#it’s more silly and whimsical but at the end of the day it still looks like 2d mario which to me is the epitome of bog standard platforming | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mountaesan · 20 days ago

Text

of pomegranates and love stained fingers ; p. sungho

pairing. idol!park sungho x reader genre. fluff , est. relationship , lots n lots of domesticity ! synopsis. in which sungho shows you that love could be found at an ordinary kitchen table , amidst a mess of pomegranate peels and love stained fingers word count. 1.9k warnings. nudity and bathing in a non-sexual context , a lot of inner dialogue , sungho is… such a gentleman i actually might have fallen in love with him while writing this (yes this is a warning) playlist. the way that i am by abby powledge notes. this is. so. so. so. self indulgent. but oh to be loved and to be seen by park sungho (◞‸◟)

Pomegranates are a contradiction wrapped in a tough, leather-like skin.

On the outside, they’re unassuming. Their ruby-red hue is muted by a dull, almost dusty sheen, like they’ve been brushed by centuries of history. But break one open, and it’s utter chaos. Vivid, gleaming seeds spilling out in clusters, their translucent walls catching the light like small, blood-red jewels.

The juice is relentless. It stains fingers, clothes, and countertops with a color so intense that it almost feels alive, impossible to tame.

And it doesn’t simply mark, it claims. Eating one is an exercise in both patience and surrender. Each seed is a burst of a tart sweetness that’s worth the mess, but it leaves you wondering how something so beautiful can also be so unruly.

That was exactly why you loved pomegranates. They were a little wild, a little untamed. It was in the way the juice stained your fingers, leaving behind traces of something alive and uncontainable. It’s how every seed is a burst of flavor: tangy, sweet, and unapologetically bold. For you, pomegranates were a reminder that the best things in life aren’t always neat or simple; they’re messy, vivid, and unforgettable.

Back in your adolescence, when you were still a hopeless romantic and believed in fate and soulmates and such, you had a theory: that anyone willing to peel a pomegranate for you was to be the one. The one the universe had assigned you��your soulmate. The person you’re meant to share the messiness and beauty of life with, because, let’s be honest, peeling a pomegranate isn’t just an act, it’s a labor.

It’s tedious, requiring patience and precision to carefully break apart the tough skin without crushing the delicate seeds. The juice inevitably smears, the tiny ruby jewels scatter, and by the end, it looks like a small battlefield in the kitchen.

You thought of it as a test of devotion. Who else would endure the sticky fingers, the risk of stains, and the painstaking effort, all for the sole purpose of handing over a bowl of gleaming seeds? Your theory wasn’t about the pomegranate itself, it was about what it represented: the willingness to take on something cumbersome and time-consuming just to bring joy to someone else.

In your teenage mind, peeling a pomegranate was love distilled into action. A quiet, unspoken declaration that said, ‘I see the things you cherish, even the messy, difficult ones, and I want to be a part of them.’

So you used to wait, watching the people in your life with a careful eye, jokingly tossing your theory at dinner tables and gatherings but secretly hoping and wondering if someone might one day sit down, pick up a pomegranate, and show you that love can be as simple, and as profound, as peeling fruit.

But as you grew older, your pomegranate theory began to feel like a relic of a softer, more naive version of yourself. You used to imagine someone peeling away the tough, leathery rind, their hands stained red with love and effort, and thought to yourself, ‘that’s love.’ But with time, the weight of practicality started to take hold.

Your theory about pomegranates, something you once held close with a spark of whimsical belief, soon became just another one of those silly little things that poets and hopeless romantics dreamed up.

So, you tucked your silly theory away in a dusty corner of your mind, dismissing it as an innocent fantasy of your youth. You searched for love that was grounded, sensible, and serious about the practicalities of life. You looked for someone who could handle the demands of life without the weight of romantic idealism like yours clouding their judgement.

There was no room for mess or chaos anymore, certainly not for the kind of love that required peeling pomegranates, both literally and metaphorically.

A loud slam of your front door made your ears perk up and you heard the familiar rustling of your boyfriend’s clothes as he shuffled through the living room. You could almost envision the way he shrugged off his outer coat before neatly hanging it on the coat hanger by the entryway.

“Baby? I’m home!”

“In here!” you called out. The bathwater lapped at your knees, forming small waves that crashed and fell against the porcelain wall of your bathtub. Sungho knocked on the bathroom door, but only out of courtesy, before he pushed it open and greeted you with a bright smile.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he knelt by the side of the bathtub to press a warm kiss to your forehead.

“You’re home early.” you pointed out. A hand reached out to stroke your boyfriend’s cheek, a single droplet of water running down the slope of your arm and landing back in the bathtub with a small plop.

“Mastered the choreography first so I could come home to you,” he replied, ever so gently leaning into the warmth of your palm. “Did you just start your bath?”

You nodded, the corners of your lips lifting at his sweet words. “Just a few minutes ago. You don’t have to keep kneeling like that, you know. Your knees are going to hurt.”

“I’m fine,” he said with a chuckle. His gaze softened as he noticed the way the water cradled your form, the steam rising in delicate swirls around you. “Want some help?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Are you volunteering to join me?”

Sungho laughed softly, shaking his head. “Maybe next time, but I can still take care of you from here.”

Before you could respond, he reached for the loofah sitting on the edge of the tub and dipped it into the warm water before lathering it up with your favorite body wash. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he wanted to savor every second of this small, intimate moment.

“You don’t have to, you know,” you murmured as he started gently running the loofah along your shoulder. His featherlight touch sent a slight shiver down your spine.

“I know,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “But let me.”

His voice was so soft, so filled with love, that you couldn’t bring yourself to argue. You let out a small sigh of defeat and leaned back against the tub as he started gently running the loofah over your arms.

Sungho’s touch was delicate, as though he was handling the most fragile thing in the world. The loofah glided over your arms, his hand following to rinse away the bubbles.

“You work so hard,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he moved to your legs. “You deserve this.”

The words made your chest tighten with emotion. “You’re too good to me,” you whispered.

“No such thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, his hand brushing the back of your calf. “Taking care of my partner is the easiest thing in the world.”

You let your head rest against the edge of the tub, closing your eyes as his hands continued their tender work. The care and love infused into every motion, the way he poured his entire being into making sure you felt safe, cherished, and adored made your heart squeeze tightly.

As he finished, Sungho pressed a soft kiss to your damp shoulder, his lips lingering for a moment. “All done,” he whispered, and you noticed a hint of pride in his voice.

“Thank you,” you said, meeting his gaze.

Sungho smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Anything for you, gorgeous. Always.”

He stood up and grabbed the big, fluffy towel from the nearby rack, shaking it out to fluff it up. “Alright, come on, let me help you out.”

You shifted in the tub, the water sloshing as you moved to stand. Sungho reached out instinctively, steadying you with his strong, gentle hands. His fingers pressed lightly against your arm and waist as he guided you to step out of the tub.

“Careful,” he murmured, his brows furrowed in concentration.

The moment your feet touched the bath mat, he draped the towel around you, cocooning you in its warmth. You couldn’t help but giggle as he adjusted the plush fabric, tucking the edges around your shoulders like a protective shield.

“There we go. Let’s go get you dried up, and then we can go see the present I got you.”

The kitchen table was a mess—juice stains spreading across its surface, pomegranate seeds scattered among paper towels and discarded bits of rind. Sungho sat across from you, elbows resting on the table as he carefully pried apart another piece of fruit. His fingers were stained a deep crimson, the juice clinging to his skin and pooling in the small creases of his knuckles.

“You’re making such a mess,” you teased, watching as he plucked a cluster of seeds free and placed them in a bowl.

He grinned, unfazed. “Worth it.”

He picked up a few seeds between his stained fingers, flicking away the stubborn bits of membrane, and brought them to your lips. “Here.”

You let him feed you, the tart sweetness bursting on your tongue as he watched you with unspoken fondness. It wasn’t until you noticed the way his brows furrowed in concentration, focusing on getting a particular seed unstuck from the membrane, that it struck you how absurdly thoughtful this was.

“When did I even mention that I like pomegranates?” you asked, your voice softened with wonder and adoration.

Sungho glanced up briefly, his lips quirking up into a sheepish grin. “You told me once, when we first started dating. You were talking about how much you loved them as a kid. Said they were your favorite fruit, even though they’re a pain to eat.”

You blinked, stunned. The memory was hazy even to you—just a passing remark in some forgetful conversation. But he’d remembered.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” you murmured, feeling your chest tighten with an unfamiliar mix of emotions.

Sungho shrugged, returning his attention to the pomegranate in his crimson stained hands. “It’s no trouble. Besides, I like seeing you happy.”

You looked down at the table and took in the chaos of it all: the stains, the mess, his juice-streaked hands, and something deep inside you shifted.

Suddenly, you were seventeen again with your heart wrapped in whimsical theories about soulmates and love.

This was it. This was what you had been searching for back then but had long stopped believing in. This was the kind of love you’d once dreamed of but had dismissed as a silly, adolescent fantasy. Yet, here it was, sitting across from you with juice-stained hands and a soft smile, proving you wrong in the most beautiful way.

Your teenage self had been right: peeling a pomegranate wasn’t just about the fruit. It was a quiet act of devotion, a willingness to embrace the mess and the effort for the sake of someone else’s joy.

Sungho broke your reverie by holding up another handful of seeds, his smile so effortlessly warm that it sent a pang through your chest.

“You don’t have to feed me,” you said with a small laugh, though your voice wavered slightly.

“I know,” he replied. His tone was gentle but resolute. “But let me.”

And as you opened your mouth for the next bite, you realized that love didn’t have to be a grand, sweeping gesture.

Sometimes, it was sitting at a messy kitchen table with stained hands and sticky fingers, peeling pomegranates because someone mentioned, just once, that they liked them.

ᰋ liked this ? consider liking, reblogging, or providing feedback !

ᰋ want more ? send in an ask to be added to my taglist !

318 notes · View notes

stardustdiiving · 6 months ago

Text

So my personal stance on Wanderer’s relationship with the Aranara is that when he’s first settling into Sumeru he has a habit of going off into the rainforest to brood, and this results in Nahida asking the Aranara to keep an eye on him and/or help her find him (which is how, for instance, she’s able to find him so easily in his 2023 birthday letter). For a while Wanderer genuinely has no idea how Nahida keeps tracking him down until he one day catches one of the Aranara peeking at him from the bushes and remembers Nahida has an entire army of little guys watching over the forest he’s trying to dramatically storm off in, which of course ruins the effect + his chances of being able to be cynical about the world in a canopy somewhere in undisturbed peace.

Whats additionally terrible about this is recently he told Nahida to stop making the Aranara supervise him, and she happily informed him she actually hasn’t asked them to do that in a while, so if it looks like the Aranara are still following him around, it’s probably because they’re “curious about” and have “taken a liking to” him. Nahida unfortunately also does not take Wanderer seriously when he insists that “such surveillance is cruel and unusual punishment for a prisoner” and that the “personal freedoms he is entitled to under Sumeru law are being violated”. She instead laughs in the face of his suffering (giggles at him) and suggests he should try to introduce himself to the Aranara because she thinks that he would quote “get along” with them.

Wanderer, frankly, finds this absurd and wholly unnecessary. He doesn’t even know why they’ve “taken a liking to him” or have burdened them with their silly, gourd shaped whimsical presences when apparently it’s predominately Only children and any adults who’ve “maintained their sense of childlike wonder” or whatever that can see them. Wanderer is possibly the furtherest thing from either category and concludes they probably “trust” him because he’s “friends” with their Archon or something. Its utterly baffling, but he can’t really do much about it, because what’s he supposed to do? Go out of his way to chase off a bunch of silly harmless little guys every time he goes wandering?? Definitely not. He has far more important things to worry about

I think one day, though, Wanderer ends up stumbling across an Aranara getting chased around by monsters and really has no choice but to intervene because a) the thing was so helpless it was kind of tragic and b) Nahida would probably be upset with him if he let one of her Aranara get terrorized by monsters. This is when everything truly starts going downhill, because the Aranara he saved was apparently VERY big on running its mouth, so now ALL of them are even More obsessed with him and encroach on him even More whenever he’s in the forest.

To make matters worse he also makes the mistake of offering one (1) Aranara a single small pastry (ONE time. As an experiment) and now they keep offering him bizarrely cooked food to return the favor and he really has no choice but to pack snacks for them everytime he enters their domain. Its completely out of control and he doesn’t know why Nahida finds such dire circumstances so amusing. They keep sitting on his hat and roping them into playing hide and seek with him. Unbelievable . (He finds them very cute and amusing to talk to due to the sheer intensity of their good natured whimsy. Its kind of cathartic) (he would never admit this)

#wanderer #scaramouche #aranara #nahida #hat radish #genshin tangents #genshin #this was sitting in my drafts for over a year but I think it’s good for posting now

251 notes · View notes

sugarsnappeases · 3 months ago

Text

peter pettigrew

mil @static-radio-ao3 and i have been doing some deep thinking about our dear pete.......

primarily, we decided that he grew up w a lot of siblings, in a middle class family who lived on a farmhouse in the countryside with a wood nearby that they all spent a lot of time exploring. constant muddy wellies and scabbed knees from climbing trees and splashing about in the stream. the chaos of a busy house that's filled w love. think nanny mcphee, swallows and amazons, lost boys vibes

peter is the second oldest. and he's basically a mischievous little woodland sprite. like he's incredibly cherubic-looking and generally thought to be a ‘lovely, polite young man’, old ladies loooove to pinch his cheeks, but he's got this glint in his eye that's just a little too sharp, his laughter a little too mean, his pranks a little too cruel. and he's always up to one trick or another, plotting some mischief with one of his siblings.

when he gets to hogwarts and meets the other marauders, he's the one with that trickster experience, like actually who would the others have been pranking before hogwarts yk...... so i like to think that maybe pete was the one who set them off on their mischief and mayhem path, bc he loves having co-conspirators when he plays his silly little tricks on people. (also mil and i've decided that he and peeves got along swimmingly, and that pete was the one to convince the marauders to go into the forbidden forest the first time, and that he was very good at finding hidden corridors and rooms x)

but. at the end of the day. our peter is always more loyal to himself than to anyone else. he enjoys being a part of a group, and really it's all he's ever known (w his siblings, and then the marauders, and then later the death eaters) but when all is said and done, he's always going to put himself first and do what would best serve him.

and we don't think his betrayal of his friends was some huge premeditated thing. it's this kinda spur of the moment, whimsical, childlike impulsivity. and he sees a chance to get in w this new group - a group that's clearly powerful, and let's face it defo winning the war at that point - and be a part of Something and prove a point and Show Them All and he doesn't really fully think through what his actions mean....... which ofc leaves so much beautiful, interesting room for regret!!!!!

like. telling voldemort the potter's address is such an abstract kind of thing. he's not the one physically murdering them. so i think the realisation of what's he's done and what he's lost wouldn't really sink in until after he's cut off a finger and framed sirius and run away to live as a rat. direct quote from mil bc i think it's perfect: he comes down from the high of having won and he doesn't quite know what he's won but he doesn't have anyone to tell, anyone who will pat him on the back and ruffle his hair.

stage w no audience. yk the vibe. he’s won, he's proved Something, but there's nobody left to celebrate w him. he's lost something incredibly vital to him, the best years of his life. he hasn't got a Group anymore... and that's ultimately a part of why he eventually goes to bring voldemort back bc that's the only group he has left after everything. even if mil and i decided that at least one of his siblings should still be alive :)

also, before he brings back voldemort, his stay w the weasleys. a very similar vibe to the pettigrew household growing up and peter chooses to stay there w them for twelve years. bc it's comfortable and painful and maybe a form of denial or punishment or desperate longing for something that has long slipped away.......

anyway, i've only known him for two days but he is infinitely precious to me :))

#i don't think the moodboard is my finest work....... but you guys Must see the vision #a lot of this is just me retyping the long text rant that i sent jen after mil and i had our Meeting of Minds lol #karamil #kara’s moodboards #peter pettigrew #pete

46 notes · View notes

twunkbirthzey · 6 months ago

Text

snokoplasm ramble

(i had this part in my amazingphil marathon document and this is the most basic thing that everyone probably thought about but i wanted to share bc why not)

Ever since the first time I watched this years ago I could not stop thinking about snokoplasm. First of all, it’s just so creative and whimsical and beautiful and PEAK arthouse amazingphil. But also I cannot help but do a queer reading of it. (I think Phil has so much indirect commentary about societal gender roles in his 2000’s videos. I don’t and can’t know whether that’s intentional or just subconscious of course but they ARE there and especially visible with snokoplasm and Phillippa) A lot of people did this like 10 years before me so this is NOT original at all but I wanted to yap about it.

I remember seeing tumblr posts about this back in the day of people arguing whether this is lube or not lmao, but it COULD be!!! (Could be a good addition to the pina colada gate T-T.) It could be lube bc of my thoughts on the object/element as a whole. This could be an overanalysis and I could be making shit up but hear me out.

First of all realizing you’ve run out of snokoplasm is a bit odd bc a lot of other people say it’s shower gel etc (which could be and we’ll probably never know) but when you run out of this you usually know and don’t “realize” bc you use it often. You know. And if I read the whole thing as a queer allegory it being lube just makes sense??? (but this is the silly side i think it doesn't really matter what it is at the end)

He goes into the store and the shopkeeper immediately assumes he’s getting the blue one. Phil then gets offended and laughs, saying “You actually think I’d use blue?” and this alludes to the fact that he’s been stereotyped by the shop helper. We do know that he was “emo” and not very “stereotypically male” in his self presentation at the time and this kind of feels like people immediately assuming that he’s gay. The helper even says “It's so obvious that you use blue snokoplasm,” furthering this idea of Phil looking a certain way. Phil’s reply to this makes me truly believe that this a queer allegory because he shows off his muscles and says “Yellow all the way,” which isn’t really the way he usually talks, and ties to his problems with masculinity during this era. Then they have an argument over whether it’s yellow or green, which I don’t think it’s a direct metaphor but feels like bisexuality and heterosexuality. Phil pushes for the “hetero” one while the shopkeep tries to push the “bisexual” one on him, sure that he is queer? Also the discussion of language over queer identities still being more relevant than ever is funny lol. Phil finally accepts the “green” one, which is a kind of mirroring of a lot of gay people using the bisexual label before they are ready to come out as gay, to hang onto the idea of straight relationships. (which I have my own thoughts on but this is not the place for it). To make the queer reading more compelling, the shopkeep then says he will definitely secretly order the blue one online, almost as if that is a shameful thing. SO IDK it does feel like an either deliberate or subconsciously presented work of struggles with queer identity and a story of being “clocked” as a closeted person to me.

FOLLOW UP SNOKOPLASM MENTIONS IN OLD AMAZINGPHIL VIDS

ChristmasPhil- Him thanking people for thinking the one from the previous video IS yellow… interesting…

“You can get blue as well obviously but… you know I wouldn’t buy that ever” in a shy persona is the main nail in the coffin for me. It’s like a if you know you know thing.

Philorida- I think him having blue snokoplasm and saying he bought it for a friend furthers the whole argument further. Even if Phil didn't intend this to be an allegory at first when he made it, it definitely did gain a meaning through these extra mentions.

Life without the internet!?- He briefly mentions snokoplasm and uses the red one. Red is never clearly defined, so I think it’s kind of an extra in terms of themes, but I need to watch more to be sure. Kind of supports snokoplasm not being an intentional metaphor but a successful accidental one.

TUMBLR STUFF ABOUT SNOKOPLASM

Right after writing this I did go on tumblr to see some older posts and this green/yellow argument also made sense to me and it strengthens the argument.

This video response of a girl from the time also does make me think that we are right and this is a direct metaphor of sexuality. ("Phil, if you feel ashemed that you like blue snokoplasm you don't have to feel bad about it" “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, just come out and say it”, “I know it would be hard to say at first," "It's your choice") And Phil replying to this saying "Best video reponse EVER" makes me feel very emotional because it just reads as solidarity to me!!!

youtube

ALLLSO this!

#snokoplasm #amazingphil #phil lester #dnp #2009 phil #ramble #Youtube

46 notes · View notes

subway-boss-jericho · 5 months ago

Text

Queuing posts for most of my AUs! Check out this Masterpost! (Disclaimer! - Please don't comment about their iconic knife bangs! I left them off this reference to keep their faces fully visible.)

Ingo and Ingo and Emmet Hop The Multiverse

-Premise- On a day that would have otherwise been entirely unremarkable, Ingo and Emmet- Long standing Unova Subway Bosses -stumble across a very strange missing link. It would seem that, somewhere in the history books, there is a man named Ingo who looks just like him, yet they have no Sinnohan family lineage or any other sort of family ties that would lead them to believe this isn't some impossibly insane coincidence. Unable to let this strange thread go, the two of them decide to take investigation into their own hands.

With the assistance of some higher powers as curious and whimsical as they are, if not more, they travel back into Hisuian history and find... Ingo. A man just like him- A man who seems to have been Emmet's brother... But it doesn't seem quite right! Their benefactors can confirm that they don't have any temporal disturbances lined up for them, which can only mean... He is not Emmet's twin. Or rather, not this Emmet's twin.

Determined to return him exactly where he belongs and reunite this brother who fell so far from home, the three of them set off across the multiverse- Helping every other set of alternate twins they encounter along the way!

-Noteworthy Points- This AU is open for crossovers! The wacky adventures of Emmet, his brother Ingo, and his other brother who is Also Ingo. They've adopted him. It's essentially an open ended fix-it fic for me (or us!) to invent silly, emotional, or extremely unlikely scenarios for multiverse shenanigans :D

The two Ingos differentiate from each other with their clothing, and they also go by different names. Warden Ingo goes simply by Warden, and I haven't decided what Subway Boss Ingo goes by, but I think it's likely he often just gets called "Brother" because that is what Emmet defaults to calling him when differentiating between the two.

Speaking of their clothing! Their outfits are custom made! (Elesa hooked them up, they returned home to make plans and get to know Warden better!) This is primarily so they can distinguish each other from alternate selves, but also so that they don't accidentally lose each other in the shuffle. Warden's coat is still his original coat, just now outfitted/dyed to match the other two. His arm band is completely untouched, though. (Arm band symbolism, as you can see, is my fucking BRAND)

The logos on the twins' hats and on Warden's pin/tunic are a design I made :D

Lastly! They have MANY gadgets and doodads! Their benefactor tech'd them out for their adventures with lots of safety equipment and other items needed for cross-dimensional travel, and presumably they also watch their antics closely and with great amusement. I haven't decided exactly who is helping them, but so far we're leaving it ambiguously open to one or more legendary pokemon. (Dialga and Palkia are high up there but I have yet to decide.)

They are going to cause so many hijinks.

-Links- Currently none! I will update this post with links to comics/art/writing if/when I post any!

#Submas #AUs #Ingo #Emmet #Pokemon Ingo #Pokemon Emmet #Submas Art #Subway Boss Ingo #Subway Boss Emmet #IAIAEHTM #Dimension Hoppers #NonCanon Shenanigans #Reunion #Fix-It Fic

38 notes · View notes

raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year ago

Text

Trey, Leona: The Cat's Meow

Ooooh, I see the vision now... Maybe?? It looks like each member of the same dorm might have a similar default image in the bottom frame of their initial art? Both Ace and Trey have the Queen of Hearts… I guess we’ll have to wait until Cater’s birthday to see if the pattern keeps up?

nfdbwjccwbxgak How fitting to see Trey posed alongside a painting of the Cheshire Cat considering who he’s childhood friends with… and also that Trey’s VA also goices Lucius www (Side note: they fr always gotta have Trey claim he’s “normal” right before he pulls the sussy face which is most certainly NOT normal 😭)

A Tale as Old as Time.

A rotund feline stood on hind legs in a platinum frame, one paw curled under its round chin and resting on its fluffy tail, the other flicked out in a devil-may-care gesture. Purple, pink, purple, pink—its fur was striped in a repeating pattern. Eyes raised upward, the cat looked inquisitive among the gnarled trees, as if posing a riddle to the viewer. Why is a raven like a writing desk?, perhaps.

Huh, I wonder what he's wondering about. Trey rested his chin in one hand as he pondered the painting—and the question.

The longer he gazed at the cat, the more familiar its silly smile seemed to be. How difficult he was to read. A thought crept up on him, one lazy stride at a time.

"... Reminds me of a certain guy," he muttered.

"I hope you’re not talking about me," came a sarcastic drawl from beside him. It, too, was cat-like in its own right, a different flavor of feline: more languid than whimsical. “Because I won’t be laughing like a hyena at jokes made in poor taste.”

"Leona." Trey immediately made to step back, making space for the dorm leader. Leona's immense presence practically demanded it. "No, of course not. I was thinking about a childhood friend.“

“Hmph. You’ve got a childhood friend like this?” He made a face at the Cheshire Cat. A frown to challenge its foolhardy grin. “… Now I almost feel sorry for you, having to put up with a guy like that.”

“Oh, Chenya’s not that bad,” Trey said dismissively. “He’s a troublemaker, sure—but he’s got a good heart beneath all of that, and he wouldn’t hurt a fly. The worst is gets up to is playing a trick or two and stealing snacks.”

“What an exciting life,” Leona snorted, clearly not convinced. “He sounds like a real rascal for his age.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Sometimes it feels like he never really grew up from the times him, Riddle, and I were rolling around in clover fields and stuffing our faces with cake. Still, he’s our friend—even if we’re far apart for schooling.”

“It was already hard enough to believe you’d be friends with him, but Riddle too?” A smirk rose on Leona’s lips. “Life works in mysterious ways.”

There was a chuckle from Trey. “Ahahah… Does it surprise you? We all come from the same hometown. The community there’s very welcoming. I guess that’s why we ended up reaching out to Riddle one day and… I’m sure you know how the rest of that story goes.”

He didn’t—and nor did he care to know, so he said nothing. Instead, Leona inclined his head. In the dimness of the museum, his eyes glinted a bright green.

He gave a command.

“… Oi, herbivore. Tell me more about this hometown of yours. Tell me what it’s like.”

Trey blinked, slightly flabbergasted at what he was hearing. Leona stared at him expectantly. He clicked his tongue.

“Well? Don’t keep me waiting.“

Huh, I didn’t think of Leona as the curious type. If that’s what he wants though, who am I to deny it?

“Okay. so…”

Trey returned a hand to his chin. His words, he considered. How to best arrange them to paint the most flattering photo?

Green, so much green. A scattering of red dotting the landscape. Saturation, cheer. Something warm and fuzzy whenever he imagined those scenes—like the sun upon his face.

“Imagine a place bursting with flowers. Every color, every shape, every smell. Some remind you of cotton candy that rots your teeth, others of old shoes and skunk."

Leona's sensitive nose wrinkled at the suggestion. "Real poetic there."

Trey continued. "Everyone knows each other not because the community is small--I'd say it's a decent size?--but because people see each other and talk. They ask how you are, how your family and business are doing. They come over with a platter of cookies to welcome new neighbors, ask if your kids want to come over and play with theirs."

Fond memories played out in his head: the time he had eaten a whole bottle of mustard to prove a point, messing up his signature spell and imparting a loaf of bread with a bad flavor, his first cake at four years old. Everyone had told him he had such talent for baking--but looking back on it, hadn't his "cake" been a lumpy, gooey mess?

"You could screw up pretty badly and they'd still pat you on the head and tell you it's fine, it's just an honest mistake or what a good job you did. My parents are like that too. It must come with the territory."

Leona listened and nodded to every piece of information Trey presented. He appeared bemused as he watched the vice dorm leader, a fleck of sunlight caught in his emerald eyes. Like that of a silent predator stalking innocent prey.

“How picturesque. No wonder you’re so well-adjusted and normal,” Leona purred, his gaze half-lidded. “It must be the power of true love at work.”

“You could say that. The community I grew up in was very loving and supportive. I’m thankful for that.” Trey smirked so briefly that onlookers could have easily missed it. "... It lets me get away with a whole lot more."

"You don't strike me as the kind of guy to act out."

"Not often," Trey corrected. "Only little acts when it's deserved."

"You and your bleeding heart." Leona's scoff gave way to an eerie quiet. From it came a soft, contemplative sigh. "... Must be nice, being able to afford to live so contentedly."

"Ah, you probably didn't have that kind of luxury," Trey recognized. "The life of a prince is different from us common folk."

"There’s pressure to perform and social politics to navigate. Complicated webs that span several circles, grace and relations to uphold, airs to wear. Aaaah, it’s such a drag," the lion beastman groaned.

"Yeah, I can imagine that." Trey smiled sympathetically. "But even though we come from very different places, I'm sure that you also had loving and supportive people in your life, Leona. Everyone does."

"Hah. Are you listening to yourself? You sound as mad as him." Leona jabbed at thumb at the Cheshire Cat. "It's the first-born prince--the one destined to be king--that they all adore."

“… That’s not completely true, is it?” Trey adjusted his glasses. A stray beam of light reflected off the face of them, casting the glass in pure white for a fraction of a second.

The reason Leona was asking about my hometown... It must be genuine curiosity. He's never known something like it. But the fact that he asked must mean he wants to learn, right?

The prince's eyes were angry, suspicious slivers now. "What are you suggesting?"

“I heard from Ace and Deuce that you have a cute little nephew that adores you. A lot of the Savanaclaw underclassman as well. And from Lilia—there’s a grand chamberlain you used to be close with as a kid. Playing chess and getting you out of trouble. Your brother too, he must care for..."

Leona bared his teeth, raised his voice. "Don't act like you know--"

Me. What I've been through, what I've suffered.

"Whoa, whoa!" Trey held up both hands. "Sorry. I said too much. I shouldn't have let my own curiosity get the better of me."

A growl--colored with residual anger--emanated from Leona's throat. "If you understand that, then don't stick your hand into a lion's den a second time."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Trey pulled back, the fingers of one hand curling into a loose first. The other hand found its way to perching at his waist as he leaned his body forward. He attempted an apologetic confession--but instead produced something slightly sinister.

"What are you doing now?"

"Cat to cat communication," Trey said, deadly serious. "You know, like 'nyah'!"

A pause.

"... Is that good enough of an apology?" Trey inquired.

"Don't screw with me," Leona muttered, batting away at his peer's poised "paw". "In the first place, your posture's all wrong. Are you trying to piss me off?"

"Looks like I failed to lighten the mood."

"You're really terrible at it," Leona grumbled under his breath. "You sure that childhood friend of yours is the troublemaker of the group? Cuz to me, I see another troublemaker in the trio."

"I'm a normal high school boy. You even said it yourself."

"And which one of us started meowing at the other out of the blue?" Leona expertly countered.

Trey stifled his voice, which had started to work its way up into an awkward laugh. "Pfft, alright. Point taken."

"Here I was, thinking you were 'normal'," Leona simpered. "The red young master sure has a way with picking the company he keeps. You're all odd to balance out his rationale."

"That's the role a card soldier plays for his queen. Friend, baker, cat, trump card--I'm here to be them all."

#twst imagines #Trey Clover #Leona Kingscholar #twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #Trey birthday takeover #spoilers #something no one asked for #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #this time I basically only referenced the Groovy painting #I didn't find anything super interesting to incorporate from the other paintings mentioned in the vignettes rip #Cheshire Cat

165 notes · View notes

themousefromfantasyland · 17 days ago

Text

Alex Rambles about Whimsical Fantasy for a Few Paragraphs

Well, since @thealmightyemprex shared his personal childhood experiences with fairy tales and fantasy I wanted to share my own.

As a child I always preferred lighthearted fantasy. I was always drawn to fantasy that was warm, joyful, silly, and sentimental.

With a few exceptions, my favorite fairy tales were about princesses drenched in pixie dust like Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White, and their silly looking but very kind and attentive sidekicks.

I was also drawn to surreal portal fantasy stories like Alice in Wonderland and the Wizard of Oz, stories about innocent girls being thrown into a colorful worlds with a cast of surreal comedic characters.

To this day I’m still mostly drawn to this style of fantasy, even though I also have my own taste for the macabre and the terrifying.

Some people are die-hard fans of Horror, and as someone who is a fan of the Universal Monsters and who has Bram Stoker’s Dracula as some of my favorite films of all time, I think I can be considered a Horror fan as well.

But I can’t avoid it, I’m a fan of Whimsy.

I love reading, watching, and writing about lovable characters and surreal worlds that are colorful, warm and inviting.

I understand why some people aren’t fans of Whimsical media. A lot of creators write truly saccharine “whimsical” media that is as deep as a puddle. But when whimsy is mixed with drama and a bit of horror, that’s when you have very powerful stories that simply stay with you long after you finish with it.

Some of the most iconic Disney films are the ones that scare the shit out of children or that make adults cry their eyes out. Some of the most terrifying creatures, characters and scenes came from children’s movies. How many boomers still have nightmares about the flying monkeys of the Wizard of Oz?

Return to Oz is a very dark and melancholic film, but it has one of the most lovely endings. After so many horrors that Dorothy and her friends experience, she’s rewarded with a full art nouveau city filled with colorful joyful characters that love her unconditionally and want to celebrate her. It’s one of the most joyful depictions of the Land of Oz because after so much bleakness and darkness the silliness and the colorfulness of the Oz residents serves as a palette cleanser for us and an emotional payoff for Dorothy. It’s a moment that stays with you.

Kingdom Hearts as a franchise is built on having absolute serious storylines with tragic characters doomed by the narrative, and having these characters interacting with the innocent, naive, and childish Disney characters. The moments of tragedy make the Disney moments feel much more emotional and poignant.

This is all to say that whimsical stories can be 100% well made and evoque real emotions.

The colorful silliness is much of the time just the surface, helping to tell much mature and poignant storylines once you get deeper into them.

@thealmightyemprex @ariel-seagull-wings @the-blue-fairie @tamisdava2 @mask131 @princesssarisa

#fantasy #whimsical #whimsy #lighthearted

14 notes · View notes

justsomekpopstuff · 1 year ago

Text

seventeen as a baseball team - part 2

A/N: I have had so many thoughts recently, I just had to share!

part 1 | current masterlist | fic recs

team colors are white and serenity blue, and every now and again they get ones with rose quartz accents (its my au i'll do what I want)

their team mascot is something whimsical that has a cloud and diamond theme along with it

the whole team goes absolutely nuts the first time that center fielder!Dino gets voted into the All-Star Game

When they find out, they throw an absolute rager of a party in the locker room complete with champagne showers. When the All-Star game actually happens, instead of taking vacations, the entire team shows up to the game. All of them are wearing Dino's jersey, have their faces painted, and come equipped with horns and signs all cheering for him. It is the worlds most perfect Embarrassing Dad Cheering Section™️. Dino is bright red for the entire game because he can hear them from all the way across the stadium every time he takes the field.

third baseman!Wonwoo, on the other hand, despite being incredibly good, BEGS the fans to not vote him into the All-Star Game and Home Run Derby

He just really enjoys his time off...but alas, one year the fans absolutely do not listen, and he gets voted in with flying colors. He is, unfortunately, forced to go by catcher!Seungcheol. Despite not wanting to be there at all and tired all the time, Wonwoo ends up completely blowing the competition out of the water. In his final interview after winning the All-Star Game and receiving the MVP award, he begs the fans to never do it again.

the whole team holds a fun exhibition game every year during spring training where they all scrimmage against each other

The whole game gives major Savannah Bananas vibes, as well as that one kickball episode of GoSe. They have ridiculous rules like when the other team scores a point, the team on the field has to endure a "punishment" chosen by the fans. Inflatable costumes ARE used. Synchronized rehearsed dances are a must-have and they put their whole CHESTS into it. The fans love it and look forward to it every season.

right fielder!Joshua can always be seen playing catch in the outfield with some of the younger kid fans in the stands during warm-ups

He is very sweet with all of the younger fans, and has a reputation for always taking time to sign autographs and take silly selfies. He is, also, a chaos creator. He has absolutely stolen Red Vines from a child after making a catch that almost went into the stands.

starting pitcher!Woozi will deny it until his dying day, but he absolutely did cry the first time he threw a no-hitter

The whole team went absolutely nuts for him and stormed the field. Hoshi 1000% took pictures of Woozi crying. Woozi found out and threatened to absolutely kick Hoshi's ass if he ever showed those photos to another living soul. Hoshi listened.

first baseman!Mingyu has tripped running around second base more than anyone on the team...probably more than anyone in the league

There are multiple compilations each season of him tripping over second. He swears its an accident every time and that he does not trip over the base intentionally. The team places bets at the start of the official season for how many times he does it during the regular season. Winner gets all the cash pool and first pick of dugout snacks next season.

closing pitcher!Jeonghan has always been secretive about the reason why he wanted to become a closing pitcher

He will always say he wanted to be a closing pitcher because he loves the idea of being able to hold down the lead for the team, or give them opportunities to win. Jeonghan will swear that he likes being relied on and is good under pressure (which, to his credit, is technically true). However, the actual real reason he wanted to be a closing pitcher is so he wouldn’t have to run as much.

despite being injured, catcher!Seungcheol still attends every home game

He is usually sitting in the same place in the dugout, close to where the manager usually stands. Seungcheol, despite not being the manager, is absolutely yelling directions from his crutches in the dugout. The team will often listen to him better than their actual manager. The whole team is taking bets on whether or not Seungcheol will become a coach when he retires.

52 notes · View notes

thecoolerliauditore · 3 months ago

Text

Big post for episode 2 alliance by alliance EXCEPT for the evil one (you know) because they're getting their own quarantined post.

Lag's gone yippee!!!!

This mechanic is awesome I loved the initial bout of confusion. Poor Ren lmao

I'm a hypocrite here because I'm usually an RNG hater but this mechanic is so funny I don't actually care. Etho eating redstone real. Insert c(l)ock joke here. Mental imagery of skizz shovelling dirt into his mouth is really awesome.

The BAM Boys (Bamboozlers now but they're BAM Boys in my heart) continue to be a SSS+ tier alliance. I love how quickly they've become Grian/Mumbo/Skizz's shitty horrible upstairs neighbour.

THE PARROTS ARE REALLY CUTE AND REALLY AWESOME. Very very excited to see what the avian headcanon and canary symbolism people are going to do with that.

I can't wait for Jimmy's POV from the looks of it he's. such a little shit this session. Which is good these are signs of a happy Jimmy. The part where they box him in while he's AFK is really cute to me and I know this is probably on the more insane side of the scale for me but I can't help but read it as Jimmy having an episode of some sort and Scar and Lizzie making sure he's okay until he recovers.

And I won't lie watching Scar punch Scott even if it was just for silliness was just the slightest bit satisfying.

Lizzie is a bit. odd to me because she seems to have adapted the same mindset as alot of other people in assuming incompetence on Jimmy and Scar's part.

I ☝️think her saying she's the best survivalist out of the group is more a reflection of her being insecure in her own abilities than her genuinely thinking of them as liabilities. Don't get me wrong she is a crucial member of the Jimmy Ecosystem and thus very much subscribes to that hierarchical set of beliefs But she's been conscious in the past of her own shortcomings and I don't think it's like? Something that necessarily actually bothers her in the way Skizz and Mumbo worry Grian to death.

Plus she spent her episode building parrots (which are awesome) -- she's just overall a much more whimsical personality and I think the "best survivalist" stuff is more another example of her performative nature coming in akin to when she plays sitcom wife or manipulative seductress with Joel. After all the "only brain cell" is a very. The Girl One role that pops up and literally like the first time she implies her teammates are incompetent is her "surrounded by idiots" line that she's saying about a bit SHE LITERALLY STARTED ‼️

So like TLDR I don't think Lizzie is like. genuinely malicious towards her teammates she's just very performative. What she says is still very wrong and might reflect badly on her teammates, though.

(side note I remember at the end of SL there was a bit of discourse surrounding the way people talked about Scar's win and people were especially not accepting of posts that implied Grian's 1v3 or Pearl's previous win had anything to do with him winning because it also implied Scar's win wasn't all due to his skill. and I can't help but wonder how those guys must feel now lmao I'm so sorry)

I really hope the sub ones/floaters/spanners just keep switching team names like every single episode. Would be nuclear for the tagging system but it would be really funny.

Mumbo being self-aware of his own paranoia wasn't something I saw coming and I find it very interesting. I'm not a Mumbo guy he's more or less a silly cartoon animal to me but I'm sure a Mumbohead could have a field day with that one. His reaction to Tango killing Skizz and his pathetically desperate attempts at revenge afterwards are also extremely. Something. (hilarious to watch but. Something)

Grian and Mumbo are both really funny to me when they're in a certain state of emotional distress, specifically Grian when he's annoyed and Mumbo when he's panicking and there is. Alot of that this episode. By far one of the funniest POVs for me.

Skizz oh poor Skizz. If this was 3L he would be OUT. REALLY excited to see where the thing he has going on with Tango will lead (usually I try not to comment on the CC side of things but I must say it is really sweet to me that these two are good enough friends that Tango, socially anxious as he is, can do that).

Nothing much to say about Joel from me this episode I hope his car is okay after that wild animal chewed on its tires.

Gem though is interesting. Not to get to into The Horrors in this post because I want to save most of them for Their Post but her conversation with Pearl is and later Scott is? Fascinating me a bit.

I very much do see the comparison to DL Pearl's naivete regarding past alliances sticking but Gem is? Very abrasive and the wording she uses to Scott is that he needs to "control" Pearl specifically which is!! A very strange thing to say when her whole thing with Pearl was celebrating Scarlet Pearl.

Again not claiming to be a Gem understander so don't look at me but it feels like to me these are the consequences of her idol worship illusion being shattered similar to how she used to treat Etho with the "washed up" stuff. I want to say of course she sides with her previous ally Scott regarding Pearl but she tells Etho to steal from "Pearl and Scott and stuff" near the end of the episode so it seems more like. Her being antagonistic to that alliance as a whole? Honestly not sure what to make of it, will need more episodes but this is intriguing this is fun. This is fun. I'm sorry gempearl girlies.

"Tuff Guys".... Whatever man.

This one is good this one is fascinating. So first off other people have pointed out them lacking a leader and Skizz's absence which is totally cool I'm so not emotion about that.

But we're just? Going full mask off. Bdubs is pulling a Liauditore and questioning the importance of the concept of an alliance itself in these games which I, being Liauditore, can judge as the objectively correct thing to do, based of Bdubs, swear ALL this shit off don't ask me questions.

Usual ethubs shenanigans are ensuing. I don't really know how to put that in a better way but they are full force ethubs rn.

One interaction I found interesting with Bdubs are his conversation with Scar and Tango when Scar asks Bdubs if he should let the name-ever-changing-grian-mumbo-skizz alliance kill Tango and Bdubs is kinda like. Ehhhhhdhkldhhkkkkjj 🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️ about it. But when Scar leaves Bdubs he goes straight to Tango and just says the word "VENGEANCE" in his goofy scary voice before Martyn interrupts them.

Like. It feels as though? Now that we're all in the open about Not being loyal or whatever to eachother, the relationship with Tango is? Relatively better. Then again saying you don't expect eachother to be loyal is not the same as actually being emotionally okay with that and it'll be fun to see how much b-dgaf-dubs stays as b-dgaf-dubs. But again I think establishing expectations is good and a lot more healthy than what Some Other Alliances are doing.

For all the Pearl angst we've been bouncing back and forth I've seen nobody bring up his interaction with her this episode where he approaches her to poison her and when she falls for it Bdubs immediately goes "No. I can't." and admits what he was trying to do. It's very cute. (mounders I'll love you forever). Bdubs cares her.

Also I think I might be a level of cooked that Bdubs goofily singing little mermaid made my brain go ding ding. Idk. the gay agenda, I guess.

Tango is fucking insane someone check on him. Why did he eat that tire. Why did he eat Skizzleman.

But real talk that kill was kind of awesome I love non-conventional kills and people finding ways to kill that are more adaptive to their individual strengths than just brute forcing pvp. I love a good pvp fight don't get me wrong but that sort of kill through using his smarts feels so much more. Tango than if he pulled off an insane sword combo out of nowhere or something as awesome as that would be. Reminds me a bit of Lizzie farming her fireworks crossbows in LL but on a way smaller scale.

Also wasn't sure if I should say this here or in the BAM section but Tango floating away into the distance panicked but giggling is so funny when paired with Jimmy's POV where he's going OH NO TANGO TANGO OH HE'S DEAD I'VE KILLED HIM HE'S GONNA HATE ME ETC ETC. Jimmy he.. Jimmy he Does Not care.

Anyway I love this version of Tango I hope he stays. I hope he murders Bdubs.

Etho is Etho. No more gravel pranks thank god. His fearful reaction to Joel's "family" comment is so funny I could see the LimL flashbacks beam out of his skull when he nervously asks about family dinners.

I'm not a gemtho guys by any means but her giving him an allium and him putting it in a pot to "protect" it surely means something. It's very sweet to me.

Bdubs' comment about it smth smth "as soon as you put value in something..." with the other half of that being implied to be something like "other people will try to destroy/steal it" is. quite something as well. really neat lampshading of this group's overall dilemma so far (if you don't value an alliance, you won't lose it, you can't lose out on value that you never place in anything).

Treebark is Treebark. Ren asking Martyn first thing what role he should play is a bit crazy (I love you ever-shifting 3L power dynamics).

This isn't exactly About them but I like the contrast between Ren starving to death in front of Skizz and Grian who barely care and Martyn starving to death in front of Pearl who is so distraught she takes to chat to apologize. Pearl they could never make me hate you Pearl.

Outsourcing this one to the treebarkposters they seem. Fairly chill? To me? Still? But god don't look at me. Ren "I can fix him" Dog is pretty cool. And him kissing Cleo is cool (I'm gnawing my arm off). As is him randomly deciding to crown Bigb a king (I'M GNAWING MY ARM OFF).

ok cool whatever thats all the alliances no more posts about this episode hahahahahahhaha bye!!!!

#random thoughts #wild life spoilers #traffic spoilers

16 notes · View notes

legrandepapillon · 7 months ago

Note

maybe an easy prompt, but something that has been on my mind kinda based on theo's own gameplay and how mad he got at wyll for rizzing shadowheart up asdfghj

but, at any point of their relationship (pre, during, whatever act you prefer) astarion getting insane horrendously jealous of wyll's and shadowheart weirdo/weirdo friendship.

The Boldness Bloodwine Brings

Rating: M (to be on the safe side, there is no smut)

this one got away from me. i intended for it to be a drabble, just something idly written to pass my time & warm up to prompt filling, but it became a little bit more than that. the idea of astarion being jealous has always compelled me, and i got carried away.

i went with a distant post-game setting, so that i could work with a firm establishment of astarion & wyll’s relationship. i feel like if this had happened during game events or even before the epilogue, it might’ve been more of big deal than i made it here. also, i hope i give enough hints towards it but this is Astarion origin + Wyll romance + Avernus ending. Astarion’s party on my origin playthrough has been Karlach, Shadowheart & Wyll for Act 1 so that’s what i did here.

as far as shadowheart & wyll’s “weirdo relationship”, i looked for some of their banter but wasn’t confident that i could capture the two of them in that manner, so i just went with astarion going slightly crazy not quite girlfriend over the two of them. hope it’s still up to your tastes, anon!! thank you for the prompt, i had a lot of fun writing this

This is silly, really.

Astarion stews over his chalice topped with bloodwine, glaring over the din of his former—and some current—fellow adventurers with narrowed red eyes. Honestly, it’s all so inane. He should be positively luxuriating in the opportunity to be back on the material plane, spread over some velvet chaise longue with virgins offering up their wrists for him to suckle from like some overfed babe. Or in the very heart of Waterdeep’s noble elite, dressed in the finest silks from Amn and fattening his pockets with the jewels from drunk patriars. He even briefly contemplated an orgy the very picture of decadence and pleasure, the stench of sex and sweat and ecstasy laden beneath the smoke of freshly burning incense.

Or… well, perhaps that was shooting a bit for the stars. He doubts his dear Blade would content himself with hazy orgies. More of a romantic dinner and make love beneath the stars type, all told.

No matter whether or not he would’ve ever been able to convince Wyll to participate. Because Wyll is not at his side, lavishing him with unending attention and serenading him with prose so purple it’d attract the Kings of Calimshan and Cormyr alike.

No, Wyll is surrounded by Gale and Shadowheart telling some less-than thrilling tale of how they’d tricked a nupperibo into blindly waddling itself into its own demise. He imagines that Wyll, with all his honeyed words and dashing charm, makes the event sound a lot more thrilling than it was. In reality, Karlach had tripped right out of the bumbling blind idiots’ way and it’d face-planted into a boiling hot spring. It’s a story about as meaningless as ox shit, not at all as high-stakes as his dear Blade makes it sound, and hardly worth that stupid doe-eyed look Shadowheart is giving him.

Shadowheart.

The grip on his chalice pales the knuckles around the middle, but Astarion rolls his eyes outwardly as his gaze lands on her.

She certainly looks more beautiful than she’d been tromping around in mud and dirt during their days of traveling, at least. Settled into a more peaceful life in the farmside, last Astarion had caught word of. Though if one were to attempt to guess by her dress tonight, farmhand may be the furthest thing from their mind. The Selunite way of life has sunken its fingers into her and held her tenderly, the gossamer white of her dress flowing like water round her ankles. Her whimsical white tresses have been taken into a braid by less-strict fingers, her hair fitting loosely and comfortably in the style as opposed to the tight black rope she swung around back on that beach. There’s a glint of something woven through with her braids, catching the evening light whenever she turns her head or tips it back to laugh. And her face… he hadn’t thought it possible, but perhaps without the burden of grief and loss leaning heavily on her shoulders, it’d smoothed out some of those worry lines in her forehead. Brightened up her eyes, made her smile more. She looks the fout of youth herself, half-leaning on a wall and clutching a goblet of wine as she listens rapt on Wyll’s story. Entirely too young, by Astarion’s estimations. Truthfully, had he still possessed the desire to say flattery for the sake of saying it, he would compliment her on how well she’d gotten on in such a short time.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t. And can’t possibly think of a good reason to pay her a compliment now, while she fawns over Wyll like some buxom-bosomed maiden found a prince.

The thought almost makes him snarl, and when he catches himself, the tension withers from his shoulders. This is so… pathetic, banal, pointless, stupid. Astarion does not own Wyll—far from it. After each of them finally escaping the bondages of their former masters, able to go where they please and do as they please without someone tugging at the proverbial leash, they hardly were in a hurry to chain themselves to another. Wyll wanted romance, he knows it so. But in Avernus, the closest they could find was hot-mouthed embraces while resting at the House of Hope, or the lean of support following a particularly agonizing failure. As the Blade of Avernus, Wyll no longer had room for courting and romance like they’d had before the defeat of the Netherbrain. He tried whenever he could, by the Triad, he did. But there are no acorns filled with wishing magic or starlight beaches for dancing in Avernus and most of the wine had the lingering taste of ash or rotten eggs to it.

And Astarion was… well, he wasn’t dissatisfied with the arrangement. He quite enjoyed having just one man to bat his eyelashes at whenever he fancied, and kick into a different tent whenever he didn’t. His moods could change at the drop of copper, and Wyll went along with each one with hardly a murmur of dissent. Whenever they could sleep somewhere without having to worry about their heads being separated from their necks, he and Wyll did get up to a bit of romantic fun. And when there was no time for that, when it was nothing but the grind against mortar and pestle to behead sultry cambions or bully infernal mechanics into use… well, that was okay, too. A little well-presented carnage and chaos could just as well set his heart aflutter, Wyll surely knew that by now. He didn’t need something steady and storybook to feel desired. The way that Wyll always left his left flank open to keep a line of sight on him in battle, or how he kissed his knuckles in relief whenever they made it out of a scrap with a particularly dedicated group of abishai.

Wyll loves him in every way that matters. And he, albeit with great reluctance in admitting it aloud, loves him back.

So why does he feel so… unmoored at just how happy the young man looks with his equally young former companion. What is this acidic stirring in his chest, melting away all the genuinely good regards he’s used to keeping Shadowheart in? For nearly two years she’d been his ally, his partner, his co-conspirator and even his friend. How many times had the two of them sat on the very perimeters of camp, some vintage he’d nicked from a cellar filling their rusted bronze chalices, gossiping in Elvish about their companions until the wine tinged their pointed ears pink? She was more his friend than Wyll’s by any measure, even after she’d ditched her bitch of a dark goddess and turned towards living a life in light he couldn’t join her in.

And yet all he can fantasize right now is sinking his canine into her jugular and drinking her dry so that she may never rest her pretty well-manicured fingers on Wyll Ravengard’s shoulder again.

A large warm hand clamps down on his shoulder, starling him from the satisfyingly murderous thoughts that had begun to inch their way forth. Astarion stumbles a bit in surprise, free hand twitching towards the menagerie of daggers he still has strapped all over his person out of habit alone. But it’s just Halsin—swaying a bit on his feet from the plentiful liquor, and smiling too widely for casual acquaintances. Astarion makes a show of tilting his head up haughtily to close some of that towering distance, and dusting off the spot on his shoulder that Halsin had touched.

Though there’d been many changes from his friends in a year, Halsin seemed as though he was stuck frozen in time. The only visible differences being that his skin had taken on a deeper tan, and his warm green eyes had more wrinkles in the corners. Elsewise, he was still the big oafish elf they’d left behind in Reithwin. He, nor Wyll or Karlach, had gotten the chance to give a formal goodbye on the docks that day. But when Withers had managed to wrangle them all back together a few months on, they’d been bought enough time to escort him back to Reithwin before he helped them open a portal back to Avernus. He distinctly remembers patting Karlach’s back as she weeped, and promised that she’d fix her heart and come help in the rebuilding soon as she could. Halsin had in turn promised a cottage for them all, a little plot of land for them to grow their own livelihood. Settle down into a home after a life on the road. Wyll and Karlach alike had seemed enamored with the idea, but the thought of schlepping around in pig shit and feeding orphans has made Astarion’s spine recoil.

His mouth goes tight at the memory.

“Halsin. I see you haven’t gotten any bigger since I last saw you; fortune be for the Reithwin food supply.”

His wry insult only draws a booming laugh from the chest of the man, and he claps another hand down—hard—over Astarion’s shoulder. Every muscle in the vampire’s body tenses, and he loosens his hold on his chalice only in the hopes to make the draw of a blade a bit faster should need be. Stabbing the towering tree of an elf might not produce molasses, but his blood would certainly be just as sweet if he kept touching him.

“And I see not even the Hells themselves could scare you straight into submission,” Halsin returns, with an easy smile. “All the glad to hear of it, my friend. You look well.”

“I look exhausted,” and he probably does. They’d portaled straight from the House of Hope to Gale’s rather decadent tower once they were sure it wasn’t some sort of trap. There’d hardly been time for more than a washing up and a change of clothing before they’d been whisked down to a full five-course dinner and as much alcohol as their bodies could tolerate. Astarion hadn’t had a moment to rest since they’d arrived…

… and more importantly, he hadn’t had a moment alone with Wyll. The thought sends him looking over his shoulder, catching eyes with the Blade himself. It seems as if Wyll was in the midst of sizing up the interaction, worried he might have to interfere before Halsin lost one of those paws. But when they lock eyes he smiles, and raises his glass in Astarion’s direction. Curse his feeble, weak, dead heart but he swears it flutters as he returns the gesture. It seems his misdeed of ignoring him tonight can be forgotten just that quickly.

“Oh, and there’s no wondering as to why,” Halsin muses, having watched the brief interaction. “The thrill of young love. Unhesitatingly self-indulgent, and yet bewitching all the time. Between slaughtering devils and entrancing your Wyll, I doubt there’s much time for sleep.”

There’s a playful wink and a nudge from the elf, but Astarion quickly bats him away like a disgruntled cat.

“It’s none of that; he’s not my Wyll. Even if it were, it’d be none of your damned business, druid. Don’t you have a schoolyard’s worth of progeny to be tending to?” He makes a show of looking around Gale’s spacious drawing room, but the only people there are a few old friends from the adventuring days and the Heroes of the Gate themselves. No wide-eyed sticky-fingered orphans in sight. “Where are the little devils tonight; I’ll know if my pockets are light, and I’ll know who to expect compensation from.”

“Worry not, Astarion. My children are back at home in Reithwin. They’re being watched by others in the town; it does take a village, as they say.”

“With your lot, it’d take a whole country,” grumbles Astarion, chasing the bitter taste of the talk of children with the bloodwine in his glass. The metallic undertones of the fermented blood adds a rather unusual flavor to the blackberry and herb. It provides both a refreshing quench to the ever-lingering blood thirst, and a lovely buzz beneath his flesh. Astarion can just almost disappear into his fantasies of being fed bloodwine by warm, amber tinted hands. The curve of horns against his cheek as lips wet from cherry wine press to his throat. A hot pink tongue chasing the dribble of wine that slips from the corner of his mouth, pushing it back into his own with all the youthful eagerness of a man made to please.

This one seems far more attainable than all the other half-baked fantasies he’d cooked up earlier. The only problem is…

A tinkling laughter, louder now but just as delicate as it’d been back then. Shadowheart surprised by her own amusement hides her smile behind her glass, gaze resting warmly on the side of Wyll’s face. He’s half-turned towards her, hands gesticulating wildly into the air and evidently weaving another tale about their exploits into Avernus. Astarion bites down hard enough on his tongue that it draws blood. Still a novelty that he has enough blood in his system to draw it forth, he surprises himself with the pinch of pain and the sudden sluggish flow of inky near-black blood.

“Oh, enough of….” he half-mutters, slipping away from Halsin—who’d devolved into telling stories about his brats to a man that couldn’t care less. Astarion slinks across the drawing room towards the four gathered in the center of it, making a point to cut into the space between Shadowheart and Wyll. There’s plenty space opposite Gale to join in the conversation, but it’s so much more satisfactory to cut the proverbial thread that was the sliver of space that only just separated their shoulders.

The aforementioned woman doesn’t seem to pay any mind, merely shuffles over to accommodate the fourth body and flashes Astarion a genuine grin.

“Astarion! I was wondering when you’d come away from brooding in the shadows. Wyll has been telling us all about Avernus; sounds like you’ve become quite the hellish hero,” she appraises, raising her chalice to her lips. Astarion knows Shadowheart well enough to know it isn’t just the compliment she makes it sound like, but also a teasing about his capabilities. She doesn’t quite believe he’d slipped into the shoes of saving the helpless and slaying the wicked on his own accord. It seems everyone at this Gods forsaken party had caught wind of the love affair between the Blade and his sanguineous Dagger. Astarion has half a mind to appeal to Talos himself; make a real announcement of their amorous connection.

Perhaps maybe then Shadowheart would give him a wider berth.

“A hero implies that there is some sort of saving involved, sweet thing. In Avernus, there is no good or bad. Just us, and every other evil creature we stumble across. The only ‘heroism’ to be found there is in all that blood imps so eagerly offer up to prevent me from starving.”

There’s a grimace from Wyll around his mouthful of wine. “I’d hardly call that heroic, Star. You don’t tend to give them much of a choice; they don’t really offer so much as die screaming.”

The offhanded nickname seems to peak the interest of both Gale and Shadowheart, two sets of eyebrows raising to two hairlines. The wizard at least has the decency to cover his amused smile with his hand, though he cocks his head at the two of them as if he’s waiting any moment for Wyll to drop to his knee and make a sickening show.

“Star?” Shadowheart all but purrs, like a hungry cat that’s just come across the fattest mouse in the fields. “Well, now. There’s a story I’d be all too interested in hearing. When you two last left here, there were no pet names involved yet.”

Now, usually, Astarion would bat away the insinuation immediately. He’d insist that there were none still, because he was not Wyll’s star or sweetheart or anything else so juvenile. He’d bare his fangs at the lot of them, warn them off ever making mention of it again should they enjoy keeping their carotid artery tucked safely behind their jugular. In any other circumstance, he’d hiss and scowl and snarl at the very idea he’d allow himself to be roped into something so banal as a pet name. Like they were schoolchildren and not two men with some of the most powerful arch devils in the Hells calling for their heads.

In fact, from beside him, he can feel the tense in Wyll‘s shoulder as he expects him to do just that. When it was just the two of them in a tent or a room reserved at Hope, he could lavish Astarion with all the ‘my heart’s and ‘shining Star’s and lines from lovesick bards as he’d like. In fact, the vampire would display marked offense if he didn’t. But in public, most especially on the ever-dangerous roads of Avernus, letting anything overhear that there was someone you cared for was almost certainly signing their death warrant. He’d been chastised many times in his beginning for his open affection towards him, a wild-eyed Astarion so close to having something good for once and so pants-shittingly terrified at losing it.

Wyll was an affectionate lover, but he’d have to settle for the moments they could steal because there was too much death and hellfire around them for anything else.

But this time, Astarion leans into the man beside him. He drapes his arms over Wyll’s neck, rests his head in the crook of his neck and shoulder. His chalice of wine sloshes against the edges uneasily with the sudden movement, causing Wyll to bring a hand up to his wrist and steady his grip. It’s perhaps the most tender embrace they’ve shared in front of someone other than Hope or Karlach since they’d first left that dock for Avernus. It’s a deliberate show of their relationship. The thing that Astarion danced in and out of most days, dead heart so full of his foolish Blade and simultaneously so worried about putting him in danger by showing it. Let it not be said that Astarion Ancunín has no love in his body for the red-eyed man who he’d saved the world with. In front of all their closest friends and—dare he say it?—family, he makes a rather bold show of clinging to his fiancé.

The acorn he’d had strung along a bit of gold suddenly feels all too heavy beneath his silks and lace, resting right over his unbeating heart. But Astarion decides the minute discomfort with PDA is worth the way Shadowheart gives the couple a bit more space, a surprised flush to those porcelain cheeks.

Check.

“Well, a lot has changed between now and then. We are quite serious about each other, you know?”

“We always have been, to my knowledge,” Wyll chuckles, patting Astarion’s wrist. “but there’s little time for me to do things the proper way back in Avernus. We make do with what time together we can find.”

“And every moment is absolutely electrifying, wouldn’t you say, darling?” purrs Astarion, peering up into Wyll’s one functioning eye with something lascivious in his own. Shadowheart is practically teeming with intrigue at all the racy details of their bedroom; something far more intriguing than the slaughter of kobolds and bone fiends. Gale gives a small noise of disgust whilst rolling his eyes, though he doesn’t seem to make a move to leave either.

“Yes, Wyll certainly kept his little tricks close to his chest before but now… he’s quite the consummate lover.”

Though he says it to Wyll, his red eyes bore into Shadowheart’s gentle green ones as the words leave his mouth—a proverbial dog pissing on his post. He loves me, wants me, fucks me, and that’s how it’ll stay. He’s laying it on a bit thick now, surely. But the only one that seems to notice anything is amiss is the man himself, who quirks a confused eyebrow.

After two centuries with his sex life belonging to everyone but himself, Astarion didn’t often like to discuss what they got up to privately. Aside from the occasional bawdy joke with Karlach about ‘sheathing the Blade’, he didn’t tend to go handing out details about their bedroom so cavalierly. All the same to Wyll; far from a prude by now, but he’d rather some things stay sacred between the two of them. Public displays of affection aside, they didn’t talk about sex if they didn’t want to. And they didn’t want to… usually.

“I see the wines loosened that tongue of yours,” Gale appraises after a cough of surprise. The older man rocks forth on the ball on his feet, hands clasped behind his back and chin nudging in the direction of his cup. “Glad to see the bloodwine is up to snuff, Astarion.”

A glance from both Wyll and Astarion down to the chalice in his hand, a dawning on the latters expression as his half-baked plan forms another step. Truth is, Astarion isn’t fully aware yet that he’s making an ass out of himself. He doesn’t know… what he’s doing, per se. But Gale delivers an out to him so smoothly, he would kiss the man square on his lips if he wasn’t so appalled at the idea. Leaning into an overt display of drunkenness, he rests more of his weight across Wyll’s shoulders.

“I don’t need to be drunk to tell you just how mighty the blade can—”

“—Alright, Astarion!” Wyll finally exclaims. The flush of blood to his face isn’t noticeable by eye, but Astarion smells it as it fills the apples of his cheeks in a sudden tidal wave. It’s all too intoxicating, far more than the mediocre bloodwine that Gale had proferred for him. There’s no show in the way he leans closer to chase the scent, which has Wyll clutching his waist now instead to maintain their shared balance. “Maybe we should get you some sleep, before all of Waterdeep knows what we get up to in private.”

“Maybe not all of Waterdeep,” Shadowheart returns warmly. “After all, Gale’s mother is nowhere to be found.”

“Hey! I resent that!” exclaims the man on his mother’s behalf, which only entices one of those sweet little laughs from their cleric. Wyll politely excuses the both of them from conversation before he can get roped into whether or not Morena Dekarios’ tongue is obliged to a bit of gossip. He passes his own glass to Gale and plucks Astarion’s from his fingers to hand over to Shadowheart, before securing a strong arm around the shorter man’s waist and hauling most of his weight to the staircase.

He plays his part the whole way up, bumping him into the banister and tripping over his feet at the landing. It certainly isn’t the first time he’s played up the illusion of intoxication for someone else’s benefit. There was a certain breed of individual back in Baldur’s Gate that quite liked the idea of having someone that couldn’t quite tell whether or not they were being had. Astarion had perfected all sorts of tricks for seduction over two-hundred years, this is perhaps one of the most popular. Unlike the marks he’d targeted back in the Gate, though, Wyll’s hands do not wander beneath his waistline. He does not grope or molest, merely anchors his partner in a strong, steady grip as he maneuvers them up what seems to be unending flights of stairs.

Astarion waits until they’re safely within the bedroom Gale had offered them to drop the act—righting himself to steady feet and fixing the wrinkles from his waistcoat. He floats elegantly over to the vanity and settles down, picking up a fresh handkerchief and dampening it to begin removing the kohl from around his eyes.

Wyll splutters in surprise behind him.

“Oh, Wyll, seriously dear,” Astarion leans over the chair of his vanity. “You didn’t really think I’d get drunk off of a few glasses of donkey piss, did you? My tastes are far more eclectic than that.”

The man shakes his head at his partner, collapsing with palpable exhaustion at the foot of the bed they share. “Gale had it brewed especially for you, Astarion, how was I to—nevermind that. Why did you pretend to be drunk?”

Why did he? The only answer that presents itself, bright and clear at the forefront of his mind, is because he’d wanted to get Wyll’s attention away from Shadowheart. At the moment it’d made complete sense, but as he deliberates on it more, he doesn’t know why he’d wanted that either. What exactly had it been about her proximity to Wyll that had disturbed him so much he felt the need to cut into their conversation, make lascivious innuendos towards their sex life, and then pretend to be so inebriated he could hardly stand? What was that stinging, acidic feeling right in the center of his chest? Blooming in the space between his lungs and his heart, making the former constrict and the latter weigh so heavy? The way she batted her fingers against his shoulder, laughed at his jokes, smiled coyly over her wine… she’d done it all before, when they were on the road together. Battling against a giant mind control brain and the Chosen of the Dead Gods. It hadn’t bothered him then. So why did it bother him now? What was it about Wyll and Shadowheart laughing together that made him want rip her throat out and curse him to Arvandor and back?

Lips turning down into a scowl, he turns back to face the mirror. In the reflection he can only see the array of powders and creams he’d demanded of Gale’s house servant, and Wyll in the distant corner—now moved to light candles around the room.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” echoes the man, striking another match to light the lamp on Astarion’s bedside. “You just randomly decided to play at being a drunk for the fun of it?”

“Yes, exactly that,” the vampire agrees, flashing his lover a false smile over his shoulder. “Wasn’t it fun?”

“No, not really. You’re too heavy to half-carry up that many flights of stairs for no good reason,” Wyll crosses the space now, coming to stand behind Astarion. A hand reaches forward, hesitating only when the paler man flinches by instinct. “May I?”

“You may,” he sniffs, anchored by the sight of Wyll in the reflection of the mirror. Battle-calloused fingers gently tug the silk neck cloth from its spot tucked his doublet, exposing more planes of pale white flesh. Careful with Astarion’s niceties as he knows the man doesn’t get much chance to wear them, he folds the cloth neatly before leaning down to take one of his hands. Crimson eyes track his movements intently in the mirror, watching as Wyll first kisses each knuckle before sliding his rings from the accompanying finger. The jewels clatter loudly onto the varnished wood of Gale’s vanity, a mix of stolen gold bands and sweetly purchased sapphire gems. Wyll takes the other hand when he’s done with the first, repeating the process just as meticulously as he’d done before.

It’s in moments like this that Astarion can feel every muscle in his body finally relax. He spent most of his days walking around on the tips of his toes, constantly bolstering himself for the next catastrophe. Jumping straight from Cazador’s commands into the mix of Gods and cultists into literal actual real hell had done nothing to soothe any tensions. He was tightly wound at all times, constantly ready to brace or fight or flee. It wasn’t until Wyll took him in his rough hunters hands, deliberately and delicately unwound him bit by bit, that he got to experience what it felt like to be at ease. To be protected by someone, so safe with them that getting comfortable for a moment wouldn’t become an immediate death sentence.

Astarion sighs at the thought. It isn’t the first time it’s fluttered across his mind, alone with him. You make me feel safe. Like there’s nothing on Earth I have to worry about besides you. I hate it because of how much I love it. I’m so afraid of getting used to it, because once I do I know I’d destroy anything that tried to get between us. By the Gods, Wyll, I’m alarmingly in love with you.

He doesn’t realize his eyes have fluttered closed until he feels a kiss press to each of his eyelids. Any other time he’d roll his eyes at such treacly sentimentality. But he can’t bring himself to ruin this for Wyll; especially not after he’s already ruined his night.

Red eyes fly open at the thought. They land on where Wyll is slowly unbuttoning his doublet; no ulterior motive behind those nimble fingers beyond getting him into more comfortable clothing. Astarion brings his hand to cover Wyll’s, cool fingers immediately sending a small shiver through the younger man’s flesh.

“Darling, you would tell me if I’d ruined the night, wouldn’t you?” he asks softly. Vulnerably. His voice trembles at the end of the question, brow furrowing deeply at the thought. He still hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of all the conflicting feelings that’d driven him to calling the night early. All told, he’d been having a grand time for most of the evening. They’d commiserated Karlach’s inability to leave Avernus to join the reunion, but had all gotten together to create a message on one of Rolan’s fancy projectors to take back to her. That had been followed up by Alfira strumming the strings to her lyre, kicking them up into song worthy of the most ribald dance hall. Between the long-fermented bloodwine—about as strong as mead but delicious as blackberry wine—and Wyll leading him in a few dances in Gale’s more than spacious sunroom, Astarion had believed he’d been having fun at first.

But then the party had quieted down, dinner and alcohol had kicked in and loud revelry had broken into quieter conversations throughout the downstairs of Gale’s home. He doesn’t know when he’d planted himself in that shadowy corner, or why he’d stayed there instead of joining the conversation with his friends. He doesn’t know why Shadowheart’s comfortable familiarity with Wyll had made him so annoyed, nor does he know why he’d chosen to call their night over it. But here and now, he does feel the guilt begin to worm itself into his chest right under that heavy burning feeling from earlier that still persists.

Wyll had given up so much of his life for others already. He’d given up his home in Baldur’s Gate to save the city, he’d given up chasing his own liberation from his pact to save it again, and he’d given up guaranteed safety as its Duke to save Karlach. Though in the time between now and then, Astarion had forced him into selfishness practically by dagger-point on more than one occasion, he could still catch him giving things up. Like tonight, giving up the fun conversation he’d been having with Shadowheart and Gale to tend to his selfish vampire partner.

“—Astarion, Astarion,” Wyll insists, squeezing his hands. He hadn’t realized he’d retreated so visibly into his thoughts, but when he blinks at the man, there’s a flicker of relief on his face. “My star, what ever could make you think you ruined my night?”

“Well, I don’t know. You were talking to Shadowheart. You seemed to really enjoy telling her all about your tales of heroism—she enjoyed listening to them, too, from what I can tell. I just hope that my flight of fancy hadn’t ruined your evening, that’s all.” He says it with a nonchalant air, a shrug to his shoulder and gaze askance as though the words leaving his mouth have no meaning to them at all. But there’s too much jerkiness to his movements and solemnity to his tone for it to ever be believed that he’s as apathetic to the matter as he claims.

“My evening with… Shadowheart?” says Wyll slowly, somehow confused and discerning all at once. As though he can’t parse where this is coming from, but he’s beginning to put the pieces into place. Astarion gestures limply in response, which isn’t much of a response at all. “Astarion. Did you think I was flirting with Shadowheart?”

“Oh, Heavens no,” A moment of relief on the face of the man kneeling in front of him. “You are rarely so bold. But she was flirting with you.”

Wyll splutters, entirely aghast at the notion. There’s that delicious smell of all his blood rushing to his cheeks again, and Astarion is suddenly reminded that the deer he’d drained for Halsin to butcher before dinner is the last time he’d eaten. His mouth salivates with the thought of helping Wyll with some of that misappropriated blood, but before his mind can get ahead of him, the man himself is gripping both of his hands so tightly he thinks they might actually lose a little color in the tips. Another novelty of a regulated diet, his skin was perhaps not as sickly pale as it’d been at first. He had the barest hints of color to his extremities, just enough to pass as elven in the right lantern light.

“Astarion. She didn’t tell you?” Wyll asks, a twinge of amusement in his voice. “She and Karlach—they’ve been speaking through sending since our first time resting at the House of Hope. They’re smitten with each other, quite frankly. I was telling her stories about Karlach; it seemed to lift her spirits from the fact that she couldn’t be here tonight.”

The vampire spawn blanches, slowly connecting the dots. He can recall brief conversations between Blade and Warrior of Avernus, offhanded mentions of the moon cleric back on the material plane. Between their hunit for Zariel’s head, an internal mechanic worth his spit and the amount of fiends and devils sent to collect their head, he hadn’t bothered to put much thought into it before.

But the seemingly never ending supply of parchment and sending stones that Hope kept them in stock with, the bundle of letters that Karlach guarded with all the ferocity of a junkyard dog, and the dopey smile whenever anyone mentioned their old adventuring days around the tiefling… he doesn’t know how he didn’t put it together before. There was obviously someone waiting for her back here, someone she was eager to get back to.

“She… and Karlach… really? This whole time?”

“How could you not know?” chuckles Wyll, his good eye twinkling with bemusement. Whether at his reaction or the situation at large, the pale elf isn’t interested in determining. “Karlach practically bowls you over whenever we manage to get letters from this plane.”

“Oh, for all I could have guessed, she’d subscribed to one of Halsin’s adopt-a-bloody-orphan programs and was tracking the progress of her new progeny!”

“Astarion, were you jealous of Shadowheart?” continues the younger man, genuinely looking like he’s on the edge of devolving into full-out laughter. Astarion glares at him in return, mouth twisted into a scowl at the mirth that spreads from the smile on his lips to the red-iris of his working eye. But against all of his better judgment to protest and scoff and and lie and deny, deny, deny, he knows two things. He’s already revealed his hand to the man, and even if he hadn’t, Wyll would see right through him regardless.

For a man with only half his vision, he had a funny way of doing that.

Still, he won’t also give him the satisfaction of a response. So he just stares at him indignantly, until Wyll finally cracks and dissolves into a fit of—admittedly, politely restrained—laughter masked beneath a hand cupped over his mouth. Astarion rolls his eyes at him, shoving the man away to return back to all the fancy hair and facial care that he’d made Gale’s housekeep go through the pain of finding for him. Whilst Wyll has a proper laugh at his expense, he finishes wiping his face clean from all of the maquillage he’d used.

After the laughter spans into minutes, he gives a huff of annoyance. “Alright, you’ve had your fun!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, my love,” Wyll returns, still wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eyes. “It’s just—you really were—and of Shadowheart no less?! What could you possibly have to be jealous of when it comes to Shadowheart? I’ve never paid her more than half a glance. All the time I’ve known her, and I still don’t even know the woman’s real name. Let alone have any desire to take her to bed!”

“Lots of things can happen in half a glance, Wyll, I don’t know!” huffs Astarion. “She looked gorgeous. Youthful. And she would probably be a more sensible fit on your arm than… well—”

“Nobody is more perfect for me than you, Astarion.” Blood-red eyes flicker up at this, mouth slightly agape. Not at the words; he’d heard some variant of them a million times before. But rather how quickly they come, as if Wyll didn’t have to think a moment before saying something so impossibly virtuous. The sizzling, acidic sensation beneath his chest begins to ebb away finally—replaced by that inexplicable fluttering of earlier. “You don’t believe me, my heart? What else do I have to do to show you? What words can I say to prove it?”

Floundering like a beached fish, no snarky retort or dismissive platitude comes to mind. Wyll closes the little space between them so effortlessly, a large hand coming up to swipe an errant curl from the vampire’s forehead. That same hand trails down, clutching both of Astarion’s hands between his own with the conviction of a pious man come to pray. His fingers gently squeeze at the man’s knuckles, his eye trails languidly over his lover’s face before finally landing contentedly on his own gaze. If looking at someone you love could provide sustenance, Wyll might be satisfied for the rest of his days—he drinks in the bewilderment in those scarlet red eyes, silent for several long moments in his contendedness to just admire his darling. The fluttering in Astarion’s chest becomes a war drum, pounding so hard against his ribcage it feels as though the bedeviled thing is trying to rip through his chest cavity and run into Wyll’s arms.

Love must make people delusional, because he’d been certain that his heart couldn’t beat anymore after his undeath.

When Wyll speaks again, it’s with that dashing confidence of his. As if there was little more he could be sure of than this.

“You’re all that’s on my mind, all that lives within my heart. The truth to every word I speak, the spring beneath every step, the purpose behind every drawing breath,” he brings their hands to his lips, breath warm against ever-cool digits. Presses a sweet kiss to the spot where deep amber skin meets milky white. “My sun, my sky, my moon and my stars. Astarion, it’s you. In every dream, in every fantasy, in every desire. It’s always you and only you.”

Before his adventures with his friends and his descent into the Hells, Astarion had been sure he’d discovered every way someone could be knocked breathless. A punch to the stomach, a dizzying hit to the temple, a sudden stab to the lungs. He’s endured an uncountable about of torment and injustice alike, all that had been rather adept in reminding him that he was dead and even the air he bothered to breathe was useless.

Yet it wasn’t until he met Wyll Ravengard that he came to understand how not only mere words could knock him breathless, but how the feeling could be accompanied by thrilling euphoria as opposed to the usual sinking dread.

Whenever he begins to doubt the man, even for the smallest of moments, there was always Wyll to swoop in to remind him. This storybook prince of a hero, how had it taken two hundred years for some God to finally hear his prayers?

Perhaps unnerved by the silence, Wyll gives another squeeze to his hands. “Astarion… my heart? Are you alright?”

“That,” a gust of air he doesn’t need leaves his lips, as he stares wild-eyed at the man in front of him. Slowly sorting his thoughts; placing all of the sickly sweet love confessions of his own aside, choosing something that was perhaps more on brand. “was the most erotic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

And it’s not even a lie, to boot. He’s must be getting better at this whole romance deal.

“Astarion, it wasn’t meant to be erotic. I was trying to tell you that I love—”

“Oh, I know what you were trying to do. I don’t happen to get much say in what my dick finds attractive.”

A wince from Wyll, a flicker of concern that he recognizes well. Sometimes he fell back into old habits, unsure ofof any other way to show his genuine affection for the man. It’s obvious he worries now that this is what Astarion is doing, because he begins to draw away. “Star…” In an act of reassurance of his own, the rogue surges forward. Places two hands on either side of Wyll’s face, pulls him in for a kiss. “… mm!”

They both taste of blackberry wine; Astarion’s lips a touch more metallic than Wyll’s own. It would be nauseatingly sweet, in any other context. The taste of fruits or the way his thumb caresses Wyll’s cheek or the saccharine little request for permission his tongue still does at his bottom lip. But in this moment, Astarion is not nauseated in the slightest. There is not curl of disgust in his stomach, no desire to let mechanics take over and slip into more pleasant fantasies. There’s no desire for anything at all, except to kiss this sweet, darling, foolish man breathless.

No fantasy could ever compare to the real thing when it came to Wyll Ravengard, something he learned anew everyday.

When he does pull away from the kiss, to offer his partner the air he, himself, doesn’t need, there’s a fond smile on his lips.

“And lest it ever be forgotten… I love you, too.” It earns a breathy chuckle from Wyll, who pulls him in again by the back of his neck. Their foreheads knock together and eyes flutter closed, one of the rare moments of peace they can steal from the unforgiving world. A rough thumb strokes the curls at the back of Astarion’s neck, longer and fuller since they’d begun their adventure. Pale hands cup a scarred cheek, fingertips resting gently against the divots of his scars.

The stinging, acidic sensation of jealousy is completely gone now, much to the vampire’s relief. There was never anything to be worried about with Shadowheart, of course. It’s made evident in their quiet moments like this that the only person that could catch Wyll’s eye is the one sitting in front of him. No amount of gossamer gowns or flowing twine-woven braids could ever tempt him from what they have; truthfully, he shouldn’t have doubted it in the first place. From his memory, Astarion has never been loved so fully and with so much devotion. He’s never loved anyone that way either.

He’s still learning, of course. He’ll be learning for a long while yet, according to Wyll. But it’s rather pleasant to know Wyll would be there to reassure him whenever he needs. A novelty upon novelties.

“Now. Take me to bed. We haven’t had rest on nice lenin in so long,” Astarion simpers, taking Wyll’s hand to tug him to the canopied bed instead. As opposed to their early days, the man doesn’t protest or dawdle; consummate lover indeed, Wyll was still a young man of some twenty-six years. The promise of sex, freely given and eagerly desired, blows the pupil on his red eye wide.

“Surely, it muffles sound much better than that threadbare shit we have back at the House of Hope; I truly do not wish the whole lot of them to hear just how much I love you.”

“Except for Shadowheart, I’ll wager?” jokes Wyll, leaning down to take off one of his boots. Astarion tosses a look over his shoulder; first menacing, before he breaks into a warm smile at his own expense.

“Well. Except for Shadowheart.”

#baldur’s gate 3 #the blade of frontiers!: wyll ravengard #time to kill: astarion ancunín #wyllstarion: the horns do look dashing on him; almost anything does…#bloodpact: so much shadow around us #well done soldier!: prompt fill #boy do i have queues for you #astarion ancunin #wyll ravengard #bg3 #wyll x astarion #astarion x wyll #bg3 fanfic prompt #bg3 fanfiction

12 notes · View notes

ultraericthered · 10 months ago

Text

So, Majin Buu....

Thinking back on the original Akira Toriyama Dragon Ball run, it's pretty clear to me more than ever that Majin Buu, the final major villain of the series, the Big Bad in the story arc the series ended on, was by far the weakest Big Bad out of all the powerful, action-based Big Bads, making him second weakest overall next to Commander Red. Yes, even Tienshinhan was an overall more satisfactory main antagonist compared to how Buu got by the end. And for the longest time I just sort of took that as a basic truth without really examining why it was. I'd thought the main reason for it was that the concept of him as this ages old evil that was only just now being pulled back into the present day limelight to be the new all-powerful threat to the universe to surpass the last all-powerful threat to the universe was really cheap, as it felt like Toriyama lazily re-doing the premise of King Piccolo only more ancient and a threat to even the gods of this world's cosmology and lore. But if I'm being totally fair and honest, that shouldn't necessarily be a definitive restraint on Buu from reaching villainous greatness. After all, Buu is also a great concept for a villain and an undeniably original, distinguished, uniquely Toriyama one at that. He so easily could've worked. Why didn't he?

This year of Toriyama's passing, it finally dawned on me - Majin Buu suffered from the same syndrome that would years later plague Xehanort from Kingdom Hearts. The syndrome of being a single character yet having so many different variations of him that feel like completely separate characters that makes it hard to reconcile them all as a single entity or to understand who that single entity is at the most fundamental level and what they're all about personally and in terms of narrative function. And indeed, it is only Buu who suffered this problem. Piccolo Jr. felt like the spawn/second lifeline of King Piccolo, Vegeta as a Great Ape still felt like Vegeta, Freeza in all of his transformations still feels like Freeza, Cell is still Cell in all three of his forms (even with his brainpower being more easily expended in the Semi-Perfect form), the Zamasus all feel like different variants of Zamasu, Moro, Mechikabura, and Demigra always feel the same, etc. Yet Majin Buu feels like he becomes four or five different people over the course of his saga, which gets either unnecessarily lengthy or incredibly rushed depending on the medium you're looking at it in!

So here's basically how I feel about the Majin Buus:

Fat Buu, AKA Mr. Buu - Toriyama first created this character to be the Majin Buu, a complete subversion of expectations for how this all-powerful evil demon was built up versus how nonthreatening he appears to be once we meet him. The simple-minded, infantile, playful, whimsical and sweets-craving nature of this Buu is both the source of much comedy and becomes a source of tension that enhances the dread you feel whenever the deep malice he harbors within him comes out on display, as the tonal whiplash of this silly, chubby pink blob getting mad and doing horrible things is unnerving. But in addition, we're made to feel some sympathy for Buu since Babidi treats him in an abusive, exploitative way and it becomes clearer that for all the malice he has and all the wrongs he commits, Buu has the mind of a small child who does whatever he wants to do for fun in total innocence and naivete, not knowing or understanding what the morally right things to do and the right way to live are, and why things like killing other living creatures is morally wrong. The stuff with him and Mr. Satan is some of the best content in the entire saga, and it feels right that he joins the family and becomes one of the good guys in the end, even if not much really comes of that in future installments. I give him an 8/10, to me he's the Best Buu.

Evil Buu, AKA Slim Buu - I mentioned the deep malice within Buu that he was born with, and this guy is the physical personification of it that Fat Buu conjures out from him during a breakdown where his desires are clashing with what he now knows about right and wrong. Visually, he's the exact 180 of Fat Buu - lean face and skeleton-thin body, open eyes that are black with white pupils, dark blue cape rather than a purple one, and he's the only Buu who's not pink but is instead gray. But he's the Mr. Hyde to Fat Buu's Dr. Jekyll, another side of the same person. Were Fat Buu to defeat him, he'd conquer his inner darkness, but instead this thing defeats and swallows Fat Buu, signifying that the inner darkness has won out and will change Buu's shape into something stronger and more evil. Ultimately this Buu has no personality to speak of besides "evil" and is only there as a plot device to up the tension and stakes again by becoming the new eviler version of Majin Buu who has no qualms disregarding the lessons he'd learned from Mr. Satan. However, he does get some extra points for killing Van Zant. 4/10, Basic Buu is Basic.

Super Buu - I really like this Buu yet am really mad at him and have a bone to pick with him. 'Cause he feels so easily like the Buu I'd love the best after Fat Buu, owing a lot to a truly stellar introductory period, solid voicework in the anime, and much like Cell, some cool and catchy theme music from Bruce Faulconer in the US dub. He starts off so cool: popping his neck, yawning, sagging, screaming, and cackling maniacally in the course of seconds after he's formed, showing devastating power and killing Smitty in the most graphic and disturbing way, flying all the way to Kami's Lookout just to fight and kill his enemy, distinguishing himself from the well-spoken likes of Freeza and Perfect Cell by speaking very simply, responding to Piccolo's demand of him by simply and efficiently killing off the Earth's human population, nonchalantly turning a furious Chi Chi into an egg and not even bothering to eat her (he kills her by stepping on the egg), and retaining all of his hilariously childish dumbass qualities and sweet tooth yet possesing a raw, dangerously savvy cunning beneath his brutish exterior. And yet through all this, he it doesn't really feel like he's properly motivated in evildoing other than "he's evil", and more problems start to pile up once he and Gotenks are going at it in the Time Chamber dimention. For every golden moment he gets, he gets some ill-concieved moments (though in fairness, he shares them with Gotenks and Piccolo): it's he who instigates the "wall-breaking/plot-breaking scream". But not even that could ruin him. No, when he really does the unforgivable is when he turns into the next Buu. So he's a 7/10, should've been Buuetter but wasn't.

Mystic Fusion Super Buu - Is just Fusion Super Buu when he absorbs SS3 Gotenks and Piccolo, the "Mystic" is added when he absorbs Gohan. Yeah, the problem is immediately apparent in that premise. Since when could Majin Buu absorb anyone and add their Ki power to himself? That was Cell's shtick, Majin Buu was all about transforming his prey into sweet treats and eating them up. He got the ability to take other fighters and their powers into himself from right out of Toriyama's ass! On top of that, he now looks hideous, with a long head antenna like SS3 Gotenks' long hair, a nose and facial features like Piccolo, and he trades out between Piccolo's, Gotenks', and Gohans' clothes, and neither look good on him! On top of that, his characterization changes as with Piccolo's intellect, he starts speaking in complete sentences and elloquently articulating everything which is just....no. Don't. This is killing Buu's unique vibe! On top of that, him defeating and absorbing Gohan is an utterly cruel slap in the face of any fan who might've actually wanted to see Gohan's ordeals and new power paid off by him being the hero to defeat Buu in the end like such a set-up would normally entail. And on top of all that, he's just a bore now. The whole section of the story where he's around has always failed to interest or excite me, he's just not fun to look at, watch, or listen to, and his existence is what derails Gohan's arc, brings Goku and Vegeta as co-heroes in the spotlight, and stretches things on the barren Earth out longer than necessary, including a gross, unwelcome trip inside of Buu's body! Near the end he loses his shirt and shows his character again, and we get the welcome return of classic Super Buu for one last stand-off, but that only bumps his score to 2/10. Buuuuuuuu, you suck!

Kid Buu - Buu's final and also primal form. He's not only the most powerful, destructive, and maniacal Buu, but this is Majin Buu as originally concieved in-universe. When Bibidi first conjured him into this realm, he was like this - a living, breathing force of pure chaos who lives only for the slaughter and devastation that he finds fun. And he does work as being just that, retaining Buu's mixture of being comical yet also terrifying and dangerous. Almost everything that concerns him and the section in which he's the opponent/obstacle to destroy is perfectly fine, aside from Goku being the hero rather than Gohan and how drained you feel from all the earlier Super Buu antics, it all works and makes for a properly tense, thrilling and epic final battle against a worthy final boss for this saga. The issue with Kid Buu can found within his character set-up and in the way he gets implemented into the saga. We'd been given nothing foreshadowing his existence as the OG Majin Buu until after Super Buu has reverted to him. We had no reason to think that Fat Buu wasn't the default for Buu, nor any reason to think that this new Buu would be that much more powerful than the Buus that preceded him, making Kid Buu feel really, really cheap. For that matter, how does removing Fat Buu from inside of Buu revert him to Kid Buu yet Fat Buu expunging the Evil Buu from out of him didn't have that effect on either Buu? And as is said in this post, "Kid Buu’s defeat doesn’t feel as satisfying as it should because we barely spent time with him compared to Super Buu", and that when Kid Buu comes along to take Super Buu's place, in the manga it's in the last graphic novel volume of the series, the very same that began with Vegito VS Mystic Fusion Super Buu, while in the anime it's the point when "you’re about ready to scream “Oh my Kami, END already!” given how fatigued you are of watching Super Saiyans fighting this pink monstrosity by then. Ultimately, Kid Buu's a 7/10 - Buu Bye and guud riddance, Janemba did it better.

Uub - The reincarnation of Kid Buu, who before getting killed had been Mystic Fusion Super Buu, and Super Buu was previously Evil Buu before eating Fat Buu, who Evil Buu came from making Evil Buu and Fat Buu two different variants of the same being, so that guy gets reincarnated due to a wish to Shenron by Goku even though Mr. Buu is still alive as a separate being....yeah, the dissociative identity of Majin Buu and the flimsy idea of all forms of Buu being the same character really collapses here, and fittingly on a character whose very existence and the reasons for it, in-universe and out of it, are completely nonsensical. If Goku really wanted to keep Majin Buu as a sparring partner but only if he was a better person, why not start training Mr. Buu so that his power could grow to match Kid Buu's? And are we really expected to believe and be okay with the idea that the successor to Son Goku ends up being not Gohan, not Goten, not even Pan, but the hastily introduced in the final two chapters reincarnation of the last villain who we were also only just introduced to in that very volume of manga? I can't pretend to know exactly what Toriyama was going for when he wrote the epilogue in those last two chapters and came up with Uub, but if that was his way of leaving the door open for Toei Animation to continue the franchise on their own terms, it's pretty telling that GT had no interest in picking up on this thread and rendered Uub completely worthless, and we've seen no more from Uub in the DB continuations we've had since. Uub and the ending associated with him were just a total Uuber failure. 1/10.

#Dragon Ball #Dragon Ball Z #manga #anime #Majin Buu #analysis #opinion #criticism #Mr. Buu #Evil Buu #Super Buu #Kid Buu #Uub #they wasted a perfectly good character #Akira Toriyama #anti majin buu

15 notes · View notes