#I’m going to bite and kill and maim

[mookybear12404]

Everyday I wake up. And have to write another paper

[soup-me-beloved]

On god why am I experiencing a world ending period the MORNING of my big day of exams

[lesbianjackies]

…

*starts violently sobbing*

[idontliketomatoesleavemealone]

I am so mad

[abba-enthusiast]

Why are groceries so expensiiiiiiiiive

[anachronistic-falsehood]

MY SISTER ATE MY FUCKING FOOD

[athenamikaelson]

Klaus Mikaelson x Soulmate!Reader x Elijah Mikaelson Pt. 18

Word Count- 3.9k

Warnings- Swearing, self-inflicted wounds, violence

“No, because we’re mad at Jeremy right now, Theo.”

Theo glares at me from the front door as I hold his car keys hostage, “Correction, bitch. You’re mad at him. My babe made a small error, that’s no reason to hold me hostage, from him.”

I grip the keys tighter and glare at my little brother, “Small error?! Theo, he cheated on Bonnie! How is that a “small error!”

Theo thinks to himself for a moment, tapping his chin, “Well…he said he was sorry. Aren’t we all about forgiveness?”

My eyes narrow at Theo’s question and I fight back the urge to hit the back of his head with my palm. 

“You’re thinking of hitting me right now aren’t you,” Theo purses his lips.

“Maybe…”

Theo and I watch each other for a moment before the ringing of my phone distracts me. This gives Theo the opportunity to snatch the keys out of my hands and I glare at him as he books it out of the front door.

“Theo, you little shit!”

“Hasta La Vista, Nerd!”

I clench the phone in my hand and press the answer button as I watch Theo swerve out of the driveway. 

“What,” I bite out into the phone. 

“Damon, Pukey. Who pissed you off,” Damon Salvawhore’s voice exclaims sarcastically on the other end of the line. 

“What do you want, Demon?”

I can practically see the eye roll he’s giving me right now as he responds, “You need to get your ass down to the grill and calm down your girl. She’s freaking out.”

“Why is she freaking out? What happened,” I hurriedly reply but realize the asshole already hung up on me. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

—-

“Jeremy, the minute that you get this, call me.”

I play with the blue darts in my hand as Elena leaves yet another voicemail to her brother. I tried calling Theo as well but the little asshole shut off his phone. 

“Man, you’re feisty when you’re mad,” Damon throws a dart at the board and I frown heavily when I see he made a bullseye. Future reminder- Don't play darts with a vampire. 

“It’s not that I’m mad. I’m just, I’m worried,” Elena tells Damon and I line myself up to take my turn. I raise my hand with the dart in between my fingers and pull back. 

“Why? He lost his job at the grill? I think he’ll survive, Elena.”

“He’s spiraling,” Elena defends and I fight back the urge to roll my eyes. 

Even though Elena is my best friend, practically my sister, and I love her, after I found out what she did to Rebekah before the homecoming dance, I’ve been a bit ticked at her. 

—

“You did what!?”

Elena flinches back at my loud voice. I had just gotten back from the homecoming dance 30 minutes ago when Elena ended up on my front porch.

“We couldn’t trust her Y/n! I had to do it, nothing could go wrong. We had to kill Klaus,” Elena raises her hands as she tries to reason with me. 

“And how did that work out for you?! Klaus is very much alive, the only one who could kill him is now dead, and when an already heavily pissed off Klaus finds out you stabbed his little sister in the back, LITERALLY, how do you think he’s going to react!”

Elena just sheepishly looks at her hands. 

“And besides…stabbing Rebekah in the back, after she agreed to help?! Elena…I expected better from you,” Elena goes to speak but I raise a finger, “I’m not finished. Why exactly did you hide this from me? Everyone else knew of this plan, why not me?”

I grit my teeth as my mind goes through the idea that has been plaguing the back of my mind ever since I joined Elena’s friend group.

  “I know I just became friends with you guys and I’m nothing special or anything… I just thought,” I press my fingernails into my palm, “I don’t know what I thought.”

Elena walks towards me and shakes her hands, “Y/n that’s not what this is about at all! Of course, you’re a part of us. It’s just that we didn’t want you getting hurt. You’re human and…”

“So aren’t you,” I interject, “Elena I’ve been stabbed, shot, kidnapped, maimed, and harassed by multiple supernatural creatures. And yet I’m still here. I’m not some child who needs protection. I’ve protected myself for years, and I will continue to do it until the day I stop breathing.”

“I know I just…”

“I think it would be better if you leave,” I walk to my bedroom door and open it, “I’m angry and I don’t want to say anything that’ll damage anything.”

Elena opens her mouth and then closes it. I watch silently as she nods solemnly and then walks through my door.

“We’ll talk soon?”

I turn at the teary brown-eyed girl, “Ya…sure.”

—-

“Ever since Bonnie broke up with him,” Elena continues.

“Rightfully so,” I pipe up as I close one eye trying to focus on the board.

“He’s moody and he’s not really talking to anyone.”

My eyebrows furrow and I look back at Elena, “You do realize Jeremy and Theo can’t go even a few hours without the other before one of them starts hyperventilating, right?”

Damon nods and agreement and Elena just frowns.

“She’s got a point, Elena. And besides he’s a typical teenager.”

“Who’s seeing ghosts and who’s lost practically everyone that he cares about?”

“Not everyone. He still has you and Jenna,” Damon responds and turns around and nudges my shoulder.

“You going to shoot that thing or what,” He gestures to the dart in my hand. 

I take a deep breath in and then out. I pinch the dart in between my fingers and bring my hand back. With one final breath, I throw the dart forward and watch as it lands just an inch away from the center.

I smile happily at Damon. He smirks at me and then quickly shoots his next dart. My smile instantly disappears as he shoots it once again into the bullseye. 

“Die.”

Damon raises his eyebrows in shock at my comment before rolling his eyes.

“Already did that sweety, catch up.”

I huff as Damon walks to the board and harshly grabs both of our darts off of it. I turn to Elena who shoots me a questioning look.

“You okay,” Elena asks him. 

Damon turns around, “What makes you think I’m not okay?”

“That’s a loaded question,” I sarcastically reply.

“Well, you’re day drunk,” Elena responds and I fight the urge to remind her that that isn’t a new thing, “It’s not exactly your most attractive look.”

Damon walks closer to Elena, “Oh. What is my most attractive look?”

“Uh-uh. I’m not saying that you have an attractive look. I’m just… saying this is my least favorite one.”

“I’m going to barf,” I groan out as I take Damon’s hand and peel my darts from his palm. 

He lifts his hand for me to take my darts but doesn’t take his eyes off of Elena, “Noted. See if I can make any improvements.” 

I’m still holding onto Damon’s hand when a British accent sends a chill down my spine.

“Don’t mind me.”

“Fuck me,” I throw my head back and sigh.

Damon, Elena, and I both turn to see the Original hybrid leaning against the table in front of us. 

Damon instantly steps in front of both Elena and me as he takes my hand to push me back.

“Klaus,” Elena frightenly says, and the hybrid smirks at her.

“You’re gonna do this in the grill in front of everyone? It’s a little beneath you, don’t you think?”

“It’s not like he couldn’t just compel everyone here Damon. So don’t piss the guy off,” I lean up to whisper to the vampire.

“It appears the princess here is the only one of you with a set of brain cells,” Klaus glances at me and then his eyes move to my hand that is gripping Damon’s. The Original’s eyes narrow and I quickly detach my hand from Damon’s. Confusion fills me as I see a smirk build onto Klaus’ face at the move and he looks at me once more before turning back to Damon. 

“I just came down to my local pub to grab a drink with a mate,” Klaus turns around to a brunette man standing behind him, “Get a round, then, would you, Tony?”

“I’m surprised you stuck around town long enough for happy hour.”

“My sister seems to be missing. Need to sort that out,” At Klaus’ mention of Rebekah a feeling of guilt washes through me and I fight the urge to not glare at Elena. 

“Cute, blonde bombshell, psycho. Shouldn’t be too hard to find,” Damon sarcastically responds. 

“It’s almost like the pot calling the kettle black, Salvawhore,” I’m not sure why I’m defending the blonde Original but something about Damon insulting her pisses me off. 

I once again gain Klaus’ attention but this time his smirk drops slightly and an odd look covers his face. As if he’s not sure why I defended his sister either. 

Klaus quickly turns his attention back to Damon and stalks towards us, “Truth is… I’ve grown to rather like your little town. Thinking I might fancy myself a home here.”

“And what is so special about this little town? There are plenty of others for you to inhabit and rule over,” Damon snarks and Klaus narrows his eyes.

“I have some reasons… or maybe just one,” Klaus smirks at Damon but I could’ve sworn he glanced at me for a split second. 

“I imagine you’re wondering how does this affect you,” I try to take a step back, but Klaus grabs my hand and pulls my fingers apart. I try to fight him but his hold is firm as he takes the darts out of my hand. He pauses for a moment when he sees the small red fingernail marks in my palm. I release a deep breath as he traces his thumb over the marks. 

I furrow my brows as I look up to the man who appears to be in thought. But a moment later he locks eyes with me and his once thoughtful look turns into a glare as he pretty much rips his hand from mine and storms by me. 

“The answer is, not in the slightest. As long as I get what I want and everyone behaves themselves you can go on living your little lives however you choose,” Klaus turns over his shoulder to look at Elena, “You have my word.”

I roll my eyes at Klaus’ mocking tone. 

“What more could you possibly want,” Elena shakes her head at the man.

Klaus points at her and takes a step forward into her space, “Well, for starters… you can tell me where I might find Stefan.”

Damon steps over to them and places himself between the two, “Stefan skipped town the second he saved your ass.”

Klaus turns back around, “Well, you see, that is a shame.”

He quickly shoots the dart and I groan as he makes a perfect bullseye.

“Seriously?!”

Klaus doesn’t spare me a glance as he walks back over to the other two.

“Your brother stole from me. I need him found so I can take back what’s mine.”

“That sounds like a Klaus and Stefan problem,” My eyes practically fall out of their sockets at Elena’s comment. 

Klaus tilts his head and starts walking toward her and I find myself going to step in between them but Damon beats me to it. Klaus turns and smirks at the younger vampire, letting out a low laugh. And I feel my face warm up at the sound. Really dude?!

Klaus turns back to Elena, “Well, this is me broadening the scope, sweetheart.”

Klaus stands back up to his full height and smirks devilishly at the two before walking away. 

Damon and Elena look at each other worriedly and a thought goes into my mind. 

“I’ve actually got to go. I’ll talk to you guys later,” I grab my bag and quickly run off before either of them can say anything.

 I turn the corner of the restaurant where I had seen Klaus just walk down but when I turn I see no one. I frown as the idea I had quickly falls away.

I turn back around but jump back surprised, seeing Klaus leaning against the wall not even a foot away. He’s looking at me oddly and I fight back the wave of nervousness I get from being so close to him. Nervousness because he could kill me at any moment. No other reason. 

“Looking for someone?’’

I grip my bag strap tighter as I bounce lightly on my feet.

“Yes, actually. You.”

My answer seems to confuse him as he tilts his head, “Oh? And why is that?”

I blow out a breath of air, “I had to ask you a question…or two.”

I watch silently as Klaus watches me as well. He leans forward and stands up. He starts walking, or stalking, towards me and I try to find the willpower not to take any steps back in fear. But as he comes to stand so close our feet practically touch, that becomes hard. 

“And what makes you think you can ask me any questions?”

“Because you have such a pleasant demeanor?”

Klaus’ upper lip twitches for a moment, “Is that so?”

“If I say yes will you let me ask you my questions?”

Klaus looks down at me and his eyes make their way over my face. 

“I have things to do, you can ask two questions only,” He pauses for a moment, “And for each question…you have to answer one of mine.”

I frown at his deal, but I still nod.

“Fine.”

Klaus smirks, “Then ask away, Princess.”

“I hate it when you call me that,” I snarl and he lets out a laugh that makes my chest hurt.

“That wasn’t a question.”

“Fucking fine… Why do you have Alastair stalk me?”

Klaus doesn’t seem surprised by my question as he once again leans back against the wall. 

“I can’t answer that,” He replies and raises his hand to glance at his fingernails. 

“Seriously! Are you serious right now!? For months I thought this guy was my first friend that I made on my own and then next thing I know NOPE HE’S A FUCKING VAMPIRE!”

My outburst has Klaus quickly leaning down into my face, “I suggest you keep that voice of yours down,” He glares at me, “For one, we wouldn’t want any of the locals to know about your little friend’s secret…and two, I don’t take kindly to people who raise their voices at me. Matter of fact, the last person who did, I ripped out their spleen and fed it to them.”

I clench my fists hard as I glare at the man, “Is that what you’re going to do to me then,” I bite out and Klaus leans in so our noses are almost touching.

“Trust me, Princess. What I have planned for you is far worse.”

I take a step back in shock, “So you do have something planned for me? Is that why Alastair is following me.”

Klaus closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose as if my presence irritates him. To which, it probably does.

“To answer your question, perhaps. Let’s just say I need you to stay as you are, pretty, unharmed, and horribly obnoxious.”

I pause and my glare instantly drops, “Wait…you think I’m pretty?’’

Klaus goes back to leaning against the wall and staring at his fingernails, “Is that the only thing you heard? Not the obnoxious part?”

I frown at his comment, “Takes one to know one.”

Klaus turns his attention back to me and smirks, “You think I’m pretty too?”

I deadpan at the man, “No. I was calling you obnoxious aswell.”

Klaus smirks at me some more before shrugging his shoulders, “Whatever, you say. Besides…your heart tells a different story.”

I freeze up and can feel the warmth coming back onto my face as Klaus smirks down at me. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I try to deny and Klaus’ smirk somehow deepens. 

“Umhm,” He raises a finger and drags it over my warm cheek. I shove his hand away and he lets out another laugh. 

"I think you might be catching a fever then. Your face feels hot."

I slap his hand away quickly.

“Just ask your stupid question, already!”

Klaus leans back and thinks to himself a moment before raising his hand to show me his palm.

“Why do you do that?”

I frown and he takes this as a sign to explain.

“I saw those fingernail cuts in your palm. Why do you do that?”

I pause again and shake my head in denial.

“Don’t try to lie to me, I can hear your heartbeat,” Klaus sternly says and I sigh.

“I don’t know why I do it,” I lean back against the wall next to him and bring my right hand up to look at my palm. The crescent-shaped marks are freshly red and ugly. 

“Sometimes I get angry and think it would be better to hurt myself than those around me,” I say my thoughts out loud, and then freeze when I realize what I had just said. I look over to Klaus but he’s already looking at me. 

“I’d rather hurt those around me than hurt myself,” He remarks and then looks at my palm that I still have raised, “You should too.”

“That’s where we’re different,” I lower my hand and put it into my sweatshirt pocket, “I don’t want to hurt those around me. And I don’t get joy from it either.”

Klaus narrows his eyes at me, “Your mistake.”

“Is it though? Is not wanting to hurt others truly that bad?”

Klaus tightens his jaw and then quickly grabs my hand from my pocket and shoves it to my face, “When it results in you hurting yourself then yes, Astin Min. I would much rather you hurt everyone else.”

“Why? Why does it matter to you,” I question him and he drops my hand and stares at the wall in front of us. 

“Is that your second question?”

I bite my lip and then cross my arms over my chest, “No.”

Klaus doesn’t turn to me, “Then ask your second one already.”

  I pause for a moment thinking over if I really want to ask him this, “Um… when you get your family back from Stefan,” Klaus turns his head slightly to look at me, “Will you wake Elijah up?”

At the mention of his brother Klaus’ once calm demeanor seems to darken. 

“And why do you care,” He stands up and takes a step away from me.

I shrug my shoulders trying to act nonchalant, “I just don’t think he should stay daggered.”

Klaus’ nostrils flare and my nervousness from before comes back as it looks like he’s going to kill something. Or someone. 

“My brother will be awoken when I wake him,” Klaus practically snarls out.

“That’s not the answer I wanted,” I glare at him.

“Too bad. My turn,” He harshly says, “Who shot you?”

I frown at the question. 

“Excuse me?”

“I want an answer, Princess. Who. Shot. You,” Klaus stalks towards me with every word.

“Why do you care?”

“You’re out of questions.”

“Why? Want to tell them they have a nice aim or something?”

Klaus’ blue eyes darken and a chill goes through my body.

“Fine,” I sigh, “It was the Sheriff. But it was an accident. She meant to shoot Damon.”

Klaus continues to stare at me for a moment before rolling his shoulders and nodding his head.

“This has been a fun chat, Princess. Unluckily for the both of us, I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon.”

That’s the last thing Klaus says before he walks back down the hall and I’m left somehow more angry and pissed off than ever.

— 

“Of course, Elena. Theo and I will be home all night. Once again I’m so sorry. Let me know if you guys need anything.”

I hang up the phone and then run a hand over my face. 

“Are you okay?”

 I quickly fake a smile at Theo as he walks into the kitchen.

“Ya, I’m totally good,” I lie. How exactly was I supposed to tell my little brother his football captain compelled his best friend to walk in front of a speeding car driven by a hybrid?

Actually… 

“Your football captain compelled Jeremy to walk in front of a speeding car driven by a hybrid,” I quickly blurt out to Theo who is staring at me blankly. 

“Wait…Tyler did what?!” 

I raise my hands up realizing I could’ve eased him into this. 

“Tyler’s a hybrid. Which is a vampire slash werewolf mix. And vampires and werewolves both exist because the supernatural exists. Caroline, Stefan, and Damon are all vampires. Elena is a doppelganger which means she's got an old-ass twin who is also a vampire… Um, Bonnie is a witch, and um… I think that’s it. I wanted to tell you but I also wanted to protect you. But with everything going on and with Jeremy almost getting killed I realized that leaving you in the blue might be the worst thing to do. I am so sorry.”

Theo blinks at me. And then blinks at me again. 

“I know this is a lot to handl-”

“I know.”

I frown at Theo’s words, “You mean you know this is a lot to handle?”

Theo walks by me and grabs an apple from the dining table, “Nope.”

I open and close my mouth about a thousand times and Theo just watches me as he eats his apple. He’s got about halfway through it before he speaks again.

“Is Jeremy okay?”

I open my mouth again and then just silently nod at my brother’s chill deamor. 

Theo nods, “Good,” and then takes another bite. 

“Good? What the hell do you mean good?!”

I throw my hands into my hair and pull on it in exasperation. My brother leans against the kitchen island and watches my tantrum with a bored face.

“Would you have rather Jeremy been not good,” He asked nonchalantly and I think I’m going to scream. 

“What the hell is going on?!”

Theo must be getting tired of my screaming because he throws the apple core in the trash and then walks back over to me, “Jeremy told me about the supernatural like weeks ago. He knew what it was like being left in the dark and didn’t want that for me. Unlike him though, who had a hissy fit when his sister kept it from him, I understand why mine did it. I appreciate you trying to keep me out of this, but when my main bitch, and my sister are a part of the supernatural world. That means I am too.”

I stand with my mouth hung open as my brother pats me on my shoulder, “I’m going to let you have a moment to yourself. We’ll chat later.”

I watch bewildered as Theo casually walks down the hall and back towards his room.

What the fuck?!

[theseinfernalangels]

Forgive and Forget - Aaric Graycastle

Synopsis: After the most venomous arguments, the best way of healing comes from soft apologies and gentle touches.

A/N: I think this might be the longest fic I’ve ever written. I don’t mind, though, because I’m also very proud of it. Aaric girls are generally quiet on here, but I see y’all.

Includes: Angst, slight miscommunication, temper issues on Reader’s part, hurt comfort, kissies, fluff at the end. Takes place somewhere between the margins in Iron Flame.

As far as you remembered, you’d never gotten so…disgruntled with Aaric before.

“I’m telling you, it’s a fucking death sentence!” he huffed, his emerald-like irises glittering in anger. “I’m not trying to disregard your abilities or autonomy. I just need you to stay alive.”

“Please,” you scoffed, crossing your arms and glaring up at him like anger incarnate. “Our entire lives are death sentences in of themselves. You do not get to act like you have anystanding in trying to protect me whilst you go and put yourself in the same situation.”

Your fury didn’t make sense to him. He knew you were hotheaded, obviously, but this was on another level; you’d never gotten this upset with him. Had he really offended you so badly? All he wanted to do was protect you from whatever the hell beyond the wards — even if he had to go beg a General to keep you here to do it.

He opened his mouth to counter your words, but you beat him to it. “If you have any other complaints, I’m sure someone else in Leadership will hear you out. We are soldiers, Graycastle. Soldiers fight, and they die. I’m more than willing to give my life for the good of Navarre.”

Aaric’s fingers curled into fists as he struggled to hold back bitter, poisonous words that he knew he would regret sooner or later.

“You can’t just give your life away like it’s nothing,” he said quietly, desperately. “Don’t you get it? Your life matters to people. To me.”

His quiet admission made the fire in your chest falter a little, but it was no use; you were just too stubborn, too prideful, too hurt by the fact that he wouldn’t let you do this for yourself and your friends.

“I’ve known my mission since day one,” you replied lowly. “If I have to die to accomplish it, then so be it. That is what it means to be a rider. We go into this line of work under the pretense that death is certain. I accepted that long ago. You should, too.”

You are so much more than your line of duty, he wanted to say. You are so much more than a soldier, than a person on a mission. Losing you would be like losing the sun.

The words stuck to the back of his throat like some sort of magic was forcing him to choke and drown in them. What could Aaric say to change your stubborn mind? To make you see his logic, to keep yourself from being killed?

You clenched your fists and let out a long, slow exhale to try and quell your anger. “We’re done here,” you whispered, turning around with militaristic precision and beginning to walk away. 

You paused once to turn back to him, your voice quiet and cold.

“If you ever try to pull this bullshit again, Cam, I will never forgive you, nor will I forget it.”

His actual name slipped from your lips before you could have even stopped it, the usual warmth gone in a whirlwind of ice and venom. He’d flinched imperceptibly before you stormed off — a look in his eyes that told you that you’d fucked up on many, many levels.

⋆⁺₊❅.

You weren’t sure what was stinging more — your torn, bloody knuckles, or the venomous words that still danced cruelly over your tongue, ready to bite and maim and hurt. They felt so foreign, for once. You had no issue lashing out at the people who deserved it; the ones who reeked of arrogance and disrespect, the ones who sought to harm and oppress.

Aaric, though?

He’d only wanted to keep you safe. Granted, you thought it was valid how you’d initially reacted. He’d gone to General Sorrengail specifically to ask her to take you out of the squad for your mission. It was shitty, yeah, but he was only concerned for you. And how had you repaid his concern?

You’d spit his real name at him like it was cursed, like it was offensive. What usually came out as warm and gentle on pretty April evenings had turned cold and hurtful.

You’d hurt him. 

You hadn’t meant to call him that. That was an asshole move, and you knew it. But you couldn’t stop it, his name falling from your lips all icy and strict and damaging.

You want to go back and apologize. Tell him you didn’t mean that. But your pride overpowers you, and you know that this should be a lesson for him never to try and disrespect you and your decisions like that again.

You’re torn — more than the skin on your hands that stung and bled from how hard you’d punched the stone walls of your room. You could get some ice to layer on your fingers so that the throbbing would subside. You could be doing anything else, really, than sitting on your bedroom floor, silently stewing in red-hot anger and staring at the bloodstained wall. You didn’t have the energy, though. You felt drained, as if arguing with your — whatever Aaric was to you — had sucked the life out of you. Your dragon wasn’t even speaking to you.

“Wait and think, girl,” she’d said before slamming her shields up, as if she wanted you to figure the entire thing out yourself. “Wait, listen, and think.”

…

What a bitch.

You slump against the wall. It was pointless to get so angry at Aaric, you realize. He just cares about you, but you still think your anger is justified. You feel like an ass, but you think he’s an ass, too. Skies.

You could get up and go to him, you think. You should get up and apologize for lashing out like that. Your anger, cold as ice and more ferocious than that of a hurricane, was not something that the likes of Aaric Graycastle deserved. Sure, you had every right to be pissed at him for trying to talk Leadership out of letting you go on a mission you’d worked so hard to be chosen for…But to yell at him, tell him he’s illogical, and then take something he’d trusted you with and throw it back in his face?

Maybe you were the real asshole here. 

Fine. You stand up with a groan and sluggishly make your way to the door, reluctantly ready to try and work through the problem. 

What would you even say to him? You pause in front of the mahogany wood of the door, trying to script out some half-hazard apology. 

I’m sorry for being a bitch again. I’m sorry I said your name like that. I’m sorry I hurt you for hurting me. I’m sorry that you care about me, for whatever reason. I’m sorry I misinterpreted your intentions, kind of. I’m sorry I took your light, grew a firestorm from it, and made sure it burned you. I’m sorry that you chose to want me alive. I’m sorry I lo—

Your racing thoughts are cut off by a sharp tapping noise from the other side of the door. Despite its roughness, it sounds careful. Hesitant. Like whatever is inside the room — you — needs to be handled with caution.

It makes you feel worse.

But, as much as you feel terrible, you refuse to act like a coward after all of that fighting. It would make the situation even more unfair for the both of you.

Steeling your nerves, you push the door open, grab at the scarred hand you know is resting on the door handle, yank Aaric in past the wards, and shut the door behind him.

Aaric practically topples into your room with a yelp as you slam the door shut behind him, barely managing to keep himself from falling flat face first into the floor. He braces a hand on the wall next to him and turns to you to give a dry, scathing remark when a tinge of red catches his peripherals. He looks down.

Great skies. You’re hurt.

Your back is to him as you let out a slow exhale to try and calm yourself. You don’t know why you let him in. Stupid, you mentally chide yourself.

You sigh, turning around to face him. Your eyes are narrowed, but your tone is defeated and hoarse as you speak, as if your voice was rusted from disuse.

“Spit it out, Graycastle.”

Aaric takes a moment to look you up and down. You look bad. Your knuckles are bloody, and you’re standing with your usually-set shoulders slumped, something in your voice sounding…exhausted. It makes his own anger disappear in a second, that tired look. A barely-there glance at the reddened stone wall tells him everything he needs to know. He swallows the lump forming in his throat as he speaks.

“Can I touch you?”

If this had been earlier, you would’ve punched him in your anger, bloody hands or no. You would’ve yelled or spit some other insult at him to make him leave.

But, honestly? You’re done now, and his concern for you — even after hurting him in a way you’d never thought yourself capable of — makes your heart ache.

You don’t say anything, don’t even look at him as you raise your hands in front of you.

He raises his hands, rough but gentle, to yours, cradling them and turning them to inspect the damage done. A small hiss leaves his mouth at the state of your knuckles before he tugs on your wrist with a murmured, “Sit.”

You let yourself be pulled to the edge of your bed, and you plop down numbly as Aaric stands before you. Then, he does something you don’t expect.

His legs fold, and then he’s suddenly kneeling in front of you, your hands still resting in his. His head is bowed and his breath hits your skin softly.

This is wrong, you tell yourself. You shouldn’t be allowing him to get this close to you — not after what you did to each other. You’re hurt, and you don’t want to see him. On the other hand, though, you don’t think you can go very long without seeing him. Ignoring him is harder than getting close to him.

Aaric’s eyes are locked on your knuckles, his long fingers gently brushing against the wounds.

He can’t look up at you yet, not without breaking the delicate peace between the two of you. He’s scared to look up at you. His heart is hammering in his chest, terrified of what you’ll say.

Instead, he focuses on the wounds. His head is low, but his shoulders are straight, the picture of a proper and stoic rider…except this one is on his knees for you.

You’re both silent for a moment. Aaric is still gently inspecting your knuckles, his touch feather-light.

Every time the pads of his fingers brush over the skin, you feel a shiver run down your spine.

It’s…strange. There is no anger between you both anymore. Any grudges that had risen on your argument had simmered and cooled, leaving both of you with…peace?

No. Not peace, but quiet. A quiet understanding.

You swallow. You don’t want to speak first. You know you’ll fuck it up if you do. You know Aaric won’t, either. You guess it’s some some princely chivalry of some kind. He would let you talk first.

Damn him.

You both remain silent for a few minutes before you quietly say, “It looks worse than it feels.”

You don’t need to see his face to know that his lips are twitching in disapproval. He’s used to you, which is why he continues to lightly brush his fingers against your knuckles, trying to ignore the sharp inhale you keep making at his touch.

He takes a moment, choosing his words carefully.

“Did the wall win, at least?”

You press your lips into a thin line to contain the smile that dares to tug at your mouth.

“Dunno. You tell me. It looks pretty roughed up from this angle.”

His eyes finally flick up to your face before glancing back down at your hands.

“Huh. You sure it didn’t hit you back?”

You look down at your hands, your split knuckles still welling with blood. Yikes. You should probably find a better outlet for your anger than punching the wall like it personally offended you.

You take a deep breath. “It may have blind-sided me a few times.”

A soft chuckle leaves Aaric’s throat. He can’t help it. You’re just so…you, sometimes.

Stubborn, proud, icy, brilliant, beautiful…

He shifts forward, using the sleeve of his jacket to dab at some of the blood, wiping the excess from your knuckles. “You should probably find a better way to vent than beating the shit out of an innocent wall.”

He pauses and fishes a little cloth from his pocket, taking it in between his forefingers and swipes it over your bruised and torn skin.

Extensive training at from before Basgiath has taught you to contain any pained sounds that could leave you, but you can’t help the way your nose scrunches at the sting in your hands. You suppose he’s right. You do need to learn control — both over your mind and your mouth.

You spend a few more minutes in silence before you decide to start talking again. No time like the present to vomit out the words that are bubbling over in your mind. 

“Listen, Aaric. I…I didn’t-“

Aaric’s fingers still at the sound of his name, but he doesn’t look up at you. Instead, he continues to dab away at the blood, his knuckles brushing against the open wounds, before resting the cloth against your middle knuckle. You know he’s listening, though. Waiting intently for you to collect your words before he can cut in.

Oh, damn him. He knows you hate vulnerability and won’t look at you because it’s less pressure on you. Screw his chivalry!

You take a deep breath. “I…What I said earlier…I didn’t mean to. It was a shitty move on my part, and I’m sorry.”

You’re talking about all of it: Being slightly unreasonable, your stubbornness, accidentally saying his real name with all of the venom you could muster…All of it.

He pauses, his fingers gripping your hands slightly tighter than before. He still won’t meet your eyes, but he knows he has a reason; if he looks up, all of his carefully crafted self control will be gone in an instant. His thoughts and feelings would spill out like water from an overflowing bathtub. His silence allows you to continue, the words spilling from you like one of your usual drunken rambles.

“I know you were just trying to look out for me,” you say softly. “I know it’s because you care. I’m sorry for throwing that back in your face. But…I need you to understand why it upset me.”

For the first time since he’s stepped into your room, Aaric looks up at you. His eyes meet yours, and they’re filled with a gleam you’ve only seen on a few occasions.

He just holds your gaze, nodding slightly, letting you know that he’s willing to hear you out. He’s so damn patient with you, and it only serves to make you feel more guilty.

You can’t help the thought: Skies, he’s absolutely beautiful. That’s a prince for you.

“I…” You falter, swallowing. “I get why you asked Leadership to keep me here. But you’ve gotta understand, Aaric…That hurt me. I’ve worked hard for this — my position, my signet, my role in these sorts of things. And for you to ask them to disregard that just for safety…That felt infantilizing. You made it sound like none of my skills even mattered in the long run.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” you add. “I think getting mad at you was perfectly reasonable and fair. I’m still pretty pissed with you. But you didn’t deserve what I said. I don’t — I know I need to work on my temper, and lashing out at you like that didn’t help the situation.”

Fuck, he thinks. This gorgeous, infuriating woman.

He nods as if he’s fully digesting your explanation, his fingers tapping against yours thoughtfully. “I understand. I guess I deserved some of it, anyway.”

You chew on your lip absentmindedly before you continue, your voice soft.

“Gods, no…I’m not…”

You huff in frustration at your lack of confidence. “I am so fucking sorry that I talked to you that way.”

You’re being specific without really saying it. You’re referring to you calling him by his actual name with such icy venom in your voice. It wasn’t even on purpose, but you still felt horrible about it. That’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it?

His eyes don’t meet yours, but his hands trace over your wrists lightly. He reaches into his pocket and produces a small roll of bandages, ripping a small piece off and beginning to wrap your hands in the pristine cloth.

“You hurt me, you know.”

His words are simple, delivered as soft and straight-on as your own.

Ouch. His words break your heart to splinters, but it’s deserved. You nod. You deserve this.

“I know,” you confirm quietly, guilt and shame clear in your voice. “I never meant to do that, nor do I ever intend to again. I can’t give you an excuse for that, but I’m apologizing anyway, because it was shitty to throw that at you, especially when we were both vulnerable.” 

Aaric looks thoughtful for a moment, his fingers still gently wrapping your wounds, cleaning up the blood and covering the scrapes with the now-stained bandages.

Once he’s finished, he keeps your hands in his, his eyes finally lifting up to meet yours. He keeps his gaze locked on yours as he lifts one of your hands up to his mouth—

And gently kisses the inside of your wrist.

Oh. 

Oh.

His mouth is softer than you could’ve imagined, gentler, leaving a gentle brush of heat and faint pressure on your sensitive skin. Every nerve ending there is tingling with something new, unfamiliar.

You’ve always been a hyperaware person; right now, you’re very aware that your cheeks are warm.

You’d never admit it to him, but you’d always wondered what his lips felt like. You’d never imagined that they’d be so soft on your skin.

Your hand twitches and you blink down at him. What do you even say in this situation?

“I…Aaric-“

“Hush,” he murmurs, cutting you off. He shifts so he’s more comfortable, still kneeling in front of you. He remains staring at you, though, his beautiful green eyes never wavering once.  Gentle kisses trail up your wrist towards your palm, each of them a small burst of heat against your skin.

Now, how did a civilized conversation about apologies end up like this? You barely have a clue; honestly, there aren’t many coherent thoughts on your brain right now that aren’t about him. Your pulse goes mad, the soft skin of his lips sending a small chill down your spine. You want to say something, but you know he’d just shush you again, so you just stare at him, stunned into silence.

He snickers quietly at your widened eyes. “You,” he says in a low voice, “tend to speak without thinking. This—“ Another kiss is pressed to your wrist, just above your veins — “feels like the easiest way of getting you to be quiet.”

You blink. Once, twice, three times before you respond.

“I’m not running my mouth,” you insist, your voice coming out a little softer, a little unsure. “I’m apologizing for hurting you.”

He exhales quietly. “I know,” he replies. “And I’m doing the same.”

You assume this is some royal thing that you don’t know about. Whatever it is, it’s certainly…intimate.

Your eyes soften as you watch him. You’d honestly been considering sobbing into him and trying to make up an excuse for yourself, but that was a shitty idea.

Yeah. You’d much rather be here with him.

The corner of his mouth quirks upwards, his free hand lifting up to tenderly trace your jawline, the callouses on his palm scraping gently against the skin.

“I can see the gears turning. You think it’s different?”

It’s almost like he’s read your mind. 

“Well…Yeah,” you reply. “And I think I should be making up for what I said. You don’t deserve my anger.”

He laughs a little. “I get it. But I think this makes up for it plenty, if you’re alright with it.”

Oh, you’re more than alright with it. It makes you fucking ecstatic.

You sigh. “…Sometimes I don’t know if I want to kiss you or kill you.”

He stills, and you immediately curse yourself internally. Good going, hotshot. You ruined the moment.

He blinks up at you. The two of you have never actually kissed each other. Sure, you’d had intimate moments like this, but your lips had never had the pleasure of meeting his. You were always too afraid of taking, and he was always too nervous to go too far with you.

The room is silent for a moment before he tilts his head. “No pressure.”

…

Fuck it, you think. It wouldn’t hurt to try, if he’s inviting you.

Whether he’s kidding or not, your gaze falls on his lips. You bring your free hand up, gently tracing his bottom lip. His lips are pretty and soft, as if he somehow had snuck in that little tin of salve in his pocket and carried it everywhere he went with you. Princely habits died hard.

He takes a breath, his gaze still locked on yours as the tip of your finger lightly brushes against the soft skin of his lower lip. Aaric’s hand comes up to gently catch your wrist, his thumb holding it there against his mouth. Waiting. 

Well, at least you know that he won’t reject you if you actually kiss him.

You stare at him evenly, your gaze fond and affectionate. What a darling he is — you don’t know why you haven’t done this sooner.

You ease both his and your hand away from his mouth and slowly - giving him the chance to pull back - brush your lips against his, hesitant but heartfelt at the same time. Nothing rushed, nothing too sensual…Just a sweet little peck on his (admittedly pretty) mouth.

His eyes flutter shut. He’s frozen in place again, but for an entirely different reason this time, as the touch of your mouth on his sets off a strange heat in his gut. It’s soft, sweet, just a warm little touch, but the second you pull away, his eyes slowly open again, his gaze hazy as he looks at you.

That little kiss was the best apology he’s ever received. And now he wants to return the favor so badly.

You pull away. You don’t really want to go much further than a couple of pecks or two — not now, not in a moment like this where emotions are raw and you feel so vulnerable still.

You look at him, still on his knees in front of you with your less-bloody knuckles in his hand.

“Apology accepted?” you prompt him.

Aaric’s mouth is buzzing a little, the rapid thud of his heartbeat louder than your words in his ears. His thumb gently brushes underneath your chin, the pad of his digit tracing just underneath your lower lip.

“What..?”

It takes another moment for him to process the words you said, and then he lets out a soft laugh, his gaze still locked on your face.

“Oh. Right. More than accepted.”

He goes quiet for a moment before he leans in again, his breath tickling your cheek.

“Can I have a turn in apologizing?” He asks like he isn’t staring directly at your mouth.

You smile fondly. “Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

[ultravioletbrit]

“numb” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 532 words

Part 5/5 (part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4)

“Speak.” Sirius is standing in front of Regulus with his arms crossed.

“I’m not a dog, Sirius.” Regulus says, rubbing his ear that’s gone numb after Sirius used it to drag him across the room.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, please regale us with your ever heroic tale.” Sirius says overdramatically.

“Not much to say.” Regulus shrugs. “I left home, transferred schools and I start here next week.” Sirius just stares at Regulus for a moment.

“That’s it? You left? Just like that?” Sirius asks after a minute.

“Well, I left a note.” Regulus says casually.

“And you thought the best way to tell me this was to accost my best mate?”   

“That part was an accident.” Regulus tells him.

“Happy, right? Happy accident?” James speaks up.

“James, twenty minutes ago you thought he was a crazy person.” Sirius points out.

“I still kind of do. But he’s gorgeous and what’s life without a little risk?” James winks at Regulus.

“You need to sort out your priorities.” Sirius shakes his head at James.

“Plus, he’s related to you, he can’t be that insane.” James continues.  

“That is very flawed reasoning.” Regulus tells James. “Besides, you chose to be friends with him, I should be the one judging your sanity.”

“Don’t worry James, I chose to be your friend too. You’re just as sane as I am.” Sirius pats James on the shoulder.

“That’s a scary thought.” James and Regulus say at the same time and turn to look at each other. James smiles at Regulus and Regulus bites to inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling back. This only makes James’ smile grow wider.  

“What’s going on here?” Sirius asks, looking back and forth between them. James and Regulus continue to stare at each other for several moments before James clears his throat.

“Sirius… could you… err…” James says and nods his head towards the other room.

“What?” Sirius asks.

“Just…” James nods more firmly.

“What?” Sirius puts his hands on his hips.

“Sirius, just for like two minutes, could you go. in. there.” James nods his head on each of the last words.

“Nice one, James.” Regulus says sarcastically. “Very smooth.”

Sirius glares at James but eventually relents and stomps into James’ bedroom.

“Fine! I’ll be in your bedroom, making no noise and pretending I’m not there.” Sirius slams James’ bedroom door and proceeds to make as much noise as possible.

James and Regulus look at each other and roll their eyes at Sirius’ dramatics.

“So…” James starts. “About giving me your number…” He smiles and takes out his phone.

“You never quit, do you?” Regulus asks.

“Oh, c’mon. I face death.” James nods once again towards Sirius. “In the hope that you will please give me your number.”

“He would never kill you. Only maim, or seriously injure.” Regulus smirks. Then he glares at James for a moment before shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I have a feeling it’s not good.” Regulus finally lets himself smile at James.

“Oh, I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” James smirks at Regulus.  

Regulus rolls his eyes, but nevertheless, he reaches over and takes James’ phone to add his number.  

[neptuneunworthy]

Devour

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Durge

Synopsis: It is so early in your adventures, you've yet to even infiltrate the goblin camp and save The Grove; there are so many things you don't know about your companions...and so many things they don't know about you. At least you don't go around and bite people awake however, like certain bloodthirsty rogues.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Violence, Blood, Injury

Rating: Teen and up audiences

Stars always shine brightest when away from the hustle and bustle of the large cities like Baldur’s Gate or Neverwinter. The sky is not scarily illuminated by a gross cacophony of embers aching for more. It is when they shine so bright, when they twinkle just perfectly, that hope is born.

You were born without Hope. 

You were created without Hope.

This is not an odd thought, though as quickly as you register it not to be odd you also register you are unaware of how you know this fact about yourself. How can you be so sure? Because, if you were honest, you cannot for the life of you recall anything.

His smile is small and gentle as the boy crouches beside you with a ladybug on his finger, a leather-bound journal loosely folded in his lap. He’s small, like you, and just a kid, also like you. Though he could not be more different than you.

“What’s your name?” Your voice is squeaky, yet cracks from dehydration clawing its way up your throat.

The boy looks at you with a grin and worried eyes. Very few have looked at you before like that. Then again, you’re only eight years old.

“I’m-“

“Tav!” 

Your hands tightened around the thin linen, wringing it out a last time as your name was shouted by a certain wizard. Of course this likely meant supper was ready, hells even all the way out here by the lake you could smell the sweet aroma of spiced and juiced meat; the burning wood mixing with the scent in a way that made you truly realize you had been starving

You tossed the tunic over a rock with the other clothing and armour to dry and dust the mixture of sand and dirt from your legs, before turning on your heel and going to join the others. Their voices had already begun to mix with each other in chatter around the fire, Gale the loudest of them as he explained in detail what part of Faerun he would be feeding everyone tonight. 

Of course, only Wyll and Karlach seemed interested. Maybe that wasn’t wholly true. Lae’zel was interested, after all she was a woman of respect and even admitted Gale’s cooking to be “suitable.” However, she still will voice her very loud complaints against Faerun and it’s cooking even so.

Gale didn’t seem to mind, though in your humble opinion you think that’s just because he’s a mixture of too kind, but also Lae’zel even finding his cooking “suitable” should be considered a victory.

You took your seat next to Shadowheart, admittedly she was the person you had found yourself the most comfortable around thus far. That was putting it lightly of course. But she was open and honest about her loss of memories, though she seemed to understand exactly why. Whereas you were not aware of anything. Save for certain…feelings when it comes to violence.

Still, there was a nice and quiet camaraderie formed over this; though you opted to not mention to her or anyone much about certain urges. Save for when you first inquired most everyone about them and they all gave you unsatisfactory answers.

You still had yet to confess it was you who killed Alfira. Though there was plenty of time to say as such, right? After all, the whole past day was spent fighting goblins at a windmill and spiders before you resume your trek toward the goblin camp once more. You were just busy and focused on other things that didn’t include confessing maiming an annoying bard only after just meeting her.

Ah.

Has it truly only been five days so far?

Everyone was such chums already.

Well, save for…

“It seems our white-haired friend has disappeared off to gods knows where again,” you mumbled. You weren’t an idiot, you had seen him stalk off the past few nights. “Where do you think he’s gone to?”

Shadowheart hummed in thought, biting down on a tender piece of pork before sipping from her goblet. “I pray somewhere won’t require me to heal him again. ”

She followed this by also side-eyeing yourself, which resulted in a quiet chuckle from you. It would be correct that both the pale elf and yourself had already made a pattern of needing frequent healing from her after battles.

“I mean it,” Shadowheart continued, though there was an ounce of teasing in her tone, “you would think for someone as sneaky as him he would be able to dodge out of harm's way. I suppose I should be glad he doesn’t beg me to heal him like you do--”

“-I do not beg-”

“-and instead he feigns ignorance to his wounds. Acting all annoyed and like a cornered cat when I manage to finally cast a spell on him. You can be thankful but him? You would think he would at least try to be cooperative since he is on a team…”

Her words now had taken a turn to actual complaining, which you listened to, and even admittedly agreed with. 

You looked down at the food, picking at it with your fingers. “I think he shows thanks in uncanny ways. He’s disarmed more traps and swiped more gold for us than any of us ever could--not without being caught or killed at least.”

As you ate, finally, she seemed to ponder these words. Even if you agreed with her rant over the man, you had to be tactful and give him the benefit of the doubt as much as you have given her. Hells, as much as you have given everyone else. There is a part of you that calls you stupid for it, a tremor in your hand wishing to claw its way around your companions throats. 

However, if you are to survive, if you are to hopefully eventually understand that supposed butler , then you need to ensure everyone gets along. 

“You may be correct Tav,” she said after taking another sip of wine (which had been stolen from The Grove), “but it would be nice to feel recognized.”

You understood, though for several reasons that felt lost to you. So you simply agreed with a nod. Recognition could mean a lot of things to both of you, but that was the unspoken truth in the statement, wasn’t it?

People eventually returned to their tents, save for yourself and Gale, whom you had offered your help to when it came to cleanup. He appreciated the offer. Despite your reservations about Gale, mostly as he insulted your knowledge as a fellow wizard…and perhaps guilt (why do you feel guilt?) from almost ripping and eating his arm unbeknownst to him, you find his companionship affable. 

It’s a type of acquaintanceship you can appreciate because you both can prattle on about the arcane to someone who actually understands it. 

“A shame Astarion did not make it to dinner tonight,” Gale bemoaned as he changed the topic away from cantrips. “I set a portion aside from him and everything.”

You eye’d at the plate of sauteed pork, likely a bit cold by now.

“I can wait for him. Make sure he gets it.”

Gale looked at you with a soft smile. “Truly that would be wonderful. I must admit I have grown a bit worried about our friend. At first I thought it was maybe my food smelled as foul as the Owlbears nest, but I have not seen the roguish man eat anything thus far.”

“I promise you he will eat your very delish and not putrid smelling meal.”

That gained a chuckle from both him and yourself, but you additionally also said, “I will finish up here. You already have done more than enough in cooking the whole camp a delicious meal, go get some rest.”

He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave a squeeze, “thank you, Tav.”

This is what Shadowheart means by wishing people (Astarion) said thank you, or that people (also Astarion) gave proper recognition where proper recognition is due.

You understand that the elf is probably just a very secretive person, which made sense considering his role in your camp after all. Honestly, you were pretty certain that he simply reads his books as he dines lavishly in the woods by himself with whatever tasty foods he swiped during the day. He is here for the reason everyone else is, and that’s to find out more about the pesky parasites burrowed in your brains.

Which perhaps is why Shadowheart is right; he needs to be more cooperative with the group. Though you can also understand the reasoning for keeping distance.

You cleaned off the plates from everyone else, leaving the one for Astarion untouched. Scratch, the dog that you had met crying over his dead owner, seemed more than happy to eat and lick any crumbs or residue left on the plates before you washed them by the lake. At least before he made his rounds to everyone’s tents; a ritual the dog performed each night to decide whose tent he shall sleep in.

When you settled back down by the now dwindling fire, you leaned back on the palm of your hands and looked up to the sky, taking it all in as you waited for the man of the hour to return. The stars did shine bright. They winked and kissed at you from afar. Whispering soft nothings in their twinkles and glimmers. A feeling swells in your chest as you look up at them. A profound loneliness overtaking your being. It didn’t feel right to be sitting here under the sky with the dim fire all alone. 

Obviously you weren’t actually alone. You had the aforementioned tadpoles to make sure of that. But it was different. You could feel yourself actually begin to relax as you looked at the gleaming night sky, but at the same time your chest swelled for something your mind believes was once real. Yet you had no name to place it to. No person to place it toward.

You slumped down onto the bedroll, one spare you brought out so you hadn’t been waiting patiently on the hard dirt ground, and laid on your back. Your hands rested over your stomach, your chest rising and falling gently, as your eyes stayed trained up above. 

It was horrible to miss something you didn’t know. 

Against your better judgement, and your word to Gale, you felt the mistress of sleep had called as your eyelids had grown heavy, and they had begun to shut. 

You had caught yourself, your eyes opening wide and body slightly jumping awake. Of course, you were thankful. Because for some odd reason your luck had kicked in, and you now lay face to face with Astarion loomed over you, his mouth slightly ajar. 

It took a lot for you to not cast thunderwave and send him flying, but his own surprise drew him back instantly, an unusual look of horror painting his face like he was a child being caught.

“Shit.” 

Even despite the fact he pulled back, your instincts send you standing up and engulfing your hand in flames as you glare at him.

His breath hitches and he steps back, shoulders and neck arching while he throws his hands up. His eyes are wide and feral. Shadowheart was right. He does act like a cat always trapped in a corner. This time though, he actually was.

“No—no it’s not what it looks like, I swear!” His voice is fill of an uncanny desperation for what you once thought to be a dashing rogue. “I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed…well, blood.”

You felt a pit in your stomach as you damned yourself for not recognizing this sooner. How stupid and oblivious had you been? Really? It should have been clear as day with his overly sharp canines and the scarring on his neck. You should have been able to smell it; the blood. Yet Astarion had’t smelled of anything rotten and iron. He smelled of—no that didn’t quite matter.

You gritted your teeth and spat, “I can’t believe I didn’t see it—we even found the boar * you * snacked on!” 

“It’s not what you think!” His hands fall down slightly with an almost sad and hesitant tone in his voice, “I’m not some monster . I feed on animals…boars, dear, kobolds—whatever I can get. I’m…just too slow right now—too weak.”

His gaze fell on you, almost pleading. “If I could just have a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“At best I was sure you’d say no. More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs. No…I needed you to trust me.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “And you can trust me.”

You frowned, quiet as you studied him. Your hands shook at your sides, your head thumping; urging you to—

“You tried to bite me. How can I trust you?”

“Because we don’t have a choice! Not if we’re going to save ourselves from these worms. I need you alive. You need me strong.”

He took a breath, sighing and stepping toward you slightly. “Please. Only a taste, I swear. I’ll be well, you’ll be fine, and everything can go back to normal.”

Normal. What a load of crap. Even if you understood what he meant by it…though he was right. Astarion had been one of the best in terms of fighting and safely manoeuvring the party through traps. He was a natural born killer, with instincts not unlike your own. You needed him, the whole party did; and now he needed you and the beautiful scarlet that pumped through your veins.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, then let your shoulders relax finally, willing The Urges deep down.

“Fine.” Your eyes meet his own, “but not a drop more than you need.”

He seemed stunned by this response, not that you blame him, you are sure if you had been in his shoes you would have fully expected—and embraced—a stake to the gushing heart.

“Really? I—of course.” A charming but warm smile fell on his lips, “not one drop more.” His eyes then fell down to the makeshift cot on the ground before falling back on you, “let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

You hesitate, just for a moment, before nodding and slowly sitting back down. You look back up at Astarion now, who lowered himself over you as you then slid your back against the cot—head comfortable on the pillow. 

Astarion is quick to bite into your neck, your body immediately tenses; knees folding up and hands gripping onto the sides of his loose poet shirt. It’s searing, it hurts, just for a moment. Then it’s just surprise at the feeling of your own blood being sucked out of you that keeps you held tightly onto him.

There is something familiar about someone so dangerous being so close, hands on either side of your head. Was pain and blood involved as well? 

Your brain fogs at the thought, and you only realize it’s from the pure dizziness you are being to feel. You are reeling now. Shaky breaths leaving your mouth as your hands press against his abdomen. He doesn’t move. So a moment later you try again. “Stop! It’s—it’s too much-“ your voice is small but pleading; something hates how pathetic you sound.

Thankfully, Astarion is quick to stop, and he pulls away, licking his blood stained lips and wiping gently at his chin with his thumb. “That—that was amazing. My mind is finally clear. I feel strong—I feel…happy!”

He peers at you, before quickly then helps you sit up, and you almost immediately lean your head into his shoulder. He tenses, but you pay no mind to this. Your breathing is shallow; mind still reeling from moments prior. 

“I—“ you chuckle weakly, “—I look forward to seeing you fight.”

Astarion is quiet as he brings the plate of now-cold food close, careful to not move you except to force it close. A clear sign that you should eat. That he is suggesting as such.

“Shouldn’t take so long. So many people need killing.” He hums as you finally pull your head back, and slowly begin to devour the plate. 

Your hands rip apart the meat, it’s cold by now, but you don’t mind it that much; though it’s tougher, the spices from Gale still make it a worthy meal. Astarion watches you, you can feel his gaze still on your neck, though truly all you can think about is the pork as your jaw clamps down on it. A part of you knows you  have chomped down onto much more sturdy meat before; flesh, maybe? 

Would that make you a hypocrite for your judgement of Astarion just moments ago?

You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, grease and grime painting your skin while you finally catch your breath. Sated. Dizzy still, even a bit cold, but sated . Your eyes fall back on him, his gaze doesn’t reach your eyes; he’s hungry still. There is something tempting about offering more blood to him. Just offering more to him.

“Now,” he says in his usual sing-song voice, now rising to his feet, “if you’ll excuse me. You’re invigorating, but I need something more…filling.” He doesn’t offer you any help as he turns on the heel of his foot to leave. Though, he does hesitate, just for a moment before slightly turning his head toward you.

“This is a gift, you know, I won’t forget it.”

You bring your hand up to your neck, wobbling slightly when you stand; from both the wet feeling on your neck and his face just before he left, you understand he is a messy eater. Similar to yourself. As he disappears into the woods, you can’t help but wonder if he will devour the next creature with such greed. You dislike how you can relate.

Perhaps Shadowheart’s comment about Astarion acting like a cornered cat makes more sense now. If you were a vampire, or perhaps a monster in a similar fashion, you think that you would view the world as your enemy; trust no one, even clerics. Who are you kidding? Especially clerics.

[solaneceae]

my battery is low, and it's getting dark.

a codebreakers fanfic about étoiles losing his sight. read on Ao3

It starts off with light blurriness — the kind you get when you forget to remove your contacts before bed, dryness and irritation welcoming you back to the waking world. Étoiles doesn’t wear contacts, although he does don a pair of sturdy, cheap rectangular glasses on occasion, whenever reports have to be read or written in thin leather-bound books for the Résistance’s upper echelon. 

(Upper echelon he’s never caught a whiff off, by the way. Étoiles understands the need for secrecy, for compartmentalization — but damn, it does get lonely here in headquarters, with nothing but his own voice and long-dried ink speaking of codes going rogue and islander alignments to entertain himself with.)

He blinks, once, twice, rubbing at his eyeballs through the skin of his lids. No amelioration. He shrugs it off, readjusts the straps of his slime armor. It’s a shit one, not even the good enchants on it. But he’s been restless lately, antsy. Not quite worried, but something else, something in the negative shape of a beloved, beret-wearing egg. Ants under his greenish skin, a fire only the cold bite of enemy blades and a close brush with Lady Death can fix.

He likes Kristin. She’s funny, with her large brimmed hat and gentle smile and gentler words still. Philza’s a lucky man.

“You are sad,” she would say, in the space-between-spaces he would drift to when downed, just before the ‘doom-doom’ of revival. The crimson bud of her smile would twist into a scowl, as she watched him give her a two-fingered salute. “Is that why I see you so often, starling?”

“I’m not sad,” he would answer without fail — the ache inside his chest wasn’t sadness. Étoiles didn’t do sad. He killed, he destroyed, his body grown in a weapon meant to hurt and maim and be hurt in return. Meant to be wielded by someone worthy. (He thinks of pitch-black feathers and a wheezy laugh, the tingle of wither-decay dancing on his skin, the smell of bone. Claws digging into his bony hips, a litany of trills speaking of ownership-claim, great shadows trapping him in so effectively. His knee guards stained by fresh soil where potatoes are endlessly grown in honor of a great warrior he once crossed blades with. Worship, devotion.)

“I’m not sad,” he mumbles, jumping down the well and into the darkness of the dungeon below. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a shit one, and he could scratch that itch in the back of his mind that demanded blood be spilled, be it his or otherwise. “Maybe I die for real today, let’s goooo.”

He never does. He’s too good at dungeoning, too good at placing blocks and throwing splash potions at his feet, golden apples now a rare last resort because he knows what happens when he eats too many. Aaaah, what a pity, he thinks, as he loses himself in the clash of metal on metal and the grunt of mobs falling at his feet. What a pity, I feel nothing. Bad day for me, bad day.

***

The blurriness stays. Days go by, sluggish and quiet, too quiet on this shit island, and no amount of sleep or healing potions make it any better. His arm stings with static-burn where the black and green binary tar has spread, higher, creeping up his neck. But it does nothing to hinder his movements, doesn’t dull the sharpness of his mind. So he ignores it. “Maybe you should get that checked out or something,” Foolish pokes at it once, as they sit and talk atop the Titan’s head using the blue and green plush chairs the TazerCraft have sneaked in. Pac e Mike, wow wow, sings a little voice in Étoiles’ mind whenever he sees splashes of blue and green, because those two live rent-free in everyone’s builds and brains.

“It’s okay,” he smiles at the shark-totem, easy and casual and Étoiles. “It doesn’t hurt.” It doesn’t. “It’s not changing me.” He is changing, that softness that Pomme had made bloom inside him eroding away with every day she’s gone. It’s harder to stay still, harder to stop and talk to the others, because half of them are depressed and the other half are going insane. But none of that is the code’s doing. “Look, I’ll prove it! 1v1 stick?” he jumps to his feet, throwing a wooden stick at his friend with a fiendish grin. “1v1, right now, let’s go.”

Foolish chuckles, even though his smile doesn’t reach his emerald-carved eyes. (His features are hazy, fuzziness getting worse every time Étoiles wakes. Doesn’t matter.) 

They fight, Étoiles takes it home with six hearts to spare. And he still feels empty.

***

Lilacs. Sunflowers. Cornflowers. Poppies.

Flower biomes were Pomme’s favorites. They’re hard to find, but Étoiles is one patient, stubborn cucumber. “T’aurais adoré ça, légende,” he hums, picking another poppy by the stem and stuffing it into his inventory, the frozen subspace keeping it suspended in time and fresh. He can almost hear the pitter-patter of her little cheeto legs in the grass, the rustle of the blades against her shell. The bomp of a red sign being placed, asking for more red, more blue, more of every color to make her siblings flower crowns and dye her trusty scythe like a rainbow.

He can barely make out their shape anymore, only differentiating roses from poppies by tracing their petals with gold-scarred fingers. He sees a blue blur somewhere at his right, oh, cornflower probably. Her secret code.

He lets out a deep, guttural groan and lets his body fall backwards, hitting the plush grass with a thump. A few butterflies flutter out of the way, one of them settling back on the bridge of the warrior’s nose. He glares at it, faded golden stars comically crossed. He only sees the yellow of its wings, stark against sky blue. “Hey, hey. Tu vas rien trouver ici, tu sais. J’ai pas fleuri depuis des plombes.”

The critter’s wings flap once, unbothered. Étoiles blows on it to make it go away, fails. (He’s a failure, at everything. Fails to keep his kid safe, fails to win a 1v1 against an insect.) Soon enough, there is enough butterflies on him to pin him to the ground under the would-be guilt of disturbing them. Étoiles whines, childish and unserious. “Vas-y, j’peux plus bouger. Pas juste. Même la nature me déteste, c’est bon.”

He’s missed this. The warmth of a sunbeam, the scent of fertile soil, the brush of grass blades, the call of the earth below pulling at him. Part of him wants to sink into it, curl up in Her embrace like a child would in their mother’s womb, forget about the world and the Federation and the Codes and all this shit. Maybe he could fall asleep right here. Let his body soak up the sun, let himself bloom again. Let that softness grow out of his skin for all to see, like he used to. Or, he thinks he used to. The memories of Before are static-fuzz between his ears, unreachable unless he looks at them at the corner of his eye, so to speak.

(The freezing cold, then heat as air exploded around him, an impact. Physicality, sudden and unexpected, the song of the stars loud in his ears as he opened his eyes for the first time in front of a bewildered human in a frayed straw hat. He was happy, wasn’t it? He thinks he used to be happy. What happened?)

But Étoiles is a warrior, a weapon, and weapons dull and rust and grow weak if left to rest. So he takes a deep breath, pushes himself up. “Désolé,” he hums to the butterflies as they scatter away. They are but bright, colorful blobs in his dulling eyes. “Désolé,” he says as he warps back home to forge yet another axe. 

His inventory is full of flowers that he’ll forget about, wrapping him in a constant mix of herbal scents that has Cellbit recoiling next time they cross paths. Étoiles doesn’t notice it, the Brazilian’s bothered expression lost on his rapidly-decaying vision.

***

By the time the Code challenges him to what Étoiles knows will be their last duel for the foreseeable future, his sight is all but gone, everyone and their dog has taken notice, and he has brushed off their concern. “I don’t need to see to click good,” he boasts, slamming down deepslate to launch himself fast and run circles around a disgruntled Pac. “See, see! I’m strafing, I’m doing it, playing the game.” Pac makes a strange sound, one he struggles to guess the emotion behind without body language. “It’s okay, Pac. It’s easy. There’s no problem, at all.”

Phil isn’t here yet, can’t see any names on his comlink but Tubbo told him he wasn’t. Shame, shame he won’t be there to see him die, Étoiles thinks as the rain soaks through his shirt, the boom of lightning bothering him more than he lets show. His ears are ringing as he jumps, ducks, tugs at the string of his bow and sends an arrow flying where he knows the Code is, he can feel it, the only spot that doesn’t smell like anything but void. But there’s no feedback, no satisfying sound of health being chipped at, nothing.

This Code is too strong, his sword winging an off-tune melody as it goes through the binary without ripping or tearing. No damage. Ah, he thinks, so they have finally stopped playing. I see now.

The back of his chestplate shatters into a blast of broken enchant magic and diamond shards, some of them lodging themselves into his flesh. Something cold sinks between his ribs, brushing against his spine in a white-hot flash of pain that irradiates through his whole body, and oh, yeah, it’s over. It’s joever, as Tubbo would say. “GGs,” he gasps through a mouthful of dark green blood. He coughs it up, lets it splash down his neck and paint his shirt. Tubbo’s screaming somewhere, too far away for Étoiles to discern the words. “You- eugh, you slash-kill’ed me, good job you cheater. Easy win.”

The entity growls, a hum-buzz that makes his brain (or whatever he has for brains, maybe lettuce?) rattle inside his skull. The blade slides out, cutting away at him further on its way out, and his body falls into a puddle of rainwater and mud with a wet thud. It hurts, blackered arm buzzing, pain creeping up his neck and the right side of his face, extinguishing the last of his remaining sight. 

He faintly realises that almost nobody knows about his respaw mechanic. Ah, et merde. He hopes they’ll have the presence of mind to ask Antoine, when they realise he wouldn’t just re-pop into existence seconds after his death… or when they noticed his body starting to wilt and decay, if they stuck around for long enough.

(Tallulah knows, he remembers. He told her. But had she told Philza, before she disappeared along with all the other eggs?)

Through his fading senses, his comm buzzes with what he knows is his first death message in a really long time. He can make out the sound of rapid footsteps, clickety hooves and heavy, leather work boots. Tubbo and Pierre. He closes his eyes, not that he needs to anymore for darkness to cradle him. He lets go.

He doesn’t see Kristin this time, only hears a faint sigh and a gentle breath sending him off into the void. He hopes they find his seed soon. He doesn’t wanna stay missing for too long, after all.

***

His personal death-void is not so bad of a place. Boring, obviously, but there’s a familiarity to it, to the way the darkness shrouds him like a heavy blanket, pushing against him from all sides. Not oppressive but comforting. Cradling, instead of crushing.

It reminds him of the dirt patch he was born in — he had been asleep and new, just ripe for the picking, dirt-stained hands pulling at his stem with the roughness of a long-repeated gesture. He had screamed, he thinks, not in pain, but to show the world he was here and alive, hello, hello sun, hello dirt, hello person! Had given poor old Théo a heart attack too.

Ah. He could remember, now. Théo, his leathered face and kind eyes with crow feet, wary at first before this walking, talking little legume with the night sky in his eyes, flower-covered vine-tail like some sort of umbilical cord trailing behind him as he follows the old farmer around, asking him endless questions in barely-legible French. But… yes, he’d been kind to him, Étoiles thinks. The first face his face saw. Makes sense it would be one of the first things that came back to him. Maybe remembering was easier in the void? Maybe he should die more often.

…Nah. Dying wasn’t his style. And having to regrow a whole new body over a week was annoying. He had things to do in the island! Like talking with people (eurgh), and giving them things (yes) and fighting with Philza (yes! yes! yes!) and have fun!

So he waits, oblivion pulling at him like gravity. The void is a quiet place, sometimes, but more often it’s not, with the song of supernovas and wailing stars far away keeping him aware, listening. He hums along to it with no mouth or vocal chords (not yet, still growing, still so small, unripe), and sometimes he swears he can hear another voice singing with him. Off-key, awful really, almost crow-like, but it sounds like someone he cares about, so he’s happy to listen to its drone.

Other times, he sleeps. And he dreams of tiny hands and quiet chirps and clicks, of the yesyes uncle Phil taught her, of the chrr-chrr-peep that means him, when she calls Étoiles’ name in her own little language. And he curls around the memory, softness, and lets it carry him up into the stars glittering behind still-forming eyelids.

***

“Étoiles.”

He hums — warmth, the slow beating heart of the earth. The choir of stars constantly burning far, far away. He could listen to it forever, because he had been listening to it since the birth of the first star, he knew.

“Mate. You with me? C’mon, s’been a week already. Come up here, you can do it.”

The voice scratches pleasantly at the back of his brain. But the earth is so warm, so comfy, a cocoon of peace and respite he’s not sure he wants to leave. He sighs with no lungs to breathe, no need for them, when all he could ever need is right there — perfect temp, perfect moisture, glucose, carbon dioxide, rich nutrients all around. Who needs gapples, really. Or thoughts. Or responsibilities. This is the best.

“...Mh. Alright then.”

The voice grates on his ears, ears that try to flick but are stopped by the soil packed around them. He groans in drowsy irritation, curls in on himself in an attempt to shield himself from it and from the world. It seems to work, the noises fading into nothing, and Étoiles feels his thoughts scatter as a faint scratching sound seeps through the earth and into his mind like white noise. Sleep pulls at him again, and he lets it.

He’s startled back into wakefulness by something pulling harshly, somewhere that feels a bit away but is still part of him. His eyes fly open in pained surprise because ow, ow, that’s my— “Come here, you lazy fuck!” That voice — high-pitched, that heavy accent he’s come to love, amusement and exasperation combined, Phil, his Phil, his GOAT, his brother in arms, his Death-touched angel.

Étoiles blinks, unseeing. Étoiles remembers. And with awareness comes something else, something that shimmers and calls his name in gentle whisper-echoes, as he feels himself being pulled up, and up, dirt parting to let him ascend back to the surface. Aah. Goodbye mama. Hello problems. “Get harvested, idiot!” Philza Minecraft grunts with effort somewhere above him, and the tug gets stronger, prompting a pained ow out of him as the ground crackles and breaks above him, and he feels air-sun-outside on his back as he’s forcefully pulled from the ground like the fresh crop he is. He flails a little bit, kicking off dirt and soil (it’s everywhere, in his hair and between his toes and a little in his mouth and nose, bleh!), then rolls onto his back with a groan, frowning up at the sky he knows is there, blue and clear, because it doesn’t smell like rain and the surface soil is dry and warm.

He’s back. And he sees nothing at all. Welp, better close his eyes again then. He feels a shadow fall on him, feels a sandaled foot nudge his side. “Helloooooo. Hello Phil,” he greets the other leaning hard on the deadpan because he knows it makes his friend laugh when he does that. It lands. “What, that’s it?” the elytrian caws, kneeling beside him and poking at his face, talons dulled to a gentle roundness. Étoiles wishes he didn’t trim them, but Phil is too nice, too careful, too eager to smooth himself down for others, for the eggs. Docile.

Étoiles despises it, but he keeps quiet because he knows Phil doesn’t like to talk about those things. “You get yourself killed by a fucking Code of all things,” Phil keeps going, “make everyone freak the fuck out because you won’t respawn like a normal fucking person, and that’s all you have to say for yourself?”

“Antoine knows. And I’m here now, so it’s okay.”

“Antoine barely logs on, you absolute dumbass. You’re lucky Lullah told me about the seed thing, because you would’ve been fucked six ways to Sunday.”

He opens his eyes, if only to shoot Phil a halfhearted glare. And then immediately forgets about it, blinks owlishly. Sits up to get closer to the other man. “Phil. Why are you stars?”

“What.”

He sees stars. (And not in the sex way, because he doesn't do that.) It’s not night, but there are stars in his vision, where pitch blackness used to be, and the constellation is Phil-shaped.

Philza is a cosmic cluster, a nebula shining bright in the darkness that has become his world. He can see nothing beyond him, not the plants surrounding him, not the long vine attached to his lower back Phil used to pull him out. He can tell it’s there, though, lightly thumping at the ground in agitation. “You, are stars. That’s how I see you now.”

“Wait. Can you, like, see again?” Phil asks, uncharacteristically soft. “I know it was getting… bad. And your eyes are like, all greyed out. Did the code stuff on your arm do that?” Étoiles sees a cluster of stars approaching his face — hand — and feels fingers brushing just under his right eye. He’s a bit startled by the contact, the area usually covered by his trust bandana (he needs it back, needs his stuff back, hopefully someone held onto it for him). Phil draws away, an apology ready from the way his constellation-body shifts, but Étoiles doesn’t let him. “I can’t,” he answers, tilting his head, ear flicking in focus — the stars that make up Phil sharpen, and he can almost make out the shape of the wings bound behind his back. “But I can See. I think.” He also wouldn’t mind Phil’s hand on his face again. It feels nice. Scratches at something long-buried, and denied.

Philza makes a confused sound. “Okay, I heard that capital S there. What’s that mean? Are you pulling a Daredevil?”

Étoiles grins, sharp-toothed and playful. “Oh, oh! He thinks I’m a superhero? He thinks I’m cool, Felipe Minecraft? Big win for me.” Phil rolls his eyes, which Étoiles can tell because the crow always makes that low warble when he does. “But no, it’s not like that. I still need my eyes to see like this, and I don’t hear or smell better than before.” Although his status as a hybrid means his baseline is still higher than the average person’s, but that’s irrelevant. “FF.”

“So no cool blindfold for you, ey?”

“No cool blindfold. I will just do a Pomme and drown myself later, to make up for how uncool I am.” (He cannot drown. No lungs. But he can pretend.)

He squints. There’s a little cluster, right there at the side of Phil’s head. He can connect the dots, identify the shape of the elytrian’s bucket hat, but there’s something else there too. “What’s that on your head, Phil? I can’t make it out well.”

“Oh— here,” the other takes his hand and guides it towards his hair, and Étoiles feels a familiar texture under his pads. He makes a noise of surprise. “That’s. Mine.”

“Do you want it back?” Phil hums, brushing at the large cucumber flower tucked in the band of his hat. “It bloomed this morning, on top of the plant you were growing under. Took it as a sign you were, uh, done cooking.” Étoiles snorts. Good guess. “But uh, I guess the plant was also you, cuz it’s at the end of your tail now. Dragging.” Ah. Yeah. He really ought to cut it. “Is it weird? That I’m wearing a piece of you? I don’t know what… fuckin’... cucumber etiquette is.”

“It’s not weird,” Étoiles says, because he doesn’t think it is. “You can keep it.” He kind of likes it. That Phil’s wearing a piece of him. It makes him, happy? “You know, that I am your weapon. Yes? So it makes sense, that you show it.”

“You’re my friend. Don’t call yourself a weapon, man.”

“Same thing for me.”

Phil’s response is wordless, a simple, noncommittal mmh. But Étoiles can hear the hidden fondness in it. He pushes a little further, crudely imitates that  one bird sound Philza makes when he’s happy. Whoops internally when Phil puffs out his feathers and trills out a yesyes in return. Héhé. “Yes yes, Philza? Fight me, right now?” he slips into his usual stance, just a bit offset by the lack of armor weighing him down. “1v1, no weapons, no armor? Fistfight, let’s go.”

Phil cackles, crow-like. “I am not fighting you right now, you little shit. You menace. What’s wrong with you?”

“Aww, Phil hates me,” the warrior whines. “He hates me. He won’t 1v1 me, he must hate me. Sad.”

“Oh my god, stop being a baby.”

“I was literally born five minutes ago. I am baby, and Felipe Minecraft hates me,” he sasses back, and Phil throws his arms towards the sky in exasperation. “Oh come on. I spent a week protecting your green ass! Making sure you got enough sun and water and shit, it was like doing egg tasks all over again. Antoine even talked me into fucking singing, pretty sure he was pranking me with that one by the way, and still you think I hate you?”

“Nice caulk, Phil.”

He can’t see it, but Étoiles knows Phil’s eyelid is twitching. “Mate. I got a faceful of ass pulling you out of here, you’re on thin fucking ice.”

The cucumber snorts. “Héhé, got mooned by the stars.” That was kinda funny. “You were pulling me by the tail, I do not know what you expected. You’re lucky I’m a plant, or there would have been full cock and balls there.”

“Bruh. I thought it would be connected to your… plant belly button, or whatever, like an umbilical cord.”

“It’s an ass button, GGs.”

“Jesus Christ, please don’t call it that. I didn’t even know you had a tail. You didn’t before.”

“That’s because I always cut it,” the warrior huffs, said tail lashing behind him from the restless energy that always accompanies a new body. Its leaves drag around the loose dirt in little swish-y sounds. “Give me a sword, Phil, it’s already annoying me.”

The crow peers down at the vine, then back at him. “I dunno, man. You look kinda fun with it.” Étoiles squints. He can’t quite make out Phil’s expression like this, all stars and nothing between them, but he can hear the hidden laughter in his voice. “...I will cut it with my teeth then.”

“Won’t that hurt more than with a blade?”

“It doesn’t hurt. Only the base. Like when you pulled on it.”

“Why not keep it? It’s a part of you.”

Because it speaks for me, he considers replying. Because it says and shows things that I don’t want people to see. Even now, it wags, because Phil is here and now brushing stray dirt out of his hair and it’s very nice. (Is he touch-starved? He might be. Pomme is gone, and he doesn’t trust people to touch him, other than with blunt force and sharp diamond blades.) But Étoiles hasn’t kept his tail since he was a child, still wide-eyed and showing his innermost self to the whole world without any shield. He feels weird. Exposed. And it’s okay with Phil, because Phil is Phil, but it’s not okay because they’re out in the open and anyone could come and see. He doesn’t like that. “Because people can grab it, and it gets stuck in things, and it’s annoying. I cut it, now.” He tugs at the appendage, bringing it up to his mouth. “Nope,” Phil snatches it away, and Étoiles hisses at him. “Calm down, dude. At least let’s do it cleanly.”

“Eeeeuugh. Okay.”

”Then we’re getting your stuff back from Antoine’s, good god. You’re still butt-naked and I won’t have you strut around like that.”

“He has my things? Comms, armor, my backpacks?”

“All of it, yeah,” the older man huffs, and Étoiles can hear the telltale sound of an item being summoned of an inventory. Enchanted axe, he parses, recognizing the ozone-y smell of the sharpness enchant and the sound of the air being sliced downward. He doesn’t feel anything when the vine is severed, frowns when he realises Phil left a good… fifty centimeters of it, still attached to his body. “Phil. You misclick? You aim like shit today?”

“You said it hurts near the base,” the elytrian huffs, finality lacing his every word. “Keep it or cut the rest later, your pick, but I’m not hurting you.”

Étoiles’ ear flicks in confusion, and so does his tail. It moves faster, easier now without the rest of the plant weighing it down. “...We fight each other all the time, that hurts more. I don’t care.”

Phil stays silent for a few seconds. Nebula-Phil shifts before him. “It’s. Different.”

Étoiles hums. Philza has the Tone™ again, the one that means he’s thinking of things that hurt. He thinks of clipped feathers, of matted down that he wishes he could run his fingers through and fix, fix, let me fix it, let me do this for you. But he says nothing. Maybe another time, when they’re both ready for that conversation. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Maybe I keep it this time. Maybe.”

He can hear Phil’s smile in the next word he speaks. “Attaboy.” And he tries to ignore the way his tail wags with renewed enthusiasm at that.

[lauraneedstochill]

I've never liked to think that Aemond is evil, just someone who's been hurt too much time and time again and saw no justice for it; do you think he's evil? or that there's more to it than simply that? That he genuinely cares about people, his mother, his family?

I do not consider show!Aemond evil — I’d like to believe that, as the definition of the word suggests, you have to be more immoral and wicked, perhaps even a bit sadistic to be downright evil. I see him as calculating, emotionless, cold, and that paired with everything he’s done makes him a villain but not necessarily evil (…yet?).

his current feelings, though? I have no fcking clue because the show is doing a very poor job of explaining them properly. to me, Aemond from Season 1 and Aemond from Season 2 are two different people.

🔪 S1 Aemond, yes, he cared about his mother (she sought justice for him when no one else did, she offered him comfort even when she couldn’t fully understand his struggles), his family (he’d grow up thinking he had to step up and be the responsible one — to eventually take pride in becoming someone his family can rely on), and he knew what loyalty was, despite not being ecstatic about the order of things (Alicent did drill “in the world we must defend our own” into her kids' heads, and you bet, he was the fastest learner). the real tragedy of Aemond — to me — was about his deepest desires and his arrogance clashing with the picture-perfect image he’s grown into and didn’t mind portraying as it got him the love and trust of the ones he cared about, the approval and respect of everyone else. but his desires are too big and burning, and his arrogance is only fuel: of course, he deserves it all and he should take it — and he can take it BUT it will ruin the image he’s crafted and the bonds he’s formed. raised by the woman who put duty above all, can he betray everything she taught him to believe in? there are a few ways things can go from there but all the paths lead to his self-isolation and his downfall, although he keeps trying and trying to prove something till the very end, and it’s sad because it’s relatable — we are all trying, we all hate feeling that we are capable of more but simultaneously aren’t enough. if only he put all that effort somewhere else, maybe he could’ve been happier but we will never know. he dies young.

🔪 but S2 Aemond? they packed his character development in the tiniest bag and it’s never been opened once. the writers are so keen on blaming Aegon for everything, they don’t realize that making Aemond do a 180 because of one unfortunate joke is a disservice to the character. him deciding that regicide and fratricide aren’t a big deal is as wild as it is dumb: there’s no way he didn’t know it would damage his relationships with the very few people who loved him. how long can you milk “he was bullied as a child” before it bites you in the ass and makes your super-cool-much-wow character look like a thin-skinned boy who holds on to every offense instead of idk MOVING ON? because he did get his justice — he got the biggest dragon as a fuck you to the people who made fun of him for not having one, he only got stronger despite losing an eye, he got to be his mom’s most precious son and he DID get Luke killed (even if by mistake, the result is still the same — the bastard who maimed him won’t ever make fun of him again). how is that not enough? who and when decided that Aemond becoming a bully himself would be a great achievement? why holding him accountable for what he did isn’t fair but him being vengeful left and right is praised and cheered for? and he is not complex, I’m sorry, he just isn’t. he’s been robbed of proper reasoning and conflict, and I am getting tired of trying to peer into his one eye to get a hint of emotion while S1 Aemond could at least grant us little outbursts here and there to confirm that he is a human being and he can successfully keep his facade up while also having feelings.

S1 Aemond was many things, all of them fascinating. S2 Aemond makes me want to skip to the scenes of Daemon getting high and scared in some leaking castle (and I’m starting to wonder if maybe that’s the point?).

anyways, I hope Ryan Condal will be out of job when the show is over.

[milo-is-rambling]

Apologies in advance to anyone who sees me in public during the Father’s Day aisle season

[l3irdl3rain]

I have to know. why is Chester evil and full of hate crimes? his tag on your blog makes me laugh so much but I'm so curious!

The easiest answer is because he’s a parrot and even the nicest of parrots are kind of assholes. Parrots are not a domesticated animal like dogs or cats, even if they’re born in captivity. They make awful pets because they are destructive and often times aggressive. Even Joey, who is my darling angel boy, will bite me if he feels I’ve wronged him. He doesn’t bite to maim and kill like Chester does, but it still hurts. (It hurts my feelings too, but that’s another story.)

On top of that, many parrots are severely neglected at some point in their life. In the wild they’d live in huge flocks and travel all over and spend all day foraging and flying. Even in the best possible homes in captivity they don’t get as much stimulation as they should. I’m not trying to necessarily say anything bad about Chester’s previous owner because all things considered she did okay. I have seen far worse homes. She was an elderly woman who bought him in the 90’s. Parrot care was not good then and you couldn’t necessarily just jump on the internet and find a ton of resources.

Chester was never properly socialized, his cage was much too small, and he definitely didn’t get enough stimulation. This all leads to a depressed and aggressive parrot. Things only got worse when his owner became sick and was spending a lot of time in the hospital. For all the things she was doing wrong she did try to make him a part of the family. So when she started going in and out of the hospital he went from getting out at least a couple times a week to being stuck in his cage all the time.

This is just my long way of saying he was neglected and never properly socialized. But also he is not domesticated and we can’t expect him to act like a domesticated animal.

[the-void-has-questions]

Alright Audience of Silt, riddle me this:

(Im biased but im also on ep 13 so. Uh. Yeahg :))

[heyitsphoenixx]

hey I’m doing this and I highly encourage you do too bc yeah this affects artists in particular as we have basically nowhere to go as this shit keeps creeping into every platform but it’s also just a general cancer across social medias no matter if you’re an artist or not so yeah please stay off ig and fb in totality on mondays until ai is fucking done and until then maiming and biting and killing