#that paled into insignificance

[strawburrymeadows]

some keefe sencen mommy issue thoughts.

kiss him, kill him; it was all the same. a two letter difference didn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things, especially not to an empath who couldn’t even feel anymore.

a kiss from his mother’s lips would be just as sharp as her blade in his stomach. 

he wonders if she planned for him to feel like this at some point. to understand that the way she loved was the way she acted in the battlefield. they were two extremes rarely seen, and keefe now couldn’t discern a difference. 

that would be her big evil plan: make him realize that love and war were one and the same, and that for him to feel her love even once in his life would be to join her as a soldier. he would be loyal because he at least had his mother’s love.

(he knew, logically, it wasn’t her actual love. he knew, logically, she could probably never love him the way she was supposed to. that didn’t stop him from craving it all the same.)

[yuwuta]

VITAMIN ME — JUJUTSU KAISEN BOYS + SICK FIC

featuring. gojo, toji, inumaki, nanami, okkotsu, itadori, choso, fushiguro

content. taking care of the boys/the boys taking care of you when feeling sick, all fluff, no warnings 

word count. 2.5k 

SATORU GOJO

He doesn’t feel under the weather often, but when he does, it hits him tenfold. He’s whiny, dramatic, borderline inconsolable, and feels well within his rights to demand your undivided attention, because he’s not usually like this… sick, that is (he is usually whiny and dramatic, no illness in the world could take that away from him).

You and him both know when he’s dragging it, but you can’t help but to feel bad for him. Because when Satoru is sick, he’s sick—you feel like you need to constantly monitor all his vitals, set a timer to make sure he gets medication because he’s so cold and pale and sluggish, it’s worrisome. Of course, he finds the strength to tease you, “You worried about little old me, sweets? Don’t be—‘m gonna be fine, you know. But I hear kisses cure the flu.”

“Not scientifically proven, or peer reviewed,” you tell him, “But you know what is? Tylenol. Time for more, open up, Satoru.” 

“Will I get a kiss? Just a little one?” 

He gives you a hard time, even in sickness, but it’s only because he absolutely relishes being in your care, thinks you’re good at taking care of him; proven by the way you give in with a nod, and then a kiss after he takes his medication. He really does feel like shit right now, but with you here, caring for him, his heart has expanded ten times and a warmth spills into his chest that makes the pain insignificant. Satoru feels honored and humbled to have someone fuss over him like this—to have this concrete reminder that you worry for him and care about him and love him just like he loves you.

TOJI FUSHIGURO 

“You gonna feed me?” Toji grumbles, sounding much less threatening with a frog in his throat, “Because there’s no way I’m drinking that.” 

You roll your eyes, lightly tapping the spoon against the edge of the mug before placing it onto the coffee table and extending your arms towards Toji, “The ginger is good for you. The lemon, too, if you wanna stop sounding like a low-budget villain anytime soon.” 

Toji’s nose scrunches—it’s almost cute, if it weren’t followed by an infuriatingly stubborn turn of his jaw, pointedly away from you and back to the television. You huff, sitting down next to him—or as close as you can get through his mountain of blankets and forcefield of pillows—carefully nursing the cup in your palms. 

Who would have thought that the great Toji Fushiguro would be so stubborn as to let a little cold get the best of him. Him attempting to suffer without cold medicine wasn’t that surprising, but you didn’t think that he’d petulantly refuse tea just because of some ginger. Getting him to take his antibiotics only worked when you told him you’d boot him onto the couch if he didn’t, but that won’t work this time, he’ll call your bluff. 

You sigh, moving a pillow to your other side and reaching over to the coffee table to redeem your spoon. You fold one leg under the other and turn your body to Toji’s, scooping tea into the spoon, giving it a soft blow, and then raising it to his face. He quirks an eyebrow when he feels the steam brushing against his skin, and turns to you with a hellish grin.

He opens his mouth, to say something slick no doubt, but you take advantage of the opportunity to shove the spoon in his mouth, “You don’t get to talk until after you finish your tea.”

TOGE INUMAKI

Despite being a renowned insomniac and someone who is willing to throw away hours of sleep to binge watch his favorite series or complete a new game, Toge does believe that rest is the best medicine. He does take his own sleep seriously—it’s not his fault that most people consider his preferred sleeping hours to be regular waking hours.

So, even though it sounds a bit hypocritical, Toge is very firm about you resting as much as you can when you’re not feeling well. He’s quick to make a cocoon out of you in your two favorite blankets and fit you onto the couch to keep you within sight as he rummages around the kitchen to prepare your meals, and make sure that you don’t skimp out on your medication. He’s got some pretty effective homemade remedies for a killer sore throat, but cough syrup is cough syrup—he knows it tastes horrible, but if he has to force feed it to you, then so be it.

He feeds you spoonfuls of homemade broth and rice to make up for it, giggling as you scrunch your nose from the taste of the medicine. When you’re finished, he lets you tell him off and forgoes teasing you about how nasally you sound as he coerces you to lay down again. You don’t feel sleepy, but when Toge’s lips brush against your forehead, his words are like a spell that makes your eyes flutter shut, “Sleep, my love.”

KENTO NANAMI

“It’s cold, Ken,” you whine, sniffling at the end of your sentence. Kento sighs softly, switching off the light to the bathroom and taking careful strides to the bed. He carefully sits on the edge of the bed, expression sympathetic as you complain about the temperature again.

The room is actually slightly warmer than normal per your earlier request, but he knows you still feel cold because of how high your temperature is. It's exactly why he took your blanket from you—fuzzy, and warm, and weighted would all be enticing and acceptable if you weren’t running a very concerning fever. Kento absolutely hates to say no to you, but he has to do something to break your fever. 

“I know, darling,” he nods gently, settling himself onto his side of the bed. He’d prefer to have the comfort of a heavy blanket right now, too, but he wouldn’t taunt you like that—if you have to sleep without one, then so will he. He should get you another cold towel for your forehead, but you tug on his heartstrings when you scoot yourself closer to him, nose nudging against his thigh. He smiles softly, carefully reaching to tap at your arms, “Come here.”

You shuffle upwards and into his arms, cheek pressed against his chest with your arms coming to wrap around his torso. Kento lets you melt into him and wraps strong arms around your body to keep you close—body heat will have to do for now.

YUUTA OKKOTSU

Yuuta walks—waddles, really—with his blanket over his shoulders, mouth slightly ajar, and a box of tissue in his hand for good measure. He looks cute despite his febrile state, with his nose red and eyes wide and you have to resist the urge to coo at him.

“I thought the Benadryl would have kept you asleep at least a little longer,” you smile, turning off the heat underneath the pot.

“Something smelled good... and I got hungry,” Yuuta shrugs weakly, taking the remaining steps into the kitchen and plopping his body weight onto a stool at the island. He sniffles deeply, setting his box of tissues down on the counter, before pointing at the lowly simmering pot behind you, “Is that… for me?”

“No, it’s for my other sick boyfriend,” you grin, reaching into a nearby cabinet for a bowl. You giggle when you see Yuuta’s pouty expression, cheeks a light pink and bottom lip jutted slightly.

“It’s not nice to make fun of the ill,” he coughs. His façade is waning, already weakened by his sick state, and crumbling when you push a warm bowl of his favorite soup in front of him. You can’t help but to laugh a little louder because Yuuta’s eyes practically grow three sizes and you swear he’s salivating a little. 

He shakes away the shock, turning with a pout when he realizes you’re poking fun at him again, “You’re doing it again. Now you owe me a kiss.” 

“Do I?” you tease, taking the seat on the stool next to him, elbows resting on the counter, as you peer up at Yuuta’s flushed face. You’ll let him ride the excuse his blush being the fever for a little longer, “That’s risky. I might get sick, and I have a very cute boyfriend to take care of.”

“I’ll take care of you, too,” Yuuta all but whispers, tired eyes fluttering to your lips, “In sickness and in health, right?”

He leans down a bit and you meet him for a quick kiss, pulling away to smile, “I thought that was for married couples.” 

“I’ll fix that soon,” Yuuta smiles, satisfied. You giggle, reaching out to poke his red nose and then his cheek to turn his face back to his soup. 

“Well, then go ahead and eat and get well soon,” you muse, leaning forward to kiss his cheek, “I expect a very romantic proposal from an un-sick lover boy.”

YUUJI ITADORI

You should have known that Nobara was going to rat you out sooner or later, if not for your own wellbeing, then for hers—because despite your roommate being a caring soul beneath her tough exterior, she is not caring enough to risk her own health because you’re sniffling all over your shared apartment; especially not before she’s supposed to go on her first vacation with her boyfriend.

On the third day of coughing, Nobara tells you she’s going to camp out with Megumi until her flight, and that Yuuji is the person she’s entrusted with her keys until she returns back from her trip. So, it’s not a surprise that a mere hour later, you find Yuuji all but barreling through your front door with grocery bags in hand, all of which he promptly drops when he hears you hacking out your lungs on the couch, quick to dart to your side and hold your cup as you shakily drink some water.

“Babe! You’re, like, super sick,” he exclaims, now sitting criss-cross on your living room floor, slowly unpacking the grocery bags for a real-time haul, “You should have told me earlier, I could have gotten you all this stuff way sooner!”

“I’m fine, Yuuji. It’s a mild cold at most,” you reassure him, smiling to yourself as he rips open a new box of Kleenex and thrusts it in your direction. He looks at you with furrowed eyebrows, untrusting of your words, before he springs up with the last grocery bag in hand.

“Well, still... I’m not a doctor, but I got all the medications Nanamin told me to get, so we’re gonna get this cold out of you in no time,” he grins, patting your head before leaning down to kiss your forehead, “In the meantime, how about some soup? Oh—I just saw a recipe for something spicy, that should help with your nose right? Or maybe ramen? Leave it to me!”

CHOSO KAMO

You couldn’t help but to snap one more picture of Choso. You felt bad, a little bit, he was tired and sick and probably felt like crap, but he looked very cute when he was sleepy, cuddled up in fuzzy blankets from head to toe, with just enough space to expose his tired eyes and red nose. One more wouldn’t hurt. 

You smile to yourself as you look back at him, slipping your phone into your pocket and walking over to join Choso on the couch. There’s not enough room for you to sit in the seat, so you have to cotch yourself in the arm of the couch closest to his head and gently reach out to move a stray strand of hair away from his eyes. It would make for another cute picture, but you refrain, choosing to lean down and press a kiss to his forehead instead, before standing to start picking up the spare tissue and cough drop wrappers littered around him.

You always tell him he’s going to worry himself sick, and he’s managed to do just that. It was a little fun, a little cute, but mostly, you’re just happy that Choso is resting. You know that sleep doesn’t come easily to him under normal circumstances; if being a little under the weather is what gets your boyfriend to slow down and care for his body, then so be it; you’ll be there to help him out.

You’re about to head into the kitchen, when you’re stopped by a warm hand brushing against your leg. You turn to see Choso limply reaching out of your, slowly blinking awake, before weakly beckoning for you again, “Stay here,” he croaks, “Please?”

You smile, placing the gathered trash onto the coffee table, before burying yourself within Choso’s blankets. You have to do a little wiggling to get underneath him, but Choso doesn’t mind, happily resting his weight against you, eyes already fluttering closed again, not before he lets you a meek, “Thank you. I love you.”

You give him one final kiss to the crown of his head, “I love you, too.” 

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

“Megumi, are you… okay?” you question softly, leaning over the small restaurant table to squint at your boyfriend. You’d been watching him carefully since he’d picked you up from your house, deducing that something was definitely wrong, even if Megumi had been trying his best to hide it.

He could be quiet, but he was definitely not soft spoken, nor did he normally wince after swallowing a bite of his food. You should have known something was off from the start, when you’d held hands on your walk and Megumi’s fingers were warm, and not icicles attached to his palm.

Megumi freezes, mouth gaping slightly, before he closes it and composes himself with slumped shoulders—he’d considered keeping up his brave front, but it’d be futile at this point, so he sighs, “My throat hurts, is all,” he confesses, the hoarseness of his tired voice peeking through, “I had a fever yesterday, but it was fine this morning.”

You lean over a little more, just enough to be able to extend your hand so that the back of your palm meets Megumi’s forehead. It’s warm, to no surprise, and you find yourself tutting, recoiling your hand slightly, with enough space to flick him.

“Ow?” He groans, and you only roll your eyes. You pull back to fish through your bag, to pull out some cash and leave it on the table. Megumi begins to question you, but you’re not hearing it, getting up to sling your purse over your shoulder and grab your boyfriend by the forearm.

“You’re an idiot,” you scold, ushering him out of the restaurant, “We are going to urgent care to get you a strep test, and then to that bakery Nanami tells us not to tell anyone about to get you soup, and then you are going to sit and eat it and contemplate your actions for the rest of the evening.”

Megumi lets himself be dragged away—another tell-tale sign that he really is feeling under the weather (which is also what he chooses to blame his blush on). If “contemplating his actions,” was code word for you hovering over him for a bit, then maybe he wouldn’t mind.

[robreyart]

Oasis 24 x 18 in, Oil on Panel, 2020

"From that distance, my thumb fit over the entire Earth. I realized how insignificant we all are if everything I'd ever known is behind my thumb. When you see Earth from the moon, you realize how fragile it is and just how limited the resources are. We're all astronauts on this spaceship Earth and we have to work and live together.” - Astronaut Jim Lovell

“The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena… In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand… the only home we've ever known.” - Carl Sagan, The Pale Blue Dot

Prints: https://robrey.storenvy.com Originals: https://www.robreyfineart.com/collections/114297

[throneofsapphics]

Hello how are you Irene??? I hope you’re well you amazing thing!

If you’re a still taking requests, could I please ask for Rhyzriel and a sick or injured reader? Gimme that hurt/comfort trope badddddd 😂😂😂

Love you and your work!! ❤️❤️

horrible timing

Rhyzriel x Reader

Summary: Rhys and Azriel come home, finding you injured. 

Warnings: injury, mentions of blood 

A/N: thank you so much <3 I’m doing well! I hope you’re having a great day !

It was stupid, really, how you ended up in this situation. Falling up the stairs, mother above. You’d deserve any teasing coming your way. Gritting your teeth, trying to drag yourself up and yelping. Something was broken, but you couldn’t figure out what. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

You chanted as many curses as you could, like that might alleviate some of the pain currently shooting up and down your leg. Daring a look down, you saw - nope, and tilted your head back up to the ceiling. 

Running the stairs in the House of Wind. Cassian’s idea. Now, you were stuck on step one-thousand something, both Rhys and Azriel out in Illyria, and Cassian upstairs. Maybe he’d come looking for you if you didn’t return. 

After a few minutes of careful breathing, you realized you’re the only one who can get yourself out of this situation. Miserable, this was misery in it’s prime. Given the situation, you figured some dramatics are acceptable. 

Palms pressing against the stone, you winced as your upper body took on the brunt of your weight, alternating each push with a yell - as if someone might hear. 

Maybe twenty stairs, and you were already exhausted - your head swirling, nausea creeping in. You pinched your cheek, now is a horrible time to fall asleep. 

-

Rhys couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but he knew something was wrong. Off. He and Azriel were due back that night, and the only thing getting him through dealing with the Devlon was the knowledge you’d be waiting there for them. Maybe awake with a book, or a cup of tea, waiting for them, cuddled in a blanket. 

Rhys, Cassian’s panicked voice came through, faint with the distance. 

What? He questioned, panic starting to rise in him. It took minutes for the reply to come back. 

She’s hurt. Fuck. Devlon was still pattering about something insignificant. 

“There’s something we need to deal with,” he said coolly, hiding his panic, and held an arm out to Azriel. “We’ll be back.” 

Azriel followed his lead without question, and he dropped them into the sky just above the house of wind, flying the rest of the way in. 

The first thing he scented was blood. Your blood. Then your fear, and a hint of your pain. 

-

Apparently someone heard your yells, or realized something was wrong, because you awoke laid out on a couch, Cassian crouched next to you. 

“Don’t look,” he advised. “Mor’s getting Madja. They’re on their way.” 

Relief filled you, mostly that they, meaning Azriel and Rhys, were on their way. 

“I’m an idiot,” you grumbled. 

“We've all been here,” he chuckled, “how did this happen?” 

“Will you keep it a secret?” 

His mouth tilted up at the corners, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I promise.” 

“I fell up the stairs.” 

Laughter, and then rapid footsteps. Cassian backed up, clearing the way, and Azriel and Rhys were there in seconds, a blink and they’d crossed the room, even though they couldn’t winnow in here. 

Rhys’s hands ran over your face, panicked, and paled when he saw your leg. “I wouldn’t look,” you said a bit weakly. 

The pain started coming through again, the tiny relief of adrenaline wearing off. You vaguely heard Mor telling them Madja’s on her way, but pain encompassed every inch of your being. Flaring through your nerves, flooding your senses, vision, screaming at you, taking over every sense, and black greeted you, unconsciousness tugging you back under. 

Complex break. A week to heal. Take it easy. 

Fragmented phrases came in, your vision blurring in and out. Head tilted, a tonic poured down your throat, your body too weak and limp to try and protest. Gods, it was nasty. 

When you came into full consciousness, you were awake in your bed. Clean, changed, and tucked into cozy blankets and pillows. A hum of content left your throat, not unlike a purr. 

Clattering against wood. Peeking your eyes open, Azriel had dropped a dagger on the dresser, a sharpening stone still in his other hand. You gave him a weak smile, and he crossed the room in a few powerful strides, sitting next to you on the bed, clutching your hand like a lifeline. 

Cold, your hand was cold, even in the absolutely boiling room. His was warm against you, scarred skin brushing the cold away, his thumb running soothing strokes over the back of your hand. 

Azriel didn’t say anything, only looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time again, memorizing every inch of you. 

“Hello,” you said quietly, giving his hand a small squeeze. 

“Hello,” he replied, brushing some of the hair away from your face. 

The door quietly opened, Rhys sliding in. 

“You could’ve told me she’s awake,” he hissed at Azriel, shoving him off the bed, taking his place next to you. The other male grunted, pinning Rhys with a look that promised vengeance. He didn’t notice, only running his hand up and down your cheek. 

“How do you feel?” 

You wiggled your fingers, and they felt heavy, like you were trying to push against something. The same thing with your toes, but … there was some kind of hard bandage wrapped around your left shin and calf. Kicking your other foot, you started trying to push down the blankets. Rhys picked up on it, and much more gently tugged them the rest of the way down. Sure enough, thick bandages covered the entire area. But … you couldn’t feel any of the pain, everything was numb. 

“Numb,” you’d come across the right word. 

“That would be the tonic,” he said dryly. 

Azriel was still glaring at him, and you caught his eye, patting the mattress on your other side. They could share. Still silently seething, he settled on your other side, looping his arm around your shoulders. 

“How did this happen?” 

“Cassian didn’t tell you?” 

“He refused,” Rhys answered. “Said you asked him to keep it a secret.” 

A small laugh, “I forgot about that.” 

“How did this happen?” Azriel repeated himself, not seeming quite happy to do it. 

“Your shadows didn’t tell you?” you teased. It was rare you knew something he didn’t. 

Put him out of his misery, Rhys said to your mind, he’s been trying to figure it out for days. 

Days, you’d been out for days.

“Promise you won’t make fun of me?” 

“Never, darling.” 

A slow exhale, and you leaned into Azriel, his arm tightening around your shoulders. 

“I fell up the stairs,” you mumbled, burying your face into his side. Neither replied, but you felt his chest moving - a barely concealed laugh. You pinched his side, but he didn’t react. “I told you not to make fun of me,” you said a bit louder. 

“We haven’t said anything,” Rhys moved closer, voice laced with amusement. 

“You’re laughing.”

[msexcelfractal]

I used to believe that bugs were little robots. Lots of people do, it’s the prevailing opinion next to “i’ve never thought about it”. Then I watched a mother wasp mourn her child. An animal who stretched after a nap and did little dances when her daughters returned from flight. Now she is opening her fourth capped hexagon and finding a pale white stillborn. She grasps the baby gently in her jaws and does not put it down for over 24 hours. Carries her loss, pacing back and forth the length of her enclosure. It is not the behavior of a robot.

So I think about the prior odds. Scenario A, bugs are robots. Why do I believe that? Because they are so tiny. Because if they are not robots then my world [where “insect exterminator” is a job title and I can buy a can of mass death at home depot] does not make sense. They must be insignificant.

The wasp makes me reconsider. Scenario B: her kind are like mine. cry when we are sad and happy when we play. Has this feature evolved many times? Or is it common to all the children of the precambrian worm? Every shark in the ocean swimming in their own feelings. Every bird and every cat knowing the thrill of being alive? The wasp made me realize that my whole moral picture is wrong. We’re not alone on this planet,

[cartoonist-in-theory]

You’re walking down a long quiet road. It’s winter, snow covers the ground, the sky fades gray. All around you are trees that have long since dropped their leaves, cold and dead, waiting for spring. You stop beneath one, eye caught by a striking sight. Amid the bare branches you see a round bundle of stunning green leaves. Hanging down above you are dozens of beautiful little pearly white berries. The fruit tempts you, but you don’t dare touch. Instead you simply admire them. Life among the dead of winter. Mistletoe.

@slocotion Hi, here is my design for slocotion's patreon dyo doll contest. Her name is Haustoria of the Pale. I was very excited to put this together once it struck me. I thought of all my favorite fruits I could have used but then inspiration hit me as I was considering less common fruits and fungi. Mistletoe is used medicinally by some but the entire plant, including its cute white berries, is toxic. Since this is a longer post, I’ll include more notes on my design under a cut but to point out the most important thing, I’ve combined the nature of the toxic berries with some historical+mythological inspiration that I think echoes it nicely.

In Norse mythology, a well known story is that of the death of Baldr. Baldr was the most loved god of the Aesir, so when a vision of his death reached his parents Odin and Frigga, they did all they could to protect him. Frigga sent her servants all over the world to make every creature and thing vow to never harm a hair on Baldr’s head. All but mistletoe promised, too insignificant or too young to make the vow. After it was done, Bladr seemed invincible. Since nothing was willing to hurt him, the gods would sometimes gather around and throw things at him, watching everything bounce off without injuring him. Loki, jealous of the love and affection that was always paid to Baldr, came up with a plan to get rid of him. He had an arrow made of mistletoe and brought it to Baldr’s blind brother Hodr. He gave it to him to throw at Baldr as all the gods pelted him with objects and weapons. Hodr threw the arrow and, since mistletoe had never promised not to harm him, it pierced his chest, killing him instantly... And so Baldr was delivered to the depths of the land of the dead, looked over by Hel.

specific design notes under the cut thank you for looking!

Mistletoe is a very interesting plant to me. It’s not a tree or vine or bush, but instead its an evergreen parasite. The sticky seeds attach themselves to the branches and grow into it with a haustorium, which is a structure that lets them sap nutrients from the host plant. Haustoria’s name is a reference to this structure. “of the Pale” is a reference to not only the color of the berries but the pale gray and white landscape of winter.

Mistletoe berries are heavily toxic but also exist in winter, when other plants may be barren and “dead.” Because of that and their parasitic nature I see them as a sweet little balance of life and death. In addition to that, I use the split colors of the face/mask of Haustoria to reference the goddess of the land of the dead, Hel, who is described as having a body that is half black as death, split down the middle.

The structure of the outfit is inspired by Scandinavian and specifically Norwegian folk dresses, since I’m borrowing old Norse history for more inspiration, it seemed fitting. I also felt the style would be good to accompany the botanical and berry designs attractively.

The twin peaked hood is to further split the design down the middle, with little charms to show life and death.

I included white beads all over the outfit to represent the mistletoe berries themselves so they could stand out.

The dark side of her face is adorned with thorns and has three mournful black tears leaking down from her eye, as well as a hollow half of the center heart.

The light side is blushed and lively with shiny eyes, leaves shaped like the mistletoe leaves, red petals like the mistletoe blooms, three white dots to be the mistletoe fruit, and the center heart is full.

Her cape is white on the inside to represent the white of the berries and also the white of snow.

To cap it off, I do believe mistletoe is fitting for a plague doctor as they are still used medicinally to this day. :)

Thank you for reading everything and looking at my design! I’m very proud of her and I hope she doesn’t stretch the theme. And definitely more than anything else I hope you enjoy looking at her!

[anantaru]

How about jealous reader with kuni?

cw. [ex]plicit, jealous! reader, established relationship, fem! reader

kuni was as pretty as a drawing— or a picture made by the most finest camera of fontaine. beautiful, bewitching, pretty— there were many ways to accurately describe your boyfriend‘s alluring demeanor.

but in your own very eyes, they still did not do him any justice.

consequently, you, in all respects, did not mind the eye twitching chit chatters behind your back you oh so happen to catch onto every once in a while— how, another clique of people you only knew distantly, would slowly walk past your boyfriend and afterwards gush about his darling face and his beauteous traits.

his lustrous eyes and the color— which was hypnotizing in its own rights, reminding them of how he‘s idly behaving and how damn strong he was said to be according to the other rapidly growing news chumming about the mysterious man wandering around sumeru city.

but, snap out of it, not to lose sight of the fact that in actuality he was all yours— yours, yours and yours. but for some annoying, irksome ground you wanted to show him, as if he wasn't already aware of it— even though scaramouche knew and did not require you to prove nor demonstrate anything of that sorts to his person.

thus far, you kept it to yourself— that brewing, gut-wrenching feeling manifesting in your belly and littering into your bones, remained concealing by yourself until it all shattered right into your face.

now, you hover over him, saddened with your mind everywhere but where it should be— clumsily glissading your hands over his pale chest before raking your head down. you think he notices that something wasn't right but you hope he doesn't after all.

at your own pacing, you ghost over his jawline before placing your lips on top of his, for once sealing the insufferable distance between your bodies and stealing a couple kisses from your lover.

"i hate it." you admit against your own volition, it's almost as if something metaphysical forced you to say it out loud, though you're moaning into his mouth as he skillfully bottomed his hips deeper into you, erratically slapping his erection into your worn out hole.

"i hate it when they talk about you!" but then, it hits him and scaramouche opens his eyes at your baffling words— which had also been confusing him greatly as he carefully reduced the flow on his hips to pull your face off his, observing your with sorrow drenched expression.

"ah— wait!" even with him trying to decipher what was going on with you, he catches himself flinching into your lips again when you jerk your cunt into his length, walls twitching experimentally, like a second pulls enclosing his throbbing cock.

"who— fucking who talks about me?!"

breathing slowed, you pout at him, unintentionally reliving the innumerable days you had witnessed people attempting to get with him, with scaramouche; your boyfriend, soulmate, your life.

it was sad— but more embarrassing if you were actually truthful to yourself, that you let someone so insignificant as a random person‘s words influence you this much that you‘re still thinking about it even while your boyfriend was in the midst of fucking the broad daylight out of your skull.

"those girls." you sniff, messily shoving away the crystallines sticking onto your doused lashes with the back of your hand. but before you can catch a breather from your own damned psyche, scaramouche curls your body close to him, your hips now muted— though his cock would rest and skim into the cavernous pits in your pussy, but mellowing down your rise and falls.

"they always talk about you." you hiccup again, kissing his lips once, twice— one more, trying to hide the fact that you were tremendously jealous right now, of everything and all, it's not even 'just' those people, you began to doubt yourself and if anything, that's what worsened the whole setting.

scaramouche‘s face was ridden with confusion still but he did not say anything right away— right now, he thinks the most important was you, as always— to aid you, to kiss and drink your tears away and keep you warm, plugged into his chest.

genuinely, he had no clue who or what you were talking about, but if he learned one thing from being in a relationship with you; it’s that whatever is happening in either of your lives, you're battling it together, as one entity.

yet still, did you already forget that he‘s absolutely in love with you? or lets rephrase that, shall we? scaramouche was obsessed with you, downright and shamelessly crazy about you. that you‘re the only person that crosses his mind hour on hour, night on night?

he opens his eyes, he sees you, he closes them, he sees you.

"i don‘t care." he spoke upfront to be certain to get his point across.

yet scaramouche needed to show his disinterest in more ways than a simple sentence— in an immediate chain of reactions, he was flaunting you on your back so he‘d be the one to tower over your pretty frame.

you're his, you're his and his, he thinks about it, knows it and wants to imprint it into your insides and out.

"i don‘t care about anyone." he drawls back, using his skilled tongue to plant a wet line on your collarbones before shutting down your worries by a swift hurdle of his hips in you, bringing one of your legs over his shoulder as you tremble under him by how good of a position he had you in, how almost feral, he uncontrollably claimed your sopping cunt with the relentless tempo on his hips.

"i only care about you." he smacks his cock forward again and again, "you, you, you." and he muses in tune with each thrust— fuck, again and he wants to make you cum so badly his cock was beginning to ache, then twitch in you, from both excitement and the pinpointed drags of his heavy cock rubbing over your inflamed insides.

"so stop thinking about it, hm?"

with the impact now being significantly larger, your breasts bounced in keeping with his newfound, reckless energy— and you cry out his name with a sweet, satisfied smile on your lips.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[mooshywrites]

If requests are still open: may we have hcs about how the bg3 boys react to bard!Tav serenading them? I just think it would be so cute

A/N ~ I love this idea so much, I just know it deserves frantic bard writing ;-;

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Serenade

Gn!Reader x BG3 men

Masterlist

Art commissions

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

~ Astarion ~

Astarion thought bards were utterly useless until he met you. He had never put that much stock into music either. But the day you sat in front of the campfire with him, plucking your lute to all of the songs you knew, his heart melted.

As the soft melody of your voice filled the air, Astarion found himself captivated by the enchanting sound. His skeptical gaze softened, replaced by a glimmer of curiosity and wonder. The flickering flames of the campfire danced to the rhythm of your fingertips, casting mystical shadows upon the surrounding trees.

Lost in the embrace of your music, Astarion closed his eyes and let himself drive sea. Your voice, like silk, wove together tales of love and heroism. With each note that danced upon the night breeze, he felt a newfound appreciation for the artistry that had eluded him for so long.

Unbeknownst to you, Astarion’s icy exterior began to slowly thaw beneath the warmth of your melodic gift. The walls he had built around himself slowly crumbled, revealing vulnerabilities long buried within.

As the lullaby reached a gentle conclusion, a momentary silence settled over the campsite. Astarion opened his he’s, finding himself gazing into the depths of your own. In that instant, he saw a reflection of his own longings and desires. The connection between you, forged through the simplicity of this moment, was as delicate as a spiders web.

Without breaking eye contact, the pale elf reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. In that simple touch, a current passed between you, a sliver of magic that pulsed through your veins.

Wordlessly, Astarion leaned closer, his breath mingling with yours. Time slowed to a standstill as the world around you faded into insignificance. The flickering flames cast their golden glow hook. Your faces, illuminating the unspoken words hanging in the air.

And then, with a emotion in his voice that you had never heard before, Astarion whispered,

“Play for me again?”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

~ Gale ~

Gale always knew there was a magical quality to music. He saw you as a mirror image of himself, being hopelessly in love with a type of magic that would never love you back with the same intensity.

Though he’d never admit it to you, he silently hoped every evening that you would unwind by playing a song. As dusk began to fall, the sunset painting strokes of red and gold, today’s hope was no different.

You sat by the edge of your tent, your fingers absentmindedly plucking at your lyre as you tried to think of a song to sing. You caught Gale’s eye and smiled, his gaze finally giving you inspiration to play.

Your fingers began to dance effortlessly across the strings of the lyre, coaxing out a gentle melody that floated on the evening breeze. The magic of your music filled the air, intertwining with the vibrant colors of the sunset as they painted the sky. Gale watched enraptured, his eyes never leaving you.

As Gale watched on, the wizard felt a deep longing stir within him, a longing for something he couldn't quite put into words. In that moment, he realized that his admiration for you went far beyond your musical prowess.

Unable to resist any longer, Gale rose from his seat and made his way toward you. As he approached, the song you played seemed to weave its way into his very being, tugging at the strings of his heart.

You looked up as Gale drew nearer, a soft smile gracing your lips. The notes from your lyre seemed to synchronize perfectly with the rhythm of his footsteps, as if they were guiding him towards you. The music wrapped around him like a warm embrace, filling him with a sense of belonging he had never experienced before.

Finally, Gale stood before you, his eyes shimmering with a mixture of vulnerability and admiration. You hesitated your playing for just a moment before Gale’s broke out in a grin.

“Surely you weren’t singing about a special someone, were you?”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

~ Halsin ~

Halsin was probably your favorite person to play music for as of late. When he had first joined your camp, he only sat and watched when you brought out your guitar. It seemed to you that he was lost in his own mind most of the time, not allowing himself even the smallest of happy moments.

When you finally where able to heal the deep scars of the shadow curse, Halsin’s tune changed dramatically. Suddenly he was sat by you in the camp at all times, asking about what instruments you could play, requesting certain songs, trying to sing along to your gentle melodies.

What he loved most of all, however, was challenging you. He loved to see how quickly you could create a song. How easily you could string a line of lyrics about any topic under the sun. Tonight, he had a very simple ask.

Sing something that reminds you of the beauty of nature.

You could tell by the look in his eyes, the shyness in his tone, that his question had much deeper meaning to him than just that of a pretty song. No, he wanted to connect with you on a deeper level but couldn’t think of a way to make it meaningful for you both.

Despite all of that, you decided to indulge him.

As the moon cast its gentle glow over the camp, you took a deep breath and let your fingers dance across the strings of your lute. The melody flowed effortlessly from your fingertips, each note carrying the essence of nature's beauty.

You sang of sweeping meadows bathed in sunlight, where wildflowers bloomed in a riot of colors. You spoke of ancient forests, their branches intertwined like lovers, whispering secrets to the wind. Your voice soared, echoing through the night, as you conjured images of cascading waterfalls and shimmering lakes that reflected the starry sky above.

Halsin closed his eyes, completely absorbed in the enchantment of your song. It was more than just music to him; it was a bridge connecting his wounded soul to the world around him. As you sang, his spirits lifted, his heart opening up like a flower basking in the warmth of the sun.

When your song reached its final notes, there was a moment of comfortable emptiness. Halsin opened his eyes and looked at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. The silence that followed your song was filled with the lingering echoes of your melody, as if the very air was reluctant to let go of the magic you had created.

And then, Halsin spoke. His voice was barely above a whisper, as if he feared that any sound would shatter the fragile connection between you both. “Thank you,” he said, his words carrying a weight of gratitude that touched your heart.

“For so long, I had forgotten the beauty that resides in nature. The curse had consumed me, turning everything around me into shadows and sorrow. But through you, I have found solace and hope once again.”

Tears glistened in his eyes as he continued, his voice trembling with emotion.

“Sing it again?”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

~ Wyll ~

Wyll adored your music. It took him a few days to work up the courage, but it wasn’t long before he was asking you to sing while the two of you were dancing. His dancing lessons had started out with just him humming a simple melody, but soon, it was your voice carrying the timing of the song.

Those nights meant a lot to you, the ones where he’d sweep you into his arms, begging you to sing for him. Tonight, however, wouldn’t be one of those night. Wyll had taken a bad hit in a battle today, his injury burning every time he took a step.

He was in no shape to dance, and yet, he still found you by the stream that evening, ready to try anyways. It took a scolding and a few pleas, but he finally agreed to postponed that night’s dancing lesson, settling for hearing you play him a few songs instead.

His eyes drifted shut as you started to weave your magic tune, transporting him to a world of serenity and solace. The melody danced delicately in the air, casting a soothing spell over his weary soul. He leaned back against the moss-covered boulder, surrendering himself to the enchantment of your music.

As your fingers caressed the strings of your instrument, Wyll's mind drifted away from the pain and turmoil of battle. Images of lush meadows and cascading waterfalls began to form in his imagination, replacing the harsh reality of the war-torn realm they inhabited. He could almost feel the gentle breeze brushing against his face and hear the distant chirping of birds as they celebrated the arrival of a new day.

Lost in the ethereal sounds that resonated through the forest, Wyll's features softened, and a serene smile graced his lips. The worries and burdens that burdened him melted away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of peace. In this moment, he found solace within your music a refuge amidst chaos.

You brought him so much peace.

As the song came to an end, Wyll sighed happily, looking over to you with affection across all of his features.

“If I could only put into words as beautifully as you spin a song, I’d tell you what you meant to me.”

[lippyispunk]

When the World Is Quiet, What Thoughts Remain

Astarion x gn!Reader

Summary: Gods, he remembers this feeling intimately.

Dying.

-

A near-death experience provides Astarion some clarity.

Word Count: 3.7k

fluff, realized feelings, developing relationship

a/n: Hello all!

I wrote this to take place in Act 2, after the Yurgir battle but before Astarion's confession. I believe it is gender neutral, but if anyone finds something that says otherwise, please let me know! First time posting on here, so I apologize for any formatting errors.

-

Gods, he remembers this feeling intimately. 

Dying.

Despite the centuries that had passed since his mortality had been lost to this plane, the experience was seared into his mind. Back then, it had been horrific. The excruciating pain. The paralyzing fear of what was to come, as his body was drained of blood and his heart thumped erratically in his chest, desperately trying to keep his blood flowing- his body alive.

 

This time, the pain is ever present. He lies on his back in the mud and puddles, the yawning storm above continuing to release torrents of rain. His ruby eyes blink slowly, despite the droplets landing in them. Twin daggers have been abandoned at his sides, pale elegant hands having to hold his innards together instead. His white lounge shirt clings to his trembling frame, now dyed rusty brown and crimson red. 

 

The fear, however, is blessedly absent. His thoughts trudge through his mind like oozing honey. It’s almost peaceful. Cazador. The parasite. His never ending hunger. All seemed so far away now; the normally constant concerns looming at the forefront of his thoughts, now caught in the sticky trap of insignificance. 

He had been hungry earlier. Always so hungry. The small respite he received immediately after feeding never lasted as long as he wished it would. His condition had been even more bothersome as of late. Ever since he and the little group of misfits he traveled with had entered the Shadowlands. Prey was sparse. And any blood he lost during battle needed to be replaced somehow. That was how he found himself here tonight.

 

He had hunted further from the group’s campsite than he normally would, in search of the few living creatures that had not yet been felled by this accursed land. He had been ambushed by shadow beings, caught unaware due to his weakened, dulled senses. Their claws had cut through him so easily. His lack of armor was another mistake, but a decision made in hopes to be quick and quiet enough to catch a meal.

 

His head slowly lolled to the side, eyes attempting to focus in the direction of the camp. The monsters that attacked him had begun to slither that way before vanishing into hazy mist. His breath wheezes from his lungs, chest shuddering. Breathing wasn’t a necessity for him, but a habit nonetheless. Even now.

 

He wonders, idly, if any of his companions will be awake at this hour to intercept the attack. His muddled mind cannot bring forth who was supposed to be on watch tonight. He even admits to himself, perhaps his blood loss getting to his head, that he would not wish to see them come to harm. Karlach, Wyll, Shadowheart…

 

His drifting thoughts were brought to sudden clarity. A breathtaking, wondrous, kind creature unexpectedly ensnaring his thoughts.

You.

 

Gods, how could it have taken this long for you to flit back into his mind? You were all he seemed to think about anymore lately. Your smile, your laugh, your boundless good heart. But also the confusion he felt that always seemed to twist whatever lovely feeling you inspired in him.

 

He may not wish to see the others harmed, but you… you’re different. The way he feels for you is- different. He cares for you. In a way that he cannot recall ever feeling for someone else. You understand him in ways that he doesn’t understand himself. It’s terrifying. Exhilarating. The most alive he’s felt in, well, ever. 

 

But it wasn't supposed to end up this way. He’s comfortable pretending. Seducing. It’s as familiar as the back of his hand. And the facade had worked with you too, for a brief time. Until that second time he propositioned you at the tiefling party. What had you called his seductions? ‘Honeyed words’? And then the complete dismissal of his fraudulent love confession. He had recovered well in the moment; he’s used to pivoting his tactics when the occasional target gets antsy with his persuasions. Even still, you had rejected him that night. You let him down easy, of course, with a compassionate smile and a sweet whisper of ‘perhaps another time'. 

 

Later that night, when he was alone once more, he contemplated. You were on to him, in one way or another. Maybe you didn’t know the extent of his ploy, but you could tell his flirtations were… insincere. Why else would you turn down another night with him? 

 

He had expected repercussions, a growing distance between the two of you that would put all his progress with you to ruin. You didn’t seem the type to settle for this feigned romance. You'd push him away.

But you hadn’t. You were just as warm and welcoming to him as you had always been. Attentive. Friendly. Hells, even laughing at his irrelevant, snarky quips. He was surprised. And in that surprise, he found himself off guard. You still wanted to spend time with him, despite everything. Maybe… maybe he didn't have to try so hard with you. 

 

Since that revelation, Astarion had found himself just enjoying existing . He had fun around you, and the others too, he'd be loath to admit. Now that the metaphorical weight of seducing you had been lifted. But inevitably, at night when he was alone, the pesky question returned, cycle after cycle. If not his body, what did you want from him?

 

More recently, there had been the battle with the Orthon, Yurgir. Astarion was still befuddled, even now. No one in his extensive time on this plane had ever gone to such lengths for him. When Raphael had offered the deal: one very dead devil in exchange for information on his scarred flesh, there had been no question, no doubt from you. Just resolve and an all encompassing respect for Astarion and his decision making. It made his chest ache. 

 

He's not entirely sure what to call the emotion he feels for you. It goes beyond simple lust for your form or an appreciation of your personality. And Gods knows he's scared to Avernus and back of what this all might mean. But he's not scared of you. Never of you. He realizes that whatever comes, he wants to explore this. With you, if you'll have him.

 

Returning to the present from his recollections, one conviction finally banishes the wandering thoughts in his mind. You deserve better than this. These pretty lies he had been trying to feed you. This mask that he had used for so many years, so many decades. You had given him some of the most important parts of yourself. Your trust, your belief in him, your patience.  It was time he did the same.

 

Ruby irises shift skyward once more, a newfound purpose and vitality clear in his pupils. He has to get back to you. To explain. To apologize. Hells, to bathe in the warmth of your presence just once more would make this endeavor worthwhile.

 

He steels himself before his body begins to twist, rolling to his stomach ever so slowly. An agonized cry peels itself from his throat, unbidden. The fresh wave of pain that crashes over his stomach ripples through the rest of his body, leaving him shaking in its wake. He keeps one hand underneath him, continuing to hold as much pressure on his gaping wounds as he can. The other arm is bent in front of him, poised for what he must do.

 

He begins to crawl.

 

He grunts with the effort, free hand scrabbling in the mud for purchase as he drives his legs into the ground to push his form forward. This is far from the worst thing he has ever endured. But Gods, hasn’t he endured enough in this lifetime?

 

Tears spring to his eyes as he continues his plight. His beautiful white curls are drenched, flattened to his head and dropping into his field of view. His anguished gaze is so unfocused that it doesn’t matter. He’s moving on instinct now, forcing his limbs to respond by sheer force of will alone. The will to live.

 

Somewhere distantly his mind registers that his voice has become an endless stream of moans and broken sobs. Blood continues to slip stickily between the fingers clutching at his stomach. He doesn’t care. He will do anything to make it back to you. He has to. He owes it to you. Hells, he owes it to himself.

 

Time moves in slow motion; he loses all sense of it. He knows not how long he’s been dragging his body forward, just that finally, finally , he reaches salvation.

“Astarion!”

 

He hears you as if he’s underwater, but he would know your voice anywhere. His mind is fuzzy, consciousness fading from his being quickly. He stops crawling and lifts his blood-red gaze. You’re here. His breath hitches in his chest, a new sob rending itself from within. Though this one was not brought out from pain, but rather relief. He's never seen a more welcome sight.  

 

You’ve come for him, battleworn and bloody. Your feet pound the sodden land, racing toward him as you pay no heed to the slick mud. You drop to your knees in front of him, hair plastered to your cheeks and eyes wild with adrenaline and some other emotion he is unable to wrap his disoriented mind around. His eyes trace your face with his last remaining strand of focus.

Astarion had long given up on praying to any deity. What was the point? They never answered him anyway. But you- you are divine. The sight of you here, now, almost has him reconsidering his stance. 

 

“Gods, Astarion! Just hold on, okay? Please!”

 

Your hands flutter in his vicinity for a moment, unsure of where to touch without causing more harm. He watches you, the barest hint of his lip tilting up at the corner.

 

“I don’t think you can make it much worse, darling,” he breathes, tone sounding brittle in his own ears. “Just do it.”

 

He sees you wince before you brace yourself. Ever the leader, doing what must be done. Your hands rest on him gently, but firm. Warm. Comforting, despite the circumstances. He wants those beautiful, lively hands to touch him again after all this. He wants to savor it. To feel them carding through his curls. To rest gently on his arm to catch his attention. To pull him in close, a secret for him alone dancing on your lips. He wants to- he doesn’t know what exactly he wants. He just knows-

 

He cries out sharply when you turn him onto his back, the pain rocketing his thoughts out of his musings.

 

“I’m sorry,” you grimace, eyes scanning over his torso, cataloging the damage. 

 

Carmine eyes are glazed with agony, but he fights to stay conscious. He grunts when you move him again, swiftly tucking your legs underneath you. His head lays in your lap, face tilted skyward and ivory neck lengthened by the newly created slope of your legs. A healing potion appears at his lips, your hand holding firm as you tip it towards him.

 

Normally he’d have some smart comment, he’s sure. Something about being a damsel in distress, perhaps. Or maybe something about how this isn’t what he means when he says he wants to take a drink from you. But exhaustion takes hold, and he follows your lead mutely.

 

The effect is instantaneous; the healing potion is a glorious balm for his wounds. The pain numbs to a background throb, much easier to withstand. The gashes across his stomach begin to seal, the bleeding slowing to a trickle. Astarion sighs through his nose, relief radiating through him down to his fingertips.

 

The rain has abated to a lazy drizzle. It’s the only reason Astarion can hear your faint confession.

 

“You… you scared the shit out of me, Astarion,” your voice wobbles, such a far cry from the fearlessness he is accustomed to hearing from you. He blinks up at you, his gaze taking in your anxious expression as you lean over him. Seeing your expressive concern for his well being is still something he's getting used to.

 

He finishes the potion, licking the remnants from his pale lips as you pull the vial away.

“Apologies, my sweet,” his voice comes out stronger than before, but roughened from his earlier painful overuse. “You know I have a flair for dramatics. What better way to keep things lively than almost dying. Again,” he does his best to smirk, to don the mask of devil-may-care that comes so easily to him.

 

“Gods above, Astarion. ‘Dramatics’? That’s all you have to say? You were nearly gone when I got here. I was almost too late,” your voice tapers off, ending in a near whisper.

 

He blinks again, shocked. The facade slides off his face. Truth be told, your vulnerability is making him… uneasy. He doesn’t know what to say. Why are you so distressed? This is hardly the first time one of the group has come up gravely injured. He doubts it will be the last.

 

He will recover eventually, as he always does following a particularly nasty battle. It may take a little extra healing from Shadowheart, and a belly full of blood would absolutely go a long way in fast tracking the process. But regardless, his body will endure.

He’s painfully aware that his usefulness has… limitations. It extends to his body alone. His battle prowess, his dexterous fingers, his ability to deliver pleasure. But that’s it. He has nothing substantial to offer you. No worldly possessions, no powerful connections, just… himself. His biting nature, both literally and figuratively. His trauma, broken pieces with razor sharp edges. He's not even sure if you are interested in something like this with him, something deeper. No, he thinks. No one could want this. Not truly. His growing feelings for you are one sided, of that he is certain.

 

But then you throw his world off its axis again.

 

“I can't- I can't lose you. You mean the absolute world to me.” 

 

His eyes soften, rounding out as he searches your gaze. For what, he’s not entirely sure. Deceit? Twisted humor? But all he finds is tenderness along with the shine of unshed tears.

You pause for a moment, swallowing. He can see you're trying to continue so he waits, eyes rapt.

“I would miss how you always manage to make me laugh, even when I'm having a horrible day. And getting to hear your laugh in exchange when I do something you find particularly impish,” your serious expression finally gives way to a small amused smile. ”The little sweets you sneak into my bag whenever you manage to get your hands on some, just because you know I love them.”

 

Astarion's eyes widen imperceptibly. Shit. He didn't realize you knew he was the sweets supplier. It was…nice for him. To be able to provide you something you enjoy and a brief respite from all the weight on your shoulders. If only for a moment. To see the stress evaporate from your face for the few minutes it took you to chew. You'd only indulge every so often, when camp was quiet and nothing urgently needed your attention. He'd watch silently from his peripheral vision on occasion, not wanting to ruin your contentment but also needing to witness it for himself.

 

But he hadn't exactly wanted to mentally unpack what this absurd little habit of his might mean beyond the superficial. Hence, the secrecy. He was going to eviscerate whichever loudmouth at camp had clued you in. 

 

“You're there for me, in ways that I could never begin to fully describe. I know we don't always agree entirely, but I'm never afraid to tell you how I feel, or what I think. Because at the end of the day we'll still support each other,” you glance away briefly, and he sees the heated flush on your cheeks. 

 

Embarrassment. Always so delicious to him. For anyone else it means he'd get to loosen his tongue on some provoking quips. How he loves to rile people up from time to time. But now, he finds it enticing for an entirely different reason. Gods, you're beautiful. 

 

You find your courage again quickly, making eye contact with him once more. “I could probably go on, but what I'm saying is… I would miss you endlessly. I can't do this without you.”

What a novel concept. To be wanted, needed beyond anything he could provide carnally. To be desired purely for his presence will take some adjusting. But, if you truly believe everything you said about him, then who is he to disagree? Maybe there is some truth in what you say. If you can see some good in his wretched soul, then perhaps he can try too.

 

“I'm… I'm not going anywhere, my love,” he promises.

 

It flows from his lips so naturally, ‘my love'. It hadn't even been a conscious thought. Anxiety spikes in his gut at the admission, his mind already beginning to spiral. Love? Is that what this is developing into? He doesn't know how to tell; there's no past memories in his mind to pull reference from. 

 

But the smile that splits your lips at his vow is radiant, and he finds that his racing thoughts slow immeasurably. Regardless of the unintentional reveal, the moniker fits. He feels it in whatever remains of his soul. 

 

He smiles then, all honey and warmth. For you.

 

“I'll be here long after you tire of me, I'm sure. Vampires always tend to overstay their welcome, you know,” he jests softly, voice lacking his usual edge. 

 

You gasp quietly and he recognizes it as the familiar sound of you remembering something.

 

“I’m so sorry, Astarion. You've just reminded me, I can't remember the last time you've eaten,” you immediately brandish your wrist, pulling your sleeve up. 

 

He freezes, the roiling, constant hunger in his gut flaring at the sight of your wrist. He knows how close the veins are to the surface there, just how deliciously easy it would be to sink his teeth into that soft skin. His mouth waters at the thought. But he is no animal, and neither are you for that matter. He comes back to himself, muscles uncoiling and gaze connecting with yours again.

 

“I appreciate the offer, darling. But you need your strength. Moonrise Tower won't storm itself, and having our fearless leader stumbling over their own two feet along the way won't instill much terror in our foes, will it?”

 

He can't bring himself to say the truth in its entirety aloud. He truly doesn't want to weaken you before the battle at Moonrise. But it has less to do with fearsome appearances and entirely more to deal with your safety. His feedings always take a toll on you. You smile and wave him off every time, but he sees the effects. Reflexes just a touch slower than usual, stamina not quite up to par with the rest of the group. 

 

It's not your fault he's starving. He wasn't exactly forthcoming about his lack of successful hunts since arriving in the Shadowlands. And you were absolutely overwhelmed with everything going on. Between the deadly shadow curse, Ketheric Thorm, and the Absolute, it was a miracle you could ever focus on anything else. No. He doesn't blame you. He wants you to be okay.

 

He can't be the reason you become injured, or worse.

 

But you insist, your wrist gravitating closer to his plush lips and aching canines. 

 

“I'll be okay, I promise. I'll even ask Shadowheart for a little healing incantation if I really need to. Please, you need to be healthy too,” you plead, eyes doing just as much of the convincing as your words. 

 

He breaks. He might be embarrassed at how quickly he bends to your will if he wasn't so hungry. 

 

His hands close gently over you, one a little ways up your forearm and the other on your hand. You know it's to hold you steady when he bites, but the way his cool thumb runs pleasing circles into your palm sends shivers coursing through you. He presses a kiss to your inner wrist, featherlight and fleeting, but it lights a fire under your skin all the same.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs before his fangs pierce your flesh. He is as gentle as possible, retracting his canines from the wound immediately. He keeps his lips attached to your wrist, sucking in a saccharine mouthful.

 

He’s uncertain of how much time passes while he drinks, or when his eyes drifted shut, but the feeling of your fingertips sweeping his soaked curls off his forehead pulls him from his reverie. He finishes his feeding, tongue caressing the new puncture wounds as they begin to clot.

 

His irises are vibrant now, a livelier red more akin to a pulsing wound than the darkened burgundy shade they become when he is ravenous. 

 

“You're wrong, by the way,” you begin softly. “When you said I'd tire of you. I could never.”

 

He would look back on this night later on and distinguish it as the exact moment his dead heart began beating once more. But for now, he smiles up at you- one full of genuine adoration.

 

“The feeling is mutual,” he murmurs, unwilling to shatter the moment. His tone is low, husky. More sincere than he's heard his own voice sound in centuries. Despite all that had occurred this evening, he finds a bone deep contentment in himself. He could stay here for a decade in the comfort of your arms.

 

A few moments later, however, the world kickstarts back into motion, voices carrying on the wind to your positions and popping the seclusion around the two of you.

 

Your head perks up at the sound, eyes scanning through the darkness.

 

“Ah, must be the others looking for us,” your attention returns to Astarion. “Think you can make it back? I can help if you'd like.”

 

He can definitely walk on his own, the potion and your invigorating blood have him feeling almost as good as new. But the idea of feeling the curve of your body pressed into his side is too intoxicating to turn down. So he won't. 

 

He breathes deep and nods, resolve settling into his very being.

 

“Yes, I think I've had quite enough of this mud bath. Darling?” He pauses, it's now or never. “After we settle back in at camp, come find me when you have a moment. Please. I think we need to talk.”

-

a/n: Thank you for reading! <3

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Donkeys & Dragons [PART 3]

Gender Neutral Reader x Malleus Draconia Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: It turns out that befriending a dragon is not as terrible or difficult as you would have thought. But people, unsurprisingly, will always still be awful.

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [EPILOGUE]

The first week of your internment flew by shockingly fast.

Maybe because you were always at War—a perpetual cycle of making some demand or other (that usually centered around a desire for the barest levels of personal space or agency) only to be met persistently with the ancient, all-powerful, dragon equivolent of >:(

The clothes and toilet situation were already a lost cause. You knew this.

But there were so many other little things. And big things too, sure. But you can never fully realize how much you’re truly under someone’s thumb until you want to head off to do something utterly insignificant and cannot.

For example, your first morning in captivity you’d tried to boil a pot of water. It was nothing fancy, just a small kettle kit you kept in your travel bags for making warm drinks and reheating rations into something vaguely edible. You’d collected some bits of wood from the heaps of debris lying all over the place and gone about lighting a fire. You’d only just barely managed to get the little sticks smoking when a horrific screech sounded from overhead.

And then, WHUMP!

The spiked end of a black tail came crashing down, obliterating your little fire and sending bits of wood flying in all directions.

“What the fuck, man!”

Tsunotarou curled around you to hiss at the flattened sparks like some unholy snake.

“It’s just for my tea! My tea!” you howled. “I wasn’t going to burn your stupid house down!”

He’s shifted into his human form again not long after, and he looked down his nose at you like a fussy parent—arms crossed petulantly across his pale chest.

“Fire is dangerous for humans,” he snuffed, absolutely indignant. “If you find yourself requiring flames for anything at all, call for me and I will lend you some of mine.”

“I would have been fine,” you beseeched, looking at the shattered remains of your little campfire with a grumpy pout.

“Lilia says humans often overestimate their own constitutions,” Tsunotarou grouched, expression dour and stony. You were about to ask just who or what on Earth this ‘Lilia’ was supposed to be, when the dragon dipped his head in close to yours and nuzzled along your throat. You could feel the pinpricks of his fangs against the delicate skin over your pulse. “Which is why so many of your kind are massacred for their own foolishness. Or fall victim to plague and famine. Or wind up being burned alive. I would prefer that you not succumb to such a fate.”

You gulped, and that had been the end of that conversation.

Another time you’d tried to scale the banister to reach the bathroom on your own. It had been going pretty well, all things considered. There were plenty of nice footholds and it all had sort of settled at a slope, meaning you weren’t really climbing a wall so much as very slowly crawling up an incline like a determined slug.

You’d nearly made it to the top when you were scooped up by the back of your collar and promptly deposited at the other end of the room.

Of all the languages you half-spoke, Dragon was not one of them. But the snarling and snapping in your face certainly seemed like the rather universal ‘what do you think you’re doing?!’

“I was just trying to go the bathroom!” you argued. “No fires or anything!”

Tsunotarou’s large maw ducked down to growl into your much smaller one. He let out a series of exasperated clicks and chatter, the sharper or which were punctuated by sprays of green sparks from behind his teeth. His nostrils flared and the blast of dry heat that followed sent your head spinning and your hair gusting out behind you.

“I wasn’t going to fall,” you finally said, because you had a feeling that’s what you were being lectured about at the moment.

The rumbling growl that followed sounded like it had traveled all the way from the dark trenches of his bowels, or maybe even the very marrow of his bones. You could feel the ground vibrating under your feet.

“Fine,” you conceded. You weren’t exactly worried he was going to eat you anymore, but there were certainly… other things. Many dumb ways to die. “I won’t do it again.”

He harumphed at you, his head bobbing in what looked a bit like a nod. And then he turned and raked a gigantic claw across your little makeshift ladder of debris, flattening it into nothing with one, fell, swoop. You’d groaned and let yourself collapse listlessly back into the ensuing cloud dust.

There was also the time you’d nearly had a conniption because you were sick and tired of camping out on a frigid, stone, floor every night when you were trapped inside a literal castle.

“There are dozens—hundreds—of rooms in here,” you’d argued. “There’s got to be a bed in at least one of them.”

Tsunotarou had simply rolled over onto his side and arched a wing into the air, as if offering you the warm hollow beneath.

“You’re not comfortable,” you’d hissed, and he’d sulked ridiculously for the rest of the afternoon until you’d managed to finally come to a workable solution.

As in, dragging every goddamn mattress you could find into the cavernous ballroom that he’d long since seemed to claim as his Favorite Spot. You’d turned it into a game—see who could find the most comfy things and make the biggest squish pile. Being nearly a dozen times your size and having twice as many functional limbs that were capable of grabbing things, naturally Tsunotarou had come out as the winner. But now you had nearly endless pillows and blankets to snuggle into at night, so who’d really come out on top?

“I’ve never bothered to build a nest before,” he’d mumbled to himself, post victory. He patted gently at one of the thick duvets he’d swiped, expression almost whimsical. “It’s quite nice.”

“See,” you’d grinned, bouncing up and down on one of the springier mattresses. “I told you this was better.”

And so chuffed were you that you weren’t heading to sleep with a rock as your pillow for the first time all week, that you didn’t even complain when late into the evening he sneakily dragged you out of your plush pile and into his—tail wrapped snuggly around your waist and tucking you tightly against his ribs. I mean, his nest was much nicer than yours. It was only practical.

So, as anyone could see, your week had been far from easy.

But after those first days, once you had finally gotten a hand on all his nonsensical rules and you’d in turn concocted equally as many ways to try and circumvent them just enough to make yourself comfortable, things settled into a kind of domestic tranquility.  

And that was when time started to drag.

You’d read the handful of books in your pack a dozen times over. You’d counted the cracks in the ceiling (one-hundred-and-thirty-two of them). You’d counted the stones on the floor (six-hundred-and-five). You’d sorted those stones into piles by shape, size, color. You lolled back against your cozy pile of blankets and thunked your head miserably against your pillow. Once. Twice. Three times. Four—

“What do you normally do all day?” you complained.

Tsunotarou lazily blinked awake. He lifted his giant, serpentine, head and glanced pointedly around the cavernous room before settling back into his mountain of blankets with a contented huff.

“You just sleep?” you frowned, baffled. “All the time?”

He rumbled unintelligibly at you for a moment before digging his claws into his nest with a long, lithe, stretch. And then those scales began to melt away, and soon enough he was pale, and bare, and rolling his way into your lap with a contented little grumble.

“What would you have me do instead?” he asked, voice thick with the syrupy warmth of sleep. He stretched again, like a big cat, and settled his head more firmly against your thighs. “Raid cities? Burn villages?”

“…Ideally no,” you grumbled, hands falling habitually to start running your fingers through the silky soft hair pooling along your abdomen. “I mean, there have got to be other things dragons do. You live for thousands of years.”

He hummed, neon eyes slipping closed. He pressed his forehead demandingly up into your palm and you rolled your eyes before obligingly sliding your digits lower to scratch at his scalp and around the base of his horns. That seemed to be his favorite.  

“I am not wanted much of anywhere, I’m afraid,” he said finally with a defeated little sigh. It didn’t sound particularly self-deprecating, just… accepting. It made something sad and small curl in your gut. “So what else is there for me to do? Other than while away the hours.”

“There’s got to be something,” you pressed, that eking irritation born from boredom melting into something that was a bit too close to genuine concern for your liking. “Don’t dragons keep hoards? Treasures? That’s a thing, right?”

“Oh.” He blinked himself back into focus, as if only remembering in just that moment. “That is true. Would you like to see mine, then?”

“Aren’t hoards, like, private?” you asked, hesitant. Trying not to bring up the glaring elephant in the room that was ‘Hey. Yeah. So my friends and I totally broke in here in the first place to steal from said hoard. Not that we knew there was a dragon here. But like. I did, in fact, come here as an adventurer and a thief.’

“Naturally,” Tsunotarou hummed. You could feel it vibrate all the way up your hip. His lips quirked into a little, crooked, smile. “I’ll take you there now.”

The Treasure Room was as elaborate and expensive looking as the name implied, and it seemed to be the one area of the castle that had been spared the grey desolation that had seeped through the rest of it. It was enormous—certainly larger than even the grand, cavernous, room in which you’d recently been residing. And it was lined wall to ceiling with every variant of wealth you could imagine—precious metals, ancients tomes, paintings from every great master through history, magical weapons, the finest of spell scrolls. You could probably buy the world at least twice over with its contents.

But the thing that caught your eye amidst the endless sea of gold was not a pretty gemstone or a treasure of old, but a little, black and purple, doll—perched atop a looming pedestal of silks and finery like a crown jewel. It was small and plain with curling black horns made of felt. A chubby little dragon miniature that was as ugly as it was round.

Tsunotarou noticed your inquisitive gaze and walked over to pluck the little, cotton, creature from its throne. He held it delicately in his clawed fingers.

“Ah, yes. This is Drago. Lilia gifted him to me after one of his jaunts through the human world.” He turned the doll over in his palms, brow tugging down a bit as he did. “I hope he hasn’t been too terribly lonely. It has been a while since I’ve come down here to visit.”

The great and powerful dragon of the Castle Within The Lava Lake keeping a toy keepsake amongst his most prized possessions was so strikingly adorable that you couldn’t help but feel your heart melt at the sight.

You brightened and turned on your heel to start making your way back to the ballroom and what remained of your adventuring gear. Tsunotarou made a noise under his breath that was too dignified to be a splutter, but what you assumed was more or less his refined equivolent. And then he was tagging at your heels with a perplexed look on his face.

“Where are you going?”

“To get something!” you chirped, mentally running through the contents of your bag and little sewing kits. Yes, there should be more than plenty to—

“To get what?” Tsunotarou pouted, and you realized belatedly that running off in the middle of him showing off his life’s accumulation of precious artifacts and accomplishments was perhaps a bit rude.

“It’s a surprise,” you said. “Just give me like half an hour to put it together.”

In the end, it really only took you around fifteen minutes of fussing. Drago was hardly a complex little thing, and you’d originally learned to stitch in a panic. Trying to mend holes in pants and leather was a lot harder to accomplish when you were being actively chased by bandits, or a raging Ace. In comparison, sitting merrily on the floor of a collapsed ballroom and shoving stuffing into a little ball of cloth was hardly a challenge.

You held out your creation—equally as ragtag and ridiculous looking as its inspiration.

“There,” you beamed, and pressed it into Tsunotarou’s hands. “Now he has a friend.”

A teeny, flesh-colored, blob. With strips of soft fabric for a cloak and a hastily stitched smile. A miniature bard, perfectly (?) encapsulated in his palm.

The dragon stared down at your offering with wide, green, eyes. He looked positively startled—so caught off guard that he didn’t know what to do with himself, let alone the bewildered expression flitting across his otherwise regal face.

“You said he might be lonely,” you hummed, rocking self-consciously back and forth on your heels.

“Oh,” Tsunotarou mumbled, black-tipped claws flexing around his new gift. He observed it carefully, like an aging academic might study some ancient, arcane, relic. There was still that strange look about him—like he couldn’t quite believe the little trinket in his hand was real. “I did, didn’t I...?”

When he remained silent after that, still staring down at your homemade abomination in awe? Horror? you couldn’t tell, you began fidgeting in earnest.

“It is kind of awful looking,” you rattled off, picking nervously at the hem of your cloak. “You can get rid of it if you want—”

“No,” he barked, and then paused, clearly surprised at the ferocity of what had come out of his mouth. That at least seemed to startle him out of whatever fog had settled over his brain, and he clutched the teeny toy firmly to his chest. He cleared his throat and started again, noticeably gentling himself. “No. I think I’d like to keep this.”

You smiled. “Good! I’m glad you like it! No one deserves to feel lonely—even little, toy, dragons.”

Tsunotarou’s lips curled into an awkwardly lopsided smile—like the muscles there weren’t used to tugging so wide. It lit the entirety of his expression with something so heart wrenchingly warm that you couldn’t help but feel like none of that had really been about the little doll at all.

.

.

You really should have known better.

If someone as illiterate and ill connected as your wandering gang of idiots could stumble upon the location of a ‘secret castle overburdened with ancient treasures,’ surely anyone even marginally more competent would be able to do the same.

You’d been at the tail end of your supply of rations. And while you hadn’t entirely meant to imply that you might just wind-up starving to death, the comment had been more than enough to send your dragon into a tizzy.

“Well, what do you normally eat?” you asked, and Tsunotarou frowned as he considered.

“My guards bring me sustenance when I require it. Ice elementals, goblins, stone giants,” he listed, eyes tracking your expression in hopes that maybe any of that sounded appetizing. Which it certainly did not. His nose scrunched up in thought. “Perhaps I should seek counsel with Lilia. He would know what to do.”

You cleared your throat. “I mean, I know what humans can eat. I could just tell you.”

His face brightened. “Meat, yes?”

You nodded. “Sometimes.”

“Like that of a manticore?” he continued, excited at the prospect. “Those are particularly delicious. And there are quite a few nesting in the crags not far from here.”

His merry smile slowly slipped off his face at whatever pinched look had twisted up yours.

“Vegetation?” he tried. “There are ample bushes at the foot of the volcano. Most do have thorns, but I suppose you could pick around them.”

“…Maybe you should talk to Lilia,” you conceded.

So Tsunotarou had shifted into his scales with a promise to return post-haste and many fussy reminders that you should move as little as possible to avoid wasting any more precious nutrients. The great downbeats of his wings seemed to roll through the entire castle like a shudder, and then you were alone for the first time in nearly a fortnight.  

You lazed around in the echoing quiet, drumming bits of random tempos against your stomach and occasionally humming snatches of obnoxiously raunchy tavern tunes that you’d never really managed to bleach from your brain. How had Tsunotarou done this for decades? It’d barely been ten minutes and you were already bored out of your mind.

There was a flash of shadow near the grand entrance, and you sat up enthusiastically—ready to greet your returning host. But it wasn’t a dragon at the door.

“Who the hell are y—” the words died in your throat, and you spat a muted curse. The Silence Spell settled over your shoulders like a grungy cloak. You could feel its sticky film along the back of your tongue like a fine layer of moss.

“Who the fuck is that?” one of them hissed, and you fought the petulant ‘that’s just what I’d been about to ask you, jack ass!’ that wouldn’t have made it past your lips anyways.

There were six in total—a proper party from the looks of their ensembles. At least two people in full plate armor, a waify looking elf with a thick spell book in his hands, and three others in various getups that weren’t quite cookie cutter enough to tell you anything helpful. You rambled at them irritably, silently, gesturing rather impolitely all the while. You mimed teeth, and claws, and wings, and stomped around like a beast in a play.

‘There is a dragon here,’ you tried to say. Because maybe they were just unlucky adventurers like you and Tweedle Dee and Dum had been—not having any real idea what lay beyond these castle walls. You mimed a giant mouth, like a crocodile. ‘And he will eat you.’

“What the fuck?” Armored Dude gaped.

You pointed irritably at Mister Elf Wizard, who was still very obviously concentrating on keeping you encircled in a mesh of absolute silence.

The itchy sensation clogging your throat eased and you let out a breath, which echoed loudly in your ears. Elf-Guy looked at you with something that was perhaps a shade or two off of sympathy.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

“You need to leave,” you replied instead, firm. “There’s a dragon that lives in this castle.”

“Of course there’s a dragon,” Armored Lady scoffed. “Why do you think we’re here?”

You looked at their heavy, expensive, armor. At the giant, shining, magical, weapons hanging across their backs. At the thin wizard who proceeded catch you in a Hold Person spell that was so fast and strong you couldn’t have dispelled it if you tried. And of course you tried. What else could you do? These people weren’t like you and your loveable idiots who managed to occasionally stumble their way into an adventure. These guys were the real deal. Warriors. Heroes. Dragon Slayers.

“God-fucking-damn it.”

But of course you’d been caught in Silence once again, so you were left cursing nothing.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST] CLOSED

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[queer-n-here]

Pt. 2 of the Yandere Reader fic

Read Part 1 here.

So, Y'all! Here's Pt. 2. Phew, man. Hope y'all like it!

Contents: Reader and Akutagawa go on a date and a lil bitch interrupts it rudely, so reader kills him and then fuck Akutagawa.

Warnings: Smut, top male reader, Yandere tendencies, murder, cruelty, dubcon, I think at some point it just became noncon, but I'm sure you get it, biting, nipple play (just a little bit), manhandling.

"So... D'you... wanna be my boyfriend?"

Yes, yes, YES! A thousand times yes!

You nodded, pressing your forehead against his.

That was how your relationship started. You two went on frequent dates from thereon, which was a blessing so great you almost passed out on your first date. But you made sure to be alert at all times, mentally making a note of everything Akutagawa liked and disliked, most of which you knew already. You also paid attention to the things he touched, sometimes placing them in your pocket when he wasn't looking.

It was the Cherry Blossom Festival that day, and you and Akutagawa had met up and decided to go around and take a look at the beautiful Sakura trees. Admittedly, however, you were way too busy looking at Akutagawa. One of the advantages of this date was the amount of pictures you knew would be be able to click of your ethereal lover.

As you two were passing a fully-loaded cherry blossom tree, it's trunk slightly bent, you asked Akutagawa to stand next to it so you could click a picture. He did as you asked, awkwardly posing next to it so you could get the perfect shot.

Half-way through this impromptu photo shoot, a man came up to Akutagawa, fully ignoring your presence.

"Hey, excuse me," He said. "I was looking at you from over there for a while, and I couldn't help but think that you were gorgeous. Can I have your number?"

I mean, don't get me wrong, you totally agreed with him, but something about his words just made your blood boil in your veins. The phone in your hand almost snapped in two as your eyes turned cold.

"I have a boyfriend," Akutagawa's reply was curt, and he even pointed to you.

The man, however, was persistent. "Oh, come on, someone as pretty as you, I'm sure you wouldn't limit yourself to one person-"

That was your breaking point. You stepped closer, grabbed Akutagawa's arm, and pushed away the filthy man. You walked away, hand clasped around Akutagawa's wrist.

Once you were at a considerable distance from where you'd been before, you let go of him, still fuming slightly.

Akutagawa knew you were possessive; even if you'd hidden the worst of it from him, he wasn't blind or oblivious. He'd seen the looks you gave people who got too close to him.

"Hey," He muttered softly, taking your hands in his. "Everything... okay?"

You turned to look at him. You knew your expression was covered in black lines, and Akutagawa gently wrapped your arms around his waist, the way he knew you liked to hold him.

"C'mon," He said softly. "Don't be mad..."

You couldn't help but let your anger go. How were you supposed to still be pissed at some insignificant dude when THE Akutagawa was being so adorable, pouting his lips and trying his best to cheer you up?

So you buried your face into the crook of his neck, nuzzling his soft and pale flesh. Your hands around is waist tightened, and he had to place his hands against your chest to not be crushed into you.

You sighed into him.

"What're you even mad about?" Akutagawa said. "I'm already your b-boyfriend, aren't I?"

You nodded, pulling away from him just enough to kiss his lips, that one basic sentence from him enough to assure you for the moment.

Only for the moment.

When your date ended, you drove Akutagawa back home as usual. Any other occasion and you would've headed home, but you had murder on your mind, and the soft comfort that Akutagawa's presence had provided you was gone. So, you headed back to your warehouse.

It didn't take you long to find the man you needed to murder; the street where he'd rudely interrupted your date with Akutagawa was heavily CCTV'ed. Your ability made it even easier to bound and gag him when you found him heading home through a deserted road. Your job was painfully easy.

You did as you generally did, slowly and painfully killing him, watching the light dull from his eyes. His muffled please that began as cries for help turned into a beg for death, for peace, for freedom.

You gave it to him, satisfying both his need and yours, a manic grin on your face when you ended his pathetic life. But it was strange.

You were sitting on the warehouse floor, staring at the dead body before you. Yet something was off. The usual post-murder calm was missing. Instead of quietening down, your brain was getting louder, heavier. It wanted more, more, more, more, mo-

Akutagawa.

The thought of him cleared your brain the way a petal creates ripples in water when it touches the surfaces, smoothness vanishing.

You needed Akutagawa.

Standing up, you grabbed your car keys in a daze. You didn't even have to think to drive to Akutagawa's apartment; you were so used to just parking outside the building and watching his window for any signs of him.

Before you'd known it, you were there again. His lights were on.

You unconsciously decided to step in. Getting out of the car, you walked to the building entrance. As you passed a glass door, it reflected your image. Blood. So much blood. You had forgotten to clean up after finishing.

It didn't matter, though. The only thing that had ever mattered was Akutagawa. You needed him.

You took an elevator to the floor where you his room to be. You were lucky it was almost midnight, and no one was in sight.

When you reached Akutagawa's door, you rang the bell.

It was your first time being up here while Akutagawa was in. Usually, you sneaked in when he wasn't home, looking around and stealing comforters that you knew he wouldn't miss.

Akutagawa opened the door, looking slightly annoyed. "It's midnight, what do you-?"

Then his expression changed. He saw that it was you who'd come to his door, and his eyes widened and lips began to curl up into a smile. But then it changed again when he realized you were covered in blood. The surprise on his face turned into horror and worry.

"[Name]," Akutagawa's eyes scanned your body for injuries, thinking that the blood was yours. "W-what happened, was it a Guild attack? Where-"

You didn't let him talk any further. You couldn't. His mere presence had calmed some part of your brain, but the other was still restless. Wanting, no, NEEDING Akutagawa as much as you did, you couldn't wait any more.

You pushed the half-open door out of the way, grabbing Akutagawa roughly and pushing him back. Your lips found his in an urgency that he'd never witnessed before. As you kissed him, walking him backwards into the house and shutting the door, your brain was still muddled.

Not enough, not enough, NOT ENOUGH!

Akutagawa kept trying to pull away, but you kept his head steady with one hand, and his waist with the other. You pushed him up against a wall where he had no escape, and he bit harshly at your lips to try to get you to pull away. Your reaction was the exact opposite, however. You pushed him further into the wall, shoving your tongue into his mouth and pinning his shoulders in place.

"[Name], please-!" Akutagawa could only pull away long enough to say this; the attacks of your mouth on his were relentless.

Your hands started roaming, pulling his tucked-in shirt out of his pants and slipping beneath it to touch his skin. He gasped against your lips, hands pushing against your chest to get you to let go. But you held on firm, fingers skimming along his flesh, his waist fitting so snugly in your arms it made you lightheaded.

Akutagawa stiffened, and you sensed Rashomon advancing before it could touch you. You blocked the attack, but pulled finally away from Akutagawa's lips.

He was panting, chest heaving up and down with each breath. His cheeks were flushed red, and his usually plump lips were swollen and redder today.

"Just-" He began, swallowing. His hands were fisted into your shirt now. "Just wait a minute... The blood... Where are you hurt?"

"It's not mine," You told him.

Your brain was still screaming at you, because why weren't you kissing him, making him yours, fucking him?!

Akutagawa opened his mouth to say something, but you cut him off with another kiss. This time your lips were a little gentler on his, but still urgent. Your hands latched beneath his hips, and you lifted him up and carried him into the house, making him gasp and place his hands on your shoulders for balance. You bit at his lips again, making him furrow his brows together and tense his shoulders.

You knew your way around the apartment decently, having broken in so many times when Akutagawa was away. You took him straight to the bedroom, throwing him onto the bed and locking the door behind you. When you turned to follow him onto the bed, he tried to speak again.

"If it's not yours, whose is it then?" His eyes were glued to your face, and his eyes were filled with concern. "Did you run into some-"

You pressed your lips up against his, the taste of them addictive in a way you were sure it hadn't been before. He tried to push you back again, but you'd always been stronger than him, and he ended up landing back on the bed with small huff that you quickly muffled with your mouth.

Akutagawa's clothes were ripped off his body before his brain could process it, followed equally fast by your own. Your lips latched onto his neck now, your hands firmly spreading his legs apart to expose his semi-hard dick to you.

So he liked being manhandled, hmm?

Akutagawa was so gorgeous, so fucking ethereal that you almost froze when you saw him fully. He didn't have a lot of muscle, but fuck he didn't need it. He was so fucking beautiful, you wanted to preserve him like this forever. It only made the raging in your brain get more intense.

You flipped him around, making him gasp again. Pulling his hips up, you spat on your fingers before plunging the first one in.

And Gods, was he tight. You were almost pulled out of your state of mania by the realization that Akutagawa was still a virgin.

He bit down on the sheets beneath him, eyes clouding up as you prepped him with three of your fingers, rough-paced and unrelenting in a way that made white spots appear in his vision.

"Ughh! Hah! Mmph, nggh!" Akutagawa's fingers fisted in the sheets. "[Name]! Wait- ah! Go s-slower, ple- Hah! Please!"

But you were far from listening, your free hand trailing up to his chest. When you pinched his nipple, he arched his back, breath hitching and cock throbbing.

That enough was enough to make you lose the little control you'd kept so far. Pulling your hand out of his ass roughly, you plunged your cock in its place without warning instead.

Akutagawa cried out, tears slipping from his eyes as he tried to loosen your grip against his waist again. But you held on firm, pushing your tip against his tight gummy walls. You needed this, needed it to survive, needed it to live. Needed HIM to live.

You started thrusting into him, your brain foggy with carnal desire and Akutagawa's scent. Akutagawa couldn't help but arch his back again, his nipples rubbing raw against the bed sheets. He was trembling underneath you, shoulders shaking as his hands clenched the bed sheets beneath him, his cries slowly turning into moans every time your tip hit his gummy walls.

You fucked him hard and rough, each slap of your hips against his creating a lewd sound that echoed around the room. Akutagawa slowly gave up on his struggles, burying his face in a pillow to muffle his moans instead.

And oh, Gods, it felt so good.

Akutagawa probably didn't even know it himself, but he was clenching so beautifully around your cock, each thrust of which was making him move up the bed. A certain thrust in particular him shudder and scream, muffled pleas spilling from his beautiful lips.

He himself didn't know what he was asking for any more. For you to stop? Or for you to fuck him harder?

You shifted to hit his prostrate again, addicted to the feeling of Akutagawa beneath you, thrashing and squirming around but with nowhere to go and no one to beg for help. As you continued your onslaught of his slutty little hole, he tried so hard to speak. But the only sounds that would leave his lips would be lewd ones, begs and please barely coherent among the moans and cries.

You were sure his neighbors already knew what was going on, and you couldn't help but speed up your thrusts at the thought. They would know he's taken. They SHOULD know he's taken, all yours to love and fuck.

You fucked Akutagawa hard, each thrust of yours aimed perfectly at his prostrate, making his eyes blur up again with tears. His brain was so clouded he didn't care about anything anymore, not when your tip was sending shocks of pleasure up his crotch, tipping him closer and closer to the edge.

Soon he was trying to speak again. "[Name], hah! I'm-I'm close... Ah!"

And you sped up, feeling a hot coil building in your own stomach. Akutagawa cried out again, sobs raking his entire body as he cried into the sheets. It wasn't long before he came, ropes of cum shooting out of his untouched dick and spilling onto the sheets, dirtying them.

And as he did, his hole clenched around you so tight you were sure he was intentionally trying to milk your dick. So you came in him, painting his walls white with your seed as you slowed to a stop.

Akutagawa collapsed onto the sheets, panting and sobbing. You finally returned to your senses. Did you regret what you'd done? No, definitely not. But did you regret how you'd done it? Maybe just a little bit.

You pulled out of Akutagawa, making some of your cum spill from his hole. You turned him around to lie on his stomach, and the sight of his face made guilt erupt in your chest. It was covered in tears, and his breathing was irregular. His pale skin was flushed red, and his hair was sticking to his forehead, wet with sweat.

You leaned down, placing a kiss as soft as cotton on his forehead.

"You okay?" You whispered.

Akutagawa nodded slowly, arms wrapping around your shoulders weakly. "Wah, one... One more."

Your eyes widened.

"One more time, please..." He begged, a puddle of tears on the sheets on either side of his face.

And who were you to deny him, hmm?

[kaeyx]

Kinktober day 23: tentacles + ovi + Fyodor

Pairing: Mer!Fyodor X afab!gn!reader [3k]

Warnings: smut, monsterfucking, oviposition, breeding(?), overstimulation, cervix fucking, tentacles, I mention reader's tits a lot for someone who hates his own, clit sucking, nipple pain

Additional notes: Remember kinktober? Haha, yeah. Anyway, emphasis on the fact that this focuses on the female aspects of the reader, there's especially a lot of mention of their breasts. Fyodor is not named.

It drags you under before you even have time to scream.

Water rushing around you, ears popping painfully, struggling uselessly as something much, much larger and stronger pulls you through the salty depths. This is it, you're going to die here. Your throat burns, your foggy mind fighting the instinct to gasp in a huge mouthful of air because you know there's none to find.

Just as you give up something throws you out of the water, your head spinning, arms reaching out for purchase. There's salt in your eyes, your nose, your throat, making you cough and hack. It's a cave, and your feet don't touch the bottom. You float there, observing the surroundings, listening to the eerie quiet that's only broken by dripping water and your own tiny, insignificant splashes. Strangely enough you can just about manage to see through the darkness, the black rocks of the cave lit up from below.

From.... below?

You look between your kicking legs and scream, making a break for the edge of the cave. Something silent and huge is circling underfoot, not even cutting the water as it moves, skin glowing so brightly that it lights up the room. There's no time for you to escape, your puny human limbs not adapted to the water even though your panicked movements make you fast.

A long, flexible limb wraps around your ankle and sneaks up your calf, dragging you back to the centre of the cave despite your frantic kicking and scratching. Your nails slide right off the rubbery skin and another limb, another tentacle, grabs hold of your other leg and also holds it still. More of them snake around your hips, your waist, your arms and then finally the creature rears its head out of the black water.

It's a man. Sort of, anyway. Heavy lidded violet eyes with slit pupils regard you with interest, hair as black as oil falling around his face and shoulders. Thin lips and brows and a delicate nose, three huge slits on either side of his neck. Gills. He looks thin, skin so pale you can see blue veins pulsing across his chest, narrow shoulders and hips and a boney torso. Instead of legs his hips give way to a huge, bulbous sort of growth out of which come numerous limbs. Long, thick, wriggling tentacles, a beautiful midnight blue that almost seems to blend with the surrounding darkness, churning the water beneath and lifting you up effortlessly. You tug again, and it does nothing.

He leans closer and you freeze in fear, going rigid. The creature presses a hand against your chest and you realise his hands are webbed, so are his ears. He seems to be feeling out your heartbeat, fluttering wildly in your ribcage. Whatever he finds, he seems satisfied with it. His other hand also goes to your chest and you try to raise your arms to push him away, but are met with thick coils around your wrists that weigh you down.

"Hey, hey!" You say sharply, making the man raise his head. "What are you doing?"

He looks unimpressed, and ignores the question entirely. His hands are boney, spidery, almost human, as cold as the sea itself. They squeeze your sides and prod your stomach while the tentacles raise you so you're hip to eye with the creature and he can get a better look. You're squirming, uncomfortable, but he pays no notice and just feels your hips out, seemingly also satisfied with them.

Tentacles begin to move over you with more purpose now, sliding up your legs and around your shoulders, wriggling under the edges of your swimsuit as you balk and scream obscenities. Your voice echoes off the walls but the man is unfazed, getting under the fabric covering you until it's bulging ridiculously, slimy limbs surrounding your torso. One of the horrid things forces itself into your mouth, hooking its tip into your jaw before sliding down your throat until you can barely breathe, muffling your noises.

All of them flex at once and your swimsuit rips at the seams, falling to the water in tatters. Two deft tentacles circle your chest, weighing your tits and squeezing them curiously. You yell around the appendage in your mouth, kicking your legs and trying to slap them away, to cover yourself up; but the fat, squirming limbs are as strong as they are flexible. The man they're attached to looks on with a sinister sort of satisfaction on his face, grinning as your breasts are pressed together and kneaded. Your choked insults are simply answered with a few clicks and pops from him before he reaches out and pinches your nipple, tugging on it painfully and ignoring your fruitless struggle.

...Something strange is happening, gradually pressing against the edges of your consciousness. The slick coating his tentacles soaks into your skin, leaving a cool, almost tingling sensation as they writhe and constrict. The one deep in your throat is wriggling, teasing your gag reflex and making you swallow around it, something almost salty sliding deep into your stomach and muddling your senses. The smooth, powerful motions almost feel like a hug, and the suckling and squeezing is causing heat to pool shamefully in your stomach. Your wide eyes meet his and he stares back with a facsimile of a smile on his face, something too wide and stiff and full of teeth. Something intelligent. His human half is bent over you while the animal portion keeps coiling around you, exploring every inch of skin.

His hand shoots out and grabs your jaw, a move that could be almost tender if it wasn't for the strength of his grip, the vicious way his claws curl around your face. He seems to be almost pretending, imitating the gesture. Violet eyes peer into your own, watching as you gag and struggle weakly, glittering with curiosity and a tinge of malice. This thing knows what's happening. He can feel your struggle getting weaker as your limbs grow heavy, eyelids dropping. You're suddenly very aware of the icy water and the slick glide of those thick limbs against your bare skin, the ones around your hips, the ones attaching themselves to your inner thighs with vicious suckers, pulling your legs apart in midair. You thrash weakly, a fly caught in a spiderweb, looking into the monster's eyes and finding no sympathy.

The suckers on your thighs tighten, making you mewl against your will. It almost feels like you're drunk, pins and needles running all over your numb skin, each movement of the tentacles making you shudder. The man's eyes narrow, looking satisfied with your reaction and your defeated expression. He creeps closer to you, and that's when you finally notice the cocks between his legs. Two of them, dyed the same deep shade as his tentacles and bobbing menacingly, their tapered heads already leaking in anticipation. The top one is oddly swollen at the base, almost flushed, bulging with…. something. You try to struggle, but by this point you're so wrapped up in the monster's limbs that you can't move at all. And whatever has happened to your body is making you embarrassingly eager to know more about the intimidating appendages, your entire consciousness narrowing down to how painfully empty you feel and how big and inviting his cocks look. They're far bigger than any human ever could be, and he seems to have noticed you staring because he smirks, one of his hands wrapping around the top one and stroking it slowly. You can't help but moan around the tentacle in your mouth, but only a strangled gurgle comes out.

The man seems to accept this, rubbing the tip of one of the dicks against your cunt. It's cold, and he doesn't waste any time in forcing it in. You scream as best you can, trying to thrash around as the thick appendage invades your walls, stretching you painfully and bumping right against your cervix. He looks so smug, as if he can feel the mixture of pain and pleasure running through your veins right now and how it's clouding your senses. He starts moving immediately, and to your horror you discover you're so wet that it doesn't even hurt, the thick girth dragging smoothly along your walls as he sets a quick, steady pace.

His other dick is rubbing against your ass with every thrust, pulsing and leaking against your skin and lighting every one of your nerves on fire. The tentacles don't help, groping your hips and arms and tits hard enough to hurt, suckling mercilessly on your nipples as you're split open on the creature’s cock. He seems to have angled his tip perfectly so that it hits your cervix every time, making you twitch in pain. Slowly, with every thrust, the tight ring of muscle is beginning to open up and let his cock pierce right through to your womb.

The tentacle in your mouth retreats and you choke on your spit, trying to cry out and gasp for breath at the same time. The creature's eyes never leave your face, and you swear he looks even more pleased with himself as tears begin to pour down your face. You can't even think about crying for help, you can barely think at all, your mind too addled by the delicious stretch of your walls. The tentacle that was just in your mouth smears a warm mess of slime and your own drool across your cheek and chest, adding to the overstimulation as it cools on your skin. You can taste salt every time you gasp for air.

Something squirms over your cunt and you cry out in shock and arousal as another tentacle fastens itself onto your clit, beginning to suck gently. The stimulation makes your cunt leak even more, clenching painfully around the thick girth splitting you in two. The man hisses, stilling for a second as a particularly harsh spasm makes you too tight to let him move. His violet eyes are glued to your pussy, to the way it swallows his cock with every thrust. It's milking him so nicely. He puts one of his hands on your lower stomach, drawing his hips back slowly and leaving you clenching around nothing, before slamming back in brutally fast. You howl in pain, trying uselessly to kick him away, but your cry quickly melts into a whimper as the sucker on your clit begins to work its magic again.

Your walls are pulsing and there's a telltale heat swirling low in your stomach. Through your shudders and the squirmy mess of arms assaulting every inch of bare skin, you notice that the man's head is bowed and his long, spindly hands are on your hips. The tendrils begin to move erratically, jerking and twitching across your body, countless suckers fastening onto your skin and making it sting all over. He's close, and to your lingering embarrassment so are you, even with the pain from your tender cervix being pried apart and a far too big cock stretching you out.

Your eyes unfocus and the cold, slimy tip of a tentacle prods your tongue as your mouth falls open. You feel a powerful spasm in your cunt, the creature's cock pulsing rhythmically and almost seeming to swell a little. To your confusion and horror, the tapered head is lodged deep into your womb, prying your cervix open just enough to make space, and you can't move away. Something strange is happening, an alien sensation invading your womb as the monster clutches your shoulders tight and his hips twitch, messy, clearly pushing something into you. His pretty violet eyes are shut tight, dark hair sticking to his cheeks as he leans in close. It feels almost romantic, you think, the notion breaking through your addled brain. That would have terrified you a few minutes before, but now you can't bring yourself to care even as your tummy swells with an unknown, bumpy substance, something almost jelly like. Your orgasm crashes into you almost without warning, setting all your nerves alight despite the concern of your swelling stomach, making you moan loudly. It echoes in the damp cave, your own cry coming back to you amidst all the lewd slaps of skin on skin.

As you tip your head back and whine, shaking with the aftershocks, the creature pumps his hips a few times to finish draining himself into you. One of his hands presses lightly on the bump, massaging it in circles. An odd chirp comes from his mouth, and he pulls out without a warning. You shudder, empty cunt clenching uselessly, suddenly feeling too empty and yet oddly full. There's no time for confusion though, because when you look down you're met with the sight of the monster gripping his second cock, the first one lying on his stomach and contrasting beautifully with his pale skin.

The second one is thinner but no less impressive, and missing the swollen knot the first one had. He wastes no time sheathing himself inside you, but he doesn't move just yet. You groan, confused, peering at the creature to see what he's doing, but he pays you no mind. Your walls are tender and his swift pace makes you flinch, letting out a quiet sob that he ignores. He seems to be panting hard, resting while buried deep in your cunt after that initial stroke. His tentacles are mostly still, twitching occasionally but keeping you steady in midair.

Cold hands find your breasts, the monster’s boney fingers pinching your nipples cruelly. You yelp, trying to pull your arms free so you can hit him, but of course nothing happens. He looks up, still panting, and smiles. He's slightly red, his once pale cheeks now a soft pink. It does little to soften the cruel glee on his face, the sharp teeth peeking out from behind his lips, the cold water dripping down his hair and over his shoulders. He squeezes the tender buds again and you groan, pussy clenching involuntarily. To your dismay the monster makes a sound similar to a purr, clicking his tongue and pulling harshly on your tits. He likes to see you in pain, or maybe he likes the way you twitch and tighten around him, milking him.

Slowly, carefully, he begins to thrust into you, shallow moves that drag his heavy cock against your abused insides. Every time he bottoms out you get your nipples pinched painfully hard, forcing your cunt to tighten around him and making him growl and chirp in obvious satisfaction. The muscles in your abdomen spasm with his movements, your head tossing from side to side. Every steady thrust jolts you in the tentacles’ grip, your skin still buzzing from whatever the creature had rubbed into you, but you dimly notice one of the tentacles slithering back up to your clit.

It sneaks under the hood and fastens directly onto the tender nub, sucking and pulling harshly enough to make you wail in a mixture of pleasure and overstimulation. Of course this makes you clench and the monster groan, his thrusts speeding up and becoming more forceful, the tip of his cock ramming against your cervix as he angles his hips just right. He's not really pulling on your nipples anymore, instead grabbing hard onto your chest to support himself as his human half curls into you, his teeth almost grazing your cheek. The man's breath is cold, uneven, he's slowly angling your hips up so that your legs are over his hips, dangling uselessly.

You close your eyes, hands balling up into fists as his pace stutters and the slimy tendrils holding you up go stiff and tighten. The squeeze almost hurts but it's overshadowed by the feeling of his cock stilling deep inside you and twitching powerfully, right before a strange warmth floods your lower stomach. A final harsh suck from the tentacle fastened to your clit makes you cum again, your vision whiting out as all you go rigid in his grip. The waves of release coupled with his cum swelling your your womb is overwhelming, more intense than anything you've experienced in your life. The man makes a strange, choked off sound, almost a moan, resting his forehead against you collarbone as his hips roll a few more times, then still.

Dazed, you let yourself go limp in his hold, only managing a tired groan when he slowly pulls out of you. Your stomach feels bloated and tender, your cunt drooling, slowly letting some of the creature’s cum slip out. He squeezes your tits one last time, churning the water beneath you as he moves you to the edge of the cave and leaves you on a ledge. The stone is cold and wet, way too hard after the squishy, yielding grip of his tentacles. Violet eyes observe you with satisfaction, cold hands palm the bump in your tummy and slip quickly into your cunt before retreating. You press one of your own hands, weak and shaky, against the taut skin and feel a strange bumpiness. Eggs, you realise. Like frogspawn, but larger and firm enough that you can just about feel them if you press down hard. Your mind is too sluggish to process the information, so you just rub the spot in a bit of a haze while keeping an eye on the monster. His human half is out of the water, supported on pale, skinny arms while he watches you intently.

Your hand drops with a sigh. You feel…. tired, cold, uncomfortably full in a way you're not used to. The monster gives you a quick once over, from your slack face to your gaping, messy cunt, tracing your stomach one last time. He slips into the sea without a sound, and vanishes in the dark water.

[57sfinest]

theoretical entroponetics: the post

okay. LONG post incoming. i have summarized all available information on the pale, separated into confirmed objective truth & in-canon speculation that may or may not be true, and then appended my own very detailed theory on the pale! this post is meant as a resource; please feel free to add things of your own in replies/reblogs (please tag me if you do!) or point out any errors i may have made. you’re welcome to use any of my personal theory in your own work but please credit me if you do!! (and tag me in that/send it to me, i really want to see what you do with it!)

Here’s what we *know* about the pale, according to in-game and concept art: 

It erases data, at least the kind stored on radiocomputer filament and magnetic tapes.

It has no dimensions of its own- pale latitude compressors serve to force dimensions on raw pale and allow navigation. 

The pale is referred to in the context of entropy

It arrived with mankind, but not immediately- there are 8000 years of written history, but the pale was first recorded 6000 years ago, implying that pale either didn’t start forming immediately or that it was so insignificant/distant that it went unnoticed for 2000 years. 

There exists a group of people who are actively trying to expedite entroponetic collapse; the ideology is called entropolism

To this point, pale isn’t immediately visible. Pale has molecular structure, but manifests as a waveform, and only becomes visible at a certain distance from the origin, once wave frequency is sufficiently high. 

During pale exposure, people experience “sense objects”: visual or auditory hallucinations and/or vivid physical recollections of memories. These hallucinations may originate from their own consciousness or someone else’s. c

People require physical and mental examinations before interisolary travel and are allotted a certain number of days per year as their pale exposure threshold. 

Overexposure results in a pale “addiction”- these individuals crave pale exposure, and it’s unclear if this addiction can ever be broken. It’s also unclear whether there is a point at which pale exposure becomes lethal, but given that it dissolves matter, we can be fairly certain that a given length of continuous exposure will kill. 

Radio signals, cold plasma torches and anodic sound are all used to manage the pale to permit travel through it. Plasma torches destabilize the molecular structure of the pale to create gaps, anodic sound widens and maintains these gaps, and radio signals rationalize the pale into recognizable dimensions.

Radio signals are, in return, susceptible to corruption by the pale, resulting in entroponetic crosstalk, where signals from the past or the future are transmitted to the present. CCP is one such phenomenon and is directly related to the formation of new pale through magpie interpretation.

There is a dedicated Union for people who work in and with the pale (the Pale Workers Union). They have two slogans; “The light purifies; The sound absolves; The pale no more” and “Son et Fureur” (sound and fury)

Here’s what we may choose to believe about the pale, based on the thoughts and beliefs of in-game characters:

In conversation with Soona, the pale is described as a “curdling milk” phenomenon: “repulsive, but natural”

In this same conversation you can theorize that the churches were meant to contain the pale origins; out of the seven churches, six were destroyed during the suzerain or the revolution

The phasmid and whatever other lifeforms it’s communicated with believe that entroponetic collapse is comparable to an oxygen holocaust (i.e. the great oxygenation event), implying mass extinction due to a toxic overabundance of sapient thought

Harry refers to it once by saying “The wolf is at the door. It’s going to eat the sun.” so take that as you will

It’s likely that Tiago’s “Mother” is some manifestation from the pale, if you choose to believe that the 2mm hole is in fact a pale origin point (the concept art does confirm it’s a pale origin, but the game offers other explanations, so I won’t say it’s the only answer)

Inframaterialists believe that revolutionary action (NOT thought) may create a counter-force that will prevent the spread of pale; it’s unclear if any reversal is possible.

The world will be fully consumed by the pale in 27 years (I put it here because you may or may not believe that shivers and harry are reliably sourcing this information)

And now my personal speculation about the pale:

A quick and easy point: it’s confirmed that the pale has a measurable EMF “exhalation” frequency that varies with proximity. Strong enough EMF pulses can actually tamper with magnetic storage- radiocomputer filaments! Electronics! Fortress Accident data loss! This gives us a tangible explanation for why pale can delete data :)

This may also explain its ability to cause radio interference- radio frequencies are just a subset of EMF frequencies, so it’s possible that pale exhalation on *just the right frequency* is what’s responsible for the entroponetic crosstalk we get on radios sometimes

The pale canonically has an atomic structure, but it also has wave properties, so it’s possible that the pale has wave-particle duality on its subatomic level, like photons do

Based on this, entroponetics is likely a very similar field to quantum mechanics, which might be an interesting source of ideas for anyone (like me) who wants to explore pale-related possibilities

The pale could be a manifestation of raw patterns. That’s why math “forces dimensions” on it- it rationalizes or “tames” the patterns, which allows it to be manipulated to a certain degree.

There are several references to the pale that refer to mathematical concepts and patterns, saying that the world dissolves into “a tangle of azimuths and cosines” as it blends into the interisolary pale- more on this later

Steban comments that the pale is commonly theorized to be nostalgia or “historical inertia”, but it’s largely agreed that it’s “the past” in a broad sense. Thinking about the idiom that history repeats itself, it could be that history/the past is part of the pattern that comprises the pale, and that it’s also the type of pattern most readily perceived by people (people don’t viscerally *perceive* math, for example, but we experience memories)

To first define entropy: Chemically speaking, “the measure of a system’s thermal energy per unit temperature that is unavailable for doing useful work. (per encyclopedia britannica).” Physically speaking, it’s a measure of randomness or disorder in a system. Less work/less order = more entropy; it’s a physicochemical “winding down” of a given system

It’s commonly thought that pale is the entropic force, but what if it’s the opposite? (Keep in mind the chemical definition: less ability to do work = more entropy) Consider: the pale as less entropic, a cleanup force, recycling the potential lost by death and destruction in the universe. This in part explains why a dead person’s memory is present in the pale- their potential has been recycled into the pale in the form of their memories (their life’s *pattern*)

Enthalpy is a related concept to entropy and is defined as the total energy contained within a system. Holding the system enthalpy constant- saying the universe will always have the same amount of total energy, no matter what, according to thermodynamics- results in an entropic tug-of-war between the pale and the world. The pale wins through sheer inertia (again, inertia is mentioned specifically in game)

Overall: think of the world as “cooling”, losing heat and energy through war and death and complacency. Think of the pale as steam and heat, melting down old materials to start it all over again. (Kim says, *through entroponetic interference*: “it’s been a long, cold winter.”)

Consider: the pale as a sinusoidal function, eternally repeating. The pale recycling the universe to start a new cycle, “spending” itself, resulting in pale not being present in the beginning. Then, as the new things begin to settle- with the advent of the human mind, specifically- the pale reforming, slowly reclaiming potential, eventually ending the cycle to start again.

In comes CCP and magpies. Consider: CCP as a backwards transmission from the next “cycle” (after all, pale has no sense of time). Magpies as *pattern-sensitive* people who are able to decode CCP into something useful called novelty. They reach into the potential of the next cycle to build the potential in their current one- this paradox could be what creates more pale, because (and this is where it gets weird, I apologize) doing this retroactively increases the total amount of energy/work/potential in the current cycle to have been reclaimed by the pale for the next one.

Think of the pale as the compost bin for every single thought in the universe. The pale is the exact right size to compost every little atom and thought in the universe, and can hold nothing extra. But magpies reach into the future, the next cycle, and bring in extra. This paradox forces the pale to grow to accommodate the additional material, which also increases the starting potential of the next cycle. This process allows each cycle to accumulate minor changes from the previous one, which can snowball over many cycles.

Furthermore, to the inframaterialists’ point: revolutionary action would be such a radical shift in inertia that it would increase the potential in the world, forcing the pale to pause/shrink to “balance the equation” in terms of pale-vs-world thermodynamics. So maybe they’re right after all :)

And some diagramming, to explain the utter bullshit I’ve just dropped:

[bethanydelleman]

I've never thought that Anne was not ill or that it was secretly Lady Catherine's fault, for many reasons, but mainly because Jane Austen tends to be very clear when someone is a hypochondriac. There are a ton of them in Austen's novels and the narrator always makes a snide remark or just informs us outright:

Mrs. Bennet: When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous (at this time that meant a disorder of the nervous system, not "anxious)

Mr. Woodhouse: The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits; for having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years (noun: a person who is unduly anxious about their health)

Mary Musgrove: While well, and happy, and properly attended to, she had great good humour and excellent spirits; but any indisposition sunk her completely. She had no resources for solitude; and inheriting a considerable share of the Elliot self-importance, was very prone to add to every other distress that of fancying herself neglected and ill-used. (and the following conversation with Anne quickly reveals that she is exaggerating her illness for attention and can't even keep track of what times she was "ill")

Lady Bertram: From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in consequence of a little ill-health, and a great deal of indolence, gave up the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring, and remained wholly in the country

I could probably go on, especially in the fragment of Sanditon. Now yes, Jane Austen may have been ignoring mental health problems that she couldn't have known about, but it's pretty clear she thinks these people are being silly. But not for Anne de Bourgh! I cannot find this sort of remark about "fancying" or anything. Instead, we have Maria and Elizabeth shocked at how small and sickly Anne looks"

"Only look at her. She is quite a little creature. Who would have thought she could be so thin and small!” (Maria Lucas)

Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly: her features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very little, except in a low voice... (Elizabeth)

It's played straight! Anne is just sickly.

[everythingelseisextra]

Work

Part Eleven: You're Like Me

Description: After a miscommunication, Tommy apologizes in the only way he knows how. Warnings: Language, self-hatred, Thomas being inept at communication Word Count: 2439 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @ttaechi @weaponizedvirtue @majesticcmey @optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @mm0thie @callsignvenus @ay0nha @mgdixon @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @look-at-the-soul @globetrotter28

You are brave. You insist on this in the cab, and you insist on this when you walk up the driveway, and you insist on this when you knock on the door. You have courage. You think this as you settle in the dining room, at the edge of the long wooden table, the high ceiling and portraits and pale yellow lamps and grandfather clock making you small, insignificant. You speak with strength. You tell yourself this as Tommy walks in, checks on you, and all you can do is nod when he asks if you’re ready. You are worthy of him. This one is the hardest for you to master, the hardest for you to hold onto. You remind yourself this as you hear him greet her, hear their footsteps in the hallway.

When she appears in the doorway, all drawn back shoulders, piercing eyes and impeccable fashion, you lose all sense of yourself. You stand and bow your head, as if a queen has appeared in Arrow House, which in a way, she has. Like Tommy’s, her eyes flick over you like a cat watching a bird, that intensity and deep rooted sense of predatory analysis. She walks right up to you, and you resist the urge to step back, to remove yourself from her aura. 

“Polly Gray.” A cigarette dangles from her lips and her outstretched hand is steady, stable, while the one you reach out to shake with shakes slightly. When you don’t respond with your name, her thin smile widens slightly and she tilts her head. “And you are?”

You open your mouth to speak, to give her something, anything, and nothing comes out. Frustrated and embarrassed, you look to Tommy for help, but he gives the slight shake of his head, barely moving it. You’re on your own. 

Polly glances back at him, amusement in her sharp brown eyes. “Does she talk?”

“When she wants to.” His answer is immediate. His gaze flickers between the two of you, so neutral that you can’t read what he thinks, whether there’s shame in those deep blue eyes. Whether he regrets choosing you, out of all the women in Birmingham and England and Warwickshire. 

“Now would certainly be the time.” She looks back at you, expectant. “Have you not got anything to say for yourself?”

You bite your lip, gaze still on the ground beneath you, desperately wanting to speak, to be strong, to be the person you want to become. You know you can, know you’re capable, but your voice gets stuck and your heart freezes and your lungs stop working and suddenly you’re frozen in a panic you feel in your body but not in your mind. 

“I think speaking is a base-level necessity, Thomas.” She turns and starts the long walk out of the room, slowing as she passes him. “You could do better.”

“You don’t even know me.” You step forward, dragging your gaze off the ground to stare at the back of her head. She’s paused, listening as your cracked and clenched voice reaches her. “You have no idea what my life has looked like, and you decide that I’m not good enough just because I can’t always get the words out?”

She chuckles and turns to face you, that reserved smile back on her lips. “That’s more like it.” 

Your brow furrows. “Forgive me if I’m not as thrilled as you are.”

“Tommy told me you’d take some convincing. Worth the work, he said.” She moves back towards you, slow, languid, a panther pacing.

“Did he, now?” You shoot a look at him, and find his eyes away from you. “You planned this, did you?” 

He takes a drag from his cigarette, gaze still pointedly elsewhere. “Had to. Only way to get you talking.” 

“I see.” Your voice grows tight. “Was I all you expected, then, Mrs. Gray? Do I meet your expectations?” 

“It’s Polly.” Her smile stays, almost threatening in its own right, proof that no matter what you say, you will not shake the ground she stands on. “You don’t need to be like that. Tommy’s been needing a good woman on his arm. Glad to see he’s found one, after how the last one worked out.”

You laugh humorlessly. It’s supposed to be a compliment, you know this, but Polly also must know that any intelligent woman wants to be more than an ornament on a man’s arm, a trophy for him to parade. She underestimates you, views you as another pretty face, and you don’t know how to prove her otherwise. She’s not to be taken at face value, either. The Shelby’s, the whole lot of them, hide beneath a facade. Arthur’s is brute strength, John’s is humor, Tommy’s is intensity, and Polly’s is charm. Ada seems to be the only exception. 

“I think I do need to be like that, actually.” You cross your arms, fingers playing at the shirt you wear. “I’m stepping from one dangerous world to another. I’d rather keep my guard up, thanks.” 

“Danger comes from wanting more than what you have.” She glances at Tommy, quick and sweeping. “I doubt you’ll do that.” 

You’re at a loss for words. How do you explain to her that you never had the privilege of wanting more? How do you explain that you’re stuck as a child learning to crawl, and you can’t lift your head to see that others can walk? Her words point towards Tommy but squash you at the same time, making you simple and lesser.

“This is wanting more.” You look down. “This is more than I’ve ever had.” 

Your vulnerability earns you silence. You think that, in their world, no one wants to admit that they’ve been hurt, that they’ve been on the ground looking up at the sky, wishing they could fly like the birds. No one wants to admit that they’re human. And you just did exactly that. After a moment, you look up at them, afraid of what you’ll see but even more afraid of what you might miss. 

Polly’s eyes lock onto Thomas’. Quiet communication flows between them, something so quick that you can’t follow. Within a couple seconds, Tommy gives her a subtle nod, and she sighs. Her eyes shift back to you, searching your face for something. You swallow hard. Keep your head up, your shoulders back. Meet her eyes and let her peer into you. 

“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” she says to you, her tone softer than before, more welcoming. 

“I do.” You think it might be a lie. You think you’re stepping into a storm that you’ve never weathered before, thinking that you can save yourself while battling the wind.  

“And you.” She turns to face Tom again. “I hope you tell her what you’re doing.”

“I do.” His eyes flick to yours, and you immediately look away. You don’t feel warm towards him at the moment, don’t feel like allowing him the privilege of silent connection. 

“Alright.” She smiles faintly at you, then turns to start her walk out of the room. “Then my job here is done. See you at the meeting, Tom.” 

You watch her go, your heart in your throat. You close your eyes and fall into a brief fantasy where everything is simple and everything is good. In this world you aren’t battered or bruised, aren’t scarred or scared, and you’re brave enough to speak without being manipulated to do so. In this world you know that his ‘I do’ was not a lie like yours. In this dream you hold a knife and your hand does not shake when you lift it.

Tommy clears his throat and you open your eyes and the world of your creation disappears, and you’re left with the coldness of the dining room, the emptiness of the fifty seats, all but one unoccupied. You sit back down and place your head in your hands, your elbows on your knees. 

“Thomas,” you say, a little hesitant, a little scared. Now that Polly is gone, now that your own mask has dropped, there’s hollowness to your chest and a strange pulling sensation on your eyes, like you haven’t slept in days. “Am I just… work to you?” 

He stays where he is, leaning against the wall to your right, his suit jacket in one hand and his cigarette in the other. As usual, he seems to be searching for something in your expression, eyes observing the subtle changes in your face like one would study a newly-discovered animal. His jaw works slightly and he looks away. “Sometimes you are. Sometimes you aren’t.” 

You look down at your hands in your lap, your fingers pulling at each other until they hurt, then relaxing. “Oh.”

“Everything’s fucking work.” He gestures vaguely, voice too tense to be calm but too casual to be conflict.

“I’m not supposed to be work,” you say quietly. “I’m not supposed to be part of that.” 

He pauses, dropping his arm with the cigarette to his side and furrowing his brow slightly. He opens his mouth to speak, but you stand and speak before he can. 

“I need to get to the horses. I better go.” You start for the door, half hoping he’ll follow you, try to convince you to stay, but he doesn’t. He stays where he is, watching you go in silence, his brow still furrowed in that strange, almost confused expression. 

You work in the orange hour of the evening, sweating and thirsty and hungry and ignoring all of it. Work, work, work, all of it a reminder that you yourself take up too much energy, that you’re a burden on those around you. You squint in the falling light and convince yourself that the extra liquid in your eyes comes from the dryness of the coming cold. 

You thought that, maybe, he’d tolerate you. That his lying and stealing and cheating and all the crime that creep through his bones would balance you out. That all the pent-up anger and vulnerability and broken promises and the gentleness of your touch would make up for the fact that it was you he was looking at, you he was pursuing. You didn’t want to be saved, you wanted to feel worthy of being saved. 

You’re a chore. You’re work. 

You retire to your house long after the sun has set, wiping the sweat from your brow and skipping the bath to crawl into bed. You don’t close your eyes. Staring out at the stars in the sky, wondering whether you’ll ever be small enough to fit into someone’s life. You’re a broken thing, and yet, you stare out at the sky like you did when you were a child, wanting to touch the stars even if they burned you. 

A few hours later, the clattering of machinery and the steady pound of horse hooves outside your house disturbs your stupor. You sit up in bed, trying to see through the haze of night. Squinting, the shape of a horse-drawn carriage comes vaguely into view. You catapult out of bed, pulling clothes on haphazardly, and your bare feet patter down on the cold wooden floor as you make your way to the kitchen. You unlock a drawer, open it, and pull out a gun, ready to defend yourself, unwilling to be a victim in your own home. 

You rush out into the night, and freezing air hits your face. You’re not dressed for the cold, wearing a simple short-sleeved shirt and pants. You hold the gun up, aiming carefully at the carriage from the doorstep, waiting for someone to draw a bead on. 

“Put the gun down.” Tommy’s voice calls from the carriage. You do as he says, stepping back into your house to place it back in its drawer. When you come back out, your eyes fall on a gleaming white horse, elegant and seemingly glowing in the night. 

“What the fuck?” You step down onto the driveway, slowly approaching Tommy, who holds the horse’s lead rope loosely, allowing him to hold his head up high, staring out into the darkness. 

“You didn’t get a horse from the track.” His quiet, irritatingly calm voice answers your question smoothly. “Figured you could use someone helping you.” 

“Tommy.” Conflicting thoughts bounce through your skull. You don’t want to see him, not after what he said, but he’s brought you a horse all the way from the racetrack, something that usually costs you a few months worth of savings. You open your mouth, then close it and shake your head, not knowing what to say. 

“His track name is ‘Watch Me Forever.’” He reaches out a hand to stroke the stallion’s neck. “Needs a barn name.” 

“This is the gray you liked. The one with the broken leg.”

“Paid to have it fixed. A few months of recovery and he’ll be ready.” 

“Tommy.” You resist the urge to punch his chest. “You can’t just do that!”

“Why not?”

“Now I’m— I’m in debt to you.” You shake your head. “You can’t do this.”

The stallion’s neck arches and he reaches down his soft pink nose to sniff at you, ears forward, eyes soft. Tommy is quiet for a moment, and all that’s heard between you is the warm breath of the horse. 

When he speaks, it’s not the usual, well thought out, precisely planned phrasing. It’s awkward and rambling and, you have to admit, endearing. “Gentling a horse is work. It’s not easy. Teaches you more about yourself than it does about the damn horse. Makes you a better person; more patient, kinder. It’s— It’s work, but if I could choose between that and anything else, I’d choose the horse every fucking time. Does this make any sense?” 

You stare at him, and a weight lifts off of you. “Yes. I think it does.” 

His eyes search your face, soft and beseeching. “You understand me?” 

“Thank you for explaining what you meant, Tom. I forgive you. I—” You hold back the cliches bubbling in your throat, trying to push you to say something too soon, too recklessly. “I understand you.” 

He nods, looking as relieved as you feel. His eyes turn back to the stallion, his posture straightening, his expression moving back to something harsher, more businessman-like.  “What will you call him, then?”

“I think… I think Iris is good.” You stroke his soft nose, looking at his eyes, one blue, one brown

“That’s a woman’s name.” 

“It’s a fucking flower, Tom. Flowers don’t have gender.”

He shrugs. “Iris it is, then. Iris it is.”

[celtic-crossbow]

Whumpuary Day 3-4

Prompt: Collapse

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of previous injury; Aftermath of Injury; Symptoms of illness

Daryl had been acting strange all day. It was his first day out of bed since he’d taken a bullet to the leg on a particularly violent run for medical supplies. He’d been a terrible patient, always trying to get up and hobble his way along on future runs or sneak out to help with patrol or community upkeep. When he awoke from a nap you’d yelled at him to take, you had literally handcuffed him to the bed railing. He agreed to behave after that and, to his credit, he did. 

You still worried that attending the council meetings and visiting improvement sites was too much for his first day out. Of course, he waved off your concern with a muttered “m’fine” before nodding that he was ready for the next meeting. Even Gabriel seemed to not buy it, glancing at you for confirmation. You shrugged. There wasn’t much you could do to deter the man. 

The last meeting was the longest with discussion of resources, rationing, and assigning runs, patrols, and inventory counts. You spoke up once to remind everyone that Daryl would not be available yet for runs or patrol, much to his chagrin. You could feel his eyes boring into the back of your head. You’d get an earful later but it didn’t change what you had already made clear, so a verbal smackdown from the archer would be taken in stride. You winced when it was decided he would not take part in inventory as well. Everyone wanted him healthy. Like you, they were unwilling to take risks. 

“Then this meeting is adjourned.” Gabriel gathered up the maps and lists with a tight smile, joining others in conversation while the small group filed out of the building. 

You were still staring where the priest had previously been stationed, knowing Daryl had yet to leave as well. The silence was deafening and the tension suffocating. The archer despised when you made calls for him, no matter how good the intentions behind it. His blunt nails began to drum against the wooden tabletop. 

“I love you.” You said first, then turned to find him leaned back in the chair, one hand on his thigh while the other continued a tuneless cadence with the tips of his fingers. Those pretty blue eyes were narrowed and angry. “Come on, Daryl. Someone’s gotta look out for you.” He looked tired. You just wanted to get him home to rest, even if he grumbled at you the entire way. 

“Been lookin’ out fer myself since I’s a kid. Don’ need ya ta do it now.” 

“You know what I mean. Stop being that way.” You pouted, feeling suddenly insignificant. The way he scoffed while pushing the chair back only fueled your insecurities. “Daryl.”

“M’goin’ home. Got a bed needs watchin’.” He clicked his tongue and whistled for Dog, getting to his feet, stepping around the table, and walking away from you. 

You slumped in the chair under a veil of utter defeat. Things would smooth over, but you’d hurt him, took shot after shot at his pride when he was already struggling after the injury. You could still see him moving away, but looked up when his footfalls came to a halt. Maybe he was already regretting walking away. 

Standing from your chair, you took one step when Dog whined and Daryl collapsed to the floor in an unmoving heap. 

“Daryl!” You didn’t bother with walking around and vaulted over the table, sliding to your knees behind him. You were shouting for help while rolling him onto his back. He was breathing, shallow but otherwise normal. He was pale, a minute difference that was just enough to notice. Fingers against his neck, you were counting the beats when Gabriel, Michonne, and Siddiq barreled inside. 

“What happened?” The swordswoman asked, soothing the nervous canine. 

“He just went down. Heartrate’s low.” Your panic was betrayed by the calm you were able to maintain. Michonne was watching the tremble in your hands wordlessly. 

Siddiq knelt across from you. He felt of the archer’s forehead, the skin cool and clammy. “How low?”

“Forty-three.” Your voice cracked. The medic hummed, his face neutral. 

“Can you help me carry him to the infirmary?” He asked Gabriel. The priest nodded, acting immediately. You scooted aside when he reached for your partner, fighting the sting behind your eyes. You had panicked enough for the entire community when they had hauled Daryl in those several days ago, his head hanging and pant leg saturated with blood. Siddiq had ordered you removed from the room when you should have been helping with the surgery to remove the bullet. 

You scrambled to your feet to follow, the other woman’s hand coming to rest on your shoulder. 

“Anything happen before he collapsed?”

You shifted from foot to foot, shame taking panic’s hand. “We argued a little.” The floor became mighty interesting. You knew he wasn’t feeling well and provoked him anyway, not allowing him to speak for himself as if he were a child that didn’t know any better than to push his limits. “It’s his first day up since it happened and he worked himself ragged. He was tired, looked it too. I just, I wanted…” you trailed off with a sniffle. 

“You were trying to protect him.” She supplied, smiling gently when you nodded. “Y/N, men have the most fragile egos. Sometimes, you’ll just need to let him make the decisions and hope he doesn’t fall.”

“But what if he does?” You irritably wiped away a stray tear.

She closed her eyes, expression fond. She was thinking of Rick. “Then you catch him.”

Daryl was awake when you arrived, but had his head lowered. Siddiq patted the hunter’s knee and left the room to meet you just outside. “Blood pressure was eighty-nine over fifty-six. What can you tell me about his day? I know Daryl and he tends to leave out details if he thinks it’ll get him an all clear.”

You glanced in the room to find your archer still staring at his lap, worrying the side of his thumb between his teeth. “He did way too much for his first day. He was physically helping out and then going to every meeting. I barely got him to stop long enough for lunch or even some water. We, uh, we argued a bit about me answering for him at the last meeting.” You could feel the man watching you, finding kindness rather than judgment when you gathered enough courage to meet his eyes. 

“The good news is that I really don’t think it’s anything serious. My best guess without being able to run any tests is vasovagal syncope.”

“Dumb it down for me.” You chuckled, sparing yet another glance into the room. 

“Basically his body was reacting to stress after being cooped up in bed for so long. I assume he fell after standing up?” You nodded. “The movement caused a sudden drop in blood pressure and heartrate. Most people faint when it happens.”

“So what do I do?” 

“Make sure he gets up slowly. I’ve started an IV to give him fluids as a precaution but make sure he’s taking in water and eating, even if it’s something small. Avoid stress until we can acclimate him back to the activity level he’s used to.”

You sighed. “He’s gonna love it when I tell him that.”

“You’re off the hook. I already told him.” He gave your upper arm a squeeze. “As soon as those fluids are in, you can take him home.”

“Thank you.” You smiled and squeezed his hand before it fell away and he stepped out of the infirmary altogether, leaving you and Daryl to talk. The hunter knew you were there, you didn’t need any special indications to tell you that much. “Hey.” You said quietly. 

He lifted his head and tried for a smile, managing a quick upturn of one side. He knew you were right to have hovered and was trying to figure out how to apologize. You could read him like a book. Your steps hardly made a sound crossing the space that separated you from him. The thin hospital mattress dipped with your weight. 

“You feel okay?” You kept your tone relaxed, petite fingers combing through the dark hair that hung like a curtain next to his face. He nodded but didn’t look up. “Siddiq said you can go home when those are done.” You indicated the bag hanging above the head of the bed. “You hungry? Thought I could do a vegetable stew as long as Michonne still has some carrots.”

“Not gon’ say ‘I told ya so’?” 

“What would that solve?” You tucked the hair you’d been toying with behind his ear. Daryl shrugged with a grunt. “I only wanted you to take care of yourself, but I should have let you—”

“Didn’ mean wha’ I said.” He interjected, finally meeting your quizzical gaze. “When I said I didn’ need ya. Didn’ mean it.” 

Your expression melted, impossibly softer, while your fingers left his mane to gingerly stroke his stubbled cheek. You knew he didn’t mean it. Of course you knew. “It’s okay, love. I know.” He looked away, face reddening. He was always shy under the weight of the sweet things you’d call him when his own arsenal of endearments consisted of woman and sunshine. Could he ever possibly understand how those simple words made your heart flutter? “Will you give it a few days of taking it slow?”

“Then you catch him.”

You tapped a finger against the far side of his face, willing him to return your attention. He did, the slight shifting of his jaw indicating he was chewing the inside of his lip. “Even if you say no, I’ll back you up. But I really wish you would.”

The archer studied you for any hint of an untruth, finding none in your gentle but determined stare. He nodded. “Yeah. I’ll slow down.” You wanted to beam at him but reeled it in behind a nod. 

“I’ve got your back. No matter what.”

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