#cleaved together (post finale)

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Unbidden

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x f!reader x Aemond Targaryen Warnings: Cuckolding, voyeurism, smut. Word count: ~3k

Summary: Noticing his nephew's wife appears dissatisfied in her marriage, Daemon sets out to show them both that there is pleasure to be found within the marital bed...

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She has scarcely been able to take her eyes off of Daemon since he first arrived at the Red Keep. He possesses the classically handsome features bestowed upon those of Valyrian blood, carries himself with self assured confidence, and embodies an air of dangerous unpredictability which both frightens and excites her in equal measure. Though it is none of these qualities that keep her gaze fixated upon him.

Her interest is piqued by how utterly devoted he is to his wife. When she stood beside her husband, Aemond, in the Great Hall, as Vaemond Velaryon challenged the succession of Driftmark, her attention was focused solely on Daemon and Rhaenyra. He had been glued to her side, his gaze always seeking hers, and when Vaemond had dared to call her a whore and her children “bastards”, he had not hesitated in unsheathing his sword and slicing the man’s head in half. She wonders if her own husband would defend her so staunchly.

She is not blind to their starkly different situations; Daemon and Rhaenyra’s union is one of love, it is plain for all to see. Her and Aemond’s is one of political necessity. Although they have grown fond of each other over the last six months of their marriage, and he has never been unkind to her, she cannot help the jealousy that swirls, ugly and acrid, within her chest at the ease of which her husband’s half sister and his uncle interact with one another.

The two children they have together already, and the one that currently grows within the swell of Rhaenyra’s belly are proof enough of their passion for one another. However, the looks they exchange at the dinner table this evening are smoldering and filled with intent. Their fingers brush against each other as they pass dishes of food between them, and Daemon’s hand seems to find its way to her stomach, caressing her lovingly, unaware he is even doing it.

Her and Aemond’s intimacy is not so effortless, though it is not from a lack of trying on her part. He beds her frequently, and she greets his advances with enthusiasm, yet his stoicism renders him incapable of ever fully losing control. He is receptive to her pleas of “harder”, “faster”, but she is always left with the dissatisfaction of feeling he is holding something back, and outside of their shared bedchamber it is rare that he ever touches her. She has attempted to broach the subject with him before, framing it as a means for them to find greater satisfaction within their marital bed, but he always waves her away dismissively, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

She can sense something dark and urgent bubbling beneath the surface of him, and longs to draw it out, to experience the full force of the fire of the dragon that runs through his veins, but she does not know how to entice it. 

It had appeared prominent in his seeing eye as Dark Sister had cleaved the Velaryon man’s skull in twain, a potent mixture of bloodlust and desire, as his pupil had dilated ever so slightly. It had sent a shiver up her spine, heat pooling between her thighs, causing her to squeeze them together to fend off the dull, throbbing ache.

She longs for that look to be cast upon her, for her to be the recipient of whatever wrath that follows, and now she is sure that it is Daemon that holds the key to coaxing the darker side of her husband out to play.

The dinner is a tense affair. Aemond sits beside her, so tightly wound she is sure the lightest of touches would cause him to shatter like glass. When he finally loses his cool, throwing barbed words towards his nephews, resulting in an exchange of blows, the evening draws to an abrupt close, with each of them being dismissed to their respective quarters. As they depart the dining hall, her husband and his uncle lock eyes, a smirk of amusement flashing briefly across Daemon’s features as Aemond’s nostrils flare in irritation.

She can feel the heat of his anger radiating from him as he strides through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, scurrying alongside him in an attempt to match his pace. That look has returned and with it her desperate feeling of lust. If she doesn’t seize the opportunity now, then she is unsure of when it will present itself again.

Reaching out for her husband, she grasps his elbow, her fingers taut against the leather sleeve of his tunic. His steps falter and he turns to look at her quizzically, chest heaving with the laboured breaths of his barely concealed rage.

“What is it?” He snaps.

Instinctively, she shrinks back, second guessing her decision as she sees the way he glares down at her, lip curled into a snarl. Despite her fear, she reminds herself that this is the side of Aemond she had been seeking, and leans into him, placing her hands upon his chest.

“I want you,” she whispers, gazing up at him pleadingly.

“Not here,” he sighs, his expression softening, as he gently grasps her hands in his, moving them back to her sides.

Though she remains outwardly calm, in spite of her disappointment, internally she feels so frustrated she could scream. The look she craves is gone, he has rebuffed her advances and she knows that once more she is destined to an evening where he will treat her as though she is made of bone china.

“I believe you were told to return to your quarters.”

The intrusion of Daemon’s voice causes Aemond to take a quick step backwards, away from her, as she turns to look. He stands before them in the corridor, posture rigid and chin raised up ever so slightly, giving the impression that he is looking down his nose at them both.

“We are on our way,” Aemond responds icily, drawing himself to his full height and staring down his uncle.

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of Daemon’s mouth, clearly unphased by his nephew’s hostile demeanour. “I shall escort you both, to ensure there is no further delay.”

Before either one of them has the opportunity to protest, he steps forward, one hand reaching for Aemond’s shoulder, while he places the other at the small of her back. Aemond wrenches away, huffing irritably as he continues walking. She makes no such effort to struggle away from Daemon’s touch, his fingers feeling like a brand against her flesh through the fabric of her dress. 

The three of them walk in uncomfortable silence, the only sound is the echo of their footsteps against the flagstone floor. Her eyes widen in surprise when they reach her and Aemond’s shared chambers and, instead of bidding them goodnight, Daemon follows them inside, closing the doors behind them.

Aemond stares at him quizzically, eye narrowed. “What are you doing, Uncle? If you are here to reprimand me for what was said at dinner then–”

“I am here for your wife, actually,” he interrupts, turning his head towards her as his eyes move from her head to her feet and back up again.

She feels her skin grow hot under the intensity of his gaze, swallowing thickly as he regards her as a cat would a mouse.

“What do you want with my wife?” Aemond asks, his voice lowering in quiet threat.

It is the first time she has ever heard her husband speak of her so possessively and it makes her pulse race. She wants more of this, there is an intense thrill to having the attention of two Targaryen men placed solely upon her.

“Do not think I have not noticed,” Daemon says to her, ignoring Aemond as he continues to stare at her. “You have been ogling me all day. Why?”

Embarrassment prickles at her, and she lowers her gaze. Her voice is small and pitiful sounding to her ears as she answers. “Forgive me, My Prince. I did not mean to stare.”

“Look at me when you speak to me,” he commands, “and answer the question.”

She exhales shakily, lifting her eyes to meet his. His stare is piercing, his eyes darkened and predatory in the low lighting of her and Aemond’s apartments.

“I found myself…rather taken by how you engage with Princess Rhaenyra. You are quite affectionate with one another.”

Daemon’s brow furrows slightly as he cocks his head in curiosity. “Does your own husband not show you affection?”

A wave of sadness washes over her, causing her shoulders to sag at the reminder of the lack of intimacy between her and Aemond. She spares him a glance, noticing he has not moved from where he stands. His expression could be mistaken for neutral were it not for the fury that rages tempestuously within his seeing eye as he glares at his uncle.

Drawing in a deep breath, she looks back to Daemon, answering simply, honestly: “no.” Shame shrouds her, suffocating and dense, feeling the overwhelming urge to cry, her head dipping as she focuses on the spot where the hem of her skirts meets the stone floor. She cannot bear to look at either man, knowing she has spoken out of turn about her husband, not just in front of him, but to his uncle as well.

She gasps as Daemon steps forward, crowding her space, his finger crooking beneath her chin to lift her face up towards his. The touch of him makes her knees buckle slightly and she leans back against the table behind her for support, no longer trusting her legs to keep her upright. “What a brave little thing you are,” he whispers, an edge to his voice that twists her stomach into knots.

“I–I am sorry,” she stammers, eyes flitting nervously between her husband and his uncle. “I should not have–”

“There is nothing wrong with expressing your wants, your desires,” Daemon reassures her. “Perhaps my nephew just needs a little help in learning how best to please his wife?”

She squeals in surprise as he grasps the backs of her thighs, lifting her until she is seated upon the edge of the table she had been leaning against. Lips parted and eyes wide, she turns her head towards Aemond, and though his fists are clenched at his sides, his breathing accelerated in silent fury, he makes no move to stop what is happening. That look from earlier has returned, ravenous and half crazed, she interprets it as silent consent, wanting to do all she can to keep it fixed upon her.

“What of your wife? Will she not mind you…helping us?” She asks timidly, as Daemon’s hands make quick work of rucking her skirts up around her hips.

He chuckles drily in response, dragging her smallclothes down her legs, allowing them to dangle from a single ankle. “You and Aemond have much to learn, sweet girl. Fucking is a pleasure, and Rhaenyra does not mind how or with whom we seek it, as long as our loyalties do not falter.”

The very idea seems scandalous to her, yet wetness gathers between her legs all the same. Aemond has now taken up the seat beside the fireplace, watching them both intently, his stare unblinking and fiery. 

Daemon’s fingers travel up her legs, until they reach the insides of her thighs. His fingers are thicker than Aemond’s, his touch is calloused and rough, where Aemond’s is deft, yet hesitant. His fingertips dig into her soft flesh, hard enough to bruise as he pries her legs apart, a hum of approval rumbling in his throat at the arousal he finds glistening there.

“Does your husband make you this wet?” He asks with gentle curiosity.

She nods enthusiastically, looking over at Aemond and seeing a small, prideful smile ghost quickly across his lips before disappearing.

“Good,” Daemon tells her. “No problems there then.”

His fingertips swipe through her sodden folds, his middle finger quick to locate her pearl and circle it with precision. The movement makes her tense, a jolt of pleasure causing her hips to buck as she mewls helplessly.

“Does he touch you like this?”

“N–no…” she whimpers in response.

“Hmm,” Daemon glances over his shoulder, before looking back at her. “Well, ensure he does in future. I am sure he will; he is paying close attention.”

Looking back over at Aemond, she feels herself clench around nothing, her desire building with a steady, rhythmic ache as she sees the lacings of his trousers strain against his hardness. He is enjoying watching this, lips slightly parted and eye hooded. The sight of it rids her of the last of her inhibitions as Daemon moves his focus away from her bud and dares to push his two forefingers inside of her. She tilts her head back, gripping the edge of the table tightly as she feels her muscles stretch to accommodate him.

“You must be prepared, thoroughly, before you are fucked,” he murmurs against the shell of her ear.

Her mind is foggy, struggling to comprehend Daemon’s words as he presses the pads of his fingers upwards, dragging them against a spot inside of her that causes her toes to curl and moisture to trickle down onto the tabletop. Does he really mean to fuck her? Surely that would be a step too far? Yet she finds it difficult to care when he is pushing her towards the precipice of pleasure itself with simply his fingers. Her mind reels with the possibility of what it would feel like to be stretched out around his cock.

As his fingers pump faster, she moves her hips in tandem, chasing the urgently building pressure that is growing inside of her. He pulls them from her suddenly, causing her to whine in frustration at being robbed of her peak.

Daemon grins wolfishly as his hands move to unfasten his breeches. “I think we have learned enough in that regard, and are ready to move on.”

She averts her gaze as he frees himself, her eyes finding Aemond’s, another silent check in for consent. His throat bobs as he swallows, his knuckles almost white with the force of the grip he has on the armrests of where he sits, but he makes no move to stop what is happening.

Her hands grasp at Daemon’s shoulders as he sheathes himself inside of her, knocking the air from her lungs. Aemond and his uncle are similar in many respects, but this is a matter in which the pair of them could not be more different.

It is odd to her that, despite being between her thighs, he has not tried to kiss her. Whether it is a mark of respect for hers and Aemond’s marriage, or simply because he does not want to, she is unsure, but she is grateful for his abstinence. A kiss seems too intimate a gesture, there is nothing sweet about this.

Daemon sets a brutal pace, once she has had a moment to adjust, rocking into her with a force that causes the table legs to scrape loudly against the hard floor. He is so much more self assured than her husband, utterly unafraid to violate her, and it is freeing to be handled so roughly.

She moans wantonly as he moves a hand to wrap around her throat, applying gentle pressure at the sides. “Do not be afraid to be a little unrestrained,” Daemon grits out, a statement clearly not meant for her, even though his eyes bore into hers. “I have yet to bed a woman who does not enjoy it.”

He has the right of it. The hand around her throat, coupled with the almost violent manner in which he thrusts inside of her is dizzying and, as he slips a hand between them to stroke at her pearl once more, she knows she will not last long. It has never been this intense with Aemond before; a lack of experience, coupled with a fear of hurting her means he is always gentle, hesitant where he need not be. 

The grip on her throat tightens, the ministrations against her bud grow more insistent as she feels Daemon pulsate inside of her, his jaw clenching at the telltale sign that he is close. With a final, harsh thrust of his hips, she cries out in ecstasy as the warmth of his seed spills inside of her, triggering her own release as she tightens around him in rapid, successive pulses.

“Good girl,” he mutters quietly.

He is quick to pull out of her, as she leans back against her palms, pliant and breathless from the experience. She barely registers Daemon tucking himself away and slipping out of the chamber doors, as Aemond moves into view, standing before her.

Under ordinary circumstances, the wrathful insanity she sees reflected in his blue eye would frighten her, but tonight it has butterflies fluttering ceaselessly in her lower belly. His hand moves to the back of her head, gripping her hair tightly by the roots, tugging her head forcefully backwards. Her yelp of pain is stifled by him pressing his lips firmly against hers, his tongue licking against her own in a kiss that is more a desperate display of possession than a loving embrace.

“You are mine,” he breathes, letting go of her momentarily to tug at the lacings of his trousers.

“Yours,” she whispers back, satisfied excitement causing her pulse to thrum at the knowledge she has unleashed the side of Aemond she has always longed for.

Daemon’s spend has begun to dribble out of her, and as she watches the head of her husband’s cock push it forcefully back inside of her, she knows he will remind her every night from now on exactly which Targaryen Prince it is that she belongs to.

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[nerdallwritey]

Perfect Every Time

Summary: You got up and joined him in the ankle deep water. “Do you want to try right now?” Astarion thought for a moment and clicked his tongue. “I have a better idea, actually.” He gave you a sideways look, his lips quirking up slightly.  “What?” you matched his smile. Rather than answering, Astarion reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.  You furrowed your brow. “Looks an awful lot like you’re preparing to swim.” He started fiddling with the clasps on his pants and groaned in your direction. “Swimming is not the only thing one can do while submerged in water, dearest.” He gave you a sensual smile that sent heat to your cheeks.  OR Before your party travels into the Underdark, you and Astarion catch one last sunrise together.

Pairing: Astarion x f!reader Rating: 18+ Word count: 7.2k CW: smut, reader is new to sex, hand job, piv sex, water sex, dirty talk, mentions of Astarion's past trauma, blood drinking, extra mild angst, soft Astarion, porn with feelings, reader is an idiot (and a bard), so is Astarion (not a bard, just an idiot), Illmater's blood-stained rack Spoilers: Minor spoilers for Act 1 (in-game dialogue, plot points, etc.), as well as Astarion's plotline Also posted to: AO3 FAIR WARNING: This is PART 4 in my series, "Beauty and the Bard." Find the masterlist here.

a/n: Surprise!! I'm back with a new chapter of Beauty and the Bard! This part is shorter than the other ones (who cheered) because it morphed from a little smut scene into one that deserved its very own part. One million thanks to everyone who's read and enjoyed the series so far, it's so much fun chatting with you guys and hearing your thoughts and it truly means the world that you guys care so much about these goofs. I already have an idea for Part 5, so that will be coming soon, but I have a request to fill first! Thank you all for your patience. In the meantime, please enjoy our regularly scheduled silliness with Astarion and bard!tav :) (Thank you once again to @kermitwazowski for beta reading!) As a reminder, the last part was the Tiefling party!

Taglist: @a66-1, @khaleesiofthewolves, @khywren, @lollipopsandlandmines, @mizuki-nautilus - Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series!

Several days had passed since the hijinxs of the Tiefling party had taken place. By now, the former refugees of the Emerald Grove were well on their way to Baldur’s Gate, the looming threat of goblins and power hungry druids far from their minds, their thoughts instead replaced with hope for new beginnings in the city. 

Just like he’d promised, Halsin had returned the next day to discuss the parasites, officially joining your party of misfits on your journey towards the Shadow Cursed Lands and Moonrise Towers. His calming presence and sage advice was a welcome addition to the group, especially given that this leadership role had been thrust upon you by the others with next to no discussion. Having Halsin around finally felt like there was a responsible adult among you. Not that you all weren’t adults, but you definitely had your… quirks. Sure, Halsin turned into a bear if he let his emotions go unchecked, but Gale was a bomb. 

As for you and Astarion, not much had really changed, you were both still yourselves, but now you openly tortured your companions with more pet names and cheek kisses and obnoxiously loud banter. Lae’zel had threatened to cleave you both in half on multiple occasions, but had yet to follow through on that threat. The others would groan loudly or avert their eyes politely.

Your days with Astarion were spent fighting side-by-side and teasing one another, and your nights were spent chatting and reading together. Aside from the physical intimacy and emotional vulnerability that came with being in a new relationship, it was really as if nothing had changed. And those were small prices to pay for where you currently found yourself: wrapped together with a trancing Astarion.

Ever since the Tiefling party, Astarion would worm his way into your tent at night. Whether he asked permission, or stayed a little too late into the night reading or talking or drinking from you; you would never ask him to leave. You’d slept together every night, sometimes beside each other, and other nights wrapped in each others’ arms. You were allowing Astarion to set the pace, as you were in no rush to get anywhere in particular. You simply enjoyed his company and his magnetic presence. 

The pair of you hadn’t been too intimate since the party, barring stolen and sometimes steamy kisses. That was plenty for you, and Astarion continued checking in to see if you were okay with his touches and advances. Whenever you assured him that you were, he’d smile and return to your lips. You never asked him for more than he was willing to give, and even though you knew he wouldn’t say anything about it, you could tell he appreciated the courtesy despite the smug mask he so often wore.

Now, you found yourself stroking your hands through his hair as he tranced on your bare chest, breathing quietly; a habit he told you he’d picked up to look more alive when prowling the Gate. 

It was funny, honestly, how sweet and unassuming he looked when he wasn’t fully conscious. And yet, you knew the kind of violence and debauchery and bad jokes he enacted and adored when he was awake. A small sound escaped his lips and you paused in caressing his hair to make sure you weren’t waking him. When his breathing returned to normal, you resumed raking your fingers soothingly over his scalp. 

The hour was a little before dawn. Truthfully, you hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, knowing that today was the day your party would pack up camp and make your way into the Underdark for the foreseeable future. You’d re-emerge eventually to find the crèche Lae’zel knew to be nearby, but the Underdark was worth investigating for the sake of further answers about the tadpoles and a possible alternate route into the Shadow Cursed Lands. Plus, Shadowheart was adamant about seeing the rumored temple to Shar hidden down there.

All that to say, you and your companions wouldn’t be seeing the sun for quite a while. The thought saddened you immensely, knowing how much the man trancing on you would miss it terribly. How cruel, you thought, that your adventure was leading Astarion back into the shadows after he’d just gotten a taste of the sun for the first time in centuries. 

“Why are you awake, my darling?” came Astarion’s raspy voice from the dark. He shifted his head to look up at you, his grip around your midsection tightening a bit, his eyes heavy with grogginess.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you admitted. “You should get a little more if you can.”

Astarion chuckled. “Too busy thinking about me to sleep? I wouldn’t blame you.”

You sighed. “And if I was?”

Astarion’s face fell a little. “Why the hells would you allow yourself to lose sleep on my behalf, pet?” His voice was soft and one of his hands unwrapped itself from your body, taking your hand, and bringing it up to his mouth to kiss the back of your fingers. He cleared his throat. “I mean, obviously I can understand why,” he tried deflecting the sweetness that had seeped into his words by injecting his tone with fake bravado.

You let out an amused breath and allowed your hand in his hair to continue petting him gently. “I want to watch the sunrise with you again this morning.”

Astarion hummed. “And that kept you awake?”

“I didn’t want to oversleep.”

Now it was Astarion’s turn to let out an amused breath. “You could have asked. I would have woken you up.”

“No you wouldn’t, you keep letting me sleep in. It’s like you enjoy watching me sleep or something, you creep.” You poked his nose playfully.

“It’s just amazing how much drool someone of your stature can produce.”

You smacked the side of his head and he laughed softly. The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a little while before you decided to speak again.

“This will be the last sunrise we see for a while.”

Astarion let out a long sigh and remained silent. After a moment, he said, “I know.” 

He sounded sad. 

“It’s not forever, though,” you assured, moving your hand to stroke his cheek and regaining his attention.

He chuckled. “I know that, too.”

You yawned, a little more loudly than you meant to. “Good. I promise you’ll see the sun again.”

Astarion tsked. “Honestly, darling, did you get no sleep at all?”

“I got a little,” you lied.

He held your gaze, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. “I don’t believe you.”

“What does it matter?” you asked, caught. “I can handle a little lack of sleep.”

Astarion rolled his eyes and sat up to look at you more directly. “It matters because we need you alert. None of us knows what awaits us in the Underdark and I- we can’t have you getting hurt because you didn’t get enough rest!”

“I’ll be fine,” you assured, bending upwards to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I’ll have you to protect me when I get sloppy.”

Astarion groaned. “You shouldn’t get sloppy,” he complained. “I swear, if you somehow hold us back down there, I’ll slaughter you myself.”

“Promise?”

He groaned again. “Would you, just once, allow me to threaten you seriously?”

“No,” you patted his cheek lovingly. 

He sighed and pushed some of his mussed hair out of his face. He took your hands in his. “Just… stay vigilant, alright?”

“Can do,” you said, withholding another obvious yawn.

“I saw that.”

“Saw what?”

He shook his head at you and sat up fully, stretching his arms above his head and giving you a clear view of the scar on his back. You sat up and kissed his bare shoulder.

“I’ll be fine,” you repeated.

“Mhm.” Astarion passed you one of his shirts. “Come on, darling, let’s get a move on.” He tossed on a spare shirt and watched you as you pulled his shirt over your head. 

“There’s still a little time before sunrise,” you said.

Astarion snorted and fixed some of your hair that was sticking up from putting on his shirt. “You could stay here if you want. Drown in your own drool. Up to you.”

You huffed at him, making him laugh again.

“Only joking, my love.”

“Sure,” you said, opening the flaps of your tent and crawling out into the blue that preceded dawn.

You went to stand, but felt Astarion’s cool fingers wrap around your wrist and pull you back. He turned you slightly and caught your lips in a kiss, one that wiped away whatever fake ire you had towards him and replaced it with a dopey grin. 

“What was that for?” you asked when he pulled away.

“Delicious,” he breathed, raising a seductive eyebrow. 

You laughed and grabbed his hand. “Come on.”

You’d only been able to catch two more sunrises with Astarion following the one you watched the morning after you’d slept together for the first time. You’d woken up once on your own after Astarion gently shifted himself away from you, and another time when he woke you up purposely, not wanting to be alone with his thoughts. You’d whine and moan whenever he let you sleep in, despite the fact that it was probably for the best to keep you in tip top shape for fighting and recharging your magic. He’d always find his way back to you, and you knew he needed his own space sometimes, but you still loved to watch him bask in the golden light of the morning and you couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed whenever you felt his gentle hand on your back before opening your eyes and seeing that the sun was already up.

Astarion led you through the forest again, his hand holding yours firmly. You knew your way to the ravine lookout by now, but you liked not having to take the lead for once. He helped you across the little stream that led into the clearing where you first laid together and you felt your cheeks flush at the memory.

“I can hear your heart picking up speed, darling.” He turned to smirk at you. “You’re adorable.”

“Pardon me for still being shy,” you half-joked.

“Mmm,” Astarion hummed. “I’ll pound that out of you eventually.” He furrowed his brow sensually at you and you scoffed.

“Shut up.”

“I, of course, don’t have to-”

You made a whiny sound and he laughed.

“I know, my love,” he said, removing his hand from yours and instead wrapping his arm around you to pull you close. “You’ve been so patient for me,” he nipped at your earlobe. “So good.” 

“I’m in no rush,” you reassured on a shaky exhale. 

Astarion made his own whiny sound and pulled you closer, leading you to the cliff’s edge where he’d opened up to you willingly for the first time, just a few days ago.

He sat, pulling you down with him, far enough away from the edge, where he knew you wouldn’t be nervous of falling. In the distance, the sky was just starting to indicate the sun’s arrival. 

You sighed happily and rested your head on his shoulder. You felt him tense a little. “Is this alright?” 

Instead of answering, he leaned his head on top of yours. 

“What’s something you want to do in the Underdark?” you probed.

Astarion groaned. “You don’t need to make small talk with me, darling, sometimes silence is golden.”

You scrunched your nose, knowing he hated pure silence. “I wasn’t being polite, I genuinely wanted to know.”

He groaned again. “Even worse.”

You laughed lightly and felt him laugh too, his arm gently shaking against your own. 

He thought for a moment before he responded. “That Zhentarim fellow we met mentioned a cache of supplies hidden somewhere down there. That might be fun to pillage.”

You laughed. “I’m surprised you ever stopped thinking about that!”

“Oh I didn’t, but I wanted you to think your little thought experiment had actually evoked some sort of… thought… in me.” He made a face.

“Want to try and rephrase that?”

“Not particularly.”

You hummed fondly, taking one of his hands in your own and examining how your fingers slotted together just so. 

“I suppose you want me to ask you the same question?” Astarion asked, clearly not wanting to ask.

You laughed. “Your interest in my interests always astounds me, Astarion.”

He rubbed his cheek against the top of your head. “Get better interests and I might actually want to pay attention.”

“Rude,” you muttered, a smile on your face. “But since you so desperately want to know, I’ll answer anyway.”

“Oh, goodie.”

You thought about it. There wasn’t actually all that much you knew about the Underdark, aside from the few mentions of it in the books you’d read growing up. One thing did stick out in your mind.

“Singing mushrooms.”

“........What?”

“I read somewhere that apparently there are colonies of sentient mushroom people who communicate through song.”

Astarion pulled his head off of yours to hang it in front of himself instead, groaning loudly. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

“It’s not! It’s fascinating!”

“Sentient mushrooms?”

“Yes.”

“That sing?”

“Yes.”

Astarion shook his head. “Am I still asleep? Do you hear yourself?”

“I’m not making it up!” you exclaimed incredulously. When he didn’t say anything else, you crossed your arms in front of yourself. “We’re going to see the mushrooms.”

“Whatever you say, darling.” He kissed the top of your head almost pityingly. 

“You’re an ass,” you said, pulling away from him and sitting back on your forearms. The sky was turning a faint pinkish orange in the distance. You snickered to yourself. “More like Ass-starion.”

The ass in question scowled. “That will not be one of your pet names for me.”

You shrugged. “I’m surprised no one’s called you that before.”

“I’ve been called far worse.” Astarion tilted his head up pompously, as if nothing you could say would hurt him.

“Okay great, so ‘Ass’ is nothing new.”

He sighed heavily. “It’s like you want me to throw you off the cliff.”

“Go ahead,” you challenged, catching his eye mischievously, knowing his threat was empty. 

Astarion looked at you and then towards the horizon. He inhaled deeply and rose to his feet. 

“What are you doing?” you laughed nervously as he approached the cliff’s edge that gave way into the ravine below. 

He peered over the edge, his brow furrowed in deep thought. 

You shifted uncomfortably and sat up completely straight. “Astarion, please be careful, you’re making me nervous.”

He ignored you and walked along the edge, looking past a batch of trees and into the distance to your right. He nodded and turned back towards where you sat.

“Up you go,” Astarion approached you and gestured his thumb upwards, indicating that he wanted you to stand. When he reached you, he helped you to your feet.

“You’re not actually going to throw me off the cliff, are you?” You kept your tone playful, but the anxiety you were masking was obvious.

Astarion smirked. “Stop annoying me and I won’t have to.”

You rolled your eyes and began to follow him as he started walking to the right, down a slanted slope and into a patch of trees. 

“What’s happening?” you asked when you caught up with him.

Astarion tilted his head. “I just thought an occasion such as this needed a change of scenery.”

“‘Occasion?’” you echoed.

He nodded. “It’s my last day in the sun-” he saw you about to protest and quickly added, “-for a little while. Might as well start the day off right.”

You hummed. “Why do I get the sense that you’re up to something?”

Astarion stopped in his tracks, a hand held to his unbeating heart in mock offense. “Me? Up to something? You’re far too paranoid, darling.”

“Uh huh.” You kept walking, but quickly realized you didn’t actually know where you were going. You looked back at Astarion for help and found him watching you. 

He rolled his eyes affectionately. “This way, dear, it’s not much farther.” He walked past you, deeper into the trees, and kept talking. “Did you know that that ravine we’ve been sitting above gives way into what I can only assume is either the Chianthar or the Sea of Swords?”

“I didn’t,” you said. “Though those are two very different bodies of water.”

“Give me a break, my geography lessons occurred well over 200 years ago. And we’re in the gods damn middle of nowhere, might I remind you.”

“Mhm,” you affirmed with a smile. “Go on.”

“Well, it just so happens that that ravine’s mouth isn’t far from our little sunrise spot.”

“‘Our?’” you teased.

“Focus, darling,” he said. He turned to the left, leading you back towards the cliff’s edge that had continued along the treeline.

“Astarion, please be careful,” you called after him, hesitantly following him towards the sound of rushing water. 

He turned back and held out a steadying hand for you as you approached the edge. Not too far below you were narrow rapids that gradually became calmer. The cliff that had been on the other side of the one you currently found yourself on had disappeared, forming a mouth where the ravine did in fact empty into a much larger, much calmer, body of water.

You wrapped your arms around Astarion’s middle to anchor yourself and leaned forward a little to see where the cliff you were on ended. A little farther down, you squinted to adjust your eyes to the dim lighting, and saw a tiny beach that quickly shot upwards into a new cliff. Rocks surrounded the shore, keeping it slightly out of view, and gentle waves lapped at the sand, far enough away from the rapids of the ravine to remain serene.

You caught Astarion’s eye and pointed towards the small patch of sand in the distance. “Is that where we’re going?”

Astarion pursed his lips. “Yes, that would be much easier than jumping in, wouldn’t it?”

You scoffed. “You expected me to jump in from this high up? There could be rocks we can’t see! And we don’t know how deep it is!”

Astarion sighed. “You’re no fun. Though I suppose you’re right, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” With your arms still around his middle, he started walking back into the trees and down towards the tiny beach. 

You laughed as he dragged you along. “You can’t possibly be serious. You’d get your hair all wet!”

“Nobody said I was going to jump in with you,” he teased.

“I’m not going in alone,” you narrowed your eyes at him. 

“Pity,” he tutted. “I like it when you’re wet.” He smirked and you shoved yourself away from him. 

You picked up your pace to put distance between the two of you. When you didn’t hear his footsteps gaining on you, you decided to quickly slip behind a tree, hoping you’d lost him and that you’d be able to jump out to scare him as he sauntered past.

Unfortunately, nothing but silence greeted you. After a heartbeat or two, you peered around the trunk of your hiding spot but saw no sign of his sleek frame or shock of white hair. You started to second guess yourself; was it possible he’d passed you already? Or that he stopped, out of sight for some reason? 

“You’ll have to do better than that, darling,” came his voice softly next to your ear.

You yelped and clutched at your heart, which raced with surprise. 

Astarion sighed happily. “I do love the sound of your blood pumping.”

“How do you do that?” you asked, breathing deeply to calm yourself. 

“Years of practice.” He paused. “Centuries, even.”

You conceded with a nod. “I shouldn’t have even tried.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. The effort was hardly there, either.”

“Alright,” you rolled your eyes and continued on through the trees down to the beach.

“I mean honestly, have these weeks on the road with me taught you nothing about stealth?”

“I play music for a living. My job is making noise.”

“And I don’t know why I even try at this point.” He raised his eyebrows playfully.

“You like my noise,” you said, sing-songingly. 

“You’re loud, I’ll give you that.”

It was then that you emerged from the trees and onto a grassy dune that sloped downward onto the flat sand below. You slid down the dune with as much grace as you could muster, only falling on your ass once, before taking off your shoes and sinking your toes into the cool sand that made up the shoreline. Astarion followed after you, his long strides keeping him upright and as elegant as ever. He came to stand next to you, taking his own shoes off and placing them neatly beside yours.

You exhaled wistfully and grabbed Astarion’s bicep, leaning your head onto his shoulder. From here, you had a clear view of the sun on the horizon. The sky was a deep shade of pink, giving way to golds and oranges the closer you watched. You looked at Astarion, whose eyes were focused on the sunrise in the distance. 

“What are you thinking about?” you asked quietly.

Astarion looked over at you and blinked. Then he smiled. “Just that it’s truly a wonder you’ve made it this far in life.”

“What?!” you exclaimed, shocked and amused.

You could tell he was holding in a laugh. “You are inept at hiding and fall down sand dunes. What were we thinking when we started following you around Faerûn?”

“I’ll push you into the water, pretty boy.”

“I’d pull you in with me, my love.”

“Touché,” you smiled and released his arm, sitting on the sand. You pulled your legs to your chest and rested your cheek on your knee. Around you, reeds and tall grass swayed in the morning breeze. Astarion remained standing, watching the horizon. 

As much as you enjoyed watching the sunrise, you enjoyed watching Astarion watch it more. The way his attention became transfixed on the sky, the way the vibrant light painted itself onto him like a blank canvas, the way his entire body relaxed when the warmth of the sun finally reached his skin. 

You heard him sigh and watched as he walked forward a little, allowing the tiny waves rolling off the water to rush gently over his toes. He flinched a little in shock and you let out an affectionate breath through your nose.

“Cold?” you asked.

“You know, it’s funny,” Astarion said, his voice a million miles away. “It’s been so long since I’ve been able to move through water like this.”

“What do you mean?” You furrowed your brow. “I’ve seen you in the lake at camp before.”

“I don’t know, I guess I haven’t given it too much thought until now. Normally, I can’t move through running water like this. Don’t ask me why, it’s one of those idiotic vampire laws dictated by some ancient devil with an infuriating sense of humor. I can bathe, sure, but I haven’t been proper swimming since… before.”

You stayed quiet as he moved further into the water, letting the waves wash over his ankles.

“I have to imagine I knew how to swim at one point,” he said quietly.

“I could teach you,” you offered. “I was going to teach Shadowheart at some point too. You’re welcome to join us if you want.”

Astarion snorted. “And look like a fool in front of the cleric? I’ll pass.”

“You don’t need swim lessons to look like a fool,” you clarified. 

“Ha ha,” he said humorlessly. 

You got up and joined him in the ankle deep water. “Do you want to try right now?”

Astarion thought for a moment and clicked his tongue. “I have a better idea, actually.” He gave you a sideways look, his lips quirking up slightly. 

“What?” you matched his smile.

Rather than answering, Astarion reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. 

You furrowed your brow. “Looks an awful lot like you’re preparing to swim.”

He started fiddling with the clasps on his pants and groaned in your direction. “Swimming is not the only thing one can do while submerged in water, dearest.” He gave you a sensual smile that sent heat to your cheeks. 

“Oh,” you said, stiffly watching him undress. “Should I-?” you awkwardly pulled at the collar of his shirt that was currently resting on your shoulders. 

He straightened, naked but for his underwear. He frowned a little. 

“You don’t have to do anything, my love. I just thought we might have some fun while watching the sunrise.”

You bit your bottom lip, thinking it over. “I do like fun.”

“I know that about you.” Astarion walked towards you and reached for the hem of your shirt. “May I?”

You nodded and lifted your arms to help. He took the shirt and tossed it over to where he’d discarded his own clothes. He stepped closer to you, pulling you to him so that you were chest to chest, and nuzzled his nose into the area where your neck met your shoulder. He placed a slow, gentle kiss there that had you inhaling sharply and exhaling unevenly. He groaned with need before pulling back and readjusting to kiss your lips. He came at it with more force than you were expecting, causing you to stumble back a little, but his hands firmly gripped your biceps, keeping you steady. You suppressed a giggle and instead smiled against his mouth before opening up for him and allowing his tongue to meet yours. Astarion hummed with pleasure, moving his mouth against yours and bringing his hands up to tangle in your hair. When he finally pulled away, he left one more chaste kiss against your lips before fully pulling back. 

His eyes were alight with something that morphed into joy when he saw the gooey grin on your face. He rolled his eyes affectionately before looking you up and down and exhaling a laugh.

“You are perfect,” he said, almost in awe.

You smiled. “When?”

Astarion pulled you closer, his eyes narrowing seductively. “Every time.”

You snickered and pulled away from him, a teasing grin plastered on his face. You bent to remove your own pants and watched to see what Astarion would do next. When you saw him reach for his underwear, you averted your eyes and heard him laugh.

“Nothing new over here, darling,” he said, and the soft splashing sounds that followed indicated he’d walked into the water.

“I know,” you replied, embarrassed. You turned back towards him and shrugged. “Habit, I guess.”

“Well, cut it out,” he called, now knee deep in the water. His body was rigid from the temperature, his shoulders rising up to his ears. He turned back to look back at you, still standing on the shore. “Illmater’s blood-stained RACK, this is cold!” 

“I don’t know what you expected,” you called back, hugging your arms to your chest and trying to convince yourself to brave the frigid waters and join him.

“I rather expected you would be in here with me to keep me warm,” he said, turning back towards the sunrise ahead of him.

You quickly pulled off your underwear and started walking into the water, tensing at the cold, but willing yourself to keep going. 

“If you wanted my blood, you could have just asked,” you said when you finally reached him.

“There you are, darling,” Astarion said and grabbed your hand. 

“Hi,” you said softly.

“Brace yourself,” he tipped his head forward a little.

“What?”

Without warning, Astarion lowered himself into the water so that it was just below his shoulders, and pulled you down with him. You hadn’t expected to be yanked so forcefully and unsurprisingly lost your footing. You plunged downward, reaching your free hand out to break your fall and ended up dunking your face below the surface. You were submerged for less than a second, but you came up sputtering and made eye contact with a gleeful vampire. He sucked in his lips to keep from laughing.

“And what was that?” you asked blandly, flicking wet tendrils of hair out of your face.

“Apologies, darling, I didn’t mean for you to get your pretty hair all wet,” he pouted at you and sounded less than sympathetic. 

“Uh huh,” you narrowed your eyes at him. You crawled closer to him, made weightless by the water, and sat beside him, the water level reaching slightly higher on your chest than his. You scooted back a little and dragged your arm out behind you. You pushed it forward quickly, creating a splash that soaked the back of Astarion’s head. He instantly hunched forward and yelped. 

“How dare you?!” he exclaimed, his curls flattening and falling partially into his face. 

“Whoops,” you shrugged. Your eyes widened when you saw him wind his own arm back in retaliation and quickly dunked your head below the surface to avoid his onslaught of water.

When you reemerged, you heard Astarion snicker.

“Look at that,” he said, his tone mocking, “you’re all wet for me.”

You wasted no time in splashing him directly in the face.

“Let’s not do this,” he said flatly, his eyes closed. He brought his hands up to wipe the water off his face, even though his hands were equally wet.

“But now you’re all wet for me,” you teased. 

“I’ll show you what I am,” Astarion growled and took your hand underwater. He pulled you closer and led your hand to his cock, which was already rigid with desire, despite the temperature of the water. 

You made eye contact with him as you started pumping your hand up and down his shaft and he hissed out a breath. 

“Easy, darling,” he said shakily. 

“What’s the matter?” you asked, close to his ear. “Don’t you want to cum while watching the sunrise?”

Astarion groaned and you moved your hand up to swipe your thumb across his tip and then back down to continue pumping. You lifted your weightless body up and swung your leg around so that you were sitting between his legs, facing him head on with the sunrise at your back. 

“I know what would make you even harder,” you cooed, wiping wet hair out of his face with your free hand. Instead of finishing the thought, you tilted your head to the side, offering up your neck to him. 

Astarion’s eyes, half lidded with lust, went wide and looked at you. You nodded to him, and he pulled you closer to his chest, kissing your throat feverishly upon contact. Your hand was still wedged between your legs, twisting around Astarion’s length. He moaned as he nosed along your throat for where your pulse thrummed the strongest.

“Thank you,” he said before sinking his fangs into you. 

You let out a moan of your own, your mouth falling open as goosebumps broke out along your arms. The cold water mixed with the ice in your veins created a delicious mixture of pleasure and pain. The hand pumping Astarion’s length started to slow as you felt yourself focusing instead on the satisfyingly dull thrum that came with him drinking from you. 

“Don’t stop,” he murmured against your skin, kissing your throat and licking a few wayward drops of blood that had escaped before returning to his meal.

You made a noise of affirmation and squeezed his dick before continuing to twist your hand up and down, from base to tip and back down again. 

Astarion whined lamely and dug his nails into your scalp and shoulder, which in turn made you moan wantonly. You rolled your hips, trying to find some relief of your own and ended up brushing your clit against the base of his cock. You both groaned in pleasure and you brought your free hand up to tangle into his hair as you continued rolling your hips. 

“Hah,” Astarion huffed sweetly as he pulled himself away from your throat, his cool breath made warm by your blood. He licked at the wounds he left behind and kissed them gratefully before angling his head to kiss your mouth deeply.

The metallic tang of your blood on his tongue sent a chill through your body and you opened your eyes when you felt Astarion’s hands make their way to your hips. You broke the kiss to give him a curious look. 

He returned your look with a blissed out smirk. “I want you to ride me,” he drawled. 

Your eyes widened and the hand that was still working his cock slowed to a stop. 

He surged forward to kiss you again and moved his hands to your ass, where he lifted your weightless form to position you over his length. 

“Are you sure?” you asked. “I thought I was close to getting you off.”

“You were, sweet girl, but I’d much rather finish inside, if it’s all the same to you.”

Your lips quirked up. “I think we can make that work.”

Taking his cock into your hand again, you guided the head to your entrance before sinking down on him slowly. Astarion’s eyes closed in satisfaction and he tipped his head up to the sky, golden light painting his beautiful face into something ethereal. You sucked in a breath and rested your forehead on his shoulder, taking a second to adjust to this new sensation. You hadn’t ridden him yet, nor had you ever fooled around in water, by yourself or otherwise. 

Astarion kissed your ear before encouraging you: “Use me, my love. You’re deliciously warm.”

You nodded and tested lifting yourself up a little and bringing yourself back down. Your mouth dropped open and you adjusted your legs so you were resting on your knees, making it easier to bob on his dick. Your arms wrapped around his neck as you lifted yourself higher and brought yourself down with more force.

“That’s it,” Astarion cooed, “take your pleasure from me.”

“Touch me,” you whined, rolling your hips and picking up the pace of your bouncing.

“With pleasure,” he bent forward to kiss your neck, bringing his hand down to circle your clit. His other hand came up to squeeze your breast. 

“You make me feel so good,” you sighed, raking your nails over the ridges on his back.

“The feeling is mutual, d-arling,” his voice caught when you brought yourself down on his cock. “And I’m the only one who can make you feel this good,” he grazed his fangs across your collarbone. 

“I don’t know,” you said, your body shuddering with euphoria, “Halsin seems like he could give you a run for your money.”

Astarion raised a disbelieving eyebrow at you.

“Teasing, my love,” you kissed him softly before letting out a loud “Ah!” when he started raising his hips to meet yours.

“Oh really?” he asked, his voice coming out like a growl. “You think Halsin could fuck you as well as I can?”

“Hah,” you half laughed, half moaned. “I think technically, in this position, I’m fucking you?” A lopsided grin graced your lips. “But I don’t know, I’m new to all this.”

“Funny,” Astarion remarked sarcastically and pulled his hand away from your clit, making you whimper in protest. 

“Hey!”

“Take it back.”

“Take what back? I already said I was teasing!”

“Say I’m the only one who can fuck you like this.”

You smiled, panting and still riding him beneath the surface of the water. “Are you jealous or something?”

“Hardly,” he rolled his eyes. “But you’re mine and it wouldn’t kill you to remind yourself of that.”

“Sounds an awful lot like jealousy to me.”

Astarion groaned in what sounded like frustration and pleasure. “Do you want to cum or not?” 

You leaned forward and kissed him deeply, moving your mouth slowly in time with the rhythm of your hips. When you pulled away, a string of saliva connected you to his lower lip. 

“Astarion,” you said softly, “I don’t ever want anyone else to fuck me. Only you. For as long as you’ll have me.”

The smirk on Astarion’s face was smug. “Because?”

You rolled your eyes. “Because I’m yours, you stupid bat.” You kissed him, then whispered conspiratorially, “And I like you the most out of everyone at camp.”

“You flatter me,” Astarion said, immediately returning to his ministrations on your clit. You gasped at the contact, which quickly morphed into a moan of delight as you rested your forehead on his shoulder again. His hips rose to meet yours once more and the moan he let out as a result sounded as if he’d been holding it in for a while. Perhaps it was to sound eloquent during your back and forth, but the noise was music to your ears.

“Am I making you feel good?” you asked a little shyly.

Astarion opened one of his eyes to look at you. “My sweet, you’ve only ever made me feel good.”

“I know that’s not true.”

“It’s not, but it is true about the sex.”

“Thank the gods,” you laughed, though you shut your eyes tightly when Astarion hit a particularly pleasant spot inside you with a roll of his hips. “Whatever you just hit felt heavenly,” you relayed to him.

“Good to know,” he said mischievously, and repositioned you on his lap so he could rise to meet that spot every time you sank down on him. 

“Oh, Astarion,” you sighed, a grin overtaking your features.

“You like that, love?” he nipped at your shoulder. 

“Yes,” you sighed again.

Your bounces on his cock were starting to become sloppy as the knot of your climax began to build low in your stomach. You moved your hand to his and reversed the direction he was currently circling your clit.

“I’m close,” you confessed.

“Thank the gods, so am I,” Astarion’s voice was strained.

You opened your eyes to watch him as he approached his own peak and exhaled dreamily at the sight of him, bathed in the orange glow of the sun which was now halfway risen. 

“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered, “and I like you so much.”

“Don’t make me throw up when I’m trying to cum,” he opened up an eye and smirked at you. “You’re not half bad yourself, gorgeous thing.” He groaned when you sat back down on him forcefully. “Now, would you cum for me already? I’m dying here.”

“Almost there,” you laughed. “And you’re dead already.”

“You’re making this very difficult, darling.”

“Let me help you then,” you said, reaching a hand forward and lightly caressing his balls.

Astarion’s mouth hung open in silent pleasure, his fangs glistening in the emerging sunshine. He watched you wordlessly as you leaned forward.

“You’re so powerful,” you purred next to his ear. “You make me feel so good, and you’re the only one who can fuck me this well. The others will never know how good I feel because I’m yours and I’ll only ever be yours. You’re the only one who will ever be inside of me.”

“That’s right,” he groaned. “Your cunt is mine and I love the way it feels around me. The way it grips me so tight. You filthy thing, letting a vampire take your innocence. I could have killed you and instead I brought you the most pleasure you’ve ever felt. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” you moaned. “Astarion, please. Need to feel your cum in me.”

“You want this cock forever, darling? Prove it. Prove you want it by cumming for me and screaming my name.”

His command brought you to your peak and you wailed out in pure ecstasy. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, over and over, and your cunt gripped him like a vice, as if claiming it for itself. In return, Astarion groaned loudly and spilled inside of you, moaning your name repeatedly and throwing his head back in rapture and delight.

As you came down from your high, you leaned forward to place sloppy kisses on his exposed throat. He brought both his arms around you and pulled you closer as he returned from his climax. 

“You are-” he didn’t finish his sentence before crushing his lips into yours, moaning pathetically and you giggled in response. He bit your bottom lip with his blunt front teeth before releasing it and peppering kisses along your cheeks and jaw. 

“Go on,” you teased, encouraging him to finish his thought.

He looked as if he wanted to argue, but instead gave in and said, “You’re wonderful.”

The words caught you off guard and you bent forward to kiss him in a way that you hoped conveyed your gratitude. 

“I think you’re wonderful, too.”

“Obviously,” Astarion smirked.

You pushed him backwards, causing him to slip and submerge his head fully underwater briefly.

“My hair was just starting to dry, you wretched beast!” he sputtered, looking appalled. 

“Aw, but you’re so pretty like this!” You brushed some wet hair out of his eyes.

“Um, hello? I’m always pretty, darling.”

“Ah, you’re right, how could I forget.” You gingerly lifted yourself off of Astarion and floated yourself to sit beside him, facing the sunrise. 

“Perhaps you’ve had the lovely head of yours hit in battle one too many times.”

“That must be it,” you agreed jokingly, resting your head on his shoulder. 

He leaned his head on top of yours in return. You sighed happily, enjoying the vibrant hues of the sky above, still filled with the euphoria of your high and the presence of the man beside you.

“I really do like you, so much,” you said softly, accompanied by the quiet lapping of the waves on the shore nearby.

“Ugh,” Astarion groaned. “Let’s not get sentimental, darling. After we just had such an excellent time together.”

You laughed. “Pardon me for wanting to express my feelings.”

“You are pardoned.” He gave you a sideways smile. 

“Thank you, Mr. Magistrate.”

“Of course, beloved citizen.”

You both laughed quietly and returned to a pleasant silence. The sun rose steadily up into the sky and you knew you’d have to head back to camp soon to help pack up, but for now, you were content to sit and watch the horizon with your favorite traveling companion. 

“How are you doing that?” Astarion asked, breaking the silence.

“Doing what?”

“Tickling my thighs. Did you cast mage hand or something of the sort?”

You sat up a bit more to look and snorted. 

“Astarion, my love, I think it’s a fish that’s tickling you.”

“Ah,” he said calmly. Then he shot up, flinging you backwards and underwater. When you came up for air, he was rushing towards the shore, barreling through the water.

“At least it had the decency to wait until we were finished!” you called after him.

Astarion ignored you. “Slimy, disgusting, vile creatures!” He shook out his entire body as if he couldn’t rid himself of the sensation.

You watched him with adoration as he muttered to himself about how irredeemable that particular fish was as he pulled on his pants. It was then that you felt your heart swell with something big and alarming.

Oh no.

You were in love with him. 

Fuck!

[maybellewriting]

The Bird and The Arrow

The Bird and The Arrow | Viltrumite Mark x AFAB! Reader/Previous Viltrumite Mark x Viltrumite! Reader Mentioned WARNINGS: Canon levels of gore and violence.

Word Count: 2200+ words

Note: This is my first post. Enjoy!

“She was a bird, I was an arrow

Both of us sure we were sword and a sparrow

Still, when we flew, we never knew 

There in the air, I felt her feathers

First all at once, then all together

When I went through, that's when I knew…” The Bird Song - Noah Floersch/Em Beihold The grip on your wrist might as well be stone. His hand is unyielding and unflinching as the fingers on your free hand rest on his own. They don’t quite pry yet. You’re too shocked or maybe even too scared to attempt. The eyes of who would have been his comrade are as wide as moons. The face that’s haunted his dreams for two years is staring back at him. There’s a stirring in Mark’s heart. He wants to say that it’s pity but isn’t quite sure. You’re human, frail, unimpressive. You’d fallen so low from the heritage that he remembered.

“Mark?” It’s certainly his face if Mark was stoic. Your chest aches from your heart hammering against it. When you’d heard the break in the sound barrier, you had hope that Mark would be here, helping people evacuate. You’d been late in gathering your things with such short notice. Your keys, your wallet, the knife you’d gotten comfortable having in your pocket due to work, and a wad of cash tucked away in your closet… Those few moments of scrambling had separated you from the others who’d rushed blindly and clogged the streets in their cars ahead. You didn’t have time to process exactly what you’d seen moments earlier as a figure in white cleaved through cars and people alike as if they were softened butter. It was when the roof of a car landed next to you that reality settled in. You hadn’t meant to scream. The impact startled you as the thing whizzed past your head. A little lower… A little lower and you would have been like the occupants of that car. His head turned and you held that stare a second too long before you ducked. It’s where he’d found you. Shocked by the gore that coated the interior of the car roof and trying to will your body to stop shaking so you could move.

“Please don’t hurt me.” His brow furrowed just enough that you were sure that his face could form some basic expression.

“Do what you need to do.” Those final words of his comrade swam in the forefront of his mind. He hadn’t realized that his hand tightened with the frustration that pooled in his belly until he saw your face shift in terror, in mounting pain. Your wrist was as fragile as a bird’s wing in between his fingers. “You’ll never cease to be passive, will you?” “I-” Your head shook, unsure of what to say to keep Mark from breaking your wrist. There’s relief when he does let you go. You flinch when he offers you a wave of his hand and there’s something akin to relief that fills him that you at least have some basic survival instincts. “Go.” Mark floats, crossing his arms. “Flee, hide, or wait for a savior. I’m curious what you’ll do to live.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Adrenaline has you ignoring the bruise blooming along your wrist as you hop in your car. Mark doesn’t move to stop you. He watches you peel out of your parking space like a bat out of hell, away from the carnage he’d caused. Mark watches a moment more before he continues his mission. The boom that alerted you to his arrival now has you white knuckling your steering wheel. It doesn’t ease up. Even as the white of his outfit becomes a speck and then nothing in your rearview mirror.

_____ The evacuation center is full. People are hurt, misplaced, and scared. The motel you’ve taken refuge in isn’t the best. There’s a tree outside that keeps you on your toes as the swaying branches clack against your window. “The GDA has issued an evacuation order for all major cities. If you require assistance with your evacuation or need shelter, call 555-2131 or your local hero agency.” That message on the TV had been playing on a loop with any station that didn’t actively cover the events unfolding. You change the channel. The news anchor covers her mouth at the live footage being fed to the station, to the world on the screen behind her. “Every available hero is being called to resist these invaders. If you can’t help: Stay away from the conflict, stay safe.” The banner beneath her held a different number each time it ran. An estimated count of injured or dead that only seemed to tick higher. You flick to a different channel. Another news anchor is red in the face as his hand slams against his desk. “If villains had any dignity, you’d be out there fighting too! Get up! Someone, anyone, has to stop Invincible!” Each time you see your friend’s face on these strangers, it’s a punch in the gut. They weren’t your Mark. He’d never enjoy any of this. He’d never consider any of this. You knew that he was more like Atlas than whatever these people are supposed to be, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and nearly buckling with the responsibility each day.

You look at his contact in your phone and then flick to the group chat between Mark, William, Amber, and yourself. It hadn’t been touched since he’d been back from Thraxa. 7:38 PM I’m okay. Are you? The motel bed is stiffer than your own as you rest against it. You want to go home. There’s a wonder if it will even be there when this is all over. You aren’t graced with even a knock as the lock on your motel room door clicks. You bolt upright and grasp the knife in your pocket. The thought of fellow survivors turning on each other so soon catches you off guard. There would always be someone who would take advantage of the world burning to explore the thoughts of could they get away with this. 

Mark’s face disarms you once you see it behind the brim of a baseball cap. “Mark! Thank God!” Relief makes tears well up in your eyes and you very nearly hug him. That is until you see his stiff posture and the logo of the cap. He’d never been a White Sox fan, he was a Cubs fan. Then you see that his clothes are one size too big in a style that doesn't match the sweaters or khakis in his closet as the door clicks shut behind him. “That is the most pitiful blade I’ve ever seen.” He stares at the pocketknife in your hand before his gaze settles on your face. “How did you get in my room?!” You point the blade accusingly at him. He’s still, observing you like some cornered animal. A part of you knows that that is exactly what you are with him blocking your only exit.

This Mark held up his hand. “A key.” He says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, showing you said key that rested with the ring looped around his finger. The room number on the tag was wrong so each door had the same lock.

Your confidence wavers. “Did you follow me?” You’re in disbelief. You’d watched him fly off in a different direction.

“No.” He said simply. Mark mulls over his words with care. “However, it wasn't difficult to track you. I followed the flow of people. Your vehicle wasn’t in the cluster at that... station,” He isn’t sure what to call it. A camp? “So I just went a little further. The ridiculous decoration on your car gave you away.” He refers to the sticker on the back. Some portrait of a humanoid animal in a cape that was cut off at the shoulders to better sit in the corner of the window. If he tilted his head just right, the image changed to have odd stars reflecting in the light that weren’t there when Mark viewed it head on.

“It’s Seance Dog!” You argue as if that would change how he viewed the sticker. His head tipped a fraction at the name before he stepped further into the room. You stepped back. The sweat in your palm makes you grip your knife differently.

“I’m not here to be educated about the culture of this dimension.” Mark said flatly. He looks at your weapon. “If you manage to kill me with that then I didn’t deserve to be born. Put it away. Sit.” His kindness wanes. But that isn’t quite right, is it? This Mark is practically saintly towards you considering what he could do. Then you see it. He hides the tiredness along his eyes well. This Mark doesn’t yawn or stretch openly, nor does he slouch until he’s had his coffee. You sit uncomfortably at the edge of the bed and tuck your knife back into your pocket. He doesn’t join you. He seems to read your body language well enough that he grabs a chair and drags it near to where you sit. “What do you do?” He lets the backpack that he no doubt stripped another man of from his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor with a soft thump.

The question knocks you for a loop. “What do you mean?”

He waves hand in a small gesture. “Here. What is your function? Do you do peace keeping with that blade? Are you an officer of sorts?” He struggles to try and find a role you’d fit in with your appearance. You looked so… casual, so soft compared to how he remembered you. Not unlike pictures of his mother before she was taken to Viltrum. She’d been an agent of sorts. Perhaps you, too, were an agent.

“I’m a bartender.” Mark looks on, attempting to fill in gaps to words he’s unfamiliar with. Tender. Tending the fields? “A farmer?” You can’t quite tell if he’s confused or disappointed with the question. You’re too terrified to laugh despite how badly a nervous giggle wants to bubble up at how silly and genuine the question is.

You shake your head, still rigid on the bed. As if your spine rested against an invisible plank of wood. “I make drinks.”

His stoic face now shifts. His hand drags along his features, grasping his chin. Mark gazes at the carpet. “You’re a servant.” You conclude that he’s disappointed with the sigh that escapes him.

“You like the drinks I make you! You’re spoiled.” Your tongue slips. He’s not Mark. Not the one who’d swing by your apartment and drink the new cocktails you’d try your hand at as you watched baseball or vent to you about work.

Mark’s eyes lift from the floor then to you. He doesn’t say a word. You’re his servant? It doesn’t really outweigh his disappointment, but the two of you were still close in a way. He wonders if the Mark of this dimension cares for you well. You look comfortable, fed, and, if it weren’t for the chaos outside, happy. You’re happy enough to see his face, you’d walked towards it as if it were a beacon of hope.

He deduces that the Mark of this dimension did something right if you’re alive and glad to see him.

Your hands wring together nervously. You felt as if you’d said all the wrong things, but he hadn’t killed you yet. “What am I to you?”

He leans back in his chair. “You were something more. Something better than a drink servant, that’s for sure.” Mark’s answer left you with more questions. Ones that he won’t answer because his eyes are closed, and his breath had steadied into an even pace. His head tipped back. You had a better view of the face of the boy you used to like and the young man he grew into.

You flick off the TV but sleep doesn’t take you as easily as it takes him. His figure stands out against the pale wallpaper. He grew less rigid as his form relaxed. His crossed arms had slumped a hair and his weight shifted to his now spread legs as his body attempted to find something more comfortable in the chair he’d assigned himself. You knew Mark well enough to picture this one’s face. Soon he’d be slack jawed and snoring softly. Just like when he’d pass out on your couch.

The door called to you, but you were sure that it was a trap. That he was testing you in some capacity. Would his amusement or whatever pushed him to spare you end if you attempted to slip away? You pulled out your phone and clicked the messages between yourself and your Mark.

8:59 PM Where are you? I need help.

8:59 PM Please.

You and every other person on this planet did. You watched as a wheel cycled beneath your messages before red text flitted up beneath the texts. Not Delivered ! Not Delivered !

You flipped the phone face down against the blanket and stared at the ceiling as Mark’s snores filled the gaps between your breaths. What were you going to do? What could you do? Part 2

[empty-movement]

Musical Utena ~ Blooming Rose of Deepest Black EVERYTHING

Oh, hey! Did you like what I did with the 2018 Musical Utena ~ Bud of the White Rose? With the posting a script, lyrics to the main banger, and links to download the everything I ever did about it?

I'm back to bring you all that tasty kibble, but for the sequel that followed the next year!

Musical Utena ~ Blooming Rose of Deepest Black EVERYTHING

You've asked, like, a lot a lot, and finally I answer! You want the script? You want some goofy memes and meta? You want to download (check the thread!) both the original crunchy streams on top of the Blu-ray, but also the soundtrack I made? Wanna read the translated program? The interview with Ikuhara and Yoshitani? Wanna see all the bromides? Yep, like last time I even collected the Twitter behind the scenes images.

Once again a massive undertaking both originally and in pulling together the script, which again, I did live on the subtitles, so I never actually made a script I could just copy and paste to show y'all! Well! Here it is!

Also, yes, I know you wanna see the banger's lyrics:

Two Worlds a Mirror Apart 鏡分ケる二つノ世界​ Kagami Wakeru Futatsu no Sekai​

KOZUE: With your sword, cleave into two…​ その剣により鋭く区切られた​ Sono ken ni yori surudoku kugirareta​ MIKI: ...the light and the dark reflected within the mirror...​ 鏡の中の光と闇​ Kagami no naka no hikari to yami​ SHIORI: The chosen live on, embraced by the light...​ 選ばれた者は光に包まれた生者​ Erabareta mono ha hikari ni tsutsumareta seija​ JURI: …while the rest are left for dead in the dark.​ 選バレヌ者ハ闇ノ中ノ死者 ​ Erabarenu mono ha yami no Naka no shisha​ WAKABA: The one you seek in the mirror...​ 鏡の中を探しても​ Kagami no naka wo sagashite mo ​ WAKABA: ...will never find a path to you...​ あの人は帰ってこない​ ano hito ha kaettekonai​ SAIONJI: ...so smash it...​ 鏡ヲ壊シテ​ Kagami wo kowashite​ SAIONJI: ...and make your own way to their side.​ アノ人ノモトへ​ ano hito no moto e​ NANAMI: You are illuminated...​ 光君は確かに僕の​ Hikaru kimi ha tashika ni boku no​ NANAMI: ...standing right here before me.​ 前に存在している​ Mae ni sonzai shiteiru​ EVERYONE: This is no illusion, so grasp my hand now...​ 幻想じやない僕の手を握っていて​ Gensou janai boku no te wo nigitteite​ EVERYONE: ...and let my warmth make its way to you.​ 触れた手のぬくもりが証明している​ Fureta te no nukumori ga shoumei shiteiru​ EVERYONE: Please, never let me go.​ ねえだからもうこの手を離さないで​ Nēdakara mou kono te wo hanasanaide​

MAMIYA: You are shrouded by an enveloping darkness...​ すぐ目の前の闇が君を包み込んで​ Sugu me no mae no yami ga kimi wo tsutsumikonde​ MIKAGE: ...feeling as though you'll vanish into nothing...​ 消してしまう気がするから​ Kesshite shimau ki ga suru kara​ AKIO: ...consumed by the light...​ スグ目ノ前ノ光ノ​ Sugu me no mae no hikari no​ AKIO: ...that has reached out to touch you.​ 君ヲ包モウトシテモ​ Kimi wo tsutsumou to shite mo​ EVERYONE: Hold on, and don't lose heart...​ 決シテシマエナイ心ニ​ Kesshite shimaenai kokoro ni​ ANTHY: Though in darkness, I know...​ 闇ノ僕ハ確カニ​ Yami no boku ha tashika ni ​ ANTHY: ...you're standing here before me.​ 君ノ前ニ存在シテルケド​ Kimi no mae ni sonzai shiteru kedo​ UTENA: None of this is real, so grasp my hand now…​ 現実ジャナイ僕ノ手ヲ握ッテミテ​ Genjitsu janai boku no te wo nigitteite​ EVERYONE: ...and never forget...​ 触レタ手ノ温モリハ​ fureta te no nukumori ha​ EVERYONE: ...my warmth will make its way to you.​ 忘レテイナイ​ wasureteinai​ EVERYONE: Please, never let me go.​ ネェダケドモウコノ手ニ触レラレナイ​ Nē dakedo mou ko no te ni furerarenai​ EVERYONE: These are two worlds, a mirror apart.​ 鏡分ケる二つノ世界​ Kagami wakeru futatsu no sekai​

​(Thanks to Nagumo and cowtown for help with the romanization!)

[randomthefox]

Here we go.

Firstly: observe the oil painting. Observe that the Sparda family would have needed to sit and pose for this fucking painting for what had to be hours. The boys absolutely lived with and knew and interacted with their father and were aware of his existence and nature, just saying (fuck the netflix show).

This painting is also actually based on a piece of unused concept art from all the way back in DMC1.

I think it's really cool how they took something that wasn't even used in the final game and repurposed it to function as a piece of Sparda family history.

The leitmotif of the games credits song "Legacy" starts playing as Dante is walking up to the house. That song is about Sparda and his lineage, so it is obviously very appropriate that we first hear it when Dante returns to his long lost childhood home. A home he has apparently never visited since that fateful day, considering he wasn't even aware it was still left standing. It's likely that Dante wanted to distance himself from it as much as he possibly could, even after discarding his Tony Redgrave identity. Dante does not want to revisit the past, it's too painful for him. When he first steps foot in the house, notice how the camera angle changes to looking at him from inside the closet. The same closet he hid inside when he was a child.

Dante muses that he always wondered why Sparda left him the Rebellion. I talked about this in this post but in terms of the metanarrative, Rebellion was a sword they essentially made up for DMC2 to replace Force Edge/Alastor probably without giving it much thought, whereas the Yamato was established in the very first game as Sparda's sword. The metatext of Vergil getting Sparda's sword as created and designated by Hideki Kamiya's foundational game, and Dante being retroactively bestowed a sword that the developers made up to fill space in the botched creation of the second game, is worthy of analysis in and of itself. Vergil is of course the older brother, so he gets the "more important" sword. Dante's inherited sword is basically an accident. I find it very prescient that the Rebellion is destroyed in this game, and entirely replaced by a devil sword of Dante's own name and creation.

The Yamato's power was always in destruction. In cleaving things in two, whether it be worlds or men. The true potential of the power in Rebellion comes not from destruction, but in creation. In combining disparate elements that were never meant to mix together, and resulting in something infinitely more powerful than they ever could have been alone. Narrative, what is that saying about what Sparda wanted for his children to inherit from him? Why DID Sparda leave Vergil the Yamato and Dante the Rebellion? We can never really know. But in terms of the metatext of the Rebellion's history as the result of the franchises game development, I find it very uplifting that Dante is taking the destroyed remnants of something that originated from "the worst game in the series" and making something new out of it. Very much like how Itsuno took the shattered leftovers of what they cobbled together in the creation of DMC2, and produced DMC3 in its aftermath.

Dante is also of course finally confronting his past, from his childhood loss and from the painful encounters with Vergil from DMC3, and through that painful acknowledgement is able to finally move forward. Instead of simply using the handmedowns from his father, Dante carries on Sparda's legacy by forging and claiming his own identity. In the birth of a new Devil Sword. Just as Sparda used a sword that shared his name, so too now does Dante wield the Devil Sword Dante. A physical manifestation of his will and power, which also allows him to transcend to a level beyond what his demonic heritage imbues him with. I don't think it's up for debate anymore that Dante has truly surpassed his father, and is now more powerful than Sparda ever was. Replicating Sparda's own feat of creating a Devil Sword that shares his name proves that.

Some people actually called this, btw. They guessed that Dante would get a sword called Dante, just like how Sparda's sword was called Sparda. It was such an incredible moment when this happened while playing the game for the first time and seeing the weapon pop up like that saying that the Sword literally was named Dante.

The ensuing fight against Urizen is basically a gimme, and a soft tutorial for the Sin Devil Trigger. The Sin Devil Trigger was actually in DMC2, as a random occurrence whenever activating Devil Trigger. Just like the Rebellion itself, the developers took the concept from that game and imbued it with infinitely more narrative importance than it originally had.

I want to think that there might be some significance to the fact that the Qliphoth achieved its final achievement producing the fruit at 12PM June 15th? Considering Dante's home was attacked on the 16th, as mentioned in a newspaper clipping in the games library. Hard to say. the game certainly seems to give a lot of importance to the dates and timeline of the story, but I can't quite put my finger on it specifically.

[honeyslibrary]

Hi everyone, hope you all are doing well. I am hoping to get some writing done for Tumblr soon, but in the meantime, I posted my first post on Patreon!!! It's a Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader fic (18+). Below is an excerpt of the beginning, and if you are interested in reading the rest, you can find it here! If not, no big deal, as stated previously, I'm hoping write for Tumblr soon 😊 - Honey

'Plead You Case' excerpt (warnings include; oral sex, cursing, established relationship, fluff.)

The shrill blare of Quinn’s alarm cleaves through the quiet morning, ripping you out of the warm cocoon of sleep. Your body jolts reflexively, a groan slipping past your lips as you instinctively roll away from his side, already mourning the loss of comfort.

It’s Saturday. You were supposed to sleep in—stretch beneath the covers, steal a few more hours of lazy, uninterrupted bliss. But Quinn has morning skate. Even as the thought drifts through your mind, he’s already groaning under his breath, reaching blindly toward the nightstand to silence the alarm.

His hand fumbles, then finally smacks the off button, plunging the room back into stillness. Before you can settle again, he rolls toward you and collapses half on top of your body, his cheek squishing into the curve of your neck like a cat seeking warmth. His limbs are heavy, the weight of him warm and grounding, and the scent of sleep clings to his skin—musk, laundry detergent, and something distinctively him.

"Skip morning skate," you whisper, your voice a raspy, pitiful murmur barely audible against his ear. Your lips brush his hair as you speak.

“Can’t,” he mumbles, voice muffled by your skin. The word vibrates against your throat, soft and stubborn. He presses a lazy kiss just below your ear, the motion half-instinct, half-devotion, and pushes himself up on his forearms to look at you.

He’s still halfway between asleep and awake—eyelids heavy, lashes clumped together from the weight of slumber, the bags under his eyes darker than they were last night. His hair is a tousled mess, sticking up in uneven spikes from your hands pulling at it hours earlier. Even so, he’s stupidly beautiful in the low morning light bleeding in from the window.

You sigh dramatically, wriggling under him. “It’s optional. You’re the captain. You can skip…”

A low, huffed laugh escapes him—just breath, really, no sound. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans in until his forehead touches yours. A pause, a shared inhale. Then a feather-light kiss to the tip of your nose.

His voice is low and gravelly with sleep, his breath warm as it ghosts over your lips. “Come on, sweetheart. You know I can’t.”

“Can I convince you?” You jut your lower lip out, the edge of a pout curling at the corners.

“No.” He tries for stern, but his tone is soft, frayed at the edges with affection—and the glint in his eye betrays him. He stares at you for a beat, then dips down, lips brushing the underside of your jaw in a kiss so tender it borders on reverent. “You’re welcome to try, though.”

You let the silence draw out, just a beat too long. Then, voice quiet and innocent, you murmur, “What if I give you a blowjob?”

[ninibeingdelulu]

His biggest fan ✧

Plot: You’re Michael’s girlfriend, cheering him at one of his games.

A/N: It’s so bad I hate it😓

The roar of thunderous cheers flooded the stadium as Michael unleashed another stupefying display of lethal precision and brute physicality that defied mortal comprehension.

You watched with breathless awe seated front row as that signature blue mohawk wove a hypnotic cyclone of calculated ferocity carving apart the helpless defense trailing hopelessly in his wake.

Each savage yet eerily choreographed burst from Michael's heavyweight strides reverberated across the pitch warping the boundaries of space and time itself directly proportional to his gravitational soccer supremacy.

Until the entire cosmos distilled into that infinite singularity split-second with just your striker boyfriend, the ball and the yawning maw of the goal awaiting its inevitable oblation.

You bit down hard stifling the visceral shudder trying to escape as Michael's rocket-powered thunderbolt smashed past the defenseless keeper and ignited the back of the net in a blaze of cosmic glory.

Celebrating with that bone-chilling sovereign roar staking his unchallengeable dominion once more before this mortal realm of sporting conquest still so far beneath his transcendent plane of greatness.

Even after the final whistle sounded you remained spellbound observing Michael bask in those rapturous post-coital moments savoring his ineffable feat.

Utterly transfixed upon the hyper-masculine sculpture of your man still slicked with the spoils of carnal supremacy while casting that chiseled nordic profile against the floodlit heavens he reigned sovereign over.

Until his peripheral laser focus abruptly snapped in your direction lancing directly through your aura with a telepathic tractor beam manifesting into actual physics-warping forces.

Almost like each molecule surrounding Michael compressed and bent inward before being shunted aside clearing his path towards you with terrifying inevitability.

You barely had a chance to brace yourself as the unstoppable tsunami slammed into your front row section without mercy or resistance.

The concussive shockwave blasting through your senses while those titanium bulwarks materialized around you scooping your diminutive frame against Michael's furnace-stoked musculature with crushing intensity.

"My sweet empress…I could only hear your voice back there. It motivated me, thank you.”

His rough-hewn bassline resonated against every nerve ending vibrating at some untapped primordial stratum while you strained to surface through the endless whitenoise overloading your synapses.

Only Michael's low gravitic pulses penetrating the oblivion flooding your faculties from that unholy cosmic union now peeling away every layer keeping you distinct individualities during submersion into this event horizon state of indistinguishable polarities collapsed together.

Until finally resurfacing from that singularity after an eternity compressed into nanoseconds - though still deliriously consumed by the aftershocks rippling across your intertwined vessels smoldering in the embers of rapturous conflagration yet still ravenous for more extreme escalations eternally rebirthing from the expended remains!

Only the roaring crescendos from those frenzied supporters still filling the stadium slowly penetrated the vacuous void reverberating between you both savoring that suspended infinitesimal post-orgasmic bliss together.

You felt Michael's stern facade gradually reassemble while withdrawing from your interiors just fractionally enough to restore individuation-yet sense his alpha dominion expanding throughout your reconstituted synaptic matrices cementing his reign over your fused polarities once more.

Then with a subtle shift his smokey granite stare cleaved directly through the veil drawing your reawakened senses under that spellbinding trance spellbinding instantly.

A hushed imperious rasp now caressing your essence from that primal domain where all worldly laws bent to his sovereign decrees:

"Why don’t I reward you tonight, huh, meine liebe ?”

Just experiencing the infinitesimal microcosm of his supreme essence bleeding into your rematerialized corporeal vessel already whiplashed your senses through multiple clinical deaths and resurrections beyond this plane's dimensional limits.

His seismic vibrational frequencies triggered endorphin avalanches detonating every neurotransmitter into frenzied paroxysms anticipating the ineffable escalations still awaiting together...

[mitsuristoleme]

hope i never lose you

pairing: gojo satoru x geto suguru x reader

cw: post the events of hidden inventory but pre kfc breakup, implications of depression, mentions of death/almost dying, mention but not graphic description of blood, thoughts of killing/genocide by suguru, arguments, crying/breakdowns, they’re all whipped, hurt/comfort, smut, oral sex (male receiving), 4.5k words (this was NOT supposed to be this long but woohoo??)

part of my au- This Side of Paradise

for more from this au check out my masterlist

It was 3AM when you finally dragged your exhausted body to your dorm room.

Ever since Amanai’s death (or as the higher ups called it “the incident with the Star Plasma Vessel), you and your boyfriends, Satoru and Suguru, were being worked to the bone, a new mission popping up seemingly every few hours.

All three of you had been promoted to special grades and the pressure was unreal. Missions that should have been handled by adults with more experience were being handed off to you in view of your “superior abilities”.

You didn’t remember the last time the three of you had even seen each other for longer than 30 minutes. You missed them. Terribly.

Most of the measly time you were together was spent doing mandated training to hone Satoru’s Limitless. To help him step into his role as ‘The Strongest’.

You were tired. So tired.

Not to mention the nightmares plaguing your mind every night. Satoru’s head dismembered from his body, him never having the epiphany that led him to acquire reverse cursed technique. Suguru’s chest cleaved open, him never making it to Shoko. And you, bleeding out from the slash in your stomach before ever making it to any of them.

You’d been waking up in tears streaming down your face for days, the image of the lifeless bodies of your boyfriends seared into your mind like a brand.

Kicking off your shoes, your eyes roved over the room, a habit you’d developed after the man who killed Amanai broke into the Jujutsu High barrier.

Wow, you’d really let it get messy.

Your hands stopped halfway through unbuttoning your uniform jacket as you realised you weren’t in your room. Muscle memory had apparently led you right into Suguru’s dorm room.

His door wasn’t locked? Strange.

He wasn’t in bed? Even stranger. Normally Suguru was very particular about his beauty sleep.

Why was his room a mess?

Panic clutched at your heart, fear digging in its sharp claws, your pulse pounding loudly in your ears. Your legs hurriedly moved of their own accord as you threw back his sheets in the hope that he was there. Not gone. He was still here, right? He had to be.

No.

No?

nononononononononononononono.

“Y/N? What’re you doing here?”

Suguru’s voice dragged you out of your panicked rush of thoughts.

“Oh my god, you’re alive,” you choked out, reaching for him to pull him against you, a physical reassurance to yourself that he was still there. That your nightmares weren’t true.

“I-“ his arms looped around your waist hesitantly, “Of course I am. Are you alright?”

“Mhmm,” you mumbled, nodding against where your face was buried into his bare shoulder.

Wait…

“Why are you naked?” you inquired, eyeing the towel covering his lower body. Why did he look so weak?

Your hands moved to gently cup his face, “Sweetheart, have you been eating? You don’t look okay.”

Suguru flinched at your touch, looking like a deer trapped in headlights and for the first time in the year and a half you had been dating him, you saw Geto Suguru at a loss for words.

He squirmed in place letting your concerned eyes trail over his greasy barely-taken-care-of hair, his red, puffy eyes and his dark circles.

“Sugu…”

Before you could voice any further concern, the door to the room was flying open to reveal an incredibly disheveled Satoru, his cheek dripping with blood.

There was a tense moment where the three of you stared at each other until Satoru came barrelling towards the two of you, engulfing you into his lanky arms.

A light ‘oomph’ escaped Suguru’s mouth as his knees buckled and he face planted right into Satoru’s chest.

“You’ve got blood on you,” you mumbled into Satoru’s uniform. He hummed in acknowledgment, dipping his head to press a gentle kiss to your head, another one to Suguru’s bare shoulder.

“‘S not mine,” he said simply, offering no further explanation. His hand slipped under your uniform shirt to rub at the small of your back, the other one lazily moving to scratch Suguru’s scalp. “Why’re you naked Sugu?”

Suguru lazily raised his eyes to meet your blue eyed boyfriend’s gaze from where he’d basically melted into his side, “Jus’ took a shower.”

“Yeah? Then why’s your hair all greasy and stinky?”

“No reason,” the raven snapped, his posture stiffening as he moved to pull away from the hug. His tone was sharp. Nothing like you’d ever heard him use with you or Satoru before.

Satoru took off his glasses and tossed them onto the bed before narrowing his eyes at his boyfriend, “C’mon your hair is the love of your life, babe. You never let it get this dirty.”

“I just told you it’s nothing! God!”

Suguru angrily stomped his way to his closet, pulling on a white t-shirt and a pair of boxers, tossing his towel to a random corner of the room.

“You never do that either,” you said gently, your voice soft, trying to maintain a level tone.

“Can you two stop? I’m fine! Maybe I’m just tired this late at night!” His hands tore through his hair in frustration, the grease making his hair stick back onto his scalp.

Satoru moved across the room, grabbed Suguru’s jaw and forced his boyfriend to meet his glowing blue eyes.

“Something’s wrong.”

A defeated sigh.

“I told you nothin-“

“Tell me what's wrong.”

“Satoru noth-“

“BULLSHIT!” Satoru roared, making Suguru violently flinch in his hold.

Silence. Deafening silence.

Fearing this was the calm before a much bigger storm, you decided to step in, slipping between them to loosen your white haired boyfriend’s iron grip on his counterpart’s jaw.

“You’re hurting him ‘Toru,” you whispered, keeping your voice low, scared that anything louder might spark further conflict.

Blankly, he nodded, withdrawing his hands from Suguru’s face, gently placing them around your hips instead. You shot him a small smile, reaching up to affectionately scratch his undercut, drawing a pleased sound from him before you turned back to your long haired lover.

You cupped his face, running your knuckles over where red marks the shape of Satoru’s fingers had started forming.

“Talk to us, Sugu. We’re worried about you, baby,” you beseeched. “Please.”

That seemed to break him, his expression crumpling as he let out a shaky breath.

“I just-“ is all he could let out in a choked whisper before he broke down in front of you.

His head dipped down, his chin pressing into his chest, his shoulders shaking from his heaving sobs, his body curling into itself as if he wanted to hide away.

“Suguru,” Satoru mumbled from behind you, concern laced through his voice, his hands reaching to cup his boyfriend’s face, taking care to be gentle after his earlier outburst, his large hands supporting the raven’s face from below, fingers gently swiping at his tears.

Blue eyes flicked down to meet your own worried ones, a silent communication passing between you both as you slipped out from between the two boys and pressed your torso against Suguru’s back, your arms wrapping around his waist in silent comfort.

Meanwhile Satoru had gathered his dark haired lover into his arms, supporting the brunt of his body weight, letting him cry onto his rumpled uniform jacket.

Sandwiched between both of your bodies, Suguru shook violently with sobs, a part of you worried if he could breathe, a sentiment clearly echoed by Satoru. You watched as he tangled one of his hands in your boyfriend’s hair, his fingers moving to lightly scratch at his scalp.

“You need to breathe baby,” he gently reminded Suguru. “C’mon, deep breaths with me, yeah?”

You pulled away from your koala grasp on your boyfriend, instead rubbing his back comfortingly as he gulped down shaky bouts of air through his mouth and nose, tears still streaming down his face.

Frowning, you reached up to wipe his tears off his face, your hand coming away wet as if you had just washed it. Your lower lip wobbled, heart twisting seeing one of the loves of your life in so much distress.

Ever so observant with his keen eyes, Satoru had already loosened one of his arms from around Suguru’s waist and tugged you into the hug.

“Don’t you start,” he mumbled, trying to force his usual playfulness in the jest. He was just as tired as you and Suguru were, taking on mission upon mission, sometimes even forcing the higher ups to give him missions that should’ve been given to either of his partners, not that you knew this. But you knew he was tired and joking, so you said nothing.

The three of you stood there for a while, wrapped up in each other, your hearts thumping wildly, as Suguru’s sobs died down into soft sniffles, his hand reaching up to wipe a stray tear from your face before his arms looped around you and Satoru.

“‘M sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse and scratchy, presumably from all the crying.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” you replied instantly. “We’ve all been stressed, you don’t have to apologise fo-“

“What's the point?” he interrupted, his tone defeated, “What's the point of us working our asses to the ground to exorcise curses when those- those monkeys are gonna make new ones anyway?”

“Sugu-“

“I’m tired of fighting for people who just create their own problems. Maybe non sorcerers just shouldn’t exist.”

Satoru gaped at him, eyes wide, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, trying to figure out what to say.

“You don’t mean that,” he finally said lamely.

“Don’t I? Just put yourself in my position, Satoru. Do you know how horrible ingesting curses is? And I do all that, every. Single. Fucking. Day. Only to find some psycho with no cursed energy almost kill me and my partners!”

You pulled away to look him in the eyes, “And that's a good reason to kill all non sorcerers? You’ve always believed in not killing without any meaning. Where’s the meaning in getting rid of a population of innocent people?”

“I wouldn’t call them innocent.”

“What about your parents? They not innocent either?” Satoru jumped in, his tone accusatory.

Suguru hesitated, his eyes flicking between the two of you and the ground, “I… don’t know.”

“You hesitated. That’s your answer.”

“It’s really not.”

“You can’t just kill millions of people just because they’re not like us.”

“…”

“Suguru.”

Satoru looked at you, his eyes swimming with uncertainty and fear at the sudden cult propaganda like stuff your shared boyfriend had started spewing.

You sighed, “You know Suguru, you’re not the only one who saw your partners almost die.”

“What?”

“You said earlier, you saw me and ‘Toru get killed by a non sorcerer. You’re not the only one who did.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw both of you. Almost die I mean. Almost died myself too.”

“Y/n-“

“I’ve been having nightmares, you know? Every night. You both-'' you paused, your breath hitching in your throat, tears prickling your eyes. Satoru wrapped his arm around your shoulder, squeezing you close to him as if saying, ‘it’s okay, we’re here’.

You took a shuddering breath before continuing, “You both die. Bleed out. And I do too. Before I ever reach you. Before I get to see you for the last time. And I know it's not the time to bring this up but I-“

The rest of your sentence was cut off by the lump in your throat swelling, your eyes welling up with tears.

Suguru’s hands were on your face immediately, wiping off tears before they even fell. Satoru pulled you tighter against him, pressing a kiss to your head.

“Hey,” Suguru whispered against the shell of your ear, his breath skirting across the side of your face, “We’re here, okay? We’re here and we’re alright baby. We gotchu, yeah?”

You nodded, burrowing your face into Satoru’s chest, letting the warmth from both of your boyfriends caging you between them wash over you. They were your anchors, pulling you back to reality when the storm of life got too difficult to bear. They were your home.

“You’re both my home too,” Satoru mumbled sheepishly, almost too quiet for you to hear.

“Did I-“

“You said it out loud.”

“Oh.”

“You’re my home too,” Suguru sighed out letting his head fall onto Satoru’s, his eyebags looking more prominent when he closed his eyes to take a deep breath.

Satoru shifted slightly, “Let’s get into bed hmm? You both look like you need some serious sleep. And honestly? Same.”

The weight of the exhaustion of the past few days suddenly hit you like a truck, your limbs going weak and heavy between the strongest duo.

You glared at Satoru through bleary eyes, “Are you a witch?”

“Eh??? Where is this coming from??”

“You said we probably need some serious sleep and now I’m tired. You’re a witch and you-“ yawn “You cursed me to feel sleepy.”

“Baby it’s like half past three. You’re sleepy because you’ve been awake for like 24 hours.”

“…I still think you’re a witch.”

Satoru’s mouth opened to form a what would be a smart retort but he was interrupted by Suguru smoothly slapping a hand over his mouth, pushing you slightly towards the twin bed, “Alright before you start trying to burn the guy who funds all our food runs at the stake, let’s get into bed yeah?”

“Is that all I am to you?! A wallet?!”

“No you’re our sugar daddy. It’s the only reason we tolerate you. Ain’t that right babe?”

You looked at him, eyes sparkling with playful mirth, the humour returning to the raven’s voice filling you with an unspeakable amount of relief.

“Yep.”

“You’re both so mean to me!”

“Hush now, pretty boy.”

The three of you squeezed into the small bed meant for one person, as always: Suguru’s chest pressed into your back, your head resting against Satoru’s shoulder, three pairs of legs tangling with each other until you couldn’t tell where one of you ended and the other began.

“We’re still in uniform,” you sighed out, dreading the prospect of leaving the tangle of warmth to change.

Satoru yawned. “Mmh it’s fine. Ya don’t mind, do you Sugu?”

“You have blood on you, dumbass.”

A dramatic whine. “Ugh fine.” A smirk. “Stay here and strip lovely, I’ll get that t-shirt you like from emo boy’s closet.”

“Perv.” You tossed a pillow at him but got down to removing your uniform anyway.

Fiddling with the last few buttons, you peeled off your partially open uniform jacket, putting it next to you. You would take it, along with the rest of your uniform, to the laundry basket in your room later.

Next to you, Suguru heaved a big sigh, fidgeting with the end of his shirt. “I’m not gonna do it,” he said quietly. “Genocide, I mean,” he continued a bit louder. “I just-“ he groaned, his hand running dragging down his face, “You guys just got me thinking. I’m not the only one who suffered that day. And killing off millions of people isn’t- Well it isn’t practical- Or moral. And you’re right y’know. I’ve never gotten behind killing without meaning.”

He went quiet again, his fingers continuing to nervously tug and twist at the hem of his shirt.

A tense silence filled the room.

Satoru stood in front of the closet, holding a wad of clothing, staring at his boyfriend.

Before you know it, the white haired boy is launching himself at Suguru, burying his face into the raven’s neck, “‘M sorry. ‘M sorry I never noticed that you were struggling. And I’m sorry I got mad and hurt you earlier.”

Suguru sighed, melting into his lover’s body, “‘S ok. I forgive you. You were just worried.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

You watched the two boys soak in each other’s affection with fond eyes. They got on your nerves almost constantly but damn did you love them.

“Babe?” called Satoru.

You were met with the pouty faces of both your boys staring at you.

Suguru tilted his head from where Satoru had it cradled in his arms. God, he looked like a kicked puppy. “Do you not love us?”

You almost cooed because what the hell? Why was he so damn adorable?

“Of course I love you silly.”

“Then why didn’t you say it when the both of us did?” Satoru inquired, matching pouts with your shared boyfriend.

“Well-“ you sputtered, “You guys were having a moment! I didn’t wanna ruin it!”

You got no response. The two of them only stared at you, thoroughly unimpressed.

You laughed, “Okay, okay. I love you both.”

“Good,” they mumble in unison.

“Ugh you’re both so adorably stupid,” you muttered, jumping into the hug peppering aggressive kisses all over both their faces, each punctuated with a ‘I love you’.

By the 20th kiss, they were blushing, Suguru pushing you and Satoru off. “Change you two,” he admonished, “Stop getting curse gunk and blood on me.”

You laughed, pressing a final kiss to his forehead and heading off to the washroom to wash off your face, utterly unaware of two sets of enraptured eyes trained on your figure.

By the time you came out, Satoru had changed into one of Suguru’s large t-shirts and a pair of boxers. With his toned thighs on display and the smear of blood still on his cheek, he had never looked hotter to you.

“Y’re starin’ love,” he smirked.

“You’re starin’ love,” you mocked, pitching your voice lower in a horrendous attempt to sound like him. “Not my fucking fault you’re hot.”

He giggled. Yes. Giggled. Like a middle school girl. “Aw thanks babe,” he said as he batted his eyes at you, “Anyways, clothes are on the bed, next to our hot boyfriend. I’m gonna go get the blood off my face.” And with that and a little hairflip, he flounced off into the bathroom, shutting that door behind him.

“He’s such a menace,” you mumbled, moving towards the bed.

Chuckling Suguru shifted to sit up in bed, grabbing at your waist and tugging you closer to him. “Yeah, but we love him regardless.”

You hummed in agreement, letting your boyfriend’s hands wander across your lower back and ass, “I guess we do, don’t we?”

He tilted his head up to meet your eyes, his chin resting right below your sternum. “Wan’ help getting this off?” he inquired, tugging on the end of your shirt, his pupils blown wide.

“You know I never say no,” you mumbled.

A satisfied sound left his lips, his practiced hands moving to unbutton your shirt and tug down your pants in record breaking time.

“So pretty,” he whispered, pressing a kiss above your belly button.

A tingle of electricity shot through your spine at the contact, a pool of warmth settling low in your stomach as you wound your fingers into his long hair.

You frowned at the feeling of the grease he had let build up in his hair on your fingertips. “I’m gonna wash your hair tomorrow.”

“I’d really like that,” he whispered, hooking his arms behind your thighs and pulling you down into his lap, immediately pressing his lips to yours in a loving kiss.

You looped your arms around his neck, readjusting your hands to keep gently scratching his scalp.

Suguru wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him, his hair tickling your cheeks.

“Sugu,” you gasped, pulling away for air, “I have to change.”

“Let me love on you baby," he replied, a little breathless, his hands running down your back. "Please?"

"Are you two canoodling without me?"

Your head shot towards the bathroom door, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were sitting on your boyfriend's lap, half naked, while your other boyfriend was staring at the both of you, failing to hide the very obvious bulge in his-or well- Suguru's boxers.

Suguru scowled at him, "We'll continue without you if you say 'canoodling' one more time."

"What's wrong with canoodling?"

"You're ruining the mood man!"

"I hate admitting you're right but I'd be lying if I said that the implication of you two 'canoodling' didn't make me just a little bit soft."

"Just come here and kiss me, idiot."

Satoru grinned at the command, crossing the room in two big steps to lace his fingers in Suguru's hair and smashing his lips onto his boyfriend's.

You laid your head on Suguru’s shoulder, soaking in his warmth, while you watched your boys devour each other’s mouths above you.

They broke apart, panting and faces flushed, looking at each other slightly dazed.

“Fuck,” Satoru rasped, “I forgot how good that felt.”

Suguru ran his fingers along his lips, still looking a bit out of it, “Yeah me too.”

“Now then,” grinned your white haired lover, his signature cheshire smirk on his lips, making grabby hands at you. “C’mere you.”

He dropped to his knees on front of the bed, his height allowing him to be face to face with you in Suguru’s lap. Grabbing your legs, he shifted you so you sat with your back to the raven’s chest, his hard on pressing against your ass.

Almost immediately, strong arms were wrapping around your waist from behind as Satoru slotted himself between yours and Suguru’s legs, hovering his lips above yours, just a hair’s breadth from touching yours.

“Kiss me baby,” he breathed, his breath fanning across your face.

You complied, throwing your arms around his neck, tugging him towards you as you ran your tongue along the seam of his lips.

He responded with just as much enthusiasm, his mouth hot against yours as his tongue slipped into your mouth.

You let your hands wander, scratching his undercut the way you knew made him go wild, enjoying the way he let out a breathy moan against your lips.

Satoru’s hands joined Suguru on your waist, settling right below the edge of your bra, his fingers running along the edge of the fabric resting against your ribcage as he broke away from you to press searing open mouthed kisses along your jawline.

He shifted his attention from you to the beautiful man whose lap you were sitting in.

“Hey Suguru?” he called out.

“Hmm?”

“Can I suck your dick?”

Suguru gaped at him, mouth falling open, eyes wide. Satoru never asked for permission.

“What? I can be considerate, y'know!”

“I know… You just never…”

You ran your fingers along Suguru’s wrist, soothing his frazzled nerves, “Let us spoil you, Sugu? You’ve been stressing enough.”

And that was how you ended up holding Suguru’s upper body to your own, his back muscles flexing against your front, his shirt haphazardly thrown to some corner of the room as he quivered and moaned under his boyfriend’s ministrations.

“Satoru-“ the raven choked out, his head falling onto your shoulder, “So good- please-“

Satoru hummed around Suguru’s cock, bobbing his head, his cheeks hollowing, before pulling away with a lewd ‘pop’.

“Please what, hmm baby?” he questioned, his voice low and raspy, “Please stop?”

A frustrated sound ripped itself from Suguru’s throat, his hand clutching onto Satoru’s shirt before tugging him closer to his mouth.

“I meant to keep going and you know it. Brat.”

Satoru grinned, his signature cheshire smirk taking over his face as his eyes flickered from his black haired lover’s eyes to his mouth. He leaned in closer, brushing his lips along Suguru’s jawline.

“Whatever you want, princess.”

He slid down, settling back between his boyfriend’s legs. He wrapped his hand around the base of Suguru’s dick, pumping it once, twice and another time, before wrapping his lips around the tip and pushing his head down the entire length in one go.

A loud moan tore its way from Suguru’s mouth as his hands reached to bury themselves in Satoru’s hair, tugging on the glowing moonlight strands like they were his lifeline.

You gently ran your fingers along Suguru’s bare torso, tracing the muscles that you had long since committed to memory, pressing kisses to the back of his shoulders and neck.

“Y’look so pretty like this Sugu,” you whispered into the shell of his ear, relishing the way he shivered at the way your breath danced across his cheek.

A gasp left Suguru’s lips just as a slurping sound came from where Satoru was continuing to suck him off, his own hips rutting into the mattress, drool dribbling down his chin.

Suguru’s back arched off where it was pressed against your torso, his mouth dropping open the way it did when he was about to cum, “Fuck Satoru- ‘M so close.”

His abs clenched under your touch as he chanted your white haired lover’s name like a mantra.

“‘Toru- I’m gonna- gonna cum. I- inside or are you-?”

Satoru made an insistent sound around his cock, burying his nose into the dark hair at the base.

You chuckled, “I think that means he wants you to cum in his mouth.”

Satoru made a pleased noise of agreement in the back of his throat, his eyes looking up to gaze at you both.

“Fuck,” Suguru groaned out, “I’m cumming-“

His body tensed up as he reached his high, his cum spurting into Satoru’s mouth, dripping down the sides of his lips as he pulled himself off his boyfriend’s dick, swallowing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“God fuck Suguru, we need to get you eating fruits again. That tasted like battery acid.”

Suguru shifted to cuddle with you, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck, his eyelashes tickling your skin.

“I’ve been contemplating genocide, leave me alone. Y/n get him to stop bullying me.”

You giggled, rubbing soothing circles into his broad back, following it with a kiss pressed into his hairline, “Stop bullying my baby, ‘Toru.”

“Am I not your baby?!”

“Yes you are honey, c’mere,” you coaxed, holding your arms out for him.

He sidled up to you, settling into your side, letting his head rest on your shoulder.

Your eyes burned as you shifted to make yourself more comfortable under Suguru’s body weight. Satoru slid his arm around your shoulders, sliding you down so you were lying down with your dark haired lover still holding onto you like a koala.

Satoru moved to drape his arm over Suguru’s back and brushed a kiss over both of your cheekbones, “You guys got any missions tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Nope.”

He smiled, all soft lines and wrinkling nose, so unlike the cocky smirk he paraded around wearing, “Good. We can sleep in then. Maybe clean up Suguboo’s room while he gets some food.”

Suguru hummed, nuzzling his face into your chest. “Love you,” he whispered, his voice muffled against your skin, the words spoken so tentatively that you almost missed them.

“Love you, Suguru,” said Satoru, playfully sticking his tongue out, plopping his head down onto the pillow, “Even when your cum tastes like toxic waste.”

“Shut up.”

“Love you, dorks. Now let's just sleep please. I’m tired.”

The three of you fell asleep like that, your personal weighted blanket Suguru on top of you, Satoru holding the both of you from the side.

a/n: whewwwww! that was one of the most time consuming fics ive ever written. its been in the works for over a month i think. ive also never written a content warning so long😭. hope you guys enjoy this!

tagging- @forest-hashira @wifeyana and @strychnynegirl

[bawfulio]

The worldbuilding of svtfoe is a very interesting hot mess to think about. It's like a defective puzzle: the pieces don't fit together quite right.

Especially in regards to magic/the issue of destroying it in the finale. You basically have to forget everything that was established about magic before Cleaved for it to actually feel like a sensible writing decision.

How do I know this? Because, for mad reasons, I decided to go through the series and catalog as many instances of magic being implied subtly or explicitly that it was a thing beyond Mewni. All examples are below the read more and sourced by their respective episodes

Dimensional scissors being owned by multiple beings from different dimensions, vast majority of them appear non-human/non-mewman (Shown since beginning of series)

Ponyhead uses magic to blast crystal stalactites on the ceiling of the Amethyst Arcade, making them crash into the guards from St. Olga's (S1E2: Party with a Pony)*

Star explaining how her wand needs to be regularly charged is worded in such a way that there are more like it in the multiverse (S1E8: Quest Buy You have to recharge wands with magical energy. If it goes to skull, it'll be dead forever!")

Quest Buy, an interdimensional retail store, sells wand chargers. If no other dimension has a wand like "Mewni", then there would be no reason for them to be sold (S1E8: Quest Buy)

The shard mines of Pixtopia are stated by the mine's taskmaster that they block magic. Considering that this dimension is the source of the magic mirror compacts/magic smart phones that are enable calls to anyone from any dimension, the wording implying magic period instead of a specific "butterfly magic" is interesting (S1E12: Pixtopia)

Tom's abilities in this episode (floating, fire control) seem to be a demonic variant of magic. While Daron Nefcy did say in the post-finale AMA that Tom could still create portals even after the destruction of magic (despite that same ability also being effected by Hekapoo shutting down the portal network), this fact was never stated in the show itself nor the spin-off books (S1E15: Blood Moon Ball)

Father Time, a plausibly magical being (this was never elaborated on in show nor in either spin-off books and the only answer came from Adam McArthur not Nefcy nor any of the show's writers) states that magic won't work on the wheel of time. Again, it is worded as magic period not "butterfly magic" or "royal magic" (S1E17: Freeze Day)

One of the "foolproof security measures" St. Olgas' is "no magic", with one of popups mentioning "magic sensors placed every 25 feet to ensure magic-free environment". If the school has such measures, then magic-using students must be a regular enough occurence to jutify it (S1E19: St. Olga's Reform School for Wayward Princesses)

Glossaryck's analogy on 'dipping down" is worded as follows: " Imagine the universe as this big old cauldron, and magic is the bubbly stew inside, and your wand is the spoon---Now the wand can only skim the surface of the hobo gravy, watery and brown. But if you want to get to the chunks, you've got to dip down. " Again, a singular magic, no differention for "butterfly magic" or "royal magic" (S2E1: My New Wand!)

Willoughby knows enough about magic to try and steal Star's wand to give herself a break (S2E6: Fetch)

Ponyhead uses magic to destroy Roy's shirt cannon. Roy also draws a magic circle on the ground that teleports Star, Marco, Ponyhead and Kelly to a temple where he then gives them the goblin dogs (S2E13: Goblin Dogs)

Etheria Butterfly, Moon's Aunt/Star's Great Aunt, pulls two Johansons underground via vines sprouted from magic seeds (S2E15: Games of Flags)

Rasticore is the sole person in the series to use a magical item that is not a pair of dimensional scissors to travel**. The Quest Buy gift card takes on a humanoid electric form to complete its expiration mode (S2E18: Gift of the Card)

Locked chains magically appear on the carriage door to keep Marco from leaving. Tom also uses his powers to resurrect Mackie Hand. (S2E19 Friendenemies)

Ponyhead uses magic to press the gas pedal on the car she's driving and later to repair the car (S2E24: Pizza Thing)

Magic (again, worded as magic period) is prohibited in the Bureaucracy of Magic building, complete with magic detector to find any "articles of magic, sorcery or occult objects of a mystical nature". The fritz is stated to be the result of "something somewhere sapping the power of magic from the universe". Once more, worded as a singular magic (S2E25: Page Turner)

The Naysaya is described as a demon curse. Whether curses are a separate thing from spells is never elaborated on in show or in the spinoff books (S2E26: Naysaya)

Preston Change-O, a being that sucked the joy out of Sensei's party guests. (S2E29: Trickstar)

Zedlord and Astrobell, who were crystallized by Rhombulus for destroying a planet and creating a black hole respectively. Considering that Rhombulus referred to his prisondres as "these guys" and the general design scheme of the non Earth/Mewni background characters, they are plausible inhabitants from other dimensions, not 'monsters" (S2E34: Crystal Clear)

The fritz is again stated to cause all magic (again no differention between types of magic) to weaken and fade (S3E1: Return to Mewni)

The Demoncism, with even features what Tom calls "magic manacles" (S3E12: Demoncism)

Marco suggests stopping Star's night portaling with magic glue. (S3E18: Sweet Dreams)

One of the supplies Janna brings to keep track of Star while she's night portaling is a "magic wave scope" (S3E23: Deep Dive)

Tom uses demonic magic to attempt to encase Mina in a coffin covered in sigils and golden magic chains (S3E24: Monster Bash)

Ponyhead once uses magic, in this case charging up a magic blast in preparation for facing Meteora, Gemini and Rasticore (S3E33: Skooled!)

The pillars/reverse waterfalls of magic found throughout the Realm of Magic are revealed to lead to other dimensions in the multiverse. Given the multiple pillars seen, it's likely that at least a good number of the connected dimensions use magic (S3E38: Conquer)

Marco's sword is revealed to be what kept a fire demon that once terrorized the Neverzonians sealed within a statue (S4E05: Ransomgram)

Wrathmelior has a emotional weather system that can cause severe storms if her emotions are in turmoil, possibly another form of demonic magic (S4E06: Lake House Fever)

The Quest Buy stock room is, as explained by the sloth employee, "a magical room that turns all your needless desires into pointless realities" (S4E11: Out of Business)

The Severing Stone is explicitly reffered to as an "enchanted rock" that posseses an edge so sharp that it can sever anything. The Blood Moon bal (S4E13: Curse of the Blood Moon)

In the beginning of the episode, we see Ludo attempt to steal Princess Quasar's magic bell, a possible counterpart to Star and her wand, complete with a counterpart to Glossryack (S4E14: Princess Quasar Caterpillar and the Magic Bell)

At Glossaryck and Meteora's first stop in the past, it is shown that a sea of magic was already present long before the Magic Sanctuary was built (S4E17: Meteora's Lesson)

Grobb/Neverzone Meteora explains that the old women of the mountain that found her and Bork/Neverzone Mariposa as babies taught her all of their spells. There is also Wyscan the Granter, a being that will grant requests in exchange for magic he can eat (S4E28: Gone Baby Gone)

According to Hekapoo, most of the patrons of the Tavern at the End of the Multiverse left their dimensions to "get away from magical issues or power-hungry rulers". Given the lack of elaboration on what exactly those magical issues were and how Star's rant focuses squarely on her family's misuse of it, this one might have been a last minute justification by the show to have Star destroying magic feel more natural. Whether or not it worked is up to debate (S4E36: The Tavern at the End of the Multiverse)

*I am aware of the whole "Ponyheads' powers are 'natural abilities' not magic" thing but A: the statement came from a tweet by a voice actor for the show (Adam McArthur), not Nefcy nor any of the show's writers so its canoncity is pretty weak and B: something as important as this should have been discussed in either hte show or one of the spin-off books. And, considering how Here to Help (which was 4 episodes before Cleaved) had Star somehow be able to gather a group of people from different parts of Mewni (Rick Pigeon, Ponyhead and Seahorse) and different dimensions (Kelly and Jorby, Talon and Quirky Guy) despite Hekapoo having shut down the mirror and portal network, it's possible that Ponyhead being magic was just forgotten

**It is mentioned in Star and Marco's Guide to Mastering Every Dimension that Rasticore is wanted for "unlawful alteration of regiestered, protected magic items (dimensional scissors)". This implies that his chainsaw was created from a pair of dimensional scissors but this is one of a multiple tidbits from the book that never comes up in the show itself

[sentientsky]

forgot to post it here, but new post-finale jayvik fic for all your hurt/comfort needs!

A warping hum—a split-second, split-atomic metallic pulse. And then nothing. A hollow, scraping absence, a negative space; a ring of gold bleeding through the edges of a solar eclipse. Jayce breathes in.  And then the cacophony closes in, collapsing in on itself, and he’s ripped back through the universe’s side—back into being. Light cracks against his closed eyelids, matter stitching itself together around him. And in the sudden absence turned presence turned all-encompassing feeling, he reaches out his hand. In the dark, he feels the sinews in his palm flex and beg for touch. He aches, in some instinctual kind of way. And still, he comes up empty, fingers cleaving through nothingness. A hollowing sensation tears through the length of him—some kind of cataclysmic loss he cannot yet name.  He breathes out, opens his eyes into darkness.

continue reading on ao3

[frickatives]

[a/n]:: I've had this steddie one-shot fic in my drafts for ages. wasn't sure if I'd ever get around to posting it. but it's 2025 now, and the world is feeling like an especially difficult place, so let's all post our self-indulgent angsty fanfics pls. the steddie is pretty low-key in this one, tbh, it's more pre-steddie angst than anything, but we all deserve to engage in a little wish fulfillment re: eddie at the end of s4, no? I have some ideas for maybe continuing this fic, sooooo we'll see if I can defeat my Serial Fic Abandoner demons~

[warnings/tags]:: steddie, angst, perhaps too much angst, canon-typical gore and violence, bisexual king steve harrington pov, everyone's having a bad time, gratuitous italics, playing fast and loose with a vague understanding of life-saving resuscitation procedures, s4 ending fix-it fic vibes

[wc]:: 3.3k

[ao3]

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Standing on the front porch of a rotting house in a rotting world, staring at the charred patch of not-quite-grass where there should have been a body, Steve Harrington's stomach lurches up into his throat. He struggles to swallow around it.

He saw the bastard fall. Pumped full of buckshot, molotov-fried extra crispy over rice, falling ass-first out of a window to what was supposed to be his death, so goddammit, where is he?

Nancy's staring at the grass, too, heaving terrified breaths with the rest of them, which can't be good. Steve and Robin both glance at her, their leader, their ferocious, fearless, capable, whip-smart Nancy, and the fear plain on her face grabs Steve by the spine and shakes. 

Maybe Vecna evaporated, he tells himself. Maybe it's normal that there isn't a body. It isn't like any of them would know; none of them have ever killed an evil wizard, before. Maybe Vecna hit the ground and turned into a million of these little flakes of gross that are always hanging in the air, here. Maybe they kicked Vecna's ass so hard that he's dust, now. A hysterical part of his brain bubbles with the words maybe his ass is grass. 

He opens his mouth to say so, even though it's dumb and probably wrong – Steve is usually wrong – and the clock behind them starts chiming.

His stomach does new, awful acrobatics. 

They run back into the house, stopping short an arm's length from the grandfather clock, as if it might lash out at them. Four chimes, each one pumping his own chest full of buckshot, because whatever this means, it's probably bad. Robin's hand finds his arm and he clings to her as hard as she clings to him. 

The name is out of Nancy's mouth before Steve's brain can put together what's happening: "Max."

She's right. Of course she's right. She's Nancy Wheeler, and she's always beautiful and always right, even when she's breaking Steve's heart.

There's no time for the pain to take root. (They lost Max, they lost Max, they weren't fast enough and Vecna got her and now that sweet-and-sour kid will never terrify him with her temper or her underage driving again–) 

The fourth and final chime has hardly stopped echoing in his ears when the house cleaves in two. 

The ceiling above them groans and splinters and red-orange hellfire (red-orange like Max, his stupid, useless brain supplies) carves a line down the hallway, moving towards them fast. 

"Woah, woah, woah, shit– shit!" he yelps, dragging Robin back towards the door. 

Nancy doesn't need dragging; she's jogging backwards with him, sawed-off tucked against her shoulder, eyes not leaving the tearing, ripping, growing split in the world above them, like she expects Vecna himself to reach through it. 

God, Steve hopes he doesn't. He hopes Vecna really is dead and that his disgusting, decaying world is falling apart without him. 

He hopes that Nancy was wrong (for once) about the clock chiming, and that they did save Max. 

Bits of plaster rain down around them. Vines – those slimy, sentient veins of the Upside Down – pry the fissure wider, shredding everything in its path. 

They make it out onto the not-lawn and leap out of the way of the destruction as it darts forward and swallows ground where Vecna should have been, and they keep running with everything they have.

It's so loud. The entire world groans and shakes like some great, wounded beast – and, shit, for all Steve knows, the Upside Down is some giant creature that's dying with them inside it. Every monster and vine-vein writhes and screams, like they can feel their world dying, too. 

They need to get back to the trailer. They need to climb out of this crumbling hell. Steve clamps his hand around Robin's as they run. Nancy sprints ahead of them, the sawed-off shotgun bouncing against her back.

He will get them out of here.

They run and run and run – Robin runs so weird, why are her feet doing that – and Steve can't feel the burn in his legs that he knows is there. He's still a little oxygen-deprived after being throttled by Vecna's vine-veins, and he has too much panic thumping through his own vine-veins. They don't stop until they're bursting out of the woods and into the trailer park.

Steve's heart stutters. There's another hell-fissure, and it's swallowed half of the Munsons' trailer and cut a jagged path toward the center of town. Nancy looks over her shoulder at him, as if to brace him for the worst. 

What if the gate is gone? What if they're trapped here? 

Robin almost eats shit when her sneaker slips against something on the ground – the wriggling body of one of those fucking bats Steve can still taste in the back of his throat. He grabs her elbow and heaves her upright, pushing her forward, towards where the trailer used to be. Maybe the gate is still there, in the not-eaten half of the trailer. They have to try.

All around them, the rips in the world continue their rampage. Metal screeches and avalanches of rubble rumble in the distance. The not-grass and slabs of cracked concrete beneath their feet buck hard enough that Steve can hardly keep himself upright.

Robin half-gasps-half-shrieks in his ear and he and Nancy freeze.

"What– What is it? Are you okay?" Steve yells at her over the cacophony, gripping her shoulders, eyes wide, heart pounding, looking down at her weird-running feet for any sign of injury.

She raises a trembling arm and points at something: a lump on the ground a few dozen yards from the trailer, not very large, wearing a ghillie suit. 

Steve's heart stops.

His knees threaten to buckle. 

"HENDERSON!" 

He's off like a sawed-off shot. 

He was so stupid, to let the kids out of his sight. He wants to reach through time and slug himself in the mouth for ever complaining about babysitting because this is so much worse. First Max (please, please let her be alive), now this? It would kill him to see any of them here, now, with the underworld falling apart around them, but Dustin? 

As he closes the distance, the ground is littered with more and more bats – either dead or dying – and he can hear Dustin crying, which is both a knife through the heart and the biggest goddamn relief Steve has ever felt. At least the kid is alive. A sob lurches up Steve's own throat and he falls to knees beside Henderson and–

That's when he sees Eddie cradled in Dustin's arms. 

Bloodied, battered, and motionless. 

"Dustin, hey," he says as gently as he can, though he actually wants to start screaming and never stop. "Look at me." 

"He– He didn't come back through with me," Dustin chokes out, still staring down at the boy in his lap. The kid's voice wavers with a tearful vibrato that obliterates his usual precociousness and makes him sound exactly as young as he is.

Anger flares somewhere in Steve's gut, beneath the all-consuming fear. He'd told Eddie, hadn't he? He'd given him one simple job– explicitly told him not to be a goddamn hero. They were supposed to be the diversion. They were supposed to be safe.

Steve grabs Dustin's face, probably too roughly, and forces him to look up, away from Eddie. 

"We gotta go," he tells him, his voice shaking badly, too. 

Nancy and Robin are somewhere behind him now. He hears their footsteps skid to a halt, and another ragged gasp out of Robin, followed by a muffled cry. Nancy murmurs, "Oh, no."

"We can't leave him," Dustin says. His face is streaked with tears and his voice cracks under the combined crushing weights of puberty and desperation. 

"We won't." He reaches over and tries to lift Eddie away from the kid, but Dustin pulls him back. Small hands grab ahold of Eddie's collar, refusing to let go. Another knife through Steve's heart. 

"I think this is the gate!" Nancy calls from far away. "I think we can make it through." When Steve looks up, she's on the edge of the glowing crevasse, prodding at it with the shotgun. Robin is standing a few yards away, still, her hands buried in her hair and her eyes glued to Dustin. And Eddie. 

"Dustin," Steve says, forcing more calm into his voice, "you gotta go with Nancy."

Dustin shakes his head emphatically. "No. No, no, I can't leave him–"

"Robin? Robin!" Steve shouts over his shoulder, and Robin startles out of her horror-borne trance. "Take Henderson and get somewhere safe. I'll be right behind you." 

She rushes over and hooks her hands under the kid's arms and hoists him upright, even though Henderson can't seem to put much weight on one of his legs, and even though Robin's arms are about as strong as wet spaghetti on a good day. 

"I've got Eddie, alright?" Steve says firmly, looking Dustin in the eye and pushing him away with Robin. "Go."

 A stream of soothing sounds is falling out of Robin's mouth rapid-fire, and she's dragging Dustin over towards Nancy, who's got one leg fully inside the fracture in the world, and, hell, the world is probably ending any second now, but all of that falls away when Steve looks back down at Eddie's face.

Big, hickory-brown eyes stare skyward, unfocused. Blood is smeared across the pale skin of his cheek and collected in the corners of his mouth. His chest isn't moving.

Steve's never seen a dead person, before. 

He'd been there when Billy died, yes, but he hadn't seen it. Hell, he'd flat-out refused to look inside the open coffin at his grandmother's funeral when he was a kid. But here was Eddie– or, the absence of Eddie, where Eddie should have been. A terrible, wretched vacancy. 

It doesn't feel real. Eddie is right here. Steve can reach out and touch him– he does reach out and touch him, laying an uncertain hand on his shoulder. Eddie doesn't swat his hand away. Eddie's dimples don't appear on either side of his bloody mouth and he doesn't say something snarky and flirtatious that makes Steve feel simultaneously annoyed, flustered, and confused. Eddie doesn't so much as blink.

He's so… still. 

Steve's heard people in the past describe death as something peaceful, but the look on Eddie's face–

He looks scared. 

Steve thinks he might throw up.

He presses his fingers against Eddie's throat, searching for a pulse that he knows isn't there. Eddie's still warm. Blood dribbles out of his mouth and oozes out of a gnarled lash across his neck (it matches the one that crisscrosses Steve's neck, those fucking bats). His stupid leather jacket is shredded. His stupid Hellfire Club shirt is similarly tattered and soaked through with red. 

Steve wonders how long he's been– if he– had he gone in front of Dustin? A fresh wave of anger licks at his throat. Son of a bitch, can't even listen to simple goddamn instructions–

He remembers the last thing Eddie said to him with a sharp pang: "Hey, Steve? Make him pay."

Steve had nodded. Eddie had nodded, too. It was a promise.

And Steve Harrington, King Steve, captain of the basketball team, and captain of the swim team, and ice cream slinger, and video rental wrangler, and monster fighter, and lifeguard for a few summers, and secret Russian base infiltrator some other summers, and lapsed babysitter– he's failed to keep it. 

He's failed so many people, tonight. He couldn't stop Vecna, didn't make him pay. He couldn't help Max, or undo whatever Dustin saw. Everything he was wasn't enough.

Nancy was right (she always was); he was bullshit. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. 

The world around them growls again, and Steve looks down at another person he's failed to protect, and he thinks, Fuck this. 

He has to try. 

Moving quickly, he laces his fingers, locks his elbows, places his stacked palms in the center of Eddie's still-warm chest, and presses down hard. He sings Dancing Queen under his breath, out of tune, timing his compressions to the beat (something he learned in lifeguard training). He dares Eddie to wake up and tell him how much he hates the song. 

Blood spurts out of a wound in Eddie's side and soaks the knee of Steve's jeans with coppery warmth.

 "Shit, shit, fuck," Steve hisses into a few more compressions, before he stops and gently tilts Eddie's head to open his airway, one hand against his still-warm forehead, one hand gripping his chin. He leans over and checks for breath sounds. Nothing. 

He pinches Eddie's nose shut and presses his mouth over Eddie's, trying not to think about how much blood floods his own mouth. He breathes once, twice. Eddie's chest rises weakly each time. That's good, that's– It's good.

He starts the cycle again. 

"You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life…"

Red lightning streaks across the sky and Steve flinches. The ground shakes more violently, like the whole place is threatening to give up the ghost and fall away beneath them. Part of him wishes it would, to save him the embarrassment of failing again.

"Come on, Munson."

Open airway, check for breath, pinch nose, breathe, breathe. 

"Friday night and the lights are low…"

He does it again, and again. Still nothing. 

"Come on, come on, come on," Steve begs. "Please." 

The quakes crescendo more and more, until Steve is practically shouting lyrics over them–

It sounds like a bomb goes off miles away, and a shockwave slams him in the chest. Steve throws his arms over his head and his body over Eddie's, shuddering with fresh adrenaline. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

Everything around them falls silent. The ground under his knees settles. His ears ring with the absence of it all.

He must have waited too long to leave. He can't make himself look. Surely the gates are gone. Surely that explosion was his way home being blown to smithereens. Part of him is glad Eddie didn't come back to this– trapped in the underworld with someone he despises? He'd probably ask Steve to re-kill him, and Steve would probably fuck that up, too. 

He's so screwed. Everything is so completely screwed and he screwed up so much of it himself, and it's probably good that he's probably trapped here, now. He probably deserves it.

Something jolts beneath him and then–

Eddie Munson coughs a mouthful of blood directly into Steve's face.

"What– Oh! Oh, shit!" Steve scrambles to shift his weight off of Eddie's chest as the other boy draws a clotted, strangled breath and chokes on it. Steve grabs him by the less-bat-bitten shoulder and hauls him onto his side. The other boy's ring-bedecked fingers brush against his arm, making weak attempts at grabbing him back. 

Eddie whimpers and groans, spitting and drooling more blood out of his mouth and nose. He coughs again, and it's the most gorgeous sound Steve's ever heard.

Steve grins, even with a face and mouth full of Eddie Munson's stupid blood. 

Eddie looks up at him, panting, and his eyes go wide when they finally focus on Steve's face. "H– Harrington?" He's almost voiceless. Not just hoarse, but struggling to make any sound at all.

"Yeah," Steve says, still smiling like a fool. He feels drunk. Eddie's breaths are all distinctly shallow, fast, and wet, but they're there, and they keep coming, which hadn't felt possible a moment before. The overwhelming, sudden joy is a massive head rush.

Eddie looks confused, and wracked with pain, and he squints at Steve and asks, "Did you die, too?" His tongue seems to tangle with each syllable.  

That trips Steve out of his daze. His smile falters. Trapped in the Upside Down, his brain reminds him. "You're not dead, Munson," he says. 

Steve looks up, then, and scans their surroundings. The red-orange ravine still yawns open not too far away, which slaps him across the face with relief and chases it quickly with dread. 

They can get home, thank fuck, but what had all of this done to their Hawkins? Had it been similarly torn open by nightmare super-gates? Is there this much destruction on their side? Steve's stomach clenches. 

The hellfire-filled crack that begins in the middle of Eddie's trailer stretches off into the distance, as far as Steve can see. If these fissures were like the gates– if they'd appeared in Hawkins, too– they're twenty or thirty feet wide, in some places. Big enough to swallow cars, houses. People. 

Something like this… It would kill a lot of people. 

"Hurts," Eddie gasps. 

Steve's attention snaps back to him. "What hurts?" he asks.

Eddie manages an especially-wet, "Everything. F-feels like a– fucking– elephant– sat on my– chest." He fights for air between every couple of words, but never draws in very much. 

"Yeah, well," Steve says, easing Eddie up to sitting and sliding an arm under his knees, "you had to go and stop breathing, like an asshole." He hefts the shorter, ganglier boy up into his arms and staggers up to his feet. Eddie ought to feel heavier, he thinks. Maybe this is one of those moms-lifting-cars-off-kids things.

"Seemed like– the thing– to do," Eddie pants. His eyes flutter closed and his head lolls backwards, curly hair brushing against Steve's arm. 

"Hey," Steve snaps. "Eddie."

Eddie groans. Still alive. Steve releases his captive breath.

Steve walks them over to the tear in the not-earth, where Nancy had been. He expects it to be warm – it glows like lava – but the air around them is freezing. It reeks of ammonia and decay. He tucks Eddie a little closer to his chest.

And then Steve hesitates, staring down at the maw in the ground. 

He should just go through. Quickly. Eddie needs medical attention way beyond the skill of a sometimes-summer-lifeguard. Shit, Steve probably does, too. 

But… 

What about Max? What about Dustin, and Robin, and Nance? What about everyone else? What about his parents? What if this didn't just happen in Hawkins, but happened everywhere? What if the whole apocalypse happened without him? 

As long as he stays in this universe, he doesn't have to know how badly he hurt his own. He can pretend the damage is limited to this shithole, and that everyone on the other side is blissfully unaware. It's like that thing Henderson tried explaining that one time– Schlongdinger's Box, or whatever. If he stays here, there's nobody around to disappoint besides Eddie, whose opinion of him is already so low that it would be impossible to drag it lower. 

"Steve?" Eddie wheezes, oblivious to the turmoil happening inches away from his face. 

"Yeah?"

Munson hesitates, too. "Were you– singing– ABBA?"

That startles a huffed almost-laugh out of Steve's tight chest. He rolls his eyes. "I don't wanna hear it, man. ABBA saved your goddamn life."

Eddie squints up at him and starts telling Steve (slowly and quietly, as he grapples with his halting lungs) that he'd never besmirch (besmirch? what a dork) the good name of ABBA, he's not a monster, he was just curious why Steve's rendition had been in so many different keys is all (unbelievably rude), and even though Steve can hear the fear in Eddie's voice, and he knows Eddie's only talking about ABBA because the alternative is to freak out, something clicks into place in Steve's head:

He wants to have a million more inconsequential conversations, like this one, with the people he cares about. 

Even the ones who might despise him a little.

Even if the apocalypse happened on the other side, and even if people he loves are hurt, and even if Steve Harrington is bullshit, he has to try to do what he can to help. 

He holds Eddie a little tighter. He informs him that he actually sang it totally normal, thanks, and gingerly, he maneuvers them both down through the gate and back into Hawkins.

[prismaticpichu]

The Zack & Sephiroth Friendship Timeline, According to Pichu

Just a random self-indulgent post based on my everlasting headcanons of these goobers <3

~~~

Timeline

• As a young tadpole in Gongaga, Zack discovers Sephiroth via the local newspaper, having caught sight of a glorified picture at the kitchen table. The spark to be a hero is born.

• At age 13, Zack leaves for SOLDIER; he is eventually adopted by Angeal, who keeps Zack’s awe alight by sharing stories and anecdotes about his time working with the famed silver warrior.

• Sephiroth, concurrently, is fed little tidbits of information about Angeal’s new student, is painted pictures of Zack’s jubilant spirit and puppyish nature. He immediately believes Zack to be childish and naive—even if a little curious. This “pup,” he thinks, is never going to make it in this big dog-eat-dog world.

• Angeal tells Sephiroth to take care of Zack, should anything happen to him. Sephirotn scoffs it off.

• Come Wutai, and Angeal is gone. So is Genesis. Sephiroth is left all alone, torn asunder over the the double betrayal. This is when he finally meets Zack, saving the distracted pup from Ifrit’s Hellfire, cleaving those furious flames in two as Sephiroth smites the summon himself. However, the marvel is short—and the gratitude even shorter. Tensions are high; Sephiroth’s on edge. And he takes his anger out on Zack, snapping at him to know where Angeal is. Zack is equally quick to raise his voice at the… the cold-hearted warrior, incredulous that he would accuse his so-called friend of betraying them—and affirming Sephiroth’s perception of him as a naive, moronic child. Things are off to a rocky start.

• Weeks pass without Angeal’s return. Zack’s hope begins to wane, but he refuses to let it fade entirely. He’s also promoted to First Class at this time; Sephiroth is the only one who joins Zack in Lazard’s office.

• Genesis clones attack the base thereafter. Zack & Sephiroth are ordered to work together, and the younger First is surprised at just how much… synergy the two of the seem to have. Not once do they trip over each other while fighting; they instinctively cover each other’s blind spots; they fight side by side, like a team, despite the wisps of vitriol that still linger in the air between them. Sephiroth senses the same, if not impressed with the Firsts’s combat prowess.

• On the same day, en route to Hollander’s lab, Sephiroth feels something inside of him splinter; a wounded part of him that needs to be heard, that craves for an ear that would understand. And he can’t articulate why, but he just begins to speak, to open his heart as he leans over the railing, to vent about the training room incident and all that had sparked from his selfish, idiotic, arrogance…

• And it’s there, listening attentively to Sephiroth tear himself up, that Zack’s venom turns to understanding

• Zack and Sephiroth hang out more and more during this time, their friendship truly beginning to blossom. Zack begins shortening Sephiroth’s name; Sephiroth begins inviting Zack into his home. And for the first time in a long while, things feel stable. Safe. Comforting…

• Modeoheim hits; Angeal’s funeral is brief. It would have been longer, maybe, if either one of them bothered to stay longer than ten minutes. Seeing Sephiroth storm out after such a short amount of time, Zack follows suit… Only to push Sephiroth against the corridor wall, seething, mako-blue eyes ablaze with fury as he GLARED into the worthless, weak, cowardly…. pathetic warrior’s soul, burning tears beginning to streak down his cheeks in the process. He’s furious that Sephiroth didn’t come to Modeoheim with him; he’s furious that he refused the mission; he’s furious that all he does is hide, avoid… He’s furious that he ever, EVER considered him to be a worthy friend, let alone anything resembling even the faintest ghost of a hero—

• Sephiroth slaps him, right on his still-healing scar, and sends the young SOLDIER tumbling to the ground.

• Zack calls him a monster; he rushes away

~

• Weeks later, Zack is sobbing in his lonely First Class apartment, broken and beaten from all that had imploded in the company. His dreams feel crushes; he doesn’t know if they were ever attainable; he doesn’t know what to do anymore, where to go, how he could still wield the worm and torn Buster Sword…!—

• Sephiroth walks in, needing to deliver a paper to Zack, having taken over Lazard’s place after the man’s desertion. He’d fallen into absolute tatters since their incident after the funeral, and seeing Zack’s state seemed to break the last piece of resistance he had left. He remembers Angeal’s promise; he remembers being told, with words so distant and sincere now, to take care of the young pup should anything happen to him… And now, staring at the young First curled up on the couch—a small, vulnerable teenager…—he wants nothing more than to make Zack’s pain go away.

• He pulls Zack into his arms, holding the sobbing First close; Zack burrows into him, apologizing profusely, apologizing wholeheartedly. Sephiroth apologizes too

• And promises to always keep him safe.

~

• Their friendship burgeons and blossoms from here on out, stronger than it had ever been. Zack spends more nights at Sephiroth’s than he ever has; Sephiroth cooks Zack his favorite meals almost every night; Zack begins to smile again, talking about Aerith and Cloud and all his other buddies, beginning to enjoy life again…; Sephiroth, meanwhile, begins to eat again. His sleep schedule is mended, thanks to Zack’s gentle nudging—and, of course, their countless sleepovers. Zack is promoted to Seph’s second-in-command, spending every day in the office with him, working side-by-side—on and off missions. They do everything together… and they wouldn’t have it any other way.

• It’s time to leave for Nibelheim.

~

• They go to the Reactor; Genesis spews what he spews, destroying Sephiroth’s soul, feeding poison into his brain. His cells are activated; Jenova begins worming into his mind, twisting his thoughts. She’s the reason that Sephiroth has a sudden act or aggression, when the calm, concerned hand comes down on his shoulder, when the kind, worried “Hey, Sephiroth..!” comes shouting from behind. Jenova doesn’t want Zack to get close; he doesn’t want him to break his despair, to shatter her spell. She wants Sephirotn to flee—to run, to learn, to change……..

• Sephiroth rushes out of the Reactor

• Zack finds him in the library, just hours later; he never took a minute to stop looking for him

~

• There, Zack is able to soothe his best friend’s aches—if only momentarily. He assures him that he’s not a monster; he assures him that he’s the kindest, smartest, most wonderful person that he has ever met. He squeezes his arm, tries to wring the poisonous thoughts out. He won’t bear to lose another friend to the same toxic mindset that had crippled Angeal. He won’t…!

• And Sephiroth hears him.

• He really, really hears him.

• He believes him…

…

• …But he still wants to remain in the library to read, to learn about what he may never able to learn about again. And it’s then that he makes a promise to Zack: the moment he feels overwhelmed, stressed, scared… he will come right back to inn. Immediately.

• Zack is hesitant, but ultimately agrees.

• After all, he trusts his friend with his life

~

• Seeing her puppet beginning to slip away, Jenova brutally seizes control the moment Zack is gone

• Sephiroth tries to fight, but is too weak to resist alone, to fend her off.

.

.

.

• He succumbs, and out into the town he goes

🔥🔥🔥

• Back at the Reactor, enter Zack. He’s mortified; he’s enraged; he’s confused… He tries to bring his blade to the other’s neck, as he’s standing before the Thing’s tank, but can’t bring himself to do it. His arm his numb. He can’t even manage a single word, a single breath.

• Sephiroth takes the opportunity to attack him. Brutally…

…

• And it’s thereafter, when Sephiroth is monologuing about all this nonsense, about this drivel about being the Chosen One, that Zack realizes it—laying on the catwalk of the chamber, his arms gashed and bloodied, his eyes wide and hazed with tears:

• This isn’t Sephiroth.

.

.

.

• They continue to fight, Zack forced to defend to himself now. Blood is shed; screams are made; clothes and skin are torn—albeit only on Zack’s side, with Sephiroth’s face marred only with crimson that had already been spewed….

…

• And yet, Zack still refuses to fight.

• He continues calling out to his friend, trying to get him to hear his voice.

• He pleads.

• He cries.

• Sephiroth laughs.

• Sephiroth scoffs.

• Sephiroth smirks.

• Sephiroth impales him.

.

.

.

• And Zack gets up, having been thrown to the ground like a discarded toy.

• And he limps toward the possessed man.

• And he opens his arms,

• and throws himself into Sephiroth’s chest, whispering:

…

• “I love you, Sephiroth…”

.

.

.

.

.

And in this world, in this crazy universe you have taken the time to read through… those words are enough <3

[taylorklosscomeout138]

Season 5 premiere of the Netflix show "You" directly references Emily Dickinson and her poem "I felt a cleaving in my mind"

This is after the show has been heavily framed around Taylor references up to this point including major ones such as:

1. Joe's password to the cage that appears in several seasons is Taylor's birthday (121389)

2. For the S3 finale they collabed with Taylor to use her song Exile

3. For the S4 finale they collabed with Taylor again, this time using Anti-Hero

4. The actor Penn Badgley who plays Joe even did the Anti-Hero challenge in which Taylor commented on the post further showing her business partnership with him and the show.

5. With back to back season references, it can only be expected that S5 which is the series finale would have some as well, no matter how subtle or blatant.

When you put 2 and 2 together, the S4 finale wrapped with Taylor Swift, and the following episode with the S5 premiere opened with Emily Dickinson...

Can't convince me it wasn't intentional

[knowlsey]

Rooks Roost AU - Post Minrathous

A little insight into how Ambrose responds to the attack on Minrathous.

Ambrose didn’t need to make a choice, there wasn’t one. The Veilguard and dagger went to Treviso, the Crows went to Treviso, half the damn army went to Treviso…

Ambrose went to Minrathous, to home.

They fought like an animal, wild and angry, cutting down the Venatori that crossed their path with brutal cleaves and savage kicks. Their priority was to protect those around them; civilians, fellow Shadow Dragons, their friends who had joined them in the city, but they couldn’t deny the catharsis that came from watching Venatori dying at the end of their axe.

When the battle was over the city was devastated, and they’d lost. The grief draped over Ambrose’s shoulders like a heavy cloak, and with it it brought memories of a rugged brown eyed man, with dark coppery hair and a neat beard, a gory hole in his gut from a poisoned sword, and the reminder that they couldn’t save him.

Physically Ambrose was battered and broken. Multiple fractured ribs, a bloody nose and a gash on their forehead, all of which would heal much faster than the city would.

They didn’t have time to feel, they pulled their axe from the corpse of the last Venatori and got back to work.

They spoke words of encouragement and hope to those who had fought beside them. They saw many of their friends struggle emotionally in the aftermath, and so they offered comfort and reassurance, and ensured everyone that needed medical attention was sent to the right place to receive it. Many asked how they were doing in return, and Ambrose wiped the blood from their face with a smile and said “I’m not dead yet.”

They would keep this facade up as long as they needed to, until it wasn’t a facade anymore and they could carry on as normal. They didn’t know how long it would take this time, but others needed them, and they couldn’t let their own feeling get in the way of that.

Back at the lighthouse Ambrose finally found solitude in their quarters, and it was in that solitude they felt the mask crumble away. Tears streamed down their cheeks, diluting the now dried blood and dripping onto the stone floor.

This would be their routine going forward; put themself back together enough to help those around them, then fall apart each night in the quiet of their empty room.

No one needed to know. No one needed to worry.

[rom-e-o]

Liable to Fall - Chapter 3 (Scrooge/OC)(Post-canon)

Back with a short, angsty morsel before we get into the real agony. :)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

In that precious hour before dinner, Ebenezer Scrooge parked himself at his mahogany study and studied all the information about his wife that he could.

His wife. Gods above, he could still scarcely believe it.

It was hard to believe he wasn’t living some farce. The last he could recall, he was a bachelor in his home; a man who occupied his time by attending charitable galas and writing checks to institutions long past due for charitable donations. If his social calendar was free , he would busy himself by reading his nephew’s young daughter to sleep in front of a roaring fire.

That was his life as he knew it.

But … to be married?

He’d shared his heart and bed with a woman he couldn’t remember. The notion threatened to cleave his heart.

Perhaps it was a farce, he thought? Some elaborate hoax? To what end, he didn’t know … but perhaps.

Yet, document by document, his skepticism was proved wrong. As he dutifully scanned the records, he read detailed articles about her life before London, including her adoption by real estate investors turned youth activists Theresea and Arthur DoGoode after being orphaned at two years old. Also included in the batch was supplemental information about her previous marriage to Orin Gustav Spiegler, her storied medical history, a newspaper clipping about Spiegler’s conviction…then, their time together.

Everything was sorted chronologically, which made pursuing an easy feat. It seemed his record-keeping was still top-notch in the strange reality he was living in.

Included in the stack of documents, situated toward the front of the pile, was a copy of a marriage certificate. Their names were side-by-side. His own name scrawled in his familiar flourish, further leaving no room for argument in his mind that he had signed the document.

Then, her name. Constance Albany DoGoode-Scrooge. Bit of a mouthful, he thought with a laugh and strange fondness in his heart. Reflexively, he reached out and allowed his fingers to grace the name written before him, the ink long since dried to permanence.

She’d kept her father’s name, he thought with a smile. At least he knew with promise that his present-day self had a reasonable head on his shoulders.

He was quite aware of how other men, regardless of prestige or upbringing, didn’t allow their wives such an obvious degree of freedom … and it filled his heart with joy that he had.

Then, that joy hardened like ice at the realization that all that goodness was now essentially null and void.

“She had such a hard life, then finally, finally she found a better one.”

It had taken her almost forty years, twenty of which were spent shackled to an abusive spouse through golden bands, to find solace. She’d survived an attempted suicide, drug addition, losing her father … and yet, she glowed like a golden idol to him. A goddess of warmth and happiness.

He swallowed the words like sour medicine, and with a grimace.

It was so much more than a simple fall, he realized. Something far greater than even his memory was at risk.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his pitied musings.

“Mr. Scrooge, sir,” Magda called hollowly from the other side. “Dinner is ready, when it pleases you.”

“I’ll be down in a moment,” he found the lucidity to reply. While the man slowly felt like he was drifting back into the realm of reality, he couldn’t deny some of his actions and replies were likely the result of muscle memory and routine more than functioning thought.

With a hay-soft voice, he called back, “…The lady of the house will be joining us, yes?”

“Yes, sir.” The unspoken ‘as always’ hung in the air with tangible swing.

“Good,” he said, pushing himself up from his chair. “Very good. I’ll be down in a moment.”

He felt as if he needed a lifetime to rally himself for the occasion. Yet, seeing as time of the essence in this situation, he settled for five minutes.

The shortest – and longest – five minutes of his life.

Dinner began with palpable tension, but as time passed and their bellies filled with chatter and warm food, the mood began to lift.

The man took a gamble and initiated something Londoners usually despised; unnecessary small talk.

“So, you both prepared tonight’s dish, yes?” Ebenezer asked, eyes dancing between the two ladies. “I have a feeling I know the answer, but I must ask … which one of you added shaved truffle to the dish?”

The two exchanged surprised and pleased expressions before Constance raised a hand. “Me, I’m afraid. Truffle in pörkölt isn’t exactly a traditional ingredient.”

“No, it certainly isn’t, but it does add a quite a nice flavor. A wonderful decision, I’d say.”

Constance blushed lightly, her smile broadening. “Thank you.”

“Magda, does it meet your standards?”

“You jest, sir. Everything about this fine lady meets my standards.”

Constance reddened further, hiding that lovely smile of hers behind a raised hand. “Oh, please…”

“We’ve been adding truffle in this dish since Connie came to live here,” Magda said, reaching down to pinch the red-headed woman’s cheek delicately. “She offered the idea as a solution to balance out some of the paprika.”

“Really?” he asked, looking at her quizzically. “Without all the paprika, is it even the same dish?”

“Hm, it’s probably closer to tokány,” she said, tapping her chin as she pondered the question, “But I think it’s all well and fine.”

“That sounds like begrudging acquiescence on your part.”

“Perish the thought. I’ve had to alter the recipe for all the English lords I’ve served. My husband is the same way.”

“A-Ah…” Ebenezer sighed, only wounded for a moment before he heard Constance’s radiant laughter from across the table. Her natural, musical laughter.

It was a beautiful sound, he couldn’t deny that.

“Now, don’t tease too much, Magda,” Constance chastised, giving the maid a playful grin before turning her attention to Ebenezer from across the dining table. “My mother loved truffle, so we ate it in everything growing up. My father loved to cook, and every time he made dinner, she always added it to dishes. Even ones that, perhaps, didn’t need them. It never mattered. My father did anything for my mother.”

“Your father, Arthur.”

Her eyes practically lit up at the mention of the late man’s name. “Yes.”

Ebenezer dared to lean across the table a bit, just enough to search those cornflower blue eyes of hers more devoutly. He then lowered his voice a big so Magda couldn’t hear him as she rounded room to the drink cart to uncork a bottle of tawny port for dessert.

It was a dusty bottle too, from what he could see, so he had some time before the seal broke.

However, as he stared at her expectant expression, his mouth suddenly dried. “I-I…”

“Do you remember him?” she asked hopefully. She leaned forward, the rufflers of her peignoir draping over the tapered edge of the table.

Guilt flashed across his face, and her eyes clouded with sadness in recognition. “Oh.”

“I apologize.” That was moronic of me.

“N-no," she choked out with a nondescript laugh. "It’s quite alright. It's ... not your fault.”

Yet, he could tell from the way that her fingers trembled against the stem of her drinking glass that her pleasantries were bitter falsehoods.

The after-dinner drinks were consumed in silence.

[fable-on-the-table]

Wayfarer: Session 2

This post recounts the 2nd session off the Wayfarer TTRPG campaign I'm running with a group of my friends. See my blog for the full story and a link to the Wayfarer system!

The party trekked into the forest, following the strange tracks left by the thief. The compass they had acquired from Kor’s general store helped them keep their way as they travelled through the dense brush. They went on for a few hours, led confidently by Hemlock to begin with, but a short way into the journey Nibs greened out and had to be carried by Calliope in a papoose on their front.

Everything went smoothly, until Grigorio heard a sharp twang and realised he’d stepped into a tripwire hidden by leaves and moss. There was a mechanical clicking and whirring nearby, and all of a sudden crossbow bolts were ripping through the trees! The party ducked and covered, a few bolts bounced of Grigorio’s heavy armour, and Calliope heroically took two bolts in the back while shielding CJ and Nibs. Eventually the projectiles stopped flying, and the party located the trap - a few crossbows haphazardly lashed together and oscillating back and forth to send out a wide volley.

Counterfeit tripped on something in the long grass, and discovered that it was a dead body, laying face-down with a crossbow bolt in its head. The figure was wearing strange leather armour with all sorts of animals’ teeth sewn into it, and Counterfeit took a few pieces of it to add to their own armour. The party moved on, with Counterfeit taking the lead, and after walking for a while longer they happened upon another corpse in the grass. This one, however, was a skeleton, with nothing on it but a few scraps of clothing and a little pouch of coins. Counterfeit collected the unexpected bounty and then they moved on.

The sun was starting to get low in the sky as Calliope took charge of the navigation. Everyone was trying their best to keep Calliope talking, because the alternative was them singing. Perhaps, then, they were too distracted to notice a coil of rope lying camouflaged in the grass until it was too late. The snare trap snapped taut around Calliope’s legs and hoisted them high into the air. Nibs stirred in his sleep when he slipped out of Calliope’s pack, but the quick-handed siren caught him mid-air and tucked him back in. Hemlock grappled up to the branch that the snare was running over, while Grigorio waited below to catch anyone who needed it. Counterfeit cut the counterweight, and Hemlock’s feather fall spell slowed their descent enough to stop anyone from coming to harm.

The sun set and the night arrived as the party covered the final stretch, arriving at last at the yawning mouth of a large cave. Silhouetted in the moonlight was a huge figure standing motionless in the mouth of the cave, and a smaller figure scuttling all over it and muttering to itself. Not wasting a moment, Hemlock climbed on Grigorio’s shoulders and they charged straight forwards. There was a frightened squeak and the smaller creature leapt away and scuttled into the cave, with commands for its “metal friend” to kill the intruders! The clearing was suddenly awash with smoke and firelight, and the larger figure was revealed to be a towering construct made of cobbled-together weapons and items with a huge furnace in its chest. It creaked and swayed towards the party, ready to fight.

Hemlock sprang from Grigorio’s shoulders and, in one decisive sweep, cleaved apart the crossbow the construct had in place of a head. Counterfeit spied that its vulnerable joints were operated by ropes and pulleys, and ran up to jam their knife into its knee. However, the machine retaliated and snatched them up in a huge claw made of two farm scythes. It swung its other arm - a rusty greatsword - at Grigorio, but it went clattering off its shield and cleaved straight through a tree instead. Thinking quickly, Hemlock caught the falling tree with their grapple gun and redirected it to fall straight into the mechanical sentry, denting it significantly and knocking Counterfeit from its grasp.

The party realised that the machine was being powered by its furnace, saw the waist-deep stream that ran nearby, and hatched a plan. Calliope and Counterfeit attacked the construct’s leg joints, bringing it to its knees and putting it off balance, and Grigorio got behind it and heaved with all his might. Hemlock grappled over a tree branch overhead and swung around behind it, delivering the final kick that sent it toppling into the stream. With a final creaking groan, it splashed into the stream. The water rushed in, dousing its furnace in an instant and neutralising the machine in a great cloud of steam.

Hemlock noted the strange smell emitted by the construct’s furnace, and examined it to find the smouldering remnants of an unusual glistening herb. It felt familiar, but they couldn’t place exactly why. Bolstered by their victory, the party strode on into the cave to pursue the thief.

GM's Notes

The final fight of this session was the most fun I've had roleplaying in a long, long time. It was so cinematic the way everyone was working together to defeat this huge enemy, and exploiting its weaknesses in every way they could. They realised pretty quickly that the construct's joints were weak, and also that extinguishing its furnace could render it inert, and they confirmed these theories by experimenting with their characters' actions and responding to the narrative feedback they recieved.

The final push where everyone was heaving this construct towards the stream to douse its furnace was such an awesome visual image, and I felt so proud of my players when they did it!

In the future I'm definitely going to design more enemies with specific weaknesses that the players have to attack in order to defeat it, rather than just a health bar that can be whittled down to zero. Super fun!