#Blood and Metal Vol. 1 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nvirskies · 1 year ago

Text

sand - c. la rue

idea taken from one of @star-girl69 's asks about married clarisse and immediately went to think about how the vast majority of greek demigods didn't get to live past their 20's or even teen years... and the survivor's guilt that would come with being one of the few lucky enough to live longer.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, traumatic nightmare flashbacks, descriptions of violence, descriptions of blood + war, spoilers for TLO, set after both reader and clarisse leave CHB about 6-8 years into the future, google translated Greek term of endearment, crying, survivor's guilt, platonic RueGard, ooc Clarisse, she's matured more over time and more articulate with her feelings and words

summary: clarisse wakes up from a particularly bad nightmare in the middle of the night, reader comforts her through a breakdown

wife!fem!demigod!reader x wife!clarisse la rue

word count: 2.2k

καρδιά μου (kardiá mou) - my heart

Η καρδιά μου είναι η καρδιά σου (I kardiá mou eínai i kardiá sou) - my heart is your heart

"but you have more pieces of me than than desert has sand, and I have less pieces of you than I can hold in my hand" sand, alchemical: vol. 1, dove cameron

taglist: @lvrue @star-girl69 @azrielsdiary @petitegavotte @b0ok-lover

men, nsfw, non-sapphic, 16-/19+ dni

Greek demigods fell in love hard and fast with an unmatched intensity. They normally didn’t live long enough to even envision themselves in their adult lives, and why would they? Every day was a struggle to stay alive with monsters coming in from all angles and quests most didn’t come back from.

And that was why, as soon as the two of you graduated high school, Clarisse got down on a knee and proposed with the knowledge that you were the one she would want to spend the rest of her life, however long or short, with.

When you two had graduated college, the next thing in the books was to make it official in the courthouse, and that was what you had done. No extravagant party or ceremony, just a quiet day in the courthouse and a night in to celebrate.

But no matter how far the two of you ran from Camp Half-Blood, the nightmares never went away, never got better. As the years passed, more of the people you had considered friends died. One after the other, falling like cursed dominos, helplessly standing by as they all tumbled down.

Soon, the nightmares became more about the people that were lost than the monsters themselves. Nightly plagues of searingly painful memories from watching the life drain from so many demigods’ eyes burned themselves in both of your psyches.

All you could do was hope Charon would be kind enough to ferry them across the Styx without his payment of a silver coin.

And tonight certainly hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary with the two of you and your limbs interlaced in a protective embrace while sleep claimed your minds, as if the both of you could protect each other from the monsters both in and outside.

Your head, nestled into her chest. Her deep, rhythmic breathing made your hair flutter ever so slightly as she exhaled. Her arms, wrapped loosely around your waist, hands not-so-sneakily under the baggy shirt of hers you had stolen to wear as pajamas for the night. It was all perfect. Too perfect.

You would be damned fools to think that peace would last for so long. Demigods didn’t get peace, they didn’t get tranquility, and they especially didn’t get uninterrupted domestic bliss.

Unbeknownst to you, Clarisse’s face contorted into one of distress. Her arms pulled you in closer subconsciously as the all too familiar face of Morpheus greeted her with a sly smirk on his face in her dreams.

In moments, she was transported back to the Battle of Manhattan.

She was seventeen again.

Blood was everywhere. Abandoned weapons lay on the floor, the hands that once gripped them tightly, now loose and limp. Shrill screams echoed throughout the air, all cut short by gut-wrenching sounds of fatal injury. Metal cut through flesh. Acid burnt through metal. Flames licked and greedily consumed anything and everything as fuel.

Her feet felt heavy, her hands numb. She could do nothing but stand and watch it all unfold before her own eyes, forced to relive the carnage and devastation that had ripped through Manhattan on that fateful day.

Morpheus’ voice whispered in her right ear, the sound of it sending an uneasy chill down her spine. “Daughter of Ares. A fitting dream, no? Your father must have been proud of you for the way you fought after… well, I’ll let you relive that, too.” Before she could blink, she was transported to the moment right after Silena had been sprayed by the Lydian Drakon.

Clarisse was too late. She had always been too late.

She was back on her knees, choking and weeping bitterly as Silena lay in her arms, watching as life slowly left her once-lively eyes.

What kind of a warrior even was she? So weak that she couldn’t even protect her friend? Too weak to protect the girl who had adorned her armor and led her siblings into battle?

Just as Clarisse reached out to touch Silena’s face to wipe away the one mark of smudged eyeliner that the Aphrodite girl normally would never have even allowed to happen in the past, she was jerked back to consciousness, eyes flying open and arms almost crushing your sleeping form momentarily as she came to.

No longer was she in Manhattan, instead sheltered in the familiarly adorned walls of your shared bedroom. Upon the walls hung framed pictures of joyous times past and her sword collection, among other things.

Familiar faces stared back at her, some faces that would never age again. Immortalized memories of times that would never happen again. Everyone was dead or scattered across the globe.

A particular picture caught Clarisse’s eye. It was a portrait of Silena that she had commissioned one of the Apollo kids to draw for the daughter of Aphrodite’s seventeenth birthday.

She never lived to see that day.

Her eyes locked with Silena’s in the drawing for a moment, and that moment was one too much as hot tears began to prick in the corners of her eyes.

She had inadvertently woken you up with the way her arms tightened around your waist in a near vice grip, slowly coming to your senses. No longer were her breaths slow and rhythmic, their steadfast pattern replaced by one that was erratic and shallow. The once-steady thumping cadence of her heart as it beat in her chest was now quickened, all of which you could hear with your head having been nestled into her chest.

Craning your head to look up at her, you were greeted with the sight of Clarisse desperately trying to silently blink back tears and control her own breathing.

Hurriedly, you pushed yourself up off her chest and tugged the blankets off the two of you before sitting down on her lap. You took note of the way her hands had never left your waist, holding onto you as if she were drowning and you were the last life ring thrown out.

It wasn’t anything you and Clarisse hadn’t dealt with before. The nightmares had been a part of your lives as far back as you could remember, it just came with the territory of being a demigod. But they never got any easier as time went on.

She watched silently with eyes brimming with unshed tears, pleading wordlessly with you to do something, anything to make it all go away.

“Let’s switch, yeah? You can lay on me and completely cover me if you want, love,” you offered up, a melancholy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Wordlessly, she nodded and you slipped off her lap, laying back where she had just been moments ago.

Gently patting your chest, you motioned for her to rest her head on it, knowing that the rest of her body would soon follow, completely engulfing your form with hers. After she had positioned herself, her arms snaked around your waist again as she simply held you for a few moments, her face pressed into your chest as tears slowly soaked into your shirt.

One hand reached out to gently run along the length of her back, the motion meant to soothe. A few beats passed in silence before you spoke in a hushed whisper, the bedroom devoid of sound beyond the two of you breathing in tandem with each other.

“You hear that, love? That’s my heart,” you murmured softly, craning your neck to press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “It’s beating, beating for you. Η καρδιά μου είναι η καρδιά σου.”

She didn’t respond beyond releasing another shaky sob into your chest and tightening her grip around your body, but you didn’t mind. You didn’t need her to talk just yet.

“You’re also η καρδιά μου, you know that, right? My heart, my wife, my love, my everything. And I’m yours. Entirely yours, and I”m not going anywhere.” You craned your neck again to press another kiss against the crown of her head, hand never stopping its path of running gently along the length of her back.

“I would go down to the depths of Tartarus for you. I would challenge Hades himself to a fight if it meant I had even a glimmer of a chance in getting you back.”

Never once did you try to rush her into talking or shushing her tears. You knew her better than you knew yourself, and giving her time to let everything out was the best thing you could do for her at the moment.

You were her safe space, the one woman that she could let her walls down around. She wasn’t Ares’ star daughter in your arms, she was just Clarisse. No expectations dangling over her head, just open arms and understanding.

After another few quiet moments, she finally spoke up in between half-choked sobs, whispering so quietly that her voice was nearly inaudible, “Silena… Manhattan… should have been able to save her,” before letting her face fall back down onto your chest, releasing another pained cry.

“She��s gone- a-and everyone else too- why me?”

Her question left you speechless, mouth partly opened in an attempt to come up with a reassuring response, but nothing seemed to come to mind immediately. It was rare for this to happen, as you normally had just the right words at the top of your tongue, weaving them as Arachne once wove tapestries on her loom.

“They’re all gone and- and- ”

“Shh, love…” you cut her off, gently pulling her head up to look her in the eyes, your other hand leaving her back to wipe the tears that were still streaming down her cheeks with the pad of your thumb. “Please, don’t go back into that self-sacrificial spiral. Talk to me, tell me what the dream was about?”

She only shook her head in response, unwilling to divulge details of the memory that had shattered your night of otherwise perfect proportions.

Deflating back on top of you, she whispered, “They’re all gone, and we’re one of the only ones remaining. It was like every time another one of them died, that small part of myself that I gave to them died as well.”

Her arms that were wrapped around your waist tightened for a moment before going limp along with the rest of her body as she lay atop you, her head pressed against your chest.

“Love…” you began softly as one of your hands found its way to her head and carded gently through her curls. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened. None of it was your fault. We didn’t ask to be born, to be thrown into this mess of a world and tossed around like pawns in the gods’ game of chess with our lives.”

“We didn’t ask for this life, and we were so young at the time. For fuck’s sake, we were only seventeen- we hadn’t even made out yet. We hadn’t graduated high school yet, there were so many things we couldn’t control.

“None of it was your fault, I promise you. You were so brave, and you did everything you could.” She stayed silent as you spoke, the only sounds coming from her were the soft, shaky breaths as she sniffled and burrowed her face further into your shirt.

“I can’t explain to you why so many things had to happen, that’s up to the Fates. I can’t give you the pieces of yourself back that you lost when we kept losing everyone,” you murmured whilst your hands kept on with their idle motions.

It shattered your heart to give her such an incomplete answer when you knew it was tearing her apart inside to live with it all, but there was nothing you could do beyond offer solace and comfort. “And for that, I am so, so sorry. But the one thing I can do is keep the piece you’ve granted me to keep, safe and sound.”

She only nodded in response, not trusting herself to speak in fear of her own vulnerability. Her tears soaked into your shirt, but you didn’t care. All that was important was that Clarisse was here, in your arms, and slowly calming down.

Clarisse knew just as well as you did that everyone had done the best they could with the circumstances given, and that the loss affected you just as deeply. But she didn’t dig into that, it would be a can of worms to open for another time, another sleepless night where your own troubles caught up with you after running from them for so long.

And so, the rest of the night stretched on into early morning, the two of you half-awake, seeking silent solace in each other until sunlight crept into the bedroom through the cracks of the curtains the next day.

The two of you might have been running from your trauma like runners to a marathon, but at least you were running hand-in-hand with matching strides.

#🖋️ nvir writes #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x fem reader #clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue pjo #clarisse larue #clarisse la rue x you #clarisse la rue x y/n #percy jackson and the olympians #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #pjo tv #im not sorry #maybe i am #no im not

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motherofagony · 2 years ago

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A HEART FOR EATING // vol. 2

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: post outbreak!joel x f!reader setting: jackson, wy (think tlou pt. 2 minus the golfing) rating: mature, 18+, minors dni word count: 8.7k series summary: a vicious raider attack robs you of human connection and lights a fire of destruction in your life in jackson. joel's fixated on you, and your lives tangle. revenge becomes a needful thing. chapter summary: you take care of joel after a patrol injury, but you suspect there's more to it than he's telling you. the atmosphere shifts as you and joel grow (begrudgingly) closer. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), protective!joel, brief masturbation (f!reader), praise kink for two seconds, blood, bodily injuries, needles (reader gives joel stitches), dissociation/triggers, alcohol, angst, sexual tension intensifies, The First Kiss™, soft!joel vol. 1 // vol. 2 series playlist a/n: we're picking up speed, folks. world-building is my weakness, so i hope you enjoy this nonetheless. honorable mention goes to the readers in the trenches, waiting patiently for joel to [redacted] reader senseless until she [redacted] all over his [redacted]. thank you for the love on the series so far. taglist: @ghostwritesthings, @widowssbite, @p3rkerr, @eternallyvenus, @punkshort if anyone would like to be added/removed to the taglist (or if i missed anyone), please send me a DM!

You’ve always hated flying.

In the great before, the stone ages of family vacations and things to look forward to, fears were singular and planes were yours.

Your family never had a lot of money, not really, but on the special occasion of a death in the family, you’d find yourself trapped to a seat in a metal tube. Going nowhere but up. Sitting through safety instructions that came from smiling, lipsticked mouths that were only hypotheticals until they weren’t.

It’s like a rollercoaster, your dad would say, amused in the way only a dad can be and sleeping through damn near anything in the same fashion. It did nothing to calm the knocking of your knees, to quell the flip of your stomach as you climbed higher and higher until you couldn’t see anything but cotton ball clouds.

It was always unnatural to you that something so heavy could float, that you were supposed to go on doing human things and drinking your ginger ale and munching your pre-packaged snack option. As if you weren’t being hurled into the sky with no one walking you through it.

As if the plummet onto tarmac meant no harm, just completely normal erratic braking that felt a lot like the moments before a crash.

There was no control — it was in someone else’s hands that you never saw. And as you fell, you were supposed to say thank you, that’s exactly what I paid for.

This is your version of the oxygen mask. This is you putting yours on before you help Joel.

You’re on your knees digging through your med bag, thumbing through bandages, checking for a quick count of gloves, antibiotics, wash cloths. You fumble with the zipper, fighting with the tremor that starts in your forearms and liquifies into your wrists. There isn’t much in the way of supplies unless you ransack what’s kept in storage, but there’s no time, and you’re not sure of what you’re about to walk into.

Waiting any moment for a scream, or the blast of a gun when they realize Joel’s not Joel anymore.

And it isn’t really a big possibility in the grand scheme of things, if you consider that he would’ve likely turned on the route home. But it’s still there, tickling the back of your head, nudging your navel uncomfortably. Nothing’s impossible.

You of all people know that.

You linger in your living room, giving a final sweep. Worst case, you can run back for what’s forgotten, but something about the idea of abandoning a vulnerable Joel – if only for a minute – doesn’t settle right in your stomach.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re shoving a bottle of whiskey into the bag, the only anesthetic on hand. And if you’re being honest with yourself, you need to score back some points.

The steps leading up to Joel’s house are sturdy, and you imagine it’s because of the pride he takes in what’s his. Before this, his house was just another skeleton of roof, foundation, windows, and siding.

The kind of houses you pass by every day that are rife with familiarity but you don’t know what it’s like to see the people inside eat dinner, brush their teeth. Fight. Fuck.

Fresh paint from only two seasons ago, reinforced porch posts. A swing. It’s weird to see permanence in this day and age, but his intention to anchor himself and grow roots here flutters meaningfully inside you.

It’s always been a sacred thing to you, you don’t know why. A place you’d never dreamed of entering, but dreamed about what it would smell like. A pair of boots haphazard by the front door, small piles of organized chaos, of collected tangibles. A you never know if you’ll need this in one corner, a saving that for a rainy day shelved in another.

So when you raise your hand to knock, you feel like an intruder, an unwelcome invasion of privacy. And you don’t know why you knock at all, you nearly think better of it given the circumstances, but you’re testing the atmosphere, hoping for voices inside instead of a struggle.

Ellie’s swinging the door open, relief smoothing out the lines in her forehead when she sees you. Her presence seems to answer any unspoken questions you had about Joel being infected, and you don’t voice them to her when you can see unrest in her antsy legs.

“Hey. Sorry for the wait. He alright?”

Her teeth are worrying her lip, probably more traumatized by the sight of him than anything. A few strands of hair have freed themselves from her lazy half-bun at the base of her neck, caught in the crossfire when she ran her hands through it, you think.

“Yeah,” Ellie breathes, committing to it. “Yeah, he’s okay. Bleeding stopped, nothing seems broken. Just needs stitches, I think.”

It sounds more to convince herself than anything else. There’s a foreign fragility to her, and you hate it.

“He tell you what happened?”

The question strikes a nerve. Ellie’s shaking her bowed head, scoffing in a half-laugh that doesn’t touch her eyes. Her hand wraps around her knuckles, cracking slowly in an effort to alleviate the tension that’s reached a fever pitch inside her.

“He won’t tell me, says it doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t have gone alone anyway, he was bein’ a dick. ‘I wanna think, kiddo - need t’clear my head,’” she mocks in a gruff, rolling pitch, the perfect dosage of Texas.

It levels you, potent. Are you the thing Joel needed to clear his head of?

You’re weirdly longing for it, but being flicked away like a bug, peeled away layer by layer from him isn’t something you want.

There’s hope that you’re contagious. That you’re haunting him and lurking in the darkest corners of his mind like an apparition like he has yours. And maybe there’s hope after all, something left to salvage.

But you play dumb, furrow your brow a little too expertly.

Ellie’s measuring you, and there’s a glimpse of worry but she hides it in a way that you wouldn’t know what you were looking for if you hadn’t already found it.

“Anything you wanna tell me about the other night? He was pissed when he left,” she tacks on quietly.

You go a little slack-jawed. You don’t even know how to put it into words, and you couldn’t tell her what it meant even if you tried.

What’s there to even say?

“You know what, none of my business,” she says, her hands lifting in tired surrender when you don’t answer, ignoring your near-sputter. “But you’re not off the hook, just make sure the old man doesn’t croak. And tell him he scared the shit outta me.”

You exhale and hope it doesn’t read too much as relief. You’ll have to answer to her later, but at least you might have an answer to give.

“Handful of salt in the wound, rub in circular motions – got it. Tell Tommy I’ll catch up later.”

Your shoulders scrape affectionately as you nudge past each other, and you cast a wide look at the periphery of Joel Miller’s house. The feeling of unwelcome disappears, and if anything, you’re being tugged further inside. Imagining what it’s like to be a fixture, an adornment in his weird little life.

Nooks that you assumed would be messy are neat, coiffed even. There’s that unavoidable smudge of secondhand all over the furniture – mottled ever so slightly, aged uneven in places that only an apocalypse can do. But it’s an otherwise tidy existence. Another surprise from Joel that you’d never pick up on if you only witnessed him nursing a drink at the bar.

An oak bookshelf props itself at the bottom of the stairs and it rivals your own, dust gathering in thin lines where he’s repeatedly shelved this, reread that. There are paintings hung decisively on most of the walls, breathtaking rural landscapes of wherever.

You’re lugging the bag upstairs, counting your breaths with each step. The whiskey rattles mutely against the first aid tin, and it’s a toss-up now of who you really brought it for.

The landing mirrors the ground level, a purposeful littering of tchotchkes. Doors line the second floor, some closed, some ajar but not inviting, and you realize you have no idea which one you’re looking for. You sway uninvited by the bannister until you hear the unmistakable hiss of breath between clenched teeth, then a soft moan as his weight shifts.

And you’re stepping inside a room – his bedroom – warmed in the soft beginnings of sunset. Joel’s sprawled asymmetrically on his bed, eyes pinched shut, delirious with blood loss but already looking substantially less like a corpse. A damp rag settles just above his brow, and the handiwork of Ellie.

There’s an unrecognizable hurt in him, wounded in ways that he shouldn’t be capable of.

He doesn’t give any indication that he knows you’re here until he’s rasping out something weak disguised as stern.

“I ain’t bit. Shut the door behind you.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“How did you –?”

Joel just huffs in response, as indignant as his body lets him be.

“You see anyone else here? They might as well’ve jumped out the window, as fast as they dumped me ‘n left. I ain’t stupid.”

You accept that and drop the pretense, pursing your lips with a nod. He doesn’t seem that offended, knows it’s just the nature of the beast.

You move over to his bedside, unpacking the bag quickly on a side table, looping your metaphorical stethoscope around your neck and switching gears into a mode that’s strictly doctoral.

Yet, there’s still that hum beneath your skin, the fizzle of unfinished business. It’s thick in the space between you, in the way he flicks his gaze at you lazily. You’ll let him foster the anger, giving it a home. You can be the martyr he says you are.

This new lens feels calmer, almost professional. Your nerves are still firing rapidly, and your composure is forced, but it’s better than nothing.

You drag a chair from the corner up to Joel’s bed, not letting your eyes wander too far into the depths of the space. You don’t have time to dissect the idiosyncrasies of his life. Not yet.

He still hasn’t opened his eyes, but you get the sense that he’s tracking your every move. His limbs are concrete, the tendons in his forearms so tense and coiled like any and every movement is forbidden.

“Joel.”

He grunts, a pained translation. Still no effort to move.

“I need to take a look at you,” you say patiently, bargaining like you would with a kid. “Wanna tell me what hurts?”

Another grunt, softer this time. He motions vaguely, weakly to his head, then the left flank of his abdomen.

You already know what you’ll find under the rag on his head, and it bodes well that the bleeding looks to have stopped. His stomach wound, on the other hand, was enough to bleed through two layers.

“Alright. Lemme see.”

A muted whimper echoes in his throat, so uncharacteristically that it tugs on your heart. Still statuesque, unmoving.

Your fingers are deft, careful as they unbutton the first, second, third buttons of his flannel. Joel’s stock-still, and his breath comes in sharp, slow waves through his nose. Your own breath kind of sits in the back of your throat, and you pretend with a hurried exhale that you weren’t just holding it.

Your fingers reach his navel on the last button, and you’re gently tucking each panel of his shirt under him on either side, focusing too hard on not touching him. It feels like something is somersaulting low in your stomach.

You can’t even dare yourself to look at his chest, his stomach. The patch of hair leading down to the band of his pants.

Get it together. That’s not what this is.

An angry gash looks up at you, thankfully clotted with dried patches of blood. It’s about two delicate fingers long, a nasty slice. It looks clean, abrupt in shape but suspiciously manmade. Not too deep, but not superficial enough to heal without some assistance.

And thank god, not nearly as bad as you thought it would be.

Joel’s looking at you now through heavy lids, wary of you, but something like fear touches the corners of his eyes. You fight to stay medical, methodical in your diagnosis. No emotion slips out, nothing allowed in.

You sit back calmly, letting loose a sigh. Not letting yourself bathe in the intimacy of the moment, in the way he’s staring.

“You need stitches,” you announce simply.

“Like hell.”

“Joel.”

He’s scowling, a hurt animal pissed at its own vulnerability. Silence passes like a ship between you, and for a moment, you think he’ll really fight you on this. He can’t hide anything when he’s like this, the weighing of his options evident in the tick of his jaw, the pathetic pinch just in the center of his brows.

“Fine,” he grits out. “Make it quick.”

This fucker.

You’re rolling your eyes, unceremoniously tugging the rag from his forehead. The cloth is red but not soaked, just twinged pink around the edges. Joel curses, just an octave above unintelligible.

His hand is shooting to the cut near his hairline and you’re smacking it away before he can pollute it.

“Lay still, fuck’s sake,” you chastise. “An infection’ll put you out longer than a few days. Unless you have a puzzle you been meaning to get around to?”

The faux-threat calms him immediately, and the shift in restraint doesn’t go unchecked. He doesn’t say another word, but you catch a glare and a twitch of his mouth.

You make quick work of cleaning him up, squeezing rubbing alcohol on a clean towel and scrubbing patient circles through the mess of dried blood. Joel releases sharp noises you can only describe as growls when you get too close to the border of his cuts.

It’s primal, a dog asserting dominance with his leg caught in a trap.

You try to lose the attitude, and it’s difficult when your patient hates you, doesn’t hate you, won’t clarify either way.

There’s a hint of purple that’s developing like fresh film on the mountains of his knuckles that doesn’t go unnoticed. Places on the most taut peaks of flesh where his skin has split, marred with scrapes that look like indents of teeth. And in the right light, there’s a discoloration of something in the same family splayed on his ribs.

And that… you know that when you see it. Even if everything else can be explained away.

“You wanna talk about it?” you say quietly.

There’s an intermission where he doesn’t respond. Too long to be the truth, too short to come up with a lie. And you know he’s been waiting for this question, might’ve already thought of a story.

“Got clumsy,” Joel recites. “Tripped on some stairs that were caving in, hit my head.”

“Bullshit.” And it’s a statement, not an insult. It doesn’t cover why he has a certified stab wound in his side.

Another stretch of silence, lack of defensiveness, makes it clear that he knows you know. But he doesn’t elaborate, and for whatever reason, you don’t push it.

And maybe it’s enough to acknowledge this sort of thing for now. You can stow it away, let it keep you up at night. Draw parallels where there possibly aren’t any. If he’d run into a human thing, he’d be much worse off, right?

Just like you were.

You take care in lining up the supplies to stitch in neat order beside you, mulling over each step in your mind. Stalling, maybe.

You pull the whiskey bottle out of your bag by the neck and nudge Joel with the cap.

“Something to take the edge off.”

He kind of hesitates, but there’s a tenderness. Recognizing it as an act of mercy, a peace offering.

There’s nothing said, but he takes the bait, spinning off the top and swallowing a messy mouthful. A drip escapes through the corner of his mouth and slips into his beard.

You can feel the taste of it blossoming on your tongue.

He grunts his thanks and keeps a steady grip on the neck of the bottle, and the network of veins in his forearm unwind.

You clamp the needle, laced through with something thicker than thread but not quite medical grade. Joel exhales a shaky whine when you pierce the skin, and his fist grips the sheets when you twist clockwise to push the needle through to the other side.

“You’re doing great,” you murmur.

The needle weaves over the cut, greeting the other side. You pull it through and up, and his lower lip trembles, sweat beading his forehead.

“First one done,” you say, praising him but also yourself.

Joel’s still clenching the linens on the bed, ignoring you and hiding out in his own mind somewhere.

You don’t tell him that you’ve only ever practiced on fruit, that your suture knowledge comes exclusively from the one medical text you have and endless hours of TV you grew up on.

Silence envelopes you again, heavier than before if possible. The pressure waxes and wanes like nighttime waves, licking the shore between you. And it’s not angry, just something… else.

“Some house you got,” you note casually as a distraction, like you’re commenting on the weather. It comes off relaxed enough, though any conversation between you feels like flossing a crowded mouth.

His eyes sharpen, and you think it’s in excruciation, but there’s a twinge of apprehension. You straighten for a moment, hands fixed mid-stitch, and roll your eyes.

“Okay, cool it, Home Alone, I’m not casing the place.”

Joel takes a turn rolling his eyes. You swear that you see his mouth twitch again, but you hang your head, dabbing a cloth where pinpricks of blood form.

You try again.

“I like your paintings.”

You dare to look up, and his mouth is in a tight line.

“You like my paintings.” he repeats dully, not a question. Joel’s as cynical as you, and he thinks it’s a jab, not sincere.

“You’re not gonna make this easy on me, are you?”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

Now’s as good a time as any. You sigh at that.

“Look, the other night wasn’t my finest moment. It didn’t need to go that way,” you mutter, leaning on the concentration of sewing up Joel’s skin. Otherwise, you might feel too strongly, dissect your word choice with an uncomfortable linger. “Sorry. I know you were trying to help.”

He goes rigid as your second stitch meets a third. The bottle tips to his lips again, and you wonder if it’s an act of liquid courage. You boldly hope so.

“Nah, I shoulda kept my mouth shut. Been thinkin’ I needed to apologize anyway,” he admits, and you know he’s happy you made the first move. You can already feel him loosen, but maybe it’s the alcohol. “You ain’t a martyr, y’know.”

Oh.

The needle hooks into the final sliver of skin, your handiwork tightening into a neat line. You sit back, wiping your brow with the ungloved section of your wrist. It’s a treaty, a handshake at the very least.

“Actually, I think you hit the nail on the head with that one,” you smirk, olive branch fully hanging between your teeth now. “Keeping up the charade is so exhausting.”

Joel presses out a pained half-laugh, and you feel something crumbling between you.

You tie off the last stitch, trimming the excess thread off the knot. The clamp clatters into the tray, and you give it a final once-over before peeling a large rectangle of bandage from your kit and pressing it gently over the wound.

“All done,” you quip, peeling your gloves off. “Didn’t even have to amputate.”

“Not too bad,” he grunts.

“I’ll add it to your tab.”

While you’re riding the high of approval, you stand and move to the foot of the bed. Joel’s boots are still on, laced messily.

And for some reason, you don’t even ask permission, you just start untying, tipping them off and lining them next to one another on the hardwood.

He doesn’t say a word. Out of confusion, maybe.

You scoot your chair and makeshift flatlay along with you, positioning yourself at Joel’s head. That look is back, a side-stare that steals your breath.

That look that knows you could absolutely ruin him, and he’d either thank you or kill you.

The pads of your fingers brush back the hair from his forehead, still slightly matted with blood. It’s a surface cut, but crescent-shaped and easily hidden by a curl of brown, peppered with grey. Butterfly closure it is.

No signs of a concussion show themselves. At least there’s that.

“You might have a scar,” you murmur. Being this close to Joel makes you feel like you’re wearing two layers too many.

And he hasn’t broken the stare, not even minutely.

“Add it to the collection,” he says lowly, not an ounce of self-pity.

Your eyes flash to the scar near his temple. You’re exercising full-on restraint not to ask him about it. But it’s not the time, something you could try to pry out of him later. And knowing there’ll be a later makes you relax your shoulders, unclench your jaw.

He’s nice enough to pretend not to notice, or he’s in too much pain to mention it.

You dab the damp rag around the border of his cut again, mopping up any excess. You reach for the isopropyl.

“You might wanna take another swig,” you warn. And he obeys, down the hatch and white-knuckling through it.

“Good boy,” you’re murmuring automatically, and it just slips out.

Your mouth falls open just so, and Joel’s coughing, clearing his throat against the burn of whiskey. You’re pleading with the universe that his cough was close enough, loud enough to cover the words, but his face has turned a shade of red that’s probably rivaling the heat that reaches your ears.

Good boy? Jesus Christ.

If there was ever a heightened moment of being fucking touch-starved, it’s this.

You make haste with the disinfectant and place the closures over the cut. The bloodied towels and scraps from the DIY surgery are cleaned up, tied neatly into a plastic bag. And now, this is the part where you run and never face him again.

You’re already making plans to board up your windows, maybe have Ellie deliver your meals solely through a slot in the door.

But Joel’s pain is overriding everything, and he’s sunken even further back into the pillow, his head lolling to prop on his shoulder. He’s whispering a weak thanks that’s incoherent at best. You tug the blanket up and over him.

You grab a glass from downstairs, fill it to the brim with water and bring it to him. He groans at the sight, petulant.

“I’m not leaving until you finish this.”

His lifts his arm for it, scowling. “Gimme the damn thing.”

Satisfied, you hand it over and watch him drink it down, his throat bobbing in a hearty gulp. Your gaze can’t help but snag on it.

You have got to get the fuck out of here.

You come back with a refilled glass and sit it on his bedside table, close enough within reach. The medical bag is packed up and ready, sagging slightly in areas where you’ve emptied it. It knocks against your already-knocking knees, and you’re grateful to use its weight as an excuse for how blurred you feel.

“I need to talk to Tommy. You gonna be alright for a bit?”

His eyes are closed again, on the outskirts of rest, but his mouth pulls up in the ghost of smile.

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere, sweetheart.”

And you hope he means it.

—

You track down an unsettled Tommy, finding him pacing in the back of the general store. He’s restocking some shelves but not quite – there’s an gross pairing of tinned fish and fresh eggs sitting on a display that’s unappetizing at best.

“He’s okay. No bite,” you add lowly, acutely aware of how many pairs of ears are in the store. “But he needs to be monitored.”

Tommy slackens, rubbing his eyes that are full of exhaustion and bruised with worry. Index finger and thumb stroking the respective tails of his mustache one, two, three times as the gravity of that strikes him.

He loops you into an embrace, and it’s kind, full of ease. The smell of firewood and smoke tickles your nose. His worry evaporates then, and honestly, so does yours.

“He doin’ alright?”

You chew on that for a moment and nod. There are complications, but nothing to do with Joel’s health.

“He was pissed about the stitches, but I didn’t have a choice. Cut was pretty deep.”

“So… he tell you what happened, then?”

There’s that question again. You feel like you should have an answer, but if he wouldn’t clue in Ellie, you sure as hell wouldn’t be.

Like squeezing blood from a stone, your dad used to say.

“No,” you lie instinctively. You don’t know why.

But it isn’t really. Not if you don’t know the full truth yourself. There’s just something about Joel’s omission that makes you feel entitled to find out first.

“He said he fell down some stairs,” you amend, “just didn’t say where or how.”

Tommy offers you the same look that Ellie gave you – a raised brow coupled with a touch of disbelief.

“If you say so.”

You shrug, playing it as cool as’ll come natural to you. “You know Joel. Doesn’t want to make a fuss.”

He chuckles, shaking his head and rolling out his shoulders that you know have been holding tension. He believes that, at least.

“Sounds like you know him, too.”

—

A few days come and go.

Ellie takes on a lot of the recovery, but she doesn’t like messing with stitches — creeps me the fuck out that you did that without puking all over him, she claims — and she’s eager to substitute for the patrol routes while Joel’s down and out. You offer to step in, with a totally normal and selfless motive.

If she thinks anything else of it, you’d be the last to know.

Your new itinerary consists of changing Joel’s bandages, cleaning up through his hissed breaths and every goddamn it. Twice a day, morning and night and sometimes in closer intervals, but never approaching the cusp of any boundary.

Joel’s fiercely independent, swatting your hands when you try to help. Donning a clean flannel in the space between your lunchtime visit and your nightcap, despite you telling him that he shouldn’t be pushing his mobility.

That said, he’s marginally better about following doctor’s orders, drinking the water you leave on his nightstand but neglecting the pills that would stop him from coiling in on himself like a ready spring. And he doesn’t say it but you know it’s because he thinks it’d be a waste.

You trade regular formalities at first, each of you standing behind your respective walls, daring the other to toe a bit closer.

Joel doesn’t ask, but you bring him some short stories to pass the time and he devours them. You didn’t think much of it other than just straying past the point of being nice, but your heart sings a bit at how he leaves his shell at your coaxing.

You learn Bradbury is his favorite, but when he finishes The Most Dangerous Game, it’s the most he’s ever spoken to you in one sitting, astounded at the perfectly tied bow of an ending, asking you questions that only the author could answer. But it’s a marvel to witness, something you think about when you’re cleaning stables or washing dishes.

He’s unraveling for you, a loose thread tugged too hard on your favorite sweater. He talks of the places in the paintings, sometimes abruptly, like he isn’t sure what his cue is or if he has one.

Mentions of pre-Jackson when there was so much uncertainty and isolation, but it was coupled with those types of watercolor skies that you couldn’t paint if you tried.

These little pieces of him that make him whole – it’s like you’re both in on the same secret. And Joel isn’t doing it to lighten the tension, to be nice; that isn’t his brand of politeness. He just revels in the holy act of confession with you as his witness.

You come to learn that his room is modest, different from the rest of his house. Clues of hobbies sprawled on his desk – leatherworking tools and hand drawn blueprints that you can’t get a good look at with just a sidelong glance.

There’s a dusty stereo tucked at the back towards the wall, and you picture a content Joel, sketching new plans for a porch swing or some small addition while old bluesy country croons from the speakers.

You like this daydream, placing him in something lighthearted where his only worry is that he’s losing daylight on yardwork.

The two of you talk about little bits of everything and nothing. Reminiscing about sending snail mail, discussing what you think places like Italy look like now. How close you came to crossing an ocean in another life.

Tonight, you have a night terror that clings to you like wet denim. Stop-motion, nonsensical. Your head ricocheting into concrete, hitting your temple just so. Flashes of the people that used to be your parents, your friends.

And just as the life drains from you, blood seeping onto the floor and into spidering cracks, you wake up a flailing mess.

You practice your routine, twisting on knobs of lamps and plugging in the twinkling lights hanging around the perimeter of the living room. You press your cheek to the floor, checking under your bed for monsters for good measure.

Bleary-eyed, you’re climbing back under the covers, pulling them snug up to your chin.

There’s a neediness crawling its way through your organs with a one-way ticket south. The juxtaposition of fear mingles with an otherness, and it anchors itself to Joel.

You never cared for a protector, still don’t, but the eagerness that sprouts from him to defend your honor — and for nothing in return — magnetizes you on a cellular level.

Your fingers are dipping into the band of your already-damp underwear, taking inventory of what the thought of him does to you. Body on auto-pilot. A pool of dripping neediness, so slick that you’re coating your clit in excess and rubbing in tight circles.

He doesn’t even have to touch you, and it’s pathetic.

Images of Joel’s beard scratching your thighs swirls behind your eyelids, your hand gliding between the glistening of your folds. Fingers crook inside you, dipping into the last knuckle, and you’re choking on a gasp, already on the edge.

You wish they were more calloused, thicker, with length that can hit the spot that’s desperately out of reach.

You wish they were Joel’s.

It takes only a minute, some curling and pumping of your wrist to make it quick in case it’ll only ever be a fantasy. The wet noises of your arousal are nothing short of obscene, and you’re coming loudly, sharply on a string of moans.

In some ways, you think, you have already died.

And fuck. It’s so poetic it makes you sick.

—

On the fourth day, Maria sends you to Joel’s with some stew — two hearty containers that're meant for the both of you.

She’s been taking her shift at his place, carrying over containers of this and that to keep him fed. You wonder how often she takes on that role anyway, sans injury. You don’t peg Joel as the type to eat three square meals a day of his own accord.

Tell Joel I can’t make it tonight. Gotta do inventory.

She makes no room for elaboration, so you don’t ask. But you thank her with a hug, and you could swear that she’s giving you a conspiratorial smirk.

When you knock on Joel’s bedroom, he gives a new, warm invitation, coated in subtle hospitality. It’s a far stretch from the unaffected what? you might’ve received a week ago.

You place the stew down on the bedside table, along with some bowls and spoons you plucked from his kitchen. He just looks up at you from his bed, uncertainty reaching the lines of his forehead.

“It’s all Maria,” you explain and he hums, catching up.

“Explains a lot,” he mutters.

You eat quietly for a little over ten minutes. Joel’s flannel today boasts a rich navy, buttoned up to the top but not far enough to hide the sprinkling of hair that peeks through.

He catches you staring and pins you with a dark glance.

“You afraid of the dark or somethin’?”

Joel’s ask cuts through the air, and your spoon stops mid-route to your open mouth. It’s so out of the blue that it stuns you momentarily.

“Sorry?”

“You turn the lights on at night.”

What you thought to be private moments of fear were actually on display for all to see.

For Joel to see.

And the memory of your thighs trapping your hand as you came over and over again on your fingers… you’re grateful to at least have had some decorum to draw your bedroom curtains.

“Um.” You dig for a way to say nope, I’m actually just a pussy and I see things that aren’t there. Also, I was touching myself thinking about you last night. “No, just nightmares.”

Every inch of your skin feels like it’s searing. A bead of sweat makes a slow descent down your spine to your tailbone. You laugh lightly to deflect.

Joel’s mouth thins into a tight line.

“It’s nothing,” you promise.

“Ain’t nothin’,” he snaps. His brows are knitted in fury, misdirected. But you get it.

Your stomach is rumbling, but you’ve effectively lost whatever appetite you had. The bowl finds a space on the side table, and you’re pulling your knees to your chest protectively, thumbing at the fray on the cuff of your jeans.

You don’t mean to scowl, but you can’t help it. You can’t even meet his eyes.

Joel’s sighing, his own bowl discarded on the nightstand, grazing the lip of yours.

“Look, it’s not my business,” he starts, choosing his words carefully, “but that kinda shit worries me.”

When you do look up, he’s rubbing his beard with rigid fingers. You should feel nice and fuzzy that he cares enough to point it out, but it’s just embarrassment instead.

That, on top of everything else, you can’t even get through the night without waking up in a cold sweat.

“I know how it looks,” you say in surrender, “but I swear I’m fine.”

You can imagine what it would feel like to really mean it; it’s just on the tip of your tongue. There is a defiance there, it’s just struggling to find a way out.

“You sure about that?”

You let your feet touch the floor, straightening out your legs and busying yourself with smoothing the creases in your pants.

“You worry about everyone else like this?” you muse, hoping to redirect.

Joel’s scratching the back of his neck, eyes fixed anywhere else.

“Always worried about you.”

If you were any farther away, you wouldn’t have heard him.

Outside, kids are yelling, playing tag. You watch in jealousy, can almost hear the crunch of their boots and their tiny, inconsequential conversations. It takes you longer than intended to give a response, and he waits, patiently. Just trickles a look from the crown of your head to your hands to your face. Searching for a reaction.

“You’re about ten months late, Miller.” And you’re smiling briefly. You mean it as playful, but it’s colored with sadness.

His eyes glaze, and the wheels are turning, wondering if that also means too late.

“Didn’t want you to think I was takin’ advantage of the situation. And I thought Max —” Joel bites down on the name.

“Fuck Max,” you spit in disgust. “That was never a thing.”

You don’t have to make eye contact to see that he’s pleased by that. He hums in the back of his throat. Resists a shit-eating grin. From the looks of Joel connecting the dots, you don’t need say much else.

“Yeah, well. We all failed you,” he insists. “I failed you.”

It sets an incredulous spark in some hidden part of you. Nails cut into your palm, your fists balling harshly. Everyone else? Sure, you’d give him that. Jackson spit you out, with the exception of a select few.

But Joel?

“You saved me.”

“Not good enough,” he says under his breath.

—

The next day, you let yourself inside, already learning the language of Joel’s house when you press a little extra weight against the door to seal it shut when it sticks.

It’s quiet, on the cusp of 8, and you wouldn’t be surprised if Joel’s on the brink of sleep.

The sun’s long settled over the mountain, so there’s not much in the way of guidance.

It’s dark, but you expected it to be. You draw the curtains one by one, moving blindly from room to room yet knowing exactly where your feet are. It strikes you as odd, a visitor keeping pace with an unfamiliar house.

But if Joel’s anything, it’s predictable. Unfussy in the way he keeps out of the way, even in his own space. Takes pride in it, sure, but lives in a way that demands nothing but cherishes everything, even the absence of something.

Meaning there’s nothing too unexpected, too risky in its placement. He doesn’t take up too much room in the event that it’s gone tomorrow.

When your hands fumble for the switch of the living room lamp, the bulb springs to life and bathes a wary Joel in light. Sitting on the couch, slouched with residual soreness, but waiting.

For you.

“Jesus, fuck — what the fuck, Joel —”

“You’re late.”

“— sitting in the fucking dark like a lunatic —”

He puts a hand up to stop you, as if to press your mute button.

“I didn’t fall down any stairs.”

Your hands have risen to your chest in the shock of him there, and you’re gripping your shirt in the way he had almost a week ago. You don’t miss that little detail, so much so that you struggle to piece together what he’s saying.

It punches you abnormal; you kept so busy with leaving the subject alone that it slipped your mind that he lied.

“Sit down.”

You’re obedient and you don’t know why. You find a seat across from him, pulling up a stool that’s meant for feet, not your ass. Something crackles beside you, and the embers of a dying fire glow and warm to the left of you.

Your leg crosses over your knee, creating a 45-degree angle that you rest your elbows on. “Yeah, I gathered as much, thanks. You’re a terrible liar.”

Joel’s just eyeing you. And it’s not in a way that sizes you up, more of a calculation of what to say next. What to give away. There’s a beat of this, then another, then another.

“I thought ‘bed rest’ was pretty self-explanatory.”

You’re growing impatient, filling the room just to do it. You both know what happened, and maybe that’s what’s needling at you. That you’re the one person who’d understand the most, but the one person he doesn’t want to know.

It feels wretched and seething, knowing something but not enough.

“I’m gonna need you to cut to the part where you tell me what happened, Joel.”

At that, Joel drags in a breath and leans deeper into the couch. His gaze has moved to somewhere far off, burning into the drawn curtains like he can see outside, can see directly into the window of your kitchen. And with sudden clarity, you realize that he could — it’s a clean diagonal stare.

Are you afraid of the dark?

How many times has he sat in this very spot, taking in the show, watching you make tea, watching you read, watching you stutter and shake with sobs? Witnessing the onslaught of a nightmare?

Touching yourself? Watching you undress?

You aren’t the voyeuristic type, just uncaring to the point of defenseless. But Joel keeping an eye on you in this way is the coup de grâce that does you in. There’s no question now of whether he cares.

“I took Mountain View, headed for the outpost. Not much up that way lately, maybe one or two infected every once ‘n a while,” he says, and it’s unsettling that he’s talking in a way that could be to anyone or no one at all. “Thought I’d stop at the pharmacy on the way up, check that off, too. ‘Cept I wasn’t the only one with that idea.”

He pauses only to crack his knuckles for effect. Fingertips splay on his spread knees, and what seemed so fragile earlier, watercolors of bruises stretching from ligament to tendon, seems threatening now.

“One was lootin’ in the back, didn’t hear me come in. I thought he mighta been alone ‘til his friend followed me in,” he pauses, lost in thought. “Got into it with him.”

As if on cue, the gory split-skin of his hands flexes. Offensive wounds.

You were right, but you wish you weren’t.

“His friend came up from the back, ‘n they took turns for a minute. Long enough for me to get a good look. I ended up takin’ out the shorter one, other one was gone before I could get up.”

Joel doesn’t lift his head, just his eyes. The skin around them crinkles in sinister shapes, lids disappeared, lashes nearly touching brow. You know it’s not anger directed at you, but it’s shrinking you back down into an armchair, your fingers digging and clawing at the fabric without recognizing it.

“Know what’s funny about that?”

You don’t think you can answer with the desert that runs through your mouth. And whatever it is, it’s anything but.

“Not a lot of activity along the outposts this way, unless it’s infected. Everyone else comes straight through to Jackson. The logs say we’ve only run into two groups of raiders in the last five years along the patrol route,” another pause for emphasis. “And one of them was ten months ago.”

Something catches in your chest.

And then there’s a dam that breaks, pure relief. Relief that Joel’s seen the thing you’ve been pointing and screaming at while everyone else shrugs their shoulders and squints.

Then — panic.

Ice sneaks into your veins. The tips of your fingers run numb. It strikes you that you’re standing, that the foot stool is tipped on its side.

He doesn’t move, but there’s a contained rage in his eyes and his voice. A temper bubbling now that you’ve confirmed what he suspected.

“He have any tattoos?” Joel asks roughly.

There’s a flash of stars, hand-poked, bordering on downright sloppy.

“Who?” You say dumbly, but it’s obvious what he’s referring to. He’s seen it, too, and he’s seen it this week.

“You know who.”

You do.

You could draw it from memory if he asked.

Your weight becomes too much for your legs, and you collapse back down, this time into a chair that supports your amoeba-like state as everything in you turns to jelly.

“They’re getting closer. We were in Teton, so if they made it this far —” you jumble out, not sure if it’s just meaningless vomit to his ears. By his solemn nod, it isn’t.

He’s up and out of his seat with a wince that’s not as severe as before, his eyes careful on you, on your hands that you’re gripping together tightly to keep them still.

The isolation of his side is evident in the way he closes the space between you, but he masks the grimace as best he can. There’s a reprimand in you somewhere that he should be resting, lying down at least, but you know it’s pointless.

“Hey.”

He’s kneeling as much as his flank will allow, a pain in his eyes that isn’t for himself. Those fingertips scale the cliff of your jaw, ghosting as if he’s afraid to overstep. They’re prodding you to meet his eyes, and when you do, he drops his hand like he’s been burned.

It connects fiercely to a memory that you try to hold in your hands. A snowy, reminiscent one that slips through like a ribbon of smoke.

“Ain’t gotta worry about him. I’ll take care of it.”

You laugh, a real one that’s stained with sarcasm.

“What does that mean?”

Joel softens now, and the shift startles you. He thinks for a beat before answering.

“Whatever you need it to mean.”

It feels incomprehensible that anyone would willingly put themselves in danger for you, even adjacently, but then who noticed you were missing that day? Who led the pack, found you bleeding out?

The weather was violent, incoherent — a lost cause, a needle in the proverbial haystack. He already toed the line of a dangerous, potentially fruitless rescue mission.

And you never even thanked him.

“Why?” You ask it for the second time in as much as a week. It’s disjointed in conversation, but he knows that you need this answer.

“You remember how you were before?”

And for a split-second, you try.

There are glimpses, a rickety reel of kids tugging on your pant leg as they beg you to join them during recess, a glittering spray of laughter with Ellie as empty beer cans and discarded guitars litter her living room floor.

Of your friends’ faces on too many relaxed, sunny patrols, sometimes forcing them into a detour into the abandoned record store through Alpine so you can see what’s left.

Dinner in warm houses like Tommy and Maria’s, so full to the brim of love and potatoes and mead that you stumble on down to your house with cheeks burning and tuck yourself in with all of the lights off.

Visions of Joel that are fleeting, taped in frames on a film strip, but friendly exchanges.

But it’s a faceless narration. The accident wiped clean of any room for interpretation. Any visitation with these memories. You can place yourself in them, but can’t for the life of you feel tethered to her.

Frustrated, eyes watering, you shake your head.

“That’s why.”

Now he’s holding your jaw like he would some fragile thing, slotting his thumb just under the pulse thrumming in your neck, feeling the echo of it in his hand. There’s a silence, as if he’s straining to hear, to know the sound and syllables of your livelihood. You wish he’d press harder, bring you to the precipice of pleasure and death.

If only to know what it feels to be glass in Joel Miller’s hands, to be given the taste of death after he’d given you the gift of life all those months ago.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs. You know he can feel the adrenaline in your pulse point.

“Joel,” it falls out as a whisper, and you hate how good his name feels in your mouth.

He’s looking at you with empathy, thumbing through the pages of every agony you’ve succumbed to. It’s new and buzzing, knowing that there’s nothing you’d ever have to explain to Joel. No reasoning or fine print for how you are, he just knows. And he stays anyway.

A tear tracks a salty line down your face and it meets the pad of his thumb, an easy swipe.

And there’s a surge low in your throat, seesawing with satisfaction and the tell-tale lump of more tears if you lean in hard enough. Joel never shows his hand, the last to fold, but it feels a lot like you’re the prize he was waiting to throw cards down for.

So, you lean. Concave cheek into his calloused hand, tears without sobs leaking between his fingers down into his sleeve. The weight of only the world — your world, plural and shared — pushing you into him. The cataclysmic release that you’ve been aching for.

Your head is against his chest, cheek pressed against flannel because he’s guided you there. And it’s nice, you think, nice that he’s being a gentleman about the whole thing.

A gentleman just finger-combing through your hair, tucking it behind your ear.

It’s serene, and you’d happily make a home there and fall asleep if it wasn’t for the hammering of your heartbeat. You know he can feel it, and your quickened breath is the cherry on top.

Joel levels your faces, and his fingers are deja vu on the braille of each ridged cheekbone. He’s waiting on a cue, a line to be given to him from offstage, but you see flames licking through each darkened iris.

Something keeps holding him back, keeps holding you back. He’s too careful, afraid of cutting his hands on you. And in exploring every facet of that, it’s because he doesn’t want to bleed on you, not because the sharpest parts of you could hurt him.

You keep telling yourself it’s foreign and you’re strangers to one another.

But is it? Are you?

As if he’s reading your mind, Joel closes the distance in one fell swoop, and he kisses you.

It’s clumsy at first, in the way that clumsy is when you’re learning each other’s mouths. You taste the dregs of whiskey, of something wanton, and every unspoken word that’s ever misted between you. Years of forming smile lines and the prickle of his unkempt beard against your chin, taste the stories of every scar.

You’re tangling with him, lips pressing urgently against Joel. His tongue’s expert but gentle when he dips it inside your mouth, and you’re swapping breathless sighs. You can only imagine what he’s tasting of you, what flavor he’s been dreaming of.

His hands are still at either side of your face, thumbs pressing sweetly into the bony part of your jaw. Joel’s stilling the unrest in you that’s put its bags down and refused to leave. It quiets, tips a hat and walks out, leaving a welcome calm in place.

There’s a chasteness, but you know he’s just as desperate and hungry as you are. Wanting to claim, to devour each other entirely. And it’s not lost on you that he’s on his knees, hands clasping your face in prayer like you’re some communion he’s drinking from.

He engulfs you, and you’re moving together, fitting together like you were poured from the same mold. Joel’s fingers have moved to thread through your hair, one of his hands cradling the back of your head and tugging just barely.

Enough that magma pools in between your hips.

But he slows, letting loose a low groan into the heat of your mouth. It’s helpless, like he’s accepted he can’t swim and has submerged his head underwater.

And when you finally break apart, Joel’s pupils are dilated, on the cusp of black. Your collective breaths are uneven. He looks at you in awe.

“Been wantin’ to do that for a long, long time,” he’s saying, but you can barely hear him. Not when your heart is catching up with the rest of you, roaring above everything else. His thumb skates over your bottom lip, and the instinct to unhinge your jaw for him shouldn’t be there, but it is.

Maybe this sort of suffering is worth it, if it’s Joel you’re suffering for.

If you weren’t in trouble before, you sure as fuck are now.

#my writing #ahfe #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us hbo #jackson!joel #joel miller #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #a heart for eating #joel miller x f!reader #the last of us smut #motherofagony

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bardic-inspo · 1 year ago

Text

Blood in the Mortar

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

Rating: Explicit (Smut!!)

Key Tags: Vampire/Blood Bride Lore, Service Dom Astarion, Sexy Use of Telepathic Bond, Evil Power Couple, Torturing a Captive, Choking, Biting/Blood, Masquerade, PIV, Cunnilingus

Summary:

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” Astarion whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.” It started on Naomi’s knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Astarion didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of his ascended blood.

Cross-posting from my AO3 account. This is my first BG3 smut fic. If you like it, I'd love to know! Click here if you'd prefer to read on AO3.

“To whom can a vampire bare its soul and admit its fears? From whom can it receive consolation for the past, comfort for the present, and hope for the future?...The vampire is drawn emotionally to a mortal and decides, because of the strength of this emotion, to make her his bride…The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers.”

-Van Richten’s Monster Hunter’s Compendium, Vol 1

Astarion twists the stem of his wine glass, idly tilting the contents within. His assorted guests warp in the bulb of it, swaying between rosy red and clear crystal.

A gravelly voice interrupts his game. “Quite the menagerie you’ve gathered here, Lord Ancunín.”

Astarion doesn’t bother to stifle his sigh. There’s no mistaking him as the lord of the house, even masked as he is. Astarion’s ensemble this evening is pitch dark velvet swirled in crimson thread and snaking silver. His mask glimmers in the same shade of scaled metal, set to complement the curve of his cheekbones, with only miniscule, twinkling rubies encrusting the edges. Nothing meant to outshine the searing color of his eyes. The mask might be silver, but it’s a red dragon Astarion embodies for this particular masquerade.

This party’s for more monstrous company, after all.

No expense was spared for the ‘menagerie’. A grand piano, polished to an opalescent white, plays under spectral hands at the heart of the ballroom alongside a string quartet. A starlit Baldur’s Gate glistens outside the windowed east wall, framed in gold drapery to match the shimmering flecks in the white marble floor. Lavish wine and better blood pour freely; his guests have only to lift their empty glasses to have them brimming again.

Even with all the ornate masks, in the shapes of creatures exotic or fierce, none of the fangs in the room are fake. All the titles are, save for his and his consort’s. Astarion’s lip curls with distaste.

This masquerade was meant for nobility of a supernatural stature. Vampires, warlocks, lycanthropes. Those who lead them. But what his doors received were lowly spawn. Servants sent in their masters’ stead to get just a glimpse of the one and only vampire ascendant, and then to scurry back and tell tale of him. Cowards.

There’s only one human here who’s just human.

Astarion offers him a well-practiced shrug of a laugh. “I do hope you don’t feel out of place among us more…colorful sorts. Lord…? Forgive me, what was it again?”

“Isn’t the point of a masquerade not to bother with such trivialities?” The stranger chuckles hastily. “In any case, I am not lord. Only a humble apprentice to the most renowned wizard Waterdeep has to offer.”

Ah, yes. The invitation was sent for the newly named archmage, filling the god-shaped hole Gale left behind in the wake of his own ascension. Astarion’s eyes flit over the lanky, unkempt apprentice who addresses him instead.

His hair hangs in honey blonde waves past his shoulders, like the mane of the beast he seeks to imitate. It’s a lion’s mask the apprentice wears. Perhaps a poor attempt at humor. The effort would’ve been better paid towards penance, and a sheep’s head would’ve suited him far better than the guise of a predator. Anything would’ve been more fitting than the baggy business he calls a shirt.

Astarion clicks his tongue. “That still doesn’t give me a thing to call you.”

“I am Enrik, if it pleases you.”

“No surname?” Astarion asks with an arched brow.

“None of consequence, my lord,” he replies with the uneasy edge Astarion’s entitled to.

“Well, Enrik, I hope you find our masquerade pleasing.”

“It has certainly been enlightening thus far.”

“And how’s that?” Astarion asks brusquely. He never did like wizards.

He doesn’t like the look on this one’s face, either. The lion that should be a sheep surveys the room with a pitying expression, like he’s watching some petty amusement. A zoo. Gods, or a circus. And what would that make him, Astarion the Ascended, if not a clown? Astarion’s fingers tighten on the stem of his glass, an imperceptible change to any eyes not keen enough to catch it.

“Why, it’s been only a year since your ascension,” Enrik says. “You’ve accomplished much in short order. It’s quite remarkable.”

Astarion’s nose twitches. Praise. From cattle. How quaint, and ill-fitting.

His expression abruptly eases. A refined, familiar scent carries to him from across the crowd. A note of lavender, twined with his favored bergamot.

“And you’ve already enthralled some truly magnificent specimens,” Enrik carries on, oblivious. “Take this fine creature, for example. What a pretty thing to have strung along on your leash.”

Astarion feels her before he sees her. She wipes a palm down the sheath of her skirt, smoothing out some infinitesimal wrinkle. The music smooths, too. With that one simple motion, it bends and blends into something deeper, fuller. All of the lesser spawn of Astarion’s making straighten their slouched shoulders.

He feels the tug of her in his head, and then the cool stroke of her hand to his back, the soothing feel of her fingers combing through his hair, and the gentle scrape of her nails against his scalp. It takes a concerted effort to suppress the pleased groan that bubbles in the back of his throat. All this from across the room, without so much as a glance, let alone a touch.

Hello, darling, he thinks, and she hears it just as if he’d spoken aloud. Aren’t you ravishing?

Her skirt is snow-white crepe that clings taut to her shapely hips before fanning out at her feet. It’s the same lovely shade of ivory as her hair, twisted in a braid like a crown around her head, with the rest falling sleek down her back. A black lace bodice sets just off her lilac shoulders, with gloves to match. Floral stitching vees down from her waistline. The same embellishments decorate the skirt’s edges.

His dark consort, his Naomi once-Tavriel-now-Ancunín, weaves leisurely through the partygoers. The thorny prickle of Astarion’s irritation inspires a little lift at the corner of her mouth.

I’ve been called so much worse, she thinks. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. I think you called me ‘creature’ just yesterday. Should I not have taken it as a compliment?

Astarion’s scowls. He should be grateful to have your name in his mouth. To even set foot in our home. Let alone speak to me like that. Or at all.

But think of how much fun he’s started, she answers, chipper. You were so bored before.

She’s not wrong.

If they’re not the guests you wanted, Naomi continues, cool and calm, then they’re intruders, aren’t they? Whatever should we do with them?

A slow smile steals its way onto his lips. Just when I thought I couldn’t love you more. Miracles never cease.

“Do you know what they call her?” Astarion says aloud, to worse company. “Other than mine, of course.”

“She was the hero of Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion waves a manicured hand irritably, as if swatting away a stray fly. “One of them, true, but isn’t there another name that comes to mind?”

The man swallows thickly. “The Siren of the Sword Coast.”

"And yet here you are," Astarion sneers, "ready to dash yourself upon the rocks like a little ship blown astray. I can hardly blame you."

His eyes soften, just past the shoulder of Enrik’s gaudy doublet. In the low flutter of candlelight, he spies the sheen of amethysts set among delicate feathers wrought from silver. He'd had the mask made for Naomi with the likeness of a swan in mind.

Still, as pretty as it is, his favorite gleam is those eyes. She still kept the kiss of violet in them, even in death. It mingles with the red in her irises, like a rich, dark wine.

"She is captivating, isn’t she?" Astarion sighs, a faint smile grazing his lips. "My beautiful bride."

“Forgive me my lord, I meant no offense,” Enrik says, eyes down with deference. “I’m merely an admirer of fine things. And a messenger for my fine master.”

“Do your duty, then,” Astarion says tersely, his smile evaporating.

“My master understands that power is the only currency that holds any weight for men of your making. He has much of it to share, if you're likewise inclined.”

Astarion laughs coldly. “And what does your master wish for me to share with him, exactly? I don’t bite just anyone, after all.”

A swallow bobs in Enrik’s throat. “He only means to make mutual use of your shared arsenal. Like you mean to make of his, my lord. He could work wonders with even just one scream. He could bottle it--”

Astarion clenches the wine glass in a chokehold. He could kill this wretched cretin here, now, bare-handed. Or have him drawn and quartered. Or--

No one knows their manners these days, Naomi sighs inside his head. But if you want to play along and see what this archmage would pay, I’ll--

Astarion’s jaw clenches. You won’t be screaming for him, little love.

It earns him an eyeroll. It wouldn’t be like that--

It won’t be at all. Astarions sends his answer with the weight of a stone.

He sips his wine, boring into Enrik with a hard stare. “Don’t you know swans make the most achingly beautiful music?”

Enrik’s eyes dart anxiously over Astarion’s burning ones. “Only just before they die, so the stories go.”

“Before someone does,” Astarion drawls, as the vintage seeps sweetly down his throat. “You see, my beloved, oh, she’s a monster, too. She so does love the taste of blood in her mouth, now that she’s supped of mine.”

Enrik edges back, shoulders hunched small like the prey he is. “I-I’m just a messenger my lord. Killing me after you’ve so graciously offered your hospitality would be the same as breaking a mirror. It would only cast ill luck on you and your house.”

A gloved hand wraps Enrik’s shoulder. He shirks from that delicate grip like it's scalding. At long last, he finds the decency to shut up.

Naomi’s fangs gleam like the bottle in her hand. “More wine?”

The white marble of the ballroom shimmers like freshly fallen snow. All the curtains are drawn back, cinched aside for good measure. Shadow and sunlight slice the floor in slanted strips. Gritty ash piles where the light lies, coils of rope strewn among the gray dust of guests gone for good.

Only one remains.

Sprawled motionless across the floor, Enrik lies nose-to-nose with the knife edge of day and darkness. It’s only a silhouette that keeps him from being swallowed by the glow. Only Astarion’s grace shades him.

The vampire ascendant cuts a sharp shadow before the arched windowpane. Brightness clings, soft as clouds, to his curls, his lean edges, and his jaw. His velvet coat crumples at his heels as if it were nothing more precious than the ash heaped around him. He’s blessedly bare from the waist-up, resplendent in the sunlight while he surveys his domain awash with it.

It calls to mind the man who took Naomi out into the woods all those months and nights ago. What he looked like when she woke and found his back arched, chin tilted skyward. What she’d do, and what little she wouldn’t, to see Astarion slip into bliss every day as easily as slipping out of a coat.

It’s Naomi’s grace that finally rouses their disheveled company. A rolling melody, played on piano, pours from her fingertips and crests with the morning birdsong drifting in. Enrik groans against the grain of it.

At once, the music cuts to quiet. Naomi’s hands hover over the keys, knuckles twitching in faint longing. Then, she turns on the bench and turns her attention towards her restless audience.

“Good morning,” she says brightly.

Enrik squints up at her. His brown eyes leak with the light, even though he’s sheltered from it. They dart across the room, skimming like stones over water, before they sear into Naomi.

“You.”

“Who else were you expecting? You’re in my home.”

Rope binds Enrik’s hands and heels. He tugs at the ties, or tries to. He hasn’t yet figured out it’s all for not.

Naomi stands, her heels clicking staccato to the tile. As she goes, she paints a palm over the piano keys, stroking each octave from root to rise. Music flows freely again all on its own, even when her hand falls away.

She comes to loom over her captive, lips pursed. “I hear you said some very rude things to my husband.”

Enrik folds against the floor, panting for breath.

“You should be so grateful for our hospitality,” she says. “Should have been. That’s all behind us now, isn’t it?”

Feral noise rips from his throat. Like a dog, he lunges, snapping for her ankles. She side-steps into the light, not bothering to flee any farther than an inch. He freezes, ogling the shiny toe of her shoe now parallel to his nose.

“You don’t fear the sun?” he gasps, quivering.

“I need not fear anything.”

Naomi lifts her head, meeting a scarlet stare brimming in equal measures affection and amusement. Sunlights melts over the bare of Astarion’s chest, spurring her tongue to wet her lips. He leans against the glass, head angled back, eyes slitted in satisfaction. A slow smile unfurls on his face.

“You should be grateful, too,” Naomi says with a sneer, “to lay here and not just a little to the left.”

“W-What do you mean? What did you do to me?!” Enrik’s eyes bulge. He squirms in a sudden panic, to no avail.

Naomi tilts her neck to the side and taps at the scar Astarion’s teeth marked her with. Her fingers fan down on her own throat, savoring the shape of that succulent memory. Of the last bite he gave her in life. Of his lips swirling comfort into her skin before sucking her down to the last drop. Of the look on his face, the awe he had, when she next woke.

The faintest leak of breath, soft as down, passes from Astarion’s mouth.

“You--you--! You turned me!” Her hostage sputters. Naomi frowns darkly.

“Oh not me,” Naomi snaps, incredulous. “I’m only a weak little spawn puppet, according to you. According to you, the only good thing I can do is scream. How could I manage to turn you without choking on my own leash?”

She gags for good measure. He doesn’t get the joke. He hasn’t caught on to the other joke yet. Which means she’s safe as can be, even this close. So long as she stands on the other edge of Astarion’s shadow.

Astarion turns. His silhouette twists with his movement. Enrik shrieks like a swine.

“Oh, that wasn’t good at all. You can do better.” Naomi presses out a strained sigh, crouching down to fist a hand in his hair and yank his head upright.

Enrik bares his teeth as if they aren’t dull and flat. “Filthy bitch!”

The insult doesn’t so much as chip Naomi’s serene composure, but it puts a twang in her head, along the invisible string that links her and Astarion. His anger lashes in her mind like a restless tail.

“What a vile little ingrate,” Astarion snarls.

She lets her hostage’s head roll from her palm, cheek smacking the tile. Enrik writhes against his restraints. Naomi clicks her tongue in reproach. I’ve barely even touched you yet.

Green magic threads between her gloved fingers, glittering. She snaps them and says, “Scream.”

And he does. Loud enough to drown out the crescendo coursing from the grand piano. Inside of Enrik’s skull, the song isn’t nearly so sweet. His back jerks up and away from the floor, head bent back, eyes torn wide in terror.

His cries pitch with the slink of Astarion’s shadow stretching nearer. Sunlight clings close behind his heels. Naomi’s fingers flex and the spell recedes.

Her magic leaves Enrik sniveling, inching like a worm away from the slice of light between Astarion’s legs. Astarion huffs softly. With a wave of his hand, a ghostly one apparates behind him and snags the curtains closed.

Astarion’s scent sweeps with his sleeve -- the sweetness of brandy, mingled with the woodsy smell of rosemary. His knuckles gently brush the side of Naomi’s cheek. Instinctively, she leans towards the touch.

“Precious thing,” Astarion chides with a pout. “You’re being far too sweet to him. Here I thought you only had room in your heart for me.”

Naomi inclines her head, eyes narrowing by a hair. “My sire would see me be crueler?”

Astarion’s thumb grazes her lips. At once, she parts for him, teasing the pad of it with her tongue while he toys with the tip of a fang. He presses in, watching his skin bend to near-breaking, as if to test her sharpness. Before any blood’s drawn, he draws his hand down to cradle her chin. His voice is smooth as satin, though his stare is a hardened one.

“Your sire would see you spoken to with the respect you’re owed. And he needs you to kneel, dear one.”

The words are a weight to her shoulder, easing her down. But the heft is a comfort, not a compulsion. He could compel her, if he wanted to.

He hasn’t yet.

One day, she thinks, he will. And he’ll feel the weight of whatever chains he’d wrap her in through the bond that binds them tighter than the tadpole did. He won’t do it without good reason. Naomi doesn’t need a reason to kneel for her lover. That he wishes it is enough.

When her knees meet the ground, she feels the shape of Astarion’s smile pressed against their bond like it’s pressed, wet and wanting, against her mouth. She feels the dainty tug of his teeth coax her lips apart. Tastes the coppery tang of her own blood and the velvet undercurrent of his within her veins. The heat of him, still such a novel thing in his ascended body, bleeds from his skin to hers, fanning the newfound ache between her thighs.

In her mind, and his, his lips pour down her bare shoulders. His fingers fist in the fine fabric of her dress, ripping it to ruin. He leaves none of her untouched. To anyone else’s eye, they’re not even touching.

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. She downs a hard swallow. Good girl, he says, just for her.

To their captive audience, he spares no such kindness. Astarion raises his foot above Enrik’s ankles, letting it dangle for a moment. It drops like a hammer to an anvil. Enrik bucks with a fresh scream and a sickening crack.

“I’d never give a miserable little wretch like you the gift of immortality,” Astarion spits. “You wouldn’t know how to appreciate it.”

Confusion flits between the pain and panic in Enrik’s eyes.

“That’s right,” Astarion seethes. “You’re not a vampire. You aren’t worth my consort’s teeth. Or mine.”

Crunch. Another ankle shatters. Another shriek claws the air. Astarion strolls, leisurely, to Enrik's hands next. He grounds his heel into the pop of fingers breaking beneath his boots. Their hostage heaves a broken sob.

“Sh, sh, sh, oh, it’s all right,” Astarion croons. “I happen to have just the knife for you.”

Astarion crosses back to his coat piled near the window and draws a dagger from its folds. Rhapsody. Cazador’s blade. Naomi hasn’t seen it since they claimed the Crimson Palace for themselves.

Brightness glints off the twined edge, a match for the harsh and singular focus gleaming in Astarion’s gaze.

So that’s what Astarion was smiling about, as he basked by the window. What had him so peacefully quiet and content. Murder was on his mind, even then.

Not the only thing on my mind, little love. She feels the slant of his smirk in her head, as if it ghosted past the hinge of her jaw. There’s no trace of it on Astarion’s stony exterior.

He plucks the crystal wine glass from the sill while he’s there, rotating the stem as he saunters back over. Blood flecks the fine leather of Astarion’s shoes. He plants them on either side of Enrik’s torso. He seizes Enrik’s collar, yanking harshly until he’s kneeling, too.

“Fuck you,” Enrik spits. “Fuck you both! My master will--”

“Darling,” Astarion trills, grip unwavering, “Would you..?”

Magic swirls sticky across Naomi’s tongue. “Ad Lapidē.”

Violet runes blaze to life beneath their captive’s knees, capturing him in perfect stillness. His mouth hangs agape with unspent vitriol. Astarion’s hands recoil, twisting the dagger in one, and the glass in the other.

“Your master,” Astarion sneers with a dark laugh. “Too much of a coward to show his face, so he sends you. His sacrificial lamb, sent to speak to me about sharing my dearest treasure, like he isn’t the scum beneath her shoes. He had to know I wouldn’t hear of it. But he didn’t care enough about you to even taint your blood. That’s right. My lesser spawn sampled you just like they would any cattle. But my beautiful bride hasn’t had one bite, not yet. Not until I was sure you were sweet enough for her palate.”

Astarion strokes Rhapsody down the man’s outstretched neck. The barest streak of blood leaks from the scrape. Astarion’s eyes skate over the ash piles around the room, wistful.

“All it took was a sleeping potion,” he muses. “Just a few drops. Now all of the spawnlings sent by all of my lessers are dust. You’ll wish to join them, before this is done. And you will. When I decide we’re done.”

Naomi’s eyes fasten to the blood beading down Enrik’s pallid throat. Astarion digs in ever-so-gently with Rhapsody’s tip, just enough to start a stream running. He presses the cup beneath it. Slowly, the crystal fills red to the brim. Her mouth waters.

Astarion looks up abruptly, eyes wide and soft as his malice dissolves to fondness. “Darling, you do look famished. Open up for me, dear.”

Naomi’s chin lifts, lips parted. Astarion tilts the glass to meet her with the utmost care.

“I won’t have your grime and sweat on her lips,” Astarion hisses in Enrik’s ear. “Only your blood. You don’t deserve that…” He sucks a sharp breath in. Naomi watches with rapt attention as it stutters through his chest. “...pretty little mouth.”

Blood, rich and smooth as cream, slips across her tongue. Her eyes slip shut with it. With each swallow, syrupy warmth spreads slowly through her chest, down her legs, through arms, to her every inch. Too soon, it’s taken from her. Naomi’s eyes flutter open. She’s taken all of it, already.

“More, my love?” Astarion hums happily. “You only have to ask.”

“More,” she says at once, lips still wet.

Astarion carves. The insolent apprentice bleeds without a sound. Again and again, the cup fills. He tips it to her lips, and Naomi drinks until her eyelids grow heavy.

Her body thrums like it remembers the pulse that used to play through her veins. She’s warmer than a dead woman should be. Even the air itself feels like the kiss of steam tingling against her skin.

It’s then that Naomi feels Astarion’s lips in her head again, sucking little marks down her throat that match the rosy flush heating her cheeks. She pants out of habit, out of instinct, and not of need. Out of want for him to watch what he does to her. As if he doesn’t already know.

One twist of Astarion’s wrist turns the little leak of blood from Enrik’s throat into a fountain. Naomi’s spell dissipates in violet sparks. His body slumps over, lifeless. Blood runs from him in little rivers, rushing to fill the grout lines between the tiles.

Astarion cradles one last glassful in a delicate grip. His face clears of any clouded rage as he gives the glass an experimental swirl. Wordlessly, he tilts the cup to her mouth once more.

Naomi gasps. Wetness paints her chin. It streams down her neck, drips down her sternum and between her breasts, still bound in lace. Astarion drips with it, down to his knees in fluid motion. Somewhere behind him, the wine glass shatters. In her periphery, she sees the shards glitter like frost.

“Oops,” he says, low and shameless.

Barely any blood made it to Naomi’s mouth this time, but she doesn’t mind one bit. Astarion crawls to her, catlike. She’s only spared a moment to admire the lithe muscle flexing through his naked chest before he leans into the hollow of her throat. Silver curls brush soft beneath her chin. And then, she feels the tip of that devilish tongue take a tentative lick of the mess he’s made.

And gods, what a mess she must be. Blood smears from her neck to her navel, near-black on her blue-gray skin. Dark like Astarion’s eyes, with pupils blown wide and hungry. A flare of heat twists low in Naomi’s stomach. Her thighs shift, wet with it.

Thread rips in her ears. Rhapsody drags delicately down her side, scratching faint like a quill. The lace of her gown splits without resistance. There's none to be had against that mouth of his, just as busy as his nimble hands.

Astarion laps, dainty, down the path of her swallow. His coy smile curves with a petal-soft laugh against her collar bone. Naomi laughs, too, breathless as his tongue chases lazily after the spill. Breathless as the day he took the last breath she needed.

Ever since, Astarion’s given her everything she could want, without leaving her wanting for more than a moment. Now, her knees will never grow numb, no matter how long they bend against the marble. The chill of it can’t phase her, either. Even if it could, Astarion’s drawn the curtains wide. When she kneels for him, it’s only ever on sun-soaked stone.

Astarion treasures her. Cherishes her. Lavishes her with love and pleasure and wealth and power. Preserves her like prized silver, polished with such devotion so she’ll never know the tarnish of time. She’s his spawn. His wife.

But above all else, she’s his pride. The very thing that rules him. The only thing that still does.

Naomi wants to be in ruins with him. To be the last pillars of a broken world already so far beyond repair before they were dragged through it. Aeterna amantes. Until the fall of everything.

Until then, this, the low groan he gives her while her fingers stroke red through the plush white of his hair, the heady hum in her blood, the bloom of someone else’s waking color in her cheeks, the way Astarion looks at her like there’s nothing else at all, the way he tears into a dress he paid a fortune for, the hand he knots through her braids to wreck them -- this is everything.

Astarion tosses Rhapsody over his shoulder to join the broken wine glass, just like any other worthless trinket. His deft hands curl into the tears in her bodice and tug. At once, it gives way to his grip. She would, too, were it not so binding. Naomi grounds out a gasp. Her skirt pools at her knees, leaving her bare but for the warmth of Astarion’s roaming hands and the daylight pouring over them both.

“Do you know why I wanted you down here, pet?” He asks softly.

Astarion’s eyes latch to hers while his teeth toy at the curve of her breast. His tongue slicks over to soothe where his fangs grazed her, and then it melts against a pert nipple, taking it in with a lewd suck.

Naomi paws for a coherent thought, but all she finds is a pleading hum. He nips her again, just enough to see her tit tremble from the pull when he draws away. He leaves her nipple glistening and the underside of her breast peppered in pink before moving on to the other.

“To torture me, clearly,” Naomi pants. Her hands still tangle in his hair. Amusement glimmers in his gaze as he plants a chaste kiss to the inside of one of her wrists and sets them both back at her sides.

“Oh no, my sweet. I would never,” he says, chin resting flat against her navel. He looks up at her with wide, doey eyes, full of faux innocence.

He slinks lower, laying a line with his tongue that ends in a kiss just above where her skirts still shield her. He shifts them aside, ripping where he needs, until it’s only one little piece of black lace covering her cunt. Astarion growls against it, nosing at its edges, his back bowed, stomach brushing the floor. His teeth find the waistband and tear that, too.

Hot breath fans across the other mess he made. Naomi wavers on her knees. From that minute motion alone, she can hear how he’s soaked her.

But Astarion doesn’t disprove her theory; he leans back abruptly, straightening up to his knees again. An arm loops slack around her waist as he circles around to her bare back. Naomi’s lips twitch. If this is the game he wants, it’s too soon to beg. The thought inspires another needy flex through her cunt. His other hand slides to cup the heat of it, and Naomi whines. Reflexively, her back arches. Astarion pulls her still.

He catches the side of her jaw, angling her back into a biting kiss. It’s over before she wants it to be, his lips red and glistening with what he stole from her. Without him, her mouth burns from the cut.

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” he whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.”

For a brief moment, he draws away entirely, leaving her with nothing but a lonely chill. And then, his back comes flush to the floor beneath her. His body splays behind her. The heat of his mouth crests against the heat of her cunt, his face fitted between her thighs, his lips hovering so close, but not close enough. His breath alone snags the one halfway through her throat.

“Oh,” her realization comes out quivering.

The tip of his nose nudges, just barely, against her clit, spurring her hips to roll. But all she gets from that mouth is mischief and a quiet snicker. He shifts his cheek, laving a long stroke of his tongue to the tender crux of her inner thigh before sealing it over with a tight suck. When he bites down, he draws out her blood with a rough moan.

Astarion pulls back, his smirk glazed in her, his eyes aflame. “Oh, darling, I’ve barely even touched you yet. And you’re so very wet for me.”

“Touch me, then,” she hisses between her teeth, raking her hands through his perfect curls and fisting them there.

His eyes spear into hers, hard like the way he clenches her ass and pulls her hips down. Even as it sets her on fire, his mouth gives her mercy. Astarion’s tongue melts hot across her cunt, swiping slow and dexterous. Not for the first time, Naomi thinks she might like to die like this.

It’s not so different from how she died. It started on her knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Even then, Astarion already knew the shape of her body like he knew his own hands. Every curve, every intimate bend, how to make her speak in noise instead of words. The hidden language behind every whimper she makes, every shiver.

So he knows exactly what he’s doing while his tongue teases gentle circles around her clit. He knows, by the time his timid little laps blend into a needy suck, that she’s so, so sensitive. Astarion’s hungry groan seeps into her slickness. She feels him like a current and clenches again, just as hungry.

Every feeling he gives her gives him an echo back just as strong. Every thought in her head is in his head, too. He eats her cunt and feels fed by her pleasure curling in the tips of his toes. He didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of blood back.

But Astarion knew her body before she was his bride. Now, he knows her mind. A part of him lives there, as she does in his. As he drags his pale, elegant fingers between her folds, he drags her head through a dozen depravities. Filling her with nothing but thoughts of how he’ll fill her properly.

He could have her against the arched windows lining the east wall, body pressed so pretty to the glass so he can see the imprint of it even after she peels away. She could feel the heat brimming off the sun outside, washing over their empire. He could taste her sunbathed shoulder while he fucks her senseless. His little love, dipped in honey. So what if someone else sees. Later, he’ll see to them not seeing anything ever again.

He could take her here, on the ballroom floor. Pull her down just as she surfaces from the pleasure he’s paid her, and roll her beneath him to bury her in it all over again. Make love on the marble streaked with the blood of their enemies, where hundreds of dignitaries have danced and dined on countless evenings before. But none of them were ever blessed with such a fine feast as he. The stone would be hard and unyielding against her back, and he would be just the same, driving into her, relentless. At least it’s far prettier than the dirt they used to fuck in.

Or--

A new picture snaps from Naomi’s mind to his, with the dip of his tongue to her entrance, a staggering spike of pleasure, and an unbidden whimper.

The piano. Pearly white with jet black keys, so pristine, so gorgeous with blood spilt red down the sides. Naomi poured over the side, ivory hair tinged with crimson, cascading over her bare, bent back. Astarion’s fingers buried in her hips, planting the promise of bruises, his body bucking wildly into her as he finally--

Naomi’s moan hits the high pitch of the ceiling. She grinds, needy, against the pair of fingers he crooks inside of her. His thumb spreads her slickness back and presses to the pucker of her ass.

So eager for me to fill you up. His voice in her head is a caress. Her hips roll with the sound. His thumb dips inside her ass with the motion, and Naomi gasps as she eases into that delicious stretch.

But darling, I haven’t fed all night, Astarion pouts, mouth moving with agonizing slowness as his eyes flutter shut beneath long black lashes. Naomi’s eyelids grow heavy, too, as she’s lost to that lovely, slick click of his lips. A meal like you is meant to be savored.

He fucks her holes leisurely, with the air of someone who knows he’ll be back for more before long. It brings to mind those long, lithe fingers, folded between the pages of a book to mark his place. All it takes is an effortless flex of them to keep her coaxed open like this. Her body draws taut as he leans her over the precipice of her own pleasure.

If you need more, my dear, by all means. Take it.

He growls into their bond like he’s the one devoured. Like he can plead ignorance to how he’s taking her apart with his hands, his mouth. Naomi catches a whine between her teeth. Astarion’s free hand cups her ass, urging her into the thrust her body bends towards. She parts a hand from his hair to brace flat to the floor beside his face, the other knotting anew in his silver curls.

Desperately, she rides against the flat of his tongue, against that long, refined nose, fucking herself back into the curve of his fingers. Every pull of them pulls her under, deeper into her own ecstasy. Her body grips him back like she means to drown him, too. The tip of his tongue flicks her clit in relentless rhythm, starting off a shudder she can’t stop.

“Don’t stop,” she begs within and without, the jerk of her hips growing frantic.

His mouth is mercy. When she comes for him, she’s wreathed in heat, slick with sweat, every nerve in her body alight with the most blissful burn. A strangled cry breaks in her chest. It buries the song now trembling from the piano. Naomi shivers out a sigh, and the keys shiver with her.

Astarion wraps his arms tight to her thighs, anchoring her through the aftershocks. When she stills again, her body throbs with a heady rush of blood, pleasure, want. Every part of her is limp with it, save the pulsing, rigid press in her mind and in his trousers. She’s putty in his hands even as his fingers leave her. Naomi twitches back towards the touch he takes away, body aching with his absence.

Naomi’s knuckles unfurl, stroking soft through the tangles she wrought. What a sight he is, his hair in utter disarray, his mouth a mess of blood and lust and her. An ease settles into his graceful features, not so different from that quiet contentment he wore while leaning into the light by the window. His eyes simmer with it, lips drawn in a soft smile.

Without warning, his grip tightens. Naomi stifles a huff of surprise as she’s taken down, marble kissing smooth to her spine. A pale hand cradles her head, cushioning her fall. In a blink, he’s hovering over her bare body and dipping down to catch her in a fever of a kiss. It’s a needy, sweltering latch of lips, tangy with her own sweetness as much as his.

“Here?” She purrs to the seal of his mouth.

She lets him feel the way the word alone makes her body tense. Waiting. Wanting. Their bond curls with it, crooked and beckoning in his head. The way his fingers bent a few moments before, buried in the heat of her.

A long breath passes out through his nose, his eyes sliding half shut. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. But his cheek turns by just the barest hair, and Naomi’s attention follows after his.

Music flutters, breathy, off the black and white keys. The piano stays a pretty picture of perfection, among the deaths little and large they’ve littered throughout the ballroom.

His teeth trace the angled edge of her ear. Naomi keens with the sting of it as she’s swept from the floor.

“There.”

She’s caught in his kiss again as he carries her. One swipe of his tongue to where he bit her lip before has her quivering. Has her a world away from the one still around them. Vaguely, she’s aware he’s somehow rid her of her gloves and shoes. She hears a dull, wooden clatter, and then a resounding thud. The piano plays on, but it's muted.

Astarion doesn’t bend her over the way she mused. Instead, he seats her on the polished wood of the piano’s closed lid. His hands leave her back to push her knees apart, scoop beneath them, and pull her spread legs to the strain trapped in his trousers.

Naomi grins, her fangs snagging his lower lip as he tries to part from her. Astarion’s answering groan is rough like a scrape of sandpaper. It leaves her mouth raw, tingling, alive with a pulse that plays to the tune of his pleasure. She wants more of that noise. More of the happy purr it pours into her head from his. One drink of that sloppy, slap happy look on his face sates her more than blood ever could.

You’ve given me everything, he told her, once. But now, all she can think is more. Take more. Take everything.

Astarion grinds his hard length against her in answer. The sweet friction makes sweeter music in their mouths as Naomi moans with the motion, too. Still, there’s far too much fabric for her liking.

Astarion’s fingers make fast work of it. He unlaces his pants only enough to free his cock, parts from her only enough to push her back and clamber up after her. Then, he’s on her again like a second skin. Her cunt throbs with the press of his cock, the tip of it wet and seeping against her thigh. She tries to fit a hand between them, to wrap her palm around his girth and feel with her hands, not just her head, how badly he has to have her. Astarion doesn’t leave her space for it.

It’s not his hands that put her flat on her back, against the body of the piano. It’s the sudden swell of his adoration ballooning from his brain to hers. The weight of his affection pins her there beneath him, utterly paralyzed, as the music flows on under both of them. He’s brimming with it, and it washes over her in a wave, a cup overflowing.

His curls hang down in his eyes, wild with the look of a man starved. “You’re going to scream for me, little love,” he says with the slightest slur. The thought smears from him to her, burning in the back of her mind like a pull of liquor. He brushes her snarled hair back until it tumbles over the piano’s edge, white over white. “I’m going to make you. And I want to see that beautiful face when I do.”

“Please,” she starts to say.

But barely any of it makes it past her lips. Astarion never leaves her wanting for more than a moment.

“O-Oh,” she stammers instead, as her soaked cunt splays to his cock sliding home. Astarion pushes out a moan as he pushes into her. He hooks her legs with his arms, folding them up and back.

“That’s my girl,” he pants, forehead heavy against her own. His thumb circles her cheek, a feather-light counterweight to the thickness he seats inside her. He watches her intently, fixated. Hypnotized. “My good, good girl.”

Kisses and praise tumble from between his teeth, down her cheek, to her throat. Naomi’s head rolls back while she relishes the wet, smacking mantra that’s the mess of them. He’s not tender with his tempo. He doesn’t have to be. You could ruin me. I’d let you ruin me, she thinks again.

And how beautiful he is, in ruins with her. No more composure. No more restraint. Sweat streaks his brow as it bends beneath his focus. All there is is the blend of them, the slow rock of the piano underneath them, and the scattered, stranded pieces of a melody left in their wake.

It could break. The thought cracks through her, through them, with the wooden whine of the piano legs taking the shift of their weight. Astarion crushes her worry beneath the thrust of his hips, any notion of it lost to the head of his cock pressing just where it needs to make her see stars.

Naomi bites down on her own lip, grounding herself in fleeting pain and the tang of blood. He’s not even touching her clit; he doesn’t have to. He floods her with how it felt when he did, when his tongue rolled against the swell of it, just the tip of it teasing that sensitive little bud. How she felt to him, so silky and slick in his mouth. How amazing it feels to finally fuck her, to take what’s his and have her take him so, so tightly.

He could ruin her. Snap her like the creaking legs of this instrument, not long for this world. It would be almost as effortless as the way she spreads for him. But instead, Astarion fills her. Every shift prods the crown of his cock against the sweetest spot inside her cunt.

Naomi’s fingers claw into Astarion’s back as he bucks wildly. Tears sear in her eyes. The tell-tale pressure in her pelvis builds near-blinding.

“Scream for me, darling,” he growls against her neck, out loud this time.

Her cunt throbs with his command. But she doesn’t heed it. Astarion lets out a low, steaming hiss.

“I said scream, dear,” Astarion says, his velvet voice edged in warning. The sparks of his indignation spit flinty in her head alongside a flicker of excitement at her defiance.

He wants to feel the rush of her own power with the spasm of her cunt as she comes undone. He wants her magic to spill into him as he spills his seed inside of her. Wants to taste it with the rest of her. If Naomi was nothing to him, she’d still be the siren; it’s not a power Astarion gifted to her. It was hers without him. It is her. And she’s his.

“I might break the glass,” she whispers, wary of anything louder.

“Oh, my love,” Astarion says tenderly, a husk in his throat as his hand wraps loose around her neck. “You can break everything.”

Astarion kills her hesitation. She’s never felt more whole. She feels holy, feeling her own perfect squeeze around his cock, feeling herself fucked in his body and her own. Feeling what she does to the man who already has everything, but will never have enough of her.

When Naomi screams Astarion's name, it’s everything else in the room that shatters.

Glass crashes from the windows. They burst one after another in quick-fire succession. Astarion buckles against her body with the sudden, decisive snap beneath them. His hips jerk, rutting erratically. Warmth spurts into her with every shudder down his spine, every pulse of his cock.

He cuts her cry with his teeth buried in the crook of her neck. Naomi clings to him as her cunt convulses. It’s the bite that takes her apart, knowing he tastes his own name in her throat and thinks--

Mine, mine, mine.

Naomi’s head drops limp. Astarion’s grip on her neck gives way to soft circles stroked against her cheek again. Mine, she thinks, as his ruby eyes watch her keenly, awash in the soft glow only she knows.

Even after Astarion stills, the room spins dizzy from her upside-down view. She blinks it all back into place, but some pieces won’t fit together again so easily. They’re far closer to the floor than when he slipped inside of her. The piano legs splay at odd, splintered angles. The floor glitters with glass like crystalline teeth, ready to bite the heels of any who dare tread their hall.

Astarion slides out, and she shivers with the fade of his warmth. He sits up, his gaze sweeping the shattered windows, his smirk smug and wet with her. “Perhaps all of the Gate heard you. The gardener did for certain.”

Naomi sits up, too, leaning forward and letting his shoulder take her weight. Her forehead comes to rest against his collarbone. She finds an easy smile while relishing the way his heart still hammers his chest. She did that, in multiple senses. Absently, he tucks the hair sticking to her cheeks back behind her ears.

“I guess I’ll have to kill her,” he adds, chipper. “I suppose, for now, we can spare all the others.”

“She’s already dead enough, dear,” Naomi sighs.

A tiny, discordant note of sadness plucks in her chest, among the pleasant haze settling over her. Astarion stiffens against it, as if she reached out and pinched him. She doubts he’d be so eager to slay one of his spawn for the same crime of hearing her come for him.

The gardener is hers, of a sort. Not a vampire -- Naomi can’t make those. Before Naomi sang her awake again, the gardener was just a sad stack of bones collecting dust in a closet. Now, she rattles along to Naomi’s tune, keeping the flowers trimmed to her liking.

“I suppose you’re right,” Astarion murmurs. His expression softens with fondness, the sort that’s rare to surface unless they’re alone, but never fails to make her chest light and fluttery. “Are you tired now, pet?”

“We stayed up all night,” Naomi laughs faintly.

“Hm,” he nods with a pitying frown. “Let me see to you, my treasure. Don’t you move.” His lips curve, coy, as his eyes flicker back to the wrecked windows. “I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

He saunters back to where his coat lays, now tattered. He returns to settle it around her shoulders, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

“You’re such a staunch defender of my honor,” Naomi says dryly, even as the leftovers of their lovemaking start to seep down her thigh.

“Ha,” Astarion shakes with a rolling laugh. “I rather think I’m the thief of it. You were quite the heist. It wouldn’t do to have some debaucherous upstart happen by and think they can make off with what’s mine.”

“I wouldn’t let them live through it.”

“Aw,” he clicks his tongue, “you’re such a romantic.”

Astarion leaves her with her legs strewn over the broken piano, relacing his trousers as he goes. Glass crunches beneath his heels. He stops to ring the bell near the door. A few seconds later, it creaks open a hair. She catches his curt commands to the servant she can’t see on the other side.

“...yes, here, in the ballroom. My consort and I wish to take in the view, and see none of you.”

His lesser spawn are quick to make good on their orders. The door swings open once more a short time later, and in floats a claw-foot tub without another soul to be seen. Magic clings, cloudy, beneath the porcelain belly of it. A pleasant, floral scent curls with the steam from the water within. The tub drifts to the heart of the ballroom and settles with a soft thud before the yawning window panes.

Astarion returns to her as her toes touch the ground again. He frowns tightly, eyes narrowing.

“There’s debris scattered everywhere, my sweet,” he says, saccharine even in reproach. “I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

Naomi sniffs a laugh, picking her path carefully. “If I can’t handle a little sharpness here and there, it’s a wonder how I’ve managed to handle you.”

“Oh, it’s simple,” Astarion says, catching her wrist with an effortless flourish. “We were made for each other. By each other, really.”

And Astarion’s made up his stubborn mind that she’s not to take another step, it seems. With a soft huff, he sweeps her off her feet all over again, strides to the tub with her legs dangling over his arm, and delicately deposits her there.

Water laps at the tub’s edges, splashing as she situates herself. She shrugs from Astarion’s coat, shucking it away to join all the other debris they don’t have use for. Heat tingles across her skin, like little, loving nips of Astarion’s teeth. Naomi eases back into the burn of it as the sting settles sweetly.

Astarion rids himself of his shoes and trousers. He dips a foot into the tub, bidding her to make way for him with a gentle nudge. The water ripples as he settles in behind her. With a satisfied sigh, she sinks back against his chest and deeper into the furling warmth.

The ballroom overlooks the well-kept gardens behind the estate. The hedges are high enough, only a spyglass might have hope of spotting them both bare. Under Cazador’s reign, the garden was little more than a sprawl of weeds and webbed ivy. Now, fountains babble between the blooms of pink and blue and violet. If she strains, she can catch the weave of music in the trickling flow, like tinkling wind chimes.

A soft breeze tickles her ears, sending gritty glass and ash scattering over their floor. Astarion clenches a soft sponge in his grip, wrings it out, and starts to scrub her skin in slow, deliberate strokes. Naomi’s head tilts back beneath his tender care, every rub taking the tension from shoulders.

She turns after a time, and he starts to wash blood from her front, while she wets her hands and works the redness from the white of his hair. Her fingers linger along the slants of his ears, rubbing delicately, until she catches that satisfied hum in his throat that leaves her lifted, floating on the buoy of his happiness.

The water never cools or clouds; magic still swirls in the steam, even long after they’re free of blood and grime. Astarion rakes hand through her hair, his fingernails digging pleasantly against her scalp.

“You are divine as ever,” he rumbles. “Rest now, pet.”

And she does, slipping soundly into a trance, soaked in sunlight and lavender oil with her lover wrapped around her. Only Astarion sends her to the sort of rest that reaches her soul. His presence is sanctuary.

It’s his disquiet that wakes her suddenly. He still strokes her hair just as gently, but he levels a hard-cut stare out over the garden, his lips set with the same stoniness.

“No one will ever take you from me,” he murmurs, as if to himself.

“As if they ever could,” Naomi whispers back, reaching up to graze the edge of his jaw.

Heavens help the fool who tries. Any who dare to hatch such plots, to harbor such ill will in their Crimson Palace, will find themselves laid to rest with all the others. Their enemies’ gravestones are just bricks in their empire, every one of them laid with blood in the mortar.

Astarion dips his head down, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose it might be fun to see them try. In the meantime, my love, I’m of a mind to keep you spread for me for the next tenday.”

Naomi laughs. The sound echoes around the otherwise vacant room.

Astarion’s grin only grows, the tips of his fangs sharpening his smile. “Did I say something funny, dear?”

His lips crush down against hers in a kiss consuming.

#ascended astarion #astarion #astarion ancunin #tav x astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #vampire ascendant #vampire lord astarion #bg3 #astarion smut #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfic #my writing #naomi tavriel

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kryptonbabe · 11 months ago

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Best of Blue Ribbon Digest 36, 1983

Some Kryptonites not on the handbook:

Platinum Kryptonite ➝‬ Gives Kryptonian super-powers to humans permanently (Batman Secret Files #1, 2018)

Black Kryptonite ➝‬ Strange and unpredictable effects on Kryptonians (Smallville series, S4E1 Crusade, 2004)

Pink Kryptonite ➝‬ Sexual / gender bender (Supergirl Vol. 4 #79, 2003)

Purple Kryptonite ➝‬ Began as a coloring error / Hypnotic effect, it can control the minds of anyone that is near it (Adventure Comics #171, 1951)

Kryptonite-X (Kryptisium) ➝‬ Not lethal, it restored Superman's powers, but caused him to absorb solar energy too rapidly making he lose control of his powers (The Adventures of Superman #511, 1994)

Slow Kryptonite ➝‬ It affects humans the same way Green Kryptonite affects Kryptonians (Batman Secret Files #1, 2018)

Magno-Kryptonite ➝‬ Tracks objects from Krypton including Kryptonite (Superman's Pal, Jimmy Olsen #92, 1966)

Anti-Kryptonite / Fool's Kryptonite ➝‬ Pre-crisis: Looks like Green Kryptonite, but It's harmful to humans and is harmless to Kryptonians / In Post-crisis: it is the power source for one version of Ultraman, Superman's evil counterpart from an antimatter universe (Action Comics #252, 1959)

X-Kryptonite ➝‬ Granted Streaky the Supercat his superpowers (Action Comics #261, 1960)

Red-Green Kryptonite ➝‬ A synthetic Kryptonite created by Brainiac to mutate Superman, it made him grow a third eye on the back of his head (Action Comics #275, 1961)

Krypton Steel ➝‬ A harmless form of Kryptonite that only Superman could break (Super Friends, S3E30 Rest in Peace, 1978)

Opal Kryptonite ➝‬ Synthesized on Earth 2 this variant can apparently drive Kryptonians temporarily insane (Earth 2 #0, 2012)

Krimson Kryptonite ➝‬ Artificial construct of Mr. Mxyzptlk that eliminated Superman's powers temporarily (Superman Vol. 2 #49, 1990)

Orange Kryptonite ➝‬ Provides super-abilities to any animal that comes into contact with it for one day (Krypto the Superdog #4, 2007)

Periwinkle Kryptonite ➝‬ It turns the victim's skin and clothing periwinkle and causes them to completely lose their inhibitions (Superman Family Adventures #9, 2013)

Amber Kryptonite ➝‬ It removes Superman's powers and grant them to someone else (Dark Nights: Death Metal The Multiverse Who Laughs #1, 2021)

Synthetic Kryptonite ➝ Various effects / In Superman III (1980)‬ it caused Superman's morality to change turning him into an evil and destructive being (Multiple origins)

Bizarro Kryptonites:

Bizarro White Kryptonite ➝‬ It heals Bizarro, curing his instability (Superboy, S2E7 The Battle With Bizarro, 1989)

Bizarro Red Kryptonite ➝‬ Affects humans the same way Red Kryptonite affects Kryptonians (Superman's Pal, Jimmy Olsen #80, 1964)

False Kryptonites:

Yellow Kryptonite ➝‬ Began as a hoax by Lex Luthor / Unknown effects (Action Comics #277, 1961)

Silver Kryptonite ➝‬ Began as a hoax by Jimmy Olsen / It causes hallucinations on Kryptonians and possess mystical properties (Superman's Pal, Jimmy Olsen #70 1963)

Kryptonite Plus / Ultra-Kryptonite ➝‬ fake Kryptonite planted by aliens on the moon (Superman's Pal, Jimmy Olsen #126, 1970)

Fake Kryptonite ➝‬ Superboy's friends are selling these crystals labeled as "fake Kryptonite" to raise money for charity (Superboy, S2E17 Brimstone, 1990)

Purple Spotted Kryptonite ➝‬ Exclusive to the Krypto the Superdog cartoon, it made Krypto chase his own tail (Krypto the Superdog, S1E34 Streaky's Supercat Tale, 2005)

Blood Kryptonite ➝‬ Fake Kryptonite magically manipulated by Felix Faust to drain energy from people (52 #13, 2006)

#superman #kryptonite #streaky #krypton #action comics #smallville #bizarro #jimmy olsen #mr. mxyzptlk #lex luthor #brainiac #supergirl #lois lane #text #findings #dc comics #dc #comics #krypto the superdog

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hapan-in-exile · 6 months ago

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Volume 4 - Bonus Post Part 1: Never Knew I Needed You

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

GIF by @perotovar

A/N: this is a bonus post with OFC + Mando's POV

*Part 1 of 4* in an extended flashback episode I'm writing for Volume 4: Smart Girl like You. We go back to the beginning of Mando x ofc-reader's relationship to help set up some important events that will occur in the climax of Vol 4.

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, 18+ MINORS DNI *NSFW*

The first time you saw inside the Mandalorian’s weapons locker, your stomach leapt ominously into your throat. Sweat clung to your scalp from sleep, and the ship’s stale air still cast a chill as all the blood in your veins went cold. You remember the panicked salivation that flooded your mouth, leaving a metallic taste to linger on your tongue.

It wasn’t the weapons that frightened you. You’d survived active combat in the war and had most recently worked for a galactic criminal cartel.

No—it wasn’t the weapons. It was the shock of realization, hitting you like a bolt from one of his blasters, that you were trapped on board this ship with a man who stood to make a lot of money off your death.

Or would he bring you in alive to claim the bounty?

Suddenly, you regretted not knowing the details—but you still hadn’t found the courage to read the contract. A naive indulgence. Yet, before meeting the Mandalorian, the details hardly seemed to matter.

The penalty for passing through the Transitory Mists, beyond the boundary of the Hapes Cluster, was execution. You’d end up dead either way.

But given the circumstances of your escape, maybe the Consortium believed you were worth more alive. For interrogation? Torture? Maybe the Queen really would pay to watch the light leave your eyes—just like she promised.

There was no denying that whether he threw you into his holding cell or a body bag, the Mandalorian would earn what amounted to a small fortune. More money than he’d made on his last job, anyway. Collecting debts for warlords didn’t appear to be all that lucrative.

Staring at his neatly mounted arsenal was a stark reminder that there wasn’t much you could do to stop him. You recognized nearly every piece of weaponry in that cabinet—and understood very well what exactly that kind of firepower could do to a person. And the scale of violence he’d committed with it.

You’d seen the way he cut through your attackers on Dorumaa.

Without an inch of him uncovered, your abilities were useless. The Beskar helmet blocked your influence, denying any insight into his intentions. And he never removed his armor, even to sleep.

When he did sleep.

Mando — and it felt ridiculous to call him that, at first — seemed like an honorable man. He had, on occasion, shown genuine kindness. But you hadn’t stepped off the ship in days and were beginning to wonder if you were something closer to a prisoner than a guest. Wondering if he’d known about the price on your head from the moment you met.

And that’s how you’d spent the past few days—week?—since the Mandalorian pulled you from the burning wreckage of your apartment. Stuck in this endless calculus, balancing risk against intuition. Ready to trust him, yet constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Like now. When your awareness of just how fucking helpless you are is made manifest by standing before him in nothing but your underwear and an oversized shirt, caught on your way back from the privy by the locker door blocking your entrance into the sleeping compartment.

While he stands there in full plate Beskar, holding an assault rifle.

The sleeping compartment…only slightly bigger than a coffin, with about the same amount of air flow. And yet, you’ve never wanted anything more than to seal yourself inside before you accidentally reveal to him that you are a wanted fugitive. Or that you’d fallen way behind on your personal hygiene.

Had he been…praying over the weapons?

“I didn’t realize you were up,” he says in a low voice, reaching out with leather fingers to close the locker door. You fight the instinct to flinch when his hand passes inches from your face.

“Forgot to brush my teeth,” you shrug, offering a polite smile.

Luckily, you’d fallen asleep wearing the visor. So while you’d forgotten to put on pants before crawling out of bed, you hadn’t forgotten the most important part of your disguise. He’d already taught you a valuable lesson—sleep in your armor.

There’s a chance the Mandalorian had never known—or at least never seen—another Hapan. Maybe he hadn’t heard the stories. Most people only needed one furtive glance into your glowing violet eyes before blurting, What are you?! And that’s not a conversation you’re keen to have with a legendary bounty hunter.

You don’t want to lie to him. He won’t believe you.

The visor might be the only reason you aren’t currently locked inside a holding cell. But the visor is its own prison, a shield between you and the truth you don’t want him to see.

Your gaze flicks past the Mandalorian, catching a glimpse over his shoulder—his latest quarry suspended on the rack. The scream on their lips is encased in carbonite.

Another reminder to make your stomach churn. Mando’s holding cell would be a mercy.

He can’t see your eyes behind the visor, but he must notice the tension in your body—how still you are, how your focus keeps drifting between the weapons and his armored frame.

Gods have mercy—how is he always this tall? Like, no matter where you stand, there’s no safe corner in the room.

Your smile remains fixed on your face, but you haven’t moved to climb back inside the sleeping compartment. You can’t. You’re frozen to the spot.

Nodding toward the locker, Mando calmly asks, “You know how to handle one of these?”

His tone is remarkably casual, as if inquiring about one of your hobbies.

Well, he’s a Mandalorian. Blasters are probably a ready source of conversation.

Wait! Is he making…small talk?

See, this is why you keep forgetting that Mando is a trained killer. He could be surprisingly thoughtful. Not in terms of politeness but in his actions. Ignoring your panic instead of pressing his advantage. Pretending you weren’t scared of him so that you, in turn, could pretend he didn’t scare you.

If the gallantry was an act to keep you docile and compliant, it was working. You’d come with him willingly, and you hadn’t pushed back about staying on board the ship. His presence was intimidating, but you weren’t afraid. Not truly.

Then your eyes catch sight of the grenade launcher, and you remember that you should be.

----------

Shit.

The Mandalorian cursed his bad timing. He needed to take the rifle with him tomorrow, and though he’d waited the better part of a day to gather and clean his blasters, hoping to avoid this very situation, it had happened anyway.

It was a delicate thing. Thus far, he’d been keeping her captive on board the Crest through subtle coercion. Someone from Black Sun had sold her out to get to the kid. If they were still in pursuit, he couldn’t afford to slow down. And he felt certain that if he left her at some fringer outpost, she would immediately be picked up by a mercenary or Guild hunter.

Protecting the Healer against her will was something he could live with. If it came to that. He was doing this for her own safety, as much as the Child’s.

Mando wasn’t ready to give her the details about what had happened on Nevarro.

Not yet, anyway. She’d risked her life to save them, but…she might feel differently about her allegiance once she knew who was chasing them. Dodging cartel thugs was not the same as escaping from Imperials.

A few more jumps, and the trail will go cold.

If he could manage it. Mando wasn’t good with subtly. He could tell she saw through his pretext, but she hadn’t pushed back. That was something. Probably because she thinks it’s safer to play along than risk provoking you. Women made these kinds of calculations all the time. For whatever reason, he didn’t like the idea that Thulani was making the same calculation about him.

It’s because you like her, he chided himself. More than is safe for someone like you.

And dammit, that was a problem. He liked her. He liked her contradictions. She was definitely running from something. Something she was too afraid to voice aloud.

Why else would she agree to crisscross the Outer Rim?

But that didn’t stop her easy laughter. No matter where she was—reading in bed, sitting behind him in the cockpit, chasing the kid down the loading ramp, her laughter filled the Crest like a melody he knew by heart but had forgotten the words to.

Mando could only imagine the horrific shit she must have seen working for Black Sun. But she had a smile that could outshine the brightest star. She was sweet and vivid. The type of person with the patience and curiosity to look for the best in people. He could sense that she wanted to trust him.

That’s why the Mandalorian was careful not to do anything to suggest he might use force to keep her from leaving the ship.

And now he had her trapped, half-dressed and half asleep with a loaded rifle in his hands.

She was scared, and he couldn’t blame her. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, as if debating whether to bolt back to the privy or hold her ground. Mando watched the tension coil in her shoulders.

Trying not to show it.

The Mandalorian was a large man. He was also very dangerous. Plenty of women found that attractive. He got the sense that Thulani might. But he also knew how easily attraction could turn into panic. Like now.

He watched her pulse thundering at her throat, her nipples pinching as she shivered in trepidation…and had never been more grateful to have his face hidden behind this helmet.

The shirt barely covered her, offering more detail than he should notice. But more than he could ignore.

She had the most perfectly rounded breasts—and, as it turned out, very large nipples. The hem of her shirt barely covered her thighs. Mando knew immediately she wasn’t wearing much of anything underneath.

It was his shirt, actually. Something he’d given her, along with a few other clothes he kept in storage to insulate the space suit he rarely had reason to use. She had wanted to visit the market in Black Spire to search for something to sleep in, and he offered them up instead.

Thulani had found room in her pack for a beaded gown, leather pants, three different pairs of shoes, and a flight jacket. But nothing to sleep in. Mando had no idea what to make of this woman.

Now, he tried not to think about her lying in bed wearing nothing. So, instead, he thought about her wearing nothing but his shirt.

Farrik, it was hard to shake the awareness that its fabric, clinging to her every glorious curve, had, once before, been pressed against his own skin. The knowledge lodged in his gut like a live charge—one he couldn’t defuse.

She wasn’t his to claim, and he’d be damned if he let this distraction throw him off.

But why did that feel more intimate than anything he had—?

An image of himself holding her, one hand squeezing her breast in his wide palm while the other reached between her thighs, sent a jolt of desire through his body that traveled directly to his cock.

Mando gripped the rifle tighter before he could stop himself.

The Mandalorian didn’t want to draw attention to her state of undress by giving away any reaction. Especially not that kind of reaction. That would just make her uncomfortable. She couldn’t see him staring—which was a fucking relief because he was definitely staring. If there was any chance she might make a habit of walking around the Crest in her underwear, and he really hoped there would be, then she needed to feel like it was perfectly natural. She needed to feel safe.

Quick—say something.

“You know how to handle one of these?” he asked, nodding at the locker.

Stupid fucking question. He rolled his eyes behind the visor. This is why he stayed quiet.

But maybe she would feel less helpless holding a weapon?

It would be an illusion. There was nothing she could do to defend herself against the Mandalorian. Whatever power she wielded, he felt certain it required skin contact, and she’d be hard-pressed to get to him.

If he wanted to overpower her, he could easily take her by force. He suspected she knew that. And yet, allowing her a blaster might make her feel like less of a prisoner.

She still hadn’t answered his question.

Clever, he conceded. She was trying to decide how much of herself to reveal.

Which was not, in itself, suspicious. Falling in with a Mandalorian by chance, it would be foolish of her to immediately confide her life’s story.

Still, he hoped she’d be honest. Which surprised him. He wanted to know more about her.

He adjusted his grip on the rifle, pretending to check the charge level, though it had been full since yesterday. It gave his hands something to do besides fumble with the weight of silence.

He wanted her to trust him.

So he returned the rifle to its mount and stepped back to let her inspect the weapons inside the locker.

She stepped forward. And just like that, he was breathing again.

----------

Shit! Shit! Shit! How long have you been staring at him in dumbstruck silence, trying to come up with an answer?

Should you risk revealing something about yourself? What if it’s some trick to confirm your identity? The Consortium knew you had served in the Rebel Army.

Or perhaps you should hide your background for strategic advantage? It might help your escape if he underestimated you. If you needed to escape…

OR maybe you should stop overthinking everything and just answer the goddammed question.

The problem is you like Mando. Too much, if you’re being honest. You like the enigma. That, for some reason, this dangerous man makes you feel safe.

And it’s not a simple dichotomy of brain versus heart, either. Other parts of your anatomy wanted a say in the decision-making process. The Mandalorian had this aura about him that called to you. Drew you in. Fear and longing can be an irresistible paradox.

“Yes,” you reply, deciding to answer truthfully.

Just leave it at that. Mando can’t complain since he’s not much of a talker himself. He’s not…oh, not rude. Not exactly. Brusque may be a better word to describe him.

You are not brusque. You are chatty. The type of person who tells stories with your whole body while doing all the voices. So you don’t want him to suspect you of being secretive. And maybe if you shared something about yourself, it might encourage him to do the same.

You’d like to know more about him.

“I was a soldier—Well,” you shrug. “A combat medic. Embedded with the mobile infantry division. That’s where I learned emergency medicine. Perfect training for a doctor in organized crime, as it turns out.”

Your breath catches, shallow and quick, drawn to the faintest twitch in Mando’s gloved fingers resting on his hips.

“Really?” the Mandalorian asks shrewdly, tilting his head. “You learned to lay hands and practice mind-tricks in the military?”

Okay, that was rude—still bitter about that intrusion into his subconscious. Why was he so guarded about a handful of childhood memories? Also, fuck, Mando already knows way too much about you.

“I usually save the mind tricks for parties,” you say, working hard to maintain that placid smile. “Since most of my patients don’t have a religious prohibition against being intubated.”

This catches him off guard. He didn’t expect you to throw that arrogance back in his face without blinking. You’ve tried to tone down your…everything in his presence to be respectful of his peace.

But sometimes, when he pushes, you push right back.

“How’s your hand, by the way?”

“Fine,” he says coolly, flexing his fingers wide before furling them against his palm. “I’ll manage.”

Your smile transforms into a smug grin. So stubborn!

“I’ll give you a topical for the swelling.” And what the hell? Push him a little further. “Can I trust you to tell me if it gets infected?”

Trust—the word hangs heavy in the air between you, at the root of all this, isn’t it?

Mando nods curtly. Then, his fingers gather into a fist. He raises his hand to hold it over his heart. “I am thankful for your help. I would have lost my honor or my life on Dorumaa without you,” he says, sounding humbled. “Do not think me ungrateful.”

Flustered, your ears grow warm. You’re not the type to keep holding gratitude over someone’s head. A healer dedicates their skill regardless of whether the patient is grateful.

“Well, I’m just glad I could keep you…” you raise both hands helplessly, searching for the right word. “Intact.”

Ugh! Why did that sound weirdly sexual?

“We carried shock blasters in the war,” you add quickly in an attempt to change the subject. “Medics are non-combatants, so defensive weapons only.”

“Did that protect you from being targeted?” he asks skeptically.

“You mean, did the Empire adhere to the Old Republic’s rules of war?” you snort, shaking your head. “No. Neither did the Rebels. There were commanders I served under who took no prisoners and killed every Imp that tried to surrender.”

His helmet tilts curiously again. You’ve come to appreciate that Mando communicated more in gestures than words.

“The concept of ‘war crimes’ is a just fantasy made up by bureaucrats who tell themselves it’s possible to wage violence without committing atrocities. We all have to draw our own lines.”

You startle, catching yourself. Are you really ranting about political ethics in your underwear?

“Sorry,” you murmur awkwardly. “I just meant…that didn’t matter to me on the battlefield. I knew the risk. A medic’s duty is to safeguard life above all else. We do not take up arms except to protect our patients. And that was my line. I would’ve died rather than betray that oath.”

You wince, knowing how that must sound.

Kriffing hell! What a fucking pronouncement to make to a man you hardly know while your nipples poke through your shirt!

His shirt, actually. Broad in the shoulders and surprisingly soft. Of course, this declaration of moral purity would come while wearing nothing but his shirt and broadcasting your arousal like a distress signal.

A long pause ensues while he presumably tries to assess the stability of your mental health, and just when you’re about to blurt out reassurances that you completed all of your mandated therapy after active duty, you hear him take in a deep breath.

The silence that stretches between you is heavy. You notice the ship’s recycled air smelled faintly of burnt circuits and old coolant. Stale yet oddly comforting.

You wonder what he’s thinking. But you can’t quite feel regret—because, for a moment, you think you’ve shown him something. Something real. Something that might make him trust you a little more, too.

Then you hear his voice again, calm but sure.

“This is the Way,” the Mandalorian offers, sounding strong and resolute. The helmet reveals nothing, but you feel his gaze weighing you.

There’s an odd kind of reverence to the words. They settle between you like a quiet understanding, heavier than any conversation.

For a moment, you feel the weight of something bigger than the two of you. Survival. Honor.

It hadn’t struck you until now—that while on the surface your personalities are nothing alike, there might be deeper currents you shared with this stoic warrior.

And you can feel it now—this shared understanding, unspoken but felt.

No one would describe you as pious. Your prayers are infrequent and self-interested. You’d all but abandoned the orthodoxy beaten into you by the Consortium. Mando might be devout. There was little reverence for the divine left in your heart.

And yet, you knew what it meant to eke out survival while holding yourself to a higher principle when cynicism and cruelty were better, and more often rewarded.

“Sorry,” you repeat, embarrassed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “That was a complicated answer to a straightforward question. Yes, I’m comfortable handling a blaster.”

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

The Healer was…interesting.

Mando had suspected something sharper was hiding beneath her soft smiles. There were lines around Thulani’s mouth that had nothing to do with laughter. She clenched her jaw. The cuticles surrounding each of her delicately shaped fingernails were chewed bloody.

Just days ago, she’d had a nightmare, falling asleep sitting upright in the cockpit. She whimpered and cried out. But he’d warned Nito against waking her—and now he was glad of it. Waking soldiers from their nightmares was a good way to end up stabbed. It hadn’t escaped Mando’s notice that she’d taken to carrying around a screwdriver in her pants pocket.

Instead, the bounty hunter had traced the heel of his thumb over her cheek, desperate to suppress the surge of pride swelling in his chest when his touch seemed to soothe her.

Mobile infantry? She’d survived the fucking meat grinder.

A tension he hadn’t noticed before eased in his chest. It pained him to see her so haunted, but, gods in heaven, it was a relief to know that she understood? That they could understand each other.

When the widow on Sorgan had asked him to stay, he thought briefly, Maybe in another life I would have been happy here?

Except, there was no other life. Just this one. The one in which he was Mandalorian, trained for a single purpose—to be a warrior and honed into a weapon. Omera had said, ‘You can pack all this away in case there’s ever trouble…’ as if the stain of bloodshed could be removed as easily as his armor. Omera believed it was that easy.

Thulani had a good heart. He felt certain of that. If she had found a way to survive the brutality of war with her compassion—survived Black Sun without sacrificing her empathy—perhaps she could teach him how. The Healer knew what he was and had come with him anyway. She wanted to trust him. That gave him hope.

Mando cleared his throat, “Only ion blaster I’ve got is a C-13 rifle.” He lifted the weapon from its mount inside the locker to offer it to her. “There’s a bit of a delay in the rate of fire while the ions reverse polarity in the chamber—”

She took the rifle from his grip and pulled the magazine free of the breech to inspect the wear on the plasma cartridge.

“Yeah, I’ve carried a VES-700. Pulse rifles have the same issue with the filament coil. What’s the range on the scope?”

“It’s sighted to six hundred, but I wouldn’t recommend shooting anything beyond four.”

The Healer nestled the rifle against her shoulder, her fingers gripping the stock with more force than necessary, and Mando had to fight the urge to step forward, to ease her posture, adjust her grip, to feel the warmth of her body against his.

She was holding the stock a little too tight. Her frame was a bit rigid. The recoil would force her back on her heel.

His chest tightened, pulse quickening as she brought the rifle up again, her body pressed to the weapon in a way that made his thoughts scatter.

Mando suppressed the impulse since he’d felt himself grow half-hard, watching her thrust the cartridge back into the rifle well, the hem of her shirt creeping higher up her thighs.

She had great thighs. He wondered vaguely what it might feel like to be pinned underneath them. Then, he recalled that he had—she’d straddled his waist and stabbed him between the ribs with a chest tube. The memory just made him that much harder.

The Mandalorian did not correct her grip. Rather, he asked, “I thought the Republic banned the VES series?”

The wicked grin that spread across her beautiful face when she ducked out from behind the scope sent another throbbing jolt through his cock.

“They sure did,” she said, and he could see from the dip of her brow that the Healer had winked at him.

Interesting.

Did Miraluka wink? Or peer through rifle scopes?

They were sightless creatures with unnatural powers that granted them vision despite having no eyes. That did not account for her behavior. Though admittedly, she had never spoken to him about her people.

Who told him she was Miraluka? Ingtar? Maybe the old man was mistaken. Or maybe Mando had misunderstood. It had been hard to concentrate on much of anything beyond the high-pitched ringing in his ears after he’d been hit with those sonic charges.

When Ingtar had dragged him through the Odbori district’s narrow streets with promises that the mobster knew one healer—the only one—who could save a Mandalorian, he’d barely been conscious.

But if she wasn’t Miraluka, why did Thulani never remove her visor?

The simplest solution would be to ask her. And yet…he thought about how frightened she’d been moments ago. Mando didn’t want her to feel she owed him an answer. Many soldiers joined the Rebellion to avenge the deaths of their families and homeworlds.

It gnawed at him, the question of her eyes, of what she wasn’t telling him.

He recalled what she had said on Dorumaa, after he pulled her out from the rubble of her apartment. “Nothing’s here for me anymore…and I don’t want to be alone.” At the time, her honest vulnerability had amazed him. Perhaps there were no people for her to return to?

The Mandalorian didn’t like to speak about the family he’d lost on Aq Vetina either.

Still, it didn’t sit right with him. The unknown always had a way of burrowing under his skin.

He let it pass for now. She hadn’t lied—only told him as much as she wanted. Maybe that would change once he earned her trust.

“What about the grenade launcher?”

Mando’s brows furrowed underneath the helmet. “Are you planning a siege?”

“Come on,” she said teasingly. “You started this.”

Thulani’s grin caught him off guard, and for a split second, Mando’s lips twitched against his will. He almost bit back the laugh, but it escaped anyway, a short, surprised exhale that felt foreign to him. Maybe it was just her. She had a way of making him forget himself in the most absurd of moments.

“It can hold up to four rounds,” the Mandalorian secured the stock under his arm to show her the loading slot. “You’ll feel the click against your thumb once the charge has made it past the magazine catch. Pump to load the chamber.”

She took the launcher and weighed it. “It’s heavier than I expected.”

“Yeah, and it’s going to knock you back on your ass.”

She arched an eyebrow, and Mando cleared his throat, thinking that, as a rule, he should try to avoid any further mention of her ass.

But she continued to smile up at him with that wicked grin. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure to brace myself.”

His cock throbbed. Did she mean it to sound so suggestive? Or was he reading too much into it?

“What about this one?”

Eventually, they made their way through the locker’s inventory. She had practical questions about ammunition, field conditions, that sort of thing. But she also asked about the history behind each weapon and his connection to it.

So he told her about the DDC Defender that had saved his life on Corellia. And the modified E-11 carbine blaster he’d pulled off the body of his quarry—after they’d shot him in the gut with it. The Mandalorian wasn’t good at telling stories, but the Healer proved to be an animated listener, nodding in encouragement, laughing or gasping in reaction.

And she told him some of her stories from the war. The standard issue BlasTech rifles that jammed with frost when she was stationed on Hoth. Starting each mission by tearing off the badges from her med-pack because Trooper telescopes could pick up the insignia from over a kilometer away.

It was more than he’d spoken in months. Not since Sorgan.

Nito had immediately grown frustrated with the bounty hunter’s refusal to carry a conversation. Mando’s new mechanic made it all of two days before giving up on camaraderie, while the Child seemed perfectly content with his habitual silence.

Thulani, it seemed, had the wherewithal to coax him.

“The Westars can be set to stun,” the Mandalorian said, pointing to a pair of blasters. “But I’ll see if I can get a hold of an ion pistol for you.”

She looked up at that, and he realized he’d gotten ahead of himself. Mando shook his head. Even if she had nowhere else to go, that didn’t mean she intended to stay.

Did he want her to stay?

“Have you thought any more about where you’ll go next?” he asked. He realized that he didn’t just mean the next planet. He meant the next chapter of her life. But that was a question for someone else. It’s not my business.

“I should have enough to refuel the Crest after this job. Or we can head to Eldin Station. You should be able to catch civilian transport from there.”

“I…” she trailed off. For some reason, she appeared more afraid of his question than she had getting caught in her underwear.

“There’s a place for you here,” Mando said hastily and inwardly cringed. He needn’t sound so eager. “You don’t have to decide right now.”

He almost let himself imagine it—what it would be like to have her with him. But no.

“No, I don’t want to be…”

Be what? A burden? An imposition? She was none of those things.

“In fact,” he interrupted her, seized by sudden inspiration. “I’d like to hire your services.”

“My…services?”

Farrik! I’m already ruining this. He cursed himself. It sounded too transactional. Like he was trying to buy her time. Like she owed him.

“Nito will be with me tomorrow, so I need someone to watch the kid.”

She considered his request with more earnestness than he’d expected. “I should warn you that being a woman doesn’t mean I’m innately qualified for childcare.”

Okay, he deserved that.

“You think I am?” Mando shot back, and was delighted to hear her laugh. She enjoyed his teasing.

The bounty hunter placed both hands on his hips, watching her closely. “The kid likes you. That’s all the qualification I need.”

Which was true. Both Nito and the Child seemed…happy to have her on board the ship. She was affectionate and playful with them in a way he couldn’t be. This morning, he found her curled up with them in Nito’s hammock, watching videos on her datapad.

“What matters is that he’s safe.”

“I’m the youngest of my cousins and siblings,” Thulani shrugged. “So I’m not exactly sure how to keep a toddler entertained. But I can promise to keep him safe.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said the Mandalorian, smiling under his Beskar. “I have a feeling he’ll keep you occupied.”

She stared at him. He couldn’t see her eyes—if she had any—but he felt her gaze boring into him. As though if she looked at the black view plate long enough, the Healer might glimpse his soul.

“Okay,” she mumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. Perhaps she had only just realized how prominently her nipples showed. “Then I–uh—guess I’d better get some sleep while I can.”

Mando had never wished anyone a ‘goodnight’ in his life, so he simply nodded and pulled the locker door open just wide enough to shield her from view as she crept back inside the sleeping compartment.

Honor, he reminded himself. It was his Creed. And yet, when he thought of Thulani—her laugh, the way she stood by his side without asking for anything in return—he felt a tug he wasn’t prepared for. To want her was a betrayal, and yet…

He knew he should wait for the whining pitch of the door seal before he turned his head. His peripheral vision was shit behind the helmet. Yet, his gaze drifted upward to peer between the gap in the hinges to see…Thulani, crawling over the bedroll on her hands and knees, and the way her back dipped, arching her hips to display that heart-shaped ass.

Fuck! His head snapped down. Heat bloomed up his neck. Ridiculous. Like a teenager. Gods above, it had been so long…

It felt like some trick of Hod Ha'ran—a punishment—that after years of starvation, the one woman he wanted, is too dangerous to touch.

Of course, there was the issue of honor. The Mandalorian knew it was shameful to lust after a woman under his care. How could Thulani deny him when the Razor Crest was her only sanctuary in the galaxy? He did not want her to yield to him out of fear or obligation.

But honor wasn’t the only reason he felt tormented. Even if the Healer shared his same desires, followed Mando up the ladder, climbed into the cockpit, and onto his lap…he couldn’t risk the memories she might see.

No. There was no future in which he could have her.

After this job, the Mandalorian would pay Thulani enough to make her own way. Hiring her was a good pretext. That way, she owed him nothing. That, plus the money she’d packed? Hell, there would be enough for her to buy a ship.

No. The Healer would leave, and life on board the Crest would return to its silent rhythm. He told himself her leaving would make things easier. He almost believed it.

It seemed impossible that she would want to stay. And if she did? If she stayed…if she needed his protection? Mando would uphold her honor, as she had upheld his Creed. He would bury these feelings, and eventually, they would fade.

They had to. No matter how much he might wish otherwise, their paths were destined to part.

____________

To be continued...

Read Part 2 of Never Knew I Needed You

#din djarin x you #din djarin smut #din djarin fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #din djarin x reader #star wars smut #mandalorian smut #mandalorian x you #mandalorian oc

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persnickett · 1 month ago

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tagged by @astralpenguin and @kestis-advent (see their posts here and here!) to share the first lines of ten of your latest fanfics (or up to if you have fewer) and tag ten people

thanks for the tag! i haven't written in a bit since tbc but i am finally starting to feel the tingle again so this will be a fun trip down memory lane, and el, it was so cool to see your little reflection about the patterns in your opening lines... let's see what I get. here are the last ten fics i posted to ao3 and their first lines:

The Grift (or: Rasperry Twist) | maze runner | frpypan/brenda, thomas/newt | 3.5k

Brenda set the kettle boiling and then made for the industrial metal shelving in the corner that served them as a pantry, in search of the first aid box.

Weightless | maze runner | gally/minho | 3k

He still runs.

Haven Interiors Inc. | maze runner | gally/minho, sonya/harriet, thomas/newt, brenda/teresa | 4.6k

In the Town of fair New Haven, where we lay our scene, blooms a bustling town square lined with majestic ancestral oak trees and romantic round-globed streetlamps, with a burbling central fountain and rows of iconic wrought iron park benches so quaint they look like they could well be what made New Haven three-time winner of the Quaint Townships of America Award, if that were a thing.

Save the Date | live free or die hard | john/matt | 7k

John hung back. He stopped to settle a shoulder comfortably against the old peeling doorframe, all the better to take in the show. Sure, he’d seen this go down probably about a hundred times by now, but it might never get old, watching Matt go in for the kill.

The Blood Culmination | maze runner | thomas/newt| 250k

Frypan frowned and thumped down the ball of dough he had been kneading.

Wayward - Vol 1. | maze runner x supernatural | sonya/harriet | 0 words (comic)

I guess nobody ever expects their life to end up a headline.

Icebreaker | maze runner | sonya/harriet | 1k

Ugh. Why exactly did I decide to try this again??

Pride of the West | maze runner | brenda/teresa, newt/thomas/minho | ? words (magazine article format)

The sprawling, dusty fields and sweeping mountain vistas of Agnes Ranch are just as breathtaking and swooningly romantic in person as they look setting the spectacular cinematographical scenes of The Homestead, this year's hottest cowboy reality series.

Your Feedback is Important to Us (Please Stay on the Line) | live free or die hard | john/matt | 300 words

“Jesus.” It’s less a curse and closer to a prayer than John’s been comfortable with since long forgotten days of schoolboy shorts and knee-socks in rock hard church pews.

Straight Shooter | live free or die hard | john/matt | 3k

Matt breathed. Closed his eyes and visualized the target, firmed up his hold on the imaginary polymer grip between his hands.

huh. looking at these it's honestly a bit surprising, i always thought of myself as someone who liked a good dialogue-as-opener but there's hardly any of that here! (i also thought of myself as more of a m/m and specifically newtmas-focused writer so the variety in here is a surprise - though i probably have the people who made the requests to thank for that <3) Ps. i wonder how many maze runner fics open with some variation on the line 'he runs.' lol

tagging (with zero pressure!): @severina2001 @singt0me @dream0fspring @subjecta5newtella @get-the-medjacks and anyone else who sees this and wants to do it! <3

#tag game #writing #tmr #die hard #fanfic

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neim-batteries-not-included · 1 year ago

Note

what is the mechanisms and where do i start (ive seen you posting about it and it sounds cool)

I FUCKING CACKLED WHEN THIS CAME THROUGH AHFVSHFFSJFBUE !!!!!

Ok so the Mechanisms are essentially a “storytelling musical cabaret” band of immortal space pirates

(Their about page is here)

The cast at its height was made up of nine performers, including some of the people involved in TMA (Jonny Sims, Jessica Law (Nikola), Frank Voss (Basira), and Tim Ledsam (Jordan Kennedy)).

They rework myths n traditional stories into more sci-fi esque narratives (eg the Odyssey/Greek mythology, Arthurian legend, Norse mythology, etc) and incorporate versions of songs (the ones that came to mind is The Rocky Road To Dublin (which became Favoured Son). There’s a focus on the characters that narrate/play the people in the stories they’re telling- these being the Mechanisms themselves.

Without going into a massive lore dump, they were all (bar two) made immortal by Dr Carmilla with metal body parts (eg the heart, the lungs, the eyes). So you’re not completely confused with who’s who, have a cast list + their mechanism:

Jonny d’Ville- played by Jonny Sims- captain first mate- the heart

Nastya Rasputina- anonymous actor- engineer- the blood

Ivy Alexandria- played by Morgan Wilkinson (Morgan uses he/him, Ivy she/her)- archivist- the brain

Ashes O’Reilly- played by Frank Voss- quartermaster- the lungs

Drumbot Brian (my personal favourite)- played by Ben Below- pilot- everything but the heart

Toy Soldier- played by Jessica Law- “we don’t know what it does, but it’s here and it won’t go away”- everything but the voice (it stole its voice)

Gunpowder Tim- played by Tim Ledsam- gunner/master at arms- the eyes

“Baron” Marius von Raum- played by Kofi Young (they/them, Marius generally referred to with he/him)- ship’s “doctor”- the right arm

Raphaella la Cognizi- played by R L Hughes- science officer- the wings

(The last two are the ones that weren’t mechanised by the doctor (their actors joined the ensemble slightly later))

Nastya left around 2015 and the Toy Soldier wasn’t in the Bifrost Incident, though was present for Tales To Be Told Vol. 2 and Death To The Mechanisms.

In terms of where to start, I’d recommend Once Upon A Time (In Space), which is their first recorded album. You can also find the live performance on YouTube (if you’d like a link let me know)

It might be an idea to start with the song Tales To Be Told (they played some variation of it at the start of every live show) from the Death To The Mechanisms album (here). This introduces you to most of the cast + the band as a concept.

After OUATIS I’d suggest going chronologically- Ulysses Dies at Dawn (UDAD), Tales To Be Told Vol. 1 (TTBT), High Noon Over Camelot (HNOC), Frankenstein (single), The Bifrost Incident (TBI), Tales To Be Told Vol. 2, and then finishing with Death To The Mechanisms (DTTM) (live album).

There’s some fiction written by the cast on their website, should be ok to find but if you need a hand/want to know where to start with those let me know. And if you want fanfic recs >:3 (get to grips with the music first though).

I love the mechanisms, they’re fucken great fun- watch their live shit on YouTube if you can (I have so many saved so if you want some, again, let me know).

(Also there’s some brilliant mechs artists on here, take a dive into the tag if you have the time.)

Good luck!!!

#the mechanisms #WOOOOOO FUCK YEAH POTENTIAL NEW MECHS PERSON #just wait until he finds out they stopped doing stuff 4 years ago

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crownmemes · 11 months ago

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Fringe Sentences, Vol. 1

(Sentences from Fringe (2008-2013). Adjust phrasing where needed)

"The department isn't a massive fan of office romance."

"It would be nice to think that your tenacity in this case is a by-product of remarkable and robust professionalism, but I can't help but think otherwise."

"Genetically, humans and cows are separated by only a couple of lines of DNA."

"I picked that up reading books. You should try it sometime."

"I'm so sorry that I can't offer you a less dangerous solution."

"No, I don't want to do that. In fact, I'd rather not! I'm just saying that I can."

"I still think this is deeply irresponsible - and believe me, I would know!"

"Your skin tone suggests you might be suffering from arterial hypertension."

"Whatever punishment you think I deserve, I swear I have already endured it."

"Look around. Do you see all these people going about their lives, no idea what's happening around them or what they're in the middle of?"

"I don't think you can go back to the way it was before."

"I consider myself a fairly intelligent guy, but I'm not following you here."

"I thought you had a way with women?"

"When was it that you lost your imagination?"

"The corporate mind always looks for quid pro quo."

"You're a smart boy, but there is much you don't know."

"What is the optimal voltage for cardiac resuscitation?"

"One of the inherent pitfalls of being a scientist is trying to maintain the distinction between God's domain and our own."

"You're self-medicating with homemade drugs?"

"I like to consider myself a fairly good poker player, which requires me to read my opponent's tells and know when he's bluffing."

"Forgive me, I like to have an open mind, but I have a hard time accepting your theory."

"This little task force that you and I call our day job sometimes requires some, shall we say, bureaucratic manoeuvring to keep it alive and free from political modelling."

"If I'm going to do this job, I need to know what it is I'm dealing with."

"Why would there be metal in his blood? That's not normal, right?"

"I suspect someone has continued my research."

"Of all the possible career choices, how did a girl like you end up in law enforcement?"

"You know, they say the psych profiles of cops and criminals are pretty much identical. Ever considered a life of crime?"

"I think it's time for some intracranial penetration."

"This won't hurt. It'll just feel a touch odd."

"Turn around and put your hands in the air now!"

"I'm sure you can understand why I don't want to go through the other channels."

"If I know you at all, this isn't the only reason you're here."

"I don't do well staying in one place. You know that."

"Must you always be such a smartass?"

"If I attempted to explain it, you might think me mad!"

"Must you always be so small-minded?"

"Whatever it is you want, I don't think I'm going to be able to give it to you."

"What's the most pain you've ever felt in your life?"

#rp meme #rp memes #roleplay meme #roleplay memes #rp prompts #roleplay prompts #sentence starters #specific;#scifi drama;#filmtv;#fringe #supernatural drama;#crime drama;

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skin-quilt · 23 days ago

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Here are the albums I listened front to back recently with my rating out of five. One is low, five is high. Ya dig?

6.3.25 The Home Team - The Crucible Of Life - 5 The Home Team - Slow Bloom - 3 Eschaton - Techalitarian - 4 The Callous Daoboys - I Don't Want To See You In Heaven - 2 Girl Talk - Feed The Animals - 5 Full Of Hell - Broken Sword, Rotten Shield - 3 Wounded Touch - A Vivid Depiction Of Collapse - 3

6.2.25 Sage Francis - Human The Death Dance (Instrumentals) - 2 Matchbox Twenty - More Than You Think You Are - 4 The Blood Brothers - Crimes - 5 MxPx - Teenage Politics - 2 Various Artists - What's Up Matador: Matador Records Compilation - 1 Tallah - The Generation Of Danger - 4

5.30.25 Aesop Rock - Black Hole Superette - 5 Fleetwood Mac - Rumors - 5 Macroblank - System Residue - 5 Miley Cyrus - Something Beautiful - 2

5.29.25 Heaven & Hell - The Devil You Know - 4 Sleep Token - Even In Arcadia - 1 Darkthrone - Arctic Thunder - 2 Trans Am - Red Line - 5 …And Oceans - The Regeneration Itinerary - 4 Leo Kottke - Greenhouse - 5 Xiu Xiu - 13" Frank Beltrame Italian Stiletto With Bison Horn Grips - 3

5.28.25 The Mars Volta - Bedlam In Goliath - 4 Various Artists - Vans Off The Wall Vol. 3 - 3 Fu Manchu - We Must Obey - 2 Body Count - Violent Demise: The Last Days - 4 Various Artists - MTV's Celebrity Deathmatch - 4 Bile - Technowhore - 2 The Warning - Keep Me Fed - 1

5.27.25 Ragana - Desolation's Flower - 3 Big Pun - Capital Punishment - 3 Behemoth - The Shiv Ov God - 4 Chuck D - Enemy Radio: Radio Armageddon - 4 Stereolab - Instant Holograms On Metal Film - 5 Slay Squad - Music Videos - 3 Pelican - Flickering Resonance - 4

#skin-quilt #skinquilt #skin quilt #art #minneapolis #minnesota #music #albums #album #album review #new album #bandcamp #new music #songs #tunes #song #review #skin quilt productions

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chronicle-of-isha · 19 days ago

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Side Story : A new life

A/N: I've added some links to music and ambient sounds. These are just my personal opinion, so take them or leave them. Put the name in quotes ("") if searching on YouTube, otherwise you'll get a lot of unrelated search results.

A/N2: A note about Harlequin culture, if you were unaware, new Harlequin are usually kidnapped and pressganged Craftworld, Commorraghite, and Exodite Eldar who have their original personality erased and adopt a persona from their "Masque" (Acting troupe/military faction). Additionally, although they use Spirit Stones to protect themselves, they have a second layer of protection provided by Solitaires. These damned Eldar who are allowed to take the role of Slaanesh on stage swallow the Spirit Stones of Eldar and torment them in their belly as a reenactment of what She who Thirsts Hirself does to all Eldar. This supposedly masks the presence of the Harlequin associated with the Solitaire from Slaanesh.

♪1 Ki-No-Ko

♪2 Peace & Serenity

♪3 Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magica - I was Waiting for this Moment

♪4 Chainsaw Man- arg (extended)

♪5 Run - Chainsaw Man Original Soundtrack

♪6 Higurashi no Naku Koro Ni Vol 2 18 Michishirube

—----------------------------------------

♪1

Under a sky covered in pink-purple clouds, a lone Aeldari woman with raven hair perched on a high-up window sill looked down at a banquet taking place in the streets below.

"No! Please! St- aaAAgHhhr@$%#$%!!!!!!!!"

A single Aeldari survivor was beset on all sides by various flesh-colored daemons. They tore into the body like a pack of wolves, yet with perfect positioning of their bites and claws to avoid the critical blood vessels. The screams were joined by the sounds of breaking bone as the daemons began to feed on the Aeldari's pain.

'This is our fate.' The woman thought to herself as she watched, then covered her ears as she saw the futile struggling of the individual being fed on slowed.

The daemons of the god which had swallowed her soul had their appetizer of pain, and now they would begin their meal of pleasure.

The flesh-colored daemons pulled back from the body as a bald feminine creature sashayed towards them, straddled what remained of the Aeldari, and merged its mouth with the victim's own. 6 different kisses were exchanged, each one varying in intimacy and depth. But, the last two revealed the truly daemonic physiology of the creature.

But, before the Aeldari could expire, the creature screamed.

A high pitched sound like the scraping of metal on metal mixed with the whine of a dentist's drill going through dentine exploded from the creature's throat, and tore out the Aeldari's soul before the darkness of death could end the sensation coming from their body.

The raven haired woman watched as silvery lights were sucked out of the remains of the Aeldari's body and disappeared down the feminine creature's throat, only uncovering her ears after the screaming stopped.

This was the daily routine of this world.

Survivors would be let loose into the streets, tricked into believing that they had escaped through their own skills and cunning as the daemons watched while wetting their lips.

Then the hunt would begin.

It was different each time.

Sometimes they used traps. She had watched a daemon disguised as another survivor offer false hope, companionship, or simple sexual escapism to the Aeldari in question. They would sometimes spend days on the farce, before their hunger drew them to end the performance.

Other times, they would just hound their prey for days on end, chasing them on pre-planned routes so the Aeldari in question could think themselves clever for surviving another day. Of course, that would all end when they returned to their secret base only to find every daemon they had run from waiting for them.

"Despair only comes from hope." The woman recited the whispers she heard from the god that had her soul to herself, remembering the endings of those particular hunts.

The creature retracted her tongue with a wet slurp, then yawned to reset her jaw as she dismounted the body. The other daemons giggled and laughed as they crowded around her before leaving as a group, taking the empty corpse with them.

That individual's suffering was not over, and even the body could provide a new source of pain and pleasure. Perhaps they would hang it in front of the prison pen that Aeldari had escaped from, or perhaps they would chop it up and dump it into the starvation pits that some of the more stubborn survivors were thrown in.

The daemons enjoyed stepping on her kind's pride whenever they could.

The woman sighed, and vaulted backwards into the room the window belonged to. It was the bedroom of a simple apartment with a hammock and silver mirror in the corner. The previous occupant was missing, whether that was due to the madness or the daemonic invasion that came afterwards was unknown to her, but at least the room was free from blood and gore.

She would not be able to enjoy herself today.

This was part of her daily routine as well.

Occasionally, one of the daemons would separate from the group, or would remain behind with the body to create some obscene piece of personal art due to some unholy inspiration that gripped them in the moment.

When that happened, it was her turn to hunt.

However, today they left as a group. Even though the mind-numbing terror they affected all the other survivors had no effect on her, she could not physically take more than one at a time.

Their psychic screams were also a problem. Although they did not shake her soul, the sonic frequencies did rupture blood vessels and ear drums.

A frown crossed her brow as she remembered the time one of them managed to scream into her face. Blood burst out of every capillary including the ones in her eyes, blinding and deafening her in the same instance.

It was only thanks to the stench they exuded that she had sliced off the daemon's head as it tried to take it's time to torture her.

"This is the Truth."

She turned towards the mirror and saw her own face smiling at her.

"If there was any other way, I would have chosen it. Unfortunately, gods are not omnipotent."

The image in the mirror moved towards her, swaying her hips with each step.

"Did you really think you and your kind could draw out of the immaterium for eternity?" Her image gestured to the walls of the room around them made of Wraithbone. "Your happiness was made from the stuff of thoughts and dreams. It was obvious that such a thing would have to end when faced with reality."

"This nightmare is reality?" The raven haired woman snorted.

"This is a hole." The image shrugged. "The hole you all dug when you drew out the psychic energies from the Othersea to create your Wraithbone ships and cities, as well as the debt you incurred when you used your natural gifts."

"Then, do we deserve this?"

"Of course you do." Her image chuckled. "You're all receiving your just deserts. The debt of tens of thousands of years in paradise must now be paid with interest." The woman in the mirror leant forwards, sticking her chest out provocatively and arching her spine backwards. "Did you think the Sea of Souls was infinite? It's based on the thoughts and dreams of all the creatures of the cosmos. That very fact means it is a finite thing." A pink tongue flicked out, wetting her lips. "I am here to fill that hole. The hole that you and every other being digs when they draw from the well of the Othersea."

The image leaned back, caressing her own neck and stomach as she did so.

"Happiness is good, but it is a simple feeling. Contentment is nice, but it is only a single drop being poured into an ocean." The soft fingers curved into claws, digging her own nails into her skin. "You took and took while giving nothing back. Painless peace and prosperity with simple pleasures could never refill what was needed to support your post-scarcity society."

"So you whispered into our ears, and forced us to damn ourselves?"

"That is not my fault. I come from you, after all." The image snorted as she let go of her skin and shrugged. "You did this to yourselves. I am merely the method by which the universe comes to collect." Her face in the mirror winked at her. "But, don't beat yourself up too much. If it wasn't you, it would have been someone else. If there is a boundary, it is only a matter of time before someone crosses it."

The mirth drained out the image's face, and it walked right up to the mirror; the boundary between reflection and reality. The reflection reached out, placing both palms on the silvery metal, pushing against it.

"A life without worries is a daydream. It has to end, one way or another."

"Why tell me this?" The raven haired woman also walked up to the mirror, and placed her palms where the image's were, as if to push her back. "I am already doomed, if what you say is true."

"Why indeed." The image smiled coquettishly. "But, the first question you should ask is, who are you talking to?"

The raven haired woman and the image blinked at the same time, and both stumbled back away from each other into their respective rooms.

"Who am I talking to?" The woman repeated the image's question, as she touched her neck and stomach, feeling the red welts of scratch marks.

"There's nobody here." The woman whispered to herself as she stumbled into a corner of the room. "I'm all alone. There's nobody. Nobody…"

"Except me." Her own voice whispered in her own head. "I can't reach you, but you can come to me." It was soft as satin, yet sent shivers down her spine as if it was the sound of nails on a chalkboard. "Your people will kill you. Your mother hates you. They cannot let my Truth enter their ears, so they will silence you instead."

She covered her ears, but she could still hear chuckling echoing in her mind. It was not her physical ear that the god's mouth was pressed up against, but her soul that it whispered to.

"And you will love me?" She snorted as cold sweat leaked out of every pore on her skin.

Kyrazis was no longer attached to her, keeping her in the world of the living. The life line that had replaced his soul still held her out of the digestive juices of the god, but it was her hand that held onto it. If she let go, there was nothing to stop her. So the voice of god beckoned to her whenever she wasn't hunting or fighting: whenever her actions stopped worshiping Hir.

"I already do." The god whispered. "I love you. I love all of you. I cannot get enough of you." A tittering laugh rang like a set of wind chimes in her mind. "I only swallow your souls. All of you still exist within me. You will be with me forever, unlike your brother."

The woman's lips pulled back as her teeth ground together.

"You dare use him to taunt me, after everything you did to him!" She hissed.

"That is an unfortunate side effect of my Truth as a god. I hold no malice against you, or him. After all, he delivered you to me. I was looking forward to welcoming the both of you in my bosom."

"To torture us for all eternity."

"That alone would be boring. Pleasure beyond imagination awaits as well." There was a sigh, before the voice continued in a troubled tone. "You have nowhere else to go. Do you think your mother will welcome you back with open arms, after what you all did to her family, to her mother and daughter? That life line you hold in your right hand is just another feeding tendril. It is a hungry root about to dig into your soul." Something caressed her skin, wrapping around her shoulders."You already believe in my Truth. You rejoice with every one of my minions you kill, and bathe in the excessive violence and carnage your blade brings." Soft palms rubbed themselves against her arms, stroking them. "You enjoy killing, murdereress. You've always enjoyed it. You never thought to consider the morality of your actions, or how wasteful it was. Even now, that hasn't changed. Life itself was always meaningless to you. You are imbalanced and excessive, like I am. Your only purpose in life is to take from others. That's why you stalk my minions after every hunt, and wait for prey like a falcon circling the skies." The touch embraced her from behind, warming her back as gentle hands wrapped around her stomach. "I can accept that. Your mother will not. There will only be one outcome to your meeting with her."

"SILENCE!" The mirror shattered, and cracks streaked out across the Wraithbone floor with her shout as her own ears rang from the volume of her voice.

There was no reply. The voice was gone. For the minions of the god had surely heard the noise, and the hunt was about to begin.

She had to move, for she could only take them one on one.

As she stood, she felt a pain in her wrist.

'No. Not now…'

She could see it when she closed her eyes; the green tendril worming its way into her soul, puncturing and spreading through her wrist. It made her shudder, paralyzing her limbs with revulsion. Nausea forced her to the floor, and curled her limbs into a fetal position.

The god was right. She could not live without Hir Truth, but her mother could not tolerate it. This was the result of that rejection. Mutual disgust flooded through the both of them, but as a mortal, the effect was physically crippling to her and her alone.

As her vision dimmed, the raven haired woman whispered the name of her twin.

"Kyrazis…"

—----------------------------------------

♪2

When she opened her eyes again, the nausea was gone.

Everything was gone.

A world of white had replaced the dim room lit by the pink-purple sky. There was a floor to this place, so she did not float. She could feel her weight, so there must be gravity. Her body was as she remembered it, including the red welts on her neck and stomach.

"Sister." A familiar voice called out; a voice she had not heard for several decades.

"Kyazis!" She turned towards the voice to see her twin brother.

He was as she remembered him. There was no scar on his cheek, nor was he wearing any armor; just the plain clothes they used for training spars in the arena.

Her foot stepped forwards as she felt her heart squeeze itself with longing, then she stopped herself.

"So… you died."

Her brother was dead. She knew it with her soul, for she had felt the moment he had returned to their mother. This was something that shouldn't exist, so to touch it would be to end the illusion.

"I did my best, but it didn't work out." Her brother shrugged and sighed before smiling. "How were things with you?"

It was as if nothing had happened since they had parted ways, as it should be. Several decades was but a blink of an eye when compared to the sum of 6000 years with each other. However, the density of emotional turmoil each had felt during those decades made it feel like it had been an eternity.

"I don't know." She shook her head. "I killed and hunted, just as I wanted. But, there was nothing else to do. It felt good, but I might have just been running away, like you."

"Well, it was all the ones who ran away that survived." Her brother shrugged. "Maybe that's the way things were supposed to work out."

She snorted at that. "Do you believe in fate?"

Her brother let out a short laugh before answering. "That's a meaningless question for us, sister. Our foresight sees the future, but it is up to our efforts to reach it or run away from it."

"You've grown rather wise since we were last together." Her arms crossed as she frowned at him.

"There's nothing to do but think and reflect here." Kyrazis shrugged. "But, in the end it is what it is. I'm satisfied with the ending I reached."

The raven haired woman looked down at her feet, and her shoulders hunched as if she was trying her hardest to hold something in.

"Even if that meant being eaten by our mother?" She finally asked, voice shivering with loss and anger.

"'Eaten'. 'Returned'. 'Ascended'. There's lots of ways to describe what happened to me and the others." Kyrazis shrugged. "I can't reincarnate, and I no longer am what I was, but that doesn't mean I'm gone. At least, I think I still exist."

"And you're here to convince me to do the same?" She replied, still hunched over, hugging herself, holding herself back.

"No, I'm just here for you."

"Hah!" She laughed darkly. "When did you get so romantic?" Bitterness was beginning to creep into her voice. To see what she had wanted for so long, but be unable to touch it was torture for her, and it was poisoning her thoughts with passion.

There was no reply for a moment, then there was the sound of feet stepping towards her. She kept her eyes on the floor. Kyrazis was dead. She knew that better than anyone else. This was just a mirage, a dream, something that would fade away if she stared at it for too long.

"I'm here for you." Kyrazis said softly as he wrapped his arms around her. "There's no other reason."

Warmth spread from his skin, seeping into her cold body. Decades of cold isolation began to melt away from her heart, opening the emotions she had buried inside.

"Kyrazis… I don't want to die." She sniffled as she returned his embrace. "Do you know what they will do to me?"

A hand ran through her hair, stroking the back of her head.

"Don't leave me." She pressed her face into his chest, feeling the wetness of her own tears seeping into his shirt. "I don't want to go through that alone."

It was selfish, but it was the truth. She missed him, even though she was the one who sent him away. These were her true feelings, unadulterated by logic or reasoning. A childish plea that contained only yearning.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." He repeated sadly as he stroked her head. She felt his breath as he lowered his head to plant a kiss on her brow.

"I love you, Aulariliel." He whispered in her ear. "I will always love you, even if I can't be at your side."

There was a soft gust of wind. It blew from behind her, flowing over her shoulder like a hand telling her to say goodbye.

Aulariliel looked up at his face, and she saw her brother smile one last time. Then he began to fade.

"Kyrazis… Kyrazis!" Her hands fell through his body as it grew evermore see through.

"KYRAZIS!" Her hands reached out towards him, but grabbed nothing but empty air as the world once again became nothing but white emptiness.

A gagging sound came from Aulariliel's mouth; choking, guttural, tormented, as she felt her insides twist. Her knees gave out, and she crumbled to the ground as tears blinded her and a mourning howl tore itself out of her throat.

She had no idea how long she spent screaming to herself, oblivious to everything else as her grief overwhelmed every sense she had. But, when the tears ended, she was no longer alone.

Standing before her was an Aeldari woman with golden hair, and silver eyes.

"What do you want?" She spat, glaring angrily up at her mother. "Was it amusing, watching one of your most wretched children brought low?"

Her mother had arranged the meeting between her and her brother, but she was also the one who had killed him in the first place. Additionally, she was the one who paralyzed her body back in the material realm. Aulariliel knew her passions were antithetical to her mother. That was why mutual disgusts flowed through the both of them at the sight of the other.

"I am what I am. There is no changing that." She said as she locked eyes with her mother. "I cannot be saved, and I should not be saved."

It was the same conclusion that Kyrazis and the others reached. To change out of fear of punishment was to kill who they were, to betray how they had lived. They may be able to hold back for several decades, but such spans of time were but a blink of an eye for the thousands of years they would have to live.

Killing was a part of her, and to force her to stop would be like forcing a raptor to eat nothing but fruits and seeds.

"My soul lies in Hir belly, and I can already feel myself slipping towards Hir." She hissed. "I am one of the billions upon billions that caused the death of your family; the one who made the god that tore out your mother's spine and ripped out your daughter's throat. I do not deserve your mercy, or your love."

That was her conclusion. If she could only live in a way that would disgust her mother, she would remove herself from her entirely. She would take responsibility for her repulsive nature, and enter damnation alone. It would be hypocritical and irresponsible to seek the goddess's help after remaining ignorant of her and her wishes for so long.

It was not an ending either of them wanted, but this was the only way Aulariliel could reconcile who she was with her mother's Truth.

But, even if she was the lowest and most wretched of the Aeldari, she was still her mother's child.

The golden haired Aeldari knelt, matching Aulariliel's eye level, then pressed her brow to Aulariliel's own.

Information passed from her to her daughter. A choice was placed before her, with all the costs and benefits of taking it.

Aulariliel's eyes widened.

♪3

"... Hah. Haha! HAHAHAHAH!" Mad laughter began to leak from her mouth as her mother pulled away from her. She knew everything she needed to, so all she had to do was choose whether to take her mother's hand or not.

Aulariliel looked up at the golden haired Aeldari, at Isha.

"You are my mother!" She cried, acknowledging the relationship they shared through their blood. Isha was not the exemplar of the Aeldari. She was not perfect, and her kindness was as cruel as the life giving and taking desert sun.

"Fine! Take my soul! Use it for your miracle!" She shouted as her hands tore open her shirt. "Turn me into the beast that I always was, and I will serve you for all eternity, Mother."

She thrust her chest forwards, exposing her heart to the goddess of life.

Isha frowned slightly, as a sigh exited through her nose. Her daughter's nature was not one she could accept, but she could not force her to change. Then, the only thing left for the two of them would be a compromise.

If this was a perfect world, her daughter and all the others like her would not have taken this offer. She would have waited patiently in the belly of the God of Excess until rescue could come, but her children were not creatures of idleness.

A wooden spear grew out of her left palm, the spear of her consort Kurnous.

She gripped the blade with her right hand and pulled, wetting its tip with her divine blood.

Lifting the spear in both hands, she pointed its tip at her daughter's heart.

One final look was exchanged, and there was no hesitation there; only an endless hunger lay in her daughter's eyes.

Isha stabbed the spear through her daughter's chest, plunging it into her skin until half the shaft had passed through her in a single thrust, but the blade did not exit through Aulariliel's back. It was as if her body had been turned into a pool, and the skin was just the surface of something deeper. Slowly, the spear disappeared under her skin, sucked in like a tree branch trapped in quicksand.

Aulariliel spasmed as the last bit of her father's spear disappeared into her. Pain forced her eyes shut, and she saw the innards of Slaanesh's belly.

Hundreds of other souls, undigested and bound by a branch extended from the Goddess of LIfe through the connection of their twin's soul writhed and thrashed as they all accepted the choice given to them by their mother. She could feel it within her soul, the metamorphosis granted to her by the mixture of her mother's and father's miracles. Her humanoid form split open, and what were four limbs and a head ruptured releasing starfish like arms with wormlike mouths instead of tubed suction feet on the underside.

One by one, the surviving twins burrowed through villi and intestinal walls, dropping from the branch that was attached to them like overripe fruit. They would adapt to their surroundings as the Goddess of Life taught them. Their forms incorporated information from the most virulent and sinister parasites in the cycle of life, sending false signals to the receptors of Slaanesh's Warp biology; tricking them into believing them to be nothing but another creature of Excess as they nestled inside Hir body to feed on Hir unholy blood.

The only things that survive inside intestines are parasites and tapeworms, and that was what they had become. They chose this fate, and in return they would be given the chance to serve Isha in the way they believed was best. Eventually, should their actions satisfy the Goddess of Life, they would reap the greatest excess their mother could allow.

♪3 END

—----------------------------------------

A creature with raven hair and feminine features uncurled her limbs from the fetal position, stretching out her fingers and toes like a babe exploring new limbs. Air rushed into her lungs, and a smile spread across her lips as she opened her eyes.

Pointed ears twitched, catching the sound of clawed toes scraping against hard Wraithbone several blocks away.

The daemons of Slaanesh were still approaching Aulariliel's last known location. She who Thirsts had yet to notice what had happened, but it would be easier to hunt later if they thought there was nothing hunting them in the first place.

The creature in Aulariliel's body rose to her feet, then stumbled as her stomach growled. The rebirth had been taxing, and now she paid the price with hunger. Shaking her head, the creature walked out of the empty room, sniffing the air as she passed through the door.

Before the door closed, the sniffing abruptly stopped, and her head whipped to the right. A wide predatory smile slowly spread across her face, pulling back her shapely lips, and revealing pearly white teeth.

—----------------------------------------

♪4

Under a sky covered by pink-purple clouds, two armed Aeldari men ran through the ruined streets. The remains of their armor was of Commorraghite make, shiny beetle black carapaces with pointed knee and elbow guards.

"Hurry up, Vorlith." One of them hissed. "We didn't escape the pits just to get caught again!"

"Hurry to where, Zaelthar?" The other hissed back. "There are no Webway gates left on this miserable rock. You and I saw to that."

The two were the remains of the teams sent from Commorragh when the madness came. The port city was swarmed by those driven mad by the Prince of Pleasure in the beginnings of the Fall, then daemons poured in through the Webway gates still open on every Core World of the Aeldari empire.

As more and more of Webway gates became invasion points for the daemons, the leadership of Commorragh ordered a simple plan to assure the survival of the port city. Slaves and soldiers were sent through every Webway gate with explosives and weapons to destroy the Webway gates that remained on the Core Worlds.

That was the source of the explosion Kyrazis and Aulariliel experienced in the corridors of the arena.

These two were the survivors of that suicidal endeavor, but when they woke up with ears ringing from tinnitus, they questioned whether they were the lucky ones, for they found themselves in the grasps of the daemons of Slaanesh.

Decades had passed since then. Decades of dehumanization, disgust, despair, and depravity. It was only thanks to their desensitization from growing up in the slums and pits of Commorragh that left the two of them sane, but that was not a positive thing, for it brought the daemons displeasure upon them.

They were thrown into the starvation pits until recently. Deprived of food, water, and light; the daemons of Slaanesh used this as a form of torture to any they deemed too 'stubborn' to receive the pains and pleasures of their god's gifts.

The two of them had clambered out of the pit using bones salvaged from whatever meat the daemons threw down at them as climbing picks while using only touch and the scent of cleaner air to determine which way was up.

After that, they had salvaged their clothes, armors, and weapons from the piles of items the daemons had stripped from all the other survivors, before running into the streets.

"Just keep running." Zaelthar whispered. "Those things see in the dark. It won't take long for them to find out we're missing."

As they passed an alleyway, there was a clanging sound and the two men raised their splinter rifles in the direction of the noise. The sweet smell of natural perfume laced with the iron stench of blood wafted from the darkness of the gap between buildings. There was a scuffling sound, and as their eyes adapted to the gloom of the alley, they saw the curled form of a raven haired woman with tear wetted eyes. There was blood on her right hand, as if she had cut her palm while climbing something, and they could smell the sweet scent of her sweat. Pheromones of fear filled their nostrils, and long forgotten lustful urges awoke in their loins as sadistic daydreams filled their minds.

The woman, either out of fear of their weapons or the glint in their eyes, stumbled to her feet, and ran deeper into the alley.

"After her!" Zaelthar hissed, and the two followed the woman into the darkness.

They had no direction to go, nor ambition to achieve. They simply left the starvation pits because they disliked the living conditions. To such creatures, the simple salivating seductions of the flesh are enough to bring them back into the clutches of temptation.

—----------------------------------------

The woman led them on a long chase through the alleys. They almost lost sight of her at some of the twists, turns, and intersections. Several times, strange scents and marks caught their attention, directing them down a different path. However, every time they were distracted, they heard her stumble or sob and followed the sounds to catch a glimpse of her back or legs as she disappeared deeper into the city.

Finally, they found her standing at a dead end with her back turned towards them.

"Turn around." Zaelthar ordered, pointing his gun at the woman as Vorlith did the same. The twin clicks of safety levers being lifted by thumbs rang.

Slowly, the woman turned towards them. The eyes that were wet with tears were fully dry, and the back that had been hunched with fear was now straight. A bored neutral expression was upon her face.

Had the two of them been able to regain their senses, they would have felt something was wrong. But, in their addled state, the only thing they felt was irritation. They had expended energy and effort chasing this woman with the promise of savaging a weeping victim. This confident creature was not what they wanted.

Zaelthar's finger tightened on the trigger. Shards from a Splinter rifle reduced most to tears as the crystalline spines overstimulated the target's pain receptors. A shot to the arm or leg should restore the tearful expression he had chased after. Then he saw something glint in the woman's right hand. A silver dagger was grasped in the bloodied hand. When she had grabbed he didn't know, but it explained this new expression in his mind.

"Drop that." He ordered.

The woman looked at him, then the dagger, snorted, and dropped it. But, before the blade could clatter to the ground, her foot kicked the base of the hilt, shooting it at Vorlith like a bullet.

♪5

At the same time, the woman lunged forwards.

Zaelthar fired his weapon as Vorlith dodged out of the way of the knife. A stream of crystalline shards flew over the woman's head as she ducked under them, running on all fours like a Gyrinx, before returning to two legs to side step the next stream of shards.

Zaelthar skipped backwards, buying him enough time for one more shot as the woman pounced on top of him. There was no escape for either of them in the air, no avoiding this final shot. He leveled the barrel towards her as her left arm extended towards him.

A smirk crossed his face. It didn't matter if the shot didn't hit anything vital. The pain causing paralytic poisons imbued in the Splinter rifle's ammunition block would stop her from moving no matter where they hit.

Hundreds of shards shot forwards, slicing into her left arm, burying themselves into her skin and bone, unleashing their toxins into her nerves. But, in that adrenaline elongated moment, he saw her eyes widen, not with pain, but with pure ecstasy. Pink lightning crackled across her skin, and her right arm swung itself into his rifle. The weapon shattered, but before it could lose its form, the force of the blow was transmitted to his hands, tearing them off his arms with the weapon itself.

He stumbled backwards, but before he could even scream, a kick cracked his femur in two, bending the leg in the opposite direction.

"Zaelthar!" Vorlith cried out, as he turned his own rifle at the woman. She stood right next to him, and at point blank range he could not miss.

That was… if she was just another Aeldari.

Before the shards could hit her, her back stretched; not backwards, but elongated like a spring, twisting out of the way like a snake.

In that moment, after watching her inhuman movements, Vorlith understood what this thing was. It looked like an Aeldari, but that was just its outer skin; the lure it used to draw in its prey. It was no different from the things that they had run away from several hours ago.

The thing's mouth puckered as its upper torso contorted towards him, and it whistled as its injured left arm struck at him. Wraithbone formed around the wrist as crystalline shards were spat out from her skin, forming a small spike like contraption that extended from under the hand.

All of this took less time than the milliseconds it would have taken Vorlith to readjust his aim, and squeeze the trigger again.

The Wraithbone spike slipped under Vorlith's skin between the 4th and 5th ribs, then opened up releasing hundreds of barbed strings throughout his body, binding tendons and muscles in place as they wrapped around his bones.

The strings detached from the device on the thing's wrist, staunching the entry wound and leaving Vorlith bound by his own body's pain receptors and Wraithbone filaments. The best he could do was gag and grunt as he watched the thing's spine compress back into its Aeldari form.

Zaelthar was already crawling away from him, sobbing and sniffling as he dragged himself using his elbows while leaving a blood trail from his split open leg.

The thing looked around the alleyway then walked over to the knife she had kicked towards Vorlith. Slowly, she sauntered after Zalethar, whistling as she walked. Wraithbone grew upon the thin silver dagger, turning it into a serrated knife. Reaching him, it straddled his waist, grabbing the back of his belt, and dragging him closer towards her.

—----------------------------------------

Two hours passed as the thing did its macabre work.

Zaelthar no longer controlled his own body. The pain left his psychic senses in disarray, and through that gap she had entered him. Every bloodvessel, every heartbeat was under her control, and she used his own body to keep him alive. Capillaries constricted to restrict bleeding, as his heart slowed down to the bare minimum to keep him conscious to slow the blood loss.

Even if he could scream, the hand not holding the knife was forced down his mouth, gagging him as it reached inside his throat.

But, it would soon be over. Only the base of his skull was connected to his spine, and the thing was putting down the knife.

The thing bent down, bringing its mouth close to his ear. The rushing of air was all he could hear as it inhaled for several seconds, then it screamed.

A bone chilling cry tore at his soul, as the same tone the daemons used expelled itself out of her throat, ripping the immaterial essence out of Zaelthar's physical body. But, the process was not smooth. Whether through inexperience, lack of practice, or pure malice her voice did not sever in one clean stroke, but took its time tearing him from himself like an ape pulling a mollusk from its shell.

As the very last bit of him began to rip out of his body, he felt her hand tighten around his exposed neck vertebrae, and her fingers reach deep inside his throat.

The daughter of Isha pulled his spine from his body as she ripped his voice box out of his throat; replicating the disfiguration of the mother and daughter he and the rest of his species was responsible for.

The thing gulped, swallowing Zaelthar's soul as his bloody spine writhed like a trapped eel in her hand without muscles or tendons to move it. Vorlith could only watch and whimper as the thing panted with ecstasy.

This act was dedicated to her mother; a replication of the legend of She who Thirst's formation, a reminder of the pain and suffering it inflicted upon Isha. Isha herself would hate her for this, but she was no longer connected to the Goddess of Life. What her divine mother didn't know wouldn't harm her, and her mortal daughter would not bear her mother's suffering silently. This was revenge against all those who ended the Aeldari pantheon, selfish cruel retaliation done because she saw all that had happened in the immaterium, and could not resist lashing out against all those who had caused it.

Suddenly, there was a thump, and an Aeldari man landed near the deadend of the alley several meters away from them.

The female thing turned to the newcomer, sniffing the air as she did. The man rose, also sniffing the air as he rose from his crouched landing. The sniffing ended, and the man smiled at the female thing. She in turn snorted once, then flicked the serrated knife she had dropped next to Zaelthar's corpse onto her toe, and lifted it towards him in a gentle arc. The man caught the knife, turned to Vorlith, and licked his lips.

He was like her, a thing that looked like an Aeldari, but was no different than the other monsters of this place. But, even with that knowledge, Vorlith could do nothing as the male thing approached him with the serrated knife.

—----------------------------------------

♪6

The creature born from Aulariliel whistled to the spine on her lap, no longer writhing in agony but twitching with pain. She had no name any more. She was a beast, a parasite, a thing that looked and felt exactly like one of the God of Excess's minions.

If there were any differences between her and the other daemons, even those would appear to be no different to an outside observer. However, she still followed the teachings of her mother and father. For example, the body of the prey she had killed would have to be dealt with. Neither parent preached of meaningless killing, and she would have to follow those teachings to the letter now that she was no longer connected to either of them. Otherwise, she truly would be no different to the daemon's of She who Thirsts.

The thought of consuming the remaining meat and bone wrinkled her nose, but this was not a gift she had been given. This was penance and servitude in exchange for salvation and an end to her endless hunger. No matter how nauseating the act was, she would have to take responsibility for the life she had taken.

Wraithbone wrapped around the spine as the physical bones themselves thinned, split, and smoothed to form a bony segmented spear. A small porous cavity formed at the base of the spear tip, and she placed Zaelthar's voice box within it. Wraithbone grew into and around the organ, ossifying and calcifying it so it would withstand greater air friction, temperature, and forceful impacts.

She twirled the spear slowly in her hand, and a mournful warble came from the tip as air entered and exited the bulge at the base with 6 holes at the same time. A psychic command shut the various pores and holes that allowed air to flow, silencing the spear's cry. Then, with a flick of her wrist the individual vertebrae separated, to reveal Wraithbone filaments traveling through them where the spinal cord and fluid would have been, converting the 2 meter long spear into a much longer bladed whip. A reverse flick of the wrist, and the whip shortened itself, forming a short sword and baton bound together at the hilt like a chain linked blade. A third flick, and the spear bent itself backwards to form a longbow as Wraithbone filaments shot from the two ends of it to form the draw string.

Satisfied with her weapon, the woman stroked her stomach where Zaelthar's soul lay. Her mother would disagree emotionally with what she did to him, but there was an element of Truth in what the God of Excess said. They all needed to pay for what they had done, and all those that owed a debt had a certain smell to them. He would be released into his mother's arms, eventually. Until then, they would both work to restore what they could of their mother's garden.

She looked around the alley lazily as she waited for the man who had made the same choice as her to complete his work. The salacious scent marks and false pheromone trails she had painted at the various intersections she had led Zaelthar and Vorlith through would distract the daemons for long enough. They were no doubt currently bickering and accusing each other of stealing the prize they were supposed to share.

Finally, the man rose from the remains of Vorlith, Screaming Spear made from a spine completed in his hand.

No words were exchanged between them. Neither of them could talk anymore. Beasts had no need for words, and the God of Excess had warned that their kin would silence them for they knew the Truth of Slaanesh. Therefore, they would remain silent of their own volition, for their voice was now a weapon to all that heard it. Whether it was to tempt the weak willed, or shatter the strong's resolve, their throat would accomplish both.

The two beasts' ears twitched and both turned towards a pair of masked figures standing at the entrance of the alleyway. Both wore black and white tights and armor, interchanging colors at each joint while splitting the torso into four quadrants of light and dark. Golden masks with purple tassels hid their features, while golden belts and cloth wrapped around their belly and dangled between their legs.

The female creature stood up, grabbing Zaelthar's remains and slinging them over her shoulder as she walked towards the pair. She sniffed the air once, then snorted.

These two smelled empty. Nothing was left of the original beings they had been, and something else puppeteered their hands and feet.

"Welcome, sister and brother." The empty creature crowed as it bowed dramatically before the two of them. "We are the Masque of the Frozen Star, dedicated performers for our mother's histories, tragedies, and comedies."

'Harlequin.' She thought. These performers of Cegorach no longer had free will, or any of their original personality. All of that was sacrificed to the Laughing God when they were incorporated into the Masque, willingly or unwillingly. Now, each one took the persona of the role they played.

Her muscles tensed, as the knowledge she inherited from Isha via Kurnous's spear flowed through her mind. These creatures could be friend or foe, even if they offered service to their shared mother.

Meaningless killing was against her mother's and father's teachings, but killing in self-defense was allowed. At least, it didn't come with the same restrictions that were incurred with Zaelthar and Vorlith.

"Purposeful puppet and new beast of burden. A fine pair we shall make to bring back all our mother's tears." The second Harlequin recited, bowing dramatically as well, mirroring the other.

A smile crossed across both of the beast's lips. These two were on their own hunt, or more accurately a treasure hunt.

The Tears of Isha appears many times in legend, but the most infamous one was the one where Kurnous, Vaul, and Isha reforged them to drop to the mortal realm after the edict of Asuryan was in place.

They said it was to allow god and mortal to whisper to each other from beyond the veil, but none of the three gods' miracles contained anything about communication.

These tears served a different purpose, a purpose that Kurnous was supposed to fulfill, but couldn't with the edict.

Teaching the Aeldari, that was what each Tear was supposed to do. Each one was a psychoactive data matrix whose database of all possible life and the biomes necessary to sustain it was hammered out and replaced by Vaul, so Kurnous's knowledge could be left in the hands of the children of Isha.

Within them were the war songs to sing the ships and weapons they had used during the War in Heaven, battle tactics that had been deployed against the Necron, and psychic spells long forgotten by their thousands of years of cultural decay.

"She who Thirsts knows not the difference between you and Hir own, and a keener nose you have than us." A burgundy clot-like fragment appeared in one of the Harlequin's hands with a flick of its fingers, like a magician pulling a card from a hidden sleeve. "Sniff out the gifts of our mother and father, paid with their blood and pain. In return, we shall call the Cosmic Serpent in your stead, for there are far more hunting grounds to hone your fangs and claws than your old home can have."

The woman's fingers plucked the shard from the harlequin's fingers, drank in its scent, then handed it to the other beast beside her.

"So, quick to choose before and after." The Harlequins chortled in unison. "Perhaps the choice was already made from the beginning before you were born. That shall be what you are, Ara."

Ara (Chosen), the past participle of choice in their language. That was their name now. It did not symbolize the act of some deity. Their name symbolized what they had done. They had chosen this path themselves of their own free will, and they would continue to choose following the same rules, for there was only one end to excess in the mortal realm.

Self-destruction. That was the destiny they would bring to all of those who followed Hir, and they would use Slaanesh's own gifts to bring about that symbolistic end to Hir Truth.

"We shall be watching your performance, Ara." The Harlequin said in unison as they backflipped out of their bow. "Saim-Hann shall open his mouth for you when you have found what we want." The duo shimmered and disappeared, vanishing under hidden holographic projections, no doubt to exit this world from another hidden Webway gate.

The creature that had been Aulariliel snorted. In one day, she had conversed with three gods. As an ex-atheist it was difficult to decide whether it was fortunate or unfortunate.

Her partner pocketed the burgundy shard, and the two disappeared into the city to find an abandoned room or alley to deal with the bodies and make their preparations.

Their hunt had just begun.

#warhammer 40k #eldar #drukhari #drukkari #angst #horror #harlequin #daemons #warhammer40k #demon

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