#the constant urge to own another sword

[siriusblack-the-third]

The one word that best fits Percy, Annabeth thinks, is Gentle. And it is entirely by design.

Percy grew up hated by his stepfather, hated by his schoolmates and teachers and tutors. He grew up with the words "delinquent", "stupid", "troublemaker" thrown at him, stinging his heart at first and then sliding ineffectually off his back over the years. Annabeth has seen him at his worst, and she knows that it is not in Percy's nature to be gentle. He's a hurricane.

It's in everything he does.

His eyes shift and change with the tides, with his emotions, from happy to angry to sad to exhausted to smug all within moments of each other. Sometimes, she catches a glimpse of something Other, something that makes him look cruel and heartless in the worst yet most beautiful of ways. The first time she had seen that look was when he had packed up the head of Medusa to send it to the Gods.

(It had scared her, then. Now any reminder of it makes her laugh.)

He holds himself in a way that says fuck around and find out, in a way that says he's the most dangerous person on this planet and he knows it, in a way that makes you stop and look and then stamp down the urge to take a few steps back. His back is always straight and his shoulders are always pulled back, but he always looks relaxed. His head is always a little low, reminiscent of the way a bull lowers its head when it's going to charge. His hands are always in his pockets, fiddling with a pen that has been with him since he was twelve. People scatter out of his way like getting within ten feet of him would get them killed.

(They're not wrong.)

Annabeth can only describe his fighting as chaotic. He is a literal whirlwind, movements fluid and unpredictable, sword slashing through the air with such speed that it's almost invisible. He's terrifying and beautiful and mesmerizing when he wages war, all sharp edges and ruthless strikes placed right where it would take his opponent down the fastest. Sometimes when he feels particularly violent, his hits are non lethal yet painful, making his opponent cry and scream, making him grin with teeth too sharp and eyes too bright.

And yet.

Gentle is the best word Annabeth can think of to describe Percy.

Percy, who cradles her face oh so carefully when he kisses her softly and slowly, just the way she likes when a nightmare wakes her up. Percy, who curls up into a ball next to her and buried his head into her stomach to hide from the terrors in his own dreams. Percy, who looks at his sister with the most adoring look Annabeth has ever seen on his face, who smiles at his mother with that spark of awe in his eyes like he still can't believe he got such a wonderful mother, who is patient and caring with every camper that asks him to help.

She can only think of gentle.

Gentle, because Percy likes to be reminded of the good things in the world. Gentle, because Percy works towards being so despite it not being a natural part of him. Gentle, because after years of war and bloodshed and battle and violence, they have made it to peace. Peace, where they can afford to make the choice to be gentle.

Percy is a Hurricane. Percy is Gentle.

Annabeth loves all of him.

.

Tag list:

@narcissa-black-supermacy @the-chaosbringer @in-flvx @padfootastic @gracelesslady23 @mycupofrum @just-another-godless-god @fiendishfyre @ad1thi @prongsfoot-wolfstar @siriuslystarbucks @xxmysticrose18 @ghostie-06 @pan-diasaster @h-m-i-a-n @constant-diablerie @strwbi-laces @shanti-ashant-hai @remen-nyoodles

[thedemoninme141]

Her Heartbeat, Chapter 4: Her Walls.

Summary: The therapy session is torture for Wednesday, made even worse by the fact that you seem to enjoy it.

Warnings: NONE STILL NOT IN A MOOD TO BRING THE ANGST!!!!

Previous ChapterWorklist.

Wednesday fully expected you to be insufferable during the maths class. She braced herself for your annoying chatter, the constant whining about how boring the class was, and pointless attempts to get her attention. But to her surprise, you were... tolerable.

A part of her kept glancing at you, expecting something, waiting for you to break the silence and turn back to throw some insipid remark her way. But you never did. Instead, your head remained down, taking notes as if nothing else existed in the world but the math equations she learned years ago.

It felt.. weird.. Wednesday couldn't understand it.

After class, Wednesday didn’t see you. Of course, your schedule was different. She was relieved, or at least, she told herself she was. Other students, having witnessed her outburst in the quad, avoided her path as if she were a rabid animal. Good. She preferred it that way.

Still, as she walked into fencing class, she couldn’t help but notice Bianca’s absence. Pathetic. Bianca could’ve at least tried to channel her anger into something productive, like giving Wednesday a real challenge. Instead, she chose self-pity. It was disappointing, really. But there was another problem: none of the other students wanted to spar with her either. Even the coach didn’t bother forcing anyone to step up. So Wednesday sat through the entire class, watching others clumsily clash swords, her grip tightening on her sabre with each passing second. She’s going to maim Bianca next time they’re in the same room.

By the time she returned to her room, she felt a strange, simmering tension in her chest. She washed up, as usual, but for some reason, she found herself standing in front of Enid’s mirror, checking her appearance. Why? Why did it even matter? Annoyed with herself, she forced her mind back to the present.

It's time for torture and not the good kind.

When she arrived at the therapy building, she saw you leaning against the wall outside, cheap headphones covering your ears. Your eyes were closed as you hummed softly, lost in your own little world. Wednesday’s gaze lingered on you longer than it should have. She took in every detail—the way your lips moved ever so slightly with the melody, the way your fingers tapped gently against your leg in rhythm, the faint smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

The sound of your humming... it did something to her. She couldn’t place the feeling. But there it was again, like an itch she couldn’t quite scratch. “Hey,” you greeted, pulling your headphones off. “So, what’s the plan for today’s therapy session? Maybe you can tell me more about how much you don’t care.” Wednesday gritted her teeth. "The plan is for you to sit quietly and not bother me." You chuckled, clearly not taking her seriously. “Got it. This is going to be fun.”

David beamed and clapped his hands. "Wednesday! Finally found a partner, huh? That’s great! I’m so proud of you! The first step is always finding a friend." Wednesday’s eyes darkened, and she shot him a deadpan stare. “If I were you, I wouldn’t confuse necessity with friendship. We’re not going to hold hands and braid each other's hair.” David's smile remained annoyingly the same, “Well, you know, every relationship starts somewhere!” Wednesday muttered something unintelligible under her breath, most likely about wishing she could bury him somewhere. You stood beside her, fighting the urge to laugh at the interaction. Your lips curled into a smirk, and you elbowed Wednesday lightly. "See, he's already proud of you. That's progress!" “Be silent, or I will make you regret ever breathing,” Wednesday hissed in return, but you just chuckled. David’s smile was still the same, "Well! Let’s get started, everyone!"

The room was already filled with other unfortunate souls, each paired off with their so-called “partners.” They all sat in a circle, as though that would somehow make this agonizing process more bearable. “Alright, everyone’s here, so let’s get started!” David said, clapping his hands together. “Today’s session is all about why we chose our therapy partners. The person who’s helping us on our journey to be better, more balanced people. Alex, why don’t you go first?” Alex scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Uh, yeah, so, Milo’s, like, my best friend, y’know? He helps me not punch walls when I’m mad at my dad. He’s super chill and doesn’t, like, ask too many questions. That’s why I picked him.” Milo just nodded, looking half asleep. “Yeah. We vibe.”

Wednesday felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. She glanced at you, expecting to see a similar expression of exasperation, but instead, you were trying (and failing) to stifle your laughter.

David nodded with excessive enthusiasm. “That’s wonderful, Alex! Learning to control our impulses is such an important step. Okay, Rick, your turn.” “Well, I chose Ashley because I know where she hid the body,” Rick said casually, causing Ashley to elbow him sharply in the ribs. The room went silent, everyone staring at them. Wednesday's interest piqued for the first time since arriving. Congratulations, you are hired. David, slightly flustered, cleared his throat. “I... I think we’re going to pretend we didn’t hear that, Moving on! Brooke, how about you?” Brooke, a girl with bright pink hair, clasped her hands together dramatically. “I chose Mike because... because I believe we’re destined to help each other. You know, like twilight.” Mike blinked at her, clearly bewildered. “You met me like, ten minutes ago.” “Exactly! Fate.” Brooke grinned widely, completely unbothered by Mike’s confusion.

Wednesday facepalmed, wishing the earth would open up and swallow her whole before this circus of a session continued.

“Okay, Carl and Eddie, how about you?” David asked, his enthusiasm unshaken. “I chose Eddie because... well... he’s my cousin. And our family said if we don’t start ‘working on our issues,’ they’ll stop letting us come to Thanksgiving.” Eddie nodded solemnly. “Can’t lose the turkey, man.”

Wednesday clenched her fists, trying to maintain her composure. This was, without a doubt, the worst form of torture she’d ever endured. Worse than Bianca. Worse than Enid’s surprise hugs. Worse than your smile— “And last but not least, Wednesday and Y/n,” David chirped, turning to her expectantly. “Tell us why you chose your partner!” Wednesday groaned, already dreading this. She didn’t choose you. She got stuck with you, and that was an entirely different situation. Not that it mattered. David would twist it into some sick, heartwarming story about growth and friendship. “I helped her kidn—” You quickly cut Wednesday off “She helped me take care of my brother’s kids. So, I’m helping her in return.” The room fell silent. Wednesday’s eyes snapped toward you, narrowing dangerously. Taking care of kids? That was your excuse? Of all the ridiculous things you could’ve said, that was what you went with? And yet, somehow, it worked. The group nodded as if you’d just revealed some profound truth. David, predictably, beamed. “That’s wonderful! Helping each other is exactly what this program is about!” Wednesday’s jaw clenched. She hated this. She hated the entire scenario. But what she hated most was how easily you had manipulated the situation. How easily you had turned the group’s attention in your favor. You were playing a game—a game she was determined not to lose. You leaned back in your chair, clearly enjoying yourself. Wednesday shot you a look that could’ve killed, but you merely smirked. You are insufferable, she thought, her irritation reaching new heights. And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, David announced the next activity: a communication exercise.

This day just keeps getting better.

The collective groan that echoed through the room was almost palpable. Even the most upbeat participants looked deflated. Wednesday, however, remained silent, though her jaw clenched slightly at the thought of partaking in this ridiculous charade. David, as usual, didn’t notice the room's resistance. He pressed on, walking over to the whiteboard and scribbling “Empathy is Key” in bold, enthusiastic letters. “Remember, it’s all about empathy! We’re learning to understand each other better, to grow emotionally, to have control over our emotions, to understand other's emotions and to support our partners in their personal journeys.” You leaned over toward Wednesday and whispered "This must be your favorite part." Before Wednesday could reply with the dark retort brewing in her mind, David began calling out pairs to start the exercise. "Alright, let’s have Rick and Ashley go first. Rick, why don’t you tell us about a recent challenge you’ve faced?" Rick, still smirking from his earlier comment about the hidden body, shrugged. “I dunno. I guess I’m struggling with how to keep my drug selling a secret from my mom.” David shot him a look, clearly unsure whether or not he was joking. “Okay, maybe let’s keep it a little more… grounded, Rick. Something real, something you’ve been working through emotionally.” Rick rolled his eyes but finally relented. “Fine, fine. I guess it’s dealing with my anger issues. Like, I tend to fly off the handle whenever I get stressed out at school, and I took it out on my mom the other day. I didn’t mean to, but I just snapped, and now I feel kind of guilty about it.” David nodded, his smile now one of understanding. “That’s a great start, Rick. Now, Ashley, how do you think Rick felt in that moment?” Ashley, who had been mostly silent up to this point, glanced nervously at Rick before speaking softly. “I think... I think he felt frustrated and maybe overwhelmed. Like, he didn’t know how to deal with the pressure, so he lashed out.”

David beamed. “Exactly! It’s about understanding where the other person is coming from. Well done, both of you!”

Wednesday groaned inwardly. What's next? Group hugs?

One by one, each pair shared their challenges. Most of the stories were mundane—failed tests, fights with siblings, petty grievances about social media. But Wednesday barely paid attention. Instead, she was counting down the seconds until it would be over.

And then, it was your turn.

David turned to you with that same eager expression he’d had since the beginning. “Alright, Y/N and Wednesday! Who wants to go first?”

You gave Wednesday a playful nudge. “Ladies first?” Wednesday shot you a cold glare, her fingers tightening around the edge of her chair. “No. You will go first. I refuse to partake in this farce until absolutely necessary.” You chuckled but didn’t argue. “Alright, alright.” You turned to David, scratching the back of your head as you thought for a moment. “A challenge I’ve faced recently, huh? Well, I guess... it’s been trying to balance everything. You know, school, family stuff, and figuring out what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. It feels like everything’s happening at once and... everything is going extremely fast." David nodded sympathetically. “That’s a very real struggle, Y/N. It’s common to feel overwhelmed when there’s so much happening at once. Wednesday, how do you think Y/N felt in that moment?”

Wednesday stared at you, her expression unreadable. She didn’t want to indulge in this ridiculous exercise, but she knew David wouldn’t let them leave until they participated. So, she took a slow breath and answered, her tone flat and clinical.

“You felt lost,” she said simply. “Like you were being pulled in different directions, unsure of which path to take. You hate having pressure, having to choose between two things, I won't say it's selfishness, it's curiosity."

You blinked, slightly taken aback by the accuracy of her response. For a moment, there was a flicker of something between you- something in Wednesday's eyes that you couldn't catch.

Wednesday’s walls went up again, and her gaze hardened.

David’s eyes widened, clearly impressed. “Wow, Wednesday! That was... really insightful! You nailed it.”

“I only said what was obvious,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

David, clearly overjoyed by how “well” the exercise had gone, clapped his hands together again. “That was fantastic, everyone! Great job today. I think we’re really making progress. I have to go out of town tomorrow so gonna have to move our schedule" Finally some good news. "Don't worry, something special awaits then." OF COURSE "Also, it will be the other person’s turn to discuss their recent challenge next.” He glanced pointedly at Wednesday, who sighed inwardly.

You stood up, stretching lazily before turning to Wednesday with a grin. “They are kinda.. umm.. different.” Wednesday stared at you blankly. “I’m considering taking out a restraining order on every single person in this room.” You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re fun, you know that?” “I am not fun,” Wednesday spat, clearly disgusted by the notion. You laughed, clearly enjoying her irritation. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad. Besides, you did pretty well. You’re good at reading people.” Wednesday rolled her eyes. “Reading people is easy. Dealing with them is the real challenge.” You raised an eyebrow, that familiar smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “Is that your way of saying I’m a challenge?” Wednesday glared at you, she felt something inside, something she wasn’t ready to acknowledge yet. “You are an inconvenience. One that I intend to rectify.” You chuckled again. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment."

As you both stepped out of the therapy building, you took a deep breath, savoring the brief moment of freedom from the exhausting session. Wednesday walked beside you, her silence heavy but not unwelcome. Without thinking too much, you broke the silence. "Hey, want to grab a coffee?" Wednesday stopped in her tracks, her dark eyes narrowing as she turned to face you. “What is with you?” You blinked, confused by her sudden sharpness. “What?” “This.” She waved a hand between you. “All this. You trying to spend time with me. Your part is just the therapy, so why do you keep pushing for more?” Her question caught you off guard. You hadn’t expected her to be so direct about it. There was an answer you could give, one you weren’t quite ready to say aloud yet, but you couldn’t let the silence stretch too long. “I didn’t mean to offend you with my forwardness,” you began, choosing your words carefully. “I just wanted to get to know you, since we barely had the chance since yesterday.” “Why? Why do you want to know me? What is your real intention?” “Wednesday...” you sighed, searching for the right words. “People can get close to you without any real intention, you know?” “No. They always have an intention. Tyler did.” The name felt heavy, and for a moment, there was a glint of something in her expression—bitterness. “The sheriff’s boy from Weathervane Café?” you asked, “He always gave me the creeps. What’s with him though? I heard he was the monster killing people in the woods. Was he close?” “He tried to court me.” You winced. “Gee, you have a taste.” Wednesday rolled her eyes, her irritation palpable. “I didn’t know he was the Hyde then, idiot.” “Ah yes, the classic ‘your love interest is the killer all along.’” She shot you a glare. “What now?” “Nothing,” you waved it off. “Anyway, I can’t turn into a Hyde, but I do wish I could turn into a cat and sleep all day. Aaaand, you can give me some remark about how you’d rather drink acid than have coffee with me. I wouldn’t mind. I would just go for the coffee alone.” You turned and began walking away, pretending to dismiss the whole interaction casually. You could feel her eyes boring into the back of your head. What were you even doing? Pushing Wednesday like this? Wednesday wasn't even wrong, you did have an intention but it wasn’t something you could explain—at least, not yet.

After a few steps, you suddenly felt her presence beside you. Surprised, you glanced over at her.

“I am only going because I want to,” Wednesday muttered. “And you are paying for the coffee.”

Next Chapter [Sorry for the late update, Had to cook]

[starboysbrainrot]

“so happy the gaang got their happy ending”

what mf happy ending are we talking about exactly ?

you mean the happy ending where aang gets to live forever with the constant reminder that he is alone, that the genocide of his people happened and there is no going back ? where he has the responsibility to assure that the air nation doesn’t die off with him after his death ? where he has to forever live with the fact that he disappeared for 100 years and that the world he lives in now isn’t his. he’s a relic of the past, the testament of a forgotten culture, the last remaining of what is left of the air nomads. he’s alone, forever, at least a part of it died with his people, forever lost.

or you mean the happy ending where Katara & Sokka go back to their tribe, scarred forever by war and loss, having to rebuild the southern water tribe after 100 years of war ? having to rebuild their culture, forcefully destroyed by the fire nation ? forever living with the urge to cradle in their mother’s arms, but never quite being able to do it. Katara will forever see her mother in her brother, his face, his eyes, everything reminding her of Kya, and how she misses her. and Sokka being unable to remember his mother’s face, always ending up picturing Katara instead. even with their dad on their side, Kya will always be missing. no amount of hope, love, and support will grow them a new mother.

or you mean the happy ending where Toph goes back to her toxic parents that really couldn’t care less for who she really is ? and leaving the gaang, the only family she ever really had, who have to take on various missions around the world to rebuild it after the war ? and let’s not forget how scarred and terrified she could be after barely surviving their last battle.

or you mean the happy ending where Suki, after months in prison, simply has to go on with her life as if nothing ever happened ? as if she hadn’t rot in prison for months ? as if she hadn’t experienced the war firsthand by helping the refugees in Ba Sing Se ?

or maybe you mean the happy ending where Zuko, after living a childhood made of lies, abuse, neglect and grief, has to become fire lord at 16, with no idea on what he is doing ? after having half his face burned by his own father, for defending his nation, will experience numerous assassination attempts as a new ruler and have to rebuild the whole world because of the wrongdoings of his ancestors ? his hands are tainted red by blood that his swords didn’t shed, but the crown on his head now is his, and that’s all that matters in everyone’s eyes. that’s all that will always matter.

or maybe you mean all those other kids, that the gaang met during the series.

characters like Haru, who saw his dad being imprisoned, fearing for his life and the life of his mother everyday.

character like the freedom fighters, orphans, who had to become child soldiers in order to survive, who built a family around the hope that they were doing something right. only for it to be washed out by the destroying of a village, and the splitting up of their group.

characters like Jet, who never even got to see a life after the war, who was born in a world scarred by flames and loss, forced to become a parental figure to dozens of orphans, and who died by the hands of his very own country, forgotten forever under a lake, among other forgotten bodies.

characters like Mai or Ty Lee, that never really got to choose what they wanted to do, forcefully put into a role maintained by fear and violence. in a world that asked only thing from them : to fight.

characters like Azula, who got her whole life taken away by one cruel man, forced to become a weapon. who’s forever scarred by the way she grew up, by the way no one saved her, no one helped her, by the way she lost her mom and her brother, because of one, very, cruel man.

or Yue, who sacrificed herself for the wrongdoings of yet another man, who never got to experience adulthood, never got to experience the joy of growing up.

y’all can’t even comprehend that they are all DOOMED. they will never have a normal life after the war, never. their whole lives are forever scarred by the mistakes made by thousands of people before they were even born. they are born with tragedy, loss and war in their blood. ALL OF THEM. nothing will ever change that, no matter how good their future could be. even Aang, who was born before the war, was ultimately tainted by the horrors of it. after experiencing, seeing, all the suffering, all the wrongdoings.

they got the weight of the world and the hopes of long gone generations on their shoulders. not a single one of them got to be kids. not a single one of them got to experience a normal childhood. not a single one of them will live freely after the war. some of them won’t even live after the war.

because how. how can you forget, how can you forget 100 years of pain and suffering ?

(I know this all sounds pretty pessimistic but they all make me so, so sad… I love all of these characters so much. all of them. they make me sad in the best way possible and the tragedy of their story will forever make me cry.)

[gelly-fsh]

When Regulus was a baby, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket and sleeping in his nursery, Sirius got into the habit of sneaking into Regulus room and watch him sleep.

Sirius was a child himself, just 4 years old but feeling decades older than he was, decades older than he should. It was a double-edged sword, having a child so opinionated, but it was nothing some well placed curses wouldn't fix.

Sirius never saw something wrong to it before. Yes, it hurted, yes it may him cry a lot, but Maman was supposed to love him, so maybe her love was supposed to hurt, it was supposed to sting, it was supposed to make him afraid.

But then Regulus came to his life.

It's a bit surreal, how ones perception of the world can change because of a baby, a tiny thing that cannot express something out of its basic needs, but Regulus was a life altering event in Sirius life.

At first, Sirius thought the constant fear he felt when their mom took his brother in her arms was just pent-up emotion from being a big brother, or misplaced jealousy, maybe that was why Sirius always had to make sure Regulus was safe in his nursery every night, just mere curiosity.

He understood rather quickly that it was not, the feeling was just plain fear, and he realized why.

Sirius may have been okay with their parents treating him poorly, he may have made up excuses for their actions in his mind, mixing pain and love together to make himself believe Maman cared for him, but he was not okay with Regulus suffering the same.

The pain, the loneliness, the fear, his little brother didn't deserve to suffer even a grain of it, so he was going to protect him in any way he could, no matter what.

When he was up and inside Regulus' cradle, Sirius felt the urge to take his hand, a hand smaller than his, but equally chubby. Unconsciously, Regulus firmly grabbed Sirius' finger and made a content noise afterwards, making Sirius smile softly at him.

"I will have to be the Black's heir, but you, Reggie, will be just mine" he whispered softly. Sirius didn't know why, but his eyes started to water, a ray of emotions that drowned him while he watched his little brother sleep.

He started to feel drowsy, lulled to sleep by the peace of knowing his brother was safe for another day, and he went to sleep there, Regulus hand still gripping his own.

Come morning, there would be shouts, there would be reprimands about Sirius carelessness and a meal that would not make it to Sirius belly as a punishment for being so reckless with the baby, there would even be a curse or two. But tonight?

Tonight was just this moment, just him, just Reggie, just them.

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Summary: Following the crowing of King Aegon, second of his name, Lady Maera Wylde, eldest daughter of Master of Laws, is called to return to the capital to assist her old friend, Helaena, in becoming accustomed to her new role as Queen. As well as navigating the complexities of court and discrediting the accusations previously made about her, Maera must also face Prince Aemond, having not seen him in three long years. Once allies, their relationship is no longer what it was when they were children, and they must find a way to live together for the sake of the Crown.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Prologue

King Jaehaerys and his Queen Alysanne sired thirteen children during their reign. The bloodline of this tale starts with the seventh born and forth son of these children; Vaegon Targaryen.

Vaegon the dragonless was considered as sour in personality as he was uncomely in his looks, known to be more drawn to his books than the sword. When he came of age and could not find a suitable spouse due to his general lack of personality, his eldest brother Aemon, successfully married, proposed a young friend of his wife to Vaegon, the Lady Edme Whitehead. Jaehaerys urged Vaegon to take this opportunity in order to further the Targaryen bloodline. Vaegon agreed but stated that once he had done his duty and produced a child, he would return to his books and studies

The marriage of Vaegon Targaryen and Lady Edme Whitehead began with great expectations, a union meant to strengthen ties between House Targaryen and House Whitehead. However, as the years passed, the once-promising alliance turned into a somber reflection of lost hopes and broken dreams. Vaegon was a man of ambition and charm, but his heart remained fixated on his interest in astronomy and mathematics. He had little interest in the domestic matters of marriage. The young Lady Edme, on the other hand, had been raised with romantic notions of love and unity, envisioning a future filled with affection and companionship.

The vast differences in their personalities became apparent as their courtship waned. Lady Edme longed for affection and attention, but Vaegon seldom found time to share in the joyous moments of married life with her. Despite the strain, they maintained a facade of unity before the court and their subjects. However, their inner turmoil was evident to those who cared enough to observe.

It took Vaegon 8 months to consummate the marriage. Thankfully for the Lady Edme, once the marital deed was done, she became with child. Edme birthed small twin daughters, Gael and Viserra, but shortly after passed away from child-bed fever. Relieved he was now released from the confines of marriage, Vaegon placed his daughters in the care of Edme’s parents, Lord and Lady Whitehead. Vaegon beseeched the newly crowned king, Viserys the First for another life path. The understanding King, seeing his uncles misery, suggested a life at the Citadel whereby he could serve the realm with his extensive knowledge. As Vaegon had only produced daughters and emphasised the sickliness of the twins to the senior maesters, insinuating that they would not live very long anyway, the citadel was happy for the prince to take the vows, relinquishing him of all titles and duties.

Lady Gael and her sister Viserra grew near the shores in the south of the Stormlands. Despite their small statures and shyness, both Gael and Viserra carried the unmistakable air of Targaryen nobility, their silver hair and violet eyes serving as a constant reminder of their illustrious heritage. Under the loving guidance of their Grandparents, the girls received the finest education, learning not only the customs and traditions of their own House Targaryen and the mother tongue of High Valyrian, but also those of the Seven Kingdoms.

The allure of marrying Targaryen women, even for a small chance to lay claim to the iron throne, attached many suitors for the twin girls. Both were married when they came of age. Firstly was Viserra, to Lord Byron of Morne, a house known for having strong Naval forces on the Straits of Tarth, an island off the coast of the stormlands. Gael, when she finally flowered, became the wife of Lord Jasper Wylde, shortly after his first wife’s passing.

Lord Wylde and Lady Gael produced 4 children during their marriage. On the birth of the 4th child, neither babe nor woman survived. Upon Lady Gael’s passing, Lord Wylde once again had to search for another wife. The twin sons he had produced with Lady Gael both caught the pox one year and passed at the young age of four. The only proof of this union ever existing was the survival of the third child; a daughter, Maera; The Jewel of Rainwood

Aemond returned to King's Landing on his dragon, Vhagar, following his visit to Storm's End. The journey had been a success; he had secured the Baratheon's support with a marriage pact. But in his pursuit of power and revenge, he had inadvertently murdered Prince Lucerys, the beloved son of Rhaenyra. News of Lucerys's death spread like wildfire through the Red Keep upon Aemond’s return. King Aegon, who had never been fond of his sister's bastard son, couldn't hide his joy at the tidings. He saw this as an opportunity to solidify his rule.

Queen Alicent, Prince Aemond's mother, wept bitter tears of distress and horror, fully understanding the grave implications this tragedy would bring to their family. The bonds of trust and alliances were unraveling, and chaos loomed. Aegon's wife, Helaena, was deeply affected by the news. She entered trance-like states, muttering words that no one could make sense of. She refused to eat, drink, or find solace in sleep. Her mental and emotional state deteriorated rapidly, and her suffering was a weight upon the entire court.

Desperate to support her tormented daughter, Queen Alicent sought help from the Master of Laws, Lord Jasper Wylde. They reached an agreement to send Lord Wylde's eldest daughter, Maera, back to the capital. Maera was to assume a role of friendship with Helaena and offer her support as the new Queen. The Red Keep, once a place of power and intrigue, was now fraught with tension and sorrow. The death of Prince Lucerys had set off a chain of events that threatened to tear the Targaryen dynasty apart, leaving those within its walls to navigate treacherous waters of political maneuvering and personal grief.

Notes: Hello! First fic I’m ever uploading and here’s a little summary to set the scene. PLEASE NOTE: whilst there will be events from the Dance of the Dragons within the fic, the timeline will diverge to suit the story

Also like this isn’t real, none of this is real, the universe is a creation of George R.R Martin. My writing won’t be perfect but constructive (not cruel) feedback is always appreciated.

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[wolveria]

The Raven's Hymn - Ch 42

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, violence, horror, death, monsters, human experiments, dark with a happy ending

CHAPTER WARNINGS (Rated E): Explicit sexual content, sex under surveillance, references to reproduction, monster anatomy, dubcon

Chapter Summary: “Tonight."

AO3

You hadn’t realized how exhausted you were, your nap turning into a full night of sleep. Another day passed, and then two turned into three. No visits. No tests. No demands for another “session.”

It was... suspicious, the lack of orders, the lack of harassment and humiliation. There were other little things as well. The meals you were provided were bigger (though now sans the wine glass), and sometimes an additional item was left with the meals or the fresh piles of laundry. It was typically a new book, and one especially exciting day, a newspaper.

You couldn’t remember the last time you read an actual newspaper, probably when you were a teenager, but you latched onto it over breakfast. The date nearly threw you into a shock. If the dates were current, you’d been in containment for the entire summer, the fall season nearly arrived.

The Site Director was taking his time, and you suspected you knew why. During your entire time in containment, you hadn’t had a menstrual cycle. It wasn’t uncommon for acute stress to affect hormones enough to induce amenorrhea. Healing those patients might have been a way to increase your dopamine production, or even possibly stimulate your abilities.

Of course, it had horribly backfired, and you’d nearly had an anxiety attack when 049 was hurt, so now you were being kept in your cage and given more treats. If Leahy thought that was enough to make your captivity comfortable, then he was an idiot.

You wish he was. A dangerous idiot was maybe something you could outmaneuver, but everything he did was calculated. That brought up the third object now being left alongside your meals: a handful of pills.

“Vitamins,” 049 had said when you’d asked if he could identify them. “Combination vitamins, to be exact. But this one has more iron than the typical daily allotment.”

“Prenatals,” you’d said softly.

“Ah.”

The single syllable had been quiet in understanding. The sword of Damocles returning, waiting to fall.

You glanced at 049 where he stood at the counter, busying himself with more notes and medical files, though these days you got the feeling his mind was elsewhere. He was warm to you, civil, sharing the bed at night but nothing more than that. It was stupid to be bothered, to expect 049 to suddenly develop a romantic streak, especially given the constant surveillance.

But you couldn’t help remembering that first morning after as you got ready for Kenneth’s round of healing patients. 049 had been teasing, almost flirtatious, and you missed that. Selfishly wanted that attention when it wasn’t yours to have, and growing restless over the polite distance you didn’t want.

He also hadn’t spoken to you about what happened with the man you had cured. But you had an idea about how to have that discussion in private, and it had smacked you in the face one evening when 049 had been writing at his journal. You didn’t know how you hadn’t thought of it before.

You left the newspaper where it was, the startling dates urging you to make a move. The clock was ticking in ways you didn’t want to think about. You might have gotten a respite from Leahy’s demented plan, but that wouldn’t last long.

Retrieving your old journal, the one you hadn’t written in since 049 conducted his own experiments, you joined him at the counter. He seemed startled at your appearance, blinking at you in silent confusion.

“I have notes about some of these cases. Do you want to look at them?” Without waiting for an answer, you opened your journal and pulled the pen out of the spiraled spine and began to write.

“Of course,” said 049, a question lingering in his words.

You wrote something on the page at the top and tore it out, placing it into one of the folders before passing it to him. The observation room was at your back, and you knew for a fact the cameras in there were shit. They wouldn’t be able to read a word you’d written if they could even spot the paper at all.

049 stared down at the page.

He touched his pen to the blank space below your entry, writing a shorter response than you would have liked before passing it back to you through the folder.

Frowning, you glared at the words. You’d planned out this whole conversation in your head, but it seemed inadequate now. So, you wrote the three words that seemed to matter the most.

He didn’t pen an immediate response, the tilt of his head allowing him to watch you out of the corner of his eye. You tried for a blank expression and settled for vaguely unhappy.

He finally wrote out his answer and passed it to you.

You scribbled furiously and slapped the folder down before passing it back.

049 sighed.

“Your ideas are intriguing, but they do not hold under scrutiny,” he said. You’d forgotten you were supposed to be discussing this under pretense. “I have been doing this for much longer. You will simply have to trust me.”

“I do trust you.” Your fists curled against the counter, your body stiff. “I don’t trust myself.”

049 took the piece of paper and folded it in half, then half again. Reaching for his bag, he unclasped it, putting the paper within its depths before closing it. No one would be able to find it now, unless they knew specifically what they were looking for.

It was... clever. Very clever.

049 turned and took a step as if to brush past you, but he paused, his chest touching the back of your shoulder as he leaned in.

“You worry too much.”

There was no reason for him to say those particular words the way he did, a low mixture of sultry heat laced with a vague warning.

He left you standing there, trying to collect your scattered thoughts.

“I worry just the right amount,” you muttered, the effect lost as your cheeks burned.

“Tonight.”

The decree was delivered the next day right after breakfast. Probably just as well, the word killed any appetite you would have had, your stomach clenching with sharp, bitter anxiety. You’d hoped maybe this would be easier after the first time. It wasn’t.

You met 049’s eye from across the room. He stood at one end of the counter, his journal open and his pen kissing the pages, not in writing but in drawing. You were on the other end, seated on the counter itself because your ass was sore from the stools, the daily newspaper spread out over your lap.

049’s gaze was heavy, worried. You didn’t like that look, especially since he’d called you out for being the worrywart the day before. To be fair, anxiety was one of your standby modes. Seeing him that way was something to actually merit alarm.

You couldn’t sit there all day, stewing in your nerves. You paced the length of the middle chamber, wishing you’d had the foresight to request a treadmill or an exercise bike, something to burn off excess energy.

049 watched your restless movements, but he didn’t stop you. It almost seemed he was waiting for something, but you had no idea what it could be besides the obvious.

Unable to remain in that chamber a moment longer, pacing in front of the observation window like a restless zoo animal, you went into the inner chamber, turned on the shower, and shed your clothing. 049 probably wouldn’t care if you were sparkling clean for tonight, but it gave you something to do and would make you feel a little better.

You wet your hair, lathered the generic shampoo/conditioner combo into your hair, and rinsed. The warm water on your skin was a comforting relief to your tense muscles. The lack of shower curtain was no longer a bother. If there was one advantage to being forced to have sex in front of a camera, it was that you no longer cared as much about your nudity, especially when said camera was in the opposite corner.

Facing the tiled wall and closing your eyes, you could almost imagine you were somewhere else, somewhere far away from the Foundation’s fixation—

Hands gripped your shoulders and spun you around, pushing you against the wall. It wasn’t done roughly, but your eyes flew open, and you froze so fast it was a flinch. Trying to cover yourself was futility, and your arms were trapped against your chest anyway as 049 pressed solidly against you.

“Put your arms around my neck.”

You heard the words but didn’t react. You couldn’t understand. You weren’t afraid, but confusion ground your thoughts to a halt.

049 took a small breath, his pale eyes studying your face. They drew you in, holding you captive as effectively as his weight did.

“Do you trust me?”

You blinked. Of course, you did, but...

“They will not have a good view at this distance, and with the running water, I hoped we would go unheard. It was the only way I could think for us to speak plainly.”

Your brain slowly churned back into functioning grey matter.

“But you know this cell better than I.” His head tilted. “Will this work?”

It was the way he spoke that finally made your brain kick into gear. Despite his robes flush against your bare skin, there was an urgency to his words. You uncurled your arms from where they were trapped and wrapped them around his neck.

You shut your eyes, breathing deep as the sensation was almost overwhelming. The water spray ran down 049’s hood and shoulders, but it didn’t seem to bother him. In fact, it ran off his robes as if they were water repellent.

“Yes,” you finally said. “It should. If they don’t suspect what we’re actually doing.”

Your chin rested against his shoulder opposite the camera, effectively obscuring you. It was a fairly perfect setup to talk, actually, aside from your nipples hardening against the rough fabric of his robes and you were growing slick with embarrassing speed. At least in the shower, it would go unnoticed. Hopefully.

049 lowered his arms from your shoulders to around your lower back, pulling you close. He understood, then, what this had to look like. Your shudder was not manufactured.

“What is it?” you asked, needing to focus on something on than every inch of your body awakening with interest.

“I... believe I have found a means of escape.”

There was a hitch in his voice. You assumed it was due to the gravity of his idea.

“How?”

He swallowed, the movement caught against your shoulder.

“There is an object within my bag that will assist you in this. I will create a distraction, and during that time when no one is watching, you will retrieve it. Once you have it, you will need to find a way to leave the room. It is of little use in a containment cell.”

You had a lot of questions. Not knowing where to start, you grabbed onto the last part.

“To escape... I need to escape the room?”

“Not necessarily. Simply find a way to leave it. Request to speak to your former mentor. Seek an audience with the Site Director, if you must. Whatever it takes for you to use the object.”

He was serious. There was no going back from this, no room to make a mistake, not if you had to be in the same room as Dr. Puli, or worse, Leahy.

“And how will I use this object?”

“You will know. It will be obvious.”

The vagueness unsettled you. You shifted on your feet, a mistake as his robes slid against your skin. His fingers twitched against your back.

“But we must use extreme caution, they cannot know of its existence. I cannot even tell you what the object is, for your own safety.”

“So, it’s... dangerous?”

“Yes, but not to you. And that is not the reason I cannot give more information.” He dipped down his head, the side of his beak brushing your ear. “You cannot know what it is. Even once you retrieve it, you will not understand what’s inside. And you can’t. If they know of its existence, they will torture you until they have it. If they do not know what it is, then they cannot retrieve it.”

“Then how am I supposed to get it?”

049 paused, one arm rubbing up your back while the other rested on your hip. Your mind shorted out into fuzzy static. You’d already forgotten you were supposed to be faking intimacy. If only your body would understand this was fake intimacy.

“Using your intentions. All you need to do is reach into the bag and silently request for the object I wish to give you. But, in order for it to work, you must use my name. My real name.”

“Your... real name?”

“It certainly isn’t 049.”

His tone was amused, warm, too lovely to be spoken so close to your ear.

“Wh-what is it?”

You couldn’t help the small stutter, the pressure in your gut growing worse the longer he held you close under the running water. A shiver went up your spine, cascading into gooseflesh up your skin, which only added to the already overwhelming sensations.

“Valens.”

Your brows creased. The word sounded French, or at least the pronunciation was. You attempted to sound it out the way he had.

“Val-on.”

The effect was immediate. He trembled, and the next moment you were wedged between him and the wall. The cold tile at your back was a sharp contrast to the solid heat of him against your chest and stomach.

“You must not speak it to anyone,” he urged, breathless. “True names hold power, they should be closely guarded secrets.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

It felt as if he wanted to pull away, but he didn’t, instead nuzzling his mask into the side of your drenched hair. His voice came out as a coarse whisper.

“Speak it again.”

You lifted your chin and let his name roll off your tongue.

“Valens.”

He gave a small, choked off moan.

Your body moved without permission, your composure destroyed with a simple sound. You hooked a leg around his hip, holding him tight so you wouldn’t fall, but there was no need; 049 automatically gripped your thigh and hitched it higher.

There were so many questions you needed answered about this vague, somewhat insane-sounding plan. Instead, your only focus was on grinding against the front of his pelvis, desperate to feel him.

His other hand went to the wall beside your head. A low growl rumbled from his chest, coating his words with frayed restraint.

“We shouldn’t.”

“We have to.” Your lips trailed along where his hood curved down to the tops of his shoulders. “They might not be able to see exactly what we’re doing, but they’ll know from the biomonitors what we didn’t do.”

His grip tightened on your leg, and he trembled with the strain of not moving.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I meant what I said before.”

You moved your hands from around his neck, hooking them under his arms so you could splay them across his back.

“I want you.”

The hitch in his breath, a small puff of air that sounded part relief, part disbelief, was followed by something hot and wet pressing against your entrance. You rubbed against it, realizing it was the head of his cock poking out of the opening of his pants. It must have acted as a kind of internal sheath, and the more you rubbed, the more of his length slipped out.

Even with a hand on your hip, he couldn’t stop you from rutting against him, whimpering through your teeth as your clit rubbed against his increasing length, grinding against every inch you could reach.

With a growl, 049 gripped your other leg and hitched it around his waist, lifting you entirely from the ground and bracing you against the wall. You were aching, soaked with a mixture of your own slick and his precum, but you couldn’t angle yourself high enough to take him.

“Please,” you begged, no longer caring about standing on ceremony. “Please, fuck me—"

His grip was iron, and he pulled back, catching his head on your entrance, and slammed his hips forward. You gave a muffled cry into his shoulder, catching the thick hide in your teeth. 049 began to slide out, his breath erratic.

“Apologies,” he said, horrified. “I hurt you—”

“You didn’t, you didn’t, keep going,” you mumbled, senseless and yearning. “Keep going, don’t stop.”

He hesitated, so you held his shoulders for leverage and slid down the rest of the way. The noise from him was gutted as you took him in, your slick walls hugging him tightly. His uncertainty vanished as he rearranged his grip, hooking his arms under your knees as he pinned you to the wall. At this angle he had you practically curled in half, your legs held wide for him to use you as he pleased.

It was debauched, filthy, something unimaginable a few days ago, but now it was all that you wanted, gripping his shoulders as the majority of your weight rested on his pelvis.

049’s movements were gradual at first, testing the waters, but he soon sped up, each angled thrust punching the air out of you. There was no room for you to wiggle, his strength holding you immovable. The back of your head braced against the tile with a thump, the ache dull and far away from the fire blooming in your gut.

Barely able to keep your eyes open, you looked down between you and caught a glimpse of his cock. It was ruddy and thick, strange ridges covering below the glans and along the base. It was shiny with your slick, and the sight of it moving in and out of you sent an electric thrill up your spine. The pressure between your legs tightened, and you arched your spine as you struggled to breathe.

049 adjusted himself, his hands now gripping your ass as he held you aloft, and he was also getting closer, the puffs of air escaping him harsh and fractured. You felt it again, something large and warm pressing against your entrance, and this time you looked to see what it was.

A bulge protruded from the base of his cock, pushing out of his internal sheath, trapped between your bodies. A knot, you faintly remembered from a Foundation biology course. You couldn’t recall any other details when your brain was filled with pleasant static, but you tried to angle your hips upward, desperate for it even if it wasn’t going to fit.

049’s grip tightened; he knew what you were trying to do, and his thrusts became shallow grinding. You groaned, digging at the folds in his robes, so close. The bulb was pressed right against your entrance, if you could only press down a little deeper—

He pulled back just when you thought it might slip inside. You whined, the pathetic disappointment transforming into a choked off wail when he reached up and pressed his thumb against your clit, and with a few swift strokes sent you over the edge. Not even the spray of the shower could drown out your cries, and 049’s growl followed soon after. He was apparently beyond words as he rutted into you, losing his rhythm as he held you tight against the wall. He throbbed deep, his forehead braced against yours, his eyes half-lidded with hazy pleasure.

It was a look you wanted to see more of. You preferred this relaxed simmer to the worry, the concern. The underlying sadness that had crept in over the last few weeks.

049 waited a moment to catch his breath before carefully looping your legs around his waist from where they’d been hooked over his arms. He held you close, warm and solid, comforting as your own wrecked nerves struggled to come down from the high.

049 carefully pulled out of you, but the sting of emptiness was bittersweet. You held onto his shoulders as he gently set you on your feet, though he didn’t move away. Instead, he took the wash rag that hung from the small shower caddy and pumped out a dollop of soap from the dispenser.

He lathered the cloth, his hands slow and methodical as he washed away what little remained of your sweat. The shower water was still warm, a benefit to having nearly unlimited hot water at the facility, but you were definitely going to be pruney.

His touch left you malleable and leaning against him, comfortable and still weak-kneed. But your thoughts were coming back into focus, and all your previous questions rose to the surface, vying for attention and answers. And while he washed you, a gesture that was as wonderful as it was unexpected, you had time.

You rested your head against his shoulder, your voice raspy as you spoke.

“So... about this plan of yours...”

“Hmm?”

“I have to get some mystery object out of your bag... while you distract everyone. And then I’m supposed to just... know what to do with it once I get in a room with Puli or Leahy. You’re being extremely vague. About everything.”

“Yes?”

049 sounded equally distracted as he dragged the cloth along your side. Half the time it was just his fingers on your skin, and you suspected he was using the pretense of cleaning to keep touching you. You’d been right in your suspicions about 049 being extremely tactile. He just hadn’t had much of a chance until now to indulge the need as much as he wanted.

“How am I supposed to use this... thing? And how are you going to distract everyone?”

“Well,” he said, a hint of humor there as he washed along your back, “it has been some time since I was provided a corpse for study. Who could blame me for voicing my objections to the shameful way this facility is managed.”

You nearly choked.

“I’m sorry. Are you going to ask to speak to the manager?”

“I didn’t plan on asking. More... exclaiming in a loud manner.” He perked up. “Oh, perhaps I could throw something.”

You smiled, half in disbelief and half affection.

“You know... you used to be quite scary without even trying.”

Your smile fell. Suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore, none of it. 049 trying to test the Foundation, acting like his old self in order to help you escape. No, it wasn’t funny at all.

“Yes,” he quietly said. “I remember.”

He gently turned you around so your back was to him, and he carefully started to wash your front. Even though it brought the blood rushing back to your face, you didn’t take the cloth from him. It was nice having someone take care of you. Especially that it was him.

“It’s not a time I remember fondly.” The cloth tickled along your stomach. “But I will do as required.”

“What if they take you away?”

The cloth stilled.

“Then that is what’s required.” His arms tightened around you, preventing you from turning around and confronting him—which was exactly what you were going to do. “It does not matter what happens to me. Once you have the item and use it, the facility will be thrown into chaos. Whatever punishment the Site Director doles out will not go very far.”

“And then as soon as I can, I’ll go to you.”

049 let out a thin sigh.

“I cannot stop you, but I ask that you reconsider.”

“Consider it considered. I’m going to find you.”

The next noise he gave held the undercurrent of a growl, the vibration rumbling along your back. Frustration seeped stiffness back into his muscles, his arm around you too rigid, his former relaxation entirely gone.

Putting your hand over his, you guided the washcloth between your legs.

“You missed a spot.”

He pressed flush against your back, and you put a hand against the wall to keep from colliding with it. He uttered a string of French under his breath, the words sounding filthy despite you being unable to interpret them.

Your plan of distraction sort of worked. At least he was frustrated for a different reason now.

“I really need to learn French,” you lamented.

He eased back only slightly, taking the cloth and gently cleaning away what remained of your... joining? Intercourse? Mating? You didn’t know what to call it, but sex didn’t seem to cover it. And if he kept doing that thing with the cloth, there would be another round of it.

“I will teach you.”

The words sobered you. It was an unspoken promise of the future, one that could only be born if you both escaped.

Regretfully, you drew his hand away from your thighs. You rinsed yourself off and turned around to face him. He stared down at you with a warm mixture of affection and something else. It was soft, intimate, something new. Even if you’d been clothed, it would have made you feel entirely naked.

You wet your lips with your tongue, trying to grasp the words to say. In the end, you settled on the practical.

“Is there... anything else? Before I turn off the water?”

He raised his hand to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your cheekbone as if to memorize the swell of it.

“Much,” he whispered. “But it can be said. After.”

Your entire future hinged on that single word, balancing the fragility of hope and the heavy weight of possible, perhaps likely, failure.

After.

You turned the knob and shut off the water. Without the protective curtain of water, you felt... well... naked. You covered your chest with your arms and shivered.

Reaching past you, he grabbed the towel off the rack and wrapped it around your shoulders. You leaned against him, instinctively seeking out the warmth and protection his presence always gave. Without hesitation, 049 brought you close, his large hands framing your back as his beak nudged against your wet hair. Your heart skipped a beat.

Despite the Foundation’s attempts to twist your affection for him beyond saving, they hadn’t succeeded. And if 049’s plan worked, they would never get the chance to try again.

Next Chapter

[arclundarchivist]

Spoilers for C3E93

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Lonesome Roads

Morrighan finally stopped running when she realized her only companion was a literal shadow, clinging to her like a chilled coat.

“Will they be okay?” Cyrus asks, his voice distant and near in equal measure like a whisper from an opposing cliff.

“I- I don’t know,” she murmurs, slumping to the ground, her sword clattering to the ground beside her.

The last remnant of Opal is hot in her other hand, yet she refuses to release it. Holding it all the tighter.

“I love you.”

Her ears fall as the tears begin to fall yet again.

“Morrighan?” Cyrus prompts again.

“I said I don’t know!” she exclaims and falters, staring into the blank eyes of her friend’s spirit, and sees his face fall.

Why does she cling to him so?

‘I did not make you mine just for you to die here.”

But a part of her has.

And she needs direction.

Where can she go?

Where is she needed?

What will be demanded of her next?

How much more will she lose?

“Fate is a funny thing, deary, but one can always find a way to tug the threads in the right direction.”

The voice of the woman who cast her on this path, the one that took her first name.

She could have answers.

But what would the cost be this time?

What more could she give… no, what more would she give?

“What would you have me do?” she asks, speaking to the empty air.

There is no response, no urging, she misses when the guidance was a constant, an ever-present ringing in the back of her mind that showed her where to go.

But now there is silence, a comfort akin to the grave.

Fitting, perhaps, when she considers her position once more. 

“Where will we go?” Cyrus demands, shifting closer to her, and she part of her wants to push him away, the other wants to pull him into an embrace, but she is not sure if she can accomplish either.

“I wish I knew,” she mutters.

There is a flash of black, winging through sun-set tinged sky.

She looks up, and there is a raven winging towards the horizon.

A sign. 

She stands, taking up her blade, and glances back the way she came.

The road is being set before her.

“Cyrus… how does it feel?” she asks.

“Hollow, yet comforting, for I am not alone.” he murmurs, shifting closer to her once more, “Do you know where we are going?”

“No… but I hope it leads us back to the others in time,” she states, and she starts walking.

Unspoken is a worry she fights to bury.

She has seen Opal. 

What the Spider Queen demanded and stole from her?

Morrighan gave away her name.

She lost her friends.

Her only companion is a literal shade of himself.

She’s going to walk the path and go where she is needed.

Yet, she can’t help but wonder: “What will be left of me at the end of the road?”

----

Fy’ra stands, her fists drenched in blood as she confronts yet another band of this “Vanguard.”

Flowers and mushrooms of verdant shades are already beginning to bloom from their corpse.

It was true what she said all those weeks ago, “The Wildmother is not kind.”, but to see her vengeance, her rage enacted by her own hands, was… both haunting and exhilarating.

Her flames now carried a green tinge to their breadth, granting life as readily as they consumed it. She was a font of regrowth and healing the likes of which she had never been before.

And that had been helpful, for more than the Vanguard had become Opal’s target.

Mad Arcanists, cultists, supposed traitors, aberrations born of the Red Moon, and a horrid spider that dogged their every step.

One the Queen refused to call off as if she was elated by the constant challenge.

The constant growth of her champion.

Fy’ra was still herself but growing stronger every day. The Wildmothe had been truthful in her promise. Theirs was a conversation, a growing bond that she wasn’t truly certain the conclusion would bring.

Opal, though… was twisting all the more.

She continued to stretch in height, her six arms casting aside the blades at most times to wield lengthy and ichorous claws.

But what truly hurt Fy’ra in her soul was the young woman’s eyes.

Jet-black, with but a glimmer of the old opalescent sheen. And she swears when she watches her as the night overtakes the day, she sees others open in the corners and panes of her face. 

She looks to Opal now, pulling her claws from the belly of the woman who led this band. A towering goliath woman, now so much meat scattered about the ground.

Fy’ra’s heart seizes as for but a moment, Opal brings her fingers towards her mouth as if tempted to taste the blood soaking them, but then her hands drop.

A sign that despite it all, her little sisters are still in there.

She approaches as Opal stands, looking down at Fy’ra with a flat expression.

“Are we done here?” Fy’ra asks.

Opal speaks, her voice now tinged with an insectile trill harsh to the ears, “She says yes. If we succeed, those not fool enough to kill will get to be as they were before… or they will seek to martyr themselves as well. I don’t know, and she doesn’t care.”

“Of course, she doesn’t.” Fy’ra remarks bitterly, “But we can rest?”

Opal is silent, staring at the red moon resting on the far horizon to the south.

“Yes. For now, her son is attacking her somewhere else, so we have time.” Opal remarks, and she turns stiltedly and begins walking toward the dark woods from which the pair had come.

Fy’ra jogs to keep up, “Opal, is she still listening?” 

Opal glances at her, “Not fully.”

“I suppose that is the best I can hope for,” Fy’ra mutters, and she reaches out, gently taking the hand she knows to have originally been Opals.

“How are you?” Fy’ra asks, and Opal squeezes her hand just a tad.

“I’m surviving,” she returns, and then in Fy’ras mind, so rare now, her true voice speaks, “And it’s so hard, Fy’ra.”

“I know, I know, but this will not be forever.” Fy’ra comforts.

“She doesn’t like that,” Opal warns aloud.

“I do not care,” Fy’ra replies defiantly, and the wind around them flares with heat as if in agreement: “We walk this path together until the threat of the Ill Omen is finished, then…”

She lets the implication hang, and Opal smiles, but she can’t tell which part of her it is.

“How is Ted?” Fy’ra asks, and the look on Opal’s face is stark confusion.

The words that follow turn Fy’ra’s flaming blood to ice.

“Who?” Opal asks.

“Y-your sister.” Fy’ra chokes, a dawning realization punching into her core.

Opal pulls her hand from hers, and looks into the dark shadows between the trees and there, the flaring of additional eyes.

After several moments of silence, she looks down at Fy’ra, and it is not an illusion, for four pairs of inky-black eyes burrow into her as Opal says, “You’re the only sister I have in this world, Fy’ra.”

Fy’ra is stunned into silence as Opal keeps walking, her true voice trickling into her mind: “And I will always remember that. Thank you for being here with me.”

“I- you’re welcome.” Fy’ra returns, the realization that Ted had once again paid the lion’s share of her sister’s actions drilling a cold nail of resentment ever deeper into her heart.

“This is only until this plight is over, swear it to me.” Fy’ra growls, feeling a point to her teeth that was not there a moment before.

The wind caresses her in warmth, which she takes to be an agreement.

So she will wait, and she will work and she will protect Opal from all that comes at them in the days to come.

But not forever.

Nature is not kind, and it appreciates an ambush.

----

Dariax wanders Zephrah for days until he finally accepts that Dorian is truly gone.

“Why’d he leave me?” he asked himself and pretty much everyone around, but they couldn’t find the answer any better than he could.

He was alone. Again.

Had he upset Dorian? Did he blame him for Cyrus dying? He-he had the healing mojo. He could have got to him, done something, paid close attention but-

But he’d wanted to save Opal.

To hug her and tell her everything would be okay to rip that crown off and chuck it in a hole.

But he failed at that, too, huh?

Maybe that’s why they had all left him.

They were better at this than him, saving the world. He’d always been just along for the ride, trying and not really managing to keep up.

Dorian was a hero, Morrighan was a Champion, Fy’ra had all the answers ever, and Opal… Opal was strong. She’d held onto that burden without complaint for so, so long.

And he… had just run along behind them, trying to prop them up when they needed it.

But it wasn’t like the first three ever actually needed him. They had their shit together in ways he couldn’t even dream of!

But Opal, he could have- he should have-

“I should never have let her take that crown,” he mutters, bitter with himself as he downs another drink in that little post Dorian had left him in. He glances at the lute, and more self-loathing burbles up.

“I should have put it on, or let Poska take it, or left it with the Wildmother.” he continues rambling, “I should have done something.”

“You trusted her.” a soft voice remarks beside him, but he doesn’t look up.

“I did! I do, I- she was- she is- I should have done more to help her!” he yells, and heads turn to look at her.

“You did,” the voice comforts him. Suddenly, his head feels lighter, and a memory comes unbidden.

She hadn’t asked them to leave her.

She’d fallen into his arms, curling in and sobbing softly for a moment before falling into a peaceful sleep. The first in a while.

“You did what you could, how could you have known a god could feel desperation?” the voice offers, and he glances up, a beautiful Kitari woman smiling down at him, one he recognizes.

“It-it’s you.” Dariax breathes as the Observer smiles and gently moves some of his unkempt hair out of his eyes.

“It’s me,” she states.

“Do you need me in the fight, the big moon fight that folks have been telling me about, cause I’ll go, I just…” he falters, uncertainty eating at him, “I don’t know how much good I can do.”

“You do good in everything you attempt, Dariax,” she comforts, “But I require nothing of you, for I am simply content at the moment to watch how this all transpires.”

“You-you’re not afraid?” Dariax asks.

“The fear of the unknown is never far away,” she offers, “But unlike others, I will not let myself be ruled by it.”

“Then… what should I do?” Dariax murmurs.

“Be true to who you are, aid where you can, I am not looking for a Champion Dariax, but there are many out there that simply need a friend.” she offers.

His face falls, “I was a friend to Opal. To Dorian and the others, look how well that turned out.”

“Their roads have diverged from yours for now, but I do not think that will be forever.” the Observer states.

“Really?” Dariax remarks, hope returning ever so slightly.

“Their road will be trying, the paths winding, for you and for them each, but nothing in the stars states that the end that awaits you all is a tragic one. Keep hope.” she offers.

“Well…” Dariax mutters, swirling his drink and glancing up at her. “I guess I have something to fight for after all, yeah?”

“I’d say so,” she states with a smile.

He grins back, somber and reserved, and then glances around, catching that same look in the dozens of faces around him.

“Hey folks!” he calls out, drawing their gazes to him, “Next rounds on me!”

The mood around him goes on an upswing, and he turns back to the Observer as she looks around her with gleaming eyes.

“So… wanna stay for a drink?” he offers, “Or a song, maybe?”

She laughs, “You amaze me, Dariax Zaveon.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his head bashfully, “Th-thank you.’

And he sits with her, talking about times long past and hopes yet unachieved, his heart soaring at the prospect that when all this is over, he can see his friends once again. 

Not considering how changed they all might be.

But as the saying goes: Ignorance is bliss.

Goodbye, Crownkeepers, for now… or forever. 

[prolix-yuy]

ok bangathon request

gentle romantic after argument sex missionary.

im so boring but there it is

There's nothing boring about missionary! And with one of my favorite couples, it's sure to be much more than that too...

Pairing: Pero Tovar x F!Reader

Position: Missionary

Word Count: 900

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, PiV sex, unprotected sex (don't be a fool, wrap your tool), creampie, discussions on infertility, Pero being a dumbass but he makes up for it.

Notes: A continuation of the Pero Tovar and his Guerrera series.

Many would say that Pero has little tact with women. He’s brutish in all ways a man can be, and that must extend to the people he lets into his bed. Anyone who’s seen him with his Guerrera would only think it proof of their opinions. The way they snarl and scratch at each other, their constant biting remarks, the sheer amount of eye-rolling as they listen, all point to Pero being impossible to deal with.

They’re only partly right.

Most days the barbs are playful, their conversation scalding because they can both handle the heat. Pero could not imagine a partner that’s soft and simpering to him. He loves her sharpness and how quickly she will join him in a debate. 

Sometimes, however, he does take it a step too far.

When he enters their bedroom tonight, he’s soft of foot and quiet. The door snicks shut behind him, his clothing removed and laid out of sight. You’re turned to the wall, coldly ignoring him preparing for bed. 

Get your hands off me.

Oh don’t be so dramatic, Pero. 

Then do not go about flailing your sword at every moment.

So five men against you is fair odds?

I am - just go and do…whatever it is you do.

What do you think I’d be doing if I wasn’t saving your skin?

Being a real woman somewhere far from here.

Pero knew he’d hit something far more painful than he intended when you were silent, the easy smile falling from your face. What he didn’t expect were the tears that bubbled to the surface, ones you hotly scrubbed from your face.

Of course, because a real woman will tend your home and have your babies.

Pero’s stomach drops at the memory, knowing how he pulled something so fresh and painful to the surface over a tavern brawl. How after his seed didn’t take one drunken night you told him it never would. That you could never be with child, and how you’d come to accept it. Pero had felt the twin pains of sadness and relief, knowing that this life was not for a child but still mourning the loss. He told you it did not change the color of his love one bit, but in his petulance he used it as a weapon against you.

The bed sinks under his weight as he sits on the edge, watching you curl into yourself. Pero sighs, words failing him as they always do.

“Mi vida,” he says, stroking his fingertips along the back of your shoulder. To his surprise you turn to your back, eyes puffy and tired, but the anger he expected drained from your bones. His hand slides to your hip, stroking his thumb into the flesh. His eyes meet yours, and a subtle nod urges him under the furs. Clamoring between your legs, he settles on his elbows over you.

“I’m sorry,” he says, searching your face for anything you’ll give. Another pause, this one aided by your hand on his cheek, before you give him another small nod. Pero leans down and presses a chaste kiss to your lips, your arms wrapping around his neck.

“You are my life,” he murmurs, your legs wrapping around his hips as he presses you into the mattress. 

“I know,” you say, placing a kiss of your own on his plush lips.

Words dissolve on your tongues as Pero shows his remorse better than he can say. Between the long devotions of lips, he lifts your legs higher to press into you, sheathing his cock inside. The roll of his hips is slow and languid, sometimes forgotten altogether in favor of returning to kiss you more. He cups your head and nips along your jaw, lets his thumb trace your nipple to a gentle peak. When you start to pant with his motions he teases you with the tips of his fingers, finding the place that clenches you around him. He doesn’t care to cum, he just wants to be as close to you, as deep within you as you’ll take him.

Your first peak flutters his lashes, nails biting into his back as he grinds you through your high. He follows that with a second, quieter one that shakes you in his arms. Your final one comes when you nod at him to chase his release, the slap of skin on skin and hushed confessions drowned out by the roar of his spend painting your walls.

When he comes down enough to curl you into his body, he finally finds the words.

“You are every part the woman I want, and need,” he says, tangled up with limbs and feelings he’s trying out for the first time. “You are everything.”

“Thank you, Pero,” you say, pulling back to rest your head on the pillow beside him. “And if you ever say otherwise I’ll take the only part of you that can continue your lineage.”

“I would be so lucky to lose them to you,” he rasps, the tremble of your giggle easing his mind. He stays inside you until he softens enough to slip out, and even then he considers plugging you up with his fingers to keep his seed inside. It’s a dream he will never speak to you, not willing to hurt you so deeply again, but he’s willing to nurse it. He’s seen greater miracles, after all.

END

LJ’s Bangathon 2023

[randomstoryenjoyer]

Hello!

I’d like to welcome you to writing x readers! I hope you have fun while doing so, and remember to take care of yourself!!

If you would like to, would you be okay with writing for Financier Cookie (CRK) x reader (GN), where the reader is really short and just a small person in general? And they like to occasionally wear heels and stacks and other shoes to make them seem taller.

Hope you have a good day! And again, welcome!!

(Here it is, the first ask of my blog. Hope you enjoy and thank you for the request!)

Financier Cookie x Short Reader

When Financier Cookie first met you, she actually mistook you for a little young cookie, asking if you were lost and where your home was. Cue one awkward conversation later, and she’s left feeling shocked and also partially embarrassed.

Soon enough, her initial surprise turns into slight concern. You had spoken to her as if was a common occurrence to you, getting mistaken for a kid due to being such a short cookie. She’ll begin wondering if you ad ever faced any hardships from other cookies due to your size. Were you made fun of often? Did other cookies not take you seriously?

All these thoughts in her head eventually lead to her seeking you out on her own whenever she’s off from her main paladin duties. You soon became a bit confused as to why she was always seemingly nearby you, but you decided not to worry about it. Financier Cookie’s reputation in the Crème Republic was nothing to scoff at, after all!

As the connection between you two continuously grew, Financier Cookie began to see her time with you as another task for her Paladin duty. She’s always claiming it’s for your safety and for making sure your days in the Republic were pleasant, despite what some of her ulterior motives might say…

Despite being such a short cookie in general, your personality and disposition are often cheerful and outgoing. Your determination to enjoy your life to the fullest despite the difficulties you face due to your height is something she really admires. This also leads her to discovering one of your occasional habits…

Your tendency to wear high heels or stacks is something she now enjoys seeing too. She’s always making sure that you feel taller than ever when you have them on, sometimes leaning down to you so you can reach the same height as her just to see you smile more. If her Paladin wear allowed it, she’d totally be wearing heels too.

To her, no matter how what type of shoe you wear, it always manages to perfectly fit your whole cute look. Once in a while, you’ll even find a gift or two left for you that consists of a high-heeled or stack shoe with the paladin or republic emblem on it. It makes Financier Cookie feel content whenever she sees you wearing them and walking alongside her.

It truly has started to become difficult to keep her professional and calm demeanour whenever she spent time with you. Your personality, coupled with your height are one of the only things that cause her to loosen up with her formality, replacing it with a normal, more calm demeanour that she’s starting to like having as well when she’s spending time with you.

Anytime you ever do happen to feel a bit insecure or self-conscious about your size, she’s always there to comfort and reassure you that your height is not a negative aspect of you for you’re perfect just the way you are, her voice often slipping up and becoming more affectionate than her usual formal self. If anybody ever dares to make fun of you for your size, she’s always more than happy to let her sword do the talking and reasoning…

She thanks the Divine light for having had the chance to meet you, someone who’s both so adorably small and so wonderfully unique in the Crème Republic. As odd as it might seem, the constants urge to protect and socialise with you is something she doubts she can live without at this point…

[exhaustedpirate]

parent for hire

As mentioned in the prologue post, let me know if you'd like to be included in the tag list for this project! From this post on, I will be uploading moodboards made by me. This project will have a constant "THANK YOU" to @kmomof4 for making this whole thing possible!

Chapter One - The Rescue

word count: 2772 words 

rating: Teen and Up

tag list: @cocohook38

read on AO3 | prologue

Killian Jones always got his bounty. 

Since he began his solo career as a bounty hunter, he could count on one hand the ones that had escaped him. His successes had helped his reputation soar and had given him a name of his own. Hook.

And with a name of his own, he gained some competition, and some enemies.

One of them was Blackbeard - a ruthless man without a shred of honour.

Killian tried to make his coin in a way his former Captain would be proud of, honorably. He would accept bounties to capture criminals, to help people. There were times he would slip - innocent people were sometimes worth a lot of gold - but those were few and far between. 

He wasn't sure where his most recent bounty fit. His employer had been vague - a large sum of gold to capture a wizard. No indication as to why or what they intended to do with him. Killian's history with wizards made him uninterested in asking those questions. As far as he was concerned, he would be quite happy to rid the world of another one. 

His heart stuttered as he thought of what he lost, the hook on his left hand feeling heavier than before, the weight on his chest suffocating. He heard her pleas, his own cries of pain. Magic served only to destroy. 

He shook his head, wanting out of the memory, returning his focus to the present. He urged Roger forward, matching his heart rate to the horse's foot falls. Seemingly understanding his mood, Roger's path veered towards the beach, keeping close to the water.

Luckily, Glowerhaven was a coastal kingdom. It was also where Killian knew Blackbeard’s lair was located.

According to his employer, Blackbeard had been hired to bring in the bounty but was now refusing to deliver, making the wizard's retrieval much more difficult for his employer than necessary. That had earned Killian a far bigger reward.

He wasn't surprised to find out that the old pirate was the one that had his bounty. Nor was he surprised that he was giving their employer trouble. Blackbeard was as greedy as he was despicable, and he undoubtedly thought there was more gold to be had by spreading  the story of his exploits in capturing the bounty and then handing it off to the one with the deepest pockets rather than delivering it to their employer. But Blackbeard’s stories, Killian had learned, should always be taken with a grain of salt. He may have heard the bounty was dangerous, but… well, he’d see when he got there. Right now though, those stories weren’t even close to Killian’s greatest concern. 

Killian's only worry as he stood hidden near the entrance of the cave where Blackbeard had his hideout was the fact that, for once, it wasn't a fair fight - there seemed to be at least 5 other pirates huddled inside. He counted his bullets, confirmed that his sword and daggers were still in place, employed his signature swagger and bravado, and made his way to the entrance.

Two pirates standing guard held him at sword and gun point while Killian pretended to simply be there to talk to their boss. They seemed confident; that was good. Confident meant sloppy. They obviously believed that the close proximity of their sword and gun to his neck and gut, respectively, would keep him in line.

Blackbeard sat with his smug, golden-toothed smile welcoming him like an old friend. Anyone could see the glint of murder in his eye, however, and Killian knew that one wrong move could send him to an early grave.

Thankfully for him, his past encounters with Blackbeard had given him a tried and true technique to victory. The old pirate may be ruthless, but he was defeatable.

"I thought I smelled you in town," Killian said jovially with a wide grin, holding out his arms as far as he could with the other two henchmen at his side.

"And I should have known that you wouldn't miss out on the gold." Blackbeard seemed to be playing the same game as he - fake pleasantries over an underlying tone of menace.

"The stories I’ve been hearing,” Killian shrugged before he continued, “I thought you'd be willing to share if I helped you bring it in." He wasn't even trying to hide the lie. It didn't matter.

He wasn't surprised when the captain and his crew burst out laughing at his words. He was counting on it, in fact - an over the top suggestion to distract them enough for him to grab hold of the dagger literally hidden up his sleeve.

"Thank you, Hook, I needed a laugh," Blackbeard said breathlessly as he wiped an imaginary tear. "As if I would ever need your help… or another pocket to share my gold."

"It was worth a try, don't you think? I heard the job was dangerous. And let's be honest, mate, the members of your crew are not exactly the sharpest." Killian grinned as he clicked his hook against the sword against his neck. He also took this moment to take a closer look at the crew and assess his situation. 

There was only one gun among the 5 crew members and none on Blackbeard. The bastard wasn't exactly reserved in his use of arms, shooting his guns at anyone who crossed his path. He seemed to forget that acquiring bullets was expensive and Killian could only conclude he didn’t have the gold to spend on acquiring more.

He could see a cutlass on each pirate. Which of course did not include the numerous - he was sure - daggers hidden on their collective persons. They were pirates after all.

"Dangerous…" Blackbeard chuckled. "Well, that’s not exactly true…” he shrugged. “Had to make the story a little more interesting, you know.” Blackbeard pulled on a chain as the pirates holding their weapons against him turned Killian towards the person at the end of said chains.

It was a boy.  

"What is this?!" His surprised shout echoed in the cave.

"This, my friend," Blackbeard began, pulling the chains so that the boy awoke from his slumber. "is the bounty. As you can see, it wasn't as difficult to acquire as you heard."

It had to be a trick. Powerful mages were known to hide their true appearance, trick their attackers - that had to be what was happening here.

The bounty, now fully awake, sat up with effort, his wrists chained up. He was pale, as if his life had been sucked from him. The child's eyes landed on him - such despair, such fear contained within. Killian caught his breath, and for a moment, it was as if he was looking in the mirror.

Blackbeard seemed unaware of Killian's inner turmoil, however. With another tug, he sent the boy sprawling on the floor and Killian took an instinctive step towards them only to stop when he felt the cold metal still held at his throat. The boy whined, clearly weak.

"It was like taking candy from a babe,” Blackbeard gloated. “He was so scared, he didn't even put up a fight."

Similar statements echoed in his head, a hint of the panic he had felt - what seemed like centuries ago - constricting his chest. Where that sentence gave Blackbeard an obvious and deep satisfaction, it caused sympathy to rise up in Killian. With a heave, Blackbeard held the chains up, forcing the boy to his feet. With his other hand, he grabbed the boy's face in his. "Isn't that right, brat? You even begged."

The boy's fear was like a physical thing, a weight in Killian's gut. Had he, so long ago, been that different from this child?

Making a split second decision, Killian used his hook to push the sword away from his neck while with his other hand holding the dagger, he slashed the gun-wielding pirate in his stomach. At the same time, knowing he would pull the trigger, Killian took a step back - the expected shot hitting the other pirate instead of him. 

Two down, four to go. 

"Get him!" Blackbeard shouted, once he realized what was happening. The boy, no longer being held, fell in a heap on the floor. 

The dagger still in his hand was thrown at another pirate’s chest. Moving quickly, Killian removed a dagger from his right boot. Ducking to avoid an opposing dagger, he sunk his into the approaching pirate’s side.

Four down, two to go. 

The last pirate approached him fast. Killian kicked him away, giving himself time to unsheathe his sword. Blackbeard wasn’t known to employ the smartest of men - you didn’t need smart, you needed a body able to follow orders and withstand the rough life at sea. Killian had training and his wits, his adversary didn’t. Brute force was nothing without accuracy. Killian’s sword slashing his enemy's thigh as his hook sank into his shoulder was enough to bring the man down.

“Useless rats!” Blackbeard raged, wielding his sword. “It won’t be so easy to get through me, boy!”

He was right. Killian had had enough run-ins with Blackbeard to know that he was indeed a much more formidable swordsman than his crew. Not enough to worry him, however. 

It might be extremely arrogant of him to think that way with a very real enemy eager to end his life standing in front of him, but Killian knew his own strengths and he knew how to win.

Movement to the side drew his attention. As he stopped Blackbeard’s strike to his head with his sword and hook, he could see the boy shuffle to a sitting position. Blackbeard’s hold on the boy’s face had left a mark. There were two deep red marks on his cheeks, a stark contrast against the paleness of his face.

A grunt from his rival drew his concentration back, he ought to be paying attention to the danger in front of him. The fight was taking too long. Killian needed to end it before any other pirates showed up. 

Summoning his strength, Killian pushed the sword away from his face, forcing it to the side. Dropping his own sword, Killian threw a mighty punch to the pirate’s face. With a quick glance towards the boy, he kicked Blackbeard away. With the boy pulling the chains taught, Blackbeard tripped, sending him falling back and hitting his head on the wall.

Only waiting a second to guarantee the unconsciousness of his rival and to grab his dropped sword, Killian made his way to the boy.

How could a boy so small be considered such a threat? A threat worth such a high bounty? Perhaps he was more dangerous than they all thought.

As he reconsidered his decision to free him, the child looked at him.

He had heard of spells cast with only a look. But what he felt wasn’t magic, it was recognition. He saw himself in the boy. He looked at him with fear but with an underlying feeling of hope. There was stubborn determination hidden in his thinned lips. The mirror staring back at him.

He hadn't asked what they wanted to do with him. He hadn't cared. Was he just as bad a man as his own father willing to lead a child to an uncertain future? No child deserved such a fate. 

In an impulsive move, Killian brought his hook down on the chains. He heard the child’s breath catch as he surely expected a mortal strike. Luckily, the chains broke immediately. They locked eyes once more. Surprise took the place of fear and Killian couldn’t help but notice how the child’s face slowly gained color, seeming more alive.

Magic chains, no doubt.

With a centering breath, Killian held out his hand to the child.

“What do you say we get out of here, lad?”

The child seemed to look for something in his gaze. Killian expected to feel the invasive nature of magic searching his soul, his intentions. But there was nothing.

But when the boy - having found whatever he was looking for - took his hand, he felt warmth. Magic or not, it felt good. Magic had never felt good before. 

He wasn’t aware of his held breath until he released it. Giving his head a slight shake, - he needed to focus - he looked around. The room they were in was still full of dead pirates and one unconscious captain, but he could hear others farther back in the cave. 

The boy's hand was limp in his grasp and he noticed his difficulty in standing up, his body weak. The cuffs that had been on his wrists had obviously drained him, exhausted him.

“Let’s go,” Killian tugged the boy's hand, his left shoulder carefully placed on his midsection. Standing up, the boy rested comfortably on Killian's shoulder. "Try to hold on, lad. It's going to be a bumpy ride."

He felt the boy's grip on his vest, strong enough to urge him into a run. It wasn’t long, unfortunately, until he heard thundering steps behind them. The other pirates were gaining on them, fast.

The child’s weight on his shoulder slowed Killian's rushed steps. Killian could hear the horse outside the cave guiding them in the right direction, the night’s full moon thankfully lighting their way. 

"Look out!" The boy's croaky warning rang out as Killian heard the whizzing of a dagger thrown at them, cutting his cheek but sinking into a nearby tree just outside the mouth of the cave. 

Daggers. Of course, he should have expected it. 

With a groan, Killian pulled the child to his arms. The horse was close, he needed to get the boy on it as fast as possible if they were going to escape.

He felt the boy's eyes on him, more specifically on the cut on his cheek.

"We're almost out of here, lad," Killian reassured, thinking the boy's gaze was of apprehension.

It seemed Killian Jones was in for a few more surprises.

It was as if time slowed down as the child wriggled out of his hold, landing on his hands and knees on the ground. Not wasting another moment, he watched as the child closed his eyes and held out his hands. A wave of energy, like a summer wind, burst from the child. When he looked at the previously-approaching pirates, they were all sprawled on the ground, unconscious.

Killian stared at the boy. He had known - had been told and feared - that he was a powerful mage, but seeing such a small child produce such impressive magic was both astounding and terrifying. 

“My name is Henry, by the way,” he said as he sat back on his heels and turned to Killian with a genial smile.

Before Killian could respond, they were interrupted by a whooshing sound and an orange light in front of them. That old bastard had been hiding a magic bean. It had likely been dislodged in the blast of Henry’s magic and activated. It was their best chance of escape.

"We have to go."

Rushing to the horse and untangling its leash from the tree, Killian mounted the animal. He and Roger moved quickly towards Henry, Killian reaching out a hand for the boy who seemed more interested in looking into the horse’s eyes. He raised his eyebrow at the boy, apprehensively glancing at the portal.

"What's his name?" Henry asked, keeping his gaze on the beast.

Safe to say, the question caught him off guard. "What?"

"The horse, what's his name?"

"You are seriously asking me this now?" Killian balked, pointing at the portal in front of them. "We have to go!" "It's rude not to ask for his name if I'm going to ride on him." Henry looked at him with clear and innocent eyes.

Killian sighed, looking up at the sky for a moment. "It's Roger. Happy?" he asked, raising his eyebrow.

Henry smiled brightly, holding up his hand. Killian pulled him up and deposited him behind him on Roger’s back. He rushed him forward as fast as he could, not wanting to let the portal go to waste.

“I’m Killian, by the way. Killian Jones,” he said as the boy wrapped his arms around his torso, his hold stronger than before.

He thought he could feel the boy's bright smile once again at his back. “Thank you, Killian Jones.” Henry’s words were the last thing he heard before the deafening sound of the portal took over as they approached and crossed.

He tried not to let his thundering heart and conflicting thoughts distract him from the sweltering heat and spice smell of Agrabah.

[lesbiansanemi]

You know I’ve gotta send in Renkaza for that kissing prompt. I’m thinking number 4 >:3

Oo, sorry this took so long alkfjalsd But! Finished it up tonight, and I had fun with it!

Wounds: Ao3 link

The thing about being a slayer, pain and injury became something normal. Beyond that, it became boring. Being a slayer meant getting injured, clawed, bit, punched, gored, any manner of things really, especially once Blood Demon Arts got involved. Kyojuro did not think there was any type of injury he’d never had before. 

And especially after Akaza, after that fight that left him littered with so many injuries that would never heal quite correctly, well… pain became even more boring. A constant nuisance that followed him constantly. His chest ached with each breath, the soreness spreading throughout his muscles as he fought, only intensifying the harder he did so. 

Perhaps that was why he had gotten so much worse at identifying when injuries became dangerous, when they were debilitating. 

Well… That was the answer he wanted to be true. It was the answer he needed to be true. 

“Oh, Kyo…” Akaza purred. “Why do you do this to yourself?” 

Kyojuro let his sword slip from his fingers and clatter against the uneven street. The soft patter of blood followed the metallic clang. He barely processed it running down his face, his fingers, instead focusing on the demon that greeted him with a serene smile. 

Dust and ash settled in the cracks of the street as the demon he’d just beheaded disappeared. Other than his own frantic panting, silence blanketed the dim street, not a sound to be heard. 

“You fought brilliantly,” Akaza praised as he stepped towards Kyojuro, and ever so gently, took his face in his hands. His thumb brushed against the fresh claw marks carving down his cheek, and Kyojuro winced. 

“Oh… I do wish that demon hadn’t caught your face though. You’re too pretty to have scars from a pathetic weakling like that,” he said as he leaned closer. “It didn’t even give you good ones. Not like mine.” 

Kyojuro’s breath hitched. 

“Where else are you hurt?” Akaza’s hands trailed down, traced his neck, his shoulders, discovering the other sets of claw marks that had been rent into his flesh. “You’re losing an awful lot of blood. You won’t make it to the butterfly woman’s place without running into any issues.” 

Kyojuro knew that. He’d known that as soon as the demon’s claws tore into him. He was at least a full day’s trip from the Butterfly Estate, and it was the dead middle of the night. There was no one to help him with injuries like this, not Shinobu, not a local doctor. 

No one except Akaza. 

Because Akaza was always there. He would never let another demon mar the scars he left behind on Kyojuro, would never let another demon break him. 

Because Kyojuro was Akaza’s, in some twisted way. 

More blood splattered onto the road. 

“Come on,” Akaza urged as he tugged Kyojuro off the street, away from the faintly flickering streetlights, to somewhere much darker and secluded, picking his sword up as they went.

Kyojuro let him. He followed the demon with shaky but obedient steps. 

“How much does it hurt?” Akaza asked as he leaned Kyojuro against an alley wall. 

“I do not know…” he admitted. It had become a horrifyingly familiar sensation. Yes, he felt the pain of the injuries, but he had grown so used to it, he was unsure of how bad the pain really was, how deep the wounds cut, how dangerous they really were. 

“Okay.” Used to this routine, Akaza began the process of undoing his uniform, easing the buttons from their holes, and tugging it from his blood-slicked shoulders. 

Kyojuro had given up thinking of how pathetic this was, how wrong it was. So many people in his life had tried to convince him to retire after the injuries he had sustained the first time he met Akaza. He’d refused. So long as he still had breath in his body, he had to keep fighting. 

Even if his body no longer wanted to cooperate with him. 

He sustained injuries from every demon he fought. Weak, feral demons, that a Hashira should have been able to kill without so much as breaking a sweat. He could not keep returning to the Butterfly Estate needing injuries treated after every mission. That would just be proving everyone right, and it would only be a matter of time before Oyakata-sama forced him to retire, or at least step down from being a Hashira. 

Letting Akaza treat his injuries… Keeping them hidden from everyone he knew, it was the only way he could keep doing this. 

He did not think to consider, nor necessarily care why Akaza did this. The most likely answer, the demon was toying with his prey. He got a thrill out of chasing Kyojuro. Or maybe he was merely obsessed. It did not really matter. 

All that mattered was that no one could ever know about this, and it was all Kyojuro had left. 

“I’m going to clean your wounds,” Akaza said. 

Kyojuro squeezed his eye shut and nodded. He let his uniform finish slipping down his arms, better exposing the wounds to the chilled night air. 

A hot, rough tongue scraped against his shoulder, and Kyojuro sucked in a sharp breath. 

The first time Akaza had done this, he’d panicked. Even delirious with blood loss, he’d punched the demon hard enough to break his nose. But now… it had become a strange comfort. Akaza did not intend to eat him, he wasn’t tasting a potential kill. He was well and truly cleaning the wounds with what they had available to them. 

Akaza’s tongue did not feel like a human’s. Texture wise, it felt like something closer to a cat’s. Rough, scratchy, not coated in much saliva. The tiny barbs scraped against the wounds, deftly removing any dirt or debris. Maybe Akaza liked the taste of his blood, maybe he found an enjoyment in cleaning his wounds like this, but Kyojuro did not really care either way. He had no one else to clean his wounds, no one he could even trust to see them, other than this demon. 

He deserved the way a demon cleaned his wounds. 

Akaza licked until the blood ceased oozing, until his tongue scraped against nothing by aching flesh, scratched raw and exposed by something far from gentle, despite how the demon attempted. Then he moved onto the next scratch. His tongue dragged along it, shoved its way in between ripped folds of skin, licking away the evidence of another demon. 

“I hate seeing you hurt,” Akaza murmured against the wounds. “Especially at the hands of another demon.” 

Kyojuro hummed and let his head thump back against the alley wall. Part of him knew he should deny Akaza, fight the claims he insinuated he had over him, but he didn’t have the energy to do so. He… did not want to. 

Akaza finished with the wounds on his shoulder, delicately wrapped them with torn fabric. “They better not scar.” 

“I can’t control that,” Kyojuro reminded him. 

Akaza sighed. “I suppose I’ll get over it if it’s these…” His fingers ghosted over the wrapped shoulder wounds. “But these…” His hand drifted up to the slayer’s face, brushing the still bleeding tears there. “I’ll be rather upset if these scar. If anyone gets to scar your pretty face, it should be me.” 

“You already ruined my eye,” Kyojuro said. 

“And you hide it beneath this patch.” Akaza shook his head, and leaned in, fangs glinting in the dim light as his tongue crept from his mouth. 

Kyojuro jerked back. Akaza had cleaned and dressed many injuries, but never on his face. 

“Kyo…?” 

His stomach flipped at the nickname, though Kyojuro couldn’t decipher if it was due to disgust or delight. 

“I need to clean these too, wouldn’t want them getting infected.” 

Kyojuro bit his tongue to keep from pointing out that Akaza’s mouth wasn’t exactly sterile, but he was quick to give in and lean closer. He just wanted… He just wanted—

That tongue started at his jaw, swiped up in a smooth motion, lapping away the blood on his face. It teased the corner of his mouth, and Kyojuro clenched handfuls of his pants. 

Did Akaza realize what he was doing? Surely he must. He wasn’t a naive man, and he was already obsessed with so many aspects of Kyojuro. 

The demon shifted, his warm breath tickled Kyojuro’s face, his tongue swiped up his face again. The wound was tugged, and he flinched, causing Akaza’s tongue to brush his lips. 

His tongue stalled, pressed firmly against him. 

Kyojuro should have pushed him away, should have shoved him off, should have done something, anything. But he had no idea how much pain he was in, he had no idea how to feel about Akaza, he had no one to confide in. 

Akaza pulled away, and a miserable twinge of disappointment ignited in Kyojuro. 

Before he could think better of it, Kyojuro lunged forward. He always let Akaza have his way with him, shut down and stopped thinking, because it made this easier. It made this easier to… ignore. 

Whatever this was, why he didn’t hate it, why he let Akaza do this at all. 

His lips met the demon’s, and they were nowhere near as rough as his tongue. 

Akaza tilted his head, angling it to give Kyojuro better access as his lips parted, a pleased purr crawling up his throat. 

For a fraction of a second, Kyojuro considered it. He considered seeing what else Akaza’s tongue and mouth could do, if it was always so serene, but the tip of his own tongue grazed and fang, and he jerked back with an alarmed grunt. 

“Ah…” Akaza tilted his head, something disappointed but resigned in his expression. “I think you’ve lost a lot of blood, Kyojuro.” 

He hadn’t. Not enough to be truly delirious, and both of them knew that. But Kyojuro nodded all the same. “I think… you may be right.” 

“Just relax.” Akaza laid a hand on his chest and nudged him back against the alley wall. “And let me take care of you, okay? You’ve still got blood on your face.” 

Kyojuro let his eye slip shut.

[suitetarts]

cloud nine (part 1)

Astarion x Original Female Character, Dark Urge Tav (Good) Angst, Comfort, Fluff, Eventual Smut (Link to AO3) A much needed discussion about freedom and what it means for two rebellious spawns (Bhaal and vampiric, respectively) in the aftermath of Lorroakan's defeat. They are both free to discover their own desires, and Delilah really wants to fuck Astarion in running water while she still has the chance.

The intention was to just write beach smut where my OC Delilah and Astarion get sunburns but it completely went off the rails. So here's part 1, the angsty lead up to a smutty smutty part 2. You can go to the AO3 series for the other gen one-shot fics I have for my OC, or click here and there.

The second floor of the Elfsong was scrambling to quickly don armor, fill bellies, and otherwise prepare for the day’s events, which happened to start with chasing Aylin through the city streets during the small hours of dawn. The aasimar’s whereabouts were no puzzle to solve, however; she had rather loudly announced her plans to storm Ramazith’s Tower and confront Lorroakan under the spell of her mother’s moonglow. The logistics and planning blur into Delilah’s memory of the fight itself – the crackle of her storm magic piercing through the summoned elementals like a hot knife in butter and the Sword of the Moonmaiden cleaving the wizard’s torso from shoulder to hip.

All at once with earth shattering speed, the tower was quiet, save for heaving chests and the sheathing of weapons.

Once the adrenaline of battle wore thin, Aylin appeared to lose her strength and resolve. A numbness falling over her that even her darling cleric could not mend. The sudden loss of her inner fire seemed to cast a gloom over the party, although the others did their best to move past it. Gale accepted Rolan’s thanks to the party, trying to leverage some assistance in retrieving artifacts he desired. Karlach and Shadowheart mulled about on the promenade and gossiped in the passing clouds. Astarion, though…

Where was he?

A half smile pulled at Delilah’s features as a location came to mind, tempered only by the mood at the top of the fallen wizard’s tower. She immediately made the executive decision to take the rest of the day off even though the sun had not yet reached its highsun crest. The others barely noticed her slip away to the portal, and if they did, they must have thought little of it.

The vampire and drow were rarely apart, if not constantly on top of one another. If one wandered off, the other would not be too far from their heels. And for the rest of the tadpoled adventurers, they were better off not having to be subjected to the constant public display of sickening and often off-putting affection.

Her boots raced through the Basilisk Gate and through Wyrm’s Crossing, down the path winding around Ilmater’s church. The fresh air caressed her like fine spider silks as she found her way to the bay, a markedly more welcome scent than the dead fish and industrial waste of the main city port. She veered away from the visible shore onto an animal’s path snaking through trees and eventually approached a stone wall overlooking the churning waters where the fresh muddy Chionthar met the salty clear Sea of Swords. With an incantation and a wave of her hand, she floated over and down to her favorite secret: a small sandy beach, far away from the stink of Baldur’s Gate.

Delilah looked down as she flew, the two pairs of crimson red eyes locking together as Astarion smirked up at her through the flapping of her skirts. Blood rushed to her face as she made a show of it, swinging her knee out in a curtsy motion and flashing him with what she hoped would be a better glimpse of her underclothes.

“Don’t you think it’s rather early to be so forthcoming?” His usual flamboyant and chiding tone did not match his body language as he caught her gently by the waist. He recognized the incongruence, and so to compensate, shifted his grip around to her ass as her feet met the ground.

“Saer, I’m just being polite. What are you implying?” She played along with his temperament, her arms twisting loosely around his neck to pull him close. “That it's forthcoming to offer you my respect and deference?”

He genuinely laughed, a hearty singular ‘ha’ escaping his chest. “When have you ever been deferent to me, my dear?”

Delilah faltered for a moment, the response to their banter withering on her tongue. When had she been deferent to him, indeed?

Her tadpole writhed against her eye as flashes of her other life splattered across her vision like so many bloody victims of her gruesome crusade. She had previously obeyed her “mother” and the Spider Queen, her true father, his dreadful blood coursing through her veins, and, to some extent, apparently even Gortash. The memories she could recall of them were surely a drop in the ocean compared to what she had forgotten, and she knew she was better for it.

More specifically, when it came to Astarion, nearly every suggestion of his was taken with a grain of salt. Not for a lack of love and care, he was just consistently not thinking things through and seemed to overall acquiesce to her preferred methods without too much complaint. But… Truly the one thing he ever seriously asked of her, to help him complete the ascension ritual for himself, and she basically said no. The pinched fury in his brows and the way he tensed around her in Cazador’s grand chambers in the immediate aftermath still haunted her. He later insisted that he was grateful for her clarity, for saving him from himself. But anxiety chewed through her resolve and made her question herself.

She sighed around a bitter smile as she returned to the present, shielding her eyes from the morning light as she looked up at him. “I can’t recall, my love.”

The jesting tone between them had evaporated in the bright sun, which drenched the small stretch of sand in a near blistering heat if not for the breeze coming off the harbor.

“Yes, right,” he said, clearing his throat. 

The pair of rebellious spawns stood in silence, neither of them sure how to start the inevitable post-battle discussion that was sure to cause more painful memories to bubble to the surface. 

“Astarion… Why did you leave us in the tower?” she asked tentatively, cautiously, as she took a step away from his embrace and pulled him down to sit on the warm sand with her.

“To be dramatic, of course.” 

He waited for Delilah’s eyes to roll before softening, combing through the granules of sand with his hands as he avoided her gaze. 

“It’s just… It’s hard to see someone go through that. It’s unfair, to feel so empty after finally getting what–” He cleared his throat with a purse of his lips. “What Aylin wanted. Like justice denied.”

Delilah was tempted to say that she understood, but truly she didn’t. She wasn’t sure if it was even possible to get a chance to face Bhaal the way that Astarion and Aylin were able to face their tormentors. She was honestly a touch jealous, but she also couldn’t begin to imagine what it must be like to bring upon the end of those who hurt her so deeply. At least it made sense that an entity as untouchable to mortals as the God of Murder would be difficult to extract closure from. And yet, on the other hand, it was so impossibly unfair for someone like Cazador to die swiftly in the face of multiple human lifetime's worth of suffering.

Instead of speaking, she simply leaned into him as they watched the crystalline waves lap at the shore. He mirrored her, resting his ear against her shoulder.

The biological warmth of her pressing against his head mixed with the radiant, near overwhelming heat from the sun and its reflection off the sand felt like a drug, the anxiety and numbness sloughing off of him like molting snakeskin. The manifestation of his greatest desire, for Cazador’s death at his own hand, had not been what he dreamt of, but it still happened. His sire was still dead, while he was now richer than his master had ever been, even with the entirety of Baldur’s Gate at his gilded fingertips, thanks to the tadpole’s gift of the sun and his friends and lover at his side. He and Aylin were still free.

“Still,” he said after a minute of rest, his tone steady and composed. “The Nightsong’s fair-haired fool is done. That’s what matters.”

Her thoughts lingered on her predicament with her father. 

“Is it?”

Astarion’s brows pulled together in confusion but kept his head tucked under her ear. A mocking tone entered his voice as he spat, “Surely you don’t think that charlatan twig could possibly come back to life after being cut in half.”

“No, not like that. I…” Delilah’s words trailed off as she began to lose the nerve to give her thoughts weight by speaking them aloud. She set her jaw and pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Whatever.”

He made a frustrated sigh. Even after all their time together, he found that she still took him too seriously at times. “My love, you know I didn’t intend to silence you.” 

“I know.”

“You make it so easy to give you grief.”

“I know.”

He pushed more of his weight into her for a moment, allowing the two a brief sway. “Go on then.”

“Fine,” she said with a heavy sigh. “You said Lorroakan is done. And that’s what matters. So is killing what matters?”

Astarion waved his hand with a non-committal yet affirmative, “Well…?”

“I– I don’t know. Aylin looked so tired. And I’m tired. Killing is what I’ve always done, endlessly. Even now that I’m trying to change and be better, I’m still killing. And I’m still enjoying it. I don’t want killing to matter to me anymore. I want what happens afterwards to be what matters.”

Delilah emphasized her final point by taking his hand, intertwining their fingers with a firm grip. 

Astarion’s involuntary response was for his heart to jump into his throat at her implication, before it dissolved into a warm fuzziness spreading from his chest to his toes. In his old life, there was never an “afterwards” worth having. After they’d used his body up for all that it was good for, if they weren’t already drained of their blood by Cazador or left in some dungeon to rot for centuries, who could possibly want him after finding out what a monster he was? 

But everything was different thanks to the tadpoles. He began to think about it all, became overwhelmed, and deflected. 

“I really do think you’re making a stink out of what I said. Killing and revenge can be mutually-exclusive actions, but they are so delicious when served together.” 

“Perhaps,” she murmured, letting out a small breath from her nose.

Taking her response at face value, he continued. “Honestly, don’t worry about all these Dead Three worshippers. Enjoy their blood if you want to, I sure am.”

She slowly stilled, her breath light enough to not disturb a feather.

His voice dropped as he doubted himself, “Listen, with–”

“I put on a good show, Astarion, but I’m tired,” she interrupted him softly as she laid her head on top of his, wiping her smudged eyeliner into his white curls.

His lips pulled to a taut line, unsure of how to best respond. His first choice was always to make a joke, and she was morbid enough to enjoy his humor, but definitely not at this moment. He could offer to do all the killing for her; he wouldn’t mind, although the battles to come as they approach the Absolute may prove overwhelming without her participation. 

Or, going against his learned nature to please above all else, he could tell her hard truths.

“We’ve got at least two cults and an elder brain to contend with before we’re done with all of this.” Astarion took his other hand to cup their conjoined fingers. “But we’re so close. Don’t give up just yet.”

“Who said anything about giving up?” She bristled, her voice rising as she spoke. “I’m just looking forward to a morning where I leave my trance without being terrified I’ve hurt someone again.”

“Being tired, giving up. Six of one, half dozen of another,” he retorted, meeting her volume as his hands pull away from hers to gesture, only to return to her hold as his voice lowered. “You can’t lie to me about this… I know it far too intimately.”

She hummed, a light airy thing that contrasted heavily with the tense hold of her muscles.

Silence. 

Neither made an effort to disentangle from the other as they sat in their anger. 

Until he twitched.

“Gods, I hardly need a reflection when I’ve got you,” Astarion breathed, the affection in his voice strong enough to choke him unconscious. “A complaining, stubborn, impatient little wretch.”

He always knew how to make her smile.

“I promised that we will get your freedom, like you helped me get mine. We’re close. Just be patient,” he asked, petting the back of her hand. A twinge of guilt threatened to churn his eternally empty stomach, as it did every time he told this sweet lie of a promise that he knows he can’t guarantee. Her freedom wasn’t as simple as vampiric chains between sire and spawn.

“It’s hard to be patient when there’s so much to look forward to.” Delilah pulled him in closer by his waist, the words turning sour as she said them aloud.

When did imagining the future become so painful?

It had started in the wilderness of the Sword Coast, when she was at her most lost and before he even cared for her in the slightest, in part as an exercise to keep spirits high and hope alive. The first idea he had shared with her was an exaggerated tale of another loveless and passionate tryst, except in a feather bed with Cazador’s head on a spike. The dreams became less grand and more real as feelings progressed, and simultaneously more terrifying. 

She was the first person he truly cared for, the first person to truly care for him. And yet, mortal peril was stalking them both around every corner, snuffing out their dreams before they could even give them life as spoken word. Why would Delilah tell him that she will forsake every god on every plane to be at his side, on adventures or in domestic bliss or whatever else he wanted, for the rest of her days? Why would Astarion tell her that after a brief mortal life and 200 years of slavery, he had so many more firsts to experience and he wanted all of them with her? Saying such things would only cause them more pain should they fail.

She cleared her throat.

“But I will be patient. We’ll figure it out,” she stated with an impostor’s confidence. “And I’ll– I’ll do what I need to do.”

She pressed her ear further into his hair, holding onto his thigh for balance. “Once they’re all dead and we’re free, we’ll have so many nice mornings.”

“Ooh, interesting,” he sang, ever the opportunist, seizing upon a chance to shift in the mood in a less self-pitying direction. A dramatic grimace painted his elegant features as he continued, “I’ve heard the rumors. I don’t even want to think of what sort of hedonistic rituals come after a mass killing with you Bhaalist freaks.”

“I– What? Gods, just–” She thrusted her shoulder up in aggravation, hitting it against his ear rougher than she intended. He yelped and clutched at the side of his head, but even so he seemed proud of himself for riling her up. “Get your mind out of the gutter for five seconds, Astarion.”

“Five seconds?” After a brief moment of dramatized thought, complimented by a hand gesture and a flick of his wrist, he continued the countdown.

“Four…” 

He made a show of removing his gloves, an act that always got her undivided attention. 

“Three…”

Delilah generally had an even and intimidating poker face. However, at this moment, she was failing to keep her amusement and desire under wraps. 

“Two…” 

Astarion firmly grabbed her arms with his trademark mischievous grin.

“One…”

Don't fret, I've already got over 2300 words written for Part 2. Coming soon!

[thebawdybaldurian]

BG3FicFeb Day 28

SFW: A brief summary of my Tav, Astarion, and Halsin's lives after the events of Baldur's Gate 3. Spoilers if you are a reader of Tale of the Tadpoles.

NSFW: A post-game drabble a month after the events of BG3 as Astarion and Tav struggle to build a life together. They have a short and heated argument before turning their frustrations to more carnal forms of communication.

SFW: Describe Tav’s life after BG3 ends

Much of this is in drabble form already and once I am finished with Tale of the Tadpoles, I will be combining it into its own work.

Tav and Astarion settle into domestic life in Tav’s small Lower City cottage. Tav parlays her new found fame as a hero of Baldur’s Gate into a book deal, while also beginning to write a play based on their adventures in defeating the Netherbrain and Absolute Cult. Astarion struggles to make a new life for himself now that his vampiric curses have returned. She urges him to pursue his passions, where he eventually settles on refining his clothing designs and tailoring. They explore a new dynamic in their relationship, as Tav’s chaotic lifestyle begins to unravel.

Astarion uses his charm and legal know-how to attain the deed to Szarr Palace, forging a new one that transfers ownership to a fake company. The palace becomes an enclave for tiefling refugees and the few spawn who managed to control their bloodlust enough to leave the safety of the Underdark. He continues to work on healing from his past life, while challenging the other spawn to do the same.

He proposes to Tav the opening night of Tale of the Tadpoles and they are married shortly after in a moonlight ceremony. On their first anniversary, Tav buys him his very own atelier, where he can sell his clothing to the public. Halsin is still a constant in their lives, visiting the city every few tendays, when he can pull himself away from the commune in Reithwin. Their relationship continues to flourish and grow, even with the constant distance.

A few months after their first anniversary, Tav discovers a lead on a cure for vampirism, in the Northern city of Luskan. She and Astarion began the long journey up the Sword Coast, traveling at night and staying at inns during the day. They continue experimenting with their sexual relationship and finally meet Tav’s parents. The cure turns out to be a bust, but they leave Luskan with a pair of magical rings that allow Astarion to walk in the sun again by transferring his affliction to Tav through a blood spell.

After returning from Luskan, Tav struggles to meet the deadline of her latest book after cutting ties with her family. She accidentally becomes pregnant after forgetting to take her moon blood tincture. Despite her and Astarion both wanting to remain child-free, she agrees to carry the child so Halsin can have one of his own. He stays with them for the duration of her pregnancy, strengthening their bond even more. He eventually proposes to them both, wanting to be bonded to them on a deeper level. They participate in a hand-fasting ceremony outside of Baldur’s Gate.

Tav gives birth to twins, much to the surprise of them all. The trio struggle to maintain a chaotic life within the confines of Tav’s small cottage. They eventually sell Astarion’s atelier and purchase the house next door, combining them into a larger complex where Astarion can still run his business. Halsin continues to live at the commune part time, taking care of his own children and the orphans, but spends more time in the city after they add a large garden to their home. More surprises are to come, especially when another pregnancy is announced.

NSFW: Angry sex/make up sex

Content and Warnings: female elf x male elf. Rough sex, spanking, PIV sex, oral sex and fingering.

Tav struggled to get in the front door, holding her heavy grocery basket in one hand and a thick bolt of fabric held tightly under her other arm. She finally gave up and set her basket down and leaned the fabric against the door as she jiggled the key in the old lock. She finally felt it click and brought everything inside, her face red with frustration. Astarion was reading on the nearby couch with his feet up. She wondered why he hadn’t got up to unlock it for her. “Ufff, I need to get that old lock fixed. You didn’t hear me struggling on the other side?” She asked.

“I guess not,” he sulked. He’d been maudlin for a month straight, the loss of his sunlight protection affecting his every mood.

“Have you been on the couch this whole time?” She asked, having left him in the exact same position this morning while she ran several errands.

“What else am I supposed to do?” He sassed, shutting the book that he’d barely been reading.

“Not stay on the couch all day sulking for one,” she frowned at him. She’d been encouraging him to explore hobbies or other interests.

“I’m not sulking…I’m brooding…and that’s easy for you to say, you can go outside.”

“My love, I know you miss the sun, but honestly…what would you be doing right now if you could walk in the sun? You hate nature, you hate any sort of physical activity that doesn’t involve a bed.” If he wanted to start an argument with her because of his foul mood, she was going to call him out.

“Mmmmphhh,” he puffed, trying to come up with something he could be doing. “I could be anywhere. I could be on another adventure. Just not shut up in this house all day.”

“Well, sorry I am such poor company,” she put her hands on her hips.

“I didn’t mean it like that…but you are always busy with something or other.”

“If you are bored, I can think of some things for us to do at night. You just have to tell me what you want.”

“But I shouldn’t have to rely on you for everything, damnit!” He raised his voice a little. “I’m a leech in every sense of the word. You have to feed me and keep me entertained. I can’t even buy you a drink when we go out, unless I pickpocket someone. I used to toss money around like it was nothing!”

“Is that what this is about? I can give you some…” she began before he interrupted.

“No! I don’t need you to dole out an allowance like I am a fucking child. I want to make my own money. I want to have a purpose aside from making you happy.”

“Then tell me what you need to find another purpose!” It was her turn to raise her voice. It felt like they’d had this same argument every tenday since defeating the brain. “If you don’t want my help, then what do you want? Space? Time to think?”

“I don’t know what I want, aside from you!” He reached over the back of the couch to grab her waist. He kissed her roughly, pulling her hard against the back of the couch. Their previous arguments had ended this way, not resolving much, but getting some frustration out.

“No,” she gripped the nape of his hair and pulled his mouth from hers. “We’re not going to end things like this again, at least not until we figure this out, together.”

“Fine,” he gripped her hip tighter, pressing her clit hard against the couch back. “I can be open to suggestions, I suppose.”

“I just bought you a whole bolt of muslin cloth…why don’t you get off your ass and work on some more designs? You like doing that and it’s something you can do during the day while I’m writing. You can sell them at one of the evening markets. Or you could put out an advertisement for law advice. Work on helping people with contracts and legal inquiries through correspondence.”

“Helping people sounds boring,” he nipped her bottom lip between his teeth. “But the clothing might work…if you’d strip for me every time I needed you to try something on.” He ripped open the buttons on her blouse, knowing he could easily sewn them back on later. He sunk his teeth into her breast, drawing a bit of blood.

“Uhhhhnnn, but then you’d be distracting me from my work,” she moaned. “More than usual.”

“Because you work too hard,” he released her breast, giving her a bloodied smile. “But I suppose a dress form couldn’t hurt either.”

“Okay,” she nodded, gripping his ass tightly.

“Okay,” he nodded. “Now get the fuck over here so I can ruin you.”

She climbed over the back of the couch, not even bothering to go around, still grasping his ass firmly. They kissed hungrily, their teeth biting into each other’s skin. He spun her around, shoving his hand down her pants, and pressing his growing excitement between her ass cheeks. He nibbled her neck, taking another small bit of blood from her. That made him fully engorged, so he pushed her onto the coffee table, forcing her onto her hands and knees. He pulled her pants and undergarments around her thighs, giving her ass a sharp slap.

“That’s for being so Godsdamned practical,” he growled as she looked back at him with a grin. He slapped the other cheek hard, quickly unbuttoning his trousers. “And that is for making me love you so fucking much.”

He gripped the nape of her hair, pushing himself inside her as he clenched his fingers tighter against her scalp. She let out a low moan, digging her fingernails into the wood as he began to fuck her. The table wobbled loudly, joining the hard slapping of his balls against her slick thighs. They grunted and groaned, putting all their frustrations and anger into their lovemaking. He pounded her cunt until he shuddered and erupted, finally slowing and circling his hips inside her so she could reach her own climax. She fell to her elbows, whimpering, and letting him control the pressure on her clit. “You know you don’t…nnnnnhhh…have to start a fight to…ahhh…fuck me like this…”

“I know,” he angled his softening cock into her depths, pressing hard on her clit. “But it’s more fun this way.”

“I love you,” she moaned, her body quivering uncontrollably around him.

He slipped out of her, a deluge of cum and arousal flowing down afterwards. He squeezed her ass, giving it one last smack. “What was that for?” She laughed between breaths.

“For putting up with me for the past month,” he smiled. “I love you, more than anything.”

“You’re welcome,” she sighed, sinking down a little more on the table, her ass still held high. “I know it hasn’t been easy to…uhhhh,” she gasped as he knelt down to tongue her asshole. He slipped his fingers inside her slick mess and reached around to rub her clit again. “I was…hhhhnnn…planning to get some work done…ahhhh…after I finished my errands,” she hissed, rolling her hips along with his hands.

“I know,” he smacked his lips against her asshole, slipping a slick thumb inside.

He made her come twice more before finally releasing his grip on her. He stripped her completely, kissing and nuzzling the red pressure marks on her knees. He went to grab his sewing kit as she put away the groceries that had been left out. He draped and pinned some of the muslin around her, using her as his personal dress form until a proper one could be purchased. He let her get some work done, settling on the couch with her to resew the buttons of her blouse back on.

[wickedanddeadly]

Shane Powers' Bio

" Never grow old. Never die. Never know fear again. "

Santa Carla, 1987. Shane thought it was just another night. He was dead wrong.

Partying around a bonfire on the beach, Shane and his friends, the Surf Nazis, were meant to be Michael Emerson’s first meal as a Lost Boy. The attack left Shane with a thirst for blood, as he was becoming one of them. Unable to think straight, and feeling the life ebbing out of him, Shane crawled to the ocean with his attacker’s name pounding in his head — David. Realizing his thirst was for much more than water, Shane waited and sure enough the blood pouring out of his neck lured a Great White shark.

Although the shark attacked him, it proved to be no match for the blood-thirsty Shane. After feasting on more sharks, Shane returned to the shore and is devastated to find that his friends — whom he had considered family — are all dead. With David's parting words in his head (“Now you know what we are. Now you know what you are…”), Shane decided to follow in the footsteps of his “half-brother” and start building a new family — in other words, a Tribe.

As a representation of the “cool head” among his more unbalanced “family” (as he calls them), Shane is the reserved, charismatic leader of his Tribe. With his reasonable, level-headed side showing, he is effortlessly able to charm and seduce people into his group, usually by his own sex appeal or silver tongue.

However, underneath this ruse lies a sadistic, vicious being with an animalistic urge to kill and feed.

Some years later, with the Tribe he'd so desired, Shane came to reside in Luna Bay. His Tribe came into conflict with another vampire and Shane had Jon, one of his progeny, kill him ruthlessly by decapitation. He fell for Nicole Emerson and turned her into a half-vampire with the hope of making her a full one while Lisa, one of the Tribe, tried to seduce Nicole's brother Chris and turn him into a vampire. Lisa was killed by Chris, who teamed up with Edgar Frog to slay him. In order to do so, Chris joined Shane's Tribe willingly and after an initiation where the Tribe, including Chris, hazed the police, Shane had Chris drink from a flask with his blood in it, turning him into a half-vampire. Unlike previous vampires, Shane freely admitted his nature to Chris when asked. Leaving the others with a group of girls to eat, Shane headed off with Nicole to make her a full vampire, but she resisted her first kill. Shane and the others ended up having to fight Chris and Edgar Frog when Chris betrayed them and used his new powers to help him kill Jon. In the battle that followed, Chris killed Erik and Edgar killed Kyle, before Chris battled Shane one on one for his sister. Even with Chris' new powers, he was no match for Shane who was about to kill him, when Nicole staked him from behind as she cared about her brother more than him. Mortally wounded, Shane tried to take Nicole with him by pulling her onto the stake too, but he was decapitated from behind with a sword by Chris. His death restored the two Emersons to normal.

Upon Shane’s death he arrived in the place where all monsters go – Purgatory. If one ever thought staying alive was a challenge on earth, they certainly didn’t want to visit Purgatory. It was a constant never-ending battle of kill or be killed. Luckily Shane managed to do what many could never. He escaped due to an extremely rare ripple that ripped a hole between Purgatory and Earth. Upon returning to Luna Bay and finding his home burned to the ground, he decided there was only one place to go – Santa Carla. Despite the years spent in purgatory and the history between them Shane’s desire for Nicole has never faltered.

As of December 2021: Shane has been able to reconnect with Nicole. He also longs to reach out and connect with the bloodline he originated from: The Lost Boys.

Powers and Abilities

Immortal Flight Enhanced speed, strength, agility, durability, senses, stamina Regenerative healing factor Illusion

Weaknesses

Sunlight Holy water Stake through the heart Dead man's blood

Basic stats

Height: 5'8" Hair: Dark brown Eyes: Blue

Relations

David (Father/Sire) Dwayne (Brother) Marko (Brother) Paul (Brother) Star (Sister) Laddie (Brother)

Face Claim: Angus Sutherland

[ellemusing-it]

ORange You Glad I Didn't Say RAGE? Peeling Back the Citric Layers of Female Fury

𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯

𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘵

as i’ve grown both increasingly ill and increasingly visible, i’ve had to face my relationship with my own sickness. for women, it’s often tempting to simplify illness into a consumable narrative—turning deep-seated issues into just smudged eyeliner and wild escapades, or transforming childhood trauma into mere “daddy issues” and suicidal depression into a mysterious allure. it’s easier to market your pain than to truly confront it.

this month, i’ve been overwhelmed by a profound depressive episode—one that feels like wearing ankle weights and having time swirl around you like soup. i’ve spent most days lying on the mattress in my small, rented apartment, staring at the ceiling and straining to hear the whispers of my bunking neighbors through the walls. often, i’ve struggled to tell whether i’m dreaming or awake.

you could blame it on your hormones, the unpredictable tides of your period, or the dull ache of seasonal depression that seeps into your bones as the days grow shorter. you could trace it back to the shadows of your childhood, the echoes of your parents’ arguments that linger in your mind, or the wounds left by your exes that never seem to heal. but deep down, you know that placing blame wouldn’t change a thing. it’s just a fleeting relief, a temporary balm that does little to ease the gnawing pain.

i find myself in a melodramatic, 20th-century woman phase—sleeping erratically, sobbing, writing without publishing, and seeing shapes in my wallpaper. i neglect personal care, indulge in lavish fasting, and tarnish my reputation for battling dehydration. i make sure to nibble the tip of my fingernails during these depressive episodes, hoping they’ll stop writhing as an urge to run down my wrists. even at my lowest, i still view my experiences through a consumer lens; the urge to romanticize our own struggles and shape them into a compelling story has become as natural as breathing for women.

gaslight yourself if it helps you sleep at night—convince yourself that it’s all in your head, that you’re imagining things. it’s all the same, a cycle that repeats itself endlessly. deep inside, you know there’s nothing that can truly take it away. you carry it with you, a constant companion that lurks in the corners of your mind, whispering doubts and insecurities.

𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘵,

there’s a strange comfort in being understood, even if it’s only as a caricature. this feeling is genuine because i can contrast it with other experiences. i’m living through my own diane nguyen phase, my own the bell jar moment, my phoebe bridgers - chapell roan spectrum; i am a complementary mix of the 'buzz' & 'this is how tomorrow move' albums; i am eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. do you see it now? do you understand? despite my efforts, i find myself only able to grasp my identity through the stories of those who seem more complete. and while i tell myself i’m drawn to this media because it resonates with some intrinsic part of me, i wonder if it’s shaping me, too. who would i be without the things i consume? what feelings would remain?

you’ll tell yourself that you’re okay, that you’re resilient, stronger than before. you don’t cut, nor do you burn. you don’t smoke, nor do you get high. but you know another form of harm, one that consumes your mind, a silent battle that rages within. you understand why they did it, why you are the way you are, and you possess a clarity about what’s wrong. your insight, your maturity—a double-edged sword, a parasite that eats at you from the inside. the very thing that people praise you for becomes a burden too heavy to bear.

in a world where mass consumerism reigns, perhaps we’ve lost touch with what it means to exist beyond something marketable. this struggle echoes themes from juliet ivy's "we're all eating each other," where the lyrics explore how we consume not only products but also each other's identities and emotions. the song reflects on how we lose ourselves in this cycle, becoming products of our own creation, shaped by the endless need for validation and recognition. it’s a poignant reminder of the struggle to maintain a sense of self amid the chaos of external expectations and the relentless pace of modern life.

it follows you like a curse, an invisible chain that binds you, making you wonder what sins you’re paying for. there is something sick and twisted inside you, a darkness that refuses to let go. you will never be rid of it because it’s woven into the fabric of who you are. it is what you make of it that determines your life, the choices you make in spite of it, or perhaps because of it.

you'll try to find meaning in your trauma, searching for a purpose in the pain because this damage can't have been for nothing. 𝘴𝘰, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳?

this is female rage at its deepest, saddest, most self-annihilating. it’s the quiet despair that whispers, "i want to burn my clothes," which translates to "i want to crawl out of my fucking skin because you've touched it," and "i want to change my name because i can still hear it in your voice and it sounds like a slur." it’s the desperate longing to fake your own death and start a new life somewhere else because you've ruined mine, and the wish to erase every memory of you from my brain.

female rage doesn’t take a golf club to your car or throw your flaming clothes on the lawn. it’s an inward implosion, a fire that eats itself alive, sets itself ablaze, screams itself sick. the only vengeance it seeks is in hoping you witness our self-destruction, that you see the wreckage you’ve left behind. female rage wants to grasp the knife you dangled over our heads for weeks, to take control of the threat that loomed over us as you slithered away, hoping we wouldn’t notice. hoping we wouldn’t text you after 19 days of silence and ask, “can we talk?” but it doesn’t want to turn the knife on you. it just wants to finish the job itself. it doesn’t want blood; it wants to bleed out, to let go of the anguish once and for all. and it wants you to fucking watch.

this is the paradox of female rage—a desire to implode rather than explode, to internalize rather than burst out. it’s the silent scream that echoes within, a testament to the strength it takes to endure. it’s the quiet rebellion against the constraints imposed upon us, the fierce determination to reclaim our narrative, even if it means burning it all down to start anew.

just as an orange is divided into twelve segments, each layer of rage and pain reveals a new facet of the struggle. each segment is a fragment of a tumultuous year, each peel an attempt to grasp the essence of our suffering. and while peeling back each layer might feel like removing pieces of ourselves, it’s also a testament to the complexity and depth of what we endure. in this process, we come to understand that while our pain may be segmented, it is no less significant.

now .. would you still 𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘭 that for me?

[benjamin-vague]

Ridens Rode Me

Imagine a world born for you,

Born to bear you out into your own manifold

Greatness and so to form the frame

By which whatever great

Allotment of genius be in those brittle bones

And burning skin may be known.

Imagine the emptiness of that and

The horrible waste!

For if the world came to be for you

And only you, and you have seen (no matter

How very much of it you think you have seen)

So little of its curious quality,

It must live, dim, and die without you ever knowing

Its secret hugeness as you must live, dim,

And die in it.

Does dust know its own name?

(That depends: do you?) Does love speak with its

Own dire self-drinking voice from other throats

In the wallowing waters

Of this dreamy doom we share by the shores

Of the foreign land called Embodied-ness?

Or was it only ever your voice calling from other

Throats, in tattooing "I love you, I love you,

I do, and I will spend this blood

For you and only you" across this deep skin of soul by

Which we bind our mutual fates, tearful and struck

With the subtle fire

So the Art could be born -- again, again,

Again in immensity--rather than languish unspent?

(That depends: how much of the one have you demanded

In constant, unquestioned craving

And how much of the other have you freely given,

The craving at last in sweet surcease?)

And now imagine instead a world into which you are

Born to express that world's terrible greatness in this

New Human Configuration. Is it this world, the correct world

Of our mutual experience we can never truly tame

Either by logic or the mystic urge?

Well, who can say? (Only you and only I; you for

Only you as only I for lonesome I.) But this I see:

Whether fact or merely phantasms of a fanatic's

False philosophy, the careful

Calculus of our composition may only ever contract

And diminish under the tutelage of one,

And only ever multiply with the aid of the other.

How dare we demand the world be limited to our

Own times and natures? How dare we declare

Meaning must exist in understandable form

Beyond us when we already are given to one another

As a salvation and a damnation both?

And suddenly the strange math seems sensible to me,

Yes, and good and right and true; suddenly

It seems preferable that we should

Boil forth in seeded swathes from father's sword

And into mother's cup: to burst in our turn

Upon the blood-watered soil but not before we

See the shape staring back at us from the storied halls

Of a dimly dreamt Old Mystery. It is neither I nor you,

But only we: a Mandelbrot affinity signified

By time and tide and there again by encircling time.

And this is why I seek to serve others

With my little mannish works;

It is at last the only thing that serves me,

Sustains me.

We are not born strictly for our own pleasure and

Pain, I think, but to connect by permeable membranes

And through them

With that of others and to see--be--need--

Both more and less at once. From "I" to

"Thy" and thus to "Us"; with this alchemy

I am always among family, even

When I am utterly, hopelessly yet heartfully

Alone. I am finally never alone;

The tribe I carry within me is unnumbered

And they also carry me. I often

Cry for this knowledge, the humility of our humanity --

I am crying now --

And the tears too are good, so sweetly

Cruel and deep.

And it is finally not tragical to me but some

Form of wondrous-rare magic

That any of this should be at all, that we

Should live to wonderingly touch fingers to death's

Cold cheek upon the dais of its self-consumption

And in so doing feel the fleshly fineness of our

Own hot-blooded one with greater gravity.

And in this mortal majesty -- for it is majestic

To me -- must weep all the

Shade-faced thin-natured gods of our naming

With much wringing of hands and a burning jealousy.

How could eternity

And its dually dreaming and dreamt-of denizens

Ever hope to compete with our particularity

And these brief moments of Embodied-ness?

We are the fortunate dying, who know

Sacredness and substance through

That final Artful dissolution every bit as much

As in all that comes before it. I have elected

That I shall die well when the time is right --

As well and perhaps

Better than I have lived, will yet live --

And will not suffer small rescue by human hand

Or condemning god to unchain me from

This, my beloved fate.

Such proud temerity there is in my trembling heart,

In our shared heart-of-hearts.

How dared I (and we) ever demand more than this:

The chance to reason, to dream upon the sea,

And in seeing it, learn to release ourselves

From the bleak bondage of eternity?

The mortal gall! I can only

Laugh and laugh and laugh, as my god Ridens

rode me right on through the enfolding of

My own Old Mystery. There we met and

Will yet meet,

Wet with the labor of keeping chin above

This water that bears us ever on,

And I love you so; all is well in this wet

Heaven-wrought-in-hell. Yes indeed, all is well

And ever will it be...

But only in those quiet moments when

We remember this:

The blood-salted water of Truth Alone

Does not sustain us; it is not enough.

With it, we must sustain each other

And ourselves,

Unto death through the tumult of tides,

Directly from our living birth.

I beg you, let there be no lie between us!

It simply is not worthy of our keeping.