#so its true the crying is unrelated

[catboybiologist]

Hey it's a life update that probably no one cared about or asked for

tl;dr: I'm likely quitting my PhD via mastering out, and leaving my program in June.

sappy, overly emotional vent/explanation:

I'm wrapping up my first quarter as an out-of-the-closet trans woman. I've had some serious conversations about where me and my work stand. This was always my intention after coming back from my summer hiatus/social transition: see how "reentry" works, and then assess from there.

For those that don't know, PhDs in the US take 5-7 years. Oftentimes, however, they either give you a master's along the way, or give you an option to quit halfway through with a master's. I'm in my 3rd year and have more than enough to use that option. I've toyed with this idea before, but it feels a bit different now. Last year, I was burned out from science, my project was failing, and I was under constant stress of boymoding and remaining in the closet. Now, I'm out and proud, and I deeply love my project and find it exciting. I fixed some things.

Unfortunately, I have a recurrent problem. Whenever something goes wrong in my life, the first thing to drop off is my ability to drive forward my own thesis project in a coherent way. What the actual problems are vary, but that motif stays the same. I could list off what's going on right now, but I think y'all can assume a bit of what a mid-20s, broke, recently transitioned trans woman in the US is going through at the moment. There's a lot of specifics, of course, but I'm not at liberty to say most of it.

So I'm looking around and realizing I have scraps of half finished projects, I've given support and help for other people's projects.... and then made little progress on my actual thesis. It's enough to pull together into a master's thesis, and maybe even another paper or two, but.... not a PhD.

And then there's the other side of it. The nicer reasons. Could I stay here, buckle down, maybe add years to my degree, and get through it? Probably. But honestly? I don't really want to put myself through that now. It used to be that academics was all I had. It was all my failures and all my successes. It's what I threw myself at, because I genuinely had nothing else going on. Since transitioning, the world seems so much more beautiful and rich, so much more complex and vast, with so much more to do in it. I've even had more negative experiences unrelated to academia, and while they've sucked, they've shown me that life is so much bigger than it was before.

To be blunt, to experience more of my life... it helps to have money, and it helps to have career stability. It's not the only factor by far, but certainly one defining moment when making this decision was trying to create a timeline and budget for transition related surgeries, and realizing that its near impossible in grad school.

Not to be dramatic, but I've also had a couple extremely jarring experiences in the past year that are reminded me that life is short. And I want at least some time to enjoy it.

My heart is honestly broken here, and I'm feeling extremely emotional about this. I love my lab, my colleagues, the environment of doing research, and my project. But I'm realizing that it might not be viable, or what makes me the happiest at the moment. I'm genuinely a bit distraught, and I've been crying a lot for the past few days. A lot of me feels like this is what I am, and this is what I'm good for. That I'm failing myself and every mentor that got me here. Some part of me knows that isn't true, some part of me can't let go of those feelings.

But, I know this doesn't mean "never". So many of the people in my program are significantly older than me, coming back later in life to get their degrees. I'm honestly almost positive that I'll come back to a PhD someday if I quit now. In my 30s or beyond, I think that I'll be able equipped to handle it much better.

So what's next?

Obviously, nothing is decided, and I'm just spitballing here. But I'm honestly shocked at how many viable options I have, in a very good way. A cursory scroll of Indeed was honestly therapeutic. As I said, I still love the academic research environment. I just need more money and stability, and would prefer to have a slightly different relationship to the work I do than a thesis project. Ideally, I would want to be a staff researcher in an institute or academic lab. That lets me keep a lot of the things I like about what I do now, while also making literally 2-3 times the money and having a more stable position.There's positions out there that maximize the contexts I'm the strongest and happiest with, while still being more steady and paying more. Hell, even if my responsibilities were identical, but I had more pay, I could probably more effectively address the personal problems I'm going through right now. I'm gonna stay in California for a lot of reasons, and I'm lucky that there's so many options within the state.

I have a bit of an oddball set of experience. I'll actually have two nonoverlapping master's if I do this. I already have a MS in bioinformatics, which was granted by a CS department. But my current program is in more "pure" molecular and cell biology. I'll have 5 years of grad school, 8.5 years of research experience if I include undergrad research, and instead of a PhD, 2 MSs. Which is kinda funny. But it think it helps represent my experience for what it is. I like to consider myself a "full stack" bioinformaticist- someone who can do both the experimental and analysis portions of experiments that produce large data. Hopefully I'll be able to put that to good use.

I have a lot of professional contacts that I'll slowly be reaching out to over the course of the next 6 months while I tie things up. I know this is a wildshot on tumblr of all places, but if anyone has any recommendations, advice, or contacts, I'm all ears- both for professional and job hunt related things, and also the emotional state I'm in right now.

Thank you to everyone that's made up this wonderful community we have online. I hope I'm not letting anyone down. I'll still be a biologist, I'll still be my trans self. I just won't be "Doctor" anytime soon.

[munefille]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥

yandere!m.merman x gn.reader

cw: mentions of death, disturbing imagery

as a fish takes refuge inside an oyster, it sees only the chance to hide from the unforgiving water within the calm mollusk, unaware of the true nature of its biology. unfortunately for the fish, the oyster has already activated its unique defense mechanism, encasing the fish as an immortal, precious pearl.

The rhythmic push and pull of the tides never failed to lull you into a state of mild stupor. Soft, slightly cool sand cushioned you while a gentle breeze brushed past your cheek and played with your hair. The day was only moderately gloomy, a grey tinted sky hanging over you as the clouds came and went, the sun nowhere to be seen. Still, you almost liked it better like this. The beach was more private, freer without the confines of eyes watching it.

Your calloused feet hopped onto the rocky shore, leaving the inviting sand disturbed as a sign of your presence. The salty ocean scent intensified the closer you came to the evermoving water. You stood atop the tallest rock, attempting to scan the waves at your vantage point, searching for your most curious find.

At last, peeking out from between the waves, did you spot the partially submerged head of your friend. His black eyes were trained on your form, no doubt watching you long before you noticed him.

A grin emerged across your face. "I see you!" you called, motioning for him to come closer as you waded into the water. The eyes disappeared beneath the tide at your request.

You felt him before you could see him, smooth scales wrapping around your leg in a firm hold. He reappeared directly in front of you, inky black eyes mere inches away from your own.

The creature's appearance was a far cry from the mermaids of your childhood, beautiful human women who happened to have a tail as their bottom half. No, he hardly mirrored the sentimental fairytale. You noticed his eyes first, sclera and pupil alike darkened together as they melded into each other- then you noticed his rubbery flesh stretched taunt across his sharp bones, with pale, sallow skin, nearly as grey as a corpse. You initially thought that's what he had been when he simply peered at you from afar, unmoving and unblinking against the rocking sea. He was just humanoid enough to lure concerned passersby like yourself deeper into the water, yet not quite passable as human.

In a closer vicinity, as you are now, you could see small scales dotting his cheeks and neck. Under the right light they appeared as little moons, revealing an opalescent luster that you could only describe as ethereal.

"Hello," you greeted with a wide close-lipped smile. Last time you had bared your teeth at him ended with him misunderstanding your friendliness for a threat. You weren't sure if he could talk, but that didn't stop you from trying to make conversation. You had a feeling he understood you to an extent anyways.

The mercreature tilted his head sideways in response, sleek, wet dark hair falling over his shoulder. An inscrutable expression remained plastered on his features; one you gave up trying to interpret using human facial language.

Silky scales gently tugged you further into the waves towards a rocky mass that stood above the crashing water. The current strengthened, oscillating you to its whims, but the guidance of the unyielding sea creature kept you from being swept away entirely. Although you would consider yourself a strong swimmer, you knew you would never compare to a creature born of the water, one who moved so in tune to the sea that his lithe form became indistinguishable from the tides.

Finally, you reached the rocks, gripping the relatively dry surface for relief from the unrelenting waters. You found a comfortable position on them, resting your upper body while you let your legs dangle. The mercreature remained below, lower half of his face once again concealed under the water, leaving only his unblinking eyes visible. His body underneath the water became obscured even further by the dark ring of hair that floated around him. Those eyes regarded you with scrutinizing intensity that would've resembled a predator, had you thought hard enough about it.

"What a nice view-" you began, but the thought was cut short when your companion pulled himself below the water, disappearing from your sight almost completely, save for the movement in the water that signified a strong tail pushing against it.

Confusion laced your face. The few minutes he had gone was enough to make you worry. Why had he left so abruptly? Surely he would be back? You weren't certain you could swim back to shore on your own. Although you trusted him- in fact, you would even consider him a friend- doubt from his apparent unpredictability lingered. After all, you had no way to reliably communicate, nor were you sure if your opinion of your relationship was mutual.

Your concerns vanished as he broke the surface of the water, swimming towards the rocks with something that gleamed as the light hit it.

He stopped at your feet, lifting the object slowly up to you. If you hadn't known better, you'd say the action seemed almost shy.

A gasp left you as you got a view of it. In his webbed, slender fingers lay a glistering mass of refined pearl, hints of color dancing across it the glossy surface. Distantly, you recalled that the creature's scales were of the same material. It resembled an anatomically correct heart. Never before had you seen a pearl shaped in such a way, nor did you know how it could've been, or why the shape was so accurate, even down to the imprint of the vessels. It was as if the thing had been pulsating. Why was it so accurate?

The beautiful piece was presented to you like a gift, so you had gladly accepted. You collected it from the awaiting hands. The coolness of it nearly burned you as it touched your flesh, the brilliant iridescence of it stealing your attention away from the faint scent of iron permeating the breeze. It distracted you from the bloody teeth of the now grinning merman, sharp rows glinting bright cardinal red. You thought nothing of the diluted red in the dark water, seeping towards your feet. The sinking body below, twisted and stuck eternally in a cry for help, was lost to you as you held the glimmering heart with reverence.

_____________________________✧_______________________________

i love creepy mermaids

[florenceafternoon]

━。゜✿ jily fic recommendations ✿ ゜。━

Thank you to all the authors who share their wonderful stories with us. I hope this list reminds you that I come back to these stories often and that your words are loved by many.

As always, these fics are set in the wizarding world but aren’t necessarily canon compliant.

For reference, anything in italics is taken from the summaries.

A Hundred Visions and Revisions by @yallthemwitches

She loves him like this: sleepy, slap happy, sometimes a bit handsy but willing to meet her where she’s at in the moment. It’s the quiet moments like this that keep her going sometimes, knowing that whatever is happening out there will disappear by the end of the day when they can hold each other again.

To live for the hope of it all

Whispers in the Dark also by yallthemwitches

When Lily is awarded her prefect badge in fifth year, they warn her that James Potter has a talent for disappearing... but if that's true, why does he keep coming to her night after night, hoping to be caught?

Until the Light Takes Us also by yallthemwitches

A series of drabbles and fics following the prompt of Jilytober Fest 2024.

color theory by @clare-with-no-i

Lily Evans learns about love: its hues, its tints, its shades. Some disappoint. Some dazzle.

falling (for fools) by @jjameslily

She hated him. Hated his confidence, his messy charm, the way he managed to take up space even when he wasn’t saying a word.

Absolutely. Totally. Without question.

But, as much as she tried to focus, she couldn’t shake the nagging thought.

She’d never noticed just how distracting James Potter could be.

don’t let it make you cry also by jjameslily

Her eyes glistened, the love within her radiating from her. She let it ripple outward, weaving her spirit into the air around him, reaching beyond the veil, hoping he—Harry, their son—would feel it not as a ghost of a fleeting memory, but as a pulse. Alive. Real.

Quid Pro Quo by StarsAndDiamond (on ao3)

Lily Evans was not ready to go home for her sister's Christmas engagement, but she wasn't the only one up late at night in the common room.

Sharper Than Hope by @maraudersftw

“You’re…” A lick of lips; something sharper than hope on my tongue; another attempt. “You fancy me?”

every single time by @gigglesandfreckles-hp

Unrelated drabbles, fics, ficlets, and word dumps in response to jilytober 2024 prompts

2, 5, 10, 11, 12, 16, 19, 21, 27, 29 and 30 are my favourites

Lucky Number 7 by zipadeea (on ao3)

Lily Evans thought life at Hogwarts was busy enough for her, what with Prefect duties and N.E.W.T classes and meetings with the Slug Club. Then, Marlene convinces her to try out for the Gryffindor quidditch team.

Written because James was a Chaser, and I'm convinced Harry's athletic abilities come from both sides of the family tree.

crawl home by @annabtg

He doesn’t know if he’s alive or dead. All he knows is that he wants to go home.

Exhale by @petalsthefish

"Shhh," James leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. "I’m so sorry, but I have to set the bones again. It’s okay to cry, you're doing so well. So well, baby."

"Fuck," she whimpered through her tears. "I hate this."

"I know, I know," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I hate this too, sweetheart."

Masquerade also by petalsthefish

James was going to jinx Sarah Hitchkes.

It was Sarah Hitchkes who conceived the entire idea, driven by two main motives. First, it was a fun and creative way for everyone to showcase their Patronuses. Second, it gave her the perfect excuse to throw a massive party. Scheduled for July 31st at her sprawling estate, the event was open to all the sixth- and seventh-year students. She dubbed it the “Patronus Party,” and it was set to be the social highlight of the summer—provided you could produce a corporeal Patronus.

this trope will always be a favorite of mine

Coincidence also by petalsthefish

“You look miserable.” Mary commented, noting Lily’s bored expression.

"I need to make out with someone like I need to breathe." Lily Evans hissed as she swirled her butterbeer and peered around the bar.

"James Potter's free."

In Their Short Time by @hogwartslivy

It was one hell of a love story. One that had a most tragic, untimely ending. They could never have guessed as mere children sitting across from one another on the train, all excitement and nerves and emotions, that their stories, all hopes and fears and loves, were to be forever intertwined.

Something Old Something New by @chiechie97

Weddings are the most beautiful things in the world. Unless you accidentally end up at your ex... somethings house to play violin at a family wedding.

Lily Evans just wants to get payed and go home to her cat. Perhaps she should have asked more questinos about the location and clients of her string quartets latest gig.

It’s Always You by @joyseuphoria

5 times jily kissed before they started dating

I'll keep your brittle heart warm by Iphigenniaa (on ao3)

Lily Evans didn't have to wash the blood off her hands that night, but she did have to wash the burning odor from her clothes, which seemed to soak even her own insides.

A Life With You by @kay-elle-cee

A Jily Lives AU collection of small moments from Hogwarts onwards, using the 31 Jilytober tumblr prompts.

7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 15, 17, 18, 20, 22, 24, 29 and 30 are my favourites

don't forget me by blackcanarys (on ao3)

At the height of the First Wizarding War, Lily Evans finds herself contemplating life, death and her mortality after a routine Order mission in 1978.

It's All Politics by acciosalmon (on ao3)

The most constant emotional sentiment in Lily's Hogwarts career was her complete and utter loathing of one William Mulciber

I have yet to read this one, but it was recomended to me because it explores how jily's power dynamic is altered when James isn't potraied as white but Lily is

[fettuccinealfred0]

Til Death Do Us Part | Part 6

Series Masterlist

Astarion x f!reader, Arranged Marriage AU

Word Count: 14.5k

(CW: SMUT 18+, vampire biting/blood drinking, unprotected p in v sex)

Summary:

“Fine, you want honesty?” Astarion's voice takes on a desperate, forlorn quality. “I ache for you down to my very soul. I feel as if my heart is clawing its way out of my chest and I’m powerless to stop it. Love is a sickness and you have infected me and for that, I despise you and I despise myself for ever being so weak.”

He sounds half like he’s accusing you and half like he’s exalting you. 

“I have experienced the worst forms of torture and yet, this past week without you has made me wish my suffering had a tangible wound,” he continues. “My heart does not beat and yet I feel it flutter in my chest when you are near. I do not need to breathe and yet I feel as if I am suffocating when we are apart. You are stubborn and impudent and reckless. You are lovely and clever and kind, beneath it all. I fear I will spend the rest of my life trying to fall out of love with you.”

Trying to fall... out of love with you. Which means... he's currently in love with you.

Read on ao3 here.

You hardly ever see Astarion anymore. It feels as if you’re simply going through the motions of your life, trapped in a haze. 

Obviously I haven’t been thinking clearly from the blood loss or I would have never let you touch me! 

You shouldn’t have spoken to him like that. It wasn’t even true. 

In reality, you greedily took every scrap of affection that Astarion was willing to offer you. But he had been cutting at your heart so painfully and the only way you knew how to make it stop was to make him hurt, too. 

You miss him. 

You hadn’t noticed how Astarion had managed to become such a fixture in your life in such a short amount of time. You hadn’t realized how accustomed you had become to his presence until you were forced to feel its absence. It seems every corner of the manor is tainted by Astarion’s ghost. 

You sit by yourself at meals, eating but not tasting. You stare at books in the library without really reading. You take yourself on walks in the garden that are meant to cheer you up but end up making you cry when you see how the moonflowers had been trimmed back for winter. The bush was almost unrecognizable. It felt like some disgusting metaphor for the state of your marriage, which Astarion had cut and brutalized into something hideous.

Halsin finds you that afternoon- crumpled in a heap on the ground, hands caked in dirt from where you had been digging the plant out by the root. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls you into his warm arms and lets you sob into his shoulder, dampening his shirt until you run out of tears.

The comforting embrace of sleep does not offer any reprieve from your anguish, either. Without Astarion, sleep eludes you and you spend your time twisting and turning in the sheets, craving Astarion’s cool touch. 

Even the bed in your room feels foreign to you. After spending so many nights together in Astarion’s, your room feels empty and lifeless. It’s yet another reminder of how suddenly Astarion had cast you aside. Another reminder that he didn’t need you- that he had found someone better, someone who wasn’t so desperate.

The days and nights blur together, endless and unrelenting. Time is determined to sweep you along in her current even if you’d rather drown. 

Shadowheart forces you to at least rise out of bed and get dressed every day. You can tell she’s growing concerned about how little sleep you seem to be getting. The circles under your eyes are growing darker with every passing day. 

About a week after your fight with Astarion, you find one of his shirts folded in between your chemises. When you look at Shadowheart inquisitively, she just shrugs her shoulders. You know this is her way of acknowledging that she has done this for you, that she has slipped you one of his shirts from the wash in an attempt to help you feel better. 

When you’re alone that night, you lift the white muslin material to your nose and the sweet, familiar smell of bergamot and rosemary sends you into a tailspin. He has forever ruined those scents for you, they will forever be tied to him. 

You clutch onto the fabric like a lifeline, holding it against your chest as if that will miraculously ease the aching in your heart. As you rub the soft material between your fingers, your thumb catches on a patch of raised thread at the hem of the shirt and you find small, evenly stitched letters lining the bottom of the shirt in pale red thread. It’s masterful work. Had Astarion embroidered this into his shirt himself? 

You recall your wedding dress, with the shimmery gold embroidered flowers and how Astarion had seemed so concerned whether you liked it or not. Had that been his work, too?

It all terrifies you- to think you were in love with someone and to realize that you hardly knew them at all. And how well you thought you knew him, too... All your careful studying was for naught. 

You finally focus on the words sewn into the shirt. Clearly, they must be important to him if he felt the need to sew them into his innermost layer of clothing. 

Lamentable is the autumn picker content with plums.

The words are beautiful and fill you with a deep melancholy.

Oh. Is that how Astarion saw you? A late season plum with no taste, the unwanted scraps given to the poor. 

He had cast you aside because he felt he deserved better than some foolish girl with romantic dreams and clumsy hands. You were bland. You were desperate. He wanted someone experienced, someone with taste- a ripe, juicy pear that would satisfy any autumn picker. 

Lamentable is poor Astarion, you sneer to yourself, for being content with a boring, easy wife who dared to love him.

The words are a second gaping wound to your already damaged heart. It feels as if they had cut down to your very bones. And still, you curl helplessly around the shirt in bed, desperate for sleep to claim you so that you could have a momentary reprieve from this suffering. 

The more Astarion avoids you, the more your sadness begins to turn into a familiar anger. 

Does he truly respect you so little that he would so callously remove himself from your life? Who is he to pretend these past few months meant nothing to him? 

For when you were wrapped together at night, did he not caress you so softly like you always imagined a lover would? Did he not kiss you with the reverence of a man worshiping his deity? 

Even Astarion is not that good of an actor. 

“I’m not sure how much longer I can continue like this,” you whisper to Shadowheart one morning, when you hardly recognize your haggard, pained reflection in the mirror. It had not even been a fortnight since your fight and the prospect of living with this heartbreak much longer seems exhausting. 

“You still haven’t even told me what the two of you are fighting about,” Shadowheart says, rolling her eyes. “Who can stay away from each other the longest? Which one of you loves the other more? There are never any winners in those types of games.”

“Astarion isn’t capable of love.” You repeat the words to her that have become your mantra, “You have to have a heart to be able to love.”

Shadowheart huffs out a laugh, “Please. I’m not stupid. Anyone with half a brain can tell he loves y-”

“Stop,” you interrupt. 

You must remind yourself that she doesn’t know what he has said. Although Astarion’s words seem to repeat in a vicious loop in your mind, you didn’t dare speak them aloud. You were still too embarrassed by how cruelly he had thrown you aside, too ashamed of how desperately you still needed him. 

She doesn’t know that her words are yet another reminder that even if at some point Astarion did hold some scrap of affection for you, he had grown tired of you since then. 

“The Lord’s been miserable, too,” Shadowheart says, attempting to comfort you. 

“He doesn’t get to be miserable. Not when he-” you cut yourself off. Not when he was the one who ripped the beating heart out of my chest and crushed it into dust. Not when he was the one to replace you. 

“Well, Gale said the wine cellar has been decimated,” Shadowheart offers you a friendly smile, as if she’s just offered you up a salacious bit of gossip. 

It just makes your skin crawl to know they’ve been talking about you behind your back- that her and Gale have been comparing notes about your and Astarion’s misery.

“Glad to know he’s been drinking himself stupid while I’ve been miserable,” you scoff.

“That’s not what I meant.” Shadowheart sighs in frustration. “Gods, you two are perfect for each other. You’re both prideful idiots.”

—------------

You nearly run over Astarion a couple days later as he trudges down the hallway with his shoulders hunched and a haunted look on his face. Other than Shadowheart’s report from Gale that Astarion had been drinking through his collection of expensive wines, you’re not sure what he’s been up to since your fight. He spends nearly all his time locked away in his study.

And admittedly, Astarion looks as bad as you feel when you see him. It’s a rather stark transformation for someone who normally takes so much pride in their appearance. 

When was the last time he bathed? His beautiful curls are all askew, greasy and unwashed. And he’s obviously starving. His skin is pale and ashen, the dark circles under his eyes are too prominent. That lovely pink undertone to his skin that appears after he’s fed is missing. Gone are the days of pretty flushed cheeks as he looks up at you from between your thighs.

He told you that he didn’t want to drink from you anymore. Had yelled at you that he had found someone else, someone better, as he nearly chased you out of the room. 

So then why did he look this miserable?

You’re unsure what to do, torn between reaching out to pull him into a hug and that anger burning in you that’s a little bit satisfied at his suffering.

You know Astarion can see the shock on your face. And after so long of dedicated study, you know his mind almost as well as your own and so you know that he’s probably interpreting your surprise as pity. 

He growls at you, baring his fangs in warning as he shoves past you. The sound of his study door being slammed hangs heavy in the air while you stand frozen, skin still tingling where his shoulder had brushed against yours. 

Your body still calls out to him, even now.

Your feet move seemingly of their own accord, taking you to the study. You try the doorknob, but it’s predictably locked, so you raise your hand to knock at the door. When Astarion doesn’t answer, you pull a pin out of your hair and wiggle it into the lock. Desperate times call for desperate measures. 

“Get out!” He growls at you when the door swings open. 

You think he might throw the book he’s holding at you. It makes you waver- this man who is so similar to you, who lashes out when he’s scared and feels small. It’s the same response you had that first morning after you were imprisoned, when Shadowheart had entered your room. 

You wilt a bit under his gaze, his fiery red eyes looking at you with something akin to… hatred. 

Ignoring the way your heart feels as if it is freezing inside your chest, you square your shoulders, refusing to succumb to the intensity of his stare. 

“No. You don’t get to tell me what to do!” You say and Astarion rolls his eyes in disgust.

“Oh, don’t act like a child,” he sneers back at you.

You cross your arms in the most unchildlike way you can manage and resist from stomping your foot on the ground in frustration. 

“I am not the one who has been acting like a child here.”

“Gods, what do you want from me?” Astarion yells. 

His response nearly makes you laugh. Since when has he ever cared what you wanted? He didn’t care when he forced you to marry him. He didn’t care when he rejected you right after you had opened up to him. Even now, as he asks you directly, you doubt he will truly listen to you. 

No, Astarion is only capable of caring for himself. It doesn’t matter how many people he has to hurt to get what he wants.

But you watch as he deflates almost immediately, his anger turning into fatigue as his hands come up to massage at his temples like he’s got the worst headache in the world. When he speaks again, he just sounds like a broken man, “I told you that whatever was between us is done.” 

“I want you to stop pretending like I don’t exist! I want you to be honest with me for once! I want-” You cut yourself off, chest heaving. 

I want you. 

The truth that you cannot ignore, the truth that doesn’t dissipate even in your darkest moments.

“You want honesty?” Astarion scoffs. “I’ve been honest with you!”

You bristle. 

“You lied to me when we first met! You chased me down and threatened me and then didn't kill me. You run around all the time whispering in the shadows with strange people that don’t work here. You go on weird business trips and come back on the brink of death. You tell me you hate me and want me gone from your life and then mope around like I’m the one who broke your heart. Everything you do is a lie!”

“I never said that I hate you,” is all Astarion says in response. 

“That’s the only thing you got out of everything I just said? That was like the least important detail!” You shout back at him, incredulous. 

Of course, he continues to evade all the very real issues you have just mentioned. You decide that you will offer him one last chance to be honest.

“Tell me the truth,” you spit out through gritted teeth. “Or at least tell me to my face that you never want to see me again and I’ll be gone by morning.”

Please, you think, say the words. Then, you can be gone from this place and can somehow try to salvage a life without Astarion. But you cannot stay here any longer and suffer. You cannot bear to continue to live as a ghost. You cannot watch as he gives his happiness to another. 

But you know Astarion. You know when you’ve caught him. There’s that momentary shock in his face before his jaw locks in frustration. 

“You’re a nuisance,” he says, but his words don’t hold the usual fervor. 

“I am,” you agree. “So why didn’t you just kill me the night we met? You could’ve saved yourself a lot of trouble.”

“It would have been a crime to take your beauty away from the world,” Astarion says, but the answer seems too rehearsed. You doubt you’re the first person to hear this line. 

“No, I want a real reason!” You demand.

“What do you want me to say?” He cries out, palms slamming loudly against the desk. He’s nearly frantic as his red eyes bore into you- desperate, pleading. “That perhaps you reminded me of myself? That perhaps I am indeed very lonely and you’re the first interesting person I’ve met in years? And here I was, presented with this opportunity to have you. Only a fool would say no to that.”

“I’m a person, Astarion. I am not something that can be kept.”

“And you never let me forget it,” he says, chuckling darkly. 

“Fine, you want honesty?” His voice takes on a desperate, forlorn quality. “I ache for you down to my very soul. I feel as if my heart is clawing its way out of my chest and I’m powerless to stop it. Love is a sickness and you have infected me and for that, I despise you and I despise myself for ever being so weak.”

He sounds half like he’s accusing you and half like he’s exalting you. 

“I have experienced the worst forms of torture and yet, this past week without you has made me wish my suffering had a tangible wound,” he continues. “My heart does not beat and yet I feel it flutter in my chest when you are near. I do not need to breathe and yet I feel as if I am suffocating when we are apart. You are stubborn and impudent and reckless. You are lovely and clever and kind, beneath it all. I fear I will spend the rest of my life trying to fall out of love with you.”

Trying to fall… out of love with you. Which means… he’s currently in love with you.

“You love me?” You ask in disbelief.

Although your heart is singing in your chest, chirping and trilling how it always does when Astarion grants you any affection, your mind is clouded by anger. You can tell by the shock on Astarion’s own face that he half-expected you to be placated by his words and did not anticipate that you would turn on him.

“Then what the fuck was the other night about?” You shout. “Because, remember, it was you who pushed me away. It was you who told me that you had found someone new and cast me aside like I was no better than the dirt under your boot. It was you who called me easy and shamed me for my desires.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Astarion crumples in on himself, head hanging in his hands. “And then there were all the times I took advantage of you in your compromised state. I’m sorry. There will never be enough words to tell you how sorry I am. You should hate me for what I’ve done to you.”

He’s practically on the verge of tears. And although Astarion deserves to suffer your wrath far longer, you rush to wrap him in your arms because you are weak and cannot bear to see him in pain. He sags into your embrace immediately. 

“I should have never said that. I’m sorry, Astarion. I assure you, I was a very conscious, very willing participant in all our evenings together. You just- you vex me.” You huff out a frustrated breath. “You’re like a puzzle with pieces missing. And every time I think I’m starting to see the picture, someone comes along and messes it all up again. I feel as though I’m being driven to the point of madness.”

With your hands on his cheeks, you move his head from where it is tucked against your chest, forcing him to look into your eyes. You need him to hear what you are saying, to feel the words down to his very bones. “You must know I never meant it when I said that I wasn’t clear headed.” 

“I just…” you take a deep breath, attempting to collect your thoughts. Astarion’s eyes are desperately searching your face. You cannot tell if he is more scared at the prospect that you are telling the truth or that you are lying. 

You speak, gently tracing your thumb down Astarion’s sharp cheekbone. “It felt as if you had frozen my heart inside my chest and I needed you to stop talking, to stop reminding me that I don’t mean as much to you as you do to me. The only way I knew to do that was to make you hurt, too. But you must know I treasure every moment we spend together, every book we read, every night we share. Whenever you…” you trail off, a bit shy. “Touched me, I was painfully, blissfully aware of every moment. I asked for you to share yourself with me because I wanted you. I will always want you.”

“If anything, the blood loss just made it all the more exciting,” you place Astarion’s hand over your chest so he can feel the beating of your heart. “Had my heart racing nearly as fast as it is right now.”

Astarion breathes out a breathy, astonished laugh and you’re sure he can feel the way your heart stutters in response.

“You are my north star, Astarion,” you say with a soft smile on your face. “You are the gentle light that guides me home, that helps me remember myself in the dark.”

“You really mean that?” Astarion asks, looking up at you with adoration.

“I love you. Every beat of my heart is for you.” 

And, in fact, perhaps you had loved him since the moment you first danced with him. Love and hate are very similar emotions, indeed. 

Astarion’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, a wide smile on his lips. He’s radiant, like the stars in the night sky- something whose beauty could never be captured by something so mundane as oil on canvas, something who’s beauty could only ever be experienced. 

“Are you going to be insufferable now that I’ve admitted that?” you ask and Astarion tips his head back to let out a loud laugh. It’s perhaps the hardest you’ve ever seen him laugh.

“Absolutely, my love,” he murmurs, leaning up to press a soft kiss to the side of your mouth. He continues peppering your face with kisses between each word as he says, “Completely and utterly insufferable.”

“I need you to promise me something.” You catch his face between your palms again so he is looking into your eyes. “If- if you still want this to work, if you still want me, I need you to promise that you’re going to be honest with me from now on. About everything.”

He frowns for a moment and you can see him thinking. Apparently, you had found the dealbreaker in his love.

“I swear on my life,” he finally says with a little smile.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re not technically alive.” 

“It’s a figure of speech, darling.” He rolls his eyes, but you can tell he’s a bit disappointed he didn’t get away with it. Damned lawyer. “I swear, full honesty from this point forward.”

“Thank you.”

“But I need you to promise me something in return,” Astarion says, turning serious. 

“Anything,” you promise.

One of Astarion’s hands comes up to cup your own cheek and his cool skin sends a little shiver down your spine. “In the future, if you ever do decide you want us to be intimate again, we save my feeding until after. It’s important to me that you’re able to think clearly. That you’re able to say no.”

Okay, well, you hate that idea. Apparently he had also managed to find the one condition you were unwilling to agree to. 

“I don’t want to agree to that because I like it when you drink from me. It’s… exhilarating.” There’s nothing quite so electrifying as the feeling of your lifeblood being pulled from your veins, knowing that it will be used to nourish Astarion’s own body. You attempt to negotiate, though you are sure Astarion will be unimpressed with your skills, “So, I propose an amendment- we check in with each other before we do anything? Just so I can assure you that I am a level-headed, very willing participant.”

“Those are terms I can agree to.”

Astarion’s finally pulls you down into a kiss. Your lips slide against each other’s and it tastes faintly salty, though you’re unsure if the tears belonged to you or Astarion. 

“I love you,” you murmur against his mouth and he’s descending again, hungrier. Your hands move up to curl in his hair and Astarion has wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you to straddle him on the chair. 

It’s one of those toe-curling kisses that has you feel like your very soul is leaving your body, that has you feel like the very essence of your beings are singing together in harmony. 

“Say it again,” he commands in a low rumble. And, oh, you like that low, commanding voice he gives you. You can feel your thighs tighten around Astarion, feel the way his hand claws at the fabric of your dress.

“I love you,” you say before your lips press against each other again. You let your tongue trace along one of his fangs, snagging just enough so that you can taste the bitter, metallic tang of blood. Astarion becomes ravenous as he licks into your mouth. 

You kiss, over and over again, until you are satisfied that Astarion is assured just how willing and enthusiastic of a participant you truly are. 

“I love you, too,” he breathes and you can feel how his lips curl up into a smile. 

When you finally part from him long enough to see his face, he looks all wrong as you push his greasy curls off his forehead.

“You need a bath.” You wrinkle your nose and Astarion chuckles.

“You’ll join me?” He asks in a rich, deep voice as he gives you a devilish smile.

You stand up and hold out your hand to him, “Come, pretty boy, let me take care of you.”

“Oh, I have no doubt you will,” he says and his arm wraps around you from behind so he can catch you, playfully nipping at your neck. You laugh as you detangle yourself from his arms.

The servants swarm to set up a bath in Astarion’s room and you watch in the corner with him, a bit embarrassed that all the servants know you will be bathing together.

When you are finally alone, you help Astarion out of his clothes first. He doesn’t really need help, but it’s nice to take care of him for once. A little shiver runs up his spine when your fingers ghost against his stomach as you help him pull off his shirt. 

When he turns around to check the water, you see the huge scar on his back. It’s massive, spanning the entirety of his back. How have you never noticed this before? You had seen Astarion naked. Evidently, he had taken great care so far as to not let you see the scar. You can’t help but wonder why he had been hiding it from you and why he suddenly was allowing you to see it?

Your hands reach out to trace the patterns and Astarion jumps, but lets you continue. You’ve seen this pattern before, on the drawing you found in his study the day you broke in. And because Astarion cannot see his own reflection in a mirror, that must be the only way he knows what his scar looks like. 

“How did you get this?” you ask, horrified by the pain he has suffered. You try to keep your fingers light against the jagged tissue, unsure of how sensitive the skin is. 

You can see the wheels turning in his head and you know a lie is about to spew out of his mouth.

“Honest,” you make him promise. 

He swallows hard and nods. “The man who turned me was cruel. This is a relic of that past. I don’t like to talk about it.”

And because you are trying to trust him, you respect him enough to not ask about the past he had just told you was too painful to bring up. Though, if he’s answering questions, you might as well try to get at least some new information out of him. 

“And the trips?”

His words are careful when he speaks. Like he’s being honest, but not giving you the full truth. “Just business. Sometimes we go to dangerous areas. I take Karlach, Lae’zel, or Wyll with me for protection.”

You’re satisfied enough with that answer and thoroughly distracted when Astarion’s fingers begin to slowly undo the buttons down the back of your dress. Unfortunately, you still haven't been able to master those slippery little devils. Astarion seems content with taking his time on the task- letting his fingers trail teasingly along your spine and occasionally dropping soft kisses along your shoulder. It’s maddening. 

Your corset somehow manages to take twice as long as the buttons on the dress. Astarion seems perfectly happy to let the bath water grow cold as he runs his fingers over every inch of the satiny ribbon that ties the garment to your body. 

When you’re finally undressed, Astarion steps into the tub and settles back in the hot water, resting his head on the edge of the tub with a sigh. 

It’s awkward- you aren’t sure how you’re supposed to position yourself in the large bathtub. Sitting in his lap seems too direct. But you need to make up your mind quickly. Even with the warm fire burning in the room and the steam rising from the hot water of the tub, your bare skin is growing cold the longer you take to decide. 

After you step into the tub, you sit on the opposite side, facing Astarion. Pulling your knees up to your chest, you chew on your lip. You’re nervous- partially because you’re a bit new to showing so much skin around a man and partially because you aren’t sure how much you’re allowed to touch Astarion. You aren’t used to this level of physical intimacy. You had only seen Astarion’s body once before and you had been so caught up in the haze of how silky soft the skin of his cock had felt against your hand and how his eyes were screwed so tightly shut with pleasure that you hadn’t really gotten that good of a peak at what said cock actually looked like. 

And that night had ended… poorly, to say the least. 

“Gone shy, pet? It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Astarion says with a cheeky smile. 

You love him, your heart sings. He’s reverting back to that easy banter, trying to help make you more comfortable. Gently, Astarion tugs on your arm and guides you into his lap.

“See,” he leans his forehead against yours, “much better.”

“Much,” you agree, knocking your nose against his before you remind him, “you need blood.”

“Are you offering?”

“Always,” you tease. Astarion’s eyes are hungry as he watches you tilt your neck to the side for him. 

“Devilish woman.” His eyes crackle dangerously, all crimson and fire. It’s a total contradiction to how softly his hand cradles the back of your head as he leans down to your neck.

He presses a long kiss to your skin. The simple act nearly brings tears to your eyes. For weeks, you had let Astarion drink from you. For weeks, he would kiss you so gently before he dug his teeth into your skin- an act of apology, an act of worship. An act of love. 

So much had changed this evening. Your worldview completely shifted, yet again, as you grew accustomed to the idea that Astarion loved you. With every heartbeat, you are reminded- he loves you, he loves you, he loves you. And yet, that one little habit remained the same. 

The soft cold of Astarion’s lips gives way to that familiar sting, to that chill that seeps down to your very bones. You fight to orient yourself for a moment, inhaling deeply to focus. The coldness fades. The familiar lick of desire burns bright within you. 

Astarion’s cool tongue swirling against your skin does nothing to tamper the heat growing within you and the arm he has wrapped around your waist tightens, dragging you in even closer. You feel him everywhere and still, you need more- it’s not enough.

Too quickly, always too quickly, Astarion parts from the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving one last kiss on the hollow of your throat. 

When you look at him, he’s got that gooey, drunk look in his eyes like he always does after he’s fed. The pinkish tint has returned to his cheeks and the tips of his ears now that he’s got some blood in his system and you feel a sense of pride bloom within you.

I did that, you think, that was me.

Astarion reaches his thumb out to swipe up a stripe of blood that must have been leftover from the bite mark on your neck, runny like blood always is when mixed with water. His pretty pink lips close around his thumb as he lewdly sucks it into his mouth. Your mind goes blank as you watch him, entranced. 

“Delicious,” Astarion says with a wicked grin. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“I’m not too bland for you?” You ask, repeating his words from the fight back at him. You’re teasing him, mostly, but that jealous, insecure part of you deep down is looking for his reassurance. “I’m not the late autumn plum that you lament picking?”

“What are you talking about?” Astarion looks at you, brow furrowed in confusion. It takes him a moment before his expression clears and he laughs. He has the audacity to laugh at you. “That’s not what that poem’s about at all, darling. How did you even know about that? Is that why my shirt went missing?”

“That’s not… important… right now…” you say, feeling your face heat up. Astarion’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, tracing his thumb gently over your cheek bone. 

“Do you want to know what that poem means?” He asks, in perhaps the quietest, shyest voice you’ve ever heard Astarion speak with. “For many years, I had nothing except my hunger. My own body didn’t even belong to me. What’s lamentable is someone who is content with that life, with living on scraps of rats and insects. The poem is a reminder to me that I had to keep fighting, a reminder that I refuse to be broken.”

Astarion leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “You remind me so much of myself, little flower. Your will and your determination, even in a losing fight. That’s what drew me to you that night we first met. In the face of certain death, you couldn’t resist telling me I was wrong.”

You laugh. He’s right, of course- you do love telling people when they are wrong. 

“In truth, your blood is the best I’ve ever had. I fear I have tasted perfection,” he says, letting his nose dip down to trace along your neck. You shiver, keenly aware of how your cunt is resting tantalizingly against one of Astarion’s thighs. All it would take is a little roll of your hips to provide some sweet relief.

But Astarion still needs a bath and your neck still stings a bit. You know from experience the stinging of the twin bites on your skin will last a while longer, so you distract yourself by wetting a hard bar of soap in your hands. You run the soap over Astarion, working it into a lather on his skin.

It’s an excuse to touch him. You know this. He knows this. Neither of you are complaining. 

You take a moment to stroke along the muscles that run from his neck to his shoulders, chasing away some of the knots and sore spots that had developed after so many days hunched over a desk. Astarion lets out content little hums as you work, his eyes slowly falling shut. 

You move to his arms, which he’s draped elegantly over the side of the tub as if in preparation for your work. Moving the soap, you trace along those beautiful, pale blue veins all the way down to the inside of his wrist. Bringing his hand to your mouth, you press a soft kiss to each of his fingertips before repeating the same pattern on his other arm.

When you wash his hair, Astarion practically melts into your hands. It reminds you of Tara how he purrs when you let your nails scratch gently against his scalp.

“Tilt your head back,” you instruct him. You let the water run through his white curls and wash the soap away.

When he comes back up, the two of you just stare at each other for a moment before you’re falling together. It’s one of those hungry kisses that leave you wanting more. All teeth and tongue crashing against one another. One of Astarion’s hands palms at your ass, pulling you closer to him. You tug on Astarion’s lower lip with your teeth and you feel the growl reverberating in his chest. 

Astarion’s length is hard where it presses against your stomach. You move your hand under the water, aching to touch that satiny soft skin again. Astarion deftly catches your hand, intertwining your fingers with his own. 

You huff, frustrated. He always did this. It was as if he thought he didn’t deserve pleasure, too. Or thought you were inexperienced and incapable of giving it to him. You wanted to learn how to please him, desperately, but he was always batting your hands away. 

“Are you truly so cruel you would deny your wife this simple pleasure?” You ask, trying your best to pout in that way that always makes Astarion cave and give you what you want. 

“You’re dramatic,” Astarion brings your entwined fingers up to kiss the back of your hand. “And I’m not cruel. I just refuse to let the first time I have you be in a lukewarm bath. I intend to savor every moment and for that, I will need much more space.”

Astarion speaks in that husky, arrogant voice that sends a shock of electricity straight to your cunt and has you clenching around nothing. 

You try to move a bit and end up banging one of your elbows painfully into the side of the tub. Okay, maybe he has a point. More space would be good. Even if you ache to feel him inside and don’t want to wait.

He helps you out of the tub and your legs are a bit shaky, which puts a self-satisfied smirk on Astarion’s face. He finishes towel drying his hair, curls messy and beautiful as the wet locks lay flat against his skin. His towel drapes around his shoulders and you use it to pull him down for a kiss, your tongues sliding against one another. You feel Astarion’s hands against the back of your thighs and he’s lifting you off your feet so you can wrap your legs around his waist. You’re keenly aware of how your cunt rubs against the thatch of hair at the end of his navel as he walks you over to the bed and gently sets you down on it. 

Astarion kisses down your stomach and you know where he’s going. You cup your hand around his cheek, guiding his face up to look at you.

“Need you,” you practically whine. It’s annoying, how Astarion is able to turn you into this needy little child, how your very being is addicted to him.

“I know just what you need,” he gives you another kiss above your hip bone and you whine again.

“No.” You’re trying to pull him back up now, hands grabbing at his shoulders and arms, trying to settle his weight on top of you again. “Need you to fuck me.”

“Oh? How can I refuse when you beg so sweetly?” He has that sinful look on his face that makes you ravenous for him. “But you’ll have to wait,” Astarion says, moving to settle between your thighs. “You need to be ready so it won’t hurt. And besides, I’ve missed your taste. You won’t deny your husband that, will you?”

He probably has a point. You had barely been able to fully wrap your hand around his cock when you had touched him. And the most you had ever taken inside yourself was, what? Two of Astarion’s beautiful, dexterous fingers? And those already had you feeling stretched to a point where you thought you might shatter.

Astarion’s tongue swirls on your inner thigh, tracing over the faint bruise left from the last time he bit you. He blows cool air over your cunt that has you nearly jumping out of your skin. It forces you to be painfully aware of how wet you are. But Astarion quickly takes pity on you and his cool mouth presses a soft kiss against your cunt before his tongue is darting out, licking so wonderfully. 

Gods, the miracles he can perform with his tongue are sacrilegious. 

Astarion eats you out like his very life depends on it. And when he slowly slips one, and then two, and then three fingers into you, your worldview shrinks to red eyes looking up at you hungrily from between your thighs. 

There’s that familiar warmth rising in your stomach as your trembling hands clutch onto Astarion’s damp hair like a lifeline. A distant part of you laughs about how his normally perfect curls will be a mess when his hair dries. 

With Astarion’s lovely fingers curling inside you and his tongue dancing against your clit, you settle into the warmth that seeps into your bones.

"So good," you manage to pant out when his tongue moves in a particularly delicious way. You feel the coil tightening in your belly before it snaps, waves of pleasure rolling over you as you climax.

When you’ve finally started breathing normally again, Astarion crawls up your body like a fucking predator and you’re practically drooling over him. As he moves, his leg catches yours and he hooks your knee over his thigh, draaaging your leg up with his own.

You’ve never been this aroused in your life. You feel like putty in Astarion’s hands- his to mold and move and control how he wants you. And you know Astarion’s noticed the effect it’s had on you, too. You see that arrogant gleam in his eye that lets you know you are dangerously feeding into his already inflated ego.

And he knows what he’s doing. In this position, he’s opened up your cunt that much further and his own hard cock is pressed against your center. It’s wet- gods, it’s almost obscene how wet it is. And the way Astarion’s cool skin rubs against your most sensitive spots sends a delightful shiver down your spine.

“Astarion-” you manage to choke out. “If you don’t fuck me soon, I think I’m going to die.”

“Perish the thought, dearest, I’d never let that happen.” He says in that cocky, teasing tone that lets you know he’s enjoying this too much.

He stops moving and grips your chin with his hand. You mewl, letting him force you to look at him. His eyes have softened and his face is so open and loving that you think your heart might very well flutter out of your chest and settle inside Astarion’s own rib cage.

“You’re good?” He asks, voice gone soft with concern. 

“So good,” you try to roll your hips against his, ignoring your confusion at his complete change in tone. But at this point, if you don’t have him inside you in the next minute, you think you might spontaneously combust.

“Not what I meant,” Astarion chuckles darkly, his grip on your chin tightening just a bit. “You’re clear headed? You promised me we’d check in.”

Oh, that’s right, the promise. 

“All clear,” you say, tapping the side of your head, trying to ease his concerns with a bit of humor. It seems to work based on the gentle grin that tilts up one corner of his mouth. You focus on committing this moment to memory. “How are you?”

A look of shock passes over Astarion’s face for a moment, so quickly that a lesser trained eye might have missed it completely. It makes you wonder if you’re the first person that has ever bothered to ask Astarion if he’s okay. 

“I’m going to remember this forever,” Astarion reassures, like he’s reading your mind. He gives you one more serious look. “Any point you want to stop, tell me and I will. No questions asked.”

How could this man exist? He seems unreal. Your guardian angel perched above you. 

“Same goes for you,” you tell him, turning your head a bit. Astarion loosens his grip on your chin to allow for the motion and you press a kiss to the inside of his palm. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he leans down and kisses your lips, soft and sweet. “You ready?”

You nod and he shifts his weight onto one forearm so he can grab his cock with his hand. He runs the tip along the length of your cunt teasingly and oh, it feels wonderful against your wet folds. Slowly, he starts pushing into you.

You hiss at the initial sting and Astarion pauses immediately, just sitting with the tip of his cock inside you. He’s kissing all over your face, whispering about how ‘you’re doing so well,’ ‘you feel so good I can hardly stand it,’ and ‘think about how good we’re going to make each other feel, my love’ that has the part of you that feeds on Astarion’s praise soaring. When you start to get used to the stretch, you nod again and Astarion presses in a bit further.

It takes what feels like a small eternity before he’s fully inside you. And oh, the stretch, the fullness has you feeling like you’re ready to shatter at any moment.

“Gods, your cunt is perfect. Like you were made for me,” Astarion says, through gritted teeth. It causes liquid fire to shoot through your veins and your cunt clenches around him. You think you actually manage to catch his brain short-circuiting as he lets out a strangled noise that’s a cross between a growl and a moan. 

“Tight… s-so tight. And wet,” Astarion groans, his mouth nearly hanging open. 

You feel a spark of pleasure deep within yourself over seeing this man- who acts so confident and above everyone- nearly disintegrate into a babbling mess from just the feel of your cunt around him. 

And then, Astarion begins to move and it’s you who becomes a babbling mess. The pressure stings a bit at first, but it doesn’t take long for the sweet feeling of pleasure to overwhelm you completely.

His pace feels torturously slow, as if he’s determined to make you feel every wonderful inch moving in and out of you. 

“More,” you plead, trying to move your own hips to speed up the rhythm. “Faster, please.”

Even when he picks up speed, it feels like he’s holding back.

“I won’t break,” you tell him, hooking one of your legs around his hips to urge him that much deeper inside you. 

Astarion listens to you then, finally, and begins thrusting into you at a rhythm that has your mind spinning. His hand snakes down between your bodies, moving to trace tight circles over your clit.

You feel as if you are ascending to the heavens. It should be impossible to feel this good.

And you’re so close to the edge, so close to that precipice of pure bliss.

“So close, Star,” you manage to gasp out. “So good.”

“Let go, little flower,” he says. “Want to feel you.”

Your second orgasm is earth-shattering. The kind of orgasm that makes it feel as if your soul itself is fracturing like beautiful glass inside you. The kind that has you arching your back and digging your nails into Astarion’s skin as you desperately try to tether yourself to reality. 

Astarion fucks you through it, rocking his hips into yours with a clinical precision that has stars dotting at the edges of your vision. 

He slows for a moment and then stops, hard cock still nestled firmly inside you. You let out a pathetic whine that makes Astarion give an involuntary little buck of his hips. You chase after him with your own, but he rests more of his weight on top of you, effectively trapping you underneath him. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight when you come. I need- I need a minute,” Astarion says, eyes screwed shut.

“Why?” you ask, pushing a lock of messy hair out of his face. It’s a good thing he can’t see himself in a mirror, he’d be distraught at the state of his hair.  “What are you waiting for?”

“Need to- fuck, need this to last. Never want this to end.”

It sends your heart soaring- the fact that Astarion is so determined to try to make this moment last as long as possible. Perhaps, beneath all his layers of pretend smiles and barbed wire guarding his heart, he’s secretly a romantic.

“Doesn’t have to end,” you murmur, nails scratching lightly at his scalp in the way you know he likes. “We can do this forever.”

And then, the most glorious thing happens. Astarion whimpers.

It’s one of those involuntary sounds that worked its way up from the back of his throat. You think you could grow used to the surge of power you feel inside you at forcing Astarion to lose his carefully practiced control. You want him to whimper again.

You use your grip on his hair to move his face towards yours to kiss him and you speak against his mouth, “Let me take care of you for once.”

You feel his nose rub against yours as he nods and you grin wickedly in triumph, gently pushing him off you so he’s laying back on the bed. Astarion looks confused for a moment before you settle on his lap, moving to guide him back inside you. You’re still so sensitive after your last orgasm, you feel every wonderful ridge and vein of his cock inside you. 

You lean down, biting his ear before you whisper, “You deserve to not have to do all the work for once.”

And then you move, rising and lowering yourself against his cock. This new angle has him hitting impossibly deeper, has him pressing against some secret, sponge-y spot that makes your toes curl every time he’s fully inside you.

So, this was what all the fuss was about. Why men waged wars and forsook religion. For what gods can compete with the way that Astarion moved inside you? And what cruel gods indeed if they forbade this act of your salvation. You felt as if you had been born anew atop Astarion’s cock. 

You bite your lip, trying to dampen the barrage of noises that threaten to spill out of you.

“No,” Astarion nearly cries out, his thumb coming up to pull your lower lip out from between your teeth. “Need to- fuck, need to hear you.”

Oh, he’s desperate in the best way possible. You stop holding back- let out every gasp and moan and curse. Astarion’s hands come up to your breasts- kneading and squeezing them and pinching your nipples and he’s looking at you with such awe that you think you could tell him you were an angel sent from the heavens and he would believe you. 

Your thighs are starting to burn when Astarion’s hand moves from your breasts to curl around your throat and you mewl at how perfectly his hand fits around your neck. His thumb traces gently over his bite mark from earlier, his eyes getting even more desperate and hungry, all fiery red like he’s going to consume you alive. 

Astarion is not subtle about his obsession with the marks and bruises he leaves on your skin. 

You think that animalistic, instinctual part of him is proud of the idea that everyone knows he was the one to give you those marks. And you have never tried to hide them, even if particularly nasty marks on the column of your throat sent Gale’s eyes skittering to look anywhere but you and caused Shadowheart to make snide comments about them as she helped you dress. 

You toss your hair over your shoulder, displaying the bite even more proudly, still rolling your hips against his own. 

Astarion uses his grip around your neck to pull you down against him and press his mouth to yours in a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth. One of his fangs must catch on something because there’s that wonderful metallic taste of blood being shared between you two.

“Where?” He pants out against your lips.

And because you’re a little dizzy with the influx of new sensations, your brain can’t quite decipher what Astarion means. “Where what?” 

“Where can I come, darling?”

Oh. Oh.

Although Astarion could have told you simply that the sky was blue in that husky voice and it would have caused your eyes to roll back in your head, those deliciously racy words out of his mouth have you practically turning into mush. 

“Gods,” you breathe out. “Anywhere you want. Inside?”

Because the idea of being separated from him for even a moment seems unbearable. And that was the right answer based on the way Astarion’s hips start to buck into you with wild abandon. 

You continue to move together, two inseparable bodies- unable to tell where one ends and the other begins. His cock pulses inside you before he lets out a strangled moan and you feel him come inside you.

Tired and spent, with aching thighs, you settle yourself on top of Astarion. You have laid your head on his chest many times and his lack of heartbeat will never get less foreign. Though, you do feel a sense of satisfaction that he’s also exhausted- panting beneath you and trying to catch his breath. Astarion’s cool chest feels wonderful against your flushed, sweaty skin. 

“Where did an innocent thing like you even learn about this position?” Astarion asks and you can hear the delighted little teasing tone in his voice. “Here I was thinking I’d have all sorts of fun things to teach you.”

Despite the fact that Astarion cannot see your face, you roll your eyes. You know he thinks you naive and bashful because you are inexperienced. 

“Married women whisper rather loudly if you know how to eavesdrop,” you tell him. “You can find out all sorts of salacious secrets- whose husband has a mistress or whose child might have been born a bit too early after the wedding. More interestingly, you learn all about what scandalous things happen in the bedroom between married couples. ‘Riding Saint George’ caused quite the uproar a few seasons ago.”

“Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?” Astarion laughs and you feel his chest rumbling underneath your cheek. 

“And I know all sorts of things,” you defend yourself to Astarion. “Most other ‘prim’ and ‘proper’ ladies would have balked the moment your head went between their thighs.”

“Well, I can’t wait to see the extent of your knowledge. And fill in any gaps that might arise,” he says in a low, seductive voice that makes you keenly aware of the fact that his cock is still inside you. 

Propping your head up on Astarion’s chest, you look at him, giggling a bit at the way his dark, sultry eyes contradict rather comedically with the mess that had become his hair. He’d need a small fortune’s worth of pomade to tame it.

“We probably should have saved the bath for after that, huh?” you grin, reaching up to brush some of the loose curls away from his forehead. 

When Astarion laughs, you use that as the opportunity to slip off of him, hissing at the dull ache between your thighs and the feeling of how desperately you already miss him inside you. 

Astarion gets up to find the towel that had somehow ended up thrown over the folding screen in the corner of the room as the two of you had desperately clawed at one another and stumbled over to the bed. Astarion wets the towel and returns, gently wiping it in between your legs.

You hiss. Astarion looks at you worried, like he just committed the greatest crime in the world by hurting you. 

“Sensitive, s’all,” you explain and he returns to carefully wiping away any residue of your coupling. 

Astarion’s arm wraps around your waist as he settles next to you on the bed. He has a book on his bedside table that you grab and read aloud. It’s wonderful how easily the two of you settle back into your old patterns. You read until your eyes start to grow heavy and you instead shift your focus your attention to studying Astarion’s beautiful face. His eyes close and he relaxes as you gently trace your fingers over his strong brow, down his lovely nose, over the curve of his jaw.

“Can you turn into a bat?” You ask, half on your way to sleep. 

“Why would you possibly be wondering that after I’ve just given you the most memorable night of pleasure you’ve ever known?” Astarion asks, eyes opening to look at you as if you’ve grown a second head.

You giggle and poke him on the tip of his nose. He playfully catches your finger in his mouth and gives it a gentle bite. 

“I don’t know. I always thought they were cute when I was a girl. And I think you’re cute now. And you’re a vampire. My mind just connected some dots.”

Astarion rolls his eyes, “I’m not cute, darling. Dashingly handsome or devilishly good-looking, maybe, but not cute.”

“I think it would be weirder if I called a bat dashingly handsome than if I called you cute,” you say, scrunching up your nose. 

You had missed this- the easy back and forth that you always managed to find with Astarion. You had been so lonely without him, your best friend. Yet another reason why you love him is because he understands you innately, because the two of you have managed to dig your way so far under each other’s skins and find a home there. 

“I’d rather you didn’t compare me to a bat at all,” Astarion says, still acting as if you have gravely offended him by daring to call him cute and like he doesn’t require your compliments as a basic necessity to survive. He lets out a sigh, as if you are greatly annoying him (you both know you are not) and finally answers your question. “And no, I can’t turn into one. As a general rule, I try to stay as far away from rodents as possible.”

Weird rule, you think. 

“Pity, I’d bet you’d be cute. You’d probably be white, like one of those albino ones,” you tease, bringing your hand up to tug on his mess of white curls. 

“I worry for your sanity, darling.”

You gasp, a big dramatic one that Astarion himself would be proud of. “Don’t tell me you just passed up an opportunity to make a joke about how you ‘fucked me stupid’ or something obscene like that.”

“I would never debase myself with such vulgarity.” He says in mock offense at your words before his lips twist up in a lecherous grin that you know means trouble. “Besides, it sounds so much better from your lips, my love.”

Astarion leans forward and kisses you on your vulgar mouth.

The two of you resume holding each other, wrapped in your little cocoon of love. But your mind is still elsewhere.

“I found one when I was younger, you know,” you break the silence.

Astarion hums. “One what?” 

“A bat,” you remind him. “It was right after my mother died. The poor thing was injured. It had a broken wing and was just crawling helplessly on the ground. I brought it home with me, foolishly thinking I could heal it. When my father found it in my room that night, he made me watch while a servant killed it. He told me I shouldn’t be messing around with nature, that I was lucky it didn’t give me rabies.”

You shiver a bit at the memory of the bat’s tiny head caved in where your father had ordered a servant to take a shovel to the animal. You think of that poor man’s distraught face, how he had been unable to disobey if he wanted to keep his job, if he wished to be able to feed his family.

You continue speaking, “It felt like my father was telling me that caring about something doesn’t matter. But I disagree with that- I think we should try to help the things we love no matter what. Even if it is a stupid bat that might give you rabies.”

“I’d still love you. Foaming mouth and all,” Astarion smiles at you.

“Liar,” you say, poking his cheek.

Astarion frowns, but doesn’t say anything for a long time. You see him chewing on something in his mind but you give him time- you try to trust him to tell you when he is ready. 

“You’re going to die some day,” his voice is grim when he speaks. “Unless…”

Well, that’s a bummer. 

“Unless I’m a vampire,” you complete his train of thought.

And you can’t say the idea had never occurred to you. Especially as you had sat at Astarion’s bedside when he was injured. 

At times, he had been thrashing and screaming so violently that he would reopen the wound on his abdomen. You had been frantic watching him like that. Shadowheart had to practically pry you away from him so that he didn’t accidentally injure you in his flailing.

You never speak of those memories with Astarion, no matter how deeply they haunt you. You know they would only serve to embarrass him, that he would only interpret your care as pity. You know this because you would think the same.

But as you sat and watched him, useless except for your blood, you had a long, long time to think about what would have happened if you were the one that was injured. Would Astarion have cared? Would he have sat at your bedside in anguish as you recovered? 

No, you had realized. Because a wound like his would have left you dead. 

“When I asked you if you’d ever want to be a vampire, you said you didn’t know if you would. That it would depend on the circumstances. Is that still true?” Astarion asks, searching your face for an answer you’re unsure you’re able to give. 

Because it’s not that you don’t ever want to be a vampire. It’s just all too soon. You and Astarion had only been married for six months and you had just gotten back on solid ground after a very rocky two weeks. 

And you know that you do want Astarion forever, but you also want to settle into this new life with him for a while longer. There was still so much he was hiding from you and you don’t want the memory of your turning to be tainted by doubts or hesitation. It should be a joyous occasion- the true union of your souls that you didn’t get at your wedding.

“I don’t know…” you trail off, a bit unsure of how to put your thoughts into words that will not hurt Astarion’s feelings. Instead, you choose to deflect, “Do you want to turn me? Is that why you’re asking this?”

“I can’t stand the thought of you being harmed. Of you dying.” Astarion laments, his eyes all blood red, reminding you of that monstrous gash in his side. “What a miserable existence that would be, not after I have known the ecstasy of being with you. Everything else just seems dull in comparison.”

And he’s right, the idea of a life without him seems hollow. Survivably, certainly, but lackluster. It reminds you of how Astarion can only see the gardens at night- still beautiful, still worth experiencing, but not nearly as vibrant or wonderful as you knew it could be. 

“I know I want to be a vampire someday,” you say. “I dread the thought of growing older while you remain unchanged. I hate the idea of becoming a burden to you in my old age.”

“You could never be a burden. And that’s a long way off,” Astarion tries to reassure you. 

Because for him, time isn’t running out. For him, time stretches and flows lazily like a river into the sea. And he had been like this for so long, had been a vampire many lifetimes longer than he had been alive. You can’t even begin to help him conceptualize what you mean, but you try anyway. 

“A long way off for me, but that’s nothing for you, Astarion. It will pass before you even notice.” You take a deep breath and try to communicate the thoughts that you yourself are not sure you fully understand. Interlacing your fingers with Astarion’s, you guide his hand to your mouth so you can press a kiss to the back of it. “I do want this, I want a life with you. Forever. I’m just- I’m not ready yet. Let me enjoy being alive a while longer. Let me choose when and how it happens.”

With a gentle smile, Astarion says, “Of course, my love. Just say when.”

—----------

Astarion hardly even lets you leave his bed the next few days. Not that you’re complaining about it. He separates himself only long enough to tell Gale to bring your meals to his room for the foreseeable future. Astarion’s very specific about how Gale is only supposed to knock and how under no circumstances are you to open that door. 

From your spot in the bed, linen sheets pulled up over your chest in an attempt to protect your modesty, you think you overhear Gale saying, “Under no circumstances would I want to,” before he leaves.

The next couple of months are a blur of sitting in front of warm fireplaces and reading and you and Astarion wrapped together, his cool skin only intensifying the burning desire within you. With the warmth in your heart, you wouldn’t even be able to tell it’s the dead of winter. The weather outside is dreary and miserable and you don’t even notice because you and Astarion are too consumed in one another. 

And touching. Always touching. Astarion seems unable to ever let you be out of his grasp, even if it was as simple as your feet being pressed against one another underneath the table at meals. 

The best part about winter is the long nights which allow you to keep the curtains open that much longer without fear for Astarion’s safety. He relaxes in the darkness, comes alive like those silly moonflowers you planted for him. In the dark, he’s less restrained, more confident (if it was possible to describe Astarion as more confident). 

You come to realize that Astarion doesn’t like the cold based on how he’s unable to resist warming his hands when he sees a fire and the pile of quilts he stacks on top of the two of you in bed before you sleep. You would wake up stifling if not for Astarion’s cool touch beneath the sheets. 

It’s wonderful how easily the two of you balance each other- hot and cold, alive and dead, sun and moon. 

And although Astarion hates winter, with enough carefully timed pouting, you do force him to humor you one evening when there’s a particularly beautiful snow. He bundles himself up in about ten layers and grumbles the whole time he’s pulling on his thick woolen greatcoat.

“Enough layers,” you laugh, tugging on his hands to pull him outside. 

“I’m freezing,” he says, stopping completely and tugging you backward by your interlaced hands when you’ve only made it about three steps out the door.

The sky is cloudy and there’s no silvery moonlight to highlight Astarion’s beauty tonight. You have to be content with the way the torches that line the entrance to the manor make his face all shadows and sharp angles. 

“Poor star,” you say in a mocking tone. You step back toward him, reaching up to press a kiss to his cheek as you promise in a low voice, “I’ll warm you up later.”

“I’d much prefer if you would warm me up now.”

“Patience is a virtue, my love,” you tell him and drag him out further into the snow.

He catches you around the waist, pulling you against him to whisper in your ear, “I’m not a virtuous man.”

And for a second, you do consider the merits of letting him drag you back inside. But it’s been so long since you’ve seen a snow this pretty and it’s getting late in the season and you aren’t going to let your lust-addled mind win out. Astarion could wait- you would have a lifetime with him. You need to appreciate fleeting moments as they come. 

“Help me build a snowman,” you say, attempting to distract yourself from the flames of desire burning hot within you. 

Astarion looks incredulous, “What do you take me for? A child?”

“I take you for a man who loves his wife very much and would make her very happy if he listened to her,” you say, looking up at him and trying to bat your lashes in that way he can’t resist.

He sighs, one of those big dramatic ones that is meant to make you feel like you’re the biggest inconvenience he’s ever encountered. Always an actor, your husband. You have grown to appreciate it now that you can understand the man beneath the performance. 

“The last thing I want is to ruin my beautiful nails,” he says with a frown.

“You’re wearing gloves,” you point out, laughing at his theatrics. 

“It’s the principle of the thing, darling,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’ll supervise. That suits my talents far better.”

And so, Astarion sets to work micromanaging you like his life depends on it. Over a stupid snowman that he called childish. 

You can hardly even pack a bit of snow into a ball before Astarion is complaining about it being lopsided or that the ratio between the different snowballs is off and making the thing look ugly. It takes entirely too long to complete. 

You wouldn’t have it any other way. 

You look at the completed snowman for a second, feeling a sense of accomplishment in your work. And then, you reach out to kick it over. 

“See,” you grin up at Astarion. “That’s the fun part.”

“Gods, you’re ridiculous,” Astarion says, leaning down to kiss you. 

But you also know he’s secretly disappointed he didn’t get to kick down a snowman. 

“C’mon, I’ll build another one for you,” you tell him.

When he isn’t looking, you roll a ball of snow in your hands and throw it at his back. He stiffens and turns, shooting you an angry glare over his shoulder. Trying to hold back your laughter, you reach down to collect another bunch of snow in your hands.

“Don’t you dare-” Astarion starts to say, but is interrupted by the snowball that strikes him directly in the center of his chest. “Oh, you’ll pay for that, you insolent little-”

You let out a little shriek as he starts to chase after you. With your feet sinking into the snow, you aren’t able to run very fast and Astarion somehow manages to move so deftly and sneakily, as if the snow itself was helping to hold him aloft. He gains on you quickly. It feels so different than that first night in the garden, when you had been running for your very life. This time, you sneak peaks over your shoulder, admiring Astarion’s beauty and eagerly awaiting for him to catch up to you. 

You’re a bit off-balance when his hands finally wrap around your waist. The two of you end up tumbling into the snow and you land on top of Astarion with a loud ‘oof.’

And although Astarion hates the cold, he settles into snow beneath him, wrapping his arms around you tighter and pressing your foreheads together as you both shake in laughter. He looks beautiful like this, underneath you. The tip of his nose is red from the cold air. He looks alive. 

After your laughing fit subsides, Astarion says with exasperation, “Well, if I’m already down here.”

He starts moving his arms up and down in the snow and it’s a bit jarring considering you’re still laying on top of him.

Oh, you realize. He’s trying to make snow angels. 

With a delighted giggle, you roll off him into the snow to join him, moving your arms and legs in time. With every stroke of your arms, you make sure to reach out so that your gloved fingers brush against his.

Eventually, you pull yourself up out of the snow, carefully brushing the snow out of the fur lining your coat and thinking about how Shadowheart is going to scold you tomorrow for getting the beautiful fur all wet. Astarion stays on the ground, elegantly sprawled and content to watch you. His pale skin and white hair would almost blend in if not for the rosy pink on his cheeks and nose. You feel a sense of pride simmering within you that it was your blood which gave him that lovely coloring. 

“Help me up?” Astarion asks, holding his hands out for you to grab.

“No! You’re just going to pull me down again! You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are.”

Astarion pouts. You hate to admit that you are just as susceptible to giving him what he wants as he is to you. 

“Spoiled little rich boy,” you huff, grabbing his hands to pull him up. You can tell he’s pulling back against you, trying to be difficult. “Come on, you’re making this hard on purpose!”

Astarion laughs and finally stands up, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tight against him. The wool collar of his coat is soft and a bit fuzzy where it brushes against your cheek. 

“Thank you, my love.” Astarion says in a quiet voice, dropping a kiss along your hairline. “I haven’t laughed that hard in years. You help me remember what it’s like to feel young again.”

Oh, there goes your little heart. Thumping away like a racehorse. 

“You are still young. Or at least, you still look young,” you tease.

“Not everyone can age as gracefully as me,” Astarion says wistfully, as if his beauty is some great curse that he is forced to live with. 

“Like a fine wine,” you agree, playing into his ego. 

“I do recall that you promised to warm me up,” Astarion murmurs huskily in your ear. It has your head spinning and your cunt aching. “I’d like to take you up on that offer now.”

You nod, breathless, and let him lead you back inside. The two of you strip out of your wet clothes, spreading out on a blanket in front of the fire and you thoroughly warm Astarion by sinking to your knees and using your mouth on him. 

You curl around one another after, Astarion’s head against your chest as you cuddle together underneath a blanket. 

“I have to leave tomorrow,” Astarion says, interrupting the comfortable silence.

“Have to?” you challenge him, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “And let me guess- I can’t come. That’s why you humored me tonight.”

“You know I worry too much about your safety. So no, you cannot come. Not while you’re still human.”

“I don’t appreciate you using my humanity as a bargaining chip,” you hiss back at him. 

You know he doesn’t mean to make you mad. You know that deeply, down to his core, Astarion is terrified of losing you and that fear will always be present until you ascend past the confines of mortality.

Astarion takes a deep breath, shifting his weight onto his arm so he can hover over you and see your face. His voice softens as he looks down at your angry, furrowed brow, “I apologize, little flower, that’s not my intent. I just- I would be too worried about you, it would jeopardize everyone else’s safety and they don’t deserve that.”

He’s right, of course. And you appreciate him listening to you and reframing his words in a better way. That is what love is- challenging the other person to do better. 

But you can’t help feeling that you could be of use if Astarion would just tell you what’s going on. You have your own anxieties. You worry greatly for his safety, too. And it just feels a bit like he’s prioritizing himself over you. It doesn’t feel equal. 

When you’re still silent, Astarion drags his thumb gently across cheek, “We can take another trip when I get back. Just the two of us, anywhere you want to go.”

You smile at him. You really do see and appreciate him trying. 

You do not know Astarion’s romantic history, but you are sure he must have had many, many lovers based partly on how skilled he is at sex, but based mostly on how wonderful he is. Who wouldn’t want to be around him? Who wouldn’t fall in love with this man immediately? He was snarky and funny and somehow still managed to be impossibly sweet and gentle. 

But you also had a feeling that Astarion was not very experienced at being in love. There were times where he seemed so unsure, times where he seemed almost clumsy with his love, and many times like this where it felt like the two of you were speaking different languages. You were both still learning how to work together and how to compromise after so long of only looking out for yourselves. 

“Where are you going?” You ask.

“To the Underdark,” Astarion says. And he must expect your displeased response because he rolls to lie next to you, so that he is looking at the ceiling instead of your upset face. 

“Why on earth would you be going to a place like that?” You ask, surprised. The Underdark was a lawless, dangerous place. It was where criminals and lowlives congregated and festered. You can see the wheels in Astarion’s head turning, trying to come up with some lawyer-y answer that doesn’t answer your question at all so you use the promise. “Honest.”

And so far, he has respected that promise. Usually, his answers were purposefully vague. But sometimes he gave you answers that were actually useful. You had finally learned who the strange people he was always whispering with were. Astarion had even introduced you to them over dinner the next time they had visited. 

Karlach you had met previously, when Astarion was injured. You didn’t like to think about that time. It was much easier to pretend you first met Karlach over dinner, where she was all big smiles and boisterous laughter. You got along with her easily, but she seemed like the type of person that everyone got along with.

Lae’zel was the mean-looking lady and she was from very far away, Astarion had explained. Her homeland didn’t have the same restrictions for women, so she was raised and trained to be a warrior before they met in Baldur’s Gate. She didn’t say much at dinner, just chewed her meat angrily. 

And Wyll was the man with the two differently-colored eyes. He was very polite and very cordial- the perfect gentleman. He promised to dance with you at the next ball after Astarion had made a mocking comment about his fancy feet. 

But tonight, Astarion’s voice is measured when he speaks, each word carefully chosen. “I’m looking for something. And I just got some new information that leads me to believe I’ll find what I’m looking for there.”

Humming in acknowledgement, you choose not to pry further, no matter how desperately you want to. You respected Astarion enough to use the promise of honesty sparingly. He deserves the opportunity to tell you things of his own free will. 

But really, you could have guessed he was looking for something. At least now you have confirmation. Now, you just need to figure out what he’s looking for. And why.

“How long do you expect to be gone?” You ask instead, turning your head to study his profile.

“A few days. A week at most. I’m going to take both Lae’zel and Karlach with me. The only thing I want to repeat about my last trip is to see you welcoming me home, full of blood for me to drink.” Astarion turns his head to give a mischievous little grin. 

You know he is trying to deflect, trying to lighten the mood with playful banter. But you can’t help but feel your heart stutter in your chest as you picture him, bloody and wounded, bleeding out in front of you. You tear your gaze away from Astarion, back to the ceiling so you can close your eyes, willing away those horrible images. 

“I’ll miss you,” you tell him and you feel his pinky finger brush against your own. It makes you smile. Touching. Always touching. You sigh, “I get bored when you’re gone. And it’s winter, so I can’t even work in the garden to keep me busy.”

“I fear what happens when you grow bored,” Astarion teases. He’s probably right to fear considering the last time you were too bored you had broken into his study. 

Astarion presses himself up again to lean over you again, eyes hungry and redder than blood. “You’ve given me such a lovely memory tonight to think of when my time on the road grows dull. Perhaps I need to give you one, as well.”

He leans down to give you a lingering kiss. You savor the way his lips glide against yours, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. Astarion’s hand begins to trail up from your hip slowly, over the curve of your waist, heading toward where your hardened nipples press against his own chest. 

“Not tonight, too tired,” you yawn and Astarion’s hand dances back down over your ribs, instead, his thumb moving in little circles over your skin. You give him your own imitation of one of his signature sinful smiles as you say, “And I have plenty of those memories already, but they’re a poor substitute to actually being with you. My hands just aren’t as adept as yours. Makes me miss you worse.”

“It’s true, I do have wonderful hands.” Astarion lifts one of his hands up between the two of you to admire it. You bring your own hand up to meet his, pressing your palms together and appreciating how his hand compares to yours. 

Astarion twines your fingers together. The fire crackles and glints against his gold wedding ring.

His wedding ring.

Which had been noticeably missing from his ring finger since the night of your wedding. 

“You’re wearing your ring,” you point out, a thrill of pleasure running through your veins. You continue moving his hand, watching how the firelight twists and shines off the gold. 

Good, you think, let the world know that this perfectly imperfect man is mine. 

“Have been for weeks, pet. I thought you noticed it already and just didn’t say anything.” Astarion says with that soft voice reserved especially for you. 

You detangle your hand from his, sliding the ring off his finger as you go.

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, trying to pull it back out of your grasp so he can put it back on his finger. 

You push Astarion off you and sit up and Astarion looks utterly lost about what’s going on. You’re content to let him sweat for a little bit because you feel he didn’t make a big enough deal about the fact that he had started to wear his ring again. 

Pulling your hair over your shoulder, you turn to look at Astarion. “Help me.”

Astarion- dutiful, devoted husband that he is- sits up to help you unclasp the necklace chain which holds your own ring. You slide the delicate gold band off the chain for the first time since you had put it there and press the ring into his palm while you hold onto his own. 

“Let’s try this again. Do you, Astarion Ancunin, take me to be your lawfully wedded wife?” You ask in a low voice, trying to be serious in what feels like a childish, silly moment. 

You are worried that Astarion will laugh at you for being foolishly sentimental but when you look at him, Astarion is gazing back at you with a matching goofy grin on his face, like you had just hung the sun and stars in the sky for him. 

“I do,” he says and his lovely, beautiful voice lilts through the air and dances its way into your heart. You slip the ring back over his finger, cherishing the way the gold looks nearly incandescent against his pale skin.

Mine, you think, now and forever.

You motion with your hand for him to go next.

Astarion clears his throat. “Do you take me to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” you choke out in a whisper and Astarion slips the ring onto your finger, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. You think you might have seen tears welling up in his eyes and your own vision is starting to go a bit blurry. It feels like the wedding you never really got. 

“Where’s Gale to tell you to ‘kiss the bride’ when you need him?” You ask with a watery laugh.

“I think I can manage that perfectly well by myself,” Astarion huffs. “And knowing Gale, we’d be here all day before he got around to saying the important part.”

“Who’s the one being wordy now? Just kiss me already,” you tease.

And he does. Over and over and over again until your lips are swollen and your head is spinning.

“I’ll miss you,” Astarion murmurs against your lips. 

His words tear you back to reality, force you to remember a world outside of this perfect moment, which has wrapped around the two of you like a warm blanket. 

“You don’t have to miss me if you take me with you,” you point out, nudging your nose against his. 

“Cute,” Astarion says. “But not going to work.”

You pout in that way that always makes Astarion give you what you want.

Astarion kisses the tip of your nose. “That won’t work either.”

Alas, that’s all the dirty tricks you have left in your metaphorical pocket. 

“You better bring me back something really good, then,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. 

Astarion laughs- all golden and shimmery and filling the room with the warmth of the sun. 

—-------

Astarion wakes you up with a gentle kiss the next evening, when the sun is just about to slip past the horizon into night. He’s kneeling beside the bed, dressed in what can only be described as armor. It’s concerning, to say the least. The Underdark is dangerous, certainly, but the implication that whatever he’s doing is dangerous enough warrant armor has you even more worried. 

“Goodbye, my love. I’ll be back in a few days,” Astarion’s voice is soft and his fingers run gently through your hair. It would be the perfect way to wake up if he wasn’t leaving.

“Be safe. I love you” you tell him, feeling hopeless at your lack of control over whether he will return home safely. 

“I love you, too. Go back to sleep,” he urges you, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. 

There’s something gnawing at you as you watch him slip silently out of the bedroom door. It still feels like he’s not telling you the truth. 

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

Notes:

Yay! Everyone is happy (for now…)

Not going to lie, I had a whole blowjob scene written for this chapter and decided to cut it because this thing is already monstrously long without it and I honestly didn't feel like it was contributing anything new to the story. So I'll probably repurpose it for a later chapter or I might post it as a separate little side fic because it did have some dialogue that I thought was funny that wouldn't work later. We'll see…

Fun fact, the 'lamentable is the autumn picker' poem is something that Astarion did have sewn into his shirt in early access and as a poetry lover, I think it is one of the loveliest lines I've ever read. He's also got a funny little line sewn into his underwear in the game that makes me laugh: 'If you're reading this, you managed to bed or behead me. Either way, you got lucky.'

Another fun fact, 'Riding Saint George' was actually a regency era slang term for riding a guy. It comes from the story of Saint Georgy and the Dragon, where the dragon looms over St. George. So the phrase essentially means that the woman (like the dragon) is on top during 'amorous congress.' I heard about this term in a different regency era fic I read forever ago and I thought it was so funny and I'm so happy I finally got the chance to use it somewhere.

I'm going to try to have chapter 7 out at around the same time as normal next Sunday but I am in grad school and going to a conference out of town next weekend so it depends a bit on when I can sneak away to post. Fair warning, the next two chapters are going to be very plot heavy and then we will be back to more fluffy, smutty goodness for the final two chapters.

I love you guys so much!!! I wish I could give all of you little kisses on the foreheads! It makes my day every time I read a new comment and I felt like an evil overlord all week feasting on your suffering from last chapter lol. Thanks for sharing this crazy journey with me- it makes it all the more fun!

As always, hugest thank you to my beta-writer AliensNSuch on ao3.

Taglist: @ayselluna @idkbrodontaskme @maruichio @fanfic-share @the-littlest-bruja @asterordinary

Feel free to let me know if you would liked to be added/removed from the taglist for future chapters!

[elfdyke]

New Life is Strange game starring Max Caulfield... no mention of Chloe in the trailer... I'm gonna cry

hi.... AHSJJDNG YEAH ERMM ITS LOOKING GRIM IDK. it kinda feels like they know the OG life is strange is where all the heart of the franchise lays and so theyre trying to go back to that...they were already tiptoeing around it with true colors, considering steph, but they really just said fuckit we'll give her back to you. especially considering the premise is so samey..... i dont know it feels rather odd to me. you could even say strange -_-

not to mention the plot and shit is so.. unrelated to chloe and doesnt seem to leave really much room for her to be relevant at all? which i assume either means A) theyre picking sac chloe as the canon ending (insane thing to do) or B) itll be choice dependent and either chloe is around but not a big part of the story (?????) or that max and chloe went their seperate ways at some point (also very ????? to me). i dont know 😭 im honestly not a huge fan of decknines work, im still sour over how badly they butchered before the storm, what a nightmare of a game i fear i could whine about that one for a good while. but regardless! there we have it. life is strange and dragon age are back! welcome back 2015!!!

[oddyseye]

What do you think about the translation of The Iliad by Robert Fitzgerald? :0

I respect Fitzgerald. His Odyssey is widely praised, and I can see why! He has a poetic, lyrical style that suits Odysseus’ meandering, dreamy narrative.

But The Iliad is not The Odyssey. The Iliad is war. It’s blood and iron and bronze gleaming in the sun. It’s a funeral pyre smoldering for days. It’s Achilles’ grief exploding like a storm across the battlefield. And Fitzgerald? He doesn’t quite capture that. Fitzgerald often strips the text of its sheer, unrelenting force.

His Achilles, for example, is less like an unchained lion and more like a dramatic Shakespearean prince. His Hector is noble, sure, but the existential dread of his final stand against Achilles? Muted. Homer’s relentless, galloping pace slows under Fitzgerald’s refined phrasing.

For example, take the famous moment in Book 22 when Achilles finally kills Hector. Homer’s Greek is rapid-fire, vicious:

ὣς φάτο καὶ κατὰ μούνουρον ὄρουσεν Ἀχιλλεύς. (Thus he spoke, and like a lion Achilles leapt upon him.)

Fitzgerald? He translates it as:

"He spoke, and a single leap launched him forward."

What? Where is the lion? Where is the rage? That’s one of the rawest moments in the whole epic, and Fitzgerald makes Achilles sound like an Olympic long-jumper instead of an unstoppable killing machine.

Another issue, Fitzgerald doesn’t try to preserve the hexameter. Now, to be fair, hardly any translator does. English just doesn’t roll with dactylic hexameter the way Greek does. But the problem is that Fitzgerald’s rhythm feels less like an urgent battle cry and more like a slow, deliberate chant. Lattimore, for example, keeps more of that rolling, propulsive energy. Fitzgerald? He tames it. The Iliad shouldn’t be tamed, in my opinion.

And let’s talk about tone. Homer can be crude. His warriors insult each other like brawling soldiers, not poets at a fancy symposium. But Fitzgerald? He tidies it up. He makes Homer sound more “refined”, but in doing so, he loses a crucial layer of authenticity.

So, Is Fitzgerald’s Iliad Bad?

Not bad, per se. But it’s not what I would recommend if you want the true Iliad experience. Fitzgerald is a poet first, and his Iliad is undeniably poetic, but it’s not the rough, bloody, fire-and-bronze poetry of Homer. It’s the poetry of a refined, intellectual era that wants The Iliad to be more like The Aeneid. It’s a little too polished, a little too clean.

If you want a more faithful rendering, go for Lattimore. If you want something poetic but with more energy, try Fagles. But if you want an Odyssey-style stately epic, Fitzgerald is your guy. Just don’t expect the battlefield to feel quite as real.

[simblorbo-bracket]

Round 1 - Simblr's Saddest, Wettest Meow Meow - Mainline

Saxen (@herecirmsims) VS. Nancy Landgraab (@fallstaticexit)

(polls are presented left -> right unless stated otherwise)

Who's sadder? Who's wetter? Read on for more information, and vote with your heart!

What is a ‘Meow Meow’?

(taken from tumblr user @/torturelabyrinth) “The thing about a true poor little meow meow is they have to be 1) downtrodden 2) morally questionable at best 3) deeply and pathetically miserable”

Saxen

Things Sax does extremely well: fainting and bleeding (separately), fainting and bleeding (combination), rotting in bed, crying or being completely stoic (no in between), causing more problems while trying to fix his previous problems, omitting certain truths (aka lying).

Now, I don't know if he really counts as an SWMM because he's not a classic villain... but in his pursuit of Doing The Right Thing he has made some awful choices. Good intentions, poor outcomes.

I present the evidence beneath the cut:

Some of his crimes:

In an attempt to save his sister, he left his post and facilitated the escape of a world-devouring entity which he was supposed to help contain.

After his sister died he made another attempt to save her, via necromancy, and instead doomed her to an endless cycle of death and rebirth. Until recently, none of her reincarnations were healthy enough to survive infancy.

He befriended the parents of this latest incarnation without filling them in on the backstory, or his motives. After they were killed by his enemy, he took the baby and kept her hidden for 11 years (did she have grandparents, uncles, aunts? Yes, probably. He claims they couldn't have cared for her like he did and technicallyyyy he's right, since her survival required magic, but...)

He broke the arm of one of his 'adopted' adult kids (he has an enchanted cottage which has been a refuge for a lot of people) when said adult tried to prevent him from killing someone else. Yes, technically he did only push Thom and didn't intend for Thom to hit the wall so hard, but...

Long story short but his home world didn't end, it was just knocked out of its timeline for a while. Unfortunately, due to his actions on the day the Grim escaped (attacking portal guards and forcing his way through the rift, just as an unrelated-to-him group stormed the castle), he was a) assumed dead and b) immediately arrested on his return for treason and attempted regicide.

He's a constant menace and cause of stress to his man, the kindest and sweetest soul to ever live. He doesn't mean to be, it's just that his attempts to keep Fen safe often seem to involve risking himself in increasingly creative and fatal ways.

Why should you vote for Sax? Well, I think his endless complex trauma and the fact that almost all his misfortunes happened because he was trying to fix things/help people makes him pretty damn tragic and definitely very damp. He could do with a win. Plus... look at him. 🥲

Nancy Landgraab

What makes Nancy a Sad, Wet Meow Meow? Our famously known townie turned OC is the Queen of Melancholy. She's closeted, she's religiously repressed, she's h*rny, she's rich, she carries the burden of her deceased elder brother, she's the bane of her mother's existence. When she's not internalizing her self loathing, she's gazing longingly into the distance thinking about a life free of her mother's judgement and status that she never wanted in favor of running free through a sunflower field kissing beautiful women. And when she manages to actually show up for her two sons, she's still so emotionally detached that this will very much come up in a therapy session later. Her husband is almost on his knees begging for her to smile but she's still pining after her first love while being married to said husband (who's a second runner up for SWMM tbh).

She's a cheater, she's a liar, she's about to get into some risky, sketchy business, she disappoints her children, she's morally grey, she's a top, she's catholic, she's a cougar, she likes to splurge on dr*gs and strippers, the list goes on. ahhh.

[amarayys]

EPISODE 13 CHP 2 DRDT SPOILERS.

so. WHAT THE FUCK. Levi has basically no empathy confirmed. He wants to be liked but he doesn't understand what caring about others is like. Ace tells levi to die. Lmao. Also he's so suspicious +He mentions the only person who he ever trusted. WHO NOW??? Eden and Arei doomed yuri. We get Arei and David flashback. Arei's cg looks like sora from sdra2s final cg btw thats just a random thought i had. Arei you can't do this to me. She really said "I'm a piece of shit but so is David so let's fix eachother" AUHSVGDHBJFKL Okay. EDEN. WHAT THE FUCK. EDEN. NOBODY SAW THIS COMING. I WAS SO CONVINCED IT WAS TERUKO BUT IG NOT??? Eden took Xander's eye out. So. Eden's probably a traitor, though it's probably not voluntary - we see her crying as she holds the bloody fork. I'm sorry, but with this, I think Eden culprit and Levi accomplice theory is over. I just don't think it works. Also how in the fuck does Arei know about that. my girl eden getting character development real david lying cause he thinks hes tough shit teruko DEFENDING LEVI??? YALL???? SHES PROJECTING HOW SHE FELT IN CHP 1 ONTO LEVI AND DEFENDING HIM I HATE HER /pos DAVID SNEEZING SPRITE LMAO. okay so all secrets are revealed. Teruko is either lying or mistaken about her secret, cause the look David gives her after it CANNOT be innocent. this does tell us something though - the family one applies to teruko, if shes not lying on purpose. but...what??? Who does family refer to? It cant be her parents, she never knew them. And she barely remembers her brother. Maybe it's the others at the orphanage, or her friends? Also, she feels survivors guilt apparently and wished she died with whoever family is. Somebody give my girl Teruko a break. EVERYONE SMOKES TERUKO FOR NOT KNOWING WTF THE SPINNY THING IS. Fandom cheers as Teruko finally stops getting interrupted and explains the murder method. WHIT AS A DOG HAD ME CACKLING I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING. We see that Teruko's drawing isn't much better than her handwriting (which we get more samples of btw!!!!!!!) Nico's gonna have to explain the murder... maybe the theory that Nico was framed by / helped someone is true, but idk. Teruko's interrogating the shit out of them. So. Culprit? I think realistically, the best options for the culprit are Ace, Rose, and Whit. Maybe Hu, Veronika or Nico if you squint REALLY hard but I doubt it. I think Ace is SUPER suspicious, half because vibes and half because david calling his ass out here

Rose definetly has potential to be the culprit, but idk. im tired leave me alone. WHIT. EVERY SINGLE FUCKING THING YOUVE SAID THIS TRIAL IS SO SUSPICIOUS. YOUVE BEEN THROWING BLAME ONTO LEVI CONSTANTLY. U KNOW ABOUT HANGING SPECIFICS FOR SOME REASON. UR SO SUSPICIOUS UR NOT SUSPICOUS ok thats it unrelated to this post, i made a doc of my live reactions to stuff and here are some things i wrote that i thought were funny

I am tired but this episode was SO good. I'll probably make a more in dept theory/post on it tmr lmao its 1:36 am.

[psychotic-nonsense]

Steddie Week Day 4: Trade / Body swap

------- it starts off super rough, warning for suicidal thoughts/intent and brief descriptions of gore -------

Steve is going to die.

He went to his room for privacy. His thoughts have gotten so loud lately, headaches so deep he can hardly see, and he just needed a moment to breathe.

But then he went to sit on his bed, and fell straight through it into the Upside Down.

Panicked, Steve had scrambled to get up. A hand had reached down to help, and without thinking, he grabed it.

Then he recoiled with how cold and rotten it felt. He looked up to face its owner, and was met with Barbara Holland. Half eaten, swollen faced, glossy eyed, dead Barbara.

When he tried to crawl away from her, two hands reached down to forcefully haul him up from the ground. Hands that were soaking wet, filling the thick air with an equally suffocating metallic stench. As soon as Steve regained his footing, he whirled around and backed away from the moving corpses.

It's Billy Hargrove. Bloody, beaten, black veined Hargrove, skinny from the chunks taken out of his torso and swaying with the imbalance of it.

They began speaking, bemoaning in their haunting voices how he let them die and left them to rot, Steve the Hero running like the true coward he was. The forest came alive with the chittering of Demobats, underneath it all an unrelenting mantra. I told you to make him pay, why did I have to pay in his stead, you didn't even kill him, you lost you lost you lost and I died for nothing-

And Steve didn't hear anymore. Because he ran.

He's being Cursed, no one knows it, and he's going to die.

No matter how far he runs, the forest gets no smaller, the calls of animal and ghost alike getting no quieter. He strains, runs though he can't breathe, crying out for help. But all that does is worsen the voices. Calling him a failure, selfish, why does he get to live, why did they have to die-

Steve loses his footing. Skids forward over the rough ground further than he should, unable to stop. Then his feet fall over a sudden ledge and he isn't slowing down and his clawing hands are barely able to catch a stray hanging branch before he's dangling over a cliffside.

His breaths are heaving, and his hands tense hard to keep hold of the branch. He knows he shouldn't but the creature sounds have only gotten louder, so he looks down.

Hundreds of feet down it's a rolling mess of black vines, dark smoke, and demo-creatures. They're all lunging for him, their snarls and screeches mixing with the ghostly moans, urging him to just give in submit fall.

A sudden crack breaks through the mess of sound. Steve turns back around, sees the rock holding up his branch begin to splinter, and he's going to die.

In between his desperate panting, words fall out. Words he means that no one who matters will ever hear. "I'm-I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Dustin, Nancy... R-Robin, Barb, Hargrove... I should- should've been more... I'm sorry, I can't-" He's cracking, the last of his desperation crumbling with the further breaks in the rocks. "I can't do it, I'm not... I'm not Max- Max, I'm sorry..." And as the cracks grow and his fingers slip, the tears finally fall. "I'm s-sorry, Ed... Eddie, I'm so sorry... It should've been me..."

And at the same time the crack finishes its journey, Steve lets go.

Everything quiets. Everything goes slow. It's almost freeing, knowing it's all going to be over, even though the terrified faces of his family flash through his head with every tear that falls. He doesn't want it to be over, he wants to live... but what right does he have-

Someone's calling out his name. A voice that gets his eyes to open, shocked at the blatant fear and desperation in it. Someone's falling right behind him, before him, reaching out for him.

Eddie. Eddie Munson. With all the same terror and need and pleading eyes that Steve remembers.

Steve automatically reaches back, shock urging him to beg just once more, somehow catching Eddie's hand. Immediately, he's crushed to Eddie's chest. Arms hold him tight, hands clenching hard at Steve's clothes.

Eddie feels real. Breathes and sobs like he's real. Warmth pulses through his clothes like he's real. Each brush of skin feels solid and soft and desperate and real.

So Steve holds him back. Tight, desperate to not lose him in their fall, no matter how real this may be. Shoves his face into Eddie's shoulder and closes his eyes and feels.

At least he won't go alone... At least in the end, he's not alone...

And then, like an electric shock, the world wakes up with noise. A familiar voice invades his senses, lamenting about a Mr. Crowley, as the world lights up in pure bright white behind his eyes-

Then another shock and he's gasping for air, falling from his suspension onto his bed and rolling off onto the floor.

Steve heaves, trying to regain his senses. The voices of his family surround him, echoing in his delirium, worried and scared. He breathes deep, attempting to respond... but his own voice beats him to it.

He finally opens his eyes, looking up from the ground he was kneeling over. There's no one around him, he's alone in his room.

His room that looks vaguely... fuzzy. And, come to think of it, uncomfortably wrong. There's a large mirror that rests opposite his bed that's now on the wrong wall, and the reflection is clearer than his own surroundings.

Except it's less of a reflection, and more of a portal. Through it, he sees his own body, sitting where Steve is kneeling, and staring at his hands. Shock and confusion is evident in every tremble of his fingers, and this reflection doesn't respond when someone says Steve's name.

There's something about it that feels familiar, a presence that Steve has longed to feel again for months. Steve unconsciously copies the reflection's position, and reaches out unsteadily. He wants to grab what he sees, catch the eye of it at the very least, just to know this is real like it was before.

Then another shock travels through his body, but this time, it lands hard in his fingertips and temples. He recoils sharply, face tensing up with a groan of pain.

But to this, his family reacts. Steve's eyes go wide, and he's suddenly met with reality. No fuzzy surroundings, with everyone right beside him. He shakes his shocked hand, rubs it, watches it flex and move just to convince himself. The presence from before is still there, but stronger now, like the person is right beside him.

He remembers the mirror, looks over at it, and freezes.

The others take notice, look at it too. Then they're freaking out, asking if anyone else can see it too, because it can't be real. Yet to Steve, it feels so so real.

The mirror reflects the room, but wrong. Fuzzy, without the others who are present. Where Steve's reflection should be isn't Steve. It's Eddie.

Dressed the same as he was in his final moments. Eyes as wide as the night they first found him. And that presence - the one Steve only felt during an Upside Down walk, at the front of a winnebago, in front of a trailer covered in vines - no longer feels like its beside Steve. Rather, like it's nestled right inside his heart, his brain.

Like Eddie's sharing the space there with Steve.

[bartonbones]

20 for the drabble for declan lynch or jamie tartt if ur still doing it!

okay this is cheating because i wrote this awhile ago and also have not answered the other asks but since you've given me a perfect opportunity to share it and becuase you said my super soldier sleeper agent trigger words (declan lynch) i simply HAVE to share a snippet from my google docs of unfinished unrelated declan lynch tangents. this tangent in specific is imagining that declan has been through a Situation and has been rescued by ronan (who has "never seen declan goddamn cry, and can't imagine it" and matthew, who is trying his best but only marginally more suited to help). please don't ask me hard questions like, why did he get tortured, or how, or when in the series, or anything except "what other drabbles do you have about declan lynch" bc i'm always happy to share and they will otherwise probably never see the light of day. anyway without further explanation here it is

Matthew wakes up to screaming. Well, not true. Matthew wakes up because something has bumped in the night and fallen to the ground and crashed and splattered, and then he hears the shouting—Declan, stop it, what the fuck: Ronan’s voice, angry, tired, indignant. And Declan’s, too, over and over: get off, get off, get off. 

It takes him more than a few rounds of this to remember why this feels strange. Matthew has been waking up to Ronan and Declan’s fights since he was old enough to understand what insolent child and fucking prick meant. It feels as much like the Barns as creaking floorboards and the smell of hay and grass and honeysuckle. Ronan’s shouting had always painted the walls in varying degrees of volume and profanity like doorway notches charting his height—when he was eight, you could hear him from the kitchen, and when he was twelve, he said fuck for the first time and meant it.

But it’s not Ronan’s voice that starts the alarm in Matthew’s head, that causes him to roll, backwards, out of his bed and onto his feet, standing and swaying and still exhausted, and listening with sudden and terrifying closeness. 

Get off, Declan says, across the hall in his room. Get off of me!  

But he doesn’t say it like he’s fighting back. Like Ronan is headbutting him into the wall or pulling at his arm, goading him into a proper wrestle. He says it over and over again and each time more hysterical than the last, shaking and scardecled. Matthew hasn’t forgotten anything that’s happened over the past week, but every day Declan has looked a little better—rounder, less pale, more sturdy, more likely to react to things with more than a dazed frown. This doesn’t sound like the Declan that told Matthew to go back to school this morning. It sounds like Declan back at the fairy market, blindfolded and open-mouthed, gasping for help. 

Matthew hits his shin on the door frame as he trips over himself and doesn’t register it. He’s suddenly sure that they’ve come back, found Declan asleep, decided to make up for lost time. He’s down the hall in seconds, throwing open Declan’s door like he had some sort of weapon besides fear and stubbornness. He needs to shout something, probably, a threat would be helpful, but when he finally gets a view of the room nothing falls out of it except a small, surprised squeak. 

No one has broken in. No one from the Fairy Market or otherwise is standing in the corner with a gun or a club or some other awful thing, and the only person holding Declan’s wrists behind his back is Ronan. 

“Ronan?” Matthew squeaks, again.

 He hates it when his voice goes like that, but he can’t help it. He didn’t get to choose what his voice sounded like when it was tired and terrified and confused. Maybe Ronan had, when he was small and dreamt him up. Maybe he’d been reading Staurt Little at the time. 

“Get out,” Ronan grinds out. “Matthew, leave.” 

Matthew doesn’t have to listen to Ronan, so he doesn’t. He steps closer, into the light provided by the lamp which is now turned on its side, base shattered, on the ground next to Declan’s head. Declan has his eyes squeezed shut and lips pressed hard against his teeth. His face looks pale and slick with sweat. It’s clear from the scuffle around them and the harsh, unforgiving way that Ronan has Declan’s wrists pinned to the ground that he and Ronan had been fighting, but whatever had happened, he isn’t fighting now. 

“Ronan,” he says, uneasy. Declan looks so still it’s like he’d stopped breathing, and if it weren’t for the rise of his chest, Matthew would be afraid that he had. “You should let go of him now.” 

Ronan shakes his head, not looking at either of them. 

“I can’t let him go,” he says. 

“He was asking you to,” Matthew says. “I heard it from my room.”

Ronan’s teeth are audibly grinding against each other. 

“If I let go of him,” he says, slowly, like he’s explaining this for the fiftieth time, “He will hurt himself, Matthew. Look at his fucking neck.” 

Swallowing, Matthew does. Instinctively as he traces the scratches—deep enough that there’s blood still pooling at the bottom—he puts his own palm against his neck, the other wrapped sickly and helplessly around his middle. It looks terrible. It looks like he had been trying to claw out his own throat, and it’s layered on top of old bruises that are just beginning to fade from a deep, horrible purple. It had to hurt, and hurt badly. Matthew presses his palm flat and feels the pressure against his throat and imagines how much harder he’d have to push for it to bleed and how much he doesn’t want to do that, and then imagines how badly Declan must feel if that’s what feels like a solution. 

Then he flicks his eyes from his neck back up to his face. 

If it is terrible to see Declan thrashing, screaming for help—which it had been, which it is—then somehow this is worse. All the fight is gone out of him, he’s not even pushing against Ronan anymore, or pulling himself away. Even his face, which moments before had been furious, if tight, had melted into something terrible. Quiet. Expressionless. Resigned. His eyes were still shut, but now tears leaked from the corners of them, rolling down his cheeks. Matthew shakes his head, upset now, worse from this than from the blood and broken glass. 

“Please stop,” he says. “I think you’re really scaring him.” 

Ronan growls—huffs, sort of. Indignant. Frustrated. Scared, although it’s clear he’s trying not to show that to Matthew. 

“He’ll hurt himself,” he repeats, sounding desperate. Matthew wonders how long this had been going on before he’d gotten woken up.  “You gotta believe me, dude.”

“But you’re hurting him, too.” 

[kalren-daelish]

What if you couldn't find that which your heart desires? Afterall... you gave up your eyes to see demons rather than the joys in life... :3

Kal’ren dragged himself up the slope, clawed hands raking through the loose dirt and tangled grass with each agonizing motion. His scales, unnatural and glistening in the sunlight, stretched from his palms to his forearms before fading into the smoother, pale skin of his elvish heritage. The contrast only deepened the sense of wrongness that coursed through him. The taste of ash lingered bitterly on his tongue, a constant reminder of what he had become. His jagged teeth threatened to slice his lips with every gasping breath, and the -fire- that burned within his core felt insatiable, volatile, and consuming.

Such was the cost of victory, the price paid to vanquish his enemies. A price his brothers and sisters had borne willingly, their resolve unyielding even as the true cost remained hidden, buried beneath the ashes of their deeds. But now, with the demons defeated and the battle long over, those hidden consequences, those -sacrifices-, clawed their way to the surface, monstrous and undeniable.

Still, he climbed. His movements were feral, beastly, as if he were no longer entirely himself. He clawed toward hope, toward a memory he prayed still lingered, unbroken, even if he had tarnished it with his actions.

At last, he reached the apex of the hillside and froze.

Eversong Woods stretched before him, its beauty defiant in the face of all that had befallen it. The crimson and golden hues of the flora shimmered beneath the midday sun, a vibrant tapestry of life untouched by his darkness. The warmth of the sunlight washed over him, its brilliance almost blinding until his fire-infused pupils adjusted, sharpening his vision.

But where was she? Where had she gone?

The question tore at his thoughts as his gaze swept the horizon. His eyes locked onto the remains of what he sought, and his heart plummeted.

House B’andtherion—the marble jewel in these woods—was in ruins. Its once-pristine columns lay shattered among the rubble, the grandeur reduced to little more than a skeleton of its former self. Wild animals scavenged through the debris, their presence a mockery of the life that once thrived there.

Kal’ren collapsed to his knees, his claws sinking into the earth as despair engulfed him. They were gone. -She- was gone.

"You gave up your eyes to see demons instead of the joys of life."

The words echoed in his mind like a curse. Over and over, they tormented him, until his breathing grew ragged, his chest heaving. He clutched his head in his hands, as if trying to silence the relentless refrain, but it only grew louder, more insistent.

"It’s alright... let me out..."

His head tilted back, and his blazing eyes fixed on the heavens. Twin beams of Fel energy erupted from his gaze, scorching the air as his voice erupted in a blood-curdling roar. It was a sound of agony, anger, and despair, all intertwined and unleashed in a single, primal cry.

And then, as the roar faded, he felt it—the creeping presence within him. The part of himself he had believed subdued. The darkness surged forward, unrelenting, as he surrendered to the very force he had fought so desperately to conquer.

Kal’ren fell silent. The fire within consumed him whole, leaving nothing but the embers of a man who was now lost in this world.

@kelzthalassunwhisper

[quitealotofsodapop]

[Someone jokes that Macaque has developed a mega beer belly and Mac just starts crying cus of hormones. Someone gets punched.]

Was it one of the other SWKs XD ? Either them or Hunstman.

But how would the others (fam and dimensional) react to discovering this particular baby is the reincarnation of the demon that was really close to destroying the world and remaking it in her image? Like, the double take has to be legendary.

Oh it was def Huntsman who made the "beer belly" comment. He has no filter. SWK was the one who punched him, cus of shared hormones with Mac. Then the other spiders smack Huntsy on the back of the head for good measure. Sandy has to physically lift his mans out of there before they try returning him to Diyu with the receipt. Huntsman apologized via hand-woven silk baby blankets.

Whilst the parents knew from the beginning that LBD has reincarnated into their daughter (they were there obs), most of the fam hear about "Yuebei = Reincarnated LBD" from gossip or hearsay. Also the Mayor equally has no filter - he walks straight up to Macaque with an armful of baby shower gifts and waves at his stomach like; "Hello, my lady! Enjoying your new accommodations?". The friends and fam present are like "Lol what?" and SWK and Mac just decide to spill the beans.

The adults are initally freaked out ("So are we talking... fresh slate? Or is she gonna come out with the creepy whispering and bone mechs?"), but once it becomes clear that Yuebei won't have the memories or mind of her previous incarnation, the adults all sigh and just chalk it up to weird reincarnation nonsense. Pigsy expresses how he feels sorry for the kid, as he too reincarnated from a jerk (Zhu Bajie).

The kids freak out a little more. You know already how badly MK and Bai He takes the situation. Nezha ends up being the voice of reason; pointing out tha he himself is a demonic reincarnation and he can't remember squat about who his soul used to inhabit. It takes the kids a lot longer to be cool with the "Baby sister might be the Devil" situation.

As for the Wukongverse? It's a mixed bag. Under read more for spoilers

LMK Shadowpeach: *explaining what happened when they went to Diyu to sort out unrelated undead stuff* LMK!Mac: "So yeah, our unborn daughter is the reincarnation of the Bone Demon that tried to destroy all of the Mortal Realm and remake it in her image." The rest of the SWKs and LEMs: O_O? x_O? HeroIsBack!SWK: "How did that happen??? I thought reincarnation was completely random." LMK!SWK, eating peach chips: "We were planning on more kids. What remained of LBD's soul was sorta hanging around the bridge in Diyu. The gods laughed. Simple really." NewGods!SWK: "And here I thought gods getting reborn as mortals was irony." Reborn!SWK: "I pray that your enemy will be born knowing that they will be loved in this lifetime." LMK!Mac, tearing up: "Aww... thats actually really sweet of you to say-" 2000sCartoon!SWK, interupting: "Because if they turn out to be evil, we wont hesistate to bury them!" :3 LMK!Shadowpeach: *hormonal crying. The other monkeys jump to comfort them* HeroIsBack!LEM, comforting his LMK counterpart: "Annnd you ruined the moment Ganzhe." 2000sCartoon!SWK: "But it's true! We all thought it!" Netflix!SWK: "You don't say it to the parents!" Netflix!LEM: "I think it'd be hilarious if the kid turned out like her old self. Like the 10 Kings saying She's your problem now." NewGods!LEM: "Don't be so sure about that. We don't know what the Bone Demon was like as a kid. Could have been stuff she saw as an adult that messed her up. Either way it's gonna be hard for her to be a villain when she can't even stay awake for more that two hours." Smash SWK & LEM: *weren't even paying attention, they blanked out after the pregnancy talk started* "Wait... whats this about a ghost baby?" "I think one of their kids is like... a shiny pokemon or something" Meihouwang SWK & LEM: *were paying attention, but are very confused* "???"

Its all very frustrating for LMK Shadowpeach.

[theredofoctober]

Waking The Witch—

Stranger Things Fic

Synopsis: Vecna, once Henry Creel, holds Reader hostage for his dark purposes

Pairing: Vecna/Henry Creel x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: non con, humiliation

Cross-posted from ao3

-

Red and black is the dessication of this psychic world, and you know not whether it is your dream, or that of another. Structures moist and ebony in their coiling bulk bear upon their expanse the hung corpses of people you know and love, their bodies shrouded in tendrils, on hideous display. In terror you spiral about them, your mouth—your throat, your ravaged lungs—bitter with the stink of meat, of the dead.

In out, in out, you're breathing the rotten silk of sodden mist, and, thus, starved of air, you stumble in leaden weight towards you know not what, nor who, trawling you with a bait of guilt into the dark.

"Hello, Hole," a voice breathes—Vecna, his voice coming on a whisper of thought, the corrupted God in this road-kill universe. "Have you had time to reflect on your torment? The black matter of your unrelenting guilt?"

You turn, and see a crimson silhouette, a flayed man tearing himself from the cups of many tentacles, the puppet strings of an abject Wonderland. He towers over you, this so-called Vecna, claw-handed, his small, glistening eyes scoring the barrens of your haggard soul.

"Stay away!" you cry, and back up against a pillar of midnight stone, its ridges like knives in your back. "Why are you doing this?"

"Ah," Vecna breathes, and tears another flesh-clodded rope from his shoulder. "Haven't you guessed yet? Because I want you when all the others in your pitiful life can barely remember your name. Look at yourself. Your parents are gone, and all your friends have abandoned you, turned on you, one after the other..."

You make wrenching attempts to free yourself from the structure at your spine, but you are knotted to it by so many loops of slithering muscle that it is a struggle even to breathe. In desperation you close your eyes, attempting to shut out the fabric of this elemental nightmare. But when the demon's ratting laughter comes close to ear your lids start open, and Vecna is leaning into you, his moist breath upon your face stinking of damp and decay.

"I could take your pain away so easily," he says, ponderously, "as I've done for so many others. You could join me, lose your physical form, and all its torments."

Your torso clenches in spasms, your innards buckling in the psychic grasp of one eldritch hand. Then, as you scream and sob against your agony, the pressure lifts, and Vecna inspects you with a mixture of want and loathing.

"No," he says, a response to his own musings. "I won't destroy you. You're too delicious to burn away so quickly. There are other ways I can relieve you."

One crooked hand trips from your wan cheek down to your throat, your chest, the struggling mile of sensitivity between your legs.

"I could take you now, against your will," the monster breathes, "but I will have your consent to undress your wounded soul."

"Why?" you hear yourself whimper.

Slate coils of tentacle undulate beneath your clothes, and to your guilt a pleasure foams under the gooseflesh of your chest and aching apertures.

"Because," croons Vecna, "It's the only way to end your suffering. I know why they call you 'Hole'. The rumours of what you offer to those who seek it."

"It's not true!" you cry, and all about you, suddenly, the beings suspended on whirling cylinders come alive in paroxysms of ecstasy and motion, whimpering and bucking against their vile restraints.

All of them are dead, this you know with a frigid conviction, and yet their false arousal triggers something in you that the dark wizard notices, and gloats in.

"Not true," Vecna repeats of your pitiful cry, and takes possession of your tear-stained jaw in one crushing hand. "Come, now. If it were all lies then why are you here, and so ashamed?"

The creature's damp palm thrusts back your jaw, and in shuddering gasps you endure his mouth upon your lips, your pulse, your collarbone with its cavorting veins. He is so cold, so desolate, that you can do no more than twitch and shudder in revolt.

"Admit me," mutters Vecna, against your ear, "and your existence here, in flesh and soul, will be nothing but the pleasures of a dream."

You wrench in your impossible bonds, your teeth gnashing in horror and despair. 

"I– I know what you did to the others!" you cry. "The way you broke their bones–"

"Haven't you been listening?" sneers Vecna. "You're different from those hopeless victims. Let me show you."

He makes a gesture at his shoulder, and your vision of the nightmare-scape flickers. For a moment you are both within a rotting house, winged vermin screeching and spiralling in cursed flight above you. This is real, all of it, it's really happening: in mind and in reality both this king of doom and magic keeps you.

"You understand, now," says Vecna, as the horror of ruby and fog returns. "There is no hope of escape, except through me."

You feel a motion at your hip, and glancing down see your clothes part from you in the grasp of moist limbs in countless number. Naked, you writhe before the beast of glistening muscle, feeling your arms and legs winched high and far from one another.

"No," you whimper. "No, please, please—"

"Always they beg," says Vecna, gliding thin fingers across your chest, taking a quiet enjoyment in the sickened flinch and buck of your body against him. "And always I take them into my rank."

A grey tendril finds a hole, and enters, thick, and cold, and unbearable. You attempt to scream, but another passes your lips, filling your throat with churning muscle until you stare into Vecna's eyes in desperation, imploring without word.

"If you agree to yield then your taking will be– less overwhelming."

How loathsome you find his pretense of care, and yet part of you believes it, compressed by the influence of his magic. Endless, the wave of guilt and terror holds you in its ebb, so that there is no inch of you not hurt, nor aching for reprieve. 

The tuber in your mouth retreats, and Vecna circles the plinth to which you are bound.

"Think carefully, now," he says. "Do you wish to end your pain?"

As Vecna stands before you again, leering and relentless, you rasp out one word.

"Yes."

The tentacles retreat slightly, the one between your legs drawing across your thigh with a sound wet, and supple and humiliating. 

"Very well. I knew that you'd submit." 

Vecna moves his fine fingers to your groin, and a hiss of soft breath escapes him. 

"There. You're ready for me, despite your objection."

"You," you pant, a last. "Are you the Devil?"

A wry amusement sparks those wicked eyes.

"Is that what you think I am?"

Against you the swelling of some knotted flesh has you fighting again, but a mere touch of Vecna's hand on your forehead renders you still once more.

"Enough," he says. "Receive my pity."

He thrusts within you, and you choke on a cry as pleasure and a new tremble of pain rocks through you from the inside out.

"Is this how you imagined it? The first time? I've saved you from some hopeless fumbling. Yet you don't appreciate my kindness..."

Each jolt of skinned hip bone sends a cramping agony up through every synapse, a pain that, in this reality, passes for the sheerest joy. Vecna watches your face glaze in the rapture of it, gleaning from its top the fat of terror.

"Forget your colleagues," he breathes, "their laughter, your mistakes. Now there is only you and I. And yet, if only they knew their name for you was prophecy..."

You loathe the sense of your body thrust limply against the post, the tangle of slippery darkness whose coaxing touches throughout Vecna's assault break out pockets of uneasy pleasure across your body. You've never known such anguish, caught between raw, heart-eating horror and the bliss of being manipulated by one who can lap at the marrow of your very dreams.

He is large within you, the ram of some conquering army of one. You'd expected nothing but the constricts of pain, but Vecna is too clever for that, conjuring an oubliet of his own making from the strands of your enjoyment. You feel his tongue on the salt of your cheek, the manipulations of his wandering mind etching further and further ecstasies into your every nerve.

"No," you say. "I don't want to—"

"You do," says Vecna, and his voice, even as he fills you is low, and deep, and coaxing. "You want to stand at my side. Lich Sovereign, some would call you. My beloved servant. No longer just a hole to fill, but a God ascending. They won't halt our coming, those foolish heroes, so weak..."

He doesn't seem to hear you sob, soothes you with crooning words and creeping touch until you fall silent, enduring with heaves of breath and shivering exertion every ministration, drawn further and further into the midnight strike of an abyss.

"You've always been different," whispers Vecna. "Objects trembled around you, when you were angry. Sometimes those you despised met with misfortune, and you questioned if it was your own will when it fell. So I'll tell you now: it was, all along. Every time."

Vecna nudges your head back against the coal of vertical blackness and watches the flicker of your stare as he fucks you.

"There are beings in this world with abilities," he says. "You are of our number."

Harsh his breath is on your throat, and his voice comes all around you, a corona of volume. 

"You remember these events."

"Yes," you cry out, knowing what else to do. "But it—it doesn't mean anything, I'm not like you—"

"We're one and the same," Vecna says, almost tenderly, and you yelp in his hold, stunned that you are clenching around him, for all his evil, for all that his gleaming flesh nauseates you. Mortified that, despite your hatred of him and all that he has done to this small town your every sense breaks into a flashing crisis.

"There," says Vecna, coolly. "Isn't this evidence enough? Your nerves are bound to me."

You feel his warmth inside you, the end to a crescendo, and suddenly you are as cold as the dead, enduring such a finish in a fugue state.

This is what you are, now; this is what you are to be.

"Welcome," says Vecna, allowing his many swooning limbs to drop, ushering your fall into a shuddering pile on the floor of his dread house, all shattered memory. "This is your home now. You will know no hunger nor bodily desire except that which I allow. Your flesh—its needs—are my dominion. In time you'll come to desire this."

He raises the many-veined travesty of his head and gestures about your location.

"No one will find you here. And I will protect you. You've never been defended; never had a home. Here, you do."

He kneels, and in your wretchedness you lay your face into his hand, knowing in your foulest gut that the affections of this hell-scraped creature will elevate you from the brutal deaths of all those that he has had before.

"Be loyal to me," says Vecna, "and you'll never endure pain again, unless you disobey me."

Your will is molten to his overtures, and you fall to his feet in a collapse of all: sanity, comprehension, humanity, love of yourself, siphoned away.

"No more pain," you say, and you feel the viciousness of his triumph. 

"No more pain," he repeats. "For now."

And you become his creature, forgetting who you were, before.

[acaaai-t]

in another world

gn! reader x scaramouche

cw: angst, hurt/no comfort, major character death

The stars were cruel and unrelenting. He had come to learn the hard way.

There was nothing he could do, as he watched you link arms with someone else that wasn’t him. The smile you gave them was meant for him, not for the loser that captured your heart. His nails dug into the palms of his hands, skin on the verge of breaking.

But what was he to do?

He was dead. Gone.

…

Perhaps in another reality, he was well and alive, spending the precious moments with you.

He’ll still be yours, and in turn, you’ll be his.

The two of you will travel the world together, and he’ll take you to the highest cliff of Mondstadt, where he had laid out a small blanket upon the grass. Baskets and plates of food he had cooked himself sits neatly upon the checkered sheets, its aroma alluring you in. Cecilas dotted the plains, the white specks of floral inviting the presences of the butterfly and bees. “Surprise,” he said, giving you a crooked smile.

He’ll have to fight back a laugh as he watches you trip over a camouflaged root somewhere in the heart of Sumeru’s forest, only helping you up when he was done laughing at your clumsy mistake. You’d whine and playfully punch him, but he’ll dodge out the way and catch in a tight hug, muttering sorry’s and I love you’s.

He’ll be on one knee, the sand digging into his skin, a camera held up as he playfully shouts at you to stay still for the picture— the image of you standing underneath a canvas of the sunset in the beaches of Fontaine, wind gently tugging at your hair, giggling as you watch your beloved struggle.

Click!

He’ll be the one to paddle the tiny canoe that he had scrounged up in an old shed around the bioluminescence beach in Inazuma. And you’d be sitting across from him, eyes bright and curious, laughter spilling from your lips as you watched the stars dance along with the shimmers in the sea. The moon hung high in the skies, blanketing you with a soft white glow.

He’ll be the one to introduce you to his family, your fingers anxiously fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt as the two of you stand outside the large brass door, waiting. You tell him that you’re nervous, and he reassures you that everything will be fine. His family will adore you. And even if they don’t— which isn’t true— he’ll still take you as his lover, because there is nobody else in the entirety of Teyvat that he wants.

It’ll be the first night of the annual lantern rite, and he’ll take you to a secluded area within the trees to release lanterns of your own. Sweet promises scribed in the lantern that captures a glimpse of your future with him, the path that you’re willing to take down with him.

…

You were his first everything, just as he was your first everything. So when Scaramouche had suddenly departed from your side, it left you in a crumbling wreck of emotions.

He hated seeing you like this. Eyes puffy and red from all the crying, voice hoarse and body weak.

He hated even more the sight of you with someone else, all lovey-dovey.

Yet seeing you finally open up to someone new brought him a sense of relief. He may not like it, but if it meant that you’ll finally stop sobbing your heart out every night, that you’ll finally regain that bubbly personality of yours, that you’ll find that light to guide your path— he was willing to accept the loss.

Still, it was unfair.

Maybe in my next life, he whispered, words carried away by the wind, falling deaf to the wonders of nature.

✩ ·┆ masterlist

notes—

— (it’s been a year daddy) :: jokes aside, junior year had been insane, and I’ve been stu(dying) for the upcoming SAT while also trying to write a book of my own WHILE looking for internships, maintaining good grades, stressing about EVERYTHING… you get the idea... ending was slightly rushed sorry 🫶

© acaaai-t — do not plagiarize, repost, or translate

[writingsofwesteros]

https://cdn.isselecta.com/2023-11/tap-that-pussy_1500.webp

Some idea of what Gold Cloak Daemon did to the princess when he kept her in his chambers after Alicent tried to send her to the faith.

Even with how easily she’d learned to accept his use of her body, the aggression he pounded her with and the sheer frequency of times he did so eventually had her crying and babbling. Her cunt aching as if he had forcibly taken her maidenhood a second time.

Alicent’s attempt had put Daemon on edge. He punished the cunt of his dragonseed whore for her mother’s insolence, to ease his nerves, and to make sure her womb was put to use. Poor thing. Could hardly move by the end. Hardly think or feel. Aside from the throbbing in her lower body. All those days blurred together. Sometimes she was woken by the feeling of Daemon’s thrusts within her again.

The amount of days he kept her “prisoner” ran out soon. And she would have been free to go if she wished. If she could stand. But instead. After days upon days of ravaging. The princess lay on Daemon’s bed.

Her legs spread. Stained with seed that leaked from her. With bite marks on her thighs. Her rear red and achy with clear handprint marks. Bite marks again along her collarbones, neck, and breasts. Her body covered in sweat. As she pants and shudders. Her cunt red and almost gaping a little from the constant unrelenting penetration, as seed leaks from it. She twitches a little. Almost with a delirious grin on her face. There isn’t a rational thought in the poor girl’s brain. As she lies splayed and used. It’s enough to make Daemon hard again. And he moves closer to her, pulling her body toward him. She doesn’t fight him, just lying in such a sensative state. As he slowly pushes himself inside her again. He hardly needs to go all the way before she lets out a whimpering moan. His relentlessness left her painfully sensitive. For once he moves slowly. Giving occasional but firm thrusts and watching her moan and shiver every time he does.

He’s fully succeeded. The princess is indeed a dragonseed whore. A slave to his cock. Even enough that when he stops moving she manages to moan a “nooooo” and shakily tries moving her hips against him. Desperate for more from him.

“Oh? You want me to keep moving? Is that right little wanton bitch? Does that poor abused cunt just need me to continue?” Daemon croons gently. Despite the humiliating words he speaks. “You’re such a weak girl. Maidenhood taken by force in an alley and here you are, your body begging for the man who did it to fuck you like that again. You get off on it don’t you? Sick girl. Such a weak dragonseed cunt knows its place doesn’t it? Weak for the cock of a true Targaryen isn’t it?” Daemon purrs and holds her face. “You should repent for being such a sick girl. Pray to grow round with proper Targaryen bastards. You’ll be such a lucky dragonseed whore. Such a good vessel.” He finally thrusts harder then, making her gasp and moan, whimpering louder. “No good for being a princess. Just good for taking cock.”

Daemon grasps her hair in his hand and thrusts again, daring to pick up his pace despite her moans and shaking from the overload of sensation. “Ahhh. Right little bitch? Be mounted and bred like livestock?” He smirks as she babbles nonsense, coming completely undone on his cock. Her poor cunt close to finish again. She doesn’t care at all what he says. As long as he brings her over that lovely edge. And he knows it.

“Mine to fuck! Mine to use! I own this womb! I own this cunt! My little bitch! My dragonseed whore! Mine mine mine!”

With each word he thrusts, as she cries out in pleasure, and clenches around his cock. Yelping as she finishes, her body shaking with the force as she finally succumbs to the exhaustion. Who knows if she’s quite conscious as Daemon holds her. Declaring “my sweet girl” and kissing her desperately as he presses deep inside to fill her once again. He lies her down gently on the bed after. Her body finally limp. Completely exhausted. He smiles proudly at his handiwork. All the pleasure he’s introduced her to when he kept her to himself. He knows she’d never be able to leave him after this. He holds her limp body close to him. In a rare tender gesture, brushing hair out of her face before resting a hand on her lower belly. The nerve of her mother…. She must already be pregnant. He’s no fool. Those first few nights when he took her, he must’ve made sure of that. Her damn mother dared to try and take from the lord Commander? That woman will learn better than to try and take away his pet. Especially while she carried precious cargo. As said pet sleeps, Daemon thinks to himself of ways he can take such precautions

Oh she's completely cock drunk now, dumbification settling in nicely as her body rests.

Gold cloaks coming into the room; giving Daemon updates whilst the pretty Princess is bare and spread out on the bed sleeping. Its a stunning sight.

[antimonyandthyme]

circle endless

2k, sebcedes, explicit content

They both claimed they had too much to drink. That was fine, and possibly true. Nico had been handing out shots all night. At one point, he’d licked the salt off the back of Sebastian’s hand like it was a perfectly normal thing to do, glint in his eyes far too bright and knowing.

It didn’t matter. Sebastian liked driving.

“Go slow,” Nico slurred, or fake-slurred. “I like seeing you drive.”

“Who wouldn’t,” Lewis said.

Maybe they knew him a little too well. Sebastian sat up straighter, held the wheel tighter, the praise a sickening coil in his belly. He hovered just under the speed limit while they made out in the backseat.

Easy enough for Sebastian to keep one eye on the road. Lewis hated driving outside of a track, and Nico picked every other Toyota or Ford to hate, but Sebastian enjoyed the easiness of traffic. It was no big task waiting at a red light. Listening to All Shook Up by Elvis on the classic rock station. Watching Lewis and Nico swap air like they couldn’t get enough, while Nico slipped a hand unashamedly down Lewis’ waistband. On a scale of one to ten, this probably ranked pretty mid for a regular cabbie. No one was vomiting. No one was crying. No one was holding a gun to his head.

Yet.

Sebastian alighted them at the guest lobby, fairly deserted at this hour. He waved the valet over, then gave him a twenty to look the other way while Sebastian unfolded two semi-drunk Formula 1 drivers from the back.

Nico was giggling at something Lewis was saying. His usually flawless hair was decidedly flawed, all mussed up from someone running their hands through it. He flopped out of the car, lips dangerously close to Lewis’ very obvious erection. Sebastian straightened him up and eased him on his feet. Nico looked at Sebastian like he could see right through him.

“Aren’t you coming up?”

“I’m one hotel down,” Sebastian said. Nico rolled his eyes while Lewis’ jaw tightened. They all knew that.

“You can’t be this thick, Sebastian.”

“Maybe he’s not interested,” Lewis said, tone neutral.

“Oh,” Nico said, raking his eyes up and down Sebastian, “he’s interested.”

“I’m—” Not? Not not interested? He was looking down the barrel, pointed to his head at last. An unloaded gun wasn’t supposed to carry this much weight. Sebastian could say no, turn around, drive away, and what could they do to him that hasn’t already been done? They’ve just about taken every race in the season.  

“It’s a two-for-one deal,” Nico said, very salesman like, as if he sensed Sebastian just needed an extra push.

Nico’s hip was cocked to meet Lewis’ groin. They were joined together at all their sharpest, angriest angles. Sebastian could see them as a priceless painting, something people stared at and could never get enough of. All those lines and shapes and colours. There was so much to look at.

“We’ll treat you right,” Lewis said softly. Sebastian had to lean in to hear, a fish on a hook. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

Sebastian called for the valet, who scrambled over, expectant. There was something equally expectant in both Nico’s and Lewis’ gazes too. The idling Ferrari sat, almost pretty in its uselessness. Where was its siren call when Sebastian needed it most? He handed the valet another twenty, and then the keys.

--

Nico’s grip under his knees was unrelenting. He was holding Sebastian open like two oyster halves, pearl on display in the middle. The hard line of Nico’s dick pressed like a hot poker against his back. He squirmed, and Nico let one hand go to smack him on the back of his thigh. His body had lost all finesse without Nico holding him up, and Sebastian’s free leg shot out, catching Lewis on the hip.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Spoiling for a fight,” Nico said. Lewis didn’t even look up from the kick. He was staring at a spot somewhere far below Sebastian’s eyeline. Sebastian’s ears burned. His hole fluttered in anticipation. He watched as Lewis swallowed. “You’re just Lewis’ type.”

“I am right here,” Lewis said mildly, like he was used to this. How many people had they invited in this way? Sebastian forced the question back down his throat. You didn’t ask things you didn’t want the answers to.

“You won’t believe,” Nico went on, “how long he’s wanted this. How many times we’ve fought and fucked over this.”

Sebastian knew what to look for—the clenching of Lewis’ jaw, and there it was. He was starting to feel akin to a stuffed teddy bear being torn in half between two children. By tomorrow, he’d be nothing but shredded fabric.

Control had been a pretense ever since he agreed to drive, but Sebastian wouldn’t be Sebastian without trying. “You’re telling me you don’t like this?” Sebastian twisted his torso around to look up at Nico. Through his eyelashes, the way that seemed to irk Nico every time he saw Sebastian do it. “Me, naked in your arms, you don’t like it?”

“I like you—” Nico said slowly, and the pause in between those words and the next was long enough for a stupid little thrill to creep into Sebastian’s chest “—restrained.”

His hand was back on the underside of Sebastian’s knee, and he peeled Sebastian apart with even more vigour than before. Sebastian’s hips were going be in a world of hurt tomorrow. He had no leverage, no give. Nico was a lot stronger than he appeared.

Lewis circled Sebastian’s hole with a lubed-up finger, almost apologetically. He dipped his middle finger in just partway, before pulling out and petting Sebastian’s rim again. In and out, just taking his time. Played with Sebastian until his hole was almost intolerably sensitive. Sebastian was making small, gasping noises. His cock was starting to drool. He couldn’t see Nico’s face, held in place as he were, but he pictured it pleased, before mentally rearranging it to smug.

“For someone so fast,” Sebastian said to Lewis, “you’re being awfully slow.”

It was enough to drag Lewis’ attention up. He looked exasperated, a familiar expression, and unbearably fond, a not-so-familiar expression. Sebastian wondered which one was for who, and decided he liked that it was ambiguous enough that he had to guess. “Seb,” Lewis said. He wrapped his large hand around Sebastian’s cock, didn’t move it, just lay it there. Sebastian moaned like it was torture. “Relax.”

“I can’t,” Sebastian admitted, wriggling helplessly in Nico’s arms. He bore down on Lewis’ finger, and was mildly satisfied at the wounded sound Lewis made. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Come here, then,” Nico said, in a manner Sebastian could only describe as bossy. He let out a hysterical giggle against Nico’s lips. Competitive, even here. He thought he might have understood. It wasn’t enough that they won everything this year. It was never going to be enough. That’s what made them the best. Sebastian was right likening them to a painting. A picture of ultimate appeal. How could anyone ever say no to that?

Nico offered him his most unimpressed look, before shoving his tongue into Sebastian’s mouth. Sebastian focussed on the slick slide of their tongues, and he loosened up under their touches. Lewis had two fingers in his hole now, searching, probing.

“Fucking Christ,” Nico said. His lip was going to be beautifully swollen tomorrow. Lewis had thrust his fingers up against Sebastian’s prostate, and Sebastian had bit down on the closest thing available.

Lewis looked delighted. Sebastian grinned. Lewis grinned back. Nico sank his teeth into the meat of Sebastian’s shoulder in retaliation. This was all starting to become very funny. Sebastian liked to think he did better in the funny. The same way he did better in the wet. In the right conditions, even collisions could be fun.

“If the two of you are going to fight over me,” Sebastian said, craning his neck to look at them both, “then fight over me, damn. Schoolboys could do this better.”

Lewis pushed against his prostate, and Nico’s teeth clamped around his nipple. Sensation jolted through him from all directions. His synapses were rewiring, his skin was hot. Oh. Sebastian might have bitten off more than he could chew.

Fuck it. They were somewhere far ahead, and Sebastian needed to catch up.  

Nico’s hands were no longer holding Sebastian’s knees up. He was rolling Sebastian’s left nipple in between his fingers, and sucking Sebastian’s brain out through his right. Sebastian sagged back against Nico’s solid chest. Lewis’ fingers were stuffing him so full he could barely breathe. His cock lay neglected on his stomach, while Lewis rolled his balls leisurely in his palm. In stringing Sebastian along the edge, they were united.

“Please,” he gasped, limbs trembling. He was so hard it hurt. “Lewis. Nico. Lew—ah, Nico. Please.”

The world went stark when Lewis pushed in, and Nico’s hand found his cock. Sebastian’s mind went to a different place. A second time, a third. Nico fucking him while he fucked Lewis. Lewis riding Nico while Sebastian watched. Sebastian sucking Nico’s cock while Lewis fucked him so hard he saw stars. It all played out before him, as predictable as the season went.

The ending? Predictable as well. There wasn’t a way this went that would end with all of them being happy.

He was wailing, calling out for impossible things, calling out for them both. Nico’s fingers were mean on the head of his cock, pinching and rubbing at his slit. Lewis was splitting him open.

Two-for-one. Two against one. Sebastian didn’t really stand a chance.

He came with a garbled shout. Was it their names? He wasn’t sure. Nico was kissing his cheeks, now wet with tears. Lewis fucked into him gently. He twitched and shuddered in their arms. Someone was petting his hair, someone was stroking his hip. Sebastian floated, suspended in air. Perfect stillness. He could make out the landing zone, but it could wait.

--

Everyone was at the weekend party. When the winner was already decided, it lent itself to greater relaxation. Why stress when you already knew the result? Even Kimi couldn’t stay away.

Oh, fuck. Even Kimi.

Sebastian was going to have to get used to Nico licking his hand like a stray dog. Nico’s tongue felt rough against his skin—or was it his skin that felt rough against Nico’s tongue? The lights were blurring everything. It was the fifth shot Nico had downed. He was going to actually be drunk this time. Lewis was off sulking somewhere. Toto had yelled at them both. Tonight was going to be rough. Anticipation curled in Sebastian like a spark in an engine.

Kimi didn’t say much. He never needed to.

“It’s not—” Sebastian couldn’t finish his sentence. Not when he didn’t know what it was himself.

Kimi grunted.

He wasn’t being taken advantage of if he allowed it. He wasn't being used if he used back. And it wasn’t wrong if he wanted it.

“It’s just some fun,” he said weakly.

“Is it,” Kimi said. He pried the shot Nico had shoved into Sebastian’s hand away. Stared at it for a second with distaste, before downing it himself.

Sebastian barked out a laugh. “You’re a good friend, iceman.”

“Good friends tell their friends off when they’re being stupid,” Kimi said. He clicked his teeth together, before shrugging. “Don’t drink if you’re driving.”

It was the best advice he could give, being that it was the only advice Sebastian would listen to. Maybe they’d just been that obvious. Maybe the three of them would circle endlessly on a mobius strip until their tires ran into the ground. In every one of the scenarios, a crash.

Half-past midnight found Sebastian waiting by the car. The air was crisp enough to wake him up. Nico stumbled out first, shirt askew. Lewis showed up, not five minutes later, like he couldn’t even wait long enough to fake a believable story.

“You driving?” Lewis said.

It wasn’t a question that needed answering. Sebastian held up the keys.