#crag tag

[spontaneousmusicalnumber]

Questions we explored during today's DnD game:

- Does the Chosen One get to choose? Is 'no' really an option?

- What meaning does your heritage hold if you grew up divorced from it? At what point do you feel allowed to participate?

- How do you know you're no longer a boy, and are now a man?

- How can I, bound to you by my love, compare to him, bound to you by fate?

- Can we get one party member's divorced ex-wife set up with another party member's widowed dad?

[snooop-blog]

Calderdale, Yorkshire

[shrimploverart]

no context dnd campaign memes

[shotgun-fucker]

You know what being objectum SUCKS why do i have to have a goddamn crush on a GODDAMN MOUNTAIN

[ghostclangen]

moon fifty-four - leaf-fall

[borom1r]

ive had to block two fucking AI art blogs in the boromir tag today WHAT is going on

[holy-moth]

pls let this flapper heal tomorrow so i can climb on thursday, friday and saturday please

[jokersjr]

reminding you of CRAIG

[charhounds]

*drastically changes my lore so i can make more fake amvs in my head*

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Baby, I'm Cold

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: Your boss is a stubborn man but even he can get sick. (plus!reader)

Character: August Walker

Day Twenty-One of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - I swear I'm not sick

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Mr. Walker leaves his bag at the door, his jacket too. You move his shoes so they sit neatly on the drip tray and hang his jacket. You pick up his briefcase and carry it up to his office. As you near the closed door, you hear him coughing from the other side. 

You slow as you approach and knock on the door, “sir, I have your things.” 

He coughs again then calls through hoarsely, “in.” 

You twist the handle and dip inside. You set the bag on the leather armchair where you always do and retreat as your employer sniffles. He lets out a crackly sigh after. He sits behind his desk, silent, stony. His usual self except for the raspy breaths he lets out. 

You don’t await his dismissal. You know if he has to tell you to go, it means you’ve overstayed. Mr. Walker prefers discretion. He prefers solace. It makes your job both easy but difficult. 

You leave and go down to the kitchen. At this time, he won’t have eaten. He’ll need dinner. With his cough and stuffed nose in mind, you prepare him some chicken and rice soup. You put a thick hunk of artisinal bread with it and a cup of tea. 

You carry it up to him and announce your purpose at the door, “dinner, sir.” 

He grumbles. You know his sounds well enough to enter. You bring the tray to his desk as he sits back in his chair, unmoving, eyes closed, hands firm around the rests. You hear the rattle in his chest from there. 

“Anything else, sir?” 

He opens one eye and the icy blue chills you. His single iris flicks down as he considers the tray. He opens his other eye and sits forward. He swallows another cough. 

“What is this?” He touches the mug’s handle. 

“Tea, sir. I found some ginger. I added a touch of honey--” 

“Why?” 

“Why, sir?” 

“I don’t drink tea. I haven’t ever drunk tea. It’s for my mother. So why--” He snaps his mouth shut and his throat strains as he holds back another cough. He lets out a single croak and clears away the rocky crags. “Why are you serving it to me?” 

“Oh, uh, sir, it will soothe your cough--” 

“I’m not sick.” 

“Yes, sir, the air is dry this time of year,” you agree. 

“I don’t want the fucking tea.” 

“Sir.” 

You come around and take the cup. He sits back again and turns the seat away. You hold the steaming cup and quickly head for the door. You stop, remind by his reprimand of something else. 

“Your mother and father will arrive tomorrow morning. I’ve arranged their room and all else.” You confirm. 

“Great, you did your job,” he sneers dryly. 

“Sir,” you murmur and turn to the door. 

Just a few more hours and you’ll be free. It’s the holidays and even Mr. Walker gave you a day to spend with your family. Though you suspect it’s more that he doesn’t want you around his.  

For the three years you’ve worked for him, you’ve never met a single other person in his life. You clean the house, you pick up his laundry, and you order groceries. You are peripheral. You are the tedium that fuels the more concerning parts of his life. 

🌟

Your mother and stepfather are arguing on the porch. Again. Your aunt and uncle are showing off their toddler grandchild, and your brother, the terrible twins, more than a decade your junior, are flipping through their phones. You sit and observe it all. 

You glance at the window, your mom’s anger expounded in the wag of her finger. You get up as the smell of ham draws you into the kitchen. You check to make sure it’s not overdone then piddle around, trying to distract yourself from the chaos. 

Your back pocket rumbles. You ignore it. It’s some promo trying to entice you into ordering food. On Christmas of all day. As the vibration persists, you assume it’s some poor telemarketer, forced to make the rounds for a bit of overtime pay. 

You ignore it. You work on finishing the brussel sprouts your mother left in the strainer. You cut of the ends and slice an X into them. Your phone starts again. You don’t put down the knife until the third call. 

Walker. 

You hesitate but pick up. Why would he be calling, today of all days. You fix your posture as you answer, as if he can see you. 

“Mr. Walker,” you eke out, nervous you might have missed something. 

“Hello, is this...” a woman says your name curiously. 

“Uh, yes, it’s me,” you affirm. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you, especially today, but we are in need of some help,” her voice is tremulous. 

“I told you,” a male can be heard more distantly. “We shouldn’t bother them. There’s a reason they aren’t here, dear.” 

“Pish,” the woman dismisses. “Very sorry again but my son--” 

“Katherine,” you say, “Mr. Walker’s mother?” 

“Yes, Auggy is my son,” she tuts. “As I was trying to explain, he’s doing rather poorly but he’s refusing my care. He’s always been awfully stubborn, you know?” 

“Kath,” the man drones. 

“Oh, I know, I know,” she squeals at him. “He doesn’t want his mommy fluttering around him like an old hen, but you understand, he’s my baby. I’m worried. And so we were looking and saw your name. A girl’s name so you must be someone special.” 

“Katherine,” the man sighs once more. 

“I’m his housekeeper, ma’am,” you explain. 

“Hum, oh, of course. You would be,” she says. “Oh, my, I’m afraid I’ve assumed so much.” 

“Is he still coughing then?” You ask. 

“Oh, yes, terrible. He sounds as if he’s swallowed glass.” 

“We’ll call a doctor,” the man intones. 

“Octavius, please, which doctor do you suggest we call? They all fly out of the country on their salaries,” she chirps. “Honey, please, if you don’t mind, you might be able to coax him. If you are his maid, you’d only be doing your job. He can’t turn you away.” 

You frown. She doesn’t know how wrong she is. He would and he will. 

“Lucine, please,” your step father’s voice blows through with a gust as he comes inside. His anger is forged into his tone and the door slams. You wince. 

“I can be there,” you tell Katherine. It won’t make a difference but it will get you away from all this. 

🌟

Katherine as good as drags you through the door. You didn’t even knock before she swung it open. She’s a tall woman, plump, and her face is rosy. She’s not what you expect. 

“Yes, come in, come in,” she says. “Oh, what’ve you brought?” 

She gestures to the canvas bag on your elbow. 

“Just some stuff to help,” you explain as the warmth of inside seeps beneath the chill in your cheeks. “Hopefully.” 

“Oh, yes, how clever of you.” 

She takes the bag and you let her. She sets in on the bench and unbuttons your top button before you can stop her. You gently catch her hands then do the rest yourself. 

“Sorry, dear, sorry. It’s only, I’m so worried.” 

“He’s a man, he’ll be fine. If you’d stop pecking at him, he wouldn’t be hiding,” a man appears in the archway to the den. He’s big like Mr. Walker, with white hair and paler eyes. He crosses his arms in the same way. That must be the father. 

“He’s sick! You heard him. He wouldn’t listen--” 

“He was doing just fine, Katherine.” 

“Tosh, you don’t know that. You never were there when he was home sick. He needs his orange juice and chicken noodle.” 

“He needs you to stop,” the man you assume is Octavius reproaches. 

“I can check on him but... it’s probably just a cold,” you say as you slip out of your boots. 

“So long as you try.” 

“Right,” you grab the bag and twist the handles. 

You go to the bottom of the stairs and look up. You peer side to side, from mother, to father, both tentatively watching you in turn. It seems Walker puts everyone at arm’s length. 

You take the first step with trepidation. Then the second. Up and up, you climb until you reach the top. You turn down the hallway and come to the office door. You bite the inside of your lip and knock. You don’t get an answer. 

You look at the bag in your hand and contemplate running back downstairs. You can say you tried and got the same result. Still, that Walker doesn’t shout for you to scram is worrying. 

You knock again to the same result. Several more taps go unanswered before you are faced with another decision. Do you go in, just to make sure? 

It would be a waste. You left your family, Katherine waited around for you, you suppose you can brave Walker’s wrath to give her the gift of knowing all is well. 

You inhale and hold it in. You enter the office, peeking through as you do. It’s dim but for the light of the glass lamp on the desk. As you look for the broad figure behind it, you find only an empty chair. 

You frown. He must be in his room or-- 

The grumble jars you. You squint as you try to see through the dark. You find Mr. Walker on the leather settee near the artificial fireplace set into the wall. Great. You should go. You can do that still. He’s not answering you so obviously he doesn’t want to be disturbed. 

He coughs, a sharp, agonizing cough that makes even your throat hurt. You let your breath out. Ugh. He’s a big boy, literally, he can handle it. Right? 

Shit. 

You cross the room and turn the dial on the artificial fireplace. It lights up, casting a soft glow over the office. You turn to find Walker shivering on the cushions, arms crossed as he hugs himself, legs bent to accommodate the short furniture. 

“Mr. Walker, I brought some cough drops and some cold medicine,” you say.  

He groans and doesn’t move. He hacks again, the couch frame creaking under his weight. Why? You shouldn’t feel bad for him. Not for as unpleasant as he’s consistently been. 

You move a leather stool closer and sit. You cradle the bag on your knees and sift through the contents. You take out the bottle of Buckleys. You shake it and reach with your other hand to touch his shining forehead. His eyes pop open and his mustache twitches. 

“Mr. Walker, I have cough syrup--” 

“I’m fine,” he insists, only to cough again. “I don’t want that—sh-- *cough*-- shi-- *cough*” He devolves into a fit and you wait patiently. 

“If you don’t want it, you should try some of these ginger drops.” 

“Why are you here?” 

You steady your agitation. “Your mother called me.” 

“Why did she--” He can’t finish the question. 

“She asked me to help you. I’m trying but I can’t do much if you won’t let me. However, you are my boss so you can tell me to go back home to my family,” you shrug. 

He looks at you then closes his eyes. He shifts onto his back and lifts his legs, extending them over the armrest. He is ridiculous big on the short sofa. 

“Do whatever. I thought you were a maid, not--” 

He can’t finish the insult but you get the gist. You dig around in the bag and take out the tin of menthol rub. You uncap it as his face contorts in an effort to repress his coughing. You hold it out under his nose and he sucks in and flinches. 

He grabs his nose as you recoil and blinks, “what is that?” 

“Just menthol, it will clear your airways a bit.” 

“Oh,” he furrows his dark brows. 

“Typically, you put it on your chest but it’s kind of greasy so--” 

“Do that,” he insists and sniffs deeply, “it’s helping.” 

“Oh, uh...” you stare at him. 

He’s sallow, the brims of his eyes reddened, and his face drawn. You nod and lightly touch the gel. You hesitate. You won’t be able to reach him and... right. 

“Can you...” You look at his shirt collar, “unbutton.” 

He coughs again, a rumble in his chest, and he clumsily pinches his buttons until he frees them. He pulls the fabric apart to reveal his furry chest and you stand. You move closer and bend over him as you gently trace beneath his throat, that little crook of bone above his muscled pecs. You focus on spreading the menthol as he breathes deeper, further puffing out his chest. 

“Better?” You ask. 

He makes a noise, something akin to a purr. You rub the cream in until It’s absorbed then pull away. You cap the container and put it back in the bag. You put it all on the stool and back away. 

“Where are you going?” Walker mutters. 

“To wash my hands,” you say. 

“Mmm, be quick.” 

You take his orders and hurry out. You come down the hallway and dip into the bathroom to rinse your hands. As you dry off, you nearly squeal as a shadow appears in the door. Katherine wrings her hands as she shifts back and forth. 

“Is he okay?” She asks. 

“He’s fine, I think. Just sick. Stubborn.” 

“Oh, very,” she agrees with your last statement. 

“I’m just trying to get him to take some cough meds,” you explain. 

“Ah, good luck,” she trills, “I will make some tea, if you like?” 

“Uh, yeah, we can try that,” you agree. 

She hurries off and you go back down the hall. The smell of menthol and the crackle of the fake fire welcome you in. You go to the settee as Walker lays quietly, breathing in and out, as his shirt remains open. 

“I think the cough syrup will help,” you say. 

He doesn’t respond. You watch the cadence of his chest. Is he asleep. You move around slowly, trying not to knock anything with your hip or step too heavy. You gather up the bag. He can probably sleep it off. 

You let out a squeal as you feel a brush against your bum. You spin as Walker’s arm extends to you and he catches your hip. You stutter in surprise. 

“S-sir!” 

“I’m sick,” he whines, though the surrender is hardly a triumph. “Please...” 

You stare at him. You don’t know what’s worse. The brave face or the pathetic victim. 

“Baby, I feel so bad,” he squeezes and you look down at his large hand. He must be really sick if he’s calling you that. 

“It’s alright, Mr. Walker,” you take his hand and move it off your hip. You lower yourself onto the edge of the couch and bend his arm over his chest. “Your mom’s going to make you some tea.” 

“Mmmm,” he drones and reaches for you again. “Don’t leave.” 

“Sir,” you look down as his touch follows your sleeve to your shoulder then curls down your back, stopping on your waist. You grab his wrist again. “I’ll stay, just... relax.” 

“Yes, baby,” his fingers dip into your soft side, “whatever you want me to do.” He tugs free of your grip and trails along the top of your butt, “just stay.” 

You narrow your eyes and once more stop his stray hand. You cling to it as you direct it away from you, keeping hold of him to keep from another rogue groping. He’s sick for sure. So sick, he must be delusional. 

“Alright, I'm here, Mr. Walker.” 

He opens his eyes and looks at you. You wince at the intensity in his glassy irises. His cheek ticks and he hums again. 

“Mm...” he drawls weakly. “So... soft.” 

[spontaneousmusicalnumber]

My DM just gave the party the ability to order a "Baked Tarraska", a dessert that costs an entire 60 gold pieces.

It is described as a "CR 5 experimental dessert" that required four people to carry it in and was said to feed 12. Covered in sparklers, precipices of merengue, layers of different temperatures like ice cream, cookie, hot fudge, and cakes of all types.

Our party of 7 rolled average to poor and only put away two thirds of it.

Also, for next episode, we get to make pro wrestling personas.

[novaursa]

Legacy (the silence)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Be awear of unspecified time jump.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (slight descritpion of blood and gore)

- Previous part: across the dream

- Next part: the great war

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The wind howled through the towering cliffs of Casterly Rock, carrying with it the scent of salt and cold steel. Beneath the shadow of the great castle, the courtyard and the surrounding paths swarmed with men and banners, a sea of red and gold. The banners of the Westerlands stretched as far as the eye could see—familiar sigils of lesser houses loyal to the Lion of Lannister. The old roads, once worn by merchants and travelers, now thundered beneath the hooves of warhorses and the heavy tread of marching feet.

Tywin Lannister stood at the edge of the outer parapet, his gloved hands resting on the stone, his gaze sweeping over the columns of armed men pouring through the open gates. The force that had assembled was vast, perhaps the largest host the Westerlands had called upon in a generation, yet it was not as grand as it could have been in an age untouched by war and winter. Supplies were dwindling, and no matter how well-prepared he had been, no one had foreseen more then three years of endless night.

Kevan stood beside him, his face lined with quiet contemplation. “More arrive by the hour,” he said, his voice barely audible over the clamoring of men below. “Ser Myles Lefford rides at the head of the last host from the Golden Tooth, and the remaining forces from Deep Den and the Crag should be here soon.” He exhaled, his breath fogging in the cold air. “This is the last of them, Tywin. Every sword sworn to us has come.”

Tywin’s expression did not shift, but his grip on the stone tightened slightly.

“These are all who could make it,” he corrected.

Kevan nodded grimly. They both knew there were men still trapped in smaller holdfasts, cut off by the unnatural storms that had ravaged the roads. Others had never made it at all, swallowed by the darkness or the creatures that now roamed freely in the deep woods. The Westerlands had always been a strong, untamed land, but it had never known fear like this.

Below, the banners of House Brax, House Marbrand, House Kenning, and more fluttered in the frozen wind as their lords dismounted and gave orders to their men. A chorus of shouting, the clank of armor, and the snorting of warhorses filled the air, but there was no raucous celebration. No laughter. No boasting. Only the solemn grimness of men who had come to fight their last war.

Ser Addam Marbrand approached on foot, his orange cloak dusted with frost. He dipped his head in a respectful bow to Tywin. “My lord, my men have settled within the lower halls as ordered. The horses are being stabled, and we brought as many provisions as we could carry. We left none behind.” He hesitated for a moment, his dark eyes flickering with something unspoken. “Some of my men say they saw shapes in the woods as we rode. Pale figures in the trees, watching but not attacking. We rode hard to outpace them.”

Kevan shifted uncomfortably. “How many?”

Marbrand shook his head. “Too many to count.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. “It was wise not to engage. Whatever numbers they bring, they will break against these walls.” His gaze remained fixed on the sea of arriving soldiers, his mind already turning over every possible strategy.

He had spent his life making war against men—rebels, usurpers, fools who thought they could defy the might of House Lannister. He had crushed them all. But this was no war of banners and crowns. This was something older, something no man had ever conquered.

And yet, he would not bow.

Kevan exhaled. “Winterfell sends no word back with messengers. Neither does the capital.”

“That is not an accident.” Tywin’s voice was cold. “Someone ensures the realm remains deaf to what is happening.”

Marbrand frowned. “Could it be Daenerys?”

Tywin shook his head. “No. She lacks the subtlety.” He turned, his cloak billowing behind him. “Whoever is doing this, it is not to her benefit either.”

Kevan hesitated. “Then who?”

Tywin did not answer. He had spent the last weeks pondering the same question, and yet no answer presented itself that did not lead to a darker conclusion.

Silence fell between them, broken only by the arrival of another rider. Ser Myles Lefford, his golden breastplate dulled with frost, dismounted stiffly and strode toward them.

“My lords,” he said, bowing, “we met no resistance on the road, but there are whispers among the men. They speak of villages where the fires still burned, but not a single soul remained. No bodies, no signs of struggle. Only silence.”

Tywin turned fully to face him. “How many villages?”

Lefford’s throat bobbed. “Too many.”

Kevan muttered a curse, running a hand through his beard. “This is beyond raiding. They are wiping the land clean.”

Marbrand nodded grimly. “If they mean to starve us, they have already begun.”

Tywin stared at the growing mass of soldiers in the courtyard below. This was the last host the West would ever raise, the final force that stood between annihilation and survival. If they failed here, there would be no retreat, no second war.

He turned back to his gathered men.

“We will not cower behind these walls like frightened children,” he said, his voice cutting through the cold. “We have prepared for this. The Rock has stood for thousands of years and will stand long after we are dust. These things may bring the cold, but I will see them burn.”

Marbrand and Lefford bowed. “As you command, my lord.”

Kevan looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.

Tywin cast one last glance at the forces still arriving.

Let them come.

He would make sure they paid in blood.

The war room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of wax and parchment, the heavy weight of impending doom pressing against the stone walls like an unseen specter. A great table stretched the length of the chamber, covered in a detailed map of Westeros, marked with carved sigils of their bannermen and the crude placements of their enemies. The Westerlands had gathered for their final stand, and all eyes now turned toward Tywin Lannister, the Lion of Casterly Rock, as he weighed their fates with the cold precision that had won him every war he had ever fought.

But this was no war of men.

The door creaked open, and the lords who sat around the table turned as you entered. You moved with the quiet grace that had been bred into you since birth, but there was something else in you now—something sharpened by years of survival, war, and the burden of knowledge you alone carried. As you stepped into the chamber, the gathered bannermen rose, offering you the respect due to both the Lady of Casterly Rock and a woman who rode a dragon.

Tywin looked up from the map, his expression unreadable as he gestured to the seat beside him. You took it without hesitation, feeling the weight of a dozen gazes settle on you. Kevan Lannister sat across from you, his brows furrowed, his hands folded over one another. Ser Addam Marbrand stood near the hearth, his face cast in flickering firelight, his fingers drumming idly against the pommel of his sword. Lord Lefford, Lord Brax, and the other lords of the West sat in quiet anticipation, waiting for the war council to begin.

It was Kevan who spoke first. “The last of our men have arrived. Every sword sworn to us is now within these walls. If we are to strike before the enemy reaches us, the time is now.”

Tywin gave a small, imperceptible nod. “And have they sent word from the capital? Anything or still nothing?”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

“No, my lord,” Lord Brax finally admitted, his voice grim. “No word from the Crownlands, nor from the North.”

You shifted, your fingers pressing against the edge of the table. “Then it is as we feared—someone ensures silence reigns across the realm. We are being cut off from the world.”

Ser Addam Marbrand exhaled through his nose. “We cannot afford to wait any longer, my lord. If the North is lost, the Others will march south unchallenged.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, but he said nothing.

You leaned forward, your voice steady. “Then let me take Viserion and burn them before they reach us.”

The lords stirred at your words, some exchanging glances, others nodding in silent agreement.

Lord Lefford spoke up, his face lined with weariness. “She speaks sense, my lord. We do not know how many of them there are, nor how they fight, but if fire is truly their weakness, then we must use it before it is too late.”

Kevan hesitated. “We know fire can kill the wights. But we do not know if it can kill the Others. If they are truly creatures of ice, then perhaps dragonflame can undo them—but if not…” He trailed off, unwilling to speak the worst of it.

You turned to Tywin, watching as his jaw tightened, as the muscle in his cheek twitched ever so slightly. He was silent, thoughtful, but there was something else in his eyes. Hesitation.

It was rare to see Tywin Lannister unsure.

You softened your voice. “We cannot wait until they are at our gates, Tywin. The Rock may be impenetrable, but it is not invincible. If we allow them to gather, to grow stronger, then even these walls may not hold.”

Tywin exhaled slowly, but he still did not answer.

Kevan shifted in his seat. “She is right, brother. If we wait, we may find ourselves cornered, besieged by an enemy we do not fully understand.”

Ser Addam Marbrand, ever the strategist, leaned forward. “If we send her to test them now, we will know what we face before it is too late. We must learn if dragonfire can truly undo them. If it does not, then at least we will know the limits of our weapons before we make our stand.”

The lords murmured in agreement, their voices a mixture of conviction and unease.

But still, Tywin hesitated.

You reached for his hand beneath the table, pressing your fingers against his palm. It was a rare gesture, one done in the quiet privacy of your chambers, never in the presence of others. But now, with all of Westeros on the brink of destruction, you did not care for propriety.

He glanced at you then, his green eyes locking onto yours, searching.

You did not need to speak the words aloud. You must trust me.

For a long moment, the world around you ceased to exist. The lords, the war, the Rock—it all faded into silence.

Then, finally, Tywin spoke.

“You may go,” he said, his voice low, measured. “But you will not go alone.”

You arched a brow. “Who do you mean to send with me?”

Tywin turned to Kevan. “You will take a small force to accompany her. A dozen riders. No more.”

Kevan’s brows furrowed. “If she is flying, then there is no need for riders.”

Tywin’s gaze did not waver. “There is always a need for an escape plan.”

Your lips parted, but you did not argue. You could see it now—the barely concealed fear in his expression, the tightness in his shoulders. He was not a man who bent to fear. But this? This was different.

This was you.

And for the first time in all your years together, you realized what it meant for the lion to love a dragon.

Tywin turned to the room, his voice cold and commanding once more. “We move before the week is done. If this war is to be fought, we shall be the ones to strike first.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the lords.

You gave Tywin’s hand one last squeeze before releasing it, rising from your seat.

As you turned to leave, you felt his gaze linger on your back, a silent weight that followed you as you exited the war room.

And you knew, without a shadow of doubt, that if you did not return—there would be no force in this world that could stop Tywin Lannister from razing it to the ground.

The air smelled faintly of parchment and herbs, a mixture of the maester’s study and the lingering scent of medicinal balms. You sat on the cushioned bench beside the table, your hands resting on your lap, fingers idly tracing the embroidery on your sleeve. Across from you, Maester Aldren finished his examination, his expression grave yet unreadable as he straightened and exhaled softly.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, with a measured tone, he spoke.

“You are with child.”

The words settled heavily between you, like the final grains of sand slipping through an hourglass.

Your breath caught in your throat. It was not unexpected—not entirely. You had felt the changes within you in the past few weeks: the subtle exhaustion, the way your body had begun to shift in ways you recognized from before. But to hear it spoken aloud, to have it confirmed in this moment—now, on the eve of your departure—was something else entirely.

Maester Aldren continued, unaware of the tempest brewing in your mind. “You are early along. No more than a few moons, but there is no mistake. Your body has already begun adjusting.”

Your gaze flickered down to your hands, to the pale skin of your fingers, as thoughts warred within you. Another child. Tywin’s child.

The timing could not have been worse.

A deep inhale steadied you. When you spoke, your voice was firm. “You will not tell anyone.”

Aldren’s brows furrowed, his weathered face etched with confusion. “My lady, surely the Lord of the Rock should—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice unwavering. “Not yet.”

Aldren hesitated. He was a maester of the Citadel, sworn to duty and knowledge, but he was also a man who had served your household for years. He had tended to Damon and Maelor since their birth, and he had been at your side through battles and winters alike. But now, he looked at you with uncertainty, as if weighing whether to challenge you.

Carefully, he folded his hands before him. “May I ask why?”

You exhaled, standing slowly, smoothing the fabric of your cloak. “Because if I tell him, he will not let me leave.”

Aldren’s expression darkened. “And is that not a good thing?”

Your eyes snapped to him, a silent storm swirling in their depths. “No,” you said quietly. “Because if I do not leave, we may all perish.”

Silence stretched between you.

Aldren sighed, rubbing his temple. “You ride into battle, my lady. With a child inside you.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “I ride to ensure there is a future for my children—all of them.”

Aldren inhaled sharply, then released it in resignation. He knew you well enough to understand that your mind was made up, that no amount of reasoning or pleading would sway you.

“You must take care,” he murmured at last. “You must not overstrain yourself. And if you feel anything—anything—unusual, you will return at once.”

“I will,” you lied.

Aldren studied you, his gaze keen with scrutiny, but in the end, he nodded. He would not betray your trust, not now.

“I will do as you ask, my lady,” he said solemnly. “But this secret cannot be kept for long. You must tell Lord Tywin when you return.”

“When I return,” you echoed softly, as if speaking it into certainty.

But deep in your heart, you knew—if you did not return, it would not matter at all.

The cold air bit against your skin as you stepped into the courtyard of Casterly Rock, the darkened sky stretching endlessly above like an abyss without stars. The torches lining the perimeter of the fortress flickered wildly in the wind, their flames struggling against the unnatural night that had swallowed the world whole. The scent of damp stone, of leather and steel, mixed with the distinct sulfurous tang that always lingered when dragons were near.

Viserion emerged from the depths of the mines, her golden-hued scales gleaming even in the absence of true sunlight. Her wings stretched wide, sending gusts of wind through the courtyard as she let out a guttural rumble, sensing the purpose in the air. Her saddle, already secured, awaited you, the thick leather straps taut and ready for flight.

From the darkness of the mines, another presence loomed—Arraxes.

The young dragon lingered just beyond the threshold, his blood-red eyes cutting through the shadows like embers buried in ash. His serpentine form slithered closer, his nostrils flaring as he released a low, uneasy growl. It was not rebellion, nor was it defiance—it was hesitation. He felt the pull, the bond between himself and Viserion, his mother, his guiding flame. And yet, something deep within him warred against instinct.

Your heart clenched as you watched him, your gaze locking onto his unreadable, primal stare. You felt his longing, his indecision, the silent question lingering in his mind—why could he not follow? Why was he being left behind?

But after a long, agonizing moment, the young dragon released a huff and stepped back, retreating into the shadows of the mines. His glowing eyes were the last thing to vanish into the black.

The decision was made.

A gust of wind from Viserion’s wings snapped you from your thoughts, and you turned your attention back to the present. Your riders—loyal men who had trained tirelessly for this mission—stood at the ready, their steeds shifting restlessly beneath them. Their armor gleamed faintly under the torchlight, their eyes filled with a mix of apprehension and resolve.

And then, there was Tywin.

He stood apart from the others, his piercing green eyes fixed upon you with a gaze that burned deeper than any flame Viserion could conjure. He was clad in his riding leathers, his heavy fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders, but there was no mistaking the tension in his stance. He had known this moment was coming, but that did not make it easier.

You approached him slowly, the sound of your boots against the stone drowned out by the howling wind. You could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled into fists at his sides as if resisting the urge to reach for you and keep you here.

"You will return," he said, his voice low, edged with steel. It was not a question. It was a command.

You exhaled softly, allowing a small, knowing smile to grace your lips. "Of course."

Tywin narrowed his eyes, his gaze searching yours, as if trying to find any trace of deception. "You will return," he repeated, this time quieter. "Do not make a liar of yourself, wife."

A flicker of warmth spread through you at the possessiveness in his words, but it was overshadowed by the weight of what lay ahead. You wanted to promise him everything, but promises were fragile things in times like these.

Your hand reached for his, fingers curling around his wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath his skin. "I will be back before you know it," you murmured. "And when I return, you will scold me for being reckless, and I will laugh and say you worry too much."

Tywin exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression unreadable. "Yes," he muttered. "I expect I shall."

There was nothing more to say.

You turned, your fingers lingering against his for a moment longer before stepping away. The weight of his gaze followed you as you approached Viserion, each step measured, deliberate. The she-dragon lowered herself slightly, allowing you to climb into the saddle with practiced ease. The moment your hands grasped the reins, she shifted, restless, eager to take to the skies.

Your riders fell into position, their own mounts ready for the long flight ahead.

With one last glance at Tywin, you nodded once.

And then, with a powerful thrust of her wings, Viserion launched into the air, the ground falling away beneath you. The wind roared past your ears as the great she-dragon carried you higher and higher, her wings cutting through the endless night.

Below, the torches of Casterly Rock flickered like distant stars.

And Tywin watched, unmoving, until you were out of sight.

The deep black of the night pressed heavily against the walls of Casterly Rock, the vast stone fortress eerily silent save for the occasional crackling of the torches lining its halls. Outside, the wind howled against the cliffs, a distant, mournful sound that seemed to stretch endlessly into the void of the frozen world.

Maelor stirred in his bed, a small frown creasing his young face as a voice—her voice—whispered to him from the darkness.

"Maelor… Maelor, sweet boy, wake up."

His eyelids fluttered open, the voice wrapping around him like a gentle lullaby. It was familiar, impossibly so. His mother. But that was impossible. She had flown away with Viserion days ago, her absence leaving a hollowness in the castle that even the warmth of the dragonfires beneath the Rock could not chase away.

Yet, the voice persisted.

"Come to me, little lion. I'm waiting."

Compelled by something unseen, Maelor sat up, his small hands clutching at the heavy furs draped over him. The room was dimly lit by the embers still glowing in the hearth, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. Damon slept soundly beside him, his breathing steady despite the scars that marred his once-unblemished skin.

Maelor hesitated for only a moment before slipping out of bed, his bare feet padding softly against the cold floor. He did not think to wake his brother, nor did he question why his mother was calling for him when he knew she was far away. Some part of him—the part that longed for her warmth, her presence, the safety of her embrace—urged him forward.

The door creaked as he pulled it open, and the dimly lit corridors of the Rock stretched before him like the gaping maw of a beast. The flickering torches barely pushed back the shadows, but the voice guided him, soft and insistent.

"This way, my love… just a little further…"

Maelor wandered deeper into the darkened halls, his small frame swallowed by the vastness of the corridors. The deeper he walked, the colder the air became. The warmth of the Rock, the heat of the dragons below, did not reach these parts. The torches burned lower, their flames barely more than dying embers.

And then, he saw it.

A figure stood at the end of the hall, its form barely visible through the gloom.

At first, Maelor thought it was his mother—but it wasn’t.

It was too tall. Too thin. Its body was an unnatural shade of pale, almost translucent in the dim light. And its eyes—icy blue, glowing like lanterns in the dark bored into him with unnatural hunger.

It smiled, revealing jagged, needle-sharp teeth that glistened as if coated in frost.

Maelor felt his body go stiff, his breath hitching in his throat. A scream clawed at his chest, but his lips would not part. He could not move.

The creature lifted a long, skeletal hand and beckoned him forward.

"Come, little one. Your mother is waiting."

Maelor's feet shuffled forward against his will. He did not want to move, but something was pulling him.

The closer he got, the colder the air became. Frost coated the walls, forming intricate spirals that pulsed as if alive. His vision blurred, the world narrowing to the wraith-like figure before him. The blue light in its eyes expanded, swallowing his thoughts whole.

"Maelor!"

The spell shattered as a roaring explosion of fire illuminated the corridor.

The creature shrieked as a blade, engulfed in white-hot flames, slashed through the darkness.

Beric Dondarrion and his men rushed into the corridor, their weapons drawn, their torches alight. The glow of Beric’s sword cast long shadows along the walls, the flames flickering with unnatural intensity.

"GET BACK!" Beric bellowed as he slashed at the creature again, his blade carving a molten arc through the air.

The wraith recoiled, its shriek sharp and piercing, like ice cracking beneath unbearable weight. The blue light in its eyes flickered violently, its form twisting and shifting as if struggling to maintain its presence.

Maelor collapsed to the ground, his body released from its invisible hold. He gasped, his breath forming white clouds in the freezing air.

Damon skidded into the corridor just as Thoros of Myr lifted his hands, his voice booming with a prayer to the Lord of Light.

"R'hllor, great god of flame, cast out this darkness!"

A pillar of fire erupted from the torches, roaring down the corridor and engulfing the creature in a cascade of golden flames.

The wraith let out a piercing scream, its body contorting in agony as the fire consumed it. The glow in its eyes flickered once—twice—and then was gone.

The creature collapsed into ash.

For a moment, the only sound was Maelor’s ragged breathing as he stared at the spot where the thing had stood. His tiny hands trembled, his eyes wide with lingering terror.

Beric rushed to the boy, kneeling before him. "Are you hurt?"

Maelor shook his head, his lips trembling. Damon, pale-faced and breathless, hurried to his brother’s side, grasping his arm. "What were you thinking?" he demanded. "You—You just left—"

Before Maelor could answer, alarm bells rang out through the Rock.

Beric shot to his feet, his eyes snapping toward the direction of the castle walls.

Thoros wiped sweat from his brow, his expression grim. "That was just one," he murmured. "And it got inside."

Beric turned to the nearest guard. "Ring the bells louder. Get Lord Tywin—now."

The guard did not hesitate. He turned and ran, his armor clanking against the stone as he rushed toward the war room.

Maelor turned, looking up at his older brother. Damon’s scarred face was unreadable, but his grip on Maelor’s arm was tight—almost too tight.

The young boy swallowed.

Outside, the winds howled as if something was coming.

The wind tore through the skies, sharp as Valyrian steel, slicing through the furs that lined your shoulders. Viserion’s wings thundered against the frozen air, her pale scales reflecting the faintest shimmer of what should have been moonlight—but the sky above was a void of black, no stars, no light, only the oppressive weight of endless darkness.

Below, your riders moved in a steady formation, their banners flapping violently as their horses trudged through the snow-covered terrain. You could barely make them out beneath the swirling mist of ice and frost, but they were there—loyal men, brave men, following you into the unknown. The silence of the night was unnatural, the only sound the distant howl of the wind, a mournful wail that curled around the mountains and valleys, whispering of something unseen.

Then, the world shifted.

A wall of ice and snow erupted from the earth without warning, spiraling upward like a specter clawing its way from the abyss. The storm came alive, swallowing the riders below in a matter of heartbeats. One moment, they were there—the next, gone.

Viserion reared back, her wings thrashing against the violent gusts, the force of the winds shoving her sideways. You gritted your teeth, tightening your grip on the saddle, your fingers numb from the freezing air.

"No—no, no, no."

The snow howled, a deafening roar that filled the sky. It wasn’t a natural storm—it couldn’t be. The way it moved, the way it devoured everything in its path—it was something else.

Something unnatural.

"Viserion! Fly higher!" you commanded, but the dragon twisted in the air, her balance faltering. She, too, had lost direction.

You pulled at the reins, attempting to steer her, but there was nothing. No point of reference, no horizon, only the suffocating black.

Then—the screams began.

Muffled, distant, but unmistakable. The wails of dying men and the frantic shrieks of horses as something found them in the dark. The sounds were swallowed almost immediately, as if the very air itself refused to carry the echoes of their deaths.

Viserion bucked wildly beneath you, her body writhing.

"Dracarys!" you roared.

She obeyed, her mighty throat igniting as a torrent of golden-white flame erupted into the void.

It did nothing.

The fire vanished the moment it left her maw, consumed by the very darkness itself. It was as if the night had a hunger of its own, devouring the heat, the light, leaving nothing but the frigid chill of the abyss.

The cold sank into your bones—something was watching.

Then, you saw it.

The darkness broke.

The storm lifted, just enough for you to see what lay ahead.

Your breath seized in your throat, your heart slamming against your ribs.

An army.

An endless army.

Miles upon miles of them, stretching to the very ends of the world. Their armor was frozen over with rime, their flesh long decayed, but their eyes—all of them—burned blue.

They were waiting.

A thousand—ten thousand—a hundred thousand. Their weapons, their rotted banners, their skeletal steeds.

And at their center, it stood.

A figure upon an undead beast, a skeletal dragon with tattered wings of ice. Its rider—tall, gaunt, clad in blackened, frozen armor, its face obscured save for those impossibly bright blue eyes.

The Night King.

His gaze lifted to the sky, and though his expression did not shift, you felt his attention settle on you.

Then—the voice.

A screeching, wretched sound, not spoken but forced into your very skull. It was neither words nor whispers, but pain.

Your vision blurred, agony lancing through your skull like a thousand shards of ice. Your hands trembled against the reins, your breath coming in short, painful gasps.

Viserion screamed.

She twisted midair, writhing in pain as the sound tore through her skull, her mighty wings faltering. You clung to her, barely holding on as she spiraled, her shrieks echoing across the wasteland.

You didn’t know if you were screaming too.

The world spun.

Then—Viserion surged forward.

Her instincts overrode the pain, her body moving. She veered northward, desperate to escape the unseen force trying to drag her from the sky.

The Night King watched.

The wights watched.

The thousands upon thousands of dead watched.

And as you vanished beyond the storm, the voice echoed one last time—a promise.

"Soon."

[starfallforest]

SINGULARITY » 1.9k words tags: NSFW, reader is gender neutral, xavier bottoms a/n: I do not kid you when I say we're jumping right in it babes with that nsfw tag! things might get a little weird. I even did research for this lil guy. a super thank you to my friends (especially @ourlittleuluru and @leaderincrows) for being supportive of my first fic in awhile 💙 ao3: 🔗​link summary: When Xavier orgasms, your combined Evol disrupts the cosmos.

When Xavier cums, it’s a flash in the night—a lighthouse beacon in the storm of you. When he cums, his entire body alights, and with his skin translucent under your wavering gaze, you can count every vein beneath his surface. He shudders violently against you, wet and wanting, as the bones of his fingers bite into your arms like the jaws of a snare.

He didn’t warn you it would be like this. He didn’t warn you he would be like this.

Moments ago, he watched you through heavy lids as you pumped your hips to him. The back of his hand was pressed to his mouth—a self-soothing habit he never quite shook. You listened to his muffled panting, studied the way his knuckles tapped against his lips with each stir of your body. His eyes were black and starless, his mind a void you couldn’t reach. But you were trying. Gods, were you trying.

You bent over him, ran your fingers over the crag of muscle tensed along his neck. 

“Relax, Xavier,” you exhaled over him, as if you could breathe life into the command. Then you paused. 

“Do… you want to stop?”

“N-no—”

It comes out as a quiver, an apology ripe on his tongue. It’d been there all night: a forbidden fruit dangling over the both of you. A sorry, never uttered, in every lingering touch. Overripe. Rotting. 

He seemed to notice your hesitation then, barking out a laugh that was dark and desperate. 

“Trying—” he ground out, voice strained. “This is—” 

The rest of the words were lost when your fingertips reached the line of his jaw.

It happened all at once: the hitch of his breath, the grip of his fingers at your wrist. For just a moment he gaped at you—marveling—eyes glinting wide in the low light. A sigh left the back of his throat as he flicked his gaze downward, turning his head towards the warmth of your hand in a single exhale of uninhibited indulgence. That’s when you saw it.

Your other hand had settled lightly over the confluence of your bodies, fingers pressing into the smooth bumps of flesh there, and like a switch you caught his eyes illuminating with a white, white light. It was gone the next instant with a clench of his eyelids, swallowed down with the veracity of a cornered animal to its prey.

He was holding himself back, you realized. He was afraid.

It made sense when you thought about it. Time was never kind to Xavier. Rather, it acted as a harbinger that took everything he ever loved and, in the cruelest ways, spared himself. How could he trust that this moment wouldn’t also bring him ruin? As if in response to your thoughts, the hand around your wrist squeezed.

You reached out once more with your free hand to drag your fingers through his hair as the realization settled like iron in the knell of your heart. This time, you wouldn’t let him go anywhere without you.

“It’s okay,” you told him, and your throat constricted at the unfamiliar promise. You bent to kiss the corner of each of his eyes, then pressed your forehead to his. For a beat you held him there inside you, breathing the scent of sweat in the space between. His grip on you relaxed.

“Alright,” he finally said, filling the quiet in earnest, filling his lungs with air. “I trust you.” 

When he looked at you, his eyes were brighter than you’d ever seen.

It was reassurance to yourself as well: It’s okay. The two words were a metronome as you dragged your body over his, quicker now. 

He moved his hands to your arms to better anchor himself to your rhythm. You pressed deeper into him, tracing your fingers along the bones of his ribcage and the skin of his neck.  

The air around you pulsed once, twice—a warning. You felt a wind pick up, warm and without origin as it ripped through your hair. Xavier’s movements quickened under you erratically. Long lashes fluttered as his eyes rolled wildly behind closed lids. You could see the light spill out from beneath them, like daybreak through your curtains. Little light particles lit up beneath you like stars.

He was close. 

With furrowed brows, he parted his lips as if he wanted to say something more, but before another word tumbled from his throat you pressed your palm against the hard ridge of his chest. His eyes shot open in an awful mix of fear and wonder and you felt all the breath leave his body at once.

“It’s okay, Xavier,” you said again, a little more firmly this time. Then you pulled your Evol from the deepest parts of you and pushed it into your fingertips.

—

Type la supernovae. Before a star erupts, it pulls the matter from the atmosphere of a nearby companion star until the pressure becomes too much and it explodes. You think he told you this once, some sleepless night on your porch stargazing together. You think you get it now, as Xavier comes apart beneath you. 

And once Xavier unravels, he’s a supernova. All at once, you feel his heat inside of you. All at once, the light of his body envelops you. 

It’s you who was his ruin, after all. It was always you. 

—

There’s nothing but white, at first, and a terrible, discordant roaring of the blood in your ears. Then the pressure in the air shifts, pitching up into an inaudible whine.

The light Xavier emits bends around you before warping out and into a thin line that stretches and settles over the both of you. Time stops. Darkness surrounds your peripheral of white.

Xavier is still beneath you, but something is wrong. His body floats, limbs splayed frozen as if suspended in liquid. Tiny solar flares slough off his skin in waves, rivulets of gold light thread the tips of his fingers and spin reflections in his unmoving eyes. Although unfocused, they remain fixed to your face as if looking through you.

“Xavier?”

At your call, his eyes snap into focus. He reaches a hand out and caresses your cheek, but at his touch, his form convulses. The edges in your vision shift wildly, kaleidoscopically. It’s mystifying, the way he flickers in and out of existence. Each time you blink, he looks different: a new hairstyle, a change of clothes. Yet his face remains the same, unchanging for eons. For reasons unknown to you, you recognize every version of him.

You take the hand at your cheek and wrap your fingers in his, clutching tightly as if he might slip away. You move your hips slightly and realize your bodies are still connected, somehow, as if you were back at home in your bed. 

“I’ve got you,” You’re not sure if he can hear you, but you’re compelled to say it nonetheless. “Don’t go… don’t go off without me again.”

In response, he leans up and kisses you, long and lingering, and the light about him swells—it blinds you, washing over the shadows where flesh meets flesh until they’ve all dissipated and the lines that separate your body from his become indistinguishable. 

You taste his ecstasy in the back of your throat. You feel the blue of his eyes burned onto your skin, your hair. The shape of your name vibrates beneath your tongue like electricity and you know, somehow, that it’s how it feels when he calls to you.

Then your body becomes heavier, unfathomable. When you look down all you see is white, white, white. There’s a coil in your belly, a tightness that drives into the core of you like an anchor. When it releases, you feel a rush of pleasure and shutter the air from your lungs. But you feel alone.

“Xavier?” you snap to attention with a start, crying out to him in the shrill of the silence. 

“I’m here,” comes his response, calm and familiar.

“Where? I don’t see you.”

An echo: “...here. I’m here.” 

Upon his response, you notice your lips are moving. Your entire face flushes hot when you realize this, the back of your hand pressing up against your mouth out of habit. Your breath wavers over the callused skin of your knuckles and your chest heaves with a weight that isn’t yours.

“I’m sorry,” your mouth forms around the words that aren’t yours—are yours. The apology takes shape in front of you. It’s an ugly little shadow amongst the white of the light in your peripheral and it reeks like rotting fruit. 

He’s sorry for not telling you this might happen. He’s sorry for going off without you. He’s sorry for taking from you, even now. Even now, he’s sorry, sorry, sorry.

Stop. 

His wall of his regret crashes against the sharpness of your will and you strike it down. In a rush of determination, you pluck the sentiment out of the air and crush it in your jaws. Lightning arcs off your teeth with a crack. You roll the regret on your tongue, tasting its bittersweet release. After a thousand deaths, after a thousand years alone, it doesn’t matter anymore. You love him—you’ve always loved him—and you will love him until he accepts that he is worthy of it.

Suddenly the relief of forgiveness seizes your body and contorts it. Your stomach drops from under you in a ripple of anticipation. An icy lightheadedness tingles all the way down your spine and as it leaves you, you can feel the sheets of the bed materialize beneath you.

Xavier is propped on his elbows over you, caging you with his forearms. Your bodies are pressed together under a layer of sweat and stardust. Xavier’s neck flashes with a beeping and a warning light. You curl your fingers into the bedsheets now fully formed beneath your palms.

“What just happened?”

Xavier blushes to the tips of his ears. “I don’t know,” he quickly admits. He silences the device at his collarbone and pulls back from you, embarrassed.

 “That’s… never happened to me before. Any of this.”

Still reeling, you sit up and tug Xavier back to you, clumsily throwing your arms over his neck. You don’t even realize your breath coming in shallow, frightened gasps. Xavier’s eyes soften and he takes your face into his large hands. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. Before you answer, he’s already pulling you in, nudging his nose along your cheek soothingly.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. You can feel the heat still radiating from him.

“What about you?”

He hums in thought. You feel his eyelashes flutter along your cheek.

“Something feels… different.”

He sighs into your shoulder, his warm breath summoning goosebumps along your skin. He ghosts his lips over your neck, kissing the soft tissue behind your ear.

There’re so many words unsaid between you, but as usual, Xavier relishes in the silence that hangs heavy in the empty air.

“Thank you,” is all he says. You place your hand over his at your cheek, running the other along the hair at the nape of his neck. You kiss him once, twice. When you pull away to look at him, you realize the ends of his hair are glowing golden, backlit by his own luminescence. You chuckle at the sincerity that literally emanates from him. Xavier is unreadable—and yet, somehow, he’s as evident as words on a page.

He catches on quickly to your musing. “I can’t help it,” he relents, “I feel…” He pauses deliberately and leans in to peck the corner of your mouth. 

“I feel… lighter.” His eyes wane to crescents while he gauges your reaction, pressing his mouth to you a few more times for good measure.

”My elusive star-boy,” you mumble back against his lips, smiling, “I’ll follow you to the ends of the universe.”

He laughs.

Thank you for reading! 🌝

[earthnashes]

Melon didn't stand a chance.

One moment he's staring the end of their journey over the horizon, and the next he's sent plummeting into the awaiting maw of the trench he stood over by a hearty smack of a claw.

He yelps as he tumbles, twisting in the air for a heartstopping moment before his back meets a crag. Mario's cries are muted by rushing wind as he slips again, falling falling falling--

A heavy thud echoes as he collides--bounces-- off another rock face. His ears rings with the rattling in his skull---

A sharp thwack of his head hitting a jutting ledge, and suddenly Melon doesn't hear-- or feel-- much of anything the rest of the way down.

A metal tang coats his tongue red, and the sting of the air bites against his bruises.

 No weight on his back anymore-- 

Everything hurts. 

--the boy...Mario. Where's Mario? D-did he fall too--

Can't move.

--he needs to get up. His human cub, he could be hurt o-or--- get up--

Stay down.

--get up get up GET UP-- 

Melon stays down, can't muster the strength to listen to the mantra in his head. Instead, all he hears is the desperate wails of Mario, and it's enough to force his eyes open just a sliver. He blearily looks up.

At the edge of the cliff he tumbled from stands the silhouettes he can only barely make out; three huge, three smaller, all laughing and pointing and grinning toothily at the heap of him. The leader- and he must be, with how he leers cockily over the ledge-- sneers down at him.

"Thank ye for the delivery, lad! We've been lookin' all over for this little bastard," he says, and without a care he swings a hollering Mario over the ledge by the scruff. The boy twists precariously in his grip --one slip from falling-- and reaches out for Melon with terrified tears in his eyes. He wails some semblance of his name, and Melon feels his gut twist.

no

"Come now, lad, I see that long face from here; ye nothin' to worry about! Brat may've been a pain in the arse to get, but it'll be worth it in the end. Pirate's Honor: we'll take real good care of 'em," The leader gloats, ugly grin stretching wider as he flicks the boy's nose with a sharp claw. "Just like we have his snivellin' flake of a brother. They'll fetch a fine cut yet."

No no no give him back

"I reckon ye wanna say g'bye at least, aye? I could grant that much, bein' a frog of honor and wot-not." The captain holds Mario high above his head, like an angler would his prized catch, and grins down at Melon from his spot above.

"Go on then. Tell 'em 'afore I change me mind."

Something twisted and ugly clogs Melon's throat with bile and copper. He bares his teeth and tries tries tries to bark, to roar, anything to demand his human cub back to him.

GIVE HIM BACK, his mind screetches. But all that crawls out of his mouth is a rattling, broken whimper. It drags his strength with it by the scruff, spilling in a tiny puddle of spittle and grime and blood as his vision begins to waver. His eyes glaze over and fall closed against his will.

And within the canopy of booming laughs and grating cackles, the last thing Melon hear is Mario's cries.

--------------------------------------------

AND HERE IT IS.

Part 10 of Melon's Adventure, FINALLY COMPLETE, and with it Arc 1 of this story has come to a close!

I'm glad I managed to finish this arc even with it being forced into a hiatus alongside my burnout months back; I had an absolute blast revisiting my childhood and telling the story in a way I've always imagined it as a kid.

Now, given that it's been a while since the last part, I've taken the liberty to compile all of Melon's Adventure into the #melon's adventure tag for ease of access if you'd like to read it back from the beginning!

Despite this marking the end of Arc 1, I'm hoping to make this the start of me delving back into my Super Mario AU, albeit in a slightly different way. There's still plenty of stories there I'd love to share with ya'll. :>

In fact, in related news: I'm actually planning on opening an online store, and my first planned launch will be themed on Melon's Adventure! More information to come on that relatively soon as more work is done.

At any rate, I hope ya'll enjoyed this story! More to come soon! owo

[ghostclangen]

moon twenty-three - leafbare while i was drawing that last picture the person next to me leaned over and told me it was amazing and it's like "...are you sure"

[littlejuicebox]

Hi! I'm not sure if you take requests so if you don't, please ignore this and I hope you had a wonderful Christmas.

I just read your Astarion X Tav fanfic where Astarion proposes. It is said that the ring he got glows whenever Astarion thinks of Tav. I was just wondering if you could write a slice of life about the ring glowing at the most random times. Maybe during a stealth mission where Tav has to stay hidden or when he is smiling in his sleep and the ring glows. I just thought it would be cute and fun to write about. You can get creative with it.

Thank you for taking the time to read this, whether you end up doing this request or not. I hope you had an amazing Christmas and I hope you will have an amazing New Year's!

Hi Anon! I don’t think this is quite what you were asking for but… this is what came out! 🤷‍♀️ The smut gods blessed me and I cannot deny their gifts. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Smut below the cut.

If you haven’t read my other work and would like context, Anon is referencing a two part mini story I wrote. Click here for part 1, and click here for part 2.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ only please, smut, masturbation, sex pollen, swearing/cursing, game spoilers

Word Count: 1.5K

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“I think we’re just… a bit out of practice, darling. It has been nearly a year since we were down here last, you know.” Astarion whispers, crouched next to you behind a Funguswood tree. He’s wiping bits of dirt, twigs, and mushroom pollen off himself with a handkerchief.

“Admit it, Astarion. You just weren’t fast enough.” You respond with a small, teasing poke of your tongue as you rearrange your weaponry and count your arrows.

The pale elf finishes wiping off the debris, and you return your attentions to the mission. You’d been contracted to scout out the vampire stronghold in the Underdark and report your findings back to Wyll and the Flaming Fists. Rumor was that the vampire hoard had wreaked absolute havoc on the Underdark; the city feared the creatures would soon return to the surface if they could not find sustenance here.

“Would you have preferred I let that wild Rothé ram you into those mushrooms in my stead?!” Astarion hisses in return while rubbing his hand over his arm, which now felt unbelievably tingly and was starting to radiate significant warmth, “Hells, what mushrooms were those, anyway?!”

You stifle a chuckle, knowing your fiancé is already past his limits of patience. You two need to get to the scouting point, set up camp, and hunker down for a few days… all while avoiding detection from the vampires or any other nefarious creatures in the Underdark. Best to do it without an ornery Astarion by your side.

“I don’t know what mushrooms those were. I’ve never seen them before.” You admit with a small shrug, “Come on my love, not much further now and then we can get you properly cleaned up.”

Astarion follows behind you in silence, apart from the occasional cursing and swiping at his skin. Gods, the heat had spread up his entire arm now. The scratching seemed to make it worse, but by the hells, he couldn’t stop no matter how much he wanted to. The two of you finally got to the cragged rock that led to a small cave where you would make camp, and he never felt more relieved in his life. He couldn’t wait to clean himself properly and be done with this burning sensation.

You glance at him briefly and then begin climbing the rock. Astarion remains below to keep you covered in case anything decides to attack while you’re left defenseless. He looks up to watch your progress and cannot help but to notice the overwhelmingly attractive curve of your bottom. It was always attractive, of course, but something about it in this moment was entirely… irresistible. Had you been working out recently in preparation for the wedding?

You’re halfway through climbing the rock when your engagement ring bursts into a spray of light. It often glows significantly at the surface, but in the blackness of the Underdark, you’re practically a beacon. Your stomach drops. Gods, how had you forgotten to take it off?

“Astarion!” You hiss in a panicked whisper, “Cut it out! Every being in all of the Underdark will know our position.”

Astarion had realized the issue as soon as the light had flared, of course. He was trying desperately to avoid thinking of you and all the delicious things he wanted to do when you two made camp, but gods he couldn’t control it. What in the hells was wrong with him? He wanted to stop, to ensure your safety, but your plump, perfect ass was practically calling his name, begging for his attention, and he wanted nothing more than to bend you over and—

He shakes his head, trying to rattle the lewd fantasies from his psyche, “I’m trying, my love! I don’t know what’s come over me I just—“

Hags. Hideous shoes. Ghouls. Manual labor. Gale.

The pale elf tries to think of all the most grotesque, unsexy things he can and push you entirely from his mind. You continue to climb, hoping to quickly reach the top and take off your ring as soon as possible. The ring is still glowing like a single star in the blackest night.

Ogres. The smell of Araj’s blood. Rats. Gale.

Gods, it was useless.

Finally, you reach the top. You rip the ring off your finger and shove it in your pack as soon as your limbs land on the surface of the cave. Astarion quickly scales the rock behind you, and when he reaches the top, you’re positively glaring at him.

“Darling, I’m sorry! I really tried. It’s just— gods damn these mushrooms!” The vampire is ripping off his shirt and scratching at his skin as the two of you walk into the little cave. Before long he’s down to his knickers and cursing as he rubs desperately at his flesh.

You’re trying to ignore your fiancé and quickly pitch the tent so you can handle whatever the hells is going on with him. A sideways glance to your pack reveals that the ring is still glowing quite intensely… perhaps more than it ever has before. Was that even possible? At any rate, you can’t get closer to the stronghold with it glowing like that.

“Astarion, I don’t know what—“ You spin around, and you’re surprised to see the elf fully nude on his blanket, doing perhaps the most provocative thing you’ve ever witnessed.

Astarion is beaded in sweat by now, and his hands are wandering over himself, chasing the burning tingle as it travels through his body. Gods, the feeling was becoming absolutely unbearable. He kept seeing visions of you and him in the throes of passion in his mind.

He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. Did he want to stop? He couldn’t decide. All he knew was the intense tingling and burning coursing through his veins and the wonderful fantasies filling his brain. He needed release from this torture; his limbs were on fire and the sensation was spreading to his groin.

The elf knows by the throbbing pulse in his cock that his erection is at full capacity, and he feels the dribbles of precum slowly sliding from the head, down the shaft. Astarion is, admittedly embarrassed knowing you are mere feet away and witnessing such an erratic show, but he grabs his own cock regardless— gods, it felt like being possessed. He needed release and he needed it now.

As his fingers wrap around his shaft, a burst of relief travels through his body. The tingling ceases for a moment. But then, it flares again and he’s consumed by the burning feeling and vulgar thoughts of the two of you once more. He pumps his hand a few times, bucking into the sensation, and once again the torturous tingle halts.

What in the hells?

Astarion is now rolling his hips towards his own hand, groaning in pure ecstasy at the relief from the burn as well as the delicious sensation of his hands stroking his uncharacteristically sensitive member. His eyes are clasped closed, and his other hand is still wandering over his torso, chasing that burning itch.

Through panting, shaking breaths he murmurs, “Darling, is it— oh gods, is possible that those— fuck — mushrooms contained sex pollen? I’ve never— mmh, fuck.”

You’d been so enraptured by the vision of your lover touching himself in such an uninhibited display of lust that you almost didn’t hear what Astarion asked. The slickness of your arousal was starting to become apparent as you instinctively squeezed your thighs together.

“I’m… I’m not sure, my love. I’ve read of such things but I’ve never come across it… until, perhaps, now I suppose.”

Astarion isn’t really listening. Instead, he’s bucking wildly into his own hand, chasing his own release. He falls apart in front of you, with his limbs tensed and mouth agape in pure, unadulterated pleasure, clasping tightly onto his own length. The gasping, strangled moan of relief that escapes him as he reaches his climax and shoots sticky streams of hot white seed onto his abdomen ignites a fire in your groin. He’s shuddering with the rippling aftershocks of his orgasm and you feel yourself dripping with arousal as you rub your thighs together once more. This display was entirely feral.

For a few moments the vampire is breathing contentedly, eyes still shut. He’s still holding his cock, which continues to twitch insistently despite its significant spend. Your lover brings his unoccupied hand to his hair and rakes it through his disheveled, sweaty curls.

You flick your gaze to your pack and notice that it’s no longer emitting that ethereal glow. But then Astarion groans in dismay and you see light flare from your bag again. When your attention returns back to your fiancé, he’s already grasping wantonly at a second rapidly growing erection.

“Darling, I can smell you,” He hisses desperately, now slathering his own milky juices around the swollen, reddened tip of his thick cock. The veins in his arm and on his shaft are pulsing as he begins to stroke himself again, “Don’t be coy just— come over here and help me with this. Please.”

And by the gods, he asked so nicely, how could you say no?