#what had to happen for him to decide that mortality had run its course | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pinkberrytea · 1 year ago

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If you could breathe, he would be the air in your lungs; if your heart could beat, he would be the lifeblood coursing through your veins.

O, Fitcher’s bird, how com’st thou here? And what may the young bride be doing?

Vanitas—Life is vain. As the true nature of their bond is revealed, the Vampire Ascendant’s Dark Consort is reminded of the futility of swimming against the currents of fate, and must decide whether she shall drown in its river of blood, or let herself be gently carried to the shore.

Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 12.8k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: thank you for reading! i decided to attempt something a little more plot heavy this time, hopefully it is an interesting read! again i would like to dedicate this work to @locallegume and hismostbelovedspawn. thank y’all for being always so kind and supportive!

( part 1 here ) ( part 3 here )

tags: blood drinking; non-con blood drinking; body worship; light dom/sub; vaginal fingering; creampie; hurt & comfort; emotional sex; dry humping; possessive behavior; intercrural sex; frottage; mind control; aftercare; choking; piv sex

He will notice. He will know.

The metal surface of the key on your hand feels cool against your skin; lifeless and cold, not unlike yourself. As you look down at it, the world dissolves into darkness, a sickening surge of dread welling up from your stomach and running down your spine. Its serrated edge is stained with red—your red. Even if you wipe it, wash it with soap and water, rub it vigorously until all traces of blood are gone, remnants of your scent will linger on it still. Maybe not to the untrained nose, no; but to a vampire, it would most definitely be noticeable, of that you are certain. Your darling is, however, no mere vampire, but the Ascendant, whose consort’s distinctive bouquet he would undoubtedly be able to recognize anywhere, even more so while it is still fresh. There is no escaping your fate, and as that merciless truth dawns on you, you curse yourself for your own foolishness, for your vain stubbornness. Was it worth it? Whatever did you gain from this? Knowledge? For what purpose? To what end? You find answers to none of these questions, and yet another plagues your mind—once the truth is uncovered, what will happen then?

“My lady. The master is home.”

If your inert heart was capable of skipping a beat, it would have done so just now. You turn around in a swift movement, only to be met with a pair of ruby red eyes staring back into your own, their gaze ever so apathetic, unemotional, yet you see a spark of something in them that worries you greatly: cognizance. She knows; the one your darling calls your “lady-in-waiting”, who you are nonetheless very well aware is loyal not to you, but to him, and him alone. She is the only one who remained from the very first batch of spawn he sired, other than you. Shortly after you both moved into what would come to be known as the crimson palace, now his by right following his triumph over his old master, he decided that all the mortal servants who survived were to be turned, for he aspired to make an army of spawn, and where better to start than by turning those who would willingly surrender themselves to him?

She was one such servant, of course; a human, whose short lifespan would be made inconsequential by the gift of immortality. And yet, as he would soon come to learn, not even the Vampire Ascendant is immune to the dangers of siring those who have yet to prove themselves worthy. One fateful evening, upon walking into one of your fellow spawn trying to force himself on you, he would kill them all in a fit of rage, taking back the gift he had so generously offered only to be repaid with such vile betrayal—all except your lady-in-waiting, whom he had grown to trust, for she was hauntingly fascinated with his eternal adoration of you. As it were, she was the one who warned him of what had been about to happen that night; not out of fondness for you, naturally, but rather as a desperate measure to protect from corruption what she worshiped as the purest form of love, one so raw and so relentless that not even the gods themselves would dare quell its vicious, unforgiving flames. She would not allow anyone to rob you from him, nor anything to stand between you—not even yourself.

“Ah, yes. I’ll be there in a moment,” you say, trying to sound as collected as you possibly can, yet failing miserably at it. The situation you’ve been caught in looks incredibly suspicious as there would otherwise be no reason for you to be in your lover’s study, crouching behind his desk, and both you and your lady-in-waiting are fully aware of this. She can probably smell the scent of your blood, too, as the papercut on your thumb leaks still, a thin red trail running down your hand, smudged on the spot where it came into contact with the object that is now evidence of your misdeed. Neither of you acknowledge this, yet the oppressive silence lingers, perhaps even more unnerving than it would have been if she said something, anything about it. But she doesn’t—in fact, she remains completely still, standing in the doorway and watching you quietly, knowingly, her sharp eyes boring into your jittery self. She doesn’t intend to leave, not without you at least.

You look at the documents scattered over the desk, and then back at her, almost as if to ask for permission; she doesn’t react to this, which is as good an answer as any. With trembling fingers, you awkwardly gather the papers and put them back inside the open drawer as discreetly as you can, praying that she hasn’t noticed which drawer it is, yet knowing full well she likely has. One paper remains—the one whose rugged edge cut into your flesh, and that which you’d been reading before it spilled your blood and stained the drawer’s key. It is the sole reason why you are even here, stuck in this predicament.

Earlier in the day, one of the maids had brought a letter that had arrived that morning to your darling while you were both sitting at the breakfast table—a letter addressed to you. You questioned him about it, asked him if you could read it, yet as he’d done with the many others that had arrived before it, he’d lay it aside and tell you, “Dearest, let me spare you the trouble of worrying your pretty little head about such trifling matters.” And as always you’d comply, because you trusted him. Still and all, when hours later he’d inform you he had some urgent business to attend to in the upper city and that he wouldn’t be back for supper, your mind would sneakily wander to thoughts of stealing into his study while he was gone. Could those letters have been sent by your old companions? Those who had once traveled alongside you—those who you had once called friends? It would be easy, so easy to just grab the key to the drawer where he’d toss your correspondence, for you knew he kept it in the pocket of his overcoat, yet you trusted him, did you not? You’d tell yourself you did, and then let the matter rest; for a few minutes at least, before your wandering thoughts would inevitably circle back to the tantalizing prospect of seizing that golden opportunity. You managed to suppress the ever growing temptation for the rest of the day, but when the clock struck nine, that fading last chance became too hard to resist, and curiosity emerged victorious in the fierce battle raging within you.

Your prize now lies before you, for better or for worse, although as you’ve come to find out, and to your utter disappointment, the sender is in fact not any of your old companions. As for the contents—too much information, too little time to process, and you’ve yet to make sense of it all. With a heavy, frustrated sigh, you take one last look before tucking the letter back inside the envelope, eyes lingering on the sender’s initials:

To the bride of the Vampire Ascendant,

I hope this letter finds you well. As with my others, I don’t expect a response, yet ever so often I feel compelled to write to you on the off chance that the information I share may somehow be of use. I suppose I may have something of a soft spot for you, for I have once been in a position I consider very similar to yours. I would even go so far as to call you kin. Yet as I have done in the past, I would remind you that there will always be a way out. You are not trapped, regardless of what your sire would have you believe.

Observations I’ve made over the past few years have all but confirmed my thesis that you are indeed no spawn—not of the common variety, anyway—and while I empathize with your unwillingness to put that theory to the test, the evidence leaves little room for interpretation. I understand my… surveillance of you may be unsettling, but I cannot ignore what is to me now clear as day: you do bear three bite marks, do you not? One on your neck, the other on your shoulder, and the last one on your wrist.

I implore that you think back to your turning: was there pain? Was it agonizing? Terrifying? A spawn’s turning is a terrible, terrible thing. Do you remember the gruesome feeling of all life being drained from your body? Because if not—well, that would be most unusual. Did you partake of your sire’s blood? Not that you’d be able to remember that, of course. The usual turning rite is nothing like what you probably experienced. Three bites, delirious pleasure, drinking from your sire: all hallmarks of a vampiric bride’s creation. The dark kiss, they call it. Has your sire ever compelled you? Surely not. You retain your free will, after all, unlike common spawn. And that is my point: the connection needs not be severed for you to leave.

If you ever reconsider my offer, our small settlement in Gillian’s Hill would welcome you with open arms. Some of us are also runaway brides, although none are sunwalkers like yourself, of course. Our community would benefit greatly from your presence. Should you decide to join us, just say the word—I will come to you.

Your friend,

L.I.

The hour of reckoning is upon you.

There he stands, near the entranceway, surrounded by the servants who have come to greet him. He is giving instructions to one of them—you will be hosting another of his infamous soirees soon it seems. Some patriar’s niece has apparently taken a liking to him, puppy love no doubt, an excellent opportunity to make yet another powerful ally. You watch him silently from your position a few feet away, your lady-in-waiting close beside you, and the pit of your stomach tightens every time it seems he is about to turn in your direction. It takes but a few minutes for him to finally acknowledge your presence—his stern gaze immediately softens once he lays eyes on you, the hint of a smile appearing on his lips, and for a moment you almost lose yourself in the gentleness of his expression.

“...Astarion,” you softly say his name, your voice quiet, uncertain. His smile widens as he turns away from the servant and approaches you; the closer he is, the better you can see him, and you can’t help but think of how very handsome he looks in his black waistcoat, embroidered with red spinel gemstones. The overflowing love you feel impossibly warms your chest and causes tears to well up in your eyes at the mere sight of him, yet the creeping guilt haunts you still, impossible to ignore.

“My love,” he coos, bringing his hand to your face and lovingly brushing his fingers against your cheek. You lean into his touch, yet the tenderness is short-lived; with that same hand, he then grabs your neck—his grip firm, but not tight—and leans down to press his mouth to yours while holding you in place. His lips are soft, warm—you close your eyes and try to revel in the comforting feeling of your skin against his, but that too doesn’t last long. He lets you go, smiling still, and tucks a few strands of stray hair that have come undone from your hairdo behind your ear. You look up at him from under thick lashes, trying your best not to lose your composure, yet something in your gaze apparently gives you away. As his eyes meet yours, his smile slowly fades and he raises a brow ever so slightly, puzzled countenance inconspicuous to all but you.

“My lord, would you have the maids prepare the—oof,” you hear your lady-in-waiting start to say, only to be abruptly cut off as she trips over her own feet and bumps into you. Your body sways with the impact, not enough for you to fall, but with just about the force required for your torso to slightly bend over.

Clang.

All those present turn to the source of the metallic sound in the otherwise quiet room, you included, and upon seeing the object that now lays on the floor, so close it almost comes into contact with the tip of your shoe, the already cold blood in your veins congeals into ice—the key. You had hurriedly cleaned it and stuffed it under your petticoat before leaving the study with your lady-in-waiting in tow so you could later get rid of it while no one was watching, yet it seems that plan is now no longer an option. You press your lips together and slowly turn your head to the side, tentatively glancing at your lover, and what you see causes any remnants of color to drain from your already pale face. Any semblance of joy in his expression has completely vanished as his now darkened eyes glare fixedly at the unassuming piece of metal by your feet. Without uttering a word, he leans down and picks it up. The atmosphere is so thick you could cut it with a knife; no one dares break the foreboding silence, and all you can hear is the now painfully loud ticking of the grandfather clock adorning the grand foyer.

“How… curious,” he finally says, voice low, seemingly calm, yet your trained ear can discern the underlying anger. You gulp uncomfortably and wipe your sweaty hands on the skirt of your house dress, eyes never leaving his face, studying every twitch of his muscles. “Has the key to my drawer created a life of its own, I wonder? There can surely be no other explanation. How else would it have made its way here? Unless of course…” he raises his head to meet your stare, and you instinctively recoil at the seething ire building up underneath his otherwise impassive visage, “it had some help.”

“I…” you stutter, your throat completely dry, causing your voice to crack and come out raspy, so hushed it is barely above a whisper. You turn to your lady-in-waiting, brows knitting together in your desperation, but she doesn’t look back at you, coldly avoiding your gaze. All the other servants watch you silently, apprehensively, exchanging knowing glances. “The—the laundry basket. It could have been thrown in there. Transferred from one pocket to the other…” You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, and as a surge of blind panic rises within you, wild and unruly, you start feeling nauseous and light-headed, your trembling knees threatening to give out. “If not that, then—I don’t know… I can’t think of any other reason why I’d have it…”

“Oh?” His fury becoming increasingly more difficult to subdue, the flames of anger now lick through Astarion’s eyes; you can see yourself reflected in them, one of the boons he so lovingly extended to you, and despite knowing how lucky you are for having never been required to let go of your own image, staring back at your pathetic, quivering frame makes you wish for a moment you were like the other spawn, with whom he would refuse to share his ascended blessings—yet as soon as the thought crosses your mind, you shun your own petty egotism, for you know how much he has sacrificed—how much you have both sacrificed—to ensure neither you nor him would have to hide in the shadows ever again. “Is that right? I suppose that could be possible. Except,” he scowls, and you feel all hairs on your body stand on end in anticipation for what you predict will come next, “that doesn’t explain why it smells of your blood, of all things. Does it, darling?”

This is it. You always knew it was pointless to come up with excuses, yet you tried to deceive him anyway, foolishly both underestimating and defying the person whom you were supposed to trust the most. Your eyes ashamedly leave his face and you lower your gaze, not bothering to answer—at this point, there is nothing you could say that would avert or deescalate the situation. You’ve made your bed, and now must lie in it. After all this time, after all you’ve been through, to think you’d still betray him, lie to him; it is despicable, indefensible.

“To the boudoir. Now.” Each word he articulates drips with contempt, the hostility in his voice now undeniable. Your eyes sting as the tears start to form and bead your lashes, blurring your vision. Shame, guilt, fear, regret—the unsightly commingling of emotions comes to a head, making you feel unworthy of even being in his presence.

“I—”

“I was not asking, darling.” He grabs your wrist as he says this, his grasp so strong you’re afraid he may dislocate it. You let out a yelp, and he turns your hand around, exposing the bright red papercut at the base of your thumb, maculating the thin, sensitive skin between it and your palm. It no longer bleeds, but even your enhanced vampiric healing talents have not been enough to allow the still fresh wound to close in the short time that has transpired since it was inflicted upon your flesh. As you anxiously raise your eyes to meet his gaze, your heart sinks at the realization that he is not only furious—he is hurt. He is scared. He is heartbroken.

“Astarion, please—” you try to say, but he doesn’t let you finish, closing his fingers around your upper arm and forcefully dragging you across the foyer. The servants know well not to follow; they say nothing as you both make your way down the main hall, Astarion’s feet heavily striking the ground with every step, and you treading close behind, stumbling and trying to keep pace with him. You’re unsure what to think, unsure what to feel. While he was always prone to outbursts of anger, you have never before seen him react so viscerally to anything—not like this, not even in his most vulnerable moments. You know him better than you know yourself, maybe even better than he knows himself; in the many years you’ve spent in each other’s arms, you have always been able to read his every expression, decipher his every thought—but this, this you don’t understand. It’s novel, foreign, terrifying.

“Astarion…” As the two of you turn a corner, finally no longer within the servants’ line of sight, you try to speak once more, fighting back the tears. “Please…” you whimper, your forlorn supplications going unanswered, unheeded, as if never uttered at all. “Please… you’re hurting me…”

As soon as the words leave your lips, he abruptly stops, and you feel his grip on your arm tighten. When he turns around to face you, you cower at the wrath you had never before seen manifest with such intensity in his eyes, and mixed with it, although less discernible, fear—raw, violent and hellacious. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched, and the loud thumping of his heart sounds like an accusation, a condemnation of your wretched selfishness. It now only beats once more because of you; because of your complacence, your foolishness, your blithering, pitiful neediness. You wanted him to love you, feared that he’d leave you, and while telling yourself it was because you wanted him to be happy, you sentenced him to eternal guilt. All the sacrifice, all the hurt… and now you’d turn your back on him? You’d make light of the bond of trust you had so earnestly forged and nourished throughout the years—the only reason why you both live still?

“I am hurting you?” Astarion hisses through his teeth, letting go of your arm only to use that same hand to fiercely grab your throat and shove you onto the sill of a nearby window, forcing you to lean against it in a half-seated position, yet at the same time cradling the back of your head with his other hand to cushion the impact. “You come uninvited into my study, rummage through my things, lie to me about it—yet I’m the one hurting you? Do you even hear yourself?” He straddles you and brings his face close to yours, his nails digging into your neck, squeezing it to the point of slightly choking you.

“...You—you’re the one who’s lying…” you manage to say between pants and squeaks, for despite having no need to breathe, it is difficult for you to talk or emit any sounds at all with your windpipes crushed under his grasp. “You’ve been lying to me… all this time…” He buries his fingers deeper into your skin, but that doesn’t stop you from finishing, it doesn’t prevent the impending disaster about to strike. “I’m not your spawn… I never was.”

You don’t know what has come over you, but the words are spoken before you can swallow them. Astarion seems as taken aback as you are at your defiance—he looks stunned for a few seconds, yet as soon as he recovers, his eyes narrow and glow with sanguineous intent, a darkness so ghoulish and vile festering deep within them that for a moment, you become genuinely frightened. His hand lets go of your neck to then aggressively pull at the hair on top of your scalp, forcibly tilting your head upwards, and he slams the other on the wall next to the window, entrapping you against it.

“No, darling, you are my spawn. My spawn. Mine. Your body, your mind, your soul, they all belong to me. I’ve made you. You are mine to use however I please,” he growls, spitting each word with viperous malice.

Before you can react to this, or even begin to process what is happening, shock waves are sent through your body in the wake of the lancinating pain that suddenly shoots up your throat as he violently sinks his fangs into the hollow at its base. You let out a soundless gasp and your eyes widen in shock, the tears that had been threatening to fall finally streaming down your cheeks. Him feeding on you is a daily occurrence, something you were supposed to already be entirely used to, but never before had he been so forceful, never before had it hurt this much. He sucks with such vigor and so sloppily that the blood spills from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin and onto the white fabric of your clothes, speckling them red. His fingers remain tangled in your hair, keeping your head in place as he drinks, and your hairdo partly unravels. You are unable to move, unable to speak, unable to think, even, but not unable to feel: you feel shame, you feel guilt, you feel remorse, for betraying him when trust was the only thing you could ever offer, the only thing that was even left.

“I’m sorry…” you lament, your voice so quiet you are unsure if he is even able to hear you, so you say it one more time. And then another. And you keep repeating it, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much effort it takes to voice each word, you apologize again and again hoping your feelings will somehow reach him, hoping he will somehow understand how ashamed you are of yourself, how regretful you feel, how deeply you love him—and you do, you love him, so profoundly that life to you has no meaning without him by your side. If you could breathe, he would be the air in your lungs; if your heart could beat, he would be the lifeblood coursing through your veins. He is your sire, your darling, your master—he is your everything. In hurting him, you hurt yourself, and in breaking his trust, you destroy the very foundation of your existence.

I’m sorry. Forgive me. I love you.

As your crimson runs down his throat, Astarion can feel it. Your anguish. Your sorrow. All of it. He can feel them so intensely, that it’s as if your feelings are his own—and they are, for he too feels scared, he too feels ashamed, he too loves you, just as desperately, just as ardently. He is scared of losing you, ashamed of hurting you, and the love you share has ascended to such heights that it needs not be voiced, it needs not be reaffirmed. Nothing terrifies him as much as the idea of being apart from you, and he’d do anything to keep you close; if that implies lying to you, inflicting pain on you, then he’ll gladly embrace the shame, for he never thought himself worthy of your love to begin with. And despite it all, you’d still have him—you’d still join him in immortality, trust him beyond reason, bow down and accept your position below him, for power is all he has ever known, all that has ever mattered, and wielding power over you is his only way of ensuring you will never be taken from him.

I want you. I need you. Don’t leave me.

The tears you shed fall from your eyes and drip onto Astarion’s face as if wept by him; the sensation brings him back to reality, and as the fog clears, he is relentlessly assailed by the regret welling up within his heart. Finally unlatching his mouth from your neck, he slowly lifts his head up to look into your eyes, releasing his grip on your hair and using the newly freed hand to wipe his lips and chin, which are now smeared with blood—with that same hand, he then cups your cheek, gently brushing his thumb against your skin, and in doing so, painting a red streak across it.

“Forgive me… please forgive me…” you plead between soft sobs, the teardrops uncontrollably pouring and mixing with your crimson. Cupping your cheek still, he uses his other hand to dry the now ruby-colored beads, his caresses ever so tender, ever so gentle. Although the darkness has not entirely faded from his eyes, it is eclipsed by the genuine warmth blooming on their dewy surface. He rests his forehead against yours, sliding his fingers which are now wet from the bloody droplets down your shoulders, gliding them across your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip. His touches are so incredibly delicate, tentative almost, that it’s as if you were made out of porcelain and applying the slightest amount of pressure would cause you to break into a thousand pieces.

“Shh. It’s over, my love. It’s over.” He is so close to you that his breath tickles your face and his lips graze yours as he speaks, the soothing tone of his voice lulling your frenzied mind. After hesitating for a split second, his wandering digits venture further down, toying with the hemline of your dress, hiking the bloodstained fabric up just enough to expose the waxen skin of your thigh, only to then slip under it. A shiver of anticipation runs down your spine, and still unsure what to make of his advances, you let your eyes fall shut, savoring the moment as if waiting for the spell to break, as if the illusion is about to shatter, yet it doesn’t—instead, he finally closes the distance between you, covering your mouth with his and spreading your crimson that still trickles down his jaw all over you both. As you kiss, some of it makes its way onto your tongue, the coppery flavor so very familiar, for your blood is one and the same, and tasting yourself is as if tasting him.

“That's what you want, isn't it? To be mine? Forever?”

His lips never leaving yours, Astarion moves his hand on your cheek to the side of your head so he can run his fingers through your hair, brushing it out of your face, now damp from your blood only as the tears slowly dry. The hand under your dress finds its way to your backside, splaying across its soft curve and slightly lifting you up from the windowsill, supporting your weight as he leans his body into yours to pin you against the glass. You hold onto his shoulders with both of your hands and wrap your legs around his waist to keep yourself from slipping, bringing him closer and pushing his crotch flush against your stomach; doing so allows you to feel the obvious erection under his pants, which you hadn’t yet noticed was there. While this would be a common effect of feeding under other circumstances, it startles you at first, flusters you almost, yet the reason for his sudden wantonness notwithstanding, even if you can’t fully understand it, what you do know is that the two of you may need this just as urgently—to lose yourselves in lust and hunger, feel each other, be reassured that you are both still here, that you are both still real.

Letting out a low groan, he starts leisurely rolling his hips, burying the fully hardened bulge between your thighs. No less eager to touch him, you rock your own in rhythm with his movements, to which your body responds more willingly than what either of you would have anticipated, heat pooling in your abdomen and wetness collecting between your folds, some of which soaks through your underpants—the sweet scent of your budding arousal encourages him to keep going, and the fingers of his hand propping up your behind reach for their waistband, slipping under the lacy fabric and pulling at it. With some effort he is able to get them to slide down a little, but not enough to expose your aching sex; deciding to try a different approach instead, he untangles his other hand from your hair and uses it to pull his own pants down, freeing his already leaking cock. Were this any other day, he would have taken his time teasing you, building you both up to the edge only to pull away at the last minute and start all over again, but not this time. Never before had Astarion’s urgency to take you been this great; never before had he felt like he must make you his as quickly as possible, lest you are forever lost to him.

Lifting up your petticoat to gain access to your still clothed core, he slides his cock under it, your underpants now the only layer separating your flesh from his. You moan against his lips at the sensation, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, slipping his warm tongue inside your partially open mouth. As the petticoat falls back down, he has his freed hand join the other, using both to cradle your ass, his long digits groping and fondling the soft skin. While rolling his tongue over yours, he resumes his hip movements, massaging your dripping slit with his length and squeezing even more slick out of you, drenching the fabric that envelops it in your juices; due to the friction and the wetness, the flimsy piece of cloth starts wrinkling and sliding to the side, revealing more of your swollen folds with each thrust. Noticing this, he tilts his pelvis, angling himself to help push it out of the way, and it doesn’t take long before your skin finally comes into contact with his—once it does, you jerk your hands away from his shoulders to then wrap your arms tightly around his neck, and he avidly sucks on your bottom lip, fighting off the urge to sink his fangs into it, drawing even more of your blood.

Wet as you are, he glides effortlessly along your now partially naked mound, gently nudging your twitching entrance with the velvety tip of his cock, only to then back away slowly, spreading your folds apart and massaging the engorged bud atop them as he moves. Although his pace is languid, you can tell by his small grunts that he is growing more desperate, more impatient; once your mouths unweave, a thin string of saliva forming between your bruised, reddened lips, you are unwittingly sucked into the endless vortex of passion and yearning lurking within his crimson irises, his feelings flooding into your own heart as you lock eyes with him. Without you, there is nothing—without you, he is nothing. He offered you eternal life, and in return, you promised him eternal love; you cannot, you will not back away now. Only by feeling you, tasting you, ruining you can he convince himself that you remain within his reach, that you belong to him still. The intensity of his gaze overwhelms you, yet as you turn your head to the side to avoid it, he brings one of his hands up from under your dress and grasps your chin, forcing it back into its previous position.

“Eyes on me, darling,” Astarion says, his voice soft, but his tone firm, commanding; as if under a spell, you obey unquestioningly, staring back at him as intently as you can manage while he grinds against the raw, sensitive skin of your center, sliding along the wetness between your puffed folds and coating his cock in your sticky essence, the lewd squelching noises that ensue echoing in the empty hallway. Now increasing the tempo of his thrusts, he presses his throbbing cockhead harder and harder against your cunt with every jerk of his hips, threatening to stretch its tight borders open only to then pull back, the agonizing anticipation of it setting your nerves on fire. The coiling tension in your abdomen grows tauter by the minute, begging for release, and you can no longer feel the searing pain of the gaping wound on your neck, your mind shamelessly burdened with naught but thoughts of him—of how much you love him, how much you want him, how desperately you need him inside you, buried soul-deep, filling you to the brim.

His appetites mirror your own, for he too craves nothing more than to have you wrapped around him, ready and primed for him to use however he wishes, for you are his, and that is his prerogative—but first, he would have you come undone, watch as you crumble into nothing at his behest. Without ever breaking eye contact, not wanting to miss a second of your unraveling, he pounds into the outer edges of your entrance with ever increasing furor, dipping his cockhead deeper within it each time, while simultaneously holding back the overwhelming urge to stuff you full in a single thrust. He can tell you are close, so close; as you have not fed since morning, the color of your flushed cheeks is not nearly as bright as it would have otherwise been, but he can still hear it—what little remains of your cold blood rushing through your veins, frantically flowing to your face and cunt, puffing up your skin and painting it a pale pink.

You’re a vision like this, parted lips reddened with dried blood, half-lidded eyes curtained by long wet lashes, nipples pebbling under the thin chiffon of your bodice; his pretty consort, his sweet spawn, his good girl, so foolishly trusting, so naively kind. When did he lose sight of you? When did your blind devotion turn into treacherous cynicism? When did the desire to bring you to heel consume him, when did the darkness within start to take hold? As these thoughts sweep through his mind, Astarion forfeits all self-control—he needs to feel you, deeper, closer; conquer your soul, dominate your body, devour you whole. He plunges into you without warning, reveling in the feeling of your tight cunt fluttering and contracting around his cock, creaming and coating him in your sweet come, as having him finally buried deep inside you pushes you over the edge of your release. You shut your eyes close and let your head fall back, only for him to firmly grab your jaw and force it up again, intent on having you face him as you dissolve into pleasure.

“Beautiful,” he purrs, the look in his eyes expressing adoration and subjugation in equal measure. “My sweet girl. My good girl.” Holding your jaw still, he slides in and out of your spasming slit without giving you time to recover from your orgasm, and the pain from the overstimulation overlaps with the high of the afterglow—rather than shun the sensation, you welcome it, for its paradoxical nature at once grounds and comforts you; the greater the pain, the more intensely you can feel him, the more entangled your souls become. The fingers of the hand still holding your ass tighten their grip, pushing your hips against his, tilting them to allow his cock to sink as deeply within you as possible. Although he refuses to avert his gaze, looking upon you with bone-chilling fierceness, the sweat beading his forehead and the growing fervor of his lust-ridden expression give away his ascent to his own rapture. To him, there is no greater bliss than feeling you clench around him as he massages your slickened walls, his velvety tip ever so slightly brushing against the spongy skin of your cervix with every thrust. He belongs inside you, and you belong to him; your body is more his than yours, your heart less yours than his.

“All mine,” he grunts between ragged breaths, the thought of you completely submitting to him, letting yourself be ravaged and debauched for his pleasure alone racing through Astarion’s mind as he reaches his climax, spilling himself all over your walls and flooding you with his warm seed. His hand that had been keeping your jaw in place lets go of it to then splay across the side of your face, affectionately caressing your cheek, and he finally lets his eyes wander away from yours, lowering his head to nuzzle into the crook of your neck while basking in his release; yet the moment is short-lived, for once he catches sight of the still bleeding mess right below his nose, two crimson gashes carved on the pale skin of your throat, his mind suddenly freezes and his gorge rises. All his—but at what cost? Was this what you wished for? Was this what he wished for? You agreed to eternity, accepted your share of the burden, became his of your own volition; but doesn’t a toy become useless once it’s broken? Doesn’t love turn into hate once it’s ruined? He knew the time would come when you’d finally see him for who he truly is, when the pathetic, repulsive rot festering under the husk of shallow charm would be laid bare before you, but why now, when he had gathered enough power to offer you the world and everything in it? Was not even that enough to keep you by his side? Feeling you squirm under him, hearing your pained whimpers and tearful pleas—he was not supposed to take joy in any of it, yet his body would betray his mind as he drained you dry. The more you pull away, the more his obsession grows; the more you try to escape, the less you are likely to get away. So why would you reject a fate you had once embraced? Were you his obedient girl no longer? Would you doom yourself, doom your love, let the dam in his living heart burst and the murky waters within consume you, him, and all in their wake?

“I already have everything. Except you by my side.”

You wince as Astarion pulls out of you, the sensitive flesh of your core now red and tender, slathered with his thick come, which runs down your entrance and onto your thighs. Raising his head back up, he brings his face close to yours, tenderly pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth, his hand on your cheek lingering for a moment before making its way downwards, sliding under your petticoat and reaching for the space between your legs. Once his fingers come into contact with your still exposed wetness, you instinctively roll your hips into the long digits, eliciting a faint smile from him; however, rather than indulging you, he grasps the wrinkled fabric of your underpants, so drenched they have stayed put on your groin ever since being pushed there, and smoothens it as best as he can to cover your dripping sex. Planting another kiss on your bloodstained skin and lovingly rubbing his forehead and nose against yours, he uses that same hand to tuck his softening cock back inside his pants; with one last peck on your temple, he then moves his other hand away from its place on your rear to wrap both of his arms around your waist, hoisting you up. No longer pinned against the glass, legs still around his midriff and arms around his neck, you tighten your grip on him to keep yourself from falling, leaning your upper body forward and resting your chin on his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he coos, bringing one of his hands up to cradle your head and affectionately run his fingers through your hair. Backing away from the window, he then turns around and sets off towards the living quarters, all the while carrying you as if you were unable to walk on your own. Not bothering to question his reasons, you close your eyes, intent on enjoying his uncharacteristic gentleness while it lasts and surrendering to the overwhelming allure of his warmth, his scent, his soothing touch and the soft thumping of his heart, which you can feel with your chest flush against his, as if it beats for the two of you. The familiar aegis of his embrace offers solace and protection in equal measure, and for however long he holds you, you feel safe, you feel loved, and nothing else matters—not the guilt, not his darkness, not your selfishness.

“Astarion…”

You whisper his name as if chanting a mantra, not really for any other purpose than to comfort yourself. The throbbing pain on your neck, the unpleasant sensation of your fluids and his drying on your thighs, the blood all over your face, hair and clothes; somehow, you care about none of it while in his arms, feeling your body rock gently as he moves, the world an endless void behind your shut eyelids. Before the moment ends, it’s just you and him, him and you—no souls weighing down on either of you other than your own, no phantoms from the past lingering in your memory, no outside voices joining in the chorus and challenging your undying love. The voices within remain, however, loud as ever, questioning if you’ve been forgiven, pondering if you’d even deserve it; while he has yet to let go, they have no power over you, but you’re no stranger to the ephemeral nature of his tenderness. Be that as it may, what scares you more than anything are not the loud accusations echoing on the surface, but rather the quiet murmurs rousing in the depths of your heart—those suggesting that time will erode his essence, stripping him off everything but the desire to consume you.

“I’m willing to share all of this with you. What’s that, if not love?”

“Bring me clean towels and lukewarm water. Make it quick.” His voice sounds muffled as you drift in and out of consciousness, and for the first time you notice you can’t feel the tips of your fingers, the blood loss clearly too great a challenge for even your undead body to overcome. The servant whom he is addressing answers something you can’t quite make out, and with a reverent nod, turns away and takes her leave. You slightly open your eyes to get your bearings, and the first thing you see once they adjust to the sudden brightness is the ornately hand-carved frame surrounding the door to your private chambers, its gilded accents glinting in the light of the candelabra, left behind you as Astarion makes his way further inside the room. Upon reaching the grand canopy bed, draped with opulent velvet curtains, he gently lays you down onto the soft mattress, using the hand still tangled in your hair to support your head. The instant you part with his warm touch, the ever constant coldness of death seeps through your skin, its icy tendrils grazing the fringes of your soul; the sudden loss is, however, somewhat subdued when he then circles the bed and sits down by your side, bringing his fingers to your face to glide their soft pads across your brow, studying your features in reflective silence.

“My lord.” No sooner has she left than the servant is back with a pile of plush cotton towels in her arms, one of your handmaidens following close behind, carrying a wooden wash tub that looks far too heavy for her scrawny frame. You prick up your ears at the sound of the familiar voice, and upon discreetly raising your eyes to take a better look at her, you recognize said servant as none other than your lady-in-waiting; it strikes you as no mere coincidence that she’d been waiting for your arrival with the necessary provisions ready, but you decide not to dwell on it. Likewise, there is no effort on her part to acknowledge you as she sets the towels on the eiderdown duvet, gesturing to the handmaiden to put the wash tub down near the bed.

“Leave us,” Astarion says, addressing them both yet not for a moment letting his eyes drift away from yours. Each gives a brief curtsy before doing as told, carefully closing the door behind them on their way out. Once they’re gone, he reaches out for the towel on top of the pile and dips one of its edges in the clear water inside the tub, letting it soak for a few seconds before pulling it back out. Remaining silent and with his gaze fixed upon you, he then brings the now drenched cloth to his own face and rubs it against his mouth and chin, removing the crimson still spattered over his skin with relative ease. You timidly meet his stare from under thick lashes, feeling a bit faint, your limbs heavy and numb from the lack of blood within your veins.

“...Astarion,” you tentatively call for him, your voice so low you wonder for a moment if he is even able to hear you at all; rather than answering you, he places a finger on your lips, hushing you gently. His jaw now rid of stains, he lays the bloodied towel aside and grabs another, soaking it as he did the first, only this time, he presses it to your cheek instead. The damp fabric feels soft and warm against your gelid complexion, and he dabs at it so delicately, so soothingly, that you find yourself leaning into his touch. Your eyelids start threatening to fall shut again, your mind bereft of all thought, but just as you are about to nod off, he starts speaking, snapping you out of your torpor.

“I never lied to you. Not really.” As the words leave his lips, Astarion’s eyes darken with an intensity you can’t quite make sense of. Deeming your face to be satisfactorily clean, he lowers the towel to massage the pale skin of your throat, letting his gaze wander away from yours to rest upon the grisly puncture marks left by his own fangs. “You are my spawn. My creation. Born from my blood,” he says, the softness in his voice contrasting with the sobriety of his words and the somberness of his expression. After pausing for a moment, not so much out of hesitation as to stall the inevitable, he continues, finally unearthing that which had been hidden for so long with confounding casualness, the revelation likely to have gone by unnoticed if meant for slightly less attentive ears. “My consort—my bride.”

Neither of you utter another word in the minutes that follow. He remains focused on your neck, undoing the top buttons of your bodice to gain better access to it, thus baring your shoulders and collarbone, carefully patting the towel around the ruptured flesh and wiping the encrusted blood off its swollen borders. You, on the other hand, can do anything but focus, unable to process what has just been exposed or the significance of it. Your body is like a doll’s under his; you do not blink, muscles stiffened and chest unmoving, an inanimate object with no will of its own—but you do have a will of your own, do you not? If the letter is to be given any credence to, then wouldn’t the implication be that he let you believe that he could control you when he in fact could not? And if so—what were you to call it then, if not a lie? Did he not trust you to stay? (Had he no trust in your bond?) Was that the source of his fear? (Were you the source of his fear?)

“Is it true, then?” you hear yourself ask, your mouth moving on its own as you let the surge of emotion guide your actions in the absence of coherent thought. “Can you really not compel me? Am I free to do as I please?” Despite the quiet pitch of your voice, and although it trembles ever so faintly, there is a hint of what Astarion can only discern as resentment laced with it. He suddenly stops moving, the now red towel in his hands still pressed against your skin, remaining motionless for a moment before slowly raising his head to lock eyes with you—and there it is again, that raw, visceral dread, only this time masked with a thin veil of arrogance.

“Oh, sweet thing. Shouldn’t you know it by now?” His lips slightly curl into a humorless smile, voice smooth as silk, yet the words are spoken with deliberate inflection, eerily measured and dangerously sharp. He discards the towel, having it join the other, and casts a predatory gaze upon you, leaning down until the tip of his nose is only inches apart from yours. Bringing both of his hands to your face, he then gently cups your cheeks, fondly caressing them with his thumbs. “I’m the Vampire Ascendant, bound by no such petty rules. That some meddling busybody would underestimate me is not surprising, but I expected more from my good girl.” To your disconcert, although he says this, glimmers of affection peek through the shadows lurking within his eyes. “I’ve spoiled you.”

You look up at him in confusion, brows lowered and drawn together, trying and yet failing to read his expression. The smile stays on his lips for a moment, but before long, any warmth in his countenance suddenly vanishes. Your heart sinks to the bottom of your stomach in anticipation, your body’s primal response signaling the imminent threat, but like a mouse caught in a trap, you are helpless, pinned under him in more ways than one. As you lose yourself in the ruby red pools of his irises, the subtle scent of his cologne, that intoxicating brew of bergamot, rosemary and brandy, grows stronger and more concentrated, filling your nose and wafting down your throat. And then, you feel it—a tingling sensation in your fingers, climbing up your arms, spreading to your ribs and chest. It builds up, intensifies, until it is no longer tingling, but shooting pain, radiating outwards in searing waves. Your every muscle screams in protest, throbbing and burning and aching, but when you try to move your limbs, you find them unresponsive; neither can you open your mouth when you try to scream, not even close your eyes once you feel them brim with tears, which then roll down your temples.

“Ah—ah…!”

“Shh. Don’t fight it, my love. It’ll be over soon.” Astarion says as he softly dries the falling droplets with his thumbs, the words slipping from his pretty lips in dulcet whispers. Once you heed his advice and stop struggling, the pain subsides—you remain, however, a passenger in your own body, unable to do anything but stare into his eyes. Within them, the fear still lingers, but it no longer muddies its bloody waters, suppressed by the confidence now sprouting in their depths; and that’s when you notice that this is to him as much of a novelty as it is to you. Despite his haughtiness, he couldn’t have been sure that it would work, for he had never attempted such a feat before. But alas, any concerns prove now unfounded—you are, and were always his thrall. His puppet bride, subject to his every whim.

“My dark consort. My right hand. My most beloved spawn.”

The compulsion persists for no more than a few minutes, but once he finally loosens his hold on you, it feels as if it’s been hours since last your body was yours to command. With a loud gasp, sucking in the air desperately as if your undead lungs would have any use for it, you are back in control, for what that’s even worth now. Pressing his forehead to yours, he hushes you tenderly, breathing words of comfort as if soothing your unrest after a bad dream. Tears continue pouring from your eyes even as they fall shut, yet the source of your grief is unclear; your mind is, however, in too great a turmoil to allow you to sort out your feelings, so you try to focus on his touch instead, yielding to it as he moves one of his hands from its place on your cheek to lovingly brush your hair away from your face. Regardless, the moment lasts only for so long—once you are no longer as agitated, he pulls away, his expression undecipherable, an uncanny blend of darkness and placidity, dolefulness and sobriety.

“Pay attention, my dear, for this is an offer I will make but once,” he says, the danger in his voice underlying its velvety slickness, reflecting the ambiguous glint in his eyes. As you open your own, you see him take and soak another towel from the pile, which he then brings to your neck to continue removing the dried blood, by now almost completely gone from your skin, yet staining your clothes still. “Freedom. That’s what you wish for, isn’t it?” Smiling bitterly, he undoes the remaining buttons of your bodice, exposing the narrow valley between your breasts, yet his gaze remains drawn to the fresh set of bite marks on your throat; he seems distracted for a moment, but soon enough, his lips continue moving, the tone with which he speaks taking on a deceptively poised quality. “Say the word and I shall unmake our bond. Refuse, and resign to your fate as my eternal spawn.”

Astarion doesn’t look your way even as he tells you this, focusing on the wound still—a manifestation of his inner demons, the sigil of a man who chose to fully embrace the shadows, and whose only remaining light he now tries to dim. Oh, how he wishes the illusion would have lasted forever; you in his arms, eternally his, a bird singing beautifully in its gilded cage. Not clipping your wings was his biggest mistake, for he had always feared that sooner or later, you’d give into the desire to soar high, leave him to waste away, consumed by power and shame. So now he opens the cage himself, before you lose your voice, before the song is silenced. He wants to see it, he needs to see it—hear your denial, feel your rejection, taste your betrayal. Whether he means what he says is inconsequential, for he himself knows not the answer to that; his wish is but to have you confirm what he already understands to be true, so that he may finally snuff out that trembling flame and surrender to lonesome oblivion.

Your answer to him is, however, nothing but silence; having by now wiped most of the stains off your neck area, he straightens his torso, and his eyes finally make their way back to yours—which, to his astonishment, are not only misty and glistening with the tears still pooling in their corners and flowing down your cheeks, but wide and unblinking, unrelenting terror etched across your face. Terror? Why terror? No, no, this makes no sense. Is he to believe you’re crying tears of happiness? Could these be complicated feelings surfacing now that you’ve finally been given that which you’d always wished for? Freedom—that is what you wish for, surely? He never doubted your love, for he could feel it just as you could feel his, but he did question whether just love would be enough to keep you by his side, whether even a love as real as yours would stand the test of time. Never had he been able to understand your love for him, but he knew it to be true, and he would protect it in whatever way he could; as the Ascendant, there was very little he could not do, thus taking away your freedom was the obvious course of action. And yet, now that he offers it back, you react not with relief or gratitude, but terror?

“I would sooner die again,” you finally say, voice quiet and strained, raw emotion pouring from your every word. Astarion stares at you in complete shock, frozen in place, and time seems to come to a standstill while each of you wait for the other to break the silence. As he disconcertedly studies your face, trying to make sense of your unexpected fretfulness, a realization dawns on him—are you perhaps afraid of spending eternity by yourself? Is it not his promise of making you into a full vampire, independent of its creator, but rather the prospect of total separation that upsets you so? That must be it, that has to be it—why else would the offer of freedom, that which has always driven him, the ultimate goal, sound so appalling to your ears? Although it is no less surprising that you wouldn’t use your newfound autonomy to turn your back on him at the first opportunity, as far as his proposal is concerned, this is but a misunderstanding; he should clarify, then.

“You—”

Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.

Your words ring in Astarion’s ears as if spoken by you, yet your quivering lips remain sealed. Hah! How quaint, that such an ability would manifest now. As your thoughts flow from you to him, he notices you don’t seem to be aware that you are speaking into his mind. Of course not, why would you? He had kept the nature of your bond a secret, and thus, your mental connection was too concealed. Oftentime you’d unwittingly let your inner voice seep into his head, but never had you noticed, and never had he brought it to your attention. It feels invasive, peeking into your heart when you haven’t let him in, but he can’t help himself, for he needs to know; he needs to be certain that this is what you want, that this is the fate you’ve chosen, no matter how grim, no matter how hopeless.

I promise I’ll be good. I need you. Please.

Raising your upper body into a seated position, you reach for his arm, and your fingers tentatively grasp at the sleeve of his shirt. You can’t bring yourself to voice your feelings, yet you hope that the earnestness in your tear-filled eyes somehow is enough to convince him of your sincerity, for the thought alone of having your souls ripped asunder horrifies you. You had accepted your circumstances once, and you’d do so again—bearing the guilt and remaining his spawn for the rest of your days is too low a price to pay for his freedom, for his life, for him. All for him. It always was, it always will be. You failed him once; not again. Never again. For however long he’ll have you, you’ll remain by his side, pay your penance, atone for your sins, love him with all of you, body, mind and soul, until there’s nothing left but dust and blood.

As the confusion in his eyes gives way to gentle warmth, Astarion brings one of his hands to your face, tenderly cradling it and brushing his long fingers against the damp skin. After letting go of the towel which he had been holding still, he leans forward, pausing for a moment to meet your weepy gaze before pressing his pillowy lips to yours, and relief washes over you like a balm. You relax your muscles which you hadn’t noticed were tensed until now, and although you have yet to stop crying, the salty droplets are no longer an expression of fear and regret, but of succor and deliverance. Timidly starting with a sequence of soft, chaste pecks, the kiss gradually becomes more sensual, more passionate, and soon you feel his tongue flick at your bottom lip, asking for passage. Once you comply, he begins eagerly exploring the inside of your mouth, the digits of his other hand running through your hair as he tastes you, unweaving what still remains of your hairdo and letting the tresses fall over your shoulders. Longing to be as close to him as physically possible, you tighten your grip on his sleeve, lovingly nuzzling your nose and cheeks against his, and in doing so, making them wet with your tears.

Kissing you still, he untangles his fingers from your now freed locks and splays his hand across the small of your back, using his body weight to gently pin you down until you are both lying on the mattress, him on top of you. The hand on your cheek leaves it to reach for the last towel in the pile, which he then blindly soaks in the water remaining within the wash tub; your skin now completely rid of bloodstains, he sticks it under your petticoat instead, bringing it to your groin and tugging at your underpants with one of his digits. This time successfully managing to get them to slide down enough to gain access to your wetness, he delicately presses the soaked cloth to it, eliciting a soft mewl from you. All the while massaging your mouth with his, he rubs the towel up and down the still tender flesh of your sex, thus removing the remnants of earlier activities, yet at the same time nudging your slowly swelling clit with every stroke. Feeling the familiar tautness building up low in your belly, you roll your hips into his hand, squeezing your thighs together and clenching them around his arm, any pretenses of playing coy completely discarded as you helplessly plead for his touch.

Rather than mess around with you like he would on any other occasion, Astarion yields, and as two of his fingers feel up and circle the now twitching bundle of nerves through the wet fabric, another slides further down and rims your slickened entrance. You wantonly whimper against his lips, wrapping both of your arms around his neck, and his hand on your back makes its way to the front of your torso to unfasten the lacing keeping your unbuttoned bodice in place, thus revealing your breasts and stomach. As soon as they come into view, his skilled digits quickly find one of your hardened nipples, pinching and playing with the swollen nub as his tongue continues hungrily swirling around yours and his hand between your legs fondles your aching arousal, coaxing pants and all sorts of cute noises out of you.

“Sing for me, little bird,” he breaks the kiss to purr the words in your ear, fangs gently grazing your earlobe. You readily do as told, moaning and whining with your drying eyes closed, teardrops no longer escaping through your long lashes, and his face creases into a smuggish smile as he watches you writhe and squirm. Once he withdraws both of his hands, you let out a displeased sigh, in response to which his smile widens; finally tossing aside the towel, he then leans back to finish undressing you, and as you help him peel off both your dress and undergarments, you suddenly notice neither of you are wearing shoes, though you can’t recall at which point they were lost. Tucking a hand inside his own pants, he pulls out his cock, still partially soft but rapidly hardening again, yet there seems to be no intention on his part of removing the rest of his clothes, a fact which neither of you seem to mind—if he would rather have you naked and exposed before him, then so be it; if he finds strength in your vulnerability, then you won’t deny it to him, for his comfort is your atonement, even if it costs you your dignity.

“You wouldn't just be some spawn—you’re far more than that to me.”

“Come, pretty vampling,” Astarion beckons, intertwining his fingers with yours and helping you rise to his level. Once you are both sitting up and facing each other, he tenderly kisses the back of your hand, letting go of it to then wrap his strong arms around your waist and pull your chest flush against his, squishing your soft breasts between your bodies. After planting a loving peck on your brow and affectionately rubbing your noses together, he then slightly cocks his head to the side, exposing the smooth skin of his neck, marked only by two shallow indentations, so similar, yet so different from your own. It takes you no more than that to realize what he means, and you gingerly press your mouth to a blue artery pulsating right under his jawline, looking up at him demurely with lamblike eyes, as if waiting for his approval. With an affable simper, he brings one of his hands up to cradle the back of your scalp, which you understand as an assent; parting your rosy lips, you thus brush your fangs against the throbbing vein, only to then sink them into the sensitive flesh, as gently and carefully as possible. He groans at the sensation, not from pain, but pleasure, and you feel him lightly tug at your hair.

His blood tastes rich and angular on your tongue, and your hazy mind slowly clears as the thick crimson starts spreading to your extremities. You suck so delicately that he can barely feel your fangs piercing his neck—instead, he feels the plushness of your lips, the softness of your curves, the heat irradiating from your cold pale skin as it turns warm and flushed. He hugs you tighter, yearning to have you pressed even closer against him, letting out low grunts and quiet moans as you drink, his cock now fully hardened into an angry, painful erection. Bringing both of his hands down to your ass, he firmly squeezes your buttocks and slightly lifts up your body to sit you on his lap; following his lead, you position yourself while feeding still, bending your knees to support your weight on them and lining up your entrance with his leaking tip. However, instead of immediately lowering your hips, you start languidly rocking them back and forth, burying the engorged cockhead between your folds and coating it in your juices.

“Oh, you cheeky brat…” he says, yet the playful tone of his voice encourages you to keep going, even if from your position you can’t see the matching expression on his face, eyes closed and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Gods, you feel good…” His fingers press down harder on the supple skin of your behind, and his crimson takes on a sweeter flavor the more aroused he becomes; as it flows to your center, your rouged clit too grows tumescent with desire, slick dripping from your needy cunt. Setting an agonizingly sensual pace to your rhythmic movements, you bring your hands up to rest on his shoulders, a trail of red escaping from your lips and running down your chin. You can feel his cockhead twitching madly as you engulf it in your wet heat, hungering for the tightness of your walls, but the blood high emboldens you, and you continue stubbornly refusing to give in, even if you want nothing more than to have him stuff you full.

Astarion has, however, only so much patience, and being on the receiving end of teasing doesn’t sit well with him; once he feels the tip of his cock nudge the borders of your slit, he tightens his grip on your ass and yanks your body down, stretching your entrance open and sinking you to about half of his length. You unlatch your mouth from his neck and yelp in surprise, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders, but before you can say anything, he crashes his lips into yours, lapping at the blood staining them red. While you kiss, he gives you time to adjust, and his hands move up to your waist, his touch at once firm and gentle. Despite the pain of the sudden intrusion, being filled with him is pure bliss, and as your walls accommodate his size, you start almost imperceptibly undulating your hips, although the slight friction serves only to fan the flames of your desire. Upon taking notice of your shy grinding, he eggs you on, pulling you downwards with only about enough force to encourage you to follow suit. Not willing to hold back any longer, you eagerly comply, lowering your rear until you are fully seated on him, buttocks pressed against his thighs. Stifling a groan, he nips at your bottom lip and sucks on the ruby droplets seeping from the small lesion, your taste indistinguishable from his own. If you’d give yourself to him, then he shall unapologetically take that which he is owed; from the marrow in your bones to the crimson flowing through your veins, you are wholly his to consume.

“You're the one that I want—the one that I love.”

“Hnng—Astarion…” you moan his name as your mouths come apart, so sweetly that it stirs up in him the urge to again sink his fangs into your flesh. Yet he doesn’t; instead, he bucks his hips upwards, prodding your cervix with his cockhead, and an amused glint appears in his eyes as you react with a high-pitched squeal. Trying to hide the blush spreading across your face, you lean forward, resting your chin on the curve between his neck and shoulder, warm cheek pressed to his, and biting back a whimper, you timidly start sliding yourself up and down his cock. With your ear so close to his mouth, you can hear the soft grunts and shallow pants slipping from his lips whenever he disappears into you, the lewdness of it setting ablaze the waves of fire seething under your skin. Your leisure gait doesn’t last long, and you ride him more energetically with each bob of your body, which he reciprocates by burying his fingers deeper into your waist and pulling you down harder, feeling the pert nubs of your plump breasts brush against his chest as they bounce.

“You’re doing so well, little love,” Astarion says while peppering kisses across the delicate skin of your neck, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. You can feel him pulsing inside you, bulging veins vibrating against your gummy walls as they are distended to their limit the stiffer he becomes. “Such a good pup for me, taking me so nicely,” he coos, bringing one of his hands to your navel, gliding the pads of his digits along the soft curve of your stomach and towards the ache throbbing in your crotch, where he then grasps your flushed clit between two deft fingers, massaging the tender knot with seasoned adroitness. The sound of smacking flesh grows louder as he pushes against your hips with his own, and you sink down his cock with greater abandon the more you approach the peak of ecstasy, your body glistening with sweat and burning red with his crimson.

“Ah! I’m—close…” you stutter, your voice trembling as you work your thigh muscles with even greater ardor, letting go of his shoulders to lean back on your outstretched palms. With the fingers of his hand wedged between your legs, he continues stroking the rose-pink bud crowning your mound, moving the other from its place on your waist to gently squeeze one of your breasts, teasing the puckered nipple with his thumb. While watching you lose yourself in the rising crescendo of your release, he accidentally lets his gaze wander to the wound on your throat; promptly averting it, he chooses to focus instead on the luscious expression etched on your pretty face, his lifeblood blooming under your cheeks and nose—the moment you lock eyes with him, the tension finally snaps, and you buckle your elbows as your arms go limp, walls spasming around him and creamy pearls of come leaking from your stretched entrance.

Spellbound by your cock-drunk image, Astarion pushes you down on the bed without warning, and cradling your face with both of his hands, pulls you into a lustful kiss, forcing your mouth open with his tongue. Still high off your climax, you don’t resist, obediently parting your lips, arms wrapped around his neck and legs around his waist. Shoving his thighs against the back of yours, he bends them into a mating press, and wasting no time, starts ferociously thrusting deep into you, setting a brutal pace; your walls contract and twitch around his enlarged girth, the ripples of your orgasm yet to peter out, making vulgar sucking noises as you swallow him whole. He moans into the kiss with every roll of his hips, blood buzzing in his ears and heart pounding violently inside his chest, fucking you greedily, indulgently, minding his own pleasure and naught else. Your body sways weightlessly like a ragdoll’s each time the base of his cock strikes your groin, but you care not about his rough treatment of you, for nothing brings you greater elation than knowing you can make him feel this way.

“So tight…” he growls with his mouth still pressed against yours, his voice muffled and breathy. Propping his torso up with one of his arms, he brings the hand of the other to your throat, squeezing it firmly, and pulls away to admire his handiwork, a dark intensity blazing within his eyes. “Oh, darling, you look so precious with my fingers around your neck.” His silvery curls fall over his brow as he says this, tousled and dripping with sweat, his appearance at once statuesque and animalistic. He ruts into you in a disorderly fray, his movements messy and sloppy as they usually are in the short moments preceding the culmination of his desire, and with one last powerful thrust, he empties himself inside your fucked out cunt, feeling your fluttering walls clench around him, milking him to the last drop.

“Sweet gods…” Slumping down on top of you, he embraces your sore body and buries his face in your hair, taking in your scent as his cock continues convulsing inside your raw, tender slit, hardened still. Filled with him and his seed, nestled in his arms, you feel comfortably full, warm, safe. Your eyes fall shut, tiredness suddenly overtaking your weary mind, and although erratic thoughts run through it, you hold onto none of them, deciding to just for today, just for this night, turn a blind eye to all implications, all the ill omens, and let yourself be; be by his side, be his spawn, be his bride forever more.

As you drift off into a dreamless sleep, lulled by the gentle sound of his heartbeat, oblivion tenderly cradles you against its merciful bosom, and the clarity of the precipice of unconsciousness rips your burdens from your soul and makes your every worry seem so futile, so meaningless. Your fate is inevitable, as certain as death itself, and following the precepts of life is a vain undertaking, for they are not the same as those ruling over undeath. Astarion knows this; so should you. Existence is transient, but his dark love is everlasting.

There is a light in every living thing. It’s crawling t’wards the surface to survive. And in its wake, it tramples everything. We’ll kill the rest, so that the one can thrive.

#personal #astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 fic #bg3 #ascended astarion #lord astarion #astarion smut #astarion x female reader #astarion x you #astarion x reader #ascended astarion x reader #tavstarion #fic: death and his maiden #my fics

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rea-grimm · 6 months ago

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Three demons are enough - Mihawk, Shanks, Buggy

As a child, you ate the devil's fruit, allowing you to see what others could not. See demons.

It happened a little after you befriended two boys who were a few years older than you were. However, they took you in for the time and taught you a lot of things. Plus, you had many adventures with them.

But that was in the past, many years ago. Now you were a runaway. A pirate with your crew. You even had a pact with a demon.

But now you traveled without him, since you had a fight. The demon was temperamental and something similar was afoot. But he was never gone for very long. Always just for a few days. You wore his mark and the symbol of your agreement on your shoulder in bright blue.

After a long sail, you and the ship finally reached the island where you decided to stay for a few days. You wanted the crew to rest and regain their strength for the next voyage.

You were walking through the streets thinking about your next steps, where to sail, what you would need, etc. when you passed a man. Normally, there would be nothing interesting about this if the man wasn't a demon.

Plus, it wasn't like you saw a demon every third step. No, you didn't. They rarely appeared among humans, and most of the time it didn't mean anything good.

As you passed the may, your gazes met for a moment and you looked into his golden eyes. That eye contact lasted for a second or so before you went your separate ways. Or so you thought.

The demon turned behind you and watched you as you walked on. After all, it wasn't every day that a mere mortal got to know what he really was.

As you walked through the city, you noticed several wanted posters with your image on them. You put your cape over your head to make yourself more recognizable, but it was too late.

At your heels were bounty hunters, trying to appear inconspicuous, who followed you almost across the city, waiting for the right moment.

You wanted to shake them off, and when you turned the corner, you took off running. Just as you crossed the street, however, three more hunters confronted you and prevented you from escaping. You were trapped. Nothing you couldn't handle.

On the other side, you were cut off by the ones following you, and you were at a distinct disadvantage. You were ready to defend yourself when someone else joined you. That someone walked calmly up to you and you recognized the demon from before. But the others saw him as an ordinary human.

The bounty hunters didn't care at all and rather pounced on you. Before they could get close enough to hurt you, however, the demon drew his black sword and within moments, almost everyone was lying dead on the ground.

The demon then walked over to you, and at one point you were worried about what it was going to do. You were kind of expecting an attack or whatever, just not that he tipped his hat to you and took your hand gently.

"They won't bother you anymore," he said, kissing the back of your hand.

"I... thank you..." you finally said, since you had no idea what to do. This was the first time this had ever happened to you. Finally, you slipped your hand out of his and thanked him once more before walking away. The demon didn't hold you in any way and just watched you like a hawk.

Ever since that incident, you felt like the demon was watching you every step of the way. He made no secret of his presence, but he never once sought contact with you. He just watched you like a predator watches its prey.

You stayed in the city for a few more days before the posse log finally set. During those days, you often explored the city, and of course, the demon was on your tail. Sure, it had a certain advantage that no bounty hunter could get at you.

One day, however, you'd had enough and decided to talk to the demon. You headed in his direction, wondering why he was following you.

You caught him off guard and he measured you with his gaze before answering you. He didn't know many people like you who could just see his kind. Almost no one, actually. You were interesting in his eyes. That was why he wanted to protect you and find out more.

But you weren't sure that was a good idea. You already had a pact with a demon who was jealous of even ordinary people.

The golden-eyed demon understood your reticence and instead asked if he could travel by your side. You had already agreed to this and so Mihawk, as you later found out the demon's name, joined your crew. Or rather, your bodyguard of sorts.

As before, Mihawk accompanied you every step of the way, only now he walked by your side. He behaved like a perfect gentleman. But you had no idea that was his way of courting.

Once again, you set out to sea with Mihawk at your side. You were in your cabin studying the charts when Mihawk brought you a cup of tea. You thanked him and continued to study the maps.

The demon remained there, however, and when you asked him if he needed anything he got down on one knee in front of you and took your hand. He then asked if you would make a pact with him and at that moment he revealed his true form.

Since it had been a while since he had travelled with you and the demon you had the original pact with was still nowhere in sight. Moreover, you had slowly developed a soft spot for him. For that reason, you finally agreed.

You saw the look on his face as his eyes lit up at that and he smiled contentedly before he brought your hand to his mouth and kissed the back of your hand. A dark red demonic contract mark appeared where he kissed you, the center of it golden.

You didn't cover the demonic marks on your body aboard your ship, but when there was a risk of someone else seeing them, you covered them. For the first mark, you were lucky it was on your shoulder where no one would normally see it. And you covered Mihawk's mark with your gloves.

From this point on, the demon spent a lot more time with you, and was at almost every step you took, being much more attentive than before.

Everything on board had sort of calmed down, and you had some time to do your work. You studied the maps and traced your route while Mihawk sat in the opposite chair, reading the latest newspaper.

Among the maps, you noticed a rolled-up piece of parchment that already looked old. You picked it up and unfolded it. The ink was smudged in places, but it looked like a map of an island.

The demon put the paper down, walked over to you and peered over your shoulder. He had a bad feeling about this. He felt a strange familiar demonic energy in the paper.

You turned to him and decided you believed him. You were about to fold the scroll again when you touched the drawn island.

The moment your fingers touched the map, everything around you blurred and it was as if you were inside the map. You were standing on what you thought was a deserted island until you heard a voice.

You followed the sound further and very soon found that the island was inhabited by demons. But they were very friendly and led you to their captain. He was a red-haired demon who was very jovial and immediately invited you to have a drink. He seemed to light up when he saw you.

But you declined his offer. You weren't going to drink until you got back to your ship. The demon pouted at your refusal, but there wasn't much he could do about it. All the while, he was talking to you like an old friend. As if you'd known each other since childhood. He even revealed that he was sorry you didn't remember him. But he was sure you would remember.

But you didn't understand, at least not until he started telling you stories from his childhood and what you had been through during that time. At his words, you remembered everything he told you.

"Shanks...?" You finally asked. At that moment the demon was overjoyed, as it was really him and he was glad you remembered. Shanks pulled you into his lap and put one arm around you.

Slowly you lowered your defenses and began to reminisce about old adventures and what had happened during the time you hadn't seen each other. You even accepted the bucket of beer he offered you.

You ended up having so much fun with Shanks and reminiscing and completely forgot about time and your original plan to get back to the ship. You were having a good time with the demon.

Shanks was just in the middle of telling you about one of his stories at sea, when other members of his crew ran up to you, that another demon had appeared on the island. As soon as he heard that, the good humor drained from his expression and he immediately grew serious, ready to protect what was his.

Shanks was ready to attack when Mihawk appeared among the demons. The other demons were making room for him to reach you. You were surprised at what he was doing there, and you had no idea who he was in the first place.

It wasn't until you blinked a few times and focused that you realized who it was. The hand with the mark on it was burning you pleasantly. At that moment, you also remembered what you were originally doing there and how you got there. You felt as if you'd forgotten it all in a moment.

You immediately bypassed Shanks and walked over to Mihawk, to whom you apologized. You had no idea how you managed to forget him. However, he looked at you with complete understanding, knowing full well the effect the red-haired demon had on mortals. And to prevent a repeat of what had happened before, he stood protectively in front of you. His long black tail brushed against your ankle.

"Hawkeye? What are you doing here? Long time no see. Come have a drink with me. To happy reunions. First Y/N and now you!" Shanks smiled warmly, recognizing his old friend and offering him a bucket of beer as well.

The golden-eyed demon, however, insisted that you must return to the ship and therefore refused. Shanks tried to invite him a few more times, but he ended up letting you go with no problem, but with one small condition. He wanted to come with you. Which was fine with you as captain, especially since he was an old friend.

You were quite shocked to return to the ship, and the two demons automatically stood protectively in front of you. The ship was in complete chaos. Body parts were flying amongst the members, and from a distance you could already hear the voice of the demon you had your first pact with.

The clown's face formed in front of you as it noticed you and several emotions seemed to change in an instant. Joy at seeing you, shock at seeing another demon, and anger since he knew both of them so well.

"Buggy!" Shanks smiled cheerfully at him. He was glad to see the clown after a long time and wanted to greet him properly. The clown, however, avoided him in an archway and took offence. How dare you invite two more demons onto the ship when you were his? And ones far more powerful than he was?

You were slowly growing tired of his talk. It went on and on. You knew it was no different with him, but everything had its limits. You got mad at him for not being there for so long, he had nothing to blame you for. And with that, you went to your quarters.

You were in your quarters, you carefully rolled up the scroll from Shanks Island and put it in a safe place, put away the remaining maps, and collapsed into bed. Somehow too much had happened in a day, and now you were on a ship with not one or two demons, but three.

As you rested, Buggy teleported to you. He had a big word that you should be grateful you had him. For letting you have a pact with him in the first place.

But his big words were slowly fading into words of uncertainty and concern. He was afraid you'd trade him in for two other much stronger demons. He was afraid he wasn't strong enough or good enough. Finally, you saw him become a pile of misery. Without saying it outright, he missed you.

You saw the state he was in, so you pulled him into your bed and hugged him. He melted completely in your arms and held you as his life depended on it.

You made fun of him for being such a big baby. Before the clown could protest, however, you added that you missed him too, which made him cry.

You could say sailing with three demons on board was never boring.

The deck was lively and the general atmosphere was happy. Buggy was running his circus, Shanks was drinking and Mihawk stood by you like a bodyguard. The clown finished one of his acts after a while and you started laughing. At that moment, the demons were sure they hadn't heard a nicer sound.

But that didn't mean everything was bathed in sunshine and rainbows. You were stranded on a small island. The crew was celebrating and having fun. You were in your tent while Mihawk and Buggy were elsewhere.

You were thinking about going to bed early when Shanks came to you. He brought you a drink, but you could see there was more to it than that. And it was true, as the red-haired demon asked you if you wanted to make a pact with him.

He wanted to show you how powerful he was, so he showed you his true form, the air saturated with the power of his energy. You felt like you were drowning in his energy but in a nice way.

Before you knew it, you agreed to the pact. The demon was absolutely delighted with your decision and leaned closer to you with a hungry expression.

With ease, he laid you down on the blankets and began showering your skin with light kisses. He started at your neck and slowly made his way to your chest, where he finally stopped and where you finally felt a pleasant burning sensation. There he placed his mark.

Less than a minute later, the other two demons you had a pact with appeared there. Buggy immediately pulled Shanks away from you. You were theirs and no one else's. No other demon had any claim on you, especially not him. Mihawk hadn't expected this either and held you in his arms until you sobered up from the rush of all that demonic energy.

"Just don't fight," you muttered, stepping on your tongue a few times in the process. Then you repeated it, feeling the demonic marks on your body burn. You didn't want them to fight.

Since then, they've also tried harder and harder to get you all to themselves. Buggy's been putting on a show just for you. One time he was juggling his body parts, and you didn't like that, to be honest.

It made the clown's head spin because, surprisingly, he was juggling his head and he collapsed to the ground. It was one of the few moments that made you cheer up and you just chuckled weakly before you got up and went to help him up.

He was in a very bad mood about it though, as it didn't get the reaction he wanted. The best thing to do was to get down on your knees in front of him and beg him so you could just be his.

You took him to you and hugged him while you stroked his hair. You knew very well what worked for him and what didn't. You promised him you wouldn't tell anyone about his failed performance and you kissed him on the nose.

You could see him wanting to argue about his nose, but after that kiss, he turned just as red as his nose and all that came out was a meaningless mumble.

Shanks was leaning on the railing with one arm, watching the action on deck. His eyes, however, more than the others, were glued on you. You were on deck, making sure things around you were running like clockwork.

You were passing him when he pulled you close. He wrapped his arm around your waist and rested his head on your shoulder. That way you were there under him, hidden from all the worries and questions your crew had for you. He kissed your neck before he started to nuzzle his nose with your shoulder.

When you were back in your cabin that evening, you were glad for some peace. Mihawk was there with you, and you suspected he had similar intentions to the others, but you didn't mind him so much.

"Is it a little much to ask for a little peace?" You asked, hugging him. It wasn't a question you wanted answered, though.

Mihawk actually had something in store for the two of you as well. He kissed you on the mark on your hand before leading you over to a small table where a wonderfully scented candlelit dinner he had prepared himself was laid out.

He had also selected a delicious wine to go with the meal and finished it all off with a small gift, a gold subtle pendant. It was such an enjoyable evening.

After dinner you sat next to each other, talked for a while and then just watched the sun go down. Without realizing it, your eyelids began to droop and you rested your head on his shoulder.

Mihawk saw your tiredness, picked you up in his arms and carried you to the bed where he laid you down. He covered you with the covers and when he tried to leave, you stopped him. Even on the threshold of sleep, you wished he'd stayed there with you. Who was he to refuse you? He sat on the edge of your bed and stroked your back until you fell asleep. And even after that, he stayed there with you, keeping an eye on you.

You were in a new city, gathering supplies for your next voyage. You were perusing the grocery list for what you needed when a rather handsome young man approached you and began to flirt with you despite your disinterest.

You ignored him and focused on your list even though he tried to ask you out for a drink. You had had quite enough as he was insistent when you got the impression someone was behind you. You didn't even have to turn around to know who it was.

The young man opened his mouth to say something else he offered when he paused and turned pale. He immediately shut his mouth, mumbled a quick goodbye on the fifth time he turned around and quickly walked away.

At that moment, some unspoken contract or agreement was formed between the 3 demons to work together against all other suitors.

With that, they slowly began to get along more, arranging things better between them and even arranged a big date with dinner and entertainment that was very hilarious.

The Marines have been after you and your crew for some time now, and somehow you've managed to elude them. Unfortunately, your luck didn't last forever and their battleships caught up with you at sea and completely surrounded you. You were trapped.

You tried to escape them on the ship, but their battleships damaged your ships so badly that you couldn't continue. You had your path cut off, and all the plans you made failed.

And just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, the ocean's surface froze over, creating a flat surface to walk on. The captain and his best men disembarked from the main ship and called out to you. All they wanted was you.

You were aware of that and you wanted to use it to save your crew. Despite their protests, you forbade them to follow you. You made a deal with the Marine captain that if you gave yourself up willingly, he would spare your crew.

You stepped off the ship onto the frozen surface of the ocean and took a few steps forward as your crew tried to follow you. You just turned to them and met their gaze. You didn't want them to get hurt. They didn't deserve it.

You had almost reached the midpoint between your ship and the Marine's when you noticed that the ice around your ship had disappeared and the water began to carry her away from you.

You breathed a sigh of relief. You were glad the Marines had kept their word.

The captain with whom you negotiated the freedom of your crew offered you another deal. If you defeated him and his two sub-captains, you would gain your freedom. You accepted because even though it was a long shot, it was a chance.

You knew it would be an unfair fight, but you had no idea how much. Within minutes, you were knocked to your knees and the captain swung his sword at your head.

You were breathing heavily, blood trickling into your eye from the wound on your forehead. You felt like it was the end of you. The marine captain smirked as he pronounced the death sentence on you, his hand already dropping his sword to your head.

You had already closed your eyes when you heard the sound of two swords crossing. You opened your eyes and almost couldn't believe your eyes. You were no longer alone, and you had all three demons at your side as Mihawk blocked the one aimed at your neck with his sword.

"Leave it to us now," Shanks smiled at you before looking at the marines, his gaze instantly narrowing. The demons all showed their true forms, releasing a surge of energy so powerful it made the weak marines faint.

In addition, more demons began to appear around them, most of which you had the pleasure of getting to know. You knew Buggy's demons and even Shanks'. These demons took care of the smaller fish and even dragged a lot of them to hell. The rest of the survivors took their feet on their shoulders.

Shanks took care of the captains and sub-captains and Buggy took care of the middling ones and at one point it looked like he had his own work cut out for him.

Mihawk, meanwhile, stayed with you as a bodyguard and took you in his arms as his bride and walked calmly away with you to safety. You were so exhausted and had lost enough blood that it was no wonder you passed out in his arms.

When you regained consciousness, you were lying on the bed with your wounds tended to. But you weren't lying there alone. Mihawk was lying on one side next to you with one arm around your waist. On the other side lay Shanks, and at your feet lay Buggy, but with his head separated from his body, resting in your lap.

Again you lay back down with a smile on your lips. This was one of those rare moments when you had all three demons with you and none of them were arguing. Satisfied, you closed your eyes and fell asleep in their embrace again.

One Piece Masterlist

#one piece #monster piece #one piece x reader #demon shanks #shanks x reader #red haired shanks #demon mihawk #mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #buggy x reader #buggy #demon buggy

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aspentreewrites · 8 months ago

Text

and when all the flowers are rotten and all the cannons shot

Chapter 1

Pairings: Codywan

Tags/Warnings: slow burn(ish), fake dating, only one bed, general angst and pining, AO3 rating is E for future chapters

Link to read on AO3 here!

Description:

The truth of the matter burrows deep into Cody’s skin, settling into the home it’s long-since made for itself there, nestled tightly amongst the other secrets he harbours that are too shameful to ever speak aloud.

He digs his fingers into his temples, breathing in heavy lungfuls of the steam-drenched air as if it might reverse the realisation that now weighs upon his heart like lead.

This is no longer just some passing infatuation.

He’s in love with Obi-Wan Kenobi.

(or: an account of the relationship between one Marshal Commander and his General from in the midst of a war.)

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A/N: In my unending quest to name all of my fics after The Amazing Devil songs, this one is taken from Elsa's Song. If you're reading this on Tumblr, you're getting a unique version of this author's note - hello there! I usually just link to my fics on Tumblr, but this time I've decided to post each chapter in full here!

Any and all comments are massively appreciated, and if I can format anything better for posting here please let me know. I'm aiming to have the next chapter up in 2-3 weeks :)

Huge thanks to my wonderful friend @whenyourfavouritedies (link to their AO3 here!) for beta reading.

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He’d had a good run, Cody thinks to himself as he faces down the adversary in front of him. Perhaps he could avoid the mortal embarrassment of defeat by defenestrating himself from the nearest window - at least then his death could be ruled as a bizarre, impulsive moment of pure lunacy rather than the alternative of being done in entirely by the man in front of him.

… The man in front of him who evidently seems to be expecting a response to his words.

Cody, the Marshal Commander of the 212th who has spoken in front of the Council multiple times, who’s renowned throughout the GAR for his prowess at quick-thinking and strategy, desperately tries to muster something. Gingerly, he collects the shattered pieces of his brain from the floor, and attempts to produce something coherent with them.

“... Oh,” he manages, trying to not let his words come out as strangled as it feels like they could in this moment. “Right.”

As it turns out, those two words alone are insufficient, at least judging by Obi-Wan’s look of pure bewilderment. The Jedi tilts his head a little, studying the clone before him.

“Is everything alright, Cody?” he asks tentatively, before glancing back to the mission briefing on his datapad. Cody’s eyes remain glued to one word in particular, practically glaring at him from the harshly backlit screen of the tablet.

He can feel a headache coming on.

“If it’s too much, Anakin has offered to spare Rex, but to be perfectly honest–”

Absolutely not. The only thing Cody can think of that would be worse than going on this mission at all would be someone else going in his place.

“-- I’d rather avoid a repeat of what happened on Corellia, if at all possible,” Obi-Wan murmurs, stroking a hand over his beard. He frowns slightly at the memory, and Cody files the subject away to ask about later, though for the moment he has far more pressing matters to address.

“Right,” Cody repeats, before finally remembering that he does, in fact, know how to string words into a sentence. His eyes snap up from the datapad, meeting his General’s gaze. Discomfort claws its way through his body, constricting his throat a little when he tries to gather himself. “Yes, sir. I’m just wondering, about the aliases-”

Obi-Wan huffs, clearly having his own strong opinion on whatever he thinks Cody is about to say. “Yes, well, I appreciate that the backstories aren’t as detailed as they could be. I did mention it, but the Council did what they could on such short notice.”

“Of course. I’m just wondering if we have to be–”

“Really, it’s a miracle that they even had anything planned, knowing them.”

“-- Married?”

Obi-Wan blinks, and a long silence stretches between the two men. He studies Cody’s face again for a moment, before he looks back down at the datapad, his brow furrowed slightly as if he’s only just considering the implications of the mission for the first time.

Cody stands, steady as ever, though behind his back his fingers twitch anxiously. From the Jedi's telling, it’s going to be a fairly quick undercover stint - a handful of days at most. They’ll be staying at a hotel-slash-resort out in a neutral system, where they’ve been tipped off that a handful of Separatists are meeting for a business deal that could debilitate the Republic if it goes off smoothly.

A tad dramatic, perhaps, but when intel like that is received, the Jedi have to ensure that the call to action is answered. And who better to answer it with than one of their best?

Unfortunately for Cody, the Jedi’s best has a penchant for dragging him along, too.

This type of mission might be incredibly rote for the General, but for Cody, it’s… An intimidating prospect. He’s a soldier, a strategist - a damned good one at that, there’s a reason he’s been given the position of Commander - if there’s one thing he is decidedly not, however, it's an actor.

It’s likely that the more experienced man hadn’t even given Cody’s involvement a second thought - they’re by each other’s side on most battlefields, after all… This arena, though, is an untrodden one. After some consideration, Obi-Wan quirks a brow and looks back up at his Commander.

“You’re aware that we wouldn’t actually be signing any legal documents for the sake of the mission?” he queries, as if that were at all the issue Cody is having here. Stars, but does this man like to play dense sometimes.

“... That’s not the point, sir.”

“Then what is? Do you not think I would make a fine husband? My dear Commander, you wound me.”

Cody has the quiet suspicion that if anyone had the fortune to wed his General (not that the Jedi were even allowed such things), they would find themselves spending a considerable portion of the rest of their lives having to put up with his unfortunate sense of humour.

As it happens, Cody is the one who’s taking the burden for that responsibility at current. It’s been slowly driving him up the wall for the better part of the war effort.

“I’m sure you would make a good–” no, that’s not appropriate, “a fine–” he stops short, glowering at the amused smirk that has plastered itself on his General’s face. Obi-Wan seems to be garnering a little too much delight in causing him to stammer like a schoolchild, the victorious glint in his eye evident. Cody shakes his head, persisting despite the flush that he’s sure has appeared on his cheeks. “... You know what I mean.”

Much to Cody’s relief, Obi-Wan takes mercy on him and drops the subject. He glances back down to the datapad with a thoughtful hum, his expression returning to something a little more dignified.

“It was ultimately a logistical choice. We would be sharing a room in the hotel, regardless, and the cover makes it considerably less likely that people would raise questions.” A pause, and then the Jedi’s voice turns a little more gentle. “If it would truly make you uncomfortable, Cody, then we can come up with an alternative.”

Cody finds himself shaking his head before he even has time to think it through properly. It’s… Fine. He’s fine. The thought of pretending to be Obi-Wan’s… husband, makes something strange curl in his gut, a sense of tightness and discomfort that he can’t quite identify.

He pushes the feeling away, telling himself that all it is is feeling unsure about going undercover in general - it will be, after all, his first time doing so for more than a few minutes at a time. He’s bluffed to get past guards and to stall enemies, they all have, but he’s practically a shiny in this territory. It makes sense that he’d have some nerves.

“No, I… I’ll take the mission, General. I was just…�� he hesitates. He was just what exactly? Cody isn’t entirely certain. “I’ll just need some time to look over the aliases, to prepare. Being undercover is… Not my usual wheelhouse.”

That’s putting it lightly.

“If you’re certain?”

Cody holds the Jedi’s earnest gaze for as long as he can muster with this odd sensation sloshing around in his stomach. He manages a nod, moving to take the datapad from the other man as they prepare to move onto other matters for the morning.

“Yes, sir.”

______________________________

The night before the mission rolls around, Cody finds himself still awake far too late into the night. He’s at his desk, poring over multiple tabs of research, and Stars, there’s still so much to cover before they’re set to leave.

He’s… what is it that an actor would call it? ‘Studying’ the fictional man that is Vidarr Emerin, a wealthy investor who’s gained a frankly ridiculous amount of credits from backing a series of Spice mining projects on Kessel. Vidarr isn’t actually involved in the day to day operations of the creation of the drug directly (and thank the Force for that, because Cody couldn’t realistically describe the process if there was a blaster to his head), though he has his fingers in many metaphorical pies of Kessel’s ‘industry’, if one can call it that.

Vidarr is ruthlessly efficient, cutthroat, and has more money invested in the black market than Cody has ever seen in his entire life.

His favourite colour, the document notes, is brown.

They’re hoping that, due to the planet they’re travelling to not having seen hide nor hair of the war as of yet, Cody can blend in as a regular human without issue. If he were to be clocked as a clone however, he and Obi-Wan have come up with a story that fits. A benefit of their cover is that if any clone were to defect from the GAR, Kessel would likely be a decent option for them to run to, due to its relative distance from the war and the objective difficulty in getting to the planet. It would be easier if he didn’t have to out himself, but it never hurts to be prepared.

The Commander is about three cafs into his nighttime research, and is showing no sign of slowing, currently skimming through a holonet article about Kessel’s southern equator. He’s trying to take notes on as many details as possible about the habitable section of the planet: the names of local wildlife, parks, various points of interest… It’s unlikely that anyone would want to talk to him about the geography of the local rivers, admittedly, but what if he’s caught out unexpectedly?

No, Cody reasons to himself, taking another gulp of caf. Not worth the risk. He’ll just have to memorise the relative locations of every tributary and estuary in the local area that Vidarr is from. It’s the only way he can walk into this prepared.

It’s even later when his chrono beeps at him for attention. His eyes have been struggling to focus on the various screens for too long to ignore, and Cody’s attention turns to the empty notepad page to his right. The one that’s been staring him down all evening.

He narrows his eyes at it, sizing the offending object up. One moment passes, then another. The man groans, running a tired hand over his face and silencing his alarm. He may as well get this over with.

He returns his datapad to the page about their aliases, scrolling until he hits the ‘marriage and relationship’ section. Cody pulls the notepad over, reluctantly beginning to scribble down some bullet points.

Renne Emerin, née Cardall, met Vidarr at a soiree attended by a handful of various small-time investors for the Pyke Syndicate, and the two began courting not long after. Three years into their relationship, they got engaged. A further year, and the two were married. This little trip together is a celebration for their second wedding anniversary.

They have a bonded pair of tookas. They’re considering adopting a child. They’re a regular, normal couple in love.

Cody turns off the datapad, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

For the life of him, he doesn’t know why he feels such a mental block in regards to… all of this. Obi-Wan had been incredibly accommodating - between them, they’d laid out expectations, negotiated how they were going to approach this, and the Jedi had promised to not push too hard in the name of making a good cover (though Cody had insisted he not hold back on his account - he’d be damned if his own incompetence compromised a mission).

And yet… The anxious feeling persists. It’s subtler now at least, having spent the last week preparing and researching, but it remains under his skin, simmering away.

It worsens when he thinks of the marriage they’ll have to upkeep.

His chrono beeps a second time, a harsh, needy trill that tells him he really ought to be getting to bed now. Cody grumbles to himself, turning the blasted alarm off again, before finally flopping down in his bed and flicking off the light to his room.

It’ll be fine, he thinks wearily, forcing himself to take a deep breath and settle his mind.

If there’s one thing he trusts implicitly in this Galaxy, it’s that Obi-Wan will have his back. Discomfort be damned, they’ll get through this in one piece. Soon enough, this’ll just be a funny story to tell when sufficiently drunk.

Clinging onto that thought like it holds the last vestiges of his sanity, Cody drifts into a fitful but desperately needed sleep.

______________________________

The Commander wakes early, exactly as he was trained. A fast shower, an efficient shave, and his bed made neatly behind him as he dresses.

At 0600 hours exactly, he leaves his quarters, fully clad in his newly issued armour - shiny, pristine, bright white plastoid that catches in the harsh, fluorescent lighting lining the hallways of the Venator. He is precisely as he should be: the perfect example of what the Kaminoans created.

When he reaches the briefing room, he raps his gloved knuckles against the door once, twice. Cody feels confident as he waits - every single choice he makes matters today, and a good first impression is vital. Yes, he thinks, mulling it over in his mind: a single knock would have been insufficient, and three would be bordering on informal. Two was the right answer, Commander. Good work.

It takes precisely six seconds for the door to slide open, revealing the Jedi he had met briefly before in holocalls, though never face to face. The Jedi he’s going to dedicate his life to.

Auburn hair catches the light, and clean, cream coloured robes settle tidily about his form. Curious eyes settle on him, inspecting the clone likely as much as the clone is analysing the Jedi. Cody is quietly grateful for his helmet giving him the tactical upper hand in this endeavour.

The blue of the Jedi’s eyes reminds him of the Kaminoan ocean, though he’s unsure whether or not that association is a good or a bad one. The man in front of him looks methodically put together, neat and organised, as a member of the famed Jetii should be… Perhaps a little tired, though, as the faint bags under his eyes might indicate.

Cody decides it doesn’t matter. It’s surely just a sign of his new General’s commitment to his work ethic that he would stay up late to prepare for today. Something they’ll have in common, then.

The Commander’s back is, naturally, ramrod-straight as he salutes sharply, his voice strong and even as he speaks.

“CC-2224, sir. Ready for our briefing.” He knows the Jedi should have remembered his designation number from their fleeting introductions over holocall, but it never hurts to be cautious. The man has a lot to familiarise himself with over the coming days, after all. It wouldn’t be a slight if it took him a while to remember something so small.

General Kenobi pauses at that, before offering a small, if hesitant smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Of course.” He steps aside, allowing the clone entry into the meeting room. It’s a tidy, organised space, yet something about it is almost eerie in its quietude. Cody’s eyes sweep over neat stacks of datapads and consoles with no fingerprints yet on their keyboards, no dust yet accumulated on the cables filling the room. A tactical space, ready to handle and catalogue so much violence and death - years of it, more.

And yet it is, at present, still and empty. Lying in eager wait for the blood to start spilling, to see the use it has been designed for. Today, the Commander supposes, is the day.

The General sweeps through the room, posture so exact that it almost makes him look as if he’s gliding rather than walking. He sets up the holotable at the centre of the room, watching as the agenda for the day flickers into being, a list nearly a mile long. General Kenobi scans over the file with a quiet sigh, before he glances over to meet the other man’s gaze.

“Would you care for a cup of caf? I quite find I struggle to focus so early on in the day.”

The Jedi’s voice is gentle, softened at the edges with tiredness - not at all the tone the soldier is used to from authority. Cody frowns to himself. And he’s… Offering him caf. Not an order or command. An unexpected start to their working relationship.

Part of him can’t help but think it could be a trap. A test of how much he’d be willing to take from him, perhaps. A measure of his discipline?

Kenobi looks progressively more awkward as time presses on. He speaks up again, evidently trying to search for any hint of emotion in the clone’s expressionless helmet and drawing a blank.

“Or… Tea?” he tries, tilting his head a little. “I can make tea instead, if that’s more to your liking.”

The Commander hesitates, trying to figure out the right answer to this puzzle in front of him. Would it offend the General if he said no? Could he say no, if he wanted to? How much of a choice does he get here?

Regardless, he can tell his prolonged silence is unnerving his new General, and the last thing he wants is to make a bad impression.

“Caf… Caf is fine, sir. Thank you.”

That, at least, seems to placate the Jedi. He smiles, a little more sincerely this time, before disappearing off to the corner of the room and busying himself with making some drinks.

Cody takes the opportunity to get a headstart on the agenda for their first day, looking over the list at the holotable with a critical eye. There’s much to do, and he’s anxious to get to it and prove himself.

“Right,” Kenobi begins as he returns, passing a steaming mug to Cody before sipping at his own. “Let us get started, hm?”

The briefing is quick, and efficient. They move through all the matters of the day - introductory training with the men, preparations to oversee supply requisitioning, and early drafts of strategy for the 212th’s first upcoming mission in the field together.

The caf is nicer than he expected.

“Before we go, Commander,” Kenobi says as the two turn to leave for the first training, his tone thoughtful. He looks to the clone in front of him, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robes. “I was wondering if I could have your name.”

… What?

“My… Designation number, sir?” He asks, with a little uncertainty. The Jedi’s mouth twitches - not quite a frown, but something close to it. He attempts to disguise it by passing a hand over his beard. Cody tenses instinctively.

“No, you greeted me with that when you first came in,” he reminds him, voice gentle. “I meant your name. Your actual one.”

CC-2224 glitches.

He’s not sure how long he just stares at the General, but it’s long enough to prompt Kenobi to speak again.

“... If that would be alright?”

No, no it would be decidedly not alright. This is against everything the Commander was expecting, everything he’s spent his whole life preparing for. He’s almost indignant at the impropriety. As he continues to hesitate, a flash of something like worry flashes across Obi-Wan’s face, followed by a sheepishness unbefitting of someone of his station.

He raises his hand, cutting off Cody as he finally opens his mouth to answer.

“No, no, I apologise, Commander,” he says quickly, sounding a little ashamed. “Names are… important to your brothers, aren’t they?”

At Cody’s stupefied nod, he continues on.

“I should not have asked something so personal of you,” the Jedi murmurs, bowing his head briefly in apology. “Forgive me.”

The Commander doesn’t quite know what to do with that. A brief mumble of ‘it’s alright, sir’, and an evening spent puzzling out who, exactly, his new General is, will have to do.

That night, Cody finds himself staring up at the ceiling as he tries to find sleep.

Perhaps the Kaminoans were wrong about the Jetii. About what would be expected of them. But then, if that’s true, then what else were they wrong about?

It’s an unnerving thought, and it’s one that plagues him for the coming weeks.

______________________________

In the half-light of the ship’s artificial morning, Cody stares down his reflection in the mirror, wrinkling his nose slightly as he tugs a battle-worn comb through his hair, gently teasing the curls apart. He glances back down to the holonet vid he found, the projector balancing precariously on the edge of the sink. Making a swiping gesture in the air with his free hand, he winds back the video yet another time. The helpful, yet slightly too-fast-speaking Kiffar woman in the vid enthusiastically explains how to loosen one’s curl pattern, and Cody repeats the actions she demonstrates, his brow knitting together unconsciously as he focuses.

The 212th doesn’t exactly have access to the myriad of supplies the vid-blogger eagerly shows the camera, but Cody’s scoured the supply shipments to source some decent enough conditioner - combined with the comb with a handful of missing teeth that he’d uncovered earlier in his room, they’ll have to do. The steam from the shower he’d taken minutes earlier permeates the room, and Cody has to pause in his delicate work every few minutes to wipe down the mirror.

He continues working methodically from the ends of the strands up to his scalp, becoming progressively less clumsy with the action as he goes. It’s strangely meditative, though it helps that his attention on this is effectively holding off the nervousness that the mission ahead of him today brings.

By the time he finishes up, the Commander just… stares at himself for a long moment, noting the unfamiliar sensation of his still-damp hair falling a short way across his face. It’ll need to be slicked back, certainly, but it looks… Fine. Not like him, though. Not at all.

It’s a funny thing, that sensation that other sentients would refer to as not recognising yourself in the mirror. When your face is the same as millions of others, it’s more like seeing another one of the vode. One with that same scar across the temple and with considerably less sternness about adhering to the GAR’s hair-length regs, clearly.

Cody sighs, gesturing to power down the holoprojector, finishing towelling himself off and finally heading out of the ‘fresher to get ready for the day. Regardless of his feelings on the subject, it’ll help him blend in better as a deserter, so longer hair it is.

Longer hair and an almost merc-like uniform, according to the tailored cloak and boots that wait for him in his room. Cody grimaces.

He just hopes that if Waxer or Boil see him, they’ll keep their mouths shut.

By some mercy of the fates, he’s able to steal through the Venator and make it up to the docking bays without catching the eye of any of his men (mostly, at least; he’d brushed past Helix outside the medbay but the medic hadn’t even looked up from his work).

He jogs up the ramp to the ship to join his Jedi - already waiting for him and re-reading today’s mission details with a mug in hand, of course.

Cody spots the second mug of caf that Obi-Wan had prepared sitting over on one of the consoles and beelines for it, already knowing he’ll be needing all the stimulants he can get his hands on to feel at all ready for today.

“Ah, Commander, I was wondering when you were going to–” Obi-Wan starts, but the comment dies on his tongue. Cody glances over to see his normally so eloquent General taking a moment before finishing his sentence, his friend’s gaze flicking briefly over his appearance. The Commander raises a questioning brow, and Obi-Wan clears his throat quietly, before offering Cody a slightly short nod.

“... When you were going to arrive.” His eyes linger for a moment, uncharacteristically unsure of himself, before he turns away, busying himself by inputting the coordinates into the console. “The hair suits you, by the way.”

Cody feels strangely warm at the compliment, self-consciously reaching up to push back some of the strands.

“I’ve written up some of the boys for shorter,” he comments dryly, stepping up alongside the Jedi and taking a sip of his caf. Obi-Wan snorts in quiet amusement, giving him a sidelong glance.

“I’m sure.”

A calm silence briefly blankets them as the ship’s autopilot gets them away from the Venator and into the familiar black ocean of space, and Cody feels some of his tension ease. Of course it feels normal. He was a fool to think that this would feel any different to their usual missions.

His eyes idly track the various indicators that display the wellbeing of the ship as he exhales slowly, lips curling up into something more reminiscent of a grimace than a smile - but nonetheless, he tries.

“You feeling ready for this?” he asks, feeling selfishly a little comforted by the thoughtful hum he gets in response. That’s a ‘not quite’ from the Jedi, and it at least means they’ll be walking into this together with some uncertainty. Cody hates feeling like he’s on the back foot.

“You can never be too ready for an undercover mission,” Obi-Wan says evenly, staring out ahead of them as the ship prepares to enter hyperspace. His fingers tap idly against his mug. “It always comes down to improvisation. A slip of the tongue here, an unexpected question there,” he murmurs. Catching Cody’s eye, the ghost of a smirk flits across his features. “... Not to worry you, of course.”

“Mm, right. You’d never do anything to cause me worry,” Cody quips, settling down into the pilot chair and buckling himself in. Obi-Wan follows suit, nodding serenely.

“It definitely hasn’t happened before, no.”

The trip through hyperspace is largely uneventful, the two falling into a companionable silence. As his thoughts stray to the mission ahead a little way into the flight, Cody realises his mind must feel a little frayed through the Force, because Obi-Wan turns to give him the look.

‘The Look’ is something scrutinising that happens whenever the Commander hasn’t quite managed to maintain his mental shields enough to conceal his emotions in a time of stress - the Jedi Order had, en masse, taught the vode how to do it in the early days of their partnership, in the interest of maintaining privacy for the troops, and as a gesture of goodwill. Cody does it well, for the most part, though it’s harder for him with Obi-Wan than with others, he finds. The man always seems to be able to see right through him.

“You’re still anxious.” It’s more of a statement than a question, and Cody wishes, not for the first time, that the General wouldn’t draw attention to his vulnerability like this. He levels Obi-Wan with a frustrated look of his own, brows knitting into a frown.

“It’s fine,” he insists. Obi-Wan looks at him flatly. Cody relents immediately, knowing that it’s useless trying to lie to any Jedi, but especially this one in particular.

He course corrects.

“It’ll be fine once we’re actually in the thick of it. It’s…” he grimaces, shaking his head slightly. “It’s the unknown of it all. At least if it’s a firefight, you can face down the enemy with a rifle.”

Obi-Wan reaches out to gently squeeze his Commander’s shoulder. The action soothes, the familiar warmth of his hand providing an anchor point of calm. “You’ll be wonderful. If I didn’t have full faith in you, I wouldn’t have asked you to join me,” he says, sincerely.

“Besides,” Obi-Wan adds, a playful glint in his eye, “if it all goes sideways, then you can happily be in your comfort zone while we blast our way out.”

A huff of amusement escapes Cody as he rolls his eyes, reaching up to cover the hand that remains on his shoulder.

“My comfort zone of keeping you from getting yourself impaled or shot? Yes, I’m unfortunately very familiar,” he mutters, exasperated yet fond.

Obi-Wan tips his head back and laughs.

______________________________

The first time he hears Obi-Wan laugh - properly laugh, not that wry chuckle he occasionally hears during briefings - it’s also the first time they’ve stayed up late together to finish up on paperwork in his quarters. Cody has been regaling him with a tale from his youth on Kamino, relating to a particularly memorable incident involving Wooley, Boil, and a few mouse droids, and Obi-Wan laughs, eyes creasing at the corners and shoulders shaking with mirth.

At this time, it’s been about six weeks since the battalion’s first deployment in the war. The group is beginning to feel less like a random selection of soldiers and more like many parts of a functioning whole. Most notably, a handful of the men have recently started on their armour decoration. After much debate back and forth about the colour they should choose to accurately represent the battalion, Crys organised a (debatably) official vote in the mess hall with swatches of the strongest contenders.

The General had politely abstained over lunch, telling the vode that it wasn’t his place to influence their choices on such matters. Waxer indignantly declared such a position as ‘fence-sitting’, and Cody had sharply warned the young trooper that if he were to accuse High Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi of centrist tendencies again, it would be KP duty for a month.

The vote had come out strongly in favour of a colour they’d henceforth started referring to as ‘212th gold’ - a handsome shade that glowed like the sun when caught by natural light. As his duty dictates him to show the way for his men, the Commander was among the first to adopt it, beginning with the sunburst on his chestplate. It felt right, even with those first brushstrokes, to be able to claim something as truly theirs. Cody hopes that one day, 212th gold will represent a spark of hope across the Galaxy. A mark made entirely in their name.

A little romantic of a thought, perhaps, but it brings him a spark of pride whenever he sees the newest shinies brought in, eager to earn the paint stripes they see displayed by those in command.

In these last six weeks, a considerable amount has changed for the men, and it’s been a lot of adjustment. Both Obi-Wan and the vode serving under him have had to figure out how to adapt, to work alongside each other effectively. The General is kinder, more human than the Kaminoans had warned he’d be - he watches out for them on battlefields, mourns alongside them when their brothers are lost… in turn, the vode are beginning to slowly open up, too, starting to share parts of their culture with the Jedi.

He’s even been learning to speak Mando’a, though Cody is privately grateful that he’s been able to warn the boys ahead of time to watch their tongues when the General is floating around. They mean well, but he knows what they can be like if they think no one can understand them… The last thing he wants is to have to deal with writing up half of his troops for discussing too liberally what happened during their most recent trip to 79’s.

Once Obi-Wan gathers himself again, he looks over at Cody with a thoughtful glance, his expression softened with a grin.

“It doesn’t sound altogether too dissimilar to the way we were raised in the temple, you know,” he says, “... mischief and all.”

Cody watches him from his position sat on the edge of his bed. He thinks the relaxed, genuine smile suits the other man greatly. He privately hopes he’ll get to see it again after tonight.

The Jedi hums to himself, before adopting a fond, faraway look. “All younglings can be particularly trying in large numbers, regardless of origin,” he continues, “I do not envy the crechèmasters for the duty they have to perform.”

Cody’s interest is piqued at that. The datapad in his hand is ignored for a moment, attention turned fully to the man sitting at his desk.

“You were raised communally?”

Obi-Wan nods, pausing briefly to make an amendment to the report in front of him, slender fingers moving quickly across the screen. Stars, Cody thinks to himself with a little annoyance, the man can even make paperwork look elegant.

“Yes. Well, from a certain age at least. I was brought to the Temple around age 4,” he explains. His eyes are still a little distant, lost in the memory of a happier time. “I still have a deep fondness for my crèchemates, despite… Differing opinions with a handful of them.”

Cody nods slowly, studying the Jedi for a beat.

“I get that, General,” he says, returning his attention to his datapad. “I’m the same with my batchmates. I just… Might have had more of them than you.”

“An understatement I’m sure, Commander,” Obi-Wan chuckles, before his tone turns softer, more sincere. He glances over at Cody, choosing his next words carefully.

“It seems like… A wonderful thing, the family you and the rest of the vode share.” He gives Cody a small smile, though there’s something else to it, a heaviness that settles behind his expression. “... It’s a shame that such a thing was created for the unworthy purpose of war. I can only hope that once the fighting is done, you’ll be able to thrive as all other sentients do.”

The two lapse into silence for a little while, the only sound filling the room the soft tapping of keys. Obi-Wan has spoken a little about his feelings on the war over the last handful of weeks, and to be truthful, it’s not a subject that Cody trusts himself to speak about. Neither the 212th, nor Cody himself for that matter, have been deployed for very long, and the clone doesn’t quite understand all of the weight behind his General’s words. Perhaps he will come to, in time… for better or worse.

Cody has reckoned with his own adjustments in the past few weeks. He’s found himself relaxing considerably around Obi-Wan, no longer feeling the burning need to watch himself as if his General is considering decommissioning him if he puts a foot wrong. He didn’t particularly know her, but from what the other vode say, Shaak Ti was similar back on Kamino.

It took a week and one mission in the field before Cody decided that the Jetii were not the dictators they’d expected. A further week and he was convinced they had no choice in this whole matter either, and were evidently suffering for it. Like a good Commander, he'd kept those observations to himself.

As soon as he’d allowed himself to be… Well, human, around the Jedi, he and Obi-Wan had started to become closer. Cody isn’t particularly adept at it yet, but if he finds himself arriving early to their morning briefings, he’s started making the General his tea in the way he likes it. It’s something small, but judging by the way Obi-Wan’s eyes had widened the first time he’d done it, a pleased smile crossing his face, it’s something that seemed to mean a lot to him.

They’ve become… Friends, or something approaching that, at least. It’s a thought that has him steeling himself to speak now, clearing his throat in the quiet space.

“... Cody,” he says, forcing the word to come out casually. Obi-Wan glances up again with a raised brow, a questioning look in his eyes. Cody finds it in himself to meet his General’s gaze, offering an affirmative nod. “You, uh… asked me for my chosen name, when we first met,” he explains quietly, ignoring the way his stomach wants to twist as he holds out this olive branch of trust, “it’s Cody.”

Obi-Wan’s expression goes from confusion, to surprise, to something incredibly warm.

“Cody,” he repeats softly, as if testing out the sound of it on his tongue, before giving an approving nod. A smile remains on his face even as he returns to his work. “Thank you, Cody,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the datapad at his desk. The Commander is grateful for it - he feels as if the vulnerability of further eye contact might make him combust right now. “It’s a fine name. I’m honoured to know it.”

If Cody feels his heart react to the softness of his Jedi’s tone in that moment, he doesn’t mention it.

______________________________

“Mister and Mister Emerin?”

Obi-Wan and Cody share a glance at the call across the docking bays. They’ve barely been parked for a minute, and they’re already out of time.

“I suppose that’s us,” Cody says with a heavy sigh, rolling his shoulders slightly. He looks at Obi-Wan, tilting his head with a silent question of ‘ready?’ and the Jedi nods, bringing the last of the bags with him down the gangway of the ship.

A tall, pale Nautolan woman with a checklist in hand approaches, teeth flashing a perfect, artificially white smile as Obi-Wan steps forwards to shake her hand.

“Charmed,” he drawls in a smooth, Outer Rim accent, his voice low with lazily drawn out syllables - a stark contrast to the sharp, crisp Coruscanti voice that Cody’s used to hearing. Beside the Jedi, he forces on a smile.

“You’re here to check us in?” he says, hoping that his voice comes across not nearly as unsure and out of place as he feels. The Nautolan nods, making a scribble on the flimsi paper she’s carrying, pocketing it and taking the bags from the two of them without asking.

“Here, I’ll get these for you and show you to the main building. Is this your first time staying with us?”

The woman chatters away to them as they make the walk from the docking bays to the resort itself. Obi-Wan is as content to make conversation as Cody is to let him. The clone hangs back a little, taking in the planet around him. Brilliant light beams down on the building ahead, even as it nears the start of sundown, making him squint a little. It’s…

Excessive is the primary word that comes to mind.

The docking bays themselves are massive, on an elevated platform above a calm looking ocean of tropical blue. The bridge they’re now on connects to a few perfectly sculpted beaches that are teeming with people even at this hour, and more pressingly, a building the size of the damn Senate. Cody’s far from an expert on architecture, but it’s clearly a recent build - large windows and extravagant relief work carved into the stone of the imposing structure, of various people or mythological beings that Cody imagines he probably should recognise but doesn’t.

It all seems to be purpose-built with the intention of making the space feel welcoming to those in a certain tax bracket.

Cody is undeniably not part of that tax bracket.

This area of the planet itself has almost definitely gone through some extensive terraforming by the looks of things, and he feels a little dizzy as he imagines the cost - coming from a corporation, no less. Part of the background provided for this mission detailed that Miphena, the planet they’re standing on, is essentially owned by the resort managers with no government to speak of. To call it ‘bleak’ would be underselling it.

They’re ushered inside by the woman with the increasingly grating customer service voice, brought through a pristine foyer tiled with marble underfoot. Cody is sure to make a mental note of that - that’s very slippery when covered in blood, so if they’re having to fight their way out, they should find another point of exit than this one.

He continues to sweep the rest of the room with an analytical eye. The main desk could be used as cover in a pinch, though it’s not in a particularly tactical location - the presence of stairs, an elevator, and double-doors through to the main events hall makes this an undesirable position to have to defend with too many points of ambush.

… Granted, it’s exceedingly unlikely they’ll be forced to stage a firefight here, but it can’t hurt to be prepared.

The receptionist leads them up to the seventh floor (with a lot of small-talk in the elevator that feels entirely unnecessary), hands them their keys for the room, drops their bags off and thanks the two profusely for their custom before leaving them alone once more. Obi-Wan and Cody share a glance, and the former smirks.

“After you, darling husband,” Obi-Wan says easily with a flourishing bow, still holding onto the accent despite the fact it’s just the two of them. The amused gleam in the Jedi’s eye only gets stronger as Cody rolls his eyes, pushing past him to enter into the room.

Much like the exterior of the hotel, it’s certainly extravagant. A large bed takes up most of the space, crisp white sheets with elaborate gold embroidery detailing the edges, and a plush red carpet beneath it. Every surface has some form of decoration, a vase of fake flowers here, a small metal sculpture there. A fairly incomprehensible piece of abstract art hangs above the bed, though what it’s intended to represent is entirely lost on Cody.

The two share another glance, silently communicating with one another, and get to work searching the room for any listening devices.

Cody heads directly for the mirror, carefully unhooking it from the wall to see if the garish item is the result of the need to obscure a bug of some kind, or if it’s just the result of terrible taste.

Hm. Terrible taste it is.

Once they both signal the all-clear, Obi-Wan relaxes a little, setting both of their bags down on the bed.

“Well,” he says mildly, glancing around with a disapproving gaze. “It’s certainly expensive.”

Cody snorts, following his eyeline. “Just how much did the Republic spend to send us here?”

Obi-Wan peers closely at the strange painting, letting out a soft hum. “I shudder to think.” He pauses as Cody wanders over to check out the balcony. “This surely can’t be an original work,” he mutters to himself, passing a hand over his beard and frowning in thought.

Cody can’t help but glance back with a raised brow.

“... Sir,” he says, and the Jedi interrupts him with a wave of his hand, still narrowing his eyes at the artwork.

“It’s Obi-Wan when we’re alone, Cody, you know that.”

“Obi-Wan,” he starts again, amused. “Please tell me you’re not critiquing the art–”

“If it’s there, it should be there with purpose. This is soulless. It’s nothing-”

“In a resort, Obi-Wan.”

The Jedi lets out a rather contemptuous scoff, before drawing back to meet Cody’s gaze. He folds his arms, shaking his head in faux disappointment. “If you’re not the type to appreciate a critique of art, my dear, then whyever did I marry you in the first place?”

Cody lets out a long suffering sigh, not missing a beat. “I ask myself the same thing every day, darling, believe me.”

That draws a laugh from his Jedi. Cody steps out to the balcony proper as Obi-Wan begins to unpack his bag.

The sun is drawing lower on the horizon now, painting the sky in picturesque golds and oranges as people slowly move in from the beach - a steady stream of holiday-goers and families making their way back to the hotel for the evening. Cody idly watches them, leaning out over the railing as he takes in the myriad of species, genders, and ages of the people who’ve come here for an escape. One thing seems to bind them all together despite the differences - that distinct aura of wealth that seems to permeate the very air here.

He can’t really put his finger on what it is. The way they carry themselves, maybe? The sea of perfect skin and hair, the precision in which they choose to dress… It’s all fairly alien to the Commander. None of it really feels real in the way that people tend to be. Give him the flawed mess of the Lower Levels any day.

“I’m going to go for a little wander,” Obi-Wan calls through from the bedroom. “Get the lay of the land, so to speak.”

Cody turns, stepping back into the lavish room and stretching slightly. He sighs as he feels a pleasant ache in his muscles.

“I’ll probably stay in,” he yawns, “get an early night. Didn’t sleep well last rotation, and I’d prefer to feel rested for tomorrow.”

Even though he technically hasn’t been awake for all that long, Cody figures it’d be best to get started on adjusting to local time as quickly as possible. They’ll need to be up at dawn, regardless of if they’re ready for it. The Jedi hums in response, slipping on his cloak and heading to the door.

“That sounds wise. I’ll try not to return too late - if you’re already asleep, I shall endeavour to join you as quietly as possible.” His gaze falls to where Cody stands, offering a small smile. “Feel free to claim either side of the bed. Comms are on, I’ll see you in a little while.”

With that, he’s disappeared off into the night, leaving Cody with the question of whether or not he should take the floor tonight dying on his tongue.

He blinks, a little stupidly, after the now closed door. It’s as if there wasn’t even a question of whether they would be sharing the bed in the Jedi’s mind. Which… Cody supposes there shouldn’t be, really.

He and Obi-Wan have shared tents before in the field countless times, slept closely on the ground when there hasn’t been space in various quarters they’ve been given. Hells, during a mission on Mygeeto two months ago, he’d had no qualms with combining their bedrolls together for warmth.

A real bed just… feels different. Cody isn’t quite sure why.

He gives a wary sidelong glance to the offending furniture, as if expecting it to bite him. The bed, for its part, stares back at him unblinkingly, its exorbitant number of pillows providing more fuel for Cody’s growing resentment of the damn thing.

The Commander shakes his head. He’s being ridiculous. With a sigh and a mental slap upside the head, he unpacks his own bag, glancing out every now and again to the progressing sunset as he changes into his sleepclothes.

He’s almost loath to admit it, but the view is gorgeous. The twin moons slowly rise into the sky, basking the ocean in an ethereal glow. If it weren’t for the fact that he can still hear tourists partying outside, he could be tricked into actually enjoying this.

Cody sets aside the outfits he’ll need for tomorrow - something casual for the day, and something more formal for a party that’ll be occurring in the evening - before putting his suitcase down on top of Obi-Wan’s, near the door.

Sinking down into bed, he’s further frustrated to find out how comfortable it feels, reluctantly admitting to himself that perhaps the richest of the rich in the galaxy do get some things right every now and again. Rarely.

He lets out a deep exhale, pleased to find that his mind feels considerably more settled now that they’re actually here at the mission location, a little more peaceful.

It’s a relief, to be certain - Cody doesn’t really know who he is if not for the calm, collected strategist that always has an answer. His lack of certainty as of late has been… Disquieting, to say the least.

He grasps the feeling of quietude with both hands, allowing it to pull him into the alluring drift of near-sleep.

He stirs a little when he hears Obi-Wan return, the door clicking closed ever so gently. The Jedi seems to be true to his word in keeping his movements as soundless as possible-

Well, that is at least until he takes a step further into the dark room and walks directly into the suitcases in front of him, letting out a hiss of pain.

Cody can’t quite conceal his ensuing huff of amusement. Obi-Wan seems decidedly less pleased, grumbling something under his breath.

The other man pads over to the other side of the bed, and Cody hears the distinctive rustle of clothes being removed. He lets out a slow breath, ensuring to stay stock still, facing the other way. Not that he could really see what was going on even if he did roll over, but…

“Sorry. I tried.” Obi-Wan’s whisper cuts through the darkness, genuine regret in his tone.

“You’re fine. Is your foot alright?”

The Jedi huffs. “Mortally wounded, I’m afraid. Amputation likely.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

The bed dips gently behind him as Obi-Wan gets in. Cody is suddenly very grateful that everything in this hotel is oversized - it at least means they can do this without threat of the two being close enough to touch. For one long moment, he’s hyper-aware of every shift, every slight movement from his Jedi, before he forces his eyes to close.

It all falls quiet after that, apart from the gentle sound of even breaths behind him. Cody unconsciously finds himself matching them, slow inhales and exhales that serve to soothe his suddenly racing heart. He tries not to think too hard about why his heart might be racing.

Cody swallows. Thank the stars he knows how to shield, because he has no idea what Obi-Wan would say if he could sense this… Whatever it is that’s gotten into him.

With a long exhale, he uses what his General had once taught him of meditation technique to forcibly quieten his mind. He’s not allowing himself to do this. Not again.

To his immense gratitude, with a little effort (and time spent visualising the movement of the ocean outside), the calm of earlier finds its way to him once again, soothing his mind and slowing his breaths to match that of the lapping water.

As he finds himself on the precipice of sleep once more, he hears a quiet murmur from the other side of the bed.

“Goodnight, Cody.”

Cody pulls the covers up a little tighter to himself, yawning as he does so. It takes him a moment to find his voice, and when he does, it’s uncharacteristically quiet.

“Sleep well, Obi-Wan.”

(chapter 2)

#codywan #aspentreewrites #my fics #star wars fanfiction #tcw #cody x obi wan #commander cody #commander cody x obi wan #flowers & cannons

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orphicrose · 1 year ago

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The co-host (Alastor x femreader) II

< >

Summary: You are Alastors Co host in life, perhaps more. But are separated by a sudden death. When you are finally reunited in the under world, it is up to Alastor to figure out why you don’t remember him.

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Alastor had arrived in hell a few years after you, completely unaware that you ended up in the same place. You both saw each other as saints, i guess that's what love does to you. If only you had more time to truly know each other. His last years weren't as dignified as yours. And neither was his death.

All through your sickness, he was by your side. Cooking for you, entertaining you, helping out with rent. Your mother would have, but she lived in another state, and had very little money to come visit you or support you. So Alastor did. But when your body decided enough was enough, you took a toll for the worse. You were gone within days, with him still by your side. Willing to do anything to see your eyes full of life just one more time. It truly broke him as a person. But no one would ever know.

He sent out a broadcast to honor your name, all of your frequent listeners shedding a tear over the loss. Because it truly was a loss. Spreading kind words like "she's in a better place now", if only they knew.

Then there was Alastor. In the end, everyone was glad the world had ridded such a monster. No one knew it when he died, but they did when the remains of those who had gone missing was uncovered. Some argue they deserved it, some argue it was an act of evil.

It had been a few weeks since the encounter with Satan. Y/N didn't have much of a choice, her soul was his. Now she had to do his dirty work. You see, Satan's a busy man. Being the keeper of the wraith ring, and having the people of earth call on him frequently for deals. He couldn't keep up with all of it. So, he gave some of that responsibility to Y/n. Someone who can claim souls and grant wishes from the desperate and needy. Of course the souls still belonged to him, she was just the messenger. With this comes the ability to travel to the mortal realm, and fear of other sinners when you are being called the sacrificer. Within days, Y/n rose the ranks as an overlord who owned a large territory. Unspeakable amounts of power being given to this singular soul was a lot to take in, but she didn't have a choice.

The business was now up and running, "The slaughter house". Satan being the CEO, of course. Y/N being the manager, and other souls of Satan being his laborers who dealt with mundane things like paper work. The pay wasn't too bad though. This operation being set up in hell also gave other sinners the opportunity to sell their soul to Satan in return for a high paying job. Its a bit extreme, but it gets very desperate in hell. I'm sure you can imagine.

Y/n's name was lost, now being called the demon of sacrifice. It was incredibly de-humanizing, and she hated it. Only using her power when absolutely necessary or when business required it. But it wasn't all bad, she had a better accommodation, a steady cash flow, a lot of useful contacts and very little conflict with other demons. It was also incredibly lonely. Because of the fear around her name, very few people were willing to befriend her.

Then, on top of that, was the pain of her memories from life. Knowing that all if this is ultimately her fault. All because she just wanted power. How was she to carry on. Then it hit her, she has the power to do what she pleases. She can be whoever she wants to be down here, and to start this she needed to forget everything that haunted her.

Alastor landed in hell four years after y/n, after being shot in between the eyes. Not many know how his rise to power happened, but it was merely overnight. Tormenting the citizens of hell, kidnapping powerful overlords that few would dare to mess with, and giving a new reason for sinners to fear for their lives. The radio demon was born, and it didn't take long before his radio broadcasts displayed what had happened to his unfortunate victims. No one was safe.

"Miss l/n! Todays demand for Satan is big today, I don't think we will be able to get through all of them" a small, fishlike demon ran up to her, struggling to keep up with her pace through the corridors.

"Its late, imp. I will deal with them tomorrow. Prioritize the simpler requests, none of that fame or millionaire shit." Y/n bit back, eager to leave.

"But ma'am, The sin of wraith isn't very happy with how the number of souls are dropping"

"uh huh, uh huh. I'll see you tomorrow, imp" The door slammed in his face, and the handle was too high for him to reach.

"I'm not an imp" He mumbles under his breath, watching the overlord walk away in the windows of the door.

Y/n had a coffee date with one of her closest friends, Zestial. One of the few overlords who still had his head attached to him. They had arranged to talk about the affects of the new tormentor, needing a plan to put their people at ease and to protect the skin on the bac of their necks. Usually, she'd have someone accompany her. But this occasion was far too private.

The night had progressed fast, the crimson sky darkened and street lamps struggled to do their job and lighten the streets. Y/n was almost at her destination when she noted a faint buzzing sound in the back of her head. It definitely wasn't there before. She stopped at the end of an alley she had just walked through, and assessed her surroundings. No one, not a soul in sight. Behind her, again no one. A strange feeling made its way into her throat, as if her body sensed danger. The sound getting louder, louder. Street lights seemingly struggling even more, and eventually going out. One by one. The street was pitch black within seconds. Y/n couldn't do anything but remain in their position, against the wall of the alley.

A small, voodoo doll like creature ran passed the entrance of the alley. Paying her no attention, and laughing as he went. He was barely audible as the static became more insufferable in her ears. But she knew something was after her, she just prayed to lucifer that it wasn't who she thought it was.

"Not even going to try and run, dear?" The static stopped, the voice sounding like it was in the air. Having no body attached to it. Then he materialized seemingly from the shadows. His slim body accompanied by a tailored red suit, and an eerie smile refraining his face from showing any sort of emotion. The radio demon. He was here. Her face was barely visible in the darkness he had created, only the glowing from her eyes was an indication of life.

"Come on, give me a chase. Make this interesting. I'll give you a head start" He taunted, slowly getting closer. Leaning his cane at his side, making it hard for y/n to get out.

"No? I guess this will be the easiest kill yet" His smile widened a the seams of his mouth, being pulled by an invisible string like a doll. His form followed in lead, being hoisted up and enlarged to intimidate his prey.

"Don't touch me freak." Y/N finally spoke, kicking his cane over and materializing into the ground. Becoming nothing more than a shadow that cant be touched. He watched at she disappeared into the night, almost in disbelief. He's heard that voice before. But it can't be, there's no way she is down here. She can't be. His smile never faltered, and he decided to leave this chase for another day. Street light finally flickered back on, and everything remained as it was before. Other than Alastor's new knowledge. Their story wasn't over yet.

#fanfiction #hazbin husk #hazbin angel dust #hazbin charlie #hazbin hotel #hazbin x reader #hazbin x you #hazbin x y/n #alastor x reader

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bisexualgirly12 · 3 months ago

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Title: Struck by the Sun

It was the annual Camp Half-Blood games, and the competition was fierce. The children of the gods showcased their talents in everything from archery to hand-to-hand combat. You, however, found yourself watching from the sidelines, your experience at camp making you one of the oldest campers. As a child of Aphrodite, you had an air of grace and allure, which came in handy during some games, but now you preferred to watch.

Of course, that was before he appeared—Apollo. The Sun God. The literal embodiment of brightness, golden hair, and that signature mischievous grin. He walked through the camp with his usual swagger, and despite your efforts to remain detached, your heart skipped a beat. No one could blame you. Apollo was charismatic, charming, and had a way of making everyone feel like they were the center of the universe.

He caught sight of you and gave you a wink. That was all it took for everything in your mind to go blank.

A few weeks later, you'd found yourself in a relationship with him. To your surprise, the connection wasn't fleeting. Apollo made an effort, constantly showing up at your cabin with flowers that seemed to come from a place even beyond the mortal realm, and always giving you that dazzling smile that made you feel like the world was brighter with him around. But what you didn’t expect was how complicated things would get.

One afternoon, while you were walking through camp with Apollo, something in the air shifted. You hadn't been prepared for the confrontation.

"Why do I always have to worry about you?" Aphrodite's voice echoed across the camp.

You froze, Apollo's hand still in yours. Your mother's anger was unmistakable, and when she stormed toward you, the whole camp seemed to hold its breath.

"Aphrodite," Apollo said with a smirk, "Why so serious? Shouldn't you be happy your child's found someone who... appreciates them?"

Aphrodite glared at him, her beauty taking on an almost ethereal, yet terrifying, quality. "Appreciate them?" she spat. "No, Apollo. You don’t just appreciate people. You toy with them. You always have, and you will again. My child deserves better than your careless affection."

You flinched at her words. It wasn’t the first time your mother had been distant with you, but hearing her so upset—angry at Apollo, and by extension, angry at you for being involved with him—felt like a deep wound.

"I love them, okay?" Apollo shot back, his usual carefree tone tinged with frustration. "This isn’t just some passing thing. You can't possibly understand what it’s like to be with someone like them."

Aphrodite narrowed her eyes, and you could feel the tension in the air. "You don’t get to decide that. You never get to decide what's best for my child."

"I don't need to decide," Apollo retorted, his face softening. "They’ve already done that."

The silence was heavy. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run, hide, or tell your mother everything. It wasn’t like you’d gone into this relationship with any plan. You were just as confused by it as she seemed to be, but there you were.

Meanwhile, the other children of Apollo watched the situation unfold with their own thoughts. As you sat at the campfire that night, one of Apollo’s children, Aurelia, a fellow camper known for her sharp wit, approached you.

"So," Aurelia said, crossing her arms with a mischievous grin, "how's it feel to be Apollo's official weakness?"

You laughed, though there was no real joy behind it. "Confusing. Honestly, I’m still trying to figure out what exactly happened for us to get here."

"I don’t blame you," Aurelia shrugged. "He's… well, he's Apollo. But look, I know he can be a lot, but he means it when he says he cares about you. Don’t let the whole 'dazzling god' thing throw you off. It’s just how he is."

"Do you think it's a bad idea?" you asked, cautiously.

Aurelia shook her head. "Not a bad idea. Just... complicated. Apollo has a way of making things complicated, but that doesn’t mean you can’t handle it. You, of all people, have the grace to keep him grounded, even if he won’t admit it."

At the same time, Cassius, another of Apollo's children, a younger camper known for his musical talent, chimed in from his spot by the fire. "I think it's cute," he said with a grin, strumming his lyre. "Honestly, I thought we'd never see the day when Dad got serious about someone. But if he’s serious about you, then we’ve got no problem. Just... please, don't take him too seriously. He’s got a habit of running when things get real."

You nodded slowly, processing everything. The last thing you wanted was to disappoint anyone, but this whole situation was already more tangled than you ever expected.

As the days passed, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of both your mother’s disapproval and the mixed feelings from Apollo’s children. You spent more time with Apollo, but there was always an underlying tension. Your heart ached for clarity, and you found yourself wondering if the love between you and him was worth the turmoil it brought.

Aphrodite had always taught you about love, but this... this was different. It was like trying to tame sunlight. Apollo’s love was bright, intense, and warm, but it was also fleeting, like the sun setting at the end of the day. You had no idea how long it would last, but one thing was certain: you were caught in its glow, and there was no escaping the radiance.

And so, you were left to navigate a love story that defied expectations, fighting against your mother's disapproval, the complexity of Apollo’s nature, and the conflicting emotions that lived in the hearts of Apollo's children. But one thing remained undeniable: you had fallen for Apollo, whether you understood it or not, and no matter how complicated the world around you became, you would stand by it.

End.

#apollo x reader #why am i like this #yasss bitch

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hd-erised · 6 months ago

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This is it, our final @hd-erised round-up! We sincerely hope you've thoroughly enjoyed this amazing round of the fest.

Our Anonymous Masterlist will post tomorrow, Jan 2nd, and some fun Fest Stats will go up on Jan 3rd. And, of course, Reveals will happen on Sunday, Jan 5th.

For now though, please review this round-up of our final week, and don't forget to check our Week 1, Week 2, & Week 3 round-ups for any of our previous submissions you might have missed!

H/D Erised posting may be over but there's still time to leave some love for our amazing writers and artists that make this fest possible. Thank you!

Art:

Stolen Glances for @dodgerkedavra [T]

Hauntingly Familiar for @moonflower-rose [T]

Fic:

My Mate for veradubhghoill [E, ~26,300]

Harry is a new Alpha and Draco is his Omega Healer. Draco wants to help Harry but Draco struggles to control himself whenever he is around. And Harry wants to breed Draco. Desperately so. Things come to a head when Draco and Harry become trapped with one another. Draco doesn't have his suppressant and it sends them both into heat. While they wait for help, will Draco be able to avoid being claimed by Harry? Does he even want to avoid it? Harry is gorgeous and strong, and Draco would love to have him as a mate. He just can't fathom a world where Harry Potter willingly chooses him.

Just a little liquid luck for @shiftylinguini [E, ~5,400]

Tracking the movement of Potter’s eyes, Draco runs a greasy finger over the thickest of his scars. “You like them, don’t you? Pervert.” Potter tosses his head back, jostling the mass of his curly fringe from his forehead. “I bet you were into scars long before you had any of your own, Malfoy.” Yes, Draco wants to say. I want to lick yours. What he says instead is, “Fuck you.” “Fuck you,” Potter echoes, putting the same pregnant emphasis on the F. Draco bites his lower lip, wrestling down the rise of euphoria. “Your turn,” he says. “Take that off.”

As Luck Would Have It for @smehur [E, ~12,800]

In Sixth-Year, Harry and Draco both win a vial of Felix Felicis from Slughorn and, under its influence, have sex in the Room of Requirement. In the aftermath, can Draco and Harry navigate their respective roles in the war, while grappling with their burgeoning feelings for each other?

In a Year's Turning for @maraudersaffair [E, ~89,400]

It’s been nine years. Surely, Harry can handle Draco being back—for Teddy’s sake.

Storm's Eye for @jtimu [M, ~12,400]

Harry's surprised that Draco didn't have wards up preventing mortally wounded former school mates-turned-ghosted work fellows from bursting into his house. In Harry's addled mind, this seems like a great opening line to say to Draco's gobsmacked face. He doesn't get that far, though.

housewarming for @garagepaperback [E, ~6,000]

First, they had to decide where to live. It worked, until it didn’t.

Go Up to Gilead for @tessacrowley [E, ~106,700]

Harry Potter’s sense of purpose drops dead with Voldemort. So does Draco Malfoy’s freedom. Nine years later, Harry’s still a soldier. Draco’s still a sacrifice. Harry’s going to die in his Auror uniform, and Draco doesn’t deserve to live. But when the clock runs out on Draco’s sentence, a new one starts ticking. As it was, so it will be: they’ll survive together, or not at all.

do you (one) better for @legendrarry [M, ~4,200]

Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor Harry Potter abruptly loses his Favourite Hogwarts Professor title to none other than Potions Professor Draco Malfoy. He swears it’s fine, really, but the feelings boiling within him say otherwise. Until Poppy Longbottom, Pansy and Neville’s hellion daughter, forces Hogwarts faculty and staff to engage in a very controversial Pureblood family tradition.

Of Stolen Glass and Burning Clover for @saintgarbanzo [E, ~27,800]

A week long international conference. A political scandal? A Malfoy beside the fruit tarts.

Baker's Modern Wands for @starquestingfordrarry [E, ~43,600]

At Baker's Modern Wands Lavender Brown is starting a revolution, Draco Malfoy is trying his best, and Harry Potter is really annoyed about it all.

Kiss Me, Fuck Me, Love Me for @doingthechachaslide [E, ~5,100]

Harry and Draco are running very late—they’ve got shirts to find, puppies to save, and champagne to buy. They’re also terribly, ridiculously, extraordinarily in love.

Equally Cursed and Blessed for @thecouchsofa [E, ~18,200]

Harry's back at Hogwarts to attempt his final year, again. This time he's sure there'll be no shenanigans. Well. Maybe there'll be a few.

#drarry #drarry fest #drarry fic #drarry art #hp fic #hp art #hp #hd erised 2024 #weekly roundup

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laismoura-art · 1 year ago

Note

How about some avatar au for your atla fan heart.

Mortal Kombat avatar au with our ocs.

🌊🪨The avatar au 🔥🌪

Water tribe:

It's obviously the lin kuei but with bi-han being more of the master at water bending and kuai liang, Lisa making fun of him while he's practicing the other students.

Bi-han: what type of whining is this!? Back in my day we trained in the cold winter's at night and no matter how cold it got I never stopped training.

Lisa: yea you just cried and begged father to let you in-

Bi-han: YOUR CATCHING FISH TONIGHT!!

Kuai liang: I need jasmine tea, for this..

Earth kingdom:

The Edenians, special forces , harumi and Johnny and kenshi from the earth nation it's all out order and chaos maybe the umgadi could be like the dai lee.

Harumi: has the war really stopped in ba sing se?

Kenshi: I don't know if it's pretty peaceful there. Tanya do you know anything about it?

Tanya:*visibly sweating* um maybe..

Sindel:*the tea is exceptionally good today. I hope no fire nation are here.

*two fire nation run aways: yea.. It's fire nation free. Would you like some moon cakes with that?

Sindel: oh you know me so well.

Fire nation:

The netherrealm, suchin and the shirai ryu together being in the fire nation except they aren't demon's and such. The avatar is to be from the fire nation in the avatar cycle. People are expecting asmodeus to be the avatar and this got hatsune banished and settled with hanzo hasashi in the earth kingdom.

Asmodeus: make way for the avatar fire Lord people the strongest in the world

Sareena: is he always this much full of himself.

Jatakaa: careful you might get banished.

Suchin: ARE YOU ALWAYS THIS FULL OF YOURSELF!?

hatsune: hey master i made you some tea.

Hanzo: *drinks tea and spits it out* Ugh this tea is nothing but hot leaf juice!!

Hatsune: master hansi that's what all tea is..

Hanzo: how could my own apprentice say something like that!?

Air nomads:

The white lotus plus Raiden and fujin in the air nomads. Liu kang is a, fire nation adopted by raiden and learning air bending not knowing he is the actual avatar. Kung Lao is a air nation prodigy like Liu kang but kung Lao is, hoping to go through greater lengths and be the best air bending master in the world.

Kung Lao: geez I hope asmodeus isn't the avatar.

Liu kang: yea it's not like he'll cause a war if he isn't.

Kung Lao: say what would happen if you became the avatar?

Liu kang: I won't be the avatar and besides I am not that responsible he monk raiden never let's me feed the baby bisons.

Kung Lao: true, want to play air ball?

Liu kang: sure!!

Later

Liu kang:*avatar state after some shit asmodeus did*

Kung Lao:.... The world is either in peace or doomed....

Yoo Dragon!!! This looks sooo cool!!! :O 💖💖💖

Sorry it took me a while to reply, I actually wanted to gather and develop some ideas that came to mind! And it turned out ENOURMOUS!

So I hope you enjoy:

💦For the Water Tribe:

I was wondering, since this is the Lin Kuei, I imagine the previous chief was involved in some pretty shady stuff, imagine he even made a deal with the fire nation at some point in an attempt to hold some of his remaining power? Imagine if he even sent some of his men to war to fight by the Fire Nation? Of course his plans backfire (literally, lol) and he ends up dead and Bi-Han ends up as the new chief!

I imagine that after years of shitty decisions from the chief, this Water Tribe ended up a mess and on the brink of destruction, so Bi-Han took it upon himself to make things right and return the Tribe to its previous glory!

The only problem is: He is the youngest chief they ever had and he is painfully inexperienced! So he is hardly taken seriously. He also doesn't trust the elders of his Tribe, given how they didn't do much to prevent the previous chief to mess up, so he relies on the youth, his twin siblings and friends, Hydro, Cyrax and Smoke (he's still deciding if Sektor can be trusted, as he is related to the previous grandmaster)

Though Kuai and Lisa often tease Bi-Han (as siblings do) they are his big supporters and do everything they can to be good advisors! Bi-Han is happy to have them around, even if he has to hear a joke or two at his expense...

🌿For the Earth Kingdom:

I like that Harumi is part of the Earth Kingdom, and you know she's my flower girl, so I was thinking: What if she was originally a waterbender from the Swamp?

Imagine, she was born in the swamp and learned to waterbend the flora around her, when she grew up she wanted to leave to explore the world (or at least the Earth kingdom, she was particularly curious about Omashu and Ba Sing Se (surely none of these cities will disappoint her… lol))

Imagine if people sometimes mistake her for the Avatar cause she is a waterbender born in the Earth Kingdom, lol!

Also, I LOVED the idea of the Umgadi being the Dai Lee!

Imagine this: Li Mei was once a Dai Lee soldier who got promoted and then learned what the Dai Lee was actually like (means to conspire against the kingdom and manipulate the royal family) Li Mei couldn't stand to be part of it and tried to leave, reveal the truth, only to be taken to the Lake Laogai. It was years ago and now her memory is coming back, but she still struggles to show everyone the truth.

Lucky for her she's not alone! The young earthbender Tanya was promoted just as she was and upon finding out the truth, she also could not stand to be part of it (it also helped her decision the fact that she is secretly dating the Kingdom's elder princess, Millena), but instead of trying to expose the truth, she tries to stop the Dai Lee from the inside with the help of a few trusted teammates and Li Mei as their coordinator. Together, they will bring the Dai Lee down!

🔥For the Fire Nation:

Damn, your girl Hatsune just can't catch a break when it comes to her shitty brother, can she?

Well, at least she's with Hanzo! I imagine Hanzo was once a soldier, one really mean and scary, maybe? the type that would almost burn the Earth Kingdom's capital to the ground? But pulled back after say... a family tragedy?

So now he seeks a more peaceful life for himself, hidden in the Earth Kingdom and taking care of this fellow Fire Nation girl who was just so wronged by her own family?

I wonder if Suchin is so confident in talking shit about Asmodeus cause she knows she's one of his top girls and the moment she leaves his side he will get killed! (Little he knows, Suchin and the girls would rather get the job done themselves, lol)

🍃For the Air Nomads:

Ok, I absolutely ADORED the idea of the Avatar being from a Nation but being raised in another one! Cause it's such a fun concept, like, Liu is raised by the Air Nomads and is taught to live by the air nomads beliefs and the first attempt at bending from him will be at air bending, and as the Avatar he WILL succeed, so just imagine how it would be for this kid who is a airbender through and through who will one day find out not only that he's the Avatar but also a firebender by birth! That would be a WHOLE LOT to take!

Through the dialogues I can see that Liu already knows he's a firebender and Avatar, but I wonder how he found out. The idea of this coming as a shock and a big reveal is just soooo cool!

Also makes me wonder when did Raiden learned all this, if he knew from the start, if he had some suspicions as Liu was growing up, or if he found out just as Liu did (My bet i on the second one)

PS: I love that whenever there's an Avatar x MK AU, Liu is ALWAYS the Avatar!🤭 I think it's suiting for the "Chosen One", lmao!

#i loved this dragon <333 #mortal kombat au #bi han #kuai liang #lisa liang #harumi shirai #li mei #tanya #hanzo hasashi #hatsune #suchin #liu kang #raiden #what ships are we having here dragon?#subscorp #or #subscorprumi #avatar the last airbender #mortal kombat

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mocacheezy · 4 months ago

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Moca watches: Fox's Peter Pan & the Pirates, Pirate Boys, Lost Men

Glowing eyes, always a treat

Why the hell are they trying- ah yeah, Peter dared them to catch one. That tracks

What on Earth...

As usual, it just has to be the invaders messing up with magic. Cookson is right.

Starkey is ✨So Gay🏳️‍🌈🏴‍☠️

(which means I can finally use this meme edit)

So its a crystal Hook's after. Alright. That tracks

Bro, if you kill the kid while in your body, you are NEVER getting it back

YES! WENDY HAS A PROPER BED!!!

Fucking Rooster.

"I put my friends into mortal danger, but what matters is that I won!"

I love how Wendy is immediately ready to beat the ever living shit out of them.

Smee.

Why the hell does he look like that? He looks like an orangutan with this animation.

The venison stores are running low. So Hook saying that Cookson takes two men to go and hunt some does mean that they likely keep the majority of meat stored onboard, and hunt when necessary... Which is obvious and doesn't really need to be pointed out, but thanks to my brain being overtaken with curiosity of the old time sea life, I wonder how they keep it from spoiling. Do they just pack it in salt, like the sailors would do in the past? Because yeah, when actively on the sea, you have to have supplies that will last. But in this case?

And what kind of venison are we talking about? Are there deer in Neverland? Is it just any wildlife that can be classified as game?

... I think my hyperfixation is obvious, let's just continue the episode.

I also choose to believe Hook was napping and that's why he didn't realise at first that there was a Lost Boy with Cookson's voice talking to him. This man is sleep deprived and I am choosing to believe this until proven otherwise by following episodes.

It is so surreal seeing them singing a pirate shanty.

No wonder the ship looks great, these are practically mint fresh and spry bodies they're in.

"I've got eyes you [old timey curse I can't make out]!"

The day people who restore old media as a hobby restore this show, is the day I will be grateful and overjoyed and just losing my mind over FINALLY knowing what this man is saying.

Smee, I also didn't understand what he said, but from the context clues you likely could gather it was positive.

Peter playing along is great. I honestly don't blame him for thinking this is a game. And given he knows how to mimic Hook's voice so well, he's probably overjoyed his boys are also getting really good at immitating the other pirates. Those skills would be able to cause a whole lot of mischief.

Wendy remains the biggest badass in this whole show. She has had ENOUGH of this nonesense, and she even managed to stop Tink from falling on the ground by a very precise toss of that bowl. What CAN'T this girl do?

Yea watch the drowning happen, you can't just leave without seeing he died for real. Villany 101; Unless you see the hero dead, don't assume they are actually dead.

Yeah, Big Little Panther has every right to be angry.

"But they captured Peter! You have to help!"

He doesn't have to do shit Tinkerbell, that was clearly a very important ceremony, and the conditions for performing it again will take time, depending on just how specific they have to be. He knows what is necessary for this to work exactly as it should. AND, technically speaking, it was once again the fault of Peter that there was one half of the interference in the first place!

Big Little Panther doesn't place sole blame on the boys and also acknowledges that the pirates intruded on the ritual. Which, fair, but I personaly would not be surprised if he decided to NOT help.

I genuinely want to see an episode where him and his people have enough and only help the boys at the very end of the episode.

He actually took his hat off when saying his goodbyes to his drowning nemesis. Good form and respect, love that in my men✨

Did the moon itself decide to reverse all of this? Of course not. -_-

... Hook. Honey. I know you like to gloat. I know Pan should be dead by now. But why did you tell them where he is honey? Why?

Mermaids to the rescue. If this was a differnt show, seeing the mermaids approach like that would be a sign of doom.

Recent episodes keep ending with Hook and the pirates in the water. I wonder how long it takes for those clothes to dry. Yeah they might have spares, but come on. C'mon.

#moca screeches #moca watches #fox's peter pan and the pirates #peter pan and the pirates

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lightsiided · 4 months ago

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@othunderous said: after the blip, the excitement of showing rey everything earth had to offer had dimmed. yule came and went, as did the new year; it would come as no surprise that many didn't feel like celebrating. valentine's day is here now — a day when the mortals celebrate love. after months of unhappiness, trudging through the days as they come, thor has decided she deserves to be treated. they deserve a good day. they aren't in new asgard, but paris; the humans say it's one of the most romantic places on earth, he'd explained. the streets aren't as full and lively as they would've been only a year ago, but the people are trying. just like he is. he holds rey's hand in his as they walk along a bridge. it is covered in locks; if he looks closely enough, he sees names written or etched into the metal. curious. slowing, his eyes graze over the sparkling water, the gliding boats, the vibrant blue sky, and then her. it has been a quiet walk — he brings them to a stop, and opens his mouth to break the silence. "i have something for you." the hand holding hers squeezes; his free one reaches into the pocket of his jacket to retrieve a small box. "i made it not long ago, at home." while snow fell over norway and he'd watched from his windows; she wasn't there, having returned to her home to help her friends. the ones who remain. without releasing her, he flicks the little box open and holds it out to her. "that is you, and in your hands... you hold my heart." the figurine resembles her, and the heart in her hands has his name carved into the wood. "because you have my heart." always. "i know it has been... different... difficult, but — i don't want you to forget that, however hard times have fallen on us, the way i feel for you hasn't changed."

earth is a strange place. its customs are new to her, its people, its food. it doesn't help that she's hardly seeing it at its BEST. nowadays, the mood is somber everywhere they go -- not that they've done much traveling, lately. thor has been quiet, and rey understands why. she knows he blames himself for what's happened, and has been doing her best to toe the line between trying to reassure him and keeping quiet about the situation. sometimes talking about it seems to make things worse.

so they have more frequent moments of quiet, now. before the blip, they often filled hours chatting about everything and nothing. lately it almost feels like they are running out of things to talk about. so of course she's eager to GET AWAY with thor -- to go somewhere else, to explore someplace previously unknown by her, to see a part of the earth where their friends aren't waiting for them with some new, terrible update or problem to solve.

besides -- it is a holiday, she supposes, or so thor has explained to her. earth seems to have many more than are recognized in her galaxy. still, rey can't help but to be charmed by the concept: an entire day dedicated to celebrating LOVE. how special an idea it is.

and, despite everything that's happened, she is still with HERS. their love has persevered, even if it's different, now.

as they come to a stop on their walk along the river, rey looks up at him curiously. the city is beautiful, but she wonders why they're here -- if thor had been as desperate to get away as she had. before rey can ask the thousands of questions about paris that have been forming with every step, his hand extends, and she carefully takes the offered box from him, lifting it to eye level in WONDER.

the figurine is intricately carved from wood, delicate and picturesque in its features. rey feels her face warm as she recognizes the slope of her own nose, the jut of her chin. it always takes her by surprise -- just how closely thor notices her. how he sees every detail. "oh," rey murmurs dumbly, studying every last facet of the gift. "this is BEAUTIFUL."

a lump forms in her throat as she runs her fingertip over the etching of thor's name. does he know that she has worried about that, nearly every night since that awful day they failed to retrieve the stones? does he know that it eats at her -- thinking she might lose this on top of everything else? does he know that despite it all, the only thing she really wants is the chance to see him smile again?

rey looks up at him, then, holding the box close to her chest. "thank you," she says. "i... i'm so glad to hear that. and i'm glad i'm here with you." she bites on the inside of her cheek, trying to stop her eyes from stinging. "i hope you know my heart is with you, too. ALWAYS."

#othunderous #( * hope is like the sun / mcu crossover )#oh i could just die #i know it's late but #i am just obsessed with them #and 🥺

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apoptoses · 2 years ago

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Do you think Armand planned to turn Daniel before it happened or do you think it was a spur of the moment decision? And when do you think he decided? (And when did he allow himself to realize he'd made the decision.)

I think he consciously had the thought when the running from Night Island began. Not when it was just a few nights, but when Daniel's absences stretched into weeks. That was the first time Armand battled with his feelings over whether he misses this man enough to turn him and hope that means he'll stay home, or whether it's worth breaking his word to himself that he would never make another.

Armand thinks it's best not to interfere. That if what Daniel wants is to leave, then he must allow it. He must let natures take its course and Daniel is mortal. He always promised himself he'd let Daniel live a mortal life.

But then when Daniel returns he's not looking well. And so Armand gives him the blood, but it becomes harder and harder to cut himself off. To not drink a little too much, to not give a little too much back. He's trying to keep him well even though he's aware the blood is doing damage to him, that no mortal was meant to drink so much for so long. And Daniel is trying to off set the side effects with alcohol and- it's just not tenable.

So it's like water over a stone, wearing it down slowly over time. Armand spending nights alone at Night Island, sitting in Daniel's room and worrying over what to do. How many times he can rescue him. How much longer he can put up with seeing Daniel come back looking worse, not better.

Maybe it would be kinder to drink him dry and finish him for good. Give Daniel's body some peace once and for all.

But it's when Lestat announces the concert that he decides. Something terrible is bound to happen, their kind have well and truly been exposed and Armand knows deep down he can't go at it alone. He can't confront Lestat, or whatever other ghosts from his past show up without someone he loves by his side.

So it's happy coicidence that the last time he picks Daniel up, Daniel is well and truly dying. Armand just put it off to the last second to be completely certain nature wouldn't take its course, that he's meant to do this thing, that Lestat and God and the universe are forcing his hand- that it's not 100% his choice at all.

(Deep down, it is. Deep down he knows this was their inevitable end all along, that he would never have given Daniel up to death. Armand just can't deal with being anything but a victim of circumstance at that time though)

So it was slow and then it was all at once. There's no coincidence that the plane held items for shaving, for clipping nails and cutting hair. That it had a change of suit for Armand and clean clothes for Daniel. He left Miami knowing what he would do. He was just lucky Daniel's body held on long enough for him to do it.

#apoptoses answers #armand/daniel #vc headcanons

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intcritus · 1 year ago

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in which, draco's experiments run it's course. / @nvrcmplt

The thing about Phoenixes is that at the end of their life, whether it be because of a fatal wound or because they got sick, they perished in their avian form. It was a failsafe for their chosen mortal forms. Unlike Elliot, Salem didn’t always allow their wings to form on their mortal form, only when they needed to reach great heights for a painting or sculpture. Or when Elliot’s dumbass decides to smack them with a wing, and well like the sibling they are, Salem can only respond in kind. Childish yes, but they’re siblings none the less.

While they digress, the point is, the burning beneath their flesh that early morning while in Marvin’s arms is puzzling. It’s agonizing, stealing their breath as they jerk out of Marvin’s arms and off the bed. Pain zings through their limbs, Wings tearing from their back, bloody. They ache, and the pain is torture, because it isn’t like a quick flash and their body turning to ash. It’s like being beneath Draco’s needle again, the torture of it drawing choked sobs and pained squawks from their jaw.

They can feel the ashes filling their throat, the process of dying happening from the inside out as every part of them is setting aflame. Veins bursting, vision going out and pale skin disintegrating in spurts. What was going on ? There’s no breath in Salem’s lungs, just blood and ash, a choked scream tearing from them as the body took its last moments, burning like nothing they’d ever felt.

The rebirth isn’t easy, and Salem comes to, someone’s hands on him, fingers stroking at their cheek, in their hair and fear surges through the avian, unsure of where they are, just who is touching them ? Haven't they suffered enough ? Hysterical laughter leaves pink lips and the sound of their name in a familiar voice has eyes blinking open. Oh, they were beautiful. Had the phoenix slept with them ? Gods, wouldn’t that be a blessing ? ❝ ━ Hello, pretty. Who are you ? ❞

Why does he look so familiar ? This pleasant feeling in their chest says they know this man intimately, emotionally – that they’re mates? Something special, something for life. Yet Salem’s brain isn’t quite sure if it was because of a wonderful night of passion or if this was just their imagination. A memory flickers through their mind, a migraine following behind it then another scene of being held, kissed, soft, loving words between them.

I love you.

I’ve got you, you’re safe. I heard you.

❝ ━ Marvin ? ❞ Pain and confusion laces Salem’s words, fingers reaching out to grasp their lover’s wrist, tears streaking down their cheeks. How could they forget ? How did they forget ? Scrambling into a sitting position, Salem throws arms around the equine, features burrowing into his neck, sobs tearing from their mouth. Gods, they’d never experienced a rebirth like that. Forgetting ? Forgetting the most important person in their life ? What was happening to them ?

#🎨. ◦ ✧ ✩ ( quiet painter ic. ) ᵇʳᵘˢʰ ˢᵗʳᵒᵏᵉˢ ᶤᶰ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵘᶰˡᶤᵍʰᵗˑ #death /#hahahahahahaha ; v ;#nvrcmplt #writings on the wall. ( drabbles. )#and it begins uwu #marvin. ╱ » slow burning like whiskey ; a warmth that lingered and a fire never to be doused.

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marvel-and-dc-geek · 1 year ago

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The Labours of Alcides

The Nemean Lion

Gods could, of course, hear the prayers of mortals, and knew which beasts and ailments tormented them.That made it quite easy to choose the tasks.

After Alcides left his home, the chief hindu god, Shiva, left him as task that he didn’t expect the boy to complete: he was to murder a monstrous lion, grandchild of Typhon himself, and bring its skin back. The lion lives in Nemea, a region close to the Argolide.

The creature was so evil that it wouldn’t kill humans and cattle just for food: as if it has learned from humans themselves, the beats seemed to do so just for fun.

Many villagers tried to beg him not to go, even showing Alcides the shield of the last man who tried to slay it, which had been cut in half by a single blow with its paws. He didn’t even need to ask what had happened to the poor man, but he still wouldn’t back down.

He asked them to give him thirty days to come back, and if he didn’t, they could assume he was dead. None of the villagers expected to see him alive again, so, in desperation, they made plans to sacrifice a child to the gods to get rid of the beast.

It took weeks to find the creature’s track, until one day…

“Hurry up kid! We don’t have all day!” A white crow complained

“Shh, solo debemos vigilar !” The black crow complained

“I’m sorry if this has taken too long, but I need to see where the lion is. “ the redhead youth apologized.

Many gods didn’t believe that his strength was at such level. Sure, he had drank the ambrosia, but did that guarantee he could live through all the tasks? So, a one-eyed god had send the duo to observe the tasks, and send the word in case the boy ended up being the cat’s latest meal.

As to be fair, some gods of the pantheon he was supposed to join had given him some weapons that, while powerful, would be useless if he didn’t have the ability or the strength to use them properly. The one he expected to be most useful for that particular task had been a gift from Apollo himself: a beautiful golden bow, which carried equally beautiful arrows.

Tracking a creature was never easy, but there was a method that never failed; searching for a source of water. Every animal, from the smallest mouse to the biggest bear, needed to drink in order to live.

“Shh…” he told the crows as they got closer. It would be better not to startle it and kill the animal with the least amount of pain as possible.

He drew back the bow to set his target and shoot him straight to the heart, which should have given it a quick and painless death. Should’ve have, as the creature kept drinking as if nothing had happened.

“Ha, you missed !” The white crow laughed

“The human is going to fail!” The black crow laughed.

He observed, quite perplexed, that the arrow was simply on the ground. Maybe if he aimed for a leg, he would just need to get close and give it the killing blow.

So he targeted a leg, and he was sure he hit it, but instead of sticking, the arrow simply bounced. The lion stopped drinking and decided to take a nap. The young man took the chance to sneak close to it.

The god Hermes had given him a fine sword. Maybe he didn’t use the right amount of strength for the arrows, as, being a gift from Apollo himself, there was no way they could’ve just failed like that.

The beast didn’t wake up, so young Alcides tried to cut its head off, but all that came off was his blade. The lion woke up, not because of the hit, but because of the noise the metal made as it hit the ground it roared angrily and tried to scratch the hero with his claws, but the redhead stomped another one of his paws. The lion felt something new: pain.

“How did that hurt him?” Asked the white crow

“Not even the gods’ gifts harmed him!” The black crow commented.

The beast managed to get free and run back to his hideout, but that allowed the young man to think of a way to slay it.

Luckily, this time it was easier to track it down, as it had been close to the water and so his paws were covered in mud. So, he found the lion’s cave.

He couldn’t let it get away again: that would only make it be more fearful and careful, which would make him harder to find. Not to mention that the creature would keep killing innocents. Alcides checked the place as well as he could on the outside and found it had two entrances: he covered the one in the back with a huge rock to make sure the beast couldn’t get out. Going up front against an animal that couldn’t escape was usually a terrible idea, but in that case, it would be for the best.

Now, his strength could harm the lion, but his weapons couldn’t: he wouldn’t need a new one. After breaking a tree in half, Alcides used the remains of the sword to carve himself a clover. It was simple, yet effective.

“Not even the weapons the gods gave you worked, why would that thing work?” One of the crows laughed at him

“Oh it also won’t be an exact fit for the job, but it’s all part of the plan” answered young Alcides as he went into the cave. The crows decided to stay in a nearby tree to observe.

The lion was still scared about the fate of his poor little paw, so when he saw the hero peaking into his cave, he tried to run away, but the exit was blocked. Seeing that wasn’t possible, the lion roared and tried to leap against him, which gave the hero the chance to hit him as hard as possible on the head with the club.

That wasn’t enough to break his school and much less for killing him, but it left the lion stunned. It was so confused that the beast couldn’t even react when Alcides used the lion’s own strategy against him and jumped to grab the cat, putting his arms around his throat.

That was a rather cruel form to go, and much slower than the hero would’ve liked to used in order to slay the creature, but it was the only option he had. The lion squirmed and tried to free itself, making the hero squeeze his neck more and more until the lion breathed for one last time.

Hearing no more noise, the crows went to investigate and the saw dead lion on the Greek youth’s arms.

“You made it?” The white and black crow asked.

“Yes…” now he just had to take the body and leave, but the crows didn’t let him go through.

“Only the skin!” Said the white crow

“You will have to peel it off!” Said the black one, but that was pretty much impossible, seeing nothing could pierce jt.

So, wanting to test a theory he thought about, Alcides grabbed the cat’s paws: if his paws could pierce through a shield, maybe it would pierce its skin.

It worked: the skin bleed, and after a while, he had the lion’s intact skin. He grabbed it and started his journey to present the god’s his first accomplished mission.

It was just the thirty day after he had left the village: the people were about to sacrifice a young boy to the gods, so they would send help, but they saw the youth who they believed death return, and, even more astonishingly, with the lion’s skin. They immediately let the boy go and killed some cows instead.

“For our hero, Alcides!” They threw a feast in his honor, which he couldn’t refuse and so stayed with them for the rest of the night.

The crows stayed far away, as they shouldn’t draw any attention. The feast lasted until the next morning, and the hero came back with a piece of meat for both birds.

“What is that?” Asked the white crow

“Are you taking provisions?” Asked the black crow.

“They are for you: you kept me company during the whole hunting and it would be unfair if you went hungry “ Alcides had even made sure to ask for two raw pieces, as that type of bird preferred.

The people of Nemea wrote and told the story of the hero, just as it had happened. Of course they changed a detail, which was a lie that everyone, even a certain kid, accepted: the boy had offered to sacrifice himself of the hero didn’t return, in order to save his people.

#shuumatsu no valkyrie #record of ragnarok #the labours of alcides #madg fanfic #snv heracles

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angst-king · 1 year ago

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Love Beyond Mortality pt 2

(( Here's the second part, let me know if you want me to continue this. CW mention of murder-no really descriptions- Hope you, enjoy its long)

“I told you to wait!” “I wasn’t going to wait around who knows how fucking long!” “Well if you did you wouldn’t have had to get his blood on your hands!” “Why would it have mattered?!” “Because I could have helped you! I could have made this whole situation go smoother!” “Its done.”

Taishirou huffed and looked over the human’s body, he noticed how shredded his robes were, the hand prints all over his bare skin as well as bruises and cuts. Shrugging off his captain's coat he walked over and draped it over Shota’s shoulders.

“Let's get you home, you need rest.”

Things happened fast, word of what happened spread like wildfire, and it seemed that disaster followed him wherever he went. First, his school fired him, his house had been burned down, and now he was being summoned to trial in Olympus! He already had to deal with the mortals being angry with him for angering the god of strength who lived! The god of strength had a gaggle of devotees who didn’t take the harming of their god lightly, so they sought our revenge. He ended up having to live with Nemuri which brought trouble to her shop, plenty of their devotees were looking to run Shota out of the village or worst comes to worst, kill him!

Of course, Shota wasn’t excited about this trial though he held onto a shred of hope that these beings would bestow empathy, sympathy, and mercy towards him.

The day of the trial came, Shota had been brought to Olympus by two minor gods who had placed him in a holding cell. Olympus was different than he thought, sure it was a place in the sky bright and colorful almost heaven-like, with temples and castles. Even with that being so, there was a hostile air to it, different sides of Olympus didn’t have the same weather, and skies ranged from grey and rainy to bright and cloudless.

“Alright mortal, let's go.” The clanking sounds of his cell opening had him rise to his feet as he was escorted down the hall of the Olympian's castle. They walked for what seemed like miles until they entered a grand courtroom filled with many divine beings. There were large chairs in the center wall with a few others along the side of the lower court. The chambers echoed and ringed with chatter which lowered to whispers and muttering when Shota’s presence was announced.

“And now we bring in Shota Aizawa, the mortal who attempted to take the life of Yugo god of strength one of our Olympians.” The murmuring hummed louder amongst the large crowd as Shota was placed at his seat. An older man from the large seat banged his gabble to silence the room as he introduced himself and those at what was presumed to be the judges' table.

“I am Gran Torino, God of time, creation, and honor. To my immediate left is Lady Chiyo goddess of plague, healing.” The woman bowed her head slightly before Gran Torino carried on.

“To my immediate right is Lady Shimura Nana, Goddess of justice” A woman with black hair bowed before the crowd with a wide and warm smile.

“Those in the chairs below are our Olympians who will be sitting in on trial to decide your fate. Now I ask you, young man, what do you plea?” Asked Gran Torino, Shota swallowed the nervous lump in his throat as he felt every pair of eyes on him.

“I-I plead innocent, Y-your honor.” He announced unconfidently, and then another question was asked.

“Are you saying that you were not the one to attempt to take young Yugo’s life? You were not the one who snuck into his chambers to kill him?” Shota shook his head and shifted nervously in his seat.

“N-No sir, that is not what I’m pleading innocent to”

“So you admit that you were the one to do it?!” Interrupted a man whose body lit a blaze with a roaring fire as he stood. Shota stammered nervously under their gazes, he felt like a mouse trapped in a room of hungry house cats ready to pounce at any opportunity.

“I-…I…I had my reasons, s-sir”

“What reason does someone have for attempting to kill a god, what could you possibly have against him?” The fireman’s tone felt like jabs as if he was already being accused of a guilty verdict.

“Now now Enji, let the man explain.” Called out Nana from her position, Enji grumbled and sat back down. Nana then looked at Shota with a soft expression.

“Mr Aizawa, may I ask why you tried to kill Yugo? Were you forced?”

“n-No ma’am, I did it on my own volition…to avenge my s-sister.”

“Pathetic!” Shouted Enji, many of the court attendees agreed with him nodding and ‘yeahing’ along with him. Again Gran Torino called for order, and when the room slowly quieted Nana asked for Shota to elaborate. Shota knew he couldn’t go back now so he explained everything to them, from what happened to Nemuri to what had happened to him that night in the temple.

“And why should we believe this story of yours? Do you have any proof of this happening? How do you know that your sister wasn’t asking for it?” These questions of doubt stabbed at him, as if they already saw him as a liar no matter how much proof he gave them.

“How do we know that what you say is true?” Many more of these sorts of questions were like arrows impaling him left and right as many accused him of fabrication. They wouldn’t let him get in a word and when they did they were twisted and torn and picked apart! How was this fair? This wasn’t a fair trial! Even after asking Taishirou to tell his side of things, the judges didn’t seem to budge on their attitudes while the chairmen god and goddesses seemed undecided. They called for a recess session that had lasted 30 minutes before their decision had been made. Shota and Yugo had both been called to the center court where Gran Torino announced the verdict.

“As it stands we here find Shota Aizawa the mortal guilty of attempted manslaughter of an Olympian, his punishment will be, to be turned into a demi gorgon!” Shota’s eyes grew wide in horror, he had heard many tales about demi gorgons and he knew this would only put a greater target on his back. This meant he would most likely have to go into hiding now! He would have rather been struck dead than this! Before he could even protest he felt the change occur. Scales grow in patches along his arms, legs, and other parts. His tongue lengthened and split, his vision became blurry and overwhelmed by the light. His nails lengthened slightly to short claws. The sound of hissing grew in a cluster as slithers of snakes made their presence upon the man’s head mixing with his hair. Shota cried as the change overwhelmed his entire being. How could they still see him as guilty? How could he be punished for this? Why was this man walking away without a scratch?

“And now I Nana Shimura declare for Yugo to be stripped of his title as an Olympian and for his power to be taken.” Hold on what?! Shota looked up in shock at the woman who gave him a soft wink and smile while the other man screamed in outrage.

“I hear by find you Yugo, guilty of rape, sexual assault, and abuse of power. You are banished from Olympus!” No way! Was this real?! Was he actually being punished?!

“NO NO NO! YOU CAN’T DO THIS! I DID NOTHING WRONG! That lil monster tried to kill me for no reason!” Yugo yelled out stomping and throwing his arms around, the crowd watched as his powers were stripped from him, his form weakened and shrunk withering away into almost nothing! Some people booed at his disappearance and protested along with him. Even some of the judges looked shocked at the goddess’s call.

“B-But Lady Nana do you really believe that Yugo would do something like that?” “We aren’t even sure if that miserable beast is lying!” “Why do you believe him of all people?” “You’re going to listen to the monster?” “Those two were probably asking for it!”

“SILENCE!” Demanded the goddess, her voice cutting through the crowd like a sharpened sword. The room became so quiet you could hear a pin drop as she continued.

“As you know I do my best to keep things as fair as possible, and for you all to be questioning a victim of sexual assault along with his sister like this is inexcusable when we already have had a witness report. Yes, I would love to preserve our standings as Olympians, and kicking someone from their chair is a big decision that I do not take lightly. But I do this for not only the safety of the mortals but for all of you. If he was willing to do such things to two mortals who knows what he could do to anyone here if he hasn’t already! I do not agree with Mr Aizawa’s sentencing myself but both sides knew there were consequences. I do not blame him for his actions, I would do the same if anyone i-I loved dearly had been harmed in such a manner. I would tear apart the earth itself till I bring down such a person to their knees! I’m sure you would all do the same!”

Her voice boomed and rang through the walls, everyone’s attention flickering from her to Shota.

“There is one final decision that has been made, this was done collectively. Shota Aizawa, with the chair now open, would you take it?” Shota stared up at her incredulously, was she for real? Was this a joke? Was she asking to take Yugo’s place?

“I-I…I w-wouldn’t kn-know what that means, ma’am.” He stuttered, everyone in the room looked just as surprised by her offer.

“What this will mean is you will inhibit Olympus like all of the others here, you will be put on a probational period and be held to the same standards as my fellow Olympians. You will create your own domain ad rule over it. We’ll call it your chance at redemption.” “D-do i have a choice?” “No” And just like that his fate had been sealed in stone! How would he be able to see his sister? There’s no way to get back to her! How would she take this?!

Days went by, Nemuri had been told the results of the trial and of course, she was upset! She was happy her brother was still alive, and that he hadn’t been exiled, and she had a chance to see him. It was bittersweet when any time she went to his temple to find him he hid from her! She cried for days and nights as she missed him dearly. He was her only family, now she was all alone Taishiro hated to see her so distraught over the loss of her brother. He let her stay in his ship and started taking care of her, encouraging her to go out, keep her bakery up and running, and provide her a shoulder to cry on. The pirate captain knew he could only do so much and it broke his heart to see her like this. He tried many times to convince Shota to talk with her, but each time Shota refused.

“Please! She needs you!” “What could she possibly need or want with a monster like me?” “You are her brother, Shota! She will always need you, you are the one who protected her. She cries for you day and night! She still loves you!” Silence, after a while Taishiro thought the man had left so he started to go back to his ship.

“W-wait….T-Taishiro!” Taishiro could hear a hint of desperation in his voice.

“Yes?” “…I-…I will meet with her…On one condition.” “And what is that?” “…You guard her with your life.” Taishiro furrowed his brows at his request.

“What do you mean Shota, you can still protect her and look after her you know.” Shota nodded and sighed.

“I’ve lived my entire life as her protector, and she needs someone new, I can’t be the only one she has anymore….I know that you like her, and she likes you too. So I’m putting my trust in you Taishiro.” Taishiro paused at this, was he really that obvious? He blushed softly and stuttered out.

“Sh-Shouta, are you sure?” “Yes, I’m sure. She may hate me for it at first but, she will understand my reasonings.”

The day Nemuri was finally going to see her brother she was ecstatic! Smiling from ear to ear, she got herself ready much faster than Taishirou had expected. It did warm his heart to see her so happy. He knew this day would be a whirlwind of emotions but for now, he reveled in her happiness. Arriving at the temple that Nemuri practically ran into she called for her brother.

“Shota! Sho! You here?” Nemuri continued to run through the temple, looking around for the man. At first, she began to worry that he had flaked out on her until a soft.

“In here” Came out from behind a statue, speedily walking over to it, she turned the corner and was greeted by Shota. Whose eyes were covered in bandages. The snakes in his hair remained, some looked curiously at her. Hissing and flicking their tongues, they didn’t launch at her but slowly extended themselves towards her. This frightened her at first, she yelped and stepped back but Taishirou came up behind her and gently held her.

“It's okay, they won't hurt you, they’re just curious about you.” Nemuri nodded at this and continued to observe Shota’s new form. The silence seemed to make Shota nervous. The bandages were thin enough for him to see her silhouette and he knew where everything was. Though details weren’t the same. He wished he could see her face again but he didn’t want to take that chance.

“N-n…Nemuri?” Nemuri noticed his hands slowly reaching out, she gently took them and placed them to her face while nodding.

“Yeah Shouta, it's me.” His lips wobbled slightly before he bit down on them and turned his head away from her.

“I-…I’m sorry you have to see me like this.” Nemuri gave a soft smile and leaned her face into his hands while she spoke.

“There’s nothing wrong with how you look Shouta…You didn’t ask for this. So please…don’t be sorry.” Shouta gave a small nod, his brows knitting into a sad expression.

“I'm just happy to see you, and I wanted to thank you…” “For what?” “You did something no one else would have done for me” Shouta cracked a smile at her words, though he kept his lips closed not wanting her to see his fangs.

“I would have done it no matter who had done that to you. Mortal or not, and I’d do it all again because you’re my sister.” “I just wish they didn’t do this to you….” “I know,” Shouta then pulled Nemuri into a tight hug.

“But I will learn to live with it, as long as you are safe, I will do it all again.” Nemuri stayed in her brother’s embrace for as long as time would let her before Shouta finally mentioned the deal.

“Oh, one more thing….Taishirou and I have made a deal.” The woman pulled away to look at the two of them inquisitively. Taishirou had already braced himself for her reaction.

“What sort of deal?” “Well since I will be learning to be an olympian, I won't be able to be the brother you need, plus I want you to have someone else besides me that you can lean on. So I’ve assigned Taishirou to protect you with his life.” Even with his limited sight, he could tell this shocked her. Shouta smiled fully and warmly at her.

“Please, Nemuri. I see how fond you two are of each other, and I want you to live for yourself. I will still be there for you, but I can’t be the only one you have.” Nemuri looked over to Taishirou asking if this was true and the blond nodded at him. They expected for her to cry again, or for her to be angry but she just pulled Shouta into another hug.

“I won't let you down.”

#king's fanfic #mha Gods au #King's prequels #aizawa shouta #nemuri kayama #taishiro toyomitsu #nana shimura #enji todoroki

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