#is something he takes to heart with him post canon to stop beating himself up so much. umh also soul powers = ghost powers lalala

[miraclemioart]

mashing together my two teenage years interests for dopamine

[dyaz-stories]

JUJUTSU BOYS + POST SHIBUYA HURT/COMFORT

following Shibuya, the Jujutsu boys are in dire need of some comfort

featuring: nanami, yuuji, megumi, maki, inumaki, yuta, gojo

word count: 4.7k (600-700 words per character)

cw: canon divergence for nanami and gojo, season 2 spoilers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, descriptions of injuries, everyone needs a hug, some fluff ig, established relationships, not proofread

NANAMI

“He woke up,” Shoko informs you, closing the room to Kento’s door behind her. She doesn’t bother with small talk, gives only the necessary information since Shibuya. You don’t blame her. You understand why she would choose to keep her energy for what she thinks is essential. So when she approaches you, hands buried in her pockets, you know there is something she believes is that important to tell you.

“Is he— Has he said anything?”

“He thanked me — you know how he is. But, um— he’s lost an eye, and he’s badly burned. There’s nothing I can do about that. I’m sorry.”

She sounds genuinely dejected, but you shake your head.

“It doesn’t matter. Without you, he wouldn’t be alive. Can I—”

She gives you a faint smile.

“Sure. You can go in.”

You don’t wait for her to have finished her sentence to open the door. Kento looks up at you, and you take him in for a second. An eye patch covers his left eye, and that whole side of his body is burnt, badly, with fresh bandages covering it. It doesn’t stop you from launching himself into his arms, and he catches you without missing a beat.

“You’re alive,” is all you can say, repeating it like a mantra.

“I am,” he answers. “I apologize for worrying you.”

So very like him, apologizing while he’s lying on a hospital bed after suffering from horrific injuries.

“Thank you for coming back to me,” you whisper into his neck, tears rolling freely from your cheeks. “I don’t— I don’t—” I don’t know how I would have kept living without you.

His eye is filled with fondness and love, when he looks at you.

“Does it hurt a lot?” you ask, gesturing at his left side.

“It does not,” he answers. “Shoko’s abilities are quite remarkable for that. I am healed. The bandages are mostly to stop the skin from becoming too dry — due to the size of the area, she couldn’t do it all herself.”

“Then… can I kiss you?”

He swallows around the lump in his throat. If he is honest, when Shoko talked to him after he woke up, one of his greatest fears was that you would be disgusted by him. He knows you find him handsome — found him handsome, at least. He knows that this was thinking far too little of you, and yet relief washes over him at your question.

“You can always kiss me.”

You’re cautious when you do, don’t want to risk hurting him, despite what he’s just told you. Your lips feel like coming home, and he loses himself in you, if only for a moment. All too soon, he feels the need to pull away for air. Even with Shoko’s miracle work, he feels weak, a sensation he finds himself hating with his entire being. He likes being strong, likes being your rock, likes supporting you in any situation. He despises the fact that that has been taken away from him.

“I think it would be for the best if I spent the night here,” he tells you. “The chair isn’t very comfortable, so if you wish to go home, I wouldn’t—”

You shake your head immediately.

“I’m not leaving you anytime soon. I’m spending the night here. I’m sure I can find a pillow and a blanket somewhere, and I will be just fine with that.”

Aren’t you just adorable when you’ve made up your mind?

“If that is okay with you, that’s fine with me,” he nods. “But, first…” He opens his arm on the right side. “Would you join me?”

There isn’t much space in the bed for the two of you, but you make it fit, leaning against the wall so he can have his head against your chest. Even though he wants nothing more than to revel in the moment, he feels his eyes closing, lulled by the beating of your heart and your fingers carding through his hair.

He loves taking care of you but he supposes that, for the time being, it won’t be too bad if he’s the one being taken care of.

YUUJI

Finding Yuuji following the Shibuya Incident requires you to venture into the belly of Tokyo, making your way through curse after curse, stepping over the bodies of sorcerers and humans alike, never taking the time to stop. At least Megumi had warned you that he was likely to keep moving, so you hadn’t given up hope yet, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t afraid for him. Not physically, no, you didn’t think there was anything left here that could actually hurt him, but, based on what Megumi had told you, his head hung low, you can only imagine how devastated he must be.

You spot him when he finishes off a curse, on a rooftop near you. It isn’t long before you land there yourself, and there he is.

“Yuuji!”

He freezes when you call out his name, and turns towards you oh so slowly. When he looks at you, you could almost cry with relief. There he is, your Yuuji. A little worse for wear, but alright. You take a step towards him, ready to run into his arms, when he takes a step back.

A tall man wearing a kimono, his hair tied into two buns, lands in front of him, between the two of you.

“Who is that?” he asks Yuuji. “Do you want me to take care of it?”

There is quiet resolution in his voice. He doesn’t sound like he wants to kill you, but you don’t think he would hesitate to do it.

“N-no,” Yuji says, his voice hoarse. “No, it’s alright, Choso. Would you mind…?”

The man nods, still not showing any emotions.

“Of course. I’ll give the two of you some space.”

He throws you a threatening glance — as if you could ever be a threat to Yuuji — before jumping off the building.

You take another step forward. This time, Yuuji doesn’t move, but he refuses to meet your eyes.

“Don’t,” he says. He sounds weak.

Another step.

“Why not?”

He closes his eyes.

“I’ve killed—” A deep, shuddering breath. “—so many people.”

Step.

“That wasn’t you.”

You say it softly, gently, but you’re not sure that he can hear you, as he is now.

“It’s still my fault.”

His voice is no stronger than a whisper.

“It was Sukuna’s doing.” Step. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Step.

You’re close to him now, close enough to see his hands balled up into fists, his lower lip trembling, how he scrunches his face so he doesn’t cry.

“Yuji,” you call, and in your mouth, his name sounds like a term of endearment. “It’s not your fault.”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t have anything more to say. He wants so, so badly to believe you, but his heart, his mind, and Sukuna’s voice in the back of his head are all whispering that you’re lying. When you reach him, your hands go up to his face, cradle it like it’s a precious porcelain. You trace the scar on his forehead, stroke the one on his lip with your thumb, and then you press your lips against it with great care.

And he falls apart.

Your arms are around him as he lets himself fall to the ground, and you let him bury his head in the crook of your neck as he sobs, let him hold on to you like a drowning man to a lifeline. You stroke the back of his head gently. The motion is soothing. Soft. Loving.

“I’m a monster,” he chokes, and tears fill your eyes.

“You’re not,” you promise, voice breaking. “You’re not. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He gasps like he’s breathing for the first time in days, and you keep him there, in your arms. He’s not okay yet — won’t be for a long time. But he’s alive. He’s breathing. He’s moving forward, one small step at a time.

You will be here to support him until he can stand on his own again.

No matter how long it takes.

MEGUMI

Megumi has always been the quiet type. He keeps his feelings close to his chest, lets people in on his thoughts only in spare, carefully chosen sentences. He turns away if emotions overwhelm in, deals with the worst of it privately, would never let anything spill out if he could help him. Emotions are his problems, and he cannot bear the thought of them hurting someone other than him.

Still, you’ve always been able to read him. The softness in his eyes when he looks at Yuuji and Nobara, the smile he doesn’t quite allow to make its way to his lips when Gojo decides to spoil him, the way he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling your back against his chest so he can hide his face in your neck, even if you can spot his ears turning red. The way the corner of his lips turn down, too, when his mind drifts towards Tsumiki, the twitch in his jaw when someone brings up his father, the clench of his fists when he feels hopeless.

You can read him like a book.

He is even quieter when he comes back from Shibuya, and his emotions are expressed even more minutely, blink and you’ll miss it.

You can only watch from the audience in one of the numerous meetings that follow his return. Him and a number of other sorcerers testify, and you have to hear him recounting the same details over and over. You’re here to see, helpless, how he lowers his gaze when several sorcerers recommend Yuuji’s execution, and how his eyes dull when his sentencing is pronounced.

But he never comes to you. At first, you assume he can’t — there are a number of physicals for him to clear. You reason that he must be exhausted, must want his space for now, and resolve to give it to him. It’s on the day of the last council, when he averts his eyes to avoid meeting yours, that you realize what was happening.

He’s been avoiding you.

It’s a half-hearted attempt, one that comes to an end when you knock against the open door to his room. He doesn’t look up at you when he answers.

“Come in.”

His room is almost bare, but you know he keeps pictures from the two of you in his drawers.

You sit on the bed next to him, let your knee brush against his. He doesn’t move away.

“I haven’t seen you since you came back,” you say. You know better than to broach the subject directly, wouldn’t want to spook him.

“I know,” he sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be. I just came to check in on you.”

He’s quiet for longer than he should be.

“…I have to go back out there. I have to talk to Itadori.”

You read between the lines. You know that he would give you more than that if he felt he could, understand that he is trying to make this as painless for you as he can.

You reach for his hands and squeeze it.

“Okay.”

There’s a pause.

“…you sure?”

You know that’s not the question he’s asking. You know he wants you to feel able to yell at him, protest, scream until there’s nothing left of the two of you, all so that you will feel better, even if he leaves unloved and a little more shattered than he was when he arrived.

“I’m sure.”

The sigh of relief he lets out sounds more like a sob. Next thing you know, he’s letting his head drop onto your shoulder, black hair tickling your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m sorry. Can I— Can I just stay like this a little longer? Please?”

You keep yourself still, reach up to cup his cheek, stroke it softly.

“As long as you need.”

He moves his head so he can press a kiss to your cheek, lets his lips linger there longer than he needs to. When he turns around, you see he’s turned crimson.

The outside world might have turned into hell, but this room hasn’t yet.

In here, the two of you can hope that simpler, happier times will come again some day.

MAKI

Maki supposes that there are worse ways to wake up than with her head in your lap. By the time she comes to, Reverse Cursed Technique has done its job — mostly. If she could muster it, she would be glad that she wasn’t awake to feel it processing. It’s always felt foreign to her, and she hates feeling it on her body.

What she hates more, though, is the tingling of the burns on her face and body.

“Isn’t there anything to be done about that?” you’re asking Shoko when her eyes flutter open. You’re mindlessly running your fingers over the scarred skin, and it feels fresh and soothing.

“I’m sorry,” Shoko says, sounding exhausted but always taking the time to answer students’ concerns. “RCT can’t fix burns. Non-sorcerers have done some progress in that domain, I think. Maybe she’ll want to look into it.”

“I hope she won’t care,” you mumble.

“Why,” Maki asks, and you look down at her in shock, “is it that bad?”

She pushes herself up, looking around for her glasses, but stops when she realizes both you and Shoko are staring at her, mouth gaping.

“You’re something else,” Shoko finally comments, a tired grin forming on her lips. “Thought you’d be asleep for at least another day. Well, if you need anything, I’ll be in the next room, alright?”

She leaves with a wave of her hand, some of the weight of the past week taken off her shoulders, now that she’s done her work.

When Maki turns to look back at you, you already have her glasses in your hand. You’re careful when you pass the branches over her ears to put them on her, and she lets you do it, studying your expression. Your eyes are red from crying, and you look tired, too, but at least she cannot see any injuries on you.

“So?” she raises an eyebrow at you, and her skin stretches uncomfortably. “Do I really look that terrible?”

You shake your head and smile at her, reaching up to cup her cheek.

“You’re as stunning as always. I’d just hate it if you thought otherwise.”

She leans into your touch, closing her eyes. Her whole body aches. She cannot pinpoint any real physical pain, but there is an overall soreness  that she wants to stretch out. She would, if she could bear the thought of losing your touch, if only for a second.

“What about my hair?” she asks, trying to add a playful inflexion to her tone. “Don’t tell me you let them do whatever they wanted with it.”

You shake your head, mirroring her expression.

“It’s like you don’t even know me,” you say with a fake eyeroll. “I’ll have you know it looks super stylish.”

She nods, then turns her head to kiss the inside of your palm. She likes the way it flusters you, how you bite your lip and glance away to hide it from her.

“Do you— do you want to hear about what else has happened?”

Her smile dims, and she shakes her head.

“Can I get a minute of this first?” Her voice comes out hoarser than she would like. “Y-you can tell me afterwards. I just— I just need a minute.”

“Of course,” you reply, softly.

When you open your arms, she doesn’t hesitate a second to plunge in. She rests her cheek against your chest, and you wrap her in a tight hug that she returns without missing a beat. You’re warm and soft, as you always are.

She’ll get back to fighting, to throwing her whole body in the line of fire soon enough, that is a promise. She’ll mourn the dead, she’ll shed tears.

But first, she gets a minute of respite, in the arms of the only person that can give it to her.

INUMAKI

You rush through the emergency room, unbridled fear in your veins. The place is a morgue. There are more dead than living in here, and you’d be horrified if your mind wasn’t focused on one person and one person only — one that you cannot find. Cursed energy is no use right now, not with the place being such a mess.

“Ieiri!” you finally call when you see her passing by, pale as a corpse, not examining a body for more than handful of seconds before moving on to the next. “Where— Where is Toge?”

She looks straight through you. The dark circles under her eyes are even deeper than usual.

“Alive. That way.”

She point vaguely in a direction and then she’s gone, but it’s all you need. You find yourself running, unceremoniously opening and closing doors in your desperate search for him. When you find him, you could almost cry in relief.

“Toge,” you call, and you’re afraid your legs will give in underneath you.

He looks at you with wide eyes — eyes that you love so much, because they always say everything his lips can’t. Despite everything that’s happened tonight, they’re full of life, and that is the sight you’d been hoping for the most.

It’s only after looking inside that you realize what’s happened to his arm.

You walk over to him, sit on the chair next to his bed. He holds his hand out for you to take, and when you do, he squeezes it between his fingers, three times. His own, silent way of saying ‘I love you’. You lean forward, resting your elbows on the bed and hanging your head low.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you whisper. “I was so scared.”

You feel his lips on the top of your head, and you cannot help but smile. It feels selfish, smiling in such circumstances, when so many people have lost their lives and their loved ones. But you’re reunited with him, and it is the only reaction that feels appropriate. You look up at him. Without his usual clothes, the seal on his mouth is on full display.

“Do you want a scarf?” you ask, gesturing at your bag. You always carry one, as well as cough syrup, just in case.

Fondness flashes in his eyes, but he shakes his head. Reluctantly, he lets go of your hand to tap on his phone. The movements are clumsy, and a knot forms in your throat, watching him do it, but you can’t think of anything to do to help him.

‘No need,’ the phone reads when he turns it back towards you. And then, after a line break ‘Sukuna attacked.’

You’d hear about that. You… had just hoped it wasn’t true.

“So, Itadori…?”

“Bonito flakes,” he answers, shaking his head. Silence falls on the room.

You usually like silence with him. It feels comfortable, like an old friend you’re happy to welcome. Tonight, though, you feel the need to blurt out “I’m so happy you’re okay.”

His lips turn downward, and he gestures at his arm dejectedly, but you shake your head, and you stand up so you can sit on the bed, by his legs. You grab his hand in both of yours.

“I would take anything as long as it means you’re back here with me. I know— I know it’s selfish, but I just— You’re everything.”

Toge presses his forehead against yours when you start crying. Gently, he frees his hand so he can wipe the tears running down your cheeks. He doesn’t get to express his emotions freely, so you do it for the two of you, that’s how it’s always been between you. That doesn’t stop him from tilting your chin so he can press his lips against yours. The kiss is soft and gentle.

“I love you,” you say for the both of you.

He wishes he could tell you that he hasn’t felt like he’d truly made it back from Shibuya until he saw you walking through the door.

When he kisses you again, he thinks you’re aware of it.

YUTA

“They agreed to entrust me with Itadori’s execution,” Yuta tells you when he finds you, anxiously waiting for him to come out of his meeting with the higher-ups. “I had to take a binding vow, but that won’t be a problem.”

He says it so casually, and you can’t help but sigh. Immediately, his eyes fill with worry.

“Is something wrong?”

You can feel his eyes scanning you, looking for an injury, and that brings a faint smile out of you. As if anything could hurt you here, in one of the last jujutsu strong place in Japan.

“I just wish you wouldn’t have to do that,” you admit with a shrug. “I wish there was another solution.” I wish you didn’t think the weight of the world is yours to take now that Gojo isn’t here to bear it.

“Oh!” He lights up, and you hate that he feels relief, because to him, it is inconsequential as long as it’s happening to him. “That’s okay. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Well, someone has to, since he won’t do it himself. You reach for his hand, fiddling with his fingers, and you can’t help but smile when you feel him freeze. You can’t believe he still reacts to your touch that way, no matter how many times you do it.

“Breathe,” you say, glancing up at him.

He flushes when he realizes he was, indeed, holding his breath.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He doesn’t have to apologize, but he always does.

“Then I’ll go and keep an eye on Toge and Maki,” you decide. “I heard Maki’s recovering well, but I’ll see if there’s anything more they need. Maybe I’ll help Toge get back to his family.”

Yuta hesitates.

“You don’t— You don’t have to do that for me, you know?”

Ha. Guilty as charged. You’re just trying to take some of the weight off his shoulders so he won’t have to carry it all alone. You wrap your arms around his neck, smile when he turns even redder. He doesn’t move away from you though, and, after hesitating, he even closes his hands on your waist. The touch is feather-light, and you think he’d take them off if you breathed a little too hard. But it’s there, and he’s come a long way, truly.

“I know. I just want to.”

He’s crimson, but his eyes still soften at your words. With a sigh, he leans his forehead against yours.

“What have I done to get this lucky?” he marvels, and he sounds so loving you think you might just melt in your spot.

“You deserve the world,” you answer truthfully.

He lets out an embarrassed laugh that you interrupt with a kiss. His lips are soft and cautious against yours, and he is nothing but tender. You know he’s doing his best to restrain himself, both because you’re in a public space where someone could walk by and because it takes a lot more to get him out of his shell.

“Wh-what was that for?” he asks when you pull away, a pout in his voice.

“For luck,” you hum in reply. “You better come back to me.”

His fingers tighten on your waist. He doesn’t want to let go. If he could shut the whole world out and live only in your arms, he thinks he would do it in a heartbeat. But there are people out there who need saving, and you know even you can’t stop him from going to help them.

“I’ll keep your friends safe until then, okay?”

No matter what you tell him, he still doesn’t think he’s done anything to deserve you. That means he should let go of you, be on his way and wish you well on yours. Instead, in an impulsive move, he wraps his arms tighter around your waist to pull you flush against his chest in a tight hug.

You laugh in surprise and hug him back, and in that moment, he is absolutely certain that there is nothing that could stop him from coming back to you.

GOJO

“Guess who’s back!” Satoru calls when he walks into your home as if nothing’s happened, as if you haven’t spent hours on the phone with various sorcerers, trying to understand what on earth was happening and if he was even still alive.

You turn to look at him with daggers in your eyes, and you want to scream, but you don’t find the words when you take in the sight of him. There’s blood on his face that he hasn’t bothered to wipe off, his clothes are torn, the blindfold he’s holding in his hand is in an even sorrier state, and despite the smile on his face, you don’t think there is a muscle to his body that isn’t in a state a tension.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He shrugs, walks across the room to grab a towel that he vigorously rubs against his face.

“I’m always okay.”

The sentence sounds empty, and you’re about to go up to him when he drops the towel to move towards the bathroom with a groan.

“It’s not coming off,” he says before splashing his face with water.

You follow him and watch as he repeatedly rinses his face. The blood has long come off, but he doesn’t seem satisfied with it. He pours generous amounts of soap on his hands, but there is nothing more to take off there. You wait a few seconds more before joining him. You still his hand with a pressure of his wrist, clean off the remaining soap, and cut off the water. He lets you do it, just as he lets you guide him back to the bed to sit down.

“What happened?” you urge him, keeping his hands in yours. He feels so far away, even if he’s sitting inches from you, and you’re desperate to bring him back to you.

Long seconds go by before he answers you.

“I made a mistake,” he finally says, words pulled out like teeth. “That’s what happened.”

You would tell him that everyone makes mistakes, but you know what’s prompting this. He isn’t everyone. He doesn’t make mistakes. He is Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer, the one in charge of preserving the balance of the world after he’s irremediably altered it simply from being born.

Your hands come up to his face, and you trace his jaw with careful fingers. He closes his eyes. Lets you ground him. He can’t think of anything else he needs more right now.

“You’ve done so much,” you whisper. “I’ve been talking to Shoko — she says that without you, human losses would be much worse.”

He lets out a humorless chuckle.

“That is always true.”

Coming from someone else, it would sound like bragging, but you know that Satoru is only stating a fact. He always saves the day, which makes this so, so much worse. You climb on the bed behind him, start massaging his shoulders. Despite himself, he can’t help but relax into your touch. He doesn’t feel like he deserves that, deserves the comfort you’re bringing to him, and yet, as always, he’s powerless against you.

“But wasn’t the point always that your students would be able to take over?” you ask, softly. “And they did. They saved you. Sounds to me like you did well, Satoru.”

Did he? Sure doesn’t feel like it.

“Hm, I guess Yuji and Megumi did real well tonight,” he admits, and he lets himself lean back into your arms fully. “Just wish… Just wish it hadn’t turned out like that.”

You press a kiss to his temple, and he sighs. He doesn’t think he will be okay again tonight. Probably not tomorrow, either — maybe not before a long time.

“Do you want me to run you a bath?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’d be nice.”

His eyes follow as you walk back into the bathroom.

“You’ll join me?”

A smile flashes on your face.

“Sure.”

He won’t be okay any time soon, but with you by his side, he thinks he can at least try to get there again someday.

thank you for reading! as a note, gojo's piece is written under the hypothesis that he was unsealed but unsealed before the end of the night. I hope you enjoyed these pieces, please consider reblogging and/or letting me know your thoughts in a comment, interactions are the best way of supporting me and of keeping me writing ^-^

more jujutsu kaisen x reader here (primarily gojo x reader)

[shintaru]

Sabbath crew | dating head canons

Hummingbird crew , light Calvary, Kazuma, league of street, windbreaker

m.list ♡ taglist Wooin ~

spoils you. Will buy you anything you want.

shares his lollipops with you

is down to get matching tattoos and piercings if he sees you being with him for the rest of his life

will protect you

doesn’t want you to be involved with his drug and underground fighting business

wants you to race with him

Sprays his cologne on all the hoodies he lets you barrow

Is 100% ok with pda will kiss & have his hands over you in public he doesn’t care who is watching.

Sprays your perfume on his clothes so he smells like you

Let’s you paint his nails

Will get matching nails with you

Wants you to go everywhere with him. So he can make sure that no one tries to use you to get revenge on him for the things he’s done

Will hop in the shower with you

Probably would buy you a bouquet of lollipops, just so he can eat them

Joker ~

Personal body guard. You want to take a short cut through a sketchy alley way because you’ll get home faster ? Easy 😭 he can fight so you’ll be safe

Doesn’t want you to watch his fights but will let you clean his injuries

Will go shopping with you, always offers to carry the bags even if you bought something small

Won’t let you go to the store at night. Whatever you need he will get it for you.

Will ask you to baby sit/ keep an eye on his brothers while he is busy. He feels better knowing you’re with them

Loves when you wash his hair. He also loves washing your hair too.

If you mention anyone hurting, stalking, or doing anything that makes you scared or uncomfortable he will beat them up. You won’t even know about it. He will listen to you rant about them and will ask Wooin to find them and he will beat them up. You’ll notice he doesn’t seem surprised when you mention your stalker disappeared.

Will let you watch him train for fights. Not practice fights but weight lifting and boxing with the punching bag. He says you help motivate him.

Will show you some self defense moves in case he isn’t around to help you

Loves seeing you in his clothes

Shares apples with you

Let’s you watch the puppy be picked up

Doesn’t like when you and Wooin laugh at him for things like stopping at a red light in the middle of a race he swears it’s not that funny which only makes you and Wooin laugh more

Would pick flowers for you

Hyuk kwon ~

Likes having your attention

Enjoys your company even if you both aren’t doing anything

Loves showing you bike tricks

Loves when you style his hair

Will try to teach you different bike tricks

Gets way too excited whenever you want to ride bikes with him

Likes having dates at home

Loves taking baths with you, will splash water in your face

Likes when you make him food

Doesn’t want you to race against him in official matches

Won’t let you walk anywhere alone especially at night

Let’s you wear his clothing

You both wear matching masks sometimes

Vinny hong ~

Pushes you away a lot of times because he has a lot going on you just have to be patient with him

Keeps his troubles to himself but will go to you for comfort

He’s shy when it comes to a lot of things like hugging and hand holding but eventually he becomes more confident

Likes when you sleep over

His favorite thing is coming home and hearing you laugh with his mom

Doesn’t like when his mom shows you his baby pictures

Freaks out when you shower at his place

Let’s you take care of his cat

Thought his heart was going to beat out of his chest when he first saw you in his clothes

Will make ramen for you

If he falls asleep with you in his arms you’ll almost never get to leave the bed cause he doesn’t wake up easily

Likes when you help style his hair

Asks his mom to help him pick out gifts for you

Will go shopping with you and is very protective over you

Dedicated to @ankita607 @cozyunderworld @inosukehana

I’ll post hummingbird crew and the others soon

[steviewashere]

Please Don't Go Away (Is This How It's Supposed To Be?)

Rating: General CW: Death of A Pet, Animal Death, Original Animal Character Death, Cancer in a Pet Tags: Post-Canon, Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Grieving Steve Harrington, Dog Owner Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has a Senior Dog, Grieving Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, The Lord of The Rings References Title from "Upside Down" by Jack Johnson. Something something, you can't save people, you can only love them. For @steddieangstyaugust Day 3: "The sunset looks lovely, don't you think?"

🦮—————🦮 Steve Harrington has a heart too big for this world. It beats with love and passion. He cares too much about any living thing he comes across. Seen in his friendships with everybody in the party, with his platonic soulmate relationship with Robin, his polite kindness to Nancy, and his deep and all-encompassing infatuating love for Eddie.

Then, a newcomer is added to his roster.

A golden retriever. It’s a senior dog, roughly eight years old. Shaggy yellow fur that’s half-white. Dark brown eyes, almost like Eddie’s. He likes to prance around, play fetch from dawn to dusk, swim in the pool, and get cuddles between Steve and Eddie in bed. He loves sitting outside with them as they smoke cigarettes. Loves being a part of their day to day lives. Sitting on the porch of their two bedroom apartment, gazing at the sky, as the sun dips low and lower. He rests his heavy head on Eddie’s bare foot and huffs in his sleep, drools onto the wood of the porch, and when he wakes up from his little nap—he always gazes at the stars, too.

His name is Sammy—Samwise, otherwise. And he’s Steve’s best pet friend. The first pet Steve has ever had. The one that earns all of his love.

——— “Eds?” Steve calls out, voice soft, near empty.

They’re sitting at their dining table. Eating from the same pot of macaroni and cheese. Both their faces the pure definition of melancholy.

Sammy’s got a tumor, the vet had said just a few hours ago. It’s cancerous. It’s aggressive.

It’s terminal.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Eddie speaks just as quietly. His throat hurts from the cigarettes he just suckled down not too long ago. Pinched inside from the little amount of talking he’s done today. He was driving the car back home, Steve in the passenger seat crying, and himself holding back tears—he had to see the road.

Steve sniffles. His fork is stirring around in the macaroni. He hasn’t had a bite of it yet. “Do you think…” He stops moving his fork. Eyes clouding, glistening as they look down at the dinged up surface of the table. Swallows, the saliva clicking. “Should I just give him one more good day and then…send him home?”

Eddie reaches for him at that. Taking Steve’s right hand in his. The skin he touches is cold, rough, and clammy. His thumb scoots to the pulse point on Steve’s wrist, it beats slow against him. “That’s up to you, baby. He’s more your dog than mine. I can’t make that decision.”

“But I…Eds, I love him so much,” Steve states, warbling, “he’s my baby. I don’t want him to suffer, but I don’t want to let him go.”

He quickly drops his own fork in the pot of food. Slower, though, he rakes his hand over the top of Steve’s head, fingers idly tangling in his hair, scratching at his scalp. “Sweetheart,” he whispers, “look at me.” Steve does, raising his heavy head, eyes miserable and dark and red, shoulders hunched to his ears, and that frown of his low to his chin. Eddie hates this. “I’ve lost plenty of pets before,” he explains, voice low in his chest, “some of them passed with old age. Some of them escaped through the door and I never saw them again. But I’ve had two that died because they were sick; one of them I had put to sleep.

“And let me tell you, honey, in a case like Sammy’s, he’s only going to break your heart everyday. Sometimes you’ll think your Samwise is better and ready to play. Then, the next morning, he’ll be back to laying down all day, barely eating, mostly sleeping.

“I love him, too; to bits and pieces, to crumbs, to atoms. But you love him more, Stevie. You love him so much, I see that. I know you do. Listen to me, though.

“You can only love him, Steve. He’s terminal, sweetheart. You can’t save him from this. I think, in this case, it’s best to love him as hard as you can, give him the paradise of his dreams, and then let him…send him home.”

Steve’s face isn’t dark anymore. Just morose. Eyes heavy and exhausted. Tears glistening down his cheeks. Face splotchy red and warm when Eddie brushes his knuckles over it. His lips and chin are wobbling. Eddie hates this.

He cups the back of Steve’s head and brings it to his shoulder. And feels more than sees the way Steve weeps and sobs and gags into his neck. His back is bouncing up and down, choppy with each of his shaking breaths. And on the bare skin of his shin, Eddie feels Sammy brush against him. He blearily reaches down and pets the dog’s back, grounding himself for the last few days to come.

——— They’ve got the van set up for the day. Sammy’s dog bed set up in the back, where the seats usually would be. Pillows upon pillows, the comforter from their bed, and a few of their sweatshirts cushioning Sammy on all sides. There’s a greasy paper bag from the diner in the front seat, a cheeseburger without all the fixings, and a small French fry waiting for their buddy. Windows rolled down for fresh air to hit Sammy’s fur. His face is of pure contentment, eyes wide and giddy, panting heavily. Eddie wonders if this is what he’d look like as a puppy, without the grey fur.

Steve’s quiet in the passenger seat. Head looking over his left shoulder, between the seats. His hands twisted in his lap. Smile small and wobbling and deeply remorseful. Eddie offered to let him pick music; packed up several of Steve’s cassettes, but he didn’t even look at them, didn’t even care. They’re his favorite albums, too. Which makes it worse.

The silence has been one of the worst parts of all this.

After the other day, Eddie had been the one to schedule the euthanasia appointment. For just after sundown. One more sunset before their boy goes.

He drives through backroads, between long stretches of nothing but field, and after some time, he parks at the base of a steep hill. And when he gets out, Steve is already scooting out of the back of the van, Sammy in his arms, curled up tight in a ball, clearly too heavy to be moved like this—if the awkward ambling in Steve’s legs says anything—but he just carries on. One slow step at a time until their little hike ends at the top.

Eddie brought up the dog bed and their comforter, the bag of diner food, and the sweatshirts. He lays it all out. Lets Sammy curl up in the bed, covers him with the blanket, stuffs the hoodies on either of his sides, and then hands the food over to Steve to unwrap and feed. He does it slowly. Tears little chunks off of the cheeseburger. Holds the fries two at a time between his clenched fingers. And when it’s gone, he settles his upper body on Sammy’s back, lays his arm between the dog’s legs, and rubs his cheek atop Sammy’s head.

Then, they watch.

The sky shifts from baby blue. To yellow, like Sammy’s young fur. A muted pink, the color of Steve’s cheeks when he laughs—when he cries. And then a mirage of all of the colors, blending and mixing into one saturated thing. The sun dipping low, just the upper third of it still visible. Stars already poking from their hiding spots.

It’s the best sunset Eddie thinks he’s ever seen. But he looks over to Steve anyway. Watches him pet fur under his hand, twirl it between his fingers into tight twists. His eyes spilling fast, fat tears. Barely making a sound, just the stuttering of his breath. Nasally and sharp through his nose. Lips pinched tight, rolled into his teeth. Eyelashes clumped together and darker than Eddie’s ever seen them. He lays his right hand on the back of Steve’s head and pets him, too.

Steve clears his throat. Rough and raw and probably painful. “The sunset looks lovely, don’t you think, Sammy?” He asks quietly, burrowing his head further into the fur. The only response he gets is a snuffle, to which he chuckles at. It’s short lived and terribly bittersweet. “What about you, Eds?” Steve whispers.

He digs his fingers deeper into Steve’s hair, running them all the way down to the ends and then back up. It’s all sorts of tangled from not brushing it this morning, all in his haste to make this a good day. Eddie heaves a small sigh through his nose. “I think it’s the best one I’ve seen,” he answers honestly, the words crackling.

A dissonate grunt.

Steve shifts his head again, his fingers making circles over Sammy’s heart. “How much time do we have?”

His watch is three minutes behind, 8pm, it reads.

“Roughly fifty-seven minutes. But they told me as long as it’s before ten, they’ll be able to do it.”

“And we can be there with him?”

“They said we can be there if we want. From the moment they do it to the moment he closes his eyes. Told me we could stay for a little while after, too. For us to really say…y’know.”

His fingers shift as Steve nods. Heart breaking at the sound of Steve’s stifled small cries. In a strained, quiet voice, Steve admits, “I don’t want another one after him, I think.”

“That’s okay, sweetheart.”

Another, though less stifled, sniffle. “You’ll cuddle me tonight, right?”

“Don’t even have to ask,” Eddie breathes.

“I’m gonna miss him.”

“I know,” he whispers, “I will, too.”

Sammy snuffles deeper again. The sky dark and stars endless. It’s quiet, really.

Until, Steve half-sobs, turns his head, and looks up to Eddie. His eyes wide and deep like abysses. Shiny. Blurry with the tears. “Will you read The Fellowship of The Ring tonight?” He asks in this heartbreaking, tiny, wet voice.

“‘Course, sweetheart,” Eddie agrees immediately. Because he can’t take this, but he isn’t running.

“Okay,” Steve murmurs, tears spilling over again, “I wanna know what Samwise does next. Where he goes.”

Eddie gives a soft smile. A small one. “I think you’ll like where he ends up.”

Steve mirrors his expression, however miserable he is. “Good,” he whispers. He closes his eyes, swallows deep. “I think I’m ready to go. Are you okay to leave?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, “and Steve?” He traces his fingers on Steve’s hairline, down the side of his face, mapping carefully over his cheek, brushing under his eye. Taking in this calmer moment before the true storm tonight.

“Hm?”

He clears his throat, it’s tight and aching. Then, quietly, “Sammy understands, okay? He loves you. And I love you. And whatever comes of this tonight, just know that it’s not your fault tomorrow. You loved him, you’ll always love him, and that’s all you can do.”

Steve exhales slow through his nose and swallows hard again. His eyebrows furrow very briefly before he relaxes. “I love you so much,” he breathes, “thank you.”

“None of that. Now…” He stands up from his spot, knees aching and back pinched, he offers a hand down for Steve to take and hefts him up, too when he grabs on. “Let’s go, love. I’ll be right here the entire time.”

And he is. Holds Steve’s hand. Pets Sammy’s head.

And he wraps his arms around Steve when he breaks down in their bed later, holding the tagged collar to his chest, wailing straight into Eddie’s heart. But Eddie’s got him, he loves him. It’s all he can do.

🦮—————🦮

[superstarz9]

Ya’ll fw a couple MORE Mr. Puzzles hcs?

Cause I got them :}

He was gifted the hat by his mom. It’s a permanent part of him with how much he’s worn it.

He gets it, and won’t say anything about it, but he hates it when he regarded as just the scary “tv” head guy. He’s much more than a pretty screen, people!

The pants are custom made and he has like 20 pairs. He also has several pairs of his shirt and vest.

Will change the second there’s a spot on his clothes. He needs to remain as pristine as possible.

If he wasn’t a workoholic, he’d beat all the moms at candy crush. He’d try to be a literal god at candy crush, and would honestly buy extra lives if he was furious with how the match went and he ran out.

Plays computer solitaire to distract himself when the ratings aren’t good or he needs a mental reset.

Adding to these two, since he has computer elements in his brain (probably), he can probably predict where the game is going to go. The older the console, the easier it is.

He’d be a god at minesweeper.

Does not and will not swear no matter how bad it gets.

If he goes to a concert, he’ll just be doing the equivalent of maladaptive daydreaming the whole time, planning out shows and movies for the songs

Loves the orchestra. He loves movie scores and would totally go to those events where there’s an orchestra playing the soundtrack live as the movie plays.

He’ll whine about not having friends or being able to talk to people but he will refuse to talk to anyone in public, going so far as to mute anyone who tries speaking with him. If he’s at an event and someone tries sparking a conversation with him, he’ll look away awkwardly and reply with “uh huh, yep, oh wow,” and so on until they leave. In a relationship, you could introduce him to people but he’s still be the same unless you were apart of the conversation.

Loves movie/show trivia but it’s a double-edge sword. If you take him on a date to a bar for movie trivia night, he’ll have fun and get everything right (and infodump a lot) but a question will pop up and the official answer will be wrong and Mr. Puzzles will just go ballistic.

Canonically has hammer-space abilities in the shows and can pull out anything he needs. Need a first-aid kit? Got it right here. Emergency costume? Has your size in multiple colours to choose. Someone pissed you off? Just say when and he’ll have something ready.

He doesn’t have proper heating in the studio(since he doesn’t need it) and the place is freezing when there’s the slightest breeze outside.

He uses different colognes and even used febreze a few times to smell his best, but he perpetually smells like cigarettes

He kins spongebob.

Technically canon but he’s an entrepreneur, and has multiple businesses (a tech company based on the keyboard from it’s gotta be perfect, selling the showgrounds). He also phrases puzzlevision as his “latest business venture,” in the movie’s teaser. He bounced between different businessed to earn enough money to buy the studio and the equipment he’d need.

With that being said, he’s unintentionally a con artist. Though he tries to have a somewhat clean business, he cuts corners often to get the products out sooner or doesn’t perform proper safety protocol. He doesn’t really care, though, as his main goal was and is Puzzlevision. He pretty much stopped the second he found the smg4 crew.

Terrible at art. He tries, but not even you can hold back your laugh if you see his art.

If he hasn’t slept for a while his voice is warped and a little glitched.

I forgot if I already posted this but his underpants are so those heart boxers but instead of hearts they’re stars.

So real quick, I just wanted to say that ONE OF MY HEADCANONS HAS BE CONFIRMED LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! It is now confirmed that Mr. Puzzles CAN speak multiple languages, but still needs subtitles. God, I love being right /j

Fr tho, it’s really awesome having him back so soon. Maybe a little early, but I’m not complaining lol. From the sounds of it, he’ll be a reoccurring villain like SMG3 used to be, which I’m honestly relieved by. It’ll be rlly refreshing having a silly antagonist again honestly. I’m looking forward to seeing more of this fricken nerd lol

Also if you guys have any suggestions or requests please let me know! Questions and comments are also appreciated! Thanks and have a great day!

[flowercitti]

Hi!! I loved your Tav/Astarion fic where they draw his face, it was so good and tender ; ; could i request something sweet where Astarion does something selfless for Tav? presumably after the graveyard scene in Act 3 where he's finally free to be himself! thank you!

Thank you sm im glad you enjoyed my other fic! 🌸🤍 And thank you sm for sending a request! Took me a little while to figure out what i wanted to do, but I hope this fits the theme!

Fluff/Angst/Gender-Neutral Tav

Astarion taking care of a sick Tav post-canon.

🌸

It has been a very long time since Astarion has cared for another living soul outside of his own.

What would he have done with compassion during those two centuries of torture? What good would it do him, to find himself caring, to find a morsel of kindness in his rotting soul? It would not have allowed him to escape Cazador, it would not have stopped the ache in his bones, the gnawing pain that ate away at his un-beating heart. Any softness inside of him quickly died with his screams of agony—or perhaps it had died the moment his heart stopped and his throat was ripped out, a corpse left to bleed out into the unforgiving dirt.

Astarion had woken up in his own grave, choking on congealed blood and forced to climb out through the dirt until his nails had fallen off. When he found Cazador there waiting for him, he knew that his life had ended a second time.

All he had was himself—trapped in his own body as he was, barely scraps of a person, skin and flesh that was named but left vacant.

He did not care for his supposed siblings. There was no point in feeling a thing for the poor, pitiful creatures that were just as trapped as he was. Unwilling perpetrators in his torture, but perpetrators nonetheless—sorry sacks of flesh that were just as fucked as he was. He thought—knew, for a long time, that none of them were going to make it out of this.

They were going to die here, enslaved and starving and empty, or tortured for the rest of eternity.

It was death that Astarion yearned for most after so long, when freedom seemed like the dreams of someone far younger and more naive than he was. It was barely a decade before he gave up, before he knew there was no point anymore. His body had been twisted, changed, and something wicked and burning pulsed through his veins—like the thick sludge of tar, like the foul stench of sewer water and waste.

Whoever Astarion was before—they were long gone now.

There was nothing left, no family, no friends, no lovers that lasted longer than a night. Perhaps he had a mother, perhaps not. He couldn’t remember after long enough, drowning in a cloud of pain, his mind swimming, thoughts and memories sliding out of his hands like water. Flashes of soft hands, of a motherly voice and the hum of a gentle melody to greet him at the deepest recesses of his mind. Maybe he had just come up with such a thing for comfort, he doesn’t know.

Days would pass in episodes of complete dissociation, his mind so utterly disconnected from his own body, eyes only catching flickers of lights and colors before he retreated again. His body would move and he would not know why, he would hear voices and he could never make them out, his mouth would move with noise that he could not hear.

Cazador hated it most—when Astarion was too gone to feel it.

“My sweet Astarion. Where have you gone, boy?”

Astarion was not sweet—his flesh felt putrid, like the peeling of rotten fruit, like he were flayed open and bare for picking. His mouth tasted like the blood of rodents and maggots, or the spit and release of another body he could not remember the face of. He felt like a retched thing, his blood poisonous and his mind infested, a disgusting thing that Cazador owned—a kept thing that did not remember what it felt like to be alive.

Other times, Astarion felt everything in bright, startling clarity. Every starburst of pain, every touch, every drop of his own blood spilling onto the floor. Cazador loved it when he screamed, when he was brought to pathetic tears, too broken to scramble for a semblance of dignity—but never so pitiful as to bother with begging. It would have done nothing, would have granted him no mercy, and would have only served to please Cazador’s sadistic whims. It was a lesson he had learned early, that he held no power, no control. What was done to his body was done, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Inescapable—pressing over his skin like a sticky film, keeping him trapped, keeping him present when all he wanted to do was slip away. It was a cycle, unending, and it went on for over two bloody centuries.

Any remnants left of Astarion’s heart had been carved out and eagerly feasted upon before his own eyes. He believed that he was never going to get it back, that he wouldn’t even want it, should it be offered. He had no use for it now, had no use for more weakness, more pain.

And then he finally tasted freedom again—and then there was Tav.

After two centuries of pure shit, of torture and existing as the barest sliver of a person, Astarion began to remember what it felt like to care.

It was fucking terrifying. It was exhilarating, gratifying, like waking anew. Astarion hasn’t even felt alive in the past two-hundred years, and now he feels like he’s been washed clean and left a different person. Hopefully for the better, this time around, and so much of it is due to Tav and their persistence. They helped him wipe Cazador’s sorry face off the planet, and stayed at his side every step away, patient and kind when Astarion didn’t deserve a bit of it.

He cares about them, even when he had thought he’d forgotten how to, and he can’t help but be grateful for even having the chance to try.

And right now—Tav is sick.

They’ve barely left their bed in two days now, curled under thick furs and shivering, little more than a head that peaks out from under their cocoon. They only leave to piss or puke their guts out, before crawling back under the comforters and passing out.

It isn’t fatal, and it will pass within the coming week, even with the discomfort and pain. Tav is resilient and tough, has been through far too much to be taken by simple illness. Astarion knows that they’ll make it out of this just fine, that they’ll be back on their feet soon. They don’t need a bedside nurse, and surely not in the form of Astarion of all people—but.

He’s cradling a bowl of soup in his hands. Its heat is stark against the natural frigidness of his skin, and the chicken broth makes his stomach turn, food that would expel itself immediately should Astarion venture for a taste. But the soup is for Tav, prepared to the best of Astarion’s ability, and surely edible. He hopes.

He places it on Tav’s bedside table, perching himself delicately on the edge of the bed.

“You haven’t eaten anything today, darling.” He says quietly, his hand brushing gently over Tav’s shivering shoulder. It’s nearly noon now, but the room is bathed in pitch black to protect Astarion from the sun’s rays. He misses the warmth of it, now that he is unable to traverse under its watchful eye—but he dispels the thoughts quickly lest it sour his mood.

Tav makes a small noise, turning over to face Astarion, blinking up at him blearily. Their eyes are glassy, their face tacky with sweat, lashes fluttering as they try focus.

“Huh?” They mumble dumbly, tongue thick in their mouth, a hitch catching in their throat that’s immediately followed by wracking coughs.

Astarion winces, placing a hand on their forehead and almost flinching away at the temperature, “You’re nearly scorching, dear.”

Tav blinks, their brows furrowing, “Thank you.”

Astarion resists the urge to allow his head to sink down into his hands.

He only huffs instead, “Come now, I need you sitting up for this. If you spill all this soup on yourself after I spent so much time preparing it, I’ll be very—upset with you.” The words are stilted, far softer than the terse tone he was going for. True, genuine threats used to slip off his tongue so easily, even in regards to Tav—if he was pissed off enough. Now, he just sounds like a doting hen—a loving husband, maybe.

But Tav looks nearly worried, though moving easily with Astarion’s urging hands, propped up against the headboard, cushioned with pillows.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Tav asks suddenly, their hand wrapping around one of Astarion’s wrists. They hold him there, a feverish looks in their eyes. “You—you haven’t fed in a while.” They pout, tugging at their shirt collar, as if they were preparing to bare their neck right then and there.

There’s something that twists behind Astarion’s ribs—tight and heart-shaped.

He pushes Tav’s shirt back up, lingering briefly over the warmth of their skin, “You’re sick, darling. I’m not feeding off of you when you’re like this. I shan’t starve without you, I promise.” He says lightly, taking the cooling bowl of soup in his hands, ignoring the violent churn of his gut. Tav looks nearly teary-eyed when he turns back to them, their lips twisted in discomfort, their gaze burning with fever. Astarion sighs quietly, taking the side of their face in one palm, silently delighted when they sink in to the gentle touch.

“Come now, don’t look so sad. How about this—I—I’ll feed you this time, hm?” His thumb traces over their cheekbone, “You needn’t be the one looking after me.”

Tav sniffles, “I like taking care of you.”

Astarion takes a measured breath, trying not to stare blankly at such a bold-faced admission. He thinks Tav may come closer to killing him than Cazador ever did.

“Yes, yes, I know dear. Now eat, and once you’re all better, you can be your perfect, doting self again.” He pulls his hand away reluctantly, but the warmth of Tav’s skin stays pressed into his palm.

But Tav seems to hum happily at the thought, gratefully accepting the spoonful of soup that Astarion brings to their lips. They make no obvious face of disgust, so Astarion decides that it truly is edible. That, or they’re too delirious from fever to even notice—but they eat the whole bowl regardless. They can barely keep their eyes open by the time its empty, their chest rising and dropping with slow, deep breaths.

“Lets lay you back down before you pass out. You’ll whine about the crick in your neck if you fall asleep like this.” Astarion tells them, bullying them back under the covers as they groan sadly, looking far too small and breakable against the large mattress.

“I feel awful.”

Astarion swallows, gently brushing his knuckles over their forehead. “You’ll get better soon, love. You needn’t worry.” The words sound as if they were meant more for him, a strange tightness in his throat.

He knows that they will be fine, he knows that. They’ve both been through worse. And yet—

He leans down, lips brushing over their forehead, far too hot and sweaty. He lingers for a moment longer anyways, listening to the soft murmur of contentment that leaves Tav’s mouth.

“I love you.” They mutter drowsily, their eyes flickering open for just a moment before they slip closed again.

Astarion breathes out, weak and shuddering.

“I love you too, darling. Now sleep, I’ll be back soon enough.”

🌸

Thank you sm for reading! If you wish to send me Astarion-flavored requests for fic or headcanons, they’re still open! ☺️🤍

[deancasbigbang]

Title: Phantasma

Author: thisisapaige

Artist: Sketch

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, references to past Dean Winchester/others, references to past Castiel/unnamed male character, minor Sam Winchester/Jessica Moore

Length: 30900

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Tags: Alternate Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Pining, Strangers to Lovers. Paranormal Romance, Stanford Era, Ghost Castiel, Hunter Dean, Bad Parents (John Winchester and Namoi Novak), not MCD

Posting Date: October 9, 2023

Summary: Dean doesn't have the guts to grab Sam from Stanford. Dean fails to find his missing dad. Dean can, however, hunt the ghost haunting his house. Yeah, Dean buys a haunted house. On purpose. After a quick salt and burn of the bitter old ghost of Naomi Novak, Dean can finally have something in his life go right. But the ghost isn't what Dean's expecting. The spirit he finds is a polite, broad shouldered, blue eyed man in a trench coat who, instead of throwing Dean through the window in a vengeful rage, asks Dean for help. Dean agrees to assist Castiel, the Friendly Ghost, with moving on to the next life. Cas isn't like any ghost Dean had ever met. The usual rules don't apply to him. He's kind to Dean. He loves books. His cold touch brings mortals close to death. The more time Dean spends with Cas, the less Dean wants to let him go. Cas is good company. Dean hasn't let himself get close to anyone in years. In a different life, Dean could have fallen in love with him. Or maybe he already has.

Excerpt: “Hey, uh, Castiel?” Dean asked. “Where’s the statue?” A hiss of electricity, then Castiel said, right in Dean’s ear, “What statue?” Jumping Janis Joplin on a jackrabbit! Dean put his back to a ghost, didn’t think twice about it, and now that ghost was right fucking behind him. Dean whipped around, trying to lift his gun with one hand, and attempting to dig out his iron knuckles from his jacket pocket with the other. Instead, he hit Castiel, his whole body moving through the ghost. Cold. No, that wasn’t a strong enough description. Frostbite. An Arctic expedition wearing only his Batman underwear. Losing all the blood in his body. His heart stopping. Darkness. Being lowered into his grave. Death.  It was like death. Dean slammed against the floor, gasping and shivering. Pain radiated through his body. Rolling onto his back, he waited for the stars to clear from his vision. “Dean? Dean?” Castiel’s voice came from above. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” Slowly, Castiel’s concerned blue eyes came into view. Taking a few short, shallow breaths, Dean had enough air in his aching lungs to force out an, “I’m fine.”  “No, you’re not.” As Dean struggled to sit up, Castiel retreated. Dean put a hand on his chest and felt his heart beating. He was back in the land of the living. He’d never had that happen before. Most ghosts used their psychic powers to fight. A few had punched him or grabbed him and yeah, it was cold and unpleasant, but Dean had never fallen through one before. That couldn’t be summed up as unpleasant. Dean was convinced he had died for a few seconds. He probably would have been completely dead if it’d happened with any other ghost. The vengeful spirits he’d faced off against before would have finished the job. But not this ghost. Not Castiel. Castiel stood with his back against the wall. The paint showed through his semi-transparent body, casting him a green sheen. Shoulders slumped, Castiel stared at his hands as Dean pulled himself back onto his feet. “Tah-Dah!” Dean said once he got up, slightly swaying. He wiggled his fingers.  “See? Totally fine.” Maybe it was odd that Dean felt the need to comfort a ghost after that, but Castiel clearly regretted it. “It was only a little death.” Castiel’s head snapped up at that. “The, uh— The—” He cleared his throat. “The French way?” “I—” Dean lowered his brows. “I don’t know what that means.” He tapped his chest. “I mean that it sucked but I’m still ticking. So, let’s get back to helping you.”  “You’ll still do that?” “Yeah, buddy. It’s what I do. Just, ah, no touching and no spooking. Capiche?” Castiel nodded and said, seriously, “I capiche.” How in the hell could a ghost who kind of, sort of, killed him be so freaking cute?  Oh, no. What was Dean getting himself into?

DCBB 2023 Posting Schedule

[afterdarkprincess]

Unfinished Business

Pairing: CM Punk/Drew McIntyre Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2,091 Summary: Drew hears Punk's remarks to Cathy after Bash in Berlin and seeks him out in his hotel room.

AO3 Link

Tag squad: @feelschicken @elementaldoughnut12 @harmshake @thlayli-ra @sparklylap @yugiohio (if anyone else wants tagged on my Punkintyre fics pls let me know!)

This fic is Explicit and contains: Dirty Talk, Canon-typical violence, blood, Anal fingering, Rimming, Anal Sex, obsessive behavior. (Full list on AO3)

🖤🩸🖤🩸

Punk feels the weight of the day settle into him. The jet lag that still hasn’t fully settled down, the ache in his bones that follows a hard fought bout. He’d showered off the sweat and blood that had covered him post-match at the arena, so now as he boards the elevator up to his hotel room he looks forward to just crashing into the comfort of his bed.

He checks his phone again, flicking through his social media profiles, trying to convince himself he’s just passing time and not looking for one name in particular.

Still nothing.

He’d figured Drew would have something to say by now, but he reminds himself that it doesn’t really matter. He meant what he said to Cathy backstage. With the bracelet back, Drew is in the past. It’s time to get back to what he’s really desired since he came back to the WWE, a world title.

The elevator comes to a stop, and with a soft chime the door opens to his floor. Punk takes a few steps out and rounds the corner before he stops dead in his tracks.

Well so much for him being in the past.

Down the hall sitting against the door to his hotel room is unmistakably Drew, though his face is covered by his dark hair and a hoodie.

His heart rate picks up, dumb he thinks since he kicked this guys ass just a few hours ago. With the bracelet back on his wrist, he doesn’t have anything to fear from Drew now.

He contemplates saying something, calling out before approaching, but if he knows Drew he’s already noticed his presence in the hallway. Probably clocked him by smell alone when the elevator doors opened.

Punk takes a breath and strides forward. Drew doesn’t look up.

“Hey,” He nudges Drew’s shin with the toe of his shoe. “Ain’t you got somewhere else to be man? You’re really not beating the whole obsessed with me allegations doin’ shit like this-“

The joke dies on his tongue as Drew finally looks up. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, but they’re more lifeless than he’s ever seen. It’s unnerving to see that look on Drew, those insanely blue eyes of his usually are so lit up, full of fire when they gaze upon him.

He should be happy, should be proud to have beaten the fight out of this man that’s wished him harm for months on end. But somehow he can’t find it in himself to be pleased about what he sees.

“Did ya mean it?” Drew’s words are soft, barely audible even in the quiet of the hallway. “What ya said?”

So he did see that.

Punk fishes in his pocket for his key card, unlocks the door and steps inside, holding the door open.

“Come inside, man. Let’s talk.”

Drew looks frustrated, but stands all the same and follows Punk inside.

Punk motions him to the chair and takes a seat on the king size bed. Drew looks uncomfortable and out of place here, almost like a caged animal. His eyes drift to Punk’s wrist, where the bracelet falls down his arm, elastic worn out.

Punk sighs, “Listen, this has been fun and everything-“ Putting it mildly ”But I came back to WWE with a goal in mind. And you said after Summerslam, you wanted to put this rivalry behind you too, so…”

Drew’s eyes slowly moved to meet his. “Aye, but I still had the bracelet then.”

“Meaning?”

“I still had a piece of you.” Some of the fire that Punk has come to know so well returns to Drew’s face.

He can’t deny the thrill that runs through him, but he doesn’t want to give Drew the satisfaction.

“C’mon, isn’t there anything else you wanna do? You could go after Gunther, he’s been a pain in your ass before.” The words are hollow and unconvincing, even to himself.

Drew shakes his head. “I don’t want anyone else, don’t ya get it? I need you. All the years I’ve been workin’ here, I’ve never had a fraction of the success as I’ve had chasing you.”

Punk scoffs, “You know that’s not how this business works.”

“It is when you’re CM bloody Punk!” Drew spits venomously, getting worked up. He takes a few breaths before continuing. “That’s not all though.”

Something settles over Drew’s face, a steely determination. He slowly descends to the floor, eyes never leaving Punk, watching his reaction. Drew crawls toward him on his hands and knees, calling to Punk’s mind his display at Wrestlemania. He fights to keep his face neutral, unsure of Drew’s angle here.

The Scotsman crawls right up to the side of the bed, resting back on his heels and staring up at him. His hands hover above Punk’s knees, so close to touching.

“I could feel ya,” He says, voice thick and low. “In the ring, you were- you cannot lie to me now, I know you desire this too.”

His big hands finally touch Punk’s skin, and it sends a shock through Punk’s system that rivals any smack from the strap he received earlier.

Almost on auto-pilot his hands move, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Drew’s ear before burying his hands into the dark strands. Drew can’t take all the power here, this is a delicate dance they’ve been doing together.

“Could you blame me, seeing you like that?” He leans forward, bringing their faces close. “It was intoxicating.”

Punk feels his dick filling again, as it had in the ring. Something about seeing Drew McIntyre on his knees just drives him wild, and he’s tired of denying it.

Drew’s eyes catch the tenting of his shorts, and he grins, letting his hands drift up to Punk’s thighs. “Ya gonna make me beg for it?”

“You know what? I think I will.” Punk leans back, removing one hand from Drew’s hair so he can unbutton his shorts. “Tell me how badly you’ve wanted this.”

His hand cups his growing erection, and he’s not sure who groans louder, him or Drew. It’s the arm that bears the bracelet, stretched out now as it is.

Drew’s hand reaches for it, holding on to the beads and the skin beneath them, pulling both towards his face. His tongue, thick and pink, licks at the plastic. “When I had this, any moment I wasn’t in the ring or in the gym, I was touchin myself, pretendin’ it was you. Done much filthier things than just keepin’ it in me briefs.”

Punk pulls his free hand from Drew’s hair to his chin, grip tight. “Go on.”

“All I could think about, all the time.” Drew let go of his arm and began unzipping the hoodie, revealing bare skin beneath. “Like you were my own personal demon, tempting me into filth and sin.” The fabric drops to the floor, and Punk drinks in the sight of Drew’s skin covered in welts.

His masterpiece.

“In locker rooms, behind hotel doors, wherever I could get even a glimpse of privacy. It got risky, when I’d moan yer name in the showers, three fingers shoved in my arse and tuggin my dick. D’ya know how embarrassin’ that is?”

Drew unbuttons his jeans and shoves them down his thighs, exposing the thick length of him. Punk figured he’d be packing, but it’s different when faced with all 8 inches of angry red cock. He feels his mouth water.

“You think you deserve to have me? The best in the world?” Punk can’t help but poke at the bear.

“No,” Drew growls. “I deserve better, but yer gonna fuck me anyway. Cause yer just as sick as I am.”

“Damn straight,” Punk laughs. “Get on the bed before I change my mind. No clothes- I wanna see every mark I’ve put on you.”

Drew groans, but does as he’s asked, rising from his knees before kicking out of his jeans.

Punk stands on wobbly feet, moving to his duffel to retrieve the bottle of lube he keeps tucked away inside.

He watches Drew settle on the bed, admires what a pretty picture he makes on his hands and knees, hole peeking out between the meat of his thick cheeks.

Punk quickly divests himself of his clothes, but grabs one more item from his bag before returning to the bed.

He rubs a soothing hand through the soft hair that coats Drew’s upper thighs and ass, giving one cheek a light squeeze. The pale untouched skin stands in contrast to the red lines that cover his back and torso.

Punk can’t leave the job unfinished.

His fingers tighten around the leather belt he’d pulled from the bag.

SMACK

Red blooms, leaving an imprint on Drew’s ass as the man writhes and groans, biting into a pillow to contain his scream.

Punk watches Drew’s cock drip precum pathetically, dripping onto the sheets below.

“Beautiful,” he mutters, running his thumb along the mark.

Drew pants, muscles tensing. “You didn’t get enough of that earlier?”

“I missed a spot, that’s all.” He lets his fingers wander to Drew’s crack, already a little slick with sweat. He teases along the furl of Drew’s asshole, petting at the damp hair that surrounds it, taking in the earthy masculine scent.

No way Drew showered after their match, smelling this rank. But Punk wouldn’t have him any other way.

He sucks his thumb into his mouth, coating it with some saliva.

“You fall asleep back there, Punker?” Drew huffs impatiently.

Punk changes his mind, and spits on his pointer and middle fingers instead before plunging them inside of Drew’s hole. He doesn’t meet much resistance, but the Scotsman howls anyway, and its music to his ears.

He takes his time, exploring the soft squishy heat of Drew’s insides, marveling at how easily his body yields for him, the way his walls cling to his fingers when he pulls them out.

It’s like Drew was made for him specifically, nothing feels more natural.

He adds his ring finger inside, watches in fascination as his rim stretches to accept it. A thought crosses his mind and he can’t help but indulge himself, pulling his fingers free and watching Drew’s hole wink before replacing his fingers with his mouth.

Punk licks around the rim before sinking his tongue inside, giving it a filthy kiss. He savors the salty sweet earthy taste of his opponent, his nemesis, his lover. Drew’s thighs shake and tremble beneath him, his moans unintelligible.

He comes up for air, licking at his lips as he watches Drew’s cock weep.

Punk’s own dick is aching and hard between his legs, completely neglected this far. He palms it before grabbing the lube, drizzling some on his dick and spreading it over his length.

He nestles himself between Drew’s cheeks, rutting in his crack.

Drew keens, hips rocking back in frustration. “Are ya gonna fuck me or not, ya daft bastard?”

Punk reaches forward and wraps his fingers in the hair at the base of Drew’s neck, giving it a tug. Drew’s back bows beautifully, arching back to him, allowing him to breathe his next words into Drew’s ear.

“Be patient, or you won’t be getting my dick at all.” He takes a moment to nip at Drew’s earlobe, just hard enough to sting. “Now flip over, I wanna see your face as I fuck you.”

Drew wastes no time in flipping over, legs flopping open creating the perfect space for Punk to fill.

Punk grabs the closest pillow to him and motions Drew’s hips up, stuffing the pillow under. His knees will thank him later.

The action causes the bracelet to slide back down his arm to his wrist. The way this thing is stretched out now it moves all over the place, but it gives him an idea.

He hooks his thumb under the beads, stretching it over his knuckles until it dangles free. Punk grins, watching the way Drew’s eyes follow each swaying movement.

Punk lifts one of Drew’s legs, almost like he’s going for a pin, but instead of applying pressure he lets the dangling beads brush up against Drew’s skin. He moves slowly, sensually, watching the plastic catch on the thick body hair that covers Drew’s body.

When he gets to the soft skin at Drew’s hip, the heat of Drew’s cock draws him like a magnet. His own cock throbs, and he adjusts his hips to rub their lengths together before wrapping his hand around them both. He keeps his grip loose with the bracelet between his fingers, rolling the beads around the sensitive flesh.

Drew’s head falls back against the pillow as he mewls in pleasure at the sensation, and Punk chokes back a cry at finally getting some action on his dick. A mix of their precum coats the beads, leaving them slick and sticky in Punk’s palm.

“Open up,” Drew obeys for once without complaint, jaw going slack and letting his tongue loll out of his mouth, ready to receive whatever Punk wants to give him.

Punk lets the bracelet hang a few inches above Drew’s waiting mouth, watches as a drop forms and falls before landing on Drew’s tongue and he moans, tasting both of them together.

Fuck it.

He lets the bracelet fall into Drew’s mouth, the beads obscured by his tongue suckling up their combined juices.

It’s obscene. It should be revolting, but he has to concentrate for a moment to keep himself from coming before he can even get inside Drew. He reaches inside Drew’s mouth and takes the bracelet back, sliding it back onto his wrist.

Drew’s face is a mix of confusion and indignant anger and hunger, and before Punk knows what his next move is, he smashes their lips together.

It’s like an extension of their matches, desperate and intense. Their tastes are mixed between their mouths as their tongues knock into each other and intertwine.

Punk’s not sure how long the kiss lasts, he finally breaks to come up for air, unable to wait any longer to finally get inside Drew.

“You ready for the real thing?” He grins, holding himself up and adjusting his hips.

Drew stares up at him with stars in those deep blue eyes and nods. If only Punk had known that this is how to shut the damn Scot up he’d have done this ages ago.

He presses inside, reveling in the tight heat of Drew’s body as it welcomes him in. They fit together like puzzle pieces, like this space inside of Drew was made for him to fill.

Punk draws his hips back slowly, savoring each inch.

“So fuckin’ tight for me,” he grits out. “You a virgin Drew? Anybody else ever fuck you like this?”

He watches Drew’s cheeks turn pink, expression soft. “Aye, I mean I’ve buggered myself, but no one else. Only you.” It’s punctuated by a broken moan as Punk drills inside of him again.

The thought that no one else has ever explored Drew this way, that this is a side of the other man that is only for him, it drives Punk wild, snapping his hips in a rough and unforgiving rhythm.

He wants to devour and destroy Drew, mark him as his own, ruin him for anyone else that might come along and try to take the man from him.

Punk buries his face into Drew’s neck teeth first, biting and sucking at the fragile skin. His hips still humping away at Drew’s hole as he tastes the metallic tang of blood and sweat.

He’s getting close, each depraved act heating up the liquid fire in his gut that aches to fill Drew completely.

His hand moves to grab onto Drew’s cock, giving the hard flesh a few rough tugs. “Mine- you’re mine, fucker. You gonna come for me?”

Drew’s hot breath fills the space between them. “Aye, but yer mine too. Don’t even think about goin’ after anyone else.”

“Never,” Punk sighs, knowing that it’s the truth. “Nobody could understand like you.”

Drew yanks him down by the back of his neck for another bruising kiss, teeth cutting into his bottom lip. The stinging pain combined with the moans Drew makes directly into his mouth sends Punk hurtling over the edge, cock pulsing deep inside.

He releases Drew’s cock and presses his hand against the soft swell of Drew’s stomach, petting the soft hair. He imagines he can feel the heat of his come, marking the Scot just as thoroughly on the inside as he has on the outside.

“You feel my come inside of you? Is it everything you wanted?” He grinds his still pulsating dick, the slide just edging towards too much.

His vision is torn between Drew’s face and his cock as he shatters around him. Cock shooting cum all over his torso, head thrown back in rapture.

Drew’s ass is trying to milk every last drop out of him. Punk huffs a laugh, of course the greedy bitch can’t ever be satisfied.

He lets his hands wander over Drew’s chest, smearing the drying come into his skin as the man breathes through the remnants of his orgasm.

Punk’s softened dick flops out of the warmth of Drew’s hole, and he shudders through a cold chill. He puts on his best shit-eating grin for Drew, who looks peeved at the mess that’s left on his chest.

“So how’d it feel having the best in the world?”

“Fuck you, Punk.”

“Maybe later if you behave.”

[xbraveheartx]

WARNING !! Contains spoilers for Lies of P! If you haven't beaten the game, be warned! This is just a first draft !! I might change it... I might not. I'm just testing the waters and seeing how far I'll get. I think I'll just post the prologue for now and then proceed solo in google docs after. But I wanted to see how people are feeling about the idea ♡ I'll upload the rest most likely on AO3 A "I don't care what canon gave us, I'm bringing Romeo back" fic that'll end up in a romance between our favorite real boy and his bestie ♡ It takes place post-canon!

Prologue

The sun had barely risen when they set off on their mission, a gentle shower coating the city of Krat in sleek rain that took little time to drench every stone and tile. Only once they had reached their destination did the skies suddenly open, a hint of blue smiling down on the otherwise desolate buildings. One couldn’t avoid puddles under such conditions, but there wasn’t any true concern to be had over them.

There were far greater things to worry over. He only hoped they were still there.

“Jeepers. It sure is creepy being back here again.” Gemini chirped, effectively breaking the silence that blanketed Krat Central Station. “Now that the monsters aren’t as much of a problem, everything just feels kinda…” He trailed off, causing the boy’s head to turn just slightly in an effort to toss back a glance in the lamp’s direction. “... Spooky? Haunted is the word, maybe? Almost like something is hiding just around the corner, ready to just– Jump out at you!”

“You’re being dramatic.” Slender digits rose to tuck a long, grey lock behind an ear, palm rubbing a stray droplet of water from a freckled cheek.

“And you’re being careless, pal!” Gemini countered, ignoring the eye roll given in retaliation. “I’m just saying, even if we can’t see the monsters all around like we used to, I’m sure there’s bound to be some still lurking around! Just be more careful, okay, Carlo?”

There was a pause in his steps, the echo of the last dying out shortly after as nothing but the dripping of water and creaking of pipes met their ears.

Carlo… it was still strange, hearing that name, and while he felt it was just right, it felt strange in the same breath. It was familiar yet foreign; He was still learning.

He felt his heart beat.

“Did I say something wrong?” Came Gemini’s chirps once more, the sound coming off as one of concern. Carlo shook his head, lashes fluttering rapidly as he came back to himself whilst lips tugged into a slight smile.

“No, no. Sorry, just… Thinking.” It wasn’t necessarily a lie. Gemini seemed to accept the excuse regardless, trilling gently in a way that Carlo could just picture a real cricket practically vibrating with eagerness.

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go! Er– b-but! … Y’know!... Carefully.” The guide seemed to beam, and Carlo couldn’t help but beam right back, hopeful that their journey would be fruitful in the end.

There, in the dimly lit station, was their target. Track C, train number three– The Blue Fairy. It was funny, looking back on it now, but there was no stopping to admire any form of happenstance. The train itself had been subjected to all manner of bile and questionable fluids, but otherwise, remained intact. The boy hesitated just before entering, hand rising to touch the door frame as he stood at the entrance and listened. When nothing but silence rose to greet him, he pressed onward, stepping over forgotten luggages and shattered glass.

“You really think something like this’ll work?” Gemini spoke again, chirps blending with the crunching of a wineglass underfoot.

There was no immediate response, not until they had made it to the back of the train where a familiar chair sat in the middle of the aisle. He stepped around it, choosing instead, to make his way into the hidden workshop behind.

“I don’t know.” Carlo confessed, fingers trailing across abandoned notes and papers left atop a messy desk. Blueprints were among the litter, notes bookmarking heavily written pages of journals, their fine leather covers worn and frayed. He gathered it all, leaving nothing he deemed important behind. One of many discarded suitcases was chosen among the piles, and with its original contents discarded, was used to house the very legacy his father had left behind. “But I have to try.”

Venigni thumbed through the blueprints, eyes roaming through Geppetto's old notes that had been laid out before him. It was a daunting task, to say the least, and they both knew it. 

"This is... beyond my field of expertise."

The moment of silence to follow after felt far too long, seconds seemingly to stretch into hours that didn't exist. Finally, the boy's lips parted, voice heavy with newly gained emotion that unashamedly manifested as a beg.

"I believe you can do it." Came the quiet encouragement, brows drawing together to further accentuate his plea. "Please?" Yet another pause followed after whilst muted blues fell for but a moment, until finally, they resettled on Venigni. "For... a friend?"

The sigh of defeat to follow the request said enough.

"I shall do what I can, but I make no promises, compagno!" As if a switch was flipped, suddenly a black gloved hand rose with a snap. “Pulcinella! Some fresh parchment, if you would! I must get started immediately! And you!” Once more did the man’s head snap in Carlo’s direction, a finger dramatically being pointed all the while. “You still carry the most important component, do you not? All that’s left is the body– Go and bring it back here. I will give it my all, for I am the Incredible Lorenzini Venigni, and I will settle for no less than my one-hundred percent!... But again, no promises.” 

The emotion to grip at his heart was almost overwhelming, the heavy THUD THUD of the organ pounding against his chest in a mixture of anticipation, joy, and above all else, hope.

“I’ll be back.” He announced with a nod, though he made no move to leave just yet. Instead, he gave the man a smile, brighter than any he had expressed in the past. “Thank you, Venigni. I appreciate your help.” The words were met with a nod and something akin to that of a mutter and a hum. Already was the other absorbed by the notes before him, ink meeting paper in rapid scribbles from the very moment Pulcinella had provided the writing tools.

“Let’s go get your pal… pal!” Gemini chimed in, spurring the boy into motion with a nod. “Leave the technical stuff to the professionals! Rosa Isabella Street awaits!” A trip that would surely be a bit more eventful than their visit to the train station, knowing full well that the puppets would still be prowling around their fallen king’s domain.  Please let this work… The silent prayer was sent skyward.

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Poets and Painters (Deep Night) - Wolffe x Reader [Mature Fic]

Warnings and Information: In desperate need of just one day to take his and his men's mind off the war, Plo Koon orders that everyone make a stop on a relatively uninhabited planet in a peaceful sector of the galaxy to… have a picnic? Just what does he have in mind? A certain flint-gray Commander is finding it hard to believe that they're just on the planet for a day of R&R in the middle of a war, so he isn't letting his guard down. Perhaps someone will help Commander Wolffe find some way to help him relax before the day is over…

2nd person POV. Reader is undescribed save for minor details like personal touches to a uniform, and has a gender-neutral alias. Allusions to canon-typical violence, mention of injury and loss. Plo just being a dad to the 104th Battalion in the background. Swearing. Discussion of more adult themes and some lewd jokes (this is not an Explicit fic but it is Mature; Minors please DNI). Takes place on a fictional planet. 

Word-count: 7,300

Since Commander Wolffe left you with the sketch in your hands so suddenly, you've been in something of a daze, trying to make sense and meaning out of the phrase he left behind below the sketch of you in phase two armor. 

‘Behind the teeth and claws, there is a beating heart.’

You don't understand. Is this supposed to be about you? Is the phrase in reference to him? And regarding what, for that matter: how he feels about himself, or something he sees in you? 

You selfishly wish he would have explained what he means with the deliberate fashion of these nine words before answering the Jedi's summons. Who are these words meant for, and why did you choose them? will have to wait until Wolffe is dismissed, however. He, Sinker, Boost and Plo Koon have been locked in something of a private discussion for what feels like the last half hour.

Arguing. 

(If you can call it that.)

“We should contact another general and let them know what's going on in the event something happens.” Wolffe has insisted for the fifth time. 

“And exactly what are you expecting to happen, sir?” Boost asks just as insistently for the fifth time. He's known that his brother and leader has been on edge all day, he’s been far from blind to it. But the perceived unwillingness, perhaps even stubbornness to refuse to elaborate on what it is Wolffe fears will happen to the battalion in this encounter is starting to get on Boost’s nerves. Why won't you tell us? you're sure he wants to come right out and ask. 

“This is a largely uninhabited planet. We don't know by whom, or how many times Little Archossi has been visited by someone other than us.” 

“What are you getting at?” comes the half-snarled reply to Commander Wolffe. You’re not sure which sergeant the question came from. Or why the Kel Dor hasn’t said a single word in this whole time. General Plo, in your opinion (and experience with risk analysis), is not helping matters by choosing to remain silent rather than encouraging his commanding officers to pause and take a few clarifying breaths before tackling the concerns at hand. 

Paranoia and overcautious stratagem verses being a smidge too lax. 

Commander Wolffe must be paranoid enough for the whole of the battalion. These are his men, his brothers. Whether it was drilled into him under Kamino's rainy skies, or taken up as his own, personal creed since the Abregado battle, he sees to it that they will stay safe at all times whenever they are not in the thick of battle. 

That much is clear to you now.

Were it not for a duty to the Republic, his General, you want to, almost could imagine him abandoning his post and absconding with every brother he can, or at least wish to. I refuse to lose you to war, were I a more selfish man. 

Not another brother lost. 

And throw a largely-untrained civilian in the mix, someone without those primary and secondary instincts these men rely on, it’s hardly surprising that you hear your name cropping up in hushed or hissed voices that have only become easier to hear since everyone has been instructed to ‘tighten formation’, more or less. 

“Hold on- Is- Isn’t that one of the Commander’s blasters? Why does Arcadia have one of Commander Wolffe’s blasters?” one Clone asks, nudging a brother with the edge of his elbow. 

Their voices drop into deep, conferring whispers for a moment, and they either work out that it was offered to you for the purposes of self defense, or come up with their own creative explanation. You can't hear a word they say before the second man turns to the first and tries confirming suspicions. 

“You think maybe the two of them-? What? Don't look at me like that! Commander Wolffe has been spending an awful lot of time with Arcadia today, don't tell me you haven't seen it, Hash!” 

Hash shakes his head and answers he hasn't been paying much attention to what everyone else is doing today, murmuring something about how it ‘must be a sniper’s thing’ to pay that much attention to everyone at all times. He's been too busy daydreaming about new and unique ways to lay waste to the Seppie clankers the next time the 104th battalion faces them. 

“It is not just a “sniper's thing”, Hash...” 

The brother's glowering look is answered with a confused (or maybe unconvinced) shrug. “Sure, Ricochet, if you say so.” Ricochet sighs bitterly, the words forget it jumping from his lips in that same breath. Getting up, he brushes away what he can see of the wet, loose blades of grass that cling to the sterile white plastoid, and politely excuses himself before Hash calls out to remind him of something left behind in the grass. 

“Wait, Ric, your rifle!”

Everyone has been reminded of the sentiment from this morning that above all, if it can be helped, the one-oh-fourth should not appear to the inhabitants of this little, largely unrecorded planet as an open threat. You’re all encouraged to keep your weaponry close as a precautionary measure. Besides: say you did have the means to contact them in the early morning, what could you have said? 

Come to think of it, would either party understand each other’s intentions if there was a barrier in language? Hmm…  Suddenly that’s of some concern to you, but you’re not willing to crash the discussion being had by the Jedi and his commanding officers, now that Plo has stepped in to offer his thoughts and insight. Now doesn’t seem like a good time, given what concentrated expressions you can make out in the moonlight, so you’re going to give it a few minutes, at least.

That should give you the time to come up with some solutions to offer them, actually. In the event you find the inhabitants don’t speak Basic, how best could you come up with a way to draw or show such broad concepts like peace, or convey a message that promises you mean them no harm in the spiral bound pages of your sketchbook or the screen of someone’s datapad?

… This is proving harder than you thought. 

And you are not alone in your confusion, your mild frustration, that the conversation between Plo Koon and Commander Wolffe, has continued even now that Sergeants Sinker and Boost have been dismissed. (What could they be talking about now given the comforting nature of the Kel Dor’s hand clasped over the Clone’s shoulder, just above the symbol of the wolf head?) It’s none of your business, but you’re certainly free to wonder, free to let your mind wander in the same way the fireflies continue to float through the glade.

Roused from your thoughts, you find someone calling your name. “Man, the Commander's still busy… Arcadia! Hey, Arcadia, do you want to join us for a quick strategy game or something?” Tack offers, holding up his datapad in demonstration. “It's real simple. I can teach it to you while we play since it's team-based.” 

What the hell. Why not? “Who are we playing against?” you ask with a curious perk of your brow. You pull your datapad out of the canvas bag among your other things, hiding the art book away for the time being as you scoot over next to Tack in the grass.

“Suds and Orchid.” says Tack.

“Oh hells,” Soapsuds moans in mock-complaint, “we're doomed.”

“Don’t be such a cadet about it, Suds, we'll be fine! Just gimme a second to finish what I'm reading…” Orchid insists, halfheartedly raising his right index finger to say one minute please.

Soapsuds makes the mistake of leaning sideways to read off the screen of his shoulder-partner’s datapad, lips fluttering wordlessly as he indulges curiosity. He swears for the first time all day to your knowledge. “What the fuck are you reading? ‘There was only one bacta tank’...?” 

“Great flying Aiwhas, shut up!” Orchid demands in panic, trying to flip over the screen where it lands face-down in the grass in his hurry. “If you're gonna look, don't read anything out loud, bucket-brain!!”

A knuckle is stuffed into your mouth in efforts to keep yourself from giggling at Orchid's expense; you feel it's only fair after how he covered for you this afternoon. What you read is your own business. Just like what he reads is his. If fanfiction (because there's no damn way that's not a fanfiction trope) for some medical holo-drama is Orchid's guilty pleasure, then good for him. Tack pointedly says nothing altogether, instead taking it upon himself to make sure you either have or need the necessary game installed to your datapad. 

Orchid groans defeatedly when he picks up his device. “Oh fuck, I lost my place…” Sighing, he says everyone might as well start playing the strategy game. He won't look Suds in the eye right away, either, clearly frustrated. 

“I'm sorry.” Suds says timidly, gap between the top of his shoulders and his ears shrinking in shame.

“I… I know you are, Suds, you just-” Shaking his head, the Clone with the namesake of a flower just silences himself before he says something he might either regret, or knows will only serve to hurt a brother's feelings in order to spare his own. “Let's talk about something else.” Orchid mumbles after a rather pregnant pause. “Have you played this game before, Arcadia?”

“Not sure what we’re playing and if I have,” you say, trying to find a more comfortable position to sit in, “but Tack’s offered to teach me.”

Suds visibly perks up, retracting his teasing statement from earlier. “So maybe we’re not doomed.” The optimism is short-lived, but it’s precious to see in the moment. 

“Don’t be so sure about that...” Tack returns ominously with a shit-eating grin and a wagging finger just for the sake of theatrics. “We’re all going to play a short and simple game so Arcadia gets a feel for it before anything, and then we’ll play one round for real.” While he walks you through the settings, Tack explains that the game is an espionage simulator of sorts, and a proper game can carry on for ages, making it perfect for those prolonged periods of deep-space travel. Maybe the next time the one-oh-fourth is tasked with a peace mission, they’ll come find you if they can and wrangle you into someone’s team so you get the full experience.

You find that offer very sweet. “Heh. I think I’d like that very much. Sounds like a plan.” 

Just as Commander Wolffe predicted: his brothers would likely wish you were around more, or looked to include you when it came to “doing nothing”. Surprised that it happened this soon, perhaps? Whatever. You’ll take whatever reason, whatever excuse to keep your mind from gravitating towards worrying about what could come crawling out of that living sea of bark and leaf and twig that goes beyond the pale of typical anxieties.

You’re not going to demonize or vilify or think poorly of the inhabitants before you even meet them, of course, that would be wrong of you. Same way it would have been wrong of you to pass verbal judgment of Commander Wolffe this morning before talking to Tack, before giving Wolffe a chance to prove his character to you.

He was a touch dour, at times, certainly… but wouldn’t you likely be, too, if you endured such things and survived? When you survive hard times, you are forever changed by them; the evidence of your ordeal clings to you like thousands of tiny, root-like tendrils, invisible to all but your own eyes.

But forgetting all that for a moment, you really should focus! You’ve been invited to play a game, and while the nature of it invites ample opportunity to sit in long stretches of silence and thought, you can’t keep getting distracted while Tack has offered to teach you the ropes.

You can spend as much time as you want thinking about the once-maroon commander’s history when you’ve completed the game and raised your concerns to him and the Jedi about communication with the people of Little Archossi.

It’s been easy enough so far, helping Tack deploy countermeasures and set up defenses in hopes of trapping Orchid and Soapsuds while each team navigates a large, digital compound in order to steal generically labeled “galactic secrets”. The idea is each team must contend with not only the facility’s failsafes, but deliberate sabotage efforts that will trigger impassable blockades meant to slow the other infiltrating team down, and find an alternate route. Soon enough, you and Tack are roughly neck-and-neck with Orchid and Suds.

It’s currently their turn to make a move, leaving you and the Clone researcher to wait. Suds taps Orchid’s shoulder-plate to get his attention “Hey what if…?” Orchid shakes his head, showing what he has in mind. Suds doesn’t seem to approve, grimacing. “I dunno… Bit much to execute that on someone who’s never played before, don’t you think?”

“Mm? That’s not what I- Oh, sithspit, sorry. Showed you the wrong thing.” Orchid apologizes, making a few hurried taps along his screen to fix the mistake. “This. I meant this.”

“... that’ll work.” 

They activate the responsive measure, meaning you and Tack are now sealed off from taking that route, and they’re a step ahead in claiming the prize. You’ll have to take a longer route to get around the doors, unless you want to waste time and risk the codeslicing at the control panel failing. 

“What happens if codeslicing fails?” you ask everyone as you and Tack plot your new path, “Like what can happen, as some general examples?” 

“Failing to codeslice triggers a few things, and it’s all randomized.” Orchid jumpstarts the explanation for everyone. You might end up sealing up the entire compound and locking everyone in by mistake. Sometimes you end up electrocuting yourself… somehow. Sometimes the wrong thing opens, instead, like a trapdoor. There’s a couple of other outcomes that you’d have to worry about if you were playing on a higher difficulty, or against others of their brothers who believed in ‘gunning for it’, too. All and all it’s a rather informative summary. 

(Never blindly agree to play against an ARC trooper, is heavily emphasized advice.)

“Huh… yeah, think I’ll leave any slicing to the researcher, just in case.” you offer with a slightly nervous chuckle as you adjust the position of your legs. You’re not used to sitting for most of the day, and you’re uncertain if you’re becoming antsy, or if the slight tingle in your toes hails to a budding circulation issue. You never really thought about just how much walking you do around the durasteel halls of the Triumphant until your expectation of a typical day had been taken and turned on its head. When you spend so much time on your feet, so little time at rest, you kinda just get used to being on the move. 

Kinda like Commander Wolffe, actually… Except you’re privileged enough to know how to relax; to even have that option.

The game is over rather swiftly, Orchid and Suds beating your team by a matter of seconds. Incredibly, the secret files contain actual information, always in the form of either a recipe, or some general trivia. It’s a recipe for roasted nuna legs on a bed of your least favorite vegetable, glazed with bantha butter, in this case. Orchid generously offers to share the spoils with you and Tack even though you lost since he’d want a brother, or a friend, to do the same for him. 

You make sure to tell him that’s rather kind of him, smiling over the transferred file name he sends. (anythins_better_than_rations.file)

“Hey, good effort, Arcadia.” Suds tells you encouragingly, and not just as a show of good sportsmanship. “I think you did pretty good! Seemed like Arcadia was picking it up pretty quickly, right, Tack? Was going really smoothly for the first time playing.”

Tack agrees with a wink while you gather up your things. “You’ll get even better next time. But where are you off to in such a hurry? I thought you were interested in doing a real round after the practice.” 

There’s a slight slowdown in your gathering, wondering how to explain yourself.  “I, uh, had a question for the General and-  and…” you say haltingly,  glancing in the direction of where both Commander Wolffe and General Plo had been, only to find it is now just the Kel Dor on the crown of the hill. “... where’d Commander Wolffe go?” He won’t be far, surely, but with some cloud cover creeping in, it’s limited your visibility allowed by the moonlight. Dawning on you now, you don’t have a ‘plastoid sunbonnet’ to utilize night vision like the rest of the Clones in the 104th who are compensating for the shifting environmental conditions without so much as a murmur while each man dons his helmet.

“Question about what?” Tack tries to ask, hoping that with a bit of gentle prodding, he can make sense of why you’re acting like this. Maybe he thinks you’re feeling fearful, apprehensive of the pressing dark while more and more men don their helmets, the soft hiss of setting seals sounding off all around you. “Do you need a light, or something?”

You shake your head politely. You can probably make your way to the other hill even in the semi-darkness safely enough without one, if you mind your footing. By what moonlight you still have, and maybe a little guiding glow of a datapad or a light clipped to someone, you're confident you'll make it okay. 

You’re not a lamb, you tell yourself. You only look the part among so many armored men in the glade. You find you feel more instances of courage than fear in your steps as a lamb walking among so many wolves, today. 

“I’ll be okay.” you promise. 

With a subtle turn of his head, your approach is acknowledged before you’ve spoken a word of greeting to Plo Koon, his eyes trained on the space between two trees in particular. Trees where the moonlight has not yet been snuffed out by the continual, creeping cloud cover. 

He greets you first, while you’re distracted, your name almost a pleased purr. “Arcadia… What can I help you with?”

Plo Koon breaks apart the loose lacing of his fingers and lays one of those same steady hands, previously folded against his stomach, on your own shoulder in a gesture of comfort, a silent measure of guidance. “I… well I had a question for both you and Commander Wolffe, General Plo, but I’m not seeing him.” you explain, any tightness of fear in your voice answered by a slow stroke of his thumb along the top of your shoulder. You suppose you could just tell the Jedi from Dorin, if needed, but… you’d rather Wolffe was there too. 

You think the Force-wielder can sense that, too.

“Don’t worry, Wolffe will return from the gunships in a moment. We’ve put some preparations in place before I intend to return to the settlement discovered earlier.” you’re promised in a tender tone, though he makes no elaboration of the preparations. The shoulder he grasps is graced with a comforting squeeze, just for a moment. It reminds you of times involving your family, your relatives, the people you call your close friends have offered you some of your greatest comfort. “If you would prefer, we’ll wait until he returns before you pull out your sketchbook and explain what concerns you before I depart.”

Voicing your amazement can’t be helped. “How’d you know I had something in my-? The Force?” 

“Mmm… Perhaps…” Plo Koon suggests. “Many gifts can be found in the Force, little one.” he adds sagely. (Deduction likely swings in his favor when people are creatures of habit, as well, if one thinks about this from all sides.)

“That sounds… That must be very overwhelming.” Admittance that it sounds rather confusing is traded for sympathy in its place. If the Force is in every living thing, surrounding and combining everything in an inexplicable weaving, then making sense of all the extra noise must be nothing short of challenging. That’s the moment when the usual comfort found in ‘the Force is available to all lifeforms’ sentiments becomes perverted and transformed by doubt and fear. How can you use the Force to calm your mind - like the young troopers were shown just the morning - when you’ve received no training, you wonder. 

Because as far as you understand there involves some level of training in order to wield it, no matter one’s capacity. 

Certainly doesn’t take training to discern the sound of boots picking their way through the grass and knowing they belong to Commander Wolffe before you and the General turn around to acknowledge him. After hearing him patrolling the edge of the clearing for hours this morning, the perfectly-paced drumming of his feet even across uneven terrain has become well known to you.

“General Plo. Arcadia.” His bucket is neatly tucked to his waist in the crook of his arm, rather than adorning his head, when he draws nearer. Action-ready best describes his appearance, even in the thick of twilight. “Didn’t I see you with Tack, Orchid and Soapsuds, just over there?” He’s asking you more to be sure of something, rather than accuse. “Unless, I’m mistaken. Apologies, if I… perhaps kept you waiting.”

The honeyed timbre of his voice sparks an odd warmth in your chest. “N-no, I was over there. They were teaching me a game, while you and the General were talking.” Suds offers an endearing, jovial wave when he sees the three of you looking in their direction. 

Saving the two of you from yourselves in the slow bloom of bashfulness he notices taking root, Plo Koon steps in, offering assurance and spurring the conversation along. “We haven’t been waiting long. Arcadia had something to ask us, Commander.” The unspoken oh, good in the release of Wolffe’s previously tense brow and overall expression is promising. If he hasn’t kept you waiting long, then there’s no need for further apologies. 

Instead, he’d like to get straight to it. “Understood, sir. When you’re ready, Arcadia.”

Extracting your spiral-bound, you quickly flip past all the spent pages once it’s in your hands to what you need, but you hold off on showing them the loose, airy sketches in graphite and ink right away. “I had a concern about a language barrier, in the event the native peoples don’t speak Basic. Is there a plan for that?” 

The Kel Dor and the Clone trade silent looks, only briefly. It gives you pause. If you went with your gut and hazarded a guess, you’d conclude that they have no such plan. 

In place of cupping his chin, Plo Koon taps a component of his anti-ox mask once in thought. “I don’t recall a protocol droid currently aboard the Triumphant… Commander?” 

“No, General. Hasn’t been a protocol droid aboard in some time.” Rather than regret, the reply seems like masked relief. “Which is unfortunate for today.” Wolffe adds a little too quickly to be a casual afterthought or a follow-up. 

“There are soldiers with experience in communications,” the Force-wielder points out, “so it would be wise to make them aware of these valid concerns.” While it is always a relief to have one’s concerns validated, validity given your current situation feels that much richer paired with the comforting hand that finds its place once more on your shoulder. “I will ask them to be prepared, soon, if that would bring you comfort, Arcadia.”

“It would. Thank you, General Plo.”

You can sort of tell, or at least guess, that Commander Wolffe is wrestling with something to say following up with this; in the end all he can offer you is a curt nod. Funny, that a simple gesture can tell you so much. 

That answers that. Glad your concerns could be addressed. 

Expressing further relief, further gratitude, you laugh off those dark graphite illustrations you tried coming up with. “Guess that also means we - heh - likely won’t need to fall back on these right away.” Though it will force him to either clip his bucket to his belt, or set it at his feet, you choose to give the art book to Wolffe to look at everything you tried coming up with. Giving it to Plo Koon, you worry he’d see his commander’s sketch of you by mistake, and doing so would put him on the spot. Force an explanation out of him in an inorganic manner, maybe. “I… I had the thought to start making those. Just in case we- well, y'know.” 

Again, all he offers is that same, curt nod while looking over the simplistic depictions. Each page is examined silently, tucked back tenderly when he's seen all there is to see. Loosely-shaped silhouettes, some with the ends of their arms overlapping - meant to depict shaking hands - makes him smile when he comes to that page square in the middle of the rest of the spread. 

“Friendship or peace?” he asks you, showing you your own creation and offering the general the chance to see it himself. 

You offer a shrug. “Either. Both.” 

Closing the book, Wolffe extends his hand to return your property to its rightful place. You reach out to take it, expecting him to release his own hold, only it remains in his hand as well. Just for a moment. 

One singular, eternal moment disturbed only with the low whistle of the wind through the forest and the glade. And the look on his face, between the scar, the cybernetic eye, you see an understanding of sorts. Sympathy. It’s a pity to him that you’ve done so much to help his anxieties today, and now you’re experiencing anxieties of your own and he feels he can do, say, so damn little to help. 

“Mmm. I suppose I see both.” he says at last, his voice a low, throaty hum when he prompts you to take the book back from him. “Here, you should hold onto this, for the time being, Arcadia.”

“I’ll keep it handy, just in case.” you promise in a short, breathless whisper. “Should you and the General decide to show it to the… the uh…” There was a flash of something in the trees in the now-scant rays of light from the moon, just over his shoulder, something swooping through the peripheral zone where forest meets clearing. It had been so swift, so silent, you can’t be completely certain you saw something to begin with.

The right, scarred brow quirks with curiosity before it furrows with concern. “Arcadia?” 

You point over his shoulder to both the Jedi and the Clone. “I saw something in the trees… just for a moment.” Instinctually, a gloved hand reaches for one of his DeeCees before the flint-gray commander fully turns around, facing down the forest. Just when the prickling dread begins to fade into the thought that your eyes are playing tricks on you and filling in information due to the low light, there’s a second sighting that is entirely enveloped in shadow, moving just as swiftly and as nimbly as before. A slight tremor begins in your hands, making it difficult to put away your things within the canvas bag you brought today. 

If they suspected danger, you’d likely be asked to shelter in the center-most LAAT. Something. You trust they’d keep you safe, without question. Without doubt.

“Quick, small. Movement pattern suggests it's likely a bird.” Wolffe determines as he resettles the weapon into its holster while turning to face you once more. “Nothing to be too frightened of.” He places the softest of emphasis he possibly can on the fourth word, a small action of assurance and compassion. I understand that you are scared, but I think you can relax. You’ll be safe. 

The initial, innocent murmur of reply that he’s right, it’s just a bird is followed up with self-scoldings and further rambling. You feel silly for feeling this anxious. Actually, you’re not even sure why you do feel this anxious. Yeah, everyone’s nervous of course about General Plo’s intent to return to the settlement and make contact with them, even though it’s a relief he won’t be going alone this time, but- Wait. Who’s even supposed to go with him? 

The general begins with an apology. “My apologies for failing to bring this up sooner, dear Arcadia…” He had forgotten momentarily, and had meant to inform you that in the discussion with the sergeants and the commander, you had been considered among those who would be coming with him. Commander Wolffe will be making this venture, along with Sergeant Sinker and a few other Clones while Sergeant Boost was left in command of those remaining behind in the clearing. But if you would prefer, you could stay with Boost instead. 

It should be your choice to go, no one will pressure you, or question your decision because you are not a soldier.

It feels like an incredible honor, a privilege even, to have been counted among those considered given your civilian status. But you’re not sure. Yes, you’d love to be of further help - because that’s what you’re here for, this is what you signed yourself up for. But what if things go wrong? Yes. you’re oh, so very curious about the Archossians. But there were so many concerns you were unaware of before, worries that had not previously existed. You’d be so exposed, ill-equipped compared to a Jedi and members of the wolfpack.

“C-can I have time to think about this? I’m sorry, I just think that bird got me a little worked up.” 

Yes of course, you’re promised. Taking time to think about this would be for the best, would have been given to you anyway had Plo remembered to tell you when he meant to. You don’t need to apologize or feel poorly for the nerves, either. That was only too understandable. 

It is Plo Koon who speaks, but Commander Wolffe’s hand that is laid on your shoulder this time, heavy and grounding. He is so warm through the raven-black gloves, the slate gray of your uniform. These are not insignificant layers, so how is he so warm? It could be because the ambient planetary temperature has dropped, but the heightened awareness of his touch makes it feel so much more intense. How does the entirety of something so small like his hand remind you of times you’ve basked in the glow of firelight, the warmth that encompassed you, cradled you head to toe simply sitting near it?

(Oh, Maker. How could one be so warm when he’s cloaked in glacier-cold plastoid?)

“We will leave, only once you’ve decided. Take what time you need.” General Koon promises, bowing his head as a mark of his sincerity to you. 

The warmth of his touch remains with you even after he’s released you, even after imparting his advice to you with an encouraging nod and a kinder, more tender tone you can’t recall him speaking to any other civilian crew before now. Before you. 

When he tells you “Go take a walk to clear your head, Arcadia.” you hear it in the voice of a concerned friend, rather than that of a superior.

“I’ll- We’ll wait for you.”

On forested planets, the fresh air should feel so rejuvenating, so invigorating. It should remind you of those beautiful vernal times in your life, the tender sprouts of new growth so precious, so timeless, poking through winter-hardened soil. It should bring to mind things like frog-spawn and the skittish, hooved things that stare at you in mingled fear and wonder as they stand shock-still; their thorning, arching crowns of bone that always look too heavy for such a delicately shaped creature. You should think of those wispy childhood memories punctuated with the presence of crisp linens and budding fruit and petrichor in a place like this. 

So why do you feel so suffocated instead?

You told your fellow crewmates that you were staying. Staying for whatever reason. First you’d be armed with Soapsuds’ blaster. Now it’s one belonging to the flint-gray commander. There had been no initial, serious qualms about meeting with the Archossians, but now, you’re practically dragging a growing web of worry after you with every additional step in the ankle-high grass as you ponder. Every step is measured, deliberate. For safety, you shouldn’t get too close to the trees while you plot along in your pondering patrol.

You had been considered. But you don’t have to go. Maybe you had been wanted for your risk analysis. But they would have said as much, when they told you. Perhaps Plo Koon, his commander, thought you’d be safest if you were kept in closer proximity to them, being responsible for your safety. So surely, they would have laid that out as their reason, were that the case?

And what in the Maker’s name is going on when it comes to your thoughts of - for - the gray commander anyway? Where are all these thoughts coming from now that the sun has been felled from the sky, and the pewter moon has taken her place?

“What is wrong with you, Arcadia…?” you hiss under your breath, not for the first time, or the fifth. Not even the nineteenth, if you count all your unspoken self-questioning. Something just feels amiss. There’s something that’s wormed its way in between the folds of ever-churning thought and new observations from today.

Commander Wolffe is the epicenter of all of it. 

You’re sure of it. 

The planet, the patrolling, the history of the armor paint, the sketches both done by you and of you… it’s all becoming so connected to him. You could never disentangle him from what’s transpired today. From tension to tenderness, you’ve been witness to too much to forget anytime soon.

You almost fear you’ve gotten yourself too involved too soon, entangled yourself too tightly by making your goodness and your heart so freely available to a man who only just this morning had you questioning if a briefing was overboard. Now it just seemed so harmless. Tame, even.

Ground rules laid out with good intentions, his brothers’ safety in mind… How could you think he was overbearing for that?

You didn’t know. Tack had to tell you, was the one who volunteered information about Abregado to help you understand as someone fairly green to the one-oh-fourth. It was the researcher who first divulged that a formidable enemy to the Jedi was responsible for claiming his commanding officer’s right eye. Eyes that have watched you, studied you, tracked you since calling across the other hill to ask what you were doing from his place under the tree. 

Terra cotta, marigold and sunflower leaves. Fawn trunk. Sage grass. And no gray coloring pencil.

You struggled with allowing yourself to call him a friend only a short time ago, but now, that doesn’t feel like it’s enough for the profound respect and sympathy he’s extracted from you. No. There’s something more.

Is what you're feeling merely limerence? Is it love? Has Wolffe charmed you so quickly - perhaps without even truly trying - that you're in such a tumultuous tailspin that you're… almost scared? Almost afraid that should you continue to chip past a grizzled exterior and the ever-roiling anxieties Commander Wolffe keeps a lid on, you'll find yourself truly and too deeply entrenched? Know for a fact that you are falling in love? (Loved by him in return?) 

Distracted in all your storm of thoughts, you’ve strayed too close to the edge of the clearing without realizing; for this, you are targeted. 

The people of Little Archossi are awake. 

Something lands with a sharp thunk! at your feet, narrowly missing your left foot. In the darkness, with the moon still enshrouded in clouds, it’s hard to make out exactly what it is, but it looks to be a… A blow dart?

"What the-?"

"Arcadia, GET DOWN!" Commander Wolffe shouts, nearer than you’d think. You're suddenly pulled backwards, and Wolffe, in most of his kit, throws himself on top of you. You're trembling and twitching in fright below him; wracked with disbelief that he's using his body as a shield for you, of all people. 

You're not one of his men. You're not too important to the crew of the Triumphant. You're by and large unimportant. But it's you who Commander Wolffe has put himself in harm's way for, growling into the sensitive skin of your neck to stop squirming as he tries to ensure you're properly covered under him and make sense of why you’re flailing so much. "Are you hurt? Arcadia, were you hit?" The combined, pressing weight of his body and his armor feels crushing with him practically sharing oxygen with you. 

His helmet must lie in the tall grass somewhere, forgotten. There is no narrow, oddly crimped visor that can soften, or break the strength of his roaming gaze over you now. Storm gray and warm hickory bore into you, and you’re sure nearly through you with the intensity of that gaze. And it’s not the burning, lustful intensity you’d read about in some trashy, guilty-pleasure romance novel either: it's the intensity that you find in the desperate and frightened.

"You're heavy!" you wheeze, fingers clutching the grass for some semblance of support or as an anchor. "Ge-get off!!" Being forcibly pinned down, almost caged, by the man on top of you is a hair's breadth away from triggering your fight or flight response. 

You understand he's trying to protect you - shield you from harm as there's a few more muted phoomp!s coming from the treeline - logically, but… Instinctually, your brain is saying this unexpected bodily contact needs to be fought off. 

Suddenly an amber emergency flare sings into the sky with a shrill FWEEEEeeeeeeeee! before bursting apart far above the glade, and there's a cacophony of panicked voices from the hills. 

"The Commander's been hit!" you hear Soapsuds call - he must have been the one who shot off the emergency flare. 

You do your best to shout back, trying again to shove Wolffe off of you as you hear someone racing down the last hill with the tell-tale buzz of a kyber-blade drawing near. "No! No, we're fine!" One of your palms is planted on the chest plate of his armor, and it just so happens that it's directly above the Commander's heart. Even through the firm and immovable shell of the plastoid, you feel his heart hammering madly. 

You've never felt a heart beating quite so fast in all your life. 

Has he been hit? 

"R-right?" 

The Kel Dor expresses his concern for his soldier as he encourages Wolffe to sit up, "Come now; let little Arcadia breathe… Are you hurt, Commander Wolffe?"

"N-no, General," Wolffe fails to swallow back his stammers, at last pushing himself off just enough to allow you the clearance to scramble backwards out from under him, "I only… I was only trying to pro-protect Arcadia…" 

Plo disengages his lightsaber, and first looks into the thick shadows of the treeline, then up the hill where more soldiers have gathered, weapons drawn. "Wolfpack, stand down." 

On your feet, you take a cautious half-step closer to bridge the distance between yourself and the strangers before you, peeling themselves in increasing number from the treeline. You hear the Clones bristling in their nervousness behind you, feet scuffling through the grass and soil as they shift their weight, and the soft squeeze of their gloves as they slowly, deliberately re-holster most of their blasters at the order of the Jedi. 

“Steady…”

Hands raised to chest height, you show them flat, empty palms to prove you don’t intend to do any harm with the weaponry tucked in your waistband. The darts were merely warning shots, you assume. Another half-step. A half of a half.

“He-hello-” Your voice comes out in a slight tremor, but it's nothing you can’t recover from. “My name is Arcadia. I’m sorry for coming too close to your forest before we had a chance to introduce ourselves to you.” The other party in this delicate encounter only stare back in return; not immediately extending their own greeting or lowering most of their own weaponry.

It’s apparent, at least from what you can immediately see, that the weaponry they possess is a lot more traditional than modern. You’re seeing bo staffs and short, hooking knives in the hands of those with graying hair, adorned in copper-based jewelry that has lost most of its luster thanks to the gradual development of patina from the look of things. There are very few who boast something that looks like it would be only slightly out of place in the weaponry of the Grand Army of the Republic; these… Archossian (you don’t know what else to call them!), some men, some women, are younger, their hair dark like shadow and tied with twine up out of their faces.

The features are familiar and human; the most marked difference in their appearance when compared to you or the Clones is the ash-colored, leathery skin and the long, unbroken lines of what appears to be either chalk or mud painted on the skin of their arms from shoulder to wrist. Their nails are long, almost claw-like, as well. 

All eyes, pale yellows like the color of starmelt, are trained on you rather than Plo Koon, who is much closer to them than you are. You seem to be the only one who can’t seem to fucking shut up no matter how urgently either Sinker or Boost advises silence. “We don’t mean any harm. What… what do you call yourselves?” Commander Wolffe has been steadily creeping closer, just an arm’s length away from reaching you and possibly saving you from yourself, intent on pulling you back and away.

“Arcadia… What are you doing?” He’s nearly pleading with you to come to your senses, to let the General take it from here as he intends. 

One of the Archossi raises their left hand in a futile attempt to stay the Commander’s, speaking for the first time in raspy, imperfect Basic. “Now come, gray one, there is no need to silence your messenger. The one who calls themselves Arcadia was speaking, had not yet invited us to speak. Merely being polite.” It’s an elderly man with a bent back who leans on his staff for support that addresses you and the commander, likely some figurehead to the people you’ve encountered, or at least someone who is deeply respected. Many nod in show of agreement when he concludes the word polite. “We are the Chossi. Simple, humble star worshipers.” 

“Chossi. What a unique name.” 

The compliment is paid in hopes that it will settle everyone, temper the challenging expressions given by those presumed to be young adults of their people at the very rear of their group. This is when you notice some women and men alike are carrying children on their backs. From the inhale that hitches in many men’s throats behind you, the Clones have noticed too. 

Breaching the thick blanket of mounting silence, Plo Koon addresses one of the curious children who has walked forward with a Dorin greeting and a solemn oath. Offering his hand to the child, the Force-wielder speaks, “Koh-to-ya, little one. As my friend Arcadia promised, we mean your people no harm.”

Humble clone-simp baffled that the story continues to gain more segments. Okay, not really. Commander Wolffe and Arcadia (Reader) just had other plans for me and I wasn't about to subject anyone to a chapter larger than it already was. Taglist form, for any interested, can be found here.

Taglist: @msmeredithrose @lonely-day3636

[Masterlist]

[Early Morning] [Midday] [Late Afternoon] [Evening] [Here] [Golden Dawn part 1]

[Golden Dawn part 2]

[dear-kumari]

Getting my meanest criticism out of the way rn

Arthur I'm sorry that your parents died but did your childhood poem about mourning them have to be so long. Like it looks shorter in the transcript than it felt while listening to it, but 14 verses is still an awful lot. I like the adolescent amateur quality of it, that's fine and expected, but you can't be carrying around all 56 lines of that in your head along with the best of Robert Frost. Give John the abridged version, please, this is probably really awkward for him

Ep 20 is just so, so heavy on the cloying sentimentality between that and the cute animal death that I do think I nearly dropped the show because of it. I went from binge-listening to taking several weeks to get through it (though I resumed my binge immediately after). It's supposed to be the emotional culmination of their journey but came off as manipulative and contrived to the point of cringe. I hate to sound unfeeling, but the whole time I was like can you guys try to strategize about confronting the King instead of reciting eulogies and crying. Or strategize while crying, that's fine, just — something. Anything. The show is about their emotions, yes, but it's also ostensibly about surviving horrors and outwitting powerful forces. Kayne cuts the latter out of the equation almost entirely by handing Arthur the special object he needs for the climax and essentially telling him what to do with it. And then Arthur does it! He spends more brainpower puzzling out what he's supposed to do with the dagger than considering that maybe he shouldn't go along with the desires of the mass murderer he just met. He says the predetermined nature of their journey makes him feel powerless, but the only thing they try to do differently is head deeper into the city. Arthur is a defiant atheist whose big "fuck you" to an actual god is … to attempt to follow the advice of another, more powerful god, by slitting his own throat. Awesome.

This isn't even about the poem anymore but while I'm here, I don't like Kayne. He's not fun, he's not funny, he's not a particularly threatening villain and he fucking killed my little meow meow. The fandom take on him is basically Bill Cipher for adults, which is cool, but canon Kayne doesn't live up to the hype. His "carrot and stick" for Jorthur are too good and too bad, respectively, to be true, making it yet another case of raising the stakes way too high for the audience to truly care. He's also a trickster who straight-up lies rather than one who cleverly exploits loopholes, so it's not like it'll be that surprising when he doesn't honor his deal with them.

I mean, there is an actual kernel of genius in how Kayne is this kinda Christian-themed evil God (omniscient, daughter is "Lilith," jokingly answers to "Jesus Christ," encourages Arthur to listen to his Christian FIL and sacrifice himself) who is essentially offering the protagonists Heaven if they obey him or Hell if they fail. If Jorthur actually learn to see him as an abusive bullshitter with empty promises/threats of eternity ("this too shall pass" taken so far as to break the established eternal cosmic mythos RGU style), I will happily admit that that's a cool deconstruction of the existential dread at the heart of Lovecraft. I think they're just gonna luck into beating him with the Blackstone tho, or maybe he'll win bc he's the author self-insert and Jorthur will get their "happy" ending too, idk. Whatever happens, I don't think I'll stop finding him annoying. Just like that dumb orphan's shitty poetryyyy okay sorry I didn't know how to tie the post together after all that

[vvienna03]

Mishanks

An idea I posted on twitter <Irissvv> I wanna share it here too so…. Okay…This is my fantasy abt mishanks of this… canon divergent au? 

: this takes place in the canon after Luffy becomes pirate king where he beats Shanks,I imagine Zoro and Mihawk duel later. Mishanks reunited,figuring out abt settling down together on red force.

: and Shanks starting to thinks abt what he really WANTS to be with his life with Mihawk, them being domestic-which they can do it now-his desire to make a family. Shanks is totally satisfies how his life is going n he can still just fantasizing abt his breeding kick right?

:well so, one hot night happened n everything peaceful n all until the symptoms starts like Mihawk’s mood swings but that’s still not new- being around shanks for long term time. And morning sickness where he throw up in the dining hall?on red force where they’re having breakfast

:this goes on with Shanks worrying n but still just hovering around then Mihawk pass out and founding out the pregnancy -shocking the red haired pirates like -CAPTAIN KNOCKS UP HAWKEYES!!?- okay so I imagine how he do it is smth that have to do with his celestial dragon blood like➡️

:➡️Shanks blood has a curse or smth abt securing the bloodline no matter what.<shanks origin is so mysterious and interesting I have to do something with it> But also a lil angst because Mihawk’s not suppose to be able to carry a child so that’s his body-oragans changing into a womb can drains out his haki connecting his soul and —

—so haki making a womb but also the child’s life is forming from its mother’s soul which threaten Mihawk’s life.Shanks feeling guilty abt it but Mihawk telling to stop because he wants their baby too of course— ( I can’t do the characterization😭) but my Mishanks is soft bec I’M SOFT

: And Mihawk’s suffering from the pregnancy, he becomes so weak, his body’s thin, cheeks hollow, dark circles under his eyes, having to spent most of his days in bed -breaking Shanks heart and Shanks and his crew set out to find a solution that can make both the baby and Mihawk survive.

:I’m also imagine along the way Zoro coming to red force with perona-he tells his crew to wait while he challenges Hawkeyes by himself they respect it ofc-to navigate him and when he gets there to the news that he couldn’t believe even seeing it in front of his eyes—

:Zoro and perona can’t believe what’s they’re seeing -Hawkeyes is PREGNANT!?- and with Zoro’s protectiveness he goes lurching towards Shanks with his swords until Mihawk stops them ( I love goth family❤️🤧)

:and for the drama -the organization that are still loyal towards world government after their fall because of Luffy n Shanks hears abt Mihawk n the baby and wants to get their hands on them to revenge -nearly got Mihawk (My brain can’t think more🥲)then gets swing by yoru n going into—

:—Labor in the middle of the battle which ends up and giving birth with Shanks beside him. The baby is born but Mihawk stops breathing, the baby’s crying in the background, there’s no solution abt making both of them to survive and Shanks-he’s between the emotions

:—Shanks is torn between happiness for his newborn and devastation of losing the love of this life, crying out Mihawk’s name holding and rocking his body near his chest,face in the curve of his neck…Then the body shaken up,short breaths and Shanks took his face off of the neck—

to see his lover’s golden eyes.

( Because as much as I hate hurting them ,angst/hurt make them and their bond and love stronger eternally. Also I can’t handles sad endings, it’s fine how painful the stories may be —the endings I can’t handle🤧😭 I’m soft and sensitive.🥹)

Oh I forgot to mention why Mihawk stop breathing ,his heart stopping… well his haki and soul make his body to be able to carry a baby so when the baby is born his body is like shuts down, recondition and transform back into his old body which took a few moments.

[voxofthevoid]

Time Travel Fuck-It Wednesday #7—and the last one! I only have one chapter left to write. The fic is at 61k now, and I don't think it'll go over 70k. Regardless of whether I finish it before the next Wednesday, I won't be posting snippets for it anymore because we're now entering spoiler territory of the "gives the ending away" variety.

This week's excerpt is mostly context-less porn, with a side of emotions. Maybe some foreshadowing. There's certainly some ominous imagery...

Usual canon goyuu CWs apply.

A thumb nudges his lower lip, shy for a second before slipping in beside Yuuji’s tongue. Satoru grunts as it hooks behind his teeth, prying his jaw open. The kiss grows wetter, dirtier, his mouth kept open for Yuuji to devour, and Satoru tries to match the filthy plunge of that tongue with strokes over their hard cocks, but Yuuji’s too good at distracting him, his tongue and his thumb tasting and teasing his mouth till the whole of it feels hot and ripe.

The heat drips down his body, his dick twitching against Yuuji’s.

Yuuji makes a low, rumbling noise and draws back. His lips are shiny with spit, but the gleam in his eyes is even brighter. Everywhere that gaze touches sparks hot, and Satoru takes that damned thumb between his teeth just to have something to bite into.

A shiver runs through Yuuji, and he bucks up into Satoru’s fist. It unbalances Satoru, this whole position precarious, but there’s no real way to dislodge him either. In the few seconds it takes for him to readjust, Yuuji tugs his thumb free, but Satoru barely has time to feel the emptiness in his mouth before two long fingers crawl into it, nails gently scraping his tongue before they’re replaced by silken skin. They slide along his tongue in a mockery of fucking, the pads of Yuuji’s fingers slick and velvet-soft.

Satoru sucks on them, and for a moment, Yuuji allows it, watching with those hot eyes, but then he’s hooking Satoru’s mouth open again and kissing him too, his tongue filling up the space between his fingers.

The beat of Satoru’s heart drowns out the storm outside.

It’s no surprise when Yuuji takes those wet fingers out only to circle around and prod at Satoru’s other hole, smearing spit over the rim before pushing a finger in to the first knuckle. Satoru can’t help the way his body clamps tight around it, but Yuuji barely gives him any time to adjust before shoving the entire finger inside.

He’s learned so well.

Satoru breaks the kiss to murmur, “Little pervert.”

Yuuji nips at his jaw, followed by a soothing lick. Satoru shudders, inside and out.

The second finger’s a rougher fit. Satoru tries to relax, but the friction still bites all along the path Yuuji carves open inside him, and that just makes him clench up, over and over and over, and Yuuji reacts like he’s already got Satoru around his cock, panting hard and prying him deeper open.

Between their bodies, their cocks lie neglected, Satoru’s hand a loose, lazy curl. He gives them a little squeeze, but then Yuuji starts dragging his fingers out, stopping before they can tug free of the rim and angling them to hit the prostate on the next thrust, and then he’s understandably distracted. He can’t really ride them in this position. Well, he could always use Limitless and give himself a few extra footholds, but what’s the fun in that? It’s much better like this, Yuuji hot-eyed and determined below him, working Satoru open while watching him like a wet dream.

Still, Satoru braces both hands on Yuuji’s shoulders, earning himself a little leverage. It’s just enough that he can grind back against those fingers, clenching his walls around them while he fucks himself on a bare inch of length. His rim’s already sore, and there’s something soothing about taking Yuuji in deep till the sharp jut of his knuckles presses up against it—a biting kind of relief. And Yuuji’s stubborn hunt for his prostate brings wave after wave of warm, pulsing pleasure, and Satoru’s cock throbs in time to it.

A sharp sting on his chest has him glancing down, eyelids strangely heavy as he pries them open.

Yuuji’s attached teeth-first to his nipple, and then the sharp sting is replaced by slick, soothing sensation. A lap of the tongue, then another and another. Soft suction, Yuuji’s mouth detaching with a wet noise.

He licks his lips, and it’s filthy.

Satoru fists a hand in his hair and shoves his face back into his tits. Yuuji’s laughter trembles all the way down to his ribcage.

And then it’s muffled in a mouthful of flesh, Yuuji’s teeth sinking deep into the swell of a pectoral. The pain makes Satoru cry out, arching up at an angle that only pushes his chest more firmly into Yuuji’s mouth, and it earns him more of that wet, hot suction. Yuuji’s hand isn’t moving anymore, but his fingers are both knuckle-deep inside Satoru and pressed flush against his prostate, sending lazy ripples of pleasure all through his body. His other hand wanders the length of Satoru’s back, laying a claim from nape to ass.

Yuuji seems entirely content to keep doing just this, his hands and his mouth breaking Satoru open, despite the flushed cock screaming for attention down below.

Satoru reaches for it with the hand not fisted in Yuuji’s hair, but his fingers barely graze his prize before Yuuji catches his hand, locking their fingers together as he gently but firmly guides Satoru’s hand away from his dick. Satoru’s traitorous cock throbs at the denial, and a half-frenzied shove of the hips has it bobbing against Yuuji’s cock. It’s not the kind of pressure that’s enough for pleasure, but there’s a hot, dirty thrill in the way their cocks kiss.

Yuuji’s teeth sink meanly into an already sensitized nipple, and then Satoru’s bucking for a whole other reason.

“Shit,” he hisses, hands tightening in Yuuji’s hair and around his hand. He tries to grind against Yuuji’s fingers, but they just move with him, buried knuckle-deep the entire time, and an admonishing tug at Yuuji’s hair only makes his mouth trail fire from Satoru’s chest to his throat, teeth scraping the jut of his collarbone before sucking hotly on his pulse point.

Satoru tilts his head, all habit, and fights down another shudder as that spot flares hot, sending phantom aches lashing at his gut and spine. Yuuji draws back for a moment, and Satoru opens his eyes to see those dark eyes drinking in Yuuji’s handiwork with possessive pleasure. They flicker up for a moment, meeting his own, and Yuuji doesn’t look away even as he leans back in, latching onto a delicate patch of skin on Satoru’s neck.

Teeth dig in, followed by a soothing tongue, and the burning flesh is sucked into a burning mouth.

Satoru bares his throat for it, and Yuuji makes a feast out of him. His hand stays flush to Satoru’s ass, two fingers tucked inside. His prostate doesn’t know peace, but it’s a lazy curl of pleasure, sharpening to points when Satoru least expects it. Yuuji’s fingers are warm and firm against Satoru’s.

This isn’t the frantic distraction Satoru was trying to offer this boy. This isn’t something that belongs in a cramped car parked on the side of a road while the heavens rage around them.

Satoru stares at the writhing darkness outside, then down at the pink head buried in his throat. His own pale fingers stand out starkly against that fairy-floss hair, a skeleton sunk into the crown of it.

But Yuuji doesn’t touch him like he’s death incarnate. His mouth is hungry, his hands greedy. Even the fleeting press of his cock to Satoru’s is a silent, simmering promise.

It’s easy to melt into it, all thought tucked away till he’s just a well-used, well-loved body.

Till Yuuji’s the same, just sweet heat dripping into Satoru’s soul.

[sparrowhero]

could u write something abt shigaraki finding out his crush has a mini crush on eraserhead? 👀

tumblr ate this so you're getting the condensed version. my apologies but if you are upset you need to yell at tumblr hq and be really niceys to me bc i had to write this from scratch TWICE.

ANYWAYS because it's my vision I'm editing this to be more of S1 Shigaraki overthinking your agreement of calling Eraser-head 'cool' post USJ. Reader is implied to be closer in age to Shigaraki and Shigaraki is implied to think that Aizawa may or may not be more than ten years older than he actually is.

HEADCANONS AND DRABBLE UNDER CUT

First of all, he can't exactly blame you because Eraser IS pretty cool. He can't deny what he's said himself: while his quirk is decent, it's the skills that back it up-- He does above and beyond what all of the other fakers claim to do, for nothing but the safety and peace of mind for a few snot-nosed brats who want to become heroes. He's cool. HOWEVER-- him being cool (for a hero) and him being a match for you are two completely different questions. He goes down a full fledged rabbit hole of comparing himself to Aizawa in order to win you back. (or rather, win you over in the first place, but who's counting?)

Where the hell does that old man get off seducing people?! As a matter of fact, what the hell does he have that Shigaraki doesn't? Other than the ability to grow facial hair. (Sorry, but he cannot. It's not happening. Aizawa has been able to grow a beard since he was in high school if we count MHA Vigilantes as canon.)

Is it the hair? His hair is pretty shaggy too, and he could be considered growing it out. Aizawa has more of a curl pattern but they both pay the exact amount of care to their hair: none. He definitely could beat him on that. Sure, Aizawa has a low voice...if you LIKE that sort of thing...but Shigaraki still has a few years left of growing. His voice could deepen by then. The physique? Well...he may be a LITTLE bit shorter, and Eraser does have some muscle hidden underneath those baggy clothes...BUT THOSE THINGS DIDN'T STOP HIM FROM GETTING HIS ASS KICKED!!

He not-so-subtly reminds you that as competent as Eraser was, he also figured out his gimmick and while Eraser himself wasn't able to land a significant blow onto him, he, however, was able to disintegrate part of his arm. PLUS the nomu beat him anyways (he takes credit for that since he brought the nomu along as part of his grand strategy)

"He's not so great." Shigaraki reminds you at the hideout. After the rest of the staff foiled his plans at USJ, he's needed a lot of support due to the bullet wounds in several of his joints, and you graciously help to nurse him back to health. You're in the middle of changing his bandages when he brings this up, and you give him a questioning look because...who the hell is he talking about?? His red eyes meet yours as he looks down at you from his chair. "Eraser-head."

"I'm better for you than he is." His voice is part whisper, part grunt, and almost completely inaudible as he looks away from you. Once again, you ask him to repeat himself because you can't hear him, and he backtracks-- just a little-- in itchy irritation. "I said I'm better than he is." Shigaraki rasps out, enunciating each consonant. He wishes you were a little quicker on the uptake, not considering maybe it's his own evasive way of phrasing things that's gotten him to this point.

"Of course you are."

He has to double take. It's an answer he's come to expect from Kurogiri, who has been his caretaker for over ten years, but to hear it from you gives it a whole new meaning. His heart beats loudly, almost painfully in his chest as you shrug, as if you're saying something completely obvious.

"If I wanted to jump ship after USJ, I would have done so back then, you know?" Careful hands reapply the clean bandages to his arms while you speak, no trace of hesitation or deception lining your tone. "You said it too, he's pretty cool-- But a hero's a hero." Your eyes and tone sharpen at that. "Garbage doesn't stop being garbage just because it's a little shiner than usual."

You didn't join up with them on anything so petty, that could be shaken so easily. It's true that Eraser-head is a better hero than most, but he's still a part of hero society. He defends it, he upholds it, he perpetuates it...and so any appreciation for him starts and stops there. There's no room for the kind of hypocritical half-measures that heroes embody. "So what if we got our asses kicked? We're going to get our revenge soon enough. We're better than that, aren't we?"

You tap your knuckles against the uninjured parts of his hand in a kind of fist-bump. Ah, he realizes, you've misunderstood him. You think he needs encouragement after the fumble and losing the nomu. His lips twitch into a half smile. Maybe you're right...about that at least. The hit to his pride has gotten him into this kind of weak thinking. Shigaraki allows a few of his fingers to brush up against the outside of yours.

Of course. What a foolish thing for him to consider. He didn't have anything to fear about Eraser. Maybe in another world, a different world, a man like that could have been an asset-- someone who understood the kind of darkness that bred the both of you. But the heaviness that weighs upon you and the drive that binds you two together is stronger and more ferocious than any hypocritical kindness that current hero society offers you.

Kurogiri doesn't miss the exchange, his glowing yellow eyes narrowing fondly as the distraction that was currently weighing on Shigaraki disappears with just a gesture and a few words from you.

"We're better than that." Shigaraki agrees. "It'll be different next time." He intends to show you that you chose the right side-- the right man-- even if you don't know it yet. He'll let you think it's just about USJ for a little while longer, if it means he can hold your hand like this. You'll realize soon enough.

[yusume-the-writer]

If it's okay can I please ask for him with kianna komori ( romantic please)

Again but in this scenario he ends up falling asleep and ends up waking up to a petite girl quietly trying to wake him up

Kianna:........

( takes his hand and picks him up off the floor)

Kianna: do you......want to have a tea party?

The best way to rest and have a tea party ~

Carpaccio Luo-Yang x Kianna Komori(OC)

Request made by I hope you like it and keep losing it to me

As if I was given permission about the height of the hair, I decided to leave the height anonymous so everyone can decide whether it is long or short

Warning: Spoiler of the anime, if you don't like Oc x Canon I recommend you pass this post

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Carpaccio hadn't eaten or slept for two days and ended up fainting, but suddenly his lover appears and they have a tea party!!!

After his defeat by Mash, Carpaccio became more devoted to understanding about the connection of magic and pain and here he was

So here he was inside the school library doing his research

It had been a while (2 days) since he had slept or eaten anything but..... was everything ok?

But for Carpaccio it was like a Monday of his classes and research so there was nothing wrong

Suddenly he realizes that his surroundings are slowly getting dark and he starts to lose consciousness and then falls on top of his notes

.

.

.

.

Suddenly Carpaccio feels as if someone was rubbing his hair and trying to wake him up.

The touch was soft, it felt like a mother calming her child to go back to sleep later and a nightmare

He then smells a smell of strawberries that look like they were picked recently or that they had been put in sugar to become jelly, it was a pleasant smell and perhaps his favorite along with the person using it.

It was as if the person was doing their best to wake him up without being startled, and it was working.

Then Carpaccio starts moving around making the person look like the cafuné (Carpaccio was disappointed about this)

He adjusts himself in the wooden chair in the library and then opens his eyes to see the one who woke him up.

Kianna sends him a soft smile when she sees that his technique worked.

Burgundy eyes stare into brown eyes with dilated pupils

Carpaccio then scratches his sleepy eyes causing him to break eye contact "What time is it?" he asked as he continues to scratch his eyes

"13:30" Kianna responds as Carpaccio stops scratching his eyes and adapts to the light

"Shouldn't you be in class or something?" Carpaccio asks after noticing that Kianna was not in bed but in the library at that time, unless she had escaped from her room

"I didn't feel like going to class and I was also worried about where you were" Kianna says stating the last option, but Carpaccio couldn't deny that her heart skipped a beat when she said she was worried about him

Then suddenly Kianna grabs Carpaccio's hand and lifts him from the chair.

Now Carpaccio was standing in front of the short girl while she held his hand.

"Do you...want to have a tea party?"

"....I want"

.

.

.

.

.

.

The table had good quantities of sweets and fruits and there was a pot of tea in the center.

The tea had a greenish yellow tone and carried an aroma that could be compared to lemon.

It looked like tea that night

"So...Why were you sleeping in the library?" Kianna asks as she takes her teacup from her lips

"I was focused on my research so I probably passed out from exhaustion" Carpaccio responds as he picks up a strawberry and eats it

"You need to stop putting your health last, are you not eating or sleeping properly and are you going to the hospital due to a lack of nutrients?" Kianna says she is worried about Carpaccio's health

He wouldn't say, but he loved it when she worried about her health, but he didn't like making her worry all the time.

"Sorry for making you worry" Carpaccio says as he takes a sip from his cup

It had a lemon flavor along with the fact that it was warm, it was pleasant to drink

"Sometimes I get so focused on something I get excited about that I forget to sleep or eat" He continues as soon as he takes the cup from his lips "It can be a bad habit as you say, so I try my best to remember to eat or sleep properly so I don't worry you" Carpaccio finishes, then his wine-colored eyes look into brown eyes,

Kianna stares at him with a look of concern on her face then she sighs and closes her eyes.

"I will believe you" She says as she takes a piece of cake and eats it

"But from today onwards I will make your lunch so you don't forget to eat!" Kianna continues while sending a knowing smile

"If it's okay with you, then okay" Carpaccio says as he sends a smile to Kianna

The tea party continues to be enjoyable after this couple interaction

𝑩𝒐𝒏𝒖𝒔

It was lunch time at the gym

Carpaccio was at a table reading his notes about his research

Suddenly he feels a figure stare at him so he turns around and comes across Kianna with two lunch boxes.

"Sorry for the delay" She says as she starts to sit next to Carpaccio

"It's okay! I didn't wait long and I didn't even notice it was lunch time" Carpaccio smiles lightly as he faces Kianna and sits down.

As soon as she sits down, she hands him her lunch box which he gladly accepts, as soon as he takes it and starts to open it Kianna does the same with her lunch box

"You're not skipping many meals, are you?" Kianna asks as she takes a piece of food into her mouth.

"Not much, but sometimes Magarret finds me sleeping in the dormitory hallway" Carpaccio responds sincerely as he takes another piece of his food

"But you need to watch your sleep schedule!" Kianna scolds Carpaccio while he puts another piece in his mouth

".... Maybe I'll get better if you also take care of your sleep schedule, it's not you who goes out at night and wanders around school like a lost soul" Carpaccio says while pointing accusingly at Kianna's lie

"Me?! Maybe you mistook me for someone or even a ghost~" Kianna laughs while sticking out her tongue in a childish manner

Carpaccio does not refute, making Kianna proudly win the small argument

He just wouldn't say that he thought it was cute that she was showing her tongue because of her pride, but maybe he just said it to see her reaction.

[ficbrish]

To Belong

Rating: Explicit 18+ only!

[AO3 Link]

[Kinktober 2023 prompt thanks to @absurdthirst! October 6th - Collar/Leash]

[[TW/CW: Dom drop, cptsd, blood, alcohol, smoking, choking, service, oral]]

Summary: Astarion and Vistri seek the help of old friends for a bit of kink coaching.

Takes place during post-canon (about 4 years after). There are SPOILERS FOR THE ENDGAME OF BG3 directly under the line!

Penance is my friend's OC and we co-wrote the group scenes. The AO3 link has more information and where you can find their companion smut to this. Which is ❤️‍🔥

[Click here for my other Kinktober one-shots]

Astarion had a roguish glint in his eyes and a smirk on his face. His hands were hidden behind his back, and it looked as though he were holding something as he strutted over to Vistri in their bedroom.

“Uh oh.”

He smiled, concealing a cheeky chuckle, “I haven’t even said anything.”

Vistri stepped closer to rest her hand on him. Her fingers found their home on his chest, and she appreciated the beating of his undead heart. It fluttered as if he were nervous.

“You don’t have to say anything. I can just tell.”

Like they shared some sort of secret, Astarion leaned forward and bent low to speak in her ear, “Now that I’m here, might as well give us a kiss.”

Vistri moved a curl away from his forehead, positively beaming. Astarion wore that soft, mischievous look of his; one of many ways he showed his adoration. So she brought her mouth up to his. That little moan he always let out whenever their lips met made, “I love you,” slip from Vistri’s tongue as she pulled away.

“I don’t think I caught that. Be a dear and repeat it for me.”

“You didn’t hear?” she teased, “Let me get closer then.” Vistri nestled her lips against his earlobe and whispered, “I love you, Astarion.”

He shivered pleasantly, just a little bit. Then she kissed his cheek affectionately before taking a step back.

The way he was looking at her was worth a whole other fight with another Netherbrain.

“And I love you, dearest Vistri,” he declared with his entire heart in his eyes.

Humming with satisfaction, she asked, “What is that behind your back?”

“A delightful little surprise,” he brought his hands around to present her with a box that was wrapped up in pretty paper.

Vistri couldn’t help the smile on her face, “You thought of me?!”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I think of you all the time! A normal, healthy amount. Just every morning, noon, and night—And all the seconds inside them.”

Laughing, she tore at the giftwrap, “I only meant it’s not a holiday or anything.”

“I don’t need a special occasion. Just you, my love, to inspire me. Now stop staring at me and open that gods damn box before I get too excited and spoil the surprise!”

“I’m opening it! Gods!” Vistri protested, feigning offense.

She lifted the lid and moved aside the tissue paper. Vistri looked back at Astarion with the biggest eyes, “You didn’t!”

He seemed genuinely pleased with himself, “I just wanted to make another of your dreams come true.”

On top of a velvety bed sat a collar. And not just any collar, but the collar. It was made of dragon scale leather and inlaid with opals and pearls.

“It matches my face!”

“That’s not too macabre, is it? I thought it was cute, but then I thought—”

“Astarion! It’s perfect!”

Vistri enveloped him in the biggest bear hug her little arms could manage, smashing into him with such force that Astarion almost toppled over. He could feel her hot breath seep through his clothing. Speaking with her face still tight against his chest, she asked with muffled concern, “But… Are you sure?” 

They’d talked about doing something like this a few times over the years. Vistri yearned for his collar ever since she fell in love with him, but Astarion had been traumatized in a kennel. Astarion, being the person he was, tried to convince her he’d be fine, but Vistri didn’t want it if it wasn’t for him too. Being owned and belonging to him in the way a collar represented came from a resilient need for restoration and reclamation. It wasn’t just about Astarion feeling ready, he had to want it in the same way. It couldn’t be something he put himself through just to make her happy. It had to be something they both re-enacted in order to heal.

“I want us to have fun and live our lives the way we want,” Astarion answered, “I’m tired of Cazador still having his way with parts of my mind. I want to take back everything he’s taken, and I want to do it with you.”

Vistri had tears in her eyes, she was so happy, “It means everything to me that you trust me with this, and I promise to do everything to keep you safe.”

Astarion held her tight, resting his head on top of hers. They stood there embracing for a good few minutes before breaking apart.

“And I will do the same,” he promised.

They started slow, with Vistri simply wearing the collar around for a few days. Astarion could see her in it, knowing what it meant, and sit with how that felt before getting into anything more intimate. She’d wear it for benign conversations or reading a book. She’d take it off for any serious moments or prolonged physical contact.

Years ago, Vistri consulted Shadowheart about eventually navigating something like this with Astarion.

“It’s not that I lack experience in this…”

“Area?” Shadow suggested, “Field of study?”

“Exactly!” Vistri continued, “It’s just, all my experiences were with people who took what they wanted and didn’t consider me.”

Karlach would have scooped her into a sweeping hug, but Shadow just passed the wine and explained everything she could. And that was exactly why Vistri was admitting this in Shadow’s tent versus anyone else’s.

She explained concepts to Vistri like aftercare, Dom drop, and the simple idea of taking things step-by-step in your own timing.

“It can be easy to fall into the trap of feeling like the villain,” Shadow admitted, “The healing part is… I don’t know. Maybe it’s just doing the things that were done to you, but with everyone feeling good and okay instead of… what it actually was.”

During their trial period, as Vistri and Astarion referred to it, they would check in with each other a lot to see how things were settling. One night as they sat together on one of their sofas, Astarion answered, gently toying with the collar around her neck.

“It’s absolutely stunning on you.”

The feeling of his fingers lightly brushing along her throat drove Vistri wild, but she needed to stay grounded if she was going to keep Astarion grounded too.

“I love it almost as much as I love you. Your taste is immaculate, my dear.”

Astarion giggled happily, warm and secure, “I could have picked any old bit of leather, and you would wear it like perfection.”

“But you didn’t just pick any old bit of leather.”

“I did not,” he chuckled, “I searched and searched until I found the very best one, because you deserve no less.” He playfully poked the bridge of her nose for emphasis on the word, you.

Vistri stroked his hair, “I’ll happily be your prized pet.”

“My beloved, cherished pet…" Astarion smiled dreamily, "I rather like that.”

“I like that too.”

“Is that what this is then?”

“Do you want it to be?” Vistri checked, “That—Does it feel good to you?”

“It feels sort of wonderful, actually. Does it feel good for you?”

“Oh, it feels lovely!” she answered affectionately.

After discovering what it would mean to them, they decided to take it a step further. Vistri would wear her collar, and they’d go about their evening as usual. This time, however, Astarion would ask her to take off bits of clothing until she wore nothing else.

Vistri sitting by the fire was the picture of contentment. Flickers of light caught on the opals in her collar, making them dance. And Astarion would stare at her.

Before saying something like, “And now your shirt, my dear.”

Her eyes grew more eager with every article shed. Astarion kept asking how she felt, knowing each time the answer would be the verbal manifestation of everything sitting in her expression.

Then he’d tell her how that made him feel, “I love watching you choose to do what I want you to do.”

Since that went so well, they got confident. A couple nights later, Vistri was again left wearing nothing but her collar. Swept up by her existence that night, Astarion gave her a new kind of command.

Every moment between them was a little more intense than usual. They saw each other a little brighter, felt the ache of their love in a different way, and that filled them with the rush of brand-new lovers. It was just one of those days where they looked at each other with fresh eyes and were stunned by the sheer perfection they found in front of them. The heat on Vistri’s face grew as abundant as the slick between her thighs.

That night, she moaned every time Astarion asked her to take off another piece of clothing.

It made him feel greedy.

“Come over here,” he beckoned with a nod.

Vistri stopped performatively searching the bookshelf and turned with a smirk. “I know that tone,” she teased.

Astarion patted the spot on the sofa next to him and pouted, “Come be a good girl for Daddy.”

Vistri blushed and walked over immediately.

Astarion laughed appreciatively when she sat down, “Oh, you liked that. I can tell.”

Speechless, she bit her lip and smiled.

“Now why don’t you lay back for me, darling? I want to admire your form, and I can do it so much better when you’re in that position.”

She did as he suggested.

“That’s it, love.”

Astarion performed that predatory expression he wore so well; the one she trusted so much. “Now spread your legs for me,” he demanded with a sweeping, vampiric wave of his hand.

She did as he asked. Smirking, he moved closer, and she whimpered as he stroked her thighs. The anticipation of his touch almost outshined his actual touch. Her body knew his as the source of years of passionate ecstasy, and on top of that, it was the safest one hers had ever known. It gave itself to him entirely at the barest brush, at the least bit of attention. And here Astarion was, paying her every drop of attention and holding Vistri in both hands.

She cried out his name and wriggled under his fingers. All he had to do was run his palms up and down her thighs, and her want for him turned into madness. It was delicious enough to earn her praise, “How you purr for me when I pet you…”

“Please,” Vistri writhed, helpless; begging, “Take everything. I’m all yours.”

Astarion played with her until he couldn’t help himself. He ordered Vistri to help him undress, then claimed the home he found between her legs. They left her collar on for a while, but Astarion took it off to sink his teeth into her neck. It was the one thing they owned that they couldn’t afford to ruin with bloodstains.

Completely carried away with each other and the moment, they went a step further. Vistri screamed his name so sweetly it inspired Astarion to say, “That’s it, show us who you belong to.”

She shouted his name at every thrust, and once she started crashing around him, Astarion groaned and muttered, over and over, that he owned her. He fucking owned her. It went on for a while before he whined, spilling into her. As he rode out his pleasure, Vistri joined him in it and screamed that she was his. She was completely his.

It was a wonderful moment, but it settled over Astarion afterwards in a weird way.

Not immediately after either.

They checked in with each other as usual, and both felt fantastic. They kissed each other’s fingers and held each other; talked about everything and nothing for hours. Then they went into their trances, blissfully wrapped around each other.

It wasn’t until the next day, when Vistri secured the collar around her throat, that either of them noticed he was bothered. Astarion was excited one moment and in the next, shuddered, almost imperceptibly.

“Are you all right, darling?” she asked immediately.

The corner of his mouth lifted with a little smile, but Astarion was obviously shaken. “I’m not sure,” he questioningly stated.

“Why don’t we sit for a bit?” she suggested, carefully taking off her collar, “Hold on, it’s stuck.”

“Let me get that for you,” he tapped her shoulder, and she turned around for him to finish undoing the clasps.

Astarion looked lighter once it was off. Like some weight had lifted.

“What changed?” she asked, concerned.

He sat down next to her, “You know, I’m really not sure.”

Resting his head in her lap, Vistri played with his curls. She made a concentrated effort to hold her tongue, wanting him to have the silence he needed, and wouldn’t speak until he was ready to speak.

“It’s not like we really did or said anything we haven’t done or said before…” he started before trailing off.

“But not with a collar.”

“No, not with a collar."

Vistri swallowed the guilt and blame bubbling up over her reason. His curls were her final tether to reality, petting them gently to steady herself, “We don’t have to—”

“But I want to! That’s the tricky bit of it all. I like what we did, and it made me feel… I don’t know… Powerful and powerless all at once. And the powerlessness snuck up on me. I didn’t even know it was there until I saw you put on your collar again.”

“I’m so sorry, love.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Neither do you,” Vistri assured him. Then she asked, “Do you know what made you feel powerless?”

He thought about it, “It’s not about hurting you—You enjoy it too much for those kinds of thoughts to take purchase. Visibly, audibly—”

“Astarion!” Vistri laughed, more from relief than anything else. If he was joking again, he was starting to feel better, more himself.

“What? You just really, really, obviously adore the things I do to you. And I think that deserves to be stated out loud as often as possible.”

She raised an amused brow, “You’re getting off-topic.”

“Right!” he agreed, “Where was—Oh! Right. The powerless thing. As I said, it’s not about hurting you or doing something to you that you don’t want. It’s more about… I feel wrong for wanting you to belong to me. It isn’t about doing something that I don’t want to do. It’s about me wanting to do it in the first place.”

“It’s perfectly okay to want those things. Even with everything that’s happened.”

“I know. It just feels that way anyway.”

They just sat in that together.

Eventually, Vistri had an idea, “You know who we could always ask about this?”

Astarion chuckled, knowing exactly what she was about to suggest, “Jenny and her pretty Penny?”

“Yes! It’s about time we have them over to stay again.”

v---v                v---v                v---v                v---v                v---v

The four of them were absolutely delighted to see each other. Shadowheart and Penance looked the same as they always did, but entirely different too.

Shadow’s shock-white hair was even longer but rather than the tight, chained style she’d worn when they traveled together, she sported a softer braid. Penance had hers pulled up too, but neither had a hair out of place despite the dirt on their cloaks indicating a recent scuffle with something nasty. Penance towered over Shadowheart even more than Astarion did Vistri. His shoulders were broad, but Pen’s were broader. They were a visual contrast that made Astarion and Vistri look matched in comparison. All this to say, the tiefling was quite big. It even looked like she’d put on more muscle in the past six months. She had a few new scars too.

But it hadn’t been that long. Not really. Half a year, actually, but when you all used to live and fight together, even a week apart felt like a few years. The last time they’d all seen each other had been at Shadow and Pen’s farm, so seeing them again at their manor made it feel like even more time passed than it did.

Exclamations, hugs, and kisses exploded from the open door. Shadowheart was unusually animated, handing out such physical affections freely. Peace seemed to suit her; living in its safety had brought her to life. Penance, her stalwart sweetheart, was far more subdued by comparison, but no less affectionate. She offered Astarion a warm handshake and Vistri a kiss on the cheek. Even through their various greetings, Shadowheart and Penance always had a funny way of devoting a corner of their attention to each other at all times, as if there was an invisible tether between them.

“May we come in?” Shadowheart asked with a wink to Astarion.

“Why aren’t you a sweetheart! Yes, please step inside.”

Vistri noticed Pen wasn’t wearing her collar yet, and put her hand up to hers in blushing embarrassment.

Shadowheart could see Vistri’s discomfort for what it was and reassured her she wasn’t doing anything wrong, “It’s fine that you’re already wearing it—Moonmaiden’s mercy! It’s absolutely stunning! Astarion, what did you do? Sell a whole city?”

He laughed as they all stepped further in, “How little you think of me! I’d rob half the Upper City before selling anything.”

Everyone could feel Penance, the staunch Paladin of Lathander, tense up a little at the idea.

“Now, now, Pen,” Shadow purred, “Remember our friends and their little jokes.”

Vistri and Astarion shared a look from the corners of their eyes.

Penance insisted on taking their bags into their room despite the abundance of well-paid servants that swarmed them in the foyer.

“It’s no trouble,” she insisted, blushing under her blue-grey skin as she dismissed them.

They had a before-dinner catch up in the lounge by the fire. The deep glow of the Underdark shone through the windows.

“Sorry about the lack of sunlight, Pen,” Vistri apologized, noting their slight unease, “And the moon, Shadow.”

Shadowheart waved off her concern, “Darkness still has its moments. As for Pen…”

Her shoulders were tense, and she cleared her throat, “The light of the Dawnfather comes from within just as much as without.”

Shadowheart chuckled a little and took her hand to kiss it as if to say, What am I going to do with you?

They got the usual conversations out of the way first. Shadowheart had brought a new litter of kittens to the farm. Penance had just finished a new addition to the estate. There’d been a bit of drama between Astarion’s brothers and sisters. Lae’zel was still at war, but it was going well. Gale confirmed again there were no signs of new Elder Brain activity. They’d all gotten the same box of cigars from Karlach and Wyll.

“Well, now that we’re basically all caught up,” Shadowheart segued, “Let’s talk about why we’re all here.”

“You mean other than just to adore you two in person?” Vistri remarked with genuine flattery.

“Shadowheart said you two were exploring and that we could help. Right?” Penance asked.

Shadow placed a hand lovingly on her knee, “Precisely, love. Not to mention dinner.”

“Speaking of dinner,” Astarion said, “We still haven’t dismissed the cook in case you need any help preparing it, Pen. I know you’ve insisted, but you can always change your mind.”

Penance shook her head resolutely, “I will not change my mind. I’ve been planning this all week.”

“She wants to, Asty. Besides, Penance loves to show me all the ways she can serve, don’t you?”

The large tiefling shot her a million-gold smile. She did.

Astarion crossed his legs and languidly sat back, “Well, far be it from me to get in the way. When should we officially begin?”

“First, I’d like to reiterate what I’ve said before. However the two of you decide to explore is perfectly fine. For us, the collar is a symbol of our devotion to one another. I ordain and Penance serves. While her collar is on, she defers to me in all things. Her focus is mine. She is mine,” Shadowheart said.

Penance hung on to every word and a grin slowly spread across her face. The air shifted around them ever so slightly, charged with anticipation.

“Exactly so,” she added, “My primary attention will be on Shadowheart, so forgive me if I’m not much for conversation.”

“Typically, we keep to our roles quite strictly, but since this is all new for you, we’re happy to make exceptions as you learn,” Shadowheart finished.

Astarion tipped his head genuinely, “Thank you.”

“It’s our pleasure,” Penance smiled.

It was so easy to see why those two served the sun and the moon. Brightness poured out of the Paladin, and the Cleric was more than happy to soak up her every ray and reflect it right back. They tempered each other, complimented one another.

“You are our friends, and you know us well,” Shadowheart warned, “but we are a bit different when we’re playing formally. If anything happens that doesn’t sit right with you for any reason…”

“Safe word is ‘Barcus’,” Vistri finished for her.

“Right. Ours is ‘Netheril’.”

“Rest assured,” Pen said, “It pleases me greatly to serve.”

Gods, Shadowheart practically giggled, “Isn’t she darling?”

Penance leaned in for a kiss that was met with equal fervor.

“They are so sweet,” Astarion said to Vistri.

Vistri had a smile on her face she couldn’t get rid of, “Do you think we’re that sweet from the outside?”

“We can hear you talking about us, you know,” Shadow said.

“We know,” Astarion quipped, “That’s why we’re saying it.”

Penance gave Shadowheart a final peck and then made for the kitchen. There was work to be done and she was eager to do it. Not to mention the fact that, though she loved Vistri and Astarion dearly, she could never quite settle in their presence. They were always unpredictable and bursting with energy; difficult to keep up with at length. Rather than trying, she preferred to show her affection in other ways.

A servant approached her on her way to the kitchen, but she waved him off.

“No need to fuss over me. You will have to plate everything though. You know that’s not my gift,” Penance winked.

While she cooked, Shadowheart went over everything a second, third, and fourth time. But it was nice because it gave Astarion a chance to talk to her about what happened the other night. Vistri tried her best to just watch and not chime in. Shadowheart could understand him in a way she couldn’t in this instance. Shadow and Astarion were the people who held the leash, and they were platonic friends instead of sexual partners. As Astarion’s expression shifted from anxiety to relief and then joy, it became easier and easier for Vistri to sit back and stay quiet.

When Penance finally came back into the room, she was holding her collar.

Hers was the complete opposite of Vistri’s but commanded just as much presence. Made of restored leather and backed with reinforced steel; it was plain except for a singular moonstone. It was well-worn and loved even before they’d found it in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, and since having it repaired, it was obviously well-worn and loved again.

“Oh, that’s lovely!”

Penance politely dipped her head, “Thank you, Vistri.” Then she approached Shadowheart and presented the collar to her.

“This means she’s ready,” Shadowheart explained, “Are you two ready?”

Vistri and Astarion looked to each other and nodded.

“Yes,” they both said.

Shadow looked from them to Penance. Once her eyes were on her lover, she needed only to nod. Penance lowered herself to her knees. Even so, she was still so tall.

“Can you be good for me?” Shadowheart asked.

“Yes.”

The air between them was thick with trust and care. Shadowheart smiled and buckled the collar around Pen’s neck. For a brief moment, it was as if the world around them had ceased to exist and was born anew between them. As the moment passed, Shadowheart turned to Vistri and Astarion.

“Pen gives me her collar to let me know she’s ready. And then I put the collar on her as my way of letting Pen know I’m ready.”

Vistri looked to Astarion. There was a thoughtful, delighted smirk on his face, “Hmmm, I think I like that.”

“Would you like me to take it off so you can put it on me, my dear?” Vistri asked.

Astarion smiled warmly, “I just might!”

Vistri turned around so he could unclasp it. Once it was off, he offered it back to her. She accepted with a bright smile before giving it back to him.

He smirked, “Come sit on my lap.”

Vistri felt her heart flutter as she took to her perch. His smell was all around her. She could feel his chest against hers, and the movement of his relaxed breath.

“There you are,” he said as he secured it back around her throat, “Now the whole world can see how darling we are to each other. And by the world I mean Shadowheart, Penny, and the servants.”

Penance glared at Astarion before she could stop herself. Astarion froze. He forgot that “Penny” didn’t actually like to be called that and that only Shadowheart could actually get away with it in her presence.

Shadow corrected her before Astarion could stumble over an apology.

“Penance.”

The effect was immediate. Penance looked back at her like a guilty puppy.

“I came here to show off my perfectly trained pet, and here you are glaring at our hosts.”

Shadow’s voice was stern and icy. Vistri and Astarion knew they’d be stepping into roles, but they were also facing the experience and familiarity that came with years of this kind of play between them.

Vistri squeezed Astarion’s hand, Are you okay?

He squeezed it back and nodded an, I’m all right, love. Thanks for checking.

They watched the other couple resolve their conflict. Penance bowed her head in shame and Shadowheart clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

“Misbehaving is rare for her. We do apologize.”

Astarion bowed his head, “No apologies needed, darling. It was my offense. May I offer your dear pet an apology?”

“If you must,” Shadowheart smirked.

He made eye contact and said, “I’m sorry I called you a name you don’t like. I’ll be more careful.”

“Thank you,” Shadowheart said for her as Pen bowed her head to express it, “Now, shall we admire her for a moment?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he smirked.

Anyone could spend hours singing Pen’s praises. She was tall and broad even for a Tiefling, the result of many years of hard discipline. Her silver-blue skin was scarred and her hands calloused, evidence of her love for hard work. Her pale pink hair was shaved down on the back and sides with the rest tied back in a neat ponytail. She was terrifying to behold, and half it was just from being so beautiful.

“I cannot fathom another person who compliments you better, Shadowheart.”

“I suppose she’ll do. My great beast,” she observed.

“A mountain that greets the sun!”

Shadowheart smirked and circled Penance like a displacer beast around a hunk of raw meat. She ran her fingers over the tiefling’s biceps.

“She is quite striking, isn’t she? Well endowed,” she purred.

All the while, Penance stood perfectly still, waiting for an order and silently enjoying the attention. She was rather terrible at appreciating herself, but Shadowheart was more than happy to make up for it.

“I always knew you were a size queen,” Astarion teased.

Vistri looked up at one of the servants as he stepped into the room. He wasn’t one of the spawn, just a big fan of vampires. He was just George.

“Hello, George!” she waved.

He waved back, “Hello! Dinner is ready, by the way. If you would all please take your seats.”

As George left, Astarion stopped them all from moving to the dining room right away.

“Let’s not forget about my little dragon,” he offered Vistri a hand and pulled her to her feet.

“Exciting!” she said, “I’ll go stand next to Penance so you can admire us both at the same time.”

Shadowheart smiled at her dearest friend and Vistri smiled back. She was much warmer with Vistri, knowing discipline wasn’t as suited to her tastes as her own pet.

“Well, now, Astarion. I think you’ve got some competition. Vistri’s even prettier than you are.”

“I’d take offense to that, but I completely agree.”

Penance looked over at Vistri and winked, offering just a little encouragement of her own.

As they all moved over to the dining room, Astarion watched Shadowheart pull Penance to the side to check in. He took his cue to do the same with Vistri before sitting down at the table.

They pulled off into the room’s entryway and spoke low.

“Are you doing all right, love?” Astarion asked as he moved hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear.

“It’s a little weird, but kind of a good weird. You know?”

He chuckled, “That’s how I feel too. It’s a bit startling at times, but it’s more exciting than anything else. So, you’re doing okay?”

Vistri nodded happily, “Yes. I’m perfectly content. Are you okay?”

“I’m wonderful,” he admitted, a little shyly.

“Kiss me,” she suggested.

Astarion leaned into her, pressing her back into the wall as he pressed his lips against hers.

They found themselves at the table before Shadow and Pen.

“Everything okay?” Vistri asked when they finally joined them.

Shadowheart nodded her head, “We’re fine. Pen isn’t totally used to an audience, but it’s well in hand. Leave her to me.”

Vistri put her hand to her heart, “We’re adjusting too, darling. Don’t fret about it.”

Penance nodded.

“It’s kind of exciting though, right?” she went on, “I mean, it’s all so new, but I’m already having a wonderful time. Plus, I get to share it with you and Shadow.”

Penance nodded again.

“Though, it is a little strange too—I suppose that’s the case with anything new though… What do you think?”

Penance sighed patiently, “Vistri, I’m trying to focus.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Penance took her duty so seriously that it was hard for Vistri to feel like she wasn’t slacking in some way. Maybe she wasn’t doing this right, not paying Astarion enough attention or giving him enough deference. Vistri looked to him for reassurance and he beamed back at her. So she looked over at Shadow, but she had no criticisms to offer. Besides, she’d reminded her over and over again that pets are individuals and dynamics are unique. Pen can be as staunch as she wanted to be, and Vistri could just be Vistri.

“No need to apologize,” Shadowheart smiled. She turned to her beloved pet, “Shall we eat?”

Their first course was a salad made with crops from their garden on the Surface. As the servants brought it out, Shadowheart explained how important it was to Penance for them to have a taste of the sun.

Astarion was genuinely touched, “Thank you. I truly appreciate that.”

Food didn’t sate his hunger, but he could still taste and admire it. More importantly, Vistri would enjoy it. He looked over at her happy expression from tasting one of the tomatoes. Even though Vistri grew up in the Underdark, Astarion always felt guilty for depriving her of the Surface and its food. She loved Surface crops, and the ones traded to the Underdark were never as fresh, or grown in the wrong soil down here. Astarion couldn’t put into words how grateful he was they’d brought her some picked just earlier that day.

So instead, he gave Penance and Shadow a toothy grin and said, “I remember this dressing. You made it all the time back at camp.”

Vistri agreed, mumbling and chewing, “Mmmpphh.”

“Don’t try to talk with your mouth full,” he chided playfully, “It’s rude and we have guests.”

Vistri glared back at him but there was a glint in her eye.

“Careful, Asty,” Shadowheart warned, “If you don’t tame your pets, they get wild.”

He turned to Vistri with a devilish grin, “All the ways I can think to tame you, beloved. My mind is rushing with the possibilities.”

She answered with a hellish look that complimented his, “In honor of our wonderful chef, how about a little penance?”

Astarion raised his eyebrow, “Oh?”

Shadowheart crossed her arms in amusement, waiting to see where her friends were going to take this. She looked over at Penance and could see, by the slightest twitch of her eyebrow, that she was critiquing her food and making mental notes adjusting the recipe for her dressing as she chewed.

“You did perfectly,” she said to Pen from the corner of her mouth.

Penance wiped her mouth with her napkin and smiled at Shadowheart. Then her eyes grew wide as her moment of pleased contentment was interrupted by Vistri’s next words.

“How do we all feel about blood at the dinner table?”

At least this time they were asking.

“Not while we’re eating!” Shadowheart protested, “Excuse yourselves for a moment and go do that in another room like civilized people.”

“It’s not that taboo here,” Astarion said, “We live in a city full of vampire spawn for gods sakes.”

“We live with animals that have more restraint,” Shadowheart sighed.

He stood up dramatically and giggled as he held his hand out to Vistri, “Come, pet. This is lovely but I need some real sustenance and you need to be punished. If you’ll excuse us for a moment or two.”

Shadowheart rolled her eyes happily at the sight of them skipping out of the room. Penance finally let herself chuckle at her moonbeam’s little zinger.

“Laugh it up, devil. I’m saving your punishment for later,” Shadowheart mused.

On the other side of the wall, Astarion pushed Vistri’s back into it with an eager kiss.

“You’re supposed to punish me,” she laughed, still pressed into his lips.

“I know,” he purred, “But I do so like misbehaving with you.”

He tangled his tongue with hers and Vistri tasted their wine and Pen’s salad. She felt his hands roam over her breasts, his lips move to her neck.

“I can’t wait to fuck you,” he growled as he licked her throat.

She sighed, “Bite me.”

Grinding his hips against hers, he sunk his teeth into her neck. Just a shallow cut he’d gladly lick up until it closed. Vistri wriggled between him and the wall, trying not to cry out.

The next course was already on the table by the time they got back. Roast duck with carrots and a colorful arrangement of potatoes. It smelled divine.

Shadowheart spoke once they sat down, “Got a little bit of red on your collar there, Vistri.”

Astarion stood back up at once, “Shit!”

Vistri leaned into him as he tried to rub the stain off with his fingers, but that only spread it around.

“Fuck it!” he said, bending over to put his mouth on her collar and suck off the blood. It was just easier that way! And even if dragon scale didn’t stain, he didn’t want to tempt it.

It was quite a sight, Astarion sucking on the collar around Vistri’s neck. Shadowheart laughed, “Gods, you’re like this even when you’re not trying to be.”

“Like what?” Vistri asked, head tilted with Astarion’s mouth still hanging on her neck.

Thankfully, the collar didn’t stain.

As dinner resumed, Astarion took note of how Shadowheart interacted with her pet. It almost seemed like she was ignoring her at first, since Penance wasn’t really part of the conversation, but every once in a while she would look over at her or touch her idly. 

“Penance. Astarion’s cup is empty.” 

Without wasting a moment, Penance wiped her mouth with her napkin and rose from her seat. She took the bottle of wine from the servant nearby, as if he was the one behaving strangely, and refilled Astarion’s cup.

With her task complete, she paused, looking to Shadowheart for guidance.

“Vistri, would you like more wine?” Shadowheart asked.

“Please!”

Penance filled her glass and then waited, once more, for further instructions. Shadowheart looked at her, holding her attention in the palm of her hand, knowing she could hold it there forever. After a long moment of this aching, glorious tension, Shadow nodded.

“You may sit.”

Once seated, Penance was rewarded with a hand on her cheek and a soft, “Good.”

Astarion watched them with rapt attention. Seeing Shadow and Penance act the way they did took away that wrong feeling. Around them, he felt validated and free to play. These people understood power and how its exchange was more than just cruel or petty; it could be so much more. He could, for lack of a better description, be a kinder Cazador to Vistri than he ever got. He could do similar things that were done to him, but from a position of power, and with the person he trusted and adored the most wanting him to do it.

He was truly confident and playful after dinner. He and Shadowheart were also tipsy enough to start showing off.

“Penance, show them how easily you can pick me up,” Shadowheart demanded.

She swept her into her arms like Shadow was a leaf. Blushing, she stared at Pen like she was dessert.

Astarion looked over at Vistri.

“I could try?” she shrugged.

“You don’t have to try. You sweep me off my feet every day without having to lift a finger.”

Shadowheart cleared her throat and leaned into Penance’s chest. “Put me down before I get you in trouble,” she said huskily.

Penance placed her gently on the ground, but Shadow’s cheeks were a little darker. Her breath a little tighter.

Astarion twirled Vistri into the middle of everyone’s view, “She might not be able to pick me up, but her honeyed tongue could talk a devil back to the Hells. And she has! Quite a few times, actually.”

Shadow walked up and pat Vistri on the head, “I was there for that, and you were so impressive.”

Penance let out an impatient noise. Shadowheart snapped her eyes to her.

“I see,” Shadow said tightly, “You want to be punished. The way you’re carrying on while I dote on my best friend is most unbecoming.”

Penance let out a long, tense sigh.

Astarion pouted, “Darling, I’m hurt! I thought I was your best friend.”

“You’re a different best friend!” she laughed, her firm manner melting away immediately.

“My, my, Shadow,” Vistri grinned, “Everyone’s fighting over you tonight.”

Astarion came up from behind and picked Vistri up. They fell back on the couch, laughing.

“Come lay down in my lap, you sweet thing,” he whispered into her ear.

He slowly stroked her face and hair as Penance served them brandy. She didn’t imbibe herself, but she did take some water over to Shadow’s side and knelt by her knees. Shadowheart leaned down and whispered something to her that made her swallow thickly.

Astarion, eyeing the box from Karlach and Wyll, was struck with an idea.

“Vistri, darling?” he called.

“Yes, love?”

“Would you be a dear and light us some cigars?”

The glint in her eyes reflected his.

“Gladly.”

Vistri got up to grab a cigar from the box, and the back of her neck tingled in the most delightful way. It wasn’t Astarion’s orders per say, so much as it was seeing him confident and unafraid. Figuring she’d bring it to him in the manner that would most please him, Vistri sat on his lap and told him to open his mouth.

"I think I'm the one supposed to be giving the orders, my darling," he corrected.

Vistri pulled a face and Astarion clicked his tongue, “Now don’t pout love. It’s Ladies first, and we don’t want to be rude. Besides, you’ll want to save the best for last.”

He gave her bum a squeeze as she leapt off his lap to put his cigar aside and present one to Shadowheart, who then placed it in Pen’s mouth. Vistri snapped her fingers and a little flame shot up from the tip of her thumb. She held it steady at the end of Pen’s cigar until she puffed it into steady life.

“Good girl,” Astarion purred, “Now come over to me.”

She grabbed the cigar she’d put to the side and paused before bending over to meet his smirking grin. He opened his mouth, and she placed it between his teeth. She fell into Astarion’s eyes, and kept staring into them as she snapped her fingers and bent to light his cigar.

He used the opportunity to capture her, sweeping Vistri into his lap.

Penance was already turning the room into a cloudy day.

Astarion took a generous puff before taking the cigar out of his mouth to kiss Vistri. She giggled and he growled.

“Share it with me, darling?” he asked her.

She nodded, and Astarion brought his cigar to her lips. Lingering on each consonant, striking them with emphatic warning, he told her, “Take it,” and pushed his thick cigar into her mouth. Grabbing the end of it between her teeth, she did as commanded and sucked. He held it there until puffs of smoke began to billow out of her mouth, making her eyes water.

Taking it so harshly without coughing once earned her another, "Good girl," whispered low by her ear.

Shadowheart didn’t particularly care for cigars, but the wine coursing through her veins had made her peckish, and since she couldn’t feast on Penance just yet, she settled for the smoke. She looked down at her pet and cleared her throat, batting her eyelashes. She patted the spot on the sofa next to her, and Penance hopped up with a grin.

Slowly, Shadowheart parted her lips and snaked her tongue just past the edge of her mouth. An invitation that Penance answered reverently with the end of her cigar. It was maddening to watch her inhale, but that madness was its own pleasure, and it was made even sweeter knowing that it was shared.

Shadowheart stared deep into Penance’s eyes and exhaled. It took every bit of the tiefling’s self-control not to lean in and devour her, but that would have been overstepping. So, she took the cigar back and sucked down a huge lungful of smoke before letting it drift slowly from her nose.

“I don’t know how you bear it, but then I remember you’re an infernal beast,” Shadowheart said evenly.

Penance’s eyes offered plenty of searing reply, “Your infernal beast.”

“You know Astarion,” Shadowheart mused, “Do you remember how I mentioned that wild pets need taming?” Astarion reluctantly pulled his gaze from Vistri.

“I do.”

Shadowheart pushed Penance gently off the couch and back onto the floor. Their eyes stayed trained on one another, and it was clear the time for company was coming to a swift end.

“I was speaking from experience. My pet may seem well-behaved now, but she’s got a devilish streak in her that must always be carefully minded. Shall I show you how I handle such a brute?” she asked.

Astarion leaned in close to whisper in Vistri’s ear, “Why do I feel like I’m in trouble too?”

Vistri giggled and kissed his cheek. “So scary,” she murmured back, “Reminds me of all the times we misplaced her eyeliner.”

Shadowheart snapped her fingers and Penance went entirely still, like a coiled spring.

“Pushups, I think,” Shadowheart said, pointing to the middle of the room, “Go on.”

Penance got to her feet and took a long pull on the cigar between her lips, never dropping her gaze. The length of the puff looked almost painful, but she didn’t so much as flinch. She took another, letting the smoke shoot out of her nose in long plumes. A devil indeed. Then she passed it to Shadowheart and made her way to the middle of the room.

“A beast needs a firm hand lest she start to forget herself.” Shadowheart said firmly.

Without skipping a beat, Penance dropped onto her hands and began slow, measured pushups. Her short-sleeved shirt gave an excellent view of her corded arms as they pumped. For a few moments, no one spoke. Everyone simply watched this display of powerful submission until the sound of Pen’s breathing became too much to bear.

Vistri twirled around in Astarion’s lap with the full intention of making a joke, to relieve a little of the thick tension in the room, but misjudged the force of her shoulders and her throat pressed into his mouth. He froze. Under usual circumstances, he would simply indulge in Vistri’s blood, with her permission, of course, but not in front of their guests.

He had to restrain himself in present company and that proved quite difficult with her so close and so sweet in his nose. Despite himself, he let out a soft, low moan.

Penance stopped moving, her attention similarly pulled to Shadowheart who had…also let out a rather telling noise.

The evening was promptly dissolved.

“Ahem, I think we should all retire before we lose what’s left of our reason.” Shadowheart announced.

Astarion took a moment to stand up and bid them goodnight. He turned to Vistri and commanded her to do the same.

“Say goodnight to our guests, pet.”

She blushed and bid them sweet dreams.

When Penance and Shadowheart left, they were alone.

He tackled her onto the couch, kissing her deeply and whining from his throat. Vistri met him with a fury that was hard to contain. They tasted like brandy and smoke.

“Take me to bed,” she begged him.

“Naughty, Naughty,” Astarion chided, full of heat, “We haven’t even settled our little bet.”

Their own cigar was smoked about halfway, but the ashtray with Pen’s was completely ash.

“Well, it's all gone but that took about ten minutes, so I say we both lose.”

v---v                v---v                v---v                v---v                v---v

They had a leash for Vistri’s collar they hadn't used yet. It wasn't near as grand; just a fine, black leather whose simplicity complimented the collar's grandiosity. After tonight’s dinner, Astarion felt ready. He put on the airs of a vampire lord to command her, “Come bind yourself to me, you sweet, delicious treat.”

Vistri gladly walked over to be taken. He fit her leash into the loop on her collar, and she was tethered.

He reached out for her face, caressing her cheek, “You just want to please me, don’t you?”

She nodded, “More than anything.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

“Your happiness.”

Astarion kissed her, then said, “That’s about me again.”

“I know.”

She was so sweet he had to kiss her one more time, “Then if you really want it all to be about me, you’ll serve.”

Vistri ran her hands along his chest, “I want to sate every desire. Until you feel perfect.”

“Believe me, my dear. You will.”

He fingered the leash between them, then tugged it to bring her closer, “You like this?”

She nodded with enthusiasm, “Oh, I like this.”

Astarion smirked, “Then get on your knees.”

His tone was firm, but still warm. Vistri kneeled and he towered over her, looking down and running his hands all through her hair. He positioned her head between his legs at the level of his hips. Vistri could see the hard imprint of him through his trousers and needed to put it in her mouth.

He ran his thumb across her bottom lip, then grabbed her chin to make her meet his gaze. Tightening his grip on the leash shortened the give between them, and he wrapped the leather around his fist a few times, “Now you can’t get away. Any regrets?”

Vistri crawled on her knees until she was pressed into him. Her face rested on his thigh and nuzzled it, “No regrets but that you are not yet buried deeply into my ache.”

Astarion grabbed a fistful of hair at the top of her head and pulled. She gasped pleasantly.

“Now don’t be so vulgar, darling. At least not yet.”

He let go of her hair to play with her lips again. She kissed his fingertips as they danced across her. He only abandoned them to undo the lacings on his trousers, and Vistri’s breath caught on her throat anticipating the sight of him.

He was stunning. His head pushing boldly passed his foreskin was art. His thickness was both threat and promise. Vistri turned her gaze back to his face and saw his fangs bared in his grin. So many parts of himself that he sank into her. She wanted them all, wanted all of him; to be devoured and taken over, owned.

“I long for it, Astarion,” she moaned, nestling her cheek into his palm.

He grabbed hold of himself and pressed his tip against her mouth, just like he had with the cigar. He watched her open up to take it, and held it just there between her lips.

His eyes rolled back for a second as her tongue flickered along it. He sighed, “Now that’s not fair.”

Vistri stopped.

“I didn’t say stop.”

She did it again.

“That’s better, pet,” he ran his hands through her hair.

Astarion took himself in hand again to push further into her lips. Just passed her teeth, just like he did earlier in the evening.

“You have to open your mouth so wide to take me, my dear.”

The sides of his lip twitched as she played with his head, now completely nestled on her tongue.

“Oooh,” he moaned, “You treat me so well.”

Vistri felt him take a slightly wider stance and tug her leash even tighter, bringing him even deeper into her mouth.

He grabbed hold of her chin again. He loved to cradle Vistri’s face in his palms with his cock in her mouth. He loved seeing himself disappear into her lips and come out coated in her sweet taste.

“Would you like the whole thing?”

She moaned her desperate consent, and he thrust himself into her throat. Steadily, his hips rocked against her lips. Slow, rolling thrusts in and out; languid.

Astarion watched, looking down at her, holding her leash. He felt… good. Like he had all the power in the world. Like she was his servile spawn and him a true lord.

And that didn’t feel bad.

He didn’t feel bad.

Astarion stared, drinking in her show until the drool started to drip from the corners of her mouth. Then he pulled himself out very slowly, just free of her lips, keeping himself right in front of her.

“Swallow,” he commanded.

Vistri caught her breath and swallowed the combination of his and her salivations.

Astarion patted her on the head as a reward, “That’s a good pet.”

There was still wetness dripping down her face, at the corners of her mouth and a little on her neck. He wiped her off with his fingers, and licked them, tasting her on his hands.

“Sod it! I can’t take any more of this,” he said, scooping her up to throw her onto their bed, full of rakish charm.

Vistri landed on her back. The bed bounced lightly with impact as Astarion crawled over on his knees to straddle her. He tugged the leash tight between them and pulled until she sat up to meet his lips. Astarion let out the hungriest groan and pushed her back down after adding more give to her tether.

Vistri was putty. Begging, writhing putty.

He stroked the spot on her neck that he drank from earlier. With the dragon blood running through her veins, it had already healed.

“We’ll just have to mark you again right after this. You did promise to sate my every desire, did you not?”

“I want the same thing,” she said thickly.

Astarion smirked. He was going to have to satisfy her to set her mind right. She was literally lost in her want.

The sight of her so helpless to him made him feel like he really belonged somewhere.

He pried apart her knees and leaned closer, his hands crawling up her leash. As he put himself inside her, after they both shouted out with closed eyes and opened them again to behold each other, he made another offer.

“Would you like me to wrap this around your throat as I fuck you?”

“Please,” she begged.

Astarion unhooked her leash and wrapped it around her neck like a scarf. Keeping her safe would require just enough concentration that he wouldn’t have to worry about losing himself. It was a lingering threat that allowed Vistri to let go completely and Astarion to stay grounded.

The collar was firm, and the leash was tight without being restrictive. Both pressures on her neck only made Vistri more eager for his teeth.

With one hand on her leash, and the other caressing her waist, he pumped into her. It was overwhelming. Trust was made more explicit and exposed their raw cores. The leash and collar wrapped around her were his arms cradling her heart as she exploded like a star. Vistri made Astarion feel so safe, he could just toy with her and take; to be a tyrant without being horrible.

He could fracture her, and she could fracture him, and at the end of it, know themselves and each other better.

Astarion screamed, “Thank you,” over and over as he came. Vistri was so spent by the time that happened, her voice was too rough to do more than whimper with tears in her eyes.

They panted and smiled at each other so wide they ended up laughing. He unclasped her collar before she left to refresh herself. When she jumped back into bed and into his embrace, she offered him her neck.

“You greedy thing,” he spoke against her skin before sinking into it.

v---v                v---v                v---v                v---v                v---v

Shadowheart checked in with Astarion the next morning.

“So,” she took a careful sip of her hot tea, “How is everything now that you’ve…”

“Fully stepped into my role?”

She nodded her head.

His voice was light, “We got out the leash last night!”

“How very exciting!” she smirked.

Astarion took a sip and adopted a serious face as he put down his cup.

“Uh oh.”

“Why is everyone always so quick to say that to me?”

“Because you’re you,” she smiled, “Now what are you on about?”

“I really… I really appreciate you and Pen for—”

She shook her head and waved her hand like it was no big deal.

“But it is a big deal. To me. So, I thank you,” he bowed his head, “You really made me feel better about myself, more myself. Does that make any sense?”

Shadowheart reached forward to give his knee an affectionate tap, “It makes sense, Astarion. And I’m happy for you. Truly.”

Penance and Vistri came over in an unusual chorus of laughter. Pen’s deep, rolling cackles were broken up by Vistri’s loud, pitchy squeals.

“What’s so funny, love?” Shadowheart asked.

Vistri squeezed her shoulder in greeting and winked, “Pet stuff, darling.”

“Oh, how ominous!” Astarion teased, “Dear Shadowheart, I do believe they’ve been talking about us behind our backs."

"Unlike you, mosquito,” Penance said, “The things I say behind people's backs are exactly as I would say to their faces."

Before Astarion could protest, Vistri hopped over and kissed the top of his head.

“I quite cherish the things you do behind my back,” she smirked.

Penance gave a little snort and looked over to Shadowheart with a wink, who just stared back.

“Don’t fish for compliments so early in the day,” she sighed. The smirk on her lips was more than enough regardless.

That evening, Penance and Vistri wore their collars again. Astarion and Shadowheart were seated on one of the couches as if it were a shared throne. Penance and Vistri held out their collars to their respective partners, and Astarion and Shadowheart smiled at each other as they secured them around their necks.

Dinner was just the same as last night but with everyone a little more settled. Everything more okay because they’d done it once before.

“A toast,” Astarion offered, the wine in his glass a bit thicker than the others, “To friendship, and above all…” his eyes sort of welled up, and he had to pause before continuing, “To family.”

The women raised their glasses, smiling warmly at Astarion as they met his toast.

“To family,” Vistri and Shadowheart said, and Penance nodded.

[Click here for my other Kinktober one-shots]