#it's genuinely so sad to me that the thing that pushed me over the edge with this fandom was making a post about how the game is about love

[circesoracle]

#stopped making posts to this effect after someone said this is the “price we pay” for “good queer rep” “like Saint and Osiris”#and I became so infuriated I actually stopped posting about Destiny like at all#Destiny and its fandom hate women so much it's unreal doubly so if she's not straight

holy shit someone actually fuckin said that???

agjkldafkl sure did!!

i made a joke post about bungie flipping a coin to decide if the lesbian character is going to be dead or evil and i had someone respond that that's just the price of having sooo much queer representation in the game and how not all of it is going to be good when there's so much and we have to be grateful for the "good" representation like osiris and saint. which like. hm. perhaps some reflection on why the "good" representation is never the women is necessary. as if this fandom is capable of critical thinking. thinking at all is often too much of an ask.

[cece693]

The Better Brother (Damon Salvatore x M! Reader)

A small pet peeve of mine regarding Damon Salvatore fics is how people sometimes gloss over the wave of self loathing this man possesses. Since childhood he's had to bear constant comparisons with Stefan—how he wasn't enough, not as kind, etc.—so in my mind, if he does find someone he would absolutely push them away. That gave rise to this fic!

Summary: Damon finally found the one, however, thoughts of self-hatred and the constant comparison to his 'better' brother had him doubting if he even was deserving of such future.

tags: sad, in my feelings, break up, Damon thinking he's underserving, self hatred

Damon leaned against the bar of the Mystic Grill, the amber liquid in his glass catching the dim light. He swirled the bourbon absently, his mind not on the drink but on the man standing at the dartboard, a soft laugh escaping his lips as he teased Stefan for his missed throw.

M/N had come into Damon’s life like a hurricane—wild, passionate, and with a kindness that made him feel human for the first time in decades. He wasn’t supposed to fall this hard. But now that he had, every insecurity Damon carried weighed heavier on him.

He drained the glass and set it down with a little too much force, drawing a glance from M/N. Damon met his eyes and forced a smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his own. M/N tilted his head, his expression softening with concern, and made his way back over. “What’s got you brooding over here?” he teased, bumping Damon’s shoulder as he slid onto the stool beside him.

Damon shrugged, reaching for the bottle to pour himself another. “Just thinking about how life is unfairly cruel to us handsome, brooding types.”

M/N didn’t laugh. He didn’t fall for Damon’s deflections anymore.

“You’ve been distant all week,” he noted, his voice quieter now. “What’s really going on?”

Damon’s grip on the glass tightened. He hated how easily M/N saw through him, hated how good he was for him. And most of all, he hated himself for ruining what they had before it could even bloom. But Damon knew how this story ended. It was always the same. Stefan was the hero, the savior, the one who got the happy ending. Damon was the shadow lurking behind, destined to lose.

“You should go back to your darts game,” Damon said, his voice cold now, deliberately so. “I’m fine.”

M/N stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. “I know you don’t believe this, but you don’t have to push me away every time you get scared, Damon.”

Scared.

The word stung because it was true.

Later that night, Damon found himself alone in the Salvatore boarding house. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the room, but its warmth didn’t reach him. He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, a photograph clutched in his hand.

In the photo, they were both smiling—genuine, unguarded. Damon hardly recognized himself in that moment, caught off guard by M/N’s infectious energy. The picture had been taken at the Mystic Falls Winter Festival, a day Damon had reluctantly agreed to attend. M/N had dragged him to the Ferris wheel, teasing him about being afraid of heights.

Damon hadn’t been afraid—not of the heights, at least. But the way M/N had looked at him at the top, with so much trust and warmth, had sent a different kind of fear coursing through him. For a brief moment, suspended in the sky with M/N’s laughter ringing in his ears, it felt like the world wasn’t so bleak.

He clenched his jaw and stared at the photograph for a long time, his fingers trembling slightly. “You don’t deserve this,” he muttered to himself. “You don’t deserve him.”

With a sharp breath, he shoved the picture into the drawer of the side table and slammed it shut. This was the right thing to do. Even if it hurt. Even if it tore him apart.

The next day, Stefan found Damon in the parlor. The sunlight streaming through the windows only emphasized how wrecked the oldest Salvatore looked. He was slouched in the armchair, a near-empty bottle of bourbon in front of him, his eyes distant and unfocused, as if he had been staring into nothingness for hours.

“What did you do?” Stefan’s voice cut through the oppressive silence of the room, sharp and demanding.

Damon let out a low chuckle, the sound bitter and hollow. “Relax, Saint Stefan,” he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I did you a favor.”

Stefan’s brows furrowed as he stepped closer, his tone tightening with frustration. “What the hell does that mean?”

Damon finally lifted his gaze, his trademark smirk flickering onto his face. “He’s all yours now,” he said, the words carrying a mix of resignation and self-loathing.

He didn’t need to ask to know what Damon meant. “You broke up with him,” Stefan said, his tone flat, more a statement than a question.

Damon shrugged, his nonchalance forced and brittle. “Better for everyone that way,” he muttered, grabbing the bottle and taking another swig.

Stefan wasn’t having it. He crossed the room in two strides and snatched the bottle from Damon’s hand, setting it firmly on the table out of reach. “Better for everyone or better for you?” he snapped, his voice cutting through Damon’s feigned indifference.

Damon’s smirk flickered. He slouched further into the chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “Don’t get all noble on me, brother. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? A clean slate? No more complications? No more me standing in the way?”

Stefan stared at him, incredulous. “You really think I wanted this? That I wanted you to destroy the best thing that’s ever happened to you?”

“Spare me the lecture, Stefan,” Damon said, his tone sharp, though it lacked its usual bite. “He’ll be fine. Hell, he’ll probably thank me someday.”

Stefan shook his head, his frustration mounting. “You don’t get it, do you? M/N doesn’t want me. He never has. He chose you, Damon. And instead of fighting for him, you pushed him away because you’re too much of a coward to believe you deserve him.”

Damon’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists on the armrests of the chair. “Coward? Is that what you think I am?”

“Yes,” Stefan shot back without hesitation. “You’re so scared of being happy, of someone actually loving you for who you are, that you’d rather sabotage it before they can leave you. You think that’s noble? It’s not. It’s pathetic.”

Damon stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor as he loomed over Stefan. “Don’t you dare lecture me about love, Stefan. You’ve been handed every happy ending on a silver platter while I’ve had to fight for scraps.”

“And this time, you didn’t even fight,” Stefan countered, his voice soft but firm. “You just gave up. And you hurt him in the process.”

Damon’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had come. He turned away, staring into the dying embers of the fireplace. “You don’t understand,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “He deserves better. Better than me.”

“Maybe that’s not your choice to make, Damon. Maybe he already decided that you’re what he wants. And maybe…just maybe, you should let yourself believe it.”

Damon didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The words sat heavy in his chest, pressing against the fragile walls he’d built around his heart. He clenched his jaw, his eyes burning as he stared into the fire, willing the tears to stay where they were. Stefan sighed, his frustration softening into something closer to pity. “You’re going to regret this,” he said quietly. “And when you do, I just hope it’s not too late.”

He turned and left the room, leaving Damon alone once again.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire. Damon sank back into his chair, staring at the empty spot on the table where the bourbon bottle had been.

Deep down, he knew Stefan was right.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

And that was the curse of being Damon Salvatore.

[iamgonnagetyouback]

hii, may i ask for a story in a shell 🦪 please? <33

character: sirius black

trope: friends to lovers

song: 'i love you, i'm sorry'

thank you so much for the request, sweetheart!

ivy's 1k celebration 🦪 navigation 🦪 characters

ˋ°•*⁀➷ SIRIUS BLACK friends to lovers with i love you, i'm sorry by gracie abrams

You’d known Sirius Black for years. It started with reckless laughter, lingering glances, and teasing words that shouldn’t have meant anything—but they did. He flirted with everyone, but his smile for you was different. Or maybe you just told yourself that because the alternative hurt too much.

Tonight, it was the same scene that always played out. Sirius in the corner of the room, leaning too close to a girl who didn’t know him like you did, whispering something that made her laugh and flush. You tried to focus on the conversation at hand, but your eyes kept drifting back to him, to the easy charm that seemed to draw everyone in except you.

Or maybe it did, and that was the problem.

“You’re staring again.”

Lily’s voice was soft but pointed. She was perched beside you, sipping her drink like she wasn’t delivering a dagger to your heart.

“I’m not staring,” you muttered, though you both knew it was a lie.

She gave you a knowing look. “You’re allowed to be jealous, you know. Just don’t let it fester. Talk to him.”

Talk to him. As if it were that simple.

The party dwindled down as the night wore on, leaving the living room empty except for you and Sirius. He leaned against the counter, a half-finished drink in his hand, and the faint scent of firewhiskey clinging to him.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he remarked, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. “Trouble in paradise?”

You laughed bitterly. “I didn’t realize I was in paradise.”

Sirius tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” you repeated, your voice shaking with an edge of disbelief. “You’re impossible, Sirius.”

His brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine concern crossing his face. “I’m going to need a bit more than that.”

The frustration that had been simmering inside you boiled over. “You can’t just flirt with me like I’m the only one in the world and then turn around and do the same thing to everyone else!”

Sirius froze, his glass forgotten in his hand. The silence between you stretched unbearably long before he finally set it down, running a hand through his dark hair.

“Doll,” he started, but you cut him off.

“No,” you snapped. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to act like you care about me—really care—and then pretend it’s nothing.”

“I do care,” he interrupted, his voice rising. “But every time I try to show you, you push me away.”

Your chest heaved, emotions crashing over you in waves. “Because I’m scared, Sirius! I’m scared that I’ll mean less to you than you mean to me.”

His eyes softened, the storm in them settling into something tender. “You don’t, doll. You never have.”

You wanted to believe him, but the ache in your chest kept you guarded. “Then why do you do this? Why do you flirt with everyone like it doesn’t matter?”

Sirius stepped closer, his hand brushing against yours. “Because it’s easier than admitting I’m in love with you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and raw.

“What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“I’m in love with you,” he repeated, his voice breaking slightly. “And I’ve been too much of a coward to say it.”

Your heart stuttered, your walls threatening to crumble. “Why now?”

“Because you deserve to know,” Sirius said, his gaze steady. “And because I can’t stand the thought of losing you—not to my own stupidity, not to anyone else.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you took a shaky step forward. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know,” he murmured, his lips twitching into a sad smile. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you’ll let me.”

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you closed the space between you, your hands tangling in his hair as his lips met yours in a kiss that was years in the making.

It was messy and imperfect, but it was yours.

Two summers later, you sat beside Sirius on a boat, the sun setting over the lake as he lazily trailed his fingers through the water.

“You still mad at me?” he asked, his voice teasing but warm.

“Always,” you replied, though your smile betrayed you.

“Good,” he said, leaning in to kiss you. “Keeps me on my toes.”

[mistress-of-vos]

I'd make a longer post (and maybe one day I will) but since Lore Olympus, the story that introduced me to webtoons is coming to an end I'd like to say something:

I can't believe it is considered problematic. It has to be one of the sweetest, fluffiest, simplest stories I have read (hence why I still like it, it's a relaxing read before bed) and somehow it got too "kinky" for mainstream. It's laughable.

Everytime I dare to click on their tag or look for the # on Twitter or FB I see people clutching their pearls as if Lore Olympus were brainwashing teenagers into marrying a non existent God of the dead and have babies with him. What the hell?

The fact that people think LO is too dark makes me laugh. A single episode of Rick&Morty, BoJack Horseman or HQS has way more explicit content and dialogue. In fact!!! If it were up to me LO would have gotten genuinely kinky!!! All it does is have some surface spicy tropes that get sugar coated to not make puritans awkward and tbh that's sad. LO and the author get terribly hated anyway for daring to portray the most common female fantasy.

And this all makes me laugh but also mad because you'd think LO at least has some genuine dark themes but no? At most we have Persephone's trauma due to Apollo's abuse and yet that topic is treated as a therapy pamphlet because people couldn't handle an imperfect victim. Hades is a wife guy who shows little to no anger. Hera was re written to be sort of a feminist so that people stopped being annoying about women having emotions.

LO is a sweet, simple story with tiny spicy things here and there that were eventually pushed aside because people couldn't handle it. I wonder how Rachel feels about this, because at the beginning the story was extremely spicy and the only crime was being published in a platform as webtoon, full of people who can't differentiate reality from fiction.

Is LO a masterpiece? Idk! I enjoy the story, it's very self indulgent for me, but I won't go and analyze every detail to see how it should be labeled as it's not meant to be a perfect media. It's meant to be an entertaining, nice story of romance and it does that job very well. This need to demand perfect writing while also crucifying authors over "dark" themes is ridiculous and contradictory.

And I keep wondering, if these people loathe LO so much, why dedicate all that time to the infinte posts they make about how they would have told the story? And all those re tellings are boring! It's always "So Persephone and Hades won't ever kiss here because she's a lesbian. Also he doesn't appear at all. And Demeter isn't an abusive mom! Oh and everyone is ugly because gods shouldn't be beautiful! And Apollo isn't evil he's uwu baby. And no toxic relationships here, Zeus is a good husband!"

Sweet Gaia, you guys wouldn't handle Saint Seiya having Athena in the body of a teenage girl with big tits and who's constantly in the edge of breaking her virginity vows. This attitude screams of jealousy and puritanism and both are disgusting.

TLDR: LO being too problematic for people is both funny and annoying. I wished it actually were as kinky and dark as people insist it is. I'd pay for a toxic romance, but that being said, I LOVE it very much as it is and it's nice to have a re telling that, while not pretending to be loyal to mythology, didn't go for a route of sanitizing all the myths. I hope that once it ends haters will move on and let real fans and the author alone. 🙏

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

Girl I’m so sorry I was dumb😭😭😭😭🙏 you already did an ask from me so literally feel so free to ignore this I’m so sorry but “you’ve never said my name like that” in the fwb prompt list for dick because, as once stated, I am indeed a slut with priorities. My priorities are him. I need him to be real rn

alec be GRATEFUL that i finished this in like a few hours. literally on the way to a wedding. no but seriously happy to give you some good dick😏 “you never said my name like that” from the friends with benefits prompt

pairing: dick grayson x fem!reader (use of y/n) wc: 888

500 celebration

you weren’t sure when this…thing happened between you and dick. you became friends at the age of fifteen in your ninth grade english class, found out he was the robin fighting alongside batman at age eighteen and now ages twenty three and twenty four the both of you came to an agreement of being friends with benefits. most of the benefits were sex and that was the best benefit, but there was moments where dick would slide into a more boyfriend vibe and it hurt your heart, in a good way. but it caused your heart to hurt cause if he was showing the gentle and attentive side after both of you were sweaty and catching stolen breaths, why couldn’t he just ask to be your boyfriend?

this was the question rolling around in your head as you’re back to the same scenario of laying tangled in dick’s dark blue sheets, hair a bit of a riot and clinging to your sticky skin. the sheets pulled to your chest with one knee in the air near the edge of the bed, droopy eyes watching as the man in question pulled his discarded boxers over his ass and waistband snapping to his skin.

“want something to eat? i got some of your ice cream in the freezer.” his left knee sunk into the mattress as he pressed his palms beside your covered leg. one hand moving to sit on the muscle, his thumb moving back and forth without his knowing.

“uh, yeah. yeah, that sounds good and some water, please.” shuffling against the headboard, flashing a simple smile.

dick’s watchful irises moved over your face before he smiled and leaned forward, his plush lips catching yours in a dizzying kiss. you couldn’t help but hum and chase him when he pulled away. his boyish chuckles warmed your ears.

“easy, baby,” voice thick and low, “gotta rest before another round starts.” he winked and left the room.

your heart was beating just as fast when you were doing…physical activities five minutes ago. these were the moments where your head got confused, not understanding when this invisible line was being crossed.

suddenly your mind was telling you to leave and go back to your sad and lonely apartment, so you listened. throwing the wrinkled sheets away you started to redress as you found pieces of your discarded clothing. underwear, socks, pants, bra…. missing. shirt also vanished into air so you dogged into dick’s closet and pulled out a sweater, the warm cotton wrapping you in a hug.

“hey, where- where are you going?” his words wavered along with the creak of the door moving.

you hopped like a bunny trying to stuff your feet back into your shoes, “i- i uh, think it’s best if i head home. got my benefits from my friend.” you looked up, the ice cream and water sitting on his dresser. dick standing tall and strong, trying to hide nerves pulling his muscles tight. he pushed some hair behind his ear, “y/n, what- what are you saying? that this is all just sex?”

now you scuffed, “well we aren’t in a relationship. but you bundle me in these moments of genuine affection and- and possibly love, but you haven’t bothered to change this dynamic.” facing him with your hands slapping your thighs.

“y/n… i just… i didn’t want to ruin anything.” he took steps closer, hands scrubbing over his face.

“you know,” your voice going quiet, “you’ve never said my name like that before.” such an odd thing to say during a sudden argument, but you couldn’t help yourself.

his brows scrunched in the middle, “what?”

you licked your lips, “the way you said my name. it just sounded… breathless. like taking a giant gasp of air after being underwater for too long.” the words just spilled out your mouth, not knowing if you were making sense.

dick took two more steps, gaining closer to your space. he raised a hand and pushed it back to his side, restricting himself. “well, you're like oxygen to me. i constantly need you to stay level headed. you keep me balanced. that’s why i was thrown off guard when you said this was just about sex. cause to me it’s not.” two more steps and with just an inch of space the two of you were chest to chest.

he finally raised his hands, cupping your warm cheeks against rough skin. “is it for you? is this just sex?” his adam’s apple bobbed with the thick swallow he took, waiting for the answer that will change everything.

with steady hands your fingers circled his wrists, middle and thumb almost touching. you held steady eye contact, no need to be flinching away from this truth you’ve held in for seven years.

“dick grayson, i have wanted you since tenth grade when i felt certain emotions when girls would flirt with you or when i’d watch you workout. this is more than sex for me, but it was the only way i could have you at the time, too afraid to say these simple words. but i’m not afraid anymore.”

you pushed up on your toes to get closer to dick’s waiting lips, parted in anticipation. “i’ve fallen for you dick grayson.”

-

[2demondogs]

When You're A Stranger | Kieran/Male Reader

Tags: First kiss AGAIN!!, Kieran had PTSD and he's a little autism coded Words: 2k A/N: For Kinktober (SFW). Originally I was going to fill the frottage prompt but it was NOT sparking joy.

You know you put Kieran on edge. Kindness seems almost painful to him, and fear that you’ve pushed too hard follows whenever he has shied away from you.

Kicked dogs don’t cozy up fast, you’ll remind yourself, and then he’ll come around again.

He’s starting to learn that you aren’t intending to backhand him if he looks at you too long or speaks too softly around you. Even beyond the sweetness you’ve got stored on him, or maybe because of it and the strength love seems to give people to accept lonesomeness in favor of their darling’s happiness, you want him to have… someone, in some sense, that he doesn’t have to fear. Whether, in the end, it’s you or not— that doesn’t matter, but you’ll be the placeholder while he needs it.

His burgeoning confidence is starting to put you on edge, too, if it could be called confidence.

Kieran is bad at hiding his emotions, a real travesty as far as his general safety is concerned. You couldn’t place your finger on what exactly it was in his eyes until an evening where Molly had decided it was your turn to listen to her strife. She had glanced at Dutch the same way: soft-eyed, yearning, that little curl to her mouth. She hadn’t been angry anymore, merely… sad.

Good God, you’d thought, after she’d left you to sulk. He’s in love with me.

A lot of pieces fell into place, then: the patchy rosiness on Kieran’s cheeks that you chalked up to rosacea or sunburning; how he would straighten up when you did, sliding clumsily into mirroring your body language; his clinginess, laced with anticipation that kept him still-distant but much closer than he would ever be caught standing or sitting next to anyone else.

And those eyes, a cloudy color you haven’t gotten close enough to make out yet. They glaze over when you talk as if he’s in a trance — Jesus, you knew that your attention to detail had gone to total shit when that clicked into place, because it’s been painfully obvious ever since. You’d asked him once why he always stared when people spoke to him, and he told you his father had beat his ass raw for not looking him in the eye when he spoke.

That sufficed for the fact he stared, but not the way he did it. It had always been different, with you.

Meatier.

Kieran’s inhibition is palpable once he’s been drinking. Sean had been trotted into camp, loud as ever, and the group beer rations were quickly broken out to celebrate as dusk settled into the skyline beyond the Overlook. For the redhead’s piece, you’d asked him how the O’Driscolls didn’t fear what the rest of you were like after kidnapping his ass; more seriously, you’d ask how he was doing. He’d brushed you off, apparently preferring the taunting to genuine concern. Fair enough. You left him to talk someone else's ear off and wandered to a man you knew would enjoy your company.

He is nursing a beer, watching the campfire crowded ‘round with half of the camp. The tangible longing depresses you in its familiarity. Hosea's doing the same, from a fold-up chair beside his bedroll; Kieran squints when you greet him with: “Hey, old coot. Gonna join the party?”

It takes a second, but he huffs a tense laugh as you glance between him and Hosea. “Don’t think I’m missed,” he says, meeting your eyes.

There it is, that expression. It’s full to bursting.

“I’m missin’ you,” you say, nodding to the hay bale. “Mind if I join your party?”

“Sure thing." His voice sounds strained.

His beer is barely drank from, and neither is yours. The redness of his cheeks and nose, well— you don’t know what it’s from, and the daylight is so faded that it simply looks dark. Maybe it’s been a tan all along.

Or so you’d think, if he didn’t turn to you as soon as you settled a tad too close to him, eyes stuck on your face. The alcohol takes the edge off of your own carefully woven respect for his personal space, and by the time you realize how near you are, it has been too many peaceful seconds to excuse his staring for indignancy. His brows pull together like his mind has blanked in the middle of a thought before it could leave his mouth.

“Kieran?” You ask, and he blinks himself back to earth.

“S’rry,” he says, quick, mouth cracking back in a half-smile. “Real tired.”

“Oughtta be,” you say, taking a drink. He turns back to his own bottle and mirrors you. “All those gray hairs you got comin’ out, I’d be shocked if you weren’t tired. Stress’ll wear you out.”

The air eases. Stress is a word Kieran is familiar with.

“Aye,” he agrees. “Guess I do look pretty rough for my age.”

You smile some. “I was only teasing.” When, predictably, he turns to you— you wink. “Promise.”

He offers a short up-curl of his lips. It stutters when Javier’s guitar starts, sudden and sharp.

“I know,” he says. He tongues the inside of his cheeks, eyes glancing to the ground as if he’d like to watch it instead of you and yet can’t help himself. They roam over your face instead, as he struggles for the words; you let him find them, brows raised. “You never are mean to me. Not really.”

Simple. No juicy tell-all, but simple and sweet. The men start to sing around the fire, a song you don’t recognize.

“Never would want to be,” you say.

He swallows, and you’re certain now of everything you’ve suspected but found difficult to believe. Sure, the signs were damning on his part, and you’ve spent enough time mulling over each and every action to think of someone who does the same things, yet certainly does not fancy you; each one came up with an answer, except that look.

“Why not?” He asks, then, and you’re a little surprised.

“Oh, Kieran,” you say, gently. In your peripherals, Hosea raises to get another beer and Lenny tosses in his sleep. “Men choose to be mean. Well, maybe they’re mean by design, but they choose to show it, at least.”

The concept seems as comforting to him as it does alarming. “Most of ‘em choose it,” he says, eyes squinting. It’s a tic you’ve noticed he has, an irregular twitch of his muscles.

“I know,” you say. Chancing it, you lay an open hand on his upper back; he flinches, but then his shoulders fall an inch or two. “I don’t know what it is about you,” you answer the question before he can ask. “Maybe 'cause you never choose meanness yourself. Makes a man look inside of himself when someone makes a different choice than him, and I doubt they like what they see. To them, that's your fault, so they gotta beat it out of you.”

Kieran thinks the words over. To be honest, you have little idea what you're really saying, are flying off-the-cuff about a subject you probably shouldn’t be — but it feels crucial to answer fast, to speak whatever comes to you first whether it makes sense or not. Some people call gut reactions true feelings, anyways.

“Think I understand." He’s quiet, for a moment. “Y’never get tired of me?”

You huff a laugh. “I get tired of everybody, but I rest up quicker if it’s you.”

He seems to appreciate the lack of sugarcoating. “Me too,” he admits. Lifting his head again, eyes lingering beside your face and then at your jaw, he starts: “You’re really— you’re, uh, real,” — the scramble inside of his head to read your emotions is almost audible, and he finishes uncertainly — “Good to me.”

“You’re talkin’ in circles,” you point out, tone easy.

Kieran flushes. “I appreciate you,” he corrects, tears his eyes away. More to himself, he mumbles: “Yeah, ‘preciate you a lot.”

You smooth your hand across his shoulders. He tenses, but it doesn’t feel as flighty as it usually does. Disappointment might even flicker in him when you take it away. “I appreciate you, too, Kieran,” you say, and can’t help smiling.

Silence passes. Both of you watch the merriment around the fire, Kieran cringing when Dutch starts up his wailing gramophone and takes Molly by the hand. You’ve been thinking, now and again, of how she looked at Dutch just seconds after saying she hated him. Sometimes, I wish he’d grab me by the hair and put me on the boat so I could finally leave him. And then that longing, wanting the very thing you're sitting here watching.

At that, you feel shamefully voyeuristic. Sean is nowhere to be found, and you feel even more voyeuristic when you hear his voice alongside Karen’s over the cacophony.

God, there isn’t anywhere safe to turn your eyes or your ears in this goddamn place. You hope Kieran will start talking again, and then you remember it’s Kieran, so you’d better say something first or you’ll sit in silence the rest of the evening. For someone so stuck in his head, he doesn’t seem to think about many things he’d like to share.

You don’t know he’s looking at you until you turn to speak. It’s your turn to pause, the few lingering seconds of tolerance you have left for not bringing it up passing in the bated breath you share with him.

“Why’re you staring?”

He takes a breath. “You’re nice-lookin’,” he says, voice shockingly calm and even in a rare show of confidence. Then he takes a swig, much healthier than the rest he’s drank. “I jus’— you’re nice to look at.”

You bite the bullet. “Do you want to kiss me?”

Kieran blanches, apparently not expecting an equally as tactless dive-in response. A story crosses his face in an instant: relief, panic, pain, happiness, a few more expressions that you don’t believe have been named by science. “Why?” He asks, but his eyes aren’t behind the question. It’s a knee-jerk response, a self-defense against the idea that he might be worth something kind.

A smile finds you then. “Aren’t you flirting with me?” You ask, partially to get him to admit to it and partially to ease the doubt that prods at your insides.

He nods, and then pauses. Suddenly, he laughs. “Shit, yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t— ‘m sorry, I’ve never… with a man? I ain’t even kissed a girl.” He flushes as if he didn’t mean to say that aloud. "Honestly, it kind of doesn't make sense how I'm s'posed to—"

“Kieran,” you interrupt his babbling, itching to grab him but knowing it would scare him. “Look me in the eye.”

He obeys instantly.

His face melts, and so does your heart. If watching the others feel voyeuristic, this feels exhibitionist; his adoration is so clear on his face, and you can’t help letting your own seep through the mask of nonchalance you try to uphold. To look sweet is one thing as a man; to look sweet on another man is something you avoid at all costs. Yet it doesn’t matter, without anyone watching, even if it chafes on your skin for the mere air of camp to contain it.

“Forget everything. Whether it’s right or wrong or new or old or whatever the Hell,” you say. He nods, throat clicking as he swallows. “Tell me: do you want to kiss me?”

“O’course I do,” he says, as if it’s a dumb question.

He tastes like beer and one of Sean’s terrible hand-rolled cigarettes, must’ve bummed one before the man hit the hay with Karen. The thought is humorous. His beard is scratchy on your face, and his mouth doesn’t move, uncertain how to work against yours — until it makes more sense, and his lips shift slightly, still inhibited.

You lean back first, because you aren’t sure he would even realize he’s supposed to.

[celestial-toys]

Observation Duty

“You said your eyes are everywhere, huh?”

Your question is met with silence.

Now, if you had been looking down at him instead of facing the ceiling, you’d have caught the brief image of your living room security cam footage as it flashed across the screen of his faceplate. You’d have seen the moment you tripped playing on a sped up loop over and over, your knee hitting the table’s corner, your body hitting the floor, laundry falling and dog food scattering just to rise back up unnaturally as the footage plays again in reverse.

You weren’t looking down though, you weren’t looking anywhere at all- and so you missed it completely, thinking nothing of his silence and continuing to talk to the ceiling.

“So… what, you just enjoy watching me do chores?”

- - -

Seeking distraction from the work weighing on your mind, you start a little play-argument with the tetchy automaton currently hogging your couch. It soon evolves into a verbal dance, skirting around some heavier topics that threaten to trip up the both of you as your conversation moves too quickly for this listless afternoon.

As usual, he takes all of your antics in stride. Well… mostly. Kinda.

Look- he’s trying, okay?

Pairing: Sun x Moon x Reader - GN!Reader

Word Count: 4,934

Contains: [AU - Real World] [argument] [feelings] [implied past trauma] [intimidation] [lack of communication] [minor injuries] [obsessive behavior] [sentient AI] [size difference] [surveillance] [tension] [touching (not sexual but the consent is still dubious)] [tsundere/yandere Sun] [unsettling]

A/Ns: Once again, the above CW's probably make it sound worse than it is, but I like to err on the side of caution.

This fic is part of my AU "[Not] Made by Design", the full series can be found here.

The light of the screen in front of you burns into your tired eyes. Your focus is waning, your mind preferring to wander instead to how badly you’re craving an afternoon coffee. Sighing, you push yourself away from your desk, leaning back into the chair as its wheels roll with the momentum. Bumping into the wall behind you with a soft thud, you slump in your seat, staring with unfocused eyes at nothing in particular.

A few deep breaths and a short-lived moment of empty-headed bliss later, you remove your glasses and rub your eyes with the knuckles of your curled fingers. Digging your heels into the floor and dragging your chair forward again, you place your glasses on the desk, and note the time. You’ve been in the office for several hours at this point, and if you stay much longer you’re willing to bet a certain Sun-themed bot will be beating down your door demanding that you take a break. So, after double-checking that your work is saved, you put your PC to sleep. Standing and reaching for the ceiling as you stretch, you grimace at the cracks from your back and shoulders.

Making your way out of the room and down the hall, you round a corner, entering the living room. The blackout shades are down, all lights off save for the soft yellow glow coming from a small lamp in the corner. The bright afternoon sun is peeking its way through the edges of the windows that the shades don’t quite cover.

Moon would likely complain about how “dark and sad” it looks if he were in here, but you don’t see him. You figure he might be in the kitchen, or outside charging, maybe. Regardless, if he isn’t here to bother Sun about his “depressing” lighting choices, you will in his stead.

The robot has situated himself across the length of your couch, which is quite a feat considering the thing is honestly just a glorified loveseat and even you can’t lay on it comfortably. For being as large as they are, their flexibility makes up for it, allowing Sun and Moon to be genuinely impressive in their ability to fit into relatively small spaces. You try not to mentally pat yourself on the back for the role you played in that ability.

This isn’t about you anymore.

The soft white glow coming from his screen is enough to illuminate the pages of the book in his hands, and from what you can see of it you think you recognize the cover as being the one you were telling them both about last night as you were falling asleep.

…Cute.

You smile, leaning against the wall as you speak up.

“Y’know, my parents used to always nag me about my bad habit of reading in the dark. It seems I’ve somehow passed that trait along to you.”

Sun hums, tone soft and dismissive, and doesn’t pull his gaze away from the book when he speaks.

“It’s not dark, the lamp’s on.”

One black silicone fingertip lifts the corner of the right page, gently pulling it across and splaying his hand out to flatten the book down again. You note how the width of his fingers span beyond both edges of the book. It almost looks too small in his hands, but then again… most things do.

“Besides, I can see just fine in the dark. The lamp is for you.”

Well, he’s not wrong.

There’s humor in your voice, speaking as you push up off the wall and make your way across the room towards him. “Yes, and I do appreciate you leaving me enough light to get around by.”

You cautiously perch behind him on the right arm of the couch, careful not to get your loose clothes caught on any of his protruding rays. You’re aware that in his eyes, you’re clumsy enough even with the lights on, let alone trying to navigate in the almost-dark. Given that, you aren’t sure if it’s truly his disdain for bright lights, or simply his desire to see you struggle that drives him to keep the areas he occupies dimly lit.

Looking down at the coffee table, a recent memory surfaces and you frown.

“Speaking of navigating in the dark… my knee still hurts from slamming it into the corner of the coffee table last week, you know?”

From your position behind him you can’t see how his display shifts from its soft, blank white, his digital approximation of facial features materializing only to shift into a grimace. You do hear the shift in his tone of voice, although you can’t quite name what it is. Exasperation? Or… concern?

“I know. I’m surprised it didn’t bruise.”

“Well, you know me, I have to take quite a hard hit for my skin to really show it.” You think for a moment, and add onto the statement, muttering mostly to yourself but his hearing catches it all the same. “Which has always been odd to me considering how easily my skin scars…”

He hums a little bit in acknowledgment, trying not to think too hard about your various scars and how you got them. “Well, from the sound you made when it happened I thought you’d really injured yourself.”

Your voice takes on a playful tone of offense. “I am injured! It hurt!” You reach down and gently press over the spot that hurts the most, unable to resist the urge to poke the non-existent bruise through the plush fabric of your lounge pants. You murmur to yourself as much as to Sun, “...and it’s still sore...”

His body releases air in semblance of a sigh, lowering the book to his lap. Still looking down at it while he speaks, his tone is a mixture of teasing and I-told-you-so. “While it may have been semi-dark in here when it happened- I’m not taking the blame for it. Things like that just happen when you run around doing three things at once.”

A small surprised laugh escapes you. “How do you know what I was doing, huh?” You reach out and carefully run a fingertip along the edge of his top ray. “You weren’t even in the room, silly.”

His rays twitch slightly but he doesn’t retract them much as his faceplate slowly tilts back, stopping at an impossible angle for any human and finally making eye contact with you, albeit upside-down. “My eyes are everywhere, doll.”

His tone is something you’d call playfully threatening and you hold his steady gaze for a long moment before eventually blinking and glancing away, conceding to a contest you could never win.

It’s cute when he tries to be scary.

A half-smile on your face, you dismiss his attempt to unsettle you. Halloween is next month. “Mhm. I’m sure they are.”

From your peripheral vision you watch his expression falter, his yellow eyes flickering to red just briefly before he speaks. “You were carrying a bowl filled with dog food in your left hand, fresh laundry from the dryer was hanging off both of your shoulders, and you were wiping down the coffee table with your favorite brown towel in your right hand. All at once. While cursing.”

You throw a confused look at him that he ignores in favor of continuing to reprimand your past actions. “You’re incapable of doing one thing at a time, aren’t you? Truly reckless behavior, you know. That’s how people get hurt.”

You let out a put-upon sigh. He’s not wrong, but you don’t want to admit it yet.

Time for a diversion, then.

“Hey, I can multitask! I built both of you at the same time and it turned out alright, didn’t it?”

For a moment, the room is absolutely silent as you both process what you just let slip. You’re about to rush to correct yourself when Sun beats you to it, speaking up.

He laughs at first, soft and a little dismissive.

“Not quite the same thing, sunshine.”

Alright, well… it seems he’s less bothered by the reminder than you thought he’d be. That, or he’s getting better at hiding his true feelings, which is a whole other issue you’ll have to tackle if that’s the case.

You cock your head to the side. Might as well play into it, then.

“No? How so?”

His eyes flicker to red, and this time they stay that way as his faceplate turns, click-click-clicking and stopping when it’s done a 180 so he can look at you properly.

Oh. He’s not smiling.

On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t push the topic.

“You designed us, doll. You didn’t build us, and you didn’t do it alone. You had a whole team behind you.”

Not breaking eye contact with you, Sun’s left hand that had been cradling the open book in his lap closes in an instant. A sudden, sharp clap resounds in the room as a result of the book folding closed so harshly in his grip. You internally grimace at the way it makes you flinch.

Your eyes flick from the book held tight in his grip, to his faceplate, watching his expression fade until his display is completely black. Any attempts at appearing somewhat humanoid thrown out the window, he releases a breath of hot air through his vents as you stare into the void of his screen. You know he’ll likely elaborate if you give him the space to do so, so you take a deep breath of your own, and wait.

It’s always somehow so much more unnerving to hear him speak when his “face” is gone, but you hang onto his every word regardless. You’re not gonna look away from something- someone you made.

“Besides, let’s not forget that even with a whole team of humans, you still managed to fuck up some… aspects… of the project.” Having dropped the comforting illusion of his false eyes, his faceplate tilts, a small, sudden, sharp movement so his ocular sensor can stare directly at you. “Didn’t you?”

Your stomach drops at the realization of what he’s referencing. At least… you think you know. Honestly, there’s an entire list of things that happened back in the facility that they have every right to resent you for.

You’re not sure what to say anymore. There really aren’t any magic words that can make it better. You hurt them. You all did. End of argument.

The realization must be obvious on your face, because his screen soon switches back to his default expression and he seems quite pleased with himself for about ten whole seconds. Then as quickly as it came, the expression he wears shifts into one of hesitation, frustration, and then finally- worry? Maybe? At this point it’s getting hard to tell what the hell he’s feeling, if you ever could.

“Sun… I… I don’t-”

You manage to hold his gaze as you stumble in search of the right words, watching his expression morph from one emotion to the next until his right hand moves, and your eyes immediately flick towards the motion. Your gaze drags up his arm as slowly, his shoulder joint rotates enough to allow him to reach all the way behind him- towards you- hand reaching out to gently cup your right cheek.

You don’t lean away. You won’t.

You dig your nails into the fabric of the couch. His thumb slips under the edge of your jaw as his fingers splay across the side of your head, and you can feel the slight pressure as his thumb lays against your carotid artery.

He doesn’t speak at all this time but from past experience, your mind easily fills in the words he usually says to you as he does this.

Deep breath in. Hold it. Let it out slowly.

You know what he’s doing, and you let him. It’s far from the first time he’s done it.

His mixed expression doesn’t change, his hand doesn’t move, and the silence drags on until you can’t take it anymore. Your voice shakes but you push past it to get the words out.

“I… I swear to god- Sun- like I’ve said before, if I’d’ve had any clue that you two were alive back then-”

You’re forced to squint as his entire screen suddenly flashes, solid white, red, black, repeating several times. His grip on your cheek tightens just slightly. A warning of sorts, if you had to guess. It shuts you up fast and he hisses out an irritated “Don’t.”

Confusion is written on your face and without thinking, you open your mouth to insist on your apology.

His thumb immediately slips under your chin, pressing your mouth closed with such a slow, gentle motion contradicting his current demeanor that it practically gives you whiplash. As soon as your mouth is closed his thumb slips right back to its prior position over your pounding pulse, and his display fades back down to solid black.

“Stop talking. It fucks up my readings when you speak.”

Your brow furrows in frustration at first, but you do what he asked, and what you’re good at. You sit there with him in the quiet and focus on your breathing as the sounds of his cooling system kick up a notch.

The seconds feel like they drag on for ages due to the way you focus on them, but in reality it’s only about three minutes later that he finally seems satisfied with the readings he took as he slowly retracts his hand from your head. The black void of his faceplate slowly lights up again, albeit he’s replaced his default expression with something more akin to a… dynamic wallpaper- yellow smoke billowing across a dark screen.

Whatever suits him, you suppose.

Folding his hands together over the book in his lap, he finally speaks, his tone low and unhappy but not angry, really.

“Your HRV is low and your RHR is high.”

Your response comes out sounding more dismissive than you mean for it to.

“Yeah, they usually are. Nothing new, unfortunately.”

Sun’s body tenses a bit and his rays retract slightly in response. He releases another hot breath through the vent at the base of his neck and you can feel the warmth on your thigh through the fabric of your pants. He speaks again, voice slightly strained.

“That’s my point. You need to relax, and talking about the past isn’t helping you do that right now. So just… drop it.”

You want to point out that he could stand to take his own advice, but you bite your tongue instead. He’s right, after all. You do need to relax. You both do, what with the two of you walking around ready to snap most of the time. In spite of that though, he’s doing his best to deescalate the situation and you ought to follow suit.

The lack of Moon’s calming presence is painfully obvious during times like these, but the two of you ought to be able to make it through one damn conversation without needing his assistance. You laugh a little to yourself, unamused but wearing half a smile nonetheless, shaking your head at the thought. As much as he’d hate to admit it, even Sun knows that the three of you work best when you’re all together, balancing each other out.

You sigh, and let yourself flop against the back of the couch, stretching your right arm out across the length of it. Sun’s invisible gaze follows you as his faceplate tilts on its axis and rotates to remain facing you. You note the way he’s letting his neck gently rest against your right thigh.

Leaning your own head back and closing your eyes in defeat, you speak towards the ceiling.

“Okay, fine, you’re right. I’ll drop it.”

You drum your fingertips along the fabric of the couch in thought, before adding, “...And… maybe... I was doing too much at once, when I hurt my knee on the coffee table last week.”

He lets out a little hum of agreement.

Still, if he thinks he’s fully won this silly little argument he’s got another thing coming. You’ve definitely still got a counterpoint. Counter… question? Whatever.

“You said your eyes are everywhere, huh?”

Your question is met with silence.

Now, if you had been looking down at him instead of facing the ceiling, you’d have caught the brief image of your living room security cam footage as it flashed across the screen of his faceplate. You’d have seen the moment you tripped playing on a sped up loop over and over, your knee hitting the table’s corner, your body hitting the floor, laundry falling and dog food scattering just to rise back up unnaturally as the footage plays again in reverse.

You weren’t looking down though, you weren’t looking anywhere at all- and so you missed it completely, thinking nothing of his silence and continuing to talk to the ceiling.

“So… what, you just enjoy watching me do chores?”

He chuckles in response, and the vibrations from the sound tickle your outer thigh, causing the muscles there to twitch involuntarily. You cringe at your body’s sensitivity, but Sun thankfully doesn’t react.

Begrudgingly, you open your eyes and crane your head back up, bringing your right hand up off the couch to lean on. You pull your left leg up towards yourself at the same time, heel propping up on the arm of the couch. Curling toward your right, you realize you’ve inadvertently wrapped your body around his head, which is all but resting in your lap at this point. His rays are mostly retracted by now and the display on his faceplate has shifted once again, yellow clouds still billowing across black but he’s allowed parts of his expression to return, pale white eyes emerging from the smoke.

His face is otherwise unreadable as he finally responds to you. “My priority is keeping you safe. How can I do that if I can’t see you?”

You can’t help but scoff a little at that. “Safe? You were- apparently- watching me, and still let me trip on one of Zero’s toys and slam my knee into the table.”

At that, his mouth returns and he frowns at your tone, and so do you, realizing that you came across a bit more accusatory than you meant to. A beat passes where you both just stare at each other, and his voice is a lot softer when he speaks again.

“Was I not by your side within seconds after the fall, checking you for injuries?”

He was, and you know it. He was on you inhumanly fast, cradling your head like you’d fallen off a ladder or something and not just tripped and fell to your hands and knees on plush carpet. He’s a worrier and you know it damn well, even if he’d rather be decommissioned than admit to it.

Unfortunately, you never learned how to let yourself accept help, nor how to stop being stubborn in a stupid argument that you started yourself. “...Yeah. I guess. But you still could have offered to help before I tripped.”

He rolls his eyes before they land back on you, fixing you with a look that’s unexpectedly soft. In stark contrast, his voice comes out strained. “I was trying not to hover, sunshine.”

Your eyes flick away from his, always unable to maintain the sustained contact once things got a little too serious.

He keeps talking regardless.

“I know you. You would have been like- ‘Oh, no, I’ve got it! Don’t even worry about it!’ and wouldn’t have let me help even if I did offer.”

You scoff before leveling him with an unamused stare. “Oh, I do not sound like that. Shut it.”

He’s wearing a neutral expression but you notice as it shifts slightly, a hint of satisfaction at having gotten under your skin beginning to make itself known. You watch the hint of emotion begin to alter his digital features, as well as his voice.

“Regardless. ‘No lesson is as powerful as the lesson learned on one’s own.’ Besides, I knew you’d be fine.”

You blink down at him for a moment as you process his statement, and fail to contain your exasperated huff of annoyance when you realize where you’ve heard some of those words before.

“Don’t quote Night Vale at me right now, Sun.”

If you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you’d have missed the way his eyes turned upwards a bit, seemingly pleased with himself.

You continue, in spite of his attempts to deflect your words.

“You didn’t sound so self assured when you were rushing over to me on the floor with those big red “eyes” of yours blown wide. You were all like- ‘Where does it hurt? Show me. Where. How bad? You didn’t hit your head, right? Forget about the dog food- look at me.’ and all that.”

His eyes shift from crescent moons to flat lines, and his voice returns to his typical deadpan tone.

“You do a terrible impression of me.”

You scoff.

“Like yours is better?”

He nods, his faceplate shifting up and down within the limited range of motion he’s allowed, given your current position.

“I can literally mimic your voice. Mine is objectively superior.”

Thoughts of The Mimic flash in your mind, and it takes all you’ve got to not crack some sort of half-baked joke about the Ruin DLC. The smile on your face does little to hide the temptation, though.

“Debatable.”

Sun doesn’t press you for more, seeming less than eager to hear whatever joke he’s sure you’ve got sitting on the tip of your tongue.

“It’s not up for debate. If you wanna debate with someone go find Moon.”

He sighs heavily, breathing out his next words in an impressive display of realism given that his speech and breathing functions aren’t connected at all.

“I've run out of conversation juice.”

He shifts to sit back up, faceplate rotating, returning his body to its original position facing away from you. You huff and uncurl yourself from your perch on the couch. Moving to stand, you make your way around to the other end where his long legs cause his feet to jut out comically far past the armrest. You reach down, gently grabbing him by the ankles and begin to maneuver his legs out of the way, muttering to yourself as you do so.

“Wish I was a robot so I could lie and say my system has run out of something I don’t even have in the first place…”

He puts up no resistance as you fold his legs away accordion style, watching you in what almost seems like thoughtful silence. Once you’ve made room for yourself, you perch once again on the other arm of the couch, your feet resting on the far left cushion and your left side leaning against the backrest. He finally speaks once it seems that you’re settled.

“Alright. How would you rather I put it?”

You quirk an eyebrow up, slightly surprised at the sincere tone of his question. Shaking your head, you're quick to convey that you were only joking.

“No, no I didn't say to change it. I like ‘conversation juice', I think it’s funny.”

He tilts his head a bit, slow and analyzing. Half a smile slowly curls across his face and both of his eyes take on a soft, pale yellow. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was tired. He's looking at you with such a gentle gaze. It's almost… sad, if you look closely enough.

“Funny? Hm. Well, I suppose I am nothing if not a clown.”

His attention drifts back down to his book, cracking it open and flipping through to return to the page he left off on in no particular hurry.

You know his deadpan tone likely isn’t meant to sound so self deprecating but your heart still hurts at the thought that he only sees himself as some sort of… novelty toy. A joke. A mechanical clown for you to play with when you’re bored. A comedic horror character brought to life.

He can only make so many jokes about himself before they start to sound less like jokes and more like a way for him to vent his insecurities. You understand that type of “humor” far too well to just sit back and watch him do it to himself.

You struggle to resist the urge to remind him that there is much, much more to him than being modeled after that character from that game. You consider reaching out and curling the tip of a finger under the bottom edge of his face plate. You think about gently tilting his face away from the book and back up at you. You want to look him in the eye while you tell him all of the things that you love about him, and how much he means to you, and that he is so much more than a clown.

But you know he handles comfort and praise just about as well as a cat handles falling into a bathtub, so… you resist the urge. For now.

Eventually, one day, likely far from now, you hope to get him used to the amount of love you have to give, and you’ll smother him with it like you want to. But if you lay it all on him like that right now, he would probably overheat and shut down. Both metaphorically and literally.

You really don’t want that to happen again. Scared the hell out of you last time. Even knowing that it’s a safety measure to ensure that he doesn’t sustain damage from overheating- it looks an awful lot like he’s dying when it happens and you’d like to not have to see it again.

So, you opt to keep things lighthearted. You smile as you reach out to pat him on the knee.

“And an excellent clown you are, dear.”

There’s more sugar in your tone than you intended to let out, but if he knew everything you really wanted to say, he’d realize that you’re actually being very reserved right now.

You’re being very normal about it all, you think, as you silently praise yourself.

When you finally get out of your thoughts and back into your body, you realize that you’re being eyed by the man on your couch in such a way that indicates he knows you were caught up in your head again. You spent too long in silence before you responded to him and now he’s likely aware that you were wanting to say something else.

A lot else, actually.

So, before he can potentially ask you what you’re thinking about, you attempt to change the topic. Laughing a bit to yourself, you stretch and shift to make your sudden and hopefully casual retreat from the couch and the awkward air you’ve clouded around it. Twisting around and planting your feet on the floor, there’s forced humor in your voice as you wonder aloud where his other half is.

“Speaking of clowns, what’s Moon been up to while I was working?”

Sun’s expression is unreadable as he spares you one last moment of his visual attention before angling his monitor back down toward the book. You know he’s perfectly capable of taking in visual information while outputting completely separate verbal communication, and can give both tasks his full attention simultaneously in the way no human truly could. Still, in spite of that knowledge, you doubt he’s really paying much attention to the words on the pages before him as he speaks to you right now.

“You know that sad, sad little plant that’s been fighting for its life on your kitchen windowsill for the last… thirty-seven days?”

You cringe a bit at the reminder of the succulent you impulse-purchased recently- well, a tad longer than recently if Sun’s count is accurate, which you know it is. You’ve been meaning to re-pot the poor thing and find a different place for it where it’ll receive better light, but… you’ve been meaning to do a lot of things.

“...Yeah…”

“Last I saw, he took it outside through the back door. He was muttering something about ‘saving’ it.”

Your eyebrows knit as your gaze casts across the floor.

“Saving it... okay.”

As far as you’re aware, you don’t have any potting soil on hand, so you struggle to feature what he’s out there doing with it.

It’s right around this time that you notice the silence of the house amidst your quiet consideration.

You raise another question.

“I assume Zero followed him out there?”

Sun’s true focus seems to be gradually shifting away from you and back into the book, if his display’s shift back to blank, soft white and his neutral-toned yet concise reply are anything to go off of.

“Mhm.”

You suck in a breath and pat your legs before easing yourself up off of the couch.

“I'm gonna go see what they’re up to, then.”

You’re so bold as to lay a gentle hand briefly on his shoulder as you pass him by, lingering just long enough to let something sincere slip.

“I hope you enjoy the book.”

He kicks his folded legs back out, crossing them as they come to rest on the opposite armrest once again.

“Don’t spoil it for me.”

You smile at his avoidance of your sentimentality, laughing a bit as you cross the room, headed for the back door, your tone playful.

“I make no promises!”

A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! You can find my (lengthy) commentary on this fic in the end notes right here on Ao3. Links to the playlist and moodboard for [N]MbD can be found on this blog's pinned post, as well as in the series notes on Ao3. Header Image Source: x

[devildom-moss]

Mephisto's performance

(Mephisto x gn!MC)

(NSFW) (angst) (NSFW tags: very slight dom!top!Mephisto and bottom!MC; "office" sex, semi-public/risky, no condom, creampie, hate-fucking, "use me" dynamic, consent - but with a lot of regret so maybe dubious?, slight degradation with backhanded praise, Mephisto calling MC a whore and a slut, so slutshaming, pain, slapping, fingering light bondage, half-clothed, no orgasm for MC sorry)

(other tags: religious undertones, one-sided enemies to ?who knows?, sad/bittersweet ending)

Word Count: +2,200

To say you admired Mephistopheles was an understatement; you were absolutely smitten. Granted, he had a reputation for being a pompous asshole whose presence left a bitter taste in Lucifer’s mouth – the same mouth that warned you about spending time with the likes of Mephisto and questioned your recent attention to “a demon whose attitude and pride might be excusable if it was offset by actual wit and usefulness.”

Clearly, Lucifer either hadn’t seen the version of Mephisto that you had – the small slips in his bitter façade – or he had, and Lucifer simply refused to acknowledge it. You didn’t care what anyone else said about Mephisto. He had watched over Luke when he fell asleep in common places multiple times. As much as he protested, when you really needed him, he offered his assistance in whatever form he could – especially when it would aid Diavolo. If nothing else, Lucifer should have remembered that Mephisto was right there with Diavolo and Barbatos, tending to him and his brothers on the day they fell. You knew better. Mephisto was sweet.

He was adorable. You remembered the precious smile he had on his face while staring up at the new blossoms forming on the trees one early morning. It wasn’t the only time you had caught his face softening, entranced by some natural beauty. Mephisto still blushed when you would pay him a genuine compliment, covering his mouth with a gloved hand.

Sweet. Adorable. And so, so sexy.

Lust and affection had motivated you to pay Mephisto a visit in the RAD Newspaper Club room – another attempt to get on his good side. This time, you brought gifts to appease the bitter old demon: hot coffee and sweets that you and Luke had baked yesterday. However, the second you walked through that door, Mephisto let out an annoyed sigh.

“Why are you bothering me?” he asked, sparing you a second glance – but not a third.

“I wanted to cheer you up,” you admitted, setting your offering on his desk. “Diavolo told me that he had seen you working nonstop in preparation for the upcoming event. I figured that might be why you’ve been frowning every time I’ve seen you all week. I brought you coffee and sweets that Luke and I made.”

Part of you had an inkling that Mephisto actually enjoyed your company more than he let on. Maybe you were just clinging to a deeply engraved hope that he wanted you. Maybe you read into signs of his kindness towards you. Perhaps wishful thinking turned a two-second glance – maybe even a judgmental glare – into a longing stare. You wanted to break through his defenses if he’d let you. Well, you had certainly broken something.

Your act of kindness pushed Mephisto over the edge, and he looked up from his work and raised his voice at you. “I have too much on my plate to keep drilling this into that thick, fucking skull of yours. I don’t like you, you won’t change my mind, and that pathetic hopeful look on your face infuriates me.”

You didn’t fully believe him – as desperate as that may sound. Perhaps it was selfish, but you didn’t want to leave him alone in that room.

Mephisto waited for you to turn around and walk away, but you didn’t budge. He sighed and got to his feet. “What? Why are you still here? Why are you bringing me things hours before any of your classes even start? What do you want?”

Most classes hadn’t started yet, but if you hadn’t arrived before everyone else, you wouldn’t have been able to see Mephisto alone. Barbatos had mentioned that Mephisto was an early riser in passing once, so you figured you would find him overworking himself that morning. As for what you wanted, you wished it was more obvious to him.

“I want you to love me,” you confessed. Mephisto circled his desk so he could sandwich you between himself and the desk, blocking your path to the exit.

“How do you want me to love you? With my boot on your neck? With my fingers buried inside of you? With my hips pressed against you? What do you want? How do you expect me to love you? I could ruin you, but love?”

You shuddered. Was this a rejection or an invitation? You forced the words, and they fell out in a clumsy mess. “I don’t expect it – you loving me. I just want it, but you could ruin me instead if you wanted.”

Mephisto’s eyes widened; he retreated slightly before narrowing his eyes. “What are you saying?”

“Use me – if you really can’t love me.” Shame burned in your cheeks, but you continued. You were determined to call his bluff. “Take out your anger and hatred on my body. Do whatever you want.”

Maybe he truly hated you. Maybe he would be disgusted by your offer. Maybe he would refuse because he did love you. Or maybe he would agree to use you – to ruin you – without a trace of affection. Even then, at least you would finally get to be with him for however long you could manage to be entertaining. The possibilities ran through your head, just quick enough to fill the brief moment before Mephisto responded.

“Turn around,” he demanded. His voice was cold. In truth, you hadn’t expected him to take you up on your offer. Your heart sank as you watched Mephisto remove his tie. A low, growling sigh left him when you remained immobile. He took your arm and forced you to turn. “You offered. So, do as you’re told.”

Your voice caught in your throat. Mephisto made quick work of knotting his tie around your wrists and up your forearms, binding them behind your back. Fear washed over your body as you felt Mephisto tug your pants and underwear down to your ankles. Was this really what you wanted?

Mephisto reached over you, pressing his chest firmly against your back as he did, and pulled a bottle of lube from his top desk drawer. You didn’t question why he had it there, but you did have a question for him: “Why are you using that on me?”

The answer was obvious, but you were begging for some kind of affection from him, wishing for the words “I don’t want to hurt you” to leave his lips with enough sweetness to sate you, but they didn’t come. Instead, Mephisto removed his glove; tugged on his tie, bringing you closer; and shoved his glove into your mouth to shut you up. You felt one cool, lubricated finger plunge into you – quickly followed by a second. You bit down on his glove as he began to stretch you out.

“To answer your question, I’d be in a world of trouble if anyone found out that I hurt you. Everyone seems to think that you’re so fucking precious. Besides,” Mephisto paused, using the last word to soften the spite in his voice before he continued, “you’ll feel better if I do this first.”

You couldn’t tell if he meant that you would feel better for him or if he wanted you to feel some kind of pleasure from this too, but you hoped. However, that hope wasn’t enough to ease the heavy aching in your chest. Even through the bits of pleasure you felt when Mephisto’s long fingers curled into your body, you knew that this wasn’t how you wanted it. That truth sat rancid in your gagged mouth – somehow more unsavory than anything. Even the realization that you would die (for good) one day was less distasteful than this.

It was almost a comfort when Mephisto pulled his fingers out. You heard his pants drop before he tugged you violently towards him. Your ass was flush against him. There was a filthy relief in knowing that he was hard. At least you had aroused him a bit, then, right? You wished you could have suppressed the dirty, joyous hope you felt. Maybe he wanted you just as badly.

Mephisto entered you slowly. It almost felt intimate: the way he ran his gloved hand through your hair before tugging at it, the way his lips found your neck before it was all teeth and marks, the way his hips rocked slowly into you before he stopped holding back. He almost made this feel like affection before the poison left his mouth between panting and groans. “Not so useless anymore, are you?”

How did he know exactly how to give you a gentle touch that left you hoping before he stripped it from you? He said he didn’t want anyone to know he hurt you, so of course he would figure out how to break your heart. At least that was a pain you could never show anyone. It would live in you – and he would be the only other person who knew that such a haunting beast was hiding inside.

You choked back tears as his thrusting picked up speed and intensity, forcing your thighs against his desk repeatedly with each buck of his hips. This was going to bruise. It was just enough to slosh some of the coffee out of the cup you had brought him earlier. A small puddle pooled towards the edge of the desk until it grazed your thigh, burning for a moment before all you could feel was a numb ache – a small punishment for your foolishness.

This time, you couldn’t hold back a groan. You had tried so hard to disguise any sign of pain or pleasure, but this was too much. Your muffled noise alerted Mephisto to the mess you had both made. It was a small one with no casualties. It hadn’t even reached any of his documents. The only thing left damaged was you, and yet Mephisto dragged you back by the tie around your arms, his cock still buried in you, with an angry, “fuck.”

Did he not want you to get hurt? No.

Mephisto tugged your hair up until you were standing upright – as upright as you could be when you were still impaled on him. He took his glove out of your mouth before he forcefully bent you over towards the edge of the desk. “Lick up the mess, whore.”

You did as he told you. The coffee was still hot, and it stung on your tongue, but you were distracted by a firm slap to your ass. When you managed to clean up the mess, Mephisto brought you upright again with a rough tug and shoved his glove back into your mouth.

“There’s a good little slut,” Mephisto chuckled before he continued to fuck you – even more violently than before. He called you good, at least.

You were choking back tears when he snaked his gloved hand tenderly around your neck. Mephisto used his index finger to guide your chin up. Staring at the ceiling, with your eyes to heaven, you felt that you owed something – someone – a prayer. You wanted to thank some god that Mephisto’s hand was there around your throat – as if the slight pressure was the only thing keeping the sobs and moans inside of you. No. It wasn’t a god that you were grateful to. It was Mephisto. Even as he used you for his amusement, your desire still burned. Your love blazed steadily. Through the pain and emptiness, you still adored him. How pathetic.

Even more pathetic was the contentment you felt as Mephisto sunk his teeth into your shoulder, muffling his moans as he came inside of you. He didn’t pleasure you enough for you to cum; you got the smallest taste of it, and somehow you were content.

Mephisto was quick to pull out of you and get his pants back up. You stood there, trying to reel yourself back into your body – too slowly for Mephisto’s liking. He tugged your pants and underwear back up for you. His glove slipped from your mouth and onto the floor as you attempted to protest with a feeble, “wait.”

His cum had already started to leak out, and the feeling of it sickened you – a shameful sickness. This felt awful and wrong and disgusting, but the most resentful part of you quietly wanted him to bend you back over his desk and fill you up all over again.

Mephisto pulled you in by his tie around your arms and leaned close to your ear. “Keep it in you. I want that sensation to stick with you all day and remind you how much I despise you. Now get out of my sight.”

You felt his tie slip from around your arms. Mephisto dragged you towards the door and shoved you out into the hallway. You heard the distinct sound of the door locking behind you.

Mephisto waited for your hesitant footsteps to fade away down the hall before he sunk his teeth into the back of his ungloved hand. Tears streamed down his face as he dropped to his knees on the floor. Had he finally given you a convincing performance – persuaded you to stay away from him?  

In that dim room on a dark Devildom morning, on his knees, Mephisto felt that he owed something – someone – a prayer. Unsure if he was even allowed – or who would hear it – he prayed that he had finally shown you what a monster he was. The cruel, wicked beast he housed had spit its parasitic DNA into you and waited to consume you. He was a demon, with his hands clasped so tightly together that they trembled, brought to his knees. His prayer – half-confession – found no purchase. It lived only inside of him, and even you would never know. It was a small, lenient punishment.

[johnnyst0rm]

GLADIATOR II

My official review (that absolutely no one asked for):

👑👑👑👑 - I claim this film for the glory of Rome

🗡️🗡️PLEASE NOTE THIS REVIEW WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS. PLEASE DO NOT READ UNDER THE CUT OR THE COMMENTS IF YOU HAVEN’T YET SEEN THE FILM & DO NOT WANT SPOILERS.🗡️🗡️

Words I think best describe what you see: A whirlwind of action packed thrill ride that left me either on the edge of my seat or literally leaping out of it (don’t worry I was in the back row & only my friend to the right of me) whenever you might think this film is going to go, its probably not what you thing. I went in with one idea & while a few things did happen, there were a lot of moments that left me gasping for air, throwing my hands on my hand, leaping out of my seat, & at one point during one particular scene, my heart was beating so fast it reached 136 BPM - don’t worry we’ll get to that.

Denzel Washington & Paul Mescal command attention & they get it.

Denzel’s Macrinus had me despising him not once did I find myself rooting for him & as a LONGTIME Denzel fan this is a first. The fact that he was so quick to manipulate & found it so easy to put everyone especially Caracalla against Geta & even assisted with his murder was CRAZY. I’ve never wanted to punch Denzel Washington in the face before, then he helped slit my boys throat & literally saw his head off. I will be genuinely shocked if he is not nominated for best supporting actor for this role & I will be shocked if he does not win (depending on his competition)

Paul’s Lucius is powerful & breathtaking. You can feel his pain of losing his wife at the hands of his soon to be found out stepfather, remembering who he is, then collectively watching his stepfather & mother murdered in front of him. His mother dying the same way his wife had previously. You not only mourn with him but push for him to fight to avenge the fallen. Paul still an up & comer I think has a great career ahead of him & will now identify myself as a fellow Paul Mescal fan.

Pedro’s Acasius is tired & heart broken of all the wrong he’s had to do and continue to do in his life for the vanity & glory of his emperors. Pedro is Pedro so of course he’s eye catching but his character & portrayal left me wanting more. His action scenes are great. He commands the scenes he’s fighting in but in all other aspects of his character I just wanted more & it felt pretty lack luster. His interactions with Joseph, kissing his hands & talking shit about them had me laughing because no wonder he calls you such a shit head Joseph, your Geta ordered him dead & your boys shot him full of fucking arrows. (I’d hold a grudge too we’re Aries!) I was on the fence about Acasius dying I wasn’t sure if he would die or wouldn’t. I was convinced if he did it would’ve been an act of sacrifice, but I did not expect him to be murdered by a mirage of arrows nor did I expect him to be the first one out. I literally gasped, cupped my hand over my mouth & grabbed my Pedro besties shoulder for about 2 minutes just in utter shock.

Stand outs besides Denzel, Paul, Pedro & Joseph: Fred Hechinger. He needs more recognition, in general as an actor but also for this role.

He played Caracalla so beautifully deranged & sick that near his end I really felt sad for him. The way that the issues in his brain made him so fragile, afraid, & easy manipulated by Macrinus that he was driven to madness to murder & dismember his brother made me sad to think what would have become of him had Macrinus kept him alive.

Fred is one of those people I think is just starting out but someone we can potentially see big things from. I think he’s got a great future ahead of him & hope that this role helps land him some more supporting & even lead roles.

Yeah yeah yeah blah blah blah Burr what did you think about Joseph’s performance: Of course you’re going to say I’d biasedly only praise him because it’s him & im 😍 for’em & maybe you’re right. But if you asked me on a deeper level I’d say I thought he played this role wonderfully well.

He was deliciously devious but I could’ve used a bit more character development (while acknowledging he is NOT A LEAD in this film) I acknowledge why we got what we got. Opposite what you know (or might not know from Roman History) about Geta & Caracalla these two almost seem codependent on each other. They’re constantly with each other every time we see them.

When Caracalla flies into a rage when Acasius’ plan is revealed & he laughs it’s Geta who goes after him to stop him, screams for everyone to get out & talks him down. When Macrinus puts in Caracalla’s head that Geta is the one who is blaming him for the downfall of Rome & what would happen to Dondas, it’s Geta who is begging & pleaded for his brother to return from his madness not to spare his life. I think there’s a bit of a soft spot for Caracalla to make him appear more levelheaded & human than Caracalla.

His death scene; I went into this knowing he was going to die. If they were follow Roman History I was fine with it. I DID NOT THINK HE WAS GOING TO GET THIS THROAT SLIT / HACKED AT & I DID NOT THINK THAT THEY WOULD CUT HIS HEAD OFF!! I LEAPT OUT OF MY SEAT(don’t worry no one was behind me or to my left) MY HEART WAS RACING. SERIOUSLY IT WAS BEATING 136 BEATS PER MINUTE after this. Insane. I do think they also cut away too soon I would’ve liked to have watched him actually die 🥴🫠

Also… that prosthetic head… Ridley ALL that money you spent to make this movie as beautiful as you did, you couldn’t find someone to make that fake head look more like Joseph/Geta? Very disappointed in that.

HERE COMES THE BIAS: Joseph Quinn is just such a treat to watch. I love seeing him in these different roles. Each movie he’s done has been something different from the last. He pours his heart & soul into his characters & it’s reflected on film. He’s a beautiful actor.

Denzel said it best: “what the difference between evil & wicked? They were just awful but they did it with a smile.” Which is why my main tag for Geta is you’re awful I love you. I just love him.

So in conclusion: when you have a chance go check it out & circle back to me & we can scream about it if you want. I think 9/10 problems in this movie could have been solved if:

1. Someone got rid of Macrinus immediately

2. Geta & Caracalla agreed to step down & got adopted by Lucilla & Acasius & got to spend life with Lucius telling them how they were all “big brave strong boys” got hugged a whole lot & went to therapy - they need all these things

3. Everybody kissed each other 🤷🏼‍♀️

10/10 would recommend

I can’t wait to see it again on Saturday

[khywren]

Between the Lines of Fear and Blame

pairing: Astarion/Gale rating: 18+ MDNI word count: 6.1k tags/warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, smut, blood drinking, soft Astarion, oral sex, anal sex, praise kink summary: “Don’t be such a damned fool,” he chastises. “You are many things, Gale – garrulous, resourceful, devilishly handsome – but you are not nothing. Mystra does not define your existence any more than Cazador defined my own.” “The gods will never see any of us as equals,” Astarion mutters bitterly. “Do not mistake their attention for favor. You are useful only so far as you can be an extension of their power. I will not stand by a second time and watch you sacrifice yourself for nothing.” AO3 ┊ masterlist

It is winter in Waterdeep. A thick blanket of snow has descended upon the city, wreathing it in frost, ushering away the last remaining vestiges of autumn. Although it is bitterly cold outside, there is a fire crackling pleasantly in the hearth, forestalling the advance of the swirling, frigid wind just beyond the tower’s walls.

Lately, it has become a habit for Gale and Astarion to spend their evenings as they are now, each tucked into a plush armchair with nothing but a good book and the gentle calm of one another to keep themselves company. There is nothing these days that Gale has found greater pleasure in, and yet, even when he should be content, he cannot quell the intrusive thoughts that pester and peck at him, deftly peeling away the façade of serenity.

Gale breathes deeply through his nose and closes his book, hoisting himself to his feet. He retreats to the bookcase that spans the far length of his and Astarion’s personal chambers, its shelves home to his most treasured possessions, and gently replaces the book between two large, dusty tomes with an intricate golden filigree decorating their spines. Perhaps something less… cerebral is in order. Behind him, sprawled languidly across his own armchair, Astarion snaps his book shut, the noise punctuating the silence with a muffled thunk of pages.

“Could you be any louder with your brooding?” he groans.

Gale glances back over his shoulder, casting Astarion a curious look. “I beg your pardon?”

Astarion throws his legs over the arm of his chair and straightens himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. Behind his hand, his expression grows dark, his face a mask of discontent.

“Your incessant sighing,” he says flatly. “The way you’ve been shifting uncomfortably in your seat for hours. Every clench of your jaw. It’s…deafening.”

It is more than the recent rearrangement of his living situation that has rendered Gale unaware of the commotion he was making; Astarion’s preternatural senses are far sharper than anything he has experienced; he supposes even beyond what Tara is capable of detecting. The beat of his heart, the flexing of his muscles, all of it must betray his emotions, especially in such confined quarters.

“My sincerest apologies,” Gale concedes, turning to search for another book on the nearest shelf. When he finds one that is suitable, he places index finger over the edge of the spine, tipping it into his waiting palm. “It was not my intention to disrupt you. If you’d like, I can always –”

Gale hears Astarion behind him only moments before he covers Gale’s outstretched hand with his own. Astarion quietly pushes the book back into its place before pressing his body flush against Gale’s back, feeling the tension in his body, the stiffness of his posture.

“Whatever’s on your mind, it’s got you wound taught as a bowstring. Talk to me.” Gone is any indication of playful sarcasm, Astarion’s genuine concern evident in the way his hands slip over Gale’s shoulders, gentle yet persistent as he urges Gale to face him.

Gale extricates himself from Astarion’s lingering grasp, his brows knit. His expression falters, crumbles, thinly veiled sadness brimming to the surface behind his eyes. Is it guilt that Astarion sees in them? Regret? The difference between them, he supposes, is negligible.

It is not in Gale’s nature to mince words. Astarion is acutely aware of this, perhaps moreso than anything he has come to learn about the wizard. Gale’s hesitancy, the way in which he is so clearly seeking to deflect Astarion’s concern speaks volumes, louder than any words ever could.

What is it that he is hiding?

Whatever concessions Gale hopes to find in in Astarion’s prying gaze is not something Astarion will grant him. He is instead resolute, mouth pressed into a thin, hard line, the intensity of his expression wrenching the truth from him as though it were his only logical course of action.

“It’s... Mystra,” Gale admits quietly, recoiling from the disappointment that flickers across Astarion’s face. “Ever since I returned the Crown to her, she has been silent. Distant. I did not expect that being liberated from the orb would deprive me of her along with it.”

It should be no great revelation that her absence has troubled him. Is it divine retribution that keeps her just beyond his reach? Perhaps he does not know her as intimately as he once believed. Gale does not want to consider what that truth might mean for him.

Astarion wrinkles his nose, a grimace playing on his lips. It is only out of affection for the wizard that he refrains from rolling his eyes and huffing a dramatic sigh. It is not jealousy he feels, but anger. Disgust for the goddess who twisted Gale’s love into a dagger to be weaponized against him. A quiet despair for the way he cannot let her go despite it all.

He knows that is the same foolish devotion with which Shadowheart and Lae’zel once blindly followed on the heels of their gods, even after being burdened with the truth that they had been deceived. Yet where they were able to renounce their faith, it is Gale, the most intelligent among them, who has stubbornly clung to his the longest.

A cruel irony, indeed.

“Really?” Astarion does not intend the accusation to sound so caustic, but he can no longer spare the effort it would take to fully mask his disdain. He has never bothered to spare Gale from his feelings about Mystra – not that it has changed Gale’s perception of her.

“After everything she did to you, I assumed that you would be glad to be rid of her.”

Gale levels a pleading glance at him, his eyes awash with sorrow. Mystra is no Cazador, he reasons with himself. Had he not crossed her to begin with, surely, she would not have spurned him as she did. If only regaining her favor was as simple as it had been to lose it.

“I cannot just discard her, Astarion,” Gale insists sternly, “no more than I can cast aside my own magic.” He wills himself to find the truth in his own words, intrinsically twining Mystra and his magic together, forever inseparable. “Mystra controls the Weave. She is its very architect and the font from which I draw my power – without her, I am –”

“Nothing?” Astarion interjects with a scathing sneer. The word hangs heavy in the air between them, and Gale looks away in shame.  

It would be simple enough for Astarion to express his frustration with a sarcastic quip, a barbed remark about how utterly ridiculous the notion is, but there is something in the resignation on Gale’s face that begs Astarion for comfort rather than contempt.

With a soft sigh, Astarion grasps Gale’s hand and brings it between them, lacing their fingers together. He smooths the pad of his thumb across the back of Gale’s hand with absent, subconscious strokes. It is a profoundly romantic gesture, one of many that Astarion has gained a proclivity for since their settling in Gale’s tower in Waterdeep. Through mirroring the comfort that Gale’s touch has brought him during their time together, Astarion has begun to learn how to use his hands not to hurt, but to heal.

“Don’t be such a damned fool,” he chastises. “You are many things, Gale – garrulous, resourceful, devilishly handsome – but you are not nothing. Mystra does not define your existence any more than Cazador defined my own.” Both names leave his lips in a snarl, dripping with venom. The subtle way he equivocates the two is a dagger to Gale’s heart.

Astarion pauses, waiting for the moment that Gale glances back at him with wide, brown eyes, uncertainty swimming just below the surface. He tries to smile, to accept what Astarion has told him, but it is a truth his mind tells him to vehemently reject.

“It is not Mystra whom I love,” Astarion says. “That honor is yours and yours alone.”

Gale lays his palm over Astarion’s hand, clasping it between his own. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, steadying himself with a long breath. “And yet, grateful as I am for your candor, I fear that I am yet standing on the precipice of some great unknown. It is... rather frightening, to lose one’s purpose.”

For so long, his only desire had been to please Mystra. Even with a mindflayer parasite buried in his brain, his primary concern had been what value he might still hold for her, so much so that he had seriously considered sacrificing himself if it would absolve him of his sins.

It was Astarion who had been the most disturbed by what Gale had seen favorably as his own unwavering devotion, Astarion who had balked the most adamantly at the idea of letting him relinquish his autonomy to, as Astarion had so bluntly put it, “satisfy your redemption complex.”

It had nothing to do with that, Gale had insisted. The Absolute had been a threat not only to the Sword Coast, but to the entirety of Faerûn, and trading one life to save thousands was a small price to pay for peace.

“Not if it’s your life,” Astarion had said. “We will find another way.”

And they had, of course, found that other way. One that had demanded only that he live.

But now, with nothing but his freedom and the rest of his life ahead of him, Gale finds himself feeling trapped, more afraid now than he had been to lay down his life for Mystra and for the sake of his companions. Torn between his past and his future. Left without something to tether his ambitions to, what is there for him to do?

 Astarion is studying Gale intently. His eyes have grown dark and narrow, a telltale sign of his increasing frustration. He turns the thoughts roiling in his head over and over, a thousand things he wants to say but can’t, a thousand more he knows he shouldn’t.  

“Purpose.” The word is ash on Astarion’s tongue, bile in the back of his throat. 

“Is it not enough to live simply for the sake of living?” He drops Gale’s hand, gesturing to the space around them. To himself. “Is this not purpose enough? Why must there be anything more?”

“Were it only so simple,” Gale murmurs, extending his arm to cup Astarion’s cheek in the palm of his hand. He pulls Astarion towards him with his free hand and gathers him close, resting his forehead against Astarion’s smooth, pallid skin. The familiar coolness is a soothing balm for his present anxieties, and he heaves a quiet sigh, expelling the tension that has been gathering within him.

“What is it that you are so desperate to find?” Astarion’s voice has fallen to a near-whisper, barely audible above the crackling of the fire. “Legacy? Fortune? Fame? All of it is meaningless in the end. Millions have perished before you, and millions more will perish long after you are gone. Yet for all their gifts, all their acclaim, not one of them is your equal.”

Gale opens his mouth to speak, to challenge Astarion’s bold declaration, but he is too slow.

Astarion inclines his head and presses their lips together to silence his protests, capturing Gale’s mouth and the small noise of surprise that escapes him. On instinct, Gale tangles his fingers loosely in Astarion’s soft white curls, dragging his nails across Astarion’s scalp the way Gale knows he likes best.

Astarion’s mouth parts, ever so slightly, and Gale sweeps his tongue across his lips, seeking his permission. When Astarion yields against him and splays his palm against the small of Gale’s back, Gale slides his tongue into Astarion’s mouth, pouring his grief, his resignation, his love into him with reckless abandon.

Perhaps, he thinks through the haze of emotions warring within him, there really is no greater purpose in this, in losing himself in Astarion.

It is Astarion who breaks the kiss first, pulling back only as far as he needs to compel Gale to look at him once more. The ruby depths of his eyes draw Gale in, and he swallows thickly, flushed and breathless from the exertion.

“The gods will never see any of us as equals,” Astarion mutters bitterly. “Do not mistake their attention for favor. You are useful only so far as you can be an extension of their power. I will not stand by a second time and watch you sacrifice yourself for nothing.”

“I prayed to them all,” Astarion had once told him. “None saved me.”

“Astarion…”

­The memory of Cazador’s baleful dungeon springs suddenly to Gale’s mind, its halls thick with the stench of necrosis. He remembers the spawn imprisoned there, their very existence a monument to Astarion’s sins. It is a sight he will never forget.

Their despair, their rage, their sorrow, all of it had been justified, but his heart had ached to see Astarion buckle beneath the heavy burden of their scrutiny, the way their eyes had stripped him bare to leave nothing but the rawness of his guilt on full display.

That pain had exploded into a roaring crescendo when Astarion stood before his former master, overcome with anguish, as he had begged Gale to help him.

“Please.” Back then, his voice had sounded so small. So broken. So unlike the suave, confident rogue he had come to love. Beneath the crumbling mask, his terror had turned Gale’s blood to ice in his veins. “I can’t do this without you.”

Gale is no stranger to the allure of power, the desire to surpass his limits and inherit something greater than himself. Once that ambition had almost cost him his life.

Astarion had been traveling the same path - motivated not by pride but by fear, and Gale had seen a twisted reflection his own folly in Astarion’s eyes, the desire for a power that would certainly destroy him long before it granted him the freedom he was so desperate for.

He had begged Astarion to reconsider, pleaded with him not to repeat his own mistakes. And he had been there to hold him when Astarion burrowed his face into his robes as Cazador’s lifeless body crumpled to the ground in a pool of his own blood, Astarion’s shoulders shaking with every sob that tore itself from his throat.

Astarion had entrusted Gale with his future – now he was asking Gale to entrust Astarion with his own.

A wry smile finds its way to Gale’s lips, and he shakes his head in defeat.

“Far be it from me to challenge your conviction. You’ve seen something in me beyond the wit and wizardry, and I aim to honor the trust you’ve placed in me.”

When Gale leans in to initiate another kiss, he finds Astarion eager for the press of his lips, hungry for another taste of him. Astarion’s hands grasp for purchase in the thin linen of Gale’s tunic, roving across his torso, gripping his hips as he guides Gale one, two, three haphazard steps backward until his back collides audibly with the bookcase, the volumes on its shelves bearing into the curve of his spine.

He groans deeply into Astarion’s open mouth, arms thrown loosely around his waist, breath hitching when Astarion grinds their hips together. Gale’s cock twitches with interest beneath his trousers, already straining against the fabric.

The friction drives him to the brink of madness. The world dissolves away around them until there is nothing more than Astarion, the firm press of his body, the torturous presence of his lips across the curve of his jaw as he nips and kisses a blazing path across his skin.

By the time Astarion finds the shell of his ear, Gale is as fragile as glass, trembling as though he could shatter at even the slightest touch. Astarion chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat, his voice edged with a feral timbre that threatens to bring Gale straight to his knees.

“You know, darling...” Astarion murmurs, “there are other ways to experience divinity if you are truly so eager. Shall I show you?”

“Y-yes,” Gale croaks without hesitation, his hands releasing Astarion to fumble blindly for the shelves behind him to steady himself, not entirely sure what he is asking for but loathe to deny himself whatever pleasures Astarion promises.

Astarion’s fangs are pinpoint pricks against his ear, a sharp drag that catches Gale’s breath in his throat. His voice is sensual, seductive, every syllable a loving caress on his tongue.

“Then come, Gale of Waterdeep, and learn what it is to be worshipped.”

Astarion sinks gracefully to his knees in the same fluid motion that Gale removes his tunic, tossing it aside as he spreads his legs apart, bracing the full weight of his body against the bookcase. His hands are at the front of Gale’s trousers, fingers featherlight against the laces. He is untying them far, far too slowly, with none of the deftness that Gale knows Astarion is more than capable of.

Gale’s cock aches with anticipation, the brush of Astarion’s fingers against him draws a low, needy moan from his lips and prompting a quiet chuckle from him in response.

“Patience, darling,” he purrs.

With a glance upwards beneath fluttering lashes – the perfect picture of feigned innocence – Astarion half expects Gale to chastise him for his teasing, but what he finds instead is something wholly unexpected. Gale is watching him with rapt, reverent attention, wide eyed and pupils blown. His hair, a point of pride and typically well-groomed, has become disheveled and wild, spilling messily over his shoulders – he is, put simply, absolutely stunning, the perfect picture of debauchery.

By the time Gale’s cock springs free from beneath his trousers, it is hard and leaking, the tip flushed such a lovely shade of pink. His mouth falls open, his breaths coming in shallow, wanton pants, and he absently kicks his trousers to the side to allow Astarion unfettered access to him. When Astarion wraps his hand around the base of Gale’s cock, a high-pitched whine is all that Gale can muster, his hips jerking forward of their own accord to push himself farther into Astarion’s palm.

“Darling, I’ve barely even touched you and already you’re breathless for me. Fascinating.”

Gale’s grip on the bookcase is white-knuckled and desperate as Astarion leans forward, swirling his tongue around the heavy swell of Gale’s balls as he begins to stroke him lazily. His length is molten silk beneath Astarion’s fingers. A tremor lances through Gale’s body, heat pooling low in his belly, and he gasps Astarion’s name as though it were a prayer, his only salvation.

“You taste divine,” Astarion purrs, kissing along the inside of his thighs and across his hipbones, reveling in the way Gale trembles beneath his touch. Finally, he sinks between Gale’s legs and presses the flat of his tongue across the underside of his cock, dragging a slow, wet stripe upwards that has Gale all but whimpering.

The head of Gale’s cock slides so eagerly into his mouth, and Astarion groans against him, his own erection yearning to be touched, hard and aching. But Astarion is nothing if not a selfless lover, utterly devoted to bringing Gale to the heights of pleasure with every targeted sweep of his tongue, every gentle caress of his fingers against his skin.

“By the gods…” Gale rasps, lifting a shaking hand to tangle his fingers once more in Astarion’s hair. But rather than pulling, Gale instead cradles the back of Astarion’s head, pressing him farther forward and burying himself as far as he can in the back of Astarion’s throat with quick, shallow thrusts.

Astarion sits back on his heels, hands braced on Gale’s hips. Saliva pools around the edges of his mouth and spills down his chin as Gale’s pace becomes more urgent, and their eyes meet as Gale loses himself in the pleasure of Astarion’s mouth, spurred on by the lewd sounds that echo each snap of his hips.

Before long, Astarion feels Gale grow tense beneath him, and the hand in his hair suddenly tugs at his roots, his cock slipping from Astarion’s mouth with a wet pop.

 “Close already?” Astarion murmurs, his grin wolfish. “That simply will not do. I’ve hardly had my fill of you.”

Without further instruction, Gale extends a hand to lift Astarion to his feet, and they stumble towards the bed in a flurry of chaste kisses and discarded clothing. As Gale falls back against the mattress, he pulls Astarion with him in an embrace of tangled limbs. Their lips crash together, their bodies close, hungry and full of passion.

Gale finds himself feeling rather mischievous and sinks his teeth into Astarion’s lower lip, and Astarion growls possessively, pinning him to the mattress as he lavishes his face with open-mouthed kisses, trailing down his jaw, his throat, and the dip of his collar bone. The swirling pattern of the orb that once dwelled within him still bears its mark upon his chest, and though its color has faded considerably, it remains a lasting vestige of days long past.

Astarion, too, carries remnants of the cruelty that was wrought upon him, carved into his very flesh.

They are not so unalike, he and Gale. And while some scars never truly heal, there is perhaps no better testament to their own resilience, the way that they had bent but not broken, despite the odds against them.

A stark contrast to the coolness of the hands that covetously rove over Gale’s naked body, there is a raging inferno within him, the flames ceaselessly stoked by Astarion’s ministrations. When Astarion drags his mouth over the coarse dark hair that covers Gale’s pectorals and wraps his lips around a single dusky nipple, Gale’s back bows off the mattress, his head thrown back as Astarion hums contentedly against him.

There is the noise of shifting fabric above him as Astarion fetches the oil from the bedside table, the uncorking of the vial drawing Gale’s attention as his eyes sweep over Astarion’s bare form, lithe and lean and more beautiful than any he’s ever seen. He is breathtaking, deific, haloed by the firelight in the nearby hearth and radiating and ethereal glow that Gale promises himself he will commit to memory.

“You are magnificent,” Astarion says to him now. His voice is low, sensual, as he gazes directly into Gale’s eyes. “You are mine. And as long as you will have me, I am yours.”

Gale encloses his hand around Astarion’s fingers and draws them to his lips for a kiss.

“Forever and forever again. A magnitude of lifetimes, across a thousand universes. I would have you in all of them, Astarion.”

Astarion’s mouth was made for sly smirks and flirtatious grins, but the tender smile that spreads across his lips now looks better than any of them, the hard edges of his face smoothed by Gale’s profession of love. It suits him, Gale thinks – he will dedicate his efforts to ensuring that Astarion will never again need to hide behind the echoes of his past.

This is his new purpose. Gale can think of nothing more fulfilling.

Gale yields to Astarion’s touch as he nudges Gale’s thighs apart with his own, slicking his index and middle fingers liberally with oil. Astarion drags the tip of his index finger over the dip of Gale’s hips and across the expanse of his thighs, enjoying the way Gale shivers with anticipation, down, down, down, before finally pressing gently inside of him. A languid moan meets Astarion’s ears as Gale’s walls clench around his finger, even as Astarion buries himself past the second knuckle.

The strangled noise Gale makes when Astarion slides a second finger inside him is absolutely filthy, a string of stuttered oaths and keening whines that breaks the illusion of Gale’s typical composure. Astarion pumps his fingers lazily in a slow, thrusting motion, stretching Gale out, drinking in every little noise he makes, every time his hips roll up to meet his hand and push him deeper inside. He is wanton, greedy – he is perfect.

 And then, just when Gale has adjusted to the rhythm, Astarion crooks his fingers ever so slightly, bearing down on the spot inside him that leaves Gale panting, drawing desperate, ragged breaths as he balls his fists in the sheets and tries to keep himself from unraveling completely. It would take so little effort to pluck the single thread that holds him together, to pull gently until there was nothing left for him but the pleasure of it all.

“Oh – gods…”

Astarion grins, satisfaction curling his mouth, and Gale catches a glimpse of gleaming white fangs just behind the edges of his lips.

“How shall I take you, darling?”

Gale watches him, vision swimming, mouth agape. The withdrawal of Astarion’s fingers has left an empty, yearning ache within him. His attention is transfixed on the way Astarion slicks his cock, pumping himself with a few, breathy moans, the delicious friction causing him to bite down on his lip to stifle himself.

Gale is utterly enraptured by the sight of it.

He struggles to find his voice, and it wavers as he speaks, not from uncertainty but from anticipation and the overwhelming depths of his desire.

“Do not hold back,” he pleads. “Tonight, I wish to forget everything. Everything but the taste of your lips and the touch of your skin against my own. I want to lose myself in you, Astarion.”

Astarion crouches over him, dips his head low, his lips brushing against the shell of Gale’s ear. The husky timbre of his voice sends a shiver of pleasure straight through him.

“Very well.”

 Astarion nudges his cock against Gale’s entrance, finding him pliant and eager as he slips inside, the slow, full stretch of him nothing short of bliss. Gale sighs deeply, relinquishing himself to the pleasure, eyes half-lidded and full of ecstasy.

When Astarion hooks his hands beneath Gale’s knees and lifts his thighs, Gale feels his full weight bearing down into him; Astarion’s first thrusts are tentative, almost gentle, but Gale’s groan is insistent and Astarion quickly finds that he no longer has the patience to reign in his desire.

He sets a punishing pace, burying his cock inside Gale’s tight, slick heat, hips snapping forward as he bottoms out with every thrust. There is no hesitation as Gale yields completely to him, writhing beneath Astarion’s body as a string of broken, guttural oaths tumble from his open mouth.

Gale’s cock is a hard swell between their bodies, bobbing obscenely with every brutal snap of Astarion’s hips. His belly is wet with precome, the evidence of his arousal on full display as Astarion drinks in the sight of him. Watching him come undone so beautifully for him is a satisfaction all in itself.

“Look at you,” Astarion breathes. “You’re taking me so well, love. Let’s reward that effort.”

When Astarion’s fingers slip around his cock, Gale throws back his head and lets go of whatever remnants of composure he has been holding back, and his legs have barely fallen to the mattress before the throws them around the small of Astarion’s back, clinging to him with a desperate need the did not think himself capable of.

He closes his eyes, lets the pleasure of it all wash over him. There is fire in his belly, electricity in his veins, building and building as he finds himself stumbling uncontrollably towards release.

 The way that Astarion has given him nothing but praise, nothing but patience and acceptance through everything is a heavy weight upon his heart. It threatens to unmake him, though he is sure Astarion would gladly pick up the pieces and put him back together. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Mystra had never lavished him with such affection.

Mystra had never shown him the same devotion he had shown her.

Mystra. Mystra. Mystra.

His mind reels, cast about as though in a storm, directionless and frantic.

“Gale.”

 Astarion’s voice is gentle but insistent as it pierces the turmoil enveloping his mind. It wraps around him like a gloved hand, caressing his thoughts with a silken touch.

“Eyes open, daring,” Astarion says. It is not a command, but the earnest request of a concerned lover who is all too familiar with the agitation that flickers across Gale’s face and the subtle tension that ebbs through his body like ripples from a cast stone. 

“Focus on me.”

And Gale obeys, discarding all errant thoughts of the goddess, his eyes opening behind fluttering lashes as he meets Astarion’s fervent gaze. The sheer magnitude of the affection behind Astarion’s eyes, the unabashed love he sees swirling in their crimson depths squeezes around his heart, vicelike and unrelenting.

It is a love he is not sure he deserves, but he devours it selfishly all the same.

“Now, tell me,” Astarion implores him, “how does it feel?”

There is no pride behind the words, no selfish seeking of praise or commendation. Instead, it is a gentle redirection, anchoring Gale in safer harbors, ushering him away from the precipice of the darkest thoughts that dwell within him.

Gale considers.

What it feels like is practically indescribable – being enveloped in Astarion’s scent, his nearness, the feeling of Astarion’s cock buried so deep inside him, filling him in more ways than he has the capacity to articulate. It is both ethereal and tangible, elevating him beyond mortal pleasures just as effortlessly as it tethers him firmly to his physical body, grounding him in the present moment.

It is…

“Wonderful...” he settles on, as his addled thoughts grasp for purchase on whatever lucidity he still has left to spare.

“Very good.”

Presently, Astarion’s thrusts grow slower, deeper, though no less exquisite. He shifts the angle of his hips just so, pleased with the way Gale whimpers and arches into him, each thrust matched by the smooth glide of his hand along his aching, weeping cock.

He knows he will not last much longer.

“Astarion…”

“Yes, my love? What is it?”

Gale untangles his fingers from the bedsheets and entwines his arms around Astarion’s shoulders, fingers carding through his hair. Wordlessly, he guides Astarion’s face into the crook of his neck, at the junction of his shoulder. His heart thunders in his chest, frantic as a trapped bird, overcome by the anticipation of what he is asking for.

“Please,” he breathes, his voice wanton and full of need. “I want to know what it’s like… I have waited for so long without knowing.”

Once, when the curiosity had gotten the better of him, Gale had asked Tav to describe the experience of letting Astarion feed on them. It had been a mutual agreement, only when the need arose, and only because the one time Astarion had bitten Gale, he had almost retched from the astringent taste of his blood. It was the one and only thing they had been unable to share with one another.

“I don’t know how to describe it,” Tav had said, unable to paint him a proper picture. “It’s… sensual. Intimate. Like I want to lie back and simply drift away.”

Ever since that moment, Gale had longed to experience it himself, had turned the fantasy over in his head night after night, wondering if there would ever be a time where they might have the chance to remedy their unfortunate situation. And now, with the orb no longer tainting him with its Netherese blight, Gale dares to entertain the thought once more. 

Astarion’s tongue sweeps across Gale’s exposed throat, the taste of him heady and exhilarating. Gale’s blood thrums erratically just beneath the skin, warm and tantalizingly sweet. The crackle of magic still flows through his veins, but gone are the pungent undercurrents of the dark magic that had curdled his stomach and burned like cinders on his tongue.

Gale feels the wicked smirk that spreads across Astarion’s face as he presses his mouth against his skin, lips parted, fangs bared.

“You wicked thing,” he chuckles. “Yes… if that is what you wish, then I shall indulge myself in the taste of you as you come apart for me.”

Gale’s acquiescence is a breathy moan, words hazy in his mind and hindered by the sudden way he finds himself incapable of all logical thought. With Astarion’s cock buried to the hilt inside him and the hand wrapped tightly around him Gale tumbles wildly over the edge hips bucking as he spills himself into Astarion’s hand. Astarion pumps him faster, fucking him through his climax, his fangs piercing the soft skin of his throat as, at last, he drinks deeply from his veins.

The hot rush of Gale’s blood is nothing short of decadent, pouring down his throat as he swallows several greedy gulps, reveling in the feel, the sound, the taste of him. Gods, the taste of him. His hips stutter, and he finds himself fast approaching his own climax, bottoming out with the final, desperate thrusts that guide him past the point of no return.

Gale is nothing if not dutiful, gathering Astarion into his arms as he collapses on the bed beside him, utterly spent, pillowing his head on top of Gale’s broad chest.

Invigorating barely begins to describe what Astarion feels – it is perhaps the closest he has come to a religious experience of his own, a favor marvelously paid for his efforts.

They slip into an easy silence, and Astarion almost finds himself drifting off before Gale’s voice rouses him from his weary thoughts.

“There was once a time when I could not imagine my life without Mystra’s guidance,” he says solemnly. “I now realize that the path I walked was not alongside her, but rather in her shadow. But it seems as though I have nevertheless had the good fortune to find myself in rather esteemed company, as it were.”

Astarion merely laughs, a low rumble in his throat, muffled by the press of his face against Gale’s skin.

“A vampire spawn is an ill-fitting substitute for a goddess, wouldn’t you agree?”

Gale bristles at the accusation, the hand that traces his spine falling slack, and Astarion doesn’t need to see his face to know that Gale is regarding him with disapproval.

“You are hardly—”

“Relax, darling,” Astarion murmurs. “It’s only a bit of humor.”

Despite Astarion’s assurance, Gale picks apart his words, finding the kernel of truth within them that suggests he isn’t entirely bluffing. He feels an acute sense of pain, unable to shake the guilt that overcomes him.

A pause. A sigh. And then, he shifts slightly, tipping Astarion’s chin towards him and studying his face. Astarion’s expression is impassive, but he watches Gale intently as he speaks.

“There was once a time when I truly believed that sacrificing myself was the proper course of action. In my hubris, I assumed that, even in death, such an act would erase my misdeeds and restore me even a modicum of my former glory. It was that same pride that blinded me from the truth: I was too frightened to face the consequences of what I had done, and I had convinced myself that in this final act, my life might have been in service of some higher meaning.”

Gale presses a quiet kiss to Astarion’s brow, cathartic as it is tender.

“It would have been the greatest mistake of my life,” he continues, “and I have you to thank for preventing that most untimely demise. When you stood against Cazador, when I saw you chose to fight for yourself instead of letting yourself be consumed by the promise of power the ritual offered, I was never prouder of you than in that moment – or humbled by my own cowardice.”

Astarion can no longer feign indifference; his eyes widen, twin rubies glimmering in the firelight, the realization settling within him as a resigned smile gradually curves the corners of his mouth.

He huffs a laugh, eyes fluttering closed as he presses his cheek against Gale’s chest, turning the words over in his mind.

“Ever the sentimentalist,” he teases, though there is something akin to relief in the way he says it. “It suits you.”

His movements are fluid as he settles his body over Gale’s once more, splayed palms bracing himself on either side of Gale’s bewildered face. The press of his mouth is soft and almost warm from feeding as Astarion kisses him, tender and deep.

“I have often wondered if I made the right decision,” he murmurs against Gale’s mouth. “But I think I’ve finally found the answer to that question. Thank you.”

Astarion lets Gale gather him into his arms, does not protest as Gale lays Astarion delicately beneath him, lavishing him with all the love he no longer has the words to express. His hands follow his mouth, a trail of tender caresses, each one an oath to his everlasting commitment.

“It would be my greatest honor,” Gale says, “to ensure you never forget it.”

[tubchunk]

me spitting out all my thoughts here as i watch tubbo's vod

"YEP innocent" "innocent to me" yeah like qtubbo doesnt give a shit if fred is bad, he will burn it all down to find her

"its time for me to step into the sun, you know? and who cares if everyone else burns?" HOLY FUCKKKKKKKK TUBBO??????

"this is more than a villain arc, this is a lifestyle adjustment" oh qtubbo you are going to fly so close to the sun and youre going to burn and i am here for it all

"you wrong me? you're not gonna be around to tell the tale" HES SODHDJDBFBFJ QTUBBO ENJOYERS WE ARE SO BACK

"this is not a story of villains and heroes, this is a story of revenge" WHAT WAS IN HIS FOOD TODAY WHAT WAS HE ONNNNN LINE AFTER LINE IS HITTING

qtubbo knowing the server underestimates him and is now ready to show what he really is capable of YOU GO BABYGIRL

"this is a conflict where there arr no winners, just mutually-ensured destruction" goddamn he is on it today

GIRL 26 STACKS OF TNT?????????

"anything to get the upper hand, am i right?" AND THEN MENTIONING THE FED OFFICE WARP PLATE IS ACTIVE OH MY GODDDDDDD FED QTUBBO ERA????

"in my own experience, the members of the islandhave been much worse to me than the federation ever has been" oh my gOD YES QTUBBO FEELING THE FED PUNISHMENTS ARE STILL "JUSTIFIED" CUZ THERE WERE RULES BROKEN BUT THE ISLANDERS HAVE BEEN POKING AT HIM FOR THINGS HE CONSIDERS UNNECESSARY OH VILLAIN ARC TIME IS REALLLL

HE CALLED FRED "THE ONE PERSON I CARE ABOUT ON THIS SERVER" IM SICK TO MY STOMACHDBDBFGBDBFJFJ

qtubbo deciding that morning crew doesnt need to know about what hes gonna do, cuz theyll always be his boys :(

"i think we show them a healthy does of regret" his qcellbit is coming out !!

just imagining qtubbo with his airpods in as he is dramatic, bumping classical music

"the suit stays on until he's found, safe and alive" thr fact that qtubbo does all this, still in thr suit for his date GOD its so sad

that post that said qtubbo, a machine guy, tearinf every block down by HAND is important cuz that shows how genuinely furious he is. cuz he needed to feel the catharsis of tearing it all down himself.

why did he research warp plate mods to figure out where fred is😭😭 gay love stories are getting out of hand

"i made a promise today. i said i would break every block he has ever placed. *i* will break. fire wont break. tnt wont break. *i* will break." holy fucking shittttttttt he got possessed by qtubbo

FIT LMAOOOOO

qfit noticing and asking why qtubbo was at quackity's but as qtubbo askes him to leave him be, he did. he knew qtubbo would come to him when he wanted to.

COY PISO INTERMISSION!!!

qtubbo's action plan just being pushing qquackity over the edge that is so fucked up and i am here for this downward spiral !!

"i could mentally destroy him until hes a quivering ball of tears and regret on the floor" HOLY FUCK???????

"youre trying to turn me against the federation while actively doing thr same exact thing they're doing, the fucking hypocrisy" GOD i think qquackity is justified in his reasons BUT QTUBBO ISNT WRONG HERE!!!! IN HIS EYES, WHY WOULD YOU SAY THEYRE BAD AND THEN DO THR SAME THINF AS THEM???

him still saving all the stuff qquackity got from the eggs and others cuz "those seem important" GOD

"he doesnt need a hoise, cuz home is where the heart is. and i feel like thats a lesson he ought to learn. too bad that his is dead and cold" QTUBBO HOLY?????

"its like you never existed at all. thats my mission" girl youre speedrunning that descent into insanity and evil and i love you for it

"youre crazy. maybe i am! i dont give a shit!" wow hes so aware

"i didnt have a purpose before. but now its to make sure quackity never has a mark on this server" he didnt have a purpose and now, after losing fred, his purpose is to make qq pay holyyyy

"i never said i was morally grey, i said i would fuck up all his shit" LETSGO BABYGIRL

HIM GOING TO THE FED OFFICE TO PoSSIBLY SNITCH, CUZ THE ENEMY OF HIS ENEMY IS HIS FRIEND

NOT THE SERVER RESTART STOPPING HIM LMAOOOO

him literally saying he doesnt care and the enemy of his enemy is his friend yoo

qtubbo not being silly and walking into fred's office and just quietly moving on STOPPPPPP

NOT THE LORE SPOILERSSSSS LMAO

RETURN OF CUCURUCHO OFFICE PODCASTTTTTTTTT

"if youve become as bad as the thing you are trying to destroy to destroy it, yourr not better. youre just a replacement" BARS 🔥🔥🔥

qtubbo's voice instantly softening looking at fred's office and the desk plant he got STOPPPPP THEY MEAN SO MUCH TO ME

him replacing the flower on fred's desk with a poppy :(((

QTUBBO REPLACING THE WARP AT HIS HOUSE TO THE FED OFFICE OH I CAN FEEL HOW THIS GOES DOWNHILL

"why do i bother making anything to help the server? this is the thanks i get" oh yeah he is fully turning against everyone soon

oh god convo with qfit

oh i know qfit is concerned hearing qtubbo talk this way but theres nothing he can do to make him change his mind, so he just stays by him

"just to watch him. not say a word. just watch him" WATCHER QTUBBO??????

oh qtubbo is actuslly scaring me rn

"theres an old sayinf that 'if youre on the quest for revenge, dig two graves" "thats alright. i dont care if i burn as long as he does as well. maybe ill dig 3 graves. maybe ill take some other people along with me on the way" HOLY FUCKCJDJFJDJFJFJDJFJ QTUBBO YOURE INSANE I LOVE YOU SO BAD

"so i take there was no date?" "i was invited on one. it was real to me" GODJDDHFB IM GONNA END IT ALL

qfit still reassuring qtubbo that fred is okay, he still cares for qtubbo so much thats someone he has grown to care for

TUBBO SHOWING FIT WHAT HE DID TO QUACKITY'S HOUSE AND SAYING "like i said. like he never existed" AND THEN JUST BOUNCED????? GIRL.

qtubbo gaslight gatekeep girlboss

"is it more satisfying to destroy a person. or watch them destroy themselves?" AND WE ARR WATCHING AS QTUBBO ALSO DESTROYS HIMSELF BIT BY BIT OOOOOOOOH

his ass spoiling stuff again😭😭

snack break!

PHIL HOUSE TIME

qtubbo instantly leaving when he sees quackity joined and fred joined god

the curse of bad nees bringer tubbo about to strike again with wilbur LMAO

distracted to spy on wilbur so real

QUIRKYDUOOOOOO

qtubbo just carrying thr flower from fred's office in his offhand im sick

qtubbo warning qpac that he may hear some stuff about him that isnt true i. coming weeks, and qpac saying he trusts qtubbo 100% MORNING CREW MY FAMILYYYYYYY

PAC MY BELOVEDDDDD

not pac and tubbo arguing over who has to break the news to wilbur lmaoooooo

qtubbo qquackity's biggest hater rn

damn im sad tubbo crashed before the event but that laptop was hanging by a THREAD

[pandorasfavorite]

Their Karma

AN: This is fake don't throw a hissy fit if you don't like it. I mainly just wrote the revealing aspect because why not.

TW: violence, revenge (but really its not vivid at all), our man being sexy 24/7.

Kinda short, not my best work but any work is memorable

One of the many things that made your heart break was to see someone you love in pain. You would call yourself a defender, family and friends are your everything, and only one could imagine what you feel when your boyfriend is hurting.

Dominik walks into the house quietly, its close to late at night and he wouldn't want to wake you if you were asleep. But alas you stayed up for Dominik, it's a way you show your love. You are sitting on the couch with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and the TV playing a scary movie. Your head pops up from the couch and you turn to look at your boyfriend in glee that he is home. Dominik walks behind the couch and plants a kiss on the top on of your head. He stays there for a moment enjoying your sweetness and tenderness, "I'm going to shower really quick, I'll be right back" he mutters into your hair.

You perk up again at the idea, "I'll shower with you. I've missed you babe" you insist. Dominik smiles but his heart breaks behind his facade, he has to tell you no. "It's okay just wait here. I'll be fast" he says pulling away from you and moving towards the bathroom. The bathroom door closes and your body sinks into the couch; finally processing what he said. You furrow your eyes in sadness and confusion, Dominik has never said no to you showering with him. What happened today that changed that?

You keep to yourself, not wanting to push Dominik's boundaries even though it hurt your feelings a little. Dominik rushes into the bedroom, so quick you only see the walls and hear the click of the bedroom door when turn your head. Now you are genuinely worried, Dominik has never just ran off. You drop your head into your hands and breathe steadily, you want to approach him with a clear mind. Its for the best interest of everyone.

You walk down the hall silently and open the door just the same, Dominik is standing in front of the mirror looking at himself. He hasn't noticed the door being opened or you moving into the room. He can't hide the damage anymore. You gasp, your own hand slapping over your mouth in shock. Your feet carry you closer to Dominik and the details of his back and chest only get worse. Red slashes and purple bruising is all over Dominik's body.

Dominik spins around, eyes wide at your gasp, just now noticing you are there Dominik tries to cover as much damage as he can instinctively. You stand there in front of him mouth agape, you circle around Dominik reaching out to graze over unscathed areas on his body.

But truthfully he is covered in marks. You nod to yourself silently; processing what you can, processing your anger just the same. Dominik stays quiet until you start nodding to yourself; he knows that is just the beginning. "Baby it looks worse than it feels", your eyes snap up to his in fury. You're not mad at him but whatever is in the crossfire is in the crossfire.

"Dominik are you fucking kidding me right now?!" you ask him voice raised, you huff and puff and sit on the edge of the bed breathing. You are doing the best you can at calming yourself down, the absolute best. You clench your fists and open them over again, you do this too many times to count.

Dominik runs a hand through his hair but not without the pain of lifting his arm up, his hiss of air makes your head whip around in worry. You relax for just a moment standing up and motioning for him to sit on the bed and relax. Dominik lays on his side of the bed, but his back is stinging at the feeling , worrying you. "Should I get you some pillows? Will that help?", you question rubbing his hand. Dominik nods and grits through the pain, "Yea honey that would be nice". Dominik kisses your hand and lets you pull away, you go around the bed and grab both of your pillows in hand without hesitation.

You slide the pillows under his back smoothly before Dominik can protest, "No baby, those are yours" he says with a exhale of his breath, finally being able to lay down with little pain. You roll your eyes at him from where you are sitting, "And they are the softest. Im not what you should be worrying about", you say in retaliation. Dominik reaches for your hand, not breaking eye contact when he gets it, "I will always find ways to worry about you, Amor".

You click off the lamp and get new pillows for yourself. You stay close to Dominik but you can't lay on his chest until he heals. Only fueling the anger you put to the side while you were taking care of him. When morning comes you throw yourself out of bed, getting ready to go to work even though you and Dominik both have a day off now. You sit painkillers and water on the side table beside Dominik, not leaving before kissing his head goodbye.

You walk through the building, hair tied up and emotions through the roof. You stop in a storage room and grab a stick of your own, feeling the best way to grip it. Your knuckles turn white and you storm to Seth's room first. You knock politely as you can, you need to blindside him to get the best access. He opens the door with his normal arrogance, lighting up and ready to spew nonsense when he sees you. You waste no time. You smack him till his shirt rips, till his body matches the extent of Dominik's if not worse.

You do the same to Buddy, just the same and you are sure to tell them why. They know what they did wrong, if Rey didn't get them first you sure as hell would. You walk out of the building much like when you entered. You're still angry. At least now you know they have learned a lesson. They know better now.

[grievedeeply]

the less time, the better. pt 6.

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pairing: heimdall x gn!reader

summary: seeing your face in asgard once more is enough to send heimdall careening over the edge, running face first into the feelings he harbors for you. your mission to find the last mask piece takes you to nilfheim, where you share a heart to heart with the aesir god of foresight.

notes: it's been five months. i'm so sorry. i genuinely had no idea where to take this story and i still don't but.. this is a thank you to everyone who decided to stick around. it means a lot to me that you all still support me and my silly little fic <3 i also forgot about the entire muspelheim section.. so pretend that happened already with thor. and this is where the story really diverges from the plot, as heimdall would be dead by this point in the game's story, so ignore any plot holes i might have made (i do not plan i just write). lastly, if you have been tagged for this and don't want to be anymore, send me a pm!

you'd ran into ratatoskr on your way out of sindri's place, and he greeted you with a warm grin and a gentle hug (as much of a hug as a squirrel could give, anyway), and sent you on your way. you couldn't remember what he said to you as you passed through the mystic gateway and onto the yggdrasil, but still, you smiled at it. you wondered if he ever got tired of your family's presence there. how had sindri come to own his home in the first place? you'd have to ask him another time.. if you even managed to get back in one piece.

you wondered if people in asgard even noticed your absence at all. you were almost sure they did, seeing as you were running errands for the allfather and spending time with his lapdog. you were nearly impossible to miss and the attention was something you weren't exactly used to, but you had learned to adjust as time went on.

you kicked at the wood beneath your feet. how many times had father walked these branches before you? would he be proud of you? was he proud?

before you could think on it any further and dig yourself into an ever deeper sadness, the gateway opened and you stepped into the cold with a sigh. you loved midgard. it was your home, but the weather was something you never thought you'd get used to. all it did was remind you of your past. you pushed the door to your home ajar and your eyes met huginn's. you swore he could read your mind as he called the ravens into the room, ready to take you back to asgard.

you landed in your room— well, modi's— and looked around at the familiar yet strange surroundings that formed in your vision. this room would never be yours. it belonged to modi, and you felt guilty for taking it away from him even if he wasn't around to occupy it anymore. still, you gathered yourself and your thoughts in this room, and you were grateful. it was the only place in all of asgard where you felt at peace, but you also knew it was the only place where you had some sort of privacy. as soon as you opened the door, your mind was open to all who surrounded you.

you took in a deep, shuttering breath. it had been some time since you'd last been in asgard, and you knew you'd become a topic of conversation. it was better to face it now than to delay it any further. you pressed your shoulder against the door, pushing it open with a sigh. you came face to face with thrúd, who wore a smile. her hair was still unruly and wild, her weapons hanging from her hip and onto her backside as they always did. it was good to see something remained constant in an ever changing environment.

you'd come to like thrúd, she reminded you of atreus. even though they didn't act very similarly at all, she was young and bright— clever and courageous— and all of those things always brought your thoughts to your younger brother. you greeted her with a grin, and she turned on her heel, heading off in the direction of the mess hall. she'd come to welcome you. even without saying anything at all to each other, the smile you'd shared was enough to make your chest feel warm. she cared for you, and that was more than you ever would've expected from any of the aesir.

you stood there for a few moments, brushing the thought of her out of your mind for a few moments before you made your way down to odin's study. you didn't exactly want to see him, but you knew he would be expecting you to meet him upon your return.

the doors were much heavier than you remembered, but you forced them open despite the strange amount of weight. the room was empty, and you immediately knew where he would be. you noticed huginn and muninn in this room, and you nodded over at them in greeting. even if they couldn't speak to you, they were both somewhat intimidating. bounded to odin forever.. the idea was a horrible one. you made your way down to the rift, passing odin's desk in the process. it still felt uncomfortable for you to walk around as though you belonged.. but you tried to keep your head up about those things. if anyone were to know about your feelings in that regard, especially heimdall, he would rub it in your face.

heimdall. you grimaced at even the thought of him. odin seemed to love sending you out with him. you had only went out once with thor when finding the first piece of the mask, and you had distracted him so easily with the trials to take a peak into surtur's shrine. you'd unpack whatever you saw then another time, but you knew it was important. despite that, you'd been out with no one else except for the aesir god of foresight. heimdall was easily manipulated by his father for a man with abilities like his own. you could only assume his lack of perception stemmed from his need for validation from him. you sighed. you felt poorly for him and the way he'd been treated, but it still didn't mean you enjoyed his company.

"ah," odin greeted you once you reached the bottom of the steps, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders as they always seemed to do. it reminded you of your father, but his touch was vastly different from odin's. his hands were gentle, as though if he were to squeeze you any tighter you would break in his grip, but his.. you couldn't begin to describe it. it felt foreign, even after how common this was. you'd never get used to it. "i knew you'd come back." he said, his voice going in one ear and out the other. the man was practically insufferable, but you smiled up at him regardless, keeping your façade up that you knew he could see right through.

"next is niflheim, isn't it?" he asked, and you nodded in response. "heimdall will be joining you. it seems the two of you get along quite well." he told you, and you swore heimdall appeared out of thin air right next to you.

he stood behind you, his hands resting on both of your shoulders. his thumbs dug into your collarbone, but your back pressed against his chest. you were.. close. "we do get along, don't we?" he asked, leaning his head over your shoulder to look you in the eyes. he had gotten bolder in your absence, almost as if he had forgotten that his powers did nothing on you, which was something that still confused you. you didn't think on it too much. it was nice that he couldn't read you with his abilities, but he was still smart enough to figure it all out eventually. "we do." you grinned over at him, meeting his eyes. at this, he pulled back from you and let his grip on you loosen, but he didn't take his hands away.

"let's get it taken care of then, shall we?" odin said, gesturing for the his ravens to surround you with a flick of his wrist. "good luck." he whispered through the flock, and he disappeared from your vision. heimdall's hands finally fell from your shoulders, and he moved away from you.

being in your presence again made him feel uneasy. you were still a giant, an enemy of his people, someone he was supposed to despise no matter how helpful you may prove yourself to be. though, his heart ached whenever he heard your name. you'd wiggled your way into his heart and he hated it, but he had finally brought himself to admitting it. he practically lived by, 'the less time, the better' when it came to you. the less time he spent around you, the better it would be for him and his growing feelings, but the allfather was always intent on sending him out with you. he would try to brush it away as him being trusted. watching you was a priority, making sure you didn't sneak away to do whatever it is you do.

with this piece crossed off, there was nothing left to be done. in a different world, you'd look through the crack in the basement and see whatever odin was talking about, but you couldn't let him have this mask. you'd take it back to sindri's, away from his grasp forever. whatever this thing was.. it was no good.

the cold wind pulled you out of your thoughts, and you thanked yourself for putting on a coat before you left. you put your hand into your jacket pocket, feeling the yggdrasil key in your grasp. if things were to go wrong, sindri gave you an escape. he'd approached you right before you saw ratatoskr on the steps of his home. sindri.. all he ever did was give. he was far too good for a world as cruel as this one.

you glanced over at heimdall, who stood in front of you with crossed arms. "the mask?" he asked sarcastically, eyebrows raised in annoyance. you said nothing in response, only rolling your eyes before you held the mask out in front of you. "this way." you muttered, moving down the pathway and towards its pull. this mission was different from the one to helheim. it was quiet. you didn't have much energy to talk, but he wasn't exactly the best person to talk to, anyways. you were feeling guilty about leaving your family once again. knowing that they worried for you.. it struck a chord in your heart, and it hurt. heimdall said nothing as you walked, but you could feel his eyes practically glued onto you.

you were unbelievably hard to read almost every other time he'd seen you. the time in the mess hall where you'd teased him and stared right into his eyes and into the depths of his soul was at the front of his mind. he memorized your features in that moment, much to his dismay. he never would've expected to feel this way for a giant. he had struggled with putting a word to the emotions he'd been feeling.. but your absence made it easier to realize. once you were gone, he felt normal again, but his mind was still plagued with thoughts of you as though you never left. these feelings.. they were love. admiration. all things he should never feel for a giant, but he did believe in fate. this was meant to happen. it had to be that way. if only he could seek out the norns for reassurance that this was the decision he should make, that he needed to make. he yearned to have solidity in his choices, but he was leaping off of the deep end with this.

heimdall struggled with reading you, but now.. it was incredibly easy. your shoulders slouched and your expression cast downwards towards the icy floor beneath your feet. he hated feeling as though he needed to help you, and he kept quiet for as long as he could. had you even realized you looked so upset? even if he were to point out how saddened you looked, what would he say to you? he was never the best at comforting, being the last person anyone would go to for any sort of advice in any sense.. so he had no experience in the emotional department. when he was feeling down, who did he have to do to? no one. he grew up bottling everything inside until he couldn't anymore. did you grow up that way? you couldn't, he told himself. your mother, laufey. she wouldn't have let you feel that way.

he sighed, but took a few quick steps to reach your side. "you are dampening the mood with your dour expression," heimdall muttered, sparing a glance over at you. he noticed you looked towards him, but that was all you did. he let out a dramatic breath and held his hands behind his back, lips pressed into a thin line. "i am serious." he spoke up once again. "you will speak of what ails you, or this will be the most counterproductive trip you have ever been on, and we will get nothing done."

suddenly, you stopped in your tracks and turned to him. "do you really want to know what's wrong, or do you want to find out and then use it against me?" you asked, brows furrowed as you took a step towards him, pressing an accusatory finger at his chest. "you.. you never liked me, you never wanted me here, why pretend to care about me now?" you inquired, tone filled with frustration. heimdall confused you to no end and you wondered if you would ever get to the bottom of whatever was going on with him. hopefully you wouldn't. the less time you spend around him, the better. was it too late for that mentality? you saw him nearly every day in asgard. he was practically impossible to escape. "you.. you hate me. you're supposed to hate me." you whispered.

he said nothing in response and you rolled your eyes. "left you speechless, huh?" you chuckled dryly. taking your emotions out on him wasn't a particularly kind thing to do, you knew that. normally, you weren't one to lose control of yourself to easily. was it the change in environment? the stress? the absence of your family once again? you took in a deep breath, staring down at the clothes you wore, brushing your hand down them to straighten yourself up. "i'm.. i'm sorry. that was mean." you whispered, shutting your eyes.

this was supposed to be a serious, professional mission. this was supposed to be an in and out, simple thing. why were you making it so difficult?

heimdall still remained silent. you looked at anything except for him, your cheeks flushed in embarrassment. you weren't mad at him, not really. he had been an arrogant, bratty asshole in the past.. but he had asked if you were okay. did he care for you? in a real, genuine way?

you forced yourself to move your eyes to him. he was already looking at you, his eyes practically glued to your face. you felt tiny under his gaze, as though he could see right through you. "i am supposed to hate you." heimdall murmured, "and yet.. i don't." he told you, shrugging his shoulders. this was the most vulnerable he had ever been with you. "when you bested me the day we met.. i wanted nothing more than to prove myself better than you. i hated you for embarrassing me." he admitted to you what you knew was obvious, but you let him talk. his voice sounded less grating, now. almost like a warm birdsong in a sweet summer morning. reassuring. gentle.

"but now, i don't hate you. you are.. a giant." he lowered his voice, letting a sigh escape his lips. "i judged you based off of it. but you.. you are different. special."

you furrowed your brow. special? what was he talking about? his cheeks turned a soft pink but he didn't dare pull his eyes off of you. you were special. you made him see giants in a different light. you.. you were kind. you were beautiful in every way imaginable. if this was what love was, he was content with every bit of it.. even if you would never reciprocate.

he watched as you pursed your lips, leaning back against the balls of your feet. you bit at the inside of your cheek, sniffling. "thanks." you whispered out to him after a pause. all he could bring himself to do was nod. he kept his eyes on you. despite opening himself up to you, you stood in front of him, looking just as distressed as you did before. he knew his words of reassurance couldn't automatically cure you of your worries. he would be a fool to believe that would ever be the case. instead, he sat one hand on your shoulder, the other coming up to your cheek. he turned your head to face him and watched as your eyes met his.

"what ails you?" he repeated his words from before. now, with his hands grounding you into reality, you swallowed. his thumb caressed your skin as though you were a piece of glass or.. an expensive piece of artwork. he studied you and your expression, his eyes searching your face for anything he could make note of. like how your gaze flickered back and forth between his eyes, unable to focus on just one.

"i.. feel guilty." you admitted to him. he furrowed his brow. "guilty. what for?" he asked you. his hands still kept their hold on you. if he let go of you, would you go into that same spiral? "leaving again." you mumbled, barely loud enough for anyone to hear. he was grateful for his enhanced senses. "you should've.. you should've heard them. my brother." you said, atreus' face filling your mind. he was too sweet. he cared almost too much, sometimes. you would protect him, protect him from anything. isn't that why you came to asgard in the first place, to protect your family?

heimdall nearly froze. his brothers had never cared for him in the way you care for yours. thor was more of a colleague, working for the same man. baldur was hardly ever around when he was alive, always out tracking for the allfather. týr.. he was the only one who truly expressed any sort of love or kindness towards him, and then he was gone. he was ripped away from him, just like that. týr was his older brother. he wasn't a coworker. he was family. he pushed the thought of him out of his mind. this was about you.. not him.

"your brother. tell me of him." he told you, thumb running over your skin a few more times before he let go of you. instead, he took hold of your hand and led you to the side of the path, sitting down on a conveniently placed rock, big enough for both of you to share. even once you'd sat down, he didn't drop your hand.

"atreus.." you chuckled, turning your head to the sky. "he's so sweet. he loves animals. he loves the.. the realms for what they are. he finds the good in everyone, in everything. like.. baldur." you whispered his name. "i think of.. of baldur. of magni and modi." you turned your head to look at him. "i feel so guilty, sleeping in his room." you murmured. "it isn't mine, it's his." you swallowed. you'd been getting distracted from what he asked you to speak about, but.. had you ever spoken of them to anyone other than your father and your brother? have you even spoke of them recently at all? your father moved on from them easily, but you hung onto each of them, their memory.

"i'm sorry, i'm.. getting off topic." you chuckled breathlessly. "no," he murmured, "speak of what you wish." he told you. heimdall had never sounded so genuine, so kind. what was he trying to do? would he really use all of this as some type of leverage? your guilt, your worries and feelings? he couldn't. he wouldn't be that cruel. he had opened up to you. he liked you, you reassured yourself.

"atreus.. he has wolves. speki, svanna. fenrir."'you told him, a soft grin on your lips. heimdall found himself admiring each expression that formed on your face as you spoke, but he never let his attention drift away from your voice. "he loves those dogs. he loves.. archery, and art. he's so good at drawing. he has a- a journal. i've seen it. he fills it with anything and everything. he's so.. good." you continued, turning your head to look at him. "he deserves more than i could ever give him." you mumbled to yourself, glancing up towards the icy ceiling above you.

"he sounds.. like you." heimdall said. he sounded kindhearted, caring. loving and genuine. all things that reminded him of you. "he's better than me." you spoke through soft laughter, shaking your head nonchalantly. it was good to get these things off of your chest. you glanced over at him, your gaze soft and gentle. he found himself getting lost in you once again. your eyes held a warmth he never would've expected to see.

why did you have to be a giant? why did you have to be related to the man who killed his family? why had life dealt him a cruel hand of cards? even despite all of that, he kept his eyes on you. his feelings for you may never be accepted by asgard or even reciprocated by you at all, but that was for the best, wasn't it? this relationship you had with him was a strictly platonic one, he reminded himself. though, he turned his gaze down to look at your hands. as you were speaking, you'd entwined your fingers in his own. did you even realize you'd done it?

he squeezed your hand, and you squeezed back.

a weak grin formed on your lips and you lifted your free hand to your face, wiping away the salty tears that had begun to fall down your cheeks as you spoke. he kept his eyes on you, running his thumb across the back of your hand. realistically, he knew you would never work out. being with you was a dream.. but it was a nightmare. his family would never approve, he would be cast out and shunned by his father. could he handle that? as he looked at you, he had no doubt in his mind that he could.

you had mentioned your thoughts on his father to him before, only briefly, but it was enough for him to get an understanding of the relationship you thought he had with him. he wasn't a fool, either. even if he couldn't read your intentions he could read your expressions and your body language. you weren't his biggest fan, but you were still in asgard, helping him. for your family.

he knew you hated the allfather. why had he not killed you the moment he laid eyes upon you? he remembered the smile on your lips as you hung from the wall, the only thing keeping you up was his hand wrapped around your wrist. he should've killed you then. he shouldn't have let himself grow attached to you but you looked at him with such a soft gaze.. how could he help himself? you didn't put him up on a pedestal and that was different. it was unusual for him to be treated the same as everyone else but it felt almost decent when it came from you. he felt.. normal.

he blinked a few times. he was completely enamored with you from the moment he saw you. that was why he didn't kill you. even if he didn't realize it until now, you were the one he was meant for.

he let his mind wander for a moment. if you were to reciprocate, would that give an opportunity to mend the relationship between the giants and the aesir? he knew that you wouldn't be approved of by anyone in that sense but.. people would get used to it, right? he was his own person. he could make decisions for himself.

"i'm sorry," you muttered. heimdall furrowed his brow and shook his head. your hand remained in his own. you had to have noticed it by now. "you have nothing to apologize for." he whispered out to you. you chuckled, a small smile forming across your lips. he swore he would never get tired of seeing you happy. "never knew you could be such a softie," you told him, "but.. i like this. seeing you being genuine."

you pushed yourself to your feet, your hand falling out of his in the process. with a sigh, you grabbed the mask from your belt and spun in a circle until it turned that same familiar green color you'd seen so many times before. "let's get this done, yeah?" you peeked at him from over your shoulder, and he nodded wordlessly.

there was nothing left for him to say, anyway.

the last stretch of the trip was silent. heimdall felt as though his heart and emotions were on display to you after the conversation you'd had, but you moved on with the mission as though you barely noticed. did you notice it? were you just trying to make him feel better? he shrugged it off. he had to behave normally for the allfather, anyway. this was for the best, he told himself.

"here," you called out to him, your voice breaking the silence like a knife. "look." you held up the mask for him to look at, and he did so. it was glowing, shaking with every step you took towards the edge of the cliff. you looked down into the abyss below you with an uncomfortable expression on your features. if you were to fall, you would definitely die. before you could think on your fears any further, the mask nearly flew out of your hands. with a grunt, you tightened your grip on it, and the next mask piece flew up and attached itself onto what you held in your hands.

the force nearly knocked you over the edge, and he reached out for you, pulling you back up onto solid ground. "thanks," you mumbled, taking in a deep breath. he nodded, turning away from you. the screech of odin's ravens filled the air, and suddenly the allfather had appeared in front of you. he approached you, a grin on his lips that spread across his entire face. it was almost unsettling.

"you did it," he murmured, walking past heimdall to meet you. you noticed his expression fall. you knew odin was a professional at making his kids feel awfully about themselves, but seeing it firsthand was something you hated. no matter how horrible the things they'd done, they did it on his command. were they really to blame for it all? they yearned for his approval, after all. you pushed the thought away, focusing on the man that stood in front of you.

while you were lost in thought, thor and sif appeared in the same way odin had moments ago. they were accompanied by two valkyries who towered over you. you weren't really scared of them, though. not after you'd freed all of the corrupted ones all those years ago with your father and brother.

"they mean to kill you, allfather." sif said through pursed lips, and odin rolled his eyes, turning to face her. "i thought we were past all of this, sif." he spat her name out, fiery eyes meeting her gaze. "they are using you. they're using all of us. they're manipulating your son," she shot a glance at heimdall, and he furrowed his brow. manipulation? you wouldn't. you couldn't.

"their father killed our family." she said, turning her gaze towards you and away from her father in law. "our sons," she glanced up at thor, who gripped his hammer so hard his knuckles were turning white. "baldur." she whispered his name out, and you took in a shuddering breath. "and they get to live here, sleep in our sons room?" sif asked. "isn't it only fair they die, too?"

suddenly, thor took a few quick, bounding steps towards you. you swallowed, digging through your pocket to find your yggdrasil key. you shut your eyes, grabbing heimdall's arm with your free hand without even realizing it. "i hope this works," you whispered to yourself before throwing it down with all of your might, "hvergi!"

you felt yourself falling through the air, wind whipping past your ears until your back landed hard against the wood of the yggdrasil. you let out a breath, opening your eyes to look around at your surroundings. before you could pull yourself up on your own, you felt a hand wrapping around yours, bringing you to your feet. your father. you grinned up at him before you noticed him narrow his brow. you looked over your shoulder.

heimdall.

you'd taken him with you.

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[overtrred28]

Stargirl | matildas x original character fic [part eighteen]

Words; 2.7k

Pairings; matildas team x astrid taylor (OC)

Warnings; swearing,

masterlist

“Courtney come on, just tell us please?” Astrid whined as she sat on the edge of her couch with Kyra, Courtney pacing in front of them. 

“Okay fine.” Courtney sat down in the arm chair across from the couch. “I’m going on loan.” She mumbled but the other girls caught on. 

“Loan?”  Kyra questioned, letting the information process in her mind as she looked at Courtney. 

“Where? Who?” Astrid asked with furrowed brows. 

“Leicester City put in an offer before the break, they told me this morning and I accepted.” Courtney looked down at her hands as she waited for further reactions. 

“How long?” Kyra asked after a minute of silence. 

“Till the end of the WSL season.” Courtney slowly lifted her head. “And then they have the option to buy after that.” She looked between her two friends who were processing the news, both silent. 

“That’s amazing Nevvy, I’m so happy for you.” Astrid stood up and opened her arms, waiting for Courtney to join her. Courtney stood up with a smile, accepting the hug and holding onto Astrid. 

“Thank you.” Courtney spoke into Astrid’s shoulder where she placed her head, the younger girl running her hand up and down her back. The two girls almost jumped when another pair of arms wrapped around them and a small laugh came from Kyra as she joined the hug.

“When do you go?” Kyra asked softly as they pulled apart but still stood closely. 

“Well I’m still training here for the next week and a half and then I’ll leave to sign there on the 25th.” Courtney relayed what she was told this morning. 

“Shit. That’s soon.” Astrid’s smile faltered as she realised how little time they had together in Sweden.

“I know. But we’ll see each other at camp like every month.” Courtney pulled Astrid into her side. 

“Enough with the sadness.” Kyra spoke sternly while putting her finger straight up in the air, scaring Courtney and Astrid. “Just means we have to do everything together for the next week and a half until Nev leaves us to our own devices.” Kyra directed her last words to Astrid who laughed in return. 

“Oh no I didn’t think of that bit.” Courtney sighed and placed a hand on her forehead in distress, genuinely concerned with how they might actually survive without her as a middle man. 

Contrary to Cortnee’s advice from over a week ago, Astrid and Kyra had yet to speak about New Year’s, or anything that happened that night, but easily returned to their usual selves and like nothing had happened. 

Astrid was still thinking about it at least once a day, questioning whether it was something or not, whether Kyra actually remembered the kiss, and what could this mean for them? The right thing to do to resolve her constant thoughts would be to just talk to Kyra about it, or at least tell someone else. But with the return to football and the World Cup looming above them, she was choosing to ignore the reality of it and keep it hidden deep down. 

After spending as much time with Courtney before she left and eventually helping her move out, it was time for the first game back. Kyra and Astrid had both been selected for the starting 11, ready to make an impact early on in the game. It’s safe to say they did. 

During the first half the pair had linked up on the left side two times, securing two assists for Kyra and a brace for Astrid, which helped the team eventually to their 6-1 win over AIK and a terrific start to the new year. 

After Courtney had left, Kyra had the thought that maybe Astrid should move in and fill the space and so that neither of them were lonely outside of training. Astrid agreed and they began the process of moving her in and getting out of her old place. 

Even now with their closer quarters, neither had yet to mention new years eve or the Fiji trip at all, pushing those few days to the back of their minds and ignoring whatever it was that happened between them. Their relationship stayed as close to what it was before the kiss, but there seemed to be a few moments of distance between them at certain times. For the most part though, the pair had acted as they always did and caused mischief to their club teammates during training sessions and weekly team bonding activities. 

After another 4 matches with Hammarby and another 5 goals added to Astrid’s list, it was time for Astrid and Kyra to jet off home and join the Matilda’s for the first camp of the year. It felt weird going off to camp without Courtney this time, Charli also taking her own flight with Mini and Harper, leaving Kyra and Astrid on the long journey alone. And without anyone else to pester or intervene, they were getting at each other's throat every five seconds, resulting in them rocking up to camp exhausted and annoyed with one another. 

Astrid was always very happy to be back on home soil, especially when they got to play in her hometown and in front of her friends and family, it was always a special time. 

The car pulled up to the hotel and Astrid and Kyra jumped out, their social media team standing outside ready to catch them, forcing smiles onto both of their faces as if they weren’t just arguing five minutes ago about something stupid. 

They were met with the rest of the girls who had arrived from overseas standing in the lobby, all turning around as they heard Kyra and Astrid walking in the front doors. 

“Cha Cha!” Astrid dropped her baggage immediately, yelling as she ran directly towards the blonde defender, a look of fear in her eyes as she spotted the young forward racing towards her. 

“Oh no.” She whispered to herself, preparing for the impact she knew was coming. Astrid all but leaped into Charli’s arms, the girl grunting as she caught Astrid and tried to stabilise herself, stopping them from falling to the ground. 

“Oh thank god.” Astrid shook her head as she jumped down from Charli, gripping onto her shoulders with wide eyes. “It is so good to see you, I have been stuck alone with her for 2 months now!” The her she was referring to stood behind them with a dropped jaw. 

“And I have been stuck with her, it’s torture.” Kyra dramatically sighed as she moved closer to the group of girls. Astrid turned around slowly, meeting eyes with Kyra who had her arms crossed over her chest. 

“I thought you chose to move in with Kyra.” Steph spoke up, pointing her attention to Astrid. 

“Well it's cheaper and safer than living alone.” Astrid shrugged her shoulders, a smirk growing on her face as she awaited Kyra’s reaction. 

“Take that back, you love me.” Kyra ran forward, bringing her hands up to pinch Astrids cheeks causing the younger girl to swat her arms away. 

“Leave me alone!” Astrid squealed as they began fighting, laughs echoing through the lobby as the other girls watched on in confusion, no one ever understood their relationship. 

“Alright, enough you two. The rooms are ready.” Steph was the one who separated them with the help of Charli who pushed them both towards their bags and handed them their individual room keys. “Everyone has their own room this time.” Steph announced to the group who all seemed happy with that, enjoying having the space to themselves. 

After a night of rest and a fuelling breakfast where they took the time to catch up, the team were headed to the stadium for their first day of training with only 3 days until their match against Czechia. 

Training went smoothly like always, the team jumping back into their rhythm instantly and enjoying back together in the Australian sun. Kyra and Astrid paired up for drills, a disaster waiting to happen, and it clearly didn’t take long for chaos to ensue. Though they enjoy one another's company, they also have a way of getting under each other's skin quite quickly. So it wasn’t a surprise when the session was stopped because Kyra and Astrid were now on the ground practically wrestling after getting caught up in each other's feet and falling over. 

A few of the older, more responsible girls ran over and began separating them, putting them with different partners and on other sides of the pitch, in hopes of creating a more peaceful, quiet session. But they still managed to find themselves communicating, loudly, across the pitch whilst they were training and still disturbing everyone. 

“Oi, you two!” Sam’s voice caught the attention of the pair who sneakily made their way back to one another and were whispering at the back of the group before Sam spotted them. Their heads snapped up at their captain and immediately stopped the chatter, their quiet laughs drifting off. Everyone else watched with smirks as Sam began to scold them. “Stop being 5 years olds otherwise you’re not playing on Thursday.” Her threat made them both visibly swallow and start to inch further and further away from each other, avoiding eye contact to avoid laughter.

The 3 days of training had ensured the team could once again come back together like no time had passed and look like they played together each day. They had their meeting that morning, where they would have a final talk about strategies and finally reveal the starting line up, Astrid sitting up the back with her other three counterparts half listening to Tony. That was until something finally caught her attention.

“As our 10 we’re going to have Astrid,” Tony smiled when he saw the young girl's head lift up, jaw dropping slightly in surprise. “You are our central attack to help Sam as the 9.” Tony concluded and Astrid nodded, shock turning into a smile on her face. Her teammates were giving her head claps and shoulder shakes while she stared at the screen, her heart beaming at the fact she would be starting a game in her home town with all her friends and family there. 

During their pitch warm up, Kyra had pointed out Astrid’s family that were sitting by one of the corners, both girls giving them a wave when they passed during drills. Astrid couldn’t have felt better than she did right now. And unlike the last time she was set to start, there wasn’t an ounce of anxiety as redid her hair, tied her boots right to left and finally put on her jersey. 

Astrid was last in the line behind Charli and Kyra, as per the 31 painted under her last name, pushing out any nerves by talking with her mascot beside her. “What position do you play?” Astrid asked the girl beside her. 

“Forward, like you!” The girl pointed up and Astrid's eyes widened as she watched the girl realise who she was, getting even more excited to be standing next to Astrid. 

“Well that means you’re part of the cool kids club then.” Astrid smiled and put out her spare hand for a high five, the girl jumping up and to hit before jumping up and down in excitement. “Unlike Kyra and Charli.” Astrid bent down to whisper but kept it loud enough for the girls to hear her. 

“Hey!” They both exclaimed but they were cut off as the line started moving and the team began their walk out, Astrid and her mascot still giggling together. 

There was so much pride behind Astrid as she walked out on that pitch, seeing the almost full stands of Matildas supporters ready to watch what would be a very intense game. 

During the first half there were so many missed chances from both teams, right from that first touch. Just too high, too far over, a really good block. It seemed nothing was going to happen for either in the first half.

Time was almost up, 3 minutes left on the clock and Astrid was nowhere near giving up on this half. The ball had fallen to Charli who dribbled through the opposition before shooting it off to Kyra in the midfield. Kyra quickly became surrounded and needed to pass it off before she lost it. She found a gap and slipped to a more central position, eying off forwards to pass it too. Courtnee and Hayley were too far back and crowded to slip it in, Sam and Astrid being the only two with a chance of getting it in. Both strikers had their eye on the ball as Kyra kicked it into the air, ready for it no matter who it decided to fall to. It looked as if it was about to fall to Sam who was ready to head it in, so the defenders and goalie headed in her direction. 

But with a slight change of the breeze and an extra step from Kyra, the ball landed to Astrid at her chest, quickly rolling the ball down to her feet. Her proximity to the next assisted greatly as she used her right foot to tap the ball forward, slipping past the hands of Lukášová and bouncing in the back of the net. 

The crowd roared in her ears as Astrid found herself running along the edge of the pitch past the crowd, proudly taking a hold of her shirt, tapping her badge as she ran. The girls had begun to chase after Astrid who had just given them a leg up in the last 2 minutes of the game. She eventually stopped and turned around to find 9 other girls about to land on her and give her more head pats than she could have imagined. 

She was beaming as they finally returned to their positions to resume play, all still with adrenaline pumping and a final fight at the end of the half. And before she knew it, Cortnee was running towards the goal, defenders trying to catch up to her before Cortnee slid the ball towards Astrid so quickly that once again Astrid was shooting the ball into the back of the net. 

A brace within the last 3 minutes of the first half, who would have thought. To celebrate this time though Astrid ran to the corner where her family were sitting, blowing a kiss up to her parents at the edge, almost buckling forward as a whole heap of bodies piled up on her back. The girls were screaming in her ear, most prominently Kyra who was the first person on her back to no surprise, Astrid dropping her off with a bright smile before both Kyra and Charli wrap their arms around the young scorer. 

30 seconds into resuming play the ref called time and the Matildas were leaving the pitch 2-nil up and hungry for more. After time for a breath and a plan revision, the girls were back on the field, an immediate change was made with Aivi to Clare Hunt, marking her Matildas debut. 

Hayley was the one who kept the fire alive early in this half, also scoring herself a brace within the first 10 minutes, giving the crowd what they came to see. Astrid, Cortnee and Katrina played 25 minutes of this half before being subbed off for fresh legs, all happy with the impact they had made to the game. 

The game ended with 6-0 in favour of the Matildas after 2 more goals from Sam and Polks, the girls very happy with their result in front of the home crowd. After their rounds to the fans, saying hello to friends and family, and their group pitch huddle, it was time for the girls to head back to the hotel for a night of rest ahead of their prep for Spain in 3 days. 

to be continued...

[fragileizywriting]

“ew, dont say that,” you laugh, purposely ignoring the way something tight wraps inside your stomach and squeezes. “i don’t want to imagine XY anywhere near my clit, thanks.”

something about XY is just so punchable. is it the smolder? or the hair…? he looks eternally locked into the 2010s in a bad way, but you can never put your finger on what it is that makes him look out of style.

maybe it’s the manners.

you’re not the only one with an annoyance with the man— the media’s been pushing the strangest narrative ever; france’s prince of pop against the heart-throb alternative rock couffaine. it’s something out of a cartoon. it’s just ridiculous, to the point where you’ve ignored this so-called feud-of-the-century. the whole family has. checkout lines at the grocery store are littered with random tabloids on it, trying to stir up controversy over the two of them, though nothing’s really happened. not really. XY is a dick and a half and has no idea that his breath stinks, but it’s not the end of the world.

that hadn’t stopped XY from trying to start stuff at the party, though, and the moment you’d seen that blonde man open his smoldering mouth and start talking, you genuinely couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling in that way that truly means you’re ridiculously bored. the man just has a way of ruining everyone’s interests in something.

luka still smiles at you, not exactly trying to show off his fangs but you still stare right at them, because he’s attractive and he knows it. “i don’t think XY has ever given head in his life.”

gah. what the hell is going on? “i think bringing up XY while spreading my legs should be considered a bannable offense.”

“isn’t that sad?” luka continues, much to your annoyance. “he has no idea how nice it is to make someone come?” he follows it with another swipe of his thumb, made damp with his own mouth— with a gentle press of his nail, he uses your stuttering inhale to his advantage, dragging out a slow circle against your clit in a way that makes you curl your toes. “and making you come, especially, is my favorite thing.”

“please stop talking about him, i’m going to kick you out of this bed,” you warn. “it’ll hurt. i’m good at donkey-kicking.”

he’s not going to listen to you. of course not. your alpha is sweet and kind and considering even if his eyes are gold and blue and devilish when people don’t realize that he’s a sweetheart. he’s got a resting bitch face, though you can read right through it— the smeared eyeliner does nothing to hide the palpable excitement on his face a tthe idea of eating you out, like this is a luxury. a luxury. as if he’s about to say thank you.

but he’s busy talking about some loser instead, all while you lay down and have your legs spread open, the backs of your knees slung over his forearms, because he doesn’t let you wiggle out of his hold and hide.

“i won’t feel bad,” you say, barely blinking. you do your best to ignore those slow, frustrating circles on your clit, but you’re just so stupid— a whine comes out, breaking your ‘cool girl’ approach, and you find yourself bucking your hips to get more friction. “y-you’re going to complain about how i knocked out a rib and i won’t even apologize.”

“mmm.”

you just can’t keep up appearances, can you? the two of you are aware of how much slick is leaking out, because you’re thinking about getting off on his studded belt. “did you just want to stare at me while talking about your arch nemesis, or?”

that smile he gives you, normally so sweet and so gentle, has just the tip-edge of feral to it.

[prettyflyshyguy]

He's a monster, and he's hungry.

Wrote this over a few days because I'm. Not ok about this. It's on AO3, and under the cut cause it's a short one. Not super edited, just got desperate for more content exploring when Dean was a vampire and when I found none I was like "well alright. Guess I'll make it then."

“I can’t believe it.”

Dean paced the length of the hotel room, passing back and forth by the table where his brother sat, prowling like an animal in captivity.

“You just stood there and watched that freak turn me!”

He stared at Sam, hoping for a change in his reaction, a look of sympathy, an admission of guilt, some form of recognition that something fucked up happened in the alley. Sam’s face was blank, his heartbeat steady, and frankly he just didn’t seem to care. In fact, he hadn’t seemed to care about much recently. He was a cold, lifeless, empty husk and Dean was tired of it. His usual quips brought no frustrated response, no snappy replies, he was simply brushed off. There was no banter, no anger, simply complete and utter apathy no matter what he said. Sam had his moments, everyone did. Dean knew he had a tendency to push his luck, many people had told him this. But Sam was different, they were siblings. Sam putting up with him being an ass was just how things were, and would always be. At least it's how it should be. After everything they’d seen and done together… If Sam held any resentment, he’d have made it clear by this stage. He was a good liar, but Dean could always tell. They both knew each other too well. If he had any doubt something was off about Sam, it was quickly disintegrating as he stalked the room, watching him blankly staring up at him from the small table. Not even fidgeting in the slightest. 

They’d been pushed to their limits before, and Sam was always the first to speak up when something was wrong. 

“Dean.”

His lip curled at the sound of his name. It was so hollow. So static. It reminded him of school, when his teacher would check the roll call. It was an obligation and a requirement, not something done out of genuine care. 

He decided to push a little harder.

“I mean what the hell was that all about Sam? Revenge? To get me back?” he growled. 

“You know you’ve talked so much shit about me taking risks, is this all just some master plan to show me the error of my ways? A jab back at how you still, somehow deep down, think I’m Dad’s perfect son?”

He stood still, observing for a change in reaction. Dean desperately wanted to find a tiny shift in body language, a subtle twitch in his eyes or mouth, that sad glint in his eyes.

He breathed out slowly as Sam once again stared back with soulless eyes and a steady heart.

Not enough, Ok, he thought. He was an expert at this. Maybe Sam had steeled up after all these years. 

It wasn’t a completely unreasonable possibility. 

“I almost hurt Lisa and Ben, Sam! I came so close, I could have killed them and no one would have been there to stop me, but you were!”

He took a step towards Sam as he spoke, the venom of the accusation lingering in the air.

Sam breathed out and shuffled in his seat. Finally, a response. 

“Dean, you need to calm down.”

You calm down.

He took another step closer, noting the slight increase in pace of Sam’s heart. Progress, hell yeah. A smile tugged at the edges of his lips though Dean’s eyes were as cold as Sam’s.

“Oh, that's rich coming from you! That’s easy for you to say when you’re not being assaulted by noise like you went to the movies and an intern did the mixing.”

He took another step closer. 

The thrumming beat increased in speed once more. 

“Dean.”

“S’matter of fact,” Dean slid his fingers across the tabletop, tracing the grooves in the rough wooden surface, “you’re exceptionally calm given I’m now stuck doing a bad David Boreanaz impression for an indefinite period of time, with no guarantee this Campbell special will even work.”

He looked up from where his hand slid along the table to match Sam’s unwavering gaze. His brother tilted his head to look up at him as Dean hovered above, adjusting in his seat. Sam slipped his left arm over the backrest of the chair. 

Dean’s expression turned cold once more.

“And I’ve been thinking, Sammy. It’s ironic. Between that creep, you just standing there and watching, and…” jabbing his thumb back towards himself he gestured “... me…” 

Dean slammed his hand back down on the table, leaning in closer. The headlights of a car flickered through the slim gap in the middle of the window curtains drawn behind them. It reflected off of Dean’s eyes for a split second, making Sam flinch. It reminded him of the animals on the side of the highway, peering at them through the bushes before darting away when they drove late at night.

“Begs the question,” Dean continued. “Which one of us is the real monster?”

Sam swallowed. The first real visible sign of him showing some nerves. He’d finally cracked him.

“Since you can hear my heartbeat,” Sam spoke slowly, “what does it say about me now?” 

His tone was outwardly calm, but Dean could hear through him. 

“It says you’re shit scared, Sammy.”

Sam waited for a few seconds before opening his mouth to respond. Whatever he said, Dean didn’t seem to notice, as his gaze began to shift from Sam’s face down to where the light of the window caught the curve of his exposed bare neck. A pang of hunger swelled in the pit of his chest as the noise and light and intensity of the room faded away until all that was left was the steady sound of the beating, beating, beating. 

A sharp, intense pain stung the side of Dean’s neck breaking him free of the trance as he collapsed to the ground groaning and twitching in pain. Through fading vision he looked up to see Sam still sitting on the chair, slouching back, but holding a syringe in his left hand. The contents empty. 

“You… sonof-abich…” his words formed a slurry as his body went limp.

-

“Nice of you to join us Samuel.”

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Sam’s showing me what all those years of boy scout training taught him to do.”

Dean sat on a chair, his legs, arms and chest bound with thick twine rope. Smiling at Samuel for a moment, he motioned with what little mobility he had in his hands to indicate. Samuel glanced at his brother with a questioning look.

“You did this?”

“He shot me full of dead man’s blood, and I gotta say, that’s one hell of a drug.” 

Dean’s tone was dry and unimpressed. Samuel assessed the room, looking as though he wanted to ask more questions, but decided against it. 

“Anyway you said you were getting something to help?” Dean’s voice broke the silence.

“This is help.”

Samuel pulled a glass jar out of a brown paper bag, setting it on the table. The contents was dark and viscous. It had sloshed around in transit, coating the airgap at the top of the jar. The light pierced through the clear glass and bright red light danced across the varnished wood tabletop.

“Wh- what is that?” 

“Cows blood.” Samuel said curtly.

“That’s help?”

“It’ll keep you alive.”

As he twisted the lid open Dean’s eyes flicked between the jar and the two men.

“Well can you at least untie me first?” he pleaded, his voice straining. 

The rope dug into his wrists and the thought of being spoon fed cows blood was sending his mind to a dark and violent place.

“Dean, it's just a precaution.” Samuel attempted to be reassuring. 

Dean clenched his jaw. Precaution for what. You weren’t even here to see Sam attack me.

“Oh cut the bullcrap!” Dean spat, pulling against the rope binding his arms and legs. “C three P O over here was a bit too cautious back in the alley and look where it got us!”

Samuel stared at him tensely. Dean winced as a spike of sound ringed in his head from a car horn outside. 

“Look I’m fine, Samuel. Really. Just untie me.”

The older man hesitated.

“Please?” Dean cracked a smile that usually got him whatever he wanted.

Usually.

Samuel watched him carefully while he placed the jar lid on the table. The unmistakable smell of iron, meat and death began to waft through the room. He leaned into the scent as he realised just how hungry he was. How dry his throat was. How much the deep, dark red called out to him.

“Samuel I will kill you if you try and hand feed that shit to me.”

The older man raised an eyebrow in response, unimpressed, and picked up the jar.

“Wait!” 

Dean grimaced and hissed through gritted teeth as Sam called out from the other side of the table.

“One drop of human blood is enough, are we sure that cow’s blood is clean?”

“Oh you gotta be fucking kidding me Sammy…” Dean groaned.

Samuel paused, running it through his mind, blinking a few times, he contemplated the risk and the chance. Looking back, Sam shrugged silently.

“Sam has a point. If any human blood, from a cut or a scratch, got into this at the abattoir, you’re done.”

Dean ignored him and glared at Sam.

“God I can’t listen to you right now.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Sam blurted in frustration. 

“Your fucking heartbeat man! It's so loud, it's so monotonous it’s killing me! Look, Samuel, just cut this fuckin rope and hand me the fuckin jar.”

Reluctantly, and cautiously, he pulled out a hunting knife from a holster on his belt. Staying as far from Dean as possible, he nicked part of the rope on Dean’s right arm just enough for him to wiggle it loose. Waving it in the air and stretching the fingers, Dean looked back to the two who were eyeing him off.

“See that wasn’t so bad now was it.” Dean’s tone was sarcastic and he tapped the armrest with his index finger.

“C’mon guys don’t look so nervous.  You can just drug me up again, it’s not like that's off the cards is it Sammy.”

Sam glanced away at the mention of his name, Samuel grunted in frustration as he reached for the jar and took a step towards the chair. In an instant the background thrum of his heart filled Dean’s mind, it was faster, full of nerves and fear compared to Sam’s horribly persistent flat tone. As he approached holding the jar out, Dean felt something shift under his lip.

“NO.”

His voice boomed as he jerked back in his seat, the legs scraping against the floor. Breathing sharply, he tilted his head down avoiding the stares of his associates. 

“Get away from me.”

Grunting and breathing through gritted, sharpened teeth, he glanced up. 

“Sammy, drop the machete.”

They’d both instinctively reached for their weapons. Brandishing them high, already poised for a clean decapitating swing. Dean growled and heaved deep breaths of air, flexing the remaining restraints. He could break free, if he wanted to. With one arm loose, he could easily rip the remaining rope off. He contemplated the thought, reveling in how powerful it made him feel. 

“Dean?”

Samuel’s voice snapped him back to reality. He’d placed his machete back on the table, Sam had lowered his but still gripped it. 

Dean extended his free arm out and flicked his hand towards the table.

“Just hand me the fuckin jar already.”

Samuel was quick to oblige, and quicker to back away once Dean had it in his grip. He tried to not dwell on the way his companions looked at his mouth instead of his face. He could feel the second set of teeth against his lips, his tongue. The smell of blood was suffocating him now, a mixture of alluring coppery tones and the stench of raw stale flesh. He wasn’t sure which was making him feel more ill. The pungent aroma or the fact he liked something in it.

“So you two just gonna watch like this is some sort of peep show or what?”

Neither responded, still fixated on his every move. Pulling a face, Dean limply held the jar up as it to toast before bringing it to his lips. Taking a tentative sip, he recoiled as blood spilt down his chin. Groaning and sputtering he violently spat it out.

“Augh, god this tastes disgusting–”

“I promised you help, I didn’t promise it’d taste nice. Now drink it.”