#from ，carcosa .

[petit-etoile]

in the moonlight (my darling, do not fear)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What happened?’ you whisper.

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

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

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

‘Scared,’ you admit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You cannot,’ Astarion insists.

‘Next time,’ you say, ‘I will jump.’

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

‘You will lead them,’ you tell him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Everyone  —  ’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches in your throat.

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

‘You still can  —  ’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘We’ve barely just begun.’

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

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

‘I love you,’ you say.

‘Say it again.’

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

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

[verrdette]

Went to get Red Lord a rework! He was due for a personality check.<3

[my-craft]

The King of Carcosa.

Line only version! I think his halo got a little drowned out, you can see it much better in this version

[ilovelumity3000]

3 points about todays podcast:

IT WAS SO GOOD HOLY SHIT

i feel like ive just watched Seven Samurai, but set in Dragon Age universe, and i loved every minute of it

Anyone else lowkey shipping Nadia/Drayden after today?

[ibrithir-was-here]

All the Eldritch Monster High Kids together: Helen Vaughn, Wilber Whateley, and Marigold

@see-arcane , thank you again for the wonderful idea of Marigold, “Mean Girl-ing” these three, and the ichor line xD

[samuelroukin]

RAY 'DOC' MOROVA

medic with a penchant for reckless endangerment. likes killing more than saving lives. he's good at both. asshole, but useful when he wants to be.

"christ, that guy's a right cunt." "aye, but he's our cunt."

template

[drowningparty]

I wasn’t pulled out to be stuck in some mortal flesh or against my will, I slipped out of that prison. And now, I am able to play all the keys. It made me… special. In a way, I’m like you, Artie! An anomaly!

Malevolent, Intermezzo.

[cobwebbedcat]

When I Have Nothing But My Aching Soul

MINORS DNI

Warnings: amab male soft dom top reader, 2012 bottom Rustin Cohle, post-carcosa (minor spoilers), pre-established relationship, feminization, daddy kink, barebacking, breeding kink <- deeply under-negotiated, smoking, PWP ,~3k words

The first time he talks to you about it, Rust is tipsy. He’s running his finger around the rim of a shot glass, illuminated by the low light behind the bar, and you’re leaning over the counter to hear his muffled confessions. He'd loosened up, but delicately whispered then, handling each word as carefully as he held onto the glass he’d been fidgeting with.  

You talk about it again when he’s sober, though he’d nursed a single beer through the conversation. He’d paused to take long swigs, letting himself sit with what he wanted. His gaze had never met your eyes, but his hands and head were steady.

He’s fully sober now, even if he’d smoked through a handful of cigarettes to relax his nerves. 

Rust looks good like this. 

“Well?” he hums, standing in front of you, hip cocked to the side, all aloof like he isn’t awaiting your approval.  

“You look good,” you tell him honestly, leaning and taking his rough, worked hand in yours, pulling him into your lap, “real good, baby.” 

Rust stares you down, acting like the pet name you called him isn’t something he loves. You know he can feel your steadily growing erection as he settles himself onto your lap.

He slowly wraps his arms around your shoulders, letting you take him in. Your gaze drags from his face, slightly flushed but otherwise composed, down to legs. He’s wearing a jean skirt and flannel with his hair tied up as per usual. When he’d talked in the bar, the first time, all loose lips and defenses down, he’d told you about wanting to wear a dress. You suppose he’ll work himself up to that.  

Once you know he won’t run, you unlock your hand from his and let your hands slide under the hem of the skirt, where it falls near his knees.  

“Outfit’s a bit plain, ain’t it?” 

“No it isn’t,” you counter before leaning in to kiss his neck sweetly, sliding your hand further up his thigh. Rust twitches in your lap, “it’s pretty, and you love it,” you murmur against his skin. 

He doesn’t deny it; melts against your body, humming softly as you bring a hand to cup his half hard cock.  

“Shit,” he hisses, low and sweet. You move your hands away from him, holding him steady with one hand and cupping his face with the other as you kiss him sweetly. His mustache rubs against your skin, tickling you, and you can taste the sweet tea he sipped on earlier, an attempt to hide the flavor of his smokes under sweetness. 

“Touch me,” he growls against your lips, grinding into your cock. You’ve fucked him enough that he knows to add a soft, “please,” if he really wants anything. And he does, for you imagine he’s been wanting this for a long time.  

Looking down you can see the way his erection tents the skirt and you moan. “Yeah, you’re looking real good, baby,” you praise softly.   

Rust watches with bated breath as you bunch his skirt up around his waist, and laugh softly at the sight of the briefs he normally wears underneath.  

“You didn’t get any panties to match your pretty outfit?” you tease gently, fingering at the soft, simple fabric. Rust looks elsewhere, swallows heavy, 

“Nah. Looked at ‘em at the store,” he swallows again, “was gonna get some. Didn’t know if you would’a liked me wearin’ them.”  

“I’d like seeing you in anything,” you hum, “get yourself some next time, if you want. You could get yourself a pretty little bra too, if you want it,” you lick your lips imagining him in a little matching set. Rust must think it’s funny, you fantasizing about him in such a state, as he laughs a little. 

“Perv,” he huffs, trying to sound like he’s had enough of you, but it’s all laced with affection. Rust pushes your head towards his chest, cutting off any rebuttal you’d had on your lips.

Your hands leave his waist, moving up to unbutton his shirt. His breath is steady and sure as you go down the buttons, one by one. Once his body’s revealed to you, you kiss between his pecs, fingers lightly tracing the scar on his stomach, the freshest one, that’s only just started to fade. 

It’s then that his breath hitches, a hiccup in the scene, a ripple in the fantasy that he wants tonight. You move your hand quickly down to his hips once again, like it was never there to begin with, and take his nipple into your mouth.  

“Shit,” he cusses again, clutching onto the back of your shirt.  

“Like having your tits sucked on, pretty girl?” you ask softly, ending your sentence with a lick to his spit slicked, hardened nipple.  

“Yeah,” he responds bluntly, his voice all soft and thick with lust. You reward his honesty by sucking him into your mouth, grazing his nipple with your teeth. Rust groans softly, drawing mindless shapes on your back with shaky fingers as you warm him up.  

“Fuck, man, more,” he finally groans through gritted teeth once you’ve thoroughly given attention to each pec, littering his chest with kisses between sucking and nibbling on his skin. 

“That’s not what you said you wanted to call me tonight, pretty girl,” you hum, looking up at him. Rust inhales heavily, shuddering as he lets go of his breath. 

“Please,” and there’s a long pause, where you rub circles into his hips and give him time to work out what he wants, “daddy.” 

And fuck, it sounds so good, twinged with his southern drawl; a little shaky now but you’ll get him crying it later tonight. “There we go,” you praise easily, leaning up to kiss him softly. Rust whines at the feeling of your lips against his, then again when you slip your hand into his underwear and take hold of his cock.  

“How do you want me, darling?” you ask gently, giving long, slow strokes to his cock. Rust whines, low in the back of his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows spit in his mouth.  

“Fuck, want you on the bed,” you let out an approving hum and Rust twitches in your hand, “I wantcha over me, wanna be on my hands and knees.” You give his dick a quick squeeze, running your thumb over the tip, wiping away the pre leaking there.  

“We can do that Rust,” you pull his underwear back up, over his leaking cock, and squeeze his ass, “think you can walk pretty girl?” 

“Fuckin’ course I can,” he huffs. 

“Then get up and go. I’ll follow you,” you promise, unperturbed by the bite in his words.  

On shaky legs he eases himself from your lap, and slowly he walks away from you towards the bedroom. You watch him go, entranced by the way his skirt swishes from side to side as his hips sway, squeezing yourself in your pants at the sight of it. 

Rust stops as he reaches the doorway, for just a moment. He doesn’t look back at you though; he knows you’ll be quick to follow.  

You stand as soon as he’s out of sight, snatching a—now near empty—pack of camels, and following him to the bedroom.  

You find him laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, clutching the fabric of his skirt in balled up fists.  

“Having second thoughts, Rust?” you ask softly, joining him on the bed. He snaps out of his haze, looking at you with the softest eyes.  

“No, just thinkin’” he reaches out, linking his arms around your neck and pulling you into a kiss. “Just thinkin’ ‘bout you inside me. If you’d hurry up, I wouldn’t have to think so much,” and that’s not the truth (at least not the whole truth), but you drop it for now.  

Kissing him again, you toss the pack of cigarettes to the bedside table, and hold his hips, making yourself comfortable between his legs.  

“Thought you wanted to be on your hands and knees?” you mumble against his lips. Rust grunts then bites your bottom lip. Brat.  

“Alright, I get it,” you say as you pull away from him. You tug his skirt and underwear down, helping him out of them, then tossing them to the side. Leaning over, you grab lube from the bedside dresser.  

“Relax baby, let me get you ready,” you hum softly, coating your fingers. Rust watches you intently, his brows furrowing when you press a finger against his hole.  

“Christ. Fuckin’ cold,” he grunts, though it sounds more whiny than anything.  

“Aw,” you coo, kissing his cheek, “sorry.”  

Rust doesn’t complain any more as you rub slow circles against him, getting him good and relaxed before pressing your finger into him gently.  

He sighs softly, melting into the bed beneath him as you slowly work a finger into his entrance. 

“There we go pretty girl,” you fuck him nice and slow with just one finger, feeling him loosen and relax for you. 

Rust usually goes quiet during this part, his breathing getting heavy and slow. He told you once that he likes to focus on whatever his synesthesia brings forward while you stretch him open. He’d tried to describe what it was like for him when you made him feel good, and you’d told him he sounded awfully poetic, which he’d immediately denied.  

You don’t mind him going quiet, instead focusing on the task at hand, which makes it easier to ignore how painfully hard you are. You kiss his face and neck, murmuring sweet praises as you do.  

“Ready,” he finally gasps, his eyes shooting open. You’ve got three fingers lodged up inside of him, curling to press against his prostate. His cock is leaking against his stomach (and you’re glad you’d unbuttoned his flannel earlier, otherwise he’d have bitched about it staining). He’s definitely ready. 

“Still wanna be on your hands and knees?” you ask as you slowly pull your fingers from him. Rust nods, tugging off the shirt entirely and going to move as soon as he’s empty.  

You’re so fast getting out of your clothes it’s like they’re on fire. You’d nearly gotten dizzy with lust, thinking about how he’d feel twitching and clenching around you as you’d fingered him open.  

Then you’re nestled up behind him, your hands all over his body, taking note of where his skin is soft and where it goes hard with scar tissue.  

“Condom?” you ask, massaging Rust’s ass as you rut your length against his sticky hole.  

“No,” he replies, looking back at you with sharp blue eyes. You lean down and kiss his bare back before lubing your cock and lining up with his hole.  

“Don’t ask me if I’m ready, I’m fuckin’ ready daddy,” he mumbles, holding onto a pillow in front of him.  

Rust’s breath hitches as the blunt head of your cock presses against his hole. You slide in easy. 

“There we go,” you coo softly, pressing into him, “taking me so well.” Rust whines, low and deep as you push into him with little resistance.

“Fuck yeah,” he grunts when your hips meet his ass, balls deep inside of him.  

“That good?” you hum softly, beginning to slowly move your hips, “like having your pussy stuffed?” Rust groans, babbles something incoherent, twitches violently around you.  

“Faster,” he gasps, working himself back against you, “please.”  

You make him wait a moment, getting him really adjusted and comfortable with your length, before snapping your hips into him. Rust chokes, letting out a pleased moan when you start to fuck him into the mattress.  

Carefully, you tug out his hair tie, tossing it elsewhere, then moving his hair to the side, over his shoulder, so you can bend over his body and kiss his shoulder. 

One hand stays steady on his waist, the other sneaks around his body to touch his weeping cock.  

“So wet, Rust,” you murmur against his ear, stroking him in time with your relentless pace “feel so good around me.” He twitches, both around your length and within your hold at that.  

“Daddy,” he keens, his eyes clenched as tight as his white knuckled grip on the pillow is.  

“Perfect, so pretty,” you groan, “fuck, gonna let me cum inside?” He nods, clenching like a vice around you.  

“I’ll cum in ya, make you fuh-full with it sweetheart,” you kiss his skin, rubbing your thumb along the slit of his cock. "Gonna look so good, hah, with it leaking out of your fucked pussy,"

“Please,” he gasps, so soft, but you hear him loud and clear.  

“Want that?" He nods, "Want me cummin’ in you, pretty girl, getting you pregnant?” as soon as the words leave your mouth, you regret saying them. You’re hot all over and your brain is thoroughly muddled with lust, foggy, not thinking about the immediate or long term consequences of what spills from your lips.

“No,” he gasps, eyes shooting open, blue and wild. If his hands weren’t holding onto the pillow they’d be trembling. He chokes, his eyes welling up with tears in a way you’ve seen many times before. You pull back a bit, an apology is going to come ripping out of you, but then Rust is gasping, “yes.”  

“Yeah,” he hiccups again, groans your name and brings a hand down to cling onto your arm, “yeah, wanna baby, fuckin’ please, wanna—” he’s gasping, blinking tears away. You kiss his skin gently,  

“It’s okay baby, it’s okay,” you change your pace, fucking him nice, slow, and deep.

"Fuckin' want it, please," he begs, pleads.

"Darling I'll give you anything."

Rust cranes his neck back then, and you capture his lips in yours. He’s close and you can feel it; he’s breathing heavy, moaning and whining into your mouth, digging his nails into your skin, and clenching around your cock. You’re not far off either, in fact you might’ve been close a couple times now, holding off for him to find his climax first.  

You move your hips, readjust your position, just a fraction, and hit his prostate hard.  

Your name falls from his lips like it’s punched out of him, the only warning you get before Rust is spilling into your hands.  

“Fuck,” he groans, pulling back to bathe in it, “god, daddy.” 

You follow soon after, feeling him milking your cock, working his hips back against your body, needy and fulfilled all at once. 

He lets out a noise akin to a sob as you fill him with cum. You let go of his slowly softening cock, and hold onto his hips tight, picking up the pace to fuck him through your orgasm.

“God Rust, did so good for me,” you groan once your hips slow to a stop, kissing his back affectionately as you ease yourself out of him. Rust doesn’t respond, which you’re used to.

He turns over with a satisfied sigh, leaning up against the headboard. You slide up next to him, and Rust lets you kiss him lovingly before you grab his smokes and a lighter. 

Passing Rust his ash tray, he sets it to his side before taking a cigarette loosely between his fingers. He has you light it for him, gazing at you as he sucks in that first breath of smoke.

He blows away from you, but leans against your body, knocking his head against your shoulder. You make yourself comfortable next to him, wrapping an arm around his body, tugging him close.  

He snuggles up next to you, a closeness you only came to know after months of this. There’s a peaceful quiet between you two, and it’s not until he’s halfway through his cigarette that you decide to break that. 

“You wanna tell me what you were really thinking about back there?” you ask softly, talking about when you’d first entered the room, because that’s easier to touch than the baby stuff. You massage circles into his skin, where you can touch, letting him take his time with answering you.  

Rust doesn’t respond for a long time. In fact, he’s smokes nearly the entire cigarette before licking his lips and clearing his throat. 

“I felt real—” he chokes, coughing to cover it, “felt real good. Felt pretty. I guess. Was just thinkin’ about that.”  

“You’re always pretty, you know that?” Rust lets out a disbelieving laugh at your words, snubbing out what little is left of his cigarette “I’m serious.” 

“Been told that father time wasn't so kind on me,” he grumbles. You kiss the top of his head, and hold him closer to your body.  

“I guess I’ll have to tell you that more often. That you’re pretty. Until you believe me.” 

“Sure,” and he might've wanted that to come out as dismissive, but Rust can't help the fondness that seeps into it. “Get me cleaned up first, then you can think about callin’ me pretty, daddy.” 

[annoyangle]

IT'S ALL THAT GUY'S PROBLEM NOW! WHEEEEEHEHHEHEHE!! CALL FRANCOIS, TELL HIM... TELL HIM BILLY'S COMIN' BACK!

[bisexualalistairtheirin]

I don't think much of Vows & Vengeance's writing overall, but I also don't think that's too related to Nadia, so it's confusing to see she's all that's being talked about when ppl discuss the writing not being great.

[oflgtfol]

i’ve been a fan of cosmic horror for a few years now but it’s always been specifically in the environment vs man variety. i am a firm believer that there is deep seated horror wired into the fabric of the universe and the world that we live in that does not require any sort of creature to be the cause of it. i most commonly discuss this with regards to caves but before i was into cave horror i was into space horror and in my mind they are the two sides of the same coin forming a subset of the larger cosmic horror genre

and so i haven’t dipped my feet that much into the cosmic horror of the fucked up creature, “lovecraftian” variety like at all. and so yes its kind of killing me that all the elder gods mentioned in malevolent i assumed were original to this podcast. it completely went over my fucking head that this being a lovecraftian inspired podcast meant it was actually pulling from prior cosmic horror mythos. i cant fucking believe the king in yellow is like a real ass guy

[petit-etoile]

Congrats on the 200 Followers man! Here's my drabble for ya, go nuts on what you wanna write from this; “Kiss me and/or shut up.”

your  heart understood  mine

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount:  919 content warnings: ne.il new.bon said something about little astarions once & now i have Thoughts other tags: canon compliant, introspection, character study, idiots in love, established relationship, gender neutral tav, human!tav archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils, be added to the taglist here

summary: 'When am I happiest?' / 'When I'm looking at you.'

‘So,’ Astarion says casually, staring at his nails. ‘What do you think the answers truly are?’

‘The answers to what?’ you ask.

‘Don’t play coy,’ he says. ‘The little…love test. I was rather pleased you didn’t expose me in front of a stranger, but now I’m curious.’

You remember Zethino now. You take a moment to glance at him, though your hands are still busy sewing away at a tear in your armor. Astarion is watching you while wearing a guarded half-smile, neither interested in his nails nor in your messy stitches. Your cheeks heat up and you look back down at your uneven handiwork. Your throat tightens a little.

When you had asked him if he had wanted to participate with you, you thought Astarion would reject it. It seemed silly, so out of element for the both of you that the thought of him genuinely agreeing never crossed your mind. Yet now he questions you about it, questions you about your answers, and you feel more nervous now than you had when Zethino called you stira. Astarion takes your armor from you and begins patching it himself, fed up with your clumsy stitches.

‘The heart is fraught, so let us begin with the joyous,’ Astarion recites sarcastically. ‘When is he happiest, my love?’

‘I don’t think you’ve ever been happy,’ you say quietly.

He hums. ‘Well, that’s mostly the correct answer,’ he says. ‘But you’re missing something. I know you can guess it if you really put your mind to it.’

‘You’re happiest with me,’ you say bravely.

You look him deep in his eyes, holding your breath. He laughs and nods, chuckling to himself while he tries to salvage a piece of leather. You think he might be blushing, but it’s hard to tell with how pale he is.

‘Many things delight the heart,’ Astarion continues, mimicking her monotonous timbre. ‘Only one makes it sing! Tell me, my sweet, what does he desire more than anything.’

Revenge. You had told the dryad he wanted revenge, but didn’t go into detail, not in front of someone unfamiliar. You watch as he untangles the thread, his hair soft and elegant, his hands assured and practiced. There lives a colony of butterflies in your chest. Your heart is beating so loud you’re certain he can hear it.

‘A life with me,’ you say.

‘You,’ he agrees.

‘A gaggle of little Astarions trailing around,’ you add.

Astarion looks up sharply, his mouth hanging open slightly. You press your lips together immediately and try to think of an apology but there’s something beneath his careful façade. You were right. You realize it now. You press a hand to your chest as if to stop your heart from pounding. Astarion wants a family, and he wants you, and even beneath that desire for revenge and for strength, once he succeeds then all he wants is you. He looks back down at your clothes in his lap and laughs shyly. You think you might faint.

‘The last, um, question,’ you stutter. You realize your palms are sweaty and blush.

‘Fear sits in the soul of all,’ Astarion says finally, voice soft. ‘To tame it, we must name it. What is his deepest fear?’

This time, you feel as though the answer isn’t so easy. Beneath the fear of Cazador and the fear of the mindflayers, there is something else brewing. You’re afraid to even mention it, but he’s curious and genuine. You slide closer to him and pull part of your armor into your lap so that you share the burden. He presses his nose to your temple and you distract yourself by touching the part of your armor he’s managed to save from your haphazard repairing.

‘You’re afraid of never breaking the cycle,’ you say carefully. You bite your bottom lip. ‘You’re worried that after all this rage, there’s no relief.’

‘Shut up,’ Astarion says.

There is little to no heat in it. You shake your head.

‘You’re afraid the you before Cazador is no longer there,’ you say. ‘And you’re afraid that because I am human, that there’s a ghost of you that comes after me.’

‘Shut up,’ Astarion insists.

‘Kiss me,’ you whisper. You turn to meet his lips.

Astarion presses a sweet kiss to your lips. You cherish it no matter how fleeting the kiss is. The silence, the quiet sorrow. It’s almost worth it for how he gently presses kisses against your temple and into your hair. He will never confess that what you said is true, and you’re almost thankful.

‘My turn,’ you say, clearing your throat. ‘When am I happiest?’

‘When I’m looking at you,’ Astarion says without hesitation.

‘O  — Oh.’

‘You desire a lifetime with me,’ he says with a practiced blasé shrug. ‘And little Astarions of course.’

You flush. ‘Shut up.’

‘And,’ he adds, ‘you’re deathly afraid of spiders.’

He laughs and kisses you again, and you wish you could bottle up the sound in a music box to play it back when you’re feeling lonely. You know what Zethino meant now when she said your bond beat with pleasure. You blossom beneath his careful musings.

‘See? We’re close as can be,’ Astarion murmurs. He rests his chin on your shoulder and brushes his thumb against your thigh. ‘But darling, if we’re going to have a lifetime together, we really must work on your stitching.’

‘Only if you’ll teach me,’ you say.

‘Oh, I’ll be the best teacher you’ve ever had,’ Astarion agrees.

[cohlecosa]

longlegs, man. damn.

[versegm]

“Cahors…” I reach out, set my hand on their elbow. Squeeze. “Are you okay?”

Their tail lies flat on the ground. Defeated. “I’m… I’m the last one, Neha.” Their voice breaks on my name. “These sights, our stories, our cultures… the only things that survived are what I carry in my memory. And when I die, it will all die with me.”

They turn to me again, voice dripping with rain. "If there is no one to witness this, if there is no one to remember it. Isn't it as if it had never existed?"

… No. No, that can’t be right.

"It doesn't mean it didn't matter.” I deny. “It doesn't mean it cannot matter.” I slide my hand down, my fingers between theirs. “You and me, together.” I struggle with words. Thoughts pile up in my head, too many, too fast, for me to process. I need them to understand. I need them to understand. “You said we were witnesses. Carcosa is as much a part of Cahors as Cahors is a part of Carcosa. Even if it’s only just a little, what you pass on to me, I pass it to my world. Stories or sayings and whatever- even if it’s just a little.”

I look up to the sky. “These stars have a longer reach than this world.”

The one from Carcosa, from Horny Tales of Horned People, Verse Atoui

[transman-badass]

Oh boy! The OC recipe game finally reached me! Now I have an excuse to do some research on food in the early half of the 20th century!

... Most of it will be done tomorrow though, because I am exhausted from all the shit I had to do today. 😅 Alas, food is one of my favorite subjects so it'll be hard to choose...

[pallid-mask-element]

OOC

Ninth EPPRBCU blog woooooooo. Blog ran by @john-tendrils-exclam-the-eighth, again. The Pallid Mask is called The Stranger, and they use any pronouns.

TAGS

The shadows lengthen in Carcosa: Interaction tag

But stranger still is lost Carcosa: Lore tag

Must die unheard in dim Carcosa: Ask tag

Shall dry and die in lost Carcosa: Shitpost tag

DESCRIPTION

The Stranger wears a large yellow robe, that seems to be made of yellow parchment. It has strips coming off that end in blue. His hands and feet are visible, appearing to wear some kind of golden scaled armour. Their face is obscured by a white ceramic mask, with gold streaks covering it. Galaxies can be seen beneath the eyeholes. She stands at exactly eight foot five and wields a large scythe with a golden blade and stone handle.

The Visitor From Carcosa

The Visitor From Carcosa wears a yellow business suit, with a black tie. He wears a masquerade mask that appears to be made of gold.

His skin appears to be made of old slightly yellow parchment, with all his features expertly drawn on.

Uses he/him.