#lurking in my head like a PARASITE

[kianri-ah]

young royals has poisoned my entire brain i physically cannot make myself watch anything that isnt the exact same two guys falling in love and hurting and falling in love again it is a topic of concern now

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 15 - Sharing

The rogue makes a connection.

On AO3.

“Why in the sweet hells would I have a rock?” Astarion says.

The bag of sparkpowder makes sense. It’s hard to screw that up. But then she wants a stone, and while he pilfers nearly anything he can get his hands on (to sort through later, mind you) that doesn’t extend to rocks.

“I need to test my theory,” she hisses back at him.

The underground beastie lurks beneath the dirt. Its heart beats slow and strong, and he can’t help but wonder what it’s blood would taste like. It seems simple enough to him: light the bomb, throw it, and run in the opposite direction.

But his illustrious leader keeps mumbling something about “tremors rules” and it makes absolutely no sense to him, but when has that ever mattered.

“Throw one of your own trinkets,” he says. She’s even worse than him about grabbing whatever isn’t nailed down.

“That all got washed off.”

Ah. Right. That. The little, inconsequential thing he might have had a hand in.

Gods. Her and her theories. He knows she’s got at least one, phallus-shaped trinket she could sacrifice. But it’s too much fun to tease her about it, and honestly, it’d be a shame to lose such a quality item.

Of all the things in all the planes, this weirdo beside him took her phallus when she was kidnapped. It’s hysterical.

So he sighs and reaches into his pack. Rummages around until he finds something cool and smooth. One of his empty blood jars—they’re all empty at the moment. He hands it over.

And she leaves him holding it. In silence. Is she judging him? Because it feels like she’s judging him.

“Ahem,” he says and jiggles it.

“Huh,” she says. Articulately. And finally takes it from him. “You have gotta take better care of your stuff.”

The beastie shifts down there. He can imagine it eyeballing them.

“Really?” he says. “You’d like to discuss sanitation right now?”

“I’m just saying. Between this and that bed plank…”

“The one you’ve been sleeping on with no complaint so far? Having ousted me? You’ll have to forgive me, darling, for wondering what your point is.”

He’s…aware all the others sleep on bedrolls. He knows they exist, and that they’ve run into plenty more. He could have plucked one up for himself. But sleeping in comfort was for that bastard’s favorite. Or for when Astarion was put to work. He complains about the lack of a feather bed because it’s expected for the image he’s built for himself: the decadent hedonist. And in truth, he thinks it might very well be nice to rest in one fully clothed for a whole night.

But camping in the wilds with other monsters and an illithid parasite, with the lingering fear of being hunted. No. That’s a luxury he hasn’t been able to afford.

She’ll be wondering about that, however. Even if she never complained, he knows she must have questions. And…he…he almost wants to tell her? For some boggling reason. So he hedges, reveals only part of it. “I don’t like bedrolls. They’re, ah, too soft. The dormitory beds were little better than wood anyway, and those were a luxury compared to the kennel floors.”

“Kennels?” she says, with a strange tone.

“Oh yes. Whenever any of us earned punishment, Cazador sent us to the kennels for correction.”

She silent for a long, long time. During which her heartbeat spikes almost louder than he’s ever heard it. It’s a pathetic excuse, he knows. He shouldn’t have told her. It’s not worth her fragile, mortal back pain to tolerate his sleeping arrangement just because it sends his reverie to places he’d rather not go.

Then she says, “Your plan for that fuckface. Do they include ripping off his head to shit down the back of his neck.”

“…no?” he says. But it sounds incredibly delightful. And vulgar. Maybe once he’s pulled that bastard’s intestines out and draped them around his neck like a festive garland?

“Right. I, uh. Sorry. For snarking at you.”

Again with apologies. It does strange things to him. Things he can’t trust and doesn’t like.

“We,” he says. Trails off. Has to clear his throat for some reason. “You could, ah, lay a bedroll down for yourself. If you wanted.”

There. A compromise. Prevent her frail back from splintering to pieces since they’ll have to keep sharing until they find a bloody waypoint stone.

Then, very softly (and not just in volume, as they’ve been whispering the entire time) she says, “If you’re okay with that.”

And everything in him is unsettled, so he reaches into what he knows, splays a hand over his chest, and says, “Well, I was born for decadence, darling. We’ll just have to make do until then.”

He’s beginning to feel strangely…exposed on the inside. As if he sits in that blood-soaked clearing, in flickering torchlight, with an oozing hole in his chest large enough she can see straight into his lungs.

He needs to paper over that hole with his usual charm, in hope she’ll stop looking into him.

She hums. Then, in an atrocious mimicry of his accent, says, “As m’lord requests.”

He ought to bite her for that level of cheek. But they’re rather stranded and low on medical supplies, and if one of them stumbles and falls off, they’ll be eaten by some huge, armored monster.

So he lifts his eyebrows and drops his lids in the way that almost never fails to bring the first soft brushing of a blush to some tipsy tavern-hopper. “You know, my dear, I could grow very used to the sound of that.”

Without the accent, preferably.

But she continues to drive a wedge between herself and most of his marks (the successful ones, anyway) and instead of leaning in or sliding her fingers across his own, she only snorts and says, “Yeah yeah, y’big dork.”

Which doesn’t translate as anything, but the shape of that word sounds ridiculous and she’s certainly mocking him. Only, once again, her tone carries a smile, and not a trace of coldness or cruelty or disgust.

Something shifts below them. The beastie stirs. And it must be visible enough for his leader to catch, because her fingers start drumming on her thigh.

“What’s the plan, darling?” He’s close enough the warmth of her skin almost soaks into his cold cheek.

But she doesn’t shiver or shy. She’d focused on a murder, which means she notices little else, despite her earlier flinching away. He tilts his head to try and better hear what’s behind them. Someone needs to watch her back. Or listen, anyway.

“So,” she says. Pauses as she does, while her fingers slow to a rhythmic ta-tap-ta, ta-tap-ta. “So I’m thinking we chuck that blood jar as far as possible to the left.”

“We?”

“I’ll get to that. We throw it—”

“Why can’t you throw it, darling? On account of having functional eyes.”

She takes a breath in through her nose. Which she does when she’s annoyed and trying not to show it. He’s fairly certain she thinks she’s being subtle when she does it.

“Astarion. You’re an archer. Your biceps is bigger than mine.”

It’s not the time. He knows that. And yet…?

“You think I’m big?”

It’s hard to describe the sound she makes. It’s rather like an artificer automaton plowing into a shrub, all of it somehow emerging from low in her throat.

“Would you just—”

He’s already standing and slipping in front of her (finding the ledge with his booted toes). “Go on and aim me, then.”

In between all the mortal peril, he’s gotten somewhat used to her bare palm on his. She’d had no qualms about grabbing it an hour ago. But the monster hides below, and she’s back to plucking gingerly at his armor. He nearly says something about it, but in a rare burst of generosity (she’s been through a lot) he lets her turn him in the direction she means him to throw without making any kind of comment.

She hands him the emptied blood jar. “Think you can toss that a hundred feet out?”

He can do a lot better than that. And then another, even rarer flash of planning comes to him, and he finds himself saying, “And after that?”

“If it goes after that, you throw the grenade. Um. In the same spot?”

Even she seems to realize how challenging that’s going to be. Tossing a jar into the distance is nothing. But hitting the same spot again? Blinded? He can’t help it. “Bit of a long shot, darling, even for me.”

He’s certain she’s staring at him. Then she sighs. Doesn’t roll her eyes (well, she probably did) or call him an idiot or order one of his siblings to slap him.

Just says, “Mmm. I…might have an idea for that?”

And oh, does she sound ever so tentative.

“We can, y’know, share thoughts and all with the brainworms, huh? And I saw bits of where the others were that one time. So…?”

Oh dear. She’s actually suggesting what he thinks she is. She’s going to let him into her head.

It’s a double-edge blade, he knows. An opened door with an open invitation can let anyone or anything through. Both ways. And he’d felt her horror when he slipped into her mind that night. When she panics, she curls herself into a tight, impenetrable ball to their shared illithid connection. To say she’s wary would be one of Astarion’s greatest understatements, and he has many.

She’s suggesting she lower her defenses (and his). Maker herself (and him) weak.

“Are you certain?” he says. While he collects the weaknesses of others—it never hurts to have too many weapons in one’s arsenal—he’s aware of a certain…similarity (how disgusting) between them in that respect.

“I mean,” she says. “I got enough water for another day, maybe. What’re the odds of the others finding us within three days of that?”

So she’ll be letting him in, then.

There’s a joke, there. Inviting in a vampire and all. But her voice is tense enough he keeps his tongue behind his teeth and only says, “If you’re sure, darling.”

“This’s probably gonna be fast. Got no idea if it’ll even work. But I’m thinking we pull a Kevin Bacon on it—you chuck that jar, see if it goes after, and then light and toss that bomb right on top if it does. How long do them things burn?”

The wick is short. “Not long.”

“Mmm. So the second it swallows that shit, we book it for the crevasse.”

“And if it chases?”

“Run faster?”

“And if it catches up?”

A pause.

He swears.

“It wouldn’t cross to this mushroom we’re on and that was something I could hop. If we can reach that crack, I think we’ll be good.”

Astarion sighs. “Well, I suppose that’s better than sitting here and drinking from your corpse.”

Even though he could, technically, survive well until the others found him. Whether or not they’d put much effort into it—especially after he sits and watches their glorious leader die—is up for debate.

And…the thought of sitting in the dark silence again is wretched. Especially the thought of listening to his only companion’s heart race, weaken, and then stop.

Dead blood is disgusting.

(he doesn’t want to listen to her die)

Astarion rolls his shoulders. Flexes his fingers. Readjusts his grip on the bottle. Then, “Whenever you’re ready, dearest.”

She takes a few breaths, this time. Rustles quietly. Mutters so softly he only picks out bits of words. Then the brush of her mind against his own.

He leans into it.

It’s rather how he imagines swimming (having no actual memory of the deed). A sort of weightlessness and jostling about. Two people trapped in a very small pool trying not to slosh each other too much.

It’d be easier if they’d just grab each other (we are one, the tadpoles yearn; become Us, become Whole). But the both of them can only pluck at the others’ clothing in an attempt too steady themselves.

Until Astarion loses his patience and finally reaches for her.

Outrage. Fear. Teeth, teeth BITE IT.

Yet his leader manages to reign in her more feral instincts. Begrudgingly lets him ease into her until their outlines blur—

Astarion blinks. It takes a moment to make sense of anything. A new body, a new sense.

He’s…seeing, in a fashion. Shapes and colors. Blue and black. So much black. They’re shadows, he realizes. The dark of the Underdark.

He blinks again, only it’s her blinking and turns his head—

Their bodies revolt. Not one, but two and that’s wrong, it’s not how it’s meant to be, they are a Whole. The moving throws off that synchronicity.

“Jesus fuck!” they say and their stomachs give a queasy flop.

But they need to see around them, so they try again, and they’re angry about it; so, so scared about it. But they got to. It’s a necessity. There’s a birdshark (a what?) waiting to bight off their feet and leave ragged, spurting stumps at the ankle.

“You are a morbid thing.”

“Fuck off.”

More gloom. Details lost. A darker slash to the right (think it’s a crevasse; lord jesus please be a crevasse).

“Darling, your eyesight is shit.”

“Just fucking throw it!”

To the left, then. A dark gap between two, soaring mushroom stalks. They’re rather beautiful, like this. Shining softly in the dark.

They lift an arm, the glass cool in their grip (it’s crusty inside?) (of course, that’s what blood does, darling). It still smells faintly of said blood (that clawing, biting hunger that never goes away) (a spike of something disgustingly soft and they both shove that down in mortification).

Take aim. Feel their own doubleness. Test their arm a few times. The disorientation settles faster each time as they adjust. Cock their arm.

Throw.

The bottle goes spinning off. They already hold the grenade in one of their hands, which they pass to themselves. Eyes move when the other commands to look down. The gap between the mushrooms and the boulder. Track down to the ground below. Along the route they’ll need to run—

Movement.

A surge in the dirt. That low thrumming noise—

“Holy fuck you hear everything—”

Of course they do. Poor, deaf thing she is.

The birdshark surges towards the clank of the jar. Fuse. How short? When?

They gauge the distance. Peer with eyes that fail far too quickly. They have to blink several times. Look around the churning dirt because their sight is atrocious.

“I got perfect twenty-twenty vision you ass.”

Now. Now.

“Ignis!”

The wondrous magic leaps to them. A cat after a string of yarn. An opened valve. Rushes to them and fills them and surges along their arm to ignite a ball of flame in their palm and it really is magic, fuck me.

They light the fuse. The birdshark closes in on the decoy.

“Throw it!”

So they do.

And then there’s no time to untangle themselves because they need to run and they didn’t think this part through, didn’t know they’d be so enmeshed (it’s terrifying) (it’s glorious) (oh god).

They have to run.

Their feet move. All of them. Two pairs and two bodies of a whole running, sprinting, stumbling. They reach out to steady themselves, the cavern rumbling as the birdshark plows on.

As the birdshark stops. It’s tremors rules. It’s gotta hear their pounding footsteps oh sweet hells fuck.

The bomb goes off.

Slaps them stupid. One of them falls, hands cradling ears that hurt and hurt. Claws at them, even. Have to get up, have to go, go!

Scrambling and kicking. The birdshark is quiet. They must have blown it to pieces! It never works in the movies, fucking run.

What’s a movie…? Oh. A wonder. They want more, want to delve in and view the memory of them all—

Get your fucking ass up and moving!

They close the distance to the crevasse. But they’re already flagging. A body unused to this: impact lancing up shins, air clawing at their throat and a cramp stabbing them in the side and they can’t, they can’t go any more. You have to, darling. Up! Get up!

Then. Oh then.

A hissing and rumbling anew. Not towards their distraction, but towards them. It’s failed (told you!) The bomb failed (fucking horror movie rules you fucker) and now it’s coming for them and it’s real fucking pissed.

That puts a pep right back into their step. They’re closing. Even as their body screams. As their feet drag and their lungs burn and they force themselves on. They run. They run for their lives.

Closer. Closer.

They can feel the birdshark now. The ground shivers right on their heels. Right beneath their feet. It’s going to come up right between their legs and chomp off their bullocks—

The ground ends. Drops off in a sheer cut.

They leap.

One lands badly. Feet slide out and their battered and abused left knee twists and pops and gives out. They barely manage to catch themselves on bare palms that rip open on hard stone.

The other doesn’t land. They hit. Fold over a ledge of stone that knocks the air out of them and knocks their thoughts with it. They hit so hard they become two for a moment. His leader scrabbling for a handhold as her feet kick in the terrifying nothingness of the crevasse.

She’s going to fall. Be swept away because he cut that rope and let her.

Shock. Horror. She can still hear him. She can see that memory, the knife sawing through that straining rope and the way he knew it was damning her and he did it without a thought. They stare at each other through her eyes.

Something flashes orange to his left. Some fungus. It throbs once. Twice. Swells up shockingly fast. Oh. That’s probably bad.

“Ast—” she starts and their fear is a shared thing, a rampaging beast thrashing in both their minds.

The mushroom explodes.

He sees it. The flash. And barely registers that before the blast swats him. His leader yelps and her legs flail. She’s going to slip, going to fall and it’ll smash her leg bones up through her pelvis and shish kabob (what?) right through her bowels and into her liver.

But it’s him who feels the ground fall away. Who tumbles, is blasted right off their little ledge.

He falls.

And he falls.

And he falls.

Everything in him goes rather numb. Goes still and silent. But something else rages up inside him and it takes him the span of a thought to realize it’s her, his illustrious leader: her panic. Her terror.

Not because he’s leaving her to die again (as she feared he’d do, oh, he’s really failed hasn’t he). It’s not for her. She’s horrified…for him. His safety. His unshattered (for the next few moments) body.

She’s afraid for him. Despairing, because she cannot reach him, cannot stop this, can only watch him fall.

“Astarion!” she screams.

It’s honest. It’s genuine. No guile or secondary motivation. She reaches out through her tadpole as if to hold him, shield him somehow simply because…because she wants him to not be—

He hits.

[toxicnick]

Rhys (pronounced: rise) was originally made to be a Bad Sans, part of Nightmare's gang, but I winded up changing things around when I remade his newest design.

Rhys' au is erased, it was attacked and destroyed by a group of skeletons. He doesn't know who, he couldn't make out their faces in time of the chaos. He managed to be the only one in his au to make it out alive, but due to now being au-less, he wanders in the void.

He has never met any of the other Sanses, but if he were to meet one, it would most likely be Error or Ink first, due to being in the void.

- - Rhys, lowkey is hoping someone would find him, recreate his au, or give him a new one that's already existent. A place to call home. He misses his friends, he's alone now.

Back in Rhys' au, before it got destroyed, before it was erased... something was lurking in his au, it was draining everyone's energy. Rhys found out the hard way what it was.

It's the reason Rhys' skull is cracked.

A strange smell filled the au, and no one knew where it was coming from, so people of course went out to look. Rhys was one of those people, and unfortunately for him, he found what it was.

A parasite was roaming freely, hiding in the shadows. It brought around a nasty smell wherever it went and was feeding off the peoples energy.

When Rhys found the parasite, he was attacked by it, and the parasite cracked a hole into Rhys' skull. It crawled into his skull, in his head, and rested there. It's eating slowly away at the inside of his skull, and the crack is slowly getting bigger.

Rhys refuses to eat, or claims he isn't hungry, because it'll just power the parasite even more. But, by doing this, he is weakening himself. If the parasite isn't removed and killed, he will die. Rhys cannot do it himself, he needs help from someone, and it requires magic to do which he lacks.

When it comes to magical power, the only thing Rhys can do is summon bones and move things with telekinesis. He isn't considered over powered in any sense, in fact he's really weak. He would be easy to take down if it wasn't for the fact that he was smart, and can dodge insanely well. When it comes to battle, Rhys just has to pray the other will eventually get tired.

Over time, Rhys began getting red marks over his body, probably from the parasite as he never had the spots before. If the parasite gets stronger, eventually Rhys' body will turn fully red.

Once the parasite is in control, Rhys will be considered "corrupt." With a red skeletal frame, and a thirst to destroy anything in sight. He is hoping he will be saved before this happens, as in the end, it'll be too late to save his soul. He'd have to be killed.

Rhys would do ANYTHING to remove the parasite. He would hurt someone if it meant he could be free of it. Even if he had to pass the parasite on to another, he would. It's hurting him too much, and he can't bare the pain. Rhys tries to ignore it, but whenever the parasite isn't sleeping and it's moving or feeding, it's nothing but pain.

- he would feel bad for the other if he ever passed it on to someone else, but if he could, he would.

Some basic information ;

- Rhys goes by he/him, he is bisexual with a strong male preference.

(NSFW:) In any sort of "sexual" take, he is a switch and is more than likely to lean to the opposite of what his partner prefers. (As in if his partner is a top, he will bottom, and vice versa).

Rhys' favorite color is red, while his magic is orange and yellow. -- when his power is activated, it could have slight pink and purple highlights.

Rhys' ribcage has red marks on it, too, just like his face and hands. Where a humans heart would be is a red mark shaped as a heart, a little deformed but still a heart.

- - - - - - -

I'm fine if anyones oc wants to save him!, I'll wind up adding it to the lore though, meaning if it happens-- you're my friend. That's it. You cannot ignore me I will STAB YOU EIWOEKW RAHHHH, /j

Anyway,, mwa mwa!

[starlessea2]

Wild-flower [Astarion]

Chapter 2 - More Interesting Times

Summary: Out of all the strange things to happen to Jessamine that day, the tadpole is the first, the knife at her throat is the worst—and Astarion comes somewhere in between. A/N Make sure to read chapter 1 first, and encourage my slow ass to continue with empty words and mutual love for this pasty man. Masterlist

The beach pools under Jessamine’s fingers. There’s a gash, two-to-three inches long, across her palm. Beneath her, blood congeals with sand. “Ughh…”

As she pries open her eyes, she's met with a splitting headache—far worse than any hangover to date. She retches, and what leaves her is a mixture of bile, saltwater, and iron. It burns on the way out.

“Are you done?” a voice asks.

Jessamine blinks. There’s someone nearby but she doesn’t have the energy to startle. Her response is slow, and if there had been an enemy lurking, she would have quite frankly begged them to put an end to her misery.

But the voice calls out again, this time in her mind, and instinctively, Jessamine’s eyes comb the beach. She spots the figure fairly quick. A little ways up from her, pinned beneath debris from the Nautiloid… It’s Shadowheart. 

Memories flicker one by one. Mindflayers, pods, parasites. Terror grips Jessamine’s mind, but she does her best to squash it down. With a few deep breaths and mental coaxing, she fumbles to her feet. “Wait there—” she croaks, “I’m coming.”

There’s a pained laugh a few feet away. “Not as though I can go anywhere.” 

As her boots sink heavily across the beach, Jessamine anxiety builds. When she reaches the other elf, she’s glad to find she isn’t injured. Rather just stuck. Half-buried in sand, Shadowheart’s face floods with relief at the sight of her. A heartfelt thank you travels through their mental connection, but Jessamine doesn’t quite know how to respond to it.

Instead, she studies the debris. It’s a big, sturdy-looking sheet of metal—probably torn away from the ship. With one glance at the thing, Jessamine just knows: this is going to take some magic.

So she gets to work.

Her and Shadowheart don’t converse; there’s a mutual understanding that the pair of them feel like utter bollocks. But fortunately, it doesn’t take Jessamine too long. With a conjured mage hand, and some good-ol’-fashioned-lifting-with-her-knees, Shadowheart’s a free woman once again.

“Jessamine, right?” Shadowheart turns to her, face still a little flushed. “Let me see.” 

She grabs Jessamine's hand to inspect her gash; it’s crusted with sand and oozing in places. Shadowheart grimaces. “Te curo”, she incants, and in a haze of green light, the wound seals itself up neatly. 

Jessamine gawks. “Cleric,” she says.

“Sorcerer,” Shadowheart counters.

Jessamine blinks. Despite the odds, a snort escapes her. It’s ugly and unladylike, but it manages to pull a smile out of her companion. And Jessamine’s glad for it; she’s pretty certain if she doesn’t laugh, she’ll cry.

“I must not have been paying much attention to your abilities on the Nautiloid,” Jessamine admits. She studies her palm with awe: when she clenches her fist to check for pain, there is none. No scar left behind, either. “Thanks for that,” she eventually says.

Shadowheart shakes her head. “It’s the least I could do. I wouldn’t have exactly blamed you if you’d walked straight past me in that damned pod…” she pauses, taking a glance at the devastated beach. “Or here,” she adds.

Jessamine nods. But in truth, she’s still uncertain whether any of this is real. One moment she’s en route to the Blushing Mermaid, ready to trade a performance for a day’s keep. The next: astra-terrestrial abduction. 

And to think, back home, Jessamine had the gall to consider her life boring.

The thought stirs her stomach. Whilst Jessamine isn’t sure of the date exactly, there’s no doubt in her mind that her absence has been noticed. Her family’s definitely worrying. If she had to guess: her father is furious, a search patrol’s likely turning Baldur’s Gate upside down, and her sisters were probably squabbling over her room at this very moment (it has the best view). 

But there’s little she can do about it here. After all, she isn’t even sure where here is.

With one glance at her companion, Jessamine knows she’s come to a similar realisation. A few moments of shaking sand from their boots, and the two of them are spurred into action. Shadowheart locates her mace before it’s snatched up by the high tide, and Jessamine begins to prompt her with questions about her past—her pointy little artefact. 

“What exactly is it?” she asks. But despite her earlier efforts, the cleric isn’t inclined to answer. 

After a few back-and-forths, they find themselves in a stalemate; Shadowheart’s a terrible liar, and whereas Jessamine would usually prester, her head is pounding, her mind’s mush, and the sun’s in locked combat with her eyes.

So they set off walking. 

As the sun beats overhead, the pair stagger across the coastline. They rummage around for clues to where they might have ended up: a fisherman's basket, a note looted from a corpse… Shadowheart is discerning with their finds, but Jessamine can’t shake the feeling she knows this place. The landscape seems familiar, despite being a far cry from the woodlands she calls home.

She lets herself be guided by the feeling, and maps the carcass of the Nautiloid alongside the cleric. They inspect the burning wreck together, but it's only when a scuttling sound grows near that Jessamine starts to wonder what she’s gotten herself into. 

“Gods—” Shadowheart starts, her face twisting into disgust, “it’s those brains.”

Jessamine curses with equal disdain. In an instant, they’re once again surrounded by the grotesque creatures from the ship. Jessamine steals herself. There’s an incantation on her lips, but before the words leave her, Shadowheart has already punted an intellect devourer half-way across the coast. As Jessamine watches it hurtle through the air, she makes the decision to never cross the cleric. She definitely has some bottled-up rage, she thinks.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take them long to clear up the remnants; they were half-dead from the crash, and didn’t take kindly to their spells. So they make it out of the wreckage in one piece, and continue on in their journey. 

They walk in step, and soon, sand turns into planes. They find themselves traversing rocky cliffsides beyond the beach, seeking refuge from the sun. Jessamine’s mind is in poor shape, but it still questions the scenery—tries to search for it within the depths of her memory. So when she comes upon a mountainside with the words ‘Emerald Environs’ etched into it, the realisation hits her. She recalls a scarred face, a grove, and a trip undertaken when she was still a child. 

“Shadowheart,” she calls out to the other elf. But her words fall away as she they happen upon yet another oddity.

A hand. It waves frantically, trying to get their attention. Except, it seems to be protruding from some sort of portal, swirling deep within a rockface. You wouldn’t need to be a sorcerer to feel the weave oozing from it, the arcane energy thrumming through the air. Jessamine approaches with caution. She hears mutterings of a voice coming from deep within. 

“If—you’d be so kind—grab my hand—” The words are distorted, soaked with urgency.

Beside her, the cleric shakes her head. Jessamine ought to know better, but something is stirring inside her. She’s always had a knack for ignoring danger, so it’s no surprise she finds herself approaching the portal. 

It’s a stubborn thing, but by channelling some of her own magic through it, Jessamine coaxes it to cough up a man. Gale of Waterdeep—wizard.

The introductions are brief; the worm does most of the talking. Gale extends his thanks, and Jessamine quips that everyone she encounters seems to be stuck in one way or another. 

Then she finds herself in the same predicament.

Her face is in the dirt; it had happened in a split second. She tries to struggle but there's weight at her back, and a threatening voice near her ear, “Move, and I won’t hesitate to spill blood.”

The cool press of a blade makes itself known against her jugular. Jessamine stills. The pressure is so great that if she were to swallow, she fears her throat would be cut. So she lets her saliva build.

“Okay now, let’s all just take a moment to calm ourselves—” Gale’s attempts to disarm the stranger fade to nothingness as blood pools in Jessamine’s ears.

She lets her body go limp. All resistance leaves her. Whilst her companions negotiate in her stead, Jessamine counts the seconds to calm herself. The knife is cold on her skin, but beneath it, her blood burns hot. Her magic is disturbed.

“Let her go,” Shadowheart barters, “We’re not mindflayers, for godsake!” 

Her captor flinches at the word, and Jessamine realises there will likely be such an opportunity again. She strikes her elbow up into the man’s gut, making him loosen his hold enough for her to break free. They tussle on the ground; magic sparks at Jessamine’s fingers as his knife nicks her jaw.

“Peru-” Jessamine starts. But one look at his face, and her incantation dies on her lips.

He hasn’t blinked once. His gaze is cold and calculating, yet behind that, Jessamine notices something frantic. It’s a look she’s seen in the rabbits in the forest—or in the eyes of a deer at the end of an arrowhead. And somehow, it’s equally as familiar. 

“Astarion?” she gasps.

The pressure on her neck eases somewhat, as something registers faint behind his eyes. That’s definitely Astarion, she thinks. In the sunlight, he’s far paler than she recalled, but she’d never mistake those eyes. 

“Astarion, it’s me,” she says quietly. 

Prying her hand out from under him, she coaxes him into lowering his blade. It takes a few seconds—he’s beyond cautious—but his face eventually softens. Then it reanimates into a different expression entirely. 

“So we meet again, little flower,” he says, in that coy manner of his. “And to think, I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards!”

There’s a smile on his face, but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It unnerves Jessamine. In the light of day, she can see clearly that he is no longer looking at her with desire. Nor interest, she is certain. There’s only two things she can discern for sure, and that is fear, and intent.

“I—” she starts.

But something unlocks a door in her mind, and a rush of thoughts overcome her. They flash by in series: threads of magic, the snarls of wolves, a ballroom soaked in blood, and her forest—

Jessamine blinks; the connection is severed.

“What in the bloody hells was that?” cries Astarion. He is on top of her still, pristine in comparison to her dirt-covered self.

“That, my friend, is an illithid parasite,” states Gale. He taps the side of his skull before continuing. “Courtesy of the slippery devil, it seems we’re all privy to each other's thoughts. For the meantime—at least.”

Shadowheart lets out a scoff. “I’d be less inclined to call him a friend whilst he’s got Jessamine on the ground,” she remarks. “But then again, the two of them do seem rather well acquainted.” 

The pause that follows is loud. Jessamine lets out an indignant noise which prompts Astarion to find his feet. 

“Apologies,” he says, dusting himself off.

Shadowheart scowls. That’s perhaps the most genuine thing to leave his mouth, Jessamine hears her think.

Astarion must not have caught it, since he doesn't react. Instead, he tucks his dagger into his holster before offering out his hand. “Take it love, unless you prefer to roll around in the dirt?” 

His tone is teasing, but it stokes Jessamine’s pride as a former youngest daughter. She finds her own footing instead. 

The elf shrugs. “My name’s Astarion,” he says, turning to introduce himself to the rest of the group. “I was a magistrate in Baldur’s Gate when those things grabbed me.”

That explains the garb, Jessamine thinks. His tunic is lavish—far more expensive than the loose blouse he’d worn at the Flophouse. And what business did a magistrate have with her? They were meant to be proper, no? Her cheeks grow warm at the thought.

More introductions follow, and whilst Jessamine still can’t bring herself to look Astarion in the eye, she’s keenly aware that Shadowheart’s watching her, and that Gale likely has a million questions (but not one he’s brave enough to ask). 

Jessamine avoids their stares.

“So to summarise…” Gale says, clearing his throat. “Wizard,” he points at his chest before turning to Shadowheart, “cleric with a slightly dubious background.”

Shadowheart rolls her eyes but does not disagree.

“One dagger-inclined magistrate. And the sorceress who kindly rescued me from certain demise.” Gale throws a wink Jessamine’s way, to which she nods politely in return. “Now am I missing anything?” 

Shadowheart opens her mouth but it is Astarion who speaks first.

“A sorcerer?” he asks. “Colour me surprised. With all that talk of a performance, I would have taken you for a bard.” 

So he does remember.

Jessamine wants to smile, but when she recalls their conversation in the Flophouse—how she acted around him—she can't bring herself to.

That night, she hadn't been in the best headspace. And that had been before she let the wine take over and make her into some giddy, ridiculous thing. Her lips draw into a thin line at the memory. “In another life, perhaps.” 

Astarion quirks a brow but doesn't press.

“More importantly, since we’re all up to speed with our…” Jessamine searches for the word, “dilemma,” she chooses, “then we agree that we need to get to a healer, yes?” 

There’s a chorus of replies ranging from obvious to unamused. 

“Well, I know of a grove nearby. A renowned druid lives there.”

Shadowheart shoots her a look. “And you never thought to mention that before now?” Her eyes are untrusting, despite all they’ve been through.

“It only just came to me,” Jessamine admits.

She wouldn't to let herself feel guilty. It was a half-truth, after all, and Shadowheart was keeping much more than that from her.

Before either of them can speak, Gale claps his hands together, gathering everyone's attention. “Never the matter,” he says. “Why not show our companion here a little faith? I say we head to this grove.”

Jessamine is thankful; he doesn't ask too many questions.

“First we should look for Lae’zel,” she counters. “A gith—we fought our way out of the Nautiloid together.”

Gale hums in response. “A gith,” he says slowly. “I shall add that to the list.”

By the time they set off again, shadows had started to fall over Faerûn. There were sores on the bottoms of Jessamine's feet, and the occasional wriggling behind her eye. But despite her condition, the sun still set in the west. The sky changed its colours as it always had, and the tide retreated in preparation for a new day.

And when Astarion falls into step beside her, Jessamine realises that he too has become another unchanging factor of her life.

“So…” he says, giving her an obvious once over. There’s blood on her shirt, bile on her pants, and she’s pretty sure he noticed her picking part of an intellect devourer out of her hair a few moments prior. “Quite the day, hmm?” 

In spite of everything, Jessamine feels herself laugh. “I shouldn’t have wished to live in more interesting times.” 

-

< previous chapter / next chapter >

[riskitbrisket]

@handlcd

There would always be someone bigger, someone better, someone more WILLING to cross the borders of monstrous behavior for the sake of the cause, and Five, well Five, he balanced in the space between what good and worse was. today, well, today was a good example of that, he ventured away from the little diner of gossip and self-reflection and found himself here, in the building of an old lab. by all the descriptive words, it was forgotten, run-down, weeds lurked in the corners and rodents had made their homes in the empty filing cabinets. it smelled like piss and shit, rotten to the core.

That's why no one else should be here, no one else should want that one computer that still works in the devil's asshole, yet they came out of the fucking crack like ants, parasites feeding off of a host. typical. now, insects, rodents, SCUM was easy to take care of, snakes, poison fucking ivy - that was harder. "listen, sleep-deprived Barbie, I don't know what your problem is but I have places to be and people to cook for, so get out of my fucking way or you're going to have a piece of rat ass shoved down your throat. " he hated fucking SNAKES, people able to actually challenge him - in, out, that was what he practiced, like a phantom. When one of them from before move beside him, make their bold attempt to GRAB his hair, he shifts, engulfs himself in that familiar purple glow, there one instance, gone the next - the next being the man's shoulders and he's sweet, palm wrapped around his weak little jaw and twisting his head to the side. SNAP and the man falls to the ground like a lump of coal.

[xxvalkyriesxx]

Nessian Week | Day Five | Behind Closed Doors

Read on AO3 or below

@nessianweek

Summary: Sometimes a Valkyrie and a General need some TLC <3

AN: This was so cute to write! It was my first fic I wrote for Nessian week <3 Enjoy this fluff!! Banner made by me via Canva.

CW: Slight sexual content (consensual)

Snippet:

A small gasp echoed across the room as Nesta’s eyes filled with stars. Flipping back to the front cover she immediately started reading the novel. The premise was everything Nesta loved. A slew of tropes including enemies to lovers, a princess and a rebel leader, forced proximity, and one bed. The sheet laid on her face comfortably.

She was nearing fifteen pages in when the powder room door opened, Cassian standing in the doorway.

“I feel stupid.” He mumbled, a similar looking sheet mask on his own face. It barely fit his entire face as he settled down next to Nesta. She shifted looking up at him.

“Self-care isn’t stupid.” 

“But I look ridiculous right?” Cassian asked.

A nearby clock chimed as the hands rested at the twelve. The music swirled with bells and strings letting the residents of the House of Wind know that midnight was here. Nesta Archeron emerged from the powder room, wearing one of Cassian’s shirts that easily reached her knees. A gentle whimper sang from her lips as she settled into bed. Her hair was down, reaching her lower back now. It needed a trim, but that could wait. On her face rested a sheet mask, a gift that Bryce Quinlan delivered to her for her birthday that spring.

“My mom says happy birthday, and that even the toughest of warriors deserve some ‘treat-yourself’ days. Everything in here can last for a while, and no there aren’t any mind controlling parasites lurking in there. Checked everything myself.”

Nesta gave her a deadpan look before accepting the gift. It was a red box that weighed like nothing. She stared at the woman as the golden portals between their worlds glowed. Opening the box, Nesta saw the most unusual items. Her head tilted in confusion, holding up a few cold colorful packets.

“Those are sheet masks. We didn’t know what type of ones to get you, so we got you literally everyone we could think of. I wrote the instructions in your language as best I could, but it’s all easy steps. Clean your face, leave it on for fifteen minutes, then rub everything into your skin.”

The coldness of the sheet took some getting used too, but Nesta grew to love them.

The day was long as her feet ached from the week-long mission she just got back from. Nesta and the fellow Valkyries were sent to help the outskirts of Hybern where small villages were still recovering from the war. They managed to help three villages get back on their feet, providing resources from the solar courts of Prythian. The leaders of the courts met and discussed what to provide to the fae folk in need in the months leading up to the mission.

While it was primarily a peaceful mission, Nesta ended up in several small battles with some rebellious group. As the country didn’t have a ruler anymore and no heirs to take the throne, these groups weren’t too uncommon in the land. Granted most of the individuals in the group were not military trained, making things easier for Nesta and her friends to deal with, but this was only the beginning. There would be more to come.

But all of that could wait, as the House lit a fire, silencing the cracks followed by dropping a romance onto Nesta’s head.

She winced, rubbing the spot. “Ow! Watch it.”

The House made a nearby rug ripple as if it was laughing. Nesta playfully rolled her eyes before looking at the recommendation. The cover had the classic couple, standing in such a romantic pose with yearning that should have made Nesta sick, but it made her giggle and kick her feet. Flipping to the back she read over the synopsis. 

A small gasp echoed across the room as Nesta’s eyes filled with stars. Flipping back to the front cover she immediately started reading the novel. The premise was everything Nesta loved. A slew of tropes including enemies to lovers, a princess and a rebel leader, forced proximity, and one bed. The sheet laid on her face comfortably.

She was nearing fifteen pages in when the powder room door opened, Cassian standing in the doorway.

“I feel stupid.” He mumbled, a similar looking sheet mask on his own face. It barely fit his entire face as he settled down next to Nesta. She shifted looking up at him.

“Self-care isn’t stupid.” 

“But I look ridiculous right?” Cassian asked.

Nesta bit her cheek, attempting to hide the smile that was about to appear.

“Great now you’re laughing at me.”

A giggle slipped from her before Nesta placed a hand gently on her mouth. However, her shoulders shook silently. 

“I..I’m not laughing!”

Cassian stared at her with a deadpan expression. “And I don’t have wings.” The sarcasm was strong through his words.

His complaint only made her break into a huge smile. Swiftly however, Cassian swiped both of the sheets off their faces before dumping them in the nearby waste bin.

“I wasn’t done!” Nesta exclaimed, placing her book down.

“Don’t care.” Cassian joked before pulling Nesta into his arms.

Immediately her body rested against his. The hands she grew to love over the last five years traced patterns into her back. She sighed gently, resting her face in the crook of Cassian’s neck. He kissed her head gently. Their heartbeats drummed in unionsion, a golden string curled between them.

Reaching over Cassian grabbed the book Nesta was just reading. He flipped it over, reading the back.

He hummed. “All of your favorites, Nes. I swear the House spoils you more than me.” 

Nesta shrugged. “It missed me. I was gone for a whole week.”

“I missed you more.” Cassian growled. “ I can’t stand being away from you, Wife.”

The pet name that made Nesta’s toes curl as she leaned over Cassian. Wife was always something near to her soul, a small grasp of the humanity that still lived in her. Cassian was the one to suggest it, after mate wasn’t giving her the same response. However, she usually referred to him as her mate. Their worlds collided in the devoting exchange.

Gently she took the book from Casian’s grasp before placing it onto her night stand. A smirk toying on her lips.

“Care to share how much you missed me, Mate?

Their kisses made Nesta’s soul light as his hands caressed her body all over. When the two made love, they became the instrument and the artist. Playing each other to the perfect rhythm, creating a soft spoken melody that sung between the two of them. Time wouldn’t exist for them as their love was a religious experience. They kissed prayers of desires on skin, knees were matched in kneeling pink. Golden light plucked between them, reaching their holy moment.

When they were spent, Nesta laid on her belly, her body aching in all the right ways. Cool to the touch, she whimpered. Cassian mumbled an apology before he continued cleaning her off. He quickly threw the wet cloth in the nearby hamper. Gently he laid back down, pulling her close to his chest, kissing her freckled shoulders.

They mumbled their ‘I love you’s’ all the while the doors to their balcony remained closed, keeping the summer nights away.

[purple-miracorp]

"It's been a very hectic few days. My crew and I have transferred our cargo to the storage room and are currently assessing the state of this Polus outpost to mitigate any potential threats of an impostor attack before we head back to MIRA. We need to ensure this research base is clear before the next crew comes to visit, or else we might end up with new impostors on our hands."

"On another note: my birthday was not too long ago. I admit, I haven't celebrated it proper as of yet, but I at least hope to after this mission."

"Anyway, I've attached a photo of myself making a snowmate. Sometimes the snowstorms here can get so strong they topple over these sculptures, so whenever I'm on Polus I take it upon myself to make new ones. They really do seem to lighten the atmosphere, which is a good thing since most people don't like thinking about the inherent dangers stepping foot here, especially with alien parasites lurking around the planet.

[teecupangel]

So, ive recently gotten back into Protocreed and a what if..? idea i had was:

After Abstergo recovers Desmonds body, they experiment with his DNA and Blacklight. Resulting in him being revived after an outbreak and breaking free.

It could even be the assassins fault that the outbreak happened!

.

In the midst of the chaos, no one noticed the body dissapearing. It's only after the outbreak was contained and culled that Subject 17 was noted as missing. With all the footage being destroyed it is impossible to tell what happened to it, but the general consensis is that one of the infected ate it. It is a crushing blow to their research, but thankfully they have plenty of samples stored in a different facility, so all hope is not lost. No one thought of the possibilty that a repeat of Alex Mercer's revival could happen. Subject 17 has been dead for months, the body is simply too old. So no one thought too look in the shadows of the city, where something lay lurking. Tracking. Hunting.

Hungering

So I have a ProtoCreed idea similar to this that I posted here.

The comments/replies have more details on how it would go but, in a nutshell, Blacklight is a failed/abandoned Isu project headed by Tinia (so we can have a little hehe moment with Alex being called ‘Zeus’) and Dr Mercer is not a Templar but he’s still a piece of work.

And Desmond’s Isu to human genes ratio + his Bleeding Effect screwed up the virus that he still has the superhuman feats that Alex has but he can’t morph his body to have weapons or anything like that.

Instead…

It’s like he can spawn three specific humanoid figures made of the black and red writhing flesh which only has one specific goal: keep Desmond safe.

There’s more details in the link above but the main point is that Desmond’s virus makes him be able to ‘summon’ his ancestors who holds a piece of Alex’s OG abilities and it’s unclear if they are mindless or if their connection with Desmond keeps them docile because when Abstergo try to cut their connection (which are tendrils of red and black connecting the creatures to Desmond’s shadow), the creature goes berserk and attacks and devours everything around until Desmond reconnects with it.

So we have:

Altaïr = Blade

Ezio = Hammerfist

Ratonhnhaké:ton = Whipfist

Ezio gets Hammerfist because the sword of Altaïr is iconic so Altaïr gets the Blade and Ratonhnhaké:ton had the ropedart so he gets the Whipfist. XD

Although, in my original idea, Desmond keeps his memories (thanks to the Bleeding Effect) but if you want to go down the route of Desmond being ‘incubated’ by the virus during the story of Prototype and waking up afterwards, we can easily do that and the incubation period is actually what corrupted Desmond’s mind.

So in this situation, Desmond would be more like ‘Eve’ from Parasite Eve, the new origin of an outbreak (and everyone believes it’s Alex’s fault which will lead us to a modified setup for Prototype 2 and Alex and Desmond having an antagonistic start).

But the outbreak is strange because it seemed… targeted.

The ones to be hit first were Abstergo facilities or facilities under Abstergo’s shell companies.

And the spread only began when these facilities had fallen and the barricades have been breached, like… it wasn’t truly intentional but more of a ‘side effect’.

So now we have Alex trying to figure out what this new outbreak is because the ‘children’ for this one are faster and more cunning, using their surrounding to hide and wait. And these children seemed to be taking orders from three creatures made of darkness and blood.

(Or, if you want to preserve the Assassin white and red color scheme, it’s gonna be grosser with them being filled with pus and blood instead. The pus could be a sign that the virus is being combated by Desmond’s Isu genes though and that could be a clue for Alex)

And any time Alex tries to eat any of them, he only gains snippets of the memories of the same person: a man named Desmond Miles.

The three commander creatures also seemed to travel via shadows, being able to melt into the shadows before Alex could ever destroy them completely.

Later, he would realize that the whole city (whichever city we’re planning to set this on) are filled with what looked like lines all over (maybe one would say that maybe it’s the ley lines or something and Alex would say that it looks more like… veins…) and these veins are actually how the commanders travel all over the city.

At the center of the veins is a cocoon…

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

First time fics

I was tagged by @undercoverpena and @secretelephanttattoo a while ago for this wonderful idea. This got a bit out of hand but I wanted to write a little love letter to each of these wonderful writers.

Disclaimer: LJ @prolix-yuy claimed most of my Pedro boy V cards because she's always the one who leads me into temptation i.e. new boys to obsess over ❤️

Din: @the-scandalorian (Masterlist) | @mandosmistress (Masterlist) | @mandoblowmybackout (Masterlist)

I was scavenging for Din fics on Google like a gremlin when I stumbled across Tumblr. I don't remember whose I read first, but I'm pretty sure I devoured all of Simone and Mari's Din fics during my lurking months, though it took me some time to work up the courage to comment and reblog! I was so thrilled to become friends with both of these lovely ladies!

Vibes was one of my first Din series after I got stuck into the fandom, and Ash was one of my first friends I met here!

Javier: @mandosmistress (Masterlist)

I remember reading Mari's Javier even before I watched Narcos, and I fell in love with him and his tight jeans irrevocably.

Jack: @prolix-yuy (Jack masterlist)

I already loved LJ before she wrote Cognitive Dissonance, but there was no way back after she introduced me to cowboy Jack. As I've said many times, LJ is the reason Palomino exists, and this fic is one of the most important stories to me, ever, for so many reasons ❤️

Frankie: @prolix-yuy (Frankie masterlist) | @intheorangebedroom (Masterlist)

See? I wasn't joking when I said LJ took all of my Pedro boy V cards! I remember devouring this series when it was still only on AO3. SW!Frankie remains so close to my heart.

Pleased to Meet You was not my first Frankie, but it is Maddie's first fic. Bonding over PTMY brought us together (among *ahem* other things *ahem*), and it will always be important to me.

Pero: @prolix-yuy (Pero masterlist) | @psychedelic-ink (Pero masterlist)

Yup, it's LJ again. I fell so hard for this combative, grumpy Spaniard and his Guerrera ❤️ I also fell in love with Sil's Pero, and that's how we found each other so it will always be extra special for me!

Dieter: @pettyprocrastination

I remember reading Extra Whipped Cream and going absolutely feral for PS!Dieter. I think it's the probably first Dieter fic in the fandom (not fact checked!), and it's still one of my favourites.

Ezra: @iamskyereads (Compulsion masterlist)

Compulsion is my first full-length Ezra fic and it is absolutely fantastic. I need this filthy, sweaty, loquacious spaceman, bad.

Joel: Sil (Joel masterlist)

I was very late to reading Joel, and I still haven't read much of him, but I remember I couldn't resist reading Musician!Joel in Head Filled with Parasites, the first of many wonderful and unique interpretations of Joel.

On top of my moots above, np tagging some lovelies who might want to share their firsts and anyone who wants to play: @wildemaven, @nothoughtsjustmeds, @radiowallet, @joelsgreys, @julesonrecord, @maievdenoir, @mrsquill, @dreamymyrrh, @refined-by-fire

[ficbrish]

7 Snippets, 7 Mutuals

Thanks @rotschopf-thedrow for tagging me 🥰

Rules: Share seven snippets and pass onto seven mutuals.

Since I'm still chipping away at Kinktober 2023 😅 I have more than seven one shot drafts to choose from! 😀 Here we gooooo!!!!

I'll try to stick to the order they'll most likely be posted in.

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only

If you are not an adult, do not interact!

Astarion/Vistri

The Truth of It (Tav; Act I; Mountains - camp)

Prompt: Thighfucking

[[tw/cw: Suicide, cptsd, self-hate, teasing, explicit language]]

Like a child, she brought her knees up to her chest, and rested her chin in the crook of them. Her expression was thoughtful, not refusing. She looked like she was going to answer, and was just deciding how.

And then she didn’t. She just sat there and stared ahead.

The broken way he eventually said, “Oh, my darling…” pulled at the thread that was holding everything together.

“Don’t!”

Vistri was stiff as the rock around them. So unmoving, she was shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he said very calmly, “Is there anything I can do?”

She shut her eyes tight, and began rocking, “No. Stay there. Shush.”

He nodded and waited for her signal to do anything other than watch and freeze. The timelessness of the hells fell over their heads. Gravity felt steeper. Now was forever.

“Okay,” her voice broke the spell, and she looked up at him, nodding, to repeat, “Okay.”

Astarion flew around her, and for the first time outside of a whoopsie in battle, held her so tight for the sake of his own aching heart. He kissed the top of her head reflexively. He warmed her back with one hand and cradled her face against his neck with the other.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered senselessly, “I’m so sorry.” He had no idea whether he was apologizing for whatever she couldn’t say, or himself. Perhaps both. Perhaps a bit more for his own wrongdoing.

Only it didn’t feel wrong. And that scared him. Frightened him.

Vistri knew she was crying but couldn’t feel herself doing so. She knew she was being held by him, but rather looked out and saw it from above and off to the side. She thought she looked terrible, and he looked so fine. Dashingly picturesque and tragic.

Nobody ever held her the way he did now. She never felt such warmth, and they were both such cold people. How was it possible? Was it some dream?

She started speaking, “We’re more similar than you know.”

Right then, Astarion predicted the gist of what she was about to say. He could tell just by the look on her face, and the way her tone itched at his brain, she had her own Cazador.

“Yeah,” was all he said, and it was so warm. Like an embrace, it held her softly and made her feel like something meant to be protected. She nodded tearfully into him. It was indulgent, but she knew she had to pull herself together. The home she found was rented, and Vistri could only borrow so much. Astarion had more to give, but it wasn’t for her. There was no way she’d be one of the lucky ones.

He kissed her head again, and caught himself, “Sorry. Is it okay to touch you?”

She nodded harder than the last time.

His chuckle was relief. To her, it was a song. He held her tighter. She dissolved.

He’d taken off her mask, stripped off her costume, and naked, she cried into his chest, “I just want to die. I want to be dead. And I can’t. I keep trying, and I can’t.”

Holding her at a moment like this was a key part of his plan. Step one, open her legs. Step two, her heart. It was a system as efficient as it was ugly and cheap. And it made him ugly and cheap, but it also made him safe. He closed his eyes, the tears soaking through his shirt felt like fire and it burned into his cursed, cold skin like a holy symbol; a brand. It was like her body knew what lurked inside his, called him out for the parasite he was even as she was oblivious to it, and fought back to defend against him when she couldn’t.

Vistri sunk into him, tucked into his warmth. She found her breath again in his arms, and in the moment she came back to herself, started to laugh.

He peeked down, “What are you chuckling about in there?”

Her eyes were still freely flowing, but she was more present in there, “In where?”

“My shirt,” he said, “My damp shirt, mind you.”

“How is that my fault?”

He glared at her, “What do you mean, how?”

“I told you not to ask questions.”

“Well excuse me for wondering about your tendency to… To—”

“Always try to kill myself?” she finished, her tone too light.

Astarion sighed. She threw her head back and laughed. He didn’t join in.

“You promised.”

“Let me let you in on a little secret about me and promises,” he said dangerously sardonic, eyes lowered, “Besides, I already pretended to laugh earlier.”

“Faking it doesn’t count!”

“Maybe I’d find it funnier if…”

“If what?”

If what?

If the others wouldn’t kill him before her corpse was cold? If they didn’t rely on each other every battle? If the very thought of her…

“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t want you dead! Is that so horrible to believe?”

His grumpiness was sweet. They were always pretending, with each other, with everyone else. Vistri knew it the moment she first laid eyes on him. That’s why every word he uttered that she ever wanted to hear made her shiver with a dull sorrow, and why the words he pushed her away with were such a loving embrace.

“Of course it’s horrible,” she joked, smiling, “I can’t give you what you want and kill myself! However will my two worst impulses co-exist?”

Astarion smirked, “Shithead.”

She smiled.

He kissed her cheek to whisper in her ear, “If you ever feel such a desire coming upon you in the future, come to me, darling. I can’t provide you a real death, but I have plenty of little ones to give.”

He was so close, she prayed he didn’t hear the way her breath gave out.

“I heard that,” he muttered against her cheekbone.

[I'm almost finished this one and I cannot wait to share the whole thing!]

The Cave (Durge; Act I; post-goblin; forest - spider cave/camp)

Prompt: Wrist/Arm Restraints

[[tw/cw: Teasing]]

“Worth it!” Vistri said, showing everyone her prize: Armor for the forearms made of a hard, dark leather that laced up along the sides. They were plain except for the embroidery that covered it all over with elegant patterns of silver thread.

“Oh, those are quite lovely,” Gale commented, stepping closer.

“No!” Vistri pulled them back, “I won’t let you eat these!”

“I wasn’t!—I wasn’t going to eat them. And I don’t eat magical items, I absorb them.”

“These aren’t magical anyway, they’re just pretty.”

Gale sighed, “I wasn’t…”

Astarion grinned, “Not as pretty as you, my dear.”

Vistri flipped one of her braids, “Aw, stop!”

Karlach frowned, “Eugh, they’re being all mushy again! Gale, tell them to stop. It’s too much cuteness, I can’t take it.”

“Why do I have to be the one to tell them to stop?”

“Cuz you’re like a dad.”

“I’m not—“

“You are!” Vistri laughed, “You’re just like somebody’s dad.”

“Not the Daddy vibes you hoped to give off, eh?” Astarion teased.

Needless to say, Gale pouted the whole way back to camp.

When they returned, Karlach announced, “Gale is everyone’s dad!”

“Oggy! Oggy! Oggy!” Wyll chanted in acknowledgement.

“Oi! Oi! Oi!” Karlach shouted, pumping her fist in the air. Gale had to duck.

While everyone else went to rag on Gale about being the camp dad, Astarion watched Vistri make a beeline for Shadowheart. He paid mind to their chat as he “tidied up” his tent area.

“You’ll never guess what I found at the bottom of a spider web.”

Shadowheart raised a brow, “Lolth’s chosen?”

“No, and how dare you,” she brought the armor out from her pack, “I found these beautiful things!”

She didn’t look too impressed, “They’re… Nice.”

Vistri narrowed her eyes, “Well, thank goodness they’re not for you.”

He saw her go to Lae’zel next. Which could only be a slight on Shadowheart, because the Githyanki wasn’t going to care. Predictably blown off, Vistri then moved to Halsin and Wyll, where she finally found compliments. For some reason, she even showed off her find to Withers, who met her with even less enthusiasm than Shadowheart and Lae’zel. Maybe she just wanted him to feel included. Vistri was always doing stuff like that.

Finally, she doubled-back to him.

“It’s because of the undead thing, isn’t it?” Astarion smirked as Vistri approached him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Right. Do you sew?” she asked, knowing full well he did.

“What?”

Vistri held up one of the arm bands, “The thread is loose here. Look!”

Astarion smirked, “Are you asking me to fix it?”

She rolled her eyes, “No.”

“It seems to me that your new treasure is soiled and I’m the only one you trust to mend it.”

“That isn’t… un-true.”

“So, you’re asking me to fix it?”

“No, silly!” Vistri looked suggestively into his eyes, “You’re going to offer.”

Insolence was the word that came to mind. Her blinking grin said, I have a need you’re lucky enough to fulfill, but her eyes were not so sure. There was something weak in them, like slipping fingers. They were on a precipice that hung on his answer, Was she worth it?

“Would you like me to fix it?”

Vistri smiled warmly, “Oh, darling! How kind of you! Of course.” She shoved the object into his hands.

He didn’t let her go just yet. In a soft tone, he demanded, “Say thank you.”

Vistri held her breath, her eyes grazed over his lips, “Thank you.”

Astarion dropped her hand and started to assess the damage. It wasn’t just a simple tug. A blade must have slashed it, because the original pattern was unrecognizable, and its thread was frayed. He’d have to use some of his own. Luckily, he just picked up a spool of silver the other day.

Vistri was still standing there. She hadn’t gone away.

“You’ve never been one for micromanagement. Please don’t start now, dear.”

“I wasn’t—I just…”

Astarion looked confused, “Oh?”

Vistri scoffed, “Never mind that!”

“I think you just want to hang around,” he teased, seizing the opportunity.

She looked away from him face the other direction, like a cat. Gale came sauntering over, escaping the cheers of “Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad!” from the other side of camp.

“What kind of nasty thing did you say to make Vistri, of all people,blush?”

“I’m not—!”

Astarion smirked, “I dare not repeat it.”

“You scoundrel!” he grinned.

Vistri sighed theatrically and looked to Astarion, “I guess father doesn’t approve.”

Gale’s smile dropped like a sudden downpour, “I’m not—!”

[I swear they adore Gale lol. They all rag on each other, and apparently it's his turn.]

A Tumble (Durge; early Act II - near Last Light Inn)

Prompt: Biting/Scratching, Piercings/Tattoos, Marking

[I actually have the whole snippet here as a wip wednesday!]

Enough (Tav; Early Act III; Rivington - barn at camp)

Prompt: Mutual Masturbation

[[tw/cw: Suicide, cptsd, breakdown, teasing, explicit language]]

Her voice wasn’t hers, like she was channeling a ghost. Someone else spoke, “Please don’t hate me.”

He held her steady, “I don’t hate you.” He kissed her forehead, “Could never hate you.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck so tight he started to worry his head might pop off.

“I just want you to be all right, love. Whatever tonight is, we’ll see each other through. Promise.”

Something light snuck its way into the melody of her weeping. He watched her start to settle into it, shuddering out the bad. Then, as peace began to peak, it was washed over with disgust.

“Gods! I’m so embarrassed!”

“Don’t be! It’s the nature of all fucked up people,” Astarion babbled, “Nothing out of the ordinary—It’s practically routine, darling. No reason to worry.”

“I’m so fucking stupid.”

He chuckled, “Good thing then we’re all fucking stupid.”

That got her to laugh, if even just for that little bit. At the end of it, there was a respite. No quick breaths, no tears; just a stillness.

“I love you,” she said, and then the crying came on again.

Astarion kissed her hand and put it to his heart. Vistri rested her head on his shoulder and let go of whatever she could. She poured stories she still couldn’t tell onto his shirt in salty tears. They soaked warmly onto his skin, quickly turning cold.

“I’m truly sorry, love” she muttered, wiping her face on her wrists, “My temper…”

“I could tell you to fuck off too, if you’d like.”

She chuckled, still not lifting her face from his shoulder.

“Look, it’s already helping. All right, fuck off then!”

It bubbled into full blown laughter, “Foolish!”

There was little difference between her now and the moment before. She was just as raw, even as her grief flipped to its other side. Exposed and bleeding, she stood at the precipice of salvation and ruin. The monster in Astarion whispered to go in for the kill. He blinked away those instincts, choosing another way.

“I love you as well,” he said softly.

Vistri kissed his hand and lifted it to her heart. It raced under his palm. His expression barely shifted but she could see his hunger in it clearly. She smirked warmly and leaned her neck a little closer.

“I-“ he stuttered.

She winked, “If you’re good.”

Astarion swallowed. He hated that he couldn’t feel her heart without the urge to consume it, but she loved that part of him, leaned into it. Instead of shying from the monster, she was ready to risk it all to make it more powerful. It would be more flattering if she didn’t hate herself so much, but thinking that way was unkind, did her an injustice. She stopped all other monsters. Her fealty was not to a vampire, but to him.

“Maybe later,” he smirked, “I dare not take from you now. Besides, you’d probably taste awful.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“All that stress in your system… Well, it sours the vintage.”

She took a very deep breath and exhaled with a shuddering sigh. All the stress in her system made her teeth chatter as if she were cold.

“I’m here, love. I’m here.”

She nodded, “I know. Thank you.”

[This one is really complicated to write, but it's starting to come together. I want to get it right. It's a tricky one.]

Blood Moon (Tav; ShadowPen au collab; post-epilogue; Storm Coast - ShadowPen's farm)

Prompt: Body Worship (Genitals), Vampires/Werewolves

[[tw/cw: Explicit language]]

Things were getting much too sappy for listening in to stay bearable. Astarion chuckled low in her ear, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Vistri laughed and grabbed his hand to lead him out of bed. She suppressed a giggle and shushed him with a finger to his lips as they stood. He nodded, and they “snuck” out of the room, and then the cottage.

Once outside, their laughter began to slip. They took off into the grey dark, running from the threat of being overheard. When they stopped, it all came tumbling out. Panting and laughing with hands on knees, they were surrounded by trees.

“So are they,” Vistri panted, “Are they married now?”

He smirked, “You jealous?”

Vistri threw her head back and howled.

“Oh, really? The thought is that disgusting?”

“No!” she protested, “It’s not that!”

He grabbed her up and growled into her neck, “It’s not that?”

Putty. She was putty.

She just shook her head.

“Look, my dear. We’re in the woods again.”

His allusion to those first nights together raised her skin and sent a delightful shiver along it. There was almost a full moon, and its light sprinkled through the leaves and made the shadows shine.

Vistri stroked his cool cheeks with her fingers, “I feel so lucky—Are you cold?”

“If you’re offering to warm me up, then yes, I’m absolutely freezing.”

Even after all the time they’d had together, her lips still quivered as they met his. It felt like all the great love stories, and the dreams they bore. She was always afraid he didn’t feel it too, but the look in his eyes as he pulled away was always saturated with it. How dare she ever doubt him.

“I could take you here,” he offered in sultry song, “Just like old times.”

She chuckled, “Are they old times already?”

“I know it’s only been a while, but it feels longer. In a good way! The best way.”

“Not in the boring, dreadful way?”

“The complete opposite. You’re perfect and you thrill me. Two hundred years of torture passed in a blink, but nearing two years with you? Every moment is its own lifetime.”

[Just like with "To Belong", QueenMills and I will be doing a collab with our OCs. We will each write a one shot from the same events from our ship's perspective.]

The Black Masquerade (Durge; 2 yrs post-canon; Upper City - Eomane Manor)

Prompt: Dirty Talking, Pussy Eating/Blowjob, Breath Control

[[tw/cw: Teasing, explicit language]]

“Astarion and Vistri Ancunin of the Underdark!” the announcer called out.

Astarion muttered into her ear, “I thought these things were supposed to be anonymous.”

Vistri got up on her toes to whisper back, “What’s even the point of wearing masks?!”

The announcer, donning the puffiest, bluest breeches imaginable, made his annoyance clear. They hadn’t begun moving yet and were clearly bitching about him or his patron. He looked rather like a large, pissed off blueberry.

He cleared his throat to repeat, “Vistri and Astarion Ancunin of the Underdark!”

Astarion lowered his lips to Vistri’s ear, “Do you think he reversed the order of our names on purpose?”

“Let’s go!” she giggled, tugging on his arm.

“You’re wrinkling my costume,” he whined.

Astarion made sure to give the announcer a little trip as they passed by. Vistri bit her lip in order not to laugh.

The ballroom seemed to still as they appeared at the top of the stairs. Their costumes had been carefully planned and chosen to conjure the allure of vampirism without being too on the nose. Gods damned Petras kept insisting they should look like bats, but thankfully Petras had as much say as taste in this regard. They thought ravens were better suited as inspiration and decided to be adorned all over in black feathers flowing with gilded accents. The pitch-black drama of their long, winged trains adorned the pale Vampire and his periwinkle Drow, evoking the powerful and deadly allure of the Underdark itself.

The draping of their dress was complex, but with simple lines, and showed plenty of skin. It was really two parts, a tunic and a skirt, but passed for one whole. Its design deconstructed what was classic and created something no Baldur’s Gate ballroom had ever seen. If they didn’t already stand out enough, their black masks were as dark as a deep abyss and had long, curved beaks that looped all the way down to their waists. They’d be uncomfortably heavy to wear if Vistri hadn’t enchanted them with a Feather spell.

It was a bit of a risk to upstage everyone else as the outsiders, but when Vistri had asked Astarion how he wanted to approach their first impression, he scoffed and said, “How we always do. Drop in and immediately show them we’re better.”

[This one is turning out SO long, but SO worth it 🔥]

Working title: Partition, please! (Tav; 1 yr post-canon; Underdark - Spawn fortress)

Prompt: Fancy Dress

[[tw/cw: Teasing, sexual content, explicit language]]

“Hold still.”

“What do you mean, hold still? I’m not moving.”

Vistri laughed, “You are!”

“I’m doing no such thing!”

“Your eyes! You keep squinting them!”

Tonight was a big night. A whole year since they’d taken the fortress. They’d been so busy, it felt like a week. Now it was time to celebrate. Dress up and dance. Her hair and makeup already done, Vistri was helping Astarion, who couldn’t rely on a mirror.

“Astarion!”

“What?! I am simply sitting here.”

“You made me mess up!”

“What my eyes do when you poke at them is not something I can control!”

Vistri wheezed, “Hold on, hold on! I can fix it.”

“Stop laughing. It’s not me moving, it’s you laughing!”

“Sshhhh! I’m concentrating, you cunt.”

Astarion let out a long sigh, then stopped breathing to stay as still as possible. His unnerving stillness was an unsettling aid to her focus. His chest didn’t move, but he was right there, alive in his eyes. It slowed time, sharpened her mind.

“There,” she eventually said, and Astarion eagerly took a deep breath in. Seeing his chest move made her fly to his lips.

He chuckled and spoke against her kiss, “You’ll mess it up!”

“Haven’t done your lips yet.”

“I wasn’t talking about mine.”

“Shit!” Vistri ran over to the mirror.

One leg up on the vanity stool, she leaned into its reflection and whined. Astarion raised his brow, she’d given him quite the view. Neither of them were dressed yet, still in their undergarments. He found himself staring at the little strip of cloth snug between her thighs. He wanted to run his fingers along it, and then tear it down her legs with his teeth before sinking them into her.

“There’s always staying in,” he suggested.

“Don’t make me laugh!” she giggled, fixing her lips, “I’ll fuck it up again.”

“Fucked up my good work, mind you!”

Since Vistri had to do his hair and makeup, it was only fair he’d done hers.

She scoffed, “You’re so much prettier when you’re not cross, you know. A little advice for this evening.”

He smacked her tush in retaliation for her tease. She yelped.

It took her way less time to sort Astarion’s hair, but it always behaved so well. “It’s the only thing that’s ever consistently gone right in my life,” he always said.

“It’s the only thing that’s—”

“—Always gone right in your life. I know, love.”

“Oh? Do I bore you?”

“No!” she laughed, “No, you never bore me!”

[Them doing each other's makeup is so 😍 They're killing me 😭]

Tagging (no pressure, of course): @acciokaidanalenko @blkgirl-writing @magicallulu7 @nowandthane @vorchagirl @malabadspice @elfjpeg

[Read my other one shots: AO3 | Tumblr]

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Old Friends

Iz stood in front of the grand double doors, head bowed. Her shackles dragged heavily behind her, digging into soft flesh. The guards, clad in dark chitin that obscured their faces, were ill at ease, even as they opened the doors to the throne room.

She could have broken her chains with a snap of her fingers, and she itched to crack the necks of her 'captors'. But she had a message to deliver, and she would not forsake her duty.

"The queen will see you now," one of them rasped. Iz nodded once, and shuffled in.

The floor was marble, a sea of darkness with silver streaks running through it like lightning striking a sea. Pillars of obsidian rose from the ground, proud towers looming over Iz.

And surrounding them: Lush, verdant greens. Fronds of ferns adorned the walls, creepers climbed the pillars like mountaineers scaling a cliff. They flourished with unnatural intensity, making the air thick with moisture and spores, lurking in the dark places. This was no sea, Iz decided. It was a swamp, heavy and menacing, and above all, rotten.

The magic here was cloying, simultaneously sickly sweet and rancid, like corpse-flowers. It clung to her skin wetly, coating her in a layer of mildew, filling her mouth with putrid sourness. Shadows shifted in dark corners, watching her with unnerving intensity.

Peacock feathers, long and lustrous, framed a throne of gnarled wood and dark metal. Upon it sat the witch of the swamp, the queen of the damp and the darkness. Her eyes were the blackness of insects, multifaceted and glittering in the dim light. Her dress was made of long trails of fern, clinging to her body like a parasite. Her lips quirked upwards to reveal a neat row of canines. One hand held a glass of wine, whilst the other three arms rested on the sides of her throne.

"You," Iz sighed. 

"Hello, little one. Long time no see, as your people say," the Queen of the Fae said, resting her head on one hand. "I wish I could say your visit was a surprise. But alas, our friendship was not to be." Her smile was sharp and bitter.

They glared at each other silently. Finally, Iz slumped. Amongst those who could have claimed Aurumndale's throne, her friend-no-more was amongst the least welcome. Nonetheless, Iz was blood-sworn, and she would execute her task.

"I beseech you to put our grievances aside," she murmured. "Heed me, for I bring a warning. The Godhuntress has killed Hydrel, God of Water. Soon, she will come for you."

The Queen laughed, a buzzing of a thousand voices. "What could she possibly want with me? I am no friend of the gods, and neither are my people. We have no reason for dispute." Nonetheless, there was an undercurrent of fear in her words, a hesitation that belied her doubt.

The Godhuntress had come from the depths of Sylvandor, a dark figure who killed the gods with methodical ease. Every day, another temple would fall. Every day, she grew in power. And none could stop her. 

"You and I both know that is a lie," Iz said. "Her shadow will only lengthen with time, and the wishes of our elders will be lost with the wind. We must take her down now, before she consumes us all."

The Queen paused, delicate eyebrows furrowing. "I have been fooled by you once, and I will not fall for it a second time. The Godhuntress has all the power she could wish for. She would never pursue our scraps."

"Power begets power, Desalia," Iz said, naming her old friend. "And I do not ask you to trust me, or to aid me, only heed my words. Take care, lest your people fall."

Queen Desalia's face darkened. "Are you threatening me, mortal? I could crush you like a twig," she hissed, gripping the sides of her throne. "I have not forgotten your betrayal, traitor."

Iz wanted to grab her, shake her and scream the truth in her ears. She wanted to plead with her old friend, beg for forgiveness. She wanted the camaraderie they had all those years. But she was no girl-child, not anymore, and she had better causes to pursue. "Hydrel is dead, my Queen. The Lord of the Sun and the Ladies of the Air are long gone. All that stands between the Godhuntress and supreme power are the Elder Gods, and they are in hiding," Iz snapped, meeting the Queen's eyes.

For an indeterminable time, they stayed like that, staring at each other, glaring as though the force of their gaze might melt the bonds between them. Finally, Desalia broke the silence. "You left me there to die, Isobel," she whispered. "Why?"

"I- I never meant to leave you there," Iz murmured. "I thought you dead, and I thought- I thought I would die, had I stayed. I offer you my repentance, Desalia. This is me returning the favour, the smallest mercy I can offer to the one I wronged."

The Queen bent her head, shaking it softly. "You truly believe this? That the Godhuntress will destroy our world, and claim it for her own?"

"Yes!" Iz felt hope leaping in her chest. "She has come for the Lich, and she will hunt the selkies and the spirits. Then she will find you, and your people, and you do not stand a chance. Unless you take action now. Have you ever known me to be wrong?"

The Queen glared at her, but it had lost its fire. "You were wrong when you left me." She sounded bitter.

"I wish I could believe you, but my people will not interfere. We have abstained from taking part in any war for millennia now, and I cannot, in good conscience, drag my people into a battle that is not ours to fight," she said, her voice hard. 

Iz could feel the chasm between them, unspoken words and gnawing pain that separated them. "This is your war. The Godhuntress kills indiscriminately. By the time she has taken the last of the gods, none of us will be able to stop her. Please," she pleaded.

The word hung in the air, suspended by a fragile silence. Queen Desalia broke it with a slash of her robes. "Isobel," she murmured, her voice tinged with loss. "I cannot listen to you. I must not. Forgive me, for casting your branch aside, but-" She slumped, shaking her head.

"I understand," Iz said quietly. "Thank you, and I pray for the safety of your people."

It was a farce. Perhaps they simply had too many sour memories between them. Perhaps the Fae truly could not intervene in the matter. Whatever the case, it was Iz who had failed her former ally. She gathered her clothes and stood up, shaking off the chains with ease. 

"Wait!" The Queen stood up. "Once this is over, you could come- Come and visit me again, Iz." It was a desperate last throw, a final olive branch cast into the murky waters of their past.

"Thank you, and may the gods be with you, Dez," she said, pushing the sudden pang of agony aside. "Wherever they may be now." 

[sodabranch]

Halo here, still waiting for the next time their irl friends are up to play Lethal Company together... Justice time!

1. One thing that would suck about the Company is that I doubt it you get time off for illness/injuries. So imagine the dilemma of Justice having to leave to look after the employees heading to the bunker, but also being worried about the one needing to be left to rest on the ship.

Other than the issue of the employee being unable to react timely to an enemy lurking near the ship, I see Justice's past experiences worsening their mental conflict. They were always there, when the master or someone in the household got sick, so leaving them feels unnatural.

And what if it's something they can't simply recover from? Earning a disability is bound to be as easy as death itself, on the job.

2. Okay, this one isn't a Justice specific one. I was thinking, man, even the freakiest and erratic of nutcracker OCs will find a human out there who thinks they're really cool! Suddenly, an idea popped into my head.

Because the nutcrackers have parasites, making them semi living, what if one could apply a freaking soulmate AU to it?!

3. Justice, in the past, waiting for the master to come home from work, but they're coming home late. How would Justice react? I could imagine it thinking about how it can't just make a phone call.

Sure, you could easily turn the idea into angst, but I see it that the master simply had overtime, and eventually came home just fine. But Justice is a bit angy they never warned it, because it was worried...

4. The employees and Justice were gathering scrap from a mansion. Everyone is back inside the ship, confident that Justice will soon return safely. In the midst in the snowstorm, they see its approaching silhouette, but something about it is different? Oh, that's right, it's carrying scrap, too. But what?

As Justice steps inside, they see it's a—

Oh no, it's a somehow decently preserved and clean puffy dress?! Justice is irradiating excitement; isn't this fitting for a partner to wear for a waltz? The employees, on the other hand, are thinking 'Oh crap, it's gonna make one of US wear it!' They then push the one who they know Justice sees as the master to the front of the group, like a sort of sacrificial offering to wear the dress.

~ Halo

Oh, I'm also waiting for my friends to have a free night so we can play Lethal together and totally suffer the consequences of our own actions...

I just arrived home a moment ago so brace yourself:

Aaaand no, I also doubt the Company would be so kind to offer you some time off or even compensation lol. Once you're away from Gordion you're on your own, buddy;; better read the fine print.

Justice would be torn between staying with them or helping the team. On one side, it would be able to provide care for the injuried person, aiding them on their needs and staying guard in case any entity was to take advantage of their state; on the other side, there's no way it is going to abandon the team!!! four people is still better than three. Yes, of course it believes that the team can totally fend for themselves!! but maybe just maybe,,, what if some monster sneaks up on them and it can't do anything, then what!

In the amidst of this mental dilemma, Justice settles on giving the crewmate a walkie and gestures for them to use it if something were to happen, then helps tucking them in the uncomfortable bunk bed (to much of Justice's dismay. It really has ought to look for a way for them to rest more comfortably...), and there's no way it is going to forget the "healing kiss" to the forehead before heading out with the rest of the crew. Then maybe it would keep checking on them from time to time, excusing itself to "bring some scrap back to the ship".

Oof I let myself get invested in that one,,,

AND UMGMMGGMMGMG, SOULMATE AU???? ON MY BLOG?? MORE LIKELY THAN YOU THINK- I REALLY need to think of a way to make this real???? I never thought of it as a possibiity, but you're kinda so right? Preach.

Asdhsdhd also choking up from thinking of Justice waiting by the door to see if their master makes it home safely...

At the start, it would be a bit confused, they were supposed to arrive some time ago! Well, could have been a slight delay, but that doesn't erase the nagging thought telling it something might have happened. What if they got injured on their way back? What if someone did something? What if this? What if- Enough for now, it should think more rationally than that. So naturally, Justice decides to busy itself with some cleaning while it waits... Only for more minutes to pass and for it to start growing more and more worried. Now without any tasks to do while it waits it just sits motionless on the entryway, expecting to see them any second now...

And it's not until the sound of keys turning and the door creaking open that it can rest, seeing the face of their master and mentally restraining itself from running up and hugging them. For now, it is glad it got to see their face for another day.

AAAAAAA THE LAST ONE THE LAST ONE

Just just imagine,, while exploring this mansion, Justice finds itself in some sort of bedroom. Rummaging through it, it wasn't long before something caught it's attention: a perfectly preserved dress stored inside some sort of garment bag... The sight alone brought back so many memories of packed ballrooms and the many dances that took place, most of which Justice had to spectate. As a guard, it was supposed to watch over the people, never let in the fun.

So it guesses the crew won't have much trouble when it brings the beautiful garment back to the ship!! One of them even stepping forward, how sweet!

and im cutting it here because it may be getting too long :9 but I have so many new ideas giggles*

[dmagedgoods]

I got inspired by anyone who did it 💕, so I wrote a little intro for Rowley in BG3 too, if he was a companion instead and the MC met him for the first time. ~ You could swear you are being watched. – Out from the dark shadows between pieces of deformed wreckage, as if someone – or something – was lurking, watching your every step. The feeling is threatening and your hand moves to your weapon. Still, it happens faster than you can react, and a dagger cuts through the smoke-thick air, directly toward your face, and misses it by merely three inches. The sudden attack and a wet sound behind you make you turn around in a swift motion, and the small creature breaks down dead. Some of the intellect devourers must have survived the crash. Your eyes search the shadows of the wreckage and near rocks and something higher up in them moves. A moment later, a man slides out of them and lands smoothly on his feet in front of you; his movements are dexterous, his body athletic and lithe like a predator’s meant to hunt in the dark. “This was a hard decision, you know? I like those little abominations, and you could turn into an obstacle rather than an asset.” An unsettling smirk plays across his mouth that seems just a touch too wide for his slim, sharp-edged face. You realize that the impression is strengthened by a wide scar from his upper lip across his right cheek. He looks at you, appears relaxed, but you are not fooled: His cold grey eyes stay attentive. Something in them reminds you of an upcoming storm. His ashen-blonde hair is short but just long enough to look unruly and wild. He wears black leather and two long shiny daggers cross on his back. His pointed ears are pierced in many places, adorned with silver jewelry, and give him away as a half-elf. “Now, but I have a choice for you …” His statement is cut short when your tadpole reaches out for his and a gasp leaves his lips. Your instincts tell you that the mind of this man is the last place you want to be, but the parasite doesn’t care for your attempt to hold it back and pictures flash up in front of your eyes. Light reflects in sharp metal, blood covers your skin. It’s not your own. You turn away in satisfaction, a short-lived sensation that’s swallowed by cold only a moment later. Your face in the shattered mirror on the wall makes you flinch, reminds you too much of what has been. There is a hole, something missing, something missing that will never return, and the abyss caused by this lack draws in all happiness that dares to emerge. You stare at the stranger who braces himself against the stony wall. He already found his grin again but the pictures you just saw expose it as a lie. “You just became a useful someone to stick with.” He steps closer and for the first time, his smile seems to reach his eyes. “The name is Rowley. What do you say? Want to buy my service for a while? – Not in coin. You'll pay me for my help by finding someone to remove those little fuckers from our heads.”

[owls-and-bees]

My first TMA fic :D

Title: the inherent romanticism of sour candy

Words: 2,007

Set in season 1 but there are small references to later seasons (no major spoilers)

Jon walks in on Martin having a panic attack and deals with it very well and is not at all awkward about the whole thing because he’s sooo good at feelings

_____________________________________

Jon stared at the screen in front of him, scanning over the many, many, words in the excruciatingly long email Elias had sent him.

Something about a noise complaint from the non archive employees, or maybe a noise complaint about the non archive employees?

Truthfully, he didn’t process a single word of it.

His leg tapped rapidly against the concrete floor, in unison with his hand, clicking the pen that had run out of ink when he was still in college. He kept it around regardless, mostly to click mindlessly, and he had long since tuned out the sound it made.

To put it simply, Jon was far in over his head.

“Take the promotion” He’d thought

“It’ll be fun!” He’d thought

He thought wrong.

It was bad enough that Jane Prentiss decided to make her dramatic reappearance, but of course it had to be in the form of an attack on one of his employees.

Because obviously a new job he was entirely unprepared for wasn’t enough stress! Why not throw a whole pile of worms on top?

Jon had begun to think that this was all just some horribly elaborate hazing ritual for the new archivist. Did Gertrude have to deal with worms too?!

Of course not, Jon had only seen the woman a few times but he was rather sure a gust of wind would be enough to knock her down. She was short and frail, (not that Jon was any different)

and as Tim described her “more cardigan than woman”

Sure, she was stubborn. But there was nothing that could convince Jon that the nutty old bat had ever actually dealt with an entity firsthand!

It had all just become a bit much, and Jon found it harder and harder to focus.

With Martin living in the archives, Jane lurking around somewhere (and sending the occasional ominous text message from martins phone), parasitic worms infesting the building, and of course to top it all off, Jon had to keep his assistants’ living situation hidden from Elias! Who would almost certainly disapprove of the whole affair. Even Jon wasn’t sure it was the best idea, given it probably broke several institute codes.

Jon leaned back in his chair, finally straightening his god awful posture. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sound that was somewhere between an exasperated sigh and a pained groan.

He turned his attention back to his computer, closing the half-read email.

‘It can wait until tomorrow’ he reasoned. ‘Not like I can focus on it in this state.’

He tried to ignore the weight that seemed to pull his eyes shut, and the almost silent clock on the wall that reminded him of how unreasonably late he had stayed.

That had always been a flaw of Jon’s, there would always be one or two more things left to finish before he went home, and those one or two things split into five or six. And the next thing he knew he was waking up at his desk in the middle of the night, with the imprint of a pen on the side of his face as evidence of his terrible self preservation skills.

He stood from his chair, decidedly ignoring the loud cracks that came of every joint in his body.

‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to check on Martin before I leave. Make sure he hasn’t burnt down my archive yet.’

He rolled his eyes at the thought of Martin scrambling to put out a fire, forgetting, in the panic, about the loads of Co2 extinguishers kept in the archive.

Not that it would be completely unreasonable, even Jon found himself forgetting that fire extinguishers can be used for more than killing worms. But he couldn’t help the slight chuckle that left him at the thought of Martin throwing his tea at a fire before thinking to use an extinguisher.

Jon placed a hand on the door to the archive room, but froze when he heard a noise from inside.

A gasp?

Oh god…

Jon’s amusement at the idea of a fire quickly turned to genuine dread. He pushed open the door, already prepared to reprimand Martin for having a flame in his archives. But was met with an… unexpected sight.

Martin was sat in the furthest corner from the door, his knees pulled to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. His face, previously buried in his knees, was now staring up at Jon in a mix of panic and embarrassment. His eyes were red and cheeks tear-stained.

He didn’t say a word, his breathing still ragged and uncontrolled. But that look on his face was enough for Jon to understand the situation, staring up at him like he’d seen a ghost.

Any words that came to mind were lost just as quickly.

“Oh-” Jon froze, staring at his assistant for what felt like far too long. Before slowly, uncomfortably, and without breaking eye contact, backed out of the room. “I um…I’m sorry.” He spoke, his usual bluntness prevalent even now, as he slowly closed the door in front of him.

Jon leaned his head against the now closed door, cringing at his own discomfort.

Martin just stared at the door, unsure what to do after… that.

It wasn’t like panic attacks were completely new to him, but until now he’d managed to keep them outside of work. Away from Jon, who already disliked him at the best of times.

God… of course it had to be Jon who walked in! At least if it had been Tim or Sasha he could have been saved the pure humiliation!

It wasn’t like Martin ever had a chance in hell with Jon anyways, but he would have at least liked to keep a shred of his dignity!

What would Jon think of him after this? Did he consider panic attacks a fireable offense? Of course not! Jon isn’t completely emotionless… right?

Martin found himself spiraling once again. Now due to the thought of what he would say next time he saw Jon, rather than his experience with Jane prentiss.

He bit down on his lower lip, one of the more painful anxious habits he’d picked up in his youth. Images flashed through his mind of any and every potential scenario that could arise when he saw Jon again.

But before he could properly freak out, the door to the archive creaked open again, and Jon stood in the doorway.

This time, however, he walked in. all the way over to Martin in fact, and sat down beside him.

“Jon, I- I um”

“It’s fine.” He cut Martin off “you don’t have to explain yourself, I understand.”

“Alright.”

Martins reply was soft, it made him feel even more pathetic than he already did.

“Here.” Jon placed two items between them.

One was a cup of tea, the other was a bag of… sour candy?

“Oh, uh thank… you?” Martin was a bit confused, but appreciated Jon’s strange attempt at comfort regardless.

Jon let out a sigh, he kept his eyes trained on the floor, trying to save Martin the embarrassment. Or maybe just to save himself the discomfort…

“sour candy helps with panic attacks. I read this article the other day. it’s quite interesting actually, I’ll send it to you. Sour candy shocks the senses and knocks you out of the fight, flight, or freeze state. Interestingly, mint has a similar effect. I would recommend reading up on it if you have the chance. It would probably be good to keep mints or gum on hand, just in case.”

Jon stopped speaking, realizing now that he was infodumping on his coworker In the middle of a breakdown.

“I uh, I thought they might help.”

Jon finally looked back to martin, who stared at him like a deer in headlights.

It took a moment for martin to process that Jon had finished speaking, but when he did he gave the man a small smile.

“Thank you, Jon. Really, I appreciate this.”

Martin's breathing had returned to normal now, and Jon’s presence had already served to ground him, but he took a candy anyways.

Then, a sip of the tea. The warmth seeped through the cup into his hands, further solidifying the feeling that he was safe here… with Jon.

He smiled fondly at the mug in his hands, he knew Jon probably just grabbed the closest to the front of the cabinet, but the thought of him picking out martin's favorite mug intentionally warmed him more than the drink.

Martin didn’t often go for floral teas, but this was from Jon, so for all he cared it could be oolong and he’d still treasure every sip.

“Lavender?” He mused

“Yes. Lavender helps to regulate the nervous system.”

Martin gave a soft chuckle at Jon’s usual bluntness “no, I know that. I just didn’t realize we had any.”

“Ah, we don’t. I keep some in my office.”

Martin gave a small hum in response, only now considering it a bit odd Jon had sour candy and lavender tea in his office. Or that he just had this knowledge of panic attacks on hand.

“Jon… do you-” he cut himself off, trying to find a way to phrase his question that wouldn’t be overly intrusive.

Jon was still his boss.

Though he had probably broken the boarders of boss/employee decorum when he started living in the workplace.

“Hm?”

“Have you… been having panic attacks?” Martin asked, his tone laced with concern.

Jon sighed softly, something that almost seemed like a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Do you never worry about yourself?”

Martin started to speak, but realized he had no defense against the accusation.

“Alright yes, point taken.”

He should probably drop it, but Martin didn’t like the idea of Jon suffering alone.

“Still though, have you?”

Jon let out a soft nose exhale, the closest thing to a laugh martin had ever heard from Jon. “Yes, from time to time. but that’s nothing you need to worry yourself over.”

“Fine, please take care of yourself though?”

“Only if you can promise the same.”

Jon smiled, it was small, but still there. And more importantly, it actually seemed genuine. And it was one of the most beautiful things Martin had ever seen. He could have sworn his heart skipped a beat, or five.

It wasn’t like the man never smiled, but more often than not it was the forced kind that never reached his eyes, the smile he used for group pictures and conversations with Elias.

But this? This smile was one of fondness, it seemed. But who knows, maybe Martin was just reading too far into things again, he did have that habit when it came to Jon.

He stared at the other man, ever-present infatuation knocking at his heart as he tried his best to memorize the sight, quickly as he could. assuming, rightfully, that Jon wouldn’t let a soft moment last long, because of course he couldn’t.

Jon placed a hand in front of his face and cleared his throat.

“It’s late, I should probably go home. Are you… going to be alright?”

Martin smiled at Jon, his eyes filled with pure adoration. “Of course, I’ll be fine. Get home safe, Jon.”

“Will do. I’ll see you tomorrow Martin.”

Jon stood from his place next to Martin, heading to the door.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Oh- Um… I’ll send you the article, i-it really is interesting, I promise.”

“Looking forward to it. Goodnight, Jon.”

“Goodnight, Martin.”

Martin had heard his name from the other man countless times, but he had never heard it spoken so softly. Like the words might break if said with any more force.

The sound of it was divine, ringing through martins mind like a melody.

The door clicked shut, and Martin raised the mug once more to his face, and hoped for the life of him that Jon hadn’t noticed the pink hue that dusted his cheeks.

[bethanythebogwitch]

Australian Pokemon: 3 creepy lines

Another of my posts of Fakemon based in a hypothetical region called Goorda based on a mix of Australia and Aotearoa/New Zealand (though mostly Australia). This time I designed three evolution lines based on creepy or ghostly concepts. For pervious posts see regional variants, birds, early-game standards, misc 2, misc 1, starter variants, and starters.

First up is Parapteer, the Parasite Pokemon, dark/psychic type. This Pokemon is a parasite that is weak and helpless on its own. It targets Staryu and hollows out their bodies, using them as a new home while disguising itself as a Staryu. It benefits from its host's latent psychic powers, which are added to Parapteer's own. It uses the psychic powers and disguise to sneak into a group of Staryu and plant its larvae on them, beginning the next generation of parasites. Pictured is Parapteer both in its host's body (left) and exposed (right).

Parapteer is based on Dendrogaster, a genus of parasites found worlwide that grow inside of starfish as weird, branching tentacle creatures. Parapteer exaggerates Dendrogaster to make it more like a body snatcher, killing Staryu and stealing its body as a grotesque puppet master. Honestly, this might be too grotesque for a Pokemon fan work. It would definitely have some ability like Minior where its disguise can be broken, revealing the parasite within. It could be found in the same areas as Staryu, meaning a trainer trying to fish up a Staryu has a chance of getting Parapteer instead. Its name comes from "parasite" and "puppeteer". I got the idea for this fakemon from this post.

Next is Thylament, the Mournful Pokemon, ghost/normal type. Thylament were once living beings, but they were driven to extinction by humans and have lingered on as ghosts. They mourn their deaths and avoid humans, who they fear for causing their extinction. It takes a very skilled trainer to earn the friendship of a Thylament.

Thylament is based on thylacines, also known as Tasmanian tigers. These wolf-like marsupials were once a dominant predator of Australia before being outcompeted by dingos and having their population reduced to Tasmania. The rest of the population were killed by European colonizers, with the species becoming extinct in 1936. Real thylacines were orangish, but Thylament is greyscale due to its status as a ghost. Its name comes from "thylacine" and "lament".

Thylament evolves to Skulvenge, the Vengeful Pokemon, ghost/dark type. Unlike its morose and mournful pre-evolution, Skulvenge is driven by anger over humanity causing its extinction. They take their anger out on humans, especially those exploring alone. Very few trainers ever successfully tame a Skulvenge and it is said that Skulvenge will only ever accept a trainer who also burns with anger out of a shared desire for vengeance.

Skulvenge is a mature thylacine who has decided that it's not going to take extinction lying down. The skull on its head and the inversion of its colors mark Skulvenge as being more angry and aggressive than Thylament.

The last Pokemon for today is Davalossam, the Shipwreck Pokemon, ghost/water type. When a ship sinks with crew aboard, the ghost of the crew may fuse with the shipwreck, animating it as a Davalossam. The vengeful sprits of the drowned crew seek to drag others to their fate, driving Davalossam to attack and sink ships. Nobody knows how many Davalossam lurk in the deep seas, but all sailors fear one day encountering one determined to drag them down to the depths.

Pokemon makes some very disturbing ghost types, so I don't thing a shipwreck in the shape of a shark driven by the vengeful spirits of its downed crew would be too far for an official game. I drew from sailor folklore of ghost ships and similar stories for Davalossam's origin, as well as stories of sea monsters that attacks and sink ships. While not being a grass-type, it probably would know at least Wood Hammer, being made of wood and all. Its name comes from "Davy Jones' Locker" (a euphemism for the bottom of the sea in reference to shipwrecks), "jetsam" (discarded refuse from ships), and "thalassic" (oceanic).

I wanted to include a 4th line based on the legendary creature known as the yara-ma-ya-who, but I am struggling to come up for ideas for how to adapt that to a Pokemon. I'm open to suggestions. Thanks for checking out this post, I hope you liked it.

[piperjistic]

Sunny lil’ Thang

There goes they swinging their bat again. The zom-bear goes SPLAT on what’s left of the pavement in this vine-ridden town.

“There goes Smoky.” They murmur in distaste, eyeing the green mush and bones, stomping on it to ensure it was dead. I clasp my hands together and bow my head.

“Rip, he’ll be missed.”

They snort, pivoting towards me; their bat rests against their shoulder as they cock their head inquisitively. And if I may add, no zombie gunk in sight. “Are you sure about that?”

“Absolutely.” I nod reverencely, strolling over and indulge. “Such a symbol to all nature lovers out there.” I tip-toe past the sludge even though I wear rainboots.

“That’s right, you are one. Umm, yeah he’ll will be missed.” I laugh, almost haughty. They smile. Gah, my heart!~ I think I might melt under their sunbeams…

Oh, right! Introductions. Hi, I’m BW. That’s Vega. My nonbinary beloved.

… Well, my soon-to-be-beloved that I haven’t confessed to yet.

They’re… or more like the idea of them and me is such a funny lil thang to me.

Well more like sunny to me.

Plants can’t grow without water and the sun. And they’re my sun to my water that let us do amazing things. Does that sound right?

I still don’t know what exactly is their plan or where they’re going but I’ll follow, until the creek dries up or can’t make a path, I’ll follow them to the very end.

“BW?”

“Huh? Yeah?” I snap out of my trance.

“Ready to get going?

Huh? Yeah! Of course! I just thought you were gonna say anything else, ya know? Anyway come on!” I skipped ahead. “Where we headin? This way right?” I point. They nod. I smile and march onward. “Then let’s get going…!”

- • - • -

Not much happens besides that for a minute per-say. Sure for someone not in a zombie-animal-corpse-apocalypse the killing of animal zombies ravaged by parasitics plants with water-bending and magic bat combo, it would be a lot! But not for me and Vega!

Plus we were quiet so we didn’t attract much attention. We stopped for obvious pee breaks and (I) chatted to some plants about the trouble that lurks ahead, cus of course there’s trouble ahead, there’s always trouble gor me and V. But nothing can stop us. We’re the ultimate team! Except for food, maybe that’ll be the end of us.

We’ve almost through town, we made it to a gas station, or… what it used to be. Best to stay clear, don’t want to accidentally BLOW UP, but eh- it happens…. Hey! Wait! What if I can bend the oil—

“… Hey….” Uh.. I snap my head from the decrepit gas station, gaze intently trained on them. They scratched their back of their head.

“Hey~” I finger-gun. So awkward….

“I never did tell you where we were going…” They glance back as we trot through the dingy dirty patches and roots, tapping the bat against their shoulder.

Distant moans echo in the distance, thankfully filling in any moments of silence or pauses. They inhaled deeply as their beanie sags on their curly brown hair. I speak up, accepting the offer for conversation, but keep it cool of course.

“I thought it was private or whatever.” Glancing in front to hop over a root, waving my hand around while the rest balled up in my pocket. “But regardless I would follow you to the ends of the earth—“ Shit.

“What—“ I stumble over a root but catch myself, a handy water hand pushes me forward from a nearby puddle. That doesn’t matter to me as much as Vega stares widely at me. Recover damnit!

“I mean-uh- it seems fun! The end of the earth thing. Duh. “ I muster a smirk, but not a confident one.

Oh BW, you useless lesbian.

“Ah… Okay. Well actually we’re not going to thr ends of the earth.” I gasp dramatically, hands pushing up my cheeks and wide eyes. Water seems to follow me, curling around my feet and acting like a skateboard, water-cruise slightly ahead of Vega’s pace.

“You’re not?”

“Shocker..! “ They wave their hands playfully defensively in front of them. “I know. But uh, I want… to sette?” Their voice cracked.

Settle?

Settle! Oh my gosh maybe the cottagecore dream will come true!

Keep calm BW, damnit.

“Settle?” We seemed to stop, moving forward anyways, as they pace, while I cruise around them. Even fiddling with my updone bow, I probably need a new one soon.

“Yeah, uh,” The brunette does a double-handed swing at the air, no force behind it as they walk in circle. They’re practically shimmering in the sun with their tan skin….. ah…

“I always been into history and antiques an’ stuff.” Patting their handy bat. “And I was thinking might as well live in a museum right? A big one of course.” They glance away to the ground, tugging at their hair, even digging their shoe the dirt more.

They never do that. They aways look into peoples eyes. They’re chill but not too chill, like not aloof. Confident but not like too confident, may be a little arrogant…. But not…Are they scared? Worried? That I might judge them? Oh Vega…

“Yeah- n’ stuff.” I manage to say, thoughts clearing like water spreading away. I step closer.

“Well?”

“Well what?” I shrug, folding my arms behind me. They frown.

“Well what do you think?”

“What do I think?” I lean in, cracking a small smile. “It’s perfect.”

They blink as my smile grows. Their shoulders and grip on the bat even loosen. “That’s… all?”

“That’s all? No! It would be so cool! It’s a great idea babe, I mean hello! We don’t just get access to the displays but also the backrooms! And guess what we can find there—“ I skip ahead, they follow.

“This isn’t even mention where we could sleep! I mean hello! We got the whole place to ourselves! Imagine sleeping in a fake tree with a hamrock with trex bones as our stairs! Oh! Or race around in old convertibles!” I mutter the last part, espying a patch of dandelions. “If they work anyway.”

Their eyebrow shifts up, while the other quirks down, almost…. No, they’re weary. Oops, too much?

“Didn’t realize you would be… so invested in…. this.” My heart pounds loudly. The bat rests in their hands. I shrug again, smiling the best I can. Honesty is the best policy. Even when embarrassing. Right?

“Where you go, I go, ya know? I don’t got anywhere or anyone to be with right now... outside of you of course.” It took a moment, but they sigh. My heart even slows down. Am I safe?

Vega cracks a smile, shaking their head. My smile was genuine this time. There we go. I glance at the puddle below me. Oh thank sparks! My face isn’t red. That would be—

“What other ideas do you have for our bedding arrangement, B?”

B? B. B~ My heart swells, I can feel my face heat up, so I turn away. I spoke too soon. I march forward in hopefully the right direction. But— that’s my nickname to them. B. I love it- It’s taking everything to now turn to jello and passout so back to their question!

Well- Uh-“ I adjust my glasses, holding a piece of my raincoat as a shield. I cough a few times, then face Vega. I must of recovered if they aren’t questioning my face. Okay okay, museum honeymoon. Uhhhh— I light up!

I practically hop at the ideas rushing back to my brain.

“We could stay in the giftshop! Oh my gosh yes! So many trinkets there and we wouldn’t have to move ‘em to our bedding area, because we live in the giftshop! Butttt then there’s another thing to consider, the proximity to the bathroom—“ I’m practically skipping, and I flash a smile back at them, sun shining behind me for the last time today, probably blinding them. “Well don’t just stand there! Come on! Oo! And the food court—“

Vega shakes their head as they follow BW, muttering with a soft yet sweet smile. “Such a sunny lil’ thang…”