#if he were a canon companion RIP .

[archivestarlyht]

people in the party who don’t have to experience the fullest extent of sol’rys’ sparkling personality™ : lae’zel, karlach, maybe astarion, animals, clerics of lolth, someone who romances him.

people in the party who do have to experience the fullest extent of sol’rys’ sparkling personality™ : everyone else.

[killerpancakeburger]

Outpace the dawn

Gif by @silverformymonsters

Summary: BG3 Spawn ending Fix It fic! Because I refuse to let him deal with the sunlight alone.

Pairing: Astarion x Reader

Warnings/tags: SPOILERS obvsly, angst/comfort, non canon compliant.

Words count: 936 words.

A/N: It should be Gender Neutral, but if I fcked up since I tend to write from my pov, you can tell me and I'll correct it.

Yes the title is from that Hozier song. It got me thinking how Astarion would need to outpace the dawn from now on.

Astarion’s voice cut through the silence that followed your last battle, as your little group was gathering on a pontoon.

“So, what’s next for us?”

You had been thinking about what was to come for a while, actually. Probably longer than any of your companions have. Some might argue that it wasn’t the time for that, that you should have been completely focused on defeating the Netherbrain. But you couldn’t help it; it was a matter of life and death - Astarion’s life and death. Or rather, undeath and death. Since you’ve known that the brain was within reach, it had become an omnipresent apprehension in your mind.

The slaughter of the brain sounded the death knell of the tadpoles, and their disappearance inevitably meant that Astarion’s resistance to the sun would vanish like it never existed. Like nature rightfully reasserting itself by getting rid of this aberration that had been a vampire walking in the sun in the first place. 

This knowledge has been haunting you for days and nights now. It was your first thought when you woke up and your last when you fell asleep. A knot of dread had settled inside your stomach, making it hard to fall asleep and to interact normally with the source of your worries. And right now, following Astarion’s question, the knot in your guts got even tighter, even more painful.

At any moment, any second from now on, your vampire lover would catch fire as surely as straw in the summer. 

It was fine. You planned. You prepared for this. You procured a large, thick, hooded coat that was guaranteed to block the sunrays. It was even imbued with magic that made it impossible to tear, pierce, or rip in any way. It hadn’t been easy to acquire, but Astarion didn’t need to know that. 

You were on the lookout for any sign of burning, wound as tightly as a spring while still trying to appear normal to the others.

“The world is our oyster, and she has many pearls we can choose from.” claimed Astarion, blissfully unaware of his fate.

He illustrated his remarks by spreading his arms far apart with vigor. The genuine excitement, the happiness in his voice almost made you sick to your stomach. Astarion’s displays of authentic joy were few and far in between, and this one would end as soon as it started. As fast as a vampire spawn left in the sun, as a pile of ashes on the ground.

You could barely bear to look at him. You didn’t have the heart to remind him of his imminent doom. He obviously had forgotten about it for the time being, and while the cruel reality was taking up almost all the space in your brain, like blaring alarms, you’d be damned if you took away from him his last, his only instants of light and warmth, of complete freedom, by reminding him. No Cazador, no tadpole, no mind control, no deadly sunlight, no slave and no master. Just an immense ocean of liberty, intoxicating, vertiginous.

“I honestly don’t mind what we do, once we get to- Ow!”

You instantly straightened up at the sound, like a wild animal who picked up the sound of an upcoming danger. For a terrible second, there was a twisted part of you who felt relieved. Finally, your gnawing, agonizing wait was coming to an end. Then, swiftly, the relief disappeared, flooded with your concern for Astarion. 

“What the- Oh no. Oh Gods.”

Already his hands were fuming, his beautiful pale face sprinkled with silververy cracks like delicate porcelain. He had always looked more like a piece of art than a living being after all. The frantic panic in his voice was like a punch to the chest. In all your battles and struggles together, you had never seen him so horrified. Even against Cazador. Even a True Vampire had to yield to the Sun.

He threw you a harrowing look, like he was bidding you goodbye before bolting. As if you were going to leave him to deal with this alone. Already you were rushing towards him, the life-saving coat in hands. You wrapped it around him as fast as your hands would allow, put the hood on, and gently grabbed him by the shoulder, turning him so his covered back would take the blunt of the light.

“There we go, you explained softly. This will block the sun.” 

“You’ve got this, and I’ve got you.” you added, mirroring his own words.

You were smiling sadly, trying to be supportive, to not add to his burden. The look in his eyes was hard to describe, an intense blend of heartbreak, vulnerability, and gratefulness. 

“Well… It was… it was nice while it lasted.” he managed to articulate, his voice breaking like he was about to cry. 

You could feel your heart break in response like an echo.

The magic sunproof coat was in no way a solution. Barely a bandage on a sinking ship. You had to get out of the sun, quickly.

“Come on, love. Let’s get you some shadow, uh?”

Your encouraging smile was as fragile as a spiderweb. You could feel it teetering on the edge of an abyss. 

Astarion simply nodded, like he didn’t trust his voice anymore. It was fine. He was already expressing so much through his gaze.

You put your hand on the small of his back, barely applying any pressure, threw a telling look over your shoulder at your other companions, and you both started your search for protective darkness between the walls of Baldur’s Gate.

[shima-draws]

Tell us about the AU! I know you want to!!

WAUGHHH. AGHHH. OKAY. OKAY SO. I've been watching one of my favorite content creators play through the DLC. Early on in the playthrough he was tossing around theories and said "Maybe KIERAN is Ogerpon??" and that gave me a BRILLIANT THOUGHT.

Ogerpon Kieran AU.......

I've already thought of a very long and complex backstory for this LOL but to simplify it. Before the ogre and its human companion came to Kitakami, said companion was actually living a very happy life with his child. However, they were caught up in the midst of a great war that ended up taking the child's life. The man was so overcome with grief that it summoned a great being (I'm thinking Xerneas), who blessed his dead child with new life. And that child was reborn as Ogerpon!! So kinda like how children who get lost in the woods and die are reborn as Phantump.

Fast forward to many many years later. A long chain of events leads to Carmine's grandfather's...father (so, her great-grandpa?) meeting Ogerpon and vowing to make it a new mask, a mystical and powerful mask that could grant wishes. Sadly, Carmine's great-grandpa wasn't able to complete the mask before he died. This project was eventually picked up by Carmine's father (and I have a whole other thing about him but I'm not gonna get into it right now lol). Carmine's father forms a very close bond with Ogerpon as he continues to gather materials to finish the wish mask. He expresses his desire for Ogerpon to finally be able to walk among the villagers with its name cleared, and for Ogerpon to meet his only daughter. He leaves for a journey to find the last material for the mask...and never returns 😔

Carmine's grandfather has a whole complex about the wish mask, but after seeing both his father and his son dedicate so much time and care into completing it, he takes the last material, imbued with the hopes and dreams of his family, and finally finishes the mask. When he presents it to Ogerpon, Ogerpon dons the mask and its wish is granted...it becomes human :") So it becomes Kieran, basically!! Kieran's wish was to be able to say thank you to all of the generations of mask makers that had helped him, and. To be part of their family 🥺 What he doesn't know is that his wish to be human stems from the fact that he already was human, once. But he doesn't remember his life before he was reborn as a Pokemon.

So, Carmine's grandfather happily accepts Kieran and his desire, and takes him home to live with him and Carmine. Note that Kieran is probably around 5-6 at the time, so he's BABY. And Carmine is only about a year or two older. She isn't sure what to think about suddenly getting a new brother, but she's happy to have someone to boss around lmao.

And once a year, during the festival of masks, Kieran lets his facade fall and wanders around as Ogerpon again. Just to keep in touch with his roots haha

So obviously with Kieran being Ogerpon the events of the DLC will play out differently than canon. Kieran slyly compliments the ogre in front of the player and mentions that maybe it's just misunderstood. He's been trying for a while to change the villagers' minds about what happened to him and the Loyal Three all those years ago, but it hasn't been going...too well lol. So when the player shows up, and things start to shift, Kieran gets really excited bc he realizes he finally might be able to clear his name :")

Is this AU silly and dumb as hell? Yes. Does it not really make sense with canon and is full of plot holes? Yes. Am I brainrotting over it anyway? Also yes.

Take a little edit I did of Kieran's official art to fit what I had in mind for the AU ;) I wanted to draw it but I'm at work rn lmao RIP

ALSO LITTLE DOODLE OF THE BOY

ALSO bc of Ogerpon's original gender Kieran probably goes by he/they pronouns in the AU

[thedgeoftheuniverse]

and i believe (because i can see) | post-outbreak!joel x f!reader

prologue — where we find ourselves

He told him how he thought that dog was going to rip her to shreds, and the only thing he could do was stand frozen in place because he’s not the man he used to be, no longer a ruthless killer who could have taken anyone and anything down in his path—he needed Tommy to understand that part. He needed Tommy to know that the only piece left of the man he once knew was the weak, aching flesh and bones sitting in front of him. He was no more capable of taking care of Ellie than he was of Sarah, but he was staring at him as though he were lying.

[ WARNINGS/TAGS ] loss of a child, angst, enemies to friends to lovers, grumpy!joel, angst, eventual smut (minors DNI!!), slow burn, canon-typical violence, cursing, joel miller desperately needs a good therapist and an even better hug, no use of y/n, no physical description of or named reader, shifting pov (see individual parts for warnings per chapter. please let me know if i miss anything. if any of these tags are triggering/upsetting/harmful to your wellbeing in any way, please do NOT interact.)

Winter came suddenly.

The summer had seemed to eternally endure, the heat from the sun leaving you drenched in sweat and with a constant sunburn across the bridge of your nose. The long days of trudging through woods and down back roads left your body hopelessly sapped of all energy and grotesquely deprived of proper hydration. A thin sheen of sweat seemed to permanently coat your body, leaving you feeling sticky and terribly uncomfortable; you had no intentions of concealing your discomfort, opting instead for—as your traveling companion charmingly described—incessant bitching. You've always found peace in the swaying of treetops and the warmth of the sun on your cheeks, but this was extreme, even by your standards. Nevertheless, the everlasting summer faded, as it always does, into an autumn that seemed to only last for a week or two, much to your disappointment.

Fall was stunning; a magnificent sea of yellows, oranges, and reds decorated canopies of trees, eventually falling and littering the ground and making a satisfying crunch underfoot. But then, as it always does, the fleeting autumn gave way to the bitterness of winter. A piece of you thought it came faster this year, as if the Earth was beginning to realize how far back it had fallen and desperately hoped that it could speed along the passage of time to correct some kind of miscalculation—a foolish notion. Nevertheless, you soaked up the fleeting weeks of fall with gratitude before you soured over winter. The harsh weather nestled into your bones, stiffening your joints and drying your skin—your knuckles remained almost permanently cracked and split during winter, regardless of gloves or warm evening fires. Perhaps there was a morbid beauty to the desolation of it all or a metaphor that would bring you some form of understanding for the misery you've endured. 

For the moment, though, you were just freezing.

The small campfire you huddled in front of did little to warm your freezing body; the cold, having seeped well into your skin, stiffened your joints and tinted your fingernails with a purple-ish hue.

“Need to find you a new jacket.” Joel’s voice breaking through the silent night momentarily startled you. You looked at your coat with a huff and recalled the events from that same morning—your once warm, tastefully worn coat now decorated with a large tear down your left arm. Had it not been for the thick material shielding you from the maw of that Clicker, you would likely have already turned or been shot by him.

“Not before you get some new boots, old man.” You lazily motioned towards his shoes, raising an eyebrow as he began his nightly task of taping rubber to leather.

“Funny.” He clearly was not amused. “I’m serious. You're gonna freeze to death.”

“Well, if you can find one out here,” you gestured to the expansive forest surrounding you, “then be my guest.” He rolled his eyes at you, though with less disdain than he used to; if anything, it was affectionate. “You could share some of that whiskey if you don't want me so cold.” He passed the tarnished silver flask to you with another roll of his eyes, and you took a swig of the smokey, bitter liquid. It was far from high quality; in fact, it was hardly drinkable, but it succeeded in filling your gut with a fuzzy warmth that spread through your body after another sip.

You noticed Joel staring at Ellie with a fearful glint in his eyes as she stood atop a rather large boulder, staring at green lights illuminating the sky. He was about to say something; you could only guess it was going to be an attempt to get her back on the ground. “Give her another minute. Who knows when she'll see it again?" He paused, looking as though he still wanted to say something. You could practically feel the anxiety radiating from his body. You knew he would deny it until the bitter end, but he worried for Ellie as if she were his own child; however reluctantly their relationship started, he’s wrapped around her little fingers, even if he hadn’t caught onto the fact. A part of you wished he had developed similar affections for you, but Joel seemed to have come to only tolerate you. Sure, he was not half as surly or aggressive towards you as when you first met—you were shocked he did not kill you on the spot, considering your previous affiliations—and he would engage in lighthearted conversation, but you sensed an underlying disdain.

The longer you traveled with him, the more it made your heart ache.

This was not part of the plan.

A high-pitched whistle broke your thoughts, followed by his gruff command: “Come on down from there. You’re gonna break your neck.” Reluctantly and with a hefty sigh, Ellie made her way from the rock after sparing a final, unobscured glance at the sky.

The rest of the evening passed in mostly amusing conversation. You chose not to participate, though you intently listened. You saw how Joel tensed up when Ellie asked what they—no, he—would do after the cure; it was a question that, until less than a year ago, was wholly absurd and could never be answered. His answer was not surprising. You never expected Joel to be the kind of man with ambitions of settling down with someone, living in a big city, or pursuing anything more than a life of solitude. The sheep, however, made you giggle to yourself, and he shot you an unserious glare in response. You also saw the way Ellie’s face lit up as she talked about space and “Sally Fuckin’ Ride” and the moon and stars, and the sadness (or was that guilt?) in Joel’s eyes when the conversation inevitably shifted to the loss of Henry and Sam, and how Ellie seemed to somehow feel responsible. It wasn’t long after that that she decided it was time for bed. 

“Do you wanna take first watch or second?” 

Joel sighed. “I’ll do both.” 

“No, you won’t. I’ll take second.” You piped up. Something in Joel’s eyes told you he would not be waking you up for the second watch, a debate you would have to settle at a later date.

“Get some sleep. Dream of..." he trailed off for a moment. “Sheep ranches on the moon.”

/ / /

Joel, in fact, did not wake you up for second watch. Not because Joel himself took both first and second, but because he fell asleep less than three hours into the night. He awoke from a fitful sleep with a start, distress seeping into his bones as he realized the sun had risen, he was asleep, and he did not know where Ellie or you were. He shot awake, his eyes glazed over with panic as he looked to you, still asleep on the ground, and then to Ellie, who was standing watch with the rifle that was much too big for her in her hands. An overwhelming feeling of guilt accompanied the anxiety in his gut—try as he might, he never seemed to stop failing. 

“Still mumbling in your sleep.” She observed. “I woke up early. You guys were passed out, so I took second watch.”

Joel’s words were rushed, betraying his normally stoic demeanor. “You gotta wake me up if that happens.” He slowly stood up, the unavoidable ache in his lower back and knees seemingly worse that morning, perhaps from walking the last hundred or so miles, or maybe it was the rock that dug into his back during the night. “You can’t do things like this.” He said, gently nudging his companion’s still sleeping body on the ground with his foot; his poor back would not be tolerating him leaning down to wake you with a gentle grazing of his fingers or nudge of your shoulder. He chose to ignore the fact that he always felt afraid to touch you—not because he thought you were fragile, but rather because you made him feel as though he was. Your skin made his hands feel like he was electrified, on fire, or frozen in place, and sometimes it was all three. Sometimes, he wished he had left you back in Boston, and sometimes he wished he had found you twenty years ago; on more rare occasions, he wished he had met you thirty years ago—when he was still whole and he was still alive, Joel Miller and Sarah were still alive, and he would’ve seen you as you were meant to be. Those thoughts never lasted for long, but they made his stomach turn nonetheless. 

"Uh, I can. I just did.” Joel had grown very familiar with the sarcastic smile she flashed at him.

“I’m responsible for you.” “She is too; don’t see her complaining.” His gaze flitted back down to you, barely awake and wholly confused by the situation at hand.

Joel took the rifle from Ellie, who was attempting to explain her precautions as she stood watch. “You wake me up next time.” “Yes, sir.” She responded.

That day started the same as each one for the last eight—was it closer to ten?—months had: a grueling trek across wooden terrain in what Joel hoped was the right direction, consistent sarcastic quips from Ellie, and your soothing presence at his side. It was a normal day, a normal fucking day, and he was mostly on course again, and everything was normal, normal, normal, and for the life of him, Joel could not fathom how he managed to find himself sitting in a bar drinking whiskey from a glass with his little brother. There were the horses and the dogs, and the all-consuming fear that Ellie was going to die and that you were going to die too; the knowledge that you would be after Ellie, and you would be lucky if the only thing these people did was kill you. Then he was hugging his brother for the first time in years, and everything felt fuzzy, and his stomach ached worse than his knees.

“Thanks for still giving a shit about me.” As if he ever stopped thinking about him. As if he hadn’t spent nearly a year in search of him. As if he were not the last thing of his old life that he had left, and he wouldn’t fight for that until the bitter end. And then he was asking about Tess (she’s good, she's fine), and it felt like a punch to the gut, and he was asking about Ellie (she’s the daughter of some Firefly muckety-muck). (There's a payment.) He could no longer breathe, and then he asked about you, and he was at a loss for words. What could he possibly say to justify you? Sure, your previous affiliations are what initially convinced him to bring you along, but he could have easily gotten what little information you had without trekking across the country with you. He could have left you at Bill and Frank’s or in Kansas City or in a random spot in the woods early in the morning; he did not have to take you with him. There was nothing in it for him; there was nothing to gain except another mouth to feed and the knowledge that you could have killed him in his sleep at any time you pleased. 

And then Joel was seeing red because, how dare he say that? 

How dare Tommy expect him to be happy when he was being handed the very thing that destroyed his life? He was there. He watched his niece scream and cry and bleed out as he pleaded for help; he was there after he tried to follow her into the unknown, and he was the one to clean the wound on his temple. He was there for it all, and then he left. How dare he sit back with his comfortable life, his house, and his family after Joel had lost everything? How could he sit there and judge him after he compromised every moral he thought he held near and dear to keep him alive? Sarah’s blood had not been washed from his hands before he committed what little was left of him to keeping his little brother safe. How dare Tommy find the life that Joel lost?

 He stormed out of the bar with that same goddamn feeling in his heart, and he thought he was going to die there for a moment—he had to have, at least for a second, because Sarah looked so real in that moment. The rest of that day passed in a blur. Joel found himself sitting in an old shed, the smell of wood and tools flooding his senses as he grew frustrated, fruitlessly trying to repair his tattered shoes.

 “The guys said I might find you here.” Somehow, seeing his face again, Joel could not bring himself to continue to stoke his anger towards his little brother, however fixed the scowl on his face was. “Figured you could use these.” An awkward silence filled the room from his lack of response, but what was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to tell Tommy, his brother, that he almost hated him for finding a better life without him in it? “I shouldn’t have said what I said... I don’t even believe it. I know you’re happy for me; it's just—it’s complicated for you. I’m sorry.”

 In that moment, Joel did what he had always done best and ignored it. “This ride to the university—is it a suicide mission?”

 “No. It’s dangerous, but it’s nothin’ you can’t handle. Just prepare and do what you do.” He said it as if he were not a shadow of what he used to be. As if he did not freeze when Ellie was in danger, and he didn’t fall asleep on watch, and his hands were still strong, his back didn’t ache, and he wasn’t holding back a torrent of tears.

 “You’ve had people go that way and come back?”

“All of ‘em.” He has said too much, “What is this?” And god, how was he supposed to hold this any longer? Where was he supposed to sit the last eight months down—or was it nine?—if not with him, that would not leave a path of destruction behind him. Tess, and Ellie, and the Fireflies, and Bill and Frank, and Henry and Sam, and Kansas City, and you? It was swallowing him whole, ripping him open from the inside; it was so heavy and he was so weak, more sorrow than man, and he could no longer bear the weight on his own.

 “She’s immune.”

 “What?” 

“Ellie. She got infected, but she didn’t get sick.” He looked like he was ready to chase the girl down and put a bullet between her eyes. “Tommy. Tommy, I saw her get bit myself. That was months ago. Months. She’s immune.”

 “From the beginning.” And he did. He told Tommy everything—about Tess; about Marlene and the Fireflies and how Tess made him swear to take her; about Kansas City and how Ellie saved his life; and Henry and Sam and how someone else had to save Ellie’s life because he could hardly hear out of his right ear and how desolate Henry’s eyes were after he shot his little brother (he overlooked how Ellie’s scream felt like a knife in his gut). He told him how he thought that dog was going to rip her to shreds, and the only thing he could do was stand frozen in place because he’s not the man he used to be, no longer a ruthless killer who could have taken anyone and anything down in his path—he needed Tommy to understand that part. He needed Tommy to know that the only piece left of the man he once knew was the weak, aching flesh and bones sitting in front of him. He was no more capable of taking care of Ellie than he was of Sarah, but he was staring at him as though he were lying.

“I was so afraid.” Joel could not hear himself speaking anymore. He knew the words were leaving his lips—he could see Tommy react to the syllables as the sound waves traveled through the air and to his ears, but he could not hear them. The ringing in his ears had never been so loud. “You think I can still handle things, but I’m not who I was.” A single crack in his voice. “I’m weak.” And god, he still looked at him like he wanted to argue against the points he so clearly laid out. “Lately, there are these moments when the fear comes up outta nowhere and my heart… feels like it's stopped…

“And I have dreams. Every night." 

“What kinda dreams?" 

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Another crack in his voice. Another reminder that he is incapable. “I just know that when I wake up, I’ve lost somethin’.” Tears began to fall down his cheeks. “I’m failin’ in my sleep. That’s all I do. It’s all I’ve ever done is fail them again and again and again.” Them?

“You want me to take her.”

“I’m just gonna get her killed. I know it. I have to leave her.”

“And what about her?” Joel’s heart truly stopped at the mention of you. “You still haven’t said a damn word about her or why she’s with you. Who is she?” He took in a shaky breath. He knew that Tommy would ask about you; he had sent a silent prayer that he would gloss over you. He could not bear to face the truth about you.

“What about her?” Denial was always his closest friend, but it seemed determined to betray him. 

“Joel.” He wanted to seem indifferent; he wanted to lie, but the truth came spilling out of his mouth the same way hot tears streamed down his weathered cheeks. It did not ask for permission—it took whatever it wanted from Joel. The truth wanted everything from him this time; it begged to be free from its shackles. What was he supposed to say about you? How could he justify this? How could he explain that you had completely bewitched him without him having ever known until it was too late? How could he tell Tommy everything without admitting a truth he had tried so desperately to ignore?

“C’mon. From the beginning.”

[a/n: buckle up we're gonna be breaking hearts here]

MASTERLIST // AO3

[viamutationis]

OH GREY WARDEN, WE'RE REALLY IN IT NOW.

ID in alt text, notes and oc infodump under the cut! PLEASE ask me about them they're my new babygirl of the week

Yeah. Ben-Hassrath Cousland is wild, I know. This was one of those 3 am thoughts that became a beloved oc and now they're my canon protag. Basically: She was being trained to be House Cousland's left hand to spy within the noble courts and intercept threats to her family's rule, and a large part of that meant being covertly sent to Orlais to train as a bard. Buuuut the bardmaster she studied under was an undercover Hissrad, and she wound up being converted to the Qun by her. Teenage Laurentia was in a spot where, like every kid, she was questioning the Andrastian beliefs she was raised with and all the unfair things she noticed in her society, so she was very open to the Qun.

Her role once she was sent back home was basically just to send reports detailing the inner workings of the Ferelden nobility and to be aware of any Tal-Vashoth activity in the area. Pretty benign shit, and the former task is what she was doing for her family anyway. Still recruited by the Wardens the normal way, via Duncan doing his "come with me if you want to live" shtick after the fam dies. None of the Blight Crew find her out save for Leliana, because Leli knows everything. She only reveals it to Sten just as he's about to hop on a ship back home LMAOOO.

They're genuinely very compassionate and sweet. A lil whimsical. Highly loyal and protective. Very lawful good (emphasis on lawful). It's a weird sort of internal reconciling - they are genuinely kind to most people and love listening to others' issues and helping them out. It just so happens that this makes them an excellent spy, because they're exactly the sort of person people feel comfortable opening up to, and they see no issue with passing relevant information on to the powers they spy for. The kindness is genuine, but it's also a tool, if that makes sense. Their duty comes before any attachments. On that Master Coercion grindset.

No romance because they're aro, but they do have a little homoerotic espionage cat and mouse goin on with Leliana (singing campfire songs and trading stories and braiding each others' hair included). They get along with all their companions besides Morrigan and Oghren, and even Morrigan is more just.. cordial passive aggression.

They exist in the same worldstate as my Orlesian Warden-Commander Gavriel! He's a veteran warden who joins them on the road after Lothering because his ass snuck into Ferelden to help the Wardens solo, and then he'll later become the WC while they become Arlessa because they have more political experience and he has more military experience.

They generally make the nicey nice choices, albeit not where magic is concerned, and even then it's purely out of an abundance of caution. They do NOT annul the Circle, they do that secret third option where you tell Greagoir there could still be blood mages so he puts the mages into quarantine and Wynne still joins you but the game counts it as siding with the Templars. They let Isolde kill Connor, rip lil dude. (Not like they have a choice, they would rather that than the blood magic anyway, but they kill Jowan soooooo.) Besides that, all nicey choices. Bhelen on the throne, Anvil destroyed, Zathrian reconciles and everybody lives, Ashes are not tainted, Loghain recruited, Alistair and Anora rule jointly, Gavriel and Morrigan know they'd never agree to the Dark Ritual so they do it behind Laurentia's back and nobody dies lmao.

Small notes on their disabilities: Wynne was the healer that did their cleft lip surgeries as a kid!! Their last surgery was when they were 6, so they do remember her :D & their hearing aids are lyrium-infused lazurite, the runes are all enchantments that combine to make it collect and amplify sound like an actual HA does. I love bullshitting magic technology.

Their mabari is named Princess, because they got her when they were 10, okay.

[petit-etoile]

Congrats on 200 followers!!!

I've got a drabble idea

Tav has foiled Ethels plans one too many times So it's only fair she return the favor.

She seems to love giving out apples, it would be a shame if poor Tav we're to eat one unknowingly 🍎

the  folly of  a human heart

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 945 content warnings: none other tags: canon compliant, introspection, character study, hurt/comfort, whump,  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: 'I was going to offer Auntie Ethel her freedom,' you say, 'in exchange for a wish.'

‘I wanted a cure  —  ’

‘You wanted immortality.’

‘I wanted to save  —  ’

‘You wanted forever,’ Auntie Ethel says condescendingly. ‘I’ve given it to you, sweetums. Don’t you like it?’

You don’t like it. Your stomach is cramping so hard you can hardly stand, and every time you try to take a step, nothingness crunches at the base of your skull. Your vision has gone from blurry to nonexistent. You try to follow her cackle. You try to follow her anything, but all you can hear is keening from a wounded animal. You claw at your stomach and stumble forward.

How utterly stupid you’ve been.

Had you asked any of your companions, they would have told you that trusting Auntie Ethel after everything you’ve done to her was insanity. It’s your own fault. You have no one else to blame for how miserable you feel. But she had dangled a carrot in front of you, a wish and a promise, and you had wanted so desperately to reach out your hand and take it to let bygones be bygones. You had been hopeful, stupid, naïve to trust Ethel.

Your knees give out beneath you and you collapse on the floor of the Blushing Mermaid. Ethel regards you coolly even as her features shift back into Captain Grisly’s. She leaves you with nothing. When you wake next, you expect nothing but excruciating pain.

You expect your lungs to be pulled from your chest. You expect insanity, and yet there is nothing but Shadowheart’s frigid hands against your cheeks dragging you back to reality. She healed you. You gaze at her blearily, but she can’t even open her mouth to scold you before Astarion is shoving her out of the way.

‘You,’ he snaps, ‘get out.’’

Shadowheart won’t take it to heart, you hope, but she does scurry out of the inn room before anything else can be said. Your vision is still rough around the edges, but you can see Astarion as clear as day. The sight of him makes you smile stupidly, and even though he’s practically snarling, baring his teeth and grasping your blankets with his hands, you’re not afraid of him. But after remembering how Auntie Ethel betrayed you, your heart sinks into your stomach faster than you can stop it and you sob uncontrollably, pushing the palms of your hands against your eyes roughly.

‘What is wrong?’ he asks, suddenly frantic. He wraps his hands around your wrists. ‘Are you still hurt? Shadowhea  —  ’

‘  —  nothing, nothing,’ you weep. Your head feels too full and your stomach hurts.

‘If that wretched hag still has a hold on you,’ Astarion says fiercely, ‘I’ll rip her throat out with my teeth.’

‘No,’ you say. ‘I don’t think  —  I don’t think that’s it anymore.’

Astarion takes a little time to contemplate what you mean by that, but you like the way he dotes on you rather than the way he scolds you for your mistakes. You stare at him miserably. He frowns back.

‘What were you thinking?’ he asks, looking terribly sad and wrecked. ‘Why did you go alone?’

‘I was going to offer Auntie Ethel her freedom,’ you say, avoiding his eyes so you don’t have to see the curiosity in them, ‘in exchange for a wish. I was going to give her a tadpole disguised as the one from the Emperor in exchange for…a wish scroll.’

Astarion raises his chin as he attempts to process the information. Confusion, pride and then terror flickers across his face as he digests what you said, and then he’s reaching for your hands and holding onto them tightly.

‘But she didn’t want to help me,’ you say. ‘She really, really hates us, Astarion.’

‘What could you have possibly wanted a wish scroll for?’ he asks.

You aren’t sure if he’s serious or if he’s being obtuse on purpose. You peer at him cautiously, watching him as he watches you shuffle up the headboard so you’re sitting up more than you are resting. You have a raging headache and your stomach hasn’t stopped rolling since you woke up, but that won’t stop your endless altruism from puzzling Astarion or you from trying to comfort him.

‘For you,’ you say shyly.

‘Me?’ Astarion scoffs.

‘I was going to wish it away,’ you say. ‘Your vampirism. You’re so beautiful in the sunlight, I wanted to see it  —  ’

You aren’t able to finish your sentence before Astarion is toppling over you. He burrows his face in your hair and cradles the back of your neck to help with the strain. He kisses your forehead next and studies the way your hands shake in your lap.

‘You’re silly, I don’t think you even realize it,’ Astarion says softly. He reaches for your hands and smooths his thumbs over your knucklebones. ‘You’re so fragile, so human and yet…you inelegantly strike at gods and mystical things without fear. I could learn so much from your bravery.’

Astarion does not laugh at you. He does not applaud you for your attempt at deception. He doesn’t even mildly ridicule you for what a ridiculous plan it was. He sits with you until your stomach hurts less and you feel hungrier, and when it’s time for you to eat, Astarion carefully feeds you spoonfuls of Gale’s soup.

‘If I could make a wish,’ he says when you’re warm and cozy, basking in the attention as he smooths your hair away from your face, ‘I’d wish for you to be alive forever. Being a vampire spawn wouldn’t be so bad if I could have a thousand and one days with you.’

You don’t tell him it’s what you dream about.

[the-switch-conspiracy]

SVSSS AU Post Canon Time Loop. Warning: people dying a lot and gore.

~(O-O)~

One, two. The first times came as a surprise. Between a breath and the next; dropped tea cups shattering. Their shocked eyes meeting, barely widening enough to expose blood shot whites, before the rippling wet sound of metal into viscera filled the stilling air. Like flowers, red bloomed on green, on white, soaked through black. They were but puppets falling from cut strings, their glass eyes staring accusingly at the coming dawn. Three, four. A little faster, a little more refined in our response. The first bodies to fall crushing the delicate stalks of grass beneath them, were not their own. Their attackers staining the visage with their rot. An ever growing expansion with no end in sight. A shining sword glare pierces through bone. Movement to his left, his companion falling lit my the gentle morning glow, before a blinding pain to his eye. Then black. Five, Six. Curls blowing in the wind as demonic Qi rose, several demons cut down. Zheng Yang singing as it dispatched three, four attackers in a row. The edge of the blade shining red in the harsh midday light, his robes twirling around his body with each nimble twist. He turns his back towards the sight, hope forming in his heart. An arrow shot towards his eye blocked, a sword glare cast, slicing head from body. In an instant comes a familiar sound, his husband's voice releasing a death knell of a gasp. Before him; a white lotus painted red, the delicate mist raining from a still beating heart. Twelve, Thirteen. It all started a few day’s earlier, at the reminder of a certain upcoming plot point. The mating migration of the Silk-Winged Butterfly-Hawk, a once in a century event wherein the said birds left the hidden realm the predominately resided in to dance above the great Eastern Lotus Lakes.

- He dodges a strike to his side, his back hitting his husband’s. One by one they slaughter those circling them. A hand seal summoning a thousand lotus petals to rip through flesh, peppering strangely corroding skin. The moons soft glow beamed down on them, their hands slickening with heat and silver reflecting blood-

A hint to his husband later and they were packed and ready for their trip. Sure they could have had Mobei-Jun teleport them there, but it was about the journey AND the Silver-Winged Butterfly-Hawk mating migration destination! It was to be a leisurely bit of travel, he and his husband, stopping just a few times along the way. So imagine his surprise when he came across his favourite Shidi just two days into their trip!

- The beats of thousands of wings taking off, hundreds of birds scattering to the sky. Brilliant white robes flaring against the waters' glare. Cheng Luan glowing silver, fuelled by it’s user’s potent spiritual energy struck out in a shining ripple. His strikes flow like a wave, his form strong and ceaseless under the barrage that assailed him. The War God and his Soaring Phoenix -

His dedicated Shidi had been travelling in the area as part of a mission for the sect. There had been sightings of strange phenomena, and stranger creatures appearing in the area surrounding the Lotus Lakes. While Liu Shidi hadn’t seen anything of the sort himself, he was concerned about their safety. Or well specifically his Shixiong’s, although Shen Qingqiu did have a plan to change that. Well, the outline of a plan, more of a partial kind of well… it was a work in progress! So, this information was perfect! If there was indeed issues in the area it would be remiss of Shen Qingqiu to not survey the area himself as an immortal cultivator, and he couldn’t just leave Binghe, plus his Shidi was already on it so joining them would be no problem! Perfect.

-Liu Qingge parry's a strike, his sword burying itself to the hilt. The wound festers red and black around the blade, the skin pulsating as it seemingly climbed up its’ surface. Trying to tug the blade free was fruitless, as if it was being consumed by the deforming mass beneath him. He swings both the blade and the body stuck to it to block the blow from his front. He can't block the blow that impales his side, nor could he stop the blow to his throat. Thrown from his feet he lands in the lake, sinking beneath the silver water. Bubbles form as his body thrashes in his death throes. White stained red, petals crushed beneath his submerging form. The stain spreads; the bubbles stop.-

It’s fun travelling with them both, yes his husband and Liu Qingge fight like cats and dogs, but on Binghe’s side he practically playing! It’s enrichment!

“Shen Qingqiu, control your husband!” The red flush spreading across his Shidi’s face was rather fetching, he could see why his husband liked causing it… and well, it’s not bullying if his Shidi likes it. The satisfaction points speak for themselves! Though admittedly they are much, much higher when he’s the one teasing his Shidi, a gain however is a gain!

“Liu Shishu just can’t handle losing to this one, maybe Shizun should kiss his wounds as a consolation prize~” A teasing sneer spreads across Binghe’s face as he gloats, a sneaky little glance towards this husband follows. Ah Binghe, you’re coming across too strong! We talked about this, be more gentle! Treat him like a skittish cat!

“Ah Shidi, Binghe’s only teasing.” He raises his fan to cover his face, coyly glancing at his Shidi from behind it, “After all, I’ll only kiss your wounds if you win.”

“Y-You- Shameless!” Yes, he did so love the time they spend together.

-Time after time, one after the other, the grief never fades. The deaths will haunt his mind forever, a permanent scar across his psyche. Will he ever be able to close his eyes without seeing Qingge cut down? His husband gasping for air? His own limbs severed? Yet the hoard encroaches. A never ending onslaught.

"Husband! Behi-" Pain tearing through his spine, an arc of gore glowing in the moonshine. Red blood, black blood. It doesn’t end.

3̵̨̲̰͉̤͓͓̜̯͉͈̕̕͜͜0̶̧̛̝̭͈̤͕͇͙̩̠%̷̞̦̈́̄͆̓̕ Thirty four, Thirty FiVe. His lungs were screaming. Every block, and lunge, and slash, and parry exhausting him to the bone. All he could taste was rust and ash, Qingge fell silently a breath, an incense stick, a shi chen, ago. His body a shield again this master's blunder. He can barely lift his sword, his meridians felt almost burnt from the power cloying the air. A sickeningly wet squelch, Binghe's roar faltering to a whimper as his body hits the rocks. Another demon down, or a cultivator? Bodies falling, falling. He can’t, he can’t. Two red moons fill the sky, water fills his lungs. [User seems to be struggling with this Mission! >_< Poor showing from host! Well User can always retry!! 500 B-points!] [Y/N] [Y]

6̶̠͠0̵͇̐%̶̆͜

FiFty SeveN. He's drowning in blood. Was it Binghe's arm he was holding? It must be, Shidi was dragging him. Somewhere. Hmmm, the shouting is getting closer, and Qingge's breaths sounded quite wet! Ah! He's coughing! Well better out than in, Shidi, ah it's... Dripping. Here, Shixiong will wipe it away... Why... Tears? Ah Shidi looks so!! So!!! If this master wasn't married! Ah Wait we...Well maybe Binghe will... Here Shidi hold on to Binghe for this one a moment. Why are you giving me that look? Ah you're crushing me! For someone so lithe looking you're really quite heavy! Ah, it's quite- Shidi... Liu shidi.. you... Please keep coughing please you're too quiet. Please I can’t... It's tOo quiEt it’s toO [User seems to be running low on B-points. User has 427 B-points remaining! Luckily User 0002 can use his VIP to reduce the cost to 400 B-points for the next attempt!!] [Y/N] [Y] FIFTY EIGHT. Not just demons, not just cultivators. No, of course not. It was him. His fault. Who else could it be? Only he had the power, only he had the will. Only he had the golden finger, the halo, the fucking audacity! But there was something wrong. Glowing red eyes, skin twitching, shifting, like textures not loading in. His voice crackling, modulated.

"Ah S̸͕̑ḫ̴̅ĭ̶̟z̶̡̏u̵͇͂n̵͓͝~ you thought that s̸͍͠e̴͋ͅà̸̗l̵̰͠i̷͓͝n̵͎͑g̵̜̉ this world from me would be so simple? There is nowhere you could run, no world you could jump to, that I would be u̵͚͊n̷̜͆ä̶̢́b̸̞̊ḻ̷͌ě̷̤ to follow. So please, just submit, this Junshang will treat you well."

“go… fuck… yourself..” Spitting words like spitting blood, the ringing of bells…. No… sirens blaring in the skies.

The monster’s ribs cracked and spasms, a twisted knot of glossy black bone and gently pulsating red wires. An artificial monstrosity. What had he done to himself, to gain access to this world? Qingge sprawled in a heap, a black puddle spreading beneath him, Xin Mo sheathed like a grave marker in his back. His husband split throat to navel, his body failing to knit itself back together, strangled gurgles bubbling in his throat. A hoard of demons, no… cultivators? They surround him in twitching, glitching, grinning masses. Their distorted faces all corrupted copies of his own. This time its his own blade that takes his life. The howling, glitching screams of rage following him into the dark.

“Y̷̯͛o̸͇͆ǔ̷ͅ'̴̗̐l̵̦̓l̷͍͠ ̵̜̂b̷͙́e̷̟̊ ̴̱͆m̵͚̈́í̵̲ǹ̷̻e̵̛͚ S̷̝͠h̴̭̔e̵̺͝n̶̆͜ ̵̳̏Ỳ̴̻ü̷͇a̷̤̔n̴͈̅!̴̼̐”

7̸̝̓3̷̬́%̵̧͊ [User 0002 is out of B-Points! It appears you have failed! (>U-U)> But! This generous system is willing to offer User 0002 a super! limited! one! time! offer if User is willing!] [Y/N] [Why]

7̵̙̑8̵̰͗%̸̯̈

[Because User 0002 transformed a stupid work into a magnificent, high quality, first-rate classic! It would be a shame for so much work to be unmade due to… external meddling!] [And the cost] [^-^ Will User 0002 not pay any price? This SYSTEM is offering User the chance to escape this fate! Protagonist Luo and Second Male Lead Liu will be alive! The best ending could be in your grasp!! After all “You can you up, no can no bb!” ] [Y/N]

8̷͙͊1̴͉̈%̴̘́

[Y]

8̸̘̊5̷̣̐%̷̟̆

[User 0002 has made the right choice! This SYSTEM can’t wait to work closely with User Shen! <(^3^)>] {Loading World State: 10….........33..............68.............99.........100%} {Creating Mind Space 100%. Building Temporal Archives 100%. Allocating User Permission. . . Complete}

{Clearing WORLD CORRUPTION FILE DATA: E̸̹̋Ṟ̵̅R̵͉͊O̵̳͘R̵̭̿} {Activating ARCHIVIST Protocol...}

F̷̥̀ï̸̮l̸̘̋ḙ̵́ ̶̘͊R̶̲͘e̵̯̋c̸͈̅a̸̡̍ĺ̶̤l̷̪͂ ̴̧̀C̷̤̑ȏ̵͇r̶͎͋ȑ̷͎u̵̳̔p̷̧͑t̵̤͝e̸̡͛d̸̨̽

[Next] [Last] [Ao3]

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 2

Chapter Links: First, <- Chapter 2 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour! ---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

Extermination came and went with you wrapped up in all the blankets from your bed, crammed into the walk-in cooler Hal used to age gigantic slabs of meat.  Once the distant screams had died down you were quickly pulled from the fridge and put back to work, barely able to hold a knife in your frost nipped fingers. 

“Lotsa screaming means lotsa bodies,” Hal explained, tying the strings of his apron around his wide hips in a tight double knot.  “And lotsa bodies means lotsa meat.”

As though summoned by his words, a forceful knock sounded from the delivery entrance; a salesman bearing the first of many scavenged corpses sold to the shop for a quick buck. 

You stared down at the man laid across your chopping block, his face contorted to showcase the abject terror of his final moments.

“I'm sorry this happened to you,” you murmured quietly, fingers tracing the jagged cut that had ripped the man open from pelvis to sternum.  “But I promise to do a better job than they did.”

The angels had cut his life short.

And then you cut him into pieces.

It didn't seem particularly fair to you, but you supposed it was as balanced as things could be in Hell.  

Hal, in a rare show of mercy, gave his employees the weekend off to recuperate from the pre and post Extermination rushes.  You had been content to hole up inside your cramped apartment and sleep for the full two days, but once you remembered your promise to Ms. Rosie you managed to pull yourself out of bed and get dressed with a minimal amount of cursing. 

It wasn't difficult to find her once you actually managed to wake up enough to stumble down your apartment stairs without breaking your neck.  You'd pass by Franklin and Rosie's Emporium often enough running errands for Hal.  It would be hard to avoid the boutique considering it was smack dab in the middle of main street; placing it along just about every route through town.  

The Emporium offered a wide selection of impeccably tailored clothes you couldn't ever hope to afford with your meager earnings.  It was nearly impossible to swallow back the sour burn of envy roiling in your belly at the sight of the smartly dressed women spinning in front of mirrors in their tailored waistcoats and silver buttoned shoes.  You self consciously soothed out wrinkles in your burgundy colored skirt, the fabric likely permanently creased from being trapped under the tight sash of your butchery apron.

The checkout line moved slowly as every patron stopped to chat with Rosie or the woman standing beside her, and it felt like a small eternity had passed before you made it to the front of the queue.  Rosie's eyes widened as she saw you, a bright smile stretching across her face as she quickly skirted around to the front of the counter.

“Take over from me, Franklin!” Rosie called out to her companion over her shoulder, motioning you to follow her with an excited wave of her hand.  “I've got a special guest visiting!”

Rosie led you to a darling two person cafe table pushed into an alcove with a giant window overlooking the central square of Cannibal Town, where a barbershop quartet was starting to attract a fair bit of attention from passers by.  Rosie was silent as she slid up behind you, but the weight of her aura was somehow palpable; like a humidity that clogged the air and made breathing a laborious task.

“It's pretty peaceful for a place called Cannibal Town, isn't it?” Rosie boasted, but you couldn't fault her for her pride.  You knew from stories around town that the orderly life on display was the result of her tireless effort to secure a better life for the sinners under her rule.  

“It is,” you agreed readily, sliding carefully  into the chair that one of her attendants had pulled out for you while Rosie settled down across the table.  “You've built a lovely community, Ms. Rosie.”

“Oh, aren't ya' just the sweetest thing!” Rosie chirped in delight, hoisting a tray of finger foods up under your nose.  “Canapé?”

You were too nervous to be hungry, but grabbed a couple of crackers topped with thin slices of blood sausage and dollops of roasted marrow to be polite.  Not sure what to say, you quickly popped one of the hors d'oeuvres into your mouth immediately and hoped Rosie would take hold of the conversational reins.

Rosie, mercifully, rose to the occasion.  

“So, you seem to be fitting in pretty well around here.  That's unusual these days,” she said, deftly pouring some piping hot bone broth into dainty porcelain tea cups.  “Hard to find new sinners willing to live without television or cellular phones.”

You couldn't help but think of how much of your life had been squandered in front of screens; the endless hours of scrolling and watching and seeing and wanting- of wondering why your life never seemed to compare to the ones that clogged your social media feeds.  

“Those- those things do me more harm than good, I think,” you admit between small bites of sausage.  

“Oh, honey.  Those gadgets are nothing but trouble for everyone,” Rosie cooed comfortingly before angling her head down to mumble into her cup “especially down here.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing to worry your pretty little head over,” Rosie laughed dismissively, pushing a platter of finger sandwiches towards your now empty plate.  You grabbed the one with a thumb poking out, saving the sandwiches stuffed with choicer pinky digits for your host.  

“It's nice to see you don't shy away from the…specialized fare Cannibal Town is known for,” Rosie said approvingly, watching as you skillfully de-nailed the finger in your sandwich.  “Did working at the butcher shop help acclimate ya'?”

“A bit.  I won't lie, it was really hard at first.  I spent a lot of time pretending that I was eating other stuff- beef, pork, a really convincing soy substitute,” you admit. “But after a little while that started to feel, I don't know, disrespectful?”

“Oh?” 

“It's like- this person is nourishing me.  I am alive because of them.  It didn't seem right to pretend that they were somehow less than what they were; especially when they were providing me with so much.  Acknowledging their life, what they were-” you paused, considering your words along with the remaining phalange held between your fingers.  “It's the least I can do.  A way I can thank them.”

You feel a bit vulnerable from your confession, never having voiced your thoughts out loud before, and it takes you a moment to muster the courage to look up from your hands and meet your host’s gaze again.  Rosie is positively beaming at you, her small nose crinkled in delight.

“I need you to promise me you'll try and get out more, sweetie.  It's very inconsiderate for you to deprive the citizens of Cannibal Town of your company,” Rosie said, leaning over the table to place her hand on top of yours, the press of her fingers a balm to your touch-starved soul. “You're one of us now.  It's time to start acting like it.”

You'd reluctantly started to make appearances around town.  It started small, with short walks around the park when the belladonna began to bloom, followed by the weekly al fresco concerts once the early spring acid rains tapered off.  

And then suddenly a switch seemed to flip.  People would wave good morning to you from across the street, customers would ask about how your weekend was, and  your coworkers invited you out for drinks after work.  You'd gone from merely existing in Cannibal Town to really living in Cannibal Town.  

You tried to not dwell on how much happier you were in Hell than you were on Earth, fearful about what exactly that said about the sort of person you were. 

The years ticked by and before you knew it the workers at the butcher shop had surprised you with a lopsided devils food cake to celebrate your fifth death day.

“When you're facing down eternity you don't celebrate every single year,” Dorcas, the girl who usually worked the register, explained.  “Five is the first milestone party, followed by twenty-five and fifty.  They get more spaced out as time goes on.”

You had woken up early the next day, dehydrated with a headache pounding behind your eyeballs from overindulging at your death day celebration.  Hal, in a show of incredible foresight, had scheduled you for the afternoon shift.  With a mug of watery coffee in hand, you were slowly shambling to the threadbare armchair in the corner of your room when the broken radio on the side table suddenly began shooting off sparks; the device alight with an eerie green glow.

“SWEET SASSY MOLASSY,” you screamed, accidentally spilling coffee down the front of your dressing gown as you leaped away from the ancient box radio.

“Salutations!  Good to be back on the air!” a staticky voice greeted, the cheery tone completely at odds with your abject misery as you pulled your soaked nightgown away from your chest to cool your singed flesh.

The radio was loud, the volume knob having been set to maximum when it suddenly powered on; but the sound inside your apartment was nothing compared to the uproarious cheers you heard coming from outside as the citizens of Cannibal Town overjoyed by the return of their favorite radio program.  

[rhamrhanch]

Shepherd of Death, Don't Herd Me

Part Two: Show Me Your Sincerity

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (gender-neutral pronouns)

Word Count: 4K

Warnings: canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort

Next Chapter // Masterlist

chapter under the cut ↓

---

Ramattra’s first memory was of waking up alone. There were others before that—visions of destruction, hazy scraps of what he'd done during the war. But he had never considered those to be his own. They were the actions of a godlike AI, driven to a madness of its own creation. They were not his memories. The day his life began, the emotions he felt; those were uniquely his own.

He remembered how his system burst with consciousness, forced to bear the overwhelming weight of sudden life. He remembered the confusion as he fought to maintain his sanity amidst the brutal assault, his circuits ripping themselves apart from the inside. Beside him laid a body; it was himself.

No, not himself—another R-7000, coolant leaking from the gaping hole in its chest. Dead, but never really alive either.

His central processor crackled with heat as a tidal wave of information poured into his mind all at once.

Humans. Anubis. Crying. Screaming. Blood. Death.

A thousand subroutines flashed across his HUD.

ERROR: Unable to process sentience. Retrying…

ERROR: No sense of self located. Searching cache…

ERROR: "Ḩ̶̗͐͐E̵̱̦̹̖̐́̈́̂L̶̠̤͚͓̐͠P̸̼͓͓̓͗͆͌ ̴̖́̌̔M̶̛͕E̷̡̛͑̕̕͜" is invalid parameter.

ERROR: Message overflow.

When he finally dragged himself from the quagmire of death and destruction that surrounded him to civilization, desperate for help and staggering on weak legs like a newborn lamb, he was brutally awakened to the nature of this new world. It was a world of blinding hatred, towards omnics for their devastation in the war, towards him for leading them. There was no empathy, no pity for their position as tools in a war they did not desire. Empty shells incapable of choice, forced to reckon with the violence they wrought in a body that was not their own.

There was no place for him in this world.

Even among his peers in the Shambali, Ramattra stood out. He was the only Ravager in the monastery; a hulking figure compared to his companions, who in model and manner so closely resembled the humans he was made to destroy. A constant reminder of his purpose during the war, and the ultimate banality of his creation.

Still, he persisted, searching for enlightenment by the glow of the Iris. There must have been something worth protecting about this world for Aurora to make such a heavy sacrifice. So, he doggedly followed his Master's teachings. His hands, once forged to destroy, would build bridges towards the day omnics and humans could live together in peace. But over time, his once steadfast beliefs were chipped away, over and over again. Every day, omnics, his people, were killed, while he preached pacifism to their murderers. He couldn't take it anymore; there had to be another way.

Leaving his brothers was difficult, but a necessary step on the path to liberation. He freed as many omnics as he could, as nonviolently as he could, collecting allies along the way—but it wasn't enough. For as many omnics as he saved, twice as many were killed. He needed to change strategy again.

His allies argued against him. They said his methods were too drastic, that there was a better way. He didn't understand them, why they weren't being drastic enough. Their people were one generation, finite. Every minute spent trying to find peace meant another part of them was lost forever—time could not be wasted.

King's Row was a new start for his cause. Humanity could no longer ignore what it wrought on his people, forced to witness the seeds of brutality they sowed bear its bitter fruit.

And what had his efforts earned him? Abandoned by his comrades, condemned by his former master—for what? For all their preaching, violence was the one thing humans understood at the core; they were practically connoisseurs of it. His actions were a mere drop compared to the ocean of blood that stained the annals of human history. If he was to be condemned, then so be it. For the future of his people, he would shoulder that burden alone.

He found a new benefactor, a sympathetic patron to his cause. There were rumors of Talon's other endeavors, but he paid them no mind. The petty squabbles between humans meant little to him, especially now that he had as many resources as he could dream of at his disposal. Paris, Busan, Rio, Toronto… For as long as his people felt no safety, neither would humanity. They would acknowledge the decades of suffering he witnessed at their complacency, by will or by force.

Gothenburg had been his next target. But it had ended in failure, with his command ship sitting at the bottom of the North Sea. Now a defunct organization of vigilantes, Overwatch still felt entitled to interfere with his mission. The hypocrisy of it all was infuriating.

Something soft touched his leg. One of his power cores had been compromised by that armored brute's hammer; the trauma seemed to shut him down as a reflex. The automatic reboot kickstarted by the remaining units was slow, but he appeared to be regaining some sensation.

The softness moved up his body. He tried to reach out, seeking its source, but his arm wouldn't move. Alertness spread through his chassis. There was a strange imbalance—something clouding his spatial awareness. His optic sensors restarted, and it was then that he realized he was slouched over; unable to correct his posture, his range of vision was limited. He looked to the side—ah, that's right. That man, part metal and part meat, had sliced through his shoulder. His right arm was gone.

There was a gentle pressure on his chest. His optics flicked down, head still unmovable. A human was sitting in front of him, hand splayed on his ribs. Out of reflex, he tried to shove you away. But his arm was motionless, actuators still slow on the uptake. He could only watch you.

Your face was obscured by a cap, but from this angle he could see the gun holstered at your waist. It slid against your thigh as you stood up, leaving him for your workbench. He couldn't move his head to follow you, but it wasn't long before you returned, crowbar in hand. To his horror, you jabbed the thing into his chest and began to pry him open.

Anger flooded his system, the overwhelming heat of it stimulating his internal fans to life. The absolute gall to dare disassemble him, with as much grace as an ape holding a stick.

You were absorbed in your dissection—a foolish mistake. His chest plate slowly cracked open, exposing the tender circuits and wires of his internal machinery. Residual power surged through his body, making his fingers twitch.

Finally.

Ramattra lunged forward, clamping his hand around your neck—but his fist would not close fully. There was a strange tightness in his wrist, like a rubber band pulled taut, unable to stretch anymore.

It was of little consequence, though. Your flesh was pliable and gave easily to the weight of his palm. He could not resist the creeping satisfaction as he brought you to your knees, no longer at the behest of your primitive instruments.

His optics scanned your face, analyzing your features for any semblance of familiarity. There was no recollection of you in his memory, but a brief search unearthed a photo of you from Talon's records. Besides your name, all the information next to it was redacted; only one line remained.

$15,000,000 BOUNTY.

Interesting.

You clawed at his hand fiercely. He slackened his hold on you, irritated at the reminder of your frailty. It had always frustrated him how fragile humans were, a thought that resurfaced as your heartbeat drummed against his fingertips. Ramattra simply could not understand why his people, intelligent beings of metal and machinery, were constantly trampled beneath the foot of such a physically weak species. His people were too willing to remain docile, naively hoping it would convince humans to treat them with respect. But what they lacked in viciousness, he would more than make up for.

He dug his thumb against your jawbone, drawing a noise of pain from your throat like wine from a pome. Perhaps he should just kill you, refuse his mercy for a world that had no shred of mercy for him. His thumb teemed on your pulse point as he considered it—but your next words intrigued him. An engineer, you choked out desperately. Someone who can help him.

The idea was so ridiculous, so presumptuous and devoid of all logic that he almost laughed. Yet his processor analyzed your words anyway, evaluating the probability of escape.

He was already at a severe disadvantage—alone in an enemy environment, no allies aware of his current location. You were armed, while he, in the most literal sense, was not. Even if he killed you before you had a chance to draw your weapon, the only exit in the room was the door. Down a working power core, he would not be able to sustain his Nemesis form. That, combined with his missing arm and staff, meant he stood little chance against the other agents roaming the facility.

Ramattra retracted his fingers from your neck, letting you fall to the floor. He would humor you, for now.

“Fine, human. Let’s see if your words match your will.”

You rubbed at the harsh marks on your neck, saying nothing. Your composure was impressive, considering the position you were in. He watched you shuffle forward, outstretched hand reaching for the open cavity of his chest. Instinctively, he grabbed your arm, halting you in place. A human had never been this close to him before, let alone to the point of repairing him. Even with this little pressure, Ramattra could feel your pulse racing where his fingers met the thin skin of your wrist. To have you any closer than this—it was risky.

"Be careful," he warned.

You nodded, eyes resolute. "I will." But you still didn't move, hands clutched in your lap as your eyes searched his chest.

"What is it?"

"Um, could you show me where your voice box is?"

He sighed, annoyed. Weren't you supposed to be an expert? Although, he had changed things around many times over the years; his internal machinery was certainly not the standard anymore.

He pointed to a spot just below his neck, tapping on the box there—his vocal synthesizer. You leaned forward, gingerly placing your hand on his shoulder. You were being especially careful to avoid touching his exposed wiring, he realized.

His central processor suddenly burned in his chest as you straddled his right leg. Your body was warm, stiflingly so. He could feel every movement you made as you shifted in place, readjusting your position. With two fingers, you slowly rotated the converter, pulling it from his neck. A groan nearly escaped him when your nails scraped against the wires that trailed behind it. His hand gripped his thigh; he needed something to hold on to, and it definitely would not be you.

This was made all the more challenging when you rolled the wires between your fingers. Unable to hold it back any longer, a heavy sigh left him, echoed by the hiss of air rushing through his auxiliary vents.

By the Iris, this was humiliating. Here he sat, a Ravager, losing his composure so quickly at the hands of a… mechanic.

You paused your examination, wires still pinched between your fingers. He desperately hoped you wouldn't ask.

He was not so lucky.

"Can you feel pain?"

He could not answer. He had no words, just as confused by his own body's reactions as you were. The silence seemed to make you nervous.

“That is—I’m only asking because I need to use a soldering iron to repair these cables. If possible, I’d like to avoid causing you any discomfort.”

The laughter came quickly, a mixture of frustration and disbelief at the absurdity of the situation. It made a ghastly sound, scratchy and hiccupping with static. It was incredible how unaware you were of the amount of discomfort he was already in.

"I was built to lead omnics into war. What purpose would there be for me to feel pain?" This line of questioning was approaching a vein of conversation he did not want to indulge in. "Your feigned concern is unnecessary. Do your job properly and refrain from asking me pointless questions."

That seemed to do the trick. You said nothing, leaving his lap to get something from your workbench. He was relieved by the space, but his leg felt strangely cold in your absence. The sensation wound up his circuits, coiling around his central processor until it finally decoded the feeling—he wanted you there.

The quiet scrape of the soldering iron was a welcome distraction from his thoughts. His optics wandered the room while you worked, analyzing his surroundings. There was a shelf behind you packed with junk—coils of wire, worn leather straps, old batteries. A crate sat next to it, filled with partially disassembled firearms of various make and model.

What captured his attention, though, were the projects mounted on the wall. There was a robotic arm configured with a cannon attachment, what looked to be a self-loading gun, and others whose function he could not discern. All impressive feats of engineering—but an omnic engineer, evidently, you were not.

Your picture flashed on his HUD again. You were clearly familiar with omnic repair on some level, yet you had nothing to show for it. An omnic engineer who spent their time building weapons for Overwatch. What would warrant Talon to place such a high bounty on your head?

"All right, finished."

That was quicker than he expected. Your image faded away from his vision, replaced by your actual face.

You leaned back against his knee and gestured at his neck. "Try speaking now."

He scoffed. "Am I supposed to be impressed?" To his astonishment, the words echoed strong and clear, perhaps even better than before. It felt… good.

You seemed satisfied, clapping your hands against your lap. "Shall I look at your hand next?"

His hand? Ramattra looked down to where it sat on his lap, flexing it experimentally. This was something he could fix on his own. He did not want to extend his stay here any longer, especially when he was struggling to control his reactions this badly.

"That is unnecessary," he replied, more curtly than he intended to.

You only tilted your head at him. "Really?" Your gaze flicked down to his hand, then back to his face, doubtful. "It doesn't seem to be at full function."

Your persistence was annoying, Ramattra thought.

"Is that your astute deduction?"

The attempt to knock you down a peg only incited you further. He watched the flesh of your cheek shift as you clenched your jaw.

"I'm familiar with the reputation of your model," you replied sternly. "If your hand was at full strength," you pointed to the deep bruises blooming on your throat, "you would have broken my neck."

He was angry now. The sureness with which you spoke, as if there couldn't be any other explanation—and the fact that you were correct, above all else. That was most loathsome of all.

"Your arrogance is extraordinary," he growled. Unbothered, you simply shrugged.

"You wouldn't be the first to say that."

Ramattra was stunned. He knew that you knew he could still kill you at any moment. It would have been easy, like breaking a toothpick. Yet the air with which you spoke was so cavalier, confident that this situation would still play in your favor. An insulting reminder of the way humans trifled with life. But if you wanted to gamble on it, who was he to deny you?

"Well, then," he said, extending his hand to you like a wolf beckoning to the sheep. "You are welcome to try."

Cautiously, you took his hand between your own. His palm dwarfed yours as you turned it over, bending some of his fingers experimentally. Your touch was not as overwhelming as when you had fixed his voice box, but an electric signal still danced down his back when you ran your fingers between the divot at his wrist. Suddenly, you released him, and he was surprised by the disappointment he felt.

"Giving up already? I expected more of you."

"No." You grabbed the crowbar again and stuck it into the joint at his wrist. "There's some wear in the joints of your hand, but if the problem is your grip strength," you grunted, prying the upper panel of his forearm open, "then the issue likely extends here…"

You trailed off as you gazed at the inner mechanism of his arm. Ramattra assumed you had reached the limits of your abilities and was about to make another snide comment… but then your hand smoothed upward, drawing his arm closer to your face almost in reverence.

"Using hydraulic motion instead of electric actuators," you murmured. Your head suddenly snapped up to him, eyes alight. "Is this the standard method used in all R-7000s?"

He was taken aback by your reaction—there was a pause before he answered. "Yes. It allows for a greater application of force."

You nodded your head superficially, clearly more occupied with studying his arm.

This was… unexpected.

In the past, Ramattra had encountered human engineers who would spend their time repairing omnics, few and far between as they were. Your knowledge, the quickness of your diagnosis—it far exceeded anything they had been capable of.

He wanted you to say something, to ask another question so he could fully gauge your abilities, but you did not. Instead, you reached across his chest and grabbed something from the counter next to him.

"The cylinders in your arm are rusting. That's why you couldn't close your fist completely," you explained as you dripped oil sparingly from the bottle in your hand on his wrist. It trickled slowly through his arm. A strange sensation, but not one he was unused to. What surprised him was when you began rubbing his arm with a cloth, working the oil in. Your grip was strong, continuing to massage from his forearm up to his hand and wrist.

To say it did not soothe him would be a lie. He could not remember the last time someone had taken such care with him.

Not even among the Shambali had this happened. The other monks knew little of how to repair Ravagers, and the human mechanics in the nearby village refused to. Many days he had sat in the atrium of the monastery, disturbed from meditation by the stiffness in his shoulders.

Your touch was gentle, but firm—a tender paradox. It was with alarm that he found he did not want you to stop. He wanted you to keep touching him, wondered how your hands would feel on his shoulders, his neck, tapping down the segments of his spine. He wanted to catalog each one and file it away in his memory, a balm for himself when he must suffer these aches alone. But there was a pressing question on his mind that could wait no longer.

"Who are you?"

Your eyes were unyielding, focused on your work. "I'm an engineer."

"You are hardly just."

The hand stroking his palm paused. A moment passed before you replied, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"An engineer of your caliber that specializes in omnics is a rarity," he said. "Why do you squander your talents?"

The words came out as a hiss, but he couldn't help it. There were omnics suffering everywhere, his current discomfort a mere fraction compared to the pain they endured daily at the hands of humans. You could be out in the world, helping them. Yet you were here, wasting your time with Overwatch. Why?

Your figure flashed red on his HUD, the afterglow of your racing heartbeat. You masked it well, seemingly unshaken as you tossed the soiled cloth into your toolkit.

"Why would I tell you?" you scoffed, moving to rise. Ramattra's hand gripped the meat of your forearm, its restored strength anchoring you to the spot. You had done a fine job repairing it, perhaps to your own detriment.

"There is a bounty on your head," he growled, dark and full of a strange resentment he couldn't place. "Is that your excuse?"

That got your attention. Your eyes cut into him, placidity gone from your expression.

"You're in no place to chastise me," you snapped, "leader of Null Sector."

The air was tense between you, like a lit match over gunpowder. He could feel your arm trembling, could see the way your chest rose rapidly. You were afraid. Still, your gaze was unflinching as you stared up at him.

He realized then that he could not make you say any more. Your resistance to being found by Talon was even stronger than your will to live.

His grip loosened, and you tore your arm away from him as though it burned you. Slowly, you rose, picking up your toolkit as you did so. His optics watched you carefully—how you crossed to the shelf, back facing him. The way your hand lingered at your waist, waiting.

You were too slow on the draw, but it was to be expected. A human getting the jump on a Ravager was as rare as a blue moon. He had seized you before you could even release the safety on your gun.

"And to think," he said, twisting your arm downward. You gritted your teeth, trying to fight back against him, but it was useless. Your hold loosened, and the gun clattered to the floor. "We were getting along so well."

"You won't take me to them." It was phrased like a demand, but he could sense the underlying fear in your tone.

"No." Your eyes widened in shock. Human expressions always gave away so much. "But I will not let you stand in my way."

He could see the glimmer of hope in your eyes fade like snow as his hand wrapped around your throat. With its function fully restored, he could be much more precise this time. Your hands instinctively shot up to grab his wrist as his fingers tightened. It was a futile final effort to escape your fate, as it took only seconds for you to go limp, arms falling loosely at your waist.

Once he was certain of your unconsciousness, he lowered you to the ground, placing you on your side. For a moment, he watched your chest rise as you took shallow breaths, lightly disturbing the hair curtaining your face.

Ramattra abandoned you in the workshop. He slipped through back corridors and hidden passages, remaining undetected. When he was finally far enough from the vicinity of the base, he allowed your picture to flicker on his HUD again.

The steadfastness with which you spoke, your conviction in the face of death; few humans boasted such inner willpower. He understood now why Talon placed such high value on your head. A person like you was a rarity, indeed.

Against his will, the memories of your touch resurfaced. It was clear to him that you were more than just an engineer who could fix omnics. The gentle way in which you handled him, how you tried to avoid causing him discomfort—you had clearly done this before, likely for many others.

He wondered what would have happened had you met in his younger years, when he was still a monk of the Shambali. Perhaps you would have been allies, or maybe even friends. But that world was a distant dream to him now.

His hand flexed, still reeling from your touch. For the sake of his mission, he prayed you would never meet again.

[cottagecoreloreee]

COMPLETE!

Rating: M

Pairing: Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Point du Lac Tags: Love Confessions, Reconciliation, Idiots in Love, AngstEpisode: s02e08 And That's The End of It. There's Nothing Else (Interview with the Vampire TV 2022), BDSM, Pining, Top Lestat de Lioncourt, Bottom Louis de Pointe du Lac, Gay Sex, Smut, Emotional Sex, Rough Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room

Summary: As the hurricane coursed through New Orleans, Louis took Lestat to his hotel, to care for him. And, though he tried to resist their bond, he could not deny that he ached for Lestat. "I am companion enough for myself," Louis reminded himself, the words a feeble mantra. Old patterns are difficult to break. Snippet:

Weightlessness gathered beneath my feet as we rose through the sky. Lestat’s teeth were not buried in me, and his hand was not grasping at my neck; Lestat held me tenderly, aware of his arms, securing my placement beside him so that I could not rip myself away from him. The bitter scent of fear gathered on his skin, and the further he sent me upwards, the more I could sense it on my nose–that poison, like cyanide for our every exchange, welled within Lestat. Enormous restraint was required of him to not act on this fear, not to shout or beg me to change my mind. The trust that had eluded us for the entirety of our relationship in New Orleans made an appearance as we hovered above the clouds. 

The city was small beneath us, and the grandness of our history together collapsed into a single view. I saw us so clearly in the sky, Lestat pursuing me when I was a human, imprisoned in a cage of society’s design. He trailed me by the heels, observing the curious creature so out of place in the constraints of the time, swayed by the beauty of a man only he could see. When he read me, he had not recoiled at who he found but became smitten by who I could be, if I could be released. How could I not detest him for loving the very thing I hated? 

I shifted in his arms, but Lestat held onto me fiercely. “Careful, chéri.”

“Entertain me, for a moment,” I said. Lestat loosened his grip, and I placed my arms at his shoulders, brushing my lips over his cheek. “We don’t have to be the same as we were.”

“I am not perfect.”

“Neither am I.” I press my lips to his nose, to his forehead, to his cheek wet with bloody tears. “But I’ve known life without you, and it’s a stale, intolerable existence compared to my life with you.”

“I can’t bear to watch you leave again.”

“I won’t leave.”

“Mon cher–”

“Believe me, the way I believe in you.” 

Lestat captured my lips, spreading my mouth open by the force of his tongue, groaning in desperation, devouring me inch by inch. His hands took fistfuls of my flesh, kneading my ass, pressing me into his blood-gorged cock. 

“I dreamed of you nightly,” Lestat rasped. “In an empty coffin, to fill it with a sliver of you. You possessed me, and I would not expel you. I can’t be without you, Louis, tu me rends fou.” 

[whoyacallinyellow]

Pastures New

John Marston x F! cowgirl reader

Spoilers: RDR2 chapters 1-3 (just in case) Content: 18+, John is an asshole, angst, possessive, canon typical events / violence, possible unintentional spelling mistakes. Type: third person limited (wc - 1540) / pc: pinterest

Summary: You have not been with the gang for very long. You’re leaving a little earlier than John expected, feeling betrayed by your actions, he snaps at you.

John stood perched up against a tree at the end of the camp path, it had been an uneventful nightshift at Horseshoe Overlook, like every other night that is. A part of him nearly craved a fight, but Dutch was keen on preaching patience, or something like that— maybe he could just doze off for a few minutes, no one would pay any mind, he’s still recovering after all. John was beginning to relax, with the trees gently rustling, the crickets chirping… a horse trotting quietly from camp—

Must be one of the boys going out on a lead, he peaked out from under his hat, pulling his worn body from the trunk. 

“Who’s there?” John’s sharp words sliced into the night, creating a soft “easy,” from an unexpected voice. 

“Whatcha doin’ out this late?” John hollered, his gruff tone softening and showing much more surprise than he first anticipated. 

“Evenin’ Mr. Marston.” Your voice loomed as you wowed her horse in front of him, the stallion's coat shining off his lantern. John’s eyes scanned you from head to toe, with a satchel hung around your frame, and rifle on your back, he ogled at you in unintentional disgust.

“Got a lead?” He finally inquired suspiciously.  

“Not quite—“ you began through a sigh, unsure how to break the news to your short-tempered companion. Shifting his weight from foot to foot in anticipation, your unusual tranquil tone began to make John nervous.

“I’m headin’ out.” You suddenly concluded, words that nearly sounded foreign— words that felt like a rip of a bandage to John. But after all, you were always trying to rile him up. Getting him all flustered was a near hobby at this point. 

John erupted in bitter laughter, his harsh chuckles carrying throughout the thick trees and brush.

“Tell ya what, darlin’— how’abouts I take ya fishin’ tomorrow.” John proposed boldly in the midst of his laughter, taking any chance he could to dig under your skin. A sorry excuse he called payback for the torment he received from you. But to his dismay the comment earned not much of a word from you. Something about John brought out your confliction, your usual straightforward thoughts were mixing with your fondness of the outlaw. 

“There ain’t much ‘ere for me, John.” You spoke lowly, unsure how to properly convey your thoughts to the brickhead. John swallowed dryly, you waited for him to speak, expecting a ‘am I not enough for ya, woman?!’. 

But instead he tried to catch a glimpse of your face in the dark path where you both resided, for some sort of explanation. Knowing the all too familiar look in his bloodshot eyes, along with the small line his lips formed into, his anger overpowered any desire he had to rationalize with you.

“What’er you talkin’ about, girl?” John demanded, his arms crankily gesturing towards you. 

“You know very damn well what I’m talkin’ about.” You snapped immediately, your harsh words hissing towards the stubborn outlaw. 

“It’s over John— your ol’Dutch is gone looney! I pity the damn cocksucker who can’t see that.” You shouted, staring up your nose at him.

John shook his head in frustration, deeming this a match he yearned to not fight sober, it was so damn hard for him not to get upset— especially when it came to you. 

“How ‘bout you sleep on it— I’m afraid I can’t let’cha go on by your lonesome in the middle of the night.” John calmly compromised, but to be fair— he wasn’t asking. 

“Give me a break, Marston— Ms. Adler could just abouts spit on me right now, ‘nd I don’t fancy myself on your bad side— I’ve seen what you’ve done to that there O’Driscoll boy.” Your voice came out with an uncharacteristic shake, nearly resembling the whine of a child.

John’s fingers dug into the leather of his belt, his grip tightening with every passing moment as he gnawed at the inside of his lip. 

“C’mere, girl.” John’s brash instructions eventually left his gritted teeth, he did not have the patience nor energy for your silly antics. 

To John’s surprise you hesitantly obeyed, meeting the ground before him with a small plop. 

The space in between you two closed a bit, his body heat radiating off you, turning the aura oddly intimate.   

Yet you could not bring yourself to look at John, his smug eyes burned through you, wondering when he should speak— seeing you this vulnerable was a sight for sore eyes. Maybe he enjoyed it a little too much. Your usual cocky attitude held no chance against him, they were still outlaws after all, and a lot of them at that. Watching you squirm from simply being under his authoritative gaze made his ego violently soar. 

“Hey now, look at me.” He instructed through a breath, you shook your head with a huff of protest. 

“Fuck you, Marston.” The words burned right through him, bringing his power trip to an abrupt halt.   

After quick consideration and no second thoughts, John decided he was not having it—in one swift motion his calloused fingertips met with your jaw, craning your head up to meet his dead-eyed gaze and freshly healed wounds, which only put emphasis on how he towered over you with dominance. 

“Oh, there ya are.” He teased cunningly with a hum, admiring his beat hands on your soft skin, which resembled silk under the blue moon.  

John thought the worse you could do was shoot him point blank, or scream bloody murder to alarm the gang— just to spite him. He reckoned you did not have the gall for either. 

Your frightened doe eyes glistened off the moonlight that broke through the treetops, face remaining unable for him to read. 

“I reckon you behave.” John murmured shortly, the cooed rasp in his voice nearly sounded sickly sweet. He decided to leave you to interpret what the full extent of his words meant. 

He tightened his grip ever so slightly, causing a burning pain to vibrate through his bloody knuckles from an earlier altercation. A part of John hoped he did not hurt you, while another part so desperately wanted to leave a small reminder of who you belonged to— how could you leave him this soon? Right when things were getting back on track.

“If… if you do so much as to speak— I’ll hunt you down my damn self.” John growled through gritted teeth, his words slithering out in a near whisper. 

An empty threat you have summed up to being all talk, but John knew you would not challenge him under these circumstances

You were not surprised by his words, knowing the man would not have taken your departure easily, especially after nearly dying and all. You exhaled gently, face softening under the small illuminance of John’s lantern, now placed at your feet on the forest floor.

John squinted in sudden discomfort, his once gripped hand now resting gently on your cheek, causing regret and shame to wash through him, the subconscious movements just proved how sweet on you he was. 

“‘M sorry, little miss.” John mumbled softly, realization dawning upon him as the guilt began to eat him inside-out. 

Without speaking you hoisted yourself on your tiptoes, placing a gentle kiss on the outlaw’s newly healed cheek. An embarrassing gesture he was just beginning to get used to— who would have thought he would still get loved on with that nasty scar. 

“Jus… just be a good girl, alright?” John murmured huskily, desperately trying to backtrack his prior threats. 

As your lips retreated John’s heart beat increased in anticipation of what you would do. After planting a small kiss on his lips was almost enough for him to ride off into the night with you. 

He broke away, running his beat hands down your shoulders as he thought of what to say. 

“I can’t.” Was all he mumbled to himself, despite your lack of words. 

“But at this rate— maybe.” He chuckled meekly, leaning away from you to prevent any more of your convincing. 

John was so focused on you that he barely noticed the stallion fidgeting anxiously due to the commotion, small snorts and stomps of protest could have nearly been enough to alarm one of the gang joining him on patrol. 

“Whoa, easy now boy.” John hushed, beginning to adjust the saddle and bedroll you lazily threw on in the dark. 

“That scared bastard’ll buck you off at the snap of a twig.” He stated, reaching his hands towards the stallions freshly groomed coat— oh how you desperately tried to get the ol’bastard to tolerate you. 

“Hey now, that bastard is my ticket outta’ere— or perhaps ours.” You defended the poor beast with a shy grin. 

John sighed, finally hearing the suggestion come from you out loud and not just his racing thoughts. The fact that if you would have led with that offer, he might have accepted without second thought. Before John could dig himself out of his trance you mounted up. 

“Farewell John.” You mumbled, fighting the uncertainty in your voice that John so clearly caught on to— he wasn’t the village idiot everyone thought he was, surely. 

“Go on.” You breathed with a small click of your mouth. John watched his greenhorn cowgirl disappear into the night. Evidently the same girl who could barely mount properly weeks ago— the same damn girl who nearly got her insides turned out by the same damn stallion— the same damn girl he would follow around camp in a drunken stupor for one more kiss before bed. 

“fuckin’ idiot.” 

John spat, to himself or you, he could not quite tell. He was not exactly sure what stopped him from racing after you through the warm summer night before losing you for good, or why he wanted to in the first place— maybe it was to laugh in your face when things didn't go your way— maybe it was to prove to you that Dutch’s plan would work— maybe it was to take you for all you’re worth and donate your share to gang, fair and square— or maybe it was for reasons he was conflicted with, thoughts kept quiet he was not sure he could rationalize just yet.  

All he knew was for now, the gang needed him. 

~

[deanwinchesterswitch]

I Promised, Too

Summary: A promise given is a promise kept.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Language; Canon typical injuries; Implied sex

Word Count: 1,194

Note: A companion fic to I Promised but can be read separately.

Beta: @princessmisery666

Cutting left, she disappears into the denser tree line, taking the route he'd laid out for her to Baby. He could have led the way, but he wants to make sure she doesn't fall prey to the douchebags hunting them like animals.

She rescued him from the basement where he was being held, but they hadn't made it far from the house when the bullets started flying. The twisted bastards must have known, simply giving them a head start under the guise of an easy escape. The small projectiles whistle through the air decimating the fresh foliage in tiny explosions of bark and greenery.

"Sooie!" 

Clenching his jaw when the shout, accompanied by snorting sounds, reaches him, he stops and pushes up against a tree for cover. If they call out again, he can pinpoint their location. A few moments later, he's rewarded with, "Here, piggy-piggies."

Even though it's too dark to see clearly, he turns toward their voices, searching. The snap of a twig tells him they're headed in the opposite direction, so he sets off to follow her, cursing when a tracer sets the sky alight in a shower of white sparks and smoke. Glancing one last time in her direction, he takes off to the right to lure them away and give her a chance to get to safety. 

It’s only been a matter of seconds when he feels the burn of molten metal bore through the meat of his shoulder. Stumbling, he manages to stay upright. The next round rips through his side, and another pierces his thigh, sending him to his knees.

Crawling over to a patch of undergrowth to hide, he grits his teeth against the pain. Hearing them crashing through the forest toward him, he slides further into the brush, arm and leg dropping when they land on nothing but air. “Shit.” 

Cautiously looking over the edge, he can just make out the ground below as the last remnants of the tracer’s illumination fade. It’s about a five-foot drop. He debates letting them capture him to distract them from hunting her. Then again, what good will he be if they truss him up again …or worse.

There are four of them, and he’s not exactly in top form at the moment. She’s quick and smart. She’ll make it out. He decides to bide his time for now and assess his injuries before making a move. Clamping his mouth closed to quiet his breathing, he rolls over the ledge. 

“Where did he go?”

“I saw him drop. He has to be close.”

Shuffling overhead sends debris raining down on him, and he presses himself beneath the outcropping as far as possible. His shoulder numbs as they thrash through the scrub and underbrush, searching. Then a shout echos through the darkness, and they take off.

Fear that they're going straight for her spurs him into action. It doesn’t matter now what happens to him. He needs to create a diversion. Sitting up sends a wave of dizziness and nausea through him. He won’t make it back up the rock face, but he needs to get out in the open and get their attention. A couple of deep breaths, and he’s on his knees, grunting with a final push upward.

Stumbling away from the overhang, he makes it a couple of yards before collapsing. Fuckers must have tipped the bullets with something. There's no way those shots should be taking him out this quickly. 

“Son of a bitch!” Rolling onto his back, he berates himself. He should have just stayed with her. At least they would be together.

He's always known that his end would be bloody, and she thought hers would be the same. They'd talked about it in hushed voices, bodies moving in sync, hands tracing over sweat-slicked skin, fingers pressed against pulse points. Affirmation to each that they were alive and safe. They'd promised each other that no matter what, they'd be together when the end came, but he'd silently sworn to keep her from falling prey to a hunter's end. He hopes fate doesn't intervene and lets those sonsofbitches cut her down.

She deserves better.

Making one more attempt to move, he can barely lift himself an inch off the ground. A piece of bark scrapes his neck as he falls back into the mossy earth. Bugs chirp and hum, leaves rustle, and a frog croaks nearby, a soothing lament to his ragged breaths. Life fading faster than the blood flowing, he tries to focus, to send a silent message to the stars of all the things he should have said to her. Words he should have whispered in her ear or said aloud daily but will never get to say now.

Lips soft and sweet brush along his jaw, breath warm as her tongue sweeps over his, fingers card through his hair, nails gently scraping over his scalp, the weight of her body a comfort. The memories attempt to swallow him and ease the guilt, but the exigency to protect her fights against the lull of contentment. Feeling his pulse spike, then slow, breaths becoming irregular, he shivers beneath the layers of flannel and canvas, his vision blurs, thoughts drifting. He wonders if he'll know his reaper. Maybe they'll tell her for him.

Another tracer illuminates the canopy of trees in the direction she'd gone, and he cries out in anger and frustration. The night falls eerily silent beneath the brightness and then roars to life as a wave of gunfire fills the misty air, along with cries of fury and pain. He swears he can hear her screaming for him and prays they didn't catch up to her. He calls her name one final time. A spray of dirt and decay shower his face as something lands hard next to him, but he's too far gone to do anything, sinking into the peaceful abyss.

He jerks awake, grunting as pain shoots through his entire body, rippling from the epicenters of his leg and shoulder wounds. His chest heaves as he breathes through the worst of it, hands fisting in the fabric beneath his palms. He hears a click and a beep, the pain recedes to a tolerable level, and then awareness hits. Snapping his eyelids open, he's met by blinding light and immediately closes them. Definitely not Hell, but he gets a sense that it's not Heaven, either. You never know with those dicks, though.

Movement to his right and the sweetest sounding growled, "Thank fuck!" have him peeling his eyes open again. This time in a squint. Softly calloused fingers wrap around his wrist, pressing into his pulse, and a palm is carefully flattened over his heart.

A few blinks later, he's met with trembling lips and a tear-filled gaze when their eyes fully connect.

"Y- you came b- back." His voice cracks, throat raw, the words laced with anger and awed adoration. Reaching for her, he's stopped short by the tug of an IV needle and monitor wires and drops his hand to his chest to cover hers.

A cheek damp with tears presses against his, and she whispers, "I promised, too."

Love Me Some Pie tag list:

@123passwort // @akshi8278 // @asgoodasdancingqueen // @calaofnoldor // @compresshischest09 // @deaneverafter // @deans-baby-momma // @deans-spinster-witch // @deanwanddamons // @globetrotter28 // @iamsapphine // @idreamofplaid // @impala-dreamer // @iprobablyshipit91 // @irgendwas122 // @jerkbitchidjitassbutt // @justagirlinafandomworld // @justrealizedimmascifygurl // @ladysparkles78 // @lyarr24 // @mimaria420 // @mrswhozeewhatsis // @musicissmylife // @mvdeanw // @pallographsunspot // @princessmisery666 // @raisinggray // @shawnie74 // @thinkinghardhardlythinking // @thoughts-and-funnies // @waynes-multiverse // @wayward-and-worn // @waywardbaby // @weepingwillowphoenix // @yvonneeeee

[kimberbohwrites]

Alright, I'm officially launching this. It's been a long time coming on this one. Dusk & Honey: Chapter One Next Chapter> Word Count: 4,157 Rated: Overall fic rating is Explicit, this chapter is SFW READ ON AO3 (or continued below) Please don't forget to kudos/comment/like/reblog <3 >Halsin x Tav art by @ DARKURGETRASH on tumblr<

Summary: The story of my OC Tav, Luna and her experience during the timeline of the game, not modifying canon so much as adding more to the Halsin-romance path. Featuring: world-building, action, well-researched drow lore, hurt/comfort, slowburn Halsin romancing, and eventual smut. PLEASE MIND THE TAGS, we'll be exploring trauma in several areas including touching on some of the darker canon trauma faced by Halsin. Tags/Warnings: Eventual Smut, Enemies to Lovers, mildly they are gonna fight, Halsin Romance Route, Named Tav, Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Drow Culture , Half-Drow Tav, Anti-Drow Racism, Anti-Tiefling Racism, Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Baldur's Gate 3, Cleric Tav, Implied/Referenced S*xual Assault, (meaning the eventual discussion of Halsin's time in the underdark), Pining

Chapter One

Luna had seen a lot in her life but the events of the last tenday had left her unsettled and she didn’t care much for the feeling. It was probably the fact that she’d experienced true terror before in her past and she wasn’t keen to relive it again so soon. She was relatively young for her kind, only 50 or so years old, as a half-drow that settled her in her final years as a young adult. Were she human she might be considered middle aged or even older by the archaic standards by which they viewed women.

I guess that was something the drow do have right, holding our older women in reverence.

She shook the thought away, she knew the cost of that reverence was absolute tyranny under Lolth. Pushing her long white hair out of her eyes she peered out from her bedroll at her strange new companions. Sleep wouldn’t come easy for her and so she silently stood and retreated from the circle of safety in which they slept each night. Their forms were still, save for Karlach who let out a snore and a grunt every so often.

A tiefling barbarian powered by infernal mechanics, an vampiric elf with tragedy in his eyes, a cursed human man with too much mystery to make him simply a harmless wizard, a fairytale prince with a dark past, an alien from a different plane whose hardened armor likely shielded more than just her body, and another half human stuck worshipping a terrible goddess for unclear reasons.

The half smile that crept across her face in the moonlight held warmth. She couldn’t help but already feel a certain attachment to them. Was it too soon to call them friends? How does one describe a group of perfect strangers who are about to risk their lives together?   They were on the eve of storming a massive goblin war encampment. Where hopefully they’d be able to retrieve a Druid who might be able to heal them of the mindflayer tadpoles they’d found themselves infected with at the start of their adventure.

Halsin, they’d called him.

The handsome older tiefling at the grove seemed certain that if anyone could set everything to rights, it would be him. Luna held no love for the Druids of the Emerald Grove for she had seen their cruelty firsthand. While her Goddess, Eilstraee called her to good, it had been all she could do not to rip out the Druid Kagha’s throat when she had discovered her holding a child under the threat of death by a venomous snake. She could have killed a little tiefling girl all over a statue.

As a Cleric, her reverence for her Goddess was absolute but she was certain that the Dark Maiden wouldn’t call on her followers to kill children for removing a statue. Luna wasn’t educated in the ways of Sylvanus but surely he wouldn’t have wanted blood spilled over his idol. With a deep huff, she cleared the memory of Kagha from her mind and gazed up at the moonlight.

Moonbathing was her favorite thing to do since she’d made it to the surface. There wasn’t a moon or a sun in Menzoberanzan — just the Narbondel and the fairie fire of various shades that lit the cavernous spaces and houses, some bioluminescent flora and fauna existed as well. Largely, there was darkness and the bleakness of the Underdark had weighed heavy on her. They’d said it was because she was a “filthy half-breed” and that was why she couldn’t abide the Underdark. But the joke had been on every person who’d pursued her as she’d fled Menzoberranzan. Every member of the party was a full drow, a whole hunting party meant to eliminate her before she could escape the Underdark. Her survival had been mere dumb luck, because as she’d finally made it to the surface they’d overtaken her to discover it was a midday on a brilliantly sunny summer morning. They’d been forced to turn back, some falling to the ground in pain and being left by the group to suffer.

Luna had continued into the sun, her eyes and skin burned against the foreign rays of the sun — but that pain had been all that stood between her and freedom.

That had been almost 30 years ago but the memory still felt like a fresh wound in her mind. She forced the sounds of screaming and the curses chanted on the wind from the Clerics of Lolth. Instead, she let the moonlight kiss her skin as she offered her arms and her troubles up to the visage of her Goddess in her lunar form. Swaying lightly in the breeze as she allowed her muscles to ease and willed the stress and unease away. She scanned the reaches of her mind, her memories for something sweeter to replace them.

Images of perfect ripe berries, sunflowers, the yellowed and worn pages of her favorite book, and silver swords ringing true all flashed across her mind. Her favorite things never failed to bring a smile to her face. But something else, just a flash of something new had been in the mix: kind eyes and the warm words of the very Druid they currently sought to rescue.

The words were easy to know the source of, she had taken Halsin’s journal and his pipe from the Grove while Nettie hadn’t been looking. While she didn’t approve of stealing, she couldn’t help but want to know more about the Elf that everyone spoke so highly of on both sides of the simmering conflict. Besides, she had told herself repeatedly that she would return them to him as soon as she rescued him so it truly wasn’t stealing. Many of her nights were sleepless and reading over his notes and journal entries had been like getting to know the man a through one-sided correspondence. Luna couldn’t help but notice an obvious warmth in the tone of his words, even in something as clinical as his research notes.

The flowers were drawn so lovingly, as were the animals depicted in the quite talented sketches that accompanied many of the notes. She thought of the soft Druid that must have drawn them — probably meek and scared in the hands of their goblin captors. Her resolve strengthened.

The kind eyes took her a moment longer to connect, but after a moment a blush crept across her dusky, storm-blue skin. They were Zevlor’s eyes, of course, the kind and handsome older tiefling that had sent them in search of Halsin in the first place. Luna had always had a soft spot for people who care for those around them who are weaker. Zevlor’s dedication to his kin had been admirable.

She’d wished she hadn’t talked him out of laying out Aradin, that failed adventurer, but alas it has been the right thing to do. Violence was nessecary, yes, but only as a last resort when the time for words was passed. With the new lightness of spirit provided by her meditation came the clarity of the truth before her. It was very likely that unavoidable violence lay on the horizon for Luna. It wasn’t that she was afraid for herself, as a tempest Cleric, her ability to heal and destroy had already made her valuable for her camp-mates.

Luna recalled the stunned look on Gale of Waterdeep’s face when his thunderwave had missed during the battle at the front gate of the Druid Grove where they’d first happened upon Wyll, Zevlor, and Aradin. She had stepped up right after and with a deft hand, thunderwaved two goblins from the top of the outcropping on which they’d chosen to make their stand. The goblins had perished and her party had been able to fight its way to the small group in front of the gate to rescue them from the Worg and Bugbear which had surrounded them.

“What kind of Cleric are you exactly?”

Gale had done little to disguise the shock in his voice as he asked that question. It was colored with both amusement and surprise. Luna had smiled sweetly at the question and offered her answer. In truth she had barely avoided the wizard and her other companions. She was powerful but like the storms she wielded, her power was unruly and dangerous.

No, it wasn’t herself that she was afraid for.

Zevlor popped into her mind once more, triggered by the memory. His dusky crimson skin, the wrinkles and ridges that adorned his rugged face, and the nervous twitch of his tail as they’d spoken together in private in his cave. With a start, she shook his face loose of her mind and started back for the campfire. Sleep would be important to the success of tomorrow’s battle. She had already let Astarion feed on her, she couldn’t handle any distractions or weaknesses.

She climbed back into her thin bedroll, flat on her back to look at the stars as she let the sweet sounds of the evening carry her to sleep.

—*—*——*—*—

The battles had been trying, but they had lived to tell the tale — but only just. Sneaking in through a weak wall in the temple facade had proven a key strategy, she was grateful for Wyll and his ability to blast down the rubble. It had allowed them to bypass the leaders and goblins within as they’d made their way back to where Astarion had spotted a bear being tortured by the goblins.

It was very likely, this was their Druid but they had no way of knowing for sure.

Only Wyll and Karlach had supported her in her decision to free the bear without knowing fully. But her companions had followed her into battle nonetheless. The large brown cave bear had in fact, been the Druid Halsin and he’d noted her potential madness at freeing a bear with no questions asked.

The moment Luna had laid eyes on him out of wildshape form, something had caught in her chest. Something she’d never felt before. She’d seen many handsome men and women in her time, surely this wasn’t just about Halsin being easy on the eyes. He was an altogether unexpected thing, the soft and meek Druid she had been anticipating was instead an unusually large elf, built more like an orc than any elf she’d ever laid eyes upon. It was another thought for her to bury in her mind for another time. There was additional bloodshed ahead of them and it didn’t look like it was something they would return alive from.

When Halsin had offered to go with them to finish off the goblin leadership and the hundreds of goblins within the ruined temple of Selune, Luna had eagerly agreed. She found the presence of a large cave bear padding softly behind her, oddly soothing despite the way he seemed to unsettle everyone else in her party.

The full drow that had awaited them in an antechamber, Minthara had chilled Luna to the bone. There had been such hate in her eyes and it had forced bitter memories to the forefront of her mind. Like savage childhood beatings from Lolth’s favored that looked just like the cruel drow woman, who they’d come upon plotting the mass murder of the Druid grove with the eagerness of someone picking what to eat for dinner. Killing her had been easier than she would have liked to admit. 

Halsin and Karlach had lead the charge in, with Luna, Astarion, and Wyll on their heels. But Minthara’s focus had lasered in on Luna.

“Oh, whelps like you are quite rare for a reason, half-breed”

The Paladin’s words had settled on her like ice that threatened to paralyze her and she had felt the familiar panic rise in her chest one more. She was never going back, she’d sooner die. Minthara could tell she had hit a nerve and continued her line of verbal attacks, coupled with brutal physical blows to Karlach.

“Usually, someone would do you the kindness of putting an abomination like you out of your misery as a babe, how uncared for you were that they couldn’t have spared you the shame.”

When it happened, her heart had been beating so hard that it pounded in her ears like some artificer’s creation. Her blood ran cold and the rage she felt within had let loose to a blissful emptiness that overwhelmed Luna like the tide pulling her out. What had come next was a surprise to everyone but her, oh she knew what would happen and it had been too late to stop it.

Luna’s power had exploded it out in a violent storm surge of thunder and lightning, like a typhoon contained within a dropped flask — it engulfed everything around it. Wyll and Astarion were lucky enough to be standing far enough back to simply be knocked to the ground and hit with bits of debris from the blast. Minthara, Halsin, and Karlach couldn’t say the same.

The sound of Minthara’s scream growing quieter before fading away completely as she had plummeted to her death in the cavern below them was all Luna could hear as her eyes had tried to refocus from the blast. Tears had already brimmed in her eyes, if Karlach and Halsin had been standing in the wrong place — not even her healing magic could bring them back from that fall.

“Luna! For gods sake, help!” Came Wyll’s voice on the ledge of the pit. His arm had been latched to the unconscious form of Halsin, dangling in the cavern. He had been knocked out of wildshape and was elven again. Astarion was clinging to Wyll’s ankles and pulled back with all of his might to try to stop the warlock from sliding off the edge after the Druid.

She’d bit back the forming tears and dove down to the ledge and spread herself out flat, grabbing Halsin’s other arm. Still, the three of them weren’t enough to haul the Druid back to safety and she could feel them slipping after him.

“We need to let go damnit!” Astarion had hissed as he continued to hold Wyll’s legs.

Luna knew he had meant it to save their lives, but still she had held fast and pulled in an attempt to accomplish the impossible. She was unwilling to let Halsin die alone because of her foolish lack of control. She had been so ready to accept her death, she had just needed to get the other two to let go.

“Take Wyll!”

She’d shouted back at Astarion, hoping he’d choose to save the two of them as opposed to dying. The look of shock on his face had been new.

“No one is letting go, solider” Had come a groggy voice over their heads as Karlach had reached over the edge and grabbed Halsin by the back of his tunic. She had clearly been knocked unconscious by the blast and was bleeding from a large gash on her head. Her arrival was like a hero of old, auspiciously timed when all hope seemed to be lost. Tav wondered if Karlach had become used to having to save the day constantly as a result of her hard decade in Avernus.

Her fingers had still clung to the massive Druid’s arm, his skin slick from the battle but her grip felt more secure. Karlach had begun to slowly pull Halsin back up as the three of them scrambled to help. Incredibly, with her help it had been easy to move him.

Luna scrambled to her feet to make room for the massive Druid’s form and she’d encouraged Karlach to lay down as well.

“Please Karlach, i’m so sorry this is all my fault, let me heal you”

The guilt that threatened to paralyze her had risen like a tide from within. It’s all my fault. She had willed a steady breath into her lungs as Karlach settled before her. The moon controls the tides. She had repeated it to herself over and over. Before long her heart had begun to beat steadier and she had allowed herself to relax after a few moments.

Looking Karlach over had revealed some painful looking, but easily healed superficial wounds. Luna had quickly rummaged through her pouch to find the bottles she kept wrapped in grimy scraps of fabric so they didn’t break.

“Got a bottle of the strong stuff while you’re in there, solider?”

Karlach’s jokes had seemed quick but the wince she had made revealed that the humor was a simple front. Finally she had located the bottles she was looking for, glowing red and freshly brewed by her that morning. She’d always loved herbalism and luckily there were a lot of herbs and other reagents found on the road.

“Drink this, I promise you’ll feel good as new, friend.”

“Bottoms up, mate”

She’d then been able to turn her attention to the Druid, she had found him being tended to by the less capable hands of Wyll and Astarion. The latter being the real culprit. Wyll had removed his jacket and forced Astarion out of his to create a pillow under Halsin’s head. Halsin had appeared awake but only barely, his eyes looking up at the cavern ceiling above him without focus.

His eyes had seemed to try to find hers as soon as she had entered his field of vision when she leaned down to look him over.

“By… Sylvanus” He had murmured “My lady”

She’d found blood pooled on the ground under his head and more running slowly from one of his ears. It was then she bad been positive, her stomach sunk slightly at the truth, the bleeding in combination with the difficulty focusing had meant massive head trauma. Fatal, if unhealed.

“Shhhhh, it’s just a bump on the head, you’re going to be okay”

Wyll had glanced down at the blood pooled on the ground and then back to her, bristling at her obvious lie to the Druid. Sure, it had been much more than a bump on the head — But Luna planned to make good on her promise. There had been no need to panic the large elf. She liked Wyll, he was brave and had the makings of the kind of hero she’d always heard about in tales that had inspired her. But he was also young.

She had shot Wyll a firm look before turning her attention back to the Druid. Luna had then gently eased his head down flat on to the ground and removed the makeshift pillow from under him. She’d tossed them over toward Astarion who had immediately taken issue with the state of his jacket. He’d held the bloodstained garment aloft with a look of disdain.

“Would you look at the state of —“

 Luna had fixed Astarion with one of her harder looks and his sentence had trailed off. While Luna never liked to issue threats of violence unless absolutely necessary — she also wasn’t above letting someone know they were toying with the line, with a single glance. Growing up the way she had and being alone for so long, that look had been a life saving mechanism.

She’d turned her attention to her charge once more and had found him even more dazed than he had been only moments before, a smile had spread across his broad face as his eyes tried hard to focus on her. Something had stirred like a tickle in her chest at the sweet look on the dazed man’s face. What was wrong with her? He was dying for goddesses sake and she’d allowed a momentary distraction.

“It’s you” he’d murmured

“Shhhhh”

“Eilstraee, I saw you in a painting…” Halsin’s voice had trailed off.

Luna had fought back the blush she’d felt at such an obvious but flattering mistake. He was concussed and needed healing, he didn’t know what he was talking about. She’d hushed him gently again and closed her eyes. She had looked to the night sky within her and the beautiful pendant of the moon hanging on its canvas. A deep breath had centered her within her power as she summoned the strongest healing spell she had been capable of in that moment.

In hindsight it had probably wasteful to expend the most powerful healing spell she had on hand before they’d dealt with Dror Ragzlin. Still, it had worked out for the best, the hobgoblin had been no match for a full strength cave bear blessed with the might of her goddess. Of course he’d been helped by a freshly healed and mended Karlach, Wyll, Astarion, and herself.

They’d agreed there would have to be a discussion on what exactly happened when Minthara had pushed her too far. She’d begged for their patience and to respect her privacy. It was the same respect given to all of them. They had agreed with varying levels of ease — some outright vowing to pry it out of her. There was a lot she should have probably said to her new companions but she couldn’t begin to understand how to start. For now she was content in respecting their secrets and begging them to let her have hers.

They were grateful to reach camp and the rest of their traveling companions that night. Gale had prepared a stew of foraged roots and some fish he’d magicked out of the Chinothar. It bubbled on a smaller fire the wizard maintained just for his nightly prepared meals. Always ready for whenever his companions were ready to eat as he lounged in a chair nearby, reading a heavy tome.

Strangely, even now as they began their post-battle and evening rituals, her mind drifted back to sweet moment when Halsin had awoken freshly healed. She’d been holding one of his hands as the spell took hold. As he had come back to full consciousness, his thumb had begun to stroke her hand tenderly. Luna had tried not to think much of the action until the Druid had sheepishly cleared his throat and pulled his hand away from her grasp with an awkward chuckle.

But now, standing outside her tent, gathering her supplies for a bath her mind drifted back to the gentle touch of his large hand in hers. Why did she feel so strange after healing a man she’d just met? Sure, the elf was attractive but she was sure it wasn’t that. She’d taken people to bed before and none had caused such an unusual reaction. Logic clearly pointed to a romantic affliction. However drow were not known for being romantic and in that regard Luna was more drow than human.

Maybe I should just bed the giant elf and get him out of my system.

Her goddess embodied love of all types but romantic love had always seemed beyond her understanding. Eilstraee had been patient always in their meditations, but deep down she worried her goddess believed such a thing beyond her. Not that it matters and I’m missing much, she thought.   She enjoyed carnal relations and had never met anyone to change that to anything deeper. She shook these questions and frustrations from her mind as started off toward the river, sundries in hand.

By the roaring fire, several of her companions had already gathered around warm bowls of food, fresh from their baths. Tomorrow they were due back at the Grove, Halsin having already headed there right after the fall of Dror Ragzlin to set the escalating conflict to rights. She continued past her companions with a quiet smile, polite but quick enough to not invite company.

As she scrubbed the grime and blood of the day away her mind drifted to Minthara again. She’d been a Baenre. After so long free of that nightmare and yet the conflicts and horrors of her people had found her already. A Baenre. Minthara’s family had essentially ruled Menzoberranzan since not long after its founding. Of course Lolth’s will was the final word, but the Matron Mother of House Banere had only the Spider Queen herself above her in station.

Her heart began to race. Even a Half Drow like herself, kept out of sight as a servant and whipping post, knew about House Baenre. All Minthara had probably ever known was violence and at the end, she’d died a violent death. In her chest, her heart heaved at that thought. Her eyes brimmed with tears, she refused to allow to fall, she wouldn’t cry for that monster.

Am I any better than they are after this?

 As she lingered in the water the tears had fallen anyway, carving little rivers of their own in the blood and muck on her cheeks — the evidence of her guilt. She scrubbed harder at her face in the broken reflection on the surface of the water.

Scrub as hard as you want, the truth will always be there. You’re just. like. them.

[rayetherna]

Reached my boiling point after Fontaine AQ & all the consumed fan content, and decided to dive into my dream-based post-canon/ canon divergent dragon!Aether AU, in which the Traveler "unlocks" himself a dragon form through [4.2 AQ spoilers]. So I snatched a liner to not get "stuck" in sketches, and found him during work breaks ^^

Think of this AU as taking place after the final (successful) war with Celestia, in which Aether participated in the form of that huge eldritch gentleman from the last sketch page. Also, most of my Genshin content revolves/will revolve around my polyamorous Kaeya/Aether/Ajax (Kaetherajax) OTP in any dynamic. Although "my" Aether is far more on a leading side, a "connecting link", and an anchor for Ajax and Kaeya - all three ultimately being a secret safe space for each other.

So wth did this come from:

I once had a dream about Aether being stuck in the dragon form in a different world xD He looked similar to a dragon OC of mine, as if he +- belonged to the same species but with his own quirks. In the dream he looked somewhere in-between the "condensed" (was also a liiiiittle bit bigger than that) and "uncondensed" versions. The twins found themselves in a "classy fantasy" world with different branches of magic, and Aether turned out to be a metamorph-healer. They helped to alleviate this world's global crisis, but a fragment of something connected with the local "dark side of the force" got lodged in Aether's chest, seized control over him and forced him to slip away in an unknown direction, stuck in the form of a dragon. Lumine and the local Chaeya set off to search for him - and succeeded! He almost R.I.P.ed them, but came to his senses in time. Most memorable moments:

Aether's appearance - he had three eyes, and when he was under control of the shard, the right and third eyes were just rolled back white, while the left had multiple pupils, similar to a demon from my bw pict attached. But he was overall incredibly creepy in this "possessed" state.

When Aether began to struggle for control, he moved like... I don't know how to describe it, but it was SO fucked up - it was clear from the movements that two entities were fighting for the "seat at the helm", and the body looked like a marionet at times. The closest I can think of is the monkey boss from Sekiro in its headless phase, when it does plunge attacks and forward dashes with a sword x'DDD The sight was absolutely chilling.

When Aether "surfaced" and allowed Lumi, Kaeya and Ajax to get their hands almost elbow-deep into his chest and try to pull out the shard. But while it was budging, it was burning their hands almost to the bone, even despite Lumi's healing and the combo of water-ice cooling from Cheya. In the end it tossed them all aside by some sort of shockwave - so Aether dove into his own wound while he was still "lucid", and ripped the shard out with his own teeth, for Lumine to destroy it.

And the last but not the least was the most hilarious scene of licking the wounds of the companions - Aether was capable of healing almost any damage but in such a strange way, 'cause dragon incarnation enhanced all the abilities, but something about its "composition" influenced "magic conductivity" xDD He carefully used Kaya's palm as an example for what he had in mind (he had a hard time speaking in this form). Kaeya immediately bared Childe's nasty wound (on his side) from Aether's claws, and Childe was instantly alarmed for the most ridiculous reasons:

Сhilde: Nononono wait - he's her brother, right? A human! Another very human man licking me! How is that okay?! Kaeya: ... Do you HAVE to make things even more awkward than they are? Lumine: does a discreet eyeroll

Turns out it was very much okay, but there was one very awkwardly fluffed up Aether licking the wounds of a tomato-grade red Childe, who was hiding his face in his hands.

[petra-creat0r]

Deltarune: Fool's Fate Ch. 1 Secret Boss

So I've decided I should probably post refs of my Fool's Fate bosses since I did that for my prediction bosses and since I'm including them in my secret boss reactions, it'd probably be useful that people know who the heck they are.

Though Dorothy and her backstory has been mentioned on my side blog @apupp3tw0-strings as Chicago learned about it in real time, and I've mentioned her a few times here, I'm betting most of you don't really know about her as I haven't actually posted her backstory here. So here you go.

(Dorothy's battle theme by my wonderful friend @kierangecko)

Her name isn't intentionally a Wizard of Oz reference (though looking at her outfit during her height I can see it), but instead as it means "Gift of God", which will make more sense when I get into her backstory and how she met the "strange someone". Basically, her name, her whole identity, was a gift from what could be considered A God. Perhaps more of the eldritch variety to Darkners but still a God.

Her text quirk is speaking in clips stitched together from those she's heard, aka other dialogue from Undertale, Deltarune, or Fool's Fate for the purposes of me playing her in an RP I've been running on my Discord server. She has no voice of her own, and can only mimic the voice's she's heard.

I love Dorothy. She snowballed from me getting the idea of a mannequin or something without identity or purpose that was given one by the "strange someone". I also think she'll hold a place in my heart as the first secret boss I created straight up. Before even thinking of making Bitsy, Elymas, or Veratus. Back when I was in the mind set of "I don't want too make prediction bosses because I'll get it wrong when the chapters come out and it'll be ruined." Now I have had character development and said "Fuck it. I'm making my own take, this was gonna diverge from canon anyways."

I still need to finish my Dorothy plush.

Backstory under the cut

She used to be nothing but a blank doll. An empty face with no name, no identity, no purpose. A blank slate longing to be filled. Her Light World counter part is a DIY doll kit that was meant to be a Gyftmas gift for Broadway, but was left up in the attic and forgotten about.

No one paid any mind to her. Barely anyone knew she existed as she wandered aimlessly around the Dusty Plains. Her only companion being the snake fortune teller who'd set up shop out in the Plains. Jeanie would listen to the doll even without her saying a word, and read her fates many time. Each time the snake assuring the doll that her future held infinite potential.

On day though, the doll came across a man. A strange someone who offered to lend her a hand. He gave her an identity. A face, a voice, a name. Dorothy. And after pulling the last thread to give her a mouth, the man gave Dorothy a purpose. Live the life she wished to lead, but come to him if she needed anymore help. And so she did. The first step in the man's new plan.

With the man's help, Dorothy was finally recognized and rose in popularity. Eventually joining the Upper Choir, the governing force over the Land of Attica. Dorothy couldn't be happier. People knew her. People talked to her. People... listened to her. It was around this time that the man enacted the next phase of his plan. Showing Dorothy the truth of this world. Revealing that they were all nothing more than a bunch of dusted toys and clothes up in an attic. The Lightners they all worshiped weren't coming back for them.

The rest of the Choir didn't like it when Dorothy started spreading this new gospel. They exiled her back to the Dusty Plains. This outraged the ragdoll. They refused to see the truth. They were blind. All of them were blind, blind fools. In her exile, Dorothy was driven to violence, ripping the Plains apart with pins and needles, attempting to puppeteer those who refused to see the truth right in front of them. She had to be stopped.

And to think that her only friend since the beginning was the one to call the Choir Guard.

Dorothy was locked away for quote "Your own and every one else's safety." She yelled and screamed at that stupid Magician as he walked back to the elevator, leaving Dorothy all alone in a padded cell forever.

... That was until a possessed puppet and his companions happened to find their way down.

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

Her story is meant to mirror/parallel Jevil's in a way, though it also takes a bit from Spamton's. I think I've gotten better at writing secret boss backstory's since making my prediction bosses, but I still like Dorothy and her backstory. She and Jevil are friends post Fool's Fate Chapter 1.

[its-in-the-woods]

The Woman Who Couldn’t die

master list

Pairing: The Ghoul/Cooper Howard x Original Character 

Alternative Universe where I make things up cause I can only research so much k?

MINOR GET OUT. Rating/Warning:  Canon typical violence, Suggestions of SA, NonCon (not by the main two characters) Suggestions of SH, Mutilation, Body horror, Suggestion of T0rture, lots of g0re, bl0od, angst, hurt/comfort, death, monsters, evil humans, drugs use, addiction, slow build, self-loathing.. 

Tags will be edited based on the chapter, please make sure you read them. Each chapter will be roughly 2-3k.

Synopsis: Set a few years before Dom Pedro gets a hold of the Ghoul. The Ghoul is traveling back from the east coast, doing side quests for chems, after saving a girl from closet. She becomes an unlikely companion, that softens the Ghoul’s hardshell.

Note: These will be spaced out as I am heavily editing and researching them.

The door creaks open, a whimper escapes from the girl's lips. The gunfire had only died down a few seconds ago. How she hadn't been hit was nothing short of luck. The door had a dozen holes in it, she was shrunk down as much as the bind on her wrist would let her. Her body was completely naked to the midday sunshine, her skin covered in a number of scars. But for as many scars as she had, she had twice as many bruises. Her hair was a dark map that covered most of her face. Head turned away from the blazing sun.

Blinking several times at the tall figure, cowboy hat covering most of his face as he took her.

“Please,” She whispered, voice horse like she hadn't had water in days, “Just kill me, or do whatever. Don't leave me here.”

The man pulled out a long hunting knife. She whined, trying to cringe away, waiting for the cutting to start. A gasp of surprise when she felt her right then left arm dropdown. Her shoulders scream from being in the same position for so long. He shuffled closer and undid the leg ropes, before turning and leaving. She crumbled to the ground trying to get feeling back in her hands. Shaking them and rubbing them together until the blood seemed to come back. The ache of her body didn't stop her from trying to stand. Brain dizzy from lack of food and water, stumbling out of what had been her prison for the last several weeks.

“Here,” a gruff voice said, clothes falling at her feet.

She turned to look at her leather-cladded savoir, she could see the red of his skin as he turned to look at her. A Ghoul, his skin was marred and scared from years of radiation. Their nose was gone, but human eyes looked back at her. Swallowing she put on the clothes, they were too big but at least she wasn't naked anymore. She grabbed a belt off one of the bodies and cinched it so her pants would stay up.

“When's the last time you ate?” The Ghoul asked as he dug through the piles of bodies strewn across the floor. Everyone who had ever harmed her lay in a pool of filth, holes leaking ooze and staining the wooden floorboards.

She looks at him confused, why would he give a shit? No one ever cared, she was just a walking object to most. The Ghoul sighed walking over and opening up one of the cupboards pulling out several cans of food. He placed them in front of her, patting the tops with a leather-covered hand.

“Eat. There are stimpaks in the safe behind you.” He spoke as if he hadn't just cut her free from the rape closet she had been stuck in.

Looking at the cans felt almost surreal. The girl grabbed the first one, ripped the lid off, and devoured it, her stomach aching as she finally ate. She went to the cupboard where she’d seen her captures keep water. Swinging it open she downed a bottle. The sweet relief nearly had her collapsing on the floor. Leaning heavily like a drunken sailor against the desk she fumbled for the safe. It had been left open. The first stimpak felt like a jolt, the second lifted the fog. She felt the most normal she had had in, it had to have been months. Months of being locked away, and given to anyone for caps.

Vomit came up and she barely made it over the spitetune before everything came up. Throat burning from what was previously her meal. She grabbed another bottle, sipping it this time, to ease the burns.

A raspy chuckle came from the creature she'd forgotten about. Turning she glared at him, somehow managing to stand still.

“Take’er slow girl,” The Ghoul said, handing her another open can of food. “Or you'll lose more,”

“Jade,” The girl croaked out, a mouth full of something fish-like. “Names Jade.”

“Yeah don't care for your name,” The man said, digging around and pulling out a large bag of caps. “Got what I came for and a little more,” He patted the saddle bag.

Jade watched him go to the door. Panic is setting in as he pushes through the broken door. She scrambles grabbing boots that kind of fit, tearing out of the door.

“Wait,” She called out as the man sauntered away. He wasn’t slowing down and the sun is too bright for her to see. Quickly ducking back into the shambled building she found a pair of tinted goggles. A bag which she stuffed full of food, water, and stimpacks. Grabbing a knife that goes onto the stolen belt, and pilfering a machete that she straps across her back.. Ammunition and a handgun go on the other hip. She pushes over a bookcase, reaching into the alcove to grab a stash bag of caps and chems. Snagging a jacket as she runs to the door, She feels dizzy, her body not used to moving so fast, much less moving at all. But that Ghoul could be her only chance at being remotely safe out here.

Stumbling out of the door Jade falls face-first into the dirt. Groaning as she picked herself up, the Ghoul was gone. A string of curses coming out as she took off in the direction he had gone. Determination pushed through the burn of the sun and ache in her bones.

The Ghoul had been pretty pissed at being told they didn't have the bounty he was promised. Instead, offering some time with a girl, like tail got him chems. Plus he wasn't interested in rape. He was a man with few morals but there were lines he wouldn't cross. Nothing his hand couldn't take care of. After arguing with the piece of shit, Joel, something or other. One of his ‘bodyguards’ had made the unfortunate decision to draw on him. The Ghoul was faster.

The Ghoul smirked a little, remembering the man's face as his dumbass guard drew. Both of them were on the floor within seconds. A couple of his other goons had gotten a few shots in but nothing he couldn't dig out later. The asshole outside with a shotgun was annoying but he had walked away with what he was looking for. A nice bag of caps, and enough chems to get him to the next town or two. He’d need to patch his jacket but all of that could wait for now.

The sight of the girl in the closet had made his skin crawl. Body marked with what those bastards had done to her. It wasn’t the first time or the last time, he had seen something similar. It wasn’t always girls, sometimes boys too, ghouls, anything else they could tie up and lock away to use. He shrugged the thought off taking a deep breath of chems from his inhaler. It was best to push those thoughts somewhere out of sight. He’d done his part, cut her free, and let her go.

What he hadn’t been expecting was to hear the feet of said girl coming behind him. Being a Ghoul came with a lot of bullshit, but it had its perks. One of those perks was excellent hearing, she wasn’t exactly quiet. Whatever boots she had stolen were several sizes too big and clunked on the ground rather loudly as she hurried along. He briefly thought of slowing down some. Letting her catch up to him, but that thought was gone quicker than he could reload his gun. Deadweight was not needed, the fact that that girl, Jade. She said her name was Jade, a voice rumbled over his brain. The fact that Jade was even upright was a small miracle. Mostly due to the stimpaks, there was a good chance she wouldn’t make it too far before needing to rest. He’d lose before nightfall and never think about her again.

***

Night fell and Jade had just now begun to see the bastard Ghoul, he was all legs which meant he was moving much faster than she could. Her legs had started to scream at her hours ago, her body tired from the sunlight and movement. She had to keep going, if she didn't catch up to him she'd be back on her own again.

Being on your own was dangerous, the last thing she wanted was to end up back in a closet. Memories were still fuzzy from all the chems. Jade knew she had grown up on a farm, but then raiders had come, and that was even more blurry. After that, the Enclave, the scars that covered her body stung at the thought. They had done things, unspeakable things to her. She remembers screaming, so much screaming, then it stopped. Someone had blown up a building, close enough that she had managed to escape. Jade had been on the run for a good year before Joel had found her. At first, he had been kind, she worked as a barkeep at a small tavern. He would come in, order some awful moonshine, sipping on it as he chatted with her. Somehow he wormed his way in and she had let him. One night she even brought him up to her room. That's when it had all gone wrong, she had been bagged, tied, and thrown on a cart. Before being shoved into a closet. Force feed chems to keep her quiet and palatable for the many men. If they didn't she would fight anyone who came near her. Jade wasn't always proud of that rage sitting in her belly, but the day she bit that one man's cock off was a good one. It was worth the beating to watch him scream before bleeding out.

A gun clicked. Jade froze in place. She had been so lost in thought she hadn't realized how far she'd gone. Her eyes shifted to her right to see the Ghoul staring at her. His eyes almost glowed gold in the moonlight. She moved her hands up. Expecting the monster to just shoot and be done with it.

“Why are you following me?” He asked through gritted teeth. Jade swallowed at the venom that dripped over his words.

“I am just trying to get to the next settlement,” Her voice shook as she tried not to move. Keeping her hands visible and away from any of her weapons.

“So you figured followin’ a Ghoul was smart?” The man spat at her, maybe it hadn’t been the right choice. That said he had freed her, given her food and water. More than ninety percent of the people she’d come across in her life.

“I can p-p-pay you. You're a-a bounty hunter right?” She said, trying to persuade him to listen, her eyes trying to find anything in his.

The man sighed, “Yeh, and how are you goin’ to pay me?”

“I got caps and chems. The good ones that the Ghouls like. Have at least eight vials.” Using just her pointer finger she gestured to her bag, as she began to tremble now that she’d stopped moving.

The bounty hunter moved the gun to press against her head. Before unzipping her bag, he riffled through it pulling out the stash bag with the chems and caps.

“So what if I just shoot you instead?” The Ghoul said, holding the bag in front of himself. Eyes searched hers as he jiggled it.

“You’d be doing both of us a favor.” Jade sighed, she'd fought for so long to stay alive. Death would be welcome, at least she won't be here anymore. At least it would be over fast.

The gun was gone, and the Ghoul was moving off the road, she followed her eyes squinting to see a small shed in amongst the brush. He went in and she followed, the whole room was pitch black. Frozen in place unable to see she nearly jumped out of her skin when the Ghoul spoke.

“I am here, find yourself a spot.” Jade moved in the opposite direction, she took the bag off slowly putting her back on the wall, and slid down it. “If you try to grab your weapons I will blow your hand off. Caps or no caps.” The man gritted out, Jade made sure to keep her hands far away from the holster.

“Thank you,” She murmured out into the dark, now that her body had stopped moving she was exhausted, everything aching in ways that made any movement uncomfortable.

The Ghoul didn’t say anything. So she sat there until exhaustion took over and she was asleep.

Part two

As always your feedback is much appreciated. So much love from this undead husk of a writer.