face and a soft smile greeted him.

"You'll try it later, angel..." You weren't sure if he was commanding or reassuring you, but you weren't going to deny that. Not when his digits were already knuckles deep inside of you, gently bruising your wals with slow but first strokes.

"A-Ani!—" You squirm underneath him, back arching ever so slightly when he teases a certain soft spot inside of you.

Anakin smiles proudly, knowing only his hands can turn you into a whimpering mess. He slides his hand from your pants, kneeling back between your thighs to admire your flushed expression. The soft bite on your plum lip and the heavy rising of your chest told him everything he needed to know.

"What does my precious birthday girl desire?" He grins, looking down at you, while his tongue twirls around his dripping middle and index fingers.

At first, you just moan at the sight. He knows damn well what you need; you need him. You need to feel him; you've been craving it since the very morning — to have his naked body on top of you. He knows, and he wants you to say it.

"Please— Anakin, just..." You groan in desperation; he's so unfair; it's your birthday; you deserve to get your way without having to beg for it.

"Two words, sweetheart, all I ask." He caresses your cheek with the back of his hand, wiping the pout off your mouth. "Say it."

"A-Ani, please— " You buck your hips up slightly, feeling the wetness soaking through your panties. "—Fuck me."

Anakin knows he's been pulling on your strings with his little teasing game, so the second you express your wishes, he discards your pants and tosses them across the room.

"There we go. Wasn't so hard now, was it?" He kisses your stomach while lifting your blouse up, which soon slides over your head.

The wet kissing doesn't stop tracing your burning skin; he moves his lips up to your chest, peeling the bra off your breasts and latching his mouth on an already hardened nipple. His tongue toys with a sensitive bud, pulling on it gently, making you shiver with pleasure.

He's quick to remove his own clothing before laying on top of you and giving you a passionate kiss on your lips. He looks at you like you're a star fallen from the sky into his arms; he holds you and touches you like he's burning with desire and love. His hands are all over your body, touching you, feeling you, you're the air he breathes — the source of his life.

"Can I, baby? Can I have you, please?" He whispers into your ear, nudging his aching cock against your panties, the dampness making him twitch.

You nod frantically. Yes. Yes. You need him to have you. You pull him closer, wanting to feel as much of his hot skin on yours as soon as possible. The chosen one is still a mere mortal, too weak to resist the desire for his goddess.

Anakin grabs the hem of your panties, unwrapping you like you are the present. No matter how many times he does it, it's never enough. Your whole body is just so beautiful; your juices so sweet, insides so warm and welcoming. He wants to be one with you and never be parted from you.

He positions your hips above his and lets himself slide gently into you, so you can feel each and every vein that's molding your walls to the shape of him.

"Ahhnii!—" Your moans mix with his name; you want more. You try to move your hips and have him fuck you, but his strong grip won't allow you to squirm.

"Shhhhh..." He whispers, eyes rolling back to his skull while he slowly sinks inside. "Be good."

Once the blissful torture ends and he's settled deep in your body, he leans all the way forward, snaking his arms under yours, all the way to the back of your head to make you look at him.

"My love," He holds your face in his hands, still balls deep in your cunt and not moving an inch. "Thank you for blessing me with you." He looks into your eyes with lust and a deep sense of admiration all together.

Your fingers wrap into his hair. "I‐"

"I love you." He interrupts you, and you feel your walls pulse around him at his desperate voice. He doesn't let you answer when his hips set a slow pace, thrusting back and forward into you. "Look at me; keep looking at me." He moans, still holding your head, so you have no choice but to attempt to keep your eyes open as he makes sweet love to you. "I can't get enough of you."

Every thrust seems to be penetrating impossibly deeper than later; he's panting heavily, forehead pressed against yours, to easily kiss you when he's not looking into your eyes. His hands keeping you still and hips pressing onto yours hold enough strength to keep you from squirming and have you take it all.

"So good, Ani, yes..." You chant his name, which only speeds his movements, making your body quiver violently in his embrace.

"Just like that, you love it, don't you?" He encourages your whimpers with his raspy voice and a rare, more forceful thrust, which bruises against your spongy spot.

"Yeaaah, fuck— Yeah, don't s-stop...!" You hold onto his back, digging your nails into the muscle, which only arouses him further.

"No, not tonight. Tonight, I won't stop." He reassures you with a gentle nod and a sentence with two meanings — both of them correct.

You shake helplessly under him, wanting to continue, wanting to come, wanting more of him and more pleasure, and Anakin is aware of that. He reaches down to grab your thigh and bring it over his shoulder so he can reach deeper into you and abuse your g-spot as much as you both wish.

Every clench of your cunt makes him grunt just a little bit louder, and every grunt he makes forces you to spasm more, creating an endless loop of overwhelming pleasure. Anakin rocks your body into the mattress, your limbs limp in his arms while the headboard crashes into the wall repeatedly, and he's is too pussy drunk to make a mental note to adjust the bed position later.

"Look at me when you cum. Look at me, or I'm fucking you through more orgasms than your perfect tight cunt can handle." He orders you. It was your birthday, but he was still the one on top of you at the end of the day, and there was no point in fighting or arguing. Even if the suggestion sounded a bit tempting for a second, so with the last strength you have, you brace yourself.

His forehead presses against yours again in an attempt to keep you from turning away, creating a sharp stretch in your left hamstring from your leg still resting on his shoulder. He keeps thrusting into you repeatedly, angling his cock to brush over your favorite places. You stare into his eyes, tearing up from how absolutely delightfully he's fucking you.

"C'mon, birthday girl, come for daddy, yeah?" He supports you when your pretty eyes stare at him so intensely. "Cum all over daddy's cock." He moans, unable to speak clearly himself.

So close. So so close. Stare at him, look, look, don't close your eyes. He told you to look. That's it. His eyes, so pretty, staring back at you, telling you how much of a treasure you are while he thrusts deeper and faster into you. Keep looking. His sweaty forehead pressed against yours, his hand reaching down to rub on your clit. You close your eyes in bliss, he thrusts rougher, and you open them back up. He holds you close, his whole body not losing strength, just so you can keep feeling the pleasure. One more stroke has your body trembling and clinging to his.

"A-nakin!" You spasm repeatedly as your orgasm sends your body into paradise; your back arches into his chest when your eyes involuntary close.

He slowly eases the thrusts, still hard inside of you. Anakin kisses all the way up your neck, and you're hopeful he didn't notice your little accidental disobedience. His lips find your cheek, then your temple, while his hand frees your thigh off his shoulder, letting it fall softly into the sheets. You can't help but pant heavily while your insides still twitch in the afterglow of your pleasure.

"Oh baby..." Anakin sighs, kissing your delicate skin. "I've told you—" He sighs and looks deeply into your eyes. "Told you to keep looking..." He caresses your cheek, a mock pity present on his face.

Before you can say another word, he pulls out of you and, with a tight hold of your hips, flips you to lay on your tummy, manhandling you into a position where he's taking whatever he wants from your body.

"Birthday's over, baby girl." You sense his grin right before he slams his whole length all the way back, knocking the air out of your body.

With your eyes blurry from a forceful thrust, you manage to make sense of a bedside clock that shows only a few minutes past 12a.m. The birthday's over, and now you'll play by Daddy's rules again.

[piffany666]

Say it with me now!

EVIL. POWER. COUPLES!

Also congratulations again to scythe and kittenish!

Just gonna ramble real quick

Another thing I like about scythe's evil couple's is that they're business partners just as much as they are couples. Like valiki and dark rose are married (presumably) but it's also a business relationship the business being world domination and it's the same with alpha and livana.

Rot (the death celestial) and Dominic are more of a "worshipper" and "god" relationship but it's still a "let's work together to destroy the world" type relationship.

We don't have enough info on sylus and buttercup's relationship dynamic I do feel like it's gonna be a "let's destroy the world together" but less of a work relationship then that of dark rose and valiki or alpha and liv

[bitethedevil]

More Than Our Fathers (Raphael x Demigod!Reader): Chapter 1

Chapter: one, two, three, four, five

Read this on AO3

Summary: It was in the years after the Fall of Netheril that fate decided to push the two of you together: the daughter of the God of Divination and the son of the Archdevil of the Eighth. An unlikely pair, but you learned throughout the years that you had more in common than you thought: you were both driven by ambition and you both longed to become more than what your fathers made you.

Word count: 4,968

(Notes: Note that the Reader is named. Her (your) name is Sibylla. I just need to name my characters, I can't even explain it. It literally just means 'Prophetess', if that helps. There is a lot of lore in this one and you can see me explain more in depth on AO3 if you care about it. I'm so excited for this one. For once, I've actually got everything planned instead of my usual 'fuck it we ball' attitude to fics. This chapter is essentially the backstory of their relationship. The majority of the plot will take place from the time of the BG3 canon events. We just have to speed through 1600 years of backstory before that lol)

You were the daughter of a mortal woman and the god Savras. Your father had many titles: Savras the All-Seeing, the Lord of Divination, He of the Third Eye. Once a mortal wizard with an exceptional talent for the art of divination, Savras ascended and became the god of wizards.

You were blessed to have been old enough to remember your father’s greatness and cursed to live long enough to see his fall.

Savras the All-Seeing had been challenged by the powerful mortal wizard, Azuth, and lost. Azuth rose to power as your father fell. It is said that he lost on purpose because he saw something in his visions that was yet to happen. It was a decision that many of his faithful worshippers said demonstrated the wisdom and insight of their god. Wisdom and insight, they called it…You called it docility and wasted potential.

Azuth imprisoned your father in a magical artifact that would later be known as the Scepter of Savras, in the hopes that he could harness Savras’ powers and use them for himself. The scepter disappeared before Azuth’s plan could come to fruition. More than a thousand years after the imprisonment of Savras, the scepter was found and Azuth agreed to release him if he swore a pledge of fealty to him. Savras accepted.

Unfortunately, the scepter displaced itself immediately after Savras’s release, taking with it the majority of his divine powers. Once again, the Scepter of Savras had disappeared and it continues to be lost, constantly moving, with only a chosen of Savras or someone with a touch of the divine being able to wield it. Someone like you.

After his fall, Savras went from being the god of wizards, to the god of divination. He became little more than Mystra and Azuth’s lapdog. A mere shadow of his former glory. You had never been close with your father, but his downfall made him a disappointment to you. After he fell, you felt ashamed to be related to someone as foolish as him. He had wasted his potential.

A potential that you would happily exploit yourself, should you ever get your hands on the Scepter of Savras and claim your father’s old powers…

You were born with an innate gift for divination magic. It made you a sorcerer by technicality, though you would eventually study and become a powerful wizard as well, following in your father’s footsteps. Sorcerers were widely looked down upon by the wizards that made up for most of the population of the city you were born in, though you had been a special case because your father was still the god of wizards at the time.  

Your powers allowed you glimpses into the future. Your visions were quite random, though they became clearer with age, and you had found a way to strengthen them: by physical touch. When touching another person’s skin, you were able to look at the threads of fate and time that bound them: their past, their present, their future. You only needed to know what to look for.

You were born in the kingdom of Halruaa. It was the same place your father had once lived before he ascended and became a god. It was a land of magic in the southern part of Faerûn. The magocracy of Halruaa had once been created by Archwizards who had foreseen the fall of Netheril and fled the empire.

You yourself had been born a few hundred years after Netheril’s Fall, but you vividly remembered the stories of Karsus’s Folly that were told to you by some of the old Netherese refugees. It was because of one of those survivors that your own threads of fate were to be bound to Raphael’s.

It was about 250 years after Karsus’s Folly and some hundred years before your father would fall to Azuth in battle. You were at the very beginning of your immortal life. Your mother had died when you were just a child. A 500-year-old wizard by the name Melesmer had taken you in and he became like a grandfather to you. You looked up to him, listened to his endless reminiscing about Netheril and clung to every piece of wisdom he bestowed upon you.

Melesmer was most likely the last person alive to give first-person accounts of the old empire at that point, but he was also at the end of his time. Old age was starting to eat at him despite the magic that had slowed his aging. When you were only twenty, you had seen him die peacefully in his bed in one of your visions. You knew you only had a year or two left with him, but you did not have the heart to tell him that.

Melesmer spoke Halruaan like you, but the more his old age started to eat at his memory, the more he started rambling to himself in Netherese. Sometimes it seemed as if he had completely forgotten everything around him and found himself back in Netheril. You had learned just enough of the Netherese language to understand what he was saying over and over again:

“They are screaming and crying…” he would mumble in Netherese while his eyes looked empty. “The children. They are under the rubble. Our children…”

You had one day come home from the market and you heard the sounds of talking coming from inside the house. There was nothing odd about that in itself. You were used to young apprentice wizards visiting Melesmer every now and again. They would often be seeking out the old wizard’s wisdom or wanting to listen to the stories he told of the old empire.

What made you stop in your tracks, was the fact that they were speaking in the common tongue. Melesmer never managed to adopt the same skepticism towards foreigners that was commonplace for the born and bred Halruaans who feared that outsiders would come and steal their magical secrets.

You put down what you had in your hands to go and see who this foreigner was that was visiting.

You entered the room and the man in front of Melesmer looked up at you briefly. The man looked young, around twenty like yourself. He had brown hair, brown eyes and was dressed in expensive Halruaan silks, no doubt in an attempt to fit in with the local customs. The young man gave you a brief polite smile before turning his attention back on Melesmer.

There was something odd about the stranger and you felt it immediately. You put your hand on Melesmer’s shoulder, to interrupt his talking and ask him about his guest.

“Grandfather,” You greeted in Halruaan and then nodded to the stranger. “Who is this man that you are talking to?”

“Sibylla, dearest,” Melesmer answered in Halruaan. “This man has travelled far to hear about the fall of Netheril and Netherese magic.”

“Raphael,” Melesmer said in the common tongue, addressing the stranger. “This is my ward, my pride, Sibylla. She is the greatest seer in Halruaa there have been since her father became a god and left the city all those years ago.”

“Grandfather,” You said sternly, warning him not to speak any more of it in front of this stranger.

“Is that so?” Raphael asked. His eyes had lit up by what Melesmer had said, and his smile widened. He got to his feet and walked closer to you.

“I swear it,” Melesmer said, the old man’s voice full of pride and his soft features turned into a bright smile.

“What an honor,” Raphael said and took your hand. “It’s not every day that one meets the daughter of a god.”

Raphael looked you in the eyes and placed a kiss on your hand.

You took the opportunity of the touch to figure out who he was and what he wanted.

When Raphael touched you, a vision flashed behind your eyes, and you saw what he really was. You withdrew your hand from him immediately, as if you had been burned.

“Leave,” you hissed at him. Magic was crackling around your fingertips in warning.

Raphael smirked at your realization.

“Grandfather, this man is a devil. This vermin is taking you for an old fool,” you said to Melesmer while not taking your eyes of Raphael for a second. “He is a son of Mephistopheles himself.”

By his reaction, Raphael seemed to at least know the Halruaan word for ‘devil’, and his smug expression faltered slightly at hearing his father’s name. Melesmer blinked in confusion and looked at Raphael.

“It is quite rude to talk over one’s guests. Especially in another language. My Halruaan is rather unpracticed these days, so I will simply assume that whatever you said was a compliment,” Raphael said smoothly with a tight-lipped smile and narrowed eyes. “I am not here to harm anyone…I am merely seeking information.”

“You’re seeking the Crown of Karsus,” you said to him.

Raphael looked genuinely taken aback for a second, but quickly returned to his smug self.

“I am…” he said.

“Your father has it in his vault where it will stay for at least a thousand years more,” you said coldly. “You’ve got more than what you came for, cambion. Leave.”

He looked at the ground as if in thought for a moment and a flash of fury washed over his face, though you got the sense that his anger was not pointed at you. His fists clenched and his eye twitched slightly before he looked up at you one last time.

That look sent another vision through you, this time manifested through a feeling: familiarity. This would not be the last time you saw him.

“Thank you…” Raphael grumbled and then snapped his fingers. He disappeared in a flash of smoke and embers.

You would not see each other again for another couple of hundred years, but ever since that day the devil was keeping an eye on you.

You changed a lot as you grew older. After your father’s fall, you completely discarded his teachings and dogma. You were not supposed to use your sight to further the goals of others or to meddle with fate, and you were also supposed to only ever tell the truth of your visions. You threw it all away and started your new life, cutting the already fragile and barely-there bond to Savras.

You had long since left Halruaa behind. Your services became well sought after and your reputation as a powerful seeress quickly spread throughout Faerûn. Your reputation often proceeded you whenever you arrived in a new city, and you rarely ever had to seek out your clients yourself.

You whispered in the ears of dukes, emperors, and kings, ensuring their rise or their downfall, depending on how you felt about them and how they could further your goals or fill your gold purse. It came with enormous power. A few whispers in the right ears could mean the rise to power for one person, while hiding parts of the truth could make another walk carelessly into their own doom.

Even though you were a savior to some and a villain to others, it never changed how many wanted your help. Your luck was that dead clients usually could not complain about your services and if anyone dared to question how your earlier clients met their demise, you would simply tell them that they did not heed your warnings.

You quickly became well-known and your recognizable features, that spread both awe as well as fear amongst the smallfolk, worked to your advantage. You had the silver hair and ghostly pale eyes of your father.

The widespread myth about you went that your ghostly appearance was caused by you looking into the future and seeing something that terrified you so much that your eyes and hair lost their color. What you had ‘seen’ varied depending on the region you were in, you noticed. Some say you had seen your own death, some the end of the world, while others had a whole third wilder theory. You never had it in you to tell them you were simply born that way.

It pleased you to no longer be known as Sibylla, the daughter of Savras. You were simply Sibylla the Seeress, now. Your own person and removed from your father, who you hoped would be forgotten to time eventually.

It was in the then young city of Athkatla in Amn, that you would run into Raphael again, a few hundred years after your first meeting. Your client in the city was amongst one of the city’s most powerful men. A rich merchant by the name of Bernard Barth.

Barth was an old and greedy man who had grown paranoid in his last days. He was certain that the younger rising star amongst the city tradesmen, Garrick Mordell, was out to steal his place amongst the nobility of the city.

Barth was an excruciatingly frustrating client. He was a loud, opinionated, and stubborn man. His son, who would one day take over his father’s business, was even worse. They were the perfect image of the overindulgent upper class. It was so clear that they had never had to struggle a day in their life, and it irked you, but the Barth family’s generous payment for your services were more than enough to sway you to stay.

You were sitting in Barth’s opulent office, and the two of you were waiting for someone. You had seen who would be joining you in your visions: a middle-aged dark-haired stranger. You did not think much of it before the man entered the room.

You immediately recognized that there was something about him. He dressed like all the other upper-class citizens of Amn, but you could have sworn that he looked familiar. As if you had seen him somewhere else, though you could not quite put your finger on it and no visions sprang to your mind.

“Raphael,” Barth lazily mumbled in greeting. “You’re late.”

“Saer Barth,” the man greeted with a bow and a smile. “My deepest apologies.”

That voice and that name. You had definitely met this man before, but where? You would have to touch him to learn more about him.

You rose from your chair and held out a hand to him.

“I’m afraid we haven’t met before,” you said with a smile. “Sibylla.”

“Raphael. A pleasure to meet you,” Raphael said with a smile and shook your hand.

Your brow furrowed slightly when no visions came to your mind at the touch. You looked down and noticed that he was wearing gloves. You kept smiling politely but your eyes narrowed at him. He looked at your expression with a teasing smile, before sitting down and turning his attention to Barth.

You were barely listening to what Barth was rambling about. He wanted Raphael’s help for getting rid of his competitor, though you could not figure out how exactly. All you learned were that Raphael seemed like a man who had good connections. Besides that, it sounded like Barth’s usual paranoid speeches about Lord Mordell’s rise, so you tuned him out.

You were much more interested in who this man was. He seemed so familiar and yet it escaped you who he could be. Your eyes kept drifting to Raphael as you tried to place his face in your mind. At some point he caught you looking. He looked back at you with a knowing smirk, which only made you even more frustrated.

He knew who you were, there was no doubt about it, you thought. Now you had to figure out who he was. If only you could somehow touch him, if only for a brief moment.

“That’s the short of it,” Barth grunted after rambling for about an hour. “We will reconvene tomorrow and see if you can come up with a solution. Leave me.”

Barth waved the both of you away with his usual rude and entitled manner that you had grown so accustomed to. You both left the room, and you walked slightly faster to catch up with Raphael.

“Saer,” you called to him. “A moment of your time, please.”

Raphael turned around and faced you with a smile.

“Yes?”

You got a chance to study his face a bit closer, but it still did not ring any bells. There was just an overwhelming sense of familiarity.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” you said. It was less of a question and more of a statement.

“Have we?” Raphael asked with a mock innocent expression. “I am quite certain that I would recall if I had met someone like you before.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. A look in his eyes told you that he was playing with you.  

“Yes, we have,” you said. “Who are you?”

His smile widened.

You got frustrated and reached out to grab him, trying to pull his gloves off or get your fingers under his coat.

“My! Aren’t you eager?” Raphael laughed and raised his arms so that you could not reach them. “I did notice how you were stealing glances at me in there. I’m afraid I’m not interested, dear.”

You reached out to touch his face instead, but he dodged it.

“We know each other!” you said stubbornly and pointed at his face.

He laughed at your frustration.

“So insistent,” Raphael said and pulled off his glove.

He held his hand out to you, and you took it. A vision passed your mind’s eye. Your eyes widened in recognition. Then your brow furrowed, and you looked him up and down.

“A pleasure to see you again,” he said smoothly.

“You got…old?” you said with a slight sneer. “You looked younger when we last met. I thought your sort didn’t age.”

“I look more matured, not old and we do not. My appearance is by choice,” Raphael explained.

“Why would anyone choose to look old?” you asked. “Eternal youth is one of the few upsides of immortality.”

“I do not look…” Raphael closed his eyes and sighed, before changing the subject. “You are taking all this in stride it seems. I would have expected more hostility from you once you remembered me. Not at all that fiery young girl I remember meeting all those centuries ago, it seems.”

“Things changed,” you said with a shrug. “I’m just trying to make a living. Same as you, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” he said with a smile before changing the subject. “I heard about what happened to your dear father. The great All-Seeing robbed of his place in the Heavens and trapped in a stick that no one seems to be able to locate. What a shame.”

“A scepter, not a ‘stick’,” you said. “What’s it to you?”

“I merely wanted to offer my deepest condolences,” Raphael said with a smile that showed the complete opposite meaning of his words. “I do wonder if this is the reason for this little rebellious streak of yours. I hear all sorts of surprising things about you these days, little goddess. Recently, I’ve heard rumors about a certain powerful noble in the city of Illusk whose family met a quite brutal death when a horde of orcs had invaded the city district that he ruled over…”

Your pale eyes narrowed at him. You knew exactly what he was talking about, but he should not be able to know about that.

“So?” you asked with slight shrug and crossed your arms over your chest.

“Don’t play dumb, dear,” Raphael purred. “He was a client of yours, was he not?”

“He was,” you said. “And?”

“One has to wonder why you neglected warning him about this. I also find it such an odd coincidence that the High Captain of the city seemed so well-prepared for the assault, though he did not spring to action before after the horde had marched through your client’s district. The High Captain who, coincidentally of course, was also known to be very outspoken about his low opinion of your client.”

“Yes,” you said with another shrug, smiling. “What an odd coincidence.”

“Isn’t it just?” Raphael said with feigned wonder.

You looked him up and down. You had to at least be impressed by the fact that he had managed to do his research so well.

“I told the High Captain, and he offered me a small fortune if I did not warn my client of the assault,” you admitted. “As I said…I’m just trying to make a living…”

Raphael chuckled.

“My dear, you would put some devils to shame,” he said. “I wonder what old Savras would think if he knew what his daughter were up to.”

“Couldn’t care less,” you said coldly and avoided the subject. “Are you spying on me or something?”

“’Spying’ is such a cynical term. I’m keeping an eye on you, yes,” Raphael said. “You seem like a useful person to know. Not to mention, I find you deeply fascinating. Especially now that you are no longer clinging to the boring and rigid dogma of your father.”

It irked you that he kept mentioning Savras. Especially when his own relationship with his father seemed to be at least as messy as your own, from what you saw when you touched him.

“You keep bringing up my father,” you said with annoyance and defensiveness. “Should we talk about yours instead? I saw plenty of interesting things to talk about when I touched you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Raphael said with a hint of annoyance, though still smiling.

“I thought not,” you said with a smile. “What are you doing here? Out for old Barth’s soul?”

“Did your little visions fail to reveal my intentions to you?” Raphael asked.

“What I saw was a mess of contradictions, which suggests that you are undecided on the matter, so no,” you said and looked him up and down. “All I really care about is if you intend to kill my current employer.”

Raphael smiled.

“Would you be opposed to it if I was?” he asked.

You raised an eyebrow at that. There might be an opportunity here, you thought.

“In principle, no. Let the old bastard rot in the Hells for my sake,” you answered coldly in a lowered voice in case anyone was eavesdropping. “Though the old bastard in question is still paying me a ridiculous amount of money, so what do you have to offer in return if I let you?”

Raphael’s smile widened.

“Perhaps, you and I are not so different after all,” Raphael said in a lowered voice as well. “You help me procure the soul of both old and young Barth, and I will give you all of the gold that Lord Mordell has offered me in exchange for their demise.”

Your eyes widened a bit at the revelation. Perhaps Barth had not been as overly paranoid as you had thought. Mordell really was out to get him it seemed. Though Raphael must have been instrumental to his plans because you had not seen any threats of Barth’s demise in your visions yet.

“How much gold are we talking?” you asked.

“Fifteen thousand,” Raphael answered casually.

Your jaw almost fell to the floor. That was twice the amount you had managed to squeeze out of Barth during all your time with him. At the time, it was enough gold to buy a house or two.

“And you would just hand that over to me?” you asked in disbelief. “I find that very difficult to believe.”

“I’m a devil, dear. Gold is of little use to me. The economy of the Hells runs on souls…” Raphael explained.

You studied him for a moment. You were interested in the idea, but you had to make sure that you were not letting him somehow rope you into a deal. You would also have to be sure that this would not be traced back to you.

“I will encourage them to sign your deal. You will pay me half before their death and the rest after. I don’t care how you mean to kill them, but make sure it’s not too messy and it can’t be traced back to me. You will also leave their wives and children alive…gods know they’ve suffered enough by having to deal with those two idiots…And I am also not signing anything.”

“Demanding little thing, aren’t you?” Raphael said with a smile. “Fine. We have an agreement.”

As soon as you received the vision of your client’s demise, you left the city. You were staying in an inn, well on your way to Esmeltaran when Raphael popped up out of nowhere. You jumped at his sudden presence. He snapped his fingers and a bag of gold appeared on the nightstand. He looked around your room before seating himself in an armchair.

“Not quite living accommodations befitting a demigoddess, I would say,” Raphael said while looking around at the shabby room of the inn you were staying in.

“I don’t like staying in one place too long,” you said. “You’ve handed me the payment...”

“I have,” he said with a smile and snapped a bottle of Amnian dessert wine and two glasses into existence.

“So…” you said and made a shooing motion with your hands. “Go. Leave.”

“Is that any way to treat a business partner?” Raphael asked and feigned offense. “Where are your manners?”

Raphael smiled at you and held out a glass of wine. You looked him up and down and reluctantly took it.

“To us,” he said and clinked glasses with you.

You were looking at him with a deadpan expression.

“You are getting off on this, aren’t you?” you asked. “The fact that you managed to strike a deal with a demigod. That’s why you keep talking about it, isn’t it?”

“Perish the thought,” Raphael said and sipped his wine. “Can I not simply be thrilled about managing to strengthen the bond between myself and an incredibly useful acquaintance?”

You rolled your eyes and sipped the wine.

“This is a one-time thing,” you said. “And I would really appreciate if you stopped spying on me.”

“You are making it very difficult for me to do so when you are so fascinating to spy on,” he said. “I don’t see why we should not do this again. I think you would find it quite useful to have friends in low places with the direction you are currently headed in, dear. We could be good for each other.”

“I can see how my moral compass is a bit all over the place at the moment, but that does not mean I want to work with you, cambion,” you said and sipped your wine.

“You keep calling me that, as if it is meant as a slight. I am what I am…Although I do much prefer the term ‘devil’,” Raphael said. “I have long since raised above the station of a simple cambion.”

“I’m sure you prefer that, but it doesn’t make you any less of a cambion,” you said. “You are a half-mortal, like me, and there is no running from it. You are no more a devil than I am a god.”

“What a depressing way to view things,” Raphael mused and swirled the wine in his glass. “We are what our father’s made us, are we not? It is their blood that ensures that we are still alive, where had we been mortals, we would be long dead. It is their blood and the powers granted through it that has gotten us here. It is evident to anyone that there is nothing mortal about us, and yet you cling to the notion. Do you really think that we cannot be the same as our fathers, if not one day more than them, simply because we were once carried in mortal wombs?”

What he had said struck a chord, but you were never going to admit that to him.

“Thank you for the wine…and the philosophy lesson,” you said in a stern tone. “You should go.”

Raphael smiled at your urgency to get rid of him.

“I am sure you will warm up to me eventually,” he said. “We have an eternity to get to know each other, after all.”

His persistence was starting to truly infuriate you. You were not going to be business partners, or even acquaintances, with a fiend. You had heard all the stories about the vermin of the Lower Planes, and you did not want to be associated with them. It was beneath you.

“No,” you quickly said and emptied your wineglass before putting it on the table. Your eyes turned threatening. “You will leave me alone after this, do you understand? I am not interested.”

He chuckled at your growing hostility.

“Or what?” he asked with a smile. “Will you smite me, little goddess? I am at least a couple of thousand years your senior, do you really think you could take me?”

Raphael walked closer to you until he was right in front of your face. He was still wearing his smug smile.

Your eyes had turned thunderous at the blatant provocation, and magic was crackling over the skin of your hands in warning. Raphael looked down at your hands, without moving his head.

“Should we find out?” you asked with a tight smile.

His eyes drifted from your hands and back to your face. He was still smiling as his eyes went from the smile on your lips to your pale eyes. You saw a hint of admiration in his eyes. He lifted his hand, ready to snap.

“We will see each other again, Sibylla,” he said in a low voice and then snapped.

He disappeared in a flash of smoke and embers. 

[amywritesthings]

the better strategy. / astarion x tav

summary: a hand mirror, no shirt, and one hell of a discovery. (astarion romance canon scene spoilers, remixed with my own flair.)

pairing: astarion x tav (female, she/her) word count: 3.2k tags: manipulation, trauma, astarion's pov, miscommunications, mentions of cazador/spawn abuse, selûne worshipper!tav, sensuality, little kisses // mature for thematic elements

part two. / part four. | masterlist.

PART THREE: THE DISCOVERY.

.

Tav wakes well before Astarion anticipates, which is a problem.

He keeps his promise: he stays with her through the night with his arm around her shoulders, foolishly protecting her from a darkness that painfully calls him home. 

He misses the sun just as badly as she misses the moon. 

(He refuses to entertain two sides of the same coin.)

Upon keeping his promise, Astarion has run into an ironic problem: the threat of wandering eyes have always kept him alert in his surroundings, two steps ahead of anyone in his vicinity to protect himself, but now?

This time, his eyes are the ones to wander. One blink leads to another, until they fall on something... shiny.

Then his brain embarks on a peculiar, intrusive thought: 

The mirror Tav uses to get ready in the morning sits a stone’s throw away from him on a crate acting as a makeshift table. 

And he’s curious.

Curious, because the tadpole has cured just about every other ailment of vampirism — the glowing red eyes, the stench of eternal death, the pesky scorch of the sun.

Maybe he can finally see his own reflection after two hundred some-odd years.

It’s a pipe dream, he realizes, when he carefully lays her down on her bedroll with the care of a lover. It's a pipe dream, but so is living out his days as a free man.

In what precious time he has before the rest of the group stirs, Astarion stalks towards the crate and pokes at the silver handle of the mirror. 

Huh.

No burning flesh. No jolt of pain.

That, too, is something he’s not yet used to — touching things, touching precious things, without burning for it.

Before picking it up by the handle, the vampire sheds his body of his billowing white tunic.

If this is going to work, he wants the grand reveal: of his face, of his body—

Of whatever the fuck Cazador carved into his skin all those years ago.

He’s felt around his back before, touched the edges of what feels like a warped semi-circle of text, but he’s never seen it.

(Shouldn’t he get the whole package of whatever in the hells this tadpole has irrevocably broke in his brain?)

When he picks up the smooth handle of the hand mirror, he stops. Freezes, really. He keeps the mirror's intricate rose-carved art facing upwards, avoiding what's on the other side for a moment longer.

Because he's afraid.

Astarion’s afraid of a lot of things — curing a fraction of his immortal disease hasn’t kept the list from growing.

If anything, it’s only grown longer since he’d stumbled into Tav’s merry band of misfits:

He’s afraid to lose the sun. He’s afraid to be caught. He’s afraid to wake up one morning and see that this merry band, however misfitted they are, will leave him behind.

(That she’ll lose any use for him, the stronger she becomes.)

Finally Astarion turns his arm at the wrist, expecting something hideous and distorted to stare back at him.

He knows his hands are translucent. He knows his body doesn’t hold hair like it used to. He knows he’s littered with over two-centuries' worth of scars.

...nothing.

Astarion squints, hoping that perhaps the nothingness in the mirror is a mistake.

Still nothing.

All he can see is Tav staring back at him.

Tav.

Wait—

“Shit,” he curses with gusto, turning on a heel to hide the mirror — and his entire mangled, carved back — from view as he flashes that forced, toothy grin her way.

Tav looks like she straddles this world and a dream realm with messy clothes and half-lidded eyes. If she’s mad, then typical signs are not present.

Astarion feels like a school boy caught red-handed with something naughty, ashamed when, truly?

“I was going to give it back,” he argues quickly, like being a thief in her own camp is the last thing he wishes Tav to think of him.

(Why the fuck should her opinion matter?)

He then turns smarmy, scrambling to his favorable line of defense: flirtation.

“My dear, are you perhaps — staring at something?”

He rolls a sensual shoulder towards her, hoping his face, his toned body, anything but what lay out of sight distracts her. Although flirting with Tav has always been useless, he sure does try.

She doesn’t look at his face. Instead her gaze is lost somewhere in the space between his throat and sternum.

Then he realizes all too late: flirting with Tav really will be useless, because she’s already seen what he's so desperate to hide.

“Astarion… your back…”

Ah, Hells.

So she did see the whole gnarled picture. 

Tav trails off, seeking a question he knows she’s too afraid to ask. Because Tav is annoyingly good. She doesn’t poke her nose into places where it isn’t wanted.

He could be mean about it, too; make her so upset and embarrassed for staring instead of running back into her tent that she may cry.

In his mind, he has the upper hand in this agonizing moment.

“I thought it would be worth a shot, to see if my… current state of condition would lend itself to perhaps seeing my own reflection,” he chooses instead, playful in tone. He waves his free hand with little care. “It didn’t work, if that’s what you were wondering.”

No, she isn’t wondering that.

She’s wondering the very same thing that’s on his mind: what is that monstrosity on his back? 

At first he assumes Tav doesn’t have the heart to play along. Her inhale is sharp, focused, before she exhales the intensity of her muscles away.

“It must be hard, not seeing your reflection,” she replies instead, surprising him.

“Quite a pain, yes,” he answers.

“Do you miss it?”

“What, preening in the looking glass? Petty vanity?”

The vampire’s eyebrows slide high, before his face falls with undeniable grief.

“Of course I miss it. I’ve never seen this face.”

He notes the way her expression knits in confusion, so he clarifies.

“Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red.”

She watches his face, not daring to curve a peek at his back. The wood elf moves in a step closer, paying special attention to his eyes.

She wants to ask. Will she actually—

“What color were your eyes before?” she gently asks, and his stomach sinks.

Beautiful, wonderful, precious Tav — how can his lips be anything but loose around her?

“I..."

He could lie. Say brown, green, blue, whatever color might fit in her image, but he fails his deception for the second time.

"I don’t know,” he admits. “I can’t remember.”

(He'll never admit that he's made it a point to memorize hers. They’re such a brilliant color, magnificent in a way that’s perfectly Tav. No other eye color can compare.)

He's considering a lie, to tell her they have twin eyes, but something peculiar begins to stir with the cleric in front of him: she’s leaning in further, hands behind her back — she always refuses to touch him, which is as infuriating as it is assuaging — but then she… squints.

Stares.

Astarion blinks.

“What in the hells are you doing?” He takes a fraction of a step back, nerves bunched in the center of his throat. “Is there something on my face?”

“Not quite,” Tav corrects, and he loathes the sing-song tone she’s adopted. “I’m no poet, but I could tell you what I see.”

His brain blanks.

He has no retort, no sly flirtation, to toss in retaliation. He’s the one stuck with a translucent blush, left to wonder how someone like her manifested into this cruel, harsh world.

“You would tell me what you see?” he forces to repeat, to make sure he’s heard right. He wants to ask. He shouldn’t. He wants to know. He can’t. “What… do you see?”

He has always been reprimanded for impulse. Centuries haven’t changed that.

Tav takes a moment to study him with no malice.

“White hair. It curls around your ears and bounces when you walk. On the surface, it oftentimes waves in the wind.”

“I wasn’t aware you were a bard in disguise,” he scoffs, waving off such a tender recount.

She isn’t bothered by the jab. She glides closer, hands raising. The vampire’s brow rises.

“Your eyes are red, sure, but you have soft eyelashes. They frame your face wonderfully.”

Astarion playfully tilts his chin, fangs gleaming. “Flattery? Now this I can get behind.”

“It isn’t just flattery, Astarion,” she argues with a softness that devolves to laughter. “You have this… adorable little scar right here—” 

To his surprise, the wood elf runs a fingertip over a scar he got on a particularly bad day luring game to Cazador’s palace, and his entire body runs hot — not because of the memory, but because her touch is featherlight and inviting.

He’s not sure Tav has ever put her hands on him, not in the way he’s defiled her body with his teeth.

Her hands have gripped his arms, but his face…

Why in the Hells does he want to lean into it?

His own hand shoots between them, curling around her wrist to keep her hand there.

Tav must realize what she’s done, because he can feel the muscle tend under his grip.

Astarion leans in, cooing his next question:

“Is this the part when you tell me I’m the most beautiful creature you’ve ever laid eyes on?”

Her eyes widen with shame.

He’s going to ruin this.

Good, he thinks. Feel bad for being kind to me. Remind me that I’m a monster that keeps you up at night. Remember I feed off of your very life source—

“Astarion, you are beautiful.”

As if it’s the most innocent confession at a religious altar.

(She'll never burn like him.)

So many before her have said the same — called him beautiful, gorgeous, sexy — but there is some uncertain way she goes about it that punches the air from his undead lungs.

He can’t do this.

He must upset something, or else he may upset himself.

“You saw the scars on my back, yes?” he murmurs in the finite space between them. Her eyes widen even further. “When you spoke earlier, was that not what you were referring to? Are they beautiful to you, too, or is it just my dashing young face and mouthwatering body?”

The wood elf considers her next words very carefully, but she doesn’t fight his hold on her wrist.

The vampire tilts his chin down, closer, and he can hear the urgent inhale through her nose.

“I saw them, yes," she admits under her breath. "What... may I ask what they are?"

“I haven’t the slightest clue, my sweet,” he replies. “I’ve been tracing them with my fingers for years, trying to read them by touch, but I can’t. They may as well be written in Rashemi.”

“And that’s why you were trying to use my mirror?” 

Oh, Saint Tav. Always so clever.

She tilts her head, hair following her movements. He gets a whiff of her natural perfume — Gods, it’s intoxicating. 

“Because you thought if you could see your reflection, then perhaps you’d see what's on your back without anyone's help?”

He sneers. “It wasn’t like Cazador was ever going to tell me.”

Her expression softens. “He…?”

“Carved them, yes,” he tells her, remaining as flippant as he can muster. “One night, in my first years as his spawn, he was feeling particularly gracious and decided to give me them. A poem for the ages, so that I may never forget my place in this world."

The words taste like ash on his tongue.

"He spent hours drawing his project into my back without sedatives or a healing potion in sight. My reward for being good and quiet was cleaning it up myself — my own blood as a source of food over my usual vermin. It was oh, so generous of my master.”

He expects pity so he can hate her again.

He wants her to feel sorry for him, so that he may return to his normal headspace where Tav isn’t a lingering infection, competing with the godforsaken tadpole in his mind.

Yet her face hardens. The wood elf pulls her arm away from him and, to his surprise, drops to her knees before him in the dirt below. 

“Turn around.”

Well — that’s not what he hoped for.

A slight panic grips at his chest. “What?”

“Turn around,” Tav repeats, then clears her throat. “Please?”

His eyes narrow with innate distrust. “Why?”

Her shoulders slump. A slender finger reaches to the dirt beneath her boot, tapping at it.

“Because I am no bard or artist, but perhaps I can draw what I see for you to read yourself. It isn’t anything I can translate, but perhaps together we can figure something out.” She pauses. “And it’s easy to kick away should the others stir early.”

Astarion’s stomach drops.

She’s protecting him?

But... why?

Astarion reluctantly shuffles his shoe, turning on its heel until he’s trapped staring at the flaps of Tav’s tent. Their tent. 

(The possessiveness does have him smirking to himself, his mind wrapping around something other than what the wood elf is doing behind him. Take that, Ravengard.)

After a few minutes of drawing in the dirt, he can hear Tav huff in frustration.

“I don’t quite understand… what did Cazador tell you this was?”

“Who knows,” Astarion calls over his shoulder, trying to sound unbothered. “A poem? He had a very sick sense of humor.”

She grows silent. He shifts his weight from one leg to another.

“Astarion…”

Her voice is smaller than before. Uncertain.

The vampire cannot help himself. He whips his chin over his shoulder, only to see—

“The hells did you draw?” he asks in a flurry of words, brows furiously furrowed.

Tav doesn’t look up from the crude rendition she’s drawn below. Swirls connect to lines in three distinct circles; a language he’s never read nor spoken in all his near three centuries of living.

It’s just as horrific as he recalls in the moment: his muffled screams, Cazador’s voice relentlessly berating his cries, how the tip of the dagger relentlessly dragged over—

He puffs his bare chest, refusing to landslide.

“Well? What in the hells did he do to me?” 

“I don’t…”

The woman trails off, eyes rising to meet him. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Tav is furious. He’s never seen her angry, save their encounter with Nere in the Grymforge cave-in.

Yet that anger isn’t directed to him — it’s at the dirt, where his shame, his pain, his past, lay bare.

“I don’t know what this is. I can’t read it. I thought maybe something would click if I drew it myself, but I have never read this language. It could — I don’t know, it could be some type of Infernal?”

“Excuse me? Did you say Infernal?” he repeats with uncensored anxiety.

What the fuck was his master doing with the language of devils?

Cazador was a right bastard, but he was not a devil. Not in the traditional sense, at the very least.

“Shit.” She curses, catching him by surprise.

This is not her burden, so why is she so upset?

“We’ll figure it out. Perhaps I can draw it on paper and find someone to translate,” Tav hurriedly replies as if she’s done something wrong. She stands from the ground, dirt pressed into the knees of her trousers. “Karlach might—” 

“No.”  

Astarion interrupts, shutting down the thought before it can cross her tongue. She freezes, halfway between kneeling and standing at full height.

Meeting her gaze he deflates, shaking his head. 

“No, I… I’m not ready to involve anyone else.” His tongue is as heavy as lead. “Just you.”

Only you, Tav.

He cannot trust anyone else in this camp. He shouldn’t even be trusting her. Yet she has given him her life source, her blood, over a dozen times. She’s confided in her fears, her worries, without expecting payment. She’s provided shelter, weaponry—

Something akin to a home, even if that concept is all but foreign to him at this age.

Her face softens in that way he likes.

“Okay,” she promises. “Just me.”

Someone stirs in a tent at the other end of the camp. Gale opens the entrance of his tent, and Tav is quick: she shoves him back into their shared tent, out of view.

Her boot kicks and slides, erasing the image beneath her feet.

He realizes a beat too late: she’s covering the evidence.

(She’s keeping his secret.)

“Get dressed,” she adds, nodding to the shirt he left draped on her chair. She fixes her own clothes, readying for the breakfast fire.

Except he isn’t ready to let this go.

“...Tav.”

When she turns, the vampire is quick — he catches her wrist once more, tethering himself to her.

Before she can ask, Astarion gently pulls her back into the tent.

He realizes he’s never once called her by her first name.

In all the weeks they’ve traveled together, it’s always been a passing pet name. Flowery words for a wood elf; a body over a person. And now?

The man waits to catch her eye. Slowly, slowly, he raises her wrist to his mouth. His lips purse to press a gentle and chaste kiss to the heartbeat of her inner wrist.

Tav’s lips part, eyelids fluttering in a flurry of flustered surprise. 

Astarion will burn that image into his memory, evermore.

“What you’ve given me these last few weeks,” he begins with purpose. “It is a gift. All of it.”

She relaxes, wrist limp when he presses an additional peck to the skin. Her blood is thrumming with life. Excitement. Anticipation.

His voice is but a murmur.

“I will not forget this.”

There: the wood elf bites her lip, and pride surges through his body. It’s a mannerism he recognizes all too well — he has seen the tell-tale sign on thousands of faceless people, on hundreds of the victims he lured home in dirty taverns and hidden alleyways and plush brothels. 

He knows the script. He knows what he could push.

Yet seeing that look on her of all people stirs a feeling in his belly to the point where he is starving— not for blood, but for her.

To be consumed by something, rather than consume it himself.

He lets her go, his phantom heart beating wildly in his chest. Tav takes a modest step back.

She stares for one more precious minute, chin dropping to an understanding nod, before leaving him to help Gale start the morning fire.

No god has ever answered his prayers.

In the dirt, buried alive, he thought he begged every single one — yet now he fears he missed the one who could have saved him.

(The one who may save him yet.)

.

[aoioozora]

Watery Grave

Content: Pirate! Ghost x Sea Goddess! Reader, enemies, no happy ending TW: Blood, gore, death

From your underwater abode, you looked up at the wispy streams of daylight flickering and filtering through the rippling seawater. For the past few months, the waters thrummed with a certain uncertainty and fear. Trouble had been brewing upon the surface, enough for your worshippers to increase their prayers, pleas, and offerings to you, begging for your interference.

A large and familiar shadow floated over the surface and made its way past, far above your abode, momentarily blocking out the sunlight. You rose, took hold of the jet black sword next to you and fastened it to your belt. With a strong flick of your tail, you propelled yourself upward many fathoms to the surface, cutting through the waters past the aquatic life of all shapes and sizes which made way for their ruler's urgency.

It was the right time to strike.

As your head poked out from under the water, you were face to face with a massive wooden ship. Diving again, you swam away to make way for it and then resurfaced to take a closer look. It was unmistakable: the Jolly Roger ruddied in the blood of victims fluttered proudly with the wind as it stayed anchored to the apex of the main mast. Men of all ages, armed with swords, some gaunt and others rotund bustled about the vessel, singing shanties over their duties. At the helm stood the personage most complained about.

A tall, muscular man, Captain of the vessel, stood steering at the rudder, his long blond locks tamed in a single braid and a soiled red scarf wrapped around his head. Upon his face was a mask rumored to have been made out of a victim's skull. Nobody knew his real name, but from the mask alone, he was dubbed 'Ghost', and even called the Underworld's favourite hound for how many people he'd sent there, certainly increasing the work for the god of death and the dead. But you scoffed at the name, for you knew the god of the Underworld had a hound more favoured than this man.

From what you heard of the prayers of your worshippers, this man was an infernal menace. His band of pirates attacked the kingdom's navy ships, home and foreign merchant ships, and fishermen's boats, looting, setting on fire, and upturning every last one of them and bathing in their blood in cold revelry. You witnessed ship after ship, body after body sink into the water that was a part of you, all mingled with the bitter and salty taste of blood that you hated.

They attacked, terrorized, and ransacked the towns and cities, and in their blood soaked hands they held their victims in an iron grip. Not even the navy or the king could stand before their powerful band of bloodthirsty ruffians. That wasn't all. They even looted and destroyed temples and shrines built for you; these heathen didn't believe you existed and watched them.

Believing or not, would they stand a chance against the goddess of the sea upon whose domain they sailed and polluted?

It was time to put an end to this man.

Diving back underneath, another flick of your tail propelled you ahead of the ship several miles. With a twirl of your finger, you began to stir the seas a little, making them a little unstable and stormy but not enough to cause any alarm to the ship yet.

When you were far enough from the ship that it appeared as a little blip against the now darkening horizon, you emerged fully from the water, your tail now changing to a pair of legs as you stood upon the surface, watching the ship approach.

You raised your scaly arms slowly in front of you and at your behest, a small wave pushed forward towards the ship, beating against it and pushing it back slightly. You clenched your fists and the wave held fast, flattening against the surface. You then yanked your arms back harshly, as if heaving a net full of fish into a boat. The flattened wave rose high from behind the ship and hurtled the vessel forward at a speed that was enough to send them shrieking.

With your far seeing eye, you watched Ghost throw around frantic orders to his crew. The deck was flooded and you could see them scrambling to get the water out. With another swipe of your hand, another wave was sent crashing against them, nearly threatening to topple over the vessel. You raised your eye heavenwards and saw the darkening clouds looming overhead.

"I have to get his underlings out of the way first," you thought to yourself as you orchestrated the wild movements of the sea, sending the ship tossing and turning as a drunken man, causing the poor pirate captain to be unable to take control with the rudder.

"Drop the anchors!" called Ghost in his booming, sand-like voice.

"Futile," you murmured, watching as his crew, beaten by the boisterous waves, scrambled to let the anchors go. Over the crash of the water and the wind, the chains clattered loudly; the anchor flew downwards, splashing water. No sooner it sunk, a single snap of your finger was enough to send an underwater current strong enough to snap the iron chains.

The effect of it was immediately noticed by Ghost, who saw that the sea found it easier to toss his vessel. He ordered for the anchor to be pulled back up.

"It's broken, Captain!" called one of his underlings.

Ghost cursed out loud, still trying to take control with the rudder, but it appeared to him that the sea had a mind of its own. The rough tossing threw a handsome chunk of his crew into the sea; you sent the hungry sharks to feast on them, their blood-curdling screams the last thing to echo in the air as they were pulled into the depths. As their blood mingled in the water, you could taste it in your mouth; you swallowed harshly. Nobody's blood ever tasted good to you.

Your eye turned back to Ghost. Losing most of his crew all at once and right in front of him certainly made his heart suffer the sharp pangs of loss, but adrenaline forced him to look ahead and desperately turn the rudders to control the ship. The darkening skies poured fourth their showers, blocking out all hope of navigation with their fog, only adding to the misery.

"The gods are angry with us, Captain!" the second-in-command, a blue-eyed and brown haired fellow named Johnny cried, holding on to the rudder to keep himself from being thrown into the sea.

"Utter foolishness!" growled Ghost, "Do you believe in these "gods" now that you're in a storm just like any other?!"

"Captain, you know that this storm is unlike any we have ever sailed through!" Johnny exclaimed, turning his face away to avoid a slap from the waves from knocking his breath out of his lungs.

"I do not believe it!" Ghost yelled adamantly, aggressively twisting and turning at the rudder, even though he knew it was futile.

"They must be real! Remember that we have destroyed the temples of the sea goddess?! Those locals have warned us of her wrath!" Johnny tried to reason out his newfound belief, but Ghost was determined to be unreasonable.

The second-in-command was about to speak again, when a shadow in the foggy rain behind them arrested his attention. The shadow walked towards them upon the helm, its glowing golden eyes predatory and vicious, its size increasing in the fog as it drew nearer. Johnny's knees lost their strength and he collapsed to the drenched floors at Ghost's feet, watching with bulging eyes and mouth trembling and agape at this creature that approached slowly.

"Johnny, what are you doing?!" Ghost scolded, but any more words were halted when he saw the look of dread and fear in his lackey's face.

He turned over his shoulder. Standing right behind him was none other than you, goddess of the sea, towering over him a full foot. You stared down at him with your golden eyes. Fear seized his heart as he stared back.

"Who... are you?" Ghost managed to blurt out as his eyes swept over your armor of thick, iridescent scales, clawed hands, and flowing, windswept hair. Before you could answer him, he croaked, "Wait, you are..."

The towering creamy marble temples and idols of you that he personally trashed in the coastal towns came to mind; how he ransacked the offerings and filled your shrines with the blood of your priests and worshippers. The face of the fallen idol he had stepped on was familiar; it was yours.

"Goddess of the sea," you opened your mouth to supply, and it gave him the opportunity to see your serrated, razor sharp, shark-like teeth.

Your voice sounded like the rumbles of the raging sea and wind to him, and infamous and unbelieving as he was, even his knees gave away, making him fall prostrate at your feet. Johnny clung to him, face pale with fright.

"Spare us, goddess! Forgive us!" cried Johnny in pathetic shivers, groveling and begging at your feet.

Your clawed hand placed itself upon the hilt of your sword. "No more," you answered, "You lot have gone far enough, and I have excused your behaviour long enough." Though your voice was calm and even, it was apparent to them from the boisterous waves, the howling winds, and the torrents that you were far from it.

"Please!" Johnny raised his head, continuing to plead.

You drew out your sword. The next thing Johnny felt was the sharp, sizzling hot sting of the sharp metal against his neck slicing against his skin, muscle, blood vessel, and bone cutting through him like he was room temperature butter. With a single sweep, his severed head was sent flying against the bannisters of the helm. His lifeless body slumped down at your feet, his life blood spurting, oozing, and pooling at your feet and at Ghost's knees, soaking into his clothes and the wood beneath him. The Captain of the vessel was frozen with fear and shock. He stared with wide, horrified eyes at the headless corpse of his second-in-command, and at his head being tossed to and fro with the ship, spreading blood all over the helm. He felt something tear in his heart.

"Johnny! Johnny!" he cried and screamed despairingly and agonizingly over the roar of the tempest when he had finally found his voice. He clasped the shoulders of the corpse and shook them vainly, as if it would revive his only friend.

The dead man's blood mingled with the seawater at your feet, and again you felt the bitter taste. You grimaced at it. You took a step back from the two, mercifully allowing Ghost a moment to mourn.

"Rise, you blasphemer," you then commanded, now easing the waves a little, "Draw out your sword and fight me."

"What power have I over a deity?" he answered without looking at you, his trembling hand placed over the back of his dead friend.

You scoffed at this meek answer. "Do not you remember how you destroyed my temples, claiming that you were stronger than the gods?" You pointed the tip of the sword under his chin, nudging his face upwards to meet your eyes, "Prove yourself."

Johnny's severed head rolled over to Ghost's knee at that moment. The fear and panic was frozen into his features, and the Captain felt the weight of his dead friend's reasoning heavy on his heart.

Ghost rose to his feet. You pulled your sword away from his chin, taking several steps back, watching as he drew out his cutlass. He raised his weary, mournful head to look back at you; for a moment he dared to feel something other fear and anger: a sense of awe at your beauty.

"You may be a goddess, but you murdered my only friend in cold blood," Ghost clenched both his jaw and his cutlass as his eyes lingered on the black sword in your hand. Jet black and shining with an ominous, otherworldly glow, it looked like a longsword forged by the gods themselves. The sight of the weapon churned his stomach, as if warning him to not be foolhardy and trifle with it.

"Have you finally realised the taste of your own medicine?" you ask, now beginning to circle him. He copied. "Though I do not murder in cold blood as you assume," your glowing eyes stared right into his dark ones, "Inflicting death is my last resort."

"Is it likewise for me then, goddess? Do you deign to be merciful unto me by letting me live a few moments more before my death?"

"Certainly, I do," you answered, "I must first ensure that you are bark as well as bite."

Ghost blinked once. He didn't see you standing before him.

"En garde, heathen!" you called, appearing directly in front of him. You brought down your sword, aiming to slice his head in half.

Ghost was quick to obey. His arm jerked upwards. Both swords met with a deafening clang. A struggle for power ensued, with the two pushing and grinding their swords against each other. The man was surprised at how you were able to swing your longsword in such a cramped helm.

"Is this a fair fight?" asked Ghost, pushing back against you, feeling his muscles tense and burn at the immense pressure you were giving right back at him. You were after all, in every sense of the word, a deity.

"No, however, for your benefit and mine, I am holding back," you drew back your weapon, easing on the pressure a little.

"You are as merciful as they say you are," he grunted, pushing back.

"I thank you."

The swords grated against each other, causing sparks to flicker at the rough contact. Pulling your sword away, you thrust the long blade to his side to injure him. But Ghost spun on his heel, turning sideways to evade the thrust. He lunged his cutlass to your neck, only for it to be stopped by your scaly armor.

You slashed horizontally against his carelessly open torso. He stomped his back foot further back to widen the gap, narrowly missing his stomach. The tip grazed against his soiled white shirt, burning the torn edges of the fabric into soot. Ghost felt the unusual heat of the weapon against his body and blocked with his weapon, and the swords ground against each other once again.

"What is that sword of yours? It is unlike anything I've ever seen," said Ghost with admiration, stepping forward and pushing against you, daring to meet your golden eyes.

"Of course it is, because it has been forged by the god of the Underworld," you explained, "with its finest underworld obsidian. It is death to any mortal who touches it."

"No wonder it burned when it touched me." He thought.

"And what, did you steal this weapon?" he taunted, smiling under his mask.

"I do not sink myself down to do such devious things," you glared at him, "I have been given complete authority to wield this sword and to kill you."

"And yet you aren't." He continued to look into your eyes, mesmerized by the liquidy gold color with flecks of brown and teal appearing as spokes on a wheel, converging into your black pupils.

This man, Ghost, had been bestowed the privilege of peering into the eyes of arguably one of the most beautiful goddesses of the realm at such close proximity; some would consider him blessed and fortunate, others the opposite, though he didn't realize it.

"Your time is not yet, but it is at hand," You looked back into his dark brown eyes, "and all of heaven, earth, and sea will bear witness."

The fight continued, and so did the tempest. He was an excellent swordsman and put up a fine fight, and you genuinely felt it a shame to kill him. However, duty was paramount. You cornered him to the teetering tip of the bowsprit, pointing your sword at him. He stood in silence, gasping heavily as he considered the raging sea beneath him and its goddess right in front of him.

"You are determined to not spare me, I presume?" he asked.

"Most determined."

The winds slowed from howls to whispers, the rain lightened, and the seas calmed slightly. Ghost maintained his balance on the narrow bowsprit, pondering. He knew he'd eventually die at sea, but never did he think he'd be face to face with the very being he didn't believe in. He looked at you, remembering the sayings of the locals, "Nobody who sees the goddess of the sea lives to tell the tale," and how true it appeared to him now, those words he called old wives tales. Your sword was pointed at him threateningly; even in the dull weather, it glowed with an ominous light, reminding him that Death himself loomed over his guilty head.

You waited, watching him closely to see what he'd say in return. Would be plead and beg? Would he be cocky even at death's door? Or something else?

He scoffed, making you raise a brow. The air was then echoing with his laughter as he declared boastfully, not knowing from whence his own self-confidence came from, "Pity, but the jaws of hell can never hold me down!"

You sighed, "Such is the hubris of man."

Bringing the sword to your side away from him, you lunged. You opened your mouth and sunk your razor-sharp teeth into his neck. He let out a bellow of pain as you pushed him off the bowsprit, sending both of you hurtling into the disturbed depths. Upon contact with the surface of the water from such a height, Ghost felt like he fell down on an iron fortress. The pain pulsated and surged like waves of an earthquake, rattling and breaking his feeble, mortal bones. As the two of you sank, the biting cold water choked and muffled his screams into air bubbles as you held him fast between your jaws.

He was thrown down to the underwater floor, feeling the weight of the entire sea pressing down on his now frail, broken body. When you let his neck go, his blood spurt out, diffusing with the water. You spat the salty liquid out, not even wanting to swallow it, and wiped your lips. He lay there on the ground, somehow still alive, but eyes dimming by the second as he watched the daylight several fathoms over him flickering. You stood over over him with your feet planted on the ground on either side of his waist, blocking out the dim light from his vision. Taking the hilt of your sword in both your hands, you pointed the blade downwards, pressing the tip gently over his heart.

"Have you any last words, heathen?" you asked, staring down at him.

He looked back at you, and there was a certain twinkle in his dark eyes even then as he took in your features. One last time, he observed how your flowing hair floated in the water, how your golden eyes glowed, and how your iridescent scales flickered against the filtering daylight. He opened his quivering lips and croaked a muffled response over the water filling his lungs.

"You are beautiful."

You closed your eyes for a moment and then opened them again.

"I thank you."

He felt the burning metal of your deadly sword sink into his chest, piercing into his heart as you thrust the weapon in. His eyes remained on you, even as they dimmed and his consciousness slowly ebbed away, filling him with a strange peace.

You pulled out your sword and looked down at his body. His blood rose from the wound and mingled into the water like the soft, coiling wisps of smoke of burnt incense in your temples.

You wiped the blood off the sword, signifying the end of your duty. Stooping down, you sliced off the strings of his skull mask and pulled it away from his face to take a look at this infamous man. A pity he was so handsome.

Taking a step back, you rose and swam away with the prize, letting him rest in his watery grave.

[moodymisty]

Hi, it’s Lorgar anon crawling back in your askbox like some kind of vermin. The way you write is just so gorgeous that I can’t stop myself from unleashing a follow-up headcanon ask to what you’ve written. Sorry in advance:

Lorgar, as you have said, has the tendency to vehemently worship. But I’m now thinking of the implications of that on the worlds he conquered. I mean, isn’t he already walking around and preaching about how much of a god his father is? What’s stopping people from starting to view you in the same light?

Because if the son of god treats you as an equal and calls you beloved, and if his sons call you “mother”. What’s stopping some agri-worlder from speaking your name during a prayer? I suppose it’s only natural, it’s so obvious to them that you’re holy.

Basically what I’m trying to say is you might accidentally become a folk saint.

Did Lorgar start it? Probably not, or at least he did it by accident. Does he encourage it when he finds out about it? Maaaaaybe. Just maybe. He can have a little bit of worship, as a treat.

Cue to you taking a trip to Monarchia and seeing a little shrine in the corner of a temple that is definitely of you (but with a halo or something). And you’re like “Lorgar please explain”. And he’s like “Let’s not explain this in front of your worshippers”. And you’re like “my WHAT-”

Well, this x reader idea is all fun and games. That is if The Emperor never found out about it. Because if he does then ohhhh boy do you have a second terrible father in law on your hands! You sure as hell wouldn’t want that to happen. But i'm sure he’d never pay attention to a planet such as Monarchia, right?

Right??

I've always sort of leaned into this idea with the Lorgar fics that he loves to worship his beloved, but it's a precarious pedestal you could fall off of at any moment. Lorgar is fickle at best, and with people like Kor Phaeron and Erebus whispering in his ear.

And in the eyes of people below him, either his legion or the people of Colchis, if he's that way to you, then clearly you're something they should pray to as well, right?

If their Primarch, lord and master, whispers praises to you and receives love in return, if his sons call you mother and raise their swords at the slightest danger, then surely altars in their homes, mumbled kneeling prayers and rosaries would earn your love as well?

Worshipping a Primarch is one thing, and even if this is 30k and they're far less treated as gods as they will be, they still see them as something beyond them. So anything attached tends to get similar treatment.

But his human lover isn't that far beyond them. You were chosen, gifted by a father or picked out from a crowd of dedicated worshipers (the story twists and changes depending on the person telling it) and rose above all the rest. To his people that is attainable, that faith has rewards.

Needless to say finding out that it's a thing let alone that Lorgar is in some way unconsciously (or consciously) encouraging it is quite the shock. Though you more than likely have little chance at stopping it at this point. You at least can get somewhat used to it, as long as no one goes absolutely insane about it.

(Lorgar also loves all of this. One of his favorite nicknames for you now is that you're his little goddess. It's usually used in more, intimate scenarios however.)

The Emperor finding out... yikes. Yet another tally for him in the reason why he's going to burn Monarchia into ash. He might take note that you aren't the one encouraging this, but at the end of the day, you and Lorgar are lumped into the same pile now.

[hezzabeth]

Everyone who lived on Baker Street had come out from the fog to eat Nanni’s dinner. This made perfect sense; Nanni was one of the few people in the park who knew how to cook meals using ingredients and an oven.

When the park was still open, Revati's home was a coffee shop called the “Mad Hatter Teaparty.” The walls were painted in eye-watering clashing shades of neon pink and green. The light fixtures hanging from the ceiling were all giant velvet top hats. The booths were giant flower teacups with tiny chairs and tables inside.

"Was there some sort of drug in the pineapple?" Revati heard Brigadeiro ask. Revati just ignored him and instead walked past each of the booths, collecting tributes; nobody ate Nanni’s for free.

The Paprikas sat in the blue and gold teacup, their neon orange hair clashing with the paint. The Paprikas were two brothers and their sister who had found themselves trapped in the park as children. Their parents had been vaporized by a towel-warming rack. Now they were in their mid-twenties and worked for Revati as hired muscle for free dinners.

"Who's the new guy? He's actually clean and good-looking," the youngest brother Brie asked Revati. "His name is Brigadeiro Bun; he's an off-world tourist who stupidly went to the wasteland," Revati said. "I was trying to find crystal roses," Brigadeiro smiled helpfully.

"Bridgadeiro huh? So your parents were Goup worshippers then?" The sister, Juniper, asked curiously. Revati vaguely knew that Goupism was a popular religion on other colonies. Over a thousand years ago, there was once a woman who apparently traveled the earth gathering the best health practices needed to be “happy.” "A white woman, and she stole most of her ideas from our eastern religions," Amma, who was a staunch atheist, had snapped with annoyance when Revati asked her to explain the Paprika siblings' religion. Still, despite her thievery, at some point, she had become a god. They firmly believed in things such as “psychic vampires” and “color-balancing therapy.” They also all had peculiar food-related names, mainly because the goddess had named her daughter Apple.

"Yes, they were. They insisted on coming here for a Wellness Day holiday," the eldest brother, Croquette, growled. "I miss mama's Wellness Day Avocado and chocolate cookies," Juniper sighed sadly. "It's not the same, but here I have a couple of factory-made ones in my pocket," Brigadeiro said, crawling into the booth. The Paprika siblings gasped with astonishment as he pulled a packet of cookies wrapped in gold paper out of his jumpsuit's gigantic pocket. "They got a bit crushed when I was kidnapped, but they're still good," he said, opening the package and placing it on the table. The Paprika siblings stared at the cookies, their mouths slack with shock. Croquette slowly shook his head, completely snatched the package, and began to serve the crushed crumbs amongst his siblings. "You need to keep this one forever," Juniper said firmly, and Revati just shook her head, moving onto the next table.

The next table consisted of the elderly Gupta couple. "You adopted another kid? If you want more water for him, we want more dried apples," Mrs. Gupta said, a small scowl on her wizened face. It was Mr. Gupta who had figured out how to gather and purify water from the atmosphere. It was Mrs. Gupta who managed and recorded all the water they collected, rolling it out like a tyrannical dictator. "Fine, one extra package of dried apples per week," Revati said before swishing grandly onwards.

Amma was sitting in the pink cup, her new partner Dusk Brisbane. Dusk Brisbane was a teacher from Titan, who, along with their students on a field trip, found themselves stuck in the park. Like all people from Titan, Dusk had inherited the ability to rapidly change biological genders. Titan had also inherited a name that meant a time of day and a gender. Dusk’s remaining students were sitting with Dityaa on a large cat-shaped sofa. When the invasion began, there were twenty-three of them. Now there were only five nineteen-year-olds left. Dityaa was holding court over all of them, sitting on a couch shaped like a giant grinning beast. "Your sister said you had an interesting night," Amma remarked as Revati sat down next to her. Nanni had laid out a plate of aloo mushroom curry. Revati picked up a piece of hardtack and dipped it into the sauce, refusing to talk. "So you're not even going to bother telling your side of the story?" Amma asked as Revati swallowed. Nanni always moaned that her cooking was so much better before the war. Years ago, Nanni worked in the city as a professional meal prepper for wealthy families that wanted to eat real organic food.

Nanni was proud of her ability to create one hundred percent sand-free meals using the most exotic ingredients. Nanni would bemoan to everyone that her meals were now a mess, that her spices were too basic, and that she never had enough salt. Revati, however, who had never tried anything else, thought her food was delicious. "I'm hungry! Besides, what's the point in telling my side? I'm sure Dityaa's story was more enthralling," Revati replied. "Every story needs both sides and the truth," Dusk remarked. As they spoke, their features shifted from a feminine middle-aged woman's face to a man's face with a beard. "You're not my creative writing teacher, and you're not my parent," Revati pointed out.

Revati knew deep down she didn’t dislike Dusk; Dusk was a perfectly decent person. Not to mention Amma had been so lonely until Dusk offered to help her teach the feral children a year ago. Still, it was a lot to get used to.

“True, but your mother did ask you a question, and I think she deserves an answer," Dusk replied in that same mild diplomatic voice. Revati deliberately ate another mouthful of curry before wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her dress. "Dityaa got attacked by some lady at the ball; the chutiya had A.I. eye implants! They must have switched on somehow," Revati explained. "Mind your mouth, Revati! There will be no swearing at the dinner table," Amma scolded her. "Her implants switched on? That's so odd; one of my students had AI tastebuds, but they stopped working the second we walked into the park," Dusk remarked, their face shifting back into a woman's as they glanced at one of their students. The student in question, Basil Paris, was sitting next to Dityaa, licking their hand. Dusk was right; in order to create true "historical authenticity," the park was surrounded by massive mirrors. The volcanic Martian glass blocked the "AI" life stream. "And what did you do?" Amma asked in a quiet, nervous voice. "I threw a glass of vodka at her face, and her eyes fried up," Revati replied.

"Can you take the children's sign language lesson tomorrow morning? I need to check the mirrors around the walls," Amma said to Dusk.

"Of course," Dusk replied, and Revati rolled her eyes.

"You don't need to do anything, Amma! I'm the elected leader of Baker Street! This is my job," Revati said firmly.

"You're only seventeen!" Amma protested.

"Almost everyone voted for me! Well, apart from Mrs. Gupta, who voted for herself," Revati said, and mother sighed.

"Fine! But you're not going to leave well after the sun rises, and you're not taking Cora and Laila! You can take Vivienne and Jay Jr.," Mother replied firmly.

Nine minutes past midnight.

Revati's eyes snapped open in the blue-glowing darkness. Slowly, she sat up, taking in the familiar shapes of the kitchen's walk-in freezer. Dityaa was sleeping next to her on the souvenir pillows Amma had sewn together into a makeshift bed. In the corner, the feral children slept together in a nest made of old soft toys. Nanni was snoring on one of the plastic shelves that had long ago stored ice cream. Amma insisted on them all sleeping behind the massive metal doors. To anyone who lived near any other planet, it would have been freezing, but Martians had evolved to withstand the cold.

Revati stood up and glanced down at Dityaa. Dityaa had worn her new dress to bed, ignoring the stains. The blood on her dress looked shiny black, her face shadowy blue. She looked just like Princess Savitri in the family book of fairy tales. Revati, on the other hand, had changed into her pajamas, which consisted of a long-sleeved men's shirt three sizes too big. The red fabric hung to her knees, and the words "Olde Landon Halloweenfest 3544" had been printed across the front. Revati picked up her blanket, draping it around her shoulders. Sleep wasn't going to return any time soon. Revati reached underneath her part of the mattress until she found the stories.

Outside the metal doors, Revati could hear distant voices, and carefully she slid the door open. Amma and Dusk were sitting together on the cat-shaped couch, murmuring to each other over tea.

"I don't see how they could know..." Amma began, and then she trailed off, spotting Revati.

"Insomnia again?" She asked gently, and Revati nodded, walking past the two of them.

"If you're going up to the greenhouse, be quiet; I made a bed for the boy up there," Mother replied.

"Really, Amma? You couldn't give him a bed?" Revati asked, opening the front door.

"He would freeze in the fridge, and he said he liked plants," Mother replied.

Outside, the fog was still shifting, and Revati moved ten spaces to the right.

"Evening, boss," Juniper's voice called, and she suddenly appeared holding a jar filled with glowing mushrooms.

"Any problems?" Revati asked.

"Nope, it's been a pretty quiet night!" Juniper said.

"Good, make sure your brother takes over your shift! We don't want you fainting from sleep deprivation again," Revati replied.

[writermask-0807]

“winter’s eve,” or: “and the cold of your embrace.” gojo satoru x reader

Warnings: wrote this in a weird mood and a banging headache, so that's probably why it sounds so shitty lmao (😭) there’s also some stuff that doesn’t add up so there's that. angst with no happy ending (dont come for me yall), implied cheating, swearing (like one f bomb lol), also the title literally has nothing related to the fic in itself (except maybe one paragraph 😭). uhh that's all, I think, but lmk if I missed anything!!!

he comes home late, your satoru. late enough that it’s early, actually, with the pale rim of the sun trying to push weakly through the bruise-colored clouds purpling the night sky - late enough that you think he’s not coming, like most other nights. 

but when he comes stumbling in, staggering off to the side as he giggles, drunk, with pink in his cheeks either from the cold or the booze, you think it might’ve been better if he didn’t come home at all. and it sounds cruel, doesn’t it? knowing why satoru, your satoru, who can’t really be called yours anymore, (from a god to a worshipper, did you really think that he would love you like he actually, truly meant it?) is like this. why things are like this, really, but it’s getting harder to bear, these days. 

and as tears fills your eyes when your mouth parts open to speak, you wonder when it’s changed to bearing, and not loving satoru. “where were you?” you ask him, and it’s a broken, whispered thing, no longer being shouted with explosive anger, wrapped in vicious hurt and dripping venom. 

it comes out resigned. tired. you’re tired, and maybe he sees it, for once; (and you want to scoff at the irony of it all — because even with his all-seeing six eyes, satoru has always been blind to you. or maybe he chooses to slide a rose-tinted film over them, and honestly, at this point, you don’t know which one is worse-) maybe he sees the harsh shadows in your eyes and the halo of dark circles, the bitten lips and the messy hair. maybe he sees that he’s the root of all this, because he stops. 

there’s a pause - a sobering quiet, and you think he knows what’s coming. there’s something in the air, something cold and stinging, something tight enough that when you finally breathe his name, it feels like a thread snapping, something falling apart at the seams — like blood oozing through the stitches of a wound, scabbed over and over and never quite healing. a beat too late, you realize that that something is really you and satoru. you and me, he said. we. us.

there is no us, satoru. there was never an “us” and that fucking hurts.

and now it’s all gone, snowed over by satoru and his frost-cold eyes and his freezing voice and his icicle-sharp words, cutting so deep that you’re afraid you can’t dig them out, especially with your winter-numbed fingers. in hindsight, you really should have seen this coming. 

and he must see it too, now, because satoru is a man called god - mighty and powerful and all-seeing - and he truly plays the part. and so he smiles, wide and nonchalant like he doesn’t know this is ripping you apart. like he doesn’t know that this is the end. like he doesn’t even care, and you hate him for it. 

“oh, you know. out.” 

he says lazily, throwing his shades off as he stumbles his way towards you, arms wide open, grinning all the while. you flinch as he steps into the moonlight, reaching out for you, those cruel, cruel eyes holding the stormy brilliance of the skies, glimmering in the weak light — and you think that cuts through the fuzz, the haziness in his mind - sobers him up.

satoru stops, only a breath away from you, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath and the scent of another catching in his clothes and his hair and his skin, see that the smile has slipped off of his face, see the shimmer of his cold eyes, the gaping emptiness in them - a void, that, no matter how much you give of yourself to him, that can never be filled. 

“you’re leaving.” he breathes quietly, soft. broken.

you remain silent, tears clouding your eyes, spilling over your cheeks like a dam burst. because you’d expected yelling, screaming and even cursing, or the cold indifference that satoru has always used to freeze you out, and this - this vulnerability hurts so much more. you wish he would just - just - 

a trembling hand comes to cup your cheek, cradles your jaw, lifts your eyes to meet his, full of melted ice, desperate and searching for something, anything to hold onto, but it’s been ten long, painful years of breaking and fixing, hurting and healing until you’re so scarred over that there’s nothing else left to wound, and by god - you’re so, so tired.

you bring a shaky hand to cup his, curled around your face, tears trembling on your lashes, unable to bear that look of heartbreak in those damned crystalline eyes of his. did he see this, too? 

“i love you. i love you so, so much, don’t you know that?” he murmurs, voice catching, forehead knocking against yours, and you stifle a sob behind gritted teeth. because you know. of course you do; it’s why you’re here now. it’s why you’ve always been here for so long. 

“i know, satoru. i know, but this love of yours is only killing me.” you tell him in a broken whisper, and you feel his grip tighten, feel him shake against you. 

“don’t say that. don’t say that. please…” satoru never begs. he never has had the need to, but now - now he wonders if anything would have changed if he had. he would have fallen at your feet, begged you with all that he had and meant it with his entire chest, baring the tender heart inside for the entire world to see. but it’s too late.

he’s always too late.

“please…” he murmurs against your mouth, lips brushing against yours in one last desperate attempt - and it’s helpless and bitter and wet from the salt of your tears — yours or his, maybe. you don’t know anymore. 

he kisses you and you kiss him back just as hard and wanting, fingers curling into the moon-bright mess of his hair as you tug him down, nails digging into his back and his mouth crushed against yours and it’s desperate and rough and messy, and it feels like the last time and the first time in a long time but this is it. 

this is the end. 

and when he finally pulls back, panting and breathless, you think he knows it too. 

“i’m sorry, satoru.” 

you tell him, and even without the tears in your eyes, and the waver in your voice and the ache in your chest, he knows you’d mean it all the same. you’ve never been as selfish as him, even now, even when it’s your right to be. you could never be as cruel as him. and maybe that’s why this is goodbye. 

and so gojo satoru is selfless for once. he doesn’t chase after the warmth of your mouth when you press your lips to his one last time, a parting gift - a lingering curse. he doesn’t have it in him to look up even when he feels you glance at him one last time, your eyes tired and mournful and full of tears. 

and worst of all, he doesn’t hear the faint “i love you,” that lingers long after you leave, silent to his ears, the door to his house left open, but his home long gone.

FIN-

[thatorigamiguy]

Alive Me

Pyrrha: "Alive me bitch! I need to get that Arc dick!"

GoL: "NO! YOU'VE ASKED ME THIS A THOUSAND TIMES, AND I'LL KEEP TELLING YOU AS SUCH! BESIDES, HE'S WITH ROSE ANYWAY, SO WHAT WOULD IT MATTER?!"

Pyrrha: "Yeah, I know he's with Ruby now! You think that will stop me from fucking him? Hell, I'll fuck her too! They're both total catches, and here I am, wasting away being dead as fuck when I COULD be down their alive as fuck and GETTING fucked!"

    GoL openly gaped at Pyrrha’s aggressive honesty, before gritting his teeth in annoyance.

GoL: "THE ANSWER. IS. NO!"

    Pyrrha narrows her eyes at GoL in annoyance, before a gasp escaped her as she was hit with a sudden epiphany. She turned to face GoD with a gleeful smile on her face.

Pyrrha: "Will you alive me again and put me back on Remnant?"

GoL: "WHAT?! MY BROTHER WILL DO NO SUCH THING-" 

GoD: "DEPENDS. WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?"

    His brothers interruption caught GoL off so suddenly, that it caused him to nearly choke on his own spit before he gave him an incredulous look.

GoL: "WHAT?!"

    Pyrrha flashed GoD a dazzling PR smile worthy of champion fighter, before happily explaining her proposal to the curious deity.

Pyrrha: "I'll not only go down and continue helping to fix your brothers fuck ups, I'll also convert Jaune AND Ruby into being worshippers of yours and helping others understand your words and teachings!"

    GoD put a hand to his chin as he thought her words over, while GoL could only stare on in disbelief at the fact that his brother was actually giving them consideration.

GoD: "MMMMMH, THOSE ARE PRETTY GOOD TERMS..."

GoL: "BROTHER, YOU CANNOT JUST-!"

    Before GoL could finish, Pyrrha chose to propose one last add on that she knew would bring his brother to her side.

Pyrrha: "Plus, it would annoy both Salem, Ozpin, AND your brother to no end knowing that you willingly allowed me back to life but refused to let either one of them pass on, even if it's your brothers fault!"

    Pyrrha knew she had the God of Darkness right then and there when his eyes widened in shocked glee and he clapped both his hands together sending a loud echo throughout the unending darkness surrounding them.

GoD: "AND WE HAVE OURSELVES A DEAL MISS NIKOS!"

GoL: "WHAT?! BROTHER YOU CAN'T-!"

    GoL tried interjecting, only to be cut off as his brother gave him a scathing look.

GoD: "I CAN DO WHATEVER THE FUCK I DESIRE TO DO BROTHER, ESPECIALLY IN REGARDS TO THE DEAD. BECAUSE THE LAST TIME I CHECKED, MY REPSONABILITES PERTAINED TO DEALING WITH BOTH LIFE AND DEATH, AND AS SUCH, I CAN LET HER GO BACK DOWN IF I DAMN SO WELL PLEASE.”

GoL: "I-YOU-HOW DARE-!"

GoD: "BROTHER, ARE YOU TRULY GOING TO DENY SENDING BACK A POWERFUL WARRIOR SUCH AS MISS NIKOS? SURELY HER STRENGTH AND SKILL WOULD AID YOUR IDIOT FAILURE OF A KNIGHT IN ACTUALLY COMPLETEING THIS ABSOLUTE MORONIC TASK AGAINST SALEM?" 

    GoL fought hard to keep his temper under control, his teeth gnashing against one another as he really had no counter argument to deny Nikos from returning to the mortal coil. 

GoL: "...I WILL CONCEDE THAT HER SKILLS AND STRENGTH WOULD BE A BOON TO OZMA’S CRUSADE AGAINST SALEM. BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN-!”

    GoL hadn’t even finished speaking when he was once again cut off by his brother, who held a satisfied smile on his face.

GoD: "THEN IT'S SETTLED. MISS NIKOS WILL BREATH MORTAL AIR YET AGAIN." 

GoL: "YOU JUST CAN'T DECIDE THAT RIGHT NOW!"

GoD: "OH, BUT I CAN DEAR BROTHER! AND BY "I CAN" I MEAN, I ALREADY SENT HER BACK FIVE MINUTES AGO WHILE I WAS DISTRACTING YOU."

GoL: "...YOU SON OF BIT-!"

-Back on Remnant-

    Pyrrha breathed in deeply, taking in that fresh, living air, before exhaling it all out. she opened her eyes to take in a bright sunny day, her whole being vibrating with excitement, and before she knew it she was running to the nearby borders of Argus. She let loose a cackle, before she loudly declared to the whole world.

Pyrrha: "FUCKING FREE AGAIN BITCHES! YOU TWO BETTER KEEP THAT BED WARM AND READY, BECAUSE I'M READY AND WILLING BABY!"

________________________________________________

From the Archives of Madness that is @noneatnonedotcom and I’s discord. Something I came up with, because the thought of Pyrrha asking GoD to bring her back alive solely to annoy GoL amused me. Not even being dead will deny her getting laid by that hunky blond of hers, and if she’s gotta share? Well, he’s not called Jaune “Red Heads Do It Better” Arc for nothing.

[iron-roses]

can i put my balls in yo jaaawwzzzzz bawwwlzz in yo jawwwzzzz

no

[lianobody]

Warnings: Worshipping behaviour, yandere platonic hashiras.

[Name] was a Goddess a very powerful one she cared for her people and gave them blessings her worshippers cared for her deeply but a certain group of 9 say they worship [Name] more then anyone or anything.

At night all the Hashira goes to an altar with your picture on it when they saw they picture all the Hashira smiled even Giyuu. with a lot of offerings on it. It can be roses or your favourite things. All the Hashira were very devoted to you and they all have there reasons for it. “Let’s pray for our loving Goddess!” Gyomei said all the Hashira nodded.

“Dear divine thank you for making us live another day. Without you we wouldn’t feel any emotion we hope we can forgive us for all the sins we did and if you can’t we promise we do anything for you to forgive us”

After the Hashira were done praying they got the gifts they got you and they placed it down on your altar. “I wish one day our divine one could come to Earth” Giyuu mumbled but yet all the Hashira could hear him. “I hate to agree with you but I want her to come down to Earth to” Sanemi said glaring at Giyuu rudely. They were about to go home until..

Someone dropped down from the building and fell face flat! It left a hole in the wall and the Hashira were mad and wanted to kill you for destroying your altar. The person taught they were a demon as they had black horns. “This demon destroyed our goddesses altar. We have to kill them brutally” Muichiro muttered madly. “I’ll make sure to torture them with a heavy poison!” Shinobu smiled in a menacing way. Obanai was about to stab you until you woke up. They looked at your appearance and you had star pupils? Only there divine one has star eyes! And you also have black horns? Do they think your there goddess? NOPE! They think your a copycat! “This copycat had the urge to copy our divine one appearance!“ Obanai madly said. “These are the people I helped when they were in a rough time. I remember but I don’t blame them for thinking I’m a identity fraud I wouldn’t believe myself either” you taught to yourself. “Wait I’m actually not a fraud!” You said! You were not scared as you were immortal. But not to your surpriseyou were “lying” that you were the God they worshipped. “You have guts to lie that your our divine one your nothing but a demon” Sanemi said smiling in a menacing way. You we’re going to defend yourself until Mitsuri’s blade scratched you. “That’s what you gets for disrespecting our God! >:(“. Gyomei about to finish the final blow until your Black blood was shown. All of them were thinking “Wait I taught demons had Red blood like us? Wait! That means!” They all went down all their knees immediately after they realized. “Please forgive us our divine one we were foolish and mistaken you for a demon and a fake” Gyomei said while crying. “It’s ok guys I forgive you all! You guys can stand” All the Hashira signed in relieved and they stood up. They wouldn’t know what to do if you didn’t forgive them they were grateful that your such a forgiving and nice God.

“Our divine one we are so grateful you ascended to earth!” Rengoku said coming one step closer to you. “I hope we will be of worth to you!” Tengen said. Meanwhile every Hashira was already thinking of a way to kidnap you. “Would you like to come with us. You don’t hav a place to stay..” Muichiro curiously said. “Oh don’t worry I’m good! I can just Uhm use magic to make a building” all the Hashira was mad at that! They needed there Goddess to stay with them! So Gyomei knocked you out and you were bleeding a little your very strong but physically weak. Sanemi went to go check on you “Lets hope she will still forgive us..” wiping your Black blood away.

Headcannons

Remember it’s platonic

• Some of the Hashira didn’t worship you in the beginning but after you went into there lives they couldn’t find a way for you to get back out.

• Sanemi didn’t worship you and often ignored the posters of you until after he killed his mom. While we was walking home still sad about his moms death he started to cry until he saw a poster of you. He felt happier? But why did he his mom died because of him. Until it clicked he felt happier because you felt pity and sadness for him you wanted to be his new mom. And he accepted that rather quickly. When he was still a kid and was killing demons by tying them up he said some lines such as “This is for [Name]” or “[Name] is proud of me” and after he kills the demon he says “I know your proud of me my divine one” or “My divine one are you proud of me? Why am I even saying this I know you are..right?” Sometime he kills people for sacrifices to you surely you enjoy the things he does for you?

• Even through he is colourblind he can see you in colour

• Tengen’s clan worshipped you so he was forced to worship you but he didn’t pray to you or participate in any religion related stuff since he didn’t participate in any religious stuff he taught you hated him. But after his clan died he felt lighter in his body and he felt Happier when it was raining he didn’t have an umbrella but an umbrella flew his way untouched and he taught you gave mercy on him. You still loved him you gave him a second chance he must make it up to you! He prays every night for forgiveness for 2 straight months. When he thinks he’s forgiven he does rituals. The rituals are that he kills people and puts their blood in a cup and prays hoping you will ascend to earth.

• Giyuu knew about you in the beginning but he really didn’t worship you he barley paid attention to you until his elder sister died he taught that was you punishing him for his ‘sins’ but he hated you he despised you after Sabito died he hated you more for not blessing him with luck until he ears a voice in his head saying “I’m sorry please forgive me” and he taught that was you. Why are you begging him to forgive you? Your the god not him but it doesn’t stop him from obsessing over you. Always praying to you and begs for blessings once in a while and you give them to him but not exactly.

• Giyuu is also the second one closest to you he taught you human things and took care of you. You see him as a dad. But he sees you as a fragile thing that needs to be protected.

• The day before Kanae died Shinobu saw Kanae having photos you everywhere the house and she was mad at her for this “Big sister! If [Name] was a really powerful god then why didn’t she save our family!” Kanae was smiling and just patted her head which made Shinobu rage intensify. After Kanae died Shinobu saw this as a warning to worship you and she did praying to every night but then she guilt tripped herself that you were her saviour and she convinced Kanao and Aoi to worship you to.

• Mitsuri didn’t worship you in the beginning as she didn’t know who you were but after her failed marriage courting she was walking and saw an altar she went in it and saw a picture of you. She saw how you were the most beautiful thing to exist she needed to worship you. She found out your name, your family member, your favorite things and your backstory she cries when she saw how you were so mistreated by your parents because you tried to go to Earth. she needed to protect you! And she did by killing people who spoke badly of you.

• Obanai was the first one to worship you while all the females in his family was worshiping the serpent demon he worshipped you. He had a dream of you and you were talking to him how he will escape one day. He woke up he didn’t want the dream to end. Before he met Mitsuri you were the only female he liked (Platonic) he kills people who dear disrespect the first women who helped him thru his trauma. He dreams of you 4 times a month and your the ones giving him dreams and you make sure to check on him daily.

• Muichiro didn’t really like you only because Yuichiro didn’t like you so he listened to Yuichiro but then after Yuichiro died he hated you more. Until he randomly started to forget things but why did he remember the hatred he has for you? Until it clicked. He only remembers you because you matter to him.. He’s happy he doesn’t forget you he prays to you daily and goes to your altar a lot.

• Muichiro clings onto you often when your in the basement no where to run.

• Gyomei Didn’t worship you as he worships Buddha but then one day we was walking past your altar he didn’t have any intentions to go in but he had a gut feeling to but then something unexpected happened. He acutally could see how you look like but he couldn’t see the people around him.. only your picture. This much be a sign he has to worship you! He worships you and prays to you daily. When he’s eating he always leaves a chair beside him as your sitting with him.

• Rengoku didn’t worship you in the beginning as he taught your the reason his mom died and his dad is an alcoholic until one day he saw senjuro praying to you. He didn’t like that one bit but he didn’t confront him but then the next day he saw Senjuro so much happier Rengoku knew it was your doing he decided to worship you. Whenever he’s in a conversation he always brings up you but if a person says anything rude about you ex: “She’s not the divine one” the only thing that will save them from death if there in another religion or they just say there joking and say compliments about you and Rengoku will join then into saying compliments.

After you ascended all the Hashira were so happy and they needed to kidnap you to make sure your ‘safe’ you can’t be rude to them its impossible for you to! You allow them to be clingy to you and kill people for you even though they disturb you. To make it even worse they are delusional to! They read all the scriptures about you they say no one can compare the worship we have to anyone else. They think you enjoy the things they are doing to you.

[azrielgreen]

The Way It Shouldn't Be - Final Part

They're playing a song Eddie would hate and everyone's paired up and pretending like they got ANY of Tommy's liquor, dancing wildly and laughing loud but not loud enough to drown out the song Eddie would hate.

Steve's on the fringes, watching.

Has his own alcohol, got a never ending supply from his Dad's office. He thinks of the massive blowout party he and Tommy and the boys always planned for. Post Prom Insanity: partying for two maybe three days and then taking a roadtrip together, see other places, go on adventures.

Tommy's engaged to Carol, who's pregnant and no one's meant to know but of course everyone does. He's gonna work for his Dad, the thing he always said he never wanted to do. Everyone else, Steve wouldn't piss on them if they were on fire so yeah, no party.

No road trip.

No Eddie.

But Steve's there; hired the tux and everything, so why fuckin' not?

He drinks and imagines fucking Eddie somewhere on campus, the music playing while they kiss. He imagines a lot of shit that's not ever gonna happen because good things don't last.

They're not made to last.

It's not the way things are.

Whatever.

Stupid Enola Gay comes on and Steve tries not get all caught up in the melody, the way the minor keys fuck him up.

Eddie's not coming.

He knows because he swung by Eddie's trailer earlier, met Wayne.

The older man was kind, but really clear when he said Eddie was staying with friends for a few days.

Steve is sulking.

Kind of spoiling for a fight.

First dick he sees harassing a girl is gonna eat it, simple as that.

God, he feels like a chaperone.

Like he's a thousand years old.

Cannot wait to get home, cry and jerk off before he falls asleep. Wonderful plans. Stellar.

'Fuck you,' he mutters, takes another slug. Enola Gay always moves him.

He gives up when the song ends, what's the literal point of staying when the best song is already gone.

He's sulky, moody and still heartbroken.

Still in love.

It's not how it should be.

He knows that.

But it's how it fucking is.

He's leaving, he decides.

He feels ruthlessly good about it when someone grabs his hand and yanks him with knowing roughness.

'Dumping out, Harrington?'

He whirls, blinks.

Is a little drunk but like... not enough for this.

'Eddie?'

He looks...

Oh my god he's kind of dressed up.

For Eddie, he's dressed up, meaning he looks way more Devil Worshipper than usual. Hair all roughed up and wavy, eyeliner, all black, laced untied and that godforsaken Dio cut off he adores.

He's got a silver earring in; a dangly rose. It's undoubtedly something a girl would wear, all sparkly.

'Oh my god,' Steve mutters, dazed.

Then he shakes himself and smacks Eddie around the face.

'OK, ow.'

'You fucker! You don't call me for weeks and now you just rock up here, looking stupidly hot--'

'Aww thanks, babe.'

'--like no time has passed and nothing happened!'

Eddie sighs, glances around.

'People are staring.'

'I don't care!'

'You're drunk!'

'Well, you're an idiot!'

'Well, I love you.'

'Well, I love YOU-wait, no. What?'

Eddie rolls his eyes, pulls Steve close.

'I want us too.' Then he lets out a shaky sigh, strokes Steve's face. 'Christ, everyone is literally staring but i--'

Steve kisses him.

The world jumps the tracks.

The song skips.

Nothing will ever be the same.

It's the best fucking kiss of his life.

'I wanna fuck you.'

'Right here?' Eddie's kissing him back, its delightful, fucking gorgeius. 'Man, you really are a kinky fucker, but I've actually for a surprise for you?'

'You're not gonna sing to me, right?'

'Have a little faith in me, Harrington.'

'Does it get us the fuck out of here?'

Eddie grins, grabs his hand again.

*

'So, what do you think?'

Steve can't think. His brain is all mushy.

'Um.'

'You don't like it.'

'Eddie,' he says with soft astonishment. 'You didn't have to do this.'

The van is big, spacious. Steve's been in it before when it was not spacious, at all. Eddie has cleared the back completely but more than that, he's got supplies inside. Bedrolls, pillows, knives (of course) as well as cases of bottled water, canned good, tools, a compass and a map.

'I heard good things about Chicago.'

'From who?'

'A lady trying to sell me tickets to Chicago, but look.' Eddie sighs, wraps his arms around Steve's middle from behind. 'I just wanna try. I wanna be with you and not be scared to lose out. I can't run, don't wanna do that.' He kisses his neck. 'I'm in if you are.'

'We could go anywhere?'

'Anywhere.'

'What if you hate me after a week?'

'That's why god invented hatefucking.'

'What if we get lost?'

Eddie's lips are warm against his skin. 'Sounds fun.'

'What if--?'

'Gonna save you some time, Harrington, there's a million reasons not to do something, OK? We don't have to, but I saw the maps on your wall. I know you want to blast outta this town and so do I. I love you, Steve. I'm being brave. You wanna be brave too?'

Steve leans his head back, looks up at the stars. He can hear the music from inside, muffled but still undeniable. Eddie's all around him, they're swaying a little.

He closes his eyes, smiles.

'Dance with me first?'

~ the end.

💕💕💕

[whathebeep]

your Wyll wedding headcanons were so sweet 😭

Do you have any for a wedding with Shadowheart perhaps? 👀

Thank you so much, I'm glad you enjoyed!! And absolutely!!

Shadowheart's wedding is 100% semi-religious, for obvious reasons! We'll also look at this from a Selunite route because let's be real, in the bad route for Shadowheart I imagine you'd be made to become a Sharran and more so dedicate yourself to Shar rather than Shadowheart herself.

In the good route, though, the wedding is officiated by Isobel of course. Dame Aylin probably plays a part too, offering a blessing from Selune. In a way I also imagine she helps Isobel place a blessing on your rings with eternal protection from Selune. Druids from the Emerald Grove also attend the wedding, having never forgotten what you all did for them; I imagine they're the ones who grow night orchids for the wedding too.

The wedding itself is a grand affair. I imagine a bit further down the line when you two decide to marry, you return to the Selune temple from back in Act 1. I imagine Isobel and Dame Aylin returned to the area with the Selunite worshippers they joined up with and restored the temple and nearby village to its former glory. Your wedding is the first held there, and it's extravagant occasion. There is plenty to reminisce on being in the former goblin camp once more, reflecting on your travels together when there.

I imagine there's a wedding procession from Baldur's Gate, led by you and Shadowheart's wagon and followed by two-three wagons of your friends who are travelling for the wedding too- you travel through the former Shadowlands and friends from there join the procession too, all too happy to celebrate your joyous wedding.

Shadowheart's wedding dress is extravagant in everyway. I imagine it to be a mix of white, gold and light blue, with a golden moon fixed to the dip in the v-neck of it, and night orchids made into a beautiful flower crown for her, and in her bouquet along with a mix of red roses.

There is probably a Selune ritual that involves you both drinking milk from the same bowl before and after putting on your rings. I also imagine the wedding is held on the first night of a full moon, perhaps during the summer time too.

I imagine Karlach will be Shadowheart's maid of honour, and Lae'zel, Nocturne and Wyll would be her bridesmaids, while Halsin, Astarion and Gale are your bridesmaids/groomsmen.

The wedding is gorgeous and Shadowheart definitely cries at the sight of you. In her vows she swears by Selune that she'd love you to the end of time and beyond. She'd adventure by your side for the rest of days, and dedicate every breathing moment to you and your everlasting love. You made her forget loss and remember what love was, brought light back into her life. What more could she ever ask for?

If your character is a former dark urge, I imagine she'd also swear she'd fight Bhaal himself to keep you by her side.

You kiss after your vows and while Shadowheart cried from happiness she also covers your face in kisses after the initial one; a kiss to your forehead, your cheeks, and your lips again; you wear those lipstick stains like a badge of honour for the rest of the night.

The wedding is followed by a lovely party at the local tavern. You all enjoy wine and drinks and food music, dancing the night away with your love. When you both finally retire it is to the honeymoon suite, the large attic room with a large round window. You sleep for hours on end and in the morning, the two of you set off for your honeymoon, setting out for another adventure together, this time as a couple.

[the-martyrfication-of-the-matron]

I have found that I like creating gods/pantheon a lot so time for more divine warriors stuff. This focuses on what you sacrifice to them/ways they are worshipped in order from most to least worshipped. Feel free to use any of my headcannons, all this stuff is free use.

Irene - While the goddess or life and half of rebirth, one would think that she wouldn't get any sacrifices, but that is untrue. Every time a baby animal is born still, or anytime a mother animal is killed, their bodies are burned, and their ashes scattered over plants to bring new life from the ones taken. Roses in particular are considered the sacrifice flower of Irene because they thrive on blood. (Actually true)

Shad - He has the 2nd most purely due to the Shadow Knights. His sacrifices are the first slain in any raid, the first killed bodies are to be burned but bones are made to stay in the center of the destroyed town, to become part of the new architecture of the village. A memory of what once was. It is why in the paths of some villages you may see white fragments in the bricks.

Esmund- Every time a good horse dies, whether it was a knights or a simple farm horse, their hide is to be made into leather. Part of that leather must be crafted into a small charm to be hung in their home, a reminder of a companion. Once this task is done, after the next winter, you will find an equally as capable companion, human, or animal.

Enki - (Worshipped equally as much as Menphia) To get the blessing of Enki, whether it's for a test or to make a potion, one must find the feathers of an owl and make a quill. Using said quill, the worshipper must write for what they wish for in a mix of ink and blood before burying the paper in the earth to be reclaimed. Unfortunately, the wish can be a monkeys paw situation. You have to be very precise.

Menphia - To get her blessing before a going to war with another lord, you have to kill the animal that is associated with that lords house and eat its heart before delivering the body to the lord. A rather uncommon practice but very effective. Sometimes too effective.

Kul'Zak - The first night on a ship, everyone must gather around the mast of the ship and drink and be merry. There must always be music playing, whether it be singing, fiddle, or any instrument of the like. A sacrifice of time to celebrate life.

I’m gonna keep you in a glass jar and shake it whenever I need you to give me DW headcanons.

That or I’m gonna lobotomise you idk just yet

[good-grade-in-cleric]

A quick breakdown of the hierarchy of the Shaodw Thieves for my own benefit because Forgotten Realms lore loves more than anything else to contradict itself, especially when the CRPGs get involved. The main sources cited below will be Baldur's Gate II (2E, Sep 2000 CE, 1369 DR), Cloak & Dagger (2E, Jun 2000 CE, 1370 DR), and Lords of Darkness (3E, Oct 2001 CE, 1372 DR). For Baldur's Gate II, i am primarily cross-referencing the wiki with my own limited screenshots, so be prepared for some holes there. Hopefully, i can someday replay the game with a focus on getting more information out about these guys and reblog with that additional information, but let's not get ahead of ourselves

I may be a bit obnoxious in how frequently i point to my sources, but that's because my head is spinning looking at my notesheet for this. How did i let them get so disorganized? Oh dear

The general structure of the Shadow Thieves places the Shades at the top of the hierarchy followed by the Cloakmasters then the Guildmasters then the Silhouettes then the Rank and File and Raw Recruits

Bases of Operation

The Shadow Thieves are headquartered in Athkatla, the City of Coin. From 1303 DR to the time of Troubles, their headquarters was the Shadow House (C&D, p103 and 111). Although it no longer functions as the headquarters of the entire organization, it does still act as a decoy headquarters (LoD, p172). The Shadow House is the base of operations for "one part of the organization" (C&D, p104), or "just three of the guilds in Athkatla" (C&D, p111). The true headquarters is explicitly left up to the DM's discretion in Cloak & Dagger, but by 1372 DR, it is confirmed to be a large and well-protected underground complex underneath the Gilded Rose on the opposite side of town from the decoy (LoD, p172)

They also converted a building in Athkatla in 1303 DR into a training complex called Assassin's Run, and Gorion's Ward is able to visit two of their guildhalls in that city (C&D, p103; BGII)

Shades

In the highest tier of the Shadow Thief hierarchy exist the six Shades who have divided their territory amongst them (C&D, p104; LOD, p172). Together, they form the Shade Council (C&D, p104) or the Shadow Council (LoD, p172)

The current Grandmaster of Shadows, the leader of the Shades, is Rhinnom Dannihyr (C&D, p104-105; LoD, p172). Formerly a Guildmaster of Spies in Athkatla, he took over after Bhaal absorbed the life forces of his worshippers during the Time of Troubles and killed the entire Shade Council (C&D, p103). In addition to that, he was Iltarch of Amn's Council of Six which was the highest governing body in the country (C&D, p105). Rhinnom keeps his affiliation with both of these councils secret from the other (C&D, p105). Despite being human, he has lived for over a century but maintains the appearance of youth through magic (it is unclear whether the benefits of this de-aging magic extends past appearance) and is biding his time to push his way through the ranks of the Council of Six (C&D, p105)

As a note, it appears that the Council of Six has been replaced by the far less clandestine Council of Five sometime before 1479 DR, but House Dannihyr still holds a seat on the council (Forgotten Realms Campaign Guide, p92)

Another Shade is Rheax Bormul. He rules over either the Alandor Sect (C&D, p105) or the operations in Amn (LoD, p172). This is likely just a matter of semantics between sources considering the Alandor Sect is described as including "Athkatla, Crimmor, Purskul, Keczulla, Amnwater, and northern Amn" (C&D, p105). He hopes to someday take Rhinnom's place as Grandmaster of Shadows (C&D, p105)

The wiki makes mention that Aran Linvail answers to Rheax Bormul, but it cites as its source "the Baldur's Gate novel". This is not something i would normally accept as a source, but i wanted to take a look anyway to see if i could make use of their wording. BG2 was not specified, but in the games, Aran only appears in Shadows of Amn, so i only checked that one. Admittedly, i did not read the entire book, but i did read Abdel receiving the mission to kill Aran Linvail, that fight scene, and when Abdel reports back to Bodhi after killing him as well as some smaller segments here and there. I could not find the source, but whatever. I should have known it would be a fruitless search from how it was cited on the wiki

Cloakmasters

Back to the sources i actually do intend to cross compare, it varies by source how many Cloakmasters answer to each member of the Shadow Council. One source claims that exactly two Cloakmasters serve each Shade for a total of twelve (LoD, p173). The other claims that each Shade has at least two Cloakmasters, with Athkatla alone having ten (C&D, p104 and 106). Every city with a population of 10,000 or more has at least one Cloakmaster as well as another Cloakmaster for the more rural areas around those cities, or a city where many foreigners trade may receive an Cloakmaster for the purpose of facilitating information from said foreigners (C&D, p104)

Due to their close proximity, the Cloakmasters of Athkatla are all careful to respect the authority of their Shade and the Council of Shades (C&D, p106). The Cloakmaster of Athkatla'd Bridge District, Dinnom Baraizal, is especially loyal to Rheax (C&D, p106)

Guildmasters

Every Cloakmaster is served in turn by 10 Guildmasters (C&D, p104; LoD, p173). Whereas the ranks above Guildmasters are defined by geography, the Guildmasters each control a number of smaller guilds within a single speciality (C&D, p104; LoD, p173). Lords of Darkness gives as examples: smuggling, extortion and blackmail, theft and burglary (LoD, p173). Cloak & Dagger presents what seems intended to be a more complete list: "assassins; beggars; bounty hunters; burglars; con artists and tricksters; cutpurses and pickpockets; enforcers and thugs; racketeers; scouts and spies; and fences, smugglers, and pirates" (C&D, p104). These are the middle managers of the guild

Silhouettes

The final noteworthy tier are the Silhouettes. There are dozens of Shadow Thieves who bear this title, but they are all decoys for the true powers within the guild (LoD, p173). They may hire out external groups, guilds, and individuals on a contractual or permanent basis (C&D, p104). They may pose as guildmasters, but in truth they report to and act to obscure the true Guildmasters (LoD, p173)

Sporting a name that makes you question his mother's love, Renal "the Bloodscalp" is a Silhouette of Burglars based in Athkatla who enjoys donning a disguise to join teams on their missions (C&D, p108). Additionally, he hides Aran Linvail in his base of operations, labelled on the map as simply Shadow Thief Guildhall (BGII). Him being as Silhouette also checks out as he is Gorion's Ward's main point of contact for the Shadow Thieves after properly entering the city and before they might conditionally receive an offer to join (BGII)

Oryal Forestal is a Silhouette of Spies based in Athkatla (C&D, p108). He joined at the same time as Renal Bloodscalp, and the two have long been close friends and partners (C&D, p108)

(Cloak & Dagger, p104)

Most information indicates Silhouettes and Guildmasters are two distinct ranks, but the above quote could not be completely ignored. An important piece of additional context for the above quote is that it comes immediately after describing the roles of Guildmasters, blurring the lines between the two. The segue is somewhat unclear as i'm sure the Shadow Thieves prefer, so there are a number of potential interpretations of this. The one that i think is most internally consistent is that, as part of their role as decoy Guildmasters, Silhouettes are only called by their proper title while in private or are even sometimes considered a subgroup of Guildmasters

After all, part of the role of the Silhouette is to be the fall guy for the real powers, and "[o]stensibly they are 'guildmasters,' but in actuality they control nothing and have no authority." (LoD, p173)

Any other interpretations i will leave to the floor as i've got enough going on here already and could make a whole post on that alone

The Rank and File

The average rank and file Shadow Thief is unaware that they are part of the guild structure at all and is largely irrelevant to the goals of this post

Shadowmasters

The Shadowmaster is a rank which i can only find evidence for in Baldur's Gate II. This is a problem. Aran Linvail, chiefly, is identified as a "Shadowmaster" (BGII). Although she is heavily implied to be lying about her rank to lure you into her ambush, the Shadow Thief Ama claims to be the Shadowmaster of eastern Esmeltaran (BGII). While the validity of the claim is highly dubious (if not outright stated to be false in a line i don't remember), we can still glean information from it. Firstly, Shadowmaster is an actual title within the context of BGII. There's no reason to make up a new rank if your goal is to have people believe you. Secondly, this Shadowmaster rank is tied to geography rather than specialization. This means the Shadowmaster is not meant to correlate to a Guildmaster or Silhouette but rather a Cloakmaster or possibly even a Shade. These greater titles are also more accurate to the scale and scope that Aran is implied to be operating at

The wiki states Aran Linvail dies in 1369 DR. This is likely to align with the events of the novelization, but it does technically allow for him to be replaced by Rheax Bormul by the time of Cloak & Dagger if we are to believe he was a Shade. However, the way Rheax is described in Cloak & Dagger lends itself to an image that he has been in the position for some time

I believe Shadowmaster is more likely meant to analogue to Cloakmaster. There are likely multiple Cloakmasters in the city. Additionally, Shadow Thieves generally only know the one superior they report to, those that report to them, and a small number of equals (C&D, p104). While Silhouettes such as Renal Bloodscalp are said to report to Guildmasters, it isn't unreasonable to assume that there is some wiggle room there, and some may report to Cloakmasters instead

Also, it counts for literally nothing, but i'm still holding onto that unsupported line on the wiki about Aran Linvail reporting to Rheax Bormul, which would make him a Cloakmaster

All in all, i will be considering him as a Cloakmaster moving forward

The Ward's Guildhall and What is Going on There?

If one is playing as a Thief in Baldur's Gate II, then they have the option of taking over a Shadow Thief guildhall for their stronghold, but as mentioned, the CRPGS can have a sometimes contentious relationship with the lore books. This leads to the question: if Gorion's Ward accepts the thief stronghold and takes over management of a guildhall, what exactly is their rank?

The obvious answer is that this would make them Guildmaster, but no one loves misdirection quite like a Shadow Thief, so i'm hesitant to accept that off the bat. Also, i would not be who i am today if i did not overthink every inconsequential detail

The key evidence (all sourced from BGII) is as follows:

The Ward's guildhall is labeled as a guildhall, and they are referred to as a guildmaster

This same was true for their predecessor, Mae'Var

Mae'var intended to work his way up the ladder by assassinating Renal Bloodscalp

You report to and pay your quotas to a Silhouette

Your immediate underlings operate a diverse range of specialities*

*(Specifically: house-breaking and safe-cracking; assassination and racketeering; pickpocketing; smuggling; and blackmails and possibly also racketeering again)

Now all of this can be waved aside as the game simplifying and altering the structure for the better gameplay experience for the player, but let's take this at face value

The Ward and Mae'Var are labeled as guildmaster(s) yet report to a Silhouette, the position that most traditionally hires outside aid, even up to permanently contracting entire guilds. They view him as their superior to the point that one of them intended to assassinate him to take his place, but if they are Guildmasters, then he should be reporting to them. Taking his place would be a definite downgrade in both power and security if Mae'Var were truly a Shadow Thief Guildmaster

Why replace Mae'var's guild with more contractors once he's been dealt with? Well simply put, there's power in numbers and money in that power

What of Aran Linvail then? Why would a Cloakmaster show his face to an outside contractor? Because i lied, and he's a Silhouette. The fake title that is not substantiated by any other source is to deploy an illusion of power. He and Renal are operating on multiple layers of nonsensical chicanery

But why would the Shadow Thieves go through all the work of hiring outside help only to disclose who they work for anyway. That's begging for problems. At that point, why not do what they say they're doing and make you an actual Guildmaster? This is all so bizarre and convoluted, even for the Shadow Thieves

Because the job of a Silhouette is to make you think they are a powerful figure in the Shadow Thieves and to take the attention from the actual powers that be

Because fuck you is why