#slow descent to anger

[doshi-sukiru]

What are Optimus's feelings on Megatron's mask? Does he loathe it because he wants to see Megatron's face as they fight? Does it make it easier to hurt Megatron because he can't see the face of the bot he loved and lost? Does he feel amused by it because it reminds him of how much of a Megatronus fanboy D-16 was? Does he find a way to twist it as yet another way the high-guard is 'hurting' D-16 or trying to turn him against him?

It was a gradual descent from joy to annoyance and then anger of its existence.

At first, he found it cute that he and Megatron both had masks. It's like finding your friend matching you by wearing the same glasses- simple, but it did excite him a bit. He does enjoy how it's shaped to look similar to Megatronus's mask, and teased him a lot the first few times about it.

It doesn't take him long to find it bothersome. He no longer got to see the lovely face he always wanted to see during their 'encounters', and trying to look at the bust in his private room wasn't working as well as he hoped.

And when he spies on them one day, he sees Megatron's mask isn't on, and he's with Soundwave at the moment, who also seemed to have his mask off. The moment he shows himself to try and separate the two, he watches as both of them have their masks go up. While he doesn't care too much about Soundwave, seeing Megatron's mask go up like instinct pissed him off.

They were lovers in the past, like I mentioned, so while Optimus did assume their separation would make Megatron harder to talk with, he didn't expect Megatron to actively use a mask to keep himself separated from Optimus (metaphorically speaking). For Megatron, he didn't realize he was doing it when Optimus was nearby, just let it cover his face when he felt danger.

And yes, he did twist it into thinking that the reason Megatron covered his face was because of the high guard. He immediately assumed it was to make Megatron become someone he wasn't, someone that was apart from D-16 (Think like how Silco tried to make Jinx 'kill' Powder in arcane, with that water body). He hates that, because he knows 'Megatron' could never be the designation D-16 would pick for himself, at least not seriously. Seeing how it was like instinct for Megatron to pull the mask, Optimus believed Megatron was forced to learn it, and thought Megatron must have been losing sleep because of it too.

In reality? Megatronus had been teaching him to summon the mask when he felt any presence of danger, and in Megatron's defense Optimus was usually with other Autobots, some that Megatron knew were trying to kill him than capture him despite the Prime's orders. So his frame just reacted to OP like it was a general Autobot after a while.

The only time Optimus finally saw Megatron's face, they got separated from both of their factions on the surface. Their time alone however lasted a few orns before a quintesson attack left Megatron badly injured. When the Autobots found them first, Optimus had him get taken with them for medical treatment, leading to Megatron's second capture.

Hope that helps explain it!

[1eos]

heel turning on olympus, texas. the murder plot is pissing me off but the aphrodite character realizing her husband is using being a doormat as a way to seem 'perfect' and secretly condescend to others who actually act on their anger and realize deep down he views her like any other man does a pretty bitchy woman who should be happy to be objectified is actually brilliant. like from the outside she looks crazy but when u actually get in her head it makes perfect sense. like we've all liked someone and realized something u liked abt them is actually a bad trait

[astral-herald]

Viktor's (subverted) Aristotelian Tragedy

A common sentiment I’m seeing throughout post-finale Viktor discourse is an understandable concern or distaste for the element of choice lost throughout his story. I know a lot of us – myself included – expected more time spent on his transformation, along with emphasis on the anger/rage/betrayal fueling it. But seeing him allow Singed to “begin the process” in episode 8 reminded me of Arcane’s origins – tragedy. Bear with me for another long analysis :)

Aristotle wrote the following on the tragedy: “A tragedy is the imitation of an action that is serious and also, as having magnitude, complete in itself…with incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish a catharsis of these emotions.” He also emphasized that the true tragic hero couldn’t be perfect, and his downfall into such catharsis-inducing circumstances was reliant on a fatal flaw, oftentimes pride.

Viktor fits this mold, as do many Arcane characters, and it stands to reason that this was intentional since the writing team has reiterated that the show is a tragedy, at its core.

Regarding Viktor’s fatal flaw, I’d argue it’s pride, but it manifests very uniquely. He never makes any grand declarations about his success and doesn’t draw attention to himself in any clear way throughout season one (“Progress Day” comes to mind). Instead, his pride manifests as staunch independence and self-reliance that lead to his downfall; his unwillingness to break his stoic mold arguably led to his use of the Hexcore…so it goes.

Fascinating caveat: Viktor’s pride is a defense mechanism, a necessary tool he built in order to survive and succeed in a hostile environment to people of his station. His self-reliance is increasingly desperate as his illness worsens. He’s cornered by fate but banks on the sanctity of choice at every turn – in season one, Viktor is bound by the conviction that we all have a choice. It’s why he’s so distressed when Jayce makes the wrong one regarding weaponizing Hextech.

“There is always a choice.”

Viktor’s choice to fuse with the Hexcore is the classic Aristotelian fatal flaw moment, the singular incident that opens the flood gates for eventual catharsis. We watch Viktor make an irreparable choice, one that we know to be bad, and endure the repercussions. He then makes the choice to abandon the Hexcore, and end his life, but audiences can’t shake the feeling that those consequences aren’t leaving anytime soon.

So why is Viktor so anti-choice in his final season 2, act 3 form?

Choice is Viktor’s weapon. Pride is what leads him to abusing it. Despite how uncomfortable and depressing it is to watch, Viktor’s slow descent into the Herald is a perfect twist of fate. The Arcane is even so insidious that it meshes with his original intent, to help those suffering in the undercity, while convincing him that their subservience is healing. He becomes responsible for their choices. He knows what’s best because he’s relieving the Gloriously Evolved of their suffering, right? The utopia is for the greater good, yes?

Admittedly, it was really hard watching act 3 Viktor descend fully into his choiceless ethos. But we can still relate it to his tragic flaw – his pride has mushroomed into coldhearted omniscience; not only does he know what’s best for everyone, evolution, but he also has the sense to make the choice for them to supersede their “baser instincts.” The grief we feel upon seeing this perverted, violent version of himself, as far removed from Viktor as possible, is the culmination of Aristotle’s treatise on tragedy. The catharsis is the rock-bottom Machine Herald.

"Choice is false."

But then Arcane decided to basically make Jayvik canon (get out of here, Christian Linke) and destroyed the early drafts of this post. I’m going to rapid-fire this next bit:

Jayce forces Viktor back to life. Viktor has no agency in his season 2 inciting incident. Again, it’s distressing when we mourn his agency, but it remains in accordance with Aristotelian tragedy.

Viktor clings to humanity as long as he possibly can. When Jayce calls out Viktor’s trajectory, alleging that his old partner had died in the Council chamber, whatever is left of Viktor gives way to the Arcane because his last tether has been snapped.

Jayce knows the game – Old Man Jenkins Mage Viktor told him so. Jayce becomes the linchpin in subverting Viktor’s tragedy. He knows what must happen. He understands now.

Machine Herald Viktor is given the chance to undo his fatal flaw, to reverse the catharsis, when he sees Old Man Jenkins Mage Viktor. With Jayce’s help, he takes it.

Given that it’s a version of Viktor who ultimately frees him from himself by empowering Jayce, we can gather that Viktor has liberated himself from his tragedy.

Aristotle’s catharsis is rapidly transformed from something based in release to something healing – Viktor’s tether to humanity returns. He grasps it. The walls of his pride and self-reliance collapse. He accepts Jayce’s help, finally being seen as the full individual he is. Catharsis ensues, for sure, but I don’t think it’s based in the typical tragedy genre.

All this to say, I think Viktor’s arc was, in fact, carefully constructed. He represents the Aristotelian descent into a fatal flaw and that’s very distressing to see unfold, especially since he embodied the tragic hero archetype so well from day one. However, Jayce undoes this narrative and we’re given an incredibly subversive ending that I, personally, never saw coming.

I’m sure that Mage Viktor has a much larger bearing on this analysis than I’m accounting for. But for now, suffice to say that he is Viktor’s way out of the tragedy. TALK ABOUT CHOICE!

This doesn’t erase anyone’s discomfort for Viktor having less and less agency, but I’d like to emphasize the logic and literary precedent behind the story decisions.

PS: here's a quick source I looked at about Aristotelian tragedies. I hope to re-up on Greek tragedies so I can get more specific about the parallels Arcane draws from them.

[kbwrites]

Up In the Clouds Ch.4

synopsis: you're friends arguing reaches a breaking point... for you. what will you do when you find out the real reason they've been fighting?

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⚝content: sugusato x f!reader, sfw, satosugu arguing, but they're arguing over youuuu

⚝wc: 1.4k

Suguru and Satoru always fought. From the year you’d known the duo, that much was obvious. Petty arguments and stupid disagreements were rampant in your trio. But, at the end of the day—usually forced by you—they would make up. Today, however, there was a disquieting air around them, an unfamiliar tension that gnawed at your peace of mind.

You three were in the courtyard for lunch, a place usually filled with the sounds of your laughter. You and Suguru ate bentos while Satoru dug into a sugary donut.

But something was... different.

No annoying quips from Satoru.

No heavy sighs from Suguru.

Just complete and utter… silence.

The courtyard, bathed in the soft afternoon light, felt oddly still. The rustling of leaves and distant chatter of other students did nothing to alleviate the growing unease. You shifted in your seat, the silence pressing down on you like a weight.

“Did Yaga yell at you two or something?”

Suguru glanced up, his hazelnut-colored eyes narrowing as he finally spoke. “No… it’s not that.”

Satoru  scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically behind his dark sunglasses. “Yaga yelling would be wayy easier to deal with than Mr. Perfect.”

The raven-haired teen’s jaw clenched. “Oh, I’m Mr. Perfect now? That’s rich coming from someone who thinks they know everything,  Satoru.”

“At least I don’t try to control every little thing” Satoru shot back, his words muffled by the mouthful of donut. ”Not everything has to be done your way, Suguru.”

“Maybe if you used your head a bit more, we wouldn’t end up in half the messes we do,” Suguru retorted, his tone icy.

You sighed, feeling like a mediator between two stubborn children.

“Guys, seriously, what’s going on? This is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous is Suguru thinking he can tell me what to do.” Satoru snapped, his voice tinged with frustration.

Finally, you’d had enough. The frustration and tension had reached a breaking point. Without saying a word, you stood up, grabbed your lunch, and turned to leave. The soft thud of your bento box as you placed it into your bag seemed to echo in the silence that followed.

Satoru’s blue eyes widened as he noticed you standing. “Wait, where are you going?”

Suguru’s head snapped towards you, his expression a mix of surprise and concern. “What—?”

But you were already walking away, your footsteps brisk and determined.

“Great, just great! Now ya made her leave because you’re too scared to tell her the truth!”

Suguru’s face flushed with anger. “Me? You’re the one who turned this into a contest and made it impossible for me to even tell her how I feel!”

Satoru shot a glare at his best friend, his voice laced with bitter irritation.

 “Well… I don’t care!”

A week. Seven long days without your best friends. They avoided each other entirely, which was pretty hard to do considering how small the school was.

The hallways almost fell deafening silent without the pair’s obnoxious laughter echoing through. According to Nanami it was “The best week of my life”.  But for you, it was a slow descent into madness. The absence of your two best guys, who were always there to bug you and share in the chaos, was unbearable.

Hell, even Yaga was starting to get worried.

Shoko wasn’t much help. Completely jaded by the routine of arguments and breakups between the second years, she shrugged off the situation with a nonchalant wave of her hand. “They’ll make up… eventually.”

You were never one to just sit back and let situations play out. So you whipped out your phone to set your plan in motion.

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(Y/N)                                          (Y/N) Hey, movie tn? My place.    Movie night 2nite? Sugu                                          Toru Sounds great. I’ll bring the movie.     Heading 2 the store!    You sigh in relief. They WERE going to make up today, whether they liked it or not. Your phone buzzes again. Sugu                                         Toru Hey… just us right?                    Me n you right (Y/N)?                        (Y/N)                          Yep! Just us!

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You prepared your dorm, fluffing out the pillows, grabbing your softest blankets. Hiding any sharp objects. The soft glow from the tv and your fairy lights set a cozy atmosphere. You only hoped that it would help soften the tension between them.

Knock Knock

Your ears perk up at the noise, you stood up, smoothing your clothes as if they could somehow help soothe the growing knot of anxiety in your stomach. As you opened the door you saw Suguru, leaned casually against the doorframe, his raven hair falling in soft waves around his face. His kind eyes tinged with nervousness.

“Hey Suguru!” Your voice warm as you greet him, stepping aside to let the taller boy in. He settled into his favorite spot, grabbing the blanket he’d left here one too many times. You settled next to him as he pulled out four DVDs showing you the selection.

“I haven’t seen any of these yet actually.” He says looking at you.

As you both discussed the movies, you heard another knock at the door. You quickly stood up, hoping Suguru wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. 

“Hmm? Shoko Coming?”

“Not… exactly.” You laugh nervously as your hand slowly reaches for the doorknob. As the door inches open you see Satoru, his white hair slightly damp from his (never-ever missed 8pm Shower). He greets you with a smile, striding into dorm. Immediate irritation flashed across his face when he made eye contact with Suguru.

Their eyes narrow at each other, then at you.

“What’s HE doing here?”

You place your hands on your hips; side-eyeing Satoru to sit down. He begrudgingly takes a seat next to the raven-haired teen, pouting.

“We are watching a movie. And you’re both staying.” Your normally soft voice, firm as you glare at the two older teens.

They both shoot each other glares before sighing. You had won… for now. You took your place, right in between them.

You tried your hardest to just watch the movie, but it was so boring. Usually Suguru picked out pretty decent movies, but this documentary was NOT a decent movie. You stole glances at your friends; if you weren’t so pissed off at them you would’ve been blushing at the prospect of being sat between two attractive guys. 

Their close proximity made your heart race. You could feel the heat radiating from their bodies, and every small movement seemed amplified in the quiet room. Your hand reached into the popcorn bucket. As the pair saw your hand go in they both reached in with you, hoping to touch you.

Both flinching as their hands brushed each other’s instead of yours. They shot each other a glare before turning their attention back to the TV. A minute passes before Satoru speaks.

“I could’ve picked a better movie with my eyes closed.” The white-haired teen mumbles, shoving popcorn into his mouth.

“Just watch the movie, Satoru.”  Suguru replied with an exasperated groan, though his eyes never left the screen.

“This shit is gonna bore me to death.”

“That isn’t such a bad idea—”

You sigh heavily, grabbing the remote to pause the movie. You stand up, looking down at the two sorcerers.

“Alright. What the hell’s going on with you two?” You demanded

They both looked away, avoiding eye contact. Satoru crossed his arms, pouting even more, while Suguru ran his hand through his hair, clearly frustrated.

You tap your foot, glaring down expectantly.

Suguru glanced at Satoru, their eyes meeting in a brief, intense exchange. Satoru’s nod was almost imperceptible, but Suguru seemed to take it as a cue. He drew a shaky breath, his voice barely above a whisper.

“(Y/N)...”

“We’ve been acting like this because, well..”

“We’re both...” Satoru continued.

“In love with you.” Suguru finished, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked, stunned by the confession. The room felt suffocating, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. You stared at them, trying to process their words. Your breath hitched, struggling to keep up with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. It felt like a storm was raging within the confines of the small room, each thunderous heartbeat echoing off the walls.

“You’re… what?” you finally managed to say, your voice trembling.

Satoru stood up, his piercing blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that left you breathless.  “We’re in love with you, (Y/N). Both of us.”

Suguru’s nod was slow, almost hesitant. 

 “And it’s tearing us apart.”

taglist: @4evahevah @angelofdarkness2 @iangeeluv

@isishsoskdjsk @yunho-leeknow @starriesworlds @hiblue123158 @n3ptoonie

[kinardsevan]

𝐢'𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤

listen. i'm still so convinced it's Tommy up on that crane in 807 that my brain keeps writing scenes 😂😂😂😂 so have this:

"Buck, you need to-"

He can't hear Bobby's words as he races up the ladder, panic rising faster and faster in his chest.

"Hey no no no no no!" He yells, throwing himself over the side. His hands grasp tight around Tommy's. "Stop stop stop! Please!" The words are coming out of him in sobs, but large hands grip around his wrists and a moment later, the older man tilts his head up and his eyes lock with Evan's.

"Ev-..." He cuts himself off, his voice wobbly and raspy from his current predicament.

"Just stop," Evan replies, snuffling as tears run down his face. "Stop moving, stop- just stop."

"Ok," Tommy replies, his voice weary as his fingers tighten around Evan's wrists that much more. The blonde glances up toward Chimney on the opposite crane. He's still working to get the harness unstuck, but apparently only having mild success with it.

"My legs are numb," Tommy states, blinking slowly. Chim looks up at them.

"Fuck this. I'm going to cut him down. The 217 can get the line fixed," Chimney states before heading back down the ladder in quick succession. "I need bolt cutters!"

"Evan," Tommy rasps. His hands are sweaty now, hanging onto the other man's arms.

"No," Evan replies, his voice tinged with anger now. "You have to hang on."

"You have to let go," Tommy counters to him, his voice exhausted. "Evan-" His grip slips on Evan's arm, and beneath them there's scrambling to get the inflatable placed properly. He glances over at the other crane as Chimney finishes reascending it.

"I can't," Evan replies, his own voice strained as he grips onto Tommy's arm with both hands now. "Fuck, Tommy, I can't."

"Why not," he asks wearily.

"Because!" Evan yells at him. Several tears fall off his face in quick succession, one landing on Tommy's own face as it continues its descent downward.

Somehow, even from beneath him, even with most of his blood volume hanging out in the lower half of his body with no way to make it circulate properly, Tommy manages to give him that look, the one that says he's really paying attention.

"Evan." He says it like it's Evan who needs to be talked off the ledge, like he's the one hanging in the middle of the air being held up by a crane.

"You don't get to give up now," Evan growls at him. "You already did that to me once this week."

"Are we really talking about this now," Tommy asks him. His fingers slip a few millimeters, but Evan curls his hand tight under Tommy's elbow, trying to pull him up.

"Seems as good a time as any," he replies. A humorless laugh slips out of him.

"I've almost got it," Chimney calls from the other crane.

Evan gulps. "It was too much, too fast," he states. "Asking you to move in. I s-said things that made it sound like I wasn't invested-.."

"It's fine," Tommy replies, sounding mildly exasperated.

"No its not," Evan argues, squeezing tighter on Tommy's arm. "it's not. Because it made me sound like I was asking you to move in because it's the easy option, like I wanted you to stay without any consideration of what your life looks like outside of what we are. Or were."

Tommy stares up at him, still blinking slow and long. Evan pulls his arm up inches higher, trying to take more of the weight off of his lower body.

"But it's not that," he says, sniffling again. "I lept before thinking, a-and made it into a thing that it wasn't and has never been." He sniffles again. "I didn't ask you to move in because I wanted to be impulsive. I said it because I want a life with you, a-and I was afraid to own that and what that means for me." He pauses and gulps, lets out a breath. "I was so pissed at you for breaking up with me, a-and you were doing the same thing I did. You were protecting yourself." Tommy stares up at him, eyebrows quirked slightly in confusion.

"I thought if I didn't say it, it was safer, that we-..." He shakes his head at himself as he feels the tension pulling Tommy back toward Chimney starting to wane as the bolt cutters work through the metal. "But I also want the whole damn thing with you. I'm not in it because it's easy, or because you were the first man to kiss me. I'm in it because I'm in love with you."

Tommy stares up at him still, giving him that damn look again, and the slack goes looser, his weight becoming even heavier on Evan's arms.

"I love you," he repeats. "I love you so damn much."

Tommy grants him a weary smile. "I love you too, Evan."

His weight falls entirely on Evan then, and both of their arms jerk out straight, Evan leaned roughly over the crane as he tries to keep holding on.

"Evan, let go," Tommy tells him.

"Please," Evan begs him, and he's not even entirely sure what it is he's begging for. "Tommy-.."

"I love you too," he repeats. "But you have to let go."

Evan gulps, forces a breath in, forces his tunnel vision to open up, and realizes the inflatable is ready and will catch Tommy. "I'll meet you at the bottom."

"Sounds good," Tommy rasps. And then, against everything that tells him he should, Evan lets go, watching as Tommy drops the 30 feet onto the inflatable crash pad. As soon as his body hits, Evan is already double-timing his way down the ladder. He makes it down in what he's sure is record time, running past everyone else to get to Tommy's side. Hen already has him on a stretcher, attached to a dozen leads and assessing his legs.

"Risk of compartment syndrome," she states. "Likely dislocation of the left hip. He needs x-rays and we need to go."

"I'm going with," Evan announces, refusing to hear reason to any other option. His hand is tight in Tommy's as soon as he's next to him, his other hand combing down the other man's hair as he stares down into those blue eyes. They're already brighter from his circulation picking back up. "I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Good lord just kiss the man already," Gerrard calls from the back of the crowd. Evan whips his head around and Tommy leans up off he gurney, both of them giving the old grump a shocked expression.

"What?" He asks. He has that grumpy look on his face once more, like he still thinks that their lifestyle is beneath him (at the very least). "We all know it's what you're thinking. I just said it."

Evan turns back toward Tommy, and the blue eyes meet.

"My boyfriend's sister once said there better ways to get someone's attention than this," Tommy says. Evan lets out a laugh, color flushing through his cheeks at the dignification of boyfriend. He curls two fingers under Tommy's chin and kisses him, both of them ignorant of the whooping and hollering happening around them.

"Like that," he whispers when they finally part, pressing his forehead into Tommy's. Tommy has a hand fisted around Evan's shirt, keeping him close.

"Yeah, that works," he whispers back. "I love you, too, Evan. I love you, too."

[slu7formen]

just imagine Luke taking care of his girl all the time because she decided to join him at Princess Andromeda.

slu7formen’s masterlist | luke castellan masterlist

warnings: possessive!luke

lil taglist 🫶🏻 @captainremmington-13 @saffronwritesstuff @elltheawkward @lixzey

The salty spray of the ocean stung your cheeks as you leaned against the railing of the Princess Andromeda. The once vibrant blue sky you used to wake up to everyday was just a memory now. The setting sun bled vibrant hues of orange and pink across the sky, a stark contrast to the dark ship that cut through the waves. Camp Half-Blood, with its comforting scent of pine trees and the familiar faces of your friends, felt like a distant dream, a memory from another life.

A pang of loneliness tugged at your heart. You missed the camaraderie of the fellow campers, the warmth of the Aphrodite cabin, the strawberry field you spent hours at, even the grumbled complaints of the Ares cabin during mealtimes. Now, it felt like a comforting echo of a simpler time. But here you were, on Luke's rebellion-fueled odyssey, a choice driven by a love that burned so bright it blinded you… well, almost blinded you.

A sigh escaped your lips, barely audible over the rhythmic groan of the ship's monstrous engine. The decision to leave camp, to follow Luke on this dark path, had been fueled by a love so fierce and strong that you were convinced you would never experience again. You knew the consequences, the darkness that clung to Luke's ambition. But seeing the pain simmering beneath his brooding exterior, you understood it all. He was a boy scorned, abandoned by the very gods he was sworn to serve.

Just then, a strong hand settled on your waist, pulling you back against a solid chest. You turned to see Luke, his face etched with a familiar intensity, his dark hair ruffled by the evening breeze. He looked different here, the playful boy you once fell in love with replaced by a brooding leader burdened by a new purpose. Yet, his eyes still held a spark of the warmth you knew, he only looked at you with.

He placed a kiss to your left cheek. "Lost in thought again, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice was a gentle murmur, a stark contrast to the harsh commands he often barked at his soldiers.

You forced a smile. "Just looking at the sunset" you replied, "Reminds me of the ones at camp."

A flicker of anger crossed Luke's face, quickly replaced by a strained smile. Camp Half-Blood, a constant reminder of the life you'd left behind, the life he wished you would forget, but knew you couldn´t. He hated that you missed it, hated himself for taking it away from you, hated that it represented a world he was determined to destroy now.

“The past is just that" he said, his voice low and clipped. "We're building a new future here."

You understood the resentment he felt, but a tiny voice inside you whispered doubts. Was this future worth all the darkness you saw in him? But, however, you remained silent, your love for him a shield against the growing unease.

Luke tightened his arm around you, pulling you even closer. You couldn’t help but lean back to his shoulder, finding comfort in his warmth.

Luke, unable to deny his possessiveness, traced his fingers along the exposed skin of your arm. He secretly wished you could forget about camp, about the simpler times, but you were the only flicker of light in his growing darkness. You hadn't joined his fight against the gods, you never will, and he couldn't blame you. He wouldn't force it on you. You were his escape, and he, in turn, was determined to protect his girl from the ugliness of his plans.

You both stood in silence for a while, the only sound the rhythmic groan of the ship and the crashing waves. Luke leaned his head down, his lips brushing the exposed skin of your shoulder, burning like fire against your skin as the sudden touch sent shivers down your spine. He started a slow descent, trailing kisses up your neck, his warm breath tickling you as his hands tightened around your hips. Each kiss was a whispered confession of his love and dependence on you.

"Thank you" he murmured against your ear, his voice husky with emotion.

You turned to face him, placing your arms around his neck, your eyes searching his. "What for?" you asked softly.

He met your gaze, a flicker of vulnerability flashing within his hardened eyes. "For staying" he whispered. "For choosing me even when you didn´t have to. I know this life isn´t yours, you don’t belong here"

You offered a gentle smile. "Maybe I don´t" you conceded, "but I belong with you, Luke. No matter where that may be."

His gaze softened, the tension momentarily melting away. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch a fleeting tenderness amidst the growing darkness clinging to him. "You don't deserve this" he said, his voice laced with a hint of guilt.

"I wouldn't be anywhere else" you countered, your voice filled with a quiet conviction. "I choose you, Luke. Every day."

Luke stared at your face, his sudden concern replaced by a possessive shine flickering in his dark eyes. He seemed to catch his breath, as if he got struck by a sudden realization. He lowered his head slightly, his gaze lingering on your lips. Then, with a slow, almost seductive movement, he pulled down on your bottom lip, a possessive intensity in his eyes. It left you wanting more immediately, a spark igniting in the pit of your stomach.

"You're mine, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice low and intense. It wasn't really a question, but a possessive statement.

Your heart was pounding frenetically inside your chest. The darkness that surrounded him, the whispers of doubt that had been growing within your insides, all faded away in the face of his love. For you, he was just Luke, the boy you'd fallen for at camp, a boy broken by the gods. Your boy.

"Always" you breathed back, voice soft like a whisper.

"Good" he breathed, the word a possessive sigh against your lips, and gave your whole body goosebumps. "Because not even the gods are gonna be able to take you away from me."

And then, as the last rays of the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and red, Luke pulled you into a desperate kiss. So good to him, that it felt like his first kiss in a thousand years. It was a kiss that spoke of possession, of a love that burned bright even in the dark night. It was a kiss that sealed your fate, binding you together on a path that stretched towards an uncertain future.

You had your doubts, your fears, your nightmares, but you trusted him. You trusted in his love, in his determination, in his care; you had nothing to worry about as long as you were by his side.

to the ones on my taglist and other readers, thank you so much for supporting my writing 🥹

[cruel-seduction]

Deal breaker? 

Pairing - Peter Parker x reader 

Glimpse - “Because the only thing that matters to me is you.” His voice was steady, every word deliberate and full of conviction. “I don’t care if we have kids, if we get a goldfish, or if we just grow old together surrounded by a hundred cats. All I care about is you, spending my life with you. That’s it. That’s the deal, okay? And guess what?”

You tilted your head, your heart swelling as his hand shifted from your cheek to cradle the side of your neck, his thumb brushing softly along your jaw. “This deal? It’s never breaking. Ever.”

Genre - Fluff, hurt/comfort, and angst. 

Summary - Peter Parker has always had his own unique ways of bringing comfort—an unpredictable mix of sincerity, awkward humor, and boundless love. When a difficult conversation arises, he does what he does best: turns a moment of doubt into one filled with warmth, laughter, and quiet reassurance.

Content warning - Talking about children, Reader not wanting children, Peter being the cutest dork ever known. I guess that’s it. 

The sun was beginning its descent, casting a warm, golden hue over the sky, yet a soft chill began to settle in the air, hinting at the coming evening. It was the kind of weather that carried comfort in its breeze, the kind that invited you to curl up, warm and safe. Perfect weather, the kind you longed for—perfect for snuggling on the couch with Peter, your head resting on his chest while a horror movie played softly in the background. The type of night where you’d drift off to sleep halfway through, wrapped in the comfort of his presence. Yes, this was supposed to be the perfect weather for that—the kind of evening where everything felt just right.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the air felt heavier, thicker with tension. The familiar warmth you once shared with Peter felt distant, as distant as the gap that had grown between you over the past few months. Instead of the usual laughter, the usual easy silence that you could fill with simple words or shared glances, there was only the harsh, bitter sting of words that you both threw at each other in frustration.

You had been arguing for what felt like an hour, though it could have been longer. And in that moment, it didn’t matter. The time didn’t matter; it was the silence in between the words that did. Oh, sure, you’d both raised your voices—but not in the way arguments were supposed to go. No, you had been the only one shouting, the only one letting the anger and confusion spill out like a dam that had been holding back too much for too long. Peter hadn’t raised his voice in retaliation; he’d just stayed quiet. Almost too quiet.

It was a silly argument. Something so trivial that, in another time, you’d both laugh about it and shake your heads, wondering how such a small thing could have escalated to this point. But it wasn’t about the argument anymore, not really. It was about everything else—the months of silence, the coldness, the distance that had grown between you two like a slow-moving fog you hadn’t noticed until it was too thick to see through.

You couldn’t bring yourself to admit it to Peter. To say what was really bothering you. You were dragging this argument out, clinging to it like a lifeline, hoping that the tension would force the conversation you knew had to come. The one you had been avoiding for so long—the talk that had the potential to either fix everything or break it all apart.

But you weren’t ready for that talk. Not yet. Not tonight.

You had made a choice, however selfish it may have been. You chose to extend this fight, this silly argument, because it felt safer than facing the truth. It was wrong, you knew it was, but how could you not be selfish when it came to Peter? How could you not be when he meant so much to you? How could you let everything go—let him go—if you were to say what you truly felt? The things you were too afraid to admit. The things that made your heart ache just thinking about them. The things that might push him away.

You loved him. You loved him in a way that was overwhelming, in a way that terrified you. You needed him, as much as you hated to admit it. He was a part of you now, and the idea of losing him, of seeing him walk away because of the confession you had been holding back for so long, was a fear too vast to even acknowledge.

But you were also terrified that staying silent, letting this cold distance between you grow, might push him away all the same. The thought gnawed at you, as sharp and cruel as the wind outside. If you spoke the words, confessed what had been eating away at you, would he still stay? Or would it be the final thing that broke you? Would he leave?

You wanted to believe that confessing, being honest with him, would bring you closer. That it would clear the air, push the shadows away. But the fear of losing him, of being too much for him to bear, clouded your judgment. You wondered, deep down, if the only way to keep him was to remain in this limbo—pretend that everything was fine, even when it wasn’t.

And so, you let the argument drag on, hoping for something, anything, that would force the words out of your mouth before it was too late. Because deep down, you knew this silence, this distance, would only tear you apart more slowly than any argument ever could. And still, you couldn’t bring yourself to face the truth.

Peter ran a hand through his messy hair, a telltale sign of his growing frustration. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. You’ve been distant for weeks—no, months—and don’t even try to deny it. You barely talk to me, you avoid me like I’m some stranger in my own apartment, and—God, it’s like you’re trying to shut me out completely. Don’t you see that?”

You sighed heavily, a shaky breath that betrayed the calm you were trying to project. “Peter, you’re imagining things. I’m just tired, okay? That’s all it is. Work’s been stressful. Life’s been stressful. It’s not about you.”

“Not about me?” His voice rose, and he took a step closer, the desperation in his tone slicing through you. “I don’t care if it’s about me! I care that it’s about you! Something’s wrong, and you’re hurting, and you won’t let me help you! Why do you keep pretending everything’s fine when it’s not?”

Your chest tightened, your arms instinctively crossing in front of you as a weak shield. “I’m not pretending! Peter, you’re making this a bigger deal than it is—”

“No, I’m not!” he interrupted, his voice cracking slightly. He exhaled sharply, trying to reign in his emotions. “I know you, okay? I know when you’re shutting me out. You don’t have to tell me that you’re fine, because I can see that you’re not.”

You opened your mouth to argue again, to deny the truth that was clawing at your insides, but no sound came out. Instead, you swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as your vision blurred. Tears. Of course, there were tears.

Peter’s expression softened when he saw them, and his tone dropped to a pleading whisper. “Baby… please. Just tell me what’s going on. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Together. But you have to let me in.”

He reached out, his warm hand cupping your cheek as his thumb brushed against your skin. The gentle touch made the dam inside you crack even more, your resolve crumbling like ash in the wind.

“I can’t,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips.

“Yes, you can,” Peter said, leaning closer. His voice was soft, but there was a firmness behind it, an unyielding determination to break through the barrier you’d put up. “You can tell me anything. Whatever it is, I’m not going anywhere. You know that.”

The tenderness in his voice, the way his hand stayed so steady against your face—it was too much. You couldn’t hold it in any longer. The pressure that had been building for weeks finally exploded.

“Why do you want a kid, Peter?!” you burst out, the words ripping from your throat. Your voice was raw, trembling with the weight of all the fear and frustration you’d been bottling up. “Why?!”

The question hung in the air like a thunderclap, and you immediately regretted the way it came out, the way your voice cracked under the strain of emotions. Peter blinked, stunned by your outburst, but his hand never left your cheek.

“What are you talking about?” he asked softly, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“You keep bringing it up,” you continued, your voice shaking as tears streaked down your face. “All these little comments, these hints, and I know you’re trying to be subtle about it, but I hear you, Peter. I hear you every time you say something about how great it would be to have a family someday, or how much you want to be a dad. For fucks sake you searched baby’s name in your computer. And I—” Your voice broke, and you shook your head, overwhelmed. “I can’t give you that”

Peter’s eyes softened as he held your gaze, his confusion evident, but his patience unwavering. His thumbs brushed lightly across your tear-streaked cheeks, a silent encouragement for you to speak. His voice was steady, but the faint crack in it betrayed his worry.

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say, dove,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. His touch was firm yet tender, grounding you even as your heart thundered in your chest.

You took a deep breath, the kind that filled your lungs with an ache that mirrored the knot in your stomach. This was it. You couldn’t avoid it any longer. The words you’d been holding back for weeks sat heavy on your tongue, desperate to be set free, yet terrifying in their weight.

Finally, you found the courage to start. Your voice came out slow, measured, as if each word was a fragile thing that needed to be handled with care. “Peter… I don’t want a kid. I don’t see myself having one anytime soon. Maybe not ever.”

The first sentence hung in the air between you, and you watched his expression shift, the crease in his brow deepening as the meaning began to settle. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The dam had burst, and everything you’d been keeping locked away poured out like a flood.

“I don’t see myself going through that pain,” you continued, your voice trembling but steady enough to push through. “It hurts, Peter. It hurts a lot. And I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of pain. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for it.”

You paused, inhaling sharply before your words gained momentum. “You’re Spider-Man. You’re out there every night, putting your life on the line, and you know what that means for me. How much I have to sacrifice just to keep myself together when you’re gone. How could I possibly add a child to that? How could I carry that weight on top of everything else?”

Peter’s hands remained steady on your face, but his silence was deafening. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to respond, but he held back, giving you the space to say everything you needed.

“I just want to focus on us right now,” you said, your voice firming as your emotions spilled into clarity. “On me and on you. If you still want to be with me.”

Your voice cracked slightly, but you pressed on, your words tumbling out faster now, no longer held back by hesitation. “A child is a lot, Peter. They cry. They need you constantly. They scream for no reason. They poop, and Jesus—” you let out a bitter laugh, the absurdity of it clawing at your throat, “—you have to clean their shit. All of it. I can’t do that, Peter. I can’t. I won’t. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to handle that. The idea of it just…” You shuddered, exhaling the thought like it was poison. “It terrifies me.”

Your words slowed, the rawness of your confession leaving you drained but lighter. For the first time in weeks, the weight of your fears wasn’t solely your own. By the time you finished, the frantic pounding of your heart had softened, replaced by a strange sense of calm.

Peter stayed quiet, his gaze locked on yours, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between you, the air thick with unspoken thoughts, until you finally spoke again, this time in a whisper.

“So…” you paused, your voice barely audible, trembling under the weight of your own vulnerability. “Is that a dealbreaker for you?”

For a moment, Peter just stared at you, his lips slightly parted as if he hadn’t even registered the question. Then he blinked, his face morphing into pure confusion. “A deal breaker?” he repeated, his voice pitching up like you’d just told him the moon was made of cheese. “What—what are you even talking about? Deal breaker? Are you kidding me right now?”

His reaction startled you, and your hands fidgeted nervously in your lap. You couldn’t meet his gaze, but Peter wasn’t having that. He leaned closer, trying to catch your eye. “First of all,” he began, voice slightly exasperated but tinged with something softer, “this is not a deal. What deal? Did I sign something and forget about it? Was there a secret contract? Because if there was, I want to renegotiate the terms. Immediately.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by his sudden humor. Peter didn’t stop there. “Secondly,” he said, sitting up straighter, “you’re seriously asking me if not wanting a baby is a deal breaker? Babe, if I made that my hill to die on, I’d be the biggest idiot in the history of relationships. And trust me, there have been some huge idiots in history. Like, I’m talking cavemen-licking-fire-level idiots.”

You tried to stifle a laugh, but the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. Peter grinned, seeing the crack in your armour. He was relentless now.

“Let’s talk about the real disadvantages of kids, shall we? First of all, do you have any idea how expensive diapers are? It’s like they’re spun out of pure gold dust or something. And don’t get me started on baby food. Have you seen that stuff? It looks like... prison gruel.”

That did it. A laugh bubbled out of you, small but genuine, and Peter’s grin widened in triumph. He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And babies? They’re like tiny drunks. They scream, they cry, they throw up on you—and they wake you up at three in the morning because they’ve forgotten how to sleep. I mean, really, how do you forget how to sleep?”

You laughed again, louder this time, the sound shaking loose some of the tension in your chest. Tears still pricked at your eyes, but now they were mixed with the warmth of Peter’s words, his ridiculous lamest jokes. “That doesn’t even make sense baby” You chuckled. 

Peter softened at the sight of you, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. His thumb brushed against your skin, wiping away a stray tear. “Hey,” he said quietly, his tone shifting to something tender. “All that stuff? It doesn’t matter. None of it does. You know why?”

You shook your head slightly, your gaze finally meeting his.

“Because the only thing that matters to me is you.” His voice was steady, every word deliberate and full of conviction. “I don’t care if we have kids, if we get a goldfish, or if we just grow old together surrounded by a hundred cats. All I care about is you, spending my life with you. That’s it. That’s the deal, okay? And guess what?”

You tilted your head, your heart swelling as his hand shifted from your cheek to cradle the side of your neck, his thumb brushing softly along your jaw. “This deal? It’s never breaking. Ever.”

Before you could respond, Peter leaned in, closing the small space between you. His lips met yours in the gentlest, sweetest kiss you’d ever shared. It wasn’t rushed or demanding—it was steady, deliberate, full of emotion. His other hand found its way to your waist, anchoring you to him as if you might disappear.

You felt the warmth of his palm on your neck, the slight press of his fingertips, grounding you in the moment. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, his lips moving against yours with a softness that made your chest ache in the best way.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and mingling with your own. “You’re it for me, okay?” he murmured, his voice soft but firm. “Baby or no baby. You’re my future. Nothing else matters.”

You smiled at him, the last remnants of doubt melting away under the weight of his love. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice shaky but steadying with every breath.

Peter pulled you into another kiss, this one shorter but just as tender, before grinning against your lips. “Now, about those hundred cats…”

You laughed, playfully shoving his chest, but your heart felt light again. Peter Parker, your ridiculous, amazing, nerdy Peter, had managed to remind you once again why you loved him so much.

[ornii]

Arcane, Chapter 4: Things have changed, you? No..

The endless darkness had been inviting for so long, but finally there is a chance to return.

Sitting on a floating island upon the endless cosmos, (Y/n) was still alive, years had passed, he had grown. Mastering the crystal that exploded and had infused his body with this unstable power.

Standing at the edge of the island, covered in rags and robes, he extended his metal arm, sigils etched into the rusted metal hummed blue energy and began to shake, evoking what power his body had, the fabric of the world itself began to warp at a disturbing rate. It was trying to tear itself back to the real world, but no avail. The blue light fizzled and he slumped down exhausted, he punched the ground out of more frustration itself, and escape so far away, until the darkness begin to crackle with blue electricity, a large amount of energy was being used, somewhere. It didn’t matter, it was time.

(Y/n) stood up and put his hand in the air, he begins to use said energy, opening his arm up like a lighting rod, as the electricity stuck his arm, his eyes begin to shift to a soaring bright blue, power surged further and further until his arm was shaking, barely containing the energy like a bottle about to burst, with one movement, he then threw his hand forward, the force made a shockwave of energy so intense it made a small but visible tear, into a laboratory. it didn’t matter where, just not here.. (Y/n) leapt into it without hesitation, his body felt the rush of light, pressure and heat, and swiftly landed on the ground of a cool laboratory.

Placing his feet on the cold floor (Y/n) looked around, his eyes dimly lit by the light, he saw two men, stunned by his arrival, it’s obvious he’s still in Piltover. If he’s back, then he only has one goal, find powder and Vi, turning to the large glass window he extended his arm and the energy began to gather once more, with a single snap of his finger, he blasted another shockwave of blue energy hits the glass and shattered it, he leapt out of the window, regardless of how far the fall is, and it was far, as he fell he slammed his hand into the wall and began to slow his descent scarring the tower he slowed down and leapt into the waters, taking him away to hide in piltover.

Gasping for air, he washes up near the sewer pipe leading down to piltover, before he can be swept up he gripped the platform above and pulled himself up next to the pipe, and rested, seeing the blue sky, vibrant colors, finally. Leaning against the pipe, he fell asleep for hours. His eyes open to the smell of smoke, something was burning, his eyes dart upwards to the smoke rising further in Piltover. He rushed to the location, flames consume a tent, blazing. His eyes quickly shifted to the drawing made of the fire into the tent, it was a monkey, just like.. Powders.

“Is… is that?” He stepped closer, deep rooted memories began to replay, fear, anger and frustration all began to flow once more, but the coughing of a woman caught him off guard. He peered in and saw her, on the ground, flames around her. With little hesitation he ran in, he saw a wooden beam had fallen upon her chest, He gripped the beam with his arm and hurled it off and put the woman on his shoulders and ran with her out of the fire. Lying her on the ground he looked her up and down, besides the smoke and slight burns, she’ll be fine. She was dressed as an officer, Footsteps storm near his direction and he can assume the others are here. (Y/n) ran off, leaving the woman to be tended by the officers.

That woman, was Caitlyn, Lady of House Kiramman. The next morning came and She was knelling down. looking at a board of plans, all sticking together to a singular goal -a goal she just hasn’t been able to piece together, twirling a pistol she overlooks them, and hears a shuffling behind her.

“I said leave me, Jayce.” She sounded upset, and when the figure didn’t reply, she quickly turned around and aimed her gun, it was (Y/n), reading the note from the large bouquet of flowers. “To Lady Kiramman.” He said, and turned his hooded face to her.

“Who are you? How did you get it?” She demanded to know, (Y/n) calmly turned to face her, “Your windows, and could you please put you gun down? If I wanted you dead I would have let you die in that tent.” He said, and Cait was caught off guard.

“It was.. you.” She huffed, (Y/n) nodded. “Yes, you were investigating it, I want to help.”

“And why should I believe that?”

“Saving your life wasn’t enough?” He replied, and sighed, “The man you’re looking for is part of Silco’s gang. Probably using the explosives someone I know…” he said, and it began to piece together.

“I've suspected there is a single mind

behind the undercity's violence…I think whoever attacked the square

is our suspect.” Cait lowered her gun and showed him the display she had, all plans link together.

“The same symbols showed up at the botched smuggling operation at the Hexgates.”

“The Hexgates?” He had no idea what that was.

“Keep up.” She points to the maps dark end.

“All this time, they've kept their dealings

localized to the undercity. Low priority. The attack on the square changes things. They've overstepped. If I can figure who made the explosives, it could lead me directly to whoever's behind it all. The answer is here, staring me in the face.” Cat droned on, and (Y/n) smugly folds his arms.

“I guess that would be me..” (Y/n) walked over, and knelt down to look at the map. “It’s been a while since I was there, but I can remember a few faces.. especially ones that work with Silco, if what you’re saying is true.. we find the guy, and.. “chat” with him.

(Y/n) made the offer and extended his metal arm. “(Y/n)” he said, Cait reluctantly shook the cool metal hand.

“..Caitlyn, and fine, but you are going dressed like that, and you reek.”

“I haven’t taken a decent shower in years..” he said, Cait folds her arms as well. “Then you’re going to, and get a new assortment of clothes, my father could spare some, you look to fit the size. Cait took his hood off and she got a good look at his face, half of it had a scar along from the eyebrow down to his lip. His eye now glistening like a crystal is behind it. Cait was quickly surprised and stepped back. “I’m sorry I didn’t—“

“Don’t worry about it, where your shower or whatever.” He put his hood back on, Cait lead him to it, without her parents knowing of course.

Now dressed in a more casually style, ankle high boots, thick leather leggings and a button up navy blue shirt and vest combo, he tops it off with a black tie and overcoat, taking a single glove he puts it on his metal arm to avoid suspicion. Cait peers into the room.

“Done? We have to go..” she saw him in the moonlight, the way his eyes shine so beautifully, he nods, “yeah.. let’s go.”

Standing before the warden, (Y/n) kept his hood on and allowed Cait to speak.

“I need to speak with one of the inmates.” She said, the Warden at the desk looked them up and down, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, folks in here aren't usually very talkative…” he said, scribbling on his paper

“This one was hit by friendly fire. He's got reason to talk. Must have been sent in today?” She asked and he thought.

“Oh. Inmate 2135. Yeah, I'm, uh, afraid that's not possible.” He admits, (Y/n)’ jerked his head up to the Warden.

“Why not?” (Y/n) asked, the Warden looks at his papers, and taps on one.

“Uh, well, there's been...an incident.” He said, Cait and (Y/n) glance at each other and then back to him.

“What kind of incident?” Caitlyn asks.

“The...not so pretty kind.”

“You don't understand, we have to talk to him.” Caitlyn attempts to use some form of reason with the warden, whose hands were tied.

“Oh, you'll be able to. As soon as he can move his jaw again.” He replied, and (Y/n) thought, “this guy… he just got to the prison, couldn’t have made any enemies, so who did it must have known…” (Y/n) grasped what his brain was trying to relay.. whoever attacked the man must have known who he already was.. one of Silco’s men.”

“Who assaulted him?” (Y/n) asked. And the Warden could oblige with that.

The Duo entered the cell block and calmly but carefully walked down the hall to the Cell of the assailant. Loud thuds echo down the hall, sounds like someone’s taking their frustrations out on someone, or something. The pounding grew closer and closer, until the final cell door it was beating with force. (Y/n) and Caitlyn reached the cell block, and the pink hair in the dim room said enough to who it is. (Y/n)’s eyes couldn’t believe it and leaned forward his face reaching the cell bars. Vi turned around, and looked at them both.

“…Who the hell are you?”

[venomvalley]

SKIN SCRATCHES AND HORN BALM

wyll ravengard x gn!tav ✧ 5.4k words

summary: Wyll has a difficult time adjusting to his new form. You make it your mission to help him.

tags: immense amounts of fluff, wyll has severe body image issues, two nerds fall in love, undescriptive tav, a hint of body worship (listen the horns are sensitive)

notes: very very proud of this one so lets pretend it was posted for wyllvember!! also there are a lot of lore headcanons here

→ read on ao3

Wyll copes surprisingly well with his transformation. Until he doesn’t.

He’s the stalwart type, a do-gooder, swallows down conflict and coughs up martyrdom. Owns a cleaner soul than all the rest of your ragtag, dysfunctional group combined. Deserves so much more than what this world has thrown at him, than the shackles Mizora holds the key to.

He’s selfless and kind and it’s difficult to watch him adjust.

The slow descent begins when he wakes that next morning, having pierced his pillow sometime during the night. He’s a good sport about it. Shares a laugh with Karlach, says something about sleeping on the ground from now on, pleads with Astarion to sew up the hole for him.

But you see it. The drained light from his good eye, the sag of his shoulders as he picks through his coin purse to uphold his end of the deal.

When he thinks nobody is looking, he observes himself. The wretched thickness of claws where fingernails once grew; the sharp, jutting edges of high cheekbones; the weight of those horns, an ever-reminder of what his gallant sacrifice so kindly gifted him in return: mockery.

On the surface, between epidermis and soul itself, not much has changed. He’s still him, but lesser now. More prone to wayward thought, to silence than before. Such is the bane of resolve, of unfair consequence, you suppose.

From your place by the fire, you watch him at his tent, engrossed in some dusty adventure novel he found in the last dilapidated ruin. The night’s gone on long enough, yet your companions fail to sleep. Thoughts plague each of you, unique in their manifestations, but you feel them. Every sharp strike of fear, the simmer of anger, the cool wash of dread.

The tadpole squirms inside your head, and the sticky spill of alcohol coats your lap as your hands shoot to both throbbing temples. Its presence always consumes you, the midnight loom of death. Inevitability.

Perched nearby on the log, Karlach calls out, an outsider’s worry licking up the back of your skull. “Alright, soldier?”

A few moments of eye-gouging pain before relief finds you with a weary huff. “Nothing more than a headache,” you say, sitting your emptied tankard on the packed dirt at your feet.

“No, I get it.” Her gaze shifts to the sopping wet state of your robe, head tilting in pity. “Waste of a good pint, though.”

You like Karlach. She’s strong and skilled, could light up a pitch-dark room with her commentary. And she cares, in a way none of your other companions do. Without all the flimsy strings attached. Craves connection in a way that none of you can fathom: the physicality of existence itself.

You glance at Wyll once again to find his fingers tracing the base of a horn, almost subconscious in their slow trek over the jagged skin as his eyes focus on the page. The temptation to delve into his mind, his thoughts in particular, proves tantalizing. You could do it. Finding your shared connection is easy as breathing, as the beat of your heart, as tugging loose a knot, but you don’t.

Instead, you stand, legs tacky from the drying ale.

He looks upon you at your approach, greets you with a stretch of pretty lips then a flash of worry in the furrow of his brow. Knows your mind-state better than you do. Privacy is nonexistent and boundaries mean nothing when you’ve effectively synced brains, and when you think about it, you’ve lived six different lifetimes. Comforting in its own way. No hiding like this, understanding at its most potent. The telepathic intimacy is nice, given the otherwise hopelessness of the situation. But it’s something you struggle to normalize.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, voice a soothing lull to the noise rooting around inside your brain matter.

“I just wanted to check on you, considering…” you motion with your hands to the world around you, unable to find the best phrasing.

He offers a once-chuckle in response then sets his book aside. “I understand.” A hand rises, possibly to motion for you to settle beside him, before he catches the darkened fabric of your—

“I’m an absolute mess right now,” said before he can open his mouth to comment.

“As we all are.” He breezes past the subject of your appearance—no doubt you took some souvenirs of the forest in your hair, and the kohl around your eyes has long-since smudged, and Gale commented far earlier about the state of your robes—

Your thoughts must echo too loud, because a sharp ring cuts through your head and his face twists up as he shares in your sheepishness.

“Don’t worry. I’m no judger of appearances, especially as of late.”

He’s charming in a way that would make some younger, more idealistic version of you swoon. A sickly-sweet feeling that coats your ribs in thick honey, and he looks at you as if to look inside you, through you. A mourning type of sadness, a touch of grief.

“I meant what I said a few nights ago. Although, you’re more handsome than devil to me.”

He laughs. “And as I said a few nights ago, I’ll pretend you aren’t fooling me.”

Yesterday morning, while on the road to Waukeen’s Rest, utterly bathed in goblin blood, Astarion asked you a simple question (which companion’s blood would you rather taste?) then found your answer amusing (Wyll? I always thought he’d taste too sweet). Now, looking at the man-turned-devil, at the crinkle of his eyes and display of pretty teeth, you’re inclined to agree.

You crave him, in the way that Lae’zel craves blood upon her sword, or Astarion craves a living pulse, or the druids crave the expanse of the wild. It’s a carnal longing that you’re sure the tadpole must facilitate. No better explanation for it.

“How are they?” you ask, settling in beside him.

“More sensitive than I imagined. Quite itchy.” His hand follows the curve of a horn, claws twitching.

“I wouldn’t mind helping, if you need.” You blink. “To scratch them, I mean.”

He searches your face for any sign of a jest and, upon finding a calm sincerity, he looks away. Picks up his book with a slow smile. “I’ll consider it.”

Your camp lay quiet the following morning, the grasses of the surrounding woods still wet with dew, the sun not yet bright enough to rouse those shielded by tent fabric.

Karlach joins you, restless and excited, the skin-deep burn of her beating heart lighting the way forward.

“Think we can make it back before the others wake up?” she asks, peering down at you as an arm lifts away a mess of vines.

You pass easily through the brush, spotting the dirt path that continues on toward the grove.

“If they have what we’re looking for,” you say. “By the way, what are we looking for?”

“We have the rogue’s morsel. Just need poison ivy berries. I’d say Nettie’s our best bet.”

“Poison ivy? Seems a bit counter-productive.”

“Good thing we won’t be rolling in it.”

A favor for a favor, she had said. Overheard your conversation with Wyll and offered a solution based on her own horned experience.

“Did yours itch like that?”

She takes a moment to give a hearty laugh. “I drove my mum crazy when they started growing. We’re born with tiny little nubs that grow with us, so you eventually get used to it.”

She glows as she speaks of her family, shimmers beneath the orange rays of sunrise, and you listen, enraptured, as she recalls her time as a young tiefling. The growth spurts and the teething and the unyielding love of her parents.

By the time she asks the inevitable, the sun has risen in the sky and the surroundings spark familiarity. A cut of the landscape here, an oddly-shaped rock there. Close to your destination.

“So, what’s your deal with him anyway?”

“Who?”

“Wyll.”

You stumble over a broken-off branch at the mention of his name, and Karlach moves to catch you—such burning heat—before recoiling back. Your face twists in a show of empathy as foreign frustration gnaws between the cage of your ribs.

She huffs. “Don’t give me that look. You’re trying to change the subject.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. He’s just,” you gesture wildly, magic sparking from your fingertips. She takes a step away from you, “nice.”

“Just nice? Oh, you have it bad, soldier.”

The breath empties from your lungs in a long, heaving sigh. “I know.”

Nettie is quick to gift you what you need, nice enough to crush the ingredients into a smooth balm. No coin needed. Something about being grateful that your group saved the grove from impending goblin invasion.

Look at what being nice gives you in return. Astarion would be fuming.

“We made a bunch’a these for the little ones running about.” She scoops the ointment into a jar then seals the top with a stretch of hide and a piece of twine. “Should take care of all your itchy-horn needs. Just keep it somewhere dark. The berries will spoil otherwise.”

The trip back passes quickly, and soon Karlach is waving you over to Wyll’s tent, jar held tight between your hands.

You feel much like a child, front tooth missing, knobby-kneed and veiled to the horrors of the world. Wrought with butterflies by a flourishing crush. Doubly so when you spot him knelt by his bedroll, struggling to finesse his shirt over his horns. It’s adorable yet so utterly, horrifically sad. The latter wins out by a large margin.

“Fancy some help?” you ask, mouth twitching into a frown when his body tenses.

Helplessness and Wyll stand on opposite sides of one very large spectrum. But that’s it, isn’t it? Part of Mizora’s punishment? The valiant hero, left to roll in the dirt due to his golden, crumbling heart. Becoming the very thing he fought against.

How much can he take from himself to better those around him? How much more can he lose, can he give sans recompense?

“Never, in my wildest dreams, could I have imagined that putting on a shirt be this damned difficult.” He turns toward you in silent resignation, and humiliation rolls off him in assaulting waves.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone needs help sometimes.” The issue is his arm, specifically the clump of sharpened bone-teeth protruding from his elbow that catch the fabric. His other arm twists up, unable to reach. “Straighten this arm for me.”

With a big of finagling, the shirt gives just enough for you to tug it down over his head.

At the reveal of his face, you breathe out a heavy sigh. “You might need to invest in larger sleeves from now on.” You meet eyes as your fingers smooth down the collar. “A wider neck, perhaps.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “You may be right.” Upon glancing down, he spots the jar sat atop his bedroll, head tilting. “What’s this?”

You pick it up and begin to unwind the twine. “It’s horn balm. Supposed to help with the itching.”

There it is. That smile blooming warmth across his face, and that warmth settles like a fresh cup of tea in your chest. “Where did you…”

“Nettie was kind enough to make some.”

He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have—“

“Just try it.”

He’s slow, hesitant to reach for the jar you offer, claws curling inward as they near your palm. Careful to avoid grazing the skin.

The first pass of ointment around the base of a horn leaves his skin shiny, rips a relieved sigh from his throat.

“How does it feel?”

He hums. “It’s numbing, both hot and cold. A wonderful relief nonetheless.”

“You have Karlach to thank. I just carried the jar.”

He looks up at you, good eye blood-red and piercing. Softened at your sheepishness. “Well, I’d rather thank both of you. So,” a simple nod, “thank you.”

A simple nod unravels you at the seams, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. He feels it.

Godsdamn it, you do have it bad.

But things get worse, as things are wont to do.

As a child, you possessed quite odd thoughts: hypotheticals, what-ifs, fantastical daydreams of the innocent variety. While amongst the crowds in town, you wondered—feared—sometimes if those around you could hear your inner monologue.

There was a boy a year your senior, pretty with his freckles and expressively pointed ears who utterly enamored you. But you let your fear consume your mind (don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it), and the boy thought you aloof, uncaring. You couldn’t listen when he talked, failed to play like the other children. Eventually, he stopped talking to you altogether.

History tends to repeat itself. Except the fear now manifests into the realm of rationality.

With mortality looming, a taunt in every wriggle amongst the folds of your brain, you can’t afford attachment. This won’t end well, but Wyll’s presence lingers. Your tadpoles find companionship in each other. He is the boy and you are ten years old again, and in your effort to appear normal, you make one great, big fool of yourself.

Such as tonight. Gale falls ill with chest pain (you suspect the increasingly-erratic orb, but he waves off your worry with a weakened hand and a jest) and a newly-joined Halsin tends to him, which leaves the rest of your group scrambling to find a cook for tonight’s dinner.

Sticks are drawn and, during an unfortunate bout of unluck, you choose the shortest one.

Wyll tends to hover when food is about. He requires no sustenance, but his human body still craves the experience of eating: the smell of garlic, the chopping of vegetables, the bubble of broth.

He sits just over your shoulder as you prepare ingredients for soup, and you lock your mind behind a wrought-iron cage to keep away all the prying fingers sat in wait.

Blue skies. Dead goblins. Boars. The river looked beautiful yesterday—a nice time to swim.

He leans forward to smell the cooking meat, eyes closed, and the leash on your thoughts pulls taut.

Red. Such a beautiful color. The smell of jasmine and iron and ozone is quickly becoming your favorite. Just a little further, and he’ll be—

Your cut of a particularly stout carrot grows sharper, more heavy on the knife’s downswing.

Stupid tadpole. Stupid pretty warlocks. Stupid cultists. Stupid—

Pain lances through your hand and you recoil back, dropping the knife with a dull clatter onto the cutting board. Blood pools in your cupped, uninjured palm, fingers numbing.

Your humiliation sings to the farthest reaches of camp, and you refuse to look up. You crave to outrun it, into the forest where your thoughts are your own and though you experience no peace nowadays, the chittering of the woods drowns out the hum of the tadpole.

The creek muddies red as you rinse away the blood, well on your way to self-pity. Perhaps… hm. Perhaps you haven’t been coping as well as you assumed. At its core, the issue isn’t your child-like crush on Wyll at all. It’s everything. Your mind is not your own. Your body is soon to forsake you as well. Your enemies sit in wait, and those who align themselves to you worship the very cause of this mess. A mysterious visitor haunts your dreams, neither friend nor foe.

Your fingers ache, and the blood slows.

A short while after, the crunch of footsteps echo throughout the area, almost purposeful in their heaviness. You feel him before he pushes past the tree line, a striking shiver that licks up your spine.

“I know you need time alone, and I’ll give you that, but I just,” he stops himself with a sighing breath, kneeling beside you on the muddy bank. “I’m worried about the state of your hand. That knife was quite sharp.”

You lift it from the water, fingers half-curled to keep the wounds calm. On fore and middle finger, a deep gash just below each fingernail. Deep enough to reveal the white of bone.

He makes a noise deep in his throat then outstretches a hand, palm up in invitation.

Against your better judgement, you accept and oh, gods, he tends to you so delicately, cradling your injured fingers, skin warm as the Hells. Like a stream of midday sunlight, or a thick blanket, or a loving hug. Despite horns and claws and ridges and all (despite nothing—he need not change for anyone, specifically you), his touch feels a little like home.

Don’t cry.

“I’m no Shadowheart, but I have an extensive knowledge of first aid.” With a grin, he tilts his head to showcase the long scars bisecting his cheek before centering his attention on your injury. “I believe I also owe you for the horn balm.”

“We didn’t do it so you could owe us, Wyll.”

In a moment his face falls, and he stays silent, deigns to focus on the cloth that he weaves around each finger.

“I’m serious,” you say. “There are still people in the world who do nice things for the ones they care about. To make their lives a little easier.”

“I think you deserve a bit of care every once in a while.”

He’s deflecting, you know this, but you’ll allow it this time. Allow him to aim some of that characteristic kindness your way.

But that doesn’t mean you have to be happy about it.

“Well, you should prepare for reciprocation.” Your lips spread into a smile. “Karlach has a very big heart.”

He laughs, and the sun burns brighter.

You realize only when he’s finished that your fingers feel no pain, and something intimate—more intimate than mind-reading or shared emotion—thrums between you. It tastes of ozone in your mouth. Of peace and bonding and hope: a future that lingers just beyond the horizon.

He squeezes your hand, ever-gentle, careful with his claws, and a piece of you crumbles. That burgeoning stubbornness you’ve tried so hard to cling to, ever since you were ten years old, slowly being chiseled away. “This should suffice until Shadowheart’s free to help.”

Dread gnarls in your stomach. “Shit. The soup.” You wince. “How mad is she?”

“I think I saw some steam wafting from her ears as I left.”

Your laugh bubbles up with ease. Happiness is always easy where he’s concerned. “That’s just fantastic.”

Your grumpy Shadow gives you an earful before patching you up until two thin scars are left behind, and you suffer no failure to your range of motion. To repay her, you agree to wash her clothing for the next month.

Soon after, you learn that Wyll loathes mirrors—his comment about not having one to look into is a lie. Most everyone in camp tucks one away in their bag to ready for each day ahead. Easier to fix hair, to trim beards, to straighten clothes.

But not him. He works on muscle memory.

His avoidance becomes apparent the farther you venture on the road. Even the deepest tombs contain mirrors, dusty and filth-ridden as they might be, and he skirts around them like they seek to carve through his flesh.

The first incident comes by way of your own vanity—Astarion’s, actually, you swear. A speck of blood on your face that he comments on yet makes no effort to help remove. Not even a simple on your cheek, to the left, the asshole.

Which is how Wyll finds you: crossed-legged on the ground by the fire, curled in on yourself, mirror in hand.

He sticks close most days. Settles in next to you for meals, spends each evening at your tent, impresses you with flourishing tricks of his rapier (as if you need be more taken with him—you’ve seen the man tear his way through hordes) in the clearings nearby.

Your tadpoles are smitten with each other, no doubt a result of your own emotional influence. Though you like to think that maybe, possibly, hopefully—

You spot him in the mirror just as he spots himself, and unrecognizable horror—bone-striking, heart-rending, earth-shattering horror—seeps deep into your marrow.

It’s his turn to flee, to hide behind the flaps of his tent.

To your left, Gale sighs, lowered brows casting a shadow over sunken eyes, veins a pronounced shade of blue against the sickly shade of his skin. “I know what that’s like.” His hand rises to his chest, a subconscious act, and you wish to comfort him. “A part of you ever-changed, never to be made whole again.”

Your worm-brain flits through a chaotic flurry of emotions: horror then fear then melancholy then rage then grief. So much grief nowadays.

How malignant, how spiteful, how rotten must one world be? Filled with tormentors so sadistic in nature?

Like the evening by the creek, you grant him the time and space needed to process his emotions. Only when your connection fades a bit, when the tide begins to wane, do you go to him.

You loiter outside his tent, just long enough for him to sense your presence. And then you call to him, the simple sound of his name, and a hand pulls aside a flap. His head peeks out a moment later, bathed in the blooming orange of the fire.

“Do you feel like talking?” you ask. “Or maybe you would just like to sit together?”

He nods and you settle in beside him, and the small space is bathed in darkness once again. Your knee thumps against his, but he makes no effort to move it. Small victories.

The tadpole lurches and your vision shifts until you stare through unseen eyes, your own figure seated on the ground, the mirror blurring as you see it—yourself. A you that is there but not. The thick horns that curl away from your forehead, that settle a heavy weight upon your neck. The chasmic darkness of your one good eye, blotted in the center by a hellfire-red iris. That same horror you felt before surges, devours the brittle bones of your ribs.

You blink and the vision ends. All you feel from him now is… acceptance. How very Wyll of him.

“Well,” he says. “I’ve seen myself. The worst part is over.”

The mirror scorches the pocket of your trousers.

“And what did you think?”

“I’m not sure. It was a shock to say the least, but… well, I can learn to live with it.”

“How do you do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re so positive. You get knocked down and get right back up. It’s almost infuriating.”

He laughs, and it sounds like warm tea, like the chirping of birds, like the glow of a campfire. “I admit, it isn’t easy, but you eventually must accept what’s happened and hopefully move on from it.”

“So it’s about hope.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“You sound like Karlach. A good thing, by the way.”

A moment of silence passes between you, the space warm and inviting. You wish to lean into him—some gnawing, aching part of you that craves his touch. Instead, you find his shoulder and squeeze.

“I’d like to try again, if that’s alright.” He reaches forward to peel back a tent flap, and light engulfs the small space. “The mirror, I mean.”

You pull it from your pocket and raise it until his face centers in the glass.

He sits a moment, peering at the reflection, turning his face to view himself from every angle. “Hm. Not that bad.”

You look over at him, eyes squinting. “You know what I see?” You lean forward, searching features old and new. Handsome. “Someone courageous and capable and kind. Anyone who sees your horns above all else has proven themselves unworthy to know you in the first place.”

“You flatter me.”

“I’m telling the truth.” Your heart lodges in your throat, thick as tar, hellsbent on pulling you under. “And I’ll prove it.”

Wyll inspires some courage within you as well. After all, you owe him for his transparency, how he flays himself open to reveal the turmoil that lay within.

You open your soul, muscle and artery and blood dissected, laid out for him to witness:

The skip of your heart upon your first meeting.

The nights you dreamt of his voice.

The warmth of your affection, almost unbearable in its weight, in all its vulnerability.

How you’ve thought of kissing him, sharing a dance, crafting horn balm dozens of times.

The weight of your dilemma—this won’t end well, don’t think about it, you’re losing sight of what matters.

You blink back to the present, a bit dizzy, nausea brewing in your belly. “Well, there it is. The way I see you.”

His eyes soften, the fire sated within. “I knew… to an extent. However, I never could have imagined something like this.”

You can be embarrassed later at the revelation about his suspicions. For now, he pulls you into a hug, chest tight against yours, skin so so warm, hands ghostly as they trail over your spine.

It is here that you cry. A product of both bone-softening relief (no need to hide away) and the tender touch of another. None of your companions are particularly generous with their affections, and you’ve grown exhausted with the recent trend of enemies laying claim to your body via injury.

His hand curls around your nape and you almost purr.

“Finally,” you say, sniffling.

He chuckles and you feel it against your chest and you sink into him. It feels natural, a healing kind of tenderness.

After leaving, you find that there was no speck of blood to begin with, and you thank Astarion for his antics on the way back to your tent. (Nose-deep in a book, he grins.)

On your journey to Baldur’s Gate, Wyll kisses you after a night of woodland dancing. The birds and the bugs your music, the stretch of dead grass your ballroom. He leads you in a circular arc that spans the clearing, hand in hand, eyes crinkled with a wide smile.

Wyll is proficient in pretending. He does it quite often. Hides his sadness, his frowns, his weariness behind singsong words and the lilting tone of a man who still believes in inherent goodness.

But he doesn’t have to pretend here, never with you. He pulls you close, one arm a cage around your shoulders, the other at your waist. (What is a flighty bird that loathes the thought of freedom? your mother had asked you once, just before she died.) He laughs into your hair, a sound that carries on a gust of wind, and you think you understand now.

(A bird that knows where home is.)

You share a kiss mid-laugh, and for this little moment in time, the world akins to a place that shelters happiness and peace, if only temporary. Nothing hurts, the forest lay quiet, your companions leave you be. The night is perfect. So is he.

You find comfort on a bed of moss nearby and observe the shimmering stars overhead. He's warm against your side, smells of earth and tree bark, the taste of ozone so thick it cloys on the back of your teeth. A gust of wind whispers between the leaves, carrying with it the smell of Gale's cooking from camp nearby. You would know that mixture of herbs from anywhere.

“We should head back,” you say, sprawled out beside him, your head heavy on his shoulder.

A long moment of silence before he exhales an amused breath. “Yet we're still here.”

“Well, I didn't say right this second.”

He laughs and the sound brews a fire in your chest, hot enough to melt your insides yet spewing an estranged comfort you once thought lost. Returned like an old friend, an ex-lover, a happiness rekindled anew.

This is different, the tadpole a wretched thing by all accounts except for its state as catalyst behind connection and companionship. You feel so deeply these days, emotions and memories birthed by the ether. The curse then the blessing. The sprinkle of rain upon a budding flower, the bloom of something… more. An intimacy you never expected.

The two of you connect far beyond tangible form, sometimes forgoing spoken language in favor of mind speak. Thought reading. Sometimes you forget that the others can't hear such conversations, but you're grateful. Your own little secret, tucked away between the folds of your brain.

However, good things must end, and the journey back to camp is fraught with trudging feet and moments of pause to enjoy your final moments alone.

You sleep in his tent, spend the day resting off the small battles you've faced, and the next evening he hands you a jar, half-filled with—

Oh.

“You were kind enough to offer all those months ago,” he says, grin a bit too smug on his face. “Just be careful. They're still a bit sensitive.”

You adjust to sit before him, knees crinkling the blanket you cuddled beneath the night before. His presence shrouds you much like that: astral fingers prodding at your skull, reading thought and memory and urge; the warmth from his new form seeping into your pores. Inside this tent, Wyll is everything. Consumes your current perception of the world.

The ointment pinpricks your fingertips, a juxtapose of hot and cold meant to numb-soothe whatever it touches. He tilts his head down in offering, a special brand of trust and vulnerability that sucks the oxygen from your lungs. Nobody has ever touched his horns, and nobody has ever asked. You're the first.

The fingers upon each of his knees tighten their grip as you spread that ointment around the base of a horn, carefully painting a thick layer up the rough texture and down the smooth of his skin to coat a wider area. His eyes close, mouth parting to exhale a relieved sigh.

“Good?” you ask, more breath than whisper.

“A great relief.”

“Is it… too much?”

“No. It never is with you.”

You think back to your childhood crush, when you feared the state of your own thoughts. And now, baring yourself so completely to a man you definitely do not deserve. A man who allows you to touch the parts of himself he once despised.

How did you get so lucky? What have you done in your life to warrant such companionship?

“Your thoughts are very loud.” He looks up at you, eyes crinkling at the edges, and you busy yourself with the other horn.

If your brain was a normal one, it would promptly shrivel up and die. “Sorry.”

You attempt to sever the connection, a strain that crinkles your brow, and he stops you with a clawed hand curled about your wrist.

“I like them.”

He shines upon you an eye crafted from the finest jewels, blood red and glittering. The other captivates you just as much.

You kiss him then, smearing leftover ointment through the prickly fuzz along his jaw. He hums against your lips, beckons you closer with a strong arm cradling your back. Just outside, Gale argues with Astarion about clothing choices, Karlach laughs until she chokes, Lae'zel sharpens her sword with a grating clang. But none of that matters. Nothing, not even the end of the world. Nothing but the ghost of your fingers down the rough bark of his horns and his shuddering sigh into your mouth.

He tastes of ash and the berries from Gale's wine and something otherworldly. He is no incubus—an inconsequential fact. You wish for him to consume you all the same.

And then you remember the dying rays of sun that pierce the opening of the tent. You pull away from him to look outside and spot Karlach leaning back on her log. Watching you with a bone-white display of teeth.

Oh, you'll definitely be hearing about this later. Especially when her call of, “About damn time, soldier!” echoes throughout camp.

Wyll sighs, reaching over to close the tent flaps. Yells back, “Can't a devil get some privacy?”

You laugh, thumbs following the jut of spikes upon the skin of his neck as the world conforms to darkness.

Two hands settle upon your waist, claws teasing the flesh beneath your layer of clothing. “Now. Where were we?”

[cosmorice]

Descent into Madness

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

Synopsis: CEO!Jungkook and you have an odd relationship filled with tension and chaos; but is it hatred he truly has for you?

Pairing: CEO!Jungkook x Reader

Tw: angst, slow-burn, swearing (duh), toxic jungkook, alcohol

Wc: 2721

I hate you, I think? Series Masterlist

One day. One day was all you had to prepare for the inevitable business trip. Over the course of the past month, Jungkook hasn’t warmed up to you in the slightest. The cold man even bought you a separate flight from everyone else, albeit same day. However, you knew this company board meeting was important. All of the higher ups, including you, had no choice but to agree to go. Jungkook Technologies was expanding ever so rapidly, and creating new and stronger ties amongst peers and investors alike was the cherry on top.

The warm shower water hit you gently, leaving trails of glistening beads against your skin. You thanked your lucky stars  Namjoon was amongst the higher ranks; what would you do without him? Your mind racks against the thoughts racing throughout your head as a conversation makes it’s way back into your memory

-

The dimly lit yet quaint cafe was a hidden gem for you and Namjoon. You thank the worker kindly as you grab your regular order of a chai latte and a tender buttery scone. You beam as you take a seat across from Namjoon. People stroll by the shop windows as you both converse. 

“Joonie, I seriously don’t understand his issue. He’s buying me a separate hotel from you all for fuck’s sake!” You exclaim, with anger laced throughout your words. Namjoon’s eyes widen at the revelation as he stares into your eyes.

“What?” He asks, breath intertwined with the coffee he steadily sipped on throughout your little outing.

“I know. He told me today.” You mumble, mind still filled with confusion from your earlier interaction with the CEO. Namjoon delicately touches his chin as he tries to conjure up a solution or some sort of explanation.

“Well, we do have a little over a month until the trip. Maybe he was just busting your chops or trying to get a reaction out of you. I wouldn’t think too hard about it.” Your concerned friend gives a reassuring smile. Twilight begins seeping it’s way amongst your faces as the city lights begin to make an appearance.

“I hope you’re right.”

-

A chill runs along your damp body as your shower comes to a halt and the cool air greets your naked body. God how you hope Jungkook has a change of heart. You make a beeline to get under the soothing blankets on your bed. You watch the city skyline, anxious to go to sleep as you knew tomorrow was the dreaded day. You take a glance towards the packed suitcases sitting in the corner of your room, right beside the door. This would only be a week.

As your eyelids fight against you, sleep closes in like a creature preying on the weakest link. Your phone eventually vibrates, startling you awake from the calm dreamscape your mind created.

Jungkook [12:04 am] - flight is tomorrow in case you forgot.

Your eyes adjust and filter in a daze. Why the hell is he texting you at this hour.

Y/N [12:07 am] - i already have my flight information. gn

read @12:08 am

Your body betrays you and your eyes roll far back, wondering why he’s making it a point to remind you of your flight. If he was trying to rub salt in the wound, mission success.

Y/N [12:08 am] - he just texted me to remind me my flight is tomorrow, tf is his problem

Joonie [12:11 am] - bless his poor heart, idk what his deal is. i’ll switch my flight to yours now. k?

This is what made you love Namjoon. You’ve never believed in platonic soulmates until he crashed upon your rather dull life.

-

Jungkook stares at the message you responded with before clicking his phone off and pouring himself a glass of whiskey. He never quite understood where the vitriol towards you came from. It just happened. Jungkook was never one to deal with emotions, and he certainly was not experienced in the romance department.

He winces slightly as he recalls when your toothy smiles around him turned into tight lipped ones; Or how your natural conversational personality gradually became more guarded in his presence. It wasn’t your fault though, as he was the one who began to distance himself and his actions became more callous.

“Woah we have a flight tomorrow Jung.” Jin cautiously states. It was tradition for Jin to spend the night before a trip, something they’ve upheld from childhood. Jungkook takes a swig of the brown liquor as he looks into Jin’s brown eyes. 

“I’m aware.”

“Alright. What’s going on?” Jin asks. He always had a hunch his friend had some sort of feeling towards you after watching your interactions within the past few years of you working under Jungkook Technologies.

“Nothing. We should get going to bed.” Without another word, Jungkook shuts the kitchen lights off, plunging the room into darkness as he trails into his bedroom, leaving Jin perplexed.

-

You’ve never enjoyed trips. The stress of packing, rushing to the airport amongst the crowds, and not to mention the expensive airport food, was never something meant for you. Peace and tranquility was your kryptonite but frankly put, trips were the opposite of that for you.

Jungkook on the other hand, was accustomed to it. His family enjoyed lavish vacations ever since he can remember. He found great comfort in anything that kept him busy. Perhaps it was the rush of adrenaline that came alongside the chaos of it all. Who knows.

A breath of relief escapes your lips as you take your seat alongside Namjoon. 

“This is utterly fucking ridiculous Y/N. He needs to get a grip.” Namjoon sneers as he rests his head against the blue tinted neck pillow. Your body reacts with a simple nod of agreement as you place your earbuds in and look out the window. The only good thing about this whole damn debacle. White clouds drift by as music plays throughout your ears.

Jin managed to set Jungkook straight about whatever he may be dealing with, not to involve it with the workplace; forcing him to get you a room at the same hotel amongst everyone else. Nobody had a clue as to why he would book you elsewhere in the first place.

-

Sure, Jungkook was an attractive man, but you wouldn’t let a simple work crush get in the way of business. He would do small gestures such as bring you coffee, walk you back to your office after a long meeting, take time out of his day to help you out, the whole 360. 

That all changed though. It started with small remarks, leaving you utterly confused. Small things such as, “What in the world are you wearing? My grandma could pick a better outfit than that.” All the way to, “You must have lied about your university, because you are simply incompetent.” Soon enough, the coffee ceased to stop, and the small chats. What changed?

It never ceased to amaze you how someone could be so cruel and calculated. Granted, you've made some mistakes within your life, but the treatment was utterly uncalled for.

You recall the days where you would leave work crying as Jungkook watched you with a stone-cold expression. You would sob into Namjoon’s dress shirt as he coddled you. You knew you didn’t have to endure the harsh treatment, but you lived such a comfortable life and worked too hard. It was a hard choice to choose a wealthier lifestyle over your own wellbeing.

-

A yawn escapes your lips as the booming landscape of Tokyo fills your eyesight. The sun was beginning to set and vivid hues of red and orange reflected amongst the buildings. You snicker as you glance at the snoring Namjoon. His head tilted back, mouth agape, with an eye mask on to complete the look.

“We will beginning our descent. Please fasten your seatbelts and welcome to Tokyo.” The captain states. The irony of that sentence engulfs you, as this was a descent into a week of the madness that was the annual business meeting with the one and only CEO, Jungkook.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Jungkook exhaled a strong breath, with the stench of whiskey permeating the air. He initially had regrets towards the way he treated you. For his sake, he initially thought booking a separate flight and hotel would be a beneficial thing for your already tense relationship. However, he knew deep down you would hate it, which pushed him even more towards doing it. Something stirred within him whenever he got any reaction from you, whether it be good or bad. 

Why did he seem to enjoy getting a rise out of you? The first one to take notice of this was Jin.

The noise of the airplane jets created an ambient sound as Jin sits comfortably next to the buzzed CEO. The dimmed lights within the first class cabin darkening Jungkook’s features ever so slightly. The silver rings adorn his fingers beautifully as he takes yet another swig of the bitter alcohol.

“I still don’t get why you changed Y/N’s flight.” The raven-haired boy huffs, causing Jungkook’s attention to gear towards him.

“She hates me. It’s for the best.” Jungkook sneers, biting his lip piercing in the process.

“She doesn’t hate you, but you need to get your shit together. It’s fucking ridiculous and you’re a CEO. Start acting like one.” With this, Jungkook’s heart flutters. You don’t hate him? A part of him, for some odd reason, wished you did. 

You see, although growing up with a cushy lifestyle, Jungkook has always been attracted to chaos. He’s never had a girlfriend and never enjoyed dealing with his emotions. Here and there, he’d bring a flashy girl home for the night whenever CEO duties didn’t need much tending to. He enjoyed girls running out of his apartment, calling him all names from the book after he condescendingly states, “So, it’s a new day and that requires you to get the hell out.”

He’s never been able to pinpoint if it’s the way they react that attracts him, or the utter chaos that follows, but he knew he enjoyed it. 

“This is your captain speaking. Please fasten your seatbelts as we prepare to descend into Tokyo.”

-

The winter air created beautiful frost amongst the glass windows within Jungkook’s office. 

“Y/N, you were absolutely amazing at the conference today!” Jin beams. Jin was one of the first people to take you under their wing, treating you like a little sister. He enjoyed seeing your growth and remarkable change within the company. People absolutely adored you due to your humble and warm-hearted nature.

“I think you should take some notes from Namjoon though. He always manages to somehow uphold himself to a much higher standard in comparison to you.” Jungkook states matter-of-factly, with a still expression. Jin’s eyes widen as he watches the smile evaporate from your face. 

“Thank you for the feedback sir.” With clammy hands, you bow your head and release a shaky breath before turning and walking out. If looks could kill right now, Jungkook would be a dead man. Jin stares daggers into his soul. Throughout their 20+ years of friendship, Jungkook could count with one hand how many times Jin has ever been genuinely angry towards him; today being one of them.

“He said something again didn’t he?” A tear falls down your cheeks as you bite your lip and approach Namjoon. You simply give a weak nod as he wraps an arm around your back to guide you towards the now empty conference room. “Listen Y/N, you know, there are other large companies out there. Why do you keep allowing him to do this? Do you need me to say something?” Your friend veers, concern poisoning his voice. 

“No. It’s alright.” 

-

After a smooth landing, you can’t fight off the smile that makes its way onto your face. Although you hated trips in general, it felt amazing being able to visit Tokyo alongside a friend like Namjoon. It didn’t take long for you all to gather your luggage within the busy airport. Haneda airport was astounding and pristine. The white walls reflected the bright lights within the airport as you and Namjoon made your way to the hotel in the heart of Tokyo itself. 

“You know, maybe you can confront Jungkook about his behavior. I mean we all are stuck here for a week so why not?” Namjoon states. He knew you were not one for confrontation, as it did nothing but cause you extra stress. You hated having issues with anyone,; It’s been years since you can remember the last time you’ve ever had a problem amongst a peer.

The city whirs past as you both chatter within the taxi. Your stomach fails to protect you as a looming dread fills within. “Maybe Joonie.” You sigh. Perhaps he was right and you could get to the bottom of the harsh treatment. You don’t know how much longer you’d be able to handle it after all. 

Your mind takes in the cityscape that eventually comes to a halt as the taxi completes the destination to your hotel. This is it.

-

Check in was rather easy. What you didn’t realize however, was that your room was nestled between Jungkook’s and Jin’s; Namjoon being across the way from you all, about a 2 minute walk. As you and Namjoon parted ways, a small scoff escapes your body while you notice a tall, pierced figure whizz by. Jungkook. Damn him.

“Y/N! You made it safely!” Jin beams as he gives you a tight hug. An oak like musk engulfs your nostrils as he lets you go. Jungkook spins his head around to watch your interaction with his right hand man. 

“I did. The flight was honestly lovely. I’m going to check into my room and get some rest.” You warmly respond as you point towards the sleek oak wood door. The bold numbers 1015 staring right back at you.

“Well looks like my room is right next to yours!” Jin then gestures his hand towards the door with 1017. 

“We should be getting ready for dinner.” Jungkook interrupts and states towards Jin rather emotionless, interrupting the two of you. Shit. Of course there was a dinner tonight between the higher ranks within the company. How could you forget?

“Well hello to you too sir.” You snarl, both boys taken aback by your response. You were never one to show any negative emotion towards others, but you’d had enough of this foolishness. The now quiet atmosphere, while laced with tension, is torn as the sound of your door unlocking interferes, leaving the two boys behind in the hallway.

This was going to be the longest week of your life.

-

Jungkook couldn’t deny that the way you bit back, brewed something within him. He never thought he’d see the fiery side of you to be quite frank but boy, did he enjoy it. He craved more of it, and quite frankly, so did his friendly neighbor nestled within his jeans. 

As your silhouette disappears behind the door, Jin gives Jungkook a slap upside the head. Jungkook knew he was in the wrong, trust me he did. He just couldn’t help himself at this point. 

“Get it together. We have a dinner tonight and the last thing you should do is make a fool of yourself. The meeting takes place tomorrow. Cut the shit.” Jin growls in Jungkook’s ear before walking briskly into room 1017; Leaving Jungkook standing alone. Jin had never seen Jungkook act like this, but one thing was for certain, he didn’t take any enjoyment in the behavior.

-

Y/N [5:57 pm] - god I can’t take it anymore. i responded pretty rudely to him in the hallway. him and jin are right next to me

Joonie [6:04 pm] - wait u can’t be serious rn? his room next to urs?!?!?!

read @6:05pm

Your brain racks through possible explanations as to why Jungkook would book your room next to him and Jin’s? Maybe the hotel was booked? That was the most plausible conclusion you could draw, being that the hotel was rather luxurious. Regardless, you had a dinner to get ready for.

taglist!!! :

@juikmon @sassykryptonitedelusion @theternaljk @tatumrileyslover @topforsure @senaqsstuff @santiiagopopegarcia @fandems

[raineandsky]

Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?

Love Ur writing!!

aaaaaaa this was such a fun idea - im absolutely in love with this lil dynamic!! hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing it :D

-

tw blood, death

Animals. That’s all the agency ever saw the villains as. Animals they could poke and push and test and break into nothing.

So when the jail’s power-dampeners fail, the villains are more than happy to make like the tigers are out of their cage.

The villain to the supervillain’s right is burning the lock on his cell door. The villain on his left has fazed straight through hers. The supervillain steps up to the iron bars across his own cell to look beyond.

VIllains are flooding the corridor, breaking for the stairs one by one. “You,” he snaps as someone passes, and they thankfully slow down. “Open the door.”

Escape might be tantalising, if the villain’s quick glance to the stairs is anything to go by, but no villain ignores a supervillain. They rest their hands against the door for a moment, their brow knitted in concentration for a moment, before the lock clunks open.

They pull the door outward as the supervillain steps into the corridor, waiting impatiently. “Thank you,” the supervillain says shortly.

The villain wastes no time continuing their great escape, chasing the tails of the other villains. Golden light flashes against the walls of the stairwell like fireworks, panicked shouting drifting from above, dull thumping as inevitable bodies hit the floor. The superhero strolls up the steps to take in the carnage the villains are wreaking on the pristine agency.

Gunfire showers the corridor in the light of heaven itself. Agency guards are backed up against the one exit. Most of the villains have already pushed past them into the room beyond, but those who haven’t are springing on them from all directions with fire or ice or electricity or nothing but hatred.

He can see someone familiar through the chaos, the eye of the storm. His gun sprays death, his face twisted into a mix of anger and fear, his eyes set on the villain currently making her way towards him with palms of steaming water.

Almost all of the villains have passed through. Most guards are either lying in a puddle of crimson blood or following the flock into the next room. There’s two of them—his Favourite, and someone he couldn’t care less about.

The villain’s water flicks from her fingers and sprays the guard, earning a pained cry and a cringe away from her. His attention falls to the scalding cutting through his skin, and in one fatal move the villain swipes the gun from his hands.

The supervillain doesn’t have time to intervene. The other guard swings his weapon to the villain, and with a flash of golden light she drops to the ground. The gun clatters to the floor with her.

The two of them heave a breath like they’re free, and the supervillain sees his chance. He sweeps up the gun from the floor, shouldering his Favourite out of the way, before turning it on the other guard and opening fire. The force of the bullets shove the guard into the wall behind him, and his descent to the floor is accompanied by a nauseating streak of red.

The supervillain turns his gaze to the last guard, his Favourite, the one who helped him from the day he got here. The one who saw past the animals and saw a person.

The guard returns his gaze with abject horror, defenceless, trapped. His eyes are wide, his back pressed into the wall, his mouth working in a desperate attempt at what is probably a beg for mercy.

The supervillain doesn’t waste time. He doesn’t have any. He grabs the guard’s arm, earning a startled squeak, tucking the gun under his arm. He can see the burns left on the man’s arm from the villain’s attack; small but undoubtedly painful. He lays a hand over them and the guard hisses and pulls in his grip, whether in pain or fear of pain he can’t tell.

His hand is cool—he can tell from the way the guard relaxes in his hold after a moment. The supervillain holds down a pleased smile. “That’s it,” he says smoothly. “Is that better?”

He lets go and the guard tips his gaze to his skin, unblemished and unharmed. Like the water never touched him at all. His mouth opens. Closes. His brow creases.

“Your power…” he tries after a moment, confused, “they never figured it out. They thought you’d have something violent.”

The supervillain throws him a smile, unhidden this time. “They never expected a healer at the head of evil, did they?”

The supervillain drags him along, following the path of bloodshed like a map. Some villains are still loitering—one of them slinks up to the pair with a grin. They inspect the guard closely for a moment before running the edge of their knife across his jaw in thought. He tries to shrink away but the supervillain’s grip on him holds fast.

“Oh, isn’t this one pretty?” the villain purrs. They give the blade a flick for emphasis, and the guard flinches as the edge cuts a crimson line into his cheek. “Can’t wait to show the agency what happens to good little boys like him.”

“No one touches him, understand?” the supervillain snaps coldly. “He’s with us.”

The villain scowls, clearly unsatisfied with his answer. “Oh, we keepin’ pets now, boss?”

“We don’t keep pets, [Villain].” His gaze turns to the guard for a moment, a touch softer, almost thankful. “They’re not animals.”

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 24: His Hands Hold My Heart & He Won't Let Go Until It's Scarred

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

“You’re going to sell me to Mephistopheles?”

“Well,” he glances at his nails, eyes half-lidded in bored disdain. “I doubt he’ll take you in the flesh. Look at you—pitiful. But your soul? That, I imagine, might interest him. Perhaps he’ll melt you down and turn you into something more useful. A coin, maybe. A miserable, worthless coin.”

You know you should feel fear, maybe even anger, but all you feel is amusement—dark, hollow, and bitter. It claws its way out of you in a dry, rasping laugh. He thinks he’ll gain something from the sale of your sorry soul? What a joke. You’ve already promised it to someone far worse than Mephistopheles could ever dream of being.

It is a long way to Cania from Avernus. At the very least, it gives you time to bring Astarion home to himself, and you will be inching toward your target in the meantime. What you will do if you arrive at Mephistar still bound and tethered by the leash of compulsion is something you can consider later.

“Think I’d make a fetching coin?” You quip, a sardonic smile playing on your lips.

“Don’t flatter yourself, darling.” Astarion taunts darkly. The malignant red of his eyes swim with an amalgamation of cruelty and malevolence. “You will at the very least be worth something.”

“At least slot me into Karlach, will you? It would tickle me to assist her in killing you.”

Your words are reckless, but instead of backing away, something within you shifts—a gut-wrenching desire to protect him flares up. It’s poisonous, invasive, and you feel disgusted by it. Is this the compulsion Gale warned you about? Twisting you inside out until you can't even tell friend from foe?

Astarion’s laugh is sharp and jagged, like glass shattering in your ears. “You’ve always been amusingly deluded. I could snap your neck right now, and it wouldn’t make a difference to me. Mouthy little spawn like you? There’s no shortage of your kind. If you don’t shut up, I’ll tear that tongue out of your skull.”

You groan with an exasperated roll of your eyes and lay your head down on Shadowheart’s pack like a makeshift pillow. It does little to cushion your head from the stone that somehow retains the sweltering heat, like the fires of Avernus are burning just below it, despite the fact that you’re in a cave.

“Fine, kill me. Or don’t. I’m tired.” You roll your eyes and turn your back on him, though the tense atmosphere and the heat baking the air in the cave make rest seem impossible.

You close your eyes and try to get yourself to drift into some semblance of a trance.

“You cannot be seriously thinking of resting now.” His sharp, derisive scoff cuts through the silence like a whip. “It’s still daylight out.”

You open one eye and glare at him. “There is no day and night cycle here, master.” You mock him openly and marvel at how little fear you possess, even though the grim reaper stares at you with dark eyes and ashen skin as pale as death. "If you want to stay awake and brood, go ahead. I’ll be here, meditating.”

For a moment, Astarion’s gaze lingers on you with something between loathing and interest. His lips curl as if he’s mulling over the quickest way to silence you for good. You flop over dramatically, turning your back to him, and you can feel him behind you, feel his cold eyes boring into your back, but nothing happens.

Keeping your eyes firmly closed is difficult, and you have to make a conscious effort not to open them and check to see if he’s prowling behind you with a dagger in hand. Instead, you focus on his beating heart, offering you the ability to estimate proximity, which has neither increased nor decreased for some time.

Minutes stretch out into an awkward, oppressive silence. And then—without warning—he lays down beside you and presses his back against yours. For a moment you stiffen and wonder if you should pull away, but the steady rise and fall of his breathing are known, soothing even, and you quickly find yourself slowly fading from your weary mind into your trance.

Unfortunately, Astarion’s body heat only adds to the blistering heat, and sweat drips down your face, stomach, arms, and everywhere else you can possibly sweat from. It makes Shadowheart’s clothes, which do not fit you quite right, stick to you and you shift uncomfortably.

“Are you awake?” Astarion murmurs, the words brushing over you like a chill.

You hesitate, not knowing if you truly want to answer. “Yes.”

“It’s hot,” he states, almost accusatory, as if it’s your fault.

“Well, we are in the Hells. This place feels like Grymforge all over again,” you state truthfully in a mumble. Despite your draconic blood, this constant inferno is unbearable.

Your psyche dances closer and closer toward the peaceful oblivion beckoning you as your breath slows and eventually ceases, and you push yourself further into him. You tell yourself that you’re doing it for safety, but the truth is, you’re just wishing for comfort.

He speaks again when you’ve already sunken so low into your trance that your limbs are starting to feel weightless and your head feels like it might be floating above your body.

“I could keep us cool, you know. Just say the word.” He offers, and you recognize the heft of weighty weariness in the lowness of his voice. At first, you’re perplexed, but then you vaguely remember that he can control his body temperature.

In your state of near unconsciousness, you forget which Astarion you are talking to, and your tongue numbed by fatigue answers as if this is your Astarion. “Yes, my love,” you sigh.

Astarion doesn’t answer, but the change in temperature is immediate. His body cools to an almost unnaturally low temperature, relieving you from the relentless heat. Despite your better judgment, you find yourself turning toward him, seeking that comfort. His arms wrap around you, but there’s no warmth in the gesture—just cold hands that grip a little too tight, holding you like a possession. His fingers dig into your back with casual cruelty.

“You are positively pathetic,” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with malice. “Clinging to me for comfort like I’m still the man you used to know. Foolish little thing. I could crush you.”

Even in the haze of exhaustion, his words twist into you like a knife in your gut. But your body is too heavy, too numb to react. You’re trapped in this toxic push-and-pull between him—the monster—and the shadow of the man you loved. For now, you let the coolness lull you into a fitful trance, knowing full well you’re lying in the embrace of something dangerous.

When your eyes flutter open again, you can’t even begin to estimate the time you were asleep. Minutes? Hours? Enough time for your body to stiffen. The muscles in your legs burn, and your feet scream with pain as soon as you try to move. You blink through the grogginess and find yourself still entangled with him, his icy presence anchoring you to the sweltering cave floor.

You catch a short glimpse of Astarion more or less in his trance and tilt your head slightly. It never ceases to surprise you when you see that he still looks like himself. In your mind’s eye, you’ve conjured up a monster, but it’s not a monster that lays holding you.

It’s still just Astarion.

He shifts slightly, his brows pinching when your fingers curl into him a little too hard, and his eyes slowly open. Cold eyes meet yours only for a moment before they dart to the cave mouth. The land is pebbled with cooling, molten balls, some still in their spherical shapes, others merely shrapnel spread chaotically, but no more rain down.

Astarion glances back at you with heavily lidded eyes that fall to your lips and hover there. You think he might kiss you, and you think you might let him until he tosses you off him roughly as if you were simply a convenient blanket or maybe a fleshly, undead shield.

“Get up,” he commands. “You’ve wasted enough time lying there like a corpse. We move now.”

Astarion stands abruptly in a way that makes him almost appear frightened, but of what, you cannot say. He tugs his shirt on with hasty movements as if you’re making him uncomfortable, and you reflexively turn around to give him privacy.

Now that shock and adrenaline have abandoned you, the agony that radiates up your legs is nigh-on unbearable when you try to put weight on your feet. You screw your eyes shut, half stooped over, palms braced on your thighs, and pray that you can keep the tears at bay.

Pushing through the pain, you crouch down and stuff what you have back into Shadowheart’s bag, positioning it across your body and standing. You don’t realize your body has betrayed you and tears are clinging to your lashes and vining down your dirty cheeks until you see Astarion’s ugly smirk twisting his lips as he takes in your struggle.

“You look like hell,” he taunts, crossing his arms. “I could compel you, you know. Force your body to ignore the pain. But why would I? Watching you suffer is much more entertaining.” He leans forward slightly, in the way he used to do when he was trying to seduce you in those early days and months. “I will enjoy watching you toil in the consequences of your choice, as I did for centuries. You should count yourself lucky that I haven’t skinned you alive and forced you to walk on the raw, exposed nerves.”

You grit your teeth and stand, barely able to meet his gaze without wanting to snap at him. But snapping at him would only give him more fuel, more satisfaction, so you swallow the pain. "I'm fine. Lead on.”

He chuckles darkly as he strides ahead, not even bothering to slow his pace for you. It turns out you were right about the silk. It didn’t stand a chance against the sawtoothed terrain and is chewed up as easily as your feet were. Every step is agony as you limp after him, the rocks and jagged ground tearing at your flayed feet. You bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out, but Astarion notices.

Of course he does. He always notices when you’re hurting.

“Don’t fall behind, little lamb,” he calls over his shoulder, voice dripping with mockery.

He keeps walking, the distance between you growing as you struggle to keep up. The silence that falls between you is heavy and burdensome, filled only with the sound of your laboured breathing and the distant crackle of molten lava.

As the journey stretches on, Astarion’s cruelty does not wane. When you stumble, he laughs. When you try to rest, he sneers. He takes every opportunity to remind you of your weakness, of your insignificance.

No matter how hard you try to shake it, that feeling of twisted loyalty remains, poisoning your thoughts. And Astarion, ever the predator, revels in your torment, savouring every moment of your slow, painful descent.

You walk for what feels like hours, but in this heat, it could have only been minutes. It’s just you, Astarion, and this landscape of ruin and death as far as the eye can see. The bones of the fallen crunch beneath your feet, and soon, the towering skeleton of a dragon looms ahead, its massive ribs arcing over the desolate ground like the decaying remnants of an ancient titan.

“An ancestor of yours, perhaps?” He arches a brow, his lips twisting in a cruel grin as he watches you squeeze through the dragon’s ribcage.

You shrug, keeping your tone flat. “I’m an orphan. I don’t know my family.”

Astarion stops abruptly, his eyes narrowing in exaggerated surprise. “Oh, an orphan, are we?” His voice is laced with venom. “Well, that does explain a few things.” He lets out a cold, hollow laugh, loud enough to startle you, and you can’t help but wince.

Shit. You forgot that this version of him didn’t know.

“What’s so funny?” you ask, even though you already know you’re walking right into his trap.

He smirks, baring his fangs just enough to be menacing. “It’s just so perfectly tragic, isn’t it? A lonely little orphan, so desperate for affection that she couldn't even recognize the poison behind a pretty face. Easy prey, really. You never stood a chance against me.”

The truth of his words stings more than it should, but you press on, determined not to let him see the hurt it causes. “What’s your point, Astarion?”

“My point?” He steps closer, his tone now gleefully mocking. “That you’re a fool. Did you really believe for even a second that I—he—had feelings for you? A naive little orphan, finally tasting affection for the first time, only to be used like a pawn in a game you were never equipped to play.”

Yes.

You try not to answer and just keep walking forward, between bones, ruins of great weapons, and craters, with your eyes firmly anchored to the ground. If you can keep your mind focused, maybe you will not cry.

“When he held you,” Astarion continues, his voice taking on a cruel, sing-song quality, “when you fell asleep in his arms... did you really believe that meant something?”

“Yes!” You snarl, but keep yourself turned away. He’s opened an old wound that never quite fully heals, and it bleeds through your eyes in the form of tears. “I thought I had finally found someone who cared about me. I was naive, and I didn’t recognize it as a trick at the time. You got me good. Are you happy now, Astarion? Is that what you want to hear?”

He sneers, his expression a twisted mask of disgust. “Pitiful wretch,” he mutters, though there’s a flicker of something—almost imperceptible—beneath the scorn in his eyes.

You squeeze through the ossified jaws of the dragon and wonder what the beast would have looked like alive, which brings you to a more concerning question: what in the Hells could have killed it? The only consolation that allays any true unease is that the beast has been dead for countless years. Whatever took it down is hopefully long gone.

Astarion takes the lead once more, and you realize he has not used his compulsion to force you to follow. You consider running, but where would you run to? He’s already taking you where you need to go, or trying to, at least. If you can make this version of him trust you, it might give you a chance to bring back your husband in time for a honeymoon in the hells.

How delightful.

The soles of your feet are little more than flaps of hanging skin. Your legs are wobbly as a newborn colt, and you stumble more frequently now, the heat, blood loss, and fatigue all merging into one sickening blur. You’re barely holding on.

You eventually come upon something that resembles a forest, but the trees are gruesomely twisted with orange leaves that seem to be constantly searing around the edges. When you peer between the trees, the gloom that clings between the trees feels unnatural, like a living thing, waiting to devour anything that strays too close.

Astarion looks around for a moment. “It will take us much longer to go around at your plodding pace. We will have to go through it.”

“No.” You grab his arm, voice high and desperate, and shake your head. “This isn’t a good idea. We have no idea what lives in there. We should just go around.”

He grins, a dark gleam in his eyes. “Oh, are we frightened, my little pet? Don’t worry. With me by your side, what could possibly harm you? Besides, of course, me.” He winks, and then without another word, he strides in, disappearing almost instantly.

You consider going around. If Astarion wants to die in there, that’s his business, but once again, that feeling squirms in your gut, leaving you rooted to the ground and unable to move unless it’s towards him.

A moment later, glowing red eyes pierce the gloom, and Astarion emerges with an irritated scowl. “Are you coming, or shall I make you?” His voice is laced with the threat of compulsion.

That is enough to coerce you to reluctantly step forward and into the gloom. You conjure a flame in your hand to light the way, but the shadows swallow the light almost instantly. It’s not long before you start to see the calcified corpses and strange-looking fungal pods that this place is made of. There is an eerie breeze, though it does not cause the trees to ruffle, that sounds like the wailing of tortured souls.

Without warning, Astarion grabs the back of your neck, his fingers like iron. You try to pull away, but his grip tightens, dragging you forward as if you weigh nothing. You sigh in resignation. It’s pointless to fight him.

Looking at the ground, you allow him to lead you around by the neck. “Why do you even bother with this?” you ask quietly. “I’m not going to run.”

“It would not go well for you if you did.” Astarion sneers. “I’d rather not take any chances with my little pawn.”

You trudge through the dark, each step heavier than the last. You’re exhausted, and the pain in your feet is becoming unbearable. You can feel the skin hanging loosely, blood trickling down with every step.

“We should leave, Astarion. We can’t even see where we are going. It will take us longer to get through this than to just go around it.”

Astarion chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it. “Scared, pet?”

“Yes,” you admit, the word coming out as a shaky whisper.

The pompous arrogance of Astarion’s expression is made of slips momentarily, and you swear his eyes flicker. He grabs his head, shaking it furiously from side to side. When his eyes come back up, the flickering has ceased, and your heart feels like it drops from whatever decaying stem it hangs from and into your stomach.

“Fine. We’ll go around.” Astarion finally says, but his words are slowed, almost slurred, like he’s trying not to say them. “But don’t think I’m doing it for you.”

The two of you attempt to retrace your steps, but the landscape seems to have shifted. The trees, the bones, the shadows—they all look the same.

“Can you follow the trail of my blood?” You ask him.

Astarion scents the air, his brows furrowed. “There isn’t a trace of it anywhere.”

You walk around aimlessly for some time before Astarion stops for a moment in another attempt to get his bearings. You lean up against one of the calcified trees, trying to get some weight off your feet, and a twisted face juts out of the bark. It’s mouth wide open in a perpetual scream, and you jolt away from the tree and stifle a scream of your own.

Astarion is beside you in an instant, his dagger gleaming. “What is it?”

You point, your voice shaking. “There are… people stuck in the trees.”

You grab his wrist and find your way back to the white-barked tree, bringing the flame to it.

Astarion swallows. “Well, that’s not unsettling at all.”

Instead of your neck, Astarion grabs your hand, trying to pull you as quickly as possible through the bends and twists that often end up in completely dead ends. The pace is brutal, and the pain in your feet makes you bite your lip to keep from crying out.

You do not know what this version of him will do if you tell him you cannot walk any longer. Will he leave you in his place? Will he laugh and simply compel you to do it until your feet are chewed to the point that only bone remains? He may also just revel in your pain and ignore your pleas. It seems likely given his mood today.

You want out of here; this place feels wrong, and every instinct you have tells you to run as far from here as possible. When you run up to another dead end, it suddenly dawns on you.

“It’s a maze,” you caution with a shudder.

“Shit.” Astarion sighs, wracking his fingers through his dirty hair. His eyes drop to your feet, and he grimaces, cocking his head. “We’ll rest here,” he declares, his voice tinged with annoyance.

“Here?” You glance around uneasily. At the very least, you are backed up to a dead end, but there’s no telling what horrors are roaming this place.

“If you have a better idea,” he snaps, “I’m all pointy ears.”

The only better idea you have is that you could use Hellfire to burn this place to the ground, but the warning Asmodeus cautioned with still sits heavily on your consciousness. That, and you would rather Astarion not know about that particular power you possess.

“No,” you say, defeated, sitting down on the still remarkably hard ground. “I don’t have a better idea.”

“I thought not.”

Astarion sits while you keep several orbs of fire that form a ring around you. Another one of those tense silences seems to thicken the air between you. You’re tired, but you don’t think rest will come in a place such as this where the wind echos with pained voices and the shadows appear to twist and undulate as if something is moving through it, just out of sight. Beyond that, you can feel there is magic at work here — old magic — which is only used by a handful of creatures, and none of them are good.

Reluctantly, you grab your ankle to get a look at the bottom of your foot, only to realize it’s been flayed by the land. Your skin hangs in gruesome flaps, and you’re pretty sure you can see the bones. You sigh, picking out shards of obsidian and slivers of crystal and quartz.

You don’t need to look up to know that Astarion is once again watching you with a strange intensity. When you bring your eyes up to look at him, you realize that he’s not exactly staring at you but also through you, leagues away from here. It’s not a look you’ve seen on the Ascendant much before, and it concerns you. Is he listening to the call of Cania? Is the song still howling in his skull, icing over his soul, and infecting his thoughts?

Trying to fit the pieces of your skin together like a grisly jigsaw puzzle is beyond horrific, but you eventually get it as good as it’s going to get, and you press your palm up against the skin and let fire burst forth to cauterize it. You whimper under the pain of it, but bite your tongue to keep it as small and muffled as possible.

“You need blood,” Astarion muses while pointing at your feet, “to heal.”

“Are you offering?”

Astarion chuckles. “The answer will be no until the end of time.”

“Ah, so just making another genius observation then,” you retort. “Where am I going to find blood around here?”

“That’s very much a you problem.” Astarion counters with a smirk. “Take the healing potion.”

You’ve considered it, but it’s the only one you have, and you’re not keen on wasting it. So far, you’ve been lucky not to run into any of the denizens that inhabit this plane. You’re very sure that luck will run out sooner or later.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I quite enjoy watching you suffer. Now, get some rest. I’ll take first watch.”

For once, you do not want to argue with him, and you once again fold Shadowheart’s pack and lay your head on it. It’s hard to find enough peace to rest. You toss and turn for what feels like hours before Astarion groans.

“Will you stop flopping around like a dying fish?”

“I’m trying.” You sigh and gesture to your surroundings. “It’s a little difficult to get comfortable. Maybe you should rest, and I’ll take first watch.”

“Fine by me.” Astarion says, balling his coat up and putting it under his head.

His heartbeat slows and his breathing becomes shallow while he seems to easily slip into his trance despite the disturbing scene around him. Although you wonder if two centuries of being under Cazador’s yolk was worse than some unnatural darkness.

Despite the bawling wind, there is a surreal silence that is as bottomless as the shadows. Your knees come to your chest, and you wrap your arms around yourself while a shiver runs down your spine. It feels like the faces in the trees are watching you through their calcified eyes.

You almost reach out to Astarion to wake him, if only for company, but find yourself enraptured in watching him rest deeply in his trance. The vulnerability of it on this version of him appears almost alien, and for some reason, it seems improper to watch him that way you are.

His eyes move under his closed lids, his brows twitch randomly, and soft sighs sidle from his slightly parted lips. What does this version of him meditate on during his repose? Does he dream of blotting the sun from the sky for his children? Does he hear the whispers of Cania and all the lowly creatures begging to serve?

Like you, because that’s what he sees when he looks at you, isn’t it? Just another lowly creature who awaits his commands with bated breath. Is he wrong though? Even when he isn’t using his compulsion, you still follow him around like a good pup. It doesn’t matter what he’s done to you in the past or the threat he possesses now; you still continue to follow on his heels.

Time slips away from you in the maze, consumed by the crushing darkness and the twisted, calcified trees that seem to shift behind you when you’re not looking. As lost in your thoughts as you are, you don’t realize that Astarion is staring at you until you catch the sharp, predatory eyes that are so listless they almost appear black, glaring at you with unsettling intensity.

“That was quick.”

“I do not require much in the way of sleep any longer,” he says blatantly. “Would you like to get some rest or can you walk?”

You flex your foot experimentally, wincing as you rise to your feet. The ground, even here in this hellish maze, still feels like knives underfoot, but at least you can walk again—albeit clumsily and slowly.

Astarion watches you with a curious mix of contempt and something that almost resembles concern. Almost.

“Don’t overdo it, little spawn,” he mutters. “I won’t carry you if you collapse.”

You shoot him a glare, unwilling to show just how close you are to faltering. The ground beneath you feels like it's slipping away with every step, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you weak.

“I don’t need your help,” you snap, the words coming out sharper than intended. “Let’s just try to get out of here.”

As the maze tightens its grip, the world twists in unnatural ways. You fight to keep pace, the domineering pall wrapping around you like a second skin, while the gnarled trees loom overhead, their branches curling toward you as if eager to pull you in. Every misstep feels heavier, like the earth itself is conspiring to drag you down, but Astarion presses on without a flicker of concern for your struggle. You stumble, and for a split second, his eyes flash back to you—less in worry, more in cold amusement.

Your legs ache and the whispers in the air grow louder, more insistent. They slither through the trees like venomous words, some in voices you almost recognize, others purely monstrous.

Astarion, ever vigilant, leads with the confidence of someone who pretends to know where they’re going. Yet the truth is clear: you’re both lost. But he’ll never admit it. Not to you.

“Stay close,” he commands sharply, his tone leaving no room for defiance. He halts suddenly, his form taut, listening to something you can’t hear.

“What is it?” You whisper.

He throws you a withering glance. “Quiet.” His hand rises in a gesture that isn’t so much protective as it is condescending, as if you’re some child who needs constant supervision. “Something’s coming.”

The flickering orbs of fire you summoned seem to ebb, flickering as if they wish to go out no matter how much power you use, as though whatever approaches has the ability to snuff out even the smallest light. You strain to listen, but the silence of the maze is thick, like it clogs your ears. Then, from deep within the shadows, a whisper reaches you—soft, insidious, and eerily familiar.

“Turn back…”

You freeze. The voice… It sounds like someone you know, though the tone is distorted, twisted by the magic of this place.“

“Turn back…” The whisper repeats, this time louder, clearer. And now, unmistakably, it is your voice.

You glance at Astarion, who remains rigid and alert, though you can tell by his expression that he has heard it too. But he does not acknowledge the voice. Instead, his eyes narrow, and his lips curl into a snarl.

“Do not heed it,” he commands, stepping closer to you. “It’s this place—an illusion meant to draw you in, to confuse you.”

But even as he speaks, the whisper persists. “Turn back… before it’s too late...”

The words slither around you like serpents, and when you look ahead, you see a shadowy figure emerge from between the twisted trees. It’s you—or some twisted version of you. Astarion’s gaze hardens, but there’s no sympathy in it. He steps forward, his fingers curling around your arm, yanking you harshly toward him.

“Do not let it fool you,” he snarls, his grip firm, too firm. “It’s just another trick. This place preys on weakness.”

You try to shake free, but his hold tightens. The figure between the trees steps closer, her hollow eyes locked on yours, pale skin almost glowing in the gloom, clothes tattered and burnt.

“Don’t look at it,” he hisses. “It’s not real.”

“I know,” you say, your voice wavering despite your efforts to stay calm. But the apparition doesn’t disappear. Instead, it steps closer, its movements slow and deliberate, as though it’s stalking you.

“He’s lying to you,” the figure whispers. “He always has.”

You feel a chill run down your spine. The words are not unexpected—Astarion’s lies have always been part of your story—but hearing them from this twisted version of yourself is somehow far more unsettling.

Astarion’s eyes flicker, but his expression remains stony. “Ignore it. You’re stronger than this.”

But the figure steps closer still, her gaze unrelenting. “He’ll betray you. Just like before.”

A knot tightens in your chest. The figure’s words sting because they echo thoughts you’ve tried to bury. You’ve known all along what Astarion is capable of, yet here you are, following him deeper.

He watches you closely now, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not seriously considering this drivel, are you?” His tone is razor-sharp, almost mocking, as if daring you to believe the apparition over him.

The figure shifts, flickering like a candle about to go out, then speaks again, but this time in his voice: “I never cared.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, the maze itself seems to hold its breath too. Astarion’s eyes narrow to slits, and he steps in front of you, blocking the figure from your sight.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he growls, dagger in hand, as he slashes at the illusion. But the figure only fades into mist, reforming just a few steps away, untouched and unbothered by his fury.

Astarion’s frustration is palpable, but before he can attack again, the figure speaks once more—again in his voice: “I never loved you.”

You wince, the words striking deeper than any blade could. It’s not just the sound of his voice, but the way the words reverberate in your chest, reminding you of every moment you doubted.

He turns back to you, his expression a mask of cold disdain. “This is pointless. If you’re going to fall apart every time this place plays with your mind, perhaps I should leave you here.”

The maze may twist reality, but you won’t give it the satisfaction of breaking you. Not now. Not here.

But as you step forward, the apparition lingers just out of sight, whispering truths you’d rather not face, all the while Astarion’s impatience grows sharper, like a knife pressed against your throat, daring you to falter.

Straightening your shoulders, you push past him. “Let’s keep moving,” you say, voice firm despite the tremor beneath it. “We’re getting out of here.”

Astarion watches you for a long moment, and for the first time, there’s something almost resembling respect in his eyes, but it vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual mask of ice.

The path ahead narrows as the shadows seem to close in tighter, wrapping themselves around the air like suffocating tendrils. Every step is a struggle, your legs heavy, your mind foggy with doubt. But still, you press on, unwilling to let the maze swallow you whole. Astarion, ever graceful and composed, moves beside you, though you can feel his growing impatience.

“This place reeks of desperation,” he mutters, his voice barely more than a hiss. “Everything here is clinging to life, yet everything is dead. It’s enough to drive even the most sane souls to madness.”

“It’s a good thing neither of us are sane then,” you say idly.

There is a strange pull in the air that you cannot quite place. It feels wrong somehow, abhorrent, like its presence corrupts anything that dares near. It calls to you like a harpy’s song, though whether it promotes salvation or doom, you cannot say.

Probably doom.

“Something is up ahead,” you whisper as low as possible, grabbing Astarion’s shirt to pull his ear closer to your mouth. “Something powerful.”

“I can feel it too,” he murmurs with a foreboding, flicking his dagger until it rests in his palm comfortably.

As you round a bend in the path, the path shifts and becomes laden with the smell of old blood and decay. You retch, pulling off the side of the path, with your body wracked with heaves. There is nothing in your stomach but bile to vomit. “Stop breathing, idiot.” Astarion grunts.

With the burnout settling into every crack in your being, there is a brief moment where you want to get on your knees and beg him for mercy. You wonder, if you get on your knees and beg him to pretend, if only for a little bit, that he is your husband, would he?

The answer only sends you further into despair. He would laugh and not hesitate to remind you of how fucking pathetic you are.

You say nothing back, not trusting your mouth not to plead with him for just a moment of peace.

A couple of steps, and the trees part just enough to reveal a clearing bathed in sickly green light, and in the center, hunched over a cauldron, is a figure. Her form is grotesque—long, spindly limbs draped in tattered robes, her skin a mottled shade of green, stretched tight over her bones. Two milky, blind eyes jerk toward you at the sound of your footsteps and seem to see straight through you. Her mouth, lined with broken, yellowed teeth, curls into a wicked smile.

A night hag.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

Well, this is going positively swimmingly.

[sylvancastor]

Writing out my preferred way the battle at Rook's Rest should have gone because why not.

The beginning mostly stays the same. Criston signals for Aemond and Vhagar, but Sunfyre arrives first. Aemond sees him fly overhead and is pissed, but he doesn't wait to follow him into battle because he's not an idiot and as much as he wants the crown, he's aware of the intensity of the blow losing Aegon would be to their cause.

Still, Vhagar is slow and has to launch herself off the ground, so Aegon gets their first and has an initial fight with Meleys but Vhagar's quick arrival keeps Sunfyre's injuries from being quite so intense. The two of them attack Meleys side by side, but due to her speed and Rhaenys's expertise, she manages to keep evading them with fairly light damage.

Meleys takes off high into the clouds and Aemond and Aegon follow her. No one can see them from below. Aegon urges Sunfyre to engage directly with Meleys and the two dragons become locked together. Instead of intervening this time, Aemond simply watches as Sunfyre is injured and Aegon cries out for his help. Aemond only watches.

We can see the anger in his eyes. It would be so easy to allow Meleys to kill Aegon and Sunfyre. He could say he did his best, but that Aegon refused to battle carefully. He would be honored after he died and Aemond would become king. Aegon doesn't notice the inaction, too focused on saving Sunfyre and himself. In a desperate move, Aegon unclips one of his restraints to grab the dagger at his side and drives it into Meleys's eye as Rhaenys screams in shock and fury.

Meleys wails and lets go of Sunfyre, dropping out of view. Aegon is triumphant and turns to his brother with a smile. Aemond isn't smiling. We watch as he follows Meleys's descent and decides he's safe for now. He returns his attention to Aegon. It would be so easy to do the deed himself and blame Meleys. He contemplates it only for a split second, but Aegon's face goes from smiling to horror. We think he's understood what Aemond plans to do, but in fact, his eyes are fixed on a sight behind him. Meleys has darted up from behind, mouth open and poised to burn Aemond in his saddle.

Aegon doesn't hesitate. He urges Sunfyre forward and as Meleys breathes out a wall of fire, he throws himself and Sunfyre in front of it to protect Aemond from the blast. Before Aemond can react, Meleys sinks her claws into Sunfyre's chest and pulls him out of sight.

Aemond pursues, but it's too late. Meleys has bit into Sunfyre's wing and Aegon can barely stay in the saddle with his one remaining restraint. Meleys rips her head back breaking off part of Sunfyre's wing and the king and his dragon fall through the air, landing in the forest.

Similarly to the show, Aemond is able to defeat Rhaenys and Meleys on his own after Aegon's fall.

Later on, we learn the only reason Aegon was able to survive was the one remaining restraint held him to the saddle but allowed him to slide off to the side enough to evade some of the dragonfire. He's still burned and in pain. He sacrificed himself for his brother and Aemond can't betray him now. Not when he owes his brother a life debt, not when he's seen how deeply Aegon loves him. He becomes Prince Regent and reconciles himself to forever protecting his brother from this point forward.

[discombobulatedderry]

Silent Burden To Bear

Hello, guys! This one-shot isn't really the common thing for me to write, but I just had to do it, the idea was irresistsible! This idea came from me after I asked my friend, "Does Sevika even know Jinx is dead?" She bawled. And that's where I got this wicked idea. With both of them residing in Piltover now. (I assume?) With Sevika being a councilor now and all. Here's a one-shot for that! It's really the only thing that came to mind.

The bar was a far cry from the rough, dimly lit dives of Zaun. Here, everything was polished wood and brass, the air tinged with expensive cigars and refined whiskey instead of sweat and rust. The lighting was warm but calculated, meant to flatter rather than conceal. The patrons were mostly well-dressed, murmuring in measured tones, their revelry muted compared to the rowdy chaos Sevika was used to.

She sat alone in the back, one arm slung over the booth’s edge, the other nursing a glass of liquor. The prosthetic at her shoulder hummed faintly, fingers tapping idly against the glass.

She had spent the last few months in relative silence, keeping her head down, avoiding the inevitable chaos that came from change. Silco was gone. Zaun had become something else—something softer, something she didn’t quite recognize anymore. And now, she had to play the waiting game, deciding if there was anything left worth fighting for.

That was when Vi walked in.

She wasn’t trying to be subtle. The redhead pushed past groups of well-dressed patrons, the contrast between her and them almost laughable. Boots scuffed against the polished floor, and more than a few glances were thrown her way—disapproving, wary. She ignored them, eyes set on her like she had come here for a reason. Sevika didn’t flinch when Vi finally reached her table, slamming a fist against it with enough force to rattle the empty glass beside her.

“She’s dead,” Vi said, straight to the point. No preamble, no hesitation.

Sevika’s grip on her glass stilled. A muscle in her jaw twitched, but she didn’t look up right away. The words settled, sinking into her chest like lead. She had known Jinx for years—even before Silco took her in, before she fully became what she was. Sevika had seen the girl’s slow descent, the way she clung to madness like it was armor.

And now, she was gone.

“How?” The question was flat, devoid of emotion.

Vi’s expression darkened, her eyes scanning Sevika’s face like she was searching for something—anything—that showed she cared. Sevika knew how this looked. She wasn’t the type to wear grief on her sleeve. That wasn’t who she was. But inside, something coiled tight, cold and unmoving.

“She fell,” Vi admitted, voice thick. “Trying to save me.”

Vi swallowed hard. “We were in it deep, and she—she didn’t hesitate. I tried to pull her back, but she…they both went down.”

Sevika clicked her tongue, finally looking at Vi. “So that’s how it ends. No big showdown, no fireworks. Just a stupid fall.” She scoffed, shaking her head. “Tch. Could’ve told you it’d end messy.”

Vi’s face twisted. “She didn’t have to.”

A bitter chuckle left Sevika’s throat. “That damned kid.” She shook her head, rolling her shoulders back stiffly, before gruffly saying, “Jinx was always gonna burn out fast. You just finally ran out of ways to pull her back.”

Vi’s fists clenched at her sides. “You don’t get to act like this doesn’t mean anything.”

Sevika tilted her head, expression unreadable. “You came here looking for what, exactly? Some kind of confession? A damn tear?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “Loss is loss, Vi. Doesn’t change a damn thing.” She tried to keep her voice steady, which miraculously worked out somehow.

Her voice was steady, but there was something behind it—something that trembled just beneath the surface. It wasn’t anger, but something quieter, more somber, the kind of grief that couldn’t be shouted, only carried in the silence. Sevika was no stranger to pain, but showing it, feeling it out loud, had never been her way. Yet, in that moment, the cracks in her armor were undeniable.

But feeling and showing were two different things.

Vi’s glare wavered, shoulders dropping slightly. She had come here expecting a fight, maybe some half-hearted condolences. But Sevika was as she had always been—a wall of steel, unyielding, refusing to let anyone see past the cracks.

“Did you care about her?” Vi finally asked, and this time, it wasn’t an accusation. Just a question.

Sevika exhaled, rubbing a hand down her face. Her face crumpled a bit before the action, which suggested that she did feel. Her eyes suddenly shone transparently before she coughed gruffly.  “More than she ever knew.”

She finished her drink in one slow, measured gulp. “Tell me where she is.”

Vi hesitated. “Why?”

Sevika met her eyes, her tone as blunt as ever. “Because if she’s gone, someone should at least say goodbye.”

And for once, Vi didn’t argue.

They sat there for a while, saying nothing. Just drinking. The silence stretched between them, not comfortable, but not unbearable either. The kind of silence only shared by those who knew the weight of loss.

Vi swirled the amber liquid in her glass, snorting. “Piltover bars are garbage. Too clean, too quiet. Feels like I should be signing some contract instead of getting drunk.”

Sevika let out a rough chuckle, shaking her head, wincing at the word. “Don’t talk to me about contracts now.” She took another sip, rolling the taste over her tongue before setting the glass down. “Obnoxious people, through and through. Bastards.”

Vi smirked, lifting her drink in mock salute, playful sarcasm rolling off in waves. “Woah, okay, Councilor.”

Sevika huffed, clinking her glass against Vi’s. “Like you can mock me when you have a Kiramman on your side.”

Vi only smirked knowingly, before chuckling and drinking up– as they talked.

Awkwardly at first, and yet…

For the first time that night, the tension lifted—just a little.

A/N:

Okay, this probably must've sucked, I just had to let it out. Sorry I couldn't prolong their conversation, was too drained to even try. Hope you enjoyed this one though. I don't have a consistent schedule, but I'll try every Fridays.

As always, stay cool.

[insane-brit]

Royalty (Ch. 2)

Muzan Kibutsuji x Soulmate!Fem!reader

Park Links: Prologue, Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three

Tags/Warnings: Enemies to lovers, semi slow burn, dark story/themes, violence, fighting, mentions of prostitution/entertainment, anxiety, shock, anger, flashback.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word count: 2.7K

The trek to Yoshiwara felt almost effortless despite her interpersonal matters. Her mind was consumed with staring at the thread protruding from her wrist. Receiving this gift bestowed upon her kept her from an ounce of rest that night. She marveled at the tie and couldn’t help the flurry of questions that infiltrated her mind. As much as she prided herself in problem-solving and anything clever, her intellect was stumped. Regardless, she thanked whatever higher power for this opportunity that had forsaken her from a young age.  

She kept her promise to Tengen as much as she wanted to find him and ramble about the occurrence. He would be happy for her but the nagging in her mind knew that it would be selfish to present this information to him when his wives were in potential danger. When the sun broke through the horizon and dawn showed its lovely face, she packed her things and set off. It had been a day or two and the path ahead was cracked. Clear evidence was strewn about of it being a well-traveled route. She supposed that was a good thing. The blazing heat caused sweat to bead along her forehead and nape. Pulling on her haori, she fanned herself in a fruitless attempt to circulate air. 

It wouldn’t be long before she reached the district. The pit in her stomach from the night her thread appeared was still apparent. She thought that it was her intuition expecting something to happen. That something being the appearance of her soul tie, but with every passing minute, it never ceased. She had attempted to suppress the feeling while remaining cautious, but it would relapse and grow every time she tried to forget it. It caused her to lash out at a poor maple tree the previous night. Her Nichirin sword left deep grooves in the bark as she unleashed her irritability and unease. Lucky for her the outburst did not harm her blade. She did not have the time nor patience to deal with Haganezuka and his damned vengeance that would be seeking her blood. That man would know the moment any of his blades even had a scratch and the next minute he’d be screaming obscenities with steel to your throat. Sighing, she chuckled at the thought. He cared for his work, and she admired him for that.

The sun continued its descent to the horizon, the atmosphere growing ever so slightly cooler as she pursued the winding path. The tree’s canopy bestowed some shade upon her figure and a faint breeze accompanied the peaceful atmosphere. If she had to guess, she would make it to Yoshiwara a bit after the sun's rays faded under the vista. Perfect timing on her part and she mentally patted herself on the back.

The shade around her grew until it covered the terrain and a chill shot down her spine. The breeze blew some wisps of hair in front of her face. Caressing her features as she clutched the Tsuka of her blade. The ray skin was coarse against her palm and she gripped it until her knuckles turned white. There was virtually no sound. The birds were silent, cicadas halted their clamor, and all that was heard was the fluttering of leaves. Her heart was in her throat threatening to claw its way out, but she was static. Eyes swept across the dense foliage, searching for the source that caused much attentiveness. 

The crunching and rustling of leaves and twigs promptly made itself known as a commotion rapidly approached her stable form. The movement of air being cut resounded to her right and she swerved as an amalgamation of leathery skin settled in the spot she once stood. Its landing kicked up filth and a cloud of dust blew upwards. Eyes hardening, she readied herself as it subsided. Revealing one of the more grotesque demons she has ever had the pleasure of encountering. Its frame was thin, skin stretched over its bones. Back turned to her, it jolted, and she could hear cracking as its limbs moved unnaturally. The bending of tendons and grinding of joints had her mentally winching. 

“Wretched thing.” She seethed, angling her katana. The blade flashed in the dying rays of the sun and the emerging moonlight that peaked through the canopy. It snapped its head towards her, the eyes were pitch black with a single prick of white in the center and a red line streaked across it. A smile, full of needle-like teeth stretched as it locked its gaze onto her. It darted back and forth between her face and sword. If it was even possible, the grin got wider. 

“A Hashira,” its voice was grainy and sandpaper-like. “Lucky me.” 

She growled lowly and gritted her teeth. How revolting, and to think she was almost to her destination without getting into any trouble.

“I think you’ll find yourself unlucky.”  Digging her foot into the dirt she lunged at the monstrosity. Its face contorted in what looked to be glee before parrying her attack. Retaliating in a flurry of precise assaults aimed to incapacitate the slayer. She veered away with ease and brought her foot up, slamming it into its chest. Staggering backward it groaned, hesitating, and looking stunned. 

“Come on demon!” She hissed and swung her blade. The demon dodged and glared at her. Not making any sudden moves and being motionless. She furrowed her brows and kicked up dust to distract it. Why wasn’t it trying harder? It’s not even moving. 

She had advanced behind it and leaped. Readying her blade to strike its vital point. To sever its head from its neck and watch its twisted body disintegrate. It cocked its head towards her. Eyes wide and mouth stretched into a tight line. It seemed like it was forcibly constant. It raised its arm in a futile attempt to block as she sliced right through the flesh like butter despite its appearance. 

The body stiffened and collapsed in a heap as the head rolled. Coming to a stop a few feet away from her. She watched the expression on its face contort in a multitude of emotions.  “To think, for a second I thought you would’ve fought harder.” She smirked and sheathed her sword. It still looked at her. An expression of shock and something she couldn’t recognize. Frowning, she dusted herself off before turning away from the slowly deteriorating demon. 

“The progenitor.” it rasped. 

She halted and looked over her shoulder. Confusion and agitation were written across her face. 

“His presence,” it choked out as its mouth started to turn to ash. “Hashira, you- “

“Enough with your delusions demon!” she hissed and glowered at the lowly creature. “Whatever scheme you’re planning in death will not deface me in any way. You mutter nonsense and plead to the thing you call Master.” 

For a demon who appeared so delighted in the prospect of fighting a slayer earlier, it was quite a weak and depressing display. Begging for its Master, Kibutsuji Muzan, and conniving to bring her into the ordeal. Maybe it was going to threaten her. Regardless, she cut it off before it could utter its last words. The lower half of its face was gone, and the rest engulfed itself into cinders. Surroundings quiet once more, she stood there staring at where the demon once lay. Disgust and unease flooded her bloodstream. 

She shuffled from one foot to the other. Mulling over the limited words the demon spoke. Sure, these creatures threatened people, especially slayers, but she can't recall one ever mentioning him in their final moments. She had to admit, it was odd, but it had to just be trying to strike fear into her. Which ultimately failed. Kibutsuji was a master at evading the corps or he was just a coward. The only one to have seen him in ages was Tanjiro and he should be thankful to be alive. If she ever came face to face with the creator of these things she wouldn’t hesitate to fight to her dying breath. That was the oath she pledged long ago, and she would be damned if she broke it. However, killing his creations would suffice for now. Taking in her surroundings, she groaned realizing she would arrive later than she hoped. 

————————————————————————

The streets of the district were flooded with people. Loud chattering and bright lights evaded her senses as she took it all in. It had been a while since she walked its streets, but not much had changed. There were still the festivities, women entertaining avaricious men and hidden trades. Pulling out some of the letters Tengen gave her, she skimmed through them and made note of the houses each wife “belonged” to. Tokito, Kyogoku, and Ogimoto. Three of the top houses in the district. 

She stepped out into the crowd, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the sheer number of bodies. It seemed that wherever she looked, more people spawned and searched for whatever kind of entertainment suited them. It felt almost impossible that she was ever going to find clues to where Tengen’s wives may be.  Much less encounter them. Going straight up to the houses didn’t feel like the best idea to her. She didn’t want to deal with the heads. Besides, if they were missing, she doubted they would know anything. Much less disclose that information to a random woman on the streets. She would have to wait for the pathways to clear if she dared try and use her forms. Even then it may attract attention, but she had to do it. She made a promise.

Pushing through the waves of people, she excused herself a multitude of times before falling silent. Opting to stick to the edge of the crowd to avoid getting swept away by its tide. Her sword had been tucked under her haori and she held it close to her side almost protectively. It brought a sense of comfort as she knew that having it meant being able to dispatch almost anything if she felt it was necessary. 

Gripping the hilt, she flinched at the sudden pressure in her wrist. Looking down, she observed her thread and saw that it had tightened slightly. Pupils blown she jerked her head up. Looking at it as it weaved itself through the crowd of passersby.  

Are they here?

Following the line, she saw that it led to a prominent house in the district, the Kyogoku House. She felt a slight pang in her heart at the thought of her soulmate engaging with other women, but maybe that wasn’t the case. She reassured herself and stepped through the crowd. A few people rammed into her, and others mumbled vulgar things as she excused herself. Just checking wouldn’t hurt right? She couldn’t make much progress in the way of using her forms to locate Suma, Makio, and Hinatsuru until the masses died down anyway. At least, that’s what she told herself. Truth be told she was often unable to restrain herself when it came to certain things. Though rare, this was one of those times, but she would never admit that. 

Freeing herself from the horde she continued following the glowing fiber. It darted around a corner and felt tauter than ever before. She leaned against the wall of a building and took a deep breath. Her feet felt heavy as she stepped out from the corner. The area before her was dark. Not terribly so, but devoid of more people than the street behind her. A few mingled about and the lights gave off a subtle amber. Only illuminating a few feet away from their position. Surveying the scene, she followed the string as it stopped where darkness met light. 

A man stood there, back facing her. An obvious line hovered between them. Bleeding a scarlet hue. She squinted and stepped forward trying to get a better look at the man, but as her eyes adjusted, she froze. 

Air caught in her lungs, and she found it hard to breathe. Her mind went blank save for all but one memory. 

 ————————————————————————

Sitting next to his hospital bed at the Butterfly Mansion, she smiled softly at the young boy. He was bright, and his spirit spoke for him. It was quite rare to see such a youthful soul full of compassion and determination in the face of danger. 

“Tanjiro,” she started looking slightly downcast. “May I ask you a question?” 

He regarded her with that same smile and nodded his head. “Of course!”

Sucking in a breath, she looked away before locking her eyes with his. 

“What did Kibutsuji look like?” 

The smile that graced his face downturned as he gazed at his hands. Gripping the sheets until she swore, he would tear them. It was an immediate switch and fury radiated off him. He clenched his jaw as she went to speak but he cut her off before a sound could be uttered from her mouth. 

“Human,” he exhaled. “Completely human.” 

Cocking her head, she furrowed her brows. “What do you mean?” 

“He blended in with everyone. No one could tell that he was a demon. Only me,” the fire in his eyes smoldered as he continued. “His eyes were a deep red, black hair that hung closer to his shoulders in the front, pale skin, and he wore a black patterned suit with a white hat.” 

She could see him slightly shaking at the mention of Kibutsuji. Not from fear. It was anything but fear. 

At that moment she felt terrible. She had heard from Tomioka briefly about what had transpired in the mountains with Tanjiro’s family. Later, Tanjiro filled in the missing details himself. She felt reluctant to have learned of such an event as it felt too personal, but if he discerned her to be someone he could confide in, she wouldn’t turn him away. 

“I’ll kill him if it’s the last thing I do,” he seethed. “He’ll pay for what he’s done.” 

Remaining silent she observed him. Reaching out she put her hand on his shoulder. A means of comforting the boy, however, deep down she knew that no amount of comfort could close a wound so deep. Giving him a soft smile, she stood up. 

“I believe in you but be careful,” he looked up at her. The fire slowly smothered itself out. “You’re a good person but don’t get ahead of yourself. Your sister needs you. The corps needs you. There’s been too many people lost.” 

He studied her expression before giving her another big smile. “Right, of course!”

Regarding him with a nod of her head she turned to leave but paused. “And Tanjiro, just know you’re not alone.” 

 ————————————————————————

Bile rose and burned her throat. Swallowing her tongue was the only thing keeping her from retching. One hand pulled at her collar and the other shakily reached for the Tsuka of her Katana, the world around her seemed to slow and fall away. Gaze solely focused on the man feet away from her.

Jet black suit. A rustic gold pattern on parts.

Her eyes darted around. 

White hat.

She sucked in a breath.

Sickly skin. Dark hair.

Blood trickled and filled her mouth with iron as teeth punctured her lower lip. 

Mind racing, she pleaded for him to not turn around. This had to be a mistake. A coincidence even. There was no way this could be the same man that Tanjiro described. That this could be Kibutsuji. There had to be many others out there who looked similar. Her chest hurt from how hard her heart pounded. It was in her ears and a cold chill ran through her body. 

He appeared to be contemplating. Clearly sensing her gaping at him. Cocking his head in her direction, he fully pivoted it towards her. The coiling pit that constricted her stomach like a snake snapped. Her eyes went wide, and her mouth parted slightly. A choked noise fell on deaf ears. 

His gaze locked with hers and carnage churned in them.

The attachment tightened, locking. Signifying what she dreaded and didn’t want to admit once she feasted her eyes on him. 

His eyes were a cavernous crimson.

His pupils were slits. 

[dr-d-of-team-blu]

BLU Tea

    "Thank you." Frank's voice was quiet, scratchy. He could hardly raise it above a whisper. Heinz had given him something for the pain, & Sasha had brought his samovar for the tea. Heinz could see the tension melt from Frank's shoulders with the first sip, the cup held gingerly in his large hands.

    "No thank yous." Sasha said, matching Frank's volume. Heinz watched him move around the small room, trawling through the darkness. He was slow, careful, his body a weapon but his heart so soft. Frank needed that softness right now,

    "A thank you is unnecessary right now," Heinz said when Frank's face twisted into a scowl, "Because we are simply doing what is expected of us, as your teammates." Heinz took his own cup from Sasha with a simple nod of his head.

    Frank said nothing. Even with Heinz's instructions to not strain himself the pain was ever present. So, instead, he took a sip of his tea. Heinz had requested extra honey, as well as lemon, for Frank's tea. If he disliked it, he didn't show it.

    "Small sips, Herr Soldier. Do not stress your jaw." Heinz mumbled. He was a nurse, he was no stranger to providing verbal comfort & kind words to patients. And yet his throat closed up at the mere thought of saying anything else but medical advice to Frank. He didn't dare mention the current situation, not because of his own anger, but because there was nothing he could say. Pyro had already provided more comfort than he ever could, & he was certain Frank had heard all sorts of empty platitudes from the people in his phone.

    A message flashed across his screen. He had dropped his phone onto the bed next to Frank, & the glass screen lit up the small, military-esque room.

Soldier: Do you hate me?

    Frank dropped his phone back into his lap. For once, he did not wear his helmet & his eyes were boring into Heinz's soul, as if he could see right past his mask.

    "Herr Soldier," Heinz said simply, slowly, "I do not see a point in hating you."

Soldier: A point?

    Heinz slid a hand underneath his mask, rubbing at his eyes, "Let me tell you something, Soldier. I was born after the Great War. My mother was Silesian, of Polish descent, & my father was a handsome German soldier, conscripted at a young age. They met at war, fell in love in a difficult time. They were not good people, either of them, but my father was disillusioned with his country. He was a deserter, he ran from all of his problems and the army was one of them. War did not agree with him, but love did, so he married my mother. Were they enemies? Yes. Were they in love? Even more so."

    Heinz looked around the room, his breath coming short & shallow. He had never mentioned his family before, excpet for brief moments of complaining. He couldn't even begin to guess how much of that complianing anyone had remembered, he was far from the most memorable member of the team after all. For all he knew, this conversation would die out in this room, never make it past the threshold. And yet he couldn't shake the anxiety. What good could this bring? But, on the off chance that it made Frank feel better, wasn't it worth sharing?

    Heinz took in a deep breath, staring at Frank through the eyeholes of his mask, "Do I hate them? More than anything, but not for those reasons. You know I am not the best person to turn to, in the department of love. But I do not hate easily either. War is a cruel, pointless thing, and sometimes you participate just because you have to. Sometimes you agree with what you are fighting for, sometimes you do not, & sometimes you learn to hate the reason along the way. Sometimes, you learn to love the reason, even if you were taught to hate it." Frank didn't correct him. Whether it was love or friendship, it simply didn't matter at this point.

    "I do not know what I am getting at here. I do not hate you, nor do I hate your RED friend. I do not like the REDs, but I also do not hate them. I do not hate Dallas or Caz. I do not hate you, Frank. I do not think I ever could." Frank said nothing, and Heinz was glad that his throat disallowed him from raising his voice. He watched the man pick up his phone again, tapping away at it. He would write for a few seconds, then stop, then he would erase it only to start again. Sasha watched him with pursed lips & pinched eyebrows, but much like Heinz he didn't dare interrupt. He had a better view of what Frank was writing, so when Sasha smiled, Heinz felt a weight drop from his shoulders.

    And when Frank was done, a new message showed up on the screen of Heinz's phone:

Soldier: Thanks

    Heinz found himself smiling as well, a rarity, "No thank yous, Herr Soldier. We are only doing what we must, as your teammates." And Frank smiled back.

~~==~~==~~==~~==

This little story is also on AO3, so show it some love there too!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61904383